#halfcast

[quinty-imara]

Decided to put all my active dnd characters in one line up, and as a party they would NOT get along...

[astracora]

Purring

Characters: Taxionna x Kieran, Drike

Warnings: None

Word Count: 3092

Written: 20th December 2024

Sometimes they remind him of a large cat. They’re graceful, dangerous and fickle. When they’re angry, they snarl, fangs on show and a hiss at the back of their throat. When they’re happy, on very rare occasions… he hears them purr. Low and rumbling.

A noise that lights up his chest, and runs down his spine, like he imagines their cold fingers would.

It’s very rare though. He’s heard the pleased rumble when they’re eating something particularly pleasant. The first time he heard it, he almost dropped his croquettes, choking on his drink. Watching them. Eyes closed, smiling, with that low purr rippling. They’d blinked out of their daze, and made a comment to their brother about missing good quality food, and he’d only been able to tear his eyes from the tongue running over their fangs and lips when an elbow had buried itself in his side.

Elena coughing gently into her own hand, trying to hide her amused smile. His cheeks had heated, and he’d downed his drink quickly. Hoping the cold beer would soothe the very real flames licking around his insides.

You’re not a boy with a crush. He’d reminded himself, irritable and frustrated at how easily they disarmed and shattered him. Without even trying. Which somehow was worse.

He didn’t know how he’d handle the day when Taxionna purposefully tried to seduce him… IF! If they tried.

Kieran felt the exhaustion in his bones. No more, he was fine. It was needless. It wasn’t like they didn’t have their line of admirers… He could at least be more capable of helping them than anyone else.

—————

It’s an unusual day when he and Drike are hired by the Crown. It’s often only as a point, or a ‘peace’ offering. The Goddess favours her son, and she also enjoys reminding the Eternals that she commands them.

Kieran is reminded of the cold look that he received the first time he met the Goddess. A child with no past, no memories, no family, no life. She had looked down her nose at him, and even as a small boy he knew he was being judged. Judged by something stronger, bigger, and more terrifying than he could imagine. As he grew older he learned that the smile she’d offered him then, had been a tool. Just like the boy with a dagger in his hand, became a tool.

One she believed she owned.

He’d long hated the power and status of royalty and godhood. Been tempted to growl at her, a wolf with no pack.

When the warm hand of his mentor had grasped his hand. Drike a shield against his mother, the reason that her eyes had softened. Her favourite. The slightly older boy, had spoken up for him. Requested they train together. An Eternal with no place in the world, that Kieran was, protected by the Mortal son of the Gods. His back had been strong to him, even though he was small.

Warm against the chill seeping from the Goddess.

She had nodded, appeased, eager for her son to receive whatever would make him happy. If he’d been older, Kieran would have felt the treatment of a toy being handed over. So unimportant, and unable to control his own path.

The hand had pulled him out of the room, and led him from the cold throne. He had fought his trembling, refused to let any of them see his fear.

When Drike had stopped, he’d smiled at Kieran, slight fangs peeking out from his lips, and a ruddy flush to his cheeks.

Kieran never could remember much else about that day, working through his daze, his discomfort. He never could forget the warmth from Drike’s palm, or the way the door had opened for him.

An exit if he took it.

He’d known he had nowhere else to go… and maybe, if he stuck around, he could be as strong as the boy offering him a chance to choose.

He’d never, however, forgotten the Goddess, the power of the throne, determining him to be nothing but a toy or a tool. That knowledge had stuck with him all through his life, as he got older, stronger, better. A sharpened blade in the back of the corruption that spread throughout his home.

It was a lesson he kept close, so that she would never get her way to use him. Even though he stood now, surrounded by Gods and the Powerful, expected to keep them safe.

“You’re glaring, quite intensely.” Drike murmured. Mask pulled down, but his smile was audible.

