CW: nonhuman whumpee, arranged marriage, emotional angst, abandonment issues, nonhuman whumper, nonhuman caretaker, mention of past attempted noncon, mention of past attemped sexual abuse, bound and gagged, guilt.
The last part of the Arrange marriage fic!
Freyra knew something was wrong.
For weeks, Teté had not answered a single one of her letters. It was true that, by agreement, they would not see each other until the wedding day, but this lack of communication was unlike him. She couldn’t help but worry. The unease had settled deep in her chest, stealing her sleep at night, until she couldn’t bear it anymore. Perhaps it was instinct, or something more primal—maternal. She didn’t know and didn’t care what it was, she only knew she would not sit still and wait.
Without informing anyone, she slipped out of the palace and made her way to the estate where the betrothed lived. The doorman nearly collapsed when she appeared without warning. Freyra barely acknowledged it.
“I simply wish to ensure the grooms are well,” she said, giving her excuse. “It has been a month since they began living together. I want to confirm everything is proceeding as expected.”
They let her in. She sat in the vestibule to wait, her hands clasped over her lap. Each passing second made the uneased feeling worse, until finally, the two youths appeared. And Freyra had to summon every ounce of control she possessed to remain still.
Teklómenes looked wrong. So, so wrong. His hair was disheveled. His feathers lacked their usual care. There was a bruise on his cheekbone, on left side, and irritation marks around his wrists, still reddened. She registered it all instantly, the way a predator recognizes danger before it fully reveals itself.
Something was happening, something very wrong, but without knowing what—without proof—she could not act recklessly, not if it meant putting the alliance and his little one in danger. He was already in danger.
“I apologize for arriving without notice,” she said, forcing her tone to be light and composed. “The wedding preparations have kept me busy, but I wanted to check on the most important people of the event—the grooms. How have you been?”
“Very well, Your Majesty,” Elorj answered smoothly. He smiled confidently, but there was something off about it, something that set off a quiet alarm in the back of Freyra’s mind.
She did not look at him again, her focus now on Teté. His shoulders were tense, his wings stiff and jaw clenched. After a few seconds, he yawned and relaxed his posture just slightly. A performance.
“Yes… everything’s fine.”
He was lying. Freyra had raised him for nearly twenty years now, she knew every inflection of his voice, every subtle shift in his posture.
Something had happened. Something had been done to him. And more importantly: something was stopping him from speaking.
The conclusion formed quickly in her mind. Was that why he hadn’t written back? Was he being watched? Threatened? If he was in danger, confronting the situation blindly could make it worse and she would not gamble with his safety. So she leaned closer, smiling as if nothing were wrong.
“Oh? Did I wake you? Were you resting?”
Teklómenes nodded with eyes half-lidded, playing along.
“He does have a rather peculiar sleep schedule,” Elorj added lightly. “But I’m sure, in time, we’ll adjust to one another.”
“That’s good to know,” Freyra replied, not paying him any attention, her eyes fixed on Teté. Before she could stop herself, she raised her hand and brushed her fingers over his bruised cheekbone. The avian could not help letting out a pained whimper at the touch. “What happened to you?”
Teklómenes’ face tightened for a moment.
“I… hit a branch while training,” he replied. Another lie. “It was… a strong impact.”
Freyra pressed her lips together. She wanted to take him, to pull him into her arms and never let go, to walk out of that house and burn everything behind her if she had to. But she couldn’t, not there, not yet.
“Be more careful,” she said instead. “On your wedding day, you must both look your best.”
“Yes. I will”
The way he said those words, like a curse, like something blasphemous, almost broke her composure. The drakona forced a smile she hoped was convincing enough.
“Well, that was all. I won’t disturb you any longer.”
She stood. If she stayed even a second longer, she might act, and acting without a plan could ruined everything, could put Teté in danger. So she left without looking back, her heart a storm clawing against her ribs.
The moment she returned to the palace, she went straight to her office.
“Send Rozelva.”
The pink-scaled drakona arrived quickly.
“How may I assist you, Your Majesty?”
Freyra met her gaze and that was enough. Rozelva’s posture shifted instantly, her expression sharpening. She understood.
“I need everything on Elorj Blafjell,” Freyra said, her voice determined. “Everything. His past, his health, his connections—every detail, no matter how insignificant. Teté’s life is in danger, and without solid evidence, I have no grounds to cancel this marriage without destabilizing the noble houses.”
Rozelva nodded. She was not merely a servant, nor ordinary maid: she was Freyra’s best friend and closest ally.
“You will have it in three days,” she said.
Satisfied, Freyra dismissed her with a slight motion. Alone again, she turned toward the window, to the night that stretched endlessly beyond the glass. She would do whatever it took to protect Teté, no matter the cost, even if it meant turning every noble house against her.
Three days later, Rozelva returned to Freyra’s office. She looked troubled.
“I found what you were looking for,” she said, placing a stack of scrolls and letters on the desk. “Elorj Blafjell. Twenty-seven years old. Youngest son of the matriarch of House Blafjell. Born in the third moon of autumn. Three older siblings—all married, two with children.” Rozelva spoke clearly, but there was tension beneath her voice. “His mother intended for him to inherit and manage the family’s mining operations, but he showed no interest. At sixteen, he entered military service. Frequent absences, repeated insubordination and multiple formal reprimands for problematic conduct almost lend him to be expelled; but it wasn’t until an ‘incident’ that he was formally expelled three years later.”
“The injury?” Freyra asked.
Rozelva’s expression darkened.
“That is the official version,” she said. “It is false, a lie told by the Blajfell family. The truth is significantly worse.”
Silence stretched, but Freyra’s voice cut through the hesitation.
“Speak,” she ordered. Rozelva held her gaze.
“He was expelled after attempting to sexually assault one of his fellow male recruits.”
The words landed like a blade and Freyra felt something twist violently in her stomach.
“I do not know how much the Blafjell family paid to bury the incident,” Rozelva went on. “But it was enough. His record remained… clean. Or close enough to it. Within his own family he is not well regarded. The matriarch has spent years trying to determine what to do with him. It is reasonable to assume that this marriage proposal was… strategic.”
“A way to polish his image,” Freyra said.
“And secure the crown’s protection,” Rozelva confirmed.
Freyra’s jaw tightened.
“With that alliance no one would dare question them again.” Something cold settled over her. “Is there more? Anything that explains what is happening to Teté?”
Rozelva nodded. She moved to the door and knocked once.
“Bring her in.”
The door opened and two royal guards entered, dragging a young drakona behind them. She wore the uniform of a maid, but not one of Freyra’s own.
“I haven’t done anything wrong!” the new drakona cried. The moment she was forced to her knees before the queen, her voice broke and her face turned pale.
“She is one of the servants sent by House Blafjell to attend the estate,” Rozelva explained. “We intercepted her on her way to the market.”
Freyra stepped forward, her wings spread wide, casting a shadow over the trembling maid. Smoke curled from her nostrils.
“You will tell me everything,” she said, with a calm voice that hidden the fire beneath. “Everything you know about the prince’s stay in that house.”
The maid broke instantly. Words spilled out of her in a panicked, desperate rush: All servants had been ordered to obey Elorj without question, and the young master had been instructed to isolate the prince, to remove his belongings, to deny him comfort, to cut off all form of communication.
“The letters…” the maid sobbed. “None of them were ever sent. The ones Your Majesty sent—he intercepted them and burned them.”
“And why?” Freyra asked.
“Because he’s mad!” the maid cried. “He’s always been like that, controlling and cruel. If we disobeyed him, he said he would ruin us, make sure we would never work again.” Tears streamed down her face. “I swear, I never wanted to hurt the prince! It—it hurts to see him like that, how he’s been… fading with each passing day. But I was afraid. I was so afraid!”
Freyra studied her. The fear and the guilt on her eyes were too real and sincere to doubt. She was telling the truth.
“You will testify,” Freyra said. The maid froze. “If you refuse, you will be charged as an accomplice.”
The threat hung in the air. Then Freyra turned to Rozelva.
“Gather everything. Every document, every statement.” Her voice hardened. “This wedding is over.”
She didn’t wait for a response, she was already moving toward the door.
“Your Majesty!” Rozelva called after her. “Where are you going?”
Freyra paused only long enough to glance back.
“To bring my little one home.”
And then she was gone.
They reached the mansion before sunset. At least a dozen royal guards had already surrounded the estate, sealing every entrance. No one would enter or leave.
Ignoring the doorman’s panicked protests, Freyra surged forward like a storm unleashed, throwing open doors, her presence scattering servants as they ran in confusion, their voices rising in alarm. She did not stop, searching for a specific individual.
And then he appeared.
Elorj stepped in front of one of the doors, blocking her path. For the first time since she had met him, he looked afraid. Good. He should be.
“Y-Your Majesty,” he stammered. “W-what are you doing here?”
“Where is he?” Freyra asked with no patience. She was not willing to waste any more time. She was already late enough.
The young drakón hesitated. For a second his eyes flicked instinctively toward the door behind him. A mistake.
“He’s sick,” he said quickly. “He hasn’t been well these past few days. It might be contagious, it would be better if you didn’t—”
Freyra shoved him aside hard, all discretion thrown overboard. The door burst open under her hand, slamming violently against the wall. The room appeared to be empty, with the windows latched shut.
“Teté!” she called.
For a heartbeat, nothing. Then, a faint sound from the wardrobe. Freyra moved immediately toward it.
“M-My Queen, wait!” Elorj’s voice cracked behind her, but it was too late.
She tore the wardrobe open and the world narrowed to a single point. Her blood burned at the sight inside: Teklómenes, bound and gagged with strips of cloth, folded into the dark and cramped space like something discarded. For a second, his eyes were wide, staring at her as if she were some kind of hallucination. Freyra felt the fire stirred inside her chest.
“We were just playing!” Elorj blurted out behind her, his voice rising. “Can’t a young couple have a little fun?!”
Freyra didn’t even look at him, already cutting the bindings.
“You were trying to hide me when you heard someone coming!” Teklómenes choked out the moment the gag was off, his voice raw and shaking with fury. He stumbled to his feet, eyes blazing, feathers ruffled, moving toward Elorj like he meant to rip his head off, but Freyra stopped him with a hand against his chest, firm and protective.
“The wedding is canceled,” she said, her voice carried through the room like a verdict. “Guards. Take him.”
They moved instantly. Elorj barely had time to react before he was seized. Whatever composure he had left shattered completely as he struggled, his voice cracking into desperate pleas—calling for his mother, protesting, insisting they couldn’t do this to him. Freyra didn’t stay to watch, as she guided Teklómenes out of the room.
“Are you alright?” she whispered. Now that her enemy had been apprehended, all the concern and fear she had been suppressing began to surface. Her hands rose to Teklómenes’ face, careful around the bruise that still marked his skin.
“I’m fine,” he said, though the shock had not yet left his eyes.
“Did he do anything to you?” she asked, while her gaze searched his, desperate.
“Well… he locked me in there and—”
“No.” Freyra interrupted, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Did he do anything to you?”
Maybe it was her expression or something in her tone, but Teklómenes froze. He understood. A shadow flickered across his expression.
“No,” he said. “You came in time. You stopped him before he could.”
The breath Freyra released trembled. She pulled his son into her arms and this time, he didn’t hold back. Teklómenes broke. Silent sobs shook his body as he clung to her, burying his face against her chest. Freyra closed her eyes, and for a moment, the weight of everything crashed down on her: Had she really allowed herself to be influenced by the noble houses so easily? What kind of queen had she been? What kind of mother?
“It’s over,” she whispered, as her hand moved gently through his hair. “You’re safe. Everything will be alright.”
She tightened her hold around him. She would not leave him again. Not ever.
The wedding was canceled.
The scandal surrounding the arrest of one of House Blafjell’s sons did not go unnoticed. It spread quickly through the court, igniting disputes between the nobles who still attempted to defend the young drakón and those who stood firmly behind the queen. In the end, the weight of the evidence left no room for doubt. The verdict was swift and final, and House Blafjell itself was forced to issue a formal apology and accept the imprisonment of its youngest son in a desperate attempt to salvage what little remained of its reputation.
Teklómenes returned to the palace. Though he was safe again within familiar walls, the boy grew taciturn and more distant, as if a part of him had been left behind in that house.
One night, Freyra found him standing alone on the balcony, gazing at the moon. The cool night breeze stirred the feathers on his head.
“Deep in thought?” she asked, making sure he noticed her approach so as not to startle him. She stepped beside him, resting her arms on the railing.
“I just can’t sleep,” he murmured, his voice quiet, his eyes far away.
Freyra exhaled softly. There was so much she still needed to say.
“I wanted… to apologize. Properly,” she began. Her hands tightened slightly against the stone. “What I did to you was wrong. I convinced myself it was for the kingdom, but in doing so… I chose others over you.”
“You did what you thought was right for the kingdom” Teklómenes said without looking at her. His gaze drifted downward, toward the distant lands beyond the mountain. “And… we were both deceived by Elorj. I don’t blame you for that.”
Freyra felt her heart hurt. She stepped closer to the boy.
“Even so,” she insisted softly, “I should never have forced you into something you didn’t want.”
She placed a careful hand on his shoulder. This time, he looked at her.
“You don’t have to marry,” she continued. “Not for the crown. Not for anyone. If that day ever comes, it will be because you choose it. And it won’t matter whether they are avian or drakón, only that they are yours to choose.”
Teklómenes was silent for a few moments, but then a small smile, fragile but real, seemed to form on his face.
“Thank you,” he said. “Honestly… I don’t want to marry. Not now. Maybe not for a long time.” He paused, reflecting. “Maybe when I’m older. Strong enough to protect the people I love on my own.”
He turned toward her, a faint glimmer of mischief returning to his eyes.
“Until then… I guess I’ll just keep bothering you.”
Freyra let out a quiet laugh, ruffling his hair.
“A bother? Never. Stay as long as you want, kid.”
They remained there a while longer, talking quietly beneath the moonlight, before returning inside together for dinner. In the days that followed, no one at court dared to speak again of political marriages.
This was super fun to write!!! Thank you so much for the idea! Thank you so much for reading!
CW: nonhuman whumpee, arranged marriage, emotional angst, abandonment issues, nonhuman whumper, bad caretaker, nonhuman caretaker, gaslighting, noncon kiss, mention of sexual nudity (nothing graphic), noncon touch, attempted noncon, attemped sexual abuse, physical abuse, threats about noncon.
Oh no
The day of the engagement celebration arrived.
The palace overflowed with life, laughter and light, almost to excess. Hallways were adorned with fresh flowers and gleaming gemstones. The grand ballroom shimmered, firelight from the braziers dancing across the colorful scales of the gathered drakones. Music filled every corner, the delicate cry of violins blending with wind instruments, while the low murmur of voices and the sweet perfume of the arrangements lingered heavily in the air.
