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scurvgirl · 5 years

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The Dragon and the Castle

Fairy Tale AU!

Previous | Masterpost

I am super excited (nervous) about this one!

Selene and Des belong to @selenelavellan

Ana belongs to @lycheemilkart

Vena, Dirthamen, Andruil, and Uthvir belong to @feynites

Anaris belongs to @justanartsysideblog

Aili belongs to @lillotte17

“I hate this plan,” Selene says, frowning deeply at everyone.

“It’s for the best, we can’t both be on the field,” Des argues. He’s right, it’s too dangerous for them to be the battlefield at the same time, it’s why this plan was proposed in the first place. If one of them were to be killed or incapacitated, it has a high chance of doing the same to the other.

The scowl does not lessen, however.

“Des is better at illusions and we will need a massive one to distract all of the soldiers in the castle,” Adannar says softly. It feels bad to tell her this, even though it is true. Selene can create illusions, but her gifts lie in quick battle strikes and healing. In an actual battle, she would be the better choice, but this is a mock battle. Des will be creating a horde of attacking mercenaries with the added strength of the fairy dust Vitality gifted him. They need a show and that is what Des does.

“I like this plan,” Dirthamen says, “it keeps you safe.” She gives him a long adoring look before shaking her head.

“It puts those I love in jeopardy and they expect me to sit back -

“We expect you to keep the home base safe!” Des scoffs. He gestures to Dirthamen. “Falon’din could come looking for his brother at any point.”

Selene crosses her arms, clearly not liking Des’s reasoning. Adannar understands, he wouldn’t want to sit back either, but the risk is too high. Any number of things could go wrong. While he wants as much firepower as possible to go get Serahlin, they all need to be practical - sending everyone in just risks more than what they could potentially achieve. Selene is a terrifying opponent on the battlefield, and he has no doubt that she will return to it one day, but today is not that day.

It takes a bit more convincing, but Selene eventually, grudgingly, accepts that she needs to remain at the Tower. Dirthamen is pleased and even moves to hold her hand.

After they convince Selene to remain with Dirthamen and the ravens, they return to hashing out the details of the assault. The plan is fairly simple, but there are plenty of places where things could go awry.

“Ana will create a thorny vine barrier around the perimeter of the castle,” Vena clarifies, drawing a finger around the castle diagram they have on the table. She nods then frowns.

“That is a lot...it will take some time,” she murmurs, and by the look on her face, ‘some time’ may be more significant than what it suggests.

“What if you took one of the fairy dust pouches? I doubt Des needs both for weaving his illusion,” Adannar points out.

“That would certainly make things easier,” Ana says. Des tosses her one of the pouches, then clearly ties the other one tighter to his belt.

“Des will create an illusion of attacking mercenaries, no banners, to draw the castle soldiers out into the open. They will have to be very convincing, Des,” Vena points to a spot close to the vine barrier that is directly in front of the castle’s main gate. He drags his fingers to demonstrate the “assault” Des will lead.

“Once the soldiers are drawn out, Ana will close off their return with another vine wall. How long would it take to make one that would span...just under two hundred yards?”

“Ten minutes. Des will need to keep them engaged for that long.”

Everyone frowns at that. An illusion is great and all, but it’s hard to keep an entire force of soldiers occupied once they realize their attacking force is well, not real.

“What if I corralled them with fire? I wouldn’t need the dust, fire is second nature to me,” Des offers, drawing his own finger across the diagram. Smoke rises up as he singes the papers.

Vena shrugs, “However it gets done. Who is sabotaging the ranged weapons?”

“I am,” Anaris says, rubbing the heel of his boot where the trebuchets and whatever other ranged weapons the elves have conceived.

“Good. The drain to get into the castle is over here,” he points to a spot on the opposite end of the castle from the gate, “there is a small brook we will need to cross. If we can’t escape through the drain, Adannar will need to fly us out from the courtyard here.” There are technically two courtyards, but the one in question is the larger of the two and is central to the entire keep. There is enough room in this secondary courtyard that Adannar will be able to unfurl his wings and fly into the sky. At least, that’s what Vena believes. Adannar is holding onto that hope. If there isn’t enough room...he could always jump the courtyard walls and take off from there.

“Do we have any idea where Serahlin is being kept?” Des asks.

“Aren’t prisoners held in dungeons?” That’s what Adannar’s always thought. It’s what the elves have always mentioned when they’ve worried about being taken captive. Of course that was hundreds of years ago. Judging by Vena’s grim expression, Adannar isn’t correct.

“Not always,” is all Vena says, however.

“I could cast a tracking spell. But I will need something of Serahlin’s to complete it,” Anaris offers.

“I can pick something up from the cottage she stayed in,” Adannar replies, ignoring the way his heart clenches at the idea of returning to the cottage. It’s only been a couple of weeks since she ran from him and yet their time together seems so far. He longs for her now, but he holds no illusions that she will return that affection.

They nail down a few more details before agreeing to move forward with the plan. Adannar leaves to fetch an item of Serahlin’s for the spell. When he returns hours later, Vena has passed out in a bed with his head in Ana’s lap. She’s stroking his hair and humming an old dryad folk tune and every so often, Vena’s ear twitches, making Ana smile.

Selene and Des are also asleep, twined around each other in a cute sleepy dragon pile. He rumbles happily before lying down next to them.

Tomorrow, he will rescue Serahlin, perhaps just for her to leave him again. But for now, he can sleep and enjoy the comfort of his friends.

The illusion of mercenaries begins with Adannar rolling in very real fog to blanket the countryside. Visibility is reduced until he feels like it is safe to begin the trek to Tavathan. Neither him nor Des take their true forms to assail the tower, but rather remain in their elven shapes. Anaris remains perched on Adannar’s shoulder, reserving his energy for facing any issues they may face once they make it into the keep.

Adannar, Des, and Vena all sit upon constructed metal stags, with Anaris perched on Adannar’s shoulder. The stags are large beasts, once crafted to help carry the naturally bipedal magical creatures during the resistance. They have been in the forest, wandering as they please, only returning when Adannar beckoned them home for maintenance. In the time they have been away, their metal has changed from shining coppers and brass to soft green and dark hues. Hanging moss drips down from their antlers. Unlike Huirin and the other smaller deer, these creatures are silent as they move save for the plod of their hooves.

He imagines it’s quite the eerie sight to see three men riding on these large harts through an imposing fog that one seems to be commanding. But it also feels amazing to be using his magic again like this. After hiding for so long, Adannar has grown accustomed to feeling stifled and unable to flex any of his magic - and now here he is, able to roll the fog in still at his command.

Vena wipes at his forehead, “Didn’t realize fog could be hot.”

“It is when the fog is being cast by a dragon who breathes steam,” Des clarifies. Adannar’s a bit preoccupied focusing on keeping the fog dense to explain himself. “See, normal fog is just a cloud on the ground, but Adannar is heating the hair and commanding the water to coalesce with said hot air. This fog is kept together by magical steam. Feels lovely.”

“You’re a dragon, you breathe fire, this is...hard to breathe,” Vena says, breath clearly laboring. Adannar turns his gaze towards the man and waves a hand, allowing a pocket to form around Vena so he can breathe.

“Thanks, buddy.”

Adannar nods, still too focused to speak.

It is a slow crawl through the countryside of Tavathan. The sun is hanging low in the sky when they reach the village. They stop since Des must go complete his task for Vitality before using the powder. There will likely not be time afterwards to complete the task since they will be on the run from Andruil and her lackeys. The dragon turned elf hops off his hart and shrinks into the form of a fluffy cat before disappearing into the fog.

Twenty minutes later, Des returns looking no worse for wear. There is a peculiar look on his face as he retakes his elven form and mounts his hart once more.

“Anything of note?” Vena asks and Des shakes his head.

“Even if there was, I cannot say.” Another fairy promise then. Very well, Adannar can accept that though he does not know if the elf is so capable. This world of the forest and its creatures is still so new to him.

“Time to rescue the princess, hmm?” Des asks.

Finally, Adannar thinks before urging his hart forward.

Tavathan is a large settlement geographically, but population wise it’s sparse. The village is sprawling due to the sheep fields and the hills that seem to belong to specific families. On the far eastern side, sitting atop several hills is a gigantic keep. There is a tower that rises above everything and on a cloudy day, the tip of the spire is shrouded by the clouds. Not as tall as the Glass Tower, but certainly impressive if no magic was used in its construction.

A brook separate the heart of the town and the keep. They cross it easily and Adannar commands the fog to creep into the castle’s grounds.

“Very good. Is Ana finished setting up that barrier?” Des asks referring to how Ana is tasked with creating a barrier of bramble thorns around the keep.

“I do not know, I do not see the brambles yet,” Vena says.

“I will check,” Adannar whispers, finally able to detach himself from the fog enough to tilt his head to the side to listen. Ana took a small mechanical blue bird with her that is temporarily mystically connected to him. It chirps that she still needs time just as he feels the earth begin to rumble.

The normally quiet harts make a whir of concern then move forward. The ground erupts behind them, tall vines reach toward the sky then curl down, sealing them all in the trap.

“Well, that certainly makes things complicated,” Des says. Once more, Adannar lifts his finger and connects to the bird.

Tell her to open it for a minute where we are. He asks. A moment later, the brambles part, allowing Des to slip out.

“Wonderful. I’m off, boys. One hundred distracting, assailing mercenaries coming right up.” He rides off into the fog, his hart once more silent.

Adannar tries to remain confident as he watches Des go, but it is difficult. Somewhere in this castle is Serahlin, but it also houses Andruil. He is not as powerful in combat as many of the dragons she has slain - what hope does he have if he is forced to face her? If he had any hope of defeating her, he would have to turn to strong magicks and vicious fighting styles that would make him appear as bestial as Serahlin fears he is. How could he to convince her to leave then? He pushes it from his mind and concentrates at the task at hand. These are hypothetical fears, giving them substance will only harm everyone.

“Anaris, please go sabotage any of the large long-range siege weapons,” he requests. The fairy salutes then disappears with a flit of magic. Vena stares at the spot where Anaris was standing and tries not to look overwhelmed.

“Magic can be a bit much for those unaccustomed,” Adannar says.

“Uh-huh, that’s one way of putting it. Can your birdie sense if Ana is doing alright?”

Adannar tilts his head again and listens, “She seems fine. A little tired from the magical expenditure, but fine. You seem fond of her.”

Vena shrugs, “She saved my life, I think that would instill fondness in anyone.” Adannar hopes Vena is right and perhaps Serahlin still holds some fondness for him inside her heart. He knows her trust is gone, but he hopes for fondness.

“I hear Princess Serahlin is quite beautiful,” Vena says after a long moment. Adannar nods and finds himself smiling wistfully.

“Beautiful is too common a description for her. She is radiant, lovelier beyond words,” he says, recalling her ink black hair, her soft pink eyes, the softness of her skin...

“There was a rumor that Princess Serahlin declined a hundred proposals before agreeing to marry Dirthamen.” The comment makes Adannar frown. He is not one for gossip, particularly the sort having to do with Serahlin. He rather doubts the authenticity of such rumors, especially if they were espoused at court. He may be a forest dwelling dragon, but he knows enough to know that there are more lies than truths murmured at court, more betrayals than friendships. It hurts his heart to think of Serahlin growing up in that environment. He knows it’s the reason for the walls around her heart, her natural guardedness. But even with growing up in such a place, she is kind and capable of such softness and love.

“I hope she never has to subject herself to court again,” Adannar says in a grave tone.

“From what I hear, Princess Serahlin was lauded at court. But can’t blame her for no wanting anything to do with it.” Vena shrugs but Adannar can’t shake the discomfort at the idea. Serahlin at court, excelling at the various machinations and plots. It’s not what he knows of her, but then again, she didn’t know a lot about him either.

They have much to discuss when this is all done.

Anaris reappears on Adannar’s shoulder, smelling of smoke.

“It is done. The lines in the trebuchets are snapped and Des is beginning to weave his illusion,” the fairy reports.

“Good, we wait for the signal then,” Adannar replies, shaking off the more negative emotions from his talk with Vena.

“What signal is that?” Asks the elf.

At once, shouts and cries of dismay echo from the castle. Anaris grins and Adannar feels a sick trepidation beat with his heart. May I not have to kill anyone today.

“That signal, of course!” Anaris claps. Adannar tries not to sigh as he dismounts the hart. Vena follows suit as they begin their approach.

With the guards suitably distracted by Des’s illusion of assaulting mercenaries and Ana’s vine magic, the trio will be able to slip in, assume the identity of guards themselves, and then ferry Serahlin out. They have two, maybe three, hours to get in, find her, and get her out before alerting anyone.

Adannar has never been one for stealth, but now is a good a time as any to be silent.

Only minutes later do they come upon the drain Vena spoke of. It is large and circular, but there is an equally large metal grate guarding it from any would-be trespassers.

“You said it was unguarded, but I suppose that did not include a metal grate,” Adannar comments.

“You’re a dragon, can’t you just...yank it off?” Vena asks.

“It’s not that simple,” Adannar whispers, “I will have to semi-shift myself to harness the strength to do this. Stand back.” Anaris hops off his shoulder and onto Vena’s instead while Adannar grasps the grate and allows his true form to bleed through his current one.

It is not a comfortable process. In between states feel stuffy, all at once too big and too small, his limbs are not the correct size and his mind is simply screaming to just pick a size and stick with it. But his dragon form is too big and too conspicuous while his elven form is not capable of the strength necessary to pull the grate free. Skin turns into scales and nail lengthen into claws as he wraps his hands around the grate. He can feel his skull pound with magic as his horns extend back from his forehead. His back ripples and he wonders if his wings will make an unwelcome appearance.

Thankfully, his wings remained furled, keeping his robe in tact. His breeches are not so lucky as his tail rips through the back and falls heavily to the floor. Quickly, Adannar yanks on the grate, pulling it free from the stonework. As soon as he sees they are free to proceed, Adannar starts stuffing his true form back under his elven shape. He shudders and feels his draconic features recede until he looks just as elven as Vena.

“Let’s go,” Adannar says, or at least he means to say, it comes out more of a growl than anything. He clears his throat to make the dragon-y voice clear up.

“Let’s go,” he reiterates.

“That was incredible,” Vena states, still staring at Adannar.

“Thank you, Selene is better at it. You’ll see her with horns or scales, even a tail, while in an elven body - but it’s always felt...difficult for me.” He shrugs, the magic works in different ways for different dragons. His talent has never been in shifting his shape but rather creating his creatures. Selene is better at commanding her shape, but the best shape-shifting dragon Adannar had met was a former spirit of Mischief. They were a smaller dragon, not that much bigger than a moose, but they could shift into anything that had a heartbeat. Word of their talent reached Mythal and she had Falon’din hunt and kill them. When Glory saw the myriad of iridescent scales adorning Falon’din’s armor on the battlefield, they flew into a rage.

Now is not the time, he reminds himself as he climbs into the drain -

“Sweet mercy!” He cries, hand slapping over his face. The smell.

“You brought us into a sewer drain?” Anaris drawls.

“As opposed to a nice unguarded entry point that doesn’t exist?” Vena snorts then winces as he draws more of the foul stench into his nostrils.

Even with the stench, it’s a good access point, and with Adannar’s connection to water, he’s able to keep the disgusting sewage away from them as they make their way through the drain. So much for hoping Serahlin would hug him when she sees him, he’ll stink too badly for that.

The drain is thankfully large enough that Vena and Adannar only have to bend at the hip to walk through. It’s far from comfortable, but it’s better than having to crawl. It’s the little things, really. They move through the sewer system for twenty minutes before they find an exit point.

“I’ll check,” Anaris volunteers. Adannar would argue but Anaris’s small size makes him the ideal one to scout ahead to make sure they’re safe. He leaps up the drain past the grate into whatever is above.

“We’re in the castle proper, I think,” Vena whispers, “probably near the kitchens, maybe the washroom.” Adannar sniffs the air. It doesn’t smell like food, but then again, he can hardly smell anything over the stench of the sewage.

A few minutes later, Anaris hops back down.

“Washroom up there, there are a couple of guards posted not far from it. They’ll make good marks.”

“Is there any way to remove the grate without having to yank it?” Adannar murmurs. Anaris reaches up and waves a hand over it.

“Yes, I will remove it.” with some fine tuned quick telekinesis, the grate pops open.

“Why didn’t we do that before?” Vena asks.

“That grate was fused shut - this one is designed to be able to open,” Anaris answers as they begin to climb up. Adannar tries not to think about what his hand is touching as he hoists himself up out of the drain and into the washroom. It’s a spacious room, filled with large basins and racks. It is open to a small courtyard that are filled with clotheslines, sheets and things waving with the wind.

Vena grunts as he heaves himself out of the sewer, nose wrinkled in disgust at the stench still permeating the room. They replace the grate once he’s out, then set to stalking the nearby guards. Anaris directs them out of the washroom and down the hall to the left. Around the corner is a door with two guards at the ready. Their weapons are drawn and Adannar wonders why they are here guarding a door while the rest of the castle is in a tizzy over the “attack.”

Adannar can hear the bustling soldiers running throughout the castle, their heavy footfalls surprisingly quick as they run out to the front to fortify the keep.

“I’ll put them to sleep but then you must be quick to get them, people are coming,” Anaris whispers before darting off. When the guards collapse, Vena and Adannar rush ahead and drag their bodies back to the washroom. They’re quickly stripped them locked into a closet full of cleaning supplies. Someone will hear them after this is all over and let them out. But for now, the risk is too great that they will wake and alert everyone to Adannar and Vena’s presence.

Swiftly, they don the uniform over their light underclothes. They came dressed for this, not wearing heavy over-clothes, the only exception being Adannar’s robe. With a quick murmured spell, the robe disappears back to his lair. It’s been spelled with him for so long, it doesn’t take much to command where it ought to be now.

Vena was right though, they are good sizes for guard uniforms. With the helmets on, no one can tell the truth. Now, to find the princess.

“What are you doing?! Unhand me!” Serahlin shouts, shoving a guard off of her. She doesn’t know what’s going on, but the castle is suddenly full of activity. Three guards came down to the dungeon and are now wrenching her from the dungeon. Ordinarily, she would love to leave such a horrid place. But Uthvir is here, and she is loathe to leave them, especially since Aili clearly won’t be able to escape from her room now.

“Castle’s under attack. Princess ordered us to get you to a more secure location,” the guard says before seizing her again. She tries to fight him but he hoists her up and carrie sher up the stairs. She could use her telekinesis on him, but it would spend precious energy. After working for days to build up her strength, she’s found she can’t keep it up indefinitely. Her power will feel weak and drained if she works it too much. And if the castle is under attack...she may just need it in a more dire situation.

Serahlin lets the guard carry her out of the dungeon. He sets her on her feet and this time she follows willingly. She doesn’t fancy being another prisoner to whoever is attacking the castle. But she has to wonder if this assailant is an ally or would be preferable company to the Princesses Andruil and Sylaise.

They are rushing by a long set of stairs when another cadre of guards rush down them. A short figure with long glowing hair is shrouded behind them. Aili! They must be moving her to this secure location as well! The guards merge into one group with Serahlin and Aili in the middle. They take each other’s hands as they run together. They are ushered down a long hallway and then into a room with a large tapestry. One of the guards pulls the tapestry to the side to reveal a peculiar looking metal door. It’s taller and narrower than the other doors, and even in the dark, it seems to radiate light. Markings are carved in circular patterns all over the door that begin to glow when a guard pulls it open.

Aili and Serahlin are unceremoniously shoved into the room. No guards enter with them.

“What is this?!” Serahlin demands. She can feel the glow in her eyes intensify as she glares at the guards.

“A room to keep you safe.” It is all he says before he shuts the door, leaving Aili and Serahlin alone. Under normal circumstances, Serahlin would be fascinated by the door and this room. It’s a beautiful, filled with plush furniture and tapestries. But today is no ordinary day.

“Who could be attacking?” Serahlin asks as she presses up against the door.

“I saw a large force from my tower - no banner. I heard a guard shout something about mercenaries,” Aili whispers. Mercenaries? Hm. Of all the people Serahlin had worried about, mercenaries were not one of them. They could be after her, but that is only if her mother had discovered her location. Since Andruil seems rather invested in keeping Serahlin around for her own gain, she doesn’t think her or any of her staff informed one of Serahlin’s mother’s allies of Serahlin’s location. Not to mention she has only been her a few days - that is hardly enough time to get word all the way to Eletharan.

That means the mercenaries are here for some other reason, and what are two things all mercenaries have in common? A love for gold and fear for things they cannot kill.

“Our situation has changed, lady Aili,” Serahlin says, hardly able to keep her grin to herself, “we’re escaping this place, today.”

Aili’s eyes widen but it quickly gives way to a steely determination, “We’re not leaving Uthvir.”

“Oh no, they’re going to help us. What mercenary would brave a dragon?” Serahlin quips making Aili grin mischievously. Serahlin backs away from the door and takes a deep breath. Calming herself before using her telekinesis is critical for there to be any success. She extends her hand and focuses on the act of the door opening.

A loud CLANG! Explodes from the door sending Serahlin flying across the room. She screams as her body is flung onto a couch. Fiery pain lances its way through her body, radiating from spine and down.

“Serahlin!” Aili cries.

Serahlin coughs and curls on herself. Before she knows what’s happening, something heavy is flung over her. When Aili begins to sing, Serahlin realizes what’s happening. Warmth and relief sinks into from Aili’s hair and soon she is sitting back up, moving the long hair off of her.

Serahlin rights her clothing and tries to keep the faith. The door is magically warded against anything opening it. They’ll just need to figure out something else.

Aili doesn’t seem as calm, however. She begins to pace, tugging at her hair. “I’m sick of this! I’m sick of being stuck in this stupid place! Why does my power have to be healing things?! You can move stuff with your mind and what do I get? Silly, glowing hair!”

“Aili, healing is a wonderful gift,” Serahlin argues but the princess is having none of it. She shakes her head, immense frustration and anger rising within her like an unstoppable wave.

“All it’s done is get me imprisoned. I can’t fight. I can’t do anything! I’m tired of sitting back while my friends get hurt!” Aili throws her hands down in a gesture of frustration, but in that movement, an inexplicable spark flies from her hands.

And promptly takes root in one of the tapestries on the wall. Aili gasps, eyes wide as the golden flame begins to grow and consume the fabric.

“Fire!” She exclaims, leaping from her seat with a pillow. She pats the fire and the fire dissipates, but the tapestry comes crashing down.

“I did that?” Aili whispers in equal measures amazement and horror.

“Congratulations, you are not quite as helpless as you thought - wait is that a door?” Serahlin was still making sure the fire is out when a dark spot on the newly revealed wall caught her eyes. She looks up and sure enough, there is a door - smaller and less fancy than the magical one they entered from, but a door still.

“Can we get that one open?” Aili asks but Serahlin is already working on it. Focusing herself once more, she gathers her power inside of her, picturing the door opening. The wood heaves then stops, remaining closed.

“It’s locked - maybe if you unlock it, we can get it open.”

“I don’t know how locking mechanisms work…” but there are hinges she can see. She imagines the screws in the hinges rising and falling out. The door groans and leans awkwardly as its support is taken away. With the hinges out of the way, Serahlin imagines the door bending itself until it snaps open. Wood cracks and snaps until there is an opening large enough for them to crawl through.

“Let’s go,” Serahlin declares before stepping over the broken door and into a dark lit hallway.

“I had no idea I could do that,” Aili whispers, giddy but nervous.

“It makes sense, my telekinesis was activated by fear - your fire was activated by frustration and anger.” Serahlin shrugs as they creep down the dark, narrow hall. It turns at odd angles and after the second or third turn, Serahlin realizes they’re curving around rooms. How interesting.

“We’re going to break Uthvir out of the dungeon and then we’ll get far, far from this place,” Aili declares with resounding determination.

“I know a place we can go,” Serahlin says softly. She hopes said place will still welcome her, or specifically, the person who resides there. Adannar surely would accept Uthvir and Aili at least, they haven’t wronged him like Serahlin has.

Once more she kicks herself internally for running away so soon. She didn’t hear him out. Yes, he explained himself, but she didn’t listen. For her entire life, she believed what was said about the dragons. That they’re greedy monsters who kill indiscriminately and it is only thanks to the dragon hunters that elven society still stands. Now she realizes how blind she was. Adannar was kinder to her than most elves have ever been. He made her feel things she never thought she could feel. And how did she repay his kindness and love? By calling him a liar when all he was doing was protecting himself from someone who could cause him irreparable harm then running away.

After escaping this place, Serahlin wants more than anything to apologize to him. She wants to hold his face and kiss him and tell him how wrong she was about his kind. How wrong she was about him.

Serahlin starts feeling along the walls for doors or windows. They find stairs first and quickly descend those. Finally, at the bottom of the stairs is a door. It too is locked, but Serahlin handles it the same way she did with the other door.

They step through the doorway into the castle proper. “Finally,” she whispers, taking Aili’s hand once more, “which way?”

Aili points to the right, “I think the dungeon is that way.”

“Then that’s where we’re going.” How they’re going to bust Uthvir out, Serahlin doesn’t know, but she figures that Andruil had to get Uthvir into the dungeon somehow and she rather doubts they willingly turned into an elf then walked into the cell. There has to be a gate or something that opens up to the surface. If they get that open, they can get Uthvir out and leave while the soldiers are preoccupied with the mercenaries. No one expects a dragon to randomly fly out from under you.

“Have you ever seen something that looks like a gate but in the ground? Probably in the courtyard, maybe even from the dungeon side?” Serahlin asks.

Aili nods, “Yes, but it hasn’t been used in hundreds of years, not since...you know.”

“That’s fine, I’ll blast it open and Uthvir will fly us out,” she whispers, lest a nearby soldier hears her.

“What?” Aili whispers back, “Uthvir can’t fly.”

Serahlin stops and turns to frown at Aili, “What do you mean, Uthvir can’t fly?” Dragons fly, that’s what they do. And she knows Uthvir has wings, so - oh. Oh no.

The rage in Aili’s face confirms Serahlin’s thoughts, “It was one of the first things Andruil did. She wanted them to know there was no escape. I do as much as I can to heal them, but it just helps with the pain.” Her fists clench and Serahlin knows that she is fighting that wave of feeling useless again. Quickly, Serahlin cups Aili’s face.

“This is a hitch, one we will overcome. A downed dragon is still a formidable opponent. They can run, or they can shift and we can steal horses and run away. We will figure this out, we will escape.” The fury cools in Aili’s eyes and she takes a steadying breath. Good, they don’t need another accidental fire.

“The chains. We need to figure out a way past the chains -

Serahlin is about to propose finding the guard who holds the keys when she sees a tiny…person? He’s perched on a slight outcrop of stone wearing a devious smile. But his eyes are those of a cat and the two tails swishing behind him only confirm the strangeness of his appearance.

She swallows back a scream but cannot stop her eyes widening into saucers and pointing wordlessly.

“Wha-AH!” Aili starts to screech and Serahlin is quick to slap her hand over her mouth.

“Excuse me, but who, what, are you?” Serahlin does her best to keep her voice from wavering, but there is a tremble at the end that doesn’t quite sell it, so she raises her chin and turns on her imposing regal expression. The...person’s grin just widens.

“Hello, Princess. My name is Anaris and I am what your people call a fairy.”

“A -ai-y?” Aili asks throw Serahlin’s hand, incredulous. Serahlin can’t say she doesn’t share Aili’s sentiment. A fairy? Really? In this place?

“Yes. And I bring you a gift. Now stay right here.” And just like that, the fairy vanishes. Into thin air! Leaving Serahlin and Aili stunned into silence in a small alcove in the hallway.

“I found her! Down the hall there, keep to the left,” Anaris says, reappearing on Adannar’s shoulder. A thrill runs through Adannar. She’s found! He runs down the hall Anaris indicated, needing to confirm with his own eyes that she is alright.

He keeps to the left, Anaris murmurs she’s in an alcove, he turns -

Serahlin.

She is as beautiful as the day she ran. Her hair is pulled up into a bun that is slowly coming undone and her dress is low and revealing in the Elvhenan style rather than her Elethari dress.

Her expression hardens and she steps in front of the elven woman she had been holding onto, “Step back! I won’t warn you again!” She hisses.

Oh right! He yanks his helmet off, golden hair slipping down his back and around his face. Serahlin stops, a wondrous expression replacing all hostility.

“Adannar?” She whispers in shock.

He cannot hold back the loving smile he has for her. He had been so worried and here she is, relatively unharmed.

“I’m here to get you out,” he says quickly because if he doesn’t say anything he fears he’ll take her into his arms and kiss her. And he cannot kiss her, that time has passed for them.

She chuckles low in her throat, “You’re behind the attack?”

“Actually my friend is, I hear you met him. Des? And it’s not real, just an illusion. But we have to get moving now.” He takes her hand and once more he resists the temptation to pull her into a hug.

“Not to interrupt - but what is going on?” The elven woman asks and Serahlin turns to her, still beaming as joyous relief flows through her.

“Aili, this is Adannar. Adannar, this is Aili - she is Sylaise’s adopted daughter slash captive. She’s coming with us.” Aili, she’s small and cute, but the magic inside of her is barely held back flame, curling within her. It shows in her hair. Something about it is so familiar but he can’t think about that now.

“Very well. She can come as long as we leave now.” He takes Serahlin’s hand again attempting to guide her back to the drain when Aili grows visibly upset.

“We can’t leave without Uthvir! Serahlin, remember? Uthvir, trapped down there? If we leave, they will have no one! I’m not leaving without them!” For such a small woman, Aili stands firm in place. Adannar’s heart goes out to her but -

“Adannar, she’s right. Uthvir’s a dragon, we can’t just leave them here,” Serahlin says and his attention quickly snaps to that.

“A dragon?” He asks, tone turning grave. A dragon is being held captive here? How - nevermind, he doesn’t want to know how this dragon was captured or...kept. The thought is so horrifying to him that it’s best not to dwell.

Serahlin nods slowly, “I wouldn’t believe it myself, but I met them when Andruil threw me in with them to scare me. Their magic is being kept suppressed. They’re chained in the dungeon. We can’t leave them here.”

Uncommon fury blasts through Adannar and he feels his eyes flash to their natural state. Aili gasps.

“You’re...you’re one too?” She breathes.

“Yes. Anaris -

“Ah, this was not part of the original agreement,” the fairy replies. Some part of Adannar, the primitive, draconic part that holds flesh memories and instincts wants to bite him. For a fairy, that would be fatal and would defeat his purpose. He takes a long steadying breath.

“For each person you help me rescue you may have one piece from my hoard with the previous aforementioned conditions. Deal?” He offers.

“No. It will apply to Aili, but this Uthvir...rescuing a dragon is no small task.” Do not kill him, do not.

Adannar grinds his teeth, “Then what do you want?”

“I want something built,” he answers immediately, likely sensing the razor edge Adannar is teetering on. He is not a violent dragon, he abhors violence, but there are few things that enrage him like the abuse and subjugation of his fellow dragons. It also did not escape his notice that Andruil threw Serahlin into the dungeon.

There are moments when he can understand the violence his fellows have been driven to.

“Excuse me, selfish creature, but your demands are foul,” Serahlin hisses, “you have absolutely no regard for life. Do you not realize the implications of Andruil having a dragon, hm? What power she has enslaved? How easily could she turn this dragon’s power against you and your people? And how long do think it is before she attempts to capture fairies? You need nothing built, what you need is to show to these people is that they cannot continue to capture and subjugate the magical people of this world. You will help Adannar, not because you are getting some ridiculous item out of it, but because it is the right thing to do, or so help you, you will suffer the consequences.”

He falls in love with her a bit more with those words, and his heart swells with incredible pride.

Anaris sneers at her, “You will regret those words, princess. You do not understand the fey.”

“And you do not understand me when I say that Andruil needs to be checked lest you all die. That is your payment - your life.” He cannot kiss her right now for that, it would completely undermine her and her ground, but oh does he want to kiss her. Standing up to a fairy even though knowing nothing about them and why they strike bargains. And to threaten him - yes, it’s not advisable, but her bravery is stunning and wonderful, even if it is rash.

“She is right, Anaris. How long would it be until Andruil sets her eyes upon the fair folk?” Adannar asks, which serves to only deepen his scowl.

“They’re looking for power - you have magic, right? That’s why we’re here,” Aili says suddenly, “they’re looking for magical power that they don’t have to break curses or something. Uthvir’s magic couldn’t break them, ours couldn’t either...she’ll come looking for you and your people next.”

“I don’t have people,” Anaris glowers, “but I see your point. Those of us who wander would be...susceptible, if she learned how to capture us.”

