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malthemagnifisent · 11 months ago

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Pairing: Aerin x Male!elf Mc (Cyrus)

Summary: The Elves of Undermount and King Arlan of White Tower form an agreement, to be sealed by the marriage of the King’s youngest son and Cyrus of House Nightbloom. A political alliance between the two was long in the making and important to uphold, so despite the heavy burden, Cyrus knew he could not shirk his duty and could only hope that his husband would be good to him.

Notes: There will be another part to this story soon enough, I wanted to make it multiple chapters cause why not? I think there’s a lot of material to work with

Tags: @oh-so-youre-a-nerd @baldwinboy5ive @lilyoffandoms @guinevre @vicissavior @lancelotsimp

“Why me?” Cyrus demanded, suddenly and loud enough to be heard over the wind rushing in their ears as they flew toward the palace of the white tower.

“Because you’re unimportant to Undermount,” Tyril said back, which Cyrus had known was the answer, but he still wanted to hear it out loud.

The tensions between Undermount and White Tower had been rising, and in an attempt to smooth over that tension, a simple deal had been made. A marriage was an easy alliance that was not so easily broken, and Cyrus had been chosen as the most obvious choice to be given away.

Because, like Tyril said, he was not important. Sure, he had mobility, but his family was dead, his contributions to elven woxiety would not be a great loss, and marrying some human prince would be a better use of his time.

Or so everyone thought.

So he’d been packed up, given a Drake, and Tyril Starfury as an escort before taking off to White Tower to meet his new fiancé, a man named Aerin.

They’d never interacted before as Cyrus had never gotten to stray far from Undermount, and he wasn’t the most pleased with the arrangement, but it was considered his duty, and shirking his duty would get him nowhere.

Besides, there was a small part of him that was interested in seeing the world. He’d never been given duties that brought him far, but he had a curious mind and was hoping to see the best in the situation. The best part was that he would get to see something new.

The peaks of the white tower came into view, shimmering softly in the setting sun. It made the white stone shine orange and yellow, which would have been a beautiful sight if Cyrus wasn’t so absorbed into his own head.

As they drew closer, it became clear that there were people waiting for their arrival. At first, they appeared as little more than tiny specks, but soon it became clear they were people. Not close enough to make out any features yet, but Cyrus still felt a tightening in his chest and forced himself to look away from the looming castle with its many white spires.

“What if he’s cruel?” Cyrus blurted out, his fear finally slipping out, but it was far too late for any real assurance. He didn’t know the man he was to marry; he didn’t know his humor or temperament; he didn’t know if he would even like the man.

He liked to believe that no deal would have been made that would put him in harm's way, but he didn’t truly trust that all the elves in Undermount would care more for his well-being than whatever alliance stood between the elves and humans.

They would gladly give Cyrus to a cruel man if it meant they kept their power and peace.

Suddenly, the drake dropped steeply, and Cyrus was forced to tighten his grip on Tyril’s waist. The wind flew wildly through his hair and made his eyes water as they came into a steep landing, and the dragon's feet alighted gracefully onto the stone floors.

He heard the chatter of the people around them, but was too busy getting his bearings to really pay attention to what anyone was saying. Tyril, of course, did not have the same problem; he slid off the drake with ease and the same refined grace he always possessed.

“King Arlan, this is quite the reception committee,” Tyril said, and as Cyrus finally got his wits about him, he realized it was true. There were nobility, guards, and servants gathered for their arrival, all of which seemed overboard to Cyrus, but who was he to say how the humans did things?

With a quiet sigh, Cyrus slid from the back of the drake, landing behind Tyril, his head held high and his back painfully straight. He’d been quite trussed up for his first meeting with his betrothed; his hair had been braided back and swept to the side, thin gold wire was running through the dark strands, and intricate clips had been secured at the base of the braise.

And while he looked a little windswept, it didn’t detract from the obvious effort put into his appearance.

“We are happy to welcome you to our home; the alliance between Undermount and White Tower is a long one; it must be maintained,” King Arlan was saying, to which Tyril dutifully nodded along, though out of the corner of his eyes he glanced back at Cyrus, silently checking in, making sure he still stood strong.

Tyril was not very clear with his care, but Cyrus always managed to pick up on it, and right now he appreciates it far more than he usually does.

With a deep breath, Cyrus schooled his expression and put on an easy smile before stepping forward and lowering his head in a respectful greeting. “It’s a pleasure to be here, King Arlan. I am Cyrus of House Nightbloom. I hope this arrangement between our families will help further solidify the relations between our people,” he said, his voice steady, never wavering for a second as he stood up straight again and met the king's eyes.

Two men stood beside the king, and Cyrus knew one of them was his betrothed, but they were both dressed in fine clothes, both Prince's; one was the older son whom he had no interest in, but he couldn’t tell which was which, at least not until King Arlan smiled and gestured at the slightly shorter of his two sons.

“This is my son, Aerin. I trust that the two of you will have much to discuss together,” he said, allowing Aerin to step forward.

The prince looked nervous, not as well put together as Cyrus was, but he didn’t look all that intimidating, and Cyrus was glad it was him and not the other brother he was being married to. He didn’t want to sound rude, but the king's older son had a rather unsettling air about him.

“It’s good to meet you; I know this has been in discussion for a while, so it’s nice to put a face to your name, Cyrus,” Aerin said, bowing his head much the same way Cyrus did before he reached out and gently took Cyrus’ hand and placed a kiss on his knuckles, which were flushed a slightly darker blue, irritated by the cold air from their flight.

His cheeks, however, turned darker for a very different reason. The kiss on his hand was a very human greeting, but it was sweet nonetheless, and Cyrus found the tension in his shoulders melting away.

It looked like things could be worse. Aerin seemed sweet, and he wasn’t unattractive. Which Cyrus noted with some relief. He would have been fine if his spouse did not physically appeal to him, but he thought it would make things far easier if he did find them attractive.

Luckily, it seemed he had come out on top with Aerin.

“I hope the two of us will get to know each other well,” Cyrus finally responded, and he was glad to see Aerin smile, seeming happy with the exchange between the two of them. Perhaps he’d been just as unsure of the arrangement as Cyrus was.

Clearing his throat, King Arlan brought attention back to him. “The ceremony will take place tomorrow, for tonight we thought it best we leave my son and Cyrus alone and allow them to become acquainted,” he nodded at them both, the perfect picture of grace as a king. “You will be given a private meal together, if that is acceptable to you, of course." He explained, addressing Cyrus directly at the end.

“I have no objection; it will be good to speak with Aerin,” he responded, though he felt he didn’t have much of an option but to say yes. This was expected of him, and he would do his duty.

Both he and Tyril were garnering stares from their surrounding audience, and it was starting to set Cyrus on edge. He didn’t like being watched; he stared at it like some sort of spectacle. The people of White Tower were most likely not used to seeing elves, but Cyrus wasn’t exactly used to being around humans. At least he had the decency to not stare.

The king said something that Cyrus didn’t catch, and suddenly they were all walking inside. Tyril walked beside the king, but Curis stuck by Prince Aerin, who seemed almost surprised that Cyrus hadn’t left. He didn’t see any reason to stand by anyone else; after the wedding, Tyril would be gone, so he needed to get used to being without the man.

“Have you ever been to White Tower?” Aerin asked, speaking up so suddenly that Cyrus caught him off guard, and he wasn’t sure what to say, despite the obvious answer being a resounding no.

He raised his hand to his mouth and cleared his throat, trying to think of something more to say that would actually be an engaging response. “No, I’ve spent my life in Undermount, and there was rarely any reason to leave,” he explained, getting a little distracted as they walked further into the palace and the beautiful architecture became more apparent.

The ceilings were high and carved with intricate details, and above them on the walls were windows of stained glass that reflected multicolored light into the ground, all of which rippled and shimmered as the sunlight shifted through clouds and the leaves of tall trees. “I am glad to be here now; it’s beautiful,” he said, turning his head ever so slightly so he could meet Aerin’s eyes.

The prince had nice eyes, soft and brown, with long feathery lashes that cast shadows on his cheeks when the light hit him at the right angle.

“I am happy you like it; I'll show you around after we’ve eaten,” Aerin said, brightening up at the prospect of showing Cyrus his home. It was obvious the prince held a fondness for it, and Cyrus envied that a little. He liked Undermount, but sometimes the way things were done was so exhausting, so confining, and so strict.

Things seemed freer here.

“We have beautiful gardens here, and the library is wonderful; it’s one of the most extensive collections in the kingdom if you're interested in that sort of thing,” Aerin added, stepping a bit closer to Cyrus and looking happy to share. It was rather endearing.

A snort of condescending laughter sounded to the side of them, and Cyrus looked over to see Aerin’s brother walking at a pace behind them. He’d forgotten that the others were still there, and Baldur’s interruption wasn’t appreciated.

“You’ll bore him to death before the two of you even reach the altar,” Baldur said, laughing far louder than was necessary. If his tone had been different, then Cyrus could have brushed it off as a rather tactless joke, but the crown prince sounded like he meant every word as an insult.

The way he laughed was clearly meant to mock, and the ensuing look on Aerin’s face was something that told Cyrus that this was a regular occurrence.

Clearing his throat, Cyrus cast Baldur a withering look and very pointedly looped his arm through Aerin’s own, which seemed to shock the prince so much that he actually stumbled over his own feet. “I’ll be happy to see the library actually; I expect you’ll have interesting Tomes on magic,” he said, directing his words at Aerin but making sure Baldur heard them as well.

It didn’t sit well with him to have a brother-in-law who acted cruelly, so he didn’t intend to take any shit from Baldur, no matter how much he expected to get his own way.

It turns out he expected it a lot, because he sputtered and glared for a moment, looking ready to start a fight, before suddenly the king was speaking up and announcing the party was to split. Cyrus and Aerin would be given a private meal together, while Tyril, Baldur, and King Arlan would dine more publicly. Hosting various lords and ladies at a dinner.

Cyrus was glad he’d get something more private; he didn’t think he could take being a spectacle at the moment.

He understood people’s interest in the arrangement being made, but he’d only just arrived and didn’t feel like being bombarded. He wanted to get to know his fiancé without prying eyes all around them.

They said a brief goodbye, and Cyrus locked eyes with Tyril as they went their separate ways. Aerin and Cyrus were then led by a servant down a short flight of stairs and into a moderately sized dining room, where a table had already been laid with a meal. The room smelled of fresh, cooked meat and fragrant tea. It was nice.

“You were very nice earlier, about the library,” Aerin said, slipping his arm from around Cyrus’ as he stepped forward and pulled out a chair, gesturing for Cyrus to take a seat. “If you’re really interested, then I will be happy to show you, but you needn’t pretend; I know it may seem like a dull pastime,” he added, looking sheepish and unsure of himself.

He stepped away then and took his own seat, across the table from Cyrus, who smiled reassuringly as he picked up the cup beside his plate and took a small sip of the floral-smelling drink inside. “I wasn’t pretending; I would be glad to see the library; even if I wasn’t interested in books, I would still be happy to go with you; we’re going to be married, and I want to know what you enjoy,” he explained, which once again seemed to shock the prince.

Cyrus had a feeling that Aerin didn’t often have people who showed interest in his interests.

“Besides, I feel your brother needed to be put in his place,” Cyrus added, turning his gaze down to his plate, which was beautifully put together. A small bird of some type had been roasted and was topped with a sauce that smelled vaguely like something he ate back home in Undermount.

He would miss the food back home, but perhaps he could find new favorites—things he enjoyed even more.

“It’s better not to get on Baldur’s bad side; he can be rather-“ Aerin broke off and clenched his jaw, looking angry for the barest of moments before his shoulders slumped and he just began to cut up his own food. “He is not used to being told off,” he finally finished, noting a fact that Cyrus had already picked up on quite easily on his own.

“Well, perhaps it’s time someone stood up to him; I’m not one to back down from a challenge, and if we’re going to be married, then I will take that seriously,” Cyrus said, taking a small, practiced bite of the food, which coated his tongue with a salty taste. “What kind of fiancé would I be if I didn’t stand up for you?” He asked, wondering if anyone had taken the time to stand up for Aerin before.

Cyrus could understand not having people on his side; as the last member of House Nightbloom, he was often pushed to the side, shunned, and regarded as lesser in some way, so yes, he understood, and perhaps it meant the two of them could have a marriage built on that understanding, that they were the same and would be on each other's sides.

The sound of a bird singing outside drifted in, but Cyrus was more enraptured by the look on Aerin’s face, the open surprise at being treated kindly.

Cyrus hoped he could make kindness the norm for the prince so that he wouldn’t be shocked by it again.

“I want this marriage to work. I do not expect anything more than friendship from you, of course, but I would like us to be friends at least,” he said, watching as Aerin’s expression continued to twist with surprise.

Eventually, however, the prince’s lips curled up in a smile, and he nodded. “I’ll gladly be your friend; I have not had many of those in my life,” Aerin responded, and Cyrus got the impression that he really would treasure a friendship just as much, if not more, than a lover.

