#poly runavos

You don’t answer him right away. The man’s hands carefully put yours into a new position, both of his hands over yours, delicately angling the stone against the blade in a position you assume is the correct one–he is right, you were holding the blade at a vastly larger angle.

“I…” the words feel like stones in your throat, as heavy and rough as the one against your palm. “…I don’t want them to think of me as useless at everything I do around here.”

Sharpening blades. Organizing books. Hunting game. They aren’t exactly skills you learned in your upbringing as a castle-keeper.

You let Runaan tug your hand–and thus the whetstone–carefully across the blade in a smooth, slow motion. He does it a second time and then a third, finally letting you try to do it yourself.

By the sound of the hum that leaves him or the fact that his hands remain on yours, you must not have the motion mirrored quite well just yet.

But at least he doesn’t berate your fear.

The moonshadow elves are not as hostile towards you as they once were, when you were new in their village and stood precariously on the border of ‘hostage’ or ‘guest’–perhaps you had been both at the same time, until ultimately they decided to see you as the one exception to an unspoken, yet powerful Xadian rule.

Maybe it had something to do with you freeing Runaan from imprisonment. Maybe it’s because you were accompanied by a powerful startouch elf mage, someone who you also freed in the same night as Runaan though similar means of magic or power that you still don’t understand yourself.

Maybe a lot of things.

…It’s a long story.

“You won’t learn how to do this right until you ask for help,” Runaan says, dragging you out of your thoughts. “It takes years for a moonshadow elf to learn these things–you’ve only been here for one.”

“But I’m a human.”

Runaan is quiet for a few moments, giving away a lot more than words ever can.

“You still have hands,” he argues, grip getting a little tighter around your wrists. “And that extra finger has to be good for something.”

He’s learning to grow past his colored stereotypes for humans as much as the rest of his village, but at least he’s honest–there’s an effort, much in the same way that you continue to learn about them.

You don’t have the chance to say something witty in return before both you and Runaan are interrupted by a new voice booming across the air, familiar and strong and pulling both of your attentions away from the lost cause of a dagger.

“I thought that I would find both of you together.”

It’s not hard to guess who it is–the voice alone is as unique as the rest of Aaravos, a startouch elf settled in a vastly moonshadow village. There’s no hiding the difference of his eyes, his horns or the starlike sparkle of both his form and clothes.

There’s a smile on his lips as he approaches the two of you.

“What mischief have you gotten to now?” Runaan asks, not a single beat of silence missed from the moment his eyes lay on the other elf.

Aaravos’ expression drops into a pout, lips pursed and brows tilted, but it’s not that hard to see that it’s simply a playful, but fake expression.

“Mischief?” he asks, raising a hand to his chest as if wounded. “Runaan, you think so little of me. I have many years of experience and knowledge to my life, the ability to weave the power of the stars to my desire and you accuse me of but childish pranks?”

He steps closer to the two of you and sits down on your opposite side, the three of you taking up all of the space on one of the steps leading up to the house you and Aaravos have called home since arriving at the moonshadow village.

Runaan merely stares at the other elf, eyes narrowed in caution.

“Did you set something on fire?”

Aaravos merely laughs, making you look at him with all of the same caution, but a plethora more of curiosity, if only from the glimmer of playfulness in his eyes as he smiles even wider.

“No,” the older elf says softly, his eyes glancing off to the side. “But I did teach some of the children how to glamor rocks as poisonous insects.”

As if on queue, both you and Runaan turn to look where Aaravos’ eyes are, only to see a small group of children run past screaming in delight and every single one of them with stones clutched in their hands.

“Aaravos,” Runaan sounds exasperated already. “You can’t just do that, it will mess up their training and cause a mess that-”

You drop the blade and whetstone so you can reach a now-free hand to grab his, stopping the words of argument before they can begin.

“It’s not going to hurt anyone.”

You feel a smile on your lips and watch as Runaan looks at you, takes in your words, but looks back to Aaravos with caution still nipping at his thoughts.

Somewhere in the exchange, Aaravos takes your other hand in his, leaving the three of you in a silence that takes a long time to break. It would be hard to describe your relationship to the two elves to anyone–it’s hard enough to label it yourself. You’d freed Aaravos from his prison and saved Runaan from death, leaving both of the elves with a sense of debt to you.

Debt that became companionship.

A year is a long time, after all, and it can change a lot of things. Perceptions, understanding, relationships. It can break connections and forge trust in the same blow and, honestly, it’s left the three of you unsure where you stand in life–it feels almost as if each of you had somehow escaped death itself and were trying to find yourselves in a world that had been prepared to go on without you.

Maybe love is a good word to describe it. Forged in debt and cemented by time, made strong only by shared little moments, comfort and companionship. It might be the right word, but it’s not one you’re ready to use just yet, and it feels like Runaan and Aaravos feel much the same.

You feel both of their grips on your hand tighten, just a little bit.

“I doubt they’ll even be able to do the spell properly,” you say gently, glancing from one man to the other.

“Don’t underestimate them,” Aaravos muses softly, the words spoken with almost a vague sense of pride. “For being so young they are exceptionally talented; you shouldn’t be so hard on them, Runaan.”

You watch as Aaravos’ smile curls into something wicked, on the teasing side of mocking, as if the two of them have had a similar conversation in the past that you’ve not been privy to.

Runaan merely makes a noise of exasperation, seeing his defeat in the conversation.

“Fine,” he mumbles, eventually pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can tell when I’m outnumbered. At least promise me you won’t teach them how to light something aflame.”

There’s a tone in his voice, as if it’s something spoken with previous experience.

Aaravos takes in a breath and slowly leans his body against your shoulder; he is warm and gentle in both voice and movement. Runaan eventually does the same, squishing you gently between the two elves as they lean against you, your hands held in a gesture not one of you will label.

“Oh, I don’t need to teach them a spell for that,” there’s a cryptic, toying note in Aaravos’ words. “A piece of flint and steel is less troublesome.”

Before Runaan can respond, there’s a familiar commotion coming from down the path. Screams and shouts fill the air before you catch the sight of a group of children–the same as before–come barreling down they way. Ranging from small child to young teen they run, almost clamoring over one another, all holding fistfuls of candy in their hands.

They’re chased by a man, who stops to catch his breath in front of you, Runaan and Aaravos. He pants and leans forward, hands on his knees and face quickly looking up to all three of you.

“Runaan, I have no idea how it happened,” he starts, rubbing a hand over his face. “There is a nest of scorpions in my shop.”

All three of you are silent for a few seconds, but you can feel two very powerful emotions flowing from either side of you: one is annoyance, but the other is immense, smug-colored pride