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spiteweaver · 2 months

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(Note: this story takes place in May of 2020!)

The sharp rapping startled Branwen out of a comfortable doze. His library was cast now in heavy shadow, save for what little of it the light from the dying hearth could reach. There was no color along the horizon, and the night beyond his window was deep. He feared, for a moment, that he had awoken at the breaking of a second time loop, but relaxed at the sound of Calcifer milling about in the kitchen. The smell of tea roused him further. Sighing, he set the book he’d been reading aside and got shakily to his feet.

Another series of quick, almost frantic knocks sounded at the door. His ears flicked forward and then back. It hadn’t been a dream; someone, very real and very persistent, was standing on his front stoop. He couldn’t imagine who it could be at such a late hour and turned to the window once again to confirm that the capital was not in flames. As before, all was quiet and dark.

“I’ll get it!” Calcifer called.

“No,” Branwen replied as his mate hurried out into the foyer, “stay behind me.”

Calcifer raised a brow. “I’m a foot taller than you, Bran.”

“You’re also wearing a frilly pink apron,” Branwen pointed out, and before Calcifer could protest further, strode forward with only a split second’s hesitation.

On the stoop stood a dam, her figure obscured by an ashen grey cloak, and in her hands was a gently glowing glob. Even without the meager light it provided, however, Branwen would have known her. He did not need to see the silhouette of her face, her warm, dark skin, or the wisps of smoky hair poking out from beneath her hood. Her scent was enough to evoke vivid imagery in his mind of roaring flames—and the cinders they left behind. They danced before his eyes, a translucent mockery of a pain he had never quite managed to rid himself of, before flickering and dying against the bitter chill of a late spring evening.

The next thing Calcifer knew, his mate was throwing himself at their guest. He reacted swiftly, getting his arms around Branwen’s waist and hoisting the enraged Spiral up in a bear hug meant to disable him. Instead, it only incensed him further, and he shed his scaleless guise, slipping between Calcifer’s fingers like sand.

“You,” Branwen fumed, “you monster!”

“Calcifer,” the dam said, stepping back to avoid one of Brawnen’s blind swipes, “had I known you had taken a mate, I would have brought wedding gifts.”

“We aren’t—” Calcifer gripped Branwen by his tail and pulled back with a grunt— “married yet, Oya!”

All at once, Branwen’s squirming ceased. He turned in his mate’s grasp, but rather than anger, there was a misery so deep and so poignant in his eyes that Calcifer dropped him then and there. Branwen’s scales gave way to soft flesh again, and in the tiniest, most pitiful voice imaginable, he asked, “You know her, Calcifer?”

“I—I—” Calcifer’s mouth was suddenly bone dry. “Well, yes. I helped her construct a suitable home for her, ah—Ogun is a bit hard to explain, but I helped her make his hearth.”

Oya, meanwhile, was examining Branwen with renewed interest. She recognized him, though she wished she hadn’t. “You’re that hatchling,” she murmured thoughtfully, “from the Emberwood.”

The Emberwood—Calcifer knew it well. Colloquially known as the Scorched Forest, it stood on the border between the Ashfall Waste and the Shifting Expanse, not far from Emberglow Hearth. Very few clans called it home, as it provided little in the way of shelter or smithing. In fact, most of its residents were magic-workers, who found its isolated locale inviting.

Magic-workers…

…like Branwen.

“Whatever happened,” Calcifer said, “I don’t know anything about it, Branwen.”

“How could you not?” Branwen asked. He seemed to curl in on himself then, growing smaller with every word. “If you know her, you must know what she did.”

Calcifer reached for him, but he pulled away. “Branwen, I swear—”

“Listen to your mate,” Oya said. “Do you think I speak of my wretched work to every dragon who crosses my path? I come to him now not because we were intimately acquainted, but because, as he said, it was he who built Ogun’s hearth.”

“You came to my home,” Branwen began, his fists trembling at his sides, “the home of the drake whose clan you slaughtered, to commission my mate?!”

Oya glanced down at Branwen’s quivering hands. “Yes.”

“Go,” Branwen spat, “before I kill you.”

“I will not,” Oya replied. She did not flinch when Branwen rounded on her again. “Allow me to rephrase: I cannot.”

Before Branwen could make good on his threat, Calcifer stepped forward. “Can he survive in our hearth for a while?” he asked. “I’ll need to gather the proper supplies and dig out my old blueprints.”

“How long?”

“A week at most.”

Oya looked to the glowing glob in her hands, as if for confirmation. It pulsed once, twice, and she nodded. “A week,” she said, “no more.”

“Did you miss the part where I said she slaughtered my clan?!” Branwen asked, his rage so potent that it forced his voice up by several octaves. Typically, Calcifer would have found this amusing. Tonight, he was sweating like a pig. “I know you aren’t stupid, Calcifer! Quite the contrary, you’re meant to be the emotionally intelligent one in this relationship!”

“I’m not doing it for her, Bran,” Calcifer replied. “I’m doing it for Ogun.”

“The glob?!”

“He’s not a—” Calcifer pinched the bridge of his nose. He loved Branwen, but he was still learning how to communicate with him. “Oya,” he muttered in a tone that suggested he was struggling not to rip fistfuls of his hair out, “you can explain it better than I can.”

“Ogun is a homunculus,” Oya said with a shrug.

Branwen cast his mate an exasperated look. “You could have just told me! I know what a homunculus is!”

“I don’t!” Calcifer replied. “Whatever they are, they aren’t exactly commonplace! I’ve certainly never met one, and that’s not how Oya explained him to me!”

