Summary: You run away from a new revelation regarding Zayne's past and the part you played in it. The distance leaves you both feeling empty, and Zayne can't bring himself to leave you be. Confrontation sparks, confessions are made.
Word County: 3108
Note: we speedin up y'all, cause i'm worried of running out of motivation, and I refuse to not finish this series! there's still more angst to come, but at least now i can get into more fluff :3
Warnings: ummmmmm, mention of violence and murderous intent, also the concept of sending children to war - hate it, but it's for the lore.
---
“You dare stand before me with blood on your hands and ask for prophecy?”
Your rage burns, unbridled, against the envoy before you. A collection of men, skin sagging with age and gluttony, greed staining their teeth, eyes sunken with lust.
Men of such abhorrent sin. And here they stand, shameless in their expensive robes and fine jewelry while the people of their kingdom are begging on the streets and dying of hunger.
“Foreseer, we are simply-”
“I did not give you permission to speak,” you snap, and the men all flinch at the scathing ice of your tone, “I have seen the blood, the children you have forced to fight your wars in the name of riches. You are nothing but cowardly rats and the king you serve is but a mere disgusting beetle. There is no fortune for murders like him, or spineless puppets like you.”
“How dare you-!”
One of the men moves, as if to approach you in his indignance, but a mere twitch of your fingers brings your staff to hand, the Creatio Protocore gleaming maliciously with your rising ire. You slam it into the ground, ice spindling like webs across the marble, forcing the men to lose balance and fall to their knees. Where they belong.
“Your hubris is sickening,” you murmur, low and harsh, bearing your teeth with the rage of a wolf, “Now be quiet. For the sins your king has committed, Fate has given me this prophecy, so that he may know what it is to be powerless. If he does not repent for sending mere children to fight his wars, then he will pay for their blood with the loss of his own. Death will take his daughter as atonement, and no human medicine or efforts will be able to save her. That is your prophecy. Now leave.”
“My lady?”
You blink, taking a sharp breath as your mind returns to your body. A near physical pain eclipses your entire being, and suddenly you feel far too vulnerable, far too fragile. Too human.
You hate it, you hate that you’ve been brought to such feelings, by your own hand no less. The human race does not deserve sympathy, not from you, not after what they’ve done, rich and poor alike. And yet you have allowed this man to break past your defenses and wrap himself in your being, without even intending to do so. You’ve never met such a seemingly innocent soul, and yet it is because of you that he has suffered. Because of your supposed blessings.
It’s more sickening than any human greed you have faced.
“My lady?” Zayne tries again, brow furrowed sharply as he slowly shifts his hand to hold yours.
Your fingers are trembling.
It’s a complete contrast to mere moments ago, when he was shaking like a newborn lamb and you had comforted him so gently. Now you seem almost…conflicted, drawing into yourself as your expression shutters closed - hiding away your emotions. Yet still, your fingers tremble.
“My apologies,” you murmur, only the slightest tremor behind your words, “I was merely…reliving a memory. Heed me no mind.”
“I understand if you find my past…offensive,” Zayne rasps, thumb pressed hesitantly to your knuckles, “If you wish for me to leave, I will. I do not want to make you uncomfortable, my lady.”
The corners of your lips waver.
“Don’t be so foolish,” you scoff almost bitterly, resisting the urge to carve into your chest just to ease the aching, bruise-like tenderness between your ribs. “It is mere arrogance to believe you could interfere with Fate’s will.”
And yet, how you wish you had done just that. If only you had hunted down that pathetic man and cut his heart out before he could lay his filthy hands on such innocence. You wish you had fed him to the beasts and watched the snow run red with his disgusting blood.
Zayne falters, jaw clenching, “But it was I who failed-”
“Medicine cannot cure one’s sins, Zayne,” you interrupt him with a sense of finality, “An illness of the soul leads to death. I praise your efforts, but you were never capable of saving that girl. No one could. Her death was dealt by Fate, and I was witness to the hand. You cannot atone for a sin you did not commit.”
And oh, how his spirit burns at that. You can see it in his eyes, the desire to argue, to not accept such truth and to carry the blame so forcibly set on his shoulders. He is a man at war with his own confusion and brokenness, fighting so stubbornly to keep his head above water.
Because of you and Fate.
How cruel.
You should leave before you cause any more harm.
Gritting your teeth, you cast your gaze aside to the still dark sky beyond the window, “You have dealt with enough for tonight.”
You move to stand, but Zayne’s grip only tightens around your wrist, so you are left balancing in the in-between, aching aching aching-
“My lady…”
Stay.
A resigned smile pulls at your lips.
If only things worked in such a way.
“I will brew you a sleeping tonic, so that you may rest,” you murmur thickly, swallowing around the pathetic desperation choking your throat. “I do not wish for you to make yourself sick.”
And you pull your hand loose from his. Your world is cold again, but at least he may have the chance to stay warm.
---
Little do you know how proximity softens the vicious beast. Like ice exposed to the warmth of a fire, your very soul made space for the flames. Without it, you are left a hollow form, dripping in the long forgotten desire to simply be near another.
It is a horrible temptation. One you cannot give it to.
So you keep your distance and let the feeling fester, because that is all you’ve ever done.
Though Zayne does not seem so content to let you return to how things were.
Like the sun chasing after the moon, the man persists day and night for even a mere glimpse of you. Your absence is too sharp, too sudden, after you’ve allowed him such closeness. After feeling how tender your touch can be. Even if the harsh truth you’ve shared with him has set his world spinning, he can’t help but miss your thoughtful gaze, the serenity of your presence, and the ease of your conversations.
And as the days go by without you, he cannot ignore the fact that he is nearing full health. The deep aches have faded and his pulse no longer stutters as he climbs the stairs. It leaves him bereft of direction.
Medicine he understands. Illness, disease, injuries, they are a language he can speak, issues he knows how to address. Coping with his symptoms was easy. Coping with the emptiness in his chest, the sinking feeling that grows every day he doesn’t see you? Where is he even meant to begin?
He should leave you be, he should respect the clear distance you’ve set from him, he knows that, but for once Zayne wants to be selfish. He wants to draw close and and drown in the depths of your soul which you have shared so sparingly with him, to learn everything he possibly can about you, even if it takes the remainder of his second life. The second life you offered him.
His teacher always said he was a stubborn man when he set his mind to something. And that something is now you.
He can only hope that you will have mercy on him. Again.
So Zayne resorts to what he does best. He studies. He studies your habits, your movements, your tactics for avoiding him. And he sets himself in your way, if only to learn the answer to one question before resigning himself to his fate.
---
At a loss, you return to your former habits - avoiding the man by scaling the Tower and watching the horizon for hours on end.
Only, this time, as you step foot atop the snowy peak of the Tower, you are frozen in place by the sight before you.
Zayne leans against the wall, supporting himself with that staff you gave him so many days ago. His gaze is set out across the jagged outline of Mount Eternal. Dark hair, dark robes, surrounded by a sea of white, wishing to be seen, to be known. This is no coincidence.
Before you can dare to retreat, those jade eyes flicker over to you with a quiet intensity. Like heat pouring across your skin. You resist the urge to shudder, to crumble before such a heavy gaze.
For once, you feel as though you don’t have the upper hand.
Still, you try to avoid what you know is coming.
