#and im not brave enough to go to argue with him and cause discontent

[becca4leafclover]

On one hand I'm grateful for the RA I'm friends with to invite me to a selective event at the school! That was super cool of him!

On the other hand that event was a dinner with the school president and I was outside cheering for him to eat shit and stop fucking up the school for 3 hours today so I don't think thatd go over well

[hotheadhero]

Huntsman’s Dragon, Preamble

This is the preamble to a focused starter (link here). It opens with a flashback that doesn't adequately allude to the full thing, so I would encourage viewers to read this fully... buuut it IS roughly 2000+ words in length, so it's understandable/I can't force otherwise if you don't read it.

Prologue

He remembers lazuli eyes staring brightly down at him o’er golden belly and golden wings, long whiplike tail swishing teasingly just out of reach. He remembers swiping for it, jumping, leaping, chasing; but always even the smallest of tide-polished scales darts further away than his stubby hands can grasp. He remembers huffing and dropping his rump on russet autumn leaves, furious that he has failed even so simple a task. It’s just like catching lizards and crawdads, he thinks! What could possibly be so hard about it?

(The answer, of course, is that neither are as deft in the air as his current prey. Neither of them are dragons.)

“This sucks!” he cries petulantly into the woods. “You can fly and I can’t! How is that even fair?! Can’t I play with you, even just a little…?”

He doesn’t expect anyone will hear him this far from the village, least of all the dragon; yet lo and behold, it alights and approaches him slowly, eyes wary, wings tucked, ears flattened against its horns, spines raised like hackles on a cat. ‘Strange,’ he thinks; ‘Didn’t Father tell me scared things never come close?’ But the greater part of him is enraptured, amazed that a little king of the skies might actually have listened to him when even Julian would not. (He should have been frightened, for even on all fours, its shoulders are still level with his chest; both its tail and wings could knock him flat in one sweep.) Round-eyed, he reaches out with a stubby hand. The dragon looks like it could eat him for breakfast, yet it cringes away from his fingers. Forked tongue flicks out to graze their tips—pulse racing, Caspar holds still. Very still.

He is certain the dragon can feel his heartbeat in the still autumn air.

It doesn’t move from tongue-licking distance. Slowly, he uncurls his fingers, rests them on the dragon’s snout. It flinches back with a startled chirp—Caspar flinches and gasps in turn. They stare at each other for several long moments, round sky-blue eyes meeting slitted lazuli.

A leathery tongue brushes fragile skin once more. Then the rest of the dragon comes, scaled head gliding smoothly ‘neath callused fingers.

The boy resists an urge to whoop out loud—doing so will surely frighten his new friend away. Instead, he simply watches the little dragon nuzzling him; then, slowly, he begins to wiggle his fingers to and fro atop its head. Those tide-polished scales feel so much more divine than they look, like silk and plate combined. It twitches under his motions, but relaxes almost as quickly. Unblinking lazuli eyes stare up at him. Are they perhaps as curious as his own? Whatever the reason, it doesn’t run away from him. Maybe, just maybe, it likes him.

You know what? He likes it too.

“I think I’ll call you Linny,” he says softly. He’s kinda proud of that name–it looks like a lindworm, all long and snakelike, and it’s cute besides! By now he’s finished stroking its nose and moved up towards the short ridges over its eyes. It chirps at him in response, and he smiles. “I bet we’re going to be good friends, Linny…”

---

Thread Start

“Oi, didja hear aboot the dragon a’ Oghma Moontens?”

“‘ow could I not? Made off with me neighbor’s best cows just a moon ago, and me neighbor’s babe too. Poor lass still squalls at night, wouldn’t ya knew.”

