On Elven Royalty, Hair Ribbons, and the Impact of High King Smajor on Elven Culture (Emptober Day 4: Ribbon)
An essay submitted by a human student in the Cod Empire, many hundreds of years after the death of King Jimmy Solidarity, on the topic of elven culture.
Yes, this is formatted in proper MLA style.
Yes, I hate myself for that as much as you hate me for it.
Wordcount: 912
Content warnings: none.
Actual fic under the cut:
Josh Gelnam
8/4/3021
Professor Culelen
Elven Culture and History
Section 2
On Elven Royalty, Hair Ribbons, and the Impact of High King Smajor on Elven Culture
Hair ribbons are a longstanding elven tradition that has carried through multiple centuries, possibly millennia. Elves will wear hair ribbons to festivals and parties, but also to funerals and even into battle. Though seemingly impractical, the tradition is incredibly significant in elven culture, as it has persisted for generations. (Some scholars even say it began in Valinor, homeland of the elves, though there is no definitive evidence of this.)
Experts are unaware of exactly when or where the tradition of braiding ribbons through hair started, though reports of this have been traced all the way back to King Fingon the Valiant, High King of the Noldor in the First Age of Arda. Though not all elves have always observed this, there are descriptions and records of hair ribbons in some form from every era of the elves, and many different peoples. Noldor, Vanyar, Sindar, and even Silvan elves have been recorded as wearing these adornments, though wood-elves less commonly so than high-elves. In the modern day, both major elven kingdoms retain this tradition.
The ribbons themselves have been crafted from a wide variety of materials, and what is most common varies by the type of elf, their social status/wealth, and the Age they were born in. In the First Age, for example, High King Fingon was observed to wear hair ribbons which had pure gold woven into the fabric. This would be fitting for his status as king, and makes sense for Noldorin culture in that era, which was heavily focused around smithing and other forms of artistry. Noldor royalty would continue to imitate this for some time, but the practice fell out of favor with High King Smajor of Rivendell.
King Smajor was said to be an unusual elvenking in many ways, and his style reflected this. While in the early years of his kingship he wore traditional golden ribbons, in later years he is said to have worn flower crowns and roughly woven brown and green fabrics instead. This seemingly strange choice nonetheless began a trend towards less traditional materials in elven fashion that lasted for centuries afterwards. As a whole, King Smajor was vastly influential in the shift in elven culture in the early Sixth Age.
As the second prince, or ‘spare heir’, King Smajor was not expected to become the High King. However, Prince Xornoth disappeared from public view in 1240 Sixth Age, and their younger twin succeeded the throne instead. At first seen as mannish and incompetent, King Smajor was widely disliked by the elven court when he first ascended. However, as champion of Aeor and the only remaining heir to the house of Elrond Peredhel, he was the only candidate for the throne. Despite the unhappiness of many advisors, he retained the throne for many centuries to come.
Some of the most notable change accomplished during this era includes the end of the Conflict of the Great Stags, the opening of Rivendell’s borders for trade, and the first ever adopted heir of the elves. King Smajor, Champion of Aeor, made peace with Prince Xornoth, Champion of Exor, and ended what was at the time thought to be an eternal cycle of conflict. He also allied with many mortal kingdoms and rulers, including Queen Lizzie Shadowlady of the Ocean Empire, Queen Katherine of the Overgrown, Count Fwhip of the Grimlands, and most notably Codfather Jimmy Solidarity of the Cod Empire. Though the exact nature of his relationship with the Codfather remains unknown, many historians have speculated that they were lovers. The green and brown hair ribbons that King Smajor was fond of (green and brown being thematic colors of the Cod Empire), would seem to support this theory.
Though he was an unusual king, there is no doubt that King Smajor was also an incredibly influential one. Not only did elven fashion change in a direct response to his untraditional choices, the culture of the elves also began a huge shift around this time. Where before, elves had been famously isolationist and kept almost entirely to themselves, during King Smajor’s rein, their trade and interactions with other empires increased drastically. Additionally, elven royalty had long valued blood relation above all other forms, but with the adoption of the future High Queen Mirnen, this began to change.
Today, elven hair ribbons take countless forms, from rough cotton and strings of twine to fine silks and even traditional woven metal. Dyes are made from the many flowers of the Overgrown and even certain kinds of terracotta from Mezalea. Woven copper from Pixandria has become popular in recent years, and the Ocean Empire makes its contribution in tiny pieces of sea glass that are sometimes sewn onto hair ribbons and other elven clothing. Where once, Rivendell had a tradition of blue, white, and gold, there is now a whole rainbow of color, and much of that is due to the un-elven elf king: High King Smajor of Rivendell.
Works Cited:
Falashithiel, Dindraug. Elven Fashion in the Sixth Age . Rivendell Publishing, 2998 Sixth Age.
Silornion, Quentur. “Elven Hair Ribbons: Origins and History.” Historia Ellon , vol. 14, no. 6, 1581 Fifth Age, pp. 176-180.
Marison, Iaglin. “The Unelven Elf-King: An Exploration of High King Smajor’s Rulership and the Impacts Thereof.” Journal of Interempire Politics , vol. 7, no. 24, 2241 Sixth Age, pp. 34-48.
I can't believe I completely forgot to do this, but I posted another kotlc fic on my AO3 finally!
Title: Common Denominator
Wordcount: 6825
Summary:
Bronte and Tiergan are nothing like each other. Sure, they're both loyal to a fault, and they both could use a few hundred years of regularly scheduled therapy, but they're nothing alike otherwise. Bronte is the steel to Tiergan's gold, the night to his day, cruel words to his kind actions. Bronte's also about twice his age, repressed as anything, and a Councillor. Tiergan is young, and wears his heart on his sleeve, and a rebel. The only thing they have in common is a prodigy, quite possibly the only person who could get Tiergan to overcome a decade of pure resentment: Sophie Foster.
or, the story of how Tiergan and Bronte grew to hate each other slightly less, and even work together for Sophie's sake, as told through a series of conversations had over lunch at Foxfire.
Warnings: referenced homophobia, implied transphobia, mentioned past character death, implied child abuse, and references to depression and mental illness.
Full fic under the cut
It’s Tuesday at Foxfire, a bit after noon, and everything is ordinary. Farien is holding court at one of the larger tables, a group of the more gossipy mentors gathered around her. Serenel is chatting with the few other ancients who mentor at Foxfire. Leto is frustratingly absent, as is all too common nowadays. And everyone else sits scattered between the crammed tables- the mentors’ cafeteria desperately needs a remodel, Tiergan thinks. He’ll ask Leto about it. At some point. Maybe after the rest of their lives calm down a bit, though who knows how long that’ll take.
“May I sit here?”
His head snaps up from his food at the all-too-familiar voice. The sight that greets him is not something he could ever have expected- not something that most people would have expected, he thinks.
Because standing in the middle of the mentor’s cafe, posture stiff and awkward, a plate clutched in his hands, is Councillor Bronte fucking Pyren.
Tiergan breathes in. Breathes out. Tries to decide how a mature adult would handle this.
Bronte’s circlet glitters under the lights.
“No, you may not sit here.” It’s a line in the sand, and as easily washed away as one. Bronte is a Councillor. He can do whatever he damn pleases, and they both know that. What Tiergan is trying to find out is how far his respect for Tiergan’s wishes actually goes.
Bronte inclines his head. “Understandable.” With that, he’s gone as silently as he arrived.
Tiergan can’t help the way he tracks Bronte’s figure across the cafeteria, though what he’s looking for, he can’t say. Certainly, the Councillor cuts a striking figure even- especially, perhaps- amongst the bejeweled mentors. A panther amongst deer. Steel against silk.
Bronte turns as if scanning the room, only to find what Tiergan is seeing as well; the cafe is crowded today. Almost every table is full, save for his.
