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goldshitter · 3 years

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A Study in Light - Chapter 1

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28095522

Summary: There will come a time when Childe will betray her, and Lumine knows this from the start.

There will come a time when Childe will betray her, and Lumine knows this from the start.

She’s wary of him, from the moment her heart slows its pounding from the chase and subsequent escape from Liyue’s guards. He’s altogether too charming, all easy smiles and fond vernacular, with his closed-eye smiles that she imagines do not quite reach his eyes. She tells herself that even if she did not find out he is a Harbinger, her guard would be up around someone like him. As it is, the memory of Signora is enough to overwhelm Lumine, her memory of her own helplessness and despair colouring her mind’s eye until all she could see was red. Still, as angry as Lumine is, she’s not a fool. There’s no point in picking a fight with an unknown factor like Childe, not until she fully gets her powers back and is able to compete on par with the gods. So she reluctantly accepts his help, his charity even (as uncomfortable as she is when it comes to money - she hates being in people’s debt waiting for them to collect), telling herself that she will keep her eyes open every step of the way.

He wins over Paimon first, wearing down her, albeit minimal, resistances over time and mora. To be fair to Paimon, Lumine knows that despite her greed, should she ever express any discomfort, Paimon would willingly cut off her mora supplier for her friend’s sake. Paimon says as much to Childe’s face, a few days after his timely rescue. Lumine and Paimon have been keeping their heads down with the help of those at Northlander Bank, and Childe has made it a habit of checking in on them in the evenings. He had offered to bring them take-out several times, but Lumine refused, much to Paimon’s chagrin until she reminded her floating companion of their good friend Xianling, who would surely both feed and hide them.

“Why am I not surprised you’ve made friends with everyone of note? Your Anemo god, Acting Grand Master, famous genius this, prodigal talent that.” Childe munches on his own order of fried noodles. Paimon glares enviously at his takeout box.

“I make friends with people of no importance too,” Lumine says drily. “I met you after all, haven’t I?”

Childe chokes, and doubles over coughing.

“How rude, ojou-chan! Had I known of your lack of social graces, perhaps I would have let the guards chase you around much longer.”

“And deprive yourself of such brilliant displays of charity?”

“If I couldn’t tell any better, miss, I’d say you’re almost resentful of my ‘charity’.”

“And risk the wrath of a Fatui Harbinger? Never.”

He looks at her, caught between one of his usual smiles, only this time, she notices that she’s right, they don’t reach his eyes. Paimon’s almost vibrating and drooling at the rapidly disappearing meal across from her, nevermind the fact that they’d had a generous helping of Xianling’s latest invention but a few hours ago. Childe finally sighs and pushes his leftovers in Paimon’s direction.

“Your floaty friend here doesn’t seem to mind, at least.”

“Hey, said floaty friend is right here!” Paimon says through a mouthful of noodles. She swallows, and puts on a show of pushing back the dish. “And Paimon only accepts your charity because all that mora is probably going somewhere less than legal, so it might as well go towards filling Paimon’s stomach - I mean Paimon and Lumine’s pockets!”

“A right good samaritan you are, Paimon,” Childe says without a trace of guile in his voice. Paimon huffs.

“That being said, should you ever do anything to harm Lumine, Paimon will - Paimon will kick you in the shins so hard you can’t walk and you can say goodbye to your sense of goodwill!”

“Well, I’d better never hurt the traveller here then, shall I?”

He and Lumine don’t quite meet each other’s eyes.

A few days later, he calls on them to meet his contact and acquaintance, the quaint Mr. Zhongli of the Wangshu funeral parlour. Lumine’s guards are up so high around Childe, that she barely has any space left to build walls against Zhongli’s presence. He seems an odd enough fellow, with his deep knowledge yet mora-less quirks, and had Lumine not been so busy trying to figure out Childe’s motives in appearing every day and in being so helpful, she might have picked up on Zhongli’s identity sooner. Even so, she senses Zhongli’s presence, steady and grounded, and he is a welcome distraction from the impromptu eating competition between Paimon and Childe.

Childe stubbornly keeps at his chopsticks, which puts him at a distinct disadvantage as Paimon has already cleared her side of the dishes, and is eyeing the others’ still full plates with a gleam in her eyes. When she dashes in to grab one of his buns, he deflects her with a deftness that has Lumine wondering if the earlier clumsiness was just an act.

But no, the moment he goes to pick up his food, he’s fumbling again. Lumine wonders at the speed at which he’d fended off Paimon’s grab, how easily controlled his movements were in not hurting Paimon, and she recalled the frightening precision of his attacks on those Liyue guards. He would make a worthy and challenging opponent in a duel, Lumine thinks.

“Mora for your thoughts, ojou-chan?”

She tears her gaze from his hand holding the chopsticks, looks up to see that Paimon has indeed won the impromptu competition, and is now even taking jabs at Zhongli’s dish. To his credit, the consultant merely sips at his tea, serene as ever.

“Hasn’t anyone ever tried to show you how to use those?”

“Oh, they’ve tried. I just don’t take well to others’ charitable attempts at teaching someone as stubborn as me.”

And yet he doesn’t hesitate to extend that same level of charity to someone as stubborn as Lumine.

She watches him poke and prod at his food for a bit longer, before sighing a world-weary sigh.

“Here,” she says, and reaches over to take his hand in hers, “you’re trying to hold it like a pencil. No, now you’re holding it like your fingers are trying to cut like scissors. Relax your hand will you? I’m surprised you haven’t pulled something holding these for so long when you’re as tense as that.”

“Hahaha,” Childe lets her maneuver his hand around for a few seconds longer, before she huffs and lets go. “See? I’m hopeless.”

“I’m not giving up.”

“Oh?”

“I just need to finish my own food before Paimon takes it all.”

True to her word, whenever Childe takes her and Paimon out to eat, sometimes with Zhongli in tow, Lumine spends time maneuvering Childe’s grasp on chopsticks. Lumine likes looking at people’s hands over looking people in the eye. She can pick up fidgeting or other movements that are descriptive of the person’s personality. Lumine likes to think that Childe’s hands say more about his thoughts than his words or eyes. At least she hopes that’s the case. For all she knows, he’s trained every muscle to do what he wants, just like how his facial expressions or the lilt of his voice never betray his true intentions.

Still, she likes the way his hands look, their precision and deftness, despite his fumbling with chopsticks. Lumine is not naive; she knows that taking someone’s hand in hers can be misconstrued as flirting. Perhaps it had been on impulse that she’d reached out to him. Perhaps she just wanted to see him react. Either way, he hadn’t stopped her or expressed any discomfort, and still showed up in the evenings, and later in the day when Lumine started taking commissions. The Liyue Qixing’s interest in her, now turned less “arrest on sight” and more “grudgingly keep an eye on her”, came at a good time. Lumine had become restless, keeping her head down all that time, and she’s been itching to go out and explore the country, to draw her sword against something other than a few straw dummies the people at Northland bank had put up for her. Childe, of course, had picked up on her restlessness from day one, and even offered to duel her.

“All that pent-up energy has to go somewhere, ojou-chan. It might as well go towards battling someone who will give you a harder time than an inert dummy.”

“Yeah, but at least said inert dummy doesn’t talk back,” Lumine said, the first of many excuses she had to come up with to decline Childe’s offer. Back in Mondstadt, Lumine practiced fighting with various citizens, Knights, friends. Fighting for her was either an act of violence, or a way to get to know someone. She does not wish to fight Childe with the intent of hurting him. She also does not want for Childe to learn her vulnerabilities, even if it was just in her movement or attacks. She does want to spar him, wants to see if his movements are as fluid and refined as his hands, or that glimpse of his fighting those Liyue guards, made them out to be. But seeing as the last person Lumine had sparred with ended up in her bed later that night, she had yet another reason to keep Childe away from her sword’s edge.

So Childe resigns himself to trailing after her during her commissions to clear out hilichurl camps, slay slimes, or even make food deliveries under weird conditions. He doesn’t always stay around for the whole day, off to what Lumine assumes to be Fatui business, but some days he’s there for hours, humming to himself or chattering back and forth with Paimon when Paimon does decide to accompany Lumine. Other days it’s just the two of them, Paimon claiming that she’s too tired or wants to hang out with Xianling or even go bother Xingqiu when he’s around town. It was actually Lumine who suggested for her friend to go off and do her own stuff, reassuring her that if Childe wanted to hurt her, he would’ve already made his move, and that if and when he did decide to fight her, she would hold her own.

“That’s not reassuring at all, Lumi!”

“Yeah, but Paimon, you wouldn’t be good in a fight even if he does turn on me. You might as well go try out that new bakery store or convince Xingqiu to spend his family fortune on you. It’s not like I make for a very entertaining companion anyway. I know you like to talk and actually have someone respond beyond a few grunts of assent.”

“That’s not true!” Paimon says, even as she’s eyeing the direction where Chef Mao’s restaurant lies. “Paimon enjoys hanging out with you even if you’re silent!”

“It’s alright, Paimon. I’ll see you later tonight? We’ll meet to go see the poetry reading.”

Lumine likes her friend, likes having a constant presence by her, and the back-and-forth banter they have. But Lumine is also used to silence, companionable back when she and Aether traversed the cosmos, but solitude nonetheless. She is grateful for Paimon’s presence the past few months, would not ask her friend to be any different than she is, but Lumine misses having her own space, with her own meditative mindset.

So she sets off to pick some violetgrass for a commission posted by Bubu Pharmacy, looking forward to keeping companion to her own thoughts. She travels near Mingyun village, hops and glides across mountain faces, swept by the breeze and the fragrance of wild flowers. She’s hit with a sudden urge to jump, to fall hundreds of feet before sweeping up with her glider. Lumine loves gliding, loves the rush of wind against her skin, her clothing sturdy but insubstantial enough so that she can feel the air through the fabric. She wants to fly again, not just glide, with her own wings that she once had, a perfect match for her brother’s. They had spent aeons sweeping through the stars, their wings fluttering through time and space, and even though she’s been to worlds she’s grown fond of, she always landed with the hope of soaring back into the skies once again.

It’s another reason why Lumine wanted to be alone. She wants to get lost in her memories, has barely given herself space to process the cataclysmic event that tore Aether away from her. She’s been swept along, first by rescuing Paimon, then by all that had happened in Mondstadt, and she’s never been truly alone since. She needs to let herself feel the anguish of being torn apart from her twin, the guilt that she wasn’t doing enough to find him, the sputtering hope that he’s still alive and well, somewhere in this world. Lumine doesn’t cry. She’s not open to being vulnerable enough to cry. But she does let herself rise and dive with the wind, letting out a shout and a whoop as she rides the currents, and drops against the rush of gravity rising to meet her.

