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purplesauris · 4 years ago

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A Moonlit Winter’s Night

This one took me a bit longer to write between work and everything else, but hoo boy am I glad to have it finished. Mostly inspired by a beautiful full moon we had the other night, and spurred on by my gorgeous friends. I guess you could also count this as day 4 of @witcher-and-his-bard winter prompts!

Read on AO3 here!

“Invite him, wolf, before we do.” Lambert is well into his cup, but if he has to spend another winter with Geralt dragging his ass he will end up killing his brother and he’d rather not.

“Hmm.” Invite him? What would Jaskier, bright, warm, stunning Jaskier do in a keep alone with witchers for the four months they’re snowed in? Well, there’s only one way to find out, he supposes.

This time, when Geralt heads down the mountain he’s the last to leave. While Vesemir has never said no to the guests they show up with, something in him hesitates to bring Jaskier here. He’s opulent, almost garishly so, and revels in the finer things when he manages to drag Geralt into a town bigger than the backwater villages they frequent. So he may or may not spend some extra time making up the guest room, Vesemir watching and putting Geralt to work until he finally leaves.

He heads for town after staying that extra week, hurrying a bit more than usual down the mountainside. He doesn’t want to miss their meeting, though he’s definitely going to be late, or else he isn’t sure he'll find the bard this year. He’s a days travel away from Oxenfurt when he’s stopped by a woman on the road, begging for someone to find her husband. She claims he was dragged off into the woods, and promises ample payment, and Geralt is unable to say no. Coin can be hard to come by, especially in the spring when so many monsters are still thawing out.

He brings her back to her village and gives strict instructions to watch his horse and watch her well. If he comes back to Roach missing, he says, there will be more problems than a missing husband to contend with. With Roach guaranteed safe Geralt treks into the forest, following the path that the wife relayed to him on the way back to the village. He finds the husband without much difficulty, shacked up in an abandoned hunting cabin with two other tittering, intoxicated women. The sight of Geralt stops their celebration, and one of the women screams, throwing her half full bottle at him. It crashes against the doorframe, shattering and spewing wine against his leg. He wrinkles his nose, looking at the three before him and doing his best not to flinch when they scream at the sight of him.

“Your wife is waiting.”

“M-me wife?” He nods, crossing his arms and tipping his head back toward town. The man goes with little convincing, stumbling past and shaking like a deer.

“P-please, we didn’t- didn’t know he were married, honest.”

“Somehow I doubt that. I’m not here to meddle, just find him. You live in the same village?” One of them nods, the one who threw the wine bottle, and Geralt sighs. “Sober up a bit before heading back, or they’ll know you were together.”

“Right, course.” The witcher stands there for another awkward minute before grunting and leaving out the way he came. He takes his time going back, knowing there’ll be a story spun and not feeling particularly inclined to dispute it. Despite the obvious lack of monsters, Geralt can tell there was activity, once. He can smell an old nekker nest a quarter mile from the hut, but nothing has used it in ages. There were also animal tracks, but nothing more than a couple of wolves, if he were to guess by the lack of rabbits about.

He gets Roach and double the payment the wife had offered when he gets back, the husband thanking him profusely for saving him. His wife hangs off his side the whole time, teary eyed with relief. Geralt leaves out of the village astride Roach, intent on traveling through the night to get to Ja- Oxenfurt. The contract took up more time than he would have liked, and he wonders how long Jaskier will wait before giving up on him. Roach isn’t one to complain about the long night, and by the time they get into the city Geralt has slid from her back to lighten her burden. He finds the tavern on memory alone, and spends some time brushing and getting Roach settled in the stables before finally heading inside to hope they have a room. The sky hadn't begun to lighten yet, but dawn isn't far off, and Geralt desperately needs some sleep

He reeks of booze, but the barkeep doesn’t care and says nothing when Geralt asks for whatever ale they’ve got that isn’t made with river water. He takes his usual spot in the back, tossing a look around the bar for a bright doublet or a flash of blue eyes, but either he isn't here or he's asleep. Geralt drinks himself into a light buzz and eats whatever stew is bubbling over the fire before going to get a room upstairs for the night. He tries to spend as much time as he can in the main room, but the room is quiet for once, devoid of it’s usual rabble.

He’s halfway down the hall when he smells the faint scent of sweat, lavender and a hint of chamomile, Geralt stopping and dragging in a deep breath. He follows his nose easily, backtracking to the room right next to the stairs. The scent in the hall is stale, but if Jaskier hasn’t been out since last night that would account for it. He wants to knock, to try the knob and show himself in, but that feels like too much a breach of privacy, and Geralt is too tired to think straight anyhow. He retreats to his room, shaking his head and berating himself. Jaskier is here, that much he knows, so all he has to do is go down sometime around dinner, where Jaskier will most likely be entertaining for his room and board. The plan is a good one, he thinks, and he props his swords up by the bed and lights the hearth with a twitch of his fingers. His armor comes off in pieces, left on the table in the corner of the room, his clothes following. He crawls into bed only after examining the sheets closely. Clean, thankfully.

Geralt is stretched out, languishing in a patch of sunlight a few hours later and wondering if he should try to sleep more when he hears footsteps pounding up the stairs. Geralt frowns, hand wrapping around the dagger under his pillow as the footsteps draw closer and closer. His grip tightens, pupils constricting to ease the shift of light as he watches the door.

The knob turns in slow motion, and the scent of sun- warmth and lavender hits him like a ton of bricks. He doesn't have time to do more than sit up in bed before Jaskier is slipping into the room, ducking and looking around frantically. He knows Geralt's first instinct is to throw his knife it seems. His eyes skim over Geralt's armor and the fire burning low in the hearth before he finally spots Geralt, motionless on the bed, dagger peeking out from under his pillow. Geralt hears Jaskier's heart stutter in his chest, and the corner of his mouth quirks up.

"Geralt!" Jaskier closes the door fully, grinning and padding over as Geralt swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He's about to get up when Jaskier surges forward, throwing his arms around the witcher's neck and squeezing him tight. Geralt goes still, eyes wide, before allowing himself a moment to enjoy and take in the bard. The warmth that seeps through his doublet, and the stronger lavender scent that Geralt inhales when he buries his face in Jaskier's hair is like being home again. He wraps an arm around Jaskier, holding him against his chest and squeezing gently. They stay like that for a minute, then two, Geralt refusing to be the one that pulls away first this time. Finally Jaskier seems to have had enough, because he pulls back, eyes misty and a wry smile on his face.

"You're late."

"Surprised you're here." He replies, and honestly he is. He's more than a little late.

"Where else would I be?"

He shrugs, not sure what to say to that, and Jaskier smiles fondly. "They told me a big brute with white hair came through early this morning. I would have come in earlier, if I'd felt inclined to nurse a stab wound."

Geralt huffs a small breath at that- it's as close as he'll get to a laugh this early, or late he supposes, in the day. He's fully awake now, but his muscles are loose and the scent and sight of Jaskier close has him relaxing, leaning back on a hand. He watches Jaskier puttering around, exploring the new armor he'd had crafted on the way up the mountain and looking at the clasps closely. He glances over at the bed, blue eyes curious, and raises a brow. "Good winter?"

Geralt shrugs, pulling the dagger from under his pillow and rising to his feet. "Mhm. You?"

"It was fantastic, if I'm honest. I'll tell you more on the road." Geralt takes that as his cue to get dressed, and he gently nudges Jaskier out of the way to do so.

-*-

Something had happened to Geralt. He wasn't sure what- he couldn't see any visible change, no knock to the head or magical influence, but something had changed. Jaskier hadn't been able to help himself when he found Geralt in the tavern, hair mussed from sleep and golden eyes vulnerable to whatever emotions played through his head. He hadn't expected Geralt to reciprocate the hug, allow it even, but he'd squeezed them close together and Jaskier's heart had soared at the contact.

He wasn’t much different on the Path, though. They still bounced from town to town, taking whatever pickings there were. Geralt was stricter on the bounties though, asking for larger sums than he had before. Despite it, when they agreed and stiffed him later he didn’t raise a hand. Instead, he seemed pleased with himself, and took the coin that they did offer. He also stayed away from towns if he could absolutely help it. He isn’t sure if the long winter made Geralt more skittish or he just doesn’t want to, but Jaskier tries his best not to complain.

They spend much of the year this way, pushing hard and taking any contract they can find. Jaskier will play for the bigger villages and stay back at camp mending when he has nothing else to offer. He becomes startlingly proficient with starting a fire no matter how wet the surroundings, and his game trapping could actually carry the both of them through the empty nights where they would have had nothing before. Through all of it, Jaskier finds himself happier than he was during the winter. They talk more, or at least Jaskier gets more replies instead of dead silence. A hum here, a nod and Geralt’s pretty cat eyes locking with his to let him know he’s paying attention. If Geralt sees the way he preens under the attention he doesn’t mention it, but he doesn’t stop either. Fall has come early this year and sunk claws into the land, and all around them is the smell of decaying leaves. It's Jaskier’s favorite and least favorite time of the year.

“We’re stopping in Novigrad.” Jaskier perks up at the first words Geralt has spoken today, smiling.

“Finally decided you missed the comforts of a bed, hmm?”

Geralt hums, tugging on Roaches reins to keep her from straying toward a particularly green patch of grass. “It’s for you.”

“Me?” Geralt nods, looking vaguely uncomfortable. Jaskier thinks he spies a bit of pink to Geralt’s cheeks, but he just swings his lute up into his arms and begins to practice. He’s going to need money to spend in Novigrad, after all.

-*-

Jaskier navigates the streets of Novigrad like he was born here; with a drunklike stagger and a grin on his face. He winks and waves at any strumpet that walks by, and laughs when Geralt tells him to stop teasing them. They stop in the main square to check out the notice board, and Geralt sighs out a heavy breath at what he finds.

“Something good?” Jaskier peers over the man's shoulders, up on tiptoes and wanting to see what could possibly make Geralt excited. Because he’s almost certain that’s what that noise means, and he happens to be an expert on his witcher by now.

“Something dragging townspeople away.”

“Drowners?”

Geralt shakes his head, and leaves it at that. He goes to see the soldier who posted the report, and tells Jaskier to get comfortable at the inn. He’s expecting it to be a long hunt, based on the bodies alone, and he doesn’t expect he’ll be back for a couple of days. Jaskier doesn’t like it, but that night he plays in the Kingfisher, and makes enough coin to pay for their room three times over. As he does the next night, and the next night after that.

Jaskier is nursing a hangover in bed on morning three alone when the door to the room swings open, slamming into the wall. He groans at the noise and influx of light, but the sight of Geralt stops him short. He looks… bad, for lack of a better word.

The sight is enough to have Jaskier stumbling out of bed, closing the door behind the witcher and hurrying with sleepy fingers to get the clasps to his armor undone. Geralt’s eyes are hazy with fatigue, and he doesn’t say a word when his armor drops in pieces onto the ground. Blood stains every inch of his clothing, and Jaskier has no clue what’s his and what could be the monsters. Fear shoots through him, cold and slimy, and he shudders at the thought of Geralt out there alone. Jaskier calls for a bath and a meal, picking all of the armor up and depositing it with the rest of their stuff. His armor seems to be intact, and the only blood is on his gauntlets and greaves. Whatever soaked into his clothes must be dead.

In the time it took for Jaskier to tidy up Geralt has stripped down and tossed his clothes into the fire. He doesn’t seem to care about trying to salvage them, and Jaskier frowns at the waste. Bloody grooves slash over the scars littering Geralt’s back and chest, and he can see two neat puncture wounds scabbing over on the meat of Geralt's shoulder.

“Shit Geralt, what the devil happened? What was the contract for?” Geralt doesn’t seem to hear him, staring glassily at the fire. Jaskier’s chest tightens, a lump forming in his throat. He’s never seen Geralt like this after a hunt. The tub and food are brought up quickly, and he drags it in himself, sending the attendant away. He doesn’t need anyone else seeing a naked, wounded witcher in his room. He’s not sure what Geralt would do to anyone else who saw him this way anyway. “In the tub.”

Again, he doesn’t respond, and Jaskier walks over, taking Geralt’s hand in his. The older man pulls in a breath as if starved of air, and his pupils are tiny slits as he stares at the point of contact. “C’mon love, lets get you cleaned up.”

This way, holding onto Geralt in some capacity, is the only way that Geralt seems to be able to focus. He hisses at the first contact of the hot water, but Jaskier uses a firm hand on his shoulder to keep Geralt from escaping. He uses the best washcloth they have to gently wipe him down, dabbing at the worst of the cuts and frowning at their jagged edges. The water goes murky and then pink as he works to get the witcher as clean as he can. Once he’s satisfied he leaves Geralt to soak for a moment, digging through their packs until he finds a small round bottle, a red band wrapped around the neck. Swallow. Relief washes through him, and he hurries back to Geralt, pulling the stopper and holding it to Geralt’s lips.

“Drink.” Geralt presses his lips together, twitching away from the bottle, and Jaskier frowns. He takes hold of Geralt’s chin, holding him still, and moves the vial closer again. “Don’t be an ass, or I’ll let those cuts get infected.”

Geralt’s pupils are still miniscule, and if he didn’t know better he’d think that the man was high on something. They stare at each other, Jaskier’s grip tightening bit by bit until Geralt’s hand comes up, taking the vial and tipping it back into his mouth. Jaskier takes the now empty vial and tucks it back away, taking a deep breath to hide the shaking of his hands. Water splashes behind him, and he has to avert his eyes at the sight of Geralt standing up and getting out of the water. The potion must be working, because even though he’s sluggish, he’s moving and acting better than before. He dries off with stiff movements, and grunts before collapsing onto the bed.

“Are you going to eat or sleep?” Geralt’s stomach growls loudly at the mention of food, and Jaskier gives a shaky smile. This, he knows better. He grabs the tray of food and moves back to the bed, humming a soft tune. “Move over.”

Geralt groans but wiggles his way over, allowing Jaskier to clamber up on his knees and tuck himself next to Geralt on the bed. Jaskier drags the nightstand a bit closer and sets down the tray as Geralt settles his head in Jaskier’s lap. He isn’t sure what to do with that, but Geralt holds his hands out for something to eat and Jaskier gives him what’s easiest. Fruits first, then the cheese and bread, and by the time he’s finished all that, even Jaskier can see that sleep is dragging at him. He’s expecting Geralt to move once he’s eaten his fill, but he merely stops asking for food and closes his eyes, his breathing settling down almost immediately. Already the cuts on his chest are sealing shut and fading, and something lightens in Jaskier's chest. He knows Geralt will be okay, he came back relatively whole, but the glassy, lost look sticks in the back of Jaskier’s mind. He’s stuck here for another few hours at least while Geralt sleeps, so he settles in for the long haul and closes his eyes. He trails fingers through Geralt’s hair, messing with the soft strands and gently tugging at any knots he finds.

Jaskier’s headache is gone when he jolts awake later, snorting and blinking his eyes open. The fire in the hearth has burnt to embers, but Jaskier is pleasantly warm even without the covers over him. When he looks down at Geralt he finds golden eyes staring back, and he huffs. He’s being watched quietly, a contemplative look on Geralt’s face, and Jaskier raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Come north with me.” That’s about the last thing that Jaskier had expected, and he chokes on a breath, leaning away to cough and thump at his chest.

“Pardon? I don’t think I heard you right, because the Geralt I know would never ask that. You are Geralt, aren’t you? Not a doppler in disguise?”

The man in his lap wrinkles his nose in such a distinctly Geralt way that though he doesn’t say it, Jaskier believes him already. “No. The potion would have killed me.”

“Ah, so has a grievous head wound occurred?”

“I’m serious.” Jaskier laughs, shaking his head in disbelief, but Geralt is still looking at him with that same contemplative look. “You don’t have to.”

“Of course I’m going. When do we leave?”

“Soon.”

-*-

Soon ends up being by the weeks end, once Geralt is sure Jaskier has warm enough clothes. Jaskier had objected at first; he’s weathered many a winter with what he has, but Geralt insists. Jaskier isn’t sure how they’re going to be able to pay for all of the clothes Geralt tells the tailor they need, but Geralt pays down to the last crown without complaint and without letting Jaskier help. Jaskier has a sneaking suspicion that all Geralt’s higher bounties had been an excuse to get the original sum without complaint. Once they get all they need and load Roach up, there’s nothing stopping them from heading out of Novigrad and toward Kaedwen.

