#intellis

They also never tell outsiders that the Undercity truly is… under. I've always imagined it as more figurative, y'know, no fancy houses here, only poor people exist here? There's a city in the middle of a fucking lake.

What do you do when you're down under in the Undercity?

You get up over.

Fuck, even my inside my head jokes are now stupid. And okay yeah, maybe I never bothered to buy a map of Velantis, or borrow one or whatever, just so I could see the Undercity is not the Overcity. How the fuck could I have known I'd end up here? How'd I have known this job would go to shit so spectacularly?

Okay, okay, think of better things! Think of that beautiful melusine you spent a really good night with! Not that you don't think about him often, and his enchanting voice and his beautiful face and the way you felt safe in his presence! His fingers too, his kisses, his—

It's not like you'll see him again, Cassander. Because I can't have nice things. Because whoever's up above is getting off on my suffering.

Because you don't—

It's crack of fucking dawn. I can't sleep. My head feels heavy, my heart feels like it's been stuffed with lead, my body aches from the injuries from Dirandan. My throat burns with the need to yell, but my soul feels listless. I don't want to make decisions. I don't want to have to fend for myself.

I just want to fall asleep and wake up when I'm all fucking healed up, normal as any normal person goes, never too much, never like this. Maybe I shouldn't wake up at all.

Listen to me, a voice says, and it sounds like Sero. You're going to get up, you're going to shave and brush your hair, and you're going to walk one foot in front of the other until you can run again.

Shadows play on the walls. A tear slips from my eye.

That contract may have blown in your face, but what can you learn from it? How can you use what was handed to you to your advantage? Think, Cassander. Here I thought I'd picked up the most promising apprentice the Order has seen in the last 40 years.

I don't know about the most promising part. I sure feel like a collosal failure right now.

Are you going to fail me?

It doesn't escape my notice that I'm talking to myself. It doesn't escape my notice that I'm pretending I'm Sero just to will my body into motion.

It does hit me, belatedly, that I'm talking out loud. Great, I've lost my marbles somewhere in Dirandan. Maybe my dear friend Aeran stole them when he ran with Solarath? Please don't crack them, I need a functioning brain.

If he stepped on them right now, I would say thank you and kiss the foot that did it. He's always put his right foot first. Don't these boots taste nice?

I sit up and feel the ground with my bare feet. I recall Sero's advice from ages ago, when life was simpler and all I had to do was show up. When you feel like you're losing touch, try finding things that ground you in the real world. Use your senses.

My senses. I can feel the cold floor on the soles of my feet and the sheen of sweat on the skin of my back. I can see the tiny room I currently call home. I can see Shadowfall peeking behind my pillow and I can feel the warm metal of my Wayfarer pendant under my fingers. I can feel my hair tickling my shoulders, and for fuck's sake, I can already sense a tangle.

My hands aren't as shaky anymore. When did they get so shaky? How am I going to get that tangle out?

One pass at a time.

One foot at a time.

I stand up, stretch my back and go grab my shaving and hair kit. My head feels heavy, but not as much. That's good. That's good.

One foot at a time before I can run again.

I sit at the small table and take out my tools. I yearn for the hair oil they used in Mahanin, but this.. what is it? Mint? Sage? Who the fuck makes sage hair oil? It's the best I could buy here, and it holds no candle to my Vestran orange one. It should work for my frizzy, dry curls though. This shaving oil smells nice, however.

I suddenly trust myself with a razor again. My hands feel normal. My fingers smell like sage and something fresh. My face feels as smooth as I like it. The oil makes it easier to get the tangle out. Thanks for cooperation, hair! Really needed the mercy there.

I braid it out of my face and tie it back, put on a nice protective scarf. Dark purple doesn't exactly work with my particular shade of red, but it's nice enough.

I finally feel like I can breathe again.

I'll have to do it all again tomorrow just to breathe, but it's better than nothing.

„As long as you can pay the innkeeper for them later, which I don’t think you can. I’m not paying your debts.“ He’s fucking done with me, and I know that, but I have been in a foul as shit mood all week for a reason my body and my body alone knows. Part of me feels sorry for him, and another feels like biting things.

Maybe a good, hard bite from my dear, dear best friend Aeran Kellis would fix me. I’ll never find out though. I did spy a rather funny little bump in his pants the other day, though..

Fuck off, primal brain. I dig my heels into the ground. „So no tables, no people, just.. Okay, okay, fine. I’ll behave. We need his job, I’m not stupid. I’m going to be professional about it.“ My professionalism is the one thing I like about myself, one of three total I think, and I’ve worked under worse moods. Headaches even. There’s pounding someone with your sword, but doing that while your head’s pounding you? Ha-ha, nice joke Cassander, do you want a joke medal now?

He squeezes my hand and his voice drops the edge. „I’ll massage you later if you’d like?“ He says it in this weird voice, a little hopeful, a little soft, and his eyes are looking for mine and he’s holding my hand. It’s all rough and calloused, and the scar on his eye scrunches just so and fuck, he’s probably the sweetest being in Rhesainia right now?

Maybe a massage from my dear, dear best friend Aeran Kellis would fix me.

„Sure,“ I mumble, unable to say no. How could I? „Listen, I have the money. We can pay for the room together, or let me pay for the meals. It’s been ages since we ate a proper hot meal we didn’t make ourselves. We’ll get it back with the money from the contract?“

„We’ll split bills later,“ he replies, still not letting go of my hand. He’s even started rubbing little circles on it. He looks down at our joined hands and laughs softly, as if trying to offset the offensive energy that’s radiating off me in waves. „Shit, how many freckles do you have, Cass?“

Too many for my own good.“ I glance down, against my fucking will might I add, and notice he’s pouting a little. Fuck. „Go get us food,“ I add, shaking my head. I’ll be at the table, waiting patiently like a wilting maiden.“

„Hey, boyfriends,“ a voice calls out from behind us, „didn’t wanna interrupt, but if you’re not going for that table, I am.“

Aeran abruptly lets go and heads for the innkeeper. I pout and look at the interruptor – human, dark hair, has a nose ring – and just nod my head in thanks.