#choices #playchoices #mine #play choices #pb #bolas #blades of light and shadow 2 #blades of light and shadow #aerin valleros #mc x aerin #choices aerin #bolas aerin #prince aerin #aerin x mc #choices fanfic #my writing

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petalouda85 · 9 months ago

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Names

Fandom: Blades of Light and Shadow 2

Pairings: Tyril x f!human!MC (Kassandra)

Word count: 2.7k

Concept: Continuation of Tightrope. Tyril and Kassandra have an unexpected visitor in Riverbend and discuss their upcoming parenthood.

Tags: @liviusofpella, @megas-choices, @starlight-starfury, @dutifullynuttywitch, @thosehallowedhalls, @choicesficwriterscreations

AO3 link: x

A/N: I’ve been thoroughly sucked into the world I established in “Tightrope”; I have so many ideas for it that I will likely need to make a separate masterlist for it eventually. Enjoy this little ball of fluff and hint of spice at the end. And of course, I had to include some crocheting in this fic

Riverbend had its charms.

In retrospect, Tyril had had his reservations about settling in the village despite being the one to suggest going there. There had been an underlying fear that the town would still be a hotbed for tourists and the curious, wishing to see the home of the legendary hero of Morella. But with the new world order, it seemed that few were interested in their legends. Furthermore, the inhabitants of the town had seemed keen to keep their own safe from unfriendly eyes, especially once news of the pregnancy began to leak out. Their loyalty and protectiveness had been a soothing balm in these uncertain times.

There was a time in his life where he couldn’t imagine never using magic for the most basic of tasks nor that he would live in such a humble place. But strangely, he found himself quite comfortable in the small village. Sure, he was quite a spectacle to behold – there weren’t any elves in Riverbend after all - and children would gawk at him, the occasionally brave one asking to touch his ears or show off his magic but most never treated him any different from the rest; it surprised him to admit that he preferred their company to those of the highest houses in Undermount. There was none of the needless extravagance, none of the posturing; the people here were honest and straightforward and uncomplicated.

He walked the familiar path from the edge of the forest towards the heart of Riverbend, a square lined with various shops. He made his way to the bakery, the bell tinkling as he opened the door. Soon, the baker appeared, giving the elf a smile as he approached the counter.

“Good to see you again, Tyril. The usual?” The elf placed his basket onto the counter.

“Yes.” The baker nodded and immediately went to retrieve the usual items, packing them carefully into the basket. Soon the order was filled but when Tyril reached to grab it, the baker stopped him, signaling him to wait. He dashed to the back of the shop, soon returning with something wrapped in brown paper.

“Some apple strudels for Kassandra; she was asking about them last time. No extra charge.” He said as he placed the item in with the rest. Tyril smiled a little.

“Thank you.” After laying out the payment, he grabbed the basket and headed out of the bakery. He required only a few items on this errand and before long, he turned towards the path that led out of the market square, ready for a quiet and peaceful night.

“Elf boy.” Tyril turned at the sound of the nickname, blinking twice to ensure he was not imagining the rogue leaning casually against a cart full of hay. The man flashed his signature cocky smile as he approached the elf.

“What are you doing here?” Tyril asked as the two shared an embrace. Once he pulled away, Mal patted him on the shoulder.

“Had some business in Zaradun. Thought I’d come by on my way back to Whitetower, see how you were doing.” Tyril couldn’t help but smile.

“A most welcome surprise. Come on; Kassandra will be happy to see you.”

The two men walked in silence out of the city square, Tyril eventually turning onto a smaller path which led towards a more hidden trail into the woods. Immediately, the din of the village gave away to the peaceful embrace of the forest.

“So, how is the great adventurer Mal Volari? Last I heard, a lovely elf caught your eye.” Tyril smirked when Mal playfully shoved him.

“Not a word to Kassandra; she’ll never stop teasing me.”

“My lips are sealed.” The two exchanged a chuckle.

“So how is Kassandra?” Mal asked after a moment of silence.

“She’s doing wonderful.”

“And the little one?”

“Everything’s going good. A few more months to go. Aderyn has been so helpful.” Tyril stopped walking, looking ahead on the trail, his mind restless for a moment. “I won’t lie. I’m nervous. There’s a part of me that’s uncertain if I’ll be able to handle it all. Fighting monsters I am more than capable of but children and babies…” Tyril turned to look at Mal when the man placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“From what I’ve heard, it’s normal to be nervous. But if you can survive two world ending scenarios, you can survive dirty diapers and a screaming baby. The kid will be lucky to have you as their dad and Kass as their mom; it’s more than most kids have.” The scoundrel said, his typical bravado replaced with a genuine and sincere tone.

“Thank you, Mal.” The two exchanged a smile and continued their trek further into the woods, the path soon widening into a small clearing, where a humble cabin stood with a small, fenced garden and a smattering of other small buildings, forming a small homestead. It wasn’t much but it had become home in the months they’d been there; close enough to Riverbend to have all their necessities met but far enough to allow them peace, quiet, and safety from prying eyes. Next to the cabin was Kassandra, busy chopping wood.

“Kassandra.” Tyril called out. The woman lowered her axe, dropping it entirely when she turned and saw the visitor.

“Mal!” She called out joyfully, running to him and giving him a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting you two, obviously.” He pulled away and briefly glanced at her now-visible belly. “Excuse me, three.” Kassandra laughed and hugged the man again. “It’s good to see you, Kit.”

“It’s good to see you too.”

“You going to invite me in?” He teased, smiling deviously when the woman pulled away and punched his shoulder in good nature.

“If you’ll give me a minute. I have to finish this up.” She walked back to her work area, slowly bending down to pick up the chopped pieces on the ground and adding them to the stockpile by the side of the cabin.

“You know Aderyn said to avoid heavy lifting.” Tyril said as he joined her in the space. The woman held up the piece of chopped wood with a grin.

“This is not heavy lifting.” She then snapped her fingers and a heavy log gently lifted off the ground, floated towards the chopping block, and casually lowered itself onto it. “And magic can lift the rest.” The elf couldn’t help but chuckle a little.

“Stubborn as usual.” Kassandra smirked and reached up give him a quick peck on his cheek.

“And you love me for it.” Taking his hand, she walked back towards the house and entered it, motioning to Mal to follow.

The inside was quaint. It didn’t bear the status of the rooms of Whitetower nor the grandeur of the Starfury estate, but it was comfortable and provided all that was needed for the two and future third inhabitant. Kassandra took the basket from Tyril’s arm and placed it on the table in the kitchen area. He joined her as she pulled out the brown package.

“What’s this?”

“Apple strudel. The baker put some in for you since you were asking for them.” Touched, Kassandra opened the package and pulled out one of the treats, immediately taking a bite from it as Tyril began putting away the items in the basket. When empty, he turned to the counter and began pulling forth the items they would need to cook that night’s dinner: cutting boards, knives, pots, and pans. The elf had it down to a routine, a practiced dance.

“Grocery shopping, cooking? Since when is elf boy the poster-boy of domestic bliss?” Mal asked, lounging on the bench by the dinner table.

“Since he doesn’t live in a fancy elven estate anymore with servants and butlers.” Kassandra answered, her mouth half stuffed with the pastry. “But don’t knock him too hard, Mal. He’s gotten much better over the months.” She quickly finished her treat before joining Tyril, helping him prepare the food.

“I appreciate your confidence in me.” Tyril whispered to her as she began to peel and cut the potatoes.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Yes, you absolutely destroyed the pot the first time, but you make quite the stew now.” The elf chuckled a little before returning to the task at hand.

The night passed joyfully, the three catching up and swapping stories from their most recent escapades, Mal weaving his usual colorful tales. He also informed the pair of the happenings around the rest of Morella, all relieved that no dire threat had emerged since the joining of the realms; only minor squabbles and internal conflicts that didn’t require their legendary touch. Morella was rebuilding and, for now, peaceful.

Once the dinner was finished and all the tales had been told, Mal took his leave, making his way back to town as Tyril and Kassandra set to their usual evening routine.

“I’ll clean up this time.” Tyril said as Kassandra began to reach for the used bowls on the table.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go relax.”

“Alright.” Kassandra reached up and kissed his cheek before making her way to the open area next to the kitchen, sitting down on the small couch and pulling a basket to her; it wasn’t one he’d seen before.

She reached down and grabbed a small swatch in the shape of a rectangle alongside an attached ball of yarn and another item, a small wooden stick with a hook at the end. She got comfortable and began to use the hook to work the working thread of yarn into the little swatch. He watched her for a time, fascinated by the movement of her hands and the yarn; he’d never seen anything like it before.

“What are you doing?” He asked after a time. Kassandra stopped her work.

“Crocheting. Aderyn’s been teaching me how to do it.” She held up her project. It was a mishmash of color, and the finished swatch was slightly lopsided.

“What will it be?”

“A blanket. For the baby.” She returned to her work, adding a few more stitches. “Seemed like a fitting thing to do. I remember some of the women doing that when they were expecting a baby.” Tyril smiled a little and quickly finished his cleaning before meandering over to the woman, standing, and watching her work at her project for a time.

“Did your mother do that for you?” He asked. Immediately, her hands stopped.

“I-“ the words were lost in her throat, her face falling. She gulped and looked down sadly at the blanket. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.” Tears welled in her eyes, and he knelt before her, placing a comforting hand on top of hers. She grabbed onto it and glanced at the blanket again. “Did your mother ever do something like this for you?” He thought for a moment before shaking his head.

“I was raised by a governess mostly. And by the time Sarenya took over, I was too old for such things.” He ran his hand over the in-progress blanket, seeing and feeling the love imbued into the fabric.

“Seems that we both missed out on typical parent/kid things.” Kassandra mumbled. He squeezed her hand.

“All the more reason to ensure they do have those things. Give them everything we didn’t.” Kassandra only nodded in response, but she had a relieved smile on her face. She lay her hand on her belly and the two sat in silence for a time, basking in the quiet comfort of each other.

“Boy or girl?” He asked. The woman briefly glanced at him before looking back at her belly.

“I don’t know. Though the older women in town think it’s a boy. I don’t really care either way; I just want them to be happy and healthy.” Tyril rose and went to sit next to her.

“As do I.” The moment he was settled, Kassandra put her work away and leaned her head on his shoulder. He quickly wrapped an arm around her, resting his head on top of hers. “We should probably think of some names for them.” He said after a time. He felt her shift under him.

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“Terran.” Tyril said after a moment.

“That was your ancestor’s name, right?��

“Yes. The one we saw in the visions room.”

“Hmm.” Kassandra was silent for a moment. “A name belonging to someone brave and noble and strong. Though I wonder if your father would have a problem with that name; you did say he criticized that ancestor.”

“He did. But there is no denying that Terran was a great warrior and general.” Tyril placed a kiss on her head. “Besides, I don’t think my father would criticize if he knew you liked the name. He’s rather fond of you.” Kassandra shuffled around and looked up at him, her expression happy and slightly relieved. He gave her a smile in return.

“Regardless, we shouldn’t rush in picking a name. There might be something else we’d like.”

“I’m open to suggestions.” They spent the next few minutes discussing a few possible names, debating the pros and cons of each option. Before long, they were just calling out names, sometimes devolving into giggles at the suggestions.

“We need to think of some names for a girl too.” Kassandra laughed after their game had gone on for a time. She moved out from under Tyril’s arm and got comfortable in her new spot.

“Alright.” He also moved into a more comfortable position, facing Kassandra. “Do you remember your mother’s name?” He suggested. Kassandra looked sad for only a moment before shaking her head.

“No. But I have something else in mind for a girl. Something better I think.”

“Oh?” He sat up straighter, his curiosity piqued. Kassandra looked down at her belly once more, a warm and fond smile on her face before she turned her gaze back to the elf.

“Kaya.” Tyril forgot to breathe for a moment, staring into Kassandra’s eyes, her expression genuine.

“Really?” He asked softly. She reached up and cupped his face in her hand, running her thumb gently over his cheek.

“She was someone special to you. And why wouldn’t I want to name our baby after someone intelligent, compassionate, and kind?” Tyril remained silent, tears welling in his eyes but unable to look away from hers. He tried to find words to formulate some response. Unable to find them, he leaned forward and placed a kiss on her lips, the movement slow but the emotion potent and fervent. After some time, he pulled away, never looking away from her.

“You’re amazing, Kassandra.” She smirked and moved closer, straddling his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” The two laughed before Kassandra leaned in for another kiss. It began chaste and sweet but quickly devolved back to the deep kiss from before, the movement slow but passionate. He held onto her at the hips before slowly moving a hand down her leg, hiking up her skirt to grasp at the bare skin, the woman letting out a light gasp at his warm touch. She, in turn, moved her hands down his neck, opening his shirt and sliding her hand under the fabric, caressing the warm skin.

Suddenly, Kassandra pulled away with a light gasp.

“Kassandra?” She shook her head.