Watching Bronte, some part of him twinges with what could almost be called sympathy. The motions are so familiar. Tiergan can almost feel how he twists his head around, scanning the cafeteria for anyone who might let him sit beside them, finding none. There’s some metaphor to be made there, perhaps- something about finding a seat being as difficult as finding his place in this world that isn’t built for either of them, not really- but Tiergan isn’t thinking about that. He’s thinking about a short, blond teenager standing in the students’ cafeteria, the tray getting heavy in his arms, every table already full with people who never had to struggle to prove they belonged. He’s thinking about a prodigy who ate lunch in the library all the way through Level Two. He’s thinking about a student that people called Prentice’s ‘pity case’.
He grits his teeth and lets out a breath. “Bronte.”
No reply.
“Bronte,” Tiergan repeats slightly louder. This time, he catches Bronte’s gaze, and he gestures to the empty seat across from him.
Bronte looks startled for a brief moment, and then makes his way over. He sets the tray down with no real grace or flourish, nothing like the perfectly calculated elegance that Councillors usually project. “Thank you.”
Tiergan starts to say “No problem” and thinks better of it. “Don’t-” worry about it? “Don’t thank me.”
“Alright, then.” Bronte pokes at the fruit on his plate but doesn’t actually eat it. “If it’s any consolation, I also hate this situation.”
“Do you have a problem with me?” How dare he be the one upset by this when he was the one who took Prentice from Tiergan?
“Call it mutual dislike, though I suspect your side of it is more like hatred.”
“What’s- why do you dislike me?” Beyond the years he spent fighting the Council, Tiergan doesn’t say.
Bronte shrugs. “You’re stubborn, and you’re proud. You don’t know how to do anything by halves.”
“As if you do,” Tiergan retorts.
He gets a faint, wry smile. “I am not immune to being hypocritical in my criticism of you, you know.”
He can’t say anything to that. He doesn’t bother to try.
“So, how was your session with Sophie?”
It’s none of his business. Tiergan resists the urge to tell him as such. “Fine,” he says instead.
“Glad to hear that.” Oddly enough, it doesn’t sound sarcastic.
“Why do you care?”
A shrug. “I was trying to make polite conversation. Oralie says I need to get better at that.”
That gets a rise out of the bitter, rage-filled part of him that hasn’t reared its head yet. The part of him that led him to yell and snipe at the Council, at Alden, at anyone involved what happened to Prentice.
“I-“ he starts, considers if this is a good idea, decides it’s not and continues anyways. “I’m not that interested in making polite conversation with you.” It’s bold- far more aggressive then he would usually be, but there is that little, ugly piece of him that cannot abide by being kind to someone who ruined his life so thoroughly.
Bronte gives him an odd look. “You were under no obligation to invite me to sit with you.”
He takes a bite of whatever it is that he has on his plate. Tiergan’s food is still untouched.
Tiergan has no reply to that. Not without admitting that he’s been in the same place, standing in the cafeteria, unable to find anyone to sit with who won’t scorn him. He doesn’t want Bronte to be alike him in this way, or any way, for that matter. “I thought that I would be kind. However, my tolerance only goes so far.”
Bronte is not a telepath. Yet somehow, his sharp blue eyes give the impression that he is looking right through Tiergan, which is a distinctly unsettling feeling. “You are an odd elf.”
“Don’t call me that,” Tiergan snaps. It’s as if something in him has snapped as surely as he just snapped at Bronte, leaving him unstable, as easily shattered as glass. He doesn’t want to be here, sitting in the mildly uncomfortable chairs in the mentors’ cafeteria, across the table from someone who took away one of the best things in his life, with the embroidery on the sleeves of his tunic itching at his wrists. “It’s bad enough have you sitting here, let alone insulting me, when your face alone brings up bad memories, and I’m worried about the Neverseen and worried about Sophie and our world is falling apart around us more and more with every passing day, and I don’t even like brattails!” It’s a most uncharacteristic outburst, but he’s too busy fighting back the stinging in his eyes to worry about that, or really to register anything beyond that the sun is too bright, and the room is too loud, and he really, really doesn’t want to be here.
A slim, scarred hand enters his vision, grasping the edge of his plate and holding out another. “I’ll trade you,” Bronte’s dry voice comes. “I detest ripplefluffs anyways.”
It’s an odd act of kindness, as uncharacteristic of Bronte as Tiergan’s outburst was of him. Usually, Tiergan would refuse his pity. Today, he’s too tired to even think about fighting back.
He takes the plate.
Bronte is silent for long moments after that. Tiergan can’t be anything but grateful for that, as it gives him the time to take a few deep breaths and banish that awful, fragile feeling.
He doesn’t like to admit it, but he is happier with the food on Bronte’s plate than he was with his own. Having something with a decent texture to eat doesn’t fix the fact that Bronte is one of the people who has hurt him most, but it does make everything else just the tiniest bit more bearable.
He takes another breath and the tightness in his chest eases a little bit more. “Why did you pick ripplefluffs if you don’t like them?”
“I got here late and that was all that was left.” Bronte sighs faintly. “My tardiness was likely also why there were no seats left beyond this one, if I am to make a guess.”
“Why come to Foxfire at all?” He can’t help but ask. “Surely you have other things to do then eat lunch here.”
“I was hoping perhaps, that I would be able to talk to other ability mentors and in some way improve my own teaching. That seems to be a fool’s hope, however.”
Tiergan doesn’t offer to help him. That is beyond how friendly he’s willing to be with a Councillor. But- “Maybe come earlier next week. If you claim a table first, there’s usually someone who will need a seat, and they might be willing to trade advice for it.”
“Good idea. And on that note, it appears that I will be late for my session with Sophie if I don’t start heading over to the Elite Towers, so this is where I leave you. I don’t expect you’ll be terribly sad about that.”
Tiergan doesn’t answer that. “It’s nearly twelve fifty. You should hurry.”
” I should.” Bronte rises from his seat, but hesitates for a moment before walking away. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Tiergan answers.
Even he can’t tell if he means or not.
-
It’s Thursday, and Tiergan is in his favorite corner. It’s the quietest corner of the mentors’ café, giving him at least some relief from the chatter. It’s also usually one of the darkest, though the sun still beams through the large windows, dust specks swirling in the beam like tiny fragments of stars.
Bronte slides into the seat across from him with as little grace as a sword through flesh. He’s not wearing his circlet today- odd, but honestly more comfortable- but what really matters is that he’s still sitting with Tiergan .
“Why are you here?”
“Good afternoon to you too,” the Councillor replies dryly.
Tiergan grits his teeth. “I thought you were going to arrive early and track down another ability mentor.”
“Believe me, I would rather be doing that. But I need to talk to you specifically about something.”
He doesn’t like the sound of that. “Why?”
“It’s about Sophie.”
That gets Tiergan to pay attention.” What about Sophie?”
“I am- not exactly worried, per se, but I have a- concern, if you will, about her well-being.” There’s no trace of sarcasm in his words. Bronte seems to always mean what he says, and usually to say what he means, but he seems especially serious about this. That does not bode well.
“What’s your concern?” He doesn’t like this, but if there’s something wrong with Sophie he needs to know no matter who delivers the news.
Bronte doesn’t answer that. “Do you know how inflicting works?”
“How is this relevant?” He does, of course, know at least the basics. The research on inflicting the Black Swan did while working on Project Moonlark was extensive, to say the least. Tiergan may not have been one of the scientists, but he was heavily involved in finding sources regardless.
“Answer the question and I’ll explain.”
Reluctantly, he does. “I know the basics.”
“Then you know that inflicting has to draw from the emotions that an inflictor already has.”
“Yes.” His food lays forgotten on his plate.