“Aren’t you glad we went to Covera?” Cass asks one evening over dinner, in between bites of cheese. “People here don’t give a shit. Everywhere else we would’ve been strays already. Here we just buy meat and cheese and veggies and go fuck in our little cottage and nobody bats an eye.” He picks up a grape and eats it with gusto. “Why didn’t we come to Covera sooner? We wouldn’t have seen Quirinus. But no, you had to arrange that Zenaida thing. Doesn’t matter, right? We’re elves. We can afford to wait months or years. Maybe even a century.” 

Aeran stares. The cheese stares back, as do the grapes and the cooked fish. Cass has always had a long tongue, true, and it is true Aeran did barter with Zenaida while Cass almost died in the Count’s villa and needed surgical attention only she could provide. 

“Nothing to say, Kellis?” Cass says and pushes a grape into Aeran’s mouth. “Eat up. We can afford to eat like fucking kings for once.” 

Aeran has little choice but to obey. 

That evening, as he’s cleaning up, light from a nearby candle catches onto the scar on his shoulder. It’s deep, fresh and mangled, as if just surgically sealed shut, yet there is no puffiness and redness of a new wound. He seems unperturbed by it, and by all accounts, it should hurt. 

“Are you in pain, Songweaver?” Aeran asks and reaches out to run his fingers over it. Cass smiles and shakes his head. 

“Just looks nasty. Otherwise it’s fine.” 

“It’s been months. It shouldn’t be this mangled, Cassander. If you’ve been hiding it from me all this time–” 

Cassander laughs, throaty, loud. The whole cottage echoes with it. When he looks at Aeran, his smile is gummy. “Trust me, I would’ve let you know already.” 

Lies. His Songweaver whines when it’s a cut, but won’t say a thing when it’s something big. Taking care of wounds hurts extra; painkillers have always had less effect on him. 

Cass then sets the broom down and walks over. His shadow is long and dark. His hair adds and expands the leanness of his body until his reflection takes over the whole wall. He’s never seen Theokleia Inteus, and would shoot her on sight if he ever did, but in his mind’s eye, Aeran finally sees why Cassander is his mother’s son. 

He then feels a hand on his shoulder and a pressure of a warm, freckled body against his own. Cass’ lips are on Aeran’s forehead, full and soft. “‘Sides, some wounds never heal. I think you know that. I know that, too. Too many wounds, it’s a fucking miracle we’re able to exist still. But we don’t have anyone to stitch them, do we? We stitch them ourselves.” He then guides Aeran’s hand to the mangled tissue. “And when we do find someone else to do it, they do it so shittily it’s all mangled and ugly.” 

Aeran looks at his feet. His own shoulders are shaking. His eyes are watering. 

“Stitch your own fucking wounds, Kellis. Stop being a coward and running away from that.” 

“What about you?” Aeran bites out. “Don’t tell me you’re this pinnacle of goodness, you asshole, because you’re not. You’re bleeding out left, right and center, for fuck’s sake.” 

“You don’t know half of it,” Cassander’s voice turns rough and raspy. “I’m not making it everyone else’s problem. If they dislike the sight of blood, they can leave.” 

Aeran’s shaking. He refuses to cry, but he’s shaking like a leaf. “Songweaver–” 

Cassander kisses him, rough and hard. “I think you like the sight of blood, though. You’re drenched in it yourself. Clean your own and then we can talk.” 

Aeran wakes to the shifting of the ship. His elven eyesight pierces the darkness around him so suddenly he gasps, like someone held him underwater and is just now letting him breathe. Only sounds reaching his ears are the waves of the Rhesainian ocean and the heaviness of his own breathing, labored and harsh. 

And, well, the rhythmic breathing of another person, sound asleep on Aeran’s chest. 

At some point during the night, Cassander migrated from sleeping next to Aeran’s side to planting himself face first into Aeran’s chest. All Aeran sees is the mess of dark, red curls and the twin points of his ears that peek through. He pokes them on a whim; Cass doesn’t budge. Why would he? He spent the last few hours before exhaustion finally won over crying in Aeran’s arms. It was unwise to take more painkillers, Malsara said, but almost dying is painful. 

At least he gets some respite of it in his sleep. 

That same Cassander shadowed everything in Aeran’s dream. He wipes the sweat off his brow. He’s hot and stuffy and mildly uncomfortable, but he feels less comfortable letting go of Cass now he isn’t this giant, sharp-tongued beast. Instead, he’s smaller and gentler and real. The pressure of his body isn’t oppressive anymore. 

Aeran throws his head back as much as he can and sighs deeply. His hands press against Cass’ body tighter. Cass grumbles and Aeran starts humming a song he heard Cass sing under his breath once or twice. He doesn’t know the words, he doesn’t speak Vestran, but the beat is easy enough to follow. Cass settles again. 

Just a bad dream, Aeran thinks. He doesn’t dare look at Cassander’s wound, bandaged as it is. He doesn’t want to think about his dream, or what it may mean, or why it pops up, or why his stupid head gives those words to Cassander in particular. He’s not harmless by any means, but Aeran refuses to acknowledge that right now, and instead prefers to watch his sleeping, peaceful form. 

Maybe after Velantis is in the dust, he can think about it. In the meantime, he has this. That’s all he can muster to think right now.