#elze'ith sylrel oc

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Lament

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Elze'ith doesn't know why he's crying. Lord Denholm comforts him anyway.

Contains: Intimate whump, manipulation

~~~

“Shhh. It’s alright, my light. There’s no need to cry. I’ve got you.”

Lord Denholm’s words washed over Elze’ith, but did little to assuage the tangled knot in his chest. He wasn’t sure that anything could, not when the origin of it was utterly unknown to him, senseless and sourceless but no less potent in rending his heart. His lack of understanding of his emotions didn’t matter, only that they were there, and the only thing to be done was weep into Lord Denholm’s chest and cling to him as though he were the only thing keeping him stable.

“Shhh. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

The motion of Lord Denholm’s hand rubbing his back was almost soothing. It was steady, at least, even as Elze’ith hiccuped and sobbed with little control. Lord Denholm was solid and certain when nothing else was. There was a comfort in that, even if he couldn’t find it.

Nothing was wrong. Nothing had even happened today. And yet for some reason, he couldn’t stop crying. Couldn’t find a way out from the oppressive weight of his own ineffable emotions.

“I’m here, my light. I’m here.”

The comfort only made Elze’ith sob harder. The sob only made Lord Denholm hold him closer, his hold as inescapable as the emotions that had prompted it. “Shhh. I’m not going anywhere. You don’t need to worry, my light. You don’t need to worry about a thing.”

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

AAAAAAAAAAAA

THEM!!!!

Secret Santa Gift: @just-a-silly-little-whumper

This is a Secret Santa event so there will be a blanket trigger warning for all entries, so read at your own risk! Potential trigger warnings may include nsfw themes as well as gore and possible squicks.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Gentle

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

A gentle touch is all Prince Elze'ith needs.

For @augusnippets Day 23: Gentle Touch

Contains: Royalty, arranged marriage, hurt/comfort

~~~

“Are you alright, my prince?”

Was he? Elze’ith was shaking. Part of him wanted to hide away until an eon had passed and no one remained knew him. He felt afraid. And yet, he had no reason to be. Lord Denholm was his betrothed; they were to be partners, to unite their kingdoms and bring peace and prosperity. With that came certain obligations, duties that Elze’ith had long understood, even if he did not care for them. So why did Lord Denholm leave him wanting to crawl out of his skin?

“Prince Elze’ith?”

He startled at Altair’s voice, gentle and careful though it was. The concern in his knight’s eyes made his heart twist, even as he forced a smile.

“I am alright, Sir Altair. You need not worry about me.”

“My prince.”

Slowly, giving Elze’ith time to pull away, Altair took his hand. Elze’ith found himself grateful for the touch, even as he wished to take both of their gloves off, so that he might feel the warmth of Altair’s hands.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you.” Altair squeezed Elze’ith’s hand, ever so gently, as he bent to kiss his knuckles. The tenderness in the gesture was punctuated by the certainty in his voice as he looked up at his prince. “Anyone.”

Elze’ith’s face softened, his smile becoming just a bit more genuine. “Thank you, my knight. I know you will.”

Luckily, they were alone, so no one had to see how long their hands remained joined as the apprehension slowly left Elze’ith’s blood.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Elegy

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Elze'ith reads a poem.

For Whumptober Day 18: Loss of Identity. Poem by Emily Dickinson.

Contains: Captivity/gilded cage, depression, dissociation, loss of identity

~~~

There's a certain slant of light,

On winter afternoons,

That oppresses, like the weight

Of cathedral tunes.

The words on the page were familiar, achingly so. How many times had he read them over the many years? How many times had he recited them, without even needing to look at a page, etched into his mind and heart as they had become? This poem was a favorite of his, something he always carried with him, but looking at it now…

He recognized it. Of course he did. But the words and the cadence didn’t resonate in the way that they should have. He read the lines, over and over and over again, expecting to feel the same sense of warm melancholy and gentle yearning that he always did with this poem, but there was just nothing.

Just emptiness.

The same emptiness that he always felt, these days.

Heavenly hurt it gives us;

We can find no scar,

But internal difference

Where the meanings are.

How long had it been since he had even opened one of these books? There was once a time where he spent hours each day absorbed in the pages of literature and poetry he had been allowed to pull from the castle’s library. Though his collection was small, far smaller than he would have liked it to be, both in size and breadth of contents, it was still precious. Every page and story and spun phrase was an indispensable gift, a way to connect, a reminder of what else could be.

An escape. A memorial of better days.

When had that stopped? When did others’ words cease being a source of comfort? When did his bookshelf start gathering dust?

He couldn’t remember. There was a lot he couldn’t remember these days. Like the warmth of the sun, or the sight of his own reflection, or the sound of Altair’s laugh. Gone, ephemeral as the morning frost, leaving…

What? What was left?

Just a shell, perhaps. Words with no meaning. Ideas with no emotion. A body with no soul. An echoing refrain, once powerful and substantial, now too indistinct to have any impact at all.

None may teach it anything,

'Tis the seal, despair,-

An imperial affliction

Sent us of the air.

He stared at the words on the page in front of him and felt nothing. He was nothing. Might not have ever been anything at all; maybe he had only ever been fooling himself, thinking he was worth something beyond this almost-existence. Shouldn’t have even tried to be or feel or do anything at all.

Didn’t even have a name worth calling. The only person out there who still knew him was…

(The warmth in his mind pulsed, but he was too cold to feel it.)

And even those thoughts, that realization which should have sparked despair or alarm or horror, made him feel nothing at all. Nothing beyond a hollowness and a vague sense of grief.

He closed the book of poetry. There was no point in trying to reclaim these old solaces. There just wasn’t enough left.

When it comes, the landscape listens,

Shadows hold their breath;

When it goes, 't is like the distance

On the look of death.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Shadow

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Thank you so much to my friend @that-one-thespian to beta'ing this for me!

Nothing will ever be the same.

Contains: Referenced past noncon, isolation, captivity/gilded cage, escape/rescue, mind control, magic, vampires, intimate whump

