#Dream Hunting in the Valley of the In-Between

[yourfavealbumisgender]

Dream Hunting in the Valley of the In-Between by Man Man is Transneutral!

requested by anon

[mikimeiko]

Albums I listened to in 2023

Dream Hunting in the Valley of the In-Between - Man Man (2020)

[laligraves]

a wedding in june

cult leader!joel miller x virgin fem!reader

[18+] | wc: ~3.2k summary: You run from Joel on your wedding day. masterlist | AO3

warnings: HBO Joel, TLOU AU, dubious consent (i'm so serious don't read if it makes you uncomfortable), some proofreading, post-outbreak, commune/cult vibes, arranged marriage, mentions of infected/gore/violence, no use of y/n or too many details on reader's appearance, some face slapping, loss of virginity (and some pain associated to that but only a few sentences), outdoors sex, oral (f! receiving), squirting, unprotected sex, creampie

a/n: i promise i have other ideas rattling in my brain besides dubious consent 😭 i have a whole wip chart with tons of ideas that i hope i can write

You run faster at the sound of shouts behind you. Sweat drips down your temples and fear makes your heart beat erratically, but you don’t dare stop. 

The outer gates are only a few more hundred feet away. All you need to do is get past the trees and you’ll be able to escape. You don’t have time to think about how this will be your first time venturing outside of the commune. 

Everything you were taught about the outside, about the orphaned souls and monsters that lurk, none of that matters. Not when you’re more terrified at what your future will bring.

Joel Miller. The man who in just a few months, cleared away the hundreds of infected in the nearby valley. Joel, who in the commune’s monthly hunting trips, manages to find everything from venison to medication. 

The times you’ve been close enough to Joel, to feel the heat emanating off his body, you can almost taste the violence that simmers beneath his skin. Instead of it scaring you, like it would any sane person, it excites you. 

The longing in his gaze whenever he looks at you makes you dizzy. There’s a pulse of heat between your thighs each and every time, one that will only go away after you ride your pillow until exhaustion. Whenever you face him again, after you’ve dreamed of him taking you, you wonder if he knows what you do in the privacy of your room. 

There’s no denying that he’s saved this commune from the brink of starvation. Of course everyone, including you, is grateful for the kindness of a stranger. But in the months he’s been here, their gratitude has turned into pure devotion. 

Your parents practically pushed you into his arms the moment Joel asked about you. Normally quite level headed, your parents have begun to treat Joel like a God. You thought Joel would find their insistence of marriage off putting, that he would be an honorable man and let you choose your own path in this place.  

You were wrong. 

Your parents saw it as an honor that out of all the women in the commune, Joel chose you. The books and pretty dresses he finds on his trips are only a sign of how devoted a husband he will be, at least that’s what your mother tried to tell you.  

And the times you tried to speak to Joel and get him to rethink this marriage? Don’t worry about it, pretty girl, was all he would say before he’d send you off. 

You can imagine him in your bed and fantasize about him in your dreams, but to be his wife? Especially now that he’s been chosen to lead the commune—you want nothing to do with that. 

A denser path to your right has you changing directions, wishing to throw them off your trail. You can still make it if you run through here. 

Except it’s too late. Strong arms grab and push you into the lush grass. 

“No,” you scream, “let me go!” 

“What’s wrong with you,” Joel snaps, “don’t you know what’s out there?” 

“I don’t care,” you scream out childishly, “I’d rather be out there than be with you!” 

He climbs on top of you, grabbing your wrists in one hand and pressing them above your head into the grass. He leans on your thighs to keep you still and grabs your chin with the other hand. 

“Listen to me,” he insists, “you don’t know what you’re sayin’. You know nothin’ of what life is like outside these walls.” 

He digs his fingers into your cheeks and shakes your head slightly since you refuse to look at him. 

“Joel, did you find her?” your father calls out from a distance. 

“Yeah, I got ‘er.” 

“Great, let’s go back and finish the celebration–” 

“No,” Joel calls out. 

“Joel–” 

“Leave,” Joel interrupts. 

He continues sitting on you, putting most of his weight on your trembling body. The white dress you're wearing, a satin piece that he found on their last hunting trip into the town, rides up dangerously close to your panties. 

“I need to teach you a lesson in respect, wife,” Joel growls. 

He stands and just when you think you can escape again, he yanks you up with him. Joel holds your arm tight with one hand while taking off his belt with the other. He spins you around and brings your wrists behind your back, using the belt to bind them together. 

“You wanna see what’s out there? Since you think you’re so tough?” Joel asks, not waiting for an answer and instead dragging you to the gate. “I do everything to make this place safe for you, darlin’. But this is how you repay me? Runnin’ off at the first chance you get?” 

You’re surprised at his words and the sincerity of his voice. He sounds almost… sad. 

“Practically beggin’ to be out there with those fuckers instead of me?” he continues, “The only man who can truly protect you?” 

You reach the gate and your heartbeat picks up again. You’ve never been out this far. In fact, you’re acres away from the actual commune. While the gates are secure and regularly enforced, you can’t help but feel truly terrified that something will grab you just outside these barriers.  

“I’m sorry, Joel–” 

He stops, spinning you around and landing a hard slap, slap, slap on your ass. 

“You address me as sir.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” you cry out, “I learned my lesson. Let’s–let’s go back.” 

Joel ignores you, choosing instead to march you right to the gate. He keeps one hand on your arm and uses the other to maneuver the many locks and wires on the barrier door until it finally opens. 

“No, please! I said I was sorry! I wasn’t thinking!” 

He drags you out and for the first time in your life, you’ve left the commune. Despite only a metal gate separating both sides, this area seems devoid of life. 

He walks and walks until you wonder if you’ll pass out from the panic. You fall to your knees and Joel crouches right in front of you. 

“Your daddy ever tell you about the infected?” Joel whispers, tilting your chin up with his index finger. “How they’ll bite and rip into any part of your flesh.” 

“No, please,” you whimper. 

He drags a finger down your neck and over your exposed collarbones, leaving goosebumps in his wake. Your nipples tighten as he glides his finger over one breast and then the other. 

“Once they’re done with you, if there’s anything left, then you become just as mindless and violent as them. Forever lost–” 

“Sir–” 

His hand tightens around your neck, cutting off your words. 

“It’s not just one, babydoll. They like to travel in hordes. Makes it easier to find their victims.” 

Your air supply thins and blood rushes to your ears. You squeeze your thighs unconsciously as the pulsing between them only grows. Joel ghosts his lips over yours and your eyes flutter closed without thinking. 

“But it’s not just them,” he whispers over your lips, “there’s non-infected out there. People who won’t think twice about hurtin’ a pretty girl like you. Killin’ ya’ just for fun.” 

You’re not sure who kisses who first. It’s not the chaste kiss the two of you shared at the altar. It’s rough and has you pressing your body close to his so you can take every swipe of his tongue or bite from his teeth. He continues holding your neck, lightly squeezing so you have no other choice than to gasp for air. 

You fall back at the push of his hand on your chest. He flips you on your side to untie his belt from your wrists. You attack the moment your hands are free, sliding your hands through his salt and pepper hair and tugging him down.

Joel hisses but returns each of your kisses and bites with his own. You hear the squawk of a crow from above and you're immediately reminded of where you are. 

“Wait, sir,” you gasp, “not here. Take me back to your–our house–” 

He drags his teeth down your neck, rubbing his beard into your soft skin and biting down. 

“Thought you’d rather be out here than with me?” he says, repeating your words from earlier.  

“No,” you whimper, trying to push him off, “not here. I–” 

He reaches your chest and sucks your nipple into his mouth right over your dress. Your words are cut off and you're arching your back, trying to push more into his mouth. 

Joel makes room between your thighs and grinds down as you twist his wavy strands of hair between your fingers. His hard bulge rubs over your pussy and your whimper at the roughness.

He pinches your other nipple between two fingers then leans back to tug down the straps of your dress. Warm, summer wind glides over your now naked breasts and you shiver. 

“Look at these pretty tits,” he groans, “all mine.” 

Joel yanks the skirt of the dress over your tummy and runs a finger up and down your panty-covered pussy. You shamelessly grind down on his hand and cry out the moment he lands a harsh slap. 

“Please,” you beg with what's left of your sanity, “take me home.” 

With the same technique as before, Joel holds both wrists in one hand and uses the other to rip your panties off. You try to close your thighs from the sting of the elastic, but he’s quick to stop you. 

“Christ,” he whispers, “now ain’t that a beauty.” 

With two fingers, Joel swipes through your slick folds and brings them up to his mouth.   

“Mmm, sweet girl. Needa taste of this pussy.” 

“What do you mean—“

You try to remind Joel of just where the two of you are, but he fits his broad shoulders between your thighs and fuses his mouth to your pussy. 

You’re surprised, stunned silent by the heat of his mouth on your most intimate parts. You’re by no means ignorant of what a husband does to his wife—you’ve read enough of the romance books your mother keeps hidden in her bedside table and heard enough stories from your friends to have an idea of what happens on a wedding night. 

But never did you imagine it would feel like this. His beard and mustache only heighten the sensitivity between your thighs. The setting sun and the dense forest that surrounds the two of you should add to your terror, but Joel manages to put your attention elsewhere. 

His tongue lashes repeatedly over your clit and down to tease your entrance. You throw your head back onto the grass and stare through blurred vision at the purple sky, uncaring of where you are and of what creeps in the dark. 

He’s greedy, eating away at you like you're the last meal he’ll ever have. You’re slick and sticky, painting his face with your juices, making it easy for him to push a thick finger into your entrance. 

The stretch burns, but he calms you with a swipe of his tongue on your clit and the vibrations of his moans on your skin. 

“Your parents were right, you are a virgin,” he groans, pushing on the little piece of thin flesh that separates the rest of you. “Gonna be a tight fit, baby.”

You have no time to think about when your parents had that conversation with him. Instead, you're dumbfounded at the size of his fingers. You whine, unsure of what exactly you're asking, but nonetheless chanting more, more, more into the air. 

Joel manages to slide a second finger, curving them and pressing on something bumpy that makes you twitch and see black dots in your vision.

He stretches and scissors his fingers in your tightness, opening you up more and sucking your swollen button between his lips. Just when the heat is about to consume every inch of your body, he stops. 

“No,” you whine, trying to yank his head back to your thighs. 

Joel dodges your hands and laughs at the desperation written all over your face. He leans down, pressing his wet face to yours in a sloppy kiss, forcing you to suck on his tongue. Riding your pillow doesn’t compare to this.  

Just as before, Joel rips away and catches your wrist right when you reach for him. 

“If you woulda been a good girl, I woulda eaten this virgin pussy till mornin’,” he says while unbuttoning his jeans. “Made you ride my face and cum as many times as you wanted.” 

You barely understand how someone could ride a face, and yet you clench and gush around nothing, wanting his mouth or fingers back. You see the dark, curly hair at his base before he pulls out his length. 

“But for bein’ a brat, I’m gonna make you come on my cock instead.”

The tip is swollen and leaking a white-ish liquid that makes your mouth water at the sight. He lets go of your wrist and gently slaps your face. 

“Are you listenin’ to me, girl? I won’t fuck you if you ain’t payin’ attention.” 

“Y-yes, sir. I’m listening.” 

Joel laughs once again, noticing the dazed look in your eyes. 

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make it fit.” 

There’s a craving inside of you, one that has you suddenly feeling so empty, that if he doesn’t fill you with his cock you think you’ll die. You repeat the word over and over in your head. 

You’ve read it more than enough times and heard it through hushed giggles from your friends, yet the way Joel says the word, the way he squeezes and twists his hand over his cock, you finally understand what the word truly means. 

Your fingers and the handle of your hairbrush were never able to give you what you so desperately seeked. You always stopped before you went in too deep, never able to take that final push inside.

He spreads open your thighs and you lean up on your elbows to try to catch a glance at what he’s doing. You see your sticky fluids stuck on your inner thighs and over the tip of his cock. He pushes in just an inch, and you gasp at the thickness. 

“Fuck, tight little thing,” Joel moans. “Need you to beg f’me, baby.” 

“Please, please, sir,” you answer quickly, “please, I–I want it!” 

He sinks in another inch, his face pinching in barely controlled restraint. 

“Say–fuck, say ‘I need your cock, sir’.”

The words are caught in your throat as you try to adjust to his size. Joel doesn’t like that you take too long to answer and slaps your cheek. 

“Answer me.” 

“I need your–your cock, sir,” you whine. 

“Again, fu–again,” he demands. 

You try your best to repeat his words, except he’s too far gone now. There’s a pinch, a rip of thin flesh and suddenly he’s sliding all the way in. You claw at his arms and at the grass to get away but he’s gripping your thighs, pressing deeper and whispering take it, pretty girl and you ain’t getting away from me.  

You feel full, so incredibly full. You’re split open, ripped apart just for him. 

“I know, baby. I know,” Joel coos, “it’ll hurt only for a minute.” 

His thumb rubs tiny circles on your clit and he leans over to press kisses on your eyelids and cheeks, licking away the tears that fall. 

The stretch burns, but his groans of pleasure and his gentle kisses have a warm glow spreading through your body. Joel notices the change in you and glances down to watch your hips move in small circles. 

“There we go, baby,” he moans, “knew you’d like it.”

He pulls out slowly, keeping eye contact with you and watching each pinch of your brow and flutter of your eyelids. 

“Saved this pretty cunt just f’me, yeah?” 

“Yes, sir,” you whisper, pushing away the sweaty curls from Joel’s forehead. 

He picks up the pace, curling his hand behind your knee and pushing it into your chest, arranging you like a doll. The pain now completely gone, you lay there, running hands over his arms and watching the sweat drip down his temples. 

Every slide of his cock kisses the very end of you. Your hips move and twist on their own accord and you have no choice but to cry out into the night sky. 

“Takin’ this–this big cock like a good girl, yeah?” Joel groans, watching his cock plunge in and out of your little hole. “Need you–fuck, need you to say you’re mine, baby.” 

“I–I’m yours, sir,” you whine, feeling a twinge in your core, “yours, yours, yours.” 

You dig your fingers in his neck and drag him down for a kiss. He grunts as you bite deep enough to draw blood. 

The thoughts from earlier, about running away from him, leave your mind. Even if it hurts a little, even if you aren’t prepared to be a wife, this is exactly what you need. And you won’t let anyone else have him.

“You gonna cum, girl? Gonna cum on your husband’s big cock?” 

This time he doesn’t stop you. His hand squeezes your neck and he traps you into the ground, pistoning his hips into your slick cunt. Your oxygen lessens and your cumming, numbness and white heat spreading throughout your body. 

“Just like that, baby,” Joel growls, “soak my cock.” 

You're gushing on him, painting the hair at his base with sticky juices. You tremble in his arms and claw at the hand that squeezes your neck. Joel doesn’t let up, fucking into your limp body, loving the way you mewl underneath him.  

He moves in short thrusts, stiffening and letting out an animalistic grunt into the night sky. He presses his head into your neck, sucking and biting into your soft skin while he spills his seed inside of you.

"Take my cum, baby. Take it, take it," Joel moans.

You clench around him, massage his cock with your inner muscles. Every drop of his cum belongs deep inside of you. 

With the little strength left in your body, you run your fingers through his hair. Joel's hands move to grip your thighs and he grinds down, spilling the last of his cum into your cunt.

"You belong to me," Joel whispers. "Don’t ever run again."

You lay there in the grass, breasts bare and pussy full of your husband's cock.

"I won’t," you promise. 

Joel leans back and slowly slips out. There’s a twinge of red mixed with his cum that he wipes up with your ripped panties. He lays down next to you and brings you in close so that your head is placed on his chest. You listen to his heartbeat and the sounds of crickets around you.

You think about the long way back to Joel's–well now your house too–and then you remember exactly where the two of you are.

"Sir, we're outside of the gates what if something or someone comes–we don't have any weapons–"

“There’s another gate a few miles out," he interrupts, "I installed it for extra protection around this place.” 

You drop your head on his chest from relief and exhaustion. Joel rubs a hand down your back and squeezes your arm. 

“I’d never put you in harm's way, pretty girl.”

-

general taglist: iloved1lfs0

ps: i know that there has been other cult leader!joel fics but in no way shape or form have i copied those works for this. if there is something major in my work that sounds similar to someone else's, it's purely by coincidence. i respect each person who takes time out of their day to write FREE content and the last thing i'd do is steal their storylines 🤍🤍🤍

[mrsrookhunt]

What To Expect When Your Lab Experiment Drinks Formula| PT. 3

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Rook Hunt (Part 1)

Part three by popular demand! Malleus, Rook, Floyd, Sebek, Lilia, and Azul with feisty toddlers.

Warnings: angry toddlers, exhausted parents

Note: Every character has more than one child now with the exception of Azul.

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Malleus Draconia

The new princes and princesses of Briar Valley are Tiny Little MenacesTM.

You are Malleus are dealing with two wild toddlers, and one extremely fire-loving baby. Fire-loving, as in, the entire room has had to be fully fire proofed, from the walls to the ceiling.

The other children love being outside and playing, which gets them out of your hair while you attempt to feed and care for baby #3, oven mitts and fire-proof gear on.

The only one that your baby won't lease a barrage of firey giggles onto is Great-Grandma Maleficia, who can pick up the child without worry, a blessing in disguise to poor you and Malleus.

Whenever you aren't trying to wrangle the littlest Draconia heir, you and Malleus' time is filled by playing with rambunctious dragon toddlers. Your oldest is still as mischievous as ever, now taking off in full distance flights with your lunch everytime you turn around, and your younger toddler requiring immense amounts of attention.

All three have been deemed the 'wildest children the Draconia bloodline has ever seen', which says a lot. You hope they grow out of it, but the little ones seem stubbornly wild, with no chance of changing anytime soon.

Long training flights with Malleus often leave you watching the skies for their return at dinner time. It's not the life you imagined. But it's the life you never expect that's the one that satisfies you.

Rook Hunt

"HEYYYYYY!!!! PAPAAAA! LOOK WHAT I CAUGHT!" It's always a peaceful evening when the children are outside, until it's not.

Your 3 year old has been regularly running in with things you don't even know how they've caught as a toddler with no weapons.

Today, it's a bird bigger than your toddler's tiny body.

Rook has been diligently teaching your children how to hunt since they could walk, taking them for small hunting trips and shooting targets with children's play-bows.

Only two of your five children are too young to hunt, in his eyes, and even then you have not escaped their sharp, predatory gaze, which has been present since birth. You have no doubts that all of your children will be hunters. It's definitely a given, and as you've seen from Rook's family, seems to run in their blood.

The toddlers go outside and play on your patio every evening when the heat cools down, allowing you and Rook to have some peace and quiet. Rook is very enamored with the family you've created together. He always dreamed of finding beauty in his future, but never knew it would be so soon, and in the form of a domestic life with a spouse and children.

You and Rook are happy with this life you've created, enjoying the ups and downs of parenthood, the thrills of hunting with your whole family, the cuddly movie nights and soft words exchanged between you and your kids every night before bed.

It's a perfect life, one you never expected get, and never to love as much as you do.

Floyd Leech

It's been challenging for Floyd to be away from the sea for so long. You both agreed that it would be easier and more comfortable to live on land for the sake of your family, but it's definitely been a source of tension. Floyd and the children both go out to sea often as a compromise, leaving you all alone with the family pets and the occasional guest.

When they're home, you all spend hours together playing and loving on each other. All seven of your little ones have grown accustomed to Floyd, and have shifted their little spats of dominance to between each other.

It's true, it's practically a full-time job to keep them all from fighting. The youngest ones are the most ruthless, attacking their siblings and destroying their surroundings entirely as they cry and whine, throwing little catty hands at each other as 'fights'. It seems to do more emotional damage than physical.

Then again, are your surroundings ever not destroyed by the 7 restless children? They're so obscenely playful that they make sure that your life is challenging to say the least. Sometimes you're glad for the break you get when they go for day-long dives under the sea. They're probably making some tornadic-like mess of Jade's home, but that's not the end of the world for you.

Your relationship with Floyd is nothing short of magical. There's still as much love there as there was when you started dating, if not more. Your family has its odd little quirks, but what matters is that you're all together, happy and proud of the life you've created. You are especially thrilled that you made your own life work in a world that wasn't even yours. You've made it your home now, and you could never feel more content than you do now.

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek has grown to love his children very much. After your first began to love on him as often as you, he fell completely into the role of a family man. All three of your children love Sebek immensely, having grown fond of him after he let down his guard around them.

Your littlest one is the perfect carbon copy of Sebek, even at 15 months old. Not only does this child seem to possess no personality traits or features of yours, this little one's very first word was 'Mallie'. Sebek could not be prouder, and more eager to train his children in the path of a royal retainer afterwards.

Your oldest is still the wildest little mini croc you've ever seen. Nothing in the parenting books could have prepared you for your child's defiance and strong will. The other two, though relatively calmer children, seem to eagerly egg on your oldest with nonsense excited baby babble.

Now that your oldest's teeth have grown in fully, Sebek has to watch his limbs carefully. His family is known for their bite power, and this child is no exception by a long shot, seeming to have a stronger bite than even Sebek himself. Though your toddler does love Sebek dearly, they haven't learned that biting isn't a game. And after biting clean through a leg of furniture last month, Sebek has been terrified ever since.

The younger two don't use their teeth to bite people, but toys and furniture are a free-for-all.

Your children are very adept and skilled at squirming out of any situation, physically and verbally. You think to yourself that they will in fact make wonderful guards some day, but you don't ever tell Sebek that for fear that he'll make the poor things train even harder to please both of their parents.

You and Sebek end up on the floor, playing games with your very imaginative children quite often, cuddling and laughing with each other while they all pretend to be royal knights and sometimes, doctors. Sebek won't say it but he thinks his oldest would make a very good doctor and he approves.

You've never been happier, and never more in love with Sebek, as is he, you. It's a perfect fairytale world for the two of you. Who knew that Twisted Wonderland would end up becoming where you were always meant to be?

Lilia Vanrouge

C H A O S.

There's twelve little Vanrouges running around, acting absolutely chaotic and mischievous at all times. Poor you and Lilia. Twelve children under four sounds cute but it's an absolute nightmare, especially when they have the lineage of a certain silly fae.

It's manageable, but only because Silver is there suffering with y'all. And barely. Sometimes you think he's about to run out of the house and cry after some unwitting action that led to a vicious prank from one or more children.

Last week, they cornered him from all sides with sticks while you and Lilia were out, and the oldest threatened to poke him in the eyes.

Some mischief, lots pure evil.

It's only you that can scoop them up and tell them to behave, because they are absolutely remorseless in their merciless bullying of their father. Most of them don't even call him dad. They call him 'oldie'. The ones that are too young to talk still laugh at him.

Lilia doesn't mind too much, scolding them for their rudeness, but rarely punishing them. He claims he's too old to be properly disciplining them, but it's quite obvious that he's reminiscent of himself in these children.

During the good moments, you might be able to convince the children to at least make a father's day card, or get them to agree not to prank Silver on his birthday. Usually this is still done with bribery. But sometimes, the sweetest moments are unprompted. Like the time your daughter sat on Lilia's lap and gave him a hug after he watched a scary movie, because 'Daddy might have nightmares.'

Your family is wholly complete Silver hopes and prays. You and Lilia are happy, and content. Lilia is still overjoyed that he got the chance to have biological children, and you're just happy that you've found a place to settle down in Twisted Wonderland, and be happy.

Azul Ashengrotto

You only have one child still? Yeah. He loves your child dearly, but after much consideration and a lot of diapers changed, you decided one was for the best.

Your baby is three now 'Three n' a HALF', your child insists.

Your little one is pretty well-behaved. Despite being a spoiled only child, little Ashengrotto is very humble, kind, and sweet.

Definitely not like their money hungry father. This child just wants animal crackers and time at the swimming pool.

But your child is sharp-witted, just like Azul. There have been many times when you've said something to your toddler and had it immediately debunked with a smug look on their face.

It makes you laugh. And cry, a little bit. Time flies, and your child seems to mentally age two years for the physical price of one.

Your little one reminds you with a smile and crumb-littered cheeks and askew purple octopus glasses that they're still young, and always here for you. You are enthralled with your life with Azul and your baby, a real true blessing. This was how it was always meant to be, even if it wasn't how you ever thought your life would go.

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Unless I write a part 4 by request this is probably the end of the series, but I really loved it! Thank you for coming along!! As always, feel free to request for more.

-Kaori

-July 13th, 2023

@growingupnrealizing , here it is!

[inkandarsenic]

My new favorite HC is that the Infinite Realms is Faerie. Danny died and is brought back by the magic of Faerie, making him more half Fae than he is half ghost. He’s been raised by the Fentons, though, who believe that Faerie is the Ghost Zone and that they’re ghost hunters, and so Danny, Sam and Tucker all just assume that he’s half ghost.

The Infinite Realms, however, are in fact infinite, and most of the ghosts Danny fights are in fact the spirits of humans who died in a place where the barrier between worlds was exceptionally thin, like ley line intersections or natural portals. They don’t realize that Danny isn’t actually half ghost because halfas are so rare. When Danny defeats Pariah Dark, he becomes King of the Infinite Realms (King of Faerie) after which his Fae qualities begin bleeding into his human half too. (Liminal Sam, Tucker and Jazz meaning they also start having Fae qualities? Team Phantom making everyone just slightly uncomfortable because they’re just a little too inhuman. Like uncanny valley vibes, they’re all just a bit off, but they’re just vibing completely oblivious to it. Ellie is like Puck from midsummer nights dream. Team Phantom eventually all becoming more Faerie than human through exposure and connection to Danny.)

If we go DPxDC on this, the liminal Batfam being just slightly off the way Sam Tucker and Jazz are, something people chalk up to them being bats, but Jason coming back more like Danny, a little more unsettling than the others.

The Speedforce being another corner of the Infinite Realms, and the Flash Family sometimes smile just a bit too wide, sometimes laugh just a bit too brightly, sometimes when people are around them as they run, they get the inexplicable urge to join in and never stop. (Flash Family being like the Wild Hunt or like the dancing until you die thing.)

The first time Team Phantom meets the Justice League + Constantine, everything in Constantine is screaming to stay as far away as possible from them, but the Flashes and Bats just completely disregard his warnings. The Kents and Diana also ignoring him because their nonhuman physiology means they don’t have that instinct to run. Damian thinks being around Team Phantom feels like being around the League.

[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

Sleepless - A "Kissing You" Drabble

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader Warnings: I'm gonna go with M. There's brief mention of spice here, but nothing exceptionally graphic. Still, it's mentioned. Word Count: 1279 Prompt #33: Soft kisses while cuddling in bed. a/n: For Frankie's Wife. I hope you feel better soon. <3

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You can't sleep.

It's not that you haven't tried to sleep, because you have. You strategically put your phone on the other side of the room hours ago, sprayed your pillow with a lavender mist that was supposed to help you relax, made a cup of chamomile tea, and settled into your bed with a book to wind down for the evening. You did everything you were supposed to do, and yet hours later you're still tossing and turning beneath the down comforter that simultaneously leaves you too hot and too cold at the same time. With a huff, you turn once more to glance at the clock beside your bed, the only light you've allowed to permeate your space reading 1:58 a.m.

Five hours. 300 fucking minutes spent naming countries that start with each letter of the alphabet and counting metaphorical sheep in a last-ditch effort to get some rest.

At this point though you know there's no reason to continue frustrating yourself by staring at the dark depths of the ceiling above your head, so you flip on the TV, squinting as the light blinds you momentarily. It doesn't take you long to scroll through the channels, clicking the button repeatedly until you pass something familiar and hit the back button.

Minutes later you've retrieved your phone, Frankie's number dialed and the line ringing.

"Cariño?" Frankie questions, his voice rough. It cracks slightly as he continues, "are you okay?"

The guilt hits you instantly, the realization that normal people are actually asleep at two in the morning settling in and you quickly backtrack. "Shit, sorry. You were sleeping."

He clears his throat on the other end of the line, "No, no. It's fine. What's wrong?"

You're suddenly silent, and you can hear the quiet rustle of his bedsheets as he shifts his position. He likes to sleep on his stomach, usually draped over your torso with his face pressed into the valley between your breasts, but you'd be willing to be that he's on his back now, raking a hand through his mess of hair in an attempt to wake up for your benefit.

"I can't sleep," you finally blurt out, "and I turned on the TV and When Harry Met Sally is on and it just made me think of you and..."

"Hey, slow down for a second," he laughs, the sound of his voice ringing in your ear and immediately soothing you in a way the chamomile never can. There's a beat of silence and then suddenly you hear the soft hum of his own TV turning on. "What channel?"

A smile creeps across your face as you tell him, Meg Ryan's voice echoing through the phone and matching the way she's talking about Casablanca on your own screen. "You're not actually watching it, are you?"

"Figured it was better than that dream I had again where I'm making love and the Olympic judges are watching. I'd nailed the..."

"Frankie shut up," you giggle as he continues to repeat the line he's had memorized since the first time you made him watch the film. He has you in a laughing fit in seconds, restarting the line over in time with the movie when the scene plays soon after. You discuss your hunt for the perfect white sweater, talk about how Billy Crystal looks superior with a beard, and debate the legitimacy of how women actually sound, which mostly turns into Frankie reminding you about the way he made you scream last weekend when he had you pressed against the kitchen counter.

By the time New Year's Eve rolls around at the end of the movie, he's quoting line for line again, except he replaces each of Harry's examples with what he loves about you. That he loves how 80 degrees is too warm for you, and that you always check the menu and know what you're ordering eight hours before arriving at the restaurant. You're faintly aware of him reminding you about the way your eyes crinkle at the edges when he makes you smile and how he loves that you smell like lavender, even though you actually hate the scent and just won't admit it. When the channel starts to roll into Sleepless in Seattle, your eyes have drifted shut, letting the sound of your boyfriend narrating the movie lull you to sleep.

When you wake hours later, you're blinded by the sunlight shining through the curtains and directly onto your face, heating your skin. Your hazy mind struggles to remember if you added your weighted blanket to your bed the night before, only when you shift to block the sun you realize that you most definitely did not.

"Frankie?"

He groans softly, nestling his face further into the soft fabric of your t-shirt. "Still asleep," he mumbles, "someone kept me up all night."

You run your fingers through his hair, pushing the unruly curls back from his forehead. "I don't seem to remember you being in my bed when I fell asleep."

His gaze is warm when he shifts to rest his chin on your chest. "You fell asleep on me," he explains, "and then I couldn't sleep."

It's impossible not to laugh. "That still doesn't explain how you ended up in my bed, Francisco."

Frankie smirks as he presses kiss after kiss along your body until he's rolling on his back at your side, pulling you against him and guiding your lips to his gently. You sigh as you melt into him, lazily matching his rhythm.

"You still haven't answered my question," you remind him, your lips still brushing against his. He draws a smile to your face as he guides you back in, his hand leading your motions as he kisses you again.

"Maybe I just needed to be with you to fall back asleep," he explains once you've tucked your head into the crook of his neck. "Or maybe..." he continues slowly, his lips tracing along your forehead as he speaks, "maybe when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

It takes a moment, your mind turning his words over and over in his head until you start to realize that maybe he isn't just quoting Billy Crystal anymore. "Frankie?"

He hums, but you know he's grinning before you even pull back to see his expression. "Yes, love?"

It feels like your heart is going to pound out of your chest as you will yourself to ask the next question. "Are you just quoting the movie again?"

Your boyfriend seems to consider this for a moment before he shifts again, reaching over to the table on the side of the bed he's claimed as his own. You wait, moving to sit with your legs crossed as you watch him retrieve something from the drawer. He turns back to you, "I was going to do this differently, but..."

He doesn't get a chance to finish the sentence because you're on him immediately, hands cupping his cheeks and holding him as close as possible as you seal your lips to his. "Yes," you whisper, just a breath away when you both come up for air.

"I haven't even asked yet," Frankie laughs.

"Doesn't matter," you return, because it's the easiest answer you've ever given even without the question to precede it. "You don't need to ask me if I want to spend the rest of my life with you because you know you make it impossible to hate you. Which means," you kiss him again, "the answer will always be yes."

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[humanpurposes]

We're Born At Night

Chapter 3

Lady Rhaelle Targaryen of Runestone travels to King's Landing to plead for her sister's life, though the King she must bow to is a kinslayer three times over, and the very man who slaughtered her father

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Aemond Targaryen x Rhaelle Targaryen (OFC)

Warnings: 18+, mentions of death and war, Targaryens trying to flirt

Words: 6.8k

Days pass and every day Rhaelle brings herself to her knees before the throne, pleading for her sister’s restoration as Lady of Runestone, as their mother’s heir, for her freedom and for her life.

Aemond denies her. Again and again he denies her, and each day she appears before him, she thinks she sees his expression darkening. It is obvious that he is a proud man, a second son who was never meant to be King, repeatedly defied by the second daughter of a traitor. Lord Corlys tells her to give him time to persuade the King and the council. He also warns how quickly Aemond’s patience can turn into anger with deadly consequences. What else can she do but try, even if it means tempting his rage?

They have been here a fortnight and not much has improved. She and Daena often take tea with the other ladies and attend dinners in the throne room but Aemond’s court is an echo of what she remembers from the reign of his father. The dinners are polite, the music is sombre, the dances are slow. There is no joy in the castle, just talk of the fast approaching winter.

Back home, the running of the castle— her castle thanks to Aemond’s generosity— would keep her busy. Between her duties she would be able to steal a few hours for herself, read her favourite texts in the library or mount her horse and roam the surrounding lands as she pleased, bringing back pheasants because Alyssa was the sister to inherit their mother’s talent for hunting larger quarry.

One night she dreams she is riding her horse, a beautiful grey stallion she has back at Runestone named Semyon for the legendary knight with sapphires for eyes. It feels so real with the wind whispering in her ears, the scent of the fields and the forest, the slightly earthy taste on her tongue. She rides along the paths she has followed since she was a girl, the same her mother would have followed, and passes the valley where her body was found, tightening her grip on the reins and the saddle, as she always does. The sky seems to darken. A figure blocks out the sun and lets out a whistling, rippling screech, the cry of a beast she has only heard a handful of times, and never will again.

She is woken by a sound that still rings in her ears as her eyes open, sweat clinging uncomfortably to her skin. It sounds again, a faint clash of metal. It is a wonder it was even enough to rouse her. 

The stone floor stings against the bare skin of her soles, the cold creeping into her flesh and sinking itself into her very bones. Yet she walks, first to the chaise by the wardrobe to wrap a thick robe around herself, and then to the window. The days are darker now. The sun takes longer to rise and beyond her window the sky is a glum shade of grey.

Down in the courtyard, before the steps of the holdfast, a flash of silver catches her eye.

Aemond is a fearsome fighter, tall, lean and lithe, moving quickly and fluidly. He bests his opponent, Ser Willis, with a few brutal blows, holding the edge of his blade to the man’s throat. Before long he is eager to go again.

She can imagine him on a battlefield, his face silently furious, carving through the men and boys who dared to place themselves in his way. She can imagine him in the courtyard of a ruined castle, blood on his face and hands. They say he slaughtered each member of House Strong himself, and then he bedded one of their bastards and made her a Lady. Daena thinks he would not have given a servant such an honour unless she had borne him a bastard, but Princes have sired bastards before and had mistresses from far more noble backgrounds. What was so remarkable about Alys Rivers?

With a particularly harsh swing of his sword, Aemond brings his blade down upon Ser Willis’, but the Lord Commander recovers quickly and begins an attack. Aemond is clearly taken by surprise and quickly forced to his knees with a frustrated grunt, one which she hears easily through the quiet of the early morning. He is facing the window though she doubts he will notice her. He glares up at Ser Willis, lips parted as he pants for breath. He looks enraged, vengeful even, and she almost expects him to leap up and attack with renewed force. Instead he bows his head and accepts Ser Wills’ hand to help him to his feet.

As a slight draft brushes over the exposed parts of her skin, she imagines the sound of his breathing and finds herself struck by a strange feeling of emptiness.

Later that morning she dons a blood red gown and makes a journey through the castle which is all too familiar to her now, to the waiting chamber by the throne room. Lord Corlys is there, speaking to a man who she has only seen across a room, more often than not, glaring at her along with the Hightower brothers. He has wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, but his face appears surprisingly younger than the flecks of grey in his hair and his beard would suggest. He has sharp eyes that stay fixed on her as she approaches.

Concern briefly flashes over Lord Corlys’ face as he steps forward to greet her, but the other man already has his hand extended to her. “Unwin Peake,” he says. “We have not been formally introduced, Lady Rhaelle.”

She doesn’t like the sound of his voice or how he says her name, but smiles and takes his hand.

Unwin Peake fancies himself a war hero. Rhaelle is not so easily misled. She knows he led a thousand men under the banner of King Aegon, only for half of them to desert him when he proved a less than capable leader. She knows he tried and failed to seize control of the Hightower host after Tumbleton, that he quarrelled with his rivals to the point of bloodshed, and yet somehow earned himself a place on the Small Council before Aegon’s death. 

Lord Corlys catches her eye and seems to be uneasy. She gives him a small nod as Lord Unwin takes her by the arm and leads them into the throne room. It is a show of courtesy, one she must accept with grace.

Aemond is already upon the throne, legs crossed, leaning into one side, without fear of cutting himself on the blades. Noblemen and smallfolk alike come before him and he responds to every concern with such eloquence and certainty, as though the entire ordeal has been rehearsed. 

And he always looks ahead. Rhaelle stands on his seeing side, below the throne, but he shows no indication that he has seen her or that he intends to acknowledge her.

She knows what she will say and she knows what his reply will be, and in that certainty there is fear. She can hardly keep her hands still, pressing her fingernails into her skin to stop herself from trembling. The pain isn’t much of a distraction. All she feels is cold, even through the thick material of her gown. She pictures her sister in a cell, in the darkness, perhaps even in chains. 

Another chill slips down her spine as she hears a footstep sound softly behind her.

“Do you know what Lord Tyland has taken to calling you?” Unwin Peake’s voice hisses close to her ear.

Rhaelle clenches her jaw. She expects he will tell her whether she wants him to or not.

“He calls you the reluctant Lady of Runestone.”

She presses her nails deeper into her skin.

She finally spurns herself forwards. Aemond’s eye finds her as she enters his line of vision, fixed on her as she moves across the room and kneels before the throne.

She bows her head and stares down at the flagstones, at the crevices between the stones, the flecks of dirt and dust settled within. Any nervous or curious chatter has ceased. The hall is quiet enough that she is sure the onlookers will be able to hear her heart pounding in her chest. If she holds her breath she can see it pulsing through the neckline of her dress.

Meeting his eye is a strange sort of thrill. He watches her sternly, his lips pressed together in a thin line, his fingers tapping against the arm of the throne.

She opens her mouth to speak but his voice pierces the air, clear and demanding. “Dearest cousin,” he says, then exhales sharply through his nose. “You come before me yet again.”

“Your Grace–”

“No, I already know what you’re going to ask of me, and my answer will be the same. Alyssa Targaryen may be my blood but she defied her true King.”

“I know my sister. She is wise and just, but dragged into a war she should never have been a part of.”

“She is a traitor.”

“And yet she has not been put on trial. You seem content to hold her. Why? Allow her a chance to prove her innocence before she is condemned, or else let her return to her home.”

“You have come before me every day since your arrival, to plead on behalf of a traitor. I do wonder what that might make you, Lady Rhaelle?”

“It makes me loyal to my family. I love my sister, and her suffering is my suffering.”

“As admirable as that declaration may be, I have made my decision. I will not hear any more from you on this matter.”

“If you had a chance to save your own sibling from a terrible fate would you not take it? Could you ever forgive yourself if you stopped trying?”

Something about his face changes. There is an absence of amusement, something quiet but cold in the way his eyes and his lips soften.

When his eye falls away from her she thinks she might have made a grave mistake.

He holds the arms of the throne as he stands, grips the iron with his fingertips when it is barely in his reach. Without another word he leaves the hall through the side chamber, keeping his head and his crown held high, while his fists are clenched at his sides.

She shares a look with Lord Corlys, himself stunned at the irregularity. Aemond never leaves the throne room until he has heard each grievance, and never shies from his duties.

The King is an elusive figure at the best of times. He does not seem to enjoy the more frivolous aspects of rulership. If he is seen at dinners in the throne room, he confines himself to the high table along with Lord Corlys. Other than his early morning spars with Ser Willis in the courtyard or his occasional rides out into the Kingswood, he appears to spend most of his time in his chambers. She imagines him pouring over ledgers and papers by candlelight, his face hardened in concentration.

That night, when his seat at the high table remains empty, Rhaelle cannot help but fear she has been the cause of this absence. Did her words truly anger him so deeply? Is her persistence so vexing to him? 

She finds herself unable to settle when she retires to her chambers that night. She is starving and yet she has no appetite. Her body feels heavy and her head aches behind her eyes, yet her mind is spinning and will not allow her to find sleep.

He said he would not hear from her on the matter. She pushed too far, allowed her desperation to cloud her judgement and attempted to argue on sympathy rather than reason. Now she feels it all slipping away, any sense of control she had when she arrived in King’s Landing, any hope she had of reuniting their family after so many years. Why would she ever think that Aemond should show mercy to a prisoner on a plea of sisterly love?

He must have loved his sister, gentle Helaena, who wore a gown of pale blue and gold to the wedding of Alyssa and Jacaerys. She smiled rarely, never in the presence of her husband, she could barely even stand to take his arm as they entered the Sept and the throne room. Her eyes often found Aemond though, glassy with tears when he winced at the pain of his wound, as if she shared in it. Did he ever imagine, when he left for Harrenhal, that he would never see her again?

The next morning she wakes with the sunrise, somehow the shortened sleep has left her more awake than she usually is. She is already halfway dressed in her riding leathers, fashioned from a set of her mother’s, when Morra enters her bedchamber, and Rhaelle immediately sends her to the stables to ensure a horse is readied for her.

Finally, once she has pulled on her boots and tied her hair into a single braid, she heads down herself, but not before stopping by the window. The sun has yet to appear over the walls of the castle and the courtyard is empty.

She huffs to herself, at the restless feeling that’s been gnawing at her insides for weeks. 

The entrance yard at the front of the Red Keep is bustling with servants carrying baskets and barrels, men unloading carts and carrying their contents towards the kitchens. Morra is waiting for her by the steps, fiddling with the edges of her sleeves.

Rhaelle pulls out her gloves and slips them onto her hands. “Did you find me a horse?” she says.

“Yes, my Lady, but there is another matter–”

She can already see what the other matter is. Aemond is standing by the gates, dressed in black riding attire, arguing with one of the stable hands. He has a beautiful grey horse on a lead, with a coat that shimmers like silk in the early sunlight. The stable hand stands with a slightly smaller horse, brown with a white spot on its nose. These are both muscular creatures meant for speed.

