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marshalortega · 1 year

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and what rough beast

the exile, post demo. syfyn javall + the commander, love-swearing but not saying love, so nothing new. warnings for a bit of casual suicidal ideation. READ ON AO3.

THE HOUR IS LATE. THERE’S A WOLF AT THE DOOR.

Down these halls haunted by the ghosts of your memory, you follow the path toward her. It comes as easily as breathing. There is no one to stop you, or question why you are here, and even if they did, what could they say to you? They see you as you are now. Not a wolf, not a commander, but something else prowling the grounds, looking for something to bite into. The heads that turn, turn in fear, not fealty.

When you were a girl, you thought your mothers were bigger than the Gods. Bigger than the sky. It’s easy to believe that when you’re small and your fist is the size of an apricot ripe for crushing, and you couldn’t hold a sword and you couldn’t fight a small god of chaos and you couldn’t even hunt, but you really did, you believed.

At some point between the blood and the battles, you realized that a god is just a word, and a word is something spat out by people smaller than you, and there is nothing real about it, nothing at all, and there was no mother, there was only a queen, and queens needed people to be their scythe across the landscape. And you were. So sharp you cut them too, when they tried to touch you. Too big now for anyone. It’s a sad day when one realizes their god is just meat and bone, and their teeth have grown larger and sharp enough to tear through even a queen.

You turn again and find your way, feet silent on the stone, torchlight tinting everything in damp gold. Your arm burns and blisters under the bandages, but they filed your claws to nothing; the rendering of it wouldn’t be as satisfying, so you keep your fists tight and at your side. There will be time for it soon, when they give you back your weapon and ask you to live up to its name, become their killing field once again. Lead your band to their death. Do your duty. Soft-handed blood mages and flighty fae and Sabir and a snake in every sense of the word.

And Syfyn.

Syfyn had been real. Real as anything. Real as everything. She had a rare, smarting laugh that startled you into something shaped like a person: a girl-thing cutting through the echoing noise of sword clash. You were never a child, or a human, or a daughter, just a dull blade waiting to be sharpened, but when you were with her you were alive , and when she looked at you she shaped you into something almost…

Almost.

You tore through her, with that beast under your skin. It still roils now, waiting, waiting, waiting for that moment to strike again. This is how you know what you are; cruel and unfair, by nature monstrous. You–with no mothers, no gods at your side, no voices in your head, no weapon in hand, you only want her to look at you.

You swallow and your jaw clicks, still sore from the blow of her armored heel to your face.

This needs… you need, you need something. Absolution. To be struck down. You need a scar to match. Let her break your bones or drag her talons through your hair, it doesn’t matter, anything would be a release from this… this nothing you have. It was almost freeing, when she pressed down on your arm till it SNAPPED.

You thumb at the dagger strapped to your side. You come to her door. You raise your fist. You hold your breath.

Three knocks on the heavy wood. You can hear her shuffling instead, how her body stills utterly.

Silence.

Deliberation, likely. Whoever is knocking at this hour breaches code, and invites questions. But to come at this hour only means urgency. She’ll answer. You knock once more for good measure though.

“Who is it?” She’s muffled by the door, sounds gruff, irritated. Maybe you would’ve smiled at that. You did, once, you think. Forever ago. Now you’re filled only with dread, and your palm slips off the hilt of the dagger, its intent burning hot on your skin.

The door creaks open, and there she stands. Unraveled. The golden armor is shucked, leaving only the woman beneath it. Her hair is loose, brushing her pale forehead, and her eyes are marked by sleeplessness. The melty candlelight shimmers gently on her skin, bisected by the scars you left behind. She is beautiful.

And you are silent. And so is she.

Silver on red. Red on silver. She, golden, and you, dark like blood in the night.

“Marrok.” She bites out, staring up at you like a hated thing, her claws indenting on the door. She tries for impassive, stone-cold, but you’ve caught her off guard and it falters. Her wings flare out, retract. You can smell the fear.

