#the fears of the archer are UNTRUE not everything comes down to combat in the end!

[francesderwent]

it’s interesting to me how close songs like “Would’ve Could’ve Should’ve” or “The Manuscript” get to a robust ethics of love versus use. beyond simply the assertion that leaving is a betrayal of love which ought to be forever, these songs contain a pretty strong rejection, specifically of sex where it did not belong and had no business appearing. she can say, not just you leaving was cowardly, you ruined something real, but I regret you all the time—I wouldn’t do it all over again, any of it. not just you hurt me within the bounds of our love story, but this wasn’t above board at all. it wasn’t love. you took advantage. another way to say this: “Would’ve Could’ve Should’ve” and “The Manuscript” recognize that sometimes sex is a sin. not leaving afterwards, but sex itself. for the first time, we’re presented with a love story that couldn’t have been saved by an eleventh hour confession of love, by “don’t go” or “I want you for worse or for better” or “the worst thing that I ever did was what I did to you”. the whole thing is rejected as poisoned.

but these songs can only make such a strong statement because there’s the age gap to point to. to the modern mind, it’s easier to recognize use when there’s a clear power imbalance, but I think we’re getting the causation wrong, or at least oversimplifying it. the reason there shouldn’t be sexual relationships between people of drastically different ages isn’t that older people and younger people exist as such in relationships of imbalanced power. a healthy relationship between a mentor and a mentee or a teacher and a student is about guidance and education and protection and respect. these things aren’t “good” exercises of power or restrained power, they are not exercises of power at all.

power enters into the equation when one party decides to use the other. this choice transforms every difference in the relationship into an inequality, every imbalance into a threat. this wasn’t always secretly there under the relationship, it’s a totally transformed new kind of relationship now that use has entered into it. the more differences and asymmetries there are to start with, the more dramatically unequal the new relationship is—not because the relationship was bad inevitably and to begin with! but because these relationships are more vulnerable and so bringing use into them is a greater corruption, which magnifies the damage that is always there. even a perfectly “equal” relationship becomes a power struggle when use enters into it.

but the further step which is invisible to modern eyes is that sex, outside of marriage, does this all on its own. somebody who sleeps with you without marrying you is using you, full stop. and as much as I think this revelation is between the lines of Tortured Poets (and I do think that, it’s in the parallels between the two men!), she can’t face it head-on. there is no she thought about how he said since they loved each other, everything had been above board…she wasn’t sure. because modernity is so convinced that that has to be above board. so the closest thing we get to a song that speaks to that creeping feeling that she was used again is the mashup of Sweet Nothing and Hoax, and her derisive conclusion: all that you ever wanted from me was sweet nothing.

[carmenlire]

Birthday Boy

Trigger warning for explicit mention of self-harm and suicidal ideation

read on ao3

If he closes his eyes and thinks really hard, Alec supposes he could remember his last good birthday. It was before his rune ceremony and Izzy could barely walk, so it was ages and ages ago.

He remembers it more in flashes now. Images suffused with golden light that he recognizes is more nostalgia than truth.

Late September had still been humid and hot. His mother had still been his mom.

Alec has never been a morning person and that was doubly true before the Academy and training forced him to keep to a schedule. A little boy, he usually hadn’t woken up until midmorning when the sunshine was bright and crept into every corner of his bedroom.

For his fifth birthday, however, Alec had risen with the sun. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips now as he recalls the enthusiasm that had made him fling his bright blue and green covers off and had launched his little body out of bed.

He’d picked one of his most fun outfits-- there was a great big dinosaur in the middle of his bold red shirt-- and gone running to Isabelle’s room as the first rays of light flickered over the Institute.

To his disgust and disappointment, his sister had still been asleep without a care in the world. Disgruntled, Alec had closed her door with a huff and ran down the corridor and up the stairs to the next floor where his parents slept.

Maryse had been up all ready and applying her makeup at the vanity when he’d inched their bedroom door open, she’d glanced over with a smile that reached her eyes.

With a teasing glint, she’d asked, “And what are you doing up, sleepyhead?”

Flinging the door the rest of the way open he’d taken a running leap onto his parents bed. He barely noticed that his dad was nowhere to be found. Alec might’ve been young, but he was used to his dad spending as much time-- more-- in Idris than in New York. It barely crossed his mind that his dad wasn’t in town for his birthday.