Before her throne, Freyra stood in an elegant pink gown, its fabric woven with fine threads of precious stones. At her side, Teklómenes wore a bright blue suit adorned with diamond inlays.
“How do you feel?” Freyra asked.
“Nervous,” he admitted, unable to keep his feet still.
“Everything will be fine,” she said with a soft smile.
Teklómenes bit the inside of his cheek and lifted his gaze. Across the hall, Elorj stood among a group of young nobles. He wore a deep wine-colored suit, cut low and leaving his muscular arms exposed. As if sensing the weight of Teklómenes’ stare, he looked up and winked at him. Teklómenes quickly looked away. Something tight pressed against his chest.
Freyra and Lady Blafjell stepped forward into the center of the hall. The music faded. With a gentle tap against a glass, silence fell, and all attention turned to them.
“It is an honor to have you here tonight, to celebrate such an important union,” Freyra began. “House Gyllendrage and House Blafjell shall join not only in political alliance, ensuring the peace and prosperity of this kingdom, but as one family.”
“House Blafjell is deeply honored by this sacred bond,” Lady Blafjell added. “May this union bring harmony and abundance. Let the future spouses step forward.”
Teklómenes’ heart began to pound. He and Elorj stepped into the center. A servant approached, presenting the rings atop a polished stone slab. They were exquisite, delicate gold filigree woven into intricate designs, each centered with a pale white gem that, according to tradition, would take on color on the day of the wedding.
Elorj took his ring without hesitation, sliding it onto his right hand.
“I, Elorj Blafjell the Fifth, accept the hand of Teklómenes Gyllendrage the First in marriage.”
All eyes turned. Teklómenes swallowed. His fingers trembled as he picked up his own ring. He fumbled slightly as he slid it onto his left hand.
“I…”
The word caught in his throat. The air felt too thick. The lights too bright. The sound of the room swelled, distant and distorted, as if he were standing underwater while time dragged itself forward, second by second.
“Hey.” There was a whisper, soft and grounding.
Teklómenes lifted his gaze. Elorj was looking at him, smiling gentle and steady, as if there were nothing else in the world worth seeing. As if, in that moment, Teklómenes was something precious beyond measure. It felt like he was saying: You’re not alone.
Teklómenes clenched his teeth. He had a duty to fulfill. He was the prince. The queen’s son. And he would do what was necessary to protect his kingdom.
And Elorj… he seemed kind.
Maybe there was no love now, but there could be understanding. Friendship. Something that might grow into more, given time.
There was only one way to know.
“I, Teklómenes Gyllendrage the First, accept the hand of Elorj Blafjell the Fifth in marriage.”
Applause broke out around them, perhaps out of pure formality, but enough to drown out any lingering hesitation. Teklómenes flinched. Before he could steady himself, a pair of strong arms wrapped around him.
“You did well,” a voice murmured close to his ear. Elorj’s breath brushed against his feathers.
The celebration resumed in full. Teklómenes and Elorj danced beneath the glow of firelight and music. Elorj was, admittedly, a terrible dancer, but his clumsy enthusiasm was strangely endearing. More than once, he made Teklómenes laugh despite himself. By the end of the night, the guests seemed satisfied, their comments approving.
Teklómenes, however, kept glancing at the ring resting on his finger. Was it a shackle or an opportunity?
“I am very proud of you,” Freyra said, pulling him into an embrace. When she drew back, tears shimmered in her eyes. “How do avians say it? That one is never truly ready to watch them leave the nest?”
Teklómenes returned the hug.
“I’m still afraid,” he admitted softly. “And I don’t want to leave you. But… I think it will be alright. Even if I don’t love Elorj, if we are only husbands in name, we could still be good friends. This new life… It doesn’t seem so terrible anymore.”
For the first time in days, they both smiled sincerely. And yet, beneath it, something new took root: a quiet, growing ache. The first fragile traces of longing, of absence not yet felt, but already beginning to form.
That would be Teklómenes’ last night in the palace.
The next day, the move began. Elorj’s and Teklómenes’ belongings were transported to the estate granted by House Blafjell. The house itself was large and elegant, surrounded by open fields like many noble residences. Inside, everything had already been prepared for them. They each had their own room, side by side, a single door in the wall connected them.
The wedding had been set for two months later.
When Freyra said her goodbyes and began her return to the palace, Teklómenes felt as if something inside his chest had been torn away, leaving behind a hollow and aching void. He stood there long after she was gone.
The new house, however, was beautiful, warm and spacious. Servants moved constantly through the halls, attending to every detail. And every time they saw Teklómenes, they greeted him with gentle smiles, their voices accommodating.
“Your Highness, would you like some tea?”
“May I prepare something for you to eat?”
“Would you like more blankets for your nest?”
The attention was overwhelming, more than he had ever received before. It should have felt comforting. In a way it did, but it also felt strange, like hearing someone reading a script.
“How do you feel?” Elorj asked later that evening. The moon hung high above them, pale light spilling across the grounds. The distant hum of crickets filled the quiet.
“I… can’t even believe it myself, but…” Teklómenes hesitated, letting out a small breath. “I feel good. I think… this could be good.”
Elorj’s expression softened. He reached for Teklómenes’ hand, their engagement rings catching the moonlight, two pale glimmers resting side by side.
“It will be,” he said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m certain of it. Our future will be wonderful.”
There was something so sure in his voice. So unwavering.
“I can’t wait for the wedding,” he added.
Before Teklómenes could respond, Elorj leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, then stepped back, offering him one last warm smile before retreating into his own room. Teklómenes did the same. He lay down in his nest, staring up at the dim ceiling, his fingers unconsciously brushing over the ring on his hand. For once, his thoughts did not spiral and his dreams were kind.
He never imagined how quickly that fragile illusion would shatter.
As the days passed, Teklómenes began to notice things. Small things, at first.
The servants greeted him less and less. Some no longer even bothered to hide the disdain in their eyes. Their smiles disappeared, replaced by cold indifference, or worse, quiet contempt.
Elorj changed too. Where before he had spent hours at Teklómenes’ side—talking, laughing, walking with him through the gardens—now he withdrew. More and more often, he remained locked in his room, ignoring Teklómenes’ calls. And when they did cross paths, usually only during meals, his replies were always short and empty.
“I’m busy,” he would say every time Teklómenes asked. “Don’t worry. After the wedding, we’ll have all the time in the world.”
After the wedding.
That phrase began to sound less like a promise and more like a warning. Teklómenes felt it settle deep inside him, the loneliness.
Once a week, the avian wrote letters to Freyra. He told her about his days, asked about hers, tried to sound normal. In his last ones, he couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“Lately, I feel like I am no longer welcome,” he wrote. “Elorj barely speaks to me, and the servants have grown cold and ill-tempered. It feels as if I’ve done something wrong, something everyone else can see except me. I am afraid of what things might become after the wedding. I miss you more than ever.”
But when Freyra’s reply finally came, it felt distant. She attributed everything to nerves, his discomfort to adjustment, to the stress of living somewhere new with unfamiliar people. If even Freyra didn’t understand, if even she wouldn’t defend him, then what was left?
Teklómenes began to feel abandoned, like a bird lost in the fog, flying without direction, without a place to land. Would things really improve after the wedding? Or would they only get worse?
Sometimes, Elorj made strange comments.
“You should cover your feet. Those claws aren’t exactly pleasant to look at, and they make too much noise.”
“How?” Teklómenes snapped, heat rising in his chest. “It’s not like I can wear shoes.”
“Then cut them,” Elorj replied lightly. “You might look more decent that way.”
The words stung. But things didn’t truly break until a month later.
That afternoon, Teklómenes had gone out to train, trying to clear his mind. When he returned to his room, he stopped cold. His nest was gone. In its place stood a drakonic bed. For a moment, he thought he had entered the wrong room, but when he checked again he confirmed it was his.
He turned to the servants. “What happened to my nest?” he asked.
No one answered. They walked past him as if he didn’t exist. At dinner time, now the only moment when Elorj made an appearance, he asked about it. The young drakón didn’t even look up from his plate.
“Oh. That? I had it removed,” he said casually, tearing into a piece of pork meat.
Something twisted painfully inside Teklómenes.
“Why… would you do that?” His voice cracked despite himself.
“Well, once we’re married, you can’t keep sleeping in a nest,” Elorj replied. “We’ll have to share a bed. Better you get used to a proper one.”
The shock burned away quickly, replaced by anger.
“This is a political marriage,” Teklómenes snapped. “We don’t have to share a bed if we don’t want to. And what right do you have to touch my things? To decide that for me?”
For a moment, something dark flickered in Elorj’s eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was colder.
“How do you expect anyone to respect you if you insist on sleeping like that? No wonder they treat you like a useless chicken.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Teklómenes staggered back slightly, the pain clear on his face before he could hide it. And just as quickly, Elorj changed. His expression softened, concern replacing the cruelty as if it had never been there.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m just repeating what others say. I’m trying to help you.”
But Teklómenes didn’t want to hear anything else. With burning eyes and clenched teeth, he stormed off, slamming the door of his room behind him. In a burst of fury, he threw pillows, blankets, and anything soft he could grab, onto the floor, choosing to sleep there rather than touch that bed.
After that, the incidents became more frequent, more invasive and unsettling.
One day, while reading in a sitting room, Teklómenes heard footsteps behind him. Elorj approached him from behind with slow, deliberate steps. The avian ignored him, even when Elorj stopped behind his chair, even when arms wrapped around his waist in an uninvited embrace.
What he couldn’t ignore was the bite on his shoulder: a sharp, sudden pain.
Teklómenes hissed, spinning around and striking Elorj across the head with his book.
“Ow!”
“What is wrong with you?!” he shouted. “Why would you bite me?!”
Elorj frowned, annoyed.
“It was just an affectionate bite. Everyone knows that’s a sign of affection.”
“Maybe for drakones,” Teklómenes shot back, rising to his feet. “Not for me. Don’t ever do that again.”
Elorj scoffed.
“You’re such a crybaby,” he muttered.
Teklómenes didn’t stay. He locked himself in his room until dinner.
As if that weren’t enough, Freyra had stopped replying altogether. Letter after letter, there was only silence. Was she too busy with the kingdom and the wedding preparations? Did she still believe all his complaints were just exaggerations and therefore did not deserve an answer? Teklómenes tried everything: sending messengers, requesting a drakophone, even asking for a magic mirror. But all was denied, every time. And he was no longer allowed to return to the palace.
The realization settled slowly: He was trapped. Completely and utterly trapped. How had everything gone so wrong?
Until one day… the final crack.
Bored and restless, Teklómenes wandered the mansion’s halls yet again. As he passed the study, voices talking on the other side caught his attention: Elorj’s and another one, from an unknown person. The door was slightly ajar. Drawn by curiosity, Teklómenes peeked through the gap and looked inside.
Elorj stood alone in the room, speaking into a small hand mirror. The voice on the other end belonged to another young drakón, likely a friend.
“So?” the voice said. “Have you made him yours yet? Was it easy to manipulate him?”
Elorj laughed. Not the warm laugh Teklómenes knew, no. This laugh was sharper and cruel.
“He bought it completely,” he said. “What did you expect from a stupid bird? He may be the queen’s adopted son, but he’s still just a chicken. A few sweet words, a couple of gifts, and he was mine. Now that I don’t have to pretend anymore, I feel much better.”
“Won’t he try to cancel the wedding?” the other voice asked.
“And who’s going to believe him?” Elorj scoffed. “You’ll see, I’ll have him under control in no time. I’ll turn him into something worthy of a noble like me. And once we’re married…” His voice lowered, dark with intent. “I can do whatever I want with him. Who’s going to stop me? I’ll be the prince’s husband. The queen’s son-in-law. Who’s going to tell me no?”
Teklómenes couldn’t listen anymore. He stepped back silently, his body moving on instinct as he fled down the hall, back to his room. His heart pounded violently in his chest, while the words echoed over and over like a curse.
All this time…
Every smile. Every letter. Every touch.
All a lie.
The warmth he had clung to shattered into burning rage.
Elorj was going to pay.
He waited for him in his room.
“Teklómenes? What are you doing here?” Elorj asked, wearing that same gentle expression. Fake.
The avian’s fists clenched at his sides. His feathers bristled.
“So it was all a lie,” he said, his body trembling with fury. “From the very beginning. You were just using me, you liar! What were you hoping to gain? Status? Power? You may have fooled us, but the truth always comes out.”
His breathing grew uneven. He tore the ring from his finger and threw it to the ground. It struck the floor with a sharp sound and rolled to a stop at Elorj’s feet.
“This wedding is over.”
For a few seconds, the drakón didn’t move. Then, slowly, his posture relaxed and his face went blank. He bent down, picked up the ring between his fingers, and turned it idly.
“Oh, Teklómenes…” he said, stepping closer. “You’re only making this harder for yourself.”
He stopped right in front of him, a towering and imposing mountain of blue scales, horns, and wings. Teklómenes stood firm, refusing to be intimidated. Elorj sighed, almost bored.
“It’s a shame,” he murmured. “I didn’t want to rush things like this, but you leave me no choice. I’ll take you by force.”
Teklómenes frowned. “What are you—”
He didn’t finish.
Elorj’s hand suddenly gripped his face, and before he could react, he was forced into a rough, suffocating kiss. The drakón’s lips pressed hard against the avian’s, his tongue forcing him to open his mouth, slipping between his teeth. Teklómenes struggled immediately, pushing, hitting and trying to pull away; but Elorj lifted him effortlessly, pressing him against his body. It was like trying to fight a stone wall.
Panic surged through the avian. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Desperate, he bit down hard. Elorj jerked back with a sharp curse, releasing him. Teklómenes fell to the floor, gasping for air.
“Damn you…” Elorj muttered, tasting blood.
Teklómenes scrambled back, wiping a strand of saliva from his chin with shaking hands. He didn’t see it coming. A fist collided with his face, snapping his head to the side. Pain exploded through his skull as he hit the ground, the world spinning and darkening at the edges. He must have lost consciousness for at least a few seconds, because when awareness returned, it came in fragments.
The ceiling above him. The weight of something restraining his arms. The dull throb in his head. His wings and back against the bed. His wrists were bound together above him, secured to the headboard, tight enough to cut off circulation. Panic flooded back all at once as he struggled.
“I wanted to wait until our wedding night,” Elorj’s voice came from above, calm, almost conversational. He had already taken off his pants. “But you forced me to do this now.”
With a single pull, the drakón’s hands grabbed the edge of the avian’s lower garments and yanked them down. Teklómenes let out a terrified hoot when he felt his body exposed. At the sight of him, Elorj paused for a moment, as if processing what he had in front of him.
“What?” Teklómenes managed, forcing the words out, clinging to anything that might stall him. "H-Have you never seen an avian’s naked body?"
“I’ve never fucked one,” Elorj replied casually, shrugging, “but there’s a first time for everything.”