Definitely the right village, he notes as he hitches Ulric’s reins to a stable pole beside the pub. Daevin had been a sprawling place on the regional maps, but now several of the distant buildings were wrecked clear down to the foundation. The dragon must have attacked this place recently for folks to be talking about it so openly—perhaps it had even attacked only once, if they had not learned its attack patterns well enough to hide. He’d ridden almost a fortnight from Enbarr to get here, ever since Gilead summoned him back from Arundel to update him on his current mission. “I’ve reports of a demon loose in the Oghma Mountains,” he’d told him, “ransacking towns, stealing the villagers’ valuables, and attacking the weak and foolhardy besides. My scouts confirm it’s a dragon, black-scaled, size fit to block out the sun. We don’t know where it came from, but it’s not part of the Grand Council, so it falls to us now to take it down. Be sure to wear your best gear. Failure is not permitted.”

Yeah, yeah, Caspar snipes at his internal Gilead-voice. For however much his father enjoys parading about in armor in the capital, all it’s ever done for him while traveling is earn him wary looks and wide berths, even when he’s doing nothing more dangerous than stabling his horse. He knows how they think: Even lone armed men coming into an otherwise peaceful town almost never bodes well. But even after years on the job, the way the villagers’ tongues still as they finally register the stranger in their midst still injures him. He’s not some creepy mage come for their scalps—heck, he’s even in plainclothes this time. At least, as plain as he is comfortable with.

Padded chestnut gambeson rustles as he straightens up from Ulric’s flank (he did bring his plate, as instructed, but it’s safely tucked inside two of the young destrier’s saddlebags) and takes a step towards the villagers. There are three of them talking. The youngest-looking one shrinks back as he approaches; Caspar gives them a smile and holds up his hands in placation. (He’s long since learned the value of his smile in distracting from the battle axe and other weaponry he carries.) “Easy, guys; I’m just here for a bit of information,” he says. An innocent tilt of his head. “Heard there was a dragon in these parts. Anyone I can talk to, to learn more?”

The bearded salt-and-pepper man relaxes before his companions, nods at the tavern just behind before tilting his head up. “Ye can talk ta me. I’m Mayor Borjondy. Run the pub jus’ behind ye. Ye from the capital, lad?” he asks. “Come ta slay it fer us?”

“That’s right!” His grin doesn’t falter as he steps forth with an open hand. “Caspar von Bergliez,” he introduces; “part of the Spectrum Imperial Guard. This isn’t my first go-around; rest assured.”

Borjondy nods as he takes Caspar’s hand in his burly, weather-beaten one. “Aye, thought so. Ye sound like a city boy, though me ears tell me you come from the east.” He completes the handshake and then drops his hand, expression pensive. “Been here all me life, I ‘ave, save fer me travelin’ days. We’s a simple folk, spend ‘ar days huntin’ an’ minin’. Don’t wan’ any trouble, unda’stand, but it would seem that trouble’s foond us.”

“Killed me wife an’ brother, it did!” the youngest man interjects. “Woulda killed me too if I ‘ad’nt run!”

Weren’t things like this what the Interspecies Accord was meant to prevent? A moment’s anger shoots through him that a dragon could violate the Accord so callously, but Caspar forces himself to remain calm. “Saving others like them is exactly what I’m here for,” he says, reaching out towards the man’s shoulder by way of reassurance. But the (hopefully) soothing touch does little to soften his glare. “Sounds like you’ve seen the beast, then,” he observes. “What did it look like? Can you remember?”

His question only causes the man to shake harder. “B- Black…” he stammers. “An’ ‘uge! Got paws like oxen, an’ wings kin block the sun! Oh, my poor Greta…”

The grief in his face mirrors in Borjondy’s as he steps closer to calm him down. “It’s killed some a’ my men when they was out huntin’,” he explains; “even tracked ‘em back here an’ wrecked ‘eir homes. ‘twere a livelier place, once, but now all ‘at’s left are the old ones and babes, an’ whoever’s brave enough ta stay an’ protect ‘em. But—it’s not a Hevring beast; that much I kin tell ya fer sure.”

“Not a Hevring drake?” Caspar is vexed. “How do you know that? Aren’t they the only dragons living in these parts?”

“Aye, ye’d think so, but this one’s black as pitch, not green like they say the Hevrings are. Come from the northlands, it did, though me lads here say it’s holed up in the eastern moontens now.”

