#;breath of rain (Suren)

[warriorfey]

“He’s not here.” Stretched out along one of the heavy, twisted boughs of an old oak, Suren crossed her ankles just below the hem of her buckskin trousers. All of the Desert Fey wore those shades of dusted brown, then -- as if blending into an environment that wasn’t as damp and floral as this one.

[scarletaire]

devil’s finery (Chapter 1)

Fandom: The Folk of the Air by Holly Black

Ship: Jude Duarte x Cardan Greenbriar

Genre/s: Fluff, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut

Rating: T

Tags: Post-Canon, Cardan visits the Mortal World, Possessive Behavior, Jude Torturing Cardan Without Even Knowing It, Jude Torturing Cardan AND Knowing It, Vivi and Heather Seeing Right Through Them, Starring: Cardan Greenbriar’s Tail and Jude Duarte’s Rage, Touch Denial, Lingerie, High Stress (only if you’re Cardan) 😈

Description:

Her husband, Jude swiftly realizes, has a thing for mortal clothes.

Specifically: her in mortal clothes.

Links: Masterlist | Read on AO3

Jude doesn’t notice it right away, of course.

For the better part of their first year as a married couple, she and Cardan remain in Elfhame cleaning up the mess her wayward father and the cohort of the Undersea left behind. As a result, she spends most of her time in fae clothing — practical linen trousers, embroidered jackets, the increasingly necessary ballgown — and the remainder of the time, well, out of them.

It’s in such a state that Jude finds herself the morning she’s set to leave for a trip away from the brugh, her first since fully becoming High Queen of Elfhame. To make matters worse, it’s drizzling outside, the sound of the rain pattering and the ensuing morning mist so very close to soothing her back into a drowse, surrounded by the soft, silk sheets of their bed.

A situation that, she’s beginning to suspect, isn’t entirely by coincidence.

“Cardan, I have to get up.”

She’s still catching her breath, and it doesn’t help that her husband is an immovable weight on top of her, his face buried in her stomach, as if he never means to surface from her again.

“Later.” He’s tracing his fingers along her hip, up and down the length of her leg. Lazy patterns, meant to lull. Just like the rain outside.

“I know what you’re doing.”

She feels him smile into the curve of her waist. “Is it working?”

“No,” she lies.

He hums. The vibration of it washes over still sensitive skin.

“What will you do while I’m away?” It’s a leading question, because she knows the right answer. And he does, too, even if he doesn’t like it.

“Await your return.”

“And after?”

“Await your return.”

“Don’t you mean, ‘meet with the tribunal delegation sent by Queen Suren?’”

He waves a hand. “Yes. That.”

“Cardan, I’m serious.”

Dark eyes glint at her. “As wholly am I.”

Quick as a knife, her knee cuts up under his chin, pressing hard into his throat and tilting his head back in an uncomfortable angle. “This meeting has been planned for months. You’re going to show up and pass the agenda, with or without me. Do you understand?”

He smiles, sharp like glass, even as his neck strains. “Yes.”

“Good.” She drops her knee and wriggles, a little inelegantly. “Now get off me. I have to get dressed.”

Cardan does not get off her. Instead, he sends his grunt of complaint into the skin of her stomach, the tension of the previous moment melting back into something comfortable. It’s easy like that, with him. “How cruelly you abandon me.”

Jude shoves at his shoulder, unimpressed with his dramatics. “I’m not abandoning you. I’ll be gone for just a week.”

“A whole week. In the mortal world.”

“Yes.”

He holds steadfast around her waist. “I can come with you.”

“We’ve been over this. Someone needs to babysit Oak while Vivi visits Heather’s family in Seattle. And one of us needs to stay behind to oversee the tribunal for the disbanded Court of Teeth.”

“They can take Oak with them.”

“He has school.”

“Vivi doesn’t have to go.”

“She wants to. Heather’s introducing her to her family, again, and this is important to both of them. Now, move.”

She keeps her mortal clothes in the bottom drawer of their closet. It’s been months since she’s taken them out, and the polyester and denim feel more than a little foreign to the touch: she’s gotten too used to the spidersilks and brocades and velvets of Faerie.

Sighing, Jude begins to slip on her bra. She definitely hasn’t missed the feeling of underwires and stiff elastic. Breast bindings are the norm in Elfhame, but even then, their use isn’t much common outside of knights and soldiers. Fae clothing, she had noticed early on, seemed to be designed without the need of such things, anyway.

As if there wasn’t enough to begrudge the fae, they also somehow had self-supporting boobs.

No one seemed to mind, at any rate, even when she wore dresses and gowns that weren’t entirely intended for her fuller mortal body.

Cardan certainly didn’t.

It isn’t until he presses a kiss to her bare shoulder that she realizes he has come up behind her. His slyfooting has greatly improved, apparently.

“Is this a mortal garment?” He runs a finger over her bra strap, and then — when she doesn’t shove him away — under it, lifting the fabric curiously from her skin. “I’ve only ever seen it worn by you.”

“It’s called a bra. A type of… mortal underwear.”

“Bra,” he repeats, and the word sounds foreign coming from his full, swollen mouth.

He pulls them around, until they’re facing the mirror on the vanity. Jude watches their reflections as one of his hands folds across her stomach, while the other begins to trace the top edge of her cup, the swell of her breast. Watches him watch her, a thoughtful gleam in his eyes.

“What?” she asks, warily.

“I like it.”

“I don’t wear it for you.”

His hand stills, warm against the thin fabric on her chest. “Oh? And are there — ones you would wear for me?”

Jude scoffs. “You wish.”

A knuckle brushes across her nipple. “Pity. I think I do.”

Jude tells herself not to dwell on it too long. Those thoughts lead to danger. Her jeans go on next, but Cardan has effectively plastered himself to her back.

“Cardan.”

“Yes? Need help with your clothes again?”

“What? No, just—”

She finally shoves him away with a hard jab of her elbow. He goes, laughing, even as he rubs at his bruised ribs.

The laugh drops off when he notices the jeans she’s stepping into.

“No.” He’s immediately at her side again, this time without an ounce of amusement. “Don’t wear those.”

She’s doing the hop that all tight denim jeans demand. She misses her easy Fae trousers already. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t, Jude,” he says, something urgent in his tone. He tries to tug at her belt loops, but she swats his hand away.

“What is it now?”

“I’ve seen you wear those before.” His eyes are dark, and wide. He almost sounds like he’s begging. “You need to wear something else. Anything else.”

Jude’s temper is swiftly reaching its end. “Quit trying to delay me, Cardan, I’m going.”

She turns and storms away to a short distance where she isn’t tempted to behead him, for real this time. She hears a strangled noise from behind her as she buttons up her jeans. Whatever his problem is, he can deal with it while she’s away. She pulls on her shirt and jacket, and fastens Nightfell and a few select knives to her body. That part of dressing up doesn’t change, no matter where or who she is.

The door is blocked.

“Jude,” Cardan pleads, hands outstretched like a child. Desperation has rendered him foolish.

Nightfell digs easily and eagerly into the hollow of his throat.

“Step. Away. From the door.”

His tail flicks once behind him, curling protectively over the door knob. “You don’t understand.”

“Nor do I care.” A second blade appears in her other hand, and she presses it to his side. “Move, dear.”

“I’ll trade you, anything, if you just promise not to—”

She feints a swipe of her knife hand, and Cardan, unable to move forward because of Nightfell, smartly recoils to the other side. It’s enough for her to wrench the door open.

“Nice try,” she says. “Have fun with the tribunal.”

  __________

Unsurprisingly, her trip to the mortal world is cut short.

The Bomb waves cheerily at her atop a ragwort steed, which grazes heedlessly on the front lawn of Vivi’s apartment complex. “The High King requests your return, Your Majesty.”

Jude crosses her arms. She isn’t even halfway through the week. “Of course he does.”

“I believe,” says the Bomb, still in that cheery tone of voice, “that the request was of the urgent variety.”

“Oh, really.”

The Bomb dismounts, and offers Jude a small packet. “I’m afraid so.”

Inside is a lock of black hair, the tip of it wet. Dipped in blood.

“A gift from Suren’s delegation.”

Jude takes less than a second to think. “Take care of Oak. Don’t let him out of your sight.” She’s halfway up the mount before she turns back and adds, “And if he asks to have cake for dinner, do not give in. There are leftovers in the fridge.”

And then she flies.

All manner of horrible possibilities flood her head throughout the ride back home. The delegation had agreed to the tribunal without much complaint. Maybe too easily. Jude had attributed it to Suren and her fealty to the monarchs of Elfhame. But if they had come so that the Court of Teeth could gain access to the palace grounds…

Suren’s scarred face smiles in her memories, teeth filed into sharp needlepoints and stained red.

Jude’s knuckles turn white around the ragwort steed’s mane.

It feels like only heartbeats later when she slams through the great double doors of the throne room, Nightfell already drawn.

And pauses.

The entire delegation from the Court of Teeth is gathered, standing to the sides of the room. In formation among them are palace guards under the banner of Elfhame; Jude spots Fand and select members of the queen’s guard present. But that’s not what makes her pause. Across the throne room floor is a great mahogany table filled edge to edge with towers of pastries and jams and fruits. A feast, and in the center, a great roast boar.

And at the table sit Suren, and the High King of Elfhame.

Spreading cream on his scone.

“What is this?”

“This, I believe,” Cardan drawls, “was a coup.”

It doesn’t look like a coup. It sure as hell doesn’t look like a tribunal. It looks like high tea in the middle of the throne room.

“A sloppily arranged one, to be fair.” Suren’s voice has regained strength in the months since they parted, but she still speaks slowly and carefully, like she is enunciating around a bridle even now. She bows her head to Jude. “My queen.”

“Not one of my finest,” Cardan says to Suren, as if Jude weren’t there, sword drawn to defend him.

“You set this up. You set me up.”

Suren takes a measured sip of tea, yellow eyes flickering between the High King and Queen of Elfhame.

“You’ve come a long way, Jude.” Cardan slides the chair out next to him in a mockery of chivalry. “At least sit down to the table.”

Jude glares.

Members of the Court of Teeth murmur and stir uneasily. Suren sends them a glance, and they quiet down.

“Were you even actually hurt? Whose blood is this?”

“Blood? Oh,” Cardan blinks at the parcel of bloodied hair she throws down to the table. “Well, you know how the Court of Teeth like to arrange their feasts, Jude. Everything is done themselves, as an honor to their hosts. Especially the butchering.” He runs one long-fingered hand through his dark curls, grinning. “Messy affair, unfortunately. The gore goes absolutely everywhere.” Then he picks up his fork. “The roast came out splendidly, by the way.”

Jude drives her blade into the mahogany of the dining table, inches from Cardan’s plate.

More than a few gasps from their guest delegation. Someone almost draws their sword in alarm. Fand places a calming hand on their shoulder, a look of boredom clear on her face.

“I told you,” Jude seethes, “to handle this yourself.”

“And I told you, wife,” Cardan says, “not to wear those mortal trousers when you left.”

“What?” There is enough venom in her voice that Suren’s teacup stills halfway to her mouth. “You tricked me all the way back here because you didn’t like my jeans?”

“On the contrary.” He tilts his head at her. He’s wearing the kind of smile that tells her a good sum of his amusement is actually directed at himself. “My spies informed me that you took Oak to an event full of unruly mortal men. Wearing that.” His eyes rove over her and linger, heavy and dark, on the curve of her hips.

Jude’s head is beginning to throb. Not just because of the anger simmering with every word out of Cardan’s mouth, but because his words aren’t making any sense. He had spies on her? Why?

“Unruly—” Her hand comes up to rub at the ache forming between her brows. “Are you talking about the basketball game?” Cardan doesn’t say anything. “That was a school thing for Oak!”

He shrugs. “It matters not, seeing as there is only one solution to the problem at hand.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” He nods sagely. “I shall have to chaperone you throughout your sojourn in the mortal realms.”

Suren must see Jude’s hand reaching to pull Nightfell out of the dining table because she swiftly interrupts. “Your Majesties. It would seem that a tribunal cannot be carried out while the two of you are away. It would be no trouble at all to postpone to a later date.”

“Trouble. Yes, we wouldn’t want any of that, would we, Jude?”

Jude grits her teeth as Suren and her infuriating husband work out an agreeable rescheduling. The young queen, despite her tender age, is a logical, if soft-spoken, negotiator. Jude marks this, and adds it to the tally of information she’s collected about her. There is precious little, and that leaves Jude uneasy. Then, the entire delegation of the Court of Teeth files out of the throne room, Suren’s expression inscrutable throughout it all.

When the two of them are finally alone, Jude stands in front of Cardan, hands clenched.

“I thought you were hurt.”

A flash of teeth as he sips his wine. “And you came for me so quickly.”

“We’ve been planning this tribunal for months.”

Cardan eyes her over the rim of his wine goblet.

“Cardan, some of them voted to have you bridled and enslaved. And today you let them get away.”

He sets his goblet down and sighs. “Yes. And today you saw how well Suren is handling them. They’re all much too afraid of her to even think about making a move against us.”

“That doesn’t mean you had to postpone the entire thing.”

“It also didn’t mean that we had to make Suren order a retinue of her people to their punishment.”

Jude narrows her eyes at him. “It’s her duty as queen.”

“She’s nine.”

“What does that matter?” The words are out of her mouth before she can think them through. And she knows: it matters. Nine years old. Barely older than the age she’d witnessed her parents killed. Barely older than Oak. Too young.

Cardan says nothing, only waits.

A long breath escapes her. “All right. I understand.”

“Good.”

“That means you have to find another way to charge the guilty.”

“Arguable.”

“Non-negotiable.” Her fingers find that throbbing between her eyebrows again. “You didn’t need me here to postpone that ruling.”

“Of course not. I needed you here for a different reason.”

Her irritation is a hot surge under her skin. Jude slams her hands on the armrests of his chair. “Care to elaborate?” Danger, soft in her voice.

A danger mirrored in the tilt of Cardan’s lips. He snags one of her belt loops in one hand, while the other drifts up her hipbone and then around. He squeezes. “These jeans, you call them? Wear them only when I’m around.”

She doesn’t need Nightfell to get her point across. Her fingers tangle in his hair, yanking hard enough to make him hiss.

“If you pull something like this again, I’ll stab you myself. Are we clear?”

He smiles. His satisfaction is sharp enough to cut.

“Well, wife, you did say with or without you.”

 __________

It’s the last day of Jude’s designated week of babysitting, and Vivi and Heather have just arrived from Seattle. She comes in from her evening jog with her sweat drying cold against her skin. It’s late October in Maine and her thin jacket and leggings were a mistake in the evening chill. With mild weather a near constant in Elfhame, Jude is out of practice dealing with extreme temperatures.

She rounds the hallway to find them all sitting around the counter having dinner.

“Cake.” Cardan is half-buried in chocolate icing, and is entirely too gleeful. “Jude, you should have told me mortals eat cake for dinner.”

She doesn’t respond.

“We don’t,” Heather answers when the silence goes on too long. “Not usually, at least. But our Seattle trip was a success and we wanted to celebrate.”

“Thanks for babysitting, Your Royal Majesties,” Vivi says with a grin.