~~~

When Elze’ith finally found the strength to move again, he found that the door to his room was locked.

He wished that he could have expected otherwise. In recent days he had rarely been allowed to wander the castle freely. Almost without his noticing the confinement had become a norm, another way Lord Denholm shrank his world. Where once he met it with apathy, now he keenly felt the claustrophobia and the abandonment.

It would be so easy to give up. To say there was nothing he could do. To let that same apathy and hopelessness subsume him once again and make him numb to the possibility of anything else, whether better or worse.

But Altair was waiting for him.

He was no expert lockpick. His muscles wouldn’t have been strong enough to force the door open on their own even before months of disuse withered them away. Nor did he have the skill to slip past whoever next came to open that single point of entry unseen and untouched.

All he had was his magic, and though it was not meant for this task, Elze’ith was nothing if not flexible. The shield he summoned felt strange in his hand, after so long, but his magic still heeded his call readily. It was strong, sturdy, powerful. Everything Elze’ith wasn’t, and everything he had to be.

There was a moment where he couldn’t bring himself to move. Trepidation turned his blood cold. Surely, escaping his room would bring Lord Denholm’s wrath down upon his head. He had only just gotten out of that terrible void. Did he dare invite anything worse?

But if this worked, there wouldn’t be anything worse to endure. There would be no more shadows, no more forced intimacy, no more flowing blood or frigid cold or frantic fear. He had to cling to the hope that it would work.

He couldn’t falter now. Not with Altair waiting for him.

Without giving himself another moment to think, Elze’ith swung the shield into the door’s lock. The door shook slightly, but didn’t give. Undeterred, Elze’ith swung again, and again, and again. Slowly, under the force of his magic, the wood chipped and splintered. With one final, forceful swing, the lock finally yielded, and Elze’ith was able to pull the door open.

He almost felt as though something should have happened when he stepped into the hall. Some flare of magic, maybe, or some internal sense of triumph. But the hallway was as dark and cold and lifeless as it always was. There was nothing different or strange about it, nothing to mark the momentous and reckless thing he was about to do.

That emptiness was perhaps a blessing. He knew how to navigate it well. The cavernous stone walls swallowed his soft footsteps, and in the quiet he could listen out to hear if anyone else was coming. It wasn’t foolproof, but it was something.

He had to move quickly. From what he could tell, Lord Denholm’s attention wasn’t on him yet, but tracking Lord Denholm’s presence when he wasn’t in the vicinity was an imprecise art, and even now Elze’ith wasn’t entirely confident in his proficiency. His ability to anticipate his captor-suitor-tormentor’s intentions had failed him too many times before. He couldn’t afford to dally on an assumption that could very well be fatally wrong.

No one stopped him as he made his way to the stairs. Not a servant, not Ivetta, not Lord Denholm himself. He didn’t wonder where they all were. He didn’t let himself hesitate at the top like he had just (hours? days?) before. Focused entirely on the growing brightness in the back of his mind, Elze’ith descended into the dark.

The chill grew deeper the further he descended, clinging to his skin and settling into his bones. The shadows seemed undeterred by the light he summoned, moving and dancing as if they had a mind of their own. Knowing Lord Denholm, Elze’ith wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that there was an enchantment on these dungeons to make them even more hostile and foreboding. That rationalization didn’t stop the fear that clenched his heart. But nor did that fear stop him from pressing forward.

Down the hallway. Take a right. Ignore the reaching shadows. Four doors down, and then…

The door to Altair’s cell was locked magically. But Elze’ith had opened it before. Then, with permission; now, with the boldness of rebellion.

Inside, Altair was pacing, all nervous energy. His clothes were tattered and bloodstained, but his wings were pristine and gently glowing, as immaculate as when they had first emerged. When he looked up to meet Elze’ith’s gaze, his face immediately melted into loving relief, and he surged forward to wrap Elze’ith into a hug.

He was warm, warm and solid and bright. Relaxing into the embrace was the easiest thing in the world, was the only thing he wanted to do. He brought his hands up to wrap around Altair’s back, right in between his wings, and held him close. In turn Altair enveloped them both in his wings, the first time Elze'ith had felt those soft feathers since the day they had first become real. Like this, he almost felt safe for the first time in an unfathomably long time. He wanted to stay here holding Altair forever.

