A backstory vignette for pre-game Harper + Katy for my wifey @bettydice. For reasons.
Harper doesn’t sleep well. Hasn’t for years. Why is not specifically important - it just is what it is and he’s learned to live with it. He’s even a mostly functional human being most days.
Mostly.
He can tell something is happening before he even opens his eyes. There’s a feeling in the air, an overt quietness with intention behind it. Someone watching him. Someone trying to be quiet.
Of course she’s not quiet, because she’s never quiet; it seems simply beyond her means. Ceitidh exists loudly and though - privately, in the dark secret crevices of his cold black heart - he might find that endearing sometimes, that circumstance does not extend to this moment.
It’s the middle of the night, there’s a rock digging into his back, and Ceitidh is sitting with her back to their waning campfire.
And staring. At him. With her chin in her hands.
Harper blinks. “What the fuck.”
“Did I wake you? I’m sorry Harper,” she asks, concerned, genuine as anything like she really hadn’t meant to.
It doesn’t exactly make him feel better.
“...the fuck are you doing?”
“Well, I heard a weird noise but it was just a bird, like an owl or something - there are owls here, right? I read a story about owls once, about how they’re like death omens or something, only the girl in the story could talk to them because her spirit was an owl and-”
What the fucking fuck.
“Ceitidh.”
“-she fell in love with this old hermit guy who also lived in the woods, but it turned out he was really a prince and he was cursed-”
“Ceitidh.”
“-and then they met but his leg was infected from the bear trap and they had to cut it off, Harper, they cut off his leg and-”
“CEITIDH.”
She stops. Blinks.
He sighs, rubs a hand over his face and grinds his knuckles into his gritty eyes.
“Why the fuck are you not asleep?”
“I told you, the owl and-” she cuts herself off when all he does is stare at her, swallowing the rest of her words.
Eventually she looks down, pulling at the fraying hem of her nightshirt. It’s one of his old shirts and it hangs off her like sackcloth off a scarecrow, twiggy arms and legs sticking out at odd angles.
“I got scared, Harper. There was a noise and it woke me up, and it was nothing but then I was cold. I sat close to the fire but it was kind of low and I’m not supposed to touch it because of that one time and you were still sleeping so I thought it was warmer on this side.”
Which, somehow, in the twisting logic in her brain, meant hovering over him in the middle of the night like a fucking bat.
He doesn’t say anything - he isn’t sure what to say - and the silence drags on until it’s as painful as the rock still under his shoulder. He’s tired. She looks like she does sometimes when he loses his temper and shouts, like she’s holding back tears by the very tips of her eyelashes, and-
“Fuck.”
He doesn’t mean to say it out loud but he clearly does. It makes her wince and start to stammer an apology that cuts out mid-stutter when he pulls back his blanket and moves over on his bedroll.
She doesn’t move. He sighs.
“Well? Are you fucking getting in or not?”
The thing is - and it’s a shitty thing - she doesn’t look like she believes him. Ceitidh slides cautiously closer like it’s a trap, like he’ll snap his blankets shut at the last moment like a door slamming in her face, and it just makes him feel… shitty. Like he’s being mean.
Gods. Fuck. Shit. He’s just tired.
She lies down next to him gingerly, holding herself painfully still, even when he flings his blanket over her legs. She tucks her hand beneath her chin, too timid to even pull the blanket up the rest of the way, and at this rate she'll be up all night staring at him from four inches away and he’ll never get back to sleep.
Fine. Fuck it. Oh well.
He holds his arms out. “Come here.”
She does as he says because of course she does, and he tucks her in against his chest, head pillowed on his arm and nestled beneath his chin.
Her feet are like little blocks of ice where they brush against his shin, and he questions what his life has become that this is now where he lives, playing babysitter to a magical teenager who could sneeze and accidentally burn a house down.
But she really is cold, and she probably was scared, and the way her fingers gather in the sleeve of his shirt and her hair goes straight up his nose reminds him of Celeste.
They are both such little things. It makes his heart ache.
Just for a moment though. There are some roads you just don’t walk at night, and he knows better.
Ceitidh is asleep almost instantly, and he lies there in the dim firelight with his hand splayed across her back, listening to the little snuffling sounds she makes as she breathes.
@bettydice: "justice: karma, honesty, decisions;“I don’t know what to do.”possible AUs/settings/ideas: superhero au, dealing with consequences" Harpy
This ended up being not at all the thing, but still inspired by the prompt so yolo?
--
The letter is burning a hole in his pocket.
It’s been in there all day; long enough to be faintly damp, bent out of shape with the heat of his body, its crisply folded edges faintly crumpled. It’s unlikely to be the worst thing it would see on its long journey to Arrabar, but moodily he thinks it’s too on the nose, too reflective of himself - a bundle of lies smoothed over with nice packaging, worried away until the patina starts to crack.
Fuck.
He crushes the letter in his hand. That doesn’t help anything.
“What are you doing?”
Harper blinks and turns to look at Katy when she slips around one side of him to see what he’s got a chokehold on this time, the diminutive sorceress raising one eyebrow dyed as black as her hair.
“I’m just... having a moment.”
“Another one?”
“Thanks for that.”
Katy rolls her eyes at him and smiles like he’s just being ridiculous, and - well, he is. He is ridiculous. It makes him feel foolish, or would if that was something he ever stopped feeling. He isn’t certain he can even be embarrassed anymore, too used to being consistently and measurelessly stupid.
“What are you doing?” she asks again, peering down at the wrinkled missive, and he just shrugs, rubs the back of one hand across his forehead.
“Nothing. Just thinking about whether or not to send this.”
“Is it a love letter?” It’s not fair that she looks so hopeful. In fact it’s hurtful, but that’s not fair either - she doesn’t know.
He laughs, short and humorless. “No.”
“Oh. Well that’s less interesting then.”
“I know.”
“Well is it something baaaaad?” The way she draws out the syllable makes it sound like bleating and - honestly it’s annoyingly cute. And it gives him exactly the opening he’s looking for, a teasing grin curving his mouth as he slips an arm around her shoulders, the letter making its way back, unnoticed, into his pocket.
