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rekaning · 11 months

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Painful Silence | The Originals x Mute!Child!reader

CW: Canon-typical violence, implied/referenced abuse of a child

Summary: Takes place after the events of "Not A Peep". A bit of backstory of Mute!reader from an unexpected source.

She had never been a vocal child.

Her Papa had voiced his concerns about that when Mama was still alive. Mama had merely smiled gently down at her three year old, quietly playing with a hummingbird figurine set.

"Nothing wrong with a little silence," Mama softly told her Papa, running a loving hand over her daughter's hair. "Her silence allows her to perceive the world so much more. She's an observant child. She listens, rather than just hears. And that is a precious gift for a bloodline like mine."

Her Papa still had his reservations, but he trusted his wife. Magic and witchcraft still confounded him but his lover's carefree attitude eased his worries for his daughter's lack of vocalization.

As the days went by, her Papa had felt more and more at ease, having heard several peels of laughter and grunts of frustration erupt from his daughter at times when he was at home. It was only a matter of time before she would begin to speak, he'd told himself.

Their household had been a happy one.

Until it wasn't.

It happened in the middle of the night. Papa had was at his usual night shift at work, with only her and Mama at home.

She had been woken from a rather lovely dream of talking pelicans and flying penguins.

Angry voices coming from the living room downstairs had her creeping slowly off her bed, making sure to grab her pastel green throw blanket with baby chicks printed in patterns, and tiptoed over to the second floor landing to find out what was going on.

When she peeked in between the banister, she could see her Mama with two other women in the living room.

"The laws of the coven no longer apply to me, sister. I renounced my position when I did." Mama said calmly.

One of the women, who had a very similar resemblance to her Mama, stepped forward, voice forceful, "The child is of our bloodline, tainted, though it may be, but ours nonetheless. She must be with her people."

Mama took a step forward, her face hardened, eyes alight with fury, "You will not touch a hair on her head. I left because I no longer believed in the covens ideals and practices. What makes you think I'd let you take my daughter to the very thing I cut ties from?"

The third woman, aged beyond the years of her Mama and the other woman, spoke, "The elders will not allow one of our kin to grow outside of the coven. She must come with us."

Her Mama looked at the older woman pleadingly, eyes stinging with unshed tears, "Mother, please, please, you can't take her from me. She is everything to me."

The old woman, the child's grandmother, held herself with poise and looked down her nose toward her pleading daughter, "I am sorry, child."

Her Mama's sorrowful face quickly morphed into rage and before the young girl could blink, her mother had let out a vicious cry, lifting her hand toward the woman that looked like her, Mama's sister.

The child felt the hairs on her body raise from the electricity in the air. The air seemed to vibrate and the girl stared in wonder as she saw lines of color and light dance around her mother.

An audible, sickening crack broke the girl out of her awestruck wonder and she gazed down at the still figure of her mother's sister, her auntie, on the floor. Her neck was at an odd angle, eyes open in shock, glazed over, seeing nothing.

"What have you done!" Came the shrill cry of her grandmother.

A rumble coursed through the foundation of the home in response.

Her Mama yelled back, "Leave! You are not welcome in this home!"

Her squeak of shock was her undoing. Both her mother and grandmother looked toward the banister and spotted the shaking form of the child.

Her mother's eyes went wide with fear, "My little Bluebird, please, go back to—MOTHER NO!"

The young girl felt the magic before she saw it. Flames erupted to the girl's left, barring escape from the stairs. The child squealed in terror as the fire nipped at her feet. It got close enough that her blanket, trailing limply at her feet, caught fire. The girl quickly let go of the cloth.

"Sweetheart, run!"

She obeyed her mother and stumbled shakily away from the growing flames. She didn't dare to look back, but she could hear the cries and yells coming from both her mother and grandmother in the living room, could feel the magic like static shocks to her skin.

She took refuge in her room, grabbed the penguin stuffy that she had and hid herself under her covers.

Blasts and yells could still be heard. Her room was getting hotter and hotter. A chocked sob erupted from her throat, and the only word that spilled from her lips was, "MAMA!"

The only thing she could hear was herself, her guttural screams for her mother, her pulsing heartbeat in her ears, her ragged coughs as she inhaled smoke.

The door to her room burst open after a few moments. The blankets were ripped from her, and she was brought into the familiar and warm embrace of her Mama.

"You're going to be alright, little Bluebird. Mama's here. She will always be here."

The child, exhausted from fear and panic, fainted in her mother's hold.

Her mother didn't have the sufficient power to calm the inferno raging in her home. Only enough to block it from spreading into the child's bedroom for now.

There was not much she could do. Her own mother and sister lay dead in the living room and she herself would not survive this night. The hex her mother placed on her before her death would complete its task within a few hours.

She looked down at her daughter's sleeping form. Tears welled in her eyes knowing this would be the last time she would see her. Her trembling lips gently kissed her forehead, "I love you, my little Bluebird. Mama loves you."

With the last reserve of power she held, she cast a protective spell over her little girl. Although her mother and sister were dead, the coven would not rest until they had her kid. The spell would deter any unwelcome eyes, keeping her girl safe for a few years at least.

