R O W A N

Keiran, of the Unseelie Court.

[arowankeriran]

bedlamroad‌:

lobelianathair‌:

location: the stone circle

date: june 22, afternoon

status: closed to @bedlamroad​, @arowankeriran​

The news hits her harder than she expected that morning, as reports of tracks and blood near the Stone Circle- their circle, come in. True, there was no body, but that didn’t mean much to her. Someone still stepped into their sacred place and tainted it with blood her kind hadn’t spilled themselves. She took it as a warning, that whoever was doing this was much closer than she thought, and held no reservations in making such a bold claim in her court’s territory. 

She arrives earlier than the others, not wanting neither Thorne or Kieran to see her initial reaction to it all. Her breaths were unsteady as she closes in on the soiled earth. This place, where the war council would so often meet, was no stranger to her, but it felt like it that day. The air, normally charged, felt different- chillier than usual. Something unwelcome had crossed the stones threshold, and it wasn’t welcome. 

Thirty minutes after she arrives she can hear at least one of her two companions approach. Turning towards the sound, she immediately recognizes Thorne, and gives him a curt nod. Choosing Thorne and Kieran of all the Unseelie soldiers to accompany her was certainly a gamble given the two’s reputation, but it was that very reputation for violence and ruin that made her choose them in the first place. After all, who better to understand the mind of a potential killer, than the court’s two most prolific?

“You live close to here, right?” She asks, bypassing any verbal greeting. “You remember anything strange last night?” 

Blood doesn’t stir much in him, it’s the sort of thing that, unfortunately, a person can grow accustomed to if enough of their time is spent in the company of it. Seeing his fair share, if not more, left a mark too long ago for Thorne to put time to, a twinge of crimson has overcast too many of his days for a little more of it to inspire much wariness. It’s too much of a stain on his own hands to be a shock. Irritation, raised hackles at the prospects of someone, or something, bringing that reminder of the dark cloud too many of his kin and cousins were trying to ignore with parties and distance right to his own backyard leaves him restless with anger though, just short of pacing the circle. Thorne is, unsurprisingly, by nature more territorial than many of the Fae and it’s not only a grim discovery but a personal sort of insult, maybe even a hint of self-directed frustration that he failed to notice something so close happening right under his nose.

He doesn’t answer at first, it’s common enough knowledge that his home is barely a walk from the sticky trails along the ground, close enough that if he had the good sense to ignore the lure of the past few days he might have nearly smelled the blood in the air. 

Eventually he has to speak though, with a muttered tone and an expression far too similar to a wolf with teeth drawn tensely. “I can practically see it from my cabin, but I wasn’t there last night.” Damned distractions, the mistake makes him seethe for letting that guard drop and having Nathair show up to question him over the one place he’s more familiar with than most; it needles his pride more than he’ll admit. 

He earns it then, apparently for his own foolish ignorance, the annoyance of having to deal with both of them. He’s not even remotely the same person between them, could not have picked a worse set if he’d personally tried to, but it wasn’t a choice. The Queen didn’t grant many choices, Nathair granted even fewer to him.   Doesn’t matter; there’s too much tension to bother with games. 

His eyes only shift to Keiran momentarily with the crackle and crunch of his steps in approach, devoid of the cynic’s humor from their previous conversation, flat and focused. He knows why they’re both here, destruction pairs well with ruin when dealing with ugly matters; fire with fire. “I guess we’re all here now,” his lingering tone suggests that he might have preferred for it to not be a group effort, but so be it.

[ @arowankeriran​ ]

There’s a feeling of dread in his stomach as he makes his way through the wilds, back to the circle and beyond toward their meeting place. The idea of something lurking in the trees, unseen by them and their best scouts, it’s enough to send a chill down his spine. 

He doesn’t bother trying to quieten himself on his approach, allowing his footsteps to fall upon branches, allowing the trees to rustle as he comes near. He greets them both with nothing more than a grim shadow of a smile, adjusts his shoulders and sinks into the comforting reminder of the weapons he keeps on him far too often, these days. His bow. His blade. Safety nets. 

“Stopped to check the other side of the circle’s clearing. No sign of our visitor there.” 

His eyes gravitate toward the tracks, crouching down to get a better look at them, eyes keen and ready to examine, ready to hunt. His eyes have a worried edge to them, he knows, when he looks back to at his two companions. 

“S’hard to imagine that something could get so close and we wouldn’t notice it.” He says, voice gruff and slow. There’s a spark of guilt, too. He had gotten distracted the night before, lost in love’s eyes and not as dedicated to his work as he should have been. He shakes his head, tries to brush the feeling away. 

He raises to his feet again, grim in the face of it all, glancing between the two. “How far do they lead?” 

[ @lobelianathair​ ]

[arowankeriran]

dahliamordred‌:

Every time he manages to coax a smile such as this one from Keiran, it feels as if he’s won an unspeakable victory. These smiles, they’re not something that Keiran gives most anyone else, from what he’s seen. The smiles he gives others, they’re well practiced into something crueler, too much edge, much less sincerity, the sort of thing that might trick someone else into believe he actually is the cruel being he claims to be. This sort of smile, though, is their hidden secret. He’s not sure Keiran realizes how beautiful he looks in these moments of pure joy, but the image lingers in his mind whenever they’re apart. 

He would make any promise he could ask of him if it meant he would be gifted with that smile again.

It’s still so surprising to him how much one little word can mean. Love. It was a shock to discover that words could hold so much power when he was with Keiran, after the years and years he had spent alone, words only used for cruelty, as a gateway to violence, if not uttered at all, rather feral snarls falling from harsh lips. And now, words so quiet doing so much, making his heart burst with a feeling he’s still in awe of, and is rather certain he will always be. It’s the reason he worries so much for him. He is his heart, and Mordred isn’t sure he would be able to go on if something were to happen to him, and all because of him.

His nod is too quick, makes his frown deepen, but then he goes on, time slowing again. There’s the familiar strength in his voice, the strength that made him certain weeks and weeks ago when he first promised to stop the pain for him. Brave as ever, but Mordred knows his heart like he knows himself, knows the uncertainty beneath the surface. He pushes it away, worries about them instead, and it makes his heart ache. “I promise,” he nods, biting his lip as he looks back at him. A pause, weighing the words on his tongue, before honesty.

“You’re allowed to fear,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper. He longs to reach out to him again, to take his hands in his own. “The fear shows how important it is. I know you can take care of yourself, but…I want to take care of you, too.”

The deepening of Mordred’s frown is enough to cause heartache. He almost hates himself for causing it. The worry and fear lingers over them like a dark cloud that Keiran cannot banish. It feels as if it might block out the endless beaming of the sun, somehow, as if it will swallow them whole. Still, the promise is a balm that soothes him like nothing can. He wants nothing more than for Mordred to follow through with it, be careful and cautious and think of his own good first and foremost. 

But his love is a more tender soul than that. It takes his breath away, to be cared for. That Mordred wants to take some of the burden on himself, wants to offer that to Keiran. No one ever has before. He’s always been a beast that needed to fend for itself, he learned to be brutal to survive. There was no room for tenderness, no room for flights of fancy and dreams of love, no room for hoping that someone would come and offer comfort to him. Yet here he stood. And there Mordred was. So tender, so full of love, offering so much more than comfort and safety. 