“While drawing on memories of those emotions can be effective, if one has very little of that emotion for a prolonged time, using it in inflicting is very difficult, if not impossible.”
Tiergan is getting tired of having inflicting explained to him as if he’s a child. “Yes, I understand that. How is this relevant?”
Bronte sighs heavily.” Sophie is…having trouble inflicting positive emotions.” He says nothing else, allowing that sentence and all its implications to hang in the air.
“So you think that Sophie is…unhappy,” Tiergan extrapolates. “Deeply so.”
“Yes.”
He cannot say that it’s terribly surprising. Sophie has been through a lot at a very young age. Still, he cannot deny that it’s worrying. Sophie has been able to inflict positively ever since manifesting. He doesn’t want to think about how unhappy she must be to be struggling with that now.
He picks his words carefully. “Not that I don’t care about Sophie, but why are you coming to me? Shouldn’t Grady and Edaline hear about this first?”
“It’s not that I doubt that Grady and Edaline are good parents, but I…suspect that whatever is causing Sophie’s unhappiness is something that she doesn’t want to share with them, given some things she said.” Bronte pauses then, in a way Tiergan hasn’t seen him do before. It’s as if he’s weighing his words very carefully. “You are an adult that she trusts but does not have to live with- a crucial distinction. It may be paranoia, but I will always be cautious about bringing up sensitive matters with parents if a child hasn’t told the parents themself.”
Tiergan understands that in a way that he wishes he doesn’t. He looks again at Bronte’s ancient eyes and scarred face, and wonders just where his caution comes from. “I understand.”
“I hoped you would.”
“I will try- cautiously, of course- to figure out what is causing Sophie’s unhappiness,” he offers. “Though I can only hope that she trusts me enough to share her worries.”
“I believe she does. She certainly trusts you more than she trusts me, and I cannot say it is not for good reason.” Bronte pushes the chunks of food on his plate around, but makes no effort to actually eat it. It’s a restless motion that Tiergan hardly resists the urge to copy.
“Thank you,” Bronte adds after a moment.” I am not close enough to Sophie to handle this myself, but- like you- I would rather not see her unhappy. There is enough grief in the world.”
His bite of tubers suddenly seems much harder to swallow. “There is. And the children have suffered enough.” It makes him angry, many days, but sad even more than that. He and Leto had not envisioned bringing Sophie to the Lost Cities so young, nor had they been able to imagine the pain and fear that she’s had to face, let alone how many others her age would be drawn into the fight.
“You and I are agreed upon that, then, little as you might agree with me on other topics.”
“We are.” He takes a deep breath and swallows his pride. “Thank you for letting me know about this. I may not like you, but it’s- good that Sophie has other people looking out for her.” The words are bitter in his mouth–Tiergan has never liked admitting that there are good qualities in his enemies–but they are true. He cannot find it in himself to resent that there’s someone else- someone influential - looking out for Sophie’s well-being.
Bronte merely nods in acknowledgment and returns to his food.
After a moment’s hesitation, Tiergan does the same.
-
It’s Tuesday, and Tiergan is late for lunch. That isn’t a rare occurrence necessarily; when he mentored before he lost track of time surprisingly often. Today however, not only is he extremely late, it’s also for an unusual reason.
He hardly pays attention to the food available at the buffet. His head is too busy spinning with what Sophie told him only minutes before. Still, he needs to eat, so he piles–something, some kind of food, onto his plate and looks for a seat. As usual, the café has filled up quickly. Some mentors sit in the same seat week after week, while others have no such routine, but either way there never seems to be quite enough tables for one to be free if you arrive half an hour late. Much to his bitterness, he sees only two free seats: one with the group of Council-aligned mentors who have made it very clear that they don’t like him, and the other directly across from Bronte.
Usually, he would turn on his heel, ready to eat lunch in his office rather than put up with cruel remarks. Today, he collapses into the seat across from Bronte and tries very hard not to cry.
Bronte’s sharp gaze flicks over him. “What’s got you so upset?”
“None of your business,” he spits. It is none of his business. What Sophie shared is none of his business. How much her young, fear-stricken face reminded Tiergan of himself is none of his business.
“I was only curious,” Bronte defends. “I can see, however, that you don’t want to talk about it. Even I’m not so oblivious as to not notice that.”
Tiergan doesn’t answer him. Instead, he stares at his plate–brattails again, just his luck–and tries not to think about scared children, growing up into a world that has no place for them. A world that had no place for them even when Tiergan was young- even when Bronte was young- and certainly has no kindness for them even now that so much has changed. Somehow, in all their progress, the elves still forgot elves like him. Like Sophie.
The terror and uncertainty on her face when she told him made it into a perfect mirror of his own at that age. That faint, desperate hope that there was happiness waiting for him tempered by what he knew all along: he was strange. He had always been strange. And it seemed all too likely that he always would be some form of outcast. He would not change. Their society would have to, and that was as unlikely as finding a gnome who hated nature.
He’s torn from his thoughts by another of Bronte’s dry remarks. “You really need to stop getting food that you don’t like.”
“It wasn’t exactly a choice,” he grumbles. “I got here late, and it’s not like there was a lot of choice.”
“Trade you again?”
Tiergan raises his head to reply, startled by a repeat of his former kindness. It’s then that he notices something he never has before. Bronte wears a singular earring in his right ear: a crystal of light blue flames, glinting in the sunlight.
Oh . It’s no wonder that the first time he invited Bronte to sit with him, Bronte’s demeanor was so familiar. He too was a child growing up into a world not meant for him, and he too is an adult who lives his true life in secrecy.
Bronte seems to have taken his silence as permission to switch their plates. “Should I assume that your lateness has something to do with Sophie?”
He hates deeply how perceptive Bronte is. “It does.”
“Is she going to be alright?”
Tiergan can only shake his head, afraid that if he speaks, his grief will spill forth like a tidal wave.
“Well that’s concerning. Am I allowed to know what’s going on?”
He shakes his head again. “What Sophie shared with me is something only she has the right to share.”
“I’m going to assume that it was fairly awful, given the state you’re in.” His eyes flick to the untouched food on Tiergan’s plate. “You should probably eat if you want to have time before the afternoon sessions begin, you know.”
Tiergan forces himself to take a chunk of fruit and put it in his mouth. He would like to say that it tastes of ash, of something more appropriate for the way his heart aches with familiar, long-held pain. But it just tastes like mango. It’s an unpleasant reminder that the long and painful journey through life that Sophie now faces is just as real as the soft fruit under his fork.
Bronte allows him to sit silently with his grief. It’s another small and entirely unexpected kindness. Of all the people to have such an unspoken understanding of what Tiergan needs, Bronte is one of the last people he would’ve expected. He’s also one of the last people he would have chosen. He doesn’t want Bronte to know what he needs. He doesn’t want Bronte to know him . But he has no choice in the matter, and today has opened wounds that he thought long since healed. He’s too exhausted to deny himself the luxury of food with a texture he likes and silence when he needs that to process the world.
Sophie’s words tumble over and over in his head. Are there gay elves? Am I the odd one out again? I don’t know what Grady and Edaline would think. Is it okay for me to be- to be queer? Is it safe? Did you plan for me to be like this?
So many questions. He wishes that he had been able to give her better answers. Answers that could give her hope, or make her feel like it was going to be okay. He wishes that he could tell her she would be alright and not have it be a lie.
“Should I be extra gentle with Sophie today?” Once again it’s Bronte’s voice, quiet but not meek, that cuts through his thoughts.
“Yes.” That’s all he can think to say. “Yes, be gentle with her. She’s having an awful day.”
“Clearly.”
Tiergan grits his teeth and reminds himself that if he murders a Councillor and goes to Exile, there will be no one to take care of Wylie, or Tam, or Linh. Another wrong that he wishes he could punch Bronte- and several other people as well- for.
