#leanan

Leanan was raised alongside her younger brother in a strictly religious household, where exposure to the outside world was limited.

Taught extreme Christian beliefs like hatred for homosexuality and how women should be treated as less than men—experiencing widespread sexism and having to cover every mirror in the house because she was repulsed by the way she looked by her physical appearance.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO WAER IT wit ME?

"Oh dear, that looks really nice, you did a good job on it!"

"However, I'm sorry, I have to decline, as much as how I'd like, I rather not to get too close with people, it's dangerous..."

Leanan Sídhe and her brownie knight, Hëkitarka. Hëkitarka has an ambivalent relationship with Leanan Sídhe, the deadly goddess of inspiration. Sometimes he feels drawn to her, at other times he recognises her as a danger as she ultimately takes the lives of all those who fall under her thrall. Despite this, Hëkitarka hopes he can redeem her and lead her to a better path than the one she follows as a lady of the Unseelie Court.

Finally finished with the main couple from my attempts at a novel I’m working on. Amazing templates for the profiles belong to the gorgeous @cityandking, though I made some minor adjustments to stats and colors. 

More details and lore follows. 

Lungs burning with every labored breath, muscles sore and used, tensing uncontrollably, throat just... numb from all the exhaustion and screaming, yet it is still not over. Battle rages on, and the stench of blood fills your nose in inescapable cloud, fogging your senses. Shake of the head, yet another desperate breath to try to clear it up, you need to concentrate, your friends need you.

So you focus, reaching inside, drenching up every scrap of power, energy you have left to release it in earth shuddering sound wave, trying your best to not think, not count all the people you're hurting, literally breaking their bones... But no, not the time, because as much as you hate the violence, letting them inflict it on your family is way worse, it's worth your agony, worth every tear and pang of guilt. It's probably even worth the deal you made. It should be... It must.

In your scattered state you don't notice the lonely figure that slipped past your defense line. Don't see the shining dully blade in its hand, don't feel the danger now that you alone again and there is no supernatural being in your head to warn you. It doesn't even really hurts the first couple moments as the dagger sinks in you back, boring deeper in the vulnerable flesh, until it does, pain flaring and radiating in scorching ripples across your chest, spine, echoing in your head. It fills you to the brim, and more, and then even further, until you left gasping weakly, collapsing to the ground, and finally -  surrendering to silence...

 ...only to be awakened from the nightmare suddenly, gasping yet again, confused and terrified at how real that felt. But the soft hand soothes its way through your hair, rub gentle circles in the shoulder, massages open tightly clutched fists. You relax, momentarily appeased, still reeling from the dream, but a bit more centered, comforting yourself that it was all it was. If it was a reality, then surely you would be dead and not enjoying this soft caresses from... who was it comforting you? Probably Amarel, always physical, always worrying. Or maybe Gleb, he hated nightmares too. Might as well be Eira even, though she was suspiciously quite in that case, but maybe...

"You really should try to sleep a little bit more, it'll help with the recovery."

But you can't sleep now, drowsiness replaced with dread so fast it can give you an emotional whiplash, because you know that voice, hearing it so many times, so many month, right in your head, instead it rings out tired and worried near your ear.

So eyes snapped open, blinking against semi-darkness of the room illuminated only by fully stocked fireplace, scrambling away, nearly falling off the.... bed?.. You were laying on; you just look. Finally look at the man, committing his features to memory, wishing suddenly yours was as good as his. You wish you could preserve the brief spark of hurt from your movement in dark brown eyes, the angle of the tightly clenched jaw, the hands, twitching as if trying to touch you again. It is gone as soon as it comes though, replaced by collected facade, impassive expression, that you instantly hate so, so much.

But can't do anything to change it. You swore to yourself after all, you already chosen your path, already excepted the deal with the closest thing to a Devil that probably ever existed and there is no way back on that. Even if that thought makes your heart clench painfully, and your hands tremble, and the tears threaten to spill like a river in the spring. But he takes your cues and reads them all wrong, fingers - actual, real fingers strong and positively male - twitching again in clear attempt to reach you.

"Does it hurt? I can renew the healing spells, it would help with the p..."

"No."

The single word falls between you like a wall, or a blade, cutting deeper than the dagger plunged in your back, which apparently did happen... You can feel the subtle throb where it was, dulled by the magic and who knows what else, but that's about it, you don't even feel any blood or stitches, more of a nasty bruise, than a life-threatening injury.

What actually hurts is insistent longing, near damn thirst to touch, to hold, to be closer, closer, closer, to finally feel his warmth and hear him breathe and know, that he's real and here. It hurts, now that it's possible - you can't, not allowed, in some twisted irony of the cruel universe denied by, well, yourself. In the stupid, rash, fucking noble attempt to be a decent human being for once, not the selfish mess of self-pity and helplessness you always were. You hope it worked, at the very least, because just as you suspected, being righteous equals being miserable, but hey, it's all for the greater good, right?..  

Quiet "I'm sorry..." falls from his lips just as the first tear rolls down your cheek, only to be followed by another one, and another. You can't stop it, they just come and refuse to stop, just as you refuse to stop looking at him, even if it tears you heart to pieces. Even if it does the same to him. You can see it through the blur of the tears, the haunted look he now wears, the slumped posture, shadows clinging to his back as if answering to his mood. Hell, they probably are, his power is restored to full now, he can do whatever he wants now.

Well, almost whatever...

You don't know how much time passes until your tears dry out, leaving pathetic hiccups in their wake first, and only exhausted misery later. He doesn't move from his spot in the foot of the bed, and you don't lower your eyes, still locked on this vision of your heaven and hell rolled in one single being. Finally, the sleep claims you, drags back into thankfully dreamless abyss, and on the verge of falling into it completely you fell gentle arms around you again.

You allow yourself to cuddle closer this time, appeasing screaming conscience that you can't control it, when you're so sleepy, it's just instinct.

It doesn't really convince you.

You don't really care either, because as you drift off, you feel a barely there, soft and loving, bittersweet kiss on the corner of your mouth and can't help, but