Swallowing hard, you drop your gaze to the floor, curling your shoulders inward. You will never be smaller than her, but you try.

“I need to speak with you.”

“Not tonight.”

“It must be tonight.”

Time is ticking down, down. Soon it will be gone, and they will be stripped of any moments left. There will only be the mission, and then death, and this–this must be out , now. It is eating away at your soul, like maggots into flesh, infection entrenched in the wound. Whatever comes after this, you can bleed it out slow.

She says nothing to that, moving to slam the door in your face. It groans. It is– You stop it with your fist, pushing back, hard .

“Please, Syfyn.” You say, pleading through the gap. “And then I’ll go.”

A century, a millennia ago she held you through the deep pits of transformation. Did you ever thank her for that? You can’t remember anymore. You only remember how she bit her tongue when your body shook and your hands turned to heavy paws, and you cut her once, on accident, slicing her forearm clean, and she never even blinked, she never looked away.

Maybe that’s why she didn’t stop you sooner. It would have been easier if she’d been afraid, cutting you down where you stood that night. Sometimes you think about it. Sometimes you wish for it.

Is that why you knelt before her, penitent, waiting? Waiting for her to take the killing blow she stayed, three years ago?

“You can take your sword, if you want.”

Syfyn breathes hard, her eyes glinting steel.

“Stay here.” She finally says, stepping away from the door. It closes, not completely, but cuts off your view, and you stay in your place, loyal as a hound.

There’s movement, then: “Come in.”

You move slowly, like one moves around a startled animal. Or when one is hunting. The door swings closed behind you, and your heart stops heavy in your chest. She did brandish her sword. It sits at her side now, unstrapped but still in its sheath. She balances one hand on the pommel, and you nod in acquiescence.

When you were still Commander and she was still second-in-command, you weren’t shy of this. Visiting her in the night, creeping around to not be seen, lest rumors fly. How many hours did you two stay awake, exchanging easy silence as much as conversation, before it fell way to some kind of hazy sleep? Too many. It had been a comfort. It had been…

You wish you could say the room had stayed exactly the same, but that wouldn’t be true.

It’s… lifeless, austere. There’s an oppressiveness to the air, like a shell too small to endure much longer, but still you push yourself inside. “Thank you,” you say, and wait at the closed door. “We have to discuss… the mission.”

“The mission?” Syfyn scoffs at that, and–maybe it’s deserved. A weak excuse. Not exactly a lie. “Which is why you needed to– did anyone see you?”

“Do you think anyone saw me, Griffin?” You say flatly.

She has the dignity to only scowl, instead of rolling her eyes like you expect.

“Say your piece then and go. If you’re concerned I won’t follow your commands, ” she sighs, “don’t. I know the order of things. So long as we all do our duty.”

Our duty. To our country. To our queens. Our duty to strike the killing blow.

Your duty to her.

Not as commander. But friend.

In the disgusting gut of your heart, you still feel it–that want of her, to hold her like a lover would. The image crosses your mind and flies from you just as quickly. Never to pass. You were her commander, and now you are– monster. Looming creature at the doorway. Holding her hostage in her own room.

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then what ? What’s the point, Marrok?”

She is so fierce. Like a shaft of blinding sunlight. The way your name sounds like it cuts her tongue.

You feel stiff, corpse-like in front of her. She fidgets, clenching and unclenching her hand around the sword pommel.

“I’m not a fool, Syfyn. I don’t expect to survive this, whatever it is.” She opens her mouth–maybe to protest, maybe to congratulate your hopeful death–but you raise a hand, silencing it. “But you can. I know you can.”

She doesn’t flinch, but there’s something there. It itches under the surface, sticking to her teeth. “You heard the queen. There’s no reason anyone has to die…” She doesn’t believe that–neither do you. You can feel it in her utter lack , conviction dead at the moment of contact. “And I will do what I have to do.”

“I know,” and, “I hope so,” and you do, you do. It– it wants to pour out of you, right there, flooding your throat. This thing . Let it out–let it out–like infection. Like bile. “But if we’re going to fight beside each other again, we must–deal with this.”

