#his hands are so elegant. like the ruffles of swan wings | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

snapdragonquest · 4 years

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Library Date

Cygnus and Sagitta hold hands while studying. Because I am weak and crave that sweet content.

@thankourluckystars

The grand library was almost always empty, silent and devoid of sound, other than the odd rustle of turning pages, and the distant padding of footprints. The deep, musky smell of old books wafted through the air like a heavy cloud. Coffee and parchment, the smell of fresh ink. From a few open windows, a light spring breeze drifted in, bringing with it the fresh scent of honeysuckle and pollen. Warm morning sunlight danced across the room with a soft golden hue, and flecks of dust sparkled in the beams. It lit up the wooden flooring, between the dark shadows of the towering bookcases.

Sagitta had always been deeply fond of the atmosphere here. Quiet, cosy, and rich with history. Ancient and undisturbed. Wide open spaces and yet still so snug. The ornate stone pillars and the carved wooden shelves sang of the stories they held, promises of infinite knowledge, to those with the patience to read them.

As the clouds passed by, her head remained ducked in a large, brown stained book, fingers tracing the rugged edges of the paper as she neared the end of her page. Even with the window by her right, table pressed up to the glass, the vast expanse of sky rolling forever beneath her, she did not spare it a glance. Simply content to feel the cool air as it brushed across her cheek.

Untouched scrolls had been splayed out in front of her, along with other selections of books that she planned to skim over later. She wasn’t close to finishing her first chapter yet, but it was nice to have them there anyway. If anything, it would appear to others like she had finished them all before noon, and she liked the smell of the parchment anyway.

So engrossed in the contents of her history book, she didn’t even notice Cygnus’s approach until she had pulled out the adjacent chair out and sat down, sinking into her seat rather heavily. Sagitta turned her head, mouth open to offer their regular greeting, reaching into her bag to pass over the breakfast she knew her friend had neglected to eat that morning. But as she did, Sagitta found herself rather taken aback. Cygnus’s expression was all dishevelled, her eyes were wide with nerves, wings ruffled up, and her face was lit up with a ruddy colour.

“What could have happened so early in the morning to have you like this? You can’t have been awake more than an hour.” She asked, nudging a few slices of cinnamon nut cake towards her, and drumming her fingers on the open page. It wasn’t uncommon to find her like this, all flustered and agitated, her worried thoughts tangling together into a bird’s nest of scenarios before anything bad had even remotely happened. Be it stressing about her work, or tardiness, or being unprepared for something she hadn’t been assigned yet, or even just her appearance, she was superbly skilled at worrying about it. Sagitta really couldn’t understand how her mind worked. Cygnus was one of the most hardworking Celestrians she had ever met, and if anything, she was overprepared in everything she did.

“I’ve done something terrible.” Cygnus whispered back, voice wavering with urgency, and brows furrowed tight. Hands trembling, she reached into her bag, placing her own books across the table. The way she acted seemed significantly more unorganised than her usual manor, and Sagitta tucked the red bookmark string over her current page before flipping it closed.

As Cygnus stumbled over her notebooks and folders, laying them haphazardly and arranging them in careless piles, Sagitta gave her an inquisitive look. “I highly doubt that.”

“I lied to my teacher.”

Her voice was so hushed, it took Sagitta a few moments to process the words. But when she finally did, the realsiation hit her so unexpectedly that she was nearly alarmed.

“Oh.” She replied in a flat sort of tone, too surprised to give offer any sort of proper answer. No wonder Cygnus looked so fearful; Aquila was not the sort of teacher to be messed with. She could easily admit, he even made her a little nervous. “What did you say to him?”

She chewed her lip, brushing a loose strand of hair behind one ear and looking down at the table. “I told him we were studying together.”

“That’s…” Sagitta paused, the worry immediately vanishing from her and quickly turning into perplexity. She gave Cygnus a look, mouth turned up. “That’s not a lie. We are studying together.”

“Yes but it’s not the whole truth either!” She whispered back in a frantic tone, reorganising her books again to stack the smaller ones upon the largest, and shuffling her loose paper notes. “We’re… you know. He asked what we were doing together. I got so nervous I couldn’t get the right words out. And it feels like lying all the same, even if I didn’t say anything wrong. I’m just so stressed about it. He’ll be so, so angry when he finds out.” She ran her fingers through her hair, mussing it up, and then spent the next few moments trying to neaten it up again.

Sagitta shook her head, exasperated. The library was supposed to be her calm, safe space, where she could spend her time studying in peace. And while Cygnus was usually such a good reading partner, the two of them working together through difficult paragraphs and keeping each other company when the boredom began to sink in, she had quite the ability to get in a tizzy.

“He won’t.” She said firmly, voice low and impassive. And while she reopened her book, out of the corner of her eye, she watched the other apprentice reorganise hers again.

“I just can’t stop thinking about whats he’s going to say. I’ve never kept anything from him before.” Suddenly she jolted upright in alarm and tucked her hands into her lap, fidgeting with the tassels of her skirt. “I bet he already knows.” Her voice was quiet, and yet somehow laced with enough panic to feel it buzz off of her in waves. “He probably knew I was lying and he’s going to drop me as his student. Or he’s going to tell Apus Major. I think I might have to run away and spend my life as a sheep herder on the nomadic plains–”

“Cygnus, hush.” She slammed her book together with enough force to make the other girl jump, but gentle enough to keep the sound dimmed. This was still a library after all. Startled into silence, Cygnus ducked her shoulders, and glanced back at her sheepishly.

“Sorry.”

“You worry too much.” Sagitta said, and picked up a dry quill off the desk to flick her on the head with. She handed it back to Cygnus, who placed it in an orderly line with her others. “You haven’t done a single thing wrong, stop panicking. Besides, have we actually done anything other than work when we’re together?”

“Well… I suppose not.” She admitted, the tension visibly ebbing away.

“There you go. You didn’t lie.”

“But–” She started, and Sagitta picked up the quill again in warning, giving her another look. Cygnus huffed, but smiled a little anyway, finally leaving the arrangement as it was and picking a single book to read. A study of weapon forging; relatively new, if the bright cover was any indication. “I’m not just here because I like studying. Though I do, I do like studying.” She nodded earnestly, and Sagitta found herself holding back a snigger. “But, I also like spending time with you.”

Her face immediately lit up with a slight dusting of pink, and her mottled grey and white wings shifted a little, becoming more comfortable over the back of the chair. She must have been blessed with her namesakes’ feathers, Sagitta thought. While pristinely groomed, the dark, fluffy fledgling colours still clung across them like a young swan, making her look like a mosaic.

Sagitta couldn’t help but tsk at her reaction, and despite herself, she felt a faint smile tug at the corners of her lips, heat rising up to her cheeks as well. She scooted her chair in a little more to the table, fingertips subconsciously brushing against the beauty spot by her mouth.

Opening back up to a previous page, using the decorated bookmark to keep tabs on which line she was reading, Cygnus mumbled, “I know we haven’t done anything different than usual, but I still feel so... scandalous.”

“Scandalous!” Sagitta barked out a laugh, before hastily glancing away, aware of how loud that had been. But still, as she looked back at Cygnus’s expression; rose hued and suddenly abashed, a wide grin spread across her face. “You haven’t even held my hand yet.”

Cygnus opened up her mouth to reply, almost mortified, spluttering on words and growing redder by the second. A few moments passed before she finally found her voice, but only managed to stumble out a few syllables before hiding away in her book, avoiding Sagitta’s eye. Her wings fluffed up as she hunched over the table, and Sagitta watched with a sense of amusement, waiting patiently. On cue, her posture slowly, habitually straightened up, and her face loosened up from its scrunched-up expression. Surely that position was uncomfortable, always rigid backed and held up tall, but truthfully, a lot of things Cygnus did eluded her.

That was what made her so charming.

As the other girl began furiously writing in her notebooks, her quill working against the paper in a familiar, scratching rhythm, Sagitta let herself return to her own book, reading over the long, droning paragraphs until she found herself caught in its flow. The sound of Cygnus’s writing and the crinkle of pages was enough of a comforting sound to let her really study. Before long, she found that she was on the last page, and with a blooming of pride in her chest, went to pick out another book.

Cygnus, as always, hadn’t really understood the idea of taking notes, and appeared to have written down more information than was even expressed in the text. Pages upon pages of tidy, elegant letters lay before her, underlined and titled, and Sagitta didn’t know how she was possibly supposed to remember it all. Was she even supposed to remember it all? She doubted it. When could she ever require this information in her guardianship?

The sun passed by, the rays of light drifting their way across the room, and Sagitta poked the nut cake with her elbow to remind Cygnus to actually eat it. Incredibly, she actually stopped writing, pausing to look down at the food. Sagitta could practically hear the gears turning in her head, and watched as she began to gnaw on her lip again.

She took a deep breath, placing down her quill.

“Would you like to?”

It was more of a squeak than a whisper, and when Sagitta looked over at her, her face exploded in red, right up to the tips of her ears.

“Hm?” She asked, raising one brow.

Cygnus cleared her throat, and it almost seemed like her halo glowed brighter, heat radiating off of her as she brushed her fringe out of her eyes. “Would you like to hold hands?” She whispered.

Sagitta blinked, and her thoughts stuttered to a stop, clouding over with a mixture of sudden adoration and blind panic until the only sounds that came out of her mouth were, “It will be a struggle to write notes with my left hand.”

Cygnus nodded stiffly, hair tumbling across her face in long waves of colour, and her expression tightened. Mouth pulling into a thin line. “Right, right, of course. Sorry.”

That wasn’t what she meant to say. That wasn’t what she meant to say at all. What did she mean to say? She didn’t quite know, her stomach twisting suddenly with butterflies as her heart started to pound a little harder. Cygnus looked genuinely crushed, hiding her face in her books as she ducked back over, not even remembering to pick up her quill.

As she tried to fix her muddled brain back into working order, Sagitta decided it would be best to shut her mouth for now. Instead, with one hand, she reached out and took Cygnus’s in hers.

To her credit, the other Celestrian didn’t jump too abruptly, only a little bit, freezing solid for a good few seconds before eventually melting into her hold. Her fingers gingerly moved to interlace with her own, and Sagitta couldn’t help but marvel at how warm she was, how rough her skin was already from handling her sword.

Aquila trained her hard, and it showed in the calloused edges. She should feel envious about that, Rigel was so relaxed with his methods, some days she wanted to scream with boredom. Her training never pushed her too far, never left her tired or worn out in the evening. Cygnus would work herself down to the bone, until she was nodding off during their evening study sessions. Already the improvements were visible.

She felt a light squeeze to her hand.

She did not feel envious.

Cygnus peeked out from behind the ribbons of her hair, her eyes wide and glimmering with light. She quickly looked around, checking if anyone had seen them. Of course, hidden away as they were between the bookshelves, not a soul remained there to bother them, and her face lit up in an expression Sagitta could only describe as giddy. Her eyes crinkling up with the size of her grin.

As their hands began to rest underneath the table, swinging loosely between the two of them, Sagitta wondered if her face looked equally as flustered. It certainly felt a lot hotter, though that could have been the afternoon sun. It gleamed off Cygnus’s hair like solid gold, her own personal sunbeam, and yet she was looking back up at Sagitta like she was the moon and the stars.

She squeezed Cygnus’s hand back, reminding her to get back to work, and it took another, tighter one to pull her out of her daze. Her shoulders flinched, grinning sheepishly as she finally drew her gaze away, and went to pick up her quill.

Just as she reached it, she paused, fingers twitching, before reaching for her breakfast and taking a bite.

Sagitta beamed. Clearly she liked it, if the way her face lit up was any indication, and she gave Sagitta’s hand another squeeze in appreciation. A loose crumb stuck to her face, clinging to the side of her cheek, and she wrinkled up her nose trying to lick it off. But with one hand keeping her page open, and the other one occupied, she couldn’t reach it.

The dilemma obviously troubled her. She looked back at each hand, and scrunched up her lip, deciding whether it was worth leaving it alone, poking her tongue out one side. With her free hand, Sagitta reached over and brushed it off her face with one thumb. While Cygnus was still reeling, somehow turning even redder, eyes growing wider, she tapped the paper in front of her.

“Keep working. Or Aquila really will start to get suspicious.”

It was a complete lie. Cygnus had already done enough work to last the entire day, but if Sagitta was being honest, if she looked up at her like that for any longer, she was going to melt completely. It was only fair that she fluster a bit too. Besides, the quiet Eep that escaped her partner as she jumped and buried herself back in her books was more than worth it.

Sagitta sighed quietly, turning back to her own work. The words were tiny, and the paragraphs drowned out each page in solid blocks of text, but it didn’t really seam to matter. She did always study better when Cygnus was scrawling away next to her, and the feeling of her fingers tangled with hers kept her mind focused.

She squeezed her hand again, and smiled as she turned a page.

The sun meandered its way across the sky, leaving prickles of warmth across her face, and Sagitta’s little sunbeam squeezed her hand back.

#dragon quest ix #DQ9 #dragon quest 9 #dqix #IM GAY AND YOU CANT STOP ME #sagitta the workaholic castella #Cygnus the celestrial donut

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sugar-petals · 5 years

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Cygnet (m)

⇁ pairing jimin x reader

⇁ word count 8k

⇁ genre royalty au | slow burn | smut, angst, action, drama

⇁ plot Under the sinister eyes of his hidden enemies, Crown Prince Jimin wants to prove his skill as your fencing disciple — and secret lover.

⇁ warnings foreplay, teasing, PDA, unhealthy relationships, violence, fights (physical/verbal), jealousy, assertive reader, sub!jm

⇁ a/n The time is right! I write about my home country. The story is less historical rather than a 19th-century convolute of German tradition influenced by “Swan King” Ludwig of Bavaria.

