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clansayeed · 4 years

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Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 9: A Puzzle with No Edges

PAIRING: Nik Ryder x trans*M!MC (Taylor Hunter) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

Taylor Hunter (MC) has made it good for himself in New Orleans; turns out moving to a new city fresh out of college to reinvent yourself isn’t as hard as people make it out to be. Things only start to get confusing when he finds himself the target of a malevolent wraith. Good thing someone’s looking out for him though — because without Nighthunter Nik Ryder as his bodyguard he definitely won’t survive long in the twisting darkness of the supernatural underworld he’s tripped into.

Bound by Circumstance and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the book Nightbound and the rest of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Circumstance only loosely follows the events and plotline of Nightbound, and features a separate antagonist, different character motivations, and further worldbuilding.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Circumstance/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

The protection spell is cast, which means the time has come to identify their enemy. Easier said than done. Things get a little complicated when henchmen arrive with their eyes set on Cadence.

[READ IT ON AO3]

He’s ready to flinch away when Ryder presses the still-smoking charred end to the back of his hand — but doesn’t need to. The tightly-wound bundle of herbs is warm but doesn’t burn. Just leaves smeared black ash in its wake.

“Not to break your concentration or anything…”

“Then don’t.”

“Too late. This stuff isn’t permanent, is it? Like, it’ll come off?” All he can think is how so not happy the company director will be if he shows up to rehearsal with occult symbols twirling up his arms. Especially when the Oberon costume is pretty much sans shirt.

Ryder doesn’t stop as he carefully traces the symbols from Ivy’s borrowed tome. “And here I was thinkin’ you wanted to be protected.”

He does. “I do! I just —”

“Stop being an asshole, Ryder. Once the spell is complete it’ll basically act like a magical cloak. The smudge ash is just a conduit. You’ll be fine.”

Katherine leans over Taylor’s shoulder; watches with the curiosity of someone who doesn’t have anything better to do. And since she explained how, once she and Cadence were sure they were off the tail of Persephone’s — and Lady Smoke’s — henchmen, she was back on standby until the vampire had use of her again? She really doesn’t.

“Good to know.” Taylor sighs in relief; lets Ryder keep drawing.

He stops just below the crook of Taylor’s elbow and switches to the next arm. Taylor’s trying his best not to squirm but he can’t help it — this shit tickles! Makes him yank his arm to the side involuntarily.

Ryder just grunts, yanks, and wipes away the mistake with a bit of spit on the pad of his thumb.

“Ew.”

“Get over it.”

There’s a quick rap of knuckles on the open front door. Of the four apartments only two are in use so there’s not much worry about who it is.

Ryder pulls back and takes Taylor’s wrists in his. Inspects his work with gentle turns and doubled-back looks at the instructions in the book. Cal appears with a brief crinkle of his sensitive nose but smiles and waves nevertheless. Only when Taylor tries to wave back Nik grunts and holds his arm tighter.

“How goes it?” Cal takes up the empty armchair opposite them. Looks to Taylor like he knows what’s going on and isn’t that a laugh.

“Good, I think?” He leaves his words hanging in the hopes that Nik might take up the lead but… not exactly. “Sure, we’ll go with good.”

The Nighthunter tosses the half-burnt bundle into a silver dish. “That Hunter’s Sage was good shit, Lowell.”

“Does that mean it’s helping?”

He picks up the book and settles it in his lap; twirls a stone pendant in his fingers as he reads. “Time to find out.”

The fact that Katherine steps back doesn’t settle well in Taylor’s stomach. Even the smile she offers is only halfway reassuring. So instead he looks to the werewolf for comfort — and Cal holds his gaze like he’s holding Taylor’s hand to help him through it.

The air is thick with the lingering smell of charred herbs. Even with the windows open the muggy Southern evening makes the sweat on the back of his neck cling to him. Coats him tacky and unsure.

The fact that Ryder and Katherine can still wear their leather gear without complaint is either a serious power move or just plain supernatural. Both are viable options at this point.

Ryder wraps the pendant’s leather cord in his fist and holds it aloft; dips the chipped yellow stone into a glass bowl still foaming at the mouth with all the ingredients they’d procured from Luc’s back rooms. It comes out dripping with the pearly brew — not even a drop wasted as it swings wide and stops over Taylor’s marked arms.

Despite the fact that Taylor himself had taken the ingredients off of the dutch oven on the nearby stove each drop is cold as ice as it falls onto the runes — seeps into his skin, his bones and chills him all the way down to the marrow.

“Nos rejecto nostro quod mortale est a servis suis ut altius virtute. Ubi autem non est datum quaerere Sanctuarii. Itaque accepimus ipsis facti ignara cladis virtutes invocare. Postulamus illorum tutela…”†

No one dares interrupt the Latin curling on Ryder’s tongue. Not just for the sake of the spell — there’s a beauty to his careful incantation that holds them captive listeners. Willing, but captive.

No way the small surface of the stone should hold as much of the potion as it seems to. Even when it hangs closer to his eyes Taylor can’t see a porous surface or hole to drip from. But now probably isn’t the time to question the mechanics of magic.

Careful not to miss a word Ryder’s finger traces underneath the hand-written invocation. “Postulamus ab oculis eorum. Hoc tu arcebis auferat sua mala, et a dolore suo. Praesidio cute quod tactus de turpi, ex quo sanguis malus est animus a nequitia sua.”

The thought I’m going to get through my first spell without freaking out isn’t even fully formed when it becomes a lie.

When a strange tingling besets across the surface of the runes. Pinpricks of tiny needles like his arms have fallen asleep but only where the ash is drawn.

It’s probably just the spell. It’s definitely just the spell. It’s just the spell, right?

Only he’s a tingled breath away from asking when Ryder — like he’s sensed Taylor’s interruption — holds up a finger.

“Et hoc usque dum facinus patratur malum exitum.”

It stops in sync with Ryder’s chant. With the droplets from the stone which Ryder tosses aside; no longer of use.

Only he keeps reading — doesn’t give indication good or bad whether the spell worked or not.

Thankfully Taylor isn’t the only impatient one. Not when Cal not-so-subtly coughs into his fist.

“So is that it? Did it work?”

Please, please say it worked.

Katherine shrugs — but steps forward back into potential harms’ way. “No one blew up so that’s a good sign.”

“I didn’t know — seriously?” If Taylor looks between the hunters any quicker he’s going to get whiplash. “That was on the table? Why didn’t you tell me that was on the table?”

“Because it wasn’t,” explains Nik curtly, “not when I’m the one casting. Kathy on the other hand — she’s got a reputation for that kind of thing.” He finally pries himself away from Ivy’s book to give his rival a sardonic raise of his eyebrows.

“Touché.”

But Cal hasn’t gotten his answer and makes a point in telling them. “Just ‘cause no one blew up doesn’t mean it worked. Did. it. work? Is he protected?”

Maybe the way Ryder lets his hand linger on Taylor’s knee is a bit awkward — but not uncomfortable. Like his touch is an extension of the spell. He even gives what may be the first look of hope Taylor’s ever seen.

“We can’t be certain until we’re outta the Shift’s wards but yeah; yeah I think so.”

It’s good news. Arbitrarily good, but good — and boy does he need a dose of good right about now.

“We should go tell the others.” Taylor stands and tucks Ivy’s book at his side.

“We should start workin’ on tracking down what’s after you.”

“Why not both?” It doesn’t take supernatural senses to know there’s another round of bickering on the horizon — so Cal takes it upon himself to pluck the book in hand; gestures to Taylor’s smudge-tattooed forearms. “We’ll start team strategy downstairs and, Taylor, if you wanna get rid of all that?”

Yes, yes he wants to very badly.

Ryder frowns, starts to argue; “This ain’t a team sport — hey! Kujo, get back here with that book!” And is caught between standing his ground and doing his job when Cal darts out towards the hallway staircase.

Katherine gives a shake of her head but doesn’t do much to hide her bemusement at their antics. “Go on,” she tells Taylor on her way out, “I’ll make sure they don’t throttle each other. At least not until you can bet on the winner.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He closes the door behind her — closes it, but doesn’t turn the lock just in case — and heads to shower off the spellwork.

“I asked nicely, Smith. Now I’m telling; calm down before I have to rethink lifting your ban!”

“Come on Garrus, but him some slack. He’s excited.”

“Well an excited vampire does not a friendly and relaxed environment make! At least move all this to a table — I don’t have any room to serve drinks!”

The rest of the Shift comes into view when Taylor finishes rubbing his hair dry and tosses the towel over his shoulder.

Sure enough Cadence — still imposingly tall with Krom sitting at a booth — hovers over a spread of papers, folders, and what look like newspaper clippings scattered across the bartop.

Garrus huffs with two large wooden steins filled to frothing in his hands. Practically shoves them at Cal on the other side of the bar with a flippant and frustrated gesture to the customers waiting while engrossed in their billiards at the front.

Katherine continues defending Cade — though at this point it seems a little more involved than simple loyalty to her employer. It’s the same concern she had for him in the cage fight.

Only he hopes this won’t end similarly.

“I can’t believe you’re not interested, Garrus,” Cadence laughs with borderline hilarity; opens a manila folder and pulls out thick embossed paper that oozes age and historical importance. “Or was I only interesting when I was shiny and fresh from the war?”

“Oi!” barks Ivy from her booth; looking up from the page Ryder has her tome open to, “that’s not fair and you know it.”

Katherine knocks the tip of her boot into the vampire’s leg — draws a long sigh from him.

“Very well… you’re right. Apologies, Garrus.”

“As long as he’s throwing insults and not his fists like he did in that cage I couldn’ give less of a shit.” As Cal passes Taylor he ruffles the damp blond hair out of place with a silly grin.

“What’s going on…?”

Taylor wanders over; looks over the piles with passing curiosity before he makes his way to scooch in beside Ryder at the back.

“Another one of our dear mystery man’s wild wyvern chases.” comments Garrus with no less salt on his tongue.

“Goose chases.” corrects Krom absently.

“Hm? Oh, well, those too. Equally nasty creatures either way.”

Like always it’s Ivy who takes pity on Taylor’s lack of experience and knowledge. “Taylor, this is Cadence Smith; don’t let the lack of glamour fool you, though, he’s —”

“A vampire,” he nods and gives a small wave; isn’t surprised when it’s ignored in favor of Cadence’s thumbing through the papers for something specific, “I know. We met last night.”

Ivy gives an “ah” in understanding; “Then you got the life story then? Or — well — lack thereof.” And when he shakes his head she claps and giggles with glee. This is obviously a story she adores sharing. “Oh goody. And, pah, he’s too busy to tell it himself. So here’s how it goes. It’s a cloudy night in the summer of 1918…”

“Shouldn’t I be telling it, petal?” Garrus calls, “after all that was decades before your time. I was there.”

“Hush, momma’s regaling.” And it’s all the argument he has since the fae falls silent — returns to slicing lemons with a hum. “Now where was I? Ah — yes — it’s a cloudy night in the summer of 1918.

“Before you ask: yes that 1918. Half the world dead and the other half dying, and a half somewhere in the middle that can’t be bothered to care. This particular scene is set at the temporary wartime hospital Saint Marcellus. †† Pause for laughter —” — she does pause, though no laughter comes — “— well that’s disappointing.

“The beds are full, the bugs are a-buzzin’, and this summer was one of the worst. All those brave soldiers shipped back from the trenches only to deal with an all-too-familiar brand of torture from New Orleans herself. And in the Marcellus you’ve got wings for everything; for lost limbs, for limbs that needed losing, for bullet holes and for internal bleeding and for those who they didn’t really know what was wrong with ‘em, but they had to be shoved somewhere until someone figured it out.

“How did that middle-class education on world history do for you, Taylor,” Ivy dances the tips of her nails on the wooden tabletop, “like, what do you know about shell shock?”

He tries not to glance Cadence’s way — glad that he has a chance to avert his gaze before he gets caught staring.

“It’s what they used to call PTSD, right?”

Nik nods; a curt jerk of the chin. He’s definitely heard this story before but there’s a strange and uncharacteristic reverence in his silence.

Especially given how eager he’d been upstairs to get on with the hunt.

“They had a wing for that, too. That was the one the doctors at the Marcellus tried their best to keep empty — bad for morale, you know. And they did a bang-up job with everyone except for Cadence here. First they couldn’t get him to talk; not a sound or a written word to help him out. Then he started talking and they couldn’t get him to shut up.”

A deeper voice cuts her off. “I didn’t have a name nor tags to identify me. I’d been shipped all the way across the Atlantic in civvies for lack of a uniform. The moment the chief medical officer heard my accent he swore up and down every corridor for an hour — trying to find the incompetent fool who mistook a British soldier for an American one.”

Judging by the satisfied look on Ivy’s face she has no problem with Cadence jumping in to give a first-person account. Maybe she even expected it seeing as she goes right back to reading her book like she never said a word. Like she didn’t start it.

Cadence continues without looking up from a fragile folded newspaper. Cradles the old edition of The New York Times with sentimental longing. At his awkward angle Taylor has to stretch his neck in order to barely make out the headline.

ARMISTICE SIGNED, END OF THE WAR!

“I had been admitted as a mute with a severe case of trench foot and an undiagnosable allergy to direct sunlight. The infection they were content to amputate; the rest… attributed quickly to shell shock.

“They kept the curtains drawn and drilled me without end. Anything to get me to remember my name, my regiment, how I’d landed on the wrong side of the pond. Professionals, experts in their fields couldn’t crack me open. I was one angry Corporal away from being sent back to Europe when a London-born nurse lied and said I was her cousin. As far as anyone knew I very well could have been. I certainly didn’t argue.

“In truth she knew what would happen to me back on English soil. They didn’t call it shell shock there, they called it cowardice. She lied her way through missing documents and got me released to her care. She was a kind woman, Meredith LaPointe. Took me in while her own husband was looking at a future without his arms. Had two little ones — barely more than toddlers if I recall.

“Killing her is still my fiercest regret.”

The needle scratches on the proverbial record. Leaves Taylor gaping in shocked silence — aware with a bitter slap of reality to the face that no one will meet his eyes.

But it’s Cal’s first time hearing the story, too. And he’s not so quiet in the face of injustice.

“She saved your skin and you — you killed her? What the fuck?”

Only Cadence doesn’t answer; palms spread flat and wide on the bartop. Taylor swears he can see a small tremble in his broad shoulders.

Katherine speaks in his stead. “He didn’t know what he was.”

“Bullshit.”

“Believe what you will,” Cadence finds his voice back from some dark abyss, “but it’s the truth. A fortnight shut up in that ward and no amount of food they gave me did the trick. I didn’t even realize what I’d done until she was slumped on the floor at my feet.”

The wolf still snarls. “If you say you hurt those kids I swear to Christ…”

“No. I ran.”

“And put the rest of the city in danger.”

“No more than it already was. If I recall correctly your Pack took advantage of the poverty of the time. Something about the hunger of the wolf allowing them to extort rations.”

Cal lets out a primal growl. The wooden bar under his fingers groans — tries desperately not to yield.

It’s the twist and whip of a hand towel that snaps him out of it. Garrus practically flush with anger and glowering between the werewolf and vampire heatedly.

“The past is the past — let it go; both of you — before you,” — to Cade — “deal with another ban and you,” — to Cal — “find yourself out on the curb. Got it?”

They break eye contact but that doesn’t seem to be enough. Not when Garrus slams his palms down with an expectant look.

“I asked you boys a question; I expect an answer.”

“Got it.”

“Understood.”

“Good,” and the most terrifying thing about it is when Garrus resumes cleaning new glasses as though it never happened, “now, continue. You’re gettin’ to the best part.”

There’s a rueful twist to the vampire’s mouth but he continues anyway. “There isn’t much to tell after that. I found my way to the same place many lost souls did at the time; to the Graveyard Shift. Garrus was kind enough to put me up for a short while — gave me better forgeries for an identity and helped organize a meeting and arrangement with de la Rosa and his clan to get me blood when I needed it.

“And I’ve spent every year since working to recover my lost identity.”

There’s definitely a wow in there somewhere but Taylor’s having a hard time finding it. Instead awkwardly points between Cadence and Katherine — who answers his unasked question like she’s used to picking up at the end of story-time.

“He started hiring Nighthunters to help his crusade a few decades ago. The guy before me put up his standby job on the table in a high-stakes card game and I lost.”

“You make it sound like I treat you terribly.” Cadence scoffs. Gets a grin from his mortal companion.

“I just hate being at your beck and call.”

“Well I’ve gotten farther with you than I did the others. So you’re doing something right.”

“No shit. I’m me.”

“Indeed you are.” The looks they share are fond but there’s no mistaking the pain hidden behind the vampire’s useless spectacles.

As someone who has been there — suffered the struggle of self and identity — whether he’s a murderer or not Taylor only feels sympathy for him.

“So what’s this new information then? Something from the what’s-her-name you met with at Persephone?”