He leaned forward, his hands braced on the avian’s knees, forcing them apart.
“No, stop!” Teklómenes shouted, struggling harder, his voice breaking.
And then, a knock on the door. Both of them froze.
“Young Master?” came a voice from outside. A maid. “Are you there?”
Hope struck like lightning.
“HEL—mph!” Teklómenes tried to shout, but the drakón’s hand clamped over his mouth, cutting him off.
“What is it?” Elorj called, irritation clear in his tone.
“I apologize, Young Master,” the maid replied. “Her Majesty the Queen has arrived unexpectedly. She requests to see you.”
Elorj’s face went pale. Teklómenes felt tears burn in the corner of his eyes.
Freyra. She was here.
“…Fine,” Elorj said. “Tell her we’ll be there shortly.”
The footsteps retreated. Silence followed. Until then, Elorj removed his hand.
“Get dressed,” he said flatly, untying him. He himself had already begun putting his clothes back on.
Teklómenes didn’t hesitate. The moment he was free, he scrambled to fix his clothes, his hands shaking uncontrollably. He rushed toward the door, but Elorj caught him. A hand clamped around his face, squeezing hard as if he wanted to crush his head.
“Mmph!”
“Not a word about what happened,” he said quietly. His blue eyes were cold and dangerous, like daggers. “If you behave, I won’t touch you again until after the wedding.” His grip tightened. “But if you say anything… if you make her suspicious…” His voice dropped, low and threatening. “Then I’ll fuck you so hard I’ll make you squeal like a pig for slaughter. Understood?”
A violent shiver ran through Teklómenes’ body. He nodded. Elorj released him.
“Good,” he said, as if nothing had happened. He opened the door and gestured outward, his expression once again pleasant and composed.
“After you,” he said smoothly, “my dear betrothed.”
They went down to the reception hall. Freyra sat alone on one of the couches. When she saw them approach, her eyes widened slightly, but the reaction vanished almost instantly, replaced by a calm, composed smile.
“I apologize for arriving unannounced,” she said. “The wedding preparations have kept me occupied, but I couldn’t stop thinking it was worth coming to check on the most important people of the occasion—the grooms. Tell me, how have you been?”
“Very well, Your Majesty,” Elorj replied smoothly, his voice again warm and bright. A lie. He turned to look at Teklómenes.
The avian froze for a fraction of a second, while the threat echoed in his mind. Not a word. He couldn’t pretend happiness, not after what had almost happened. Freyra would notice—she always noticed—but if he showed too much discomfort, she would start asking questions. And Elorj would make him pay for it.
In the end, he chose to force a yawn, letting his posture slack and his eyes drop.
“Yes… everything’s fine.”
Freyra leaned closer, concern flickering across her features.
“Oh? Did I wake you? Were you resting?”
Teklómenes nodded, lowering his gaze, faking a sleepy expression.
“He does have a rather unusual sleep schedule,” Elorj added lightly, never losing that practiced smile. “But I’m sure, in time, we’ll adjust to one another.”
“That’s good to hear,” Freyra said.
Suddenly, her gaze fixed on Teklómenes’ face. She lifted a hand and brushed her fingers against his cheekbone. Pain flared instantly and Teklómenes couldn’t stop the small, broken sound that escaped him.
“What happened?” she asked.
His stomach twisted. The bruise. The blow Elorj had given him had left a bruise right on his face.
“I… hit a branch while training,” he said quickly, trying to keep his voice steady. “It was… a strong impact.”
Freyra studied him, her lips pressed together. For a moment something seem to tighten in her expression. Then it was gone.
“Be more careful,” she said. “On your wedding day, you must both look your best.”
“Yes,” Teklómenes murmured. “I will.”
Freyra smiled again. “Well, that was all. I won’t disturb you any longer.”
And just like that, she left.
“Farewell, Your Majesty!” Elorj called after her, all charm and grace.
Teklómenes didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He listened to the fading echo of her footsteps. And then silence again. The moment she was gone, Elorj’s expression dropped. His hand shot out, grabbing Teklómenes’ arm hard enough to leave marks.
“The wedding is important,” he said under his breath. “Don’t even think about ruining it.”
He reached into his pocket, pulling out the discarded ring. Without ceremony, he forced it back onto Teklómenes’ finger.
“I’m tired,” he continued. “Why don’t we sleep together, my dear betrothed?” His grip tightened. “After all… it won’t be long before you’re legally mine.”
Teklómenes didn’t resist, so he let himself be dragged back to Elorj’s room, let himself be tied again to the headboard. This time, Elorj didn’t go as far, but that didn’t make it better. The bites came again, leaving marks on his skin. Invasive hands lingered too long on his body, pressing too hard. Every touch burned, like acid against his skin. However, all of that faded into the background, because Teklómenes’ thoughts were elsewhere:
Freyra.
She had been there, close enough to see him, to hear him, to notice something was wrong.
She could have stopped it, could have taken him away from this place that had become a cage.
But she didn’t.
After weeks of silence, of ignoring his letters that had slowly turned into pleas and quiet cries for help… She had only smiled. And left.
Something inside Teklómenes broke. Tears slipped silently down his temples, disappearing into his feathers. He didn’t even try to stop them, it didn't matter.
He had been left behind, completely and utterly alone.
Looks like my bois have found themselves in a bit of trouble again 😈
Content: fantasy whump, kidnapping/capture, mind control, magic whumper, female whumper, magic whumpee, royal whumpee, return of a past whumper, small mentions of blood, caretaker x whumpee (my lovey prince and knight duo), oc whump, ambiguous ending (part 2 incoming!)
Word count: 600
_____________
“What the hell did you do to him?”
Darius lurched against his chains, lunging towards Elore. He couldn’t get far. His wrists chafed against the manacles, probably already red and raw. It didn’t matter. Not when Mianu was right there, mere feet away from him, and still in terrible danger.
Elore, the False Queen, the sorceress that had haunted both Mianu’s nightmares and his own, had made her next move. And Mianu was the one who paid the price.
Elore let out a cold, cruel laugh. “I? I have done nothing. Your darling little prince has simply become what he was always meant to be. He has reached his full potential. At long last.”
“What are you talking about?” Darius snapped.
Elore met his deadly glare with a twisted smile.
“Oh? You don’t know?” she jeered. Her hand curled around his shoulder, a predator’s claws digging into its helpless prey. “And I thought you were all too aware of who he really is. He is my soldier. My perfect pawn.”
Darius fought against his chains again. His wrists were bleeding. He didn’t let that stop him. He refused to stop fighting, refused to let Elore see the dread that coursed through his veins.
He would not back down in front of her. Never again.
“Mianu, don’t listen to her!” he shouted. “You know it’s not true. You know you’re more than that. You don’t need to do anything that she says!”
His voice was ragged in sheer desperation, cracking with emotion despite all his efforts to remain stern before Elore. But Mianu didn’t say a word. He didn’t react at all. His gaze was harsh and cold, eyes nearly blank as he glared down at his knight. His magic curled around his arm. Wisps of shadow writhed like snakes. Ready to strike.
Ready to obey.
The golden collar around his throat, melted down from his own crown, must have been more than just a show of power. The manipulation and mind games that Elore had used in the past weren’t enough anymore. Mianu had been freed from her influence... so now Elore had resorted to something new. Something far, far worse.
Elore smirked. “He cannot hear you, little knight. He belongs to me now. Someone so strong, so powerful, was never meant to waste his days away with someone like you.”
The words were a sharper blow than any dagger. Darius forced himself to ignore the sting.
“She’s lying,” he cried. “You don’t belong to her. You don’t belong to anyone. You can break through this, Mianu! Whatever she’s done to you, you’re better than that! You’re better than her! Your magic is--”
“Strong?” Elore laughed. “Stronger than any you have ever known? How quaint.”
As Darius writhed fruitlessly against his chains again, Elore took a single step away from Mianu’s too-still form. She tilted her head ever so slightly, regarding Darius with a mild, dismissive curiosity.
“Why not show off that strength of yours, little prince?” she sneered. Then she snapped her fingers. “Destroy him.”
Mianu had no choice.
He finally moved.
The prince raised a single hand. His magic leapt to his command. Shadows rushed straight for Darius.
Darius closed his eyes, bracing himself for the impact. There was nothing else he could do. He just had to believe that Mianu would snap out of it in time.
If Mianu ever found out that he’d hurt the one person he cared about more than anyone else in the world, he would be devastated. And Darius would never be able to live with himself for failing so horribly.
A/N: It is finally here!!!! The arranged marriage fic (thanks to @whumperofworlds for the idea). I didn't think I'd get so excited writing it. This first part alone is over 3k words (and I reckon there will be about three parts). I hope you enjoy it as much as I did! ^^
Just for context, this happens some time after Night of Recovery and Salvation. Still not sure if this would be canon.
The court had not received Freyra’s decision well.
An avian as prince of the Drakón Kingdom?
Never in history had such a thing even been suggested.
“It will be merely honorary,” Freyra explained, keeping her position firm. “He will hold no political influence, nor any hereditary power.”
Even with those conditions, many nobles remained reluctant to accept the avian boy as part of the crown.
After Sarktur’s betrayal, House Rodtsverd of the red drakones had fallen into disgrace. Though the people had welcomed Freyra back as the rightful queen—celebrating her return with festivals and fierce loyalty—the noble houses had not been so forgiving. The executions of Sarktur’s sympathizers, regardless of rank or nobility status, the official appointment of the avian as prince, and the fact that Freyra had never produced heirs of her own had all struck House Gyllendrage particularly hard.
“You are losing credibility,” one of the new advisors told her. “The people may not complain, but if the support of the noble houses falters, the likelihood of losing your throne rises. Do you truly want another betrayal?”
A chill ran down Freyra’s spine. She had only just begun to recover in body and mind from what Sarktur had done to her—to them. To her and to Teklómenes. The mere thought of reliving something like that again made her chest tighten with dread.
“Besides,” the advisor continued, “if you lose the throne, what will become of the avian boy? The title of prince will mean nothing. He will lose the crown’s protection.”
Her fear deepened. The advisor was right. If she fell, what would happen to Teté?
“What do you suggest?” she asked, her expression composed even as her thoughts churned like a storm.
“You must regain the trust of the houses. Consider it… forging alliances. And what better way to forge an alliance than through marriage?”
That was how the idea was born.
In her youth, Freyra had rejected every suitor. After her mother’s death, she had lost all desire to build a family and had sworn herself the last of her line. Her father—who had always indulged her, perhaps more than he should have—never opposed her decision. Marriage had never been a burden she carried.
And because of that, she had never once considered it for Teté.
“And you believe someone would be willing to offer their child for such a union?” Freyra asked, distrustful.
She knew well how drakones valued the purity of their blood. Even something as trivial as scale color could dictate status. Her own parents had defied those expectations, marrying for love when most had turned against them. How, then, could she force the opposite upon her own child?
“It would only be symbolic,” the advisor assured her. “We are not seeking heirs. That makes acceptance more likely. Think of it as an alliance between House Gyllendrage and another noble house. When you eventually step down, or pass on, the avian will have a family to live among, one that will protect him.”
A knot twisted painfully in Freyra’s stomach. One day, she would no longer be there, and when that day came, she needed to know Teté would be safe. Put that way, marriage would grant him a family. Protection. Stability. A place in the world that would not vanish with her.
Even if it meant losing him now.
“Very well,” she said at last. “I will present it at this week’s council.”
In the Council Hall, before the representatives of the fourteen great drakonic houses, Freyra proposed the idea of a political marriage. As expected, most reacted with visible displeasure or outright disinterest. After all, who would willingly accept an avian into their bloodline?
She was beginning to regret ever considering it when a blue-scaled drakona raised her hand.
“Your Majesty, I find the idea of a political marriage most promising. If you permit me, I believe I can assist you.”
Freyra and the drakona—who introduced herself as the matriarch of House Blafjell—stepped aside to speak in private.
“Your Majesty,” she began, “I believe I have the solution to your concern. My youngest son is unmarried. He is close in age to your child. A cheerful boy, and one who has already made it clear he has no interest in females nor in producing heirs. I am certain he would make an ideal match.”
The proposal was not unreasonable, so Freyra accepted it, before she could think too deeply about what she was truly agreeing to. “I am doing this for Teté,” she told herself.
That same night, she summoned the avian boy to her office.
“Please, sit,” she said.
Teklómenes took a seat across from her desk, curiosity flickering in his large yellow eyes. Freyra hesitated, unsure how to begin, so she chose bluntness instead.
“You are going to be married.”
A second of silence passed.
“What?” Teté asked, the word breaking in disbelief.
“We have reached a decision with the council,” Freyra explained. “The crown must strengthen its ties with the nobility, form alliances. A political marriage was deemed the most suitable course. House Blafjell has agreed. Their youngest son has accepted to marry you.”
Freyra remained silent, waiting for an answer. The boy sat rigid in his chair, feathers bristling, lips pressed tight, eyes wide and glassy.
“But… I don’t want to get married…” he whispered.
“It will be symbolic,” Freyra added quickly, as if the word itself could soften the blow. “You will become part of House Blafjell. You will be recognized as a noble under their protection—”
“Do you want to get rid of me?”
The question struck like a blade driven straight through her chest.
“What?”
“Why else would you do this?” Teté’s voice trembled, raw and breaking. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. “You want me gone, you want me with other drakones. Is it because of Sarktur? Do you see me as a burden? Something dangerous to keep close? Is that why you’re sending me away?”
Freyra felt something hollow out inside her.
“No—no, of course not,” she said, stepping forward, desperate for him to understand. “I am doing this to protect you. If I lose the crown, or if I die, what will happen to you? This marriage ensures you are safe. That you will have a family—”
“You are my family.”
The tears spilled freely now, streaking down his face.
“Freyra… you are my family,” he choked out. “You’re all I have…”
Her own vision blurred, tears threatening to fall.
“We will always be family,” she said, moving around the desk and pulling him into an embrace. “You will always be my little one. My greatest treasure. This… this only means your family will grow. You will have a husband… in-laws… siblings…”
Teklómenes said nothing. He only cried harder, burying his face against her belly.
“You can visit me whenever you wish,” she continued softly, stroking his hair. “Think of it as making use of your title. Princes are wed like this all the time…”
No answer. Only quiet, shuddering sobs.
Freyra held him, letting him cry, refusing to loosen her grip even as her own heart ached. This was cruel, she knew it. But she would not change her mind. This is for the best.
After a while, they pulled apart.
“I… need time to process this,” Teklómenes murmured, head lowered, wiping at his face with trembling hands.
“You have tonight,” Freyra replied, her tone firm once more. “Tomorrow, midmorning, we will visit House Blafjell. You will meet your betrothed.”
The avian did not look up. Everything about him seemed heavy, like the weight of resignation had settled into his bones.
