fractured-shield

[fractured-shield]

3 of 5 (+1)

Leithe's horse is loosely based on a mare I remember (mostly) fondly from my years of lesson barns. this one's also just an extended version (of that scene i wrote a few days ago, so at least i'm doing something new) but in my defense. look at them they're so weird and perfect

“I’m told an escort is required. Again. You’d think they’d trust me by now, or at least care less for my safety, without my title.” Leithe’s tone made clear what she thought of that. “—What? Don’t tell me you agree with them?”

It was apparent that she had seen something in Idhren’s expression that he hadn’t meant to be there. He tapped his pen against the side of the inkwell, marking down a few more counts in the correct column and checking them against the records he had brought from the Thiamal’s archives. The capital’s archives were quite extensive, though they were less carefully maintained than those he typically used in Linador.

“The roads haven’t been this safe in half a century,” Leithe continued. “It’s Vailra, not a trip to fucking Ilgost.”

“It’s less about the roads, and more about the snakes alongside them—or the brush-birds, if one of those takes flight under your horse’s nose I worry that in her fright she’d try to follow.”

Leithe’s horse was rather young and high-spirited. Such a mount would hardly be suitable for a typical (former) noblewoman, but he’d learned that Leithe was hardly typical.

“Can’t argue with that.” She took a book from the stack in front of him and began leafing through it. “I wish the guards were less dull though, you know? I’m aware it’s not exactly the most interesting assignment, but you’d think being amicable would make it easier to tolerate. It’s not like I don’t try to talk to them.”

He wondered—would it be a good idea to offer? Would she appreciate it, or would he be overstepping, offending her by making it seem that he didn’t trust her to take care of herself?

“...Coincidentally, I’m to to present the Warmaster’s request for the high-mage’s attendance. I had planned to arrive in Vailra around the end of the month, then head to Nar-thelyr when the weather warms.” He allowed a small smile as he met her eyes. “I imagine your guild would find an officer, even inactive and low-ranking, to be a more than suitable escort—if my company is agreeable, of course..?”

Leithe closed the book, a puff of dust rising from its pages as she did. “Gods, would you really?”

He nodded. “I’m not sure I can quiet a startled horse from my own saddle, if it comes to it, but I’ll try.”

“Oh, fuck off, it’s not like any other guard could do more. And if someone’s got to watch me pick leaves out of my hair because another blade of grass scared her, it’d be less embarrassing if it’s you.

<<<>>> <<<>>> <<<>>>

“You are aware it was a joke, aren’t you?”

Leithe seemed terribly amused, behind her concern, and he could hardly blame her. It hadn’t been his most intelligent moment.

“It wasn’t from my saddle, so it hardly counts.”

Her horse, a little spotted thing with no withers to speak of, had startled at some flicker of shadow or other, right as they’d been getting back in their saddles after a while of walking. Leithe had barely gotten her boots into the stirrups, and was in the process of losing her seat as she made a grab for the reins. Still on foot, Idhren had taken hold of the reins as well—getting the mare’s head around and stopping her for long enough for Leithe to recover...and wrenching his elbow in the process.

Idhren had insisted it was fine, and then Leithe had insisted that they stop anyway, and obviously she’d won that argument. Her famous stubbornness aside, it always seemed so easy to agree with her.

Not that she’d given him time to disagree if he had wanted to. She’d been out of her saddle in an instant, undoing the laces of his cloak and pushing back his sleeve before he could protest. Her horse, thankfully, had gotten over her fright and stood quietly. His had been completely unbothered by the whole affair: she was currently busying herself with the few tufts of roadside grass that were still green this late in the season.

“Does it hurt?” Leithe prodded at his arm, and he remembered—not that his own was very extensive—that she’d never mentioned any medical training at all.

“No—” an immediate lie, as she poked him again in a slightly different place.

It was barely three days into their trip, which felt a bit insulting.

“It’s fine, I promise. I can still ride well enough.” He didn’t move away.

“You can, I’m sure, but I’ve seen you stay up all night over work that doesn’t even need to be done, so forgive me if I don’t think you should.”

“It’s just strained, it’ll be fine in an hour.”

Ignoring him, Leithe turned back to her horse, running the stirrups up their leathers and loosening the girth. “Then that’s an hour we can afford to rest.”

He didn’t have an answer to that. It did still twinge a bit, as he started to loosen his horse’s gear as well, but if he moved just so, and didn’t put too much weight on that side, it was perfectly fine.

“I’m not sure if there are any wolves this far south. Or buire-deer? Maybe thieves along the road?” Leithe wondered, throwing herself onto the grass with an ease at odds with her words.

“What happened to the safety of the roads you were so sure of?” Idhren joined her more carefully.

“Maybe you should let me hold onto your sword. Just for now: we're sitting targets, and you can't use it.” She reached out to tug his sleeve back into place without waiting for permission. She’d said nothing about the scars of a soldier—more reckless and stupid than most, he’d never claim otherwise—that the sleeve had covered. It was rather refreshing.

“Its guard is shaped for the left hand, you wouldn’t find it very comfortable. And it’s a bit too big for you, don’t you think?”

He couldn’t resist a little teasing. Maybe it would convince her he wasn’t in too much pain, if nothing else.

Leithe swatted at his wrist in mock anger, then leaned back in the grass, hands behind her head. “You can’t blame me for trying, it’s such a nice sword, is all.”