“Not a baby,” Oak grumbles.

“It was our pleasure,” Cardan croons. His eyes track her as she moves to the sink. “Wasn’t it, Jude?”

She ignores him, again. Just like every other time he tried engaging her after he finagled himself into joining her in the mortal world.

Just the thought of it has Jude slamming the kitchen shelves as she retrieves a glass. Water sloshes as she drinks and sets the glass down hard against the counter. The other plates and glasses clink from the force of it.

Vivi raises an eyebrow at her, pulling her plate of chocolate cake away. “Shall I move some things, make some space for your rage?”

“We’ll be returning to Elfhame tomorrow,” Jude announces flatly. “We have a tribunal to move up.”

Cardan pouts.

“I thought he postponed that?” Vivi asks.

“Oh, he did. Indefinitely.”

“Ah,” say Vivi and Heather in unison.

“But, Jude.” Oak blinks up at her with frosting smeared across his cheek. “What about Halloween?”

Cardan immediately perks up. “Yes, Jude. What about Halloween?”

“What about it, Oak?”

Her brother shrinks back a little as she turns all of her intensity toward him instead of Cardan, but he soldiers on anyway. “We were telling Cardan about trick-or-treating tomorrow. How we dress up in costumes and go around getting candy.”

“Candy and costumes, tricks and treats,” Cardan says. “Almost all of my favorite things.” Dark eyes flash in her direction.

She grits her teeth. “Sorry, Oak. We agreed just for a week.”

“Oh, come on, Jude. What’s one more night?” Vivi says. “Remember how you used to plan out our routes to get the best candy?”

“Yes.” Apparently, scheming was long in her blood even before she came to Faerie. “But—”

“Slight problem.” Heather’s brows wrinkle. “We’ve had our costumes planned and ready for months now, and there might not be enough time to pull something together for you guys in time.”

“But,” Vivi says, “they won’t really need costumes for what comes after trick-or-treating.”

And here, Jude feels the conversation slip from her control.

“After?” The intrigue is almost too thick in Cardan’s voice.

A slow smile spreads on Vivi’s face. “A party.”

“A party,” he repeats with relish.

“A party,” Jude deadpans.

“No need for glamours,” Vivi tells Cardan. As if he needs any further convincing. “The devil walks the streets on All Hallow’s Eve. It’ll be the one night we blend in.”

Jude does not care for the mischief in her eyes. “Hey. Wait a minute—”

“You, on the other hand,” Heather says with an assessing gaze on Jude, “could do with some blending in.”

Jude sinks into the nearest bar stool, feeling a familiar throbbing building in her forehead. “You’re all impossible.”

And that’s when she feels it.

A featherlight touch against the top of her thigh.

The material of her leggings is too thin for her to ignore it. And besides, she is intimately familiar with what his tail feels like against her skin.

She sat down next to Cardan and didn’t even realize it.

The conversation fades out around her.

The tip of his tail brushes down her leg. Meets the fold behind her knee. The sensitive, delicate skin there. Unprotected by flimsy fabric. Jude holds her breath. Heather and Vivi are still talking but she’s not paying attention anymore.

It continues down the length of her calf, slowly, and every inch it passes, light as a whisper, she wonders if she’s dreaming it up, until — something feathers against the exposed skin of her ankle, and no, she’s not dreaming this at all.

She gasps, soft enough for just him to hear.

She can feel it like a physical thing, the wickedness of his smile.

His tail sweeps all the way up in a long slide against the back of her leg, and curls around her waist: its home for the moment. The soft ends of it tickle against the patch of skin he finds beneath her shirt. Everything hidden underneath the countertop. A secret tucked away.

He hasn’t touched her. At least, not with his hands. Not with his fingers. Not with his lips.

And yet, she feels the promise of them seared all over her skin.

“It’s settled, then.” She finally looks up when he speaks, and, oh, his eyes. They burn. “Tomorrow, I shall feast on all the treats the mortal world has to offer.”

 __________

“Don’t you think it’s too—”

“Short?”

“No—”

“Tight?”

“N—”

“Boob-y?”

“Gold,” Jude snaps. “Too… gold. But thanks for letting me know how you really feel, Vivi.”

Her sister shrugs. “I’m the one in a black latex catsuit, so I guess I’m not one to talk.”

With her blonde hair covering her pointed ears and her feline eyes, for once unglamoured, flashing behind a black mask, she looks like something straight out of that French superhero TV show she’d seen Heather watching on more than one occasion.

“I told you, Vee, the catsuit does all the talking for you.” Heather is a flash of red and black polka dots around the corner. “Jude! Give us, like, ten minutes to change out of our costumes, and then we can go.”

The minute she and Vivi returned from trick-or-treating with Oak, Heather pounced. Jude quickly found out that by ‘blending in’ Heather actually meant a dress. A small, tight, gold dress. A definite far cry from her gowns in Faerie.

She actually doesn’t get to see much of the thing before Heather wrangles her in it with frankly terrifying efficiency, and she sure as hell doesn’t feel much of the dress, either, because it seems like there wasn’t much of it to begin with.

All she knows is that when Cardan sees her, he misses a step going down the stairs. It’s the first inelegant thing she’s ever seen him do, and the sight of it rings through her head. When he finally regains his balance, he gives her a look like she’s swung a sword at his head all over again.

Which she shouldn’t have noticed anyway, since she’s not presently speaking to him at the moment.

He takes a step forward, hand reaching out as if he can’t stop himself, and Jude tears her gaze from the look on his face and walks out the door.

They’re on the way to drop Oak off at a friend’s house for a sleepover — “Remember what we promised, Oakie?” Vivi never did develop the disciplinarian nature of her father, to no one’s chagrin. “You get to stay over at your classmate’s house as long as you keep the glamour on the whole time.” — when Heather sidles up next to Jude.

“Are you still giving him the cold shoulder?” she whispers. It’s not a very subtle one.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes,” Jude snarls.

“Okay. Then what’s with the royal goo-goo eyes?”

“What?”

“Cardan,” Heather says, unhelpfully. “Looking like a kicked puppy.”

She will not look back to where Cardan is walking behind them. She will not. “He’s the High King of Elfhame. He doesn’t do goo-goo eyes.”

Heather takes another glance over her shoulder. “I don’t know. Those look pretty gooey to me.”

“Ignore him.”

“I think he likes the dress.”

“Ignore him.”

“I can’t, Jude. I’m trying to prove a theory.”

“What theory?”

Heather gives her a long look that she’s sure she has seen on Vivi before. “That maybe it’s not about what you ask, but how you ask it.”

 __________

They arrive a quarter to midnight on All Hallow’s Eve. The hour is loose, and the morals are looser.

The club is packed. Music thick in the air. She doesn’t recognize the song, much less understand any of the words. The dance floor holds the bodies of partygoers like a bowl filled to overflowing. There’s a machine belching out green smoke so heavy it’s almost like walking into a wall when they cross the threshold.

The place smells like a mixture of sweat, sugar, and bottom-shelf liquor, but it does nothing to stop the cheer that rocks through the crowd when the next song starts to play, the frisson of excitement reaching even the huge throng of people sloshed and milling in the entrance.

Vivi smiles at the bouncer and he grins immediately, expression glazed. No one asks them for ID.

Cardan’s eyes glint as he takes in the mortal revelry before him.

“We’ll get the drinks!” Heather has to raise her voice to be heard across the thumping bass. “You guys find a table!”

“Wait,” Jude yells after them, but it’s useless. Vivi and Heather are swiftly swallowed by the crowd. “I have no idea where—”

A sharp elbow slams into her side, a sticky body pressing against her, and she grunts. It takes her less than a breath to elbow back even more viciously, shoving what looks to be some wasted college guy careening back into his friends.

“Hey,” he slurs angrily, clutching his injured side and looking around with glassy eyes, “watch it—”

The crowd surges again, and she’s not sure which of the boys stumbles into her this time, jostling her, but she’s ready. There’s a needlepoint tipped in deathsweet hidden in her ring. He’s close enough for her to smell his stale breath, feel his perspiration on her skin. He blinks down at her, and she bristles at the way his eyes linger. Just one prick away from the worst hangover of his entire frat boy life—

A hand spreads across her stomach.

Cardan pulls her backwards.

Away from the rowdy group, the drunk boy. Into him.

Her back hits his chest. His palm holds her flush against him, warm through the thin material of her dress. She twists her neck to send him a glare. “I had it,” she hisses. “I didn’t need you to save me.”

He’s not even looking at her. Instead, he’s got his eyes narrowed in front of them. For a second, Jude swears she sees a flash of bared teeth in the dim lighting.

“As if I would even know where to begin.” There’s a hard edge to his voice. “Come away, Jude.”

She almost elbows him as he begins to lead her further inside, but his hand on her hip is firm, and they were supposed to find a table anyway.

He doesn’t let go of her as he weaves through the crowd, which seems to part for him for no other explicable reason than the fact that he’s radiating magic and mischief and the entire power of Faerie. If he hopes to dispel attention from himself, he’s not doing a well enough job of it without his glamour. A good number of people stare after him, jaws hanging, and she’s suddenly not so mad at the way he has her practically molded to his side.

All the tables are full, of course. Jude is already searching the bar for a flash of Vivi’s blonde hair when Cardan turns toward the section of secluded round booths near the wall.

She doesn’t catch him casting the glamour, because if she did she would have kicked him hard for doing that in front of so many people.

But it’s darkest in this part of the club, and everyone is too caught up in themselves to notice when an entire table of partygoers snap to their feet and march out of their booth without a backward glance.

Cardan throws himself into the now-empty, cracked leather seats, satisfaction curling the edges of his mouth.

Heather whistles when she and Vivi make their way to the booth. “Nice. Can’t believe you guys snagged a booth when the place is so packed.”

Vivi tosses Cardan a conspiratorial wink before setting their tray of drinks onto the sticky table.

Naturally, Cardan reaches for the most ostentatious one: it’s vivid pink in a shallow, diamond fluted glass, and its rim is dipped in crystals.

She slaps his hand away. “That’s salt,” she tells him, dryly.

Heather scoops it up. “And that’s mine, thank you.”

He scowls. “Where is my drink, then?”

“Oh,” Vivi says, eyes gleaming, “just you wait, Your Majesty.”

She arranges an array of small glasses in front of them and Cardan knocks back the clear liquid without hesitation.

“That’s foul.” He pushes the empty shot glass back across the table. “Another one.”

And so the night commences. Jude takes a few shots, the liquid burning down her throat in a way that reminds her of poison, but mostly she watches with exasperation as first Heather, and then Vivi drink enough to attempt the dance floor. Cardan decides to stay back in the booth instead of joining them.

“Never took you for the private type.”

His head snaps to her. She tries not to dwell on his immediate reaction to her attention.

He gives her a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. “I find myself in extenuating circumstances.”

“Try not to let us mortals disgust you too badly.”

His gaze sweeps the length of her. Then he turns his eyes to the open floor, surveying the throng of people filling every last inch of the space. “How easily you misunderstand me,” he sighs.

Jude’s up before she can think better of it. “Fine. Guess I’ll go dance with them after all.”

A hand closes around her wrist: imploring, not restraining.

“I’d like it,” Cardan says slowly, “if you stayed by my side.”

“I’m your queen,” she bites back, “not your courtier.”

She sees her mistake far too late.

Cardan grins, a real one now. “And as my queen, you deserve the finest seat of all.”

And then he tugs on her wrist and drops her into his lap.

Jude lands in the middle of his leg, throwing an arm around his shoulders for balance. His arms come around her, and they meet across the top of her thigh, where her skirt has ridden up dangerously high. The press of their bodies is warmer than usual in the humidity of the club.

“Let go.” She leans into his face, trying to be menacing. “You’ll be surprised how many knives I can hide in a dress like this.”

Her plan backfires because he leans in, too, and it’s not menace on his face that makes her swallow. “And you’ll be surprised to know I’ve thought of little else except that dress of yours.”

She will not react to that. She will not. “Release me, Cardan.”

She can fight him off if she really wants to, but she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of unnerving her that far. He might see the heat crawling up her face.

“I don’t think I will. You’re finally talking to me.”

“Regretfully.”

“No matter. We don’t have to talk.” He starts to lean in closer, expectation clear on his smug face.

She stares down, unimpressed. “Be serious.”

“I am,” he says. The words dissolve into the smoky air. “Indulge me, Jude.”

“Only if you indulge me first.”

“Oh?”

“Move up the tribunal. Suren doesn’t have to be a part of it.”

He groans, finally leaning back a little. “Ask me another time.”

“Why.���

His fingers fist in her shimmering gold skirt. “Because I can’t think clearly when I see you like this. When I see how others look at you like this. Because the devil walks the streets tonight in all her finery, and I am forever at her mercy.”

Maybe the alcohol is finally kicking in, because she’s feeling light-headed. “You’re a fool.”

“And you mortals are more dangerous than I thought.” His face tilts up to her, and his voice is a siren song. “I missed you, Jude.”

Mercy, Jude thinks as she leans in to meet his kiss, has never tasted so good.

And if Cardan’s fingers find themselves wandering up the length of her thigh, testing the give of her quickly-disappearing gold hem, well. It’s much too dark in their booth for anyone to notice.

They depart from the club some hours later. There might have been dancing, but Jude can’t really remember anything besides the press of Cardan’s chest and the warmth of his hand on her back.

What she does remember is the staring. It’s like every pair of eyes turn to them as they emerge from the bowels of smoke and music.

And Jude knows, the same way she knows the weight of Nightfell in her hand, that they aren’t staring at him. At least, not just him. No, they’re staring at her, too, the two of them, together. A golden girl and her king of shadows.

Let them stare.

Cardan’s eyes are heavy on the sway of her hips as she walks ahead of him.

She grins.

Let them all stare.

 __________

She’s on the couch the next morning, her head pillowed on Cardan’s lap as they watch Oak play video games. His fingers are gentle against her temple, but she knows he’s fighting back a smirk. The sun is a little too bright and the noise from the television a little too loud, but she’d sooner die than admit that out loud to anybody, least of all him.

Hands appear over the back of the couch, bearing a tray of beverages.

“Here, drink this.”

She almost winces, remembering the last time Heather had offered them refreshments. If six shots of cheap vodka counted as refreshing.

“It’ll help your hangover,” she offers.

“I don’t have a hangover,” Jude argues, but she lifts her head and sips it anyway. “Mm. Is there Sprite in this?” It’s been a while since she’s had soda. The carbonated fizzling on her tongue is a pleasant memory of a life she’s left behind.

Above her, Cardan chokes on his own drink. Some of it lands on her face.

“Cardan, ugh—”

He’s staring down at her in horror. “This decoction contains sprite?”

“What?” Jude pulls herself up gingerly, ignoring the way her head throbs at the motion. “Oh. No.” She can’t help the snicker that comes out of her at the sight of his wide eyes. “Not a sprite, I meant — there’s a human drink. A soda called Sprite.”

He doesn’t look like he believes her. He sets his glass down quickly and goes to join Oak in front of the console, as if he can’t distance himself fast enough. She grins while she drains her drink. It’s good. It’s bright and citrusy and it cuts through the pounding in her head enough that she can sit up for a while. No sudden movements, though.