“I am sure you will get along,” she added, though the words felt hollow even to her. She returned to her seat behind the desk. Sometimes, she had to set aside the role of mother and wear the crown instead, even when it tore at her heart. “That will be all. Return to your room. Be ready early. Dress elegantly—first impressions are of utmost importance.”
Teklómenes nodded faintly. Without another word, he turned and left, dragging his feet. When the door closed, Freyra finally exhaled, the breath trembling as it escaped her. That had been unbearable. Seeing him like that had cracked something deep inside her.
“It is to protect him,” she repeated silently. “For his sake. For the kingdom.”
She forced herself back to her desk, her gaze falling on the sealed envelope bearing the crest of House Blafjell. Inside was a description of Elorj Blafjell—the youngest son, the chosen match.
A few years older than Teté. Discharged from military service due to a shoulder injury that left him unable to wield weapons. Currently residing within the family estate.
Lady Blafjell had assured her he would accept the avian boy without issue.
One obstacle already overcome.
Freyra closed her eyes briefly. All that remained was to hope that tomorrow would not break them both even further.
~🪶🔥🪶🔥~
Teklómenes remained standing in the middle of his room for several long minutes after entering.
A marriage.
The word echoed in his mind, as if it belonged to someone else’s life. Everything felt unreal, like a dream teetering on the edge of becoming a nightmare.
Freyra had said it was to protect him, but a part of him—small and cruel—kept whispering that she simply wanted to be rid of him. Of the burden he had become. Why else would she do something like this so suddenly, with such urgency?
He moved toward the terrace, desperate for air, for anything that did not feel like suffocation. But the moment he pulled the curtain aside and opened the window, he froze. A drakón guard stood just outside.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” the guard said, lowering his head. “Her Majesty has ordered me to remain on watch here throughout the night.”
So she had already anticipated it, in case I tried to run. Teklómenes clenched his jaw. He turned away without another word and went back inside, throwing himself onto the nest with more force than necessary.
Distressed was not enough to describe his feeling, it did not even begin to cover it. There was a hollow, aching weight pressing down on him, something dangerously close to despair. He did not want to leave Freyra. He did not want to leave the palace—his home, the only place he had ever truly belonged. He did not want to leave everything he knew to live with strangers.
With a husband.
It was not that Teklómenes cared about something like the gender of his partner. That had never mattered to him. But he had always believed that, if he ever chose to settle down, it would be with someone he loved, someone he chose. An arranged marriage had never once crossed his mind, not even as a distant possibility. And now, the thought of it wrapped around him like invisible bars, a cage closing in, locking him into a life beside someone he felt nothing for.
Forever.
The storm of thoughts refused to quiet, turning and turning until his head throbbed. Sleep did not come easily, but exhaustion eventually dragged him under.
Morning arrived too soon. Unmotivated, hollow, but obedient to Freyra’s orders, he dressed in elegant clothing: a short shirt embroidered with silver threads, dark blue trousers, and a belt inlaid with precious stones.
They departed at the appointed hour, and before long, they arrived at the Blafjell estate.
“Welcome,” a blue-scaled drakona greeted, bowing. “Your Majesty. Your Highness. Please, follow me to the garden.”
They were led into a wide, beautifully kept garden. At its center stood a table, and beside it, a young blue-scaled drakón.
“This is my youngest son, Elorj,” the drakona announced.
He bowed.
“It is a pleasure to stand before your presence, Your Majesty.”
His deep blue eyes fixed on Teklómenes and a smile formed on his lips.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.”
They took their seats as servants brought an array of delicate snacks and filled their cups.
“My Elorj was the most excited when he heard about the arrangement,” Lady Blafjell said, patting her son’s arm. “He would not stop saying it was the greatest honor he could receive.”
“Mother, please,” Elorj muttered, his face flushing red, almost the same shade as the strawberry preserves on the table. His eyes flickered back to Teklómenes, and the color only deepened.
“Why don’t we allow the boys some time to get acquainted while we discuss the engagement celebration?” Freyra suggested.
And just like that, they were gently ushered away. They walked side by side through the garden, the silence between them almost tangible. The awkwardness was evident from miles away.
“So… what do you like to do?” Elorj asked, attempting to break the ice.
“I like reading,” Teklómenes replied, his voice quieter than usual.
“Really? Me too!” Elorj brightened instantly, flashing a wide, toothy smile. “What kind of books?”
“Encyclopedias. I also like books on natural sciences… studies about plants, animals, the stars,” Teklómenes answered, as if it were nothing remarkable.
“Oh,” Elorj said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It might sound silly, but I love romance novels.”
A brief silence followed.
“Hey… I hope this doesn’t sound too forward, but… you’re much more handsome than I imagined.”
Elorj’s gaze lingered too long on Teklómenes’ abdomen and his narrow waist.
“I’m sure you’re nothing like other avians. Well… I’ve never met any, but I doubt any of them look like you.”
“Ah… thank you,” Teklómenes said, unsure where to place his eyes. “I train often. Freyra encouraged a healthy lifestyle since I was young.”
“I train sometimes too,” Elorj added, lifting his shirt slightly to reveal his own sculpted torso. “Though I could never become a warrior. An accident left me unable to fight.”
“I’m sorry,” Teklómenes replied. “I was never allowed into service either. For obvious reasons. So I trained on my own.”
“I understand,” Elorj said, his tone softening. “It’s unfair… being treated differently just for who you are.” He hesitated, then continued. “I never got along with my older siblings. They expected perfection from me. Constant criticism, constant pressure. And when they found out I wasn’t interested in females, it only got worse. They tried to hide me.” He gave a small, humorless laugh. “They’re all married now, so they mostly leave me alone. But I’ve always felt like the black sheep of the family. So when my mother told me the queen was searching for a match for the prince…”
He stopped walking.
“I thought… maybe this was finally my chance.”
His eyes met Teklómenes’.
“I know this is sudden. And we’ve only just met. But… I would truly like to be your husband.”
Something sharp and electric ran through Teklómenes’ body.
“Oh,” he managed. The words felt insufficient.
Elorj let out a small laugh.
“I understand if you don’t feel the same. But I think this could be good, for both of us. And I believe we could get along.”
Before Teklómenes could respond, or even gather his thoughts, they were called back for lunch. The dining hall was lavish, the table overflowing with exquisite dishes. Wine never lacked in their cups.
“The engagement celebration will take place at the palace in two weeks,” Freyra announced. “All noble houses will be invited.”
“And afterward,” Lady Blafjell added, “we believe it would be best for the two of you to begin living together. A practical way to grow accustomed to one another before the wedding—and before a lifetime together.”
Teklómenes’ stomach tightened.
“House Blafjell will provide one of our estates,” she continued. “It will be fully furnished, with staff and every comfort you may require.”
“That sounds amazing, Mother!” Elorj said, barely containing his excitement.
Freyra glanced at Teklómenes, one brow slightly raised.
“Thank you for your generosity,” he replied evenly. He suddenly had no appetite.
When they returned to the palace, Freyra asked Teklómenes to accompany her to her office.
“What did you think of Elorj?” she asked.
He shrugged.
“He seems… kind,” he said.
“Don’t you think he’s handsome?” Freyra pressed, a faint, playful smile on her lips.
Another shrug.
“What does it matter what I think?” he replied, bitterness slipping through. “This arrangement is happening regardless.”
“Teté…” Freyra’s expression faltered.
“With your permission,” he said quickly, bowing before she could respond. Then he turned and left, his chest felt heavy and painfully divided.
The following days felt unbearably long, stretched thin by tension. Teklómenes and Freyra barely spoke, the silence between them like an invisible wall neither dared to cross. The avian boy threw himself into training, using it as an excuse to keep his thoughts at bay and to stay away from the palace for as long as he could. A pair of guards followed him everywhere, their presence constant and watchful. He assumed Freyra still feared he might try to run.
A frustrated growl escaped him as he lay back in his nest, staring up at nothing. His mind refused to quiet. It kept drifting—to Elorj’s kind face, to the way his smile had felt so genuine… and to the sharp, aching pain of knowing he would have to leave all of this behind.
The palace.
Freyra.
Everything.
He understood why this was happening. He wasn’t a child. He knew Freyra was trying to protect the crown, to secure stability. And he had always wanted to prove himself, to show that even without being a drakón, he had worth, that he could contribute to the kingdom. That he belonged.
His title might be only honorary, but Freyra was right—princes in other kingdoms entered arranged marriages all the time. Was this not, then his duty?
Even so, he had never imagined it would come to this. He had never wanted it to.
A knock sounded at his door.
“Your Highness, someone has come to see you. He claims he has brought you a gift.”
Teklómenes followed the royal guard to the audience hall. Beyond the doors, Elorj was waiting, holding a carefully decorated box in his hands.
“Hey, Teklómenes!” he greeted with a radiant smile. “I wanted to bring you this myself, but the guards wouldn’t let me go any farther.”
He extended the box toward him. Teklómenes accepted it, surprise flickering across his face.
“Your Highness, for security protocol, you must open it here,” the guard reminded.
Teklómenes nodded and lifted the lid. His eyes widened instantly. Inside lay a thick, beautifully illustrated book titled All About Animals of Beaches and Coasts.
“I remembered you said you liked natural science books,” Elorj said, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly a little shy. “And when I saw this one, I… couldn’t help thinking of you. So I thought I’d bring it.”
For a moment, Teklómenes couldn’t speak. Something warm spread through his chest, pushing against the heaviness that had been sitting there for days. He looked up at Elorj, whose cheeks were flushed red against the deep blue of his scales.
“You’re welcome,” Elorj replied, his gaze gentle, almost tender. He reached out, taking Teklómenes’ hand, and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of it. “Well, I should go,” he added, stepping back. “I’ll see you in two weeks, Your Highness.”
As the day of the engagement celebration drew closer, the atmosphere in the palace grew heavier—like smoke lingering in the air, warning of an unseen fire.
Letters began to arrive. All bore the seal of House Blafjell. All were addressed to the prince. Inside, Elorj’s words were simple—small messages of encouragement, questions about his day, about how he had been, about what he thought of the book. Nothing grand nor demanding, just… present.
Each time Teklómenes read them, he found himself clutching the gifted book to his chest, his heartbeat quickening, warmth rising to his cheeks despite himself.
It was confusing, unexpected. And dangerously comforting.
Maybe Elorj wouldn’t be so bad.
Maybe… he wouldn’t be a bad husband at all.
Next
Elorj saying he likes romance novels is a lie he tells so people don't know his obsession is toxic yaoi 👀
Drusus and Keme belong to @whumperofworlds. This is the longest fic I've written so far, alsdaskdhakhdas. I had so much fun writing this. I hope you enjoy it! ^^
Summary: After defeating Astos, Drusus and Keme begin to gain more fame and recognition. Little did they know that their apparent success would lead a group of villains to hatch a plan to take revenge on the mercenaries.
CW: Kidnapping, hostage situation, boung and gagged, multiple whumpers, fantasy typical violence, character death (the bad guys), mention of torture, blood, death and corpses.
Astos, King of the Dark Elves, was dead.
The shadow that had loomed over the kingdom of Elfheim and cursed the young elven prince for years had finally been lifted, all thanks to the courage and unwavering resolve of the Warriors of Light.
In the aftermath of that victory, Drusus and Keme became renowned, and tales of their heroic deeds spread from village to village and across entire kingdoms. They were admired wherever they went, and with that both work and wealth steadily increased. From the wealthiest nobles to the humblest farmers, people sought them out to hire their services as mercenaries. For the young husbands, it finally seemed as though the prosperous future they had always dreamed of was within reach.
However, happiness is rarely everlasting.
That day, the midday sun blazed high in a cloudless blue sky. A warm, pleasant breeze stirred the branches of the trees lining the road. Drusus made his way along the familiar path that would soon lead him back to the village—to the little home he shared with his beloved husband, Keme.
He had been busy all morning with a mission, an independent job as a bodyguard, hired by a group of merchants who wished to travel to another city with their valuable goods. He had gladly accepted and escorted them throughout the entire journey, keeping watch for monsters lurking in the wilderness and the occasional bandits who preyed on unsuspecting travelers.
The assignment ended successfully without any incident. Grateful for his protection, the merchants rewarded him with a heavy pouch of gil, along with a surprisingly generous tip, before bidding him farewell.
As Drusus continued down the dusty road, his thoughts drifted almost immediately to Keme. He could hardly wait to share the good news with the man he loved. Though weary from the day's work, he felt greatly satisfied. His stomach then growled, reminding him it was already lunchtime.
With this money, I can buy fresh ingredients at the market for Keme, he thought. Maybe that beefsteak with scallions he loves so much.
A soft warmth crept into his cheeks as he pictured his husband's gentle smile. At that moment, nothing in the world sounded more comforting than returning home, sharing a good meal, and resting at Keme's side.
So lost was he in those peaceful thoughts that he never noticed the silent figures shadowing him from the forest. For the past several miles, they had stalked him with patience, slipping unseen between the trees and melting into every patch of shade.
Suddenly, cries for help reached Drusus's ears.
"Help! Please, somebody help!"
It was the voice of a woman, desperate and panicked. Drusus reacted instantly, his protective instincts taking over, and he sprinted toward the desperate cries. Just ahead, an overturned carriage lay on its side beside the road. There were no horses nor any sign of a coachman, only the frantic voice calling for help from somewhere inside.
"Don't worry! I'll get you out!" Drusus called.
Planting his feet firmly against the ground, he slipped both hands beneath the carriage and, with a strained grunt, lifted it high enough for someone to crawl free. A young woman emerged from underneath, trembling as she scrambled onto the road. She wore an elegant gown adorned with expensive embroidery and jewelry that immediately marked her as a noblewoman.
"Th-thank you... Thank you so much," she gasped, tears welling in her eyes. "I don't know how much longer I would have been trapped there."
Her blonde hair, though slightly disheveled, had been carefully arranged in an elaborate bun, and her blue eyes overflowed with fear. Covering her mouth with one trembling hand, she struggled to suppress quiet sobs as tears streamed freely down her cheeks. The sight tugged at Drusus's heart. As any gentleman would, he stayed by her side, offering calm words of reassurance until her breathing gradually steadied.
"You're safe now," he said gently. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head.
"May I ask what happened?"
"I... I don't know," she answered, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "Something attacked us, but I never saw what it was. The horses bolted and the coachman fled. I cried for help for hours, but no one came..." She lowered her gaze before looking back at him with quiet gratitude. "...Until you, brave hero, came to my rescue."
Drusus could not help but find it strange. This stretch of forest lay only a short distance from the village and was widely considered safe. If monsters or bandits had been roaming the area, word would have reached him long before now. The attack didn't make sense; still, solving that mystery could wait. Right now, his only concern was getting the frightened lady somewhere safe.
Offering a courteous smile, Drusus gave a small bow before extending his hand in a friendly gesture.