A sigh was the response, irritable… and also disappointed. Kieran adjusted his mask, keeping it low. “I hate it here.” He’s sullen, he’s grumpy, he sounds like a child. His skin itches. He hates it here.

There’s a soft laugh, short, almost like its escaped the other man, “You’re not the only one.”

Their conversation is muted, stood to the side of the room, watching powerful people mingle and chat. He can smell ego. It’s bitter and putrid, and his sensitive senses feel irritated. Drike holds himself together better, Kieran notes to himself… some dissatisfaction to the realisation. He can’t help but compare them, knowing that if it weren’t for him, Drike wouldn’t react at all.

Kieran, however, feels his frustration so deeply… It’s hard not to. He’d always felt too deeply, too much. Drike had nodded, made a comment that his sibling is much the same. Their blood is fiery and passionate, but it can burn them just as much as it warms them.

He wonders if Drike’s mortality means he doesn’t feel the same burning, or if he has simply learned to control it. They have a few years between them… it’s clear in these moments. Kieran yearns for that level of maturity… the self-control.

They just have to get through this very, irritating job. Surrounded by unpleasant, stupid beings.

Whose sycophantic smiles and saccharine words filled the space as though they were not wasting every drop of oxygen.

Damned Gods.

“Finally…” He heard to his side, along with an endeared tsk.

Then, a familiar, chillingly cold voice. “Oh you’ve granted us your presence have you?”

The Goddess stands there, hands clasped before her. Beautiful wings fluttering behind her back. Halo spinning above her head. She stands with her eyes colder than ice, spearing the figure walking down the sweeping staircase. Her other half, a man with pitch black horns and an empty smirk, chuckles next to her. “Come now, I’m sure something important kept our sweet child from such an important event?”

Had they been alone, Kieran is sure the Goddess would have scoffed. In public, however, she was ever the performer. Even though her specific target was easy for the surrounding figures to accept as lesser.

When his eyes are drawn to Taxionna, he feels the jolt of lightning through him unbidden, once again. They’re not hurrying, so much, as they are harried.

Hair a little messy, lipstick smeared on their mouth, he’s pretty sure some of their buttons are undone. Glowing, beautiful, regal… alive.

Their father looks gleeful, dark eyes lighting up like they’ve set fire. “Someone important perhaps?”

Xionna smirks, fangs glinting, and rights themselves with a little wave of the hand, adjusting and fixing gracefully. He can feel the calculation in their gaze. The small thrill at the rage emanating from their mother, the joy at aggravating a woman who sees them as worthless… an amusement at playing to the role they’ve been assigned.

The fuck up royal-ling.

“Just got a little carried away, apologies for my lateness. It won’t happen again.”

He notices a flushed goddess in the background, lipstick ruined, bite marks on her neck, escape the room to avoid attention.

Jealousy is not molten in his stomach. It’s not. He’s never thought about sinking his teeth into their neck, and hearing their beautiful lilting voice turn rough with pleasure.

They look over at him, and he’s taken to moments where they’re partners in crime. Dealing with corruption against the orders of their all-seeing mother. He sees the twinkle in mismatched eyes, pupils blown from slits and a tongue running over painted lips.

The fantasy gets louder in his head, before they’re pulled away. Laughter in their voice, as they’re forced to make the rounds. The connection broken, he sinks in on himself, like a puppet with cut strings.

—————

Gods are hedonistic, by nature. He supposes. Perhaps its the power, the long lives, the boredom, all of it. They care for little but their own pleasure. He’s used to their parties dragging on, until the drunken revelry merges into other kinds of chaos.

Thankfully, he’ll be released before he has to deal with another orgy. Especially after the last one had actual goats… and he thinks a badger.

While Drike keeps watch, Kieran’s found his eyes unable to separate from Taxionna. After all the years he’s known them, he’s used to their act. They antagonise their mother, payback for years of abuse, years of being made to feel like a failure. In return, they act the failure. Live the life of the gods they were raised around. A fool publicly. It doesn’t make it settle better in his stomach.