Jaskier has never been this far north, though he’d always dreamt of going to Zerrikania or seeing the valley of Dol Blathanna for himself. He entertains himself with thoughts of far off lands while they trek through the forest, and eventually, rising toward the mountain peaks in the distance. Geralt had warned him before they left that the path up the mountain was dangerous, and that if Jaskier didn’t listen to him he was unlikely to survive the journey up, let alone back down. It wasn’t hard at first, though- it was as if they were on their way to another town for a contract. He’d kept telling himself that even as the terrain got rougher and the air biting cold.

They’re stopped for the night, huddled around a fire that Jaskier hasn’t left since Geralt made it when he speaks. He hasn’t talked much since they got well into the mountains, finding he needed his breath more than they needed conversation.

“I feel as though I’m going to shake my way off the mountain. How do you stand this- this cold?”

“Told you.”

“Yes, well, remind me never to doubt you again about anything weather related. When will it snow again, by the way?”

Geralt pauses then, looking up toward the sky and sniffing before replying in perfect deadpan. “Two hours.”

Jaskier smiles fondly, rolling his eyes and going to tuck himself away in his bedroll for the night. He doesn’t give Geralt the satisfaction of a reaction when snow begins to fall almost exactly two hours later.

-*-

When they finally crest the peak and Kaer Morhen comes into view, Jaskier thought he couldn’t get anymore out of breath. The sight of the keep nestled with its back against the mountain steals whatever air is left in his lungs, and he has to pause to take it all in. Parts of the outer wall are crumbling and he can see an entire side of the keep has collapsed in, but it cuts an imposing figure all the same. Almost more so for what Jaskier can see it’s survived. Like Geralt, the keep has seen more than most would ever know, and carries the battle scars to prove it.

“It’s… breathtaking.” He admits, looking back to find Geralt watching him, a small smile on his face. He doesn’t have any words to truly describe how he feels right now, but Geralt has never needed words, and he can see the understanding in the witcher’s eyes. He’s just as affected by the sight of his home, and he can’t imagine how homesick Geralt must feel climbing the path up to the mountain, or the relief at finally being here. “C’mon Geralt, let’s go see your home.”

Geralt nods, and they descend into the valley, Geralt letting Jaskier run a few paces ahead, breath puffing out ahead of him and ears red from the cold. He keeps a close eye out for any monsters that Vesemir hasn’t had a chance to come out and get, but the way to the entrance is blissfully clear. The gates are open when they finally make it, and two figures stand, arms crossed with twin swords on their backs. Jaskier slows his pace, suddenly nervous at the thought of meeting Geralt’s family. He’s never been to Geralt’s home or met his family, and suddenly he finds himself doing both. He smoothes a hand over his hair, hoping it isn’t too messy, and straightens his cloak a bit.

“I look okay, don’t I?” He looks toward Geralt for an answer, but a slightly higher voice calls out over the distance.

“Hurry it up you slow bastard! I’m freezing my ass off over here.” He hears Geralt growl and mutter something under his breath, but Jaskier raises a hand and waves to the two witchers waiting for them.

“Who do we have here? A paramour of yours?” Jaskier doesn't react to the phrasing, instead glancing to see how Geralt will react. He tries not to let his heart hurt over the fact that Geralt would never think that way.

“You know who he is.” Geralt grits out, glaring at the witcher before him. He’s a bit shorter than the others, hairline receded further back and nose hooked, broken at least twice. Despite that, he’s not bad to look at, and Jaskier mentally makes a note to try and meet an ugly witcher. Jaskier looks between the two obviously feuding witchers, noting the tension and seeking some way to break it. The other witcher though, stands there peacefully, as if he were used to this as an everyday occurrence. He’s handsome, though Jaskier is beginning to think all witchers are. Three wicked scars slash down the right side of his face, and that tickles at his memory. Jaskier stops for a moment, frowning, before a grin splits his face and he reaches out to take the man by the arms. He holds him still, looking him over, and laughs. Both Geralt and the unnamed witcher go still, watching the casual touch with barely concealed interest.

“Eskel! I should have known you were a wolf! I must have been drunker than I thought that night!” Eskel smiles, the scars bisecting his lips tugging with the movement, and draws Jaskier into a tight hug. It only lasts a moment, but Jaskier is rosy cheeked and bright eyed with excitement. Something twists inside Geralt at the sight, and he clenches his teeth together to keep from saying anything stupid.

“Good to see you again, Jaskier. The academy treating you alright?”

“Well they weren’t too happy to lose a professor for the winter, I can tell you that. Oh! Geralt, why didn’t you tell me Eskel was your brother?” Jaskier turns those blue eyes on him, and Geralt just shrugs, unsure of what to say.

“You didn’t tell him?” Jaskier looks over at the other man, and raises a brow when Geralt snarls loudly. “Did he tell you about me at least?”

Jaskier looks the third man up and down once, glances toward Geralt, and then shakes his head. “Must not have been important.”

“Not been- Oh, I like this one Geralt. I’m hurt you haven’t brought him sooner.”

“Lambert.” Geralt’s voice is full of warning, but Lambert gives a tooth filled grin and motions for them to actually come into the keep.

“Let’s stop standing around, your bard has a tour to get to and Vesemir has a thousand bullshit tasks for us to get done. I tell you, the old man had a list written down before I even stepped my ass into the courtyard.”

Lambert takes off at a brisk pace, seeming more inclined to get out of the cold than chat anymore, and everyone else follows him. They pass through the training grounds first, leaving Roach at the stable, and Jaskier doesn't object when his arms are filled with a pack or two. He just shoulders the weight and trails along behind, eyes wide and flying to take in every detail he can. Geralt lingers behind a bit, occasionally pointing out a small detail Jaskier hadn't noticed yet, warmth blooming in his chest at the smile Jaskier gives in return.

"Is he always like that?" Jaskier leans over to whisper, eyeing the back of the grumpy witcher's head.

"Wait until Vesemir gets him going." Jaskier snickers, bumping their shoulders together lightly. His cheeks are red from the cold, and he's glad for the ability to hide his blush for once.

Jaskier wants to stop and look at everything as they head for the keep, but Geralt takes him gently by the elbow to keep him going. He would fight the grip, but Geralt reassures him he'll have plenty of time to explore while they're snowed in. For now, Geralt is obviously itching to get settled and see his brothers. So Jaskier tells himself to be patient, and doesn't voice any objections to their pace. He's going to have plenty of time to overturn every stone. Lambert and Eskel break off when they finally step inside the keep, giving Geralt a look before making a beeline for where a round of Gwent seems to have been abandoned.

"How did they know to stop and come out?" He doesn't realize he's voiced it aloud until Geralt answers, shrugging and heading for the far side of the room.

"Witcher senses."

"They can't be that good."

"They are!" Lambert calls after them, voice resounding through the room and bouncing off the walls. Jaskier scowls, throwing a dirty look toward the eavesdropping witcher before retreating into the next room. Geralt leads them up to where the guest bedroom is, pausing on the landing before the door. For the first time in years, Jaskier thinks that Geralt looks nervous.

“Is this mine?” He asks softly, not wanting to spook him but eager to look around. Geralt blinks a couple of times, swallows, and then nods. The sight of Geralt nervous is rather endearing, and Jaskier falls for him a bit harder. “Well, show me in, dear witcher.”

Geralt twists the knob and pushes the door open, stepping inside and out of the way. Jaskier follows behind him, stopping in the doorway as he sweeps the room with a first cursory glance. It’s slow, but Jaskier’s bright eyes soften, and a smile curls at the corners of his lips. A large fireplace is tucked against the far wall, near it a bed that clearly hasn’t been touched in many, many years. The blankets seem a bit threadbare, but Jaskier bets they’re warm, and he could go for a good nap right now, if he’s honest. Old velvet, deep red and trimmed in gold hangs from the ceiling along the walls, making the room seem warmer than it actually is. The middle of the room is dominated by a fur carpet, and a wooden table is shoved into one corner, two stools tucked underneath.

“It isn’t much.” Geralt mumbles, growing more and more restless the longer Jaskier stands and stares. Jaskier takes a couple more steps in, dumping his things on the bed and turning to Geralt. There are tears in his eyes, sticking to his lashes and slipping down his cheeks in shimmering streaks. Geralt reaches up to brush them away without a thought, thumb sweeping gently across sun kissed skin. “Jask-”

“It’s perfect.” Jaskier leans into Geralt's touch, reaching up to cradle his hand as he places a gentle kiss onto the calloused palm. Geralt’s whole hand tingles pleasantly at the contact, and he takes a step closer as Jaskier closes his eyes, sniffling softly. “You did all this for me?”

“You deserve it. To be comfortable. I know we live a little- rough.” He isn’t sure what else to say, is choking on the warmth and yearning and love rising in his chest. Jaskier’s eyes are made even more brilliant by his tears when he opens them again, and Geralt loses himself in them. They’re inches apart now, and Geralt’s nose fills with the scent of cold, lavender and that edge of chamomile. Jaskier looks at him, searching for something, and Geralt is about to do something very stupid when Jaskier does it first. He leans up, closing the space between them and gently pressing a warm kiss to Geralt’s lips. His touch is featherlight, like Geralt could break at any moment, and in a way he does. A dam fractures in his chest at the contact, and Geralt uses the hand still cradling Jaskier’s cheek to guide him closer as feelings he’d hidden deep away rage through him.

Their lips press together harder, less hesitant, and Jaskier’s hands come up to curl in the edges of Geralt’s cloak. He presses himself up against Geralt, drawing him closer as their breath mingles and Geralt’s fingers tangle in his hair. Jaskier hardly knows where he begins and Geralt ends, and it isn’t until they hear a sharp whistle and an “Atta boy!” from the bottom of the steps that they break apart. Jaskier is breathing hard, and he laughs when Geralt growls, glaring toward the stairs. Jaskier tugs lightly on the cloak in his hands, and Geralt’s attention is drawn back as easily as that, golden eyes soft in the low light coming from the hall.

“You know, if I’d known this would happen when you brought me to visit, I would have insisted years ago.”

“Years?” Geralt hardly recognizes his own voice, rough and out of breath, and he leans to kiss the smile from Jaskier’s lips on instinct alone. Jaskier melts into the kiss, leaning heavily against Geralt. He slides his hands over Geralt's chest before pulling back and bumping his nose against Geralt's.

“You’re very dense, when you want to be. I don’t normally nurse witchers back to health for fun, you know. Blood isn’t my strong suit, nor are monster guts. I’m not very inclined to write dozens of songs about them just because I like fame either, though the stories do make good coin.” Jaskier pauses, smiling when he feels a rumble vibrate under his hands. He goes on tiptoes, placing a soft kiss on the corner of Geralt’s mouth in apology. “The fame is nice, I’ll admit. It makes it easier to travel with you, to provide something, even if it’s only songs that drive you mad.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier kisses him again, chuckling softly against his lips and just enjoying being close.

“I couldn’t agree more. Now, I know you’re eager to visit with your brothers, so go see them.” Geralt begins to protest, brow scrunching, but Jaskier silences him with a firm, hot kiss, and Geralt finds he’s rather enjoying being silenced like this. “You get to see me all year. They don’t. I’ve got some unpacking to do, and a nap to take. Come up later, if you’d like?”

“Mhm.” Though he’s still reluctant, he does as Jaskier asks, retreating back down the stairs with silent steps. Jaskier closes the door behind him and gets a fire roaring in the hearth, grinning like a fool. His whole body tingles, and he traces his lips with trembling fingers. He’s sure he’s going to wake up any minute, no matter how the cold pinches at his toes to tell him he’s really here. In Kaer Morhen, with a witcher who’s spent the better part of this year earning enough coin just to bring him home to his family.

Jaskier putters around unpacking as he told Geralt he was going to, and once the room has warmed sufficiently he sheds his outerwear. The velvet helps trap the heat in surprisingly well, and when he peeks behind them he finds windows. The fur is soft under his feet as he digs through their packs, trying to find something to wear to nap in. Near the bottom of the pack is a white shirt, something Jaskier has never seen Geralt wear, but it’s soft and warm and smells like him. He slips it on without a second thought, swimming in the fabric, and then tucks himself into the bed for a nap.

He’s woken up by the door clicking shut a little while later. There’s only one person he thinks that would come in without knocking, but for now he keeps his eyes shut and snuggles a bit deeper under the covers. He waits until he hears the soft clink of metal to open his eyes, and watches lazily as Geralt methodically strips out of his armor. His back is to the bed, and Jaskier enjoys the view more than he was allowed to before. When Geralt tugs his shirt over his head and glances over his shoulder, Jaskier doesn’t bother pretending to be bashful. His gaze is hungry as it trails over pale skin before meeting Geralt’s eyes, the man quirking a brow. Jaskier merely winks in response, warmth blooming in his chest at the soft chuckle he earns.

“How are your brothers?”

“Nosy.” Jaskier rolls onto his back as his witcher pads over, sitting on the side of the bed and leaning down to kiss him softly. Jaskier reaches a hand up to thread his fingers in Geralt’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp and tasting the sigh that brushes against his lips. Geralt shifts, turning himself so he isn’t quite so contorted, and Jaskier moves with him, sitting up and letting the blankets pool in his lap. Geralt uses a hand to steady Jaskier, fingers splaying against his ribs before they bunch in the fabric of Jaskier’s shirt. Jaskier hears Geralt’s breath stutter and catch in his throat, and the kiss moves from soft and sweet to heavy and hot. Geralt laps at his lips, nipping gently until Jaskier opens up. He’s swept away by the way that Geralt is able to use his tongue, and heat pools low in his belly at the implications of it.

Jaskier’s side cramps with the way they’re sitting after a few blissful minutes, and he pushes the blankets back, breaking the kiss for a second to clamber into Geralt’s lap. Geralt scoots himself back a little bit, plants his feet better and grabs at Jaskier’s shirt again, yanking him close. Geralt leans up, trying to kiss him, but Jaskier smiles, taking a fistful of Geralt’s hair and tugging. The soft whine that he gets in response goes right to his groin, and he mouths at the sensitive skin just under Geralt’s jaw. When he nips at the skin, teases at leaving a mark Geralt’s whines again, arching his neck and pressing up into the touch. Jaskier can’t deny Geralt when he asks so nicely, and he kisses his way to a nice spot before digging his teeth in. His grip tightens in Geralt’s hair when Geralt’s hips buck, keeping himself from being displaced. The witcher keens needily underneath him, and Jaskier hums against his skin. Jaskier bites a bit harder before releasing and sucking at the mark, leaning back to admire his work. Witcher’s skin is hard to mark, but he's pretty proud of himself at the mark that he’s made. He leans down to add a couple more, enjoying the sounds that he coaxes out with each sharp point of pressure.

Bruises bloom in a pretty arc of teeth marks, darkest purple in the middle and fading toward a lighter pink at the edges along the side of Geralt’s neck. Geralt is panting, hands clenching and unclenching against Jaskier’s sides, and Jaskier brushes his thumb lightly over one of the marks. Geralt’s eyelids flutter at the feeling, and Jaskier shudders at the rush of power it brings him to see Geralt this way.

“What got you so worked up, love? Hmm?” Jaskier keeps constant contact with Geralt in some way, sitting in his lap and rolling his hips lazily as the man comes back to him slowly. He’s sure Geralt is back when he blinks rapidly, hands grabbing onto him and holding him still. Geralt rolls his neck, stretching to kiss Jaskier before answering.

“The shirt.”

“Oh?” Jaskier purrs, rolling his hips down until Geralt tightens his grip again and presses him down firmly. Once Jaskier stops trying to move Geralt’s hands wander, skimming over Jaskier’s thighs and back up, hands sliding under Jaskier's shirt. Geralt's fingers tickle at the soft skin over Jaskier’s ribs before he brushes over one of Jaskier's nipples with the pad of his thumb. The younger man hums at the attention, draping his arms over Geralt’s shoulders and kissing the shell of his ear. “What about the shirt, Geralt?”

“S’mine.” Jaskier hums in encouragement, and Geralt shivers under him. “Makes you smell like me.”

“And you like that, don’t you? That all the others here know I’m yours?” The answering growl and roll of Geralt’s hips is all Jaskier needs, and he kisses just under Geralt’s ear, sucking at the sensitive skin until a faint mark blooms. “Geralt?”

“Mmm?” Geralt noses at Jaskier’s hair, breathing in softly as his hands wander once more, smoothing down Jaskier’s thighs. He isn’t wearing pants, and his smallclothes don’t hide anything and Geralt aches to touch.

“Can I- can I touch?” Geralt grinds his hips up, shuddering when Jaskier gasps so close to his ear, and Geralt does it again just to hear Jaskier make that same sweet sound.