"Miss, if you'd allow me, I'd be honored to escort you home."
The woman looked up at him through tear-filled blue eyes. A faint blush colored her pale cheeks.
"You are truly too kind, brave hero," she said with a shy smile.
Following the lady's directions, Drusus accompanied her deeper into the forest. After several minutes passed, instead of arriving at a manor or a palace, they found themselves standing before the mouth of a cave nestled against the side of a lonely mountain.
"Are you certain this is the place?" Drusus asked, overcome by an uneasy feeling. The area was eerily deserted. Aside from a scattering of shrubs, weathered boulders, and fallen logs, there was no sign that anyone had ever lived there.
"Yes," the woman replied.
She reached for him. What should have been a delicate touch became an iron grip, as her slender fingers clamped around Drusus's wrist with crushing force, nearly cutting off his circulation. A twisted smile spread across her face as her bright blue eyes slowly bled into a vivid crimson. When she spoke again, her voice was no longer soft or frightened. Now it was sharp and mocking.
"This," she hissed, "is exactly where I wanted you."
Drusus barely had time to react as three dark elves burst from the surrounding shadows, closing in. Hands seized him from every direction, long fingers tipped with pointed nails hooked into his clothes, his shoulders, his throat, pinning his arms against his sides before he could throw a single punch. At the same instant, a thick, damp cloth soaked in a sickly sweet liquid was crushed over his nose and mouth, preventing him from screaming or even breathing.
A sleeping potion?!, he thought, feeling his heart lurched.
With a furious surge of strength, Drusus tore himself free, throwing one captor aside before driving his fist into another's face. A second punch buried itself in a third elf's stomach, forcing him back with a grunt. But it was already too late. The magic had already begun taking effect, leaving him drowsy within seconds. His head spun and the forest tilted violently around him. His movements felt sluggish and his limbs were impossibly heavy and numb.
One of the elves slipped behind him and shoved him hard between the shoulders. Dizzy, Drusus stumbled and his knees slammed into the dirt with a painful thud. He tried to stand, but his body refused to obey him. The strength drained from him by the second, and before he could collapse completely, the dark elves caught him once more, locking his arms behind his back while the drug-soaked cloth was forced over his face again.
"I see you've still got some fight left," the woman said, looking down at him with amused superiority. "But you already belong to us."
Drusus’s eyelids grew heavier with every passing second, and even blinking became a struggle. As his vision blurred, the elegant noblewoman standing before him began to dissolve: pale skin darkened into a cold bluish hue, lustrous hair became greasy, tangled strands; the graceful features of her face twisted into something malignant, and long ears stretched unnaturally until they hung nearly three times their original length.
Seconds later, the frightened aristocrat was gone and, in her place, stood a tall, menacing dark elf wearing a victorious grin.
"That was almost disappointingly easy," he sneered. "Our revenge is finally within reach."
Grinding his teeth, Drusus struggled again, though it was little more than a weak twitch of resistance. He glared defiantly at his captors, but the sleeping potion had already begun stealing even that much from him. His vision swam and his head lolled forward. Were it not for the elves holding him upright, he would already have crumpled at their feet.
"Should we kill him now?" one of them asked.
"No, not yet," replied the apparent leader. A sadistic smile spread across his face. "He'll make excellent insurance in case our plan goes wrong."
At that moment, another dark elf emerged from the cave. Drusus frowned. For an instant, he thought the potion was making him hallucinate. The elf's body shimmered like the surface of a lake disturbed by rain, its features flowing and shifting until… until he was staring at a perfect copy of himself.
His breath caught. Every detail was perfect: his face, his height, even his smell. Only the smile was wrong, far too cruel, and behind familiar brown eyes glowed an unmistakable crimson light that sent chills down his spine.
"It's time for phase two," the false Drusus said. Even his voice was identical, with the same deep timbre, yet every word lacked the kindness that had always defined the monk. "I think it's time I paid your beloved husband a little visit."
"MMPH!"
Adrenaline exploded through Drusus's exhausted body. Ignoring the dizziness threatening to swallow him whole, he threw himself forward, desperate to break free. No, not Keme. He would sooner die than allow anyone to harm his husband. The gagging cloth muffled every attempt to shout. His legs buckled almost immediately and the elves tightened their grip, effortlessly forcing him back into place.
The duplicate chuckled.
"Oh? Still trying to play the hero?" He looked toward the others. "Tie him up."
Rough hands jerked Drusus's arms behind his back and coarse rope wrapped around his wrists. The damp cloth disappeared just long enough for him to gasp for air, only for a wad of fabric to be rammed brutally into his mouth.
"Mmph!"
He tried to spit it out, but a second strip of cloth was immediately pulled tight across his lips and knotted firmly behind his head, sealing the gag securely in place. The false Drusus laughed.
"This is exactly what you deserve for defying our great King Astos."
Without warning, he reached forward and ripped the red bandana from Drusus's forehead.
"Mmph!" the monk protested, struggling as wildly as he could. Not his bandana!
The imposter simply tied the red cloth around his own brow before placing his hands on his hips, proudly admiring the disguise.
"Perfect." He smirked, looking at his prisoner. "Don't worry, I'll be sure to give your husband your regards."
Terror clenched around Drusus's heart. No... this couldn’t be happening. Keme would open the door. He would see his face. He would never suspect…
The thought alone made panic surge through his failing body. He fought with everything he had left, desperate to break free despite the potion clouding his mind, the ropes cutting into his wrists and the hands holding him immobile. But it wasn't enough.
"Well," the duplicate said almost cheerfully, "time for you to sleep."
And with those words, a fist shot forward. The punch crashed into Drusus's jaw with enough force to snap his head violently to the side. A burst of white exploded across his vision and the taste of blood flooded his mouth. The world dissolved into darkness as every remaining ounce of strength abandoned him. His body collapsed sideways and struck the ground with a heavy thud.
His final thought, before losing consciousness, was Keme.
~~~
Keme was at home, his eyes drifting to the hourglass resting on the mantel with increasing anxiety. Drusus should have returned by now. The mission had been a simple one, nothing particularly dangerous, and should have taken no more than half a day. So where was he? Had something delayed him? Had something happened?
He refused to think about the darker possibilities: to picture Drusus lying wounded somewhere in the forest, bleeding into the earth, torn apart by monsters or motionless at the bottom of a ravine where no one would ever find him.
"Stay calm," he told himself again and again as he paced the living room, trying to keep his composure. "He's alright. He's coming home."
Suddenly, after what felt like an eternity, someone knocked at the door. Keme froze.
"Who is it?" he called.
"It's me."
Relief washed over him the instant he heard that familiar voice. He hurried to the door and pulled it open.
Drusus stood on the doorstep, safe and sound. Before he could stop himself, Keme threw his arms around his husband, burying his face against his broad chest as the fear that had been suffocating him finally began to melt away. Drusus didn't hug him back.
"Well?" the monk said at last. "Aren't you going to let me inside?"
The words made Keme step back, blinking in confusion.
"Why didn't you use your key?"
"Oh." Drusus shrugged. "I lost it somewhere along the way. So... may I come in?"
Without waiting for permission, he brushed past Keme and walked into the house. The thief quietly shut the door behind him.
"Are you alright?" he asked carefully. He couldn't explain why, but something felt... wrong. Since when had Drusus become careless enough to lose his key?
"Of course I’m alright, love," the monk replied with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Why wouldn't I be?"
He wandered into the kitchen and began opening the cupboards, rummaging through the drawers until he found a chunk of pork leg. Without another word, he started cutting it into pieces before lighting the stove.
"I'm starving after that mission," he said casually. "I think I'll have something to eat."
A chill crept down Keme's spine as he watched in silence while Drusus cooked the meat, then swallowed it down in almost a single bite. That alone had been strange enough, but what truly unsettled him was the fact that the monk had prepared it himself. Both of them knew perfectly well why that made no sense: Drusus had been permanently banned from cooking after one spectacular culinary disaster that had nearly sent all four Warriors of Light to the healer with food poisoning
Everything about this felt wrong.
Drusus was acting so wrong. What had gotten into him?
After finishing his meal, Drusus flopped onto the couch with an exaggerated sigh. He crossed one leg over the other and propped his feet up on the coffee table. Keme stared. Drusus had never, not even once, done something so disrespectful inside their home.
"Are you sure you're alright?" Keme asked again.
The monk looked at him for several seconds before offering that same, empty smile
"Of course I am, love. I'm fine. It's me."
Keme's pulse quickened. Drusus’s posture, body language, that slight tug at one corner of his mouth that turned his smile into something more wolfish and far less gentle... None of it belonged to Drusus. None of it resembled the man Keme loved so dearly.
"You know you can tell me anything," the thief said. He crossed the room and sat beside him. His fingertips brushed lovingly against Drusus's cheek before he leaned in, intending to kiss him, but the monk recoiled immediately. For a fraction of a second, revulsion flashed across his face.
"I told you I'm tired," he said flatly.
Keme felt as though his heart had stopped. This man sitting beside him… wasn't behaving like his husband.
A horrifying thought suddenly ripped through his mind: What if this wasn't Drusus at all?
The possibility terrified him. If this wasn't his husband... Then where was the real Drusus?
His suspicions only grew when he watched "Drusus" reaching up for his red bandana, used it to wipe the sweat from his forehead and toss it aside, discarding it as if it were nothing more than a dirty rag.
That bandana wasn't just another piece of clothing. Drusus treasured it with his life.
This isn't Drusus.
An enemy had entered his home, wearing the face of the man he loved most. But if the creature thought Keme would be fooled for long, it had made a fatal mistake, because Keme was not about to fall into its trap.
In one final chance to prove that the man standing before him—this stranger wearing Drusus's face—was nothing but a fraud, Keme had an idea. He calmly picked up his travel bag before fastening his daggers around his belt. Then he walked toward the front door.
"Oh, I almost forgot to tell you," he said brightly, forcing a cheerful smile. "I was hired for a special mission. It's extremely dangerous, so I'm heading out right now. I'll be back in a couple of hours. Love you."
The false Drusus looked up and gave him a lazy wave.
"Okay. Good luck. Don’t take too long, I’ll be waiting for you."
Keme's heart sank. That was all the confirmation he needed. The real Drusus would never have allowed him to walk into danger alone, not without insisting on accompanying him, or worrying and trying to protect him.
The moment the realization settled over Keme, he moved. His hand flashed toward his belt, and before the impostor even realized what was happening, the small but sharp blade buried itself deep in his right thigh. Blood immediately soaked the purple fabric around the wound. With a stifled scream, the impostor tried to stand, but Keme was already on him with a second dagger, which he plunged into his opposite leg.
The intruder cried out again, his body collapsing back onto the couch as both injured legs refused to support his weight. Keme hated seeing blood splatter across their carefully kept home, but he would not allow this monster to flee, not before he learned what had happened to his real husband.
Growling in pain, the false Drusus lashed out wildly, trying to shove him away. Keme, using the element of surprise to his advantage, snatched up a heavy decorative relic from a nearby shelf—a souvenir from one of their earliest successful mercenary jobs—and brought it crashing down on the impostor's head, once, twice, until the stranger finally went limp.
Breathing hard, Keme carefully returned the relic to its proper place. He grabbed the unconscious body and dragged it toward the dining area. Then, taking several rolls of rope, he tied the imposter to one of the chairs, securing his wrists and ankles with extra resistant knots. He wasn't foolish enough to underestimate an enemy capable of perfectly imitating Drusus. If this thing possessed even a fraction of his husband's strength, Keme would be in serious trouble if he ever had to face him in close combat. So, it was better to be cautious.
Several minutes later, faint groans broke the silence and the intruder's eyelids fluttered open. With two daggers tucked between his fingers, Keme was ready to strike.
Standing face to face with this creature was deeply unsettling. Everything about him was so Drusus: the long chestnut hair, now damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead; the round, warm brown eyes; the familiar small nose; the thin and sweet lips that Keme had kissed countless times… yet, despite the flawless disguise, nothing about him felt like Drusus.
"Where is he?" Keme asked. "Where is my husband?"
The impostor remained silent. Blood trickled lazily from a cut along his temple before running down his cheek. More seeped from the stab wounds in his thighs, soaking the fabric of his trousers and dripping steadily onto the wooden floor with a rhythmic tapping sound.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he finally replied. "I am Drusus."
In one smooth motion, Keme drew one of the daggers and pressed its edge against the creature's throat, just beneath his Adam's apple.
"Don't try to deceive me," he said, his voice as sharp as the weapon. "I know you're not him. So, if you'd rather avoid a slow, agonizing death... You'll tell me exactly where he is."
The impostor merely strained against the ropes, but the bindings didn't budge. Realizing escape was impossible, he simply fell silent. And Keme answered that silence with steel. The dagger plunged into the creature's shoulder.
"AAGH!"
The scream tore through clenched teeth as the impostor’s body jerked violently against the ropes.
"So?" Keme insisted. "Are you going to talk or do I keep going until you resemble a fishing net?"
"D-Damn you..." the false Drusus hissed. As he lifted his head, his familiar brown eyes shifted into a vivid crimson. "You... You were supposed to be the weak one..."
Keme slowly twisted the knife, and another agonized cry escaped the intruder's lips. Only then did he wrench the blade free in one swift pull, letting fresh blood splatter over the front of his green shirt.
"Whoever gave you that information was terribly misinformed," Keme said with confidence. A playful smile inevitably formed on his face. "Drusus may be stronger than I am, but I've never been weak."
Keme's appearance—his slender build, large eyes and gentle features—had fooled countless opponents over the years, causing many enemies to underestimate him. They forgot Keme was still a seasoned mercenary, one of the Warriors of Light. And this impostor before him was about to learn that the hard way.
He spun one of the daggers effortlessly between his fingers before catching it by the hilt.
"Now tell me..." His smile disappeared. The sharp tip rested lightly against the creature's chest, sliding upward toward his throat, closer with every word. "Where. Is. My. Husband?"
The impostor spat blood onto the floor, glaring at him with hatred.
"Fuck you."
Keme sighed.
"Very well. If that's the way you want to do this..."
The interrogation dragged on, between screams, threats, blood, and a great deal of patience. The impostor proved stubborn, but eventually, the illusion disguising him began to unravel. Drusus's familiar features rippled like disturbed water before slowly melting away, revealing a different identity in its place: a dark elf.
"Damned Warriors of Light," he snarled. "Ever since you murdered our great King Astos we swore we'd have our revenge."
"So that's why you impersonated Drusus?" Keme inquired.
The elf nodded.
"The plan was simple: I'd lure you away, my companions would keep your precious husband alive. Then we'd bring you together and make you watch each other suffer." His bloody smile widened. "We would've tortured you, broken you, had our fun... And when there was nothing left of either of you, we would've killed you both."
A wave of nausea rolled through Keme. For the briefest instant, he imagined Drusus bound and helpless, forced to watch that hellish nightmare. He would not let that future unfold.