The fake smile, the quiet death in their eyes, the discomfort in their stance. All these gods, all the powerful, all the royalty in the room. Faun, and try to manipulate, to use. Thinking they understand them. Empty headed, flirty, powerful, but foolish.

He wants to growl, and bite, and snarl. Blood in his teeth, and daggers in hand. Over them.

It’s not a normal feeling, he thinks, to want to guard and kill for them. A tool for them. He thinks about how they’ve taken blades meant for him, blood on their hands for him. Perhaps its part in parcel with their emotions.

They can’t imagine who his Heart really is. He coughs on his drink, hand at his mouth to smother it and slinks back into the shadows. Hiding, pulling away from the world. His… Hear-

“Key?”

He blinks up through his mask, righting it with a hand quickly, and as he goes to fix himself. His lessons with Drike filtering through his mind, he sees sparkling mismatched eyes. Concern deep. No longer quietly dying.

They tilt their head, hand extended, “Are you alright?” The coldest of touch against his clothed arm, the chill of their skin is so intense he can feel it through his uniform. It reignites the heat in his body.

“Fine. Drink went down wrong.” He excuses. It’s not a lie. He just doesn’t need to tell them why it went down wrong. The feeling in his heart. It’s not there.

He’s not that foolish.

This time they rub at his back, even though the coughing is calmed, he finds himself unable to move away. They’re steady, and each touch sends a tingle down his back.

Gods, he hasn’t been touched in so long. That’s why he’s reacting like a schoolboy.

It’s not them.

It’s not him.

“Be careful.” They tease, though the concern hasn’t bled away. As though he could die from choking. As though there’s a real threat to him, to what’s keeping him in this room with them. Tethered. “I wouldn’t want to lose one of the few people who can keep my back safe.”

He lets out a laugh in response, quiet and warm. Trusted. Comforted. Gods, he wants to keep that tether forever, and when he speaks his voice is low and honest, “I’ll never stop keeping you safe.”

Their hand stops, and he sees eyes widen just a little, mask forgotten, blinking dolefully at him. It’s unusual to see them surprised, perhaps he’s held his feelings too close… had they really not noticed? His loyalty, his friendship. That they would doubt his devotion?

Devotion?

No, that’s not in doubt. He is devoted to his small group of companions. He would fight for them. Die for them if he were able.

He has very little in this world, and he will not lose what he has.

He will not lose them.

It’s simply because he… cares. As a friend.

The internal process halts, as eyes soften, the silver around pupils expand. Their smirk turns into a small smile, nervous and unsure, and their hand moves to his cheek. Cold skin against him, thumb brushing over his cheek… and he freezes.

They are not shy about touching, they nudge him, hold his hand, lean on him… he has grown numb, so he thinks, to the electricity of their contact. The casual way in which they give him everything. Even if it makes him greedier.

This time, however, he is held. Tethered. Consumed by their eyes. Their hand moves down, fingers through his beard, fingertips drift just slightly over his throat. He notes, or wishes he notes, the spark of obsession in their eyes, as their nails scratch at his adam’s apple and a small noise builds in the back of their throat… Before they pull back.

He watches a mask shutter down, fear flickering before they pull back into themselves and grin at him. Fangs on full show, “What a good guard you are.” The tease, this time, is their act. False ego. He notes the way their feathers ruffle, honest even when they try hard to control it.

Noticeable, if you know them.

“T-”

“I better get going, stay safe Key.” They cut off, stepping back, and disappearing back into a party they don’t want to be at.

——————

It’s days later, when a job is over, that he finally gets to breathe with them. They’ve wrapped it up successfully, handing over their target and freed those under his heel. He feels a satisfied thrum in his body. Worn, but relieved.

They’re too far from home, so they make their way to a safe house. It’s rundown, and not the comfiest, the first time he came to one with Taxionna… he’d admittedly had a less than positive opinion of the royal.