She swoops out her glider wings at the last second, floating the last few feet to the grass underneath. Her momentum comes to a halt as she catches her breath, her heart pounding from both exercise and exhilaration. She feels the high off a fight, her every sense alert and pinpointing sounds, smells, sights. There’s a soft rustling coming from behind her, and she whips around, her sword materialized in hand.

“Woah woah woah, girlie. I come in peace.”

Lumine blows hair from her eyes, contemplates for a moment if Childe’s sudden appearance is really as innocuous as he will probably try to make it out to be. But his weapons are nowhere to be seen, his stance relaxed and nowhere near one she’d recognize for fighting, so she lowers her sword but doesn’t let it dematerialize.

“Childe,” she says, “what are you doing here?”

He jabs a finger over his shoulder, up on a ledge some distance away, where Lumine can just make out a few masked figures. They’re looking in her direction, but the shovels and other impromptu weapons aren’t raised, and they seem to be conferring between themselves.

“Fatui business,” Childe says, his stance still casual and open, as if approaching a tense wild animal. “It was going well too, until one of them pointed out a falling figure coming down from the clouds above. It looked like quite the drop.”

“Yeah,” Lumine says, suddenly feeling awkward and forgetting how to ease back into their easy banter, “it was. It was fun. Sorry to have distracted you all. Shouldn’t you get back to your... associates?”

“We just finished up. I’m sure they will be able to find their way back to their hideout without my help. Are you out on a commission?”

“Yeah. Collecting violetgrass. The usual. You coming along?”

Lumine never asks Childe to come along, he usually just inserts his presence into her routine whether she wants him there or not. In all fairness, she’s never asked him to leave her alone. She doesn’t actually mind his presence, his silent companionship when she doesn’t feel up to talking, the ease at which he keeps pace with her movements. She did feel uncomfortable leaving her back open to him, but he’s always so languid in his movements, never a stray or sudden shift, that even if mentally she wants to stay guarded against him, she’s considerably more physically relaxed around him than in the beginning.

The awkwardness she feels this time around comes mostly from her previous mental state, swooping in and above the mists around Liyue’s mountains. Her emotions and thoughts were for her and her alone, and to have to suddenly build her defenses up right after easing herself into vulnerability was jarring to say the least. Lumine is tired of being so tense all the time. She wants to trust, she’s used to having first her brother then her Mondstadt friends having her back, she wants to befriend this easy-going Fatui Harbinger and let her guard down. She just really, really does not want to deal with the emotional shitstorm that will come of their inevitable opposed agendas. Her brain is practically screaming at her to play smart, that in the end she would be the only one getting hurt, but maybe it’s the rush of her earlier flight, the adrenaline roaring in her ears, because she’s holding out the bag she’s been carrying, traces of violet petals trailing from its opening.

“You coming?”

“Yeah,” Childe says, his voice hitched with an emotion Lumine can’t quite place. “Yeah, let me just grab that for you.”

Lumine knows she will regret this. She just hopes she gets something out of this that makes her regret worth it.

#chilumi #genshin impact #for some reason ive been scared uploading this fic onto tumblr #anyway theres 4 chapters now on ao3 #genshin fanfic

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inquisitorsnappy · 3 years

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2, 7 or 49? whichever you like best!! if none of those fit, let me know and i can send you some different prompts!!

thank you shannon! i went with 49 in the fluff category! it’s a bit angsty but has fluff at the end to make up for it.

as usual for writing stuff, it’s under the cut for length!

Teagan returned to the inn, nodding to to the innkeeper as she walked in. She kicked the snow of her boots and glanced around to see if anyone else was around.

"Any change?"

"Doctor came by earlier to check on him but he's still asleep," he explained. "She said not too worry too much though. It's just exhaustion, from what she can tell."

"Right..." That's what she said last time... but it's been three days. Teagan sighed. "Thank you for telling me. I'll go see how he is."

She quietly made her way to the back of the inn, straight to the room Grøh was recovering in. He was still unconscious when she walked in. To be expected, I suppose. Sitting at his bedside, Teagan looked at the bandages across his chest, where she'd struck him down. The worry that that did more damage that intended flared in her mind again. Soul Calibur can purify... but also eradicate malfested. What if... no. She stopped herself going down that line of thoughts. Now was a time for her usual optimism! Yes, Grøh was asleep and had been for days at this point. That was concerning. But it was an improvement from what he was before. He wasn't missing, last seen falling from a cliff with a sword in his gut nor was he acting like the mindless animal, driven insane by the Cursed Sword's influence. He should be okay. I need to relax. He'll wake up in his own time. She leaned forward and took his hand in hers, squeezing it gently.

"Please wake up soon, Grøh…"

Another sigh escaped her as she stood up, took another look at Grøh and then returned to her own room for the night. She silently prayed that nightmares wouldn't plague her that night. She was tired and needed the rest.

Another day, another attempt to fill the time with something productive. Teagan considered contacting Aval, in case there was anything that needed to be done nearby. Or perhaps word of an Astral Fissure, if there was one in the area. She decided not to, though. The odds of them providing anything useful that she could actually act on was slim and she didn't necessarily want to alert them to the fact that Grøh was alive just yet. His outsider status put a target on him and she wanted to make it clear what that'd do to her alliance with them before making them aware. As it stood, only Natalie and Dion could know that. Anyone else would probably try to hunt him down, unaware that he was under Teagan's protection.

Walking through the small town, she wrapped her arms around herself. Even with the fur-lined uniform Dion gave her, Teagan was not accustomed to the cold. How she made it through a blizzard, she'll never know.

She caught sight of the small barracks for the guards. There weren't many, only four on active duty about town and a few at the barracks, training. I haven't practiced at all since I dragged Grøh here. Maybe that'd be a good plan. It’d keep me occupied at least... Distracted. And it’d warm me up. Teagan made her way to the training yard and coughed loudly to make her presence know.

"Ahem!" There were three men, two that had just halted swinging their swords at training dummies and one sat on a bench under some shelter, presumably taking a break. They looked at her when they noticed her. "By any chance, would I be permitted to use these grounds to train? I fear I haven't been able to and don't want to lose my touch in a fight."

The man that was resting stood and welcomed her in with open arms. "Of course! We couldn't turn you away. After all, you were the warrior that finally managed to slay the Black Demon!"

"...Right." Teagan smiled awkwardly but didn't correct him. Probably best they don't know Grøh was the Black Demon... not a victim of him. Or at least, not a victim in their perception of it. "Thank you."

She made her way to one of the dummies to the far side, away from the others. She wasn't feeling much like socialising. She was far to distracted to hold a conversation with strangers.

Drawing her sword, she took a swing and immediately needed to pause, and coming to her stomach. Right. Still healing. Gotta be careful. Teagan made a step backwards, putting some distance between herself and the dummy and took a deep breath, considering how to accommodate for her injury.

"You okay there?" A different guard this time.

"Yeah. Still recovering from the fight with the Demon," she explained. "Means I need to put a bit more thought into how I move. That's all."

The last guard spoke up. "Wait didn't you return with a sword in your gut? There's no way you've healed enough for that to not cause you problems. Training with a wound like that is insane!"

"Or just dedicated," Teagan said with a smirk. "I'll be fine."

"You sound confidant." He looked rather baffled. "Well, don't say I didn't tell you so if you make that injury worse."

"What did I tell you?"

"Don't be physically active whilst I’m still healing."

The doctor frowned at her as she took a clean set of bandages out from her bag. "And you went and ignored my advice. Why?"

"I feel too... on edge," Teagan said. "I can't do what I want to do because Grøh is still unconscious and I refuse to leave him here. I need to be able to tell him what's happened since he was lost. But there's nothing to do. I hate being cooped up, not being able to do anything. I need to be active."

"Surely you've had to rest to recover from injury before," she said as she started to wrap the bandages around Teagan's midsection. "You must have done, considering some of the scars you have."

"Injuries haven't been so... disruptive before," she explained. "And if I have rested, it's been because I've been physically exhausted. But I'm not. I have loads of energy and too many thoughts and no where to expend them. It's...angering."

The doctor sighed. "It sounds to me like you'll just have to deal with it." "But I don't want to..."

"I Wouldn't have imagined that you'd be so childish about something like this." A small laugh escaped Teagan, ignoring the pain in her abdomen as she did. "What can I say? I'm full of surprises..."

"Listen..." Another sigh, more frustrated this time. "When I'm done rebandaging this, go back to the inn and just rest! If you need something to do, read a book or something."

I already tried that...

Teagan returned to the inn, as instructed, a hand on her stomach. It was earlier in the day than it had been yesterday. Once again, she looked to the innkeeper as she arrived.

"Still no change," he said, sighing sadly.

She nodded. "Thanks for checking."

She walked to his room once again, stopping at the small bookcase to grab something to read before settling into the armchair beside his bed. She opened the book she had taken out, a book of poetry, and attempted to read for a bit.

Teagan let her eyes look at each word carefully, trying to give her full attention to them but found herself several pages in, unable to recall any of what she'd just read. Frustrated, she threw the book the the small table beside her and put her head in her hands. I can't fucking focus. I'm far too distracted. Looking up slightly, her gaze lingered on Grøh. Teagan let out a sigh and leaned back in her seat.

"I wish you'd wake up," she said. She knew he probably couldn't hear her but right now, that didn't matter. "I want to know you're okay. That you're you again. I want to tell Dion I saved you like I promised I would. I want to tell you what's happened, that you don't need to let Azwel dictate your life anymore. And neither do I."

Grøh didn't move at all. He was still asleep.

"I just... want things to get moving again," Teagan mumbled. "But you matter too much to me, Grøh… I can't just leave you."

She grasped his hand and pressed a small kiss to it.

"So for now, I'm going to stay here, with you," she said. "Because right now, you’re the only thing that matters."

Rays of sun could be seen coming through the curtains when Grøh finally opened his eyes. His whole body ached, making moving feel difficult. He thought to try and get out of bed, make sense of his surroundings, find out where he was as a small bout of panic began to bubble in the back of his mind. But then he turned his head to the side and saw Teagan, fast asleep in an armchair beside him and he suddenly felt at ease.