But that could not be. Lord Denholm’s attention was beginning to stir in the back of his mind. They were running out of time.

Reluctantly, he began to draw away; Altair let him go easily, though Elze’ith could feel how much he wanted to hold on.

“You came,” Altair breathed, wonder and disbelief and joy in his voice. It broke Elze’ith’s heart that he was so surprised. But the only person he had to blame for that was himself.

In response, he offered a small, tremulous smile as his hands drifted from Altair’s back to his wrists. The metal cuffs were heavy, as though carrying the weight of all his mistakes. Just one spark of magic, and Altair would be free. Just one spark of magic, and nothing would ever be the same.

Why was he hesitating?

“It’s okay, Elze’ith.” Altair leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. The contact sent a wave of warmth and reassurance through him. “We’ll be okay. We’ll do this together, yeah? Together, or not at all.”

Elze’ith took a deep breath. Exhaled. And then brought his magic to his fingertips to let the manacles binding Altair finally fall away.

Together. They would make it out together.

Like a river renewed with with the spring’s first snow melt, Altair’s magic roared to life. Elze’ith could feel it, in the sudden sparks that danced across the air, in the warm light that brightened his wings, in the gentle heat that radiated from his skin. A soft laugh erupted from Altair’s chest, a sound of delight and relief, one of the most beautiful sounds Elze’ith had ever heard.

Even if they didn’t make it out, the attempt was worth it, he thought, just to grant his beloved this one moment of joy.

“Thank you, Elze’ith,” Altair whispered in wonder. “Thank you.”

There were a thousand things he wanted to say. That he wished he had done it sooner. That he’d do it again and again, no matter the cost. That he was still afraid of what came next. But all he could do was squeeze Altair’s hands, and offer a little more magic to heal the rough, raw skin of his wrists from so many days under those accursed cuffs. It was the least he could do, and it was one of the only things left he could do

“Oh, Elze’ith—“ Altair started, then stopped. “Thank you.” He squeezed Elze’ith’s hands in return, somehow more solid and sure than Elze’ith could ever be. “Are you ready?”

He wasn’t. He didn’t think he would ever be. He nodded anyway.

---

“Lord Soren Denholm! It’s time we ended this!”

Altair’s voice rang out, clear and strong, through the open air of the entry hall. The echo filled the space and settled there with a heavy, expectant tension, as though the castle itself was holding its breath. Even the torches went still, barely flickering in their sconces, allowing the shadows more room to grow.

For a moment, Altair let his gaze wander to the large double doors at the end of the hall. The exit was right there. Fresh air and sunlight were just several paces away. But with Elze’ith bound as he was, just making it outside wasn’t enough to escape.

Beside him, Elze’ith squeezed his hand. Altair squeezed it back. The tension in the air was growing, and his terror and dread were growing along with it. But it was too late to turn back now. He could do this. They could do this. They had already come so far.

Atop the grand staircase, Lord Denholm appeared like a strike of dark lightning—sudden and terrible and without warning. The aura of power he carried with him was ablaze with furious intent; Altair wasn’t sure if it was strong enough to see, or if the shadows that swirled around him were conjured by a flare of magic.“My light.” His voice was cold, focused, dangerous. “What have you done?”

Elze’ith shrank back a step, hand shaking in Altair’s. But he didn’t let go. And neither would Altair.

Matching Elze’ith’s step back, Altair took a step forward, summoning all his bravery until he could almost feel it. “Your fight is with me, bastard!”

“Oh, I will get to you, my ruinous little angel,” Lord Denholm said lowly as he began his slow, methodical descent down the stairs. The shadows around him crept forward, approaching Altair and Elze’ith but not quite reaching them. “But first my light needs to remember his place.”

A small, choked sound of agony and terror left Elze’ith. His hand went slack in Altair’s, and he moved again, this time not backwards but forwards. Fear ripped through Altair, and he clung tighter to Elze’ith’s hand, desperate to keep him close even just a moment longer.

Lord Denholm was in range now. He couldn’t delay any more. Not without risking everything.

With a frantic heart and a steady voice, Altair opened his mouth and began to chant. The cadence was familiar, one he had incanted many times before, one he had even heard both recently and a lifetime ago. The sound of it made both Lord Denholm and Elze’ith stop in their paths towards each other, one startled, the other relieved.

“What are you—“ The words were so soft Altair almost didn’t hear them over the sound of his own incantation. He wasn’t even sure if Lord Denholm realized he had said them; he had never seen Lord Denhom caught off guard like this. Furious vindication rushed through him, because no matter how this ended, at least they managed this one small victory.

The moment was gone in an instant as cold fury overtook the confusion on Lord Denholm’s face. His shadows surged forward, sharp and deadly, only to shrink back as Altair’s wings ignited into radiant fire. The Lord himself rushed towards them in turn, but was met by a wall of force, a shield made by Elze’ith’s trembling hand, holding him back even as his feet continued trying to carry him closer.