“She captured a dragon,” Serahlin deadpans, “I think the odds of her figuring out how to capture a fairy are pretty good. Do this and you put her focus back on the dragons rather than the fairies.”

He realizes that this is how she was at court and that what Vena said was true. She was good at it. She is fierce and stalwart with her words and position. Even while in a position that makes her reliant upon him and Anaris, she stands tall and demands concessions in the best interest for someone who cannot advocate for themselves.

Anaris curses, “Very well. I will aid in the release of Uthvir - but I still get three pieces from the hoard with the pre-existing caveat.”

“Deal,” Adannar says, and holds his finger out for Anaris to clasp it. With the magical deal struck, Adannar turns to Vena.

“Take the ladies to the drain and get them out of here. I will take care of this Uthvir with Anaris.” Vena nods and strides forward.

“Alright, ladies -

“Vena?! How did you get involved in this?” Aili exclaims only to quickly wave her hands, “nevermind, you’ll explain later. And wait, wait - I’m going with you. Uthvir is my friend.”

Adannar shakes his head, “I can’t be worrying about you if I’m going to do this. Rescuing one of my kind is tricky. Please, go with Vena, get to the forest.”

“We can trust him, Aili,” Serahlin says and his heart soars. She...trusts him? Even after everything?

Aili gives Adannar a hard look, “Fine. But you better get them out.”

He smiles, “I will.”

“We have to cut this short, I hear guards,” Vena says.

“There is a door that opens up in the courtyard. Andruil first used it to get Uthvir into the dungeon. One of the guards has the key. Uthvir is also chained in chains that suppress their magic,” Serahlin explains quickly as she is pulled along with Vena down the hall.

“Go! I will see you in the forest!” Adannar says as Vena ushers the ladies down the hall to the washroom. Serahlin gives Adannar a backward glance full of emotion. Soon, they’ll talk again soon. But right now, he has a fellow dragon to save.

A sewer. They came in through a sewer. That explained their stench, at least. Vena helps her and Aili through the drain, somehow trudging through the disgusting sewage for what feels like forever until finally they reach the end of the drain.

The water and...other things on her dress weigh it down. Not to be slowed, Serahlin takes the outer layer off, leaving her in the shift and corset. She throws the dress into a pile of sewage, glad to be rid of it.

Just past the drain are two large mechanical harts. She smiles, his creatures now welcome reminders of the safety of the wood.

Aili yelps and keeps behind Vena, “What are those?”

“They’re mechanical harts. Adannar built them. It’s what he does - create life from the lifeless,” Serahlin explains softly, walking to one of the harts. She reaches a hand out and the hart leans its head down for her to pet it. What a marvelous creature. It’s a bit amazing to think that not so long ago she’d be terrified of it, but now she runs her hand along its smooth snout, marveling at its movements and size.

“We’re riding them to safety,” Vena states and Aili scowls.

“We’re going to help, if we ride around that way, we’ll be at the courtyard,” Aili argues.

“Precisely,” Serahlin replies, “we’ll clear the courtyard out for them. Adannar will need space to take flight.”

Vena sighs, “You’ve spent how long imprisoned here? Don’t you want to get away? Adannar can take of himself - he’s a dragon.”

“I’m perfectly aware of what he is, but I also know what is here, and I’m not going to allow it to prevent him and Uthvir from escaping. You can run if you want, but I’m going to fight.” Serahlin swings a leg over over the hart, “After all, I was one of the best riders in Eletharan. Coming Aili?”

“Yeah!” She rushes over to Serahlin’s hart, hopping on behind Serahlin. Aili pulls her hair forward and wraps it a couple of times around herself, still keeping her arms free. Vena gives a long suffering sigh but doesn’t argue as he mounts his hart.

“The courtyard is this way, we’ll need to wait for the right moment to ambush the guards.” Serahlin can’t help but grin as Vena starts to lead them around the castle.

“This is a bad idea, you don’t even have weapons,” Vana mumbles.

“Oh? I can move things with my mind.”

“And I can apparently start fires!” Aili announces proudly.

Vena’s shoulders slump, “Of course you have magic. Everyone has magic now.”

Anaris is furious, Adannar can tell. He’ll make it up to the fairy later, but right now there are bigger things to take care of. This Uthvir needs to be rescued. They must be young to have been captured and held against their will. Really young. He can only think of one time in a dragon’s life where they would be so susceptible to this - right after first formation. When the body is young and the former spirit is still growing accustomed to the constraints of a body. Normally, other dragons would guard the newly formed to ensure something like this wouldn’t happen, but this is no longer possible. Any gathering of dragons is seen as suspicious and likely to garner more attention. Now it’s safer to simply let the dragon form and hope it doesn’t garner dangerous attention.

Moreover, Adannar has not heard of an Uthvir. He hasn’t made contact with many of his former friends in quite some time, but he thought he would at least know when a new dragon formed. No matter, he will get Uthvir out and somewhere safe so they can fully come into their draconic glory.

If Adannar goes off of the assumption they were newly formed when they were captured, then they will not have many abilities to help themselves through this rescue. They’ve likely never shifted into elven form and he will need to get them to do exactly that if they have any hope of making it out. They will be too much of a target in their dragon form, and while Adannar has abilities to keep himself safe, not to mention an older and thickened hide that can absorb many blows from typical weapons, Uthvir does not. As an elf, Uthvir will be easier to protect, he can just stand over them like a mother hen standing over her chicks.

Anaris pouts on his shoulder as they make their way through the castle. Who knew finding a dungeon would actually be difficult? It’s been so long since he’s been in an elven castle, and the last time he was in one, he never even thought about the dungeon. He was in the banquet hall, laughing and drinking ale as a guest of honor.

“I’ve had enough of running around,” Anaris says, voice clipped. He leaps off Adannar’s shoulder and disappears for several moments.

“Anaris?” Adannar whispers after the moments stretch into minutes. “Anaris!”

“I’m here,” he states, reappearing on Adannar’s shoulder, “with the location of the dungeon. Turn right.” Adannar follows Anaris’s directions until they look around a corner to see two guards stationed outside a large wooden door. Anaris murmurs something in the fairy language and guards promptly collapse. Adannar rushes forward and searches them for a key to the dungeon. Found, he opens the door and sets down the stairs.

Darkness envelops them, but Adannar and Anaris’s eyes quickly adjust to the lowlight. Everything turns to a grey as their pupils dilate, and their noses wrinkle at the nearly overwhelming stench of the dungeon. Has his fellow dragon had to suffer for long in this horrid place? Disgust and fury flow through Adannar unlike they have before, even during the war.

The dungeon is thankfully larger than what he feared. The ceilings are tall, though not as tall as he would like. In his dragon form, he would have to keep his head low to fit, and even then his horns would likely scrape against the ceiling.

Finding the cell with Uthvir is not difficult. The entire dungeon is built around the large, central cell where an immense shadowed figure is lurking. The figure does not move even when Adannar runs up to the bars.

“Are you Uthvir?” He calls.

A growl emanates from the shadow and chains rattle as they move. Red eyes turn to Adannar as they approach the bars, sniffing the air.

“What are you?” They ask, no pretense. His heart breaks for them to not recognize him as one of their own.

“I’m a dragon like you,” he tells them softly, “and I am here to help. First, you must stand back.” Uthvir growls but does as he requests, stepping back from the bars as Adannar allows his magic to spill from him. He controls it just enough to ensure that when he assumes his true form he does not smash himself into the ceiling or any other supports.

The guard’s uniform he’s wearing shatters under the magic as he swells with his magic. Wings and tail and horns spring from him and soon he is on all fours, ramming his well horned head into the bars. As magically reinforced they are, they are not even comparable to the might of a nearly thousand year old dragon.

Uthvir steps away from him though and he can smell the twinges of their fear. And it is then that he sees them more clearly. They are small for a dragon, much smaller than Adannar, and nearly covered in feathers save for the scales of their forearms, belly, and neck. Said feathers ruffles as they shift back and he catches sight of their wings -

It takes all the effort in him to not roar with consuming rage that sets through him at the sight of the mangled flesh of their wings. Their shoulders are lashed, largely plucked to reveal the horrendous abuse that has been heaped upon them.

He can be furious later, right now, he needs them to trust him. That won’t happen if he continues to project anger at them. So Adannar reigns it in as quickly as he can. Uthvir deserves kindness and compassion right now, not righteous fury. The fury can come later.

“No need to worry,” he reassures, “Aili sent me. She is your friend, yes? I can take you to her and away from this place.”

They regard him carefully before shifting and giving a curt nod, “I will accept your help.”

“Excellent! Let’s start on these chains, hmm?” He lays a front claw on the chains, sensing the mystical enforcement. With a surge of righteous magic, fueled in no small part by offense and fury, he snaps the chain with its enchantment. Except it does more than just snap - it disintegrates.

His magic must have...grown since the last time he used it like this.

Uthvir gasps and their magic, smaller and newer bubbles out from them.

That magic - oh. Oh.

“Sympathy?” He whispers and their heads whips around.

“Where do you know that name?” They hiss even as he is close to weeping, he cannot believe -

“Sympathy, it’s me, Adannar. I was a friend of Glory’s before...when you were still a spirit. We thought you died when - you became a dragon?” His voice is whisper soft, even like this, laced with awe and horror.

It’s been two hundred forty years since Glory was slain in battle, and the last time Adannar saw Sympathy was around that time and they had still been a spirit.

“I...do not…” they stammer, clearly struggling to find the memories.

“Sh, it’s alright. We’ll get you out. There will be time to discuss all of this. You go by Uthvir now?”

“I do not remember not being who I am,” they reply. Adannar resists growling. The enchantments meant to suppress magic all over this place must have created a block on their memories somehow since they were so heavily connected to magic.

“We need to get you out of here. You will need to turn into an elf, here let me help.” He shifts back into his elven form, naked, but uncaring. “Look at me, study my form and think about becoming like me. Let go of all the magic you have and let it fill you, then think about being an elf.” He has to coach them through it for several minutes, their form wavering more and more until shadows envelop them and their form shrinks down to that of a small elf, not that much bigger than Aili. Their hair is long and dark and their eyes even change from a bright red to a warm brown.

For a moment, he thinks it is like looking at a darker version of Glory. Their features share a fine beauty that few others have. But there are clear differences. Uthvir’s eyebrows are more arched, their chin more pointed, and their shoulders do not carry the same bold confidence Glory was known for.

They look down at themselves and quickly frown at their lack of clothes. Adannar summons his robe and wraps them up in it. It is far too long for them, but it will do for now.

“Not to ruin the moment, but we need to leave, now,” Anaris declares from his spot by the ruined bars to the cell. Adannar, now naked as a newborn babe, turns toward the rest of the dungeon just as three guards come into view.

Adannar is not cruel and he normally detests violence. He does not wish to kill these guards, so he draws upon his knowledge of metal and casts a spell he normally saves for his creations when they need to be still. Except the magic reacts differently here with the dungeon’s enchantments. The magic ricochets and instead of rooting them to the ground, the metal is magnetized. The guards yell as they suddenly collide into each other until they are stuck in an odd jumbled mess.

Well, it worked.

“Do any of you have a key to the gate?” He asks and they curse him for his “curse.” Fine. He’ll figure it out. He beckons Anaris and Uthvir to him then quickly makes his way through the dungeon.

Uthvir stumbles frequently, unaccustomed to their legs. They curse, stubbing and scraping their feet repeatedly until it slows them too much. Adannar turns, picks them up, much to their protests, and continues through the dungeon.

It’s huge. There are dozens cells and judging by all the scents, Andruil had certainly been busy, capturing all manner of beasts. The cells are empty now, but they have not been so for long. Finally they come to what looks to be a control room. Anaris dispatches the guards inside and a quick search of the bodies reveals that none of them have keys to the large gate above their heads.

Time to do this the obvious way, Adannar is done wasting time. He sets Uthvir down and has Anaris perch himself on their shoulder. Once his friends are at a safe distance, he transforms once more into his true form. Gathering as much strength as he can, Adannar launches himself up at the gate. He rams his body into the metal, willing it to open. On the fourth ram, the gate bursts open and he follows suit, launching himself upward with a powerful kick.

Adannars roars into the sky, steam spilling from his mouth as he directs it to the largest grouping of guards. They scream as their skin burn, cooking inside those metal suits of armor. He turns and swipes out at the guards closest to him. A few seem to rally, however as they charge at him .They go for his face, stupidly enough. He snaps his jaws and catches them in his teeth before he throws them across the courtyard.

“Climb up my tail,” he calls to Uthvir, who follows his direction and grabs hold of the spines in his tail. He hears them gasp and feels their fear when he hears a familiar sound -

“Behind you!” Serahlin calls as she runs her hart around him. Magic zings in the air and he hears several guards scream.

She’s telekinetic, he thinks for a split second before a guard with a very pokey pitchfork attempts to pierce his hide. Adannar flicks his arm, sending the guard sailing through the air. Uthvir resumes their ascent until they are nestled safely between his wings.

“Get out of here!” Adannar cries, worry bleeding from him as he leaps up to start fighting fully. As worried as he is, no guard comes close to Serahlin. She throws them, or their heads turn in sickening directions, and sometimes they even catch fire. When Adannar turns to handle another guard, Vena is there, lopping the heads off several as he rides ‘round Adannar.

“Fly! Go!” Serahlin yells back at him.

“Where is Uthvir?” Aili yells.

“I have them!” He decries before he feels them tense.

“Men! Form up!” A commanding woman’s voice echoes and he knows it’s Andruil. He can hear horse’s thunderous hoof-falls as she barrels for him. The fog parts enough for him to see her running straight at him, spear at the ready.

The obvious thing would be to breathe his steam at her - but she knows that and it would give her a second to throw the spear directly down his throat. It couldn’t kill him right away, but it would incapacitate him long enough for her to kill him. Or worse. So Adannar doesn’t do the obvious thing. Instead, he leaps up over Andruil, faster than a dragon his size would suggest.

The horse whinnies in alarm as Adannar lands on a courtyard wall. His claws dig into the stone and he hefts himself up the wall. The fear rolling off Uthvir is alarming as is his own heart rate, but he can’t think of that right now. He has to get away. As quick as he can be, take off will take effort. He has expended much magic already today, so he will need to run to get himself airborne.

He clears the courtyard wall and begins to run. It is not a pretty run and it takes all his willpower not to look behind him to make sure Serahlin and Aili leave the courtyard safely. Vena will get them out, he will, Adannar has to trust that, just as Aili is trusting him to get Uthvir out.

He forces his legs to move faster when he hears Andruil once more. She urges her horse to go faster just as he unfurls his wings and attempts to take flight. One beat, two. No go. Faster. He has to go faster.

“Any day now, Adannar!” Anaris calls. He’d answer if his lungs didn’t burn with the effort. There is a hill coming up, if he can just make it to that hill -

Andruil gains ground, enough that he knows that if she throws a spear, she could land it. There is a moment where he thinks perhaps she will wait until it will be a finishing blow, but then he hears the leather on her wrist snap with the effort.

Magic explodes around Adannar as the trickiest of magic emanates from Anaris. Luck. It’s power that cannot be expended frequently, luck strong enough to defy physics and intent.

The spear goes wide and misses Adannar by the tiniest of margins.

Andruil screams in anger and he hears her draw her sword instead. But it’s too late, he’s upon the hill. He spreads his wings and beats them when the earth dips, propelling himself into the air. Magic surrounds him and sends him higher, higher still -

“Dispel that which shrouds, bring what is mine down!” Andruil shouts and magic shoots out of her so accurate that no amount of luck can deter it. Uthvir screams as the spells sinks its claws into them, rending their elven form from them.

“Adannar! She’s turning them!” Anaris shouts as he tries to counter the magic - but he can’t. Once the transformation starts, it cannot be stopped. He is high enough that a fall could potentially kill or permanently cripple Uthvir. But their weight expands, dragging him down, down -

No. The sentiment rises in him so strongly, the Dreaming wavers around him.

He is not losing another dragon to Andruil. He is not losing Uthvir. Not again. He thought them lost after Glory, certain that Glory’s twin-spirit had died with them. He is not losing them when they are so close to being free from Andruil. She will not take this again. And he is not abandoning Serahlin.

“Hold on,” he growls. Uthvir digs their talons into Adannar’s hide but he hardly notices the pain as he forces the Dreaming to bend to him, to buoy him up, up, wings beating harder and faster. They strain with the extra effort, but they move and the Dreaming dare not disobey his will now.

His wings burn with the effort to keep them propped up in the air, but he will not waver. He refuses. Andruil has taken too much and she cannot have them! Not one more!

He calls the Dreaming to him with all that he was and is. With his nearly thousand years of draconic life compounded the six hundred years as a spirit before that. He expands his magic to pull on all the joys felt in the lands beneath him. That is his power, that is who he is. Joy. It is what will carry them.

A roar tears from him. The magic snaps and flows like a dam just broken. It sends him up into the clouds and out of Andruil’s sight. Distantly, he hears Anaris laugh and Uthvir rumble in astonishment.

“You did it! You actually did it!”

Some part of him is aware of the blood loss from Uthvir’s talons, but he cannot be distracted now as he sails over the western lands of Elvhenan. He knows he has crossed into the forest when a swirling mass of magic surrounds them. It tickles his scales and brushes along Uthvir’s feathers. He could land, but he isn’t far enough, it’s not home. He needs safety, he needs - he knows what he needs.

He adjusts his wings to catch a magical thermal then banks to the left.

“Where is he taking us?!” Uthvir shouts.

“His home!” Anaris replies.

Home indeed.

The thermal boosts his speed so that instead of hours, it is only a single hour before they are flying over the mountain range. He lowers himself in preparation to land. How he will land well, he has no idea. Uthvir is throwing his weight off and he can feel his muscles protesting even as he forces them to carry the weight.

It takes another hour to cross the mountains, and then almost another entire hour before they make it to the waterfall. He feels its pull, calling him home.

Reluctantly, Adannar released the thermal and begins his descent proper. Trees bend and snap as he careens toward the pool of healing waters. So close, almost there, almost -

His wings give out just as he makes it to the pool. Him and Uthvir drop into the depths, sending a great geyser of water up in the air. The magic keeps it so that the water returns to the pool. It surrounds him and Uthvir, warming them, plugging wounds, stopping bleeding - soothing scars that almost send Adannar back into a rage when he catches sight of them.

The rage quickly dissipates when he realizes that they’re safe now and they can heal. They kick until their head breaches the surface of the water, but they make no move to get out of the pool. Adannar climbs out, dimly aware that he means to go back for Serahlin.

“Adannar, stop, it’s time to sleep,” Anaris chides.

“Serahlin?” He asks, collapsing on the ground, unable to move. All magic and strength has left him. He couldn’t go even if he had to.

“I saw her - Vena got her out with the help of the dryad. The wall of vines opened up and they escaped. It’s done, they’re all rescued.”

Oh. They did it. They really did.

“Thank you,” he says, or at least he thinks he says it.

Relief courses through him and the last of his energy finally sputters out. Adannar collapses, consciousness fading to black.

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feynites · 5 years

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I just learned about love languages and I'm super curious! What are Tasallir's love languages? Uthvir? Thenvunin? Kel? Glory?

Oh, I have so much fun with Love Languages! (For those who don’t know, the term basically refers to how people tend to express their love for someone they care about a lot - i.e. physical affection, gifts, time spent together, doing little favours, saying so often, etc, etc).

Okay, so, in order:

Tasallir - Tasallir’s love language is goal-oriented. When he really cares about someone, he’ll work hard to try and help them accomplish tasks. So for example, if someone he cares about has a test to study for, Tasallir will help study. A big mess to clean up, Tasallir will help clean (or hire someone if the mess is beyond his personal tolerance levels - dude can’t scrub a filthy toilet to save his life, bless him). If someone tells Taz about a thing they’re trying to accomplish, and he cares, then helping to accomplish The Thing will become his mission, too.

Uthvir - Gifts. Uthvir’s easiest, breeziest love language is gifts. When they’re casual the gifts will be more generic, but when they’re serious, they’ll start getting very personal and specific and reflect Uthvir’s understanding of their partner’s interests and desires. They’ve pretty item-based, they’ll also pilfer small things from their loved ones and keep them like little trophies. Like a scarf that person doesn’t wear anymore, or a toy one of their kids outgrew, and so on.

Thenvunin - Thenvunin’s love language is like 90% fussing. Are you warm enough? Too warm? Do you look presentable so you don’t get embarrassed or mocked in public? Have you eaten anything yet? Once he’s comfortable with expressing affection, he also tends to be pretty upfront with the verbal aspect, too. Once he gets past any mortification and/or denial he may or may not be feeling about it, anyways.

Kel - (ง •̀_•́)ง Kel’s protective, so a big component of her love language is being the person who will Beat Someone’s Ass for her loved ones. Barring unusual circumstances, though, that’s not always required, so the more low-key way she goes about it is caretaking. She will hold her loved one’s hair while they throw up or watch dumb movies with them while they’re upset, she is a very good person to have around when everything sucks and you feel like a worthless snot potato. Her love language and Thenvunin’s are very similar, but expressed differently ‘cause of their personalities.

Glory - Glory’s love language is paying attention. Because they honestly cannot be fussed with a lot of things, if they are actually remembering stuff their loved ones said or important dates or likes/dislikes, it’s because they care a lot and have been paying close attention, even when they might seem aloof or oblivious. If Glory loves someone and they don’t like pickles on their cheeseburger, there will never be pickles on their cheeseburger.

Bonus:

Squish - Companionship is Squish’s love language. Being there, making sure to make time to be there, not missing dates or neglecting anniversaries, and things like that are very much her speed.

Venavismi - Jokes, cheering up, puns, teasing, etc. Vena likes to see his loved ones happy, so he tends to drop everything if it’s clear their not and tries to either comfort them or distract them to the best of his abilities.

Dirthamen - Dirthamen’s love language is trust. Letting someone be close, be around when he’s vulnerable, see behind his mask, know things about his thoughts and feelings, that’s the biggest and most consistent sign that he loves someone.

Curiosity - Talking about interests! Not that Curiosity doesn’t just generally do this with anyone, but taking on other people’s interests in specific and above-and-beyond any old random ones is a good sign that she’s gotten Very Attached to this person.

#Anonymous

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selenelavellan · 6 years

Text

Elder God Tattoos

(based loosely on this post and Feys and my tags on it.)

Dirthamen, Falon’din, Glory, Squish, and Vena are @feynites

Ana(mentioned) is @lycheemilkarts

TW for mentioned Abuse, Blood, and vague allusions to off-screen rape

Selene takes a deep breath, staring at the golden room number in front of her.

She's been in this buildings hallway for too long, she thinks. Security will be here soon, and then it's all over for her.

Her tattoos sting on her skin; Des's burns and tingles on her thigh, imbued with his magic to help her complete her task, while Dirthamen's is still tender and healing where he had placed it on her back.

Selene isn't sure what to expect on the other side of the apartment door.

Dirthamen had made vague mentions of mistreatment, of powers being taken and misused and onslaughts of verbal abuse. Some small part of her is still hoping she can just talk to the guy though. That she can just explain 'hey, you're doing a shitty job with your god, let's just get your tattoo removed and everything can go back to normal, and I won't have to kill you under the orders of my own god'.

Well.

Her first god, anyways. Guess she's 'high priestess'-ing for two now.

Like Des wasn't enough of a headache on his own.

They had warned her, before she left. Of tricks and violence and a thirst for blood that ran so deeply it had nearly corrupted Dirthamen. She knew that part, of course; had accepted the bond and the contract strictly to save him, to give him an anchor that hadn't conflicted so violently with his own so that he could survive the terrible things Falon'din was doing with his name, his power and his essence.

Selene had hoped, right up until she opened the door, that they were wrong. That Falon'din was the sort of man who could be reasoned with, could be spoken back down from his pedestal, could be convinced to come to a peaceful resolution.

But as the door clicks open beneath her touch, swinging open silently and revealing the goings on inside, she realizes the futility of her hopes.

She sees the golden hair, and the broken blue eyes, and the bloodied skin, and she knows.

She knows instantly, exactly what sort of a man Falon'din is.

“Who are-”

He never finishes the sentence.

Selenes own magics rise, elevated and escalated from her contract with Des as the power he had gifted to her courses through her veins and out through the palm of her hand, a blinding white fury of flames that engulfs him in an instant. She feels him pull at Dirthamen, tries to claw his way into his own contract-and it only requires a thought for her to sever it. To deem him unworthy of the bond, and to strip it from him. His mouth opens and his soul screams and for a moment she feels dangerously vindicated. Judgment and fury and the power to punish, the power to save, her power.

Her domain.

No more victims.

The light fades and the remaining ash falls to the ground.

Two blue eyes look up at her from beneath long golden locks. Silent and still and radiating fight or flight.

Selene sighs, and holds out a hand to help them stand.

“I...m sorry?” She tries, not very good at the consolation thing these days. “If you loved him or something. I know it can be a shock but-”

“I hated him.” They interrupt with a sureness that nearly startles her.

Well. That makes things easier, right?

“Cool,” Selene says with a slow nod. “Good. I guess uh...I guess I don't really need to worry about you like...reporting this, then? Like to cops, or templars, or anything like that?”

“And tell them what? An angel pulled me out of hell?” They snort, tears falling down the sides of their face that they don't seem to notice.

That’s shock, she thinks. Probably not a great sign.

“I'm not-Don't say that. That's not-I mean I definitely just killed a guy, please don't-don't say that.”

“He was a monster.”

“Yeah, that's what I heard,” Selene admits. “But like-probably murder isn't a great thing to idolize? Definitely a last resort.”

“Says the murderer.”

Selene winces. “I'm not-listen, I had strict orders from not one but two gods to do this, it's not my fault-You ever argued with a god? They don't have to stop for breath, ok? And there were two of them, I was double teamed, and then they distracted me with their-” She stops herself before she gets into any details about the previous nights events, clearing her throat and staring up at the ceiling for a moment.

She finally lets go of their hand.

“Do you have somewhere you can go?” She tries instead.

They stare out the window for a minute, before their face splits into a grin.

There's still blood on their teeth.

“Yeah,” They nearly laugh. “Yeah, I do.”

“Great,” Selene says with great relief; the last thing she needs right now is another house guest. “You should go there.”

“Where will you go?” They ask.

Selene blinks, pointing vaguely over her shoulder. “I was uh...I was just gonna go back home.”

“How can I find you again?”

Selene scrunches up her face, head shaking fervently “You shouldn't. Like you really-it'd be better if you just...didn't.”

“You saved my life.”

“That's a little dramatic...” Selene trails off, watching the blood trickle down the inside of their leg and trying to force herself to stay in the moment.

Don't go back there. Don't go back that way, back where they can't follow.

She runs her fingers through her hair, and curses under her breath while they continue staring at her in anticipation. There's a flyer for some local band sitting on the kitchen counter, and Selene scribbles her number on the back of it before holding it out for them.

They reach out, and she snags it back before they can grab it, holding their eye contact for a solid minute before finally warning.

“Don't need me. But if things get really bad...call this number.”

She lowers it back down, and lets them take the paper from her this time.

Selene gestures towards the door with her head. “You go out first. I'm going to do a little clean up in here.”

The elf holds her gaze for a moment before nodding and heading for the door. Their hand is still on the doorknob when they finally speak again.

“He deserved it, you know. He deserved worse.”

Selene bites down on her bottom lip, staring down at the pile of ash.

“Go.”

–

News of the apartment fire is playing on low volume over Selenes television while she drinks her coffee. The fire she had used to burn any lingering evidence didn't spread to the other apartments, and her wards had been generic enough they seem to be assuming they were placed there by the apartment managers.

Nothing to link her to it.

Nothing but some golden haired elf wandering somewhere with her number in their pocket.

“You did well,” Des purrs, appearing on the arm of her couch. His tail curls over her thigh, siphoning his lingering magics back into himself while he watches the news report play.

“Thanks,” She mutters quietly, still unnerved and uncomfortable from the scene she had walked in on earlier.

“I am sorry for the trouble it caused,” Dirthamen adds, appearing beside her to lean his head on her shoulder.

“It saved someone, so...it worked out. They seemed to agree it was for the best, anyways.”

“You let them go?” Des perks. “I thought you were all worried about being caught by templars and such. Someone who could identify you seems rather...messy.”

“It's fine,” Selene says without further explanation.

They know, anyways. They can pry through her memories at will, prod at her magics, tie her up in whatever matters they see fit. There's no secrets between them; there's no room for it. She's the only thing tethering them to this world right now, the only one left who believes in them.

The only one left who loves them.

But they love her in return, and she enjoys the knowledge and the lost stories, and the companionship they give to her so freely.

“We need a way to generate an income,” She muses aloud. “Something less obvious than 'local elven woman wins lottery for third time in three years'.”

“You certainly weren't complaining before,” Des mumbles.

Selene glances up at him and frowns. “What sort of skills do you have?”

“I am a God,” Des preens. “I have all of them.”

“Uh-huh,” Selene deadpans “What does the little squiggly red line under words on the computer mean when I'm typing?”

Des purses his lips. “It means mortals have a different definition of 'skill' than I do.”

“Uh-huh,” Selene repeats, taking a small sip of her drink.

Selene considers her options, leaning her head on top of Dirthamens. What could she do that would help? What could she do that would make a difference, could actually improve things?

She looks down at Dirthamen, and glances back up at Des.

“...Are there other gods like you that are looking for people to bond to?”

–

It takes the better part of six months to finally open the shop.

Elder God Tattoos.

Not exactly subtle, but...it works.

Mostly she just does regular tattoos; flowers, stars, dolphins. Non-enchantment work. Builds up her portfolio, and keeps an ear out for good people having bad times. She's very careful about her selections; tries her best to make sure the people match the gods, that they're compatible, that there's no risk of corruption on either side.

The first year she's open, she only does the one.

A young elven woman comes in, suffering from the loss of a recent close family member and hoping to bring some semblance of order and joy back to her life. Selene has Venavismi follow her for a week, to see if he would be interested.

“I like her,” Vena grins, twirling around her ceiling and bursting with bright blooms of flowers and fruits. “Little Banana-Ana.”

Selene gives the woman his tattoo, after explaining the situation.

She leaves out the part where 'sometimes you might have to kill somebody for him', in hopes that maybe she'll just be a little luckier than she was.

But it has been six months now, and they have adjusted to each other wonderfully.

Selene nearly breathes a sigh of relief, before a too familiar elf wanders into her shop.

“I heard they do good work here, and I was-” Squish, a nice young woman that Des favors is saying before the elf who had walked in beside her freezes.

Ah, shit.

“You're-”

“Welcome to Elder God Tattoos!” Selene interrupts before they can say anything. “Here for another browse through Squish? Or have you finally decided on a design?”

“Still browsing, though I think I've narrowed it down,” Squish grins. “I brought my signif Glory with me. Thought they'd get a kick out of the place, and I wanted their input. You don't mind, do you Selene?”

“Nope,” She lies, smiling right back and doing her best to pretend she isn't panicking internally. “Take your time.”

Squish plops down onto the plush waiting rooms couches and starts browsing through the thick binders of past work Selene has done, and Selene excuses herself to the back room.

And that's when she finally lets herself panic.

Dirthamen feels it first, popping into being in front of her, todays talons resting carefully on her shoulders.

“What is the matter?”

“The elf-the elf is here. The one who knows. The one who saw me.”

“...Lots of elves have seen you.”

“The one who saw me obliterate Falon'din,” Selene hisses. “Shit, shit, we should've moved before we did this, I'm such an idiot, shit-”

“It is alright,” Dirthamen assures her, pulling her into him as his arms and wings wrap around her. The feathers covering his chest should be uncomfortable, probably, but mostly they just smell like him and it's reassuring. Grounding. Keeps her in the moment.

“I've got this,” Des says, appearing in a solid form behind her and striding into the waiting room before she can escape Dirthamen's grip to stop him.

Selene struggles, but Dirthamen holds her tighter until she relents. Nothing is exploding and no one is yelling so that's...that's good, right? That's a good sign? Things aren't a total disaster in her shop right now, maybe?

Des comes back into the room a few minutes later, Squish and Glory in tow.

“They're cool,” He announces.

Selene lets out a loud groan.

“You're the one who killed Falon'din?” Squish asks, and Selene has to resist the urge to glare at Des or Glory, still bound up in Dirthamens arms as she squirms enough to be able to see them.

“I...that's a complicated question, really. Were you...friends?”

Squish snorts. “No.”

Selene nods silently.

It's awkward.

Des apparently explained the whole situation to them, which Selene could really have lived without.