He could tell her. He just… isn’t going to.
“Just some business, my little goat.”
Katy wrinkles her nose. “Harper.”
“Ma petite chèvre.”
“Better.”
“It means the same thing.”
Katy rolls her eyes again, like he’s just too old and out of touch to get it. “Everything sounds better in Elven.”
Harper laughs at that, letter not forgotten but neatly folded away, out of sight and for the moment out of mind. “Clearly you need to teach me more phrases. Something out of one of your books, a really good one.”
Katy lights up at the challenge, linking her arm through his. “Well!”
Who knows how long a letter would take to make its way from Waterdeep to Arrabar, if it would make it there at all. His sister, and the rest of his erstwhile secrets, can wait another day.
For @bettydice, like literally everything I write.
Do Better | Taliesin Harper + Ceitidh “Katy” Mhuilneir, #1 brotp
Another scene from their early pre-game days. Harper likes to start fights for fun; Katy does not approve. Warning for violence and mention of alcohol and drug use.
He’s here, again, like always.
It doesn’t even really matter that he doesn’t know where here is; everywhere is the same as it has been for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe forever. His concept of time has skewed just as badly as his sense of geography; it’s just more rain, more mud, more leaves, more rough-thatched houses and the pervasive almost-poverty of people who live off the land and not the labor of other beings. Nothing smells right, nothing feels right, and he hasn’t seen the sea in far too long, the ground too solid beneath his feet for the way he feels perpetually adrift.
Gravity, it seems, is not doing him any favors either. Harper meets the ground with a solid thump, flat on his back with his head bouncing off the graveled street. He could have rolled to the side, fallen correctly, dispersed some of the force of his landing like he knows well how to do, he just - doesn’t. The same way he didn’t dodge the punch that sent him sprawling there, into a puddle like a confused fish flopping when the tide recedes.
Idiot.
He gets back up, grinning. Mostly that’s the liquor, and whatever else had been in it. He hadn’t asked too many questions when he bought the vial, not even caring about it’s slapdash seal, the candle wax dripped around the outside to hold the stained cork in.
Whatever. Not important. He drank it and anything else he could get his hands on until everything started to slowly spin; the room, his thoughts - still an improvement, because at least it was slowly. For once.
Ceitidh doesn’t like it when he does this, he can tell, but she doesn’t say anything about it. She spins too, with her little delicate face scrunched up, eyebrows drawn together, firm in his orbit.
He is going to get them both fucking killed. That’s the thought he’s enjoying when a meaty fist connects with his jaw and knocks him back down to one knee, sharp stones cutting into his bare hands. Where have his gloves gone? It doesn’t matter. He can taste iron in his mouth, lip split, blood gushing from his nose and down his chin like he’s eaten something messy; bitten into his own heart, maybe.
The liquor dulls the pain, which is too bad. That’s half the reason this ever happens.
“That it?” he says, hearing himself speak without putting any effort, thought or intention behind the words, his mouth moving for itself. At least it and the rest of him are in agreement, though he can feel the telltale throbbing in his jaw. He’s still talking shit, so it’s probably not broken. “That all you got for me?”
“Stay down, you fucking crazy-” he doesn’t hear the rest of it, doesn’t even rightly see which man he’s fighting. Isn’t even really fighting, just pushing any button and pulling any lever he can see.
“Harper-” Ceitidh’s there too he guesses, somewhere in the background. He can’t see her either, his vision gray and blue and narrowed to a point in front of him, wavering like a torch a long distance off. He’ll never catch that light, not even if he runs.
He’s still on the ground. He should fix that.
Harper stands up and he’s laughing - still, somehow, like he’d started long ago and can’t remember. Getting up is hard and he doesn’t make it all the way there, doubling over with a fist in his gut. That’s dangerous, it makes him want to throw up, which is somehow more pressing an issue than the way all of the air is knocked out of him, gasping for breath.
There are still voices, back and forth over his head. He can make out most of the words over the ringing in his ears.
“Leave him alone!”
“Get away from me, bitch, before I-”
“Hey.” He says, to draw the attention back to himself, deflecting danger from one weak point in the only way he knows how - by intentionally exposing another. “Fuck you.”
A boot connects with his chin and that’s the end of it.
**
He’s here, again, like always.
When he comes back to himself, his least favorite thing in the world, he still has no idea where here is. He feels more than sees Ceitidh hovering over him, mostly because he can’t seem to open his eyes.
“Harper. Harper. Please wake up Harper - shit, how long is this supposed to take to work?!”
“What-”
“Harper!” Ceitidh launches herself at him like a puppy and instantly he regrets everything. His chest, his stomach, his whole body hurts and his face is a mass of seething pain. And he’s wet, soaked through, his legs faintly numb with cold.
Right, he’s lying in a puddle. And it’s raining. There is something that looks like a trash pit nearby, which he can only faintly smell because his nose is too clogged with what is probably blood and maybe shards of glass, from what it feels like. If someone has literally thrown him in the trash, he will probably have deserved it.
Probably definitely.
He groans, tries to say Ceitidh’s name, but all that comes out is a low whine. She pulls back almost immediately but she’s still fucking talking, words rushing over his senses like salt being ground into open wounds, abrasive and merciless.
“Stop,” he eventually says, gingerly helping himself up out of the dirt. There’s a rotting barrel nearby and he props himself up against it. “Please stop.”
To her credit Ceitidh does, but the expression on her face is stormy and angry and worried all at once, and it hurts to look at her. He is such a fuckup, what is wrong with him, why is he fucking like this?
Predictably the quiet doesn’t last that long. “I thought you were going to die.”
“I’m fine.”
That is the biggest bullshit lie he’s ever said, literally seeping blood out of half his face. One eye is swollen almost shut and he can feel his lips stinging when they move, still split, but a cursory examination of his teeth with his tongue reveals that he still has all of them, and his jaw is tender but not broken. Better than he expected; better really than it should have been.
“We have to go soon. I- they wouldn’t leave you alone, he kicked you and you stopped moving, and I-” her pale face blushes but not with embarrassment, temper rising high along her cheekbones. “I made them stop.”
“You kill somebody?”