“I’m alright. They’re kicking.” She rubbed her hand over her belly in a calming manner. “Already taking all the attention, aren’t you?” She teased, causing the elf to chuckle as well. After a few minutes, she returned her attention to him, cupping his face in her hands. “Now, where were we?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He teased. Kassandra smirked before placing a quick kiss on his lips.

“I think this is the part where we head to the bedroom and ravish each other in every way possible.” With a smirk, he shuffled forward slightly, making sure that her legs were secure around his hips.

“Then hold on.” He stood up from the couch, lifting her with ease. Kassandra kissed him once more as he moved to their room, clicking the door shut behind them.

#tyril starfury #tyril x mc #blades of light and shadow #choices blades #bolas 2 #my writing #tyril x kassandra

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dutifullynuttywitch · 11 months ago

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A thief’s oath

Blades of Light and Shadow

Summary: Takes place after Blades of light and shadow 2. Autumn (MC) and gang have defeated the Ash Empress and merged the kingdoms. Mal wants to take care of his tired kit, so he makes good on his thief’s oath.

Pairings: Mal Volari X MC (Autumn Nightbloom)

Rating: Teen

1600 words

It’d been mere hours since that fateful decision to merge the realms. A cataclysmic change with repercussions they’d only begun to fathom.

Mal gazes out of the Light Army’s command tent, shuddering at the skeletal trees now dotting the green forests and the movements of shadow creatures roaming the landscape. The sky alternates between blue and purplish hues, late afternoon sunlight streaking faintly through rolling storm laden clouds.

Autumn, the Hero of Morella twice over now, had jumped into action, convening the leaders of Whitetower, Undermount, Zaradun, Flotilla, the Goblins and Ashen kingdom to discuss peaceful coexistence. They had been at it for hours, with Tyril, Imtura, Cherta and Willow working to influence their fellow delegates, Nia doing her best to advise king Arlan as Priestess of Light, and Valax mediating with the Ashen lords, all poring over quickly redrawn maps and borders.

“Who do you think you are, you insolent fool, to claim the lands south of Riverbend?!” King Arland glowers at a haughty Ashen lord, face contorted with rage.

Figures, Mal sneers, the powerful squabbling over land and power with complete disregard to us common folk.

At least his kit and their friends were doing everything in their power to do right by the people of the newly merged realm.

His gaze warms as he takes her in. His brilliant, beautiful Autumn. Her brow creases as she works with Valax to mediate between King Arlan and the Ashen Lordling. He notices the dark patches under her eyes. A tired tenseness in her movements.

In two strides he’s at her side, snaking an arm around her waist as he whispers gently in her ear.

“Kit, my love, time for a little break.”

“I can’t. Kindda in the middle of something.” She pecks him on the cheek, making to dive back into the negotiations.

Mal tightens his hold, and she huffs impatiently.

“Mal, we have to figure this out! If we can’t reach compromises, we risk war.. again!”

“I get that, Kit, but we’re talking a complete re-drawing of the world map, the integration of new cities and people… it’s gonna take more than a couple of hours crammed in a tent to figure things out and you all know it. You’ve barely slept over the past few days, and let’s not forget you just fought and vanquished a god. You need a break.”

He kisses lightly behind her ear, his hand moving from her waist to her lower back in soothing circles.

“Plus, I recall taking a thief’s oath a little while back.” He gazes at her, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “And I intend to keep it.”

Her eyes sparkle at the memory of stolen kisses, her body melting in his strong arms.

“Remind me again what that oath was, your magnificence?”

“Well, the first part was to whisk you away. It’ll have to be a temporary escape for now.” He whispers in her ear, nipping at the lobe and trailing soft kisses down the back of her neck.

Autumn flushes at his ministrations, a warmth building in her belly. She relents.

“A short break would be good. Tyril, Imtura, Nia, Valax, you guys fine if we step out for a bit?”

Imtura smirks knowingly at her friend’s flushed complexion. “Go, Autumn, we’ve got this.”

“Aw thanks, Immy, much obliged!” Mal smirks mischievously, wagging his eyebrows. He ducks out as an empty cup flies past his head, Imtura bellowing “I told ya not to call me that, landrat!!”

He takes Autumn's hand, strolling across the camp towards their shared tent.

She breathes in the crisp air, already feeling a little of the tension lift. “Thanks for this, Mal. I didn’t realize how much I needed a breather. Things were getting pretty tense in there.” She sighs wearily. “Honestly this is all a little overwhelming. Give me monsters and bad guys to fight any day, but politics… really not my cup of tea.”

“Hey, you were brilliant in there, Kit. Everyone listens to you, the Hero of the Realms. Don’t you ever doubt yourself.”

She smiles at his fervent tone, giving his hand a grateful squeeze.

“But you can’t always be there for everyone and not take care of yourself. We’ve both learned the hard way that doesn’t do any good…. So… let me take care of you.” He finishes softly.

“Mal, I love you.” She turns to him, her handsome rogue, and pulls him into a soft kiss.

“I love you too, my kit, always.” Mal deepens the kiss, tasting her, hands roaming freely making her gasp.

“Mal, tent. Now. “

He chuckles and leads her faster across the camp, stealing hot kisses along the way.

Soon Mal ushers her into their tent, lighting a few candles before settling onto the bedroll, gently pulling her down next to him.

“Now, about the second part of that oath…”

With a flourish, he produces a bottle of Celestial Vintage.

“… a bottle of the finest wine a man can steal! Swiped it from the tent of a pompous elven lordling.” He winks, flashing her a devilish grin.

She leans in for a kiss, chuckling. “Please tell me it’s the only thing you’ve swiped from our allies? Unless you want to single-handedly derail our peace talks...”

“You know kit, I’m all about redistributing wealth. And I can’t think of anyone more deserving than you.” He purrs against her ear, sending shivers down her spine.

“But don’t worry, nothing else of value’s gone missing. Thief’s honor.”

He grins and produces a pair of glasses, pouring them both a generous serving.

Autumn takes a sip, closing her eyes as she marvels at the familiar explosion of taste, the brightness of sunshine blending perfectly with the crispness of snow and sweetness of honey.

“Hmmm… just like that bottle in Undermount.”

She cracks an eyelid to see Mal gazing at her intently, a soft smile lighting his features.

“Our first date.” He leans in to brush his lips against hers, his breath ghosting her cheek.

“Hah! You admit it was a date!” She grins triumphantly, taking another sip of the wonderful nectar, feeling a delicious warmth spreading, slowly melting away some of her weariness.

“Well… yeah, it was most definitely implied.” He chuckles, a little bashful.

“Implied being the key word. Were you, Mal the Magnificent, great adventurer and seducer of countless Contessas, nervous to ask me out?” She bats her eyes sweetly, biting her lower lip to hide a smirk.

“What? No? Never! I just …. Figured I’d play it cool, considering your propensity to flirt with any and every two-legged creature in the realm.” He growls playfully at her, leaning in to steal a heated kiss, savouring the sweet effervescence of wine lingering on her tongue.

She smirks and straddles his hips, earning a satisfying groan.

“Oh, I see. You, my charming. Rakish. Absolute flirt of a rogue. Were worried I’d say no.” She punctuates each sentence with a kiss. “I wonder, my handsome scoundrel, how can I convince you that you’re all I could ever want?”

“Now that’s very easy, kit…” Mal whispers huskily, snaking his arms around her waist and holding her flush, trailing hungry kisses down her neck. “We can start by ridding you of all of these pesky clothes.”

All too soon, Autumn sighs, untangling herself from her lover’s arms, making to return to her duties.

She laughs heartily as she pushes him onto his back, losing herself in her rogue’s embrace.

Mal grabs her waist, tugging her back into a lazy caress. “Wait, kit, rest just a little longer.”

She kisses him softly, settling back into his arms. “You know, we’re really stretching this ‘break’.”

She considers, “You’re right, about these peace talks requiring proper time and patience if we want to get it right. I’ll suggest we relocate to Whitetower Palace for now. We’ll eventually need to travel the realm to help the communities rebuild.”

“I’ll follow you wherever you go, kit. As long as you’ll have me.” He kisses her softly. “Though I am happy we’ll be in Whitetower for a little while. I’ve been wanting to check up on the orphanage, make sure the kids are doing good.”

“Mal, have I told you how proud I am?” She gazes up at him intently. “I’m glad others are now seeing what I always knew about you, that under all this bravado, you’re a pretty honorable man.”

“S’nothing, really,” Mal smiles ruefully, “wanted to do good by you. Also, to give these kids a better life than I had growing up…”

“Just when I thought I couldn’t love you more.” She plants soft kisses along his neck and chest before continuing, a little hesitant. “Actually, we haven’t talked about what we’d do after all this… I was wondering if... if you’d let me help you with the orphanage?”

Mal looks at her in surprise “That’s what you want? To stay in Whitetower?”

“I want to be with you, Mal, and you’ve made a life here with your sister and Vivi, Nia, the kids… I’d love to be part of it. Plus, I’m an orphan too, remember? Kindda invested in helping you give them a better life.” She smiles up at him softly.

For a moment, Mal is speechless. Then he beams with pleasure, pulling her into a searing kiss. “I’d like nothing better, Autumn.”

“Well then that’s settled! Let’s meet up with the others and get about moving our negotiations into Whitetower.” She pushes up, quickly getting dressed.

“But there’s still wine left!” Mal pouts, searching around for his boots.

“To be continued, then.” Autumn smiles wickedly as she saunters out into the darkened camp.

#blades of light and shadow #mal volari #playchoices #blades of light and shadow 2 #bolas 2 #mal volari x mc #choices fanfic #blades fanfic #fan fiction #choices blades #choices #bolas #choices stories you play

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storyofmychoices · 1 year ago

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Shadows of Hope

[Mal Volari x Daenarya Blades 1 + Beyond] [Mal’s Orphanage] [Mal Volari x Daenarya Blades 2 AU]

Pairings: Mal Volari x Daenarya (F!MC) Book: Blades of Light and Shadow II, Chapter 1 Word Count: ~3,000 Rating: Teen to be safe; emotional hurt (I'm sorry!) Warnings: drinking, depression, hints toward suicidal thoughts A/N: I use dialogue and the setting from chapter 1 in the beginning to set the scene, and then incorporate Daenarya's dream with Mal's at the end.

Synopsis: She was there, and then she was gone. Mal would move heaven and earth to bring her back, but what happens when he can't?

"A toast!" Daenarya's smile widened, filling her face as she lifted a glass toward her friends. This new life of hers would take some getting used to, but she couldn't imagine a better group to experience this journey with. "To beating the Dreadlord."

"To green things and fresh air!" Imtura added, grateful to have escaped the Shadow Realm.

"And sunshine," Nia beamed, basking in the glow and safety of the warm sunlight that streamed into the White Tower palace gardens. The priestess of light might not be serving the temple, but she was going to spend her new freedom experiencing all the world had to offer.

Tyril feigned a frown, though his smile was still visible in the corner of his lips, betraying his stoic nature. "This is ridiculous. You may as well toast to the bees."

"Agreed!" Mal cheered, his jovial spirit soaring high. He was damn proud of the man he had become over the last few months and it was this crew that helped him get there. "To the bees. May they teach Tyril to have a better attitude—"

The Rogue's laughter roared through the gardens as the traveling crew clinked their glasses together. They had done it. They had done the unthinkable. They had not only defeated the Dreadlord and the Shadow Court, but they had traveled to the Shadow Realm and returned, a feat no one had ever done before them. They also rescued Nia, Kade, a second Nespar, and discovered the Blade of Light.

The group's spirits were high as they enjoyed the jubilant atmosphere. They didn't know what the future held, but they knew whatever it was they were ready. Together.

But that thought barely had time to glimmer to light, before darkness descended, shattering the revelry.

A swirling purple vortex cuts the serene gardens. Soldiers of the Shadow Realm march out. Mal drew his daggers, Tyril his sword, Imtura her axes, and Nia her light. They would fight and win, they had to.

But then she came.

The Dark Elf.

Before anyone could react, she had seized Daenarya, her grip like an iron vice. With a malevolent grin, she dragged her back into the Realm of Shadows. The room fell into stunned silence. The laughter was gone. The drinks were shattered and spilled on the floor. Their weapons remained clutched in their hands, yet she was gone. The portal sealed shut before them, leaving only their memories that she was ever even there.

His grasp on his daggers tightened, his muscles straining beneath his armor. This couldn't be how it ends. Not like this. Not without her.

Mal drew in a long, measured breath. His eyes closed as he paused. The world around him stilled in response. The warm sunlight caressed his cheek. He could hear her whispering in his ear as she pressed a kiss there. The soft breeze from the open window carried the fragrant scent of sweet peas, like the ones he brought for her. His grip on his dagger loosened as he felt her hands over his. She was still there. He exhaled slowly, resheathing his weapons. It was only then that he had heard his friends.

"You okay, Land Rat?" Imtura questioned, concern lacing her words.

"Mal!" Nia cried, her hands on his shoulder, shaking him back to them.

