#wait I meant sag waif

[honibumii]

Happy late bday to him /and me/

[whumpiary]

continued from here, companion piece to this and this

-

All Josiah wants when he hears the knock at the door is Mal’s reassuring smile, an easy hug, the gentle squeeze of his arm that tells him everything is going to be fine. Besides the need for medical expertise, it’s the reason Josiah had called him. Apparently though, when Josiah had called, asked quietly and desperately for Mal’s help with a drugged-out friend, he’d forgotten the three magic words: don’t tell Lou.

He must have, because that’s more or less the only explanation for the 5 feet of leather-clad fury awaiting him when he answers the door.

Lou is easy and laid back most of the time. Quick to joke, quicker to laugh. But for nearly two years now, even the mention of Cass was enough to drain her of humour in a second. And now he’s here. And Josiah had been keeping it from her. Leather-clad fury was probably an understatement.

“Where is he?” 

She’s already trying to push through the door as she speaks. Josiah barely blocks her step with a foot.

“Hi Lou, I’m good, how are you?”

Mal meets his eyes over Lou’s shoulder, raises his finger with an apologetic salute.

“Back room?” he asks.

“My bedroom,” Josiah says, shifting barely enough to let the nurse slide past “Thanks, Mal.”

Mal gives Josiah’s shoulder a quick squeeze as he passes, and the comfort it floods him with is nearly embarrassing. He barely has time to block the doorway again as Lou makes another move to pass. 

“You’re not coming in.”

“Like hell I’m not,” she spits, teeth bared between purple lipstick “I’m gonna kill him.”

“I’m not doing this, Lou, I’m tired. You can come in, calm down, and have a cup of tea or you can leave.”

Lou looks like she might hit him, shifting from foot to foot like a boxer. She opens her mouth to say something, closes it again, before spinning around to let her rage out on a nearby pot-plant. 

“Kick my fern and die,” he warns. She stamps her foot down with a grunt, makes a sound like she’s considering screaming out the excess aggression but doesn’t want to worry the neighbours. Josiah waits.

Lou leans her back against the balcony railing and seems to swallow down a pintful of violence before screwing her eyes shut, running her hands over her shaved head and looking at the sky as she takes deep breaths. They’re so specific and measured, Josiah can count them out.

In for six, hold for four, out for six. In for six, hold for four, out for six.

And Josiah waits.

The wind curls around the house and eventually, Lou open her eyes again, fuse longer but clearly still smouldering. Her are arms crossed in a way that suggests they’d be strangling something if she didn’t have them so carefully folded.

“You better have chamomile.”

Josiah steps aside and Lou pushes past maybe a little too roughly but calmly enough. Josiah takes a deep breath before stepping after her, thanking anyone who’s listening that he’d had time to tidy up the living room before Lou could have that to get angry at as well. But by the time Josiah’s followed her, Lou has bypassed living room and headed straight into the upturned kitchen. Of course. 

She looks around pointedly before sitting herself at the stool by the bench, holding Josiah’s gaze as she does. “We can have the tea in here, right?”

He clenches his jaw. He knows what she’s doing. She’s waiting for him to tell her that the mess in here is making him uncomfortable and that she should move to the couch. To tell her that she’s sitting too close right now for him to turn his back to her. To tell her that he can’t handle this, that he should have called her sooner, that he’s about to go backwards. But he doesn’t tell her any of that. Because he’s fine. Because he is handling this.  

“No problem,” he says, forcing a smile. Only a little bit of disdain sneaks through “Loose leaf or bag?”

“Loose. Make a pot, Mal will have some too”

She leans forward on her arms and begins tapping her finger nails on the bench with a tatatatat, tatatatat. Another test. Tatatatat.

Josiah leans against the bench for a moment, taking a deep breath before straightening up again and flicking the kettle on. Lou’s a bitch when she wants to be.

“Love what you’ve done with the place, by the way,” Lou says, picking up a rogue fork with one hand while the other tatatatats “Really gives the place that ransacked Airbnb feel I know you love”

Josiah scoops chamomile into the strainer and takes a deep breath. Tatatatat.

“Honey?” he asks, fetching a spoon. 

Tatatatat.

“I would, but by the looks, you’d have to scrape it off the tiles”

Tatatatat. Tatatatat. Tatatatat.

“Calming down was part of the arrangement,” he says, reminding himself as much as Lou.

“I am calm,” she says, shrugging. The steel in her eyes only betrays her a little “I’m not going to just not talk about this, Jos.”

“Nothing to talk about,” Josiah shrugs, turning his back. He doesn’t look at her as he fetches mugs “Cass showed up, he looked sick, I called Mal, end of.”

Lou nods slowly, tatatatat, tatatatat, “And then you decided to turn your own house upside down for fun, did you?”

Josiah slams the cupboard draw shut harder than it needs, wheeling around to face her, and catching her hand flat against the bench to stop the sound. He manages to keep his tone relatively even, despite the anger bubbling hot in his chest.

“I’ve had a long fucking day, Lou, are you going to stop being an asshole or are you going to leave?”

“Depends. Are you gonna tell me what actually happened here, or am I gonna go ask Ace myself?”

