#(if i tagged all the folks in this we'd be here forever alas)

[damienthepious]

it’s PROPOSAL/MARRIAGE day for penumbra pride week, and if I didn’t put up more of this fic I would cancel myself

The Rite Of Movement (Chapter 4)

[Ch 1] [Ch 2] [Ch 3] [ao3] [Ch 5]

[Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters:  Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla, The Keep, Original Monster Character(s), Sir Marc, Sir Talfryn, Sir Angelo, Quanyii, Sir Caroline

Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Engagement, Post-Canon, Domestic Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Poetry, Presents, Monster Customs, Dancing

Fic Summary: Arum has a surprising revelation about his own feelings, and then decides to take matters into his own claws since his humans don’t seem to realize what they are denying themselves.

Chapter Summary: A few personal invitations, and some uninvited guests.

Chapter Notes:  Y'all this chapter went a bit off the rails, and I think you'll be able to tell exactly where it happened. That's mostly why it took a full month between the last one and this. Forgive me? <3 thank you, as always, for reading <3

***

It’s easier, with Tal still writing up his field guide to Arum’s swamp, for Rilla to bully the brothers into stopping by her hut for a visit. Wherever they are, the Keep can provide an easy door, and all Rilla has to do is time it right and give them an expectant, inarguable glare. Plying them with food usually helps, too.

When she has them settled in the front room of her hut, picking eagerly at a plate of laddu and a few extra chocolates Arum claims did not meet his exacting standard for the engagement gift, she gets to the point.

“We’ve set a tentative date for the wedding,” she says, pouring tea with the hint of a smile on her lips.

Tal smiles, head tilting slightly to the side. “That’s great, Rilla! When-”

“Finally. Took you two long enough,” Marc complains through a mouthful, rolling his eyes.

“Actually, it will be us three, Marc,” she corrects. Her voice and face are both entirely calm, but there is a tightness to the way she sets down the kettle.

“Huh,” Talfryn says, puzzled, and then more emphatically, “Oh, um-”

“Scales actually agreed to marry you?” Marc asks incredulously. “I figured he’d be a hard sell on matrimony considering how aggressively he likes to pretend to not have feelings, like, at all.”

“He-” Rilla pauses, biting her lip to keep her smile from getting too wide. “He asked us, actually.”

Tal and Marc exchange a shocked look, more at the shy joy in Rilla’s expression than at the information itself.

“Well- congratulations!” Tal says, finding his voice earlier than his brother.

“Yeah, what he said,” Marc says, still seeming a little dazed.

“Thanks.” Rilla preens, just a little. “The event itself is gonna be fairly small. For obvious reasons.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Marc says with a snort. “What’s it, just us and Angelo?”

Rilla sighs as Talfryn elbows his brother in the ribs. “Plus the Keep, maybe Quanyii if we can reach her, and a couple of Arum’s friends, apparently.”

“Scales has friends?” Marc asks, and Tal elbows him harder, and hisses his name. “Ow! What? He just doesn’t seem like the type is all.”

“Why, because he’s a monster?” Rilla attempts to feign outrage, but she’s still too overtly pleased to actually pull it off.

“Mostly just ‘cause you and Sir Damien are the only people he seems to actually, like, like. And I mean ‘people’ in the broadest possible sense. I mean, I helped save his weird castle thing and everything,” he says with a pointed gesture that nearly spills his tea, “but I still think I’m only on the barely-tolerable list.”

“He did come around to see us a lot in the last couple weeks, while I was working on the guidebook. He answered some of the questions I had for him,” Talfryn says, pursing his lips in consideration. “And he kept bringing- well,” he nudges one of the chocolates with a finger, expression puzzled, “a lot of these.”

“It was definitely the most aggressively I’ve ever been offered candy,” Marc says. “Actually I wouldn’t even say offered, really-”

“The plain ones were good from the beginning, at least-”

“Yeah but batch three of the raspberry ones stained our mouths purple for like, four days.”

“Well, that’s true, but when he switched-”

“Tal. Marc.” Rilla leans forward. “Do you want to come to my wedding or not?”

