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saessenach · 7 years

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there is a house built out of stone

@acourt-full-of-dreamers I AM SO SORRY FOR TAKING THIS LONG. here’s your Aeduan/Iseult fic, and while yes, as per your request, Aeduan is hunting for Iseult, there’s a bit of a twist to that.

I hope you like it! Here’s 3k words of pain 😊

“Hush, Little Sister,” Iseult whispers against the girl’s hair, pitted as she is in the witch’s arms. They are hiding, the place chosen wisely, or at least as wisely as Iseult could judge while running for her life.

Owl has not let go of her hand for hours on end. They have been fleeing the Baedyeds and Red Sails who clutter the Contested Lands for hours and hours, and Iseult can’t feel her legs, can’t feel her arms, can’t feel her own cursed brain.

They had been separated, the Bloodwitch and the mountain bat covering their tracks and leading the pirates astray, respectively. It has been at least a day and a half since Iseult has seen either of them, and even now, as she and Owl hide in a crevice up a mountain rock, Iseult can’t quite shake off the out-of-place feeling encompassing her. It felt wrong, hiding alone in the woods, after all the weeks Aeduan, Owl and Iseult herself have spent in this partnership of sorts. Iseult rarely allows herself to consider what normalcy has come to mean for her. Sleepless nights on watch, little Owl’s head in Iseult’s lap, Aeduan sleeping stiff like a stick on some softer moss and that huge monster of a mountain bat draped across the clearing.

Their little pack was strange, no doubt, but it was also functional.

Until one morning, a couple of days ago.

Until both her own Witchery and the monk’s came alert at the same time, overwhelmed by the sudden presence of pirates. A sea of men and women, Red Sails and Baedyeds, all coming north, all lusting for war.

A slight tremour runs through Iseult. She does not want to think about the Bloodwitch in the hands of pirates. Nor about herself, or Owl. Not after the veritable massacre they had unfurled some fortnights ago…. better not to think of that either, Iseult ponders while the phantom memory of Threads torn by her teeth nearly drowns her.

No, that is better left alone.

And that is a lie Iseult has told herself every day since. Because it’s easier to feign terror at her own lack of humanity than to admit that, were the situation dire enough, she would do it again in less than a heartbeat. No second thoughts. She would snap the Threads of any man who came too close to little Owl, and likely regret it not at all.

Or nearly so.

The girl is asleep now, though, and Iseult nearly follows her, but no, she can’t lay down, not now, not when she is barely aware of her surroundings. She can’t fall asleep now, even if exhaustion nearly takes her apart.

Static. Static in your fingertips. Static in your toes. Iseult forces herself to stretch out her senses, as far as possible, feeling for Threads nearby.

Nothing, nothing at all. No animals, no humans. The tangle of red Threads, violent and bloodthirsty has followed them for so long, that it seems impossible to have left it behind.

Iseult eases Owl’s fingers from hers, lays the sleeping girl more comfortably on the ferns and dried grass, then sits down on the rock, hugging her knees to her chest.

This is why the Bloodwitch left her with Owl, she realises. Iseult wants to scoff at him for it. He hasn’t said anything to her, hasn’t mentioned the way he knows Iseult doesn’t sleep on most nights, or the way she shudders when he calls her a Weaverwitch. He left Owl in her care because he knew that Iseult, were they unlucky enough to be caught by pirates, would damn it all and Cleave men again. He knew the choice she would make, and inevitable though it might have been, Iseult hates him for making her come to terms with it. She hates him for forcing her to accept her nature, to accept the monster she is.

Damn him.

Damn him for being as stubborn as a pack mule. Damn him for getting lost among the forests. Damn him for not appearing now.

She scrambles for Threads again, and again, she feels nothing. The bastard could be lying in a ditch and bleeding like a pig and Iseult would be none the wiser.

And then she would be alone again, alone with Owl, alone and too exhausted to be able to contact Safi. Whatever good her Threadsister could do her from half a world away.

It’s frustration speaking in her mind. Frustration and exhaustion and nerves that stake their claim on her, that make her eyes heavy and her muscles sore, and Iseult wants to curl up and forget everything.

The silver taler resting in the crook of her neck is cold against her skin, brushing her Threadstone. She plays with the two pendants idly. The wool coat wrapped tightly around her frame has lost its once light colour, and gathers soot and dust and grime on her. Tonight she may have to give it to Owl for what little warmth it had to offer. At least then, the girl would sleep more comfortably.

Iseult hears a haunting screech echoing in the faraway sky. It’s the mountain bat, somewhere east. She feels the Threads around Owl flush in answer. They are bound through whatever Witchery lies at Owl’s command, and it is a bond of sweet care, pink Threads pulsing around them both. Iseult shudders at the thought of it, shudders at the thought of something happening to the bat, while Owl is with her. She does not want to find out what the bat’s injuries, or worse, could and would awake in Owl.