“No, but- we should go soon, probably.”
“Okay. Just give me a minute.”
“Harper-” Gods, there’s more.
“Ceitidh?” It hurts to talk. To breathe.
“I- I took your money. Some of your gold.” He would blink at her but his face isn’t working properly, can’t respond to the internal command. She’s chewing her bottom lip. “I bought a potion at the temple - they said it would make you better. I know you say they’re too expensive, but you were bleeding so much and you didn’t move and I thought maybe you couldn’t breathe, and I-”
“Ceitidh-”
“Why do you do this?!” Her little hands are fists and she beats them onto her thighs, which is much preferable to slamming them against his chest. “You can fight, you’re strong and fast and - you could have killed them, why did you let them hurt you? I don’t like it when things hurt you, I-”
“I’m sorry.”
She’s crying, again, for fuck’s sake. And it’s his fault, like usual. “Ceitidh. Katy. Katy Katy Katy.”
He reaches out for her, slow and awkward, ignoring the twinge in every muscle. It feels like one of his ribs must be cracked, his shitty shoulder twisted. Nothing more than he deserves, really.
Generously she lets him hug her, flinging herself into the center of his chest a touch too hard. He has to bite down on the urge to cry out, sucking in a shaky breath instead, but he deserves this too. The pain bit, not the part where some sad, precious girl child comes running to him for comfort for something he put her through in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” he says into her hair, the too-black locks wet and smooth against his face. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
“You don’t have to do anything, I just want you to be okay. I can take care of you. I will.”
“It’s not your job.”
“You need- someone should.”
He laughs at that, but just a little. The vibration makes his bones hurt, as does the way she’s clinging to him so hard, half in and out of his lap. They really are in a garbage dump, six feet away from a midden heap having this heart to heart conversation and it’s just so appropriate he doesn’t know what else to do.
“I will do better, Katy. I… I promise you, from now on. I will do better.”
She leans back, sitting up to wipe her eyes with the backs of her hands, smearing what little makeup was still in place everywhere. It makes her look as tired as he feels, dark circles around each eye. “We should still go.”
Helplessness (Dungeons & Dragons - pre-relationship Taliesin ‘Harper’ Ferryman/Cort Raghnall, circa year 13 of Swordmaster’s Son)
Warning for violence, abuse, mention of harm to animals
If this was the first time, Cort might have been surprised. It’s not.
He knows what’s going to happen even before Taliesin throws the first punch. He should have stopped Gordri the minute the ham-fisted bully decided to amuse himself at Taliesin’s expense, or whatever it was he thought he was doing, drowning a litter of kittens. He isn’t even sure that Gordri knows himself, except that hurting things seems to come naturally and a hammer is just as useful for breaking bones as it is for building bridges, a tool regardless.
It all happens so fast. Cort’s too far away to make a move, his feet frozen to the ground, and his father, impassive and blank-faced as ever, stands still and silent next to him watching as Lord Dorhal Ferryman dismounts his horse and whips his son bloody.
Cort wants to look away but he doesn’t, curling his toes against the insides of his boots until his bones ache because he can’t even clench his fists, can’t even frown. People are watching. People are always watching.
It isn’t over quickly, and it’s all the more savage for it. Taliesin, the bloody little idiot, won’t just take it - he never just takes it - stumbling over and over to his feet, and then his knees, and then crumpled into a ball in the dirt, back rounded against the lash. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t plead for it to stop, just these little sounds when the leather connects that seem like they’ve been strangled out of him, high and sharp.
The crop breaks across Taliesin’s shoulder and Lord Ferryman sneers and throws it away, leaving it and his son on the ground like refuse for someone else to clean up. The sparse crowd disperses, the entertainment over. He feels like he’s going to be sick.
Cort doesn’t move until his father does, hard on his heels but still walking. The swordmaster doesn’t run for things that aren’t emergencies.
Taliesin hasn’t risen and doesn’t as they draw near, head down with forehead resting in the dirt, both arms crossed across his stomach, holding himself like he’ll split apart at the seams. His breath is short and sharp like the noises from before, face splotched red and wet with tears, his eyes screwed shut. He doesn’t open them, not even when Cort’s father reaches down to pick him up, pulling him over one shoulder like a corpse. Cort trails behind him as they walk to the swordmaster’s quarters, reassuring himself with the way one of Taliesin’s hands clutches the back of his father’s shirt, clenched to a white-knuckled fist.
*
They lay Taliesin out face down across the little bed in the back, made up with just a sheet, and Cort fetches water while his father hunts down the bottle of strong-smelling astringent and a handful of bandages.
Taliesin whimpers once when the first strip is laid, fingers curling into the sheets until his knuckles go pale and bloodless, but quickly hushes when his father's ministrations don't cease, as if he knows it's pointless. Instead he shivers mutely, the muscles in his thin arms flexing as he holds tight to the wet coverlet beneath him as the blood from his wounds is sluiced away and Cort’s father covers the angry rents in his flesh with the tincture-soaked gauze.
It stings, Cort knows, but Taliesin bears it in silence, his face deceptively neutral. His eyes are open, unfocused, fat tears sliding unchecked across the bridge of his nose until they disappear into the blanket beneath him, but he doesn't make a sound. It strangles something in Cort's own throat, choking him on the urge to vomit or scream.
He doesn't. Of course he doesn't, and eventually his father stops, pulling himself up from the edge of the mattress with a creaking of knees and a sigh. He crosses wordlessly out of the room, drying his hands on the remains of the shirt they've cut from Taliesin's back, and Cort follows him silently into the office, closing the door behind him.
"You have a question."
"Why didn't you stop him."
It doesn't sound so much like a question but a desperate accusation; he hears the edge of emotion in his voice and immediately tempers it, body shifting unconsciously to mirror his father's stance, firm and planted.
Nial Raghnall looks at his son across the distance of the desk between them, more expressionless than usual. "Taliesin or his father?"
"Lord Ferryman." He wants to hiss the title, spit it from his mouth like venom.
"Why didn't you?"