"Where is Drusus?" he asked, demanding. "What have you done with him?"
"He's alive," the elf answered, almost lazily. "For now. We're keeping him inside a cave in the mountains. My companions have very clear orders: If I haven't returned with you before nightfall... They'll slit his throat."
Keme closed his eyes, reflecting on this new information. Drusus is alive. Relief surged through him, but it lasted only an instant, because now another thought took its place. How badly had they hurt him already? Every second he remained here was another second Drusus spent alone among enemies who had already admitted exactly what they intended to do to him. Keme couldn't afford to waste another moment. Nightfall was only a few hours away.
He opened his eyes again.
"Anything else you'd like to tell me, before I end your miserable life?"
The elf answered by spitting directly into his face. Blood and saliva splattered across the front of Keme's shirt.
"Go to hell," the elf hissed.
The thief slowly wiped it away with the back of his hand, before he gave a faint smile.
"Send my regards to Astos there."
And with those words, the dagger flashed, its edge sweeping cleanly across the dark elf's throat. The creature let out a wet gasp before his body went limp, the last remnants of hatred fading from his expression as blood poured down his neck. Silence settled over the house once more. Keme cut away the ropes and dragged the corpse outside. After disposing of the body, he returned home to erase every trace of the previous violence.
In the meantime, his mind never stopped working on a rescue plan. The dark elves knew he was coming, and he knew they would be waiting for him. He needed to be ready.
He slipped a chainmail shirt beneath his clothes and armed himself with several knives and a small shield.
Hold on, Drusus. I'm coming for you.
Determined to save his husband, he stepped outside.
~~~
Inside the cave, there was nothing Drusus could do but wait.
Bound hand and foot, with a gag tied across his mouth, he lay on the cold, uneven stone floor. The dark elves had stripped him of everything but his underwear before abandoning him inside the cavern. How long had he been unconscious? Minutes? Hours? The damp air bit at his bare skin, his throat was dry with thirst, and his muscles had grown stiff and numb from lying in the same position for so long.
Had the elf pretending to be him already reached their home? Was he speaking to Keme at this very moment? Had Keme realized the deception or had he fallen into the trap? The mere thought twisted wildly inside his chest. Someone else was wearing his face, speaking with his voice, looking at Keme with his eyes, touching him, hurting him…
Drusus clenched his jaw. He refused to let that happen. He had to escape and warn Keme before it was too late.
Still weakened by the effects of the sleeping potion, he slowly flexed his wrists against the ropes, but they held firm. Brute strength wouldn't be enough to break them, so he looked around the cave for a rock sharp enough to allow him to cut through bis bindings.
Inch by painful inch, he dragged himself through the rough ground until, at last, his hands brushed against a triangular piece of broken rock. Carefully trapping it between his fingers, he awkwardly maneuvered it against the rope binding his wrists, back and forth, back and forth... until the fibers weakened, and with one desperate yank, Drusus tore his arms apart with a snap.
Now with his hands free, he ripped the gag from his mouth and sucked in a deep breath before immediately reaching for the ropes around his ankles. However…
"The bastard's trying to escape!"
Drusus's blood ran cold, as two dark elves suddenly appeared. Ignoring the half-cut ropes still binding his ankles, he threw himself upright, intending to run, but a painful kick slammed into his side before he could even take a single step. The impact hurled him violently back onto the stone floor. Another boot crashed into his abdomen before he could recover, then another and another. Pain erupted from every direction as the elves beat him mercilessly.
"What is going on here?"
The sharp voice echoed through the cave, making the beating stop. The elves stepped back, while Drusus remained where he had fallen, curled tightly and gasping for air. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His entire body throbbed, bruises already blooming under his skin.
"He was trying to escape," one of the elves reported.
The apparent leader stroked his chin, pondering.
"It seems we underestimated him," he said. "We won't make that mistake twice."
Before Drusus could react, someone seized him by the jaw. The familiar damp cloth was shoved brutally over his nose and mouth once again, carrying the scent of the sleeping potion. He jerked his head violently from side to side, but his already weakened body offered little resistance. His lungs instinctively drew in another breath, letting the magic flood into his lung. His vision blurred almost immediately, and his body became distant and dull.
No... Keme...
His head lolled forward as consciousness slipped away. Once again, Drusus was completely at the mercy of his enemies.
~~~
The journey took Keme through long stretches of steep mountain trails and through several skirmishes with monsters roaming the wilderness, while the sun continued its slow descent toward the horizon. Finally, beneath the fading light of dusk, Keme found the right place: a cave, its jagged entrance yawned from the mountainside like the open jaws of a wolf. He knew he had reached the correct location because he spotted a single dark elf standing guard outside the entrance.
Keme didn’t give him the chance to raise the alarm. With a carefully thrown stone, he drew the guard's attention toward a patch of nearby bushes, and when the elf cautiously approached the sound, Keme ambushed him and quickly finished him off before entering the cave.
Inside, the air was cold and damp. The only light came from scattered torches across the rough stone walls. Keme moved with the silent grace of a ninja, melting in the shadows at the faintest sounds. The winding tunnels eventually opened into a wide chamber. And farther ahead… He saw him.
Keme's heart pounded fiercely inside his chest.
There, at the far end of the cavern, was Drusus—the real one. His Drusus.
The dark elves had stripped him down to nothing but his undergarments. Thick ropes pinned him tightly against a massive stone pillar, wrapped around his chest and waist. His wrists were bound behind his back, and more ropes secured his legs, binding his ankles together and cinching above and below his knees. A dark bruise had already swollen around his left eye, while countless others marred his ribs, shoulders, and arms, staining his skin in shades of black and blue. His brown hair had come completely undone, cascading over his shoulders in tangled strands. Without the familiar red bandana keeping it back, long locks clung to his forehead, nearly hiding his eyes. A heavy cloth gag covered his mouth.
Keme felt anger course through his body like liquid fire.
"Drusus!"
Upon hearing his name, the monk's head shot upward. His eyes widened and his entire face filled with stunned disbelief, as though he couldn't quite believe Keme was really there.
"Mmph!" he shouted, struggling against the ropes, his warnings unintelligible because of the gag.
Keme rushed toward him and dropped to his knees beside him, gently cradling Drusus's bruised face between both hands. The simple touch nearly broke him, relief flooding through every vein in his body. His husband was alive!
His fingers hurried to the knot behind Drusus's head, loosening it before pulling the gag away. The moment the cloth fell off, Drusus doubled over with a fit of coughing, dragging in desperate gulps of fresh air. When he finally managed to breathe again, he looked at Keme with undisguised horror.
"It's a trap!" he shouted. "They've been waiting for you! You have to leave! Run!"
At that moment, footsteps echoed through the cavern. Four dark elves emerged from the shadows, calmly spreading out until they blocked the chamber's only exit.
"You won't be leaving here alive," one of them said, licking his lips.
The thief rose calmly to his feet and turned to face them.
"Keme! Please, run!" Drusus cried, his voice cracked with panic.
One of the elves laughed.
"How adorable. Why don't we play with the little blond one first? That way his husband can watch."
They step closer, eyes fixed on the thief. Their laughter echoed off the stone walls, dripping with sadistic anticipation.
"Drop your weapons and we promise not to hurt you... too much."
Behind him, Keme could hear Drusus inhale sharply, a frightened sound escaping through the monk's teeth. His brown eyes were filled with unshed tears, and his bound hands trembled helplessly behind his back.
The sight shattered Keme's heart. Drusus, being the strongest and kindest man he knew, reduced to this: bruised, terrified, and vulnerable. He would never forgive those monsters for what they’d done.
"I'm sorry," Keme said, drawing a knife into each hand. "But today I'm not feeling particularly cooperative."
And with those words, he charged straight at his enemies.
His arm blurred through the air and the two knives left his hand almost simultaneously. The first blade buried itself deep in a dark elf's eye, killing him instantly. The second struck another squarely in the thigh, making him cry out in agony as his leg buckled beneath him. The remaining two lunged at Keme. One raised his sword high overhead and brought it down in a brutal arc. Steel slammed against Keme's shield with a deafening clang. Using the brief opening, Keme stepped inside his opponent's reach and drove another dagger into the elf's thigh.
The scream that followed joined the other chaotic battle sounds reverberating through the cave. Keme slipped between his enemies with practiced agility, constantly shifting his footing to prevent them from surrounding him. His knives flashed relentlessly, opening cuts across arms, shoulders, and legs whenever an opportunity presented itself. He couldn't afford a single mistake, as his enemies still outnumbered and surpassed him in size. One wrong move and neither he nor Drusus would leave alive.
Meanwhile, Drusus, still bound against the stone, could do nothing to join the fight. But he refused to remain useless.
"Behind you!"
Keme ducked instinctively. A blade hissed through the space where his head had been only a second before.
"Left!"
Drusus's voice became Keme's second pair of eyes, allowing him to anticipate strikes he never could have seen on his own. A smile flickered across Keme's face despite the danger. With Drusus by his side, there was nothing they could not accomplish.
"Capture him already!" one of the dark elves snarled, panic creeping in his voice.
They were becoming desperate. The elves exchanged hurried glances before silently changing tactics. Two of them rushed to Keme, attacking to keep him occupied, while the third sprinted toward Drusus.
"Keme, watch—mph!" Drusus barely managed to shout before a heavy hand clamped over his mouth and a knife pressed against his throat.
"The game's over," the dark elf sneered.
Keme froze, unable to tear his eyes away from the knife resting directly against Drusus’s neck. One single movement could end his husband’s life. Noting his hesitation, the elves laughed, triumph shining in their expressions.
That was when Drusus moved. With every ounce of strength he had left, he threw his head backward and his skull smashed squarely into the dark elf's face. The elf staggered back with a howl, his grip loosening as blood poured from his broken nose. The blade sliced only a shallow line across Drusus's neck before slipping away entirely.
That was enough for Keme to throw another knife and pierce the elf’s throat. The remaining enemies let out enraged cries and attacked, wildly and carelessly now, driven by pure hate and rage. Keme took that opportunity to strike, and soon the elves succumbed, their bodies covered in knife wounds.
The cavern fell silent, interrupted only by two ragged breaths. Keme stood motionless for several seconds, drawing slow, trembling breaths as he fought to steady his own. He lowered his weapons before sliding them back into their sheaths. He looked around at the bodies scattered across the cavern floor, before his gaze found Drusus.
The monk was already looking at him. His wide brown eyes shimmered with tears.
"Keme..."
The thief crossed the distance between them in seconds. He cupped Drusus's bruised face between both hands and kissed him hard and desperately. Drusus answered immediately, leaning into the kiss with equal desperation, clinging to Keme as though he were the only safe place left in the world.
For those few precious seconds, nothing else existed except each other.
Their foreheads pressed together as they pulled apart to catch their breath. Keme reached for the ropes binding Drusus and cut through them. The monk nearly collapsed the moment the final rope fell away, his trembling legs refusing to support him. Bloody welts circled his wrists, chest, thighs, and ankles where the ropes had dug into his skin. Keme caught him before he could fall, one arm slipped securely around Drusus's waist. Drusus instinctively draped an arm over Keme's shoulders, leaning heavily against him.
"You came..." Drusus whispered with a hoarse voice, as they slowly made their way toward the cave entrance. "You're safe... H-how...?"
Keme smiled softly.
"I knew it wasn't you," he said. "I'd recognize you anywhere."
He tenderly brushed a loose strand of hair away from Drusus's face. The monk didn’t pull away, leaning into the touch, closing his eyes.
"I was so afraid for you..." he whispered. His warm breath ghosted across Keme's palm.
"Let's go home."
The moment they stepped outside the cave, the icy night wind swept over them. Drusus shuddered violently, trembling so hard that Keme immediately turned them back toward the cavern. They searched the fallen dark elves until they found a few pieces of clothing that could fit and provide the monk some protection from the cold.
Only then did they begin the journey home. The descent took far longer than it normally would have. Drusus was barely able to stay on his feet, forcing Keme to slow their pace even further. Together they made their way down the mountainside beneath a sky strewn with stars. By the time the familiar outline of their house appeared beneath the moonlight, both of them felt some of the crushing tension begin to lift.
Back at home, Keme guided Drusus inside and led him straight to their bed. Only after making sure he was comfortably over the mattress did he leave the room, returning a few moments later with a bowl of warm water and several clean cloths. He began gently wiping away the dried blood and dust clinging to Drusus's skin.
"You need to rest," Keme murmured as he wrung out the cloth. "Your body's been through far too much, and you're probably starving, too. I'll go make something for you to eat"
He had barely taken a single step away from the bed when he felt a familiar hand wrap around his wrist.
"Don't go."
The words were barely louder than a whisper. Keme turned back and saw Drusus looking up at him with exhausted eyes still clouded by everything he had endured. Hunger, thirst, guilt; but above all, relief and love.
Keme felt something inside him soften.
"What?" he teased. "Don’t tell me you want to cook"
Drusus shook his head. Despite everything, the faintest hint of amusement appeared at the corner of his mouth.
"You’re already worried sick about me," he said. "The last thing we need is for you to end up actually sick because of me. Beside…" His smile softened. "Your cooking is amazing."
Keme smiled too, as he brushed the loose strands of hair away from Drusus's forehead. At the touch, Drusus leaned instinctively into the caress, as though that simple touch anchored him. Eventually, Drusus forced himself to let go.
"Please don't be gone long," the monk said.
Keme bent down and pressed a small kiss to the tip of his nose.
"I won't," he promised.
A few minutes later, Keme returned carrying a steaming bowl of vegetable stew. After eating a little, some color gradually returned to the monk’s face. He still looked exhausted but at least he no longer seemed on the verge of collapsing.
"I still don't understand," Drusus said eventually. "How... did you know it wasn't me? While I was trapped in that cave, I kept thinking it was all my fault." His fingers tightened around the fabric of the sheets. "I thought they'd capture you because of me." He looked back at Keme. "So how didn't you fall for it?"
Keme smiled softly before climbing onto the bed beside him.
"I'll admit, at first, I wasn't completely certain. But after a while… it became surprisingly obvious." He reached over and gently took one of Drusus's hands. "I told you before. I know you."
A faint, mischievous smile appeared on Drusus's lips.
"Oh? So you're absolutely certain this is really me?" he said, tilting his head innocently. "Maybe you should inspect me a little more... closer. Just to make sure."
Keme raised an eyebrow, deciding to play along.
"I suppose that's a reasonable precaution. After all, there are… certain parts of you that only I would recognize."
He leaned closer with exaggerated seriousness. His hand slid slowly down Drusus's abdomen, carefully avoiding every bruise and bandage before coming to rest teasingly near the waistband of his trousers. Drusus's face, even the tips of his ears, turned a brilliant shade of red, and Keme couldn’t stop a burst of laugh.
"Yep, definitely you!"
