#i could make him sexy actually

[velidewrites]

No one remembers her name. But I do.

— Chapter 23, A Court of Wings and Ruin (Sarah J Maas)

Pairing: The Bone Carver x 👀

Word Count: 18.2k

Warnings (please read before proceeding): Graphic depictions of violence, injury, blood, gore, and death; loss of a loved one; implied/referenced miscarriage; implied/referenced domestic abuse; poverty; mild(ish?) sexual content

Read on AO3

The cold seemed to seep into his very bones.

It began deep beneath the cobblestones of the street—as if the winter itself had planted it in the earth, content to watch it grow as the year neared its end. The sun hadn’t yet set over the horizon, thank the Gods. The seeds of the frigid season bloomed most eagerly in the dark.

Another hour, and he would leave. He reckoned he could survive another sixty minutes out on the street—though he hoped he wouldn’t need to stay that long. Gods willing, someone would take notice of the boy curled up in the pile of hay sooner than later. Even through the long, thin straws, he could feel the cold clawing at his lower back, sending his entire body into shivers.

Oh, how he hated this.

If only he could have it his way. He’d be back by midday, early afternoon, perhaps, if the merchants have proven especially difficult. During the winter, he found, they would all become more…possessive.

But—he promised. Had given his word, even, though he supposed it hadn’t meant much coming from the likes of him. Not to her, though—he couldn’t break her heart like that again. He feared she wouldn’t survive it. And given her current condition…

His mother was the only thing he had left in the world. And so, he would behave—for her.

For her, he would sit his ass on the side of the alley and wait—wait until someone took mercy upon a nineteen-year old boy, begging in the streets. Unlikely.

They found him laughable—had even said so to his face. Nineteen. Not a boy—a man. You could’ve found work had you only tried, they laughed as their shadows hovered over his wimpy form. Had you had any honour, any pride. Instead, you’ve chosen to remain in the filthy streets like the trash that you are.

If only things had been that simple.

The village folk must’ve known that he had tried—so many of them had turned him down, after all. Before he even came of age, he’d wandered the main square, looking for work, any work—to no effect. He supposed he couldn’t blame them. He’d brought this upon himself, after all.

Thief, they called him. A dangerous, deranged thief.

He quite liked the sound of that, even if his mother was inclined to disagree. As far as he was concerned, any nickname was better than trash, and unfortunately, the latter was becoming more and more common these days. For that reason alone, today would’ve been a perfect opportunity—an opportunity to remind them what he truly was.

His long-suffering sigh turned into a wheezing fit as the icy air scratched at his lungs.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, his pale hand closing on his chest, fingers digging into the scraps of fabric draped over his body. He needed to be more careful. In a weather like this, even something as mundane as breathing could very well lead to his untimely death.

Untimely, because…it wasn’t his time yet. It was the last scrap of hope he held onto these days. That there was something—anything—out there. Waiting, for his mother—for him.

The wind howled again, the biting breeze from the North like needles prickling at his skin. Perhaps the Gods had heard his dreams, somehow, and decided to laugh in his face.

He almost rolled his eyes at the thought. When had he become so bitter?

It was unlikely that the Gods were watching over him, anyway. A traitorous thought—but a true one. Undying and all-powerful, he doubted that such beings cared for a single soul like him—if, of course, he still had one after everything he’d done. All the pain he’d caused…if he was a God, he wouldn’t have bothered with someone like him. He’d be doing greater things. Important things.

Like never inflicting winter upon his lands again, for example.

Did the Gods even have such power? He’d only heard myths, stories—as a child, from none other than the village Elder, huddled with the other younglings around the crackling fire. Wide-eyed and still curious enough to listen to the tales of the world around them.

The Elder had told them stories of divine creatures, ones of unlimited power and unimaginable beauty, who’d fallen from a rip in the skies above to bless the lands beneath. Who’d taken one look at the misery of their empty world and decided to grace it with their gifts—fertile soil, and humans to harvest its bearings. The Elder said the Gods created them—all of them—that they were their children, blessed to have the Gods as their protectors for all eternity.

Fine, then. He was a child of the Gods—a child whose name they’d never bothered to learn. He never learned their names, either. Had never even asked. What good would that have done? He might’ve had someone to be disappointed in—someone other than himself.

His head fell back to the wooden wall of the hut. Its owner, no doubt, would be returning soon—and curse him out for ever daring to lean against his property. A sudden wave of tiredness washed over him, his limbs heavier somehow, as if the cold had finally managed to freeze them in place.

Maybe, if he closed his eyes for a moment…it would go away. Just for a few seconds—so that he could rest before returning home empty-handed. Again. It had been…almost three days since he had eaten. Two, since his mother had.

Tomorrow, he would steal, promises be damned. If he survived.

A veil of darkness began to wrap itself around his sight as he blinked again. The next time he closed his eyes, he would not open them again.

Something landed in the small pile of hay warming his feet. Something heavy.

He forced his body off the wall as he looked down. And then, his heart stopped.

A bone.

A raw bone, yes—but large, and with scraps of meat, still hanging over the glistening, white centre that had unmistakably once been some animal’s thigh.

His hands shook as he reached for it—his salvation. Only when it was safe and locked tightly in his grasp did he look up.

On the other end of the narrow street stood a girl, peering from the doorway of the shop that always reeked of blood and decay. The butcher’s girl, he realised, the same one the folk said was taken by illness so grave it confined her to the small room above her father’s shop. He’d never seen her before—he doubted anyone ever had. And yet…and yet, there she was, her face twisted in an emotion he’d only ever seen on his mother’s face before.

Worry.

His breathing fell flat as she stepped out—a half-step, really, in his direction, into the dimming sunlight as it made way for the chill darkness of the night. And he stopped breathing entirely as her gaze locked on his.

She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

He could make out the exact shade of her eyes despite the street separating them—despite the curtain of greyish light draped over it. They gleamed with a light of their own—a blue so deep they seemed almost violet, like the sky being lulled to sleep by the waning hours of dusk. Dark, silken hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, just barely brushing her waist, small—and thin. Too thin.

He opened his mouth when a tall, broad figure appeared in the doorway behind her.

“Inside,” the butcher barked, but she didn’t move. She only stood there—looking at him, that beautiful face still contorted in what seemed to be—pain.

For…him?

“Astra,” her father barked, and the girl flinched.

She disappeared into the house before he even managed to thank her, the door slamming shut behind her.

***

The night had fallen entirely as he made his way back home, the bone still gripped tight in his hand. Silence enveloped the streets, his steps quieter now as the cobblestone road narrowed into a dirty path. The snow melted into mud here, thick and grey and stained with yellow, its stench filling the air and stirring the guts of those misfortunate enough to reside in the area. Thankfully, though, no red tainted the filthy road tonight—no blood had been spilled over scraps of food or water. It was cold enough, it seemed, to keep his neighbours inside.

His own house—it felt ridiculous to call it that even as it stood a few feet before him—was a pathetic imitation of the sturdy, wooden structures over at the village square. It must’ve been on the verge of collapse, ready to fall apart at any stronger blow of wind, the wood here splintered, wet.

Still, it was a roof over his head. And he wasn’t exactly in a position to complain.

He’d been certain he’d never see it again. And yet…

The girl—Astra—had saved his life today. His mother’s life, too.

He was forever in her debt.

Tomorrow, he would go back—he would knock on the butcher’s door the moment his shop closed and hope for the best. Hope that she would answer.

A fly flitted past him as he approached the door, the light buzz unpleasant against his ear. And then, another.

Something heavy fell down to the pit of his stomach as he realised where they came from.

There was no latrine in their home—it was only big enough for the two of them to lay on the cots inside. If they opened their arms as they laid beside each other, they could touch the opposite sides of the room, feel the splintered wood dig into the skin of their fingers. There wasn’t enough space for anything else—so any needs other than sleep must’ve been fulfilled outside.

It was no surprise that she fell ill in a weather like this. He’d kept her wrapped up in blankets—had given her all of his own as she slept, unable to stop him—but the warmth wasn’t enough. For the past two weeks, she could do nothing but writhe in pain. Every hour of every day.

Perhaps if he’d paid more attention—if he stopped caring about a Gods-damned promise—he could’ve saved her. He could’ve stolen enough blankets to keep her warm, or enough food to strengthen her body. He could’ve stolen money, enough gold marks to pay for a healer, and one willing to venture this far out of the village.

But he’d done none of that. And now, it was too late.

The fire, the bone—they could wait. An hour, maybe two, before his stomach demanded to be filled in a final cry for help. But before then…

He entered the hut silently and laid down on the unoccupied cot, letting his body, his mind, fade into nothingness.

***

When the moon rose over the village the next day, he knocked on the butcher’s door.

No one answered. Not even a sound reached him—not even as he pressed his ear to the hard wood. He knocked again—nothing.

And when it seemed like the house was too lost in sleep to hear his plea, he heard it.

A thud—muffled by the walls, the roof above. And then—another, heavy, like something that’d lost its balance before dropping to the floor.

Silence fell again, so empty he almost thought he’d imagined ever hearing anything at all.

He was going to step back—to turn around and try again the next day—when he heard it.

A scream.

A suppressed one, and brief—as if cut short abruptly before making way for that hollow silence again. But it did happen—rip itself free, even for only a heartbeat.

He scowled at it, the wheels of his mind turning and turning—

Another scream.

Something clicked in his head.

And he barged in.

“How dare you.” A voice, one he’d heard before, seething from upstairs. “How dare you disobey me. Again.”

How dare you take what’s mine, a memory, old yet painful all the same, scratched at the wall of his mind. Street filth.

The butcher.

“I didn’t mean to—” another voice sounded, small and quiet, as if trying to shrink further into itself. He stepped forward—towards the stairs in the back.

“Silence,” the butcher snapped.“You will take your punishment.” He moved closer, the first step groaning under his weight. “You will learn to listen. Or I shall have those filthy ears cut off.”

The man came into his sight at last, his back turned to him as hovered over someone’s form.

He felt his fists close at his sides. “Stop.”

The butcher whirled to him, his roughened face a picture of shock. Of recognition.

“You.”

“Step away from her,” he spat, but the butcher made no move. “I said step away.”

“You dare show your face here again, street trash?” he challenged, baring his teeth, yellow even in the dimming light. “You dare give me orders?” He barked a laugh. “Get out of my establishment.”

“No.”

Another, hideous laugh. “I see you haven’t learned your lesson,” he mused, and pain splintered through his back—old scars waking to the sound of the butcher’s familiar voice. “I will have your head for this, you rat.”

He gritted his teeth. “Step away from her.”

The man’s eyes flashed. And then, strong and heavy, he lunged for him.

Too bad. He was a lot faster.

An elbow in his gut, a foot to the back of his knee. The butcher fell to the floor in time for his punch to land on his head.

When it hit the wooden plank of the floor, unconscious, he smiled.

A stifled gasp escaped someone’s lips.

He whipped toward the sound.

A sea of dark hair shielded her face from view, but even now, he could make out the silver lining her eyes, wide and gleaming.

“Are you alright?” he asked carefully.

“I…” the butcher’s daughter looked to the body, still as it laid beside him. “You…killed him?”

“No.” He angled his head. “Would you like me to?” He would.

“No!” She shot to her feet. “Please, don’t.”

“Alright,” he nodded. “Are you okay, though?”

Her gaze dipped. “I’ll be alright. Thank you.”

He frowned. There was nothing to thank him for—he got there too late, when her tears were no longer fresh, and yet…yes, that was gratitude in her eyes.

“I was looking for you, you know,” he found himself saying. “I’m the one who should be thankful, you—you saved me. The other day. You probably don’t remember,” he added quickly, and his cheeks flushed as he cursed himself for his rambling. 

She seemed to take no notice, though. “The bone.” She swallowed hard. “I remember.”

“I owe you a debt.”

Her eyes widened again, and she shook her head hastily. “There is no debt.”

If only. “I’d be dead if it weren’t for you,” he pointed out. When she seemed to have no answer, he jerked his chin to the man on the floor. “Does he do this often?” he asked.

Her jaw tightened. “Sometimes.”

He knew what sometimes meant. Too well.

“If he ever tries again—” he started, “—scream. I’ll be there—to stop him again.”