Rhaelle approaches them with Morra close behind. “Your Grace,” she says firmly but calmly. The two men immediately cease and face her, the stable hand with his head bowed, Aemond with a slight frown on his face and the beginnings of a sneer on his lips. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Likewise, my Lady,” Aemond says, entirely unconvincingly.

There is noise all around them, voices, footsteps, men and women at work, and yet the silence between Aemond and Rhaelle is palpable. 

“I was intending to ride through the Kingswood this morning,” Rhaelle says, holding her hands firmly in front of her, unmoving, unafraid. “Perhaps you were intending to do the same?”

“I was.”

“What a happy coincidence,” she says, willfully ignoring the shortness of his tone. “We could ride together, then? I do not know the woods you see, I think I would benefit from having a companion.”

Aemond purses his lips, and glances between her and the horse being held by the stable hand. “It would be my pleasure, dear cousin.” 

She smiles graciously. 

Aemond hums to himself, then takes hold of the grey horse’s saddle and hoists himself into it with ease. As it happens, the brown horse is a similar size to Symeon. She finds her footing in the stirrup and hauls herself up, settling comfortably in the saddle. 

“You ride well, I assume?” Aemond asks her.

She tries not to display any contempt at this subtle insult. “I believe myself to be a more than competent rider, Your Grace.”

He offers her a tight smile, though it fades quickly. His seeing eye remains alert. 

Two men of the Kingsguard ride with them through the city. Aemond does not wear his crown but the people know their King, atop his horse, Blackfyre hanging from his hip, his silver hair tied away from his face but flowing proudly down his back, his eyepatch an unmissable feature. They stand aside as they move through the streets, met with awe, either glad or fearful, and distant calls of “long live the King!” 

Aemond does not wave, smile or bow his head to anyone, though he occasionally looks over his shoulder to meet her gaze. Does he expect her to disappear? Does he expect her to ram a knife into his back? 

How quickly he seems to phase through different states of being. One moment he is amused, the next proud, the next infuriated, concerned, remorseful. And how terrible he is at hiding this in his face, no matter how subtle he is, but a mystery remains because she still cannot read his thoughts, no matter how she pleads to the old gods and the new that she could.

Before long, they reach the southern gates of the city. She can see the forest ahead of them as soon as they are out of the walls of King’s Landing. The trees are dark, lush evergreens, reaching far from the west and east towards the seafront, to the cliffs that overlook the bay, raised on hills and going further south than she can see.

The guards stay with them a little longer, until they pass over a bridge across the Blackwater Rush and the road becomes quieter. Most of the people here are travelling along the Rose Road towards Highgarden, but Aemond leads her towards the treeline, along a path often used for hunting, so he says. It seems to head towards the coast.

Mostly staying at the edge of the forest, the trees are sparse. It’s not like the wide open fields and hills that she is used to. To one side she sees tree trunks, spots of darkness where the forest is thicker and closer. To the other she sees glimpses of the sky and the sea below it. 

Aemond slows his horse slightly so they can ride side by side at a comfortable trot. Now she cannot look out over the bay without looking at him, or appearing to at least. 

She realises they have not spoken a single word to each other since they left the castle.

“Do you ride often?” she asks.

“When I wish to, and when I can find time to,” he says without looking at her.

She nods to herself, letting her eyes linger on the way he rocks with the motions of the saddle, the way he grips the reins with gloved hands.

“I like to hunt back at Runestone,” she says, facing forward once more, “do you hunt?”

This captures his attention. He turns his head to her, glances up and down. “You did not bring a bow.”

“Or a blade, no. I was not intending to kill anything this morning.”

Aemond hesitates, then smirks. “I never made a habit out of hunting. It is a tedious sport, more suited to times of peace.”

It is a harrowing reminder of the kind of man who rides beside her, a man who kills and holds his own family prisoner.

“You like to spar too. I see you in the courtyard most mornings,” she says.

“I do not like to make a spectacle of myself.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you did, but it is rather difficult to avoid when it happens below my window.”

He turns his head towards Rhaelle, and she finds herself entirely distracted. Away from the gloom of the Keep, without his crown and the way he commands the fear of his courtiers, his beauty is unobstructed. His lips and his seeing eye settle in a way that seems gentle. “If it disturbs you then I shall remedy it.” 

“No need,” she says, “for what it is worth, you perform extremely well.”

He smiles again, dipping his head slightly as he adjusts his hold of the reins. “Come then, you say you are a competent rider, I’d like to see a performance from you,” he says, catching her eye.

Her breath stops in her throat. 

He kicks his horse’s side and in an instant he’s bolting down the path.

It takes her a moment to realise what he wants, kicking her horse into a canter, then quickly into a full gallop. It follows her commands easily enough but she remains cautious, keeping a tight grip on the reins and with her thighs, chasing the gleam of silver ahead of her. She does not know if Aemond is leading her or racing her, and for now she doesn’t care. Excitement surges through her. She feels the impact of the horses hooves as they meet the dirt. Her stomach drops as they head deeper into the forest, darting between branches, leaping over streams and fallen trees.

She seems to be gaining on Aemond and spots a ridge she thinks might allow her to overtake him. It’s a risk she takes without thinking it through, urging her mount up and along the narrow trail. They seem to stumble at one point but she doesn’t stop. She passes Aemond, just as she thought she would. He looks up at her with a wide eye, the traces of a laugh echoing behind her as she leaps down, back onto the main path. 

There’s a clearing not far ahead where the path splits into two, she would wager Aemond had this in mind as an end point. She slows her horse gradually, checking behind her to see him doing the same. She turns the horse to face him, trying not to beam or appear too pleased with herself, but she cannot help it. Her cheeks burn at the exertion and the effort it’s taking to withhold her smile.

The sun is rising higher above them. The light catches on his hair, the thin sheen of sweat on his brow, the curve of his lip as he tries to catch his breath. “I’d say you are more than competent,” he calls, tugging on the reins to bring his own horse to a stop.

“I spent most of my childhood on horseback,” she says. “Ser Gerold always said I took after my mother.”

His amusement fades into something passive, observant.

“She used to take Alyssa and I out with her one at a time in the saddle with her. As soon as I was old enough to ride by myself I could hardly be kept from the stables. Alyssa and I used to race each other around the hills for hours, or until we were called back to the castle for our lessons.”

Aemond watches her as she speaks, breathing deeply, his brow hardened like he’s trying to concentrate.

“Still,” she says, patting her horse’s neck as it starts to get restless, “I cannot imagine it could ever compare to riding a dragon.”

“It is a poor substitute, to be sure,” Aemond says quietly, like he did on the balcony, but she can see the change in him again. With a quick huff, the gentle look in his face disappears and he dismounts his horse. “There’s a stream close by, we should water the horses.”

He approaches her, reaching his hands up to help her dismount. Her more prideful side wishes to tell him she does not need the help, but she accepts it, swinging her leg round so he can hold his waist as he lowers her down. She keeps her hands on his shoulders, even once her boots have met the ground. The pressure of his fingertips through the thick layers of fabric are almost intangible, but it makes her breathless all the same.

They take the horses to the stream at the edge of the clearing, tying the leads to a tree and patting them down reassuringly as they drink. Rhaelle sits herself in the grass, out in the sunlight. Aemond joins her, but he reminds her of a cautious animal, following her a little unsurely, sitting beside her, always watching the space around them.

The air is cold but she feels the sun’s warmth beaming down on her face.

She hears Aemond take a breath before he speaks. “You never claimed a dragon?”

“No,” she says.

“You never had an egg in your cradle?”

“No. My mother insisted her children would be born and raised in her home.”

“And in the traditions of House Royce?”

“For the most part.”

“But your father never…” he stops himself with a deep breath. With his chin tilted down he lifts his gaze to look at her. The sunlight shines in his right eye, cold and clear like a stream, like a cloudless violet sky at dusk. Like this, sat amongst overgrown grass and the last of the autumn wildflowers, he doesn’t look like a tyrant. He doesn’t look like a man who burned half of the Riverlands to ash and fought in a battle that left the waters of the God’s Eye red with blood. 

Ser Gerold would have been glad to see Daemon’s end. He called it “justice” when news came to Runestone of his death, justice for the wife he murdered and the daughters he neglected. 

Looking at Aemond now she wonders if he regrets it. Does he look at her and see the eyes of the man he killed staring back at him? Does it haunt him to be near her, is that why he watches her so intently?

“I asked him once if I could fly with him,” she says. “I was so desperate to know what it was like. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t laugh or scoff, he just looked down at me. My suggestion was so unremarkable that he didn’t waste so much as a breath on me. Of course I went crying to my mother about it. She took me into her arms and told me that the only difference between riding a dragon and riding a horse was the distance between you and the ground. So much further to fall, she said.”

He tilts his head. “I cannot disagree with her.”

And oh how her father must have fallen, through fire and empty space, into blood and water.

“What was it like to have a dragon?” she asks.

Something in him comes alive. He looks at her with a quiet excitement, shuffling ever so slightly closer to her. “I used to believe a dragon was a birthright. My siblings all claimed their mounts when they were young, and my nephews shared their cradles with eggs and watched them hatch. For many years I was an outlier, a dragonless Targaryen, I was nothing. But it is an earned right, one that must be claimed.” As he speaks he draws his knee up to rest his arm upon it, his hand restless as he speaks. “Dragons are creatures with their own wills. We cannot control them fully, but we guide them.”

“And you claimed the fiercest of them,” she says.

She remembers Driftmark like it was a dream. She remembers standing by the sea as the coffin of Laena Velaryon was delivered to the waves, looking at the faces of a family she scarcely knew in the aftermath, clinging to the only people she had left in the world, Daena and Alyssa.

She remembers someone storming into her chambers as she slept, the shadowy face of her father appearing in the moonlight that beamed through the window. “We are needed in the Hall of Nine,” he said.

“We?”

He found Alyssa in the next room and left Daena to sleep, marching down the dark corridors of Hightide. They walked in on a scene that terrified her. While their father leaned against the doorway, almost amused, Alyssa and Rhaelle walked further inside, hand in hand. They could not see clearly past the crowd that had gathered to watch this battle between the Princess and the Queen, but there was shouting, pleading, blood on the faces of Rhaenyra’s sons and blood on the face of the King’s son, Aemond.

She peered through the bodies, the fabric of nightgowns and the haze of the braziers to see him sitting there, stitches in his face, smaller cuts on his brow and his lip. He didn’t look at the eye discarded in a tray by his side, he didn’t look to his siblings for reassurance or comfort. First he glared at his father with a hatred that somehow seemed contained, stunned but unsurprised. Then he looked at his mother, with far more understanding than a child should ever have to need.

“Do not mourn me, mother,” the boy said, “I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon.”

“A dragon is terror and freedom,” Aemond says as her eyes drift over the edges of his scar and the details of the leather patch that conceals the rest. “When I claimed Vhagar, centuries of power and strength became mine. I felt her in solitude, I learned from her.”

It shows, she thinks, that he grew bonded to a beast of conquest, a witness to her fire and majesty, and took that into himself.

Her eyes trail lower, over his jaw, the pale skin of his neck just visible beneath his collar, which ends with a silver buckle. She can pinpoint the rise and fall of his breath, the detailings of golden dragons against the black leather, his hair draped over his shoulders and down his body.

She feels her legs getting numb and shifts her weight onto her palm, placed on the grass beside her so that she leans in closer to him.

“But to take flight on Vhagar,” Aemond says softly, a hint of a smile on his lips, his eye gleaming and trained on her, “to feel the force of her wings, the wind and the weightlessness…”

She feels herself clinging to every word he says, each subtle breath he takes, the minuscule movements in his face as he inches closer to her. Only for her heart to sink when he pauses. 

He reaches up, taking the end of her braid between his gloved fingers. “I wish you could have known what it was like.”

“It is like you said,” she says, “it is not a birthright, it is something earned.”

“By those of our blood,” Aemond says, his eye darting back up to meet hers. “You should have had the chance to earn it.”

Our blood, the blood of dragons and conquerors, of Queens and Princes, of weak Kings and cruel fathers.

He releases his hold of her hair, positioning it over her shoulder and tracing his fingertips over the coat of her leathers. His eye follows, then slowly returns to her face. “Might I show you something?” 

“Yes, of course,” she says, carefully withholding eagerness in her voice. “Shall we fetch the horses?”

“No,” Aemond says, rising and offering his hand for her to take. “We’ll go on foot.”

He keeps her hand in his, leather against leather, as he leads her down the path, freshly disturbed by hoof prints, away from the clearing and back into the forest. He stops where the path diverged into two and with a small inclination of his head, they walk along the trail that leads uphill. This way is not as the other, overgrown with grass and even the thick, twisted roots of trees. Aemond is keen to guide her, walking just ahead, tightening his grip on her at the slightest of obstacles. 

The hill becomes steep, and in fact she is grateful for his caution when she loses her footing on a loose rock and he is there to steady her, determined that she shall stay upright. The higher they climb the sparser the trees, the louder the wind howls, the closer the sound of the water becomes. The path leads on, but Aemond stops and steps out into the open.

She stands behind his shoulder to shield herself from the wind, clutching his hand and squinting through the blinding sunlight on the eastern horizon, over the waves of the Blackwater, roaring and crashing against one another, against the base off the cliff they stand on. The city is nothing but distant shapes, further along the curve of the shore. The Red Keep, where standing at its gates seems to reach high into the heavens, seems so unremarkable from here. The cold seeps through her leathers. Sea salt stings in her eyes and on her tongue.

“My mother’s sworn shield taught me to ride on horseback, Ser Criston Cole. He’d lead me through these woods, until I knew all the trails by heart,” Aemond says, leaning into her so she can hear him. His breath is warm against her ear, his grip on her hand still unrelenting. “I came across this place when I was a boy. I used to sit here for hours, especially when the others would ride their dragons.”

Gulls sail effortlessly through the sea air. She imagines dragons in their place.

“A childish indulgence,” Aemond mutters.

“Show me,” she says, tilting her head up to meet his eye.

He smiles to himself. “Stand there,” he says, pointing to the very edge of the cliff face, at a slab of grey stone reaching out below the rocks and spray of the sea.

“On the ledge?” she says, her legs unsure beneath her.

He releases her hand to gently guide her by her waist. “Right here,”

Her stomach lurches when her boots leave the earth. If it is the truth or a trick of the mind the stone seems to move beneath her. “Aemond, I’m going to fall!”

But he holds her waist tight, pulling her into him until she feels the heat of his body through their riding leathers, the hilt of Blackfyre pressing against her back.  “I’ve got you,” he murmurs in her ear, “I’ve got you.”

She cannot seem to breathe, gasping for air as she wills her heart to calm. She grasps at his hands, clinging to him as if he would not merely fall with her. His proximity to her is not quite comforting, it only seems to make her more afraid, but it is a pleasant sort of fear.

“Can you imagine it,” he says, leaning his cheek against her temple, “out of reach of the rest of the world, the heat of a dragon beneath you, the wind against your skin, the weightlessness?”

The force of the wind seems to push her closer into his grasp. She can feel the terror. One misstep and she will fall, her body dashed out over the rocks below, her blood feeding into the water.

“I could feel her fire brewing beneath her hide. I could feel it burning in my blood and my throat before she unleashed it,” Aemond whispers, his lips grazing the shell of her ear.

She shudders, letting herself turn into him, letting her hands close around his wrists.

He leans into her, resting his forehead against hers. She feels his heat. She feels something like fire burning in her blood and wonders if it burns in his too. A gloved hand delicately takes her chin. 

It would be easy to give into him, she thinks. She would have been glad to do it the first time she laid eyes upon him.

But she knows she must not allow herself to be ruled by impulse and desire. She cannot escape him completely but she turns her head back towards the open water. Aemond is still holding her, still breathing against her neck.

She waits for him to guide her back, to the safety of solid ground, away from the ledge. Now he cannot meet her eye.

They walk back to the clearing and Aemond holds her hand again, though this time she does not stumble. Aemond unties her horse, helps her into her saddle and she waits for him before they set off back down the path.

The ride back to King’s Landing is a silent one. Each step their horses take through the woods feels heavy in her ears, the closing of a door, the beat of a funeral drum. She looks ahead to Aemond, hoping he will turn back and catch her eye but he does not. 

She wants to tear her hair out from the roots and strike herself across the face. She couldn’t afford to make another mistake and yet she has done exactly that. What if the King feels slighted? What if he holds this against her? 

The guards are waiting for them by the bridge and escort them back through the city. The streets are busier and grey now that the sun has risen and hidden itself behind a sky of clouds.

But the entrance yard at the Red Keep is no longer filled with servants. Instead the clashes of steel ring out against the walls of the castle, as men of the Kingsguard, nobles and knights spar, to the awe of a few spectators.

Aemond pays little mind to the people in the yard. Even when they greet him he simply nods his head. As his horse is taken by a stable hand, swings a leg over the head and slips effortlessly from the saddle.

Then he approaches her horse, wordlessly holding out his hands, offering his assistance. She allows this, and purposefully turns to face him once her boots have met the ground, keeping her hands on his shoulders, not too firmly, for she cannot appear to be too forceful.

“Your Grace,” she says, determined that their eyes should meet again. “I am sorry if I have offended you, truly,” she says quietly, though she will hardly avoid attention when she stands with the King, his hands lingering on her waist, more timidly than he had been in the woods.

Aemond looks at her, and once again his expression is a gentle one. “I am anything but,” he says, one of his thumbs tracing circles over her leathers. He lowers his voice. “The truth is I am deeply moved by your loyalty to your sister. You were right, I have regrets of my own.”

There have been all kinds of rumours regarding Queen Helaena’s death. Some say she was pushed from the window, perhaps even by Rhaenyra herself, and others say she threw herself from it. She was driven mad by grief, supposedly, since the murder of her eldest son, and perhaps she could bear the pain no longer. Perhaps the cause was the false news of Aemond’s death at the God’s Eye. At first the only news had come from smallfolk in the nearby lands, that both Princes had fallen. A fortnight later Aemond arrived at King’s Landing, dragonless, but decidedly alive.

“I often ask myself why I did not do more for them. Why did I put them in danger? Why did I leave them? Why did I not return to them…”

Something else catches his attention. His gaze has moved from her face, to the leather breastplate she wears under her coat, embroidered with ancient runes, naturally.

“What does that say?” he asks in a voice like ice, tracing his fingertips over the golden thread, over the same markings written into the sleeves of the first gown she wore in King’s Landing.

“Have you seen it before? It is an old saying in the Vale,” she says, startled by another shift in him, “the words read: learn to die.”

His throat hums, lowly and softly. His eye returns to hers, his lips curling into a self assured smile, the kind that infuriates her because it means he knows something she does not.

He releases her waist, then reaches for her hand. He pinches the end of her right glove and pulls it from her slowly, the lack of warmth stinging her bare skin.

He whispers, “I cannot give you what you ask of me, not now at least. But I will try.” He raises her hand and presses his lips against it. “I promise you, I will try.”

Blood blooms beneath her cheeks. For once Aemond’s words fill her with hope. He seems sincere, she wants that to be the truth.

She smiles politely. “Thank you, Your Grace—”

“Your Grace!” Calls a voice from the steps to the Keep. Aemond’s hand falls away from hers and he faces away from her as Martyn Hightower approaches them. “All the preparations have been made for you to receive Lady Floris and Lady Cassandra. They are expected to arrive before the day’s end.” 

She watches Aemond bring one hand to the hilt of his sword. The other he brings behind his back, clenched in a fist. “Good,” he says, and turns towards Rhaelle again, his body following his head. “Thank you for accompanying me this morning, my Lady.”

She takes a breath, meaning to thank him but then he’s stalking across the yard and disappearing into the castle.

Rhaelle decides she can hardly bear the sight of him walking away.

Tags (comment to be added)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria @lacebvnny

Series taglist: @adragonprinceswhore @persephonerinyes @gemini-mama @aemondzyrys @snh96 @magnificentdelusionr @aegonx @xxxkat3xxx @dahlias-and-marigolds @mandiiblanche @thaisthedreamer @heavenly1927 @herfantasyworldd @heimtathurs @minttea07

[twstjam]

Back to your regularly scheduled twstjam simping!!! This post is also gonna be different though, because as I thought of this for Malleus I also began thinking of it for Sebek as well so now I'm doing it for all of Diasofam

Diasomnia + the Just One Bed trope prompts/scenarios

(Or at least, they were SUPPOSED to just be prompts but after Malleus I got a bit carried away with the others agdjdhdjdhd. Whoops? Oh also

DISCLAIMER: None of these are canon-compliant and I imagine them all to have a medieval fantasy setting)

Malleus

You're a traveler who had unknowingly run into the Crown Prince of Briar Valley who's on the run because Briar Valley is currently unsafe for him and he is being hunted by bounty hunters. Seeing him as a fellow aimless traveler, you decide to let him join you and the two of you grow close. The two of you have always slept in different beds or tents of course out of respect for the other's space, until, one night, while in a town, the only inn that the two of you can find with an available room only has one bed in it. Having no other options, you both take it. You had intended to let Tsunotarou take the bed. He hasn't told you much about where he's from and you don't want to pry, but you know that he's from a high-class family and isn't all that comfortable yet with a rough lifestyle. Malleus had thought he'd be okay with it too, used to being the one prioritized, but he realises that he sees you as more than just a retainer like the ones that used to accompany him and the thought of you sleeping on the floor while there's a perfectly nice bed itches his scales. So, he makes you sleep in the bed with him and you wake up in the morning with his body curled around you, warm and comforting and protective, and for the first time ever you feel like you're home.

(The rest of Diasomnia are below the cut!)

Sebek

Sebek is your friend but to be honest you don't know him too well. You're both always so busy with your own lives, you working for Crowley and him for Lord Malleus, so you rarely see each other. You're much closer and more comfortable with the other friends in your friend group, but still you wouldn't mind getting to know him more. You unexpectedly get a chance when, while on one of your jobs for Crowley, you end up in a spot of trouble and to your surprise Sebek comes to your rescue as he had also been assigned a job in the same area as you. You notice that though the two of you aren't that close and though he has a tough time dealing with a deeply-ingrained prejudice against humans, he had saved you anyway. You also notice that when you thank him and compliment his skill, he puffs out his chest with pride and his cheeks turn slightly red and you also notice that he's absolutely adorable. He seems more comfortable with you now as the two of you walk the marketplace together for supplies. Combat and the role of protector were things he prided himself in, so maybe your approval of it warmed him up to you more. Still though, it's daunting when the only available room at the only available inn has only one available bed. You offer it to him, but he refuses to let you be the more gracious one of the two of you and also to allow your frail human body to sleep on the floor. A few minutes later, you're both on your backs in the bed, pillows piled between you in a makeshift wall. It's awkward to say the least. So awkward that neither of you can sleep, so you fill in the silence with mindless chatter. Sebek listens. He also talks. Loves to talk, about anything and everything, and loves it more that you listen. The two of you wake up in the morning groggy but content, having tired yourselves out with endless conversation late into the night.

Silver (ft: angst and bittersweet ending, also not very conventional usage of the trope but I tried agshgddh)

You first saw him in a dream. Whether he was a knight in shining armor or some sort of guardian angel you had no idea. All you knew was that he was absolutely stunning. So beautiful that you didn't think it was possible he could be real. He is real though. Extremely real. He was a fellow trainee and a fellow royal guard and your friend and now he's wanted by the royal family because it was discovered that he's been secretly passing information to the fae. He disappears in the middle of the night but you see him again in your dreams so you go look for him, look for answers, because maybe you're a fool and maybe you're naive but you can't imagine your sweet, earnest comrade who in your opinion is much too gentle to be a guard could be so malicious as to betray you and your other friends in the royal guard. You see him in your dreams. He tries to run from you but you chase him and he lures you into the dark forests of the fae and they swarm you, but there's a fluttering of bats' wings and Silver is there right in front of you and his eyes are filled with pain and disbelief as he looks at you. Silver takes you to his childhood home and tends to your wounds. You discover that he's human but has always been fae, has been surrounded by them since before he learned how to walk, and his father is none other than the most fearsome one of them all: General Vanrouge. You don't want to believe him. Even though the proof is all around you in the homey lived-in cottage you're sitting in, you refuse to believe him, to believe that your friendship was all a part of his big undercover act to gather information for the fae, for his father. So instead, you lie back in his childhood bed and try to process it all. Silver looks like he wants to say something, apologise maybe, but he dozes off before he can. You can't help but laugh. It tastes bittersweet on your tongue and your eyelids are drooping and you fall asleep next to him just like you used to. At least in your dreams it's easy to pretend everything's alright.

Lilia (ft: Enemies to Lovers trope)

Fae General Vanrouge is your sworn enemy and rival and you thought that you'd feel triumphant at his capture, but instead the image of him beaten, bruised, and bloody makes you feel sick to your stomach. You realise that you're the only one who views him as an adversary and an equal. To everyone else, he's just an animal. A monster meant to be slaughtered—and you are the one that they want to bestow that honor on. They want you to execute him, in front of all your people and your men, to the ugly music of jeers and mockery and laughter. You know he's a killer. Have seen it with your own eyes. You've seen his downfall in your sleep, dreamt of it in each waking moment you were on the battlefield, so why does the actual moment feel so horrific and wrong? It's the look in his eyes. You see yourself reflected in them along with the blood that has been spilled by both your hands and his and make the morbid realisation that this monster is the only one you have ever understood and the only one who has understood you, a fellow monster, in return. He slips out of his chains because of course he does who were you kidding and you should stop him but you don't. Your betrayal is witnessed by many. The king wants an execution but like Hell you'll let it be you, so just like Vanrouge, you flee and disappear. Just like Vanrouge, you end up in a blanket of darkness and unintentionally stumble on your long-time enemy in the woods. Just like Vanrouge, you make a begrudging truce and go on the run together because you know the human lands well and he doesn't and two heads are better than one. The two of you accept an unoccupied inn room despite it only having one bed out of desperation and spend a long time competing with each other to decide who gets to sleep on it. The both of you put off sleeping on it together and you know you will sleep on it together because you're both exhausted and sore from a long time on the road and because you both understand each other too much after so long dancing on the battlefield together but neither of you are quite ready to come to terms with it yet. You have to eventually though, because it's late and you're both in desperate need of rest and so you both fall into bed next to each other and your scarred limbs and calloused skin slot together perfectly. You hold each other with bloody, war-torn hands and feel more comfortable than either of you have ever felt with anyone else.

[irafuwas]

Love that Lets Go Summary: Lilia Vanrouge has witnessed the rise and fall of great nations, has criscrossed the world, traversing distant realms strange and unknown, but never before in his life has he faced a challenge as grievous as this: parenting a teenager. Or: Silver stops calling Lilia "Papa", and Lilia loses his mind. Content Warnings: blood, explicit language, contains depictions of animals being hunted and butchered, canon divergent Pairings: There's like one reference to past Lilibaul, but otherwise, none. Length: 38k (Header artwork from here)

You can either read it after the cut or on AO3!

A/N: I began working on this fic last summer, right after I finished Electric Dreams, and was able to complete the general outline and write about a third of it before I promptly abandoned the project for over half a year. By the time I started working on it again this past January, Book 7 had progressed greatly on the JP server, and pretty much everything that I'd written regarding Lilia's background and his involvement in Mal's upbringing/their relationship had become uncanonical in the meantime ://// I decided to go ahead and keep those parts in the story unchanged from how I had them last summer, partly so I wouldn't have to rework the plot, and mostly because I am lazy. So the setting is more or less the same as the game, but with some major changes in Lilia and Mal's pasts, with no major Book 7 JP server spoilers for those wishing to avoid them.

I.

It was a speculative day, the kind that could not fix upon a proper humor or color, hesitating in turns between the brilliant bustle of spring and the sultry lull of summer. The morning air was thin and cool, not unusual even that late in May, but several months would pass by that afternoon, so that a sticky July heat would descend upon the valley once the sun reached its zenith. In the evening, there would be a light rain. All this the boy Silver calculated as he stepped outside.

The sky above him was a perfect meadow of morning glory and larkspur, bordered by a flourish of honeysuckle and cockscomb as golden-red as amber sap. He thrust his hand high above him, wishing for a moment he could pluck one of the dandelion clouds from its indigo plot and press it for his collection. It would be his secret treasure, and he would not reveal it until his friend Sebek next designed to inflame him. He carried within his mind a catalog of every expression and shade his friend could take, and this he now opened and paged through while he wandered towards the pig pen and lean-to that stood opposite his home, contemplating what combination of flush and scowl the other boy would respond with. He smiled at his private entertainment while he walked.

He was one of the few beings awake on that land. An industrious blackbird chirped quietly off in the distance, but the surrounding forest was otherwise silent, the pine trees and giant firs still dozing in the early morning shade. He was not, however, lonely; nor was he in want of more. His heart was light, and it gently thrummed with the same anticipation that had slipped into the hearts of all the valley’s creatures as of late, just as the sunlight slipped into their skin. May was an in-between month, an intermission, a time for Nature to enter her great chrysalis and prepare for the summer months to come. She would re-emerge sometime in late June, the earth’s prodigal daughter carrying in her arms the red-ripe wildberries she’d hang in the thicket all around him, the bright yellow coreopsis and vetch of the softest pink she’d set down in the meadow near his home, and the pearl white blossoms she’d drape across the canopies of the sweet bay beyond the fields. And she would beguile, too, the whip-poor-wills into beginning their annual summer serenades, allowing the robins and the orioles to retire from their heraldic duties at last, having spent several weeks announcing the season prior.

“There are two summers,” his father had once explained to him years ago, when he was very small. He held up two fingers while he spoke. “There’s the summer that starts on June 1st every year. That one’s based on dividing the calendar into four periods of three months each.”

“Three months each,” the little boy repeated with a nod.

“And then the other summer, the real one, starts on the solstice.”

“When’s the solstice, papa?”

“Easy,” the man grinned, “it’s when summer starts!”

The boy memorized this and all his father’s other teachings as his catechisms, and he knew, based on his observations, and based on all he'd ever learned from his masters - his father and the stars and the entire natural world around him - that the solstice was but a few short weeks away. This knowledge captivated him, and when he awoke at twilight each morning, he would spend a few minutes lying completely still in bed, nearly holding his breath, listening for those first few notes of the whip-poor-will’s call.

After releasing the animals from their detainment, he watched as the small procession of cows and pigs and chickens trod dutifully into the adjoining pasture. He would wait to fill their troughs later; each creature would automatically find for itself its morning fare amongst the acres of dew-wet grass – on this day the milk cow and her calf selected a patch of dark green clover for their breakfast, and the pigs beside them dined noisily on tall stalks of chicory, their pink brows misting over with sweat as they feverously chewed. The chickens, however, quickly stumbled upon a single, tender petunia they had overlooked all month. Gathered around the shining lilac jewel, they could not decide who amongst them would be permitted to destroy it. A forum was immediately convened, with each hen arguing her case in turn, and Silver gathered their eggs while they debated. Their hues were as soft and as delicate as a watercolor wash; some were tawny brown and speckled, others a faded green or blue. They reminded him of river stones, and they felt as smooth as clay in his work-worn hands. Each one he gingerly wiped against his pant leg before depositing into his wicker basket.

He had, for a time, believed – largely due to his father’s persuasions – that a bird’s diet determined the color of its eggs, and he’d spent one summer collecting armfuls of nasturtium, cone flowers, and bright red peonies every single day from the meadow by their home, attempting to invent an egg as ruby red as his father’s eyes. But while the chickens had delighted in their daily carmine feast, his efforts proved fruitless, the egg shells failing to develop even the slightest indication of a blush. When the truth of his father’s scheme was revealed later that fall, Silver had not rebuked him. He'd only blamed himself for being deceived, and for neglecting to include some beautyberries and rosehips into his mix, secretly believing that this was the true genesis of his failure.

The chickens resolved their quarrel by the time his basket was full. In celebration, he scattered a few handfuls of scratch over the ground for them. The bits and pieces of grain could not have delighted the small party more even if it had been the rice thrown for nuptials, and Silver turned and left them to their devices.

On slow days, when he had little else to do but drink in the air and watch the sun move across the sky, he liked to sit in the pasture and listen to them talk. The tall grass would form four walls all around him, and the hens would often come sit next to his verdant cabinet, offering to him their confessions through the screen of sorghum and fescue. They were perfect in their gesticulations, and he particularly enjoyed the mechanical way they moved their heads; it was as though invisible strings were jerking them this way and that, moving not unlike the marionettes his father had once brought home on one of his travels. There was, overall, a hilarity to their character that he missed in his other animal companions – the cows were too listless, he thought; the pigs, too cavalier.

The pigs he favored the least. He had helped his father erect a new fence along the south side of their property last summer, working sun up to sun down for over a week, and it had taken only a single afternoon for one of the boars - newly purchased with money his father didn’t have to spare - to rip a hole through the wire mesh and lead his brethren into the open forest, never to be seen again. He had been with his father the morning the vandalism was discovered. It was one of the few times in his life he’d seen the man angry, and he had been unsympathetic towards the species ever since.

He glanced at them occasionally while he backtracked to the vegetable garden beside the cottage, quickly looking away when they returned his stare. He walked around the fence that protected the garden, giving it a cursory inspection before stepping inside. There hadn’t been any break-ins yet, but he had noticed the shallow, hoof-like indentations that would sometimes manifest in the soil around the gate, and he could tell, too, that something heavy had been pressing itself against the fence posts lately, evinced by the unnatural angles a number of them were now inclined. However, the pigs defended their innocence with a brazen confidence that stupefied even his father, and the animals had so far been spared of any further interrogation.

He entered the gate and filled the watering can sitting by the pump. The alternating rows of green and orange and red and yellow buds dotting the area convened into a checker pattern, as though one of Ma Zigvolt’s gingham dresses had been spread out over the ground. He carefully stepped over and around and in between every sprout and seedling, dancing, almost, as he worked through each row, providing only just as much water to the young plants as they demanded, pausing only when he reached the tomatoes. His father was severely particular about them, fussing over the vines like a sculptor would his block of clay, and would, at the end of every season, declare that he had grown the "best tomatoes this side of the valley", but as he was one of few fae who grew them, and perhaps the only one who enjoyed their tart taste, his countrymen gladly indulged him in his boasting. Silver tilted his watering can and aimed the stream into the soil around the base of the plants, avoiding the foliage as he’d been instructed. He hummed to himself as he continued his ministrations, his thoughts drifting brightly towards the harvest to come.

Soon, there would be fresh corn pone and hoe cakes and yellow squash fritters fried in pools of marble white pork fat, heaping bowls of piping hot green beans sauteed in pats of golden yellow butter, and tender, fresh baked apple dumplings topped with a creamy homemade vanilla glaze, all washed down with the coldest, sweetest lemonade the valley had to offer. And he and his father would make preserves – of everything; jams and jellies from the wild raspberries and blueberries they’d gather from the forests, and from the bushels of strawberries now growing in their garden, and they’d pickle cucumbers and beets and radishes and fennel and bell peppers and cabbage; the tiny root cellar under their home would transform into a museum over the summer - its shelves filled to the brim with rows upon rows of glass jars containing their colorful fermented treasures, with giant slabs of dark red elk meat and pale pink sausage links hanging from the hooks lining the ceiling, and pounds of wild-caught bass and catfish curing in salt baths on the floor, nearly every specimen in that small space a self-contained microcosm of bacterial delight.

Silver was not one to favor any season over another; he found pleasure in the flora and fauna of his surroundings all year round. But so long as his father was strictly supervised in the kitchen, it was summer fare that delighted him more than anything else, and he wished every day for the watermelon and the strawberries to ripen faster, and for the honeybees to finish constructing their summer combs.

A pine warbler’s sharp trill snapped the boy out of his daydreams. The sun had at last emerged above the umber line of the horizon, and the golden edges of the sky were rapidly fading into a soft baby blue. The land was rapidly beginning to awaken. He could hear the low drone of the honeybees as they pushed past him on their way to the meadow, and the goldfinches warming up for their morning performances in the forest yonder. He hurried to complete the rest of his chores, invigorated by a mixture of excitement and hunger and still that same dull throb of anticipation in his heart.

When he was finished at last, Silver lay down on the grass, tucking himself under the blanket of fog that hung low over the ground. He could hear only the cows lowing and the chickens murmuring and the wind brushing up against the pine trees. And if he lay still enough, he could hear even the earth itself breathing. If he pressed his ear against the damp soil, he could hear the planet exhale, could hear the molecules of water vapor rising through the air, lifting themselves off the slick blades of grass, unifying and condensing into the wave of fog that rolled across his body. His world was now perfect. And it remained perfect for half an hour longer, until his father threw open the cottage door and called him inside for breakfast.

The air grew warmer and warmer as the morning languidly transitioned into afternoon. Pleased that his prediction had been correct, he suggested to his father, Lilia, that they begin making their way to the Zigvolt's before it grew too hot, and the man agreed. The mass of burnt scrambled eggs his father had prepared for breakfast still festered heavily in Silver's stomach, and he quickly wolfed down a plain butter sandwich and an apple for lunch. His gangly body could get by on very little, and the Zigvolts always had refreshments at the ready, anyways. He grabbed his knapsack from his room and accompanied his father out the door. Together, they followed the dirt path that led from the clearing into the forest.

Lilia had settled down there decades prior, appearing in the neighboring town one day with little more to his name than a few gold coins in his pocket and a raggedy shawl strewn across his back. He'd been a drifter for decades, having retired from the local military under circumstances he never cared to divulge, and while some of the townsfolk were glad to welcome him home, most others thought him a stranger. A pack of these skeptics descended upon him one evening, cornering him in the run-down hostel where he'd been temporarily residing. They poked and prodded him with their questions, asking him why he had left and where he'd been to and why he'd now suddenly returned, at times turning away to whisper amongst themselves, as though evaluating a head of cattle. To each of their scathing rebukes he simply replied, "Doesn't matter anymore." He repeated those three words like a mantra, like a prayer to exorcize the specters gathered around his bed. His defense was as solid as a leaden curtain, soundly deflecting each and every one of the inquisitors' attacks, and when they finally scattered that night, rendered stupefied by their defeat, Lilia gathered up his sparse few belongings and vanished amongst them.

He ultimately bought his property from a man who'd recognized the name "Lilia Vanrouge", but not the mysterious little creature attached to it. The landowner was however only glad to finally rid himself of the place; it had been sitting vacant for years, long overgrown with its own miniature forest of brambles and weeds, and he was easily dismissed with what little money Lilia had to offer. There was a dilapidated cottage the last tenants had left behind, as well as the rotting remnants of a barn that hadn't been touched in ages, and the water pump, rusted over from decades of unuse, snapped in half the first time Lilia tried to use it.

He began making renovations immediately. He patched up the roof on the cottage and spent a week removing all the cobwebs and rat nests he could find inside. He cleared out the overgrowth suffocating the area and tore down the old barn, erecting a lean-to for his cows and a coop for his hens in its place. He sectioned off a small plot of land next to his house for a vegetable garden, and sowed his new fields with the fervor of a devotee. Decades of working the land yielded a soil heartier and more robust than anything the locals ever seen, as though the very earth itself was repaying him in kind for liberating it from its long imprisonment. His tomato plants bore him perfect rubies bigger than his fists. His corn and his wheat stood like giants, towering high above his head. He found his heart lifting up and growing lighter and lighter together with the green stalks soaring up into the sky. All these things slowly grew in tandem with his household - he'd added another wing to the cottage when he took in Silver, and the garden, having more than tripled in size since it was first built, now produced a far greater variety of colorful fare than Lilia could have ever imagined. It was, in all, a meager living - a little home with little in it, the glass jar of rainy day funds sitting above the fireplace never to be full, always repairs around the property to be made, always hand-me-down clothes and toys to be mended - but it was enough for the man and his child, regardless.

When Silver grew older, Lilia began letting him operate the homestead on his own when he went traveling, a leisure he'd picked up in his older age. He would leave Silver a list of rules to follow and projects to work on while he was gone - in addition to his regular everyday chores - which he adjusted for each season, such as chopping firewood in the winter, and making preserves in the summer. But above all, no matter the time of year, and barring an emergency, he absolutely forbade Silver from leaving their land. Lilia had marked off a boundary for him years ago: the river to the west, a felled oak tree to the north, the meadow to the south, and the base of the nearby mountain range to the east. Lilia trusted his son, minimally, to the extent he had no doubt the boy could procure the food and water needed to keep himself alive when left alone. But the mountains and the deep forest and even the castle town he did not trust, didn’t believe in the sincerity of the light that flooded the silent earth bordering their home.

Five miles separated the Vanrouge’s homestead from the Zigvolt’s home. Five miles that cut through the forest that extended far beyond Lilia’s land. As such, Lilia would supervise his son's travels to and from his friend’s home. They only ever walked - teleportation magic gave Silver extreme vertigo, and Lilia found his powers could no longer cover the long distance as easily as in his youth. But it was a pleasant journey, and the pair quietly admired the same mass of towering pine and spruce trees they'd admired hundreds of times before as they continued down the winding road. The forest was handsome in its late spring attire, adorned in a thick flush of bright green foliage, and the charming white faces of the star flowers and wood anemones peeked at them from amongst the undergrowth as they passed by. Overhead, a symphony of chaffinch and dunnock calls accompanied the gentle stir of the treetops brushing against each other in the wind.

Silver often called on the Zigvolt’s. The youngest of the three children, a boy named Sebek, was the only non-animal companion he had his age. They had first met a number of years prior, when Sebek apprenticed under Silver's father, and while their rivalry had been immediate, their friendship had formed only slowly, over years of tense acquaintanceship. Sebek had held a grudge against Silver since the day they’d met, or possibly longer - that much Silver had been able to determine, but he could never puzzle out what he’d done to injure him so. He was frequently agitated - over Silver’s abilities, his actions, the clothing he wore, the way he walked and the way he talked. He was “wound up tighter than an eight-day clock”, as his father would often laugh. Had Silver grown up interacting with more children his age, had he an index against which to measure his friend’s volatile attitude, then he would have understood that Sebek was simply a very immature boy – he’d not yet outgrown his foot-stamping tantrums and his jealous remarks, but there was never any true venom behind his words, only that primal, juvenile desire to convince himself and the adults around them that he and Silver were equals. But Silver liked him, at any rate; there was only so much one could do to persuade a rabbit or a songbird to gambol with one, or to explore make-believe worlds that stretched far beyond their animal imaginations, and Sebek was as eager a daydreamer as he. Even a child’s heart can be a guarded thing, as Silver’s was, having matured in a world comprised of only a small handful of faces and an even smaller stretch of land, but he’d long placed Sebek in that corner of his heart only his father and Malleus and the blue birds and honeysuckle otherwise occupied, and he cherished his friend for his outbursts and rare affections, both.