It took him a moment to manage a hum of agreement. Her curls, messy from her hands and the coarse blades of grass and gentle wind, brushing so gently against the freckles on her cheek, were a bit distracting. He allowed a brief, fond smile for as long as she looked away.

if anybody’s curious I got <4 hours of sleep myself and will be working on this today :)

[fractured-shield]

“yeah I know the major life changing events of the FS prequel but it spans a few hundred years how am I going to keep it from feeling disjointed—“

random convoluted shit that Leithe drags Idhren into. like before they’re even a couple she’s just putting this man in situations

[fractured-shield]

2 of 5 (+1)

second one in a day, this one's before they're a couple, and taken from an older draft that I'd kind of forgotten about. I have one more in progress, but it'll be a bit slower from here since I'm working and also dealing with car troubles :/

“You know what? I’m sure I can get home, I don’t want to impose.” Leithe took a step backwards. The rain was only worsening, and she certainly couldn’t ask a friend to stay out in it: she didn’t particularly want to be out in it herself. “The guesthouses aren’t that far, and since I’m technically here on official business, no one would complain—”

But that was the catch, wasn’t it? Emissaries and guests of Lairnil’s viscountcy were known to complain of quarters that were…less than expected, to put it nicely. The city’s rapid growth was nipping at the heels of the finer districts these days. While Leithe paid no mind to complaints that were no more than polite variations of “I’d rather the ordinary folk exist where I can’t see them,” she also didn’t want to walk the crowded, muddied streets during such a downpour.

For a moment, Idhren seemed to consider offering his coat—thankfully he didn’t, damn the man and his relentless politeness. “I’d feel awful if I let you walk all the way there. It isn’t any trouble, I promise—I’ll take the sofa, even.”

He’d been on assignment here from Linador’s court for the past few months, which apparently qualified him for lodging slightly closer to the city’s too-perfect, too-new judiciary building. Hopefully it was a bit nicer than her own.

Leithe picked at the trim of her dress. She was one minor annoyance away from ripping off the woven cords and lace, honestly. They’d done their part in giving her the image of someone worth listening to, but they weighed down her dress just as much as the rain that was already soaking through it. “I’m not letting you take the damn sofa in your own rooms. Really, it’s fine, it’s just rain.”

As if on cue, a bolt of lightning arced across the sky, somewhere behind the chapel’s bony spires, its branching offshoots smarting in their vision even after it passed.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she tried, with less effort. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“…You know my superiors don’t actually care who we’re seen with? Council mediators can’t have ties to any faction—which I’m sure you know, I don’t mean to assume otherwise—but it’s no different from keeping company at some festivity or other—” the anticipated crack of thunder interrupted his stumbling insistence, “—and if you’re worried about your parents catching word, I’m sure anyone who would be interested in such gossip has gone to bed. You keep rather late hours, for a member of the nobility, you know.”

And yours are just the same, which I doubt is any more normal for a council mediator.

Leithe shoved a strand of damp hair out of her face as another bolt of lightning crackled across the sky. “They wouldn’t give a damn, now that I’ve no title to inherit. They’d start trying to set us up together, if anything. I didn’t even know you fancied women until yesterday.”

“On—on occasion,” he flushed almost immediately. “But—Leithe, it’s not like that, I’m not asking you to stay because—”

“Relax,” she grinned, seizing the opportunity to poke at him further. “I’ve had years to realize that you’re too shy and uptight to make someone uncomfortable like that.”

“You don’t have to put it like that,” he sniffed. “Though I suppose I’ll take it as a compliment? Leithe, I promise you aren’t unwelcome. I really don’t mind.”

She flinched as the delayed thunder shook the stones beneath their feet. “…I might take you up on that, come to think of it. But I’m taking the sofa, I know damn well you can’t fit on it.”

<<<>>> <<<>>> <<<>>>

“You’re not such a bad host.” Leithe looked up from her cup of tea: something spiced and warm, and vaguely floral. “Such a gentleman. Do men fall for that sort of thing as much as most noblewomen I know?” “It’s not like that—” “I know, I’m just teasing.” She added more honey to her tea, just to see his disapproval. “Thank you.” While Leithe sat warm and mostly dry, Idhren shivered despite the warmth of tea and hearth, a blanket around his shoulders and his damp hair tied back. On the walk to his quarters even the covered paths hadn’t been enough to keep them dry as the wind picked up, and he’d dropped his coat over her shoulders before she had time to protest. “Better me than you,” he offered a thin smile. She hadn’t even said anything, but damn it if he hadn’t seen some lingering discontent in her face just the same. The bells of Lairnil’s chapel tolled a few streets away, announcing the hour. “Why do you keep saying that?” He looked down, rubbing his nose with one finger. “It’s…I mean, It’s the least I can do. After everything you’ve done, today and otherwise.” “After I—what? I kept you company in the archives, and I brought you food. We’re friends, is it really so hard to believe I’d do that much? You’re the one letting me stay on your sofa.” The bells were still tolling. She hadn’t realized it was as late as that. Idhren was shuffling through some papers he’d left on the table in a neat stack. Leithe snatched them from his hand before she could stop herself. “Absolutely not. The bureaucratic drudgery can wait until morning. You said yourself, none of the court is working at this hour, you’re no exception. Finish your damn tea.” He laughed softly and at least had the sense to look embarrassed as he set the papers aside. He had a rather pretty laugh, didn’t he? Leithe had realized at some point that she’d like to hear it more often.

if anybody’s curious I got <4 hours of sleep myself and will be working on this today :)

[fractured-shield]

1 of 5 (+1)

(you might recognize this as just a slightly-altered version of the notes app scene I posted recently, and like, yeah, I make no claims that this is particularly close to my best-quality writing. that's not the point these are just my silly little self-indulgent scenes)

“Because—and that’s another thing, I know she agreed, but you can’t convince me that anyone with that strong of ties to Lauthein’s merchant class would agree with that genuinely, it’s not like she’d—“ Leithe cut herself short and let her hands fall back to her lap. She’d been gesturing rather dramatically with them as she spoke—again.