“You will freeze if you linger out-”
“Do you wish for me to leave?”
You blink, brows steepling together as confusion flickers across your face at his sudden boldness. Taking a second to actually look at him, you find that there’s something different about the man. He is still Zayne, yes, still the man you pulled from the snow, but there is a steeliness behind his gaze, a determination with which he holds himself. It feels as though if you draw too close, you may melt completely.
“I…do not understand,” you murmur while taking a step back.
Zayne notices, eyes narrowing in a way that makes your typically slow pulse jump. Slowly, he pushes himself off the wall, head tilting ever so slightly, “By medicinal standards, I am well. I am no longer suffering any symptoms from my exposure to the elements.”
A step forward.
You take another pathetic step back.
“Oh…” Has that much time already passed? “Are you certain?”
“Do you wish to check?”
Another step.
You keep your distance.
“I do not see the purpose behind that. Your knowledge of medicine rivals my own.”
“I would like to confirm my findings.”
Your back touches the cold, half-wall that lines the outlook. Panic seeps into your core as he takes another step forward. Like a feral cat, you feel yourself bristle.
“Stop,” you bite out.
And, of course, Zayne does. He falls still, only a few feet from you, watching you with that same calm intensity, as though he’s trying to peer into your soul. It makes your magic prickle under your skin, sharp and uneasy. How could you forget just how persistent the man is?
“You seem to be feeling quite emboldened by your health,” you all but whisper, throat dry.
“Am I making you uncomfortable, my lady?”
Yes.
No.
For once, your emotions are not quite clear. A part of you wants to keep your distance, to protect him from further harm that could occur from being close to you. The other part, however, relishes in the warmth of his closeness, in the certainty behind his mottled eyes. It soothes something in you, something you don’t want to recognize.
You’ve missed him.
“What do you want from me, Zayne?” You ask, though it takes all your efforts to keep your voice cold, like the snow touching your nape. “Because I am certain it is not for me to check your health.”
A smile flickers briefly at the corner of his lips. Of course you would see through him.
“I wish to know more of you,” Zayne answers earnestly. Simply. As if it makes more than enough sense.
It doesn’t.
Tongue clicking quietly against your teeth, you narrow your eyes at him, “You know more of me than most.”
“...It’s not enough.” The words pass his lips like a confession, a murmur of raw devotion, as he draws a step closer. Tension bleeds into the air, like a layer of static between you, setting every one of your nerves on edge. “I wish to stay by your side and learn everything about you. I wish to pick you apart and worship every piece of you in ways I do not understand.”
Every muscle in your body draws tight. This is not right. This is not right.
“You do not know what you wish for, human,” you grit out, “I will not be of use to you. There is nothing you can gain from staying in this hell.”
“I do not wish to gain anything aside from serving you.”
You bite back a scoff, “Do you not think that I have grown tired of your presence and perhaps have cast you aside? Do you not think I will kill you for this brazen show of defiance?”
His gaze is unwavering against yours, too calm, too certain, “I do not think you will harm me, my lady.”
Something in you snaps.
“I already have,” you all but seethe, teeth bared like a feral mutt forced into a corner. “Do you not see that? It was I who gave the prophecy to your king. I am the reason he called upon you, the reason your teacher hung in the gallows, the reason your hands were stripped of their use and your leg was fractured.” Your magic lashes out past its restraints, frost spreading across every surface you touch. “Only a fool would worship the one who has cursed him to such a life.”
A hateful mixture of anger and guilt constricts your chest, making it near impossible to breathe. You feel lost, drowning in such foreign emotions, grappling for anything to hold on to yet unwilling to reach out to him. Because you can’t rely on him. You don’t want to rely on him. You don’t want to trap him here.
“May I come closer, my lady?”
Gods, you want to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
But you are weak weak weak-
“Do as you wish.”
All too quickly, you feel his warmth ensnare you. His fingers brush against yours hesitantly, a question. When you do not draw away, he traces your palm slowly, reverently, before slotting his long, graceful fingers between yours. Your breath catches with uncertainty as he draws your hand up to press his lips to your knuckles, the touch featherlight. Yet, his skin is all but scorching against yours and this time, you can’t stop the shudder that passes through you. It makes you feel fragile. Soft.
When he speaks, his voice is hushed, lips still brushing tenderly against your skin as he gazes up at you so warmly, “I believe it was you that told me that no one is capable of interfering with Fate’s will, my lady. And I must admit that I am grateful for all that has happened.”
Lips pulling into a frown, you can’t keep your disbelief from shaking your voice, “How can you say such a thing?”
“If it were not for those events, I would not have found my way here. I would not have met you, or experienced the depth of your mercy-” He presses another kiss to your knuckles. “-the kindness you conceal behind your indifference-” His lips brush against your pulse. “-or the gentleness of your touch.” Resting your hand against the warmth of his cheek, Zayne presses into your touch, his lips against your palm. Your breath falters as his eyes flicker back to you, kindled with the same heated adoration from nights ago. “How can I not call myself blessed?”
How could you possibly deny him after that?
“You are a fool,” you try weakly.
“Perhaps,” he hums with a shrug.
“And infuriating.”
“My apologies, my lady.”
Unwillingly, a smile twitches at your lips
No, you’ve never been able to deny him in the first place. Not even when Fate commanded it.
Perhaps you are just as much a fool as he. You can’t ignore the truth of his words either - about your own hypocrisy. Though the guilt still festers, and you are still tracing the edge of uncertainty, you truly cannot force him away this time.
“...There will be conditions if you choose to stay,” you start slowly.
Zayne perks a brow, intently focused on you, urging you to continue with a nod.
“You mustn't disrupt my responsibilities,” you insist, becoming far more serious, “Though I detest most of your kind, as the Emissary of Fate, it is my duty to provide prophecies when she instructs me to. At times, though rare, that means traveling to your human kingdoms. You will not be permitted to join me on such journeys.”
For his safety, you think. And he seems to understand, a small glint of gratitude flashing behind his gaze.
“You will become my responsibility, meaning that I will be the one to provide you with anything you may need or want, you need only ask. In return, if you truly wish to serve me, I expect you to listen without argument and never question my judgement.”
“I quite enjoy listening to you, my lady,” Zayne hums almost playfully.
Eyes narrowing, you give his cheek a soft pinch, drawing a low laugh from the man.
Cheeky human.
“Also, I would prefer to have my room returned to me,” you snip back, “so I will provide you with a new room and your own bedding.”
Zayne blinks. His mind processes your words slowly. Then, understanding dawns on him. His eyes go impossibly wide and, much to your pleasure, his ears flush a dark pink, like the sunrises you’ve watched from this very spot.
“Do you mean to say that I have been sleeping in your…?” He can’t even say it, the pretty color spreading across his pale cheeks and down his neck.
“Generous, aren’t I?” You hum, brushing your thumb over his heated skin. It only makes his face flush darker, his chest stuttering unevenly.
“Please have mercy on your servant, my lady,” he pleads, though he’s uncertain what kind of mercy he’s referring to as he presses into your teasing touch.
“Where has that brazen confidence gone, my dear?”
You may as well have struck him down, because Zayne seems to cease working at that. He lets out a ragged breath, gripping desperately to his staff to keep himself standing. And while you are more than amused, you don’t wish to inflict a heart attack on him.