All the same, she hopes from the bottom of her heart the creature will succeed in throwing the pirates off their scent, if only to buy them enough time to get the hell away from here.

They were, if Aeduan was to be trusted, only days away from the monastery. Iseult does not want to think about that means.

She does not want to think about her eventual separation from the monk, not until she absolutely must.

Not until she is certain she will have a monk to be separated from.

Owl twists in her sleep, inhaling sharply. Iseult turns to check on her, but the child hasn’t woken. Her scrunched brow softens again after mere moments, and the child sleeps on.

Only then, Iseult’s ears pick up on a rustle in the nearby trees. It could have been the wind. It could have been an animal. Except there were no threads around them, so the witch tenses and grabs for her only knife, prepared for the worst.

What makes his way from the thicket is not the worst, however.

It is only one figure, one man, one damned Bloodwitch barely carrying himself through the bushes and roots on the forest ground, and into the clearing.

Iseult’s heart drops in both relief and fear when she sees him. The hand that had been toying with the silver coin around her neck moves away, as if the thing had burned her. As she sits up and moves towards him, across the clearing, it feels as if the damned thing had indeed set her on fire.

Heat fills her, a burning and hellish heat that clouds her mind and makes her teeth chatter and her limbs tremble.

She strides over to him, off the rock, and down in the clearing and Iseult can barely breathe and -

Anger. It’s anger that courses through her veins, anger in its purest form when she sees the almost smug expression on Aeduan’s bloody face, and distantly, there is a little voice in a corner of her mind which begs for reason, begs for Iseult to calm down and view the situation rationally and-

Iseult lunges and tackles him to the ground.

There is a blank moment after that, there is a moment in which she was nothing but fury and anger and letting go, and it scares Iseult, the amount of freedom the anger gave her. It terrifies and excites her and she just wants to let it all go and just be.

Be angry, be frustrated, be exhausted, without any colourful threads choking the life out of her, without anything else but the mild pain in her knuckles when they hit his jaw, and really, really, Iseult does land a couple of good hits before he manages to grab her hands, twist her joints and roll them over.

The back of her head hits the sparse grass, little stones digging into her skin and the Bloodwitch is breathless and bloodied and most likely angry above her, but she does not care, and she just twists and turns in his hold, even while knowing it is pointless.

She will never manage to break it, this hold he has on her, no matter what she does.

They are tussled on the ground, limbs askew and tangled and there is such little sense in what they are doing. In what she is doing.

So Iseult forces herself to open her eyes and find his, so light a blue they are almost white, with red swirling lazily in his pupils. It is almost calming, to look into those eyes.

A killer’s eyes.

A monster’s eyes.

Aeduan’s eyes.

And Aeduan is just like her.

The fact registering in her brain, and simple as it is, the acceptance of what sort of devil Iseult has become and of the kinship between herself and the Bloodwitch, it is enough to drain the tension from her body, and let her muscles go limp.

The wave of emotion is gone, and in its place remains a void.

Aeduan notices something has changed in her, if not precisely what, and eases away from her, sitting up in the grass and cautiously watching her as she sits up as well, burrowing her head in her hands and closing her eyes.

Both their breathing is ragged, twin rasps echoing in the tiny clearing alongside Owl’s slight snores. Thank the Mother they hadn’t woken her up with their tossing. That would have been hard to explain.

Finally, Iseult looks back up at hhim pointedly avoiding his eyes. There is a fresh red patch on his jaw, and it will likely bruise and it’s her fault.

Other than that, nothing unusual. His baldric is torn a bit, there are some scratches not of her own making littering his skin and he is covered, from head to toe, in specks of blood. Nothing unusual.

“I’m,” she pants, weirdly unsure of what she means to say, deciding on “I’m glad you are alive.”

His eyebrows rise minutely, and even that seems to Iseult a normal reaction. The tiny widening of his folded eyes, as well, and she knows she has become far too accustomed to Aeduan, to his moods and expressions.

“I noticed,” he says caustically. His voice had meant to be harsh, Iseult knows, but something had softened the edges of it when it came out of his mouth, and Iseult finds that something tugs at her heart in that moment.

She does not want to know what sort of Thread that would be. Or where it goes. What its colour looks like. How it binds them.

Exhaustion pulls at her now, and its weight is unbearable without fear and anger to sustain her.

“I was … angry,” she says, as if that explains her turmoil

“At what?” he scoffs, not missing a beat.

“Everything.” and she wills him to both leave it at that and prod on further.

Of course he does the latter.

“That is not at all vague.”

Iseult reaches out and throws her water skin at him in response. He catches it with inhuman reflexes and starts pouring water on his face, washing the blood away.

She had filled the thing from a creek near the rock, the water fresh and cold as ice. He seems to appreciate it.

“You are bad at jokes,” and she cannot even lie to herself, it is a pitiful way to evade him.

Aeduan does not take the bait.

“I was not making a joke,” and he turns towards her, everything in him confusing, a calm mixture of opposites that baffles her and makes her skin feel tight.