“I told you what happened, you just don’t like the story.”

“What I don’t like is being lied to.���

Josiah grunts and pushes away from her. He leans back against the stove, resisting the urge to press his hand to his head, which is starting to pound again, to the back of his neck which is starting to itch. He closes his eyes. Weighs his options.

If Lou finds out Cass has been here the better part of a week, Josiah’s never gonna hear the goddamn end of it. There’ll be yelling and you should have called me and your safety needs to be a priority and she’ll be so disappointed in him. Not that the last part matters, he reminds himself, swallowing past the lump in his throat. Not that it matters, it’ll just be annoying. 

“He came yesterday,” he mutters, trying his very best to look resigned and wrung through. If lies look beaten out of you, they seem honest. Then partial truth to sell it. “I just… left to get some milk. And by the time I came back, he’d freaked out. Turned the house sideways. Kept saying I’d drugged him.”

“Had you?”

The glare he fixes her with is violent enough that, for maybe only the second time since he’s known her, Josiah watches Lou shrink in instant regret.

“Sorry,” she says. She means it. 

It’s quiet for a moment as the tea brews. Josiah swirls the pot a little, hoping to make the leaves steep faster. He knows it doesn’t do much, but it helps to have something to do with his hands. 

“I’m sorry. I know you’re not… It’s not…” Lou stumbles for words, spinning the fork idly. It really helps to have something to do with your hands. “Cass just… scares me. He really scares me. Especially around you.”

The comment hits Josiah like a bullet to the chest, and he sucks in a breath trying to shove down the flare of anger that hits him. Despite popular opinion, he’s not a helpless, naive moron being led astray by pretty people with ill intentions. He doesn’t need her fear. He doesn’t want her pity.

“I’m not some fucking waif, Lou,” he grinds out. He pours the tea.

“Come on Jos, you know that’s not what I meant,” she says and that hard line is back in her voice “What if he’s working with Tucker again? Or someone else?”

Josiah doesn’t answer. He’s thought of this. Of course he’s fucking thought of this, she needs to leave it.

“If he is, I’ll handle it.”

“Yeah? How did that go last time?”

He clenches his hands into fists. He doesn’t need reminders about last time. He has enough reminders about last time. He feels his heart in his throat.

“Cass is a time bomb,” Lou says, and her voice is soft and pained. Gentle in a way she isn’t often “When there’s a time bomb in your house you call in the bomb squad, you don’t wait for it to blow up in your face.”

“I called Mal.”

“You should have called me.”

“Calling you wouldn’t have been calling in the bomb squad it would’ve been pulling the pin on a grenade.”

There’s a strike of wounding in her face at that, but understanding too. She knows he’s right.

“What happens when he names you, Jos?” she whispers, and for a second Josiah swears there’s a shake in her voice. “Are you gonna handle that too or do I just have to be okay with losing you again?”

Josiah sags and reaches for her hand, giving her a reassuring squeeze. Old signals. This is why she wasn’t meant to know Cass was back. This is why she shouldn’t be here. 

“It wasn’t like that this time, Lou,” he says “He didn’t-”

But Lou pulls her hand away, like he’s burnt her. Any gentleness is gone from her face, replaced with shock and hard steel.

“I’m sorry… what wasn’t like that this time?” her voice is sharp, loud, probably audible from the other room. Her heart is beating so hard that Josiah can see it in the pulse of the necklace she’s wearing. She laughs and it’s bitter and cold and disbelieving. He sucks in a breath, like bracing for a hit. 

“He’s already fucking named you, hasn’t he?” she says. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t need to. The stool crashes to the ground as she stands “Oh, I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

Lou’s already moving before she even finishes speaking, making a bee-line for the bedroom. She’s moving fast enough that despite the pace difference between them, she’s already made it to the hallway by the time Josiah can cut her off. He slams a hand to the wall, blocking the narrow path.

“Move,” she growls. He stays still, shakes his head, knows she won’t risk pushing past him.

"Not even twenty four hours and he’s in your head again,” her voice is a snarl, vicious and low “Is that why you’re so calm? Is that why you’re suddenly fine with that piece of shit in your bed?”

She doesn’t mean it to be cruel or maybe she does, but either way Josiah feels the shame of it settling in his gut. It wasn’t like that - it isn’t like that. It's… different and he’s different and he is in control. He chose it this time. He chose to bring Cass in, to help him. It was his decision.

“It’s not like that-”

"You’re always defending him. No matter what he does to you, no matter how he hurts you, you’re always defending him.”

“He hasn’t done-”

“This is why you didn’t call, isn’t it?” and she’s not even listening. She doesn’t even care, she’s just barreling on no matter what he says “He made you lie, he made you keep it from me.”

“No, Lou, I chose to keep it from you. I chose to lie. I chose to call Mal because I didn’t want to deal with this- I didn’t want to deal with you, alright?!”

He doesn’t hear the door opening, doesn’t hear Cass’ furious rambling as he pushes through to the hallway. But he sees Lou looking over his shoulder, and sees her face crumpling, hears the breathless, shocked “Cass” that escapes her lips. Then he hears Mal.