He's not expecting that, the burbling wrath in his chest suddenly falling still. He doesn't have an answer that feels right. It wouldn't have made a difference. It would have made it worse. Taliesin should have known better, should have picked a better moment, shouldn't have cared at all.
He clasps his hands behind his back, tight and wringing, unable to answer as his father moves to face him, man to man.
"That's not what we do."
"What do we do, then?"
"We serve. And we remember our place."
It sounds like a threat, but when he lifts his eyes to his father's face all he sees is weariness, no hint of sharp disapproval in the edges of his expression. He doesn't know what it means. Less so when Nial lays a red vial down on the edge of his desk and crosses to the door.
"Have him drink it, and make him rest. He'll scar if he doesn't."
And then he is alone with the cacophony of his thoughts, roaring like blood in his ears. He takes the vial and it is strangely hot in his hand. He can't feel magic like some people can; maybe it's just his own body going up in flames, so fruitlessly, pointlessly angry and dissatisfied.
But that's not something he's meant to need. Satisfaction is for people who want things, and that is not what they do either.
The hopelessness in that moment is overwhelming, and he puts the vial in his pocket lest he crush it in his grip. Then it would be as much use to Taliesin as he is.
He doesn't make a practice of crying but the tears come anyway, gathering hot and hateful. He lets them well but not spill over, pressing the heels of his hands hard into his eyes, deep breaths until the hammering inside him stops and his vision is clear again. He does not have time for this self indulgence, pointless wallowing when there is work to be done.
Taliesin needs someone, and all he has is Cort.
He looks almost asleep when Cort reenters the room, too exhausted to do more than lie there. He stirs when Cort sits down at the end of the bed though, blearily lifting his head. Cort hesitates and then reaches out a hand to soothe him, fingers sliding over the frantic curl of Taliesin's hair, smoothing it back.
Taliesin hesitates under the gentleness of the touch but quickly sighs and lays his head back down, letting Cort do as he likes. They stay that way for a long time, Taliesin's hair soft and cool under Cort's fingers, delicate in a way Cort has never been.
"You're upset," Taliesin ventures eventually, less a question than a muted bid for confirmation. "At me?"
Yes. "No." Both are true.
Taliesin makes a humming sound deep in his throat, quietly acknowledging.
"I shouldn't have. It was just kittens. I knew better."
He shouldn't say it, shouldn't say anything; it's not his place, but the words come spilling out anyway, too honest. "It's never just kittens, Taliesin."
"No, I don't suppose it is."
His voice is tired, world-weary, ill-suited to the distressing smallness of him, and Cort's fingers go still on the back of his neck, just above the highest strip of gauze that wraps over the deep gash in his shoulder. It's tempting to let him fall asleep where he is, feels cruel to make him move, but his father's words echo in the back of his mind. This will leave its marks, and he doubts Taliesin will thank him for them if he can lessen their effect and chooses not to.
"Sit up," he prompts and Taliesin shifts sleepily under his fingers, needing help. They manage it between the two of them, slowly and careful, though Taliesin wavers again with his fingers around the vial, unsteady. Cort closes his hand over Taliesin's to keep him from dropping it, and bites his tongue against the urge to wince when Taliesin looks up at him, gray eyes dull with more than just pain.
"Should I? It's not so bad."
"You'll scar."
"I already have scars."
He does, and each one feels like a failure. "...drink the potion, Taliesin."
Eventually Taliesin tips his head at the command, acquiescent, and drains the vial. Cort watches him swallow painfully, taking the empty glass from him before it can fall from nerveless fingers and shatter on the floor.
"S'gross," he complains, words slurring, and Cort frowns.
"The least of your problems I'm sure," he says tartly and Taliesin gives a little laugh that comes out more like a wheeze, and doesn't argue. Cort relents, too quickly like always, and allows it when Taliesin drops his head onto his shoulder, leaning against his upper arm.
It's no good to hold him, the mess of his back won't permit it, and he's not sure he should anyway. He doesn't want to encourage this, even if he doesn't really think that Taliesin was wrong. In starting the fight, anyway. Cort's not sure about the rest of it. It's dangerous, clear and present, and no one will miss an unruly fourth son, especially one who won't buckle under authority and toe the line.
Taliesin's young, there's still time to learn, but Cort isn't sure he wants that for him. Isn't sure whether or not that makes him a traitor, or who in this situation most requires his loyalty.
As if he could choose.
"Lie down." The words come out harsh, much more harshly than he means them to, but it only stirs Taliesin a little.
"Mmm?"
"I said lie down, Taliesin. You need to rest so the potion will work."
"Okay, okay," he capitulates, almost drunken, and again between the two of them they get him horizontal, spread out over soiled sheets on his stomach. Cort checks his bandages once he's settled, smoothing them over tender skin so they lie flat over each wound. He tries to be gentle, but if he isn't Taliesin doesn't say.
He does reach for him when Cort makes to get up though, a clumsy finger hooking into his pocket. "Don't go."
"Taliesin-"
"Stay. Please?" He murmurs, both pleading and bargaining so pridelessly. "Just ‘til I fall asleep."
Such a child and still, fool he is, Cort can't say no. He settles down again, bed dipping cautiously beneath his weight, and Taliesin closes his eyes, long thin fingers curled to clutch at the loose fabric of the leg of Cort's pants. Such a desperately small thing, a sad little gesture like that's comforting enough and he'll make do, and as his breathing calms and deepens Cort fights to control the way his own wants to thunder out of him like clattering stones down a mountainside. He doesn't even dare to touch him as he had before, does nothing at all, sitting still and silent with hands clenched into fists on his thighs until he's sure Taliesin is asleep.
Protective (Dungeons & Dragons - Taliesin ‘Harper’ Ferryman/Cort Raghnall, circa year 25 of Swordmaster’s Son)
The storm blows in off the sea not long after dark, unexpected, the sky clear for miles as the sun goes down. It wakes Cort up out of a dead sleep - the bright bloom of lightning heralding a snap of thunder that cleaves the sky right above their heads, and the sound of hard rain against the window.
He can feel Taliesin jerk upright next to him, pulling out of the warmth of their bed. Automatically he rubs the back of one hand over his eyes and gets up as well, padding out on bare feet to the main room to make sure all of the windows are closed; that there isn’t water left on the floor for one of them to slip on in the morning.
