#kyle of the drow elves | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

spiderrmax · 1 year

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my hand was the one you reached for

synopsis: after proving your loyalty to the drow elvess, they ask you to return to the humans in order to spy for them. you agree, and the new distance has you yearning for the king; he's yearning for you too. word count: 18.0k warnings: no army of darkness au. reader is a mage. their powers have negative effects on their body! descriptions of wounds from burns (fire & electricity) & cuts. violence & battles. kidnapping. cartman is an evil villain. reader is still the new kid, but occasionally talks. overused descriptions of the moon. author's note: it's been weeks but it's finally here! sorry for any continuity or grammar errors. please read the warnings, my descriptions aren't too graphic but they are there so be safe!

To gain a person’s trust tends to be a difficult task; gaining the trust of a kingdom was harder. Three days after being recruited to Kupa Keep, you found yourself taken to the Elves while on a mission for their enemy. Their King, Kyle, expressed fear for you, that you had united yourself with the wrong side, and gave you an offer. You were meant to bring the outliers to the elves, instead of Kupa Keep. With the use of nicer words and a lack of violence in your taking, you accepted the offer.

Stan, a knight the King thought highly off, was sent with you. He was there as your guide, a mentor as you completed the offer, and to distract any Kupa Keep members who might see you.

He was there to watch you tell the outliers of the Elves Kingdom and became an alibi to your character, and loyalty to the elves. Stan’s testaments of your person made you an honorary elf, even if you lacked the pointed ears.

It took you even longer to gain any sort of trust from the King. His green eyes pierced into you as if trying to find a lie inside somewhere. He dissected you, watching you train with the rest of the elves; in a few weeks, this distrust turned into curiosity; you were strong, and he’d be dense to ignore your skill set. If there was one thing the Grand Wizard did right was train you well.

“You’re strong,” He says, having watched you burn a practice dummy for a while. You jump at his voice, not realizing he had been watching.

All you could do was shrug and sheepishly smile. Staring at him, waiting to see if he’ll say anything else. “You’ll be a great addition to my kingdom.” He leaves after that.

You continue to notice him watching, but now it isn’t as intimidating; he’s more amused by your magic, and the way you constantly practice. There’s also how the wind blows in your hair, allowing him to see the focused look on your face. It gets distracting, but he can’t help but admire it when he sits on his throne with nothing but paperwork to do. Whenever you look back, his face burns pink. It makes you laugh, and he finds it to be a beautiful sound.

Your laughter, timid looks, and drive for magic are what cause Kyle to give you his trust, wholeheartedly.

This trust is why you found yourself sitting at the Elf Council, a meeting called a while after you found yourself a true member of the Elf Kingdom. Kupa Keep still had the stick, so a plan was needed; a plan would soon come.

The plan comes from Stan: for you to return Kupa Keep to have the upper hand when they take back the stick.

“I’m just saying, they would be bound to tell them. They just have to act as if we kidnapped them, and that would solidify the Grand Wizard’s trust in them. Plus [your name] is super strong, they’re one of the best mages I’ve seen. Maybe they even make them the protector.”

The council abrupts into murmurs at the idea, occasionally eyeing you, clad in purple robes.

“It’s a g-good idea. The grand wiz-wizard met them first, they probably think we have them tied up.” The bard, Jimmy, pipes in.

Timmy shouts out his name, in a positive tone to show his agreement.

You allow your eyes to trail up to King Kyle, who has been quiet since the idea was proposed. His crown casts a shadow over his face, but you can still find the wrinkles from thought on his forehead and the worry in his eyes.

“Your ma-majesty, your thoughts?” Jimmy inquires, the rest of the elves noticing his silence as well.

“I don’t know, I mean, sending them back seems wrong,” Kyle mutters, and the words scrap against his gritted teeth.

“King, with all due respect, we cannot let Kupa Keep have the stick any longer. This plan would guarantee we can find it.” Stan explains.

It’s not something Kyle needed to be written out, your presence at Kupa Keep and your loyalty to the kingdom, to him, would give his Kingdom a higher step. His inner turmoil is present on his face, in the minuscule details that his friends must not pick up on; you’ve memorized his face, his tiny moles, tiny scars from fighting, allowing you to notice it all.

He thinks for what feels like forever, as the weight of the task dawns on you; with this task, they’ve placed their entire kingdom in your hands. You feel honored, and when you can finally catch Kyle’s eye, you nod and smile at him. A simple action, but all he needs for reassurance.

Kyle clears his throat, gaining the attention of the council who dispersed into small conversations as he thought. “We will send [Your Name] tomorrow. We’ll make sure they have everything they need, and a way out of Kupa Keep if the situation calls for it. Elves, with [Your Name]’s help, we’ll get the stick back.”

He looks at you as he speaks, confidence in his voice, but the same concern in his eyes. With a flip of his hand, the meeting is adjourned. The members clap at his agreement to the proposal, standing up with glee at the first step to becoming ruler of the world again.

Your feet move you to go speak to the King, to maybe question his worrying looks, or discuss the details more, you aren’t sure; your heart yearns to speak to him. Unfortunately, you only make it halfway there, as on your fourth step Stan grabs your arm.

“Come on, you have to start packing.” He explains, and doesn’t let you argue; you're led out of the council room swiftly, only able to turn back once to see Kyle watching as you leave.

Luck, recently, has not been kind; it’s led you to become a pawn in a war. Maybe she was kind enough to guide you to the elves, but that’s all she has down to hold your hand. She prevents you from speaking to Kyle until it’s late at night. All the elves would be in bed, under the velvet sky splattered with stars. The only one to observe your conversation would be the moon.

You’ve left the door to your room ajar, an invite for him and only him; it does what it means to, lures him in to speak with you, away from the rest of the elves.

He appears without his crown, red curls free on his head. He’s forsaken any of the items that allow him to stand out, and in your presence forgoes the King title. Although he’s arrived, he doesn’t speak, not for a bit at least

“I don’t like this idea.” Kyle finally tells you, watching as you pack potions and items into your bag. Your moves are swift, grabbing exactly what you need.

He waits to see if you’ll grace him with a response, but when you don’t all he can do is sigh. “I just hate the idea of you not being within the Elf Kingdom walls. You’re safe here; something can happen out there.” He crosses his arm over his chest, leaning against the closest wall.

You don’t say anything, but you look up to meet his eyes; your lips curl into a reassuring smile, a silent way to tell him you’ll be okay.

“I get it, you can protect yourself. I just like knowing you’re here. I can keep you safe.” The confession makes Kyle’s face burn, ears, and cheeks painted red. He has to tuck his head down because he doesn’t want to risk looking at you.

The reassuring smile on your face pulls up, turning into a toothy grin; it’s the first thing he notices when he looks at you; it causes his lips to curl slightly when he glances up at you.

“I’ll be fine,” You speak, voice low, a whisper meant for him and the moon.

Kyle hasn’t heard you speak much; you’re quiet and what is required. Hearing you speak now, makes him wish you’d talk more, to be able to hear your gentle tone; a beautiful contrast to the war he’s been in since he’s been, king.

Your words have a desirable effect, unwinding Kyle’s shoulders, having been strung up with everything he’s carried. He grins at your voice, walking away from where he’s been leaning against your wall; he reaches for your hand, grabbing at it, tenderly. It’s silly, how delicate he treats you as if these hands hadn’t wounded humans and elves alike. All he can see is your humanity, your trust, and your care for him.

Rubbing his thumb over your scarred knuckles, he catches your eye. They crinkled, having risen when he began grinning at you.

“I know you will be. You come back to me, with the stick, okay?” His voice is low as if scared of his own benevolence.

And if Kyle kisses you after that, his free hand going to cradle your cheek while the other stays in your hand, squeezing it in hopes it’ll assure your safety; only the moon is there to witness it.

As the elves had planned, you leave the next morning. You were the cloak you arrived in, making sure it is tattered and grimy, to ensure they think you’ve only harbored negative feelings for the elves. There are cuts on your face from sparring with the elves, but with a few lies they instead come from your tormentors, the elves who enjoyed hurting you as you were kidnapped. Stan takes a rope to rub at your wrists and ankles, in hopes of making it seem as if you had been tied for an entirety; it burns as all ropes do, but by the end of it, you do look like an escaped prisoner.

Your cloak hides your face, a facade made to make it look like you’re on the run, as you walk toward where Kupa Keep is. The weather is chilling, the leaves warm colored and falling slowly at your feet, crunching occasionally. The clock you have on does little to keep the heat in, but your shivering helps with the escape prisoner facade you have to keep up. Your eyes never leave the ground, watching your feet take every single step, sore from your rug burns.

“[Your name]? Oh- oh hamburgers! The Grand Wizard is going to be so happy you escaped! Come on, let’s get you back.” Butters' voice breaks you from your thoughts, and you look up to see worried blue eyes boring into you. He was one of the only ones who cared to learn your name, and it’s still a shock when you’re called it. The fact that it’s him who finds you makes you want to snort at the irony; instead, you muster up a watery smile.

He grabs your wrist to guide you, but when you wince he lets go. “Oh, those godforsaken elves! You’re in bad shape.”

Guilt slowly gnaws at your stomach, for abusing his naivety like this; your dislike for the Grand Wizard doesn’t trickle down to some of the Kupa Keep members.

His hands hover above your wrist, and when you nod, loosely lace around it.

Butters fills the entire walk back with how it’s been since you were kidnapped: the attempts the group made to get you back, how many elves they fought, and how he’s controlling his electricity powers. He makes the walk go faster, and soon you two are at Kupa Keep’s walls. A head pokes over the wall, hearing your arrival. You recognize him as Clyde, a merchant often responsible for looking out.

“Butters? Who is that with you?” He calls over, eyeing you. Realizing your cloak is still covering most of your face, you pull it down, freeing your hair and allowing you to be seen.

“I found [Your Name]! They must’ve gotten free somehow!” Butters explain as Clyde opens the gates to allow you in.

“Holy shit. You did. I’ll go get the Grand Wizard.” Clyde runs off, leaving you with Butters as the gates close behind you.

Back in the walls of Kupa Keep, the plan can start. You grin slightly to yourself, ready to get the stick back and hand the universe over to the elves.

The Grand Wizard doesn’t come to speak to you until later in the afternoon, busy in his meeting, presumably talking about arrival. You’re taken into a tent, made of blue fabric, and forced to sit until he can come and speak with you. Butters keep you entertained, somehow filled with even more stories and random topics to talk about.

“My god. I thought Clyde was being an asshole and lying to me. You are here.” The Grand Wizard speaks, and you shift to look at him. You smile, without teeth, and he seems to glare at you.

“So. The elves let you out?” He asks, eyes squinting suspiciously; you bite your tongue, to keep the guilt away from your features.

“No! [Your Name] got free. Look at their wrists. Those stupid elves had them tied up good!” Butters explains, pulling up your sleeves so the wizard can get a good look at how the elves treated you.

“I need the whole story. Butters get them some paper. You get ten minutes, okay?” The wizard points at you, as Butters scampers to get paper, a quill, and some ink. He turns to leave as soon as you nod.

“Okay, uh, I’m gonna leave you alone, write a good story!” Butters runs out, trailing behind the wizard.

Picking up the quill, you dip it into the container filled with black ink. After Kyle had left your room last night, you were unable to sleep; as you stared at the sky, watching it sparkle, you came up with a fake story to tell. After you had been kidnapped, the elves kept you tied up, deep in their kingdom which might be why they couldn’t get to you. They’d untie you to allow you to eat and sleep, but you’d be put in a chamber during those moments. The longer you were there, and a lack of reactivity from the humans made them careless with their knots; you were able to escape at night when the guard who kept watch fell asleep.

You finished writing with a minute to spare, and as you waited for the wizard’s return, stretched the muscles in your wrist, making the bone pop.

“Okay, [Your Name], wow me with your story.” The wizard pushes the curtain of the room you're in back, walking in with Butters at his side.

You hand him the paper, and he snatches it quickly, smudging some ink under his thumb. His eyes scan the paper, squinting before widening as he laughs.

“Elves are so stupid, oh my god. I’m so glad you’re back.” The Grand Wizard, Cartman, holds his hand out for you to take. As you do it, you only can think about how he is inviting his enemy in.

Luck still isn’t your friend, in fact, you think she’s your enemy now. You were hoping the stick was in its original place, at the front of the castle to be shown off. The Grand Wizard had it moved after you were taken, in fear you’d tell the elves where it was. A mission that could’ve taken a week now has to take months. (You miss the warmth that comes from being with the elves. The humans are cold, focused on the war, and tend to make you sleep outside. Kyle was your sun, a burning blaze that felt homely.)

It’s no surprise that the Grand Wizard is hesitant with you, cautious with his words, and treating you as a threat. You overheard him one day expressing to Butters a fear that the elves had gotten deep into your head, rewiring your alliances and ruining you. (He’s right, of course, but all you can do is play the role of the victim, hurt by this.)

All the missions he sends you on are accompanied by Buttes, like the old days, and require you to fight the elves, your allies; they become your enemy on the field. Most drow elves know about the plan and don’t act hurt by your attacks. A few bruises are a nice price to pay to have the universe back in their kingdom. It still hurts, to throw spells at those you call your friends; you can only hope the empathy isn’t noticeable.

In order to rebuild the trust that was shredded in the months of your kidnapping, you perform small acts. You shine the swords, dust any shelves, make snacks for the humans who had draining missions, anything and everything that the others find tedious. It works, breaking down the Grand Wizard every day.

After a month of your arrival, he no longer is sending you out just to beat up elves. He trains you again, saying you were a decent mage who needed training from someone with his expertise.

“Those elves don’t understand magic. Took you and didn’t even try to use their potential. That king is so stupid.” Cartman says the first day of your training. (You aren’t allowed to call him by his name; he enjoys his title too much.)

The sun burns into you, causing you to discard the new cape they gave you, a blue robe with stars embroidered into it. You’re left in a loose blouse, pushed just below your elbows. Magic is easier without gloves, so you remove the pair you typically wear due to how cold it gets at night.

Cartman makes you stand in front of a dummy, far enough that you have to be precise with your aim.

“Last time you were here, I had you practicing a fire spell. You’re pretty okay with it now, thanks to me, so I’m going to have you try and master an electricity spell. Butters may be able to help, but he’s no Grand Wizard.” Cartman gloats as he guides you. He paces while he walks, hands folded behind his back as if training you is a laborious task.

“I’ve mastered everything — I’m the Grand Wizard for a reason — so copy my form,” Cartman orders, standing straight, feet lined up with his shoulders, hands straight out as well; you replicate it.

“Lighting can take a lot out of you, so you have to keep your muscles tight. Expect a large impact or else you’ll fall and become vulnerable,” His advice is good, and you nod along, “You may experience some burns from channeling it, but there’s probably something you can use to conduct it. I don’t need it, but a novice like you might.” You wonder if he can teach without bragging.

“It’s kinda crazy, lighting, that is. It’ll take you a bit to get a hold of it. Watch me, then try.” Cartman’s eyes close, and you watch as sparks flutter out from the soft palms of his hand. In a quick moment, those sparks become bolts, shooting out at the dummy, and singeing it in an instant.

He doesn’t say anything, but looks at you, motioning for you to try. Your eyes flutter shut, as you tense up, trying to find the electricity that flows in you. It takes you longer than he did, to locate it and conjure it up to your fingertips. A wince escapes your lips as the bolts start to burn you, but you stand tall, and find the strength to shoot the dummy. When you open your eyes, you see that your bolts missed the target, but still hit the dummy. You grin at your victory and look at Cartman for his thoughts.

“Pretty good for a novice, keep at it. I’ll check on your progress before the sun sets.” With that, he leaves.

You sigh once he leaves; the sun is still high in the sky. Summoning lighting becomes easier each time you do it, finding the excess energy swiftly. Your fingers burn and bleed, unable to heal due to your brutal training.

Cartman comes back far after the sun has set, presumably forgetting about you. Your lighting lights up the training area and strikes the dummy right in the middle of the target. Cartman nods in approval, then dismisses you for bed. Your fingers bleed and burn, and the moon can only watch.