As she lay at the foot of her daughter's bed, clutching the girl safely within her embrace, her last thoughts were of her baby and her husband. She hoped he would not resent her for this mess. He knew her coven was coming for their child. He never liked the whole witch aspect of her life and she could only pray that his hatred of it would not consume him after this.

Her gaze flitted down to her little Bluebird. Hearing her child cry out for her had filled her with so much joy and so much anguish. She had no idea how this night would affect her. She could only hope that her father would help her recover. As she closed her eyes for the last time, she could only hope.

Let my little one find happiness in this life.

***

The three Original's stared down at the child in the woman's lap.

The child's mother stroked her hair soothingly. The girl snuggled further into her mother's touch, a smile forming at the nostalgic ministrations.

Klaus turned his wary eyes to the woman.

Her presence in their home had been unexpected. He had found out that the Veil, which acted as a barrier between the physical world and the Other Side, had been brought down due to the goings-on in Mystic Falls. Because of this, supernatural entities that had previously died, could now interact with the physical realm.

The Mikaelson siblings had been skeptical of the woman's identity when she had appeared before them. All doubt about who she was had been dashed the moment their little Bird had caught sight of the mystery woman.

It had been a shock to the three ancient vampires when the girl, whom hadn't uttered a single sound since meeting, had let out a wail so primal, so heartachingly hurt. The three siblings could still hear the haunting cries in their ears.

The woman had scooped the little girl in her arms, rocking her soothingly and muttering sweet words into her ear, "I'm here my little Bluebird. Mama's here. You've been so strong, sweetheart."

Klaus was loathe to admit that he felt a pang of envy roll over him, seeing his Little Wing being soothed by another, but he had to reign in his ire, reminding himself that it was her mother and that ripping the two apart right now would not go over well. With his Little Wing, nor with his siblings.

"Thank you." The woman's voice broke through the Mikaelson's thoughts.

Each of their questioning looks at her gratitude caused her to smile as she explained, "For looking out for her." Her eyes strayed back to her daughter, "You have no idea how agonizing it was to see the aftermath of my death. To see her detach from what happened, see that she blamed herself for it, and even seeing my husband hurt her the way he did."

Her eyes shot back up to them, brimming with tears. "Thank you," she said again.

Rebekah huffed, irritated, "Your husband was a worthless, wretched wanker. Good riddance, I say. How could you even stand to stay with him?"

"I make no excuses for how he treated our daughter after my death, but he was never that way when I was alive. He worried for our little Bluebird. He knew about my being a witch and he knew that my coven would be coming for her." She gestured to the sleeping girl. "I truly loved him, but what he did...the neglect he subjected her to was..." She stared off into the distance her eyes glazed before she turned them to Klaus and Rebekah, silent fury burning bright in her gaze, "I do not condemn what you did to him. My only regret is that I could not partake in his judgment."

Her admittance eased Elijah's mind. He was pleased to know that their Baby Bird's mother had the proper motherly instinct to eliminate any threat or harm to their child, regardless of who the cause of it was.

Klaus grunted and crossed his arms, ire still simmering within his chest, "Your blessings regarding that brute's death aside, what else did you hope to accomplish with your limited time?"

Elijah rolled his eyes at his brother's rude attitude. He understood his irritation, he could see the jealousy festering in him, and he would be lying if he said that he didn't feel similar himself. The three of them had come to care for the child. At this point, she was a Mikaelson in all but blood.

Rebekah tsked at her brothers tone, "Honestly, Nik."

The witch, however, seemed to find the hybrids tone amusing as she chuckled softly, a knowing smile spreading on her lips, "Niklaus Mikaelson. I thank you for your concern for her, but there is nothing more that I want than to spend what little time I have left holding my daughter."

The hybrid narrowed his eyes at her, cold gaze studying her carefully, "I find that quite hard to believe. Any sane parent would fight tooth and nail to drag their child away from a monster like me."

The witch regarded him warmly, "Hm. It seems I have yet to witness this monster you speak of. The man I have seen with my daughter has been nothing but gentle and sweet; aquiescing to her needs when the situation called for it."

She turned her gaze to Elijah, "She has been under the protection of the one they call the Noble Brother. Who has treated her with equal care as you, Niklaus."

She finally turned to Rebekah, "Besides, this beautiful spitfire that is your sister has shown that she has the instincts of a mother bear when it comes to the protection of my child."

Her eyes went right back to Klaus, "Tell me. Why would I take her from a family that has prioritized her happiness and safety?"

The three Originals said nothing.

There was no sense in denying her observations, it was clear that she had been there for all their interactions with her child, invisible to the from her place on the Other Side.

The mother said nothing further, merely continuing the soft caresses on her little Bird's hair.

#the mikaelson siblings #the originals x reader #elijah mikealson x reader #klaus mikealson x reader #rebekah mikealson x reader #mute!reader #elijah mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson

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fuzzytadpole · 8 months

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Hello and welcome!

My name is Twig, this is my intro post.

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I like to make kin moodboards, please feel free to request one along with any themes/aesthetic you’d like!