It was an “off day” for the boys - neither had any training exercises scheduled, and Silver looked forward to their rendezvous. He figured they'd be spending most of the afternoon outside, in light of the pleasant weather. Later in the summer, when the heat would spoil their entertainment, they'd move indoors, reading comics and old almanacs together in the Zigvolt's parlor, sprawled out like a pair of lazy tomcats on the cool hardwood floor. And if he was lucky, Ma Zigvolt would invite him to stay for dinner (he was always too shy to ask). She was one of his strongest allies, and had rescued him from his father’s well-meaning meals on more than one occasion. He kept his fingers crossed as he walked, hoping she and Pa Zigvolt wouldn't be staying late at the dental clinic they operated.

Once they entered the deepest part of the forest, Lilia cleared his throat, signaling that he was about to speak. Silver braced himself. His father was a habitually cheerful and easygoing man, able to make merry with nearly anyone that crossed his path, but the man's good humor came at the cost of his interlocutor's, at times.

First, Lilia asked what plans he had with Sebek for that afternoon.

"Not much."

Lilia shrugged off the curt response. They'd crossed several miles already, and the afternoon heat was prickling at his fair skin. He chastised himself for neglecting to bring a hat. He next asked, smiling broadly this time, hoping both to coax his son and to take his mind off the heat, if Silver was excited for all the fresh vegetables they'd soon be harvesting from their garden.

"I guess."

Still not discouraged, Lilia dispatched his probes once more, asking if Silver had any requests for dinner, and whether he'd read or heard anything interesting lately, but the boy deflected each one with a “Yes”, or a “No”, or an “I don’t know”. Silver had recently discovered that the briefer he kept his answers, the quicker he could get his father to stop talking, and this observation proved itself true once more, the man quitting his examination a few moments later. A feeling of discomfort prickled at his skin as the heat did his father's; the perfection of that morning a few short hours ago now seemed to him like a distant memory. They walked the rest of the way in silence.

By and by, the dirt road transitioned into a gravel walkway, and the Zigvolt’s farmhouse at last came into view. It was a noble building - tall and spacious, constructed from dense heart pine lumber, the eggshell white finish still shining brightly after so many years, with a towering red brick chimney that rivaled the surrounding cottonwood trees in their noble height. An amber light glowed softly from one of the windows. Silver and Lilia stopped before the stairs leading up to the front of the wraparound porch, where a clothesline heavy with freshly washed bed sheets rocked gently in the breeze. Ma Zigvolt was known to perfume her wash, and sunny notes of bergamot drifted down to them in waves.

The pair said their goodbyes, but when Lilia leaned forward to kiss the boy’s cheek, Silver moved away, ducking and turning around so quickly that Lilia stumbled as he fell through the empty air. He steadied himself hastily, his arms whirling for a moment before plummeting to his sides, his puckered lips collapsing into a frown. The rejection stunned him. His mind hastily reassembled and played back the insult it had just witnessed, finally ascertaining after the third repetition that he had not just been struck.

Wide-eyed, he croaked, “Silver?”

The boy took a step towards the house, his back turned to Lilia. “I’ll see you later,” he grunted, as though struggling under the weight of his father’s heavy gaze. And then he stormed up the porch, threw open the front door, and disappeared inside without a second glance.

Lilia stared imploringly at the silent house, but it offered him no answers. He shook his head and sighed. “The hell’s been going on with him lately?”

Sebek’s older sister Iris emerged onto the back porch carrying a tray of milk and pound cake. She set the tray on a small table by the door and began arranging the glasses and plates. She’d been away from home the past year, busy with her university studies, but had returned for the summer. Her absence had been difficult for the family – for Sebek most of all. 

Though he was now the apple of her eye, Iris had been opposed to the idea of a younger brother at first. She’d spent the first few months of her mother’s pregnancy curled up against the low swell of her belly, regaling the child - her new little sister - with all the fantastic plans she had in store for the two of them. But when her parents returned from a doctor’s appointment one day, a set of grainy monochrome photographs in hand, and they announced the baby was, in fact, a boy, she felt the faceless black thing staring up at her from the pictures had betrayed her. She staunchly refused to address her mother’s stomach for the rest of the pregnancy.

Ultimately, Sebek entered the world as an absolute bear of a baby, all rolls and dimples and folds and milk white skin that smelled as sweet as honey. The first time Iris saw him, he was dozing open-mouthed, lying curled up on the pillow of his mother’s breast. He looked like a dollop of pure butter, and with that single glance the girl was thoroughly convinced of his perfection.

As the baby matured, growing conscious of himself and of the world around him, his burgeoning mind, incredibly receptive to every new stimulus that entered his environment, quickly took note of his sister’s eager affections, and it wasn’t long until he ascertained that his incapability was the trick to his own allure. A halfhearted grumble would earn him a kiss, for example; a miserable wail, liberation from his crib. It was almost cunning, the way he’d play the fool for her, wrapping her tighter and tighter around his plump little finger with every feigned ineptitude he devised. “Oh, Sebby!” Iris would laugh, scooping his doughy mass into the cradle of her arms when he'd whine to be held. “You’re just a helpless little thing, aren’t you?” And the baby would bat his cub paws at her and smile his gummy smile, as if to say, “Just you wait and see!"

When their brother Horace, the eldest of the three siblings, moved into his own apartment in the castle town a few years ago, Sebek had been secretly pleased, for their mother now looked to him for help with splitting firewood and mending the fences and tilling the garden. He knew his father could not be entrusted with such things - Linus Zigvolt was a kind and good man, but he was also foolish. And boring. And unforgivably human. Sebek’s mother and his sister - and his grandfather, when the man was in an affable mood - were the center of his juvenile universe. His father and brother merely orbited them. And whereas Horace’s departure had been no more noteworthy to him than the changing of the seasons, his sister had taken with her a sense of stability he still hadn’t grown accustomed to living without.

She was a tall, muscular girl, with a broad, handsome face that was rimmed by the family’s trademark scales. A star member of her school's track and field team, she had recently broken the district's shot put record, a fact which her parents and grandfather had been proudly mentioning at least once every day since. Although soft-spoken, like her father, she was also in possession of a tongue as caustic as her mother’s, and more than one naïve suitor had abandoned his endeavors a much meeker man than when he’d met her. Her long, green hair was bundled in two intricate fishtail braids that trailed down her back – a style popular amongst valley girls her age – and she brushed away a loose strand from her face as she straightened out the napkins. Her mind dimly registered that she'd need to schedule a trim before returning to school.

Content with her work, Iris turned to the garden and cupped her hands around her mouth, shouting, “Sebby! Silver! I brought you guys some snacks!”

The boys rose from behind the jumble of cardboard boxes they’d been working on taping together. They raced each other to the porch, politely offering Iris their thanks as they sat down at the table. Silver gingerly cut into his cake, careful not to scatter any crumbs. Iris had always thought of him as bird-like, with his wiry frame, and his too big head that hung so awkwardly from the end of his long crane neck, and she was struck once again at his meagerness as he pecked at his meal.

After observing them for a few moments, she asked, “Why’d you drag all those boxes into the yard for, anyways?”

“That’s – I mean – ‘Tis our fortress!” Sebek explained between mouthfuls of cake. “We’re defending our home from those wretched ne’er-do-wells yonder!” He pointed towards the garden with one hand and shoveled another piece of cake into his mouth with the other.

Iris followed the line of Sebek’s outstretched finger. Beyond its glaze-covered point lay a pair of rabbits, lazily nibbling on a patch of grass by the boxes.

“Ooh, so you guys are playing pretend again?” She smiled as she put her hands on her hips. “Are you knights this time? Do you want me to be, like, your damsel in distress again or whatever?”

Sebek’s face reddened. “Sissy, stop it!”

Iris laughed and pinched his cheek. He resigned limply.

“Don’t worry, I won’t interrupt your little fun.” She turned away, and then added, “I’ll be in my room, so just shout if you need anything.”

Sebek huffed as his sister closed the door behind her. He scrunched up his round little face and balled his fists. His cheeks were permanently ruddy, flushing darker or lighter depending on his level of agitation, and it was clear by their scarlet hue that Iris's words had hurt him. Silver pushed his empty plate away and stood up.

“Come on, Sebek,” he sighed, rubbing the other boy’s back placatively. “You can be the General of the Right this time. I’ll ask some birds and rabbits to be the townspeople, and you can come save us.”

Often, Silver’s ability to brush off any injury with the placidity of a rock would only inflame Sebek’s rage further, but he permitted his friend to coax him back into the garden. As he watched Silver recruit a regiment of forest creatures for their schemes, he decided there was fairness in the world yet.

Baul Zigvolt was dozing in his rocking chair when Lilia returned that evening. He was perhaps the progenitor of his family members' incredible statures. His wife had been a modest woman, of average height and unremarkable in her build, but he in turn was a veritable mountain of muscle and hardened flesh, so massive that the top of Lilia’s head just barely reached the enormous blocks of his shoulders. He was squeezed into his chair rather than sat upon it, and the wood groaned threateningly as he rocked. The family’s only pet, an equally massive black tomcat with a lone white spot on the tip of its tail, was sprawled comfortably by his feet. The creature was as lazy as it was amiable, having not once dispatched any of the vermin that made merry of its owners’ grain stores, but the children were so enamored with its corpulence that their parents could not bear to rehome it. It shared with Baul a passion for evening naps, and neither of them stirred as Lilia approached.

The two men had served in the Imperial Guard together for centuries, and though they’d stepped down from their posts and re-entered civilian life ages ago, having both established households and produced children, and were now enjoying all the slow pleasures of retirement, Baul still offered advisory services to the Guard on a voluntary basis. The truth of Lilia’s retirement, however, had never been fully absorbed into the folds of Baul’s brain, and he continued to address his erstwhile superior as “General” at their every meeting. “It’s just a bad habit!” he’d defend himself sheepishly when rebuked. But he would soon disremember his error, and would, in the next breath, refer to Lilia by his long-vacated position once again.

“Hello, Baul.” Lilia dipped his head in greeting.

“Evening, General,” Baul murmured, slowly blinking his eyes open with a yawn. “You come to get your boy?”

“Yes, do you know where he is?”

Baul leaned forward and jabbed his thumb behind him. “Yeah, he and Seb are playing out back.” He settled back into his chair and closed his eyes again, opening them once more a second later. “Oh, and while you’re at it, could you tell Seb he needs to get home before nightfall?”

“Oh?” Lilia raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite unlike you to worry about him,” he replied with a smirk.

“Hell if I care!” Baul huffed, crossing his arms. “We’ve been seeing bear tracks around here lately, and I don’t want him to come crying to me if he runs into one of the dumb bastards. That’s all.”

“I see, I see,” Lilia laughed. He reached out and stroked the cat’s head, cocking his own head as he did so. "Well, I don't hear them close by. Can I wait here until they come back? They're probably off playing in the woods somewhere."

Baul huffed again. "I certainly wouldn't mind any if you'd like to take a seat."

Lilia stepped onto the porch and lowered himself into the chair across from Baul with a groan. He was occasionally stricken with bouts of rheumatism, and the frequent trips to and from the Zigvolt’s that year had been taking their toll. Baul raised an eyebrow as Lilia pawed at his back, but made no comment on the subject, electing instead to remark on how nice the weather had been lately, and how excited his grandkids were to go swimming in the river that weekend. Lilia offered in turn the latest updates on his own son. The men exchanged these little stories about their children and grandchildren as passing travelers exchanged their wares. They would file away each anecdote into their hearts for safekeeping, and take them out later to smile at when left alone.

Their habitual pleasantries concluded, Lilia asked Baul if he'd noticed anything unusual about Silver that afternoon.

"Unusual?" Baul frowned. "In what way?"

"Ahh, was he..." Lilia searched for the right word. "Quiet at all?"

Baul scoffed. "He's always quiet. Never met a child made so little noise in my life. I always wondered how he turned out like that, being raised by a loudmouth like you."

"Hey!" Lilia frowned.

"Hah! Sorry, sorry," Baul replied with a laugh, throwing up his hands in defense. "But I mean, other than that, only thing I noticed is the kid's been growing like a weed lately. Guess that's one more thing where you don't have to worry he'll take after you. Heh."

Lilia paid no heed to his baseless fibbing, and instead concentrated his thoughts towards one of his oldest pleasures: finding ways to agitate Baul. He never wished to start any real fights, but was simply possessed by the natural urge to tease him, as a child might like to prod a sleeping bear. Baul found the topic of his son-in-law particularly sensitive, and Lilia grinned as he formulated his attack.

"And how's dear Linus? I heard from Silver the clinic's been pretty busy lately."

Lilia's ploy worked immediately. A vein throbbed on Baul's forehead. "That human is fine, far as I know."

"As far as you know?" Lilia looked at him quizzically. "Aren't you here almost everyday? When's the last time you spoke with him?"

"Hell if I know. I don't give a damn what he has to say."

Lilia rolled his eyes. "Will you ever get over yourself?"

"No!" Baul grunted automatically, flushing hot red once he understood Lilia's insult. "The hell's that even supposed to mean! General!"

Lilia laughed. "Oh, come on! Why can't you just cut him some slack already? I still can't believe he agreed to take your last name like you wanted, with the way you treat him."

"Hmph! One of the few things he's done right by me."

Like so many of his fae brethren, Baul did not favor humans. He and Lilia had witnessed their evils firsthand during their time in the service, and they had watched, powerless, as so many of their friends and comrades, so many of their hopes and dreams and aspirations were crushed and destroyed under the iron heels of their enemy. Over time, after peace treaties had been signed and all the war flags had been taken down and neatly folded and put away, Lilia's heart had softened enough to accept humans with a frivolous neutrality, going so far as to adopt one to raise as his son, but Baul's had not. He was immediately suspicious of the handful of humans that came to live in the valley after the war, turning up his nose at their strange wares and customs and ways. When even more of them began to pour into the castle town, he and his wife sold their house and fled to a small homestead in the forest.

But fate continued to torment him, and he ended up a widower shortly after their first and only child, Thalia, was born. Even through all of his pain, he found his daughter was perfect - more perfect than anything he had ever seen. He was at first cautious in his parenting, aware at all times that he might one day lose her, too, as he had lost so many others before, but the child embraced all the challenges of her life with a ferocity that stunned him, and his concerns quickly proved themselves unwarranted as the years went by. She grew to be a tall and proud woman - she was heavyset, soft and plump in all the places her father was lean and hard, and more beautiful than a dahlia in full bloom.

They remained close after she moved out, meeting together for dinner most nights, and he thought nothing of it when she mentioned she'd started working at a local dental clinic. She would now and then talk about her boss, a human who'd immigrated to the valley some years ago, and to Baul's dismay, her innocent admiration quickly burgeoned into something more serious. Her infatuation with the human felt to Baul like a betrayal. He and Thalia fought when she announced she was courting him, they fought when she announced her engagement, and they fought when she announced she was pregnant. It was Horace's birth that finally allowed for their armistice, and his arms trembled the first time he held his newborn grandson. A child's eyes are the truest mirror one can face, and when Baul gazed into the wet emerald panes peering up at him, he realized for the first time in his life how ugly he had become. He locked himself in his room when he returned home that night. All alone, he reached as far and as deep as he could into his heart and ripped out the black seed of his hatred, casting it far away - farther than Zeus could launch his bolts of lightning or Thor his hammer.

But even though he'd finally been able to make peace with his daughter, nothing could be done to mend his relationship with his son-in-law. Linus had been intensely curious of the world around him from a young age, and the interest he'd developed in fae dentition during his studies had drawn him across the ocean and into Briar Valley upon his graduation, where he established a successful dental practice that treated both human and fae patients, alike. He was a pinched and narrow man, from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head, and his heavy-lidded eyes had never lost the childlike spark that so often betrays us as we grow older. It was this spark that had first piqued Thalia's interest, and he was just as obsessed with his wife as she was with him. There was very little of him to see in their children - they had inherited neither his shaggy black hair nor his brown eyes, neither his wiry frame nor olive complexion; their mother's genetics had overpowered his so completely it was as though Thalia had simply sculpted each child from the white clay of the earth by herself. But he fiercely adored them, regardless, showering them with praise and affection, and with an abundance of sugary treats that would make other members of his profession light headed. Over the years, Baul had grown to appreciate Linus for his kindness and for his intellect, and for his devotion to his family, but still could not stand how weak he was, and how small. He was a foot shorter than his wife and several hundred pounds lighter - a miserable twig next to a glorious oak tree, and Baul often complained that he would "snap in half if he sneezed too hard." Worst of all, he was magicless - a transgression Baul knew he would never be able to forgive. He could only tolerate the man, and offered him no more mercy than that.

Lilia shook his head, exasperated. "My god, I'll never understand how Tally puts up with you. Woman has the patience of a saint."

"Yeah," Baul murmured. "Yeah, she does." He folded his hands in his lap and contemplated.

They rocked in comfortable silence. The sun drifted leisurely towards the horizon, and the golden-orange sky looked as soft as an oriole feather. A nightingale, determined to outwit its rival suitors, began his serenade an hour early. Lilia had come to that place with the sole intention of retrieving his son, but the evening breeze dislodged that singular thought from his mind, and it floated away to join the cloud of fireflies gathering in the front lawn. The cat observed all of this with great interest. It was suddenly wide awake where the two men beside it were growing slowly unconscious, its body twitching with the primordial knowledge that night would soon fall.

Silver and Sebek found the pair fast asleep when they returned an hour later.

II.

Sometimes, when the sun seems to hang frozen above him, stubbornly refusing to give up its domination to the pleasant respite of night, when there are no chores to distract him with and his boy isn’t around to tease, Lilia will wander - usually carelessly, at times with a pointed determination - into the dim labyrinth of his mind. It would always astound him how, despite nearly seven hundred years of escapades and follies, despite almost a millennium of joy and heartbreak and unrest and sorrow, there were so few memories for him to parse through. Some of them had simply faded away as he grew older, others had burst into his consciousness and then vanished like spring lightning, dragged down by his heart into an unknown place where they could no longer hurt him. When he’d at last reach the center of that great maze, he would cling onto the earliest memory he could salvage from its shadowy depths, and always he would find himself next blinking his eyes open into the dull light of the castle barracks. He was no longer certain if the memory was from the day he’d enlisted, or if it was from a time much later in the service. He only knew that he must’ve already been an adult then, that he must’ve already accepted all the solitude and responsibility that had been thrust onto his small shoulders by the forces that determined his life.

He'd been told by the queen, along with all the lords and ladies and every other manner of noble and aristocrat he had ever served, on numerous occasions and under no pretense of kindness, that the royal family had taken him in as a young orphan, but he could not remember if that was true. He was certain, at least, that they had given him his name. "Lilia" was derived from the fae word for lily flowers, a plant whose legends and symbolism encompassed grand ideals of hope and purity, and something about it - the sound of it, its grandiose meanings, the way it would catch itself on his teeth, as though his body could not recognize what it was he was trying to say - had always felt wrong to him - foreign, even, so that he always felt like the people addressing him were talking to someone else. Out of discomfort, he often went by his last name, instead. "Vanrouge" had a sharpness to it that he found suited himself much more - both the sharpness of his temperament, and of his body. He was bony and stunted in height, his back no broader than the sticks used for kindling, and he stood shoulder height or lower to most adults his age. The nobility was not beyond recoginizing his strength and his talent in magic, however, and for all that his self-proclaimed benefactors gave him - a place to call home, people he could call family, military prestige beyond his wildest dreams - they took away just as much. Their orders came down like axe heads, and for centuries he dutifully served under their beck and call, acting as a guard dog for them one day, a scapegoat another, an undertaker the next, folding for them like a blade of grass forced flat by the wind.

He stumbled through the years as haphazardly as a tightrope walker, going only where he was told to go and doing only what he was told to do. He worked to the point that he could work no more, and when his incapability was discovered, he was immediately ordered to resign. It was one of the few times in his life he had ever felt afraid. Each and every one of the sovereignty's commands had been a link in a long fetter that bound him to their sides, but it had also been his lifeline, and without it, he feared he would be lost. The day of his resignation, he received one final order to remove his things from the barracks before leaving. The truth of it all pierced his mind like an arrow just then. He realized all at once that the tiny room with its cot and its chest and its wardrobe would be his prison cell no more, that the four walls that had been closing in on him for centuries had finally halted in their paths. He realized the thing that had been beating in his chest all his life had not been stamped out, had not been taken away from him - he had lost his dignity, his strength, even some of the people he had permitted himself to love, but not this. He smiled as he left the castle, made giddy by the greatest secret he knew he would never be able to tell. The discharge papers in his hands suddenly seemed to him like a pardon.

However, he had spent so many years bowing down to others he found he did not recognize the world when he finally stood up and looked at it again. With nothing more left in his life to guide him, he left his homeland shortly after his expulsion. He traveled from country to country with no real destination in mind - if a locale displeased him, he simply packed his things and departed for the next. As the years went by, he gradually began to operate with less and less reason, doing everything and anything he could "just because". Time had molded the clay of his person into a confusing and crude shape, and after decades of slow disentanglement and reformation, of reclaiming all the good things he had been forced to cast out of his heart, he discovered that his truest pleasure was to simply live by his whims. When he at last exhausted his traveling funds, he returned to the valley, settling down only because he'd never done so before, and was curious how well it would go. The people around him pitied him, as one often does those whom Life seems to have forgotten in its haste, but he was far too absorbed in his newfound self-indulgences to pay them any mind.

Even the acquisition of his son had been unplanned. He'd periodically scavenge from the ghost towns that dotted the countryside, in search of tools and good lumber he could use for his repairs back home, and on one such excursion, while searching through the rooms of a crumbling little cottage located deep within the valley's eastern forests, he found a human baby, fast asleep in its cradle. It was gaunt, with an evident pallor to its face, and Lilia quickly concluded it had been abandoned; the stagnant air in that place told him no other living being had been there for days. When he turned to leave, not wishing to disrupt Nature's process, an idea struck his mind so suddenly and so violently he had to steady himself against the doorway before he fell. What if he were to keep the child? What if he, a fae, were to raise the very flesh and blood of his nation's most ancient enemy? The notion intoxicated him. His head spun as he slowly returned to the crib.

"Now wouldn't that be a lark," he murmured as he raised the child. It blinked up at him weakly with eyes the color of the aurora, and Lilia was immediately convinced of his own genius.

"Let's get you something to eat, you poor thing! I'm quite famished myself, you know. You have excellent timing," he said with a wink. The baby watched him silently as he carried it back home.

He thought it would be simple. He knew from his time watching over the infant Malleus that babies needed little more than food, play, clean diapers, and naps. His first charge had flourished splendidly in his care, and he had no doubt his second would do the same.

But Silver was difficult. After its initial, desperate feeding, the baby, seeming to finally remember it was in possession of lungs and a vocal instrument, began to cry incessantly. If it wasn't in Lilia's arms, it cried. If it went a moment too long between feedings, it cried. Even when it slept Lilia was not safe. If he set it down for a nap and attempted to leave the room, it would awaken immediately, understand it had been abandoned once more, and would cry. There were times - random, and frustratingly rare - where it would suddenly stop in the midst of one of its fits, and smile at Lilia so sweetly he'd wonder if someone had snuck in and swapped the child for another when he wasn't looking. Once he realized his legendary frivolity had met its match, he began consulting with the Zigvolts on a regular basis, as Pa Zigvolt was the only human in the valley he trusted. It was the height of summer then, a time he'd usually spend taking refuge in the cool shadows indoors, but he did not mind walking the five long miles back and forth between their homes, preferring even the heat over the child's endless screaming. Pa Zigvolt assisted him to the best of his abilities, imparting to Lilia all the knowledge he had acquired over the years as a then-father of two, and Silver's fits ended a few months later as abruptly as they'd started.

The second hurdle arose when the little boy began to talk. His first, crude word was "Ba pa", and it took several days for Lilia's mind to finally register that he was the intended recipient of this title. He'd planned to have Silver call him by his first name, just as he'd been forced to do when Malleus was little, and hearing the child acknowledge him as its parent made him uncomfortable, as though both of them were breaking a rule he didn't know the name of. The baby, however, refused his every plea for reconsideration, and gradually figured out all the tricks of human speech as he grew older, learning to perfectly pucker his lips, and mastering the rhythm of the two syllables he so desperately wished to string together. He would repeat "Papa" throughout the day, singing out "Papa, Papa, Papa!" with the joy of a hymn. But for Lilia, each utterance was like a stone launched against the walls he had built up around his heart, and when they collapsed and faded away into nothing, he realized his discomfort had vanished with them.

He would later realize, too, that where he'd long forgotten much of his early life, he found he could now remember, to an almost startling degree, much of what he'd seen and experienced ever since he took in the boy. He could still remember a freezing day in January over a decade ago, when Silver had chanced upon a lone snowdrop shivering off the cold in the meadow near their home. The flower had fascinated the boy severely; he sat before it, stone still, tilting his heavy head this way and that, trying to understand the small creature’s drooping frame. Eventually, Lilia came over and accompanied him in his study. He had seen snowdrops countless times before, while marching through the countryside, while working on the clearing, but only then, as he knelt in the snow with the young boy at his side, both of them shivering quietly in the late winter light, only then did he finally realize its perfection. He could still remember, too, the snow slowly melting later that year, and Silver pointing out to him the magnolias blooming in the copse behind their shed, and the daffodils and tulips breaking through the frost that blanketed their small garden, and the linden trees releasing their sweet perfume. He could remember Silver revealing to him with a boyish surety the strangeness of rain showers on sunny days, and the comfort of the mist that lingers on cool autumn mornings. So many sights and sounds and sensations had passed by him all his life in a blur - colorless and dull, abstract and undefined, and when his son entered his life, it was as though a bolt of lightning the color of the aurora had struck the earth and finally given all these things their color and meaning.

But Silver had begun to change recently. Not physically - no, he still had the same rosy, cherubic little cheeks; the same bright blue-grey eyes; and the same sweet, half-crooked smile that Lilia would proudly boast about to all who would listen, and even to those who would not. It was his attitude, his tone of voice, his humor that had changed, and Lilia had not noticed it willingly, at first. Where he'd always been so agreeable and forthcoming, so that Lilia was unsure if the boy had ever kept a secret from him in his entire life, he was now secretive and temperamental. At times, Silver would whirl on him like a wildcat, his eyes narrowed, his thin lips pulled back into a snarl, upset at something Lilia could not understand. There was always a strange look to his eyes during these flares, not quite panicked, yet not angered, either. He looked, if anything, confused - as though he could not believe the truth of the thing he'd just done. When he was amicable, he was as loquacious as a monk. He'd also been showing a newfound apathy towards Lilia's jokes and teasing, and to his presence overall, expressing more and more his desire to be left alone. Most alarming of all, Silver had recently stopped addressing him as "Papa", and now called him "Father", instead. It felt as unnatural as if a songbird had stopped singing. He found it vulgar. "Father" was harsh, adult, stern - formal and distant where his previous moniker had been so intimate and sweet. He'd pleaded with Silver more than once the past month, asking if anything was wrong, demanding to know why he was acting like this, but the boy was unwavering in his defiance, curtly assuring him each time that everything was fine, before excusing himself to go be alone his room once more.

Lilia ultimately decided not to push the matter further, presuming Silver would recover his good attitude in due time, and had instead been focusing his attention on preparing the homestead for summer. The garden work and other miscellaneous chores had all been welcome distractions, but an incident the past week had revived his concerns.

He and Silver had gone to the Zigvolt's for dinner. Ma Zigvolt prepared a feast of grilled corn cobs, roast venison slow-cooked with creamy golden potatoes and carrots, and a whole pile of her buttery homemade biscuits. The pair ate heartily, having both worked up a respectable appetite from hoeing weeds together all that morning, and as usual, they stayed with their hosts late into the evening, if only so Lilia and Baul could talk, and so Silver and Sebek could listen. It was the boys' greatest pleasure in the world to gather in the parlor and listen to them talk. Sometimes, they would simply muse on the recent weather, or discuss local politics. Other times, they'd tell stories - the boys always begged for a story. The former war heroes would weave tales about all the faraway lands they had journeyed to and the greatest enemies they had ever faced, and about fearsome beasts the children had never heard of and stars they'd never seen - “Men’s talk”, as Ma Zigvolt would scoffingly call it. But there was always softness in her voice whenever she rebuked their late-night gatherings. Horace and Iris used to join the small audience, too, but gradually stopped as they grew older, claiming the men's yarns had lost their appeal. It was one of the few things Sebek disagreed with his sister on - he worshiped her, but understood at his young age that even an idol's opinions could be wrong, at times.

The boys' habit was such:

Sebek would sprawl on the bearskin rug before the fireplace, and Silver would curl up against his father’s chair, his head resting on the man’s lap. Lilia would play with his son's hair absentmindedly while he spoke. It could’ve been the shining hands of the angel Gabriel himself carding those gentle fingers through his hair and the boy scarcely would’ve noticed a difference. This was his great reprieve, the most delicious reward after a long and tiring day of chores and training and schoolwork and hard labor; a time for him to sigh out all the aches and pains that gripped his thin body and a time for him to rest.

Lilia knew all this. He had always known this. His son’s heart was a rose; he needed only to whisper the boy's name and its petals would unfurl for him.

The meeting last week had proceeded as usual, at first. Dinner was enjoyed by all, the fireplace was lit, Baul and Lilia took their seats in the parlor, and Sebek planted himself on the bearskin rug. But when Lilia smiled at Silver and set his hands on his lap, his palms upturned, the boy turned away, sitting down in front of the fireplace next to Sebek, instead.

In that moment, Lilia realized Silver's strange behavior the past month was a symptom of an issue far graver than he could have anticipated. When they returned home that night, he consulted his trove of parenting books after Silver went to bed. He'd bought a number of them when the infant Silver had begun his fits, turning to them for advice whenever the boy fell ill or reached a new developmental milestone. He hadn't read any of them in ages, and he sneezed as a cloud of dust billowed when he pulled them down from the shelf.

He flipped through the yellowing tomes one by one, smiling whenever he came across a dogeared page. Each bookmark and scribbled note he could trace back to a specific period in Silver's life, and the memories of those first few stressful years he now counted amongst his greatest treasures. He worked through the tall stack throughout the night, giving up at dawn with a sigh. Were he a more sensible man, perhaps he would've taken note of the fact that his entire collection was made up of books concerning a human's first few years of life, and that his son was now thirteen.

III.

A massive thunderstorm exploded into the valley in early June. It seemed to have materialized from nothing, catching the residents off guard like a cottonmouth's strike. On the first day of the storm, Lilia presumed it was nothing more than a typical summer shower, and felt confident it would quickly pass. On the third day, he remarked he had never seen anything like it before in his life. By the fifth, he was too stunned to speak again. The rain fell down in sheets as thick as pure marble. The sun and moon and stars all vanished beneath a sky as dark as bruised flesh, and only the candles melting above the fireplace gave any indication that time had not stopped. Some days, the rain would harden into hail, and it would pelt the earth like white meteors for hours on end. The deluge pounded on for over a week. The first morning after the storm, the valley denizens stepped cautiously into what seemed like a brand new world. Entire villages had been washed away in some areas, and miles of farmland now stood underwater in others. The river, engorged with rainwater, had flooded over, transforming large swaths of the surrounding forest into a veritable swamp. Carcasses of the animals that hadn't escaped the disaster - deer, boars, turkey, elk, wolves, snakes, predator and prey, young and old - drifted in a black line down the muddy waters. Buzzards whirling their death dance filled the skies.

The Vanrouge's clearing, located uphill, had been mostly spared - a drowned chicken the lone fatality. But the corn fields had been left flattened, and the thatching on the cottage roof lay in shambles. Silver and Lilia worked quickly to dig a maze of deep trenches to help drain the excess water from the garden and pasture. They ripped out the molding stalks of corn and salvaged as many of the clean cobs as possible, hanging them to sun-dry from a wooden rack they'd erected in the yard. "The animals will be glad to have them, at least," Lilia had sighed.

Realizing they were quickly running out of nails and boards to finish making the repairs, Lilia decided one morning to head into the nearest town and replenish their dwindling supplies. Before leaving, he found Silver lying on his stomach in the living room, peering intently into a bird identification book he'd received for his birthday. He called out to the boy while he finished getting dressed.

“Silver, darling?”

Silver’s face, framed on one side by an illustration of a juvenile blackbird peeking out from its nest, and on the other by an adult in flight, emerged from between the pages of his book. Without looking up, he replied, "Yes, father?"

He still on that “father” thing? Lilia swallowed the annoyed groan building in his throat. “While I’m gone, could you butcher one of the shoats, please? I just noticed we’re about to run out of pork belly.”

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it today.”

“Perfect, thank you.”

Lilia grabbed his leather coin purse from the table by the door and secured it to the hook on his belt. He threw a light cloak over his shoulders, anticipating more rain, and glanced at Silver across the room while he fussed with the clasps.

The boy had retreated into his book.

Lilia sighed. The past week had been quiet. Even with the hail exploding all around them and the wind howling and the rain pounding like sledgehammers against their home, it had been quiet, because Silver had hardly spoken a word the entire time. The child's voice seldom rose above a pleasant murmur as a habit, and yet its absence had made the little cottage seem so much vaster and emptier than it really was; there were times during the storm Lilia had felt like the only living thing in the world trapped within its black fury. He hovered at the door for a moment, debating if he should try to kiss the boy goodbye, but his every attempt at parental affection the past month had been met with hostility, scorn, and disgust, and he feared any further attempts would only end the same. Electing for the path of least resistance, he opened the door and departed without another word.

Silver waited for the door to click shut before he pushed his book aside, sitting up with a grunt. He grabbed his pig sticker from his room and slipped on his work boots and gloves. Butchering was laborious work, more so than even his father's rigorous training regimes, and he gripped his knife expectantly while gathering his things.

The clearing glittered with rainwater as he stepped outside. The air was heavy, weighed down by a thick layer of petrichor, smelling somehow both earthy and sweet at once, and it felt like he had to push through it as he walked, as though he were swimming upstream. While struggling towards the pig pen, he contemplated his soggy surroundings. The wet ground was as dark as umber. The chickens, equally as wet and as dark, were scratching dejectedly at the mud, and the cows looked on wisely from underneath their dripping lean-to. He was thankful the garden hadn't been harmed. The brightly colored heads of the newborn squash peeking out from their leafy cradles lifted his heart where the rest of the world drooped and dripped so miserably around him. On the second day of the storm, when it was evident the rain and the wind would not soon abate, he and his father had rushed to cover all the plants with heavy sheets of plastic in a last-ditch attempt to save them. The covers had served them well, having prevented the incurrence of any vegetative losses, and though they now sported deep abrasions where the hail had struck them, Silver found the markings as noble and as handsome as any other battle scar.

Upon reaching the pen, he selected the smallest of the shoats, doubtful he could handle one of the larger animals on his own. The blade of his pig sticker shone dully in the dappled light. The mahogany handle felt cool in his sweat-slicked hand. With a practiced surety, Silver plunged the knife up into the pig’s rib cage, and the animal collapsed to the ground. He cleaned the blade in the grass while he waited for the body to stop moving. After the shoat finally stilled, he hoisted its heavy body onto the metal gambrel hanging from the tree by the shed, and then he began the long work - extracting the tender leaf fat hidden deep within it.

He grabbed the set of butcher knives from the shed and used the longest one to cut into the hide. The skin was rough against his hands, coated with a thick layer of wiry hair, and he grunted as he ripped it off. The head and wet mass of guts and other organs he removed from the torso as quickly as possible, discarding them in a pile far behind them, where he did not have to look at them and remember what he had just done. He slowed down to a comfortable pace as he began removing the leaf fat. The pigs had been enjoying a hearty diet of sweet potatoes, mulberries, and corn for most of the year, and the shoat he'd selected was richly packed with thick sheets of candle white fat. He plunged his knife into the carcass and began separating the fat from the muscle, working in a rhythm, stopping at times to put down his knife and use his hands to tear back the white slab, then picking it up again to continue cutting. He dislodged the mass with one final flick of his knife and deposited it into a bucket by his feet. Once rendered, it would be used not just for cooking, but also to make soap and candles, as a poultice for minor burns and wounds, and as lotion for chapped skin.

After swapping his knife for a bone saw, he split the carcass in half, and then hung both pieces inside the smokehouse. In a few days, once the meat had tenderized, he and his father would finish quartering them and divvying up the meat, grinding some of the portions to make sausage, and putting aside others for bacon and jerky.

He could feel beads of sweat crawling down his back like a line of ants as he plodded over to the water shelf to wash his hands. He figured by the sun's position there were still a few hours of morning left. Might as well see if I can't hunt something he thought, having already exhausted all the distractions the clearing and the cottage could offer.

He washed himself hastily, glancing in the mirror as he dried his hands against his pant legs. He was a demonstrably plain boy – not outstanding in height or wit or strength or speed. His body was lean and wiry, his hands prematurely calloused from years of grueling work, and only the few meager lumps of baby fat that clung to his face protested weakly that he was, indeed, just a child. The only remarkable thing about him was his eyes – they were a brilliant blend of amethyst and steel blue, almost prismatic in nature, seeming to change color with the rise and fall of the sun. The few adults in his life often remarked on their beauty, but Silver never paid their compliments any mind - in truth, he rejected them. He'd always thought his eyes plain, just as he thought the rest of himself plain, especially in comparison to the fae, and if there was any one thing he begrudged Sebek for, it was the serpentine pupils he'd inherited from his forefathers. He frowned at the mirror, then averted his gaze from his dissatisfied reflection.

Before leaving, Silver printed on the back of a used envelope a short note for his father, letting him know he was going hunting, and that he would return home before supper, and this he left on the counter, held in place with a coffee tin. He then retrieved his crossbow from his room, and left the clearing, cutting a path straight North, far away from the bloated river and its poisons. Huge puddles of muddy water dotted the trail before him, and the damp ground squelched noisily under his boots. The trail was bordered by a lavender frame of honeysuckle in full bloom, but the trumpets sagged poorly, still heavy with water. His father had said it would likely take another week or two for the land to dry completely.

Silver had observed the storm with great interest. Pa Zigvolt had once told him how people in other countries conceived of the beginning of the world, and in one version, he spoke of when the planet was all water, and a god had sculpted the land and the sky and all living creatures, and Silver had wondered during the storm if this was how the world had looked during those primordial seven days, or if perhaps that wrathful god had come back to restart its creation. Never before in his life had he seen so much rain, so much wind and lightning and hail all at once before. The sky was one ocean and the land was another. The rain seemed to move back and forth between them, falling and rising, the drops of water shining like the million wings of a dragonfly swarm. He processed novelties such as these almost programmatically. If he understood something, then he determined he would not fear it. His comprehension was a beam of light he could shine upon his abhorrations, it would cut through the shadow of his uncertainty and allow him to see the face of the thing, to touch it, and to understand it. He was afraid of very little: the forest at night, adders (he'd been bitten once as a small child), all the various tinctures and teas prescribed for his occasional afflictions, and his father's Halloween performances. Darkness was one thing he'd studied and studied since he was very young, but had never been able to puzzle out, perhaps because it did not end. It was too broad, too immeasurable; he could lift up one corner of it and step underneath it and walk a thousand miles and still never glimpse its face. Even when it receded during the day, he felt it prowling beyond the safety of the clearing, like a panther in waiting. The storm, too, had seemed infinite in its wrath, but it had ended, and now it was gone. Now there was only a liquid world, shimmering, iridescent, like one great droplet of water sitting on an endless spiderweb.

The frenzied drumming of a male grouse sounded off in the distance, beyond a thick wall of fir and aspen. Following the clamor, Silver slipped into the underbrush. He moved over the wet leaf litter as quiet as a shadow. The performer soon came into view, perched atop a fallen cedar tree. It was in the midst of a thunderous crescendo, beating its spectacled wings so feverously the air around it seemed a solid tawny blur. Silver dropped to a crouch, stalking slowly forward until he reached a mass of undergrowth tall enough to conceal him. Kneeling in the grass, he loaded an arrow into his crossbow, disengaging the safety as he raised it to his shoulder.

A noise above drew his attention. A red squirrel, high up in the tree beside him, was glaring at him, its eyes blazing as fiercely as its bright copper fur. Silver held his breath. If the squirrel let out a warning bark, the grouse would surely hear it and scatter. His gaze flew between his observer and his target - the bird had paused in its performance, its small black eyes scanning the tree line where he was hiding.

After a few tense moments, the squirrel disappeared into the privacy of the canopy with a huff. The grouse cocked its head, alert, but not alarmed, and then resumed its drumming. Silver quietly let out the breath he'd been holding and moved his finger over the trigger. The arrow soared through the air and struck the grouse with a heavy thud. It fell to the ground, disappearing behind it's earthen stage.

Silver stood up and thrust his crossbow behind him. He rushed in long strides to the log and hoisted the grouse's limp body with one hand, his own body still thrumming with adrenaline. A scarlet blot bloomed in the animal's chest where his arrow had pierced it. The sight of the blood immediately muted all his excitement. He whispered an earnest "Thank you" to the creature before slipping its thin neck up under his belt and turning around. As he stood there, awash in the late morning light, contemplating the still-warm body resting against his thigh, his mind finally acknowledged that he knew this place.

One day, a few months ago, on his way home from collecting armfuls of wild sorrel and burdock in the forest, Silver had discovered a great horned owl sitting atop a towering oak tree while passing through there. The creatures were rarely seen during the day, typically active only during crepuscular hours, and Silver carefully set down his leafy bundle upon spotting it, taking the opportunity to quietly study the bird for as long as it allowed him to. He concluded that its long, brown ear-tufts reminded him of the projections in his father’s hair, and he smiled, pleased by the genius of his observation. When he walked up to the tree and craned his head back, the owl slowly blinked its yellow eyes down at him in perplexment.

“Could you please help me?” Silver asked.

“Whooo?”

“You, silly bird!” he laughed. He explained that he'd learned a new word recently, and desired an audience before which to practice his pronunciation.

The owl obliged his request and swooped down to a branch directly before him. He unfastened his cloak and draped it around its neck, carefully hooking up the fastener so as to not pinch its feathers.

He stepped back to admire his work. “Looks good to me,” he murmured to himself, nodding. “Now, I want you to please pretend to be my papa- I mean, my father.”

The owl stared at a toad loitering by Silver’s feet. It looked up and blinked its spotlight eyes at him slowly.

Flustered, Silver continued. “Oh, if you just sit there, that should be okay! I’ll go ahead and start now. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

He cleared his throat and straightened his back, crossing his arms. “Hello, Pa-, erm, Father. Today, I’m going to go play- I mean!! I’m going to go train with Sebek. I’ll be back for dinner. Farewell!”

He spun around and marched off, swinging his arms importantly, just like he’d seen the imperial guards do on his rare trips into town. After a few heavy steps, he stopped and turned around again, nervously searching his spectator's face for any sign of reproach.

“...How was that?” he asked after a moment.

The owl bobbed its head excitedly, but Silver could not determine if the gesture was meant for him, or for the toad that was now clinging plaintively to his feet. He reset his stance and repeated the exercise from the beginning. Again and again he stuttered through his short speech and pumped his arms and stomped across the ground, and then turned around to be greeted by a feathery face as unintelligible as some ancient cipher. This cycle continued for so long his pile of greens had begun to wilt by the time he was at last satisfied.