He is covered in blood, his face is wet, but his eyes are almost soothing, quiet, and yet yet yet, that quietness is a challenge thrown her way, urging her to speak, to cut herself open and lay herself bare before him.

The prospect of that is frightening, Iseult notes distractedly.

But she cannot look away.

Aeduan holds himself carelessly, for once. His posture is less rigid, as if he finally allowed himself to breathe, to slouch, but not quite, to let down his guard.

There is little tension in him, but to Iseult it feels like he is brimming with energy, and Moon Mother save her, that sort of thing is bad for her heart.

“You hide behind that veil of unfeeling calm so well, I’d almost forgotten there is something behind it”

Iseult looks up, startled, catching his gaze as the breath catches in her throat.

“There isn’t,” comes the automatic response.

Aeduan scoffs. “My jaw agrees.”

“Your humour is dreary and awful,” a distraction, an excuse, something to make the thing in her throat and her chest and her lungs go away.

He does not disappoint, nor does he miss a beat, “So are your punches”

“Why am I glad that you are alive, again?” Iseult says, before thinking it through. No, no, no, take it back, this is not what I meant, not what I want to talk about, think about, no.

“You tell me, Weaver,” he looks into her eyes.

Static, static, static.

“Don’t-don’t call me that.”

Damn her for stuttering.

Something in her pleads with Aeduan to let it go, let it drift away and forget she ever opened her mouth.

He is insensitive to her plea.

“Why?” the word has a cutting edge, and if it were a sword, it would have drawn blood already.

“Just so,” she parries.

Something hardens in his face, a tightening of muscles, his eyes freeze over, and they freeze her in place, and Iseult feels warm and ungainly under their scrutiny.

“Is it so bad, being a Voidwitch?” he asks, just above a whisper, and it feels almost vulnerable, and Iseult swallows her words before he continues-

“Does it make you feel so very unclean,” that white glare is piercing, and each word feels like a slap to Iseult, “that you cannot possibly stand it?”

She stops herself from reaching out to the coin at her neck, to turn and twist it around until she feels calm again. When it has begun to offer her comfort, she does not know. Neither is she eager to find out.

His eyes are - are consuming her, she cannot stand it, so she looks down, closes her lids shut, and Iseult feels too much and does not know what any of it is.

Aeduan sighs, and it strikes Iseult that he had been expecting an answer from her. He turns his back to her and it seems that her reaction was answer enough.

There is a prickling behind her eyes.

Static, static, static.

There isn’t any static, there is none at all in Iseult as she somehow crawls to where Aeduan is, and Iseult is vaguely aware that her hands fist in the material of his ragged shirt, that her forehead is pressed to his back.

He turns quicker than any human ought to be able, but that fails to strike a chord in Iseult.

Her eyes move up up up the curves and lines of his body, his breeches and his shirt, torn in places and splattered with blood, barely a day old. That fails to strike a chord in her, as well

The collar of his shirt is open and soaked with water and there is a flush spread on his neck as he swallows and his jaw is nearly slack, and his eyes are wide, confusion is etched deeply into his face.

There is hurt in those eyes, and that is the only thing that has made Iseult feel any pang of true, pure regret in the past days. Weeks.

Trying to open her mouth, she is trying to speak, to explain herself, but nothing comes out and Iseult curses herself for it.

She gives up, ultimately, but holds his gaze, lets it meet her own eyes, as she inches closer to him, and closer yet. Until the very end, when her hands reach his sides, wrap around his back and she hides her nose in the nook where his shoulder meets his neck and blinks her eyes close as she holds on tight.

Exhale. A moment. Two. Three.

She must back away, Iseult realises. She does not want to, but she must, because this is not - what, she does not know, but it is not something Aeduan wants or - no, she simply must back away, find someplace to hide and lick her wounds.

She makes to do just that, disentangle herself and leave, when she feels a tremor go through him, and strong arms slowly, surely come around her.

Aeduan relaxes against her. A large breath, an exhale, as the tension leaves him entirely. Then, he pulls her even closer, moulds himself around her frame. His chin fits over the top of her head just so, as does his arm over her shoulder, his fingers sprawled on her back, around her waist.

And he is so warm. So very warm.

Monster, monster, monster, her mind whispers. She is a monster, a killer, a soulless, emotionless murderer.

But she is warm, there is just such warmth around her, a soft breath fluttering over her hair, wet skin against her cheek, wool and leather and the cotton of his shirt around her, and Iseult lets herself fall into this abyss, lets herself fall into another being in a way she has not allowed herself to in a very long time.

“No,” she whispers into his skin, and is that the beat of his heart? “It is not so bad.

"Not so bad, at all,” and Iseult closes her eyes as Aeduan’s arms tighten around her.

#my stuff #truthwitch #windwitch #susan dennard #stdennard #aeduan #iseult det midenzi #otp: mhe varujta #bloodweave #aeduan x iseult #iseult x aeduan #feels #requests #one down #one to go

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