It’s quick work, cold wind whipping through the little cottage until he shuts it out, face and bare chest rain-spattered. He mops up with little thought, tossing a towel down to soak up a small puddle on the floor, and pads silently back to the bedroom. Spears of lightning move jagged across the sky beyond the curtained windows, lighting up his path in blue and white.
Taliesin is already back under the covers, blankets pulled up to his chin. Cort eases back onto the mattress with a sigh, missing the warmth of their bed in the coming-winter chill, and reaches for Taliesin when he turns onto his side.
The flesh across Taliesin’s back is clammy, sticky with more than just rain; Cort stops, hand settling around the curve of his shoulder. “Taliesin-”
Thunder sounds close enough to rattle all the windows and shake the bed and under his hand Taliesin flinches, recoiling from nothing and towards Cort on instinct, butting up against his chest.
“What’s wrong?” he murmurs, pitching his voice soft, gentle, barely loud enough against Taliesin’s ear to be heard above the storm.
“Nothing. I don’t know. Nothing.”
Taliesin shivers and Cort can smell the acrid tang of fear all over him, his skin slick where it presses into Cort. He doesn’t care - not about the sweat anyway, used enough to the way Taliesin is restless in his sleep, haunted by things Cort can’t even begin to comprehend. He doesn’t want to, certain somehow that it would make it worse rather than better.
For him, perhaps. A selfish thing. He pushes that away, focuses outward rather than in.
You love storms he wants to say - not as an admonition, just a reminder as if he's forgotten, but he senses the words will be neither particularly helpful nor welcome. Taliesin's eyes are large and glassy in the half-darkness, wide and unfocused, and Cort can almost see his pulse leaping in the way he breathes, short heaving gasps that come too close together, shallow and straining.
He reaches for Taliesin again, slow and careful, unsure of what the storm has summoned, what nightmare creature rises out of the depths to call Taliesin's name. He doesn't know them all, there are so many. Taliesin doesn't flinch or pull away when Cort's hand finds the top of his arm, not until a flash of lightning illuminates the entirety of their little room, preceding an ominous roll of thunder. Taliesin shudders at the noise, shaking when the room does, illogically frightened by the harmless sound and not the arc of deadly electricity across the sky.
Not that it matters. It makes no difference if the shadow in the corner is real or not when it provokes this kind of terror, and he can feel Taliesin trying to hide, even in the throes of it. He pulls self-consciously out of Cort’s hold like he has to force himself to do so and curls up small on his side, blankets clutched so tightly to his chest.
Uncertain, Cort reaches out to rub his back once more, smoothing his hands over the damp skin, goosebumps sweeping across Taliesin’s flesh like he’s freezing though he feels like a blaze. He’s desperate to reassure, the need of it coiling tight in his throat around all the complacent banalities it’s his instinct to repeat. But he doesn’t want to be dismissive of the danger, though he knows full well there isn’t any. Taliesin likely does too, under the roiling panic; pointing it out now will do more harm than good.
They stay like that for an endless stretch of moments, Cort’s fingers across Taliesin’s spine, soft across the rigid muscles, struggling to be purposefully gentle in the face of the way Taliesin twists all the fibers of himself into knots, snared so tightly he could strangle. Cort can feel his breathing start to slow, deepen, and he thinks that whatever it was is over - until it starts to hail, ice bouncing against the roof, the window, the stones of the street outside, and the sound sends Taliesin bolting from their bed.
Cort sits up to look at him as he hurriedly dons his clothing, shirt on inside out, trousers done up half wrong, jittery and panting, his usual fluid movements clumsy and uncoordinated. Cort watches, frowning, and then gets up as well, dressing himself quickly in the dark and crossing to where Taliesin paces nearly in place, swaying with his eyes on the window.
“Where are we going?” Cort murmurs softly, unsure if he should touch him, and Taliesin shakes himself, shakes his head.
“Nowhere, it’s- fine. I just need to-”
He stops, words sounding thick in his throat, and Cort finishes the thought for him. He just needs to be ready to run, to escape, even if it makes no logical sense. They are safer indoors than out of them and it’s only a storm, only the weather, but Taliesin has always made too much sense and not enough, and Cort doesn’t really care if he wants to sleep in his clothes. Whatever will work, whatever it takes to soothe him; to help Cort make him feel safe.
“Do you want me to move our blankets to the other room?” Away from the window near their bed. “We can sleep on the floor.”
“No,” Taliesin says, and doesn’t give a reason as to why. Cort doesn’t ask for one, finally moving to turn Taliesin toward him, to band an arm around his waist, to slide fingers through the wild damp of his hair.
“Can you lie with me?”
Mute, Taliesin nods and lets Cort pull him back to the mattress, easing back the covers so they can both lie down. It’s less comfortable now that he’s fully dressed, overwarm, but he tugs the blankets up over them anyway and puts one arm out across Taliesin’s pillow.
“Do you want to lie on my chest?”
Taliesin nods again, looking for all the world like he’ll burst into tears, and it hurts something so deep in Cort that he thinks it’ll stop his heart. He doesn’t know what expression is on his face, isn’t sure he can do an appropriate job of hiding it, and so he guides Taliesin down against him instead, head tucked under Cort’s chin. Taliesin’s arm comes across him almost too tight, hand in a fist in the fabric of Cort’s shirt, and Cort has to remember to breathe, slow and deep and calm in the face of the frenetic wildness that spills out of Taliesin’s every pore.
“I have you,” he says quietly, and tentatively moves his hand over Taliesin’s hair when he doesn’t respond, smoothing it back from his face and tipping his head to press a kiss against his damp brow.
Poor, precious thing. He deserves better than Cort, probably, who is forever terrible at knowing what to say. To be so good with words himself, it almost doesn’t make sense that he should love Cort so much when Cort has to think so long, so deeply before he speaks. And he still gets things wrong.