(All my moodboards can be found under the tag #twigs boards)

*Note - I prefer not to use independent art in my boards if it can be avoided. Fictionfolk (no KFF though please) and the like are still welcome to request. :)

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I am a minor (singlet) above the age of 13. My birthday is on October 11 🍰✨

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I am nonbinary/genderflor 🏳️‍⚧️

Pronouns: they/it/that

Neos: ne/nir/fae/ey/aer

Nounself: fawn/moth/silk/bug/bite/woof

Use whichever of these you want, but try to mix it up a bit! /lh

I am aroace oriented (neptunic + apothisexual) 🏳️‍🌈

🧡💛🤍🩵💙

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I am nonhuman (therian + otherkin + fictionkin + conceptkin + voidpunk) 🌸 🏔️ (Mixed psychological and spiritual origins)

Theriotypes: Tundra wolf, sighthound, grey fox, pine marten, and moth. I’m a moth and sighthound quitherian.

(In total I am a borzoi + windhound + saluki + whippet + Irish wolfhound. Cecropia silk + ceanothus silk + hummingbird clearwing.)

Caed/kintypes: Fae, demon. (probably endel)

Fictotypes: Deerfox (Hilda), Chara + Frisk (Undertale).

Kith/hearttypes: Ibex, takin, fin/blue/beluga whale, snail, doll.

I am chromesthesia conceptkin.

My voidsona is of a species made by me called a demonymph, and its name is Pom.

I’m also a furry, and my fursona is a mammal-bug thing called Eedot.

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I am an age regressor/dreamer ⭐️🧸

My age can range from 1-11, but usually stays 6 or below. I try my best to keep this blog sfw, but there may be occasional cursing! If so I’ll always tag it, as well as capitals that may feel like yelling. Please let me know if I miss anything!

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I am neurodivergent 🫧🍓

I am a semi-speaking synesthete with tics and auDHD. Tone tags are appreciated!

My special interests are drawing/animating, Amphibia, rocks, and synesthesia. I am more than open to talking about these!!!

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Extras⚡️🎶

My music taste is really miscellaneous, but some of my favourite artists/genres include: Aurora, Yeule, Melanie Martinez, Jazmin Bean, Chappell Roan, bodyimage, Zheani, Queef Jerky, vocaloid, shoegaze, and hyperpop/glitchcore/breakcore.

Fandoms I’m in: Amphibia, Sky Cotl, Hilda the series, Undertale/Deltarune, The Owl House, Gravity Falls, School Bus Graveyard, Stardew Valley, Wings of Fire, Minecraft Storymode, Little Nightmares, Mlp, and Yume Nikki.

I am somewhat questioning spirituality. I consider myself pagan animist. 🌍

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DNI: Anti-lgbtq+, anti-alterhuman, anti-age regression, anti-furry, anti-holothere/endel, pro-con zoos/pedos, ppl involved in cringe culture, NSFW, autism speaks supporters, or fundamentalist christians/catholics.

Please do not bring up orthodox religion, guns, SH, or ED’s around me.

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Here is my side blog https://www.tumblr.com/celebratestuff

You can find me as PosiePockett on Unvale

Also, I tend to spam like so beware! /hj

That’s about it! Thank you for reading, friend :)

#introduction #intro post

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 2 months

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A father's anger

Day 1 Prompts: The feast | The chase

For: @feast-of-horns

Rating: M

Pairing: Tulkas/Maedhros

Themes: NSFW / NSFT

Warnings: Kissing | Drinking | Some Sensuality

Wordcount: 1.1 K

Summary: Tulkas and Maedhros discuss Fëanor while they eat and drink during the feast.

A/n: This takes place after Melkor’s release from Lumbi, where he begins to spread strife among the Noldor and encouraged elves such as Fëanor to reject the Valar and return to Middle-Earth.

Minors DNI | 18+

This is also available on AO3

Nelyafinwë waited until his lord and companion finished pouring a measure of fine wine for him. “I fear my father does not take kindly to my feasting with you, my lord.”

Tulkas regarded the firstborn son of Finwë discreetly, even as he served himself a large measure of mead. Fëanáro—his knuckles white against his goblet—was displeased by the sight of his own firstborn seated among the Valar, beings he was coming to mistrust almost as much as he mistrusted his half-brothers.

“Pray what can he do, Nelyo?” The Vala laughed. He drained his drinking horn in one swallow and poured another measure of mead for himself. “You are your own lord now, and your sire can no longer hinder you from acting according to your own wishes.”

“Such may indeed be the case,” Maedhros returned, wishing he could be as sanguine as his lord when it came to the matter of his father. “But you do not know my father as well as you should. He will have many things to say upon my return; I am certain of it.”

Tulkas took his companion’s hand into his and gave it a gentle squeeze. He could never fully understand the intricate ties within elven families, and the undercurrents that ebbed and flowed around those who claimed others as kin by marriage and blood. He could not offer sage counsel either, for he had neither brother nor sister nor mother nor father, and war was his calling, not soothing a father’s baseless anger.