Cadence nods. “Isadora, yes. Among other things that turned up following her father’s death she discovered he had some digging done on my identity in secret. On their own they don’t go very far, but coupled with the favor Kathy here called in last month I think I may finally have some names to dig through.”

“That’s great!”

“Yeah, and also not our concern.” The look Nik gives him is full of reproach. “We can play private identity investigator all we like when we I.D. and gut your would-have-been killer.”

Taylor’s definitely more than a little amused by the ‘we’ aspect of that argument but prior banter tells him to let it go for the moment. It’s not like Ryder’s trying to divert them away from the real reason they’re all there.

Well, all except for Katherine and Cadence. They just seem to need a place to do… whatever it is they’re doing.

Ryder actually pushes back Taylor for a direct look to Ivy. “Did you bring those bestiaries from your collection?”

“I did.” But the revenant turns up her nose at him. Flexes her cheek muscles while her heavy leather platforms thud with her bouncing foot.

“So… can we look at ‘em?”

“You know you’re asking for an awful lot of favors without payment. The protection spell, the invocation tome, and now you want access to my carefully crafted and collected bestiaries — meanwhile I haven’t seen even a hint of a vial of payment from you.”

There’s Ivy’s playful banter and then there’s whatever she’s up to now — her eyes burning with hot pink embers and looking paler than usual; like the milky, glassy eyes of a corpse.

Maybe it’s because of the clothes she wears but sometimes Taylor forgets she’s somewhere between the living and the dead.

No way he’s forgetting now, though.

And he’s very, very content to not get involved in their shady (well, he suspects) dealings. Until Ryder is grabbing him by the shoulders and turning him head-on in Ivy’s direction.

“You’re tellin’ me you’re ready to turn a blind eye to this poor, cute face?” Oh, he’s despicable.

Makes Taylor try to worm his way out from between them; “Don’t get me involved in this!”

“That’s not fair!” Ivy pouts.

“Neither is the death sentence he’s been given.” He tries to grab Taylor’s jaw — dear god he will not be mimed like a puppet — but accepts the hand that bats his away as nope too far. “Is there no room in that heart of yours for his well-being?”

“You know as well as I do that my heart is withered and all shriveled up like a—like a raisin!”

Still her resolve is crumbling every time she’s unable to stop herself from looking Taylor in the eyes. He wants her to fight it solely on principle. But apparently Nik is just as well-versed in the art of weaseling his way out of payments as he is doing the things that get him paid.

She wails — an echoing thing befitting of her undead status — and covers her face with skeletal fingers. “I can’t run a business like this, Ryder! He’s just — just too damn cute!”

If it wasn’t helping him stay alive he’d resent that.

“Gah!” The sweet noise of Nik’s victory. “Get up — move it you fleshballs before I change my mind!”

Ryder tugs Taylor out of the booth with him. Gives Ivy a wide berth as she hauls her own butt out toting a large carpet-bag behind her.

She hauls the tremendous weight of the bag onto the tabletop and undoes several ornate-looking silver clasps. All in a careful order judging by the way she seals one or two back up and comes back to them later.

When she opens the bag there’s nothing Taylor can immediately see — even when he stands on the tips of his toes to look the only thing visible is a gaping, empty blackness.

The only way he can describe it? — He feels like he’s looking six feet under; like her body should be way down at the bottom even though Ivy herself said it burned to sinner’s ash long ago.

Ivy pushes up her sleeves; rubs her hands together like she’s itching for a fight. And like an eldritch hellspawn of Mary Shelley and Mary Poppins she reaches down — way down, like impossibly far down — into the bag to scavenge through contents unknown.

“Impressive, right?” asks Krom from his view still in the booth.

Taylor most certainly agrees. “Very Hogwarts.”

“Ha! Bitch, ask who did it first.” Were Ivy’s hands not otherwise occupied she wound definitely be pointing two thumbs at herself. “I know I packed them in here. I regretted not having them as reference on Carlo’s autopsy.”

The distant shatter of glass draws everyone’s attention — even the unwitting Garrus who steps back and looks for the mishap. Only when he realizes it’s not his fault, instead something fallen in her bag of horrors, the fae huffs in frustration and refuses to give Ivy any more of his attention.

Even though his ears twitch to every echoing sound.

“Fu—finally!” Taylor doesn’t get the time to debate the biological physics of Ivy’s breathlessness when he finds three aged tomes suddenly stacked in unprepared arms; each bigger and in worse shape than the last.

But of course she beams at him with teeth bleached white as bone and all struggles are forgiven. At least until the leather-bound edges reveal their bruises.

One by one Ryder takes the bestiary trilogy and goes about making his own Cadence-adjacent spread on the table. Nudges Krom and his poetry book out of the way to take up whatever space isn’t displaced by the carpet-bag of the void.

“These are great, Iv’. Thanks.”

“I didn’t do it for you.” Makes her point by flicking the round of his ear. They both reach for Taylor at the same time but Ivy gets there first — loops her arm with his and sticks out her tongue (or the closest thing she has; truthfully he’s afraid to ask what exactly it’s supposed to be — because it certainly doesn’t look like a tongue) in childish victory.

“I don’t know where you think you’re goin’ but I need him to identify the big-and-ugly.” Ryder drolls.

“My payment will be in the form of mortal gold,” she pats Taylor’s arm reassuringly, “otherwise known as caffeine. You get to page-flipping and we’ll go on a coffee run for the lot.”

“Actually,” Garrus interrupts, giddy with glee, “I think I may have concocted —”

“Another time sugarplum!” As it is she’s already halfway to the front door.

The look on Ryder’s face is enough for Taylor to know if he really doesn’t want to go he doesn’t have to. That his body guard will, well, guard his body and keep him at the Shift.

But his legs are restless and sunset has always been his favorite time of day. So he’s grateful, but no thanks.

Plus… coffee.

Garrus volunteers an old drink specials chalkboard from the back when it gets obvious they’re going to need more than jotting down theories, ideas, and recollections on napkins. Mostly because he has to keep restocking the napkins.

If Ivy would just let them use little sticky notes on her bestiaries there wouldn’t be a napkin issue. But things snowball as they do and one thing leads to another. Which leads to the right-handed Katherine wrenching the chalk away from the left-handed Ryder to give them a less-smudged list of possible suspects.

THE GRAVEYARD SPECIALS HAPPY HOUR: Possessed Corpse(?) TO not likely—no relatives(friend?) buried in state

THIRSTY THURSDAY COMBO: BUY pursuit began before STL — can’t recall if other being/s present GET 5 6 7(?) holy light arrows = barely a scratch HALF OFF!! AMAZING DEAL!!

Among various scribbled (and crossed out) suggestions both sleuthed and thrown out by the resident experts.

Thankfully Cal and Krom are about as versed in the finer details of the supernatural kingdom as Taylor is; makes him feel better about not really being able to contribute other than rehashing the events of that night for the umpteenth time.

But is it all in vain?

The list keeps going on — Katherine’s resorted to adding her words to the embellished paint border around the board. A fact or prediction will cause them to double-back and cross one theory out but one takes its place not a minute later.

When Cadence’s curiosity was piqued enough for him to offer help, Katherine had mentioned the vampire’s penchant for, how did she put it: “long, boring research projects.”

The fact that he and Ivy seem to be the only ones getting a real hoot out of the never-ending cycle they’ve trapped themselves in probably says it all.

Taylor uncrosses his legs; hops down from his latest attempt at unconventional comfort on the pool table and makes for the door.

“Whoa there — where are you headin’?”

He’s relieved Ryder doesn’t announce it to the whole bar. Up front Cadence tries yet again to explain the difference between a vengeful spirit and a poltergeist to Cal. But the wolf keeps insisting all “spectral ghoulies” are the same.

Hopefully the smile he gives his bodyguard doesn’t make him seem ungrateful.

“I was just gonna get some air.”

He would have the same look of ‘seriously’ that Nik has if their positions were reversed. If he didn’t know what it felt like to feel so damn useless like he does right now.

“You realize all this —” with a wave backwards, “— is for you, right? Everyone puttin’ in their time and knockin’ their heads together; it’s all so you can be safe.”

Way to make him feel like the biggest piece of shit to ever live.

Only this time his thoughts bleed through — his tongue edged like a razor. “Wow, really? I had no fucking clue. Thanks for the update!”

And despite the guilt knotting in his stomach and all the rules on self-sacrifice he’s been unlearning for too damn long Taylor turns on his heel and practically marches out of the Shift.

Of course he immediately feels terrible the moment the air hits his face. Wants to turn around and practically march back in; push himself into the conversation to help as best he can. Even if all he can do is repeat every. single. detail of the attack.

But he’s trying to prove a point. So he doesn’t. He tells that nagging voice in the corner of his thoughts to stop trying to make it out like he’s seeking attention and makes himself comfortable on the curbside.

Or at least… he tries. Are there points for trying when he doesn’t want to be disturbed but can’t seem to shake the weirdest and most flippant bodyguard in the whole city? Well since it’s his point system he decides that yes, yes there are points; a good dozen of them — two if Nik starts lecturing him on the risks everyone inside the Shift is taking on his behalf.

What this point system will lead up to exactly Taylor isn’t sure. But it’ll be something good — like a giant platter of beignets when this is all over.

“Y’know what occurs to me, Rook?” They have to look like street comedians, the pair of them. Nik’s coat is so spread out it might as well look into buying real estate on the sidewalk.

When he doesn’t get an answer Nik tries again — this time nudges his shoulder with more gentle caution than he thought the man was capable of.

“I said, ‘y’know what occurs to me, Rook?’”

“Dunno who you’re talking to — can’t be me. That isn’t my name.”

“All right, listen here wise-ass —”

“No you listen.” Theatrically it was a very bold choice to interrupt but definitely added drama to the scene. Except now he has to follow through on account of Nik actually listening.

So he steels himself — accepts internal defeat at not getting those two dozen points — and gives the hunter something to listen to.

“I get it, okay? I get how important this is and I get how much I need to appreciate a bunch of randoms I’ve known for less than the time it takes for me to finish a pint of ice cream in my freezer all coming together and helping me find out what’s trying to get me. And I do appreciate it; all of it.

“Garrus for putting me up, Krom and Ivy for trying to help me make sense of everything. Cal for sticking by my side and, hell, even Kathy and Cadence for pitching in what they know. And you—Nik—you’re running around this city on empty but that’s not stopped you from doing your job once.

“I see it; everything you guys are doing, and it blows my literal freakin’ mind because I’ve never really been the kind to just let myself be helped. But I don’t know what else to do except sit there and take it because I can’t… I mean I’m…”

He struggles to find the right way to say it; is definitely a little more than irritated because no doubt Nik is enjoying all his bravado suddenly wilting. That is until he catches the strange (but no less obvious) look of open understanding he’s being given.

Yeah that definitely doesn’t help him get his words out any easier.

But Nik doesn’t look ready to interrupt him without hearing what should have been a strong conclusion to his vented frustrations. So…

“I don’t know what to do because I’m useless. At least for this kind of crazy. So I’m not going to apologize for needing some space when I’m not really contributing much to the conversation anyway.”

The street is mostly empty — all signs point to the parties a couple blocks up and over. But Nik actually waits until a small group of couples are well out of earshot before he speaks.

“Get it all out?”

“What?”

“I asked if you got everythin’ out of your system. I’ll shut up if not.”

Taylor rolls his eyes. “I’m surprised you were quiet for that long.”

“It was a struggle, I’ll admit,” Nik’s mouth twists into a rueful half-smile, “but I know sometimes you just gotta say your piece. So keep goin’ if you need to.”

After a moment; “No — I think I got it all out. All I can think about, anyway.”

“Good, ‘cause you’re wrong.”

“Great — here we go —”

Nik gives a light backhand to Taylor’s arm. “I let you go, now can I get a turn?”

“Not if you’re just going to lecture me.”

“How would you know what I’m gonna say? Y’ain’t lettin’ me say it.”

And he only frowns because Nik makes a fair point. Begrudgingly settles himself in and avoids eye contact for what little dignity he has left to be spared a verbal lashing.

“I won’t sit here and argue every little point, ‘kay? Frankly we just don’t got that kinda time. Hell — I won’t even try and tell ya all the thoughts I have on that ‘useless’ comment. And trust me; I’ve got a fair few.

“‘Cause that’s how you feel, Rook. No amount a’nothin’ will change that. Not until somethin’ happens that changes your mind for yourself. But if you sit out here kickin’ pebbles and feelin’ bad for yourself what’re the chances of that one thing happenin’ anyway? Slim to none, if you ask me.”

“I don’t think I did ask you.”

“Roo—Taylor,” he turns them face to face this time; no longer content with avoidance, “I’m trying to help here. To give you space, tell you that yeah — all this shit is crazy and it’s easy for people like us to feel like we don’t got a seat at the table. But if you won’t even listen to what I’ve gotta say then I ain’t gonna waste my breath.”

Okay, bad idea. Because he feels bad enough but seeing the exhaustion wrinkled in the hunter’s forehead, the developing dark circles under his eyes? Nik’s not kidding — he’s one petulant quip away from straight up leaving Taylor alone.

Isn’t that what he wanted, though? At least when he came out here it had been. Now he’s not so sure.

But something Nik said isn’t sitting right. “‘People like us?’” he repeats, “that’s not… we’re not…” Nik knows so many things. Knows the spells and the weapons and who to avoid and who to cross. They may both be human but that’s like saying Krom and Ivy are first cousins.

Nik though, like the damn mind reader he is, shakes his head.

“Every Nighthunter was innocent once. Me, Kathy — there’s about as many ways to get into the life as there are ways to stay outta it but don’t think just ‘cause I know what I’m talkin’ about now that I always did.”

There’s a tug on Nik’s coat; makes him whip around and give the sleek black shoe and the suited man wearing it the bird and a snarl. “Watch it buddy.”

The man says nothing and enters the Shift. But Nik seems content to pick a fight another time and lets him go.

Looks back to Taylor in that same uncomfortably honest way that makes the butterflies in his stomach start to twist themselves into knots.

“Y’know what occurs to me, Rook?” he repeats his question again, now and after all this. Taylor isn’t even remotely surprised. This time he’s a little more receptive to it. Maybe Nik was onto something about speaking his piece.

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t groan to show his reluctance before answering; “What occurs to you, Nik?”

This victory smile is small and short-lived but no less important.

“It occurs to me that I don’t know much about you.”

“Seriously?”

His protest goes ignored. “So how ‘bout after we narrow down the usual suspects we change that? Get Gar’ to fry up some onion rings or summin’ and take the rest of the night to make sure that protection charm holds good and tight?”

Well that was unexpected.

“Are you…?”

“What?”

“I mean, I just — it sounded like…”

“Words, Taylor; they’re for more’n just startin’ sentences.”

Are you asking me on a date, Nik Ryder? He wants to ask; he’s even ready to play it off as a joke. But given how things have gone the last few minutes, nay hours, he just brushes it off with a laugh and; “Are you trying to permanently distract me with the promise of onion rings?”

Together they stand — already Taylor’s trying to think of ways to explain or lie his way through whatever questions everyone inside will ask about his blustery exit. Then Nik is grabbing him by the arms and coaxing him off the curb. Keeping him from being trampled by three more suited men heading inside the bar.

“Is Garrus throwing a special we didn’t know about?” he laughs; means it as a joke.

But the way the Nighthunter’s brow furrows isn’t joking. Not at all.

“What,” it takes Taylor a second to realize Nik’s glower is over his shoulder at the door, “what’s up?”

“Here’s a lesson for you —” —Nik’s gravelly voice is suddenly so low he has to lean in just to hear him— “— somethin’ to remember about this world we’re in. ‘Cause there’s weird, and there’s weird-weird. Shit that don’t even make sense in a bar full’a creatures.

“And four suits comin’ to Garrus’ at this time’a day — ‘specially when every coven, clan, and pack is celebratin’ Mardi Gras — is weird-weird.”

But they aren’t going to not go back inside. Even as ‘useless’ and mortal as he is Taylor knows that. And doesn’t resist when Nik gives him a light pull back and behind him.

“You stay behind me, got it?”

“No arguments here.”

“For once.” It’s a reply on some sort of instinct — doesn’t develop into their usual bickering half for the situation and half for the fact that Nik doesn’t waste any time yanking open the Shift door as a man on a mission.

They pass through the threshold and into an invisible fog of tension.

Nik’s right; though they arrived separately the suits are together and — a little more than that — two of them have handguns aimed forward. It doesn’t take supernatural senses to know they have every intent to use them.

“Maybe I wasn’t speaking loudly enough,” says Garrus — who looks more flustered and angry than Taylor thought the fae had in him, “but you. are. not. welcome. here. So leave before this gets ugly. The next time I have to say it, it won’t be a suggestion.”

“Everything all right here, Garrus?” Nik calls. Makes one of the armed men turn for a fraction of a second before he focuses back on the group ahead.