Their eyes collectively widen, and Talfryn nearly chokes on his breath to answer. “Of- of course, Rilla of course we do-”

“Obviously,” Marc adds. “I mean, I was gonna come to your wedding when it was just you and Damien, and I like scales a hell of a lot better than I- ow, Tal, my ribs.”

Rilla grins as Marc scowls at his brother. “Good. Thank you.” She pauses to tuck a bit of unraveled braid back behind her ear. “It’s gonna be on the next full moon. Even you two can keep track of the phases of the moon, right?”

“Of course we can!” Marc complains, and Rilla gives him a look before she turns to Talfryn instead.

“I won’t let him forget, Rilla,” Talfryn says, smiling. “Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

***

The instant Sir Damien manages to find himself alone with Sir Angelo in the halls of the Citadel, he pulls his friend aside, the words bubbling out of him in excitement.

“Sir Angelo, I have a favor to ask of you, but it will require a degree of… discretion, my friend, and before I ask this favor I must ask for an assurance that you will not draw undue attention our way when I ask. Is this fair?”

Angelo gives Damien a wide-eyed look. “I am the very picture of discretion, Sir Damien! You may rely upon my quietude and discretion and- and another word for the same skill. I am quite adept!”

Damien grips Angelo’s arm, and drags him further down the corridor, jaw clenched in mingled amusement and concern.

“Oh-” Angelo ducks his head, and lowers his voice minimally. “Oh, I was shouting again, wasn’t I?”

“Indeed.”

“Apologies, Sir Damien. I know not my own strength, nor do I know my own volume.”

“I know, Sir Angelo,” Damien smiles. “It’s alright. Here, this one is empty.”

Damien leads Angelo into a small room (or, perhaps, large closet), full of half-destroyed training dummies but empty of other people, and when he closes the door behind them he can’t quite clamp down on his grin.

“You have been positively jolly for days, my friend! What favor could you need when you seem so content already?”

Damien laughs softly, glances at the door one more time, and then quietly says, “You know, of course, that Rilla and I have been engaged for some time now.”

Angelo perks up immediately, grinning wide. “Of course! I have been anticipating eagerly the day when I may act as your second in this most joyous of events!”

Damien winces, furtively looking to the door again, and Angelo shuffles his feet in embarrassment before he repeats his entire point verbatim at approximately half the volume.

“Well,” Damien says, “you won’t have to live in anticipation for much longer, my friend.”

Angelo gasps, clamping his hands over his mouth and muffling as he says, “Sir Damien-”

“We plan to wed in a month,” he says, his grin irrepressible. “On the full moon. Rilla, and I, and…” the grin finally weakens, his nerves slipping cold fingers between his ribs, “and Lord Arum,” he finishes quietly.

“Oh.” Angelo looks puzzled for a moment, and then his expression opens back into bright, wild joy. “Oh. Oh,” and he’s half shouting again until Damien grips the wrist of his armor in warning and he manages to muffle his voice into a reasonable volume that trembles with desire to raise again. “Oh, Sir Damien!”

“I know it is unusual-” Damien starts, but Angelo shakes his head quickly and enthusiastically and puts his hands down heavily on Damien’s shoulders.

“That is fantastic, Sir Damien! You are so utterly spoiled with love, and I cannot think of any man who deserves it quite so much as you do, my friend!”

Damien feels the tears at the corners of his eyes almost instantly, and he valiantly tries to hold them back. “You- you are unconcerned that-”

“Lord Arum is a friend,” Angelo says, as if he is explaining something quite simple. “And it is clear how deeply he cares for the both of you. An abundance of love is nothing to be concerned with, Sir Damien. It is something to be celebrated!” Angelo is certainly shouting now, and when Damien wipes at his eyes and waves a hand in the air, Angelo winces apologetically and lowers his tone again. “Celebrated… quietly! Of course!”

Damien sniffles, just a little. “Yes. Yes, that is- thank you, Sir Angelo. I never should have worried. And- you will be able to… to keep this event appropriately quiet, won’t you? It is going to be a rather… private affair.”

“I… private.” Angelo frowns. “Yes. Of course! Er- with… with whom, Sir Damien, may I discuss this happy and very private event?”