He slices the curtain in half. The noise is sharp, the cut is messy.

A jolt goes through the fevered crowd. King Albrecht rises from his seat in the central spectator’s box. With an exasperated strike from the side, you can barely ward off the Prince’s blade and create more distance between the two of you. Even the set of six clarions stops blaring at the end of the competition grounds. The colorful jesters, maidens, and buskers halt their endless chatter. Even the Princess, once preoccupied with eyeing up the musicians and floral swan decor all around the field, pays close attention.

The next, even taller metal frame shields you from the Prince’s following blow, long enough to switch the foil into your other hand.

But then—

No time for just one breath. He’s going for another lunge.

The consequent step almost causes you to slip. A hollow. The sand and earth are uneven. Oh, how you hate tournaments. Last weekend, the King celebrated his birthday with a grand mêlée. It must have been a rabid horse trampling across this section of the field at a more dashing speed than usual. But that is but a feeble excuse, isn’t it. At least, the hollow is not steep enough to twist an ankle.

You seek to find more stable ground behind the next frame. There are about fifteen of them set up on the field, all of them draped with silver curtains to create an obstruction, and only seven left if you keep moving away from him.

Crown Prince Jimin in his fencing armor, complete from helmet-head to pointed toe.

Spotting a blue piece of fabric trail left, then right, you see that he is indeed quick to follow. It is the bright neck scarf, attached to his belt.

“This is not a lance game, Y/N!” he intonates from behind the curtain. There’s rude pride in his voice.

You wait. Keep the foil in your right hand fixed. Once you see the Prince’s striking profile through the silver drape once more, which gladly, is not opaque enough to entirely conceal him, you step out to confront him with a feint from below. Going by the lax smile he flashes, he’s seen it coming. Your blade reaches the targeted spot on his shoulder delayed. The turmoil and caw of the audience peaks. He’s self-assured.

Again, you wait. Naturally, securely, the Prince bends sideward, preparing to counter. But then, he wavers. Casual, you retort his grin and angle your wrist enough to force him into a curve two times as stark than before through an angled flick. And so, it happens.

He steps into the hollow.

And falls over.

In the moment of abstraction, you make the blade spring from his gloved right hand with a swirl of your own weapon. High outside. Strike.

The Prince exhales when you depress the tip of your foil in his mesh jacket, then plant it into the ground next to this face where it parts the loose earth.

Inside the spectator’s box, seated next to the Princess, the three stoic judges raise their flags to signal the end and victory.

“This,” you say, “is not a lance game, my Prince. There’s more to it than hitting your opponent.”

Clarions resound, as do percussions. It takes a few seconds until your breath calms enough. Applause crashes down like a wave from the podiums where the audience rises from their seats, throwing hats in the air, waving thick banners with golden swans and lions.

“You got me there.”

The Prince, exasperated, unties the blue-white neckerchief at his belt and hands it to you. Chivalry. Above all bedlam, the bearded King’s jovial laughter and boisterous clapping accompanies the noise on the field.

An owl keeps on hooting outside in the arcade. You twist and turn in the sheets. It’s a relief that the maiden Anna knocks three times, then peeks inside the chamber in her blue nightgown. Equanimous, she informs you that the Queen will establish a banquet tomorrow evening.

“To celebrate the new swan pond in the royal garden.”

Big fountains, big dresses, big everything. You know how it goes. As usual. It’s what happens at Linderhof Palace all year long. At least you hate it less than tourneys.

Anna, discreet as always, puts out the oil lamp on your bedstand, leaving a fade of smoke in the room. She disappears in the corridor with fast steps, headed to the quarters of the servants in the west wing. Judging by the silence in the Palace, even the jesters are either too tired or drunk by now to fool around as always.

Once more, you try to recline in the pillows with a cool breeze coming from the open window. Although you don’t remember who left it open, you know very well how bleak the winds from the Alps can get at this time of the year. Getting up is easier than you thought, but you leave the duvet bottom-down to keep your warmth preserved instead of just kicking it to the side.

The second blanket below that, however, you draw out to wrap around yourself like a cape.

Headed to the window, you realize that it is open with good and familiar reason. There is a pair of gloved, trembling hands attached to the frame. It’s how he always does it. You tease, bend forward, voice louder to overrule the breeze.

“My Prince? So late?”

“Is it?”

Two hazel eyes flicker at the bottom of the opening, also making visible the not-so-typical ruffled hair he has been sporting since this very morning.

“You promised me this session. Last year, did you forget? It’s almost spring. We did the tournament.”

“You really want to practice now?”

“What do I look like?”

You peer through the frame gazing downwards. It’s not just icy cold. The wind bristles through the haggard pine trees all around. He’s developed more resilience as of recently.

“A silly guy hanging off his sword master’s window two stories high, wanting to hear about the golden lesson of fencing.”

He huffs out a cloud of breath. Now, a pearl of sweat runs off his forehead if you allow yourself to look particularly close, which you do delight in: Nothing better than a royal late-night exercise.

“Fair— enough.”

“So?”

“You said it yourself. We don’t practice for war. We practice for fun. Don’t we? Come, one lesson. Just theory. You made a promise for today.”

The Prince grits his teeth when the next chilly gust of wind comes along from the valley. You stroke your chin a few times.

“Can’t break that one, can I. Or are you just a sulking loser trying to get revenge after I’m done explaining my secrets?”

“Y/N. I’ve been hanging here for several minutes now.”

You tap your foot. So much for not complaining about endurance training.

“Prince, I see that.”

“My arms are so limp, I can hardly wield anything.”

Very well. Judging by how his fingers clamp at the window, quite rigid now, they are.

“The chambermaid took longer than usual, I know. Come on in to Rapunzel, you climbing ace.”

Relief in his features.

“Here we go!”

You offer a hand— the stronger one. He pulls himself upward.

“Thank you, Master.”

The Prince glides into the room with snowy laced up shoes and a large coat on, making your own makeshift blanket cape fall reasonably short in terms of flamboyance. At least he’s learned from the first time when he climbed up in his sheer nightgown with an outrageously plunging cleavage.

Now that he tries to stomp off the melting snow from his boots, you shush him fast.

“You fool! I’ve heard someone rummage in the kitchen.”

He closes the window with more care than he cleans his blades. Which means, hardly any. Some snow falls off the outside of the frame.

“Oh, really?

“You think a banquet prepares itself?”

The Prince frowns.

“Way past sunset?”

“Some people have to crook an extra finger unlike you sitting in the throne room eating apples. Sit down here, my Prince. At least you’ve come for theory.”

You eye the stack of books waiting at the fireplace. So does he.

“Sorry for the cold air.”

You pat the chair at the cast-iron oven for him to take a seat next to your wooden stool.

“If you come close enough, that will make up for it.”

The snow has melted off his shoes entirely, and the room temperature increases even more once you shove a scraggly block of wood into the oven. Although the kitchen does not seem to be bustling, here and there, a metal clank or wooden thud reaches the chamber, making either of you flinch. Keeping your voice low is a hard task given that theory lessons with the Crown Prince always cause a lively discussion.

“You’re more in the mood for learning when I defeat you, isn’t it so.”

He smiles. He shrugs. His oh-so famed eyebrows play whatever game. The fire tongues at the metal bars surrounding it, emitting a cozy heat around your feet.

All he can say— “The way of things.”

After tying your hair back with the help of the blue-white neckerchief, quite demonstratively so, you go through the pages of the old leather-bound book from the top of the stack.

“That’s quite lovely. You did try your best on the field today. You still can’t cut things in half properly. I’m still waiting for that day. But you improved with balance.”

The Prince rubs his poufy cheeks, then stretches out his arms as far as they permit, strained as his muscles have become.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “You pointed it out when we practiced in the forest. The shoulders. Upper body.”

“I like how you commit. Just be careful, my Prince.”

“Yes?”

You point at his torso.

“The more you focus on the flaw. The more you forget the things you’re good at. Which is?”

“Elegance.”

“Footwork.”

More surprise forms on his face.

“Footwork?”

“My Grand Prince. You know very well why I offered this lesson,” you pat the book with a flat palm, making dust escape from the pages. “With that attitude, you’ll have a hard time impressing the czarina. Or surpassing me.”

The Prince looks you dead in the eye now. His hands rest in his lap again.

“That is, if I want to.”

“Wasn’t it your motto when we started at Hohenzollern Castle?”

Your gaze shifts to the wooden sword holder at the far end of your chamber. The silver-colored sabre that you used at that time, named Cygnet after a witty suggestion of the Princess, remains the glistening centerpiece between all other blades. He sees it, too.

“I’ve changed my mind about what happened there, Y/N.”

“You’re probably right.”

Opening each metal button one by one, then shrugging his shoulders backwards, Jimin pulls off the big coat and rests it far away enough from the oven. His arms are almost completely slack. Outside, the pines still croak under the storm.

“I like being defeated,” he says, now before you in his purple princely jacket with the lion emblem.

Again, you strike a testing voice.

“Are you content with being second in line, in front of the King? The czardom?”

He nods.

“If the crowd enjoys the show, so will my father. That’s why we have the tournament.”

Even if letting your eyes trail off downwards his garment is tempting, your gaze remains hard on him.

“Albrecht cares more about the cakes and treats than the hierarchy, does he.”

“The Queen enjoyed the fights today.”

“If it wasn’t a banquet and for your arms, we could very well duel tomorrow.”

To put on a show, why not. To beat him again, why not.

“On even ground, yes.”

Marble, most likely. The garden with the adjacent arcade offers enough space.

“That’s why I like duels,” your voice turns low. And tantalizing. “They’re very intimate.”

“So do I.”

“Next week,” you lean forward, now in a whisper. “We might have a chance. Our generous Princess Marie is said to announce her departure to Saxony. We’d have enough time to ask the bard to organize a few minutes for us on the parquet.”

The Prince’s eyes light up.

“Oh, right! I almost forgot what he said! That ball! I was just thinking about the banquet.”

“Yes. Can you persuade her? The czar family will be present, too.”

Seraphims and chandeliers decorate the ceiling, among the ubiquitous swan motif that adorns just about every plate and painting. The musicians gather, hasty. Some of them you recognize from the King’s annual opera night. Even the jester wears his finest gown today, donning metres and metres of green fabric drapings. The Crown Prince, however, is nowhere to be seen on the parquet with his feathered walk, the voice, the laughter.

After the orchestra begins to fiddle, officially starting the ball, and the buffet opens, instead— you see her enter. A silhouette, clad in dark red.

It is the czarina.

Yekaterina Romanova, whose smile could melt the snow of the eternal Alps. Her diadem gleams more than any of your theatrical gowns or coronation attire could ever. Even her stride alone commands attention. It is firm.

The servants of the King are visibly in awe, nodding at her every move and word. Alongside her parents, after a minute or two, you see Yekaterina converse with Queen Therese. About Prussia, you assume. Or Austria. Most likely Austria.

There is no time for eavesdropping in the first place even if you are seated fairly close. And, quite regularly, yet another Saxon Duchess wants to beckon you into the mass of chatting aristocrats to talk about a private fencing lesson for her youngest. It seems that either your name has been making rounds or your plain brown clothing makes you stand out, ironically so. You decline but one request that comes as a question from behind you.

“Do I come to delight in your unfair methods today, master?”

There stands the Prince in his dove white robe, complete with an embellished frock. His voice is dripping with a type of flustered, cocky charm that you fail to sort into his usual moods.

“You sure do, disciple.”

You turn to seize him up further, leaving him no doubt that you do so. Hair set in more voluminous curls than normally. A golden edelweiss necklace cascading onto his chest. Heeled shoes making him inches taller. Smiling just enough not to violate the etiquette, you extend your hand toward him, feel his breath. He presses a kiss on its back. Far more chaste than the one on your lips last night before he climbed down the window again.

In the meantime, the bard, slender and clad in beige-golden fabrics, opens his scroll. The crowd stops to converse when he begins to read.

“A duel— The famed Parisian style! Only select observers will remember the infamous scene at Castle Hohenzollern. The King, his majesty, his utmost splendor, proclaims with joy his son, the Swan Prince, as a returnee after the tournament to reclaim the neckerchief!”

Wuthering applause. You raise the chequered piece of fabric in question for all to see, then wind it around the grip of Cygnet just below the guard, several times, then knot it tight. The musicians deliver a small, yet impactful melody. More witty remarks from the jester follow. The King, spotting the neckerchief, instantly reacts with more applause. While the mumbling bard announcer completes his list of titles and responsibilities of the royal family, then honors the imperial guests from Saint Petersburg, all you can do is mouth toward the Prince.

“Haven’t done a mock combat in two years.”

His eyebrows raise as a reply. Seeing just that, at least two of the servants appear to almost faint in the third row.

“Means you might have a chance with your supposed,” you add, “well, elegance.”

“I’ll try,” he stiffens his posture. Adjusts the saber. His frock. Flashes a polished, practiced smile.

“The czarina is in the first row. You’re lucky, my Prince. She sees your every move.”

Before he can answer, the bard finishes the litany of the scroll while the Princess steps forward, facing either of you for a brief moment in honesty.

“Thank you for assembling. I, Marie of Bavaria, now permit the commencement of the duel. May the bravest strike, but honor always win. Three, two, one!”

The handle sounds very different in the ceremonial white gloves, tightly fitting either of his hands. He barely trains in those, if ever.

You focus on the saber and keeping your knees bent at the proper angle not to fall for the distraction. Back foot first. An explosive jolt toward him. Low inside. His necklace sways left to right with the first exchange of lunges.