Tyril's hand moved in front of his face, trying to sense if any dark magic lingered on him.

Mal snapped back into awareness, taking a step back. "What in the three hells is this?"

Nia wrapped her arms around him, her eyes filled with tears. "You're okay."

"Of course I am," He responded. "Why wouldn't I be?"

She took a step back, studying his face. Her gaze shifted to Tyril.

"I sense no darkness or magic," Tyril decided. He rested a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Which part?" His tone was snarky, his smile cocky. "The part where we beat the Dreadlord and were celebrating, or the part where my girlfriend was kidnapped by a dark elf?"

"He's fine!" Imtura slapped him on the back.

"Fine is a relative term," Tyril added skeptically.

"What's wrong with you, Elf Boy." Mal shook his head, his face twisting in confusion. "We're wasting time. Let's raid the armory again and go rescue Daenarya." He marched forward, pushing past his friends.

"Mal—"

The way the elf said his name would haunt him in ways he couldn't know yet. It was soft. It was pained. It was broken.

"The portal's closed," Tyril explained. "We have no means of opening it again."

"We have to try," Mal demanded.

"I'm not saying we won't, but it won't be easy."

"Nothing ever is."

"I know." Tyril's reassuring hand was there on his shoulder again. It was heavier now. "We will not rest until we have rescued her, but rushing into things won't help. We need a plan. We need to research."

"I'm not going to stand here while Daenarya is being tortured and having gods knows what done to her." He pulled his shoulder away. "We are getting her back. One way or another. We are getting her back."

"Aye!" Imtura agreed. "I'm with the land rat."

"Me too," Nia added. "Daenarya risked her life to save mine. I owe her everything."

"Obviously, I am in, as well. It will be a challenge, but one I would be honored to accept with the three of you."

Mal nodded at his crew. "Then, it's decided. We rescue Daenarya."

"We should check the royal records and library for any information about realm crossing," Tyril offered.

"I'll check with the temple to see if there is any light magic or rituals that might be of assistance," Nia suggested.

"That leaves you and me, Princess—" Mal's smirk grew as his hope rose. "Weapons and armor. We will need all the tactical help we can get."

"My kind of duty!" Imtura nodded, giving him a one-time pass on the Princess comment.

Mal held his head high as they each went off to their tasks. Daenarya wasn't lost to the shadows, not with them readying to rescue her.

Hours turned into days.

Days turned into weeks.

Every lead they found led to failure.

One defeat after another, smothering their hope a little more with each failed attempt. The once bright light filling their eyes had dulled. Dark circles hung beneath their weary gaze. Lines of exhaustion dug creases across their faces.

Day after day, week after week, they worked tirelessly to save her, but now it was physically killing them.

Emotionally, they were no better. They were unraveling—fast. The spark of optimism that once fueled their determination now flickered like a dying ember. Frustration lurked beneath the surface. Mal found himself snapping at Imtura over the smallest things, their camaraderie strained by the constant setbacks. Nia, usually a calming presence, had her patience tested as she argued with Tyril over their research and what powers they could harness from the light.

With each passing day, the bonds that held them together grew more fragile without her. She was the glue that brought them together, and without her... without her, they were just 3 very different people with a common memory.

In the dimly lit room where they gathered to discuss their most recent findings, the atmosphere was heavy with unspoken tension. Mal's jaw clenched as he glanced at Tyril's furrowed brow, and the elf's narrowed gaze showed his growing impatience for the human. Imtura, once the heart of their humor, now responded to jests with a forced smile that failed to reach her eyes. Nia struggled to keep her voice steady as she raised concerns about their dwindling options.

Weeks turned into hopeless months.

The weight of their mission pressed down on them like a relentless storm. It tore them apart until all that remained was the fragments of a group that once was celebrated, but was now pitied and avoided at all costs.

Mal's gaze darkened, and he snapped at everyone at any word. Nothing was enough. Nothing was right. Nothing was his way. But most of all, nothing brought her back. His burning rage consumed him. He lashed out at his friends who tried to console him, his once-charming demeanor replaced by a bitter and resentful man.

"I shouldn't have ever let Kit convince me friends are anything more than a liability," Mal snapped. "You lot couldn't save yourselves. How could I rely on you? I'll save Daenarya myself."

The rage in Imtura grew; she drew her ax as he walked away. Her grip on her weapon tightened. No human would speak to her like that and draw another breath.

Tyril stood in her path, a somber expression on his face. He shook her head. "Let him go. He's lost more than the rest of us."

The remaining three agreed to go their separate ways. They'd never give up on trying to rescue her—Daenarya was strong; if anyone could survive the Shadow Realm, it was her. The knowledge brought little comfort.

As he walked the cold streets of White Tower alone, his gaze fell upon the disgraced temple of light. His jaw clenched as he remembered what he had seen the last time he stepped foot in there. Yet, his feet carried him toward the glimmering building's white steps. He climbed the stairs, one reluctant step after another. Mal had never been a religious man, but he had tried everything else. He promised her he'd try everything, so that meant this as well.

He fell to his knees at the altar, begging the gods of old, new, and anyone listening to save her. He offered everything he could think of, anything he could use to bargain with them. His soul and his life were among the last. His life didn't matter, hers did. She saved the realm; she got a rag-tag group of misfits to work together. It wasn't them; it was her. Let him be damned but bring her back. Only silence filled the room in response.

Mal traveled the kingdoms, searching for any religion to turn to, anything to breathe life into the embers of hope that vaguely glowed within him. Without hope, he knew there would be nothing left of him.

He dragged himself back to the Temple of Ellara, where their journey first began. He fell beneath the statue of Ittar and Bakshi, the two souls that formed one god. The lovers. If anyone would take pity on him, it was them. He cried out, begging and pleading for refuge. The only response was the sound of his sobs echoing in the hallowed halls.

He was alone.

Daenarya had been taken.

He had pushed his friends away.

The gods had failed him.

He was alone.

He should have been used to it. Gods know he had spent his life with that feeling, yet this time was different. This time was heavier. Because this time, he knew what it was like to have a family. This time, he knew what love felt like. This time, he knew how it felt to have hope, to trust in a future that might be okay, and to lose it all.

Now, he was alone, and there was no escape from the pit of despair he found himself in.

He didn't remember how he got there. He didn't know how long it had been. All he knew was he was back. Perhaps it was where he was always meant to end up.

Mal retreated into the shadows, seeking solace in the dark, forgotten streets of White Tower. It was a place where no one remembered your name, where he could be as lost as he felt inside. His despair was a suffocating weight, threatening to consume him entirely.

"I tried, Mom," he whispered as he leaned against her grave, a bottle of liquor in his hand. "I tried," he repeated, drinking the remaining liquid.

His fingers massaged one scar after another. Some were new, most old, and some had even been forgotten. But that was then. That was when she was there to listen to every story, hold his every pain, and share the burdens that shadowed his past. Without her, the pain returned. Every pain he had ever felt, all at once. It was suffocating. It was all-consuming.

"I'm sorry." He pressed a kiss to her grave and dragged himself back toward the abandoned building he had been squatting in. His steps were weak as he shuffled down the streets. Every muscle in his body ached. His weathered skin and sunken features made the once infamous White Tower reaper unrecognizable. People scurried in the shadows to avoid passing him. No one dared approach him for fear of what he had become.

With another bottle in hand, he entered a dilapidated building. Forgotten and abandoned, the place reflected his own broken spirit. He collapsed on the floor of his new "home". He couldn't stop the chuckle growing at the word. She was home, but she took it with her, and she was gone.

He held his dagger in his hands. A beam of moonlight slipping through one of the many holes in the structure glinted on its surface. Was tonight the night? Was this the end?

His heavy eyes fought to close, his body desperate for sleep. He refused to let himself fall. Sleep meant dreams and, in his case, nightmares. Or, on the rare occasion that nightmares didn't consume him, he was left with only a dark purple vortex, sucking out the last of his life force. There was such little left to give.

The bottle fell from his grasp, the liquid spilling on the floor as sleep overtook him. Instead of being greeted by the monsters and darkness that had become his only companions, he found her. She was beautiful. Just as she remembered. Her smile stirred the forgotten embers of hope that lingered deep within him.

His body trembled at the thought of her. He smiled weakly, nervous and uncertain. "What does this mean?"

Her fingers attempted to thread through his once luscious locks, now dirtied and tangled. Her gaze was soft as she spoke. "It means you can open that orphanage we dreamed of."

His eyes filled with unshed tears. He had forgotten about their dream. The night they had celebrated their victory, the promises they made to one another. "It would be nice to give poor kids a better life than I had. Make it so they don't have to steal to survive."

She nodded, her face beaming with pride. "It's a worthy goal. One might even say a noble one."

"Please. Anything but that." He was far from noble. He was one step above the shadow court themselves. Darkness had consumed almost every part of him.

"And Mal, my Magnificent Rogue, I promise you, no matter what... we'll be together again," her voice was a whisper in his ear—the warmth of her breath a welcomed old friend.

"Just try not to lead me on any wild goose chases, Kit," he teased, forgetting himself. "You know how Elf Boy feels about geese." His voice was light, and laughter rumbled on his lips for the first time since she was taken.

Mal leaned in, closing the gap between them. His lips brushed over hers, sparking the flames of hope inside him once more. His body filled with warmth.

"And you know—" He continued. "I will always find you."

As he reached to embrace her once more, the vision faded away, leaving him once more surrounded by darkness. He reached for the fallen bottle. Whatever remained at the bottom was better than nothing.

His hand hovered over the glass container, something stopping him. Her words echoed in his ear.

We'll be together again.

Hope.

For the first time in a long time, he had hope.

He wanted to believe he could find her still, but he knew he had no other paths to exhaust. So he would do the one thing he knew would keep her alive. Make their dream a reality. He would build their orphanage. He would save the children of White Tower from the fate he and Daenarya had suffered. He would build a better future from the ashes of the world that had forgotten them.

His hope turned to determination. If he was going to remain in this world without Daenarya, he would make it better—a world deserving of someone as kind and brilliant as her.

Moment by moment, day by day he poured his grief and his love into that building. It became a testament to his devotion to the woman who had made him a better man.

With each nail he drove into the walls, and with every floorboard he replaced, he whispered her name. He imagined her smile, her laughter, and the dreams they had shared. It was as if she was there with him, guiding his hands. He could still hear her whispering his name beside him.

Sooner than he could have imagined, in the heart of the slums of White Tower, a run-down, forgotten building transformed into a home. Their home, if only in spirit. Though quiet now, soon, he hoped, the rooms would teem with laughter and light-hearted squabbles of children he could rescue in his orphanage. The place would be one of love and hope. He would tell stories of the woman who saved the realm and who saved him in doing so. He would make sure her light lived on in this realm. If anyone deserved to be remembered, it was her.

"For you," he whispered as his fingers ran over the sign reading "Mal's Orphanage". Beneath the name, in smaller lettering, read "no longer forgotten". He wouldn't forget her. He wouldn't forget the man he became because of her, and most of all, he would make sure the children he rescued were never forgotten. He would show them a better life, a beautiful life filled with the most powerful magic he had ever learned from Daenarya—love and hope. With those two things, the world would never descend to darkness again.

A/N #2: This is not edited, my heart broke writing it and I can't bear to read it back right now. I hope you enjoy it, despite how painful it is. My heart is absolutely broken from the first chapter back. Mal's struggle with his grief as he goes through the stages.

I'm going to create a new masterlist for Blades 2 because I'm going to keep my orphanage as my personal canon timeline from Book One. Book 2 stories will be an AU. I know that makes no sense, but to me, my orphanage will always be my personal favorite place and my canon.

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missameliep · 2 months ago

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Bonds of Sea and Fire - Part 3 (Blades of Light and Shadow)

Book: Blades of Light and Shadow

Pairing: Tyril Starfury x Arwen (MC - F!Elf)

Characters: Arwen of Riverbend (MC); Imtura Tal Kaelen; Mal Volari; Nia Ellarious; Threep Pompedorfin; Tyril Starfury.

Summary: At the Wraith, the party plans their next moves; and Arwen and Tyril start to open up to each other, strengthening the bond of friendship.

Word count: ~6,300

Rating: G

Notes:

* English is not my native language;

* Characters belong to PixelBerry;

* This takes place between chapters 6 and 7 from Blades of Light and Shadow - Book 1.

The waves rhythmically crashed against the hull of the ship. After most of the pirate’s crew went below deck to get a few hours’ sleep, it quietened down. The party should’ve done the same, retreating to the cabin Imtura assigned them. But they didn’t.

Once the six were left alone at the quarter deck, Imtura rolled out the large map over a wooden crate, Tyril unfolded his, and the others crammed around them. The lantern cast a warm golden glow that joined the moonbeams in a fight against the midnight blue draped over the world.

Arwen saw the captain’s map when they were leaving the cursed islands. Black ink over beige paper. No colour to differentiate land from water, but the charted seas were unmistakable with detailed representations of even the smallest cluster of islands that resemble the captain’s freckles, depictions of sea creatures and beasts. Several lines and numbers stood for sea currents and distance, as she was told.