His request had been sincere, if not misguided. The new moniker he'd chosen for Lilia sat as heavy and awkwardly as a foreign word on his tongue, and he'd often lapse into calling the man "Papa" as a course of habit, which he'd aimed to rectify through this practice. But there was another, graver reason why he'd felt so anxious that day - a secret dilemma had been plaguing him for weeks.

He had discovered, unwillingly, and to his great alarm, that the adults in his life had suddenly developed an irritating air about them. He wished, for example, to push away Ma Zigvolt’s pinching hands when they reached for the roundness of his face and to flee from Pa Zigvolt’s awkward attempts at conversation. Baul and his father’s stories had lost their wonder, too, no longer coloring the quiet expanse of his dreams. And his father, by far, presented the most extreme case of this mysterious ailment.

It was as though, after thirteen long years of worshiping the very ground he walked on, Silver had woken up one day with his mind rewired to find everything the man did purely annoying. When he'd suddenly start to sing in that strange, deep voice he could conjure on a whim, or when he’d pester him with questions, asking him how his day was, and what he and Sebek had gotten up to, or when he'd declare to the world what a splendid, hardworking boy he was, instead of laughing or smiling or nodding along, as per his customary response, Silver instead found himself praying for the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

Even Malleus had changed. All his life, Silver had approached the young prince unabashed and forthcoming, as he was never taught the fear that lurked in the hearts of many of the valley’s citizens. Indeed, for Silver, Malleus was one of the precious few cornerstones of his meager world – he was a comforting shadow in the dim haze of Silver's infantile memories, and the green glow of his magic was as reassuring to him as the North Star’s guiding light. More than anything, he was someone - the only one - who’d come visit Silver when his father was away.

Lilia had resumed traveling for leisure after Silver was old enough to look after the homestead on his own. He was never gone long, in his own opinion, only a week or two at most. He'd pack the fridge full of questionable food for the boy, leave him a list of chores and rules to follow that was, at times, as questionable as the food, kiss his cheek goodbye, and then promptly disappear to whatever locale he'd selected for his itinerary that month. He'd always send Silver postcards of the places he'd visit. They often arrived faded and torn, or sopping wet from the rain, but Silver kept each and every one of them, regardless if damaged or illegible, or otherwise totally destroyed, in a little box underneath his bed. When he lay down to sleep at night, in his mind he would reach his hand underneath his bed, open his box, and quietly step into the distant worlds contained within the postcards.

Some nights, he and his father would stroll through the glass-topped bazaars of the Shaftlands, their arms heavy with paper shopping bags filled to the brim with newly purchased clothing and trinkets and toys, slowly moving through the crystalline cloud of cologne and parfum drifting out from the stores and boutiques, each establishment a gem of its own, the arcade an endless line of diamonds, amethysts, pearls, topaz, and rubies; then this vision would vanish, and he and his father would be pulled another thousand miles away to the golden plains of the Sunset Savanna, where sky touched the earth, where a boiling sun raged like an angry god above a scorched plateau of rock and grit and sand and red clay dust, and they would journey across this shimmering land marveling at all the beasts and vegetation Silver had only ever read about in his books, and would likely never see for as long as he lived.

He'd spend the entire night thus traipsing from one postcard to the next, so that by the time he awoke in the morning, he'd crossed nearly half the planet in his sleep.

This habit he continued for over half a year, at which point Malleus at last learned of Lilia's departures. Often kept detained at the castle by mountains of paperwork and other bureaucratic trivialities that left him too exasperated and too occupied for leisure, he did not regularly call on the Vanrouges, and when he'd taken a rare opportunity to drop by their cottage one day, many years ago, he was surprised when Silver opened the door and informed him that his father was gone. Silver did not notice anything strange about Malleus's reaction, at first. He'd gotten another postcard recently. On the front, an image of massive, stone towers rising high into a cloudless turquoise sky, their spires terminating into crowns shaped like pyramids; on the back, in his fathers prim script, a short note explaining the structures were called "obelisks'', and that they were monuments dedicated to the local gods of that region. All of Silver's dreams lately had been of endless deserts and great golden towers and the ancient kings and queens that once ruled over them, and when he saw the pair of black obelisks that were concealed in Malleus's slit pupils, his fantasies materialized temptingly in his mind once again.

But Malleus's low voice, inquiring on Lilia's return, pulled him back to the clearing and the small cottage and its plainness for a moment. Trying to focus, he stated bluntly that his father would not be back for another week.

"A week?" Malleus said, his tone halfway between a scoff and a cry.

"A week," Silver repeated absentmindedly, busy trying to determine how a pharaoh's headdress might sit between Malleus's horns.

When his gaze drifted lazily back to Malleus's eyes, he finally realized the man was angry. The black obelisks had vanished, and all the kings and queens in his mind bowed their heavy ornate heads, crumbling away to nothing in the face of the prince's quiet rage.

From that day on, Malleus dedicated himself to visiting Silver as much as possible when Lilia was away. He would bring with him cakes and pies he'd stolen from the castle's kitchen, and books he'd snuck out of the royal library, and they would sit together and enjoy these treasures in the living room, or stroll through the forest when the weather was fair. These visits made Silver feel very important, a sensation he seldom had the privilege to enjoy, and he'd imagine he was a duke welcoming a fellow aristocrat to his palace whenever Malleus stopped by. The lonely late-night journeys through his postcards melted away into this new pleasure.

As Silver matured, he slowly began to comprehend the gravity of Malleus’s periodic decampments. It first felt like nothing more than a small discomfort, as though he were wearing a garment a size too small. As time went on, the discomfort only grew, transforming from a minor inconvenience into an ever-present malaise. But Silver was attentive as he was reticent, and he’d noticed how, when he’d caper with Malleus through the forests, the pixies living in the oak trees and the river would whisper and whisper all around them, their high voices a chorus of reproachful chimes. And he’d noticed, too, the confusion that had flashed across his father’s eyes the day he’d confessed to these secret visits. Silver collected these observations as his evidence, examined them, and concluded that Malleus was doing something wrong. But to accuse their crown prince of misconduct required a level of brazenness that far exceeded his capabilities, and he'd waited several months until he finally voiced his suspicions.

He broached the topic the spring prior, when his father had departed for a week-long sojourn in the Shaftlands. That first night, Malleus appeared at the cottage door with a pan of freshly baked apple strudel in hand. After they were sat at the table and Malleus began cutting their portions, Silver at last revealed all his concerns.

When he finished speaking, he watched Malleus’s hand slow down as it moved the knife through the steaming pastry.

“I…” Malleus pursed his lips in thought, lifting them into a soft smile a moment later.

“I remember how I felt whenever Lilia would vanish on one of his excursions when I was little, and I suppose I simply wish not for you to feel the same.”

“But that’s-”

“You needn’t worry, Silver.” Malleus laughed gently, pushing a plate heavy with warm strudel towards him. “I shan’t get into any trouble - so long as my grandmother remains none the wiser about all this, that is,” he finished with a wink.

Silver was at once overcome by a rush of joy and shame and guilt and relief all combined together. His body, unable to process this strange emotional amalgamation, resigned to color itself with a vicious crimson flush. The chameleonic display was so severe it shocked even Malleus, and he spent the rest of that evening marveling at the different shades of red human skin could take.

Something shifted in Silver's relationship with Malleus that day. He felt it before he understood what it was. When his father returned from his trip, he revealed to Silver the truth that had been looming over him all of his life, and explained to him all the different rules that Malleus had been egregiously breaking for him for years on end. When the lecture was finished, Silver asked his father to leave his room so he could ruminate. He concluded that if it was wrong for Malleus to show him this kindness, if it had to be locked away and kept a secret, then he would keep his own secret - he would take his love for Malleus, for his brother, and he would bury it. He would construct a pedestal in his heart, as all the other valley citizens had long been taught to do, and place upon it the man he'd been too ignorant to realize had never truly been his equal and his friend.

He was bothered greatly – by his father’s antics, by the dullness of the adults around him, by the solitude of his strange and sudden affliction – and yet he never could find a remedy for his discomfort. It was like an insect had stung him in a spot his hands couldn’t quite reach, and the words to describe how he felt evaded him just the same.

All of this he considered once more as he left the forest, stumbling back home in a haze of speculation. By the time he reached the clearing, the darkened sky looked like a giant raven's wing stretched out over the land, and the treefrogs had already begun their evening serenade. Even in the low light he could feel their beady eyes staring at him as he approached the door.

Inside, the cottage was warm, and his father's humming radiated quietly from the kitchen. After slipping off his muddy boots by the door, he set the limp grouse on the counter and went to wash his hands at the basin.

His father stood before the cookstove, stirring a pot bubbling with a substance as black as tar. He looked up, and the smile he’d been planning to offer Silver rapidly faded away. Knitting his brow in concern, he asked, “Is everything okay?”

Silver swallowed thickly and nodded. “I’m fine.”

IV.

Summer crept forward like an inchworm. The land dried out completely within a matter of weeks, as Lilia had predicted, and one could now comfortably move around outside without fear of the humidity's oppression. The linden trees, made anxious by the pounding wind and rain, had been steadfastly clutching their bright yellow flowers against their leafy breasts since the start of the month, and had only recently just begun allowing the satiny petals to unfurl, as though acknowledging the valley's languid recuperation. Their delicious perfume billowed out across the entire nation, eventually overshadowing even the contaminated river's foul odor.

The Zigvolts had fared well through the disaster, their tall, white house still standing proud and pristine amongst a mess of downed trees and waterlogged foliage, not a single red brick from the chimney missing or otherwise harmed. Their neighbors, however, had not been nearly as fortunate, and the elder Zigvolts had agreed to close the dental clinic while they helped their friends repair their homes. The children eagerly assisted wherever possible, and they spent the better part of June lugging armfuls of wood and shingles, readjusting crooked fences, and clearing out dripping debris from the trails that weaved around their home. The entire family would work from morning until late at night, reserving one day a week to either relax or to see to any high-priority dental cases.

It was on one of these holidays, in late June, when Lilia and Silver dropped by in the morning for a scheduled call. The two families gathered in the parlor, the adults chatting amicably, while the children competed to see who'd had the most interesting experiences during the storm, but as noon rolled around and the boys lost interest in conversation, Baul suggested they go outside for an impromptu sword fighting lesson. The group thus disbanded, Lilia remaining with Pa and Ma Zigvolt in the parlor, while Iris joined her grandfather and the family cat in supervising the boys, taking turns cheering for her brother or for Silver as she saw fit.

After they left, Ma Zigvolt went to the kitchen and refilled the pitcher of ice tea she'd prepared that morning, topping up Lilia's glass for him before retaking her seat. Looking at him expectantly, she asked, "Now what were you saying before? About Silver."

“Ah, about Silver acting strangely during the storm?” Lilia waited for her confirmation before continuing. “Well, there was this one day I was able to get the fireplace going and I gathered up some blankets on the couch. And when I asked Silver if he wanted to come cuddle with me for a bit, he… he…”

Ma Zigvolt balled up her apron in her hands and leaned forward, wide-eyed. “He what?”

“He said no!” Lilia cried, throwing his arm over his face with a flourish.

“No?!” she gasped. “Not Silver!”

“Yes! I could hear my poor heart breaking in two on the spot.” Lilia slumped back in his chair. It was the first time he'd spoken to anyone about the problems he'd been having with his son, and he felt somehow encumbered by the weight of his confession.

Ma Zigvolt gently asked if he'd had any luck talking to Silver about his behavior, and he begrudgingly shook his head.

"He always says he's fine, and that's about as much as I can get out of him." He sipped his tea, setting his glass down on the table beside him with a frown. "It almost feels like he doesn't even like me anymore..."

Pa and Ma Zigvolt exchanged a pointed look. It was not unlike the one they'd share with each other at the clinic, when a patient, complaining of mysterious symptoms that had "simply popped up out of nowhere!" would throw themselves into the examination chair with a huff, only to confess after much prodding that they had been consuming a poor diet, and had been practicing even poorer dental habits.

Pa Zigvolt spoke first. “It’s normal for kids Silver’s age to go through a phase like this. It just means he’s growing up.”

Lilia blinked. “Growing up…?”

“Mm-hmm,” Ma Zigvolt continued. “We went through the exact same thing with Horace and Iris. Horace especially had it rough, the poor thing. You remember, honey?”

“Yeah, I remember it clear as day." He nodded solemnly. "He’d stay holed up in his room all the time, and trying to get him to talk to us was harder than pulling a tooth. It’s like he thought we were the most embarrassing people in the world.”

“Oh, but he still thinks that way about you, dear.”

“Tally!”

Laughing, Ma Zigvolt reached over and patted his knee soothingly.

Lilia considered their words. “If that’s the case, then I suppose I just don’t understand why he’s trying to grow up so quickly. For most of his life, I pushed him much too hard, had him undergo training better suited for soldiers thrice his age. The day I finally realized what an awful mistake I’d been making, I don’t think I’d ever felt so ashamed of myself in my life.”

“From that moment on, I swore to ease up on him and just let him be a kid, and to make sure he could enjoy his childhood as much as possible. Especially since I… Ahh…”

Lilia thought of the castle barracks. There had only been one window in his room, a pitiful little square cut high into the stone wall adjacent to his cot. It faced East, and for a few, meager hours in the afternoon, when the sun was positioned directly before the castle, a singular column of light would enter the window and illuminate that small, dark space. He thought of how he would lay transfixed in bed, watching the light glide across his body like a golden serpent, how he would thrust out his hands, trying to capture it, trying desperately to stop this one thing from exiting his life as everything else had, and how each time it would slip through his groping fingers like water and evaporate into nothing. He thought of marching for days, of the sharp iron stench of the battlefield, of the bone-deep ache that would weigh heavy like a stone over every fiber of his being. He thought of all the things he experienced growing up that he never wished for his son or any other child to go through.

Lilia swallowed the lump forming in his throat. Looking past Ma Zigvolt, focusing on the wall clock behind her, he finally continued, “When I was a child, I didn’t have the… the kinds of opportunities that he has, so I just want to make sure he makes the most of them while he can.”

"I see..." Ma Zigvolt sighed, folding her hands in her lap. She had grown up knowing Lilia to be an evasive - if not frustrating - man, and her father had warned her repeatedly over the years to be cautious in her prodding. He was like an uncle to her, and she dutifully acknowledged his seniority, if only in regards to his age, but he was also a fellow parent, and her neighbor, and where the wellbeing of children was concerned, she was known to reveal the full extent of her caustic rhetoric, so that more than once she'd had to quit all civility and rebuke Lilia for his parental failures. Still, she considered each of her questions carefully, as though treading across a sheet of ice, knowing full well that if she chose her next step incorrectly, it would shatter the man's trust and terminate the conversation.

After a moment, she asked, “And you two haven't had any fights recently? You don't think you've said anything that might've upset him?"

Lilia paused for a moment, and then shook his head again. “No, not at all.”

Ma Zigvolt pressed further, sensing his hesitation. “Well, regardless, you don’t think there’s anything you’re doing that might be making him act this way?”

She'd stepped too far. Lilia frowned. “I think I know my own child, Thalia. If he had a problem with me, he’d say so.”

"I wasn't trying to insinuate anything, Lilia."

“Alright.”

Pa Zigvolt glanced rapidly between his wife and Lilia. Confrontation historically made him nervous, and it was clear from their stony faces they'd reached an impasse. He rubbed his clammy palms against his pant leg and rose from his seat, asked politely if anyone would like another round of refreshments, and fled to the kitchen before receiving a response. Lilia's gaze followed him as he walked off, his thoughts drifting away together with the man's receding figure.

He could hear the children's laughter floating in through the open windows, Sebek's loud and exuberant, Silver's quiet and breathless. Other sounds poured in, blending together like a symphony. There was the harsh percussion of their wooden swords clashing together, ringing out at times as viciously as gunfire; there was Baul's voice, low and clear, gruffly barking out his commands in tune with each thunderous strike; and there was the shining thread of Iris's singsong voice, interweaving amongst the clamor as she called out her gentle encouragement.

But still through it all his son's voice came to him, as direct as a beam of light, sounding sweeter and brighter than the goldfinches chittering away in the cottonwood trees.

It'd been so long since he last heard his son's laugh he'd almost forgotten what it sounded like. For over a month, he'd failed to elicit from the boy anything beyond the faintest imitation of a grin, yet here he was, just out of arm's reach, laughing and smiling so freely it was like his body demanded it more than breathing. He looked away from the window and glanced at Ma Zigvolt. She sat with her back erect, her hands folded primly in her lap, her eyes closed, awash in her children's joy, her round face as radiant and golden as the sun. Lilia fought back the urge to call out to Silver, knowing he would only destroy this moment.

He thought again of the past few weeks, scrutinizing everything he'd said and done to his child. He sifted through his memories, upturning each one and twisting it around and inspecting it from every angle, but still he could not find any evidence of his error. And he couldn't make comprehensible, either, the notion that his son was "growing up", as the Zigvolts had claimed. How could he, when Silver only had taken his first, wobbling steps just the other day, when it was only just yesterday that he'd learned to string his words together and share his quaint little thoughts, when he was still so small - his body, his voice, his hands, all no greater now than they had ever been before in his entire life? Lilia bit back an incredulous scoff, humored greatly by the absolute absurdity of the notion. And yet - his son's laughter drifted into his consciousness like a spring breeze. Why this drastic change in his demeanor, then?

Maybe there is something I'm doing wrong. But I just...

Lilia cleared his throat. "I'll certainly need to mull this over some more, but if you have any advice, I'm all ears."

“Well…” Ma Zigvolt smiled, smoothing out her apron before folding her hands in her lap again. “I know I’m no expert, but I’ve found that sometimes, being a good parent means you gather your babies in your arms and you hold onto them as tight as you can. And other times, it means you let them go. And he's at a point in his life where you might just have to start letting him go.”

"Hm."

The Vanrouges departed for home that afternoon. Before they left, Pa Zigvolt pulled Lilia aside, and let him know he was more than welcome to come speak with them again about Silver's behavior at any time. Lilia thanked him, reassuring him that his wife had already given him more than enough to think about for a while yet, and politely declined the couple's offer to meet for dinner later that week. As he stepped through the door, he winked at Ma Zigvolt, and she grinned at him audaciously.

Silver retreated into his shell as soon as they stepped off their neighbor's property, but Lilia was for once too occupied to take offense, busy ruminating on his conversation with the Zigvolts. Their dinner that evening was silent, and he later fell asleep dreaming of the boy's twinkling laughter.

Lilia would come to regret rejecting the Zigvolts' offer. Over the next several weeks, Silver seemed to burrow deeper and deeper into himself with each passing day. The boy's emotional carapace was thicker than any suit of armor or garrison Lilia had encountered during his time in the service, and some days he receded so deeply Lilia would have to call his name multiple times and rap his hand against the table just to wrest the child's attention away from himself. It was all Lilia could do to maintain the fraying strand of his composure from completely snapping. He'd been hotheaded as a youth, and positively vicious to his troops as a general, but had sworn off his every inclination towards corporal punishment once Malleus was born. During this period he often found himself questioning the rationality of his vow, and would sometimes envision giving the boy a lashing, only to immediately chide himself for his own weakness.

Something sinister seemed to be building up inside their little home. It was as though there was a great coil lurking underneath the floorboards, one that wound itself tighter and tighter with each of their disastrous interactions. The palpable tension only further stymied Lilia's every attempt at repairing their relationship, and the blowout he'd been fearing finally materialized one afternoon in early July.

Silver had spent the better part of that day in a state of quiet agitation. He would approach Lilia, open his mouth, close it, open it again, and then spin around and march off to his room, proclaiming hastily he needed to close his window, or make his bed, or any other excuse he could find to justify his escape. Lilia would only laugh in response. The previous day, while cleaning the kitchen, he'd glanced out the window and noticed the boy speaking animatedly with the chickens. He watched for hours as Silver paced back and forth before them, waving his arms and moving his mouth rapidly as the birds pecked indifferently at the ground.

Since then, Lilia had been eager to learn the truth of Silver's recital, but he did not press the boy, choosing instead to bide his time sprawled out on the couch, flipping through a stack of traveling magazines he'd been meaning to read.

After an hour of consternation, Silver planted himself before Lilia, his spine erect, his shoulders drawn back, and stated with perfect confidence, "Father, there's something I'd like to ask you!"

"Hm?" Lilia lowered his magazine, his eyes peeking over an editorial on deep-sea diving in the Coral Sea. "What is it?"

Silver's shoulders slumped. He'd not gotten this far in his rehearsals.

"Erm." He nibbled on his lower lip. "Is it okay if I go to the Zigvolt's by myself today?"

Lilia blinked. He'd been hoping - expecting, even - to hear from the boy a teary-eyed apology for how poorly he'd been acting recently, or perhaps a plea for his forgiveness, but not this. After a moment, he muttered, "What?"

"Is it okay if-"

"Sorry, I heard you." Lilia sat up and placed the magazine on the coffee table. "Why are you asking that?"

"I dunno. I just thought I-" Silver licked his lips. "I guess I just thought I could go by myself now. And I know it hurts your back to walk all that way, so."

"Oh, you don't need to worry about me, darling." Lilia said, inwardly cursing at himself for allowing the boy to notice his infirmity. He made a note to check the bathroom after they were finished talking, wondering if he'd neglected to put away his pain relief balm and bottles of medication where he typically hid them, at the back of the medicine cabinet.

Sitting up as straight as his bruised back allowed, he offered Silver a smile so brilliant it was as though he wished to expunge the shadow of the boy's doubt with its radiance. "I'm fit as a fiddle!" he proclaimed through gritted teeth.

Silver returned the smile, unaffected. "I'm glad. But I still wanna start going by myself."

Lilia's lips dropped into a frown. He shook his head and sighed. "I'm sorry, Silver. But the answer is 'no'."

Had Silver heard those words at any other point in his life prior to that moment, he would have conceded, and bowed out of the conversation in recognition of his father's perfect judgment. But this time, rather than his usual disappointment, he felt a strange anger welling up inside of him, instead. He clenched his fists and set his jaw, ignoring the hiss of his instincts warning him that he was about to step into a fight.

"No? Why not?" he asked, interrupting Lilia as he reached for his magazine.

Lilia leaned back into the couch and bit back another sigh. "Simple, because it's not safe for you to go all that way by yourself." He spoke slowly and carefully, hoping an air of manufactured calmness would mask his irritation.

Silver's voice, in contrast, blatantly swelled with indignation. "But I stay home by myself when you're gone."

"Staying home by yourself is different. My magic is all over this land. Magical beasts and fae know not to come here, and you know that, too."

Here, Silver paused again. The hiss of his instincts had at that point deformed into a mangled screech, which he knew would soon summon the animal panic that had struck him before a handful of times in his young life - once when he'd gotten lost in the woods as a small child, and another when his father had fallen gravely ill after returning from one of his trips, and Silver had been powerless to help him. There was one, final question that he now wished to ask the man, though he knew the answer to it might hurt him. As his mind frantically tried to draw back the words already forming on his tongue, he hastily wrenched them out and spat:

"Well, what about when you drop me and Sebek out in the middle of nowhere for our training? We always get along just fine without you."

Lilia crossed his arms and looked away. "That's... different, too."

Silver's heart skipped a beat. "...How?"

"It just is-"

"How!" the boy cried, his voice bursting into a screech.

"Because I watch you guys the whole time! I've always been watching you when you train. I would never leave you alone like that, you're just a child."

Lilia realized too late the poison of his words. It spread immediately into Silver's heart. His eyes were two perfect shining wet opals; his tears fell silently - gliding, almost, lifting off as they fell from his face, as though afraid to mar his skin. He turned and ran to his room, hesitating as he took the door into his hand before, for perhaps the first time in his life, he slammed it shut. Lilia leapt from the couch and raced after him, hissing out a choked "Damnit!" under his breath as he tried the knob and found it locked. He pressed his ear against the door and called out Silver's name. At first, he heard nothing, and feared for a moment the boy had slipped out his window and fled into the forest, in repeat of that awful, wretched night from so long ago, but then he heard it - it was like a whisper at first, nearly as imperceptible as the clap of a butterfly's wings, but still he heard it, heard the stifled, quiet sobs drifting through the heavy panel of hardwood separating him from his son. Lilia stood there, petrified, listening, feeling as each of the boy's sobs pierced his flesh and bore down into the deepest folds of his heart, as if seeking him; as if they were his own.

V.

Once a month, when the moon casts aside her shadowy veil to grace the valley with all her beauty, the Zigvolts and the Vanrouges and their neighbors gather together in a log cabin at the edge of the forest, and they dance.

Regular merriment was a necessity for the fae - mirth coursed through their bodies like the blood in their veins, and any opportunity for celebration, any chance they had to raise their voices together and join hands under the soft light of the stars, they would take it. Baul would scoff and say they were all plagued by a sickness, Ma Zigvolt would click her tongue at him and say it was rather an inclination.

The monthly dance was a rare opportunity for Silver to socialize freely with the townspeople. His father had always been honest with him about his species' general attitude towards humans, and the boy understood very well that the glint in their gemstone eyes - some of them deep ruby red like his father’s, others mesmerizingly green like polished emeralds, or as molten as bright blue sapphires - was not always a kind one. Only on those full moon nights, when the whine of the band’s violins accompanies the forest symphony of nightingales and tree frogs calling out their lonely verses, when the humans and the fae breathe each other in and twist and turn and dip and whirl and spin each other out, only then was it safe for Silver to take their clawed hands into his own and look unabashed into the fire of their eyes. They could and they would return to their quiet judgment and whispered denouncements later, but not on those nights, not when their bodies burned hot with jubilation and the music bewitched them so.

It was for this reason, and for his love of the communal mirth he habitually longed for, as isolated as he was at home, that Silver looked forward to the dance each month with great excitement. The night before the July dance, however, a war had raged inside the Vanrouge household.

Partway through their silent dinner, just as Lilia had gotten up to refill his glass of water at the sink, Silver had announced, plainly, and without a moment's hesitation, that he would not be participating in tomorrow's festivities, and offered neither an explanation nor any willingness to compromise when prompted. But Lilia was equally insurmountable in his parental concerns, and he questioned the boy until his blood boiled. The conversation rapidly crumbled into an argument, before further disintegrating into an all-out screaming match.

They volleyed their rebukes at each other from across the dining table, both unbending in their determination, Silver deflecting each of Lilia's pleas and demands with an iron-clad defense that bordered on hostility.

"You're going to that dance whether you want to or not!" Lilia had nigh snarled at one point as he launched his next attack.

But his words had ricocheted off Silver as harmlessly as though they were filled with air, and he ultimately fired back a retort so scathing it made even Lilia's marble white skin flush in mortification.

Their clamor poured out the open windows and flooded the clearing, where the sows and the heifer in the pasture looked at each other in concern. A songbird that had perched on the windowsill for a moment’s respite burst into the sky a second later, alarmed by the ruckus within. After an hour of tense contestation, they finally reached an agreement: they would go to the dance, but would not stay the entire time. But the foul atmosphere from the great storm of their quarrel lingered in the small cottage, and the pair kept to themselves the next day, Silver sulking in his bedroom, and Lilia fussing in the kitchen, busy preparing a dish for the dance's customary potluck.

They convened in the evening. The partygoers traditionally wore their Sunday best, and Silver and Lilia both donned their black slacks, white button up shirts, and leather-soled shoes. Their jackets and vests they left hanging in their closets, the threat of the summer heat overpowering any inclination for gaiety. When Silver emerged into the living room, he was finishing buttoning up his shirt, and did not look up as he called out a quiet greeting to his father. It was the first time Lilia had seen him all day, and once the boy had completed his toilette and finally met his gaze, Lilia offered him a reconciliatory smile, which Silver at first returned, reflexively, then retracted a moment later, substituting it with a scowl in its place.

Shortly before dusk, underneath a blue-gray sky streaked with clouds of pure amber, they departed for the cabin, joining up with the Zigvolts as they neared the edge of the forest. Baul was not with his family, having excused himself to instead partake in an evening nap, and the small troupe reached its destination just as the last golden wisps of the sun had withdrawn into their equatorial den.

While Ma and Pa Zigvolt and Iris set off for the dancefloor, Lilia headed towards the tables at the back of the one-room cabin, Silver and Sebek in tow. He gingerly set down his tray of charred cookies amongst the other desserts while the boys took a seat. As Sebek gazed at the rows of meat pies and pound cakes spread out before them, Silver fidgeted in his chair.

The last of the partygoers having finally assembled, the band picked up their instruments and began to play. There was no electricity in the valley, and aside from the small handful of families that could afford imported record players, music was traditionally played live, both for private enjoyment, and for public celebrations. Most fae children, as a result, learned to master at least one instrument as part of their general education, and while Lilia and Malleus both were highly skilled in a wide variety of stringed instruments, Silver could play only a few, clumsy chords on the guitar - and nothing else - having suffered greatly under his father's abstract instruction.

The theme that night was "Rhythm and Blues", and the band played a selection of human songs that had lately entered the valley's cultural zeitgeist, a record-short 50 years after first debuting overseas. The partygoers danced uproariously, all of them eager to show off the new steps they'd been practicing the past month - twisting and turning and stomping their feet so thunderously the entire cabin shook from their gesticulations.

After the first song ended and a transitory lull settled over the party, Silver took the opportunity to finally voice his discomfort. Sitting up straight in his seat, he said, “I’m gonna go sit outside, it’s hot in here. You wanna come, Sebek?”

Sebek tugged absentmindedly at his suspenders while he thought. “I should like to partake in some of the fare, so I shall remain here with Sir Lilia for now.”

“Okay,” Silver replied with a shrug. He walked into the swarm of dancers just as the next song began, vanishing amongst the undulating crowd a moment later.

Lilia wished desperately to follow after him. He'd apologized repeatedly for snapping at Silver the other day, and for their fight the evening prior, both times attempting reparation through the offer of a new sword or other training implement, or ordering dinner from Silver's favorite restaurant in town - methods that had always proven successful in the past - but the boy had shot down any notion of making peace. Deciding to allow Silver his space, Lilia rose from his seat and cut a large piece of cake for Sebek, grabbing for himself a glass of berry juice before sitting back down again. He drank deeply; a familiar warmth began to pool in his stomach and radiated pleasantly into his skin, gathering up and pushing out the restlessness that had been plaguing him since the night prior, so that it lifted away from his body like the mist after a rainstorm. He downed the rest of his glass lethargically, only getting up to move whenever Sebek politely asked for another slice of cake.

The pair observed the dancers in silence together, Lilia apathetically, Sebek with great interest, his bright eyes jumping excitedly between his parents and his sister, narrowing in contempt each time the latter's current dance partner whispered something in her ear that made her smile. He resolved not to dance with the perpetrator, a young woman he recognized as one of his sister's classmates, if offered, and the prospect of this future rejection delighted him even more than his final bite of cake.

Half an hour later, Pa Zigvolt came staggering over to their table, his pinched face dripping with sweat. He stood before them for a moment, swaying slightly, trying to catch his breath, then cleared his throat and announced, meekly, “Seb, your ma said she wants to dance with you next.”

Sebek's heart plunged into his stomach. He nodded and slowly stood up, wobbling a little as he marched stiffly towards the dance floor.

After watching his son leave, Pa Zigvolt sank down into one of the empty seats with a groan. He took out his handkerchief, and as he began dabbing at his wet face, a pained smile formed on his lips. “What a woman!” he panted, amazed. “I’m telling you, she’d go all night if you let her.”

Lilia smirked. “Sounds like she’s just like her father.”

“Yeah,” Pa Zigvolt sighed. And then he frowned. “Wait, what…? What do you mean by that?”

“What did you mean by that?” Lilia countered with a gentle smile.

The color drained from Pa Zigvolt’s face. The layer of sweat he’d only just managed to wipe off suddenly rematerialized across his skin, and he nervously balled his soaked handkerchief in his hands. “I- I was just talking about dancing!!” he stammered in defense.

Lilia laughed. “Then we’ll say that I was, too.”

Exasperated, Pa Zigvolt clicked his tongue. He timidly glanced around the room, and, upon confirming none of the other partygoers appeared to have heard them, deflated in his seat once again, kicking out his still quivering legs in front of him to let them rest. He set his used handkerchief on the table and extracted a fresh one from his crumpled breast pocket while scanning the dance floor, and quickly spotted the shock of his son's bright green hair weaving through the crowd, heading towards Ma Zigvolt at the front of the cabin, where she stood towering above the other partygoers. Smiling, he resumed mopping his face, and quietly breathed a prayer of good luck for the boy.

“There you are, honey! I was waiting for you.” Ma Zigvolt smiled brightly as her son approached, and Sebek nodded in greeting. In stark contrast to his father, whose haggard breathing still rang out far behind them, his mother was the very definition of radiant; the cabin walls were lined with rows of glass lamps, each one burning a magic flame of an amber hue, and where their dim incandescence reached out and cupped her rosy face, her skin seemed to effuse its own milk white glow in return. She grabbed his arm and drew him flush against her, causing him to yelp in surprise, but he quickly regained his composure, and placed his trembling hands on her broad waist as she instructed.

They stood directly before the band, so close that Sebek could see his warped reflection in the gleaming brass of the saxophones; next to his doppelganger, within the piano's raised lid, was an umber copy of his mother, smiling gently at him. Turning his gaze, he watched as the singer stepped forth and clapped his hands, casting a simple spell to amplify his voice. The band members, thus signaled, each became animated in turn; one after another the horns swung in golden arcs up to their players' lips; the drummer and the pianist sat rigid in their seats; the guitarist and the bassist hovered their fingers over strings that seemed to vibrate in anticipation; finally, the singer, glancing around him, issued with a nod of his head a silent affirmation of their readiness, took a deep breath, and began to sing.

“Here they have a lot of fun

Puttin' trouble on the run

Man, you find the old and young

Twistin' the night away”

The dancers convened before the band immediately, some forming pairs, others choosing to shuffle on their own. The song called for a basic step, if danced solo: one need only to dig one's foot into the floor and twist it, as though "squashin' a damn bug", as Baul had once commented - with the elbows and hips swung in a similar, rhythmic fashion. Those who'd coupled up alternated this movement with a variety of turns, spins, and other footwork predominant in the swing style of dance. As they moved, the sound of their shoes scuffing and squeaking against the hardwood floor became a backing beat to the music.

The cabin was formed from stacked logs of hewn pine, affixed together with a mixture of mud and clay; the night's heat slipped through any miniscule gaps it could find in this rudimentary sealant - through the walls, the flooring, the roof - combining with the warmth that radiated from the mass of bodies packed together in that small space, so that the air within the building was as heavy and hot as the air without. Sebek's face quickly bloomed bright pink from the heat, and then dark red and splotchy; the impudent strands of hair he’d spent over half an hour in the bathroom slicking down fell limp over his eyes, heavy with perspiration. He understood at once his father's fatigued condition, and discarded the disgust he'd felt when he saw the man staggering to their table earlier, a newfound compassion taking its place.

“They're twistin', twistin'

Everybody's feelin' great

They're twistin', twistin'

They're twistin' the night away”

It was all Sebek could do to brace himself against his mother's thunderous exuberance. She swept him across the dancefloor as though he were a leaf caught up in a storm. His gaze shifted rapidly between her smiling face and his own shuffling feet, worried he might stumble and fall. Noticing this, Ma Zigvolt’s heavy body shook with laughter, her voice deep and rich like a dove’s call, and Sebek decided that he would never hear a more wonderful sound in his life. He soon forgot all his apprehensions; his shining white smile accompanied his reddened cheeks, and he nuzzled his face below the swell of his mother’s breast, as content as a nursing kitten.

A moment later, several of the dancers detached themselves from their partners and floated away. One of the Zigvolts' neighbors caught Sebek's mother, and his sister drifted over to take her place. He steadied himself against the thick trunk of her arm. She was wearing a pleated, pearl white dress, with a floral pattern sewn in golden thread along the neckline, the bottom falling down to just below her knees. The dress billowed out as she twirled, so that the hem unfurled around her like the petals of her namesake. Her pretty face was just as flushed as his, and her bright green eyes shone like pure jade; it was as though she had grown several years younger that night, no longer appearing to him as the young woman who had departed for college a year ago, but like the little girl of his infantile memories. They whirled and whirled, giggling until their stomachs hurt, as if sharing together in some great secret.

The floor groaned under a storm of stomping feet, the windows shook precipitously in their crudely cut frames. The crowd roared, voices low and high emerged from the swaying mass to accompany the singer at the end of each verse. Though there was not a drop of alcohol to be found in that cabin, many of them moved belligerently. They were intoxicated purely by the clang of the drums, the blare of the trumpets, the rumble of the singer's low voice - each of these more potent a drug to the fae than any other known substance on the planet.

At the back of the cabin, Lilia and Pa Zigvolt laughed and clapped along from their seats. Lilia's eyes darted around the room as he clapped, trying to locate his son, but the wall of dancers surging back and forth blocked his view.

“Lean up, lean back

Lean up, lean back

Watusi, now fly, now twist

They're twistin' the night away”

Outside, Silver sat alone on the doorstep. The sounds pouring out of the cabin washed over him in tumultuous waves. He'd heard many of the songs before, at prior dances, or on Pa Zigvolt's record player, and the familiarity of the music felt like a reassuring hand on his thin shoulders that night. He swayed gently to the beat, noticing at times how the slurred voices of the partygoers would rise above the band’s thunderous performance, and at one point he looked up and wondered if they had all grown drunk on the wine-dark sky.

He yawned loudly. The hot anger from his father’s recent injury still burned dimly in his stomach, and he wavered between his desire to snuff out the last few dying embers, or to let them fester still. He wasn’t used to this feeling, this irritation that clung to his tired flesh like a tick. His father had upset him before, over trivial matters that had seemed substantial to his child’s heart at the time – and once over something he understood was sincerely very grave – but he could not recall ever feeling truly angry towards the man.

All his life he'd thought himself plain and unmemorable, a pale, living blemish upon the fair folk and their preternatural beauty. But that day, when his father had revealed the truth to him, that was the first time in his life he'd ever felt ugly. The lone attestation to his maturation - all those miserable nights he'd spent in the wilderness as part of his training, often alone, other times accompanied by Sebek, cast hundreds of miles away from the clearing and all its conveniences, relying solely on his magical prowess, his wit, and a small set of tools to make it through the night - had all this time been a lie. Had any of his accomplishments been real? Had a single jot of his father's pride for him ever been genuine? What good was the torture of his training! What good was the endless exhaustion, the cold fear wrought by those awful, lonely nights, all the callouses and scars he'd been led to attain as a child and would now forever mar the alabaster of his flesh! To have ascended the black crags of the Forbidden Mountain, to have crossed endless deserts and forded raging rivers with trembling arms and legs, and yet to have failed to notice his father had been there with him the entire time! Or, perhaps he had noticed, perhaps he had noticed and merely pretended not to, to assuage the frightened little boy he now realized he truly was. Or, perhaps the man had secluded himself somewhere far beyond Silver's reach, perhaps he'd been observing him from behind the stars or the moon. But this last thought only wounded him further, as though even the heavenly bodies had betrayed him, too. He turned away from them now, not wishing for them to see him cry.

Humiliation is one of life's cruelest teachers, and that day it had taught Silver that nowhere in his house, nowhere in that land was he safe. Nowhere could he escape from the prison that was his father's gaze.

The dance proceeded languidly, drawing on as the stars drifted quietly through the night sky. Pa Zigvolt, having at last recovered from his wife's fervor, had left Lilia to go dance with his daughter. Alone, Lilia remained in his seat at the back of the cabin, tapping his feet on occasion, or humming along to the songs he recognized, but did not otherwise participate any further in the festivities. He tiredly declined each of his neighbors' offers to try their cakes and their pies, raising an eyebrow when he noticed, an hour into the party, that his own plate of cookies was still untouched. He angrily crunched one of the charcoal black disks - frowning not at its flavor, which he found as decadent as anything else his impotent taste buds could detect, but at his neighbors' general ignorance towards good food.

Upon exhausting their repertoire of fast-paced numbers, the band called for a short interlude, at which conclusion the singer cleared his throat and announced, “Alright, ladies and gents. We’ll be slowing things down a bit for these last few songs.” The band behind him reassembled itself; the guitarist and the bassist returned their instruments to their cases, trading them for a pair of violins, and a portion of the brass section retired entirely. The violins, perched proudly on their players shoulders, let out a long, plaintive note, and then the singer parted his lips once more.

His voice hitherto had been brash and booming, a perfect accompaniment to the vibrant music, but now it melted into something as smooth as velvet, flowing like a summer breeze over and around the audience, dripping into their hearts with the sweetness of honey. The thunder of shuffling feet was no more. There was only the slow swaying of couples - lovers with their partners, mothers and fathers with their children, and neighbors with their friends.

“I wish you bluebirds in the spring

To give your heart a song to sing

And then a kiss

But more than this

I wish you love”

Lilia perked up as the first verse concluded, his gaze darting immediately to the front of the cabin. He recognized the song; he'd first heard it decades ago, while on a weekend trip he'd taken to the Queendom of Roses. It was during a period of his life where he'd been "going through the motions", as he'd regularly complain to Baul, plagued incessantly by an ennui that so often strikes those transitioning into their twilight years. In desperate need of a distraction, he spontaneously booked a flight to the nearest country - he didn't care which one, only that the ticket was cheap enough to justify paying for a farmhand during his absence. On the evening of the first day of his trip, while having dinner in his hotel, he learned from the waiter that there was to be a jazz orchestra - or "big band", as the humans called it - hosted in the ballroom located on the establishment's ground floor, and that patrons could attend the performance for free. His interest piqued, he rented a suit from a local tailor, freshly pressed, and perfumed with a crisp eau de toilette he'd brought along with him, and ordered a bouquet of fresh roses sent to his room, the brightest of which he trimmed and placed in his lapel.

Fae and human relations had long cooled down to a congenial level by then, and he danced comfortably with a number of human partners that night, free from the vicious admonishments that had disturbed him on his prior travels. They danced the same dances the fae before him had been dancing all night, and the performance concluded with the same song the band at the front of the cabin was playing now. It was the only number he'd sat out for, not wishing to engage in the cumbersome intimacy that slow dances demanded, and he'd observed the other couples with great interest; they all swayed in a gentle unison, moving like the fields of tall grass that grew near the meadow before his home, so that he felt like he'd been cast under a trance while watching them. When he returned to Briar Valley later that week, he promptly disremembered everything about the song - its lyrics, its rhythm, its melody - his attention wrested first by his responsibilities on the homestead, and then by his young son.

It was a few months after his acquisition of Silver, when he and the child both were still suffering from the boy's interminable fits, for which Lilia had long exhausted all his patience and energy into locating a cure, that he finally recalled the song he'd once heard all those years ago. One morning, with the wailing infant in his arms, its little face bright red and puckered, he was despaired to find his usual consolation tactics - rocking the baby, swaddling it, offering it a moistened rag to suckle on - had all lost their effects, and he paced back and forth across the living room, debating if he should call on the Zigvolts again, or attempt to find an alternative solution on his own.

