#in other words: Damien as the Hive Knight

[blue-mood-blue]

With the understanding that this idea has an extremely limited cross-section of people who would both understand and be interested in what I’m talking about, let me share with you an idea:

The Second Citadel has fallen. Most of the surrounding land has fallen along with it - not, for once, because of the seemingly irreconcilable conflict between humans and monsters but to an infection of light spread by a false god. Or a true one. The answer to that is a matter of theological debate that the survivors don’t have time for.

Rilla is only as exiled as everyone else is. Arum is desperately fighting the sickly light away from taking the Keep. And Damien is still in the Citadel.

When they find him, it’s past a locked door - the last, fevered attempt of the people within to defend themselves from a threat that doors wouldn’t lock out. He has his bow in hand and light streaming from his eyes, his mouth, his words. He’s alone; his loyalty has tethered him in place. He’s praying while he fights, blindly, and maybe those prayers and his saint’s protection are the only reason the light hasn’t robbed him of his mind yet - or maybe those prayers are infuriating the false god, shining out through him and ravaging him. It’s not apparent if he knows that the Citadel is in ruins; he defends it as if there’s still something to defend. Damien’s words repeat themselves, over and over, like unwound tape in Rilla’s recorder: things he must have said, and thought, and did on the last day he remembers, tracing around the scar tissue of a wound in the universe. 

Arum has a knife to his throat. Damien lowers his bow. The burning light in his eyes, haloing him, dims into something… quietly alive, not alive again.

A ghost stands next to Rilla. She whispers, “My knight… at last you are freed.” And then, turning to look Rilla in the eyes, Queen Mira commands: “Take him with you.”

[damienthepious]

*flipkicks into Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday nearly late with Cool Sunglasses and a new offering of Fic*

The Rite Of Movement (Chapter 3)

[Ch 1] [Ch 2] [ao3] [Ch 4] [Ch 5]

[Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters:  Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla, The Keep, Original Monster Character(s)

Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Engagement, Post-Canon, Domestic Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Poetry, Presents, Monster Customs, Dancing

Fic Summary: Arum has a surprising revelation about his own feelings, and then decides to take matters into his own claws since his humans don't seem to realize what they are denying themselves.

Chapter Summary: A conversation before and after a long day, and a correspondence returned.

Chapter Notes: Heck I still don't know how to write summaries properly. Anyway. It's Tuesday again! Time for me to compulsively post fic. Love y'all <3 ]

-

After Rilla and Damien come through the portal back into her hut, after the vines recede into the trough-shaped flowerpot full of swamp dirt in the corner, there’s a moment when they meet each other’s eyes.

And then they both burst into laughter. Damien presses a hand to his heart as if to keep it still, and Rilla guffaws in a completely undignified way until Damien lifts her in a fierce hug.

“I can’t believe him-”

“He wants to marry us, my love!”

“He was so nervous about it too did you see-”

“His hands upon our own were steady but I saw his other hands clasped together to keep from shaking- oh Rilla our brave beast came to us with his very heart in those beautiful trembling hands! A display of such courage, such vulnerability-”

“Don’t let him hear you call him vulnerable or he’ll sulk for a week,” Rilla says, and as Damien sets her back down she drops her head to rest on his shoulder and she grins and grins and grins. “Oh, Saints…”

“I fear I will be utterly useless today,” Damien admits, smiling shyly. “Our engagement will be dancing in my mind at every moment, and I will be unable to share the source of my joy.”

“You can tell Angelo, at least,” Rilla says, drifting away from him to go get changed. “And honestly, Damien, I really don’t think anyone is gonna be surprised if you’re caught up feeling romantic today. It’s not like it’s never happened before, you know? Just- be a little more vague than normal when you speak your heart.”

Damien considers that, then nods. “I suppose you are right,” he says, and then he glances at his fiancée with just a hint of worry. He works his jaw for a long moment before the words blurt out of him, the irrational worry he needs to hear Rilla dismiss. “You don’t think that he- that Lord Arum is only asking to wed because he thinks it’s what we want, do you?”

“Damien,” Rilla shimmies into a new skirt, steps back over to him and places a hand firmly on his shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t mean it.” She aims a stern look at him, squeezing his shoulder. “C’mon, Damien, you know him better than that by now.”

“No, no, of course… of course you’re right.” He pauses. “He… of course he wants…”

“Damien. He made us chocolates,” she says, and the way her lip is curved, the soft, surprised pleasure in her smile, it eases the tension trying to build in Damien’s chest. “If it was just obligation- he wouldn’t have made us a gift, right? He wouldn't have bothered to explain how monsters do marriage, and he definitely wouldn’t have looked that nervous about it. He thought-” she bites her lip, and her expression is so deeply fond that it makes Damien’s heart sing. “Dummy thought we might actually say no.”

Damien considers that idea for a moment, the idea of not wanting to marry Lord Arum and Rilla, and it is nigh incomprehensible. He shakes his head. “We- we should treat him to a gesture in kind,” Damien says, the thought striking him suddenly and filling him with glee. “An engagement gift in return! He deserves- he deserves to have his sweetness returned to him, as he has treated us to such sweetness himself.”

“Saints you’re adorable,” Rilla breathes, and she kisses him quickly before she continues. “I think that’s a great idea. What did you have in mind?”

Damien furrows his brow. “Er- well, I could compose a-”

Rilla bursts into laughter again before he can finish the thought, and Damien stops and smiles, chagrined. “You’re always composing a something. It’s a very sweet thought, your poetry is always lovely, but maybe something more- out of the box?”

“Out of the box,” he echoes, musing. “Hmmm. I am not sure what sort of token of affection he would enjoy, my Rilla, and gifts were not a part of my original proposal,” he says. “Besides the rings, of course.”

Rilla blinks, and then a sly smile blooms across her face. Damien’s heart swells at the sight, as it always does, and then with sparkling eyes Rilla takes Damien’s hand.

“Okay, so, that gives me an idea.”

-

Arum’s messenger finds him out on the balcony, where he is sunning himself and certainly not pouting that Damien and Amaryllis are not there to warm him personally this afternoon. They still have some appearances to make near the Citadel, of course; Amaryllis with her numerous undeserving patients and Sir Damien- doing whatever Knights do when they aren’t out in the world, slaying monsterkind. It simply seems unfair, that they must be away from him so soon after agreeing to marry him.