“Er… Talfryn and- and Marc. Primarily.”

Angelo pauses, and then it is his turn to sniffle. Just a little. “Ah, Sir Damien…” his lip wobbles. “Would that I could shout your joy from the rooftops of this city, my friend.”

“I know, Sir Angelo, I know.” Damien smiles, a little wryly. “No one else… I cannot expect that they would understand. I myself took so long to begin to reconcile with the truth of the matter… as much as it pains me to bottle up my feelings and my love and the truth of my heart, it matters far more to me to keep my flowers safe. It is only a drop of poison, and I will drink it readily to keep far greater evils from their cups.”

Angelo’s smile blooms slow, and he squeezes his hands on Damien’s shoulders again. “That,” he says, “is precisely how a husband should think.”

***

The Keep alerts Arum of the trouble in the late afternoon, and its portal quickly displaces him near the northern edge of his swamp.

He sees the commotion right away. A monster - large soft moth wings camouflaged gray-brown and convincing mossy green, a segmented body, twitching antennae, eyes narrowed in a glare and clawed appendages scrabbling with menace - is caught in one of his traps. A nonlethal one, more lucky this creature - or at least, an incredibly slowly lethal one. He arches an eyebrow, folding his arms behind his back primly.

“It appears you are trespassing on my land,” he says, voice low and mild and shivering with danger. “I could have simply had the Keep eject you to the edge of the swamp, but it informs me that it has already done so. Twice. Perhaps you are confused,” he offers, gesturing, “and so I will give you this advice; the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms is protected, and if you continue to intrude upon it, you will not find those protections so…” he tilts his head at the enormous flytrap, its maw sinking slow enough as to be near imperceptible over the moth, “so accommodating. You will pass another way, or you will meet hungrier teeth than these.”

“’M not trying to pass by,” the creature says in a whispering lilt. “Been trying to talk. Been trying to get your attention, Lord of the Swamp.”

“What.” Arum’s eyes narrow, instantly on alert. “Why? What business could you have with me? I am not offering my services at the moment, I’ve made that perfectly clear.”

The creature flutters slightly, wings cramped by the trap, staring at him intently. “I’ve heard tell that humans have been creeping in on your land, Lord Arum. Have they met with such hungry teeth as you say?”

Arum’s tail curls in slow, dangerous coils behind him, his frill shivering at his neck. “And where… precisely… did you hear tell of that?” he hisses.

“Depends. Is any of it true?”

Arum glares at the creature, and then he unsheathes one of his knives.

A rustle off to his left makes him duck instinctively, stance defensive, but all that stumbles from the undergrowth is a human, hands empty and upturned in a pleading gesture.

“Wait please don’t hurt- don’t hurt her, we’ll leave-”

“Oh you absolute fool,” the moth mutters, dropping her face into a pair of claws. “Puck-”

Arum stares incredulously as the human winces, hands still held in that defensive, placating stance.

“He was going to stab you-”

“I most certainly was not,” Arum says. “Who- what-”

“We didn’t know where else to go,” the human - Puck? - says. “And Tetch heard about that human at Helicoid’s court, saying she loved you and-”

Arum blanches, teeth baring in distress, and the human stops, stepping sideways between Arum and the moth.

“Just- don’t hurt her. If you let her go we’ll- we’ll leave. Please.”

Arum is utterly comfortable with Amaryllis and Damien, and by now it is not even unusual to speak casually with Sirs Marc and Talfryn and Angelo, but the tone this human stranger is taking with him now is setting off more alarm bells than Arum knows what to do with.

“You- why would you care if a human claimed to-” he pauses to project a sneer, “to care for me? And why do you care what happens to this creature?” He eyes the human, then glances back to the moth, who has gone still in what appears to be terror. He takes an experimental step forward, closer to the human, and the moth does not disappoint. Her wings stutter wildly, her antennae twitching as she reaches through the bars of the flytrap’s teeth.

“Don’t- don’t hurt them, don’t you dare-”

Arum stops. “You both seem utterly convinced that I am going to hurt you, considering that you chose to come here.”

