“What?” Another brunette calls from the back of the storeroom just as the brunette with the gauntlet returns with a serviceable oak stool. “Who called?”
“No one!” Lyrian calls back, careful to keep his voice down. “Go back to your meat buns.”
There's some vague grumbling, but the matter seems resolved when a tall buff brunette in black robes brings the box of food to the back of the room. Lyrian-with-the-gauntlet smiles wearily as he sets down the stool, stepping back to watch Icarus flop onto it. “My apologies. This must be overwhelming. The concept of multiple universes existing side by side is a new and very much foreign theory after all.”
“The fact that there's more than one Lyrian is…” Icarus pinches the bridge of his nose, frowning. “I can barely deal with the one, and now--what is that?”
Both Lyrians glance over at the mass of warm brown animal in the corner behind the door, and Lyrian-with-the-gauntlet chuckles. “That's also Lyrian. And Lyrian.”
The elf stares. “You're telling me that my--Lyrian is a mabari in another life.”
“Cursed to be a mabari.” The younger brunette corrects quickly. “So is the other Lyrian, though the form he takes is different.”
“What other--” Icarus cuts himself off, watching incredulously as a small pink nose twitches over the line of the dog’s back, followed by incredibly fine whiskers and a pair of small, chocolate brown eyes. The tiny rabbit pokes its head over the dog’s back, ears swiveling lightly as it studies its surroundings. “You’re telling me, that he got cursed to be a--a--”
“You can say it.” A high-pitched voice chirps, resigned, and it’s not until it starts to speak again that Icarus realizes it’s the rabbit speaking. “Snugabunny got cursed ta be a bunny.”
Lyrian wrings his wrists anxiously, hovering over the elf as the redhead buries his face in his hands. “Um. So. We should get this over with. Instead of calling everyone Lyrian, Lyrian and Lyrian, we uh. Started calling each other by who or what we are. So.”
Lyrian-with-a-gauntlet takes pity on the older man. “Your Lyrian is the ‘Templar’, the only non-magical one out of all of us. The mabari is ‘Pup’. The bunny prince is ‘Rabbit’. I’m the ‘Inquisitor’.”
“I assume the dragon is ‘Dragon’, the kid is ‘Kid’, and the teenager is...I don’t know.” Icarus laughs weakly, tearing his hands from his face as he stares at Inquisitor. “This...this all seems so...I feel like I’m in a dream. Like this cannot truly be happening.”
“The dragon is indeed, ‘Dragon’. The boy insists on being called ‘Snugabunny’, hence the need for a different name for the rabbit here.” Inquisitor wets his lips, running a hand through his hair. “The teen is ‘Healer’, since that was his role in his world. Unfortunately, this is real.”
“Then prove it.” Icarus mumbles. The truth behind Lyrian’s midnight escapades seems all too bizarre, and for a brief moment, the elf wishes he had never followed the templar from the kitchens.
Lyrian and the Inquisitor share an uneasy glance. “We’re all mages. To prove this isn’t a dream or that we aren’t demons...you know it’s difficult.”
“But not impossible.”
The Inquisitor glances at the templar, and tilts his head at the group of brunettes happily chatting away in the back, to which the older man shakes his head vehemently. “I’m not letting him prove it. You know what he did to prove it to me.”
“Icarus isn’t a templar, it’ll be different. We’ll ask him if there’s another way.” Inquisitor tugs on his lower lip with his teeth, frowning when the templar just gives him a defeated shrug. “Divine, mind coming over here for a second?”
The tall brunette in black robes from early rises and picks his way over to them, one elegant brow raised as he gives them a once over. “You look like someone killed your pet and dismembered it in front of you. What’s the matter?”
“Icarus wants proof.” Lyrian blurts, grimacing when the man-Divine, apparently, though Icarus couldn’t see anything divine about him-hums thoughtfully. “Do you think you could convince him somehow?”
Divine purses his lips thoughtfully, then sets one hand on his hip and leans back casually. “If I were you, I would have kissed him already. What more proof does he need when you’re the only non-magical one who can’t enter the Fade?”
The elf glares up at his brunette when Lyrian glances at him hopefully. “No. Absolutely not. Don’t get me started on how you kept this from me, from Eremes and everyone who could have helped send them back.”
The Divine and Inquisitor rolls their eyes in unison. “Stubborn as always.” The Inquisitor mutters under his breath.