He hears a thrumming noise and feels a soft brush at his elbow. The bee (from his hive on the uppermost part of the Keep, modified and ensorceled to be resilient and obedient and the approximate size of a generous loaf of bread) flies into his upper left arm a second time, a fuzzy buzzing whump that pulls him from his near-nap with a snarling yawn. When he looks down, she is nudging insistently against his elbow, and the little scroll case clutched in her claws has a new missive inside. He lifts the creature gently, unbuckles the scroll case, and informs her that she has done an excellent job before he sends her back towards the hive.

When he is alone on the balcony again, the Keep warbles a question and he scowls, staring at the scroll in his claws with a combination of nerves and excitement tossing around in his guts.

“I suppose we shall see,” he says with a sigh, and the Keep responds gently. He scowls. “Of course not. Nothing to fear regardless- if they disapprove of my position then I shall be glad not to have them attend. We don’t need them anyway. I desire to be married and I shall be, regardless of whether I can find a monster to declare it so. I will declare us married myself if need be.”

The Keep trills amusement.

“Call me cute again and just see what happens to you,” he mutters darkly, the scroll nearing danger in his flexing claws. “That herbalist has been a horrible influence on you, you ridiculous plant.”

It sings a distinctly unapologetic apology and Arum scowls again, but the expression slides from his face as soon as he unrolls the parchment. The Keep sings again, impatient and curious, and Arum waves a hand in the air with a hiss as his eyes dart through the correspondence.

“They- Eld Mosshorn wishes to attend,” he says in a stunned whisper. “They wish to come with their interpreter and- and they have agreed to preside over the ceremony.”

A ripple of small pale flowers bloom across the balcony as the Keep sings its joy, and Arum tries to hide his smile in a scoff.

“As I told you, nothing to fear at all. They say they will be near enough to pay a call on us close to the full moon after next, and that the full moon itself will be an auspicious day for the ceremony.”

It’s a little more than a month away, as if Eld Mosshorn knows precisely when Arum desires them to come. As if the universe itself is on Arum’s side.

The Keep sings a strangely stilted question, and Arum pauses his reading to glance up with a furrowed brow.

“What?” He scowls, dismissive. “Why would they ask about you?” His eyes dart back to the scroll to read further along, and then he wrinkles his snout in confusion. “They- they say, that they anticipate a lovely reunion with… with the “soul of the swamp itself” upon their arrival.” He pauses, his mouth hanging slightly open. “What.”

The Keep hums in smug pleasure, then warbles a quick, dismissive triplet.

“What-” he starts again, and then he shakes his head. “Irrelevant. What do I care if the two of you ancients have some new gossip to exchange? All that matters is that Mosshorn isn’t going to go inform on me to the Senate or worse. They want to- to help.” He pauses, staring down at the parchment again for a long, long moment, his thumb brushing the edge of the page. “They actually want to help me marry Amaryllis and Sir Damien.”

He doesn’t realize the Keep has lifted out a vine to curl gently around his shoulder until he feels its touch, and he snarls automatically though he doesn’t pull away. Another trick the Keep has learned from his humans, this almost-hug. He lifts a clawed hand to grip the vine, reading the words again as it sings to him in softness, in support.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. After a pause, he rolls the parchment back up, sniffing primly and gently untangling himself from the embrace of the Keep. “Well, that’s quite enough of that, I think. Open a way to my room, if you would. I believe I have an invitation or two I should begin to compose.”

-

When Rilla returns home in the evening, exhausted after dealing with her backlog of housecalls, Damien is waiting for her. He sits on the stump in front of her hut, busily scratching away at a long piece of parchment, weaving together drafts of verse with a distant look on his face. He doesn’t even notice her approaching until she wraps her arms around him from behind, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck and making him jolt, a sharp line of ink skittering across the page in response.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, patting his shoulder sympathetically, but he’s grinning wide when he drops his paper and turns in her arms to pull her into a hug.

“At last, my love returns!”

“It’s only been a few hours, Damien,” she says through a laugh. “Did you manage to hold yourself together today?”

“As best as I was able,” Damien replies. “Sir Angelo knew that I was acting oddly, but he said it was a pleasant oddness rather than the alternative and he did not ask many questions.”

“You didn’t tell him yet?” Rilla asks, pulling Damien to his feet and helping him collect the parchment before they head inside.

“I did not have a moment alone with him,” Damien says wryly, and then he sighs as the door shuts behind them. “Besides, I think it will be best to wait until we have a date chosen before I start bandying invitations around.”

Rilla notices the note sitting innocently in front of the flowerpot, and she picks it up to read as Damien busies himself putting away his new poetry drafts. “Well,” she says as she reads, “looks like you don’t have to worry too much about that part of it.” She lifts the note and gestures with it. “Arum must’ve had the Keep send this through sometime today. Apparently his monster priest agreed to go along with this whole monster-human marriage thing.”

Damien presses a hand to his chest, eyes shining. “So quickly!”

“Well, we don’t know how long ago Arum asked, I guess,” she shrugs and looks at the note again. “He says his priest suggested the full moon after next.” She tilts her head as she does the math. “Full moon is… four or five days from now? So just barely over a month. Huh. It’s like this guy read Arum’s mind…”

“A month,” Damien breathes. “So soon and yet so far, I would be content to wed you both tonight if I could-”

“I know, Damien,” Rilla says fondly, folding the note and tucking it between a few pages of her research. “I know you would.”

His smile fades off just a bit, a worry from the back of his mind rising to the surface. He hesitates, but he can’t help himself, can’t keep himself from asking. “And you, my love?”

She blinks, then looks at him in confusion. “And me, what?”

“Are you… truly content with the speed at which this is progressing, my flower? A month feels like an age for my impatient heart, but I know that you had reservations about rushing through our engagement before…”

Rilla’s brow furrows, just a bit, and then she sighs. “I’m not in as much of a hurry as the two of you apparently are, no,” she admits wryly, “but it’s hard not to get caught up in the excitement. We’ve been through a lot together, you and me, all three of us together- and I want to get married to you, Damien.” She reaches out and cups his cheek, smiling. “I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t want to. And I wanna get married to Arum, too, even if I didn’t think that was even an option like two days ago.”

“I was only…” he pauses. “I was never sure why you postponed for so long, during our original engagement. I convinced myself over and over again that you did not want to marry at all, that you were only humoring me.”

“I’m sorry,” Rilla says gently. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

“Can I…” he winces, then reaches a hand up to press her own against his cheek again. “May I ask why you were hesitant, before?”