“My light!” Lord Denholm’s voice was a thunderclap, the sheer rage almost enough to make Altair stumble over his words. “Stop!”

As though he had been struck by lightning, Elze’ith went rigid, and his shield fell away. A thousand emotions ripped through him, but Altair shoved them aside to focus on the opportunity and let loose a torrent of fire at the approaching vampire. Lord Denholm was quick, but so was Altair, and the blast caught him on the shoulder. His shriek of pain and anger filled the air as he twisted to the side, wounded but not yet wavering.

“Dammit— light—“ Lord Denholm began, but this time he was sent staggering back as Elze’ith extended a hand lit up with luminous sunlight in his direction. Searing hope filled Altair’s heart. Before his eyes, Elze’ith was breaking Lord Denholm’s hold on him. They truly had a chance.

Even now, after all this time, it was easy to fall back into their old rhythm. Altair on offense, Elze’ith on defense. Perfectly balanced and complementary. Altair missed Elze’ith’s voice alongside his, missed the way his own body used to move now that his muscles were weak with disuse, but it still felt right. Fighting alongside Elze’ith felt like coming home.

In what felt like no time at all, the magic of his ritual latched on to his targets, finding the fell bond between Lord Denholm and Elze’ith to adhere to. The sensation made Altair’s heart leap, memories and anxieties and desperate hopes swirling through his mind. He caught the way Elze’ith’s hand tightened in his, saw the way Lord Denholm’s eyes widened, but he didn’t let himself hesitate. The words of the second part of the incantation fell easily from his lips, the ancient call of banishment that he had reviewed so many times as he waited for Elze’ith to come find him in his cell, and his long-dormant magic jumped readily to meet his intent.

Not long now.

As they twisted and danced away from the oncoming onslaught of ice and shadow, Altair caught a glimpse of Elze’ith beside him mouthing the words to the binding half of the ritual. The sight made Altair’s heart twist with warmth and fear and pride. He didn’t think it would direct the magic in the same way, not without the echoing sounnds to lend the words power. But the fact that Elze’ith was trying mattered, mattered more than anything.

They were doing everything they could.Maybe it would be enough. Maybe Elze’ith’s plan would work. Maybe there would be a future after this.

“No.” Lord Denholm’s fury had taken on a tinge of desperation. When he lurched towards Altair and Elze’ith, his hands were flexed like claws, any semblance of propriety forgotten. But Elze’ith’s light held him back nonetheless; the vampire shied away from it as though it burned, unable to get close. “No, you will yield—“

Elze’ith’s knees buckled. The magic in his hand sputtered. Heart in his throat, Altair adjusted his grip on his partner so he wouldn’t fully collapse. The violently writhing shadows surged towards them from all sides, and Altair desperately spread his wings; the flames had kept them back before, and he needed them to do the same now.

They were so close, just a little more—

The shock of Elze’ith suddenly being pulled from his arms almost made him stop chanting entirely. The soft cry of fear Elze’ith let out as Lord Denholm dragged him away was one of the most heartbreaking sounds he had ever heard. It took an effort of will not to cry out in rage and fear as Lord Denholm cradled Elze’ith close, so possessively and so threateningly, eyes bright with covetous fury.

“You do not defy me, Buchannan!” His fangs flashed white in the light from Altair’s fiery wings as he spoke, voice sharp and tinged with desperation. “He is mine! I will not let you—“

Before Lord Denholm could finish, before Altair could figure out how to react, Elze’ith’s hands lit up in the brightest light Altair had seen, so bright he had to look away for fear of being blinded himself. Lord Denholm’s tirade morphed into a howl of agony, and it was one of the most gratifying sounds Altair had ever heard. A moment later and Elze’ith all but collapsed back into his arms; Altair was more than happy to gather him close, to draw them both further away, and to lash out with his wing as he went for good measure.

The soft grunt that he heard as his wing made contact only added to the growing sense of triumph.

Because as the light faded, as he and Elze’ith finally found their footing again, his incantation finally reached its peak. Lord Denholm, burned with fire both physical and holy, tried to stumble towards them, but a final burst of fire from Altair kept him from bay as the magic took hold. His body shone as Altair rose his voice for the final words, and tried to ignore how Elze’ith’s body glowed, too.

Lord Denholm opened his mouth to say something, but he didn’t get the chance. With a shout, Altair brought the ritual to its end. His magic filled the room with light and movement and intent. Lord Denholm may have screamed; Elze’ith may have screamed, too. In the chaos, it was too hard to tell.

Then, silence. Silence, and stillness. Altair found himself holding his breath. Before them stood Lord Denholm, tall and noble as he always was. But the room was calm, devoid of any of his power or magic or anger. There was nothing there.

Empty of whatever soul he may have once had, Lord Denholm’s body collapsed onto the floor. In Altair’s embrace, Elze’ith, too, fell limp. Panic and triumph rose within Altair in equal measure.

He had done it. Lord Denholm was gone. But so was Elze’ith.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Captivation

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Soren considers his new guest.