Dear Kyle,

I hope life in the Elf Kingdom is treating you kinder than how the humans have treated me. Returning here has reminded me of why I chose your kingdom, and you, rather than return to the Grand Wizard. I’ve been getting stronger with my powers, he has me training constantly now that I’ve earned my place back in his world. My hands hurt, but I’ll be able to fight by your side soon.

He hasn’t informed me of the stick’s location, but I hope that I can get it out from his Paladin. I do know it’s in the castle because he constantly has someone in there on guard. I sleep outside, so I haven’t been able to explore the halls. His trust has limits.

I miss you, and all the other elves. It’s weird how cold it feels here, especially at night. The sun keeps me hot, but that warmth is superficial. Not the same warmth I’d get with you.

Every time I can’t sleep, I stare at the sky, studying the stars and trying to remember the constellations you told me about. I like to think the moon is watching over us, a guardian while we are separated. That’s dumb, of course. But I can’t help but see you in the moonlight. I hope you think of me as well. Kissing me as a goodbye was quite cruel, but you’ll just have to kiss me again the next time you see me. I hope it’s soon.

Sending this letter is risky, and I hope my raven isn’t intercepted. I needed you to know I’m fine, and I’m closer to getting the stick. I’m sorry it’s taking me so long, I’ll be home any day now.

[Your name].

In a futile attempt, you try not to get your hopes up about getting a response from Kyle. It was risky for you to send the letter, no doubt that the Grand Wizard would read it if he had the chance, but you sent it late when only the moon could see. Maybe as an apology, Luck allows your raven to fly, into the walls of the Elf Kingdom and the hands of your king.

You start going through the mail in hopes of seeing something from Kyle; nothing ever comes. It shouldn’t, it might put everything at risk. Your heart still yearns for something, his script handwriting and parchment.

Cartman has you training more with the lighting, with the aid of Butters who can summon it without being a mage. He seems to pull it from the sky, an unlimited source. You’ve gotten good with aiming and firing, speeding up the process so you aren’t left standing for a moment, leaving your enemy open to striking. The last few days, your training involved you trying to aim at the dummy while Butters would swing at you in a way an enemy would. It left your sides bruised, a dark purple, but soon you could conure the lighting while moving.

Like any other day, you’re standing with the dummies. In a freshly-washed loose-fitting blouse and a pair of pants that sit above your boots, you continue to practice the new skill. Your fingers are wrapped in bandages, and Butters occasionally has healed your wounds for you. A part of you wishes for a new spell to learn, but there’d be no point proposing it to the grand wizard; he’d say no.

Butters come running a few hours into your training. “[Your name]! The Grand Wizard has a mission for us, we gotta go!” He’s waving a map and a piece of paper, detailing your job.

As you put on your cloak, and a pair of gloves to cover your wounded hands, he reads the paper, “‘Some elves are positioning themselves too close to the walls of our kingdom. You are responsible for the removal of those elves, and keeping Kupa Keep’s walls safe from their attacks.’”

You run a hand through your hair, before walking over next to Butters. “Ready to go and beat up some elves?” You nod; you’ve mastered the art of a fake smile.

Butters leads you out of the walls of Kupa Keep, and you head left, the same path you always take. There are some bordering villages outside both of the kingdoms, where you can buy potions and other weapons; it’s often where the squabbles between the humans and the elves occur. Both of the kingdoms tend to fight in their streets, due to the dark alleyways and hiding spots littered on the streets. None of the villagers have complained too heavily, due to a lack of damage to their townhouses and the stands where they sell their items.

However, the town you are in is closer to Kupa Keep, and it seems the elves are just there to pick a battle. It was another plan that came into work during your time as an elf: to have elves positioned in those towns to make shopping for potions, armor, and weapons harder. On some occasions, the elves would make them have to leave and get help if they failed to prepare. It made humans forced to waste items, but now as a human, you wish it was never suggested.

A whistle comes from Butter’s lips, an untuned song meant to fill the empty streets. A part of you feels bad that these people have to flee when you arrive; the other says they don’t understand the value of the stick.

“Hey, while we are here, I need some strength potions, do ya mind if we get some?” He asks, voice slightly echoing; you shrug.

He starts walking towards the stands, where people are most prominent. There’s an unsaid agreement between the kingdoms to not fight on specific streets, due to civilian prominence. Butters reaches to grab the brown bag attached to his hip, filled with coins he’ll need for his purchase. He walks up to a stand that is commonly visited by everyone, and doesn’t need to say anything; he just points at the strength potion on display and lays down some coins. (Butters always tips, something you’ve noticed after coming to town with him for a while.)

“I got it! Oh, when we run into those elves I’ll be so ready!” He bounces on his feet, a contrast to the metal armor he wears.

As you two continue to walk, you look down every alleyway, and keep your ears open for any noise of scuttling. You don’t want to get caught off guard, unallowed to throw the first hit. Butters doesn’t talk, presumably doing what you are doing, but occasionally whistles.

The streets below your feet are made of gravel, rough and loud; every step you take can be heard by your enemy. (It’s weird to call them that, even with how long it’s been. You just want to be home.) Large shadows are cast by the tall buildings, making them seem darker than it is. A few banners are strung up around town, evidence of some parade that must’ve occurred. Some people have wet clothes hanging to dry, but in this part of town, that must take hours.

Being distracted is the worst thing a soldier can be, so you stop focusing on the minuscule details, and stare straight ahead, looking for the elves you’ve come to defeat.

The two of you have to walk a bit more before you’ve located them. They’re found in an alleyway near the center point of the town. They aren’t even hiding, really, just standing there talking about the two jesters who’ve come to perform.

“Ah-ha! We got you now, you silly elves!” Butters arms himself with his hammer, and you follow suit, getting into position and having your melee weapon at your disposal.

The brown-haired elven swordsman looks at his bowman, before making a head gesture at the two of you. They turn their backs to share something – a strategy or a potion – before turning to fight you.

Having found them, you and Butters get to be on the offense. Before attacking, you use a strength potion. You stand in position to use the spell you’ve been learning, and conjure lighting out of your hands fast; your training proves its worth. Your spell hits both of the elves, and you can see the bleeding it causes almost immediately. Butters does the same; using lighting from the sky to shoot it at the elves. Their bleeding gets worse. (They’re your enemy. You have to repeat it like a mantra, a prayer you won’t break.)

Then, it’s their turn. The bowmen fire three arrows at Butters; he is only able to block two of them. The other hits, but luckily doesn’t pierce. The swordsman goes after you, not before drinking a potion as well. He attempts to hit you twice, but you successfully block it with your mace.

Your strength potion hasn’t worn off, so you don’t take another drink. You wish you could use another lightning spell, but using it on an opponent is more draining than you’d thought it’d be. Taking a breath, you do a simple fire spell and shoot it at the swordsman. It’s enough to knock him down, so it’s up to Butters to get the bowman.

Butters uses his strength potion now, taking a sip to be able to ensure your victory in this battle. He swings his hammer, effectively knocking the bowman down. “I hope they’re just sleeping.” (You hope so too.)

With their bodies limp, but still breathing, you walk up to raid it, a common practice. The bowman has a few arrows you take and a health potion. When you reach for the swordsman, however, he reaches up and grabs you.

“Sh.” He whispers, pain clear in his tone. You look to see if Butters is watching, but he’s distracted by a bird that’s landed close by. You look back and see the elf holding a folded piece of paper.

You take it, shoving it into your cloak pocket before standing up to go near Butters, not wanting to dwindle and raise suspicion

“Anything interesting?” Butters asks, the bird flying away due to the sound of your boots on gravel.

You shake your head no, knowing that the paper is burning a hole in your pocket, and you can barely wait to see what the Kingdom needs from you.

The folded paper is read under the moonlight again; you've read it at least ten times by now, giddy to have a reminder of your king.

[Your name],

Do not send another letter. Meet me at Stark's Pond tonight after the sun has set.

Your King,

Kyle

His handwriting is neat, script and filled with over exaggerated loops and giant tails. It's the first thing you've had of him in a while, and you cradle the paper delicately.

Until you have to shove it in your pockets as you leave. You don’t try to be quiet and stealth-like, knowing it would just raise suspicion, and instead walk like you know where you’re going.

It’s only Clyde who stops you, set on duty at the gate.

“Where are you going?” He asks, tone worn down due to exhaustion.

You move your head in the way of the gates. Out.

“Is this for a mission? Or do you just want to take a walk?” He questions, but you can tell he doesn’t care; you hold up two fingers, for the second option.

“Sounds good to me. Be back soon.” With that, you’re free to leave.

Without a human sidekick with you, you don’t have to worry about elves ambushing you. Although with how late it is, you imagine that no one is out to fight anyway.

To get to Stark’s Pond, you have to go through the same town you’d been in earlier. Without tall shadows, and the addition of moonlight, the town is less eerie than it is in the day. You can see light coming from certain windows and the shadows of people inside. A couple dances in one, and you can see dinner being served through another. The normalcy is comforting, something you find yourself yearning for. Maybe life could be different if you never saved Butters, but then you wouldn’t have met Kyle; that’s something you’d sacrifice normalcy for.

You make it through the town fast, due to the lack of surveillance you have to do. The gravel isn’t as loud, or maybe you’re more focused on the lives of the townspeople. Soon enough, you’re out of it and find yourself on a rough dirt path. Trees and shrubbery line the path, directing you to Stark’s pond; it’s not a place you’ve visited often, so you’re grateful for the natural made guide.

As you approach the pond, you can see Kyle; he stands tall, even outside of his kingdom. His crown is on his head, making his shadow more noticeable. Although that doesn't matter, you think you could find him anywhere, your heart is a guide only to him.

“Sending me that letter was super risky, you know that right? You could’ve put yourself at risk.” He turns to look at you, eyes glaring, and his jaw tense.

All you can do is shrug, a bashful grin on your face. Maybe he thinks you’ll respond, or explain, but you don’t.

“What would’ve happened if your raven was hurt? We had the plan to get you out, but if you got stuck inside there’d be nothing we could do without starting a war. It was a stupid move.” Anger is laced in his tone, and you’ve heard him speak like this before, but it’s weird to be on the receiving end.

“I’m sorry,” You finally say, as his anger leaks into the air, making the atmosphere tense. You don’t want him mad at you, you don’t know the next time you’ll see him.

His eyes meet yours, piercing and hard, before softening slightly. “I’m just glad it worked out. It was nice to hear from you, even without the stick.”

Your bashful grin turns into a toothy smile. Having been separated for so long, you forgot how giddy he can make you feel; you hope it isn’t noticeable. He smiles back.

His hand, clad in green leather, reaches for yours, still bandaged. Some of the bandages are old, dried blood seen around the edges; some fingers have bled through the gauze, needing to be replaced. The lighting spell, although strong, has not been kind to you. Your fingers haven’t stopped being sore and burning since you started practicing, and you aren’t given an opportunity to allow them to rest. Your body hasn’t become accustomed to bolts that come from you, you wonder if it ever will. (Your fire spell has left your palms burned before, but the burns are always minor and heal over time.)

“Holy shit, you weren’t kidding. Do they even heal you there?” Kyle says as he grabs one of your hands, bringing it up to be able to analyze it. He turns your hand, looking at your palm, and one of his fingers traces the lighting burns on your hand. The gesture would be romantic, had the skin not been tender. You wince, not meaning to, and it’s loud in the silence.

Kyle curses at your pained face, lightening his hold on your hand. He brings it up to his lips, placing a delicate kiss on the skin where your wrist and palm meet.

He doesn’t say anything else about it, letting your hand go after the affection. He motions for you to follow him, and leads you to a patch of grass near the pond’s shore. Smoothing out his cape, he sits down on the cold grass. When you stand awkwardly, he looks back up at you, a silent request for you to sit with him. You leave a bit of space between the two of you as you sit. Your knees are pulled up and tucked under your chin, providing some warmth against the frigid night.

“I know, you’re supposed to stay in there until you can get the stick’s location, but it feels weird not having you in my kingdom,” He starts, staring at the water, ears red from both the cold and embarrassment. “Having the stick would be great, but having you back seems like a better deal. You could come home, right now? No one would be upset with you.”

You smile unconsciously as he admits to missing you, but it dims when you realize what he’s asking of you. You have been in Kupa Keep for two months now, and even if it burns to admit, you aren’t any closer to finding the sticks. The best information you could provide was some of their battle strategies and routines, but that couldn’t guarantee to get the stick, the universe, back.

He looks at you, eyes pleading, as he waits for your answer. Going home seems nice, to feel the warmth of their walls, and finally have your hands healed fully. However, you can’t go home. Not yet. Not after your promise.

You shake your head, telling him No.

He laughs, although it sounds slightly devastated, “You’re so stubborn. I won’t force you to come back, but can you promise me one more month? No matter if you have the stick or not, in one month you return to me.”

You grin up at him, placing bandaged hands on his cheeks and colliding your lips. You don’t need to say anything, because returning to him is something you’ll always do. He grins into it, lips slightly chapped and bitten down, but it’s perfect nonetheless.

The moon watches, sparkling, as two hearts intertwine.

Having spent most of the night out, you wake up the next morning exhausted. The tiredness, although dreadful, is appreciated, allowing you to remember your limited time with Kyle. As you recall what he said, a month to get the stick. A month to prove yourself.

Before falling asleep, you were able to come up with a plan; a plan involving your peer, Butters. On the way back home from your mission yesterday, Butters mentioned his job for tomorrow (today, now). He was excited, as the Grand Wizard rarely trusted him with anything less than a patrol job.

“He’s got me on stick duty, buddy! I’m gonna be in its presence, and be its protector.” He told you. Your mind hadn’t been paying attention to anything he said, until that detail. Butters was a nicer human, kind but also extremely naive; manipulating him could be easy.

You fell asleep in the clothes you wore last night, so before leaving your tent, you change. A pair of loose brown pants, a clean forest green blouse, and a white cloak on your shoulders make up your outfit. You double-knot the laces, and before you leave, you realize you need a way to communicate with Butters. Finding a piece of discarded paper, and making sure both sides are empty, scribble something down.

I don’t have any job today, can I join you?

You can’t remember if you have a job, as you are often teamed up with Butters or Princess Kenny to have someone keeping watch of you; considering Butters is on guard duty, and Princess Kenny didn’t talk to you at all yesterday, you think it’s safe to assume they’d only want you training today. (Maybe it’s good to give your hands a break.)

With it grasped in your hand, you think you can leave; you can only hope it’s enough. Luckily, you’re up early enough that he hasn’t been put on his duty; he’s standing outside the castle walls, bouncing on the heels of his feet. His armor is the same, but the undershirt is now a red color, whereas it’s typically blue.

He looks up to see you walking over, and waves. You bite back a yawn, as you go to stand to his left.

“Oh, I’m so excited! I get to be on stick duty! I’ve never done it before, and I’ve told you this before haven’t I?” His face burns slightly with embarrassment, but the smile on his face doesn’t falter.

You nod your head, grinning slightly at him. You hope this works.

He goes on to ramble about something, maybe his excitement again, but you cut him off by handing him the note. To play embarrassment, you fiddle with your thumbs.

“Aw! You wanna join me? Uhm, I don’t know if you can, this is an important job,” He trails off, before perking up, “Maybe we can ask Princess Kenny! The Grand Wizard sleeps late typically.”

Butters grabs your hand and walks you away from the castle so you can look up into the tower Princess Kenny inhabits.

“Princess Kenny!” Butters yells, “Princess Kenny!” He continues yelling his name, only getting louder each time he calls out.

Princess Kenny peers over the ledge, eyes squinting and crown thrown on haphazardly.

“Can [your name] work with me today? Pretty please!” Butters begs, eyes pleading and wide.

“I don’t fucking care.” He says, before going back into his tower and falling asleep.

Butters cheers, and you can’t help but grin; the plan worked! Butters squeezes your hand, excitement radiating from him. He waves goodbye to Princess Kenny with his free hand and guides you back to the castle, where Craig is leaving his night job of stick guarding.

“Hiya! Craig. It’s my turn!” Butters voice is loud and jarring, and Craig jumps at it. Craig squints, then glares, before handing Butters the keys to the rooms in the castle.

“Okay cool, I’m going to bed.” He leaves afterward. Your conversations with him are always brief, with a clear lack of care in his tone. It’s respectable.