He sighs out a breath, quiet and more surprised than he ought to be. “You already do. More than you know.” He says it like it’s a promise, he wants Mordred to know. The words hang in the air, he knows they sound gentle. Even just the fact of Mordred wanting to is more caring than many people have done for Keiran, in the fast expanse of his life. More than anyone has given him. So he offers it with a nod, like he’s sure. “We can take care of each other. You and me.”

There’s more noise beyond the flames, and with eyes full of regret and sadness he shifts his gaze toward the fray. He knows, now, that Mordred can read him like an open book. He’s sure Mordred saw it in his eyes. The longing, the anguish of having to tear his eyes away. “I better –– That sounds like my lot, and my queen will have all our heads if someone burns to death during her party.” It’s breathless, more words than he usually grants to one sentence at a time. He’s learning to talk more and more with Mordred. Fuller and fuller thoughts. “I should go and reign them in, but ––” He takes a step away and his gaze slips back, softens to a grand extent around the edges. He puts his love in it, the yearning he’ll no doubt feel until darkness falls. 

“Tonight.” 

[arowankeriran]

canaan-days‌:

The wry smile is returned. There are many reasons they have found themselves to flock together, to be the company each other keeps, and this is a good example of one of them. Canaan can related the somewhat bitter, reluctant practicality of it all. After all, Kieran may be a more agreeable fae than he, perhaps—or at least a more social one—but their perspectives are not so different concerning the Seelie, end of day. At least not the perspective Kieran shares with him. 

He gives a curt nod. “Fair, I may have been… a little too forgiving with the term. In any case, I think you know I agree with the notion of bringing the fight to our enemies outside Otherworld, and outside our own kind. It’s probably fair to say it’s the only concrete reason I’m still fucking standing here, amidst this whole…” He gestures vaguely to the twinkly, festive decor, commotion, company. “…display.” 

But he looks to Kieran again. There’s a question on his tongue, and a ‘but’ in the air that he doesn’t know how to approach, or if he dares. It’s not that he lives a life of exceptional honest with those he calls friends—it’s not like any Unseelie really do—but to totally repress questions he might usually ask without a second thought because if this information he’d gotten from the queen, feels equally as unnatural. 

“There are rumours that you’ve made someone angry. Care to speak to those?” He pauses, and slides Kieran a subtly teasing smirk. “Should I be worried?” Best to keep the mood a little light—as close to normal for the two of them as possible, and drawling, caustic banter feels about right. 

It’s a grim reminder of his troubles, the small yet heavy weight that sits in the middle of his chest as he navigates the world. Canaan’s gaze is the slightest bit heavier than Keiran is used to, it has the aura of something that means more than he wants Keiran to know. A sense of anticipation in the air, a sense of dread. 

Perhaps its a second nature of his, to quietly implode while the expression on his face stays pure and neutral and clean. Only one person in his life really know how to see through the minor cracks in his foundations and read the soul of him, glimpse the true emotions hiding somewhere in the depths of his eyes. He sucks in a breath, slow and easy, as if he’s almost laughing at the question. 

“No, no reason to worry. I’d hate for you to strain a muscle attempting some genuine emotion.” He levels Canaan with a wry look, a shadow of a smile. A teasing barb, to lighten the next. “Don’t think the Queen likes how nicely I’m playing with the others, thats all. She’ll let it go when she starts to see results.” 

[arowankeriran]

bedlamroad‌:

There’s something marvelous about alcohol in how it makes fools of otherwise reasonable people and turns fools seemingly brilliant; he’s rather fond of it for many reasons but that evening his favorite by far is how it leaves so many of his kin and cousins outside their usual, dry, exhausting selves. He’s unsure who they think they wear the masks for but it must be very tedious having one nailed to their faces with their little spikes of self-purpose all the time. But don’t they all do it? He’s guilty as well, his mask just has bolder teeth and less of the pretty lacing of expectations gathered at the edges. If life were as simple as getting the whole lot of them drunk, the courts, and letting them sort themselves it would save everyone a few centuries or so of inane rambling to and fro.

“You may have been misinformed on that,” he returns with barely a breath spared to lift his drink to his lips. “Brooding does that thing with your eyebrows,not flattering in the least, looks like a caterpillar.” Whatever vague motion he offers is, seemingly, meant to portray the idea of a fuzzy insect in the general brow area. Up to par with the usual nonsense, yes, or at least the level befitting the evening.

He shoots Keiran a look as though he may as well have asked him to take a nap, entertain himself with the inside of  his eyelids or some other equally bland possibility. “Am I really that predictable? That’s almost an insult.” And one forgotten an instant later while he mulls over the possibilities but sets them aside for the moment.

“It’s too early for that anyway.” He concludes with a bored sound and a few restless steps that circle back to where he began. No, too early and not nearly drunk enough, everyone, to start them shifting around in discomfort over rumors and murmurs. Which doesn’t mean he’s any less itching to do so, but that will mark a short end to his evening and Thorne plans to be out and play a little longer.

“I’d hate to take her away from the very important task of scowling at people she doesn’t usually get to, she’s got me to complain about all the time. Let her have her fun,” he snorts and lifts the drink yet again, “I’m even going to be nice and act like I’m surprised you’re hiding around in the dark instead of having any real fun.” He likes Keiran well enough to give him some grief now and then, really he must like him better than some that evening with the amount of humored torment tossed his way.

A scoff escapes his lips, eyes rolling at the words offered to him by Thorne. He takes the moment to reach out, gently bat Thorne’s hand out of the air to force him to abort the gesture. “There’s no accounting for your shitty taste, I suppose.” He says, more amused than anything else. Bullshit, but fun bullshit that will get his mind off of the darkness of the times. Thorne’s nonsense, if nothing else, is amusing to him.

“It’s definitely an insult.” He agrees, a certain gruffness in his voice. Keiran usually sounds like he’d rather be doing anything else than speak with you, even if he really is enjoying himself. Still, he lets out a small huff of a laugh. Too early, indeed. The day has long hours spread out ahead of them, it seems almost like an inescapable expanse. Keiran would rather it was over, done and ended and ready to release him back to some semblance of freedom. He’d like to flee from it, but it’s his job to be here with keen eyes and a heavy heart. 

He shakes his head, almost fond, at the way the other fae talks about their Queen. She’d have him by the scruff of his neck if she heard him talking like that, have him on his knees with a blade to the delicate meat of his throat. They’d all watch. People would cheer her on. God, Thorne was an annoying little thing at the best of times, but at least it was fun. “True enough,” He agrees, courting doom with it, taking a long drink. “She could use the practice hating the rest of us. Stretch those unused muscles.” 

He snorts another laugh, shoving Thorne gently away again. “And what real fun would you recommend, if you were the type of person I took advice from?” 