Only it occurs to Taylor how weird-weird it is that they don’t bother turning around — or didn’t bother locking the door behind them for that matter — when confronted with new arrivals.

Means, perhaps, that whatever they’re facing at the front is too dangerous to even consider looking away.

Judging by the way Cadence stands — one arm thrown out as a barrier to Katherine, upper lip twitching in a flicker of a snarl, eyes the same burning red as they had been while fighting the Minotaur — yeah; that’s the case for certain.

Garrus scoffs his answer. “Besides the fact that these imbeciles apparently need a refresher on the definition of a sanctuary, just peachy!”

“We’ll be happy to leave once we’ve got who we came for.” barks one of the suited men. “And not a moment before.”

“You idiots,” Ivy sneers, “you won’t even be able to fire those things in here without the wards handing you your asses on a platter.”

“It’s not the act, but the threat behind it.”

Cadence steps forward. Like a dance one of the men goes to step back on instinct until his partner holds him fast. The vampire sweeps his ruby gaze across the line they form. “Am I wrong? Your boss wouldn’t send you in here without warning you about the wards first.”

“Enough yakkin’. You either come with us willingly or as a body in a bag. Your choice, Smith.”

“If you’re going to act like you don’t have ears…” Even Taylor can’t suppress a shudder at the warped, demonic lilt to Ivy’s threat. The hunger in her fiery eyes.

But Krom holds her back — the only one who looks like bullets would bounce right off of him but also the most fearful of the lot. “Ivy don’t, please…” he whispers.

“Care to catch a guy up?” Nik tries again. Katherine leers at him over the black-suited shoulders.

“They’re here for Cade, dumbass. Three guesses who they work for.”

Nik nods, something unspoken passing in the undercurrent of her response. He gives a few jaunty steps and even tempts fate so far as to pat one of the armed man on the shoulder. Brings Taylor around with a hand on his wrist only to push him out of harms way to the corner of the bar.

“Well you gotta admire their work ethic.”

“Do we, though?”

“Yeah!” He sizes up the goons — steps back with a challenge in his arms spread wide. “More so when you think a’those wards Garrus mentioned. D’you know what happens to firearms, Gar’? I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.”

Garrus practically growls. “It’s not pretty.”

A ripple of unease starts to break the would-be kidnappers’ bravado. Fingers flex on triggers. A bead of sweat trickles down and stings in one’s eyes.

“If Lady Smoke wants to speak to me she can come herself,” snarls the vampire, “since she obviously knows how to find me.”

“Not just you.”

It’s an empty threat in the safety of the Shift’s wards but the damage is done; makes Cadence rush forward with an open fist ready to catch the speaker at his throat.

“Cade — no —!” Garrus calls too late.

A bright flash of light momentarily blinds them — but even as Taylor goes to shield his eyes he watches an invisible force of incredible strength send Cadence flying backwards and into the bar. The wood is solid, refuses to yield, and he sinks down onto the floor just as Katherine rushes to help him stand.

Apparently the wards aren’t just against goons — but anyone ready to cause harm.

The henchman rubs his throat, probably near wetting himself at the knowledge of how close he came to the same end as the Minotaur, and has the gall to manage a half-grin. “Well that’s handy.”

“What the fuck does Smoke want?” Kathy shouts through gritted teeth.

“What she’s owed.”

“She isn’t owed shit!”

Cadence rubs the back of his head with a groan. “I gave up what she owed me.”

“You don’t offer up a nickel and take the whole damn safe. Not in this town. Not when it comes to Lady Smoke.”

Katherine looks ready to test the boundaries of the wards; at the very least with her words. But Cadence’s hand on her arm as she helps him stand holds her back.

“Fine, I’ll go —”

“Like hell you wi —”

“If only to right this fucking business of favors and what’s owed.” The look Cade gives her isn’t one to be argued with. Not that it’s stopped her before. But even from across the room Taylor feels the same unease that he had back watching the vampire in the cage.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Rather than outright refusing Nik plays his cards a little closer to his chest. Gives Cade a stern look that promises help if he needs it — which might be very soon judging how things have escalated so far.

“No, but that doesn’t mean I won’t do it anyway.”

“Smart choice.” With a gesture from the same shiny-shoe asshole who stepped on Nik’s coat the guns get tucked away. Whether they can be seen or not it doesn’t change the fear they bring. “Get a move on. Lady Smoke doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Cadence scoffs. “She may have power over many things but not even Tonya Reimonenq can control the sun and moon. She can wait until it’s safe for me to leave.”

Compelled by the lurch in his stomach Taylor flies forward; bolts around the table as if fucking compelled and pushes Ryder aside to grasp for the vampire’s arm.

“What did you say?”

Cadence looks like he’d forgotten Taylor even existed. “What? Let go.”

“That name — say it again.”

“Rook?” He feels Ryder’s concerned touch but couldn’t give less of a fuck.

“Say it again.”

But confusion aside, Cadence does; “Tonya Reimonenq — Lady Smoke.”

What are the damn odds?

†incantation full translation (taken from google translate): "We cast aside our place as mortal servants to a higher power. Where we seek sanctuary none has been given. Thus we take it upon ourselves to invoke powers who have gone blind to our plight. We demand their protection. We demand their sight. You will ward away this evil and its sorrows. Protect this skin from foul touch, this blood from ill intent, this mind from wicked ways. Do so until the deed is done and evil has met an end."

††Saint Marcellus: Marcellus is a name derived from Mars, the Roman god of war. Ivy finds it funny that a hospital was named after violence. (Saint Marcellus is/was not a real hospital.)

#nightbound #playchoices #choices fanfiction #nik ryder #nik ryder x mc #cal lowell #katherine nightbound #oc: cadence smith #ivy #krom #garrus #nightbound mc #mc: taylor hunter #oblv: bound by circumstance #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

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coeurvrai · 4 years

Text

Okay I’m back with a bowl of crunched up Yum Yum noodles and a nearly full glass of water. Let’s get back into the saddle.

You can’t talk your way out of this. Her blood is on your hands, not mine.” She leaned closer to him.

“I can live with that. You’re trying to paint it as something it’s not.”

“It was murder.”

“She was a slavhka, raised from birth to slaughter Kalyazi, and as necessary, other Tranavians.”

“That doesn’t make her a monster!”

“We’re all monsters, Nadya,” Malachiasz said, his voice gaining a few tangled chords of chaos. “Some of us just hide it better than others.

Not to beat a dead horse, but still, what in the actual fuck? Nadya, you have murdered people before and in fact, they were all Tranavians. The book tells us that you are supposed to be fine with murdering people.

“That doesn’t make her a monster!” Nadya, you are out here calling any and all Tranavians “heretics” and “abominations” and unworthy existing or living as is because their mere existence is an insult to you and the Gods because they rejected the gods and turned to blood magic instead. Pot calling the kettle black.

Also I still have the energy to roll my eyes at that quote, and at the phrase “a few tangled chords of chaos”. What the fuck does that mean, ED?

Now she was aware of just how close they were, her hand still clutching his arm. His gaze strayed to her lips. She managed to keep from blushing as she let go and stepped away—she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he could still fluster her while she was angry.

She closed her eyes. Heard him step away. When she opened her eyes again he was sitting on the chaise, elbow resting against the armrest, chin in his hand.

I am literally willing them to not have a Moment at this very moment. I cannot be fucked dealing with their stupid relationship bullshit. Also, despite getting mad at him for killing Felicíja, she still finds the time to get all blushy blushy at their proximity and him looking at her mouth.

God, Nadya, you just suck.

Malachiasz changes topics and mentions that at dinner, she’ll be sitting close to the king since she’ll be sitting with Serefin, and that she should be prepared to strike when they get the opportunity to.

The door opened. Nadya whirled, but relaxed when it was only Rashid. He grinned.

“Well, that was fun.” His face fell as he picked up on the energy in the room. “Maybe not fun?”

Rashid returns! Obviously his supposed relevancy to this story has come into play again, because he’s here. Also, “fun” would be the last word I would use to describe what I’ve just had to experience.

Nadya sighed, finally collapsing into a chair. Malachiasz watched her carefully, like one watched a dog that had just bitten them. Had he assumed her harmless? That she would simply comply with any decision he made? They were still—at their core—enemies in this war. She hadn’t forgotten, not even while she found herself worrying about his safety and wanting him by her side.

Well considering the utter fact that by all rights, you were pretty easy to convince to come on this journey and to participate in this plan when you shouldn’t be, I’m not surprised if Malachiasz views you this way. Also bullshit, you being enemies in this war means absolutely nothing when you’ve literally defended your choice to show mercy to Felicíja, a blood mage, who is also your enemy! Because she’s Tranavian, and you’re supposed to hate any and all Tranavians, and kill them as is your holy and god-given mission!

Malachaisz gives her a handkerchief to clean herself up with.

He was a nightmare—the echoes she still felt of his power were troubling—but he was gentle. Anxious and strange, a boy caught up in a world that had broken him, all while trying to do something good for once. She wondered if her anger that was so quick to spark was just her fighting against the pull she felt. Was Nher fascination merely because she had been sheltered her whole life and never known someone so drastically different from herself? Or was it more? Was it because he was dangerous and exciting, all while being completely infuriating yet thoughtful?

Nadya, I am so utterly disinterested in your constant fabricated bullshit push and pull with Malachiasz right now. You’re an idiot. That’s all I really have to say. This isn’t good writing for enemies-to-lovers because the whole pretense of being enemies is to just to fabricate some angst and then will be thrown away so ED can jump into the lovers part of the trope. And you’re a fucking idiot.

Nadya can’t reach the gods atm because the reception isn’t that great.

Rashid states that next they have dinner and Nadya comments that he doesn’t look right being dressed in servants’ clothes.

“I’ve already failed the first etiquette test,” Nadya said. “That bodes well for the next one.”

Malachiasz stretched out towards her before thinking better of it and setting his hand on the arm of her chair instead. She found her eyes drawn to the tattoos on his long, elegant fingers. They were simple, straight lines: two on either side of each finger and one down the back that started at the bed of each fingernail and ended at his wrist in a single black bar.

Knowing Nadya, someone will say something at dinner and she will stab that person across the dinner table. Also, those tattoos sound fucking dumb. At least make his tattoos tell a story like Russian criminals’ tattoos do when they get them in prison or whatever. His tattoos just sound stupid, they’re all lines.

“Everything is a game,” he said. “It’s all a play for power. We didn’t want it, but you’ve caught the attention of the elite, so you may as well keep it.”

She swallowed hard. “I can handle myself.”

“I know, Nadya.”

I do not need this right now, shut up. Also that’s a lie and we all know it, Nadya.

Malachiasz asks Rashid about the gossip he’s gotten from the servants around the palace and he recaps everything we basically already know: about the queen, about Serefin and his father, about the Rawalyk, and about Pelageya.

Apparently, this is news to Nadya and I still don’t understand how it isn’t common knowledge already that Pelageya, a Kalyazi witch, is around and alive and is a companion to the Tranavian queen.

Like, apparently the people of Kalyazi, but especially the devoted and the Gods, hate the witches almost as much as they hate the Tranavians, so much so they committed a witch hunt and glorify their supposed purging from their country.

Nadya and Malachiasz exchanged a glance, their fight momentarily forgotten.

*long, drawn out sigh*

Rashid also mentions the meeting that Serefin had with the Crimson Vulture, and the salt mines.

“That’s not good,” he murmured.

“Wait, which one is Crimson?” Nadya asked. The rankings didn’t make any sense.

“Żywia is the second in command.”

Nadya didn’t like that he knew and used their names when no one else did. She didn’t need to be constantly reminded of what he was.

Just because you’re being meta and poking fun at your own worldbuilding doesn’t mean that you get off for not fixing it and not making the rankings make more sense. It’s not a get out free jail card, ED.

Also shut up, Nadya. You keep saying that but then nothing of real substance comes out of it, so just shut up about it.

“Perhaps the king’s visits to the Salt Mines means he’s working with the Black Vulture and the prince is attempting to undermine that?” Rashid said.

“I’d always thought a schism among the Vultures would be impossible,” Malachiasz said. “But I think we’ve stepped into something bigger than just a silly pageant for a queen. If the Salt Mines are involved, definitely so.”

The Rawalyk‘s relevance to the plot is what, again?

Also what do you mean you thought a schism would be impossible? I know you’re Evil McEvil, but you’ve claimed to have broken away from them for good. Like, you’re proof there’s a fucking schism. Like fucking what lmao

“Still,” Rashid said, “the king seems to have forsaken his usual retainer of guards in favor of the Vultures.”

“They’re not guards,” Malachiasz said.

“What are they, then, Malachiasz?” Nadya asked. He was becoming increasingly agitated. Nadya wasn’t going to ignore the tremors of doubt she had when he appeared to falter.

He waved a hand. “It would be like your Kalyazi tsar having clerics act as guards. It’s not their purpose, they’re not supposed to be so deeply connected to the secular throne.”

Nadya sighed. “Except religion is interwoven into our government. It’s not a thing to be shoved aside.” She didn’t like comparing monsters with her religion, but it was an apt enough example.

What? I get what secular means - that it’s separated from religious matters, as in the phrase “separation of church and state”, but that makes no sense. Is he supposed to be referring to just Kalyazin here? I would kind of assume so, because that’s the only way this would make sense. But then Nadya corrects him the next paragraph!

Because the whole nation of Tranavia is secular. Their society is based upon rejecting the Gods and being non-religious. Like that phrasing is so fucking weird. Like I get the gist, Vultures and the Court are usually separate because Vultures don’t even recognise the Tranavian king as their ruler because they have their own king, the Black Vulture. But wtf with “secular throne”.

#sarah reads ws #blood tw

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spectrumscribe · 5 years

Text

to market, to market.

rottmnt gen fic, word count 2,618. contains early morning family routines, mentions of organic foods, nonsense magic, the author’s attempt at vague worldbuilding, and cute teens being semi-responsible.

presenting an rottmnt au i’ve been toying with the past few months and finally started to really figure out! i love human aus that include magic, so... have one for the boys + gal. <3

there’s notes after the ending about the au, and here’s the AO3 Version.

Saturday morning is farmer's market day. That’s been a staple in their home since forever. It’s the best place to buy not just cooking ingredients, but more specialized ingredients, too. From the stalls that are placed between others stalls in hairsbreadth spaces, stalls that no one else but their family and others like them can see.

Raph has always loved walking up to those impossible and amazing market stalls, from the time he was little. They fascinated him, even though their strangeness is commonplace in his life.

His brothers love them, too. They would all clamor at dad to hurry up with the boring shopping so they could go pick out their treats of the day. Curiosities in jars, paints that have brighter pigments than any other, sweets made with the soul essence of a sunny summer day or a cold winter’s eve- all those and a hundred other odds and bobs they can’t ever get enough of, even now.

Of course, this doesn’t make it any easier to get everyone going on a lazy Saturday morning.

Since their pops has made it very clear he’s not moving for love or good groceries today, no one even bothers to try dragging him out of bed. Instead, Mikey, who is always the first up unless Donnie just straight up didn’t sleep the whole night, shuffles into Raph’s bedroom shortly after his alarm clock goes off.

“Ged’up,” Mikey says blearily, leaning his weight on Raph’s stomach. Raph in turn groans tiredly, unwilling to move even though he knows they have to. All the good shit will be gone before noon, probably before eleven to be honest.

“What if we just… not eat for a few days?” Raph asks, not opening his eyes just yet. He just wants to sleep, just a few more hours…

“You’d probs eat one’a us if we didn’t get groceries,” Mikey replies. He yawns, and then says, “C’mon. We gotta get more meat n’ veggies an’ you were the one who made the dumb list for ‘em anyway. You want the good steaks to already be sold out by the time we get there?”

“…No. Hhhn… ‘kay, I’m comin’.”

“Good. I’m gonna go get the waffles goin’. You get the other two.”

After Mikey’s left, Raph sits up slowly, sighing as his bones shift and creak. His eyes sting with sleepiness, and as he rubs at them, Raph feels the slide of an extra eyelid opening and closing. He feels around inside himself, finding the remnants of a feline being enticing him back to sleep, complaining that he should be sleeping much, much longer than this, he’d been out most of the night and now it was nap time right now until it was time to hunt again…

Raph shakes himself, realizing he forgot to tuck that spirit back into his core all the way. He’d tired himself out last night, giving into how the late spring evening tugged at his therianthropy magic and having an adventure in the darkness, alive with the senses and joy of creatures that were at home there.

Breathing in, breathing out, Raph dispels the effects of that animal and feels less like he needs to curl up in his bed to sleep again.

It still sucks to get out from under his warm blankets and leave his bedroom to meet the day.

Leo’s room is the closest, so Raph wanders into his second brother’s bedroom first. He steps around the piles of clothes and stacks of books and an old spell circle carved into the floor, taking a seat on the end of Leo’s bed and shaking his brother by the leg.

