#cassian bot

Cassian was tough — he had to be, with the life he was given.

He was all scrapes and bruises, scars and marred skin. Dumped in Windhaven at just five years old, he learned all too quickly about survival of the fittest. As the Night Court’s General, he’d earned every bit of the title. He’d fought in wars, led armies, slaughtered enemies. His name struck fear in the hearts of many. He had every right to be a tough bastard…and most days, he was.

But with you? His pretty girl? Not a chance.

Neither of you had quite acknowledged the invisible string that tethered you together, the lifeline that linked your hearts and minds. It was too fragile to mess with. With the war having just ended, and Prythian still healing, it just didn’t feel like the right time to explore it.

But just because you hadn’t directly addressed it didn’t mean you both weren’t a pair of lovesick fools, fooling no one but yourselves. No thing defines a man like love that makes him soft. Everyone could see the annoyingly endearing adoration you had for each other. It was impossible not to.

Cassian found you one day out in the gardens with Elain, helping her plant seeds. You’d started joining her when she ventured out for sunlight, finding peace in the mundanity of it all. The world was constantly changing and warping around you, and there was hardly anything you could do about it. But this? The garden? This, you could control. This, you could heal.

“There she is,” he smiled, offering you a hand to help you out of the dirt. “Been looking for you.”

“Oh?” You murmured, dusting your hands off on the back of your pants. You couldn’t help but crack a smile as he shooed your hands away, replacing them with his own to wipe the dirt off you. Such a mother hen. He hadn’t even bothered to change out of his training leathers, but here he was, doting on you.

You took a second to look him over, realizing how tense he was. He had a smile on that didn’t quite meet his eyes. His wings were tucked in tight behind him, his hands clenched into fists. His knuckles were bruised, freshly split and bleeding. He’d been training — and very hard, by the looks of it. A habit he’d developed when being idle became too much to handle. His hands looked like this more often than not these days.

You said nothing, slipping your hand into his. You always said nothing, and he was eternally grateful for it. He didn’t need any fancy speech or grand gesture to show him how much you cared. He just needed his. A few minutes a day with you in whatever way you’d let him, with whatever self inflicted pain healed by nightfall.