When it did, he was relieved, though that feeling wouldn’t become clear until a few years later.

Maryse had been happier back then is all Alec can think now. He doesn’t know where it all went so horribly wrong but that birthday was wonderful. Alec had gone down to the command center while Maryse got Izzy ready. While that was usually a job for their governess, back then it hadn’t been unusual for Maryse to wake them up and spend a few precious moments in the morning with them before she was inevitably pulled into a thousand directions as Head of the Institute.

Still so young, Alec didn’t really understand what happened in the control center. He’d hidden behind a pillar a few times and listened to his mom give instructions in a tone that made him want to shy away. But it was always busy and he knew almost all the shadowhunters and when they saw him underfoot, they usually smiled and a few of them-- Mr. Greystone especially-- always slid him a piece of candy with a wink.

The day had gone by quickly between a big breakfast at a diner and the zoo. There’d even been a birthday cake and presents-- a box of tin soldiers and a fake bow he could practice with-- and while the memories are hazy at the edges, the thing that shines so clearly now is how happy he’d been. How light and full of hope and just plain happy.

Alec can’t remember the last time he was happy. Most of him thinks it was probably that moment, right there-- his fifth birthday before everything went wrong, before he realized he was wrong and that he couldn’t ever be right.

This is his final year at the Academy. Alec is well aware that these are his last few months of respite before he’s thrust back to New York full time and becomes just another shadowhunter fulfilling his duties. Patrol after patrol after clean-up duty because he’s still a rookie followed by mission debriefs.

There’s one difference though and that’s what makes Alec nauseous every time he stops to think about it.

Because he’s not just another shadowhunter. He’s going to be taking over the New York Institute one day and that means that after he almost kills himself on missions, he gets to come back and let Maryse teach him how to run the Institute.

There have been lessons during every break the last few years and just thinking about his mother’s tutelage has Alec scowling, tensing against phantom criticism and whip-cold condescension.

By the Angel, he’s so tired.

His classes are a breeze and Alec earns top marks in every class. He doesn’t have to try as hard as some of his peers and that leaves time for other things. He has an unabashed interest in literature and he’s started to get into poetry recently. While he can certainly enjoy a few hours of mindless television-- he pays for the Netflix account he shares with Izzy and Jace from the trust his grandfather left him-- Alec loves reading, finds it a different, more elusive escape than anything else.

Well, almost anything else.

He flinches at the sting in his hand but doesn’t look down. Everyone else is asleep at this hour-- or if not asleep, then at least in bed. Alec finds himself here, on the roof of the Academy, more and more often lately.

He’s always been fond of heights and as an archer, there’s no place better to practice.

No one ever comes up here. Alec had found the door to the roof by pure accident a few years ago and it’s become a sort of solace, a reprieve of the worst kind.

Because here he can hurt himself without fear of anyone finding out. It’s not that he likes the pain, he tells himself, though that consolation has long since become laughably, obnoxiously untrue.

It’s control.

It’s feeling. He’s never mentioned it to anyone-- of course not-- but the only time Alec ever feels anything is when he’s on a mission, when adrenaline is coursing through his veins and he has to rely on well-honed instincts because then he doesn’t have to think.

This is a lot like that. He practices for hours and it started as a sincere effort to improve, to be the best goddamn shadowhunter in his class.

It’s changed, though, and while Alec’s skill at combat is unmatched, he finds himself on the roof several times a week, practicing until he bleeds.

The pain cuts through the bullshit his life seems to stews in these days. It clears his head and he swears he almost gets high from it. It’s just him and his bow and there’s no one to see the pool of blood that sticks to the cement, the raw skin of his hand sliced to ribbons, the crazed, dazed look he fears lurks in his eyes.

Shaking his head as his vision blurs, Alec blinks as the bells from the chapel across the courtyard ring in the silence. His lips twist but nobody would call it a smile.

It’s a snarl and a grimace and his quick breath sounds like a gasp in the quiet.

He’s long since lost feeling in his arm and as he finally lowers it, Alec finds himself collapsing until he’s sitting on the hard ground. He’s unforgivably graceless-- like his strings have been cut-- and the pressure behind his eyes builds as he feels the denim at his knee become bloodsoaked.

Laying his bow next to him takes the utmost care and concentration. When that’s done, Alec finds himself staring into nothing, the sound of bells echoing in his ears.