A twist. A stab. Your blade misses Jimin’s legs by a millimeter.

“Y/N!”

He backs away with a jerk of his knee. You raise your voice loud enough for all the audience to hear.

“What did you expect. Remember your footwork, my Prince.”

The crowd laughs.

“Just you wait. I get the neckerchief.”

He regains his stance, ready anew. You let your saber’s tip drop pointing to his crotch. The elaborate frock.

“I’ll be the one waiting. You’ll take forever with this thing on.”

Embarrassed, albeit amused reactions from the section where the overly decorated czar family sits, accompanied by the prime minister of the House Romanov.

The Russians do have humor, it seems.

The King, upbeat as ever, just guffaws right along.

Another high inside grazes Cygnet way down the Prince’s unstable weapon until both blades part again once he evades. The czarina gasps out loud. You lick your lips. It seems that the servants, on the other hand, have recovered from the Prince’s dangerous eyebrow play.

His taste on your tongue, however, has not even remotely faded. It still lingers. He could barely leave your chamber. The lesson could have been a lot longer. His hungry eyes still tell you that. You pick up more pace.

The entire ballroom bursts with tension since even the King has stopped commenting the scene. Another attack lets either of your sabers clatter five, six times in a row. Not just his endurance has improved. The balance and footwork, too. His arms are in perfect condition.

“It’s more than hitting your opponent,” he delivers a sharp cut from the right, then ducks and spins to riposte your following feint.

“I thought you gave up on surpassing me.”

Thanks to his lowered stance, you have an easy time bringing the tip right over his head. It audibly cuts through a piece of hair. The Prince’s curl dusts over the parquet in the direction of the czarina who promptly exclaims, horrified.

That’s how far the humor of the Russians goes.

He gathers himself. Another clash silences the room even more. Between the series of remises, one could hear a sewing needle drop on the ground. The Prince launches another compelling series of attacks, making you parry and take two steps back into the direction of the buffet. More ohs and ahs in the audience. He’s fast. A quick look at the bard makes you realize that the set slot for your combat is almost over. With a lunge, you make the prince retreat by two steps himself. Either of your blades remain entangled. A prise de fer is only one breath away. A final counter to settle the back and forth.

But the pompous announcement of the bard interrupts your next riposte already.

“It is a tie!”

A collective exhale. Particularly the Queen looks confounded. Either of the musicians don’t know what to play.

The King exclaims. “Yes, a tie!”

Mumbles from all corners. You draw back Cygnet and take up the beginning stance, as does the Prince. That gaze he shoots you. All too familiar. You have the same thought.

“If you pardon a suggestion,” you address the royal family. “We will settle the match with a simple cast.”

“A cast of what?” Marie blinks. The Prince nods at you and steps toward the buffet to pick out a red, plump fruit to present to the crowd. Confused faces all around. The Russian prime minister seems to be grumpy for a while now in particular. You decide that doing politics is better than talking about it.

“Princess Marie,” you continue to speak, “An apple.”

“Indeed?”

You nod toward the imperial Russian family.

“The czarina Romanova will cast it.”

Murmurs and rumbles among the aristocrats, even the orchestra. Jimin looks at you wide-eyed. The King, times as invigorated, discusses with the Queen Therese. You already toss the apple toward the House of Romanov. The czarina’s alert younger sister, nine-year-old Natasha, catches the apple.

“And you will compete who punctures it?” the Princess asks. Jimin nods.

“We will. Only the fighter who will pierce it wins the duel.”

Countless reactions all over the ballroom echo back and forth now.

“We will give the duelists three minutes to prepare in the adjacent room,” the bard announces.

Jimin tosses the apple onto the carpet.

“Y/N. I do not want the czarina’s favor!” he says, then strays off into a circle around the room.

“The King says it’s his plan for you. The entire Palace maintains that you like her, too.”

He violently shakes his head.

“I don’t care about his plan! The rumors are false. All they want is to appease the Romanovs. Haven’t I kissed you last night?”

“Then you have to prove your I don’t care. You mentioned how you liked being defeated.”

“If I don’t even try to pierce the apple, the House of Romanov will see it as a personal offense!”

“Tricky, isn’t it.”

You go to pick up the apple from the corner where the Prince has tossed it into. He’s adamant.

“Why did you suggest this?”

“The Queen wants you to propose to Yekaterina today, isn’t that the truth? We’ll have another ball like this in a month and you’re off to Saint Petersburg with a new noble title. Just like your sister goes to Saxony. I have more against that than the czarina herself.”

He tugs at his hair in desperation.

“Don’t you understand? How many more times do I have to climb up the wall for you to realize it? I want to stay here.”

“Then you have to be clever, my Swan Prince. If you don’t pierce, House Romanov will have bad blood with the Albrecht and Therese. Worse if they see it was a deliberate miss on your side. And, if you do pierce, you have bad blood with me. Just climbing doesn’t show the public who you really want. You have to make a statement, my Prince. I want to see your commitment. We’ve been putting this off for too long.”

Either of you push to raise your sabers the highest, dancing from foot to foot. The apple’s tangent is significantly skewed to the Prince’s direction. The czarina’s expression is a hopeful one when it does come down directly toward his blade. Not a single noise in the ballroom. Just held breaths. The Prince freezes once he realizes where it goes. The Queen exclaims. He closes his eyes.

Screams belt from each direction of the hall. All mouths agape in the first row. Three servants faint on the spot. You gaze across your shoulder.

The apple rests in the middle of the parquet.

Sliced in two perfect halves.

The cleanest cut you have yet to see.

Voices of bewilderment, the unknown, and explosive cheers alike mix in the surroundings. The bard looks clueless as of what to proclaim.

You sheathe Cygnet with a twinkle at the Prince.

“Neither of us wins,” you say. “Only piercing counts. However, as you have greatly impressed me tonight with your progress and hard work, my disciple—”

You tie off the neckerchief from the bell guard of your saber and hand it to the Prince, who promptly squeezes it tight at his chest.

Uproarious applause and whistling. Even the prime minister claps a bit. Both King and Queen fall into each other’s arms.

“Such chivalry!” Albrecht cries out. One of the bearers of the Bavarian coat of arms has to pass over his flag so the King can wipe his tears with it. Even the jester is speechless.

Uncaring of how her neatly laid-out violet dress creases, the Princess jumps up and down, then rushes to the parquet to inform the bard by whispering in his ear. The man in beige then comes toward you and the Prince, beaming.

“The Princess has determined the fighter of honor. Y/N wins the duel!”

While five buskers entertain the House of Romanov with pantomimes, the orchestra plays an upbeat melody. Couples row up to dance.

“The czarina has excused herself,” the bard, stopping to read the pairings from his scroll, intonates. “She doesn’t feel too well. It must have been the long journey. But she states that we should not worry.”

Albeit in festive mood, the Queen ends up looking rather concerned at the news.

“My son doesn’t have a dancing partner?”

Silence among the royal family. Until small Natasha runs to tug at the Queen’s giant gown from the side. She talks in broken German, pointing at you.

“Isn’t Swan Prince— Y/N boyfriend?”

Therese looks at Jimin. So do you. Natasha keeps on tugging, repeating the words.

“Boyfriend, boyfriend!”

“He has,” the Prince extends his hand toward you, “a dancing partner. May I?”

“Fiancé, fiancé!” Natasha exclaims.

While you walk off in sync to join the dynamic grid of dancers, the King shrugs, facing his wife.

“Kids. Isn’t it funny!”

“Oh, well,” Therese gazes after you and the Prince while Natasha runs back to the imperial family gathering on the dancefloor.

“That was quite a statement. So much fun. Marie had the time of her life. I love duels. We’ll grab a cake now with the Prime Minister, come, Therese.”

A few cobs bicker at the fringe of the pond, then glide off into the ripples to attend to their swanlings. You have to sit close together on the park bench to converse freely since the loud servants and music does drown out a lot of words. Natasha plays around the other side of the garden with the Princess, throwing snowballs and chasing a few willing musicians off duty through the arcade. Without the permission of just about anybody, but who doesn’t want to tease the violinists and clarion players with their ridiculous swan hats. Jimin, on top of his white frock, now carries an even larger and longer coat where only his delicate heeled shoes stick out of at the bottom.

“Don’t your feet hurt?” you wonder, pointing at them.

“Used to it. The curl hurt more.”

You pat his head with content eyes.

“Sorry for cutting it off.”

“Just admit that you wanted to shock the czarina. That was close. I thought you were about to provoke Russia’s armed forces.”

“It’s about fun, not war. I think the Russians enjoy chivalry just as much as your father.”

“If you say so.”

“And, as I said. I don’t have that much against her. She’s more charming than I thought. Yekaterina.”

You point toward the other side of the arcade where the Russian and Saxon nobles admire a lion statue, as presented by the King.

“But you knew. That, me losing would sway her not to propose. The House of Romanov values potent men.”

“That is true,” you pick out snowflakes from his coat and melt them in your gloves. “But I also knew that me losing would not please you, my Prince. I saw how you closed your eyes.”

“I was surprised that the apple didn’t stick on the blade.”

You laugh.

“It’s a saber, Jimin. Not the foil we practiced the cast game with in the forest. No apple can be pierced with a blade like that. Especially out of thin air. Neither of us could have possibly done it.”

His jaw drops.

“What! You knew that? It was just a test?”

“Of course. You were the one who wanted to hear about my secret lessons so bad, this was the golden one.”

“This was the lesson?”

“There is a reason I read old books and stay first in line. I also knew that the Prime Minister would enjoy you receiving the neck scarf.”

“Wha— What do you mean?”

“The bard said you fight to retrieve the neckerchief at the beginning. That translates to you winning the combat in the mind of the minister. Romanov mentality.”

“Yes?”

“Even if you did not win— once you retrieved the neckerchief, the minister was fond enough. It was never about impressing the czarina or puncturing the apple, my Prince. That’s not how politics work.”

“You mean, impressing the minister was more effective than trying to make good relations with a marriage?”

You nod.

“It seems that way. I doubt that the czar family will leave with you getting an invitation to Saint Petersburg. They’ve seen us dance. The czarina didn’t want to.”

“I think they should know where my commitment is now.”

“Precisely why you earned the neckerchief back.”

“So do you stop testing me now with your hidden lessons, master?”

“What do you think. You only offered your arm to dance because of Natasha’s help. That wasn’t all by yourself.”

“But it was the statement you wanted! Wasn’t it? I made a really clean cut through the apple, too! You said that I really advanced, Y/N. You’re so hard to satisfy.”

“You did crook more than one finger today, I’m rather pleased with it.”

“Rather? Is it that you want me to climb again?”

The Prince’s eyes dart to the tower at the west wing. All surrounding walls, stairs, and windows look particularly hostile after the recent snow.

“No, I have another idea. Later, my Prince. We have to accompany the Princess’ departure to Leipzig first. It starts in a few minutes.”

“Later? What are you planning?”

“Put on the garment that you wore when we first met at Hohenzollern. Tonight.”

An owl makes herself comfortable on the branch next to you. For raging weather tossing and turning around the palace like that, she looks rather friendly, almost unfazed. You do want to linger to observe for just a little longer, but the cold is hard to bear this evening. You turn to the masonry, knock. From behind the tracery of the frosted glass, you can hear light steps. No heavy boots on anymore. He’s already settled to sleep. A crimson blur acercates, then, the window creaks open. The Prince inside the now open frame exclaims in utter shock.

“Six stories! Y/N! Are you mad!”

Jimin scrambles to extend either of both gratuitous arms for you to seize by the wrists, pulling you inside the bedroom as fast as his stance in thin slippers allows. You greet him with a mischievous grin.

“I did assassin jobs for the Queen before you could even do as much as walk.”

You land, no, tip-toe onto the timber piling. The Prince, furied, builds himself up arms akimbo.

“We’re the same age!”

“I’m mostly kidding. I do own a collection of severed heads. They’re under my bed. If you go by the advice of the chef, the alcohol in the barrel will preserve them for years.”

“Did you hang out with the Russian prime minister after the departure or what? Did you chug too much beer?”

“No. This is late night sword master humor.”

Jimin is already on his way to the bed, sighing out.

“Figured,” he says and crawls back under the heavy, purple-colored duvet.

The pine branches rustle back and forth when you shut the window— not gentle enough, you note, to leave the owl undisturbed. It flatters off into the night, seeking another spot.

“Why are you angry? You do this thrice a week on the west wing.”

His arms are crossed.

“It’s four stories less and you know when I come. That was dangerous, Y/N.”

“It wasn’t, you know how high I climb when we practice in the forest. Should I just go and sleep alone?”

“You misunderstood,” he says. “I don’t want you hurt. That’s all.”

“Hm. That’s fair, Prince.”

“And I don’t want to fight.”

“Me neither. And I’m already here.” You point at the frock splayed out at the Prince’s elaborate birch-wood wardrobe now. “Is that thing why you showed up pretty late to the ball?”

“The way you didn’t like it makes me think that was in vain.”

“I didn’t like it because it messed with your fencing steps. How long did it take to put all of this on?”

Jimin shrugs.

“One and a half hours. Fitting included.”

“Royals. You astound me every day.”

“I tried my best to look good.”

“You did look good. And you danced well. Can the reckless sword master join in the sheets?”

He already loosens the all-around curtain of his bed from its posts where a thick decorative cord holds them in place, and lays down on his back.

“Put a block in the oven before you do.”

“Very well,” you pull off your shoes. And step towards the fireplace, where Jimin’s favored blade is propped up on a metal stand. Cinder. The one you first saw him fight with. The counterpart of Cygnet. It’s been three years. It shimmers as golden as it always did. With a painted-black guard and grip, and the neckerchief right next to it.