“Leo. Dude. Up and at ‘em, we got grocery shopping to do.”

Leo groans pitifully, rolling onto his other side and scrunching himself against his silk pillow. “No… I don’t wanna go. You an’ Mike go, you don’t need… me…”

“It’s a group trip, Leon. No take-backsies for agreeing to it yesterday.”

Leo cracks one eye open, dark irises showing reluctance at waking fully. He then smiles, speaking as he does. “Raph… I don’t have to go to the farmer’s market… you and Mikey can handle it just fine without me… and you’ll bring back my favorite honey cookies, too…”

The warm lilt and tune of Leo’s voice almost gets to Raph, coaxing the suggestions to take over and erase his original purpose to being here. Except, Raph knows this feeling, knows he doesn’t have to listen and how to stop listening, and he pulls on a creature he rarely does. Pupils shifting, teeth molding together into three points, and a malleability to his skin spreading across it. He focuses the changes on his ears, the world’s volume lowering and Leo’s voice becoming fainter and fainter until it’s gone.

Raph waits for Leo to notice the change. His brother keeps trying to spell him a while longer, silent mouth rambling who knows what at Raph to get him to go away. It’s only when Leo opens his eyes again that he notes the gently glowing patterns emerging over Raph’s dark skin.

He scowls, saying something Raph can’t hear. Raph grins with his beak-teeth.

“Can’t hear you,” he says, not sure how clear his speech is right now, but he doesn’t really care. “Just get up and get downstairs before we eat all the eggos.”

He doesn’t have to hear his brother to know Leo mumbles a (non-magical) curse and puts his face into his pillow. Raph rolls his eyes and stands up, patting Leo’s back before he leaves. Raph rescinds the cephalopod spirit that’s made his bones less than solid, moving onto the next sibling he has to wake as his humanity takes full hold again.

The room is a disaster of Donnie-organization as usual, projects scattered everywhere with scrap notes in code taped to the wall haphazardly. Plus, Donnie is sleeping weird again. He’s ended up the wrong way around on his bed, feet on his pillow and head under the covers. Going by the nearby still open laptops with their sleep mode lights blinking, Donnie stumbled into bed after doing something or other far longer than he should have.

Raph peels the blankets off the second eldest of their family. Donnie’s lost his shirt at some point, revealing the spiralling seals on his back that keep his strength-sapping blood curse at bay. Thankfully, when they visit city pools, no one but other inhumans can see the tattoos. Otherwise, they’d probably get stopped every five seconds by some concerned parent who’s freaked out that a fourteen year old has them.

“Donnie,” Raph says, bending down and putting himself at eyelevel with his brother’s sleeping face. “Hey, hey Donnie. Wake up, dude. We’re going to the farmer’s market today, ‘member?”

Donnie doesn’t open his eyes, instead mumbling out, “01000110 01101001 01110110 01100101 00100000 01101101 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01101101 01101001 01101110 01110101 01110100 01100101 01110011.”

It’s always weird to hear that- how Donnie will say codes aloud but without actually sounding out how the numbers should be pronounced. Like it’s being beamed right into your brain or something. Raph is used to it enough he ignores the oddity of Donnie’s mix-up, reaching over to shake him. “Don, you know none’a us speak binary. Human languages only, please.”

With arduous effort, Donnie slurs out, “Ffffffive more minutesss…”

“I’ll give you ten seconds.”

“Noooo…”

Raph gets Donnie upright on his bed before he leaves. It takes shoving his brother’s favorite iPad into his hands and turning it on, letting the sentience Donnie has nurtured into existence in it finish waking its creator up.

Downstairs, Raph wanders into the kitchen with a yawn, having put on jeans that are mostly clean and an old t-shirt that smells like their home. He has to pull up short before he gets to the fridge, waiting for tiny flying dragons to finish carrying the butter from the counter. Following their path, a pair of large butterflies carries the syrup with their little feet towards the table.

There’s… also a child sized bipedal cat with three eyes and cowboy boots collecting the freshly popped eggos onto a plate. It glances at Raph briefly, nodding with a respectful but mysterious cat’s smile.

Raph blinks slowly, and lets it slide. Whatever Mikey has been conjuring lately, he never asks how his littlest brother came up with the ideas.

However, he can’t let slide him opening the fridge and getting a flurry of sparrow sized winged shrimp to the face.

“Fff- Mikey!” Raph snaps, turning to glare at his brother in the dining room on the other side of the counter. He shoos the remaining shrimp away from his head, feeling a tinge of the feline from earlier wanting to swat and bite them.

“Oops,” Mikey says sheepishly, holding out his arms for his creations to alight on him. They flap their wings and nuzzle their illustrare witch with their long antennae. “I was kinda wonderin’ where these guys got to last night. Guess they wanted to hang out with the real shrimp or something?”

Raph has been awake for all of fifteen minutes, and he feels tired again.

“…Please put them away, at least for breakfast.”

“Can do.”

Mikey’s sketchbook of the day, left on the far end of the table away from the syrup, flies open, pages flapping wildly. The shimpbirds become blurred and flat, losing their solidness and whisking through the air in streams of color. The sketchbook sucks them all back onto its pages, and then snaps shut again as Mikey’s magic fades.

Raph opens the fridge again, this time able to grab the apple juice without assault by flying decapods.

Leo and Donnie come into the kitchen not long after, dressed and slightly more awake. They take their share of the eggos from the plate Mikey’s conjured cat offers them, unbothered by the puss-in-boots knock off serving them, or by it turning into a stream of color to return to its sketchbook right after.

As they’re eating the first half of their breakfast- the next will be bought at the market, giving into the temptation of fresh baked goods sold there- Donnie’s phone gets a text.

“01000001 01110000 01110010 01101001 01101100 0010000001110111 01100001 01101110 01110100 01110011 0010000001110100 01101111 0010000001110011 01100101 01100101 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100001,” it cheers at the top of its speakers, and everyone but Donnie covers their ears.

“They said April wants to meet us,” Donnie clarifies for all the non-technopaths in the room.

Leo rubs his temples, sighing at his twin. “That’s great, but Donnie, please tell your devices to stop doing that so early in the morning. Or at any time of the day?”

Donnie’s phone makes a screeching sound.

“They said ‘fuck off’,” Donnie translates, sipping his coffee.

Leo gives the little device a confusedly miffed look.

“Guys, guys,” Mikey says, making calming gestures, “we got places to be, newts and cabbages to buy. We don’t got time for breakfast fights with technology.”

Raph takes over the peacemaking, reinforcing it by saying, “Donnie, if you wanna talk with your tech, use headphones. Leo, get earplugs if you really gotta.”

The two middle children give each other a long look, before mutually and silently agreeing the fight isn’t one worth having and going back to being stalwart allies. Raph and Mikey exchange their own looks, silently thanking one another for helping defuse the situation before it became one.

Donnie arranges with April to meet them on the way to the market, and reminds their best friend to wear her enchanted choker so she can see what they do. She starts a group text to remind them in turn that she’s literally hasn’t taken it off since they gave it to her, and that she’s reminding them to not forget the spelled cloth bags they’ll need for the abnormal ingredients.

Raph sheepishly texts back a thank you for the reminder while Mikey hunts said bags down. They’re in Leo’s room this time around, having been left there after their family’s silvertongue witch went shopping for new spellwork inks.

They leave a plate of saran wrapped eggos with a note for their dad on the counter, since he’ll probably drag himself out of bed at some point close to noon. Better to have waiting food than to get a grumpy call from their hungry dad who wants someone to bring him home a complicated takeout meal.

April is waiting for them on a corner halfway to the market, leaning on a stop sign and scrolling through something her phone. Probably one of the chats on the supernatural enthusiast sites she follows. Sometimes they all have a good laugh over the ridiculous misconceptions people have about the inhuman members of society, and other times they get a heads up of which parts of the city to avoid for a while. It’s worth it to keep tabs on what the humans notice about NYC; there’s always the off chance someone really has seen a wayward rabid ghoul or a summons gone feral that’s entered the territory.

“Morning,” April greets pleasantly, perky as she pleases even though she probably slept less than all of them, excluding Donnie. Somehow- and they’re still trying to prove it is a supernatural gift- April is always, always energetic and awake, no matter how long or little she’s rested.

Leo eyes the half a bacon and eggs wrap she has in her hands, and he sidles up to her, grinning slyly. “April,” he says melodically, “that wrap looks like too much for you, you’re already too full to finish it, right? I can take it off your hands, don’t worry. I’ll do it as a favor to you.”

“Nice try, Leon,” April says, sneakily tugging on his long braids as revenge for the attempted charming. “You and I both know I can finish this and another three if I wanted.”

“One day,” Leo says with a pout as he yanks himself away from April’s light grip, “I’ll prove that you’re not completely human, because you are way too tiny to eat as much as you do.”

April smirks and bites into her breakfast wrap, ignoring the begging look Leo gives her.

“You’re both makin’ me hungry again,” Raph complains, and starts herding his family along the sidewalk. “C’mon, keep moving or I’ll pick you up and carry you.”

Mikey perks up. “Actually-”

He doesn’t even have to finish. Raph bends without a word, and his little brother hops onto him for a piggyback to the market. The sharpie scarabs he doodled onto his arms yesterday flutter their wings and take flight as they go, buzzing around their group swiftly and quietly, shining iridescently black in the morning sun and invisible to humans passing by. Leo whistles a brief tune at a few and convinces them to land on his hands, petting their carapace gently as possible. Donnie ignores them and shakes them off when they land on his short hair, while April sputters as one flies at her glasses out of curiosity for their reflectiveness.

Raph feels something slithery and cool slide into his ponytail of thin dreadlocks, and just sighs and lets it happen. Apparently, Mikey drew another collection of snakes somewhere on himself, too.

The market is bustling as they get there, the human community intermingling with the supernatural community without noticing. Early morning shoppers are walking around with bags bursting with produce and homemade creations- ranging from organically grown carrots to knitted summoning dolls, the faces of unspeakable beings peering out along with stalks of celery.

An average Saturday shopping crowd, then.

Raph and his family aren’t noticed in the least as they join it.

so i spent a long while poking at the idea of the brothers having magical abilities in a witch au (splinter too, but i haven’t learned enough about him in canon yet to decide properly) and came up with these possible types that make sense to me!

(disclaimer: spec is not the person to ever ask about real magic. i just do whatever the hell i want with it in my writing because yo, it’s magic!!!)

raph has shapeshifting magic, drawing on internal power and connections with creatures he’s interacted with to change his body to fit the abilities of animals. inspired thusly bc he has nice pointy teeth in canon and bc he reminds me (’cause he’s Big) of Jin from Ran and the Grey World.

donnie can communicate with and manipulate technology. unless he withholds it, any piece of machinery he works with will a) never break down again, b) mysteriously always seem like new after you’ve taken it to him for repairs, and c) might potentially develop something of a sentience if he gets really invested in the projects. most of his personal computers have sassy little personalities now.

leo, so long as he believes wholeheartedly in what he’s saying, can change bits of reality just by talking it into doing so. if he recites poetry he made himself with enough intention to a stick, he could convince it to become a sword, or tell an alleyway to become a dead end to someone. mostly though, he just uses his magic to convince people of little things, like giving him a discount at the store, or letting him copy off someone’s homework.

mikey can give temporary life to artwork, be it sketches or paintings or murals or pottery or etc. by drawing on the devotion and emotion the artists put into the pieces. he mostly uses his own art, but since he’s got more magical juice/potential in him than all his brothers combined, if he’s pushed to it he could bring life to one of those massive murals on the sides of apartment complexes. mostly he just likes making little friends, though, haha.

april is purely human, but can and has gone toe to toe with supernatural beings and kicked their asses. she’s never had any trouble keeping up with her witch buddies, and they, of course, love their semi-adopted big sister being around as much as she loves them being with her.

uhhhhh... more to come of this at some point? zshrug, i hope other people here love witches too.

(also... pls consider buying me a kofi.... i promise i shall reward the gift with frequent fics...)

#rottmnt #My writing #Witches AU #aka spec really fuckin love supernatural stuff and HAD to do multiple aus for that #i have others #they will turn up at some point here #in the meantime have dorky teeny witch boys #team as family

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caddy-whump-us · 5 years

Note

⛓ + 🔨 for the emoji thing?? Character of your choice!

Finally finishing these really, really old requests–thank you for being so patient, Anon! So in this scenario, Rowan is an iteration of Ryan (tall, broad-shouldered, a little rough and scruffy, long red hair) and Elyr is the elf version of Julian. Rowan has been traveling with Elyr as Elyr’s guard and protection, as Elyr is something close to a prince.

I’m imagining the setting as being sort of like early 19th century Europe. The country of the elves is a cluster of islands (not unlike the UK but a few more islands involved) with some holdings on the nearby continent but they’ve mostly been pushed back to the islands by the humans. But the elves have the magic equivalent of an atomic bomb, so one does want to be diplomatic with them (even if they do have a cultural tendency towards peace and negotiation). Meanwhile, Braith is a young (human) duke and his particular state is part of a larger federation (ostensibly) overseen by the elected Archduke (think Holy Roman Empire or the German States before unification). I guess the rest of the ad hoc worldbuilding should be pretty clear in the course of the drabble (kinda long for a drabble tho).

And and and? There’s also bonus whump of several different kinds in this one. Enjoy, Anon!

“Ah, Elyr–” Braith rose from his chair, still with a mouthful of bread tucked in his cheek and held out his hand. “Come and sit down, have something to eat. You were comfortable last night, I hope.”

Elyr, escorted into the sunny breakfast room by the bowing and soft-footed servants, came and sat at the table. “I was, thank you.” His face was grave.

Braith, smiling, was tucking cold meats into another piece of bread. “I try to look after the guests in my house.” He pointed around at the table. “Do eat something.”

Elyr sliced bread and took fruit for himself but said nothing.

“I’m rather pleased the clothes we found for you would fit you. Though I can’t believe you’d only have the clothes on your back for such a journey.”

“It is a pilgrimage,” Elyr answered, “not pleasure-traveling.”

Elyr would have been content sitting across from Braith in his traveling clothes, so long as it ended in leaving this house with Rowan. Instead he had been dressed in clothes better suited to a half-grown boy, the only clothes that would befit a man but were still small enough to fit him.

It rankled to be dressed up like a boy in a miniature soldier’s costume, and so Elyr had left the top buttons of the jacket undone and let the collar of his shirt show through.

Braith eyed him. “A pilgrimage. Of course. We’ve even heard about the birth of your Moon Child here.”

“Then you understand why I and my guardian must continue on.”

Silence fell between them. Sunlight, filtered by leaves, moved across the table like the patterns in water. Voices, laughter from elsewhere in the house reached them. Elyr’s ears twitched and Braith set his elbows on the table and laced his fingers.

“I do understand,” Braith said at last. “But I cannot permit it.” He took up his teacup, drank.

Elyr scowled. “Safe passage is promised along the pilgrims’ routes. We didn’t set foot in your country, and we have papers that would allow us entry even if we had.”

“You misunderstand me. You, sir, I can permit to continue on. Your guardian I cannot permit.”

“That is wholly unacceptable.”

A cloud covered the morning sun. Braith leaned across the table at Elyr; his smile had vanished and his eyes were dark. “What he did is wholly unacceptable.”

Elyr held his place and his gaze. He knew; Rowan had told him. But let Braith make the next move, give him that glory if he wants it.

Braith was still and his voice was low. “He murdered my brother.”

“In open combat,” Elyr said. “In honest war.”

The cloud passed on and the sunlight streamed across the table again, glinting off dishes, glasses, droplets of water on a silver carafe, silver forks and knives, illuminating (strangely) a loaf of bread and making it seem to glow from within.

Braith sat back again. “Is war ever honest?” he asked the air.

“You could have hired him for your army. As it was, he was hired by your rivals.”

“Mercenaries.” Braith waved one hand dismissively.

“But mercenaries honestly hired and honestly paid. And I recall that you and your allies were the victors.”

Braith was silent, running one finger along his lower lip, considering, looking off into the room and the hallway beyond.

“My dear sir,” he said at last, leaning back on the table, “in my country we have an old custom of bloodmoney. Do you know it? It likely appalls your sensibilities. In my country, long ago, a killing would be forgiven if sufficient recompense could be made–in coin, in cattle, in land, or if need be, in blood.”

Elyr looked away and aside, out the tall windows and towards the gardens.

Braith went on: “I demand recompense for this death.”

Elyr snapped back to meet his eyes. “You’d have a death for a death for a death for a death until what? Until only one man remains? And he can crown himself the king of the dead?”

“I did not hope that you would understand.”

“I am many times your elder, aom. And you have much to learn.”

“He murdered my brother.”

“Where is he?”

They walked, or near-at marched, across the gravel yard, followed (and Elyr cast them glances over his shoulder at whiles) by four soldiers.