He’d made a snarky comment about silk sheets, they’d raised an eyebrow, eyes narrowing and their fangs had glimmered with their smirk.

“I don’t need to sleep, I’m sure I could make you forget about the quality of the sheets though.” He’d swallowed the saliva in his throat at the slow drag of their eyes.

This time, as they enter, Taxionna moves over to the terrible bed and lies down, watching him put his weapons on the side, loosening his uniform. He chuckles softly as they kick their shoes across the room. Lazily reclining, wings flicking and fluttering, as they lean their head on cross arms in front of them. “Comfortable?”

Their fang peeks out a little, as they respond. Voice a low grumble, muffled, “Not silk sheets, but better than running around fighting Guards.”

He rubs the back of his neck, guilt biting at his heels, but strangely satisfied that they never forget a moment. He knows its general, they remember everything… still. To be remembered so vividly by them.

When he’s finished cleaning up, removing layers until he’s in sweatpants and little else, he moves over to the bed. Sitting on the corner, watching the god in front of him. He can almost see a tail swishing behind them. Lazy flicks. He’s seen it a few times, but they normally keep it glamoured, along with their horns. He wonders idly when they let themselves be comfortable enough to lower all their glamours.

They blink up at him, the use of their powers today wearing them down, tired, and in need of feeding… or sleep. Their fangs are slightly peeking out under their angel-bow lips, and he tries not to think about the former.

“You need rest.”

They grumble a little not responding, but roll over onto their back. Their shirt has ridden up and they’ve unbuttoned their trousers, shoving them down a little. He tries really hard not to focus in on the pale stretch of skin, and the line of their underwear.

“Come on.” He reaches over, soft smile aimed at the unmasked royal, stretching out like a cat. They easily let him lift them a little, to sit up. What he doesn’t expect, is the way they lean into him. Their nose buries into his neck, and a cold hand runs up the warmth of his chest, through the hair there and onto his shoulder. “T?” They rub their face against him, yawning as they do so. Fangs scratch his skin, almost catching, before they return to rubbing their nose at the crook of his neck.

He freezes, unsure what to do with his hands, as the god in his arms tightens their hold a little. “Tired.” They grumble, and he feels his molten heart soften, hands reaching up to scratch the back of their head, while the other rests at their waist, pulling them into his lap as he realigns them, sitting back in the bed so they can lean fully against his bare chest.

His friend is tired, they’ve burned themselves out. They want to be somewhere safe. If they think that’s him…

His traitorous heart skips at every brush of their lips against his neck, especially every catch of their fangs.

Kieran wants. He wants them to sink in, drink and feed and live, and he wants it so much it startles his hands to stop.

His feline companion grumbles, nudging their head back into his hand, urging his movement, and nipping at his shoulder. He hopes they don’t think too much about his hips jumping, and he quickly resumes his petting, hand at their waist moving under their shirt to rub at their cold skin.

That’s when he hears it, the purr rumbling up their throat. Vibrating against his chest.

His fingers tremble minutely, breath catching, and his hand tightens against the back of their neck.

He wants.

To hear them purr forever.

To feel their skin pressed against his.

To feel their fangs in his throat.

To have his hand around theirs.

To kiss them.

To guard their body and their heart.

His Heart.

His Soul.

They don’t need his dagger, but they have it.

They don’t need his protection, but they have it.

As he feels them drift off, the purring tapering off as their arms wrap around his neck, and their face in his neck stills, he promises to himself they’ll always have a safe harbour with him. Where the mask that kills them quietly, can be laid down.

[justalittlebluetiefling]

I’m really grateful for the memes because it’s clear someone finally recognizes my struggles.