“Be as gentle as you’re capable of being.” He hopes the implication that he doesn’t believe Bronte capable of much gentleness comes through.
“Yes, yes, I know you think I’m a monster- and I cannot say you’re entirely wrong- but I’ll do my best.”
“I don’t think you’re a monster. A monster is incapable of doing anything but harm. You’re worse, because you’re just an elf. You’re as capable of good or evil as any of us, but you've done all that anyways.” Maybe when Prentice’s mind was first shattered, Tiergan would have called the Council monsters. Now, he knows better. His anger burns and burns like everblaze in Eternalia, like the eternal, ethereal flame in Bronte’s balefire earring. It hisses and spits and crackles, and Tiergan lashes out, fueled by bitter grief.
Bronte goes very still and very quiet. Somehow, it seems more dangerous than if he had reacted with immediate rage. Tiergan wonders for a long moment if he’s fucked up.
He thinks he has.
Bronte rises from his seat with all the careful control and resignation of an experienced soldier marching off to the battle that will prove his doom. “I should go. I need to prepare for my session with Sophie.”
The words themselves are calm, but there’s an undercurrent of an emotion that Tiergan can’t put a name to. He wants to say that it’s rage. That’s the most logical response to being insulted so strongly. It fits with his idea of how Bronte is.
But the world is rarely so neat as all that, and he thinks that maybe there’s something a little bit broken to the quiet words, something a little bit sharp: a knife blade hidden under the cold calm. Abruptly, something sour, unfamiliar rises in him; it takes him a moment to identify the feeling as shame.
Bronte does not move with his usual predatory grace. Instead, there’s something stiff about the way he walks away, navigating the mentor’s cafeteria like a battlefield.
Tiergan doesn’t call him back.
-
He expected Bronte to never sit with him again. If anyone had directed such bitter, hurtful words at him, he’s not sure if he would have the courage- let alone the desire- to ever see them again.
Indeed, Thursday afternoon sees him sitting alone. Recently, with his duties as principal taking up more and more of his day, Leto has been using lunchtime to sneak away to the Black Swan, meaning he isn’t here to fill the other seat either. Tiergan isn’t sure why he doesn’t join him, honestly. There's not a lot for him at the mentors' cafe; the food isn't great, and he doesn't talk to most of the other mentors beyond keeping an eye on them for Leto. But then again, he’s self-aware enough to know that he isn’t always rational. So he’s not sure why he keeps eating lunch at Foxfire, but he doesn’t make any effort to stop, either.
Tuesday begins much the same: Tiergan sitting alone at one of the smaller tables. At least the food is good today. And he doesn’t mind the solitude. He’s used to being a little bit lonely. It’s almost comfortable by now, to sink into his own mind, telepathy curriculum laid out on the table in front of him.
Then, something changes. There’s the plink of a plate being set down on the other side of the table.
Tiergan looks up from the worksheet he was editing, and there, in all his usual gray and black finery, is Bronte. Notably, his circlet is clutched in one of his hands instead of adorning his head.
“Hello.”
Tiergan blinks, hoping that conveys his bafflement well enough. “What are you doing here?”
“Having lunch, what does it look like I’m doing?” The stiffness in his shoulders betrays nervousness that’s kept neatly out of his voice.
“You weren’t here Thursday.”
“Council meeting,” Bronte explains. “It ran late. Very late. Derek never shuts up sometimes."
He can’t decide if he should believe that. He’s never known Bronte to lie, but it sounds unbelievable that his words could have had nothing to do with Bronte’s absence. “Does he really?”
“He loves to hear himself talk.” Bronte rolls his eyes slightly. “Though he isn’t as bad as Carsil used to be.”
“Was he more insufferable?”
“Very much so.”
Silence falls again then. It’s awkward, of course. Tiergan doesn’t think a silence could ever be comfortable after something like what he said last time they saw each other.
Bronte picks at his food with a look of displeasure. His lips are curved into a frown, although they’re rarely not, honestly. Still–
“Do you want to trade?” It’s a peace offering of sorts. Maybe it’s fitting that he makes up for his cruel words with a kind action.
He holds his bowl out- the best dish is soup today- and Bronte takes it, something like surprise flitting briefly across his face. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Another brief pause, and then-
“Sophie told me, by the way.” Bronte drops it so casually, so easily, as if what Sophie told him was something to be casually accepted, as if it wasn’t a secret that could ruin her entire life.
Tiergan would snap at him for how flippant he’s being, but he glances at the balefire earring hanging from his right ear, the tension in his shoulders, and lets it go. Bronte’s suffered in his turn, he knows.
“She told you that she’s…”
“One of us,” Bronte finishes for him.
His hand goes to his own singular earring without thinking, the edges of the stone digging into the tips of his fingers. His isn’t real balefire- Tiergan isn’t nearly old or wealthy enough for that- but the aquamarine is a distinct symbol in its own way. “One of us,” he echoes softly.
“Is that what got you so upset the other day?”
A snappy response rises to his lips, but he thinks of last time and lets the harsh words go with a sigh, floating away like seeds carried on the wind. He half thinks that when he breathes out, his long-held grief and rage might be visible like dust in a sunbeam, swirling under the harsh light of Bronte’s stare. “She’s so young. And already so afraid. It breaks my heart.”
“You do have a soft heart.”
“Fuck you.” There’s no real fire behind the words, only a cheap imitation of rage like Tiergan’s aquamarine is a cheap imitation of Bronte’s balefire.
Bronte shrugs, dragging his spoon idly through the soup. “It isn’t easy for me either, if that makes you feel better.”
He lets out another breath. “She’s just like me when I was fifteen.”
“And I imagine you were just like I was at fifteen.”
“I imagine I was. I imagine we all were something like that, scared and alone in this world that wasn’t built for us.”
He gets a sharp nod in response. “Less alone and more scared in my case, but…my brother didn’t understand everything about me.”
Tiergan tries to puzzle out the meaning behind the words, read between the lines like they have to in order to survive.
His confusion must be visible, as Bronte sighs and pulls out a pendant from under his shirt. The distinct shape of a phoenix flashes in the sunlight, golden and scarlet and beautiful.
Oh . “You’re-”
“Lucky to have been born before the registry records were well-kept enough for anyone to realize that Bronte wasn’t my original name, yes. Lucky as well that there are few elves now old enough to remember that the older Pyren brother wasn’t always that.” He tucks the pendant away again, but the afterimage of it is burned into Tiergan’s eyeballs. “My brother is not, which is why I say he didn’t quite understand it in full.”
“Why would you tell me this?” He doesn’t mean to say that, not really, but it is puzzling. A secret like that could ruin Bronte’s life, and he let it slip so…casually. “You know I don’t like you- I said some truly awful things to you, and you gave me power over you anyways.”
“I know you’re too good of a person to use it against me.” His earring flashes in the sunlight as he dips his head to take a spoonful of soup. “There are things too horrible for you no matter who the person is, aren’t there?”
Tiergan does. He hates that Bronte’s confident enough in that to trust him, though. “You don’t know me.”
“On the contrary. I know you as well as you know me. We’re alike in this way; there are lines that we will not, cannot, cross.”
He hates how easily Bronte says that. He hates even more that Bronte is right. “I suppose that’s true. I doubt that we’re that much alike, though.” I could never do what you’ve done , he doesn’t say.
“We are, and we aren’t. I like to think I could have been someone like you, had circumstances been different.”
“Do you wish you were?” Ancients, what is he thinking asking that?
“Not often. On occasion I do wonder if I would have been better for it, though.” His face hasn’t changed, but Tiergan thinks there’s a new sort of sorrow visible in his grey-blue stare, and is reminded against his will of his own voice spitting cruel words.