It’s midnight.

It’s his birthday.

He’s eighteen years old and feels a hundred. His heart aches and even as he absently raises a hand to his chest, it’s nothing new. This feeling like he’s choking on his future isn’t new and Alec’s started counting down the days until he graduates from the Academy.

There are 256 days until graduation and Alec wonders if he’ll live to see it. He doesn’t want to, knows that given the choice, he’d just lay down and die.

Death seems sweet, the most elusive, seductive escape.

Most days it takes everything he has to get up and be normal. No one expects that the eldest Lightwood wants to die, that he can’t see a future worth a damn and that sometimes it’s all he can do to slam his mask into place. He knows that people think he’s rude as often as not, that he’s inherited his parents’ attitude.

Only he knows that acting stoic and being a bit of a dick keeps people away, that if he let his carefully arranged disposition shift, even for a second, he’d start screaming and never stop.

The sigh seems to heave from his very core and Alec’s gaze falls until he’s looking down. He catalogs his hand-- the mauled flesh, the blood drying down his wrist. Pride is a potent feeling and this time when he smiles, it reaches his eyes.

This is what he has. He supposes Jace will see him in the mess hall tomorrow and punch him in the shoulder. He’ll wish him a flippant happy birthday and Alec will laugh and smile and while his heart seizes at their proximity, he’ll be filled with so much self loathing that he’ll choke on it.

Jace won’t notice and Alec will grieve for all the lives he could’ve lived if only he wasn’t born a shadowhunter, as Maryse’s son, as a goddamn disgrace.

Izzy will sneak him a cupcake or something else just as sweet and when she hugs him, he’ll hug her back just as tight. He’ll pretend not to hear her whisper against his chest and she’ll let him.

The day will pass mostly the same as all the other days and he’ll wake up tomorrow feeling just as tired and worn out and fucked.

Alec dips his head, feels the ache in his spine, and wishes things could be different. He lost his hope years ago but it’s a persistent bedfellow all the same.

He applies an iratze just before he leaves the roof, all the while wishing he could cut deeper, cut more, cut better.

He’s only a little afraid when he realizes that he doesn’t ever think he’ll reach the limit, that he’d rather die trying to feel something, anything, than live without this respite.

---

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

Alec feels the bed dip, shivers at the words whispered against his cheek as he feels someone leaning over him, caging him in. He grins as he catches the drifting scent of a cologne he knows better than his own.

Still, he doesn’t move, more than content in this in-between space. His husband doesn’t seem to mind and Alec hums as he feels Magnus relax against him until their hips meet.

His grin widens as he feels Magnus nose along his cheek, kiss a line over his jaw.

“I know you’re awake, darling, and while I never mind showering you with kisses, it’d be a shame if our breakfast grew cold. I know I’m starving after earlier.”

Opening one eye at that and mouth turning unforgivably into a pout, Alec’s vision is bleary as he considers his husband who’s looking down at him with a mischievous look Alec would recognize anywhere. “It’s my birthday and we both know you can just magically keep it at any temperature you’d like.”

Magnus’s expression turns prim. “Well, that’s no fun is it?” He leans down and places a smacking kiss on Alec’s mouth, pulling back before way before Alec was ready for it to end. He climbs off the bed before Alec can haul him back and starts toward the door. Looking over his shoulder, his eyes are dancing as he calls out, “Hurry, Alexander, or I’ll be forced to eat all the pancakes myself.”

Alec rouses himself reluctantly but not before he takes a moment to roll over and groan into his pillow. Christ, he’d slept like the dead and with the way daylight kept creeping later and later, Alec is loathe to get up. He’d been treated to his favorite way of waking up earlier and while Magnus must’ve let him fall back asleep while he got ready, Alec wishes in vain that they could just stay in bed all day.

His husband did apparently go through some effort, though, if for nothing else than breakfast so Alec gets up and steps into a pair of ragged sweats. He’s joining Magnus just a little while later and blinks at the feast spread before them.

He looks up only to see Magnus looking over the breakfast table sheepishly. “I may have gone overboard,” he admits before urging them both to sit.

Alec laughs, shakes his head a little in amusement, and takes his place.

Breakfast is perfect as always and Alec finds himself smiling so much that his cheeks start to ache.

He’s quickly whisked to the bathroom where he gets ready for the day and then they’re off.