“Only if I can.” Jaskier surges forward to kiss him then, whispering ‘deal’ against his lips as he fumbles to open the fly of Geralt’s pants. Geralt falls back against the bed, taking Jaskier with him and never letting him stray too far.

-*-

When Jaskier wakes up that next morning, he’s sore in ways he hasn’t been in months, and sated in a happy, boneless kind of way. Geralt is already up, no surprise there, and Jaskier groans, sitting up to get dressed. Geralt slips the shirt from last night on over his head, tugging his hair out of the collar and tucking the ends into his pants. It’s a bit rumpled, but Jaskier helps fix it as best he can while dressing himself for the day. He knows not to doubt how cold it is anymore, and dresses warmer than he would normally. Geralt waits patiently by the door, tying his hair back and holding a hand out to Jaskier once he’s got his boots on.

“Why are we up this early again?”

“Chores.”

“Right, right.” Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand and lets himself be guided, yawning and rubbing at his eyes down the stairs. He trusts Geralt enough not to let him fall, and together the two of them pad into the main hall. No one else seems to be around other than Eskel, toiling away in the kitchen, and though he eyes the bruises blooming along Geralt’s throat, he doesn’t comment.

“Vesemir’s waiting for you outside. Jaskier, you’re with me.”

“See you at breakfast.” Geralt presses a kiss into Jaskier’s hair before heading outside, leaving the bard and the other witcher alone. Jaskier wanders over, wringing his hands, and Eskel nods toward the space next to him.

“Roll up your sleeves, we’ve got bread to make.”

“Bread?” Jaskier does as he’s told though, and spends the better part of an hour learning the basics of doughworking from Eskel. Once they’ve got the bread in what Jaskier assumes is a huge version of a stereotypical stone oven Eskel has him wipe up and begin to cut up the vegetables they'll need for the day. Jaskier falls into the rhythm of work easily, moving past Eskel without crashing into him and tossing vegetables into a pot set to simmer over the fire until lunchtime. He even takes the time to tidy the kitchen up a bit until Lambert and Geralt come inside, shoving each other and laughing on their way to get food. Jaskier watches them fondly, snapping a spoon across Lambert’s knuckles when he tries to nose around the stew and shooing him away. Eskel gives him a proud smile and winks, heading off with his brothers to sit down and eat.

Jaskier leans against the counter watching them for a moment, and jumps when he hears footsteps come up next to him. The witcher next to him has to be Vesemir, based on the grey hair and fact that the only other witchers here are all at the table in front of him.

“So, you’re the bard he kept talking about, hmm?”

“And you’re Vesemir, his father?” Vesemir nods, arms crossed across his chest.

“Tomorrow morning, get up a bit earlier. The chickens need tending if we’re going to have enough meat and eggs for the winter.”

“Yes sir.” Jaskier is sincere, looking toward the witcher to find Vesemir looking back. He doesn’t feel trapped like he usually would; instead he finds it’s more like Vesemir is reading him, and hasn’t found anything particularly horrible yet.

“Hey bard! Eat before everything gets cold.”

“Coming!” Jaskier turns to Vesemir to ask if he’s going to eat as well, but the older witcher has disappeared, and Jaskier blinks in confusion before grabbing himself a plate and going to join the others at the table. He settles himself on the bench next to Geralt and digs into his food, enjoying the fluffiness of the eggs and the lovely crust on the bread from yesterday. Jaskier is halfway through his plate when a sly look comes over Lambert’s face.

“So,” he begins, and Jaskier looks up. Lambert uses his fork to gesture toward Geralt, raising a brow. “Was that you?”

“Lambert.” Geralt starts, but Jaskier holds up a hand and Geralt goes blissfully quiet.

“I would take care, Lambert.”

“What, is it crime to wonder who made my brother's neck look like an ekimmara's amateur work?”

“Unless I deign to tell you, I’d prefer if you keep your thoughts to yourself.” Jaskier’s eyes narrow minutely, and Eskel looks between the two of them. They’re two untested forces, and no one is sure who’s going to break first.

“What, can’t handle a few hard questions? If so, I’m surprised you made it up the mountain.” Jaskier stands up, pushing the table up against Lambert, and in spectacular form, punches him directly in the nose. Lambert goes crashing off of the chair and takes the table with him, swearing. Geralt stares, wide eyed at Jaskier with his fork still poised for a bite. Eskel had picked his plate up well before, and he's clutching it in mute shock as Lambert rages on the floor. He sits up, gripping his nose and shoving the table off of himself with the other hand. Eskel looks between his brother, then the bard, then back to his brother, and begins to laugh. Louder and louder until he’s doubled over trying desperately to pull in breaths between laughing at Lambert and telling him he finally got what he deserved.

Jaskier shakes his hand out as Eskel laughs, blood staining his skin red. He stoops down and plucks a napkin from the table, using it to dab at his knuckles with mechanical indifference. There’s a messy crunch as Lambert rights his nose, and Eskel finally stops laughing long enough to help him off the floor. Geralt has abandoned his fork by now and comes to gently take the napkin from him, inspecting the skin carefully. Most of the blood seems to be Lambert's, but Jaskier has split two of his knuckles, and the skin around them is already bruising.

Geralt wipes away the blood best he can and glances up at Jaskier when he flinches. "Okay?"

"Fine." Jaskier's voice is light, almost forcefully so, but he smiles wistfully when Geralt gently kisses the first knuckle, then the second. "You know that isn't sanitary."

"No, ancient magic. Mothers have used it for centuries." This makes Jaskier smile, genuine this time, and he grips Geralt's fingers weakly. Jaskier turns to Lambert, watching as he presses a napkin to his nose to staunch the rest of the bleeding. Geralt is ready to get between them if Lambert decides to be spiteful, but instead he sees something like respect in Lambert's eyes.

"You're alright, bard. You're alright. Never had a human knock me flat."

"Pray you don't see me angrier." Jaskier replies with deadly seriousness. This time it's apprehension that shines in Lambert's eyes, and he gives a curt nod.

While Geralt goes to get something for Jaskier's knuckles the bard helps right the table, picking up cups and plates off the floor. It's a good thing they don't seem fond of fine cutlery, or Jaskier would be picking shards of ceramic off the floor. Instead all he has to do is use another napkin to gather the eggs and bread off the floor and dispose of it. Lambert helps once his nose has stopped bleeding, and waves Jaskier off when Geralt comes back to finish tending to him.

Jaskier follows Geralt a few steps away from the table, hopping to sit on the tabletop. Geralt nudges at his knee and steps easily between Jaskier's legs, taking hold of his hand again to look at it.

"In the hall, Geralt? You could at least wait until they'd left." The joke is weak but Geralt takes pity on him and chuckles, shaking his head.

"I'm sure they know to respect your privacy now." Jaskier hmms at that, hissing when Geralt presses a thumb into the bones of his hand. They shift uncomfortably, but nothing moves out of place and Geralt seems pleased with that. Once he's certain Jaskier hasn't broken anything he smears a sharp, pungent salve over Jaskier's knuckles and uses a bit of cloth to bandage his hand. "Good as new. No lute today."

Jaskier gasps, affronted, and presses his injured hand to his chest. "Whatever shall I do without it? How else am I to write my newest ballad? 'The man who punched the Prick'?"

Geralt wrinkles his nose, and Jaskier nods sagely. "You're right, the name could use some work. Back to the drawing board I suppose."

"Whatever you do, it'll have to be left handed." Jaskier winks, raising a brow, and Geralt snorts. He doesn't say it, but he gives Jaskier a look that says later.

-*-

Jaskier fits himself into their routine without much of a fuss after that; he gets up to tend the livestock with Vesemir long before anyone else, and joins Eskel in the kitchen preparing the day's meals after he's done. After breakfast the boys head for the training grounds while Jaskier makes for the library where he pours over tomes no one has seen in decades and gathers information for his songs. Vesemir joins him when they're finished with training, and Jaskier spends an hour picking his brain before lunch. Despite his gruff exterior, Vesemir seems glad to have someone to talk to who doesn't try to piss him off. Lunch is a short affair, just a quick meal before everyone branches off to finish up final chores and take some time for themselves. Jaskier spends his time after lunch in the woods surrounding the keep, setting out traps for the smaller game and keeping Geralt close for anything bigger. Dinner is the longest affair of the night, where the ale is broken out and Lambert insists on at least three songs. The first time Jaskier had tried to sing Toss A Coin he'd been met by three golden glares, and hasn't touched the song since. That was fine though, because Jaskier had plenty to sing about and more that no one had ever heard yet.

It’s nearing the end of their first month that the keep seems to get busier than ever. The snow has fallen thick and there’s no more going out into the forest, so Jaskier spends most of his days stuck inside. The witchers still train despite the biting cold, and Jaskier insists on helping them clear the training grounds of snow when he has time. None of them will let him stay outside for more than an hour, not when he shakes the way he does even with three or four layers on. The other witchers seem to grow more distant too, as if the end of the month meant something that Jaskier wasn’t privy to.

They’re in bed after retiring early from dinner, Jaskier in one of Geralt’s shirts when Geralt tugs him a bit closer and tucks his nose into Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier hums softly, never glancing up from his book but reaching to take Geralt’s hand in his.

“Hmm?” Neither of them need many words anymore, and Jaskier doesn’t want to break the cozy atmosphere they have by talking. Geralt presses a kiss against his temple, and Jaskier smiles. Geralt doesn’t seem to want to say anything either, he just seems to want to hold Jaskier a bit closer and smell his hair. They sit that way for a little while until Geralt sighs, tugging on his shirt and whining softly. Jaskier turns, kissing Geralt gently before going back to his book, but that doesn’t seem to sate him this time. He whines again, and Jaskier finally closes his book and tucks in on the floor under the bed. “Bed time?”

Geralt nods, and Jaskier slides down further under the covers, bundling Geralt into his arms and closing his eyes. Geralt tucks his head under Jaskier’s chin, nose pressed against his collar bone, and throws an arm over Jaskier’s stomach. The fire in the hearth is still roaring merrily, but the light isn’t enough to bother either of them and Jaskier drifts off to sleep warm and cozy.

A breeze rustles Jaskier’s hair later that night and he shivers, huddling under his covers to try and block out the cold. He’s almost drifted off to sleep again when he realizes there shouldn’t be a breeze at all, and he sits up in bed. Moonlight floods his room, washing out the color of the velvet and casting everything in stark contrast. The bed next to him is empty, the sheets cold, and Jaskier frowns. Where in the devil could Geralt have gone?

The floor is icy when he slips out of bed, and he tosses a few more logs on the dying embers of their fire and hurries to yank on pants. He shoves his feet into his boots without socks and grabs whichever cloak is closest, which happens to be his. He heads out of his room with the singular task of finding where Geralt has gone, wrapping his cloak tight around him and shuffling down the steps. Geralt’s room a floor below his is empty, even more barren than he would have expected, so Jaskier carries on. He’s never been up this late in the night, and the keep is eerily silent without any arguing witchers or the crackle of a fire. He pops his head into the kitchen, thinking Geralt, with his bottomless stomach might have wanted a snack, but again he finds the room empty.

He’s about to head up to the library when he hears wood splintering and cracking outside, and Jaskier is heading for the huge doors of the keep without a second thought. He wouldn’t be cutting wood would he? The barn out back is full up, and besides, why would he do it so late? Jaskier follows where he thinks the sound came from and trudges through a couple of inches of snow to the courtyard. He hears the sound again, and this time he can tell it’s coming from the training yard. He doesn’t bother being quiet, breaths puffing out in front of him as he pulls in sharp, jagged breaths. He didn’t dress to be outside long, if at all, and he hurries to the training grounds so he can get Geralt to come back to bed.

A snarl ripples through the air as Jaskier gets closer, and he stops at the low wall of the walkway to peer over the edge. He looks just in time to see Geralt toss both Eskel and Lambert off of him, the two witchers flying through the air and landing nimbly in the snow. They charge back at him, and Geralt sweeps Lambert’s feet from under him, slamming the palm of his hand against Eskel’s chest. Eskel goes down wheezing, and Jaskier is running before he can think about what the hell is going on. He slips and slides down the path and rounds the corner into the training yard, staring in open mouthed horror as Lambert sends Geralt crashing into the scaffolding on the far side of the yard. Wood groans and cracks under Geralt’s weight, and judging by the damage it isn’t the first time he’s been tossed that way either.

“Melitele's tits, stop.” His voice is shrill in the cold air and he’s beginning to lose feeling in his toes as he stands ankle deep in the snow. “What the hell are you guys doing out here?”

Three pairs of cat eyes lock on him at once and he gets three different kinds of growls. Lambert starts toward him, snarling when Eskel grabs his shoulder and digs his fingers in. Eskel hasn’t looked away from him, but his voice is rough and full of barely concealed rage. “Go inside.”

“What are you guys doing out here? Beating each other in the middle of the night? For what?”

“Jaskier, you don’t have much time. Go. Inside.” Eskel’s voice is strange, strangled and blurry. The witcher glances behind him, toward the sky, and Jaskier glances back too. The moon is huge and yellow and so, so impossibly close this high in the mountains. The sight would be mesmerizing if it weren’t for the snarl and feeling of something warm and very, very riled up emanating behind him. He swallows, heart fluttering in his chest, and turns around slowly to find Geralt inches from him. Jaskier relaxes a bit, smiling, and jumps when Geralt’s hand comes up and grabs his arm tightly.

His fingertips dig in mercilessly and he gasps in pain, turning and placing a hand against Geralt’s chest. “Geralt, let me go.”

“You’re supposed to be asleep.” He grits out, grip loosening only marginally. “Inside.”

“Not without you.” Geralt snarls, shaking his head, and finally releases his grip.

“You don’t want me with you. Not tonight.”

“I do. Geralt, tell me what’s going on. Please.” His voice is pitifully soft in his own ears, and Geralt lets out a sharp breath before jerking his head toward the keep.

“Geralt.” Eskel’s voice is sharp, afraid, and Jaskier isn’t sure why. Lambert is shaking under Eskel’s grip, and Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand, leading him out of the snow and back toward the keep. Well, it looks like he’s leading, but he has a feeling Geralt is really herding him back inside instead. Jaskier grips Geralt’s hand tight, afraid that if he lets go Geralt is going to bolt back outside and he won’t get his answers. He shivers as he makes his way back upstairs, slipping into his room and shutting the door as quickly as he can to keep in the heat from the fire. Geralt stands resolutely by the door, back rigid and fists clenched. Jaskier tosses another log on to keep the fire going strong and unclasps his cloak, tossing it on the table.

“Geralt, what’s going on? I woke up alone and- and I’m not sure what I did or what’s happening to you but-” His voice wobbles, betraying him, and he turns around to see Geralt trembling. Jaskier pads closer, taking one of Geralt’s hands and kissing his knuckles one by one. He can feel the fine tremor that goes up Geralt’s arm at the contact. “Talk to me, please. Don’t lock me out.”

“It’s a witcher thing. We- monsters are strongest during a full moon- but- so are we. Energy has to go- somewhere.”

“So this happens every month? Is that why you always took longer contracts around the full moon?”

“Yes. Don’t wanna- hurt you.” Jaskier huffs, stepping a bit closer. Geralt takes a step back, Jaskier following, and he growls when his back hits the wall. “Jaskier, don’t-”

“You won’t hurt me. Not in any way that can’t be fixed, or any way that I would mind.” Jaskier rises up on his toes, brushing his lips against Geralt’s gingerly. He presses himself bodily against the older man, and Geralt’s hands come up to grab at his sides. Geralt whines, shaking, and Jaskier’s grin is serpentine. “You said the energy has to go somewhere, right? Well, I happen to know a couple of ways to get rid of energy without having to be in the cold.”

Geralt groans then, breathing out sharply and drawing Jaskier tighter against him. Jaskier captures his lips in a firm kiss, slipping a hand up into Geralt’s hair to tangle his fingers in the silver strands. Geralt leans forward, away from the wall, and Jaskier bends with him. “Jask, if I-”

“You won’t.” He whispers, and Geralt can feel his smile as Jaskier kisses him briefly. “And if you do, you’ll be back out in the cold for the night. Deal?”

Geralt nods, heat roiling under his skin and hands grabbing roughly at Jaskier. They’re about as close as they can be, but Geralt presses him closer anyway and catches his lips in a filthy, heated kiss. Jaskier moans into the kiss and laps into Geralt’s mouth, tasting his breath and jolting at what he finds. He isn’t sure whether it’s the moon or Geralt, but his fangs are long and sharp, and the way Eskel’s voice sounded garbled makes more sense now. It doesn’t deter Jaskier in the slightest, and heat licks down his spine at the thought of those teeth leaving pretty marks. Jaskier breaks away to kiss down the length of Geralt’s jaw, nipping gently.

