#letting go of his scarf as a part of healing 😩

[airiat]

Boy with the Sun Song (IV.)

iorveth/f!oc | m | friends to lovers, tooth-rotting fluff, hurt/comfort | no warnings apply

vesta aep maghenn knows iorveth (iorveth aep mirbrach, to her) in a way that no one else can claim: they grew up together in the blue mountains and have been the closest of friends ever since. when iorveth’s unit is wiped out in an ambush by a powerful but unknown  adversary, he seeks shelter with vesta until it’s safe for him to rebuild.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven

[read on ao3]

IV.

The fire burned brightly before us, but its heat was not enough. Not while Iorveth sat next to me shivering even though he had been in front of it for the past hour. It might have been from shock, but it might also have been because he still wore his scarf wrapped around his head, damp with rainwater as it was.

“Are you cold?” I asked him. “Still?”

We sat side-by-side on the rug in front of the fireplace, as close as we could possibly get to the flames without being burnt. It was enough to make sweat roll uncomfortably down my skin, flesh like melting wax, but I didn’t dream of leaving his side for my own comfort.

“I’m fine,” he grunted, but his teeth chattered around the words.

I kept my gaze locked firmly on the fire. “You can take it off, you know. I won’t look at you unless you tell me I can.”

“I don’t think so. It’s fine where it is.”

I sighed, but I still kept my eyes where they were. “Iorveth, you should at least let it dry out. You’ll get sick.”

He barked out a laugh. “Me? Get sick? Not a chance in hell. You’ll have to try harder than that.”

The flames were a beautiful orange against the slight green of the stones. 

“How long have we known each other? A hundred years? Two hundred?” I asked even though I already knew the answer: one hundred and seventy-four.

“A hundred and seventy-four,” he replied. “And that’s exactly it: you knew me before this happened.”

“Why would that make any difference?”

A dance of yellow and orange and green.

“Because you remain the same, as beautiful as always, and I no longer am.”

“So, that’s what this is about, then? Simple vanity? Bloede hell, Iorveth, I knew that you were proud, but this? Really?”

“No, Vesta, it’s not about ploughing vanity,” he snapped. “It’s about the beauty that made me an Aen Seidhe being taken from me by a bloede fucking dh’oine. How I look just like one of them now, and, worst yet, the lowest form: a bandit or a thief, a common ruffian,”

“Oh, well, rest assured, they call you much, much worse things than that.”

He let out a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was much calmer. “I know.”

“I still fail to understand what this has to do with me seeing you without the damn scarf,” I continued. “As if you wouldn’t still be beautiful--one eye, both, or none. Flawless or nothing but scars.”

Iorveth didn’t speak for a long time. I almost gave into the temptation I had to look at him, if only to see where his reservation lied, but I held my place. To do so would have been to shatter the progress I had just made with him. 

Eventually, he cursed viciously under his breath. Then, there was the soft clink of a buckle, a rustling of fabric, and then his scarf landed squarely in my lap. 

“There,” he said. “Are you happy now, beag’aine?”

Though his words were as callous as they usually were, my heart skipped at what he had just called me: little light, a name he’d given me when we were both young. An affectionate jab at how much smarter I was than him and at the brightness of my blonde hair. It was something I hadn’t heard in years, decades even, maybe a century.

But I still didn’t risk a glance at him.

“Happy? Yes. For you,” I stammered, eyes still locked onto the fire. “Because now you won’t catch a cold.”

He groaned in annoyance. “As if I could ever say no to you,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but made no attempt to mask it.

“Just as well,” I responded. “I usually know better.”

He didn’t answer, but the absence of a protest said just as much as words. 

“You may as well get it over with,” Iorveth finally said. 

I tried not to brace myself for the sight I would be met with. After all, I had spent plenty of time imagining that moment, filling in the space of what I imagined he might look like. I didn’t want him to see my horror, though I knew it would still be there as clear as the Pontar on a summer day.

But when I finally turned my sights to him, I was surprised by what I saw. The scar was brutal, yes. From his dead eye socket, the damaged tissue extended over his cheekbones to the corner of his mouth like red lightning across a pale sky. Yet, the familiarity of the scarring on his cheek--what wasn’t covered by his scarf--did much to lessen the blow. Of course, it was ugly and wretched and made a wound in my heart like nothing I’d ever felt before. His hair was cropped short, so unlike how he used to wear it long and braided. But he was still Iorveth, so utterly, unmistakably him.

I nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”

His face morphed into confusion and I was astonished to see that the emotion still wholly touched the damaged side of it, even without an eye to illuminate. “What for?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. For trusting me?”

“Right, well, how could I not?” he said. “You’ll always be you.”

“And you’ll always be you--putting up a fight even when you already know you’ll relent.”

“Well, they don’t call me worse names for nothing. Is ‘bastard’ one of them?”

I grinned and, for once, it looked like he might return it. “If it wasn’t before, it definitely is now.”

And then, he did smile. It touched every plane of his face, making him look as beautiful as I’d always remembered him to be.