But they start coming by more often after that.

Like friends might.

They bring in clients and potential clients, apparently running some sort of elven aid/vengeance program on their own that Selene figures she's better off not knowing the details about. She runs a strange business of her own, finding followers for Gods that are fading from existence. It makes her grateful for her own situation, in a strange way.

Grateful for that drunken night when she ended up with Des. Grateful that they found Dirthamen when they did, and grateful that he wanted to stick around.

And when she crawls into bed at night and feels them wrap around her, she finally feels calm. Happy.

They make the moments worth being present for.

#elder god tattoo au #dirthalene #selene lavellan #des #uhhh yeah i had an idea and i had to get it out #started daydreaming about glory eventually bringing their younger sibling uthvir by to hang #and glory is just like 'nah selenes cool its fine'#and selene is like 'its NOT fine this is exactly what i didnt want to have happen actually'#but she's always got food and starts keeping the magazines they read and has spare clothes and a safe place for them when they need it #now she's got her god boyfriends and her mortals-that-think-shes-a-murderer friends and everything is complicated #better #but complicated #mind the warnings

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birdfrenchforbird · 6 years

Text

What Makes A God : Ch. 6

Chapter 6 of What Makes A God is up!! It’s technically been up for awhile but I never finished writing this post, sooo.

You can find it on ao3 here.

This chapter also guest stars Venavismi, who belongs to @feynites. I’m gonna be borrowing him for a couple more chapters, lol.

#i totally uploaded the chapter like two weeks ago #shhh #my writing #what makes a god #dragon age #fanfic #feynites #vena

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feynites · 6 years

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Castlevania AU Part One

Starring Venavismi, Tasallir, and @lycheemilkart‘s Ana (though only Taz is in this bit for now, because it turns out I’m probably gonna tell the whole thing from his POV lol).

Tasallir was born in a castle.

Not an ordinary castle. A castle both ancient and beyond its time; built by the oldest living being in all of the world.

Ravasan.

His father.

Corridors filled with knowledge lost and knowledge yet to be gained made up the maze of his formative years. The nursery was a sanctuary. Soft pastels, cradle and then a child’s bed, hand-stitched blankets and a window that always looked out towards a field full of sunflowers. The castle itself moved. A great churning engine would resound throughout the night, and Tasallir would feel the ground quaking, and hear the distant roars. The castle had not moved much in his earliest years; so the sounds sometimes frightened him later, when they began to hop around, visiting new places every week, it seemed.

When Tasallir woke to the roaring engines, and the swaying of the decorations strewn from his ceiling; the soft kites he and paper balloons and stars, he would climb out of his covers, and hurry down to the door at the end of the hall. The floor outside the nursery was cold, and Tasallir was not permitted to roam. The nursery was safe; but the rest of the castle was a strange and even frightening place. Even in daytime. He was not permitted to roam.

This one room he could go to, though. Because it belonged to his other parent. To Nenae.

Tasallir’s father was the most ancient vampire to have ever lived. He was distant and strange, and in many ways, an unknown to him. He did not see him every day. His hands were cold and his countenance was hard to understand. He did not smile; he did not hug. He would only ask Tasallir questions, and it was often impossible to tell whether the answers were right or wrong. Sometimes he would bring gifts. They were always strange, but Tasallir kept them anyway, in a special chest in his room. Little devices and odd treasures, things that fascinated him at times, even if he could never seem to figure them out.

Nenae, though, was an elf. Tasallir was an elf, too, although Nenae said his blood was vampire as well. He was half-and-half. A dhampyr.

On nights when he was frightened, he would go to Nenae’s room. The light was almost always on. Nenae would be in their bed, reading, or at their vanity table. They were soft and warm, with long hair. Darker than Tasallir’s, but coloured red at the tips.

“Afraid?” Nenae would ask.

Tasallir would nod, and they would scoop him up and let him curl onto the other side of their bed. Sometimes they would hug him close. But Tasallir’s skin was sensitive, and hugging could be too much. When that happened, they would just sing to him instead. Humming out a steady, repeating rhythm, that made his heartbeats feel even, made his breaths start to move in time.

When Tasallir was six, Nenae took him out of the castle.

It was his first time leaving. He was stunned. The day did not go at all as usual. Nenae took him before breakfast; Tasallir did not get to sit down to eat. He did not understand, as they put him in a lot of clothes and wrapped him in one of their spare cloaks, and then carried him through corridors and passageways. Past whirring machines, and massive doorways; through chambers that echoed and other frightening things, that they told him to shut his eyes against. Whispering reassurances, until he felt openness all around him.

The air tasted strange.

Nenae ran.

It jostled him a lot. They ran for a long time, skidding and slipping, holding Tasallir too tight and nearly even dropping him once. By the time they finally put him down, Nenae’s breaths were impossibly hard, and they were surrounded by strangeness. Plants, but growing everywhere. Ground that was soft, but not carpet. Things looked like they had come out of a painting. Or rather, as if Tasallir had been put inside of one.

“Just a minute,” Nenae said. “We need to catch our breaths.”

“What’s wrong?” Tasallir asked, because he couldn’t think of what else to ask. He knew something was wrong. Everything was different.

“Shh, nothing, sweetheart,” Nenae told him. They kept one hand on his cloak, even though Tasallir had already been held too much. “We’re just… going away for a while.”

Tasallir turned, and saw something in the distance.

At the time, he didn’t recognize it as the castle. He couldn’t. The castle was something he only understood from the inside; seeing the spires jutting up against the mountainside was as incomprehensible to him as the idea that a single blue and green bead could represent the whole entire earth.

He looked around in pure confusion, and growing discomfort. The more he noticed, the more unsettled he felt. There were no walls anywhere. The light was bright, and the ceiling was high. High and blue, with a big lamp in it. Tasallir felt wary of it, even though it didn’t hurt. He moved a little back, but Nenae tugged him near again.

“Stay close,” they told him.

“It’s too itchy,” he said. Which was what he said whenever he was overwhelmed with touch.

“Shh,” Nenae said. “It might have to be itchy for a while. You need to stay close, we’re not safe yet…”

“Can we go back now?”

“We’re just catching our breaths, Tasallir. Look at me. Help me count my breaths.”

This was something Tasallir knew how to do, and so he did. It helped him calm down too, in the end. After a while Nenae stood up. He had to hold their hand, but it was better than being carried for a while. Even if the ground was strange and everything seemed sticky or damp or dirty. He didn’t like it. Nenae said they were ‘outside’, and Tasallir immediately decided that ‘outside’ was strange and dangerous and had too much mud. Things kept getting on his clothes, no matter how he batted them. Before long his shoes were dirty, but Nenae told him not to take them off.

They started carrying him again. They even told him to eat while they did, giving him a bun he liked, and telling him to eat even though they weren’t sitting down and didn’t have plates. It was the same for having drinks. Sometimes they stopped and rested. Nenae even snapped at him when he took his boots off; though the apologized as they helped him put them back on again.

As the light started to change colours, Nenae started moving faster. They squeezed Tasallir too tight and headed towards another place-like-a-painting; with small buildings and lights, and ground that looked more proper.

There were people, too.

Tasallir was astonished. He had never met anyone who was not Nenae or Father before. Sometimes ‘visitors’ would come to the castle, but Tasallir was never allowed to see them. He only knew because sometimes Nenae told him about it; and told him that if he ever saw someone who wasn’t her or Father in the nursery, he was to scream and bang on the things and raise alarms and not stop until they came for him.

Strangers were dangerous.

“Nenae…”

“It’s alright,” they said, rubbing lightly at his back. “I’m here. Just stick with me and don’t say anything.”

Tasallir did as told. Even when they put him down, despite feeling ‘itchy’, he kept close. Holding their hand as they went to a strange place, with a strange ‘inside’. Nenae got them ‘a room’, which was like the nursery and like their bedroom, but also completely different. They had to cover the windows and keep the lights off, but Tasallir could finally take off his muddy things, and they had a little table to sit down at to eat their supper. It was all still very strange, and he felt exhausted; but it made more sense.

Nenae tucked into the unfamiliar bed. They sat on the other side, and gave him space, as they stared at the covered window.

Tasallir wondered if they wanted to see outside.

“I can open it…” he said.

Nenae shook their head, though, and patted the bed beside him.

“Just sleep, don’t worry. Everything’s going to be alright.”

Tasallir didn’t know if he could sleep in a strange bed. It smelled wrong, and felt wrong. But eventually, Nenae lay down next to him, and started to quietly sing. The sound made his eyes droop, and made something in him settle. Exhaustion won out, at last, and he drifted off to sleep.

He woke up again while it was still dark.

There was an odd noise in the room. After a few minutes, Tasallir placed the sound as crying. He blinked awake, and sat up. It took a while for him to see anything. One of the window covers was open, though, and there was moonlight in the room. After a few minutes, his eyes adjusted.

There were two figured in the room.

Nenae was on the floor. Their hair was spilling down over their face; they were crying.

Father was in the room, too.

He was standing over Nenae. Looking down, in his long coat, with his hands folding neatly in front of himself. He didn’t look at Tasallir as he sat up, but that wasn’t strange. What was more strange was for Nenae to be crying. Tasallir didn’t like that. He looked away, not sure what to do; until another minute passed, and he decided he should go help Nenae feel better. He climbed out of the bed, and when over.

Reaching out a hand, he patted the back of their head.

Father looked at him.

“What’s wrong?” Tasallir asked.

It seemed the thing to ask.

Nenae’s shoulders shook harder, and they cried too much to answer. After a minute, Father bent down. He was very tall; tall enough to easily pick up Nenae, as he put his arms around them, and scooped them up from the floor.

To Tasallir’s shock, Nenae flailed out a fist, and hit Father’s face.

Father didn’t flinch, though. Nenae wasn’t strong enough to hurt him. Nenae wasn’t very strong at all, really, even though they carried Tasallir; there were a lot of things they couldn’t lift or open, that even Tasallir himself could. It was because they were an elf, with no vampire. So even though Tasallir was shocked that Nenae was hitting, he didn’t feel too alarmed, as they only smashed and wriggled and didn’t really hurt Father.

“Nenae is it too sticky?” he asked.

“Let us go!” they sobbed. “Just let us go!”

Tasallir looked at Father, and felt his lip wobble. Why wasn’t he putting them down? They didn’t want to be held!

“Father, it’s too sticky. You have to let go,” he said.

“Silence,” Father said.

Tasallir quailed.

He was mad.

It… wasn’t good, when Father was mad. It didn’t happen often. And Tasallir wasn’t sure why he felt so strongly certain that Bad Things would come of it. But when Father was mad, the castle always seemed more frightening. There was a gloom in the air, that made it harder to feel happy. It wasn’t a good thing.

Father’s hands tightened their grip.

Nenae gasped.

He leaned in, and spoke quietly to them.

“Taneleth,” he said. “You are upsetting the boy. Where were you even going to go? There is nowhere safe for you out here.”

Nenae said it was dangerous, too. Tasallir didn’t know what to make of the way their expression twisted, though. They hit Father one more time, before their face finally crumpled, and they started to cry again. Father loosened his grip a little. He stared at Nenae, until they seemed to get too tired to keep crying.

“Sleep,” he said, then.

Nenae went limp.

Tasallir tried to reach up to move some hair from their face. But it was too far away to reach. Father looked at him again, and he quailed.

“Get dressed,” Father instructed. “And follow.”

“My clothes are dirty…” Tasallir said.

“Put them on anyway.”

“But…”

“Do as you are told. Now.”

Father’s tone brooked no argument. Tasallir hurried to obey, feeling wretched as he pulled on dirty boots and all the layers Nenae had helped him take off for the night. He felt tired, too, but the moonlight helped. Father carried Nenae out of the room. Everything was quiet, and Tasallir saw no strangers. A lot of mist poured off of Father as he carried Nenae along, and didn’t slow down, so that Tasallir had to jog to keep up with them. He dared not lose sight of them, no matted what.

They made it all the way back to the castle like that.

Father put Nenae in their room. Despite everything, Tasallir was relieved to be back in the nursery. He changed out of his dirty clothes, and washed, and put on his silver star pyjamas. The castle began to rumble. Tasallir snuck down the hall and into Nenae’s room, and found them sleeping on top of their bed.

Their shoes were still on. He pulled them off, and pushed their hair from their face, before he climbed up onto the other side of the bed. With a long sigh, he drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, Father came again. Changing the routine before breakfast once more.

“Tasallir,” he called.

Nenae gripped Tasallir by the shoulders, though, and kept him from moving.

“Ravasan…”

“Enough,” Father snapped.

Nenae flinched as if struck. Their fingers curled in the fabric of Tasallir’s shirt. Father stares at them for a long moment, before his gaze finally fell on Tasallir. He motioned. With some reluctance, Tasallir gently pulled Nenae’s fingers from him, and went over to answer the summons.

“Follow,” Father instructed.

Nenae moved after them.

“No, wait, Ravasan I swear I won’t-”

With a fluid motion, Father pulled Tasallir out through the nursery doorway. The door shut behind him with a solid thunk. From the other side, he could hear the sounds of fists against it. He frowned, and pressed a hand to the wood. Hearing Nenae’s distress, but unable to open the door.

Father began to walk down the corridor.

“Follow,” he repeated.

Tasallir reluctantly pulled himself away, and obeyed.

Father made no footsteps, as he glided through the corridors. His long white hair reached almost to his ankles. His eyes were as red as Tasallir’s, but his skin was much more pale. There was a gaunt quality to his cheeks, as well, that neither Nenae nor Tasallir shared. It always made Tasallir think of skeletons.

He felt increasingly unsure of things as he followed his father through more and more corridors. Past rooms that rumbled and hummed, through wide chambers, until finally they came to an unfamiliar set of doors. Father pushed them open.

The room inside was much like Tasallir’s nursery, but different, too. There were no toys or hand-stitched blankets, no decorative paper items hanging from the ceiling. There was a large bed, and a wardrobe, and a mirror. The floor was done in geometric patterns that caught his eye. The window looked out over the mountainside he had walked through yesterday, rather than the field of sunflowers. Several large, sturdy bookcases, full of books, lined the walls.

“This is your room now,” Father said. “You will not go back to the nursery. You are too old to be spending every day at your nenae’s side.”

Tasallir froze in place, terrified.

Not go back to the nursery?

Father turned, and walked out of the room without further comment. The door banged shut behind him, and Tasallir was left standing in the middle of the room in shock. No nursery? No Nenae? He was an obedient child by inclination, but even he could not accept that. After waiting a few moments, he pulled the door open, and peeked out. When he did not see Father in the corridor, he made his way out of the room, and tried to retrace his steps back to the nursery again.

‘Tried’ being the operative term.

Every time he thought he had found the right path, however, his feet would get turned around; and he would be faced with the ‘new room’ instead. No matter how he tried, he could not find the nursery again. It was the most frightening experience of his life. Tasallir searched and searched, until he finally gave up and sat in the corridor, and began to cry instead. He cried for ages, but Nenae didn’t come.

When he went back into the new room, there was food on the little table inside. Tasallir ate alone. Eventually, he went through the bookshelves. Most of them had words too tiny and long for him to read, but some had pictures. He found the wardrobe had a lot of clothes in it. Without anything else to do, he decided to play dress-up for a while.

Then he went looking for Nenae and the nursery again.

This went on until nighttime. When the sky went dark, Father returned. Tasallir didn’t hear him come in, but he turned around, and saw him sitting in one of the bedroom’s chairs.

He went still, and waited.

“Tasallir,” his father said, after a while. “Come here.”

Tasallir went over to stand in front of him.

For a long, silent moment, he was inspected.

“Did you know, Tasallir, that you are not the first child I have had?” Father asked him.

Tasallir did not know this, and was somewhat dumbfounded. There were no other children in the castle. Were there?

He shook his head.

“They are all grown up,” Father told him. “Most of them are dead. The first time I became a father, my heart soared. The first time I fell in love was like flying. Like a dream. I met your Nenae when we were both young, and mortal. The first time they died… the first time my child died… I died, too. Inside, I have died a little more every time I have lost one of you. Every time your nenae is reborn, I dread the day that I lose them again.”

Tasallir dids not understand, except that… the other children all died?

He felt a shiver.

Father reached out, to his astonishment, and brushed his cheek. His fingers felt cold as ice.

“You think I do not love you,” Father whispered, quietly. His eyes looked strange. “I almost wish I could not. How many times can a heart break, before it refuses to rebuild? I am at the edge, my darling. I am at the edge and if I lose anything more, if this world takes anything more from me, I will burn it all if only to end this pain. If only to never see your faces again.”

Tasallir did not know what to say. Father had never called him ‘darling’ before. Only Nenae did, sometimes. But then he said he did not want to see Tasallir’s face again? He shivered again in fear, and confusion.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Father pulled his hand back, as if startled.

He blinked, and then looked at Tasallir again. Something strange passed across his features, before he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he seemed to be behaving normally once more.

He stood up.

“Tomorrow a tutor will come to begin your lessons,” he declared. “Obey them. If you behave well, then at the end of the week, you can see your Nenae again.”

“Can Nenae tuck me in?” Tasallir asked, boldly as he dared.

Father glanced at him.

Then he gestured towards the bed. The covers folded themselves down. Without another word, then, Father turned and strode back out of the room again. The heavy ‘thud’ of the door closing made Tasallir flinch. He waited, and then tried to open it once more. But the handle wouldn’t move.

It was another strange, bad night, and he did not sleep well; but no matter what he did, it was not a situation he could seem to change.

#tasbanana #banana #tazbanvania au #i was gonna do the whole fic on lychee's gorgeous art #but it's longer than anticipated and also got lost on tasallir's past #more to come #long post

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feynites · 6 years

Text

More Four Kingdoms AU!

Aelynthi, Melarue, and Victory belong to @justanartsysideblog, Selene and Des belong to @selenelavellan, and Adannar (mention) belongs to @scurvgirl.

Glory is indebted to Melarue.

Melarue killed Falon’Din.

They do not know the specifics of it, of course. They are not trusted that far - Melarue is cautious. They have wrestled an empire away from the likes of Mythal, so, their caution is merited. But they know that the firstborn prince of the empire died, and that it was Melarue’s doing. They felt it, when the claws of magic he had sunk into their being finally abated. Officially, Falon’Din is only missing.

Glory knows he is dead.

But his death didn’t release them from the confines of their physical form. It didn’t halt the breaking process that was already well underway. But their Desire spirit, who had left to find help, returned to them with her being bolstered. No shattered or embodied. She stayed with them as they were captured by Melarue’s people; as Prince Aelynthi rescued them from being claimed by Princess Andruil, who seized most of her brother’s territories and followers in his ‘absence’.

Those that did not throw down their arms and bend their knees to the Black Serpent, or flee for Dirthamen’s lands, anyway.

Glory had felt themselves unraveling. Had wished for it; wished, so fervently, to go back to the Dreaming. Where things made sense, where their prison of flesh could no longer confine them. They were still fractured, but with Falon’Din gone, it felt more peaceful. The prince had placed them in his own carriage as their spirit rebelled against its form. As they sickened, and broke out into fever, and felt Desire wrap around them. Their beloved spirit trying to answer their wants, trying to help them find an internal resolution.

Glory does not recall exactly what happened, on the journey from Falon’Din’s estate to the serpent’s palace. But at some point, most of them… left. Not quite shattering. Desire simply carried them away, in the end. Taking what she could back to the Dreaming, to where Glory can still feel it, sometimes. A presence connected to themselves, but distinct from what remained behind, too. They woke up in the Emerald Pavilion, with the prince’s healers arguing, while an unfamiliar man kept vigil at their bedside.

The man was fair-haired and lovely, big and strong-looking. He held Glory’s hand, when they woke up, and told them not to worry.

He gave them a feeling like Desire did. Gratitude, that someone would try and help, even as most of them was fearful and resigned to an unpleasant fate. They did not know what the prince had planned.

They were not prepared for the possibility that the prince was just… helping.

Some days they still wonder if things will change, on that front. Trust is difficult. Melarue has their gratitude but so long as there are secrets, Glory cannot give them more faith than they themselves have received. Aelynthi and Thenvunin, though, are easier.

They are both terrible liars.

Which endears them to Glory, but doesn’t avail them much in the intrigues of the imperial court. As they recover, and adjust to the absences in themselves - the loss, but also the sense of relief, like a burning thing has been plucked out from under their skin - they find that lying comes to them far more easily. Even General Selene has little aptitude for it, but Glory can lie as easily as breathing. They lie about little things - how they feel, what they think, what they’ve seen or heard. They lie about big things - where Desire has gone, why their magic seems different, if they know what happened to Prince Falon’Din or not.

They never used to be good at lying. The Old Glory was terrible at it. But the New Glory is smaller. Simpler. They understand their own limitations, and they feel no guilt in deceiving most of Melarue’s vipers. The majority of whom tend to treat Glory like some splendid trophy that their side has claimed in the conflicts besetting the empire.

Many of the court advisors think that Glory should be kept at Melarue’s side. As a reminder of their ability to win over even the most vital parts of the empire.

To Melarue’s credit, they rarely take that advice.

Instead, Glory finds themselves approached by Treachery.

If anyone in the empire has a more mythic reputation than Melarue themselves, it is probably their spymaster. The rumours whisper that Treachery, as a spirit, influenced Melarue into killing the Princess Sylaise. That Treachery inspired most of the intrigues that followed, and even now, as an elf, whispers wicked thoughts and sinister plans into the Black Serpent’s ear. Scheming and beguiling, a wicked creature if ever there was one.

Glory knows of wickedness. Treachery wears their reputation like a mask, but whatever they might have been, they are not a spirit anymore. Just like Glory. They cannot only be one thing, and buried beneath their mask, they seem to be a clever but lonesome elf who is not nearly as good at planning as their reputation would imply. Though they are good at lying. And gathering information. Those two things mainly comprise their duties anyway, and when they approach Glory, it is with an offer of a job.

A role of their own to play.

“Melarue worries for their children,” Treachery says.

“They ought to,” Glory agrees. Every being close to Melarue or Mythal is a target in this conflict. Children, consorts, friends, lovers.

“Aelynthi in particular needs a better guard.”

“Because he’s terrible at fighting,” Glory surmises.

That’s not an entirely fair assessment. The prince knows how to handle a bow and a blade, he knows his forms and he works quite hard at them. But whereas General Selene can face down foes and show no hesitation, defending herself and her own guards only to suffer a crisis of conscience after the fact, Prince Aelynthi freezes. Glory noticed it in hunts, but also in his combat training. He always stops before he lands a blow, always waits too long before he takes a shot. The imperial court is full of lies and misconceptions, but the rumour that the prince has his father’s soft heart seems true enough.

Glory themselves probably attests to that. The prince has given them so much ground, they did not even need to break any locks to find his personal journals. Even Thenvunin at least kept his own in a warded drawer.

Not a well warded drawer. But still.

“Our illustrious leader has no desire to see their son and heir fall victim to his own kindness,” Treachery more or less confirms.

“Prince Aelynthi has a personal guard. He has Venavismi, and he is rarely far from the sight of General Thenvunin, provided the latter is not on deployment. Melarue is not satisfied with this?” Glory asks.

Treachery does not beat around the bush.

“No.”

Ah.

Well.

Glory does not know much about parenting, but they suppose that is reasonable.

“So you’ve come to me. Why?” they ask, getting to the point of it themselves.

Treachery sighs.

“Because. Melarue worries. They worry for the prince, and for their ward, and they even worry for General Thenvunin. And you are uniquely positioned to help assuage a great many of those worries. All of those people, as it happens, seem to like you.”

Glory considers this, and is willing to concede that things do appear to be moving in that direction. General Selene is frequently away, riding out with Consort Faunalyn to attend to the grim work of warfare. General Thenvunin leaves the court less often, instead coordinating with the other battlefield commanders from their base of operations - though he, too, rides out when need be. And Prince Aelynthi chafes, at times, to be the one left behind. Attending court with their Nanae, studying and advising and sniping with the less agreeable attendants and councilors in turn.

“You want me to be a General again,” they surmise. “A war leader. Someone who could ride out with any of them, if needed, and not raise an eyebrow. But someone who could also stay behind, and keep the prince safe without him feeling ‘guarded’. Because he likes spending time with me.”

Treachery does not deny it.

Glory decides, after a few days of contemplation, to take the job.

It is mostly practicality, in the end. It’s not as if they won’t try and protect people they have some attachment to, and despite themselves, it seems they are developing attachments to these people. So they may as well get official sanctioning for it all. Becoming one of Melarue’s official military leaders, as they had been for Falon’Din, changes more about their days than not. Thenvunin tends to stick close to them throughout their first few meetings, and Aelynthi stands with Melarue for their official appointment to the rank and service. Selene starts seeking their counsel more often with regards to the ongoing campaigns. They can’t help but feel as though they are being looked after more than the reverse, but… they don’t really mind it, either.

Some part of them keeps waiting for the floor to drop out beneath them. For someone to demand something of them that they don’t want to give, to press too far, to see right through them.

It’s… nice, that it doesn’t happen. Though at times it also leaves them in a blind panic, in the dead of night, anticipating abuses that never come.

One such night, they decide to get up and go about some of their guarding duties. Sleep is far away, and just sitting in their chambers seems tortuous. They get up, dress, and head for the prince’s chambers. The sounds coming from inside draw their curiosity - they can admit to some uncharacteristic naivety on their part when they open the bedroom door, wondering if the prince is caught in the throes of a nightmare, and instead find him tangled in his bedsheets with Thenvunin. The soft sighs and moans gaining fresh context as their bodies move in tandem.

Glory is about to duck back out when Thenvunin spots them.

His already flushed face darkens considerably, and his eyes go wide. At that precise moment, Aelynthi pulls away an interfering stretch of blanket, and gives Glory a very… memorable view, of the places where the two of them are entwined. Then the prince seems to notice that his lover has lost track of their activities, and turns, and notes Glory’s presence himself.

There’s a moment as everyone adjusts to the situation.

Thenvunin whimpers.

Then Aelynthi gets a look on his face that, in fact, makes him resemble his nanae more strongly than anything, and carries on with their activities. Locking eyes with Glory, and making an inviting gesture as he rocks his hips and rides Thenvunin’s cock. The sex is remarkably different from the kind Falon’Din preferred. No blood, no chains, no struggling or choking or hitting. It reminds them more of the things they had glimpsed before, of intimacy and the glories of pleasure and passion.

They aren’t repelled.

Instead, after a moment, they decide to accept the invitation.

Most of their evenings change, after that. In a way, it’s practical. It’s much easier to protect Aelynthi and Thenvunin when they have a plausible excuse to be in the prince’s room all night. But in many other ways, it’s… more. They like Aelynthi. They like Thenvunin. They like exploring their desires, and most of all, they like the way neither man really demands too much of them. Even when Thenvunin blusters or Aelynthi gets impatient, even when both of them are being bossy and touchy, as things settle in Glory finds that they themselves take charge more often than not. That Thenvunin yields beautifully to a firm hand and a sly compliment. That Aelynthi likes to be teased and prefers to see whoever is taking him. That even when Glory uses sharp teeth and nails and a little roughness to make things more exciting, the touches that come back to them are usually more gentle.

No one wants to hurt anyone. No one gets excited by the prospect of taking something that another doesn’t want to give.

Although occasionally Thenvunin will stare at Glory and Aelynthi together, and then make brave-but-tremulous offers to show himself the door, if they like. Reassuring Thenvunin is fun, though. Aelynthi rolls his eyes and drags him to bed, or to a secluded garden alcove, and Glory makes a point of being liberal with their praise as they take him together or go by turns.

Aelynthi gets insecure too, of course. Usually he goes off and hides, or sulks, or stews in it until someone comes and drags him into careful embraces and sweet caresses. Touching him until the tensions melt out of him. Or holding him at night, pressing him close until the weight of warm bodies and the steady thumping of their heartbeats seems to offer him peace.

Glory is not so good at being vulnerable. But they learn. Bit by bit. They let Aelynthi undress them, let Thenvunin kiss their neck, let themselves be held by both of them. Even let themselves be taken by both of them, eventually, as Thenvunin enters them with glacial care from behind, and Aelynthi pushes in from the front and seems to struggle to find words.

Touches work, too, though.

The court gossips. Because of course they do. They whisper and titter and spread rumours both good and bad, about the Peacock Prince seducing Falon’Din’s Glory into his bed. Some of the grasping social-climber types begin to emulate Glory’s ‘look’, which puts them uncomfortably in mind of Falon’Din’s harem. But whereas Falon’Din’s favoured had little to no say in the matter, the occupants of the serpent’s court are targeting the prince instead.

It’s a strange reversal.

Glory doesn’t know how to feel about it, the first time they catch young Lord Tineth trying to sneak into Aelynthi’s chambers, a rose between his teeth and nothing on beneath his silk robe. They have mixed sentiments as they dump him into the duck pond, though the next morning, Thenvunin only chastises them for disturbing the ducks. While Aelynthi just rolls his eyes and makes a few discreet moves to have the young lord offered a position at a different court. Glory reports the incident, but even Treachery just sighs and then shrugs about it.

They keep a watchful eye out, just the same. Careful to ensure the safety of Aelynthi’s bedchamber, insofar as they can.

By the time Prince Aelynthi is betrothed, in calculated move to secure the alliance between Melarue and Andruil, Glory has begun to settle into this life. Into themselves, and their duties, and the nature of this existence. They still struggle to sleep, and when they manage it they often dream strange dreams of Desire and bright light, of the deeper depths of the Dreaming itself; things that spill away from their mind when they wake, and leave them aching for something they cannot name. But there is more to their life than pain and misery. Much more. There are things to laugh over, and celebrate, and explore. Life is… good.

The betrothal throws things into uncertainty again.

Not for the reasons that Thenvunin worries about. When the news reaches the court, Thenvunin is crushed. Prince Arethfal is a distant figure, cloistered away from most dangers by his mothers. But rumours hold that he is beautiful and charming, a dashing hunter with Lady Ghilan’nain’s intellect, and Princess Andruil’s prowess. And, like Aelynthi, he is a prince. Thenvunin weeps in the atrium, surrounded by concerned and bewildered peacocks, and that ridiculous raptor of his.

“We’ll have to break things off,” he fears, tearfully.

Glory rubs at his back.

“Don’t be silly. It’s just a betrothal, not a guarantee of anything,” they counter.

“But Aelynthi’s been avoiding me ever since-”

“He’s been avoiding everyone. He’s sulking because he hates this betrothal.”

“But what if-”

With a sigh, Glory turns Thenvunin’s face towards themselves, and presses a firm kiss to his lips. Thenvunin stills, mostly in surprise. But as they pull back he curls his fingers against their collar, and gives just the slightest tug. So they deepen the kiss instead, pressing on hand to the back of his head and letting the other rub at his shoulder. They follow up the first kiss with several more, softer ones, peppering his lips until a fraction of the tension in his back has eased up.

“Even in the unlikely scenario that Aelynthi takes on look at Arethfal and decides to banish us forever, I won’t leave you,” they promise him.

They’re a little surprised at themselves. Their loyalty, after all, is owed to Melarue first and foremost, and Aelynthi secondmost. But of course, if Aelynthi banishes them, what else would they have left besides one another? So they suppose it is simply the truth.

Thenvunin swallows.

“It won’t come to that,” he tells them, changing his own tune, as if he is suddenly worried that Glory themselves fears being ousted.

They nod in agreement, and brush some of his hair back.

“I’m going to go speak to him,” they decide.

“Do not tell him I was upset, it would be unfitting,” Thenvunin insists.

Glory hums, fully intending to tell Aelynthi that very thing - upsetting Thenvunin has a way of bringing the prince back down to earth in a hurry - but not wanting to cause a fuss. Instead they just lie, without technically lying, and leave to go and track Aelynthi down.

Not that he’s hard to find.

It works, of course. Glory mentions Thenvunin’s distress and Aelynthi snaps out of his downward spiral of frustrations, going and reassuring the fretful General - and himself in the process. It takes care of one problem, but leaves others. Like Glory’s own pressing concerns, about what this Prince Arethfal might be like.

Falon’Din’s nephew. Andruil and Ghilan’nain’s son. Mythal’s grandchild.

It was Andruil and Ghilan’nain who trapped them, after all. Who put them in a body, and gave them to Falon’Din. It was Andruil who tried to seize them, in the chaos of the prince’s ‘disappearance’ - who Aelynthi rescued them from. Glory is not an expert on parents and children, they know that they can be similar but also different, that there is a concept of ownership and responsibility tied to the position, but that it is complicated. Akin to the relationship between spirits who are born from elves, and said elves. Like mentor and student. There is room for a lot of variance, but…

They do not understand it well enough, to know with confidence that Arethfal is not like Falon’Din.