“I didn’t-” Rilla bites her lip, sighs at herself, and drops her hand. When she’s safely stepped back a pace, she lifts her eyes to meet Damien’s again with a self-deprecating smile. “Look, I don’t want to make a big deal out of this or anything, okay?” She pauses, and Damien nods. She worries her lip between her teeth for a moment, and then she says, “If I’m being honest, the biggest reason I kept putting off setting a date was that I didn’t want to get married if my parents weren’t gonna be there to see it.”

“Oh.” Damien’s eyes widen in surprise, his heart giving a painful lurch. “Oh, my Rilla I am-”

“Don’t- don’t get all- sappy about it,” she snaps, waving a hand in the air and scowling to the side. “I just thought- if there was a chance they could come back, maybe if I just waited a little longer maybe they’d be able to be there. Which was stupid, obviously. But now…”

“Now?” Damien asks, hesitant when she pauses for a breath or two longer than is comfortable.

“Well,” she says, voice dull, “it’s not like I could have brought them to a wedding with a monster anyway, right?” She sighs. “I’m sorry. I don’t actually- I don’t really want to talk about this. We’re engaged twice over and I’d really rather go back to being excited about that right now.”

Damien makes himself smile, gentle, and pulls Rilla into a hug. “Of course, my love. I am sorry if I pushed you.”

She thwacks him on the shoulder gently, rolling her eyes. “I’m fine, Damien.”

“I know you are. You are substantially more accomplished at being fine than I am, my flower, but you wished to go back to excitement over our engagement and that means that I would like to hold you in my arms.” He does just that for a moment, swaying slightly as if in an understated dance, before he continues. “And, if you will allow, I would very much like to kiss you, now.”

“Damien.” She’s smiling again, the expression Damien most cherishes, most delights in causing. She leans in and the smile melts into a kiss that sings through Damien, that flows through him like a river of liquid light, every time. When she pulls away again she laughs softly against his lips, resting her forehead against his, and the feeling almost overwhelms him.

“I love you so much, Rilla,” he murmurs. “I will be so, so grateful to be your husband.”

“I love you too,” she says, voice soft and eyes closed, and she kisses him again before she leans back, taking his hands in her own. “Now c’mon, we gotta get back to the Keep so you can distract our fiancé long enough for me to figure out his ring size.”

[damien-wolfram]

Fan Made Grimoire: Mithrax the Forsaken

"So the Captain was going blade to sword with a Knight and my Ghost asked "Remind me do we like the Hive or Fallen better?"

It was then that I realized that they were gonna kill each other if I did nothing so I raised my cold heart and fired on the knight exclusively. I know I can talk an Eliksni down, but a Knight? No way.

When the Knight fell, the Captain stared through its four beady eyes at me in confusion. He staggered and then spoke a few words before teleporting away, leaving me with the nuclear reactor that would've bolstered his Ether production. These creatures understand more than you think. They feel and express gratitude. I think I made a powerful ally that day."

~ Damien Wolfram ~

[damienthepious]

ohhhhhhh boy. oh boy. folks. folks. I finished it.

When the Reckoning Arrives (Chapter 6)

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [ao3]

[Summary: The final chapter. One more conversation, and a proper reunion.

Notes: This one... got well and truly away from me. Note that this chapter is about double the length of any of the others. Sorry about that, I think? I don't know if consistent chapter length is a concern other folks have or if it's just a writer anxiety. Couldn't justify splitting this into two, though, so here it is in its entirety. I hope y'all enjoy this, and I hope you're satisfied with the whole dang mess. Thank you so, so so much for reading! The Penumbra has very quickly become an incredibly important part of my life, and the fandom has been just as wonderful as the podcast itself. You're all amazing and this fic wouldn't exist without your encouragement and kindness.]

-

All four of Arum’s wrists and both of his ankles are bound when he wakes, securing him tightly to a stiff human bed. He starts to try to pull out of it before he even opens his eyes, twisting his hands and trying to snake his claws under the bindings, his tail curling around the chain by his left foot, but the movement pulls at a tightness in his midsection and suddenly he remembers-

The quite singular sensation of being impaled. The unshakable knowledge of his own death. The way it felt, to have Damien and Amaryllis hold him as he faded.

And finally, Damien. Glowing like a falling star, eyes closed and hands cool on his scales, magic burning the pain out, burning the weapon out, and knitting him back together.

Impossible. An impossible dream- a hallucination, surely. His eyes snap open and he tries to crane his neck to see the injury that must still be there, but there is a thin blanket pulled up over him, covering the offending area. He frowns, and then he hears a prim, pointed cough from off to his right.

If he was unbound he likely would have leapt to the ceiling in shock. As things stand, he jerks against his shackles, hissing as the movement jars his wrists and pulls at the strange dull pain in his ribs. He whips his head towards the source of the noise, and is confronted by the placid face of a complete stranger. A human, obviously, but not one of the ones he knows. Small and swathed in silks, standing stiffly and watching him with keen, guarded eyes.

He watches her with equal wariness for the space of a few breaths, long enough to figure out that she is the only one in the room, and that she appears unarmed.

“Imagine my surprise, to find myself so decidedly un-slain,” he drawls after the pause, projecting a defensive air of indifference.

“Though not for lack of trying,” the woman says, matching his tone.

Arum can still feel the wound, but only when he focuses. Can feel something just slightly wrong, above his stomach, and on his back as well now that he’s paying more attention. He wants to know what, precisely, happened, and how desperate his condition remains, but he does not think this woman will tell him if he asks. Besides, he has a much more important line of questioning to pursue.

“Where are my- where are they?”

The woman stares down at him and Arum’s scales shiver with discomfort at the stranger’s keen gaze. The pause drags on too long and Arum asks again.

“Stop that,” he hisses. “Tell me where they are. Did-” he grits his teeth, but he’s too tired, too worried to stop himself from asking. “What happened to them? Are they hurt? If there is even a scratch on them I’ll- What have you done with them?”

“Nothing,” she answers at last. “I’ve done nothing to them. Technically speaking, however, they are both still being detained.”

“Detained,” Arum sneers, wishing he had at least one of his hands free, if only to gesture with. “I kept my end of the bargain, you know. That knight was returned to the Citadel in perfect condition, regardless of the incompetence of those archers. Technically speaking, my- Sir Damien and Amaryllis should have been freed.”

“Your Sir Damien,” the woman echoes, and he finally manages to catch a hint of the emotion hiding behind the words. There is… confusion, there. Disbelief.