So, my table started off as five players and one of them had to leave because of personal stuff and this was a while ago. But we record our sessions so the DM can listen back and make notes if he needs to and a few weeks ago, he’s like “Hey, [other guy] is going to start listening to our sessions to catch up” and I was a little surprised, but he’s literally been dropping memes based off our sessions in the group chat and it’s so funny and so weird at the same time.

[leidensygdom]

What about a tier-list for D&D classes or subclasses for your favorite D&D class?

Can you believe this list didn't have an artificer!! smh!! i had to add my favourite guys manually--

(As you can see I'm a huge halfcaster and fullcaster fan. Sorry martial classes!)

[sky-whale-creations]

My dnd night got ruined and I need some kind of creative outlet so here I am

So I heard this character idea of a wizard from the past being put in stasis to help avert a future apocalypse. And then waking up to find the disaster was averted ages ago without you

Magic has gotten advanced and all the new magic is strange and unfamiliar

My character ideas were some homebrew clases I worked on for a long time, weaveknight (arcane halfcaster) and vessel (monster host)

The sort of core idea is that magic back in th bronze age was different, more raw and primal, spells were sophisticated, unique, and rare and the display of true mastery. Spells didn't go past level 4, so the modern age of magic is horrifying with 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th and 9TH level spells

The build is 7 levels of weaveknight for a bunch of spellblade gish type of fanfare, summong weapons, full contact war magic, etc. The subclass is Catalyst, which is all about the elements. On an attack, doing extra elemental damage, swapping out elemental cantrips and elemental resistances, ignoring resistance and treating immunity as resistance, etc.

With the sort of idea there being back in ye old times magic was a lot closer to avatar element bending and shamanism, conjuring up forces of reality to do your will

But also magic had intense rituals, permanent ways the magic users of old augmented themselves, and that is where vessel comes in

For Vessel, sticking to the elements, and going Elder Dragon for a huge breath weapon flavored as open palm striking the air and unleashing elemental destruction. Catalyst subclass changes damage types, so it would be cool to shake up these damage types here too. Plus a flying speed! Like imagine hearing mages these days cast a fly spell instead of binding the wind to your will, what a bunch of dweebs

Other big part is Unarmored Defense, the idea of some Rite of Iron Skin that turns away weapons

Last big piece there is not dying from old age and can not be aged with magic, this guy was in stasis for millenia

Some more fun homebrew is permanent metamagic with debuffs attached, really say that messy old magic unique spellcraft. Theres a reason spella get named after certain inventors, everyone elses was weird and special and/or kinda sucked, so standardized spells is foreign to this guy

Also this one ability that is counterspell but by smacking them with your weapon is a fun sort of "wizards of this age are so fragile and slow" bit

Thaaaat's the build idea! Character wise I think they feel intensely betrayed, they were told to someday aid in stopping a dark lord only to find that was done centuries ago without them. This character is grieving a world that is gone. This guy is speaking in broken Old Common trying to get caught up with the modern age

I think their main goal would be preservation of the past and the presistent fear that the evil they were sent to stop was not truly defeated

We can't repeat the past but ancient evils still lurk, like that's fuuuun

Anyways the core character concept is the joke of Think Tank cause smart and sturdy <3

[themostfinalofpams]

After romancing Lae’zel and spending so much time with her, I really want to make a Githyanki character that’s my TAV and Lae’zel’s kid for a DND campaign later down the line. Maybe it’s the egg from the monastery, maybe they have another kid later on, but I just really like the idea of that. Kinda thinking maybe they’ll be some sort of spellcaster or halfcaster though.

[rjalker]

If you read old things come across the term "halfcaste" or any variation thereof, it means mixed race. Edgar Rice Burroughs is really fucking racist and he keeps using it in an insulting way so. Might be safe to assume that anyone in an old thing using this term is also being racist.

[vividlyfuturistichurricane]

v Ger Ned abo quack doctor nurse Aussie halfcasts vic TAs nsw nt wa sa Stella boong white black Asian African euro pig

[hillmax-blog]

VEETGOLD HALFCAST FACE & BODY OIL 1000ML

[jovialrecordkeeper]

you might SAY this color smells of justice...