Butters guides you into the castle. It’s dimly lit, with torches evenly spaced giving little light. The only natural light comes from the window in the throne room, where the hallway leads, but you don’t make it that far. The second door on the right, that’s the one Butter unlocks with a bronze key. Once the two of you are through, Butters makes sure to lock it. The door leads you into another hallway, built out of stone and lit similarly. You continue walking until the two of you reach the third door on the left. (Second door on the right, third door on the left.)

Using a silver key with a blue gem on its head, Butters opens the door. This doesn’t lead into a hallway, but a staircase, dark with no lighting. You look at Butters, silently questioning if the two of you can make it down safely.

“Hamburgers. I’ll grab a torch, hold the door,” He doesn’t give you a moment to respond, before leaving you to hold the heavyweight of the door. Training more with magic than with your muscles, it’s a strain to do so, causing your tender hands to ache under it.

“I got it! I got it, we’re good.” Buttes laugh, walking through the frame, and allowing you to shut it behind you. Before heading down, he locks the door; his respect for this job is clear, as he is thorough with what he does.

The staircase turns four times, and isn’t too draining of a walk; it’s to be expected, the sword to be hidden away from the world. The Grand Wizard enjoys holding it, you’ve seen how he cradles it like a lover, but even he knows how to protect it.

The door at the end of the staircase is unlocked, and the two of you can just push through. Butter grumbles under his breath about Craig not respecting the stick. You’d laugh, but you don’t want him to become upset with you either.

You keep walking down the hallway, then turn left. There, you go into the first door on the right. You wonder if he designed the castle solely to keep the stick safe, and what could be found in the other rooms. Maybe they are all decoys, you wouldn’t be surprised if he made fake rooms. (Second door on the right, third door on the left, all the way down the hallway, turn left, first door on the right.)

However, when Butters opens the door, you notice the new hallway is long, but lacks the doors on the wall. A bright light shines at the end, and with how Butters is bouncing with each step, you know what is at the end. Exhilaration flows through your body at your victory; there is a slight hop in your step as you trail behind Butters.

There, the stick lays, a brown branch with small twigs, that control the universe. It lays on a platform that has a green cloth draped over it, with a pillow of the same color under the stick. The stick seems to glow with power, and you can feel its presence despite just entering the room. Bright light fills the room, which lights up with string lights to show the stick off.

“Are you ready?” Butters asks, smiling with his teeth showing.

You nod, ready to defend the stick, and now ready to steal it; you miss the movement from the shadows.

Dear Kyle,

Second door on the right, third door on the left, all the way down the hallway, turn left, first door on the right.

That’s where the stick is. Those directions. The doors are always locked, so bring explosives whenever you attack.

Okay, that’s all I needed to get down before I forgot. I got Butters to show me today as I promised. One month.

I know you said no more letters, but I needed you to get this information fast. I haven’t seen the Grand Wizard in a bit, and I don’t know if that means everything.

I’ll try to take patrol as often as possible. Write back to me as soon as you get this, okay? Be safe.

Love,

[your name].

You fold the letter twice, once vertically and once horizontally to ensure that it’ll fit nicely on the raven you’ll use. You don’t leave until the cover of night, in order to allow your raven enough air time to get to Kyle.

Like most nights in Kupa Keep, it’s brisk; there is no wind, and the cold doesn’t move around you. There is no cloak on your shoulders, due to the fact you wanted to be out for as little time as possible. It feels nice on your hands, free from bandages in order to breathe a bit.

The untied laces of your boot cause you to stumble, but you catch yourself. Fear of the loud noise causes you to slowly scan the area. The only person you can see is Tolkien, who got put on night watch duty tonight. He doesn’t turn to look at you though, and you let out a sigh you can see.

The raven post is in the far right corner of the kingdom, the opposite of where you sleep, and you carefully walk past the castle once you notice the breeze entering Princess Kenny’s room. You rise onto your toes, hoping it will muffle the sound; you fall back onto your heels once you believe you are far away. The rest of the walk goes smoothly after that.

No one ever locks the door into the raven post, so breaking into it isn’t an issue. It’s getting a raven that is difficult, as their cages are always locked. Luckily, after months of living here, you’ve collected enough scrap pieces of metal to make a lock pick. The bird stirs awake as you mess with its cage, dark beady eyes staring. Using the fake lock pick finds itself to be quite difficult, and it takes you an embarrassing amount of time to open it; however, you haven’t damaged the lock, which allows you to feel safe from anyone catching it.

The raven is still sleepy, so you handle it carefully. Taking a piece of thin rope, you begin to tie the note securely to its chess. Before you can tie the final knot, a voice calls out to you.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about who you’d need to send a letter to,” The voice rough with a slight lisp, “Because the humans should be your only friends.”

His voice, The Grand Wizard’s voice, makes you jump while your heart drops, knowing you’ve been caught. How could you be so careless? Maybe it was your carelessness, the deadline looming over your head combined with a need to prove yourself. Who knows, but even if you’re caught, maybe you can get the raven out. Hopefully.

“I mean, I was the one who took you in. You had no one, and I saw your strength when you fought the elf, for no reason other than to help Butters. Yet, here you are, sending letters to a friend.” Cartman paces when he walks, and your eyes can’t be torn away from him.

“This isn’t the first one, I know that. You’re lucky, I couldn’t get that one. By the time I realized a raven was missing it returned with no letter. That’s strange because a friend replies, don’t they? Who would you send a letter to that would fear it getting read?” Cartman asks, and you know it’s rhetorical, know he enjoys seeing you squirm as you both know what he knows.

“I’d have let it go, I assumed it was to your dead parents. But then you disappeared a couple of nights ago. I saw your tent was empty, and I care deeply for my soldiers.” He smirks as he says, “I asked around and got an answer from Clyde. He said you went on a walk, and that seemed fair. It can get stuffy, I go on walks. In the morning, I asked if he remembered when you returned. He couldn’t, because you were out for so long, he fell asleep.” Why didn’t you think of these details? How careless could you get?

“A long walk, I assume it was a meeting now, and a letter to someone who could not reply. And then there is yesterday,” His smirk grows tenfold, teeth showing as he looks at you, “You had training, you do know that? I mean, it’s not an official job, but I did have plans to teach you a new spell. You’re great with that lighting one, I’m a great teacher.”

At this point, he doesn’t pace anymore, and decides to stand a few feet in front of you, “But again, you were nowhere to be found. I asked Tweek, who was at the training ground, and he told me you never were there. I would’ve asked Craig, but he was out. Then,” He pauses, for the dramatics, “I asked Princess Kenny. She knew who you were.”

Your heart drops again, settling in your stomach, heavy as a rock. You turn back to the bird, sitting there, patiently waiting for an order; Cartman watches you before laughing. “That letter will be sent, don’t worry.” (What’s his plan?)

“Anyways, when I asked the Princess, she said you were with Butters. And that I couldn’t believe, because Butters was guarding the stick, a job I hadn’t given you. But, I went down to the stick, and there you were, standing in the light, in awe of the stick, and its location.” Cartman sighs, faking disappointment. “Using Butters was a low blow.”

You think about using a spell, knocking him out, sending out the bird, then running to the Elf Kingdom. Maybe you could, but it’d take everything out of you to get him in one blow; you couldn’t risk having to do it twice, as treason could loom over your head.

“Here’s the thing, I want to keep the stick. And I know your letters are a guide for the elves to get it. I’m going to use you, and your letter, to lure them in, and when they come for the stick, I’ll defeat them for good, guaranteeing my status as ruler of the universe.” He makes eye contact with you, then looks to the left, before nodding.

You don’t know who he nodded to, as the person standing behind you is swift with stunning you with the blunt end of their weapon; you presume it’s Craig, but you can’t see as your vision goes blurry. Cartman reaches over your body to grab the bird.

The last thing you see is your letter being untied from its body; unwillingly, you close your eyes. The moon can only watch, gleaming through the window.

Kyle thinks the days drag on longer now that there is a date you’ll return home; the sun digging in its heels to prolong his sufferings. He tries to busy himself with paperwork, but most of it has been about replacing supplies and paying for war damages. When that’s done, he finds himself practicing with his bow and sword. He places the target farther every time he practices, but it doesn’t make it any more of a challenge. The splintering of the bows is only a temporary distraction because while he’s out, he subconsciously looks at the dummies, the one you used is noticeable due to the burns on it. There are a few mage elves there, but none of them are who Kyle is looking for.

Now that he has your arrival on a calendar, he finds himself marking off the days that pass by. It’s only day twenty-eight, but the countdown reassures him of your arrival. It’s set in stone, written into the stars; in twenty-eight days you will be home and in his arms.

It’s hard not to think about you, especially with the meeting at Stark’s Pond. There was something about the burn scars on your arms, the implications of what that can mean that keeps him up at night. He has never liked the Grand Wizard, and that hatred burns deeper than just opposing factions. The man is cruel, and with his treatment of you, the abuse of the power of the stick, and the “He has me training constantly now that I’ve earned my place back in his world. My hands hurt.” To cope with his desperate loneliness and temper, he turns to the moon; the only one able to keep him company.

Kyle wishes the moon would talk back, say something comforting about you, or anything.

The day his world changes, and the stakes shift, Kyle is sitting on his throne. There isn’t any paperwork (none that he cares to do), and his callus hands can’t stand to hold onto a bow. The sun's rays beat at him, but he can’t find it in himself to remove his robe. One of his hands rests on his temple, rubbing away the start of a headache.

It doesn’t get the chance to go away, as Kyle witnesses his most trusted guard, Stan, running straight toward him. Kyle can just barely see something clutched in his hands.

“Your highness, word from [your name].”

Stan kneels, before presenting the paper. Kyle nods, a silent thank you, before taking it; Stan takes it as a dismissal, leaving. The letter is sealed with wax, and Kyle feels unease settle at the bottom of his stomach, a stone tossed into a pond. There’s no way you’d have sealed the letter like this, as the last one was only tied with a string to a bird, without an envelope to protect its contents.

He has to grab a small dagger to open it, sliding under the wax and prying the letter open. He can see signs of the paper being crumpled and messed with. The anxiety causes his hands to shake, but this isn’t a letter he can toss.

Taking a deep breath, he’s glad Stan left the room after he gave the letter. He has never felt as overwrought as he does right now. He quickly takes the letter out, unable to stop his anxieties from taking control. With a slower pace, scared of tearing the letter, he unfolds it.

He sees your handwriting, directions, and a warning, but there is more there.

Sending [Your Name] back for the stick was smart; too bad you’ve lost them too.

The Grand Wizard

He’s scribbled out where you had signed your name, underling where you had signed off with “love.” He must have found it amusing.

Kyle reads the letter once, then twice, before realizing that the Grand Wizard, with his excess hubris, has left your directions to the stick untouched. A part of him realizes that this may be a tactic to lure the elves in; however, he won’t leave you in there, even if this is exactly what the Grand Wizard wants.

Clearing his throat, he calls out, “Stan, please come to the throne.”

Stan turns to look at him and walks over, and Kyle has no doubt he sees the fear in his eyes. “Yes, my lord?”

“Gather everyone for a meeting; tonight, we go to war.”

You awake to the feeling of cold on your skin, before being hit with a horrible headache. You go to sit up, hands reaching for your temple, but the movement makes you nauseous, and you have to slow down to relax. With the little strength you have, you find it in yourself to push your body until you are leaning against the wall furthest away from the cage bars.

When you find it safe to do so, you rub your eyes, dragging your hands down your face in hopes it’ll bring back some of your strength. The hit that struck you has left your head pounding and your vision slightly blurry. Despite this, you know you’re in jail, hearing a constant drip of water from down the hall.

Trying to come up with a plan proves to be futile; even if you could get out of jail, you have no clue where you are to be able to sneak out. The Wizard definitely would have all possible soldiers stationed at the end of the halls, and you’re in no state to fight.

If things couldn’t get worse, your mind supplies you with the memory of what you had been doing before you were caught and imprisoned. Kyle. What happened to your letter? Had the Grand Wizard kept it, planning to let you slowly starve in here? Or, has he sent it, as a false warning to the king? You don’t know which outcome is worst; unable to do anything more, you tuck your knees under your chin, curling up tightly to get some warmth. In the cold cell, not even the moon can keep you company.

Kyle is the first person in the meeting room; It takes Stan a few moments to tell all the elves about the meeting. He stands at the end of the table, as he always does, and runs a hand through the curls of his hair. His crown is discarded on the table, and the sleeves of his robes are pushed up, all a clear indicator of his panicked state.

At most meetings, he would’ve taken the time to fix himself, splash water on his face, and paint up a facade. This isn’t most meetings, with the elves, the stick directions, and your safety all on the table. He doesn’t know if he could look presentable if he tried. Before the elves come in, he wipes some sweat off his brow.

The elves come in, marching along and sitting where they are assigned to. They look anxious as well, and he can see it swirl in their eyes with confusion.

“Stan, thank you for collecting everyone. Everyone else, I’m sorry for the late meeting. I’ve been given dreadful news.” Kyle starts the meeting, pulling the letter from his pocket.

“As you are aware, [your name] was set out to spy for us, and get the location of the stick. We have recently met, and I told them they were to return in a month, with or without the stick. Today, I heard from them again.” He sighs, unable to control it, “But not just [your name] wrote in this letter. The Grand Wizard got a hold of it.”

The mere mention of his name causes the council to go crazy and mutters about the Grand Wizard, the letter, and the meeting fuse together. He lets them talk, to collect his thoughts, readying himself for his declaration and plan.

“In this letter, the Grand Wizard says we’ve lost [your name]; he is most likely to keep them in one of his dungeons. The Grand Wizard is aware of the power he has now, controlling us by the imprisonment of our mage and having the stick. We are getting both back.” Kyle hopes his voice sounds calm, biting back both his anger and fear.

“With that said, the Grand Wizard knows we will plan to attack. He sent this letter knowing we had to respond. When we arrive, expect an ambush. Expect the humans to be hidden away, so they can try and get the jump on us. Don’t let them, you must be armed and ready. There is no way this goes down with a fight. Be prepared. Bring your sword, a bow, anything and everything you think is valuable.” As he talks, some of his confidence comes back; many of the elves are nodding and cheering along, ready to fight.

“A lot of the soldiers will be inside, as that is where [your name] and the stick is. We must bring all the explosives we have. In the part they wrote, [your name] discussed the sturdy walls. If we can get their keys, it’d be a huge advantage, but we can’t count on it. We will need to split up into groups, based on what needs to be accomplished. Many of you will be fighting humans, however, I will need a small group to venture into the castle to get [your name] and the stick.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. Talking is causing his throat to feel dry, but water is a trivial matter at the moment.

“If it comes to it, we leave the stick. I want it as much as you do, but [your name] is our top priority.” Kyle stops there, expecting some backlash, for leaving the most valuable item in Zaron behind. He closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them, he expects to see disappointment.

He doesn’t. Instead, there are nods of heads and whispers of agreement.

“If you don’t mind, my lord,” Stan starts, waiting for approval; Kyle gives it. “I think most of us would agree we’d rather have [your name] back. Getting the stick back would be great, but the stick isn’t my friend. [Your name].”

Stan’s words cause an uproar of applause, loud screaming of agreement. Kyle smiles, glad everyone wants to welcome you back into the kingdom.

“Yeah, I too miss [your name]. They were the only p-person here that was funny.” Jimmy speaks, tripping over the word person, once it settles.

Kyle nods, and for the first time in a while, feels his heart slow a bit, grinning widely before setting out a plan. Every bowman and half the swordsmen will stay outside the castle to fight the humans up there. The other half of the swordsmen will fight the soldiers lingering in the castle. Kyle will lead the search party for you and grants Stan the power to find the sword. Each leader selects a few of the elves to accompany them, ones best suited for travel compared to fighting. Kyle finds his blasters, those responsible for all explosives in their country, and asks them to make him something that’d allow him to get into the castle.

When the meeting is over, Kyle finds solace in the cool breeze and looks for the moon, just barely visible as the sun sets. He hopes the man in there is watching over you.

You never fell asleep, unable to due to the cold and muggy floor. You had to fight whether to use your cape as a pillow or blanket but found warmth more valuable than comfort. It’s difficult to keep your eyelids open, even if you can’t fall asleep.

