Fae satoru/ reader Bound By Silver & Sun │ Chapter 2 - memories │ WC: 5k
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Sunlight was the first thing you saw when you stirred, warm and golden as it filtered through the uneven panes of glass. The beams caught on the hanging crystals scattered throughout your room, splintering into shards of color that danced across the walls and ceiling in slow, shifting rainbows. For a quiet moment you simply lay there, watching the light move.
Then you turned your head, your gaze landing upon him.
Clemantis slept beside you, curled defensively into himself, knees drawn close and arms tucked in as though bracing against something even in rest. He looked smaller like that, less like a broken man and more like a whole person. Fragments of rainbow light flickered across his pale cheeks and snowy lashes, glinting faintly against the curve of his brow.
He was truly so beautiful.
And he looked peaceful - genuinely peaceful - his forehead smooth, the constant crease of worry absent for once.
You decided to let him sleep
Carefully, so as not to disturb the mattress too much, you slipped from beneath the covers. You dressed quietly in a simple pair of leggings and a green tunic pulled from your dresser, tying your hair back before easing out of the room and closing the door with a soft click.
You had things to do today - boots to buy, fabric to begin dyeing, small preparations that would slowly turn this house into his home too - an existence less lonely.
It felt… nice.
Working for someone else. Making something with intention.
You had always enjoyed helping others despite your prickly demeanor. It was not simply kindness. It was purpose. It was the shape your life had taken long ago.
You had not truly lived for yourself in a very long time.
The thought made something twist in your chest. Selfish, you scolded yourself softly. As though wanting anything beyond service was indulgent.
You had to make the trip into town. Before leaving, you scribbled a note in neat handwriting, leaving it beside his head.
“Clemantis
I have gone to town to buy you boots and some fabric. I will be back before 10. Please do not worry about my absence.
There is bread wrapped in navy cloth above the hearth and jam stored in a pink pot on the third shelf. Help yourself.
There are books in Fae on the messier shelf. Feel free to read whatever you like.
Your healer.”
True to your word, you returned before the morning had fully come to pass, the sun still climbing. The front door opened with a familiar wooden creak as you stepped inside. A spool of white cotton and a length of deep velvet floated obediently behind you, suspended in gentle arcs of magic, while you balanced a box tucked beneath one arm.
“I’m back. Did you eat?” were the first words out of your mouth as you stepped across the threshold, your footsteps soft against the hardwood floors.
Once you had pushed open the door he was sat there, a book on his lap as he sat perched on the edge of the old leather sofa, posture slightly hunched in concentration.
“Oh, I love that one. It was my favorite when I was a girl.” You said, kicking off your boots to step into the house proper, your feet padding across hardwood to meet him in the living room, the spool of dark velvet drifting neatly into your waiting hands. You held it up so the light could catch it, the fabric rich and deep - purple, just like he had asked for.
“Is this the right shade of purple? I saw it and thought it would be nice to make you a waistcoat. It will look pretty with some silver embroidery.” The velvet lifted from your palms and hovered in the air beside them as you placed the box gently into his lap. “Boots. I had to estimate your size, but I can use magic to resize them if they do not fit properly.”
“The purple is perfect, Thank you,” He said softly, his lips curling into what was almost a smile.
“Boots, I had to estimate your size, I can use magic to resize them if they don’t fit right,” you said, your head tilting to one sid
He just watched, those eyes like summer watching you as you babbled on about fabrics.
“I picked some that were closest in style to the Summer Court,” you added, lowering yourself to sit beside him. “It is not exact, but it is close.”
You watched him with quiet anticipation, your smile soft.
“I am thinking of embroidering the tops with your favorite flowers, if you would like that.”
"Moonflowers," he said quietly, his thumb tracing the material where embroidery might go. "They bloomed in the palace gardens at night. They were - they were my mother's favorite. I always thought they looked like they were iced onto their stems by a patisserie chef."
“Moonflowers.”
You nodded, your smile softening. “They grow in the garden in the fall. I hope you are here long enough to see them.”
Moonflowers.
Your grandmother had always said they grew where magic gathered thickest. Often they bloomed near the homes of moon faeries, drawn like a natural response to their presence. Pale petals that only unfurled beneath silver light, luminous against the dark.
They were beautiful flowers. Quiet. Luminous. Delicate - so full of life.