“Pay no heed to him,” Tulkas said, and he emptied his drinking horn the way he did before. Then, without warning, he leaned forward and kissed the elf’s neck lightly, his arms holding him in a loose embrace. It was a reflection of his exuberant mood, to be sure, and perhaps, it was also unwise. Fëanáro was already murmuring his misgivings about the Valar; he would not think highly of his son conducting himself in such a brazen manner with one such as him. Still, Tulkas delighted in the way Nelyafinwë’s pulse throbbed like the wings of a hummingbird just beneath his skin, the way he gasped softly when his teeth left their mark on the hollow of his throat, and when his hands slipped around his back and tangled themselves in his hair.

“My father—” The prince began.

"Pay no heed to him," Tulkas repeated and interrupted him, before he sought his lips. His kiss was languid and deep, as if he were savoring all that he had found. Then he drew back and rested his brow against his elven companion’s with a satisfied sigh.

“Your father has taken his leave of us,” Tulkas observed. Fëanáro’s seat lay vacant; the elven lord had departed without saying a farewell to his son. “But if it is his anger that you fear, Nelyo,” he added, his long fingers brushing against the splendid necklace—linked horns of beaten red and yellow gold—Nelyafinwë wore in honor of the feast. Tulkas had given it as a gift. “You can always return to Valimar with me. You need not return to Tirion after this.”

“I thank you, my lord,” Maedhros replied, “but I believe that it is best if I return to Tirion after this.” He smiled when Tulkas pushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Father’s anger will only grow if I stay away for too long.”

“You allow your father to wield too much power over you, beloved.” Tulkas kissed him harder this time, sending a shiver down his back. Nelyafinwë groaned softly and returned his kiss with equal passion; it was as if he had grown bolder in his father’s absence.

“I know, my lord,” he replied when he was able to speak. “But it does not change the fact that he is my father, and I do not wish to distress him in any way.”

“Very well,” Tulkas told him, and he called for another flagon of mead. Nelyafinwë took a deep, steadying breath. The air was already thick with the scents of wine and herbs and roasting meat. Golden yellow flames licked at giant deer while attendants turned them slowly on great wooden spits. Others basted them in honey and spices until the meat crackled. Fire dancers performed tremendous feats to the music of drums, twirling and spinning lit torches around their bodies. Minstrels strummed harps and viols while revelers sang every vulgar refrain they could think of. Nelyafinwë flushed.

“It still amazes me to see elf and Ainu conduct themselves this way,” he observed quietly. An attendant came forth with a platter laden with gammon pies. His mouth watered at the scent.

“Tis the feast, Nelyo.” Tulkas took two for himself and tore into one with both hands. “It frees us from all that restrains us, even for a little while.”

Another attendant offered a large bowl full of strawberries. Some were as large as an elfling’s fist. Nelyafinwë took one for himself and bit into it. Its juice dripped down his chin. When he reached for a square of cloth to clean it, Tulkas stopped him by grabbing his wrist.

“Allow me,” he entreated. Nelyafinwë shivered when he leaned forward and kissed the juice off his skin.

“Save your vigor for the chase, old friend!” Oromë cried from his seat on the dais. “Or your companion may be left wanting.”

“My vigor will not fail me,” Tulkas answered, his eyes bright with good humor. “And do not fear for my companion, my friend. He will not be left wanting in any way.”

Many of the other Valar struggled to conceal their mirth—even the Star-Kindler herself. Nelyafinwë turned a pale pink from cheek to throat, but he smiled all the same. And he was grateful in no small measure for his father not being present to hear it. Fëanáro was a prideful elf. He would not have taken kindly to such talk.

A breathless hush fell over the revelers, and all who had gathered turned to look when Vána rose after leaning in to whisper to her husband. Her handmaids made haste to follow her when she left her seat on the dais. The others were quick to finish their food and drink, for the Ever-Young left her place to fetch the Valaróma for her lord husband. The chase was almost at hand.

“It is time, beloved.” Tulkas rose as well. He held out his hand and helped Nelyafinwë to his feet. “And I hope you will not mind if I bring you back to the halls after I find you,” he whispered in the elf’s ear. “I would much rather take you in our chambers as always, away from the prying eyes of others.”

“I would like that as well,” Nelyafinwë returned, gratified. Tulkas, as was his wont, would bring him back to the halls after capturing him during the chase. It spared the elf having to explain himself to his father upon his return to Tirion. “But you must catch me first, my lord.”

tags: @cilil @asianbutnotjapanese

#feastofhorns #feastofhorns2024 #tulkas #maedhros #tulkas x maedhros #the silm #the silmarillion #the silm fanfiction

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theriancultureis · 6 months

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Hummingbird therian culture is when you were a kid telling people you could run so fast you couldn't be seen

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hyperesthesias · 7 months

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Decisions & Desire Part II

Notes: Look, what I want you to take away from this is: 'I love you. Most ardently'. I even got the rain thing going. Song choice for this installment is: Arrival of the Birds by The Cinematic Orchestra.