“Those fookin’ Hevrings…”

All eyes turn to the third villager who until this moment has not said a word.

Heedless of (or perhaps relishing in) the attention he has drawn, the interloper prattles on. “Some a’ the womenfolk say them Hevrings’ll come an’ save us from it, but it seems to me they value their own an’ their kin’s scaly hides more ‘an any ‘coexistence’ they blather on aboot in the capital. Council a’ Seven, me arse,” he mutters viciously. “I bet it’s a council a’ four with three dragon fookers instead.”

Caspar bites back his rising retort. How dare this man lump his father in with the likes of Vestra and Gerth? But arguing will get him nowhere, and there’s still more he needs to know. “Where can I find it?” he asks. “Any known weaknesses?”

“Most times the beast stays close to the moontens, but not the mines. Ye’ll prob’ly find it if ye travel nor’east a’ them, towards Faerghus. Make sure you git ‘im good for me, lad,” the middle villager blurts then, seizing Caspar’s arm with a sudden fervor. “Ain’t no way we kin rely on them scaly twats if this is the sorta shite they pull.”

Borjondy nods sagely. “Agreed.” Then he looks directly at Caspar. “Call me old all ya like, but I kint help but feel as if this is an omen of some sort. Keep yer wits aboot’cha, lad. Somethin’ tells me the Council could fracture over all’a this in the future.”

Fracture? Last he’d heard, there was no evidence of discontent between either human or dragon halves of the Council of Seven. Then again, things were always strange when dragons were involved, so the young huntsman forgoes comment and dips his head in an informal but appreciative bow. “Thanks, mayor,” he says. “I’ll have its head before long—you have my word.”

He would simply have to ask Gilead about all this later.

---

The village of Remire is unsettlingly quiet as he rides into town, and it does nothing for the mounting disquiet of his mind. Only the furtive peek of eyes from behind the tavern window alerts him to the presence of any living souls in the area; and even then, it disappears almost quick enough to be imagined. Perhaps they’re all terrified of the dragon living nearby? Pondering it does not make his odds seem any more favorable.

For all his bravado back in Daevin, he isn’t actually certain how he is going to kill the thing once he sees it, especially without any other huntsmen to back him up. Slaying wyverns is one thing; they are universally weaker and less clever; but dragons? Most successful prior accounts spoke of trickery, of outwitting rather than physically outmatching the beast, and Caspar has much more confidence in the strength of his axe arm than the cunning of his mind.

He frowns. Miring himself in worrisome thoughts borne of too little knowledge would do him no good. Best he simply get out there and search for its lair. Maybe there he could find some clues as to what its goal is, what it wants with the villagers when it never bothered them before. Maybe there’s something he can use against it there, some way to take it down.

(And if he should find the beast inside its lair?)

(He’ll just. Tackle that problem if and when it arises.)

[imagine-darksiders]

A few days ago I came down with a bad cold and only made it worse by going out to class in the cold and the rain. Suffice to say I was running a high fever when I returned and suffering from recurring dizzy spells. Im feeling a bit better today but could you maybe help a sick person out and do a scenario with the very worried Horsemen, Azrael, Samael, and the Watcher when their s/o comes down with a high fever that causes them to be dizzy and delerious? Something cute would certainly be nice.

Anon, I am so sorry. I suck. I wish I’d gotten to this when you were unwell. Death’s is set weirdly so bear with me, lets just say you’ve been somehow transported into The Abomination Vault and leave it at that… xoxoxo

Azrael: The poor angel is a fusspot regardless of whether you’re ill or not. So when he paid a visit to your home following up on the promise of showing you an ancient Earthen text the Keeper had given him to transcribe. 

You’d entirely forgotten about the angel’s impending visit, dressed in a dirty pair of jogging bottoms, wooly jumper and thick socks. Despite your pitiable state that clearly suggests you really ought to be in bed, you continue to bustle around your home. You start at a knock on your front door, grumbling about visitors, you pull it open to reveal a softly smiling angel. With a croak, you slam the door shut, not really thinking, just aghast that he should see you in such a dishevelled state when you’d entirely forgotten he was even coming. 