You select a particularly large chunk of wood and twist it into the half gleaming, half burning ashes. It’s gotta last long tonight.

Curtains closed. Gloves resting on the nightstand. You glide a hand across his cleavage. Goosebumps. Thumping heartbeat. Pulse between your legs. Scorching fire in the oven. It’s almost unbearable.

The Prince’s breath goes heavy. And blends into yours soon enough. The deep interplay of your tongues mimics more than just what happened on the tournament field. So slick, so fast, so hungry, and yearning. Never satisfied. But what could. You both waited for so long. Only gazes will only starve. No hand kiss is ever enough. You want to fuck him. So bad.

Depriving yourself of a scent as rich and a mouth as addictive was not a good idea. His hands are busy stroking downward your back while another surge of kisses spills down on him. Lips so runny with spit, you can slurp it off. There’s an overlay of wine and apple when you give yourself a second to taste. The servants were right. What don’t his eyebrows do to you. And what doesn’t it take you to remark it between kisses.

“Nice garment you’re wearing there, splendid Prince.”

He winds in the sheets.

“Thank you.”

Carefully, you retreat from the Prince’s face. His hands stay resting on your back.

“Love seeing it in this spot.”

He smiles.

“Why here, actually? I thought you would catch me in the bath later.”

“This bed is the reason,” you recline on the mattress next to him, arms spread out, one across his stomach. Looking at the vault of the room, you realize how many hours must have gone into crafting it from oak.

Jimin pats the bed frame.

“No barrel underneath that one, can guarantee you that.”

You roll closer to him again, tapping his chin with one finger. There’s still saliva.

“From what you say— Did you want to meet me in the bath?”

“I, uh.”

“You normally don’t go there after balls because it’s too busy. You went there on purpose and thought I would, too, didn’t you.”

Within the halo of the candle on the nightstand, shimmering through the bed curtain, Jimin’s face plunges into a deep red.

Marie has been making fun of you ever since for knowing his habits in every detail. Your excuse was always, well, the Prince’s personal bodyguard needs to know the nitty-gritty, doesn’t she, it’s not a useless feat.

“See,” you twirl one finger into his curls. “I have a few secret lessons. No need to be ashamed when you use one of yours. You have to work on effectiveness, however. Of course I show up here instead. I always play unfair.”

“The poor czarina realized that very early,” he sighs out. Your finger drops from his chin.

“I thought— you weren’t fond of her?”

Both his arms drop off your back. The Prince gesticulates. But he’s hesitant.

“Our bard. See... He informed me that she took the carriage to Moscow even before my sister departed to Saxony. Hours before, in fact.”

You fall silent for seconds. The spark of the fire is the only thing audible in the spacious room.

“I apologize for that,” you begin, equally hesitant. “My manners are not as impeccable as they should be.”

“The King,” he continues, “even volunteered to write a letter to smooth over the situation.”

You’re taken aback. He really did. Nothing of that reached you so far. It’s too much of a surprise. But the Prince looks far too earnest for it to be untrue.

“Was she really so aggrieved? No wonder you’re in such a bad mood as well.”

“Disappointed, I think. Yekaterina wanted to see me win. Can’t blame her.”

It makes you almost speechless.

“I understand that her hopes were high. But why do you care?”

“Well...”

“‘Can’t blame her’? What does that mean? When we prepared to duel, all you were about, oh, I don’t want her favor!”

He fumbles at the golden trimming on his sleeve.

“What I realized was, we could have been more polite with her. I mean, regardless of me not wanting the marriage. Just because I fancy you doesn’t mean I have to hate her.”

You cock your head, incredulous.

“A change of mind? So fast? And just when she went back to Moscow? Think you’re missing out there, all of a sudden.”

“A change of mind, maybe. After you made me a fool with the apple.”

“Take it as payback for your hubris during the tournament,” you poke your finger at his chest instead. The spot where you had planted the tip of your foil on the mesh shirt.

“I did nothing wrong. You’re mean to me, Y/N!”

“Sure. After I learn you talked to the King to win Yekaterina’s benevolence again. Just when we kiss. You contradict yourself, my innocent eyebrow Prince.”

“The marriage to House Romanov,” he sits up, “is off the list. Okay?”

“Oh, truly.”

“There will be no mention of me desiring a union in the letter. It’s just to avoid her resentment and being nice. That’s all. It’s not even me writing the letter. It’s just politics. You should know that the best.”

“I see,” you pat his arm. “You did go to the bath to anticipate me. And you put on the Hohenzollern gown.”

“Yes, I mean it. I am committed. I want to be your husband. In case you could not tell. And what do you bring to the equation? Falling off the east wing tower just to give me a heart attack in my slippers?”

Now, you sit up, too. The candlelight casts a long shadow of your silhouette, blurred through the fabric of the curtain, against the wall where the oven stands.

“You know very well that I have planned the entire duel. So I could win. So I could give you the neckerchief regardless. So I could dance with you. So we could stay here. So I could be your wife. All while still not pissing off the Russians. I wanted to have you. There was no other reason I climbed the tower. And suggested to duel at the ball in the first place.”

He takes a moment to reply. When he does, his voice is much more high-pitched.

“The Hohenzollern introduction as well? What the bard read out before we started?”

You exhale.

“Of course. I instructed him to pick up on where we began. There is nothing more persuading to ball crowds than a romantic story. With the swans around and all.”

He crosses his arms once more.

“Isn’t that— manipulation?”

“If manipulation means preventing you from sitting around in Lower Siberia for the next twenty-five years? It sure is. I know it had to be calculating. Because you didn’t do anything at all except keep your eyes closed.”

“Y/N, I could have easily persuaded mom on my own. Therese didn’t... force me to propose to the czarina.“

“The Consort would have followed the protocol rule by rule. You would be in the carriage with Yekaterina at this very moment. Probably sticking your cock in her because the House of Romanov needs an heir.”

Jimin’s eyes flare up, glistening like the fire.

“What! That’s what you think I’d do?”

“They probably don’t even have to compel you to drop your pants for a smile and diadem like that.”

“No?!”

“I’m not stupid. You know very well why you thought meeting me at the bath was a good idea. Less clothes. A perverted Prince is what you are.”

“Stop accusing me of these things! What does that have to do with Yekaterina? The bath is a relaxing place after a hard day. I thought you liked going there. What’s wrong with you? I’m here. With you, now! What do you want? A thank you for being so matronizing and possessive? Your jealousy sucks. Didn’t you say you found her charming a minute ago?”

“Look who’s talking. The guy who didn’t move the saber one inch when the apple was coming down on it. Commitment. Yeah, right.”

Gritting your teeth is not enough to subdue the resentment. The room, even if the heat has risen to the vault and now distributes in all corners, feels so much colder. Jimin is on the verge of tears.

“I’m sick and tired of these games. I thought you said I passed the test!”

“More because of the clean-cut than anything. Though that was not even deliberate, your eyes were shut. You would have allowed to apple to be pierced it if it had been a foil.”

“So what? You said it was dangerous to evade the apple not to provoke the minister! It was a lose-lose situation, and it happened so fast! What was I supposed to do? You didn’t tell me that piercing it was impossible anyways! ”

“You did absolutely nothing against preventing the marriage. If it is so easy to persuade the Queen, why haven’t you done it earlier? The whole Russian ruling class got invited for today!”

“That’s not true,” he cries, “I told you I didn’t want to go to Russia!”

“Of course you think I’m matronizing. You don’t really want me that much at all. You’re opportunistic. Aren’t you? No wonder you babble all of this, oh, I don’t want to quarrel, Y/N! You’ve got things to hide. That’s why the czarina gets a letter. Someone realized his chances to ‘climb’ are still better in Saint Petersburg than here. The fucking Romanovs. With their shiny clothes and attitude.”

And you, although it hurts to admit Jimin was very right, have climbed to heights not meant for you yourself.

“Why are you so distrusting, I don’t even know her! I come to the west wing three times a week, my promises were never empty!”

“Given how fast you change your mind, I doubt that as of recently. No kiss can prove that you take me seriously as a wife.”

“I didn’t change my mind!”

“Even then, why were the Palace rumors about you liking her so persistent since over half a year?”

“There is no grain of truth. The jesters started it to annoy me at the May festival. The Queen thought it was true and told everyone because she wanted me to marry Yekaterina so desperately. She was hell-bent. She believed everything without questioning it. I couldn’t do anything against the rumors.”

“Guess why I did all this shebang at the duel,” you roll your eyes. “I told you the Queen would have followed through and demanded the proposal with Yekaterina. You didn’t stand a chance. Indeed you should be grateful. I saved us from separating for literal decades. Instead, you peacock around before the Russians! What am I supposed to think?”

His sobbing voice raises even more.

“But you should respect I speak for myself! Looks like your first in line thing made you arrogant! Calling me a pervert, treating me like a liar, a cheater, what’s next?”

“All you would have spoken is precisely not canceling the betrothal with Russia. I did all of this in vain. I thought you wanted me back. I thought we could revive what happened at Hohenzollern. Don’t say I didn’t try hard to bring us together.”

You slip over the edge of the bed, tying your shoes back into place. Fast. The Prince’s tone, through all tears, becomes dark and glowering behind your back.

“God— I swear, Y/N. If you climb back down there...”

Not just empty promises, but empty threats, too. It makes the decision even more set. You fasten your belt, button up your coat, pull your gloves over either wrist.

“... then I will go right to the next best Dutchess and train her son in Württemberg or Hesse where I don’t have to see your face. I have plenty of offers and they are all more trustworthy than you. Received at least ten today. Don’t get jealous, Swan Prince.”

He shoves the duvet aside, follows you barefoot.

“Why do you do this to me! Why!”

You crank open the window regardless of how loud the frame joint squeaks, mount the frame, and already attach your fingers to the masonry.

“Fire’s the only thing keeping you warm tonight.”

“Y/N!”

“Two people playing unfair with each other is never a good sign. I taught you all I could. That’s all.”

Seemingly having found another snug place, the owl hoots in the afar valley. All wind swallows the yells from the tower. Jimin’s head, protruding from the window, gets smaller and smaller above you. And eventually, fades into the dark.

Anna already shifts to hurry back to the throne room again.

“Hermann Meier!” she suspires. “Don’t like this guy. He’s from the mill.”

The monger’s praise for his lackluster cart assortment is tremendously loud, resounding all over the courtyard. Several maidens gather their baskets and weaving looms and head inside at the constant repetitions.

“The most delicious crops of the Hercynian lands! Tread closer, tread closer! Plenty of offers! Crops of the Hercynian lands! Crops! Delicious fruit! Who wants to bargain? Exciting bargains! Only today.”

You observe, tracing your eyes across the man with the large yellow wayfarer hat, still— then raise your hand.

“Here!”

Anna is incredulous.

“Milady Y/N, where are you headed?”

“To the merchant.”

You sort two arrows into the quiver rested before you, then shoulder the cord across your back. Even now, it’s pretty lightweight. A custom piece.

You hand Anna the bow and march off the training ground past the five straw targets, leaving her expression even more flabbergasted. The merchant raises a pair of fruit from his barrow as soon as you steer into his direction.

“Archer, are you interested in a bargain for these pears and plums? Only five mark today!”

You stop short at his cart, seizing him up further.

“I will give you a hundred.”

Meier’s eyes, just as, if not more yellow than his hat, turn bulbous.

“What! A hundred mark!”

You point towards his hip.

It’s been two and a half years since you didn’t see it.

“For this blade you carry, merchant. A hundred and twenty when you tell me where it is from.”

The merchant guides it out of its sheath. The blade is golden, the grip ashen black. Your heart goes two times faster.

“I bought it in the guild’s shop on the market square, yesterday. From a hunky guy named Strengberg. No, Steinburg. That was the name.”

All you do is hum. Steinburg. Although you do look around the local market every Friday, it is an unfamiliar epithet to you. Maybe it’s because you didn’t touch a foil for five months unless it came to training, and avoided the smiths downtown for that matter.

“A hundred and thirty for that name.”

The merchant shakes his head.

“This is a good sword. Didn’t plan to sell it that fast after I found a gem like that.”

“With the 130 mark, you can easily go to Steinburg and get an even better one.”

Another negation. Meier ruffles at his frizzy hair.

“Let’s say Steinburg’s dealings are a bit more, well. Of the sleazy kind. He won’t be there next Friday. It was a one-time opportunity. I can’t say more.”

You tap from one foot to the other. Anna, in the corner of your eye, seems to recognize the sword that Meier holds as well. She looks back and forth from you, the barrow, Meier, and the other maidens. You stay grim.

“I want this sword. 150 mark. It’s an ideal bargain.”

Meier huffs out a belly laugh that makes his vest, filled with all kinds of vending paraphernalia, jingle.

“You’re a simple archer at Altfried Castle. Dressed in brown rags! Why would you want and deserve a blade as outstanding as this? I would sell it to your Duke for his birthday! But you?”

The crows at the training ground gather behind you, seemingly picking up on the nervous atmosphere in the courtyard.

“I have ten years of experience with swords. I have trained the Hohenzollern brigade, and the royal family of Bavaria. 200 mark.”

“Bavaria? The royal family? Ridiculous. And where does a person like you have all that money from, huh?”

“The 200 mark are not a problem. But if you only sell swords to those who deserve it, then, we will fight.”

Meier’s cheeks turn red from cackling. He looks up and down your body.

“With your hands? Your arrows? Those toothpicks! You don’t even carry a single knife either! So how could you wield a blade of this caliber! No honorable sword master walks around without their best piece!”