Context: Anya and Viktor are childhood friends who have reconnected seven months ago. Anya is a mage, and a theoretical physicist; she is also a patron of Viktor and the Academy. They have rekindled their friendship, and are in love with each other. Because Anya is a different species, who lives for hundreds of years, and takes only one mate for her lifespan, Viktor has recused himself from her life, not wanting to cause her further pain. However, Jayce has some choice words for his friend. Anya also learns more about transformation rituals from her temple elder.

word count: 4,411

Tag List: @uniquedeerwitch ; @funcoolchickie (Let me know if you would like to be tagged!)

AO3 link

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Anya kept the company of her kinfolk, while Viktor kept himself confined to his laboratory. She had not seen him in nearly a week – neither had she heard from him, despite her occasional visits to the lab with pertinent information and translations of runework. Whenever she made an appearance there, Viktor always seemed absent, and her work was relayed solely through Jayce, who asked her no questions, neither pressed any agendas about the crystal or her relationship with her friend. It only made her feel more alone.

Despite the happy faces and the welcome invitations from her kin at the temple, Anya felt no desire to join them in preparations for the Autumnal Equinox festival – she had no mirth to contribute to the festival at all, and instead planned on recusing herself from the event. Regardless of where she went, or with whom, the abstinence of her friend’s love, and desire for their bonding, followed her – a horrible shadow that clung to her, even when the Sun shone brightest. His life was fragile, its length short, and she saw his grappling as a hindrance to the time that could be shared between them, despite the obstacles presented to them.

Her elder, Nana, was the only one of the temple who asked nothing of her, nor expected her presence in any capacity, except for that of a cup of tea. Nana was seven hundred years old, and she was the oldest and wisest among their community. She had long, silver hair that ran past her feet, and that matched her age; she had weathered skin and a warm smile that crinkled her eyes. Her home resided on the temple acreage, and she tended the sacred trees and flora and fauna that made the grounds lush and vibrant. Her cottage smelled of herbs, and the couch was well worn from visitors who sought her company. She was quick to listen, and slow to scold, but always had advice when it was asked of her.

“I have more ideas about the transmutation spell you asked me about some while ago,” Nana said, and served Anya a cup of berry tea. “I found a codex in the old catacombs of the temple. Don’t tell anyone.”

Anya smiled lightly, and held the cup in her lap. She had no desire to speak.

“There are many legends of shape shifting, as you know,” she continued with a huff and a grunt as she sat down on the couch. “Many talk of our ancient ancestors who could change into jaguars or hummingbirds during the heat of battle. Even dragons. But birds and cats sounds more believable to me,” she eyed her young guest with a simper. “Though much of what is written in these codices are thought of as fantasy by the majority – superstition and stories meant to inspire awe and terror into the hearts of enemies from long ago.”

“Do you believe it is possible?” Anya asked.

Nana looked at her and shrugged as she took a sip of tea. “I’ve seen too much to disregard anything at all. There are some who are gifted with the abilities of magic – like you and your parents; others who can communicate with animals and spirits. Who’s to say there is not a gene somewhere out there, wandering around, that can cause someone to shape shift? Maybe it got lost,” she chuckled.

“Did the codex suggest wanting anything in return for this power?”

Nana looked at her, suspicious, but she conceded: “No, there was no mention of an exchange – it was a power bestowed by the divinities. A gift. There were times it was granted as a way to smite an opponent in battle. Others, it was given as a way to protect a village or a family.”

Whatever the secret had been of transmutation, it was evident it was long lost, and was now regaled into the nebulous mythos of cultural tales. Anya set her untouched tea on the table in front of them, and nodded. “Thank you, Nana. But I do not feel up to having anything at the moment. I think I will leave.”

“What is wrong, my dear?” Nana asked, and held out her hand that she might stay.

“It is nothing. Childish things.” She shook her head, afraid she would think her a fool for her despondency. Viktor’s stubbornness was a sufficient burden, but Nana’s disapproval would be more than she could bear.

Nana gave her a sad smile as she watched the affliction on her soft face. “There is no such thing as too small a grief.”

Anya looked to her, reticent. She debated on what to say, but knew that if there was any one person in her community who could be relied upon, it would be Nana. “It does not feel small,” she admitted.

“This isn’t about runes.” Nana set her cup of tea down.

“No. It is not.” She looked out of the window at the far end of the room, she watched as the wildflowers blew, delicate and limber, in the afternoon sun – their stems and leaves had begun to turn brittle as Summer ended and as Autumn began. Soon, they would be wilted and returned to the earth from which they first grew. Viktor’s ailing health pressed upon her heart and she resisted the stinging in her eyes. She swallowed the hot, salted water that had gathered at the back of her throat, and she kept her head down. “There is someone with whom I wish to bond,” she said. She could not bring herself to say anything more.

“Have they refused you?” Nana asked.

“The desire is mutual. But he will not bond with me.”

Nana could think of no reason why someone would be so indecisive. Anya was well off – finances would never be a concern; there were no wars in which their kind had been involved, in Piltover or in Zaun, that could have amassed prejudice; there were no quarreling families within their own community that would prevent a peaceful union with Anya – a union with her would have been covetous. “Why?” she asked, bewildered.