“He really doesn’t change much. Unlike our Eri’s.” Divine sighs and pulls out a dagger, much to the Inquisitor’s resignation, Lyrian’s horror and Icarus’s confusion. “Look away now, kids. I don’t want to make you sick.”
“I disemboweled a dragon the week before I got here.” Inquisitor remarks blandly as Divine takes the elf’s hand and wraps his fingers around the hilt of the dagger. “Don’t try to coddle me.”
“Noted, oh great Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste.” Divine mocks, then wipes the smile from his face. “Look, you’re probably going to do it when you find out who I am, so let’s get this over with.” Before Icarus can say anything, the man slams the dagger into his palm, blood spurting from the wound immediately. “It’s okay, I’m used to it.”
Horrified, the elf stutters out a weak protest. “No--No one can be used to--used to stabbing themselves!”
Divine smiles, a self-deprecating twist of his lips. “How about the Black Divine of Tevinter?”
He has to give the man credit where it's due--he hadn't even noticed till he heard from another healer about ‘Templar Everett’s curious tendency to get third helpings of buns at supper.’
He tracks the man down after dinner, watching suspiciously as Lyrian takes leftovers surreptitiously from the kitchens, stuffing buns and good grief, entire dishes into the box he has perched on the very edge of the counter. He watches as the templar scurries out of the kitchen and trails behind him carefully, ducking behind corners and pillars when Lyrian looks around with a vaguely confused and wary air. He can't risk being found out before he gets to the bottom of this.
The game ends when Lyrian stops in front of a door, places the box of food on the ground, and knocks smartly on it thrice. There's an answering knock, and as the templar whispers an earnest “It's just me”, Icarus slides out of the shadows.
“What,” and Lyrian jumps about a foot into the air, spinning around with horror etched into his face, “are you doin-”
“Mister Templar’s here!” A child's voice announces suddenly, and a small freckled brunette darts from behind the opening door, fishing out two buns from the box with obvious delight. “Yay! Food!”
The boy runs back inside of the room before Icarus can comment, and Lyrian licks his lips. “I can explain, sweetkins.” He says, and quails under the elf’s glare.
“Oh, can you, really?” Icarus hisses, but before he can go any further, another brunette pokes his head out of the room, a teen this time.
“Templar, hope you actually got some meat this time, the dragon’s starving and he's too nice to say it out loud.” The teen blinks, only noticing the irate elf too late. “Oh. Oh shit.” He ducks back inside the room and Icarus hears a “Guys I need an adult! Icarus is outside!”
He turns back to his traitorous partner and all but snarls. “You have two children and you never bothered to tell me?”
Lyrian looks like he's choking on his own tongue, which only leaves the third brunette in the doorway to answer his question. This time an actual adult like the teen had asked for, but still younger than Lyrian himself. The young man picks up the box of food and tilts his head towards the inside of the room, looking weary but vaguely amused. “No, I'm not his kid, or his long lost criminal cousin, or-Maker help us-his illegitimate half-brother. How about you calm down and come in? We'll explain if you cooperate and don't kick up a ruckus.”
He takes another look at Lyrian and growls, stalking forward. “It had better be a satisfactory explanation.”
“It's a confusing one, I can promise that at least.” The templar mumbles as the elf pushes past him into the storeroom, looking around warily before he follows them inside and swings the door shut. “Look, before you ask any questions. One, I didn't do it. Two, please don't faint on me.”
“I don't faint.” Icarus snarls, before actually taking in the crowded storeroom. The abnormally crowded storeroom. “Oh.” He says faintly.
“Oh.” The third brunette echoes with a small smile, setting the box down on top of a dusty crate nearby. “Some of us may never have met you, Icarus, but I'm sure you know us all.” He sweeps an arm over the strange scene before them, and Icarus can't help but notice the faint green light glimmering from cracks in his gauntlet. “Icarus, may I introduce you to the accidental gathering of Lyrians?”
“The what?”
“I knoooow.” Lyrian whines, trying to press himself against his elf, only for Icarus to swat him away. Hurt, he sulks behind the younger adult Lyrian. “Inquisitor, Icarus is being a meanie.”
“He doesn't really mean it. You should know better than me about that.” The younger Lyrian shakes his head, exasperated. “But to answer your question, the Eluvian in the back brought each of us here. Each of us had an accident with an Eluvian in a world of our own, which some of us surmise is the reason we were brought here, to a world where the only non-magical Lyrian lived in. A world where the original Lyrian and the others could not adversely affect each other with our different brand of magic.”