Magnus takes him on a whirlwind tour. They start with a midnight stroll through Tokyo before they move on to coffee in Helsinki, a play in Vienna, and a guided tour of Versailles in France that’s only complete when Alec hears Magnus’s sly asides about what really happened in the Hall of Mirrors.

Alec’s head is spinning by the time they portal back to New York and he’s only mildly drunk and dizzy from a couple of pit stops in Morocco with the sweetest wine he’s ever tried and a rakish Magnus Lightwood-Bane leading him behind the hedge of a garden maze in London.

He’s surprised, then, when they’re immediately assaulted with a chorus of Happy Birthday as they step through the portal and back into their loft. He jumps, leaning against Magnus, as the lights flare bright and he sees a dozen people standing with mile-wide grins in their living room, a giant banner in a riot of color hanging behind them.

It’s not too late in New York and Alec loses track of time as they enjoy classic pizza, a sundae bar, and a full time bartender. As though by magic-- and Alec squints at Magnus across the room who just smiles back at him with a wink-- his glass is never empty and Magnus had chosen his favorite pizza place in the city.

Most of the party spends the evening playing board games-- Alec had discovered a not so secret penchant for them a few years ago after a game night at Taki’s-- and by and large, it’s the happiest Alec can remember being in ages.

Which is not to say that he finds himself unhappy these days. It’s just that he's looking around and feeling a little floaty from all the strawberry-flavoured drinks and everyone he loves is under one roof.

Clearing his throat after winning the latest game of checkers against Luke, Alec stands and gestures to the bar that’s been set up at the end of the room to excuse himself.

Instead of getting another drink, though, he fades into the background as he’s still a little wont to do, and watches his favorite people in his favorite place.

He laughs a little as he watches Izzy and Maryse comically lose to Madzie in a game of Go Fish and rolls his eyes as Simon launches himself to standing and points an accusatory finger at Jace over Monopoly.

His heart feels a few sizes too big and it aches in a way he didn’t dream possible for so long, but fuck if he wouldn’t have it any other way.

And all of a sudden, it’s not too much but he needs a break, a breather, and he ducks to their bedroom at the other end of the loft. He’s not quite as steady as he thought and when he gently pushes the door closed, the silence makes him realize that he passed the point of tipsy at least an hour ago.

He kind of plops onto the bed, sitting at the edge, and then his eyes are slipping shut and he’s falling backwards. Humming a little to himself, he opens bleary eyes and stares at the ceiling and thinks about nothing in particular.

As is his rote, he starts thinking about how he got here, to this point, where he’s found love and joy and a life in every way he thought lost to him growing up. And then he’s gasping and blinking furiously as tears spring into his eyes because this date has always been of note but it’s become a little more so the last few years.

Four years to be exact.

He’s perilously close to thirty now but four years ago he’d just met Magnus and his world was ending every second of every day, or so it seemed at the time. He hadn’t told Magnus when his birthday was that first year they’d been-- something.

They’d hovered in that space between leaning in for more, for everything, and running away from it all when Alec had turned twenty four. Things had been so hectic-- so insane-- that everyone had forgotten his birthday that year.

Dealing with Jocelyn’s death-- and he still flinches at those memories-- Alec had found himself on the roof once more. In a curious twist of routine, however, he’d gone to Magnus’s later. At the time, he’d called himself stupid for not applying an iratze sooner but he just couldn’t bring himself to clean up his mess just yet.

He’d felt on edge in the worst way, in a way he hadn’t been teetering on for ages, and the feeling of blood trickling over his hand was the only thing keeping him sane.

He still remembers Magnus’s words and by some miracle, things had mostly gotten better. He’d half scared himself that last time on the roof-- it hadn’t helped, not in the way he’d been hoping, the way he’d been counting on-- and he'd felt worse after even if it had grounded him.

His control had been a slippery slope and a few days later, when he found himself on that ledge, it had been the culmination of much more than he’d ever told anyone. Because the truth is, maybe the spell had done most of the work but the voices and words and accusations he’d heard were familiar to him and at this point, almost background chatter.

Things had mostly gotten better after that, though, and the next time Alec dipped low, he’d resisted training-- hurting himself, seeking out pain. Before he knew it, it’d been a month which was some kind of record.

And then it was six months and then a year and now that he thinks about it, Alec realizes that it’s been four years since he last trained to bleed, to feel something.

He can hardly believe it.