Geralt moans suddenly, fingers digging into Jaskier’s sides as Jaskier kisses his neck, palming him through his pants and using his other hand to pin Geralt’s hips back. His head tips back against the wall, baring his neck, and Jaskier spends some time leaving small marks. Deft fingers tug at the ties of Geralt’s pants, and the older man jolts when Jaskier takes him in hand, tugging him out of his pants. He almost complains that his fingers are cold, but the temperature difference between them does something funny to his stomach, and he isn’t sure he wants Jaskier to stop touching him.

Jaskier huffs hotly against his neck, stroking him slowly and pressing his thumb against the head. He listens to every whine and twitch of Geralt’s hips, adjusting his grip and speed until Geralt is writhing back against the wall, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. One of Geralt’s hands lets go of Jaskier and he cups the bard's cheek, tipping his head up and kissing him desperately. The kiss is messy, but neither of them care, Geralt groaning into Jaskier’s mouth when Jaskier pulls back too soon. Jaskier’s eyes are dark, the pupil swallowing most of his iris, and he turns his head, nipping at Geralt’s thumb and smirking when Geralt twitches in his hand. “Be good.”

Geralt isn’t sure what in the hell he’s doing to be bad, but then Jaskier is sinking to his knees in front of him and all his breath leaves him at once. Jaskier glances up, gauging his reaction, and leans forward to place a wet, openmouthed kiss on the side of Geralt’s cock. He doesn’t stop there, humming and licking a long strip up the underside before taking the head into his mouth. Geralt’s hips twitch forward and Jaskier raises an eyebrow, lapping at the slit in what Geralt supposes is reprimand. He only whimpers in response, mind going blank when Jaskier hums, taking him further into his mouth. He bobs his head achingly slow, enjoying the weight of Geralt’s cock in his mouth and his taste on his tongue. Jaskier can feel his jaw complaining already, but he welcomes the soreness. They’d done a lot in the month that they’d been here, but Jaskier seems particularly fond of being on his knees whenever he can.

Geralt buries his fingers in Jaskier’s hair as he pushes deep but stops short of all the way, eyelids fluttering at the feeling. Jaskier’s mouth is so incredibly wet and warm around him, and he’s unable to help himself this time when his hips twitch forward. Much to his surprise Jaskier moans, hands coming up to grab the sides of his thighs and urge him forward. Geralt is gentle at first, pressing forward until his cock hits the back of Jaskier’s throat and then pulling back. Jaskier doesn’t let him get far, chasing him and swirling his tongue around the head. Geralt growls, fingers tightening in Jaskier’s hair in warning, but Jaskier is persistent, only stopping when Geralt snaps his hips forward roughly. The vibrations from Jaskier’s moans rock through him, and Geralt tips his head back, setting a rougher pace than he’d thought about before.

Jaskier doesn’t seem bothered by it at all, swallowing around him and tilting his head to make the angle easier. Geralt glances down, and the sight of Jaskier’s lips stretched around his cock, drool on his chin as Geralt fucks into his mouth makes his cock twitch hard. Pleasure washes over him in steady waves, pooling in his belly and making his muscles clench as he lets out a shaking breath. His hips stutter, Geralt moaning and tugging on Jaskier’s hair. He mumbles Jaskier’s name in warning, closer than he’d like to admit, and Jaskier moans, fingers pressing into Geralt’s thighs and urging him forward again. Geralt grips Jaskier’s hair tight, and he’s sure Jaskier will tell him to stop, to let go, but Jaskier bobs his head and sucks harder, all too eager to please. He doesn’t bother trying to warn Jaskier again, grinding into his mouth and shuddering as his release hits him, heat searing from his head to his toes. Jaskier takes him as deep as he can, nose pressed to his skin and throat tightening around him as Geralt comes, hips stuttering. His vision whites out as Jaskier pulls back, sucking and lapping at the head until Geralt is overstimulated and has to use his hold in Jaskier’s hair to keep him still.

He can feel his thighs trembling underneath Jaskier’s hands, and he tries to regulate his breathing as best he can as Jaskier pants, leaning into Geralt’s hand and whining softly. Arousal, sweet and heady, overwhelms any other scent in the room, and Geralt guides Jaskier to his feet. He uses his thumb to wipe Jaskier’s chin before leaning in, kissing him thoroughly and tasting himself on Jaskier’s tongue. Jaskier whines into his mouth, shifting, and Geralt stoops a bit, scooping the bard up easily. Jaskier wraps his legs around Geralt’s hips, muscled thighs flexing as his kisses harder, nips at Geralt’s lower lip and only pulls away to yank Geralt’s shirt up and over his head. Jaskier’s cock is hard against his stomach, and he grinds up, craving friction as Geralt carries him to bed. Geralt walks without really looking, and he grunts when his shins hit the bedframe and he tips forward. Jaskier gasps as they sway, and Geralt catches them before he squishes Jaskier on accident. Jaskier’s nails dig into his shoulders as his heart thunders, and Geralt snarls, pressing him back into the bed and grinding down.

“Fuck- Geralt-” Jaskier arches up against him, digging his nails in harder and gasping when Geralt bites at his neck. Geralt’s chest rumbles against his, and Jaskier realizes with a jolt that he’s purring. Jaskier drags his nails down across Geralt’s chest, leaving angry red marks, and Geralt trembles. Jaskier uses his heels to push at Geralt’s pants, sick of clothing being between them, and Geralt moves to help. Geralt is now blissfully naked, but Jaskier is still fully clothed and he fumbles with the fly of his own pants. His hands are batted away so Geralt can make quick work of the ties, and Jaskier groans when some of the pressure on his cock is lessened. He’s hard, painfully so, and he feels like he could come just from Geralt looking at him with those cat eyes of his. When Jaskier moves to take his shirt off Geralt stops him, eyes dark at the sight of Jaskier bare but wearing Geralt's too big shirt.

“The- more I hurt, the rougher I get-” He’s trying to explain best he can when his mind isn’t quite so jumbled, and Jaskier’s scent spikes with what Geralt can only describe as love.

“I won’t break.” Jaskier promises, cupping the back of Geralt’s neck and dragging him down into a kiss. And he won’t- he knows his own limits better than anyone could imagine, and he also knows what he wants. What he wants just so happens to line up with what Geralt needs in the moment. Jaskier slides his fingers up into Geralt’s hair and grabs a tight fistful, pulling and reveling in the snarl and snap of Geralt’s hips, arousal sweeping over him in waves. Geralt sits up, Jaskier losing his grip, and Jaskier tries to go with him, but Geralt pushes him back and leans to grab something from the nightstand. Jaskier knows instantly what it is and his cock throbs. “Wanna fuck me?”

Geralt growls low, nostrils flaring, and Jaskier is the one to crowd into his space this time, thighs bracketing around Geralt’s hips as their cocks slide together. The friction is delicious and Jaskier spends a moment just grinding down until he hears the pop of the stopper. Geralt has hooked his chin over Jaskier’s shoulder to see what he’s doing, and Jaskier shudders when oil-slick fingers dip between his cheeks, drawing tight circles around his rim. He croons at the sensation, grinding his hips forward and gasping when Geralt’s chin digs into his shoulder. Jaskier takes Geralt’s earlobe between his teeth and tugs, gasping into his ear when Geralt presses against his rim with a warm finger. Jaskier goes still, focusing on that one sensation as Geralt slowly pushes in. Jaskier moans, rocking his hips down, and Geralt presses a second finger in quickly after the first.

Jaskier whimpers at the stretch, squeezing around Geralt’s fingers and rocking between his fingers and his groin. Geralt shifts, pressing sharp teeth against Jaskier’s neck and rumbling when Jaskier’s cock twitches between them. Geralt thrusts his fingers in and out slowly, enjoying the way that Jaskier squirms and begs, whining when Geralt teases a third finger before pulling back and thrusting his fingers in again. Geralt’s skin is flushed, hot with the roaring fire at his back, but Jaskier has left the velvet pulled back and a cold breeze sweeps through the room. Jaskier is so close to coming, moving desperately between grinding down on Geralt and riding his fingers, and he still hasn’t added another finger. Jaskier slides his hands down Geralt’s back, over the many ridges of his scars, and rakes his nails back up fiercely, Geralt howling.

Jaskier is expecting more, aches for it, but he cries out all the same when Geralt shoves a third finger in him and crooks his fingers, rubbing mercilessly against his prostate. Jaskier’s release builds rapidly in his stomach, scorching through him, and he whimpers pitifully when Geralt’s other hand clamps around the base of his cock, squeezing tight.

“Wh- no, nonono Geralt please. Please.” Jaskier begs, writhing in Geralt’s lap as fingers crook inside him again, rubbing hard and making his cock dribble. Geralt doesn't seem to hear him anymore though, and he pulls his fingers out completely, waiting until he knows Jaskier isn’t going to come. Jaskier’s cock is flushed an angry red, and even the breeze coming from the old window makes him whimper. Geralt lifts him from his lap, turning him around and rearranging him the way he likes. Jaskier moves pliantly under his guidance, tucking a pillow under his chin as Geralt slides a hand down his spine and presses Jaskier’s chest into the bed. Jaskier hears the pop of the cork again, and he tries to turn his head to look back at Geralt to watch what he’s doing.

Geralt drapes himself over Jaskier’s back, fitting them together and lazily grinding his cock between Jaskier’s cheeks. Geralt has used plenty of oil, and every time the head catches on his rim Jaskier tries to angle so that Geralt can slide in, but Geralt just hums and adjusts his own angle, denying him a little while longer.

“Told me to be good, but then did that.” Geralt’s voice wavers with the purr that’s taken residence in his chest, and Jaskier whines. “S’like you don’t want to walk tomorrow.”

“I’d consider it a failure on my part if I can.” Jaskier gasps out, sliding a hand back to scratch at Geralt’s thigh. That small movement costs him, and Geralt snarls in his ear, bearing more of his weight down on Jaskier.

“Stop it. You don’t know-” Jaskier does it again, and then again, raking over that same spot until he’s almost certain that if he does anymore Geralt will actually begin to bleed. Geralt trembles against his back, jerking with every scratch, and Jaskier chokes on a breath when Geralt suddenly begins to press in, cock twitching weakly. He goes fast- hardly gives Jaskier time to adjust to the heady feeling of stretching so deliciously around his girth before he’s snapping his hips. One hand braces beside Jaskier’s head and the other grips his hip with almost crushing force, Geralt snarling and panting in Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier moans and whines at each hard press of Geralt’s hips, spreading his legs wider to create a more stable base as Geralt desperately tries to pound him into the bed.

Jaskier can feel his orgasm rushing up on him again, and he reaches back, grabbing a fistful of Geralt’s hair and tugging him down to kiss him desperately. He keens into Geralt’s mouth when Geralt shifts his hips, slamming against his prostate and shoving him over the edge. Jaskier clamps sinfully tight as he comes, pulling at Geralt’s hair and sobbing against his lips as he spills onto the bed sheets. Geralt doesn’t let up though, sitting up and planting Jaskier in his lap. This angle has Jaskier shuddering with each thrust, eyelids fluttering madly as Geralt grinds directly against his prostate. The feeling quickly becomes pleasurable to the point of pain, and Jaskier whimpers. Geralt’s lips curve into a smile against his, and he wraps one hand around Jaskier’s softening cock. Jaskier shies away from the touch, it’s too much, too soon- but there’s nowhere to go, and Geralt continues to roll his hips, grinding against his prostate and forcing Jaskier to fuck up into his hand.

Jaskier rocks between those two torturous sensations, crying out when he’s forced very quickly into a second dry orgasm that has him shaking like a leaf in Geralt’s lap. Geralt drops his hand from Jaskier’s cock finally, petting at his stomach and allowing Jaskier to settle heavily in his lap. He purrs in Jaskier’s ear, tugging the collar of his shirt out of the way and leaving soft, gentle kisses along the column of his neck. Jaskier focuses solely on breathing so he doesn’t pass out, whining whenever he shifts and Geralt’s cock presses deeper into him.

“Okay?” His voice is thick with arousal, but Geralt nuzzles sweetly at his neck and Jaskier can’t help but squeeze around his cock.

“Cruel, torturous witcher.” His voice cracks, wrecked from Geralt fucking his throat, and Geralt chuckles throatily.

“I warned you.” Jaskier hums, knowing he’d brought that particular punishment on himself and finding he can’t stop himself from pulling on the handful of Geralt’s hair he still holds. Geralt growls, pressing sharp fangs against the meat of Jaskier’s shoulder in warning. He mumbles against Jaskier’s skin, warm breath making him shiver. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“Mmm, I think I’ll be okay. Haven’t even finished yet.” Jaskier pulls again and tightens around Geralt’s cock, calling Geralt’s name when he snaps his hips up roughly. Their skin slaps together obscenely as they settle into a rhythm- Jaskier lifting himself off as far as he can before Geralt drags him back down, thrusting up to bury himself deep. He can’t say he’s ever had someone fill him up quite like Geralt does, and the angle is more heavenly than he’s ever had before. It doesn’t take much more coaxing from Jaskier for Geralt’s hips to stutter, Jaskier giving one last harsh pull on his lover’s hair before Geralt is snarling, shoving up and spilling inside of him. Jaskier cries out when pain lances through his right shoulder, Geralt’s fangs sinking deep into the meat near his neck as he comes, holding Jaskier tight against him. Jaskier’s not sure that pain on this level is supposed to be hot, but he melts bonelessly back against Geralt, shivering as something akin to an orgasm washes through him. The feeling makes his legs tremble and his cock give a valiant twitch, but Jaskier is thoroughly spent and it’s all he can do not to fall asleep in Geralt’s arms right now.

Geralt rolls his hips up, grinding as he works himself through his orgasm before finally going still. Moonlight washes over the both of them, but it’s weaker, and Jaskier knows dawn isn’t too far off now. Jaskier releases his hold on Geralt’s hair, petting the tangled fibers down flat and crooning softly as Geralt comes back to himself. It takes a few minutes, but once he realizes Jaskier’s blood is in his mouth and his teeth are still very much sunk into Jaskier’s flesh he pulls back gingerly. Jaskier hisses at the pain that trickles through his shoulder as Geralt lets go, and twin lines of blood drip down his chest and soak into the black fabric of Geralt’s shirt. Jaskier tries to twist his neck to look back at Geralt, but the movement sends a fresh wave of pain through his shoulder and more blood trickles from the wounds. Jaskier settles down again instead, reaching to take one of Geralt’s hands in his for a moment and peeking out of the corner of his eye.

There’s blood on Geralt’s lips still, and some smeared along his chin, but the sight doesn’t bother Jaskier as much as it should. Geralt on the other hand, looks stricken, eyes wide and scared. He can smell the harsh copper of Jaskier’s blood, can taste it on his tongue, and shame sweeps through him when his cock twitches inside of Jaskier against his will. “I’m- I-”

Jaskier shifts in his lap, lifting up until Geralt slips out of him and he can turn to sit face to face in Geralt’s lap again. Despite Geralt’s growing horror at what he’s done, Jaskier’s eyes are bright and full of love, and he tips forward, kissing at Geralt’s neck before sinking his teeth deep in one smooth movement. Jaskier’s teeth aren’t nearly as sharp as Geralt’s and he hears Geralt’s skin crunch horribly before giving way. Despite the waning moon Geralt lets out a noise somewhere between a growl, a snarl and a hiss, grabbing at Jaskier’s thighs and wrenching their hips together. His shoulders twitch madly as fire lights along his nerves all over again. It’s hard to stay coherent with pain surging through his neck, but the moon’s influence is weaker and Geralt masters himself with a couple of deep breaths. Jaskier’s mouth and chin are bloody to match when he pulls back, and Geralt watches in helpless fascination as Jaskier licks his blood off his lips.

“There,” Jaskier says, sitting back a bit and smiling. “Now we match.”

“Jaskier, I could’ve-”

“Hurt me? As I said before love, you didn’t do anything that won’t heal, or that I didn’t want.” Jaskier’s gaze is soft and patient, and he presses his forehead to Geralt’s, just breathing for a minute. Geralt matches his ragged breaths with Jaskier’s slow and even ones, and soon his heart settles back into it’s slow, heavy patter.

“You- wanted that?”

“Every bit of it.” Geralt stares, waiting for Jaskier to break down and admit how scared he was- is- but Jaskier does no such thing. He only presses a soft, coppery kiss to Geralt’s lips and slides from his lap. “But, I wouldn’t mind if you felt inclined to sneak us a bath.”