“Are you alright? Did that hurt?”

“No,” she said, with something just short of a laugh, and pulled her shawl closer around her. “Sorry, I don’t mean to—you offered to help, and I can’t seem to let you. I’m not doing it on purpose.”

He did laugh, then, because he couldn’t imagine it being something to apologize for. “I don’t mind.”

Leithe offered her hand to him again—the hand that, just moments ago she’d pulled away, as the point she was trying to make required rather dramatic gestures to impress upon her audience of one her ever-present passion. He took it in his own, as carefully as if it was the finest ornament of glass. Her hands were so small in his own, but they were strong and calloused and warm just the same.

“Anyways, and Mornym agreed, and I don’t know if I should take it at face value and let her deal with whatever stupid gossip she causes from backing out—because she will back out, I’m sure—or if I should just pretend she never said anything. That’s probably an awful idea, but it’d be so satisfying, I fucking wish I could ignore her.”

Leithe paused again for a moment. “You can tell me if you want me to shut up, you know.”

Idhren would let her keep talking forever if she wanted.

“What? What’s that look for?”

He hadn’t realized he was looking at her any particular sort of way. The low light from the fireplace cast dancing shadows across her features, flickering over the fine chains of gold that hung from her ears and swung as she spoke.

“Would you rather I look away, when you’re speaking?” He teased, running his thumb over her knuckles, over the little scar that traced across them.

She’d complained that her hands ached from writing and from woodworking, and as he’d already been settled in with his book and with a hot water bottle on his knee, it was no trouble. He would’ve done it no matter how much trouble it had been. His book had laid untouched for the better part of an hour.

“That wouldn’t be any better,” she laughed. Her legs were folded beneath her in such a way that she leaned against him, and her arm was hooked around his, not that it’d stilled its movement very well. “I rather like it, you know.”

“Oh?”

“Well, otherwise I can’t look at you, either, and that’s hardly fair.”

A comfortable silence fell between them for a few moments. Idhren turned Leithe’s hand over in his own, hoping that his efforts could provide some small measure of relief for her.

“So, you were saying about Mornym…?”

“Oh, that’s right,” Leithe jumped at the reminder to continue. “I mean, do you really think—”

Idhren brought Leithe’s hand up to kiss the back of it, slowly, pressing her knuckles to his lips.

“—gods, honestly,” she let her head fall against his shoulder, her complaint almost lost in her sigh. “Oh, you smug bastard. What the fuck was I talking about—I don’t even care.”

He laughed softly and continued his work like he’d done nothing at all. He didn’t even have to look to know how furiously she was blushing. It was a tactic he employed only rarely, but it was no less effective than the time he’d done it first.

Leithe “If you wanted me to stop talking you could’ve just said so.”

“I didn’t say that. Feel free to continue, once you’ve recovered.”

“Fuck off,” she gave a rather undignified snort. “…Just a minute.”

When she’d adequately recovered a few moments later, she poked him in the arm. “Tezphel’s fucking horizons, you thought I’d forget, didn’t you!”

Again she tugged her hand free of his own. She was as striking as ever, her features sharpened by playful annoyance.

“…What?” He thought to ask, after a moment.

“You said you’d sleep hours ago, and you’ve just let me talk this whole damn time, hoping I’ve forgotten, haven’t you?”

In his defense, it wasn’t so much that he’d meant to stay awake, after agreeing otherwise. He’d gotten just as distracted as she had.

“How are your hands?” he asked instead. “Do they hurt any less?”

“Yes, love, thank you for your help. Now,” she got to her feet, with far less effort and more energy than he would expect of himself, regardless of the late hour, and took both his hands in her own, “I’m going to get you to bed, and then hold you down if I have to. Leave your book here, I’ll just bore you to sleep with more complaints about Arthain’s ridiculous court.”

Idhren couldn’t imagine falling asleep, if it meant missing a single word she said, but he let Leithe pull him to his feet just the same.

if anybody’s curious I got <4 hours of sleep myself and will be working on this today :)

[fractured-shield]

if anybody’s curious I got <4 hours of sleep myself and will be working on this today :)

[fractured-shield]

Surprise gift commission from @just-an-elf-with-the-socks to make some art of @ath3alin's OCs -- Leithe and Idhren! The description of Leithe as being "if >:) was a person" stuck in my brain haha, god tier character description tbh.

ath3alin I hope you like it and this captures them for you! I had loads of fun making art of your guys :D they're so cool (but Idhren for the love of god please get some sleep, king).