Out, out, out. Get it out.

“Like I said, I’ll follow orders.”

“No.” You shake your head, taking a step forward. She moves back.Watchful. Steel-to-red. And you smile, and it feels hollow, like skin off the bone.“You know it must be more than that. We must… trust something, if not each other.”

“I don’t understand what you mean. There’s nothing—“

“Nothing to say?”

Her teeth click together, lips pinched hard. There is something in her that you struck down.

“No. I don’t trust you, Marrok. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“I understand.”

"Then... we're done?"

Words like a gutting knife. But you do trust her still, somehow. You can feel it reaching out for you still, the trust-bond. Three years and exile and nothing and a broken arm and you still trust her–trust her to save your life as much as end it. You think not even a god could take that from you.

Maybe that’s why you slide so easily to your knees.

Your hand comes to bear on the blade. In front of you, she stumbles back, snarls, a lion’s sound–“what are you doing? ”--and you bow your head, raise your gaze, drawing the dagger, bringing its hilt to your heart. As easy as breathing.

"Marrok– what in the hells–” but she doesn’t try to grab you, or pull you up; her eyes are on that blade, that blade shining in the dark. She steps back, frozen. Watching, and waiting. Good. You need this–you need to be real again.

You swore an oath to country and queen, once. You swore to protect it with your life, with everything in you. You swore to be its defender, its sword, its beacon of war. Once, in you was a love for your duty so immense you felt no hunger, no desire, there was nothing but the shape of it and the shape of it was you , warrior, on your knees.

This love, this duty, is the least you can offer to her, who you have so wronged. Something in you snaps, and with its release you feel so light , so at peace again. You need a god. You need a sword. You need something bigger than the heavens.

She looks at you, horrified. So heavy is the horror it shudders through her, unmanning her, leaving her nothing but to stare dumbly at you. This face of hers, this face you love, it will forever bear your marks, and she will forever hate you for it. But you cannot let the fear continue. You cannot–

The mantle of commander, wolf, beast at the door, slides loose from you, and in front of her you are not a woman, not a man, not a beast. You are her hand, her killing field.

“Syfyn Javall,” you start, resting your free hand on your knee, drawing your shoulders back to their full rest. “I swear to you, on queen and country, that never again will I raise a hand against you, as I once did. I swear to you that so long as I breathe, I will be your shield, your sword. I will strike down your enemies and defend your kin. I give you my fealty, my loyalty, my life, whatever is left of it. And should I break this oath–” you turn the tip of the dagger to your heart, pressing down . It stings like truth. “Let this blade pierce my heart and strike me dead.”

“Good gods. You–” her sword clatters to the ground, fallen from her grasp. The weight of it strikes hard as her hand on your wrist, wrenching the dagger from your heart. “Stop—you are–”

She is touching you. What a gift.

Her hands are warm on you, hard as they are against your skin. Not yet pulling away. You realize–you haven’t touched her, not in more than three years. No hard metal armor between you. No wounds to bear. No witnesses to your oath-swearing. Whatever this is, it’s hers to do with as she pleases. Her commander on her knees, sworn to loyalty.

“I am at your mercy,” you say, like prayer, or whatever comes closest to it, watching her face so lovely and near to you now.

A wave of—hurt? flashes past her eyes, her gasping mouth, almost like you’ve struck her. But slowly, ever so slowly, she lowers her forehead to yours, eyes closing to the awfulness of you.

On your wrist, her thumb trails the thin line of an old, old scar–with her other hand she draws away the blade, and that too falls to the floor, forgotten.

You cannot–think, cannot breathe, cannot speak. It is Syfyn and she is above you and she is bending to grace your skin with her own, your foreheads and noses pressed,-- not close enough, never close enough, and you feel a scream, under your flesh.

Slowly, she exhales, hot on your mouth.

You feel the beast rumble, pleased, sated. Collared. A life for a life. An oath on a dagger.