The couch dips violently as Vivi throws herself into the space Cardan had left behind. Jude’s stomach swoops with it.

“Hey, little sister,” she says, cheerfully ignoring how green Jude probably looks. She shakes a bright orange pumpkin basket at her. “Care to partake of the spoils?”

“That’s Oak’s.” Jude’s conviction is weaker than she would like. She can’t remember the last time she’s had Halloween candy.

“He doesn’t mind. Right, buddy? Sharing is caring, and all that.”

Oak’s answer is an unintelligible gurgle, too intent on mashing buttons. Beside him, Cardan is bent over his own console, eyes focused on the screen. With both boys effectively distracted, the sisters dive into the sugary hoard.

Jude paws past a small pile of red-swirled peppermints. “Hey, do they still make those lollipops with the chewy stuff in the middle? Chocolate flavored?”

“Oh, Tootsie Pops? Hang on, I think I saw a couple near the bottom.”

A few minutes later, the entire basket has been upended over the carpet and thoroughly sorted through by enthusiastic, questing fingers. Jude settles back contentedly against the cushions, rolling her prized candy against the inside of her cheek by its white paper stick, and Vivi sits beside her, trying to fit as many M&M’s in her mouth as she can in a single go.

Jude tosses a packet of sour gummy worms at Cardan. “Here,” she says. “They remind me of you.”

His eyes flicker away from the screen at the sound of crinkling plastic in his lap, and he tilts his head in interest to read the packaging.

She doesn’t have to wait long.

His head snaps up a second later, a scowl etched across his face. “These are shaped like worms, Jude.”

She cackles. “Close enough.”

“These had better be as delicious as Taryn foretold them to be,” he grumps. “Otherwise, I will be sorely disappointed.”

But he pockets the little packet anyway, turning dutifully back to the game. Vivi finally swallows her mouthful of M&M’s.

“How is Taryn doing?”

“Her due date is coming up.” Jude keeps her eyes forward as she answers. “She’s settled in Locke’s estate, but she comes by the brugh during revels, when she’s up to it.”

“That’s good.” The unspoken question hangs in the air. Jude sometimes forgets how much of an older sister Vivi can be.

“We’re fine. I mean, we talk.” She shrugs. “But not about the important stuff.” Vivi’s silence doesn’t crowd her, and it’s this that lets her unfurl just a little bit more.

“Sometimes I feel like we should. Talk about the important stuff, I mean. I keep thinking I should reach out, maybe visit her one day, but I just…”

“Feel like it’s not your turn to apologize?”

“Yeah.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

Vivi nods. “I feel the same way about dad.”

Jude lets the quiet moment wash over her. The sounds of the TV, Oak’s inarticulate mumbling. Vivi’s warm presence beside her, Heather washing their glasses in the kitchen. The lollipop sweet on her tongue, the promise of its soft, chocolate center tempting her to just bite through what little remains of the hard candy shell. She could just bite into it; when was the last time she’s had a Tootsie Pop? But Jude’s no stranger to the waiting game. She knows that there are opportunities to strike, and there are opportunities to draw things out for a better outcome.

She eyes the lollipop critically before popping it back between her lips.

Weakest spot is on its side, where the candy has been melting longest against her tongue. She delivers a carefully calculated blow: a long, slow lick up the now-flattened side, intended to cover as much surface as possible.

If only she could break down Cardan’s resistance to the tribunal as easily as this.

Another cursory check reveals it to have worked, but only incrementally. Jude deploys her strategy again, pulling the lollipop through her mouth using the quickly softening white paper stick.

She can just see the chocolate center peeking through. Maybe if she wrapped her lips around it more fully…

Oak shrieks his victory, voice loud and piercing to Jude’s sensitive ears, and wincing, she looks up to appraise the match. Confetti bursts across the screen as Oak jumps up and down, and beside him, Cardan is—

Cardan is staring at her.

Mouth slightly open, gaming console forgotten in his slack fingers, eyes caught on—

Her lips.

His eyes are caught on her lips.

Sucking on a lollipop.

The moment stretches.

And she realizes that she’s a little caught too.

“Cardan?” Oak asks. “Are you still playing?”

His jaw snaps shut and he turns quickly back to the new game that Oak has started, but not before Jude marks the traces of pink high on his cheekbones. Not before she catches the low sway of his tail. Not before notices the change in his breathing.

“Well,” Vivi says, a smile in her voice. “All’s fair.”

And unbidden, a vivid pink storefront appears in her mind: one that she’s seen in malls, selling sheer lacy things, with straps and slipties. Things she’s never given a second thought to beyond a disinterested glance. Things she’s now reevaluating through the eyes of her husband, always intent on her, but lately, even more so. Weapons, after all, come in many shapes and sizes.

And are there ones you would wear for me?

A plan begins to form in Jude’s mind.

She knows exactly how to get Cardan to move up the tribunal.

“Hey, Heather,” Jude says. “I like your theory. Let’s go shopping.”

_____

Tagging: @ireallyshouldsleeprn​​ @nahthanks​​​

* Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future fics (Jurdan or other fandoms!) and it would be my absolute honor to do so!

[eternalstrigoii]

Unsullied Waters

Borra (Maleficent: Mistress of Evil) x Desert Warrior Dark Fey Reader

         You saw it in him during the Revel most of all.

The tension in his shoulders, the hard set of his jaw. He wanted to be out there on the Moors. The Moor-Folk were small, fragile things – you, yourself, had seen them many times. You’d snatched them in bags from the shoulders of poachers, swept them from jars bounced away on surging vines. Released them in the trees only to circle back and bloody your claws. As loyal, as devoted, as he was to your kind above all, Borra was fond of those creatures. They could hardly defend themselves.

Conall didn’t want him to provoke war.

While it was the larger truth, that wasn’t what you did when you went to the moors with him. He was protecting them. Someone had to. Your kind were few and far between; you heard stories about the faerie, or the witch, that used to live there. The things she’d done, the admirable justice she sought.

If protecting your people cost mortal life, then it was a price for which only the humans were to blame.

You touched his shoulder between his wing and his armor. Your fingers curled, pressing in.

You were all warriors in some form. There was no weakness in providing for the man who led you. Who took you to his bed and mated you. Often.

Borra let out a low growl of frustration. He refused to let his gaze drift toward Conall, though some part of you knew their increasing friction was as much the source of his doubled rage as the increase in poaching.

You ran your hands deliberately down his back before you stepped away.

He made no move to stop you. He never did. He liked to watch you, just as you enjoyed being watched. Sometimes you felt his fury heat the air between you, as though the weight of his amber gaze alone would give the others wide berth from you, for it was him you belonged to and no other.

As though you would ever let him forget.

As though you were ever without a partner for long.

If anyone but Conall opposed the way Borra took hold of you, the way his talons bit deliciously into the rock-like texture of your flesh, they kept it to themselves. You called to him with the sway of your hips, demanded his attention. If you didn’t want him to claim you like the hawk seizes prey, you would have openly opposed.

His thumb talon brushed your jaw as your head fell back into his shoulder. Your wings splayed, fitting comfortably against his. The ease at which your bodies slotted together was no small pleasure, well beyond that of his clothed hips against yours; the caress of his claws along the hem of your trousers.

He snarled your name against the leaf of your ear. His touch lingered so near where you quivered.

Your hand, tangled in his hair, sought to guide his mouth to your throat.

The beat of his wings folded yours like a shield, as though you needed to be reminded that departure was not an intermission.

    By the time you landed at his nest, he had already unfastened the chest-plate of your armor. His large, warm hands caressed your skin from the pronunciation of your collarbone to the swell of your hips.

He groaned; your sharp teeth found purchase at the junction between his neck and shoulder, and you tugged lightly at his trapped flesh. He nearly tore the waist of your pants as he opened them, palming your breast as the other settled between your thighs.

You stumbled, the both of you, clumsy with fixation. He parted you, caressing along the seam of your liquid heat. Your knees buckled only for his to agree when the straw edge of his nest-bed finally brushed your feet.

“Borra,” you gasped against his ear.

Your wings unfurled. He flung your chest plate to the floor.

Your hands fell from his hair. You’d undone the shoulder plate of his armor so often that his leather responded to your persistence. The moment it fell, you aided him in removing the last of the clothes left between you.

Sometimes you forced him to wait. Your lips traced a path down his chest, over the hardness of his stomach. You undid the waist of his trousers with deliberate care, gave them permission to slip further down his hips so you might rest your hands there. So the scrape of his talons on your scalp and the buck of his hips was never too much to prevent you from watching him.

You loved to watch him. Eyes half-lidded. Lips parted around his groan.

You loved to watch almost as much as you loved to shower his hips and thighs with marks of your own. The ones on his shoulders and his neck were possessive; those were just for you. And he always let you do them.

A low moan passed between your parted lips.

Your mate’s touch lingered well after you’d joined. His body fit so well against yours; you fit your arm along his where he ensnared your waist, never allowing himself to fully part from you. You were equals – when you fought together, when you sparred, when you mated.

“More,” you keened, and his hand closed over yours where you clutched his bed’s feather-down lining.

He made another low, animal sound.

His hips shifted, boosting yours. You spread your legs around him, allowing him to press closer from above. Your enthusiastic cries encouraged him.

The knot of pleasure at your center unwound abruptly.

His hips stuttered. A low snarl of pleasure punctuated the final snap of his hips, burying him inside you. As delightful the throb of pleasure between you, once was rarely enough. You rolled your hips against him, not stifling the sounds you made at his response.

You both would not rejoin them.

          “You love him?” Udo asked you after she departed with Conall.

Maleficent. Protector of the moors. Alive. Powerful. She who allowed her people to be slaughtered in the name of her human pet.

You almost laughed. “I’ll die for him.”

He inclined his head toward you, and as terribly as you thought he must’ve wanted to keep his feelings to himself, he was disappointed with your response. Of course he was; he tended fledglings. He was a warrior, but he had no heart for war. “Try not to.”

        “I want you at my side where you belong.”

You ignored the creeping tendrils of pleasure that spread through your skin like cactus flower. You smiled sidelong, assuming it would be in passing – but, no, he’d joined you at one of the desert’s high points, the filtered sun doing little to fully warm your skin.

“It’s my honor, Borra.” You nodded, and the serious set of his mouth softened some.

“During battle and after, Suren. I want you at my side where you belong.” He looked out over the sandy plain. The only flecks of green were spiny aloe, and some part of you recalled, in your youth, massaging its slick, malleable contents into the iron burns on his side.

“I’ve always been there.” Your voice lowered. “I always will be.”

He smirked, and you did nothing to resist your impulses. You scaled the sheer cliff face to be closer to him, unable to cut him off him before he teased, “I don’t want you running off with some forest-dweller once we’ve reclaimed the moors.”

You kissed him. Hard. Your fingers laced in his hair, your tongue parted the seam of his lips.

His arm encircled your waist, mouth hungry for yours.

You ran your hand up his chest, gripped the armor fastened to his shoulder. A dull throb of need settled between your thighs, and you nearly crawled onto his in search of satisfaction.

“I will always,” you said on a breath, only for him to reclaim your mouth again. He dug his talons into your hips. You moaned, and he caught your lower lip between his sharp teeth. “always be yours.”

“I love you,” he whispered, just for you, and the warmth that saturated his voice ensured that no amount of hesitation on his part to meet your gaze left you with no concern for its sincerity.

“As I love you. More than there are stars in the skies.” You kissed him again, far more gently. “Blades of grass on the plains.” Again. “More than rain joins with the tide.” And once more. “And the wind beneath my wings.”

The sound he made reminded you of a jungle cat’s purr. His hands traced your back, and you rested your forehead against his. Your horns bunted without meaning to, but then he shifted, doing it again with intent.

“You’ll fly with me over the moors again. With the sun on your back, this time.”

“Something tells me you’ll be more interested in my back and the ground before long,” you teased.

“Mm. We’ll have all the moors.” His hands crept higher. “I’ll take you in the treetops. In the mountains. On the shore.”

You could almost imagine sand giving way beneath your fingers. “In the water?” you whispered, keeping nothing of your desire to yourself.

“Wherever you want. Whenever you want. The moors will be ours,” he kissed you, too lightly. You wanted more. “And we will do whatever we please.”

“Protect the moor-folk,” you muttered, kissing him again. “Keep the humans at bay.”

“Claim the skies again,” he whispered, and his talons in your hips suddenly dragged you flush against him. He dove from the cliff-face with you in his arms.

Your wings spread out beneath you on instinct. You laughed, coasting high over your territory, clinging to him.

His wings curled around yours. He guided you to fold, your bodies shifting so you were astride him and he coasted on his back. You encircled his neck with your arms, your body spread along his.

The mountains and the treetops and the shore, the water and the desert and the tundra and the moors.

        “Conall wanted peace. And they filled him with iron.”

War paint, cool and smooth on your skin. The elders, working in vain to heal. Every throb of your pulse, a new reminder of what you’re fighting for.

Udo. Conall. Shrike. Borra.

Your people. Your family. Your freedom. Your future.

It’s for you he waits. When you join him in the biting, bitter cold, his eyes lock with yours, and, together, you dive.

                  “Withdraw! Withdraw!”

What have they done?

You dove.

Poplar fleece is highly flammable. You know this. You’ve set it afire with sparks from stones and watched how quickly it burned.

This was iron. Gunpowder. Something else. The iron would be lethal on its own, like this – explosive and devastating. This evaporates your people. They join with the red clouds. Nothing of them falls into the water.

Shrike called for a divide. You stayed with him, at his side. Your wings are larger, louder. Your heart beats hard. Finally, you felt fear in the nerves of your fingertips.

You were beside him when you broke the castle wall.

More red clouds explode.

Your wings curled around you. You wove through them, biting back the urge to inhale. Borra surged ahead, grabbed someone, threw them from a height. There are so many of them, too many to think of.

Your best advantage is in the air, but the air is filled with iron bombs.

You swooped like an eagle, driving a man into the ground. Another fell with a sharp swipe of your wing across his neck.

They broke an axe across your horns.

You slammed your foot into one of their iron chest plates. The momentary sting at its collision with your flesh went almost entirely unnoticed; there were others, and you hadn’t the time. It wasn’t the first, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Borra circled high over the melee. Every so often, when you were afforded the chance, your eyes lifted from your opponents to find him in the skies.

It steeled you.

The talon at the apex of your wing tore into the neck of a man who’d dared come at you with a sword. You trapped another’s helmet between your horns and flung him into the palace’s stone façade.

Your people had the upper hand. He’d be on the ground with you if you didn’t. You knew this – you knew him. These fools looked at him, at you, and saw only your size. Your strength.

They knew not what a skilled mind he had. How well he’d learned from his violent youth. They knew not that your touch lingered on the mark iron left on his lips, the scald from their net on his sides. They couldn’t understand that your violence stemmed as much from love as it did from hate – and the roots you ripped from the ground grew thorns as well as flowers when you cast them over the walls of their fortress into the sea.

You wore marks of your own, lashed around your ankles and your wrists.

You, too, had been caught before. Several times. They had even tried to bring you to justice.