“I take it you’ve met my wife?”

Then he sees Cass’ eyes rolling backwards. He only has just enough time to catch him as he faints.

[theshatteredrose]

Someone Worth Saving - Octopath Traveller Fanfiction

Summary: Therion overhears someone talking about an apothecary at the tavern. An apothecary that was feisty. An apothecary that they trapped. He knew immediately who they were talking about. And that infuriated him…

Pairings: Therion/Alfyn

Warnings: Mild violence, Therion being a badass

AN: Ah, my first foray into OT fanfiction and it’s a GiD. Not surprising, honestly. And I may have gotten a bit carried away with this. Just a little. Also, honestly, it’s a bit self-indulgent. I just really wanted to write Therion essentially losing his shit and saving Alfyn. Can you really blame me? That said, this is my first attempt at OT fanfiction, so go easy on me? And I hope you enjoy reading~

Ao3 | Wattpad | FFNet

~*~*~*~*~*~

After promising the each of their travelling companions that they would return to the inn before midnight, everyone turned to go their separate ways. It was something they always did upon entering a new town or village. Spread out, do their own thing for the first day, and then figure out what they needed to do together on the second.

As he ensured that his back was safely set upon his shoulder, Alfyn turned to look at the man who was coincidentally heading in the same direction as he. “So, Therion, what you got planned for the day?”

Therion shrugged. “The usual.”

The usual meant picking the pockets of the rich or, as more often the case, the really annoying. It depended on what mood Therion was in. Honestly, Alfyn wasn’t overly fond of the fact that Therion would attempt to pick the pocket of nearly everyone they met, even those he tried to help! But Therion would always bribe him with herbs and nuts that he supposedly found.

Therion knows how to butter him up, that’s for sure!

“We’ll meet at the tavern like we usually do?” Alfyn asked, though he was fairly certain he knew the answer.

“Sure,” Therion replied simply as he turned to head down a back alleyway.

Yup, he was right.

“Well then, I promise to be there before the sun goes down, so you had better be there, too!” Alfyn said cheerfully as he hurried down another but stilled to wav an arm in the air.

Even from this distance, he could see Therion snort and roll his eyes. But he didn’t immediately protest, so that meant he was in agreement. Therion’s way of communication was very on the non-verbal side of things, but Alfyn was observant. He had worked out most of his travelling partner’s quirks. Not all, mind. There’s still a lot of mystery to Therion. And that was fine. If Therion wanted him to know, he’d let him know in his own time.

No sense in prying.

“Oh, pardon me, good sir.”

Startled by the unfamiliar voice, Alfyn immediately stopped in his tracks. He looked to  his right to find a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties. Brown hair that was slightly dishevelled, and his face was rather drawn and pale. He nervously twisted a blue cap in his hands as he looked expectantly at him.

“I can’t help but notice your knapsack. Are you an apothecary?” he asked.

Alfyn smiled brightly and nodded his head. “That’s right. What can I do for you?”

The man’s shoulders seemed to sag with relief. He, however, tensed a second later and drew in a slow breath. “It’s my son,” he finally said. “A fever with a rash. Medicine isn’t working. I’m at my wit’s end. I know you must be busy, but could you-?”

“Of course,” Alfyn immediately interrupted, earning a look of surprise from the man. “I’ll be more than happy to look over your son.”

“Thank goodness,” the man said as he sighed with relief. “Please, this way. My name’s Antonio, by the way.”

Alfyn smiled as he followed the nervous but grateful man. “And you can call me Alfyn.”

The two walked in silence, Alfyn following Antonio to a two-storied brick house. It had a medium size fence surrounding the residence, and a rather unusual front garden that were made up of yellow roses. Really quite beautiful and striking.

Antonio ushered Alfyn down a small stone pathway leading to the front porch of the building. He opened the front door and motioned for Alfyn to step inside first. And he did, without hesitation. Though he had to admit that there was a little voice in the back of his head telling him to stay cautious. That voice sounded similar to Therion’s, however.

“Where’s your son?” Alfyn immediately asked, eager to get to work.

“He’s sleeping, thankfully, which was the only reason I was able to sneak out,” Antonio explained with a hushed voice. He pressed a finger to his lips and motioned toward a closed door behind him with a tilt of his head.

The door he indicated had a small wooden name tag, with the name of Bradley engraved on it. That was obviously his son’s room.

“Let us sit down and discuss my son’s symptoms?” Antonio suggested, his voice still quiet. “And tea? Making tea is relaxing for me.”

Alfyn smiled warmly. “Of course,” he said simply.

Antonio smiled at him again before he ushered him to a small table with two chairs. “Sit, sit. I’ll make us both some tea right away.”

As Alfyn sat down, Antonio hurried toward a room that had to be the kitchen area. Now by himself, he found himself studying his surroundings. The place was well-kept, homely even. Though he did notice a few areas and pieces of furniture that was covered in dust. That could be explained away, however. Too busy looking after his son to even consider cleaning. Perfectly reasonable.

A moment later, Antonio returned with a tray of tea and biscuits. He placed the trap upon the table and carefully picked up a cup and saucer to present to him.