On the other hand, Tyril’s map was colourful. The rough edges on one side a sign of it being ripped out from a tome. It's richly ornated and painted with different colours: ochre for the land, greyish blue for the waters of rivers and seas, and faded green for forests; and richly depictions of mountains, towns, forests and temples – the Temple of Ellara is there, but not Riverbend and she wonders why. Roads meander in every direction like serpents; elfish words penned in elaborate swirls she’d love to decipher – no matter how dull they might be.

Tyril’s long index finger touched a point and glided over the map, tracing an ancient elven road until it stopped closer to the depiction of a forest. “From Valenlon to Nerifiel through Locamithrir. It is the safest path. These routes were abandoned long ago... we’ll avoid travellers and villages.”

The captain and the elf debated the best place to debark, and she pointed a cove near an estuary from where they could journey by foot to Undermount.

“There’s nothing there,” Mal remarked, “no port, no town... There are only ruins there...” Then whispered close to Arwen’s ear, “And not the good kind with relics and gold...”

“You fail to see the advantages, thief.” Throwing him a teethy grin, Imtura’s fingers glided over the map, while she explained the advantages of that location and why humans avoided it: treacherous currents, rocky shore, and pirates.

“Safe passage to our destination; and who knows? Maybe we’ll stumble upon one of those relics you’re blabbering about...”

The prospect made Mal’s eyes glint like the stars above.

"With fair winds,” Imtura added, “we’ll debark the day after tomorrow before dawn. Darkness is the best camouflage.”

Nia shivered and wrapped her arms around herself tightly. Arwen met her gaze and knew it wasn’t just due to the colder breeze blowing from the sea. The prospect wasn’t good.

“How dangerous will it be?” Arwen asked, her inquisitive eyes fixed on the captain’s.

“No more than what we’ve been through this far, landrat.”

Arwen’s head tilted to the left, to look at the other elf, and Tyril was already looking at her, as if waiting for her input. His face was impassive as usual, except for the tension in his jaw. Could it be fear?

“Are there other options?” he asked, “A safer one?”

“Up north.” She pointed a place on the coast closer to Whitetower. “It’ll take us, two, maybe three more days.”

Three days in the sea and who knows how much more walking to Undermount, Arwen did the math and pondered if being too careful could cost Kade’s life.

“Any road close to Whitetower is likely to be patrolled,” Mal warned looking pointedly at Imtura and Tyril, before meeting Arwen’s gaze. “Considering our combined criminal record... we should avoid those routes.”

Tyril could be wanted for the death of the mayor of Port Parnassus. Actually, their faces could be on posters all over, as far as she’s concerned.

“I’d rather take my chances on the deadly cove,” Arwen said, her words coated by a nervous laugh, and looked around finding no objections, just heavy silence.

“Fret not!” Imtura’s booming laugh filled the air, and she playfully slapped one massive hand on Arwen’s shoulder to lighten the mood. “You lot are lucky to have me! I know my way ‘round these waters!”

“So, it’s settled,” Arwen said, her gaze meeting Tyril’s, who nodded.

After deciding on the supplies to take with them, the conversation changed to more agreeable subjects. Imtura shared tales of her travels, some improved the confidence of the party, others could make even the bravest sailor reconsider their life choices.

Despite the late hour, the vibrancy of her voice was infectious.

They should’ve retreat to their cabins, but they didn’t.

Making themselves more comfortable, they lied down to look at the starry sky. Except for Tyril, who leaned against the wooden wall next to the captain’s cabin door, away from the buzz, with a stiff posture and arms crossed in front of his chest. One could mistake him by a statue.

However, Arwen knew he could listen from that distance. Because so can she. And more than listening, he was paying attention, judging by the subtle reactions to the tales, voices and laugh, like the way his eyes fluttered open or the twitch of his lips. Even if his interest might be similar to that of men of science for wild beasts.

Arwen cursed the cold, and so did Mal. The colder the salty breeze blew, the more he scooted closer until their shoulders were touching and sides pressed together.

When she shivered, the thief snuggled up her side, getting underneath the cloak used as a blanket.

“What are you doing?” Arwen whispered, not hiding the amusement.

“Warming you up.”

“By hogging the cover?”

Grinning, he waved his hands, gesturing at his own body. “By offering you all of this! I’m a human heater.”

Tyril snorted.

The sound wasn’t loud, only her keen ears could hear it, anyone else might’ve missed it or mistake it for the wind, but she knew better. What could have stirred the reaction? Does the mere sound of Mal’s voice annoy him that deeply? Will this become an issue later in their journey?

Tyril’s statuesque figure remains leaning in the same spot, the same indifferent expression; but his half-closed eyes were no longer focused on Imtura and her lively narrative, but on the two of them.

When he notices her watchful eyes upon him, he whirls, averting his gaze.

Oblivious, Mal rested his head on Arwen’s bent arm, and she yawned.

“Go rest.”

“I’m good,” she lied through her teeth, stifling another yawn in the palm of her hand, and he gave her a meaningful look.

“I know I’m irresistible, Kit,” he whispered, “but you got to sleep sometime. When was the last time?”

“I sleep plenty.” Another lie. And a poor one, nonetheless. With little to do during the day, the others had rested. For instance, Mal took naps at the cabin in one of the floating beds made of canvas, while Threep recharged by the quarter deck bathed on sunbeams. On a shadowed corner in the afternoon, Nia rested her head on Arwen’s lap and dozed off while she braided her long hair. She, however, kept herself entertained and avoided resting.

All her life she had trouble sleeping.

Nightmares have been the most constant and undesirable companions, tormenting her through countless nights with images that might be memories. Even if she had months of peace, sleeping till morning without a scare, she could count on the return of the terrifying visions – she always wondered if her desire to hold onto the remnants of a lost life summoned them. Whatever the cause, no matter how terrified she was, Kade always found a way to comfort her.

Unlike the rest of their adoptive family, Kade never dismissed her feelings. In the small room they all shared at the farm, Kade slept by her side on one of the palliasses, he was the one to tell her it was just a bad dream and keep her company until she’d go back to sleep, making up stories to distract her before he learned how to read. Later, he’d sing or read one of his books. Even as adults, instead of spending the night away with a lover, she’d prefer to return home to the safety of their room above the bakery. The prospect of tearing apart in front of a stranger’s curious or judgmental eyes was one she dreaded…

Whenever she bolts awake these days, she’s alone with the nightmares and their lingering effects. His soothing presence is gone, there are no stories; only silence, her guilty and his terrified eyes staring at her in the darkness until the world comes back into existence. Nobody else but herself to blame for that. Were she not that stubborn… she pushes these thoughts away. Exhausting her body is good, it means dreamless sleep.

“The stars look brighter here, don’t they?” Arwen tried to change the subject, but Mal rolled over to rest on one elbow to look at her; Nia – who refrained from joining the hushed conversation until this point – did the same on her other side. It’s unusual to have anyone caring about her, and if their concern wasn’t annoying, she’d be touched.

“Humans probably need more sleep than elves…” she argued, and Tyril huffed again.

Some elf solidarity! If a stare could hurt, hers would have pierced his sky-blue skin.

“We all should go to sleep,” Nia suggested. Her face was alight with one of her gentle smiles and Arwen often wondered if the Light in the world was drawn to the Priestess’ own light. It seemed adventure stirred some fire within her, an enthusiasm for life – even for the most mundane experiences – that was refreshing.

Nia scooped the Nesper, who had found himself a warm place by the oil lamp and fallen asleep long ago. Threep didn’t protest, allowing her to take him down the stairs, and praised her for treating him with the deserved deference, even though the lack of velvet cushions.

Mal rose to his feet and so did Arwen, but she didn’t move, her gaze drifting to the other elf.

“Aren’t you coming, Kit?”

She pursed her lips, while ideas battled inside her mind. It was better to lie down on the bunk than on the wooden floor, even if she could not sleep. But another part of her wanted to go to Tyril, to bask in his presence, even if he would not offer what she craves – what it is that she craves anyway? Is it a want driven by lust? Or maybe Tyril provides a mirror in which she sees the elven part of herself for the first time and it draws her in?

Tilting her head to face Mal, she said softly, “In a bit...”

“Oh, I see...” Throwing a not-at-all subtle knowing grin at her, he offered a little wave of his hands and disappeared down the stairs.

Wrapping the cloak tightly around herself, she walked towards Tyril, whose eyes were focused on the sea, his beautiful and meditative face bathed in moonlight.

The moon travelled more than half of the sky and hung low, close to the horizon. Its light created a silver path over the water, thousands of tiny other moons shining back. It was a breathtaking sight.

When she came to a stop beside him, he remained silent; not that unusual since Tyril is the least talkative individual of the party. However, the silence felt heavier somehow, his impassive expression unnaturally forced. Taking a closer look, his muscles appeared tense as the strings of a lute, eyebrows drawn closer, and jaw clenched in a way that could grind one’s teeth...

“Elves require the same amount of sleep as humans.” he said unprompted, breaking the silence before she could make small talk about the sight. “Sometimes even more, depending on the level of magical activities one might’ve engaged.”

Her words must really have bothered him. She contemplated his serious expression for a moment, before deciding to go with humour.

“Perhaps all those fruit cakes and cherry wine made you lot from Undermount soft.” The yawn that engulfed her last words lessened the strength of the quip.

“Honey wine.”

“Excuse me?”

“We drink honey wine.”

“Honey!? How do you even make wine with honey?!”

“It’s actually a very interesting process!” Tyril speaks at length, explaining the delicate beverage’s complex fermentation process, use of oak barrels and fruits and spices that could be added. The words lost on her as her interest shifted to the way his expression softened while he shared this knowledge. His eyes were shining like the stars, and, for a second, she wondered if he’d look like this reciting poetry into her ear...

“It was a rhetorical question,” he mumbled, a frown replacing the enthusiasm, “I apologize for boring you.”

He immediately bowed his head, the long black hair creating a curtain between them, hiding his beautiful eyes.

She got caught and there was no use in denying she had been staring at him all along. The air that fills her lungs is salty and cold; it helps to awaken her senses after being so entranced by him.

“Your enthusiasm. It was captivating. I got distracted for a second there,” she admitted promptly, catching him off guard, “Sorry.”

“Oh!” his mouth rounded in a perfect O; Tyril’s cheeks immediately flushed, turning a darker shade of lavender. After stammering unintelligible words, he cleared his throat against a fisted hand and made another attempt at speaking. “I-I don’t usually talk this much...”

“Why not?” she asked with genuine curiosity, noticing he was still avoiding her gaze while fidgeting with the wristband of his armour.

“It’s not often I find others with whom I share interests or enjoy talking to.”

“Does it mean you enjoy talking to me?”

Flustered, his cheeks darkened even further, and the eloquence displayed while explaining about the wine slipped away. All he seemed capable of was a faint hum as response, and she was tempted to tease him further, something he might have noticed.

Taking a deep recomposing breath, he resumed the previous conversation, as if there were no interruptions whatsoever.

“Rest is paramount to regain your strength and keep your mind sharp.”

His gaze got nowhere near her face, she noticed. Was it out of shyness?

“Something you might consider if you wish to be ready to face what waits for us,” he added more firmly, bringing her attention back to his words.

“You’re not sleeping either...” She threw him a sidelong glance.

With a smile, he raised his long index finger, pointing up at the vast sky above.

“The stars and the moon never looked quite like this at Undermount.” His words were unnaturally hushed, barely more than a sigh, tinted with something that could be amazement or nostalgia.

“Besides, I enjoy the quiet after everyone else sleeps,” he added, and it sound much more in character with him.

“Are you telling me to bugger off?”

“If that was my intention, I would have asked you to leave,” he replied brusquely, and she chuckled, amused by his reaction at the attempt to fish for an admission he’d like her to stay.

“Keep up with the sweet-talk and I might just fall head over heels for you...” she teased, throwing him a smirk and he pressed his lips together into the thinnest line.

Gazing at her, she supposed the clogs of his mind were whirling to try to figure her out, and the silence that followed grew intolerably heavy and not at all charged in the way it does right before lips collide in the most delightful ways – which was unfortunate to say the least.

“That was a joke,” she said slowly and raised her hands in a placating gesture. “I apologise for making you uncomfortable.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Your sense of humour is still a novelty to me.”

Arwen tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, contemplating his expression, his frown softening into a tiny but genuine smile, one that conveys more than words.

A small step.

She’ll take it.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked softly, waving a hand at the sea. His gaze followed the motion to the reflection of the moon. “Like liquid silver.”

Gaze flicking to her, Tyril’s lips stretched with a wide smile. “Makes you think of Zylbella, doesn’t it?”

“Zylbella?”

Her puzzled look was met with confusion, before realization dawned on him, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Being around you, I almost forget...” he paused; and the smile turned melancholic before it was swallowed completely by a veil of sadness.