And if he is like Falon’Din, or Andruil, then Glory must protect Aelynthi from him at all costs.

Still, it is a long while before they even manage to meet Aelynthi’s new betrothed. Once the contracts are made, the matter is mostly put aside, and focus is instead placed on the war and the relevance of the alliance to it. The assassination attempt is alarming, but more guards are hired, and no other attempts follow it. Aelynthi and Thenvunin are both disturbed, however, unnerved by how close they came to total disaster.

Glory starts bringing them courting gifts, then.

It’s not a choice they recall making with any degree of deliberation. Just… something that they begin doing in an effort to create pleasant distractions. They start gathering wild flowers on their excursions. They bring back trinkets from various places that the war bids them ride out to. They leave little poems in the prince’s desk, or Thenvunin’s satchel. Small things, at first, but they find that they develop a taste for it. They enjoy the way Thenvunin blusters but reddens over gifts, protesting that it is much ‘too obvious’ even as its clear that he delights in them. And the way that Aelynthi doesn’t quite seem to know what to do with little presents, and ends up keeping them all. Dried flowers pressed into his books, trinkets lining his vanity, notes carefully tucked away into a bedside drawer.

It becomes a little bit addicting. Reassuring and pleasant. Glory lets it escalate, once they find a jeweler who is to their liking.

Adannar is one of Melarue’s many official dressers and artisans. His work has an innate grace and charm that makes it very appealing, but the man himself is possibly the least threatening elf Glory has ever met. He radiates peacefulness and happiness, unabashed, not overtly exuberant or demonstrative, but kind. They like him, and it is a fortuitous discovery to learn that he has been seeking new clients - Melarue, of course, is a prestigious buyer, but many people vie for the privilege of clothing them. Not that Adannar seems hard up for work, there is usually plenty of interest in anyone who has dressed the Black Serpent - but it seems the man himself is very particular about his clientele.

He has no objections to Glory. Or at least, none that prevent him from accepting their patronage.

They have him make Aelynthi a jeweled hair pin, sharp enough to serve as a weapon if need be. The piece comes out beautifully, meant to match the cool browns of the prince’s hair, with soft blue stones to contrast. Aelynthi likes it, so Glory goes and procures a belt for Thenvunin, next. And then broaches, rings, pendants, earrings, bracelets, pins, bejeweled boxes, bird carriers, and even a full staff for Thenvunin - not battle fit, of course, but beautiful enough for their official meetings and councils.

They also acquire a moonstone pendant for General Selene, for a birthday celebration. Shortly Prince Dirthamen’s surrender, and their subsequent betrothal.

Glory does not like it.

They do not like it at all.

“He is Falon’Din’s brother,” they protest to Selene, after the announcement. They say it lowly, as they follow her back to her chambers that evening. Her consort, Des, raises an eyebrow at them; also walking with Selene.

“Are you going to join us this evening, Glory?” he asks, with obvious ‘interest’.

Selene makes a face.

“No offense, Glory, but I would prefer not to sleep with one of my brother’s consorts.”

Glory rolls their eyes.

“I am not an official consort,” they remind her. Neither they nor Thenvunin are ‘officially’ warming the prince’s bed. With the complication of the betrothal, they would require Arethfal’s permissions for that kind of acknowledgement - and that seems to be far more trouble than it would be worth, right now. Though, if the situation persists, they might propose an official arrangement between themselves and Thenvunin. At least something should be… acknowledged, if only because Thenvunin wishes for it so plainly.

“Still,” Selene says, with a look that conveys her boundaries on the subject.

They shrug.

“I am not here for that,” they say, while Des looks disappointed. “You aren’t listening. Dirthamen is Falon’Din’s brother.”

“I know,” Selene assures them.

They put a hand to her arm. It makes her pause, for a moment.

“You don’t,” they say. “He is Falon’Din’s twin. The other half of his soul. I know what Falon’Din is capable of, what Dirthamen could do to you-”

“Glory,” she interrupts. Firmly, but not ungently. “Prince Dirthamen is not his brother. I won’t pretend to have known Falon’Din’s… depravities as well as you do, but, whatever he may be, Dirthamen’s not like that.”

“How could you possibly know?” Glory asks.

Selene hesitates.

After a moment, she lets out a breath, and then shrugs.

“I fought him,” she says. “You learn a lot about someone when you fight them. When you counter them on the battlefield, and see how their mind twists and turns, how they try to win - or how they accept defeat.”

“That’s not enough,” they insist.

“It’s… I won’t pretend I know everything about him. But I know enough to know that he’s different from his brother,” Selene argues, obviously frustrated. Glory doesn’t understand her frustration, if she’s simply trying to reconcile this situation - if it’s hope, that Dirthamen could be different, or if it’s something else. Denial, perhaps.

They lean in closer. Shooting a look to Des, but, whatever the flighty consort may be, he’s always proven loyal to Selene.

“If you get him into a vulnerable position, I can take him out,” they tell her, intently. “We can plan this. A particular scenario, one that won’t look suspicious-”

“No!” Selene blurts, firmly. “We are not - Glory, Dirthamen is not Falon’Din.”

“But if he-”

“He won’t.”

Her tone is firm, and her face is flushed. Her aura tight enough that Glory is not certain if it is from frustration, or embarrassment, or anger. They find themselves at something of a loss as their fellow General proceeds to her chambers. Des hesitates in passing, just for a moment. Then he nods at Glory.

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” he promises, quietly. “I always do.”

Not for the first time, Glory wonders if Treachery ever approached Selene’s consort, the way they approached Glory themselves.

Their anxieties do not let up, though. Especially not when it becomes apparent that General Selene… is almost eager for this betrothal. Glory cannot think what has stolen over her. They check for signs of untoward magic, or manipulation. Possession. Something that could be interfering with her thoughts or self-expression, even some sort of replacement. But nothing reveals itself.

They think of the people in Falon’Din’s court who had actually been enamored with him. Those who had sought his favour, as more than just a necessity of survival. The ‘like-minded’ individuals, of course, but also the more regrettable types. The ones who saw Falon’Din as… something else. A figure worth pleasing, admiring, seeking the approval and regard of. Those who believed that love could change him, could grant them a power over him. Tame him, or, failing that, at least discourage him from causing them harm. Those who had envied Glory, in some twisted misunderstanding.

The thought that Selene could be like them… it doesn’t fit, either.

And then, Melarue decides not to have Glory accompany the wedding procession.

It takes them three days to gain a private audience with the leader.

“I thought I was supposed to protect your children,” they say.

Melarue does not look up from the reports they are reading.

“And you are.”

“How can I protect them if you barter them off to Evanuris?” they ask.

Not their most diplomatic approach to things, but the situation is becoming increasingly dire, by their estimates.

The comment earns them a glance up from the reports, too.

“No one is being bartered off,” they declare, with enough calm that Glory knows they are forcing some of it. “I will excuse your implications, because I know where your disquiet is coming from. But Aelynthi’s betrothal is little more than a contract formality, at this point, and Selene’s was her own suggestion. And I would not have approved it, if I believed Dirthamen was liable to behave like his brother.”

Glory narrows their eyes.

“You do not find his unexpected surrender suspicious?” they press. “You do not think it is strange that Selene is suddenly so taken with this idea?”

Melarue tilts their head, and looks back at the reports.

“Selene has been ‘taken’ with Dirthamen for years,” they say. “I had thought her fascination mostly competitive, but it is not so great a surprise that she has become enamored with her rival. You should read some of the reports on their tactical back-and-forth.”

Glory’s jaw tightens, uncertainty and confusion making them uneasy, and giving rise to a directionless frustration.

“He shares a soul with Falon’Din,” they protest.

Melarue sighs. They gesture, and the room around them suddenly becomes heavier. Muffled, extensively warded against any possible listener. Their gaze meets Glory’s, sharp and shrewd but uncommonly frank, too.

“If that were true, he would be dead,” they say.

Glory stills.

They knew, of course. But this is the first time they have heard Melarue themselves acknowledge it. They hesitate for a moment. Still torn by unpleasant feelings and premonitions. But there is something rare in Melarue’s expression. Some concession, that for some reason, they are willing to grant to Glory.

After a breath, they sink into the chair across from their leader’s desk.

“So he is dead.”

”Yes.”

They close their eyes. Some final note of tension, that they had not even realized was still in them, seems to bleed away at the confirmation.

“How?”

Melarue puts aside their pen, and folds their hands atop their reports.

“Does it matter?”

Glory considers that question.

“Yes,” they decide. To their credit, Melarue does not demand further explanation from them.

“Slowly. Painfully. That wasn’t my intention - I wanted him gone, as efficiently as possible. But the spirits I conspired with had a certain method to their operations. I later learned that they were former associates of Dirthamen’s. They killed Falon’Din with enough care to ensure that the bond would not destroy his brother, and that meant they did it very, very slowly,” Melarue explains. “Something that would not have worked if they were as interchangeable as you believe.”

Glory swallows.

In their mind, they see… fragments. They aren’t sure, for a moment, if they’re trying to picture Falon’Din breaking, or recalling their own collapse. The uncertainty unnerves them. The parallel is disquieting. But, they would be lying if they claimed not to take a vicious satisfaction from the notion.

“Which spirits?” Glory asks.

Melarue shakes their head.

No, they won’t say.

After a moment, they let out a breath, and scrub a hand down one side of their face.

“Dirthamen does not have to be an exact copy to be enough like Falon’Din to cause concern,” they decide. “Nor does Arethfal, for that matter.”

“I am aware of that,” Melarue replies.

“We should get rid of them. Both of them.”

“When - and if - the time is right, we can discuss that option further.”

The silence that follows that declaration is all the more stifling for the wards in the air.

After a minute, said wards lift. Glory knows an order when they hear one, however tactfully worded. The instruction that the time is not right now, that things are just going to… proceed. Selene is going to marry Falon’Din’s brother. Aelynthi will remain betrothed to his nephew. And all Glory can do is watch, banished to the sidelines because they are a liability to that plan, and Melarue knows it.

“I hope you don’t regret this,” they say, at last. Standing up, and straightening their robes. They offer a polite bow, more shallow than they usually offer, and make their way towards the door.

They almost miss Melarue’s comment, as they pull it open. Barely more than a murmur, uttered with their gaze turned towards their desk again.

“So do I.”

#four kingdoms au #next bit with arethfal is coming #but for now have some glory backstory #(because this 'glory' is really just Blonde Uthvir)#long post

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selenelavellan · 6 years

Text

Mamma Mia! AU

Dirthamen, Deceit, Fear, Venavismi, Nona and Gran-Gran(mentioned) belong to @feynites

Serahlin, Miriel, and Katra belong to @scurvgirl

Cirimeni belongs to @justanartsysideblog

Ana belongs to @lycheemilkart

“I have a secret,” Darevas grins to his brother as they stare out at the ocean, half breathless from the end of their morning run around the island.

Felasel glances up from the rim of his glasses as he wipes the sweat from his brow. “Should I be worried?”

“No,” Darevas says.

Pauses.

“...No?” he repeats as he tilts his head and looks to the sky, less sure of his answer the second time around.

Felasel frowns as he steps closer to his twin. “I swear to the Gods, Darevas, if this is another last minute change to your wedding-”

“It's not!” He pleads, hands up in innocence. “It's a.....gift? It's a gift, yes.”

“For Miriel?”

“For you! And for mom. And...also for me.”

“So, mostly for you,” Felasel says flatly.

“Mostly for us,” Darevas assures him. “Do you remember that notebook we found in those old chests in the storehouse?”

Felasel nods slowly, arms crossing over his chest.

“I managed to pick the lock-”

“You picked a lock?”

“Picked a lock, broke a lock-semantics aren't the important part of this!”

“So what is?”

Darevas takes a deep breath and announces “I invited our dad to my wedding!”

Two teal eyes close in frustration as Felasel runs his hand through his hair. “Our dad left before we were born; he didn't even know mom was pregnant, Darevas. He left because he was engaged to someone else-”

“Well yeah, ok, so that's what mom told us when we asked. Buuuuut...”

Felasel peeks one eye open, heart giving a heavy thump in his chest. “...'But'?”

Darevas clears his throat, pulling an old worn down journal with the image of a raven decorating the cover from the back pocket of his pants, opening up to an earmarked page with a flourish.

“July 17th...” he recites “ 'What a night!'”

“Oh I so don't want to hear this-”

“Well you need to, so hush,” Darevas clears his throat as he continues reading aloud.“'Dirthamen rented a boat and rowed me over to the little island' -that's here, that's Llomerryn- 'We danced along the beach, we kissed beneath the stars and...'dot, dot, dot!”

“Please do not go into the details of our mothers 'dotting'.”

“No problem, bro. Anyways, she goes on with 'Dirthamen's the one! I've never felt like this before, the way he thrills me, it nearly kills me...oh, it makes me dizzy! I practically feel like singing when he does his...thing!'”

Felasel nods slowly as he listens, running his hands through his hair and tying it into a low ponytail.

“So this Dirthamen is our father, then?”

Darevas shrugs, scrunching up his nose. “He leaves soon after to go get married and mom realizes she's never going to see him again, which fits with her story.”

“What an asshole,” Felasel sighs. “Well, we knew that much already, but thanks for the TMI on mom's old sex life-”

“No it's not done!” Darevas declares “August 4th : 'What a night! Deceit rented a motorboat, and we went over to the little island. Though my heart still stings for Dirthamen, Deceit is so spontaneous and romantic. He's such a talented, funny guy, and Fear is so sweet and caring. One thing lead to another and....' dot dot dot!”

Felasel groans, and settles his head into his hands. “Ok. So...Ok.”

“August 11th,” Darevas continues without pausing. “ 'Des turned up out of the blue, so I said I'd show him the island. He's so easy to relax and unwind around and so understanding, I just couldn't help it and...' dot, dot, dot!” Darevas finishes, arms wide open as he grins in triumph at his twin brother.

Felasel looks more concerned than impressed with his discovery.

“Ok...so there are at least three people that could be our father, time wise, depending on our mothers sexual practices” Felasel reasons aloud. “Which one did you invite?”

Darevas grins wider and wiggles his eyebrows.

“Oh no. Darevas, what have you done?”

“Invited our dads!”

“With what, 'hey there I might be your son, please come to my wedding?'”

“Well...no,” Darevas admits sheepishly. “They uh...think mom sent the invites.”

“No.”

“And given what we know,” Darevas says shaking the journal between them pointedly “Unsurprisingly, they all said yes!”

Felasel takes a deep breath. Pinches the bridge of his nose, and walks until he is knee deep in the ocean water, before letting out a loud, frustrated scream.

...Well.

Maybe mom will react more favorably, Darevas hopes.

It has been a very long time since Dirthamen was in Rivain, he thinks.

Longer still since he visited Llomerryn in particular.

Selenes letter is tucked safely away in the pocket of his coat, after he had practically raced out of his office to come visit at her request. There are many people in his life he never expected to receive personal correspondence from. Fewer still are those he had hoped to hear from. After the death of his mother, followed by the swift divorce from his wife, there had been little time for anything other than memories and responsibilities.

He had never dared to hope that...after everything, she might possibly want to see him again.

Is this what giddiness is?

It is...very freeing. He feels very light, even in his cotton suit and the barely present air conditioning of his cab.

The air here, so far away from Denerim, feels so much cleaner even in the humidity that fills it.

He steps out of the cab as it parks, retrieving his luggage from the trunk as he pays the driver.

Just in time to see the boat pulling out of the dock.

There is another elven man, with shoulder length black hair and very fashionable sunglasses shouting after the boat, calling for it to come back as another, smaller elf retrieves their luggage from their own cab.

There is an older qunari man standing on the back of the boat, waving to them in a friendly, though unhelpful, manner.

“Dammit,” The elf mutters.

Dirthamen sighs as he watches the ferry drift ever father away. “My sentiments exactly.”

“ExCUSE ME!” Yells another elf as he practically rolls out of a third cab. “Somebody stop that ferry!”

“Sure, no problem,” Drawls the shorter elf from earlier. “We were just standing here for our health, after all.”

The man with the long hair huffs, tucking a long loose strand of hair behind his ear and revealing a small golden hoop earring. “I have to get to Llomerryn. When's the next one?”

“Lunes,” Says the elf from earlier, lifting his sunglasses to rest on top of his head. “Monday.”

“Well that's no good, I need to get to a wedding.”

“Bride or groom?” the smaller elf asks, scrolling through the screen of their phone without looking up.

“Groom,” Hums the long haired elf as he takes a familiar looking wedding invitation out of his bag to inspect it. “Though I've never actually met the man.”

Dirthamen feels his brows furrow.

Curious.

That is the same situation he is currently in.

“I'm Deceit,” Introduces the one with the sunglasses as he holds out his hand. “And this is Fear; no worries, they don't really bite so long as you keep your hands away.”

“Noted,” Drawls the one with the longer hair and freckles that are poking up the longer they are in the sun. “I'm Des; I only bite if you ask nicely.”

Dirthamen is about to introduce himself as well, when a shadow passes over their makeshift group, and yet another dark haired elf calls to them, this one seated atop the spreaders of a sailboat loaded with several crates of produce.

“Hey!” He calls down with a grin. “You all need a ride to the island?”

Yes, Dirthamen thinks.

They certainly do.

Serahlin is exceedingly grateful that she and Ana were able to catch the last ferry of the day. Though it might've been a bit more considerate for them to hold it until sometime past the early morning so that she could have gotten her full eight hours in, but at least she managed her full facial routine.

Goodness knows how terrible this much direct sun exposure can be for your skin.

It's been quite a bit since she last saw her dear friend after all, and she's eager to show off just how amazingly well she's been doing since she cut Darris out of her life.

So she strides behind Ana as the red headed elven woman pushes past people with quiet apologies, seeking out a seat for the two of them on what is, she thinks, a dangerously overcrowded boat.

A qunari woman with a potent smelling basket finally scoots aside enough to clear a space on the bench by the rail for the two of them and Serahlin quickly takes the opening, relieved to be off of her feet for a moment. She looks fantastic in heels, but they're still absolute murder to walk in on uneven ground.

An older elven gentlemen offers Serahlin an unlabeled green bottle and she turns him down as politely as she can manage, even as Ana eagerly takes the bottle, popping the cap off with her teeth.

The man grins, and pulls a familiar book out of his wives bag; Ana is smiling politely on the cover, surrounded by a wealth of plants and vegetables.

“He's got your book,” She teases, nudging Ana as she blushes and agrees to autograph inside the cover.

“Even all the way out here,” Ana smiles to herself. “It's really gotten so much bigger than I expected, I can hardly believe it.”

“You've turned the whole world green,” Serahlin compliments. Happy for her friends success, even if she's not one to get her own hands dirty with gardening. “Everyone's growing and planting and composting now. “

“I know. Isn't it wonderful?” Ana beams, handing the book and pen back to the man.

Getting ready for a wedding is no easy task; Miriel knows this, as she pricks her finger on a pin.

“These look amazing, Mir!” Katra croons, spinning in her soon-to-be bridesmaid dress in the mirror, while Miriel tries to stay focused on getting Cirimeni's modifications right.

Cirimeni signs in return about how excited she is about the wedding, and how nice they're all going to look tomorrow.

Miriel smiles softly. “Yeah. If I had my way, it would've just been a quick vow on the mainland, or maybe even back in Antiva, but Darevas really wants this whole...” She sighs, and laughs a little. “production. Could've saved our money for traveling instead of flowers and food for the whole island. But it's nice. I'm actually starting to get excited for it, now that you both are here.”

He's a romantic, Cirimeni signs into the mirror.

“And I love him,” Miriel finishes, stepping back after finally getting the shoulder of the dress to lay where she wants it.

The door swings open, and Darevas and Felasel step into the room, still damp from their usual dip into the ocean after their morning jog.

“You two look great!” Darevas compliments, lifting the two girls off the ground together and swinging them in a circle.

They've been together for so long already, and she still feels stunned by his strength sometimes.

“Alright, be careful, vhenan!” She calls, tapping his shoulder. “There are pins in the dresses still, and you’re still all wet.” Darevas puts them down and steps back, hands on his hips as he nudges his brother approvingly. “Don't they look great, Felly?”

But Felasel seems momentarily stricken by something, his eyes stuck on Cirimeni.

Miriel resists the urge to laugh; she's never seen him knocked off his rhythm like this, but she supposes Cirimeni is a beautiful woman after all, and it's the first time he's actually seen her.

“Felasel?” Darevas repeats.

Felasel clears his throat and nods.

“You look...luminous,” He manages, voice cracking slightly as his eyes still never leave Cirimenis face.

“Do you need something?” Miriel asks, hoping to take some of the pressure off and alleviate the awkwardness in the room.

“Just grabbing a clean shirt,” Darevas says, reaching past her to snatch one from their dresser, pressing a kiss to her cheek as he does.

Miriel feels her own face heat up at the affection, and tries to keep her heartbeat from increasing too greatly. They're getting married tomorrow, surely her body can withstand its urges until then.

“Ok, ok, you got what you needed, now shoo,” She says with a small giggle. “We're very busy right now.”

Darevas grins and gives her one last deeply passionate kiss before stepping back out the door. Felasel hesitates for a moment, before giving a deep bow to Cirimeni and placing a more polite kiss to the back of her hand.

Miriel shakes her head and shoos him out behind his brother.

Honestly.

It's almost enough to make her put stock in that old legend about love and the island.

Almost.

“You realize you'll have to tell her,” Felasel informs Darevas once they've moved into his own room.

“It's fine,” Darevas dismisses, slipping into his new shirt and throwing his old one into Felasels hamper.

“Why haven't you told her already?”

“Because Miriel would say that I should tell mom.”

“You should tell mom. She's going to kill you already, you could at least get honesty on your side here.”

“By the time mom finds out, it'll be too late.”

Felasel sighs as he buttons up his own shirt and shakes his head.

Really, she has enough to deal with around here. This could send her into a full breakdown if it's not handled well, he worries.

“Aren't you even a little curious?” Darevas pushes. “Don't you feel like there's a part of you that's missing?”

“No,” Felasel answers flatly.

“Well, I do,” his brother argues. “And when I see our dad, I'll know who he is, and who I am, and everything will fall into place. You'll see, and you'll thank me for it later.”

Felasel crosses his arms in disapproval, but doesn't say anything more about it.

No matter what, Darevas is right about one thing; It's too late now, anyways.

Des isn't quite sure how he managed to luck into being on a boat in the middle of the ocean with such a devastatingly attractive set of elves.

If he weren't already on his way to get back into Selenes good graces, he thinks he might be trying quite a bit harder to turn this short boat ride into a much longer, much more luxurious sort of rendezvous.

Their unofficial captain, Venavismi is focused on keeping them afloat, while Fear seems relatively preoccupied with sitting in the dead center of the sailboat and trying very hard to convince themselves they aren't exactly where they are. Deceit beside them is running their hand in soothing circles over their back and humming a song that sounds strangely familiar.

In a flash, Des realizes he's seen Deceits face before; on a magazine cover. Several magazine covers actually, the man is essentially a rock star back in Fereldan.

What could they possibly be doing coming out to a little Rivaini island like this one?

“I know who you are,” Pipes up the quiet one, Dirthamen as he sits down beside Des. He's removed his coat in the heat, and Des is mildly tempted to loosen the poor dears tie as he gives him back a curious smile. “You're Des, aren't you?”

“I am,” Des grins, turning to make eye contact.

Dirthamen practically lights up. “I read your books; Fab in a Cab on my way to Nowhere. They are quite exciting reads, and very nice to have on long business trips. Although I have been told I am very stoic on the outside, it is very thrilling to be off on some grand spontaneous adventure in my own mind for several hours.”

“You should try it for real some time, then.” Des winks.

“Oh,” Dirthamen says, deflating slightly. “No. I am not the spontaneous type.”

“You're a...close friend of Selenes?” Deceit asks, apparently listening in to their conversation.

“I've barely spoken to her in twenty years,” Des admits. “But then she sent me this invite, so I think she's finally forgiven me.”

“An invite out of the blue?” Deceit asks warily.

Des nods, and Dirthamen begins to look slightly puzzled beside him.

“You know that is strange,” he says. “It was the same for me-”

“Going about!” Vena calls from overhead as the boat begins to turn, several of the cords tightening in response.

One of the ties beside Dirthamen unravels from where it had been loose, and Des has to stifle a laugh as the man, still in his tie and vest and button down, goes chasing after it and ends up pulled a good two feet before he gets a solid grip and stance on it.

“Got it!” Dirthamen calls as his voice cracks slightly, and Des can't resist getting up to help.

It's a good excuse to put his arms around someone, at least.

Selene has been on the island of Llomerryn for a very long time.

Long enough that she knows every nook and cranny, every shortcut, every trail. Every crumbling structure on the island, including her own.

It causes her no shortage of stress, and with her sons wedding coming up tomorrow (Tomorrow, she can hardly believe how quickly everything has happened), it's a very, very large relief to know that two of her very best friends are coming to the island for the event.

She practically skips out of her jeep, running all the way down to the dock to greet them on the last ferry of the day. Her outfit is hardly glamorous, a pair of old overalls and a loose blouse, but it doesn't matter as her chest swells with joy and she sees a familiar pair of elves stepping off the boat.

Serahlin, as stunningly beautiful as ever and dressed as though her way of life absolutely agrees with her in her pink skirt and coat, perfectly tailored with matching heels, and long dark hair cascading down from a lovely sunhat. Ana follows beside her, carrying a large bag filled no doubt with many of her home-grown lotions and salves, freckles scattered over her face bright in the sunlight and wearing a very cute banana patterned sundress.

“Well well well, what have we here?” Selene calls loudly to her approaching friends, who quickly strike into their old poses. Selene takes on her own as well, pretending to hold a microphone with one hand up-stretched towards the sky and fidgeting with energy and excitement she's barely felt since her youth.

“For one night!” Ana yells, tilting her head up to the sky

“And one night only!” Serahlin continues

“Selene and the Superstars!” They all yell and laugh in unison before running towards each other in joy.

There's a blur of old choreography and hip checking as they laugh and greet each other, Selene lifting Ana up off the ground slightly before putting the smaller woman back down and bringing Serahlin in for a very tight, very overdue, hug.

“Oh, I missed you two,” She hums, leading them back to her jeep.

“Well that’s what happens when you go and isolate yourself on an island in the middle of nowhere,” Serahlin jokes. “Not like I could hop a plane to get here, there's no airport!”

“So sorry Serahlin, I'll be sure to add an airport to the island for you next time,” Selene teases back with a laugh “Just as soon as I marry some disgustingly rich person, and right after I finish making all the necessary repairs to the parts of the hotel that are still standing. Let me know if you find someone looking to burn a couple million bucks, yeah?”

“It's a rich mans world,” Ana muses aloud.

“You think there are going to be any eligible men at this wedding?”

“Ready to remarry already?” Selene smirks.

“No, not for me!” Serahlin laughs, pointing at Ana on her other side. “For her! Now that her book is a best seller and she's tripled the species of plants most people can name off the tops of their heads. It's time to find someone to share that success with!”

“Oh, not for me,” Ana laughs. “I'm not looking for anything like that-I'm just fine where I'm at, I'd much rather travel and focus on my plants than worry about something like that.”

Ana quickly changes the subject before anyone can push it any farther. “Are the lovebirds going to be moving out after the wedding?”

“Oh,” Selene sighs as she parks the car in front of the hotel. “Who even knows? I have no idea what's going on in Darevas's head anymore, he's been so strange all month. He's going and getting married so young and he wants this big huge wedding, and I don't understand any of it, but I'm doing my best. I just want what's best for him you know?”

“Do you want him to move out though?”

“Of course not!” Selene snorts, turning off the car and popping out the side.

Miriel greets up, waving as she runs towards the group Selene smiles and returns the wave.

“Here comes the bride!” She declares, gesturing to her future daughter in law. “Serahlin, Ana, this is Miriel. She's going to be my daughter starting tomorrow.”

“It's nice to meet you!” She greets politely, moving to help carry the baggage.

“Oh, you don't have to do that-” Serahlin interrupts, but Miriel just raises an eyebrow.

“There's a lot of stairs...” She warns ominously, and Selene nods in agreement behind her.

Serahlin relents, as they follow Selene through the old stone archway at the front of the hotel and up a truly astounding number of stone steps. By the time they reach the top, Serahlin and Ana both are nearly out of breath, taking a seat on a bench as quickly as they can.

“It can be a lot if you're not used to it,” Selene says as an apology. “I appreciate you making the trek.”

“Auntie Serahlin, Auntie Ana! You're here!” Darevas calls, leaning over one of the railings of the hotel windows.

“Oh goodness, they've grown so much!” Serahlin gasps as Felasel and Darevas both come out from the open door before them, each taking one of the women in their arms in a tight hug.

“You two are so tall,” Ana laughs as Felasel places her back on the ground. “And so handsome!”

“Yeah, that’s them. A couple of heart breakers these two,” Selene teases, giving each of her friends a glass full of water, to help cool them down in the thick heat of the island.

Her sons exchange a look that gives her pause, but with so much going on already, she decides not to push it at the moment, instead pulling laundry down that she meant to get put away before they arrived in the first place.

Darevas's attentions leave Serahlin as Miriel comes back from dropping the luggage off in their room, brushing her hands.

“How was the trip in?” Felasel asks, helping Selene to take down some of the sheets and linens.

“A bit crowded,” Ana admits. “But a lovely view. The flora here is really beautiful!”

“Isn't it?” Miriel grins. “I wish we could pull in more people to show it off to, but no one even knows we're here.”

“Felasel and I are going to start a website,” Darevas adds “We're just trying to figure out how to market it to really let people know who and where we are. This place has so much potential, but it's practically a secret.”

“It could be one of the ultimate romantic vacation spots,” Miriel sighs “It's rumored to be the site for the All Mother's Fountain you know, the goddess of love? The legends say that if you drink from the fountain, you’re supposed to find true love and happiness.”

“I'll take some of that,” Serahlin says, raising her cup up in a mock toast.

Miriel smiles, and Darevas distracts her again with a deep kiss before dragging her off to discuss details for the next day.

Selene shakes her head in fondness as Felasel mentions leaving to check on the bridesmaids, leading her own friends into the rooms she's set aside for them.

“Do you really want tourists?” Ana says as she follows.

“Well, maybe not an abundance,” Selene admits “But a few would be nice, to help with costs at least.” She sighs to herself as she looks at the walls of the room; a beautiful shade of blue, but worn down by time and sand and desperately in need of a new coat or two. She leans forward to open one of the windows, for a cross-breeze and lets out a soft cry as one of the doors falls off and lands below them with a loud crash. With an uneasy grin and an apology to the people working below, she quickly darts out and down to retrieve the panel, Serahlin and Ana following behind her.

“Do you need help with money, darling?” Serahlin asks in a worried tone.

Selene laughs it off, “Oh, honey, no. I've got it under control, I'm just whining, you know how it is.”

The ground beneath her feet shakes violently suddenly, and she nearly loses her balance as she tightly grips the wooden piece of her window, a large crack appearing over the mosaic crescent moon in the middle of the hotel courtyard.

“What was that?” Ana asks, clutching at the edges of her dress.

“Oh, it's just the world moving. Par for the course around here,” Selene laughs, shaking her head at her abysmal luck. At this rate, she's not sure if the hotel will even survive the wedding. “C'mon, I'll go fix your window and then we can go have some fun.”

Deceit lets out a quiet breath as he steps onto the docks of Llomerryn.

It has been quite a long time since he came to visit. A quiet pang of guilt fills him; he meant to visit Nona and Gran-gran more often, even after everything that happened with Selene, but then his singing career had taken off and they'd passed on together, and he'd just never managed to find the time to come and check on things.

They had taken such good care of him, of his mother, back before...

He sighs, readjusting his sunglasses.

Well, he's here now.

Fear looks over the invitation one last time, as they follow the GPS on their phone all the way up to the hotel. Vena gives them his own directions on top of that, and they thank him, as he gets started unloading his produce and they move on with their own trip in mind.

The invitation had been unexpected, when they had gotten it. Fear was worried something was wrong, hearing from her so suddenly after twenty years of silence, though even they could admit that it would be nice to see her again.

Their romance had only lasted a week, but it had been a very good week.

About halfway through the walk, Deceit recognizes the trail, as a familiar looking hotel comes into view when they crest over one of the hills.