“Shall we return inside before you lose all your bearings?”
He nods, not trusting his voice.
You resist the urge to laugh.
Damned if you do and damned if you don’t. At least this way you can give him everything he could ever need. And you’ll do everything you can to protect him from further pain.
You truly never expected your decision to lead to this.
---
And we see the first instance of the petname :3 i freaking love writing flustered Zayne, you can't convince me that Zayne isn't the easiest LI to completely break with just a few words and touches. like, listen to his secret times, just saying. man's breath falter at a simple look. i love him so much.
Tag List: @pirana10 @antivanblessing @animecrazy76 @xx-riffraff-xx @seris-the-amious @king-dynamight
Summary: You know you should stay away from Zayne. He represents everything you hate, yet defies every expectation you hold. His life brings warmth to your home, and since Fate is so noticeably silent, you find yourself slipping. Closer and closer and closer. Just who is this man? And why did he end up here?
Word Count: 3442 (it's a long one lol)
Note: sorry this took so long! I'm truly struggling with the pacing. I rewrote this part like three times. I don't want things to move too fast, but I also really don't want the story to drag. Let me know what you think! More backstory will be revealed in the next part so keep an eye out ;)
Warnings: there's a lot of religious speech and terminology at the end, and just a sprinkle of murderous intent from Reader, rightfully so (you'll understand)
---
For all your years, Fate has never been a fickle master. Unrelenting in her kindness or in her fury, but never wavering in between. You’ve witnessed every side she has to offer.
So when you wade into the depths of your magic, seeking answers, seeking anything to help ease the turmoil within your soul, only to find an empty room, a blank book, no hint of what’s to come, you feel almost swept under by the force of your own confusion.
For so long, you’ve devoted yourself to her work. You’ve done all you’ve been asked, revealed truths that society has so desperately hidden. You faced their wrath, you faced their scorn, you bare the scars of their anger. It has driven you to the brink of madness, yet you have always pressed on.
So why has she left you like this? Stumbling through a darkened room with nothing to guide you, no light to show where you are meant to go, even to see where you are stepping.
It is a cruel punishment, far crueler than you expected for saving a sole human life. But these are your consequences, and you must face them for defying the order of life. For simply choosing to follow your own desires. This is how she has decided to teach you a lesson, to make you regret that brief moment of disobedience.
Yet, as you watch Zayne recover, watch him grow in strength and learn more about his character, something deep in your frozen soul curls defiantly between your ribs, whispering so viciously that you were right right right.
Zayne is unlike any other human you have had the displeasure of meeting. He defies every expectation you may have. You expect him to be angry, to grow spiteful with his condition. The weakness brought on by his hypothermia. The limitations of a persistent limp. Like a wounded pup, he is trapped under your care, for which he should hate you.
However, where most men would respond by lashing out, threatening you, and cursing your home, Zayne faces his circumstances with an unthinkable…patience. Not a single complaint passes his lips, not a single moment of frustration, and he seems more than content to wander the endless halls of the Tower on his own, even though he must lean on the walls to support himself. He continues to carry himself with an elegant air of composure, treating the ancient building with nothing short of reverence.
He is a stoic man, you learn. More often than not, his face is drawn into a contemplative frown, always deep in thought, reflective. Yet his eyes cannot hide the depths of his emotions. The way they gleam with unbridled appreciation as he takes in the stained glass in the Tower’s chapel, how they soften with deep gratitude at every meal, and burn with such unabashed curiosity as he searches the tomes of your library.
He is just so undeniably alive. His sole presence fills your home with a new warmth, chasing away the biting cold you have grown so used to.
Watching him exist with such peace, such gentleness, you can’t help but stand in stubborn defiance against Fate.
You made the right choice.
Even if your instincts still bid you to keep your distance. You walk a perilous edge between caution and curiosity. To listen to your desires would draw you closer, would permit you to ask the boundless questions wavering on your lips. Though you’re sure Fate would rather you lock yourself away until he leaves, to build up your walls and allow things to go as they will.
But Fate is silent.
So you make the decision. No man would want to stay in this icy hell forever, so surely you can allow yourself a moment of reprieve, a moment to soak in the strange warmth of his life before he disappears, as they always do.
And who knows, perhaps if you learn more about him, you will find a reason to hate him like all the others. Every man has their sins, a darkness poisoning their soul. Once you discover that, it will certainly be easier to cast him away, to forget about his very existence.
Yes, certainly that will be for the best.
Even if it severs the remaining threads of hope you cling to.
Zayne notices the shift immediately.
After days of wandering the halls on his own, finding magnificent sculptures and walls and walls of fascinating books, but never catching even a glimpse of your robes, he could only assume you were avoiding him.
After a few days, he had resolved himself to the truth - that his time in this place is limited, and so he spends every waking hour memorizing the beauty of it, a beauty not unlike your own. Beyond time. Beyond human.
Given all of that, he can’t help but falter when he sets foot into the library. A familiar chill curls into the depths of his bones, the breath in his lungs stalling as his eyes land on your unexpected figure.
At first glance, one would simply assume you are a human of great beauty, but Zayne knows the truth. He can feel it, the power radiating from your form, even as you drape yourself so effortlessly in the armchair, an old leather tome perched intimately on your lap.
You truly are something otherworldly.
At first, he had seen you as the distant and ethereal demigoddess, the Foreseer with the power to act out Fate’s will in cold calculation, as he had been told. Then, when you allowed him to bow at your feet, he saw you as a vision of refined grace and broken faith, surrounded by insurmountable walls to keep him at bay, to protect yourself.
Yet here, you are something different again. Here, with your heavy adorning furs, surrounded by your single source of comfort, your fierce mask seems to slip away. The low candle light illuminates your face in a gentle manner, embracing the delicate curves of your features, accentuating the thoughtful draw of your lips. You are truly a vision of the goddess tethering herself to earth, hiding the power of your being behind the tender curves of a human form, allowing yourself to be soft, to be something so utterly breakable.
And still, he is aware that you are in control. Over yourself, over the air around you, over the tower he stands in. You are in complete control, and you are allowing him to see you like this.
Something akin to wonder floods his chest.
Why would a divine being like you have such mercy on a man like him?
It is truly a baffling question, one that repeats like a nagging whisper in his mind every waking moment he spends walking through these halls. Along with several others, all questions that draw him deeper and deeper into the mystery of you.
Why have you sought out such solitude? Why have you kept your distance from him yet allowed him to stay? Why do you offer him even this meager amount of trust when you know nothing of what he has done?
Zayne has never coped well with unanswered questions.
“I must admit, I find it odd how you humans like to stare,” you murmur, not once looking up from your book of poems. You can practically feel his gaze burning across your skin, and you don’t need to look up to read the intensity behind such a gaze. “Is it truly striking of me to enjoy my own collection?”
Heat creeps up Zayne’s neck and he immediately tears his eyes away. Hearing your voice is just as startling as your sudden appearance. The cool edge of your tone sets his heart racing, a strange sort of anticipation curling in his chest.
Finally, he has the opportunity to learn more about you.
“My apologies, Foreseer,” he starts, voice surprisingly steady, “It would seem my manners have slipped in my time alone.”