“You know what I love about the rain,” he says out loud, almost to himself, not a question in need of any real answer. His hand moves down Taliesin’s back, tracing the line of his spine through his rumpled shirt, smoothing the fabric out. “I love the way it sounds against the roof. I love when it hits the windows. I love how it makes everything chilly and damp. How it’s loud. How it makes everything else quiet.”
He can tell Taliesin is listening to the low resonation of his voice, wonders what it sounds like with one ear pressed up against his chest. He can feel him untwist just slightly, the muscles in his back unwinding the smallest fraction as Taliesin’s deathgrip on his shirt begins to loosen.
It’s nonsense but he keeps it up, murmuring about the storm in words that sound too poetic for the awkwardness of his mouth. Surely he’s emulating Taliesin somehow, parroting words his clever tongue has already spoken, but he tries his hardest and Taliesin doesn’t tell him that it’s foolish; doesn’t say anything at all.
“The best part about the rain is how much it makes you appreciate not having to be out in it. How warm it makes a bed, how comfortable, how soft the sheets are on your skin, heavy blanket pressing down, keeping you safe-”
Safe. That’s all he wants, for Taliesin to feel safe. Even if they aren’t always.
A thought for another time; he pushes it away and strokes Taliesin’s back instead, stopping the gentle litany of his rambling attempt at comfort to press kisses to the crown of his head. Taliesin sighs eventually and untangles his hand from Cort’s shirt, moving it up across his side to rest it in the center of his chest. He’s not asleep but his body goes lax like his whole being is exhaling a breath long held, almost helplessly limp, completely pliant in Cort’s arms as if the energy for anything else has been leached out of him like a stain.
Cort holds him a little bit tighter, sudden emotion constricting his throat. He doesn’t know what to do with it, as he often doesn’t, the urge to wrap this needy, broken child in a thousand layers of cotton fluff so strong that it would smother them both if left unchecked, overprotective and possessive at once. It’s the sort of instinct that could so easily spoil this thing between them but for once he lets it prowl free; there is nothing to fight here, no enemy at the gates. Just a storm and a childlike fear of the darkness, run amok when least expected.
He holds Taliesin fast, strokes his back, speaks so softly about nothing and everything at once. He doesn’t know when he falls asleep again, just that Taliesin beats him to it, breath deepening and fingers loose and soft on the center of his chest.
When he wakes again it’s still raining, but softly now, without even distant thunder. Taliesin remains curled against his chest, fast asleep and Cort lets himself drift, secure in his warm weight at his side.
In the morning, he’s alone in their bed. The bedroom is empty, light streaming in through windows with curtains drawn back. He can hear birds calling from somewhere close by, feasting on worms driven onto the cobbles of the street by the deluge, and rather than move he lies there listening. Wagon wheels splashing muddy in the street, the hum of voices, and in the background the quiet sounds of Taliesin puttering in their kitchen, making tea.
He’s almost resolved to get up, still tired and endlessly unsure of how best to approach Taliesin after a night so fraught, but Taliesin beats him to it, slipping into the room before Cort can fully rouse himself. He sits down on the edge of the bed and Cort moves to prop his head up on his arm, watching him in silence. He’s brought Cort a cup of tea, strong like he likes it, Taliesin’s own too-sweet cup clutched in his hands. He doesn’t look at Cort until Cort reaches out to bridge the distance, sliding a questioning hand down the length of his arm.
“Thank you,” he says eventually, a watery smile on his mouth and eyes that don’t quite meet Cort’s though they turn in his direction. “For last night. For- dealing with me.”
“You’re welcome.”
He’s not finished, Cort can tell. “I’m sorry you have to,” he says all in a rush, fingers dangerously tight around his cup. He’ll break it, or burn his palms, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I don’t know what- why- I shouldn’t be so-”
“Taliesin.”
He doesn’t look over when Cort sits himself up and takes the cup away from him, sliding it onto the rickety table at their bedside. His eyes are closed, head hung, looking even smaller, younger, more vulnerable than he did the night before, even with his hair combed back and his clothes on right side out, everything in place. And damn him, Cort never knows what to say, just turns himself around so his legs bracket Taliesin’s hips at the edge of the bed and pulls him into his lap, pressing him firmly into Cort’s chest. Taliesin doesn’t resist, listing into the movement like it’s what he was wishing for without even hoping to ask for it, burying his face against the crook of Cort’s neck.
He still smells very faintly of fear, the iron scent clinging to his hair and his skin. It makes Cort feel conflicted, uncomfortably prideful that it's his arms that Taliesin will come running to when the lights go out; guilty that something that hurts Taliesin can still make him feel this way. Relieved that he ever manages to say and do the right thing; regretful that he has to.
“I’m sorry,” Taliesin says again, muffled against the side of Cort’s throat. Cort shakes his head.
“There’s no reason to be.”
“But-”
“No reason,” he repeats again, softly, in a way he hopes is reassuring. He doesn’t want to hear Taliesin apologize for things he can’t help, whether or not they ever frustrate Cort. It’s just the way it is. Taliesin needs someone to hold him, to reassure and love him, and- Cort does the best that he can without knowing what any of that really looks like, groping desperately in the dark.
He wonders if Taliesin will cry, if he needs to; he doesn’t know how to mitigate that kind of hurt any better now than when they were boys, but it doesn’t matter this time. Taliesin lifts his head to kiss Cort’s cheek and eases back, the smile on his mouth much less shaky. Cort isn’t sure it’s really genuine but his eyes are clear and silver in the morning light, and Cort carefully takes his chin and chastely kisses his mouth.
“Love you,” Taliesin says, quiet as a whisper, and kisses Cort’s forehead as he stands and turns away, slipping back into the other room without waiting for an answer. “Your tea is getting cold.”
@perahn prompted me a thing and I still don’t know if this fits the prompt, but yolo, I wrote it. Also I never write from the perspective of this character, so hooray for exercises.
judgement: awakening, resurrection, absolution; “Why did you have to do this?!”
possible AUs/settings/ideas: reincarnation au, criminal (au), mistakes
--
Dissonance (Dungeons & Dragons; A scene from the distant past with Taliesin and Cort, back in ye olde teenage years.)