When you finally teeter on the edge of unconsciousness, just able to jump in, there’s a loud clang as someone drags a stick across the bars of your cage. Your head dully throbs, from a combination of sleep deprivation and dehydration.

Luckily, the man who woke you up brought water and porridge. Slowly, feeling your shoulders and legs crack and pop, you reach for it as it’s pushed under the flap made for this. Looking up at your savior, you see it’s the same man who put you in here. (You take back the savior part, he’s just keeping you alive for his means.)

The drink is brought to your lips first, and despite how nice the water feels, you keep yourself sipping slowly, to prevent getting sick. After your throat no longer feels like a desert, you reach for the spoon in the bowl. Your hands, luckily, aren’t shaking, but you feel as if a heavy weight sits atop you, slowing every move.

The Grand Wizard pulls up a chair, watching you. His eyes stare into you, and it makes you uneasy. You know there is something under his sleeve, and he’s just waiting to talk.

He allows you to take a few more bites before starting his monologue, “It must hurt, knowing how close you were to your goals just to have it stripped from you.”

The power he feels radiates off him, strong enough that it’d knock you down if you could stand. “I mean, seriously, you were so close. Don’t worry, your letter got sent. Hope you don’t mind. I made some revisions. Also, ‘Love, [your name]’ are you serious? You and the elf king? Man, if this couldn’t get better.”

Your eyes widen, unable to take another bite; the porridge weighs heavy in your stomach, not settling right with your nerves. He must notice, as he starts to laugh, “You didn’t think I wouldn’t read it, did you? It was hard to resist. Anyways, you must want to know why you’re here.”

It’s been eating at you; why are you here and what this means for the war above you? You don’t give him the satisfaction of nodding though.

“So, I told the King about your predicament in the letter — the main reason I had to read it, truly. And, if I’m right, he most definitely has the letter by now. He wouldn’t be willing to leave you here and is going to be lured in by saving you and potentially getting the stick. This is the night the elves lose, for the last time.” His voice drops, growing sinister as he says his last sentence; his grin spreads to fill up most of his cheeks.

The plan is simple, yet your heart drops, and you have to bite back the rising bile in your throat. For the last time can only mean one thing.

“When I defeat them, and have the King imprisoned as well, I plan to train you, hard. I hate to admit it, but your ability to conjure spells and energy is one I’m envious of. I’ll make you the second greatest mage in the universe, [your name].”

He stands up after that, leaving you alone with a half-full bowl of porridge and the remains of your water. You can just barely hear him talk to a few people a bit down the hall, presumably the soldiers meant to watch you. Once your nerves no longer cause you to feel nauseous, you begin slowly eating the porridge, stopping only for a sip of water.

If you want to escape, you’ll need all the strength you can muster.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it. It’s just going to be boring watching a cell, you know?” The same soldier who the Grand Wizard had been speaking to approaches your cell. He’s not only you remember, but he’s tall, sturdy, and armed with a sword. Still talking to his friend, he doesn’t turn to look at you. The chair the Grand Wizard had been sitting on is pushed to be at the far left side of the cage, and you assume it’s closest to the entry to the prison, due to the fact his eyes keep looking that way. (That’s the way you’ll need to run when you get out of here.)

“Remember, your shift starts at midnight. Don’t make me sit here longer than I have to.” And with that, the friend is gone, as you hear the heavy door shut behind him.

It must be late afternoon, and the porridge served dinner. You’re grateful that there is only one soldier set on you at a time; you aren’t sure what you would have done if you had to take both of them out, without them being able to alert other guards.

The guard finally looks at you and laughs noticing your state. You don’t say anything, and simply take another bite of your porridge. He whistles as he sits down, arms crossed over his chest. The chair rocks a bit, as he uses his feet to push it up against the cage bars.

You finish the bowl as quickly as you can, knowing that if you’re right about it being the evening, the elves will be coming soon. They’d be smart enough to come under night cover, and you know Kyle would anticipate an ambush, but there's something about the way the Grand Wizard spoke that makes you nervous about the impending battle.

Downing the rest of the water, you start to stand up; your shoulders and legs crack, and the guard looks back at you, glaring slightly. Your shoulders shrug, and you pretend to act as if you’re stretching, leaning your body from left to right. He rolls his eyes and turns to face the hallway once again.

You can’t recall the last time you put an enemy to sleep, conjuring dust that leaves them unconscious. It wasn’t something you practiced much, as the Grand Wizard preferred more direct attacks. However, it came useful in big attacks, and when you wanted to be able to sneak by without a fight.

It feels as if you’re walking for the first time, legs shaking as your body forces all of its energy into putting the guard asleep. Luckily, your feet don’t land heavily on the ground as you approach the guard. He continues to whistle, unknowing. Stars spark in your hand, a bright blue that finally gets the guard's attention. Before he can pull his sword, you blow into your hand, circling his head as his eyes glaze over before closing; his body collapses, but most of it lands on the chair he had been next to. (He doesn’t fall too hard, but he’ll probably have a nasty bruise tomorrow. But, that wouldn’t be the biggest of his concerns, you figure.)

Putting a good bit of your energy into that spell should leave him out for a while, you hope. (Luck, if you can hear this prayer, please listen, be a guide to get me home.) You stick a hand through the bars, patting around his belt and any pockets you can reach.

He doesn’t have the keys, fuck.

You want to sob, but you’re scared it’ll somehow summon the other guard meant to watch you faster. Tears build up, threatening to spill, as your brain racks for a solution. Your fire spell.

It’s a simple spell, conjuring fire the same as you do lightning, and the very first thing you were taught. The bars of the cage are metal, and you could potentially melt the lockdown so you can simply push open the door. That’ll require a lot of heat if the lock is made from steel, which you assume it is. You don’t have any options and try to prepare yourself for the burn.

Not used to summoning fire, it takes your body a bit to find the heat deep inside of you. It flows through your veins, a heat almost unbearable. As it reaches the thick skin of your palms, it starts to burn, and you hiss in pain as a flame appears. It’s a simple red, and although it’s scalding, it won’t be enough to melt steel. You need more intensity in your flame.

The brighter your flame burns, almost a yellow at this point, the more agonizing the pain becomes; the same tears from an earlier start to spill, but you power through, as you finally see the metal start to drip.

Above you, a war begins.

Kyle doesn’t recall the last time he was physically present during a war. Most of the time, he sits comfortably on his throne, making commanders and planning strategies for his soldiers to follow; however, this time, he had to be there, to ensure the safety of your return. (None of the elves suggested that he stay back, knowing how much he cared. It’d be impossible to keep him in those walls.)

His wood crown is replaced with the standard elf helmet, and the same is said with his cloak. The armor is heavy, and he feels it limits his movements just slightly — it’s been a long time since he was a mere soldier. It does allow him to blend in, hopefully allowing him to slip away, and into the castle, using the bomb he has attached to his belt.

When they’ve reached Kupa Keep, Kyle notices the gates are wide open, an invitation, taunting them. He can’t see anyone inside, or along the walls for guards, they’re all hidden. With the fast setting of the sun, he doesn’t see any shadows to indicate human presence either.

“Remember, they plan to ambush us; pull out your swords and be ready to draw your bow.” Kyle reminds, whispering.

At once, the swordsmen pull at their swords, ready to stab and swing the moment they catch the eye of a human; the bowmen have an arrow in their hand, prepared to nock their bows. Kyle’s sword had been in his hand since they left, its weight comforting, proof that Kyle was strong enough to save you.

When the army of elves is just outside Kupa Keep, there is suddenly movement and noise coming from inside. Kyle doesn’t say anything but motions his army to charge in. Both parties are aware of the other, and this is his last chance at an upper hand.

The elves follow the command, running armed and equipped for battle. They linger in the center of the kingdom, waiting for the humans to appear. The time that passes as the humans wait goes on forever, and Kyle can feel his heartbeat in his throat. After another moment, an all too familiar voice shouts, “Attack!”

Just like the elves, the humans are armed as well. They fire arrows and charge at the groups of elves. Although Kyle just wants to bomb the entrance, running in after you, he knows that’s what the Grand Wizard hopes for. Instead, he stays back, waiting for the war to become loud enough he can disappear. (His blaster told him the bombs should be quieter, in exchange for a less extreme blast. The bomb was tried on brick and stone to guarantee it’d work. Although the explosion was weaker, it did enough to blast through the stone.)

Swinging the sword is easy, with all the practice Kyle took up to try and cure his boredom. He’s able to slash at humans, causing enough bleeding to put them down. His sword clinks with others, but he’s able to get his sword underneath and knock it from his opponent's hand. The added weight from his armor doesn’t allow him to be as swift as he’d like, but he’s still good against the human soldiers.

Along the wall, humans fire arrows down. With the combination of close combat, it’s hard to dodge them all. Kyle gets nicked in the arm, but luckily the arrow doesn’t pierce. His bowmen fire up at them, arrows penetrating through the cracks in their armor.

Stan is busy fighting a paladin, the one Kyle believes you were with quite frequently; he recalls a description of a blond-haired paladin from the elf who gave you his note. The paladin shocks Stan, the metal armor a poor choice. When he’s able to stand again, Stan shoots his sword off like a boomerang, hitting once, then twice, before returning to his hand.

Kyle fights a few more humans, knocking them down, before realizing it’s safe to bomb the castle. (He’s also acutely aware that the Grand Wizard is nowhere to be seen, and wonders when he will appear.) He motions for an elf, one he picked to fight with him inside, to take over where he had been fighting, to prevent anyone from coming up behind.

Unlinking the bomb from his belt. He takes a step forward and throws the bomb so it lies in front of the massive locked doors. Just barely, he can hear the tick coming from it, an indicator that it’ll go off. Quickly, he presses his palms flat against his ears, hoping to muffle the sound and any damage.

There isn’t a long wait before the bomb goes off, exploding the doors and exposing the castle’s interior. Kyle has to give it to the blaster, the bomb itself is relatively quiet; the same cannot be said for the aftermath. Bricks falling and rubble blasting catches the attention of most of the humans.

More humans run out from the castle, some injured and some unharmed. Kyle can’t get close to the entrance due to the increase in swordsmen. He swings, a little shaky due to the explosion. His sword cuts, and makes the men bleed; he isn’t sure how many he’s killed, the violence a blur in his brain. He doesn’t care to know.

The elves that Kyle had picked to venture into the castle with him come up from behind, helping Kyle cut through the sea of humans. Stan is still in the back, fighting off the strongest of the humans; he was told to only go into the castle once he felt it was okay to leave the lower-level soldiers.

Green grass is painted red, and the iron smell pungent. Kyle pushes through, and with a few, more well-timed swings from his sword is able to get inside the castle.

More humans await, and despite his hands aching from the constant use, Kyle gets into position. His forehead is slick with sweat, panting slightly from exhaustion. Adrenaline keeps him going, able to wound and knock down any humans who get in his way. One of the humans is able to cut him, the same arm where the arrow had pierced.

He runs down an empty hall, and it isn’t the one you direct him to go towards. Not that he’d go there first anyway, the universe means nothing without you. From the thin cotton of his shirt, he makes bandages. He sips a healing potion, to slow the bleeding. Rolling his shoulders, he peeks his head out; some of his elves have continued on, under the order to spread out and find you.

With his wounds patched up, he returns to where the second door on the right would be. It’s wide open, and he assumes the elves had gone down. The castle’s basement is the only logical place for the dungeon to be, so Kyle starts to descend down the stairs. There seems to be more fighting at the bottom, the familiar clink of swords is heard frequently. Gripping his sword, Kyle prepares to fight.

Slowly emerging, he notices that the fighting is mostly taking place to the left. He recalls your scribbled handwriting, second door to the right, third door to the left. The humans must be worried that the elves are getting closer to the stick’s location, especially if the Grand Wizard gave them a warning. When Kyle looks right, he notices how vacant that side of the hall is. He’d presume there’d be guards on both sides, but Cartman most likely has all his best soldiers with the stick. He pauses, before thinking that maybe you are this way, a decoy to stop Kyle from getting both you and a stick. However, he hesitates, wondering if this is a mistake. There’d be more soldiers as he got close to you, his mind reassures.

If you aren’t down this hallway, many other elves will be on the left side to get you. Taking the biggest gamble of his life, Kyle turns right.

Melting the lock takes a long time, with steel having a high melting point. Your hands are sore, and bleeding, and it’s affecting your ability to perform the spell. The paranoia of the soldier waking up has caused you to put the sleeping spell on him another two times, despite the excess energy it requires.

You blow on your hands, hoping it might soothe the pain just a bit; it doesn’t, and you bite back the groan of pain settled at the base of your tongue. You don’t know when midnight is, and you don’t want excessive noise to cause other soldiers to come and investigate. The fact you can’t express your pain makes it seem worse, bottled up and inside. As gently as you can, you dab your hands with your clock. It stings, but it should help prevent infection.

It takes you a minute to compose yourself before you can find the courage to create a flame again. Pain is impending, and before you can convince yourself not to, you summon a yellow flame in your hand. It knocks you over, the energy combined with the agony, but you stand tall, placing the flame close to the lock so the metal can continue to drip away.

You watch the liquid metal drip to the floor, and you have to move your foot to prevent it from dipping onto your shoe. Periodically, you nudge the door with your foot, to see if it’ll give. It is less resistant now than when you started, but it still isn’t enough.

Agony courses through your veins, and despite how every atom that makes up your body is screaming for you to give it up, you can’t. There’s a concerning amount of noise above you which can only mean that the elves have arrived. You have to get there, show them where the stick is, and fulfill your duty as a spy.

Tears well up in your eyes, and spill over with no issue. Just as the flame in your palms dies out, you kick your foot against the door and it gives. A wet laugh escapes your lips, unable to stop yourself.

Your hands are in agony, and if you were able to, you’d rip up your cape to make bandages; the roughness of the fabric is not something you think your hands would be able to take, so instead, you just clutch them close to your chest.

You make your way left, the way the guard had been talking. A quick glance is given to the soldier who was supposed to guard you as you pass him; he shouldn’t wake up with the three sleep spells you cast on him, but your anxiety creeps in, lingering that he’s going to get up and catch you. If he got up, you don’t know if you could up a fight, so you quicken your pace, hoping to be out of jail quickly.

The door at the end of the hall is unlocked, luckily, but you almost scream with the pressure you have to use to open it. When you finally get through, you realize you have no idea where you are. The halls all look the same, and your directions for the room the stick of truth is in relation to if you are entering through the front door.

There are two ways you can go, straight forward, or left. Looking left, at the end of the hallway are stairs that descend downwards. (Everything you said poorly about Luck you take back.) With only one correct way to go, you walk straight.

Surprisingly, there is a lack of guards in the hallway. Although, for how long the battle has been going on, you aren’t surprised that there were only two on duty to guard you. If there were more, the Grand Wizard has probably called them up to the battle.

As you make your way down the hall, you look down other corridors that line the hallway; each has a few doors, but you hope they are only other rooms. No noise can be heard from any of them, so it’s safe to assume they don’t lead upstairs.

A hand reaches out to grab you, pulling you down an empty hallway you hadn’t gotten a chance to look down yet. Fight or flight kicks in, and you struggle against the captor, hoping for a chance to run once you’re out of their arms. They’re strong though, holding you against their chest; other than that, they don’t fight against you.

“Sh, [your name], it’s okay, I got you.” That’s Kyle’s voice. Instantly, you stop fighting, allowing yourself to relax into him. You don’t have the strength to keep fighting anyway.

He doesn’t say anything else, turning you around to get a good look at you. A whisper escapes his lips, fuck, as he sees your hands. He reaches to touch them, and despite treating you like glass, you still whimper in pain. His hands retreat away from yours, but one goes around your waist, to sturdy you as you start to sway.

“I’m getting you out of here, okay? I know the way out, we’re going home.”

Kyle has never been more relieved to see you, despite your state. Your hands are bleeding, and he can see that simply standing is a strenuous task. He keeps whispering reassurances into your hair, wanting to comfort you, but feeling awkward with touching you; your pain whimper might haunt him.

When he mentions returning home, he sees you start shaking your head, protesting it silently. You look up at him, confused.