But your deceit STINKS.

this color, as shown in both the tags on the original post and in any helpful eyedropper tool, is #0091a4. in HSV, that's [187/100/64] . terezi's blood color, on the other hand, is #008282 !! [180/100/51] !!!

a difference of seven degrees in hue and thirteen percent in value is too large a difference for me* to ignore. especially given how granular i'm getting about my own steps. that's half a halfcaste and two steps down the grid.

* <- me, colors needle, an outlier adn should not have been counted,

[bronson4444the2nd]

DND class/subclass idea:

Halfcaster half melee that gains 1d4 damage dice to there melee attacks for every empty spell slot they make.

[astracora]

Focused Pain

Characters: Taxionna x Kieran (AU)

Warnings: NSFW, Blood, Hurt/No Comfort

Word Count: 593

Written: 15th September 2022

The world outside is cruel and vicious. It takes and it hurts, and it’s unwelcome.

Kieran prefers it in here, where the quiet suffocates and the memories dim. He doesn’t have to hear, or think or wonder. He can simply be.

When his love bites or scratches or bruises, he can focus on the blossoming pain. Let it draw him in. Devouring him.

There are times when Taxionna is insatiable. Drawing closed the doors of their sanctuary, locking themselves away, and only allowing him in. He finds he relishes those times, where it’s simpler, even though they’re rough and callous. Sometimes cruel in what they take, desperate and angry.

He lays still on his back, worn, and exhausted. Trailing fingers through their horn tangled hair, one hand still gripping their thigh to him as they press kisses to his chest.

There’s dried blood on his skin, and an ache in his bones, possibly the first time he’s ever felt old.

He can hear the purring at the back of Taxionna’s throat, as their hand moves up from his hip and drifts over his chest, pulling at the hair for a moment before soothing over to stroke the bob of his throat. "My Key." They husk, a fanged smile on their face and hollow warmth in their eyes.

Their wings flutter weakly, the broken feathers tinged black and twisted, and the skin damaged as though burned.

He remembers not too long ago, when they would flutter as they released, calling his name, and whispering into his neck. Voice a song that only he could hear.

Now the song is so broken and rusting, that he cannot recognise it.

They seem to sense his faraway thoughts, and tighten fingers around his throat, narrowing their eyes. "Love, stay here… with me." They purr, trailing their tongue over his sweat sheened skin.

Moving until they can tease his neck with their teeth, threatening at his pulse. He flinches on impulse when they sink their teeth in, none too gently, to pull him into their orbit.

He feels the spike of pleasure, and arches against them, hand tightening against their skin, that he knows they would bruise.

That pulls them from him, licking at his blood and barely biting back their moan. Their hand falls to where his has left an imprint and presses it down, wondering for a moment at the pain.

He can see them thinking, wondering, curious. A little more life in their eyes than before. When they look back at him, he can actually see a spark. He tests the waters, flipping them over, and pressing them into the bed, legs bent and horns scrapping at the bed frame.

They hiss and then keen, reaching for him, "Key…"

Gods and damn him, there is the song. Rough and sullied, but he notices some of the notes. They claw at him to pull him closer, "Just with me, only with me." They call out, seeking something out in his eyes, that leaves them looking satisfied. Mouth in a soft 'o', as he tightens his own hand around their throat this time.

Watches as they focus on him. Him. Not the world outside. Not the past, not the things they’ve lost, not the emptiness.

Him.

The unsettled feeling fades away a little more, and he knows each step is one he can’t take back… but as he watches their rapture, the excitement comes back at the feeling, as he tightens his grip, and thrusts into warmth…

He takes each step gladly.

They can’t go back anyway.