You could understand why Clemantis loved them - why his mother must have loved them too.
The thought stilled you.
Was his mother still alive?
It was not a question you voiced. Not yet. But you tucked it carefully away in your mind. You had one or two connections scattered across the Courts. A white-haired fae of the Summer Court was rare enough that someone would know of his family. It would not be impossible to ask without drawing too much attention.
A short silence followed and then Clemantis spoke again, "You mentioned a bath last night? I would appreciate that."
“A bath, yes,” you continued lightly, shifting the topic before the silence grew too heavy. “We do not have running hot water here. I am still trying to find the right spell scroll for it. So for now, we bathe in the stream.”
You set the fabrics down on the low table and turned on your heel, walking through the house toward the sun room. The large glass doors creaked softly as you pushed them open, stepping out onto the stone patio that wrapped around the back of the house.
In full sunlight, the garden was breathtaking.
It was early spring, yet color already flourished in careful abundance. Shades of lavender, cream, and gold brushed against one another in layered beds. Pink camellias swayed gently in the breeze, their petals trembling like silk. Fresh green shoots climbed trellises and curved along stone borders. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and something sweet just beginning to bloom.
You glanced back to see if Clemantis followed and smiled when you saw that he did.
At the edge of the patio, the stone gave way to the stream where it deepened. Clear water rushed lazily past, fed directly from the mountains rising behind the house. It caught the sunlight and shattered it into moving ribbons of light across the riverbed.
“It is quite cold,” you warned, amusement flickering in your tone. “But once you are in, you will not feel it as sharply. I can cast a warming spell to dry you afterward.”
Clemantis simply nodded, following behind you like a lost lamb.
You knelt by a large wooden chest near the ledge and opened it. From within you pulled a thick, fluffy towel, several small bars of soap wrapped in waxed paper, a jar with a sealed lid, and finally a soft washcloth.
“Soap and shampoo,” you explained, arranging them neatly along the stone. You lifted the jar slightly. “And in here is conditioner. It will keep your hair soft.”
You hummed to yourself as you stepped back inside briefly, returning moments later with a wooden sewing box floating behind you and a pair of large, gleaming silver scissors hovering at your side.
“I will sit here and keep watch,” you said simply.
Settling yourself on the edge of the patio, you let your bare feet slip into the icy current without so much as a flinch. Fabric lifted into the air before you, suspended by invisible threads of magic as the scissors began to slice clean, precise lines. Your brow furrowed in concentration as you adjusted measurements, reshaping pieces midair with small flicks of your fingers.
Clemantis undressed without a second thought, modesty forgotten in the rush to undress and get clean. His tunic was folded. The trousers folded. Set upon the stone with that same mechanical precision.
You watched for a moment, at the lack of shame he had for his own nakedness, after all, privacy had been nothing but a luxury for him for so long.
He was still for a moment, simply watching the slow and steady movement of the water, at the fish that swam beneath the surface before they flickered towards you, towards how comfortable you already looked, a grounding presence.
The water cold water crashed over Clemantis and he drew a quick breath through his teeth, a soft noise that you chose not to acknowledge. After a few heartbeats and after the initial shock, he settled into the current and let it move around him.
He washed methodically, starting at his wrists where the iron burns still marked him, working inward and across his body, washing away dried blood.
His long fingers went to his hair, untying the bun that it had been kept in, letting long silvery strands fall from their confines, falling around him like ribbons. He worked it through the length carefully, feeling the weight of it in the water, white strands fanning out around him like pale roots.
His gaze flickered towards you, and at the scissors floating in the air beside you.
After a few quiet minutes, you sensed it - the hesitation. Your eyes shifted subtly, catching the way his gaze lingered on the scissors. There was something sharp in that look.
“Do you want to borrow them?” You asked, already waving your fingers, the fabric laid out on stone and the silver in your hands.
“Would you cut it for me?” Clemantis asked, he gathered the length of his hair at his shoulder and held it there for a moment, “Please.”
“Okay, I’ll cut it.” You responded simply, gathering your skirts and tucking them into your belt then stepping into the cold water. It didn’t bother you so much anymore, the initial shock was maybe half a second before you waded through the water towards him and hummed.