“You…” An incredulous look. “I don’t understand.”

Go—just go. She’s fine.

“Let me do this for you,” he blurted. “To clear my debt. Let me keep you safe.”

She seemed to go still at the words. “Safe?”

“If you’d like me to,” he only said, a familiar rush of exhaustion threatening to crash into him again. The old pain in his back still thrummed there quietly, and his fists bled quietly from where the skin had burst open against the butcher’s head. He’d come here to erase his debts—and he found himself in the middle of something that never should have taken place at all—something that stirred a deep, angry place within his soul.

“Do you ever sleep?”

He blinked.

The daughter’s eyes surveyed him watchfully, scanning over his face, his hands—as though somehow, she had heard the words swirling through his thoughts.

“Not anymore,” he admitted. There was no point in lying, not when he’d probably looked halfway through death’s threshold anyway. He had not slept since he found his mother in the hut—and though it had only been a little over a day, he doubted he’d ever be able to sleep again. “So you’d be giving me something to do, really.” If she accepted his offer.

But then she asked, “What’s your name?”

He almost stumbled back a step.

“I…what?”

“Your name,” her brows knotted. “What is it?”

No one had ever asked him that before—not a single person in his long, miserable life.

“Osten,” he choked out.

“Osten,” she repeated, as if weighing the sound on her tongue. He suddenly became very aware of his hands, hanging pathetically at his sides. “My name is Astra.”

Astra.

“I know.” He swallowed hard. “I heard him call for you yesterday.”

A shy smile. “I’ll make you a bargain, Osten,” she offered. “Your…debt will be clear if you promise that after watching me every night—as soon as dawn breaks—you’ll go home and get some sleep yourself.”

Her eyes shone as she waited for his answer. And, before he could even think about it, Osten said, “Deal.”

Something tingled in his chest in response—something he couldn’t quite discern, but there was no time, not as Astra smiled again and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Behind her long, arched ear.

Not sick, then. It was not an illness that made the butcher confine her to the small room above his shop.

Who are you?

But Astra only nodded. “It’s a bargain.”

The words echoed through his step until he reached the dirty, familiar path home. Until, so consumed by the image of the strangest woman he’d ever seen, he tripped over a rogue root of a tree, peering above ground, and his knees landed in a melting puddle of snow.

His reflection fluttered through the surface, the image of his face scattered—though he could still make out the brown, messy hair, the hollow cheeks, the dark eyes. The worn-out blouse, too loose on his shoulders. The…black lines underneath?

He blinked, leaning in closer. There was a marking on his chest—one that had definitely not been there before, and…tingling. 

The dark shape seemed to form a mountain—tall and proud, with three speckles hanging above it—stars.

He rubbed the marking with his hand. Nothing.

Then, he dipped his fingers into the water, this time to rub it with more fervour. The marking did not budge—had only continued to tingle, like a gentle, warm light caressing cold, roughened skin.

Osten did not try to remove it the third time. For some reason…he found that it didn’t bother him.

***

The first beams of dawn peered over the horizon, and he nearly sagged with relief. His worries faded away with the night, which, mercifully, had passed by quietly. Undisturbed.

Astra’s father, the bastard, would come down to set up shop soon—and remain occupied for the rest of the day. Osten had hours to spend before it was time for him to stand watch again.

The time had come for him to fulfil his end of the bargain, it seemed.

Their bargain was ridiculous, really, he thought as he rose to stretch his back, sore from an entire night of leaning against the hardened wood. Astra would let him watch over her, would let him pay off his debt to her, in exchange for…sleep. She’d probably requested it as a courtesy—what else did he have to offer her? He must’ve looked like a half-corpse the night they met—if he slept, he’d at least be a lot nicer to look at.

He almost rolled his eyes at the thought. Why did he insist on staying when, in her eyes, there was no debt to begin with? He could’ve nodded his thanks and call it a day. Could have left and never think about her again.

Instead, he devoted his nights to her, pledging to keep her safe.

Perhaps there was a shred of humanity left in him, instilled somewhere deep in his soul by his mother, propelling him to carry out his final promise to her even after her death. Perhaps he thought that, by doing something good, he would balance out the transgressions he’d committed—and was sure to commit again.

After all, he still had to eat.

Osten sighed as his eyelids drooped, heavy after days of restlessness. He doubted she remembered, but…he would keep his word and sleep—if only to stop the stinging in his eyes, begging them to shut and not open for at least a few hours.

And so, he moved to make his way home.

“Wait!” a voice, small and quiet in the paling night, called after him. “Thank you.”

At that, he turned. Slowly.

Her left cheek was still flushed, blood racing under the aching skin. The rage he felt two nights ago—frozen and rippling like a cracking sheet of ice over a lake—stirred in him at the sight, begging to be let out again. He fought the urge to press his palm to her face, knowing the touch—cold, the way it always had been—was able to provide her relief, even if just for a breath.

He shoved his hands into his pockets instead. “It’s nothing.”

Dark brows furrowed over those eyes, their blue so deep they nearly mirrored the sky above them. “It’s not nothing. I…” she hesitated, and met his gaze—held it until she found whatever she was searching for, whatever allowed her to continue, “I slept better knowing you were out there.”

Everything inside him went quiet at that. “Yeah?”

Her answer was merely a whisper. “Yes.”

He’d never experienced silence like this before—it was nothing like the frigid, hollow kind that rang in his ears the night he’d found his mother. No, this was different. Peaceful. Warm. 

And it all radiated from her.

“My father left,” she told him, her gentle voice filling the air between them. “You no longer have to stand watch.”

He said nothing.

“Will you get some sleep now?” Astra asked.

Osten stilled.

So she did remember.

“That is our bargain,” he agreed, unsure why his throat felt tight.

She nodded, her eyes gleaming at the answer—as if she actually, truly cared—and he could have sworn stars flecked in them brightly as she said, “Yes. It is.”

***

The snow had begun to melt off the streets at last—though the chill of the final weeks of winter remained. He felt it now more than ever as he sat in the shadows, resting against the back wall of Astra’s house. Listening.

Every night of the past week had mercifully been hollow with silence, filled only by his shallow breathing in the cold, and sometimes, the faint chittering of whatever lurked in the forest ahead. He’d spent them in the company of his thoughts—thoughts that drifted to the woman sleeping above far more often than he cared to admit. Was she safe? Did she eat enough today?

He would stay until dawn broke across the sky, until it lit up with a gentle light that sent her father out for his freshly slain delivery. Day after day, the butcher would leave the house and return after an hour or so, covered in blood—and not his own, unfortunately.

Astra hadn’t dared to come out once in her father’s absence. Not that he’d expected her to, of course—after all, he was nothing but her guard. They were bound by a debt and a bargain—nothing more.

“Are you cold?”

Osten jerked off the wall. “Shit!”

She’d appeared out of nowhere—as if stepping out from the shadows themselves. He should’ve heard her in this silence—but Astra hadn’t even made a breath of a sound as she emerged. He tried not to shudder at the thought.

“Forgive me,” she said, the apology genuine in her tone. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

He rose to his feet. “You didn’t frighten me, I just…” he sighed. “I thought you were asleep.” Why wasn’t she?

She shook her head, that raven hair gleaming under the pale moonlight. “I couldn’t.”

He frowned. “Why?” Had the butcher said something to her? Had he harmed her in any way?

But Astra said nothing, her violet eyes surveying him instead. Then, she asked, “Are you, then? Cold?”

“It’s nothing new to me. I’ll survive.”

She was having none of that. “I brought you blankets,” she said, moving to hand him the small pile she’d been holding.

He almost stumbled back a step. “You…what?”

She angled her head, her nose scrunching a little—as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. “Blankets,” Astra repeated. “To keep warm in the night.”

He knew what blankets were for, obviously, but…

“Why?”

Her lips thinned. “I can’t sleep knowing you’re freezing out here.”

He sighed again. “I told you, it’s nothing serious.”

“Well, it is to me,” Astra said, pressing the blankets into his hands. “Keep them. Please.”

Soft—they were so soft. He wasn’t sure he’d ever touched anything like that before. Fighting the urge to bury his face in the material, he shook his head slowly. “You need them more than I do,” he told her.

Her dark brows knitted. “What makes you think that?”

Alright, then. “You’re ill, aren’t you?”

Astra blew out a breath, and he braced himself for the answer—for the lie he’d already heard on the streets of the village. “I am ill,” she started, “but not in the way the folk claims.”

His mouth opened—then closed. No more lies, then—only the truth. “I thought as much.” That, apart from her thin features, there were no signs of illness about Astra—only an air of something…foreign. Something different.

Something he wasn’t sure was entirely human.

Astra asked, “Why offer me the blankets, then?”

Osten shrugged. “I wanted to see if you’d confirm it.”

Her head cocked to the side again. “I have no reason to lie to you.”

“No?”

“No,” she agreed quietly. “You are my only friend.”

Silence fell again, and Astra went still—an unnatural kind of stillness, an almost unsettling one. Like her body could not physically move until he said something—anything. But he couldn’t even pay attention as he mulled over her words.

A friend.

He’d…never had one before.

Something tightened in his throat, blocking the cool air from flowing into his lungs. He could not utter a single word as he beheld her. Astra. His friend.

And then, her gaze fell, and she moved again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she admitted, as if she couldn’t see, couldn’t feel the wave of emotion that had crashed into the man before her. “I don’t know why I look like…this. When I was born, I—my mother, she left. My father…he says she was like me—a monster. A creature forsaken by the gods, he called her.” She huffed a bitter laugh. “He says she tricked him—seduced him, and when she got what she wanted, she left him with a babe and not a word of goodbye.”

Osten swallowed hard. “And you believe him?” The question came out hoarse.

“I don’t want to,” Astra said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind that arched ear. He tried not to gape at it as she added, “I don’t want to believe my mother was what he makes her out to be. But…there are days…”

She shook her head, a shadow passing over her beautiful features.

So Osten said quietly, “You can tell me.”

There was nothing but pain in her eyes as she met his gaze. “There are days that I think only a monster could’ve left me with a man like him.”

And then, she looked to the ground again. As if she couldn’t bear to face him.

He’d be damned—damned—to let her think he could ever shy away from her.

“There is nothing wrong with you, you know,” he began, and her face whipped to his again. “You are good—kind.” He smiled tentatively. “You helped a stranger dying on the streets when he had nothing to offer you in return. You made sure he survived—and you gave him a purpose.” Daring a step toward her, he took one of the blankets and, slowly, draped it over her shoulders, their gazes not breaking for a moment as he added, “You may not look like me, like everyone else here, but—I want you to know that I’m honoured, Astra. I’m honoured to be your friend.”

Light—pure, unrestrained light, brighter than the stars above them, shone in her face as she smiled at his words.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, Osten.”

***

Osten was in agony.

The slashes in his back ran deep, fresh blood coating old scars and tingling the netted skin that had never had the chance to heal. The open cuts felt as though they’d been set on fire, white-hot and throbbing with his every step. He’d been whipped six times, as if they wanted to relish in his screams, his suffering. As if they thought one would not have been enough for him to learn his lesson.

Obviously, they were right.

He was planning to steal again, as soon as he could walk without crying out in pain. Such noise was unwelcome if he wanted to be successful this time.

Winter had fallen again, colder and angrier than the year before—and even more relentless. These days, Osten missed the summertime more than ever—how quiet and peaceful his life had been then. He’d taken to hunting in the warm weather, encouraged more by his desire to outdo the butcher’s distributors than his own need to eat. How delightful it had been to watch their faces in the forest—the perfect mixture of shame and disbelief as they realised they’d been bested by a common street thief. He could only imagine the butcher’s face whenever his hunters delivered him the news.

His bow, of course, had been stolen, too. He’d found it resting against an oak tree, probably waiting as its owner ventured deeper into the bushes, urged by the pressing call of his bladder. Too bad. It might’ve been flimsy and splintered, but the bow belonged to Osten now. Though, unfortunately, he made little use of it now that the forest had become a sea of snow and ice, even the most hardened of animals hiding in its wake.

And so, Osten returned to stealing. Astra didn’t know—and if she did, she had not once said a word about it.