[the-gnomish-bastard]

Druid artificer multiclass that makes druid guns, extra points is that the druid subclass is wildfire

While that is an intriguing idea, it won’t really end up that well. Artificers are halfcasters, they only have spells up to level 5 at their disposal, while druids are full casters that have level 9 spells available. So you would have to keep track of the weird slot levels, but it also limits playstyle. Any artificer can make a gun, so you don’t need a specific subclass for it. Druids can’t wear metal armor though, so that basically means that the Armorer subclass is off the table. The Battle Smith subclass is basically all melee focused, so that’s not really a good pick if you multiclassed into a full spellcaster. That leave the Alchemist and Artillerist subclasses. The Artillerist is very good at making magic guns, so that’s probably what you were thinking of, but the Alchemist fits the vibe of Druid a lot more.

[homebrew-a-la-traumaverse]

Interesting.

Artificer-style halfcaster, but with effectively spell points instead of spell slots.

Version 1 of my Occultist

[vampyr-akademia]

Is it too late now to say sorry? 'cuz I'm missing more than just your body

[astracora]

Home

Characters: Taxionna x Kieran

Warnings: Blood, Grief, Death Mention, Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 1402

Written: 28th July 2021

The burn in the back of his throat is a welcome pain, better than the agony of the wound on his arm.

Sloppy... Sloppy work.

He'd been paying too much attention to what Drike had been doing, watching over him too closely. Hadn't even seen the Guard coming up to plunge his knife into him.

Raising his arm just in time to stop it going in his gut. Still too slow to catch the bastard before he got stabbed...

Kieran knocks back another drink, and then pours it into his flesh, gritting his teeth as it hisses.

When the blood runs down, he throws a makeshift bandage on it, flexing the muscle and cussing to himself.

Idiot.

It won't hinder him for long, a day or so to fully heal, and then there'll be nothing but the faintest scar to suggest he ever got knicked. Still... he knows they'll notice.

He sees his old mentor tending to the wounded out the corner of his eyes, notices that the man looks up occasionally to cast him a worried glance, and before their eyes can catch, Kieran stands to leave the tent.

The air is too thin, and he's sure the frustration shows on his face... if not in the clench of his hands.

It's been a long time since Drike came back from the land of the lost. It has been only one year since they started work together again...

One year in the space of an eternal's life is nothing. A blink and its passed... a breathe and its gone.

Still, this time feels insurmountable. Suffocating.

His fear of past mistakes has made every day harder, his fear to lose his home has made him too cautious and yet not cautious enough.

Overthinking, where his instincts are needed, blind where his eyes should see.

Kieran knows that he has been forgiven, he wants that... he values it. To be with loved ones and to know that they love him, that they open their arms to him despite what he has done...

Still, he struggles to forgive himself.

Watching Drike for every moment to ensure the past does not repeat.

It is pointless to panic and to worry. His mentor was always better than the two at surviving, at fighting, at running, at everything.

He raised Kieran from a lost soul, into a man with purpose.

Still that long forgotten memory of a cold corpse... he doesn't think it will ever leave his mind's eye.

For a millenia, those events tore his happiness from him. A happiness he ruined by his own foolish, idiotic hands.

Now he stands with it back in grasp, and he cannot shake the notion that he will lose it all again.

Has he truly changed? Has he truly earned this back?

Returning to the waiting arms of his partner, fighting alongside his brother, raising his children. Can he truly have those things?

The walls close in, and his hands clench to white knuckled fists...

No

No

No

NO

His mind quiets for a moment for the sound of his phone to drift through.

He stops, and he breathes.

Kieran exhales, and counts.

1.

2.

3.

Before he touches his phone, knowing without a doubt who lies on the other end, he speaks to himself in barely a whisper.

"If you want it, fight for it."

Like he told himself more than a trillion years ago.

When a mismatched royal, with lonely eyes knocked his sword out of his hands with a smirk.

Then extended it back out to him with a laugh.

The phone quiets and he pulls it from his pocket, wincing as the sensation in his arm drifts back through his panic.