His hair was long, It spilled over his shoulders and down past his thighs, a river of white that caught the sunlight and shimmered like fresh snow. It was long and straight, only the faintest curl at the ends where it brushed the water’s surface. You had known it was long from the bun he had worn, but seeing it unbound like this was something else entirely. It made him look even more otherworldly, like something carved from winter itself.
“Kneel?” you asked gently. “It will be easier if you are taller than me.”
Clemantis knelt, The stream pressed cold against his shins as he lowered himself, water swirling around his waist, yet another choice he had made.
It was a request, never a command.
When he lowered himself, your slender fingers reached forward, careful and deliberate. You gathered the heavy strands, letting the wet silk of it slide between your fingers. For a moment you simply held it there, feeling its weight.
Then you made the first cut.
The sound was soft but decisive. Long white tendrils slipped free and fell into the stream, carried away instantly by the current. They drifted downstream without resistance, vanishing like something finally released.
He watched the white strands drift and vanish. The stream took them away, heavy memories he could hopefully move on from.
Your grandmother had always told you that hair held memories
That everyone carried something with them, that hair was always one that remained unless it was cut.
Clemantis, you suspected, carried memories of a different kind.
How many years weighed in that length?
Cutting it now was ridding him off that burden.
You continued cutting with care, shaping the white river into something lighter. The scissors moved steadily while your free hand guided the strands into place. Gradually, his hair shortened to rest in soft waves around his shoulders. When you stepped around to face him, you tilted your head slightly, studying him through narrowed, thoughtful eyes.
You gathered the length that fell across his face into your hands and trimmed it cleanly, letting it settle just against his forehead.
You drew back.
A breath.
And then you smiled.
“It suits you,” you said softly. “You look more free, it suits you.”
Your fingers brushed lightly along the side of his face, adjusting a stray strand near his cheek. The gesture was gentle, absent of hesitation now.
Then an idea came to you.
“Do you want a braid like mine?” you asked, your tone brightening slightly. “I weave mine with magic. It carries a protection charm connected to my grandmother so she always knows whether I am alive or not. It could be the same for you.”
There was no pressure to your offer, only a sincere want.
“You’d feel my magic and I’d feel yours - safety.”
It was obvious he held some anxiety - years of trauma did that to you. The fear of being exploited, hit, or worse.
You guessed that he feared the danger that he would bring you, that the house he has come from would come after you, the fact that he could not sleep alone was enough proof to you, and you wanted to give him something, something that would ease that constant anxiety that he felt.
To survive something so horrible was not always a mercy.
He exhaled slowly.
"You give freely," he said, and there was something careful in his voice, not accusation but genuine bewilderment, in his own reserved way where he did not express so deeply and only had slight changes to his tone. "In my experience, generosity of this nature is... rare. I do not fully understand it yet."
A pause. The stream moved around them both, cold and constant.
"But I would like the braid. Yes."
His gaze met yours and held there with an openness that cost him more than you would know.
"I think I would like to feel safe."
“I do give freely,” you said softly, your free hand curled slightly, and a dark blue cord lifted from your sewing kit, floating into your palm. It was so deep a shade it was almost black, but silver fibers shimmered faintly within it, like stars suspended in a night sky.
Binding magic was what you knew best.
To bind things together. To draw a thread from one object to another, from one life to the next, and knot them so cleanly that even time struggled to fray the connection. It came to her as easily as breathing, as naturally as the tide answering the moon.
Your grandmother had once told you, when you were very small and your power had first begun to show, that it must have been something you had done in a previous life - something so significant that it had followed you into this one. Magic like that did not appear without reason. It echoed.
You had never questioned it. Not the past self you could not remember, nor what that version of you might have chosen to bind.
To bind meant permanence in a world where everything else slipped through fingers like water.
Permanence brought you comfort.
“Because I am like you,” you continued quietly. “Giving is all I have. It is simply in my nature to give. I have no reason to take from others, nor the desire to.”
A soft breath left your nose.
The truth of it sat heavy and familiar inside you. You were, in many ways, a selfish creature - one who had never learned how to live for yourself, only how to pour yourself outward.
You began to braid.
The thread wove seamlessly through the pale strands of his shortened hair, guided by steady fingers. Quiet whispers in Fae slipped from your lips, the syllables soft but precise. The air seemed to thrum faintly as you worked. That subtle connection Clemantis had felt before strengthened, warm and steady. The magic of the moon maiden rose around you - bright but gentle, constant like the celestial body that lent your power.