He pauses then, taking in the elf’s pale face worriedly. “Icarus? You don't look so good.”
The redhead swallows, takes another good look at the bunch of brunettes huddled at the back of the storeroom, and says, “I think--I should sit for this.”
“Perhaps you should.” The younger Lyrian--Creators, they had better have a good way of differentiating who was who, or Icarus would go insane--nods agreeably, trotting away to fetch a stool of some sort.
Icarus closes his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. He can deal with this. He dealt with a whiny, puppy-like man on a daily basis, he could deal with this. “And how did you get involved with this?”
Lyrian-his Lyrian, not any of the apparently magical clones-smiles hesitantly. “I found the first one searching for clothes in my room. He’s half-dragon, apparently.”
Summer comes to Thedas, a bunny refuses to let go of old comforts, and a crush isn’t realized.
A new day, new beginnings, new tasks to complete.
Lyrian hums as he looks over the new cases from yesterday, pulling his hair into a ponytail. As cold as it is in the Frostbacks, summer’s arrival is clearly felt. Not many people stop to admire Skyhold from afar now, after the sun’s rays hit the majestic pristine slopes.
Luckily, most of the inquisition’s guests knew of snow blindness and avoided looking up when everything is bathed in a painful white glow. Unfortunately, that meant most cases brought in were playful, eager children, crying as they covered their eyes and refused to open them for fear of looking upon the reflective snow again.
He’d boop them on their reddened cheeks, have them promise never to disobey their caretakers in such matters again, then send them off with a cookie or three.
They’d usually forget in a few days, but that’s children for you.
He could probably leave his scarf in his room, seeing how hot it got by noon and there were no clouds to curb the sun’s rays, but the thought of it has him squirming in discomfort. The old, weathered thing has been with him since he left the Circle, been with him through thick and thin, helped him stay grounded in the most uncomfortable of situations. Maybe he’d leave it behind after, but not right now, when he still needed a little comfort to get through the lonely days.
He sighs and picks up a sheaf of papers from the desk next to the door, looking through them after he’s sure nothing new happened in the night. The newly arrived healers had offered to take up the night shifts, much to the Inquisition’s healers’ relief, and they’d figured out a good rotation in an hour. Makes things easier on everyone in the long run, to be honest.
A small line of words hastily scribbled in a corner of one page has him squinting, trying to decipher the horrendous handwriting without having to go consult another healer. It wasn’t like the morning shift was going to be any help, since he always arrived half an hour before them, and the night shift would be too bleary-eyed to--
‘You shouldn’t squint like that. It’s bad for your eyes.’ A line of heat against his back, a large, warm hand on his shoulder radiating the soft pull of the Fade, and he turns his head quickly, startled. The Inquisitor smiles down at him, looking on with fond eyes as he squeaks and flushes bright red. ‘Need any help?’
‘I--ah, no, it’s--I’m uh, I’m fine, really--’ He makes a soft noise of protest as the older man plucks the papers from his hands, then finally remembers to peel himself away and put some distance between them. He’s the Inquisitor, and Lyrian’s just a lowly, healer-in-training from Ostwick who bumbled his way into the organization. Another glance up at the man has him blushing a darker red, and he pulls his trusty scarf over his cheeks and nose. ‘I’m fine, really…’
Who was he kidding at this point? Everyone knew of his crush on the inquisitor. It was just about as subtle as Krem’s war hammer, and as massive as the weapon too.
One more glance up at the man, and he quickly whips out his striped woolen ear-flap hat, cramming it on before the inquisitor could say another word.
A continuation to Warden Lyrian getting out of the physical Fade after a year and a half.
The Fade is kinder to him when he slips into his dreams, the soft wash of the surf upon the shores keeping the whispers of the darkspawn away, even if temporarily. He’s 7 again, sitting on the Ostwick docks, kicking his legs idly even as the boy beside him throws bits of bread to the hungry fish surging under the water’s surface. Mother and Father sit close by, under the welcoming shade of a tree, murmuring sweet nothings to each other while Angeline chases a flock of gulls off the street.
Something feels off though, despite his willingness to let this rare dream run its course. If he doesn’t look too closely, there’s almost a halo around Mother’s golden hair, and Father’s features waver every so often. And the boy next to him--he knows his name, but it escapes him now. He frowns and pinches off the crust on his slice of bread, throwing it into the water beneath his feet.
“What’s wrong?”