For a while, it was enough for him to get by. Steal in the chaos of day, watch over Astra in the dead of the night. Over the months, she seemed to sleep less and less—choosing to sneak out the moment her father drifted into unconsciousness, and to keep Osten company instead.

He…wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Still, Osten was hardly one to give her orders—he was merely a warden, a friend. And, if he had to admit, he enjoyed her quiet presence. He found it soothing of sorts—her eyes, wide and shining and seemingly drinking every word that fell from his lips. Her mouth, parted in a small, curious smile as she listened to his adventures from the hunt. Her voice, calm and yet so full of joy as they talked about the future ahead.

He’d once asked her if she ever thought of leaving—of running away from her father’s cruel grasp and into the night, never to look back again.

And where would I go? she had asked him.

Somewhere safe, he’d told her. And, if he hadn’t been such a fucking coward, panicking at the sight of her eyes gleaming with hope so beautifully, he would’ve added: With me.

That was the first time she’d ever left his side before daybreak. The next day, she’d acted as though their conversation had never even taken place.

He hadn’t stopped dreaming since then—dreaming of the life the two of them could lead if he only dared. Traitorous, traitorous dreams—ones that were sure never to become reality. Yes, they could escape somewhere, far away from the cold, grey village the Gods had thrust them into—but then, what? Where would they go? Where could he ever take her, with nothing no his name but the scars on his back?

The reality, the truth, was simple. Astra deserved a good life—a better life. Without him.

It was with that thought that he made way to her house, wrapped in the blankets she’d given him all those months ago. He’d tried to return them time and time again—to no effect. So he’d kept them, his mind arguing that, at the very least, the blankets would keep him safe enough from frostbite to continue watching her for as long as she needed him.

Their weight on his shoulders was especially painful tonight, though. He wondered how long it would take for his blood to soak into their softness, to turn the murky brown fabric red.

When he turned the corner to the back of the house—right beneath Astra’s small window—he found the space already occupied.

Osten stumbled back in surprise, a small hiss escaping him as the blankets brushed against a particularly nasty cut running along his spine. Astra’s brows furrowed.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he muttered, his gaze falling to the small plate in her hands. “What is this?”

Her lips were a thin line. “I heard what happened.”

Ah.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said anyway.

“Osten,” she pressed, taking another step forward. “Let me help you.”

The muscle in his jaw shifted. “How did you find out?”

Astra sighed, the sound slightly shaky on her breath. “I…hear things. I hear them well.” Her gaze dropped to the plate—as if she couldn’t dare to meet his eyes as she added, “Even when they are happening far outside, I can hear them. My father’s knife, cutting through the flesh downstairs. People talking in the streets. Horses neighing in the stables out back. Your heart,” she said, something strained in her voice now, “I hear it, too. How loudly it beats whenever we speak.”

There was such silence in his head.

Astra shook the dark hair from her face. “Take it,” she said, handing him the plate. The meat, freshly cooked by the potatoes, still hot and steaming and smelling so painfully good that his stomach churned at the barest glance. “Please.” 

His eyes widened. “I…” he stepped back. “I can’t accept this.”

I’m supposed to keep you safe.

“Why not?” she pushed. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

Please, don’t make me say it.

“I don’t want it,” he said, another desperate step back.

“Lies,” she hissed. “Tell me.”

Such fierce, unflinching determination in her face. She knew what he’d done—knew exactly what kind of person he was—and still, she’d cooked this meal for him. Refused to yield until he took the hand she’d reached out to him.

Osten swallowed hard, something wet burning his eyes restlessly.

“I don’t deserve it,” he finally whispered.

Astra went still.

“I promised her, you know—my mother,” he continued, unable to look into her eyes, to see the disappointment no doubt twisting her face, “I promised her I would never steal again. She hated it.”  He huffed a bitter laugh, one that scratched at his throat like fingernails. “She hated that I wasn’t trying to live an honest life. So, for a while, I did. I tried.” He choked out, “And it wasn’t enough to keep her from dying.”

He couldn’t bring himself to look up as he finished, “I shouldn’t have eaten that bone you gave me a year ago. I should’ve left it in the snow. I should’ve gone home, and I should’ve died with her.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence, thrumming in his head, his heart.

And then—

“Osten.”

He shook his head.

“Look at me.”

Her hand cupped his face, so gentle and soft that he shivered beneath the touch. His own hands were coarse, dirty—so different from hers that he almost recoiled from the touch, like a shadow burned by the first beams of the morning sunlight.

Step away, everything screamed inside of him as his gaze lifted to those immaculate hands. Step away before you stain them with your filth.

Her hold on him grew solid, harder than any steel. As if in answer.

As if somehow, she’d heard the words his mind spat at him.

He swallowed them down, forced them to the darkest pits of his soul, and looked up.

“Beautiful,” she breathed as he met her gaze.

His chest tightened. “They’re just black,” he said a shade pathetically, but she shook her head, her own eyes gleaming.

“I feel like I can see the whole world in them.”

He could’ve died in that moment—and he would’ve died a happy man.

“Astra,” he whispered.

But Astra said, “What happened to your mother was not your fault. You did everything you could—you protected her despite everything the world has thrown at you.” Her thumb brushed the hollow of his cheek. “And now, you protect me. You keep me safe.” She smiled, so beautiful his heart braced to leap out of his chest. “You matter, Osten. You matter to me.”

You are my friend.

Let me help you.

You matter to me.

“Eat with me.”

So Osten said, “Okay.”

***

The butcher was out tonight.

Osten had trailed him to the brothel on the far outskirts of the village—a place cursed by the Elder, hidden far from his watchful eye. Osten had never dared to venture in himself—had never had the money for it, anyway—but hearing the sounds from within left little to the imagination, anyway.

He figured Astra’s father was unlikely to return before dawn.

Still, he found himself on the familiar path to her house anyway.

She wasn’t there when he’d arrived—she must’ve been well asleep despite the night only having just begun. Something like disappointment sank in his chest—he’d grown used to seeing her greet him as he approached, those violet eyes bright. Happy. Even his wounds had seemed to heal faster over the past week, stinging less and less with each smile she’d offered him.

Tonight, he was only greeted by the darkness.

And then, a scream.

Astra’s scream—a desperate, bloodcurdling plea for help.

Osten didn’t think twice.

His heart pounded, faster and faster as he rushed into the shop and up the stairs out back—some of the steps stained by old, rusty blood. He swallowed, silently praying it had come from some turkey, some pig, anything but—

Astra screamed again.

He yanked the door open.

Darkness swirled in the room, thick and heavy and wrapped around her—around Astra’s sleeping form, the shadows tighter and tighter—

No, Osten realised as he stepped in closer. The darkness was not trying to kill her.

It…came from her.

The shadows caressed her skin, their curled ends brushing her arms, her cheeks, her arched ears—as if… nursing her back into peace.

“Astra?” Osten whispered.

Astra shot upright with another scream.

Her chest heaved with rough, uneven breaths, and she looked around—to the bed she was lying in, to the shadows hugging her body, to Osten, standing above her, pale as death.

And then, she broke into tears.

He was at her side in an instant, and the shadows vanished out of sight, as though content to let him take over. Silver lined her face as she wept—still tormented by the nightmare despite being freed from its grasp.

“It’s okay,” he said thickly, wrapping the blankets tighter around her. Her shoulders wobbled beneath them as she wept. “You’re okay.”

But she shook her head, silent tears dripping onto the mattress. He’d never seen anyone cry so quietly—as if her pain was a secret she needed to keep from the rest of the world.

Through a crack in the window, the chill wind whistled into the room, and it took everything in him not to leave her side and close it. Whatever happened—whatever horrors ripped her from her sleep…he would not let her endure them alone.

He could no longer tell if it was the cold that made his jaw tremble, or the sight of her, utterly broken in a pile of patched-up blankets she’d probably sewn up herself. Even the Gods themselves knew her father cared too little to have done it for her.

He gently draped another layer over her form. She’d shrunk so deep into herself that it made his heart ache.

“Tell me what happened.”

She didn’t look to meet his pleading gaze. “It was just a nightmare,” she said, and damn him, even her voice sounded small. As if the scream she’d let out had cost her all her strength.

“Tell me anyway.”

A shaky breath. “You don’t want to know," she said, and he could've sworn shadows gathered around her again at the words—a confirmation of the darkness her dreams beheld.

But Osten only said, “You’re my friend.”

A single tear slid down her cheek. “I saw fire. Fire and blood—so much blood, Osten. I…I couldn’t stop it.” Her voice trembled again. “And then, there was nothing. Nothing. It was cold, and it was dark, and—”

“It was a dream,” he insisted, his hand still resting atop her shoulder. He dared to brush his thumb over it as he added, “It’s not going to happen.”

Astra met his gaze, her own eyes beseeching. “Someone talks to me in my sleep,” she whispered.

“Who?”

“A woman.” She shook her head again. “I don’t know. I don’t…know what to do.”

Osten had never felt more powerless in his life.

But then, Astra covered his hand with hers, guiding him from her shoulder to lace her fingers with his. “Thank you for coming here,” she said quietly.

He wasn’t sure he was breathing as he asked, “Would you like me to stay?”

A heartbeat of silence.

“Yes.”

***

“Osten.”

Shit. Had he fallen asleep again?

“You’re awake.” He rose to his feet, facing the woman watching him from the shadows. “Did you have another nightmare?” It had almost been a week since the last time she’d woken up screaming.

Since she’d fallen asleep inches beside him.

“No,” Astra said, then hesitated. “Well, yes. A dream. I think.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Is…everything okay?”

“I’m…not sure. I…” She loosed a slow breath. “Osten, I think I know. I know what I am—what these dreams have been trying to show me all this time.”

She’d tied her hair up tonight, for the very first time since they’d met, perhaps—those dark curls swept back, a few silken strands framing her face. Her long, arched ears.

She was so beautiful he struggled to level a breath.

“And…” he gulped. “What have you learned?”

Astra surveyed him. Then, she said, “She tells me there are others.”

“Who?”

“My Mother.”

His eyes widened. “You found her?” The mother who’d abandoned her the moment she was born, the one she’d refused to speak about when he’d asked her months ago. She’d been…searching for her?

But Astra shook her head, her lips parting in a gentle smile. “She found me.”

Osten lifted his brows. But Astra continued, “She sings of others of my kind, creatures of all shapes and sizes, but with the same, ancient magic, thrumming through their veins.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind that arched ear. “They live far away from here—on a land far larger than ours, across the Great Sea. Fae, she calls them. That’s what I am.” She smiled, a peaceful smile—as though finally, everything in the world had fallen into place.

Osten could all but stare.

Astra’s smile faltered. “You’re frightened.”

“No, I…” His throat felt dry. “Magic?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“What of the Gods, then? Are they…” he swallowed hard. “Are they Fae as well?”

“No. I—I don’t know. The Mother, she…” Astra chewed on her bottom lip. “She calls them beings of death. Unmatched in their raw power, and…undying.” She shivered. “I…no. They aren’t like me.”

Osten released a long, long breath.

“There’s more,” she added carefully, as if she could fell the weight of her news on him. “My Mother—she has gifted me with a mission. A power different from the others. Osten, I…I can do things.”

“What kind of things?”

She hesitated.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her, even as his head started spinning.

Astra stepped in closer and opened her palm.

Light, a warm silver that seemed to glitter much like the stars above them, beamed from her skin, illuminating the alley. Soft, gentle—just like her, and bright as it warmed his face. He could’ve sworn he heard it calling out to his very soul.

“Incredible,” he breathed. “It’s like starlight.”

A small smile. “It is.”

“How do you do it?” he asked, his voice clear with awe.

“I look deep into my soul,” she said quietly, looking from beneath dark lashes to meet his gaze. “And I think of you.”

Osten, a gentle voice—her voice—sounded in his mind, and he staggered back a step. Don’t be afraid.

“Was that you?” he managed to say. She nodded. “It felt…warm.” Like a breeze on a summer night.

Astra breathed out, her shoulders nearly sagging with relief. Had she worried she’d scared him away? She was magnificent—beautiful inside and out, the only light he’d ever come close to in his entire life.

He was never going to let her go.

“I wish I could do that, too,” he admitted. “So that I could talk to you when everyone else is watching.”