He tilts his chin up, frill flaring halfway. There is very little of his dignity left to save, at this point. “My Damien. My Amaryllis.”

“Hm.”

“Who are you?” he grates out, eyes flicking anxiously around the room again, searching for other threats. “Are you some sort of- healer?” There’s a sneer in the last word, emphasizing his disdain for any medical professionals who are not Amaryllis. “You don’t look much like one. An interrogator? Or is this to be a very, very irritating execution?”

She narrows her eyes as if she does not quite believe him, though about what he is unsure. On instinct he flicks his tongue out, and- oddly, he recognizes her scent. He’s quite sure he’s never seen her before, but there is something familiar there he cannot quite place.

“The question of your fate has not yet been decided,” she says, matter-of-fact. “You have become the focal point of a very complicated situation.”

“A monster taking a knight captive is a situation that typically ends one of two ways,��� he says. “In one of two deaths.”

“You were never going to hurt Sir Angelo,” she says, and he flinches before her tone really sinks in. She isn’t pointing this out to humiliate him- she is saying it as if she is trying to make herself believe it. Trying to make herself understand it.

He hesitates, his shoulders hunching. “I… that is…”

“When a shot was fired - an accident, you should know, and not an intentional attempt to derail the exchange - you pushed Sir Angelo down first. I saw how fast you moved after that, pulling the arrow from the air with barely a flick of your wrist. If you so desired, you could have avoided the arrow entirely, and let it hit the knight instead. Let the folly of my archers become a self-inflicted punishment. You chose to prioritize Sir Angelo’s safety over your own.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mutters, glancing to the side. “He- have you- the little Knight was not damaged during the- the chaos, was he?”

“No,” Mira says. “He is somewhat shaken by the events of last evening, but unharmed. Though, it has become apparent that he was not precisely an unwilling participant in the negotiations between you and I, and I am unsure exactly what to do with that knowledge.”

Arum winces, then blinks in confusion. “Wait… my negotiations with you?”

She tilts her head at him. “You truly do not know who I am?”

He grimaces, flicking his eyes towards her one more time to see if anything at all jogs his memory. “You little creatures are too numerous to count; am I honestly supposed to keep track of every single one of you that scurries around this hive?”

The corner of her lip twitches, almost, almost a smile. “No, but perhaps it would be in your best interest to know the leader of your enemy.”

“My what?” he frowns, then understanding bolts through him. He hasn’t thought about the scent from that scrap of silk in months, and her voice- it sounds much different now than how it did when she was calling down from on high. “You’re- you are the Queen?”

“And you are Lord Arum. We have corresponded, though in a decidedly one-directional manner.”

Arum jerks his head back in alarm, glancing around the sterile, empty room again for signs of other eyes on the pair of them.

“Why?” he asks in a growl, and when she raises her eyebrow in a question he continues. “Why are you here? What are you playing at, coming in here to confront a monster without bodyguards, without arms? I was told you were supposed to be wise.”

She- actually smiles, at that, and gives a single breath of laughter before she catches herself. “I believe that you may have quoted my head bodyguard nearly verbatim, just now. My safety is of no concern, however. There are more guards than are strictly necessary just outside the door. They will hear if I shout, of course, but I did not wish for prying eyes and listening ears for this… meeting.”

“Why?” Arum asks again, more suspicious than ever.

“I believe it is important that I observe you myself. Converse with you on my own terms. Without interference.”

“Important to gather intelligence on your ‘enemy’ personally?” he growls, lowering his head. “Little human Queen doesn’t know how to delegate… how precious.”

“There is a decision that must be made very soon, and it lies solely in my hands,” she says quietly, her eyes looking somewhere past him. “I would like to know as much as I can about the situation before time runs out.”

Arum stares at her for a moment before it clicks. “Honeysuckle,” he breathes.

“Pardon?”

“Sir Damien,” he corrects, pulling on his shackles again in his distress. “He- you will make that decision yourself, then? His fate, his life-”

“Yes.”

Arum exhales, then straightens as best he can while halfway horizontal. “And to what fate will you send him?”

“The decision has not been made, as of yet. We are nearing the deadline, but there is still time.”

“Don’t- don’t toy with me,” he snarls. “I know how humans operate. I know he has broken your petty little rules, and I know what happens to rule-breakers in human society. You will have him killed. Do not try to lie to me, takatakataka.”

She is watching him, distant and inscrutable and calculating. It crawls like spiders up his scales, being observed so closely.

“What will you do, if you are correct?” she asks, quite quietly.

Arum tries to hide his flinch, but his frill is certainly giving him away. “I imagine if he is executed, I shall face a similar fate,” he says dismissively. “You would not just let me go.”

“A fair point. Indulge me, though. If you were free, and Sir Damien were to be executed, what would you do?”

Arum works his jaw silently for a moment. “To what fate would Amaryllis go, human Queen?”

The Queen sighs. “Her position is… complicated as well. In her own way she admitted to the same treason as Sir Damien, but her potential punishments are less severe. The strictures upon a Knight of the Crown are far greater than those upon a single herbalist who does not even live within the Citadel. For the purposes of this hypothetical, let us assume that she shall be returned to Exile.” She turns her gaze back towards him. “What action would you then take?”

Arum looks away, tongue flicking anxiously as he considers the question, considers how honestly to answer. “I don’t understand why it matters to you,” he says, weary. “I don’t even understand why you are speaking to me. Why I have been kept alive.”

“It does not matter if you understand why,” Queen Mira says, “but it does matter how you answer.”

Arum ducks his head, letting his eyes slip closed. Truth will be easier, if he can pretend to be saying this only to himself. “If Sir Damien were executed, I would ask Amaryllis what she wished to do. I would ask her if it would be too painful for her to stay by my side when I- when I had been the cause of our honeysuckle’s death. If she would still have me, we would return to my home, and we would mourn. Mourn, and discover if our broken edges still fit together without our third piece.” He swallows, blinks his eyes back open and ignores the heat he can feel at their corners, and then fixes the Queen with a glare. “There. Are you happy? Does that satisfy you? If you so desire, I am sure there are deeper depths to which I could debase myself, takatakataka.”

She- nods, after a pause. “Thank you,” she says, and the words sound stilted and awkward in her mouth, and Arum sneers automatically at her gratitude. “Now. To answer your questions as best as I am able. May I remove this sheet?” She gestures to the thin blanket covering him, and Arum gives a confused nod of his own, unsure how the two thoughts are related. She reaches forward, face placid, but he can see the very slight tremble in her hand as she pulls the fabric down.