He shrugs, struggles with words before sighing and giving up for now. He’s suddenly, really, very tired. “I dunno. A lot of things.”
The boy turns to him, eyes bright, amusement clear in the curve of his lips. A shiny silver crow skull sits on his finger, a little sprig of forget-me-nots dangles from the hilt of the dagger on his hip. “Tell me.”
“I--” He bites his lip, worrying at it with his teeth. “I promised someone I wouldn’t tell. And I’m Mama’s good snugabunny. I hav’ ta keep secrets.” He ducks his head. “Sorry. I know I promised you I’d tell you everything, but this one’s special.”
The boy’s voice turns sensual then, deeper, and fond. “Ah, but of course, my dear Warden. Some secrets are meant to be kept and never shared. But should you change your mind…”
He glances up at that, an instinctive retort on his lips-- “But I’m not a Warden”--that dies as he looks upon a crow’s skull with twinkling, merry golden eyes. The world blurs, and for a moment he spies a dark dragon spitting green fire off in the distance, before a clap of thunder makes him jump--
Warden Lyrian Everett startles awake, eyes flying open before he muffles a groan. Everything hurt. His arms, where he had cut himself to use blood magic, then later to keep himself alert, his chest, where he was sure the nightmare had stabbed him more than once with its legs. His broken leg, a dislocated ankle, and a million other cuts and bruises, screaming muffledly at his senses even under the effects of a good few numbing potions and tinctures.
But he’s alive and back in the real world. That fact alone has him ready to sink back into his dreams, if not for the pattering of booted feet in the corridor, and the harsh whisper of someone at the door to the room. “What in the world do you think you're doing, running down the hall, I could hear you coming from five corridors over, I'm pretty sure he could hear you c--”
“Creators,” he can hear the eye roll in the young Inquisitor’s voice, and a soft smile tugs at his lips, “calm down! I just wanted Zevran to get here as fast as possible--”
“No, I will not ‘calm down’!” He would raise an eyebrow if he had the strength for it, recognizing the huff for what it is and who it came from. A healer’s exasperation, from the fiery, foxy elf who fussed over his reckless clanmate’s nearly non-existent regard for his own safety. “Don't you understand that Warden Lyrian needs all the rest he can get--”
Fingertips ghosting over his good hand distract him from the conversation, and he freezes, one word in Eremes’s explanation leaping out at him.
Zevran.
“Amor.” He hears the elf--his elf, the love of his life, his sweetkins-- say, and his heart aches at the tone of his voice. Warm wetness on his skin, and he wrenches his tired eyes open at the sensation of Zevran crying--sobbing-- on his hand.
A year and a half.
Whatever speech he had practiced in the Fade to tell Zevran upon their reunion is wiped from his mind on seeing his elf. Carefully, wearily, he raises his other hand to place it on the Antivan’s head, stroking his golden hair. After a moment, he swallows the lump in his throat and wets his lips.
And a ‘What if the Hero of Ferelden volunteered to stay in the Fade at Adamant’ with an implied ‘Flemeth/Urthemiel led the Warden to the Crossroads to help him come home’.
--
The real world does not make sense after the year and half spent wandering the Fade and Eluvian crossroads. He falls out of the mirror into Skyhold’s dusty, cold storeroom, and looks up, expecting to see a pale cloudy sky, the soft silence of abandoned pathways waiting with bated breath for familiar feet. The soft groan of a million souls engraved into the stones floating under an ominous green sky, the laughter of a thousand demons echoing in his ears, always hovering on the edges of his consciousness, whispering promises of reunion and safety and home.
He finds a dusty ceiling, cobwebs decorating the eaves and dim corners, the foreign, musty smell of boxes and books fighting desperately against the corruption of mildew. Lyrian stares from where he sits on the moth eaten carpet, dazed by the sudden change in his surroundings. It’s a while before he can summon the strength to stagger to his feet, blood dripping down and not up from the cuts he made in his arm.
‘Not the Fade.’ He manages to murmur, licking dry, cracked lips, blinking owlishly at the door. It’s a mere dozen feet away, and yet, to him it may have been miles. He takes a deep breath, feels the chill of the mountain air in his lungs. ‘Not the Crossroads.’
He lifts his foot, places it forward with some hesitation. A step. It’s not the Fade. The ground doesn’t crumble under his touch, doesn’t leave him standing on air with only faith to keep him walking above the abyss. He drags his other foot forward, limping towards the door. The Nightmare demon had left its marks on him before he had finally burned it to a crisp, the blizzard he summoned sweeping away the ashes and leaving no traces that there even had been such a monstrous creature.