“Careful now, the tea is very hot,” Antonio warned as he set the cup in front of Alfyn.

“Ah, thank you very much,” Alfyn said politely in return.

Not wanting to be rude, Alfyn carefully picked the delicate teacup and took a cautionary slip to ensure he wouldn’t burn himself. But as soon as the warm liquid touched the back of his throat, he winced and pulled the cup away from his lips.

The tea was bitter, but that wasn't what made him react. There was something else added to the tea. Milk. Honey...Sleepweed.

His tea had been drugged…?

"Is there something the matter?" Antonio asked him with a confused frown. "Was the tea too hot? I did warn you now."

Aflyn swallowed thickly as he tried to stop his hand from shaking when he placed his tea cup back upon the table in front of him. He thankfully didn't take a large gulp of his tea where the sleepweed would take immediate effect. But there appeared to be a heavy dose of the weed in the tea and he drank enough that unless he took some precautions in the next minute, he was going to succumb to the effects.

He needed to escape.

Or at least make a scene.

Without a word of warning, Alfyn jumped to his feet while he simultaneously hoisted his bag upon his shoulder. As the chair he had sat on crashed to the floor loudly, he spun on his heel and ran for the front door. His sudden reaction was surprising, but as Antonio shouted for some unseen figures to appear, it didn't seem unexpected.

The door was thankfully unlocked as Alfyn barrelled into it. He threw it open and jumped down the small flight of stairs. The sleepweed affects were truly starting to take effect, causing Aflyn to stagger in his steps. But he continued to push himself forward. He didn’t know why they attempted to drug him or why someone seemed to be chasing him. What he did know that he had to escape.

A sudden and sharp pain in his right leg caused him to crash to the ground. Hard. Despite the dizzying effects of the sleepweed indicating that he was on the verge of falling asleep, Alfyn rolled onto his side and stared down at his leg. Where a well-positioned arrow could be seen protruding from his boot.

They had actually used an arrow to trip him up. They were serious.

As his vision blurred to the state of near incomprehensibly, Alfyn grabbed his bag and in a last ditched attempt to leave some sign, some evidence of his presence here, pushed his bag under a thick flowery bush that sprung up from the stone cobbled road. Hoping that it will somehow gain his travelling companions attention.

At the sound of boots thundering against the stone ground behind him, Alfyn’s vision greyed out before everything went black and he fell unconscious.

… … … … …

Therion impatiently tapped his fingers on the bar counter. After he had his fill picking the pockets of those he could safely get away with (and those who’s mere existence just pissed him off for some reason), he had gotten bored of roaming the streets. So he had wound up at the tavern sooner than expected.

He hoped that Alfyn would turn up soon, though. He was getting nothing out of these people.

They had always tried to visit the tavern on the first night they visited a new place. It allowed for Therion to gather any useful information. Alfyn was a chatter box when he was drinking though. More so than he was normally, but Therion had found a way to use to his advantage. Some people were more forthcoming with information when they believed they were chatting innocently with an apothecary.

“Ah, Therion, waiting for Alfyn again, yes?”

Though he recognised the voice, Therion still paused in his impatience to look over his shoulder. “Primrose,” he greeted simply as the dancer slipped onto a stool next to him. Not Alfyn’s seat, mind, but on the other side of him.

“Oh, Alfyn isn’t here yet? How unusual for him,” Primrose noted.

Actually, it was. Alfyn enjoyed a spot of mead, as he would always say, far more than any of their companions. To be late to a drinking session was unusual. But…nothing to be alarmed about. Alfyn could handle himself. Sure he was too kind for his own good, and it was going to get him into trouble one day…

Damn it, Therion muttered as he finished his drink. He needed to go looking for him now. Just to settle his own mind. The far too friendly medicine man was likely chatting it away with some wayward waif and had forgotten the time.

“Man, wasn’t expecting that apothecary to put up a fight like that.”

Therion paused as a voice from across the bar caught his attention. He glanced over his shoulder once more to watch two rather scruffy men walked into the tavern. One had blond hair hidden under a weather worn cap, while the other had greasy brown hair that was slicked back from the man’s face.

“Tried to escape, too. Luckily we had overdosed him on sleepweed, otherwise he might have actually gotten away. I could have handled him, mind. Still, lanky with orange hair and a whiz at making salves? Going to be rolling in the cash!”

Apothecary?

“He was easy to trap, anyway. He walked right into it. A sick kid with a fever? Believed it right away! What a chump, I tell ya!”

That…that had to be Alfyn…

The anger he felt was both chilling but raging. Freezing cold and boiling hot.

The next thing he knew, Therion had pushed himself up from his stool, the object crashing to the floor loudly behind him, and he stalked his way over to that boasting bastard. In a single swift movement, he pulled a knife from his waist band, gripped it tightly as he lifted it over his head, only to bring it down swiftly and embedding the sharp blade into the back of the bastard's hand. Pinning it to the bar counter.