“He is human,” she said. The tears she fought gathered at the edges of her eyes, and she struggled to keep them at bay as she looked at her elder. She turned away as a droplet ran down her face. “His health is frail, even by the standard of his kind. His lifespan will be cut short. He will not bond with me, so that I will not be alone when he dies.”

“That is honorable.”

“Too honorable,” Anya sniffled.

Nana smiled. There were few who understood and heeded the ways of their species – especially humans. To find someone with such zealous respect was both a blessing and curse.

“Nana – What is it like? To have a bonded who is no longer here.”

She took a long, slow breath, and memories passed her eyes as she thought on what to say. Her own bonded had been gone for nearly fifty years. It felt like an eternity. “I can still feel him – as I always did. When you bond with someone, you can feel what they feel, you can know where they are, and see the world through their spirit. It is the same, even now. He is still alive, somewhere. But not here. I feel that he misses me, as much as I miss him,” she gave Anya a smile, one full of joy and longing. She caressed her face – bright and full of youth and knowing. “This man loves you. Human men make no sacrifices for things they do not love. What will be, will be. Even if you love him from afar.”

Another tear fell onto Anya’s visage, and Nana gently brushed it away.

Anya returned to her quiet, cavernous home as clouds began to move their way through the sky. She recalled a rainy day in Zaun, where her mother told her to search for a bucket in the scrap heap around the corner from their house. The roof had sprung a leak, and Anya spent the night bailing out buckets of water. She was stricken with the cold, and became bed-ridden and ill, her mother tended to her with poultices and compresses for a week.

Her mansion made of marble had no leaks, and every gutter led to the gardens beneath. There were beds for vegetables and fresh herbs, there were fruit trees and bushes that yielded plentiful stone fruits and berries. She wanted for nothing. Except for the love she could not have.

She sat alone the rest of the afternoon in the salon, with a well lit fire and a hot cup of coffee as the rain began to fall, persistent and dour against the breadth of the windowpanes. She had numerous books on runes and shape shifting spread across the cushions, but she resented each of them. They all reminded her of Viktor.

Viktor arrived at the lab in a foul mood. The previous night left him restless, and what little sleep he gathered was listless and fitful. His mind was tired and overworked, and his heart had grown numb from the final exchange he shared with Anya; it sat on his stomach like a stone, and he felt himself pinned beneath it. Though he gave little credence to the tenements of Fate, he was beginning to believe in something far worse: bad luck. Luck, that he had reconnected with his friend after a decade and a half, and bad luck to have sabotaged his relationship with her. He lost the love of his life. He had no one other than himself to blame.

Viktor said nothing upon entering the lab and he promptly sat at his workbench, hunched over his journal; he analyzed the data he gathered the previous evening, along with several of Anya’s notes taped to the inside of his notebook. He could feel Jayce’s eyes on him from across the room.

Jayce sat not far away – he had been studying the crystal under a lens, having arrived at the lab nearly two hours before his partner. He leaned back in his chair with a deep sigh, his hands ran down his face – every facet of the crystal was beginning to blur into one another, and he could hardly tell the difference between the runes anymore. He looked up towards his friend again, who seemed to share his same, glossy-eyed look.

“You hungry?” he asked.

Viktor gave no reply.

Jayce tilted his head, trying to see the expression on his friend’s face. It was stern, guarded, and unmoving. Viktor was not often outwardly expressive, but he was not devoid of feeling altogether, and he had come to know Viktor well enough to see when his friend was perturbed – despite the few indications he might give evidently. Jayce rolled the chair closer to his partner. “Hey –” he tapped his shoulder.

Viktor started and took a sharp breath. “What?” he growled as he shot Jayce a glance.

“I think we could both use a break. Why don’t we get something to eat.” A drop in blood sugar would explain Viktor’s harsh disposition.

He waved him off. “I am fine, go on without me.”

Jayce stared at him with scepticism. “You don’t look fine.”

Viktor closed his eyes and slowly inhaled. “There are things in my private life I would like to keep private,” he said. Jayce had become a friend – Viktor’s only friend besides Anya; and while his two friends were each other’s acquaintance, Viktor was careful never to divulge more than the superficial in regard to Anya and her background. He had given Jayce no knowledge as to her species, or her capabilities as a mage; the extent of his appraisal had been their friendship in childhood, and her success at the Academy. Nothing more, and nothing less.

Concern built itself deeper into Jayce, and worry furrowed itself into his features. Not long ago, Viktor saved his life from the broken ledge of his apartment. The chill of that terrible night’s air gripped him by the throat, and he refocused himself onto his friend, instead. “You don’t have to suffer in silence.”

Viktor stopped, overcome with the memory of watching Jayce nearly step over the ledge and into death. They never spoke of it. They did not have to. It was a hermetic secret between the two of them, one that was never forgotten, and never mentioned. But Viktor could hear between what was not said. He sighed and turned on the stool, throwing the pencil on the notebook. “There is a dilemma, in my personal life, that has no favorable solution,” he said. “My only choice is to accept the consequence, and proceed with my life. My work,” he motioned to the notebook.

Jayce stared at him, more confused than before, his worries no more allayed. “Are you…getting fired?”