For @augusnippets Day 25: Intimate Whumper

Contains: Intimate whumper, non-consensual touching, general creepy behavior

~~~

In a moment of indulgence, Soren allowed himself to lightly trace the contours of the stranger’s face.

The man’s gentle, delicate features gave him a look of dignity and serenity as he lay unconscious on the guest bed. His skin was soft as Soren caressed it, marred only by a single, long-faded scar across his cheek. And despite his veneer of fragility, Soren could smell magic in his blood, rich and potent and utterly alluring.

Were he an impulsive man, Soren would have taken the stranger’s wrist and sampled the delicacy that had all but stumbled into his lap. But many long centuries had taught Soren the value of patience. There was no need to be so hasty.

It wasn’t often, after all, that the Valley got visitors during winter. Even more rare did visitors carry such intriguing hints of the depths they concealed. There was a story to this man, and to his companion, that Soren was keen to unravel. And he had all the time in the world to learn everything there was to know about them.

As the man began to stir, Soren pulled his hand away. A smile settled on his face; he had a feeling that whoever this stranger was, Soren was going to like him very, very much.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Hair Care

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Thank you to @whump-kin for letting me borrow Calamine! This is for @augusnippets Day 2.

A moment between two mirror images.

Contains: Platonic hair brushing/braiding, fluff

~~~

Elze’ith couldn’t remember the last time he brushed someone else’s hair like this.

Well— no. Perhaps he could. He just didn’t want to look at the memories. Didn’t want to face the fact that he and Altair were so far apart, that he might never see his partner again.

But it was easy to keep those thoughts bottled away right now. There was a new face, a new voice, a new kindness. Calamine was soft-spoken, and curious, and young and old all at once. And he was a vampire, and that made Elze’ith uneasy, even as he felt bad for the response. But above all, Calamine showed Elze’ith kindness. Elze’ith would have wanted to do the same regardless, but there was new meaning to it now, a desire to strengthen that connection, a desire to repay what had been offered.

He was as gentle as he could be as he ran the brush through Calamine’s hair, and he didn’t think about anyone else he had done this for. When all of the tangles were gone, he set the brush aside, and began to braid a small section on the side. It wasn’t much; Calamine’s hair was too short to do anything elaborate. But it was a token of appreciation, a signal that Calamine was cared for in the same way he had cared for Elze’ith.

When he was done, Calamine smiled at him. Elze’ith smiled back, knowing he would do a lot more to see that simple joy again.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Homemade

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

All Altair ever wanted is right here.

Thanks as always to @crash-bump-bring-the-whump and @that-one-thespian for letting me borrow their guys! For @augusnippets Day 20: Homemade Meal

Contains: Pure domestic fluff

~~~

The kitchen was warm, and smelled of all sorts of delightful things. Vegetables and meat and spices all brought together under Fletcher’s expert hand. Altair took a moment just to watch him. He loved Fletcher’s cooking. It tasted like the home he had always longed for.

Fletcher turned to him, a soft smile on his face. “It- it should be almost done. Just a few more minutes.”

“Wonderful.” Altair couldn’t resist taking a few steps closer to press a kiss to Fletcher’s temple. The small embarrassed squeak he let out made Altair chuckle. “Mariano and Bastian have set the table. We should be just about ready to eat.”

He could see them from here, just beyond the kitchen. The salad and rolls Elze’ith had made were already out on the table, a table set for all of the people he loved. Their boys were waiting for them, chattering quietly about someone Mariano and Bastian had met in the market that day and the new book Archer was reading and how Elze’ith’s plants were doing in the garden. The simple domesticity was one of the most beautiful things Altair had ever seen. They just needed Altair and Fletcher and the main course for everything to be complete.

A soft blush had spread across Fletcher’s face. “I- I hope it’s good.”

“Knowing you?” Altair smiled. “It’ll be amazing.”

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Fever

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Elze'ith takes care of his partners, even in the throes of magical exhaustion.

Thank you to @crash-bump-bring-the-whump for letting me borrow Mariano and Bastian! This was done for Day 5 of @augusnippets

Contains: Magical exhaustion, fever, dizziness, blood, caretaking

~~~

The cottage smelled of suffering and sour blood. It hung in the air like smoke, a lingering reminder of what they had done to escape. The sheer potency of it made Elze’ith dizzy, but his own fever might have also contributed to that.

He couldn’t rest, though. Not even as blood filled his lungs and his vision swam. Because Mariano and Altair were laid out on the bed, entangled with each other, trembling as their bodies fought to be rid of rotten magic. Elze’ith was able to stand, was able to wipe the blood from their mouths and lay wet cloths on their heads to mitigate the fevers that ravaged them. He couldn’t let his failing body fail them.

Bastian would be back soon. He would bring water and supplies and comfort. Elze’ith held that knowledge close as his shaking hands collected bloody feathers and dabbed at crimson tears. He just had to look after his beloveds until Bastian arrived.

He almost crumpled, a few times, as he stumbled to and from their closet for more spare rags to keep his partners clean. He had to brace himself against the bed when the dizziness threatened to overtake him. He had to be so, so careful not to cough into the clean water he was using, because Mariano and Altair didn’t need to be wiped clean with Elze’ith’s blood. But he was willing to do all of that and more, if it meant that they were taken care of. He just wished this was something his magic could fix.