There was a prolonged silence. Heavy and gloomy. The longer it lasted, the more it stung her heart in an unexpected way.

“What is it you forget?” she asked tentatively.

When he looked at her, the corners of his lips were turned downwards.

“My exile,” he replied, his voice restrained. His shoulders were unusually drawn together, like he was trying to shrink himself.

“It’s almost over,” she said as reassuringly as the tiredness allowed, but the attempt to cheer him failed completely.

The moonlight illuminated the lovely sharp features of his face, bringing to the surface the loneliness and melancholy within him. She wanted to reach out – she always does –, offering anything that could bring some comfort, but it hit her: Tyril was the first elf she’s ever met; could she be the only one he’s being around since leaving the elves’ sanctuary at Undermount?

Wandering these foreign lands, has he heard the language of his ancestors? Has there been others to look at and remind him who he is and where he belongs? Or has it felt like being the last one of their kind, unconnected, like it did to her?

It wasn’t something she considered until now, what it must have felt to be estranged from his culture and people, the loneliness that comes with it, the uncertainty of the return... how painful it could be. No wonder there was so much sadness in his eyes.

“Tell me about Zylbella,” she asked, the softness of her voice almost drowned by the roar of the waves. A simple request: tell me about it, so you’ll remember where you belong. And maybe I’ll become part of it too...

“Why?”

“So, I’ll know too.”

Bowing his head, his eyes met hers in an examining gaze. The gloom faded and a soft smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. For a second, the expression reminded her of Kade, and the kind of joy that appeared to bloom from his soul whenever anyone would share his interest on a book.

“Legends say Zylbella of Lur’El lived long before the elven empire met its end... She was the greatest battle mage to ever walk the lands of elves and humans; she travelled silver roads of moonlight across the seas on a lightning chariot pulled by horses made of stormy clouds.” He paused and looked at his own hands. “Her magic was incomparable. With a flick of her wrist armies were brought to their knees...”

“That sounds powerful. What happened to her?”

“Some versions of the legend say she lived an extraordinarily long life, surviving everyone she’s ever known. –”

Elf’s life span is not something that crosses Arwen’s mind often, but now and then the knowledge she’ll probably outlive everyone she’s known too, be parted from the ones she loves feels too heavy a burden...

“– The most known version, however, says she met her downfall by the hands of a human named Auriollo di Stella, a chief warrior, who seduced and trapped her to use her powers.”

Her jaw dropped and she blurted out, “A mere human?”

“It was not the first or last time our kind would underestimate human’s malice...” Tyril replied, “In some versions she killed him. Heartbreak and sorrow consumed her till her spirit returned to the Light...”

“Tragic.” Arwen sighed. “To be this powerful and still unable to protect her heart...”

“It’s a cautionary tale. One every elf is told since infancy. We must learn even the greatest can meet their downfall due to the foolishness of their hearts. And by the hands of humans.”

“Oh! That’s quite the negative view about love. And humans!”

“Not undeserved.”

“But it blinds you to the possibility of experiencing solidarity, friendship, love... like I’ve experienced. Or to marvel at their abilities to reach the impossible without elf’s unheightened senses or orcs’ strength...”

Tyril leaned back against the wooden wall, sizing her up. The muscles of his jaw visible relaxed as were his arms, unfolded and falling to his sides. A twitch of his lips that might have been a small smile to himself.

“You sound like this friend of mine... constantly defying my ideas.”

She mockingly narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t know if I should take this as an insult or a compliment...”

“It is high praise,” he replied firmly and offered a genuine smile, soft and warm, just a slight curve of the corners of his lips.

Arwen smiled back at him, and was rewarded with another story, another part of him.

“My much younger self wanted to learn how to summon the horses, while my friend wanted the truth... So, she spent several months in the library until one day, she found this ancient poetry book about two lovers: a mighty warrior and her human lover that could be Zylbella and Auriollo. The story had striking similarities: an elf renouncing her title, choosing to live amongst humans...”

“You don’t like that ending.” Her words were not posed as a question, since his displeasure was evident.

“I simply cannot fathom why would any elf renounce everything... being alone like that.”

“Is love not enough of an explanation ?”

His gaze flicked from the sky to his own hands, a long pause to consider the question.

“To be lost in the tumult of such emotion is unwise. Especially if one must sacrifice as much...”

Shutting up like a clam, his expression turned blank and distant, a contrast to what’s it’s been just a moment before. His words had an unexpected weight to it that had her wondering: could his emotions have been shoved down so thoroughly in the name of propriety and duty that his heart was never tried, avoiding the hurt while also never experiencing the joys?

She refrains from inquiring any further though, she's got no right to pry, after all. Destiny might have thrown them together in this quest, and a friendship – or more – is something yet to be forged.

Feeling a yawn building, Arwen turned around and stretched her arms overhead. It was increasingly hard not to surrender to sleep, which could be a good thing. Exhaustion keeps the nightmares away. She rolled her shoulders back and forward, stretching her muscles.

Even with his eyes hidden behind the curtain of black hair, Arwen noticed he was watching her. His attention was obvious but not his intent.

“Arwen,” he called her name softly and she wished to bottle that sound and treasure it. “May I ask a personal question?”

“Sure,” she said, glancing over one shoulder. The word carried the mirth of the grin playing on her lips. “If I’ll answer it though...” She winked pointedly, and for once he did not avert his gaze.

“You have nightmares.”

The certainty of the statement almost erased the smug smile from her face.

“Is that why you avoid sleeping?” the question rolled very softly from his lips.

Her heartbeats became fast and too loud.

“Can’t I be here solely for the adequate company?” she teased using his own words, trying to keep her well-crafted light-hearted facade.

By the stare directed at her, it didn’t work.

“You do not hesitate to put your life in the hands of strangers, and offer your trust so freely... Yet, you have no faith anyone might actually wish to live up to the trust placed in them,” he argued, and his tone resembled what a tired parent sounds like when speaking to their incorrigible child. The scolding is peppered with a hint of affection and hope. Or perhaps her opinions are tainted by her infatuation and he’s only tired of her bullshit, worried she’ll become a weak link.

Whirling around, she turned her face away from his intense gaze, focusing her eyes on the moon instead while her mind was racing.

“How-How did you know?”

“You had one that first night,” he replied curtly. “You seemed frightened.”

She felt bare. The heat crawling up her neck made her cheeks burn. Were she naked in front of him and wouldn’t have felt nearly as vulnerable.

“I’m not a damsel in distress, Tyril,” she retorted, tired of being underestimated.

The lingering silence broken by the creak of the floorboard beneath his feet, denouncing a change in his position behind her. Had he pushed himself off the wall? Was he coming to her?

She willed herself not to look back and got frustrated with the silence that followed. No footsteps. Just the endless symphony of the sea and the wind.

“After everything that happened,” his voice was louder this time, “to you and your brother, it’s a natural reaction, not a weakness. You should not be ashamed.”

There was so much understanding in those words, uncharacteristically so, considering his aloofness towards everything and everyone else.

To be lust upon is something familiar, however, to be seen is not.

He let the words hang between them, like a peace offer, and waited for a reaction.

Her fingers touched the cords of her dress, and absentmindedly fidget with them, considering her options: laugh it off or flirt her way out of it. Deflect but not actually lie. She doesn’t want to mess the forging trust process they’ve got going on...

As if sensing her hesitation, he offered even more than she’d expect.

“I do not presume you might need it...” he sighed, letting out a long and loud exhale before speaking again, as if the act of uttering them required considerable effort. “However, if there’s anything I can help with...”

As the words sunk in, they moved her. Suddenly, being straightforward seemed more appealing than any of her usual tactics; maybe it’d do good to allow someone else in for a change.

Her chest heaved with a deep breath like the one you take before diving.

“I’ve had nightmares for as long as I can remember...” she started, her voice sounded strained, each word weighting on her tongue like a rock she struggles to push out. “Not so frequently in recent years... At least, until now... Whenever I close my eyes... I see... like it’s burned into my mind...” she paused, rolled her lips inside her mouth, but it was parched, like she’s been wandering through a desert. Kade’s face, how terrified he looked, she sees him all the time. If only she had listened to him, let him stay at Riverbend, he’d be safe... She failed him.

Back turned to Tyril, arms crossed over her chest, she watches the waves crashing against the hull of the ship.

“Isn’t it ironic? An aspiring adventurer who cannot sleep unless her little brother is there?” the rhetorical questions echo with a hauntingly bitter laugh. It remains unanswered while she presses her tongue to the palate, trying to stop the regret welling up in her eyes.

“Kade was the only one to always be there and remind me whatever horror in my mind couldn’t hurt me... not physically at least... that I was safe... and he’d sing or tell me a story until I fell asleep again...”

While she wiped a stray tear on the corner of her eye with her fingers, she wondered why she told him any of this. It’s all so unlike her...

Perhaps she’s too tired, and her brain is malfunctioning. Perhaps a dam burst somewhere inside; the words and emotions came out in a flood. Perhaps she simply longs this stern elf might live up to his offer.

The wind blows, slapping her hair against her face, and she hastily brushes it away. The same hand rests over her closed mouth. The muscles in her jaw twitch and tighten; the tension makes her teeth ache.

This time, when the wood creaks, it’s followed by the softest clinking of Tyril’s armour and the sound of his footsteps, which lack the usual confidence and steadiness.

When he nears her, he halts, and the hesitation makes her wonder if he’ll retreat; then he takes another few steps in her direction. Eventually his figure emerges beside her, maintaining a polite distance of an arm-length between them.

His presence refuels her optimism, like sunbeams fighting the shadows. Casting a cautious sideway glance at him, expecting to find the same understanding of his words, his face is curtained by the long strands of his black hair. He’s looking straight ahead and not at her, hands folded over the railing.

The anticipation building is overwhelming.

“I’ll do everything in my power to help you rescue your brother.” He swallows and adds very softly, “Until them, I won’t sing to you, but I can keep you company. If that is something you would want.”

There’s something so precious about that offer, no innuendo or the usual implications others could have favoured in this situation. Arwen’s heart beats harder against its cage, and she craves more, to reach out to him and feel his embrace. But she will take only what’s offered for now.

“Thank you,” she says softly, mustering a weak smile.

He waves a hand to dismiss it, and before he can say anything or the moment is over, she reaches out and her hand carefully rest over his sleeve. “Your offer means a lot, Tyril. More than you know...”

He doesn’t dismiss her this time, but throws a questioning glance, before bowing his head, the hair falling between them once more, curtaining his eyes.

“We should go rest.”

She pulled her hand back, letting it hang on her side.

“Are you done stargazing?”

“The stars will not go away,” he states. “Come.”

The one word is as commanding as his words usually are. But the way his eyes glimmer in the moonlight and his hand comes to rest on her shoulder, a comforting weight there, are not. The gaze is fleeting and so is the touch, one moment his hand is there and then it’s gone. The effects, however, linger. Her skin tingles from the touch and her eyes search for him, peeking over her shoulder as he walks away, oblivious to the turmoil he stirred.

As if captured by her stare like a fly on a web, his steps slow to a stop, and Tyril looks over his shoulder. She could swear there’s a hint of flush in his cheeks – or is that just wishful thinking?

Either way, she follows him to the darkness waiting below deck – she’d probably follow him anywhere he leads, if he’d simply ask her to.

The faint glow of an oil lamp in Arwen’s hand keeps the darkness from engulfing them. As they reach the entrance to the cabin, Tyril halts at the threshold. His hair sways with the inspecting motion of his head.

Inside, the moon’s soft light struggles through one small, dirty and lonely circular window. Despite the similar musty smell mixed with salt, seaweed, sweat and stale ale, the assigned cabin at the Wraith is significantly better ventilated and furnitured than the storage room they shared at the Sun Maiden. There’s enough room to walk between two sleeping berths long and large enough to fit the massive bodies of orcs, a narrow table where she placed the oil lamp beside an unlit one, a bench and two floating beds made of canvas swaying gently.

“Hammocks,” Imtura called them earlier, and Tyril stared at the novelty with a frown as if the mere existence of such object was a personal offense. At the time, with the sun shining bright, Arwen was delighted by his reaction, almost listening to the clogs spinning in his head while analysing the chances of fending off an attacker while swinging in the air.

Right now, their three companions are quietly sleeping in the upper beds, barely distinguishable silhouettes in the dark.

“Take the berth,” he whispered, and started unfurling a bedroll right beside it. Even in a hushed voice, it sounded like an order, and it annoyed her.

Arwen tapped his shoulder lightly, causing him to stop what he was doing and turn around to face her. When he did, she raised her hands in question, then motioned at the two available beds.

“You take the berth,” she whispered back, not concealing the exasperation, “I sleep on the hammock.”

“What if you fall?” he mumbled.

The idea he could be worried about her was endearing even if a little insulting at her capabilities.

“So, is that why you’ll sleep on the floor? To break Mal’s fall? You’re so considerate,” she jested.

Tyril’s chin tilted upwards to the hammock right above the spot he was planning to sleep. An exasperated huff of air escaped his lips, and his fingers rubbed his forehead.