“Hmm…” You bite back a rye smile. Always so ready to apologize. Truly a strange one, this man. “No need for apologies. I am simply here to read in silence, and given the interest you have shown in my collection, I assumed you may want to join me.”
An offer of proximity.
One Zayne does not hesitate to take. If you are willing to bear his presence, he is more than willing to spend hours in silence by your side. Talking is not the only way to learn about someone.
You watch keenly from the corner of your eye as the man shuffles over to your bookcases, still favoring his right knee. A splinter of concern wedges itself between your ribs, small yet exceedingly uncomfortable. It must be causing him a great deal of pain with all his walking.
Did he have this before? Or did he injure himself on his journey? Why does he insist on walking on it if it causes him such pain?
So many questions.
You attempt to dismiss them for now, along with your concerns as Zayne sits down in a smaller chair across the room, an old medical journal in his hands. One he has been eyeing the past few days - you note. He must have an interest in medicine, another unexpected discovery.
All of those questions stubbornly stick to the tip of your tongue, buzzing but unspoken.
Thus begins a tentative pattern of relative peace. The mornings are spent apart, aside from when you bring him his morning meal and an herbal medicine you created, which you leave while he sleeps. In the afternoons, you both find yourselves in the library, reading in silence most days. At first, he sits across the room from you, keeping his distance as you originally requested.
As the days pass, though, you find him drawing closer. As if pulled in by an invisible force. Or as though you are some wild animal, and he wishes to acclimate you to his presence.
It is more than a little entertaining. Even with his overwhelming level of patience, he can’t help but reveal his hand so openly. All humans want something, and for some reason, Zayne wants to be close to you.
While you may not understand it, you can’t deny that you feel the same pull. Perhaps that is why you feel your already weak defenses lowering all together as time passes so languidly. You find yourself more at ease while sharing the room with him, as though his constant, soothing presence is a balm for your nerves, a lullaby that calms the cautious beast locked behind your ribs. Day by day, you feel more confident in your poor decision to save this man’s life.
Enough that you find yourself pushing the boundaries more than you should. It occurs when you notice him wince, none-too-subtle, as he lowers himself into his chair, now mere feet from you.
You break the silence.
“Most would call you unwise for walking on an injured leg,” you hum, keeping your focus on the flowing poems in front of you, “Though I assume you are aware given that you seem to have extensive knowledge of human medicine. Not many can read the dialect of those tomes.”
Zayne blinks, eyes tearing away from his book to look at you. Sharing the silence with you had become so natural, so comforting. Being in your presence is a blessing he doesn’t deserve, and he never once thought of pushing your boundaries to start a conversation, even though his lungs ache with the questions he wanted to ask. So having you address him, acknowledge him, feels like a breath of fresh air.
“It is an old injury, from before my journey,” he answers, voice a bit raspy from lack of use. You tilt your head towards him minutely though, obviously not displeased, so he continues, “And you would be correct. I have studied medicine quite extensively, my lady.”
You falter, eyes locking on the words on the page, but not reading them.
My lady.
A new title. One you have never been called before. And you have been called many things.
As if by instinct, or perhaps from practice after spending so many hours trying to memorize the subtle changes in your expressions as you read, Zayne notices the tension between your brows. And realization dawns on him.
“My apologies, Foreseer,” he sighs, frustration washing over him, at him. What a careless slip. “I will refrain-”
“No,” you cut him off, still not looking up, “I will…permit it. For now, you may address me as you please, Zayne.”
Your nose wrinkles ever so slightly as your own realization washes over you. It’s almost unsettling how soft you’ve become in such a short time. How unbecoming for a demigoddess.
Yet, when you chance a glance up, you can’t find it in yourself to regret your words, not with how Zayne’s usually stoic expression gives way to surprise, followed by a kindled warmth. He’s pleased. Too pleased.
“Thank you, my lady.”
And you hate that you feel just as pleased hearing him say it again, his voice curling around the title with such devotion, as if he reveres you so.
This whole endeavor was meant to reveal his faults, not give you deeper reason to care. You mustn’t get lost in human emotions, lest they tear you apart again, just as they did in your past. Caring too much causes nothing but pain.
Still.
“Does this old injury bother you often?”
You are more than capable of satiating your interest while keeping your distance, aren’t you? .
Zayne gives a rueful smile, one that makes you turn around and question yourself, “The cold makes one’s joints more sensitive which can lead to mild irritation of old injuries. It may worsen my limp for a time, though I assure you it appears more painful than it feels, my lady.”
A part of you wishes to deny such concerns, but you would rather not lie again.
“Why did you not seek medical attention?” You press instead, brows furrowing, “Did you not have a mentor in your studies? Could they not have treated you?”
The air in the library falls suddenly still. Zayne shifts, his jaw clenching as he looks back down at his current book, fingers fussing idly with the pages. A nervous habit. He’s uncomfortable talking about this for some reason, which makes you want to press further, though you restrain yourself.
When he does speak, his voice is impassive, as if mentioning the weather outside, “I was not permitted to have my injuries treated.”
Not permitted? A frown mars the gentle curve of your lips. Are humans truly so cruel to each other? You have experienced their cruelty yourself, of course, but you had thought they might treat their own kind with greater care. To force a man to exist with such pain for the remainder of his life? It is nothing short of vulgar.
A bitter kind of disgust festers on your tongue. If you were to meet such humans, you fear you might tear them apart with just as much cruelty and throw their flesh to the snowy beasts of the mountains.
“Who would deny you such simple care?”
“That is of little importance, my lady,” Zayne dismisses with that same rueful smile, “I do not wish to burden you with my troubles. My injuries are merely a…reminder.”
His assurance does little to ease the glimmer of rage behind your expression. And Zayne can’t tear his eyes away. He has witnessed such fury before, has been at the mercy of human wrath, but yours burns with the force of the world, violence bridled by righteous judgement, as though you wish to punish those who have done this to him.
You are truly a goddess. Untouchable in your grace and unyielding in your abhorrence. You do not disguise your emotions behind fragile politeness, and instead control each and every feeling like a tool, a weapon. The world would fall at your knees if you so wished it to.
It leaves him with a trembling urge to kneel at your feet once more. Though that would likely make you uncomfortable, so he remains settled in his seat, admiring from a distance.
You let out a slow breath, reigning in your anger with practiced ease. If he does not feel contempt for his past, then it is not your place to hold on to it. Instead, you choose to press a little further.
“Then I have another question, I suppose. Did you travel here seeking refuge from your kind?”
“Perhaps.” He worries one of the journal’s pages between his thumb and middle finger, letting the texture soothe his mind. “I had little choice in the matter, as I could not live in the kingdom any longer. In honesty, I hardly believed that the Tower of Thorns existed at the time. It sounded like a mere legend. As did you, my lady.”
You huff out a low sound, something between a laugh and a scoff, “I wish more believed I was a mere myth, then perhaps I could finally escape from your kind.”
Zayne’s brow furrows. This is the first thing you’ve shared of yourself. He studies the slight tinge of exhaustion in your features, as if a sudden weight has been draped over your shoulders. It is not lost on him, the standard you must hold yourself to as the Emissary of Fate, how harsh you have to be to protect yourself against his kind. It must feel…suffocating.
“You do not like humans.”
It’s not a question. Merely a conclusion in no need of a direct answer.