“I can’t honestly say that I’m fine with everything about you, but I can’t say you’d be better for being me either,” he offers. It’s tentative, another small offering of peace.
“I suppose this is where, in the cheesy idealized version of life, we recognize that we’re both flawed in different ways and hug it out or some nonsense,” Bronte deadpans back.
Tiergan surprises even himself with his laugh. “Thank goodness this isn’t- what do the humans call it? A hallmark movie.”
“Thank goodness indeed.” Bronte shakes his head, as if brushing off the thought of something so sweet, so far from what their relationship truly is. “Returning to the original topic, how much have you told Sophie about elves like us?”
“I caught her up on the basics- the cafes, midnight balls, some of the signaling-” He pauses, a thought occurring to him. “Did she ask if you were one of us? I may have mentioned the balefire earrings.”
“She didn’t, no. But I imagine the signaling was a factor in her decision to tell me.” Bronte halts, then, and when he speaks again, his tone is softer than Tiergan has ever heard him. “I’m glad you told her, and I’m glad I wear this still, even after all these years.”
“I’m glad as well.” He would be lying if he said that he held no resentment towards Bronte, but the larger part of him right now is desperately, awfully grateful to not be the only older queer figure in Sophie’s life. She deserves so much more than he’s capable of giving her. She deserves people to look after her, even if one of those people is, well, Bronte.
He frowns, something Bronte said bothering him. Even after all these years . “Did you consider not wearing the earring at some point?”
“Fintan gave it to me,” Bronte answers simply. He doesn’t need to say any more than that.
He doesn’t need to say more, because when Prentice was broken, was Exiled, Tiergan couldn’t look at just about anything he’d gifted Tiergan without feeling like breaking down. When Cyrah died he couldn’t wear the jewelry she’d made him, could hardly bear it when Wylie wanted him to handle all her old possessions.
Grief is a beast that Tiergan is intimately familiar with. Though Bronte’s situation is different by far- perhaps too different for Tiergan to fully understand- he knows what it’s like to have someone torn from your life ungracefully, roughly, leaving behind a void with jagged edges. To have goodbyes never be enough, to have a thousand loose ends, to be haunted by the things you’ll never get to say, questions you’ll never know the answers to.
Admittedly, Fintan is alive.
Admittedly, the bright, cheerful brother to Bronte Pyren is forever gone.
Tiergan doesn’t know how to say any of this, so all he offers is a soft “I understand.”
Bronte’s mouth twists in something a little like a wry smile. “Would it be insensitive to say that I thought you might?”
“Yes, but you’re going to say it anyways, so you might as well.”
That earns him a laugh, harsh and raspy but startlingly genuine. “And you claim that we don’t know anything about each other.”
“I never said that, only that you don’t know me.”
“I suppose I can’t argue with that.”
-
“I’ve decided I can argue with that.” That's how Bronte begins the conversation on the following Thursday, plopping into his usual seat as he does so.
“With what?” Tiergan tries to remember what the two of them usually fight about. Sophie?
“With your declaration that I don’t know you.”
“You don’t .” He doesn’t know why he’s so insistent about this. It isn’t as if knowing someone automatically equates to friendship or caring.
“Don’t I? I know that you love children, and hate brattails almost as much as you hate authority. And you’re the most talented telepath of your generation- probably better than Emery, don’t tell him I said that- but the only one who ever noticed was Leto, wasn’t it? You pretend you don’t hate the smell of callowberries for him, but secretly detest them, which is fair. You know how to swordfight, surprisingly well for someone born so many years after the Wars. I know you went to the night classes at Foxfire, even though you got top marks in the Elite Towers. You turned down a place in the nobility for a place by Leto’s side, and I can’t even blame you for it. I know your favorite color is indigo, and your earring is one of the only things you ever bought for yourself, and you chronically underestimate how much Sophie needs you in her life. You chronically underestimate how much anyone needs you, actually. I think you’re afraid on some level that you’re not good enough, which is bullshit by the way. And I’m arrogant enough to think that all this put together means I know something that means anything about you.”
Tiergan can only stare for a long moment. “Should I be worried about where you get this info from?” It’s all he can think to say. Humor seems safer than confronting the sudden ache in his chest.
“Leto never shuts up about you,” Bronte deadpans back. “Also, I do listen when you tell me things, you know.”
Something warm flickers in his chest. He didn't know Leto talked about him so much. “Have you gotten to talk to Leto a lot recently?” He doesn’t want to say he's jealous, but lately, with everything going on in their lives, Leto hasn’t had a lot of time for him. Though he hasn’t had a lot of time for Leto either, to be fair. It would seem like two members of an immortal species ought to have all the time in the world. But, as Tiergan knows all too well, an indefinite lifespan is no guarantee that the time you get will be anything like enough. People slip through your fingers like so many grains of sand, drifting away like boats in a storm, unless you hold on to them with everything you have. Even then, that’s not always enough.
“Not as much as I would like,” Bronte answers. “It seems that’s the way things always go.” The melancholy in his words is bitingly familiar.
“It seems like there should be more time than there is. It seems like we should have oodles of it.”
“And yet we don’t, somehow. There’s always something to keep us busy.”
“I think we don’t realize how limited our time really is sometimes.” He’s not sure how this turned so serious so quickly, but then again, Bronte isn’t exactly known for being cheerful, and he’s been through too much for him to be either.
“All good things come to an end eventually. It would be arrogant of us to assume our time is infinite simply because our lifespans are what they are. I find that I’ve seen enough elves die to know that.”
“As have I.”
“Well, we make a depressing duo.” The edges of his lips are curled up in that small, sarcastic smile that Tiergan has come to recognize, even not really mind.
Tiergan offers a wry smile of his own. “We do.” Much as some part of him still rebels against the idea, it’s getting harder to deny that he and Bronte have something in common beyond the fact that they mentor the same prodigy. Even Leto lacks something of the silent understanding that they have– you might call it recognition of some part of him in another. Leto does not know so intimately what it’s like to base everything in your life around someone else. Bronte does, and that makes it even worse that he was one of the people who took away Tiergan’s person. At the same time, maybe Tiergan's understanding of Bronte makes his callous words even worse.
Bronte is silent, taking a few bites of the tubers on his plate. Tiergan mimics him.
They both speak at the same time.
“Would you–“
“I owe you –“
“You go first,” Bronte offers.
Tiergan’s breath rasps in the back of his throat. “I owe you an apology.”
“So do I, but you go first.”
“What I said on the day Sophie told me was– out of line. It was an awful thing to say to anyone. No matter my feelings. I’m sorry.” He has to force the words out. It's unusual- apologies usually come easily to him. It’s easy to blame himself for just about anything with most elves. With Bronte, it’s different, and he can’t say if that’s better or not.
“I accept your apology. And if it’s any consolation, I’ve been called worse and less accurate things than ‘just an elf’.”
He can only imagine. “I was right to say that you had capacity for both good and evil. But calling you worse than a monster was a little harsh.”
A sharp nod. “Indeed. And...as for the apology I owe you– I cannot change the past, but I can recognize when my actions were less than admirable. I refuse to dwell overmuch on my guilt in the matter of Prentice, but for the harm I did you, I apologize.” It’s a very Bronte way to apologize, loaded with caveats and millennia of practice at dealing with guilt.
Tiergan finds that bothers him less than it would have before. Still- “I can’t forgive you.”
“I understand–“
“Let me finish.”
Bronte nods and falls silent.
“I can’t forgive you, but I accept your apology. Make kinder choices next time.”
“That’s all I can do.”
They’re both quiet for a moment before Tiergan thinks to ask “What were you going to say earlier?”
“I was going to ask if you’d be willing to look over a few assignments that I’ve been thinking of giving Sophie. Startlingly, curriculum development is not one of my main skills.”
Tiergan laughs, startled by the dry humor, and then stops because Bronte starts to looks a little bit murderous for his taste.