Viktor scoffed. “No. Although, I supposed I could be,” he murmured. His position at the Academy forbade any fraternization with a donor. It was yet another obstacle that bid him forget about whatever childish emotions welled themselves inside of his mind. “My affections for Anya have grown beyond that of friends,” he admitted. The feeling of her soft skin imprinted itself on his hands as he spoke, the feel of her breath as he kissed her, the sweet taste of her – she flooded into him all at once, and his chest tightened.

Jayce’s face softened and he began to smile.

“There is nothing to be done about it.” He turned back to his workbench.

“What do you mean?” Jayce asked, taken aback.

Viktor rolled his tongue in his mouth, his jaw stiffened and his eyes pierced through the pages of the book underneath his palms. He debated whether to speak of Anya’s species, but if he knew anything of his friend, he knew Jayce understood the value of a secret. “Anya is not like you and me. Her species is capable of living for a thousand years. In that time, they will have only one mate. It is for their lifetime. It is a bond that will last, even after death. My affection for her now will be meaningless in five hundred years.” He swallowed and closed the notebook. “She would be alone. That is not something I will allow.”

“So you’re not going to say anything?”

“I already have.”

“And? What did she say?”

“We have not spoken in a week, since.”

“Well what the hell did you say?”

Viktor rolled his eyes. “I was honest with her. It is what she deserves. I told her my affection, and also told her it was better we do not bond.”

“She deserves the opportunity to decide for herself, Viktor.”

The lines in Viktor’s face drew deeper, and he felt offense flush his face.

“You made the decision for her. What if she wants to be with you?”

“Then it would be better for me to suffer the next thirty years alone, than her for centuries more.”

Jayce stayed quiet as he watched his friend anguish.

“My refusal to bond with her is not out of arrogance or self-centeredness.”

“Viktor, she won’t wait for you forever.”

“That is exactly the point,” he denounced him. “Thirty years from now, I will be dead. And in three hundred years, she will find another she loves.”

“What if she doesn’t find anyone? What if it’s only you?”

“Statistics would argue otherwise.” He sighed and looked away from his friend as he leaned back in the chair. “I would never fault her for wanting to love another. But we will have already been bonded.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“No, not bad – foolish. We are not the same kind. We were not meant to bond.” He ended the conversation and returned to his notes.

Jayce gave him a disgruntled frown, though he knew Viktor was unable to see it. He remained silent, and only watched his friend compartmentalize his pain – despite how well Viktor assumed he was hiding it, Jayce could see his grief plainly. They had not known each other long, but knew him to be a lonely, stoic man, who devoted his life to proving his worthiness through science and advancement. He was a good man, who always thought of others before himself. Who thought of the woman he loved before his own desires. Jayce could not say the same about himself. Though he did not know Anya well, he knew she was the only one who could make Viktor laugh and smile without restraint; when they were together, Jayce saw enjoyment in his life – rather than only discipline and hardship.

Perhaps he lived vicariously through his friend – that the merit of perseverance could be met with reward and happiness. Perhaps he resented him for refusing to accept such happiness. Or perhaps he was merely frustrated with his friend’s stubbornness. “You’re fighting this really hard,” he said.

Viktor took a grated breath and threw up his palms, knowing he would not get any work done with Jayce’s ever-optimistic meddling. “What would you have me do?”

“Stop sabotaging yourself.”

“And when she is left alone with no one, with nothing? What then? I will not be responsible for her suffering.”

“You already are.”

Viktor gnawed the inside of his mouth and looked away.

“You can’t live your life in the theoretical.”

Life was incalculably more complicated than the theoretical, or the practical – it was an egregious amalgamation of both, that fit neither descriptor. And sometimes, there were no viable solutions. Sometimes, there was only the best that could be done. Viktor’s parents did the best they could, despite their poverty, despite their flaws and faults. There were times, much like this, he wished he could talk to them. Ask for their guidance and advice, their life experience. But even without it, Viktor did the best he could.

That was all that could be done.

Viktor drove a carriage from the Academy, after Jayce left the lab in the late afternoon. The Sun was setting, and dusk and rain were easily approaching on the horizon – cooler hues of orange and magenta sunk with the dark, impending clouds behind the Piltover skyline, and Viktor recalled a time when he could not see the Sun set, nor when it rose. He drove in silence as he mulled over the arguments of his friend, and the blistered emotions that imprinted themselves within his chest. The ability to intuit the machine beneath his hands allowed his mind to wander freely; he shifted it from each of its gears without fault or hesitation, and his left leg moved with ease to control the clutch and acceleration. The ability to pilot a machine granted him freedom from the physical fetters that plagued him daily – the rare moments in which he felt his body free from restraint, granted his mind clarity and respite.

Anya deserved honesty, he concluded. Honesty – not only in his emotions, but in his actions. There was a distinct line he observed: to deny them both the opportunity of bonding was dishonest, to himself, and also to her. Jayce, for all his meddling, had been correct: Anya deserved to make her own honest decisions, and Viktor was required to trust her instincts, and trust the decisions she made for the course of her future. It was iniquitous, and it was presumptuous to determine her future for her. It was her future. Not his. But together, they could share the present.