He decided to stay put. If she was there, resting so peacefully, then they must've been okay. Whatever questions he had - where they were, what had happened since the battle in Athens - they could wait until she woke up. For now, he decided to enjoy what little peace they've somehow managed to find.

send me a writing prompt!! (prompt list | askbox)

#thank you for the prompt shannon!!!#teagan macaodha #the conduit #my writing #idk if this really feels like fluff since it's a lot of teagan mulling around not knowing what to do with herself #but this is what i came up with from the prompt so #i'm just going with it #ghostcity

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ask-jaghatai-khan · 4 years

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The Mistbranch Grove

// Sylvaneth homebrew! Jumping from 40k into AoS I finally whipped up a faction that speaks to some of my favorite fantasy tropes, and I would be more than happy to collect if I had the money to do so.

Keepers of the Shrouded Nowhere, Dwellers in the Unknown Mists of Al’idhor, Protectors of the Well of Memories

History:

Long ago, in the Age of Myth, the goddess of life Alarielle was awakened by Sigmar the stormlord and began to wander through the mortal realms. While her favor lay in Ghyran, the realm of life, she sought to spread her bounty to all the eight worlds. It was by her craft that the soul-pods of the first Sylvaneth were grown anew out of memories of the World That Was, and set about tending to the lands of Ghyran in accordance with the Everqueen’s will. At the height of their power, Alarielle sent out expeditions from all those Realmgates under her possession, seeking to seed pure and nourishing life throughout all the lands.

In the realm of shadow, Ulgu, there emerged the Mistbranch Grove upon mysterious reaches known as the Silver Hinterlands. Cut off from the surrounding realm by strange and obscure mists, the Hinterlands were rich with magical energy that would allow for the first Ancients of the Mistbranch to set deep their roots. From a grim and shadowy land there sprung a new wealth of life, infusing the forests and highlands and showing to all who witnessed that no realm was without beauty, so long as the power of the Everqueen abided.

The Mistbranch drew their power from the artifact known as the Well of Memories, which the Wanderer Aelves named Gelemar, the Starlight Well. A vortex of life-giving energies, the Well not only allowed the soul-song of Ghyran to flow into the Hinterlands of Ulgu, but also allowed for that song to be carried up to the distant stars, and to High Azyr. It was the Branchwyches who mastered this craft, and though the Treelords and Arch-Revenants protected the old lore and the sacred wilds of the Hinterlands, the elder dryads became masters of sorcery and divine magics. They raised up the great tree Hithond about the Well, that mighty tower being itself but a reflection of the god-trees of Alarielle’s own realm.

But the glory of those times was not to last, for then came the Age of Chaos. By unknown craft were the servants of the Dark Gods able to breach the Mists of Al’idhnor, coming in great hordes from over the sea, the wastes, and the mountains. They cut back the expansive forests and burned the Sylvaneth’s sacred shrines, defiling the lands and returning them to naught but Shadow. With Ghyran under attack by the endless hosts of the Plague God, the Mistbranch Grove was left to defend the Well alone. For long ages did the Sylvaneth war against the tides of monsters, barbarians, beastmen, and daemons, until the Branchwyches devised a means to save their land. Drawing upon the power of the Well of Memories, the druids compelled the Mists of Al’idhnor to reject the intrusions into the Hinterlands and cut off the forests of the Mistbranch from any outsiders at all.

The repercussions of that ritual could not have been known at the time. Even the Sylvaneth elders did not realize the Mists themselves had an inscrutable will of their own. Once, the Mists had sought to draw in worthy souls to the Hinterlands that they might drink from the Well, empowering those noble heroes to spread wisdom throughout Ulgu and protect the Well in turn. Now, after their compulsion by the Branchwyches, the Mists turned to darker motives. Incensed at the invasion of their lands, the fog would allow no stranger into the hidden wilds – noble or otherwise. Instead, the Mists called out to the wicked, to the weak-willed, and to those with guilt and darkness in their souls. These damned individuals would be drawn into what was now known as the Shrouded Nowhere, to go mad and become prey for the Sylvaneth. Rather than be gifted with wisdom, their memories would be sapped, and their life essence drained to sustain the Well and the Realmroot.

Most of the Sylvaneth despaired at this development, as they had wished to share the beauty of their land with those who might appreciate it – who might have grown and been uplifted by the glory of Alarielle’s power. These tree-kin reached out to the tribes of Mist-Dweller Aelves and humans, guiding their sages through the Mists that some inkling of the Everqueen’s wisdom might be passed into the outside world. Others did not take so well to the change. Most awful among these was the Treelord known as Mornur, who was then after named Morraug the Terror. He remembered the defilements wreaked upon the Silver Hinterlands by outsiders, and grew to hate the quickbloods and all their ilk. His stretch of the western border-woods became a den of horror, and even other Sylvaneth were remiss to speak the name of the Terror.

Still, under the watchful guidance of Treelords like Brunorn, called the Elder, the Shrouded Nowhere maintains something of its ancient beauty. Within sprawling webs of roots there flow the energies of the Well of Memories, making the Nowhere a mighty nexus of magics. Revenant hosts may venture out wherever the Mists lead, singing the word of the Everqueen, and the Branchwyches may commune with great mystics of the other realms through their empowered rituals. Mortals are not inclined to trust the Mistbranch anymore, by virtue of their dark appearance and the reputation of their lands, but that has not stopped them from their queen-granted mission to aid in the spread of life, and maintain the balance of nature.

Notable Characters:

Brunorn the Elder

Brunorn is the oldest of all the Treelords in the Shrouded Nowhere, first among those Sylvaneth who first stepped from the Realm of Life through the Mists of Al’idhnor into the wastes of Ulgu. Most often he is simply called “The Elder”, for none in all Nowhere are so ancient as him. His form is that of a great and gnarled oak, and his heart is heavy with long eons of sorrow. The elder treeman remembers the time when the Silver Hinterlands were in bloom, mild and beautiful, and mortals could come and bask in their majesty, with their sages and heroes drinking deep of the Starlight Well. Still he has not given up faith, though he struggles ever with the fact that he may one day lose what hope he has left. Those who can survive in Nowhere long enough to find him might just be granted reprieve and salvation.

As the Lord of Clan Doroniaur, Brunorn is the leader of all Treelords in Nowhere, and guardian of the inner woodlands. Due to residing in Ulgu, summer is brief in the Mistbranch’s realm, and most of the year the land is grey and foggy. Brunorn claims stewardship over the passage of summer into autumn, and the care of the very oldest and most sacred things in his forest.

Morraug the Terror

Once known as Mornur, the being now known as The Terror was not always the subject of grim rumor and shiver-inducing tales. Mornur guarded the western borderlands, where the forests transitioned into the rolling uplands of the outer wastes, out to the cliffs of the sea. In his youth he met often with those wayward elves and humans who found themselves brought by the Mists to the outer reaches of the Silver Hinterlands, and he delighted in the sharing of stories and songs. However when the Great Shadow came from the Realm of Chaos, it was Mornur and his lands that suffered the most. The forests of Clan Edel’fae were cast into darkness and became as a graveyard. Mornur was changed then, coming to be known as Morraug, the Terror. Now he is a specter, a shade of vengeance that provides the greatest barrier to any mortals who dare intrude on the Sylvaneth’s lands. He does not remember the soul-song of Ghyran, and dwells always in the shadows, hungering for mortal flesh and souls.

Still the Terror leads the outcast Clan Edel, known sometimes as Edel’fae. Like all outcast Sylvaneth, the spirits of Edel are quite mad and vengeful, and delight not just in the slaying of trespassers, but in the slow destruction of mortal minds. Beneath the underbrush of the western border-woods there lay corpses thick as moss, and within the whorls of its twisted trees can be seen the faces of those wanderers, good or evil, who were driven to insanity and death by the predations of the Terror. Morraug believes that he acts in accordance with the Mists, and that the sacred lands will never be safe so long as the quickbloods are allowed their intrusions, though he has not turned against his brethren. He guards the passage of autumn into winter, the time of death, and his vicious nature is but another part of the world’s cycles.

Aelinde the Laysinger

The Branchwych known as Aelinde the Laysinger is eldest amongst all the dryads of the Shrouded Nowhere, and rivals even Brunorn in her years. She is a creature of great wisdom and power, having once held company with Alarielle herself, and holding deep memories of the beauty of Inner Ghyran. Now, Aelinde guards the Well of Memories, directing the rituals of her companion druids in harnessing and guiding the powers of that mystic font to protect the shrouded lands. It was she who compelled the spirits of the Well to turn back the dark tide of Chaos with violence, and to this day she struggles with the ramifications of her decision. Though unlike Brunorn or the Terror, she does not sway one way or another in terms of her feelings on mortals. To her, balance in nature is of the utmost importance, and her choice to turn the Silver Hinterlands into a realm of foreboding and gloom chafes more with her sense of duty than anything else.

Known as the Laysinger, Aelinde has perhaps one of the strongest connections to the soul-song of Alarielle, and is able to channel this attunement into her rituals about the Well. With her power she can reach across the realms, influencing the Mists even in their current state, and communing with powerful spirits from Ghyran and Azyr. She leads the Clan Luthan, also known as Luth’angol, which comprises the largest gatherings of the dryads and other spellsingers of the Mistbranch Grove. Aelinde is said to embody the tears of spring, when the very first droplets of warmth grace the dead season of winter.

Araseth the Wastewalker

Araseth is notable among the leaders of the Mistbranch in that as a revenant, he was once a mortal. His memories of such a time are dim and half-formed, though they still shape his personality. Once an Aelven bard, Araseth delighted the Everqueen with his sagas and recitations, and so was chosen to be born anew as a tree-revenant of the Sylvaneth. Now he leads the Shrouded Nowhere’s own wild hunt, traveling with the scouts and emissaries of the Grove through the outer wastelands and into the Mists of Al’idhnor. Still the call of wanderlust and adventure flows in Araseth’s half-living heart, and so he is the eyes and hands of the Misbranch beyond the borders of their realm. A being of strength, guile, and a surprising amount of charisma, Araseth can be both an omen of grim portent or an enchanting ally for those who happen to meet him.

Leading the Taurim Clan, Araseth guides the greatest proportion of the Grove’s revenants and outriders. Contrasting the ponderous gatherings of Clan Doroniaur’s Treelords, or the hordes of vicious dryads and spites of Edel and Luthan, the treeguard and hunters of the Taurim are much more akin to mortal warriors. They are disciplined yet boisterous, swift yet enduring, terrible yet honorable. For mortals who have never been to the Shrouded Nowhere, the impression of the Taurim hunt would be one more in line with most Sylvaneth clans – so long as they are not the target of the hunt itself. For those who fall so afoul of the Mistbranch that they must be hunted even beyond the Mists of Al’idhnor, there are few more terrifying experiences than the long pursuit of Araseth and his warriors. The Taurim are the passage of spring into summer, and the fury of that high season.

