Stormhedge AU Thoughts
What's better than one fanfic trope? Two fanfic tropes! Or, Moon decides to combine Omegaverse with Dæmonverse and has already written 2k notes of background lore AND decided everyone's dæmons.
Big, gentle omega!Dunk haunts me, but I don't think I can live up to all the other wonderful works on the subject. Still, this will be Stormhedge, although Lyonel is not in this part.
So! Here's an opening snippet for your enjoyment and my motivation:
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It's almost poetic that the rain starts only seconds after Ser Arlan stops breathing and Copper's red fur fades into glowing, glittering Dust. The low, mournful cry Rafe lets out echoes eerily like a scream across the empty fields, even with her great head hung low and defeated. The three horses startle, but settle after a moment, long used to the shape of their largest companion, even with the uncharacteristically loud bugling call she makes.
Rafe rarely makes noise, unless she's venting her considerable temper, because noise gets you noticed. And their size gets them noticed more than enough.
"Fucker," Rafe's hiss disturbs the curtain of white noise the dripping rain makes around them, "Couldn't have lasted long enough to get to the next town."
"That's enough," Dunk scolds, although it does little use to chastise the most honest part of himself, "Have some respect for the dead."
He looks around, going to their saddlebags to unstrap a shovel he usually uses to dig their latrine. The rain will loosen the ground but if he waits too long, it will just become mud. At least the rain will help keep him clean.
"Why?" Rafe spits, tossing her massive head with a snort, "Old man left us. Nothing we can do about that."
"He took care of us," Dunk insists, even as his head and heart begins to ache as reality sets in.
Ser Arlan is gone.
They're alone, except for each other, again.
"He drank and whored himself across the countryside," Rafe says, "And never even made you a knight, like he promised. All he did was let you take care of his horses and smack you around."
"Only when I deserved it," Dunk points out, even as something inside of him aches with the memories, both fond and bitter. But, then, he supposes, what child thinks they deserve punishment? It's not like Ser Arlan ever beat him bloody and once his first heat came, and Rafe properly Settled, he struck him even less.
Copper can't really scold an Elk six feet taller than he, although the old grouchy bat was known to flap annoyingly at her from atop her head when he was particularly irate. It usually led to her throwing her head wildly around to dislodge him, which worked great to desensitize the horses, but resulted in little peace until Ser Arlan told them both to knock it off.
Ser Arlan says – said – that he allows his dæmon too much freedom, that it makes them both undisciplined, but Dunk can't really imagine telling Rafe what to do. She's his oldest and only, really, friend and just as entitled to her emotions as he.
That her emotions are often his – the ones he bottles up when someone laughs at them or calls them slow and stupid – is perhaps the old man's point. But Dunk's never seen the point in getting angry. It won't change someone's mind, just get him in trouble.
Rafe gets angry enough for the both of them, anyhow.
"Dig faster," she snaps, digging at the ground around his small hole with her powerful, wide hooves. Dunk just keeps shoveling, because if he acknowledges the wobble in her voice, both of them are going to end up huddled under the tree they slept under last night crying, and that won't help bury Ser Arlan.
Hours or days later, Dunk is kneeling beside a shallow grave, trying to piece together a eulogy from his numb lips, tired limbs and dull mind.
Dunk the Lunk indeed.
After he stutters through all he can think to say, he pauses, glancing at Rafe through the limp strands of his hair, curious to see if her ire or sadness has won out.
"So long, you old bat," she says softly, a goodbye to Ser Arlan and Copper both. Her anger is gone, washed away by the chilly rain, and all that's left between them both is the hollow shape of the cold truth.
What are they to do now?