[arowankeriran]

bedlamroad‌:

[Midsummer festivities // Keiran // @arowankeriran ]

It was probably just a bit off-skewed, holding a party in the wake of everything else dismal and death going on, but was it surprising? Thorne couldn’t claim to really be shocked that so-called traditions held more weight than murder and the threat of instability; he had to give both sides some credit for their outstanding powers of disconnection from logic. It was one of the few traits he still found entertaining about his cousins and kin; not a shred of common sense won out over whatever they happened to want instead. When that want was distraction so be it; in drink and dark night, and a gathering that must have had whatever creature had taken to picking off a Fae here and there practically salivating at the possibilities. Toss a healthy dose of alcohol into the mix and he was already putting bets on what sort of disaster would end of the wake of the merriment and cold light of morning. 

Did any of it sway Throne from attending the festivities? Of course not; he didn’t want to be saddled with common sense anymore than the next person and preferred a front row seat to the chaos if he weren’t the one directly responsible for it. Otherwise life blurred one day into the next and Thorne simply could not stand the bland tones, existence was meant to be carried out in neon lights or harsh contrasts and certainly never in beige or ivory. Lately the crimson overcast had been too apparent but why bother to trouble over such heavy thoughts on a night crafted for distance from every little realistic worry?

The hilarious irony of it all was almost as sweet as the drink in his hand, the number of how many had preceded it escaped him and felt like useless information, but not nearly as much to savor as watching the stumbling and scrambling he’d watched both sides do in false efforts to win each other’s favor for a single evening. It wasn’t as difficult as they made it but far be it for him to point out the simplicity of getting along with each other to those who, clearly, knew better than him how the politics of existence were meant to work. 

It mattered less than the number of stars above or the count of blades of grass under the soles of his boots as he wandered on the outskirts, listening and picking up little conversations in passing but bothering with none until the faintest flicker of motion held his attention and absolutely demanded he give his full focus to somehow who wanted nothing of the sort in their own avoidance of anything but the quiet edges of revelry. He was just, after all, being friendly. 

“You look miserable,” no flowery words for it but the words he preferred were usually anything but pretty. Bold, yes, at times far too brash or even nonsensical, but  Keiran was blessed enough that he had just enough alcohol warming his veins for his mood to be downright cheerful in his play at banter. “But you always look miserable so maybe that’s just unfortunate genetics.”

He’d given in, mildly, to the push and pull of the festivities. Alcohol eased something in him, the sweet wine that tasted of love and home and fun. He was careful not to let it go too far to his head, he had places to be, after all, when the night was over. He made sure his eyes stayed sharp, that he kept an eye out for danger lingering on the horizon of the festivities. Any vicious thing could wander in to the fray, after all, and cut them down while they enjoyed their feasting and libations. Keiran wouldn’t let that happen, if he could stop it. 

He drinks enough to feel the warm buzz. The heat of the sun and the warmth of his own body, blossoming together. He feels alive, wonderfully. He feels worried, anxious. Like he may split open. 

And he hates that Thorne of all people notices it. Such a chaotic little thing, a firecracker in the night. Keiran had always liked him, his feirce and flighty nature. He was a pain in the ass, but only in the best ways possible. Always causing trouble, always up to something, always pissing someone off. Someday, it would get him killed. Keiran hoped that was a long way off. 

He ought to wrangle him and set him loose on someone else, direct his energies towards Canaan and watch them clash. 

“Fuck you, too.” He says, gruff as he always is. “I have it on good authority that the brooding look is very fetching on me.” A joke, an attempt at one. Keiran has never been the funniest, but he does the best he can. 

“Have you started any fights yet, Throne?” He asks, nudging the shoulder of the fae across from him playfully. “Any messes we’ll have to clean up for you? Our Queen will be so angry if you cause a scene at her party, you know.” It’s still playful, wry and mostly friendly. He thinks it would be funny, actually, if Sorcha had cause to shift her disapproval to Thorne instead of someone else. 

[arowankeriran]

dahliamordred‌:

It’s not a surprise that Keiran agrees so easily, but still it brings a warm smile to his face, knowing that in a number of hours, at least, he’ll be able to touch him again, to hold him close without any worry of consequence. Too often they do not have the luxury of knowing when they might be able to touch again, and even if they’ve stolen more and more time together, it’s not enough for him, especially as the world feels more frightening every moment. But he’s grateful for what they can take, for moments like this, hidden in plain sight. The risk is worth the reward of later.

Mordred allows the laugh bubbling up in his chest to slip through, a private little thing, only for Keiran, a fond grin accompanying it. “I promise you the idea will hold no candle to the real thing. Tonight, you might be completely undone,” he teases lightly, fondly. It’s difficult to swallow down the urge to reach out again, to run fingers over his sharp jaw, tease the smile from his lips with deft fingers. Tonight. “I’m counting down the minutes already.”

He wishes that the daylight could be their time, that they could laugh, and dance, and kiss under the sunbeams, with flowers in their hair as everyone celebrated around them, nothing of note in the gestures. It feels all too appropriate, though, that he has only been allowed to find something that makes him truly feel himself under the cover of night. It’s as if the world wants to remind him that the light doesn’t feel quite right often enough, and that Keiran is the only one worthy of knowing that truth, of seeing him fully as he is.

“I know it’s foolish, but… be careful, even more careful than usual,” he mutters, hesitating slightly. He knows he needs to get back to the celebration, every second spent together now is a second his fears become more real. “I worry about you, about the watchful eyes that follow because of what I’ve asked you to do. I know Ailis is using today to see where everyone stands; less friendly eyes must be doing the same.”

By the gods, there are very few things Keiran wouldn’t do to win that smile. The expanse of it on Mordreds face, just at the agreement, just at the prospect of some time together. It’s a revelation, but that shouldn’t be surprising by now. Every time Keiran sees it it feels like a religious experience, like he should fall to his knees in some kind of worship. Perhaps he will, when the sun has set and watchful eyes have moved away from them. Then, the laugh spills forward. Perhaps turns into a certainty. There is nothing he can do but worship at the alter of this smiling god. 

His own smile blossoms, sharp and quick and full of too much glee, excitement writ in every inch of it. He moves a hand up to smooth over his face, to smooth it away as he diverts his gaze to the flames and back again, meeting his eyes and feeling the rush. “A promise? I’ll hold you to it, love.” Quiet, full of anticipation, full of the ever present longing to press his lips against Mordred’s skin, to whisper the words against his mouth and hold him as close as can be managed. Tonight, the ache will be set aside for the joy and thrill of running fingers through that hair, smoothing the worry from that brow, whispering words of endless love. 

There’s a low ache in his chest at their next words. The slight hesitation is enough to tear something in Keiran open, a soft and gentle place that is rarely touched. Mordred worries for him, has eyes and a voice full of concern, full of an awful fear. He finds himself nodding, quick agreement again. He wonders what Mordred would have to ask for to make him refuse. Is there a line in the sand he won’t pass? As every day goes by, the answer becomes clearer. There doesn’t appear to be a line. He can’t find one, as often as he tries. 

“It isn’t foolish.” He admits, voice low. Should he tell Mordred the finer details of his own potential doom? The low simmer of wraith he had seen once in the eyes of his queen? Sorcha had been ablaze when he’d seen her, and he knows she understands precisely where he stands in this, the agreements he’s made with Ailis if not his reasons for making them. She could doom him, if the whim crossed her mind. Exile him. Kill him. Mark him as a traitor to her ideals or her cause. He lives in fear of it, but Mordred had asked him to fight and so he would. 