As the man made a sound that was a mixture of a gasp of surprise and a howl of pain, Therion grabbed him harshly by his hair and ripped his head back as he simultaneously revealed another knife from his clothes. With his hand gripping the man's greasy hair in a white-knuckle grip, he brought the second knife against his neck. The blade but a hair's breadth away.

He didn't move it though. Didn't drag it against the vulnerable skin.

He wanted to, though. He wanted to so badly, it was almost frightening. But there was another force stronger that was holding him back. He needed the man to talk. If he didn't talk now, tell him where Alfyn was, his voice would never be heard again.

He would never be heard from again.

"You have ten seconds to tell me what you did with that apothecary or you will never talk again. And to show you that I'm serious, you now have five seconds," Therion hissed in a tone that was so chilling that he briefly wondered if it really was coming from him.

The other man, whom the one he held at knife had been boasting with, abruptly stood up from his stool. He had one hand on the counter to balance himself while the other reached toward his coat. Now doubt reaching for a weapon of his own.

Therion sent him a scathing glare of annoyance, ready to briefly remove the knife that was edging closer toward the first man’s throat.

Before he could reveal whatever weapon he had holstered and before Therion himself could react, a figure in red appeared behind the second man. And a knife was embedded on the back of his hand, pinning it to the counter just like Therion had done. And like the man he currently held captive, he bellowed an annoying sound of pain and surprise.

“Now, gentlemen,” a smooth but chilling voice chided. “We just want some information. No need to get violent with us.”

Primrose stood behind the second man, she, too, holding him at knife point. She caught Therion’s gaze for a moment and nodded. And Therion nodded back. She, too, had overheard them. And she, too, was furious.

Now, time to get some information.

“Start talking,” Therion ordered as he tightened his grip on the man’s greasy hair. “That apothecary with orange hair. Where is he?”

In contrast to the man’s previous boastings, his voice now was jittery and high pitched with fear. “H-he’s at the house with the yellow rose garden. Th-that’s where the deals take place.”

“Deals? What deals?” Therion demanded, though his heart sank into his chest in anticipation of the answer.

“Apothecaries get ya a lot of money, y-ya know?”

Damn it, that was what he had feared.

“They’re going to sell him?” Therion hissed.

“He’s already been sold.”

Fucking damn it!

Therion immediately lifted his gaze from the man he was interrogating to look at Primrose. Though her expression stayed stoic, her eyes held a sense of fear mixed with anger. Something Therion believed his own eyes held.

There was no time to deal with these two. They needed to find Alfyn. Now.

Therion abruptly released his hold on the man and turned on his heel. He sprinted for the door and knew that Primrose was right behind him. As they both practically barrelled out into the streets, they paused only briefly to regard each other.

“Alfyn is too pure for the life of forced servitude,” Primrose said simply. Her eyes were chillingly cold with protectiveness and her lips were drawn tight into a frown.

And she was right.

“Go,” she urged suddenly. “Go to the house they mentioned. I will inform the others. But you need to find him. Now.”

Tch, didn’t need to tell him twice.

Without exchanging another word, they both turned in opposite directions, Primrose toward the inn, while Therion headed deeper into the town. He remembered seeing a house with yellow roses during his first wanderings of the town.

As he ran in the direction he believed that house was in, he noticed that Ophilia and H’aanit were up ahead. Linde with them, of course. And in Ophilia’s hands was a familiar knapsack,

“Therion!” Ophilia’s voice called to him. “We found Alfyn’s bag and-”

“Is he inside the house?” Therion demanded as he skidded to a halt before the two. “Have you looked inside?”

Ophilia was stunned into silence while H’aanit regarded him curiously. Before she could question him, the sound of horses trotting and wooden wheels rolling over stones and gravel interrupted. Therion felt a chill of fear wash over him as he turned to look to the house. He didn’t immediately see anything of note, until he spied a horse driven carriage pull up in a small, dimly lit alleyway behind the house with yellow roses.

It was a sturdy wooden wagon. The carriage also crafted from wood with thick material acting as curtains and covering up the back of the cart of which was actually a door also made of wood. Other than the opening in the back, there were no windows to be seen. That wasn’t good. The wood was strong, the beams purposefully broad. Even the jailer’s wagon had fewer reinforcements.

From the house appeared two men. No, three. Two decked out in black, one of them carrying someone dressed in green with telling messy hair over his shoulder.

Therion watched with his heart in his throat as one of the muscle bound henchman harshly threw Alfyn into the back of the carriage. He then pulled the curtains closed and tied the two ends together in thick twine.

“That was Alfyn!” Ophilia gasped as the carriage suddenly pulled away sharply.

The carriage was moving toward the outskirts of town. The horses at a full gallop. Therion had no chance of chasing after them. But the roads of the town were winding. There was still a chance.

The rooftops.

Therion spun around on his heel in order to find a way to scramble his way onto the rooftops. Instead his gaze fell on the other members of their traveling party. Primrose had managed to gather Cyrus, Olberic, and Tressa. But it was Olberic that he was looking at.

“Olberic, give me a boost!” Therion ordered as he headed straight toward the warrior.

Olberic didn’t ask any questions. His face was stoic as he leaned forward, to allow Therion to get a foothold on his hands and with very little effort, all but launched him toward the rooftops.