The Four Clans

Clan Doroniaur

Elder protectors of the deep forest, Clan Doroniaur holds the largest concentration of the Grove’s Treelords, all of whom defer to the wisdom of the ancient Brunorn. Doroniaur’s holdings lay in the deepest reaches of the Mistbrach’s forests, into the pine-strewn uplands, protecting the sacred lands of the Well.

Clan Edel

Under the will of the Terror, Clan Edel embodies all the horrors of the Shrouded Nowhere. Their forests lay in the western border-woods, where wanderers from the outer wastelands might stumble through the Mists right into their clutches. The Terror commands a great host of vicious dryads and spite-revenants, and Edel’s forces are known for their cunning approach to warfare that seeks to break the enemy’s will before landing the killing blow.

Clan Luthan

Wyches of the Well of Memories, Clan Luthan is the smallest of all in the Mistbranch Grove, yet perhaps the most powerful of all. They are the druids of the Well, and maintain its power and the balance it holds with the realmroot Hithond. Balance defines all that they do, for they are neither good nor evil, caring nor callous. It is their interest, under the direction of Aelinde the Laysinger, to ensure that the Shrouded Nowhere remains a point of power for the greater plans of the Everqueen.

Clan Taurim

Wanderers of the Wastes, Clan Taurim are the wild hunt, the outriders of the Mistbranch. By the guidance of Clan Luthan are the hosts of revenants, spites, and Kurnoth hunters able to move through the Mists of Al’idhnor and journey to faraway lands in the name of the Everqueen’s grand mission. Though the most warlike of all the clans, they are also the most diplomatic, as it is their purpose to interact with outside factions and see to the Grove’s interests abroad. To their foes, they carry the terror of Nowhere beyond the very borders of the Mists, yet to their allies they are as a blessing from Alarielle herself.

Geography of Nowhere:

The Shrouded Nowhere is an ill-defined subsection of the Realm of Shadow, Ulgu. Encircled in the thick Mists of Al’idhnor, access to the darkened woods are cut off from most means of conventional travel. Rather, any who pass through the Mists – whether they be near to the actual borders of Nowhere or in another part of Ulgu altogether – will find themselves transported into those hinterlands. While the Mistbranch have some degree of control over the Mists, they are as fickle an ally as they are useful a defence, and the accuracy of their teleportations cannot always be assured.

Most of Nowhere is wooded by thick and diverse forests, as is to be expected of Sylvaneth holdings. To the north and east the lands become hilly moving into mountainous, filled with upland pines all the way into the craggy heights of the impassible grey peaks. The lowlands are dominated by mossy arboreal forests, which to the south and west give way to expansive, open wastelands out to the foggy seas. Those wastes on the western border are highlands ending in cliffs, while to the south the beaches are shallower and broken by many islets. Deep within the center of the Mistbranch woods there grows the great tree Hithond the Realmroot, which drinks deep of the waters of the Well of Memories.

All manner of diverse life can be found within the Shrouded Nowhere, though like all creatures within Ulgu they are elusive and deceptive. Still the invigorating energies of the Sylvaneth have made the forests a menagerie of growth and bounty, even if those shaded boughs spell death for any mortal outsiders who wander in. Many ruins can be found scattered throughout the lands, some predating the age of the Sylvaneth and others more recent – leftovers of when Aelves and humans were permitted entry to the woods of the Mistbranch. Still within the outer wastelands there can be found semi-nomadic tribes of these two mortal races, who through faint druidic traditions or dark sorcery have retained memories of how to traverse the Mists. The Sylvaneth permit their presence so long as they do not enter the woods, as they provide a partial buffer against other roaming outsider groups.

Non-floral life is still abundant, though it is as mysterious as the Sylvaneth themselves. Great eagles, strange beasts of Ulgu, elemental spirits, and other elusive beings of nature call Nowhere home alongside their Mistbranch allies. Though the occasional corrupted monstrosity may be able to survive within the unseen depths of the wood, for the most part any mortal not allied with the forces of the Everqueen is sure to meet a quick death upon entering Sylvaneth lands uninvited.

Within the Mistbranch’s lands, the central and upland forests are considered the territories of Clan Doroniaur. The southern wastelands and parts of the western highlands are the hunting grounds of Clan Taurim, while the Realmroot and the lands about the Well of Memories are protected by Clan Luthan. Those darkened forests to the west, scarred by the arrival of Chaos so many ages ago, are the domain of the Terror, and none but the very oldest and most powerful of the Mistbranch dare enter.

Neighboring Factions:

Mist-Dweller Aelves

It used to be that the Aelven peoples were far more plentiful in the Silver Hinterlands, living with and learning from their Sylvaneth allies. However with the change that came over the Mists of Al’idhnor, the Aelves were driven out lest they be consumed by the Terror. Yet despite this, some of the druidic clans have retained knowledge of how to move within the Mists. Living a semi-nomadic existence in the outer wastelands and coasts, where the realm of Nowhere merges with other parts of ever-shifting Ulgu, these Aelves may still commune with the Mistbranch when seasons are favorable. Though none but their most venerable lords dare enter the woods anymore, the quickbloods may still serve the purposes of the Sylvaneth.

Tribes of the Shrouded Nowhere

Also among the wandering peoples who journey throughout the fluid mistlands are various tribes of humans. These peoples are given much less regard than even the Aelves, and a druid of one of the mortal tribes must show great promise and respect to be allowed within the Mistbranch’s territory. Most of these human clans are superstitious and fearful, making dark sacrifices to the Mistbranch and helping to turn away travelers who may find themselves transported through the Mists into the outer wastelands. Some of these tribes still worship the Shadow of Chaos, but even they dare not enter the woods in such small numbers, lest the Terror consume them body and soul. Some of these tribes are more developed, building hamlet settlements of Sigmarite influence on the far borders, while others are little more than barbarians.

The Voices in the Stars

Though the Well of Memories is most notable for providing a connection between the realms of Ghyran and Ulgu, it is also known as the Starlight Well, for its mystic powers are given stability and energy by the light of the heavens themselves. It was Aelinde the Laysinger who discovered the means to influence the Well’s soul-song to reach across the Mortal Realms, allowing her to perceive sights even in faraway planes such as Azyr. The Voices in the Stars are those beings Aelinde communes with – sages of the astral coldbloods, and mystics of the Stormlord’s kingdoms. On rare occasions, these beings may be summoned to the Nowhere at the behest of the Elders, even in these dark times. Ancient ruins scattered through the Mistbranch woodlands speak to civilizations even older than the trees – structures built by the Seraphon in their own ill-fated attempts to colonize distant realms. Though distrustful of outsiders, the Mistbranch realize the necessity of working with those beings the Everqueen has deemed allies.

Spirits of Nowhere

Within the forests of the Shrouded Nowhere there can be found many more beings of mystic natural power than the Sylvaneth alone. Among those venerable beings who hold to the Everqueen’s vision – whether native to Ulgu or brought from afar – there are such creatures as the reclusive Scuttle-Spite clans, the noble eagles of the eastern aeries, the naiads and elementals of the stones and waters, and the even such rare fauna as existed in times before the coming of the Mistbranch. Dreadful Great Serpents and the degenerate beach-shamblers move through the currents of the stormy coasts same as overland travelers might stumble through the Mists. So long as these beings respect the holdings of the Sylvaneth and hold neither ill will against the Everqueen nor common cause with the Shadow, they may move unimpeded through Nowhere. For those who wander too close to the Well, however, or into the darkened boughs of Edel lands, there can never be promise of protection.

Notable Events:

The Dawn of the Green Lay

In the Age of Myth, at the awakening of the goddess Alarielle, the first soul-pods of the Sylvaneth peoples are planted. At the height of their civilization in Ghyran, the Everqueen seeks to send out expeditions across the other Mortal Realms so as to seed them with new and flourishing life. Among those who journeyed into the obscure lands of Ulgu, the realm of shadow, there came the Treelord Brunorn. Discovering the Silver Hinterlands and the mystic Well of Memories within its forgotten, ruined wastes, the Sylvaneth began planting what was to become the Mistbranch Grove.

The Silver Hinterlands prove to be a somber place, but Brunorn sees in them great beauty, and the Branchwych Aelinde is able to gather depths of natural power from the arcane Well. Flourishing, the Mistbranch lands become a haven for those seeking wisdom in the harrowing realm of shadow. The Four Clans see to the growth of their people, and the bounty of the Age of Myth’s height are enjoyed by all.

The Shadow Comes

Peace is never to last so long as Chaos exists just beyond the veil of the world. At the will of the Dark Gods and their tyrannical Everchosen, the forces of the Great Shadow pour out from the Realm of Chaos to bring death and doom to all non-believers. Brought through the placid Mists by dark sorceries and divine guidance, droves of monsters and barbarians invade the Silver Hinterlands from over the seas and through the mountain clefts. Reavers and wizards, beastmen and daemons – the horrors set alight the woods of the Mistbranch and sought to corrupt their sacred Well with the rotting husk of Hithond the Realmroot.

Drawing upon all her powers, Aelinde the Laysinger compels the once-peaceful Mists to turn back the tide by any means necessary. The Mistbranch are saved, but at great cost. A change comes over the Mists, turning their subtle intentions malevolent and cruel. Cut off the from the majority of trade with the outside world, the Hinterlands become known as the Shrouded Nowhere. Few who are not Sylvaneth remain in those reaches, and soon many begin to hear the terrible stories carried out of that once-peaceful realm.

The Saga of King Svein Doomtouched

Many ages later, true war comes again to the forgotten lands of the Mistbranch. Compelled by visions from his dark masters, the grand chieftain Svein Doomtouched leads a fleet to the foggy shores of Nowhere, seeking the power of the Well of Memories. At once, his Chaotic warband begins pillaging the forest borders, and killing any they encounter – yet despite what tales Svein has heard, he sees nothing of the fabled Sylvaneth.

Moving into the woodlands on the western border, what ensues for the Doomtouched is a nightmare. The barbarians are assailed from all sides by unseen attackers, and they are picked off piecemeal during their long trek through the forest. Warriors and shamans alike are driven mad by terrible visions, and bloodthirsty berserkers find their strength and wills sapped day by day, until the remaining members of Svein’s horde are pleading with their lord to give up the pursuit. Attempting to breach the inner forests, the warband travels in circles despite the guidance of their best hunters, stumbling upon crooked trees in whose bark can be seen the faces of comrades thought lost. Scouts report great shadows moving between the trunks, and the feeling of being watched in unceasing. At last, Svein finds himself alone, and the Terror reveals himself at last. What horrible fate the outcast lord of the forests subjected that barbarian king to is unknown, but thus ends the saga of the Doomtouched.