Grooms and stableboys darted around them, leading out this horse or carrying harness and bridle. Elyr was no taller than some of the stableboys and they cast an eye at him as he walked past. Braith’s coach had been drawn out and two men were tending to it. They bowed as the master of the house walked by.

“My stables,” Braith said as they drew on nearer.

“How very grand,” Elyr replied. But it was an excess of yellow sandstone in his eyes, low and sprawling, patterned with squat windows and white arched doors, and made all too ostentatious with its high cupola. One tree and only one tree, though spreading and large, cast shade over part of the roof. There was something dry and hot about this stone hall in the midst of a wasteland of gravel that displeased Elyr. Still a few birds swooped through open windows and doors to find their nests under the eaves and in the rafters, and that was some comfort.

They passed through and into the stables. And though it was cooler and darker inside, the barrenness and wretchedness that had troubled Elyr outside still troubled him. Doves were calling somewhere in the peaked roof, up among the rafters and the wooden ceiling lined like the belly of a ship set upside down atop the sandstone walls. But the smell of hay and horses was warm and alive. Despite the warmth, a stove was burning by a far wall.

The last of the servants were slipping out the doors (casting last looks as they went) and shutting them up behind them–most of the last of the servants, at least, for two or three remained. The horses made small sounds to themselves in their stalls, stamping. And the last door was closed.

It was still early, but the sun was breaking down through the squat windows, cut into beams by the dust in the air–the only light in the stables. The birds were silent now. And from somewhere among the stalls came the faint and muffled sound of a man’s pained moan.

Elyr turned, sharp, to Braith.

“Oh yes, he’s here,” Braith said. And he waved to the stablehands and they disappeared into a stall and dragged out a battered man.

He staggered: he was chained hand and foot, like a prisoner, and the iron had already bitten into the skin at his wrists and his ankles. His knuckles were bloody. One eye was blacked and swollen shut and blood (his own? another’s?) spattered and smeared his face. He had been stripped to the waist and what was left of his clothes were torn and there were wounds under the tears. But when he saw Elyr, even in the half-light of the darkened stable, he grinned and Elyr knew him–by his grin and by his red hair (tangled now, with straw caught in it).

“Rowan–” And Elyr moved to go to him, but was caught short when a soldier’s hand fell hard on his shoulder.

Braith spoke without turning to face Elyr. “I’m afraid that, while you are my guest, he is my prisoner–to do with as I like.”

He gave a sign and the stablehands shoved Rowan to the floor. Elyr’s throat tightened at the sound of Rowan striking the bricks.

But now Braith turned. “This is splendid. Bring a chair for our guest.” And two of the soldiers hurried off into the dim recesses of the stable to return with two folded garden chairs to set before them.

Braith draped himself in his chair and looked over his shoulder at Elyr. It took a shove from the soldier and a firm hand on his shoulder to set Elyr in his seat.

“Why are you doing this?” Elyr’s fingers were knotted together.

“Because,” Braith smiled, “My brother is dead, I have suffered, and to pay the bloodmoney owed for that death and suffering, I want him to suffer as I have suffered.”

A low sound, like a growl, came from Rowan even as he lay on the floor. But, it was laughter. And Rowan raised his head. “It would be easier,” his voice was cracked and rough, “to kill me.”

Braith gave him a shove with the toe of his boot. “But I don’t want to kill you.” He waved one hand in the air and the soldiers and the stablehands moved almost as one to surround Rowan.

They hauled the bleeding man to his feet and he stumbled against the chains around his ankles. To Elyr, the first blow felt as if it struck him as much as it struck Rowan–deep and low to his stomach. Rowan staggered, righted himself, and threw a grin to Elyr.

At that moment, the circle of soldiers and servants closed, with Rowan in their midst. One of them threw a punch to Rowan’s jaw and he stumbled to the far side of the circle. The man who caught him struck him again, sending him reeling again to stumble into another man. So they passed him, from man to man, around the circle, with punches and kicks. And if he fell, they stood him up again and knocked him back around the circle. They laughed and called to each other.

Rowan was silent, save for low groans when the blows hit home. Elyr was screaming–for him, perhaps for himself. “Stop it! If you beat him to death, what good will that do you?”

Braith turned to him, slowly. “Perhaps you’re right.” And he clapped his hands.

The circle opened immediately. Rowan collapsed to his knees, panting. The soldiers and the stablehands still stood around, nearby, breathing hard, some rubbing at their knuckles.

Braith rose and crossed to Rowan where he had fallen in a pool of sunlight from one of the high windows. He lifted Rowan’s chin with his boot and looked him, the blood running from his nose and from his lip, the cut in his forehead, the rising bruises on his jaw. Elyr could still see the spark of defiance in his one eye and willed himself to look away, but he could not.

And Braith kicked Rowan aside, once in the chest, then twice in the stomach after he fell. Rowan writhed.

Bratih whirled back to face Elyr (who stiffened and trembled at the rage in Braith’s face). “You are my witness. This is my justice for the murder of my brother.”

Elyr found his feet and shouted back, “I will give you all the offerings we were taking to the forest temple if you will let him go. Every last piece of silver, every opal, if you will let him go.”

“I will send you with a battalion of my own guards to keep you and your treasures safe. You will be on your way tomorrow.” His voice was low and even, but now it rose again, “But he will not go with you.”

“Please,” Elyr said quietly, breathing hard and fast, “Please.” But Braith ignored him.

“By God, but you are a mess,” he said, lifting Rowan’s head by a hank of his hair. “It’s shearing season, I think.”

Elyr buried his face in his hands. A stablehand brought out a pair of shears better suited for sheep. The blades ground edge to edge as Braith tested them. Rowan struggled in his chains. And though Elyr had his eyes covered, he could still hear the grinding blades as Braith took up handfuls of Rowan’s hair and hacked it away. Someone laughed, someone muttered.

There was silence, then footsteps, then silence again. Elyr raised his head.

Braith stood over him, with the shears still in one hand and a lock of Rowan’s red hair coiled around the fingers of his other. He held it out to Elyr. “For you,” he said, “to remember him.”

Dazed, trembling, Elyr reached out and took the lock of hair (bloodied, straw still clinging to it) and wrapped it tight around his fingers. And as Braith turned away he could see Rowan on the floor with his hair hacked away, uneven red stubble across his scalp, like a badly mown field, and blood running through it. His hair lay around him like clots of blood.

And Rowan saw him, but this time he gave no defiant grin.

“Lift him up,” Braith said.

One of the stablehands threw a rope and hook over a rafter and played out the rope until the hook hung above the place Rowan lay. The servants and soldiers hooked in the chains around his wrists and then, like sailors, hauled Rowan up from the floor to hang by his arms in midair. They tied off the rope and went to stand around him again. His blood dripped off his bare feet and onto the floor, pooling there.

Braith came back to his seat next to Elyr (who had sat again for fear of collapsing) and gave another sign. The circle closed again.

Again, each man took his turn striking at Rowan as he hung there. The chains on his ankles rattled with each blow, and he groaned. One of the soldiers took up his rifle and raised the butt of it like a club.

Elyr dropped his face into his hands again.

“No, no, little lordling.” Braith caught Elyr by the chin and turned his face to show him where Rowan hung from the rafters. “I want you to see it.”

The soldier swung the rifle around to strike Rowan in the ribs–a cracking sound and Rowan gasped for air. They laughed.

One of the stablehands took up a shovel; Elyr gagged at the horror of it. He swung the head around to strike Rowan in the leg this time–no crack, but Rowan swung from the hook. So the stablehand tried again–still no crack, but a solid sound.

Some kept to their fists, practicing their punches. Others took up tools to beat him: shovels, the handles of rakes or brooms, rifles. Braith held Elyr still and forced him to watch as they went around, taking their turns, laughing, trying to urge different sounds out of Rowan. Rowan sagged in his chains, one shoulder coming out of its socket. And still they went on, slapping at him and laughing, striking at bruises. One of them found a riding crop in a stall and took to whipping him across his back. And still they laughed.

Elyr tore his face free from Braith’s hands and Braith called out, “Oh, let him down.”

Rowan was dropped to the floor with a thick sound and, to Elyr’s horror, a familiar sound: the sound of a deer taken on a hunt dropped onto the floor to be dressed and butchered. It was the same sound–and Rowan himself had taken deer on hunts with Elyr (and Richard and all the rest). Elyr had heard this very sound with Rowan before, but now it was Rowan who was taken, perhaps to be butchered like a deer.

The circle was breaking again. One of the men was over by the stove, stirring the coals, stirring the coals to greater heat, and drawing out a glowing iron rod. And this, Elyr knew, was why they had kept the stove burning even on a warm day.

And Elyr was screaming again, inarticulate, in his own Elvish language. Braith called two of the soldiers to him.

As Elyr rushed, at last, desperate, to reach Rowan, the soldiers caught him. Braith turned Rowan over with his foot and knelt over him. One of them carried the glowing brand over. The soldier hoisted Elyr over his shoulder (as he would have carried a child) and Elyr kicked against him, clawing at his shoulder, still screaming. Rowan still lay in a pool of light, more battered now than before, struggling to breathe, bleeding endlessly, with Braith holding the brand over him. And this was all Elyr could see before the soldier carried him out of the stables again and the sunlight blinded him and the door they had passed through was shut and latched again.

A butler had been dispatched with a tray of tea to take up to Elyr late that afternoon–after he had been carried bodily and screaming back to the house, after it had taken both of the soldiers to carry him upstairs, after he had been locked in this room, after all the household heard his screams through the noontime.

But he was quiet now.

The butler knocked, unlocked the door.

Elyr was sitting at the small table at the windows, twisting the lock of Rowan’s hair around his fingers. His eyes flashed immediately to the door; his face was still dusty and streaked with tears, despondant.

The butler, soft-footed as all the servants, set the tray and tea things down before Elyr.

“What will they do with him?” Elyr asked softly.

“I’m afraid I could not say, sir.”

“What will they do with him?” Elyr asked again, harder this time.

The butler was quiet for a moment. Then: “What shape was the brand?”

“A crescent, as much as I could see it.” And Elyr covered his eyes with one hand.

“Then very likely,” the butler said, “he’ll be sold to the salt mines.”

Elyr dropped his forehead against the table.

“Where they’ll work him to death.”

#whump #prompt #ocs #elyr #rowan #beaten #chained #injuries #traumatic haircut #forced to watch #emotional whump #psychological #fantasy creature

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abutterflyobsession · 7 years

Text

Those Chains That Bind You: Kidnapping AU Part 6

Anon prompted me:

[Strange Magic] au where kidnapping is a thing before courting. Marianne kidnaps Bog. Spiraled into an Political Marriage AU with lots of pining and extensive worldbuilding.

Prologue/Chapter One/Chapter Two/Chapter Three/Chapter Four/Five and Ao3

(please please please feel free to do a liveblog commentary, whether in a post, in my inbox, in chat, I would be thrilled by getting a blow-by-blow commentary of your feelings. And shoutout to @deluxetrashqueen and @jaegereska for beta’ing this)

Chapter Five: Flirting and Fumbles

Marianne was snug in her pile of quilts and furs, having finally achieved a position for maximum warmth and comfort. Or, it would have been, if she didn't have a wing folded the wrong way, forcing her to kick the blankets out of their harmonious alignment, exposing her feet briefly to the chill of the room.

Turning over also reminded Marianne that she was still suffering from the effects of a bad head cold that had hit her hard enough to keep her in bed for the past two days. Moving made her stiff muscles creak, having developed the undesirable habit of getting stuck in place if she stayed still too long. The resistance of her muscles was the cue for her throat to remember that it was inflamed and dedicated to making Marianne cough until her ribs considered maybe joining in on the fun, tossing around the idea or pulling a muscle or two.

There was no window in the bedroom room, no way for Marianne to mark the passage of time. It probably wouldn't have made a difference, even if there was a clock parked in front of her nose. The world had fallen out of sync with her. Or maybe she had fallen out of sync with it. Whichever, the results were the same.

A warm rock, wrapped in leaves, had been tucked up by her feet, but it was cold now. This small inconvenience made Marianne feel sad and abandoned. It felt like days since she had seen anyone, even though she had heard the murmuring of voices and light tap of footsteps that followed her in and out of her dreams.

Yes, someone had been reading to her. The book was on the table, a pressed flower petal peeking from between the pages to mark the place the reader had left off. Marianne thought it might have been Bog, except she seemed to recall the story was from one of Dawn's romance novels, which had struck her as odd even in her vague state. Another odd dream, hearing the mighty Bog king reading from a fairy novel.

Compared to some of her dreams that one was practically commonplace.

The memory of the duel in the snow had got mixed up with their first duel at the border, and she dreamed they had sparred again around the evening fire, goblins cheering and hooting with each blow struck. It was a good dream, because unlike their first two fights with sword and staff, this time it was just entirely in good-natured fun. It was just the kind of thing Marianne had anticipated being part of the relationship before she tried to kiss him and ruined everything.

A kiss.

There was something more than a dream stirred up by the thought. It hung out of reach somewhere above the bed, twinkling. Was it twinkling like a star or dew on the flowers in the morning . . . or like some sharp-edged thing that would draw blood if she grasped it?

Unable to divine the answer to that particular mystery, Marianne turned her mind to other recent goings on. Bog had been dragging around in a gloom since the patrols were sent out and he had only truly smiled again when they were out in the blinding snow, giddy with relief that everyone was safe.

Bog had laughed. Marianne had laughed, not fully realizing the weight that had been heavy on her heart until it was lifted. She had still been so afraid that her relationship with Bog was permanently strained, even in spite of their reconciliation.

Everyone was safe, everyone was happy, Bog was happy.

And somehow it followed that Marianne had challenged Bog to a duel.

She seemed to remember more than one drink preceding the proposal.

But that wasn't right. Before that had been a frantic rush of activity. Dizzying after the stale confinement forced on them by the long snowfall. The skies had been clear for the moment and Bog had seized the chance to organize parties of goblins to be sent out and assess any damage the snow might have caused to outlying villages and dwellings.

He had been worried about that, to the point of distraction, otherwise he might have been more insistent that Marianne curtail her efforts to assist and get some rest.

“He's like this every winter,” Griselda confided to Marianne, the two of them watching Bog race off to meet the messenger that had come with news of the goblins outside the castle, “All you can do is let him tire himself out and have hot tea and hot food waiting for him when he does and bully him into taking a nap. Sometimes I'm tempted to ask Plum for a sleeping potion I could slip into my boy's tea . . .”

It was with disgust and resignation that Griselda regarded her daughter-in-law as Marianne was pulled into Bog's fretting over the conditions outside.

Marianne couldn't help it. Bog was so distressed by any news that might indicate his subjects were facing some peril or another and she wanted to relieve some of his stress if she could. Not that he acted distressed. No, he grumbled and growled and snapped at everyone, making exasperated remarks about the incompetents he had to work with, double checking every little thing because of his purported mistrust in their ability to get anything right.

“I think you need some tea,” Marianne interrupted, giving the current victim of Bog's ill-humor a chance to escape, “And five minutes peace.”

“I'm busy.”

“You're--” Marianne tried to clear a tickle in her throat and was seized by an uncontrollable fit of coughing.

“You need tea,” Bog countered, “And at least ten minutes peace.”

“Sure, but you have to come with me to make sure I drink it.”

“I'm sure I can trust you to manage that on your own.”

“And I'm sure that you can trust Stuff to finish up here.”

Bog snorted, stepping away with the intention of going about his business.

“Hey!” Marianne called him back, “If you walk away I won't drink my tea and will fall dramatically ill and die. It will be tragic and, more importantly, my dad would be upset. Declare war on the Dark Forest levels of upset.”

“Are you . . .” Bog turned around and looked at her in disbelief, “Are you threatening to die and plunge two kingdoms into war . . . just to get me to have a cup of tea?”

“Whatever it takes. After all, I am only a frail fairy, fading away, imprisoned in this dark and intimidating fortress.”

Marianne laid the back of her hand on her forehead and tried to look tragic.

The effect was ruined by a sudden sneeze.

“That was the most unconvincing acting I have ever seen, tough girl,” Bog shook his head, but pressed his hand to the back of Marianne's fur cloak, pushing her toward the kitchen, “Try not to waste away before the kettle boils.”

“I'll do my best, but if I don't make it, I have just one request to ask of you.”

“Find an excuse to have that preening tin soldier beheaded?”

“Oh, nice, I hadn't thought of that. Okay, two last requests. The other is,” Marianne leaned back on Bog's guiding hand as if she were swooning, so that Bog had to hold her up. She looked at him upside-down and said solemnly, “Plant primroses on my grave in memory of our first meeting.”

She was giggling when Bog shoved her away.

“Wretched little troublemaker!”

“I'm not little. You're just too tall.”