Breathing slow and deep, Alec lets his mind wander. That feels like another person now and he’s grateful for that fact even as he acknowledges that he’s still that scared, angry boy sometimes and that he’ll always be grateful to the him from before because he stayed and he fought even when he didn’t want to, even when he didn’t see the point, even when everything in him screamed to give up.

It seems so far away now but if he tries, if he closes his eyes and lets himself, Alec can still remember the desperation that choked him on a nigh daily basis, the dull and grating numbness, the putrefied determination to claw his way through every day. He remembers wanting to die more than he wanted to live and thinking that this life held nothing but misery and stagnation.

It’s appalling now and fills him with grief and a different sort of pride for a boy who did the best he could even when he didn’t know where he was going or how or why.

The door inches open but Alec doesn’t startle, doesn’t move from his very comfortable position. He knows who it is, anyway.

It’s just a moment later that the bed dips and then there’s a long line of heat along Alec’s side. He still doesn’t open his eyes but allows himself a quiet smile and a hum of contentment.

“And how is the birthday boy doing,” Magnus whispers and lays a hand over Alec’s heart.

Without looking, Alec reaches up and snags Magnus’s hand, holding it in his own before guiding it up so he can kiss the knuckle above his wedding ring.

“I’m perfect,” Alec murmurs before turning his head towards his husband. When he blinks his eyes open, it’s to see Magnus leveling an unforgivably fond look over him.

“I love you,” Alec says in a voice barely above a whisper and his heart turns over when Magnus drops his glamour between one blink and the next.

Magnus squeezes their linked hands before softly replying, “As I love you, darling.”

Alec’s more than happy to stay just like this the rest of the night but then Magnus is shifting, closer, and looming over him. Following his movements, Alec smiles up at the love of his life.

“Well, Mr. Lightwood-Bane, what would it take to make this birthday perfect? Your wish is my command.”

Alec laughs and it’s quiet but real. Overwhelmed, he pulls Magnus down and kisses him, almost before the words have left his lips and as he swallows his husband’s noise of surprise, Alec thinks that he’d do it all again if everything always led right back here, back to this-- a lifetime of love and an eternity of promise sprawled out before him.

It’s far from the curse he’d thought his future to be and has instead become the most alluring hope.

He wraps himself around Magnus and even though their kiss ends, they don’t break apart. Alec sighs against the side of Magnus’s neck and smells sandalwood.

It makes him giddy, something so simple but intense enough to pack one hell of a punch.

“Nothing,” he says confidently, finally answering his husband’s flippant question. “I have everything I ever wanted.”

[ernmark]

oh my god wait can you make a soulmate au work with Bouquet? soulmate aus are my favorite thing

I haven’t written a soulmate AU in a medieval setting before.

Like my others, this one’s gonna jump around a bit in the places where nothing’s actually changed from the original episode.

Damien doesn’t like to talk about his marks– because there are two, and everybody knows what that means.

He wears long sleeves and an archer’s bracer to cover the second mark, even in the hottest days of summer. He’s considered a tattoo to cover it more permanently, but doing so would be a violation of the knightly code of dress, and he won’t defy his Queen for a bit of personal discomfort.

No matter how very personal or how very uncomfortable.

Rilla’s full name is on his wrist, wrapped around the pulse point like a promise. The second clings to his forearm like a stain. It’s an unusual name– he’s never met anyone named Arum, in the Citadel or abroad– but that only feeds his fears: likely he’ll meet this mysterious Arum when Rilla walks among the Saints in the next life.

With sincerest apologies to Arum, that won’t happen.

He takes every precaution to secure Rilla’s safety. The two of them have already decided against having children– she values her solitude too much to enjoy being a mother, and he’s lost too much sleep already to nightmares of her dying during a birth. He couldn’t do that to her. He wouldn’t survive it (no matter what the forsaken mark seems to imply). He can’t persuade her to leave behind her cottage at the edge of the jungle in favor of a safer career, but he’s arranged special permission to have her treated in the Citadel’s infirmary when she’s injured or sick., and he teaches her the art of combat in as many styles as she’s willing to tolerate.

But no matter what he does, that second mark still haunts his skin and his soul. If something does happen to Rilla, he just knows it will be because of the prophesy written on his arm. And so he drives himself to be better– to be swifter and braver and stronger, that no man or beast would dare to harm the woman he loves– and to be more humble and prayerful and pious, that Saint Damien might be moved to intercede on their behalf.