He’s not a particularly gentle person. He’s always known that about himself, ever since he was small, long before he started to grow into a body that promised to be tall and broad and strong, shades of his father and grandfather before him. He struggles not to break things, sometimes; to handle things quietly, if not softly. It’s never something that comes naturally to him.
But then, Cort thinks, that’s not why they pay him.
It’s hard to feel truly bitter about being good at what he was bred for, but there are moments when-
Well. When it feels more complicated than it should.
Taliesin stands shirtless in his room in front of the plain white washbasin in the corner, swishing blood out of his mouth with water. Cort can see half of his reflection in the mirror, watches openly because he knows Taliesin won’t look up. He never does.
And that’s good, partially, but it’s also not, because as beautiful as Taliesin is, he’s also horribly broken. Cort has always seen the fissures that spread just beneath his skin even though they’re not any more real than the way he smiles at people who don’t know better, pretending. Taliesin is very good at pretending but not, he thinks, as good as Cort is.
He puts that aside, neatly packaged, like he always does. Taliesin is beautiful but he’s also bruised and bloodied, dark marks across his ribs, his back, his chest, handprints on his arms. Some of them are new, still blooming red, but not all; there are always old wounds, replaced before they fully fade.
He hates that he-
Across the room Taliesin sighs and Cort shifts, unfolding his arms from across his chest to pick up a towel. He’s no medic, but he keeps a stack of bandages in his room now for when Taliesin can’t be persuaded to the healer; they won’t need them today. Just a small dust up with Tamsin in the yard, and Tamsin never does quite as much damage as Gordri can. Not, at least, in ways that leave evidence behind.
The thought makes something in him shift with discomfort and he turns his mind from it, gesturing patiently for Taliesin to sit down. He does, slowly, and Cort moves slowly too, lifting Taliesin’s chin to press the cloth to his face to dry it before he can drip runny blood and water into Cort’s sheets. Not that it would be the first time.
He hates this, he hates-
Taliesin smiles at him, half a grimace, when Cort staunches blood welling from a thin scratch across his cheek, steady pressure despite the flinching. Taliesin lets him do it though, like he always does. Taliesin fights everybody else, but he never fights Cort. Not like that. Not once in his whole life.
He isn’t sure how that makes him feel, that twist of something in his stomach, low and tight and uncomfortable. Over anything else and he would talk to Taliesin about it, but he can’t just talk to Taliesin about Taliesin. That usually doesn’t go over well; more than anything he doesn’t want to see those gray eyes dark with an apology that isn’t warranted but surrendered so easily anyhow.
“What’s wrong?”
Cort blinks. Taliesin is watching him carefully, eyes on his face. Not thoughtful, not exactly. Intuitive. He always seems to know-
“Your brother punched you in the face repeatedly. What could possibly be wrong.”
Somehow Taliesin laughs at that and reaches up to take Cort’s arm, tries to pull his hand away. Stubbornly, Cort doesn’t move. Taliesin relents, his long, cool fingers braceleted around Cort’s wrist.
“Bound to happen eventually, it’s been a slow week.”
That is-
“Why do you do this?” He doesn’t mean to snap but the words come out with too much force. He sounds angry and he - he is angry, he supposes. He should be, he’s just not sure yet at what or whom.
Not that it matters. Taliesin’s expression shutters, his grip loosening and falling away. “Do what.”
This little idiot. “Make yourself a target. It’s like you want them to-”
“It doesn’t make a difference.” Taliesin’s voice is flat, smooth, no trace of the wild current underneath. “Why make it easy? At least this way I deserve it.” He’s smiling again but it’s a sickly thing, twisted up and bitter - an expression ill-suited with how young he looks in this moment, damp and beaten and in Cort’s hands. He is young, perilously so; sometimes Cort forgets.
“Anyway-” Taliesin starts, and it makes Cort’s heart stutter in his chest, the single word undercut with so much hurt. “Thanks for the rescue, as usual. I really should-”
“Sit down.” Taliesin looks up at him and Cort sighs, closes his eyes and counts to ten. “Please. Sit.”
Taliesin does, sinking back down onto the mattress. He looks chastised though Cort doesn’t know why; something he’s said, surely, but he isn’t sure which part.
It was stupid, either way. Thoughtless. He can see the rigid way Taliesin’s shoulders have set, the guarded blankness of his features. It’s a familiar thing, that look; that it’s being used now, with him-
“I’m sorry,” he says eventually, when he can be sure his voice will come out evenly, quiet and sincere. Taliesin looks up at him like a discarded pup, forlorn, and the expressionlessness was almost easier to take, it-
No. “It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have made it sound like it was.”
For a moment he’s afraid that Taliesin will cry, dissolve into the kind of weeping that Cort is always desperate to comfort though he never really knows how, his gaze sliding to the side to focus on some unknowable point. He doesn’t though, just eventually lets his guard drop, shoulders slumping like he’s weary to the bone. He probably is.
He smiles anyway though, not happy exactly, but at least with a spark of humor that makes Cort feel less hopeless in the moment. “Want to go to Miss Molly’s tonight? The ladies love a good fight story.”
The last thing he wants to do is visit a whorehouse where he’s not going to fuck anybody (he could, he could, but he won’t, he already knows) even with his best friend, but Taliesin needs what Taliesin needs, and at least sex is a reasonable interest for someone his age, and unlikely to injure him further. Probably.
“Think you can even get it up in the state you’re in?”
“Please,” Taliesin scoffs, smile suddenly blinding when directed at him with its full force, eyes again on his. “I can always get it up.”
She can tag along for as long as she can keep up. The minute she falls behind, that’s it - he won’t give her a second thought, won’t listen for her over his shoulder, won’t stop, won’t look back. That’s the rule.
Ceitidh can wear herself out following in his footsteps for as long as she thinks she’s able, but in the end Harper will do as Harper always does. He’ll keep pushing, keep going, keep swimming forward like a shark because, no matter how much he wants to, he can’t go back.
There is nothing for him to go back to.
The thing about rules is that Harper isn’t particularly good at them. In fact, he’s the worst. He does what he wants, when he wants, with whom he wants, and that’s exactly how he likes it.