“So we made a mistake, I get it.” The human reaches out and grips the moth’s claw, their eyes wide and frightened. “If you let her go, we’ll leave. We won’t bother you again. We’ll find somewhere else-”

The moth makes a hissing noise, clutching tighter at the human’s hand. “Stop talking, Puck, he isn’t going to-”

“Release her,” Arum says, making a light gesture with one hand and sheathing his knife with another, and the flytrap begrudgingly creaks open.

The moth gives an uncomfortable burst of clicks as the teeth raise, and Arum realizes belatedly that the trap has pierced one of her wings through. At a cursory glance the damage does not look too terrible, but she will certainly be unable to fly for the time being. Arum rankles slightly, and thinks, that is not my fault.

Once she is un-pinned, the moth clambers out as quickly as she is able, and immediately wraps her uninjured wing around the human, glaring protectively over their shoulder at Arum. He raises an eyebrow.

“Well?” he grumbles. “You’re free. Leave.”

“Just- just like that?” the human says, and the moth tightens her grip. “You don’t- you don’t care that we’re-”

“Correct,” Arum says primly. “However that sentence ends, I do not care. Leave. Leave my swamp.”

“Don’t question it,” the moth mutters, pulling the human back a step or two.

“No, wait, Tetch, your wing, you won’t be able to-”

“I don’t need to fly to leave this wretched place.”

Arum doesn’t take offense at that; hopefully it means they will leave that much quicker.

“Even so, just let me treat it first, you stubborn thing,” the human says, and then they pull a folded leather pouch from their bag, and Arum watches impatiently and uncomfortably as they unwrap a roll of near translucently thin parchment, unroll it, and tear off an appropriately sized patch. They apply a strange smelling glue around the edges, and delicately press the sheet over the wound to seal it. Arum notices, now that he has the context for it, that the moth’s wings have been mended this way in the past, that there are a number of these patches, with patterns hand-painted to match the coloring of her natural wings.

Arum is reminded, in a vivid and unbidden way, of his own hands, gently tying his torn cape around the wound on Damien’s arm after their second duel. It is an unwelcome feeling. An unpleasant one, in that he despises being caused to feel any kinship with these strangers, with this bold little human and their monster.

“Wonderful,” the moth gripes, and Arum can hear the embarrassed fondness she’s trying to hide, and it irritates him even more.

“Indeed,” he drawls. “Now. If you don’t mind terribly. Keep, a portal to the northern border of the swamp, if you would.”

The portal curls itself out of the damp ground, and the two strangers step back from it automatically, startled by how quickly it appears. The moth looks at Arum warily as if she suspects him of deceit, but she nods after only a moment and pulls the human towards the exit.

“But that’s back the way we came. What are we supposed to do after that? We haven’t anywhere else to go, Tetch.” The human furrows their brow, digs in their heels and turns towards Arum with a look of determined worry. “Please. Please. Your land is vast, Lord Arum. There must be somewhere we could stay, if only for a short while, where we wouldn’t cause you trouble.”

Arum thinks of Amaryllis, the first time she looked out his balcony at the full scope of what is his; the wonder in her eyes, and the pulse of pride and pleasure it had sent through him. He shakes that feeling, and thinks instead about Sir Talfryn, enthusiastically cataloging the untold, innumerable wonders of life within his swamp. Thinks of Sir Marc, feckless as he traipses clumsily across land he does not respect. He sneers, shaking his head.

“I do not need any more uninvited visitors cavorting around my home and making a mess of things,” he says, voice gone half to snarl, and there is a pause before the two interlopers respond.

“Any…” the human trails off.

“… more?” the moth finishes, her antennae twitching in amusement.

Arum snaps his jaw shut, his frill pressing tight against his neck. A thousand times damn Amaryllis’ siblings.

“How many visitors infest your land, lizard Lord?”

“That is decidedly not your concern, moth.”

“Her name is Tetch,” the human says gently.

“I could not be compelled to care,” Arum snarls. “The both of you, get through the damned portal or I’ll throw you back in the flytrap with my own hands.”

The moth - Tetch - flares her wings wide, hissing, but the human furrows their brow. “I… I am beginning to think that you won’t, actually.”