The memory would be too heavy on your belt. But seeing the golden blade, far from a place it should and would never leave without some things being very, very wrong—

“Anna!”

“Yes, Milady Y/N?”

“Retrieve Cygnet from my armory in the basement.”

“But, you said you’ll never use it again!”

Anna catches the key that you toss into her direction.

A dozen maidens clap and cheer from the windows of Altfried Castle. The wayfarer hat rolls toward the muddy pig through of the courtyard. It has a slash in its brim.

Pinned to the ground of the practice field under the tip of Cygnet, the merchant clamors.

“Who, who are you!”

“Y/N. First in line of all sword masters from East Prussia to the Rhine,” you sheath the blade. “And current teacher to the Duke.”

“The Duke Leopold!”

“The Duke himself. I advise him. He has good aim with pistols, Meier.”

“I can, I can imagine!”

You point towards the glistening object that the last high outside propelled toward the end of the training spot, thankfully, stuck in one of the straw men.

It is Cinder that you see.

The due cleaning already gives you a horror vision. Not because of the straws, but the man’s filthy fingers and lack of elegance that always was without the doubt the hardest to scrub off a weapon that was so eager to carry memory.

One day more and Meier would have soiled it with bends, alcohol stains, or stench, and who knows what.

“Do you believe I am worthy of the golden blade.”

You press down your saber on his jingling vest ever so lightly.

“Of course, of course you are, master!”

More cheers from the maidens at the weaving looms. The crows disperse, agile.

You turn toward Anna at the fringe of the training grounds, who’s in a patient mood, as always. Altfried Castle has turned the heavy bags under her eyes into a sweet nothingness.

“Anna! You can retrieve the sword from there. But use a cloth to touch it, please.”

“Yes, Milady. I think it is still in proper condition.”

The merchant tugs at the sleeve of your linen garment several times to regain your attention, voice even more pleading.

“Please, sword master, what else can I do for you, is there any fruit you want, anything else?”

A digit indicating toward his barrow, you speak with intent.

“One apple. And another piece of information, should you have it.”

“Yes! Pick any apple you like,” he proclaims, “And I am sure to remember what else you want to know!”

“Of course you do, Meier.”

After helping the monger onto his wobbling feet and picking out the most glossy among the dented and discolored array of fruit, you pull a bag of money out of the quiver’s side pocket.

210 mark land in the wayfarer hat when you pick it up and hand it to him. Out of the last bit of courtesy. The very last bit. But one question doesn’t want to leave your mind.

“I want to know where Steinburg is headed.”

“That’s nothing I can te—”

You point at his forehead, apple save in the other hand.

“Remember how good the Duke’s aim is. If I suggest you as a moving practice target, he won’t say no. You’ve been pestering the maidens for years and selling foul crops to the price of actual cattle. Whatever you’re doing at the mill and the market can’t be clean business. Not to mention you ridiculed the royal family.”

“Steinburg. He’s on his way to, to, uh.”

You stuff the apple into the quiver.

“Pray tell, Meier. I can’t wait forever.”

“The Black Forest. North. Somewhere around there. I saw him depart towards the creak’s end this morning with a band of three robbers.”

a/n: the second part is called Cinder (linked in mlist). | paintings by rubens.

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searchingwardrobes · 5 years

Text

Of Earth and Sea: 2/9

In celebration of the one year anniversary of my first @cssns fic, I’m reposting a chapter a day until my 2019 drop date, especially since each chapter has never been posted to tumblr before. Amazing art above done by the talented @shipsxahoy.

Summary: Five years after their wedding, Emma and Killian are ready to start a family. But Emma discovers that raising a family isn't that simple when your husband is a Dunedin (half-elf) and your mother-in-law is neither dead nor alive.

Rating: T

Tagging: @profdanglaisstuff @let-it-raines @welllpthisishappening @optomisticgirl @wellhellotragic @jennjenn615 @kday426 @mythologicalmango @thislassishooked @xhookswenchx @resident-of-storybrooke

Chapter One

Killian grunted as he swung his arm up to the next ledge. He dug his hook into the craggy rock and pulled himself over the edge. Arms trembling from the long climb, he stood at the pinnacle of stone and gazed out at the horizon. He pulled the water skin from his satchel and took a long drink. He could see the Jolly Roger moored just a few leagues out from the rocky shore. His crew, especially Smee, hadn’t liked the idea of him making this quest alone. The witch, however, had made it clear. This was his journey to take and his alone. He was glad now for it; climbing over these rocks would have been even more difficult with a companion.

The salty breeze ruffled Killian’s hair and tugged at his blouse. He breathed deeply of it, the scent calming him as it always did. And yet there was another tug on his soul. That of rich loam, green moss, and the ancient groaning of trees. He shook his head as if to fight off that half of him. One thing was for certain; he was eager to be away from this rocky terrain.

He turned away from the view of the coast to make his way down into the valley below. The rocks were loose, held together by pebbly soil. Going up it had been both an aid to his hook and a danger. Imbed his metal appendage into a crevice too loose, and he could have gone tumbling to his death. It had been slow going. Now, the loose ground beneath his feet made it a quick journey to the floor of the valley below.

As he walked along the tiny trickle that he supposed could be called a stream, the ground slowly became less rocky. Soon, the water was a true stream, tumbling merrily over smoother rocks. Then it became a lazy river that emptied into a tranquil pool. A thin waterfall streamed from the cliff above, casting a shimmery rainbow in the mist.

By this time, the sun was beginning to dip low, so Killian made camp. He found a spot near enough to the water for the ground to be softer and more comfortable, but near enough the rock wall to keep him hidden in shadows. He didn’t dare make a fire. He ate from his meager rations and then curled up upon the grass, using his satchel as a makeshift pillow.

Dawn had barely come when a rustling sound awakened Killian. He started up from a light sleep, his sword quickly drawn. Heart pounding, he gazed about to see nothing. The silence surrounding him was an oppressive thing, causing the hair on his neck to stand up.

Then suddenly, something white was swooping down, almost clipping his head. He ducked, swearing under his breath, and then blinked in shock when he lowered his arms and looked up. There, standing calmly and regally by the water’s edge was a pure white swan. It lowered its head as if in greeting and Killian rose slowly to his feet. He eased closer to the bird, a question furrowing his brow.

“Is this the sign the witch spoke of?” he asked in a whisper. It felt odd to speak at all in this still and quiet place.

The swan bent its neck slowly, its beak almost to the ground. It seemed to bow before him. Then it turned suddenly, flapped its wings, and rose into the air. It spun in a circle above Killian’s head, then dove into the stream of the waterfall.

Killian rolled his eyes. “I suppose it wants me to follow it,” he muttered sarcastically.

He re-sheathed his sword, slipped his satchel over his head, and made his way gingerly across the slippery rocks to the waterfall. He reached out with his hand tentatively, and jumped slightly when the water parted like a curtain. On the other side, he could see the swan standing patiently, as if waiting for him.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered as he stepped through, “this better not be a trap.”

Once beneath the waterfall, the swan disappeared. Killian swore again as he turned in a circle. What now? He edged closer to the smooth, rock wall behind the falls, running his hand over the slick, wet surface. He paused when he felt indentations beneath his palm. He drew closer, and sure enough, there was a carving there. The elegant neck of a swan, the etchings of feathers at its back. Killian pressed harder against the carving, and a disk of rock collapsed into the wall, light shooting around its edges. Killian squinted against the sudden bright light, backing away hesitantly from the magic. But as the spots of light cleared from his vision, he saw an open archway and beyond it a tunnel carved into the side of the mountain.

Killian stepped inside, wondering how he would see in the dark cavern, only to see a light bouncing ahead of him. When he hesitated over following it, the light seemed to become agitated, coming closer and then skittering away again. As if the light were entreating him to follow.

Killian took a deep breath, reminding himself that swans – white ones at least – were an omen of light magic, not dark. Then again, his own heart was filled with nothing but black deeds. Perhaps the light here wished to snuff out the darkness of his villainous heart?

He made his way down the tunnel, hand hovering at the hilt of his sword, his hook held aloft and ready. The tunnel suddenly curved and dipped downward, and the light he had been following suddenly enlarged and morphed once again into the beautiful white swan. It seemed to stare at him for a moment, then it turned and flapped upward, disappearing in a shower of rainbow colored light. When the bird disappeared, there before him was a simple pirate’s cutlass hanging in an alcove of rock.

Killian shook his head in confusion as he stepped close. He picked up the cutlass, weighing it in his hand and examining the hilt. He rolled his eyes and tilted his head back when he saw the language etched there.

“Elvish,” he muttered, a bitter edge to his voice.

“You found it,” said a breathy voice behind him. He knew that voice well. It’s soft, airy quality that used to soothe him as a child.

Now it sent anger pulsing through his veins.

“You?” he choked out. He had meant it to come out accusing, but instead he sounded like a hurt and betrayed child.

Tauriel came closer, steps hesitant, her hands clasped before her. Her ginger hair was covered by a hunter green cloak. Killian took a step back, wary of her intentions.

“You were the witch in that glade?”

She shook her head, pulling the cloak from her head. “No, but she wasn’t a witch. She was one of my kind. One of the few willing to help elves in my position.”

“You mean the ones neither living nor dead?” Killian spat. “Nice of her. I should have known this was about you, not me. This weapon won’t even work against the Dark One, will it?”

Tauriel remained completely serene, though her eyes became dull and sad. It was an elven trait that Killian had always found infuriating, especially since his own emotions were always so volatile.

“No to both. No, it won’t help your quest against the Dark One. And no, my son, this is not about me at all. You are floundering, Killian, and I can watch it no longer.”

“Ah, yes,” Killian quipped, gesturing with his hook, “watch. All my mother ever does, ever has done. Watch. And what exactly about the show bothers you?”

Tauriel blinked as tears formed in the corner of her eyes, “You are in pain, Killian. You have closed your heart off, wary of love, and filled it with darkness instead.”

“What worries you, mother? That I will waste away like you?” Killian is practically snarling now, his fist clenching. His mother’s form is shifting, and he knows soon she will fade away. Trapped between the living and the dead, she can only communicate with him for brief moments at a time.

“No. For thankfully, the woman you lost was not your true love.”

“How dare you!” Killian cried, his face contorting with pain. “How dare you question the depth of my love for Milah!”

“Oh, my darling,” Tauriel said, reaching her arms out towards him, but they were now so ethereal, she couldn’t touch him, “that isn’t what I mean at all. But you can love again, I have seen it.”

Killian shook his head, “Please, none of your elven prophecies. All your kind ever does is speak in riddles. I’ve no time for it, nor do I put any stock in it.”

Tauriel was only a mere shadow now. “Even so, take the cutlass, my son. The swan would not have led you to it if it weren’t meant for you.”

Killian looked down at the weapon in his hand. It wasn’t delicate enough or ornate enough to have been wrought by elven hands. And yet the words etched into it were elvish. “What does it say?”

He looked up to find his mother gone; his question unanswered.

***********************************************

Killian Jones had varying types of dreams. Like anyone, some were a bizarre mixture of sights, sounds, and thoughts. Ridiculous tumblings of his mind with no meaning. And like anyone he also had dreams that represented his deepest desires and fears. Emma figured prominently in dreams like that and had for some time.

But being a few centuries old with far too many regrets, Killian also had dreams that were simply memories. *Most of them painful, causing him to wake with a start. Then he would take in his surroundings, see Emma lying peacefully next to him, and feel his heartbeat return to normal.

This morning was one of those times, though the memory of the swan, the cutlass, and his mother was not particularly disturbing nor wrought with regrets. Nevertheless, it troubled him, and he spent several minutes watching Emma sleep. He admired the way the early light of dawn shone against her hair. He lifted a few strands, relishing the soft feel of them between his fingers. The strap of her tank top had slipped from her shoulder during the night, and he leaned forward to fix it, his hand lingering against her skin longer than necessary. He leaned forward and planted a kiss there as well. Emma sighed and shifted, but didn’t waken.

He rose quietly from the bed, grabbing a t-shirt from the hamper and slipping it over his head. He didn’t bother with his brace, a fact that still, five years into marriage, filled him with gratitude and wonder. Emma truly loved every part of him.

He walked downstairs to the kitchen and used the Keurig machine to make a quick cup of coffee. He grasped the mug in his right hand and made his way to the back porch. His eyes scanned the quiet yard. Many would have missed the figure on the edge of the property, her green and brown garments blending into the trees. But Killian had the keen eyes of a sailor.

Okay, and the keen eyes of an elf, too.

He ground his teeth, his jaw clenching as he made his way across the yard to her, the dew on the grass wetting his bare feet.

“Mother.”

“Killian.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m always near, my son.”

Killian closed his eyes tightly. So many emotions swirled through him, it was hard to pin down exactly what he was feeling.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Tauriel raised her hand as if to touch him, then retreated. “Now that you’ve made a home, and are no longer at sea, perhaps we can . . . get to know one another again?”

“And how is that going to work exactly? 5 minutes at a time?”

As if to confirm his words, Tauriel’s shape began to fade. As she disappeared into mist, she smiled and said, “I love you, Killian.”

When she was gone, his fist clenched around the coffee mug. For some reason, anger surged through him and he threw the ceramic as hard as he could against the nearest tree where it shattered into pieces.

“Killian?”

He turned to see Emma standing on the porch, her arms tight around her chest as she shivered barefoot in her knee-length bathrobe. As he walked towards her, he tried to give her a bright smile, and she gave him a crooked one in return.

“I never liked that mug either,” she quipped with a nod of her head towards the trees.

That got a laugh out of him as he walked up the porch steps. He enveloped her in a hug, placing a kiss against the top of her head. “Sorry, love. Tis nothing.”