“You’re too injured, I’m going to get you out of Kupa Keep then tell the elves to draw back.” He whispers, hoping to get you moving soon. You need medical attention, and he doesn’t think his half drank health potion is going to be enough. He wants to belittle himself, (how could he not think to bring more health potions?), but to keep a level head, he has to ignore those thoughts.

You shake your head, and his grip on your waist tightens slightly when you start swaying, vertigo caused by the motion. He wishes you’d talk to him, and voice your concerns; with how weak you are now, he wonders if that’s even an option. He racks his brain around for solutions, before finding something that may cause your worry.

“I got rid of the humans down here; there weren't too many anyway. No one should get us,” He cups your cheek, thumb grazing over the skin. There aren't many cuts here, but your glossy eyes cause his concern to deepen.

Again, you shake your head; although, a bit slower this time. He feels your face move but doesn’t pull his hand away. What else could you have been worried about?

“Stick,” You mutter, looking at him, mustering the strength to speak.

Oh, you’re still worried about the mission. He wants to laugh, wondering how you could even still think about the stick in the condition you’re in. You’ve always been selfless, always giving and giving. He’s seen how the human, and his elves, have treated you, sending you out to do their bidding. He’s ready to do the giving for you and take some of the heavy weight off your shoulders.

He smiles at you, one with only pure intentions, “I don’t care about the stick. I got you back, you mean more to me.”

He says it like a prayer, a silent confession meant only for you. He’s not nervous though, he’s known he’s loved you since the first night you two kissed; those words might have been the easiest thing he’s ever admitted. He watches as your eyes widen, and a smile makes its way to your face.

“There are plenty of elves who can go get the stick; they don’t need us. Let’s get home.”

As you two walk, he hovers. You pushed him off once you started to move, stubborn and knowing he might need to fight for the both of you. He understands, but he also misses the feeling of his hands on you. Anytime you stumble or sway too hard his hands are on you, moving on their own. There is never any complaint heard from you.

The two of you run into two more guards before Kyle can guide you to the stairs. He gently nudges you into another empty corridor, making sure you’re comfortably leaning against the wall before pulling his sword out.

It’s another smooth fight; Kyle’s cheek gets clipped with the tip of their sword, but he sheds the least amount of blood. He’s able to quickly get them to the ground, not wanting to prolong the fight, knowing you need to get home.

He has to wrap an arm around your waist to stabilize you, as you wobble when you go to walk again. Subconsciously, he tucks your head into his chest, steering your eyes away from bloodshed and gore. Deep down he knows that you’ve seen it plenty, familiar with its sight and smell; he knows you’ve also seen more of it than he has. (There’s a part of him that wishes you’d never seen it at all, and if he can protect you now, he will.)

No more soldiers appear between where you two started and the entrance of the stairs. Getting you up them seems an impossible task. Your blood loss is getting worse, and your movements are sluggish, weighed down by all of the energy you were forced to exert. Kyle can’t risk carrying you up, because a soldier could appear at any moment and catch him off guard, putting you back at risk. He has to guard you with every step, murmurs of easy does it, and just another step.

There’s an immense amount of fighting continuing; soldiers’ swords clashing deep into the night. He can just make out Knight Marsh and his bard Jimmy. The pointed hat of the wizard stands as tall as ever. Part of him wonders if he should call for a retreat now, leaving with only you. He knows his soldiers would disprove it, would fight for him and the stick always.

Leaving the battle to go on also allows him to sneak out smoothly, the humans too busy protecting the stick to realize you’re gone. They still fight near the front of the entrance, and although they should hear the creak of the door, they don’t. Kyle makes eye contact with Stan, motioning towards you. Stan responds with a genuine, small smile that can be seen as a smirk from hubris.

Kyle has to take you the back way, a door he’s seen a few times from meetings with the Grand Wizard. He wants to urge you on and force you to walk faster so the humans can’t catch up but knows the pace you amble is as quick as they can go. The other elves must see you two escape because the fighting seems to get angrier, and loud; he’ll remember to thank them when you’re home.

He only gets halfway to the kitchen before the Grand Wizard calls out. Kyle would rather not fight but knew he was optimistic to think he wouldn’t have one run-in with the wizard.

“You’re just not walking out of here with - wait, that’s not the sword.” He pauses, and at that time Kyle picks you up. It causes you to grumble in pain. He hates how he’s hurting you, but knows he’d hate it even more if the Grand Wizard was able to have even the slither of an opportunity to harm you.

“You went down, for them? Just them? I thought elves are dumb, yet here you are, passing up an opportunity to try and get the stick. You’d rather have some mage?” The Wizard asks. (Kyle thinks back to his taunting letters as if he truly thought the love you two had was some jester’s joke; maybe he hoped you’d be left, forgotten, and formed into the human’s perfect wizard. Maybe he didn’t understand how love could be so overwhelming, more powerful than any force. Kyle never asks, he’ll never know.)

The answer comes so easily to him, yes. He’d have you with or without the stick. He’d remove his crown, and the status of the king if he had to. If you asked, he’d repaint the stars and would lasso the moon for you. There’s no point in having the universe if he would be in it all alone.

“I have no plans to fight you, Cartman.” Kyle enjoys how the wizard seethes at the use of his real name, “My elves will do that for me. I will return to my kingdom. If my elves get the stick from you, it’s a joyous day for my kingdom. If they fail, it’ll be a joyous day for my people.”

The Grand Wizard gets ready for battle, posing as if he plans to summon energy from his hands. Kyle turns his back, ready to take the hit, but he doesn’t have to. He hears the gleam of a sword, then the air as it crashes down. The Wizard cries out in pain, and Kyle turns to see what’s happened. Stan had stabbed in the side, strategic to not be lethal, but enough to give Kyle a head start out of the castle.

When he stands for a moment too long, Stan calls out to him, “We’ll meet you at the kingdom!” He quickly returns to battle.

Kyle continues down, turning left before entering the kitchen. There aren’t any servants there, surprisingly. It’s possible they are in battle, clad in armor not meant to be worn by them, and forced to fight the wizard’s battle. There is a door located in the far left corner, and Kyle is able to open it with a nudge of his foot. He’s careful to make sure you don’t brush against the frame, treating you more delicately than ever.

One time when he was over, the Grand Wizard boasted about this hallway. It made it so that he’d never see his messley servants. He explained that their hallway went everywhere, to sleeping quarters, a bathroom, and even outside to the farms.

It’s a bit of a walk to get outside, but it goes much faster with you in his arms. (Maybe one day you’ll be there for other, better reasons.) Bursting through the door, he relishes the cool air. He’s felt on fire the entire fight, from a horrible combination of exertion, adrenaline, and fear. The gulps of air he takes are the finest things he’s ever had, good enough to almost make him forget about everything.

Until you whimper, curling in close to him, your hands still curled up on your chest.

“We’re going home, okay? I’m going to make you drink so many health potions.” He whispers into your hair, leaving a delicate kiss on your temple.

The moon watches as he leads you home, and the man in there smiles. That night, the moon shines brighter.

Waking up is a struggle, sleep heavy on your eyelids, sewing them shut. It seems so easy to just fall back into, as it seems to welcome you with open arms. There’s a voice that urges you forward as if something is waiting for you on the other side.

You can just peer through your eyelashes, the world a blur of browns and light; just that slither of the world is too much, but you don’t shut your eyes. Instead, you try something else. The same voice reminds you of a burning pain, one you can just faintly feel now.

Carefully, as if it’ll break the peace you're surrounded by, you slowly move your ring and middle finger. The movement is sluggish, and the fingers move together; as you move them, you become aware of the cloth wrapped around them, rubbing slightly into your wounds. It hurts, but the pain is a reminder you survived, the gray cell long behind you.

The distance between unconsciousness and you greatens, and you brace the task of opening your eyes. Instead of slowly doing it, like before, you force yourself to separate the lids, allow the light to meet your pupils, and wash away all of the dreariness. You have to blink a few times due to the sudden increase of light after hours of sleep. (Hours, presumably. How long have you been asleep?)

Once you’ve adjusted to the natural glow of the room, you glance around. The wood confirms you’re back in the elf kingdom. You smile at that, subconsciously. The wood that these rooms are made from is more comforting than the stone of the human’s castle; its home. It’s peaceful.

The door creaks and you slowly move your head to look at it. You’re hoping it’s Kyle, your heart needing to see him. The night is a blur, a mix of painful cries and slow movements; you can just barely remember his words, and how he chose you over the stick, a silent promise. Heat rises to your cheeks just barely, but it isn’t noticeable. Even if it was, you’d brush it off from stress or injuries.

It’s Jimmy who enters the room. You smile at him when his eyes catch your open ones. You always knew you missed Kyle, but it seemed your heart yearned for more than just him. You’ve missed it all, stupid jokes, play fighting, snickering quietly behind the king’s back, the elves who made their kingdom a place you enjoyed staying. It’s almost too good to be true, to be home finally after months.

“Oh good you’re fina- you’re fina- you’re up!” Jimmy smiles. He has bandages in his hands, and for the first time you look at your hands; the bandages are a faint pink, your blood dried on them.

“I was going to change them, but I think you’d rather ha- have the king do it.” He winks at you, and the blush from earlier is tinted even darker.

Carefully, he sits on the edge of the bed, making sure not to touch any part of you. He’s dressed in his typical bard outfit, a yellow shirt, a green bandana, and a grey hat. He places a hand near yours. If he’s been the one changing all your bandages, he has seen the damage to them and knows to tread carefully. You hope the smile you flash is enough of a thank you, although you don’t think you could ever pay him back for all the care he’s provided.

“Everyone is glad you’re back. They all missed you.” He admits, flashing you his signature toothy grin; in return, your smile grows just as much.

He lingers for a moment longer, before standing. “I have to go get the king. He’ll be ha- happy you are up.” Before leaving the room he adds, “He’s been stressed all night, wa-waiting for you to get up.”

Jimmy’s words are confirmation you’ve only been in bed for a night, luckily. The door clicks shut as he leaves, and you’re left alone, only a burning face left to keep you company. Relief lingers, and you’re glad you had only been asleep for one night. The damage to your hands was abundant, and your mind tries to figure out how long it’ll take to hear. How long will it take for you to return to your magic? Although you can move them just slightly, and the pain seems to be minimal, you imagine that’s a result of the magic and potions used to keep you asleep throughout the night. Once those effects start to wear off, you’ll have to start a slow recovery. Burns take their time to heal, and even if magic can sew your wounds tight quickly, you’ll be left with scars; there is also no telling how long it’ll take for your energy to return. What started in plentiful amounts can now only drip, poured completely out to escape that cell.

You aren’t sure how long you’re buried in your thoughts, overwhelmed with all the factors you cannot control. The same click can be heard, and you see a familiar face.

Jimmy wasn’t lying about Kyle being concerned, it’s the only present emotion on his face. His eye bags are a deep purple, showing his worry prevented him from falling asleep. He’s no longer wearing the armor you remember being pressed into, but the loose blouse is typically covered by his red robe. His crown is nowhere to be found, allowing red curls to frame his face. You can see two separate wounds on the same arm, one scabbed over and the other wrapped in the same bandages. Your heart pangs in guilt, that he’d gotten those fighting for you.

He sits down on the bed, similar to how Jimmy did, avoiding touching you and hovering hesitantly. In order to have a proper conversation with him, you attempt to prop yourself on your elbows. Placing your body weight onto your palms causes you to wince, and Kyle’s hands shoot out to help you sit up. His grip is firm yet gentle, as he guides you to a sitting position. Once you’re situated, he grabs the gauze Jimmy left.

He takes your left hand, the closer one, and slowly peels the old gauze from it. It only hurts when he gets to the layer connected to your skin from blood and your blisters. Kyle apologizes the entire time, and you forgot how calm his voice can be, now that you can fully hear it.

You almost can’t bear to look at your hand. Your palm is filled with blisters, none popped luckily. The entirety of your hand is painted in a harsh red, splotchy due to the thick layers of skin on your palm. It’s almost disheartening, to know what used to be the strongest part of you is in such a horrendous state. You have no energy to cry, but maybe you know you’ll mourn them later.

Kyle brings out a cream, a herbal concoction that he brought in. His touch is as soft as it can, as he slowly rubs it in; you bite back any winces to not provide him any more guilt. The look in his eyes shows he is already feeling upset about your wounds, you won’t make him feel worse.

He only finally talks when he starts to rewrap your hand. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

You smile, unable to stop yourself. He pauses once he’s halfway up your palm, giving you a moment to breathe. He grins back. “Seriously, I’ve never been so worried over someone. I’m never sending you out on a mission again. That anxiety isn’t good for me.”

You laugh, and it goes silent as he finishes your hand. Unlike last time, where your bandages left your fingers mostly immobile, Kyle leaves them free, carefully wrapping them below your thumb so you can use your hands if your palms allow it.

Once he has the bandages tied off and secured, he brings your hand up to his lips; the move is all too familiar, but your heartbeat quickens anyway. He looks up at you through long eyelashes, and you can’t maintain eye contact. He looks at you as if you had hung the stars, as if you are the reason for beauty in the world, as if you are the one who deserves worship.

In comparison to the wounds on your hands, the lingering kiss burns the brightest. He is careful when he places your hand back on the bed, before reaching carefully for your right one.

Again, he unwraps the bandages, and this hand seems in worse condition. There are more blisters, and some of your skin seems to be peeling off. The state of it causes Kyle to tense up. Despite how furious he seems to be, he’s still gentle with you. Kyle takes another glob of the lotion, providing soothing comfort to it.

“I should’ve killed the Grand Wizard when I had the chance. I shouldn’t have walked away like I did, after all, he did to you.” His voice is low, and it’s the first time you’ve heard him speak with such anger.

He takes the rest of the bandages and begins the process of wapping them again. “I could’ve had Knight Stan take you home. I should not have let him live when you’re in my infirmary in this state.”

With your left hand, you gently grab his wrist. His desire to protect you means the world, but you’re okay. Maybe not physically, and it'll take weeks for that. But you’re home, surrounded by his warmth and your friends, and even if your hands never heal correctly, it’ll still be okay.

His shoulders slouch and the anger leaves his body. He doesn’t say anything more and finishes wrapping your hand. He kisses it again and laughs at you when you respond the same: flustered and shy.

The container of lotion is left on the table to your side. He sits up, no longer having to slouch to take care of your hands. You like seeing him like this, relaxed and content; it feels like it’s only you two in the world.

You’d like to stay in it, but you're reminded of the reason you’re in this bed in the first place. “The stick.”

Kyle looks at you, nose scrunched and eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“The stick, did you get it?” You hope your rescue mission didn’t put everything at risk, and that your directions were enough.

He smiles, and he reaches a hand to brush a strand of hair out of your face. Even away from your wounds, his touch is tender. “Stan got it. He was able to get down there to grab it after I got you out. You did great.”

Your grins grow wide, pushing the skin of your cheeks up into your eyes, as your head leans against the bed frame. You did it. You did it! A laugh escapes you, cheerful and giddy that your work paid off.

Once the euphoria wears off, and your eyes can be opened fully again, you notice that Kyle is looking at you. His gaze is still the same, loving and believing you to be the only thing worth appreciating in this world.

“Have I told you you’re really pretty?” He murmurs. His hand is still on your cheek, having followed you as you laughed.

You beam up at him, grabbing his shirt and ignoring the pain in your hands. Carelessly, you pull him into a kiss. Your noses bump and it is the clumsiest kiss you’ve ever experienced. Unable to help yourself, you giggle into it. He smiles too, and you can feel it. You're so happy, being reunited with him and knowing you won't have to leave his side combined with bringing home the stick.

Even after you pulled back, breathless and needing air, you can't stop smiling. Everything is okay, Kyle's own giddy smile promises that.

Despite not being visible, the moon sees it all. He’s seen a lot of things as he’s orbited the earth; the love shared between a king and a mage is his favorite.

#kyle broflovski x reader #south park x reader #high jew elf king kyle x reader #stick of truth x reader

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alsosprachvelociraptor · 10 months

Text

IMPERFECT CREATURES

The kingdom of Larnion, located north of the continent, is famous for being inhabited by elves: creatures of beauty and elegance, with extraordinary abilities, nobility of spirit and pure magic flowing through their veins. And yet, not all elves are perfect. Marquis Timothy Burch of BlackLake carries a generations-long curse, a deformed and weak body and occult magic, and lives a lonely but peaceful life- until an encounter with a bard with a hunched back and pale, misaligned irises turns his entire life upside down - for better or worse, not even Tim knows.