Jaskier stays behind in the room while Geralt tugs on pants, feeling filthy but knowing he can’t wander the keep naked in this cold. Geralt has a tub in his room, and he brings that up the stairs before venturing down to hope that there’s enough hot water left in the kitchen to get the both of them sufficiently clean. His neck throbs with every step that he takes, but his wounds have already clotted and by tomorrow they’ll be halfway healed. Jaskier won’t have the same luck, even with the salve they have, but they’ll have to take it one step at a time. He’s in the kitchen, dumping more water into the pot and using Igni to hurry the warming process along when Lambert and Eskel come in, arms crossed.

Geralt ignores them, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms as well. Neither of them say anything as they go about grabbing a late night snack, but as always, Lambert is the first to crack.

“So,” He starts, and Eskel groans. “What happened to the whole not hurting him thing?”

Geralt shrugs, uncomfortable with the reminder, but Eskel comes to his rescue. “Please, look at his back and neck. I think Geralt had more to worry about than Jaskier did.”

That makes Geralt chuckle, and Lambert takes another good look at him before whistling low. “Damn, the White Wolf looks awful red.”

“Fuck off.” Geralt says, but there’s no malice in it and he has to keep himself from smiling. Eskel doesn’t let Lambert say anything else before dragging him away, and Geralt lugs the hot water up to the room. Jaskier is sitting at the table, staring at the bloody wound on his shoulder through the small mirror he’d brought with them. Geralt’s stomach flops as he nudges the door shut, and he pours the hot water into the tub to cool down some before they climb in. Jaskier has finally shed Geralt’s shirt, and he smiles when Geralt comes over to gently touch the skin near the wound. Jaskier shivers lightly at the touch, snagging Geralt’s hand and pressing a warm kiss to his palm.

“Right as rain, love. Want to help me with the sheets?” Geralt grunts, but doesn’t actually let Jaskier help in stripping down and changing sheets. The only thing he lets Jaskier do is get himself in the tub, sinking low into the water and sighing happily. He keeps his shoulders above the water, and when Geralt strips to join him Jaskier winces. “Sorry love.”

“Hmm?” Jaskier gestures for him to come close, and he traces soft fingertips over the marks on Geralt’s thigh. The blood vessels beneath his skin have burst, leaving dots of red-purple in nail shaped trails down the side of his thigh. Geralt bends down to kiss the top of Jaskier’s head, slipping into the bathtub behind him and resolutely ignoring the way the heat prickles uncomfortably at his thigh. “Right as rain.”

Jaskier laughs at the mimicry, leaning back against Geralt’s chest and closing his eyes. “So, this happens every month?”

“Making plans?”

“Well, I’d hate to get us banned from every inn we stay in.” Geralt laughs softly, tucking his cheek against Jaskier’s and gently kissing at his shoulder.

“We’ll figure something out.”

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #major sluttiness #nsft #winter prompts

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undermounts · 4 years ago

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Empire of Light—Prologue: Of Monsters and Men

AO3 | Table of Contents | Ashes and Embers | Playlist

Fic Summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of Ash, the party travels across Morella in search of allies to defeat the Empire of Ash, once and for all.

Chapter Summary: In the sparkling capital of Morella, strange things go bump in the night.

Notes: this is a sequel to my first Blades 2 fic, Ashes and Embers. If you haven’t read that yet, you can do so here!

➳ ➳ ➳ ➳

Whitetower was not the sort of city that slept.

Even at the oddest hours of the morning, there was always some sort of trouble afoot—sometimes good trouble, sometimes bad, but always mischievous. The evenings were filled with the merry music from open tavern doors, the raucous laughter of drunkards, the rapturous cries of lovers, and other things that went bump in the night. Deals were made in dark alleyways, schemes were carried out amongst thieves atop the terracotta shingles that lined moonlit rooftops, and assassins and mercenaries earned their coin in underground fighting pits, where the wealthy and poor alike frequented to bet on the odds.

The Temple of Light, mercifully, was always quiet, and Cili loved quiet.

Cili, however, did not love Whitetower. He couldn’t wait until he ascended the full rank of priesthood—even though that was many years away—so that he could lead the pilgrimages across Morella or the recruitment journeys that picked up orphaned magic users such as himself, if only so he could get out of the city. It was too loud, and in some places, like the Nooks and Crannies, too smelly. In fact, if Cili had to pick a few words to describe Whitetower, they would simply be, “too much.”

Cili could still remember the day he had arrived in the capital city three years ago, not long after his fifth birthday had passed, when the priests had brought him to live at the Temple. Permanently. To put it quite frankly, that day was one of the most terrifying he’d ever had.

Whitetower was overwhelming, a sensory overload. After crossing through the city’s borders, Cili had seen more people within a few moments than he’d ever seen on the quiet farm he grew up on. The sheer volume of people that occupied the capital made him nervous—they were a tide he could get lost in, could drown in. He was used to small communities and houses that were fields apart. Even after three years, he was still adjusting to living at the Temple with all of the other acolytes and priests.

The Market District was especially stressful. There were so many people, so many voices, smells, colors, and sounds—all of it blending together into a cacophonous mess that made Cili cling to the sleeves of the nearest priestess and bury his face in her robes.

And beyond what Cili had experienced in his sheltered upbringing at the Temple were the stories he had heard. Some of the older students at the Temple gossiped about Whitetower’s underworld, the secret guilds of thieves, mercenaries, and assassins. Apparently, there were entire networks of tunnels hidden beneath the capital, dozens of secret passageways, and hundreds of peepholes for espionage.

The first time Cili had heard the gossip was in the hours after lights were out and the acolytes were supposed to be asleep. After that, he had spent the following day scouring the walls and rafters of the Temple for spies. He’d soon realized that he was acting a bit foolishly—the Temple of Light was perhaps the most secure place in Whitetower, right after the palace, but he still made sure to stay close to the priests whenever they were led throughout the city for their weekly services. While the other acolytes spoke of the criminals of Whitetower with some degree of awe or amusement—mostly about a thief dubbed the “Whitetower Reaper” that had mysteriously vanished a few years ago—Cili could only pray that he never encountered such rabble.

Nobles, knights, Light-users, traders, merchants, thieves, and assassins—Whitetower seemed to have it all.

The one thing Whitetower did not have was monsters. At least not of the beastly kind, with fangs and fur and claws. Although, the same could not be said of those ruled by greed and ambition… No, Whitetower was not home to strange creatures, aside from the occasional noble-owned voxper.

Or at least, that used to be the case.

Now, a giant, winged creature stood guard on the city walls with a blazing fire in his lungs. And unbeknownst to the general public, strange beasts prowled the shadows…

Cili quietly shuffled down the moonlit marble halls of the Temple, collecting and extinguishing the old candles that had been burning all evening and replacing them with new ones he would light tomorrow morning. This was the last part of his daily routine, his final task of the day as one of the younger acolytes, and his least favorite chore. He would never admit it, especially around the older children, but his heart always beat a little faster when he carried out this task, the tempo increasing with every flame he extinguished. Cili was not afraid of the dark, but he was afraid of the things that may lurk within it.

Growing up in the quiet countryside, Cili had never had any reason to believe in the folktales about wicked monsters or strange beasts that would snatch little children out of their beds at night. He’d only ever encountered lapna and kromps, which were more or less content to stay away, especially if rewarded with food. But after the events of the last year—portals opened to the Shadow Realm, the Crown Prince’s death, the Dreadlord’s rise and fall, the Battle of Ash, the Blood King’s ascension, and the guardian dragon’s arrival…. After all of that, Cili was no longer sure what to believe. He only knew that whenever he blew out a candle and stared into the shadows that crept in, he had the sinking, dreadful feeling that something was staring back.

Cili came to a stop in front of one of the white marble statues that lined the Hall of Saints. This statue in particular was of Saint Damaris, who was known for protecting children—especially orphans. This was Cili’s favorite Saint of Light, even if Damaris’ death was one of the more gruesome ones on record. Cili had learned that Damaris had died during the Great War—as most famous Saints did—while protecting a chartered boat of orphans from winged shadow gargoyles as they crossed the Silban River to safety.

Cili looked down at the candles at the base of Damaris’ statue, glanced at the darkening hall around him, then decided to extinguish those ones last. He did not mind having the Saint’s protection for a little while longer.

Cili continued down the Hall of Saints, blowing out and replacing candles as he went. As he did, he recalled the names of the Saints and their stories, a tactic he had once used to strengthen his memory of the famous figures that had soon become a habit. Saint Ahlai, protector of settlements along the Golden Coast, drowned while defending a cluster of fishing boats from a bloodsquid during a storm. Saint Noa, protector of travellers, stoned to death while protecting a royal procession from raiders. The list went on and on—Saint Pasha, Saint Viktor, Saint Emira, Saint Holland, Saint Calla, Saint Athos… One tragedy after another.

As he went about his task, Cili wondered if anyone he knew would one day ascend to the status of saint. A part of him hoped not. Revered as they were, almost every Saint seemed to meet a tragic end.

Cili reached the end of the hall, coming to a halt at the base of Saint Alina’s statue. He gazed upon the Saint’s alabaster countenance, her beautiful face at once nurturing, fierce, and sorrowful. She was one of the most popular saints, known as the protector of the innocents. Cili shuddered as he recalled her particular demise: burned while defending a town of human serfs during the Great War. The young acolyte shook that gruesome thought from his head as he withdrew a fresh candle from his basket and placed it at the base of her altar and leaned down to blow the flames out.

The moment the last candle guttered out, Cili felt a sudden chill wash over him, as if he had been plunged into a frozen lake. He inhaled sharply, clutching the basket of candles tightly to his chest as ice spread through his veins and the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

Something was wrong.

Heart pounding in his small chest, Cili slowly turned around. There was nothing behind him, although he found no relief in this small discovery. With the doors to the outer courtyard of the Temple closed and most of the candles extinguished, Cili was shrouded in darkness. His attention tunneled to the flickering semi-circle of candlelight that surrounded Saint Damaris’ statue, the only source of illumination in the entire hall aside from the watery moonlight

Cili’s blood was loud in his ears. He could not explain it, the inexplicable urge to run. Something was watching him, he could feel it. Waiting for him.

Cili inhaled deeply, his breath shaking ever so slightly as he smothered the urge to run toward the ring of light. Surely this was just some sort of joke. If anyone was watching him from the shadows, it was the other acolytes, playing a prank on him. Cili had a bit of a reputation around the Temple of being easily scared, after all. If they wanted to get a reaction out of anyone, Cili was the perfect target.

“This isn’t funny,” Cili declared, his voice quivering despite his best efforts to keep it steady.

No response.

“Marco?” he questioned as he clutched the basket of candles tightly to his chest and then slowly began to creep toward the other end of the hall, careful to keep his steps steady so he did not betray the immense fear he felt. He did not want the other acolytes to get the satisfaction of seeing him run. “Jude? I know it's you guys. You can cut it out. I’m not afraid.”

Again, no response. Then—

There was a rustling sound, like the flap of wings. Then the scrape of something solid and heavy against the smooth marble stone and—

Cili lost his nerve and ran, dropping his basket of candles as he sprinted for the semi-circle of candlelight around Saint Damarius. No sooner had he begun to run did the creature in the shadows flare to life.

A horrible snarl ricocheted off the marble and alabaster floors of the hall, followed by the abrupt boom of beating wings and the click, click, click of talons snapping against the floor.

Something hot and leathery struck Cili across the back of his legs and he stumbled, crashing to the floor only a few paces away from Saint Damaris’ light. Cili’s chin throbbed from smacking it against the marble tiles, but he shoved himself to his hands and knees, hastily scrambling for the ring of light like his life depended on it.

It did.

Cili waited until he was fully within the semi-circle of candlelight, naively believing that the light of a few measly flames would keep the mysterious creature at bay, before he flipped onto his back, throwing his hands up as he finally faced the beast.

His scream lodged in his throat, which felt as if it had been swollen shut with fear.

Cili did not know how to process what exactly was before him. He had never seen a creature like this in his childhood storybooks, had never even heard of a creature like this, either from the other acolytes or the old storytellers that sat around Whitetower’s town square.

The beast had the face and wings of a bat, although its body was distinctly humanoid, corded with rippling muscle. But the creature’s composition was not nearly the strangest thing about it. The beast did not have skin nor fur, but rather, it appeared to be made of shadow. Tendrils of darkness wicked off of its body like smoke and glowing lines of reddish orange light trailed along its arms and torso, like molten lava bubbling through the cracked, blackened surface of cooled magma.

As it slowly prowled forward, the gargoyle screeched at him, baring a mouthful of razor sharp teeth and Cili flinched back, throwing up his hands defensively. He called desperately upon his teaching of the Light in a vain hope that something the priests had taught him would be useful in warding this creature away, but defensive magic was too advanced for someone his age, its teaching withheld until he reached his tenth year.

The young acolyte scuttled backward as the beast stalked toward him until his back met the base of Damaris’ statue. Trembling, Cili’s eyes were trained on the gargoyles taloned, hideous feet as it lumbered closer to the circle of light. Closer, closer, closer—

One of the gargoyle’s talons breached the light.

And nothing happened.

Cili whimpered, realizing that there was nothing that could save him, not the candlelight, not Damaris, and judging by the quiet that still settled over the temple, not the priests, either. Desperate, Cili conjured an Orb of Light in his palms, the only bit of magic he could confidently do. In response, the gargoyle hissed, rearing back as a clawed hand swung forward, narrowly missing Cili’s face as the boy lunged back. Almost instantly, due to his fear and lapse in concentration, the Orb guttered out.

Panicked, Cili tried and failed to conjure another Orb of Light as the gargoyle shifted over him. Cili’s hands fell uselessly into his lap as the monster cornered him against the marble statue, its tepid breath ghosting over the boy’s face as it opened its gaping maw wide for the killing blow.

Left with nothing else to do, Cili closed his eyes and began to pray.

“Light guide me through this endless night and protect me from the darkness. On Viktor, on Calla, on Athos and Alina. On Noa, on Pasha, on Damaris—” Cili broke his prayer and sobbed desperately. “Saints, save me!”

The doors to the Temple slammed against the walls as they burst open, and a flash of Light so bright it was blinding illuminated the room. The beast above Cili was thrown back by the blast and struck the opposite wall with an animalistic whimper of pain.

Cili’s gaze snapped to the open doorway where two cloaked figures appeared, silhouetted by the night sky and the mist that drifted across the cobblestone roads of Whitetower. The one on the right, distinguishable by the taller stature, swayed ever so slightly as the one on the left lunged forward with incredible grace and speed. Cili just barely caught the glint of steel before two blades shot out of the cloaked figure’s gloved hands. It was only until Cili followed the path of the blades that he realized the Shadow beast had gotten up from its supine position against the wall and had begun to charge toward him once more.

The blades sunk into the gargoyle’s stomach, slowing its advance. The monster roared in pain and frustration as its wings snapped out, lifting its body into the air. There was a whizzing sound and sickening squelch as an arrow embedded itself in one of the beast’s wings, quickly followed by another arrow that struck the other one, causing it to crash to the ground once more. Cili looked to the taller figure, who now brandished a glittering bow of silver and gold metal. Beneath the folds of their coat, he could just make out the silver hilt of a sword.

No sooner had the beast fallen from the air did the second figure with the knives spring forward, gripping the protruding shafts of the arrows and using them as leverage to shove the gargoyle back, pinning it to the wall. The Shadow creature howled as Cili’s rescuer used their weight to trap the beast, then yanked the arrows down, shredding its wings to the point of uselessness. The cloaked figure pulled back, unsheathing a knife strapped to their thigh, and raised the gleaming weapon high, prepared to stab deep into the beast’s heart.

Cili’s breath caught in his throat. He could not believe what he was witnessing, could not believe that he was about to watch these mysterious heroes defeat this monster, could not believe that he was saved.

Cili’s heart dropped like a stone as the creature lashed out with its snapping teeth, forcing the cloaked figure to jump back, leaving just enough room for the gargoyle to swing out with a muscled arm. The back of its taloned hand caught Cili’s defender across the midsection, batting them aside. As the figure tumbled to the ground, their hood fell back, revealing a head of shoulder-length, dark, and wavy hair. The face underneath was tan and ruggedly handsome, distinguishable by a well-kept beard and a scar that crossed a single eyebrow.

The beast shoved away from the wall, lurching toward the doors out of the Temple in a desperate attempt to escape with its life. But then the other figure was there, moving faster than a wicked wind as they darted forward and struck with their gauntleted fist, catching the gargoyle with a blow so savage and powerful, the weakened creature rocked backward, stunned.