[fractured-shield]

as I was telling @robin-the-blind-sniper-rifle earlier, by book one’s opening, Idhren has no intention of ever entering another relationship. he’s lost his wife just five years earlier, he’s lost his lord who he loved as well, and so many years before that he survived an incident that killed his two closest friends, whose relationships with him were too new to have any name to them. he’s very tired. this never changes, his arc being more focused on platonic and familial love

that being said!! there’s something so fun about describing characters from his pov, ones who he finds attractive, just passively so with no interest in pursuing

Tanril is introduced as “Ilgost's capital representative, a broad-shouldered man with iron-grey curls, attractive in the robust manner of particularly adventuresome nobles” and I’m just thinking about that line a lot tonight as I struggle to write dialogue for the bastard

[fractured-shield]

having characters with accent when you write a book is so funny because it adds nothing to the experience unless someone will try for one sentence to read it with that specific accent and never do it again

[fractured-shield]

wasn’t going to post this because it’s not at all edited and was intended mostly as a “let’s pass the time with nice wholesome cozy oc content” thing, but here it is. what if i cry about them

tag list: @just-emis-blog @orions-quill @honeybewrites @leahnardo-da-veggie @acertainmoshke @robin-the-blind-sniper-rifle

did u guys know u can get through a ridiculously slow shift at work (ice cream store when it’s below freezing outside) so easily it feels like no time has passed at all by 1. thinking really hard about your ocs which will inspire you to 2. write 600 words of plotless fluff about your ocs and then 3. give it to your coworker and friend of over a decade to read on the drive home

[fractured-shield]

ath3alin stop over describing swords in your writing challenge

[fractured-shield]

in a very “I want to talk about my ocs to avoid thinking about the horrors” mood tonight

I made new picrews for the early book 1 group: a modern au one of Oenith and an updated canon design for Therien pre-haircut and then both a canon and modern au design for Leoht and Condel

like I’m not capable of writing or editing rn but. let it be known I’m Thinking About Those Guys

[fractured-shield]

one of these days my dumb “used to be a horse girl until I couldn’t afford it” ass is gonna make a whole post about every character’s horse with irl breed basis and in-universe origin/explanation, reference photos, temperament quirks etc

this is a threat

why work on my current draft when I can do shit like this and convince myself it counts as worldbuilding

[fractured-shield]

“I’m going to work on my outline and fix that glaring issue with the narrative I’ve been ignoring”

WRONG oc picrews be upon ye!!! Made updated versions and im just sitting here looking at them im so normal about them. characters who have existed nowhere but my own mind for like 13 years i wish they were my parents

only difference in the modern au is Leithe gets more piercings bc she’s cool and Idhren gets reading glasses bc the existence of modern lighting and computer screens lets him fuck up his vision from overwork even more

yes they’re both like 40-50 and blushing like teens. your honor they are in love

she’s telling him to shut the fuck up and go to sleep btw

[fractured-shield]

omg i'm only just seeing this now but aaaaaa thank you!!!!

did in fact write something from the prequel timeline I've been trying to focus on, full text and content warnings below the cut

At such a late hour as this, the corridors of Nar-thelyr were still and empty — now, more than ever. The war-council session had concluded just three days prior, and the councillors and generals that only had seasonal appointments in the fortress had left with their convoys. The few year-round inhabitants were shuttered into their rooms to keep out the chill wind that drove against the mountainside: asleep, if they were wise or perhaps lulled by the drumming of sleet outside, or awake poring over notes or records, if he knew them as well as he suspected.

For his part, Idhren wanted nothing more than to do the same. The sudden storm and the icy winds brought with it had set his knee aching and turned his hands clumsy and trembling, and there was work to be done that would be almost bearable with the warmth of a fireplace and a cup of tea. But Tathran had knocked on his door not ten minutes ago, austere and businesslike as ever.

“The Warmaster is not himself,” he had said, expressionless but for the grim set of his mouth. “He refused to take his evening meal. He has been drinking again. I imagine the cold pains him terribly, but he is refusing to let me enter his rooms to tend to him. I thought, perhaps, your presence might ease his distress…?”

Idhren had bitten back a curse as he got to his feet, limping a few steps as his knee acclimated itself to use once again.

cw: blood/self-injury/scratching, alcohol, paranoia, suicidal thoughts of varying degrees of repressed on both their parts, self-loathing as typical for Idhren's POV

At such a late hour as this, the corridors of Nar-thelyr were still and empty — now, more than ever. The war-council session had concluded just three days prior, and the councillors and generals that only had seasonal appointments in the fortress had left with their convoys. The few year-round inhabitants were shuttered into their rooms to keep out the chill wind that drove against the mountainside: asleep, if they were wise or perhaps lulled by the drumming of sleet outside, or awake poring over notes or records, if he knew them as well as he suspected.

For his part, Idhren wanted nothing more than to do the same. The sudden storm and the icy winds brought with it had set his knee aching and turned his hands clumsy and trembling, and there was work to be done that would be almost bearable with the warmth of a fireplace and a cup of tea. But Tathran had knocked on his door not ten minutes ago, austere and businesslike as ever.

“The Warmaster is not himself,” he had said, expressionless but for the grim set of his mouth. “He refused to take his evening meal. He has been drinking again. I imagine the cold pains him terribly, but he is refusing to let me enter his rooms to tend to him. I thought, perhaps, your presence might ease his distress…?”

Idhren had bitten back a curse as he got to his feet, limping a few steps as his knee acclimated itself to use once again.

Damn. I didn’t expect this again, not so soon. He didn’t imagine his presence would make any difference. He wasn’t the one who could soothe the Warmaster’s afflictions, only a poor substitute whose use seemed to be lessening by the day.

“Alright,” he had said instead, facing the young mage with the closest thing to a smile he could manage, and laying a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll do what I can. If you don’t mind, have the kitchens prepare a sleeping draught in some of the Ikhanan wine—”

The mage held up a silver-wrought flagon, its surface fogged by the warm substance within. “Already done, sir.”

He’d nodded, thankful, if not terribly confident in his chances. “If he won’t take that, there’s nothing for it.”

