#rune wasn't born with his charm :pensive:

[peacefiresky-archive]

poetry (in stillness)

Rune stared at the mirror and smiled.

It came off as more of a grimace - it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and his tusks stretched his lower lip awkwardly. The flicker of a knotted furrow between his brows did nothing to lessen the effect. He braced his hands on the sink below the mirror and let his head hang for a moment, groaning.

Try again, whispered the tiny, optimistic, spitefully hopeful voice in the back of his mind. An echo of who he was before, the last clinging ghost of a man who was once as charming as he was pretty. It was a counterpart to the foreign whispers entwining him like thorny vines, their bitter sting rooted in the lump of cursed rock where his heart should be - once red and lively, beating with the thrill of life and freedom, now cold and black and burning with hatred.

Not even metaphorically, the voice whispered again, not without humor. Now, stop moping about rocks and smile.

“No,” he said.

Do it, you coward. The voice was sly, playful. Silly, even.

He raised his head, leveling a challenging glare to the mirror. His simmering glower was enough to make even Mogrul the Loan-Shark back down, but it seemed he was immune to himself. “I looked like I was trying to bite someone.”

Because it’s not genuine. Think of something you love, and try again.

“Alright, fine - fine.” He huffed, and closed his eyes. He pictured Veena, the beauty of the Blackbirds; he loved her, would trek across still-burning foyadas for her, would die for her. He pictured Elshad, her smile when she was turned back into herself, the way she held Veena and Rune in her cool arms; the giddiness he felt when he laid beside them, trying to shield them both at once. He would be their sword and shield, if they would have him, and by the gods, they had him - and refused to let go.

Quite the poet.

He opened his eyes, only to be met by his own scowl.

Rune winced, and lightly let his head bang against the mirror.

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “I’m wasting my time.”

You’re being silly. His reflection tilted his head, mirroring his stare.

“Excuse me? You’re being silly - sitting here and making me practice smiles in mirrors,” he growled - grumbled, more like. There wasn’t as much fire in his tone as he had intended, the comeback falling a bit flat. His reflection only seemed amused by it, lips quirking into a smile.

Says the man yelling at himself in a bathroom.

A startled noise left him, and he raised his fist to his mouth to stifle it. “I - how dare you, I’m -” There was that noise again, and again, before it became a steady stream of noise. There was a moment before he realized that his reflection was laughing.

He was laughing.

The thorns that entangled him loosened for a blessed moment, the absurdity fully hitting him. Bahrjulihn’ruhn gro-Yatuklak, born of the lost cities, rune of the fire-stones, revered and scorned and feared in Raven Rock, son of a mabrigash witch and an Orc legionnaire ... sitting in front a mirror in the Retching Netch, practicing his smiles.

His head was thrown backwards, his teeth biting lightly into the skin of his knuckle to quiet himself. Full-chested peels of laughter bounced around the bathroom, his bemusement overruling his will to shut up already; he managed to calm the laughter into hiccuping chuckles, and then awkward clears of the throat, his eyes meeting his reflection’s.

His ears, long and mangled, were pressed contentedly against his head. His eyes wrinkled, usually making him appear older than he was, now giving him an air of mirth. His grin, lopsided and messy and real, grew smaller but just as real as he ducked his head low and left the bathroom.

The patron closest to him - a mercenary, Serjo Sero - shot him a strange look from behind his mask as Rune brushed by, clearing his throat.

Oh, gods, he realized, they heard.

[luxmaeastra]

He was the last of the Anemoi. He remembered them all Zephyrus as swift and wild as Spring, Eurus as cunning and fiery as Autumn, and Notus as hot-headed and demanding as Summer. How they'd ran with Arawn in his Wild Hunt. How they'd watched him fall in love and have a child. They'd been his brothers in all but name. He hadn't understood why they died - why they went back through Ashphodel Gates back to Aperion. Why they couldn't hold their powers.

He remembered Notus being slayed by his son, he remembered Eurus's boy Rook save them from the oppressive hold of Summer. Sometimes he even spared a thought to the Dioscuri, the graceling twins born at midnight. Hesperus as pensive and ruthless as the Moon. His twin Phosphorus as charming and cruel as the Sun. They'd ran with them too, but they'd always hung back, slipping through the crevices to attack and overpower their prey.

All were dead now, long gone back to dust. He pulled his gaze from the ice garden to watch his sons fight and wrestle at his feet. They were so small, as fierce as the Wargs that prowled around them. He wondered how long he'd have to wait till they were old enough to see if his brothers had been right. Better to have a legacy than to die with no one who remembered you.

----------

"Father please —"

"Begging will get you nothing Xanthos, in fact it's inclined to get you less."

Xanthos could barely move, the ice freezing his blood painfully to his face. He whimpered looking to Kallias and back to their father.

"Father —"

"You failed your Bone Right, we had to come find you. Do you think I'd let you come back? Do you think I'd allow such a failure stay in my home and take part in food and wine? You had a 100 years to prepare Xanthos. Tell me, what is Winter's Edict?"

"All fall before the cold who are too weak to meet it."

He looked very close to breaking down again. Boreas turned away in disgusted and shook his hands out. His knuckles were split but they'd heal.

"Be thankful I won't force Kallias to finish you off. A reward for winning his Rite as I knew he would. Come now Kallias."

----------

Xanthos pulled the Cinnabar Blade from Kallias's stomach. The silver runes flared as the power flowed through the blade and into him. He let it fall away as ash between them.

He barred his teeth a mad glint in his eyes.

"I thought you'd come - I thought you'd help save me Kallias! You - I thought we were above his games! You left me to die!"

Winter was not a court that overlooked failure, it wasn't one that gave second chances. There was a reason for that, for the harsh world they lived in was not one to give you a second chance. If you survived what lurked out in the wilds, if you were able to stay alive long enough to eat and find fresh water, then it was the bitter cold that nipped at your heels.

Winter was death, Winter was darkness. The unknown, the forgotten, all lurked within the white tundras that was their home. It was why he had been honest to his father, it was why he had followed him when he had left his brother for dead. He knew his place, he knew that he had to survive if only so their court did.

Was that what made this moment bittersweet? Did he deserve this for what happened to his brother? His father was already dead, giving up after their own mother had faded away after losing their siblings. The children of Winter who were destroyed by Amarantha for the defiance his father dared to show.

The pain in his stomach caused him to hiss, his hand gripped his brother's arm. The feeling of power leaving him only made him feel weaker, he looked up to Xanthos as all he could see was the anger he deserved.

"I'm Sorry."