The place where he had been pierced through looks-

The wound looks months old, not quite healed but healing, new scales growing shiny and bright around the edges, sealing the gap.

“Damien…” Arum breathes, unable to tear his eyes from the magic that has been done to him. “I thought… I was convinced it could not have been real…”

“This is why you are still alive,” Mira says. “In more than one way.”

“Explain,” Arum says, narrowing his eyes. “What- how did he do this? Magic, it must be magic-”

“Sir Damien prayed to his namesake,” she says, and finally she pulls a chair closer and sinks to sit with a sigh. “He prayed to a Saint for the sake of a monster, and his prayer was answered. Answered quite definitively, I would say. And therein lies the problem.”

“The… problem?” he says, finally looking away from the sullen welt on his midsection and meeting the gaze of the Queen again. She looks tired, he realizes. Tired, confused, and thoughtful.

“You were saved by the grace of a Saint, Lord Arum. To kill you after that…”

“Couldn’t possibly be a worse heresy than praying for a monster in the first place,” Arum mutters, and the Queen’s breath catches on a small laugh.

“Some would agree with you,” she admits.

Arum frowns. “And… you, little Queen?”

Mira doesn’t answer immediately, breathing slow with her eyes downcast until Arum grows worried again. “This slim hope,” she says eventually, and Arum realizes with a jolt that she is repeating the words of Damien’s prayer. “This proof that the river between Arum's kin and our own has the potential to run placid…” She raises her eyes to meet his own. “He has quite a particular way of putting things, does he not?”

“Professional prattler,” Arum rasps, clenching his fists. “And a naive one, at that.”

“So you do not believe as Sir Damien does, Lord Arum? That some sort of peace could be reached?”

“Of course not, the very idea of it is- is…” he grimaces, then sighs. “Damien… Damien and Amaryllis and I have found… an understanding.” An understatement, but if he grows any more embarrassed he’s liable to actually damage the scales at his wrists pulling on his bindings. “I do not know if that means that monsterkind and your own people are capable of the same. Magic is unpredictable, like that.”

“Magic,” the Queen repeats, something cold and suspicious in her tone, and Arum blinks, confusion joining the tangle of embarrassment he feels.

“Are…” he bares his teeth, glancing aside uncomfortably. “Are bonds of romantic affection… not seen as a manifestation of magic by you mammals?”

She stares at him for a long, wondering moment, and then her cheeks darken noticeably. It’s a human tell that Arum has seen on Damien countless times, but Arum cannot fathom what it could possibly indicate in the Queen. “I…” she coughs, delicately. “I suppose, metaphorically, love is often thought of in that way.”

Arum winces. He would do very well indeed if he never again heard the word ‘love’ from the mouth of any but his herbalist and his poet. It is unbearably sentimental. “Yes, well, whatever you call it, it is unpredictable. Another monster could be in a position such as mine and not- there were many points at which the three of us could have crumbled apart. Killed one another. Hurt one another too much to forgive. It is difficult to say whether humans and monsters are capable of understanding each other at large, or if what we have achieved together is… something entirely unique. Unreproducible, as Amaryllis might say. So,” he draws himself up slightly, “could there be peace? Perhaps. Perhaps the conflict may happen to align perfectly to allow it; the universe has done stranger, less probable things. But from what I have seen of both of our sides, it seems far more likely that monsterkind will behave too unpredictably, with too little agreement between the lot of us, and your people will be too unwilling to forgive mistakes, and misunderstandings.”

“That is… a rather articulate and nuanced position.”

Arum’s lip pulls up in a sneer. “Were you expecting me to merely snarl and gnash my teeth?”

“I had very little idea what to expect,” she says, unselfconscious. “I have never spoken at length with a monster before.”

“Nor I a Queen,” Arum says dismissively. “So what?”

She smiles again, and it seems to come easier this time. “I apologize. I did not mean to imply any lack of intelligence on your part.”

Arum’s frown deepens. “What are you apologizing for? I’m a monster, have you forgotten? You may play nice for as long as you wish, you are Queen of these creatures and they must obey your whims, but when all the game is played out, when you have run out of all your questions and hypotheticals, I will still be myself and your people will still expect but one outcome. Saved by magic or your Saints or whatever else, I will not escape this Citadel with my life and we both know it, takatakataka.” He bares his teeth again, ducking his head to emphasize the force of his glare. “It seems a cruelty beyond stating to pretend anything else, and I have grown tired of the game, little Queen. I demand you make your decision regarding Sir Damien and Amaryllis and get on with killing me. Either my death will protect them or it will mean I will not be forced to see them fall to ruin, and either outcome would be preferable to this pointless interrogation.”

She tilts her head, and something about the sad confusion in her expression fills Arum with even more potent anger, and she asks in a small sort of voice, “You… you honestly, truly care about them, don’t you?”

Arum chokes on his breath and it turns into a bizarre laugh, rattling and hoarse and joyless. “That-” he nearly chokes again, pulling at the shackles without meaning to. “You- of all the ridiculous- that is what you choose to disbelieve? I am laid bare before you in nearly every sense of the term only for want of their freedom, I could have died for them - I tried to die for them - and you cannot understand that I love them? That is the point you cannot comprehend, the bridge you refuse to cross? You- you are an unfathomable fool, little Queen.”

After a long moment Queen Mira stands again, and Arum’s terrible laughter dies out. He tenses automatically as she walks past him, but she doesn’t stop until she reaches the door. When she cracks it open and leans halfway out, he hears the clatter of what he can only guess is a ridiculous number of armored knights startling, and then she murmurs something just barely too quiet for Arum to hear. One of the others outside says, quite distinctly, are you certain, and then her voice comes again, no less quiet but certainly harder, and colder. She closes the door again, but she stays beside it. She turns her head, just enough so he can see one of her eyes, and the strange, contemplative curve of her mouth.

“Amaryllis told me,” she says, “that I must look to the evidence in front of me, and not be blinded by what I fear.”

“She is more brilliant by far than the whole lot of you put together,” he growls, too distracted by worry about the words she exchanged outside to really process what she’s said to him properly. It doesn’t seem to matter anyway, because she doesn’t respond. She stands, facing away, and keeps her hand pressed to the door until there is a light knocking and she opens it again.

The high-voiced knight comes in first, eyes wary, and behind her are Sir Damien and Rilla. Arum lurches against his bindings with his entire weight at their sight, a breathless noise escaping him. She’s going to have them beheaded in front of me, he thinks first, wildly, and his body goes cold at the thought. They are standing unbound, though, looking wary but not afraid, and the knight does not even have her hand near her hilt.