Still, you give one.
“No, I do not,” you hum matter-of-factly, leaning back into your chair. “Do you not feel the same after all they have done to you? Maiming you and chasing you from your home?”
“I-” Zayne falters, jaw clenching again. He should, he wants to, but, “I do not know, my lady.”
A beat of silence passes between you and it is as though you can read his conflicting desires.
“Then I shall hate them for you.”
Zayne inhales sharply. It is a solemn oath, as though you wish to take the weight of such a decision from him, as if you are not already carrying enough.
“My lady, the sins I have committed-”
“Are of little importance to me,” you murmur easily, almost startling yourself with how true the words are. “All humans have their sins. Those who fail to repent will suffer at Fate’s hands, and it is my destiny to warn them despite how I detest them. If you believe your sins to be so great, then I suppose I must warn you too.” Your eyes linger on him, somber and ancient, like that of an old painting. “Find a way to atone and move forward. I have chosen to give you a second life, and I will be sorely disappointed if you waste it. Do you understand?”
Swallowing around the thick lump in his throat, Zayne nods, “Yes, Foreseer. I hope my answers today have not displeased you.”
The faintest hint of a smile pulls at your lips, a glint of amusement softening your gaze, “They have not. I have actually somewhat enjoyed this conversation. While vague, your answers have offered me insight. For now, you have my interest.” You stand, straightening out your robes as you do. You brush the nonexistent dirt from the fabric. “You may initiate conversation in the future, if you wish, though I make no promise that I will engage. For tonight, however, I will be retiring to the main hall.”
You need time. Time to think. Time to reflect on your words, his words, all of it. Away from the devout attention he offers you, that seems to blur the lines of your rational thought.
Though, just like always, you waver in the door frame as you attempt to leave, something causing you pause.
Until the words pass your lips, “Have a good evening, Zayne.”
Yes, perhaps you cannot keep your distance, as you already seem to care too much. Perhaps this is destined to end in catastrophe and his sins will prove too gruesome for you to excuse. Perhaps you will have to seek your own atonement when it is all said and done.
But for tonight, you will relish in the shock-turned-wonder in Zayne’s eyes when he notices the intricately woven staff that appears with a flurry of magic light as you leave. In this, you find no regret.
For tonight, you will merely take it one step at a time.
Fate’s consequences be damned.
---
Part 5
I hope this wasn't too wordy - I got a bit carried away at parts, and I couldn't bring myself to simplify any of it. I also worry there is too much back and forth in Reader's thoughts/emotions.
Anyways, let me know what you guys think so far, and maybe what kind of scenes you'd like to see!
Tag List: @pirana10 @antivanblessing @animecrazy76 @xx-riffraff-xx
Summary: It's a normal day in the Tower of Thorns. Until someone knocks on your doors. No one ever knocks...
Word Count: 1094
Warnings: Brief mention of thoughts of death.
Note: This is still largely set up, but the end is just the beginning of the real story. I just love writing exposition :3 I'm laying the foundation for future parts of the story, and establishing how the Foreseer works in this AU. There is no cannon here lol.
---
It was a normal day within the walls of your Tower. Well, as normal as one of your days can be.
The longer you stay here, the more they seem to blend together, the more time seems to mean less. You’ve spent months sitting on your throne, just to see how long you could. No food, no water, just…sitting. Letting the cold creep into the depths of your bones.
To see what death might feel like.
Shaking your head, you turn your attention to the sole window of your library. A storm rages outside, snow turning the usually dark sky white. A perfect day for reading.
Such thoughts aren’t worth lingering on, after all. You cannot die. Not by natural means, at least. Your body will live on despite lacking everything, which must be why you can exist in such a hellscape while nothing else can. Blessing or a curse, you’re not sure.
Your fingertips linger on the worn spines of your books, most of which you’ve already read. Many are without clear titles, though you know the exact contents of each of them. Carefully, you slide a familiar one from its place - a lovely collection of romantic myths. You brush your thumb over the embossed, gold details, the leather seemingly enchanted with an unusual warmth.
Maybe that's why this one is your favorite. Certainly not because it allows you to forget your solitude, if only for a moment.
Your heels hardly make a sound as you follow the winding stairs down to the main floor of the Tower. While it is tempting to sit and read in the safety of your library, it is the time of year when the mortals often show up uninvited for their “prophecies”.
Presumptuous creatures.
Even so, it’s easier to crush their expectations than to try and avoid them. They can be rather persistent pests if ignored. And while most of the time, it is some corrupt noble’s envoy knocking on your door, on rare occasion, you have the good fortune of meeting a worn traveler with a bright fate and entertaining stories. If only they would come more often.
Tucking into your throne, you drape your fur robes over your lap. They offer a comforting warmth. You can’t help but gravitate towards it. The book, your robes, the fire you keep kindled in bedchambers. Anything to fight the frigid magic flowing through your body.
As you begin to read, the howling gale outside grows more fierce. The Tower groans and hisses, the old stones bracing against the winds. You swear you can feel it shudder from the force, yet you remain seated, unbothered as you read through the first story of your book. You’ve made sure to imbue the building with a fraction of magic, so it will stand for as long as you’re alive, if not longer.
As you’re reading through the second story, an odd knocking echoes through the main hall. You pause, eyes not leaving the page you’re on, but no longer reading the words. The sound fades, almost like it was never there. It wasn’t one of the common sounds of the Tower brought on by the storm…but the mortals never knock.
For a moment, you wait to see if it will occur again, but the Tower remains hauntingly quiet. Perhaps you imagined it…The many years you’ve spent here alone are bound to play tricks on even your sharp mind.
Shaking your head, you try to focus on the words in front of you. They ramble noiselessly through your head, disjointed and meaningless. All you can hear is that sound, playing over and over again in your mind.
Surely you hadn’t imagined it. Surely you’re not losing your mind to this solitude. Surely…
Before you can even process your own actions, you’re on your feet, robes cascading back to the floor as you march to the great doors of the Tower. If only to satiate your own curiosity, you assure yourself. Perhaps one of the wild beasts of the mountain stumbled upon your home. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Your magic prickles across your fingertips, a thin layer of ice forming on your skin. It always rises to defend you before you even need it, driven by something deep inside you, but you keep a firm grip on it. Still, you let it simmer just below the surface, finding yourself on edge as you reach the doors.
With only the briefest moment of hesitation, you press your palm against the solid wood, the door giving way with ease despite the harsh winds. You’re greeted with the fierce, biting cold. Blinking wildly, you shield your eyes against the barrage of snow. It makes it nearly impossible to see much, whiting out everything beyond a few feet.
With an annoyed breath, you flick of your wrist, your scepter appearing in your hand. The Creatio Protocore gleams from its twisted crown. You tap it against the ground softly, a pulse of your magic combining with the power of the Protocore and spreading through the air.
The snow abruptly stops. Suspended in mid-air.
It’s only then the the tracks become clear. A set of prints - human - hesitating at the threshold of your Tower. Brow furrowing, you trace them back down the path, what you can see of it at least. It’s the path most take to your Tower, the only safe passage through the mountains.
Following them back up, you track them off to the side, along the wall of the Tower. Your brow furrows a little deeper. Why would someone walk around instead of waiting at the door?