Drusus laughed too, though the sound quickly dissolved into a pained wince.
"Easy," Keme said, helping him settle back against the pillows. "You're far too injured for any serious inspections."
Drusus pouted dramatically.
"That's terribly unfair." Then he added, with a voice dropped almost to a purr: "You looked incredibly handsome fighting all those dark elves."
He leaned forward, intending for a kiss, but Keme stopped him just short, smiling apologetically.
"As tempting as that sounds, I'd rather not accidentally make your injuries worse."
Drusus let out a tired chuckle.
"I suppose you're right… In that case, I only want one thing." He looked into Keme's eyes. "Stay with me."
Keme answered by laying down beside him. Side by side, the two husbands hold each other close. Now that the danger had finally passed, the adrenaline keeping them upright slowly drained away. Everything they had been trying not to feel pressed down on them like gravity pulling them to the ground: the exhaustion, the fear, the lingering horror of how close they had come to losing one another. A few quiet tears were shed, as soft reassurances were whispered into the darkness.
Gradually, Drusus's breathing began to slow, sleep claiming him little by little. Keme remained awake, making sure to give him water, to check his forehead for possible fevers, and keep him warm from the night's chill beneath the blanket.
Long after midnight, Drusus shifted slightly. His eyes never opened, but Keme heard the sleepy murmur all the same:
"I love you..."
Keme reached over and extinguished the last lamp, allowing darkness to settle peacefully over the room. Then he slipped beneath the blankets beside his husband once more. With infinite tenderness, he pressed a gentle kiss against his skin.
"I love you too."
The only response was the soft and steady sound of Drusus snoring, but to Keme that was enough. They were finally safe.
You have to shove your whumpees to the ground on their stomach and yank their arms behind their back to tie their wrists before pulling them back to their knees with a harsh yank on their hair otherwise they're not getting proper enrichment
“Are you sure you want to do this?” There was no condescension in Freyra’s voice, only the faintest trace of concern. “We’re talking about the militia, the draconic militia. Their standards are exceptionally demanding, and the duty of protecting the kingdom could very well cost you your life.”
“I know. And I know this is what I want,” Teklómenes replied without hesitation. At sixteen years old, he was determined to become a true drakonic warrior.
Freyra swallowed the obvious words before they could escape: An avian could never become a drakonic warrior. But Teklómenes had spent nearly his entire life among drakones, growing up on stories of glorious battles and impossible victories, with Freyra herself standing before him as the living image of an undefeated, fearless warrior and queen.
How could he dream of becoming anything else? He was an avian, yet his ambition rivaled that of any drakón, perhaps even surpassed it.
“The examination will take place this week,” Freyra said after the boy submitted his application. “You’ll compete against other recruits in a series of trials designed to test your flight abilities. Fail even one of them, and you won’t be allowed to continue.”
“I know,” Teklómenes murmured. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “This is what I’ve been training for my whole life,” he continued. “This is where I’ll prove everything you’ve taught me. I’ll prove to them that even as an avian, I deserve to stand beside any drakón as a warrior.”
Freyra pressed her lips into a thin line. It was true that she had raised Teklómenes with the mindset of a drakón—she had never known any other way—but she feared what that might ultimately cost him. The boy was gifted, talented and remarkably intelligent, yet he was also reckless, impulsive, and far too willing to forget that, no matter how deeply it wounded his pride, he was still only an avian.
“Would you mind if I came to watch the trials?” Freyra asked, softening her tone in hopes of easing the tension lingering between them.
“I'd actually love for you to be there,” Teklómenes replied, his enormous golden eyes lighting up with excitement. The sight made tenderness flood in Freyra's chest.
“All right, little one,” she said, gently ruffling his hair. “I’ll clear my schedule for a few days.” Leaning down, she rested both hands on his shoulders. “Show me what you’re capable of.”
Teklómenes nodded.
“I promise I’ll surprise you.”
The first admission trial would take place across a vast mountain range surrounding a breathtaking lake of shimmering turquoise waters. Hundreds of young drakones, both male and female, all eager to earn a place among the kingdom's warriors, waited excitedly at the starting line.
The moment they spotted Teklómenes among them, many did not even bother hiding their merciless laughter.
“Lose your way, little bird?” one young drakona sneered.
“Sorry, but the chicken coop’s that way,” another called, pointing off into the distance.
Teklómenes said nothing. His expression never wavered because his confidence remained unshaken. A few of the young drakones gradually fell silent when they realized the taunts drew no reaction from him, while others merely gave him pitying looks.
“You're going to die out there, hatchling,” one young drakón muttered just before the horn signaling the start of the examination echoed across the valley.
“The first trial is... Endurance!” the master of ceremonies announced. “Participants will depart from this starting line and complete a one-hundred-and-twenty-five-kilometer circuit around the lake. Anyone who lands before returning to this finish line will be immediately disqualified.”
“How much you wanna bet the little bird drops before the first ten kilometers?” a another drakona jeered, earning a round of laughter from her friends.
Teklómenes ignored every word. He lowered himself into takeoff position, wings spread wide and knees bent.
“Ready! Set! Fly!”
The horn blared a second time, nearly swallowed by the thunderous beating of hundreds of wings. Drakones launched into the sky as though shot from catapults, many throwing mocking grins over their shoulders as they left Teklómenes behind. The avian quickly found himself near the back of the pack, but he refused to waste energy trying to keep up. He knew the journey ahead was long and that this was a trial of endurance, not speed. There was no time limit. As long as he remained airborne, he still had a chance.
Half an hour later, several recruits began dropping out, descending in exhaustion, some even crashing into the lake after their strength gave out. Teklómenes maintained the same steady rhythm, concentrating on each measured breath and taking full advantage of the mountain winds, letting his light frame glide effortlessly through the air whenever possible to conserve every ounce of energy.
After nearly three hours, Teklómenes finally crossed the finish line, passing the first trial to the astonishment of everyone watching.
“I knew you could do it!” Freyra congratulated him after they returned to the palace. “But don't let this make you overconfident. Every trial brings its own challenges.”
“I know. And I’m ready,” the boy assured her without the slightest trace of doubt. Passing the first day's examination had lifted his spirits tremendously.
The following morning, the second trial began, this time testing speed.
“You must fly through this canyon and reach the finish line within ten minutes,” the master of ceremonies explained. “The course stretches ten kilometers and is filled with obstacles. Your time begins the moment the horn sounds.”
Just as he had the previous day, Teklómenes took his place behind the starting line, wings spread and body lowered into takeoff position. Unlike yesterday, there were no jeers waiting for him this time, only lingering stares—confused, disbelieving, some resentful, others almost impressed.
I’m going to prove them wrong, the avian boy thought.
At the signal, every participant shot toward the canyon like a bolt of lightning. Massive boulders and fallen tree trunks littered the narrow passage, slowing many of the young drakones, but Teklómenes slipped through them with effortless precision. His smaller frame let him weave between obstacles too tight for larger wings, while his feathers caught the shifting winds, carrying him through sharp dives, tight turns, and graceful aerial twists without losing momentum for even an instant. He pushed himself with everything he had, swift as an arrow. Though the leading drakones steadily widened the gap ahead, he refused to give up, to let it shake his focus. His only goal was to keep flying.
He crossed the finish line with forty-five seconds left before the time limit expired.
“Congratulations to our finalists!” the announcement echoed across the canyon. “We’ll see you all tomorrow for the final trial.”
Exhausted but beaming with satisfaction, Teklómenes hurried back to Freyra, who stood among the spectators, applauding proudly. Despite all her earlier doubts, the drakona had begun to believe it might actually be possible: that, against every expectation, the young avian truly had a chance of earning his place among the selected warriors.
“I’m proud of you,” she said, pulling him into a hug.
Teklómenes felt his feathers instinctively fluff up as heat rushed to his cheeks. Becoming a drakonic warrior was never only his own dream. He wanted to do it for Freyra, too. He wanted to become someone she could be proud of, someone as strong and fearless as she was, someone who could protect others and make the world a better place.
I know I’m going to make it, he thought, surrendering completely to that innocent, unwavering belief.
On the third and final day of the examination, the finalists were brought to the shore. The tide was low, washing over black, rocky sand, while deep sapphire waves merged with the ashen-blue dawn at the horizon. Atop a hastily built wooden platform, the twenty remaining contestants prepared to face the final trial: altitude.
“A drakonic warrior must be as enduring as the mountains, capable of flying for miles without surrendering to exhaustion,” the master of ceremonies proclaimed. “A drakonic warrior must be as swift as lightning, ready to answer danger in the blink of an eye. And a drakonic warrior must soar higher than all others, proving that even the sky is not their limit.”
Cheers and applause broke out as contestants and spectators alike waited in eager anticipation. At the blast of the horn, every young flier hurled themselves into the air. Teklómenes climbed at a measured pace, conserving his strength as he had during the endurance trial, while skillfully riding the wind currents whenever they allowed him to surge upward, just as he had in the speed trial.
With every passing minute, the world beneath him grew smaller. The beach dissolved into a narrow strip of black against the sea. Freyra was reduced to nothing more than a tiny golden speck among the dark sand. From this height, the lands of the drakonic kingdom stretched endlessly toward the horizon, their towering mountains, winding valleys, and vast plateaus beautiful, wild, and full of promise. Teklómenes had never flown so high before.
For one brief, perfect moment, he felt as though he owned the sky.
But the illusion did not last.
The higher he climbed, the harder each breath became. Barely ten minutes had passed, and at the pace he was flying, there was no reason for him to be exhausted already. Yet air no longer seemed to fill his lungs. He inhaled again, deeper this time, but the suffocating tightness in his chest only worsened.
His breathing became ragged. His heart pounded violently against his ribs. Every desperate breath burned. His lungs screamed for air that somehow wasn't enough. His wingbeats, once smooth and effortless, grew uneven and heavy; every stroke demanded more strength than the last. Above him, the other drakones continued climbing, growing smaller as they disappeared into the endless blue.
Teklómenes forced himself higher. His vision wavered.
What's happening to me?
His chest burned as though it was being crushed from the inside. His fingers tingled. His thoughts became strangely slow, slipping away from him.
Why can't I breathe?
He beat his wings again. Nothing.
Without warning, his body simply stopped responding.
His wings fell limp as darkness flooded the edges of his vision.
And the avian plummeted into the void.
~🪶🔥~
Freyra knew something was wrong the instant she noticed Teté struggling to keep his wings moving.
Ever since takeoff, she had been tracking him through a pair of enchanted spyglasses. It didn't take long to realize that the higher the avian boy climbed, the more something seemed to be going terribly wrong. His wingbeats lost their rhythm, his speed faltered, his posture sagged. Even from that impossible distance, she could tell his body was fighting against something.
Had he exhausted himself already? she wondered.
And then she saw his wings stop.
For a single heartbeat, he simply hung there, suspended against the infinite sky.
Then he fell.
And it felt as though Freyra's own heart had fallen with him.
~🪶🔥 ~
Falling.
When Teklómenes regained consciousness, he realized he was falling.
The wind roared in his ears. Through half-lidded eyes, all he could see was the endless ashen-blue sky stretching above him. His chest felt crushed beneath an invisible weight, and a relentless pounding behind his eyes made his stomach churn.
What... what happened?
Had something struck him? His thoughts drifted sluggishly, refusing to come together. He remembered flying upward. He remembered struggling to breathe. Then... Nothing. His wings refused to obey.
And now he was plummeting through empty air.
The other drakones were nowhere to be seen, already swallowed by the clouds far above. He didn't need to look down to know what awaited him. The ground was racing closer with every passing second, ready to break every bone in his body and stain the sand with his blood.
Am I going to die?
He never had the chance to dwell on the thought before something caught him. His body jolted violently before settling into the firm embrace of two powerful arms, one supporting his back, the other beneath his legs. Warmth surrounded him. The touch awakened a familiar memory, an unmistakable feeling of safety.
He blinked several times, struggling to focus, until Freyra's terrified face slowly emerged from the blur.
“Teté! Can you hear me?! Are you hurt?!”
It took every ounce of strength he had left to answer.
“What... happened?” he whispered. Even those two words left him gasping for breath.
Freyra didn't answer. Teklómenes couldn't see himself, so he had no idea why the drakona was staring at him with such fear. He couldn't see how deathly pale his face had become, nor how his breathing still came in shallow, uneven breaths.
They continued descending until, moments later, Freyra landed on the black sand.
“We're leaving,” she ordered, motioning for her royal escort to follow them back to the palace.
Leaving? The word echoed dully through Teklómenes's mind. But... the trial...
If he left now, he would be disqualified.
A cold knot of dread tightened in his chest. His head still spun. His vision blurred whenever he tried to lift it. Every breath remained strangely difficult.
No... I can't leave. I have to fly again, I have to reach the finish line...
Without giving him the chance to protest, Freyra pulled him tightly against her chest and carried him away from the beach.
Away from the competition.
Away from the examination.
Away from his chance to become a drakonic warrior.
Teklómenes buried his face against her shoulder before anyone could see the tears spilling silently down his cheeks.
~🪶🔥 ~
As soon as they returned to the palace, Freyra brought Teklómenes straight to the royal healer for an examination.
“It appears to be a case of hypoxia. His body wasn't receiving enough oxygen,” explained Eyra, the elderly drakona healer.
She unrolled several scrolls and laid them across the table. One showed the anatomical diagram of a male drakón, and beside it—brought from a distant kingdom precisely for cases like this—was that of a male avian. Her finger traced several structures within the chest.
“An avian’s lungs are smaller than a drakón’s,” she said. “And because drakones produce fire, they absorb oxygen from the air far more efficiently in order to generate the spark.” She adjusted her spectacles, folding her arms. “The higher the altitude, the thinner the air becomes. In simple terms, once the boy reached that height, his body could no longer take in enough oxygen and he lost consciousness.”
For a moment, Freyra exhaled in relief. It wasn’t something worse, not a wound nor a curse. But then she turned toward Teklómenes and her relief collapsed the instant she saw him.
His face was drained of color. His eyes were wide and unblinking, fixed somewhere far beyond the room. The anguish there was so complete it made her chest tighten painfully.
“B-but… will I be able to fly again?” he asked, his voice trembling.
“You will,” Eyra replied. “But I recommend waiting at least twenty-four hours before attempting any flight again. You need to recover fully.”
Teklómenes let out a slow breath, as if trying to steady himself.
“Alright… the militia admission exams are held every six months. I can always try again later…”
“Don't even think about it,” the healer cut in sharply. Her expression held no anger, only unwavering resolve. It was the kind of certainty that did not allow argument. “Don't you understand? Your lungs were never meant to function at those altitudes. Today you were fortunate Her Majesty reached you in time. Under any other circumstances, you would have died up there.”
“But then…” Teklómenes whispered, barely audible, “how am I supposed to become a drakonic warrior?”
And then came the answer he had feared most.