Marianne gave him a jab with her elbow, wondering how he would react if she linked her arm with his. She still wasn't really sure where the boundaries of their relationship lay.

There were moments, moments of intimacy when she looked into Bog's eyes and she saw none of the walls he built around himself to keep others out. She felt her own walls and armor melt away and she felt vulnerable and afraid in their absence. An attack could come from any side and she would not be prepared to counter it. She would be hurt again and humiliated for being such a fool as to let her guard down.

In these moments there seemed to be nothing but a border of primroses between them, soft petals floating on their stems, a barricade too weak to keep anyone from crossing They watched each other through the gaps between flowers, uncertain of their next move. Marianne fleetingly felt that if Bog held out a hand she would have taken it and be led across the border into the dark. She felt that if she held out a hand Bog would take it and be led into the light.

But what if she was wrong.

What if, as it was likely, she was imagining it all.

They kept to their sides of the border and raised up walls around themselves again.

Playful squabbling about trivial little things was safe. If they accidentally stepped over the boundaries of friendship with some slip of the tongue or look that lingered too long, well, it obviously meant as much as the bickering and teasing.

That is, nothing at all.

“Try not to swoon before I have a chair to dump you in,” Bog caught her prodding elbow and pulled her back, taking her hand and looping her arm through his, “I would hate to have to leave the queen of the Dark Forest laying in the corridor until I can send someone to tidy her away.”

“Such a gentleman,” Marianne said with an exaggerated roll of her eyes.

For a long time Marianne had disliked walking arm in arm with anyone. Roland had used it as a way to keep her by his side during parties, steering her to where the most people would see him with the princess on his arm. Her father took her arm out of affection, but also to keep his daughter from trying to sneak away from festivities. It had always been about controlling her.

When Bog took her arm it felt almost stately. The dignified ceremony that so many at the fairy court tried to achieve, but fell short, achieving only stiffness of demeanor. There was nothing possessive about Bog's touch. It was, somehow, a gesture that indicated equality between them. It was a sign of trust for both of them, letting someone else into their space.

In the end they got three minutes peace and half a cup of tea between them before a messenger skittered into the kitchen to report that a family was trapped in their house under a fallen tree branch and a crushing amount of snow.

The news sent a look of panic flashing over Bog's face. The expression lasted no more than an instant, but for that instant he looked as if a blade and slipped between the plates of his armor and struck his heart.

“Where?” Bog stood, grabbing his cloak off the back of his chair and fastening it around his shoulders while he all but ran to the door, “How bad? How many people do we have in the castle right now that can be sent out?”

Not enough, it was discovered.

“There's me and my guards,” Marianne said, her cloak billowing out behind her, the warmth it had trapped lost as she kept pace with Bog.

“No,” he said without a moment's consideration or even bothering to turn his head to look at her.

“Excuse me?”

Bog's stride faltered at her tone but he remained firm in his decision, “No. You're sick.”

“I'm fine.”

He tried again, from a different angle, “You're under no obligation to put yourself in harm's way.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

He might as well have started calling her “princess” again, he was so carefully excluding her from his world, his life. Marianne was caught in a mixture of anger and disappointment. She had hoped they had gotten past this. She had been scared they hadn't and something like this would happen again.

She sped up and walked a step ahead of him so he had to look at her.

“Am I queen here, husband, or simply a guest?”

She pulled out her title with bravado, holding it up as flimsy shield and mask to disguise the truth: that she was only a princess, and a fairy princess at that, who had no place in this kingdom, among these people, or in Bog's life.

“That is not--”

“This is my kingdom now, too, these are my people. Or do you refuse me that? Am I not allowed to care about them?”

That was something she was certain of. She did care about the goblins after spending this time among them. She admired their strength, she even loved them, almost to the same degree she loved her own people.

“No--”

“Because I am not your idle guest, who is obligated to do nothing else but sit by and watch you struggle. So why--”

“Because I don't want anything to happen to you!”

They had stopped walking and Bog looked ashamed at his admission. He ran his hand over the back of his neck, looking at the floor as he searched for words. She could practically hear him thinking of logical, political reasons to make her stay. In the end he settled for looking her in the eye and telling her the truth.

The primroses and shifted in the wind and once again they met each other's eyes through the gap.

“In winter . . . it is so easy to die. Freeze, starve, be crushed beneath the snow. Even just walking on the surface of the snow, stepping onto a patch that gives way and snow piles on top before anyone came come . . . it's just so easy to die.”

“And you think I'm so easy to kill?”

“Winter takes more than it's share, strong and weak alike. I just . . . want you safe.”

Marianne felt her cheeks starting to burn and she wasn't sure why. Possibly because there was an emotion in Bog's words, an inflection, that almost sounded like, well . . . Marianne's face grew even hotter and she found it hard to look Bog in the face.

It had sounded like he was saying he loved her.

No, that was overstating. It sounded like he cared. He cared deeply about her welfare, beyond mere concern for the princess of the fairies and the consequences if her wellbeing was endangered.

This castle was where he gathered everything important. Everything he cared about. He gathered in as many of his people as could fit, and kept them safe and warm through the winter. It would have been easy enough to exclude Marianne from all of that. A curt note in reply to the message that announced her coming, saying it was inconvenient, unnecessary, unwanted.

Instead, he let her come and be among everything he cared about and wished to be safe.

Marianne should have resented him trying to lock her up like a lifeless gem, to be kept in a vault, but that wasn't why he wanted her to stay behind. Not because she was an useless ornament. He wasn't shutting her in. He was shutting winter out.

Unable to help herself, Marianne took Bog's hand between hers, feeling the startled curl of his fingers, the shift of his bones beneath the skin, the hard plate on the back of his hand. The inside of his wrist was not covered by his armor and she felt the beat of his pulse jumping.

“I'm queen, Bog. Your queen. And the queen of the Dark Forest does not stay behind to let her husband go into danger alone. I want you safe, too.”

The words were nothing exceptional, and yet Marianne was sure she must be scarlet with blushing, the heat having traveled down her neck and even her shoulders. She couldn't think why, her words were only meant to relay the same sentiment that had been in Bog's. The affection of friends, partners. Of a queen for her king.

A black claw delicately pushed back a few strands of hair from Marianne's cheek.

There was a wordless moment between them when complicated things simple and they forgot everything that they meticulously reminded themselves of. She found herself teetering on the edge of precipice, searching for reasons not to step off it, finding none.

The moment passed and Bog's hand slipped from her loose hold and all the reasons returned, more solid and logical than over, bricks in the wall.

“Dress warm,” Bog said, walking down the corridor, “you already have a cold.”

“I'll be fine.”

Hacking out a cough in her cave of blankets, Marianne had to admit to herself that she had been wrong on that point.

The time after they stepped out of the castle and into the cold was fragmented in Marianne's memory, the pieces out of order, the trudge through the snow sprinkled with pieces of her duels with Bog, beneath primroses, above the snow, around the evening fire.

The day had been long and the trip lengthier than it would have been in warm weather, that Marianne did remember. Neither she or Bog could risk their wings to the cold and the goblin's dragonfly mounts were stabled for the winter. They had to go on foot, avoiding loosely packed snow and branches that creaked under their burdens of ice.

“Didn't sign up for this,” one of Marianne's guards had said cheerfully, puffing out white clouds when they laughed. It was unclear in Marianne's mind as to who had said what, and even though the guards had not worn their armor, in her mind's eye she saw their faces masked by their helmets.

“Oh, please!” said another, “We signed on to spend a winter in the Dark Forest, guarding the princess who brought the Bog King to court in chains. This is exactly what we signed up for.”

“I didn't bring you here to listen to you talk,” Marianne snorted.

“An added bonus, your highness.”

“Your majesty,” they said, smacking their companion on the side of the head.

“Marianne,” said Marianne.

Little of the journey stood out otherwise. There was just the feeling of endless walking, her arm linked with Bog's, and a tension in the air, heavy as the snow.

Marianne did remember arriving at the site of the collapse with complete clarity. The reality of it, cutting as the cold winds and deadly as a blade sliced across the surface of her heart. It cut loose the small spark of joy she had been cherishing since talking with Bog, and left her cold right to her core.

A branch was twisted up in the snow, the fall having knocked it clean so that it's twigs clawed at the white powder like dark fingers. Goblins scuttled here and there, dressed in light-colored leaves and downy white feathers to keep their mottle skin from standing out on the clean sweeps of snow. Their movements were full of anxious energy as they tested the snow for a place where they could dig a tunnel that wouldn't collapse.

Everything went fuzzy again, the only clear spot being how she had kept her arm linked with Bog's while they waited for the goblins to finish their assessment. His arm had been shaking, hand clenched in a fist.

Marianne couldn't remember if it was then that Bog had spoken, or sometime later in the evening, but she recalled his words: “Sometimes you can hear them under the snow. Hear the children crying. Even when there's no way to dig them out, you can still hear them.”

There was a lot of digging, hard and unpleasant work. Then there was the matter of packing down the snow so it didn't crumble back into fine powder, which was even worse than the digging. The recollection of it rested in Marianne's head like a bad dream of endless digging and tunnels collapsing again and again before planks of bark could be put in to brace the tunnel.

Blisters had raised up on Marianne's hands and smarted when she held her sword in that dance around the fire. Laying in bed, she flexed her hands, feeling traces of some sticky salve that she couldn't remember being applied. She still couldn't remembered how she had come to be sparring with Bog or anything after it.

Marianne had helped pull the goblin family free of the snow, grasping clawed hands and hefting them up into the sunlight. There were light scratches on her arms where they had gripped, the sleeves of her tunic slashed full of holes. But all physical woes were forgotten when the goblin family crawled out of the tunnel and the tension broke, the danger over.

Bog had laughed. Everyone had. It was uproarious laughter, an explosion of the emotion everyone had been holding in. They laughed hard enough that they were warm with it even while their hands and faces tingled with the cold. Bog had broken away from his usual hesitant, almost silent laugh and was as loud as anyone else.

“They're safe! Everyone is safe!”

Had he shouted that out in the blinding white landscape, or whispered it in the orange glow of the fire, in a voice so low that no one was meant it hear it? Had he really picked her up and spun her around, in front of everyone? The crushing hug he had wrapped her in after he lowered her—her feet still hanging well above the ground—was clear enough that Marianne was almost positive it had truly happened. Her cloak and wings rumpled up under his arms and the plates of his armor catching and tugging on the fur trim, those details seemed too uncomfortable for her to have made up in a fever dream.

She had let out a small shriek of laughter at being so suddenly picked up and whirled around, but at the time had not been shocked by Bog's actions. It had not seemed out of place in that riot of emotions to cling to each other and laugh until Marianne felt weak with it.

It was about then that her fever must have really set in because everything after that was veiled in a light-headed haze where she seemed to watch herself from a distance with little control over what she did or said.

Several fragments of memory were lost, skipping forward to sitting around the fire, beer and mead flowing freely as the good cheer of relief. The winter sprouts tumbled over each other, gleeful over the noise and Griselda's permitting them to stay up and join the fun. It was crowded and stifling, reminding Marianne of her wedding day, except this time she was part of the the celebration instead of a stranger jostled by an unruly crowd.

Marianne tried to turn over, causing the ache of fever in her muscles to burn, waking her up a little Enough that she remembered that she and Bog had been sparring around the fire. Everybody had been showing off, fighting with and without weapons, everyone wagering on the outcome. Mostly the wagers were small or jokes, loser did the winner's chores or perhaps had to sing an absurd song.

A kiss.

The elusive memory was closer now and she was beginning to fear it was a thing made of blades and spikes that could not be picked up without slicing open her heart and her hands.

Somehow she had been drawn into the wagering and challenged Bog to a duel. The crowd had hooted and cheered them on. The noise only grew when Bog declared, “I accept your challenge!”

The crowd scooted back to make space, their queen and king circling the empty floor.

“What's the wager to be, then, tough girl?” Bog had laughed, “My scepter? My throne? Or merely to make a fool of myself in some ridiculous manner? Name the stakes, anything and everything!”

“I'll let you know,” Marianne had sliced her sword through the air, her feet falling into a fighting stance as easily as her cloak was discarded to free her wings, “after I've won!”

Marianne groaned and covered her face with her hands, embarrassed by her past self's reckless actions that were becoming clearer and clearer in her mind as she started to really wake up.

The brightness of the wild merriment slipped off to the side, dwindling until it vanished, leaving Marianne to pick her way through an unlit corridor. Bog's cloak was wrapped around her, it's train sweeping up dust from the floor. She pulled it more tightly around herself, feeling the bruises up and down her arms throbbing, the tiny cuts on her face stinging. She had fought with Bog after he had caught her talking to Sugar Plum, but everything was alright after they had talked, even if Sugar Plum's story remained a mystery.

No.

Everything was not alright and this was a different day. A hard day, but a good one. It was the evening where it had all gone wrong, when she had tumbled headfirst into the primroses and continued to fall, crashing into the forest, unable to halt herself. She fell and she fell, grabbing at leaves, but it was no use.

A kiss.

A spike of memory pricked her and she recoiled from it, but too late, the moment was already vivid in her mind.

Shame colored Marianne's face, right to the points of her ears. She remembered now, that she had won their bout. She remembered the wide-eyed shock on Bog's face after the fight, after she had whispered her prize in his ear. That look smothered her reckless cheer, tugging her back into her own body, no longer a dispassionate observer floating just overhead and took no responsibility for anything that went on below.

“A kiss.”

Marianne didn't know if she had meant to say that or it had just slipped out, her usual tight hold on such thoughts having been loosened by the wild abandon of relief. Her regret over this recklessness was immediate and she stumbled over herself trying to retreat, snatch the words out of the air and thrust them into the fire so they would burn away and their ashes be lost among the burning logs.

“Your cloak!”

The substitute prize was put forth on the heels of the first, and yet it felt that there had been an eternity for Bog to process the foolish demand and be repulsed by it.

The cloak was claimed, Marianne making some glib remark about the cold while avoiding Bog's eye. She had tumbled through the primroses again, crashing uninvited across the border because she had not been looking where she was going.

Head in the clouds.

Not looking where she was going.

Silly, clumsy girl.

She had taken a joke too far, a little too wild and tipsy to keep herself in check. She had mocked Bog with her demanded prize, poked fun at his ban on love, reminded him of that forced kiss when he was chained to the primroses. She had only meant to be funny, but instead she had been cruel.

Now they were walking side-by-side, Griselda having ordered Bog to make sure his wife got back to her room safely. The way Marianne was swaying had not escaped Griselda's keen eye. Not much did. Even though Bog and Marianne did not want to be within ten miles of each other there was no disobeying Griselda's decree.

The air between Bog and Marianne was thick with things unsaid and she felt herself floating up among them, their silence so loud she could hear every word with complete clarity. Regret laced through her share of the silence, a burning shame brought on by breaking all her promises and resolutions as if they were brittle as spun glass.

She waited for Bog to speak. He would be angry, of course, but also disappointed. There had been an understanding between them, there had been balance, and she had destroyed it. She wanted to apologize a hundred times, assure him it meant nothing and would never happen again.

Instead she waited in silence, hoping that somehow if nothing was said then it meant that nothing had happened.

“Thank you.”

She looked up at Bog with eyes that were beginning to blur, watering because she was tired and the smoke from the fire so thick. The two words he offered her were like fragile flowers, ready to be blown away by the least breeze, exposing the thorns beneath. She did not trust them.

“Thank you for everything,” Bog continued without any sign of anger, “For coming today to help. You—you and your people were a great help and—and I was glad. That you were there. Winter can be a terrible time and you wanted to share it with us regardless . . . thank you.”

“I'm beginning to think you hate winter even worse than spring.”

That wasn't what she wanted to say, but her brain had flicked off for a second when Bog thanked her and the words had tumbled out of their own accord.

Bog laughed. It was that whispery sound that almost wasn't there. The loud, free laughter of the day was gone and all his defenses were back up.

His guard was back up, slammed into place the moment he processed what prize she was claiming. Her own were wavering uncertainly in front of her, her mind wandering in a haze, too vague to analyze the situation and shore up weak points against attack. It was not within her power to restore the balance of her relationship with Bog back to their careful friendship.

“I suppose I hate both seasons in equal portions,” Bog replied, “just in different ways. Are you cold?”

“No,” Marianne lied, folding the cloak over her hands to try and gather up a little more heat and stop the shivering, “It's a very good cloak.”

“Your prize.”

There was a question lurking there, in Bog's tone, in the way he laced his fingers and tapped his thumbs together.

“Yes,” she agreed, answering the question, “my prize.”

And nothing else.

Marianne felt miserable. Her throat was tight and a headache was building up pressure behind her eyes. Bog's cloak was a warm around her, but she was still shivering with the cold. The day had been a whirlwind of activity and now that she had a quiet moment to begin processing it she was overwhelmed. Mostly by self-loathing.