They end up stopping, all four of them, at the top of a set of a staircase he hated climbing even in his youth that's only become crueler to his aging knees. The view from the top is astounding though, the ocean and mainland both in view in the afternoon sunlight.

“Hi,” Comes a voice from behind, and all four of them turn at once. There’s a very tall young elf with dark hair and tan skin and bright eyes staring at them all. “Can I help you?”

“Hello,” Dirthamen speaks up “We are here for the wedding? I am Dirthamen Evanuris.”

“Desire, but please call me Des.”

“Fear.”

“I'm Deceit,” He finally finishes, capping off the introductions and taking off his sunglasses.

The young elven man stares at them all for a moment, eyes glancing to each of them in turn as his breath seems to speed up. Deceit worries that perhaps something might be wrong, judging by the way he’s staring at them all.

“You're expecting us, right?” Deceit says after an uncomfortable minute of silence.

“Yes!” The man says, suddenly breaking out into a large grin. “Yes, of course!”

“You're not...” Des says, taking a step forward, eyes squinting slightly. “Are you Selene's son?”

“I am, one of them. I have a twin brother as well. I'm Darevas, I'm the one getting married tomorrow. It's so...” He lets out a breath with a laugh. “It's so good to meet you all!”

Deceit thinks for a moment that the name sounds familiar; Nona or Gran-gran knew someone with a name similar to Darevas, he's fairly certain. Certainly not this one though, he's far too young to have known them before their passing.

Another strange coincidence. Not an uncommon occurrence on this island.

“Would you mind if we saw our rooms before we meet up with your mother?” Dirthamen requests, shifting from one foot to the other uncertainly. “I would like to freshen up beforehand.”

“Same,” Des chimes in, raising his hand slightly.

“Sure,” Darevas nods eagerly, “Follow me.”

Des leads the way, then Dirthamen, then Deceit, and finally Fear bringing up the rear.

Curious, Deceit thinks. This isn't the normal way to the hotel, this is a back route that was usually only used by the workers or operators. It's hardly the scenic route, most of it back ways and narrow passages through old storage rooms that are clearly starting to wear down in their old age.

Deceit's practically amused by the situation as they're lead down an old set of wooden stairs, past the bleating sheeps and goats and into what he is almost certain used to be the goat house. Darevas directs them up a wooden ladder, and Deceit resists the urge to snort at the site of their 'room'.

Something is definitely up.

Dirthamen looks notably confused and concerned at the air mattresses lying on the floor, one of them already deflated, while Des purses his lips beside him.

“Well, this was a great tour,” Des hums, tugging slightly on his earring. “But it'd be great if you could show me my actual room now.”

“Pretty sure this is your room, Des,” Deceit finally grins.

The colorfully adorned man deflates slightly, while Dirthamens shoulders fall in a dejected manner.

“Can we see Selene now?” Dirthamen attempts, one hand still on his suitcase.

Darevas swallows, barely able to contain his grin as he bounces slightly on the balls of his feet. “I sent the invitations, actually. My mom has no idea about any of this.”

Des lets out a long groan, hip jutting out as he rubs a hand down his face, while Dirthamen's face falls at the news and Fear lets out a disappointed tutting sound beside him.

“She's done so much for me, and my brother, and she's told us so many stories about you all and the good old days,” A lie, Deceit knows without having to say anything about it. “And I thought she'd be so happy to finally see you all again! It could be such a wonderful surprise for her, to find out you're all going to be at my wedding.”

Des takes a few steps forward, closing the gap between himself and Darevas. “Hold on, hold on. I can't be here; Selene said she never wanted to see me again the last time we were together. Are you telling me she doesn't even know that I'm here?”

“That was years ago,” Darevas tries to assure him. “I'm sure she's moved past whatever upset her back then! She's going to be so happy to see you all!”

Dirthamen shakes his head, rubbing at the back of his neck sheepishly, while Deceit trails a hand over his head and through his hair.

No, that doesn't sound like Selene at all.

“Please,” Darevas pleads, putting on surprisingly effective puppy dog eyes despite the fact that he's easily the tallest person in the room. “It would mean a lot to me.”

“Why?” Fear asks.

“I can tell you went to a lot of trouble to arrange all of...this,” Dirthamen deters. “But I think perhaps it would be for the best if we all went back to the docks and tried to find a boat home.”

“Yep,” Des agrees, popping the p as he turns to reach for his suitcase.

“Nope,” Deceit argues, reclining out on the biggest of the mattresses. “There's probably not any boats leaving right now. Besides, Dirthamen, you said you wanted to be more spontaneous; this is an adventure. It could be good for you.”

“Oh,” Dirthamen ponders, looking up at the wood on the ceiling. “That is true.”

“Ok, look,” Darevas finally says, dropping the pleading tones. “It was a long shot any of you would even reply when I sent the invites. But you all said yes, you've all made the trip, and you're all here. Surely you thought there was something worth coming back for, something other than the wedding of someone you've never met before. Something special, like....some sort of siren call, maybe?”

All four of them let out a unanimous groan, and Des plops down on the edge of Deceits mattress with a laugh.

“Oh, you're definitely Selene's son alright,” he gripes. “A troublesome little minx, just like she was. I hope your brother's not this bad.”

Darevas grins, hands on his hips. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Deceit shakes his head and gives a laugh of his own.

The sound of a door opening and someone humming rises up from below them, and it's been twenty years, but Deceit has never forgotten that voice.

All of them stand back up, moving almost mindlessly towards the ladder while Dirthamen quietly mumbles “That's Selene,” and Deceit feels slightly embarrassed.

A siren call may not have been quite so far off, all things considered.

“No no no no no nonono,” Darevas whispers, moving between all of them while Dirthamen tucks the bottom of his shirt in. “Listen, she can't know about this, she can't. I have to go, but I need you all to promise me that you'll stay, and not tell anybody that I invited you. Ok? Promise?”

Deceit hesitates, but one by one they all promise not to tell or to leave the island until after the wedding. Darevas pulls a board covered in sheet music away from a window and sneaks out with a large smile, one finger pressed to his lips as Des puts the makeshift window cover back in its place.

“Wouldn't happen to know where I could at least get a shower, would you?” He mutters softly to the open air.

Well, Deceit thinks. This might just be an even more eventful weekend than he planned on.

There's something wonderfully grounding about the familiarity of flora, Ana thinks.

Even with the thousands upon thousands of different species, and the variations between those here on Llomerryn and those back in Fereldan, it's easy for her to tell what she can take clippings of back home, and which she can't.

Selene had wandered off after a few drinks to finally fix the new crack in her courtyard, and Serahlin had decided it was a good time to take a shower so Ana thought it would be as good a time as any to explore the island on her own.

Though, she realizes now that she's wandered all the way back down the hills, and ended up back near the docks.

Damn.

She's dreading the walk back up all those stairs, when she hears a small clatter from one of the boats still tied up, rocking slightly in the roll of the waves. There's a tall, long haired elven man loading empty crates onto what she assumes is his sailboat. Her feet take her towards it, curiosity overriding her better thoughts along with a need to make sure he's alright.

Her feet are silent on the wooden dock, but somehow he sees her coming all the same.

He lets out a long laugh.

“Sorry, I'm all out!” He calls.

Ana blinks.

“Um,” She says. “Sorry?”

He gestures to the pattern on her dress. “Bananas? I'm all out, I just finished dropping off today's shipment to the kitchens already. You'll have to ask Selene or Miriel about getting some, I think they're supposed to be for the wedding tomorrow.”

Ana blushes, clutching onto the edges of her dress. “I wasn't- I'm just visiting the island, I'm a friend of Selenes.”

“She's got a lot of friends here today it seems,” Vena muses aloud.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he says with a shake of his head as he wipes his hand clean on the bottom of his shirt before holding it out for her. “Well, any friend of Selenes is a friend of mine. Venavismi, at your service.”

“Elanna,” She introduces. “But I go by Ana.”

Venavismi grins. “Ana-banana.”

Ana laughs into her fist, feeling her face heat up at the name as a strange sort of warmth spreads through her.

“Here for the wedding then, Ana-banana?”

“Mm-hm,” She grins. “Are you going to be attending?”

“Sure am. I've watched those boys grow up too long not to. Used to help Miriel get onto the island when the ferry wasn't running too.”

“How mischievous,” Ana teases. “You sneak her in a lot?”

“Depends; how much are you into bad boys?” He says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Ana laughs again. “Not so bad, really,” She admits. “I spend most of my time with my plants, back in Fereldan.”

“Oh, do you have an orchard too?”

“No, most of my plants are potted,” She admits. “You have an orchard?”

“Back on the mainland, yeah,” He preens. “I supply quite a lot of the fruit around here.”

“But you're all out of bananas,” She tsks teasingly. “What a shame.”

“Hold on,” He says, darting back onto his boat and digging through a crate.

He pops back out a minute later with a small yellow fruit, and tosses it to her with a wink. “It may not be a banana, but babe you put the stars in my sky.”

Ana blinks, and looks down at the starfruit in her hands.

She can feel her face turning an even deeper shade of red as she clutches it with an awkward laugh.

“Right! Well that's-I mean,” She stammers, very much out of her element very suddenly. “I should-I should get back to Selene,”

“Sure,” He nods with a self-satisfied smile. “See you at the wedding, then?”

Ana nods quickly, before disappearing back into the forest, starfruit clutched tightly to her chest.

What a terrible pick up line really.

...But she can't really deny the effectiveness of it, either.

There are a lot of things Selene expected to happen this weekend, and prepared herself for.

A giant crack in the middle of her courtyard was not one of them.

She's sighing at the caulking gun she keeps in the goat house that the animals don't even go into anymore, wondering if it's got enough left in it that she can just seal the crack and move on to other things.

It's the best she can think of right now, at least.

Absently humming an old tune aloud, Selene hears something shift around overhead.

Ah, damn. What kind of vermin could have gotten into the goat house? There's no rats or squirrels on the island, or is there an infestation problem now too?

Maybe she'll get lucky, and its just the sound of the wood and stone settling in their old age.

...Still.

She should probably check, to make sure there's no unexpected vermin running across the aisle tomorrow at the wedding.

She climbs up the stairs, popping the hatch up only to find it covered by something heavy that’s been moved on top of it. One of the chairs she thinks, peeking through the opening she could manage.

She nearly freezes, as she sees a pair of legs in tight black jeans in front of her.

Her eyes slowly graze up the legs, legs she knows, legs she remembers, until they settle on a too familiar face.

Deceit? She thinks, momentarily stunned. What on earth are they doing here?

Fear is behind them, browsing absently on their phone and donning a much more professional haircut than the half-buzz they had had twenty years ago.

There's more people though.

A pair of bare knees with a familiar freckle pattern stare back at her, a long magenta skirt resting between them and attached to another elf with familiar long dark hair and golden eyes that still have that same spark they did back before...before.

Des, she realizes, heartbeat racing as she finds one more elf in the top floor of the old goat house.

Dark cotton slacks with a purple button down, and two slate blue eyes that she used to dream about for so long, eyes she hasn't seen since they told her he was leaving her behind, and going back to his life in Fereldan.

Dirthamen, she swallows, letting go of the hatch and dropping down from the ladder.

Her heart is racing, as she fans her face and tries to keep from overheating.

What are they doing here?! All of them, together?

How could this even happen?!

They weren't even supposed to-Des and Dirthamen swore they'd never come back, and Deceit had practically abandoned them for his music, and she had been left behind, forgotten really by all of them, caring for Nona and Gran-gran in their last few years and eventually purchasing and renovating the hotel while they were all....were all...

She sighs, and covers her mouth with her hand.

Damn it all.

She moves her hand down to her chest, feeling flames beginning to lick up beneath her skin just from the sight of them.

Damn it all, they're all still outrageously attractive.

How dare they show up here, now, and pull all of these old emotions she's spent twenty years ignoring back up? There's so many other things to do, to worry about-

Gods, what if Darevas or Felasel see them?!

If she had wanted to see them again, she would have invited them years ago. Not now, certainly not in her...current state, she thinks picking a stray thread off of the sleeve of her blouse.

No.

No, she's done well, just fine without them! She's raised two wonderful sons, and cared for the island and she's done it all on her own.

Their faces flash through her mind. Moments long buried of nights in the beach, in rooms of this very hotel, on blankets and next to guitars and books and...

She lets out a sigh.

Mamma mia, she's just gotta get one more look. One more, and she can center herself, and move on with her life.

She's not sure when, specifically, she climbed to the roof, only knows that she's here now, staring down at the access hatch and saying a silent prayer for strength as she bends over for one last look at her past lovers.

It’s really a disastrous moment, when the wind catches her off guard, and she falls straight through the opening.

She lets out a loud groan, her legs straight up and apart from the shock of the fall, thankful for the half-inflated air mattress she landed on. Staring up at four familiar faces, grinning back down at her.

“You've always had the best entrances,” Des teases, stepping towards her.

She can't help it; she laughs.

Selene quickly crosses her legs and tucks them beneath her as she struggles to sit up, glancing from one pair of eyes to another, surrounded, somehow, by all the people she loved so fiercely nearly twenty years ago.

“I better be dreaming,” She finally says, tucking her hair behind her ear and once again cursing her abysmally terrible luck. “You all had better not really be here.”

#Mamma Mia AU #Dirthalene #Banana Ship #mirevas #chantilly couple #Selene Lavellan #Des #lots of perspective shifts in this one #Adannar will be appearing in the next installment for Serahlin no worries #this is easily the longest thing I've written in MONTHS i hope you enjoy it #now im going to go eat something

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feynites · 6 years

Note

i read Looking Glass and really liked it, but when I decided to read a lot of your other stuff I found myself a little intimidated by the sheer number of amazing fully fleshed out characters. I know you talk about and write about a lot of then on here but could you give me a little bit of an overview on the characters important to LG and its AUs?

Oh, sure thing Anon! Though there are quite a few of them by now, so I’ll keep it to the basic outlines. But feel free to ask if there’s anything more you wanna know! Also, I’ll mention OC’s that belong to other folks, because they show up often in AU’s. But in-depth questions about them would be best directed at their respective creators!

My OCs:

Uthvir - Uthvir shows up in a LOT of supplementary stuff. They’re a nonbinary elf, usually a servant of Andruil and some kind of hunter. They’re often also an abomination possessed by a spirit of Fear (which corrupted from a spirit of Sympathy), and a consciousness that formed out of a body that was initially constructed to house a spirit of Glory. In some AU’s, they and Glory have different connections, though, such as siblings or kindred spirits. Uthvir is a talented shapeshifter who can comfortably change their form. They’re generally paired with Thenvunin or Squish or @lillotte17‘s Aili, or @captusmomentum‘s Inan. Also, Uthvir’s Fear spirit abom partner is, in at least one timeline, the Nightmare from DA:I.

Thenvunin - Thenvunin shows up in a lot of my AU’s and side stories, too. He’s usually a servant of Mythal, generally does some kind of miltiary service or at least likes working out a lot, is very fond of birds and has enough hang-ups to supply several closets. In the majority of AU’s he’s born with severe birth defects and medical conditions that are either totally fixed or not, depending on the care he is able to receive, and sometimes his treatments are very traumatizing in and of themselves. He usually has been in very bad previous relationships, and is most commonly paired with Uthvir, but also sometimes with Squish, @justanartsysideblog‘s Aelynthi, or @lillotte17‘s Daewyn.

Curiosity + Others - Curiosity you probably already know very well, since she gets the bulk of her character development in LG. Much like Ess and Haninan, who I’m just gonna lump here because of that. Ireth, who you’ll see mentioned or even appear, is the name of June’s mother and Haninan’s Keeper-Wife who died.

Squish - ‘Squish’ is a nickname for Desire, but there are a lot of Desire demons to go around, so she’s generally called Squish because the initial prompt that created her was for a ‘squishy character’. She’s a fat, strong elf who was once a Spirit of Desire that loved a spirit of Glory and took a body to try and save them. Sometimes she’s also just an elf who’s in love with an elf named Glory, though, and she also generally loves Uthvir and looks out for them, especially when she knows what their deal is. She usually serves Elgar’nan, but she’s not a great fan of Elvhenan because of the whole Glory thing.

Kel - Kel is my Lavellan! Though I usually go with a more ambiguous Lavellan in my fics, the two characters have pretty much the same personality, it’s just a matter of what I do or don’t specify (i.e. looks, name, etc). You’re free to conceptualize Lavellan as Kel, or to imagine them as different characters, it generally works either way. Kel is much more likely to be shipped with @justanartsysideblog‘s Olwyn, though.

Venavismi - Vena is, in most depictions, a servant of Sylaise who got his job as her attendant/body guard by taking a knife for her at one point. Putting himself bodily between other people and harm, and getting stabbed, are unfortunately consistent themes for him. He has an It’s Complicated relationship with Tasallir, but is generally shipped with @lycheemilkart‘s Ana. And sometimes they form a polyamorous OT3. Also Vena loves puns and bad jokes, despite being a bit vain and usually coming from a very high-pressure environment.

Tasallir - Taz or Tas (he hates either) is another servant of Sylaise, generally a high-ranking attendant who used to be a Spirit of Order and is super uptight. He’s also aro/ace and sex-repulsed, generally touch-starved but also very sensitive to physical contact, and therefore prickly about lots of things. But he’s not actually a bad dude, just very Particular. He’s involved in the aforementioned relationships, but also usually develops a strong friendship or familial-type bond with @scurvgirl’s Serahlin.

Virevas - Virevas is the daughter of Uthvir and Thenvunin in some AU’s, generally a younger sister to a child they’ve already adopted or otherwise acquired (like Kel or @palindromekomori’s Eda). She loves dragons and is very High Maintenance and is absolutely stunning, and sometimes also comes with siblings like Mealla, or the newer triplets in Aili x Uthvir stories (@lillotte17 gets credit for most of their character work).

Elalas - Elalas turns up in the Mana’Din AU, as a former denizen of Elvhenan’s slave camps who becomes a crucial advisor to Mana’Din. She’s also pretty well in love with Mana’Din but she despises the empire and the evanuris (for obvious reasons) and this makes things fairly complicated for her, because that’s not a non-issue by any means. She’s also on the spectrum and has some significant sensory issues, and is Very Gay.

Dirthamen - Technically Dirthamen is not an OC, but he shows up so often and has so much stuff done to him by me that he should be mentioned. He’s usually shipped with @selenelavellan’s Selene, and sometimes also her Des. He is the brother of Falon’Din and son of Elgar’nan and Mythal, and usually also has split ‘aspects’ of himself that manifest as the ravens Fear and Deceit (Fear is not to be confused with the Fear Spirit that Uthvir is possessed by). Sometimes Fear and Deceit show up as their own characters, though, in which case they’re usually genderfluid (alternating between male and nonbinary identities), with Fear having clinical anxiety, among other trappings. Dirthamen is almost always a high-level shapeshifter, sometimes incapable of consciously controlling it, depending on the level of magic in the setting.

I think that’s about it. Other OC’s who frequently show up in my work, but aren’t mine, include @justanartsysideblog‘s Melarue, Olwyn, Aelynthi, Victory, and Lialva, @selenelavellan’s Selene, Des, Felasel, and Darevas, @scurvgirl’s Serahlin, Adannar, Ileth, Tonlen, Kassaran, and Ashokara, @lycheemilkart’s Ana, Rissa, and Varawell, @palindromekomori‘s Eda, and others who’ve come up less lately. If I’ve forgotten anyone, I apologize - but feel free to ask for any info in specific that you need!

#Anonymous

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feynites · 6 years

Text

Dirthamen’s Moving Castle

*mumble mumble Howl’s Moving Castle AU mumble Dirthalene mumble mumble*

@selenelavellan

Apprenticeships are not easy to come by, these days.

Selene sighs over another letter of rejection from the guild. The third one of four - and given how long the fourth has been taking to respond, she suspects that they might not even bother to acknowledge her missive. The wording on this one is curt, too, not even bothering with the usual niceties of explaining that there are no openings or encouraging her to apply again when she has more experience, or a patron. Just a simple ‘we have rejected your request to be considered for the apprenticeship program’.

That would be the Guild of Alchemists. Not her first choice, but the one she’d had the strongest background for. She turns the letter over to look at the seal, before finally dropping it despondently into the trash.

Mirena glances over from her place at the sewing station. The new machine is whisper-quiet, and only glows very faintly from the lyrium insertions in it. It is fast and efficient, but requires a mage to operate. Hence, Selene landing this job, at least. Mirena has The Talent, too, but the whole point of an assistant is to assist, and only a very conceited seamstress would take on an employee who couldn’t operate her machinery.

“Was the a guild letter?” she asks, not unkindly.

Selene straightens her shoulder, and turns back towards the flower-shaped flourishes she is supposed to be hand-stitching.

“Just a rejected application. It’s fine,” she insists. And even if it weren’t, she’s hardly going to go crying on her employer’s shoulder. Mirena tsk’s, though, and gets up from her seat. She moves over the waste bin, and plucks Selene’s rejection letter up out of it.

“Alchemists Guild, hm?” she murmurs, before tsk’ing again. “Rude pack of chauvinists. What other places have you been applying to?”

Selene sighs.

“Arithmancer’s Guild, and the Runists, and the Architect’s Guild,” she admits.

“Architects…? Oh, magical design?” Mirena surmises. Selene nods, and watches her employer drop her rejection letter back into the bin. The consoling pat to her shoulder is well-meant, at least. She appreciates the gesture, though right now she thinks she’d rather not talk about it. The sting is still sharp, and it’s made her keenly aware of just how badly she needs this job, too. If she can’t afford to stay in the city then she and Des will have to go elsewhere.

And ‘elsewhere’ might end up being ‘back home’.

“Have you considered the seamstresses guild?” Mirena suggests. “You have some good experience now, and I could always upgrade you to an apprenticeship. You do very solid work.”

Selene tries not to sigh. It would seem profoundly ungrateful, and she isn’t. The offer is, in fact, very generous - she knows Mirena doesn’t often take on apprentices. And it’s a far better prospect than any of the others she’s gotten so far.

But… she didn’t come to the city to sew hats. She and Des came to live out their dreams. And seamstresses do not gain access to the Grand Archives, and they are not appointed to Royal Research Programs, and they do not get grants to investigate magical or scientific theories, or funds to attend conferences and symposiums in other cities. There would be worse ways to get by than making hats all day. And she would never claim that it’s not still an improvement over mixing salves in her father’s workshop, falling asleep most nights with her stomach gnawing from hunger, and her hands cracked from over-exposure to too many potent distillations.

It’s just not what she actually wants, either.

“That’s very generous of you,” she says, though, because she does need this job, and also because it is.

Mirena inclines her head, but mercifully lets the matter drop.

“Take some time to consider it,” she suggests. “How is your friend’s search going? Any better?”

Selene must shake her head at that. Des might have taken the less conventional road to finding an apprenticeship of his own, but it hasn’t availed him much. The consort’s guild rejected him - to Selene’s relief - and while it had seemed like he might be able to secure a position with some of the city performers, they had ultimately rejected him. A scam, Selene thought, in hindsight. They had taken his ‘application fee’ with no intention of ever officially registering him as an apprentice actor. Having The Talent, at least, let him get his own job in a meat packing plant.

Which has given him no dearth of puns to work into his flirtations.

But it also isn’t what he wants to be doing. Overall, though, she thinks Des has been better at making the most of things anyway.

“How is Thenvunin doing?” she asks, changing the subject towards the one topic which Mirena can always be relied upon to gush about. Her son. It works, even though she suspects her employer knows full well that she is being distracted. Selene is treated to a proud mother’s speech about her son’s recent promotion in the Royal Guard, which quickly devolves into Mirena griping about his current suitor’s unworthiness, and then into complaints about her estranged husband and his mistress. Selene makes sympathetic sounds at the appropriate intervals, even though she heard most of this all yesterday, and finishes stitching up the silk flowers for the next round of designs. The front shop is already closed, and so she needs only help Mirena tidy up a few things, then, before she can head home.

The streets are quiet, but there’s a certain tension in the air. Selene knows what it is, though. Tomorrow there’s some kind of city-wide festival is going on. Arlathan has so many that Selene can scarcely keep track of them all, it seems, but at least most of them also come with rest days. She’s not surprised when she gets home to find Des already laying out some of his nicer clothes for the morning, but she is surprised when he scoops her into a hug and swings her around in welcome.

“Selene! Things are finally looking up!” he tells her.

She hesitates, her stomach sinking as she thinks that someone must have told him that she got a reply from the Alchemists Guild, and must have also assumed that it was good news.

“I didn’t get the apprenticeship, Des,” she admits.

He blinks at her, and then waves a hand dismissively.

“Oh, those idiots don’t know what they’re about,” he insists. “But that’s nothing. Venavismi told me that they hardly ever accept anyone who doesn’t have a high-ranking patron or come from a noble bloodline, especially if they aren’t a man. No, I’m talking about the festival tomorrow! Do you know who’s going to be there?”

Selene blinks, simultaneously mollified and annoyed.

Des has this knack with people.

“Who?” she asks, giving up and letting out a long sigh.

“The Wizard’s Guild!” Des informs her, eyes bright.

She blinks.

“That… doesn’t sound like a real thing, Des,” she can’t help but point out. There are a lot of guilds registered with the city, and Selene had looked into them all when they arrived. Before they’d gotten here, the concept of city politics had been virtually unknown to either of them. But it certainly wasn’t now. There were mages and wizards and magical people of all descriptions, of course, but guilds were about trades. Wizards didn’t have trades. Why would they have a guild?

“No, but it is a real thing!” Des insists, though. “They’re not a city registered guild, they’re more like one of the nobility’s inner societies. Most of them serve with other guilds, too, or else they’re Royal Attendants . Some are on the Royal Advisory Council. But getting a member of the Wizard’s Guild for a patron is like a golden ticket to any magical field you want to apply to. And they can patronize anyone they want.”

“And they probably do patronize a lot of people,” Selene cannot help but mutter, cynically.

Des snorts.

“Well, you might appreciate it once I seduce one of them,” he declares. “They’re going to be watching tomorrow’s parade, and guess who secured a position as one of the dancers?”

She blinks, at that.

“Are you getting paid for it?” she wonders.

“Paid in opportunities to seduce high-ranking wizards,” Des informs her. He waggles his eyebrows.

So no actual money, then.

Selene is internally debating the pros and cons of this development. Not that she actually thinks Des will be able to seduce some high-ranking wizard, but if he spends most of the festival dancing along with the parade, then he’s probably going to end up tired and sore and stressed out by the end of it - rather than happy and relaxed after a day of actually resting and enjoying the celebrations. On the other hand, it’s not as if she’s ever been able to stop Des from doing what he wants, and if it keeps his gaze from wandering towards the back alleys and street corners where people can be found selling tiny blue vials of diluted lyrium…

She’s about to reply in overall favour of the plan, when there’s a knock at their door.

It brings them both up short. The festival is set to happen on the first of the new month.

“It’s end of the month,” Selene realizes. The rent on their room is due. She lifts up her skirts and pulls her coin purse free of her inner pockets, while Des goes and retrieves the little enchanted satchel from beneath their mattress. It bites his fingers a few times, before he remembers the charms to soothe it. Selene goes to answer the door, and sure enough, their landlord is waiting on the other side.

Elandaris Theol is not an ugly elf, technically speaking. But he makes Selene uncomfortable, and there’s something about him that puts her mind of general ugliness, all the same. He’s more slightly built than Des, though, and shorter than Selene, and he lacks The Talent. His family’s fortune comes from their trade routes. So while she’s never liked him, she’s never really considered him all that threatening, either. It’s mostly a chore to endure the way his gaze lingers on her for a moment, before slipping past her to stare at Des, where he’s still bent over and discreetly counting coins.

“Good evening,” Selene says, pointedly dragging Elandaris’ attention back to her.

“Good evening, Miss Lavellan,” Elandaris replies, folding his hands in front of himself. “I fear I have the unwelcome duty of collecting fees, this evening. A business call, not pleasure.”

“That’s fine,” Selene assures him. She turns towards Des, but mercifully he’s already heading over, his half of the rent counted and in hand. She takes it from him to offer it to Elandaris, along with a polite - if somewhat hollow - smile. “We hope you have a pleasant evening, Mister Theol.”

“I fear it may be dampened by some bad news,” Elandaris admits, only after he has pocketed their rent. “This will be your last month as my tenants. I have a notice of eviction, effective in a few days’ time. The property has been sold. Trying economic times, you understand. I do apologize for the short notice…”

Selene feels herself freeze in place for a moment, as Des snatches the eviction papers from Elandaris’ grasp.

“Short notice?!” Des snaps. “You want us out of here in days? You’re supposed to give us at least a month!”

Elandaris adopts a falsely innocent expression.

“I sent a letter weeks ago,” he claims. “I am sure you must have received it-”

“Oh you lying-”

“Des!” Selene interjects, hurriedly. She’s furious, too, but her better sense prevails in the nick of time. If Elandaris calls the city guard, the odds of it going in their favour are very low. The landlord’s from a moneyed family, and has surely paid off the guards on the patrol route through this neighbourhood. He owns several buildings here, after all. If things go badly enough they could end up tossed out onto the street now, without even a few days’ grace, and it’s already late.

Though Elandaris’ smug look makes it very, very difficult not to punch him clean in the mouth.

“If that’s all?” she asks, instead.

Elandaris inclines his head, and treats Des to another lingering look.

“I do hate to cause distress,” he claims. “If you both find yourselves without options, I might be able to help you locate other accommodations. The house on Lovely Road has a few vacancies, if need be.”

Lovely Road.

That’s a brothel. And not a reputable one.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Selene grits out, and before she can lose her last thread of patience, she slams the door in Elandaris’ face.

There’s a moment of furious silence, before she hears the footfalls of the man moving off.

“Scrawny prick,” Des spits. And then, upon consideration, he actually spits directly onto the floor of their room. Selene gives him a look.

“We still have to live her for the next little while, don’t spit on our floor,” she reminds him.

“You should have let me hit him,” Des protests.

“And what, get thrown out tonight?” she counters.

He concedes the point by not really disagreeing with it, as Selene takes the evictions papers from him, and slumps into the room’s lone chair. She reads it over carefully, but the truth is, the lease she and Des agreed to was always fairly tenuous. They couldn’t afford anything better. And it’s their word against Elandaris’ that he gave them full notice, and even if they wished to contest it, they don’t have a lot of means to do so. Selene’s not entirely sure where she would begin. She supposes she could ask Mirena for help, but she’s done that so many times already…

They’ll just have to find someplace else to stay, probably. And on such short notice, without it being expensive it’s going to be very difficult.

She’s turning over their options when she looks up, and sees Des back at planning his outfit for tomorrow’s parade.

“You can’t go now,” she points out. “We need to spend tomorrow finding a new place to stay.”

“Which will be a lot easier to do if I’ve enthralled a powerful and influential wizard,” Des counters. “They usually have big houses.”

“Des, be serious,” Selene demands. “You’re not going to enthrall a rich and powerful wizard.”

“Yes I am.”

“No you’re not.”

“Ye of little faith. Don’t you think I’m seductive enough?”

Selene bites back her first response to that. It’s not that Des isn’t gorgeous - there’s a reason Elandaris tended to stare, and it’s not a mystery. But there are a lot of beautiful elves in Arlathan. However charming he may be, Selene is not at all convinced that he could win the heart of a wealthy patron over the course of a single parade. If he had that much charisma, the Consorts Guild would have taken him regardless of his breeding.

But she really just… doesn’t want to get into it now. Nothing is going right for them. She can hear her father’s voice, ringing her ears, condemning her as a traitor and promising she’ll only find misery in Arlathan. She can still feel the weight of her wedding dress, constricting her like a snake. Des’ sweaty hand clutched tight in her own, and Haleir still doubled-over from chair Des had beaten him with. Her thoughts hot and her skin hot, and everything breaking, until Des’ voice had cracked through while he packed her into his wagon, along with a few scant pieces of luggage.

It’ll be alright. We’ll go. We’ll follow our dreams.

She looks around at their little room. They’ve managed to accumulate a lot more, despite their bumpy road in Arlathan. Des has some very nice clothes, and Selene has one dress that’s worthy of festivals and celebrations. She has books, and some trinkets. And a few hats, awarded to her by Mirena whenever there was a surplus of materials, and she felt ‘inspired’ to make something for Selene. A writing desk, even. Things too heavy to take with them if they have no place to carry them to. Des had traded his wagon when they first arrived, so they wouldn’t even have that to sleep in.

Des looks at her face, and then sighs, and settles down onto the arm of the chair beside her.

“Look,” he says. “The parade is in the morning. Just… let me try my plan. I do have one, you know. And if it doesn’t work, then I’ll spend the entire afternoon finding us something better…”

She swallows.