Unable to resist your now growing curiosity, you find yourself following them. Steps slow, calculated, you tread beside the tracks, observing their odd quality. They seem staggered, like whoever left them was off balance. Weak. Not uncommon if someone travels this area unprepared.
A part of you wants to retreat back inside, to not bother with this. Surely if they weren’t willing to wait for you at the door, you shouldn’t have to go looking for them. But you can’t smother your need to know, your need to satisfy this curiosity. Curiosity over who would knock.
The steps only seem to grow more shuffled as you go, your shield of magic following you along the wall of the Tower. Until you round the first turn from the entrance and you come to a sharp stop.
Because there, in front of you, lies a man in the snow.
A man with death hanging over his pale, shivering form.
---
Part 2
Ooooooo, things are kicking off! Time for some good ol' fashion whump recovery. My favorite.
Summary: Zayne awakes and has no clue where he is, only to be greeted by who he believes to be an angel. You are no angel, though, and you find yourself struggling with the fact that this human seems...different. Different enough that you chose to learn his name.
Word Count: 2841
Note: So I lied about the parts being smaller haha... Lots of inner dialogue in this bit, but finally, we get some interaction :3 Foreseer!Reader tries to be mean, but who can be truly mean to Zayne?
Enjoy the flip flopping POV
---
When Zayne wakes, surrounded by warmth and silence, his first thought is that he must be dead. There is no other explanation, no alternate ending for the last memory he holds, that of falling unconscious in the snow outside of the infamous tower of Mount Eternal.
That’s what he thinks, at least, until he attempts to sit up. Pain shoots down his spine to every nerve ending like ice, sharp and jagged, drawing a rushed breath from his lungs.
He’s not dead. Not yet, at least. Death would not hurt like this, or so he hopes.
Taking a few breaths, eyes clenched shut, Zayne holds himself impossibly still until the pain fades. Only then does he crack an eye open and blearily survey the room. There must be a clue as to where he is.
Except the room around him is near empty, seemingly untouched. As if no one has lived in it for years. The walls are made of a light stone, near white if not for the shadows of age. The sound of a fire filters through the blur of his fatigue, quiet and crackling from an undecorated hearth. And the warmth surrounding him is from a decadent layering of thick pelts, the furs softer than anything he’s had the privilege to touch, a luxury he has never known.
It all leaves two questions buzzing in his head. Where is he? And who, of such high standings, would allow him to lay on such fine linen in this state?
“It would seem you are finally awake.”
Zayne jolts, eyes widening a fraction when they land on the figure now hovering in the entrance.
Perhaps he is dead.
How else could he rationalize the angel standing before him?
Cast in ethereal warmth from the low light of the fire, you peer at him from the shadowed entrance to the room, your features carved so delicately into a mask of righteous indifference. Your eyes cut through him, sharp and cold, piercing into his very soul. Decadent furs, even more luxurious than the pelts laid over him, drape around your form like a great set of wings, unblemished and snow white. Every breath, every slight shift in your posture, bleeds with such regal grace.
Like a statue one would bow before in complete devotion. An untouchable god. He has never seen anyone quite so beautiful.
The intensity of his hazel gaze makes it near impossible for you to breathe. They trace over you, heat dancing across your skin in their wake, and you find that you’ve never once had a man look at you in such a way. With greed, with arrogance, with hatred, yes. But never with such…reverence.
And that is somehow more unsettling.
“Do you know how to speak, mortal?” You ask in hopes of breaking the thick moment.
The man flinches, as if torn from his thoughts, and he winces at his own movement. Your brow furrows imperceptibly. He must be in a great amount of pain. The journey to your Tower is no doubt a harsh one, even for the most experienced soldiers.
“My apologies. Where- where am I?” His voice is low and raspy, but not unpleasant. Briefly, you wonder if you will find anything unpleasant about this man, besides the intensity with which he still looks at you.
“You are in the Tower of Thorns,” you answer coolly. Shock flickers across his features, as if he weren’t expecting such an answer.
“The Tower of…” You can almost see his mind processing your words, the meaning of them. Then his eyes go wide again, meeting yours with a certain hesitation. It would seem he is faster than most mortals, even in this state. “Then you must be the Foreseer…”
“Indeed, I am,” you hum, fingers lacing at the small of your back, scrutinizing him. “I found you near death outside of my Tower, and I was curious as to what kind of foolish mortal would brave such a journey only to risk dying in the end.”
The man grimaces. While your words are not unkind, in fact your tone holds more genuine curiosity than judgement, he can’t help but feel foolish, just as you said. He presses himself up, slower this time, and settles with his hands in his lap, his fingers curling into the comforting down of the pelts. Your eyes can’t help but follow the movement, noticing the abundance of scars on his hands. Strange.
“I- I apologize, for imposing, Foreseer,” the man hesitates, his jaw working harshly as he thinks his words out slowly. “I realize my actions have likely caused you undue burden.”
Yes, certainly strange.
“I merely did not wish to be left with a corpse,” you explain curtly, dismissing his apology as you begin to turn away, only to pause halfway in the shadows, seeming to waver. Your voice pitches lower, gravely serious, “This is my home, mortal, and as such, I would appreciate if you would respect it. You may recover here, within the walls of the Tower. I will provide you food and medicine, and in return, I expect you to keep your distance. Do not overstay your welcome, and do not disrupt my peace. Do we have an understanding?”
Zayne blinks. While your tone is near apathetic, he can hear something soft hidden beneath it, something almost…vulnerable. It draws him in, an innate curiosity creeping into his chest.
“Yes, Foreseer.”
You wait for a long moment, your gaze boring into his, as if you’re trying to search the depths of his soul. As if you’re just as curious about him and he is about you. The thought alone sets every fibre of his being alight with a strange warmth.
And then you’re gone.
The room falls quiet apart from the still crackling fire, as if you had never been there, though the faintest chill remains in your wake. Zayne’s eyes linger on where you once stood, his mind spinning from the onslaught of new information.
He’s in the Tower of Thorns, the home of the Foreseer, the demigoddess said to hate humanity more than any other. Rumors of your cruelty are not sparse within the human kingdom.
And yet…
A small flash of light draws his attention for a split moment. Runes flicker above the table beside his bed, fading slowly as the magic dissipates. In their place, sits a bowl of stew, steam rising from the surface. The heavy scent of meat hits him like a rock, as well as a painful clench in his stomach.
He’s starving.
Hands trembling, he snatches the bowl, the heat almost searing against his skin, but not unwelcome. The first taste is like heaven, a low shuddering breath escaping him. It’s nothing lavish, just a simple stew with sparse flavor, more broth than anything. Exactly what he would recommend to someone recovering from illness.
Ah.
The realization settles in his chest with a certain weight, making him slow down. His thumb rubs absentmindedly over the smooth, silver handle of the spoon.
Everything about you seems carefully crafted to communicate a cold disinterest, an air of judgement to keep others at a distance. Yet you offer him a warm place to stay, and food to eat, food intentionally chosen to not upset his neglected stomach.
It is more kindness than he has been offered in months, perhaps years. Even his own kind has not treated him with such…humanity. Yet you, a demigoddess of such overwhelming power, have taken mercy on him. Without even knowing him.
Gratitude lodges in Zayne’s throat like a stone. As well as a new resolve.