South Park - Stick of Truth AU + Post Covid. The designs will be inspired by SoT, but with the adult PC version. Contains violence and Jimmy's unfunny jokes. Exercise caution.

CHAPTER ONE

The orchestra played merrily as human servants darted here and there around the great throne hall of the Royal Castle of Larnion, voices in every elvish dialect of the realm overlapping melodiously like a choir to the music.

It was, that day, the one hundred and twenty-fifth birthday of Prince Roland of Larnion, King Kyle's son, who now sat proudly at his father's side instead of under the throne platform, where his younger sister still sat in her little girl's chair.

Roland was similar to his father Kyle. Red, curly hair and large golden eyes were a sign of the highest elven nobility, though his curls were softer and longer than his father’s, his eyes larger, his face sprinkled with freckles. He still had to mature that nobility of spirit which, on the other hand, the man at his side unleashed with ease.

King Kyle was a tall, lanky elf with a strong physique and broad shoulders, his short, curly hair of a brilliant fiery red clasped in his usual heavy crown of woven golden branches, a short, elegant beard on his sharp face and his eyes as bright and golden as heliodor gems. Majestic and almost divine, wrapped in his long blood-red robe, Prince Roland paled beside him, but that was normal. Even Kyle, as a young elf, had looked like a lost child beside his father.

The blond Donnely, an earl from the capital province who often stayed at the castle, bowed before the throne, clutching a large gem in his hands. His family, the Donnelys, were owners of a mine taken from the orcs several centuries earlier.

"Donnely gave the prince a jewel, of course," sniggered Douglas Petuski, an elven knight with ash-coloured hair and amber eyes, a vivid orange typical of woodland elves, the ethnic group to which he belonged. Even though he was elegantly dressed, the stench of the wild had stuck to him, and would not slip away from his mud-coloured skin- not that he paid attention to it.

The four elves stood in the furthest corner of the room, in an area where they could talk freely without disturbing the tedious ceremony of welcoming the young heir into adulthood, squeezed into a corner near a black-veined marble fountain in the shape of a cornucopia.

"And what did you bring instead? A dog poo and a couple of sticks?" muttered the tall elf by his side, dressed in purple like the colour of his always slightly sad-looking eyes, and with long midnight-blue hair framing his pale face. The drow and the coppery-haired elf at his side let out a light chuckle, under Petuski's displeased gaze.

"A book and horses are a better gift, perhaps?" retorted Petuski, now almost offended. "Can you perhaps build a house, or build a fire with those?"

The drow, short and stocky, glared at him, her eyes red and evil. "This is no ordinary book. Dark magic of the dark realm, something you surely cannot understand, half-animal."

Petuski made to draw the sword hanging at his hip, and the drow swiped her obsidian-coloured fingers over the magic pendant hanging from her neck, but the strangled cry of the beast at the side of the last elf, who had not yet spoken and usually did not speak at all, silenced them both.

The beast, a cockatrice with blind eyes and a muzzle on its beak, rasped a kind of bellow and stomped on the ground a couple of times with its clawed, deformed paws, before returning to its owner, slipping between his heavy metal stick and his legs.

The elf, with short coppery hair on a head that was strangely large and unshapely for his race, and his very long ears pointing down rather than up, bent to stroke the sparse feathers of his cockatrice.

"Only a madman like Burch would bring a cockatrice to the king's court," Petuski replied, with a smile on his lips now.

Timothy Burch stood up straight, towering over the group of elves with whom he was waiting his turn, smiling at the deformed beast between his legs. "I never leave Gobbles alone," he muttered, slurring the words between his large, pointed teeth, something else he shared with no elf, not even the carnivorous drow at his side.

An embarrassed silence fell over the four, and when the king pronounced Lord Jason White's name, the tall, purple-robed elf with long strides walked towards the throne, showing the king and heir, with his merchant's charm, the splendid swords of dwarven forge he intended to gift to the young prince, whose golden eyes gleamed with the desire to wield those weapons and challenge some dummies in the king's private garden.

Then, the turn to show presents to the spoiled son of the king passed for lord Jason, and it was the turn of the next nobleman to delight the heir with gifts he would never use.

"Sir Timothy Burch, Marquis of BlackLake."

King Kyle's voice was crystal clear, and uncompromising. He wasn't going to wait for Gobbles' tantrums, or the marquis' slowed limp, and so Tim braced himself and walked briskly towards the throne, the cane ticking noisily by his side tapping repeatedly against the beautiful marble that made up the floors of the throne room.

He motioned to his servants, who were watching the proceedings from the door leading to the outer garden of the palace, to bring the horse inside while he tugged Gobbles, who was limping behind him.

Arriving in front of the throne, he lowered his head and bent over as much as he could, pressing hard on the stick and praying to the Gods that it would not slip on the smoothly polished floor. The metal tip of the stick moved, but almost immediately caught in a crack between two tiles, and Timothy felt his own heart skip a beat.

"Sire. Prince Roland, I offer you my warmest wishes."

When he looked up, he met Prince Roland's golden eyes, wide open in an emotion akin to fear. His perfect face was contracted into a grimace of horror, anguish, disgust. He did not respond to Timothy's wishes, and the copper-haired elf knew well why.

It was not the first time he had been treated like that, and it certainly would not be the last.

Elves were renowned for their beauty and elegance, perfect beings in such a dirty world, glints of pristine excellence - but Tim was not like that.

He was a deformed elf, sick and weak, who dared to present himself before the king of those creatures considered superior to every other race on the continent. With his deformed head and ears pointing downwards, long, misshapen legs that lacked the strength to keep him upright, and sparse copper hair on his sickly alabaster skin, Timothy Burch, the Marquis of BlackLake, was not someone looked upon favourably. The younger elves, like Roland and like his sister and like the other children who were present at that party, ran and hid and looked away when he passed by.

But his territories, a border march on a lake full of untamable creatures, were in the primary needs of the kingdom of Larnion, and King Kyle knew it well.

"Say thank you, Roland. Don't you dare disrespect the marquis." Kyle growled in a tone of voice as sharp as the blades the prince held in his hands, and perhaps that hurt even more. Roland nodded, looked away and kept his gaze down. "Excuse me. Thank you, Marquis Burch."

With a twinge of irritation in his soul, Timothy thought that if the boy was behaving in that way, he really wasn’t as mature as the evening’s ceremony supposedly suggested. He kept the thought to himself, however, because if there was one thing Tim was truly extraordinary at, it was keeping quiet.

With a snap of his fingers towards his servants, Timothy instead said something else; that little speech he had rehearsed for the occasion.

"For Prince Roland, who will surely be as magnificent a king as his father is, I thought of the best steed."

Accompanied by two servants, a proud and mighty unicorn marched behind Timothy, his frightened cockatrice between his legs as the unicorn trotted along, so weightless that its hooves did not seem to touch the ground.

Roland rose to his feet with such vigour that he almost dropped the swords and jewels he held in his lap. "A unicorn, father!!!" he shouted with his voice full of emotion as never before that evening, as Timothy felt the hate-filled stares of the other elven nobles on his back.

The table was set and the food plentiful, but not excessively so. King Kyle was known not to overindulge in anything, and was renowned indeed for his skill in economy, aided by his genial cousin of the same name, Lord Kyle of the Windy Hills, who sat next to him at that moment. Lord Kyle had a notebook in his hands, and dark ringlets fell over his face, which appeared bluish-hued with how pale he was. Timothy was not close enough to eavesdrop on the conversation between the two royals, but a few words still reached his long ears, including bard, and bad idea.

There had never been a bard at any party hosted by King Kyle, as far as he could remember. Timothy's ears twitched on their own, trying to pick up those words from tables away, as only he could - his condition was not only physical, but also magical, and this was little known in the elven community. Using his abnormal abilities among others was not a good idea, but Timothy did it anyway. He was usually skilled enough to be able to hide what he was doing.

Silence fell over the room all of a sudden like a curtain of smoke, and Timothy felt his blood run cold in his veins.

Were they watching him? Had they noticed his deformities, or his crooked-born cockatrice Gobbles, both of which all the elves he had known had remarked on so many times? Maybe they had caught him spying on the king with his cursed, secret magic?

Looking around, no, he realised that the attention was not on him, but on someone else.

Dragging his stocky, heavy legs behind him, came limping an elf of peculiar colours.

"Is it a drow?" Jason hissed to the elf seated next to him, whose golden ringlets tumbled over her long robe of red brocade. The warrior elf, Bebe, stood gazing in horror at the figure who was slowly walking down the hall, the same look all the elves wore in that moment, after all.

"No!" whispered Henrietta, the drow. “There are no malformed drow, perfection is in our nature! That thing is not one of us! What if it's a silver elf like you, instead?"

Jason hid a grimace of disgust only because he felt Timothy's neutral - but not quite so, really- gaze upon him.

The skin of the elf who was dangling in front of the royal table was not the pearly skin of silver elves, nor the sun-kissed skin of golden elves, nor the obsidian skin of drow. It was grey, like thunderclouds, and his hair was lead-coloured mottled with white - a disgrace to the elves - and his stocky body was bent in a way that was difficult for the eye to bear, for a creature that should have been synonymous with elegance. His spine curved in on itself, so that his head was nestled between his broad shoulders. His face was ungainly and his ears, which were long and curved with the tip bending down, were studded with different kinds of earrings.

"I o-offer my greetings to the king of thi-this beautiful land, very much." stammered the elf in an overconfident voice, miming a bow as deep as the crutches that held him up would allow. Removing his right hand from the handleof the crutch that was secured under his strong arm, he grasped the neck of a large lute which was slung over his shoulders. "I am the b-best b-bard in Larnion, my name is Jimmy. Today is a happy day for the ki-kingdom, is it not? I have heard that the heir has reached maturity!"

King Kyle gave a tense smile to his host bard. "Yes, noble James. I called you because my son Roland loves songs. Don't you, Roland?" his father urged him, but the boy instead reserved for him the same look of terror he had given Timothy moments before.

Disgust.

Timothy felt his face boil with anger, but he restrained himself. Living amongst the other nobles, who were all obsessed with the perfect genetics of their race, was so unnerving. He hardly ever left his domains for that exact reason, and his parents had lived a life of seclusion for that exact reason, too.

"Is there any s-song you want to hear, my prince?" the bard asked. Roland kept quiet. At his side, the little princess Ethel sank her face into her arms and burst into a loud cry, which increased the muttering among the nobles. King Kyle's golden eyes widened as he passed his gaze over his sons, then his cousin, and finally to his trusted elf guard behind him, Ser Stanley of the Marshlands, who gaped for a split second before acting. "Er... er what about... starting with the classic stuff? Eh, Roland, do you want to hear some jokes?" the elf warrior, strong of body and quick of intellect, who often and willingly helped his beloved king on difficult occasions like those, urged him.

Roland nodded, lowering his head as the princess was escorted out by her nanny.

"Wow, what a great audience!" chuckled the bard to himself, before leaning on his crutches with his broad arms and forking his lute like a weapon. "No shame, my king, it happens often. Children run away at my arrival, and adults laugh. I usually p-prefer the latter, and that is what I want from you all today! A smile on my audience's lips is sweeter th-than wine on my tongue. Well, certainly sweeter than this wine you offer, my liege. S-somebody spent a little short on these supplies, eh?"

King Kyle turned to Lord Kyle, who had blushed to the tips of his ears, while the king laughed heartily. The other lords also followed him in a general giggle. Timothy remained upright and tense in his chair, with no sign of hilarity on his face.

The crippled elf began to play light accompanying notes on his lute, while he continued joking.

"Wow, what a great audience. The n-nobles drive me crazy, I love them. N-not just because their palaces are a delight to wander around in and be ho-hosted! All their secrets and shady dealings... do you know anything about that, ser, you behind the King, wa-wa-waa-gging your tail like a faithful lapdog?" he turned to Stan of the Marshes, who took a step back as the crowd erupted in laughter. Eventually a smile came to his lips tanned by the strong Larnion sun, as King Kyle clasped his red face between his hands.

"Ah, nothing like being back among the elves." cheered the bard, Jimmy, launching into a lute solo as he continued to speak. "You can't imagine the chaos in Kupa Keep. I-I've just been there. I had to wash myself three times in a row to get the stench of humans off me, and the foul v-voice of their Grand Wizard out of my ears!"

There was another loud roar of laughter all around, so loud that Gobbles squirmed between Timothy's legs, his head barely able to stay up to find Timothy's hand under the table. Tim stroked the long crooked neck, eagerly awaiting the moment when he could return to the room he had been assigned in the King's huge palace.

The bard pretended to sniff the air, then turned his gaze in the direction of Timothy's table, his eyes- the irises almost white, the black pupils pointing in opposite directions- searching for more victims. "Ah, that's where the st- the stench came from. The wild elf who doesn't wash, what an ah-ugly stereotype that isn't so much a stereotype this time, eh?"

Petuski spat out the wine he was drinking, while at his side Henrietta the drow matriarch burst into hysterical laughter.

"Ah, the stench is also of bad wine. Very ba-bad mix for a noble's nostrils. Only a drow would d-dare to be around you,” the bard continued, approaching the table limply. Even Petuski eventually burst out laughing.

Unfortunately, Timothy looked up from Gobbles and at the bard, only to find his eyes on him.

Oh no. Oh no, no no.

"I didn't kn-now even malformed elves could sit at the nobles' table," he said loudly, and everyone turned their eyes towards Timothy, his face growing red and hot and his fists clenching under the tablecloth. He ignored the bard, turning his gaze elsewhere.

He felt the weight of the grey elf on the table, directly in front of him. "Oh, were you offended? But no, g-ginger, I didn't mean to offend you. Can we be two crippled friends? We can s-swap crutches and all that stuff!"

Jason pressed both hands to his lips so that he wouldn't burst out laughing at Tim's side, who instead felt the back of his neck freeze and his forehead burn with rage.

He stood abruptly and, clutching the golden handle of his cane in one hand and Gobbles' leash in the other, moved away from the table. "My heartfelt apologies my King, I must go," growled Timothy through gritted teeth, without turning around.

There was a clatter of metal on the marble floor, faster than he thought possible- or perhaps Tim's movements were simply too slow- the bard stood before him, a crooked, wicked smile on his thin greyish lips.

"Hothead, are we? I mean, come on, I didn't mean to upset you! You're cu-cute, I like you. Why don't we d-do a performance together, you and me?"

The bard, Jimmy, smiled sincerely as he did not let Timothy, who was desperate to get out of the room, pass. He felt the eyes of every elf on his back, studying him - watching those two only vaguely elven-looking beasts bicker, two freaks, less than sentient beings at their mercy.

"I p-promise you will like it. Maybe one day people will like you as much as they like me! Maybe. Maybe with a silly little hat on that b-big head..."

At the sound of the nobles' laughter behind him, and the sight of the satisfied smile of that damn freak in front of him, Timothy felt something in him snap.

He let go of the cockatrice's leash.

Fast as ever, strong and full of rage and hatred, he threw a fist into the bard's face, feeling the man's lip split under his knuckles, his teeth breaking flesh and blood bursting forth.

All the bard could do was shut his eyes, almost falling backwards with the force of the punch, his lute falling to the marble floor with an empty wooden thud and a cacophony of snapping strings. Timothy hit him again - in the face, on one eye, on the temple, until the bard fell to the ground. Still Tim hadn’t had enough, and kicked him again once, maybe twice.

When he realised that the laughter had faded and silence had fallen on the room, Timothy's mind cleared enough for him to grasp the rope that served as a leash to Gobbles from beside the elf on the ground, and to yank the cockatrice out of the hall with long strides, and towards his room.

The only sound throughout the entire castle was his heavy, angry breath.

CHAPTER TWO

Timothy's room was, fortunately, located in one of the most isolated wings of the royal castle, where no one could bother him.

Sitting alone on the large double bed, Tim gazed at the excoriated and bloody knuckles of his right hand.

He had never been a violent man. Violence suited neither his meek and reserved nature nor the race to which he belonged, yet he had just beaten the hell out of that malformed elf without a second thought.