The room heaved up at the edges and Marianne tipped dangerously when she tried to turn a corner. Bog caught her from behind, hands under her elbows, keeping her upright.

“Tough girl, how much did you drink?”

“Not enough,” Marianne laughed, without any humor.

A sigh brushed the top of Marianne's head before Bog carefully guided her around to face him, “Here's your rooms, you tipsy lightweight.”

“I'm not drunk. Where are my guards?”

“They are drunk. And losing at dice.”

“I'm not lending them money again,” Marianne said vaguely, “They promised they wouldn't gamble anymore. Or for at least a week. I don't even know why I thought they would. I'm . . . I'm tired of broken promises.”

It had been Roland's broken promise that had led her down this path, to this moment. How often he had professed his love for her, feeding her honey-coated lies that she was so eager to accept. Someone who loved her, for all her faults, her clumsiness, her awkward nature. She found out in the end that Roland merely endured these things so that he could use her as a means to an end. It was then that she realized that there was nothing about her that could be loved save the promise of a crown.

She had accepted this. She had used it to her own advantage, forging ties for political gain and keeping her heart safely tucked away. An indifferent marriage, a useful tool. That was the promise she and Bog had made.

Why did she keep breaking that promise?

Tired and dizzy, Marianne was grateful for the way Bog's hands tightened on her arms.. She wanted to take her leave, but if she did she would be along with her thoughts and the shame of her blunder.

There was no reason Bog should love her.

There was no reason she should love him.

They had agreed.

“I . . .” Bog said, eyes cast the side in thought, “I keep my promises.”

Marianne's head was light and her thoughts unanchored, it took her a few moments to puzzle out Bog's meaning.

“You gave me my prize,” she looked down at the folds of the cloak over her arms, Bog's long fingers lost in the mottled weave.

“I promised.”

Marianne kept her head bowed. If she looked up now, would she see an expression of disdain? Or perhaps a sarcastic weariness of one who has suffered too much at the hands of an empty-headed fairy? If she kept her eyes down then Bog was only a shadow curved over her, his warmth near and holding some of the chill in her bones at bay.

She would not look up.

The world slammed back into place, the mist of fatigue clearing, when Bog pressed a kiss to her forehead. Her hair had been brushed aside by one knobbly finger, not touching her, but the warmth of it still felt on her skin.

She might have gasped. She definitely went bug-eyed. She couldn't process what was happening. Why Bog would make such a gesture. She tried to find the sting in this sweetness, and was not at all comforted when she could not immediately find it.

But . . . oh, it was nice.

Marianne stopped looking for danger and let everything else melt away when the kiss ended, eyes sliding shut to seal in the memory while it still retained its soft glow, before she had to look up and see Bog's face. For a moment, just for a moment, she could pretend that she was more then a cold metal crown, that past the crown there was something that could be loved.

The kiss, the loophole in a silly little wager, she accepted it gladly, almost imagining it meant something more. A giggle, an obnoxious little noise, escaped her. She was so relieved that the incident was being so easily shrugged off and tidied away as just another jest between them. Point to her, point to him, just a silly back and forth. Because it was nothing more than that.

“Marianne?” Bog asked from somewhere beyond Marianne's closed eyes, “Marianne, are you alright?”

Was the room spinning, or was she swaying in place again? She tipped forward and everything slipped away.

Nothing remained in Marianne's memory of what happened directly after that. Things skipped ahead to her laying in bed, the dizziness abating, Bog tucking blankets up to her chin. The topmost blanket gave off a faint smell of pine and leaves wet after the rain. It was Bog's cloak. He settled it a little better over her shoulders and she snuggled into it, the chill starting to melt from her bones. Sleep was just moments away.

Her eyes flew open when a forehead crowned with leaves gently pressed against her own. Bog's hand, wonderfully warm, was on the back of her neck to keep her steady. There were blue eyes, closer than they had ever willingly been in the last year, blocking out everything else.

The half-light of the garden, the eerie blue of the dungeons, the orange glow of the party . . . all drowned by the eyes as bright as a clear sky, untouched by the frost of winter. Nothing at all like those pinpoints of blue that had haunted her in nightmares of her fall through the primroses.

“I think you have a fever,” Bog said, sounding worried.

“Oh?” Marianne asked.

“Oh.”

All at once he realized how close they were, his eyes going wide. Marianne was sure she was similarly goggle-eyed with shock, but the sense of unreality hanging over her took the edge off. Most of her brain-power was redirected to thinking about how lovely Bog's eyes were, how he was so close. Willingly close. That was nice.

A kiss.

Everything had been cast in a glow as pink as primroses, the last of the cold banished from her and she had done something unbelievably stupid. In the present, the fog of fever cleared from her mind, Marianne wondered if it was possible to smother herself with a pillow.

“What is the matter with you now?”

Bog flinched when his mother spoke. He had thought the room was empty. For such a loud person his mother managed to pop up in the most unexpected places without being noticed until she wanted to be.

“Nothing,” Bog growled.

“Your wife is doing just fine, you know. Just a bit of a fever.”

The words were no comfort. Over the years Bog had watched many people eaten up by fever. A 'bit of a fever' was serious when the afflicted was overworked and half-starved. Like a spark falling into the crackling dry underbrush of summer, the slight illness easily turned deadly.

His mother knew this, Bog could tell. But she said the words anyway, in her brisk way that somehow bent reality around to her way of thinking. She never wallowed, she had no time. The way Bog dwelt on things, turning them around and around in his head, was not something she had ever quite understood, even if she had long ago accepted it. She let him sulk, as she said, then prodded him along when she thought he had done enough obsessing.

“I'm not worried.”

“Mmhm,” Griselda narrowed her small eyes so that they were smaller still, “I bet.”

“Not anymore,” Bog sighed. He couldn't deny he had been worried. Deeply worried. Possibly somewhat frantic. However, Marianne's fever had broken and everyone told Bog she would be fine.

Now he just felt guilty.

“It's my fault she got sick. Fighting in the snow. Letting her come with me and the patrol.”

“Bah. There's something else.”

“Isn't that enough?” Bog hunched himself over the papers he had been going through, trying not to think of what had happened or how it had been . . . very nice.

Marianne's request for a kiss had taken him completely by surprise and left him completely baffled. He had been certain that she had finally seen that he was . . . well, evil. Full of selfish greed and cruelty. How someone so valiant would waste their energy on a bitter coward who shied away from the blossoms of a primrose, Bog could not understand.

The moment Marianne spoke her wish Bog forgot where they were, the pressing crowd of his subjects watching their king, forgot who he was, and for a mad, impossible heartbeat he felt words of acceptance forming on his tongue. Yes. Gladly.

Fortunately, Marianne had immediately thought better of it and saved herself with a swift replacement.

Fortunately.

His misstep was to honor the original debt, being so presumptions as to believe that Marianne still wished it to be repaid. He just wanted to clear that sadness from her eyes. No, he just wanted an excuse to kiss her. Or maybe it was both. Whichever, it shouldn't have happened, and even after it had he should have left it at that. He should have handed Marianne over to the care of her handmaidens instead of helping her to bed himself.

And he certainly should not have checked her temperature. It was obvious she was not well, that much was easily seen. All he had to do was fetch his mother and she would have taken in hand. His only excuse was that he was in the habit of checking the winter sprouts' temperature in the same way: pressing his forehead to theirs, hand on the back of their necks to keep them still.

Such was the force of habit that it took an absurdly long time to realize his thoughtless invasion of Marianne's space. Only when her the light caught her widening eyes, painting them gold, did he realize how close he had come without invitation. The back of her neck rested in his hand, the delicate bones pressing lightly under her skin. He felt the shift of her shoulders when she gasped and her muscles pulled tight.

Marianne's eyes were wide with realization and Bog knew that this would be followed by fear and horror. He knew that as an indisputable fact right up until the moment that Marianne kissed him.

He shouldn't have kissed her.

Marianne had been so close, her hands on his face, touching him not only without fear, but with affection. The wild abandon of the day was still with him, in some small measure. That day they had fought the cold grip of winter and won, snatching that family from its deadly hold. Pure elation had followed and Bog had felt that anything was possible.

Even someone being able to love him.

He had frozen in place when she kissed him, his instincts shutting him down, as if stillness would hide him from what was happening, like when he tucked himself under a leaf and held his breath until a bird passed by overhead.

The hurt on Marianne's face when her kiss was met with only stillness had been what doomed Bog to committing his grievous error. He wanted to do something to make that go away, and that want lined up nicely next to the very strong desire he had to kiss her.

So he kissed her.

Everything had gone rosy. Once invited, Marianne pulled him closer, even as he pulled her to him. Her lips against his, she let her fingers explore the layers of leaves that covered his head, trailing her hands down to his neck and pressing him closer still.

He couldn't breathe. He didn't know how to. He didn't mind.

His hand touching her face, matching up to where his fingerprints had marked her during their wedding, he couldn't believe how smooth her skin felt. None of the bumps or ridges that decorated a goblin's hide. Bog had often thought the fairies' sleek, indistinct features uncanny, but now he did not mind it. Not on Marianne. She was a fairy, yes, but that was part of who she was, of her beauty. He would not change her for all the amber in the forest.

Finally, it seemed to be time to breathe, and the kiss ended. Marianne had given him another, a sweet little kiss, like the first hadn't been quite enough. Then she settled against him, arms around him, her head tucked between his shoulder and the collar of his carapace.

“Was that so difficult?” She murmured.

It scared Bog that it had actually been so easy.

Marianne had fallen asleep and Bog had fallen into guilt.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bog's mother scattered the memory with the sound of her harsh voice, “maybe you're worried because you think you're responsible for getting her sick, but since when have you been moderate about worrying? Never. You like to be efficient and worry about at least ten things at a time.”

“Marianne's sister is coming,” Bog said, picking up the letter from Dawn, hoping to change the subject, “To check that we're not killing Marianne with our shoddy practice of medicine, no doubt.”

“Oh, that's nice! I finally get to meet the young lady who gave you all those flowers. But the girl coming isn't what's eating you. You've got the same guilty look you always had when I caught you stealing treats between meals.”

“Mom!”

“Did you two have another tiff?”

“We haven't had any tiffs.”

“Snapped at her again, did you?”

“No!”

“What then?”

“Mind your own business.”

“You are my business, boy. 'Fess up or I'll ask Marianne.”

“Don't you dare.”

“Oh, so something did happen. Look, whatever you said can't be totally unforgivable as long as you apologize right.”

This sensible little bit of wisdom just made Bog groan and drop his head onto the desk, squashing his nose. The problem was a mass of knotted threads that only pulled tight when he tried to unravel them. The simple solution would have been to cut it all out and be done with it. That would mean either Marianne going home as soon as possible, or Bog dealing with some things he'd rather not even acknowledge the existence of.

“That embarrassing? Well, it can't be that serious, then.”

Bog groaned again.

“Give it up, son, what did you do?”

The worst thing he could have done.

“I kissed her,” Bog mumbled into the top of his desk.

“Say what?”

Bog lifted his head, “I kissed her!”

That had come out louder than he intended, causing him to duck his head and clap his hand over his mouth, as if he could retroactively keep the words from being heard.

Griselda's face spread into a grin. In all his life Bog had never met a grin as wide as his mother's.

“No, mom, it's not a good thing.”

The grin did not falter.

“Mom, look--”

“Finally!”

“No!”

“You two have been dancing around since the end of autumn, it's about time--”

“I shouldn't have done it!”

Griselda's smile finally faded, but only so she could lift a quizzical brow at her son, “And why shouldn't you kiss your wife?”

Bog really hated how his mother phrased things. She swept aside all the reasons that should have been obvious, forcing Bog to actually say them out loud. Not that he didn't try to avoid that.

“You know why.”

“Do I? Refresh an old lady's memory.”

“She—she was sick. She had a fever. She didn't know what she was doing when she kissed me and I shouldn't have let her.”

“Oh, so she kissed you? Not surprising, really. Takes you forever to do things sometimes.”

“I shouldn't have let her! I knew her thinking was clouded by the fever, I knew her reasoning was compromised. She would never have—not if she hadn't been half asleep and already dreaming.”

“Careful you don't get tangled up in your own logic there, son. Suppose you haven't considered that maybe she just kissed you because she wanted to kiss you? Because, boy, she certainly did. You two are terrible at not being in love.”

“We aren't--!”

“Bah!”

“Look, the princess—Marianne—was not in the state for making decisions. I should have respected that. I should—I should have learned that by now.”

Griselda did not have an immediate answer for that. She knew that look in his eyes, the way he shrank in on himself. Not in the crouch of a hunting goblin, but of someone trying to fade out of the world, as if he offended it merely by existing.

“You're borrowing trouble, you know.”

It was beyond understanding. It should have been beyond imagining. That Marianne would look upon him with anything other than disgust. How could she not see him for what he was? Even if she looked beyond his appearance she should only have found an even worse ugliness. Yet by accident or subconscious design Bog had managed to hide this from her. And he pushed her away, to keep her from seeing it.

With trepidation Bog returned to visit Marianne now that her fever had broken. She still looked flushed, but felt well enough to complain about having to stay in bed. Nothing was said about recent events and Bog began to wonder—hope—that Marianne didn't remember what happened.

The conversation was stiff. That was probably because Marianne was tired.

Marianne sipped a spoonful of the soup Bog had brought her, trying to study Bog's face without drawing his attention. She was looking for any sign that the kiss had been anything other than a fever dream. It had not felt like a dream. At least, it hadn't until she was awake and face to face with Bog again, her conviction wavering when he made no mention of anything having happened between them.

There was a sinking feeling in Marianne's stomach when she considered the idea that she might have actually kissed Bog, but had made up the part where he kissed her back, and now Bog was tactfully remaining silent to spare her embarrassment.

“Two questions,” Marianne said, dropping the handle of her spoon onto the rim of the bowl with a sharp little clang.

She spoke so abruptly that Bog's wings twitched and he felt the instinctive urge to fly out of danger's path. Dread made his stomach turn. Marianne did remember, she remembered and was about to call him out on his disgraceful behavior.

“First,” Marianne held up a finger.

Bog stared at Marianne's index finger, feeling not unlike a prisoner awaiting the fall of an ax to separate his head from his shoulders.

“Have you poisoned my guards?”

“Ah . . . no?” Bog's words tangled up, caught in apologies that had stood on the tip of his tongue, tripping over each other when the conversation so abruptly swerved from it's expected path.

“It's just that they took shifts standing outside on guard and when Reen to lunch she was fine, but then came back looking like she was going to throw up. Then Glory went to eat and came back looking pretty much the same as Reen . . . and so on and so forth. I was wondering if this was the start of some convoluted assassination attempt.”

“Oh,” Bog might have laughed if his stomach wasn't churning, “They agreed to . . . evaluate the soup.”

Bog did smile when Marianne looked down at her own soup with suspicion, looking sharply back up at him to ask, “What's in this? It makes my mouth feel weird.”

“About three-quarters less cayenne than what was in the first batch. I wanted to make sure it wasn't too hot, just enough to warm you up. Is it not to your taste?”

“No, no, it's fine. I can actually taste it and I can't taste anything right now. But . . . cayenne?”

“Cayenne. Cayenne pepper?”

“Like . . . peppercorns?”

“Nothing like, actually. Honestly, what do fairies have against seasonings? It's a spice. A hot seasoning. Like chili peppers.”

“You eat chili peppers?”

“Why, what do you do with them?”

“They're—they're just an ornamental plant! They're supposed to be poisonous!”

“Poisonous? Ridiculous.”

“You killed my guards.”

“I did not kill your guards. They're just . . . a little singed. I wasn't sure how much cayenne would be too much. I cut the usual amount in half to start, but I wasn't aware of how little tolerance fairies have for anything that isn't made with a sugar base.”

“Our food is not that sweet, you're just a sour—wait. You cut the usual amount of half? Do you mean—you made the soup?”

The incredulous tone that pervaded Marianne's question made Bog prickle with resentment. Her response indicated that he had violated some fairy nicety in a shocking way but he couldn't see how.

“Yes,” Bog folded his arms and sat up straight, “and?”

A few seconds delay preceded Marianne's answer while she struggled to state the obvious without being rude. It would indeed be rude to say say something to the effect that Bog didn't have a face that looked like it belonged to someone who knew how to make soup.

“How—how do you even know how to make soup?” Marianne said weakly, to buy herself a little more time.

“I was taught, of course. One does not usually pick up cookery without the intention to do so.”

“Um.”

Marianne mentally backed up and searched for a different angle of approach. She was saved the trouble when Bog relaxed his offended pose and asked, “Is knowing how to make soup so strange in your kingdom?”

“Sort of. If you're royalty. I mean, the kings are too busy ruling and herding councilors to have time for homely little things like cooking. I wasn't supposed to ever go in the kitchens at all.”

“What, seriously? But . . . but . . .”