“We’re back to square one, aren’t we?” she asks. No apprenticeships, no home, and if they aren’t careful, no belongings, either. Though at least they’ll still have jobs.

“No we’re not,” Des says, firmly. “We’ve come a long ways, and we’re going to go further. I’m going to get us exactly where we need to be. Look…”

He reaches for the satchel on his belt. Selene blinks, because that’s ordinarily where he keeps his perfumes and ‘intimate oils’ and other little bottles of things that wouldn’t really be appropriate to this situation. But then he pulls out something altogether different. A vial, pink and shining. The contents liquid, but fragmented in a way that makes them look almost like carved quartz, too.

She’s never seen such a thing before in person, but she recognizes it. Reflexively, her hand comes up and covers Des’, as if to hide the intensely illegal substance from some unlikely spy.

“Des,” she hisses. “That’s-”

“I know what it is,” he tells her, and puts it away nearly as quickly as he’d produced. “It’s our big break.”

“Where did you even get love potion?!” Selene demands, in her lowest, most hissing whisper. She wouldn’t have thought her heart could sink anymore, but somehow it manages. Anyone who has ever worked with potions, even just a little, knows about love potions. Namely, that they are very, very illegal, and for very, very good reasons.

“One of the Consort Applicants had it. I picked it from their pocket,” he admits. “I was going to destroy it, but… I thought it might come in handy some day.”

“If anyone caught you with that, you would be hanged,” Selene frets.

Des sighs, and then shrugs.

“If any guard caught me with it, I would just give it to him. It’s worth a pretty penny in the right circles, and Arlathan guards are mostly corrupt anyway,” he points out, as if this is somehow a reasonable plan. “But they wouldn’t.”

“Des, you live with someone who just petitioned the Alchemists Guild for an apprenticeship. If someone caught you with that they’d think I made it!” she points out.

That, at least, seems to sink in. He pauses, and his expression drops. But Selene is catching up with the conversation a bit more, now. Des has a love potion. Des is talking about winning over a wizard. Des intends to use a love potion on an actual person, on a wizard.

All the blood rushes out of her face.

“You can’t possibly mean to use it?” she hisses at him.

“No!” Des protests. Then he hesitates. “Not to actually… I mean, I’m not going to actually have sex with someone. It’s infatuation in a bottle. All I need to do is win over one of the wizards, put a few droplets into his drink, and then he’ll be gone on me. These noble types develop weird obsessions all the time. Then I can just string him along until he gives us enough favours, and let the potion wear off. It’ll just seem like he got over the infatuation. He’ll move on, we’ll already have enough legs up to get off the ground, and no harm, no foul.”

Selene stares at Des for a good, long minute, before finally just dropping her face into her hands.

“Des,” she says.

“Don’t tell me it’s a terrible plan. It’s not.”

“It is!”

“How?”

“Because!” she snaps, flailing an arm out. “You could get caught! It’s unethical! The wizard could try and rape you! He could figure it out! And when the potion wore off he could decide that it was all such a scandal that he’d rather just get rid of you than risk you embarrassing him!”

“Well that’s just why I have to pick the right mark,” he insists. “Listen-”

Whatever he planned to say next, though, Selene interrupts him by reaching for the satchel. Des bats her hands away, and she struggles enough that they both get knocked out of the chair. Hands fumbling and limbs crashing awkwardly as they hit the floor. Selene struggles to get into the bag and Des struggles to keep her out of it, and soon enough the two of them are hissing at one another like they’re thirteen and Selene’s trying to pry hallucinogenic mushrooms out of his hands before he can lick them.

“Stop it!” Des tells her.

“Just let me destroy it, Des, for pity’s sake!”

“No, I need it!”

Selene’s fingers successfully fumble around the satchel, until to find it spelled shut. She tries to smash the whole bag against the floor, but it’s cushioned, too. A curse escapes her, and Des grapples her away again, and manages to get her into a strong enough hold that she gives up. Cursing again, and smacking a hand against his chest instead.

“Don’t do it,” she pleads.

Des lets out a long breath.

“Okay,” he says. And for a moment, she’s hopeful. “Okay, how about this? I’ll try it without the potion, first, and then if it doesn’t work…”

“Des!”

“Selene.”

They trail off, stymied by one another’s stubbornness. Des isn’t budging, but Selene can’t move from her own position, either. Figuratively, anyway. Literally she can, and she does, shoving back and sitting up, and letting out a few long, aggravated breaths. Her dress is tangled around her legs and her hair is askew, and she’s pretty sure she’s bruised an elbow.

“This is the worst plan you’ve ever had,” she assures him.

He sighs, and sits up, too.

“I just… I just want to give us a little boost,” he argues. “The system isn’t fair, it’s all full of schemers and liars, and the people at the top are responsible for the worst of it. We’ve been playing by the rules since we got here, but the rules are made for people like those wizards, not us. They just keep us where we are, where we’re easy to take advantage of. So what if we take an unfair advantage? How many of them do you think those wizards have had by now?”

She runs a hand down her face.

“I’m not worried about the wizards, Des, I’m worried about you.”

They sit in silence for several more minutes. Selene glares at the satchel. After a few minutes, though, Des starts to scoot his way closer. And when he successfully gets in range without her shoving him away or reaching for the satchel again, he inches and arm around her, and gets his head onto her shoulder. After she lets out another sigh, and curls her fingers in his shirt, he sags against her in turn. The floor is hard beneath them, and their familiar room suddenly seems alien and uncertain.

“I’ll be careful,” he promises. “I really will. It’s all for naught if I get caught.”

He pronounces the last line in a familiar sing-song. Selene supposes it says a lot about them, that they practically have that as a theme song.

“I am strongly opposed to this plan,” she reiterates.

“...Well it’s a good thing you told me, or else I’d never have guessed.”

She pinches Des in retaliation for the sarcasm, and he snorts, but then offers her a more serious look.

“It won’t go wrong,” he swears.

Selene really, really hopes that she will not look back on this moment as being darkly ironic in any way.

#dirthalene #howl's moving castle au #more to come #unless it's no good of course which is also fine #but i had Ideas #des is gonna get in so much trouble

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feynites · 6 years

Text

*sneaks some Haninan fic for @scurvgirl‘s new Miss Honey AU onto the pile and flees*

Haninan is thinking about Kassaran’s recent venting on the subject of bad fathers, when one of his students - Venavismi - accidentally spills a carton of pencil crayons across the classroom floor during the middle of art time.

Haninan heads over, of course, as Vena drops to the floor and starts picking up scattered pencils.

“I’m sorry!” the boy says. “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry!”

Something about the way Vena apologizes always makes Haninan worry. Most of the time, Venavismi is the sort of child who would prefer to joke and lighten the mood. But every once in a while, when he gets tired, he starts apologizing, and there’s always a frantic edge to it that makes it clear he expects some kind of disproportionate retribution to rain down on him. An edge that lends itself very readily to tears, which only seem to provoke more apologies.

Vena’s parents are the wealthiest that Haninan regularly deals with, apart from his own wife, of course. Ireth doesn’t know much about them, herself, except that they run in different circles. The last conference, Haninan talked to them about Vena’s extra curricular activities, because he’s been worried for a while now that the poor child has too many. He has the same piano teacher as June, and he’s in gymnastics, and one of the elven language classes, and beginner’s fencing. Haninan’s pretty sure he’s in more, too, given some things he’s overheard, but Vena’s parents are very… adamant that he’s only ‘meeting his potential’ and not being over-extended.

Bad parents come in all shapes and sizes, Haninan has learned. Violence and neglect are by no means easy to deal with, but at least they have answers - even when those answers are difficult to actual reach. There’s very little anyone can do about parents who veer too strongly in the opposite direction, though.

“It’s alright, Vena,” he assures the boy, reaching down to ruffle his hair and, when that gets a little sigh of relief, plucking him up to put him back in his seat. “This isn’t too big of a mess, really. I’ll take care of it while you get back to your drawing.”

He glances at the paper and sees that Vena was in the middle of filling in a blue sky, and picks up the blue pencil crayon, first, to give to him. Vena clutches it with a look of concern on his face for a moment, before he calms down enough to manage a smile.

“Okay,” he agrees. “Sorry, Mister Haninan!”

“Apology accepted. It was an accident, after all,” Haninan assures him, before easily scooping up the rest of the pencil crayons. Fitting them back into their box is only slightly more challenging, but he manages it. He’s had a lot of practice; June enjoys drawing, but cleaning up after himself is an entirely different matter.

Class manages to get all the way to the end of the drawing period without anything more dramatic than Vena’s spilled pencil crayons, which Haninan counts as an overall win. There’s a bit of a struggle during Quiet Reading Time, when Ash gets impatient with her book and starts whispering with her seatmate, but Haninan is expecting it and comes over to help her go through a few passages and get her to settle down again. To her credit, Ash doesn’t try and get out of her seat this time, or ask to go to the bathroom again.

When the day ends, Haninan gives his students their preferred high-fives or hugs, as the parents come to get them. Vena gives him his drawing from art time as a present, which Haninan enthuses over before he puts it in the special folder in his desk. Ash and June hang out with him and help clean up the classroom - when they’re aren’t busy chasing one another around the desks - until Kassaran arrives, with her usual bevy of thanks and apologies. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times Haninan has assured her it’s no trouble. His post-class wrap-up always takes longer than hers, if only because he has June for it, too.

When Ash and her mother are gone, though, it’s time for Haninan and June to head home as well.

“Papae?” June asks him, halfway back to the house.

“Hm?” Haninan replies.

“Are fathers different from papaes?”

Haninan blinks, and wonders if he’s been neglecting his son’s word comprehension lately.

“No,” he says. “Father and papae are different words for the same thing. What makes you ask?”

He glances at his son in the rearview mirror. June shifts in his safety seat, and shrugs.

“It just seems different,” he says. “Ash says her father wasn’t like you, but she didn’t want to talk about it. And I overheard her mama saying something about bad fathers. And Vena calls his papae ‘father’ and I remember he said his father doesn’t play puzzles with him, so I was just wondering if there was a difference.”

Haninan sighs.

“Not really,” he admits. “Their fathers are just different people from me, June-bug. So they treat their children differently, too.”

June nods, and seems satisfied with that explanation. Haninan supposes the discussion is done with, and when they pull into the driveway it’s right after Ireth seems to have just done the same. So June hurries out of the car and goes racing off to her, giggling as she beams at him and scoops him up, and spins him around.

“Did you have a good day, sweetheart?” she asks him.

“Wellll, yes and no,” June tells her, and then he’s off, listing the ‘good’ (got to read out loud to the class at the end of Quiet Reading Time today) and the ‘bad’ (didn’t get to use the monkey bars at recess because some of the other kids were playing Fortress on them). Haninan scoops up his bag from the backseat and wanders over a more leisurely pace, feeling the familiar swell of affection in his breast at the sight of his wife and son. He moves in to interrupt June so that he can steal a kiss, though. Which his son huffs at, until Haninan turns and starts peppering kisses on his own cheeks, too.

“Ew, Papae, no!” he protests, laughing and squirming. “Go back to kissing Mamae.” So saying, he plants a hand on Haninan’s cheek, and pointedly turns his face back towards Ireth.

“Well, if you insist,” Haninan jokes, before leaning in and doing just that. June makes more protests and squirms until Ireth puts him down. She smiles against Haninan’s lips, and, with her arms free, settles them over his shoulders, before giving him a proper full-on kiss.

“We probably shouldn’t make-out in the driveway,” she tells him.

“As if our neighbours haven’t seen it all by now,” he scoffs, which gets an amused snort from her, before she finally lets him go. June is at the front door, rolling his eyes and looking so exaggeratedly impatient that Haninan wishes he could take a picture. His phone’s in his bag, though, and by the time he’s got it unzipped, Ireth has taken pity on their poor child and is letting him into the house.

“I want peanut butter cups for my snack!” June announces, dashing inside.

“Oh woe is me,” Haninan gripes, lurching his own way through the door and making a show of lugging June’s bag as if it carries a hundred pounds. “I guess I’ll just make my own way, here, carrying everything. If only I had a son who could help me. Alas, alas…”

His theatrics earn an aggravated sigh, as June reluctantly turns and heads back towards him, and gives him a very Ireth-esque look before taking his bag.

“My hero,” Haninan praises.

June gives his mother a beseeching look. She just shrugs at him, though.

“Go put your bag away, and I’ll see if we have any peanut butter cups,” she instructs.

“It’s not even heavy,” June says, but does as told, kicking off his shoes and then rolling his eyes again when Haninan reminds him to put them where they go, please and thank you. He settles his own bag by the door, while Ireth kicks off her shoes in a near-perfect imitation of their son. Haninan raises his eyebrows at her, and she sheepishly puts them on the rack, too.

“I still can’t believe I’m the tidy one in this family,” he muses, ruefully.

“Organized, not tidy. I’ve seen you cook,” Ireth reminds him. “And dress. And who still has a fifty-billion piece puzzle taking up the better part of the dining room, hm?”

“June does,” Haninan shamelessly insists. Which is half true, considering that they’ve been assembling it together. It’s been slower going than he expected, though, since June keeps getting frustrated, and then they have to stop. Not that he minds it - June seems to mind it more than he does - but… well, anyway. They’ll get it done, and then they can seal it and put it on June’s wall, just as Haninan promised.

“MY BAG IS AWAY!” June announces, before pelting into the living room to turn on the television.

“Two shows, then you have to start homework!” Haninan reminds him.

“Choose wisely, my son! I’ll get your snack,” Ireth adds.

“Are you sure? I can get it for him,” Haninan offers, eyeing the work clothes that he knows his wife hates. Ireth just waves it off, though.

“I want to,” she assures him.

With a nod of acceptance, Haninan veers his way up to their bedroom, and sets about changing his own clothes. He pulls on a comfortable sweater and exchanges his trousers for leggings, letting out a breath as he gets his socks off, and then wriggling his toes in the carpet a little. He heads for the bathroom to wash up, and hears the distinctive theme song of one of June’s favourite shows drift up from the floor below.

As he runs the water, though, his thoughts sink a little as they drift towards the subject of Ashokara’s father.

Haninan knows the patterns that can often lead people to become monsters. Parenting can be stressful, and thankless, and demands endless patience, and he’s intimately aware of that even as he loves it beyond measure. But for people who don’t have that drive? That love for being a parent, for looking after their child? He can see where it brings out the worst of them. Especially when they have no tools to cope well with even adult relationships.

Most of the time, he’s noticed, it’s about control. Abused children are often well-behaved children - until they aren’t. They’re frightened into obedience, neglected into maturity, starved into desperation for approval and dreadfully aware of their own vulnerability. And when they no longer have to be afraid, it’s always an adjustment for them to figure out where the boundaries of their world should even be. He’d noticed the signs with Ashokara, when she first came to his class. The way she would always hesitate when he asked her a question, as if she was trying to figure out what he wanted her to answer with. How she would watch his hands whenever he was close by, as if she was nervous that he might suddenly try and grab her. The way she froze up the first time he clapped to get the class’ attention.

Kassaran had talked to him after class on that first day. Which was difficult for her, Haninan knew. She was ashamed - not of her daughter, not at all, but of the fact that her daughter had come to harm. And of having to explain some of what she herself had gone through, in order to explain what Ash was struggling with.

Haninan hadn’t pried any more than was strictly required.

They were getting away from it. And now, it’s rearing up again. A pattern that threatens to become a cycle, if it isn’t adequately broken. Haninan has every faith in Kass and Ash’s ability to push through a lot of hard things, but that doesn’t mean he wants to see them do it. Or stand idly by while it happens, either.

He might understand the patterns, but he’ll never excuse someone who mistreats their child.

The tap is still running when Ireth comes into the room. He watches through the mirror, and the open crack of the door, as she changes into a loose green dress, and then flops onto the end of the bed.

“I’m on call,” she informs him, raising her voice a little until he turns off the tap. She pats her phone demonstrably, and then shoves it into one of her dress pockets.

Haninan shuffles his way back out of the bathroom, and then slumps onto the bed beside her.

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed that there are no emergencies, then,” he says.

Ireth reaches over, flailing a bit until she finds his cheek, and pats it.

“Helluva a day,” she says, letting out a gusty breath. “There was another chicken pox outbreak. Poor things.”

Haninan makes a sound of sympathetic agreement.

“What about you?” she asks him.

He hesitates, for a moment. But then, he’s never really been good at keeping anything for her, especially when he’s not even certain he should try.

“Ashokara’s father is suing for joint custody,” he says.

Ireth sits up.

“No,” she objects.

“Afraid so. Kassaran came in and told me the other day.” They probably would have talked about it then, but there’d been a ten car pile-up some time around three pm, and Ireth had been out late helping with the sudden emergency rush. So Haninan and June had made toasties and worked on the puzzle together, and by the time she’d managed to get home, she’d had her own work woes to spill and had been in sore need of a shoulder to cry on.

Which Haninan was more than happy to provide. On that thought he gives her another look-over now. But she seems to be bouncing back, and isnt’ giving the usual indications that she needs him to help. Her concern - verging on anger - looks like the normal kind, for this sort of situation.

“You tell Kassaran that if worse comes to worse and he actually gets it, I will personally help her hide the body,” she announces.

“I’ll be sure to pass that along, darling,” Haninan replies. “But the main concern for right now is that Ash is going to have to explain to a judge why she doesn’t want to live with her father.”

Ireth frowns, and glares at the ceiling for a good long moment.

“...Well what if we kill him before that?” she suggests.

He sighs.

“Ireth, beloved, light of my life, you don’t even kill spiders when they get in through the bathroom drain,” he points out. Not that Haninan kills them, either. But still. They are not exactly murderous folk. He still remembers the first time June went over to a friend’s sleepover and called for Ireth to come get him, because one of the parents had killed a moth that came in through the window, and June was convinced that the man had to be some kind of secret killer ‘like on television’.

“Spiders don’t abuse people,” Ireth retorts, folding her arms.

But after a moment, she gives in, and just slumps back down against him.

“Poor Ash and Kass,” she murmurs.

“I know,” he agrees, with a sigh of his own.

“We should do something.”

“We should.”

"...Do you think they’d like a fruit basket?” she ventures, tentatively. “Or maybe one of those fresh farm hampers? I can’t imagine Kass will feel like preparing a lot of meals while she’s dealing with all of this.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Haninan reasons. He plans on doing his best to help Ash in her classes, to give some extra attention and support. But still. Sometimes it’s good to have a friend’s spouse who absolutely insists on sending fancy gift baskets, which she has no idea of the actual material worth of, except that they be ‘good’. He still remembers the look on Kassaran’s face the first time Ireth gave her a bottle of wine for the school district’s Feast Day party.

“I’m going to send them something,” Ireth decides. “It’ll be a good distraction anyway. Should I put who it’s from on the card? Yes, I should, I wouldn’t want them thinking it’s from Quarth or whatever his name is.”

“Qal, I think.”

“Do you still have that card catalogue with everyone’s food allergies in it?” Ireth asks him, barely listening now as she gets up with a mission in mind.

“In the study,” he confirms.

She pads off towards it, while Haninan decides to remain on the bed, and chase the patterns in the ceiling with his eyes. They form a pleasant latticework that makes him think of beehives, and the strength of hexagonal structures. The children are going to do a unit on bees later in the year. It’ll be fun, and it will give him the chance to include some information about architectural shapes. June is into pyramids right now, but Haninan’s fairly sure it won’t take much to get him interested in hexagons, too.

He’s chasing his thoughts down into matters of magical geometry when he hears soft feet pad into the bedroom. Lighter than Ireth’s. Haninan turns his head, and watches June climb up onto the bed. He slings his arm around his son as he settles in beside him.

“Whatcha doing?” June asks.

“Nothing much,” Haninan assures him. “You need something? I thought you were watching cartoons.”

June shrugs.

“I finished my snack, and then it was the clown show,” he explains. With the world-weariness of someone several times his age, he looks thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “I hate that show.”

Haninan snorts.

“It’s supposed to teach you math,” he says.

June makes a face.

“That’s what school is for,” he objects. “They moved my Superman show to dinner time instead. Can I still watch it if I do homework in between?”

He thinks about it.

“Sure,” he agrees.

June fist pumps, and then leans in and smooshes his face against Haninan’s side. The ominous sounds of the dreaded Clown Show drift up from downstairs. Haninan can admit, despite knowing what they’re angling for - it is kind of an awful show. Most of the other parents aren’t big fans, either, and he thinks one of Kass’ students had a round of nightmares about one of the clowns climbing out of the television and trying to strangle them.

“Papae?” June asks him, after a minute.

“Hm?”

“Parents don’t just… suddenly stop loving their kids, right? Like… that doesn’t happen, does it? Even if the kids are really bad or mess up a lot of stuff?”

Haninan shifts around a little to look down at his son, and feels his heart crack at the worried look on his face. He leans down and kisses his head. It doesn’t take a genius to see his line of reasoning. Learning about bad parents, about parents who mistreat their kids, also tends to come hand-in-hand with thinking that there might be something that kids could do, to make their parents become hateful or resentful of them.

“No,” he assures him, firmly. “That doesn’t happen. And it especially wouldn’t happen to you, June-o. Your mamae and I will love you forever, no matter what you do.”

June wrinkles his nose, but he also looks relieved.

“I wasn’t asking that,” he insists, at a mumble. “I was just checking in general.”

“Oh, okay,” Haninan allows. “But still. For the record. I’ll love you forever.”

June grumbles a bit about ‘mushy stuff’, but he also rests his head on Haninan’s chest, and relaxes a bit more as Haninan rubs at his back.

There’s no difference between being a father and being a papae. Haninan’s not always sure he’s doing the right thing, that he’s being a good parent, that he’s done enough to look after June or that he’s pushing things in the right direction. But he’s pretty sure that if he was messing it up too badly, Ireth would tell him. He’s not alone in this grand scheme.

Kassaran is.

That can’t be easy. With all of everything that’s gone on, he knows for a fact that it’s hard.

He makes a mental note to invite Kass over to dinner sometime soon, at least, and hugs his son a little tighter.

#miss honey au #haninan #ireth #hanireth #caserole #(related)

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birdfrenchforbird · 7 years

Text

this 100% spoils the next arch in what makes a god B U T all i could think about was writing this.

ana'druil belongs to @lycheemilkart and sylaise + vena belongs to @feynites (however sylaise has some small personal twists)

____

Falon’arla draped her cloak over the arms of an attendant at the door, smoothing over the front of her dress as she surveyed the room. Each guest was wearing an outfit similar to her own, identifying features limited to their face. Not that she would recognize many in attendance. In fact, Falon’arla was hoping to recognize only one person that night. She knew it was foolish, wandering so deep into Arlathan, only for a party. But Sylaise had been kind enough to extend an invitation. It would have been rude to refuse.

Waving away an attendant intent on announcing her arrival to the room, she descended into the spacious ballroom. Lights glittered from the ceiling, a band playing quietly in the corner, everyone moving and whispering as one. The sole disagreement was from the host herself. A gorgeous sight, she swayed against the motion in dazzling colors. Sylaise had rules, when it came to her parties. Everyone must look beautiful, but she must be more so. She was the centerpiece. Her guests were merely accompaniments.

It didn’t take much to catch Sylaise’s attention, wearing a dress hand-picked by the Lady herself. With all the grace a woman like herself should have, Sylaise crossed the rush of the dance floor and took Falon’arla’s hands into her own.

“My, aren't you a vision! I simply knew this dress would suit you.” Her slender fingers, long painted nails, traced along the fabric. It was a stunning dress, similar to Sylaise’s in style. Barely an inch of skin shown, sleeves hugged tight to Falon’arla’s wrists and skirt trailing along the floor. The blue of the dress was akin to the ocean. It moved like waves, soft and fluttering. “I am glad you decided to attend. The invitation was an offhand one, if I am to be honest with you. But, one must be cordial to their allies.”

“I am glad I was thought of, Sylaise. And I am ever so grateful for the dress.” She pretended she didn't notice the flinch at addressing Sylaise so informally.

“Well, I understood you wouldn't have anything else suitable.” Sylaise smiled without teeth, letting go of Falon’arla’s hands. “I hope you haven't been waiting for me long. I get so swept up in it all, the beauty.”

“Not at all, I assure you. I've only just arrived.”

Sylaise nodded, pleased, but her eyes had wandered from the conversation. She seemed to have noticed someone, in the crowd, and was deciding whether or not to comment on it. A dreadful feeling sunk in Falon’arla’s core. She turned to follow Sylaise’s gaze, eyes falling upon a tall and graceful man with long black hair.

Venavismi.

“You look tense, my dear.” Sylaise spoke as if she hadn't connected the dots already, amusement in her eyes. If there was one thing she loved more than beauty, it was dramatics.

“I was not aware that Vena was going to be in attendance,” she said, hoping her voice did not betray the sudden anxiety. “I had heard he was traded to the service of Ana’druil.”

“You heard correctly. My, I didn't think Ana’druil was planning on bringing him.” Her voice stopped, grew an edge of mischief. “They must be more attached than I realized.”

Falon’arla felt her heart catch in her throat. It was the intended effect of Sylaise's words, but Falon’arla hadn't anticipated how seeing Vena again would make her feel. It had been over a year since that last night in Mythal’s court, since she had confessed and proved him a liar. She'd spent the last year convincing herself she hadn't been in love with him. It was something easy to believe, when one wasn't in the same room as him.

“Well, other guests must be tended to. Do enjoy the night, Falon’arla. We're glad to have the House of Anaris in attendance.” The departure flitted through Falon’arla’s mind with nothing more than a nod in response. It would be rude to leave now, before the sun had even set. A polite guest wouldn't even consider leaving until the third course had been served.

Falon’arla found her way to the side of the room, trying not to follow Vena through the crowd. A petite red head was at his side- Ana’druil. It wasn't hard to see that she was Sylaise’s sister, but there was more kindness behind her eyes than there ought to be in a Evanuris.

Eventually, Falon’arla let herself be drawn into the party, pushing the thought of Vena out of her mind and downing quite a few drinks. She was a spy, after all- a glorified actress. She had all night to relax and drink. There was no ulterior motive she had to remember. No secret to keep. Simply a guest, dancing to the music.

A gloved hand tapped on Falon’arla’s shoulder, gentle and cautious. She turned to find herself face to face with Ana’druil herself. Falon’arla was not considered a tall person, but she felt as if she towered about the sweet Evanuris.

“You are Falon’arla, correct?” Her voice was not demanding, only curious, as if they were chatting about the weather. “I was hoping to have a word with you.”

“Of course, my lady.” Politeness to a Creator was a rarity, but the fact that Vena was under the service of this woman had some effect. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Venavismi was in love with you.”

“I- excuse me?”

“Please do not try to deny it. My sister told me as much. I wished to ask- did you love him?”

Falon’arla stared into the open and honest eyes of Ana’druil for a long time. For a moment, she considered the fact that Sylaise's invitation had been less offhanded than she had claimed. But it wasn't long before she considered the question posed to her. Falon’arla had never loved anyone before, no one besides her mother, and the mother that came after that. She knew that she didn't love Vena now- too much had happened. He was a drunken dream, at most. But before? When she called herself Ghilana and wore borrowed dresses and danced with the first stranger who grabbed her hand?

“Yes,” she said, and found herself crying. “I think I did.”

And then Ana’druil was hugging Falon’arla, comforting her, apologizing for asking such a question, kissing the Forgotten One on the cheek. “It comforts me to know that Vena did not spend his love on someone who wouldn't have returned it. Thank you, Falon’arla. Regardless of what passed between you, you are part of why Vena is who he is today.”

Falon’arla could not answer, stunned by this treatment. Another apology, and the gentle beauty disappeared into the crowd.

---

That night, laying in her bed, with the blue dress discarded on the floor, Falon’arla closed her eyes and thought of Vena. For the first time in a year, she didn't feel guilt swimming up her throat to strangle her tongue. For the first time in a year, she thought of Vena and felt at peace.

#ana'druil au #vena #lycheemilkart #feynites #dragon age #fanfiction #my writing #falon'arla #this was honestly so much fun to write #ive been in a slump for months now #so to be able to a short drabble like this was great #i hope ive done ana'druil justice!!

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feynites · 7 years

Text

Somehow my efforts to do some Ana’druil AU came out as, basically, ‘Vena Goes Shopping’.

...Well at least it’s something?

Tagging @lycheemilkart. And also @scuvgirl and @justanartsysideblog because Adannar and Faunalyn turned up.

Serving Ana’druil is very different from serving Sylaise.

For one thing, Venavismi still does not entirely know what purpose he is meant to have in her service.

It is a strange thing. Ana’druil’s territories are more rural than her sister’s, but after a while, Vena finds himself enjoying certain aspects of that quite a lot. Her gardens may not be so neatly tended and her estates may be smaller and more secluded, but the privacy is peaceful, and the people are friendly and easy-going. His new lady assures him that he is being granted time to ‘settle in’, and Vena accepts her graciousness. He and Tasallir are eventually given more permanent lodgings in their lady’s main palace - not so far from her own, and those of Uthvir, and several other high-ranking followers who have had much more time to earn their places.

Ana’druil’s chief palace is nestled in a verdant basic, not far from where one of the largest rivers in the territories drops off in a massive set of falls. At the edges of the compound, where there are fewer environmental wards to filter it, Vena can hear the sounds of the waters plummeting and crashing into the basin below. It is a pleasant rhythm, he finds. The grounds are very lively, too, especially when the Autumn Festival beings. Vena still has not been afforded any duties by then, but boredom has won out over taking it easy, and so he often volunteers to help with tasks. There does not seem to be much stigma against that sort of thing, here. The gardeners are pleased enough to let him help feed the koi, and carry off barrels of hedge trimmings for disposal, and the cooks let him take a turn carting dishes to and from the dining halls. He practices with the soldiers, and even goes along on some of Uthvir’s hunts.

He does not ask to go along on Ana’druil’s own, though. That seems like the sort of privilege that must be offered, rather than requested.

His only brief hesitation comes with the impending arrival of the Harvest Celebrations, which come only every ten years. Vena has several outfits of varying degrees of finery, afforded to him by the estate manager, by then. But it is customary in Arlathan, and in the service of Sylaise, at least, to commission new outfits for special holidays like this. Tasallir works himself up into a lather over it, and eventually musters the nerve to approach the Lady Ana’druil with the issue, and a request to visit Arlathan so that he might commission something appropriate. Vena does not hear the conversation that they have, but he knows that Tasallir has, in particular, felt strained by the lack of things they were able to bring with them in their transfer.

The Lady Ana’druil does not grant his request.

Instead she takes him, and Vena, and herself, and a small procession all to her city holdings, and declares that they are free to commission themselves anything which they like.

After a brief conference with Uthvir, she then amends the offer to one with a set - but still shockingly high - budget.

Vena’s own budget is the same size as Tasallir’s. He has no idea what to do with that information. Tasallir is, at least, a refined attendant, meant to be adorned in beautiful things. Vena certainly likes beautiful things as well, but he is not an attendant.

...Is he?

Uncertainty hits him, and he approaches Tasallir - who agrees that, if Vena is being given an attendants budget, it is likely that their Lady means to appoint him to that or an equivalent role. Vena has experience with meeting aesthetic guidelines, but never with styling himself so formally as an attendant is expected to. He does not even know where to begin, and when he admits as much, Tasallir is surprisingly understanding.

“It can be overwhelming,” he concedes. “I know some tailors, and stylists. They serve Sylaise but many also accept outside commissions. I will make a list, and I recommend you seek them out sooner rather than later.”

Vena’s worried enough about the situation that he actually does. Ana’druil may be as kind and as beautiful as her sister, but he has no desire to displease her, especially not when she is being so generous. Their first day back in Arlathan, he sets out at daybreak, and feels like a bundle of pure nerves.

But the first Stylist and Aesthetic Coordinator on his list is an elf he knows. Decorum. A tall, graceful elf who had helped Venavismi with his adjustment to having a body a time or two. She greets him with a genuine smile, taking both of his hands in their and squeezing for a moment. Like Tasallir, Decorum is strikingly beautiful. with blue-black hair and skin that shimmers like polished granite.

“My, Venavismi! Your new markings look handsome on you,” she declares. “I trust you are doing credit to us, in your service of Lady Ana’druil.”

“I am trying to,” he says, and some of the tension drops from his shoulders.

Decorum nods.