Like the gears in a well-oiled machine, the man on the ground swung his legs out, catching the beast by its shadowy ankles. The Shadow creature slammed into the ground just as the man rolled out of the way and shoved himself up to his knees. He brandished his dagger once more, stabbing clean through the monster’s shoulder to pin it to the ground.

His voice was low and gruff as he demanded, “Do it!”

Cili watched in awe as the taller figure unsheathed the sword at their side—the strangest blade Cili had ever seen, crafted of steel but threaded through with a blueish, crystalline substance that resembled forks of lightning. The figure lifted the sword high, a silver glow—The Light, Cili realized—emanating from their hands and spearing down the blade as they stabbed down, piercing the gargoyle’s chest, and presumably, its heart.

There was a bright flash and Cili watched as the Shadow beast dissipated into nothingness.

When the Light faded, Cili gaped at the space where the creature had once been. There was nothing left behind to indicate that it had ever existed within this temple, nothing but a few soot stains on the milky white marble floors.

A soft, tired sigh drew Cili’s attention away from the marks on the floor and he looked up in time to see the taller figure rest the tip of their sword against the floor and lean against it as if winded. The man quickly retrieved the blades that had clattered to the floor after the Shadow beast disappeared and tucked them away before snatching the arrows as well. He clambered to his feet just as his hooded companion straightened, nodding gratefully as they slid the offered arrows back into their quiver and sheathed that peculiar sword.

Cili watched in awe as his rescuers righted themselves, the realization dawning on him. “You’re Saints, aren’t you?” he breathed, slowly pushing himself away from the base of Damaris’ statue. “That’s why you saved me.”

Immediately, Cili’s rescuers stiffened, their attention snapping to him for the first time since they arrived as if they had just remembered he was there.

“Aw, hells,” the man muttered beneath his breath as he quickly yanked the hood of his cloak up, concealing his face beneath the shadows once more.

The two figures wordlessly glanced at each other as Cili’s gaze flicked between them, awaiting an answer. He could not believe it. They had heard his prayer. The Saints had come. The Saints—

“We aren’t Saints of Light.” The voice that replied was dulcet and sonorous—a woman’s. Cili thought he could listen to her speak all day.

“But I saw you use the Light,” Cili insisted, shaking his head as he got to his feet. There was still a slight tremor in his legs, his body still thrumming with adrenaline, although he paid no notice. “I prayed for you and you came—”

“We aren’t Saints,” the woman repeated gently, glancing over her shoulder at her companion before she took a slight step forward. “We’re just… devout followers of the Light. Purging the realm of darkness.”

Cili tilted his head, leaning forward in an attempt to see under the woman’s hood. Sensing his efforts, the woman pulled away and Cili frowned, although his disappointment was short-lived. Another thought crossed his mind. “So you’re… like adventurers? Heroes, like those in the storybooks?”

Cili had a feeling the woman was smiling as she tilted her head to the side. “Something like that.”

Cili nodded slowly, his gaze sliding from her concealed face to the soot stains that marred the floors. “What was that thing?”

“Just a monster,” the woman replied. “A bad guy. But it’s gone now. You don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

Cili chewed the inside of his lip, sidestepping away from the spot where the creature had died. The danger was gone, but he still felt unsettled. “Will more come?”

It was the man who replied this time. “Not if we can help it.”

Cili frowned, unconvinced, but did not reply.

As if sensing his unease, the woman reached out with nimble fingers and swiped something off of the man’s person, much to his dismay, but before her companion could protest, she knelt before Cili.

“Do you want to know what you can do if one of those beasts ever comes back?” she asked gently.

Cili’s eyes widened. He was nodding before he even realized he was doing so.

The woman held up her hand. Between her slender fingers was a small, sheathed knife. But Cili’s attention was not on the blade. Instead, his gaze lingered on her skin, which was a pearlescent shade of blue and horribly scarred as if it had been severely burned. A single gold ring adorned her thumb.

The woman took Cili’s hand and pressed the hilt of the blade into his palm as she spoke. “The priests at the Temple will teach you how to protect yourself and others,” she told him. “That sort of training will be invaluable. But magic won’t always be there to help you, especially if you choose not to use it.”

Cili’s brow furrowed. “But why—”

The woman shook her head. “That is a choice you will make when you are older and understand the world better. And you must make it for yourself. But until then, you should know how to defend yourself without magic, too. Just in case.”

She curled Cili’s fingers around the hilt of the blade. “This can help protect you, but you must only use it if you are in grave danger, understand?”

She waited for Cili to show that he did. When he nodded, she continued.

“If one of those beasts ever comes again,” she said slowly, a teacher guiding a student. “You take this—” She squeezed his hand, guiding it toward her chest. “—and put it here. Understand?”

Cili swallowed. “Yes.”

He looked up then, peering beneath the woman’s hood. He just barely glimpsed her pointed ears and a blur of green that was so bright, he thought they might be gemstones, and caught a whiff of starflowers, pine, and mist, before she pulled away. The woman dropped his hand as she straightened and stepped back.

“Be careful,” she instructed him. “And only use that when absolutely necessary.”

Cili nodded.

The woman stared at him for a few moments longer, her gaze heavy without being seen. Then she bowed her head. “May the Light guide you.”

Cili echoed her response, still shell-shocked as she turned on her heel and faced her companion.

“Uh, yeah,” the man said, reaching into the folds of his cloak. When he pulled his hand out, a glittering silver coin danced between his fingertips. He flicked it towards Cili, who caught it against his chest, confused.

“This’ll be our secret, yeah?” the man prompted, his hood shifting as he gazed around the Temple and sighed. “Bet they don’t pay you enough for this stuff. Wandering around creepy hallways at night.”

Cili did not know how to tell him that the Temple did not pay him at all, so he only nodded and replied, “Yes.”

“Right,” the man said slowly, before turning on his heel to follow his companion. As he went, he gave a lazy salute. “Light guide you, kid.”

Cili watched, stunned as his two rescuers made their way toward the doors that led out of the temple, their whispers carrying in the empty hallway.

“Please tell me you did not just bribe him.”

“Yeah, well you’re the one who taught him to kill a man, so I don’t think either of us are winning role model of the year, kit.”

Cili waited until they were halfway down the marble steps that led up to the Temple entrance before he scrambled after them, hiding behind the door to watch them go. They both moved like shadows, lithe and nimble as they stuck to the darkness and leaned against each other, as inconspicuous as any other couple wandering around the city after a night in the taverns.

Bewitched by the two figures that had just saved his life with magic and steel—he was still not convinced they weren’t Saints—Cili followed them as quietly as possible off the Temple grounds and into the misty streets of Whitetower.

It was not until they reached the end of the block that his rescuers straightened, putting a casual distance between them. As they shifted apart, Cili saw why.

Cili watched from behind a barrel, mist swirling around his calves as his rescuers met up with two more cloaked figures, hidden in the shadows of an apartment that sat atop a shoemaker’s shop, which was closed for the night.

“I thought I told you to stay home,” the woman murmured, her voice nearly inaudible as she brushed her hand along the slope of another figure’s shoulder. Her other hand twisted behind her back, the mist churning with it. “Where it’s safe.”

“Oh?” the figure replied liltingly with a teasing edge as his head fell to the side. “Are you giving me orders now?”

A low laugh filled the air, full of warmth and affection. The sound was so entrancing, Cili almost didn’t notice that the mist had thickened around them, nearly concealing his saviors from sight. By the time the woman finished laughing , they were just fading blurs in the fog.

“I would never do such a thing,” Cili thought he heard the woman reply, “Your Majesty.”

Cili’s breath hitched and he moved to follow, but the fog was so thick, he could barely see his own hands.

He tried to find the mysterious figures by sound alone, but when the mist cleared, they were gone.

➳ ➳ ➳ ➳

Notes: And we’re back

Tagging: @diamonds-and-decorum, @kelseaaa, @xsweetnspookyx, @tyrils-star, @maeksoo, @tylorswft, @somin-yin, @vesselsynths, @mikewawazoski, @rainesenator, @desperatetrashwives, @choicesficwriterscreations

Let me know if you would like to be tagged/removed!

#blades of light and shadow #choices #bolas #nia ellarious #tyril starfury #mal volari #imtura tal kaelen #aerin valleros #pixelberry #playchoices #bolas fanfic #blades fanfic

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thunder-rolled-a-seven · 5 years ago

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For A View

Ark: Survival Evolved / Island

Characters: Nerva, Mei, Rockwell (ish)

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Notes: Been playing for 2 years. Finally caved in to write. I enjoy the thought that Mei unintentionally set everyone up for pain because she couldn't let go and let herself be the hasty death machine she is (before Extinction). Also, because I'm an ass. Pardon errors - I tumblargh via phone.

---

Nothing.

The word pounds against the walls of his skull, behind his eyes, and within his chest, and suddenly the iron will he had wrought upon man, beast, and land withers into frightening despair. He falls; his sword, fashioned with the crest of his homeland and christened with blood, clatters upon the moonlit tile beside him. Its clamor echoes across the expansive, hollow chamber: this cold, metal end.

Fingernails crusted with blood, soot and sweat carve into the floor as doubt rakes across his once soaring pride. He had been dutiful, courageous and fortuitous in Rome and on the nightmare he had awoken to, and yet he had been denied the power he sought - the blessing he had been promised. With it he would have tamed the Island, and ruled in the pantheon's name, bringing justice, honor and peace to the tireless, savage land.

But no. The heavens he sought were empty.

"Nothing."

The warlord's head bows towards his chest, pinching the sorrowful croon of his failures into a whisper. His throat burns from his former cries of fury, and his tongue, bitten in battle, bleeds bitterness into it. With a clenched jaw the once decorated commander forces back the salty tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, refusing his warriors the chance to see him cry.

But there were none left, he remembers with a sharp exhale. He was alone. No one would judge the woes intending to caress his battered face. No one would tell this cautionary tale.

Gaius Marcellus Nerva floats above the world on a sea of corpses. By poison, fire, stone, teeth and claws, the remnants of his once powerful army had perished, leaving only those whom stayed behind to carry the New Legion's banner. Weakened, they were likely undone by the Island's small minded rabble - a legacy turned to ruins and dust. "All this death," he pants, his words heavy and sour, "for a view." Inevitably he begins to wonder if anything would have been different had he done nothing at all.

Earth brown eyes, tinged with red, rise towards the gallery of stars beyond the chamber's translucent walls, and remain blind to their majesty. Unknowable, untouchable, they stay as distant as those he knew as a boy. He shivers beneath their ancient gaze, wishing to trade this hollow tomb for the coarse summer sands, sun dappled woods, and human chatter from those better days he had long since left behind.

Instead, a chilling peel of laughter shatters the stillness, and the requiem of his thoughts disappears like his breath within air.

The alchemist, Rockwell, his once honoured guest and the only other survivor to that great massacre, must have found amusement in the foreign diases - some code or drawing that furthered the scholar's interests and none of the former lord's.

Nerva's core immediately explodes with burning jealousy, a consuming rage that sears his palms and tightens his already knitted brow. Snarling, he lifts his gladious, and jolts to his feet, his faults forgotten. That snake! It was the alchemist's silvered tongue that seduced the warlord towards the path of ruin, he reasons, wiping the dust from his eyes. For this he would see it cut from the bearded man's maw.

Determined strides soon echo a fiery dirge across those mirror-smooth floors. Fate's ugly number would fall upon the proud, self-proclaimed gentleman. None of Rockwell's struggles would stay his inevitable death, so help him, Mars.

Amidst the forest of silver hued pilars he discerns the elder man's shadow upon tile and wall. It writhes, limbs flailing like a kraken's tenticles as its owner frantically pours over foreign discoveries. The sound of mirth is quickly quelled by frustrated growls. Nerva sneers. Should Rockwell remain still, he would be merciful. "Gentlemanly." Their partnership had been of mutual respect before it crumbled, stank, and staled. It was the least he could do to honour their agreements before the fall.

He takes another step and another. Practiced muscles coil and ready to launch his blade between hunched shoulder blades and sever spine.

A light explodes between them.

At once the commander stumbles back, shielding his eyes from the blinding might separating him from his quarry with one outstretched hand. The beam is familiar, fluxing and hexagonal like the gate he passed through to this astral theater, and for a moment he wonders if he is not trapped amongst the stars in failure after all - if his gods had chosen this moment to bestow their presence upon him. His heart skips, and his eyes dare to flutter. Lips part in one last gasp before he holds his breath in anticipation to what he might see.

First nothing, not even Rockwell, whom might have slithered away just in time, nor the figures decorating the ground, nor the stars that ignored him now. Before him lies a breathless mass, unknown, less dense than space and hollow. Then Nerva stiffens. Slowly, between splayed fingers a darkness different than shadow dances: a ghost, a dream; a nightmare made tangible with long dark hair and darker eyes stares back at him through the white void.

His heart falls, crashes, and splinters as the prismatic light fades back into the chamber's eerie calm. He barely hears the rise and fall of his own breaths beyond the flooding rush within his ears.

Demoness. It was the first time he had seen her so alone. There had always been a pack of scales, claws and teeth at her heels to accent the chattering sounds of death. To see her surrounded by the same silent, recycled air as him made the approaching woman smaller than she already was.

But no less deadly, he curses, steadying his ground. And no less a dagger in the Roman's side.

His lip twists into a bitter, mocking curl as she steps confidently before him. He would curse the gods if he did not fear their wrath, for even still he silently called for favor and aide. "Cruel dryiad," he hails in spite tainted awe. "Beast Queen. Had I not delivered you to the gates of your snow-capped hell?"

Her lips purse between the curtians of long black hair that far past her shoulders - near her hips, which swayed with the grace of a prowling, hungry lioness. Nonetheless, beyond her stoic return he could see the twitch of pain in her thigh, where he had once struck her in hopes of turning her lame, and the anger from her own defeat still burning within her slanted eyes. She says nothing in answer. Her greeting came with the raising of her sword towards his heart.

Nerva's jaw clacks with vigorous resolution, and the blood hums thick between his bones. His sword sings and cuts once through the air, meeting her challenge with fervour.

"Then let's try this again," he hisses and both warriors lunge towards their fate.

Rockwell and the divine could wait.

#Ark: Survival Evolved #(Survival Denied.)#Fanfiction #Musings

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moonlite-drabbles · 3 years ago

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May I introduce you to Empires Smp? In particular my fav Geminitay. It’s fairly new and you won’t have much trouble catching up.

A lot of the people on it are talented at building, and it’s the coolest. Mix of people just chillin and doing game progression and stuff and short little bursts of plot easy enough to sprinkle into a YouTube video without it being all of it.

does anybody know of any current female/queer/nonwhite minecraft youtubers? i would honestly really like to have an smp to watch but i am really not interested in white boy flavor of the month

#moonlite rabbles #mcyt #geminitay myct #geminitay #empires smp #empiresblr

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moonlite-drabbles · 1 year ago

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The Tsarista, about to do the funniest thing ever: hrmmm. Your code name will be “Father” for your role as the head of the House of Hearth.

Arlechinno: thank you, your majesty.

The Tsarista, turning to Tartaglia: and your code name will be… “Childe”!

Tartaglia: …thank you, your majesty.

Later:

Tartaglia, upon stubbing his toe: fuck

Dottore: Language! What would your father say?

Tartaglia: she’s not my dad!

Arlechinno: I’m not mad, just disappointed.

#genshin impact #genshin shitpost #moonlite rabbles #genshin tartagalia #genshin childe #arlechinno genshin #the tsaritsa #genshin impact dottore #her majesty is hilarious #it’s a running joke in the Fatui #Tartaglia HATES it #Arlechinno isn’t too happy about it #but she puts up with it in order to torture Tartaglia

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askthehalfshiny · 5 years ago

Note

Traveller: A moonlit creature making their way out onto the warming sands, that seems an odd combination, I would think you would prefer the shade to the solar rays beaming down. My company is yours should you desire it, I know some prefer the quiet to the rabble and chaos of others.

“–!! H-hello there, um..”

“I.. I’m Gemini..!”

@askthetraveller

#askthehalfshiny #gemini umbreon #umbreon #askthetraveller #traveller arceus #arceus #first time doing a proper fullbodied stylized arceus #rip mun #pokebeachcamp2019

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honeylikewords · 5 years ago

Note

I hope you feel better!! Hmm... Vampire Mr. McCarthy definitely does the the cemetery walk where they talk about the past for Halloween. He loves it.

Thank you for your well-wishes, dearest! I really appreciate it!