“Then what do you suggest?”

If the idea of sleeping in a sway bed was that offensive, they could share a berth; they did it before. Is he leading the conversation to it, or is he not comfortable sharing a bed with her?

“We could share...” her soft voice sounded hesitant, a far cry from the flirting invitation three nights ago. “This bunk is big enough for the two of us... no folding yourself in half like last time... and together we won’t be so bloody cold!”

His gaze flicked from her eyes to the berth, before he replied, “I recognize it’d be mutually beneficial... won’t you mind?”

She shook her head and offered a grin, and he aquiesced.

Despite the agreement, neither moved. They stood barely a feet away from each other, the proximity making her heart race even faster than it usually does around him. She tilted her chin up, trying to meet his gaze and any sign of unwillingness. There was none, and his stare mirrored the intent of hers.

If not for one of Mal’s awfully loud snores, she’d forget there were other people in the world.

“Alright, then. I’ll sleep against the wall,” she said and started uncloaking; then she removed the leather bag and unfolded a rough worn-out blanket.

For unknown reasons, her movements fascinated him, his gaze following her as if she were performing the most engrossing artistic routine.

It is undeniable that his attention pleases her when a rush of blood flows to her neck and face, and she craves even more. Thankfully, the darkness conceals the flush that darkens her skin, as much as she assumes it hides the flush on his own skin when realizing she noticed his stare.

“Will you sleep in that?” she whispered despite knowing the answer, and he shook his head.

Under her attentive gaze, he carefully started the same ritual to remove his armour. First the wristbands came off, then the arm plates. The metal clinks when he bends over to lie them down on the ground before resuming the task.

Sitting on the edge of the bunk, she removed her shoes and pulled her legs up, shifting position until she was lying down, head resting on one palm and facing him. There’s something intimate in watching him shed his armour. A kind of vulnerability behind the gesture.

Her eyes drank of him, delighted at the sight of the hands reaching the leather straps in the back and the way his fingers dexterously work on the buckles. There’s a bit of a struggle to reach a particular one on the back; her fingers tingled with temptation to help with the task. Maybe one day she’ll offer to do it for him; maybe he’ll even ask her help. Eventually, he unfastens the tricky one and moves to the next.

When the last piece was removed, his shoulders heaved with a deep breath. It takes another two of those long breaths before he sits down too to remove his boots, and several others before lying down.

The sword kept close once more, she noticed; but this time it lies on the floor with the armour.

Once his head hit the thin mattress, his hair cascaded over his shoulder and down his broad back, the long locks like a river between them; she is tempted to dip her fingers and run its course up his back to his neck... But she does not do it. Instead, Arwen pulls the rough blanket over their bodies, covering both up to their shoulders, and he thanked her.

“Are you comfortable?”

“I prefer to sleep on dry land,” he replied genuinely, “but I cannot complain...”

“Well, you can...” she said, amused by another of Mal’s snores.

“I can endure a few hours of this torment.”

The corners of her lips pull into a smile, remembering his reaction the other night, when he shared a room with Mal and got so riled up.

“No threats to throw Mal overboard?” she chuckles against one hand. “How gracious of you!”

He huffs what could be annoyance or a laugh, but she prefers to believe her words amused him.

“Goodnight, Arwen,” he said softly casting a look over his shoulder, and she replied in kind.

Exhaustion weighted on her lids, and all she hopes is to find only darkness once they flutter closed. She tries to focus on Tyril’s steady breathing and the scent of salty breeze in his hair. All her thoughts are about Tyril before she finally drifts to sleep.

When she does, the elf stirs to face her, turning his back to the entrance of the cabin; conflicted emotions battle in his eyes, furrowing his brows.

Arwen does not see any of that.

#blades of light and shadow #tyril starfury #tyril starfury x mc #playchoices #mal volari #imtura tal kaelen #nia ellarious #choices fanfic #choices fic writers creations #mc: arwen of riverbend

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number-0-iz · 1 year ago

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OKAY OKAY OKAY BLADES CHAPTER ONE THOUGHTS BELOW THE CUT

(This is on mobile so I hope it works)

With the first image, he'll yes, badass. AND AS FOR THE 2ND, I LOVE HIM

God I LOVE THIS.

Loved this. This was so badass. I wanted to balance the skills out so I chose Intimidation from the diplomacy skill

WE LOOK SO FUCKING BADASS OF COURSE I HAD TO BUY IT

Okay so theory time. Looking at his ears he might be/might have been an elf. I think he is the first realmwalker and exists between the liminal space to help others like him. I also think that the gem in the staff is the same kind as the one we got from our dream. Like a harnessing of power of some kind. I think we might make a staff out of it like the watcher.

WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE HELL?

IT HAS BEEN A YEAR? A year?

BRB I'm just gonna cry over Tyril being scared and sad and looking for us and now being distant and closed off again (probably similar to other LI) and my poor other husband Aerin being in jail for a year. I'm just full of emotions rn.

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mikaelsrose · 1 year ago

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Starry Night

Pairing: Tyril x f!human!MC (Reyna) Book: Blades of Light and Shadow 2, chapter 3 Word count: 4000 Rating: T Warnings: emotional hurt Category: hurt/comfort Synopsis: Having reunited with most of her party, Reyna discovers the true extent of the traumatic events of the previous months. A/n: special thanks to @starlight-starfury for encouraging me to include Tyril speaking elven 🫰🏻 × Calanín - my light: elven word of affection, the elven equivalent of the Common language's "my love;" the elves believe that love is often fleeting, but the Light is constant, and the most precious resource they possess. Tag list: @starlight-starfury @cashweasel @watatsumi-island @lilyoffandoms @sophie-summer @lazypartridge @brycesgirl @agattthaa @secret-fungi @megas-choices (if anyone wishes to be added/removed pls let me know!) @choicesficwriterscreations @choicesbookclub

Nia, Mal, and the children had developed a routine, thanks to which the kids changed into their pyjamas, brushed their teeth, and were tucked in under thirty minutes. If one would take Nia at her word, developing the schedule took weeks, but due to eager cooperation the group managed to reduce the time from two hours to just thirty minutes, saving the guardians a considerable amount of time—time that they would spend reading, searching, and discussing the possible methods of rescuing Reyna. After ten minutes, Nia and Mal returned downstairs, having wished the kids a good night and slumped in the chairs, exhausted. Soon, the giggles and banter upstairs quietened down, and Mal breathed out a sigh of relief while Nia smiled at her friends, her features softened by the warm candlelight.

“Can I offer you anything? Water, tea? We don’t have much, but I’d love to host you properly,” the Priestess chirped, already rising from her seat, but Tyril held out his hand to stop her.

“It’s alright, thank you, Nia. Save what you have for the children.”

Nia nodded, while the elf rested his left hand on Reyna’s thigh, gently squeezing it in a poorly disguised display of affection. Her lips curved in a soft smile, and she vaguely covered his hand with her own before addressing the rogue before her.

“Lord Weasley of Riverbend, huh?”

Mal smiled sheepishly and scratched his neck, blushing faintly as if he had been caught in a lie. “I had to improvise, and Riverbend just happened to occupy my mind an awful lot lately.”

“Gotta admit, you really nailed the accent. If I hadn’t known better, I’d think you were a native,” she winked, drawing a laugh from Mal.

“What can I say? I had spent an awful lot of time with you, kit.”

Nia joined the conversation. “How is Kade? I’ve been meaning to visit him, but there was always something urgent to attend to, and…”

“He’s doing just fine, cooped up in the library or in the royal gardens with Loola and Threep. He’s made the Master Librarian his archenemy, though.”

The Priestess chuckled. As Mal rested his arm on the back of her seat, a quiet yawn escaped Reyna’s lips and her eyes watered uncontrollably. She rested her head against Tyril’s shoulder, continuing to smile at her friends. Although she did not feel the true length of her absence, she had missed them, and at that moment she felt at peace.

The idyllic atmosphere was disrupted by a quiet childish giggle coming from the top of the stairs, and the group's heads turned simultaneously in that direction. Mal sighed exhaustedly and rubbed his tired eyes before addressing the children.

“Guys, we talked about staying up past bedtime!”

The grave silence that followed his remark was soon interrupted by barefoot steps and the creaking of the old wooden floor. A frail, pale blonde girl stood next to Mal and whispered in his ear, her big eyes glued to Reyna. In response, Mal smiled at the child and nodded. “Do you want me to introduce you?”

The girl nodded her head excitedly, and he addressed his friend.

“Kit, this is Nyra, she's a big fan of yours.”

Reyna's brows furrowed. "Fan?"

“Mal and Nia often told us stories of your adventures! My favourite is the one when you ran after Duchess Xenia and fought her! I want to be as brave as you when I grow up!” the girl chattered reedily. “Can I ask you a question?”

"Ask away, Nyra," she sent the girl an encouraging smile, squeezing Tyril's hand under the table.

"Weren't you afraid?"

"I'd be crazy not to be afraid,” she smiled. “Bravery isn't about not being afraid, it's about doing the right thing despite fear."

The girl nodded, drinking the words off Reyna’s lips, staring at her heroine in awe.

“Now go to sleep, Nyra,” Mal rubbed the girl’s arm, softly pushing her towards the stairs. Before disappearing in the darkness, Nyra waved at the couple, and Reyna sighed.

“Said like a true hero,” Nia concluded while the men agreed silently.

“It’s good to see you, guys. I just wish Imtura was with us.”

“We’ll find her, don’t fret, Rey-Rey,” Mal assured. The nickname made Reyna groan.

“Please don’t call me that.”

“How about Rey of Sunshine?”

Reyna glowered at him. “Mal, I’m warning you.”

“Reiny?”

“Oh, I like Rey!” Nia joined in the conversation, grinning.

“What do you think of “Reine”? I think it suits your personality,” the thief continued. “What do you think, elf boy?”

Tyril, smiling softly at the course the conversation took, looked to his left at his partner, his eyes glistening with the reflection of a nearby candlelight. “I believe my answer falls under a public display of affection.”

Nia brightened up. “Aw! It’s so nice seeing you two together again. Tyril had been so miserable without you, Reyna.”

“Tyril, my man, I’d like to remind you that we were direct neighbours at the Palace and their walls are surprisingly thin, so you really shouldn’t be em—”

Tyril cut in, blushing. “Stop talking.”

Grinning, the rogue continued teasing, pointing to Reyna with a nod of his head, while Nia and Tyril grew considerably more abashed. “I see you already had a chance to celebrate.”

Reyna touched her neck, remembering the necklace of red love bites that her lover bestowed upon her the previous night, and bit her lip, slightly embarrassed. She forgot to cover the bruises in the morning as she was in a hurry. The Priestess intervened.

“Stop teasing them, Mal. They’re young and in love, of course they celebrated their reunion.”

In love. The couple looked away, uncomfortable with the subject, but Nia continued, oblivious to their discomfort.

“I’ve been meaning to ask before—” she bit her tongue, cleared her throat, and continued. “Who said it first? Was it romantic? I bet it was! Tyril always had a way with words and—”

“Oh, Priestess, read the room!” Mal chuckled. The redhead’s smile faltered as she raised her eyebrows in question, tilting her head slightly. The rogue explained. “Look at them! Elf boy’s about to turn dark purple, they obviously haven’t said that yet.”

Nia’s lips shaped into the letter “o” as the realisation dawned on her, but before she had a chance to apologise, Reyna intervened. “Alright! It was great to see you, but we should go. It’s getting late, and we need to rest.”

“True,” Mal agreed. “No offence, but you look terrible, lordling.”

“It takes one to know one, thief.”

“You don’t like my haircut? You wound me,” with feigned offence, Mal placed a hand over his heart, making Tyril roll his eyes. Reyna smiled at the exchange, but agreed with Tyril. Mal looked exhausted, the dark spots under his eyes and slouched posture explicit evidence of that. “Let me walk you to the door.”

Hugging Reyna goodbye, Nia whispered, squeezing her eyelids tight. “Please, don’t disappear again.”

Reyna rubbed her friend’s back reassuringly before moving away from the warm embrace. “I’ll do my best.”

“Your disappearance wreaked havoc, kit,” Mal admitted quietly, patting her back. “I know it may look like we just moved on, but there wasn’t a day Nia didn’t stay up late sifting through the Temple’s scrolls in search of rescue. Whenever I got a promising lead, it turned out to be just an urban legend. We—” his voice broke. In no hurry, Mal took a deep breath and moved away, his hands resting on Reyna’s shoulders. “We really tried, kit. I’m sorry it wasn’t enough.”

Reyna smiled comfortingly. “Don’t beat yourself up, Mal. I’m here, in one piece, am I not?”

He smiled. “I suppose.”

“Thank you for trying.”

Unpersuaded by her assurance, Mal nodded weakly, and before the couple took their leave, he patted Tyril’s arm. “Don’t let her out of your sight. See you in the morning.”