“Yes,” he says, and he can feel himself smiling. “Yes, I can do that.”
You gasp, your head starting to hurt the moment you accidentally touch the stranger’s hand. As you look around, you take in all the colours, which are starting to fill in the previously greyscale city. With widened eyes you turn to look at the stranger, who still hasn’t let go of your hand. His hair is a slight purple hazed blond, and his face is dusted with freckles. He smiles at you. “Since we’re soulmates, how about I buy you a coffee?” He asks, getting up, pulling you along with him. “My name is Felix, by the way.”
today I broke one of my cardinal rules of writing and i wrote a scene way before I get there chronologically. but this has been a scene that has been building in my head for a while now and doesn’t immediately require much to tie into other scenes.
and, lads, i definitely cried. the scene is only about 1,000 words but at the end I was just tearing up with the fullness of the emotions. it’s definitely a cheat because it’s towards the end and one of the most cathartic bits but I’m not sorry. It just means so much to me and i am so emotional about it. i’m so invested and proud of these characters and they are just so good for each other and mY HeArT cAN’t TakE iT? OKAy thANKs BYe!
Hello, everyone, and welcome to the hit game show 'this isn't what I was supposed to be writing but now there's twenty-one thousand words of this so I guess that's what we're doing now', featuring me, me, me, and me.
Anyways, disclaimers time!
Firstly, this is a work of fiction and any characterizations of the Noxcrew are not intended to reflect on the actual people, more on how I imagine a group of gods who run an event like MCC in universe would be like. Scott's characterization is based entirely off his empires character with a bit of added backstory. All other characters are based roughly off varying smps. Also, empires!Gem and hermitcraft!Gem are the same person in this, though I know canonically they're different characters. Her characterization is based mainly off empires!Gem.
Secondly, some events have been altered. Obviously Empires canon, but also in MCC. More on this in later chapter notes.
Third, there will be content warnings before each chapter as usual. This does get quite dark at points, as e!Scott is not in a good place emotionally like, at all. So be warned!
Finally, if any ccs see this: hello and I am so sorry.
Title: no one loves me now (someday somebody will)
Wordcount: 3363
Chapter title: i'll be with you
Content warnings: heavy self-hatred, suicidal thoughts, light injury.
Summary: MCC!Scott and Empires!Scott are the same person. When the holiday MCC rolls around and Scott is still stuck in his self-imposed exile, some of his friends notice that something is very wrong.
Actual fic under the cut:
Ding.
It’s a small sound, barely audible over the howling of the wind outside, but it fills Scott’s stomach with dread. A communicator is, after all, intended for communication, as its name might suggest. And communication with anyone is the antithesis to the safety of Scott’s isolation. He is many things, but he is not without weakness. No man is. His weakness just happens to be smiles like sunshine and warm embraces rather than the cold touch of steel, something Scott long ago learned not to fear.
Jimmy is his achilles heel, perhaps. Perhaps all his friends are, Jimmy only one amongst the number of people who hold sway- too much sway- over Scott’s aching, frozen heart.
Communication is dangerous, contact with people moreso. He doesn’t know what he’d do with himself if reminded of the everpresent longing for home, for warmth- for something so wonderfully, horribly bittersweet that he doubts he could put a name to it, the feeling of being loved so gently it feels like violence to his scarred, bitter self.
He reaches for the comm, and hesitates.
It could be Shubble, or Katherine, his allies who he’s abandoned.
It could be Gem, who he hurt, or Fwhip or Joey or any of the many people who have reason to hate him.
It could be Jimmy, the sun to Scott’s moon, the fire to his ice, the blazing, beautiful man whose warmth is the kind that makes Scott desperate to never let go.
Ding.
Scott swallows the fear rising in his throat and pulls up the screen. Please not Jimmy, please not Jimmy, he begs the universe.
For once, the universe shows him mercy.
Noxite - 2 unread messages.
Scott clicks on it.
<Noxite> Hey Scott
<Noxite> I got the team list you sent me, but I think there’s some error.
He takes a breath, holding it for a second before letting it all out in a rush, the ice that had formed at his fingertips slowly receding.
<Smajor> what makes you say that?
The response is near instant.
<Noxite> you’re not on here
<Noxite> did you decide to sit out, or was that an oversight?
<Smajor> I decided to sit out
He had to. There’s no way he’ll be able to control his powers enough by then for him to be safe to be around.
This time, the response is much slower, giving time for Scott to try and calm his shallow breaths and pray that Noxite doesn’t question him on this.
<Noxite> alright! Just checking.
For a second, he thinks he’s clear, and then another ding sounds.
<Noxite> Are you okay, though? You’ve competed in every mcc we’ve held.
<Noxite> what makes this different?
Concern. His first thought was concern. Scott suddenly finds it very hard to swallow around the lump in his throat.
<Smajor> I’m fine.
<Noxite> Are you sure?
<Smajor> Yes.
<Noxite> Do you want to hop on a call? Just a quick one, we haven’t talked in a while. I know you’re busy with your kingdom on empires, but we all miss you.
A droplet of water splashes onto the screen of his comm with a gentle plink. Scott reaches up to find his cheeks wet with tears, though quickly freezing over.
<Smajor> does it have to be now?
<Noxite> I was going to test the changes to grid runners afterwards, but I can do that now and call you later, if that’s better. I just want to make sure you’re alright.
And damn Scott’s soft heart, damn the barriers of steel and ice he’s built around it for failing, damn Noxite for knowing exactly how to get to him.
<Smajor> no, calling now is fine. Just no facecam today.
<Noxite> Okay!
His comm rings, a familiar sound, and Scott does his best to take a deep breath before he picks up.
“Hey, Noxite.”
“Hey, Scott. How are you doing?”
“Good,” he lies.
“Built anything cute lately?”
“Not really.”
“How’s your friend? Jimmy, right?”
“He’s-” Scott nearly chokes with the force of holding back tears. “He’s fine. They’re all doing fine.”
“I’ll be honest, I’m more worried about you,” Noxite hums, gentle in the way only a god trying not to harm a mortal could be. “You haven’t ever missed an mcc, you love competing. What’s going on, Scott?”
“Nothing.” He barely gets the word out, guilt choking him as the lies pile up on his tongue. He can’t tell him anything. No one can know.
“Are you sure it’s nothing?”
Scott goes to open his mouth and lie again. A sob slips out instead, choked but unmistakable.
“Scott? Are you crying?”
He can’t stop the way his face flushes; it’s an ugly thing to be caught in such raw, aching vulnerability, shame burning harsher than the frostbite nipping at his fingers. He clamps a hand over his mouth, body shaking as he tries to muffle another sob.
“Scott, Scott, talk to me. Please.”
And he’s gone, crushed under the weight of his own sorrow and longing, choking on his sobs as his tears turn to ice. The comm slips from his frozen fingers, clattering to the ground as he sinks down right beside it. The cold is everywhere- his hands, his wings, his tears, his heart- and the worst part is, he can feel it now. Noxite’s words are the barest hint of warmth, but they’re enough to make him realize how he’s freezing. The world is frozen- he’s frozen too, but not because of the snow piled at the cabin door. Scott is cold on a level so deep he’s not sure he remembers what it feels like to be warm, to be safe and happy and not chained by his doubt, his past, himself. He’s been drowning so long he’s not sure he remembers how to breathe.
Vaguely, he’s aware Noxite is talking again, voice so, so soft for a god capable of all that he is. “It’s alright. It’s okay. Whatever’s going on, we can help. You’re not alone.”
You’re not alone. He didn’t realize how desperate he was for that to be true until now.
“You can talk about it whenever you’re ready. Or even never. Just...let me help. You don’t have to be alone.”
He manages to pull himself together enough to rasp out “You promise?”