He nods again, so Mordred knows he means it. His voice is a low whisper, and he’s sure it sounds braver than he really feels. “I’ll be careful, you don’t have to worry.” A beat. “I can take care of myself. I worry more for you. Promise me you’ll be careful, too.” 

[arowankeriran]

canaan-days‌:

Something about Kieran’s comment makes Canaan smile—just a little. It’s subtle, and he tucks it away behind the rim of his chalice, but it’s there nonetheless. Kieran sometimes reminds Canaan of an impatient, restless cub. All teeth and feckless energy—a Tasmanian Devil, snarling and chomping at the bit; pouting when it didn’t get its way. Canaan is quite adverse to admitting it, but Kieran has more effect on Canaan than the other fae probably even realizes. There is nothing that can make Canaan the fae he once was, but through Kieran, he catches glimpses of him from time to time. 

“Of course, I agree. What do you take me for?” His tone is drawling, teasing. “There are precious few Seelie who aren’t a total torture to interact with for any period of time.” He pauses, looks over at Kieran again as onyx eyes dart about the room, seem to linger somewhere, then flick away. Canaan has a handful of guesses as to why. 

“You and I both know you’re not so adverse as I though,” he starts carefully. He tries not to let the Queen’s words rattle him too much—at least not yet—focuses instead on what he already knows of Kieran, and his unlikely acquaintances with a handful of Seelie. One of which Canaan has an especially uncomfortable relationship with—though it’s certainly a stretch to call it as such. 

“Is it hard for you?” he continues, a cautious elusion. “It must be different being friendly with them, under the eyes of our court.”

His heart beats just a little bit faster at the slow line of questioning. It’s second nature to tense up at the implication, but he forces his shoulders to stay relaxed. Keiran just has to do what he does best, blend in, keep quiet, become the shadows. Relaxed shoulders, amused eyes, a curious tilt of his head. 

There’s no need to feel any real panic about it. He hasn’t been as quiet as he should be about working with Ailis, about agreeing to join her on her little crusade. That’s what got him in to trouble in the first place. And him and Mordred might try their best to engage in subtlety, but people know they’ve talked. It isn’t courting death to be civil with the seelie court, it isn’t a total disgrace. So many of them do it, play the game and only bare their teeth the minimal amount. 

It would be dangerous if someone knew the extent of it, in full. 

“Friendly is a strong word.” He settles on, finally. “I’m not sure that’s what I’d call it. Some of them don’t make me want to lose my mind with boredom.” It’s a careful balance, a dance with the truth. “Some of them are useful, that’s all. Good hunters, good with information.” He’s gruff about it, a shrug of his shoulder. “Some of them want to bring the fight to whoever’s hunting us, and I’m inclined to agree with that.” And then, a wry smile. “Doesn’t make me want to party down with them.” 

[arowankeriran]

dahliamordred‌:

It’s tempting to abandon the party, to steal away together to a private oasis where they wouldn’t have to worry about overstepping unspoken boundaries that neither of them ever agreed to keeping. It’s not fair to him, having to keep something so beautiful so quiet. This is supposed to be a celebration, but how can it truly be that when on top of the violence surrounding them, he can’t even have the one thing he longs for the most for comfort? All he wants is to hold Keiran close, to bury him in his chest and keep him there for the rest of their eternity. It’s selfish, but he doesn’t care. Everything he’s done has been the opposite of selfish up until now; he’s played the perfect part in his court, laughed at all the right times, followed all the right rules. It was as much for everyone around him, for the status quo, as for his own safety. But he’s tired of it. If they’re going to fight, if they’re going to die, why can’t they live first?

“I know you will, my heart,” he mutters, and he means the words. If there is anyone who can stop the pain, it’s the man in front of him. And he knows that for him, he would go to the ends of the earth, and beyond. But there’s another thought there. When the pain is over, one way or another, Mordred isn’t sure he’ll be able to go back to the normal that never quite felt like his own in the first place.

The sudden cacophony from the opposite side of the flames startles him, reminds him that they’re not in the private universe he wishes they could live in. It makes him freeze in his place, struck, worried that they’ve lost their moment, but Keiran is used to slipping about unseen, and he takes the opportunity Mordred doesn’t even realize they have. He’s not expecting. He feels Keiran move in front of him and turns back to him just in time for their lips to meet in the briefest kiss. The feeling is electrifying as ever, sends a jolt of heat through his body, and he can’t help but lean into his space even as he separates again. His heart aches for more, and he has to bite his lip, grasp his hands together tightly to keep himself in check. 

“Here you are, giving me so much, so easily. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve a stolen moment such as this,” he breathes, voice low, awe clear in his eyes as he looks back at him. “You’ve already lightened my heart so easily with your lips, but… perhaps, later tonight, when the sun has set and the party’s died down, we could slip away, have our own celebration in the woods, dance together. Give me the chance to lighten your heart.”

Perhaps its silly to be calmed by the fact that Mordred believes in him. To have your words taken as the truth, as a faithful and steady promise. Keiran is glad for it, in an age where it’s so difficult to trust. He would put his own life in Mordred’s hand in an instant, would gladly give up any semblance of living if it meant that he would be safe and strong and some semblance of happy. 

Not being able to gather him close here is a constant ache. His fingers itch for it, to take hold and not let go again for a long time. It doesn’t seem fair that all he can do, after their brief moment of contact, is watch him. The look of longing on his face, the way his hands are clasped together, as if he has to hold himself back from more. They’re both in the same boat, too much longing and not enough contact, not enough time to spend wild and free together. 

The thought of the night spent with them leaves Keiran breathless. Hours from now, they could be together. Alone in the dark, as they always end up. What he wouldn’t give to continue this in the sun, to pull Mordred by the hand now, away from the crowds of people and in to their own private world. To kiss him as the sun does, warm and slow and unhurried, to watch him bright under the precious beams of daylight. The yearning mingles with the look of awe in Mordred’s eyes, and Keiran knows that he could never deny the offer. 

He would leap at any change for time alone. He would do anything for that. So he nods his head, quick and sure, bites back a smile that would come out far too tender. For a brief moment he looks away, into the flames that seem so dim in comparison to the true light of his life. “The idea of it is almost enough to get the job done.” 

His eyes flick back, unable to resist the sight of him. “I’ll meet you. At the usual place.”

[arowankeriran]

canaan-days‌:

He’d attended the event with Kieran—which is frequently the case, being that Kieran is one of two people most often successful in dragging Canaan out somewhere—but it’s been a couple hours yet since he’s seen him, and since he’s seen him, he’s had a… troubling conversation. With a Fae you don’t really want to be having a troubling conversation with. 

Canaan knows his place well enough to know he can say nothing of the Queen’s ‘task’ to Kieran—if he values his life, he will hold it under his tongue like a jewel so precious it could kill. Because it could. 

But there are few Fae Canaan will admit to having concern for, and Kieran is one of them. So the conversation tumbles around in his mind, despite the cool, bored, and languid posture he presents, despite the way he casually sips at a bit of clove and honey liqueur when Kieran approaches him.

Enjoying yourself? Canaan slides the other a pointed look. ‘You’re hilarious’ it drawls, so Canaan’s tongue doesn’t have to. “She didn’t give me a time frame, no,” he answers idly. Another sip, because it’s a good idea, and because the sooner he hits the bottom, the sooner he can have another. He looks over to Kieran properly. “Why, do you think there is one?” 