Sadness twisted her face, and guilt washed over him like a crashing wave. “I’m sorry,” he amended quickly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m fine the way things are.”

“I’m not,” she whispered. “Osten.” Gods, the way she spoke his name. Like it was the only thing that mattered. “I want to be able to see you, talk to you. Touch you.” He shivered, and she took his hand. “I want to be able to do all those things—somewhere safe, where people will watch and not care one bit.” Her eyes glowed brightly as she added, “And one day, I will.”

His fingers curled tighter around her own.

“I promise,” she said.

***

Even in the darkness, he could make out the shadows on Astra’s face as he approached her home. She watched him, absently fiddling with her fingers, those violet eyes glazed and somewhere far away—lost in thought. 

His steps picked up. He could practically taste her worry on her shaky breath, on the small clouds of  frost that formed on the cold, midnight air. Had he touched her again? Was she in pain?

He would kill him. He would stride into the house, just like he had all those months ago, and beat him until his eyes swelled enough for him to never lay them on his daughter again. Until his jaw shattered to the point of no repair, so he could never spew his filthy insults to her face again. He would fucking relish in his pain, he would—

“Osten?”

He blinked.

Astra’s thin hand gripped his with surprising strength. “You seemed to daze off a little.”

He forced a swallow down his throat and smiled weakly. “Yeah.”

Her brows knitted, her worry creased even deeper into her beautiful features. She shouldn’t have worried for him—never for him. Not when the world had thrown so much at her already.

So Osten cleared his throat, unusual lightness in his tone as he amended, “Forgive me. I got distracted.” He reached out a hand, daring to brush his knuckles against her cheek. The faintest of touches, but she flushed nonetheless. “What bothers you?” Osten asked quietly.

“I…” her voice trembled again, and his heart strained in his chest. His fingers brushed her cheek once more, encouraging, and he must’ve stopped breathing entirely as her hand wrapped around them—brought his own, rough hand to cup her face gently. As if it steadied her. “Father is ill,” she finally told him. 

Perhaps the Gods had decided to do the job for him, then.

“The medics said it’s a matter of days,” she added, the words barely above a whisper.

Good fucking riddance. The bastard deserved it—the world would be a better place without him.

Still, Astra seemed rattled, her grip on his hand tighter. “When he’s gone…” she started, clearly aware of his indifference to her father’s fate, “they will come for me. He was the only protection I’ve ever had from them.”

He pretended the words hadn’t stung some place deep in his soul, the same one that bellowed to defend her, to shield her body with his own, to lay down his life for hers if necessary. But—she had to know. So he said, “You have me.”

Her eyes softened. “I know—I know. But my father was—is—very well known in this village, and for the folk, no matter how curious about me, it’s always been enough to keep away.”

No matter how big of a bastard he was, her father was respected. Unlike him—unlike the street trash whose hand she now held to her face.

She stepped forward, her body so close to his now that he couldn’t help but meet her gaze. It would be so easy, so painfully easy to take her into his arms when her warmth practically sang for him to do it. The kind of warmth that should’ve been at odds with the cold heart of his—and yet they danced together in harmony, like shadows between the stars.

“You’re strong,” she said, placing that slender hand atop his chest. Right above his heart, pounding under the intensity of her stare. “The strongest person I know, Osten. I wouldn’t be standing here today if it wasn’t for you. But, these people…” she shook her head, her dark hair shimmering under the moonlight. “These people—they won’t see me as you do. Once they see me for what I truly am, they will stop at nothing to be rid of me—even if it means killing you,” she finished, and something silver sparkled in those eyes. 

The Gods would damn him for this—for thinking he was worthy of it—but he wrapped his arms around her, unable to keep away at the sight of her tears. “I won’t let that happen,” he insisted, his voice cracking slightly as she pressed her body into his. “As long as I live, I will keep you safe.” His lips brushed over her temple, over the silken hair above in a whisper of a kiss. “Perhaps even after that.”

Astra shuddered against him, but she nodded. “I’ll keep you safe, too. No matter what it takes.”

***

The evening had slowly began to dim into the night. It was still too early for him to begin his watch—the butcher’s shop would’ve been running for another hour or so had Astra’s father not been confined to his bed for the past week. Even so, Osten found himself on his usual route to her house, something thrumming quietly in his chest with each step, urging him forward. He couldn’t tell why, but…he listened.

He’d been restless all day, wandering around the village without aim. It took everything in his power to keep himself from running to the main square and simply knocking on the butcher’s door. Only Astra’s stories of his deteriorating health kept him somewhat at ease—her father could not possibly harm her in his current state, not when a mere lift of a finger would cause him immense pain.

Osten tried not to delight in that. He wondered what happened to the man—if, perhaps, the Gods had learned of his cruelty and chosen the illness as punishment.

After all, they could not allow a common human to be more heartless than them.

Still, even with Astra’s reassurance that she was safe, he could not stop himself from coming over every night. She hadn’t come out as often as she used to—not with her father constantly demanding her attention. He could not understand why she did it—but he kept quiet. Waited.

A matter of days, he’d been told.

Hurry up, his mind urged.

Perhaps tonight would bring more optimistic news. He simply couldn’t wait any longer.

He…missed her. Missed the sound of her voice, the sparkle in her eyes, the feel of her skin on his. Maybe that was what his quickening heartbeat had been trying to tell him all day—to touch her, smell her. Taste her.

He was in such deep shit.

Careful not to be spotted by anyone who’d have recognised him as the village thief, he continued on his way forward—but, strangely enough, the village seemed…deserted. Empty. As if all of its residents have decided to go to sleep earlier tonight. Some, Osten even noticed, have barricaded themselves in.

Something was wrong.

His steps picked up, that thrumming in his chest louder and louder, echoing through the tightening space. What was going on? Why wasn’t anyone there?

He turned the corner and froze into place.

The butcher’s shop was engulfed in flames.

No.

No, no, no.

These people, Astra’s voice whispered into his mind, they won’t see me as you do. Once they see me for what I truly am, they will stop at nothing to be rid of me.

His blood stilled in his veins.

The butcher was dead.

I won’t let that happen, his own answer came. As long as I live, I will keep you safe.

His legs started moving again.

“Astra?” Osten called. “Astra!”

She was in the house, struggling to breathe through the smoke—

Oh, Gods, what if she was—

And then, he heard it.

Chanting.

He whipped to his right, to where, at the far end of the street, a dark mass of people gathered, torches in hand.

And in the middle of it all…

“ASTRA!”

His roar echoed through the stone.

He lunged forward, running faster than he’d ever had, because these people, these monsters, they took her, they took her from him—

“Osten!” her voice reached him through the crowd, trembling.

“Move!” he yelled, elbowing someone deep in the gut, pushing through the sea of bodies, “Fucking move right now!”

All the air was suddenly sucked from his lungs, and Osten fell to his knees.

Someone kicked him in the back—in the scars, still half-open and healing.

A loud gasp—Astra’s.

“No one wants you here, trash,” some old man spat at him.

Another kick, pinning his body to the ground.

“Leave her alone,” he managed breathlessly.

The crowd laughed, an ugly, biting sound.

“She is a witch, boy. Too dangerous to be kept alive,” a woman beside him said, torch in hand.

“Do you not see her?” the other man questioned, a smirk on his face. “Filthy—just like you.” He motioned somewhere behind him—somewhere where Astra was kneeling on the stones, held down by the shoulders by two men.

And beside her…

A tall, wooden stake.

A white-hot flash of pain shot up Osten’s spine as he thrashed under his boot. “She is nothing like me.” She was good, and kind, and—

“Perhaps we have you both burned.” He jerked his chin to one of the large men. “Take him.”

“NO!” Astra screamed, desperately trying to yank her body from the men’s grip. “KEEP AWAY FROM HIM!”

He failed. He failed her, and now they were both going to die. “Astra!” he bellowed, still moving, still trying to reach her through the agony, when—

Another boot on his back—and a scream, ripped free from his throat.

Pain, pain and absolute, unrestrained terror filled Astra’s face—as if somehow, she, too, could feel his pain.

And then she began to scream.

The ground shook beneath his body, beneath all of them, people hauling each other away as Astra roared, roared and sobbed, shredding the world to pieces with her pure, unfiltered fury.

And when her voice was nothing but a high pitch on the cold, evening air, it started to rain.

No—not rain.

Blood.

It was everywhere—on him, under him, everywhere in between. The weight on his back vanished, something seeping into the torn fabric of his clothes, thick and hot and wet.

Osten rose to his knees, the world suddenly silent.

He looked around him—to the torches, scattered all over the ground, blood dripping onto their heads to slowly put out the fire. To the woman kneeling in the middle of it all, soaked in red.

“What have you done?” he asked, shock lacing every word.

Pale as death, her entire body shook. “I don’t know,” she said, the words no more than a choked sob. “I…” her gaze fell to her hands. To the blood splattered all over them. “I killed them,” she whispered, the sound no more than a rasp.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t so much as turn to look at the massacre around them—to the dozens of bodies that, under a mere lift of her finger, had become a red, wet mist. He only stared at her—at the woman before him, still trembling under the weight of what she’d done.

What she’d done to protect them. Protect him.

“I…” Osten began, but didn’t manage to say anything else. Words failed him.

Her violet eyes were lined with silver as she looked at him once more—then closed them. Squeezed them shut as she kept trembling. A shaky breath loosed from her chest—as if she braced herself for whatever he was going to say next. As if she expected him to cringe away. 

As if she thought he was going to leave her.

As if she thought he could ever live without her.

He took her bloodied hands in his, his thumb smearing red as he brushed her skin gently. “We need to go.” Those eyes shot open in surprise. “Now.”

***

Hand in hand, they ran—ran until the village long left their sight, until the smoke no longer swirled around them. The only thing that remained was blood—a reminder never to return again.

Hours must’ve passed since the massacre, but they did not stop until a light came into view. Then, a house—no, an inn.

Thank the Gods.

A few loose gold marks, pulled deep from within Astra’s skirts, paid for a night in one of the rooms. The innkeeper averted her eyes as she handed them the key—no doubt eyeing the red staining their clothes, stumbling back at their tangy smell.

It did not matter. They were safe.

Astra disappeared in the small space behind one of the walls the moment they stepped into the room. She only mumbled something about “a bath,” her hands still trembling slightly under the coat of blood.

He wondered if she’d noticed the lone bed in the middle, if she, too, heard the countless pillows and blankets call out her name.

No matter how loudly they called, he was planning to take the floor. She needed the bed more than he did—especially after everything that had gone on tonight. He was used to the questionable comfort of the ground, anyway.

And so, when he’d emerged from the bathroom minutes after it had been freed by Astra, his hair still dripping warm water, he marched straight for the space at the foot of the bed.

“What…are you doing?” Astra’s voice reached him, confused.

He turned to her, frowning. “I…do you need me?” Did she need help? He couldn’t imagine with what, but—

“What? No,” Astra chuckled lightly. “Were really planning to sleep on the floor?”

“I…” Osten look to the ground again, to where he’d already laid a single blanket. “Yes?”

She chuckled again, as if she couldn’t help herself, the sound like a birdsong carried by the summer wind. “Just…come here, Osten.”

Words fell dry in his throat as he approached the bed. As, slowly, he slid under the duvet, inches from her side.

Astra sighed deeply. “It’s warm.”

Osten swallowed hard. “Astra.” Her eyes shot open. “Are you…alright?”

Her teeth dug into her bottom lip. “I…don’t know.” Her face was grave again, and for a moment, he wish he could hear that soft laugh from her again. “There is so much to do, Osten,” she said quietly.

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” he told her, his voice tight.

Her eyes glittered in the darkness. “You don’t have to. The task I was given—the one I’d told you about—it’s dangerous. I—I don’t know how, but…” she shook her head, the drying strands of hair shifting with the movement. “You don’t have to,” she repeated.

“I want to,” Osten whispered.

At that, Astra said nothing. She only stared—her eyes burning, glowing as bright as his soul as he swore to remain by her side.

“What is the task?” he asked her, breaking the silence.