And so he found himself standing outside the door he had entered so many times before, hesitating, as he was doing more often lately, listening for any hint of noise from within.

The lanterns lining the stone corridor flickered low and cast long shadows, and outside the sleet and rain drummed at their steady pace.

A snap, from within — barely heard, like a piece of firewood being split, then a dragging noise like a chair across stone. The Warmaster spoke something to himself, in a slurred mix of Cenaith and Ikhanan. Idhren knocked, two crisp raps on the heavy door, loud enough to be heard but hopefully not enough to startle him.

The voice ceased. A breath later, something crashed into the door, shattering in a way that sounded concerningly like a porcelain tea cup, and Idhren was thankful there were no passersby to see him flinch.

“My lord,” he began, steadying his voice as best he could.

“You might as well come in, I don’t give a damn, if you’ve come to have at me the door’s unlocked.”

Ah, so it’s that kind of night. He’d suspected, since Tathran had said he hadn’t taken any food, that the Warmaster’s paranoia of being poisoned by his attendants was rearing its head again. He couldn’t even blame him, but he always felt so unable to deal with any of it well enough to help.

As he entered, the Warmaster retreated into his inner room, leaving the door open behind him. Even in the low light — there were no candles or lanterns within, and the fire burned low — Idhren didn’t miss how he stumbled. As he righted himself, only to collapse in a rather undignified manner into the upholstered chaise, Idhren couldn’t help but think his imposing figure seemed stripped of most of its bulk. In place of the armor he wore so often these days, Nar-thelyr’s lord wore only trousers and a simple shirt, both too thin for this far into winter. The shirt’s sleeve was torn and its hem seemed spattered with something red, either wine or blood, mixing with cold sweat. The red gem hanging from his neck glowed faintly as ever it did, a churning, angry sort of light, the light of captured dragon-fire.

Idhren stepped over the shattered fragments of the tea cup and crossed the entrance chamber without any real sort of awareness to stand in the inner doorway. As his eyes adjusted to the low light, it became clear that the spots on the other man’s shirt were, in fact, blood. He had reopened the old scars on his cheek and neck, as if trying to claw the pale lines from his flesh, as if beneath them would be revealed skin whole and unmarred.

This was not the first time he had done such a thing. Idhren would have to inform Tathran, and leave the mage to his healing work, once this fit of their lord had passed.

“My lord Maithyr,” he tried again, hoping to work some nameless essence into his tone that could soothe his torment. The proud figure sought his face in the dark, but as he spoke, drunk and in pain and half-lucid, Idhren knew it wasn’t he that Maithyr saw. “Linna?”

It should be Linna, here in my stead, not crushed beneath enemy boots and presented before the masses as a noble corpse, face draped in fine velvet to spare the lords the sight of their king's mangled remains. If I could serve my lord better in death I’d do it in an instant.

“No, my lord.”

No, that isn’t the sort of thought to be entertaining tonight. Your role is here, for what little help it may give him.

The Warmaster scoffed, barely affording him a wave of his good arm, and turned aside angrily. “Then be gone, I have no use for you.”

Idhren bowed, and did not let his face betray his thoughts, even in the heavy darkness, even as his lord refused to look at him.

“Yes, my lord. There is spiced wine if you will have it. Please send for me if you have need.”

He barely noticed the twinge in his knee as he left. Maithyr’s voice — it had sounded rasping and painful as it hadn’t since those months after his duel with the Aureate. It could only mean that he had been refusing the medicine for his throat for days. He’d have to mention it to Tathran. The mage, at least, could help their lord with the worst of the pain. He, at least, served some purpose.

The wine, warm and spiced and honeyed, contained a sleeping draught as well. When Maithyr was of sounder mind, he had specifically allowed for its use if needed. It wasn’t like they were deceiving him. He would appreciate their decision, eventually. It was an odd thing, to be so preoccupied with the threat of a traitorous officer or aide slipping unseen poison into his drink, or tampering with his medicines, and yet to threaten to down the whole vial of the orchid tincture for pain or of the sleeping draughts in front of those same attendants at least once a fortnight.

He’d been saying again lately that Idhren couldn’t stop him if he tried. Idhren had no delusions otherwise.

He wanted to stay, to linger in the entrance chamber and watch over his lord, as if it would do any good. But tonight, he was no more than war-council mediator. He had no place in his lord’s quarters if he was not called for.

As he closed the door behind him, hoping beyond reason that Maithyr would manage to drink enough to sleep before he worked himself into more of a frenzy, Idhren’s mind returned to the bloody nail-scrapes on his lord’s face.

He supposed it had been right for Tathran to remove the bulk of the medicines from the Warmaster’s chambers a few days ago.

He rather wished their temporary storage place hadn’t been his own, and tried not to think of it.

He still had his work to finish, and he was sure his tea had gone cold, not that he could stomach it either way. There was still the generals’ monthly pay to allocate, once the records were sorted properly by region and assignment, and he had offered to check over the junior-councillors’ records of supply levels before the month ran out. And — gods and their thrones, he’d promised to write to Leithe regularly, and it had been a month now, at least, that her last letter had sat unanswered on his desk.

He wasn’t sure what to say, if anything could pass as truth without being terribly gloomy.

You are not Linna. You cannot expect to be for him what Linna was, do not delude yourself into the arrogant assumption that you could be enough to help him. You are a distraction, an unsightly and inferior imitation of his love. It is more than enough that he bothers with you at all, and if he thinks of Linna when he touches you it is more than you deserve and a welcome chance to serve him.