More out of boredom and something to say, than really caring one way or another. No doubt the Queen has low expectations of Canaan’s longevity tonight. It’s not like he really has much to contribute of any value at such an event. Another look at Kieran’s face, gaze skirting over heavy dark brows, a strong, tense jaw. “You look sullen,” he says, though it’s meant as a question. 

"Parties are boring compared to fighting.” He sighs it out, a skirting of the truth. He feels sullen. He feels like hes aching for something. There’s a part of him that would like to embrace it, bow before some pretty Seelie thing and let them weave flowers into his hair. He could dance in the sun too, if he were a different kind of beast. 

He still keeps glimpsing Mordred out of the corner of his eye, makes a concentrated effort to look elsewhere. “The sooner we can ditch it, the better.” Months ago he might have just left. Wandered away, disappeared into the night. Keeping up appearances is more important now than ever.

He brushes the thoughts aside and glances back over at his friend, jealous of his drink, jealous of the way he never seems to care as strongly. “C’mon. You agree, right? You look mind-numbingly bored.”

[arowankeriran]

dahliamordred‌:

There’s something in the air between them, something beyond comprehension that he would argue brought them together in the first place. A heaviness and a warmth that defies logic and boundaries. A comfort that Mordred cannot remember ever truly experiencing until he first met Keiran, until they first brushed fingertips. It makes him wonder if this is something everyone feels, if everyone who finds that piece of their soul that has been missing, that they didn’t realize they were searching for, feels as if they’ve found something utterly undiscovered. It makes him wonder how anyone else could go on so easily knowing such beauty and not having it at every moment without utterly shattering to pieces when it is gone. 

Sometimes, it feels like he might break apart when he can’t look into Keiran’s eyes, and then he sees him again, and he realizes that perhaps the memory has to be enough for some, or else how could they all keep going? He will not settle for memory alone, though, and perhaps that is what makes him so bold, when he would do better to temper his need for the other half of his soul. He would do most anything to make certain he never has to look away from his face carved from marble, perfect and expressive, try as he might to hide it. His smile sets Mordred’s heart ablaze, puts the fire to shame so easily.

It hurts him, to have to back away from Keiran, from the warmth that seems to fill him when they’re so close together, but he knows that he must. There are too many spying eyes here, and even if the celebration is meant for unity, he’s well aware that there are few who would take kindly to the sort of unity that the two of them have found in each other’s souls. 

His voice is always so beautiful in moment’s like this, stolen, hidden in plain sight, whispering private thoughts in view of anyone who might look hard enough. He speaks like this, which such words, and it’s almost easy to believe that he’d telling the truth, stating facts of nature rather than simply uttering his own feelings into the air. He could be the sun, if Keiran says so. He could do anything at all, as long as he heard him say the words first, hushed and awed and so certain it makes his heart ache with need.

“It’s a beautiful celebration,” Mordred mutters, voice coming out lower than he means. He speaks of the celebration, but his thoughts are more occupied by how grand Keiran shines here in front of the fire, under the bright rays of the sun. Despite himself, he reaches out and touches the flower he put behind Keiran’s ear, an excuse to graze fingertips briefly along his ear.

“It’s difficult…” he says, voice low, honest. “It feels almost wrong to have such a celebration when there is so much death in the air, when there still seems to be more to come…But to gaze upon you under the solstice sun has lightened my heart even more so than any amount of wine and dancing could.”

There’s a part of Keiran that wonders if they wouldn’t be better off away from here. If he could take Mordred and leave, carve out a place for them in the unknown wilderness a million miles away. Would they be happier then? Would Mordred feel some sense of peace? Would the two of them be enough? Keiran can’t imagine him away from the glory of the Seelie Court, can’t imagine Mordred in a land with only one other person to love him. Keiran might thrive there, but it wouldn’t be fair. 

There’s a part of Keiran that wants to ask him anyway. Run away with me. They could leave it all behind. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about the Unseelie Queen’s wrath, the likely bad reaction if anyone found out how they felt about each other and how long they’d been hiding it. He’s longing for a safer place than this, somewhere they could stand together in the sun. What would it take for him to be able to lean over right now and take that hand, brush a kiss to the palm and pull Mordred close? What parts of his soul would he have to trade for the right? 

“It will all be over soon,” He vows it. He’d swear it on every god there was, if any god mattered more to him than Mordred did. There was only one person that made the sun rise for Keiran. “I promised I would fix it for you, and I will.” The quietest voice he can manage, a secret between them and the flames. 

The other side of the flames erupts in a riot of laughter and cheers, and for a moment he’s scared. For a moment he worries, but as it carries on he realises that no one nearby is paying any attention to them, rapt instead in the antics of some fool. Keiran is keen enough to know when no one is looking, when he can exist as an invisible thing. Emboldened, he steps closer, catches the corner of Mordred’s mouth in a kiss. He doesn’t take the risk of lingering, but his soul soars just at the quick touch. “If we lived in a different world, I’d dance with you. Bet that would lighten your heart even more.” 

[arowankeriran]

dahliamordred‌:

june 21st, midday, midsummer party      ( @arowankeriran​ )

Celebrations feel so fragile as their kind keep dying around them as the time passes. Seasons change, and little else does. It doesn’t feel quite right to be so merry. Except for the well of hope that he’s felt growing in his chest as of late. Perhaps this is another sign that there is a chance for them all. They’re here together. They’ve all been invited into Unseelie territory. While he suspects it more a forced necessity, than a gesture stemming from any real desire of their queen to come together as a stronger front, it must count for something. Because what are they if they cannot even hope to survive together, as a people.

He tries, though. He smiles, he dances, he weaves flowers through his hair, laughs loudly and often. He feels a little bit lighter, if only for a long day. There’s hope, after all. All because of those he cares for the most. 

It’s impossible to celebrate so genuinely without his heart, and perhaps today, of all days, some of the danger falls away. Gravity pulls them together, and it doesn’t take him by surprise when he spies Keiran near the fire, burning even more brightly than the flames. 

Without hesitation, he comes up behind him, and tucks one of his flowers behind his ear. An iris, dark purple, full of life and beauty. It feels odd to be so close to him in the sunlight, so used to meeting in the dead of night, with only the moonbeams’ light reflected in his eyes. Mordred can’t look away, can’t temper the bright smile that slips over his face looking at him in the sunlight.

“Somehow the solstice sun makes you shine all the brighter. I did not think it possible,” he smiles, lingering close for an instant longer before stepping back. “I should’ve known, though. You always manage to surprise me.”

It’s a horrible thing –– the way that Keiran has been keeping Mordred in sight. Lingering just far enough away, keeping them in the corner of his eye. They’re so bright. Glorious in the sunlight. Glorious on this precious day. Mordred doesn’t notice Keiran as quickly, but he’s always been good at hiding in the shadows, his greatest talent put to good use. At least this way he can make sure that Mordred is safe, that no one is going to sneak in here and put an end to the most precious of lives.