That’s also exactly why he’s miserable. Nobody matters, and so he matters to no one. Nobody cares. He won’t let them; he doesn’t stick around.
But Ceitidh - stupid name, Ceitidh, ridiculous - she cares. He doesn’t really understand it - or maybe he understands it too well. She’s alone. She’s scared. She’s just one little fish in the big blue sea, and there are dark things in the water, always lurking underneath. Honestly he isn’t sure how she’s survived as long as she has, piss poor at earning coin but far too good at spending it, little hunger-hollowed cheeks accentuated with what has to be the last of cosmetics stolen out of some whore’s pocketbook like she meant them to be that way, hem of her dress ragged, three inches in mud.
Fucking pathetic. Honestly, it’s so-
So-
Something. And he hates that he doesn’t know. Hates to be momentarily unsure, hates to feel anything because it just reminds him how deeply, how truly he hates himself, and the breadth of reasons why he deserves to feel that way.
So why be nice. Why walk slow. Why not just slip away in the dead of night when her measly little fire has gone out on the periphery of his campsite and leave her to make her own way out of the woods.
Why the fuck indeed.
He’s stupid, but he’s always been stupid. And fuck the rules anyway.
*
It’s been raining for three days, and her shoes are not the kind meant for traveling. His pace is fast, unflinching in the weather he is accustomed to dealing with, and if she’s not blisters up to her ankles, he’ll eat his shirt. Still, she persists, keeps on after him, just a few steps behind. He’s taken to allowing that, her just out of his sight but well within earshot. She never shuts up, so when she’s breathing too hard to talk he knows he’s pushing her limits.
It’s not kind, but then neither is he and sometimes he just has to. Has to hurt something before it hurts him first. Has to feel like he still has some power in the world, even if it’s just to throw something away before it’s taken from him.
That’s such a fucking dumb thing to do; it’s not like he doesn’t know that. The rain drives home the point, stinging him in the face, sharp and cold. Behind him Ceitidh slips and falls, and gets up again.
They should stop. They don’t. Ceitidh falls again.
The third time it happens, they’re descending a gravelly ridge near the bank of some swollen stream. He can hear the moment her feet go out from under her, hear the clatter of pebbles, the skid of her hands across the stones when she tries to catch herself and fails. This time, he hears her cry. Just a little sound - dismay - and then a whimper - pain - and the quiet snuffling of someone trying to keep from sobbing outright.
She doesn’t get back up.
If she doesn’t get back up, he can go on without her. Those are the rules.
The rules.
Fuck it, he’s never been that good with rules.
When he turns around she looks up at him like maybe he’s going to murder her on the spot, all big green eyes and quivering chin. She’s soaked to the skin because of course she doesn’t have a cloak, pale with cold, her exposed shins and the palms of her hands scraped and bleeding. She holds them shaking in her lap; just flesh-wounds, but she’s soft, not the kind to easily bear pain.
Or maybe he’s wrong. She’s made it this far. She’s still with him. That’s more than he can say for anyone else.
“Harper-” Her voice cracks on his name like she’s not sure whether to tell him to go on without her, or to break down and ask for help.
Either way he shakes his head. “Enough, Ceitidh.”
“But-”
“Enough.”
She’s still looking at him with those wide, tear-filled eyes when he bends down to hook an arm around her back and beneath her knees and pick her up, grunting with the effort. The heaviest part about her is her dress, and it sticks to his arms uncomfortably as he descends the rest of the embankment and carries her downstream to where a pool of slower-moving water has gathered, dammed behind stones. She won’t even put her arms around his neck, not even when his boots slide over mossy rock, and wouldn’t that just serve him right if he fell and landed both of them in the muck. But he doesn’t and she looks at him like he’s some kind of hero for walking and it makes him want to set himself on fire.
They’ll need a fire. First things first though; he sets her down on a rock and lifts water in his cupped hands to wash the dirt and blood off of hers. Props her legs on his knees and unlaces her boots, and washes her shins. Her feet are delicate and pale and much abused, and he’ll have to get her proper shoes if they’re going to continue this, if she’s going to come with him, if she-
If she sticks around.
That assumes a lot: that he’ll manage to rein himself in, to stop being so much of an asshole so he doesn’t drive her off, that she won’t just get tired and go someplace else, someplace easier. It’s a lot to think about and a lot he can’t know, and he doesn’t realize she’s making those little sniffling noises again until he looks up and sees what remains of her too-heavy eye makeup disappearing down her cheeks.
She’s crying and when she sees him looking she looks so embarrassed.
He frowns. She cries harder.
“I’m sorr-”
“Enough.” And apparently it is, because all he can do is put his arms around her. He never has before, not for comfort, not for warmth or even for protection, but he holds her little body against his chest and lets her soak his shirt. Lets her sob herself out like she’s too brave to most of the time when he’s looking.
There’s no harm in crying. He almost says it out loud but then he doesn’t really know if he believes that’s true, and right now he’d maybe rather just not lie. So he says nothing. But he doesn’t let her go either, not until the sobs have diminished into sniffles again, and she wipes her face without thinking about it straight across the center of his shirt.
“I can keep going,” she says, her voice so small, but determined all the same.
He shakes his head. “Tomorrow. It’ll all still be there tomorrow.”
Writing about your D&D character like a total nerd
So last year, @perahn, @bettydice, @dakoyone and I started playing a 5e D&D game set in Faerun and run by onemooncircles. It was supposed to be an evil campaign but uh, we’re terrible at evil but really excellent at making each other have emotions, so I guess it was only natural that we started writing about it.
And I think now I’m just stalling, so here’s some stuff because people (?) (mostly @jadesabre301 let’s be real) were interested.
The Swordmaster’s Son (m/m, NSFW, warnings for EVERYTHING IN LIFE)
This started out as a way to snapshot scenes from Harper’s early life and ended up uh. Some kind of evolving romantic tragedy and tableau of untreated mental instability, and also somehow a place to vomit out my feelings on codependency and toxic masculinity why wouldn’t you want to read this, it’s fine, everything is great Also this is a bit long/not finished so just. *random hand motions*
And because that fic is so dark, have a bonus fic about trying and totally failing to bake someone a birthday cake