The blood on his hand was both his and the bard's, and it was plain to see. Timothy's was a bright and brilliant red, while the bard's was dark and thicker, sticky against his white skin. Their blood mixed in almost psychedelic ways as it flowed over his knuckles, which had been cut open by the bard's teeth. He watched, transfixed, instead of medicating himself, heedless of a few drops ending up on the dusty rug.

He clenched his fist.

No one had ever dared to address him in that tone, using those words. The other elves certainly had those thoughts, but no one dared to express them in words, let alone address them to his face.

But no, that damn bard, all crooked and limp, had found the courage to express them, and laugh at him, and look at him defiantly.

Timothy was not a violent man, but neither was he someone who would be so easily pushed around.

Served him right, Timothy thought then, waking up from the numbness he had collapsed into after reaching his temporary room, and jumping to his feet, causing Gobbles to flinch in the corner of the room where he had been sleeping on a pile of old blankets. He didn't quite know how Gobbles perceived the world, with his completely white, harmless eyes, which Tim assumed were blind. Maybe they really weren't, and Tim didn't care - Gobbles was his lifelong companion, blind or sighted.

Advancing without a cane, his heavy, unsteady legs moving awkwardly and his feet dragging on the floor, he lay down beside his animal and stroked the sparse but soft feathers between his twisted, useless wings.

"It's ok, Gobbles," he whispered softly.

His only regret about that angry outburst was having done it in front of Gobbles, a meek and mild creature who had never seen his master in that mood. Timothy hoped he hadn't really seen it.

"Can you forgive me?"

The cockatrice's serpentine tail wrapped around his leg as its birdlike beak gently tapped and nibbled at his fingers. Yes, Gobbles was a gentle and docile creature, incapable of feeling anger or hatred or embarrassment, unlike Timothy.

The feathers on Gobbles' neck puffed up all of a sudden, and a few moments later there was a knock on the bedroom door.

Tim froze on the spot, regretting not having brought his cane with him. It was a few metres away, leaning against the bed, but he was closer to the door than to the bed.

Whoever was on the other side of the door knocked again.

"Who is it?" Timmy asked, hoping for an answer, but no reply came to his rescue. Typical among nobles.

What if it was an ambassador of the king, recalling his horrible behaviour of a few hours earlier? Maybe it was Stan of the Marshes, ready to drag him by the arm to bow before the king and apologise for his amoral conduct in front of the whole court.

Feeling as though he was swallowing a boulder, Timothy stood up on his frail legs, and in a few short strides leaned against the door, removed the pin that held it shut, and turned the handle.

He had to lower his gaze at least half a metre to look into the elf's unnaturally pale eyes, with their pitch-black pupils in the middle of ice-coloured irises, one of them seeming to float in the blood-red sclera which was squeezed between swollen purple eyelids.

"Can we talk?" the bard said, a big smile on his bloody, broken lips.

Wow, Tim had really beaten him up. In addition to his disgustingly swollen eye and split lips, his cheekbone was bruised, and dried blood and dust in the shape of Timmy’s boots marked his tight, yellow hose. One of the crutches, little more than crudely inlaid branches held together by ragged metal pieces that split in two under his armpits, looked as if it would break in half at any moment.

"No." replied Timothy, trying to slam the door shut, only to find one of the bard's crutches stopping the door from closing.

"I mean come on, you owe me after wha-what you did to me. Look at m-me now! P-pretty p-please, Tim-Tim?"

"Don't call me that. I'm a marquis." hissed Timothy, glaring at the grey elf in front of - and below - him. He knew what he was doing, Tim was no fool. He wanted to play on Tim’s guilt, he wanted to try to manipulate him. Oh, by the gods, how stupid this bloody cripple was.

Timothy would have liked to slam the door in his face, right in his crooked mug, but perhaps beating him up again was not the best thing for his already poor reputation at King Kyle's court.

He opened the door to make sure no one was passing by, pushing the bard aside. No, no one was walking through these corridors. As far as he knew, the rooms adjacent to his were empty, because no one wanted to stay in that gloomy wing of the castle - no one wanted to stay near the marquis whose deformed body carried such a heavy curse, was the truth.

"Did anyone see you on your way here?" asked Timothy, but the other elf had already passed him, walking limply into the room.

"Why? Are you ashamed of me?"

"Yes."

"You are a b-big meanie, Tim-Tim!" chuckled the bard - Jimmy was his name if he remembered correctly - dropping the large pouch he carried on his shoulders to the ground. It must have contained at least the lute and the green cloak, since he currently wore neither. Timothy closed the door, pushed the metal hinge into the wood so that it could not be opened from the outside, and leaned against it as he studied the slow, trembling movements of the bard who had infiltrated his personal chamber.

If he wanted an apology, he would get it. It wouldn't be sincere, but Tim wasn't the type to carry on such pointless squabbles. He approached him and took a breath, ready to express his most insincere apology.

The bard, on the other hand, had other ideas. As soon as Timothy drew near, Jimmy’s big fist crashed into his abdomen, knocking the air from his lungs. The bard rested his other hand on Tim’s arm as he threw another punch at Tim's stomach, and then another until the taller elf fell to the ground, and then he was on him again.

Tim tried to resume breathing, the shock of the blows seeming to have closed off his lungs, but the bard's weight on his body prevented him from doing so. Jimmy forced a large forearm under Tim's chin, putting pressure on his throat.

There was primal and uncontrolled anger in his pale, disturbing eyes. "You made a f-f-fool out of me in front of the king, m-motherfucker.” snarled Jimmy, like a wild beast with blood between his crooked teeth and his grey face livid with fury and bruises.

Tim panicked. He had never been in a fight in his life. No one had ever dared to lay a hand on the scrawny, deformed elf. What was he supposed to do now? Was he going to die like this?

He brought his hands to the bard's face, pushing his fingers into his eyes, lips, nose, everywhere. He pressed on the open wounds and heard the other cry out as he squeezed his eyes shut.

Jimmy bit his fingers; Timmy felt teeth sink deep into his bones, but pressed his thumb against Jimmy’s swollen eye until he felt the heavier elf roll off him, the air rushing back into his tired lungs.

Tim couldn't allow the bard to resume his attack, so he pounced, grabbing Jim by the hair and slamming his head repeatedly against the floor, which fortunately-for the bard- was covered by a dusty old rug. Jim screamed, his stubby legs flailing as Timothy sat on his pelvis in an attempt to block his every movement. Unfortunately, he had underestimated the bard's strength, who with a violent thrust of his hips knocked Tim off balance, throwing him to the ground at his side.

From that moment on, chaos ensued. He heard the bard shouting insults, and his own voice shouting obscenities in turn with little control. The two of them rolled on the rug in a riot of hands, fists, slaps and scratches, banging shoulders and backs and knees against furniture, cupboards and walls, shoving elbows into stomachs and fingers into eyes, giving painful headbutts forehead to forehead in a frenzy of sweat and blood and saliva and noise and screams and pain.

When Tim found himself with his back against the brick wall and one of the bard's hands in his hair, he surfaced enough from the fog of rage and heat of the fight to realise that this brawl was going nowhere. Why were they fighting?

"Stop it! STOP!" growled Timothy in a tone that was more animalistic than noble elf, slamming a hand into the face of the other elf, who this time did not bite him. His face was hot under Tim’s fingertips, his skin drenched in sweat. "Enough, this isn't leading to fucking anything!"

The bard's large fist clenched around Tim's slender wrist without squeezing. He pulled Tim’s hand away from his face, collapsing limply to the floor. "Fine." he sighed, voiceless and breathless.

Tim was not in much better shape, barely managing to sit up, his back twitching in excruciating pain as he leaned back against the rough wall with the last of his strength.

The room was half-destroyed. Well, only on the lower level, actually. They had knocked over a couple of chairs and all the clothes Tim had laid on top of them, the marquis' travel trunk was splintered, the bed was vaguely shifted, and the bedside table had been tipped over, the bedside lamp abandoned on the mattress.

Next to it, Gobbles was curled up on the covers, shivering and frightened. Oh no.

"Gobbles. No, Gobbles... come here, it's ok." Tim comforted him, trying to get back on his feet but failing. His back ached so much that every movement caused piercing twinges in his ribcage, and the punches he had received to his abdomen were so severe that even moving and sitting up straighter made him want to scream in pain. "Gobbles, come here, good boy." he called, and the cockatrice raised his heavy head, squaring Tim with his blank white eyes.

He stood up on his paws, jumped with difficulty off the bed and hobbled towards Tim, sitting heavily in the marquis' lap, who barely kept himself from screaming in pain. He gritted his teeth and breathed through his nose as the creature snuggled up to him. "It's all right, it's all right," he whispered, stroking the feathers now all ruffled in the terror the cockatrice must have felt during the fight.

Poor thing, he had nothing to do with it.

Gobbles flinched when the bard, Jimmy, moved from the supine position in which he had remained until then. He raised his head, looking at Tim and his pet with a smirk, and though it was not one of mockery, it was still unfriendly. "Well, we've let off st-steam now, haven't we? C-can we talk without biting each other’s throat now?"

"The only one who has bitten here is you." Timothy replied, his wounded and bloodied hand held down so as not to soil the cockatrice's feathers. He could not bend his fingers thanks to the bard’s bite, which had been as deep as it was ferocious.

Jimmy stretched out his big, trembling arms, and with difficulty dragged himself like a worm towards the wall, the same wall Tim was leaning against. He ended up at the marquis' side, too close for his liking, so that when he turned and sat down he ended up with his thigh against Timothy's, and his shoulder pushing him to the side.

"G-give me your hand." the bard ordered. Timothy did not react, staring at him resentfully and with distrust. The grey elf grabbed Tim's wrist, and Tim tried to pull back with a violent jerk, startling the cockatrice on his lap.

They both stopped, but Jimmy's big, calloused fingers stayed firmly around his wrist. "You do-do-doon-don't want to scare your turkey again, do you? I s-said, give me your hand."

No, Timothy did not trust him, not after spending that horrible evening in his company. But what could he do? Kick him out of his room, all bruised and bloodied, with his hose ripped and that lost puppy-dog look in those crooked pale eyes?

Timothy turned his gaze from the bard's face and offered his injured hand, looking away at nothing in particular.

Jimmy's fingers were wide, hard, warm and trembling; strong and weak at the same time. He felt the callused fingertips tracing the edges of his bites -made by him, by the way!- a warmth enveloping his hand that Tim knew well. When he turned to look at what Jimmy was doing, he saw a dim light between his fingers.

Magic.

The bard looked up at the taller elf, like a child caught red-handed in the biscuit jar.

"You know how to use magic?" Timothy asked, and Jimmy nodded, still a little confused.

"A little bit. Just the healing kind, you know, you may have no-noticed I have a bit of trouble containing my ah-anger."

Tim's fingers, which had previously been deep red with open flesh bitten to the bone, were now almost completely intact, a vague reddish wound on the middle and ring fingers the only reminder of that nasty bite.

"Would you be able to heal yourself quickly before leaving this room?"

Jimmy replied with another smirk, not letting go of his hand even though it was almost completely healed. He felt Jimmy's wide fingers slip between his own. "You want to send me away, already?"

"You've done enough already."

"Come on, marquis, it was just a t-tussle to settle the sc- the score. We have so much more to talk about. We're friends now, aren't we?"

The bard sighed, leaning his shoulder against Timothy, who was much taller than him even when sitting. "We could talk about our curses, or..."

Timothy sighed heavily, letting the bard at his side lean against him and run his hand gently down his arm in an all too clingy manner as Gobbles fell asleep heavily on his lap. That Jimmy thought he was smarter than he actually was.

Clearly, he had no room to stay in. Surely the king would not have wasted a room on that freak, whom his son did not even appreciate. Tim thought that perhaps it was also his fault. Perhaps, if he had not reacted that way, someone would have accommodated the bard in their room.

He suspected the bard had not performed in the hall for much longer after being beaten to a bloody pulp by Tim, since instead of getting drunk downstairs as all the bards Tim had known usually did, he was there, in Tim’s room, at that not-so-late hour.

Turning to Jimmy, who was looking him straight in the eye with a hopeful expression, Tim smelled the faint odour of smoke, and of alcohol, though not enough for the bard to be drunk. An elf did not get drunk with the same intensity and ease as other inferior species.

"I can even heal you! Those punches I gave you hurt p-pretty bad, huh?" chuckled Jimmy again, hope now mixed with despair in his eyes that pointed this way and that at the same time.

Timothy clenched his fists.

Could he leave that elf, malformed and injured, stranded in the harsh climate of the northern kingdom?

Was this something Tim's strict morals would allow him to do; was it a cruelty he could carry out without feeling guilty for centuries to come?

The answer was easy, unfortunately.

No.

As loud, bossy and annoying as Jimmy was, a ball and chain at Tim’s ankle and a thorn in his side, he was at the same time an imperfect creature just like himself. He was an outcast; an elf who could barely be considered as such and, above all, someone who desperately needed him.

"...all right, you can sleep here for the night. Shortly after dawn I will leave to return to my castle."

Clinging to his arm, Jimmy giggled, like a young girl might when attending her companion's wedding and dreaming of her own Prince Charming. "Oh my b-beautiful lord, you are so generous to let me sleep on your bed!"

"I am a marquis! And I never spoke of-!"

Jimmy broke away from him, beginning to crawl pathetically over the rug, rippling it and pulling portions of it behind him, all the way to the bed onto which he hoisted himself by clinging to its wooden frame, his strong biceps aided in part by his legs, which were not completely unresponsive. “I haven't slept on a bed in uhh... years? About ten or twenty! In Kupa Keep they used to m-make me sleep on the floor, in a stable. Straw is better than hard wood soiled with horse shit, th-that's true, but you can't imagine how many nasty little bugs luh-luh-luuh-... hide in it."

As gently as he could, Tim woke Gobbles, who struggled to raise his head, his long, thin neck turning in Tim’s approximate direction. Timothy lifted him up and leaned against his side as, clinging with difficulty to the bricks that barely protruded from the wall, he rose to his feet. His legs trembled, his knees ached with the strain of keeping the weight of his long, lean body on them, his back sent excruciating stabs of pain and his stomach had turned completely inside out from the punches. Tim tugged his shirt from his trousers, lifting it almost to his bony chest. Large, heavy purple bruises covered the alabaster-white skin of almost his entire abdominal region, from his ribs down to his navel. And they hurt like hell.

Timothy sagged against the wall behind him, sighing and searching for the strength to walk towards his bed. Why had he come here... couldn't he have just stayed at home and sent some servant to deliver that unicorn for the prince?

At his feet, metal clanked. His cane rolled towards him from where he had left it propped against the bed, before... everything happened.

He grabbed it with difficulty and leaned against it, breathing a sigh of relief. It was Jimmy, now lying awkwardly on his stomach on Timothy's bed, who had tossed it to him. He was smiling at him, his broad arms dangling lazily off the mattress.

"You said you de-decided to leave at dawn. You'd b-b-better come to sleep, it's not that many hours until s-sunrise now."

He did not like how the bard was taking so many liberties with him, the Marquis of BlackLake, but at the same time it was a comfort to have someone who spoke so freely to him, who wanted to speak not to someone else but to him, and in such an intimate context.

Timothy regretted a little that it would all be over in a few hours, but at the same time he was relieved. That Jimmy was a bitch.

Tim slumped towards the bed, bracing himself wearily against the mattress, at Jimmy's side. He would have liked to wear his own soft and comfy nightgown, but undressing under the icy-white gaze which would surely be fixed on him the whole time was not really something Tim wanted to do.

He just wanted to sleep, now.

He lay down as far away from Jimmy as possible - difficult to do, since the bard had decided to lie right in the middle of the bed, and despite how short and hunched he was, his shoulders were wide enough to occupy a good portion of the bed - and with a gesture of his fingers extinguished the torches that hung from the ceiling. It was a little magic that had served him well in his childhood, growing up unable to move and confined to a chair in his lonely castle.

"Wow!" he heard Jimmy say. He would rather not hear his voice, in the dark.

With a rustling of blankets, the familiar weight of Gobbles settled by his side, the cockatrice’s head resting on Timmy’s chest, demanding attention and cuddles before sleep as he had done every night for more than a century, his feathers all ruffled and soft under Timmy's tired hand.