“….Certainly not the warmest welcome, but I suppose I’ve received worse.” Came Azrael’s muffled voice from the other side of the wood. You grimace with shame and turn to open the door again, this time to see Azrael peering at you warily. The caution turns to concern however when he sees how peaky you’re looking. “Sorry Azrael, I was hoping you wouldn’t have to see me like this..”

 “Y/n?! What in Heaven’s name is the matter? You look terribly sick.” He folds his wings delicately as you step back to allow him inside, ducking under the doorframe as gracefully as he could before straightening up again and allowing his feathers to brush against your walls. 

You open your mouth to answer, but a cough worms its way up your throat forcing you to splutter into your sleeve, waving away Azrael’s approaching hands. “I’m fine, Az.” You at last croak out, “It’s just a cold, that’s all.” The angel, however, looks less than convinced, placing a soft hand against your forehead and frowning when he feels your temperature has skyrocketed. “Hmm…” He ponders, “It’s good I came along when I did….” 

Azrael sighs and looks down at you with a strict expression on his features, “You need rest, Y/n. I implore, let me take care of you.” You shake your head rapidly, unwilling for the angel of death to sacrifice so much of his time in look after you when you could easily do it yourself…Unfortunately, the motion of shaking your head ‘no’ winds up causing an overwhelming dizziness to wash its way over you. Without warning, you begin to teeter on your feet before falling gracelessly towards the ground. 

You land with a small ‘oomf’ in silk covered arms that lift you carefully into the air, accompanied by the sound of someone humming in discontent… Azrael comes to the decision that he’d be best suited to looking after you at his home in the White City, so he takes you there at once. 

For an entire week, the angel is at your total beck and call. Not that you ask for his help much anyway. He’s an attentive nurse, constantly keeping close watch and monitoring your fever. He keeps assuring you that you are not a burden, and he’s just glad to be able to properly administer care. Azrael makes you promise next time that you’ll tell him if you’re unwell. 

Death: He’s unsure where you could have picked this bug up… Being separated from any other human by an entire realm. Still, here you were, bundled in one of his spare cowls on Despair’s saddle as he rode from the Keeper’s world. 

“The Grand Abominations have been released, the council are up in arms about it and on top of all that, I now have to deal with a sick Y/n…” Death grumbled, causing you to blush with shame at being such a burden.

“I’m sorry Death…” You croak miserably, setting off another round of coughing. The horseman behind you lets out a quiet sigh. “No, no. This isn’t your fault…It just couldn’t have come at a worse time.” 

You nod in agreement, only slightly set at ease that he doesn’t hold you accountable for your sudden illness. 

There’s a noticeable lapse in conversation after that, during which you stare miserably at Despair’s neck, while Death stares down at you. In truth, the horseman was worried. Your health had been gradually declining over the past few days and he both unprepared and unwilling to allow it to claim you just yet…. 

All of a sudden, the horseman is roused from his thoughts by a warning squeal from Despair. Death notices you’ve slipped out of the saddle and curses himself for not seeing you fall. Just before your head connects with the ground, Death slams himself down against his mount’s neck and grabs at you. His hand finds the hem of your trousers and he stops your descent just in the nick of time. With a dramatic sigh, Death hefts you back into Despair’s saddle and begins to shake you. “Y/n?” he calls….No response. “Damn.” he mumbles to himself. Pulling the steed to a stop, the horseman drops to the ground, exercising a surprising amount of care in removing you afterwards. 

Death props you against a rock and stands up, hands resting on his hips as he scowls down at you disapprovingly. 

“Of all the inconsiderate…” He begins, resigning himself to having to wait until you’ve at least recovered a little before he sets off again. Death knows he could easily just leave you there. Never have to worry about you again. Wouldn’t that be nice? 