He could feel it.
Your life force brushing lightly against his own, not invasive, not consuming - simply there. A steady pulse.
“You will always be safe as long as my heart beats,” you murmured. “That was my vow to you. Not just healing.”
When you finished his braid, you knelt fully across from him. Without breaking the rhythm of your quiet incantations, you drew a small lock of your own crimson hair forward and began braiding it with the same dark thread. Your fingers moved with identical care, weaving the silver-flecked cord through your own strands.
Clemantis’ magic was faint - a flicker, fragile but present. You could feel it now more clearly where it brushed against yours.
Like something cocooned.
Waiting.
A soft smile curved your lips, warm and unguarded.
“There,” you said gently when you finished, lifting your own braid and letting it rest in your palm. The air between them hummed faintly, an invisible line stretching from one to the other. “Can you feel it?”
Your eyes met his - deep and endless blue, like the summer sky, or like the ocean whenever the sun danced upon it.
"I can feel it," he said quietly. "It is... warm. Steady."
A pause. His hand lowered.
"You speak so familiarly with me. I was not always a giver, My Lady. Perhaps I have been molded into one more than you realize." His voice was even, clinical almost, the way one describes a wound rather than a feeling. "I do not know what I am now. But I know this...feels right.
“Nobody is ever born a giver, Clemantis, we only become givers when the world has taken too much from us.” You said softly, your eyes crinkled at the corners.
His gaze moved to the braid at your temple - the first one, your grandmother's - and then back to your eyes.
"You honour me more than you know. I will try to be worthy of it." He let out a deep breath and then rose from the water then, slow and deliberate, the stream releasing him with a quiet rush. The cold air met his skin and he did not shiver.
"What comes next?" He stepped out properly, moving to wrap himself in a towel, gather his garments, then nod to you, "Is there a place I should leave these? You mentioned a warming spell?"
“Yes, a warming spell, after that I’ll gather you a clean change of clothes and get your boots,” you said with a nod, climbing out of the water your bloomers soaked through.
You glanced down at yourself, then at him, and a small breath left your nose.
“Yes… we are both soaked.”
You lifted one hand, fingers curling slightly as if you were feeling for something invisible in the air.
“Hold still,” you said softly.
The words were not a command - more like a quiet warning.
Magic gathered the way it always did around you, slow and steady, like the pull of a tide beneath the surface. The air near your palm shimmered faintly, the light bending as warmth began to build between your fingers. Your magic never burst into life. It spread gently, like heat from embers, constant and controlled.
A pale ribbon of blue-silver light slipped from your fingertips and hovered for a moment between you.
You turned your wrist, guiding the spell outward instead of toward just him.
The ribbon split in two.
One strand drifted toward Clemantis, coiling loosely around his shoulders before sinking into his skin, the cold vanishing wherever it touched. The other curled back toward you, winding around your waist and arms like a soft current of air. Damp fabric warmed instantly, the chill leaving your clothes in faint wisps of steam that lifted and disappeared into the morning light.
The magic spread until both of you stood in the same pocket of warmth, the air around you gently heated, like standing close to a hearth.
Your shoulders relaxed slightly as the spell settled.
“There,” you murmured, lowering your hand. “That should be better.”
Droplets slid from your hair and vanished before they could reach the ground. The last traces of cold left your skin, replaced by a steady, comfortable warmth that lingered without burning.
You flexed your fingers once, shaking off the last threads of energy, the faint glow at your fingertips fading slowly.
Clemantis stilled the moment the warmth settled around him.
At first it was only a flicker of surprise in his eyes, his shoulders drawing in slightly as if he expected the cold to bite again. But it did not. The heat spread evenly through his skin, gentle and steady, sinking deeper until the ache in his bones eased and the sharp chill from the stream disappeared entirely.
A faint breath left him, slower than before.
He looked down at his hands, turning one slightly as if he expected to see the magic still clinging to his fingers. A thin wisp of steam lifted from his sleeve and vanished into the air. His brow furrowed, not in discomfort, but in quiet disbelief.
“…It is warm,” he said, almost to himself.