“You won't,” Eyra said. “You can't.”
That was the final blow.
The realization hit Teklómenes like something breaking inside him. He would never become a draconic warrior—not because of failure or lack of effort, but because of who he was, what he was. Tears spilled before he even registered them as he suddenly turned and ran out of the infirmary.
“Teté!” Freyra called after him, but he was already gone.
“Let him go,” Eyra said quietly, stopping her. “He has to understand. No matter how many times he's told, until he accepts it, he will only keep hurting himself.”
Though her stern expression remained, her violet eyes now looked weary. Decades of experience, years spent witnessing countless stories, patients, and tragedies, were written plainly within them.
“It isn’t his fault,” she added. “The world simply works that way.”
~🪶🔥~
Teklómenes did not make it far before his legs finally gave out. He sank into a corner of the palace, curling in on himself as sobs tore through his chest. No matter how desperately he tried, he couldn't stop crying. Every ragged breath only made it harder to breathe. His head still throbbed, dizziness still lingered, and his body ached from the ordeal, but none of it compared to the pain hollowing him out from within.
He felt like a complete failure. Not simply because failing the third trial meant failing the drakonic militia's admission examination, but because of the cruel truth it had forced him to face: an avian's body simply wasn't made to fly where drakones could.
He could never equal a drakón.
He could never become one of them.
No matter how relentlessly he trained, how fiercely he fought, how badly he wanted it. His body would never become something it was not.
That truth destroyed him. Once again, Teklómenes felt himself falling—not through the sky this time, but from the impossible height of his own hopes and dreams. He was plunging toward a reality too cruel to escape, certain to break him the moment he hit it.
Used as bait where Whumper doesn't care about Character A once Character B is captured.
Maybe Whumper leaves them where they are (tied up, possibly gagged), maybe they release them and/or force them to leave, maybe they take Character B and just leaves. Maybe they kill them. Character A's only purpose was to be bait, to lure Character B in and once that is done, they just get tossed to the side.
"I only took you because you were easier to capture than Character B. You were just a tool to get to them. I don't need you anymore."
To no one's surprise, used as bait. Teklomenes learns that his new friend Reyvren is kidnapped, and he goes out to save his buddy, but it was a trap and Tete gets captured too!!! Oh no!
-- @whumperofworlds
My good old friend, used as bait
~Original story~
Masterlist
CW: nonhuman whumpee, nonhuman whumper, multiple whumpees, multiple whumpers, kidnapping, mention of "racial" discrimination, mention of death, death threats, used as bait, bound and gagged, restraints, captivity, ransom, hostage situation.
"Okay, now it’s my turn. Mmmm, why do you always wear such revealing clothes?"
"Well, I don’t spend all my time training for nothing. Besides, lacking scales like you drakones, what else could I flaunt if not my muscles?"
Teklómenes and Reyvren were sitting on a cliff, watching the lush gardens of pink, white, and purple flowers along the slope of the palace mountain. Both young men had grown used to seeing each other whenever Reyvren finished his work at the infirmary, whether to talk or to wander around the surroundings together. Both quickly discovered that they shared many things in common, such as their love for books, so the conversations flowed long and pleasantly, sometimes lasting hours.
"I think I should go now," Reyvren said, standing up and stretching his wings. "I don’t want to leave my grandmother alone preparing dinner."
"Alright, say hello to her for me," Teklómenes replied in turn.
The other boy’s cheeks flushed. His pale face always took on a warmer color when he was with the young avian.
"Okay. Goodbye, see you later!"
The friends said their goodbyes, glad for having each other’s company. Meanwhile, far from that place, someone with darker intentions watched through a spyglass as the two youths separated. A malevolent smile crept across a face.
It was time to act.
~🪶🔥🪶🔥~
Reyvren was walking calmly through the village when he accidentally bumped into someone else.
"I'm sorry," he apologized, embarrassed. The things that happened to him for walking around lost in thought…
"Don’t apologize," a rough voice replied.
When he looked up, Reyvren found a drakón smiling at him with malice, much taller and broader than him. Discreetly, the stranger held a knife in his hand, the tip level with Reyvren’s navel. "Why don’t we go for a walk?"
The boy felt his stomach drop. He glanced to the sides. The wide street was almost empty; no one was paying attention to him. Nothing in his attacker’s relaxed posture raised suspicion, who, leaning forward, gave the impression of engaging him in an intimate conversation. The tip of the knife pressed into Reyvren’s abdomen, not enough to break skin, but enough to send a chill through him at the clear threat.
"Shall we?"
With trembling legs, the young man let himself be guided through several streets until they left the village, heading into the wide fields along the slope. The sun had already finished setting behind the mountain when they stopped in front of an old, enormous barn. Two other drakones were waiting there, accompanied by a shepherd warg.
"Looks like it was easy," one of them commented, not taking his mocking, predatory gaze off Reyvren before he was thrown inside the barn.
"Who are you?! What do you want from me?!" the boy exclaimed, facing his captors. Even though inside he was dying of fear, he tried to appear brave.
The three drakones exchanged looks and laughed.
"The less you resist," one of them said, pulling out several coils of rope, "the less it’ll hurt."
What followed happened very quickly. The three strangers lunged at Reyvren, who, without training and unable even to use the power of fire to protect himself, could do very little to defend himself. Cornered and outmatched in both number and size, his enemies subdued him in no time, pinning him against the ground while rough hands yanked his arms behind his back. Coarse rope bound his wrists, legs, and wings, tightened painfully to the point of agony.
Once he was tightly bound, they dragged him to the back of the barn and threw him onto a pile of hay. Reyvren struggled, but only managed to hurt himself against the coarse rope.
"Why are you doing this?!" he cried, blinking several times to keep the panic tears that threatened to blur his vision at bay. "Let me go! What do you want from me?"
"What would we want with a filthy half-drakón?" one of his captors mocked, crouching at his level. "We don’t want you, we want your little friend. The prince."
In that moment, Reyvren felt true terror. The reality of the situation struck him like a devastating lightning bolt from the sky.
He was bait.
"What do you want with him?" he asked, but he knew it was useless. They had captured him to lure Teklómenes. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that the avian would come without hesitation if he found out his friend was in danger.
"We’re tired of this life of herding goats," one of the drakones said. "We want easy money. Before the crown can catch us, we’ll already be far away with the ransom."
No, this couldn’t be happening.
"He’ll know it’s a trap!" Reyvren insisted desperately.
The three drakones exchanged looks again and laughed.
"Good thing you won’t be able to tell him anything to warn him."
"No, wait, ple-mnph!"
A cloth with a thick knot in the middle was forced between his teeth and tied behind his head, painfully pulling at several strands of his long black hair. One of his captors began rummaging through the bag they had taken from him and pulled out a small round mirror: the magic mirror Queen Freyra had given him to communicate with Teklómenes.
"Time to call your little friend," one of the drakones said.
The reflective surface of the mirror began to grow increasingly opaque, as if a thick fog lay behind it, before it faded and Teklómenes’ face appeared on the other side.
"Reyvren, are you—?" The prince cut himself off when he saw the image on the other side of the mirror, the feathers at the sides of his head bristling. One of the drakones grabbed Reyvren by one of his horns and lifted his head, while with the other hand he placed the tip of a knife right below his eye.
"We have your friend, Your Highness. If you want him back alive, you’ll have to pay for it."
Bound and gagged, with no way whatsoever to warn his only friend about the trap, Reyvren listened as the criminals gave instructions on how much gold to bring and the location where to leave it.
"You have one hour, Your Highness. Otherwise the damned half-breed will be dead."
"Mmph!"
Reyvren shook his head, but seeing Teklómenes’ terrified and pained face through the mirror only shattered what little strength he had left. He didn’t want his friend to be captured, but he didn’t want to die either.
"I’ll do it," Teklómenes said in a hard voice. "You’d better not touch a single hair on his head before I get there, or you’ll regret it."
"We’ll be waiting, Your Highness."
And with that, the connection between the mirrors vanished. The drakones left the barn, leaving Reyvren alone, with the warg at the door as the only guard. There, alone on a pile of hay, he allowed himself to shed the first tears of helplessness.
~🪶🔥🪶🔥~
Teklómenes felt his mind tearing itself apart between destructive fury and suffocating fear. He had taken the gold he found and flown in the direction the kidnappers had indicated. He told no one, not even Freyra, for he feared for Reyvren’s safety. The kidnappers had made it clear that if he didn’t arrive in time, alone, and with the gold, they would kill his friend.
And he would not allow himself to lose him, not when he was the first and only one he had.
He arrived in front of an old barn, in an area of the kingdom used for raising mountain goats. There he saw three drakones waiting beside a warg. He recognized them from the mirror and knew he had reached the right place.
No sooner had he landed than he threw the sack of gold onto the ground at their feet.
"Here it is," he said sharply. "Now release my friend."
The drakones exchanged knowing looks. One of them took the sack, while another walked to the barn door and removed a huge lock.
"Go get him yourself," they told him.
Without needing to be told twice, Teklómenes pushed the door open and stepped inside. The interior of the structure was empty except for some old wooden crates and tools in a corner. And at the back, on a mattress of hay, a body. Shining red scales stood out faintly in the dimness of dusk.
"Reyvren!"
Teklómenes ran to his friend. The addressed one lifted his head, his pupils blown wide into a tiny point in the middle of his large light-blue eyes.
"Mmm, gmh mph phmm!" Reyvren cried out, his warnings muffled behind the gag, shaking his head frantically.
Teklómenes needed a second to understand, but when he did, it was already too late: the three drakones had him surrounded and lunged at him.
He fought, of course he did, striking noses with his elbows, hitting ribs and stomachs with wings and fists, scratching skin and scales with his claws; but in the end he was still a young avian against three large, seasoned drakones. The battle was doomed to fail.
"You walked right into our trap, little bird," one of the drakones said, while the other two forced Teklómenes to the ground.
"Bastards," the avian growled through his teeth. Coarse rope had already begun binding his wrists, wings, and legs. "What do you want?"
"Simple, we want money. And we’re sure the Queen will pay very well to see her chick safe and sound again."
The knots were secured. Teklómenes struggled, but he was firmly restrained. It would be impossible for him to escape on his own.
"Good, we have the boy. Time to kill the half-breed."
One of the drakones grabbed Reyvren by the horns and began dragging him out of the barn. At his waist he carried a large butchering knife.
"H-hey, wait!" Teklómenes shouted, something tightening painfully in his chest. Reyvren had his eyes squeezed shut, but he could see the tears clinging to his lashes and hear his quick, shaking breaths. "You already caught me! Why do you want to kill him?"
"He’s already served his purpose," one of his captors replied, as if stating the most obvious thing in the world. "We don’t need a useless half-breed. If we let him go, that would ruin our plans. So the easiest thing is to silence him forever."
A broken sob escaped from Reyvren’s throat, and Teklómenes knew he had to do something.
"The Queen will pay for him!" he exclaimed. "Leave him alive, and I know she’ll pay his ransom too. Whatever you planned to ask for me, ask double for both, and I know she’ll agree."
The truth was that Teklómenes had no idea if that would work. He didn’t want Freyra to yield to the demands of these wretched criminals, but he was not going to lose his friend, not now, not like this.
The drakones exchanged looks again and discussed the matter as if their two prisoners were not even there.
"It could work. And we avoid having to get rid of a body."
"Alright. He can live."
"But if we don’t receive that extra money, we’ll kill him and sell his parts."
Having reached a decision, they dragged both young men back to the pile of hay. A piece of cloth with a knot in the middle was shoved into Teklómenes’ mouth and tied behind his head, cutting off any further sound. Once the barn door was closed, the two boys were left alone. Teklómenes twisted on the hay until he managed to sit with his back against the wall. Could there be any way to escape before the ransom was demanded? His thoughts were interrupted by a series of soft, broken sobs, barely audible. He turned his head and saw Reyvren, his body curled tightly in on itself. His shoulders trembled faintly.
The avian boy couldn’t help the sharp ache in his chest. All of this was his fault. Reyvren had been taken just to trap him, used as bait for him. Teklómenes was used to walking a narrow line over danger; but Reyvren didn’t deserve any of this.
He leaned forward and gently bumped his head against Reyvren’s to get his attention. Maybe his captors had taken his voice, and his hands were bound behind his back, but he wanted to do something, anything, to comfort his friend. After a moment, Reyvren lifted his face. His light-blue eyes, heavy with guilt and humiliation, avoided Teklómenes’ yellow ones for a moment, and when he finally dared to meet them, the tears only fell harder. Teklómenes understood that feeling all too well.
As best they could, they shifted on the hay, sitting side by side. They didn’t know if there was any way to escape their fate unharmed, whether the Queen would pay for their freedom or they would find another way out. But if there was anything good in all that darkness, it was that at least they still had each other to hold onto.
I need like NEED more pet whump focused more on the actual training process.
Whumper getting whumpee used to sleeping in a kennel. So confined and restrictive that even when they aren't in the kennel they begin to naturally curl up into a tight ball while sleeping.
Making sure Whumpee never speaks, not like a person at least, maybe the training is so good that even after whumpee is saved, all they can manage is barks and whines just like a dog.
Whumper forces whumpee to eat dog food, or an equivalent, right out of a dog bowl, just like a dog should. When whumpee is saved, they simply refuse to eat for a few days, they're a good dog, good dogs don't eat off plates.
Until finally caretaker (desperate to avoid whumpee developing refeeding syndrome) buys a dog bowl for whumpee. Which, much to the relief (and slight horror) of caretaker, finally gets whumpee to eat, though hesitantly, after all whumper did good to teach whumpee that dogs don't eat people food.
Caretaker has to get creative to find ways to get whumpee to eat actual people food that won't make them feel like they're disobeying.
Whumpee who insists on sleeping at the foot of caretaker's bed, who sits beside the bed whimpering and whining until finally caretaker relents, whumpee jumping up on the bed and quickly falling asleep at caretaker's feet.
Whumpee is taught commands, sit, stay, roll over, it takes some convincing (withholding food, shock collar, beatings) but eventually whumpee begins to play along.
Whumpee feels an attachment to their collar, because being collared means being owned, being owned means you're useful, the only reason whumpee survived whumper is because they stayed useful. So when caretaker tries to take whumpee's collar off they become hysterical, crying and freaking out, cowering in a corner. The first time caretaker hears whumpee speak is whumpee begging to not be put down, that they can learn more tricks. They can do better, be better. They'll do anything, anything if it means they'll stay caretakers pet.
Whumpee had watched other 'pets' being put down, usually in awful slow and painful ways. As whumper always said "If you aren't useful alive, you might as well be entertaining as you die".
It takes caretaker nearly an hour to get whumpee to calm down, even then they can still hear whumpee's quiet sobs when caretaker is in the other room.
ellievsbear
turnnoffyourmind
prguitarman
vaporwave
gracieabrams
germansingergirl