When Damien and Rilla notice him and both step toward him in response to his movement, the knight throws her arm out like a branch, halting them, her attention on the Queen as if waiting for permission.

“Sir Caroline. Unlock the shackles on Lord Arum,” Mira says, and every pair of eyes in the room swing towards her in some combination of surprise and alarm.

“Whatever you say, my Queen,” Caroline drawls after an awkward moment.

“Were you detaining them next door to us, little Queen?” Arum says as Caroline approaches, trying to pave over his confusion and momentary panic. “They arrived rather quickly- unless your dungeon is adjacent to your infirmary-”

“I said they were being detained, not that they were in the dungeon. Sir Damien required some medical attention as well, and he is-” she sighs, “rather particular about his attending physician, so they have both been nearby.”

Arum rubs his wrists once Caroline unshackles enough of them to do so, craning his neck to try to see where Damien is hurt. “Medical attention? What happened? You claimed you had done nothing to them-”

“My Queen spoke truth,” Damien says softly, and Arum’s claws twitch at the sound of his voice. Damien lifts a bandaged hand with an embarrassed half smile and a shrug. “Saintly power is… a rather formidable imposition upon mortal flesh, I have learned.”

“It’s a burn,” Rilla supplies. “Not a terribly bad one, thankfully. Because I didn’t already have enough to worry about.”

Damien ducks his head as if chastened, but Rilla takes his unburned hand in her own and squeezes, and he smiles again, a little less tightly. Arum swings his legs from the bed and stands the moment Caroline is done undoing the bonds at his ankles, intending to go to them the moment he is able, but it’s only when he is on his feet that he realizes that he feels entirely drained, exhausted from the bones out. He tries to hide the way he sways on his feet by pretending to lean back against the bed deliberately, but he can tell that Rilla, at least, is not fooled.

“Is this another test, Queen?” he asks instead, gesturing to his unbound state. “Like your questions?”

“No. No more of that, I think,” Mira says, and then she glances to Damien and Rilla. “You may go to him.”

Damien looks to the Queen in bewilderment, but it’s a brief look because Rilla moves forward and she’s still clinging to his hand.

There is a half second of hesitation when they are close; Arum can’t help the unease he feels at the nearby near-strangers when he wants his humans in his arms, especially considering that he is unclothed from the waist up. Sir Caroline, however, is staring decidedly away from them, apparently at nothing, and Mira discreetly drops her gaze down and to the side, so when Rilla is within arms reach he damns his discomfort and reaches. He pulls her into his chest and Damien next to her, and Arum can taste the salt on the air that means his knight is overwhelmed enough to fall to tears.

Arum clings to them as tightly as he dares, as tightly as the weariness of his body will allow, his tail wrapping around them with a shivering of scales. He glares over their heads one more time to make sure others in the room still have their eyes safely aimed away, and when he is satisfied that they are not under scrutiny he lowers his head, pressing his face into Damien’s neck. He needs to feel the pulse there, heat and life and sweetness, vulnerable and unsure whenever these two soft creatures are out of his sight. The position has the added effect of allowing him to feel the way Damien’s breath is hitching, and the words he is barely, barely managing to whisper.

“… so so sorry,” he breathes against Arum’s scales, over and over and over. “Oh Saints I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”

“Hush, honeysuckle,” Arum murmurs with a rumble in his chest, stroking a hand through Damien’s hair. “You are the only one who blames yourself for any of this.” Damien chokes, melting into Arum’s chest, and Arum is grateful for the bed behind him because otherwise the added weight might have actually made his legs buckle. “Shh,” he hisses, “shhhhh, little poet.”

Rilla’s hand presses against his midsection and he winces, pulling back enough to give her a wary glance. Her brow furrows, pinpoint focused as she skillfully investigates what remains of his injury, her fingers careful but firm against his scales, and he can’t help his small breath of laughter at the intensity in her gaze. She scowls up at him and he grins in response, her irritation at magic in general feeling both familiar and safe.

“I’m alright, Amaryllis,” he says, and her eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah? You’re shaking, Arum.”

He blinks, swallowing uncomfortably when he realizes that she isn’t wrong. His hands, his legs are trembling with the effort it is taking to stand. He leans a little more heavily on the bed, and winces when Damien looks up at him with nervous, shining eyes. “Merely- I am merely fatigued. Nothing to concern yourself over.”

“I think I’ll be the judge of that,” Rilla says, and then she gently pushes Damien aside so she can examine Arum in earnest.

“If you insist, doctor,” he mutters in a growl, but it’s impossible to hide the way he instantly relaxes at her touch; purposeful and soothing and practiced, while Damien clings to his left arms and rests his forehead on Arum’s shoulder. He doesn’t even notice that his eyes have slipped closed until Rilla pats her hand on his cheek and he blinks them back open. She’s close, still frowning though her expression has softened as she checks his pupils, and he flicks his tongue out to tickle the tip of her nose. That startles a laugh out of her, which was precisely the effect Arum hoped it would have, and then she looks up at him with a wry smile, her hand dropping from his face to rest on his shoulder.

“You may have been magically healed, but you still lost a lot of blood before that,” she says in her most businesslike tones. “You’re fairly dehydrated, probably anemic though I don’t know exactly what that looks like on a lizard, and I’m concerned about how exhausted you seem even after resting for as long as you did- I’m assuming you slept through the night? And, by the way, you pulled your wrists bloody on those shackles and I bet you didn’t even notice.”

She’s right, again, and he ducks his head and frowns as she pulls his hands toward her one by one to treat and bandage.

“I hope you have some understanding of my position,” the Queen says, apparently having decided that they have had enough time with themselves.

“Which part?” Rilla says sharply, not looking. “The part with that arrow, or the part where Arum got impaled?”

“The arrow was a regrettable accident,” Mira says. “Someone too unexperienced on the wall with the rest of the archers, and a slip of the hand. Sir Absolon, however, saw an opportunity and leapt without consulting with anyone else about his strategy.”

There’s a coldness in Mira’s voice, then, and Rilla blinks when she hears it though she does not pause in her work. Damien makes a small, unhappy noise at Absolon’s name, and Arum pulls him closer automatically.