“Do you remember when I told you of the others?” Osten nodded, but she said anyway, “The Fae across the Great Sea. They were banished—banished by the Death Gods who wished to roam these lands themselves. This place…” she sighed, as if she shared the weight of those Fae’s pain, “It used to be their home.”

Osten blinked. “You wish to bring them back—bring them home.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll—” his head spun. “You’ll challenge the Gods for this?”

Astra’s eyes fluttered shut. “I’d rather not think about that right now. But…” Another sigh. “I was given this power for a reason, Osten. I can’t simply let it go to waste.”

He wasn’t sure what to say—what was there to be said? Astra was powerful, powerful enough to face the same Gods humans like him had been praying to since the beginning of time, and Osten…

Osten was unable to stop her. Could only follow her and keep on praying. To whom, he was no longer sure.

Perhaps he’d pray to her, he thought as he looked upon her face again. He’d never believed in anything more.

And so, underneath the heavy duvet, Osten reached for her hand.

He felt it, then—the warmth of her skin as his fingers brushed it. Astra shifted—shifted closer, encouraging, and he realised—realised it wasn’t her hand that he found, but her thigh, bare under the nightgown they’d found in the ancient wardrobe of the room.

Fuck, she was so beautiful.

If it wasn’t the Gods that held her in their graces, she had to have been blessed by stars themselves. The silky veil of her hair spilled onto her pillow, shielding her face from view, but he knew—knew just how devastating she was. Knew the way her eyes twinkled from beneath long, dark lashes as she looked at him; the way they saw him, saw all of him, and lit up at the sight. That’s what she was—light, as if every inch of her had been crafted from the stars themselves.

He tucked the thought deep into his soul, let it shine there quietly as his knuckles continued to trace the golden-brown skin of her thigh. Slowly, he savoured the feel of her softness, her quickening breaths like a melody calling out to him, urging him to move, move, move.

She wanted this—wanted him, even when he had nothing, was nothing. She could’ve told him to spend the night on the floor at her feet, and he would’ve obliged her happily. She could’ve chosen the comfort of the blankets on her side of the bed, and yet it was his body she’d turned to for warmth. His heart nearly stumbled in answer.

His name was a strain on her lips as his fingers reached the apex of her thighs, and everything inside of him tightened. His own aching body pressed in closer, and he let his lips fall to her neck—to nuzzle it gently, to worship the heartbeat thumping underneath. The pulse that assured him this was real, that they’d made it out alive.

Her body shivered against him, as if her thoughts mirrored his own.

“Osten,” she whispered his name again as his thumb circled that spot that made her breath falter. The same spot that now coated his fingers with a slick warmth, guiding him lower, deeper—

His lips closed on her neck again, right beneath her ear, and Astra shuddered.

“Osten,” she said again. “I need you.”

He hummed against her, relishing in the scent of her, like jasmine and a summer breeze, his thumb circling that spot closer, brushing up against it—

Two of his fingers slid into that wetness the moment he asked, “And how do you need me, Astra?”

Her low moan reverberated through his chest as she buried her face in him. “All of you,” she begged. “Give me all of you.”

“I’m yours,” Osten promised. “Every last shred of what I am belongs to you.”

Astra loosed a shuddering breath and wrapped her arms around him. “You’re mine.”

And with that, she pulled his body on top of her own.

Osten swore at the sudden movement, at the strength behind it, but then Astra reached for the lace of his trousers, slender fingers tangling into the thread—and all thoughts vanished from his head.

And when he finally sprang free, when all of him was laid bare to her, when she wrapped her hand around the velvety base—

“You’re mine,” Astra repeated, voice straining, guiding him closer.

Osten could not breathe as he felt it—felt her very core, felt its heat welcome him in.

“You’re mine.”

His groan was a swallowed sound as he crashed his lips into hers.

He rocked into her slowly at first, a gentle, teasing pace that let her adjust to his fullness as he kissed her—kissed her the same way he’d dreamt of all this time, savouring every inch, every bit of warmth she offered.

Astra panted, breaking away only for a moment as she held him tightly, urging him closer, deeper before her mouth found his again in an endless need to taste, taste, taste.

He understood that need all too well.

Her nails dug into his shoulders as he sunk his length into her, brushing against a spot that made her tighten so deliciously around him that he couldn’t help but groan her name again.

“Astra.” His hand tightened on her hip as he pulled out, then thrust back in, completely and utterly breathless. “My beautiful Astra.”

She moved her hips, her hands on his neck now, pulling his face to hers again—as if she wanted to share her every breath with his.

“Yours,” her promise echoed his own. “I’m yours.”

Starlight erupted around them as he drove home for the final time. Bright, iridescent—glowing, from her, from him, from the joining of their souls as they found their pleasure together. This—she was everything he’d ever wanted, the warmth he’d been holding out for in a raging cold, the hope he’d been searching for in a life that seemed forever lost to it.

Astra.

They rested like this, tangled together, her body wrapped up in his arms, his face held in her loving hands.

When he pulled away to admire her kiss-bitten lips, Astra said,  “I wish we could stay like this. Forever.”

He placed a kiss to her brow. “One day, we will.”

“There are dangerous days ahead of us.”

“I will keep you safe.” Another kiss. “I’ll fight death itself to keep it away from you.”

“From both of us,” Astra amended.

“From both of us,” he agreed.

***

Osten.

Osten, the voice urged again. Wake up.

His body shifted to the side.

Osten!

He jolted awake, blinded by the sudden light.

Astra’s face stared back at him, her eyes wide as she pressed a finger to his lips. Do not make a sound, she warned, something trembling in that silent voice. They’re here.

Who? he whispered into nothingness, hoping that somehow, she could hear him.

Something glimmered in that darkness—deep within his mind. A light—soft yet bright, shining a silver so warm it was almost gold. It reminded him of the starlight Astra had once shown him.

When Astra spoke again, it was through that light, her voice steady, grounding him in the chaos of this world. The village hunters. They’re here—and they came for us.

So quickly—they’d found them so quickly—

His stomach turned.

We need to go, Astra urged.

Okay, Osten blinked, forcing the remnants of his sleep away. Okay.

There’s a window in the bathroom facing out back, she told him hurriedly, We jump, and we run for the forest ahead.

Osten nodded.

Let’s go.

He was on his feet in an instant, running for the room hidden behind their bed—Gods, their bed.

What they did last night…

Focus, Astra’s stern tone crept into his mind again—but there was a softness to it, a flush—one that made his own face burn.

Not now.

Astra jumped first, the ground beneath low enough to steady her fall. Osten followed quickly, knees buckling as he landed, and his cheeks heated again—somehow, Astra had managed to do this with a lot more grace.

He heard their bedroom door burst open the second they lunged for the forest.

“Quickly," Astra panted, “Don’t stop.”

Don’t stop, he heard her again, her voice huskier this time—a memory simmering to life again. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop—

He shook his head and kept on running.

They didn’t stop until the woods deepened—until there was nothing but the barren trees ahead, lone bushes standing their ground here and there amidst the cold weather. Until a wooden hut came into sight—hidden atop a small clearing.

“It’s not safe—” he started, but Astra had already made her way towards the door.

It was hopeless—in his experience, people had rarely been inclined to reach out a hand, no matter how desperate he’d been. But Astra…the hope never died with her.

Her knock was soft on the door.

A moment later, it opened with a soft creak, and a wrinkled face emerged. “Yes?”

“I…” Astra swallowed hard. “I…”

It hit him, then. How isolated she had been. Her entire life—sheltered from everyone but the man who Osten was willing to bet had hardly spoken to her at all—and, when he did, he had little kindness to offer.

He was by her side in a heartbeat, his hand steady on her shoulder.

Osten smiled to the lady. “My wife and I are simple travellers. We beg for your sanctuary in this difficult conditions.”

The woman was old, possibly older than the Elder himself, but her eyes were still sharp as ever as she took them in. “Travellers?” she questioned. “Or outlaws?”

His kind expression did not waver for so much as a breath. “We come from the West in search of a better life.” Everyone knew the lands bordering the Great Sea were less than hospitable. So many deaths there, disappearances—cursed by the Gods, the village folk had always used to say. “Please,” Osten said again. “My wife is pregnant.”

Beside him, Astra stilled.

He could only pray her face betrayed nothing as the woman assessed her—dropped down to her belly, narrowing slightly.

Finally, she looked to him again, and Osten did not realise he’d been holding his breath. “Come in,” she told them.

“Thank you,” Astra breathed. “Thank you.”

The woman nodded.

Only when they laid beside each other a few hours later, huddled on a small bed in the darkness of the night, did Astra dare to whisper, “I felt bad lying to her.”

Underneath the thin covers, Osten brushed his fingers over her waist. “I’d lie to the Gods themselves to keep you safe,” he said. “Besides, it…it doesn’t have to be a lie.”

Astra fell silent.

He opened his mouth, ready to take it back, to apologise—

But then, Astra asked, “It doesn’t?”

He swallowed. “If you don’t want it to be.”

“What about you, Osten?” she pressed. “What do you want?”

She could’ve asked him if the sun was hot, or the grass green, or the night sky the same shade as her eyes. The answer was that simple.

“You,” he rasped. “I want you.”

Astra shifted closer, the heat of their bodies united once more.

“Then take me,” she told him. “Take all of me.”

***

When he woke up, Astra was gone.

His breath came hard and fast, dread curling in his stomach as all his fears crashed into him one by one.

They found us.

They took her.

They’d burn her.

And you could not protect her.

He shot to his feet and lunged out of the room, everything inside him bellowing to find her, find her, find her—

A clank of metal somewhere to his right. The kitchen.

He was there in an instant, gripping the wooden beam rising from the low ceiling, his hand white as death.

“My wife,” he panted. “Where is she?”

The old lady whipped back, a wrinkled palm to her chest. “Gods!”

“Where is she?” he repeated. If she’d let them take her—

“Take a deep breath, boy. She’s in the forest—picking up berries for breakfast.” A scolding glare of those ancient eyes. “I was planning to go myself, but she insisted on helping.”

Of course she had.

He’d merely grunted a response before running out.

What was she thinking? Even now, in broad daylight, there wasn’t a single place in the world where they could be safe, not with all the Gods against them, not with the village men on the hunt and—and the Fae she had to unite—

His head hurt. But he kept on running.

What if they’d already gotten to her? What if, by some miserable chance, a lone hunter stumbled upon her wandering the woods—saw her arched ears and assumed what everyone else had? A monster, a witch. A prey to hunt, to rid the world of.

He was going to kill every last one of them.

“Osten?”

He turned to the sound—

There she was. Safe.

He took her in his arms before she managed to say another word. “You’re okay,” he breathed. “You’re okay.”

Her hands slid around his neck carefully. “Of course I am.” There was a hint of question to her voice—as if she couldn’t understand the frantic look in his eyes, the panic in his face.

“I was so worried,” he told her, then leaned back an inch to meet her gaze. “What were you thinking?”

“I didn’t go that far,” she protested. “The cottage is only a few minutes away—”

“There are people hunting us, Astra.” He loosed a breath. “We need to be more careful,” he added, his eyes searching. A shadow passed through her face—there and gone, but enough for his heart to ache. “I’m sorry,” Osten said, his voice more gentle now as he reached for her palm. “I wish things were easier.”

Astra sighed. “Me, too.” She squeezed his hand. “Let’s go.”

“When we reach the North,” he began as they made their way back through the woods, “What will you do?”

She chewed on her lip. “The Mother guides me. She’ll reveal the face of my enemy once I’m there.”

“How can it be your enemy?” He couldn’t understand. “You don’t even know them”

“The Mother says they are the reason my kind is not welcome in these lands,” she explained. “If I use my powers to banish them, they’ll be able to come back.”

“If she’s so powerful, why can’t she do it herself?” he snapped, then bit his tongue. He didn’t mean for his words to come out so harsh.

But Astra only smiled as she lifted her gaze to his. “Perhaps she knows life is a lot easier when you have someone by your side.”

And Osten found himself smiling back.

“I’ll do what I can, you know,” he told her. “To help.”

Astra only shook her head. “You left your home for me, Osten. You have no idea what it means to me.”

He stopped in his tracks, and she turned back, confusion written on her features. So he took her hand in his and said, “I’d leave that place a thousand times over. You are my true home, Astra.”