Myths of Ulgu

In the many centuries since the shrouding of the Mistbranch’s lands, the Grove itself has fallen into legend for those within the realm of shadow. Few remember the Silver Hinterlands save for those who once walked there. None can pass over the high mountains, and travelers who find themselves drawn through the Mists over sea or across the wastelands may not realize the terrible threshold they have crossed until it is too late. At the very fringes of Nowhere there still exist communities of wayward mortals – fearful souls who cower at the passing of the wild hunt, and dare not enter the woods, even though they have few means to escape the Mists that drew in them or their ancestors. More spiritual groups may still hold communion with the Sylvaneth, but it was not until the dawning of the Age of Sigmar that the true forces of the Mistbranch began riding out once again. For the first time in millennia, monsters and mortals who have never beheld the placid landscapes of Nowhere find themselves encountering beings such as the riders of the Taurim, or the shades of Edel. In the Sylvaneths’ hearts there has come a time for vengeance – to once again spread the glory of the Everqueen to all lands, no matter how grim, just as the Everchosen once spread his darkness into their own sacred groves.

#warhammer #homebrew #sylvaneth #wood elves #age of sigmar

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damienthepious · 4 years

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im. heck. this is long. tuesday???!? aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. forgive typos i’m RUSHING to get this up before i have to leave for work.

Scattered On My Shore (Chapter 14)

[Ch 1] [Ch 2] [Ch 3] [Ch 4] [Ch 5] [Ch 6] [Ch 7] [Ch 8] [Ch 9] [Ch 10] [Ch 11] [Ch 12] [Ch 13] [ao3] [Ch 15] [Ch 16] [Ch 17] [Ch 18] [Ch 19]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla, Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Rilla, Lord Arum, Sir Damien

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Pre-Relationship, (for the three of them. it’s established r/d), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Injury, Injury Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, (this will also be), Enemies to Lovers, (for damien and arum eventually lol)

Fic Summary: Strange things wash up out of the lake near Rilla’s hut, on occasion. But this monster… this monster is certainly the strangest.

Chapter Summary: A homecoming.

Chapter Notes: These dang things just keep getting longer, don't they? Also I'm emotional. I'm so fucking emotional. Chapter specific warnings for an explicit threat of violence, not carried through with.

Arum insists on coming out to the front room for breakfast the next morning. Saving his strength is all well and good, but if Arum need be confined to that little bed for the entire time between now and their departure, he will certainly not make it that far. Amaryllis was right, that day he attempted escape. At least the view out there is different, and- well. He is comfortable in the room with the cot, by now, but it is far less clinical in Amaryllis' living space. It makes him feel less of a patient and more… more of a guest. Which he should not care about, of course.

Amaryllis relents rather quickly on the subject, provided that he agree to pick a spot and stick to it, until the evening. She is overly concerned with him, not quite paranoid but certainly delving into the territory of what Arum is comfortable referring to as fretting. She scowls when he calls it that, which is gratifying, but it also appears to make her more conscious of how delicate she is being with him, and she rolls her eyes at herself before she helps to lift him to his feet, shuffling slowly out to the table.

Amaryllis and Sir Damien keep their hands clasped between them throughout their breakfast together. Seems inconvenient, Arum thinks, pulling his eyes away from the easy way their fingers interlace. They do not have an overabundance of limbs to work with. Surely they should not impede themselves for such a- a pointless gesture.

They are-

Arum cannot say what, precisely, it is, but he feels as if something is strange between the pair of them. Or- or perhaps that something had been strange, and has now settled. They are sitting closer, and something about their proximity feels… easier. Sir Damien, in particular, seems more calm, though Amaryllis still has a layer of nervous energy to her.

Of course, Amaryllis is not particularly patient. She does not hold the tension inside of her for long, after they have finished eating.

"So," Amaryllis says, and Arum frowns instantly. "So… Damien is gonna be- coming with us for the trip."

Arum jerks his head to look at the knight, and Damien nods slightly.

"Wh-why?" Arum barks.

"Because… because I want to," Damien says quietly, and then he- smiles, soft and odd, and Arum remembers Damien's hand on his chin, despite himself, "and because I do not think it would be safe for only the pair of you to take that trip. Too many potential dangers, on both sides. I am certain that Rilla has discussed- ah, potential ways to disguise you, so that you will be in less danger from… knights."

Damien's voice has gone soft as well, and Arum can see some strange pain on his face, though Arum cannot say precisely what that indicates. How much separation can this creature feel from his own order?

"But of course that does not mean there will not still be some risk, if…" Damien pauses again. "I would feel better, being there. And… I have my part in this, as well."

"Your part ," Arum echoes. "What do you mean, your part in this?"

Damien pauses for a long moment, clearly considering his words.

"I want to see you home and safe as well, Arum. I have… committed this far. I will follow through."

"Committed?" Arum says. "I hardly think this counts as a commitment. You- you have allowed Amaryllis to- you have denied your duty in slaying me-"

Arum cuts himself off with a wince, then glances toward Amaryllis and away again. Damien does not rise to this statement, does not comment or deny.

It is clear, from the mild confusion on Amaryllis' face, that Damien has not told her the precise shape of what passed between the two of them, the previous day. What Arum nearly pushed Sir Damien to do.

"You…" Arum trails off. "Fine. If you should like to come, I do not see what it will hurt. I shall be curious to see how deep your treachery runs."

"Arum," Rilla warns.

Arum winces again, then sighs and looks away. "It is not as if I could stop you, anyway."

Damien tilts his head. Arum can see it, in his periphery.

"If it would… truly cause you distress, I would… I would worry rather deeply, but I would stay-"

"I said I could not stop you," Arum repeats in a sharp voice. "It is not as if you distress me, songbird, I simply- I do not understand."

"Yes," Damien says softly. "Well. That is… fair. It is a… somewhat complicated situation, is it not? But- but I will take this journey with you, if you allow me."

"I said I could not stop you, honeysuckle,” Arum growls, and judging by Amaryllis’ breath of laughter his tone must be unconvincing. “If that is your choice, that is your choice."

Damien's mouth curls slightly, a smile vague but pleasant, and Arum can't stand to keep his eyes on the pair of them together, though they keep drawing back, regardless.

"Very well. I will accompany you, then."

Arum huffs, wrinkling his snout. "I am surprised that your Citadel can spare you. I thought you creatures were rather strictly kept."

Damien purses his lips, then sighs. "We are… currently in something of a lull, I suppose. There was a thread our Investigator General intended to pull, but… well… when pulled, the pattern simply unraveled. There was a rash of monster attacks with similar stratagems, but they've dissipated like mist over the last… during the last few…" he trails off, his tone going blank. "The… the last few weeks."

Arum feels the twinge in his frill, knows perfectly well he is giving himself away, but Damien does not turn his eyes towards him, accusatory or otherwise.

The pause draws long, and Amaryllis is clearly hovering on the edge of words herself.

"Well?" Arum snaps, eventually. "Are you going to ask or aren't you? Go ahead, then. I told you I made weapons against your kind. What, precisely, were these consistent stratagems you were attempting to ferret out?"

"Arum," Rilla says gently, but Arum scowls more deeply as Sir Damien meets his eyes.

“Well, Sir Damien?”

Damien holds his gaze, for a quiet moment. "There were a number of creatures, in short time, utilizing powers of manipulation. Encouraging conflict, stoking self doubt, provoking pain. Assaulting the mind first, in order to more effectively destroy the body."

"Yes," Arum says in a hiss. "Yes, I am certain I created the creatures of which you speak. I cannot imagine any other could have managed to replicate my work."

"The mushrooms," Rilla murmurs, her brow furrowed. "It was- pain. Illusions of things we- things we were afraid of, things that hurt us."

Arum wishes he could burn the grubs a second time. The look on Amaryllis' face is unbearable, but then she looks up at him, raking her eyes over his face, her expression oddly desperate.

"Yes," he hisses again.

"I…" Damien's face goes mournful as Arum snaps his attention back to the knight. "I cannot say that no harm was done by the creatures, that none were killed. I cannot alleviate your guilt in that way-" Arum scoffs, but he cannot deny, not with the way Damien is looking at him. "But… but I can say that none are doing harm any longer."

Arum looks away, too uncomfortable to pretend otherwise. "If you say so."

"Regardless," Damien continues in a low, measured voice. "As to whether or not I may be spared by the Citadel- while the Investigator General searches for a new loose thread to worry over, the ranks await more specific direction, and-" Damien gives a very small laugh, and the corner of Rilla's mouth pulls into an answering smile. "And I very, very rarely use the time I am granted, for leave. More often than not, I am too worried over the prospect of leaving my fellow knights without assistance. So… none were troubled, that I wished to take my allotted time now, to assist my Rilla."

It is more of an answer than Arum expected. In truth, he had merely been trying to rile the knight again. He huffs out another breath, claws drumming on the table.

"Okay," Rilla says, drawing the word out into more syllables than it requires. "Okay. Uh, that seems settled enough for me, I think. This has been awkward enough for one morning. So, Arum, I, uh-"

She pauses, and Damien squeezes her hand, and Arum hears her breath come steadier, again. She sighs.

"So, I was thinking, we should leave either tomorrow or the day after." She pauses again. "Maybe the day after. You're standing better, and Damien's offered his horse, so- you'll ride, and we'll walk. It'll take longer, but even if we had three horses it probably wouldn't be safe for you to ride at speed anyway, you could jostle something open, or-" She bites her lip. "So. You on the horse, me and Damien walking, and- it'll be slow. What is it, two weeks to your swamp?"

"Something… something to that effect, yes. Though-" he clenches his teeth. "When we are close- we only need reach the border, I think, and we will not need to travel by foot any longer."

"The border. Okay. Okay, and, um, with the route we planned the other day, we should be…" her lips twitch into a smile. "We can do this. We can get you home, and then- ah… I've- I've made up a bunch of extra-"

Her voice- cracks a little, and some pain crosses her face. Arum blinks. He does not understand why she would be…

"For- um. For after I- for after we-" she pauses, inhaling sharply. "I made up a bunch of extra salves, and painkillers, and- and a replacement wrap, so your horn will- so your horn will keep together, and a new cast that should last until your wrist is healed and- so you won't have to worry… when I'm gone."

Arum stares at her, at the odd twisting of her almost-smile. "Ah."

I'm gonna miss him, is the only thing.

Amaryllis' voice on the recorder had been so keening and strange, and it had pulled on Arum's heart like his own yearning for the Keep and- and he could not help but believe her. She is … she is going to miss him. She will feel his absence. Such a terribly strange feeling-

And Arum had been honest, when he told her that he would miss her in return. Though, of course, Arum knows that had not been the whole of it. It is not the whole of it, but he will feel her absence, as well.