The cottage smelled of suffering and sour blood and desperation when Bastian finally burst through the front door. Elze’ith only had a moment to be happy before he finally let himself collapse into strong, supportive arms.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Hypnosis

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

There's comfort in the loss of control. Sometimes, there shouldn't be.

An AU where Lord Denholm's control over Elze'ith is a bit of a more traditional vampiric thrall. For @augusnippets Day 1: Hypnosis

Contains: Mind control, nonconsensual kissing

~~~

Arms wrapped around him as a fog enveloped his mind, strong and heavy and inescapable. Once, he would have tried to fight it; now there was a comfort to the unending, dreamy haze. Here, like this, he didn’t have to worry about anything at all. Couldn’t, even if he had wanted to.

And why would he want to?

His Lord pulled him closer, pulled him into a kiss, so lovely and tender. His lips kissed back before he knew how he felt about it. Flickers of emotion were quickly smothered by the thick fog of compliance, until all that was left was the subsuming embrace of his Lord’s will. And that was fine— was wonderful, even. Surely it couldn’t be so bad to just let this happen, could it?

He didn’t understand why Altair looked so scared. Everything was wonderful. He was just as he was meant to be, just what his Lord wanted him to be.

Didn’t Altair want that, too?

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Shimmering

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

A journey and a destination.

Contains: Self-worth issues, fluff

~~~

“How much farther, Elze’ith?”

Elze’ith clutched the map a little more tightly. It should be close. It should be just over the ridge. They should be in time.

Should, should, should. So many shoulds. The doubt was creeping in, darkness fleeing the oncoming sunrise to encroach upon his uneasy mind. This was stupid. Surely, he had gotten them lost, or had calculated the time that they needed to leave wrong, or had been scammed when buying this silly map. He never should have suggested this in the first place. Now he was going to have to deal with Altair’s disappointment and his own failure and—

The crunch of leaves ahead of him stopped. Elze’ith looked up; Altair was looking back at him, and though concern creased the edges of his eyes, there was nothing but faith in his gaze. “Elze’ith?”

Taking that faith and wrapping it around his heart, Elze’ith nodded up towards the ridgeline. They only had a bit further to go.

Altair fell easily into step next to him, and in a moment of bravery, Elze’ith relinquished his iron grip on the map to take Altair’s hand. In the end, his partner’s warmth was the only guidance he really needed.

As they crested the top of the ridge, so too did the first rays of dawn begin to emerge across the horizon. In the gentle light, Elze’ith took a moment to close his eyes and bask in the cool morning air, in the meandering breeze, in the knowledge that he had hiked through the forest an hour before the sun rose simply because he wanted to. A small gasp from Altair made him open his eyes again, though, and immediately a smile bloomed across face at the sight he had wanted them both to see.

The ridge they had summited sloped down into a valley, the rolling hills dotted with wildflowers of all shapes and colors. Nestled in the center was a lake, vast and pristine and utterly still in the quiet of the morning. With dawn only beginning to bloom across the horizon, the water reflected the gentle purples and blues of the almost-morning sky, with the occasional shimmering star scattered across the surface.

It was one of the most beautiful things Elze’ith had ever seen.

“Oh, Elze’ith,” Altair breathed next to him. “This is incredible.”

Warmth swelled inside Elze’ith’s heart. It was. It was incredible. And he was so glad that he decided to suggest they come and see it. The journey had been more than worth it.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Blizzard

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

A chance meeting that sparks a lifetime of devotion.

For @augusnippets Day 3: Blizzard.

Contains: Blizzard, hypothermia, blood, caretaking

~~~

It was a small miracle that Elze’ith stumbled across the man collapsed in the snow.

The howling winds and swirling snow made it night impossible to see; everything was just an expanse of white and cold. Somehow, inexplicably, there was still enough crimson visible against the snow to catch Elze’ith’s eye. He rushed over as quickly as he could, shielding himself with his magic against the worst of the storm, though the freezing wind still sapped the heat from his core.

The man was already half-buried by snow and ice when Elze’ith knelt down beside him. The furs he was wrapped in, haphazard as they were, were likely the only reason he was still even shallowly breathing. And a quick examination revealed the source of the bright blood against the snow; a wound on his temple, another in his shoulder, bleeding his life away sluggishly but unceasingly.

Elze’ith didn’t know who this man was. He didn’t know why he was out here. But he knew he couldn’t leave him. He couldn’t bear to watch this man die.

The cold air stung against his skin as he took off his glove, but he needed direct contact to heal the man’s wounds. Luckily, they weren’t deep, and it didn’t take too much magic to seal them over. The man groaned as he did; he was strong, Elze’ith realized. Even after all he had clearly been through, he wasn’t fading. Not yet.

As gently as he could manage, Elze’ith bundled him into his arms. His camp was nearby, and he needed to get this man warm if he was to survive. And Elze’ith had no intentions on letting him die now.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Infection

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

For @augusnippets Day 18

Elze'ith gets sick.

Contains: Illness, fever, intimate whumper

~~~

His body was warm, warm, impossibly warm, and he couldn’t remember why.