You killed then as you did now. Your enemy cared nothing of the life they took, nor did you for theirs.

Their blood dampened your hair. Decorated your arms to the elbow. And still, you flew. The beat of your wings threw them on their backs. The scrape of your talons rent trenches in their armor, and you spun – one sailed through a window, the other into the apex of the roof. You turned before the turret even impaled him.

When she arrived, you did nothing. It was no cause for your concern. She destroyed their weapons by the dozen, then the hundred; more of their men fell to Maleficent’s power than had to the collective of you.

You did nothing until you saw her, as you dropped another man from a great height, with her child-queen cowering before her.

Move, you thought. The bastard queen cocked her crossbow. Locked an arrow.

And Maleficent, the fool, gave her life for that child.

Idiot. A step to the left or a step to the right would’ve been sufficient – it wasn’t as if an arrow’s course could change after it had been fired!

And he thought she could save you.

The child-queen threw herself to the ground, crying out her agony. She touched the ashes that had become of her mother – gently, lovingly, as though she might be able to somehow gather them back together, and a part of you remembered when you were a child like her. The bite of iron into your flesh. The quick snap of Borra’s talons through the woven cords. Grabbing your raw wrist. Your brother lay dying in the thicket with an iron arrow in his heart. You, too, screamed that way once.

It had taken only the two of you to slaughter many men. And, as the queen’s guard appeared, the child leapt to her feet. She had no wings on which to catch herself, no mother to prevent her fall.

And yet, they couldn’t reach her before she threw herself over the edge of the fractured balcony with the dread queen clutching her arms.

You dove at the same time.

Ulstead’s mortal child-queen was not your people. She, and her mother, were strangers. Catalysts. The boiling point of a long-awaited conflict and nothing more.

And yet, it was your feet that slammed into the chest plate of the queen’s armor. Your arms that ensnared the child-queen, and your wings that beat so forcefully that the armored tyrant had no control over the propulsion of her fall.

Aurora screamed and flung her arms around your neck.

You flew, expecting arrows, presuming the battle rekindled once the queen’s men cocked their crossbows. You surged high, carrying the girl away from the heart of battle. It was the only sensible thing, preserving those who would defend you.

Those tender hands wove their way into your hair, the child’s trembling body pressed close as though you were ample surrogate for her fallen mother. “Thank you,” she whispered into your shoulder.

You flew her to the edge of the palace’s roof, where you meant to set her. She did not let go of you, and you thought, at first, that it was only because she was afraid.

It was because of the Phoenix that rose to greet you.

The beat of her wings easily overwhelmed yours. You landed, with the child, for your own protection. You held the child against you, shielding her against the wind’s force. You crouched, defensive – of yourself, of the sudden fragility of your wings at the beat of hers (they shuddered and buckled; you had to fold them for your own protection).

They held one another’s gaze much too long.

She let go of you, then, the fearless child-queen. She stood, balanced precariously on the sloped roof’s edge, and held out her hands.

If she’d wanted to be carried, you could’ve done that.

But, no. Her phoenix mother gathered her, and they descended, together, in the shifting black cloud of her mist.

You followed the roof to its apex. You couldn’t see his face, but you knew he saw you, so you dove.

He hadn’t let you kill her.

The bastard queen of Ulstead was wrapped in thorny vines, fighting her confinement. Your head perked curiously.

He and Shrike hugged the palace as they flew. His fingers were curled, guiding the blooming vines while they bounced and tossed the queen until she landed in the dirt at the palace steps.

And was promptly changed into livestock.

You took that as encouragement that she would be eaten, and joined with their descent.

The tension twisted inside of you fell when you were able to study him with your feet planted. From behind, while he spoke to her, he bore no wounds. Several of his feathers had been scalded by their bombs, but they would preen away in time.

“Borra,” Maleficent addressed your mate, and you knew you were not the only one with her full attention. “It’s time to come home.”

Home.

The air left your chest.

The nest was home, of course, in a sensible and practical way. It was your point of origin, your safety, home to your people as nowhere else in the world would allow.

But your home – all of yours – was in the skies. And the true Moor-Queen invited you to join her out of hiding. In the air. As you all so deeply wanted.

Though he said nothing to her, and her daughter called her away before long, when he turned, Shrike and Ini burst into cheers. You didn’t contain your smile – though it fell, somewhat, as you watched his face.

His wings reached out ahead of him to guide you, and you let them, your own folding until they were as near to flush against your back as they would get. You rested your hands on his chest, attention momentarily diverted by the sight of a new wound on his arm, and a cut on his throat that gave you real pause.

“Will you keep your word?”

He rested his hands on your back, and the warmth of his skin radiated within you. The sky. The wind. The treetops. The mountains. Every day of your future would be an act of defiance, a rallying cry to your people nearly destroyed.

“You are my home, Borra,” you whispered. “I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth.”

              That night, there was a revel. There was no moon, and the palace grounds were still. The villagers were in hiding, the prince and his new wife in their bed. Even Maleficent and her raven had departed with her once-captive people, and, perhaps, to replace what was left of the essence of their fallen.

Yours would never receive the honor. No matter what Maleficent did, whatever they returned as would not be what they were. More Dark Fey lost to mortal slaughter.

But for every one you’d lost, you’d taken ten. And, at least for then, it was enough.

You bathed in the river until your armor ran clean.

You danced with Udo. With Ini and Shrike. The drums beat hard in Conall’s memory. A song for every one of your fallen. The old, mortal king watched from his balcony.

You were both exhausted when he caught your hand, but you danced anyway. For Conall. For your fallen. For the children Udo had gone to fetch, for the families newly shattered and the ones whose loss would finally mend. You danced for each other, and for yourselves, and for the future laid bare before you. You were wounded, as was he, wounds that pulled and pulsed as you moved, stung with every bead of sweat on your skin.

You tried not to think about how he washed the war paint from it. The cold, gushing river had been the only impediment to the act, for you both waded on its shallow banks, your thumbs and claws smearing with each caress.

You left for the moors at dawn. With him. There was no more need for talking. Only the beat of your wings. The kiss of the cool mist.

You slept, together, high in the peaks, on an outcropping where the bright sun warmed your skin. You wore no armor, though not because it had been pried away by eager hands.

You had both waited so long to feel the sun, to feel the kiss of the wind passing through your feathers, that it consumed the whole first day of peace. That, and sleep. Blessed, restful, dreamless sleep.

             “I like you,” the raven Diaval said. Not that he had much business doing so. But you had fallen into a comfortable rhythm in the days after your war; the brooks and streams in the moors were for your drinking water and the homes of the beings who lived there. The water elsewhere, for washing and bathing. Which you and the bird had a tendency to both do early in the morning. He was not a mortal man even when he wasn’t a bird, and the sight of you elicited no unwelcome responses of any sort. He had been curious, at first, as to whether or not the fine cracks in your skin caused you pain.

“They’re decorative,” you’d joked, deadpan.

He laughed. His time with Maleficent was not all subservient.

“You’re good company. Are all fey like that? Dark fey, anyway?”

“Your mate isn’t the only one separated from mankind,” you replied. You ducked your head, and the rush of cold water through your tangled hair made you stifle a gasp. Pleasure and discomfort. The sensation never got old.

His cheeks flushed brightly. “Maleficent isn’t….”

You stared at him much the same way you joked. “Are you arguing with a fey what our courtship looks like?”

“Courtship?” he practically choked on the word.

“You preen her. You sleep near her. You’re nearly her constant companion, and it’s her nest you return to when the sun falls. You think you’re her servant.” You managed to pull your talons through one of the long-fought knots in your hair, and a brand-new sense of pride filled you. Look at you! Maybe you’d even give yourself hair like your child-queen one day. (Your smirk grew.) “She’s taught you well. I had to train Borra to lie still under me.”

“Oh!” Such delicate sensibilities for a wild creature!

“Did you think it was always my wings scraping the dirt, raven?” you grinned. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten – you’ve not once thought about my wings. Not when you’re so busy with hers.”

He splashed you. And, like a child, you splashed back.

Peace was beautiful.

You washed your clothes and dressed while they were wet. The radiant heat of your body would warm them in time. Udo and his charges were already navigating their new space, as you did from the earth.

You knew this place already, parts of it like the lines of your hand.

You’d just never seen it so teeming.

The willow sprites who’d been bothering you for days about the state of your hair descended on you again in a rush, and you stopped abruptly with a sigh. “For the last time, I will not let you toy with my hair. I’m very sorry, I understand how much that must distress you.”

They all spoke at once, in a flurry, voices overlapping one another. You caught bits and pieces – so pretty, so soft, like corn silk, no, like sweetgrass, and the corners of your mouth twitched.

“Tell you what, if you can find a comb capable of withstanding the job, I’ll let you brush it out. My only condition is that you mustn’t ask for one.” Skies knew Udo would give one to them gladly, then you’d be forced to endure their picking.

They agreed in high, excited chorus, dispelling from you as quickly as they’d come.

Borra laughed from the trees above. “Going soft already?”

“Udo won’t break my trust if he knows what’s good for him.” Your eyes lifted.

It should’ve been impossible for him to look any better. He wore his armor still, just as you did – you were still protectors of the moor-folk, after all – but the sunlight made his skin glint like quartz embedded in a canyon’s wall. You’d noticed it in yourself, of course, as had Diaval – and it had been one of the few times in your brief friendship that the raven quieted down.

His head quirked, and his smile spread past your own. “I don’t know. You’d look nice with your hair braided, sweetgrass.”

You hit him with your wing.

He laughed and leapt from the low branches to join you on the earth. He took your hand almost reflexively, just as you drew closer. You were about to ask him, quietly, if he felt the same as you did – if it was still nearly impossible to separate the advantages of the land from the fantastical scenery. It was on the tip of your tongue when something, somewhere, some tiny voice cried out only to be joined by what sounded like a hundred others.

You frowned. It would have to wait.

You both ran until you found them on the banks of the little brook, scores of little flower-people and dragonfly-people and They of the Dandelion Bodies. Groups of them gathered where several had fallen, and fear hit you suddenly, making your wings stir.

Borra gave you his back, his thoughts much the same. Were you under attack? Was it iron powder, launched in burning casings from the sky?

“Where are your healers?” you asked, far more gently than you felt.

You didn’t understand them all. Some of their dialects were lost in the din of the others, not that you would have understood the languages you did not speak. They were a buzzing in your head, and you couldn’t resist shushing them with a wave of your hand. “Please. Not all at once. I wasn’t asking a question, I was telling you to get them.”

Dozens immediately took the cue, surging for the skies.

One of the little dragonfly people lay still in the arms of another. They made high, squeaky sounds at their fallen companion, tiny, bright-shelled hands touching their face.

“May I?” you offered your flat, open palms.

They assisted in lifting their fallen so you could cradle them.

Your thumb traced their chest. Iron burned, but the iron powder you’d faced caused your people to incinerate. If it was iron, especially in the lungs, would they not have already suffocated?

“He’s very warm,” you said to Borra and Borra alone.

“As though burned?” He hadn’t yet turned toward you, ever the tactical mind. If they had all fallen here, something must be wrong. But you heard no men in the trees, you smelled no gunpowder. Only a faint sweetness that gave you pause. You looked to the other little ones, offering a hand, and you sniffed them.

“…no. No, something is wrong.”

The fallen smelled sweet, but not too sweet. Like fruit…and ash? Your nose twitched, and you rubbed it on your forearm.

“Tell me,” you said to one of the little mud men lingering at the fringes, concerned but unharmed. “Are there fruits that could poison you here? Is it possible something’s turned?”

What are you saying? A being in the trees asked in a wisp-like voice.

“They smell sweet and strange, like ash and berries. Like…” As soon as you said it, you paused.

Borra finished for you, his voice hardly above a growl. “Rowan.”

You’d never smelled it firsthand. Frankly, you’d almost thought it was a children’s tale meant to soothe them when iron wasn’t available, rowan berries in your pockets to protect you from the fey. If only Conall could tell you.

The little creature in your palms grew still.

For a moment afterward, you stared. Their lovely, jewel-toned body became limp, slowly at first, and when the gentle tremor of their pulse abated, your eyes rose.

Borra shared your horror, though not as quietly.

“Do you see?!” he bellowed.

The other little creatures who’d gathered around you looked to one another with open fear. Some of them, the other dragonfly people, quietly wept.

“Do you see what becomes of trusting your enemy?!”

One of the muck-men swooned. Your heart clenched, and you looked to all the others around you. One of the dandelion children had flushed cheeks, and the thought came to you suddenly.

“The river.”

The river between the kingdoms. Between Ulstead and the Moors.

“They’ve poisoned the river!” you cried.

But your audience was already ailing.

Those of them that went had already begun to succumb. Those who stayed farther inland bore no ill effect; they rushed to the aid of the others, and you called to the gaggle of petal-sprites who were smart enough to bathe in the mists, “Fetch our healers! Tell them! We must do whatever we can!”

“I’ll fetch Queen Aurora!” someone cried.

You knew Borra would protest. You looked to him, and the fear that yielded so fast to fury redoubled.

His face was flush. His eyes, glassy. He stumbled, and rested a hand on one of the tree-men.

“Borra!”

You leapt over the ones who could not get out of your way quickly enough.

Your mate went to his knees. His arm folded around his middle, a sound of pain leaving him that you only rarely heard. “Let them.” He swallowed, and you were afraid that he was struggling to breathe, but, no, he dropped his head when the dizziness became too much to handle. “Send for our elders. Take our children to the nest.” Protect them.

“Go,” you said to whatever decided to call for Aurora. You wrapped your arms around him for support, allowing him to release the tree-creature. “Bring her, and  her mortal healers! Now!”

“Make them tend you,” he rasped. He’d gone earlier in the morning than you had, and you’d nearly gone with him then, but you’d gotten caught up in chasing off Pinto.

“I have time,” you whispered, though you didn’t know how much. “I’ll take you to her—”

“No.” His grip on you was still tight. “We can’t trust them. Trust the girl if you must, but not the others.” The pain in his stomach made him flinch, and you lowered beside him, folding his body in your wing.

“I won’t let you die,” you whispered. Fevered sweat had already broken out on his brow, and you wiped it away gently. Your stomach growled, though you’d eaten not long ago.

You brought him closer to the trees, into the dampness of the moss. You were slow with him, gentle, pretending you didn’t feel the flush of heat creep up your skin, the increasing unrest in your stomach.

“Tell Diaval to find some,” you offered to whatever was near you. Your head began to spin. “The berries or the wood.” You laid down beside him, facing him. Just briefly. Just so you could gather the strength to get back to your nest.

There was a buzzing. Faeries. Something. And pain twisted inside of you suddenly. You drew your knees into your stomach and moaned at the nausea that overtook you.

       You were both sick in waves, fever and pain alternating with violent illness. You tasted blood in your mouth when whatever you had inside of you rose to join the leaves. You were weak. Trembling. Your people never left your side. Were it not for Maleficent’s strange abilities, you knew they would have retreated to the nest across the sea with the both of you in tow.

They would have rekindled their desire for war.

The pain intensified, for you, not long after the dawning of the second day. The cramps in your stomach spread, and you lay there, writhing against Borra while he tried so vainly to comfort you despite the shaking of his hands and the fever that engulfed you both.