"Very…" he swallows. "Very forward thinking of you," he manages. "I… I had no fears, of course. And all I require is home, regardless. Seems a shame, I think, to make you waste an entire month ferrying me back and then needing to return. Certainly your other patients will be missing you, with your skill."

"Yeah, well, I may be the best doctor in the Citadel, but I'm not the only doctor in the Citadel. They'll manage." She smiles again, a little less certainly, and Damien squeezes her hand again.

"Do you feel ready enough for the trip, Lord Arum?" Damien asks.

Arum hates the way his own heart turns, slowly, like a key in a lock, every time Sir Damien calls him that. It is ridiculous. It is his name , it does not make sense , but- the way his tone curls around Lord, the way Arum seems to sit at the back of his mouth. Lord Arum. Respectful formality from a knight. It is … strange, that is all. It is still strange.

"I am… as ready as I shall be," he murmurs. "I cannot afford further delay. My swamp, my home, it… it has been…"

"Without its Lord," Damien finishes, gently.

"Yes. My swamp… and my Keep."

Rilla startles slightly, but Arum… Arum does not know why he has bothered to continue concealing the Keep's existence anyway, and Sir Damien has made it… abundantly clear, that his stance has changed. This stiff-spined little human has shifted his footing, has gained a new vantage, as incomprehensible as that seems.

Damien purses his lips, his face going questioning. "Have you… mentioned a Keep before?" He asks. "Or- no. I think- I think you have only nearly mentioned a Keep before."

"Perceptive," Arum grumbles, his tone hovering between irritated and impressed. "Yes. My home, my Keep." He pauses. "I have already explained it to Amaryllis, I do not- I do not feel-"

"You need not explain anything to me, Lord Arum. Home is…" he presses a hand over his heart. Arum hears his breath catch. "All creatures should be blessed with shelter, with home. It is…" he pauses again. "I am certain you will be glad to be returned to yours. We shall do all we can, to make that come to pass for you."

"Yes, well…" Arum glances aside, uncomfortable. "The sooner the better." He clasps his claws in front of himself, then glances towards Amaryllis. "The… the day after tomorrow, you said, Amaryllis. If you think I shall require the extra day."

Amaryllis nods, and Arum does not know what they will do in the interim. He had not been planning, truly, to make it this far. And now he has today, and tomorrow, to worry and wonder about this upcoming trip. To worry and wonder, about the softness of Sir Damien's hand on his chin. About the leaping of his own heart, at the gentleness with which the knight had lifted it. About the prospect of Amaryllis missing him. About all these strange and bitter hungers that have begun to curl within him.

Arum's eyes have found Amaryllis and Sir Damien's clasped hands again, tracking the way that Damien's thumb is brushing soft over the back of it, a slow, comforting rhythm, as Amaryllis' hand squeezes his. Arum's tongue flicks compulsively, and he buries the urge to-

He does not even know. He is not close enough to reach their hands, and what would he do even if he was? Even if he- if he reached out and wrapped his hand around both of their own (his hand is large enough to do so, his fingers longer than theirs, their stubby little mammal things with their blunt nails and their soft brown skin) (Arum knows the softness both of their hands, now), even if he were to do so-

Certainly they would not welcome his intrusion. Certainly not. They are both so eager to see him gone from their lives. And Arum is eager as well, of course, to return to his Keep, to return to his life. He is eager to close the door on this bizarre little chapter-

A lie. Too deep to stand.

He is not eager to close the door on this chapter. He is not ready. Two days. Two days- only two more days in this strange little hut, in this short-ceilinged human construction, full of herb smell and strange baubles and dangerous plants and skillful wordsmithing and a heretical, compassionate little doctor, and her knight.

Arum has never had a place outside of the Keep before, where he felt himself truly safe. Arum's mind is still… halved in a strange way, he still feels the absence of the Keep's thoughts at his edges, still feels where the Keep is meant to fit, where song should shift into… meaning, and affection, and shared memory, and home.

But if Arum could still feel the Keep here, he would be entirely unable to pretend, anymore, that he does not wish there was some way he could stay.

Arum intends to finish the translation, before they leave. It will not be difficult, all things considered. The tome is short, the material arranged in no particular order but with consistent notation for the entries, and he is familiar enough with a decent amount of the species listed that it speeds the process considerably. He needs not even attempt to scrawl the information out in his slightly more stilted attempt at human script, now that Amaryllis is in the room with him again. She simply sets her recorder beside him and he speaks as he works, occasionally drifting into conversation rather than translation, or narrowing his eyes at a particular peculiarity of the dialect, the drifting etymology of distance.

When he turns the page and sees the Moonlit Hermit, he freezes. After a moment, he drifts his claws down the page, tracing the single narrow line that depicts the flower's stem.

So small a thing, to cause so much trouble.

"The Moonlit Hermit," he murmurs, and Amaryllis drops a roll of bandages, the white ribboning off as it unrolls across her floor.

He raises an eyebrow as she scrambles to retrieve the roll, laughing awkwardly, and when she straightens she won't meet his eyes for a long moment.

"Amaryllis?"

"Just- forgot that one was in there too."

He tilts his head. "Why does it matter? What is the Hermit to you, then?" he asks, because if the Universe insists on piercing him through to make a point-

"My- my parents were researching it. It was a big part of their research, actually- the Hermit, what it could do- the potential it had-"

Arum frowns, automatically, remembering the particular results he had pulled from the potential of the Hermit in his possession.

"I've- I've been trying to… to find one," she says, her voice gone small, and Arum forces himself not to stare at her, at the longing on her face. He looks to the book, instead.

"I am afraid there is very little on the subject in this particular volume, Amaryllis," he says, gently, and she sighs.

"That… yeah, I kind of expected that. I couldn't read it, but- I could tell the entry was short. Shorter than most of the other ones, at least."

"It mentions the unnatural fragility of the stem," he murmurs, tracing his claw along the lettering. "Five pale petals, the glow of moonless night, the utter incongruity… hm," he traces the shape of the drawing on the paper again, remembering. "Volumes of this sort so rarely bother to note the sounds. It chimes, as well, at contact or in use. It is not the most beautiful song I have ever heard, but… it suits. Cool, and delicate."

He realizes, after a pause, that Amaryllis is staring at him. He pulls his eyes from the book, wary at her uncertain gaze.

"What?"

"You… you've heard it? You've- you've seen one. Arum- Arum, you've seen a Moonlit Hermit?" She sets her medical bag aside, her packing entirely forgotten. "Arum, please, you have to tell me where I can- how- I have to see it. I have to- to-"

His heart sinks, the hope in her voice too unfortunate to stand. "If it still existed, Amaryllis… I would certainly think it fair payment for the service you have provided me, but- it was destroyed." He pauses, sighs. "I destroyed it."

"You-" she looks too stunned to be properly furious, but Arum suspects that will come soon enough. " What?"

"Those who attacked me," he says softly, "desired to take it for themselves. To use it. Just as I had been using it, of course, to create weapons against your kind." He pauses, exhales. "I wish I could say, Amaryllis, that it had been a choice made of morality, but- I did not yet know you. I- there are many things I did not yet know, when I…" he traces the shape of the petals again, one, two, three, four, five, and his lip curls in an almost smile. "I ensured that our meeting occurred in daylight, as insurance. It was easy enough, when I realized I had been betrayed, to lift so fragile a thing into the light."

"Arum-"

"Spite. I destroyed the Hermit in spite, Amaryllis, because I knew they intended to kill me, and I did not want to give them the satisfaction of beating me, as well. Of taking what I rightfully found. I threw myself into the river for the sake of that same spite. I would rather drown than let them slit my throat, so…"

She is touching his shoulder, now. He does not look at her.

"I do not regret my actions. The Hermit could have… would have done some good, in your hands, of that I am certain, but… I am glad it was destroyed, rather than be misused again. Rather than being twisted to further bloodshed."

Her hand on his shoulder lifts, and she almost touches his face. Almost. He keeps his eyes safely away.

After a breath, she drops the hand, and turns, and returns to her packing. Arum feels his stomach twisting, regret and shame, fear, desire, all of it colliding together within him like a collapsing building, but still he does not look. He breathes and breathes until he is certain that his voice will not shake, and then he turns the page, and resumes his translation.

It feels as if Arum simply blinks, and two full days have passed. Sir Damien wakes before dawn, and Arum, his nerves sharp and heightened, wakes at his careful noise, at the click of the door behind him as he goes outside to run through his routine.

Amaryllis wakes not long after, throwing together a quick sort of breakfast and quietly going through a checklist of their supplies before she comes to, in theory, wake him.

She smiles, clearly unsurprised when she finds him already awake, already digging his claws into the sheets, and the smile stays as she helps him to his feet.

She wraps him in layers. A simple strategy, but simplicity is more reliable than the delicacy of complication, in Arum's experience. He keeps the cape on beneath the rest, and she smiles when she is done wrapping the rest around him. He can see the crooked shape of it through the sheer scarf covering his face.

And then, for the first time since he woke in Amaryllis’ hut, he steps outside.

Arum does not want to look back, to acknowledge the finality of walking away from this hut, of stepping up into the saddle and riding away from this shelter, riding back towards his true home.

He does not wish to look back.

Rather- he wishes that he did not want to.

He turns despite himself as Amaryllis adjusts the robes that hide his scales, ensuring that his tail is hidden as he curls it around his own ankle. He does not mean to, but he turns, and-

It looks so much smaller, from the outside. Squat and friendly and warm, with flowering vines curling familiar across trellises and a clean little herb garden and the mossy stump where Damien likes to sit and compose when he is finished with his exercises, and the curtained window Arum knows the shape of so terribly well, from the other side.

So many days. So very long, he has spent in such a small, strange space. And now-

He cannot imagine that he will ever see it again.

Arum is almost grateful for the ridiculous layers. At least neither of the humans can see the way his face twists, as his heart lurches with the grief of parting.

They travel light; there’s not much they need to take with them. Rilla keeps her medical bag, of course, in case of emergencies or in case the traveling impedes Arum’s recovery in some way, along with her bag of extra supplies she's gonna leave with him when they get him back home. Damien pretty much just has his armor, his bow, and his usual traveling supplies: bedroll, rations, canteen, et cetera. Arum has nothing to bring, obviously. Nothing except for his mended cape, which is wrapped secure around his shoulders beneath the rest of his mild disguise. Rilla covered him in strategic layers, scarves and shawls and large loose pants that collectively obscure his form and face as he sits sideways in the saddle of Damien’s horse, who only required minimal acclimating to adjust to the weight of a monster. Currently, Arum looks enough like an excessively ill person swaddled like an infant, or like a particularly old-fashioned noble, and hopefully they won’t need to do much by the way of explanation on the less-traveled roads they intend to use.