His gaze lifted to you then, studying your face with a careful expression, baffled almost as if his mind were struggling to comprehend that someone could give without taking.
There was no fear in it this time. Only confusion… and something softer beneath it.
“Boots and clothes, I’ll be one moment,” You turned without another word, the lingering warmth from the spell still resting against your skin as you stepped back toward the house.
You moved with purpose, already thinking through what he would need.
You went to the old chest again, pulling a clean shirt free from the stack and shaking it out once before draping it over your arm. A second motion gathered a pair of trousers.
You stopped for a moment, eyes lowering to the cloth in your hands as if measuring something only you could see.
“…These should fit well enough.”
You adjusted the pile over your arm, simple undergarments, a dark shirt and pants, maybe they’d be a little short on him, he was rather tall after all. That would require rehemming it, an easy enough thing. Unfortunately the only resizing spell that you knew only materials that came from animals, like leather. Those were at least the harder ones to adjust by conventional means, and just in case, you made sure you had fabric that would match the trousers well enough.
A small breath left you through your nose.
You turned back the way you came, back into your flower filled garden.
By the time you stepped outside again, the warmth from the spell still clung faintly to the air around you, the clothes in your hands already beginning to dry from the lingering magic.
“I brought these,” you said simply, holding them out toward him. “They are not exact, but they will do for now.”
Clemantis took the clothes from your hands with careful fingers, as though he expected them to disappear if he moved too quickly.
“…Thank you,” he said quietly.
For a moment he simply held the bundle, looking down at the unfamiliar fabric before setting his folded garments aside on the stone. The towel around his shoulders slipped slightly as he moved, and he caught it absently, drying his hands one last time before letting it fall to rest across the ledge.
He dressed the same way he did everything else — deliberately, with quiet precision.
First the shirt. He unfolded it fully before putting it on, smoothing the fabric once between his hands as if checking for flaws that were not there. He slipped his arms through the sleeves, pulling the cloth over his shoulders and adjusting the collar with small, practiced movements until it sat properly against his neck. His wing slid through the open back panel.
Then the trousers.
He stepped into them carefully, balancing without thinking, movements steady despite the uneven stone beneath his feet. You watched him closely, gauging his subtle reactions and, from what you could tell, he didn’t seem displeased. He was getting used to how it fit, but as he finally fastened it in place, he tugged at it lightly. After a studying frown, he nodded - it seemed it sat correctly enough and he smoothed the fabric along his waist.
When he finished, he stood still for a moment, hands lowering slowly to his sides.
The warmth from your spell still lingered, faint but steady, keeping the damp from returning to the air around him.
He looked down at himself once, then toward you.
“…It fits better than I expected,” he said.
A small pause followed, his fingers brushing lightly over the sleeve, feeling the texture like it was something unfamiliar.
“I am not accustomed to wearing things chosen for me without my appearance in mind.”
His gaze lifted to yours, expression calm, but softer than before.
“…I like it.”
You watched him while he dressed, your hands loosely folded in front of you, the faint warmth from the spell still drifting through the air between you both. Your eyes followed every small, careful movement — the way he checked the seams, the way he adjusted the collar, the way he stood still afterward like he was waiting for someone to tell him whether he had done it correctly.
When he said he liked it, your expression softened immediately.
“I am glad,” you replied, your voice quiet but warm. “I was not sure what you would prefer. You did not bring much with you, and I did not want you to feel like a guest in your own clothes.”
You stepped a little closer, not hesitating the way you might have before, your gaze moving over the fit of the shirt and the way the fabric sat across his shoulders.
Your fingers lifted without thinking, lightly tugging the sleeve down where it had caught slightly near his wrist.
“You hold yourself very straight,” you murmured, half to yourself. “It makes everything sit differently.”
Your hand lingered for a second longer than necessary before you let it fall back to your side.
“The boots should be inside,” you continued, more matter-of-fact now, as if the brief closeness had not happened at all. “I was guessing your size, so they may need adjusting. That is easy enough.”
You turned slightly, then paused, glancing back at him again.
“…If something feels wrong, you should tell me.”
A small breath left you, softer this time.
“You do not have to endure things just because they were given to you.”
For a moment you held his gaze, steady and sincere, before looking away again, brushing damp strands of hair back behind your ear.
“Come,” you said gently. “You should try them before the warmth wears off.”
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