Ah, perhaps the letter to Leithe would have to wait until his hands stopped shaking, until the blood-smeared skin and flickering fire stopped playing before his eyes.

***

The dawn awoke dreary and chill, though Idhren did not see it. He was surprised, when he woke much later still at his desk, that he had been able to sleep at all. Damn, but his knee would have something to say about that. He could only hope that Maithyr had managed to rest, for his part.

There was something waking him, it seemed, but nothing he could place, no sound to catch his attention —

A knock sounded at the door, and he could only imagine it hadn’t been the first.

“Enter,” he managed, hating how his ugly Fairalmin accent worked itself so far into just one word, as he hadn’t awoken enough to keep it in check.

The door cracked just enough for a tousled mess of red hair to peer through.

“My lord — ” Idhren gathered himself into military posture, despite the knife-sharp pain in his knee, despite the ache in his shoulders and his heart.

“None of that, you haven’t been that formal with me in years,” the Warmaster closed the door behind him and offered a lopsided grin. He seemed…well, surprisingly so, all things considered.

“Gods, my throat hurts, I’ll have to ask Tathran to prepare more medicine,” he hesitated, just a brief catch. “I…suppose I must seem a fucking fool to you. It’s less easy to doubt the intentions of your friends in the light of day.”

Idhren didn’t point out that it had been more than one night that Maithyr had refused the medicine in question.

His expression sobered as he crossed the room and Idhren still stood stiffly before him. “Did — I said something last night, didn’t I? I don’t remember, but I must have.”

“Nothing, my lord,” he lied, and the Warmaster let him.

“You don’t have to tell me, then. I didn’t mean it, whatever it was. Forgive me.”

He leaned in closer to the older man, hesitating for just a moment, an unspoken question, waiting for permission.

Idhren wouldn’t think of denying him.

Warmaster Maithyr, the stalwart flame keeper of the north, the self-named Dragonbrand, architect of alliances and military campaigns, was remarkably good at kissing. This was not news, by any means, but as he put a firm hand to the chin of the somber and dark-clad councillor and tilted his head just so, his thumb brushing lightly over his lower lip, Idhren was reminded of this fact.

Maithyr shifted his good hand to catch in his hair, tilting his head back just a little further, and Idhren grasped at the back of his lord’s shirt, allowing himself a brief moment of worry disguised as want.

The kiss was brief, and tasted vaguely of wine and bitter herbs and blood.

And the worst part was that such little moments of affection were always so genuine, and Idhren could never ask for more.

I can take on whatever role, make myself into whatever you need me to be. Please, let me remain by your side, in your service, just a little while longer. Allow me the grace of pretending my selfishness is devotion.

As they drew apart he pulled himself back into the stiff posture of before. There was an ache setting in behind his eyes that he tried to ignore.

“If you’ve rested well, my lord, I could send for Tathran. I should return these records to Aglar as well, by your leave, of course, my lord.” He bowed stiffly and tried to tidy his clothes into something presentable that didn’t look slept-in. He was a coward, by all accounts, and he wouldn’t deny it — but he told himself that his lord needed, in this moment as so many others, what he could not himself provide.

tag list: @just-emis-blog @orions-quill @honeybewrites @leahnardo-da-veggie @acertainmoshke @robin-the-blind-sniper-rifle

[fractured-shield]

there's some details (leaving the two ikhan ruins off later maps, forgetting lairnil entirely) that i need to fix, but here's the general progression of my (currently unnamed bc i didn't like the previous name) map through the timeline of everything leading up to book 1

tag list: @just-emis-blog @orions-quill @honeybewrites @leahnardo-da-veggie @acertainmoshke @robin-the-blind-sniper-rifle

[fractured-shield]

did in fact write something from the prequel timeline I've been trying to focus on, full text and content warnings below the cut

At such a late hour as this, the corridors of Nar-thelyr were still and empty — now, more than ever. The war-council session had concluded just three days prior, and the councillors and generals that only had seasonal appointments in the fortress had left with their convoys. The few year-round inhabitants were shuttered into their rooms to keep out the chill wind that drove against the mountainside: asleep, if they were wise or perhaps lulled by the drumming of sleet outside, or awake poring over notes or records, if he knew them as well as he suspected.

For his part, Idhren wanted nothing more than to do the same. The sudden storm and the icy winds brought with it had set his knee aching and turned his hands clumsy and trembling, and there was work to be done that would be almost bearable with the warmth of a fireplace and a cup of tea. But Tathran had knocked on his door not ten minutes ago, austere and businesslike as ever.

“The Warmaster is not himself,” he had said, expressionless but for the grim set of his mouth. “He refused to take his evening meal. He has been drinking again. I imagine the cold pains him terribly, but he is refusing to let me enter his rooms to tend to him. I thought, perhaps, your presence might ease his distress…?”

Idhren had bitten back a curse as he got to his feet, limping a few steps as his knee acclimated itself to use once again.

cw: blood/self-injury/scratching, alcohol, paranoia, suicidal thoughts of varying degrees of repressed on both their parts, self-loathing as typical for Idhren's POV

At such a late hour as this, the corridors of Nar-thelyr were still and empty — now, more than ever. The war-council session had concluded just three days prior, and the councillors and generals that only had seasonal appointments in the fortress had left with their convoys. The few year-round inhabitants were shuttered into their rooms to keep out the chill wind that drove against the mountainside: asleep, if they were wise or perhaps lulled by the drumming of sleet outside, or awake poring over notes or records, if he knew them as well as he suspected.