“And if he had consulted you?” Arum asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

She pauses as if considering the question very seriously. “The moment would have passed before he could,” she murmurs. “He chose to act unilaterally, because the alternative would have been not to act at all. However, I saw- everyone saw that you chose to push Sir Angelo out of the way. That did not go unnoticed. I think even if the Saintly intervention had not occurred, the rumors would have become an issue quite quickly.”

“Rumors?” Damien pipes up, voice pitching high and concerned. “What rumors?”

Mira purses her lips and sighs. “We may have cleared the gate of civilians,” she says wryly, “but that meant they were all aware that there was a situation that required them to be cleared. Besides that, there is the fact that the sheer number of knights and guards involved in the exchange could never be expected to keep silent about all that they saw.” She turns her head slightly away from the trio. “What, precisely, are they calling Lord Arum in the city now, Sir Caroline?”

Caroline huffs a breath, as if she had been hoping to remain unnoticed. “Saint-Touched,” she says begrudgingly. “They are calling him Saint-Touched, according to my second in command. There are many wildly inaccurate versions of the story flying around the streets, of course, but the healing itself seems to factor in all of them, and the monster protecting Sir Angelo seems to be a large part of the discussion as well.”

Arum stiffens, hissing under his breath. The idea of an entire city of humans, of strangers, whispering about him, about his near-death and his saving- it makes him want to crawl back to the Keep and find a dark corner to hide in for a decade or two.

“So now you’re worried about people thinking it’ll be blasphemy if you have Arum killed, aren’t you?” Rilla says, finishing the last of the bandages on Arum’s wrists. She keeps hold of one of his hands, though, squeezing gently as she angles her body so she’s between Arum and the Queen. “Blasphemy to kill Damien too, probably, since it was his prayer that got answered.”

Mira squeezes the bridge of her nose for a moment, sighing again. “Yet others are crying that this must have been merely another deception, as Saint Damien would never grant so unholy a prayer for so unholy a beast.” The words are quick and toneless and audibly irritated.

“And what of you, my Queen?” Damien asks softly, from the arms of his monster. “Do you still believe as you did yesterday morn?”

Mira presses her hands together briefly before she turns and steps closer to the three of them, within arms reach. She looks up, and then further up, until she can meet Arum’s violet eyes with her own searching gaze. “You could have killed Sir Angelo, could kill everyone in this room with merely your claws if you so desired, exhaustion or no,” she says, slowly. “I still don’t understand what makes you different from your kin - or if you even are different from your kin - but I believe that Sir Damien and Amaryllis were correct in their estimation of you.”

“How magnanimous of you,” Arum growls sardonically, flaring his frill and shifting in discomfort even as Damien sighs in obvious relief. “I’m so pleased to have earned your approval.”

Rilla presses her lips together hard to bury a smile at the same time that Damien inhales sharply. The Queen, however, does not seem bothered by his tone.

“Hm. You will likely be unhappy about this phrasing, but it is necessary,” she says with a wry smile, and Arum narrows his eyes in confusion. She takes a deep breath, lifts her chin, and then she says, “By the will of the Saints above, and by the authority of the Crown, Sir Damien the Pious, Amaryllis of Exile, and Lord Arum,” she pauses to breathe a laugh, “the Saint-Touched, you are all hereby granted pardon. Lord Arum, you are now under the protection of my rule, and no Knight of the Crown may harm you.”

“Huh,” Rilla says, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, my Queen.” Damien presses a hand to his heart, voice wavering. “Oh, by the Saints above, oh I cannot believe-”

“I am not even one of your subjects,” Arum says, baring his teeth. “Not even a human. Can you even pardon me?”

Mira blinks, then looks up at the monster with an expression of exquisite innocence. “Who, precisely, do you believe would attempt to tell me what I am and am not allowed to do?”

Arum laughs without meaning to, and then laughs again when the reality of the situation settles softly on his shoulders, the tension he’s been holding since Sir Angelo burst onto his balcony yesterday finally, finally easing. He isn’t going to die here. Damien isn’t going to die here, none of them are, they will actually be able to go home-

“Little Queen,” he says warmly, “you may have some monstrous instincts of your own, I think.”

“He means that as a compliment,” Damien adds quickly.

“When you feel strong enough,” Mira says, and then she pauses. “When your doctor says that you are strong enough, you will be provided with an escort out of the city, for your own safety, and you may return to… the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms, I believe Sir Damien said?” She pauses, and Arum nods. “Rather, you may go wherever you like. In the meantime, while you are convalescing I will put my words here to official decree, and make my decision known.”

“My Queen!” Damien exclaims again.

“Some will call me mad,” she says, tone more casual than it has been this entire time. “But others will listen. Others are ready to listen.”

“I mean,” Rilla says, “I don’t know about these two, but I would certainly feel a lot better getting out of here sooner rather than later, before someone gets a stupid idea in their head about finishing what Absolon started.”

“I understand that,” the Queen says, picking her words carefully and slowly. “But I will not allow anything to happen to you now, not in my Citadel, and… it will be important, I think, for the three of you to walk out of this place together. With your heads held high. I believe it would send a more effective message if your monster did so on steadier legs than he currently seems to possess.”

“Strategic,” Rilla says, sounding both irritated and impressed as Arum grumbles beside her. “Alright. We’ll do it your way, then.”

Mira nods. “Thank you. We shall… leave you to rest, now. When you are ready, let the guards know and I will see you off.” She tilts her head and looks up towards Arum again. “Though our first meeting was not exactly…” she flicks her eyes towards Rilla with a vague smile, “auspicious, Lord Arum, I hope that our acquaintance will continue to be as… enlightening as it has so far been.”

“And with fewer brandished weapons, if the universe grants,” Arum grumbles with a wry smile.

“Indeed.” She gives a light laugh. “Sir Damien, Amaryllis, I…” she pauses, “I apologize. Despite my intentions I was both cruel and rash, and it is only by the grace of the Saints that my mistakes did not cause irreparable harm.”

Rilla’s jaw clenches, her eyes narrowing, but Damien wilts slightly. “My Queen, I never doubted that your clarity of vision, your wisdom would win out in the end.”

“Never?” Mira says, her eyebrow raising in a skeptical arch. “Not for a moment, Sir Damien?”

“Well- er…” he clasps his hands together in front of himself, eyes flicking uncomfortably away. “That is… I hoped. I hoped that you would see truth, even if I harbored concerns that you could not.”

Mira closes her eyes in a self-deprecating smile. “The truth always sounds much better in your voice, Sir Damien. I should have known it by sound when yesterday we spoke.” She opens he eyes again, nods, and starts towards the door. “As I said. When you feel prepared to leave, inform the guards. I have… quite an imposing amount of work in my immediate future, I am sure you understand. Sir Caroline?”