……No……

Something deep in his gut lets him know that the very idea is as abhorrent as it is cruel. Besides, loath as he is to admit it, he likes you. Much to his chagrin. With yet another deep sigh, Death slumps to the ground beside you, glancing your way briefly.

“What have you done to me, Y/n?” He whispers, adjusting the cowl to better shield you against the cold. The horseman rests his head back against the rock and sends a sideways look at Dust as the crow settles on your thigh. “I’m getting far too old for this, Dust…” Death mumbles. 

The crow simply sneezes, looking mightily disinterested in his master’s troubles and wondering instead why you weren’t currently lavishing his feathers with scratches. 

War: The look on his face when you sneezed loudly would have made you burst out into hysterics, had you not felt so rough. 

Despite his innate desire to enact vengeance upon the Destroyer for his false conviction, War insisted upon stopping to allow you some recovery time, arguing that it would only slow you down if you got even sicker. 

“You could just leave me…” You mutter dismally against your hands as you run them over your face. War’s expression darkened, half with the way he didn’t like how you were talking and half because he was dimly aware that you’d become far too integral to his story for him to simply let you go. 

He grumbles loudly as he sets you down on a soft patch of grass beside the tunnel entrance to the Drowned Pass. 

“Rest.” He commands, turning to set up a perimeter around you, scouring the area for any demons who felt brave enough to attack a horseman protecting his sick charge. You let out a grumble of your own at his instruction, perfectly aware that you’re slowing him down right now.. 

War turns to see you staring off at the unliberated Tormented Gate, a look of utter despondency on your face. His permanent frown deepens as he marches back over to you, dropping to one knee he looks at you and finally sees the tiny tremors that wrack your body, despite how you tried to suppress them. 

“I knew it.” He suddenly snarls unhappily, “You’re feverish.” 

“No I’m not.” You stubbornly reply, crossing your arms and cursing yourself for letting your shivers show through. 

War sends you a disapproving glare, but without warning, he scoops you up again and begins to make his way down to the lake. You struggle weakly in his arms, “War, I told you I can walk.” you protest, but you’re ultimately ignored. 

Setting you down by the water’s edge, War tears a small piece from his already ragged and worn cloak. He dips it into the water and looks up at you. You just sit there in a confused and tired state, before you realise that he’s waiting for you to actually give him permission to touch you. After you give him a slow nod, War reaches forward and begins to gently wipe your face, arms and neck with the cool cloth. 

You sit there in stunned silence, this unnatural display of softness from someone called War is unheard of and downright mystifying.. 

Both of you remain by the water well into the night, silently regarding each other, one with astonishment and the other with quiet, growing affection. 

Strife: When he’d barged into your bedroom one morning like an overactive toddler, the last thing he expected was to find you still laying in the dark, with the heat turned up full and buried under piles of blankets. 

“Sheesh! S’like the council’s been in here…” He teases, fanning himself to try and alleviate some of the heat. When you don’t react to his jab, Strife taps the covers where he assumes your head would be. “Hey, c’mon squirt. Time’s a wastin’. Let’s go.” 

You simply groan, the action causing your throat to tickle and you begin coughing violently. Suddenly alarmed, Strife flips back your covers to see you looking utterly woeful. “Y/n!” he shouts, causing you to grumble at the loud noise and roll over to try and get away from him. “Whup, no you don’t.” Strife grabs you and lifts you out of bed, prompting you to let out an undignified shriek. 

“Strife! Put me down, I need to go back to bed.” you weakly fight against his hold as he carries you into the bathroom. 

“Nope,” the horseman shakes his head as he sits you down on the toilet seat and begins to run the bath, “Bein’ in that room’ll only make it worse. Gotta cool you down…” He mumbles the last part to himself. 

“Whaaaat?” you moan. “But I’m already freezing my arse off!” He places a hand on your shoulder and pushes you back down when you make to get up. When the bath is full, he turns the tap off and places his hands on his hips sternly. It’s strange to you, seeing Strife so serious all of a sudden. 

“Clothes.” he deadpans. “Off.” 