Her eyes gleamed, and she opened her mouth—

But then, her smile faltered.

He’d seen that look before—yesterday morning, at the inn.

“What?” he asked, panic building in his chest all over again. “What is it?”

Astra swallowed hard. “Death.”

They both did not stop running until the cottage came into sight, so awfully quiet that even the wind had ceased to sing.

“Stay behind me,” he instructed as they walked in.

The kitchen was painted in blood. And their host, the old, innocent woman…

Her body draped over the floor.

Astra vomited.

They would never be safe.

***

Right now, Osten knew two things.

One, by some miracle, the hunters set after them had not been smart enough to return to the bloodied cottage again. Not yet, anyway.

Two, Astra was very, very sick.

He watched her from the corner of the kitchen—somewhat clean now, after two weeks of endless scrubbing—watched as her shoulders ceased to heave, as she eased from the hollow in the wooden seat of the latrine. At first, he’d thought it was the sight of the kind, elderly woman, lifeless and bloodied in her own home, that rattled Astra to the point of cold sweat coating her face as she emptied her stomach, over and over again.

After a week, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

And now that another week had passed…

Osten was getting worried. Scared.

It was by pure luck that no one had lurked into the cottage over the time they stayed there— it seemed that there had been no one in the old lady’s life that cared enough to stop by and check in on her. Even in life, she was simply…forgotten.

Just as he would’ve been if it weren’t for Astra.

She blew out a breath, slowly rising to her feet.

“Let me bring you some water,” he offered softly, even as his chest clenched at the sight of her, pale and weak and so…resigned. She, too, could not understand what was happening to her.

Astra waved a hand, waddling to the kitchen, any air of strength, of light, gone from her face. “It’s alright. I can…”

“Astra,” he pleaded. “Please, just sit.” He motioned to the wobbly chair beside the counter.

She did—grimaced as her body adjusted to the new position.

Osten handed her the cup. “Do you think you can try to eat something?” She had not eaten in two days. “I made breakfast.”

She pressed her lips together, dry and flaky, their usual rosy glow nowhere to be seen. “No,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I feel like breakfast would only make things worse.”

Something lit up in his head.

“What is it?” Astra asked, noting his stillness.

Osten angled his head. “What if it was the berries?”

Astra scrunched her nose. “You ate them, too,” she pointed out. “And you’re perfectly healthy.”

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, considering. “Maybe…maybe they have a different effect on the Fae?”

She shook her head. “No, I—it wouldn’t make sense. I recognised them, and I’m almost certain I’ve had them before—years ago, back home.” She sighed. “I don’t ever recall feeling like this after eating anything. And besides, the last time I had those berries was two weeks ago, the day after we—”

She paused.

Osten’s brows rose. “What?”

Astra’s nostrils flared. Then again—as if she couldn’t believe what she’d scented. “Impossible,” she breathed.

“What?” Osten repeated. “What is?”

Shakily, she rose from her seat, a slender palm cradling her stomach.

“Astra.”

Her throat bobbed. “I think…” she looked to meet his gaze. “Osten, I think I am with child.”

There was only silence in his head.

“Osten.”

Could it be?

A child.

A family.

“What are we going to do?” Astra whispered, her eyes still searching his.

For the first time in a raging winter, Osten felt warm.

He took her hand and smiled through his tears. “Live.”

***

Astra’s rhythmic breathing filled the silence as she slept.

Pregnant.

There was a child—his child—growing in her belly, inches away from him. He could only stare in disbelief—disbelief that, despite everything he was, everything he’d done…someone deemed him worthy of this. Of happiness.

He would hold onto it for as long as he lived. Would not let anyone stand in his way.

But even now, his unborn child was in danger. Had not yet even entered this world, and there were already people threatening it.

Osten gritted his teeth, the sound sharp in the darkness.

His family would not live the way he had his entire life. Would not be tossed aside, belittled, despised. Hunted.

Never again.

Osten made the decision then.

Gently, he laid a hand on Astra’s belly. Pressed his lips to her temple.

And then, he went out into the night.

***

The moon still hung over the sky when he approached the forest’s edge. Its pale light had guided him smoothly through the trees, through the melting snow—the first sign of winter handing their lands over to spring at last. Soon, the cold would subside, and with it, the uncertainty that accompanied him every frigid night. He didn’t dare tell Astra—especially not now, with the babe on its way into the world—that there had been times he feared his arms would not be enough to keep her warm.

They’d decided to begin their journey up north soon—to begin whatever Astra’s Mother had instructed her to do. He worried about that, too, and more than he dared to admit out loud. Worried about how easily his beloved had taken to trust the same woman who’d abandoned her the moment she was born. Astra had accepted her destiny without so much as questioning it, and it…irked him that he had no say in the matter. He wasn’t like Astra, or her mysterious Mother. He was only…human.

How could he ever protect her from the rough, dangerous north? How could he protect their child? Osten had no power.

The only thing he did have was the frozen rage in his chest, begging to be unleashed upon the world. And the knife, gripped firmly in his hand.

This was the only way.

He’d attack them from the shadows—take them by surprise, the same way Astra had done so many times as she waited for him to arrive at her house. Some of them were strong men, but inexperienced—their sheer weight and size half no advantage over his stealth, acquired after all those months in the forest. He could take them. He could kill them.

And finally, his family would be safe.

He could see them gathering at the main square, torches in hand—no doubt readying for another hunt. A hunt for their witch.

He would die before he let them get to her.

***

The boot on his neck was heavy, its rough heel digging into the hollow of his throat.

An ambush, an ambush, an ambush. The thought thrummed in his head along with his blood. They’d known he would come back, had remembered his stubbornness from the forest, and they’d prepared accordingly.

Osten never stood a chance.

Blood gushed in his mouth, though he could hardly feel it anymore—his jaw had been shattered in so many places he wasn’t entirely sure how it still clung to the rest of his face. Another kick to his scarred back—someone cried out in agony. Perhaps it was him.

“Where’s your whore, thief,” someone seethed.

A twisted bone—his leg?

He thought he screamed again.

“Filth,” another spat.

Something hot and wet spilled down his face. Blood, tears, both. He wasn’t sure anymore.

Please, his mind cried out to nothingness. Please, help me save her.

The boot forced his face deeper into the cobblestone, and a loud crack snapped in his ears. Then, more blood—this time, flooding his lips, into his mouth. His nose had given in at last.

Please, he begged again. Give me power. Give me strength.

A flash of fire in his face. Torches lowered down to his ragged clothes.

Let me kill them. One last desperate plea. I’ll do anything.

And then, everything went dark.

“Anything?”

A voice, as ancient as it was young, as smooth as it was hoarse. Powerful, thrumming with something he’d only ever felt from one being before.

Magic.

“Yes,” he rasped.

It narrowed its eyes at him, assessing.

“Will you sacrifice everything that you are for the power we offer you?”

His heart stopped beating.

“Would that power be able to save her?”

Silence. And then, “It would.”

“Then yes.”

A feline smile in the darkness.

“Let us begin.”

***

When he opened his eyes, he was someone else. He was a breath floating with the wind. He was a shadow fading into darkness. He was the smoke rising from the dying fire, the blood flowing through the cracks in the stone. But, above all, he was the urge to kill.

So kill he did.

Every scream of anguish, every drop of blood spilled by his power crafted him—built him up piece by piece, until he was satiated enough to see, to feel, to speak.

He rose from the pool of bodies, torn apart and scattered like the sky ripped by a raging storm. Only then did he see two figures emerge from the darkness.

“Brother,” the female greeted, her voice low and smooth and the ugliest thing he’d ever heard. “You have done well.”

He blinked. Looked down to his hands—to the blood sure to be staining them—and found nothing.

Nothing.

Not a limb, not a shred of skin, not a gleaming bit of bone. He closed his fist—he could feel it, feel the nails digging into flesh, but—

Who was he?

What was he?

Why…why did he not remember?

“There is nothing to remember,” the male said, his dark eyes flashing. “You live in the present. Nothing else matters.”

He’d…heard him. His thoughts…?

The female nodded. “Nothing else shall ever matter.”

He could feel blood dripping from his mouth as he asked, “What is my name?” His voice wasn’t the same as theirs. There was no depth, no pitch to it, no melody. Only a breath.

The male sighed deeply, and looked to the female, who shook her head.

His…sister?

“You don’t have a name,” she only told him. “Come. There is much to do.”

He couldn’t understand why his chest ached—why it felt deprived of something too important to have forgotten. Something warm, and bright, gleaming a soft, golden light deep where his soul should’ve been. His only memory—or, perhaps, just a dream.

And so, he followed his family into the darkness.

***

ONE HUNDRED YEARS LATER

His siblings were gone, thank the Cauldron. Captured. Trapped, the earth croaked beneath his feet.

Dead? he asked it.

Not dead, it answered. Never really dead. It was wishful thinking, anyway.

Stryga, he heard, had been bound to this island. Somewhere deep in the woods, banished from her fortress forever. Or, at the very least, for as long as the Fae remained in this world, their magic alive and powerful enough to keep his sister from escaping. His brother, another captive. That made him smile a little bit. From the two of his siblings, Koschei had never been his favourite.

A strong, strong magic now held him beneath a lake across the Great Sea. Impressive. Koschei had always been the strongest of them all. Still, there was no doubt left in his mind that his brother’s confinement would only incite his revenge, and he would nurture it under the surface for as long as necessary—and, when the time was right and the Warrior was gone, he would strike.

Even shackled, his siblings were dangerous. More dangerous than when they roamed these lands freely, perhaps. He could feel their magic simmering beneath the earth, hot and angry and threatening to burn the world when it finally spilled.

He would not be there when it finally happened. He needed to be somewhere safe.

Fortunately, salvation was closing in on him, on the cave he’d opted to wait in. For some strange reason, the darkness buried within brought him comfort—settled something restless inside of him. When the Warrior arrived, he’d finally know true peace.

He heard it then—heard the world folding in on itself, like two ends of a sheet of parchment being brought together. Then, it opened again, revealing a cloud of shadows made restless by a dark wind.

It was nothing like the darkness that welcomed him that day, threatening and all-consuming. This darkness flowed, like it belonged anywhere its owner went, a veil of serenity, a shield from the scorching sun.

When she emerged, that darkness trailed behind her. Even the earth, tormented by his siblings’ ire, seemed to sag with relief where the shadows caressed it.

How strange, that magic. How different.

His siblings had warned him—had told him of the power the Warrior’s master held, traitorous and unnerving. He’d have to keep his guard up.

She stopped close enough to the cave’s hollow opening for him to make out the midnight blue of her eyes, so deep that, as the shadows curled over her shoulder, they shone a brilliant violet.

“Are you going to make this difficult?” she asked, her voice quiet yet clear.

He chuckled, the sound echoing off the stone. “Oh, I wouldn’t dare.”

Her hear cocked to the sight, dark hair shifting with the movement. “Are you…afraid?”

“I’d be a fool not to be afraid of you.” He hummed, soaking in the magic that seemed to sing from deep within her soul. “You are her proudest creation, after all.”

That was what Koschei had claimed, at least. And, when it came to the Fae, still so young and learning, he was smart enough to take him for his word.

“You are talking about the Mother,” the Warrior said, something puzzled in her tone.

He hummed again. “That is what she calls herself, yes.” Stryga had always thought it laughable. “A powerful Death God. The most powerful of us all, perhaps.”

She sucked in a breath. He smiled. So Koschei was right—she didn’t know.

“My Mother is not a Death God,” she seethed, those violet eyes flaring bright. 

He sighed theatrically. “Of course she is. Just because she never told you doesn’t make it any less of a truth.” He angled his head. “I have no reason to lie to you.”

The Warrior gritted her teeth. “They warned me about you.”

He stroked the wall of rock beside him, rough against invisible flesh. “I’m glad I lived up to expectations.”

She straightened, as though composing herself—perhaps she’d at last remembered what she’d come for and realised he enjoyed wasting her time far too much. “I thought you weren’t going to make this difficult.”