Therion landed on the awing of the roof and a second later he was running, without any concern of his own safety, over the roofing tiles, effortlessly jumping from one house to another.

“They’ll likely head for the backroads!” Cyrus informed him as he skittered over another rooftop. “Far easier for them to make a quick retreat without rousing suspicions!”

Right. He’ll take the quickest path there.

The sun was setting. They didn’t have much time. He couldn’t afford to let them get away under the cover of night.

As Therion landed on the roof of a small, red bricked house, he paused to catch his breath. He looked frantically to see if Cyrus was right in his deduction, and felt a sharp pain of panic when he didn’t see the carriage anywhere.

But a moment later, he saw it. Racing toward him.

Cyrus was right. As he usually was. But he was right. And that meant that Therion was able to get in front of the carriage. But stopping it won’t be as easy as stepping out in front of it. Not only was that completely stupid, they’d likely just run over him. It could also the possibility of losing Alfyn’s trail completely.

He won’t let that happen.

That carriage driver was going to be in for one hell of a surprise.

As he pulled out his knife from his waistband, Therion crouched down on the awning of the roof. He waited, his heart pounding in his ears, as the carriage raced closer. He had to time it perfectly.

Just before the carriage reached him, he jumped.

And he landed heavily on the roof of the carriage.

He stabbed the knife into the wood to ensure that he didn’t fall off. His landing was loud, so was likely to be noticed by the driver, but that didn’t matter. Let them know. It wouldn’t change a thing.

It took Therion just a second to balance himself and find the rhythm of the jostling of a moving carriage. He released his knife as he pushed forward, to the front of the carriage. As he had expected, the driver (rather drivers) had noticed something untoward and were attempting to make the horses to run faster in hopes of shoving him off.

It was too late for them to do anything.

“Give me that,” Therion snarled as he kicked one of the men in the ribs, and kicked him off the side of the cart while he grabbed for the reins. The other man tried to interfere, so Therion countered by kicking him in the ribs and off the moving cart, too. He was pretty sure that one of them struck a tree when they fell off.

They deserved more honestly, but there were other concerns to deal with at present. He’d find them later to inflict more punishment upon them. That was if the others didn’t get their hands on them first. He was certainly they would quickly figure out they were the drivers of this particular carriage.

After a bit of wrangling with the reins, the horses finally slowed their pace eventually to a trot. Good enough for Therion to release the reins and turned his attention to the carriage behind him. Thankfully, there was a door located here, too. To no doubt ensure that security of the contents inside.

The lock on the door was barely a hindrance as Therion forced open the door.

Though the setting sun didn’t offer the best of lighting, it was enough to illuminate the interior of the carriage. And to reveal the form of Alfyn, lying on his side with thick, coarse rope binding his arms and legs. He appeared to be gagged, too.

As the light flooded in around him, Alfyn tilted his head back to look up at him. He looked fearful for a moment before he recognised him.

The look of relief in his eyes was something Therion wasn’t going to be able to forget for quite some time.

Therion immediately threw himself into the carriage. He dropped to his knees by Alfyn’s side, helped him to sit up before he quickly cut the ropes binding Alfyn’s arms and wrist. And as they fell away, Alfyn ripped the gag from his mouth and suddenly turned to him, and hastily threw his arms around his neck in a hug.

Therion instantly froze with his arms out to his sides as Alfyn pressed his face against his neck. He soon responded, however, but wrapping his own arms around Alfyn, holding him tight. Actually hugging him.

Slowly, Alfyn pulled back and placed his hands on Therion’s shoulders. “Hey, your timing is impeccable,” he said meekly. No, tiredly. Even his smile of relief held a tinge of weariness to it.

It was only then that Therion realised that Alfyn’s cheek had a thin gash, from his cheek bone to his jawline. The blood was caked and dry, but Therion still gingerly, carefully touched Alfyn’s cheek with his hand. A sense of protective anger immediately bubbled in his chest.

“They hurt you…” he murmured.

Alfyn managed a half smile. “I fought back, ya see. They didn’t appreciate that too much.”

“What else did they do?” Therion demanded, though his sharp tone was more out of sheer protectiveness than anything else.

Alfyn sighed and motioned down to his right leg, promptly forcing Therion to realise that his ankles were still bound. And as he quickly cut away the ropes, he could see a tear in Alfyn’s boot. And there were flakes of dried blood to be seen.

“An arrow,” Alfyn murmured. “Can’t run away if ya can’t walk, right?”

There was that chillingly hot rage again. At those responsible. They hurt Alfyn. Shot him with an arrow. Bound him in rope. Sold him. That was…infuriating.

As Alfyn hugged him again, Therion found himself pushing aside his rage to instead wrap his arms around Alfyn once more. Feeling Alfyn in his arms did little to ease his anger, but it did bring home the realisation that he had managed to get to him in time. That he had found him. And that now he was going to make sure that he was safe.

He was…the relief he felt was almost overwhelming.

“I knew you would find me,” Alfyn whispered as he pressed his face into Therion’s scarf. “I wasn’t sure how you would, but I knew you would.”