He was tired, both mentally and physically; the weeks lately had been passing him by in an endless, uniform blur, each day demarcated by whatever twilight hour the baby would surrender to its circadian needs and drift off to sleep. In the midst of his fatigued panic, something that had for decades been slumbering in the recesses of his mind finally awoke then; the lyrics and melody he'd long forgotten burst forth from the cerebral pit they’d been cast into, reassembling themselves as brilliantly as the molten birth of a newborn star. Parting his lips, his voice nigh higher than a shaky whisper, he began to sing, “I wish you bluebirds in the spring…”; by the end of the first verse, the child's loud cries had hushed into a quiet whimper; before the conclusion of the song, it had fallen fast asleep. It was like he'd discovered a panacea; from then on, any time Silver was upset or fearful, or on stormy nights when the thunder was too loud and the lightning too bright for him to be able to fall asleep, Lilia would gather the boy into his arms and sing to him, dispelling the child's every perturbation with the low hum of his voice.

Lilia's heart sank, realizing in that moment just how long it'd been since he'd last sung it for Silver, likely not for months, or for a year, even, and yet - he smiled; this was their song, and now here was the perfect chance to finally reconnect with his withdrawn and sullen child once more!

Trembling with excitement, he shot up from his seat. He fought his way through the throng of dancers until he found Silver, still sitting alone on the stoop outside. He grabbed the boy’s hand and pulled him back into the cabin, but Silver dug his heels into the ground as they reentered the crowd.

“Stop it, I don’t want to dance,” Silver said with a glower.

Lilia sighed. “Oh, come now. Can’t you entertain your old man just for one song?”

“I don’t want to dance!” Silver repeated louder, putting as much stress on each word as he could muster. Some of the partygoers turned to look at them, and their curious stares made him flush.

Lilia tugged on the boy’s arm and offered him a reassuring smile. “Just this one song, and then we'll go home and you can sulk all you want.”

Silver ripped Lilia’s hand away, his face contorting into an angry grimace. “I said stop it! You’re embarrassing me!”

“But Silver! This is-!”

He pushed past Lilia and stormed out the door. Outside, the sky and the ground below it had merged into a single, black swath, so that his white head contrasted like a point of light against it, appearing like a star floating through the darkness. Lilia watched him walk away from where he stood frozen in shock, his rejected hand still hanging in the air. He did not move as the dancers silently drifted all around him; most of them did not turn to look at him, as though he were nothing more than a small obstruction in a stream.

“I wish you shelter from the storm

A cozy fire to, to keep you warm

But most of all when snowflakes fall

I wish you love”

Later, long after the last notes of the music had faded away, Lilia whispered, “But this is our song.”

VI.

Silver awoke the next morning long after the songbirds had concluded their matinal performance. The world outside was grey and silent, and he stepped through it as quietly as the pine boughs brushing together in the wind. He moved with confidence, his eyes habitually adjusted to low light, and followed a patch of wild coreopsis and daylilies that spread lace-like on the ground before him. They appeared to have claimed for themselves all the meager drops of sunlight that percolated through the clouds, shining like gemstones in the dim darkness.

He'd slept poorly last night, plagued by dreams of the dance, and his thoughts once more drifted away from him while he plodded through his chores, traveling far beyond the clearing, down to the cabin just past the forest's edge, where they pooled within it alongside the stagnant summer heat. Last night at the dance, a warmth had flowed from his father and into him where his fingers had touched his arm, and again and again, as he lay in bed upon returning home, he'd felt it anew, felt it erupt into the hot rage that had coursed through his veins when he'd stormed out the door. A part of him was sorry to have upset the man, having now belatedly realized his harmless intentions, but a greater part of him was struck by a deep frustration - his body ached with it; it prickled at his skin as though he'd bathed in poison oak, so that more than once he felt his face twist into a scowl while he worked.

The animals, too, noticed his contortions. The chickens coalesced at his feet as he gathered their eggs; the pigs butted him gently as he refilled their trough; and the young calf, renown for its stubborn shyness, detached itself from its mother for once and loitered by his side, unsure of what to say. Silver sighed at all of this. His whole life he'd had a peculiar connection with animals. They would sense his vexations and his fears, and would come to him, unbidden, offering him their crude affections in a variety of forms - sometimes pinecones or hickory nuts covered with specks of leaflitter, other times poorly picked wildflowers still dangling with heavy roots, each of these gifts held with utmost tender in their mouths or little hands. But he had not the patience for their ministrations that day, and he dismissed the chickens and the pigs and the calf each with a scoff and a wave of his hand. The heifer, however, he failed to evade.

She was the eldest of the Vanrouge's livestock - a wise, if not shrewd, creature; only a year younger than Silver, they had tumbled across the clearing together in their infancy, and most of what he knew of animal husbandry he'd learned from her. That morning, she had refused to vacate the lean-to in protest of the dismal weather, and she was waiting for him there when he approached her with his milking pail and wooden stool in hand. Once seated, his hands and his attention preoccupied with stripping the foremilk from her teats, her broad body blocking the exit, she turned her heavy head towards him, and issued from her liquid eyes the same question that had been tormenting him all that morning: Are you alright? Her plaintive gaze struck him like an ambush. Ensnared, he fumblingly released her udder and stroked her sides, ensuring her through gritted teeth that he was perfectly fine. Satisfied by his response, she turned away, and leisurely resumed her meditations.

After finishing his chores, he returned to the cottage and forced down a tasteless bowl of oatmeal and some scraps of white bacon. His thoughts raced while he ate. Within his mind flew bits and pieces of anger, trepidation, worry, and sorrow, and these he took into his calloused hands and pressed together, trying to mold them into something he could understand, but they ultimately formed into an idea, instead. This discovery satiated him where his meager meal had not, and he smiled as he brought his dishes to the sink.

When Lilia stumbled out of his bedroom an hour later, half-asleep, and still clad in his dress shirt and pants from the night prior, he found Silver waiting for him by the front door, his canvas knapsack slung across his shoulders. As he began to yawn a greeting, Silver stiffened and cut him off, rapidly spitting out a gruff request to go to the Zigvolt's before turning to face him. His tone was so severe that his words struck Lilia's skin like a splash of ice water, causing him to sober immediately, and he numbly gave his permission with a slow nod of his head. They left together after Lilia got changed, Silver leading the way, Lilia trailing far behind him.

The grey curtain of the sky had pulled back to reveal an angry red sun behind it. Summer had reached its height then, and the entire valley was plainly sullen. The trees, seeming to sag in the heat, stood with their great branches drooping weakly; the songbirds concealed amongst them cycled between a restless dozing and a fitful agitation, too uncomfortable to sing. Silver, however, cut unphased through the stifling air. His hair blazed like white fire, and the shimmering light around him made him appear at times like a mirage to his lagging father. Upon reaching their destination, and after an exchange of curt farewells, Silver glanced behind him as he opened the front door, but all he saw was the thin line of the man's back receding into the haze of the forest.

Silver found Sebek upstairs in his bedroom, pouring over sheets of magical formulae spread out across the floor. He stepped gingerly into the room, being careful not to disturb any of Sebek's materials, announced himself with a throaty, "Hey", and then promptly launched into a recount of last night. He spoke so rapidly it felt like his words were slipping blindly off his tongue. He blinked away hot tears as he talked, his anger and his hurt boiling up each time he mentioned his father. When he finished, he sighed, and then began nibbling on his lips, unsure of what he next wished to say. Sebek waited patiently for him to continue.

Finally, after a tense pause, Silver grumbled, “He keeps treating me like I’m a dumb kid and It’s driving me nuts. I just dunno know what to do anymore.”

Sebek frowned. “And you’re certain you’ve cast aside all your childish whims?”

“Yeah,” Silver nodded solemnly.

“Hmm…” Sebek thought for a moment, and then his lips pulled up into a smirk. “Then I should think the solution is obvious, you twit!”

“And what’s that?”

Sebek crossed his arms. “Recall Sir Lilia’s and my grandfather’s old war stories. Whenever they carried out some grand feat or other, they’d be lavished with adoration upon their return home. Clearly, you simply need to accomplish some sort of heroic act, and then your father shall finally recognize the man that you’ve become.”

“Yeah…” Silver murmured, nodding his head again. “Yeah, I think you’re right, Sebek. That’s a great idea, thank you.”

The praise made Sebek swell like an adder. He puffed out his chest and jutted his chin. “Truly, you are fortuitous, Silver! To have a friend as clever as I!”

Silver smiled. “I sure am.”

Sebek was taller than Silver by a single, coveted inch. And he was stronger, too, heavy and thick everywhere his companion was gangly and thin. But still Silver was more skilled at magic and combat than him, and he could count on one hand the number of times he’d bested his fellow apprentice in battle. Silver held over Sebek's head something he would never be able to reach no matter how much taller he grew: namely, the fact that Silver was older.

Sebek was only twelve, still just a child. Adolescence fascinated him severely, having watched it radically transform his older brother and sister before his eyes, and he was jealous that Silver got to enjoy all its mysteries before he could. Every morning, gripped with excitement, he’d snatch the desk calendar from his bedside table with trembling hands, eager to see if it was finally the day when he, too, would be permitted to enter that strange and curious world of young adulthood. And every morning his little shoulders would sag in disappointment as he read the date. He’d begun wondering lately if it would ever be March 17th again, thinking that perhaps the planet sought to deny him his wish, and was intentionally dawdling in its flight around the sun. The idea of a great conspiracy pleased him, which helped to placate his usual disappointment.

Now presented with the chance to prove his capabilities before all the adults around them, he trembled with excitement. They fell immediately to their plotting. First, Sebek suggested they apprehend a robber or other trivial criminal, but Silver quickly dismissed the idea, doubting its feasibility. He additionally dismissed Sebek's propositions that they search for long lost treasure and other such artifacts for similar reasons. When Sebek mentioned they could contact Malleus for assistance, Silver balked. He hadn't seen the man all summer, and hadn't heard his name in weeks - the young prince had been preoccupied with helping their country recover from the aftermath of last month's monstrous storm, traveling from waterlogged village to waterlogged village, magically repairing homes and rejuvenating flooded farmlands wherever he went. Silver rejected this proposal, too, explaining that Malleus likely wouldn't have the time available to help them, and noting internally that he'd only betray their schemes to his father, anyways, and they quickly moved onto their next point of contestation. After much debate, and much grumbling and whining, and following a short intermission to enjoy some of Ma Zigvolt's lemon pie, Sebek finally proposed an idea that the both of them agreed on.

A rogue grizzly bear had been making a feast of the local livestock over the summer, a missing sow of the Zigvolts and a milk calf of their neighbors amongst its victims. Any attempt the past month to detain or eliminate it had ended in failure, and it'd been outwitting the small community unlike anything the elders had ever seen. Recently, for example, a family living down the road had attempted to capture it after it had devoured several of their chickens during one of its nightly jaunts. They placed a series of foothold traps around the coop, buried under leaf litter, and totally de-scented using a complex spell, and awoke the next morning to find their yard blanketed with bloody white feathers, not a single trap containing within its undisturbed jaws even one strand of the creature's hair. Silver and Sebek decided they would bring an end to the terror themselves.

Its massive tracks had last been spotted heading into the Obsidian Forest - a congested strip of towering firs, spruce, and pine trees located to the north of the Zigvolt's. The trees there grew so closely together that hardly any sunlight was able to pierce through the thick canopy, casting the land inside of it into an endless shadow. One had the feeling Nature had forgotten that place in her designs; it was quiet as something alive should not be. There was no birdsong during the day, and neither the soft gurgle of the river nor the wind brushing against the trees. Tawny owl cries could sometimes be heard emanating from it at night - lonely, sharp trills that rang out almost like a warning. The fae were not known for being a judicious people, but they were perceptive, able to detect on their skin the slightest gradations in magic and other immaterial energies that even the finest tuned devices could not, and they stayed far away from the forest in confidence of its dangers.

Silver, however, was a human, and Sebek, a half-fae, and they had long viewed the forest with a simple, innocent curiosity, both unable to sense the unseen forces that made their countrymen so cautious of that unknown realm. As such, and with Silver consumed with thoughts of his redemption, and Sebek thinking of little more than all the praise their great adventure would earn him, they boldly made plans to meet together early the next morning before their parents awoke. Lilia regularly went to bed shortly after 11 o'clock, and Silver would make his escape several hours later. He would cut a path straight to the Zigvolt's, avoiding the long, winding trail his father had erected for him through his land, and would rendezvous with Sebek behind their home. They talked until the sun set and shadows flooded the room, but neither moved to turn on the light, for the excitement in their hearts brightened that dark space better than any candle or lamp ever could. Silver returned home that evening feeling lighter than he had in weeks.

Silver dipped his hands into the kitchen basin and splashed some of the cold water onto his face. The windows above him were a pair of jet black panes, dotted with a smattering of stars that twinkled distantly like lightning bugs. He couldn't remember ever having seen a sky so desolate before, and he marveled at the miniscule pinpricks of light as he slowly dried his hands with a terry washcloth, anxiously aware of each and every sound he made.

He completed one final circuit throughout the house before leaving. Moving on his tiptoes, he double-checked that the covers were drawn over his bed and the pillows beneath them were positioned correctly, and that his father was still asleep, the last of which he ascertained with a furtive glance thrown inside the man's room. When he reached the front door, he sank back down on his heels and bent over to re-lace his boots.

He'd packed his knapsack before going to bed, filling it with a handheld lantern, his canteen and compass, an emergency kit, a small bag of cornmeal and a cast iron pan, and some pemmican and soda biscuits he'd wrapped in napkins. His crossbow hung snug over his shoulders; his favorite hunting knife was nestled deep into the leather sheath hanging from his belt. He and Sebek had agreed not to come back until their mission was fulfilled, and if they ran out of provisions before felling their quarry, they'd be well prepared to secure more.

The house breathed him out like a sigh. The moon unfurled overhead like an orchid in full bloom, vastly outshining the indolent stars hovering around it, and it bathed his surroundings in a pale film of argent light. The broad, black blocks of the cows and the pigs asleep in their enclosures jutted out from the darkness, and the black pyramid of the chicken coop rose silently above them. He crept past the dozing creatures and slipped into the woods. His legs instinctively followed the same trail he'd taken countless times before. His feet he lifted and placed methodically, stalking as he did when he hunted, fearing that the soft crackle of the twigs and leaves underneath him might awaken his sleeping father from hundreds of yards away.

Presently, the felled oak tree that marked the northernmost boundary of his father’s land appeared. Its withered roots splayed out like the gnarled fingers of an outstretched hand, their grasp extending far above his head. He reached out and rested his palm against the trunk. Its bark was soft and brittle from decay, blanketed with a thick layer of moss and algae. He knew not if his father had struck down this once mighty giant himself, or if it had merely collapsed in its old age, only that he was forbidden from passing by its sentinel gaze on his own. He grabbed onto the slippery bark and scrambled atop the trunk, letting out a shaky breath as he stood up.

All of the land before him stretched beyond the confines of his father's territory. Each and every bush and tree and creature, every shadow, every undefined mass lurking in the darkness there was to him an alien, a stranger. Somewhere further beyond lay the Zigvolt’s homestead, and further past that, the Obsidian Forest. The mountains erupted in the distance like a row of black fangs piercing the sky. Behind him waited the clearing and the cottage, the toolshed and the garden, the wheatfield and the pasture and the meadow – each of these forming another slat of his boyhood cradle, another barrier around the only world he'd ever truly known.

He lifted a trembling hand and groped at the air. He'd been expecting some sort of rebound from broaching his father's magical perimeter, but it did not come. He leapt off the trunk and landed on the ground with a loud crash. The sound echoed viciously all around him and yet - there was nothing. No harsh cry of his name. No thudding of feet racing up behind him. Nothing. Had he successfully escaped? Gasping, he rapidly swung his head this way and that, scanning his surroundings. Here was the copper blur of a fox slipping through the forest undergrowth, there was the heavy grey body of a raccoon lumbering slowly behind it. And here, again, the silver outline of a barn owl peering at him from the thicket yonder.

He could see now that these were no specters, no apparitions - they were living things, with eyes like his and beating hearts like his, things that drank in the same sweet night air as him. All his fears vanished - it was as though he'd finally let out a breath he never realized he'd been holding in all his life. Re-shouldering his bag, he set off once more, his heart pounding with excitement, his body coursing with the ecstasy of this newfound freedom. He swept through the forest like a beam of moonlight. The five miles to the Zigvolt's he crossed in what felt like five steps.

Why was I ever afraid of this place? he wondered. Why was I ever afraid of anything in my life?

At three o'clock in the morning, less than an hour after he'd left the clearing, Silver stepped onto the dirt road that led to the Zigvolt's farmhouse. Breathless from his record flight, he took in long, quiet gulps of air as he neared the agreed-upon rendezvous location - the left-side porch, for there were no windows there - his eyes flicking occasionally to his sides, and to his rear, and to the spider web of starlight draped across the cottonwoods towering around him, his steps falling lighter than even the cloven feet of a vigilant deer. He immediately noticed the small, darkened figure hovering by the porch, and watched as it detached itself from the greater mass of shadows, revealing itself to be Sebek. His friend flashed him a triumphant smile, his little fangs shining bright white in the darkness.

"You made it!"

"Hush!"

Sebek's hands flew over his mouth. "Sorry!" he yelped as he turned to look at the house, his heart racing, but the stalwart building gave no reaction, remaining stone still, silent. Through his fingers, he sheepishly repeated, this time quietly, "Sorry." He quickly readjusted his knapsack from where it'd slipped down his shoulder, then hurried to join Silver in the road.

Silver rolled his eyes, grinning.

They padded cautiously through the darkness, their feet kicking up small clouds of dust from the earth beneath them, each one rising like an ochre breath before dissolving a moment later into the blue-black of the night. After walking for a length, Sebek pointed out from a row of identical log cabins his neighbor's home - namely, the one who'd recently tried to apprehend the beast after it'd feasted on their flock. They circled around back, ducking as they passed the lower story windows, and found, by a pair of crooked fence posts surrounding a small vegetable garden, a set of lumbering bear tracks that trailed away due North. Sebek crouched down and placed his hand in one of the prints. The massive groove was as broad as a dinner plate, so that even when he splayed and stretched out his hand as wide as he could, his fingertips stopped several inches short from the rim. The indentations from the claw marks looked like a set of daggers had been dragged through the ground. Silver swallowed thickly as he observed this. Tugging at Sebek's sleeve, he whispered hoarsely, "Come on, let's go."

The tracks led them further and deeper into the bowels of the adjacent woodland. Neither spoke, both of them gripped with a nervous excitement that bordered at times on trepidation. Occasionally, Silver's hands reached behind him for his crossbow, finding reassurance in the solidity of its metal stock. Sebek, too, had taken with him the children's rifle he'd received for his birthday last year. Purchased by his father while traveling overseas for a dental conference, he'd gloated joyfully to Silver upon receiving it, and had been treating it with the utmost care the past year, polishing it daily, and keeping it secured in a case he kept hidden underneath his bed. The fall prior, Silver had accompanied Sebek and his father when they'd gone duck hunting at the river and had received a turn using the weapon, with both boys dispatching several birds, each. Though Silver was amazed at its great strength, and though he found it a very lovely piece of craftsmanship, indeed, the sound of it firing hurt his ears, and he secretly hoped they wouldn't have to use it.

The trees gradually thinned out and fell away, receding into a tall, grassy meadow that, in turn, soon bowed down and terminated before another stretch of forest. But the shadowy structure looming before them was somehow different than all the other natural places they'd ever come across in their lives. It was darker than the night, silent; foreboding in a way that left them wondering if it was about to reach out a gnarled, earthen hand and strike them. This was the Obsidian Forest, and the bear's tracks disappeared within it.

The boys, having simultaneously come to a standstill at the edge of the forest, their hearts pounding, exchanged a tense look, then turned back to face the verdant bulwark. The moonlight fell like a curtain before them; Silver took Sebek's larger hand into his own and they stepped through it together. The air within the forest was several degrees cooler than without, and the shock of the cold was like jumping into the river on a warm Summer day. Sebek shook off Silver's hand with a grunt, and once freed, zipped his jacket and pulled up his collar. Silver, ignoring his friend's indignation, extracted his lantern from his bag, and lit it with a simple spell. He held up the device and slowly swung it back and forth it as he turned around.

All the light in the world was now contained within Silver's hands; everything around them was only an abstraction of what they understood to be total darkness. The copper glow from his lantern struck the surrounding fir trees, dimly illuminating the bone white bark covering their emaciated trunks. Their scraggly canopies converged together and formed a single, continuous, vegetative wall that strangled the moonlight within its matted foliage. The air was heavy with the clean smell of pine, underlaid with the rich musk of a humus that had been forming undisturbed for centuries. It was quiet, as the adults had described, but not completely devoid of sound - they could hear, emanating like an invisible vapor from the leaf litter, the silver song of crickets drawing their bows across their instruments; the wind had dropped its voice to a whisper, but they could hear this, too, threading through any microscopic gaps it could find in the leafy barrier overhead; and as they walked, there was the soft crunch of their boots sinking into the plush carpet of pine needles underfoot.

After a moment's consideration, Silver declared, "It's no big deal," and Sebek nodded mutely in agreement.

They'd been misled countless times before by the adults in their lives, having been warned of dangers they'd later discovered were, in truth, harmless in nature, such as cracking one's knuckles, or staying up until the early hours of the morning, and the Obsidian Forest they now added to this ever-growing list. But they remained cautious - Sebek walked with his hand looped around his rifle's strap, and Silver's eyes followed wherever the roaming light of his lantern touched the earth.

Their abscondment from home and their entry into the forest having now been completed, the final phase of their plan would be simple: they needed only to track the bear to its den, and kill it. This would not be unlike their usual training exercises, during which Lilia would deposit them in a remote location - often high atop some distant mountain range, or in the middle of a barren ravine - and they would be forced to survive on their own for days or weeks at a time, typically with an additional command to secure a target of Lilia's choosing, such as a wild animal, or an object he'd hidden deep in the wilderness. They had felled various species of direbeast before, both together, and on their own, and a bear would be no different. Knowing the creature's massive body would be too heavy for them to drag out of the forest on their own, they planned to cut off one of its paws to bring back as proof of their accomplishment, and would come back later to retrieve the rest, with assistance from the adults. Bear meat was a popular delicacy in the valley, and after the carcass was carved and distributed amongst the local community, Silver was determined to request a bottle of its golden oil - renowned for its anti-inflammatory properties - as a gift for his father.

Silver swept his lantern low over the ground, and with its pale glow as their beacon, they followed the tracks deep into the forest. They would occasionally notice movement in the darkness, fleeting figures and shapes that their nervous minds would automatically warp into the hulking mass of the bear, and each time, as they would begin to reach for their weapons, they would realize a moment later they'd stumbled upon nothing more than a small raccoon or an opossum on the prowl for food. They jumped at every such encounter, and at every unexpected noise that entered their peripheral - a heavy branch Sebek mistakenly stepped on rang out like a gunshot; a tawny owl's sudden cry boomed like a crack of thunder. For hours they proceeded tremulously; fear had been stalking them all that time like a shadow, and as the veil of darkness surrounding them lifted and gave way to daybreak, it vanished together with the night. They could not see the sun's yellow face above them, but they could feel its dappled light falling down on them like a warm and gentle rain. The canopy, which had hitherto been a solid, dark green streak, was now dotted with flashes of a vibrant cerulean blue.

With the night's vanquishment, they steadily grew more and more confident, feeling now important - older, even. They walked with their heads held high and their backs erect, pumping their arms and swinging their legs as though on the march. They kicked up cedar chips and pine needles as they walked, scattering them onto the ground like birdshot. The blood coursed through their veins hot as liquor; the temptation of glory drove them on like a whip. Each child began to envision himself seated like a king in the Zigvolt's parlor, regaling this tale to their neighbors and family, and joining a long line of men who had come before them - heroes and explorers, great and mighty conquerors of the strange and unknown.

They would stop - intermittently, and only for brief sprints - to rest, to drink water, or to re-lace their boots, and would then immediately resume their march as zealously as before. They hurried as fast as their legs could carry them, knowing that the creature would likely have returned to its den by that point, and that it would be fast asleep in preparation of its nightly activities - tracking it down before it awoke that evening would be vital to their success.

When they came across a noticeable gap in the canopy - a hole ripped open where a pine tree had collapsed, through which they caught their first, true glimpse of the sky since that morning - they agreed to take another short break. Amongst the various survival skills that Lilia had taught them was the ability to derive the time, and working together, they erected a rudimentary sundial using some branches they gathered from the ground. They calculated that it was presently midmorning, and that they must have covered several miles since entering the forest. They remained there for a few minutes longer, Silver sipping quietly from his canteen, Sebek dismantling their earthen clock. Languid clouds passed through the gap overhead. Silver recalled how, every winter, the pond near his home would freeze over, and yet he could still see fish swimming undisturbed beneath the thick panel of ice. He wondered if this was how they felt, watching the world pass by them silently up above. As he wiped his dripping mouth with his sleeve, he glanced over, and noticed that Sebek was frowning.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm getting hungry, that's all."

Silver put his canteen away. "You brought some food with you, right?"

"Of course I did!" Sebek bristled. He slid off his knapsack and rummaged inside it, cataloging each of his belongings out loud, more so to himself, than to the half-listening Silver.

"I've got biscuits and cornbread, some jerky, some apples..."

"Uh-huh," Silver said, stifling a yawn.

"My water bottle, of course. Aaannnd..." He reached deep inside, smiling when he felt his fingers touch what he'd been looking for.

"Some of my mother's snickerdoodles, freshly baked." He pulled out a brown paper bag, shaking it with a grin. "Sissy has been hogging them, but I was able to pilfer a few without her noticing." He poured several of the cookies onto his hand before returning the bag to his knapsack.

"Would you like one?"

"Sure, thanks."

Silver gingerly took one of the cookies from Sebek's outstretched hand and bit into it with a sigh. The soft dough crumbled in his mouth deliciously, each piece dissolving like a sugar cube on his tongue. The almost overwhelming smell of cinnamon, the faint hint of vanilla, the rich, buttery aftertaste, all made him think of Ma Zigvolt. He'd overheard her lamenting the loss of the family's sow a few weeks ago - she loved each of their livestock like her children, and the bear's cunning attacks had wounded her pride and her heart, both. He imagined, upon their return home, how her face would break into a smile when they told her what they'd done, presenting the news to her as though it were a freshly picked bouquet. The image was somehow sweeter than the cookie itself, and he licked the sugary crumbs off his fingers, tasting little more than a delicious contentment.

They resumed walking. For over an hour the forest stretched on unchanging and uninterrupted, before it began to angle sharply downhill, transforming eventually into a semi-exposed slope. The incline was so severe they had to descend on their hands and knees, slowly zigzagging from one tree to the next, at times using the exposed roots and fallen branches to rappel downwards. The plateau they arrived at was bisected by a meager creek, appearing as blue and as thin as the veins running down their arms. They lay on their stomachs and drank deeply from it, bringing the crystalline water to their mouths with their hands. Silver shook his head like a dog when he was finished, spraying ice cold drops everywhere, and Sebek pushed him away with a laugh. A school of minnows, each one a silver grain of rice, darted away at the commotion, but the water striders on the surface above continued their skating, unaffected. They washed their hands and refilled their canteens before moving on.

The sunlight filtering down through the forest canopy gradually became more intense as the morning rolled into afternoon. Silver and Sebek had been talking with one another at length ever since daybreak - discussing their plans and their upcoming glory, and pointing out all the flora and fauna around them - and their conversations slowed to a comfortable lull as the air grew increasingly warmer. Unable to tell the time without a further break in the canopy, one hour blended seamlessly into the other, so that occasionally, when they blinked, they would open their eyes to a world remarkably brighter and warmer than the one they'd been in just a moment before.

Late in the afternoon, as they picked their way through a pleasantly mild Summer haze, Sebek suddenly stopped walking and threw out his arm, blocking Silver. His bright green eyes bore laser-like into the distance; his whole body stiffened like a bird-dog alerting to game.

Unmoving, he stated plainly, "I do believe we've been here before."

Silver blinked. "Huh?"

"That spruce tree yonder, with all the moss on it," Sebek said, now pointing, "I've seen it before."

Silver studied the tree indicated for several moments, but could not determine how it differed from any of the other dozen trees surrounding it. Shrugging, he said, "It probably just looks like one we passed earlier. Tons of trees have moss on them."

"I know they do!" Sebek huffed, gritting his teeth. "But that patch there's shaped like a star. That's how I recognized it."

Silver looked again. The patch of moss did indeed resemble a child's simple depiction of a five-pointed star, but his mind refused to accept what it had just heard.

"That's impossible," he murmured, shaking his head. "We've just been following the bear's tracks this whole time. How could we..."

Silver frowned. His incredulity obscured his mind like an eclipse. As he stared at the bear's tracks - crisscrossing the ground in some areas, and issued in a straight line in others - they began to swirl before his eyes, forming a nameless thing that Silver knew he'd seen before, and after a terse moment of contemplation, he finally recalled where.

He thought of a time, years ago, when he and his father had spent the whole Summer attempting to snare a devious buck. The animal had pillaged their vegetable garden every night for weeks, tearing up their sweet potatoes and corn, and even daring to defile Lilia's prized tomato plants, and had avoided all their various traps and attempts to trail it. One day, after sitting together for several hours in a cramped tree stand, they were able to witness its genius. After passing directly before them, it disappeared for approximately fifteen minutes, then doubled back, retraced its steps to just before the stand, and cut into the forest in the opposite direction, at a sharp angle, so that its path formed a "V" when viewed from above. Even the most experienced hunter - whether human or animal or fae - would likely follow the original set of tracks, which would appear - and smell - fresher, having been laid down twice, and by the time the error was realized, the quarry would have long escaped. The buck, as if having calculated all of this, strode off that day waving the chestnut flag of its tail in victory.

And now here again was that same whirlpool of footprints, now here again was that same irrefutable display of animal cunning. The eclipse passed his mind; the light of his revelation nearly blinded him - they must have been going in circles for hours.

His eyes flew wide open; his heart thundered so viciously he wondered for a moment if it was about to burst. His eyes darted wildly about him, as though hoping to find some form of consolation hidden amongst the leaf litter. And then, in a moment of clarity, he recalled a new trick he'd recently learned, the very same one he now knew adults had been using on him and other children all his life: he lied.

"It's fine, Sebek. I know exactly where we're going." He turned away, so that his friend would not see him nervously biting his lip. He pulled out his compass and held it out this way and that, making a show of orienting himself.

"The bear just circled around here to try and shake us off its trail. We'll find it if we keep going..." His eyes scanned the ground, trying to deduce which set of tracks looked the freshest. "That way."

Sebek, frowning sternly, opened his mouth, and then closed it again. After a moment, his face relaxed, and he slowly replied, "If you insist..."

Silver let out a shaky breath. Sebek's immediate acquiescence, which he at other times would only earn after much coaxing and arguing and persuasion, excited him. He experienced once more the feeling of being much older and more important than he really was, and wondered for a moment if this was the true pleasure of being an adult. He made a note to emphasize this part of the story when he'd later recount it to his father - how he'd outwitted the terrible beast where all others before him had failed, and how he'd led himself and Sebek through what was sure to be their darkest hour. They would return home heroes, indeed!

"Come on, this way."

Thus continuing their journey, they picked a new trail in the direction Silver had indicated. Portions of the sky peeking through the canopy slowly turned a golden orange, others light pink or red, forming a mosaic of the sunset. The bear would now likely be active again, and out roaming the forest with them, and when Sebek mentioned this, Silver hurriedly explained that they could still locate its den in the meantime, and lay in wait for it to return, to which Sebek, still in an unusually agreeable mood, only nodded. Their enthusiasm from that morning waned together with the fading sunlight. They plodded on halfheartedly for hours; identical trees and shrubs and rocks extended all around them for miles. They nibbled on their sticks of jerky and pemmican as they walked, breaking off and exchanging pieces of dried meat with each other in lieu of conversation. Sebek's apples and corn bread and most of their biscuits they soon finished off, too.

Finally, evening gave way to night, and the world around them was plunged once more into darkness. As Silver fished in his bag for his lantern, Sebek suggested they quit for the day and set up camp, but Silver adamantly disagreed.

"Just a little bit further and then we'll stop," he said, struggling to relight the lantern as he spoke. "The den's gotta be close by."

"Hmph!"

And again, an hour later:

"We're almost there, I promise."

"Hmph!"

They slogged on wearily. Periodically, Silver would command they stop, and, taking out his compass from his pocket, would double-check the accuracy of their orientation, then indicate with a satisfactory grunt that they could continue moving. They did not rest, otherwise. Low hills and mounds they climbed felt to their leaden legs like mountains; meager creeks and streams they crossed seemed to stretch on for miles. The trees, crowding down on them, reached out and scratched at their arms and legs and faces with wooden claws as sharp as needles. Foxes and barn owls screamed out from deep within the forest, and their fatigued minds, instinctually recalling legends of all the various monsters that lurk within such darkness, heard amongst their mangled cries the laughter of evil witches, and the terrible roars of bogeymen and other foul beasts. The stars shone coldly above them, ignorant of their torment.

Eventually, the line of the bear's tracks duplicated, and then further split into a third and a fourth set, all at various points overlapping and crisscrossing the first one. Silver felt his heart sink further and further at the discovery of each new set, and when they all converged and disappeared into a tangled copse of towering spruce and fir trees, he felt it stop moving entirely. Stopping, he drew the lantern in a wide arc before him; his steady gaze swept across the rows of identical giants like the roaming beam of a lighthouse, moving slowly, searching them, daring them to offer him what he was looking for, as though conducting a silent interrogation. His pale watercolor eyes, always so soft, hardened into steel. Sebek became at once afraid of him.

"Silver, what are you-"

"Quiet!" Silver hissed, waving him off with his free hand, his other hand tightening its grip on the lantern until his knuckles bloomed white.

And then - he saw it.

There, deep within the copse, standing just off to the left, partly obscured by the long shadows cast by its brothers, was the same spruce tree from earlier that day, wearing the same star-shaped patch of moss upon its wooden breast. They'd simply gone in another, massive circle around the forest.

"Damnit!" Silver spat. "Damnit, damnit, damnit!"

"Silver!" Sebek whined, but Silver ignored him.

He ripped his compass from his pocket and held it before him with trembling hands. Its needle pointed North. He spun around 180 degrees, yet still it pointed North; he spun a quarter further - again, North. His jaw dropped. No matter which way he faced or how he held the compass, its needle only spun and spun, racing in time with his pounding heart. He threw it to the ground in disgust.

His adam's apple bobbed precipitously. "I swear I..."

"You see! I told you so!" Sebek huffed, stamping his foot. "We're lost!"

"Shut up!" Silver growled. "I need to think."

For several, long hours leading up to that point, Sebek had been languishing under a terrible secret, the truth of which was that he had known, ever since he'd first glimpsed that verdant star, that they were utterly, and completely, lost. However, he did not wish to embarrass his friend, for although he found pleasure in showing off his strength and his intellect, and in being able to do things that other children his age could not, he was not a cruel boy, and had no interest in causing others pain, for which reason he'd decided against questioning Silver's judgment. He had trusted that Silver would architect for them some miraculous solution, just as he always had done any time they'd encounter an issue when training, but Silver had failed, and now Sebek was scared. The volcanic plug that was his faith in his friend having been destroyed, he finally erupted. "I don't like this! I want to go home!" he cried, his voice quivering. "This isn't fun anymore!"

"Fun?" Silver spat. "We didn't come all the way out here to have fun, Sebek!"

He stormed towards the other boy; the pine needles snapped and popped like firecrackers under his feet. His voice rose to a crackling scream. "We came out here so I could get my dad to trust me! And now it's all ruined!"

Sebek sniffled, cowering. His eyes shone with the threat of crystal tears. Silver's anger shot out of him as rapidly as it had come.

"Everything's ruined..."

Their venture was over, and what had they to show for it but their knobby little elbows and knees, scraped and bruised and smeared with blood; their filthy clothing, torn and stained with their tears; their ruddy, dirt-smeared faces; and their eyes, red and swollen from crying? What were they, but two scared little children, who would now sit down and fold their hands, prim and proper, and wait for their parents to come wipe their faces and clean up their mess? There would be no glory, no praise; no retribution against Silver's father. He half-expected the man to suddenly emerge from the shadows and begin chastising him.

Silver picked up his compass, wiped it against his shirt, and shoved it back into his pocket. He quickly glanced at Sebek, then ducked his head again, ashamed. Staring at his shoes, he grunted, "Sorry."

Drawing his sleeve across his soiled face, Sebek grumbled through the fabric an acceptance of his apology. He then turned and stepped behind the wall of foliage to collect himself in private.

Silver waited for him. He rolled a pinecone back and forth under his boot for a few moments before gently kicking it away. The air buzzed with the sounds of nature's nocturnal choir; its leading members, a cloister of tree frogs hidden amongst the copse before him - each one a piece of peridot, emerald, or jade - sang quietly, joining their crystal voices with the crickets and katydids plucking their chitinous strings. He could hear Sebek's hushed sobs filtering through to him, carried upon the silver chorus like a pine needle pulled down a stream. He wished to go join him in his anguish, to throw his arms around his friend and to weep with him, but the shock of his failure had drained his body of all its frustrations, leaving him numb. He knew there would be time to mourn later; for now, his only focus would be on getting through the night.

Once Sebek returned, his eyes and his face cleaned and dry, if not still inflamed, Silver cleared his throat and said, "Remember what my father would always tell us: Best thing to do if you get lost..."

"...is to sit your ass down, and stay put." Sebek finished with a shaky sigh.

Silver set down his lantern and knapsack, and after taking out his emergency kit and placing it to the side, began clearing out a broad perimeter in the leaf litter, attempting to erect a small fire pit. Sebek, as if suddenly roused from a stupor, dropped all of his gear and moved automatically to help him. They labored slowly, dragging their long, weary arms apelike by their sides, fighting weakly against a sea of pine needles that seemed to never end. Their calf muscles, having been deflated of all their adrenaline and fear, burned with each of their languid movements. Ten minutes later, with the ground now barren, and their skin freshly pricked and bleeding, Silver used his magic to ignite the pile of tinder they'd gathered, then turned to rummage through his belongings once again. Beside him, Sebek flung himself against his knapsack and kicked out his legs with a groan. He pillowed his heavy head under his arms and observed the fire silently. The flames dyed his face in a wash of vermilion, elongating the shadows under his eyes.

Silver glanced at him as he removed the emergency blanket from his kit, still disturbed by his outburst.

"I brought some corn meal with me. We can make some hoe cakes or something later, if you want," he offered gently.

Sebek sniffled again. "Ok."

Silver circled their meager camp, searching for a place to hang the blanket, ultimately deciding upon the outstretched branch of a sagging pine tree. One side of the blanket was coated with a bright orange material, which he positioned facing away from them.

"That's to help people find us, right?" Sebek asked, pulling out the remaining biscuits from his bag.

"Right," Silver replied without looking back. He straightened out the blanket and frowned.

If anyone's even looking for us.

VII.

Had you stayed behind at the Vanrouge's cottage after Silver embarked on his misadventures, electing to observe Lilia as he went about his day, up to - and including - his ultimate reconciliation with his son, then you would have witnessed the following:

Lilia awoke, as usual, shortly past 7 a.m. He did not own an alarm clock, preferring instead to let his body awaken naturally, gently roused by the golden sunlight filtering through his curtains. He lay in bed for a few moments, wrapped in the warm pleasantries of his blankets and his lingering dreams and the ebbing darkness, yawning leisurely, listening to the song thrushes chittering softly outside his window. Then, with a snap of his fingers, the curtains drew back and fixed themselves into place. That morning was a fine one. Where the sky had been grey and congested the day prior, it had since been painted over in the brightest blue, reminiscent of a stalk of larkspur, with not a single cloud in sight.

For five minutes Lilia indulged in this his usual morning pleasure, before, like clockwork, his reality struck him - he suddenly remembered every vexing instance of his son's tumultuous behavior from the past few months; felt anew all the dull aches and pains tugging at his limbs, felt the impending exasperation of the long list of chores that awaited him that day; each recollection pricked at his mind and his heart as though they were bee stings. He threw off his blankets and sat up with a scowl.

After grabbing a cup of tea, he settled himself at the dining table together with a gardening catalog that had arrived in the mail recently. He flipped through it halfheartedly, circling with a pen any seeds and supplies he planned to purchase for fall, his gaze occasionally drifting away from the pages of colorful produce, wandering over to and slipping out of the kitchen and living room windows. He thus swept through a third of the catalog before noticing the animals' absence in the yard, realizing a moment later that he had yet to see Silver that morning, too. Presuming the boy had slept in again, he waited half an hour further before checking his room, at which point a dull uneasiness had begun to form in his stomach.

The darkness in the little room yawned cavernously as Lilia pushed open the door. The heavy linen curtains were drawn tightly shut; the comforter was pulled up flush against the headboard of Silver's bed, a long lump protruding motionlessly underneath it. His uneasiness exploding all at once in a poisonous concern, Lilia flew across the room in rapid, broad strides, alighting to his son's bedside in an instant. He whispered, his voice slightly trembling, "Are you feeling alright, sweetheart?", and, after receiving no response, reached out to stroke the head of the lump, his lips pulling into a frown as the mass gave buoyantly under his hand. He wrenched back the blankets, stifling a cry as a mound of pillows tumbled out before him. He gingerly picked up one of the pillows and dropped it to the floor again, as though expecting to find his child concealed beneath it.

"Silver!" he shouted, glancing wildly around him, but the only response was his own disgruntled echo.

Frowning again, he put his hands on his hips. Where the hell is he?

Upon completing a thorough search of Silver's room - including his closet, his chest, his hamper, and underneath his bed - Lilia swept through the rest of the house and the root cellar, opening every door, and upturning every piece of furniture he could find, and when this, too, proved fruitless, he continued his efforts outside. He looked in the pig pen and in the chicken coop, checked behind the cow's lean-to and inside the shed, and, for good measure, even stopped to peer inside the empty flower pots in the garden. But each of these places and their inhabitants, whether living or inanimate, offered him no leads, and rejected all his inquiries.

Standing in the middle of the garden, he crossed his arms and considered all the oddities he'd noted that morning. Several items from the house were missing, including Silver's knapsack and crossbow, as well as some candles and other supplies from the kitchen, and the trick with the pillows was one he'd used himself in his youth for late-night abscondments from the castle. All of these observations he could trace back to only one conclusion: This was all just some sort of childish prank.