His heart beats faster at the very thought of it, a hand raising up unbidden to rest over his traitor of a heart. The idea, the concept as it exists, is so distasteful he isn’t sure what to do with it. He would burn the world down around himself if he had to live without Mordred, this is the truest fact he knows. 

Perhaps it’s the feeling of it that draws him to the flames. Such beautiful things. Sure in their destruction, sure in their warmth and their fury and gentle caress of their warmth across his skin. Any feeling of wonder in Keiran’s heart is reserved for feats of nature such as this, for the flickering flames and the twinkle of the sun in Mordred’s eyes. 

He’s almost lost in it, but he has enough possession of himself to feel Mordred drawing nearer. They really ought not to be seen indulging in this dalliance of theirs, even if peace and unity are the order of the day. Still, he can’t bring himself to flee the scene, to do anything aside from allow Mordred to pad close to his back. 

The smile that spreads across his own face is a savage thing, a wound that will never heal. He wouldn’t want it to. He would let Mordred wound him a hundred times, if it was his will. When he cuts his gaze over and witnesses his smile, Keiran fears that the flames are catching, that he’s going to burn alive from the feeling it inspires in him. He presses his lips together, a fruitless attempt to dampen the joy apparent on his face. 

“It pales in comparison to you, now and always.” Voice low, a bare whisper in the air between them. He lets them pull away, already finding himself lacking their warmth. Still, he moves no closer. “Tell me, is this little fête up to your seelie standards? We don’t often have cause to worship the sun, but my Queen has done her very best.” A softer tone, then. “I hope it has served to lighten your heart, in some small way.” 

[arowankeriran]

time: late-ish, june 21st. location: at the edges of the party      ( @canaan-days​ )

Keiran is keeping his head low. Things have been...semi-tense, the last couple of weeks. The Unseelie Queen hasn’t said anything to his face, but he can feel something turning colder in her. She’s unhappy. Unhappy with him. Ever since Ailis and the seelies talked to her about their organisation of a group, ever since she agreed. It doesn’t bode well, not for people like Keiran, who agreed to it all too quickly. 

He moves towards Canaan seeing some level of comfort. Familiarity. Safety in the crowd. It wouldn’t do to look like he was having too much fun, like he was too happy at the chance to get close to the seelie court. He keeps having to tear his eyes away from pretty hair, to ignore twinkling laughter and glittering smiles. 

He settles himself next to the other fae, casual and as at ease as he can manage to be. “Enjoying yourself? Has our Queen told you how long we have to stay here making merry, any escape in sight?” 

[arowankeriran]

dahliamordred‌:

just before dawn, may 18, somewhere deep in the wilds       ( @arowankeriran )

It was so easy to offer up aid in the form of his hunter, to tell Ailis that she would easily have an ally in Keiran, as long as the request came from his own lips first. It’s been harder, though, to bring himself to say the words to Keiran, to knowingly put him in danger, after asking so completely to hold his life in his hands, to keep it. It’s a paradox, to be safe, you cannot fight, but you must fight to be safe. He hates the idea of it, but he knows that there is no other way, and he knows that of all the fae around him, his two most beloved are the most likely to be able to put an end to the violence and death.

And he had promised he would fight for him, had said he would do most anything to quell his fears and keep him safe, to give him what he wants. So the only option is clear.

He’s made his place amongst a thicket of brush and trees, sitting cross-legged in a path of wildflowers, letting his fingers absentmindedly trail across the delicate petals, as thoughts wander. Thoughts so heavy, for someone meant to be so soft. And yet, at least this meeting makes him feel like he’s doing something to help stop the danger before all of them. Even if he fears he’s not strong enough to fight any longer, even if he worries every passing moment for the lives of those he cares about, at least he can try to aid. 

A smile does slip across his lips, though, when he sees his hunter slipping through the branches and the brush, finding his way to him with such ease. his presence pulls him to his feet, a gravitational need to be close to him as soon as he’s in his sight.

It feels as if in that moment the blush of the dawn brightens, the sky suddenly a hue of purple, pink, and orange to usher in their meeting. 

“My heart, you bring the sunrise with you,” Mordred smiles, coming to him, taking one of his hands as soon as they’re close. “I’m sorry to steal you from rest so early, but the matter is pressing. And perhaps selfishly, I was too eager to see you.”

It is a startling thing to find that Mordred is becoming the very centre of his universe. When they aren’t together, he spends his time yearning to be with him. When he’s on his way, he can feel the tug of it. The world leads him along easy paths to where he wants most to be, to where he belongs. 

The smile blooms on his face the moment he starts to near the clearing. Warm and full of love, full of adoration. The two of them, walking toward each other, it feels like a beautiful thing. No matter how early it is or how weary he is from the world, this is the kind of thing that will always make him feel alive again. 

With a squeeze of his hand, he pulls Mordred closer still, wanting to share his warmth and take in the beauty of his smile. “It’s no hardship on me to be in your company, even at an hour like this.” He says, thinking privately that Mordred was made for mornings like this, that the sky in all its stunning colour pales in comparison to the beauty of the man in front of him. He pulls Mordred’s hand up, ignoring the flicker of damnation as he presses the most gentle of kisses to his palm. 

Soft words, soft touches. But there’s something heavy again in the air, somewhere past the softness and the relief of seeing him. Oh, he hates when Mordred worries, hates the idea of something weighing heavy on his soul. “You know I’ll always come to you.” he says, just in case Mordred had been worried that he wouldn’t show up, that he would ignore the request, as if he ever had the power to say no. 

[arowankeriran]

hyacinth-s‌:

     time. dusk, 18 May      place. not far from the Winter Court           ( @arowankeriran​ )

For all her wandering, all her adventuring, for all she’s strayed from within the bounds of the Court of her birth, Ailis has never strayed so far close to the court of the Unseelie before. It is, perhaps, a habit built out of superstition, the last of her parents’ lingering warnings: no dealing with an Unseelie fae ever ended well for the likes of you; treat them with caution, if you must, but if you can, stay far away altogether. Not a conscious belief – the Unseelie are fae just as she is, with as much stake in this as she has. But one that has her heart beating hummingbird-fast within her ribcage as she makes her way in the direction of the Winter Court’ tangled thorns. 

But she has a mission, today: a meeting arranged by Mordred. Arranged to be closer to his Unseelie lover’s turf than her own, to set this Keiran at ease or to give him enough of the upper hand that he’ll think to agree, or just because Mordred didn’t want to inconvenience him. It’s hard to say. There was a reverence in his voice, when he spoke of this Keiran that she wasn’t sure how to parse, even coming from someone she’d known as long as she had known Mordred. 

She arrives at their meeting place at dusk, as promised, punctual and ready, a calm mask across her face. She brings none of the trappings of Seelie finery with her. She arrives, and she waits for Keiran to arrive. 

There is a part of him that wishes to turn back with every step. He is going to the outer-most area of his kingdom, of a comfort zone with vague lines in the ground. Kerian knows that it would be easy to avoid this. He could just not show up, he could go back now and never speak of it again. But he can’t say no to Mordred, can’t knowingly betray a promise to him. It would tear his heart apart to do such a thing. 

And another part of him is excited. This is a chance to do something, to hunt. This is what he’s good at, and if they’re going to let him do it without guilt, he will not turn that down. So many different sides of him wanting so many different things, and slightly thrilled at the idea of two courts working together after a cold war that has lasted hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of years. 