And I totally agree; Vampire!Eddie loves a good “haunted history” walk any time of year, but with a particular vigor around Halloween. He sometimes goes on them just to linger in the back and chuckle to himself when the tour guide gets something factually incorrect (though he never corrects unless the error is particularly egregious), but also to have a sort of stroll down memory lane.

He’s visited many of these old houses, supped at these taverns, attended funerals at these “haunted” graveyards. Every one he passes sparks a memory he thought he’d forgotten, and he’s glad to say that many are happy memories, if tainted bittersweet by the passage of time.

Once Eddie has found his, *ahem*, after-life partner, he goes on these walks with her, too, and whispers to her his own recollections of the past, usually with sordid, juicy details that only someone personally privy to the moment or intimately familiar with the people of the past could possibly know. He also likes to tease his beloved when she asks if any of these places are really haunted.

“Why, of course they are,” he grins, the barest hint of his fangs poking out.

“They are?!”

“Mhm! I’m here, aren’t I, haunting the place? Boo~!”

At that she socks him softly in his large bicep and he fakes a wince, rubbing sorely at his unwounded arm. He produces an exaggerated pout, slouching deflatedly.

“My dearest, my little sanguine soul, my darling, why do you strike me?!”

“Because that joke was terrible,” she laughs, then kisses his cheek sweetly, which puffs him up with pride. “But I am happy to be haunted by you.”

They walk hand in hand as the tour guide waggles an LED lantern about ominously, the pair of lovers strolling into the misty, moonlit night, not quite listening to the dramatic retelling of witch trials and murdered brides, more caught up in one another.

On another note, I think Eddie is just theatric enough and dramatic in his leanings towards Gothic with a capital-G sentimentality that he’d probably have frequent nighttime dates with his beloved in cemeteries, preferably ones in the shadow of a grand cathedral.

He’s not actually there to mire himself in the idea of death, but because he’s fond of relaying histories to her and big on admiring the architecture. And he likes to feel small and in the awe of something grandiose, you know? Immortality can lead to an inflated ego, so sometimes just sitting in the cool, dewy grass, surrounded by bygone friends and strangers, holding the hand of someone he loves, staring up at the great, spanning monument thousands of people built to worship in... it makes him feel like a common speck of dust, instead of a timeless oddity, in the most reassuring way of all.

He likes to walk with his beloved through the rows of graves, sometimes talking about the architecture and style of the grave (”So, let’s discuss the symbolism of the Puritan death’s head that you can see on this one--”) or the loveliness of a mausoleum, or sometimes about the person buried there.

“Eugh, I knew that guy,” he says, pointing at one particular grave. “Confederate, and a total bastard about it. Plus, he tried to steal my horse!”

“You had a horse?”

“Her name was Pumpkins and she was the greatest creature to ever walk on four legs.”

Eddie has lots of fun in the graveyard, honestly.

Plus, he thinks his lover looks unspeakably lovely in the cast of the moonlight as it shimmers on her skin, illuminating her like an etherial, nameless wonder, and he just can’t help his Romantic with a capital-R heart from leaning in to steal a kiss beneath the stars.

As a bonus, if he’s in the graveyard on a date night, he also scares off any rowdy teens that might wander in and desecrate the graves. Eddie is very, very insistent that graveyards be a place of love and care, so when he sees teens wandering in with beer cans and spray paint, he likes to bring out his scary side. Hissing in the dark, glowing red eyes, dripping fangs, a raspy voice snarling “get out” darkly... you know, typical “monster in the graveyard” stuff. 100% of the time, those rabble-rousers drop what they’re doing and book it, screaming, and Eddie returns to his natural self, walking back over to his beloved with a smug smile.

“My big brave boy,” his sweetheart says, squeezing his hand. Eddie juts his chin out confidently.

“That I am, my little moon-blossom!”

“Though, really, it’s not like they could ever land a hit on you, so you’re not really in any danger--”

“Let me have this, honey,” Eddie replies, patting her shoulder. “Let me be the hero of the hour, I’m begging.”

She laughs at him but allows him his pride, and grants him a “hero’s reward”: a big, wet kiss, as he dips her, both of them smiling at the excess of the gesture, but equally pleased to be in excess for one another.

Feel free to send more messages!

#long post #messages #gif warning #anonymous #mr. mccarthy #.aahhh the ye olde spookie boyes....#.

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therunawayscamp · 5 years ago

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Kylmia 'av Russawel Glathemath 'ye Varlaire-Admanenthar 'aba Alaxonfeld-Gaendral Adonire Heculius Lattalor-El, known as Lady Kylmia to her friends, enemies, and everybody in between who couldn't spare ten mintues out of their day to pronounce her surname, was a refugee from the Summerset Isles. So Sham had said. R'khan was inclined to believe her, although he had never before known a refugee who was not only in possession of a mansion, extensive gardens, and enough money to throw a soirée for all the nobility of High Rock, but who had also avoided being murdered by the Thalmor.

The circumstances of the Scamps receiving an invitation were somewhat suspect, too. Shamilia's family in the Isles were a mongrel assortment of half-bloods, whose only claim to fame was their merchant ties, and the upper echelons of Altmer society were unlikely to pay them any attention -- least of all their runaway daughter and her unsavoury associates. A party was a party, however, and if exiled nobility felt inclined to amuse themselves with the antics of sailors, the crew were glad to oblige, particularly when Sham threatened to bludgeon the fingers of anybody who denied her the chance to hear news about her family.

Impressively, they were being given a run for their money. Springwater wine flowed freely from a crystal fountain in the centre of the mansion's hall and trickled through the warm, golden candlelight. Servants were placed at strategic points around the room, each one holding a silver and glass ewers, cut to perfection, the silver shaped into vines and flowers, and glowing to the brim with metheglin. Somewhere there was the smoky smell of Crystal Tower Whiskey, although this was more discreet and Braskan had been spotted doing his utmost to deplete the supply.

Guests Lady Kylmia particularly approved of were eventually guided through the hall and into an adjoining lounge, hung on every wall with fine silk tapestries, all obscured by a fine pink mist and a general haze of debauchery. Naked golden bodies stretched out beside sweating grey skin, slick fur and sparkling scales, and that was only what was on display, what hadn't been hidden behind the drapes. A few of these remarkably friendly individuals pressed themselves against R'khan as he entered the room himself, but he slipped past them and aimed for a pair of double doors on the opposite wall, held open to the stars and the moonlit garden.

He had only been in the lounge for a minute, only the time it took to push through the pulsating, writhing crowd, but he breathed in the night like a drowning man. There was music somewhere distant. It became more distant still as R'khan strolled past the marble bowls full of living flowers, past the couples hidden in rose bowers, around a vast, dark pond, and down a corridor of shrubbery, until he reached an orchard. It was full of apple trees. They were still and quiet, undisturbed by winds or the music. And he was not alone.

The flare and hush of someone lighting a roll of hackle-lo gave him away. R'khan stopped beside a tree, then eased. Only one person would bump his head on a low-hanging branch and curse in such a distinctive Solstheim accent.

'All right, Vi?'

There was a thump as Vilayn turned his head and succeeded in knocking an apple to the ground. Like R'khan, he relaxed when he identified his companion, and ambled down the alley of trees to join him. When he drew level he held out the hackle-lo, which R'khan took, and produced a second for himself.

'Right enough,' he said, and sighed out his first drag on the hackle-lo. R'khan watched the embers light up the smoke.

'Didn't think you'd be out here. Where there's debauchery, you ain't usually far. Don't tell me you're shot away already.'

'No, but Lady Kylmia did invite me to snort moon sugar off a mirror while her admittedly rather handsome cousin sucked my--'

'Vi.'

'--and a very pretty Bosmer tied up my hands and--'

'Vi.'

'--me from behind, but when she suggested it I just felt... tired. Old. How long are we going to keep asking Vilveriah for more time? How long do we keep doing this?'

R'khan puffed on his hackle-lo a few times, then bent down to pick up the fallen apple. It came up wet with dew, which showered over his sleeve as he tossed it in the air a few times.

'Vilayn.'

'What?'

'You don't snort moon sugar.'

'That was the other reason I said no.'

Lady Kylmia wouldn't miss one fruit. R'khan pocketed the apple and chose to savour the rest of the hackle-lo rather than reply immediately. Vilayn did the same, and a companionable silence, broken only by an occasional rustle of leaves or sigh of smoke from between their lips, closed in around them.

When the hackle-lo was finished and everything was dark, when his face was hidden, R'khan said,

'Your answer is forever. There ain't no fate worse than death.'

'Not even carrying on after everyone else is gone? The Admiral. Your boy. Casethar and-- and Hazil.'

R'khan would have answered. Definitely. The words were on the tip of his tongue, of course they were, about to be spoken at any second, when the sound of somebody else crunching through the grass distracted him and forced them out of his mind, saving him the trouble.

Both his head and Vilayn's turned towards the noise. A few seconds later, Sham stepped into the moonlight. She was dressed for a party, sailor slops discarded in favour of a silver gown, carpentry tools swapped for an equally lethal array of hairpins, boots for silk slippers. The latter sank into the earth when she came to a stop.

'What are you doing out here?'

Even her voice had changed to suit the occasion. She had returned to her old accent, the haughty tones of an Altmer to whom the mightiest of the Daedra were considered part of the great unwashed rabble, and it was hard to drop it at short notice.

'Smoking,' said Vilayn.

'Mebbe I could ask you the same question,' said R'khan. Sham paused, then leaned against a tree, kicking off the slippers and digging her toes into the dirt.

'If you must know, captain, I asked Lady Kylmia about my family.' She turned her face upwards to look at the sky. The moonlight brought out more of the grey in her skin than the gold. 'They're gone. Nobody knows whether they escaped in the night or whether they were rounded up by the Thalmor. They just... disappeared, not long after I left, and nobody's heard anything about them since.'

'I'm sorry, lass.'

It was rare for the captain to offer sincere sympathy, and its emergence now was spoiled by a crash from the direction of the house and the sound of somebody stomping through the rose bowers, throwing something in the pond, and approaching the orchard. Vilayn lowered his hackle-lo and looked up sharply. Sham ignored the sound.

'Does it matter, though?' she asked, her lip curled and sour. 'Really? Even if they made it out, they would have been killed somewhere else. You heard about the Night of Green Fire, right? All the refugees in Sentinel, dead. And I've known it all the fucking time, haven't I? I just didn't want to believe it, so I didn't fucking think about it. They're dead. All of them.'

If it was rare for the captain to offer sympathy, it was even rarer for Sham to admit any weakness or sentimentality. She stood, shoeless, trembling, with her hands knotted into tight, angry fists. After decades of cramming these thoughts away into the depths of her psyche, they were all trying to erupt at once, and the only thing stopping them was deciding which to start with. She looked as if a single touch would cause her to explode, or shatter, or fold onto the ground and sob.

And then Braskan arrived. He walked into a tree, bellowed an incoherent insult at it, and stank so strongly of whiskey the apples withered on the branch. It was wonderfully, gloriously normal.

'Ah, wha's ya fuckin' s'wits doin' out in th'fuckin' dark, ya fuckin', fuckin'... s'wits? I's lookin' fer me shipmates and all a' ya's gone an' fucked off!'

The change in Sham was instant. Braskan's total ignorance of the scene playing out before him did what no amount of words and consolation could have. She grabbed him by the shoulder and gave him a shake, leaving her arm slung around his neck.

'You're the fucking s'wit, you s'wit! Came all the way out here and you ain't got any booze for us?'

'Nah, they’s all on th’skooma, isn’ they? I ain’t inta tha’ shit. I’s got fuckin’ class.’

He paused to belch, which gave Sham an opportunity to jump in again. Although she addressed Braskan, she stared at R’khan and Vilayn, daring them to mention her momentary failure.

‘Never used to bother you in Oblivion’s Gate.’

‘Aye, but tha’ don’ figure now Hlen’s gone, do it? Things jus’ ain’t the same these days. They jus’ ain’t the same.’

Before a third person could join the melancholy, Sham punched his shoulder, then kicked him in the leg for good measure. The last of her stamped down the last of her worries and fears were stamped down out of sight.

‘Then go find the kitchens while they ain’t looking.’

‘They ain’ got no more booze, anyway. Finished it, din’ I?’

'Guarshit, you just don't want to share it. Bet you I can get a drink soon's I'm in the door.'

'Not if I gets there firs'!'

There was no particular hurry to try and beat Braskan, who, with no outside interference, looped around a few of the trees several times before stumbling towards the exit of the orchard. Sham took a few steps barefoot, stopped as if she was going to say something, but never turned around and never spoke a word. R'khan watched her shoulders lift as she took a deep breath, and then she was running, laughing at Braskan, hauling him forwards by the scruff of his coat.

The air had changed. It was hot and humid outside, despite the sea breeze and the darkness. Vilayn stamped his hackle-lo into the ground and picked up Sham's slippers.

'We'd better go back too. Make sure they don't break anything too expensive.'

After a pause, R'khan nodded. They walked through the gardens in silence, leaving the orchard, the pond, and the things they couldn't say behind.

#the works of master vilayn #captain r'khan #vilayn #shamilia #braskan

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the-real-rg · 6 years ago

Text

It was twelve past midnight when the Devil walked in.

These trips to the hospital were unavoidable. Devi’s profession would simply not allow it; the bruisers of Querevage’s underground Arena were not prone to leaving matches uninjured, and Devi had stopped trying to resist the call of the ring a long time ago.

Ahava’s clinic was untidy the way a vulture was; untamed and unnatural, yet not unkempt. Sitting on the edge of the city centre, it was the only thing someone like Devi could truly call a hospital for four square miles. Inside, clay pots covered every space not occupied by a box, or a bottle, or a book. Inscriptions ran along their sides, dates and ingredients and names. Forgotten bundles of herbs and flowers dangled from the ceiling in bunches. The medic would claim they were drying. At present, the normally buzzing waiting room gaped with the emptiness brought on by the late hour as moonlight filtered through decrepit shutters and dirty glass. The rest of the city scum would crawl in an hour or two later; Devi’s match had started earlier tonight. A small blessing.

The night sat strange in Devi - something was different. Perhaps it was in the people. A full moon always brought out the worst of Querevage. Brutes to begin with, an excuse for mischief was never passed up, and the beck and call of a supernatural mistress was beyond tempting, but tonight’s twilight was soft as it settled into the city; a god all its own in the way it claimed the streets. It curled and whispered against the edge of the fiendish towers, her winds a gentle touch, carrying with them songs of a thousand desperate men. Maybe that was it. In Querevage - in the Capital - tenderness was a rare commodity that unsettled the bones. And not all had havens to retreat to, not like Devi had Ahava’s.

It wasn’t like she deserved the doctor’s help to begin with. Especially not when she insisted on showing up at this hour. Nerves crawled up Devi’s spine as floorboards creaked under her pacing boots, steel toes clicking along the wood in time to the pulsing rabble of an unsleeping city. Waiting for Ahava to appear was never an easy task. She had wounds that needed tending to and, with each rattling inhale, Devi got more and more tempted to crawl out a window. What it would be charge into the night on her own - bloodied face and all. Bliss? Maybe. Anxiety wriggled in her stomach. Maybe Ahava was sleeping? She needed her rest too. No, Devi reassured herself, Ahava was never far from death, and Devi - bleeding, gasping, and limping - stunk of it.

It only took a few more moments for the good doctor to descend from the staircase, much to Devi’s relief. Her curly hair was pulled back in a bun so sloppy it could have been mistaken for a nest. She must not have taken it out before bed; the rumpled medic’s garb she wore supported that idea. It made Devi feel worse about waking Ahava up so late.

The doctor looked her up and down, clearly counting injuries, measuring the damage; assessing which wounds needed to be tended to first and which were life threatening. She wouldn’t accurately know until Devi stripped out of her armour, but first impressions were important, and Devi wasn’t in a position to complain. She could do that later. As if sensing her plan to be a nuisance, Ahava fixed her with an exasperated gaze, and sighed. Devi just laughed, some broken sounding rattle, before choking out, “You should have seen the other guy.”

Ahava’s face flashed with concern, but she said nothing; it was the same bitter comment Devi made every time she was handed a look like that - the routine they’d built insisted upon it and Devi, a creature of habit, was in no mood to change it any time soon. And the doctor, bless her, had accepted that part of the gladiator long ago, just as she had accepted their silent agreement: she was not to criticise the bruiser for reappearing each night. In these moonlit hours, her only job was to treat Devi’s wounds, not prevent them. Friend or not, Ahava had to respect that.