It was the rare goblin who did not have even rudimentary cooking skills, knowing at least how to cook tubers wrapped in leaves at the edges of the fire, or how to turn meat on the spit. Bog wondered how fairies had managed to survive while lacking such vital skills. They might not eat much meat, but a lot of plants still required preparation and cooking.

Bog decided to shelve the topic in the meantime, looking forward to Marianne's second question with great anxiety and hoping to get it over with. A swift end was always best. Or so he kept telling himself.

“I wasn't born a king, tough girl, and my education suffered for it.”

“Well, I was born a princess and my education suffered for it. It's good soup. Different. But good. Thank you for making it for me.”

It was a thoughtful gesture for Bog to have taken the trouble to personally make her something to help her cold. Marianne had a feeling that it was meant to show her he did not carry a grudge for her foolish slip.

“You had a second question?” Bog prompted, slumping down in his chair again, the point of his chest plate scratching slightly on the plates below. It was a mystery to Marianne how he ever found a way to sit comfortably in a permanent suit of armor.

“Yes,” Marianne's eyes slid to the book on the table, “Were you reading to me while I was sick?”

The even cadence of Bog's voice, blurred on the edges by his slight accent, rose and fell in the back of Marianne's mind like a song stuck in her head. The words did not matter, just the sound. It might have been her fever mixing and matching memories, tossing Bog's voice together with excerpts Dawn had read out loud from romance novels.

“Oh,” Bog wasn't sure if he was entirely grateful for another postponement, but he answered the question, “Yes. I hope you don't mind that I presumed . . . it seemed like it helped you rest more quietly, and . . .”

And he had just wanted to be near her, guarding her as if he could protect her from the illness if it pulled her too near the edge of life and death. He had known she was in no real danger, but his heart had been twisted by fear and haunted by the wraths of past winters. No amount of rational reasoning could ease his worry and he had come into Marianne's rooms uninvited.

“What were you reading?”

“This,” the pages of the book crackled when he took it off the table and handed it to Marianne.

“It is a fairy novel!”

Bog watched her long fingers flip through the brittle pages. Sometimes he marveled that such delicate looking hands had landed such a solid punch on his face.

“Windswept,” Marianne read the cover, “I can't believe—I mean, Dawn owns this book. And it's a romance. A romance!”

“I'm aware,” Bog huffed.

“But . . . why?”

Indignation had made Bog straighten his spine again. Marianne recognized his offense as being mainly pretense. If he were really upset with her he would curve over, head down and guard up. The way he had been alternating between slumping and sitting up straight told Marianne he was agitated. This seemed to be further evidence that her silliness had been more than wishful thinking caught by fever and painted over with convincing shades of reality.

“The charm of nostalgia,” Bog raised a hand as he shrugged one shoulder, “When I was young books were a scarcity. Argos didn't approve of the masses sharpening their wits with books and picking up bad habits like thinking. Such things might have been honed into blades and turned on him. What books we had, silly or not, were cherished.”

“I see.”

Marianne smoothed the pages, rippled with exposure to the damp, running her fingers across the ragged binding. There were notations scribbled into the margins, smeared pencil thoughts about unfamiliar turns of phrase. The last page was crammed with tiny writing and a remarkable number of question marks.

“What happened to the other pages? It's missing quite a few.”

“It entered my possession in such a state.”

“Huh. I guess it's just as well all these books end the same way.”

“At the time I wasn't aware of that. Drove me a bit mad, wondering how things turned out.”

Marianne squinted at the blurred writing on the final page. It seemed to be speculation about how the story progressed and ended.

“My mother says her mother would tell stories about the last Bog King's libraries.”

There was a faraway look in Bog's eyes that somehow made Marianne comfortable enough to settle back against her pillows. If his thoughts were cast back in time then they would not be dwelling on current events.

“What was the library like?”

The sprites had been flitting around, twitching the edges of blankets into place, brushing specks of dust off spotless furniture. Now they settled on Marianne's pillows, looking interested at the prospect of a story.

“It filled an entire tree stump. The floors were petrified wood, polished smooth, and the walls lined with slabs of stone. There were . . . so many books. History, textbooks, and stories too. They had more printing presses, and people who knew how to use them.”

The book was back in Bog's hands and he ran the tip of his claw over the neatly printed words.

“The building was lined with stone, and the wood treated to keep it from rotting or burning. I've often thought that would be a useful trick to know. It would be a blessing to this brittle old log. Not that any of those precautions were of any use when Argos had the library doused in oil and set alight.”

“Oh,” Marianne said, unable to find the words to express her regret for the loss. It was too big to fit in her head. Too impossible. Books and libraries, they were forever, harmless necessities that couldn't be done without, but paid no particular attention.

“I went once to see the ruin for myself,” Bog put the book back on the table, “Some of the walls and shelves can still be seen, under the new growth. Slabs of petrified wood here and there. The books are all ashes, of course.”

“All of them, just gone?” Marianne tried to think of where books would go if there was no library to house them.

“Oh, there's always a few brave souls who'll fight tooth and claw for the sake of a handful of crumbling pages. Hands can only carry so much and hiding places that are both safe and dry are too few. And, as Argos knew it would, survival became more important. Paper cannot be eaten, but it can at least fuel a fire and hold off the frost.”

The story had a wistful note, slightly detached. These were things Bog had not witnessed, only heard through stories even as he lived through their consequences. Marianne knew the story was a melancholy one but she couldn't help but find Bog's voice soothing when he discarded growling and spoke in that soft, natural way. It was like his laugh, suppressed and muffled beneath the front of the powerful, deadly king.

Once Bog had been a little boy, earnestly wringing every last bit of knowledge out of a fairy novel that had been made with the expectation that it would be read once and discarded once the little substance it contained was exhausted.

Marianne had forgotten her troubles for the moment while she thought over the snippets that Bog chose to share of his life. She might have reached for her journal to jot down notes if she didn't feel so tired and heavy. A cough rattled in her chest and Bog handed her a cup of water before she even reached toward the pitcher set next to her bed.

“How do fairies get through the winter?” Bog muttered.

“We manage. Hot air circulating under the floors . . . hot water in pipes . . . greenhouses. We have greenhouses. Made of glass. Have you seen them yet? They're all glass panes in thin metal frames . . . they look so delicate but they keep food and flowers growing in the winter. It's a shame it wouldn't work here. You'd need sunlight.”

“More than you'd find in the forest. It's beyond me how you can stand as much brightness as you do. It blinds you and dries you out. Fairies seem to thrive on it in spite of all reason. Then you polish everything up so the light doubles as it bounces off metal and mirrors, like you were trying to capture it to save for the darker seasons.”

“That'd be nice. I could use a little stored sunshine right now.”

This offhand remark reminded Bog of half-formed thoughts that had been plaguing him since the castle door was sealed for the winter and he saw the spark of panic in Marianne's eyes. He feared that the dark and cold weakened fairies, accustomed as they were to their cozy gilded castle. Flowers from the fields always whithered in the forest.

“I'll survive, Bog,” Marianne said, seeing the worry on her husband's face, “Light is just what I'm used to. Dark is fine too, once you live with it for while.”

Bog rather thought that his wife's last remark had more than one meaning.

“I'm told,” he said, “that things were a little brighter, as it were, in the forest before Argos.”

“Then you became king and brought some of it back.”

“That is . . . it is what I intended. There is a sadly large gap between intentions and results.”

Youth and righteous zeal had seen him well down the path to kingship. Blood and bitter anger had gotten him the rest of the way, delivering him to the throne room where Argos had sat, bloated with power and excess like some inflated toad. But strong yet. Strong enough to make the fight prolonged and wearing.

“Blood dims all things,” Bog twisted his hands together, feeling the warm blood growing cool and crusted in the seams of his armor.

“Dimmed your head enough to marry me,” Marianne made little lines in her fur blanket, parting the hairs in orderly rows. Bog's cloak had disappeared sometime between the kiss and her fever breaking.

Bog touched his head, where he had been wounded after he had flown-head first into a tree like some scramble-brained dragonfly, “Or maybe cleared some space. Enough to see that even the Dark Forest needs some light.”

Little as he might deserve it, his people still did. Light was dangerous and necessary, like it's source, fire. It had to be contained and handled with care or it would devour everything. Libraries, villages, lives, and hearts.

“But not too much?” Marianne asked, as if she glimpsed his thoughts.

She had a habit of doing that and sometimes it terrified Bog. What other hidden things did she see, stumbling into them like she had stumbled into the dungeons and found Sugar Plum.

“More than we had. My people need it. They need more than merely surviving for the sake of surviving. There needs to be something they are surviving for, time to . . . to build and grow. And just . . . silly things. Silly books, bad poetry, mistakes . . . room for mistakes. We can't afford mistakes now, for there might not be a chance to try again because one mistake might destroy us.”

No room for error, lives depended on it. He had to be sure of everything, minimize risks. Every time he had charged blindly in he had suffered for it. Primroses, there had been a mistake. He had thought he was taking a calculated risk. He had thought he was taking a calculated risk when a fairy princess charged into his kingdom, slammed him into a tree, then proposed marriage.

He shouldn't have taken her bargain. He thought he could keep a balance with light and dark. Thought he could keep the fire from burning them both.

“I want . . .” Bog thought of light coming through the primroses, “I want the children, the winter sprouts and all the rest, to grow up . . . more like you.”

“Me?”

“Like you, like Dawn. Healthy, safe, educated. Have time for flowers and books. Rich enough for leisure.”

The sincerity and weariness that mingled in Bog's words made Marianne's already watery eyes sting with the threat of tears. It was beyond understanding how Bog couldn't see how admirable a king he was. He hadn't even inherited the throne, he had sought it out and deposed a tyrant for the sake of the people of the forest. There was no obligation that kept him bound to shoulder the burdens of ruling a starving kingdom and caring for it's orphans.

A detail struck Marianne as contradictory, and she asked, “The last king, the one you deposed--”

“Killed.”

“Yes, killed. His name was Argos?”

“Yes.”

“But you call the king before him the Bog King.”

“Of course.”

“Don't give me 'of course'. You can be disdainful of my ignorance when you can recite the family tree of fairy royalty back ten generations while keeping names, titles, and ranks all organized in your head.”

“Of course,” Bog said again, with a great show of meekness.

“Hmph,” Marianne sniffled, “If the royal line of the Dark Forest isn't hereditary, why are you called the Bog King? Did Griselda just have really good foresight about naming you?”

“Ha, no. You see . . . this is complicated to explain. It isn't something that often needs to be explained.”

“Enlighten a shockingly ignorant fairy,” Marianne commanded as regally as she could manage while her nose was stuffed up.

“The ruler of the Dark Forest is always called the Bog King.”

“So, it's a title?”

“No. Yes. In its way. The king relinquishes the name he was given and takes the name of the Bog King. Argos refused to let go of his own name. It was a declaration of his greed, because when you take on the duties of king you aren't . . . your time isn't your own. Your life isn't your own. So you give up your name and become king to serve your people. Argos did not see himself as serving anyone.”

“Huh. Argos sounds perfectly charming. But, wait . . . your name isn't Bog? I—we—you—we're married and I don't even know your actual name?”

Her outburst started up her cough again and once it started she found it hard to stop and it bent her double.

“Hey, hey,” Bog's voice sounded panicked, but his movements were steady. He put a hand on her back to support her as he gently guided her back into the pillows, “I'm going to get you more tea.”

“You can't just leave without even giving your name,” she said, voice broken up by the cough.

Bog's hand on her back made her remember how he had held her during that kiss. She wanted him to go so she didn't have to think about it. She wanted him to stay so she could find out what was fact and what was dream.

“You already have it.”

“I mean your real name.”

“It's more real than any name I may have had before it,” Bog stepped back, but only to pull his chair closer to the bed.

Satisfied that Bog wasn't going to run off, Marianne rolled around to lean on her shoulder and let her wings stretch out a little behind her.

“Now you're just teasing me,” Marianne said, “Teasing your poor queen when her health is so delicate. I have a right to know, you know. What is it?”

Bog laced his fingers together and leaned over them, bowing his head low enough that he had to lift his eyes a little to look at Marianne. There was no playfulness in those blue eyes. His face was serious, arranged in the expression of someone discussing things too important to be taken lightly.

“It doesn't exist anymore. That name is gone.”

“Very dramatic,” Marianne said, taking it lightly all the same. It was easier to be silly than serious when she was snuggled up in a nest of blankets, “I appreciate the symbolism, very powerful stuff. But I think--”

“Marianne, I don't know it.”

“Don't know what?”

“The name I gave up. I don't know it.”

“I . . . I don't follow.”

“It isn't symbolism. That name was given up entirely, the memory of it cut out of me and everyone who ever knew it. You cannot pick up the scepter of king without putting down everything else, and this way I could not go back even if I wanted to. I am the Bog King, and all my honorable predecessors were the Bog King.

Propped up on her elbow, Marianne looked at Bog with a confused frown puckering a line between her eyebrows, “How can you even do that?”

“Magic. Sugar Plum and her like have had their uses.”

“You don't have a name?”

“I do! The Bog King. That's my name. That's who I am. That's me.”

The knuckles of Bog's hands strained against his skin as he twisted his hands tightly together. A slight lift of his shoulders and flicker of his wings showed his anger plainly, but his eyes were directed at the floor and not at Marianne. He wasn't speaking to her, he was speaking to the memory of people who had challenge his right to rule and tried to take away his name.

He was the Bog King. That was what he wore around himself, an armor over armor, to keep the ugliness of his heart sealed away. He was the Bog King and he was nothing else.

Marianne felt that this was information she should be recording in her journal, but for the life of her she couldn't figure out how she would write the baffling tradition down in a way that made sense. The messy method of Dark Forest succession was foreign enough, never mind the idea of giving up your name, your previous life, so completely.

In the light fields the children of the royal line were brought up so that their titles were intrinsic to who they were as people. The crown had rested on Marianne's head since she was born the first child of the king. But her name was her name, hers whether she took the throne or renounced it. When her rule began she would exchange the title of princess for the title of queen, discarding nothing in the process. The crown, the education that prepared her to rule, they had all been handed to her.

Bog had fought a brutal war to pull the crown from the grasp of a greedy tyrant and the reward for this was to be stripped of his name and wear only the title of king. It seemed that Bog didn't even think he had the right to anything besides his duty to his kingdom. Really, his only indulgence seemed to be his hatred for primroses and all they represented.

Marianne didn't think she could ever make such a sacrifice.

The very tip of two fingers touched Bog's knuckles, resting there like a fallen feather, the rest of the hand curled away with gentle caution. Just a touch, just enough to snap the cord of tension wrapped around him and make him look up.

“So, can I keep on calling you 'Bog', then? I've always thought of it as your name . . .”

“Yes. Yes, that would be fine.”

It had only ever been the fairies who treated his title like a name. There had not been many people in his life that were in a position to want to call him by name. There was only his mother, really, and she refused to use his title at all. To her he was always 'son'.

“Good. Bog?”

“Yes?”

“You're amazing.”

“What?”

“You gave up your own name and there was no reason you had to. But you did it, you've done so much at the cost of yourself to help this kingdom. You even married a flighty fairy princess for a chance at trade.”

Bog didn't know how to classify the last item, but he wouldn't have called it a sacrifice.

“You're amazing, Bog. Why can't you see it?”

Bog released a shuddering breath and took the hand that was hovering just above his. He let his forehead lay on the back of Marianne's hand, his fingers wrapped around the petal sleeve of her nightdress.

This wasn't allowed.

He wasn't allowed to have this. Comfort. Understanding. Love. Not a creature like him.

“Why can't you see I'm not?” Bog said, voice cracking because Marianne didn't pull away. He wanted so much to accept her love. To love her in return, “Why can't you just see me?”

“Bog, I do.”

“You don't!” he released her hand and stood up so quickly he had to buzz his wings to keep himself from falling over. Still, he tripped over the chair and had to grab it before he flung himself into a wall. He stood there, wanting to carve angry white lines into the wood, trying to breathe, trying not to cry when he said, softly, “If you did you wouldn't be able to stand looking at me.”

“Bog--”

“I'm sorry. I'm going.”

“Bog, wait,” Marianne shoved back the blankets and slipped out of bed, the floor cold under her feet, desperation forcing out a question, “I kissed you, didn't I? Did you . . .?”

“You were sick,” Bog said, “It shouldn't have happened. We won't . . . we won't talk about it.”

“But did you--?”

Bog paused, facing the door, hand on the knob. Marianne thought he might turn back around. But he only stopped long enough to say, just above a whisper:

“I'm sorry.”

And then he was gone.

Marianne snatched the book off the table and hurled it at the closed door, a few pages fluttering loose on impact.

“Idiot. You ruin everything.”

Marianne wasn't sure which one of them she was talking about.

#strange magic #spread the lofe #butterfly bog #potionless #kidnapping au #strange magic kidnapping au #my writing #those chains that bind you #chapter #my fanfic

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