Your thighs were slick.

You struggled to right yourself enough to take measure of the blood. When you moved, your head spun so severely that you couldn’t find the strength to call for Ini, though she trained to heal alongside the elders. You sunk against Borra with a cold shiver, and pressed your face into his throat.

“I won’t let you die,” he rasped, arms folding around you.

Your insides seized so suddenly, so sharply, that you whimpered. Your fingers curled to fists against his stomach and his side.

“Suren, I will not let you die.”

You trembled, sweating, panting softly with the strain of your body’s rejection.

“Promise me,” you whispered.

“I promise,” he said without thought.

“Promise me you will not die.”

You supposed if he was not also bleeding, he would be quicker to recover. You presumed if anyone was to die from poisoning, it would be you with the way you soaked in the river, the strange desire you had to mingle your hot skin with the cold.

“I promise.” He drew your head to his, the bump of your horns a familiar comfort. You were shaking, sweat-soaked and weak. All the same, he kissed you softly, his hand on your cheek and the blood-soaked sweetness of rowan berries on both your breath.

           You awoke with ice on your belly, and sighed with relief.

Borra slept beside you, wings folded. The poisoned fever had left his face and, largely, also yours. He used one of his arms for a pillow, curled beneath him, and you allowed your weak muscles the satisfaction of rolling over onto your other side.

“Careful,” Udo murmured, steadying you. “There is still some left to pass.”

“Thank you, old friend.” You patted the tundra fey’s icy hands, only to pause abruptly. Udo was tending you?

“Did Ini--?” Fall ill? Did the poison spread inland?

“Ini remains with the river-small. They’ve suffered the hardest.”

You nodded. Of course. But you still didn’t understand. “The elders?”

Udo did not meet your gaze. Cool water ran over your skin where the ice melted, which he was doing his best to preserve.

“The king’s men stand guard along the river. They’ve plucked whatever berries remained from it; it’s in all of our best interest to wait until well after their remnants wash into the sea.”

“How long will that be?”

He met your eyes, then, and you hated that he had. A profound loss weighed upon him, and you struggled to sit up. You were still tired, still weak, but nowhere nearly as sick as you had been. “They killed our children.”

“Only one,” he replied.

The anger in your heart returned the way wildfire engulfed dry plains. You propped yourself on your palms, your teeth set.

“Borra will want vengeance.”

He nodded, solemn.

“Could anything be done?”

“No.” He looked to you, and the gravity of his gaze made you afraid. You heard your heart pounding dully in your ears as you searched his face.

“Suren,” he said, gentle and so very patient.

The way he said your name was enough. You knew before the words even left him, though he rested his hand over yours, cold fingers curled gently around them as though he knew you could have violently beat the earth. “You carried a child.”

You fought denial as violently as you fought understanding. “Carried?” you repeated, the violence in your voice unmistakable.

“Poison killed your fledgling. It died inside of you.”

You threw back the cover that had been laid over you, but your clothes had been replaced, the blood cleaned from you and the areas around you. You tried to struggle for your feet, but Udo’s grasp on your shoulder was gentle and steadying. “You need to lie still.”

“I need an audience with the queen,” you whispered, no lacking measure of ferocity in your voice. Borra would not want vengeance, he would seek it.

“Then I will have her summoned.”

“Udo!” you hissed. He knew why you wanted to leave the nest to do it!

The straw beside you rustled.

Udo remained where he was, perpetually composed.

Borra’s eyes opened, and fell partially closed once more. He shifted, reaching to draw you back into the safety of his arms. “You feel better.”

No. You felt worse. Your hatred consumed you. You thought, just once, and only half-heartedly, about flying over Ulstead, stealing children from the sky and drowning them in the river. Retribution for the child you had lost. One you hadn’t even known about, but, you realized much too late, that you would’ve welcomed.

A life of peace on the moors. Your mate and your baby. Protecting them, loving them, watching your child grow to fly alongside Maleficent. Another life stolen by humans!

He heard your silence, and it awoke him fully. He held your wrist, listened to the fierce pounding of your heart, and slowly – so slowly; you hated knowing that he was ill beside you and yet still rose to join you – shifted until he was seated at your side.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered, just to you, as though he couldn’t see Udo beside you.

You grit your teeth and closed your eyes.

You could do nothing with your hatred. Nothing but let it consume you.

You shook your head. Please don’t tell him. Please don’t say anything. I will when he’s recovered. But you couldn’t bring yourself to speak those words, nor would you ever be able to say the ones you knew you’d have to.

Udo told him.

Hot tears raced down your face. Your fledgling. Your baby. His baby. A child you made together, borne from love. Survived the war only to be killed while still in your belly.

Borra surged to his feet.

You followed him. Despite Udo’s protests, despite the dull throbbing that immediately took hold of your waist without ice to dull the pain, you caught your mate by the wrist. “You’re ill, Borra, please. Please, wait until you’ve recovered.”

He moved so quickly you almost believed he already had. The hateful twist of his mouth didn’t match the way he gathered you, pressing you close to him. “Our child,” he hissed, war-monger once more, “Our child! They murdered our child!”

“And if you retaliate now, I’ll also lose you!”

You were bleeding. You felt it, and Borra, for all his desire for bloodshed, had no intention of shedding yours. He radiated fury even as he gathered you, returning to the nest with you in his arms. He lay you down near Udo, who rested the ice on your waist.

“Borra,” you begged. You begged him. You let him see you lying prone, your legs pressed together as though that would stop it from coming. “Please. Stay with me. Stay with me until I can join you. Will you do that much?”

He was silent, talons curled into his fists. How easily he could have flown to Ulstead and begun another war, all while you lied there on your back like his ornamental wife.

“I deserve to share in our retribution!”

“I know you do.”

He didn’t fly.

When he left you, it was on foot. Into the Moors, into their forests. You waited to hear him, hear the rush of his powerful wings cutting through the trees as soon as he was out of sight, but the sound never came.

         Queen Aurora had a unique position, which she was intimately aware of. Not only was she the primary ruler of two kingdoms, having bequeathed something akin to democracy upon the third, but her husband and mother had the tendency to clash over that which should and should not be her problem – including issues that belonged to both kingdoms and were of the more life-threatening nature.

Rather, Philip had hoped to keep as much of the rowan-berry incident from his wife as possible, in the name of allowing her the freedom of joy and peace and believing their people were preserving the treaty that their love secured at the cost of countless lives.

Maleficent, however, did not answer to a boy of his age, size, or mortality, and told her daughter the truth in full. If not for justice, than because it was Aurora’s kingdom of origin, and she had every right to attend the funerals of her people.

Aurora did not take it well.

Funerals for the moor people had taken days, as though the tomb-bloom field hadn’t been replenished to an extent after the Battle of Ulstead. Her people, to their credit, hesitated to leave her on her throne of flowering redbud, though all were tired and none ceased to mourn.

But it was her right, as queen, to do her own mourning in private, so she had sent them all home. With the exception of her godmother.

“This is all my fault.” Aurora folded yet another kerchief into a thoroughly-soaked ball.

“No, it wasn’t,” Diaval had taken over comforting her in the last short while. “You’ve got no control over what people do. You can lead them, and you can punish them…but they have t’ want peace. We’re gonna have to teach them what good can come from bein’ good to us.”

Still, she sobbed, folded over in place. She doubtfully would have noticed anyone approaching had it not been Maleficent’s touch to her shoulder in warning.

“This is what you’re protecting?!”

Aurora abruptly sat upright, though it was not to her Borra spoke.

“You look better,” Maleficent quipped.

“Protector of the Moors!” He showed his teeth. “What have you protected since this child came along, besides yourself?!”

A bright coil of green swirled around her staff. Diaval sprung to his feet.

“Her father hunts you and you fight; the moment the child is yours, you leave your people to fend for themselves. You’ve done nothing to protect them since you appointed a human for their queen.”

“Are you finished?” Few words were ever so clearly spoken as a threat.

Borra’s wings flared. “I’ve protected them from Ulstead’s poachers. I agreed to peace. They set poison on our doorstep, and you expect – what? For us to bow and take it?”

“After all you’ve lost, Borra, are you so eager to return to war?”

Maleficent’s composure was thin. The hatred that burned anew in him was unmistakable. She had seen it in the nest, and she had seen it on the battlefield. Though she understood his reasons, all the progress he’d made in Conall’s honor had become new, violent opposition. One she would not allow.

“You know nothing of loss! This poison – this poison your peace was supposed to prevent – murdered my child.” In the passing of a heart’s beat, all of his rage, all of his hatred, became raw pain. It was not hers to see, let alone her child-queen, yet it laid bare for them both. “I demand justice.”

“You’ll get it,” Aurora responded.

Maleficent secured her grip on Aurora’s shoulder, but the young queen shook her head, her trembling curls and flushed cheeks painting her ever more the picture of innocence – all the more naïve.

“I promise. Whoever’s responsible, we’ll bring them---” to justice, she’d intended to say.

“You’ll bring them,” he cut her off in a low, half-animal snarl, “to me.”

        You were a warrior, the same as him.

He had been chosen to lead your people; in everything else, you were equals.

You did not seethe.

Your mourning was as violent as the moor-people’s was sedate. They returned to their homes. They wept.

You ripped the earth open with your bare claws. You screamed.

         “You get three days. Bring justice to your people in three days--”

“Use caution with your threats.” The coil of green mist had grown thicker around Maleficent’s staff; the green of her eyes brightened.

“--Or they will not be your people anymore.”

Aurora swallowed. She shook her head again, more vehemently. “…You wouldn’t do that.”

“Where I come from, our leaders are chosen, not given to us. I give you three days to prove to your people that you are capable, or they will choose a leader of their own.”

“Sorry,” Diaval interrupted, “did you…happen t’ ask the people of the moors who they were gonna pick?” If they were unhappy with Aurora for a queen, there was a good chance everyone would have known about it.

He snarled. For a moment, he considered going after the raven like the mortal he so looked.

“I will,” Aurora replied. The girl was smarter than she looked, braver than those who loved her believed her to be. “I swear on the Moors. I’ll find them. You’ll get justice, I promise.”

Beside her, Maleficent seethed.

Your mate tired of his fury remaining contained. You were right, though he would never say so aloud; he needed the days to recover and to plan. He needed days for you to recover, so you would not be deprived of the vengeance you deserved.

The tightness in Aurora’s chest did nothing to alleviate when he departed. “Godmother?”

Diaval held the girl’s shoulders.

Maleficent chose her words particularly carefully.

“Borra is a capable leader who led a successful campaign.” Successful depended upon the standards one held it to; there were great casualties, but there had been great casualties on both sides. “The folk of the Moors are not war-like people. They’ll be of no practical use. When he offers them protection…it would not be conditional upon their ability to join him when he breaks peace.”

Aurora didn’t understand what about that would be significant. She shook her head slightly, her delicate brows furrowed.

“If he breaks peace, he will not bring danger upon the Moors. He will deliver vengeance to Ulstead just as they betrayed us.”

She truly, physically, could not imagine what that would mean. She had no heart for violence, no penchant for cruelty. Truthfully, she still thought differently of Borra – and the other Dark Fey, no matter their ways or from whence they’d come. So far, there had been no hostility on their part. They obeyed peace.

“I don’t believe that.”

“You should,” Diaval pressed.

The young queen shook her head. She hadn’t watched you, or Borra, take human lives. She hadn’t seen the way you fought as Maleficent had. Even if she had, his reasons were good – Aurora believed deep in her heart that, while violence could stem from love, the beauty of it would always overwhelm the pain.

She balled her soaked kerchiefs and lifted her skirts, stepping neatly from her dais.

“Aurora!” her godmother warned.

“Trust me,” was all she said. She had fought so hard and so long for both her kingdoms – she would not allow herself to be manipulated again. This time, the child-queen intended to be her own hero, to whatever extent she was capable.

This time, the child-queen intended to be yours.

Udo left you when you’d calmed.

You’d torn the earth apart. You’d ripped thorny branches from the ground and built awful spires well above the tress. It was nothing but wasted energy, and had done nothing to cleanse you, or to alleviate your pain, or calm the bleeding, and so you’d let your friend tend you once more and insist upon your rest, and he had left to give you time to grieve peacefully.

A task you were not suited for. Not in the slightest.

You should have known.

You should have been more careful. You should have watched the moons.

What would it have been like, if you’d known? If you’d told him when you realized you hadn’t bled? You were at peace – the thought of your mate’s hands on your belly, his laughter, his joy, would you have believed in the fairytale then? Gathering your shed down and building up a small cradle for the life that was to come – wouldn’t that have been far worse cruelty than this? The expectation of hope before hope was lost?

His return brought you from your thoughts. You adjusted, reaching for him, glad when he gathered you into his arms and folded his wings around the both of you.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered.

“It’s not your fault.” He traced your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Never your fault.”

“I should’ve known—”

“They should’ve obeyed.” His voice was hard, suddenly, and you curled into him, taking more comfort in his anger than you wanted to admit. “They’ll pay for it. That, I promise.”

His arms around you were familiar and secure, but the part of you that burned was pain enshrouded in hatred. Like this, when you could do nothing, you wanted to stoke the fire for as long as possible, so you took one of his hands and settled it low on your stomach. “Would it’ve been good news?”

It was rare that you felt him breathe out his tension altogether, but he did. He moved closer to you, fingers tracing the plain of your flesh, and his arms around you softened. “Thought about asking if you wanted one. The night we lay together in the peaks.”

Your heart shattered. You didn’t think anything worse could have been said.

“It was almost real, you and I settled down like this.” His face was pressed into your hair and you felt the graze of his lips against the leaf of your ear. “Thought you would’ve killed me.”

“I could’ve been convinced.” You would’ve made him make love to you to prove he wanted it. Kiss as much of your body as he could. He’d done it before, leave you trembling before he’d even joined with you, kissing your ribs, your hips, your thighs, your knees. You would’ve held him when he kissed your belly until you both understood the choice you made, and then you would’ve given him your heart and your body and held his hands in the down and the straw while he made love to you, whether or not you had already been with child.

You knew what was behind the familiar warmth of your hatred, but you did nothing about it until you felt his quivered breath – until you knew he was trying not to weep into your hair.

Then, you wept.

You laid there together, wrapped in one another as you always had, but his arm covered your chest as though he had to protect you, and his hand rested where you’d left it, and your fingers were laced with his there, and you clutched him, and you cried in horrible, body-wracking, ugly sobs that twisted the knife of pain inside of you until you felt truly, and thoroughly, wrong.

Aurora of the Moors saw you. Aurora of the Moors bore witness to your pain. She saw glimpses of your face, twisted in agony; the tears you shed behind the veil of your mate’s wing. She saw the dreadful spires that were already beginning to crumble, thinning into thorny vines that eventually sunk back into the moss with little more than scars upon the earth where they’d emerged. The child turned princess turned queen had walked freely, stopped freely, released a quiet breath, and neither of you heard her.

Nor did you hear her turn and run back into the forest with her skirts raised, running barefoot for Ulstead.

Hurrying to bring justice without concern for the price she might pay.