Strolling through the streets of the capital, slowly climbing towards the Whitetower castle, Tyril and Reyna grudgingly discussed the following day’s plan, in the meantime looking around for a seamstress. Despite the late hour, one of the very last vendors was still folding clothes in the town square, and being in desperate need of a more appropriate gear, Reyna left Tyril waiting outside. Patiently pacing around the ornate fountain, the elf studied a nearby florist when his gaze stopped at a bouquet of familiar flowers in the man’s hands. It took a bit of haggling and bragging about his title for Tyril to purchase the flowers imported from his homeland—black-petaled frilly sunflowers with luminescent red stamen—but he purchased them, and he could not suppress the proud smile on his face when Reyna emerged from the building with a paper package in her hands. He handed her the gift wordlessly.

“Oh! What’s the occasion?”

“There is no occasion. These flowers are native to Undermount, we call them melissë anar’insil. They were my mother’s favourite, she grew them in our garden, and…” he bit his lip, blushing slightly. “And they remind me of you.”

“They’re beautiful,” she said quietly, awestruck. “Thank you, Tyril. But you shouldn't have, they look like they have cost a fortune."

"There's a possibility that the saviour got a discount."

A hearty laugh escaped her lips upon hearing the word saviour yet another time the same day. "Admit it, you like being the hero."

Tyril bit his lip, trying to contain his smile. "I suppose the title carries some benefits."

Chuckling, she climbed on the tip of her toes and pressed her lips to his for a short, sweet kiss. She could still faintly taste the sour lime lemonade with mint on his lips, the drink he claimed his favourite, the memory bringing a smile to her face. She thought of their first, and at the same time last, date—the day they partook in festival activities, roamed the streets of Whitetower holding hands, made love in a secluded tower, and ended up intoxicating themselves at a local tavern with Riverbendian drinks. As if reading her mind, Tyril’s lips curved in a knowing smile.

“Does the name of the flower mean anything in Common?” she asked, interlacing their fingers. Resuming their lazy stroll back to the castle, the elf nodded, yet he took his time with the answer, eventually smiling sheepishly.

“It translates to ‘the lovers’ sunflower.’ These sunflowers are considered the flower of royalty in Undermount as due to their rarity only the wealthiest can afford them, and they symbolise devotion, loyalty, and adoration.”

Nodding, Reyna brought the bouquet closer to her face and took a deep breath. The smell was sweet but not overpowering, reminding her of the first days of summer, and the exact smell of Tyril’s bedchamber in Undermount. She remembered walking out to the balcony when he fell asleep and seeing the luminescent stamen in the darkness, thinking how otherworldly they made the garden look.

“I can see why these were your mother’s favourites.”

“Their appearance is but a fraction of the reason for her admiration. Mother adored them because father asked for her hand in marriage with half a dozen bouquets of these flowers and had showered her with grandiose bouquets ever since on the most important occasions. She always said it’s a perfect addition to any confessions and talked very fondly of the day Adrina was born as father had the Manor’s ballroom filled with flowers,” Tyril reminisced, his gaze distant but a smile was playing on his lips.

“I’d love to hear more about your mom, she sounds like a very kind soul.”

Tyril nodded. “She was. However, that is a story for another day. We should hurry, it will rain soon.”

The moment Tyril locked their chamber's door, the toller announced the clock struck eleven and Reyna plopped down on the mattress exhausted.

"You don't have to buy me flowers if you want to propose, I'm a simple girl, Tyril," she teased, yawning. The elf flushed purple, realising how inauspiciously he crafted his words back in the town square, and smiled at her. "Duly noted."

"And if you want to fool around, just stay the word," she winked, unlacing the corset of her dress. "Not today, though, I'm dead on my feet."

"Ever the romantic," he smiled. As he helped her out of her clothes and into a loose nightgown, Tyril made sure she was tightly tucked in, and soon joined her, stroking her back until she fell asleep.

People have a saying, one that Tyril overheard while patrolling the streets of Port Parnassus, just minutes before he first bumped into Reyna. They say that what does not kill will make you stronger, and during the year she was gone he prayed it was true. He hoped all this suffering was not in vain.

Yet now she was here with him and he felt everything but stronger. He felt weak, broken, undeserving. He couldn't protect her. It should've happened to him.

He hadn't slept the night before—after he lulled his beloved to sleep, he stayed guard in case of the worst. It gave him plenty of time to look at her, admire the features that he had prayed to see again, to assess the damage she had suffered at the hands of… Of who exactly? She didn't want to talk about it, and he didn't push her. Overwhelming her was the very last thing he wanted to make her feel so soon after returning; alas, because of that choice, his imagination was running wild. His mind was painting the pictures of Reyna running through the obsidian desert, fighting the remaining Shadow soldiers, battered, aghast, and disappointed she had to save herself because the people closest to her had failed.

Studying the fresh horizontal scar on her inner arm, Tyril ventured into a dangerous territory of fear-fueled theories as to what lay ahead. The Shadow Realm was an unexplored area, where unlike Morella they were on a hiding to nothing. Tyril did not doubt the loyalty and capability of their group, but they managed to win the fight against the Dreadlord by a stroke of fortune—had it not been for the Priestess’ sacrifice, the party would have lost at least two members, himself included. If the new enemy was indeed a competition to the Shadow Court, they needed allies.

Tyril noticed that upon her return, Reyna not only possessed new wounds and scars, but also lacked that mesmerising glint in her eye, her movements were slower, and body weaker, not to any sudden or loud noises paralysed her with fear. Reyna came back different. Tyril would even risk saying that it was not Reyna who came back. Not the one he knew. It was someone new entirely.

The woman next to him took in a shuddering breath, her fingers gripping the duvet tightly. Restless even in her sleep, Reyna was indisputably facing the consequences of living through numerous traumatic events within a short time period without respite. Reaching forward, Tyril smoothed out the worried crease between her brows with his thumb, deluding himself that with this simple gesture he was able to transfer all her worries onto himself.

Take the utmost care of her and relay that Father and I rejoice at the news of Reyna’s return!

Against his will, Tyril’s mind replayed the moment of reading Adrina's letter. Could he truly protect Reyna? Without demur, he would give his life trying to ensure her safety, albeit such sacrifice seemed pointless from his current standpoint. If he was gone, who would protect her?

“I suppose sleep is not my ally tonight,” she sighed to herself, having woken up from a nightmare-filled sleep. Wrapped in their sheets, Reyna observed Tyril, carefully studying his back, the hair that cascaded over his muscles, the way the moonlight reflected on his skin and how utterly ethereal he looked against the starry night sky. He was sitting on his legs on the balcony, facing the city, unnaturally still. As concern gripped her heart, Reyna cautiously walked over and touched his shoulder.

"Tyril, are you alright?"

The elf looked up, snapped out of his reverie, and his hand covered hers mechanically. "I was meditating. I'm alright."

As it dawned on her, she covered her lips with a hand, doused with a wave of embarrassment. "Oh, I'm sorry, that's— that makes much more sense than what I feared," she blubbered. She did not intend to reveal the exact reason of her concern, he did not need to hear that her initial thought was that he had been petrified the same way Kaya was. "I won't bother you any longer, I'll just—"

Tyril slowly rose to his feet and rubbed her arm. "It's alright, Reyna, I was supposed to finish a long time ago anyway. Let's get you back to bed."

As his hand rested on the small of her back, he noticed the dampness of her skin.

"Do you do that often? Meditate?"

He nodded. "It's supposed to be only thirty minutes a day, but…" he sighed. "Once the feasible solutions were depleted, I started praying for a miracle. There was nothing more that I could do but pray, so I prayed for hours on end."

Reyna bit her bit as an impulsive thought emerged in her mind. "Would you pray with me?"

As the look of surprise flowered on his face, his brows furrowed, but his expression changed into a kind, encouraging smile within seconds.

"Absolutely. Is there anything in particular you'd wish to pray for?"

Her answer was affirmative. "Do you mind telling me a bit more about your prayers first? I'm not exactly religious, and I don't know much about your gods, but I feel like it's the right thing to do."

"Anyone is welcome to seek comfort and guidance from the gods, you needn't be religious for that," he reassured. "We do not have many prayers per se as we'd rather engage in a silent conversation with the gods during meditation, but should one need a prayer there is a universal formula. I can't know for certain, but I believe the gods would look kindly on prayers for blessing or good fortune," he explained, gently rubbing her back as he guided her inside. As they made themselves comfortable on the silk carpet, assuming the exact position Reyna found him in, the elf interlaced their fingers and rested their hands on his lap. "I suppose one could also pray to nature, as do orcs, although I haven't heard of my kind practising that."

"I'd like to pray for Kaya, to put in a good word for her, so she can rest easily," she breathed out quickly, almost cutting him short. When his expression fell, she rapidly added: "Unless that's not how it works, then—"

"No, it's just— it's very thoughtful of you," he smiled, and Reyna breathed a sigh of relief. "If you wish, you may repeat after me, but it’s not necessary since you may find it challenging to pronounce certain words.”

“I’ll try,” she nodded and took a deep breath. As soon as Tyril noticed her shoulders relax, he began reciting the prayer, slowly, pronouncing the words clearly, giving her time to repeat.

“Alcarvalda nostar, varyando o in nór nosyë, iqulmë lissë an vilissë o Kaya Duskraven. Cé pataro imbi eleni, nínion ‘nin gwannad lîn. Hiro hyn hîdh ab 'wanath.”

As he finished, the elf stroked her knuckles softly, observing her carefully. Reyna was on edge, that was clear, although he could not figure out the exact reason—however, as tears spilled from her tightly shut eyes, he intervened, closing her in an embrace.

"Do you think she rests in peace? That Xenia's deed hadn't influenced her eternal rest?"

"I believe our Gods are omniscient and just, and as they welcomed Kaya, they saw her for the wonderful person she was before her life was stolen from her."

She hummed in response. They stayed like this for several minutes until Reyna’s breath evened out, and a yawn slipped past her lips. Tyril helped her climb onto the mattress and lulled her to sleep, just the night before, telling her a story of Undermount society’s attempts to open the city to the world. "Thank you," she whispered. “I— The prayer did bring me some comfort.”

Two hours. It took only two hours for Reyna to wake up again. She sat up straight, her skin blanketed with sweat. Tyril stroked her back through the damp gown as she took deep breaths to compose herself.

"It's alright," he comforted repeatedly, allowing her to rest on his chest and cry out all the emotions bothering her at that moment.

But it wasn't alright. At that moment, Reyna could not remember the nightmare that caused her to wake up drenched in sweat and with a plea on her lips, but she felt utterly devastated and powerless, and no amount of consolation was able to calm her down. Her heart would not stop pounding against her ribcage as tears would not stop flowing down her cheeks, and the terror she awakened to deftly transfigured into suffocating panic that immediately alerted the elf.

Fixing their position so that they were sitting facing each other, Tyril's palms cradled her face, forcing her to look into his eyes. "Reyna, focus on me, alright? Breathe with me, take as long and deep breaths as you can, and hold it in for five seconds," he instructed, feeling his equilibrium wane as the woman before him struggled to settle her nerves. The calming spell was ready to roll from the tip of his tongue when at last Reyna took a deep, shaky breath.

He counted down the seconds out loud for her, time after time, until her muscles relaxed, and the body became heavy in his hands. The back of his hand wiped the drops of sweat off her forehead as he laid her down, back to the same position she woke up in, and kissed her cold temple, pressing his lips for several long seconds.

She hadn't slept well the night before, and that night would probably be no different. Rubbing her back up and down, he proposed to tell her another story, in a poor attempt to help her fall asleep.

"Just hold me, please,” she pleaded. And as a devout worshipper, Tyril held her, whispering sweet nothings into her ear, although his heart ached seeing his partner in pain.

"Are you asleep?"

Startled, Tyril blinked repeatedly to rid his eyes of the remainder of sleep. "No."

“I want to cut my hair.”

The elf’s brows furrowed in confusion, his gaze focusing on the pendulum clock on the far side of the room. “Now? It’s three in the morning.”

“I need a change, and my hair reminds me of what—” she held her tongue. “Will you help me or not?”

Rubbing off the blur in his eyes, Tyril rolled off the bed and approached the mirror she was sitting in front of.

"Are you certain?"

"Just do it."

Visibly unstrung and beaded with sweat, Reyna sat facing the vanity mirror, holding back tears. Unconvinced, he took his own sword from her hand and gripped the hilt tightly. Several seconds and one skilful swish of the sword later, inches of her dark locks hit the floor silently. Holding her blurry gaze in the reflection, Tyril inquired further.

“Calanín, what’s troubling you?”

Reyna dismissed his worry with a shake of her head and made her way to the en-suite bathroom. “Sorry for waking you up,” she added before disappearing into the dimly lit room. The last sound he had heard before drifting off to a turbulent sleep was that of Reyna climbing into the ornate bath.

As the full moon gave way to the sun, coolness to sparkling dew and thin fog, the couple set out to meet their friends, shyly setting out on a new adventure, leaving the turbulent night but a memory.

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