For his part, Idhren wanted nothing more than to do the same. The sudden storm and the icy winds brought with it had set his knee aching and turned his hands clumsy and trembling, and there was work to be done that would be almost bearable with the warmth of a fireplace and a cup of tea. But Tathran had knocked on his door not ten minutes ago, austere and businesslike as ever.

“The Warmaster is not himself,” he had said, expressionless but for the grim set of his mouth. “He refused to take his evening meal. He has been drinking again. I imagine the cold pains him terribly, but he is refusing to let me enter his rooms to tend to him. I thought, perhaps, your presence might ease his distress…?”

Idhren had bitten back a curse as he got to his feet, limping a few steps as his knee acclimated itself to use once again.

Damn. I didn’t expect this again, not so soon. He didn’t imagine his presence would make any difference. He wasn’t the one who could soothe the Warmaster’s afflictions, only a poor substitute whose use seemed to be lessening by the day.

“Alright,” he had said instead, facing the young mage with the closest thing to a smile he could manage, and laying a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll do what I can. If you don’t mind, have the kitchens prepare a sleeping draught in some of the Ikhanan wine—”

The mage held up a silver-wrought flagon, its surface fogged by the warm substance within. “Already done, sir.”

He’d nodded, thankful, if not terribly confident in his chances. “If he won’t take that, there’s nothing for it.”

And so he found himself standing outside the door he had entered so many times before, hesitating, as he was doing more often lately, listening for any hint of noise from within.

The lanterns lining the stone corridor flickered low and cast long shadows, and outside the sleet and rain drummed at their steady pace.

A snap, from within — barely heard, like a piece of firewood being split, then a dragging noise like a chair across stone. The Warmaster spoke something to himself, in a slurred mix of Cenaith and Ikhanan. Idhren knocked, two crisp raps on the heavy door, loud enough to be heard but hopefully not enough to startle him.

The voice ceased. A breath later, something crashed into the door, shattering in a way that sounded concerningly like a porcelain tea cup, and Idhren was thankful there were no passersby to see him flinch.

“My lord,” he began, steadying his voice as best he could.

“You might as well come in, I don’t give a damn, if you’ve come to have at me the door’s unlocked.”

Ah, so it’s that kind of night. He’d suspected, since Tathran had said he hadn’t taken any food, that the Warmaster’s paranoia of being poisoned by his attendants was rearing its head again. He couldn’t even blame him, but he always felt so unable to deal with any of it well enough to help.

As he entered, the Warmaster retreated into his inner room, leaving the door open behind him. Even in the low light — there were no candles or lanterns within, and the fire burned low — Idhren didn’t miss how he stumbled. As he righted himself, only to collapse in a rather undignified manner into the upholstered chaise, Idhren couldn’t help but think his imposing figure seemed stripped of most of its bulk. In place of the armor he wore so often these days, Nar-thelyr’s lord wore only trousers and a simple shirt, both too thin for this far into winter. The shirt’s sleeve was torn and its hem seemed spattered with something red, either wine or blood, mixing with cold sweat. The red gem hanging from his neck glowed faintly as ever it did, a churning, angry sort of light, the light of captured dragon-fire.

Idhren stepped over the shattered fragments of the tea cup and crossed the entrance chamber without any real sort of awareness to stand in the inner doorway. As his eyes adjusted to the low light, it became clear that the spots on the other man’s shirt were, in fact, blood. He had reopened the old scars on his cheek and neck, as if trying to claw the pale lines from his flesh, as if beneath them would be revealed skin whole and unmarred.

This was not the first time he had done such a thing. Idhren would have to inform Tathran, and leave the mage to his healing work, once this fit of their lord had passed.

“My lord Maithyr,” he tried again, hoping to work some nameless essence into his tone that could soothe his torment. The proud figure sought his face in the dark, but as he spoke, drunk and in pain and half-lucid, Idhren knew it wasn’t he that Maithyr saw. “Linna?”

It should be Linna, here in my stead, not crushed beneath enemy boots and presented before the masses as a noble corpse, face draped in fine velvet to spare the lords the sight of their king's mangled remains. If I could serve my lord better in death I’d do it in an instant.

“No, my lord.”

No, that isn’t the sort of thought to be entertaining tonight. Your role is here, for what little help it may give him.

The Warmaster scoffed, barely affording him a wave of his good arm, and turned aside angrily. “Then be gone, I have no use for you.”

Idhren bowed, and did not let his face betray his thoughts, even in the heavy darkness, even as his lord refused to look at him.

“Yes, my lord. There is spiced wine if you will have it. Please send for me if you have need.”

He barely noticed the twinge in his knee as he left. Maithyr’s voice — it had sounded rasping and painful as it hadn’t since those months after his duel with the Aureate. It could only mean that he had been refusing the medicine for his throat for days. He’d have to mention it to Tathran. The mage, at least, could help their lord with the worst of the pain. He, at least, served some purpose.

The wine, warm and spiced and honeyed, contained a sleeping draught as well. When Maithyr was of sounder mind, he had specifically allowed for its use if needed. It wasn’t like they were deceiving him. He would appreciate their decision, eventually. It was an odd thing, to be so preoccupied with the threat of a traitorous officer or aide slipping unseen poison into his drink, or tampering with his medicines, and yet to threaten to down the whole vial of the orchid tincture for pain or of the sleeping draughts in front of those same attendants at least once a fortnight.

He’d been saying again lately that Idhren couldn’t stop him if he tried. Idhren had no delusions otherwise.

He wanted to stay, to linger in the entrance chamber and watch over his lord, as if it would do any good. But tonight, he was no more than war-council mediator. He had no place in his lord’s quarters if he was not called for.