“I imagine that is why you are here,” she says, and, well, she is not wrong. Not that Vena would not have visited her of his own accord, at some point. But there is a long list of people he should say ‘hello’ to in the city, and Decorum would not even be at the top of it. Tutors, mentors, lifelong friends - Vena gets more excited as he contemplates the potential reunions. Hopefully, they will be glad to see him, and eager to share what has been going on in Sylaise’s territories in his absence.

He has a fair few stories of his own by now.

Decorum has never been one for gossip, though, and for a morning start, that ends up being precisely what Vena needs. She ushers him into her parlour, which is lined with artistic renderings of the latest fashions - not only in Arlathan, but throughout the territories as well.

It is a much nicer parlour than Vena recollects them having, but then, he had not even realized he was going to see Decorum based on the address and directions Tasallir provided him. But then again, when they had met it was because Decorum had fallen out of favour as one of Sylaise’s attendants. She had only just been starting out with her new commissions when Vena had met her, but she had handled her transfer of duties with enough (unsurprising) grace that many people had already begun insisting that she would be wasted in any other field.

Judging by her apparent success, those people were correct.

Decorum bids Vena wait a moment, and returns with a light breakfast of fresh fruits and soft breads, and sweet tea for them to refresh themselves with. They make some polite small talk about a new project in the Crossroads and the latest additions to June’s tower, while Vena reacquaints himself with the concept of a fruit fork.

“Now, what is your budget?” Decorum asks, once the necessary pleasantries have been seen to.

Vena discreetly hands her the slip of paper with said budget on it, but if she is surprised, she does not show it at all. Instead she only nods, and then lifts a hand and gestures towards the styles arrayed decoratively around the room. The spell is simple, but Vena watches with interest as the figures change. Ana’druil’s vallaslin takes prominence among them, though a few with Sylaise and even Mythal’s designs remain. Shimmering faintly, in a large enough selection of outfits that even his ample budget could not commission them all.

But then, that does seem to be part of the general process. Decorum frowns slightly, and makes a shooing gesture at a few of the designs. They vanish, and the order re-shuffles. She gestures at a few other figures and their builds shift to make Venavismi’s own, and a moment later she frowns at some of them, too, and sends them away. Once she is satisfied with the arranged options, she turns towards him.

“Now, of course, there will be limitations depending upon who is available to take commissions,” Decorum explains.

“I have been to a Stylist before, I know how it works,” Vena assures her. The first time, he had been confused. Stylists are often also tailors and make-up artists and hairdressers and even jewellers, but their chief role is consultant and wardrobe planner. Decorum, Vena knows, will give him concepts and styles to bring to other experts, to give them a framework to go off of. With so many commissions to make, a lack of coordination could result in a jumbled and disorganized wardrobe, with pieces that do not match well, or an over-abundance of, say, formal clothes, but not enough casual wear. Or the reverse. Stylists can also attempt to find and fill in the gaps or advise alterations to existing wardrobes, and of course, help coordinate and design outfits for groups and special events. But the clothes in the images are only a template, not actual for-sale stock.

Decorum nods.

“Good,” she says. “As pleasant as it is to have you, I have a late morning appointment that I would not be able to put off. But we should have more than enough time to get things squared away to your satisfaction. Now. I assume this is meant to be a comprehensive wardrobe, for every day use as well as special events?”

“That is the idea,” Vena says. Ana’druil’s exact words had been ‘get whatever you like’, but Tasallir had seemed fairly certain that she meant ‘get clothes that please you, while also serving all practical and required purposes’.

“And what do your new duties entail?” Decorum asks him. “Do you have any particular service clothing requirements? Protective gear, pleasure wear, armaments?”

Vena hesitates. That is the question, isn’t it? Even if he is, as it would seem, an attendant now, there is still a lot of variety within that classification. Is he to be a bodyguard? A bedwarmer? A decoration? A conversationalist?

Well, the latter two do not require special equipment beyond general aesthetic appeal, at least. And the first two are pastimes that, even if they do not end up being actual duties of his, fall within the spectrum of his own recreational interests. He likes to spar, and he is starting to like hunting, too, he thinks, and he certainly likes sex.

“I will need some protective combat gear and light armour,” he decides. “And a set of lingerie.” One to start with, he thinks, and then he will not spend an abundance of his budget on items that his Lady might not intend to make use of.

It is strange to think that he might end up warming her bed, at some point. Part of him suspects that if she meant for him to serve that purpose, she would have already requested it. But he does not really know, does he? Perhaps she is busy occupying herself with Tasallir. Though, so far, Vena has not seen her command that anyone wait in her chambers or retire with her in the evening.

Perhaps her interests are purely aesthetic?

Decorum only nods again, and calls up some of the more current styles of armour. Ceremonial as well as more functional. She also beckons a few very scantily clad projections into the procession, with some very consistent design features.

“Feathers?” Vena asks, raising an eyebrow.

“It is on trend,” Decorum informs him. “But if you would prefer something simpler...”

“I think I could make feathers work,” Vena assures her, easily enough. A few of those, though, are definitely veering a little too ‘awkward chicken’ for his tastes. He likes the playfulness in some of the others. But most of them look like they would tickle.

“Alright, now, let’s knock off the ones you absolutely have no interest in, and go from there,” Decorum suggests.

Vena nods in agreement, and immediately gets rid of the chicken lingerie, and most of the more ceremonial-looking armour.

The process actually ends up being quite a lot of fun. Decorum points out some possible needs he had not considered, and convinces him to get one set of ceremonial armour, in case he is called upon to escort Ana’druil to a council meeting or some other function which could require it. They select a few good designs for him to use as references, along with several more practical - but still very lovely - sets for common use. The pleasure wear they narrow down to a few possible styles also, and then they move onto the larger categories of casual wear, nightclothes, and formal celebration attire. Decorum informs him of what styles are considered acceptable to Arlathan’s standards, while still being preferred in Ana’druil’s territories. Lots of floral, fish, and bird patterns and airy robes and elegant accessory pieces paired with simpler main designs. Oranges and blues are popular, too, but only in splashes of colour against more neutral tones.

When they are finished making their general selections, and Decorum has worked out how many of each sort of piece he should try and get, she puts all the information into a portfolio booklet for him, and hands it to him.

“The information is spelled in there, so, the booklet will not last more than a few days,” she reminds him. “If you would like, I can make a more permanent copy here when I return this evening, but you should be able to get everything sorted in that amount of time. This is Arlathan, after all.”

It suddenly strikes Vena, then, that he has a wealth of money, and several days in which to shop and indulge and spend.

This is going to be quite a lot of fun.

“I shall endeavour to get it all squared away,” he assures Decorum.

“Go to your jewellers first,” the Stylist recommends, as they see him to the door. “Their materials are typically the most limited, and if any of them have an abundance of certain stones or metals, you can have the tailors accommodate the shift in colours more easily than the reverse. The merchants brought in the new shipment of pigments and dyes for the crafters just two weeks ago, so cloth should be coming in all the colours of the rainbow. If anyone attempts to tell you there is a shortage, decline to commission them and give me their name. If needed I will find you a replacement crafter, but if Tasallir has made your recommendations, that should not be a problem.”

“Thank you,” Vena replies, feeling much lighter and easier and like he has a far better idea of what he is doing.

Decorum pats his cheek, fondly, and then finally shoos him from her parlour, so she can go and dress for her late morning meeting.

Her advice is good, but Vena does not end up going to the jeweller that Tasallir had recommended first. Stone availability might be more fickle than clothing dyes, but pre-made items are more constrained twice over, and Vena likes shopping through those. He likes making commissions too, of course, but there is something just genuinely appealing about browsing through shelves of ready-made goods and finding something that suits.

So, he makes his way to some of the shops near to the lower districts, at first. The market might also be a good place to look, but typically that is better for materials than pre-made clothing or accessories. Owning a market stall usually requires a level of success that would preclude a lot of cancelled commissions or returned goods. Those kinds of things often end up in the front windows of lower-end crafters, trying to make back some of their losses.

It does not end up being a lucky day for such shopping. Vena finds a nice belt sash, but not much else. He enjoys walking through Arlathan’s streets again, though, listening to the sounds of the city, and weaving between wandering spirits and fellow pedestrians, and the new, shimmering rainbow lights that have been erected along some of the paths. One of the shops near to the Pleasure District is offering skin-tinting services, and recollecting how fashionable Decorum had looked, Vena goes and gets a soft layering of pale blue sparkles applied to his skin, and some streaks of dark blue threaded into his hair.

He makes his way back up to the main crafter and artisan districts, then, and follows Tasallir’s directions to his jeweller. There are actually a few listed, but Vena decides he will simply approach them in order. The first shop is more modest than he would have expected from someone of Tasallir’s station and tastes. It appears to belong to a single crafter, rather than a collective, but the items in the displays look very beautiful. When he makes his way inside, the shop is clean and airy, and a cordial spirit he cannot quite identify calls a greeting and then zips off towards the back rooms.

“Just one moment!” a friendly voice calls out. Vena can hear something whirring, faintly, like machinery at work.

He browses a little, examining the sample pieces until it stops, and an elf with a broad smile and a gold-flecked work apron emerges from the back room.

“Welcome!” he says. “Are you Arthanallir?”

Vena blinks.

“Oh, no,” he says. “I suppose I am a walk-in. My name is Venavismi. Tasallir recommended your services to me.”

The man offers him a ready smile.

“Tasallir did? That was good of him,” he says. “That tiara I made him was a very fine piece, though, even if I do say so myself. My name is Adannar, and I would be pleased to serve you. But, ah... I should probably disclaim, I fear I have no talent for the new trend of Live Jewellery.” The man shifts from one foot to another, and Vena gets the impression that he has had to mention this quite a few times of late.

“Living jewellery?” he asks.

“Ah, yes,” Adannar replies. “It is the latest fashion to overtake the city, and most of Lady Sylaise’s territories. Metal, stone, and wood are out, and enchanted insects, reptiles, and even some birds are in. The method of creation is a secret of Lady Ghilan’nain’s crafters at the moment, however. And probably not something I would ever have much skill in, truth be told - it is not kind to the creatures, even if it does not technically kill them.”

The man manages to radiate disapproval without actually expressing it. Vena waves off his concern, though.

“Decorum did not even mention it during our consultation, and most of what I need has to follow the trends of Ana’druil’s territories, rather than Arlathan,” he explains.

Immediately, Adannar’s countenance brightens again.

“Oh, well, That is alright then. Decorum? She has excellent tastes. Did she give you a recommendation?”

“A portfolio, actually,” Vena explains, and produces the little booklet. He flips it to the jewellery section and hands it to Adannar, whose eyebrows go up.

“This is a full wardrobe commission,” he notes.

“Is it too large?” Vena wonders.

The jeweller considers it for a moment.

“It would depend on how quickly you wanted the pieces,” he decides. “And what materials you wished to use, and how much fidelity you want your end products to have to Decorum’s designs. I generally work more off of inspiration than exact templates.”

“Oh, I like inspiration, too,” Vena says. Uniformity was expected among Sylaise’s followers, but Ana’druil’s seem to have more leeway for individual expression rather than cohesion, and he finds he likes that a lot of the time. “It would not have to be exact. For starters I would need some every day pieces, and something to wear to the Harvest Celebration. I am flexible on stones and metals, though, Decorum recommended I get my jewellery commissions seen to before I consulted with the tailors.”

“Good advice,” Adannar agrees, with a smile. “Well, then, let me just get my samples, so you can see what I have readily available. I suspect getting your festival pieces done in time for the celebration would take up my available duty hours, so you will likely have to find someone else for your every day sets. Or someone else for the festival jewellery and task me with the simpler pieces, but, apart from that, nothing in your portfolio would be beyond my skills.”

He looks up at Vena, and then adds:

"It would just be a question of time. In this, the latest trend is working in your favour - my schedule is a lot more clear than usual.”

Vena grins. Good luck indeed. Adannar’s work seems exemplary, and if he can handle most of the order, then that means he won’t have to go running around the whole district to find eighteen different jewellers or so. When Adannar leaves him with a ‘just one moment’ and comes back with his samples, Vena finds he likes the available choices quite a lot, too.

They discuss the particulars, then, of material cost and availability, and what sets would suit, and which designs. Adannar makes note of one of the ‘casual’ sets which Decorum and Vena had chosen for reference, and says he thinks one of the market stalls has a very similar set in peridot up for sale. He gives Vena directions to it, and accepts his commission for his festival jewellery, as well as all the other ‘finery’ pieces.

“If I may ask,” he says, once they are done. “A full wardrobe commission is not terribly common. Were you recently promoted? Are congratulations in order?”

“In a sense,” Vena ventures. “I was traded to Ana’druil, along with Tasallir, not long ago.”

Realization lights in Adannar’s. eyes.

“I should have guessed!” he exclaims. “That certainly explains it. I hope you and Tasallir are adjusting well? I can hardly imagine what a shift it must have been. My wife, my Serahlin, she used to work with Tasallir, she was one of his attendants. She works with Splendour, now. Just between you and I, I think she preferred Tasallir, a little. He was less... dramatic.”

Vena grins.

“More orderly?” he suggests.

“Absolutely,” Adannar agrees. “Which is to be expected. If you see him, please give him our regards. And my thanks for the recommendation. And tell him he is welcome to stop by for a visit, any time he wants to chat.”

“I will.”

Vena leaves the little jeweller’s shop with an increasing spring in his step. By the time he makes it through the second jeweller on his list - a charming elf who gushes over his hair and skin and build, until even Vena’s flirtatious nature is feeling a bit bowled over - it is nearing lunch time. So he makes for the market square, and tracks down the stall that Adannar had mentioned. The peridot set is indeed up for sale there, and with some haggling he comes away with it at a good price. A full bracelet, necklace, and earring combination, in autumnal bronze settings that have solid enchantments against wear, chipping, or weathering. They clash with his current blue tones, though, and on a whim, he buys a lapis pendant that is also for sale. Simple but pretty. He opts to wear it, and carries the peridot in a parcel with his new sash, and decides to have lunch in the market dining hall.

After lunch, Vena goes off and finds the first tailor on his list.

The afternoon flies by in a flurry of fabric samples and measurements and referrals, as the tailor which Tasallir had recommended to him ends up being a tailor’s collective, with two masters and three apprentices and one affiliate who technically owns a workshop further down the street, but assists with most of the group’s commissions as well.

Vena provides them with the commission information on his jewellery sets, as well as Decorum’s portfolios, and the group seems very pleased to take on the workload. They are affable, easy-going types, too, and Vena finds himself wondering at it. Is Tasallir secretly less uptight than he seems?

Or... no, Vena realizes. Tasallir is also in the city today, visiting with tailors and jewellers and stylists. He could hardly have recommended Vena to the same ones he meant to go to, or else they would likely have cross paths by now. A quick question to the tailors reveals that, no, they have not seen Tasallir, though they did work with him in the past, and are pleased to have his recommendation.

Ah, Vena thinks. He kept the snobby ones for himself, and sent me to his friendly second-stringers.

...Which is actually perfect, so, he can hardly complain. Especially given that everyone so far has seemed very good at their jobs, even if they are more hands-y and relaxed and ‘creative’ than Vena would expect from Tasallir’s tastes.

The tailors keep him busy through dinner, and so Vena ends up taking that meal with them. Plates spread out alongside templates and fabric swatches and projections of Vena’s jewellery sets. It is a lively atmosphere, but, the city is dark by the time Vena leaves, and his excitement has given way to tiredness.

Tiredness deep enough that he has to stop himself from heading to Sylaise’s housing district, and instead correct his course to Ana’druil’s estate. While is technically outside the city. It is a long walk, and Vena pauses as he realizes there is a figure standing by the road to the grounds.

He gets pretty close before he realizes the figure is Ana’druil herself. And then he nearly drops the parcel he is carrying.

“My Lady,” he says, and turns the fumble into a bow instead.

“Oh, good,” Ana’druil sighs. “I was starting to worry.”

Vena blinks.

Ana’druil blinks, too, and then sighs again.

There is something... something about her eyes, he thinks. She always looks at him so softly.

“I am sorry,” he offers. “If I have neglected a duty or was meant to be back sooner, I did not realize it. I was caught up in commissioning my new wardrobe.” Vena glances down at the parcel of peridot jewellery. “And shopping,” he adds.

“That’s fine,” his Lady assures him, waving a hand. “I hoped you would have fun. It was only that Tasallir got back hours ago, and I was worried that something might have happened to you.”

Vena swallows, and drops into another bow. Still not wholly certain if he has avoided trouble.

“I apologize for causing my Lady to worry,” he ventures.

“Nothing to apologize for,” Ana’druil murmurs.

The two of them stand in awkward silence for a moment more, before she finally turns away, and then gestures down to the road.

“We should get back,” she decides.

“Of course,” Vena agrees, and remembering his recent conclusions, falls into the attendant’s position beside her. Nearby enough to speak, but not quite keeping even pace, out of deference of her position. After a few minutes Ana’druil slows her steps a little, though, and Vena finds them both drawing even. And when he attempts to correct it, she does it again; so he concludes that she must want him to walk beside her.

Well.

It is darker on the road to the holdings than it is in the city. Perhaps that has something to do with it.

“You changed your hair,” Ana’druil notes, after a while.

“Yes. Does it displease you?” Vena wonders.

She shakes her head, but though they are walking side-by-side, and she is commenting on his appearance, she does not quite look at him.

“No, you look very beautiful,” she tells him. And then she raises a hand to her mouth, and stares straight at the road.

Vena’s not sure what to make of it. But, that was a positive response, right?

“I am gratified you think so,” he replies.

They make their way back in silence, mostly, after that. But it is not as uncomfortable as it might be. Ana’druil walks beside him, and Vena finds himself noticing things about her. She is much shorter than he is, for one. Not towering like Falon’Din or tall like Dirthamen, or even of average height, like her parents and younger sister. But her slight frame is well-built, and the colour of her hair keeps catching his eye.

He wonders if he should have put red in his own hair, rather than blue.

Uthvir wears red very often. Perhaps that is the expected thing.

Ana’druil does not even delicately correct his impulse, though. And Vena cannot see all of it, but he thinks the moonlight looks pretty in his own hair, too. By the time they reach the estate, nothing further has happened, and he feels more certain of himself. Faunalyn, one of Ana’druil’s high-ranking hunters, is waiting for them by the gate. She has her husband with her. A beautiful, willowy man whom Vena has not seen much of - he thinks Faunalyn will stay in Arlathan when they leave, though. The pair have a son that they share with the infamous and beautiful Melarue, who lives in the city.

“My lady. Venavismi,” Faunalyn greets, and folds her arms as she looks at him. “You skipped out on practice this morning.”

Vena had not realized he was now expected to attend that, and not simply go for a lack of something better to do with his morning.

“I had an appointment with a Stylist,” he offers, lying on a little. Technically that had been a walk-in, but it had still happened, and if he had gone any later then Decorum would not have been able to see him.

Apparently, it passes muster, because Faunalyn only shakes her head.

“Do not miss it tomorrow,” she says.

“I hope you got nice things,” her husband offers, much more brightly. Vena meets his smile.

“I did,” he confirms. “Though I suppose most of it technically remains to be seen.”

“If there are any problems, we will see to them,” Ana’druil declares. Which, he thinks, might sound ominous coming from most evanuris. But for some reason, she just seems... reassuring.

Vena ducks his head in thanks.

“My Lady showers me in kindness,” he asserts.

Faunalyn snorts.

He has no idea why, actually, that’s a standard response. But when he looks up, she seems amused, and Ana’druil’s expression is somewhat awkward again. Vena wonders if he has misread the situation. Before he can get far along that train of thought, though, Faunalyn turns and beckons her husband back inside with her. And then Ana’druil bids him a strangely hasty ‘goodnight’, before leaving him to stand in the front courtyard, and make his own way back to his chambers.

#ana'druil au #banana

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selenelavellan · 7 years

Text

Labyrinth (pt2)

Part One

Deceit, Fear, Dirthamen, and Venavismi (mentioned) belong to @feynites

Ana (mentioned) belongs to @lycheemilkart

The new section of the labyrinth seems simpler to navigate. Dirthamen finds himself being turned around less, and the walls seem to behave more like he believes walls should. At one point, he manages to find a pile of soft blue stones and begins to leave arrows on the bricks in an effort to keep from being turned around.

He believes it is all going rather smoothly, until he sees a bird flipping one of the bricks he had only just marked.

Well.

That certainly seems like cheating.

When he points this out, accusing the raven of the crime he has just seen committed, it seems to only laugh at him.

“Deception is a part of the game.” It informs him cryptically, before it shifts into a shadow and slips away, disappearing through the cracks between the bricks.

That is one option that is unhelpful, then.

As he continues his travels, he feels eyes on him. No matter which path he attempts, no matter how he tries to extend his magic attempting to sense any other presence, he cannot find any indicators.

Finally feeling fatigued by his long trek, Dirthamen stops to rest. He watches the sky overhead, the way the clouds move in a different manner than he is used to. Birds still traverse the sky, alongside other creatures he can only guess at the names of.

He is not sure it is safe to sleep here, but his body refuses to move all the same. The flowers on the wall seem to creep down the bricks and stone, blooms turning round and white as his eyelids grow too heavy.

A pity.

He wonders what being a goblin will feel like, before he falls away to the dreaming.

–

Des watches from where he is curled up in Selenes lap as Deceit returns from the labyrinth.

“He found the blue stones, this time.” They report, landing on their perch atop the throne.

Selene gives a slight nod as she continues running her fingers through Des's fur. “Good, then he is headed on the Northwest path. I don't believe there is anyone on that route who could spoil things, the way Ana nearly did.”

“She was just excited to see her friend again,” Des feels inclined to point out. “There's no need for punishment.”

“No, no, of course not.” Selene agrees. “I just worry about extraneous factors corrupting his judgment when he makes his choice.”

“I don't think friends count as extraneous factors.” Des retorts. “You know you could always go and join them for tea sometime.”

“If I ever have the time to spare, it will be towards the top of my list.”

“What is the point of being Queen if you never have time to spare? It is not as though the world will fall apart if you-”

Selene and Fear both raise their eyebrows at him.

“Ok, perhaps that was a bad example,” Des admits. “I don't understand though; why bring them all here if you are just going to avoid them anyways?”

“Because they are safe,” Selene sighs. “And that is more important than whether or not I can make it over for tea.”

“I am simply saying, perhaps you would feel less cold if you only-”

“So bring it up at the next city grievance meeting Des, I am not doing this again right now.” Selene snaps. She rubs one hand tenderly over her forehead; the headaches have gotten worse. She can barely wear the mask for an hour at a time now before the pain becomes unbearable, he's noticed.

It is worth wondering if it was an influence on her decision to make this Dirthamens final run through the labyrinth. Longing influencing Devotion, finally pulling her to its side after she has been worn down from fighting against it for so long.

A dangerous possibility.

Des stretches out in her lap, back arching as he lets his claws out. He jumps down and shifts back into a more elven form, stretching his arms up over his head until his back pops.

“Well then, I will leave you to your plans.” he tells her.

“And where are you going?” Fear asks.

“Out for a walk.” Des grins, stepping through the dreaming before either of them can stop him.

Selene lets out a frustrated huff.

“He was less of a pain when we were spirits.”

Fear and Deceit both nod solemnly in agreement.

–

Something is...touching him.

It is not entirely unpleasant, but it is very unsettling. Not fingers, but more like...ropes, somehow?

It is enough to wake him, by any means.

Dirthamen opens one eye, and then the other and looks to see what it is that is moving across him.

Some of the moss from atop the walls has slithered down the walls it seems, the flowers turned to eyeballs now, peering up at him curiously as the soft plant snakes its way across his pants and chest.

“Pardon me,” he attempts. “Please move away from me.”

The moss does not seem inclined to listen, as another length of it begins to wrap around his arm.

Panic is beginning to set in, when a bright purple light erupts around him. The moss squeals and retreats back to the top of the wall, and Dirthamen looks up, half expecting (or perhaps hoping) to see a tall masked woman once again.

But the face looking back at him appears strangely similar to his own. Their own hair is also long and sleek and black, their jaw square and their ears tall. But their skin is tinted distinctly purple, their eyes a bright gold rather than his own grey-blue, and most distinctly, they have two pairs of horns protruding from their head and a long tail coming out from the base of their spine.

“Well well well,” They purr “Looks like I've stumbled across a little Sleeping Beauty, hm? You're supposed to wait for me to kiss you, you know.”

Dirthamen blinks in confusion.

“No? Ok, well, that's fine we'll get there someday,” The person shrugs before they hold out a hand to help Dirthamen to his feet. “I'm Des, he/his please, and it's your pleasure to meet me,” he winks.

Dirthamen nods, slowly. “Alright. Thank you for your help Des.” he says as the other man helps him to his feet. “Do you know how to get out of this labyrinth?”

“I do.”

“Will you show me?”

Des makes a slight hissing sound through his teeth. “I can't.”

“Why not?”

“It's against the rules.”

“What rules?”

“The rules of the labyrinth, of course. No outside help, that'd be cheating.”

“But flipping stones is not?”

Des laughs at that “That must have been Deceit. And no, it's not. Shifting scenery is allowed, so long as it isn't destructive.”

“Who made these rules?”

“The Goblin Queen enforces them.”

Dirthamen nods in acceptance, but then stops with a frown. “But who made them?”

A grin spreads across violet skin, white teeth stark and sharp “Well now. Isn't that the question?”

Des still doesn't bother to answer though, as he just gestures for Dirthamen to lead the way with a small bow.

Dirthamen continues to move what he hopes is forward, Des striking up conversation as they go.

“Do you enjoy your home life?” Des asks.

Dirthamen frowns. “It is...adequate.”

“But do you enjoy it? Do you miss it, being here? Miss your family?”

He thinks about his parents. His mother and father, who are often traveling. His sisters, neither of whom he has regularly spoken to in years. His brother, who was potentially harmed at the hands of the Goblin Queen.

And he finds that being here is certainly outside of his comfort zone. Things and creatures do not behave the way they should, and the logic of the world does not always match his own. But neither did the world he is from, and though he thinks he should miss his family, he can not seem to muster the proper emotions.

“I...” he attempts.

Des's hand snatches the back of his collar, still coated with a thin layer of dried mud that flakes under his touch as he yanks Dirthamen back and away from the wall that has suddenly shot up in front of them.

Dirthamen swallows. “Thank you.”

“That shouldn't have happened,” Des muses. “The labyrinth isn't supposed to try to harm you...”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we're being watched. And there was something on the other side of the wall she didn't want you to find.”

Dirthamens brow crease “So if I stumble upon something she does not want me to see, she will reset the board?”

“She's just a little spooked after you ran into Ana and the others,” Des sighs. “She's conflicting with herself, and it's reflecting here. She doesn't mean you harm. She's just lost sight of what she actually wants.”

“...what does she want?”

“What does anyone want?” giggles one voice from the new opening in the labyrinth.

“What could anyone want?” giggles another.

Dirthamen turns to look at the two people, standing side by side in front of a pair of doors.

“You're not supposed to be here~” coos one, pointing a long claw like finger at Des.

“You're breaking the ruuules~”says the other, wrapping their arms around the others waist.

Or, what Dirthamen thinks is a waist.

The two of them remind him quite a lot of a pair of koi fish his mother used to keep in the backyard at one of the houses. He is not even certain if there are legs beneath the gowns they are wearing, but their skin is certainly scaled in a similar pattern, and neither has hair, aside from a long pair of whiskers drooping from their face.

Des shrugs “I'm not telling him where to go. Only how to not die.”

“Is that allowed?” Asks the one on the left.

“I'm not sure,” says the one on the right “I don't think he's ever died here before.”

“Is this one stupid then?”

“They're supposed to be clever.”

“So is this the wrong one then?”

“If it is, then his death shouldn't matter much anyways right?”

Des sighs as the two continue bickering and Dirthamens head follows them like a particularly interesting tennis match.

He elbows Dirthamen lightly, and gestures towards the doors with his head.

“Which one do we take?” Dirthamen asks. The two koi-like people snap their attention back to him, and each take a step out of the doorways.

“One of these leads to the castle in the center of the labyrinth,” one says.

“And one leads to certain death!” says the other.

“Which one is which?” Dirthamen asks.

“He can't tell you!” One shrieks, finger pointing accusingly at Des.

“And neither can we!” Laughs the other.

“Well why not?”

“It's against the rules,” Des sighs, slipping into the form of a rather fluffy cat. He plops down on the ground, tail swishing curiously behind him. “You'll have to figure this one out.”

Dirthamen stares for a moment at the elf that was not an elf, or perhaps they are a cat that is not a cat?

It is a poor decision to take things at face value here, it seems.

“I suppose I will ask some other way then,” Dirthamen says stepping towards them. Each of the pair hold up a single finger in front of them.

“You may only ask one of us,” They warn.

“One of us only lies,”

“And one of us tells the truth!”

Dirthamens brow furrows. “That is a conundrum.”

He stares at the two, trying to find any sort of difference between them. Searching for a change in their appearance or magical energies, but he can find nothing. It is as though they are the same person, speaking separately through two identical bodies.

But if one tells the truth and one only lies, and he can only ask one, it would be wise to go in with as much knowledge as he can discern.

Des sits down next to Dirthamens legs, and whispers out a soft “Be careful.”

Dirthamen considers the situation further. There is likely a question that he could ask, if he could find the proper words to ensure that he would not be tricked.

One lies, and one tells the truth. But if...

Oh, he thinks. That is the game.

He takes a step forward, and points at the both of them. “You are both liars.”

Des blinks up at him, and the fish people stare at each other, and then back to him.

“That's rude,” they accuse.

“But accurate. If one of you only told lies, and one of you told the truth, only the one who speaks the truth could say that, or else it is a lie. Since the both of you spoke this statement, using your own logic, it can not be true. If the truth teller says that one of you is a liar, and the liar says one of you tells the truth, then the liar is telling the truth which would not be following the guidelines. If the truth teller says that one of you is lying, and the liar says that one of you is telling the truth, then the both of you are lying. Since you can not both be telling the truth, you must both be lying.”

“My head hurts.” mutters Des.

But both fish people clap, faces splitting to reveal unsettlingly large teeth protruding from their mouths as two large bright lures pop out of the tops of their heads.

“Very good, very good,” says one.

“This one isn't stupid after all!” Cheers the other.

“This does still leave us with a problem,” Des points out. “Which door do we take?”

Dirthamen considers the problem.

“Which door leads to the castle?” he asks the one on the left.

She points to the door behind her.

“The one on the right, then.” Dirthamen decides.

Des hums and follows after, as Dirthamen swings open the door and steps forward.

And promptly plummets directly down a hole in the ground.

He screams, and hands reach out from the walls to slow his descent.

“What is this?” He asks as Des gracefully jumps down the hole from hand to hand.

“A relic,” Des sighs. “Another crack in the foundation it seems.”

Dirthamen swallows. “So I could die?”

“So it seems.”

“Up or down?” Rumble the walls.

Dirthamen looks to Des for advice, but he just shakes his head again, his fur ruffling with the motion. “I can't tell you which path to take, I told you that.”

“...down, I suppose?” Dirthamen says.

“He said down!” Cackles the wall approximately half a second before the hands release him. Des lets out a loud howling screech as the hand he was waiting on vanishes and he falls just behind him. Down down down they fall, through cobwebs and dust and past an old iron crate before landing on a soft pile of what Dirthamen hopes is just dirt.

The clank of a grate closing above them can be heard, and Des lets out a heavy sigh as he shifts back into an elf and lights a few motes of purple light around them.

“I suppose that was the wrong decision,” Dirthamen laments.

“There are no wrong decisions,” Des assures him. “Only different paths to take.”

“You have a very different viewpoint than my mother and father.”

“Thank goodness for that.” Des scoffs.

“You do not even know my parents.”

“And you do not know me.”

Dirthamen frowns at that, mind drifting back to earlier thoughts.

“But you seem to know me.”

“I make it my business to know all the gorgeous people around here,” Des winks.

“But other people know me too.”

It is Des's turn to frown now.

“You shouldn't pull so hard on this particular string.”

“Why? Because I could end up locked away somewhere dark and dank and far away from everything I know?” Dirthamen points out. “I do not see how this situation could be worse.”

“That is because you do not know how much worse it gets.”

Dirthamen is silent for a moment. He thinks of the people he has met, their kindnesses towards him. The way the earth moves beneath his feet and how fresh the air is.

Perhaps it could be worse, then.

But he can not help his curiosities.

“Why does the Goblin Queen want me to solve the labyrinth?”

“How would I know?” Des mutters.

“You seem to understand her better than most.”

Des sighs. “We were close, once. Before all of this started. Before she had to take on the mantle to save those she could.”

Dirthamen looks at Des curiously, scooting closer and looking up at him expectantly.