So far it’s working (unless calamity is merely lying in wait). Rilla is alive and well, and she shows no sign of being otherwise. She even braves the keep’s stairwells to be with him, despite Damien’s recent example of just how dangerous such architecture can be.

He allows himself to think, just this once, that everything will be alright.

The fight is a swift one, but it’s exhilarating. The lizard’s mind games leave Damien’s heart racing, and he feels alive in ways he hasn’t in ages. Now it’s over. Tranquility has won out over panic, and man over monster. His foe is disarmed and winded on the floor, clutching at his arm. It isn’t even a terrible wound– a decent poultice would ease its healing, if he were to live long enough to apply it. Unfortunately, Damien can allow no such thing. This creature is a monster (and an architect). An intruder (and yet cultured enough to seem like he belongs in such a place). He must die (but must he really, though?).

Then Damien’s eyes fall on the injured arm. There, just below the wound, is a dark patch on the scales, too deliberately formed to be the natural arrangement of his spots. If he didn’t know better, he would think it was a soul mark, though written in a script he can’t read.

But that’s impossible. It can’t happen. Monsters don’t have soulmates. They don’t even have souls. It can’t be. It can’t. It must be a trick of the light. A discoloration of the beast’s scales, obscured by blood. A bit of charcoal or dirt. Soot from the fireplace. Anything. Anything but a soul mark.

And so he asks. He must ask, if only to assure himself that it isn’t true.

“What… what is your name? I would like to know what to call the beast I’ll duel tomorrow.“

“If I had it my way, little knight, everyone would stay quiet and I wouldn’t have to be called anything at all.” He gives a hiss, and for a moment Damien is assured. His name will be as monstrous as its owner. There is nothing to fear. And then the lizard speaks: “I am Lord Arum, who rules the Swamp of Titans’ Blooms.”

Damien doesn’t give Lord Arum his name in return.

He doesn’t need to.

It’s already written across his arm.

“Who is it you fear that I would have taken, honeysuckle?” Lord Arum’s taunt is punctuated by another scream. This time Damien recognizes it all too well: he’s heard it in his nightmares for years.

Damien races through the trees, crying out for her to say something, to make some sign, but she just keeps screaming and the beast keeps taunting him and the world is closing in and his chest is so tight he can’t breathe. He feels like he’s dying, but he can’t– he can’t– if he dies here then he can’t save her and she’ll be gone and he’ll have killed her–

The thought cuts through him like a monster’s claws.

If she dies here, it will be his fault, just like he always knew it would be.

He didn’t kill the monster when he had the chance. He allowed his feelings to stay his hand. He gave Arum time to kidnap her and put her into harm’s way.

He has to save her. He has to save her. Saints above, where is she?

“May I say a prayer before you kill me?”

Arum should kill the little knight. That’s how such things are done. That’s how they’ve always been done. The other monsters of this forest would think him weak-- deluded-- if they found out that he’d done anything less.

And that might make a difference if Lord Arum cared what other monsters think of him.

“Bare one of your arms.”

The human beneath him is as still as scented prey, but Arum can hear his heart racing. He can smell excitement and fear on him, as thick and sweet as honey. “What?”

Blight, does he have to be so appetizing? “Just do it!”

The little knight moves slowly, unbuckling the leather bracer from his forearm with movements so deliberate they’re almost seductive. Slowly the bracer falls away, and the long sleeve is drawn back to the elbow.

But that can’t be right.

There’s a mark there, dark enough to pass for one of the humans’ tattoos, and written in the awkward, clumsy script of the Citadel. Arum learned their writing system long ago, when he was translating a human book on botany; most of the knowledge has long since faded, but he remembers enough to recognize the mark before him as the syllables of a name.

His name.

His claws tighten around the human’s arm, expecting him to pull away, but he doesn’t. He just stares, his heart pounding and his breathing shallow, like he’s waiting for something.

“So,” he says slowly. “You’re Damien.”

The little knight’s voice is caught in his breath. “This isn’t exactly how I expected it to play out.”

“Disappointed, are you?” Arum hisses.

“No.” It sounds strange, the way he says it, but not untrue. His eyes are fixed on Arum’s. “Is this the part where you kill me?”