Maybe he should have brought a part of it back for Dagna.
It feels like an age has passed before he places his hand on the door knob, leaning his weight on the wood as he turns the handle to open the door. He’s exhausted, and it takes all his strength to keep standing when the elf passing by the door jumps back with a shriek and drops her books.
‘Elan, what--Lyrian!?’
He rallies the last of his strength to look up from the ground to the Inquisitor and smile before he collapses.
Because I don’t believe that Urthemiel would have left no traces of their brief joining on the Warden. Souls and all that magical mind-link bullshit.
In which I headcanon that Kieran can still find the Warden and walk with them in their dreams because of Urthemiel.
--
‘What is his name?’ Lyrian asks when the ball ends, when the inquisitor bids his final farewells to Celene, Briala and Gaspard, and the rest of the Inquisition waits by the gates. Morrigan blinks, unfazed, and he elaborates with a tilt of his head. ‘The boy. Your son.’
Everyone gives Morrigan a wide berth, but Zevran stands closer, if only to give them an illusion of privacy. He sees the elf’s ears flick from the corner of his eye, and resists the urge to smile. Morrigan crosses her arms over her chest, and her son blinks slowly at him. ‘Kieran.’ Her answer is clipped, voice leaving no space for further discussion. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Kieran.’ He echoes, thoughtful, even as the child smiles up at him gently. ‘It’s a good name.’
‘Hello Father.’ Kieran smiles, and he feels a gentle probe at the frayed edges of his mind. Compassion sweeps in, protective, and Urthemiel backs away, the boy looking apologetic. ‘I’m sorry. He’s just...lonely.’
‘Who is?’ Zevran asks, finally dropping all pretense and ambling over. Lyrian shrugs with a wry smile, Morrigan flashing a glare at him before hustling her son to their carriage.
‘Well, you certainly clean up well enough.’ Leliana says as he finishes his first sweep around the ballroom, gathering his cloak behind him to make way for a pair of giggling young ladies. They blush as he bows, a small playful smile on his lips as they scurry away flustered. ‘I see some of his charm has rubbed off onto you as well.’
‘I did play in the Ferelden court for a while after all.’ The warden laughs, adjusting the silver-trimmed mask he’d grudgingly agreed to wear to the ball. ‘I do have to agree though. Zev is an amazing teacher.’
‘No doubt.’ The spymaster smiles, and they fall to small talk to pass the time. She asks how his search is going, and he shrugs, rocking his hand back and forth. So-so. Some promising leads, at least one dead end. He asks how everyone’s been, of the ones she had kept in contact with, and she offers little tidbits for the ones she knows still live.
Occasionally, the inquisitor scurries to their side with a shy smile and whispers of devastatingly interesting gossip, elven ears flicking self-consciously at the attentive looks of the Orlesian nobles. Lyrian smiles, tells him not to worry, and ruffles the elf’s hair, much to the exasperation of the Inquisition members present. The elf lights up and scurries off, curly hair now just as bouncy as the rest of him.
Then he catches the eye of someone lingering on the balconies, and freezes, glass halfway to his lips. Golden eyes flick over his form in turn, before widening as she puts a name to his masked face. Memories of cynical laughter, of soft fingers with a steel grip, of one last night before the end, gently float to the surface even as he lowers his glass.
‘Lyrian?’ Leliana asks, concerned, and he waves the query away, leaving her side at last with an apologetic murmur. He catches the eye of his beloved and mouths ‘save a dance for me?’, to which the Antivan only smiles, nods and gestures for him to go ahead. Of course Zevran would have noticed her presence before his Warden did.
Lyrian had always been hopelessly oblivious.
Minutes later, he leans on the balustrade and smiles, mask hanging from his fingers.
First impressions:
- [ soft sobbing ]
- So it can’t handle high quality textures outside of a cutscene? Well dammit.
- CARVER MY BABY THAT UNIFORM WAS TOTALLY MADE A YEAR POST BLIGHT.
- Flemeth brought out her fancy prom dress for Hawke? Why, that’s a good reason to be polite to you too, ma'am.
-God dammit, you can’t change anything in the preset? Well shit.
- So looks wise, Garrett is like Bethany and Marian is like Carver. Good!
-God dammit I forgot to finish my playthrough for my Fenris-loving Hawke. Well the Anders-loving sasser is up!