       Aurora was the people’s queen.

No guards left their posts at the river. No men with armor came barging into homes. At first, no one who answered their door realized that it was the queen who’d come to them, her dress dirty and feet bare, cheeks still damp with tears and a leaf dangling somewhere unreachable in her hair.

“Hello,” she said, to each and every person she spoke to. “Do you know anything about who might’ve placed rowan in the river?”

She sat with people, at their tables. Refused their food, though out of practicality rather than hesitation. She implored them – men, women, children, families of all of the above. If you know something, please, please let it be known. People I care for have been harmed. Faeries died. Please, help me bring their killers to justice. I won’t harm anyone, but they have to be caught.

There were people whose only motivation for not throwing her out was the fact that she was queen.

The parish priest begged her to turn away from them, and it was she who left of her own volition. A group of schoolchildren made jokes that earned them a stern and quite legal reprimanding. If you’d known the lengths that Aurora of Ulstead – Aurora of the Moors – went to for you, perhaps you wouldn’t have doubted her.

The girl walked until her feet began to bleed. Nearly talked herself hoarse.

Her husband found her in the village square with the tea merchant, where she’d paused for a good cry. She ached for the people of the moors, you and Borra most of all, and she ached physically. He gathered her into yet another warm, secure embrace, and she practically fell into him. These were not the happy marriage-days she’d been hoping for.

“Where have you been?” he asked, gentle and so full of love.

She told him.

Philip had known about the funerals, but everything after – Borra, the bargain she’d made for her kingdom, disobeying Maleficent, watching you mourn and deciding to canvas the village herself – he hardly knew what to do with it. In his defense, it was a lot for one boy who’d been raised in a castle to unpack all at once.

“Come home.” He rubbed circles in the backs of her palms. “We have three days.”

“I have three days,” she reminded him. “I am queen, it’s my responsibility.”

“And I am your husband. I won’t leave you to do this alone.”

She thought of you again, as she had between every house, and every moment she spent with the parish priest. (She would not tell Philip that she’d yelled at the man that men like him were the reason people in the village were cowards enough to murder babies, but she had, and you would’ve been proud of her child-fury.)

“Will you hate me,” she whispered, “if I let them seek justice of their own?”

He paused. He was a good boy, gentle and loving, but he often felt he understood the gravity of the situation more keenly than she did – as though the child-queen did not know what she proposed.

“What are you saying?”

“If I can’t find their child’s killer in three days, I will tell the guard to stand down.” She lifted her eyes, doing her best to square shoulders and face the man she loved. “I’ll let them into Ulstead. I won’t allow innocent people to be harmed—”

“Aurora—”

“—but I can’t sit by and let nothing happen. Philip, your mother went unpunished.”

“My mother is a goat!”

“And she killed them! She killed innocent people, my people and theirs! He’s right – I’ve done nothing to protect the Moors. It’s not Maleficent’s duty to care for me and the moor-folk and whatever else comes! I am queen, Philip!” You would have been even more proud of her then, the backbone she seemed to grow without the donning of a corset. “Capable leaders don’t allow their people to suffer.”

“You’re backing one man’s grudge against an entire kingdom.” He tried to close the distance between them, but Aurora of the Moors was Maleficent’s daughter, and she withdrew her hands from grasping range. She straightened, and, though her lips were pressed in a perpetual pout, she almost seemed to grit her teeth.

“I am backing the protector of my people in his time of loss. I know you’d do the same for Percival.”

Philip loved his wife, truly, but he couldn’t hide his irritation. “I’ve known Percival all my life. You don’t know this man, and you don’t know his people—”

“Do you know his name?”

Philip stopped. Every time he thought he had the advantage, Aurora thought of something that ripped the rug right out from under him.

“Would you know him by sight? Would you call him by his name? Even if he is a stranger to you,” and to me, “does that keep you from respect?”

Of course he knew him. Knew of him. The fey that could have killed Percival, the fey he’d held at the point of his father’s sword. The one he’d thrown down his sword for. A leader, he could believe, but he would have been lying to say he had given any of the newcomers much consideration.

It wasn’t exactly as though he’d had time.

“Tell me his name and I’ll wait for you.” He has no excuse not to, I’ve just said it.

Philip stared at her, and whatever reservations he’d had about Aurora’s plan unraveled. “Borra,” he repeated, careful to pronounce it as she did.

Aurora breathed deeply in what felt like the first time in a very long time. She straightened, her head back and hands clenched at her sides. “I trust him, Philip. I trust them all. They won’t break peace. Not if I help them.”

“Well,” King John emerged from the stables with a procession of horses – Aurora’s white and Philip’s plain one, as well as one of his own. “Then I suppose we’d best get to work.”

“Father, what are you—?”

Aurora grinned and rushed to him, throwing her arms around the good King’s neck. She hugged him as she hugged Diaval, and paused to ensure her cheeks had been properly dried before calmly, easily, lifting herself onto her horse without the help of shoes or a footman.

Philip stared at her, and the love in his heart only grew.

“Come on, we’ve got almost the whole village!” She snapped her reigns but once, and only softly, and yet her horse knew her well. She rode off into the heart of Ulstead on her brilliant steed, dirt-stained pink dress flowing along its flanks.

“Good choice in wife,” King John quipped, though he was not as quick in mounting.

                 Shrike was furious. Ini backed her call for retaliation. You heard them, you heard their war cries, and you heard Borra’s silence.

“I want to bury my child,” you murmured to Udo.

He nodded. You supposed he had been waiting for you to regain your strength. He gave you little more than a bundle of bloodied cloth and down, nothing of substance, and yet you took it to the spot where Conall had been slaughtered.

So much of your people’s blood soaked this land. Though nearly all of your fallen died in the Battle of Ulstead, the moors had already seen Conall’s, Borra’s, Maleficent’s, and yours. And your child’s.

Were you right to include her?

You dug your hole in the earth by hand. Thought of encircling it with river stones. The ones that looked like eggs, from the banks of the brooks and the streams in the moors that had gone without pollution – round and speckled and wholly unsullied.

If she’d never come, if you’d never met her, you and your mate would have remained in the nest. You would have noticed that you had not bled (you told yourself), and your people would’ve thrown a grand celebration. They chose Borra for one of their leaders, they would celebrate his child like no other.

Conall would’ve loved to know you were with child. Your eyes stung with tears at the thought; in this fantasy world you created for yourself, he came to you and Borra after the announcement, when your mate’s hand still lingered on your belly. He would have told you, though your child deserved the freedom of flight over the trees, that you could find peace in your love for them. And, in this fantasy where nothing was as it would’ve been, you thought you could have. Curled in the cool dark of your nest, nursing your baby. All of you, so warm. The soft down of their baby-feathers under your fingers, under Borra’s. How easily you would’ve sunk into each other. How comfortable a cradle his wings would’ve made. How beautiful he would’ve looked, carrying your child in the crook of his arm – how fiercely he would have loved them.

You felt him before he joined you. You made no attempt to wipe your tears away.

He helped you dig a shallow hole, a little grave that rent your chest more severely than it should’ve.

“Suren.” Finally, he spoke. “Look at me.”

You did. Kneeling in the dirt, crying. What sort of warrior had you become?

“I told them to stand down.”

You closed your eyes and buried your face in your filthy palms. Fresh sobs wracked you, though, at first, the tangle of your emotions left you unsure why. He had no right – you needed justice. But he was right; you couldn’t endure more death. Not his. Not yours. Especially none of your friends.

He gathered you close. You were unhappy, of that you were sure. Not with him. Never with him. He thought too far ahead; if the odds weren’t in your favor, then what else could be done?

“Whatever happens,” he said into your hair, “it’ll be you and I. On our own.”

“I hate them!” you cried, and the way your voice scraped on your sobs made your stomach twist. “They’ll pay! I want them to pay!”

Still, he held you while you cried and you left dirt-streaks on his shoulder and then his chest. He held you until you pressed your cheek into his neck and wept to him alone I want our baby.

You felt the strength of his heart against your chest. Even when he was silent, he spoke so loudly. His hands rested on your arms, drawing you closer. His body against yours steadied you. You clung to him as you never had, needing him more than you ever thought.

Carefully, silently, he gathered you. He brought you close to the bundle you intended to bury, and he pressed his jaw against your temple.

He wouldn’t do it alone.

You were not the only one crying, though you had fallen apart to shudders and sobs. Your hands trembled when you gathered one end, his steady on the other, and you placed your bundle of blood-soaked down gently into its earthen cradle. It didn’t require both of you to smooth the dirt back over, but together you did. You patted it, pressed it, as though its damp softness might give you some clue as to what their skin may have felt like, whether they would have felt like a new center of warmth as they grew.

He plucked a feather from his wing and placed it, gently, in the earth. You did the same, though a part of you wished you had buried it with them. Given them something of you in return – regardless of how much they’d already taken.

“Are you in pain?” he murmured.

Yes. Yes, you were. Your heart had never felt like this. You never thought yourself capable. Damn Maleficent. Damn her daughter. Damn them all, all but him, for encouraging this fantasy.

You shook your head. But you couldn’t ask him to plan with you like this.

“Let’s get you clean.” His arm slid beneath your knees, and you tried, in part, to withdraw.

He was surprised. He let you.

“I’m so sorry,” you repeated, vehemently. “I’m stealing all of this from you. Your mourning, your plans—”

He opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked tired, you thought, and the thought became a realization. Oh, yes, you had stolen his mourning. Only recently did you all mourn for Conall and now…

“My plan is to clean you up in the brook and take you home, and we will see if you feel better in the morning.”

It was unfair. Your people called for war. They were right. He should’ve backed them.

But that was what he did.

He carried you to one of the quiet, gently-bubbling streams. He washed your hands, your arms, and lightly brushed the dirt off his. Your back never left his shoulder when he covered his hands with cool water and soothed your face. You thought, faintly, how you must look. Sniveling and weak.

But there was no shame in taking care of you. Not for him. He washed your tears away patiently, soothing the persistent fire in your cheeks. He kept doing it until you did little but lay there and let him preen your massive wings, his chin on your shoulder, the caress of his talons through your plumage painfully familiar.

“I love you,” he repeated, though how long it had been since you last said it out loud you’d lost track of. “I want you to tell me if you want to stay.”

“No,” you whispered, immediately. “Do you not want me?”

“Never. I’ll always want you. By my side, where you belong.” He stroked your feathers, coaxing the dead ones to drift off along the banks of the bubbling stream.

“I’ve always been there,” you repeated. “I always will be.”

He kissed you. Softly, and only once. And though you knew he must’ve known, you had the strangest feeling that, this time, he hoped you wouldn’t follow.

           Things got a little more official once King John was involved.

It became a formal inquest. Surrender to the crown or face justice.

Everyone believed justice involved death on the moors.

Suddenly, every pie-maker who’d harbored lingering hostility toward them, every tradesman and merchant to profit from a faerie’s suffering, arrived at the castle with evidence of their crimes and begged the young king and queen – and King John – for forgiveness.

Philip issued more citations for petty crimes, and Aurora had more poachers jailed, than either knew what to do with.

It was a start.

         The silence between you grew overwhelming.

You wanted to withdraw only to push yourself closer. Borra drew himself closer to you only to withdraw. You were in distinctly separate realms of thought, you knew, and it made you wring your hands in frustration.

Were you planning revenge, or were you planning surrender?

“You’re doing better this morning.” And yet, he watched you like you were crystal. As though a tumble from a momentarily unsafe hand would leave pieces of you scattered across the desert.

“I want to know of our plans.”

He twitched his shoulder. He’d never stopped wearing his armor, save for the first day you rested and the days you’d both been sick. You knew him too well to pretend he didn’t have a plan, and he knew you too well to propose you do anything he felt you might be uncertain.

“It’s been three days. I know you’ve done something, and I need you to tell me what it is.”

You thought he was about to lie to you, to insist there had been no plan. Instead, he sighed, and it came with a low hum of irritation.

“I’ve called it off.”

“What was it?”

For a moment, he deliberately did not meet your eyes. The night before was the first night either of you had slept moderately well, and as much as you would’ve liked to justify it with the restlessness that followed bedridden illness, you knew shared grief played far too great a part. He was still tired. He was in no state to plan. Whatever it was, you were glad he had – there was no use in rushing to the slaughter for a second time.

He smiled, and the wryness in the corners of his lips soothed the sting on the edges of your broken heart. “Hadn’t gotten that far. Did a little bit of yelling at the queen, made it her problem. After that…” He rested his arm over his knee, remaining seated across from you. “Couldn’t exactly figure out how to make sure anyone was unarmed, considering they’re not gonna come to us.”

He had thought of something, but it had only been fragments. He’d considered a slaughter, and the relief of it sagged your wings. “I wasn’t impeding you?”

“No.” His thumb-claw found the mark on his lower lip, traced it like he had to remind himself of how it was earned. “You’re always right beside me. You never slow me down.”

You moved your breakfast aside to stroke what was left of the cut on his cheek. He’d healed well  – the burn on his neck was gone, though the wound on his arm lingered, likely to be another scar.

“I don’t want war,” you admitted, finally, sinking to the ground beside him. “Justice, yes, but…not that way. No more of our people should be sacrificed.” Not even, you thought ruefully, hatefully, theirs.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,” he admitted, dropping his hand so it brushed through your hair.

You sighed, and you gazed into his half-lidded eyes, and he half-smiled at you again.

You built up to war the last time. You would have justice again.

You thought. Until his eyes widened, hardened, and he snarled your name as he threw his body over yours. “Suren!”

A bolt flew past your horns. Past his, embedding deep within the trunk of a non-living tree.

Of course, your plans were decided for you.

You looked to Borra quickly – as long as he was safe, it was his place to command. He knew this land, he’d fought in the field of tomb-bloom flowers after the queen’s guard stripped it bare. It wasn’t the most dishonorable thing a human had ever done, attack in such a sacred place, but at least they had given you an excuse.

He glanced back to you. One man, both of you. It was hardly fair.

Your mate tore the roots from the very earth before your mortal foe had the chance to fire his crossbow again. It was torn from his hands, wrapped thickly in foliage just as he was. Borra drew him up between the branches in a blooming spider’s web, and your claws pricked. You yearned for vengeance.

“Was it you?” he snarled. “Are you the coward who put rowan in the water?”

The vines constricted him. You watched his skin flush, heard the small sounds of pain he made as his trapped limbs squeezed.

You could have cut him open like a rabbit. Swift with your claws, from his belly to his brain. It would’ve been so easy, and it would’ve been nothing you hadn’t done before. You approached him, came to stand before where the branches were most taut.

“Why?”

The man choked. He stared at you with nothing but hate, burning in him just as it raged inside you even then. You should do it. You should end him.

“What did you imagine you’d accomplish? It’s the river between Ulstead and the moors. It has falls, it leads into the sea. You succeeded by chance – and only then in the murder of faeries as big as my hand.” You paused, though why you weren’t entirely certain. “And I was with child, until you poisoned them inside me. That is what you killed. Sprites and a baby.”

The branches grew so tight you thought Borra might tear him apart before you’d finished. He was smothering, pricked by a thousand different thorns, when your child-queen came running. “Wait! Wait!”