It’s slow going, of course. Anything more than the lightest movement could be a risk for Arum; jostling around on top of a horse isn’t exactly healthy for healing stab and slash wounds, obviously.

Every time they pass another group, Damien looks like he’s about to be sick, face twisting in a completely unconvincing smile and his voice going high and reedy if he tries to greet them. Rilla does most of the talking, for a change, and Arum sits tense and stiff and dignified astride the horse, and occasionally nods through his scarves at whomever happens to be passing by.

Nights are more difficult. They need to wander far from the road to set up camp, and they need to obscure the fire on one side to make it more difficult to see from where they came, to avoid other eyes, and they wait until it is safely dark every night before Arum can remove his layers of disguise and sigh in the open air again. He always keeps his cape safely draped around his shoulders after the rest has been left in a pile nearby, a claw curled along the edge of the fabric as he settles close and warm by the fire.

He’s tired , Rilla can tell. The travel on top of his recovery, and the constant strain of worry that comes from the threat of discovery- it’s no wonder, really. She wishes she could make this easier for him, wishes she could just snap her fingers and have him home to his Keep, but- this is the best she can do, for now. She’ll get him home, long way around or no.

"Sir Damien."

They are preparing to resume their travel in the morning, Damien packing the last of their supplies back up from their makeshift camp while Rilla tends to Damien's horse, and Arum is wrapped already in his layers as they wait for Rilla to return, to help Arum back into the saddle for the day. Damien glances down at the obscured monster, lips pursing nervously, but he does not think the monster is looking back at him. It is difficult to tell, with the layers, but Damien thinks that Arum is looking towards Rilla again.

"Yes, Lord Arum?"

He continues to stare for a moment, and then Arum glances away. His voice comes even quieter, then. "We are still close to your Citadel, little knight," he murmurs. "There is still time between us and my home, and many opportunities for this expedition to fall apart."

"Pessimism will not help the situation, Lord Arum," Damien says mildly.

"Perhaps not. But pragmatism-" he pauses, sighs. "If the worst is to happen, if I am discovered along this mad little journey… Amaryllis must not be seen as guilty for helping a monster. I refuse to have her suffer for this absurd kindness."

Damien pauses, his heart doing a swooping little flip, and he looks at Arum again in disbelief. "What-"

"If we are discovered, they must believe that I forced her to treat me, forced her to escort me home. They must believe that she was made to do it, that I threatened or coerced or- she must not be seen a traitor for my sake. Do you understand me, Sir Damien?"

Damien presses a hand over his heart, presses as hard as the thudding pressing out. He forces his breath to come steady enough for words, just for one sentence. "Rilla would not be happy, with that particular deception," he rasps, looking at his fiance through the rosy morning light.

"That," Arum says with a growl, "is precisely why I am asking you, and not the doctor herself. I trust that you will protect her. I know that you will."

Damien wishes so dearly that he could see the monster's face, just now. That he could see the look in his violet eyes.

"Honeysuckle," Arum says quietly, roughly. "Tell me that I am correct."

"This- this is not like the other day, is it? This is not more of the same, again, more of you trying to- to-"

"This is not an act of self destruction, honeysuckle." Arum stares up at him, or at least, Damien assumes that is the direction the monster is aiming his eyes. "But she must be safe."

Damien inhales, exhales, inhales.

"Rilla would never forgive me, if I caused you to be hurt in her stead. You must know that, Lord Arum."

The monster clenches his hands, his head ducking just slightly. "It is more important that she be alive, to forgive you or not." He turns his head a little further away, then, his voice going even quieter. "Of course she will forgive you, little fool. She loves you."

Damien's throat goes tight and hot and uncomfortable, his heart thrumming and thrumming, and the words boil within him but he cannot say-

Do you think I do not know that you love her as well? Can you not see that she loves you in return?

His lips part, he is going to say something too foolish for their unspoken understanding to survive, but-

Rilla is returning.

Arum's shoulders go stiff, and before she is in hearing distance he mutters, "I must trust that you will do what is right, Sir Damien."

Damien breathes slow, summoning tranquility as best he can, listening to the drumming of his own heart, and he knows that he will. He will do what is right, even if that is not the same as what Arum has asked of him.

Rilla is fairly bored on the road. She can't read effectively while walking, and they only have the one horse. She can only glean so much amusement out of cataloging the wildlife as they pass it by, but Damien knows her far too well to let her boredom sit. He starts reciting as they travel, spinning stories, sharing newer compositions, weaving tales in the air between them, accompanied by jungle noises and the hum of insects.

Rilla sings, as well, when Damien's poor voice needs a rest, and she pretends not to notice when she starts a song and Arum stiffens in recognition. Pretends even harder not to notice when he hums along, when he harmonizes in his low, careful voice. She pretends, poorly, not to grin in delight, the smile tipping her singing voice even brighter.

If she didn't feel like she was riding off to break her own stupid, stupid heart, this would be the most fun she's had on a trip in ages.

Unnatural quiet in the jungle dark, and Sir Damien comes awake with the fingers of one hand already gripped on his bow, a strange and familiar rushing in his ears.

He remembers where he is without strain. He can feel the dirt beneath him through the bedroll, can feel Rilla close beside him, can hear her breathing light.

He can hear little else besides. A stillness hangs in the night air, and Damien feels it. He feels attack waiting, can taste tension on the air. He can almost hear the source. Almost.

Damien breathes slow. Panic is a faraway thing, just now. A faraway thing that cannot possibly touch him. The rushing in his ears has gone slowly rhythmic, and Damien waits, Damien waits, Damien waits for the precise moment. For the strike. For his parry.

His heart. Rilla's breath. The rustle of leaf and soil. The padding, just low, of paws. Damien tenses, poised and prepared and waiting, waiting for just the right moment-

"If you take one… single… step… closer," says a low, guttural, growling voice, and Sir Damien realizes after a startled breath that he recognizes it. He recognizes the voice, because it belongs to Lord Arum, though it has been pitched dangerous as it echoes strange and placeless among the trees. "If you take just one more step… I will make a meal of your entrails while you still live."

There is a pause, a stillness deeper, even, than the one which came before it.

"Do not test me," Arum continues, dark and certain. "These creatures are not yours to hunt."

Another pause. Slowly, slowly, the sense of danger recedes. The night noises of the jungle resume in its absence, the whine of insects and the rustle of small creatures, and Damien knows they are safe again.

Damien has never heard Lord Arum sound quite like that, before. Dark. Dangerous. Protective. And Damien does not feel an ounce of fear, at that voice, though his heart is thudding hot.

Not yours to hunt.

Not yours, he said. Does that mean, then, that Arum considers them his?

Another long pause draws out in the darkness as Damien tries to shake the memory of Arum's voice, as he feels the gooseflesh shiver across his skin, and then there is a noise, shifting close by.

"You are awake, aren't you, honeysuckle?"

Arum's voice no longer sounds strange. It no longer echoes oddly, and the venom is gone from it, leaving the monster sounding only soft, murmuring through the black of night.

"Yes," Damien whispers.

"I did not intend to wake you," Arum hisses.

"You did not," Damien says, just as low. "I… I felt that something was wrong. I woke before you… scared the creature away. Will it return, do you think?"

"Certainly not," Arum drawls, gently. "We are close to my territory now, little songbird, and I know the sorts of scavengers that prowl my borders. I know a coward when I smell one," he hisses. "She expected an easy meal. That, we most certainly are not. She will not try again."

"How…" Damien needs to pause, to swallow. "How did you know I was awake?"

"Your breathing shifted… your heartbeat. I can hear them both from here."

It is difficult, for Damien, not to feel exposed, knowing that. He is certain that his heart is still beating hard. Harder, now.

"And… and did you slip into the trees, to frighten the creature away? I will be compelled to tell Rilla if you exerted yourself while she slept-"

"I did not budge an inch, honeysuckle. Don't be foolish."

Damien blinks, for all the good it does him. The bare hint of stars between the canopy above flickers, just for a moment. "But- but your voice, Arum," he murmurs, and when Arum chuckles low Damien can feel heat pooling odd in his stomach. "You sounded as if…"

"As if I could be anywhere," Arum murmurs , and his voice echoes again, placeless, but close and worrying. "Yes … I told you, honeysuckle, that I had some skill, some tricks up my sleeves…"

Even more worrying than Arum's voice itself: the way the low heat of it makes the answering heat in Damien's stomach pulse.

"A-Arum," Damien whispers, and he releases his grip on his bow, reaching into the dark instead, grasping in the direction that Arum's voice had seemed to come from, for those few words where he had sounded ordinary again. "Where… where are you?"

There is a brief pause, a more gentle laugh in the dark.

"I am close enough to pluck you, still, little honeysuckle," he says in a rumble that rolls down Damien's spine, and he cannot help the way his breath catches, his eyes darting in the darkness as he tries to pin Arum's place. "Have no fear." Another laugh, even warmer. "Unless… unless my proximity is what worries you, of course."

"Arum," Damien breathes, reaching his hand our further.

"I'm here," Arum hisses. "I forget the limitations of your senses. I can see you, blue as you are in the starlight. Can you truly not see me?"

"I…" Damien swallows roughly, feeling Rilla warm beside him, feeling the coolness of the dirt beneath him, knowing that this monster is somewhere, so close by, watching him through the dark. Damien shakes his head, testing.

"How interesting," Arum murmurs, and his voice is still bouncing strange, as if it could be coming from the whole of the jungle itself.

A pause drags out, then, and Damien grasps, feeling across the scattered leaves, towards where Arum's bedroll should be.

Arum's hand intercepts his own, and when the monster laughs soft again, he sounds only close, only ordinary again. "I told you, honeysuckle. I am here."

"Arum," Damien whispers, the texture of scales so strange against his palm, and Arum pulls his hand closer, touching it to- to his cheek, Damien imagines, and he can feel the rumbling of his throat and the rumbling of his voice as he speaks again.

"I did not budge an inch," he hisses again, and Damien can feel him speaking, even as his voice echoes in the canopy above.

Damien can barely focus on the fascination he feels at that, though, because the reality of Arum's face in his hand, again- the reality of the monster laying so close beside them in the dark- it is twisting so- so-

So pleasantly, within him. Damien's mouth has gone dry.