Aches smothered every bone and muscle, had settled in like birds coming home to roost. Fatigue clung to him like an old friend looking for any excuse not to leave again. And the fire ravaged him, despite the cold of the castle, leaving him wheezing and panting through the thickness in his chest that made every breath a trial.

A cold hand laid on his forehead, making him shiver with dread and relief. A whine escaped his throat unbidden, and he wasn’t sure what it was he was pleading for.

“Shh. I’m here.”

The dark voice wrapped around him, caressing him with its cloying promises. Something was brought to his lips, just as cool as the gentle hand that still laid against his skin. Elze’ith didn’t hesitate to drink, barely noticing or minding the bitter taste. He only cared to chase the relief he was being offered.

“Rest, my light. I’m going to take care of you.”

Trust bubbled up in Elze’ith’s chest, alongside a weak cough that he couldn’t suppress. This presence, with its low words and comforting touch, would take care of him. Darkness finally offered him a reprieve, and he fell into its embrace, calmed and unafraid.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Poisoning

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

There was something in the wine.

Ehehe royalty AU go brrr. This is for @augusnippets Day 13 c:

Contains: (Attempted) Poisoning, fluff

~~~

“There’s something in your wine, my prince.”

Altair’s words were whispered, inaudible to anyone but Elze’ith as he set the wine glass back down on the table. Concern immediately chilled Elze’ith’s blood. The wine had been supplied by their guests, foreign dignitaries from a small kingdom Elze’ith was trying to forge an alliance with.

For them to be so brazen…

He took the opportunity to excuse himself; if either of his guests senses anything amiss, they didn’t show it. Altair flanked him close as he retreated to a side room, though his attention immediately turned to his faithful bodyguard.

“Sir Altair. I… thank you for alerting me to that danger. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, my prince,” Altair said in the immediate way that indicated he wasn’t okay at all. “Whatever they put in your drink, I didn’t get the full dose.”

“Are you sure?” Elze’ith’s voice was a low murmur of concern. “You protected me from that poison, Sir Altair. I want to make sure you are safe as well.”

“I am only doing my duty, my prince.”

“I know. Let me do mine.”

His duty to his people, to his realm, to his beloved bodyguard.

Altair’s expression softened, ever so slightly. “I— I am feeling slightly dizzy, Prince Elze’ith. It shouldn’t stop me from protecting you, unless it gets worse.”

Elze’ith smiled in relief. “It will not get worse. I will make sure of that.

He needed a bit of time to find proof of the attempted poisoning. Once he had that, he could ensure that these interlopers never tried such a thing again.

“Thank you, Sir Altair. I do not know what I would do without you.”

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Bond

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Thanks once again to @crash-bump-bring-the-whump for letting me borrow Mariano and Bastian! This is for @augusnippets Day 8: Found Family/Friends.

Contains: Fluff, domesticity

~~~

The hearth was warm. Elze’ith’s heart was warmer.

The book was a comforting weight in his lap, but Elze’ith allowed his attention to wander from it. To the sight of Mariano preening Altair’s wings, both of them relaxed and content. To Cyllene, purring next to the fire. To Bastian’s arms wrapped around him, making him feel as warm and safe as he had ever felt.

Clawed fingers stroked through his hair, making him sigh. “You okay, Elze’ith?”

“Mmm.” He was more than fine. He was happy. Uncomplicatedly happy.

Bastian kissed the top of his forehead, making Elze’ith smile. “Good.”

He settled further against Bastian, resting his head against the dragon’s chest to hear the deep resonance of his purr. It was quickly becoming one of his favorite sounds, alongside Mariano’s laugh and Altair’s singing. He could listen to it forever.

Later, they would make dinner together with the meat Mariano had hunted. They would go to sleep in the home they all shared. It was everything he had ever wanted. Hard-won peace and serenity, and he was grateful for every moment.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Longing

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

All alone, Elze'ith and Altair reach out for each other.

Followup to Pick Your Poison | Toxic. For @whumpril Day 19: "I Need You."