As he closed the door behind him, hoping beyond reason that Maithyr would manage to drink enough to sleep before he worked himself into more of a frenzy, Idhren’s mind returned to the bloody nail-scrapes on his lord’s face.

He supposed it had been right for Tathran to remove the bulk of the medicines from the Warmaster’s chambers a few days ago.

He rather wished their temporary storage place hadn’t been his own, and tried not to think of it.

He still had his work to finish, and he was sure his tea had gone cold, not that he could stomach it either way. There was still the generals’ monthly pay to allocate, once the records were sorted properly by region and assignment, and he had offered to check over the junior-councillors’ records of supply levels before the month ran out. And — gods and their thrones, he’d promised to write to Leithe regularly, and it had been a month now, at least, that her last letter had sat unanswered on his desk.

He wasn’t sure what to say, if anything could pass as truth without being terribly gloomy.

You are not Linna. You cannot expect to be for him what Linna was, do not delude yourself into the arrogant assumption that you could be enough to help him. You are a distraction, an unsightly and inferior imitation of his love. It is more than enough that he bothers with you at all, and if he thinks of Linna when he touches you it is more than you deserve and a welcome chance to serve him.

Ah, perhaps the letter to Leithe would have to wait until his hands stopped shaking, until the blood-smeared skin and flickering fire stopped playing before his eyes.

***

The dawn awoke dreary and chill, though Idhren did not see it. He was surprised, when he woke much later still at his desk, that he had been able to sleep at all. Damn, but his knee would have something to say about that. He could only hope that Maithyr had managed to rest, for his part.

There was something waking him, it seemed, but nothing he could place, no sound to catch his attention —

A knock sounded at the door, and he could only imagine it hadn’t been the first.

“Enter,” he managed, hating how his ugly Fairalmin accent worked itself so far into just one word, as he hadn’t awoken enough to keep it in check.

The door cracked just enough for a tousled mess of red hair to peer through.

“My lord — ” Idhren gathered himself into military posture, despite the knife-sharp pain in his knee, despite the ache in his shoulders and his heart.

“None of that, you haven’t been that formal with me in years,” the Warmaster closed the door behind him and offered a lopsided grin. He seemed…well, surprisingly so, all things considered.

“Gods, my throat hurts, I’ll have to ask Tathran to prepare more medicine,” he hesitated, just a brief catch. “I…suppose I must seem a fucking fool to you. It’s less easy to doubt the intentions of your friends in the light of day.”

Idhren didn’t point out that it had been more than one night that Maithyr had refused the medicine in question.

His expression sobered as he crossed the room and Idhren still stood stiffly before him. “Did — I said something last night, didn’t I? I don’t remember, but I must have.”

“Nothing, my lord,” he lied, and the Warmaster let him.

“You don’t have to tell me, then. I didn’t mean it, whatever it was. Forgive me.”

He leaned in closer to the older man, hesitating for just a moment, an unspoken question, waiting for permission.

Idhren wouldn’t think of denying him.

Warmaster Maithyr, the stalwart flame keeper of the north, the self-named Dragonbrand, architect of alliances and military campaigns, was remarkably good at kissing. This was not news, by any means, but as he put a firm hand to the chin of the somber and dark-clad councillor and tilted his head just so, his thumb brushing lightly over his lower lip, Idhren was reminded of this fact.

Maithyr shifted his good hand to catch in his hair, tilting his head back just a little further, and Idhren grasped at the back of his lord’s shirt, allowing himself a brief moment of worry disguised as want.

The kiss was brief, and tasted vaguely of wine and bitter herbs and blood.

And the worst part was that such little moments of affection were always so genuine, and Idhren could never ask for more.

I can take on whatever role, make myself into whatever you need me to be. Please, let me remain by your side, in your service, just a little while longer. Allow me the grace of pretending my selfishness is devotion.

As they drew apart he pulled himself back into the stiff posture of before. There was an ache setting in behind his eyes that he tried to ignore.

“If you’ve rested well, my lord, I could send for Tathran. I should return these records to Aglar as well, by your leave, of course, my lord.” He bowed stiffly and tried to tidy his clothes into something presentable that didn’t look slept-in. He was a coward, by all accounts, and he wouldn’t deny it — but he told himself that his lord needed, in this moment as so many others, what he could not himself provide.

tag list: @just-emis-blog @orions-quill @honeybewrites @leahnardo-da-veggie @acertainmoshke @robin-the-blind-sniper-rifle

[fractured-shield]

i hate that i more or less fell out of contact with the little social circle i had within the tumblr writing community, but i think right now i don't have the energy to like...keep up with any of this, and it isn't fair for me to expect engagement on my work when i don't have the spoons or the time to read as much of everyone else's as i'd like

i'm still crashing on a family member's couch, i'm trying to pick up a second part-time job and to start my own small business. going back to school has been put on hold indefinitely. i'm still writing, though at a much slower pace, but hopefully if i'm ever able to save enough to get an apartment again i'll have the energy to post more regularly

i'll still be making the occasional update or reblog on here, and reading what i can of everyone's writing, but i'm tired of beating myself up over feeling excluded due to my inability to meet people halfway right now, so i figured it was about time i actually just said "shit's stressful, i'll be back in earnest when i can" and stopped expecting myself to engage above what i'm capable of right now

tag list: @just-emis-blog @orions-quill @honeybewrites @leahnardo-da-veggie @acertainmoshke @robin-the-blind-sniper-rifle