“Get up, Marrok.” Syfyn murmurs, grabbing you by the shirt with her empty hand, wrenching you close, up halfway off the ground. “You look like an idiot down there.”

#syfyn javall #the commander #exile the game #marrok #you make a duty-ridden sop of a commander who never fully addressed their homoeroticism and #this is what you get #flagrant knight-coding etc #I haven't logged into tumblr in FOREVER and it shows

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songofsoma · 2 years

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Light of a Guiding Star

fandom: the exile (@exilethegame) pairing: syfyn javall x f!commander words: 1,495 rating: teen

read it on ao3

Some nights were worse than others. That was something Syfyn had come to realize about Corvinnia as weeks on the road turned into months. She could always tell by how restless Corvinnia was. Whether it was staying up for yet another shift on watch or pacing around their small camp to find any relief, Syfyn knew the tell-tale signs by now.

She had known they had taken her wings. They had mutilated her in ways she couldn’t imagine—that she tried not to imagine. The very thought of having something that was a part of her very being made Syfyn sick and reach back to brush over the soft feathers of the wings tucked against her back.

Corvinnia no longer slept on her back. That was what she noticed when they spent that first night on the road all those weeks ago. She knew from experience the ex-Commander slept like the dead on her back, sometimes with arms tucked against her sides. It was always something Syfyn found amusing when waking up beside her with her head resting on her breast.

Seeing her curl up on her side on the sleeping mat had been jarring from the memories that came flooding back. They were not the same as they had been three years ago, and not just in terms of sleeping positions.

There were a few times when she did roll onto her back. Most of the time, it would wake her up with a hiss of pain until she turned back over and settled again. But on nights like these, when the aching was already near unbearable, Corvinnia would muffle a yelp in pain and sit up with a wince.

Tonight, she pushed herself to her feet with a choked grunt, her posture adjusting in an attempt to find some way to lessen the pain. Even in the low light of the remaining embers, Syfyn could see how pale Corvinnia’s face was—and that was saying something for her already ghostly complexion.

Corvinnia didn’t look in her direction as she slinked off in the direction of the thick vegetation and trees that would provide a screen from the camp. Syfyn didn’t know why, but she got up from her seat by the dwindling fire and followed her.

Twigs snapped and leaves crinkled as she walked. Corvinnia reached out and grasped at trees to support her weight as she limped through the brush. She hadn’t even stopped to put her boots back on.

When they were a decent ways away, Corvinnia finally stopped and promptly fell to her knees. Hands buried into the forest floor as she began to retch.

Syfyn didn’t know if she knew she had followed, but her mind was made up.

She crouched beside Corvinnia, gathering the black hair falling around her face and holding it back. Her entire body was trembling and her skin was clammy as claws dug into the earth beneath them.

Corvinnia spit once when she was confident no more bile would rise and shuddered when Syfyn’s hand came to rest on her forehead.

“Is it like this often?”

Blood red eyes peered over her shoulder, as if only just realizing her presence. “More than I care to admit, but less than when it first happened,” she sighed, slowly sitting back on her heels and wiping her dirt-stained hands on her pants.

Syfyn glanced at the back of her tunic. It was glued to her skin from sweat. She had never seen what the wounds had looked like. Even with the lack of privacy from travel, Corvinnia had always been careful not to expose those scars. She was littered with others she had been proud of, like the claws that had raked over her cheek. But her back was a different story.

Corvinnia noticed where her eyes had gone, though she said nothing for a long while. She clenched her jaw as if she were mulling something over in her mind. Finally, she looked away, turning her face to the ground in shame. “You might as well see them,” she said lowly.

“I…” Syfyn trailed off, unsure of how to respond.

“You of all people have the right to see them,” Corvinnia murmured, her head dropped lower. Syfyn swore she saw a tear slip over her cheek in the filtered moonlight shining through the treetops.

She still didn’t move. Was this something she really wanted? Of course, she had wondered, but it would become reality.