“Promise.”
Something in Scott breaks with that word, sudden and sharp and a relief much as it is a hurt. He finds himself spilling everything, the whole story, from Xornoth to the ice powers that currently control his life. All his bottled feelings, mixed with sobs and shaky, shuddering breaths.
He’s sure at least half of it is mostly incomprehensible with how hard he’s crying, but Noxite must get the gist of it because there’s gentle understanding in his voice when Scott’s finally done. “So you’re struggling with your powers?”
He nods, then remembers Noxite can’t see him. “Yeah.”
“Right. I think you should come back to the MCC server.”
“I- but-”
“I know you’re scared to hurt us, but isolating yourself will only make it worse. You need guidance, and I can help. Your powers are not the same as mine, but I’m certain there are commonalities. Remember when you first realized the extent of your world hopping ability?”
“I was so scared,” Scott rasps.
“And what did you do?”
“I let you teach me how to use it.”
“Exactly. Come home, Scott.”
Home. Doesn’t that sound so lovely? He wants- he needs somewhere to feel like home, like safety.
“You promise it’ll be okay?” His voice comes out so small.
“I promise. Everything will be okay.”
He is many things, but he is not without weakness. No man is. And Scott’s weakness is gentle words and soft promises that he wants so desperately to believe.
“Okay. I’ll come- I’ll come home.” He stumbles over the last word, the syllables coming out awkward and clumsy, as if they don’t quite fit right in his mouth. Maybe they don’t. Scott’s never fit anywhere, why should the word home fit him? He’s been searching his whole life for somewhere that feels right, and yet there’s still the quiet ache of not belonging nestled in his chest.
Noxite, blissfully unaware of Scott’s internal angst, starts talking again, never once dropping the gentle concern from his voice. “Do you want us to come meet you at the portal out of empires? I’d come into the server itself, but I’m not whitelisted.”
He should say that he’s fine getting to MCC on his own, but “Yes.” slips out before he can stop it. There’s a part of him (childish, afraid) that wishes they could come all the way to where he is, but god knows Fwhip isn’t going to whitelist them if Scott messages him to ask. Not to mention the shame of anyone seeing this sad little cabin, seeing Scott at his absolute lowest. The part of him that got him through years under the thumb of his parents’ advisors urges him to hide any hint of weakness, any sign of vulnerability. Don’t let them know how to hurt you.
A little too late for that, Scott thinks, bitterly amused. Distantly, he registers that Noxite said something else, something in a tone far kinder than Scott deserves, though he couldn’t tell you the actual words being said. He nods anyways, offers a hum of agreement.
There’s a short pause.
“When should we get there?” Noxite asks.
“Couple of hours. Maybe six,” Scott shrugs. “I’m a long flight away.”
“Okay. Do you want to stay on call?”
That’s a harder question. He wants to say yes- needy, clingy-, he wants to say no.
He settles for a shrug and “I’ll be fine either way.”
“Alright. I’ll give you space, but I’ll have my comm on me. Call again if you need, alright?”
“Alright.”
“Goodbye for now.”
“Bye, love you,” Scott blurts, and immediately hangs up before Noxite has a chance to reply.
For a solid minute, he resists the urge to bang his head against a wall. As if his day could get any more embarrassing, between having a sobbing breakdown and nearly caving and just begging Noxite to come get him even though he’s an adult fully capable of traveling on his own. Why must Aeor torment him like this?
He also considers, in that solid minute, curling up in the corner and just hoping no one’s dedicated enough to search for and find him. Certainly, collapsing into a puddle of tears and despair would be easier than facing his godly friends, let alone his more human ones.
Ultimately, though, his heart- soft, foolish, aching- wins out. He wants to see his friends. He wants someone to help him control his powers. He wants to feel warm again.
That desperate desire is what gets him to stagger to his feet and start throwing the few items he brought into his shulker box. He packs roughly, quickly, not bothering to fold things as long as he can cram them in. His hands are too numb for that, his grip clumsy at best. The clothes will just have to stay crumpled- finery means nothing to him now regardless.
Just as he’s making his way out the door, his comm dings again. His hands are too full to check it- not that he particularly wants to face the humiliating consequences of blurting that out anyways- and he resolves to check it later. That can be a problem for future Scott.
He takes to the sky on icy wings long since gone numb, the wind rushing by his face in a way that should bite, should make his cheeks sting with cold, but doesn’t. Distantly, he registers his vision blurring as the wind forces him to squint, eyes watering. Reduced visibility when flying is never good, Scott’s instincts scream. He could crash, he could get hurt, he could die.
That should matter more to him. It doesn’t. Any sting of the cold is gone, leaving in its wake numbness, nothingness. Not the absence of feeling, so much feeling that it overwhelms him and leaves him unable to tell the joy from the pain.
Scott’s shaken back into awareness with the realization that there’s a mountain looming large in front of him. Instinctually, he tries to swerve. What he doesn’t account for is the wind, buffeting him as he makes his half-hearted attempt at dodging and ends up crashing straight into the branches of a scraggly mountain tree. Pain explodes from at least three places in his body, though not severe enough to suggest broken bones. Or possibly he’s just even more numb than he thought. The trunk of the tree is slippery as well, sending him sliding down to the harsh ground below. And if all that wasn’t bad enough, his impact is enough to shake the upper branches and deposit their snow directly on top of him. Though every place he touched on the tree has already turned to ice, and he’s equally frozen, so it makes no difference in the end. Still, that hurt.
He expresses his feelings on the matter with a small groan and “fuck.”
Predictably, the tree doesn’t respond.
Scott hauls himself to his feet, body aching all over, and retrieves his dropped shulker. Thankfully, he wasn’t carrying anything too breakable, and his comm seems to be intact as well when he picks it up and powers it on. It takes him to the last messages he sent, where his eyes are immediately drawn to a new one.
<Noxite> I love you too, Scott
Oh. Fuck. He bites back a sob, refusing to let his pride take another hit today. He’s the elvenking- well, not anymore, he reminds himself bitterly- he’s a grown adult capable of handling a kingdom. He is not going to cry because he flew into a tree and then someone expressed the bare minimum of affection towards him, for fuck’s sake. Is he really this pathetic?
Maybe he is that pathetic because all he really wants is to lay down in the snow and not have to get up for at least three years. Yes, he would probably die of hypothermia, but that doesn’t mean the urge to just go to sleep and avoid his problems isn’t there.
Unfortunately, Scott is a grown adult with a sense of responsibility, so he tucks his shulker back on his back and takes to the sky again, ignoring the way his muscles scream at him. It’s another three hours to the exit portal, after all.
Three hours of flying later, he swerves around the jungle trees, praying that Joey isn’t anywhere nearby, and makes an ungraceful landing in front of the exit portal.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out. He has to remind himself that Noxite asked him to come back. His friends want him there. He’s certain that he’s still burdening them, but at least it’s a burden they didn’t object to.
Scott takes one more deep breath and steps into the portal.
For a few tense, heart-breaking moments, he thinks no one actually came to greet him. But when he blinks the swirls of the portal out of his vision, he can see that not only did Noxite show up, he brought most of the crew of gods that Scott’s been working with for the past few years.
Oh.
“Hey, guys,” Scott manages, though his voice comes out as a rasp.
Before he has a chance to make a joke about the way his voice cracks, Noxite takes a few steps forward, looks him up and down, and pulls him into a hug. It’s startling, a bit off from how most humans hug, and- most of all- familiar.
-
“So mortals embrace to show affection?”
Scott hums, swinging his legs over the edge of the newly built Decision Dome. “Some of them. Some people don’t really like hugs, and some people aren’t really affectionate anyways.”