You gape at him. “You must be joking!? Not with you in here!” 

Strife rolls his eyes, “Remember that time I walked in on you in the shower? I’ve already seen everything Y/n, now come on.” You squeak when he begins to tug at the bottom of your shirt and you cross your arms over your stomach crossly. 

“Strife, this is ridiculous. I don’t need you playing nursemaid, I was perfectly fine just wallowing in my room. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going back to bed.” The whole speech comes out as a croak but you feel you’ve made your point, ambling past the horseman, you barely make it to the door when you’re overcome with a spell of dizziness. You collapse backwards into a solid wall of muscle that catches you with a smug, “Hmmph.” 

You’re only vaguely aware of Strife carefully removing your pjs and lowering you into the luke-warm water. Instantly, your teeth start chattering and you shiver violently. Strife grimaces, obviously broken up over how miserable you look. 

“Sorry kiddo,” he apologises quietly, “But this’ll help in the long run, trust me.” The visceral embarrassment of having Strife see you naked up close disappears the moment your body hit the water. The horseman stays beside you, tense with the urge to just grab you and rush you somewhere warm. But he stops himself, knowing it’d only make the fever worse. After 5 minutes of torture on both your ends, he finally lifts you out of the bath and you weakly reach for a warm fluffy towel. Strife drapes it over you but stops you when you start to rub your arms with it fervently. “Stop that. Can’t go warming yourself up again, not just yet.” he states. 

You sit there with him on the bathroom floor as he pulls you backwards to sit in his lap, cursing him out for being so damn helpful but at the same time, grateful that he cares enough to want to help. 

Fury: Her caring nature shone forth the minute she discovered you trying to leave your home whilst still feverishly ill. She’d been on her way to see you when she spotted your timely escape, spotting that something wasn’t right with the way you moved. She lurches forwards as you stumbled down the steps and just managed to catch you before you fell to the ground.

“Uggh, Fury?” You groan dazedly, peering up at her stern face as she lifts you effortlessly into a bridal carry, taking you back inside. 

She sets you on your sofa and begins to busy herself with grabbing all sorts of things from your cupboards. Once properly equipped, Fury rushes back to your side and sits on the sofa beside your head. She hands you a glass filled with a suspicious looking liquid and a packet of paracetamol. 

“I don’t know how many of those a human is supposed to take, but they were in your drawer and I saw the word painkiller so…” she trails off when you begin to sneeze, pulling a box of tissues off the windowsill and handing you one. You blow your nose and want to weep at the look of sympathy your horseman is giving you. 

“What are doing here?” You wheeze out. She looks a little alarmed at the hoarseness of your voice but chooses not to comment on it. 

“Why, I came to visit my favourite human, of course.” She winks. “And a damn good job I did…” came the displeased growl a moment later. “What were you thinking? Going out in this state. Do you know how vulnerable you are?” She demands. 

You’re barely able to defend yourself under her smouldering glare, spluttering out between coughs, “I thought some fresh air might do me good.” Fury sighs frustratedly as her eyes soften considerably. She places a hand on top of your own and bends slightly to be closer to your face. You try and refrain from coughing all over her. 

“You needn’t worry about doing yourself any good. I’m here now. I’ll be looking after you for the time being.” She finishes her sentence with a firm nod, unwavering in the matter even as you try to protest. Fury holds her hand up to quiet you, “I will not leave you here on your own until you’re better.” she claims, loudly. “Now hush, tell me…..what would you like to eat?” 

For the next few days, Fury confines you to the sofa or your bed. Making you rest and sweat out the fever until it subsides. In actuality, despite your illness, you do have a good time with her as your temporary roommate. Fury watches television with you, she tells you horror stories from Hell and the amazing places she’s been. At night, she makes you as comfortable as possible with pillows galore and sleeps right next to you, telling you to wake her should you need absolutely anything.

The Watcher: “Eugh….” It is possible for a creature without a mouth to grimace, evidently. You sneeze into your hand again, trying to keep your face pointed away from the Watcher for his sake. 