“I suppose I went into more detail,” Oya conceded, “seeing as I was entrusting the building of his hearth to you. All your mate needs to know is that I created him as a tool to use in my work. Yes, I see you glaring at him.” The dam’s molten gold gaze snapped up to meet Branwen’s. Neither was willing to back down. “He had no free will then. In the matter of your clan’s destruction, he is blameless.”

“He’s the figure I saw in the fire,” Branwen growled lowly. “He’s the one who enacted your will!”

“Because he could not refuse me,” Oya said again, “which I regret deeply. Over time, free will grew within him. That is why we are here. He—” She faltered, and Branwen cursed himself for feeling a pang of sympathy— “he begged me not to use him again. He knew that the Grand Circle would order us to quash Por’s rebellion. The thought of it made him sick. Perhaps it made me sick as well.”

There was more Branwen wanted to say, but for once, he bit his tongue. “I want your word that neither of you will harm myself, Calcifer, or any of our clanmates.”

“You have it.”

“If you put a single toe out of line, Dreamweaver will hear about it.”

“Of course.”

“You know Dreamweaver, don’t you? You’ve heard of them?”

“I have, and I do not wish to cross them.”

Seemingly satisfied, Branwen turned back toward the open door and motioned for the pair to follow him. “You can stay in the guest bedroom,” he said, “until you’ve secured your own housing.”

—

“So what’s all this about a clan?”

Branwen answered Calcifer’s query with a drawn-out sigh. After ensuring that both Oya and Ogun were comfortable, he had slipped away into his study for the express purpose of avoiding this very conversation. It was complicated, and he was tired. Unfortunately, Calcifer had come with a bribe. Smiling softly, the Imperial crossed to where he sat hunched over his desk and offered him a mug of piping hot tea. It had been made just the way he liked it, sweetened with sugar and honey.

Begrudgingly, he accepted the bribe.

“I thought I made myself quite clear,” he mumbled, blowing the steam from his mug and taking a quick sip. “Oya slaughtered my birth clan, every last drake, dam, and rook. Knowing that she was working for the Grand Circle puts things into perspective. We were a rebellious lot, and the Grand Circle doesn’t like rebels.”

“You told me that no one had ever loved you,” Calcifer said as he took up residence in the only other chair in the room that wasn’t piled high with books, “and that you had never loved anyone else.”

“That’s what makes it…complicated.”

Calcifer reached out to squeeze his knee. “Take it one word at a time.”

“I…” The words stuck in Branwen’s throat. It was an admittance he had promised never to utter. “I may have loved my parents, despite their many failings. When Oya came, I was still young, only a hatchling, but I was old enough to know that I was unwanted. My mother and father were rebels. They didn’t have time to raise a well-behaved hatchling, let alone one of my choleric disposition. I was a picky eater. I demanded constant attention. I was often ill. They shunted me between caretakers, whoever’s schedule was the least hectic on a given day. I was the only hatchling in our clan.”

“How did you escape?” Calcifer asked. “Someone must have loved you enough to bring you to safety.”

Branwen shook his head. “It was Oya who spared me. I remember wailing over my parents’ bodies. A shadow fell across me. I thought—” He sucked in a sharp breath— “I wanted her to kill me, but she didn’t. She told me to leave the Ashfall Waste and never return, and I obeyed.”

“I’m—I’m so sorry, Branwen.”

“Don’t be.” Branwen drained his cup in a single gulp, hoping that the heat of the tea would settle his stomach. “I can never forgive Oya for what she did, but my life there would have been a miserable one.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Calcifer said, “I’m sure your parents didn’t hate you. It sounds like you were born at an inopportune time, and they were unable to adequately care for you as such. That doesn’t mean they didn’t love you, though.”

Try as he might to suppress them, tears sprang unbidden into Branwen’s eyes. They fell into his empty cup in fat, silver drops, and Calcifer, seeing them, spread his arms in a welcoming gesture. The pair embraced. Branwen sniffled pitifully into his mate’s chest, and Calcifer ran his fingers through the witch’s wild ginger curls.

“You know I’ll never let anyone hurt you,” Calcifer whispered, “don’t you?”

Branwen nodded.

“We’re doing the right thing.”

Another nod.

“Once Ogun’s hearth is built, you’ll never have to speak to her again.” Calcifer’s grip tightened, his fingers clutching the back of Branwen’s shirt like a lifeline. “If she ever comes near you, I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” Branwen asked with a snort. “Kill her? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“I’d do it,” Calcifer replied, “if it was for you.”

Heat rushed into Branwen’s cheeks. He forced his face deeper into Calcifer’s chest to hide it, but Calcifer knew by the twitching of his tail tip that he was flustered. So, before his mate could tease him, he blurted out, “We should get married!”

“Wh…?” Calcifer pushed him back to hold him at arm’s length. This, of course, exposed Branwen’s beet red face, which only flustered him further. “What did you say?” Calcifer managed to wheeze. “I think I misheard you.”

“We should get married!” Branwen repeated. “This Flameforger’s, we should do it!”

For a moment, he was certain Calcifer would reject him. They had been together for two cycles and readily called one another mates, but weddings were official business. In the eyes of their Patron, marriage would bind them eternally. It was a lot to ask, perhaps too much. In fact, Calcifer deserved better. Branwen was hot-tempered, and socially inept, and pessimistic to a fault. That settled it. He would pass it off as a joke, and they would go back to their comfortable, uncomplicated mateship.

Then Calcifer broke into a tearful smile, and all of Branwen’s doubts shriveled and died.

“Yes,” he said, “let’s do it!”

#flight rising #fr #zach writes #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #c: branwen #c: calcifer #c: oya #c: ogun #oh my god #after nearly THREE YEARS of lore hiatus #i'm back baby

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