“Don’t do that, you could fall. You’re very breakable,” Noxite reprimands. Scott hasn’t yet managed to explain to him that referring to humans as breakable is a little weird. And honestly, he’s not that fragile, but he pulls his legs back onto the edge anyways.
Noxite hesitates before speaking again, staring out across the server. “Are you one of the mortals who doesn’t prefer affection?”
“What- Why do you ask?”
“Well, you don’t seem to give embraces very often. Or receive them.”
Scott shrugs, putting his legs back down so he can kick his heels against the edge of the Dome. “It’s not that I mind hugs, really, it’s just that you all are gods. You don’t really do human affection. And I didn’t get a lot of affection even before I came here, so it’s not like I’m not used to it.”
Noxite frowns at him but says nothing about the leg-swinging. “Are hugs something elves need?”
“Not really. Apparently humans need four hugs a day for mental health, but I’m not human.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want you to go without something you need because we don’t know enough about humans.”
“Not human,” Scott reminds him again. “And seriously, no one ever hugged me back in R- back where I came from. If I was going to die from lack of physical touch, I would have done it already.”
“Hmm. Alright.”
For a moment, Scott thinks that’s the end of it, and then he’s nearly being crushed in an awkward approximation of a hug. “Oof! Noxite!”
“Is this too tight?”
“A little, yeah.”
“Sorry,” Noxite says, sounding a little abashed as he lets Scott go.
“It’s alright. I just- I told you I don’t need hugs.”
“If you aren’t comfortable, I can stop. I just wanted to express that you’re my friend the way humans do.”
Scott suddenly finds his eyes stinging. Probably just the wind. “No, I- that’s fine. Just let me show you how to do it properly.”
“Alright.”
It’s been long enough since he properly hugged someone that he feels a little stiff and awkward, but he wraps his arms around Noxite anyways, reminding himself that he can’t possibly be any worse at giving hugs than the god who just nearly broke his ribs. Noxite’s arms come up to embrace him a lot more hesitantly this time, a far gentler hug. If he’s honest with himself, it’s almost nice. No one’s held him like this, with no strings attached or bittersweet parting, in...a long time. Longer than Scott cares to think about or admit.
“Is this right?”
“Yeah,” Scott manages around the lump in his throat. “That’s about how you do it.”
“Good, good.”
Scott tries to pull away, overbalences, and topples off the roof.
Well, fuck. Thank Aeor, he’s quick enough with his wings to flip around and mostly catch himself, gliding down in a way that could be called graceful- if it was being compared to a particularly clumsy baby slime, that is. He ends up crashing into one of the bushes at the bottom, smashing his face into the dirt, but at least nothing but his pride appears to be injured.
There’s a small crack of spacetime being bent beside him, and Noxite appears, somehow managing to convey both concern and smugness with his deadpan expression.
“Are you alright?”
“Fine, just bruised.”
“Hm.” A brief moment of silence, and then. “I told you so.”
“Oh, fuck off, Noxite.”
-
It’s not as rough a hug as the first time they hugged, nor as awkward as the second. It’s just...soft. Nice. It’s been a long time since he’s been held like this, gently, as if he deserves that kindness.
He doesn’t cry, but it’s a near thing.
Noxite doesn’t let go, not until Scott pulls away, managing a wobbly smile. “You’ve gotten better at human affection. You didn’t crush my ribs that time.”
“I haven’t crushed your ribs in a long time,” the god protests.
Scott laughs, though it sounds exhausted and bitter even to his own ears. “Uh-huh, Noxite.”
“Anyways. You’re deflecting.”
“I’m not.”
“Uh-huh. Let’s go home, then we’ll talk about the ice powers, okay?”
“Okay,” Scott says, and he lets himself relax, just a tiny bit.
Okay so, a little explanation is required for this one.
Essentially, this is based on an AU from the empiressona discord, in which Scott was told that he is Aeor's champion and destined to die to defeat Exor's champion at a young age. Pixl, an old god, decides he's had enough of the death and pain caused by the dueling stag gods and commits some godly murder. This particular fic is just a short, kinda poetic and vague thing based on it, though!
Wordcount: 498
Content warnings: death, religious themes, vague suicidal thoughts, very bad parenting (only referenced) and generally some dark themes related to those topics.
Actual fic under the cut:
Golden boy, golden champion. The golden prince of Rivendell, born to die. Do you love your fate? Do you love the people who would doom you to it?
How can you? Does the moth love the flame? Does the rabbit love the hawk? Does the snow love the sunlight?
Maybe they do.
Maybe you are a fool not to love what kills you.
Or maybe you are scared and hurting, a child forced into a cruel, tragic fate. Maybe it is the fault of no one but your god that you cry alone, beg for some way out of this.
Are your tears golden, little champion? Is your suffering holy?
You are already dead at heart. You know this. Why dare live when they say your only worth is in your death?
The Codfather’s smile is golden in the same way as sunlight, as the glow of candle flame, and you are golden like the blood of the gods. You cannot have his kind of gold; you can steal snatches of that warmth, but it is temporary.
All things are- does that make them worth any less? Does life mean less because it ends in death? Does the candle cease to give off light because it will eventually burn out?
Golden champion with your golden antlers. When you die, will you bleed gold too? Will your pain be worth anything, in the end?
Your golden mortal will die all the same. So will all of his kindred.
And when you’re long dead and gone, a new child will be chosen, and they will cry tears of blood just the same.
Can this be called justice?
Can this be called holy?
Does it matter?
You will suffer and die no matter how just it is. No matter how brave you are, how good, how heroic, the only thing that matters is that you die for their safety.
Who chooses champions? Who sends children to their death and calls it justice?
You were twelve when they told you, when your mother’s advisor looked at the face of a child, unscarred and hopeful, and told that child that he would die like a hero in an old tale.
But you won’t die like an old hero, will you? You’ll die scared, die alone, die without ever having lived. You’ll die, and you won’t ever know that you were mourned, were loved.
They told you your only worth was in your death. They lied. They lie, still, when they remind you of this. You are alive; your worth is not in the things you do, the houses you build, the people you’ll die for, but in yourself. Inherent, unchanging.
Little champion, do not cry. You are more than your fate, more than your god. You are brave, and it matters. It matters what you do, who you love, how you live. Shh. Come here, now. You are safe, you are free.
there are tragedies like orpheus and eurydice, where the tragedy is preventable, or looks that way, anyways. tragedies where if orpheus had not looked back, there was a happy ending waiting for him and his love on the other side. tragedies that are tragic because it didn't have to be the way it was. it didn't have to end how it did. and yet it did anyways, because the characters we write are only as perfect as we, ourselves, are capable of being, and we are human, beautifully, tragically flawed.
and then there are tragedies where it was always going to be a tragedy. where it was always going to end in death. where the fates of the characters were inevitable. unavoidable. predestined. known, even, by them and their audience both, that no matter when it happened, where it happened, no matter what they fought for, who they stood by, how they lived, they were always going to die. they were going to die, or they were going to lose their loved ones, and if the story was cruel enough, both. there are tragedies where the tragedy comes not from how preventable the misery was, but how inevitable it was, how strongly the characters fought against it even if they knew they were doomed, and you know they were doomed, and we all knew, at the end of the day, 'this is not a happy story'. and yet, in that unhappy story, there were glimmers, sparks of joy, made all the more beautiful by how temporary they always were, like a candle flame guttering in the wind. and in that unhappy story, there were characters who sought to make a safe place, carve out a little pocket in the universe for themselves and the people they loved. and in that unhappy story, there were characters who saw the inevitability of their fate and chose to fight the doomed battle against it, raise their swords and with bloodied hands and bruised bodies rally against the ending the universe wrote for them. and isn't that the most human tragedy of all, that even with all our flaws, even in the saddest tale the universe can tell, there's a bit of ragged, tough, desperate hope? that even in the darkest night, we're looking at the stars?