-Flemeth loves sass.
-Dammit Wesley shut the hell up about the Chantry, I will sock you in the nuts.
-Noooooo BETHANY!
-Bye Wesley. I don’t really miss you.
-Flemeth my good lady, teach me the ways of dragons. And elves. And dragons.
-Mom, Gamlen is a tit.
- [ sees Bodahn and Sandal in the background ] Fuck off Bartrand, I actually see some dwarves who I love!
- [ meets Varric ] I LOVE YOU ALREADY.
- [ goes to new home ] GAMLEN YOU TIT.
- [ Gets Amell family will ] GAMLEN YOU ABSOLUTE TIT.
- [ Leandra mentions Warden Amell ] [ screams in delight ] I LOVE DRAGON AGE
After they reach Skyhold, Lyrian develops the bad habit of not eating three full meals a day (he always catches dinner though). He keeps a plate of cookies or fruit near him whenever he needs to go over paperwork, and snacks on the plate’s contents for hours as he works.
His argument: ‘I work faster this way’ and ‘less time wasted’ and ‘I’m not that hungry.’
Of course, once Dorian finds out, everyone else does, and everyone is Not Pleased.
She did not need much, wanted very little. A kind word, sincerity, fresh air, clean water, a garden, kisses, books to read, sheltering arms, a cosy bed, and to love and be loved in return.
For a split second, he’s hit with the sense of déjà vu when she asks the question, but he shakes it off. He has never progressed so far into a relationship to warrant such a question, so the sudden odd feeling must be just a slight chill thanks to the Frostbacks’ awful winter season.
“What do you like about him?” The head surgeon asks, after Icarus has left the infirmary, presumably to glare at more snotty nobles or read in the library. With him, you’d never know.
Lyrian sighs and sits himself on a cot, pulling off his stained gloves and rotating his wrist as he thought about his answer. “What I like about Icarus?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a lot of things I like about him, y’know?” He says lightly, staring out the windows of the small dim room, briefly tracking the elf’s figure in the crowd before it vanishes seconds later. He huffs and looks back down at his bare hands, then shrugs once. “You want the full list?”
The older surgeon wrinkles her nose. “Give me a brief summary of what comes to mind the quickest.”
“Mmm. Then…his eyes.” He smiles to himself. “They’re very expressive. You can’t tell whether he’s really smiling from his lips, or even his ears, even if those flick a damn lot. But you can just look right at him, at his eyes, the furrow of his brow, the way he either locks his gaze with yours or quickly looks away, and you’ll be able to tell.”
“Of course, it takes time to learn what each action, each little twitch means, but it’s worth it.” He laughs and scratches at his head, feeling his cheeks warm in his embarrassment. “…and they are the prettiest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.”
“You do love the color.” The surgeon snorts, and Lyrian tugs a little self-consciously at his belts. “Go on.”
He takes a second to think about it, then shrugs again, a lopsided smile on his lips as he leans back a little. “No specific thing comes to mind other than that. I just love him, y’know? All the little things that make Icarus…Icarus.”
She tilts her head, and he smiles. “Little things? Such as?”
“His voice. The embarrassed huff he makes whenever someone praises him for a job well done. How he never fails to blush when he gets angry, or embarrassed. How he manages to make even the biggest men quail with only a hiss. The little flick his ears do whenever he’s deep in his work. The way one little wisp of his hair never fails to pop out of his braid and lay on his neck. His hands. His amazing mind. His-I can’t believe I’m saying this-his toes.”
He takes a deep breath, then loses it all in a sudden bout of embarrassed laughter. “That’s—that’s getting a little creepy, isn’t it? But I just—I just really love how his toes kinda…curl, into the dirt whenever we go into a forest after leaving a big town. It’s—It’s just really adorable.”
“It just means you have to watch your surroundings more to come back unscathed.’ The head surgeon says drily. “If the reason why you’re always coming back with scrapes and bruises is because you’re Icarus-watching, I’d suggest a healthy dose of watching your own feet first.”
The younger healer stares at her for a long moment, then blushes a furious, dark red.
The surgeon eyes him for a few seconds, then shakes her head with an exasperated chuckle and returns her attention to the assortment of potions in the corner. “It’s good to be young.”
Lyrian makes an embarrassed noise, and makes a dive for his scarf.
baratheonpilled
izzy806
titsay
snowghoul
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turnnoffyourmind
andulkaphoto
dailybridgerton