Des lets out a groan. “She's going to be very upset if she finds out I told you anything.”

“If I am involved, do I not have a right to know?”

“...Do you want to know?”

Dirthamen nods “Yes. Very much.”

“Well...”Des drawls mischievously “I suppose I am compelled to tell you then. It's in my nature.”

Des sits down beside Dirthamen, and the motes move closer, forming a circle of light around the pair. “Once upon a time,” Des explains. “There was a floating city. Several of them, in fact. And people lived in them, for many, many, many years. Things were not always good, but they were bearable, and pieces of happiness were not hard to find if you knew where to look. But when things were bad, they were awful. Most often, it was the downtrodden and lower class that bore the brunt of that awfulness. One day, they rose up against the tyrants, to take back their freedom. It was a long, bloody battle. The cities fell, and magic was all but entirely corrupted in the wake of it.”

“The Goblin Queen was a tyrant back then?”

“No. She was one of the rebels, in fact. The few rebels that survived the battle watched as the world fell down around them, and wept for all that they had lost. They had gained their long sought freedom, but each had paid their price for it. She, like so many of us, lost the person she loved most.”

“Were they a casualty?”

“No,” Des says. “He was one of the tyrants.”

Dirthamen swallows. “Did she...did she kill him?”

“She couldn't,” he sighs. “She was supposed to, but when the moment came she could not. She warned him, instead. Tried to hide him away, until it might be safe for him to come out. Even though he was far from the worst of the family of tyrants, he still had the blood of thousands on his hands. Still had crimes to atone for. Eventually he was found, and punished for those crimes. She tried to save him, argued that he could be redeemed, but...”

Dirthamen nods, slowly.

“She saved what she could. Pieces of him that she found over time. The mask he always wore, she keeps with her. You saw it before, right?”

He recalls the image of the woman, mask cracked and peeling, and nods once again.

“There are pieces of him forged into it. Lingering magics and memories. All that she could save.” Des pauses “I think a piece of her broke that day, too.”

“What did she do to the people that killed him?”

“Most of them still live in the city, actually.”

“She did not kill them?”

“No. She understood why they had to do it. She mourned him, and still does when she is alone, but she does not place blame on them when she knew too well what he was doing. By the time he was executed, he had become worn down and was susceptible to corruption from the grief of losing his family. There was very little left to save, and it was kinder to kill him. Together, with the remaining band of rebels, she took the power of his that was left, and carved out this world, where she has remained ever since.”

“That sounds exceedingly lonely,” Dirthamen whispers, pulling his legs tighter to himself.

“She's tried to ease that. She will step through worlds, when she can. Pull out those she and the others cared about before tragedy can befall them again. You remember Venavismi?”

Dirthamen recalls the elf in the cottage with the knives protruding from him and nods.

“He was about to die in a house fire when he was brought here to go through the labyrinth.”

“Did he go through?”

“Of course. All residents must finish the labyrinth before they are given their choice. That's uh, that's the prize at the end. You can choose to stay here as a goblin, or she will send you back to your home with no memory of this place or its people. Most people choose to stay, if not their first time, then one of the next. It's a nice deal, I think.”

“Being trapped for eternity does not sound like such a prize.”

“Who’s trapped?” Des points out. “No one is being kept here against their will. They are free to come and go as they please. But this place will always be safe for them, and their immortality only remains while they are here. Elsewhere, we can be killed, or die of sickness or old age if we are gone long enough to merit such a thing. Here, the magics are strong enough that it is not an issue. It is not a prison she's made; it's a home. Just...a non-conventional one.”

“So...” Dirthamen tries to reason, attempting to sort the new influx of information. “The Goblin Queen wants me to solve the labyrinth to make me a part of her home?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Why me?”

Des groans, and stands. “Weren't you paying attention?”

“I thought I had been.” Dirthamen frowns.

“You can lead a horse to water...” Des mutters before helping Dirthamen to his feet. “Well. You're partially right, I suppose. Which is more right than you were before, so I'm taking it as a win. Time to go, any longer and she'll wonder why we've stayed so long in the dark together, and there's really no way I can talk myself out of her wrath then.”

Dirthamen nods, satisfied that he has been given some sort of information, at least. For a moment, he wonders why he was chosen rather than his brother, who is normally vastly more popular than himself.

Then he thinks of what it might be like to spend an eternity with him, and answers his own question.

–

Des and Dirthamen have been gone for too long, Selene worries.

There is no chance that he has kept his mouth shut unsupervised, which means she will need to either take memories from Dirthamen early, or find some way to discredit Des in his eyes.

Neither option sounds particularly attractive.

Still...She knows which oubliette they fell down.

Perhaps she should pay another visit.

Hesitantly, she dons the mask, trying to push its cold tendrils out of her mind as she shifts down and into the tunnels.

–

Dirthamen is impressed with how well Des seems to know the tunnels. It leaves him free to wonder and contemplate more on the information given to him.

How had she risen to become a queen from a rebel, he wonders. Why was she so determined to save these people in particular?

He is so immersed in his thoughts, he almost does not see the feather in front of his foot. It whirls up as his foot comes down, floating in small circles until it lands in the lap of a hooded figure in a dark cloak sitting at the edge of the tunnel.

“Uh-oh,” Des mutters.

“What have we here?” calls a familiar voice.

“Nothing,” Des responds.

There is a pause, as the person beneath the cloak freezes.

“Nothing?” they say as they stand.

“Nothing?” they repeat, white strands of hair falling loose from beneath the hood.

“Nothing?!” she emphasizes, discarding the hood entirely, the cloak billowing slightly behind her from her anger.

“Nothing important.” Des tries to assure her.

“Des, are you helping him?”

“What? Me? Pssshh. No, of course not! That would be against the rules.”

“It would, in fact be against the rules. Rules you are not immune to, Des.”

Des swallows. “I would never.”

“It's true,” Dirthamen pipes up. “Des didn't help me at all. We just...talked.”

Selene turns to focus on Des. “And what, precisely, did you talk about?”

Des stays quiet, holding two hands up in front of his chest.

“Right,” She says, letting out a breath and lifting her right hand. “Seems like you've made enough trouble-”

“No, wait!” Dirthamen says.

Selene turns to him, pausing in her casting.

“Please, I-Des is not breaking any rules. He is-he is my friend.”

Des's face softens noticeably while Dirthamen speaks. “Please, I just do not want to do this alone. I would have died if he had not saved me.”

Selenes hand falls back down to her side, and she speaks softly “Nothing in this labyrinth should be able to kill you.”

“There are cracks in it,” Des tells her. “Something seems to be conflicted. Older things are peeking through.”

Her shoulders seem to fall slightly at that, and a piece of the masks top layer falls away, evaporating before it hits the floor.

“I see.” She says. “I will...find a way to deal with that, then. In the meantime, Des will be permitted to stay, to ensure you stay alive. However, if you help him,” Selene warns “I will take you back with me, and you will be punished. Do you understand, Des?”

Des nods “Loud and Clear.”

Selene turns to Dirthamen again. She seems stuck in place, caught between moments and possibilities of what to do next.

“Do you...like the labyrinth?” she asks him.

“Yes. Although it is very tiring.”

Selene nods, seemingly satisfied.

Through the crack in the mask, he thinks he can almost see her smiling.

“Well, that's...yes. Good. It's not supposed to be easy you know.” She takes a step towards him, and he swallows. She smells like forests and rain and nights when he used to sneak onto the rooftop to stare at the stars.

The light motes floating behind her head are creating a halo effect in her hair that is not helping him to calm down at all, either. It is very striking, and he wishes that he could see what she looked like beneath the mask.

He wishes that he were more comfortable with eye contact, that he could make it with her.

Her hands come out to touch his shirt, his collar, and she hums lightly.

“Your clothes are covered in mud,” she notes, hands moving into his hair and removing clumps of it from the back. He shivers lightly beneath her touch, fingers warm against his scalp and soothing as it trails through his hair. “Perhaps I should have let you bathe before all this...”

“You could let him bathe now,” Des teases.

She pulls her hands away and shakes her head. “He has already started. I can promise you a shower if you wish one when you arrive at the castle. In the meantime,” She unclasps the cloak from her shoulders, and lifts it onto his own. “This should help keep it from worsening.”

She smooths the material over his chest, carefully closing the white gold clasps that lay atop his collar bone. The material feels like silk over his skin, but it is weightless and airy.

“Thank you,” He tells her.

She looks up, realizing what she is doing, and he sees her now exposed throat bob.

“It is no trouble.”

She steps back again, clearing her throat as Des whispers something Dirthamen cannot make out in her ear.

She zaps him back into his feline form.

Des looks up at her, ears pressed back against his head. “You're only upset because I'm right.”

She doesn't dignify him with a response, and Dirthamen watches as she shifts into shadow and disappears once again.

The cloak around him is still warm, and smells the way she had.

He pulls it tighter to him, and continues the journey.

#Labyrinth AU #Selene lavellan #Dirthalene #Des

23 notes · View notes

feynites · 7 years

Text

So I saw this post and I thought of Dirthalene and I just... um... did this...

*throws to @selenelavellan and runs*

Dirthamen has, somehow, asked Sylaise to help him with his ‘relationship problems’.

Dirthamen is not entirely certain how this happened. He had not been aware that he was having ‘relationship problems’, though apparently, he has been, and for quite some time. Sylaise assures him that she is doing a very great favour, though, and despite the fact that she is several years younger than him, Dirthamen is willing to concede that she is much more accomplished in the field of relationships than he is.

“Ta-da!” Sylaise exclaims, and finally pulls the make-up brush away from his face. “You can open your eyes now.”

“Should I?” Dirthamen wonders. He has been fully capable of opening his eyes throughout this process, after all, but had been cautioned that if he did, it would ‘spoil everything’.

“Yes,” Sylaise says, huffily. “I worked a miracle, you should look at it and be in awe.”

Dirthamen opens his eyes, and stares into his younger sister’s vanity mirror. And then blinks, and takes a moment to process the image in front of him.

He looks… like he is wearing a mask, almost.

A very smooth mask, that has contoured and softened his features in a variety of ways, not all of which he can readily identify. The overall effect is very dramatic, however. His eyelids are shimmering, and there are a few deliberate spots of glitter on top of his cheekbones – like freckles, almost, but gleaming – and his lips have been given the illusion that they are larger than they are.

Sylaise is smiling.

“I did fantastic,” she informs him.

“Thank you,” Dirthamen says, dutifully. “Well done.”

Sylaise nods at him.

“Briala found out from her tutor, Felassan, who is in classes with Des, who is friends with Selene, that she likes pretty people. And I mean, well, who doesn’t? Pretty people are the best. So. You’re going to wear that nice blue blouse – the you wore for Falon’Din’s going away party, remember? – and I’ve stolen one of Andruil’s skirts that she never wears anyway, and it’s going to look fantastic with it. I wish we had time to go and get you some kitten heels in a decent size – I don’t think you could walk in pumps – but we only have another hour left. And then you’re going to give this to Selene, because if we let you handle it yourself you’ll probably just do something weird, like compare to her an emu or something, and when she says ‘yes’, you are going to pay me back by driving June and I to the movies any time we want to go,” Sylaise informs him.

Dirthamen takes a moment to process all of that.

“Emus have long legs…” he muses, though he does not think Selene is very much like one, anyway. He knows the blouse Sylaise is referring to, at least. Or he thinks he does. Falon’Din’s going away party had been a very dramatic affair. His brother had not wished to attend military school, although their father had been insistent. Dirthamen does not think he would have been sent away if their mother was still alive. But he cannot know for certain, and in the end, it had been their father’s decision to make.

Selfishly, Dirthamen is somewhat glad that their father had been angry enough with Falon’Din to deny his final request that Dirthamen at least go with him. According to his brother’s texts on the matter, Military School is the worst place that has ever existed.

Sylaise flicks the back of his ear.

“Don’t say to her,” she instructs. “Just walk your sexiest walk and then give her the letter. Alright?”

Dirthamen nods. He almost asks what would be entailed by his ‘sexiest walk’, or which sort of walk that might be, but after a moment he decides that he will google it instead. Sylaise shoos him out of her room – she has to get ready for school now, and Dirthamen must change into his blouse and the skirt the she thrusts into his arms. He passes Andruil in the hall, but she does not seem to recognize the skirt as anything belonging to her.

She stares at his face for a long moment, though.

“What the hell happened to you?” she finally asks him.

“Sylaise is helping me,” he explains.

Andruil snorts, in what he suspects is amusement, and then after a moment, shrugs and carries on to her own room. Dirthamen can hear his father singing in the master bathroom, as he finally makes his way into his own, and shuts the door so that he can begin changing.

He is careful not to touch his face with his blouse, although after a moment, he realizes that Sylaise seems to have sealed the mask of make-up onto his face with some sort of impenetrable veneer. The skirt fits better than he might have expected, but requires stockings, he thinks, so he goes and puts on a pair of those, and then finds some nice dress shoes that do not seem too out-of-place with it, so far as his comprehension of aesthetic rules can determine. Sylaise had told him to leave his hair long, so he does. But it tends to fall into his eyes, and he still has class work to deal with, so after some consideration, he retrieves a silver hair clip and uses that to solve the dilemma.

By the time Father is calling for everyone to come to breakfast, his outfit seems to have come together. Dirthamen gathers up his school bag, double-checks that he has his homework, and heads for the dining room. He is the first to arrive, and his father double-takes at him as well.

There is an awkward moment of silence as they regard one another.

Then his father gestures to him.

“What’s all this about?” he asks.

Dirthamen blinks.

“Sylaise is helping me,” he says.

His raises his eyebrows.

“With what?” he wonders.

Dirthamen shifts, slightly, and wonders if he should say, or if he should make excuses. He tries to weigh the possible consequences of his father discovering that he has a crush, but he finds the possible reactions difficult to gauge. Father had not taken well to Sylaise and Andruil dating, but then, Dirthamen has rarely been treated in the same manner as his sisters.

“There is a girl at school…” he begins, tentatively.

“Ah,” his father says, and then nods, as if things suddenly make much more sense. “A girl, you say? Is it that little friend of yours? The scrappy one who looks like she crawled out of a rummage sale?”

Dirthamen shakes his head.

“No, it is a different girl,” he explains. Inanallas is a good friend, but Dirthamen does not think she would like to date him. He is not sure he would like to date her, either. After a moment his father grunts, and then reaches over, and claps a hand on his shoulder.

“Well,” he says. “…Well, is she, um… like you, then?”

He considers the question.

“She has very light hair,” he says. “And she likes math. She is a member of the competitive mathematics team at school.”

His father nods.

“Math, eh? Quiet girl?” he guesses.

Dirthamen tilts his head.

“Mostly,” he confirms.

This seems to be an acceptable response, as his father leaves the matter be, and instead focuses on scolding Andruil and Sylaise for taking so long to get to the table, once they finally arrive. Breakfast is hurried this morning, as they are running late, but the chauffeur still manages to get them to school before the first bell rings.

Inan meets Dirthamen at his locker.

She stares at him.

“…What,” she says.

“What?” Dirthamen asks back.

Inan reaches over, and gingerly pokes at his cheek. She looks at her finger, and narrows her eyes, and then pokes at him again.

“Please refrain,” he requests.

“You look like someone photoshopped you,” Inan accuses.

“Sylaise did my make-up,” Dirthamen explains.

Inana squints.

“Is she testing out new techniques or something?”

Dirthamen shakes his head, and then means to elaborate. But the class bell rings, and interrupts him before he can, and so he and Inan have to hasten into the classroom instead.

He receives and inordinate number of looks, throughout the morning. Several people stare at him during class, and in the move to the next one, he notices a few more odd looks which are only diffused when one of his fellow homeroom students walks into a door. Venavismi rushes over to the help the boy, and the subsequent noise and clatter seems to draw most attention for a while.

It is not until first break that Dirthamen gets a chance to approach Selene’s own locker.

She is standing in front of it, caught up in a conversation with Elanna, who is in Dirthamen’s history class, and has loaned him pencils.

He does not wish to intrude. But after a moment Elanna nods towards him, and Selene turns and looks towards him.

There is a moment where Dirthamen attempts to parse the meaning of the look she gives him. She herself looks very nice today, he thinks. The summer shorts she is wearing have flowers embroidered onto the pockets, which almost match the ties in her own hair.

Dirthamen clears his throat.

“Good morning,” he says.

The textbook in Selene’s hands catches on fire.

It is not a lot of fire, thankfully. Elanna knocks it out of Selene’s hands, and Dirthamen casts a cooling spell, which does not seem to be particularly effective. The fire smolders across the plastic cover of the textbook, warping the print, but does not quite spread to the pages before Selene gestures emphatically and manages to put it out.

Selene does not look at Dirthamen, as she hastily gathers up the mangled textbook, and then turns on her heel and flees.

“…Uh,” Elanna says. “Hang on, sorry, I’m just gonna… go after her. Sorry. Please don’t tell anyone that happened!”

She turns, too, then, and runs off. Dirthamen cannot help but feel as if he has done something wrong, even though he is not certain what. His father sometimes ignites things accidentally when he is very angry. Had he made Selene angry? Does she not like make-up? Or dresses? She has never responded to Dirthamen in that manner before.

He considers it a bit more, but even several reviews of the situation do not yield any satisfactory answers.

Sylaise’s letter, which he was supposed to give to Selene, crinkles in his pocket. Dirthamen reaches in, and pulls it out. He would not wish to cause Selene to light any unintended fires again. Textbooks can be expensive, and he does not think her family is as financially secure as his own. Perhaps he should abandon the plan altogether, but then, Sylaise had worked very hard to help him, and had been very clear in her instructions.

A compromise, perhaps?

He slips the letter into Selene’s locker, and then has to make his way back towards his own, on the other side of the school.

He contemplates washing the make-up off at several points throughout the rest of the day. Inan offers to help him, but in the end, Dirthamen does not think he could remove Sylaise’s sealants with the simple tap water and toilet paper available in the school bathrooms. Selene is in his Math class, towards the end of the day, but she seems to have traded seats with Tasallir, and she spends the entire class not looking at him.

Dirthamen’s heart sinks.

Has he offended her, then?

He wonders over it for the rest of the day, trying to figure out what it might be that he has done wrong, and how he could possibly solve it. Perhaps he should write an apology? Or stay away instead? What would be better appreciated?

By the end of the school day, he is still uncertain. There is a kind of pleasantness to watching Selene in class, even if she keeps ignoring him. But there is very little, he finds, in trekking across the parking lot, and feeling as if the mask of his make-up is much too thin.

He almost does not hear the voice calling after him.

“Dude,” Inanallas says, poking his elbow. He looks, and she gestures behind them, and then he turns and sees Selene hurrying over towards them. She seems faintly out of breath, her cheeks suffused with colour and her hair coming out of its ties, as she stops in front of him.

“Yes!” she blurts.

Dirthamen blinks.

Oh.

That was the response Sylaise told him to wait for.

He opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, Selene runs off again; leaving a few smoking footprints behind, as she races back across the parking lot, and down to where Adannar seems to be carpooling their group of friends today. She does not look back towards him, although Elanna offers him a thumb’s up.

“What just happened?” Inan asks.

Dirthamen must shake his head.

“I am not sure,” he admits. “I will have to ask Sylaise.”

Perhaps he should have read the letter first, for context. But it is too late now.

#dirthalene #random modern au i guess #idk there are like nine million other things i should be working on #but #i mean #at least it's something ^^;

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selenelavellan · 7 years

Text

Hogwarts AU

Oh Gods What Have I Done

Featuring

@feynites Dirthamen, Falon’din, Uthvir, Venavismi, Tasallir and Haninan

@scurvgirls Adannar, Serahlin, and Kassaran

@justanartsysideblog‘s Victory, Aelynthi, and Melarue

@elalavellas Ela

@lycheemilkart‘s Ana and Vitality

TW For Mentioned Abuse, and Fire

“I hope Dirthamen Evanuris takes a long walk off of a short dock!” Selene huffs.

“Ah, he's not such a bad guy, Sel.” Says Adannar from beside her as they stride through the halls and towards the Great Hall.

“You don't think anybody is 'such a bad guy' Addy,” Selene sighs dismissively “So that hardly counts for anything.”

“You aren't normally so quick to dismiss people, either,” he points out. “What is it about this guy that bugs you so much?”

“Who's bugging Selene?” Pipes in Serahlin as they join her and the rest of their group at one of the long wooden tables to eat lunch.

“Dirthamen Evanuris,” Selene mutters back before going into a poor impersonation of him “ 'Oh look at me, I have so much money and free time that I know every vague reference to everything ever and everyone else is always wrong because I know everything and blah blah blah.'”

Serahlin just gives a nod and a soft “Ah” while exchanging a look with Adannar. “I take it something in particular happened in class then?”

Selene throws her arms up in the air, frustration returning “He corrected the professor! 'Oh Professor Vitality I'm so sorry but did you know that according to Brother Genitivis writings in some obscure book that only exists in my personal collection, the dates you're giving us are inaccurate' like-like-UGH. What a pompous-STUCK UP, NUGHEADED-UGH!”

“Did he really say that?” Ana asks as she bites off the end of a piece of celery.

“No.” Adannar corrects.

“He may as well have!” Selene fumes as she stabs a fork into the salad that appears before her. “So sorry the rest of us peasants don't have access to every book in existence!”

“I think you're exaggerating,” Venavismi chimes in “He's a pretty quiet, docile guy. I think you two would get along if you just got to know each other.”

Selene levels a glare, fork pointed directly at Vena, one carrot matchstick dangling off the end. “That's traitor talk.”

“It's not traitor talk,” Vena laughs. “He's my roommate! And you're my friend! One people, one love, etc etc.”

“No, it's definitely traitor talk.” Ana says, scooching to sit besides Selene, who indicates towards the redhead with a 'See???' motion.

“Banana's just mad because I got the snitch before she did in the last match.”

“You cut me off!”

“From my perspective, you tried to cut me off.” Vena points out. “Selene, help me out here.”

“Oh no,” Selene says “I'm not a traitor.”

“You're a Ravenclaw! I won the match for our house!”

Selene just shrugs and plunges the fork into her salad with a quiet muttered “It's also that bourgeois nughumpers house, so you're on your own.”

“He's still leagues better than his brother,” Serahlin tuts. Her brother Tasallir nods in agreement beside her. “I hope he wanders into the forbidden forest and doesn't come back.”

“He still giving you problems?”

“He's giving everyone problems,” Serahlin nods. “I'm surprised Professor Melarue hasn't expelled him yet.”

“I heard they tried,” Uthvir says. “Headmaster Haninan said this place was his best chance to 'improve' though.”

“His potential improvement shouldn't mean the rest of us have to suffer.” Ela pouts.

“I'm sure they're doing the best they can,” Aelynthi points out. “If Falon'din crosses a major line, even Headmaster Haninan won't be able to stop Nanae from doing what they have to to keep the rest of us safe.”

“They should just get rid of the whole family,” Selene mumbles. “Save us all a lot of headaches.”

“Doesn't work that way,” Victory says, tapping her shoulder reassuringly “You'll just have to put up with him a while longer.”

“Five more years,” she groans. “I'm not gonna make it.”

–

“Your measurements are inaccurate,” Comes a voice from behind Selene. She jumps, having thought she was alone in the Ravenclaw Common Room this late at night. Or early in the morning, depending on your perspective.

“My measurements are fine,” she insists. Dirthamen scrunches his eyebrows together, moving closer to her and picking up the parchment with her experiment written on it.

“You have too much mandrake root for this desired effect.”

“It's fine.”

“Your antidote could kill the person you give it to. Is that your goal?”

Selene sighs, and snatches her parchment back from him. “Of course not.”

“Then I must re-advise; you are using too much mandrake root.”

“I'm really not.”

“Are you also using dragons breath? Selene, this potion is liable to-”

There is a small explosion then, an eruption of fire from her portable cauldron as a large draconian growl fills the common room. Dirthamens arm wraps around her shoulders, yanking her back and away from the worst of the flames.

The two of them cough, one of the windows flying open to let the smoke out of the room. Selene re-opens her eyes, blinking away the spots after the too bright flames nearly seared them out of her skull.

She sits up, pulling herself out of Dirthamens grip.

“Well,” She says, patting some of the ashes off of her cloak. “I will admit that there was, perhaps too much dragons breath in that particular attempt,”

Dirthamen nods, but Selene continues as though he hadn't “But not too much mandrake root. So you were wrong, too.”

He frowns, at that.

“You nearly blew the two of us up.”

“I didn't ask you to come down here.”

“If I had not, your face would be suffering severe burns.”

“Or, I wouldn't have lost my concentration, and would have noticed the excess dragons breath in time.”

“That seems unlikely-”

“But not impossible.”

Dirthamen sighs. Stands. Brushes some of the ash off of himself.

“I suppose that is technically true.”

A few other students start coming down the stairs to see the commotion, and Selene hurriedly packs up her things before they can ask her any questions.

Vena comes down the stairs too, noting the scorch marks and smoke still in the room, and makes note of Selenes absence from the room. He shakes his head, arms crossed over his chest as he looks at Dirthamen. “No luck, huh?”

“It appears not.”

–

The following years schedule brings with it several classes that Selene has to share with her self-appointed rival. She is not thrilled to find him in her Arithmancy class, Study of Ancient Runes, and Defense Against the Dark Arts.

She is even less thrilled when she is paired with him for Advanced Potions.

“Perhaps this way you will be less likely to set fire to the classroom,” He points out as they set up their station.

Selenes shoulders raise as she bites her tongue; she has to work with him for the rest of the year after all. Perhaps calling him a nughumper to his face isn't the best way to kick off the year.

His brother glaring daggers at her from the table behind them isn't helping things, either.

Selene does feel a pang of pity for Tasallir, who seems to be carrying the two of them throughout most of the assignments while Falon'din complains about smells and sticky substances on the floors potentially staining his boots.

But mostly she's just ready to smack Falon'din when he grabs her arm after class.

“Hey, bitch,” he sneers. “Stay away from my brother.”

Selene raises an eyebrow. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, I know about you two. I hear about you both getting all cozy and shit in the common room, I saw you cuddling up during potions. Its gross, and you need to stop. He's not gonna give you any money or whatever, so just leave him the hell alone.”

Selene frowns, and slowly pries his fingers off of her arm. “Listen,” she says. “I have never once, ever, sought out your brother. Apparently, someone on the school board seems to think its funny to throw us together at every turn, but rest assured, I'm not after any 'money or whatever'.”

“Then why'd you partner with him?”

“We were assigned partners you daft elf.”

Falon'din lets out a heavy breath through his nose and straightens.

“Fine. Whatever. Just remember, he's my brother.” he sneers before walking away.

Selene just shakes her head and mumbles. “They were right; you are worse.”

–

The next day in the Common Room, Dirthamen has a dark bruise covering much of his left cheek.

Vena stays at Dirthamens side for breakfast, and he joins the group for most of the morning.

Most of them stick to awkward conversation, trying not to mention it, or the way his eyes never seem to leave the bowl of cereal in front of him.

Selene feels a sting of guilt. Of course she had thought he needed a slap, but not...not like this.

“What happened?” She finally blurts, staring straight at Dirthamen.

The rest of the table goes silent, as he slowly glances up at her, rather than into his bowl of what by now is just soggy wheat with sugar and milk.

“I upset my brother,” he admits. “More than usual.”

“This is a usual thing?”

“Normally he is more careful not to leave a mark. Yesterday he seemed to be...particularly incensed, however.”

Selene drums her nails on the table. “Have you told anyone about this?”

“Our father believes we should 'sort it out' ourselves.”

“What about a teacher?” Aelynthi chimes in.

Dirthamen shakes his head. “It is a family matter.”

“The hell it is,” Selene says, standing abruptly. She holds out a hand for Dirthamen “Come on. Aelynthi, you come too.”

He nods, and the three of them make their way into Professor Melarues office, where Selene knocks thrice on the door before it swings open.

“Come in,” they call without looking up from their papers.

“Nanae,” Aelynthi responds, and that, at least, gets their attention. “We need you to do something.”

Selene nods, and carefully pulls Dirthamen forward towards the head of Slytherin house. “Falon'din did this.”

Melarue frowns at the large purple mark on the young boys cheek. “Your brother struck you, Dirthamen?”

He hesitates.

Selene squeezes his hand reassuringly in her own as he looks to her, and gives a small nod.

“...Yes.” he admits.

Melarue seems to become very still for a moment. As though running through a long line of possibilities in their head. “I will bring this up to Headmaster Haninan,” They assure him. “For now, please head to the infirmary. They will give you something there that will help.”

Dirthamen swallows and nods, but mostly seems thankful just to leave their office.

Selene follows him to make sure he actually goes to the infirmary, while Aelynthi heads back to the Great Hall and their friends.

One of the nurses ushers Dirthamen into a cot, and carefully applies some foul smelling salve to his cheek. He winces at first, but as the color starts to lighten and return to his usual skin tone, Selene can see some relief seeping into him.

“You do not have to stay.” Dirthamen informs her.

“I want to make sure you're ok.” She shrugs.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“You do not...” he pauses.

Selene waits.

He sighs before continuing “You do not like me.”

“Who told you that?”

“It is apparent.”

Selene raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“...Vena may have mentioned it once, when I asked if I could join you all for breakfast in the past.”

“Well...he's not wrong.”

Dirthamen seems to sag a bit at that. “It is true, then.”

“You seem upset.”

“I thought...I had hoped, perhaps, that you and I could be friends.”

“Am I even up to your standards?” Selene scoffs.

Dirthamen blinks in confusion.

“Because you're so...” She gestures vaguely “Like, rich? And you know everything? And you've got all these rare books memorized and stuff? I'm sure you have tons of people lined up to be your friends.”

“I do not,” he informs her. “My brother is more talented at creating bonds with people than I am.”

“Your brother is a jerk.” She says bluntly.

Dirthamen blinks again. “He is my friend.”

“No,” Selene says, leveling a finger at him. “Friends don't hit friends unless it's Quidditch. Like when Victory accidentally got Aelynthi in the face with the quaffle? They're friends, but Victory still had to apologize. A lot.”

“My brother often hits people in Quidditch.”

“Well, yeah, he's a Beater. Probably a good outlet for him, honestly. But you don't play, so there's no reason he should hit you.”

“But I had upset hi-”

“Ever.” Selene emphasizes.

Slowly, Dirthamen nods.

She lets out a breath. “Ok. Alright, fine.”

Dirthamen tilts his head, eyebrows scrunching together as he waits for her to elaborate.

“We can be friends,” She says. “Most of our classes are together, anyways. We can walk together or whatever, and you can eat with us, and at the end of the day, you and I can go back to the dorms together. So that you aren't alone with Falon'din again. Ok?”

“I do not wish to be a burden on you.”

“It's fine,” Selene shrugs. “I just want to make sure you're...safe. We're friends now, right?”

Dirthamen nods again, his disposition becoming a bit cheerier at the title.

“Ok then,” Selene nods in return. “And just so you know, I kick the ass of anyone who hurts my friends. So if your brother tries to hurt you again, I'm gonna kick his ass.”

“I believe that is against school policy.”

“Then I'll duel him or prank him or curse his broom or something! I just...” She traces her fingers carefully over Dirthamens cheek, now back to its normal size and color, but still buzzing lightly with the recent healing, and whispers “Family isn't supposed to hurt you.”

He swallows, and nods again. Her hand lingers just slightly over his cheek before Selene clears her throat and stands. Offering her hand to him again, she helps him to stand, and they make their way to Study of Ancient Runes.

“Did you do the homework?” he asks, trying to ease some of the awkwardness between them.

“Yeah, but the one from page 238 tripped me up, I couldn't find it in any of my reference books, I'll have to ask Professor Kassaran about it.”

“It is from a harder to find collection,” He nods. “I have a copy in my room.”

Selene resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“You could borrow it, if you'd like.” he says.

She blinks, and looks over at him.

“Really?”

He nods. “That is the sort of thing friends do, yes?”

Selene swallows and nods. “Yeah. Thank you.”

#Dirthalene #Selene Lavellan #Dirthalene Hogwarts AU #So as to not confuse it with Lottes already-in-existence wonderful Hogwarts AU which is separate from this one #So many characters #So much extra stuff in notes that really barely even shows up here #ah well #if people like it I can always do more I guess #I just wanted to get this out of my system #Dirthalene Rivalmance #I guess?#Dirthalene Unrequited Rivalmance #Dirthamen crushing in his corner #Selene in her corner like 'im gonna fite him mentally'#The both of them thinking their relationship is vastly different from the other #AH TROPES

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