Tired of her stalling, Corvinnia reached over her shoulders and tugged the back of her shirt up, swallowing back a hiss of pain as the sweat-soaked fabric peeled away from the skin.

Where her wings once were laid two horrendous scars that traveled down her back. Skin had grown over top of them, but they were still red and angry in the silver light. The flesh around them had been mauled with scar tissue disfiguring her muscular back.

Against her better judgment, Syfyn reached out and ran a delicate finger between them making Corvinnia flinch.

She pulled her hand away quickly.

“You didn’t hurt me,” she assured, though it was unconvincing from her labored breaths. “I just don’t like being touched there anymore.”

Anymore.

More memories of Corvinnia laying in her lap as Syfyn ran her hand between her wings of black feathers. If she were a cat, Corvinnia would have been purring in delight. Now, she was flinching away from that same touch as if she’d just been burned.

Syfyn couldn’t help the pressure building behind her eyes nor the way her body dipped forward, her forehead pressing against the nape of Corvinnia’s neck. The once Commander stilled and Syfyn was afraid she had overstepped until a hand released her shirt and reached back to run her fingers through Syfyn’s hair.

“Syf,” she murmured so low it was barely audible.

Syfyn said nothing. She didn’t know what to say. For so long she had done everything in her power to try and forget these feelings. She had told herself she didn’t love Corvinnia anymore, not after what she had done. But a part of her always knew that it was a lie.

She loved her so much that sometimes it was hard to breathe.

Corvinnia was her moon where she was her sun. She was her guiding star amongst the midnight sky. And without her, the nights had been so long and so very dark. Syfyn had been nothing but a hopeless traveler walking blindly these last few years.

“Syf?” Corvinnia said again.

Syfyn realized she was crying. Her sunburnt cheeks were wet and so was the back of Corvinnia’s shirt. The latter didn’t seem to care as she turned around to finally face her.

“I left you.”

Her eyes widened a fraction. “You cannot blame yourself. I hurt you in ways that I will never forgive myself for.”

They both remembered. The blood, the screaming.

“You have every right to hate me, as much as it hurts me, I know it’s what I deserve. I will spend the rest of my days atoning for what I did to you because I am still so hopelessly in love with you. I would give my last breath if it meant saving yours. I’m not doing this,” Corvinnia waved her hand around, “out of duty. I do this in hopes that one day, I will be once again worthy of you.” She was crying too now as her words were thick. Some color had returned to her cheeks and her skin wasn’t as sweat-soaked in the coolness of the night air.

Syfyn swallowed hard, her hands coming to rest on her shoulders. She never had been good at affection, especially not initiating it and not after all this time and heartache. But she needed to feel the solidness of Corvinnia’s body underneath her palms.

“We will do this,” she said definitively, grey eyes meeting crimson. “We will finish this and you will come home.”

Corvinnia smiled sadly at that last part. “Home.” She looked up at the pines blocking the night sky. “I don’t even know where that is anymore.” A humorless laugh escaped her dry, cracked lips, fangs exposed to the night.

Syfyn looked away, her shoulders slumping. There had been one point in their lives that it would be safe to say they were each other’s homes. Neither of them quite fit in the life of the palace, but they had each other.

Glancing over, Corvinnia touched the back of Syfyn’s hand. “We have a long road ahead of us before we must worry about such things. For now, I am just happy to have you with me again.”

Her hand turned over, catching Corvinnia’s, their fingers lacing together.

For good this time , Syfyn wanted to say. The words swelled in her throat but her tongue refused to curl around the words.

It was a promise she could not keep.

And looking at Corvinnia, it was clear she knew as well.

#i read the chapter five drop last night and cried over syfyn #then immediately wrote this #first time writing syfyn crossing my fingers it was alright LMAO #if you don't read the exile you're missing out #my writing #the exile #the exile game #syfyn #syfyn javall #oc: corvinnia #syfyn javall x f!commander #corvinnia x syfyn #syfyn javall x commander #wlw #interactive fiction

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