He should. Soul marks are rare among monsters, and they always single their bearer out for greatness. It never occurred to Arum that anyone whose soulmate didn’t elevate their status would keep the bond to themselves. Perhaps he should have done the same– by now, too many monsters know about his grand destiny. They’ll never let him live it down if they find out he’s bonded to a human.

The easy solution is to kill him now, before anyone else finds out. After all, he intended to kill the little knight anyway. Nobody ever needs to know.

His eyes return to the bared arm– and then he sees it. A second mark, immediately over his wrist. 

His eyes narrow, and he trails a claw over the second name. He’s all too familiar with this one– the knight was shouting it only a few minutes ago. “Two. How very... interesting.”

“Plenty of people have more than one mark.”

Even more disappointing. “Hardly auspicious if it’s so common.”

“Ominous might be the more appropriate term.” The knight’s voice hasn’t lost that strange tone– a breathless interval between resignation and relief. “If this is where it leads, then I’ve fared better than most.”

“You seem very confident that I’m going to spare you,” Arum says, leaning closer. There’s barely any space between them at all anymore. Arum doesn’t even have to flick out his tongue to taste the honeyed fear on his breath.

“Not at all,” the knight whispers. “I think you’re the answer to my oldest prayer.”

Arum doesn’t understand what that means, but he doesn’t miss the intimacy of it.

“What?” It’s meant to sound mocking, but it doesn’t. They’re far too close for that anymore. “For tranquility?”

“In a manner of speaking.” His voice is so soft it’s barely audible; Arum doesn’t hear the words so much as he feels their air on his scales.

Arum is meant to say something witty in response, but his mind is blank. Silence stretches between them, bidding one of them to do something.

And then that silence is broken by a human voice: “Damien! Damien, are you out here?”

Arum turns with a menacing hiss toward the source of the sound, his teeth bared and his frill rising. “You told someone we’d be out here?”

Instantly, the color drains from the knight’s face. His eyes widen. His heart hammers dangerously fast. He grabs Arum’s arm, holding almost tight enough to bruise.

“This duel is between you and me.” His voice is harsh with panic. “Leave her out of it.”

There’s no doubt about who Damien means, and the sudden passion in his voice strikes Arum’s nerves in all the worst ways. “If you didn’t want her involved, you shouldn’t have told her to come.”

“I didn’t! I swear by the Saints, I didn’t. She lives near here– she must have heard us.” Despite the strength in his grip, the knight is shaking. This is real fear-- the kind that his own death doesn’t cause. “Do what you want to me, but I beg you, don’t harm her.”

Arum pulls back, more than slightly perturbed, but at least he manages to hold onto his dignity. “Don’t insult me. As if I would waste the effort on some peasant.”

Damien’s grip loosens, but the weight on Arum’s arms only gets worse. It seems the delicate little honeysuckle’s knees have failed him. He wraps an arm around the small of Damien’s back to steady him, just to keep from getting dragged down.

“Excitable thing, aren’t you,” he mutters. Somehow Damien’s fear is less appetizing outside of the fight. “What do you take me for?”

Damien swallows. “I don’t know. I’m not sure of anything anymore. Only--” He teeters for a moment, as if he was standing on a branch and lost his footing. When he speaks, it comes as fast as a fall. “Only that’s what two marks mean, isn’t it? That I’m meant to outlive her-- that something’s going to happen to her, and it will be my fault-- but it’s you and I don’t know what that means and please don’t kill her.”

“I already said I wouldn’t.”

The voice calls again, far closer this time. “Damien! Is there someone there with you?”

Arum’s arm unwraps from around his waist. He should leave; this situation is awkward enough without another human’s interference. He’ll go back to his swamp and never speak of this again. No one has to know.

But before he can, he catches the sounds of running feet and snapping twigs. “Damien, are you--” She breaks through the underbrush, and Damien whirls to face her. Her eyes fall on Arum, all fire and steel. “Damien, look out!”

In a heartbeat she draws a knife, ready to leap to her knight’s defense.

Damien was wrong to worry about this woman: there’s nothing fragile about her.

“Rilla, wait!” He throws his hands in the air. “Let me explain.”

She stops short, but her hand hasn’t left the knife. “Damien?” she says slowly. “What exactly is going on?”

“I...” He swallows, and then gestures behind him. If there was a right moment for Arum to disappear, it was ten seconds ago. “This... this is Lord Arum.”