It didn’t stop Ahava’s gold eyes - dark and faded and full of rotting magic - from turning cold when they found nastier wounds. Devi took no offense, it was so very like Ahava to become stern when faced with an uncooperative patient - whether they were ignoring prescription or common sense, and Devi was a sure convict for the latter. But what was Devi to do? She needed the money from the Arena as much as she needed the adrenaline. A known enemy of the state didn’t have choices, especially one so addicted to the high of the fight. Especially one whose most common moniker was ‘Devil’. At least Ahava had managed to keep some dignity about her despite being an ex-magician.

“Devi,” Ahava greeted, tone careful. “Please wait for me in the other room while I get ready.” The speech was so mechanical it almost made Devi wince.

“What, am I bleeding all over your floor?” The words were joking, if weak. Ahava, it seemed, needed some brightness right now.

“Yes, actually,” The doctor shot back, sarcastic to a fault, an overdramatic sneer scrunching her nose, “It’s rather unsightly. If you could do it in the other room I’d really appreciate it. Less mess to clean up before I dispose of the body, y’know how it is.”

Devi gave an amused huff, before grunting in acknowledgment. Relief made heavy limbs light, but it took a brief struggle to get moving again. She gave Ahava a quick peck on the cheek as she walked by, an affectionate but outdated form of greeting, one that made the doctor grumble unhappily. But Devi knew deep down Ahava appreciated the sentiment.

As she stepped towards the doorway to the side room, her companion remained outside, materials shifting as Ahava pawed her way through the mess, seeking out the package made specially for Devi’s visits. If the bruiser walked straight into the doorframe they wouldn't mention it till next morning, when teasing was welcome and more than expected. Right now, the clock was ticking too fast for anything more than light banter. Devi’s injuries needed stitches, and fast.

A blood-coated cough shook Devi something terrible, drawing Ahava from her search, fear flickering over her features for a fraction of a second. Anyone could tell that the wet noise was not a good sign. Swaying on her feet now, Devi was barely able to look up when Ahava spoke, “I’ll be with you in a minute, lie down and stay there.” Despite the harsh tone, they were comforting words. Devi couldn’t blame her for the mistake; Ahava was perpetually new to the whole friend thing.

She settled into her cot without complaint, and allowed herself to nestle into the fresh sheets, and sighed for a moment, taking in the nook that seemed to get smaller with every visit. The side room was not Ahava’s traditional examination area, much more akin to a storage closet with a bed in it. But it was Devi’s room. For Devi’s examinations. And the gods knew she didn’t have enough things to call hers anymore.

A soft patter of footsteps hailed the medic’s approach. Their work began.

The cot was small, the going was slow, and the time was late, so tan hands pressed stitches into Devi’s dark skin and a rhythm was created in time to the soft tune Devi hummed. It was quiet, but at least it kept her mind off the push and pull of the needle and the rattle in her ribs. Ahava, she knew, appreciated the melody too; kept the tremor out of her hands. The song was a soothing thing; an old lullaby that managed to hold its nostalgic charm despite the ragged, off key notes that clawed their way out of Devi’s throat. She’d forgotten its name ages ago, but she knew it was old; it had been taught to her before Amator had been assassinated, and it was a reminder of better times - of wealth and glory and friends. The song had become just another private memory.

The sky faded like an old dye outside the window, light beginning to settle into the room, glinting off the needle. It made her spine itch. In the morning there would be crowds, and the sultry masses would give her no privacy - each desperate for an easy target. She had founded this nation alongside Barachiel and Amator before the latter had shamelessly been murdered, and she had been kicked to the gutter like trash. The fighter’s fall from grace had been a public spectacle that none were keen to let her forget. Despite the many years that aged its memory, the incident had even given life to her nickname in the Arena; The Devil. Half of its permanence in the public mind was Desdemona’s doing. After all, what better way to remind the people of Querevage that she had slaughtered its founder than parading around his partner like a caged tiger. To think she was all that remained of Amator’s legacy… Appalling.

Devi left with the moon, skulking off to the withering shack she still refused to call home. A painful endeavour with the state she was in - Ahava could only do so much for her aching bones without the use of illicit magic - but both knew there was nothing more to be done. Devi would tear the stars from the skies before she gave up this fix. An addict she was, but the call of the Arena was too great to be denied, no matter what the doctor suggested.

Devi knew that if she chose to, Ahava could detach herself from the situation entirely, reign in her emotions and just mend the wounds she was presented with - if she chose to mend them at all. Ahava was a doctor. Professionalism was the first rule of the trade; too many died to get attached, so their agreement was a precarious one - based initially on pity, and only later a genuine fondness that had grown between the two dark-skinned women. But fondness didn’t disguise the grief stooping in the doctor’s gaze as the door shuttered behind Devi as she escaped into the veins of the city, a small packet of hormone pills clutched in one hand. Streets and avenue and cobblestones spreading out before her in the night, branching out from the beast that was the ancient Montgomery Street.

Devi huffed, watching the fogging breath drift off in the breeze. Montgomery Street, sunless, was cold but not necessarily lifeless. Bar chatter seeped out of the cracks in the walls of the Blind Sparrow, just across the street. Its lit windows shone like cat’s eyes, and she felt vaguely like she was being watched. For a moment, she met its gaze, heard her pulse in her ears.

She had survived the Arena, her heartbeat a testimony to that. She had survived. She was alive. What a beautiful, insignificant miracle. It took her breath away. Alive, what a concept.

The bruiser moved on, shaking off the sudden reverence with a shudder. Devi padded down the cragged street, looking for her exit. The clinic wasn’t her last stop tonight, and she couldn’t keep Alphonse waiting much longer. With luck, she could take the alleys and get there before the magician broke another pair of glasses.

Alleys were the only real way to travel in Querevage, even before Desdemona’s takeover.

Taking her usual route, Devi found herself cramming her way through a particularly narrow street. Most would be unnerved in the claustrophobic setting, but for better or for worse, the fighter had become particularly acquainted with the nooks and crannies of the Capital. Cool walls draped themselves along the passageway, bricks wet with the night. Cobble stones with runes scratched into them ran against her vision as she moved, only half of which had been painted over by the Night Guard - a new staple in all Quereven cities. Moonlight spilled over her back as she scurried down the alleyways. She could taste the magic in the air, illegal and beautiful in how it was still alive despite Desdemona’s hard working hands. It made her laugh and her cheeks flush, better times dancing in her head. Some part of her could tell she was more than a little delirious with either shock or blood loss. Who knew. Who cared.

The bruiser’s dark skin all but melted into walls of the backstreet, a disguise built into her form. She’d appreciated it more and more over the years, this inlaid ability to sink into the dark backdrop of the city, her only spotlight the moon. Haloed and aglow in the dawn, she forged onward. There was a destination in mind, a definite course set for her senseless wandering, but not the place she’d led Ahava to believe. Ahava was a friend, yes, but the doctor was too lawful to be trusted with the secrets of the Hive and the magicians that lived within it. Alphonse had only told Devi because he trusted her. She wouldn’t betray him to a woman he didn’t know, no matter how much Ahava meant to her.

If her wounds were left untreated, she'd be unable to move the next morning, and she'd have to be dragged back to her shack before she unnecessarily spent time there, but with the help of Alphonse and his magic she’d be fully functioning in an hour. And with his help, the hut could stay as distant from her life as possible; exclusively for sleeping and storage and sometimes not even that. Devi could always trust that Alphonse would help, he was a blessing too good for this earth and she was lucky to have met him before the Guard forced him and all other practicing magicians into hiding. The Hive had saved Quereven magic from extinction and Alphonse from the jaws of death. It was tucked between the fabric of here and now, a nontruth that wasn’t actually real according to any natural laws, and had entrances that didn’t exist unless you already knew they were real.

In short, the Hive was a magical, semi-sentient collection of spaces called Fantasies, things aptly named for their unique nature of being entirely conjured realities. Taking a variety of shape and form, a Fantasy could be as small as a single bedroom or as large as a city, all the while using no physical space, merely taking advantage of the illusion of it to explain its own existence. A fourth dimension, if you will. Realities within reality. They took a complicated network of spells to make and a great understanding of magic, not to mention an obscene amount of luck and skill. Alphonse had all of the above, and had built many of the Fantasies that stemmed off the main tunnel of the Hive. Many were now empty.

Magic had disappeared, but the persecution of it had not.

Ahava had chosen to give up magic in exchange for a life above ground, where you could interact with real, actual objects, eat real, actual food, and listen to the sound of real, actual rain. The doctor hated falsities, and thus she refused to live one. Devi would have to side with Ahava at the end of the day. She loved Alphonse, but even his familiar Fantasy was unsettling in a primal way. The food tasted foreign, never quite right. Telltale signs for the mimicry it was. And the sounds felt flat. It sat heavy in the bones and watched like a cat. Living in a Fantasy was isolating. It was just you, and the world, and the knowledge that the only pulse on this plane was yours. Most couldn’t live with that.

Devi, peering into the Portmans Avenue entrance, knew she certainly couldn’t. She stepped into the tunnel, and felt it swallow around her. The Hive was a winding thing, a living being that breathed and pulseed, though she couldn't say if it physically pulsed or magically pulsed, even though she had one hand on its wall, trailing down the easy dips and peaks that rippled down the tunnel. She wasn’t sensitive enough to magic to tell the difference. Al’s Fantasy - Trinkets - was the third opening to the right.

The gateway opened to a countryside manor settled comfortably atop a glassy lake. The water sprawled out in front of her, painting a mirror image of the canopy that towered above her. Only floating knots of islands disturbed an otherwise flawless reflection. Trinkets’ red brick emerged from the charcoal trees like a dragon, seeming to breathe with chimney smoke and stare with shuttered eyes. It was the only warm colour in this place, homey like a mother’s wrath amongst the cool tones of the sunken forest. Trinkets itself rested on the very cusp of the water, serene in its untouchability.

Fake, all of it, but God, how beautiful.

Parts of the house flickered in and out of vision like a dying flame, shrouded in the mist rising from the water. Though, admittedly, the opaque liquid wasn’t water at all. It held no weight where it clung to her boots, and it wasn’t cold. It was warm. Eerily and surreally so. She always hated walking over to the door, the pooling sky cut her feet off by the ankles, and she'd lose them wherever she stepped. Below the water, nothing existed. Nothing had been programmed to exist below the water, just as nothing had been programmed to exist beyond the thick layer of fog encircling the manor.

Alphonse, here, was God. And God had not wanted to lie to himself with fake creatures. Nothing here breathed but her, and Al, and his husband. And thus this place belonged to the three of them. The husband in question, Kimon, could be seen in the greenhouse bulging off the side of Trinkets like a blister. She waved to him, and in turn Devi saw him nod in greeting at her, before his silhouette dipped back inside the house. It was good to remind herself that isolation did not mean alone.

She wondered, briefly, if Kimon and Alphonse ever got used to the feeling. The Devil supposed they must have, over the years. With nothing but each other for company, conversation must be hard to come by. Or, she mused, perhaps not. Each quirky and sporadic in their own right, Kimon and Alphonse got on like a house on fire. Their bond was something Devi could only hope for. Kimon could leave at any time, abandoning Alphonse to the loneliness of solitary existence, something that would undoubtedly kill the social man. And yet he stayed, warm and tucked away here with the love of his life. Universes would bend under their determination, and this sanctuary proved just that. Trinkets was private, and Trinkets was Alphonse’s, and Trinkets was Kimon’s.

Devi was just a guest. While Alphonse was like Devi, a criminal by law, Kimon was a beast of a different kind. As a coliseum mage, Kimon was charged with exploration of the Quereven badlands, and combating the monsters that inhabited them. It was a position of power, one that allowed Kimon the ability to practice magic despite the laws against it. Amator had been a coliseum mage before they had founded Querevage properly, back when it had just been a bunch of mercenaries squatting in tents. Those had been some of the most blissful days of Devi’s life, when she had him and Barachiel by her side she’d felt like she could take on the world. She had never seen the same appeal in the crazy world of politics that had followed just a few years after. Give her a pulse, a sword, and a monster any day. However, she was glad that part of Quereven culture had carried on.

Some things were so signature to the nation that not even Desdemona could erase them. The status that came with being a coliseum member was one of them. That, and the need for a coliseum mage to ensure the survival of the troop meant that Kimon had the most idealized life one could have in Querevage, both before and after Amamtor died. He was a lucky man. And she believed Amator would have liked Kimon, which was what was most important to her, what with Kimon being the current holder of Amator’s first title. The two men were kindred souls, both having a fearsome appreciation for magic and for their partners. At least she could trust Alphonse not to try and murder anyone, much less his husband. Who she was now face to face with.

Kimon, holding the door open for her, looked deathly tired. Bags were stamped under electric blue eyes, unusually dull against his tan skin and dark lashes. Several scratches littered his face, with two nasty ones clipping along his cheekbone. He was typically an attractive man but his slouch and the grime coating him took away from that. Kimon was careful about his appearance, to see him in such disarray was especially concerning. Hopefully nothing had happened to Alphonse.

“Rough day?” She asked, stepping into the house. The Coliseum was a one-way ticket to fame and success, but it rarely left one feeling anything but battered and exhausted. She wouldn’t be surprised if that was the cause of his disorder. Devi, still aching from her match, could sympathize.

“Yeah,” He said, bluntly, closing the door behind her, “And we got a letter. Didn’t help.”

Devi wiggled her toes as she shook water from her pants, it was good form to make sure all of them were still there after a trudge through the water. “Pardon my asking, but who from?”

A dismissive grunt. “Gemini. It’s about her promotional ceremony.”

Officially the young woman had been serving as general for over a month, the celebration was merely a formality, but it was still the most highly anticipated event of the season. Public events celebrating military grandeur were an excellent way to reassure the masses, after all, so the monarchs put extra time into ensuring their success.

“What’s the matter with that?” Devi asked.

“I’ve been formally invited. Alphonse on the other hand… has been… asked not to attend. Formally.”

“Oh.” Devi knew things had been tense between Al and his eldest child but she hadn’t thought it was that bad.

“Yeah,” Kimon nudged at the floor with his shoe. “He’s rather torn up about it. She said it was because she didn’t want him getting caught. Which is admittedly a risk, and a reasonable one at that, so I can-��

The bruiser almost laughed. “Al? Get caught? Magic smothering is a temporary enchantment, yes, but heavens he’s better than that. You and I both know that she’s just embarrassed to admit her father is a witch.”

“Watch it,” Kimon snapped. “You all but raised her. I was hoping you’d be able to translate for her, not make her look worse. She doesn’t mean to hurt him. Alphonse needs to remember that.”

Devi huffed. Gemini had changed when she’d gotten her first taste of life outside of the Hive. She’d been a sweet young girl but now she reminded Devi scarily of Barachiel. Too much so to be a coincidence. It wouldn’t surprise the Devil if he’d actually started mentoring her.

“Devi,” Kimon pleaded, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder, “Promise me you’ll talk to him. It’s… awkward when I do it.”

She met his eye, and hissed. “I will not lie to him.”

“Then don’t. The only person who knows her better than you is Alphonse. You know she doesn’t mean it like that.”

She tensed, agitated.

“Please. He can’t lose any more family.”

A beat of hesitation. “I’m getting my damn stitches fixed first.”

Kimon beamed. “Knew I could count on you.”

“Where is he, anyway?” They could both tell she was making small talk as she wandered over to the living room door, “I usually can’t get him off me long enough to have a proper conversation with you.”

“Hiding,” Kimon answered, bounding after the woman’s longer strides, “Think he wants to surprise you.”

“Oh? Alphonse nearly scared me half to death the last time he ‘surprised’ me.” She stopped just outside the door frame, turning to look at Kimon, a smile playing at her lips.

“You were only paralyzed for a week, Devi.”

She scoffed, playful. “Does he still tell the story?”

“To anyone who’ll listen.” The corners of Kimon’s blue eyes crinkled happily as his mouth tilted, fondness glowing in them.

“So every night over dinner, then, when you two sit down to eat?”

Kimon laughed pleasantly, “You know him too well.”

“Just promise me this surprise doesn’t involve alpacas. I’m still picking fur out of my teeth from my last encounter with them.”

The mage shuddered, the memory fresh in both of them. “No alpacas.”

“Great.” Devi stepped through the doorway. And screamed.

Al, always one for dramatic entrances, had dropped down from the air like a bat, and upside down shrieked; "If it isn't the great and powerful Devi!" His smile spread bright, "You're home!" And she was.

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#spilled ink #writing #wip snippet #writeblr #writer #rstd #rstd:snip #rstd:alphonse #rstd:devi #rstd:kimon

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