"That little...!" Lilia grunted, balling his fists. He turned and stepped towards the gate, intending to continue his search in the surrounding woodland, but the sound of the cow's mournful lowing stopped him in his tracks. None of the animals had been fed or watered yet, and the garden was in desperate need of another weeding. After a brief deliberation, he decided he would tend to Silver's chores in his absence, and then, he would return to the cottage, and he would wait - he would not indulge the boy in his games.

Any fatigue he'd felt that morning was immediately flushed out of his body and replaced with a venomous rage. He swept across the clearing like a tempest; the animals scattered before him in terror. He tore open their bags of scratch and grain and threw them to the ground, careless of the waste. He stormed back to the garden and began ripping up the tangled mass of weeds suffocating the ground, tossing muck-covered fistfuls of crabgrass and dandelions over the fence; the pigs, having recovered quickly from their fright, dove noisily for the mess.

His mind raced, his thoughts jumping rapidly between all the different ways Silver's return could occur. Likely, he would try to sneak into the house later that night, coming in either through one of the windows, up through the cellar. Or maybe, made shameless by his caper, he would stroll through the front door, kick off his shoes, and throw his bag to the ground, moving with the bold swagger of a yearling buck. Lilia would be ready for him either way. He would wait for him in the living room, on the couch, facing the door, his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed and blazing. If the boy tried to sneak in, Lilia would hear him. If he came in through the front door, Lilia would see him. If he cried, so be it. If he whined and begged for forgiveness, Lilia would not give it to him. He'd had enough of the child's attitude, his insolence, his unwillingness to talk, his newfound proclivity to brush off each and every act of kindness Lilia tried to offer to him. Perhaps his own parental failures truly were to blame for their ongoing disputes, but he would not allow this blatant defiance to continue a moment longer. He would ground Silver - for a week, at a minimum - double his training exercises, forbid him from seeing Sebek- He crushed a dandelion in his fist. And have him do all the weeding that month! An impish grin flashed across his face as he plotted. The sun beat down on him reproachfully.

Hours later, frustrated and in pain, his clothes caked with dried mud and bits and pieces of crabgrass, he marched back to the cottage and threw himself face-first onto the sofa. He lay there for a few moments, unmoving, before a sharp spasm in his calf forced him to slowly, wearily, sit up. Palpating the now throbbing muscle, he realized in that moment just how much his anger had blinded him. Why didn't I just fucking use magic to do all that? Another stream of profanity poured from his lips.

He sat watching the hour hand of the wall clock slowly inch forward. He rose periodically, to glance out the windows, to refill his tea, to pace back and forth across the living room, his gaze fixed on the front door, his thoughts slowly congealing into the perfect, incendiary speech with which he'd lash the boy upon his return. But Silver did not return, not as noon rolled around, nor as Lilia prepared their dinner. By that evening, the molten rage in his body had cooled, hardening into a tense knot of worry.

Shortly before sunset, just as he'd risen to check the kitchen windows once more, a commotion sounded outside - something heavy was pounding across the clearing, heading rapidly for the cottage. Lilia leapt from the sofa and raced to the door, throwing it open with a scowl, the first in the long list of scathing remarks he'd been preparing for Silver all that afternoon poised on his lips, but both his anger and his relief evaporated when he saw that it was only Baul, rushing in long strides down the dirt path leading to the cottage. As the other man approached him and opened his mouth to speak, Lilia put up a hand to silence him. "Uh-uh, I don't have time for this today. If you're here for-"

"I'm not!" Baul huffed, tiredly swatting Lilia's hand away. "Please just listen to me, General."

Lilia crossed his arms and jut his chin, indicating for Baul to continue.

"You seen Seb today?"

"Sebek? No, I haven't. Why-..." His words trailed off, the answer to his question instantly forming in his mind.

"He's not... Don't tell me you can't find him?"

"We can't," Baul sighed. "We tore up the whole damn house, looked down by the river, all through the woods. Got some of the neighbors out helping us look. We figured he mighta snuck out to go play with your boy, so I came by to check."

"Sorry, but no, I haven't seen any sign of him today." Looking away, Lilia muttered, "...And Silver's gone, too, actually."

"Huh?" Baul's eyes widened in surprise. "Have you looked for him?"

"Of course I have!" Lilia scoffed. "I checked the whole clearing twice over. I'm thinking he just ran off somewhere because I..."

Baul raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, mirroring Lilia.

Lilia rolled his eyes. "He blew up at me the other night and probably just ran off for a while to get back at me. You know how kids are."

His apparent apathy inflamed Baul. He stalked over to Lilia, the dense column of his body twitching as he loomed over his former superior.

"That's it," he snarled, his nostrils flaring like an enraged bull's. "You're coming with me."

"Wha-"

Moving at a speed that belied his great size, Baul threw his arms around Lilia, caging the smaller man in his vice grip. One moment, they were standing in the clearing; the next, the ground disappeared beneath their feet, and the world exploded into kaleidoscopic streaks of color rushing all around them. Caught off guard, Lilia hardly had time to close his eyes before they landed on solid ground again a few seconds later.

Baul released him carelessly and walked away. Lilia slowly staggered after him, clutching his head, his vision swimming.

His quivering eyes concentrated first on the red beam towering before them, then moved to the smaller white block standing beside it. A sudden shift in the breeze carried with it the clean smell of cottonwood. He knew this place - they'd hurtled five miles away to the Zigvolt's home.

"Fucking warn me before you do that!" he hissed. Over the ringing of his ears, his mind vaguely registered several voices - some talking softly, and at least one other crying, but he could not discern amidst his blurry surroundings whom they belonged to.

Baul asked if there'd been any sign of Sebek while he was gone.

A broad green shape came forward and congealed rapidly into Ma Zigovlt. She was dressed in her dental scrubs, her dark green hair pulled back in a fraying ponytail. "No! Nothing!" she cried while pacing back and forth.

The two shapes behind her then revealed themselves to be Pa Zigvolt, also in his work attire, and Iris, sitting together on the steps of the front porch. Iris was weeping quietly, her head buried in her father's neck.

Turning to Lilia, Pa Zigvolt explained that Iris had been left alone to watch her brother that day, and it wasn't until late in the afternoon that she'd discovered him missing, having gone to check his room after he'd failed to appear for both breakfast and lunch. When a frantic search of the house and the backyard proved fruitless, she rushed into town and alerted the elder Zigvolts, who promptly canceled all their appointments for that afternoon to help her look. They rallied the neighbors, forming several search parties to sweep through the surrounding forests and the river, and after several hours of unsuccessful canvassing, it was ultimately Baul who suggested they inquire by the Vanrouge's.

Pa Zigvolt turned again to his daughter, gently squeezed her arm, and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and raised her head from his shoulder, allowing him to descend down the stairs. The family cat, which had been dozing elsewhere on the porch, promptly stood up, stretched, and padded over to Iris, taking her father's place. She scooped the animal into her arms and held it against her chest. She blamed herself bitterly for not noticing sooner her little brother was gone, and had been inconsolable for hours.

"Thank you so much for coming to help, Lilia." Pa Zigvolt said, shaking Lilia's limp hand. He glanced behind Lilia, then behind Baul, before asking, confused, "Where's Silver?"

"He's, erm..." Lilia hesitated, fearing another unpleasant reaction. "He's actually missing, too."

But the Zigvolt parents simply exchanged a silent look with one another, and Ma Zigvolt's voice was only gentle as she asked him to explain.

Lilia proceeded to recount his own experiences that morning, and by the time he finished speaking, the small group was in agreement that the boys had likely snuck away together. As they loitered in the front yard, heatedly discussing their next plan of action, a group of neighbors approached. One of them, an elderly fae known for his avid hunting, stepped forward, waving his hand.

"We found their tracks!"

"You did!? Where!?" Pa Zigvolt asked, his eyes shining in excitement - this was their first lead all day.

"Yessir, two little sets of feet headin' due North," the neighbor explained leisurely, scratching his arm. "We followed 'em a long ways and think we know where they're at. That's the good news."

Their hearts plummeted at his next words.

"Bad news is it looks like they went right into the Obsidian Forest."

The forest was still, the night air punctuated at times by the sound of Baul softly cursing at the branches and bushes impeding their way.

“I swear, when I find that boy,” he growled as he smacked away another insolent branch, “Ooh, I swear! When I find him, I’m gonna…!”

Lilia rolled his eyes. Baul had never so much as laid an unkind finger on any of his children or grandchildren, and his grumbled threats never resulted in anything more than a glare or a scowl or a frown.

They'd split up, Baul and Lilia forming one search party, Ma and Pa Zigvolt another, each covering their own half of the forest. The Zigvolt's neighbors remained at the house with Iris, ready to send out an alert should the boys return on their own, partly to keep the still despondent girl company, and partly out of a reluctance to come with them.

And so Lilia and Baul, and Ma and Pa Zigvolt, elsewhere, had been canvassing the forest for several hours, intermittently calling out Silver and Sebek's names, with no response other than cricket song or the occasional owl's cry. The bear's tracks - several sets of them, as it were, overlapping one another and forever winding like a loamy, coiled serpent - provided their only guideline, as the plush leaf litter hadn't absorbed the children's much lighter prints.

However, to their great luck - and to Silver and Sebek's misfortune - the boys had misoriented themselves as soon as they'd stepped foot into the forest, for as they'd trudged through the early morning darkness, their senses and their judgment obscured both by the endless shadows and the heavy fear in their hearts, they had failed to notice the numerous times they'd looped around and mistakenly followed a different set of tracks, some which had been laid earlier that week, others at the beginning of the month. The combination of the forest's perfect uniformity, its paucity of light, and its impregnable secrecy had been leading its diminutive invaders astray from the very beginning. As such, the children had only wandered a few miserable miles during their entire journey, and Baul and Lilia did not have to walk very long to find them.

Presently, the direction of the wind shifted, bringing with it the heavy smell of smoke; Lilia and Baul automatically moved to follow it. The spectral grey tendrils, unable to fully penetrate the canopy, congealed, hanging in a bloated cloud above them, through which murky haze the red light of a fire glowed softly in the distance. The men picked up their pace as the light grew stronger; Lilia soon rushed ahead of Baul, breaking into a run. But it was not the fire's glow that urged him on, that guided him, that drew him through that endless darkness - it was the moonlight of Silver's white hair, brighter and dearer to him than any star, that was his beacon.

"Silver!" Lilia shouted.

"Who's there!?" Silver shouted back, whipping his head around. Spotting the two men, his jaw dropped, and he turned to shake Sebek, who'd been dozing on his shoulder. The boys rose, Silver quickly, Sebek groggily, rubbing his eyes in confusion. Before Silver could take more than a few stumbling steps, Lilia ran to him and pulled him into his arms, and for the first time that summer, Silver allowed his father to embrace him. He ducked his head into Lilia’s neck, felt the man's pulse thundering against his skin, felt in turn as his own tempestuous heartbeat finally calmed after so many long hours of strange terror. Overwhelmed, Silver opened his mouth, and he cried.

Watching the pair, Sebek, the poor creature, threw a nervous glance at his grandfather - the man’s stony face was anger itself. The child felt wretched, and he wished for nothing more than to be held. He drifted towards Silver and Lilia, his wet eyes downcast, feeling as guilty as a whipped hound approaching its master. Before he could begin his pleas, Lilia opened his arms and pulled the trembling boy into a hug. He was at once unburdened, and his relieved sobs soon joined Silver’s.

For Silver and Sebek, the men were their heroes in that moment, their guardian angels - two mighty pillars of light within the black maw of that abominable forest. Go ahead, weary children, dry the pearls of your tears against their shining wings. But do not forget – the Lord’s angels must deliver judgment and salvation in turn. Look now as the one takes up his golden scale, and the other his blade.

The interrogation proceeded as follows:

Although the boys had, while waiting for their rescue, vowed not to reveal the true purpose of their mission, fearing the truth would only worsen Silver's predicament, they had failed to devise an appropriate excuse for their disappearance. Caught off guard, they first claimed that they'd merely wandered into the forest on accident, after having lost their bearings in the woodland behind the Zigvolt's property, but Lilia dismissed the claim at once, knowing his apprentices would never dare be so careless.

The boys retracted this statement, drew a few paces away to convene privately, and then offered a new story, one of a monster that had chased them all the way out into the forest.

“What kind of monster?” Baul pressed.

“A scary one?” Sebek shrugged.

A jury of nosy tawny owls convened spontaneously in the trees around them. They balked wordlessly at the children's flimsy defense.

Just then, and by chance, while shaking his head in frustration, Baul noticed that Sebek's hands were trembling. The movement was so subtle, so minor, that it was only perceptible when the breeze shifted towards them, so that the light from the campfire hit the child's hands just so. Baul nudged Lilia with his elbow and jut his chin towards the boy, indicating his tremors. With both men now focusing their gazes fully on Sebek, Lilia asked once more why the boys had gone into the forest; Sebek crumbled immediately under their wrath.

“W-We just… We wanted to go hunt the bear that’s been killing off the livestock so we…”

“…So you snuck off without telling anyone?” Lilia asked.

“Yeah…”

“It’s my fault, sir,” Silver said, stepping in front of Sebek.

“What?” Lilia and Baul replied in unison.

“I was the one who wanted to go. Sebek didn’t wanna come but I made him. Please don’t get mad at him.”

“Silver!” Sebek squeaked. He opened his mouth to object, but Silver silenced him with a pointed glare.

Baul crossed his arms and looked over Silver, directing his gaze at his grandson. “Is that true, Seb?”

“…Y-Yes, sir.”

“God damnit,” Baul hissed. “You damn kids had us tearing up this whole fucking forest just for-”

“Baul, please,” Lilia sighed. “It’s been a long day. Let’s just get the kids back home.”

“Fine!” Baul threw his hands up and stomped off, muttering under his breath.

Lilia clicked his tongue and turned to the children. “You two, put out your campfire and follow us - and be quick. I’ll light the way with my magic.” Sebek and Silver’s pale faces shone faintly in the cold darkness, as white as the moon. They nodded dully, stunned from Baul’s outburst.

Lilia sprinted down the path Baul had taken, calling after the green and white hurricane crashing through the trees ahead.

“Baul, wait!”

“What!” Baul shouted without looking back.

“If you’d just stop for one second so I can apologize to you-”

“Apologize for what!?”

“For Silver!”

Baul finally stopped.

“I’m sorry, General, but what in the actual hell are you talking about?”

Lilia shook his head in exasperation. “Are you kidding me? I’m trying to apologize for what my child did. He caused you and your family a lot of trouble, so I-”

“Oh, for crying out loud. I was standing right next to you when he said sorry. He doesn’t need his damn pappy covering for his ass.”

“I understand that. But regardless, I need to take responsibility as his parent.”

The thick pillar of Baul’s neck tensed as he worked his jaw. “…You really do still think he’s just a little kid, don’t you?”

“What?”

“I said,” he growled, taking a heavy step forward, “you really still think he’s just a little kid. Don’t you?”

“Yes? He’s only thirteen, Baul.”

Baul blinked at him slowly. “You know, I’ll be honest with you. The day you brought that kid home and said you were going to raise him, I thought that was the dumbest thing I’d ever heard in my entire life. But that right there takes the cake.”

Lilia pinched the bridge of his nose. Clinging onto his last, frayed strand of patience, he hissed out through gritted teeth, “Would you please enlighten me to what it is you’re trying to get at?”

Baul spat at Lilia’s feet. His yellow-green eyes blazed like canary diamonds. “Your boy’s growing up, General. He’s becoming a man. The sooner you accept that, the better.”

Lilia scoffed. “You think I don’t know that? I just-”

“Bullshit! You know what I bet?" Baul licked his lips. "I bet you haven't even noticed he's already taller than you now, huh. All that fucking yapping you do, bragging about each and every little fucking thing he does, and not once have I ever heard you mention it.”

Lilia stared at him incredulously. He recognized the taunt - it was the same one Baul had attempted to provoke him with earlier that Summer, but as Lilia opened his mouth to rebuke him, he quickly closed it again, suddenly overcome by an almost paralyzing sense of apprehension. He's not taller than me... right? He tried to recall the last time he'd looked at Silver - truly looked at him, not in anger or in contempt; not as an object of his frustration nor the progenitor of his grievances; not begging him to please tell him what was wrong and to just talk to him already. He realized with a start it must've been months ago, before the sudden change in Silver's demeanor, perhaps around his birthday, or earlier, for he saw nothing more than abstract glimpses flash before his mind's eye, of Silver's back turned to him, of Silver storming away from him, enraged; of Silver snapping at him with heavy tears welling up in his opaline eyes. But still- No, it wasn't possible, he would've noticed. For what were the past thirteen years of him centering his entire life around the child if he had not? What right had he to call himself the boy's father, to claim the child as his son, if he had failed to notice something so monumental? His son was just a young boy with cherubic little cheeks and bright blue-grey eyes, who would beam at him with the most precious little smile - half-crooked, his thin lips pressed into a rosy crescent moon, and that was the truth. 

“That's not...”

Baul roared over him, drowning out the rest of his halfhearted response. “And now he’s sneaking off and lying to you and taking the blame for shit he didn’t do, and you honestly still think he’s just some dumb little brat who needs his pappy to wipe his ass for him!”

Lilia winced at each of his words, as though they were daggers striking his skin. Noticing the other man's sudden trepidation, Baul paused.

"Honestly, you just..." Slowly, he began summoning the patience one required when attempting to convince Lilia Vanrouge of his own failings, and as his anger dissipated, he thought suddenly of his daughter. His expression softened, settling halfway between a scowl and a lopsided smile; his voice softened, too. “I know how much you're hurting here, but my god, you seriously need to get your head out of your ass.”

Baul continued speaking, but Lilia could no longer hear him, could not wrest his attention away from the uneasiness still gnawing painfully at his heart.

Just then, Silver and Sebek emerged from the surrounding thicket, as if beckoned by Lilia's anguish. His gaze flew instantly towards his son.

The boy's face was filthy, covered in a greasy film of sweat and grime and dirt, with pine needles stuck to his forehead and leaf litter entangled in his hair, and a thin line of blood on his cheek where a branch had scratched him. The steely blue-grey eyes peering at him from above the sharpened cheeks evoked an almost hawkish appearance. He was angular, scrawny, gaunt - nigh spectral in the pale glow of the lantern in his hands. Who was this gangly youth? This stranger? Had his mental image of his son been all this time nothing more than an exaggerated caricature, a farce cobbled together months ago, or years, even?

“We got the campfire put out," Silver said, panting, trying to catch his breath. As he raised his arm and drew his sleeve across his wet brow, the pale circle of lamplight suddenly fell upon his father's face. His skin blazed bone white, and his bloodless lips, parted slightly, were frozen in a silent gasp, as though he were dazed; he looked cadaverous. Silver gulped and took a step back. "...Is everything okay?”

"Silver, stand up straight." Lilia's voice curled out into the chill night air like a fine mist, softer than a whisper, yet the pure animosity with which he spoke betrayed the threat underlying his words, so that the boy immediately drew himself to his full height without a second thought.

Lilia stumbled mechanically towards Silver and cupped his face in his hands, swept his eyes down from his chin up to his lips, to his nose, tilted his head back to meet the boy's gaze- Ah! There it was, Lilia felt it, felt the microscopic contractions in the taught fibers of his neck as he yawned his head back, hardly more than a few degrees, scarcely lifting it above his eye level, could almost hear them as they cried out in pain, and yet - he was looking up at his son! Lilia's palms suddenly grew cold despite the warm flesh they cradled; his hands moved on their own, weakly pressing into the face, as if making one final, feeble, desperate attempt to mold it into the infantile visage beginning to rapidly crumble inside his mind. He choked back a quiet sob and dropped his arms to his sides, receding a few steps away, visibly distraught. The whole torturous act had lasted but a mere moment, during which time Silver had stood petrified, as though caught in a trance. He now sluggishly raised his own hand and traced his cheek where his father had touched him. He shivered; his skin felt like ice.

Baul went to Lilia and spoke at him rapidly in fae language – talking too quickly for Sebek’s mind to translate, and wholly incomprehensible to Silver’s – before turning around and walking off.

Lilia stared at Silver again, opened his mouth after a moment, then closed it, deciding he would talk to the boy later, in private. Taking a deep breath, he began telling the children to follow him, but was interrupted by a thunderous crash off in the distance. The three of them pointed their gazes simultaneously to where the sound had erupted - a freshly felled pine tree, behind which stood a black shadow so towering the boys feared for a moment that it was the bear come to ambush them.

However, to their great relief, it was only Ma Zigvolt who stepped out into their lamplight, casually shaking off the pine dust from her hands. Upon spotting her son, her face broke immediately into a wide smile, while Sebek's, in turn, scrunched up as he began to cry.

“Mama!” Sebek wailed.

Ma Zigvolt rushed over and engulfed his small body between her arms. He nearly disappeared underneath her frame. “Oh, thank goodness!” she heaved, swaying gently as the tight coil of her nerves slowly unwound.

“Is everything… Okay…?” Pa Zigvolt panted as he emerged from the darkness of the forest a moment later. He coughed into his sleeve, and then gasped once he heard Sebek’s quiet sniffles floating out from the cage of his wife’s arms. The long search had exhausted him, had strangled his lungs and poisoned his mind with fear, but the boy’s hushed sobs invigorated something within him, rousing a force in his heart greater than even the weariness hanging heavy from his limbs like iron chains. He lurched forward, breathing heavily, taking one shaky step after another, stumbling as he covered a short distance that to him felt like miles. At last, he lifted his leaden arms and wrapped them as far as he could around his wife’s quivering back, collapsing into her with a sigh.

“Oh, thank goodness! Oh, thank goodness!” Ma Zigvolt whispered again and again.

Lilia and Silver watched them from afar. Silver soon looked away, awkwardness prickling at his skin.

Presently, Lilia cleared his throat, announced loudly that he and Silver would be leaving, and, after waiting a moment for Pa Zigvolt to wave them off, he turned to his son, and motioned with his head that it was time to go home.

Lilia threw himself on the living room sofa with a mangled groan. He and Silver had reached the clearing shortly after midnight, their long trip culminating in several grueling miles of Lilia carrying his exhausted son on his back, trudging almost bent in half for over an hour. He'd set aside Silver's portion of dinner that evening, a plate of sausage links and biscuits that had since grown cold, and this Silver bolted gratefully before excusing himself to take a much needed bath. Consumed with a sudden restlessness, Lilia busied himself while he waited, returning the animals to their enclosures, washing the pile of dishes festering in the kitchen sink, and straightening out the piles of books and toys and other various knick-knacks strewn across the living room. He went to rap his hand on the bathroom door after fifteen minutes had passed, concerned Silver might have fallen asleep in the tub, and, after receiving a quiet response, had staggered back to the living room, where his own fatigue finally struck him.

He clenched and unclenched his hands nervously, occasionally wincing as hot tendrils of pain shot up through his spine and flared out into hips. His thoughts flit rapidly between each of his aching limbs, between the anger, the fear, the sorrow that clouded his mind. While they were walking back home, he could hear Baul's words repeating over and over again, overlapping with Ma Zigvolt's remarks from a few weeks prior, and mixing together with his own, anguished thoughts that had paralyzed him as he'd finally realized how much his son had changed. A part of him, a part that he'd for so long fought to viciously stamp out and silence, knew that Baul was right, and that Ma Zigvolt was right, too. He realized now he just hadn't wanted to admit it.

When Silver at last emerged from the bathroom and came to sit beside Lilia, he did not react at first. The boy - the youth, his child, his son, the stranger - stared at him silently. His eyes, though sharper and slightly narrower than how Lilia remembered them, still bore that same, auroral hue that had first captivated him so many years ago, and he found himself being slowly drawn out of his frantic ruminations as he met Silver's gaze.

Folding his hands in his laps, he took a deep breath, and asked, "Alright, so what's the real reason you did all this? Because you were mad at me?

Silver fidgeted in his seat and nibbled at his lip. His eyes darted to a corner of the living room. "No. I mean, yeah, I was mad at you."

"Over what happened at the dance?"

Silver's gaze jumped to the other corner. "The dance and... other stuff."

Lilia recalled immediately all their quarreling from the past few months, the long days that would pass without Silver uttering even a single word to him, and the even longer nights where he could hear him quietly crying in his room next door. His heart ached for the boy. He reached out to drape his hand over Silver's. “Baby, you know I-“

Silver swatted his hand away and retreated further into his side of the sofa. “You’re doing it again!” he whined, his voice cracking.

"Doing what?"

"You keep treating me like a little kid!"

"You-!" Lilia swallowed his retort with a grimace. Exhaling slowly, he admitted grudgingly, "You're right, I am. And I'm sorry. I'll try to stop doing that."

Silver's jaw dropped open. He couldn't recall his father ever having conceded to him so easily before, if at all. Quickly recovering from his shock, he sat up straight and said, "Umm- I mean, yeah! Please do that." He crossed his arms and nodded sagely, with the air of one who has successfully negotiated for terms that are completely in one's favor.

"Now, I can understand you ran off because of what's been going on recently, but what about your behavior from the past few months?"

Silver uncrossed his arms and tilted his head quizzically. Noticing his confusion, Lilia explained he meant the very same quarrels that Silver had previously mentioned, as well as his sudden adoption of the moniker "Father".

"I dunno." Silver shrugged his shoulders. "I mean, the "Father" thing's 'cause Sebek told me about it a while ago."

Lilia blinked. "Told you about what?"

“He told me… Ah, wait.” Silver straightened his back and puffed out his chest, pointing his eyebrows sharply together like an arrowhead. “He said, “Silver! Why do you continue to refer to your father as “Papa”!? Are you not turning thirteen years old soon? It’s positively childish!”” Deflating into his usual stoic expression, he continued, “And then he told me if I wanted to be a real knight, then I need to hurry and grow up already.”

Biting back an incredulous snort, Lilia summoned as much tenderness his weary body could muster, and said, smiling, "Listen, you don't have to do everything Sebek tells you to, you know. You can call me 'Papa' all you want. If somebody doesn't like that, that's their problem."

"But I don't..." Silver looked away again. His voice dropped to a whisper, as though hoping that if he spoke his next words quietly, they would hurt his father less. "I don't want to."

Lilia's smile vanished. "You don't?"

"Uh-uh."

"...But why?"

"I just..." Silver frowned. "I don't know. You keep asking why I do this and that, but I don't know how to explain it. It's like every time I try to catch my thoughts, they up and fly away from me. And then you just keep on badgering me more and I just get so mad."

Silver had expressed similar sentiments numerous times before over the past few months, but although there were no stunning revelations to be found in his words, no breakthroughs to be made in understanding the transformation in his demeanor, Lilia, for the first time, listened to him. Lilia had stumbled blindly through that whole Summer, feeling as though he were trying to walk across quicksand, ever fearful that the next blowout with his son, that the next new symptom of his strange ailment would lead to some sort of irrevocable, irreparable damage to their relationship, but as he listened, he felt the ground beneath his feet finally, slowly begin to solidify at last.

They quietly conversed for half an hour longer, at which point Silver began to yawn and rub at his eyes, nodding off a few minutes later. Lilia stood up, intending to carry the boy to his room, only to immediately drop down onto the sofa again with a pained cry. Rubbing deep circles into his lower back with one hand, he leaned over and gently shook Silver awake with the other.

"Go on and get to bed. We can iron out your punishment some other time."

"Okay." Silver rose slowly, dragging his feet as he plodded down the hall. Standing before his door, he turned around and stammered, "I love you," before disappearing into his room.

"I love you, too." Lilia replied hoarsely, fighting to speak past the lump in his throat.

With a grunt, he lifted his leaden legs onto the sofa and lay down flat on his back, sighing pleasantly as the worst of his pain began to subside. For over an hour he drifted in and out of a restless slumber, after which he stiffly sat up, and, this time rising without issue, limped quietly across the floor and down the hallway to Silver's room, steadying himself with a quivering hand against the wall.

Silver lay fast asleep, sprawled out face down atop his barren mattress, his blankets and several of his pillows still scattered across the floor from Lilia's frantic search that morning. A soft smile tugged at Lilia's lips. He must've passed out as soon as he lay down, the poor thing. Not trusting he'd be able to stand up straight again should he bend over in his present state, he instead cast a cleaning spell, and watched as the blankets and discarded pillows silently rose from the floor and arranged themselves neatly into place on Silver's bed. His eyes flicked back to Silver as the emerald sparks of his magic began to fade away, but the boy did not stir.

He cupped Silver's cheek, swept his thumb across the warm skin, moved his hand up to his hair, and began picking out the bits and pieces of pine needles and leaf litter Silver had been too exhausted to comb out while in the bath. His thoughts began to wander again while he fussed with a difficult knot.

Loss had accompanied him all his life; it was as regular to him as the changing of the seasons, as inevitable as the mighty storm that had swept across their nation and all the other natural disasters that would someday follow. But when he found Silver, he'd believed, selfishly, foolishly, stubbornly, that here was something, the only other thing besides his own heart, that he would be able to keep for himself, that life could not take away from him. Perhaps therein lay the reason why he had tried for so long to remain ignorant of his son's maturation, why he had fought so desperately to prevent the boy from growing up, from growing away from him. But he knew now that he'd been wrong, for he had split his heart in half long ago - long before he had ever left the castle. One half he had given to Malleus; the other lay before him now, curled up against the palm of his hand, breathing quietly, the moon's silver glow shining faintly in his hair.

And though he did not have a name for it, he could feel as something new was beginning to slip away from him once again, just as the soft strands of moonlight slipped through his fingers.

“And that's okay,” Lilia breathed out with a shudder. “It'll be okay. And I’ll try. I’ll let go.”

Lilia brought his folding stool into the garden and set it down amidst a semi-circle of empty buckets and baskets he'd arranged between two rows of low bushes, and, after sitting down gingerly, careful not to agitate his back, began picking off handfuls of snap beans from the bush before him. It was the second week of August - time for the Summer harvest at last, and when finished here, he would move onto the squash and eggplants next, then the bell peppers and tomatoes, then the watermelon and strawberries; the sweet potatoes he would leave for Silver to dig up on his own. Having recently satisfied the terms of his punishment, during which period he'd spent several weeks completing additional training exercises and chores every day, Lilia had granted him a short holiday, and he presently lay fast asleep in bed. Though working on his own, he moved quickly, and filled two of his buckets by the time Silver awoke later that morning and approached him in the garden.

He'd already combed his hair and gotten changed, with his knapsack slung comfortably across his shoulder. He'd grown another inch in the past month, and his face seemed miles away as Lilia looked up at him.

“Father, may I visit the Zigvolts?" he said plainly, studying his father's face. "The robins told me Sebek got a new astronomy book he’s been wanting to show me.”

Lilia dragged his sleeve across his wet forehead and nodded. "That's fine. Will you be having dinner there?”

“No, I don’t plan to.”

"Alright."

While Lilia returned to his picking, Silver shifted uncertainly from one foot to the other, his gaze jumping between his father and the forest path beyond their home. After a moment, he licked his lips and asked, “Did you, uh, want me to wait for you?”

Lilia shook his head. He looked up at his son again and smiled.

“No, you go on without me.”

Song credits

“Twistin’ the Night Away” written and recorded by Sam Cooke

“I Wish You Love” recorded by Sam Cooke, written by Albert Beach

Title is taken from the Hannah Montana song by the same name.

Just for the sake of transparency, some parts of this fic took very heavy inspiration from Marjorie Kinnan Rawling's book "The Yearling", particularly the first two chapters.

[neonlight2]

The Hunt

Masterlist

***

This part of the story is not the original “hunting” scene in hotd. That has already occurred in Jaehaera’s timeline and will be referred to later in this piece.

***

Alicent waited that night.

For hours she sat next to her bed, continuously running her fingers through her hair to keep it neat. Presentable.

Her mind ventured throughout that time. She wondered what Jaehaera would tell her, why she wished to see her in the peak of night. Then she wondered what Jaehaera may look like at this time. Would she look any different than she did during the day? Had she changed since the last time they had spent nights together, usually accompanied by Rhaenyra.

That surely would change.

They would be alone this time, and Alicent could not decide whether that excited or saddened her.

But as she grew more tired, her eyes fluttering shut, her mind wandered farther. Deep into thoughts one mustn’t utter aloud.

She dreamed of what Jaehaera was doing before coming to see her. Her arms wrapped around her precious maid, who rumoredly took rest next to the princess every night. There was a joke amongst the other maids that Jaehaera kept her maid close to keep her cool at night.

Alicent couldn’t help but like the statement, for it in part called the girl what she saw her as— a snake.

This girl, this maid— this peasant. Suddenly she’s brought to the castle after one of Jaehaera’s visits to the brothels in the under city, and now everything is changed.

When once Jaehaera visited the brothels as commonly as the lords of court, feasting upon as many women as she desired, now it was a rare occurrence. And never does she take a maiden, nor does she leave her maid behind.

Where Alicent had stood beside her— in tournaments, banquets, and other events— the girl was there instead. She would whisper in her ear, making her laugh or setting a flame in Jaehaera’s eyes that anyone would envy— it made Alicent sick with it.

Oh and how she reeked of jealousy. It poured from her like a the stench of a dying animal.

What had the girl done to deserve such a gift. Was her voice truly so powerful as to bewitch the most witty person Alicent had ever known? Was her tongue so delicious that it would not allow Jaehaera to be bored of it? Or was her skin so soft that Jaehaera would rather cut her own off then not touch it for a moment?

It must be that, Alicent thought to herself. Perhaps Jaehaera had grown tired of her wounded hands. But then— was the rest of her not smooth enough? Had she not been adorned with the finest oils, or not enough of it?

Surely the maid could not make better conversation. Compared to Alicent’s education, it must be totally different. But maybe that’s what Jaehaera liked. She was never fond of the court’s limitations.

Yet she was always fond of intelligence.

So if it wasn’t that it must be some other connection, something that Alicent could not relate to. Maybe it’s their beginnings, she thought. They can relate to one another, being from the undercity and no doubt both orphans—

There was a knock at the door.

Alicent jumped at the noise and ran to the door like a child to their mother.

Opening it, she saw Jaehaera there, a drunken smile on her face. The princess embraced her and twirled her around, giggling like a madwoman, yet Alicent smelt no alcohol on her as her body enraptured hers. When the door had been shut by Jaehaera’s foot, and she decided to let Alicent go— much to her destain— the girl could now see why she was so happy.

Jaehaera dawned a blouse, loose fit, made for a man. That was of no surprise to Alicent, nor were the marks that littered her neck, down to the valley between her breasts that could be revealed at any sudden movement. What surprised Alicent, and truly made her mouth sour, was the necklace that laid upon the princess’s sternum— or rather the ring hanging off the rope of gold.

“Oh Ali how I’ve missed you,” Jaehaera professed, joining their hands, subtly glancing them over. Her smile grew twice the size as she raised them to her lips. “I’m over joyed to see you’ve been taking care of yourself.”

Alicent nodded, eyes flickering between Jaehaera’s eyes and chest, barely aware.

“I was scared that you would have kept at it while I was away. I was away so long this time,” Jaehaera said with a deep sigh, apparently not content with the prospect. “I didn’t mean for it to take so long, but Daemon can be a hassle as you know. I desperately missed father, Rhaenyra, you, and Edeline. God she would not let me hear the end of it— I will will never be gone so long again.”

That’s when Alicent swallowed the lump in her throat, no longer able to hold her tongue. “I’m happy to hear it, it was unbearable with you being away— have you always had this Jaehaera?”

Her hands quickly grazed the ring, old and plain looking, very evident rust showing around the rim. The feeling of it made her skin crawl, and Alicent almost gagged.

Jaehaera smiled so wide it made Alicent’s jaw groan as she held the ring out to show her further. She dawned it like a trophy of some kind, caressing it as if it were meant to shine. “No, Edeline just gave it to me.”

“Oh?” Alicent pushed, urging Jaehaera further into her room. “A welcome home gift I suppose?”

“No actually,” the princess laugh, settling docilely onto Alicent’s bed, “it’s meant to keep me from ‘flying off’ without her.”

She couldn’t bare to look at Jaehaera anymore, knowing she wasn’t able to conceal her emotions in front of the girl. Instead she decided to take her place, behind her princess and caring for her luxurious hair which had grown exponentially since she had last tended to it.

“Isn’t that sweet of her, I imagine it was a good sum from her as well— perhaps I should thank her for the rest of us that long for you to stay here in Kings Landing.”

“Oh Aly,” Jaehaera practically purred as Alicent massaged her scalp, leaning further into the girl, “you know I could never stay here forever.”

The statement made Alicent still.

“But I thought you said…”

“Of course I’ll always return, but I cannot be kept in one place for very long Aly. You know that. It makes me feel trapped— caged.”

Alicent clenched her jaw, looking down at the girl now laying against her chest. Her eyes were shut, without a single flutter, and she wondered how she could possibly be so calm after saying something like that, admitting that she would never settle, that she would rather die on her dragon than live amongst the rest of them.

And as much as she hated to admit it, the only thought Alicent had that consoled her was imagining leaving with Jaehaera. If she wasn’t going to stay with her, would it not be fair to ask to go along? To run from Kingslanding just as she was?

It’s not possible.

“I suppose Edeline will be just as heartbroken as the rest of us when you leave again,” she said, going back to weaving her fingers through Jaehaera’s hair, scratching her scalp, down to her neck.

Jaehaera bit her bottom lip as she shook her head, turning to face her friend. “No that’s the point Aly,” she crawled to the girl, giddy in nature with no regard for person space to which elated Alicent, “Edeline will be going with me.”

There was the smell again— the dead animal.

“What?” Alicent asked, eyebrows twisted in beguilement.

Jaehaera giggled at her surprised reaction. “I’m taking her with me. I promised to take her to Dorne first because her father was Dornish, or at least that’s what her mother told her—,”

Alicent braced herself against Jaehaera’s arms, as if to ground herself. “No, I mean, Jaehaera you cannot just take her with you—,”

Scoffing the princess sat up, looking down at Alicent with a playful look. “Of course I can. Why could I not?”

Alicent’s brain was searching for any reason possible.

“Has she ever truly been on a dragon? And for that long?”

“She adjusts easily, and Shrykos loves her.”

“Can she even speak—,”

“I will translate for her. Edeline learns quickly anyway so it wouldn’t take that long to teach her.”

“Will she really be any help?”

“She takes care of me.”

So do I.

“Think of her health—,”

“I always do, I treat her myself.” Alicent’s teeth grind.

“The palace may need her.”

Jaehaera’s head tilted as she looked closely at Alicent’s face, now growing pink, and her playful expression morphed into something that made Alicent anxious.

“Of all the palace maids, why would the palace need Edeline?”

Gulping Alicent looked down at her dress, “She’s well known, the maid like her, they look up to her. Anyone can tell, and if you were to take her there might be a disruption—,”

A sigh left the towering girl, “I’m sure it would be fine, within a week everything would be just as it was, and a small “disruption” would not hurt—,”

“She is the crown’s maid Jaehaera—,”

A yelp left Alicent’s throat after Jaehaera grabbed her jaw, forcing her to look up into those flaming gold eyes.

“She is free.”

Alicent’s lips parted to try and speak, but Jaehaera’s hold only tightened.

You mean she’s yours, she wanted to say.

“You speak like him now,” Jaehaera stated with void eyes. “While I find your jealousy slightly amusing and even adorable, I can’t stand when you act like him.”

Jaehaera let the Hightower girl go, breaking away from the twisted embrace they had created.

“Please—,” Alicent launched herself forward, grabbing Jaehaera’s arm. “Please don’t leave, I’m sorry, I just miss you terribly.”

Stilling, Jaehaera looks back at Alicent with an inquisitive expression. “Just ask.”

“What?”

“All you have to do is ask Aly, and I’ll do it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s okay to want to fly too,” Jaehaera insisted gently, tucking the stray hairs framing Alicent’s face, “Ask me to take you away, and I will.”

Swallowing her shame, Alicent’s face glows red at being exposed. She shakes her head, mimicking her stutter, “I-i cannot. It just isn’t done—,”

“Says who?” Jaehaera asks, her head tilting and growing closer to Alicent’s by the second. “You have done your duty Aly. You have three children. Who will stop you?”

“The King—,”

“My father would bid you goodbye with a smile if it is what I wish.”

“B-but my father—,”

The princess braces Alicent by her face, making her look into her burning eyes. “He wouldn’t dare question any of it.”

Alicent could feel the tears lining her eyes. Here she was, in the arms of the one of the only true people she has ever felt love by, this is her dream, yet she cannot let herself give in to the freedom Jaehaera offers. And she doesn’t know why.

Alicent juts her chin out of Jaehaera’s grasp, sniffling back her distress, and packing it to the back of her mind. She wipes her face and stares at Jaehaera with a solemn smile, almost as if she were consoling her instead of herself.

“I’m the Queen. I cannot leave.”

Jaehaera’s smile dropped, and the veil that Alicent knew to well to confuse fell over her face.

Alicent could not think of another time she had seen Jaehaera look this disappointed, let alone in her.

It felt like ages watching Jaehaera stand, and an even longer eternity as she caressed Alicent cheek on last time, allowing her thumb to wander to her lips.

For a moment Alicent could have sworn she thought Jaehaera might kiss her. She could even feel her eyelids growing heavy and her lips parting as the thought entered her mind.

It was only after a few seconds too many passed, that she realized that Jaehaera was truly staring at the scars lining the inside of her lip where she had bitten instead of her hands. In that moment, she knew that Jaehaera had seen her. All of her. Even that which she tried to keep hidden.

“Oh Aly,” Jaehaera whispered, her words dripping with enough sympathy to burn Alicent’s eyes further. “The Queen of whom?”

Alicent couldn’t remember when Jaehaera had left exactly. All she could remembered from the rest of that night was writing a letter to her father.

***

“Lords and Ladies of the court! I welcome my daughter back home!” Viserys yelled, standing from his raised chair, mutely mimicking the iron throne.

All noblemen from the court and knights of the kings guard surrounded the royal family. Raising their cups filled with ail, they toasted to the princess standing beside the King. She dawned black leather armor that matched her hair and the hilt of her sword lying heavily against her hip. It was almost comical the sight, if one weren’t used to it. The princess having just reached eligible age standing close to a foot taller than her father.

Daemon stood to her left, as he always did, while the realms delight sat on her right. Rhaenyra’s hand holds onto Jaehaera’s like an anchor as she beamed at the two.

Coughing, just enough to get her father’s attention, Jaehaera interrupts Viserys seemingly never ending appraisal of her.

“Are you alright my dear?” Viserys asks, placing his hand on her shoulder to look her over. “You’re not overexerting yourself are you? I knew we should have let you rest after such a great feat. We can always postpone the hunt until you’re well—,”

“And make them all wait, father,” Jaehaera smiled reassuringly at him, “I’m fine. I’m merely sparing everyone’s ears from your rambling about me.”

Huffing, Viserys waves the thought off. “Fine, off with all of you then!”

Giggling like a giddy child, Jaehaera kisses her father’s cheek before dragging Rhaenyra up with her. “Come on Nyra, let’s show these boys how it’s done!”