Therion sighed as he subconsciously tightened his hold on Alfyn. “…Let’s get you back to the inn,” he said simply.

After Alfyn was safely back at the inn, he was going to grab Olberic and H’aanit. And they were going to go hunting…

… … … … …

Alfyn wearily sat down on his bed at the inn. Thick bandages were wound tightly around his right ankle and leg, while another small bandage adorned his cheek where a knife was taken to it with a threat.

After Therion had freed him from that carriage and aided him in walking because of the injury to his leg, they had met up with the rest of their travelling companions half way.

Primrose was the first to reach them. She had framed his face with her hands as she looked him over, looked into his eyes. Cyrus was the next to reach them, immediately pressing himself against Alfyn’s other side to help him walk without placing pressure on his injured leg. They were followed quickly by Olberic, H’annit, Ophilia, and Tressa. All of them huddling around him, asking him questions, essentially talking over the top of each other.

But Alfyn could easily hear and see their concern.

They all had been so worried. Worried for him. They didn’t know the full extent of his circumstances, and he didn’t either. They just knew that he was in danger. And that they needed to help him.

He felt guilty that he worried them so much. And he felt somewhat awkward as the fussed over him without hesitation as they helped him back to the inn. Poor Ophilia appeared to be on the verge of crying. She held the tears in, even as she helped to bandaged his injuries. Alfyn still felt guilty about worrying her, everyone so much.

He found himself repeatedly apologising for worrying everyone. It wasn’t his fault, he understood that. But the apologises just kept coming. So he was thankful that Cyrus spoke up, suggesting while leaving little room to argue, that Alfyn should head to his room and get some rest. They’ll speak more on the subject in the morning. But for now, Alfyn just needed to rest for a bit.

What an ordeal. It honestly felt so surreal now that it was over.

That man, that Antonio…he was one heck of an actor. He looked and sounded so convincing. He obviously done something like that before. Which was honestly terrifying to think about. About other apothecaries who had been lured in with the belief of helping someone, only to be drugged and trapped, to be sold to the highest bidder.

That could have been him. If Therion didn’t show up when he did.

He owed Therion his life, didn’t he?

Alfyn was pulled from his thoughts when Therion walked into their shared room at the inn. He paused to shut the door tightly behind him, ensuring that the lock was in place before he turned to regard him.

“Therion…”

“You should try to get some rest,” Therion said as he walked to the window and harshly drew the blinds shut.

Alfyn nodded his head idly, but stayed where he sat. Instead continued to watch Therion as he subtly inspected the room, ensuring that everything was locked and secured. For Alfyn’s sake, as well as his own.

“You know, Therion…” Alfyn started, not entirely sure of what he wanted or needed to say. “That was…scary, what happened today. I admit that. And…I don’t think I can even begin to thank you for what you did. Shucks, I’m kinda bummed I didn’t see you in action. You must have looked amazing, huh?”

“Don’t mention it,” Therion suddenly said as he turned to face him.

Alfyn shook his head. “No, I need to-”

“It won’t happen again,” Therion said firmly as he moved to stand in front of him.

Alfyn had to smile. But that smile slipped from his lips as Therion suddenly pushed him down onto the bed and leaned over him, his hands on either side of his head, and his legs on either side of his hips. Alfyn flopped back onto the bed, and stared up at him with wide eyes. He wasn’t afraid, but confused. And a bit intrigued.

“From now on, if you want to do a house visit, I’m going with you,” Therion stated. It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact.

Alfyn blinked, somewhat surprised by the determination and protectiveness in Therion’s words and eyes. But a smile slipped across his lips a moment later at the sense of security he felt by Therion’s words.

“Shucks, Therion, that…sounds nice,” Alfyn murmured as he raised his hands to gently frame Therion’s face.

He half expected Therion to pull away. But he didn’t. He continued to stare down at him with an intensity he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Even when Therion lowered his face toward his, Alfyn gently guiding him so their lips met perfectly, he still couldn’t quite work out what it was that Therion held in his eyes. Interest? Protectiveness? Fondness? Attraction?

As Therion kissed him, lowering his body atop of his and pressing him firmly into the mattress of the bed, Alfyn realised that it didn’t really mutter what it was exactly. Maybe all of the above. What did matter was that he enjoyed the feeling of Therion next to him, against him, kissing him.

One thing was certain – he was glad to have met Therion.

[talyn-amathas]

Songs that Voices Never Share

Dusk rolled over into nightfall, and a lone hunter strode through the ashen forest, head bowed and back straight, his hand curled against the smooth, hard shoulder of a sturdy, young gelding. The dark horse made not a sound, save for the steady huffs of breath gradually growing visible in the cool, evening air, and the steady grind of each of their footfalls in the dead leaves through which they walked. The hunter, likewise, moved in a seeming silence that was really only skin-deep.

Brittle bones left behind. That’s what they were. At one time, he knew, they were bright and golden, flecked with red, like those that had thrived out in the gilded acres of Eversong for as far back as he could remember. But everything dies, one way or another- even things meant to last. You need only venture far enough south to see it for yourself. The Blackened Wood, burned in desperation by her own people, like Tol Barad’s forests, left to the kindness of scavengers and rot, were just pieces of inevitability. Like he was.