“No one else waited,” you called. “No one else hesitated, why should we?”

“Because he wasn’t alone!”

You hated that your fury wasn’t strong enough to endure that sort of blow. You recoiled in disgust.

“King John,” she was panting, “asked around! He spoke to many of Queen Ingreth’s friends – they were trying to provoke more violence. Their men were afraid to go into the moors, so they came to the bridge…and they threw in the rowan from the churchyard! They never thought they’d kill anyone, they thought it would all wash to sea!”

“I don’t care what they thought, they did!”

“And they’ll pay for it!” Aurora’s eyes were so large, so wet, so doe-like. “Suren, please. Please. Let me bring them all to justice. Let me do it. I don’t want you blamed.”

You made a sharp, disgusted sound.

“They’ll kill you when they find out. You know they will. And Borra.” She swallowed. You thought it was in response to your mate’s summoned gaze, but obvious guilt crossed her features. “They know it was you killing poachers rather than Maleficent. They don’t like you very much anyhow.”

So there was no good reason not to kill one more.

“Please,” The girl was braver than you thought, even taking small, ginger steps toward you. “No more blood should be shed. Not yours, Borra’s, or your baby’s.”

Your eyes snapped to her face, your sharp teeth bared.

But she came to you as she went to her godmother. She wet her soft lips and let the quiver in her breath be seen. “I am so sorry. I know that’s not enough, I know I should’ve done more to protect you, and I will. I promise. It’s my duty as your queen to take care of my people, and I swear to you – specifically to you, by name, Suren of the Desert, that I will never let humans harm another faerie, or Dark Faerie, or anyone else. But,” she touched her soft fingers to yours and you nearly recoiled. “I need you to let him down. I need you to trust me.”

Borra watched you. She hadn’t asked him, despite the curl of his fingers betraying that he commanded the branches and not you.

“If you betray me, Aurora of Ulstead,” you whispered, just to her, “you will know the pain I’ve suffered.”

She was not afraid of you when she should’ve been. She looked up at you, and she held your hand in both of hers, and you met her wide, spring-green eyes.

“I promise.”

Borra let him down.

You wondered if she knew the bargain she’d just made, the future she’d placed in jeopardy, but you knew by the set of her jaw and the way she inhaled as she drew herself up to her full diminutive height that she did, and it was a cost she was willing to wager.

Foolish girl. Admirable, but very foolish.

You were starting to like her.

The man, even without his crossbow, took a sharp, lurching step from between the trees – and found himself with the point of Philip’s sword pressed against his throat.

“I wouldn’t,” the boy-king said with the sort of theatric fluff that you hadn’t seen since Borra was a boy his age.

“What does your godmother think of the bargains you make, Aurora of Ulstead?”

“Aurora of the Moors,” she corrected, “and I hope she trusts me with them.”

After all Maleficent had done for this child – the lives cost protecting her, the exile her guardianship placed her in – you were confident that she did.

                There was always a guard along the river, with their backs to the moors. They were well-paid, so as to discourage corruption, and the men were always the same.

They knew the difference in the beat of your wings from Queen Aurora’s faerie godmother.

You landed on the balcony first. Ducked your horns beneath the doorframe, and stepped onto a pad of carpet that your toes sunk into like moss.

You made a face and stepped over it to join her at her bedside.

“You came!” Aurora exclaimed.

Her face was always rosy, you’d realized after a time (after a time of fussing over whether the heat of your skin was too much for the child, before you made the effort to stop referring to her that way). Her large, doe-eyes were bright, and her golden curls hung like apple blossoms around her face.

“You asked us to.”

Borra landed on the balcony, and you strongly suspected he had done a loop in search of Aurora’s husband, who ought to have been there. You both watched him duck his head, and respond to the carpet with disgust as you had.

“I’ll have it moved,” Aurora said.

He gave her a sound of acknowledgement.

“I have something very important to ask,” she slipped her hand into yours and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I hope you’ll say yes. Both of you.”

You glanced to one another. No sooner had he settled his hand on your back then a door you assumed went further into the palace (with its inconceivably narrow halls) swung open, and King John ushered Young King Phillip in.

Carrying things.

Carrying babies.

Two of them.

“They’ve arrived!” King John exclaimed, and you did your best to hide your surprise that he seemed so very….fond of you. “Philip tells me you’re both well-respected warriors.”

You nodded, your brows furrowed.

“In that case, I intend to return the favor – you may not be able to wield iron, but you can certainly use bronze!”

“Dad,” Philip stage-whispered.

“John,” Aurora said fondly.

“Bit ahead of myself,” the jolly old man said, and gestured enthusiastically to the group of you. “Go on, continue.”

“Borra,” Aurora summoned your attention, “Suren. You are both exceptional warriors, and your presence on the moors is one of the reasons we’ve kept peace.”

“So it’s with no measure of uncertainty,” Philip continued, moving closer to his wife (as well as the both of you), “we’d like to ask you both to be our children’s godparents.”

You looked at one of the squirming, swaddled bundles, and offered your hands.

The boy-prince (who you’d made no such promises about) passed the child you desired to you with a smile.

It was very human. It had a little, flushed face, very pink, and no claws, horns, or sharp teeth.

“It’s going to be hard to take care of,” Borra murmured.

You nodded, and Aurora bubbled with laughter. “Oh, no! No, you don’t have to raise them! Not unless something were to happen to us.”

“A curse,” Philip offered, “or a war.”

“We would never wage war with you,” you reminded him.

“Not with you,” Aurora beamed. She rested her hand on whatever part of the bundle your arms weren’t currently encasing. “With other humans, probably.”

“We would not let other humans go to war with you,” Borra amended.  He’d gathered the other child from its father and held it, carefully, in the cradle of his arms.

You had to look twice. The first sight was pleasant; the second rekindled the warmth of your longing, and you glanced down at the child in your arms. “You have an advantage, little thing. You’ll be older.”

“And there are two.”

Philip looked at you both in confusion. Aurora lit up. You didn’t think her face could get any brighter, but, somehow…

“We plan to return to the nest we came from for the winter,” you told her, “but when we return in the spring…they’ll be much bigger, won’t they?”

You thought she might spring up from bed, so you lowered beside her. You placed her baby in her arms and kissed her temple.

“Do you mean it?” she gushed, “Really?”

You nodded, the corners of your lips rising. “This will be the first month. We wanted to be sure.”

“You will definitely need armor,” King John added from well across the room.

Borra placed the second child back into Philip’s arms, and the sight of him tucking the edge of their blanket over the fold of their cocoon made your heart squeeze. “Your godmother already knows of our plans.”

“As she does of ours,” Philip replied. “We needed Maleficent’s blessing.”

Their customs were strange, but if it was a blessing they desired…

You leaned in close to the child in Aurora’s arms, and whispered to them, “May you grow strong and always be healthy.”

“And you,” Borra said to the other, his voice low and fond, “And know peace.”

“Both of you,” you agreed.

They weren’t particularly magical blessings, as far as other fey’s gifts were concerned, but Aurora beamed at you as though you’d given her everything she could’ve ever wanted. “I’m so glad.”

“And I’m for you.” You squeezed her hand once more before you stood, and you turned to the old king with new interest. “You spoke of armor. Why? Do you believe we’ll be at war?”

“Well, not with any urgency, but you both live a long time, don’t you? Can’t hurt to be prepared. Better protection than leather, should you ever need it. And – oh, swords! And shields! And your children will need lessons in using them.”

You would need lessons in using them, but if it was to be an exchange of gifts, well. Borra joined you, sighing from the depths of his chest. “I hope they’ll never need them.”

You laid your head on his shoulder, and your fingers linked ever so slyly with his. He knew what you were doing and brought his hand to settle over your stomach. The radiant warmth of his palm soaked into your skin. “They are warriors. And if it’s peace they’re to preserve, there’s no harm in teaching them.”

“Them?” he repeated.

“I’ve been with child for the last two springs.”

He feigned fond exasperation as he stared at you, though his fingers traced the plain of your belly with the utmost love. “Remind me next time to wait until summer.”

“Harvest,” you teased.

He grinned, the points of his sharp teeth glinting in the morning of a new day.

[rayewriting]

Being Enough

Fandom: Batman

Note: This fic is ignoring the crappy “Ric Grayson” plot line and Damian’s Teen Titans disaster. I did not like those ridiculous character developments at all so I’m blatantly throwing those out the window. So, Dick did die, was sent to Spyral, before going back to Bludhaven to see how his dumpster fire is holding out. Damian was resurrected, and has met Jon, Maya, and Suren (because they are my babies) but does not have a TT team. Damian is fifteen and Dick is twenty-*mumble mumble* in the first scene. I also tried to write it as if Damian was writing it from third person and I don't how it turned out so... yeah.

Did I mistype and write out “Might wing and Flame burg” for the prompt in my draft and laugh about it off and on for the better part of an hour? Yes, yes, I did.

Two sets of combat boots race across Bludhaven roof tops, both sets were similar in size, one just barely bigger than the other, “Okay, Flamebird, lets see take tonight easy, just a regular patrol, then on home, sound good?” the smooth, tenor voice is from the one wearing midnight black suit with a cobalt blue bird across the front extending to the tips of his fingers.

“Considering the arsonist from the last month’s fires has finally been arrested, that seems reasonable, Nightwing,” the other male agreed with a tenor-bass voice. He was wearing something similar, but his suit was wine red with a marigold bird across his chest, giving the impression of fire when he moves.

“Great, after all it’s your second anniversary, we have to celebrate!”

“I told you, Nightwing, I—”

“’Don’t want a party, and find it pointless’ but I think some people disagree and are waiting for your presence at home,” Nightwing replies with a smile gracing his face,

“TT,” let out Flamebird, but he did not complain as they began their track across the city.

When both vigilantes return home after a quiet patrol, Flamebird opens the fire escape window and upon entering sees a banner with “Happy 2nd Birthday!” and immediately releases a big groan, causing laughter from the others in the apartment. Titus runs over to the two and sniffs at them, then headbutts Damian for pets, Alfred the cat walks over to Dick walking between his legs, wanting attention.

“Go ahead and change, masters. Then the party shall begin,” Pennyworth instructs. Grayson thanks Pennyworth, throws his arm over Damian’s shoulders, and drags the teen down the hallway to change.

When both return to the living room in lounge clothes, the teasing begins, “So, how does it feel like being two, Demon?” Todd jeers at him from the couch.

“You should know, isn’t that how old you are, Todd?” Damian snarked back, sparking laughing in the room.

But Damian wasn’t paying attention to the room, his mind was roaming because Damian remembers the last time of wearing Robin’s colors.

Two and a half years ago on the rain-soaked roof across of Grayson’s Bludhaven apartment building, an equally soaked Damian picking out which apartment was Grayson’s, when he felt the presence of someone else on the roof, instantly alert. “Where are you supposed to be, Little Bird?” a familiar timber asked, instantly letting Damian release the tension from his muscles, he turned around to face his (brother? …father? …mentor?) mentor.

Grayson was in his Nightwing gear, a comforting sight compared the last time Damian saw him with his spy garb. Damian looked down and was reminded that he was not in his Robin uniform, he was sporting his black under armor long sleeve shirt, tights, thick green boots, and green domino mask.

Damian tried to explain, he really was, but he is still reeling from another (conversation? … lecture? … grilling?) conversation, “I—I have no place anymore.” He felt the burning behind his eyes, holding himself together with anger since leaving Gotham; however, his anger was fading, and Damian’s composure was wavering. “I am requesting shelter, Nightwing, I will be out by morning.” Damian requested, trying to pull himself together.

Damian knew Grayson was immediately picking apart his tense stance when touched the roof, “Why don’t we talk about what happened, huh? I was going to cut patrol short today anyway, slow night,” the vigilante gently answered. As Grayson was reaching for his grapple, he noticed Damian about to jump off the side of the building. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Little One, come here, we will discuss where your things are when we get home.” Damian shrugs and wraps his arms around his neck, legs around his waist, trusting him to swing them to the alley behind his apartment building to enter his apartment. “Okay, first things first- any injuries?” Grayson asks, taking off his mask waiting for Damian’s answer, which is a shrug, “Alright, go head and take a shower, okay? I’ll set some clothes out in front of the door, then we will patch you up,” he requested, knowing Damian needs to find his composure and demanding an explanation now will amount to nothing. Damian nods slowly and begins to head to the guest room and bath.

As Damian walked into the wash room he took of his final layer of armor and turns on the shower to his preferred temperature, he looks himself in the mirror. He has one black eye forming, a few bruises across his arms, and small cuts marring his olive skin, all things that can wait till he bathes to be dealt with. He is stepping into the shower when Grayson knocks on the door and speaks loudly, “I’m leaving the clothes right outside the door, okay, Little D?”

Damian gives a grunt of acknowledgement through the water streaming from the shower. He takes his time, making sure he was thoroughly clean and time to collect his thoughts for himself. When he exits the shower and opens the door, he spots a Cheese Viking sweatshirt, black lounge pants, socks, and undergarments piled on the clean floor. He pulls on the undergarments, bandages his cuts, puts on his socks, sweatshirt, and pants, then exits the wash room.

When Damian enters the living room, Grayson turns to survey his injuries, but he already treated himself and covered by bandages, defiantly not the worst he has gotten physically; however, his emerald eyes must show his pain and grief, because Grayson’s smile dims slightly. “Let’s go get some ice on that shiner, Dami, pick out what you want for dinner, then we can discuss what happened with B when it gets here, alright?” Grayson asks slowly getting up and guiding Damian to the kitchen, grabbing the first ice pack he sees and take-out menus from the freezer door, passing them to Damian, “I haven’t been able to go shopping this week with a gang war breaking out, so choose what you want to eat and I’ll call it in.”

Damian sits at the bar, looks through the menus while placing the compress to his face, wincing slightly. Pizza, Chinese, burgers, Vietnamese, Indian- he picks the Chinese and points out the vegetable fried rice for him to eat, passes the menus back to Grayson, and waits for the older man to make the phone call. “Anything to drink, Dami?” Grayson asks him, causing Damian to look up at the older man- still not speaking, causing Grayson to place his hand on Damian’s shoulder- “Juice, water, tea—” and Damian cuts Grayson off with a nod, “Okay, I have chamomile tea, and I remember how you like it- brown sugar, lemon, and a china cup. Which is perfect because I just bought a tea set…”

As Grayson walks around his kitchen, talking aimlessly, Damian relaxes slowly, the final bit tension draining from his shoulders. When he comes back with both of their tea and takes a seat next to him, Damian slowly move his hand till it rest near Grayson’s- not touching but absorbing the warmth and comfort from his brother.

Damian always knew wherever Grayson was, he had a safe place. Away from prying eyes. Away from extreme expectations. Away from the harmful things of the world. Grayson was Damian’s place of comfort. A place where he was free to feel, even if it was childish. A place where Damian could be Damian, not a Wayne or an Al-Ghul. Damian did not know how much he wanted (needed) that till he was resurrected and asked where Grayson was. Damian could not describe the feeling of being so overwhelmed that he shut down, did not sleep, eat, drink, anything for a week- just sat in his room with glassy eyes- till he walked into Grayson’s room and began to weep loudly, grasp the edges of Grayson’s blanket and tug and tug till the comforter was free, only for Damian to fall backwards onto the floor and wrap himself in the faint smell of Grayson and slept.