“Feeling competitive are we princesses?” Daemon asks with a smirk, following after them with lazy strides.

“Why of course Prince Daemon,” Jaehaera replied playfully, tugging Rhaenyra close to her, “who would not take the honor of competing against you?”

Daemon scoffed, rolling his eyes at the girls laughter before giving Rhaenyra a boost onto her horse. He was about to do the same for Jaehaera, despite her protests— he would throw her over his shoulder if need be— but alas another interruption appeared.

“Jae—Jaehaera!”

The tiny voice made the princess’s head turn, but it was only after feeling something grip her leg that she found its source. She could not help but laugh at the scene.

“Oh my,” Jaehaera squatted down to the height of Aegon, rustling his white hair, “quite energetic this morning aren’t you little Prince?”

“Please take me with you before I have to go back!” He pleaded with those big, sad puppy eyes. If it weren’t for his past guilt tripping manipulation toward the maids, which often resulted and them giving him cookies before his supper, Jaehaera might have been persuaded.

She could feel the two sets of eyes watching her every move behind her, waving them off with her hand. “Go ahead without me, I’ll find you. Keep an eye on Nyra for me will you Daemon?”

“We can wait—,” Rhaenyra tried to say, but it was all for not.

“I’m giving you a head start, don’t make me change my mind.” Jaehaera warned in a teasing tone, winking at the little boy in front of her. “Don’t worry, I’ll win anyway.”

She could hear Daemon muttering slight comment about her vanity in an endearing tone, but as their voices trail off, she knew they had listened to her .

“Now, who is gonna make you go back Aegon?” Jaehaera asked, a fake serious expression taking over.

Aegon points to the carriages being loaded up to head back to the castle, covered in green. Otto returning no doubt, he’s always hated the outdoors. Something else to make him a snob Jaehaera thought.

“Mother insists we all leave, but I don’t want to! I want to hunt. I’m strong I promise!”

Jaehaera’s eyebrows furrow, glancing up to the seat where Alicent had once resided in, next to Viserys. “Your mother huh?”

“Mhm! But I know you can convince her. Pretty please Jae! I’ll be good I swear.” Aegon whines and pleads.

Finally Jaehaera spots Alicent, passing Heleana to the nearest maid who takes her and tiny Aemond to the carriage. It takes only a few seconds to see Aegon is no longer by her side, and it almost seems to put Alicent into a frenzy. Her head shoots up, looking practically everywhere, pushing passed servants until her eyes land upon the pair sitting on the ground.

Jaehaera recognizes the panic in her eyes, and she wonders where it comes from. Of course, everyone knows that the first target would be the first born son of the king— if not Rhaenyra— however, only a fool would go after the prince surrounded by the King’s guard along with Daemon and Jaehaera around. So why would she possibly be so worried?

Kissing the boys head and petting his stray hairs down, Jaehaera stands Aegon up along with her. “You should listen to your mother,” she says, gesturing for him to go to Alicent. “I’ll take you hunting another time little Prince.”

“But-!”

“Don’t be spoiled now,” Jaehaera teases, shooing him off so she may mount her horse, “go on.”

Reluctantly, the boy waddled off to his mother, pouting up a storm no doubt. The princess couldn’t help but snicker at his tiny stomps toward the carriage, where he begrudgingly let himself be picked up and hauled into it. Alicent’s demeanor matched her son’s, except Jaehaera could swear that the girl wouldn’t look her in the eyes, almost as if she felt guilty for something.

Perhaps she had been too harsh last night, Jaehaera thought.

A loud horn interrupted her train of thought.

The hunt has begun.

She’d have to apologize later.

***

Even as a child Jaehaera had always felt a weird connection to nature. Feeling calmed by soil and grass against her bare feet, relaxed by the wind flowing through her hair, and rejuvenated by any water that hit her skin. She’d often wander off to the woods when she could, away from the undercity. Most of the time she’s have to leave at the dead of night, when she knew her past owners were asleep, or rather— passed out in an alleyway from drinking far to much.

All with money that he derived from selling her mother’s body to other men. And if she hadn’t run away and found her way into the castle that fateful night, she would have been next.

She was much younger then, but her mind was old in its nature. She knew what her mother was, but Jaehaera thought her the most beautiful woman she had ever known. She knew her father beat her as a child because he didn’t have enough money to survive, thus taking his anger out on her and her mother. All of that she could often make sense of because it was human.

But there was always things she could not understand.

When she did wander off to the woods, she couldn’t understand why she could hear a piercing screech far away as she climbed the trees. Jaehaera couldn’t understand why all her scars would scream against the hot stones she rested against, but she knew that’s how they would heal quickly. Why? She did not know. But they always did.

And something that she could truly never conceive was how she had never died during any of those visits into the woods. Of course, she would not have cared. She’d rather be eaten by wolves than men. But she was so unbelievably small, so frail, and so very helpless. If they had wished, the wolves could have torn her apart in seconds, leaving the remains for the foxes and birds.

Yet, they never had.

Jaehaera could always feel their eyes on her, something else she could not explain, but they never so much as growled at her.

Perhaps she was too small, not appealing nor appetizing enough to even approach.

Or perhaps it was that beautiful fawn she had seen. So purely white, the very sight made her want to cry as a child. The horns had barely begun to peak from its head, but she knew that they would be magnificent.

Its eyes were a shade of gold she could not yet seem to put into words. Of all the places she had been, never had she seen such a color. And it had stared right into her, into the depth of her soul for what seemed to be hours on end. It was only when Jaehaera had noticed the sun coming up and broken the gaze herself that the dawn ran away.

She wouldn’t see that deer again, but she knew from Rhaenyra’s description that they had seen the same beast.

The day Rhaenyra shared that memory with her, Jaehaera vowed to aid her in obtaining the throne.

***

“Come on now Dae!” Jaehaera yelled back jokingly. “At least try to keep up, don’t want to show your age Sir Strong!”

There was a grand thunder of horses running there way back to the camp, hoping to receive a prize for whatever game they had managed to acquire.

Jaehaera lead the charge with Sir Harwin and Daemon in toe. Both wished to take the cocky princess down a peg, but neither seemed to be able to rally their horses enough motivation.

Even while carrying two boars and a large, old stag, Jaehaera’s black stallion would not slow down. It was wild, and onlookers would say its eyes were filled with competitive rage.

It didn’t take long for Jaehaera to finally make her mark, huffing with a wide smile as she pat the side of her steed. “Good lad,” she praised, making sure to reward him with apples and varied vegetables she had shoved in her satchel.

She made quick work, jumping off her horse and cutting the ropes holding her game. Before the men could dismount, she hurled the beasts to her father’s feet.

Smiling up at him with sweat running down her temples, Jaehaera bowed. “For my King.”

“I do wish you would stop insisting on doing that,” Viserys replied, standing to bring her into a hug. He was just glad she wasn’t scathed. “You did very well child.”

“She’s a little cheater brother! Don’t be fooled.” Daemon huffed with a teasing smirk.

“Don’t be a sore loser brother.” Viserys warned warm-heartedly.

“She stole my stag!” Daemon countered with an offended tone.

“You were taking far too long,” Jaehaera scoffed. “Not to mention with your aim that poor creature would’ve been in pain for far longer than it had to be.”

Cooing at her care for the animal, Harwin let his weight fall upon her as he rested his arm against her shoulder. “Always so sympathetic. Why can’t you be like that with us on the training field?”

“You are men, they are animals.”

“Your point?”

“I will hurt you Strong. Don’t test me.”

“Jaehaera!” Rhaenyra feigned a shocked tone as she joined the small good, watching as the bickered.

“He started it Nyra! He’s trying to rile me up again.”

“What?! I’m only asking a qu—,”

“You know damn well what I mean you ass,” Jaehaera laughs as she elbows him playfully in the ribs.

Grinning earnestly at the interaction, Viserys stops the banter he knows will never end without an interruption. “What do you wish for your prize my dear?”

Pushing Harwin the the side with a final laugh, Jaehaera bites her bottom lip. Her expression mocked that of a child asking for sweets, anyone could see she knew exactly what she wanted.

“I wish to make Edeline my—,”

“MY KING—!”

The camp, buzzing with voices and laughter or clinking cups, went silent at the desperate scream. A young servant ran toward the group with nothing short of distress.

“My king!”

Immediately Sir Harwin and Jaehaera took a step forward, shielding Viserys and Rhaenyra. But it would seem they would not need to when the servant fell to his knees.

“There has been an attack,” he heaved out, breathing laboriously.

“An attack?” Rhaenyra whispered behind them, gazing down at the boy.

Nodding his head furiously, the boy spoke again, “In the castle, I came as quick as I could—,”

“Who was attacked?” Jaehaera and Daemon seemed to echo.

“The Queen.”

This gathered everyone’s attention.

“Alicent—,” Viserys’ voice dropped into worry. “What about the children—?”

“They were all with the midwives your Majesty,” the servant replied quickly. “It was just Queen Alicent.”

“Have they apprehended the attacker?” Harwin asked, seemingly the only clear minded individual amongst them.

“Yes, it was a maid—,”

“A maid?” Jaehaera’s eyebrows raised.

The boy nodded again but this time his eyes met the ground.

Jaehaera could not wrap her head around it. The servants surrounding Allison had served her since she was a child. They all loved her. Who would do such a thing?

“Was it one of her personal maids?”

“No, your highness.”

“Than who—,”

Jaehaera felt someone hand on her shoulder, and she turned to meet Daemon’s eyes. The ones she knew she’d always be able to read. And they were telling her what she had not dared let her mind go.

It’s not possible.

“What was the maid’s name boy?” Viserys asked, not noticing the interaction, nor apparently reading any of the expressions surrounding him.

“It was—,” he glanced at Jaehaera, hesitant to speak. Everyone in the castle knew. They all knew.

“Say the name boy, I won’t ask again.”

“Edeline, your Majesty. It was Edeline. Lord Otto is questioning her right now…”

Jaehaera could practically feel her heart stopping in that moment as she swallowed the acid slipping up her throat. Shaking her head vigorously she practically ran to her horse, turning out all the voices behind her, “It’s not possible,” she chanted to herself as she rode to the castle.

Oh how she wished she had been right.

•••

Sorry for the wait guys, life’s been a bitch 

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Silmarillion Daily - Of the Finding of the Elves

This was one that struck me hard on the reread, because the parallels between Oromë encountering the Elves for the first time, and Finrod encountering Men for the first time in Beleriand, are so strong.

In both cases, they come upon them while hunting, on the edge of the eastern mountains, when they hear them singing:

And on a time it chanced that Oromë rode eastward in his hunting, and he turned north by the shore of Helcar and passed under the shadows of the Orocarni, the Mountains of the East. Then on a sudden Nahar set up a great neighing, and stood still. And Oromë wondered and sat silent, and it seemed to him that in the quiet of the land under the stars he heard afar off many voices singing.

Finrod Felagund lord of Nargothrond journeyed east of Sirion and went hunting with Maglor amd Maedhros…In a valley among the foothills of the mountains, below the springs of Thalos, [Finrod] saw lights in the mountains, and far off he heard the sound of song.

In both cases they see these new people and love them not in spire of, but because of, the fact that they are different from themselves:

And Oromë looking upon the Elves was filled with wonder, as though they were beings sudden and marvellous and unforeseen…And Oromë loved the Quendi, and named them in their own tongue Eldar, the people of the stars.

Then Felagund, standing silent in the night-shadow of the trees, looked down into the camp, and there he beheld a strange people…Long Felagund watched them, and love for them stirred in his heart.

Here is where things diverge - and I think this is very intentional on Finrod’s part. He grew up among the Valar. He would have heard the story of Oromë first encountering the Elves hundreds of times, and he’s suddenly found himself in a parallel situation. And he would remember from the story how so e Elves reacted when Oromë, a Vala, suddenly appeared among them:

Yet many of the Quendi were filled with dread at his coming; and this was the doing of Melkor. For by after-knowledge the Wise declare that Melkor, ever watchful, was first aware of the awakening of the Quendi, and sent shadows and evil spirits to spy upon them and waylay them. So it came to pass, some years ere the coming of Oromë, that if any of the Elves strayed far abroad, alone or few together, they would often vanish, and never return; and the Quendi said that the Hunter had caught them, and were afraid…Thus it was than when Nahar neighed and Oromë indeed came among them, some of the Quendi hid themselves, and some fled and were lost.

And some of these elves who hid or fled were captured by Melkor and turned into Orcs.

So Finrod thinks of this, and decides he doesn’t want to risk startling them and thereby endangering them. So he waits until they are all sleeping, and then goes down and plays music, and because of the beauty and the dreamlike feel of things, they are not afraid and don’t run.

Now men awoke and listened to Felagund as he harped and sang, and each thought that he was in some fair dream, until that he saw that his fellows were awake also beside him; but they did not speak or stir while Felagund still played, because of the beauty of the music and the wonder of the song.

In a way, it’s no wonder that Men at first mistake Finrod for a Vala - he’s reliving the experience of the Vala who first discovered the Elves, and he’s trying (and succeeding) to use that history to do better. And this continues in his later dealings with Men. The Valar gave the Elves a binary choice: come to Valinor and we’ll teach you and keep you safe, or stay in Middle-earth and you’re on your own. But Finrod leaves the choice up to Men: Bëor wants to come with him to Nargothrond, the others choose to stay in Estolad, later generations come to live in Dorthonion, and he does his best to look out for them and advise them whichever of those choices they make. I suspect he’s thinking of the history between the Elves and the Valar again here, and wondering what might have happened if the Valar had taken a different approach.

Now, that does not last. The Valar were not able to keep the Elves free from harm even in Valinor, and Finrod, who does not have a Vala’s power, is still less able to keep them safe in Beleriand. But he’s doing the best he can. And I think it’s the shock of that moment in the Fen of Serech, when not only is he unable to get to Dorthonion to help his little brothers and the House of Bëor, but the men of the House of Bëor are saving him and losing their lives doing it, that prompts his oath to Barahir. On the flip side, for Barahir, you can contrast this reaction to that of Fëanor and many of the Noldor at the Darkening. The Darkening is when the Noldor realize the Valar can lose; and the Bragollach is similarly when Men see that Elves can lose. But because Men’s relationship with Elves is already to some extent a collaborative one, seeing them lose just makes them seem more ‘human’ rather than prompting the sense of betrayal the Noldor seem to have felt towards the Valar.

[disabled-dean]

Asterism of an F-Series Ford Pick Up- 17k

Now with BELOVED amv by @butch--dean 🖤

Summary: When you've been to hell, desire is isolating and ugly.

Or: Cas drives his truck for a case and Dean is exceptionally horny about it.

“Once on a hunt when he was a teenager, Dean had been caught too close to an explosive when it had gone off. There had been the moment when the projectile hit, and the moment when it had detonated. And just before it had, there had also been a moment when he had believed that maybe it wouldn’t.

He had thought about that moment for years, over and over again, until something else had taken its place. And the way that that moment was quiet, the way it was still- that is how this feels. To lie beside Cas in the bed of his truck, their shoulders barely touching.”

Follow @deancastruckwip for bonus content <3

Ten Minutes From Home: Lebanon Coda- 71k

What does John see when he looks at Cas?

Cas doesn’t look like a monster.

But neither does Dean.

John stands, slow. He holds out a hand. Calloused like Dean’s hands are calloused. Scarred the same way that Dean’s hands are scarred. There’s the smell of him in the air too. Earthy and dark, slightly sour around the edges. The room feels suddenly choked with it. Claustrophobic.

Cas probably smells like the fabric softener they buy in bulk at Costco, but so does Dean so he can’t tell.

John says, toneless, “I hear you’ve been driving my car.”

. . .

The closer you are to what you want—

Dean's twenty-nine year old mother, his undefined relationship with Cas and their small family. Some kind of impossible reconciliation with John Winchester. Michael, out of his head, without destroying the world. His father's approval. To see the Grand Canyon.

—The more vulnerable you are.

Follow @lebanon-wip for excerpts, inspo, and bonus content, or track the 10MFH tag <3

An Easier Softer Way WIP 38k

Recovery!natural. Injured after the hell rescue goes wrong, Dean ends up disabled and living in a small rural town in Eastern Washington. With Sam fucked off to god knows where and without the fight to distract him, Dean has nothing left to focus on but his burgeoning sobriety, and persistent dreams of hell.

Set in the arid low-lands of the river valley, surrounded by apple orchards and twisting irrigation canals, Dean becomes convinced he can see a great beast stalking through the hills bordering the town. The same beast he has dreamt of since returning from hell, the same one he can sometimes feel beside him when he knows that he’s alone.

Walking the line between grief and reality, isolation and community, Dean has to pull together what's real and what isn't as he adjust to his disability, and finds faith that he is capable of building lasting relationships and creating a life for himself worth loving.

Also eventually Cas shows up, and they save the world.

He’s still debating just getting the fuck out of there when a women at the head of the long table clears her throat, and starts to read from a laminated print out. The edges of Dean’s vision blur out a little. He has to leave. He has to- the woman is still reading. Dean tunes back in in time to hear, “-At some of these we balked. We thought that we could find an easier, softer way. But we could not."  Here, the speaker pauses, and Dean feels like she looks right at him. But she doesn't. She just gives the laminated sheet a little shake, clears her throat and continues, "With all the earnestness at our command, we beg of you to be fearless and thorough from the very start.” And no one could ever call him a coward. So he stays.

Honestly the most plot I've ever worked with (and very deeply personal) so this one could be a while. @aneasiersofterway for inspo, vibes, and bonus content.

[yoonavii]

𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐈𝐀

Gladiator Prince! Eustass x Warrior princess! Reader

Story description: Y/n, a skilled ice warrior from the frigid kingdom of Nosta, and Prince Eustass, a ruthless gladiator prince hailing from the enemy nation, the Modora Empire. Their two nations have a long history of conflict and animosity. However, when a dire situation calls for a political marriage to secure peace, Y/n and Eustass find themselves bound together in a union neither desires. As they navigate the treacherous path of diplomacy, they must confront their own prejudices and the weight of their peoples’ expectations. Through adversity and danger, the icy walls between them slowly begin to melt, and they discover unexpected connections and feelings, transforming their initial enmity into a deep and passionate love of the ages.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑

As the carriage races through the unforgiving winter terrain, driven by giant snow wolves accustomed to such harsh conditions, you find yourself caught in the chaos of the storm. Despite the violent rocking and jostling, you manage to sleep soundly, occasionally twitching and jerking as your maid covers you with additional blankets. The wolves, relentless in their speed, propel the carriage forward, ensuring no delays or accidents disrupt the carefully planned journey. In your slumber, you drift into a vivid dream, a haunting flashback to your younger years spent hunting in the wintery forest mountains alongside your late mother, the queen of the Nosta kingdom. The dream unfolds with both of you perched in tall trees, bows and arrows in hand, scouting for prey. Your mother, a mentor and guide, coaches you on aiming with precision. In the dream, younger you attentively listens to her instructions, but a misstep in the tree branches sends you plummeting from a great height. The impending impact vanishes as you abruptly awaken, your body instinctively going into defense mode. In the waking world, you clutch your hidden axe, the weapon concealed beneath you.

Your maid, alarmed by your sudden movement, implores you to calm down. Fear etches her face as she tries to reassure you, the residual tension from the dream lingering in the air. In the dream, your mother's voice resonates, offering guidance and comfort. "Focus, my dear. A true warrior learns from every stumble….." The dream's echoes fade, leaving you grappling with the lingering emotions and memories it stirred.

———

As hours and days passed, the harsh winter weather yielded to a more temperate climate, signaling your arrival in the Modora Empire's territory. The coachman skillfully slowed the wolves, bringing the carriage to a gentle stop. A well-deserved break was in order, not just for the wolves but for everyone in the caravan. The subsequent carriages, carrying royal guards, additional maids, and their belongings, also came to a halt. Your personal maid greeted you with a cheerful "Good morning" as she assisted you out of the carriage. Returning the greeting, you acknowledged everyone around you. Other maids hurried over, armed with lighter and more comfortable clothing suitable for the warmer climate. They worked efficiently, swiftly transforming your appearance and enhancing your natural beauty.

Spotting your loyal bodyguard and friend, Law, you greeted him with a warm hug. Despite his initial stiffness, he accepted the gesture. With a chuckle, you inquired about his experience during the journey. Law, typically stoic, couldn't hide his dissatisfaction, expressing his disdain for the snowstorm. Your laughter echoed, a moment of shared amusement amidst the challenges of the journey. As you survey the surroundings, your eyes are met with a breathtaking sight – lush green valleys adorned with vibrant flowers. The spectacle of nature's abundance is a stark contrast to the snowy landscapes you're accustomed to back home. In the Nosta Kingdom, greenery was a rarity, with the closest semblance found in the herbs that thrived within the confines of mountain caves. The vibrant hues and fragrant blossoms of the Modora Empire's terrain unfold before you, a testament to the diverse beauty that exists beyond the icy kingdom you once called home.

In the midst of the serene landscape, two large wild boars emerge, seemingly lost from their group. Towering in size compared to the hogs of the Nosta kingdom, these creatures are a testament to the diverse environments within Modora's territory. The prospect of their sizable meat and fur doesn't go unnoticed, and you signal for your prized bow and arrow, a cherished possession passed down from your mother, the queen. Crafted from steel and adorned with ancient engravings, the bow carries a legacy. As you ready your arrow, the boars, sensing the impending threat, hasten their retreat. Undeterred, you take off in pursuit, the maids cautioning you not to venture too far falling on deaf ears. Closing the distance, you seize the opportunity, sliding gracefully on your side and expertly angling the arrow. With precision, you release the shot, striking the boar's stomach and bringing it down. The successful hunt is both a display of skill and a reminder of the resourcefulness required in these unfamiliar lands.

"Whoa! This boar is bigger than I thought," you exclaimed, approaching the fallen creature with a mix of awe and accomplishment. Pressing your foot on top of it, you deftly retrieved the arrow. The other hog, sensing the danger, had fled, but the success of the hunt assured that there would be plenty for everyone. The soldiers, swift in their response, caught up and took charge of retrieving the hog. It would soon find its way to the traveling party's chef, who would expertly skin and prepare it, ensuring a savory addition to the journey's provisions.

————-

As the aromatic meal is prepared, you find a solitary spot, turning your gaze away from the bustling activity and toward the expansive landscape ahead. The weight of your arranged marriage begins to settle in, a reality that transcends the title of a regular princess. You'll not just be a princess but the crown princess, destined to become the future queen of an empire you've grown up harboring resentment against throughout your life. As Law joins you with a plate of food, you both sit in silence, savoring the meal while taking in the scenery. In a moment of shared understanding, you set down your food and share your thoughts with him. “If this marriage and alliance go south, I’ll make a massacre of the emperor and his son. Take over the empire by force,” you assert, a steely determination in your voice.

Law, without hesitation, responds, “I’m with you on that.”

But then, a shift in tone as you contemplate an alternate scenario. “If things go okay, I’ll be a good queen— well respected and greatly feared” you declare, hinting at the intricate balance you envision for your future rule.  Grinning, you turn to Law, sharing a promise amid the uncertainty. “When I marry the prince, I’ll make you one of their generals. Your swordsmanship and talents deserve recognition,” you declare. Law, caught off guard by the offer, blushes and stammers out a heartfelt thanks. As you finish your food, you get up and head towards the traveling party. With a commanding presence, you stand tall over your maids, a stature inherited from your mother. Communicating your desire for an unforgettable first impression, you guide them in selecting attire that blends regality with practicality, evoking the spirit of a warrior. Among the items retrieved is a wolf fur cape, once worn by your late mother. Its significance adds a layer of strength and legacy to your ensemble. As the maids fumble with the weight of your crown, a chuckle escapes you. With effortless strength, you retrieve the imposing crown, made of iron and copper, placing it firmly on your head.

With the axe holster now secured on your back, you deftly retrieve your formidable axe, the metallic 'shing!' marking its readiness. Suddenly, a distinctive sound interrupts the serene atmosphere – the quick pattering of paws in the distance. Instinctively, you raise a hand, signaling for silence. From the shadows emerges a wolf rider, accompanied by none other than your loyal polar bear dog, Lucie. Filled with exuberance, Lucie hastens her pace, reaching you in a joyful collision, showering you with affectionate licks. The wolf rider dismounts, kneeling before you, and removes their goggles. As recognition dawns upon you, a smile graces your face – it's Sabo, an old friend returned.

—————-

The castle buzzed with anticipation as the news of Princess Y/N's imminent arrival spread like wildfire. The grandeur of the Modora Empire's palace contrasted starkly with the icy realm she came from. Prince Eustass found himself caught in the whirlwind of preparations.

His adviser, a man with an air of urgency, guided Eustass through the halls. "Remember, Prince, this is more than a political move. It's a step towards peace," the adviser said, emphasizing the significance of the occasion. Eustass, cloaked in thoughts of his father's condition, responded with a stoic nod. The maids, skilled in their craft, surrounded him, adjusting the royal armor and draping intricate fabrics. Overheard conversations revealed the excitement of the cleaning maids.

One of them whispered to another, "I heard the princess is as stunning as the snow-capped mountains." Eustass, overhearing, couldn't help but smirk at their animated discussions. In the midst of the primping and preening, Eustass's right-hand man, Killer, lounged nearby, munching on grapes. "You seem thrilled about the impending union, Killer," Eustass remarked, glancing at him. Killer smirked, "Just looking forward to the festivities is all." He tossed a grape into the air and caught it skillfully.

As the maids continued their meticulous work, the adviser stressed the diplomatic implications. "This union will solidify the peace treaty and reshape the geopolitical landscape, your highness." Eustass, in a moment of introspection, muttered to himself, "Political maneuvers... a dance I never fancied." The maids finished their preparations, leaving Eustass adorned in regal attire. He straightened his posture, preparing to meet the princess who would play a pivotal role in the empire's future.

—————

You swing yourself onto Lucie’s back, her white fur warm beneath you. Sabo, atop his wolf, rides beside you as you resume your journey. Lucie nuzzles against you, a sign of her loyalty.

“So, what did you bring for me?” you ask, curious about the luggage Sabo retrieved. Sabo grins, “Well, let’s say you’ll be delighted. And Lucie here insisted on tagging along. Seems she can’t stay away from her favorite person.” You pat Lucie’s head, appreciating her company. “I’m glad you’re here, Lucie. And Sabo, you’re quite the courier, aren’t you?” Sabo laughs, “I couldn’t let you go without your things. Plus, I wanted to see you off properly.” As the carriages continue their journey, the trio of friends rides alongside, sharing stories and laughter amidst the changing landscapes.

The scent of blooming flowers fills the air, a stark contrast to the crisp, icy fragrance of Nosta. The vibrant colors of the blossoms paint a lively picture against the backdrop of the Modora Empire's more temperate climate. Lucie, sensing your curiosity, sniffs the flowers, her large nose brushing gently against the petals. "Sabo, Law, have you guys ever seen anything like this?" you ask, marveling at the newfound beauty surrounding you. Sabo shakes his head, "Not in the Revolutionary hideouts, that's for sure." Law, a man of few words, simply observes the scenery, appreciating the change in atmosphere. The carriages carrying your belongings and maids move along smoothly, adjusting to the shift in terrain.

As you ride, the landscape transforms from fields of flowers to open meadows, and the sight of grazing animals comes into view. The variety in the empire's flora and fauna is captivating, a testament to the diverse climates that exist within its borders. Lucie continues to amble forward, her fur adapting to the warmer weather. You take a moment to appreciate the newfound warmth, the gentle breeze playing with your hair. The sun casts a golden hue across the landscape, creating a serene atmosphere. It's a stark departure from the harsh winters of Nosta, and you find yourself intrigued by the mysteries that await in this unfamiliar land.

————

The colossal gates of the Modora Empire towered before you, adorned with statues that showcased the empire's might and opulence. The gladiator warriors, sculpted in imposing stances, greeted all who approached with an air of authority. The glistening gold helmets atop the statues hinted at the empire's wealth and grandeur.

Lucie trotted alongside your carriage, the snow wolves pulling it seamlessly through the gate entry. As you entered, the imposing guards, clad in formidable armor, scrutinized your presence. Their intense gazes met yours, but you maintained a stoic demeanor, refusing to be intimidated by their imposing figures.

The carriage rolled deeper into the heart of the empire, the architecture becoming more intricate and sophisticated with every passing moment. The bustling streets, lined with vendors and citizens going about their daily lives, painted a vivid picture of the bustling empire. Despite the grandeur, you couldn't shake a sense of apprehension, wondering how you would navigate the intricacies of a culture so different from your own. The bustling crowd, a mix of intrigue and discontent, pressed against the path as your arrival drew their attention. The diverse and prosperous surroundings hinted at the complexity of the empire. Royal guards formed a protective barrier, clearing a path for you and your entourage toward the palace.

Among the onlookers, children tried to squeeze through the crowd to catch a glimpse, their curiosity evident. However, in the commotion, a young girl got pushed to the ground. Your keen eyes caught the incident, prompting you to halt Lucie and step down. The crowd hesitated, creating a brief pause in their murmurings. Approaching the fallen girl, you crouched down and extended a helping hand. The onlookers watched with a mix of fear and curiosity as the young girl accepted your gesture, saying a sincere "thank you" with a smile. Your reassuring demeanor eased the tension, and with a nod, you returned to Lucie, resuming your journey through the vibrant yet complicated empire.

The steep entry stairs unfold before you, each step revealing more of the grandeur of the palace. The air is charged with a mix of anticipation and uncertainty as you ascend, accompanied by Law, your unwavering bodyguard. The intricacies of the palace's architecture become increasingly apparent, from finely crafted pillars to the detailed carvings that adorn its structure. The grandness of the palace leaves an indelible mark on your senses, making your heart race with a combination of awe and trepidation. The clash of emotions intensifies as the reality of meeting your long-standing enemy and future husband, within the confines of your parents and ancestors' historic adversary, sets in. Amidst the grandeur, Law casts a reassuring glance your way. His words, soft but steady, remind you to calm your nerves, assuring you that he stands by your side. 

A posh-looking man, draped in opulent fabrics, extends a courtly greeting as you approach the entrance door. "Your Highness," he says with a bow, "I am honored to be your guide in our imperial palace. I am Lucius, the emperor's adviser." Lucius then gestures gracefully toward the grandeur beyond the entrance. "The Emperor, The Queen Mother, and the Crown Prince are eagerly awaiting your arrival in the throne room. They are keen to meet the esteemed Princess of Nosta." As you nod in acknowledgment, Lucius leads the way into the palace, detailing the architectural wonders that surround you. The halls are a tapestry of influences, blending the grandeur of Greek and Roman styles. Pillars adorned with vibrant vines and exotic plants create an enchanting passage, setting the stage for the grand audience ahead.

While guiding you through the regal expanse, Lucius shares tidbits of information about the palace's history, the imperial family, and the cultural nuances that define the empire. The dialogue flows seamlessly, offering you glimpses into the rich tapestry of the Modora Empire's traditions and grandeur.

Lucius, with a slightly awkward tone, cautions you about the Queen mother's traditional perspectives and her keen observations. "Her Majesty holds certain views close to her heart," he explains. "She may take a particular interest in observing you, so I advise you to be mindful of your actions." As you process this information, Lucius leans in a bit closer, offering an additional warning. "And when you meet the Crown Prince, please refrain from staring into his eyes for too long. It is considered... unconventional. You'll understand once you're inside." Before you can inquire further, the imposing throne room doors swing open, revealing the regal space beyond. Lucius gestures for you to enter, and with a deep breath, you step into the grandeur of the throne room, prepared to face the eyes of the imperial family.

The throne room unfolds before you in a display of grandeur. Nature intertwines with regality as pillars and plants frame the scene, accentuated by a gentle waterfall and stream. At the center, the imposing thrones stand tall—the Queen mother gracing one side, the emperor in the middle, and the crown prince seated on the other. As you step into the room, the Queen mother rises from her seat, a striking figure of elegance despite her age. Adorned in gold jewelry and rings on every finger, she exudes a commanding presence. The emperor, resembling his mother in appearance, acknowledges your arrival with a nod, while the Crown Prince, seated with a composed demeanor, observes quietly. The air is charged with a mix of curiosity and formality as you approach the imperial family.

The Queen mother, adorned in glimmering gold, approaches with an air of authority. You resist the traditional bow, standing tall with your father's crown. The jingle of her jewelry echoes through the room as she inspects you. "Open your mouth," she commands. Reluctantly, you comply. Her fingers delicately touch your jaw, scrutinizing your teeth. The metallic glint of a silver tooth catches her attention. She inquires about it, and you explain the cultural tradition of silver teeth for princesses in your kingdom. The Queen mother, undeterred, reveals that in Modora, royalty can opt for pure gold teeth. The moment carries the weight of cultural contrasts, but you maintain your composure.

As the Queen mother settles into her seat, the emperor initiates conversation with a polite greeting, his imposing presence not lost on you. Your inner conflict intensifies, knowing that your parents perished due to him and his forebears. Inquiring about your journey, the emperor maintains a veneer of courtesy. His gaze shifts to the guards, and with a wave, he dismisses them from the room, even prompting Law's departure, leaving the space private for the impending discussion.

You hold a contemplative expression, your gaze focused on the emperor. "During the journey, I had time to reflect," you begin, the weight of the situation evident in your voice. "While I am not thrilled about this arrangement, I understand the potential benefits for my kingdom. Our people are suffering, and a union could bring about much-needed stability." The emperor listens intently, acknowledging your words with a nod. Before the emperor could speak again, Prince Eustass interjects with a skeptical tone, “Benefits? What benefits could the Nostians possibly offer us, except for plundering our wealth?” You meet Eustass’s gaze, maintaining your composure. “It’s not about taking wealth,” you calmly correct him, “but rather establishing a trade that could provide our people with food and water. The Nosta Kingdom is known for its herbalists and medicinal expertise. In exchange, we seek sustenance for our people. It’s a matter of survival and prosperity through cooperation.”

Eustass grunts in annoyance, averting his gaze as his pride takes a subtle hit. The emperor, discerning the tension, takes the initiative to address the situation. "My sincerest apologies for my son's behavior," he states with a hint of regret. He then shares the unfortunate news of the empress's absence, bedridden due to an ongoing illness. In response, you empathize with the emperor, revealing a shared experience of parental illness. "My parents faced a similar fate," you explain, noting that a cure had been discovered but arrived too late. The room holds a heavy atmosphere, acknowledging the weight of the past.

Feeling the need to express gratitude and respect, you gracefully lower yourself to both knees, hands clasped in your lap, and bow your head. "I am thankful for this alliance," you convey, your words carrying the burdens and hopes of the Nosta kingdom. The emperor listens attentively, and in this shared moment of vulnerability, the foundation for understanding and cooperation is laid. The Queen mother gracefully approaches you, a maternal tone in her voice as she encourages you to rise, addressing you with an almost motherly affection. As you stand, the emperor, seeking to lighten the mood, playfully remarks about not expecting such a formal gesture until the wedding. This comment sparks laughter between the emperor and Queen mother, forming a warm atmosphere in contrast to the looming tension.

However, the jovial moment only fuels Prince Eustass's frustration. He abruptly leaves his throne, storming off and forcefully slamming the grand doors behind him. His anger still lingers, and the impending marriage remains a sore point, evident in the echoes of his disgruntled departure.

The emperor, visibly frustrated by his son's outburst, mutters a curse under his breath. Swiftly, he snaps his fingers, summoning two guards into the room. They approach, asking for the emperor's orders. "Make sure the prince doesn't leave the palace." The guards bow in acknowledgment before promptly leaving to carry out the command. Apologizing once more, the emperor turns his attention back to you. "I apologize for my son's behavior. He's not accustomed to such arrangements. Please understand, Princess."

Suddenly, a wave of uneasiness washes over you and the Queen mother’s now concerned gaze comes to view. “Are you feeling okay, my dear? Any lightheadedness or unusual sensations?” Attempting to respond, you open your mouth, but your voice falters, and nothing comes out. The edges of your vision blur, and an unexpected surge of heat envelops you. In a swift response, the emperor steps forward, his voice carrying urgency, “Her body is struggling to adapt to the empire’s climate!” He calls out for maids, and they hurriedly rush into the room just in time to witness your legs giving way. They swiftly catch you before you completely collapse.

Amid the commotion, the queen mother’s worry deepens, and she issues instructions, “Gently now! take her to a cooler room—Prepare a damp cloth. We need to help her acclimate to our climate!” The maids follow her orders, guiding you out of the room as the emperor watches with a mix of concern and regret on his face.

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈— Any sign/evidence of plagiarism made from outside this name will be dealt with by whatever means necessary. Legal action may occur if non fanfiction works are plagiarized.

[accultant]

⚰️ - A dream/nightmare that featured someone no longer in their life

━━★. *･｡ﾟ✧⁺ dream hunting in the valley of the in-between

Iago pretends to inspect the dagger in their hands while Bhaal's latest gift is delivered to the altar. They can hear the victim trying to fight, scuffling against the stone floor and screaming through what must be a gag of sorts. They don't watch this part, they never do. They're too cowardly to look into the faces of their victims. It's easier to end it quickly, without thinking or feelings. A prayer, a jab of the knife, and they can call it a day and go back to their office until it's time to prove themselves again.

They've gotten better at closing themselves off to it - for the first few years, they would shake so bad they could hardly hold the blade, they'd always mess up the angle so it would take multiple tries before their gift would stop squirming, they'd pass out or get sick before the end of it all and Puck would have to carry them back to their room and help them wash off the blood. By now, they've learned how to hardly be present at all during such a display.

The body is thrown across the altar and locked into place. Iago doesn't watch this, either, still examining the dagger, but they know the script like the back of their hand.

As always, they glance at Puck, first, who gives them a small, practiced nod of encouragement. It's a habit more than a comfort at this point, but one they cling to.

Only after that, does Iago begin, their voice dead, unfeeling, and distant to their own ears, "Bhaal awaits thee."

The knife twirls around to point the tip downward, clasped firmly in their hands that still shake despite their years of practice, "Bhaal embraces thee."

Their arms rise above their head and swing back down to accurately sink the blade into the heart of the one below, "None escape Bhaal-"

Honey-gold eyes lock onto theirs and the air is stolen from their lungs. Vigor. He isn't supposed to be here. This isn't right. He's gone. They haven't seen him in months. That should mean he's safe from them. He isn't supposed to be here. He was never supposed to be anywhere near here. He belongs in city streets and shops open late with a bribe and flipping coins into wish fountains and laughing at their stupid jokes. He's almost unrecognizable draped across their altar and bleeding. He shouldn't be here -

The light is already fading from those eyes when they snap out of their initial shock, dropping the knife like it burned them. They started to choke, whispering, "No. No, no, no, no, I didn't mean to- why- why are you-"

Murmurs rippled across their audience, the Bhaalists always looking for reasons to critique Iago's performance. "I didn't know- I didn't- you're not supposed to be here- Oh, gods-"

A handful of attendants start to approach to dispose of the offering and Iago shields him although he had already gone limp. Puck is the only one who manages to hold them back as they kick and scream, their only friend's corpse taken away to be thrown atop the others.

When they wake, they're still screaming themselves sick and spend the rest of the night washing their hands and obsessively checking their door to insure it was still locked, the wards still intact, and they hadn't left in the night. It was only a dream. They hadn't seen vigor in almost a year now. They hadn't a clue where he was, and sometimes, that could be a relief. He's safer anywhere but here, at least.

[elaho]

Stardew Valley MBTI x Enneagram: Leah

Following my last post about the Stardew marriage candidates and their MBTI types, I've been learning more about Enneagram, how it pairs with MBTI, and how it changes some of the typical characteristics of each type.

The Enneagram and MBTI complement each other wonderfully, providing greater depth and understanding of how a person interacts with the world [Cognitive Functions] and their motivations why [Core Desire/Core Fear].

Here are my thoughts on Leah's MBTI and Enneagram pairing.

Leah - INFP 4w5: “The Bohemian”

“INFP 4w5s are very independent people. They are often reserved and detached from their surrounding. INFP 4w5 may also be interested in arts and music. This type is often on a quest to find their true selves. Thus, they might struggle with self-identity. There is often a conflict between logic and emotion.” – Personality Hunt

Leah’s Core Desire: To be unique and independent

"The basic desire of the INFP 4w5 is to be unique and independent. To achieve this, INFP 4w5 tends to do things they find fulfilling. Feeling satisfied and passionate about their life appeals to them the most." - Personality Hunt

“So why did you become a farmer?”  Answer: It's more "real" than living in the city “That's pretty much the reason I came here, too!”

"One Summer, it was so hot during the night that I got out of bed and jumped into the river! I hope no one saw me!”

“I don't make art for money. It's just an urge that I have.”

Leah’s Core Fear: To be ordinary and insignificant

"The basic fear of the INFP 4w5 is to be ordinary and insignificant. They simply do not want to be like everyone else or find themselves stuck in a profession they are not passionate about. INFP 4w5 are afraid of not finding themselves." - Personality Hunt

Leah's desire to be unique doesn't mean she wants to be unique for its own sake. Her strong Introverted Feeling [Fi] need to be authentic coincides with her desire for individuality, to be true to herself regardless of external pressure or expectations.

This doesn't mean she's immune to pushing against the grain to stand out from the crowd or resist control, but it's much more of an internal battle between who she is and how she can contribute in her own special way.

"We had an apartment together, back in the city. I did odd jobs during the day and spent all night working on art projects... we barely made enough to scrape by. He was always nagging me to go back to school and study business or medicine... something with a lot of money in it.

I guess the idea was to save up for a normal life. You know... a house in the suburbs, kids, PTA meetings... that sort of thing. I wasn't ready for that kind of life, Farmer... I had to leave. So I came here to pursue my dream of being an artist.”

“But what if no one likes my sculptures? I'd be crushed...I'll have to think about it.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------

How Enneagram 4w5 changes typical INFP behaviour:

New Strengths

1. More Logical

"INFPs are feelers by their very nature. While this is true, INFP 4w5s will use more logic when making decisions.

Some INFP 4w5s might use logic when dealing with a particular set of problems and emotions when dealing with others.

However, you can just sense that they are not as emotional as [typical INFPs]." - Personality Hunt

Leah approaches life from a much more logical angle than most INFPs. However, emotion is still important in understanding and navigating the world. The fusion of both logic and emotion gives Leah a more balanced and holistic perspective when facing challenges or analysing scenarios.

Examples:

"I hate to be blunt, but if we don't treat nature with respect, our grandchildren will be doomed. Don't you think so?"

"... I just wouldn't have been happy back there [living with Kel]. It was better for both of us... to end an unsustainable relationship while we were still young and flexible.”

“Maybe you're right... Humans are selfish creatures. I don't know. I probably shouldn't dwell on it. We all have to make hard choices from time to time.”

“I made a little wood sculpture today, but it was so ugly I threw it into the fire. I think to become a great artist, you have to be critical of your own work.”