He can see the Seelie girl as he approaches. She looks fierce. She looks deserving, somehow, of the adoration Mordred holds in his heart for her. He would be jealous if he didn’t know how Mordred felt about him, if Mordred didn’t tell him over and over again. He keeps his steps quiet, keeps his head held high.

     “You’re here.” He says, voice low and slightly gruff. Not quite as eloquent as he might be able to manage, straight and to the point. 

[arowankeriran]

canaan-days‌:

Time: 2:48am, May 5th Location: Loophole Status: @arowankeriran​

Anyone else can disagree all the fuck they want, but Canaan deserves a fucking award for all the talking and tolerating and not-maiming he did with humans tonight—and the human-raised. Changelings are… mildly more bearable because technically they are fae by blood, and that’s something you just can’t erase, no matter how hard one might try to smother it—but still. They are annoying in their ignorance. In their learned-human ways. In their pitiful, cluelessness. And maybe it’s anything but their fault, but Canaan has never claimed himself to be a creature of benevolence. 

He’s tired and even more cranky as he leaves, than he had been when he’d arrived, and he makes a mental note to drink by himself under some tree next time he needs to blow off steam, rather than venturing into Loophole again. 

He also notes that it’s annoying likely he’ll make the same mistake in the future. Always looking for ways to keep entertained, but conveniently forgetting how often he’s loathe to company most days.

One of the few exceptions, however—on any day—is Kieran. Granted, he’s a reckless, ireful disaster who often tries too hard, especially when it comes to keeping Canaan engaged, when all Canaan wants to do is disengage and brood. But by the same token, he appreciates Kieran’s tireless thirst for all things wicked and tumultuous. And taxing though his energy may be, at times, Canaan has become grateful for the other’s presence in his life these past hundred years or so. There are few Canaan would consider himself close to, as he’s not especially good at ‘close’, but whatever his version of it is, he’d consider Kieran on the list, whether he likes it or not. 

So he’s more pleased to see his face just as Canaan’s about to step out of Loophole, than he’ll even admit out loud. If he’s lucky, Kieran will join him, and turn a disappointing night into a slightly more satisfactory one. 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he comments dryly, long legs still propelling him towards the exit. “And hopefully back out. Please tell me you’re leaving, because I’m leaving, and shockingly, this will be much more fun to drink if you’re sharing it with me.” He brandishes his flask at him briefly.

Keiran doesn’t know why he’s doing this. What a wild decision to make, to go to Loophole on a night such as this. But he has to get up and move, he has to exist in the world, he has to do something. Loophole is where his feet guide him against his will, like destiny pulling at his stomach. Perhaps he’ll see his love there, even through a crowd. Perhaps he’ll find someone to torment and ensnare. Perhaps he’ll engage in a battle of wits and snark. At the very least, he’ll drink in copious amounts until the world is hazy and bright around him. 

He’s hardly in the door before he hears a familiar voice. Canaan, the little shit. His favourite friend to torment and annoy, a comrade he gets along with better than he ever imagined he could. Canaan is good people, if a little stuffy and difficult and aloof at times. Keiran trusts him, which is a rare thing to find during days such as this, And he feels that Canaan trusts him in return. It’s the kind of thing that makes him feel heady, makes him feel like he really does belong in his place, that he shouldn’t let people pull him away from his court and his family. 

      “Better to annoy you than pick a fight with some poor hapless seer.” He grunts, shrugging a shoulder and whirling around to follow him out again. Its the truth, and he thinks perhaps the fates were leading him to this tonight. He isn’t sure what will unfold, isn’t sure where the night will lead them or what trouble they’ll get into, but he doesn’t think it will be boring. He’ll be able to turn his mind off, be an Unseelie courtier and perhaps make Canaan laugh. 

      “A dull night, then? Inside? What, brave friend, has pushed you away from the hustle and bustle? Did a human step on your foot?” His tongue is looser lately, long hours spent talking with Mordred has given him a better grip on words, and oh, he does love to tease his friends. He reaches out as he speaks, to snag the flash from Canaan’s hands and take a swig from it, smiling at the strong taste of the treasures inside. 

[arowankeriran]

dahliamordred‌:

He doesn’t want him to move and sit down even though he asks, not really. No, he’d rather he stay put where he was, kneeling down beside him, close enough to touch, to give into the gravitational pull that keeps his hands forever lingering just over Keiran’s skin. But some of the haze of despair is clearing, and he remembers, however vaguely, just where they are. A place so public is not the place for Keiran bent down beside him, hands tangled in his hair, no matter how greatly he wishes it was. 

What matters to him is that he remains, despite the place, despite the danger. His presence alone allows Mordred to relax even slightly, just knowing that he has him, even here. And that is what he needed when he’d asked him to come. The reassurance, as selfish as it was, that the creature who held his heart was safe, that he had him. As foolish a decision as it was, and as foolish as it is, perhaps, to fear so much so easily, he’s glad of his choice to steal another selfish moment from Keiran, when he gives so willingly.

His attempt at disdain brings a small smile to Mordred’s lips, as he finds himself leaning forward, keeping the distance between them as short as he can as they sit apart. He loves him for all he dislikes, and he loves him for what he is willing to endure for him. It’s a great hope he has that he knows he would do the same a thousands times over, if it kept him by his side. “Next time, I’ll allow you to choose where we meet; I could find comfort even in the harshest, darkest corners of the earth, so long as I had you by my side,” he smiles softly. But he is glad to be here, now. It feels appropriate, given all that’s happening, to be in a place where their world and the humans’ meet.

There’s a pause, thoughtful, heavy, and he worries, for a moment, for what is to come. But Keiran’s words, instead, bring a wave of emotion crashing over him. He can’t help but take in a breath, a little sharp, unintentional as it is, hearing the truth behind his words. It is his will, or it would be, if he could have his way, if he had the power to protect both of them from consequences. He would give Keiran anything in the world, if he could, and he would start with that, with himself. It’s a dangerous thing for him to say out loud, and yet here he is, surprising him delightfully with his words, cutting to his heart with every breath. 

And he wants to ask for it, knows that he would do so, if he asked, abandon all that he had worked for, for him. That would mean he would do the same for him. But he cannot ask that of him so easily, and he knows that he feels the same. Keiran looks away, and he can feel his heart sinking, knowing his thoughts are aligned. He reaches out, despite himself, and takes one of Keiran’s hands, grasping tightly. Not because he had not thought of it, but because it is the one thing holding him back from truly having all that he wants. It’s fear, of what might happen to both of them, of being the reason that Keiran loses everything that he has worked for. A selfish fear, too, that he would be alone again if he took what he wants so desperately. All he needs is to have Keiran at his side, he’s certain that he could survive anything if he was promised that, but he’s not convinced that it would be possible to have that together. And that is the problem.

“That is what I fear the most,” he admits, voice quiet. He hates to say it out loud, to admit that he does not know, either, when it feels as if they both should have an answer. It makes him angry in a way that he rarely feels any longer. That someone born of beauty could be tainted because of others, if they take what they want. “That I cannot give you what you want, that you cannot give me what I want, without pain beyond belief, I hate to think of it. It’s not fair. Why should it have to be that way? There are fae being murdered, why should a matter of the heart be considered as harshly as that?”