The doorbell interrupted Damian’s thoughts, prompting Grayson to get up, answer the door, and return to Damian’s side. “Okay, Little D, what happened?” Grayson prompted him.

Damian took in a deep calming breath, twirled his fork in his rice, and began slowly let the breath go. He went on to explain how Father had reacted to Damian ignoring his order to save a child from the Joker, “I saw things that Father did not. Father was dealing with Joker’s men, and I had a clear path to save him. So I did what I thought was right,” only for Bruce to rant when they got home, sparking a fight, eventually telling Damian that he has not changed since he arrived to Gotham, “I have proved over and over that I am different. I died for this—I died for him and his crusade for that city, yet it is clear that no matter how much I adapt my teaching and curb my upbringing, it is not enough—I am not enough…” Damian patters off, anger giving way for the hurt to set in, overwhelming the small boy for a couple of silent minutes and Grayson brought Damian into his arms, “Father made it clear that I am not welcome in Gotham for the foreseeable future. So, I came to the safest place I could think of… here.” Finishing his tale of woe, Damian felt his eyes burn again, but felt powerless to stop them, “Grayson, why am I not enough? Why am I never enough?” Finally, Damian’s tears spilt from his eyes, and Damian lost himself in his anguish, letting out sobs against the man’s chest.

“Oh, Dami, you are enough, you always have been enough. You deserve the world, and I am sorry that I can’t give it to you. You are alright…” Dick consoled the shaking teen, setting Damian on his lap, rubbing his hands in soothing motions on the teen’s back. After Damian’s tears slow and pulls back slowly, head bowed, Dick begins his plan, “You can stay here, okay? I keep Bruce from the apartment, away from this city if I have to. Damian held on to Dick the entire night, feeling peace for the first time he could remember.

Damian was shaken from his thoughts as Dick throws his arm around his shoulders, “Come on Little D, there is cake! Your favorite!”

“Red velvet and cream cheese frosting?”

“Exactly, Jason baked the cake and Alfred made the frosting, says his own secret recipe.”

After everyone said their hello and congratulations, Alfred sliced the cake, and began to pass them around- Damian getting the first slice. “Thank you, Pennyworth. I am appreciative of your presence tonight,” Damian spoke.

“Of course, Master Damian. I would not miss this for the world,” Alfred acknowledged, bringing his tea cup to his lips taking a small sip.

Damian took in all the guests that had shown. Wilkes, Kent, Darga, and Ducard were debating various team names that they thought could work. Todd, Drake, Brown, and Gordon were discussing a situation brewing from the docks of Gotham. Pennyworth and Grayson were sitting next to Damian in simple silence, soaking in the warmth of the small apartment, the peaceful atmosphere. Damian once again lost in his mind.

Two years ago in Grayson’s living room, sitting on the couch was both males, pouring over Damian’s sketch book, “Flamebird? A goddess?” Grayson asked.

Damian nods his head, “Based off the Kryptonian myths I have heard from Kent, yes. But this mantle does not depend on a person being male or female, like Superman or Wonder Woman. Also, the myths describe the entity as a destructive force, but for the betterment of life, such as farmers burning an old field before planting again the next year.”

“Okay, but what’s with the color scheme and no hood? It’s cool and all I’m just wondering, you loved the hood of your previous uniform.”

“The name is Flamebird, so black does not match with the name I am presenting, the color, wine, is dark enough to be concealed if need be. I have decided against black and a hood because I feel, perhaps… tired of being swallowed by shadows and darkness. Is that acceptable, Grayson?”

“Of course, it is, Dami. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s not,” Grayson spoke softly, slowly wrapping his arms around the teen. Damian leaning slightly into the older man’s chest, nods his head, then slips out of the hold, and Grayson lets go. “We need to get these to Barbra, and you need to tell your friends about your name change, so they aren’t surprised next time you see them in uniform,” Grayson gently instructs, gathering the papers in his hand and phone up to his ear, “Hey Babs, I have a thing…”

Damian is suddenly jerking from his thoughts again as Grayson stands and announces, “Attention, attention, everyone near and far, I propose a toast! To Flamebird!”

“To Flamebird!” responds the small gathering, lifting their various beverages, smiles on their faces.

Then Grayson loudly says, “Speech! Speech!” thus sparks everyone as well, “Speech! Speech!” Damian looks at Alfred for help, but he just smiles and raises his cup.

Damian then rises from his seat, causing people to cheer, “I do not have anything planned, so this is the best I can do,” he begins turning to Alfred, “Pennyworth, you have taught me the value of tact and how manners are just as, if not more effective, than threats, but also the value of being a supporting person in someone’s life”, Alfred gave a quiet chuckle and grasps his hand in a quiet thanks, then Damian was twirling to his friends, “Wilkes and Kent, both of you have instilled in me the sense of friendship and how I can be even more effective and how I can rely on people if need be. Ducard showed me forgiveness, when no one else would look at me, you showed me how to be merciful in a world that is so cruel. Darga, you have been my example of perseverance, you and I have similar backgrounds with our families, but we have work on the same side of good.” After Damian’s speech Wilkes, Kent, and Ducard wraps him in a group hug, and Darga looks a little off put till Ducard grabs his arm and shoves him underneath her head, trapping him in the hug.

Damian’s cheeks turns red as he takes in a breath and walks towards his family, Gordon raising her eyebrow, “Gordon, you have given me many lessons, but the best one is you should never let others define your worth, so thank you. Todd, you have given me the best piece of advice from my time with my mother,” after Todd’s confused look Damian explained, “if you cannot beat them, give them hell,” at Damian’s words, Todd’s jaw drops.

“That was you! What the f—”

“Jason, shut up, it’s my turn!” Brown shouts and bounces on her feet.

Damian’s face began to turn even more red, “Brown, I have one lesson that you taught me that I treasure more than most, and that is your past does not define you, that you have a choice in how you act or react to a situation, that I always have a choice,” Brown wraps him in her arms and Damian feels a tear against his shirt, then she let him go, this gives Damian time to collect his thoughts. “Drake, I cannot explain how I feel when I think of our first year together, the things racing through my mind at the time we met, but I think you taught me something that will stick with me forever,” Drake looks uncomfortable, and Damian would agree, but this needed to be said, “I believe you taught me that it is acceptable to leave when someone is hurting you- that you should not have to accept someone’s behavior because they are ‘family’. And—” Damian sucks in another breath, “And I am sorry for the pain I caused and hope one day we can heal from the past, and slowly build a relationship- perhaps not brothers but—”

Drake grabs his arm, prompting Damian to look him in the eyes, seeing the tears swimming in his eyes, “I accept your apology, Damian, and I think—I think I would like to start over too,” the smaller man agrees quietly, looking down.

“Just hug each other already!” Brown shouts still wiping at her eyes, causing Damian and Drake to spring apart, both flushed out of embarrassment. The two looks at each other, reading the body language and eyes of the other, and slowly Damian reaches his hand out and letting a small grin on his face. Drake smiles and grasps the younger’s hand, giving it a small shake, and Damian feels a heavy weight drop off his shoulders. “You two are ridiculous…” Brown mumbles, and shoves Drake into Damian forcing Damian to catch the smaller man, “There, you are welcome.” Both males roll their eyes at Brown’s actions and Damian helps Drake up.

Finally, turning to face Grayson, Damian felt his face heat up to his ears as Grayson let a gigantic, dazzling smile. Damian takes a final fortifying breath and his voice was slightly rough with emotion, “Richard, you have let me have a childhood, when I had none to begin with. When I did not know how be a child, you taught me how, provided opportunities, and encouraged me to do so. You showed me care and affection from the start- even when I did not want it, but when I unknowingly needed it, and you took an interest for my wants and needs when no one else would or could. You provided for me when I could not for myself. You treated me with respect, but also did not let me hurt myself or others. You taught me I am enough just by being myself, that I did not need to adapt, but let myself grow up of that I am still doing. You gave me a safe place, a peaceful place, that I can express myself with no fear of pain, harshness, or disappointment. There are no words to describe how that kindness—no that love means to someone like me, someone that felt beyond repair, holding on to anger and pain, because that was all I knew, that was all I was taught. Until you, Richard John Grayson, gave me a chance to become something beyond myself, beyond my pain, hurt, and anger. So, thank you for being my Batman, my mentor, and my partner. Most of all, thank you for opening your arms and welcoming me as part of your family. I can honestly say, I would not be here today if not for you.” Grayson started crying somewhere early in the speech and has not stopped.

Damian looks at everyone in the room, “I appreciate and care for all of you and I only pray that all of you can continue let me be by your sides for as long as I can.” Most eyes were wet, causing Damian to feel uncomfortable and wanting to fidget, but his hands were still till Brown and Ducard pulls him into another hug, then Kent, Pennyworth, and Gordon.

Lastly Grayson pulls Damian into a hug so hard the younger falls and his partner shove his head into the Damian’s neck and Damian feels tears against his neck, “That was so beautiful, Dami, you always make me happy. You are the best, Dami.”

Damian wraps his arms around Grayson tightly, slightly burying his face, “We are the best, Richard.”

“Hey, we can’t help being great.”

[devilsclergy]

WRITER AESTHETICS - BOLD WHAT APPLIES TO YOUR MUSE

JOHN KEATS. the lavender in sunsets, flowers in the rain, sunlight slipping through clouds, lazy summer afternoons, the heavy scent of musk, flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books, fireflies on a cool summer night, being wrapped in fresh bed sheets, the ache of wanting what you can never have, dripping sunlight like gold, loving someone so exquisite, soft lips and soft whispers, fingers through hair, names of lovers carved in trees, broken glass, the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.   crisp winter skies with cold bright stars, mahogany wood, the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog, empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room, pale bruised arms reaching out into the darkness, cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol, a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered, a bad thunderstorm occurring at the end of a beautiful day, the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment, your favorite sweater, parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing, the contrast of blood against snow, a purple split lip oozing blood, black eyes fading to blue to pale skin, the butterflies of falling in love for the first time, the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries, the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.   the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future, decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there, the way not even light can escape a black hole, the rich smell of old books, delicate veins in the wrist, ghosts filling lungs, shattered bones, raindrops on the tongue, rusting metal, nostalgia that aches, the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT.   the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave, pouring rain and mud, a child’s fear of the dark, thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean, the silence of three a.m., danse macabre by camille saint-saens playing on a record in an empty house, the possibility of aliens and the weird feeling it gives you that you can’t explain, unexplainable phenomena, strange lights in the sky in the dead of night, ouija boards and urban legends.

JACK KEROUAC.   the brisk pine air of being on a mountain, travels without a destination, those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory, screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive, coffee shops late at night, car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark, naps spent in the sun, novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins, the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders, ignoring flaws and loving life, wind through hair, depression as fog in the brain, impossible ideals, a quiet sunrise, walks alone, when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe, dazzling people, open lands stretching out into infinity, falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.   the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog, hollow bones, a preserved heart held in hands, twinkling stars above an old graveyard, the way everything turns to dust, silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom, self-inflicted flames, perfection depicted as a rotting corpse, death as bricks in the heart, lips barely brushing against each other, glassy glazed eyes, biting into a lemon, heart-shaped bruises, rotting flowers on a grave, dried blood and spilled liquor, the hush of dusk when it begins raining, the intimacy of a secret.

Thanks for the tag @oneilmfruitpunch ! This was really fun to do. Tagging @rgael @ff14vamir @the-handsome-rogue @finalvalor @cala-mahltora @mateuslads @oroniri @blushingshadow @rhalgr @natsumiranko @s-udarshana @suzume-xiv @suren-xiv @lastbastion

[actualkomodo]

Writer Aesthetics

bold what applies.

JOHN KEATS.   the lavender in sunsets, flowers in the rain, sunlight slipping through clouds, lazy summer afternoons, the heavy scent of musk, flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books, fireflies on a cool summer night, being wrapped in fresh bed sheets, the ache of wanting what you can never have, dripping sunlight like gold, loving someone so exquisite, soft lips and soft whispers, fingers through hair, names of lovers carved in trees, broken glass, the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.   crisp winter skies with cold bright stars, mahogany wood, the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog, empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room, pale bruised arms reaching out into the darkness, cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol, a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered, a bad thunderstorm occurring at the end of a beautiful day, the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment, your favorite sweater, parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing, the contrast of blood against snow, a purple split lip oozing blood, black eyes fading to blue to pale skin, the butterflies of falling in love for the first time, the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries, the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.   the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future, decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there, the way not even light can escape a black hole, the rich smell of old books, delicate veins in the wrist, ghosts filling lungs, shattered bones, raindrops on the tongue, rusting metal, nostalgia that aches, the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT.   the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave, pouring rain and mud, a child’s fear of the dark, thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean, the silence of three a.m., danse macabre by camille saint-saens playing on a record in an empty house, the possibility of aliens and the weird feeling it gives you that you can’t explain, unexplainable phenomena, strange lights in the sky in the dead of night, ouija boards and urban legends.

JACK KEROUAC.   the brisk pine air of being on a mountain, travels without a destination, those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory, screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive, coffee shops late at night, car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark, naps spent in the sun, novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins, the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders, ignoring flaws and loving life, wind through hair, depression as fog in the brain, impossible ideals, a quiet sunrise, walks alone, when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe, dazzling people, open lands stretching out into infinity, falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.   the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog, hollow bones, a preserved heart held in hands, twinkling stars above an old graveyard, the way everything turns to dust, silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom, self-inflicted flames, perfection depicted as a rotting corpse, death as bricks in the heart, lips barely brushing against each other, glassy glazed eyes, biting into a lemon, heart-shaped bruises, rotting flowers on a grave, dried blood and spilled liquor, the hush of dusk when it begins raining, the intimacy of a secret.

Tagged by: @celestial-opposition, @red-dawnbringers, and @suren-xiv !

Tagging: @ganchinuaxiv​, @pearlescent-scales, @elegant-etienne, @onceahocat, @therealmtraversed, @grumpy-limsan-customs-cat, @eggplant-xaela, @untaintedtea, @muteboofwiggles, @ayeun, @xaruun, @bloodfenrir, @moonhartsffxiv, @kira-xiv, @ff-14-aileron, @niomemizune, @subetei-noykin, @foxlike-ffxiv

[warriorfey]

@blxckworn -- for Mallory:

"Come back here--” Borra was silent much of the time. He could land like a breath of wind when he wanted to; shift without even disturbing the earth. Suren, in mud up to her thighs, sloshed through one of the swampy creeks after the wallerbog who casually walked off with an adornment from her half-repaired armor, rustling reeds and making an unusual commotion. Big fey don’t usually end up in this leg of the water -- let alone desert fey. “Alright.” She paused, the cold and cloying muck growing unbearable. “You’ve left me no choice.” Like the arm of a mother, a branch swept out of the ground to catch the chubby little amphibian with moth-like antennae. It was an unfair advantage on the larger fey’s part, but oh so necessary.