#esmar

“Not really.” Einkil groans to Murmurs question, not bothering to lift his head from the brand new dining room table they’d dragged into the manor. He’s usually very proud of his ability to stave off a hangover, but the bottle he only remembers being described to him by a shopkeeper as “good, cheap whiskey” certainly did the job. They’d been celebrating the official completion of the remodeling, the boys having actually made a friend in town and acquiring permission to sleep over (and gods, Einkil having to pretend to be the single father of two adopted rascals while talking to a kind and unassuming halfling woman while Murmur and Flora absolutely lost it ten feet behind her was probably just as bad a headache as the one he was sporting now). Einkil remembers up until perhaps his third drink, sitting in the living room with everyone, for one night not worrying about the gods or the end of the world, confident in their wards and their plans. There’s a fuzzy memory of Flora suggesting truth or dare, discovering that Jibril had never played, then...nothing. Einkil groans and turns his head to the side.

“You called Tirion.” Murmur says, taking a bite of pancake but looking at him out of the side of their eye, smirking when he sits bolt upright.

“I what?” Einkil asks, a little too loudly. Murmur laughs and sets their fork down.

“You were all ‘Guys I think I love him’ and ‘I’m gonna just say hiiiii it’s been like, three days’ it was gross.” Flora interjects, wearing a similar grin. Einkil covers his face and groans again.

“I thought it was sweet.” Jibril offers, patting his shoulder softly.

“Did he answer?” Einkil asks between his fingers.

“Not that we could tell, I know sometimes you just kinda, have a conversation in your head, but you fell asleep pretty soon after that.” Flora says. Einkil removes his hands and takes a deep breath.

“I am going up to take a bath, I think.” He says. His food is mostly untouched, but with how bad his head hurts he doesn’t want it.

“Einkil,” Murmur says as he passes, catching his arm, “for what it’s worth, I’m sure he feels the same.” Their face is oddly...sincere, and catches Einkil off guard long enough for them to swat him over the head, which would hurt except a small flash of healing light makes his vision blur and then...his headache fades to nearly nothing. “Mind you, it was super fucking gay.” They add, sticking out their tongue at him.

“What did you? Damnit, thank’s, Murmur. Still going to take that bath.” Einkil gives a weak smile, glad his beard hides most of his blush, and rushes upstairs to his room. He shuts the door and begins shucking his light shirt, only to pause as he notices something on the tomb beside his bed. A single red rose, leaves and thorns still attached. Einkil crosses the room and picks it up carefully. Closing his eyes to breath the smell in for a moment.

“I thought I’d come by when you were uh, more yourself.” A voice from behind him says in ancient elvish. Einkil is getting better at not dropping what he’s holding whenever Tirion shows up, but he can’t suppress the jump. He turns slowly, smiling despite himself at the fey sitting idly on the cushioned ledge under his window.