“Why are you so upset with her still?” she asked, lips pressed against his collar bone. “I thought you both said what you needed to.”

Killian sighed as Emma pulled back to look into his face. His mother had shown up five years ago, right before their wedding. It had been a lot for Emma to process, finding out he was a Dunedain – half-elf. But she had taken it all in stride, including his mother who hovered between the land of the living and the dead.

“So did I, love. But I didn’t expect her to linger here.”

“She loves you,” Emma said, rubbing his arms gently up and down.

Killian gave a half-hearted smile. “I know. It’s just hard having a mother who’s . . .”

“A ghost?”

“I told you, she’s not a ghost. She’s not dead.”

Emma shook her head. “Okaaay, but she’s not really alive, either. Ghost is the easiest label.” Killian opened his mouth, and Emma lifted her hand to stop his explanation. “I know, I know. She’s immortal, but your father broke her heart, so she wasted away, blah, blah, blah. Got it.”

“Are you regretting marrying me? With my elf ears and my half-dead mother?”

Emma truly laughed as she lifted her arms to loop them around his neck. “With my life? You’re one of the most normal people I know. Even at three hundred plus and counting.”

Killian quirked a brow at her teasing. “And at least I’m not a flying monkey.”

Emma rolled her eyes and smacked him in the chest. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

She kissed him lightly as they both laughed. Killian then steered her towards the door back into the kitchen. They made breakfast, moving around the space together with five years of practiced ease. Then Emma went to take the first shower while Killian did the dishes.

If she noticed that he had side-stepped her question about his mother, she didn’t let on.

#cs ff #cssns #cssns 2018 #ouat x lotr crossover #killian as half elf #cs canon divergence

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markedasinfernal · 6 years

Text

Merry Christmas @lidoshka - I’m your Secret Santa for the @tolkiensecretsanta2017 gift exchange! I hope you are having a wonderful holiday period.

You said that you liked the Fëanorians, so I hope you enjoy these two interconnected pieces about Maedhros and Maglor that I’ve cooked up for you! The title provides the connective thread, and is meant to be read as the final line of the first scene, and vice versa. Simply read on, all shall become clear! Enjoy! x

I’m Sorry, He Whispered

"Nelyo!" Maglor whispered; his chubby fingers clung against the balcony where he crouched hidden, and he looked at his brother with round, imploring eyes. "Nelyo, don't... We're going to get into trouble..."

"Shhh, Káno!" hissed Maedhros. A shock of copper hair glinted in the golden light as he drew himself up, as mischievous eyes peeked out over the balcony to the tranquil pool below.

"But -" Maglor's small voice dwindled as Maedhros glared at him, and nervously Maglor watched as his brother turned to gaze out over the pool once more.

Its glassy surface was smooth and cool, and upon it small lilies lay drifting, their green leaves dappling the clear water. Between them the great swans of the House of Finarfin glided; their magnificent necks bent, their elegant white wings folded upon their backs as they swam in the gloaming light. Amid the serene adults the juveniles were dotted also; soft grey down ruffled in the quiet breeze, and between the small water-flowers they floated as clouds upon a high summer day.

Sweet and calm were the gardens of Finarfin, the leaves there were evergreen, yet impish faces spied upon them as Maedhros and Maglor lingered upon the balcony above.

"It's fine," Maedhros grinned, he scanned the grand stairways that swept away in great crescent arms to the gardens encircled below, and finding them deserted he nudged an elbow into Maglor's ribs. "Uncle won't mind, he has lots of swans! And you said that you wanted one, right? A nice fuzzy little one, like we talked about: we can take it home when Father is done with his boring meeting and it can swim in our fountain!"

At that Maglor faltered, a concerned look crumpled his brow, and softly he replied, "I did... but..."

"Then be quiet and help me!" Maedhros snapped, he whirled back around and stared calculatingly down at the pool. Behind him, Maglor's breathing shook, prompting only a quick scoff of derision. "Don't be such a cry-baby, Káno."

"I'm not a cry-baby," Maglor muttered, and he would have said more, but for a blur of movement and Maedhros' hand clapped suddenly across his mouth.

"Shhhhh!" he hissed, "Someone's coming!"

Footsteps echoed through the quiet corridor behind them, and carefully the brothers edged away from the balcony door, concealing themselves behind a nearby pillar obscuring the view from the inner house. For a few taut breaths they waited, they shivered with nervous, rascal thrill, until gradually the steps receded, and two small heads popped out from behind the pillar once more.

"Okay, look," Maedhros whispered, "you go that way." He pointed to his left, down the airy staircase that wound slowly down to the gardens below. "You go left, and I'll go right. We can see each other through the gaps in the stair railing, so when we both get to the bottom I'll wave to you. When you wave back, I can make a noise, or maybe I'll run out, and then the swans will flap away, and they'll flap over to you, see? Then you can grab one, whichever one you want!" His voice lifted in triumph, and with a confident grin he proclaimed, "It'll be easy!"

Maglor's cheeks blanched, his heart raced within his chest, and plaintively he replied, "But... but Nelyo, I'm not sure... It's... it's stealing..."

"It's not stealing!" Maedhros pouted, "It's... it's borrowing..." His lips twisted in annoyance, and he crossed his arms over his chest as he glared at his brother. "Besides, you're the one who wanted to do it in the first place! You can't chicken out now!"

"Nelyo, I - "

A crestfallen sigh slumped Maedhros' shoulders, and reticently he looked down at Maglor's worried face. "You're never any fun," he said bitterly, and with a huff of disappointment he turned away.

At that Maglor's lip wobbled, shame burned in his heart, and dejectedly he looked away.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Nelyo," Maglor sighed, a wearied hand passed across his face where he sat at a writing desk piled high with parchment. The candles burned low in their brackets; they cast shadows dancing fitfully across the walls of the war-tent. "Nelyo, I cannot do this."

Across the room Maedhros stood, grimly clad in gear of war he turned to his brother, and his eyes were merciless.

"We must," he said; in his voice there was steel. "All Angband is broken. The Moringotto is made captive and his armies destroyed; his faithless lieutenant banished and his forces crippled. The Silmarilli are unearthed: they lie but leagues away under the open skies. At last they lie within our grasp. We must reclaim them. At the very least, we must try."

"To what end?" Softly Maglor spoke, and his words fell into the brooding silence as Maedhros turned his face away.

The quiet stretched on, the candle-light guttered in the cool night breeze, until at last Maedhros replied, "To a bitter end, I know that you would say. Yet it may not be so; perhaps this chance is the coming of spring that soothes the frost of winter."

"The frost may lift," Maglor said solemnly, "but beneath it the roots are dead."

"Dead?" Maedhros echoed, and with a sour twist of his lips his voice hardened. "Is it not so that the Oath lives on within our blood? Its words still run thick in our veins, and we must honour them." A small noise of dissent sounded in Maglor's throat, and stiffly Maedhros swung about to face his brother fully. His maimed arm reclined within a supportive leather sling across his chest, but his left hand crept to the hilt of the dagger at his belt. "We must, Káno, for so we have sworn. We must not falter here at the end of the path, not when our triumph is laid out before us."

A withering look crossed Maglor's face, bile turned in his stomach, and venomously he hissed, "How can you say that? Our triumph? What triumph do you find in bloodshed and war? All that has been done, all that we have done, all that we have ruined... We have faltered too much already."

"Come, Káno," Maedhros began, but bitterly Maglor spoke over him.

"You will not lead us into another massacre for the sake of hasty words once sworn in youth and arrogance. Too much hatred has come from them, though that was not their purpose. There has been too much death as a consequence of pride. I am weary of it, let us cause no more."

Scars crossed Maedhros' knuckles, they stood in gaunt, bloodless ridges as his hand closed upon dagger's hilt, and gall in turn crept into his tone. "You seek to lecture me about hatred? I - "

"Tyelko was slain," Maglor spat, a snarl of some desperate, feral emotion knotted in his stomach, "and Curvo and Moryo and sweet Ambarussa, and Finno, and Findo, and how many countless thousands of others whose names we know not? How much more blood must be claimed by our vanity? Lay this quest aside, Nelyo, I beg you. It is madness to continue. Eönwë and the host of Manwë guard the Silmarilli: they should be taken back across the sea and forever removed from unclean hands that try to seize them. Let them shine once more in the lands of our people, let them heal the wounds that we have riven, as once they might have done."

At that Maedhros scoffed, a rueful, ruinous smile creased his lips, and acridly he said, "Then from warmongers to tyrants you would pass them, and when all came to evil in the end you would claim that you had abstained for the greater good." Slowly then Maedhros shook his head, and with cold certainty in his voice he proclaimed, "You have a gentle heart, Káno, and none do I hold dearer in counsel and in love. But in this I will not be dissuaded: if you believe that the Valar would not bicker over our father's jewels like vultures about a carcass then surely you are mistaken. The Silmarilli belong in no hands but our own, and I will not throw aside centuries of struggle upon a whim of apathy, of complacency or cravenness. I cannot."

The ghost of their father spoke in those words, this truly Maglor thought as he looked at his brother, at the bravery and stubbornness and desperation that gripped him, and from him then he looked away. A time it took to quieten the tumult of his thoughts, yet ever Maedhros' words preyed upon his heart: they laid bare what he had long dreaded to be the inevitable. Still his nature rebelled against it, the words struggled and lagged and clawed up out of his throat, yet gravely he held Maedhros' eyes as he nodded his head, as he said, "You condemn us to violence."

But Maedhros had closed his heart; there was little pity left in him. "So be it."

#tolkiensecretsanta2017 #my writing #maedhros #maglor #silmarillion #this was the first serious piece of writing that I've done since may #MAY?!?!#a travesty surely #but hopefully won't be the last!#anyway #lidoshka #i hope you enjoy it!

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flightofaqrow · 4 years

Text

black and stormy with a chance of silver linings

qrow + Avros Tian ( @charmedglass )

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Avros Tian.” Unfortunate it was some people may know him from his life before he became a Huntsman, ( lovely singing, dancing swan in gilded cage ) but, he doubted Qrow was one such person. "I’m not, much for small talk I’m afraid to tell you. What is it you want from me? Humans can be tricky, and you, you’re a dangerous one.”

“Avros,” qrow repeats, voice a saw across wet pebbles. his name does ring bells - a sweet, tinkling echo almost like a melody playing in the back of his head. that’s as vivid as anything gets, but qrow believes the sound suits him in its elegance. most of all, it adds to the sound of honesty.

(nice to know his own name still warns of the sharp-edged fall of a harbinger. its best that way, than the gentle feathered curves he displays at the moment.)

“well, i won’t beat around the bush, then.” he looks up from coffee into a mirrored gaze of curiosity, “…you have silver eyes.”

implication floats on the surface of the water, begging the question - does Avros know how deep it gets?

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not that qrow has ever had a steady sleep schedule, but last night’s recovery headache knocked him out early for a change. that only meant waking up before even the sun with no orders and no inkling to search the mission app just yet. he opts for a walk outside.

which of course, with his luck, means it’s raining. while atlas appears cold, slick, and barely welcoming at best, it now looks downright hostile with the glare of fluorescent lights beaming off of sidewalks - pitch dark in negative space, and blinding in the positive. yeah, that sounded about right for life currently.

he’s never minded a bit of wet and rain, and they’re supposed to be getting new outfits today anyway. it’s kind of nice not to have anyone to impress for a change. so he wanders the streets, letting the atmosphere turn completely sober vision into a thoughtless blur for him. the coffee shops are just starting to open their doors, and a nice warm cup sounds like a great idea.

before he can enter, someone else comes through the door on their way out, and qrow is suddenly struck to his spot. he can’t help but stare as the man passes by. he might be used to stares, with a prominent pair of black wings trailing him through the doorframe. that’s not what has qrow’s attention, though. a brief moment eye-contact has him wondering if he’s seeing things in the dark, or if that glistening reflection of the barest sliver of dawn really did flash just so.

“hey, pal!” he tries to catch him before he’s too far away, at least get him to turn for another look and stall, just to see if it had merely been a trick of the light, “…i’ve never been to this shop before. any roast you’d recommend?”

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The rain soaks through feathers, and he feels sodden and heavy. Long hair is just as guilty. Such would occur in his path to flee, abandon the atrocity that had occurred only a small handful of moments before. Why he had bothered to show up, in Atlas no less, was beyond him. Call him sentimental. Call him foolish. Both were true.

The coffee shop offers a temporary place of refuge, as the water drips off of his form and forms a puddle where he claims a space. Avros doesn’t intend to stay long, just enough to partially dry. But even that would not last, as he saw a figure slowly approaching the shop from down the road, gliding even.

A phantom. The first of many who would escape their homes and embrace the morning dawn, chase down a hot drink to aide their morning work. In other words, his cue to leave.

Avros doesn’t get far, and the rain hasn’t really let up, so he could’ve chosen to ignore Qrow. Just disappear. But paranoia sets it’s teeth in his skin, and with prior anger simmering beneath, the black swan yields to the other man’s question. Eyes glinting like molten steel in the barely there sun.

"Depends.“ His voice carries low, rough. Perhaps from the cigarette he hopes will light in the weather, or perhaps from the conversations he never has. “What do you prefer… dark, medium? Blonde?”

A light, and the cigarette burns a furious red in the gloomy dawn. He already wished to abandon even this simple, passing conversation.

“Just… dead eye if you need caffeine.”