Caroline doesn’t straighten, exactly, because her posture has been ramrod stiff since she entered, but she does come to attention and fall into step with the Queen, pulling the door open in front of her. Mira graces the trio with one more glance as she exits, accompanied by a subtle smile.

Sir Caroline, for her part, merely leaves and closes the door behind her.

Arum exhales in an exaggerated hiss when they are safely alone, and then he sags more fully against Damien, against the bed. “Not my preferred morning conversation,” he mutters, “but I suppose it could have been far, far worse.”

Rilla crosses the room to a basin of water waiting in the corner and fills a cup, and she shoves it firmly into Arum’s hand when she returns. “Rehydrate,” she instructs, and Arum rolls his eyes but obeys. He is grateful for the coolness on his tongue, and as he drains the cup he becomes suddenly aware of how thirsty he is. The feeling hadn’t really registered above the rest of his exhaustion, dull pain, and panic. She goes to get him a second cup, and he drains that one too.

Damien is worryingly quiet, and Arum grows still more worried when he glances down and sees the growing expression of distress on the poet’s face.

“Honeysuckle,” he murmurs, passing the empty cup back to Rilla and brushing a hand down Damien’s arm. “What-”

“You called yourself a shackle of monstrosity, as if you were some sort of- of imposition upon me,” Damien mutters suddenly, furiously. “I cannot believe you- how could you attempt to discard yourself so carelessly?”

Arum frowns, thrown by the sudden turn of mood. “Oh spare me, honeysuckle” he says, embarrassed to be made to confront words he thought belonged on his deathbed. “Do not pretend that you were not planning for your own dramatic execution, fully expecting to leave us behind.”

“How about the both of you stop trying to get yourselves killed at every damned opportunity?” Rilla says in a sharp voice, eyes bright. “Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to be in love with two idiots without an ounce of self preservation between the two of them?”

“You marched into the Citadel on your own, Amaryllis,” Arum snarls, mortified by the way his voice cracks and wavers, “knowing full well that you could have been marching to your own arrest as he had, without even stopping to speak with me. You should have come to me. You should have come home and we could have- could have concocted a plan together.”

“I’m sorry, Arum, but I couldn’t wait-”

“You left me alone, do you have any idea- what would I do if either of you were hurt? If both of you- I could have lost the both of you and then-”

“We almost did lose you,” Rilla says, quieter as she gently traces her fingers along the edge of the almost-scar. “It- clearly we all fucked up on the way here, okay Arum? It was- it was a terrible situation and we all… did the best we could, I think. We made mistakes, and I’m sorry for sending Angelo when I should have come to you myself, but I can’t change what’s past, Arum.”

Arum gamely pretends that he hasn’t started shaking again. He hisses, not quite a concession, and wraps two of his arms around her. She smells like clean linen, disinfectant, like her own sweet self. Damien slides into the embrace as well when he reaches out, and the fact that he and Amaryllis are alive and safely in his clutches is far more important than any other thing in the world.

After a moment Rilla pushes him back. “You need to get off your feet. To rest.” When Arum grumbles under his breath she scowls, pushing him again until he’s fully on the bed. “The quicker you get your strength back the quicker we can get the hell out of the Citadel.”

“The quicker we can go home,” Damien says softly.

“Fine,” Arum hisses. Then, he reaches over and Damien yelps as Arum drags him up onto the bed with him, tucking his head under Arum’s chin and rumbling deep in his chest as he settles. “But I refuse to lay in this stuffy human room on my own.”

“Arum!” Damien squeaks. “Put me down-”

“Please,” he says, and Damien stills. “I cannot… I don’t think I can sleep if… I need to feel your heart beating, honeysuckle.” He reaches a hand out, and he hears Rilla sigh fondly before she crawls up on the other side of the small bed, nestling in against him.

“Okay, okay, fine,” she murmurs, her own hand resting over Arum’s heart. “Will you behave now?”

“Never,” he murmurs into her hair. “But I will rest, Amaryllis, so long as you both stay with me.”

-

They do walk out together with their heads held high, as Mira said. With their hands clasped together as well, for good measure, with Sir Angelo grinning broadly beside them and Sir Caroline looking put-upon at their back. There are whispers again, of course, and stares, but the curious and wondering faces outnumber those contorted in fury or disgust, and they have very little energy to spare for their audience regardless. Arum needs every ounce of concentration merely to continue forward, pushing through the vague burn of strain in his limbs, and any remaining focus he spares only to lift his head as pridefully as he can, and to feel Amaryllis supporting him on one side, and Damien on the other. They guide his steps through the unfamiliar streets, gracefully disguising the moments when he needs to lean on them to keep his stride even.

His cape had been unwearable; barely purple at all anymore beneath the blackish-red stain, but the Queen had provided a spare. It is slightly shorter, but wide enough to cover him properly; pale blue silk with a vague shimmer of purple that he can drape around himself just enough to hide his injury. Damien was the one who pointed out with shining, gleeful eyes that the color was near exactly that of the glow of the Saint-fire, but Arum cannot bring himself to care. The cloth serves the purpose it must, be it colored like magic or merely like myrtle.

Sir Caroline leaves them at the gate, giving a curt nod before she returns to her duties. Sir Angelo walks them to the edge of the trees, and keeps an eye open for watching eyes as Rilla pulls a bag of dirt from the pockets of her skirt and summons a portal back home.

The Keep spends a good five minutes clutching Arum in its vines and trilling a terrified reprimand at him until he begrudgingly apologizes for his brush with death, the pain and fear it could feel in him even miles distant, and then it pokes and prods at Rilla and Damien until it is satisfied with their safety as well.

Damien sighs deeply as they nestle together on their own bed. It hasn’t even been two full days since they were like this last, but the memory of safety had grown so distant in that short time that the homecoming feels raw. Earned.

“None of this is going to be easy,” he says softly. “That baker in the square, Dominick? He would have thrown that entire basket of rolls at all of us if Sir Caroline had not glared him down, I think, and I doubt Sir Absolon and I will ever speak amicably again. It will be quite some time before things in the Citadel manage to settle back down.”

“But we’re all alive,” Rilla says, exhaling as if she’s been holding her breath this entire time. “We’re okay, we’re safe. The rest of it- we’ll figure it out, somehow.”

“Together,” Arum says, his eyes slipping closed again. “We shall figure it out together.”