“And I told you, I have no intention to resist.” A beat of silence. Then, he added, “You have done well, trapping my siblings. Binding their magic.” Perhaps she’d failed to kill them in the end, but…containing beings like Stryga and Koschei was no easy task. Impossible, he’d once thought, though what a delight it had been to be proven wrong. There were no others like her. Other Fae—the ones that came before her, the ones the Mother created after her—were merely a kernel of what this female was. Of the potential she held. “You are quite powerful indeed.”

But his words seemed to flow past her unacknowledged, because her brows furrowed as she asked, “Your siblings?”

He nodded. “Unfortunately.”

“Where…” He waited. Waited as she tried to piece the meaning of his words together. “Where did you all come from?”

Another world, his siblings had told him that day. Now no more than dust drifting across a plain. But, the being that unleashed them all upon it…

His lip curled—and she couldn’t see it, not when he still hid in the depths of the cave, but—

“No,” she whispered.

His smile grew wider. “Oh, yes.”

Still—her body was so still.

“She never told me,” so small, so quiet, the Warrior nowhere in sight.

He shrugged. “What parents like to talk of children they consider a failure? You’ve met my siblings. I’m sure you can understand.” They hated her—the Mother. Despised them with all their might—so he despised her, too. The Mother he could not remember.

“Step outside,” she ordered, the words still trembling on her breath. “I wish to speak with you, face to face.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Believe me, I’m staying hidden for your benefit, warrior-heart.”

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

So he said, “As you wish.”

When he stepped into the sunlight, into her sight, his phantom body tingled—tingled as he became someone else.

His eyes locked on hers.

And the Warrior feared by the Gods staggered back—away from him.

Darkness flickered around her, wrapped itself around her legs, her arms, as if holding her in place. Her entire body trembled—actually trembled as she took him in, her eyes wide with shock—shock and something else.

Grief.

He couldn’t help but ask. “What do you see?”

But she only stared and stared, silver threatening to spill from her gleaming eyes.

“What are you?” she managed to ask, the question weighted with pain.

“A reflection,” he answered. “Your deepest fears, hopes, desires. People see many things when they look at me. But, I must admit, I have never received a reaction as strong as yours.”

And he was curious—curious to learn why.

She shook her head, and he thought she might finish it then—unleash her power and be done with it. With him. But then…

“I was going to have a child,” she said quietly, and he froze. “Once. You…you look like what I imagined he would one day. He…” Her gaze broke from his, fell to the ground along with two, lone tears. “He has his eyes.”

He wasn’t breathing—perhaps he never had at all. “His father?”

She had a family—no one ever told him, no one had ever said that the Goddess’s monster had once been so…human.

“He died.” The world slowed. Even the shadows around her stilled. “Died to protect us both.” Her lip wobbled—she made no attempt to hide it. “I may be powerful,” she said, lifting her eyes back to his, dark lashes heavy and wet. “But I’d give it all away to get them back.” She did not blink the tears away as she told him, “All of it.”

For the first time in his immortal life, he had no idea what to do. Words were foreign—not nearly enough to express the sorrow that crashed into him with her confession. He’d never been immune to feeling—but this…was this one of her abilities? Making him share this pain with her?

No—he caused this. What she saw in him—the life she could’ve had…bearing some of her grief was the least he could do.

“I’m afraid even I don’t hold such power,” he said softly. “Forgive me.”

Her throat bobbed. “You’re…apologising?”

He nodded. “There is great sadness about you. I’m sorry to have caused that.”

She looked—truly looked at him, trying to see past the face, the eyes her soul urged to show her. Searching for his own soul beneath.

He’d never regretted giving it up more.

“Don’t be,” she finally said. “What happened is not your fault.”

He could not explain it. Could not understand why, after learning of all that she had lost, his chest tightened with guilt.

So when she asked, “Will you come with me now?”

He could only answer, “Yes.”

***

The earth whispered of her arrival, but he’d already known—had felt her the moment her choice was made.

Now, he waited, listening to her steps, light over the ancient stone as she entered the Prison. She’d been debating it for a long time—had resisted seeing him again for almost a decade, much longer than he’d expected. The look upon her face when they first met had told him enough.

She was stronger than he thought, it seemed.

Still, even the strongest of the Fae had fallen to curiosity. To questions.

And he was ready to answer them all as the door to his cell swung open.

Veiled in shadows, he offered her a deep bow—even if she couldn’t see it. See him. “My Queen.”

He could see her well, though—well enough to see a glimmer of confusion light up her face. “I am not a Queen yet.” She angled her head. “You’ve been…expecting me?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “It isn’t marriage that decides such things. Your betrothed might be a Prince in title, but he stands to gain a lot more from this union than you do.” He bit out a laugh. “Congratulations, of course.”

“I didn’t come here to ask your advice,” she said. A lie so obvious he couldn’t help but smile in the darkness.

“Forgive me,” he purred. “I so rarely get company these days. Which brings me to my question,” he added. “Why are you here?”

He wanted to hear her say it, for some strange reason. I wanted to see you. Talk to you. Understand you.

“Are you comfortable here?” she asked.

He couldn’t help but laugh. He wondered what his voice sounded like to her. To him, it was all but a whisper carried by the wind. “Such a gracious host, my lady.”

“Only the best for my most obedient prisoners.”

Oh, she was delightful.

“Prisoners,” he mused. “You say that as if my being here was involuntary.”

Those violet eyes simply watched him, two stars pondering over his fate. “Are you hungry?” she finally asked.

That, he did not expect.

“Hungry?”

She nodded. “I… brought you something.”

Something landed at his feet with a quiet thud.

He scrunched his nose. “Bones?”

Her mouth tightened. “They’re from back home. Not the Palace, but—where I came from.” She loosed a breath, heavy on the stench of raw meat that now filled his cell. “Seeing you last time, it…brought back memories I’ve been too afraid to revisit.”

Slowly, he reached to pick up the bone closest to him. “They hold value to you, then.” Not entirely a question.

Another shaky breath. “Yes.”

That mighty, Fae warrior…gone. A shell of a female stood before him now, her gaze pleading. So he told her gently, “You have my thanks.”

Ask me. Ask me what you came here to ask, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.

“Why are you hiding in the shadows?”

She wasn’t ready, then. He forced a smile. “Tell me a secret no one knows, Majesty, and perhaps I’ll tell you mine.”

She blinked. Then blinked again.

He thought she might leave in that moment. Turn around and vanish without a final goodbye.

But then, she said, her voice barely above a whisper,  “I don’t want to marry him. I can’t…” She swallowed hard. “My purpose is complete. I wish for nothing but to fade into the night sky—to be reunited with the ones I lost, the ones waiting for me in the stars.” She looked up—as if she could see their faint glimmer through the miles of stone above. “I know this…marriage…is meant to bring hope to my kind. To give them a world they’ve never had. But I can’t help but feel…” Her lips wobbled, and she pressed them together. “I can’t help but feel that I’m betraying him. That, if I go through with this, it will…It will be as if he was never really there.”

The hollow quiet returned.

“Your heart breaks for the dead, Your Majesty, when it should be healing for the living,” he said softly. “Those who have become stars now shine their light upon you. I…don’t imagine your beloved would want to watch you waste it.”

He found her eyes on him again. Shining.

He said nothing more.

“A secret for a secret,” she told him, breaking the silence again.

So clever, his instincts wanted to purr. But something else—perhaps the heart he used to have—spoke out instead. “I am hiding in the shadows because the sight of me brings you pain. I don’t wish to bring any more of it into your life.”

Her body froze into stillness. She watched him and watched, her pretty face contorted in something he couldn’t understand. And then, she said, “Come into the light.”

So he did.

“The son I see when I look at you,” she finally started, her voice strained. “How do you know what he would have looked like?”

There it was.

“I don’t,” he said quietly, the emptiness in his chest like an echoing cave. “I see nothing. Am nothing.”

Her next breath died on her lips.

“I’m sorry this isn’t the answer you were hoping for,” he apologised.

But her face was softer than he’d ever seen it as she told him, “I’m sorry, too.” She took a half-step towards him. “I…”

She shook her head.

“You can ask me,” he said. “Anything you want. Your Majesty,” he quickly added.

Her throat bobbed slightly. “I won’t see you again, will I?”

He smiled sadly. “I’m afraid you’ll have too much to deal with to think of me again.”

“I won’t ever forget you,” she vowed.

How he wished it was true.

***

“No escort this time?”

Her eyes levelled on him, practically dripping with disdain. He bounced off the wall, moving to return her gaze, the mouth of her firstborn curving into a smirk—

He stilled.

For in those blue-grey eyes, he saw something else. A female who had seen her soul and faced all the darkness buried within. A female changed.

“You retrieved it,” he whispered.

But it was impossible—impossible, and yet…

And yet, the Ouroboros appeared, still encrusted by the frost of Hewn City’s deepest, most wicked labyrinths.

“How.”

She must’ve tricked it. His sister’s mighty, ancient magic—

“I looked.” Words were dry on her tongue, worn out by endless screaming. Endless pain.

She spoke the truth.

He shot to his feet. “What did you see?” he demanded.

A shadow of a smile—as if she could sense the desperation in his tone. He almost hissed in reprimand at his fervour. “That,” she started, “is none of your concern.”

The Bone Carver had no heart, and he’d never been more grateful—if he did, the High Lady of the Night Court would’ve been sure to hear its nervous thrumming, to scent the heat it blasted into his withered veins.

He could all but stare as she pointed to the door of his cell. “You have your mirror. Now uphold your end,” she ordered, then added, voice cold with authority, “Battle awaits.”

Indeed.

And after the battle…salvation.

“It would be my pleasure,” he told her with a smile.

Her brows knitted, confusion creasing her face—had she somehow read the words his mind had whispered? Cursed daemati—

“What do you mean?” she asked.

So he smiled again, another mask to fool the young female. “I have little need for that thing,” he lied, gesturing to the artefact. “But you did.”

She only blinked.

“I wanted to see if you were worth helping,” A half-lie, perhaps. He’d known it without the Ouroboros—the wind had whispered it to him the moment she was reborn, deep under that wretched mountain. “It is rare—to face who you truly are and not run from it, to be broken by it. That’s what the Ouroboros shows all who look into it: who they are, every despicable and unholy inch.” Truth. He’d spent centuries studying the mirror, the curse his twin had placed upon it. Had devoted himself to finding it the second he learned she’d lost it, confined to a strip of land far away from her fortress. And now…

Now it was finally here, in his cell. Waiting.

He continued, “Some gaze upon it and don’t even realise that the horror they’re seeing is them—even as the terror of it drives them mad.” She blinked again. “Some swagger in and are shattered by the small, sorry creature they find instead. But you…” he met her gaze again. “Yes, rare indeed. I could risk leaving here for nothing less.”

It was a delight to see the flash of rage on her freckled face. “You wanted to see if I was worthy?” she seethed.

He nodded. “I did. And you are. And now I shall help you.” She didn’t need to know he would’ve helped her nonetheless.

So Feyre Archeron said, her voice quiet as death, “You will wait for my signal.”

The Bone Carver smiled. “That is our bargain.”

The High Lady did not so much as grace him with a look as she vanished into the shadows, leaving him alone with the Ouroboros.

Leaving him alone with the truth.

Slowly, he turned to the mirror, its awful magic calling out to him like a pet to its master. Like it had been waiting for him.

Good. He’d been waiting for it his entire life.

The Bone Carver. A being of no name, no form, no soul. For as long as he could remember, ever since the day he’d woken up to flames dancing in the darkness, mocking.

No longer.

He knew he was despicable, he knew that deep down, the small, sorry creature he’d told the High Lady about was likely to appear in his own reflection, too. But it would be a reflection of him, not the dreams, fears or desires of those he encountered. Only him.

At last.

The Bone Carver looked into the mirror.

And Osten fell to his knees.

A thin hand—his hand—wrapped around his throat, his knuckles white and bruised. Bruised from the fight—from the jaws of the village men he’d hit as they pushed him to the ground, as they beat him until blood splattered from his ears, his mouth, his nose.

Two tears slid down his cheeks.

I can’t help but feel that I’m betraying him, a voice, soft and gentle and so full of pain, whispered into his mind. A familiar voice—more than, in his immortal life, he ever imagined. That, if I go through with this, it will…it will be as if he was never really there.

The black eyes staring back at him were desolate.

“Astra,” he choked out. “Astra.”