The road to her home was winding, along a paved path lined with trees and wildlife. Though her mansion was modern, even by the Kiramann’s standards, the reclusivity and pastoral beauty of its location was something that appealed to him. Her culture revolved around the natural world, around the connection between their species and all life around them. It suited her that her home was deep within the forest. The fresh air of the treeline, and the onset of clean rain was a relief to his lungs, and to the memories of Zaun’s filth that permeated his mind.

The carriage pulled into the circular driveway, and he could see a dim light through the many windows of the house. Rain pummelled his shoulders the moment he stepped out, and he hurried with his cane as well as he could across the cobblestone for cover underneath the porch. But the winds were shifting through the forests and mountains around them, and despite the cover of the overhang, the rain smattered him sideways. He pulled a gilded knocker on the door, and tapped it three times. He waited, eagerly, and mulled over everything he wanted to say while he attempted to keep a chill at bay.

Moments seemingly blurred into hours, and, presently, Anya answered the door.

“Viktor?” She stared at him, shocked – misery clung to his features, and she knew he had not slept; hunger drew the color from his face, and the rain drenched him from his hair to his shoes.

Everything he wanted to say, everything he planned on saying – every point he wanted to make suddenly vanished. He stood there – dumb and silenced.

“Are you alright?”

But everything he wanted to say, could be condensed into one singular phrase: “Anya, I love you.” He met her eyes with pleading, and swallowed; he felt bare having said the words aloud. “I do not know anything with certainty, but that I love you. I do not know the future. And I know nothing of magic. But, I try.” Even in the downpour around them, his throat felt parched. “I want to try. For however long the future will have me in this life. If you will have me.”

Anya’s heart raced within her, and she saw their future written plainly on his face: one of happiness, and one of hope – despite whatever hardships they might face. Her smile trembled at the thoughts and images that played before her mind’s eye. She nodded, breathless.

But he shook his head, afraid she had given her blessing too soon. He reached for her, as if to implore her, and petition her grace. “I cannot give you status. I can give you no children –”

She dismissed his fear, and cupped his face. “I do not bond with you for what you can give me,” she said. “My bond is my love for you, Viktor. Always.”

Viktor weakened at her words, and water flushed his face – though from tears, or from the rain, he could no longer distinguish. Her hands were warm, and any part of him that had been frozen or chilled melted at her touch. He nuzzled his cheek into her palm, and took her hand to kiss it – his cane moved to the crook of his arm. He breathed in her scent and revelled in the benevolence of her softness, with the thought of awakening to her beside him every morning, and falling asleep to the sound of her every night. He looked to her one last time: “Are you certain?”

“More than anything.” She brushed the water from the stern lines of his countenance, and gently pulled him towards her.

Gladly, he met her lips and drank in the sweetness of her taste. He caressed his palms around her face, where he left behind streaks of rain on her skin, and on her clothes. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him taut, pressed against her.

Viktor took a breath and leaned against her face as she nuzzled her head into his shoulder. A pang gathered in his throat: not one of sadness, nor of the grief that had so despairingly plagued him the last week, but a pang of great and overwhelming emotion. Which emotion he could not clearly ascertain: happiness, relief, uncertainty and anxiousness of the future. It was akin to the peace and quiet calm that is only left behind after a storm. He felt a tear escape him, amidst the serenity inside of him. “What must I do,” he asked, his voice overcome with whelm and affection, “to bond with you, with the ritual of your people?”

Anya held him tighter with gratitude for his recognition, and moved to see his eyes: “You must find me a feather, and braid it into my hair.”

The carnal intimacy of her sacred hair – to caress it, and comb it, to bring her pleasure with it, seldom occurred to him, but the thought was ardent and clear to him now. He stroked the side of her face, where the back of his hand graced against the edge of her mane; she emanated a quiet purr at his touch, and he relinquished his hand, flustered – though she had made no effort to pull away from him. He took her hand, instead, and kissed it once more.

Anya invited him inside, to warm himself by the fire; he sat on the couch where she had staked herself throughout the afternoon – books were still strewn across the salon, he chose one as he put his leg up onto an ottoman. Before he could protest, she poured him a hot cup of coffee of his own, and offered him a helping of sweet bread and fresh cheese.

“Thank you,” he said, and took the cup and plate.

“You forgot to eat again.”

“Bad habit,” he looked at her, diffident.

She raised a brow. “Which means you have also forgotten your medicine.”

Realization struck him, and he searched his pocket for his pill case. In the wave of ecstasy and emotion, he had not felt the pain in his back and hip, but as his mind anchored itself again, he felt it worm itself into the forefront of his attention.

Anya sat next to him, and leaned against him as he ate, and drank, and swallowed his pills. He looked at her, in the firelight – she was the beauty of a brilliant star, illuminated by the cosmos. He wrapped her in a blanket that was thrown behind them on the couch. He wondered, what life would be like thirty years thence, when he was frail, when he had even less to give her – nothing except the love he would always have for her. He saw his own future with her, as the fire danced across her: lenitive, contented, and a life in which he may always be free from fear. With her, Viktor felt safe. He always had. He always would.

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