2. More Detached and Aloof

INFPs are naturally introverted, but because of the INFP 4w5s wing, they may be even more introverted than others. They often need extra time to process and digest their inner thoughts and emotions, making them appear aloof and indifferent.

It's not that they don't care, they just have a lot on their minds that must be contended with before they can be fully present with someone else. INFP 4w5s can appear to be INTPs in this respect.

Examples:

"Please don't feel like you have to spend all your time with me now that we're dating... I know you're a busy person!”

"Do you ever walk out into the forest... Pause... And simply enjoy the beauty of nature? It's easy to forget how incredible this world actually is...” “Sometimes, a strange feeling comes over me. My head becomes totally empty... and I feel completely at peace, even blissful. Hey, now! It has nothing to do with drinking wine!”

“Good morning! I got up early and did some mushroom hunting. Here, take one. Searching for mushrooms is like going on a treasure hunt. It's a lot of fun.”

3. Drawn to Academics

"The presence of wing 5 makes this type really curious. Thus, they often find themselves drawn to academics. Again, this largely depends on the strength of their wing. It is not a given that every INFP 4w5 will like academics. However, they certainly have some sort of inclination towards it." - Personality Hunt

Leah isn't interested in traditional academics like philosophy or mathematics but in various painting techniques and historical art styles. She also has books related to foraging and natural sciences in her cottage library. Her quest for knowledge is much more practical than it is theoretical.

Examples:

“You can use a tapper to harvest syrups and other useful liquids directly from trees. It's a slow process, but the result can be quite valuable.”

"The flowing water keeps my house a little bit cooler in summer. I can't tolerate heat very well.”

"Hey, Farmer... what style do you think I should do? I'm up for anything...Hmm... not my usual style, but I'll give it a shot. I'd better switch to acrylic paint for this one...” "Now, don't forget the techniques I taught you... broad strokes, hold the brush like so...”

4. Abstract Ideas and Endless Theories

The combination of an INFP's Extroverted Intuition [Ne] and their type 5 wing makes INFP 4w5s absolute suckers for abstract theories and ideas.

INFP 4w5s love having deep conversations and discussions; they are fascinated with endless possibilities and potential and can go on for hours and hours about them.

Examples:

“The shape of the waves here is awe inspiring. I wonder if I could ever capture that sort of formlessness in a sculpture.”

"There's nothing wrong with [natural wood]... I think there's lots of beauty to be found in raw, untouched nature! But as a human, I'm also interested in how we shape and interpret the world around us... I guess what I'm saying is that I'm interested in 'art'.”

"Do you ever wonder what it's like to be a different person? Do our thoughts manifest in a similar way, or is it radically different? Don't mind me, I think about weird things sometimes...”

"The flow of time is so delicate... even the tiniest decision changes the future forever."

5. The Need to be Self-Sufficient with Finances

"INFP 4w5 wants to be self-sufficient. Thus, they crave having their careers and handling their finances. They do not just want to handle their finances. They want to be great at it. Because of this need, they will avoid running into endless debts.

To them, being self-sufficient is one way they show how unique they are. They also don’t want to settle for just any job or career.

For INFP 4w5, it’s all about what they are passionate about and love." - Personality Hunt

Examples:

"I sold enough art at that show to get by for another year... that's all I needed!"

“If my art continues to sell online like it has, I'll be able to keep making art forever. That's always been my dream.”

"Maybe you're right... my life would've been a lot easier if I had stayed. Maybe it's better to be practical and realistic... for all I know my art career will never pan out and I'll live my final years in squalor.”

New Weaknesses

1. More Isolated

"INFPs enjoy their alone time. They love to spend these moments reading a book or just being alone. INFP 4w5s take this to another level. They can stay alone for long periods.

When the INFP dark side is strong, this can be a big problem. INFPs are one of the types that have issues with anxiety and depression.

Being isolated simply does not help this situation." - Personality Hunt

Leah spends a lot of time alone by herself. She lives alone in a small cottage outside of town and can be found painting or drawing deep in the forest or isolated tidepools.

While she does enjoy her time by herself, her self-isolating tendencies could lead to more serious mental health problems if left unchecked.

Examples:

“I've realized I'm happier by myself. So just leave me be.”

“Hello, neighbor. We both live outside of town. Does that mean something?”

"It's simpler to be friends with the trees. They don't have much to say.”

2. Less Considerate

"INFPs, in general, are known to be the sweetest people you can find. However, INFP 4w5s are a bit different. They are more likely to avoid people’s emotional troubles.

They are more likely to avoid people and the issues they bring, like the plague. This might make them seem emotionless or inconsiderate of people’s issues.

However, INFP 4w5s are still INFPs. So, deep down, they care more than you think." - Personality Hunt

Examples:

"Hi. Oh, you want to talk. Farming seems like a very rewarding profession. You get to create delicious food for everyone! You're probably busy. Sorry.”

"I found some wild fruits this morning! Sorry, I don't have any left. Keep looking, I'm sure you'll find something."

3. Self-Absorbed

"INFP 4w5s often seem very self-absorbed. They are often thinking about their interests and their future. Thus, they might not seem to care much about others and what they are facing.

This is largely because of their type 4. Thus, INFP 4w5 might seem like INFJs in this respect. While they are often self-absorbed, this does not necessarily mean that they don’t care. They just want to [understand] themselves." - Personality Hunt

INFPs have Extroverted Sensing [Se] blindspot, meaning they can have difficulty being aware of their external physical surroundings in the moment, including the emotions and reactions of others.

This can make them more clumsy or daydreamy, but this 'detachment from external reality' can also allow them to put all their energy and focus into a performance or activity.

Leah can be self-absorbed at times, but her self-absorption doesn't necessarily come at the expense of others' needs or emotions. She merely "feels" life deeply and seeks to understand what those thoughts and emotions indicate about herself and the world around her.

Examples:

"I guess everyone in town was scared of that strange rain? I had no idea... I just thought it was incredible!”

4. More Stubborn

"INFP 4w5s are much more stubborn than your normal INFP. This usually shows when their values are tested. INFP 4w5s will often resist any attempt to control them or make them do things that don’t sit right with them.

The level of resistance might be surprising to people who don’t really know them well." - Personality Hunt

Examples:

“I'm still fuming about the picnic... what a weirdo! Let's never talk about... that person... ever again.”

"Kel...How many times do I have to tell you? I don't want to come back to the city! Stop calling me... I don't want to hear from you anymore!”

------------------------------------------------------------------

The INFP 4w5 Female

"There’s a valid reason to consider the INFP 4w5 female in closer detail. In the world we live in, societal beliefs often shape people’s lives. One personality that silently fights against the norms and beliefs of society is the INFP 4w5 female." - Personality Hunt

1. Sexual Preferences

“INFP 4w5 females are unique in their sexual preferences. Unlike other enneagram types that might be more drawn to one particular preference, things are different with them.

You’ll find them all over the place. Some will even identify as asexual. This is possibly down to their need to be different or unique. They also understand themselves on a much deeper scale.” – Personality Hunt While many of the other bachelors and bachelorettes have more self-exploratory dialogue depending on the farmer’s gender [such as “I’ve never felt this way about _______ before”], Leah’s dialogue by contrast seems to indicate that she is much more aware of her sexuality independent of the farmer.

Her story seems to diverge depending on which gender the farmer is:

If the farmer is a boy, Leah learns to overcome her fear and distrust of being in a long-term relationship with a man again. Some may suggest that Leah has a more solidified preference for women; however, based on the dialogue differences between male and female players, I believe Leah's choice to be with the male farmer isn't about her sexuality but about overcoming her distrust of men. The pain of being trapped in a traditional lifestyle she didn't want for herself comes back if the male farmer starts to show a sexual interest in Leah in her 2-heart event. These memories trigger her core fear of not being 'unique' enough if she's in a heterosexual relationship /traditional family again, causing her to lash out, calling the farmer a "pig" and kicking him out of her cottage.

However, if the farmer is a girl, Leah's desire is to assert her independence and 'unique' sexuality away from her ex, from which she moves on to the female farmer relatively easily without the same fears or obstacles; she doesn't chastise the farmer for their sexual advance in the 2-heart event but rather confirms their mutual sexual preference.

For these reasons, Leah's heartbreak dialogue is much more 'soft' towards the female farmer than the male farmer:

Male Farmer Dialogue

[Creepy Kiss] “You pig! Get out!”

[Multiple Girlfriends] "I... I thought you were different than other men...”

"KEL: Seriously, Leah... What are you doing out here with this simple-minded bumpkin?” “Farmer's a better man than you in every respect!”

Female Farmer Dialogue

[Creepy Kiss] “Oh! You're...? Me too. That's good to know.”

[Multiple Girlfriends] “You tricked all of us into thinking we loved you... You're horrible...”

"KEL: Seriously, Leah... What are you doing out here with this simple-minded bumpkin?” “Farmer's a better person than you in every respect!”

Stardew Valley leaves the romance candidates’ sexual orientation up to player interpretation [as do most dating sims]; however, like Alex's story, I believe Leah's story has a slightly different meaning on which gender the player chooses for the farmer.

2. Autonomy

“They need to be independent. With males, this is not usually pronounced because most males tend to be drawn to masculinity. However, INFP 4w5 females will be silently loud about independence.

Backed by their Fi, they’ll make their own decisions and stick with them. This is one reason to admire them.” – Personality Hunt

"Kel...How many times do I have to tell you? I don't want to come back to the city! Stop calling me... I don't want to hear from you anymore!”

“I don't make art for money. It's just an urge that I have.”

3. Creative

“All INFPs are creative. However, INFP 4w5 females are just on another level. Backed by super warmth and a natural nurturing spirit, their creativity just hits differently. With enough discipline, it can create a lot of career opportunities for them.” – Personality Hunt

"Good morning, Farmer. I've planted these in a little pot out back... I grew that with great love and attention. Enjoy it.”

“Do you ever get cold in that farmhouse of yours? Stop by my cabin if you want to huddle under one of my quilts and drink cider.”

"I wonder if I could make a collage out of dried leaves? They're just so colorful... I can't help but think of the potential for art projects.”

"I haven't named this one, yet. She started out as an exercise in human anatomy, but I ended up seeing her through to completion. Her expression is intentionally unclear... is she embarrassed, amused, pained? I'll leave that for you to decide.”

4. Intense

“INFP 4w5 females come with a lot of intensity. It’s easy to miss because most times, they are even more introverted than their male counterparts.

However, getting to know them will expose you to their rich intense world. If you’re not careful, you might even be overwhelmed.” – Personality Hunt

I’m not a 4w5, but as an INFP female, I can tell you with certainty that we can go from 0 to 100 REAL QUICK! However, most of us know how intense our inner worlds can be, so we do our best to ‘temper’ our intensity to prevent scaring people away.

But know that there’s no greater compliment from an INFP than to be brought into their rich inner world; we don’t share that secret part of ourselves with just anyone.

"It's simpler to be friends with the trees. They don't have much to say.”

“Do you ever wonder what it's like to be a different person? Do our thoughts manifest in a similar way, or is it radically different? Don't mind me, I think about weird things sometimes...”

"If you ever find any interesting looking driftwood, I could use it. It would be special that you gave it to me.”

"The trees have been begging for this rain... I'm happy for them."

"Did I ever tell you... when you first moved here I had a dream that we'd be together someday."

"Sometimes it's hard not to believe in destiny... the fact that I decided to move here, and that we found each other. It could've gone entirely differently at any point."

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Conclusion

Leah is one of the most beloved bachelorettes in the Stardew Valley community, and it's not difficult to see why.

She is a warm and empathetic person who cares deeply about the natural world and lives in harmony with her environment. She is a dreamer who [like the farmer] wants bigger and better things than to follow the corporate rat race and live a miserable life without any real meaning or purpose.

She leaves everything she knows behind: her steady job, her apartment in the city, and her ex-boyfriend/girlfriend, all to pursue her dream of becoming a real artist. She dreams of pursuing art somewhere she feels connected to people and nature and can contribute something special in her own way:

“I first visited this valley as a little girl, while on vacation with my parents. I knew I had to come back some day… This place has great artistic potential!" "Hmmm… interesting. I guess that could set the wheels in motion to making Pelican Town a true art destination…"

Although she is afraid that her artistic dreams will result in devastating failure, with the love and support of the farmer - first as a friend, then as something more - Leah takes the leap to showcase her artistic talents to the world, knowing that no matter what happens, the farmer will be there to give her the unconditional love and support she's always needed.

"You know, I just realized something. Even if my art career is a flop, I'll always have a friend to catch me on the way down."

Do you agree that Leah is an INFP 4w5? If not, what type do you think she is? Let me know your thoughts in the comments :)

--------------------------------------------------------------------- References:

Personality Hunt: INFP 4w5 - The Complete Guide

[mollywog]

Not new, but Since we’re talking Everlark in Different Districts…

Read on Ao3

He’d been 5 the first time he’d heard it. They were in one of the fenced yards District 13 used for aboveground recreational time. He'd been holding his father’s hand, watching his brothers wrestle when the first bird had flown over. It wasn’t the usual chirps and chittering, but high and clear notes intoning an unmistakable melody.

The next bird that passed echoed the song but in a slight variation, taking up the harmony.

His father’s grip tightened as he inhaled sharply. His brothers stopped their tussling and craned their necks to see the source of the sound. Even his mother, though her mouth pinched in a frown, stared up at the sky. Peeta scanned the faces of the crowd: Everyone frozen as if under a trance, the entire yard falling silent as the flock of mockingjays passed.

The mountains reverberated a final somber echo and the spell was broken.

This wasn’t the first nor the last time this anomaly occurred.

The District’s official position was simple: a genetic defect in a Mockingjay allowing it to remember a single song and repeat it back at random, inspiring a whole flock's tune: a mutation.

They had all seen the maps. The closest district was hundreds of miles away: the mockingjays would have grown tired or forgetful of even their favorite melody on their journey and the space in between the districts was harsh and uninhabitable. Where else could the song originate? The District knew best and the citizens knew not to question, so the official opinion was adopted, but that didn’t stop the stories.

Everyone had a tale of fortune or sorrow connected to the tune. That very night, his father had spoken of a girl he had known: her disappearance on a rare day when the music had returned. For his father, the melody forever inexplicably linked to the lost girl.

Some swore it predicted a good gather, a fortuitous hunt, or clear skies. The older children whispered terrifying tales to the younger: a rite of passage before their time in the woods. With two older brothers, Peeta had heard them all.

By the age of 12 a rotating job assignment were added to their daily schedules. If in any other district a twelfth birthday meant a slip in the bowl for the annual reaping, 12 was old enough to contribute to the workforce in District 13. Peeta along with the other 12 year olds had spent weeks in training, preparing them for their shifts: in the kitchens, in the woods, in the laundry room.

Over the years, the leaders of the district had established hatcheries, green houses, and herds of animals all underground, but of course not everything thrived there, so they sent gathering parties and hunters to collect what they couldn’t support. He had been paired with his brother, but when in the woods Matti felt his time best spent in pursuit of the girl he admired: Too perturbed by their father’s tale to let her out of his sight above ground. Peeta didn’t mind: his fascination with the woods far exceeding his fear.

He was alone and lost in wonderment over the alternating patterns of light and dark that the sunlight falling through the leaves cast when he realized the woods were eerily silent; void of even the usual chirps, until he heard the faint echo of a song. Not any song but the Mockinjay’s song. It had been months since anyone had mentioned the birds or their melody.

His feet moved of their own accord. He wasn’t thinking straight enough to be scared as he approached the direction of the crescendoing sound. He crested the hill and that’s when he saw her.

She stood by the lake in the valley bellow, face towards the sky, eyes pinched shut as she sang the song the mockingjays mimicked. The sun at her back casting a glowing orb around her, wild strand’s escaping her single dark braid. He could almost believe he was dreaming; but his dreams were never this pleasant and so full of light.

Shifting his weight, a branch splintered under his foot.

The birds registered the sound first, letting out a bellow, wings in a frenzy of feathers, as they took flight. It was another moment before the chaos cleared and he could again see the girl. Frozen, eyes wide, she resembled the frightened rabbits he stumbled upon: terrified, trapped.

He opened his mouth to speak, not having the faintest idea what he would say, when she turned and ran; a flash of yellow released from her grasp as she took flight like the birds that now echoed her song. Disappearing into the woods, out of sight, seemingly forever.

The melody had disappeared with the birds and the sun slipped behind a cloud throwing the landscape into a dulled affect after just being so clearly golden. He cautiously approached the spot where she had stood. Reaching down he picked up the yellow flower the apparition had dropped. He held it delicately: a taraxacum officinale, the only tangible proof of what he had witnessed.

He pressed the remnants of the flower between his pocket field guide, taking one final look at the empty forest, before turning away, back towards home.

🩶🩶🩶

“Does anyone live in the woods?” All week he’d gathered his courage to ask the question.

“Of course not! What kind of fool are you? Have you not been paying attention in school?” His mother’s words came quickly with a bitter edge.

“Yes mam” he mumbled and dropped his eyes back to his book.

“Nothing can survive out there. The weather, the wild animals, the Capital hovercrafts, no government to provide: Imagine! A worse fate than the games, that’s what it’d be!” And with that the conversation was over.

Parents told stories, cautionary tales, some even incorporated the mockingjays song: Beautiful Capitol mutts, who lured children too far into the woods, devouring them whole. As they grew older the threats became more tangible: breaking a limb as you fumbled over uneven terrain, drowning in streams, real animals hunting for prey: dogs, and bores, and bears,

He knew it wasn’t impossible to survive out there. Refugees sometimes arrived from other districts. Brave souls that made the trek through the Wilds: Dalton from 10, a couple from 5, a handful from 11. He had waited for the day an announcement would be made of new refugees, but none came.

He hadn’t told a single person about the girl: he was meant to report any unusual occurrences to the guards at the end of his shift. He wasn’t completely sure she was human but whatever she was, was too precious to share.

He hadn’t heard the song since that day nor heard reports of it either. Still, he traveled to the valley with the lake every chance he could; it was just as he remembered it, but he had yet to see the girl again. He collected the items required of him, while pacing the water’s edge, searching for signs of the girl or her song. He’d almost convinced himself the whole thing was a daydream, until he opened his pocket guide once more to caress the faded yellow remnant; the only proof he had that she truly existed.

Each time before he returned home, he collected a fistful of yellow flowers to leave on the spot she had stood, a paltry offering to his mythical songbird. The tribute missing each time he returned - lost to weather, or animal, or simply time.

Several months after the occurrence, he still made his treks to the lake. Though plentiful in haul, his valley visit had begun to leave him feeling empty and alone.

It was a particularly hot day when he came across a bush of berries he hadn’t noticed before. Picking one, he rolled it between his fingers, lifting them towards his nose to sniff.

“Drop it”

Startled, he instinctively dropped the berry, swinging his head towards the voice.

There she stood several feet away, half hidden by the shadows of the woods: arms crossed, scowling, annoyed - but very real.

He raised his empty hand, unsure of his intent: a demonstration of compliance or a greeting

“That’s nightlock.”

He stared dumbly.

She shifted her scowl away from him to the bush, “You’d be dead before they reach your stomach.”

He dropped his hand wiping it on the cloth of his pants, removing the memory of the berry from his fingers.

She remained rigid, half hidden in the shadows of the woods.

“You’re real.” He finally whispered. Perhaps the dumbest thing he could have said.

She rolled her eyes “of course I’m real. Though I can’t believe you still are!” She scoffed “Not knowing about Nightlock.” She mumbled under her breath.

“I wasn’t gonna eat it.” His temper momentarily flaring before he dropped his head in embarrassment. He had been traveling to the lake week after week to get a glimpse of this specter and now he was liable to run her off.

He peered up at her through the too-long waves that fell in his face “Is that what it’s called? This is my first summer on gathering duty. I’d never seen it before.” He reached for his pocket, but stopped when he noticed the girl position her weapon? He was used to the sleek metallic guns of 13, not this delicate wood and string contraption.

“Sorry,” He raised his hands. “I wanted to show you something… it’s in my pocket.”

She lowered her bow enough to encourage him to proceed. He pulled out his pocket field guide, holding it out for her inspection. She hesitated before flitting towards him, plucking the book from his grasp, retreating a few steps out of reach. She frowned as she leafed through the pages.

Unobscured by the foliage, he took the opportunity to commit every detail of her to his memory. He estimated her to be about his age. She was tiny, though slightly taller than him: That wasn’t much of a feat, most the girls his age were. Her skin was olive, darker than most from his district, likely in part due to the summer sun. Her raven black hair was tied back in a long single braid.

But her eyes! Her eyes were the most beguiling shade of gray. His life in District 13 was full of grays: his clothes, his compartment, even the food somehow took on the hue. Color was purposeful: to distinguish rank, to identify routes, to call attention when necessary. He was sure he had encountered every shade of black mixed with white, but he was mistaken.

Peeta tried to imagine her face with a smile: he’d seen her frown and scowl, but imagined the way her mouth would upturn and eyes dance with the motion.

“There aren’t any colors”

He snapped back to present “The colors are listed” he furrowed his brow “can’t you read?”

She scowled, holding the book out to him abruptly “Of course I can, I just don’t know how you’re supposed to tell nightlock from an elderberry based on that. Or excuse me, a conium maculatum from a sambucus nigra.” She lifted her chin as she rattled off the names from his book with an air of superiority. “You really use those long names?”

He shrugged. He'd never pondered the printed titles.

She didn’t wait for a response as she began plucking berries from the bush, a perplexing move to the boy. “I won’t do it again. You don’t have to get rid of them on my account.”

“I’m not.”

He waited expectantly. But she didn’t speak, pulling a deer skin sack from her belt and filling it, before securing the parcel to her belt. She looked up at him, annoyance evident, “They’re useful, just not for food.”

“Oh.” the book contained no reference to use, simply: name, diagram, and physical description. Gatherers were under strict orders not to eat from their hoards; they were told what to collect, not why. He knew some things served purposes beyond food: dyes, medicines, polymers. He just didn’t know which ones were which.

“Are you the one that keeps leaving the dandelions.” He forrowed his brow in confusion. “The taraxacum officinale”

“Oh, yeah. I wanted to let you know I was here.”

“Didn’t need the flowers to know you’d been here.” She motioned in the direction he had come. “You’re very heavy footed. If I had thought you were an animal, I could have easily tracked you back to your den”

“I’m a gatherer, not a hunter, I don’t need to worry about scaring off the plants.”

Her lips twitched, an attempt to contain a smile and she turned her head away from him to school her features. She turned back abruptly “you didn’t tell anyone about me or the lake, right?”

He shook his head vigorously, blonde waves bouncing. “I don’t think anyone else knows about this place. I only came here because I had wondered too far and then heard your song.”

She didn’t look wholly convinced but didn’t argue the matter either. She turned to busy herself in her gathering.

He looked back towards 13, his time quickly coming to an end. “I have to go” she didn’t acknowledge him. “I can leave you alone” still no response “you can call me if you want. If I’m on duty and I hear your song, I’ll know to come.”

She looked up at him, sharp eyes narrowed, “So now I can’t even sing for fear of you coming?”

He took a step back, stricken by her words “nevermind”

She must have detected the hurt in his eyes; Her features softened and she turned her head back to her work.

He pivoted towards District 13, a heaviness enveloping his limbs.

“Fine.”

He snapped his head back in the direction of the voice.

“I don’t really sing anymore anyways, but if you hear the song you can come.”

He nodded dumbly, dashing away quickly, before she could change her mind.

🩶🩶🩶

It wasn’t until his journey back that he began recounting the meeting and realizing how little he knew of this girl. He hadn’t even gotten her name, let alone where she had come from, who she was with, why she was there. The questions formed a queue in his mind. He kept his word and stayed away. He knew she was real and she knew the same of him as well as how to summon him.

So he waited. It was nearly a month before he heard the song. His heart soaring as he crashed through the greenery to the lake.

She did not look surprised by his presence: She shouldn’t have been - She lured him in after all and he couldn’t resist the grin that crept across his face. She eyed him wearily as he approached and he made sure to stop with plenty of space between them.

“Your book. Can I see it?” She extended her hand.

He raised an eyebrow in curiosity, but receiving no further explanation, pulled it from his bag, tossing it to the girl.

Her scowl deepened as she thumbed through the pages reviewing a select few before leafing further in the book, closing it abruptly and handing it back.

She didn’t elaborate nor did he inquire, losing the nerve to ask his questions. She wandered a bit as he wordlessly followed, finally finding a patch of white flowers with sunny yellow centers. She didn’t protest when he knelt beside her to gather them with her.

It was another month before her song and his work assignment collided once more. She again requested the book: Wrinkling her nose in annoyance as she read. Finally exclaiming, “This book is useless.”

He smiled at the outburst “I guess that depends on what the use is. I’ve already learned the plants. It’s just for reference if I forget.”

“So you can identify them, big deal. You don’t know anything about them or what they do.”

He shrugged, “don’t need to. There are people at home that do.”

“You’re not even interested?”

“We’re all doing our part, no matter how small, working together to contribute to the District’s brighter future” at least that’s what they taught them in school.

He had never thought to question it until one day when Peeta had been in the kitchen. One of the large mixers had toppled to the ground, a panel had come open and parts sprang and spilled to the floor. He had watched the mechanic reassemble the machine, collect and inspect all the parts and meticulously rebuild. A few pieces were damaged, but the mechanic didn’t bat an eye, exchanging the deformed parts for new. The old parts would be melted down and made into something useful.

Peeta had been melancholy the whole weekend. It wasn’t until class on Monday morning as they recited the pledge that he realized he was an expendable piece in well oiled machine: important but replaceable.

She rolled her eyes, “And this is your contribution?”

“For now” he said simply. There were all kinds of jobs in District 13, all balanced to support the community. His oldest brother, Solly, looked forward to his upcoming testing and placement. His father baked and his mother was a mid-ranking Commander.

“We used to have one,” she held up the book. “But it was more detailed: with colors and uses. My parents added handwritten notes in the margins. I thought if I could see the pictures again…it might remind me.” Her words trailed off. She looked into the distance away from him, throat bobbing, before turning back towards him, voice again under control, “Why wouldn’t they want you to know their use? What if you were stuck out here? Wouldn’t they want you to survive?”

He’d puzzled over the book that night. He’d never thought about it much before. Most things in 13 were straight forward, no-nonsense, portioned and precise, black and white. The book was no different. If his job was to collect specimens, this book aided him.

He was reminded again of the mixer. All the pieces working together towards a common goal, though they didn’t know what the other pieces did… although they didn’t know anything because they were just bits of metal.

After that she began to call for him more regularly, though she had dropped the pretense of viewing the book all together.

At home he’d often been told he was charming. His charisma however, seemed to have very little effect on the girl at the lake. His conversation was met with scowls rather than smiles. She was fiercely private; it wasn’t until the fifth visit that she reluctantly gifted him her name: Katniss.

They didn’t speak of home: her because she was still weary and him because she was his escape.

He couldn’t hold back the laugh that escaped the first time he made her grin and the first time he heard her laugh he felt dizzy at the sound. Her song was mythical but her laughter was magic.

🩶🩶🩶

Everything in the district was made and maintained with military accuracy. The temperature, water consumption, nutrient intake, all perfectly calculated and dispatched for plant, animal, and human alike.

His schedule contained shifts in the kitchen where his father worked making the bread. Baking no exception, the recipe precise, no room for variation, the yield uniform: Not baked for flavor but substance.

At the lake she gathered and fished, hauling a heavy load home, wherever home was, in her bag and on her back. He marveled at the variation in her catches: different shapes, colors, sizes.

It was pure luck that his thirteenth birthday landed on a gathering day and that the mockingjays happened to sing. Birthdays had little significance in th District: his name listed on the screen in the dining hall in tiny print, an extra tight hug from his father, and added responsibilities.

When he mentioned the day's significance to Katniss she frowned at the lack of acknowledgement. She asked his favorite meal and when he described the grayish fish and okra stew that ‘wasn’t half bad when warm’, she wrinkled her nose in disgust. Then taught him to harvest Katniss roots, to fish, prepare and cook their catches on an open fire. Adding fresh Rosemary and wild scallions that stung his tongue with flavor and clung to his taste buds all day that he could revel in the memory.

She laughed as he described bite after bite in vivid detail, enthralled with each new flavor. Eating in the wild gave him a new appreciation for taste. She listened to him as he filled the smokey air with the recipes he could enhance, the bread that he could make with the wild spices.

The fish from the district were born, bred, and died in underground hatcheries, just large enough for them to fulfill these duties. Peeta had always been thankful for the food District 13 provided; in much of Panem children and adults went hungry or starved. He’d been hungry before, even craved but never feared the feelings. After his sunlight meal at the lake, he imagined he could taste the Distinct fish's despondency. The echo of flavors haunting his taste buds

After that she began to introduce him to forest delicacies: mushrooms, edible barks and leaves, wild berries, strips of dried meat she had saved him. He savored each bite, licking his fingers, delighting in every new flavor as she watched on with amusement. They added notes to the margin of his field book on taste descriptions, placing symbols next to favorites.

Working in the kitchen gave him access to the food waste. He began sneaking seeds from the compost pile, squirreling them away until he returned to the lake. Taking only things discarded: shriveled peas, okra and pumpkin seeds, squash remains, a half rotten tomato, a slice of a sprouted potato. They planted them together, the seeds quickly sprouting, stems with leaves reaching greedily for the sun. Their garden blossomed like their friendship, though the latter at a much slower pace.

One day she mentioned a sister, the next time a hunting partner, a neighbor’s baby she tended: brief fleeting words that began escaping unbidden, but she slowly allowed to flow freely.

🩶🩶🩶

At fourteen his teacher caught him doodling during lessons. She’d ripped the page from his pad, and he spent the remainder of class imagining the punishment the District, or worse still, his mother, would inflict for his idleness. Instead the teacher submitted his sketches to the resource department and his work assignments shifted so his newly identified artistic skills could be put to use. He was tasked with drawing diagrams: technical sketches for soldiers and hovercraft pilots. Black and white renderings of control panels. No room for imagination or colors unless strictly necessary.

This addition to his work schedule had him on outdoor duty inconsistently. When he finally heard their song Katniss had looked both relieved and annoyed to see him. She had scowled as he complained of the dullness of his new job, but the next time they met, she brought dried berries and pressed flowers in all colors. Crushing them between rocks, they made powders mixed with water and goose grease to create inks. They sharpened mockingjay feathers to points to make quills. She doodled patterns of repeating shapes while he mixed colors, painting fleeting images on rocks and trees, that faded slowly between visits.

Katniss was more disappointed by the loss of their pictures than he was until she suggested they shade the loathsome field guide. Visit after visit they searched the ground for colors to match and mix for each page, digging iron rich clay, mixing soot from past fires. He detailed and shaded while Katniss looked on, adding notes and providing names: chamomile for inflammation and sadness, wild carrots were edible but easily confused for deadly Hemlock.

When they worked on the page labeled oenothera she gave him the common name: Primrose. Her eyes shifted from the page to covertly glance at him as she added, “my sister’s named after these.”

He bit the inside of his cheek until he could contain the smile that threatened to overtake his face at the admission. He couldn’t imagine a sweeter gift than her trust.

Little by little she shared more: now calling her sister by name, she spoke of her often, along with a cat and goat, sometimes a mother, but rarely a father. Talk of her sister brought her joy, but her parents a sadness he couldn’t work up the courage to ask about. He told her about his brothers, about his father, rarely speaking of his mother. He didn’t think she avoided talk of her father for the same reason he avoided his mother.

🩶🩶🩶

At fifteen the District began strenuous workouts to gauge physical aptitude. His mother had shaved his head in a bid to demonstrate his eagerness to serve. As a Deputy-Commander herself, it was good optics to have children ready to take up the cause regardless of how unlikely the odds. Peeta had mourned the loss of his youth as the yellow waves fluttered to the ground. He wasn’t the only one; he was amused by the scowls Katniss directed at his head for months after the change.

But it had its perks. He no longer needed to fear explaining a head of wet waves. So he gladly accented when Katniss decided time had come to teach him to swim on a day when he bemoaned the pains from his long awaited growth spurt. The cool water, she reasoned, would soothe his aching body.

It was daunting at first; the water was foreign and freezing. It didn’t help that they were half naked and painfully aware of their own hormone riddled bodies. She had made him turn as she stripped to her undershirt, wading until only her head was visible above the water. She kept her distance as she barked commands that he couldn’t quite grasp. Their frustrations mounting until the lesson devolved into bickering, then splashing, then laughter. Lessons abandoned, they stumbled from the lake feeling happily refreshed.

The next time they met she came armed with a thermos of birch bark tea for his soreness and a less ambitious objective to teach him to float. She had him lay on his back, tethering him in place by small calloused hands at his lower back and neck. Her touches were purposeful and fleeting but they sparked an ache in his chest that distracted him from the ache in his bones.

They climbed from the lake, averting their eyes from the shirts and shorts that clung to their bodies. Then sunbathed like lizards on warm rocks, staring up at the sky, naming shapes in the clouds, listening to the rustle of the leaves as the branches overhead cast shadows until they were forced to pry themselves from the ground, redressing and returning each to their separate homes.

🩶🩶🩶

At sixteen his brother Matti turned 18. His viability confirmed and his preferred match approved, he took his permanent place in the kitchen with their father and eldest brother. He walked taller in his new distinction as adult, baker, and ‘breeder’ and the brothers, once childhood companions, drifted further apart; his wife and ‘duties’ taking precedence and Peeta only a little brother who could no longer relate to his more mature endeavors.

Fraternizing was not forbidden, however coupling was strictly forbidden before adulthood. The District couldn’t risk the complications associated with a high risk young mother and wouldn’t risk birth control sterilizing an otherwise healthy female. Every viable womb mattered to the growth of the District and the doctors determined 18 years was the earliest a woman could safely support life.

He had kissed a few girls, but the memory filled him with guilt rather than pride. It had been pleasant in the moment, but left him thinking of another girl. Imagining how her lips would feel against his, her petite body cradled in his arms, hands in his hair.

He’d gone to the lake unbidden that day in hopes of clearing his head of the estrangement at home. Being underground he was often unaware of the shifts in weather. The air smelled of rain, the ground was spongy, leaves and branches littering the ground as he made his way to the valley. Not expecting to find her there, he was surprised to see a massive charred tree had fallen victim to the evident storm with a weeping Katniss on top of it. They’d rarely touched, but he didn’t hesitate in gathering her in his arms. She clung to him sobbing.

When her tears subsided She rested her head on his shoulder, Her fist gripped tightly to his jumpsuit, dazedly staring off towards the lake as the words poured out. She spoke of her father: How he taught her to hunt and to swim and to sing. How he had died shortly before she and Peeta had met. How her mother’s spirit had died with him. How she had to begin providing for her family alone early on. How the lake was his place, their place - she and her father’s. She knew it wouldn’t go on being the same forever, but each season it had changed in such a small degree that it would still remain the same in her mind. But the fallen tree had forced her to come to terms with the change, with the loss.

Once she’d recovered, they sprung into action. She picked wildflowers as he mixed hues. She taught him to weave flowers so they could adorned the tree with flower garlands and painted designs - a makeshift memorial. They had a funeral of sorts for the tree and by unspoken extension her father; hands clasped in shared sorrow.

He’d left thinking of spirits and souls - The district taught of the body and mind, but the soul, at least as Katniss described it, was something intangible; The heart and the mind combined, but not just as organs, but ideas, feelings, beliefs! It was a concept he cherished. One which he kept safely to himself like the girl who had introduced it to him.

The event seemed to overcome the final restraints on conversation, they spoke freely of their homes and families.

She shared her history: The colony living in the wilderness outside the reach of Capital rule or District restrictions. How their great grandparents' generation had fled District 12 when the first rebellion was all but lost. How they traveled north until they were far enough away finding habitable ground to establish themselves.

In exchange he told her of 13: how children were as good as currency: healthy girls - the most valuable. Not everyone could have children so those that could weren’t given a choice: they were tested and matched or a mutual preference reviewed and approved at age 18. Pairs were directed to do their duty for the greater good of the District. In exchange they were given preferential treatment. His parents were matched based on genetics not personality and had produced three sons in quick succession: Peeta’s birth had been difficult, ending his mother’s chance at producing a daughter. His birth came with her final promotion, Deputy-Commander, a bitter victory as she became convinced had Peeta been a daughter, she would have been made a full Commander, been invited into Command as well as Coin’s confidences. He was a constant reminder of her stalled career.

Her grip tightened around their linked hands. Since their funeral for the tree, they had become more liberal with touches. Not in the ways his brothers talked about touching their wives, but in comforting gestures they were rarely untethered; they’d lay in the grass holding hands or wither head on his chest. No matter how innocent the actions, her touch set his skin ablaze, the lost connection leaving him starved in a way that had nothing to do with his food.

🩶🩶🩶

His seventeenth birthday came and went with little fanfare. While his classmates made predictions and plans for their future, his final year of school was filled him with dread. The months ahead filled with testing: for occupation, status, and compatibility. A few girls and even one of the District 13 widows had propositioned him to submit a match request with them; all which he’d solemnly denied.

Whispers of a second rebellion grew louder every day. They were all required to watch the Games, to remember the Capital’s cruelty. If he were destined to be a soldier in the fight against injustice he could bear his fate, but it would not be his future if he was deemed viable (and there was no reason to believe he wouldn’t be deemed viable). All the men in his family before him had been: brothers, uncles, cousins. All had paired and all so far fruitful.

He’d be a baker or a diagram illustrator and a husband and make some woman as miserable as his mother. Not on purpose of course, but because his soul surely couldn’t survive trapped underground without Katniss and their lake. Without the array of colors and the sunshine grown fish. Without the cool water of the lake and the feel of her hand in his. Without her song!

These thoughts left him feeling like wretched. He could barely eat or sleep; maybe his bodily neglect would make him unfit.

He continued his treks to the lake, even without the Mockingjay’s song to bid him. Just being close to where she had been and would be was a comfort. He put on an unaffected air on the days she was there, but she knew him too well, could sense the shift. She placed her cool hand on his forehead then his cheeks, inspecting his exposed skin for a physical cause for his malaise.

He couldn’t burden her with his fears; wouldn’t sacrifice a single moment of fleeting joy with her to the stifling images of the future, so he begged off with tales of nightmares. These weren’t complete fabrications, for when he did sleep he dreamed in gray monotony.

Their next rendezvous she brought a small cloth sack filled with lavender, catnip, and rosemary, made small enough to be sneaked past Distinct customs. She had him lay in the grass with the parcel close, his head in her lap. The scent, the breeze, and her nimble fingers rubbing circles in his velvety hair lulled him to sleep.

His reprieve was short lived. He soon received his packet confirming his viable designation with schedules, rules, and instructions.

🩶🩶🩶

His gathering day aligned with her birthday and promised himself this would be his last trip to the lake when he heard their song. One final golden day before he wished it all farewell.

He emerged from the woods, her smiling as she spied him, his worries momentarily vanishing as he jogged down to meet her. She seemed happier, lighter, today and for a moment he let himself imagine spending every possible minute of the rest of my life with her.

He laughed “I’ve never seen you so happy to see me”

She rolled her eyes but her smile didn’t falter as she opened her bag to share her elation: goat cheese. A gift from her sister. She had said it was her favorite, but he’d only tried it once.

Katniss set the lines while Peeta gathered: chives, Dandelions, violets, keeping her in sight all the while, dreading the moment he’d have to let her go for good.

Once the fish were placed on the fire, they stripped their clothes. Floating and swimming in their underclothes, laughing and talking of trivial things. Eventually crawling from the lake to lie in the grass and pick at their feast. She placed her head in his lap as he teased out the knots in her hair while she fed him bits of fish and cheese.

“I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever,” He felt so warm and relaxed and beyond worrying about the future that the words slipped out.

She smiled up at him from her place on his lap. “We can do this again, you know? Next time.”

He hummed. A lump formed in his throat and he averted his gaze, unable to look at her knowing it would all spill out if he looked at her now. His eyes fell on the nightlock bush, the place of their first interaction. Where he discovered she was real.

He felt her hands on his face. She’d extracted herself from his lap and was kneeling across from him, forcing his head in her direction. He closed his eyes in a last defense until she spoke his name and he could no longer deny her.

At her pained expression it all tumbling out: the tests, the impending pairing, the placement, the end to his outdoor duties.

She was up and pacing, biting the nail of her thumb, listening intently. She paused her movement when he finished, “And that’s it! You weren’t going to tell me? You were going to leave here today and never come back? Leave me to wonder what happened to you? Never knowing if you were dead or if you hated me? Or if you’d found some other girl, some other lake?” Her eyes brimming with tears.

He sat stupefied, his legs pulled tightly to his chest. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Or maybe he’d thought she meant more to him than he did to her: That she would move on quickly, never looking back to the friend of her youth. Maybe he had wanted to save her the pain, or maybe save himself? Maybe his plan was selfish, not selfless.

He stood, “that’s the problem: there could never be another valley, another lake, another song, another girl. You have Prim, your mother, the Hawthornes. I’m the one losing something. I’m losing the little freedom and choice I have, going on to take my place as a piece in the great District 13 machine, fulfilling my empty destiny. In a place that needs my body and mind, but cares nothing for my soul. That doesn’t want nor need it. No one does.” He paused breathing heavily. “I was blind and content before I met you. I didn’t need a soul to survive but now that I know, I can’t go back. Can't go back to the bliss of ignorance, back to the District to inflict my misery on someone else for the rest of my flavorless gray life. I’d be better off dead.” He stared at the nightlock bush longingly, only a half baked idea he could never follow through on.

“I do, Peeta.” It was spoken so softly he thought he’d imagined it. “I need you, all of you; Your soul most of all.” She paused before whispering “Stay with me”

Certain he had misheard her, but seeing that she required a response he croaked out, “What?”

She grasped onto his hand pulling him down to face her, shaking her head as she spoke, “don’t go back. Come with me. You could choose your life, retain your soul. You could paint in color or bake the recipes you used to talk about. You could grow your hair long and sleep in the breeze. There are so many things still for you to experience: sunsets, fireflies, the moon. You just have to stay with me.” She’s pleading. No longer attempting to hide her tears, her eyes darting across his face, searching his face for a hint at his decision, not realizing he has always been hers.

“Always.” The word escaped along with the breath he’d be holding, “Yes.” He began nodding, “Anything. Yeah. I’ll do it” The words come crashing out in a confusing jumble of syllables, but she seemed to understand them as she let out a choked laugh. Then he laughed and she began in earnest, pressing her forehead to his as he cupped her face in his hands, swiping away fresh tears, lips quickly meeting between relieved laughter. Too giddy and high on their mirth to feel bashful about the thin damp fabric separating their embrace or the gravity of their decision.

After a while, recollected themselves, they gathered their things, heading in the direction of her home, their home, hand in hand. But only after executing one small request: A song for the birds, a final farewell and a continuation of the lore.

To District 13 it would be the song of a boy lost to the woods. But for Peeta, it would be the song of his homecoming.