With this second chance at life, he will devote every day, every second, every breath to you. It is by your grace that he is still alive, and he will certainly lay down what is left of himself for you.
If you will allow it.
---
Sharing your home with another being is odd. Despite attempting to keep your distance and keep to your typical routines, you find that you are keenly aware of his presence. As if the Tower itself is changed by his breath, his warmth. It’s a ridiculous thought, but one you find yourself mulling over in your mind as you pretend to ignore him.
A task that becomes more difficult, you might add, as he regains his strength and begins to wander through the winding halls of your Tower.
Try as you might, you can’t help but watch him in secret. The taste of your own hypocrisy is bitter, but the curiosity in your veins is unyielding, demanding to be satiated. Though watching him only seems to sprout new questions.
Not many humans take the time to admire the home you’ve found, not as you have. Yet this man does. He spends hours in each room, sharp eyes seeking out every detail, as if to store it in his memory. As if he wants to remember his time here with precise clarity.
The man also takes care of him better than you expected, based on your first impression. He washes himself daily, unlike most humans, keeps his hair neat and short, and his frustratingly handsome face clean shaven with a razor he found in the kitchen.
But perhaps the most peculiar thing, is that he seems to gravitate towards you, usually ending his day in close proximity to you. And while he tries to respect your wishes, never coming too close, you find yourself hopelessly aware of that warm presence. Every day, wherever you spend your time, you can feel him watching, feel his curiosity burning the back of your neck, just as intense as your own.
Yet, you cannot let him know that, lest the distance grow shorter. Because the closer he becomes, the easier it will be for him to hurt you.
So, it comes to a head a week after he first awoke, when you’re perched on your throne, attempting to read your book, while he wavers on the very edge of your vision, standing at the entrance of the stairs he descended more than an hour ago.
“Is this your understanding of keeping your distance?” Your voice echoes through the grand room, sharp and clear with disapproval.
Zayne winces, realizing he’s been caught. His fingers curl hesitantly into the sleeves of his new robes. The ones you had left him after he first found the strength to take a short walk. They are much warmer than any clothes he ever possessed, and that is the only reason you left them. It was merely too pitiful, watching him shiver in the cold air of the Tower, like a pup left without its winter coat.
“If you wish to disobey me, at least do so with more courage,” you scold with a low sigh. “I am not one to lose my temper easily, but this game of cat and mouse you are playing is wearing my patience quite thin.”
“My apologies, Foreseer, it was not my intention to upset you” he murmurs, and takes a few steps away from the wall in hopes of appeasing you.
You shut your book, the pages coming together with a quiet snap. Face as impassive as ever, you appraise him silently, brow raised a fraction. He doesn’t hold your gaze this time, casting his hazel eyes down to the shoes you gave him.
The new clothes do suit him. He almost looks like he belongs here, now.
You shut that thought away, turning your eyes to the large windows that line the hall.
“You are forgiven. This time. Now, is there something you wished to say?”
He shuffles his weight, not quite hesitating, but thinking out his words, just as he did before. What a strange mortal indeed.
When he does speak, his voice is steady, “I wish to thank you.”
You blink.
Did you mishear him?
Against your will, your eyes flicker back to the mortal, meeting his now determined gaze. It’s a stark shift from the meekness you just witnessed, which leaves you all the more confused.
The man takes a step forward, expression far too open, far too earnest, “May I come closer, Foreseer?”
For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you waver.
But a demigoddess cannot show such weakness.
“You may.”
You watch, brow furrowed, as he covers the space between you. His gait is unsteady, a slight limp to his right leg you notice, yet confident and somewhat refined, leaving you once more with the impression of royalty. Only those of high standings carry themselves with such grace. Again, you’re left wondering. Who is this man? Why is he here?
Zayne stops several feet from where you sit, still hoping to respect your desire for space, and before you can inquire of his intentions, he drops to one knee in a fluid motion, his chin touching his chest from how low he bows his head. Your eyes go wide, grip tightening around the book still in your hands.
“I wish to clearly express my gratitude,” he repeats, voice firm yet muffled by the collar of his cloak. “I am…undeserving of the mercy you have shown me. I owe you my life, and I will do whatever is within my power to repay this great debt.”
An unyielding knot forms in your throat. You are so taken aback by his words, and unwillingly softened by the honesty behind them.
How does this man keep catching you off guard?
“You may stand,” you rasp out, unable to hide the discomfort in your tone.
The man glances up, hesitating before rising back to his full height, those hazel eyes glinting with something you can’t place. Or perhaps you simply do not wish to name it.
“I accept your gratitude, but there is no need to feel such a way. It was merely Fate.” The lie slips past your teeth with a considerable amount of effort. You do not lie often, but right now it feels as though you need something to protect yourself. To hide behind, as though you’ve been laid bare by his profession. “Now, if that is all you wanted to say, please leave me. I wish to be alone.”
“Of course, Foreseer. As you wish.”
And just like that, he takes his leave. No argument, no pushing. Your nails dig into the leather bindings of your book, unease clattering in your chest as he steps into the stairwell.
“Mortal.”
He stops, turning back to you with an inquisitive expression.
You hesitate, the words on your tongue yet they somehow feel too heavy. Out of place. He doesn’t move, expression unchanging, unassuming, waiting. It somehow gives you the strength to spit them out.
“Tell me your name.”
The man seems to perk up at that, still so much like an innocent pup, mirth dancing across his face. And for a split moment, a devastatingly handsome smile pulls at his lips.
“Zayne. It would be my honor if you would address me as such, Foreseer.”
Zayne. You roll his name over in your mind, finding that you quite like the sound of it. It suits him far more than you hoped it would.
“Very well, Zayne. Now you may be dismissed.”
“Thank you. Have a good evening, Foreseer.”
His shoes hardly make a noise as he ascends the stairs.
Only when you can no longer sense his presence do you settle back into your throne, the tension dripping from your shoulders. Dealing with mortals has always been exhausting, yet this one seems to sap every drop of your energy with his continuous surprises.
Zayne.
The image of him bowed before you, the purest vision of humility, is burned into the depths of your mind. Has a mortal ever willingly bowed before you? Unwillingly, yes, you always make sure they know their place, but you have never met a man so ready to lay aside his pride, just to express his gratitude of all things. Not to ask anything of you. Not to deceive you in some way.
Unless he is simply playing out some long plan. The thought rests bitterly on your soul.
But the look in his eyes held no hint of such deception.
Your mind races as you try to comprehend it all. His actions. Your actions. You permitted him to come closer. You broke the one rule you set out for yourself. Keep your distance. You’ve never struggled to stay away from the mortals.
So why is this man, Zayne, so different?
Why are you so easily swayed by his straightforward, yet earnest nature? And why was he so persistent, only to express his gratitude? It makes no sense to you, and there is nothing more frustrating than not being able to make sense of something.
Even the entertaining humans come to you for a reason. And in exchange for their amusing stories, you hold back your contempt for humanity and their greed.
That is not the case here, because no matter how much you wish to, you cannot find an ounce of contempt against this man. Zayne.
And such a realization leaves you feeling terrified.
---
Part 4
When I say that this man would absolutely worship the one he loves, this is what I mean. This is why this story has me in a chokehold, because I can't get over the idea of such reverent adoration coming from such a stoic man.