Contains: Aftermath of noncon, intimate whump, captivity/gilded cage, magic, insomnia, manipulation, loneliness

~~~

Even though he had stared at the stanza for what felt like hours, Elze’ith still couldn’t make the words sink in. All he had wanted was to read something to help settle his mind before he tried to sleep. It seemed he couldn’t even manage that, though, despite the fact that the poems were from an author he knew well, one that he selected for their familiarity and ease of understanding. The gently cascading words just weren’t enough to drown out the echoes of Lord Denholm’s voice in his head, the feeling of his hands on him, the sensation of him inside—!

A shudder rippled through him. Even hours later, he couldn’t quite manage to soothe himself. Maybe it was just too much to process, too much to bear. Or maybe he was just too weak, too much of a failure to even settle himself after dealing with the consequences of his own mistake. Either way, he felt so empty and so dreadful and so tainted, and he didn’t know what to do about it. None of his normal relaxation methods were actually doing anything to help quell the turmoil he still felt.

He needed something more. He needed comfort, as loathe as he was to admit it.He needed to know he wasn’t as alone as he felt.

He needed—

In a quick motion, Elze’ith closed his poetry book and set it aside. Conversely, his hands were slow and careful as he reached for the cup of water on his bedside table; he didn’t want the contents to jostle or spill. In the soft candlelight that filled his room, he could see his reflection faintly rippling across the water’s surface.

He didn’t give himself time to think, didn’t give himself time to doubt. Just summoned his magic, focused on the resplendent and kindhearted core of Altair, and cast.

The spell made contact. Hope surged in Elze’ith’s chest. Altair was still out there. It had been ages, but maybe, maybe this time, Altair would answer.

“Please,” he murmured, hoping beyond hope for this to work. “Please, Altair, my love. Please, respond. I can’t do this alone. I need you. I need to hear your voice. I need—“

“My light?”

The door opened softly, but the sound was as loud as thunder in the quiet of Elze’ith’s chambers. Elze’ith dropped his cup like he had been burned, watching as the ceramic shattered and the water splashed across the stone floor. Heart in his throat, he looked up to see Lord Denholm, already closing the door behind him and with a pensive expression on his face.

“Is everything alright? I did not mean to startle you, light.”

There was no anger coming through Lord Denholm’s aura, but Elze’ith still felt distinctly like he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t. And maybe he had, after how Lord Denholm had reacted the last time he tried to reach out to Altair.

(But that was because he had lied—)

It didn’t matter. The spell was broken, his conduit destroyed by his own hand once again. There would be no contacting Altair; he wouldn’t even be able to know if Altair would have responded tonight. He stared down at his lap, heart heavy with something like shame and something like grief. “I am fine, Milord. You need not worry about me.”

“Good.” Suddenly, Lord Denholm was in front of him. “I wanted to check on you; I know today was… difficult for you. I see I was right to do so.” He waved his hand; the water evaporated, and the shards of ceramic were whisked off into Elze’ith’s wastebasket.

Elze’ith felt sick. He felt hollow. “Thank you, Milord.”

“I will send for a light meal. I think it will do you good. Shall I keep you company in the meantime?”

After all that had happened, he really just wanted a bit of space from Lord Denholm. But he didn’t want to be alone. And he knew better than to say no. “Of course.”

It was just hard not to wish it was someone else’s hand that reached out for his.

---

Altair woke with a start.

He had always been a light sleeper, even moreso after Elze’ith had been taken to Castle Tergoria and he had been left alone. The smallest disturbances would wake him and spur him into action. But even in his deepest of slumbers, he would have been waken up by this, would have found himself leaping out of bed before he even realized he was moving. Because he knew that soft tapping at the back of his mind, that gentle tug on his consciousness.

Elze’ith was calling out for him again. And now, there was no one to stop him from answering.

The cottage was dark, with barely any light from the moon or stars streaming in. That barely hindered Altair as he fervently starting rifling through his belongings, searching for something that could facilitate the connection that Elze’ith was trying to make. He silently cursed the fact that they didn’t have any mirrors, because of course this couldn’t be easy. He just had to find—

There was nothing in his bag, maybe if he—

Their plates were wooden, and he didn’t have enough water to fill them—

It was too dark, he couldn’t make out his reflection on the glass window—

His hand closed around the hilt of his dagger. Realization and hope burst in his chest, and he frantically unsheathed it. The blade was meticulously cared for, the metal polished, the surface reflective. All he needed was—

The thread of connection severed. For a moment, Altair just blinked, stunned. It had been less than a minute; how could he have already have missed his chance? Frantically, he lit a small flame in the palm of his hand, as if creating enough light so that he could see his reflection in the dagger’s blade would be enough to reestablish the connection he knew had been lost. All he saw was his own desperate face.

“Fuck.”

He crumpled. He was barely aware of how his knees hit the floor, barely heard the dagger clatter on the wood beneath him. Heartache and sorrow and regret had completely overtaken him. He had a chance to speak with his partner, to hear Elze’ith’s voice, and now it was gone. Elze’ith had reached out for him again, and he had been too slow. And with the strange hour, and especially withhow short the call had been, it was all-too-likely that something had happened to his beloved. Altair was sick with dread and guilt just thinking of the possibilities. If only—

He never should have let Elze’ith go. Never should have agreed to any of this. It wasn’t worth it. None of this was worth enduring.

“Please,” he whispered, a quiet prayer. “Don’t give up. Don’t disappear. I need you, Elze’ith. Please.”

It took a long moment for him to collect himself. He kept staring at the discarded dagger like Elze’ith’s face might somehow appear in it. Kept shaking with emotion, trying to blink back tears. But eventually, he calmed. He stood. He picked up the dagger, and took it with him as he sat down in one of the chairs.

Slowly moving his hand, he lit the fireplace, then settled back, all but cradling the dagger in his hands. Maybe, just maybe, Elze’ith would try the spell again. And if he did, Altair would be ready. He wouldn’t miss his opportunity again.

Hours later, the sun rose on a silent cottage, and Altair was still alone.