"Go back to sleep, honeysuckle," Arum murmurs, his voice gone quiet and normal again, and he squeezes Damien's hand as he moves it away from his face again. "Go back to sleep. We are safe, I assure you."

Damien believes him instantly. Damien believed him the first time, when he insisted the other monster would not return. He knows that they are safe, that the three of them together are more dangerous than anything the wilds could possibly assail them with.

"Are you certain?" he asks again, regardless, because his heart is racing and he knows that Arum can hear it, and certainly he requires this excuse for the pounding rhythm, and for the way he has not pulled his hand away from Arum's.

Arum has not pulled his hand away, either.

"We are safe," Arum repeats in a hiss. "I promise. Go back to sleep, Damien."

Damien squeezes his eyes shut, despite the dark, hoping that Arum is no longer looking at his face, that he cannot see Damien's expression in the dark.

Damien pretends that he has forgotten their hands, clasped together. He steadies his own breathing, pretends not to feel his own heat permeating Arum's hand, and-

And Arum does not pull his hand away, either.

Arum does not pull his hand away. Not before Damien falls back asleep in truth, at least.

The rumors are true, apparently.

They can see it in the distance when they round the crest of a hill, a gap in the canopy of trees above the road giving them a decent look towards the swamp in the distance that is apparently Arum’s home.

The swamp that is also, apparently, creeping outward.

They can see outcroppings of new-grown swamp greenery that stands out among the wider jungle, pushing past the usual border between the two, and even at this distance Rilla can see the speckling of purple from the blooms that give the swamp its name as well, and from this perspective the growth looks like curling fingers, reaching out.

Searching, Rilla thinks. A desperate hand, combing through the jungle to look for the missing ruler currently bundled up on the horse behind her. She glances back towards him, and even hidden behind the layers of cloth she can see the tension in his frame, can feel the impatient energy radiating from him.

“Almost there,” she says, and he tilts his head down towards her with a sharp breath. “Not much farther, now.”

He nods, and she sees him hesitate for only a moment before his eagerness gets the better of him.

“If one of those- those outgrowths is close enough, we should aim for it. We may be afforded a shortcut. Save further time,” he hisses quietly, and that’s pretty confusing but Rilla nods in response. He knows this place better than she does, after all.

Damien holds his own tongue for a moment before he points out one in particular, a vivid purple growth curling out, and quietly suggests a path they could take in that direction, a smaller road that should take them close.

Arum grows more and more agitated as they make their approach, and they all notice at the same moment that the outgrowths aren't the only strange thing about the swamp's border, nor are they the only new growth. She understands belatedly why the border was so easy to see from a distance-

There is a wall. The foliage on the edge is tightly packed, unnaturally so, the trees interwoven with newer saplings and quick vines, an enormous wicker boundary spotted with bright splotches of poisonous plants (Rilla can tell, even at this distance). Arum picks up a low growl, compulsive and continuous, and Rilla clenches her hands tight but she doesn't warn him against the noise. She doubts any other humans would be coming this close while the swamp is doing… whatever this is, and honestly, she can't blame him for the distress.

He's practically snarling to himself by the time they reach the border, his tail thrashing noticeably beneath his layers, and Rilla's stomach gives a sympathetic twist as Damien carefully, carefully helps Arum lower himself from the saddle.

"Okay," Rilla says. "Obviously this is… less than ideal."

"An understatement, Amaryllis. Look at- look at this! What- what could it possibly-" he gestures sharply towards the wall, then hisses in pain and draws the limb back to himself.

Damien makes a worried noise, an arm still supporting the monster as he fidgets, growling low, and then he eyes the wall with a considering look. "Hm. Perhaps I will close the borders entirely," Damien murmurs, and Rilla doesn't understand his words or his tone until he looks to Arum again. "I think you said that, when I asked what you intended to do when you returned home. It seems that others had similar thoughts, in your absence, Lord Arum."

Arum scoffs, then gently pushes himself from Damien's grip, standing straighter on his own, stiff and strained. "Foolishness. Ridiculous," he mutters as he starts to pull the layers off, unwinding scarves from his neck. "All this will do is draw undue attention-"

The sound of wings above compels Damien to draw his bow instantly, and his eyes dart to the foliage above more quickly than Rilla can follow, fixing on the source, the wide wingspan and gleaming threat of talons as they descend, and Damien's stance tightens, drawing the string more taut-

"Wait- stop-"

At Arum's choking cry Damien's poise falters, his aim going wide, the arrow finding purchase in the wicker wall instead of the quickly dropping- thing-

Arum tears the hood from his head, tears the last of the layers off beside his cape, his frill flaring and a grin curving his mouth, and he makes a strange warbling call, clear and loud and near to birdsong, and the wings above startle, fluttering sharp, and then there is an answering cry before the shape descends even faster.

"Arum-"

"Lord A-"

Arum nearly falls as the feathered shape collides with him, but he is laughing, now, as he makes more of those strange noises, and Rilla finally manages to parse exactly what the hell just happened, because there is an enormous heron shuffling from one taloned foot to the other on top of Arum's shoulders, shoving its beaked face into Arum's horns and squawking in a way that sounds both irritable and excited.

"Yes- foolish thing," Arum breaks into another laugh, and then into another strange warble as he lifts a hand to gently push the beaked face from pecking at the edge of his frill. "Obviously. Of course I did. Of course I did, you little- did you doubt? No-" he trills again, bright, and the heron ruffles up and makes a chuffing noise. "Of course I did," Arum says again, gentler, tapping the bird softly beneath the beak, and then he seems to remember Rilla and Damien, still watching.

Rilla's breathing hasn't entirely slowed from the shock, yet, but she's smiling now as she watches him, and Damien has come close beside her, stowing his bow again and pressing a hand over his mouth to bury his own smile, and Arum's frill ruffles by his neck at their observation.

"Er-"

"A friend?" Rilla asks, an eyebrow raising.

"One of my- my subjects, I suppose you could say," Arum murmurs, and he can't seem to help the smile as the bird presses its head into his horns again, trilling sternly. "Yes, I know. Hush." He gives the bird an equally stern look despite the laugh he gives, and then he lifts an arm for the creature to step to. "I know," he says quietly. "But you are frightening the horse, and I would rather not be kicked, little creature. I am nearly mended once, I would not like to suffer recovery a second time. Find your flock, spread the word if you must."

The bird squawks irritably, aiming its beak towards the humans for a moment before it turns back to Arum and flaps its wings at him.

"I said find your flock," he says in a low, fond growl. "Go on, you ridiculous thing. You need not worry for me. Go on."

The bird shifts from foot to foot on Arum's arm, chattering lightly, and then it pecks at the tip of Arum's snout and flaps before it lifts off, flying back up into the canopy again, singing something loud and joyous as it goes.

Arum sighs, his shoulders sagging as the weight of the creature is gone from him, but he clearly can't bury his smile. Damien takes Rilla's hand, and then they both come close to Arum, and Rilla lifts her other hand to touch the monster's elbow.

"Seemed excited to see you," she says, her tone only barely teasing, and his smile is so entirely warm, and Rilla and Damien's hands tighten together, each squeezing at the same moment.

"Yes, well," he makes a rattling noise low in his chest, still smiling. "I imagine they will all be quite ready for the swamp to return to normal."

"What do we do, then, about the wall?" Damien asks, gently, and Arum's smile flickers off.

He frowns, eyeing the woven greenery, and then he grumbles, "Bring me closer. It should still answer… it should still… still be able to hear."

Rilla doesn't exactly understand what that means, but- she figures he knows what to do in this situation better than she does, anyway, so she helps him. After a step or two Damien steps up on his other side, supporting him further.

"Thank you," Arum murmurs when they are close enough, and then he very gently pulls away from their hands. He lifts his own hand, and just barely touches the tangle of foliage, and then he swallows, chest rumbling. "Keep?"

Rilla barely manages to stop herself from reaching for him again. He sounds so- so desperate, and the urge to help him is-

"Keep. Can you hear me?" He pauses, and Rilla can see that he's trying not to cringe as he runs his hand along the vines. "Keep, I'm here, I- I need you to let me in."

Nothing changes, for a long moment. Beside her, Damien reaches a hand out, gripping Rilla's hand tight again, his nerves mirroring her own.

"Keep," he says again, keening clear in his voice. "Keep, please-"

Arum stumbles back as vines burst from the ground, new and accompanied by harmonious song, overtaking the wall and forming an archway that fills with magic, with- with a door, leading somewhere quite different from the swamp they could see past the wall.

Arum chokes a breath, warbles in further harmony with the song, and on shaking legs he bolts through the archway.

The Keep winds its vines around him so quickly that he is in the air before his feet even touch the floor of his home, before he has time to even breathe a syllable. It sings bright and clear and joyful, and it slots its mind soft against his again, precisely as their minds are meant to fit, in tune again so instantly that the vines don’t even come close to accidentally brushing any of the healing wounds that might still suffer from the pressure, and Arum can’t help the way he chokes, the way his throat goes tight and his eyes go hot, because-

He has missed his Keep so, so unbearably much.

He was never meant to be away for this long. His limbs are shaking with the relief of it even as he clings to its supportive vines, as he brushes his palms over the new bursts of flowers it is gleefully blooming around him. He’s so tightly enmeshed, so thoroughly cocooned, he wouldn’t have even noticed Amaryllis and Damien following through the portal if he could not feel the precise moment the Keep notices them.

The Keep notices them, and it is filled instantly with terror.

The humans are wound tight in vines nearly as quickly as Arum himself was, though these new vines are substantially less friendly as they pin Amaryllis and Damien against the wall with a discordant trill.

Arum feels the wash of terror pulse through with confusion, fury, protectiveness, and the vines around the humans continue to tighten. Arum’s heart skips, and he scrambles, reaching a hand through the bramble around him towards his- his- whatever, precisely, they are to him.

“Stop-” he snarls, the full force of his denial pushing out into his home, compelling the Keep to pause. The vines cease tightening, though they do not release. “Don’t hurt- don’t hurt them. They did not harm me, Keep, of that I can assure you,” he says in a breathless rush. “They did not harm me. They- they-”

The Keep stills, feeling his thoughts, and the grip it has upon the humans is already loosening. Arum needs not say more; the Keep understands him. It understands, and it loves him, and he needs not say a single word more.

He will say it anyway. It is true.

“They brought me back to you,” he says, his voice ragged and too full, and the both of them stare at him as they are lowered gently back to the floor. “They brought me home.”

[->]

#elle's fanfic #scattered on my shore #the penumbra podcast #second citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #lord arum #amaryllis of exile #sir damien #YELLIN AND YELLING I BEG U TO TELL ME FEEDBACK

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