He does envy Taxionna's instant healing, not a skill he possess in his arsenal.

Before he can hit redial, the phone rings again.

"Key!" Their voice drifts through, breathless, filled with fresh laughter.

He can picture them, home with their children, likely covered in paint from a new project. Eyes sparkling, teeth bared in a wide grin.

There's little he can think of returning back to more.

"You'll love the new painting Affie and Ares did! They've captured your likeness perfectly."

"Onna! Onna!"

He can hear Aphrodite calling out in the background.

He can pick out ruffling, and more laughter as Taxionna moves the phone from their face.

"Affie, sweetheart, if you keep trying to grab the phone, you'll knock over your paints."

"I want to talk to Dad!"

"... -too."

He barely stops himself from laughing, rubbing a hand over his face to keep from welling up. Choking on the feeling lodging itself in his chest.

"The kids say hi!"

"We have mouths Onna!"

"You have very loud ones!"

The line goes distant again as he hears exaggerated kisses being pressed to heads, and Aphrodite's groans of mock complaint.

He has to swallow enough that his voice sounds level, or as level as he can manage, "I see you're all having fun?"

He hears them settle back, and can picture them perfectly.

Sat in the garden, surrounded by their children, and pets, leaning back with Aphrodite on their lap, and Ares pressed into their side. Paints speckling their cheeks, wings fluttering.

"Aren't we always?"

That makes a laugh break through. Yes, there is little he can think of that brings down his family for long.

Built from the strongest materials. Full of the flames of stars.

Forged out of pain, and standing tall.

"We miss you though." Their soft whisper lodges back into his chest, stuttering his heart and tightening a grip around it.

He almost chokes. He can tell his voice breaks when he speaks back.

"I miss you too."

He hears a soft exhale, an unnecessary human trait from an otherwise otherworldly creature.

The line is quiet for a moment, though he hears muffled movement. "You know, I was thinking about the morning before you left."

Kieran can't quite bring the memory to mind, and he manages to hum for them to continue.

"The evening before, after mom had... every so gracefully bulldozed through our lives, as she is so oft to do. I'd been so busy, so worn down, I had to rest for a while."

Ah, he does remember. Their pain in their eyes. The haunted memories.

The fear.

No matter how far they move forwards, he knows their mother brings them down. A vile beast that she is.

"I woke, feeling drained, like all my energy had left me. A hunger at the back of my throat. Clawing in my chest..."

He hears them sigh again, then a soft chuckle.

"I came downstairs, looking for something to help ease it, and you were there with Flow, looking over mathematics with her. Frowning for all the world."

He huffs, "What use does an assassin have for algebra?"

That makes them burst into laughter, and he is eased more than he can ever describe.

Beautiful.

"What use indeed... she was explaining it to you. She nudged you in the side and I heard her go 'Dad, you're supposed to be helping me.' and the hunger in the back of my throat just... vanished. Your smile, the way you reached over and tousled her hair."

He swallows.

Suddenly something else is lodged in his throat.

"Sometimes I think I can feel it, you know? The emptiness. The part that was gone when you weren't there. Then I remember. I look at where we are, how far we've come, and I remember."

He knows... he knows exactly. The numbness, the loss. They can stand alone, they're even whole alone...

But together... well.

He'd never believed that Eternals could have soulmates, but they make him think he was wrong.

Better together, than apart.

"I'm not going anywhere." He says it, and he means it. Nothing will ever pry him from them again, from his family. From his life.

If he has to fight a thousand wars, defeat a million monsters, he'll do so. He is older, wiser, and stronger than he ever was before. He will continue to be so.

"Neither will I." They don't whisper it, not really. It's said quietly, but with all the conviction he can feel in his own words.

When he blinks, the air feels lighter again, and he can suck in a deep breath that he does not need. "I'll see you soon, love."

"I'll look forward to it, Key."