And then, similarly, came more blanket shuffling, and a far less familiar weight on the other side of the bed: Jimmy's heavy head on his shoulder and his large hand slamming clumsily just above Timothy's bruised abdomen, causing him to hiss in pain. He did not chase the bard away just because, in the darkness of the room, he felt the warmth and saw the faint light of the healing magic the bard was applying to his aching body.

In the half-light he observed the cockatrice sleeping peacefully against his chest, the twisted and mangled body of a deformed beast who had found a safe haven in someone who could appreciate and love him. And then he passed his gaze over the deformed elf resting limply against his shoulder, his back hunched and his ears curved in an unnatural position, his tousled hair falling softly over his injured face and over Timothy's shoulder, his face relaxed almost into a smile.

Timothy cursed himself under his breath.

CHAPTER THREE

At dawn, as punctual as the bells of the capital city, the sharp gurgling of Gobbles the cockatrice signalled that the new day had begun, and it was time to wake up. It had been so for Timmy every dawn for the last few centuries. What had not been so was the jolting weight that fell suddenly upon his body.

"Shit! What the fah-fuck!? So scary! Fuck!"

Tim opened his eyes, the smile fading from his lips.

Oh, yeah. Right.

Jimmy.

He opened his eyes to find the bard sitting at his side, a frightened expression on his grey face, which was decidedly less swollen and purple than the previous evening. Gobbles was still singing in the dawn, and only stopped his cries to the rising sun when Timmy began lazily scratching the spot behind his eyes.

"G-gh-good morning, my lord." mused the bard once he had recovered from his fright, leaning heavily on one arm, the sun rising behind him and tinting his lead-coloured hair, not blue and not grey, neither black nor purple, with a soft golden halo. In that light, in the gloom, with that gentle smile and broad shoulders and soft, tousled hair, he almost looked like someone Timothy would like to wake up next to every morning.

Sadly, Jimmy also had the gift of speech.

"I slept reeeeally well on this b-bed, my lord, but that hen snores, very much. You duh-don't snore. But you are a little still and cold. It doesn't m-mah-matter, I've kept you warm, scrawny as you are, you d-definitely needed it! Ah, I'm soooooo tired, I've sp-pent a lot of energy healing you... maybe you could let me sleep here a little lo-longer, huh?" he blurted, lazily settling back into the bed, his head on the same pillow Timothy was still lying on. Tim hadn't understood half the words the bard had blurted out. He didn't really care.

The bard shifted and rested his head right on Timmy's long ear, tugging on the earring-studded tip. Timothy had to pull back because Jimmy didn't seem to want to move, his face far too close to Tim's, his breath hot on the marquis' freckled, flushed face.

Timothy sat up, tired of the closeness, and tired in general. "It is time for me to get ready, I must leave for my castle. The journey is long."

He saw the bard's pale pink tongue sticking out from between his greyish lips. "You can undress in front of me if you want. Go right ahead, come on. It's fine with me... m-more than fine!"

Arrogant little grey bastard.

Jimmy pulled his big arms behind his head and arched his back in a motion which was halfway between the languorous stretch of a lazy cat and a disgustingly obscene pose. Nevertheless, Tim kept watching him, unwillingly bewitched.

"Do you want me to undress f-first, so that you might feel less embarrassed...?"

“No!”

The bard sighed, struggling to sit up on the bed. It broke the strange spell Tim had fallen into, and he could finally look away, away from that body, so deformed and yet, and yet so...

"I'm leaving now, d-don't worry. But first I want something."

Timothy grabbed the cane leaning against the side of the bed and clutched it between his fingers, ready to violently kick the bard out of the room if he dared to try blackmailing him, or ask for money. Tim would accept no compromise. What did that bard want from him? Why did he seem so obsessed with him, what on earth had his mind - not particularly brilliant or capable of complex subterfuges and plans, Timothy thought maliciously - found of interest in the deformed marquis of a distant and not particularly rich or famous region?

Yet the bard smiled slyly, his stubby, crooked legs dangling over the edge of the mattress. "A kiss?"

Timothy widened his eyes, which pricked with the sudden sting of wetness. He quickly blinked back the unshed tears. A kiss?

A kiss?

The marquis jumped to his feet, waking up Gobbles, who lazily ruffled his feathers and, with a slowness and calm which was at odds with the tension and embarrassment that had fallen over the room, jumped off the mattress and hobbled over to the corner, on top of the clothes that had fallen to the floor the night before, to continue his morning nap.

Tim did not pay too much attention to this, because his entire focus was on the bard and his proposal.

'I won't t-tell anyone, pinkie swear. I just want to steal a l-l-little kiss, so how about that? I'll disappear afterwards, I promise." continued Jimmy, whose words were certainly reassuring, but whose smirk and vague blush said otherwise.

Tim stood still, pondering the situation.

Physical contact was frowned upon in Elvish society, intimacy seen as something superfluous for creatures who lived nearly a millennium, and reserved for securing a future for their kind. To elves, it was associated with those inferior creatures whose minds and souls were confined to the lowest existential plane.

But... but Tim wanted to kiss Jimmy, and push him onto the mattress, and feel the heat of his body against him again, this time with more force and passion...

Ah, what was the point of abiding by the social norms of his race if he did not even meet its physical requirements?

“Why?” the marquis asked, hiding all those thoughts behind a simple yet difficult question.

Jimmy, arms outstretched behind him, white irises watching the floor and the ceiling at the same time, shrugged his arched shoulders dismissively. "Why not? You're c-cute. I like gingers, very much. And b-besides, you and I are different from all the other elves, aren't we? J-juh-just you and me in this whole castle. Maybe even in the whole kingdom. I've never k-kissed anyone like you... like me."

Timothy lowered his gaze, staring at the sack Jimmy had brought the night before; a medium-sized, filthy heap of fabric into which the entire load of Jimmy’s lengthy middle-aged life had been condensed. But his mind was elsewhere.

He sounded sincere. He had no reason to lie. If Jimmy wanted to find comfort in someone, who better than a similar soul; who better than Tim?

Could Tim find comfort in Jimmy, in turn?

"Fine." he replied simply, perhaps not completely lucid, newly awake after a restless night, still with the memory of the knuckles and elbows of that same elf that was now waiting on the bed with open arms.

The marquis made his way over, placing one knee on the mattress beside Jimmy, who was looking at him like a stray dog waiting for a hot meal, fervent and excited, his cross-eyed eyes wide open and his wet, pink tongue dampening his still-wounded lips.

"Will you leave afterwards?"

"I will do anything you want, my lord," whispered Jimmy, in a tone totally different from any he had heard the night before and that very morning.

Tim’s thigh brushed against the bard's, and he rested his hands on his broad, solid shoulders - it was the first time he had touched Jimmy without intending to hurt him, and under Timothy's fingertips the yellow shirt - what a clownish colour without dignity or seriousness! –seemed thinner than it looked. He could feel the warmth of his skin under it, the tense muscle of someone who walked and stood only by the strength of his arms, which were now stretched behind his body.

All right, it was about time. It wasn't the first time Timothy had kissed someone, of course, but... how many centuries had passed since he had refused to take a wife and continue his family, trying to break the curse that had haunted his family tree for who knows how many generations, so many that he had lost count of the millennia of elven history?

Timothy bent over the other elf, shorter than him by quite a bit, who did not seem to move in anticipation. He couldn't tell if he was looking at him, due to his eyes pointing in every direction except at Tim himself, but from his smile he really seemed incredibly amused.

Tim moved closer until he felt the tip of his nose against Jimmy's, and still the bard didn't move. His breath warmed Timothy's lips, and the instinct to pull back was as strong as it was to jump on him and shove his tongue down his throat.

"D-do it, what are you waiting for?" whispered Jimmy, close enough that Timmy could feel his lips moving, and for a moment Timothy just listened, unable to react. "I know you want it. You want it even m-more than I do. You hypocrite."

How he would have loved to hit him again-

He slammed his lips against Jimmy’s in a burst of anger, with his mouth closed and no more thought; he pushed forward with such fury that he tipped the bard back onto the mattress, Tim on top of him.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut, He felt Jimmy's hot tongue against his lips, and his teeth against his tongue, and his breath like steam on his face.

One of the bard's big arms looped around his shoulders, the other around his waist, his thighs tightening around Tim's hips; Jimmy clung to him as though his very life depended on it.

The kiss was little more than a frenzied mess of spit and teeth, more painful than it was pleasant. Jim's teeth kept unintentionally clenching on Timothy's tongue and lips - or maybe it was all on purpose? - and Timmy in turn paid no attention to it, instead pushing, licking, and clinging to the body beneath him, which was soft and hard at the same time and hot, so hot.

Timothy only snapped back to reality when, beneath him, Jimmy struggled to break away from the kiss that was lasting far too long, tipping his head back and taking a loud breath at the top of his lungs. Only then did Tim remember to breathe too, his face hot and his lips aching.

Jimmy was chuckling, but this laugh was a lighthearted giggle of hilarity; the bard seemed genuinely happy. His face was now more pink than grey and his dark and silver hair clung to his sweat-drenched forehead. His lips were red and swollen.

Without thinking, pushing aside the moral rules and the animosity he felt for that profiteer bastard, Tim reached out his hand and brushed the wet hair from his face. Jimmy responded with an almost innocent smile.

Ah, damn, he was adorable...

"S-se-second round?" whispered Jimmy, his face still close to Tim's, too close to say no. So Tim said nothing; unhurriedly closed his eyes and slowly leaned into Jimmy again, relaxing into the pressure of his soft lips and the tickling warmth of his breath.

The tension in both of them seemed to have dissolved completely. Jimmy's large hands were gentle as he stroked the bony expanse of the marquis' gaunt back. Tim's hands roamed across the hard muscle of Jimmy's shoulders and down his broad chest, and at Timothy's light touch on his large pecs, the bard responded with a soft giggle against his lips, shifting slightly beneath him.

The tips of their noses bumped a couple of times as they tried to find the right angle for a better kiss, and Jimmy replied with another whispered giggle, and Tim with a smile.

Gobbles started to sing.

And a few moments later, knock-knock.

The handle of the chamber door rattled noisily a couple of times, its hinges loosened by wear and tear and old age, with an annoying metallic clang.

"Marquis Burch?" came the voice of one of Timothy's servants, a distant, dissonant echo from outside the door. "The door is locked- Marquis? Marquis!"

Tim lifted himself up on his elbows with an angry snarl, but Jimmy was of a different mind, still clinging to him, his hands clawing at Tim’s back as he pulled him down, towards himself.

"What do you want?" Timothy growled at the servant beyond the door.

"Marquis, it is almost time to go, I didn't see you among the other nobles at breakfast in the..."

Timothy was barely listening, truth be told. Jimmy was still kissing him, leaving little kisses at the corner of his mouth, along his jawline, up to his ear, a dangerous game that Tim was not avoiding in any way. On the contrary. It tasted like adolescence, a boyish game in which Timothy, in his lonely youth, had never participated.

"Yes, I'm coming. Give me-"

That damned bard chose that exact moment to press his tongue behind Tim’s ear. Tim bit his lower lip to prevent himself from letting a loud moan escape, and the bard snickered quietly as he moved off the spot, leaving a cooling streak of spit between the marquis' ear and hairline.

Little arrogant bastard.

"Marquis, are you alright…?"

"I'm fine!" Timothy replied hurriedly, glaring at the bard below him, who was grinning with mischievous glee.

He wanted to play? Well then they would play.

"I'll get ready now, I just overslept," Tim said with confidence and pressed his hand to the bard's chest, under his crooked, pale, and now very curious gaze.

He caressed Jimmy’s chest through his shirt, barely touching the bard's nipples and feeling the telltale hardness of metal under his fingers. The bastard wore a nipple ring. Really, it was no surprise. Timmy should have expected it from him. He gripped the ring between his forefinger and thumb and, without warning, tugged it through the fabric. Jimmy hissed through clenched teeth, the tone of his voice high with pain - and probably something else.

"Is there someone with you?!" the servant's voice was all too surprised at the thought of Timothy with someone, and that annoyed the marquis quite a bit.

Was the thought of Timothy being intimate with someone so extraordinary? After all, who would ever lie with an ugly and deformed being, a cursed creature, if not obliged by the very marriage bond that Timothy had decided not to contract? This was what he thought, this was what everyone thought, even his own servants?

For just half a morning he had stopped thinking about the awful world he was forced to live in and the rules he was forced to abide by, but that society seemed to nag and follow him with even more relentless intensity than that bard did.

"No. It's just Gobbles," lied the marquis, letting go of the bard underneath him, whose hand immediately went to soothe the pain at his chest. "Now go away, what are you still doing here?" Tim finished, and the sound of the servant's receding footsteps indicated that he was indeed gone.

And now what?

Timothy should have shouted those words at the bard who had slipped into his room the previous night and dared to hit him, but instead that bard was in Tim’s bed, his calloused fingers on Tim’s face and, as soon as the servant's footsteps were so far away that they were indistinguishable, his lips on Tim’s again.

"You have to go." Tim's words were half-hearted and addressed to no one really. To Jimmy, or to himself?

Jimmy nodded, his eyes half-closed and his eyelids heavy and purplish, one swollen and darker than the other, though definitely less than the night before. He brought his hand to Tim's reddened lower lip- sore after so many kisses and bites, swollen and warm and delicate to Jimmy’s touch- and wiped away a streak of saliva which probably belonged to both of them, gently, almost sweetly.

"I know." he replied, with a disarming simplicity to which Tim could not respond. Too many feelings were coursing through him, all at the same time. He was intimidated by them, and confused.

Timothy slid to the side, over blankets cooled by the cold winter morning of the northern kingdom, limply abandoning himself to the mattress whose chill contrasted so sharply with the warmth of the bard who was struggling to sit up in the middle of the bed.

The bard’s crutches were lying on the floor, not far from the bed, close enough that Jimmy could grab one and, with its help, bring the other close.

Putting pressure on his large forearms, the bard stood, slipping the wooden and metal crutches under his armpits to hold up his heavy and massive - and warm and attractive and very comfortable - body.

The marquis lay tiredly on the bed and watched that enemy, stranger, lover, slip into the heavy green cloak which he kept in the tattered sack, covering his body once more. He watched him, sack slung over his shoulder, fight against the lock of the door with his clumsy fingers. And Timothy simply could not move, this time not because of the pain in his weak joints.

Jimmy turned one last time, a wide, crooked grin on his half swollen, half flushed face. "See you, my lord."

Without elegance, the elf drew himself slowly through the doorway and from the sight of Timothy, who still did not know whether to feel relief or bitterness at knowing Jimmy was now, once and for all, out of his life.

In the bed in the corner of the room, where he had been comfily curled up, Gobbles awoke, and tried to climb onto the bed, and failed the first time. His crooked little legs clung to the covers in vain, and he fell backwards onto the carpet with an almost comical thud. Timothy sighed, rolling onto the bed just to grab Gobbles and lift him up, helping him with his efforts. The cockatrice jumped awkwardly onto the bed, flapping his useless, crooked basilisk wings, and dropped right where Jimmy had been lying just before, taking advantage of the warmth left on the blankets by the elf.

More footsteps sounded, announcing the return of his servant, who this time found the door ajar. The servant opened it wide and looked to where the marquis lay on the bed, still dressed in the previous evening's clothes, rumpled and bruised, gaze lost in the void.

"Marquis...?" he asked again, and Timothy lifted his head to stare at him with hatred and anger, irises now green, now blue, infused with pure magic, iridescent and never the same colour.

"I know, by the Gods! Fine, whatever! Is my bath ready?!" barked Timothy, more nervous than usual, rising to his feet with snappy movements.

"Well, it was ready almost an hour ago..." the servant muttered as his lord retrieved his own walking cane. The marquis’ grip on the cane was strong and angry, his knuckles poking out from ivory-coloured skin.

"...but now the water will be cold!" the servant complained. Timothy walked past him, unconcerned.

“That's better." growled Tim, adjusting himself in the trousers that were fortunately large enough to hide the painful erection which had remained untouched until that moment- and hoping that a cold bath would take away the heavy feeling of guilt in his chest, and frustration from his crotch.

#South Park #Jimmy Valmer #Timmy Burch #i do things

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