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for once bad luck works in qrow’s favor to trap someone who by all signs does not want to be caught. the weight of his burden halts the other in its weight along with the rain. not that he’d call this a fight with an enemy, but hey.

in no time, dancing flickers reveal those eyes as reflective silver all right, and looking at him is in some ways like looking in the mirror of them - glossy black wings, graveled voice, a sharp stare, and feet ready to get the hell out of dodge. can’t say he matches anything in the small database within qrow’s head of the appearance of one who uses the power of light, though. that’s comforting in a way. …unless it actually meant someone else who abandoned their gifts and responsibilities. not that they should be forced to accept them in the first place.

tch. his mind always did race when given new shiny bits of information. no blurry buzz to slow it down these days, either.

qrow is glad for the moment the man takes to light his cigarette, for it gives him just enough time to find his words again, “just dark.”

he’s grown to recognize when it is only fear which deploys the spikes of someone’s personality, and eases his own posture low, a languid lean into the doorframe.

if qrow could put any sort of stock in destiny or whatever, he’s talking to someone with the potential of a future ally, and he tries to act like it. deescalate. “caffeine is well and good, but i like a slower release of the stuff. need steady hands for my line of work.”

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Avros wracks his mind, thinking as the other talks. Piecing together information, he feels he should know who this is. But memory is fleeting, burned by prior engagements. Smoke invades his lungs, a welcome intruder to settle the nervous energy burning in his skin.

Why he was so familiar. Had he seen him before? Avros could however, pick up on the attempts to become less imposing. It’s something that drapes a thin veil of relief over his shoulders, though the warmth is quickly chased away. What may appear kind was not always so. A second glance at the man, deep wine colored eyes, and a build that hinted at more than the average civilian. A huntsman?

In which case, he couldn’t just flee, could he?

“Mocha maybe. Has, less espresso than a Dead eye.”

The words come easier, and the cigarette is all but gone, as tension washes away from his shoulders. Huntsman he could handle. Knew what to do, what to say. Wings ruffle against the rain, and the chill has begun to seep back into him with a vengeance.

“Who are you?”

A bit to the point but, even as prior emotion now settles, there is uncertainty here. Curiosity even. More than coffee was the point, Avros couldn’t help but think.

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he can tell avros is sizing him up. maybe from him attempting to be a bit too over familiar. who knows, they could have passed at many points in life, further away enough not to catch qrow’s attention. occasionally, too, his huntsman reputation precedes him in more adult circles. qrow had been so many places and seen so many things, some of them washed away in the whiskey burn of barely lucid nights. possibilities abound.

qrow at least remembers all of the threats, and this man is not among them.

he lifts a brow and spares a glance away in contemplation of the new suggestion, not that it really mattered in the end. he plays along anyway, lets the comfort of silence drip over them like the continued rain.

“who are you?”

well, that definitely got comfortable now. good. he can ask in return when the time is right. he hesitates, body language still loose and playing it cool, even as his ribs fight each other in his chest with the eternal war of whether or not to offer strangers his real name and title.

he wants this person to be able to find him, though.

“name’s qrow,” a rough head nod emphasizes the greeting, “a huntsman. got recruited to try and help atlas with everything goin’ on down in mantle lately.”

the whole truth isn’t necessary right now, just yet. it’s enough reveal to answer curiosity and incite more at the same time. arms cross over his chest, demonstrating the authority of his admitted occupation without completely closing himself off. his words traipse carefully with feather light steps, “didn’t mean to take up your time. just thought ya had the look of a warrior about you too.”

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The name is what does it. The rumor mill was rife with tales of Qrow. Of his sister. He hadn’t paid much mind in truth but, it didn’t mean he had not heard. The man who seemingly bent calamity to his very will, and the woman who could find anyone she pleased. How much of this was true, Avros wasn’t wanting to place any bets on. After all, some would call him a winged shadow, and others, a phantom.

Both were not true, but held a grain of truth. So there was some truths to those rumors, it was just a matter of discovering what was real. Avros flicks the dying remains of his cigarette to the soaked ground, the furious red instantly gone. Blinked away, before he crushes the rest of it underneath the heel of his boot for good measure.

Qrow’s body language is still loose, still relaxed. It had Avros pondering how much of those rumors held weight, what he wanted to be practicing such displays of ease.

It’s only when he mentions something about his looks, that eyes narrow. Avros wants to believe there was just a phrasing of his, about Huntsman. But at the same time, it didn’t feel like such given Qrow had called himself a Huntsman and not a warrior, more probing. A curiosity that was driven more by a depth he couldn’t quite read. Avros unfurls his wings, as they move away from his shoulders. It is by no means intimidation. Even if it may appear that way.

“I am a Huntsman as well, you are correct.”

His wings rest back, relaxed, unfurled, and no longer pinned close to his being. One could say they would give away how he felt, they wouldn’t be so far off the mark. Avros always did fare better with Hunters. There’s something else here, buried shallowly. Something that he felt Qrow was looking for specifically without saying.

Arms cross against his chest, pressed close, tight.

“You need something.” A statement. “I’ll listen, out of the rain.”

Silver gaze glances back to the shop he had only just left, a silent question. There?

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qrow watches his eyes, has been the whole time. he sees the flicker of realization just as the cigarette flickers out. how deep that realization goes, he’s not sure, but it doesn’t matter. he truly has the man’s attention now. which quickly turns to scrutiny, and he’s fine with that too. he has very little on the surface to hide; certainly not his intentions for this scenario.

black wings themselves stretch with thought and then settle. he looks bigger, darker, a gargoyle looming in the rain, but qrow has seen enough intimidation from all manner of people and even other winged faunus to know that this is not. he’s well aware of how that feeling sits within wings. the feathers displayed aren’t ruffled. at least not yet.

excellent. if he’s already a huntsman that’s step one. he wished he could say that in itself came with a certain level of respect and trust, but these days no one could tell.

he’s trying to be optimistic, damn it. trying. …Summer should be proud. she’s been on his mind more lately. another set of silver eyes to remind him doesn’t help.

his head lulls to the side, following in line with glance-directed wishes, and he finally opens the door. back still against the far side of the frame, his arm swings it inside and holds it open for the other to re-enter. he’s sharp, he’ll give him that.

“…yeah,” he admits, voice heavy with all the weight the statement carries.

this might be quick. if he runs right back away, qrow’s not in any place to stop him. or… it could be a very, very long conversation. his mind is already a pinwheel, calculating how much to reveal or not and recalculating based on the briefest of interactions. how to not ask too much of this person. how to keep Ruby safe while still trying to get help or at least information for her. he knows how to pluck gently at small pieces until they come together, drop pebbles into a glass carefully until the water rises to the top.

but he definitely needs to order that coffee first.

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It’s a moment, watching the other as Avros ponders how this conversation is turning up. It isn’t going terrible by any means, though there’s uncertainty budding beneath his skin. He always did prefer looking at other people’s mouths when they spoke, locking eyes was far too unnerving. Dare he say invasive. It didn’t help that he’s never seen such a shade of red before, at least, not with eye color.

It’s a moment, before Black Swan realizes he had been staring at the man for a moment too long. Though he really couldn’t help it, curiosity was dancing along his mind. At a glance, he merely seemed like another Huntsman, tired, and seeming to possibly be older than what they actually were. Yet he knew enough that Qrow wasn’t just any other Huntsman he had come across.

With Qrow holding the door, it’s almost enough to make him just scurry in. But he still picked up on it despite his nerves, how even with his defenses appearing to be lowered, the other Huntsman refused to leave his back bared. Avros wants to believe this is force of habit, as his wings now press impossibly close, drawing attention away from them.

"I’ll grab a table. If you mean to be long with speaking, get a coffee. You seem to be in need of one.“

With that, he swiftly steps back inside, ignoring the curious expression of the barista, claiming a booth like set up in the furthest corner of the shop. He’s been up for a while already to want for any caffeine, and is more curious of just what it was Qrow was after. He had seen Huntsman talk with each other, had done so himself. So the entire scenario seemed off, something out of those old mystery novels Aycan had been found of reading back at the Academy.

So what was it that the Scythe Wielding Qrow, would want from him?

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qrow and his rough edges are not always the easiest to take in, even these days, even when intentionally softened. tiredness hangs on his skin and bones even more than age, and it’s not hard to notice. still, the faunus holds an unwavering contact, but maybe that’s just because they’re so close walking through the door.

he tries to pretend he doesn’t hear a small crack of the wood when it closes behind him. (the habit is less keeping his back covered when outside of a fight, and more being used to coming in last.)

“thanks, i will. i did mean it when i asked for the rec.” even if he ends up getting only a black medium roast, whatever they called it. then, he returns to the selected booth.

“so,” he slides in and settles as best long limbs can, indulging in a few sips of the coffee before speaking again. usually he would take his time, let his would be confidant get comfortable too, but he can tell this guy’s more of an anxious one. it reminds him more of Raven, now, unable to sit within uncertainty. he can only rush so much.

“i’ve told you my name and what kind of work i’m doing in atlas. mind sharing the same?”

he takes it on faith and instinct for now, that it will be the truth.

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Silver gaze glances over the other man again, and wings slowly, steadily unfurl from the tight corset-like closeness. It’s easier to breath, to think, when inside. When not nearing a possible flee from the situation. How many times has he glanced over Qrow? To understand what it was he was looking at? Possibly enough to be nearing the limit of rudeness.

Voice carries quietly, almost rough against the deathly quiet of the cafe.

“Avros Tian. I was called for family matters.” If there’s any narrowing of the eyes when the word family is spoken, any slight bite of steel in low voice, Avros won’t acknowledge it. No, his family wasn’t important right now. Or perhaps, he was ignoring them for favor of a more curious distraction.

Unfortunate it was some people may know him from his life before he became a Huntsman, ( lovely singing, dancing swan in gilded cage ) but, he doubted Qrow was one such person. Almost without his notice, Avros settles. Tension which was wired so tightly in his shoulders loosen, and they dip down, no longer forced straight as body leans back now soft as water.

"I’m not, much for small talk I’m afraid to tell you. What is it you want from me? Surely no stories.“ There’s a faint moment of regret, worried he may have been too quick in his curiosity, how it may have come harsh.

"I…” Hand raises to his mouth, clearing his throat. Qrow deserved some respect at least, the same that was being given to him. “Apologize. Humans can be tricky, and you, you’re a dangerous one.” Whether he meant Humans to differ from faunus, or humanity as a whole, Avros’s words held truth either way.

Cunning and agile, playing right into what can make a man settle and bristle. Such were the first few dangers Avros could discern of Qrow Branwen. A keen eye, to the body language of others.

But, a single light caught his attention. Qrow came forth, as though genuine in obvious attempts, and that is why he’s stayed.

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the man looks at qrow as if he is a shiny object, or a curious puzzle to be solved. alright, that’s on him for being so mysterious about this all, but surely he’ll appreciate caution when all is said and done.

whatever he finds in his assessment seems to set him at ease, anyway.

“Avros,” he repeats, voice a saw across wet pebbles. his name does ring bells - a sweet, tinkling echo almost like a melody playing in the back of his head. that’s as vivid as anything gets, but qrow believes the sound suits him in its elegance. most of all, it adds to the sound of honesty. (nice to know his own name still warns of the sharp-edged fall of a harbinger. its best that way, than the gentle feathered curves he displays at the moment.)

“hey, i get it. no offense taken. but trust me, i’m only dangerous to those askin’ for it.” qrow slouches, settling lithe body into the cushions and into more casual conversation as well. “anyway, Avros, can’t say i’m much for pointless chatter either,” yet a brow quirks with a brief flash of his eye and lift of his mug, “do love a good story, but now’s not the time. least not from you.”

fingers curl around the mug, seeking strength from warmth. “well, i won’t beat around the bush, then.” he looks up from brown liquid into a mirrored gaze of curiosity, “…you have silver eyes.”

implication floats on the surface of the water, begging the question - does Avros know how deep it gets?

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Black Swan removes the hand from his mouth, all traces of genteel softness gone. It’s unintentional, the way wings now rise, just past his shoulders as feathers fluff out. Once again, not intimidation, no, there was uneasiness, fear. Shoulders ran rigid and tight, before taking a slow, deep breath. The topic is clearly a touchy one, and one he nearly flees from despite Qrow’s overall docile demeanor.

Both arms find a resting place on the table, and Avros leans forward, as though the wind had been sucker punched from his lungs. This wasn’t a conversation he ever perceived having. Rumors reared back in his mind, all sorts of things, but the majority were whispering, with all the subtlety of alarm bells, danger. There was a rare, sudden need for the twins at his side once more, but this was nostalgia mixed with panic.

“I do.”

Fingers drum in a thoughtless, hasty rhythm across the table, a melody that mayhaps be familiar. His pulse runs loudly in his ears, and Avros has to think, to clear his mind. Qrow has approached him acting as a would be ally, so it simply meant discovering what he wanted.

“I know what they are. Story teller and such.” A half-hearted shrug, and wings slowly creep back down. “Warriors with the world’s light. Very vague however… depending on who is asking for them.”

The unspoken question was there, was he someone to trust?

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the only shift in qrow’s demeanor is eyes moving to assess Avros’. it is as if qrow has reached deep down and plucked a feather straight out the man’s soul with a stinging pain. the urge to flee - fear - is good; if he knows what he is and how he’s hunted, he should be scared. he’d be more worried if he went on the offensive or suddenly shady.

soothing sounds come in the form of a rat-a-tat in the same rhythm as the bells in qrow’s brain. if he is a story teller, qrow must have heard it in the drunken slosh of a tavern somewhere. perhaps that has made this trust so much easier along the way - the gentle beauty of music and the thrall of a performer disarms just as much as qrow sheathing his blades and biting his salted tongue.