Arum glares the fragile little creature down for a long, tense moment, but they completely fail to quail under his gaze. The Keep croons a question through the portal, and Arum hisses a sigh, then drops his eyes. “I don’t have time for this,” he mutters. “If you wish to continue wandering the swamp until one of you falls into an errant hole in the murk or another of my numerous traps, you may kill yourselves at your leisure.” He gives an exaggerated bow with bad grace, then turns on his heel. “Keep, take me home.”

The first portal sinks away, and the Keep pulls open a new one in front of Arum.

On the other side of this new portal, however, Amaryllis is half turning, grinning brightly as she catches sight of him.

“Arum! I was just coming… back from…” she trails off as Arum freezes in place. “Uh. Arum?”

Arum stands as still as possible, his hands compulsively at the hilts of his knives though he is unsure when they got there. He sees, just out of the corner of his eye, as the human behind him gives a strange little wave.

“Ah, hello there,” they say, and Arum bristles as he hears the smile in their voice. “I’m Puck, and this is my- well. My monster, Tetch. I believe we’ve already met yours.”

***

“Ooooooooooh, we are going to a wedding!”

“What?” Caroline frowns automatically, turning from her mountain of paperwork - damn the Queen and damn her again - towards her witch. “What are you on about?”

Quanyii hugs a rather absurdly large bee against her chest, stroking the fuzz on its head enthusiastically as she waves a sheet of parchment in the air between herself and the knight. “A wedding, sweets! Looks like my favorite little herbalist is finally tying her boy and her beast down!”

“What?” Caroline says again, her frown deepening. “Where- where did you get that?” She asks, gesturing towards the bee, the parchment, the entire mess.

“Never mind that, babe, that’s boring. It’s much more exciting to think about how many new and interesting friends we’re going to make at this shindig!”

Caroline snatches the sheet from Quanyii’s hand, and the witch pouts at her as she scans over the scrawling handwriting. “This… this is not addressed to us.”

“Oh?” Quanyii tilts her head, the movement too innocent to be anything but false.

“Your name is not Leith.” Caroline levels a glare at Quanyii, who musters a wildly flirtatious look in return. When Caroline doesn’t blink she lowers her shoulder slightly so her sleeve slides down an inch or so. When that doesn’t work, she flutters her eyelashes like a pair of panicked butterflies, and when even that doesn’t move Caroline’s expression, she finally breaks into a pout again.

“Ohhhh, you’re no fun today!”

“You stole a wedding invitation from a gigantic bee.” Caroline says in a growl.

“Don’t be mad,” Quanyii says, her voice almost entirely buried in a whine. “They wanted to invite me. I can feel it. They just didn’t know how!”

Caroline raises an eyebrow. “They… wanted to invite you.”

“They just didn’t know where to send the bumbly girl here!”

“Hm.” Caroline pauses, her lip pulled to the side in a thoughtful grimace as she drums her fingers off her biceps, reading the invitation again. “I’ll admit, I didn’t think the wilting little knight would have the fortitude to actually go through with anything this…”

“Bold?”

“Risky,” she finishes, shooting the witch a glance. “If stray witches can go plucking invitations out of the air.”

“Ohhh, don’t be like that. I told you,” she presses a hand dramatically over her heart. “They want me to come, and that’s why I know about it. These lil gals are actually very clever messenger buggies!”

“I’ll have to take your word for that,” Caroline says, eyeing the bee warily.

“Yes you will.” Quanyii ruffles her sleeves like a preening bird, her nose upturned.

“You will be sending this invitation onward to its intended recipient, now,” Caroline says, a warning in her voice, and Quanyii pouts again, a little harder this time.

“I was going to, you big mean bully. I want to meet the big tough lizard’s little friend, not uninvite him. Obviously.” She pauses, biting her lip and looking up at Caroline through her eyelashes. “Sooooooooo… does this mean you’ll come with me?”

Caroline purses her lips, and gives Quanyii a look to let her know that she is perfectly aware of what the witch is doing. “Fine. Fine. If only to see the look on Sir Damien’s face, I’ll go.”

Caroline, knowing better, presses her hands over her ears just in time to muffle Quanyii’s piercing, joyful shriek.