It wasn’t that he… didn’t. When it came to her...he liked being there, a fixture in a life and a place that at one time would have seemed beyond imagining. Somewhere to return to… dare he even say ‘home’. But there was a discrepancy there, between what he could get used to and what he was really capable of giving back. He knew it the moment those words left her trembling lips- like a prayer to some benevolent, false god- and his own flowed like ice in his veins.

There was a story down in the tiny village of Amberglen, off the western coast of Quel’thalas, that still cropped up even as the decades flowed into a century and more. A local girl, barely through her ninth summer, with wheat-coloured curls that bounced around her sweet face; a strange, quiet boy, around the same age, come to stay with a family who’d welcomed him out of the goodness of their hearts.

It began as a chance meeting, one sun-dappled afternoon beneath the trees. Set just apart from where the other children enjoyed bare feet in the soft grass, past where even a few stragglers lingered, marked ‘out’ on the outskirts of the small clearing. The little girl, not yet grown into her ears, slumped sleepily against the warm bark of an old willow. Dark circles ringed her eyes, her ever-present pigtails sagging like the rest of her as she curled up under the swaying green.

At some point, the utter stillness the boy fought to maintain failed, just a snap of a twig, a rustle of leaves, and he was given away to the weary gaze peering up into the tree. Coppery locks, a few days past washing, hung in his face, veiling the surprise that registered there when he saw her smile.

A few weeks passed before she saw him again, with dirt-stained knees and scrawny arms, brushing willow tendrils from his shoulder. He darted into the brush as soon as he knew he was found, leaving nothing but silence and her pounding heart in his wake.

History didn’t recall his name, just as hers was still hotly debated among the elders of the period in Amberglen. But neither really mattered to the story. What mattered most were the gifts. A smooth, sea-worn stone with a hole in its centre, left at the foot of the willow, where he’d easily find it. There one day, and gone the next, like all the rest to come; a slice of toffee, or a piece of charcoal, a worn set of jacks wrapped in a pretty scrap of cloth… even one of her own ribbons, in soft, buttery yellow. They said she’d worn it for a week straight just to make sure it smelled of her hair.

The weeks went by in this strange, silent game, until there came a day when something changed. She came to check, as she always did, either up in the tree or listening close in the nearby bush, only to find him standing beneath the willow- a ribbon tied neatly around one wrist.

They were fast friends, and though he spoke little, he listened well, offering what insights a lonely, little boy could. It troubled him, for instance, that her neighbour’s dog was left to bark all night, keeping her awake for hours, and leaving her exhausted when it came time for her morning chores. She was fine, she insisted, even as she rubbed her eyes and stifled a yawn. He’d just laughed, fumbling with that knotted band of yellow, while inside something else came undone.

Oh but he loved it. That’s what they said, the ones who claimed to have witnessed the act. That he was cackling like a satyr as he hauled the butchered creature out to the woods, a pocket knife clutched madly in his bloody, child’s fingers.

Of course, no one had actually seen it happen. In the dead of night, silence came for the offending animal and made shockingly precise work of ensuring a good night’s sleep. No one but the little girl knew for sure what must have occurred when she found the dog’s lifeless body laid out just for her, its throat cut and fur bloodied, perched like so many trinkets left there before. An act of friendship, of something like love, gone so very wrong.

She’d never seen him again, once it came to light. A mess of tears and horrified babbling ran back into the village, and a grubby waif with stained hands was soon lead away. He was swiftly sent back to the City, to the Matrons who’d cared for him before, and would again, who knew he meant well, but that it was just too soon. He hadn’t been ready, after everything that had happened... but he would be, they swore. In time, he would learn.

Had he? Sure he’d adapted, through the years. There’d been countless families since the one in Amberglen, after all. Countless rooms filled with borrowed sheets and toys he’d never played with. Just as many dinner tables where he’d waited and watched for how they wanted him to sit- to smile, to speak, or be silent. The latter-most was easiest, and always would be, he’d realised early on. Just as it was easiest never to know another little girl with wheat-coloured curls, or otherwise.

Easier then, to let things be. There’d be no more questions he couldn’t really answer. No more words or telltale disappointment written on her face. They’d keep each other’s secrets, he knew… just as he knew he couldn’t grant her any more of his. He’d taken things as far as he dared, and further… and in the end they were treading too close to the edge, that indelicate seam between the colours and sounds that she deserved, and the grey silence that came after.

The scent of decay and moldering wilds filled his nostrils, carried on biting sea air that cared little for how it clung to the skin and wore on the buildings scattered about the island. Skittering legs and whistling winds funneled through the skeleton trees- an ever-present chorus sung in whispers that spoke of ‘cutting ties’ and ‘what was best’. Like the steady crunch that followed him everywhere as he walked alongside his equine companion, there was a certain calm to be had in it. Soothing, stirring, feigning silence in a way that made him smile.

                 “I won’t stop loving you.”

                                                                        “You need to.”

(( @dragonhawker for mention <3 ))