It sounds so achingly soft when it comes out, sounds as tender as the caress of moonlight against your skin. “I will find somewhere bright and perfect for you, I swear it. Somewhere as beautiful as you deserve.” He longs for that, to find one quiet perfect spot that they can carve out of the world, where neither of them would have to endure the distasteful aspects of another life, where they would not be bothered or touched by the outside world. 

There’s a desperation that hes not sure will ever leave the air around them. Will they both spend the rest of their lives yearning? Reaching for one another across a void? So many people have suffered gruesome fates for daring as they do to bridge this gap, so many have ended up miserable. The idea that someday this will hurt Mordred makes him want to use his body as a shield. The idea that this is hurting Mordred now might ruin him. If he didn’t know that there was joy in this, if he didn’t know that there was glee and love and beauty in it, he isn’t sure he would be able to stand inflicting it. 

He reaches and grasps Mordred’s hand back once he feels it, could not ignore the touch. Its a comfort, its a rope around his neck, its the thing he would kill and die for. The tight grasp of it is an anchor to hold him fast, something he can hold on to so he won’t drown. Mordred is looking at him and holding him, and that might be enough for now. 

His quiet voice could make Keiran quake, the words sounding like they’re being pulled from his chest softly but against his will. He squeezes at Mordred’s hand, meets his eyes again and leans into him. This situation is a wild sea, threatening to dash them against the rocks. “It isn’t,” he agrees, quiet as a whisper, as the lightest breeze between the trees, “It isn’t fair.”

And because he can. Because Mordred is right there, speaking with passion and fury, a strand of his hair flying out of place again in the breeze of someone walking inside. He reaches up to push it back into place, delicate against his skin as he slips the strand behind his ear. A tender touch, one stolen because he can never resist himself around this man. He will always be wanting, always be asking. Always begging Mordred to come into the woods with him, always asking him to steal away for a few hours too long. “But we can endure it together, no matter how hard it gets.” A beat, and even quieter still. “As I promised, I’ll never leave you.” 

[arowankeriran]

dahliamordred‌:

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, as he insists that there’s a gentleness within him, and argument waiting to be brought forth, one that he’s heard before, and is certain he will hear again from Keiran’s lips. But this time, it doesn’t come. Perhaps there is something to this instance that is different. It all feels so different just now, somehow, after all, as if his grief and worry and deep despair have some how also clarified the world, made it all the easier to speak truths only ever whispered in their hearts before. 

He is brutal and feral, capable of the sort of things that Mordred had only been able to bring himself to do so fully when his own life had counted on it, somehow so much less selfish with his cruelty, a beautiful paradox that he thinks perhaps somewhere in his soul he could have possessed, if time had moved differently, if he had not been found by Ailis. That is what had drawn him so magnetically to Keiran in the first place, but upon slowly learning him, peeling back each layer, perhaps at times without him even realizing, it became clear that there was so much more. What he wants from Mordred is something he already possesses himself. It’s why he repeats the words so often, telling him that he can see the gentleness within him; perhaps one day Keiran may be able to see what he sees, too.

Perhaps it is strange, just how true his words are, when they are so close to danger themselves just by being who they are, doing what they’re doing here, now, but as his words perfume the air, it feels as if they settle in his very soul. That is why he had needed to see him so badly, to know he’s safe, and to feel safe. It feels as if there is no other place he will ever truly feel safe than with Keiran by his side, seeing with his own eyes that he is well and strong, feeling the truth of his skin under his fingertips, telling him they’re protected as long as they are together. They can both be honest in ways that are not possible among their Courts, no matter how impossible it is for them to lie.

He says he needs no promises, but Mordred wishes that he could give him the world, give him the freedom he deserves. As long as he would continue looking at him as if he was the moon itself, then he is certain he could find a way to give him anything he could want.

“That would be enough, simply to have you by my side for however long you could give me. But one day, I’ll give you so much more than just this,” he says, hand moving to Keiran’s jaw, smoothing across the sharp line, admiring, comforting. It’s a promise, no matter how vague. When all is safe again, when the safety they feel together extends to the whole of their Courts, he’ll find a way. Weathering the storm surrounding them, the storm ahead, feels nearly manageable knowing that Keiran feels so much the same.

“Please, sit with me. I know this isn’t the sort of place we should be meeting, but there’s something comforting in the warmth found in a place for our world built even in the middle of an iron city. All of the death surrounding us, it makes me yearn for a peace I took for granted. I can’t stand to lose so much to an unknown foe. Perhaps…you could be with me more often,” he suggests slowly, aware of how dangerous the words are. It is a selfish request, an impulsive one spurred by the words he’s caught up in, the beauty and the strength of the fae before him. Perhaps his heart would not ache so wholly if he were allowed this.

He lets Mordred’s words flow over him even as he’s leaning into the gentle touch. He thinks, vaguely, that he’ll always be leaning into Mordred. Its like he’s a flower and Modred is the sun, a warm and nurturing thing, life giving and dangerous all at once. He cherishes him like he cherishes the sun, would gladly bow before him and worship for all time. 

There’s a slowness to the way he rises to a nearby seat, even as Mordred beckons him to. It doesn’t feel much like his place in all of this. Perhaps the mood of the moment telling him without a doubt that he was made to stand below and beside Mordred in all things, to spend every breath with the effort of giving him everything he wants. The cushioned seat he sinks into is human made, but he catches a scent of sage and lavender off of it. A comforting smell, bringing memory of protection against evil. 

His heart aches sorely as he listens to Mordred talk, such beautiful words. “I must admit, it isn’t the place I would choose for myself.” There is an attempt here to sound as grumpy as he usually does, but he can’t quite manage it, couldn’t really try to ruin this for Mordred even if he wanted to. “But I am glad you find...comfort, in it.” 

And he finds himself breathless once again. He wonders if Mordred will ever stop doing this to him, will ever stop surprising him and punching the air from his lungs with the softest of words. He is silent for a beat, a heavy moment. And then he says the truth, as he is so often compelled to do around his sun. “I would be with you always, Mordred, if that was your will.” 

The words are almost treasonous, and if one of his Unseelie friends heard him he would undoubtably pay the price. He would abandon his people and his Queen for Mordred, if it was asked of him. He would turn his back and shirk his duty. The words are almost treasonous, but he repeats them anyway. “I would be with you always if you allowed it. To stand with you, to protect you, it is...” and his breath shakes more than he would like it to. “It is all that I long for in my life.” 

He has to look away from Mordred, then, before more traitorous things spill from his lips. Before he rips his heart out and lays it at his feet. Before he tries to swallow Mordred whole and beg him to do the same. Dangerous. Stupid. Foolhardy. He is all of those things, stupid most of all. He cannot spend all of the hours of his days following this man around. They would be caught, they would be punished. Someone would try and turn this into poison the way everything he touches eventually does. It makes his heart beat too fast, makes him almost descend into panic before he gets himself in hand and pushes past it. He doesn’t look at Mordred, feels ashamed to admit that he doesn’t know how to take what he wants in this situation. “I know not how to manage all of this without....without something going very badly wrong in the process.”