“Humans….” he hisses, “Are quite possibly the most revolting creatures when it comes to bodily functions.” 

You turn to send him a sidelong glare as you stumble alongside it behind the horseman. “I’ve got a cold, Watcher. It’s not exactly something I can help.” You grunt. 

It rolls all six of its eyes and flits in front of you, taking in the languid way you’re walking and the droop in your eyes. It growls for a moment, before turning to bark at War. “Horseman! Slow down, the human can hardly keep up.” The horseman turns to fix a steady gaze in your direction, ultimately he must have agreed with the sprite because he huffs and nods towards a still standing bench. You breathe out a thanks and move over to slump onto it, half expecting the Watcher to disappear into War’s gauntlet now that you were still. 

So it came as something of a shock when it  suddenly hovered directly in front of your face, what looked like a coat in it’s long, slender claws. “Here.” It shoved someone’s century old coat into your arms without ceremony. You stare up at the Watcher with a mix of curiosity and gratitude. 

“Thanks,” you say, laying the coat around your shoulders, “Really, that was good of you.” 

The Watcher gives the impression that it’s sneering when it turns it’s head down to you again, having bee avoiding your eyes. “Your teeth were chattering loud enough to wake the dead.” It complained, but still leant itself forward and tugged the coat closed around your body. It pulled away quickly upon realising what it was doing, hissing at the smile that played at the corners of your mouth.

“Shutup Y/n.” it seethed. 

“I didn’t say anything.” You return, sneaking a content glance up at it, noticing that it had still yet to return to War’s gauntlet. You blink upon the secondary realisation that hit you….

The Watcher actually called you by your name. 

Samael: The demon growled possessively when you got up to try and stretch your legs. You groan in defeat as he, yet again, lifted an enormous, clawed hand to grab you and pull you back into his stomach. 

You’d been sick for a few days now and the stifling heat of Samael’s throne room was doing little to help the fever along. It was the equivalent of nighttime, and Samael had laid down in his lavish bed with you at his side. But the heat had made you restless, as exhausted as you were, you’d needed to get up and do something. 

Sniffling, you moan when he presses you against him with another irritated snuff of air from his nose. “Stop trying to escape.” He grumbles sleepily, flicking his tail to curl itself around your leg in a guarding gesture. 

“I’m not trying to escape,” you mumble, “I can’t sleep. I thought a walk might wear me out.” Samael lets out a rush of air as he sits up in bed and yawns widely, allowing you to catch sight of his intimidating fangs. Then, he stands up, stretching his wings out behind him and offering you a hand. You blink at it in confusion so he sighs. 

“If you won’t sleep, I’ll take you for your little walk.” He shakes himself, his armour clinking and creaking loudly in the quiet of his chambers. You ignore his hand and make your own way to the edge of the bed, placing your feet on the warm ground. You struggle to your feet and take a few steps forward, but your new position of begin upright causes you to start feeling a little dizzy. You shake your head to be rid of the feeling but it only increases and before you know it, you’re teetering sideways and nearly fall down the stone steps that lead up to the Prince’s bed had he not snatched you up and set you on his shoulder. 

“Hmm, I’d half a mind just to let you fall.” He smirked, “It may have taught you a lesson not to refuse my aid.” You roll your eyes and lift yourself up into a more comfortable position, leaning against the side of Samael’s head. His eyes flick to you for a moment before he starts to walk. The air rushing past as he strolls through his Hellish home is cool enough to coax a happy, relieved sigh from your lips. 

Samael takes you to one of his overhanging, craggy ‘balconies’ standing there to survey his territory whilst you turn your gaze upwards to the sky. He stays there for a long time, waiting. 

He needn’t wait long until he feels your body begin to slump sideways off his shoulder. Swiftly, the Dark Prince reaches his arm around to catch you before you can tumble from his shoulder completely, the fever sleep having finally taken over you. He looks down at you in his hand for a moment, his fierce brow pulling together in a secret moment of worry. Snorting, Samael turns, making his way steadily back to your shared bed.