“that’s right,” he sips again at coffee, calm, pleased with being able to cut out a good half of the story. Avros could probably recite it even better. “who’s askin’ is a huntsman whose seen ‘em used before - that light. in action. and if you haven’t noticed - we could use a lot more light with how bleak it’s been around here,” he tries to imply just work for just causes, even if the very nature of the power already does. all this could even offer some solace that Avros is not alone, “so call me …curious. about your experience.”

and maybe a little worried for his safety; intrigued that those left with silver eyes seem to be gathering, finding each other. the list goes on. one thing at a time.

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Hand stills against the top of the table, and brows furrow together as the Black Swan now realizes something. The way he speaks, seeing the use of abilities like his own. What caused him to be even more paranoid than in the past, not even seeking out the remainder of his team.

Beacon. Everyone had heard of the stone Grimm at the top of the Academy. The irony was, the petrified Grimm was indeed like a signal. A coming of ends so to speak. A Kingdom was…, and the remaining were scrambling, because this was a place for Huntsman, during the festival. Avros knew little of the actual circumstances surrounding what had occurred, had been there for precious little of time.

Just the aftermath truly. But it was fear, icy hot and creeping through his veins. Something was coming, and people like him, with steel in their eyes, have been hunted for years long before him.

A slight shake is in his hand, running through his bangs as a deep breath is claimed to settle nerves.

“I was taught. The Tians loved a good story, so I learned.” Avros didn’t want to delve into the first time, where death was the trigger. “If you’re, looking for the one who set the Grimm at Beacon, it wasn’t me. If you’re wanting aid, I, want to know, aid for what?”

Certainly, he could wipe out hordes of Grimm. But displaying that power, in a time like this? It was more than dangerous. Avros knew nothing of what those with authority may do, to cut a path through swarms of Grimm to get supplies through. To possibly be placed in chains because it is his duty as a Huntsman to sacrifice himself for the many?

No, he wasn’t going that route. At least, not like that.

"And…If, you know the one responsible for Beacon’s new statue, I would… suggest telling them to be careful.“ A display of compassion, concern? Yes. “Silver, it’s a weapon, and humanity loves power. Would kill for it.”

Quietly, with the barest whisper of sounds, another cigarette is returned to his mouth.

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qrow nods slowly. heavy, everything always heavy, the weight of Avros’ words and what slumps his face and shoulders. he can only hope perhaps he, too, felt like maybe his wings helped lighten the burden now and again. nothing needs to be said, qrow knows through Ruby and Maria’s stories exactly how the first bits of the learning process goes. what he’s interested is the rest. if there is more. if it can help.

his thumb strokes the top of the mug handle. “i know that wasn’t you at beacon. i was there. i’ll carry your message, but she hardly even listens when i say it.” fondness slips through in the scoff that follows. the full truth of identity remains hidden, but such compassion earns that much more of qrow’s trust and that much more information in turn. at some point, he doesn’t conceal from this conversation, but from eyes and ears hidden. such things are all over atlas.

it sounds like Avros’ experience perhaps had more than just Salem’s forces after him. that’s a shame.

he takes another drink of coffee, clunky gears accepting oil while he watches the flare of the cigarette and considers the next answer. “as far as aid, i guess i hadn’t thought all that far ahead, specifically. whatever you’re willing. if you’re willing,” docile demeanor still drapes over his features, “mostly i was hopin’ for any advice about using the eyes. a training session with the one from beacon, maybe. up to and including if you’d be interested in helping me, her, and some others with the city right now.” the fight is so much bigger than that, but that’s a story for another day, and a bigger commitment he’s not anywhere near asking for yet. “and to offer some protection in return. you know what they say - safety in numbers, right?”

he looks at Avros seriously, red gaze like embers tempered with too much disappointment, but shining nonetheless. could it ever be truly safe on the front lines like they are? it’s a tough call. fighting the hardest battles but also being surrounded by the best of the best, and armed with as much knowledge as possible. it all comes down to choice. “i know i can’t force you. but that’s what i was hopin’ for.”

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He doesn’t mean to breathe out such a fog of smoke, not entirely. as it seeps into the air like a descending cloud. No, instead, his head tilts slightly to the side, his expression now almost entirely of a confused, almost puppy dog like look. It baffles him. Helping the one at Beacon? They didn’t seem to need any help with that Grimm… unless..

Something had happened as a trigger, activating her eyes’ latent power. It also seemed Qrow was fond of the woman, given the use of she. Shoulders rolled back, and Avros finally leans back into the booth, a single hand remaining on the tabletop, the other still delicately grasping the half there cigarette. Helping train the woman, or girl, and aiding with the city? It seemed like a lot to ask for. More specifically, if help was needed for the city, why did Atlas not just lift the restrictions?

Another deep inhale, and he looks back to the burnt embers that were Qrow’s eyes. A beat passes, before finally, Avros relents.

"I…, I will. Under two conditions.“

The cigarette is pressed into the ashtray at the edge of the table, pressed close to the wall, nearly out of sight. Safety and numbers.

“I’ll help her, but, it won’t be… easy. Silver is, very emotionally driven. It means a mastery of self. Meaning, I don’t want to be known as the one helping. Second…, there are two wolves, twins. Aycan, and Cymbeline. Ever since communications went down, I fear they’ve been looking for me, specifically because of what’s at Beacon. If you find them, let me know. If, I’m still here, bring them to me.”

There’s a brief window, a deep needling concern that burns through all walls that Avros has placed up. Whoever the twins were to him, they were clearly important. Not dangerous no, the way his voice gives, warms for even a split moment, is enough to tell that much.

“This also, makes me wonder what you need.”

The last thing, before Avros was done talking with the man about silver and Atlas, was discovering what it was he was after for himself.

"You’ve asked for her, for the city. Clearly, you’ve another motive for yourself, unless I’ve misread you.“

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qrow’s eyes sting for many reasons, including the smoke billowing about in enclosed space, but he’s hardly one to judge bad habits. it changes nothing. more information let go, more processing on someone else’s part. more of a cigarette turned to ash. more coffee drank.

he knows that look. Avros has questions. of course he has questions. having conditions made sense too. qrow breathes deep, exhales still catching in his chest, stormy between relief for what’s been discussed and concern over what’s to come. answers almost too good to be true loom over him like the shadow of clouds. maybe him being the one to initiate and manage all this would come back to bite everyone.

but he presses on.

“sure. done. it’d be your training. it can be set up however ya like,” and qrow already learns something. he nods, pulling out his scroll and lying it flat on the table so Avros can watch him type the given names and descriptions into a note. “i can do ya one better on the second part. i got plenty ‘a contacts around and some strings to pull on. i’ll poke around on the down low and see who’s been askin’ for who, when i can.”

his last question sets qrow aback, sets his spine straight. the certainty with which the accusation delivers finally hones his own sharpness back into focus. well, fine; when Avros betrays his own warmth over the thought of his companions, when he’s agreed to his requests, it should be safe for qrow to do the same.

crimson gaze longs through the window, both considering and scanning, then lands on the other man once more. docile demeanor fades slightly, like the barest lift of wings, a reminder of the danger which has already been identified as lurking beneath the surface, but not yet a threat. squinted eyes take him in, fully, integrating everything said between them, every shred of memory he can scrape together, and the questions worn on his face, not dissimilar to qrow’s own as he has posed his own this whole way.

conclusion? he can believe they are on the same side.

“i don’t ask anythin’ more,” qrow shakes his head, feathery hair following suit. hand and fingers fan out to the side in gesture, before curling to point back at himself.

“the one i’ve asked you to help, from beacon, with the silver eyes - she’s my niece. you help her, then you’re helpin’ me. and helpin’ all of us with our current mission. that’s all i want, Avros. honest.”

the sheer tiredness he speaks with may count as the most convincing factor of all.

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There’s a needling point, dragging up underneath his skin now, having fully expected some other sort of answer. Not, whatever this was. Not this exhaustion, this implication that there was more, so much more. Perhaps he is just being paranoid again, always paranoid, yet everything about this not so suddenly rubs against the grain. At which point, Avros isn’t entirely certain how to respond.

He would help Qrow’s Niece, he’s already given his word there. Whether it was just from some passed along lessons, points and scrawled notes-

Because really, teaching this, wasn’t so much teaching. Even if it was, it shouldn’t be nearly as important as Qrow was implying it to be.

That was what got to him, giving his word, to the Qrow Branwen, and of course there was more to the story, he just had been willfully glossing it over. More than what he was being told, and likely, more than he was wanting to know. Curiosity taps along the edges of his common sense, and the cigarette burns it’s furious, flickering ember at the ends of it’s life in the ashes.

Avros was a story teller, a man who was raised to know when there was something else, lurking beneath the surface. So with the implications of more depth, it sets his teeth to grit against each other, even so long as his expression is unbroken and still.

The curious tilt from before is gone, and there’s certainly appreciation in the fact that Qrow had noted down the twins. Everything about this encounter was tallying up some sort of score, of something more. Whether it was his place to confirm if there was didn’t particularly matter.

It simply was, whether he knew what it was or not.

Another deep inhale, he’s been silent for a few beats too long, watching the edges of Qrow take on weapon-like sharpness from his early bluntness.

“I’m crossing boundaries here, I’m aware of it. Your mission, your niece. There’s, there’s a story behind this.”

Anything was worth making sure he’s companions were safe, that he was safe, and yet he shouldn’t dare ask-

“The question, is do I really want to become involved beyond… beyond helping your niece. If it helps that much, when all it’s good for is Grimm, implies…something.” It would make sense, to aid one part and then be drawn into the whole. It’s how it always went, no matter the cause. He wasn’t changing his mind no, but, there were missing pieces and he couldn’t figure out for the life of him what those pieces were.

Even now, as serious as everything was, Avros found himself being drawn in to this puzzle. Not just curiosity any longer, and it shows, in the slip of his words, the pauses in sentences. His thoughts are shown in the narrowing of eyes, the continued pressing on, even as his voice stumbled, uncertain and yet steady all the same, it’s course unyielding.

Was anyone ever safe anymore?

The bursting thunder overhead was likely the answer.

No.

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roles reverse now, don’t they? qrow’s tales have Avros on the edge of his seat, now lingering to try and squeeze more answers from him. red eyes remain lit with angry fire, but he lounges back, brings the drink again to his lips. hot liquid eases enough of yet another ache for a missing burning in the back of his throat to help him deal with return interrogation he hadn’t expected.

he hears the clatter of a tray falling somewhere in the kitchen, ceramic and glass shattering. the taste of coffee sours in his mouth, but maybe that’s just a sudden drop in mood.

usefulness. that’s what it all came back to. even a grown huntsman - artisan of mankind’s nature, silver-eyed warrior who speaks of sense-of-self - can’t see the inherent value in a young kid with a power they don’t understand simply learning to better control it; the peace of mind and empowerment alone, qrow would track down twenty, fifty missing friends to give her.

he’s honest with his intentions, talks about his feelings, and this is where it always ends him. still, no one understands. fake smiles drop from his face as walls reinforce around him; he’s done playing nice for today.

what changed the mind of an anxious bird about to run, wary of having anything asked of him at all?

lightning flashes too, glare and reflections a sudden brightness in cafe windows against the dark outside. everyone wants everything brought to the light all at once. but even qrow, holding half the truth in his hands, dropped every hope he had and took to fists when told that way. Ol’ Oz played some cards right. qrow says he asks nothing more, and he means it. he’s gotten what he wants out of this conversation, and he’s finished with it.

“ain’t there always more to’t in the world of huntsman, huh? ya do the job, ya get the reward, ya help the people, but it always feels like there’s more. always the next mission. always more grimm loomin’ in th’ dark.” his mug lands heavy on the table, “so sure. fine, pal. i’ll tell ya it’s true if that’s what you wanna hear. there’s more. an’ i have a feelin’ someone like you’s already part of it whether ya like it or not.”

more rain, more lightning, more thunder - the perpetual storm which follows anyone who finds themselves crossing the curse of qrow branwen pounds a beat out of the tension in the air itself. “but if you’re really some kinda storyteller, then y’should know some things unravel best one chapter atta time. …agreed?”

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The downturn of his mouth is sharp, but that is the only response that is given to indicate any displeasure in such a reaction. Avros knew he was prying too deeply, much too soon. Regardless of how Qrow spins it here, to imply there was always something more, even if there was actually something there. Twist about, say yes and hopefully drop the subject. The storm flashes lightning and keen ears perk under the crash of plates, or maybe mugs.

A hand is drawn through his bangs, and a heavy weight returns to his shoulders. He is reminded of how Aycan and Cym reacted, when he pried about their home, about the Fenris tribe. How they bristled and bared stark white teeth. If there were more to the story, and there absolutely was, Avros would need to be patient.

Seeing as how Qrow believed he may already be more involved than he knew. Which wasn’t ominous at all.

He places down some payment, and a little extra, covering the drink that seemed to have become overly bitter to the other huntsman, and pulls about a scrap of paper from the torn menu. A few numbers, a scrawl of a name. His pulse thunders in his ears, and caution shrieks that he dare not take part any further, break his word and flee into the roaring storm.

But he doesn’t.

“Give me a few days, and contact me then. Hopefully in dawn, I’ll tell you what I know about, the silver.” It goes without saying, that he wants information on the twins in turn. After all, Avros has memorized every tale, every folk song, every lullaby, about the silver eyed warriors.

He knew them better than his own reflection. He could even tell Qrow what he knew now- but that wouldn’t favor his chances with his friends.

“Then, then we’ll turn the page.”

#* fight and flight = charmedglass ** avros *#* you've earned it = vol 7 *#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *#i still love how much this thread challenged me <3 #stepping out of canon comfort zone #figuring out how he'd act #making sure the imagery matched #good times

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