But Astra was gone—had been gone for a very, very long time. Had become one with the night sky, hoping to be greeted by him among the stars, only to be met by endless darkness.

“Astra,” Osten cried. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

His body, the same body he died in all those centuries ago, shook with a sob.

I wish we could stay like this. Forever.

One day, we will.

The frost began to melt off the silver frame, cold water dripping on the stones.

He would help them win this war. Pay for what he’d done to this world. And, when it was all over, he would tell her that this whole time, it was her keeping him safe. That he was so scared of losing her that he’d lost himself in the process. And then…and then perhaps she would forgive him. 

Either way, he’d be free.

Taglist: @headcanonheadcase @melting-houses-of-gold @kingofsummer93 @asnowfern @panicatthenightcourt @reverie-tales @s-uppertime @autumndreaming7 @sunshinebingo @starfall-spirit @vulpes-fennec @fieldofdaisiies @isterofimias

Side note: While both the Bone Carver and the Female Warrior are characters from the ACOTAR series, their names, backstory and appearance were created by me. Please do not use them in your own work without my explicit permission, I worked very hard on this :)

[sciderman]

Yk, I hate that adaptations keep making Peter a high schooler, and not just because it means he never evolves, but because the adaptations now also include wider Marvel, whitch usually (thanks to the MCU) is at the modern day stage with legacy characters and new age teen heroes, meaning that Peter is taking up Miles' spot and you can really tell when they put him next to someone like Kamala Khan or Sam Alexander who are Miles' pals. Tho Peter taking Miles' stuff is just a modern issue overall, just look at MCU whitch just stole and re-skinned Miles' personality, characters, story-beats, even the costume to an extent and then made it worse.

agree 👏

[milkbreadtoast]

OH GOD OH FUCK

[torawro]

i like ‘em a little insane, covered in blood and severely mentally unstable <3

[compacflt]

in regard to the icemav convo about american made cars: I think it would be funny if after mav gets his regular license, ice buys him a truck that they can use for transporting stuff to the hangar and when he gifts it to mav all the man can do is laugh bc stamped across the ass is MAVERICK. It’s a 2023 ford maverick (in area 51 bc I’m partial to that color)

and mav likes it, but he doesn’t love driving it bc it’s so big (and he just likes being a passenger princess too much), so ice drives it mostly which inspires a whole lot of jokes about ice liking having maverick’s name stamped on his ass. bradley gags from the other room every time.

if it matters to u, i agree with this hc 150% on rhetoric grounds. thank god for your mind.

however i would like to raise the issue that recent american pickup trucks have become non-useful, overexpensive, and suburban-coded in a way i think ice and mav would reject. the ford maverick was built with the intention of dropping kindergarteners off at school, not of actually doing hard labor. see below infographic for what I mean.

It’s a fucking travesty. Trucks are so ugly and useless now. the maverick is not immune to this. (maverick below)

what good is having a fucking truck if it can’t even hold two REGULAR ASS BIKES in the bed. & when the bed is empty the chassis is unbalanced in a way that leads to more accidents etc. (tbf that was true in the 70s/80s too but im feeling more hateful towards modern trucks rn). In short—the modern American pickup truck is no longer useful, it’s a way to virtue signal to other Americans that you *think * you know what hard labor is, even when you’re driving around in a glorified odyssey with a teeny tiny bed that can barely hold a couple bags of mulch for the back garden

ice & mav don’t even have any little kids anymore, i think they’d consider a backseat useless & a waste of space

SO i would like to offer you a Compromise, which is that ice & mav buy either (or both) a 1974 ford maverick AND/OR a 1990 ford maverick

for the Funny Name & coolness factor (& the “making Bradley vom cause of how cute his parents are” factor), and then soup up, like, a 1984 Chevy C10 for actual towing/hauling purposes.

[romance-rambles]

modern clarence | an appropriate staring distance

While at the beach, you take a moment to appreciate your handsome boyfriend while he's taking a nap—and also when he's not.

1.2k, fluff + established relationship, reader is mc, series: none

NAVY BLUE STICKS OUT TO you the moment you open your eyes.

Your aching shoulder protests your decision to stay as you are, on your side, facing a still sleeping Clarence. Like this, he looks much younger—you're reminded of the time you had to force him to take a nap. Like this, he's simply the cute guy you managed to score not one but multiple dates with, just Clarence, instead of the incredibly smart and wonderful and kind Student Council President.

You glance at the circular table set between your two beach chairs, taking note of his glasses resting primly upon its surface. With him often having to juggle two different kinds of glasses, you'd offered to put them in your bag so that he could pack lighter. Or, as light as he can.

Right now, it's awkwardly squished behind you, miraculously still on the chair only because it's too big to fall out the gap under the armrest.

Filling in the blanks comes as easily to you as the smile on your face when you get to see your boyfriend, nearly the same one on your face right now—and the expression that goes with it is so endlessly fond that you find yourself with the urge to hit something.

Simply put, your boyfriend is a handsome man—the most handsome one, of all the men your keen eyes have gazed upon. And gazed, they certainly have. But even if they didn't have to pick, then they would gaze at only Clarence for the rest of their life..

You almost giggle at the thought, but think against it at the last minute.

But pressing your lips firmly into a thin line has the opposite effect on your budding smile. You imagine you look rather strange to anyone who passes by—what with your mockery of a wide smile and the silent scream building up in your throat, paired with the quiet thumping of your feet against the legrest.

If you were in a more private space, you would resort to kicking instead.

A proper squish to your still warm cheeks as you begin to sit up helps ease up the passion swirling chaotically across your body. You exhale, then allow your hands to slide off your face. One side of it bears the consequences of your actions more than the other.

With a one last longing at the sleeping Clarence, you start to dig through your bag for the only thing in your arsenal that could substitute for a sketchbook.

There are a few miscellaneous promotion emails waiting for you on the lockscreen. A message from Cael asking about dinner tomorrow too. Somewhere between them, there's a notice about the weather, with the temperature from an almost hour ago listed uselessly.

You swipe past them all and hurriedly slip into the camera app.

The hand holding your phone steadies itself against the armrest as you swing your legs over the edge of your chair. A thumb hovers over the capture button, vigilantly awaiting your command. The fingers of your other hand, meanwhile, busy themselves with zooming in on the captivating scenery.

With each pinch, the focus grows ever narrow—until all that remains is Clarence and nothing else.

At one point, you try to zoom into the mole under his eye, but it doesn't make for a very compelling photo. After a few attempts, quite a few of which involve staring at your screen for prolonged periods of time, you reluctantly give up.

Your pout is soon covered up by your phone. When its front camera presses against your upper lip, your gaze is free to wander back to the sleeping beauty beside you once more.

A healing effect, exclusive to him, takes hold of you instantaneously.

Eyes brimming with fondness narrow slightly. You slide off your beach chair, hands on your bent knees as you take a closer look. You can make out the shadows cast by his long lashes and the drool dribbling past his chin.

He's perfect.

You're content to stay there until your knees begin to ache, reminding you insistently that this isn't a very comfortable position to be in. As a compromise of some kind, you adjust your arms atop the nearby armrest.

It really would be better if you'd brought your sketchbook along—but, you think, remembering his workaholic tendencies, would he even bother to take a nap then?

You scrunch your nose up at the thought.

In that moment, Clarence seems sense to your presence. When you look back at him, you're greeted with the sight of confusion in his now opened, but still drowsy gaze. He blinks, and it earns him an amused grin from you.

"Morning," you say, though it's well into afternoon.

That seems to wake him up. His cheeks flush a warm pink, and he hurriedly wipes away the drool on his face, as though you haven't already committed the sight to your memory.

Clearing his throat, he responds in kind, careful to sit up in such a way that he avoids looking at you.

"You don't have to be so close...I can see you just fine."

You laugh, not unkindly. "What if I'm the one who's having trouble?"

For a moment, when he turns back to look at you, he looks alarmed. Then, his shoulders relax to the tune of a sigh, his groggy mind apparently having caught onto the fact that you were joking.

Without breaking eye contact, you reach for his glasses. But as with the issue of walking into a cave without a flashlight, even if you vaguely recall where your destination is, there's no guarantee you'll actually reach it.

"Give me a second," you mutter, your annoyance making your tone a bit too sharp.

You follow your words up with an apology. His glasses held are carefully by the frames as your sheepish gaze connects with his faintly amused one. Clarence reaches out, getting as far as grasping the slanted tips of the frame before the two of you reach a mutual agreement.

"Well." His cheeks return to being a rosy hue. He coughs politely. "If you would."

Cute. Biting your lip giddily, you shake his grip off. A quick once-over of your surroundings before you stand up shows that no one seems to be paying attention to you. And unless your friends and acquaintences have come to together to unlock the secrets of invisibility, no one you know seems to be present either.

Leaning over, you line his glasses up against his face, the tips of his frame brushing against his cheek. It takes only a moment to slot them into place—and you have enough experience with doing so that they don't snag against his ears.

It takes only a moment longer to give him an innocent peck on the lips.

"There," you murmur, not entirely satisfied with the kiss.

His Adam's apple bobs. Clarence adjusts his glasses with an awkward look that suggests he has some kind of solution to your dilemma. You, of course, beat him to the punch.

"Why—" Your voice cracks a little. "—don't we go find a different spot?"

He smiles, narrowed eyes watching you fondly. "I was about to suggest the same thing."

[gildedmuse]

I take issue with how hot Live Action Shanks is.

He's making me feel things that I did not agree to.

You're suppose to be like the dad pirate, not a pirate I would happily call daddy.

Stay in your lane, good sir! Stay in your lane!

[jkaart]

Sexi plas ;)))

[softdreamlesssleep]

God, "I missed you" sex is the best

[margueritestjusts]

tbh the musical does one of the worst jobs adapting marguerite's character and i think that's because wildhorn and knighton misunderstood the purpose of marguerite's character and her motivations. there's a lot of internal emotional angst that she has (which gets neglected when the focus is shifted on percy imo lmao) but there are ways to balance them out, as seen in tsp '34.

i think this fault with the musical is shown the most is in the fact st. cyr barely gets any coverage? besides like. the opening number, the wedding, and the one off mention in the garden scene, when that is basically one of the most important aspects of her character in the novel. it's the source of her guilt and the cause of the estrangement, and also taking away armand's part in the st. cyr thing. him being beaten almost to death is the whole reason why margot denounces st. cyr and he ends up getting executed. in the musical it seems like she's done it for no reason (which, i mean... understandable from percy's pov) but then in the footbridge scene she doesn't give ANY explanation besides "chauvelin made me do it" and instead the main conflict is "will my husband slutshame me because i slept with another guy before i married him?" ??????????!?!?!?!?!?!?

i know that it would be a valid worry in this time period, but frank wildhorn HIMSELF said he doesn't want to write a 1905 story. so WHY would you make the fear of being slutshamed a main component of marguerite's character—and have chauvelin slutshame her in the process ("what would your husband think if he knew what sort of woman you are?")—when that wasn't in the novel????? it's just extremely distasteful and gross imo.

[voiceofthesilly]

If me thoughts were more coherent id type up a thing about how if it weren't for our specific circumstances stubborn would often doom us but alas

[milkbreadtoast]

looking back at the yjh webtoon screencaps i have saved and giggling... hes so cute... moe... my pookie ^___^ 🥰🥰 poor little meow meow woof woo- *eliminated where i stand*

also these poses are sooooo... 꺄아악🖤🫣🫣🫣🫣

[livvyofthelake]

also fun fact. you can effectively punch holes in plastic glow in the dark stars using a push pin and a rock and just pressing it really hard into your carpet or something so it doesn’t damage anything once it penetrates the plastic. in case you ever needed to know that

[inkykeiji]

good morning i spent $90 on tokrev volumes yesterday because i was on the hunt for this singular gorgeous image <333

i dragged my boyfriend to the bookstore on an obsessive, borderline deranged mission to find and subsequently own (in some capacity) this photo. and now i do!! plus two more omnibus’ i didn’t need (except i really did need them, because they’re so beautiful and i’m so glad to have them on my bookshelf now *。ヾ(｡>ｖ<｡)ﾉﾞ*。)

[possession1981-moving]

[naylor]

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