Anyways, hope y'all enjoy! Thank you for reading :3
Tag List: @pirana10 @antivanblessing @animecrazy76
Summary: You face the internal struggle of your actions as you take in the mortal that has stumbled upon your Tower. You've defied Fate, something even you might not be able to get away with.
Words: 1550
Note: I'm realizing this is probably going to be a bit of a slowburn...by my standards at least. I don't write series often, so we'll see! I want to update regularly, so most parts will be smaller chunks like this.
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Fate is inescapable and irrefutable. None can stand against her, a truth you know all too well. And yet…
Standing here, staring at this man, you can’t help but feel something stir in the frozen depths of your chest. He is young. Too young to be in such a state, a certain innocence still softening his face. And he is…beautiful. For a mortal, at least.
Like a magnet, you’re drawn closer. Drawn to kneel beside him in the snow, if only to get a closer look, you tell yourself. His hair is dark, impossibly dark in contrast to his fair skin. It falls haphazardly across his forehead, and before you can think better of it, you reach out to gingerly brush the rogue strands aside.
Fingertips resting featherlight against his temple, you are all but struck by his features. His long lashes, the same ebony color of his hair. The gentle curve of his nose. The sharp line of his jaw. If you didn’t know better, with such hauntingly beautiful features, you would think him to be royalty, but his haggard clothes are an obvious testament against such assumptions.
Why would a man like this end up here of all places?
You startle when the man suddenly takes a sharp, shallow breath, his whole body trembling from the effort. Still alive. Though, Fate is not quite so merciful. You can see it, for a brief moment. The looming ghost of death. His final breath. Alone, out here, a mere beggar caught in the wrong storm.
And while you are typically unphased by death, something remains unsettled in your chest as you gaze down at his furrowed brow, his frostbitten lips.
Is this not too harsh? Too cruel for someone of poor fortune?
For someone who knocked…
Gritting your teeth, you feel an odd sense of indignance spread through you. It takes you aback, foreign and more unsettling than the last emotion. No mortal should make you feel such a thing. You are a demigod, you are above such trivial matters. It is not up to you who lives and dies. It has never been up to you.
You move to stand, determined to return to your book and let Fate have her way as she always does, except you are left frozen by a weak grip on your wrist.
Eyes flickering down, you find the man’s fingers wrapped around your hand. They rest against your pulse, his skin more frigid than the snow. As tight as he can hold you in this weakened state. Desperate, even though he is yet to wake.
Your soul gives pause, your brow furrowing sharply. Another onslaught of emotions. Frustration. Confusion. Irritation. Sympathy. They swirl inside you like a fierce storm, them and many more you can’t name, that you don’t want to name.
You don’t even know this man. He means nothing to you. A stranger. You won’t remember his face when the sun rises the next morning. So how? How can he cause such a stir inside of you? How can he draw forth such a reaction that nothing else has ever been able to?
You grit your teeth. He is just a mortal. He is not worth your concern. You repeat it over and over in your mind.
Yet still, you can not bring yourself to pull away from his fragile grip.
…
To hell with it all.
Perhaps you are permitted one moment of choice, one instance of differing from Fate and her unyielding laws. You have endured enough for her sake, have you not? If this will displease her, you shall bear the consequences.
It will only be one night, you assure yourself as you banish your scepter to its protective realm.
Just until he’s up on his feet again, you insist to no one in particular as you lift the man into your arms.
He’s disturbingly light, purely skin and bones beneath his tattered garments. Every muscle of his body trembles in your hold, the rise and fall of his chest uneven and shallow. He doesn’t even wince as you hold him to your chest.
There truly isn’t a second to waste. Not if you truly intend to defy Death and Fate all at once.
With a mere breath, white sigils carve into the air around you. They pulse and then flash, blinding you for the briefest of moments. The added weight of the man in your arms almost makes you stumble as you land on the familiar stone floors of the inner tower. Catching yourself with ease, you blink in surprise. It seems your teleportation magic is not as rusty as you expected. You’ve landed exactly where you were envisioning.
Your bedchambers.
You surely must be going mad, you muse as you hastily pass through the threshold. It is the only prepared room in your Tower, though, as you do not expect (nor want) visitors, and the meager bedding in the other rooms will not be enough.
With another flicker of your magic, the furs on your bed draw aside, offering you enough space to gently set the man down. And oh, he’s tall. Much taller than you registered. Tall enough that his feet hang awkwardly off the end of your bed. If it weren’t for the dire circumstances, you’d be tempted to laugh, but you simply do your best to tuck him under the furs.
Your hands flutter uneasily as you draw the downy pelts up to his chin, your knuckles brushing the skin of his jaw. The man shivers violently, drawing deeper into the warmth. He curls closer to your form, a shaky hand curling into the edge of your robe and you freeze again. Eyes locked on his face, you wait to see if he wakes, if he’s perhaps more lucid than you believed, but his eyes remain shut, dark lashes flickering against his pale cheeks.
A breath you didn’t realize you were holding shudders past your lips.
And then the reality of what you’ve just done sets it.
A mortal, in your home. Your bed. Not only that, but you’re the one that brought him in.
Standing abruptly, you ease your robe from his grip and stride across the room. Distance. You need some distance from these emotions. To think. To form a plan, something you usually do before you act.
Though, as if forced by some unknown spirit, you pause at the door, casting one last glance over your shoulder. Just to be sure. Of what, you don’t know. But the slight flush now present on the man’s cheeks seems to do it. It’s faint, but it’s there.
Any feelings you have over such a sight are buried deep in your chest as you take the stairs up. It takes more effort than usual to keep your steps measured, to ignore the imperceptible discrepancy in your heart rate. He is even more beautiful when flushed with a bit of life.
And, as it is whenever you’re faced with such…complex emotions, you find yourself at the top of the Tower. The snow is somehow lighter here, only leaving a thin dusting along the stones. The flakes dance around you, catching the light in an almost tender manner, falling falling
falling.
From here, you can see it all. The white-capped mountains. The distant path curving between them. The far off glint of mortal buildings. From here, it all appears small, more manageable, like the world is far more reasonable than you know it to be.
Though, perhaps you are not as reasonable as you believed yourself to be.
You’ve never been one for spontaneity. Or emotions.
You are the cold, heartless Foreseer. Scorner of men. Wielding your powers as winter wields death.
That’s how you must stay. Lest you burn.
So why are you being lenient with this mortal?
A low sigh passes your lips, turning to wisps of fog that curl around the snow. Your fingers brush through the layer of snow atop the wall, the biting cold of the stone grounding you.
The man’s face appears in your mind. The tightness of his brow. The almost stubborn clench of his jaw. Determined to live…
Perhaps it is because he reminds you of the wilted flowers you see in the spring. Beautiful yet out of place. The stubborn plants always try to grow despite the harsh environment of the Tower, despite being unprepared for how merciless life can be. Still, they try to grow. Still, they reach for the warmth of the sun. They too, try to fight against fate, and you are always left to watch helplessly as they lose to the never-ending winter.
Perhaps this time, you wish to see something beautiful live. Perhaps this time, Fate will allow you one momentary difference in your always constant life.
You can still keep your distance. You’ll just…provide a safe place for him to recover. Then he can leave, and you can forget about his existence. The Tower is large enough that it will not be difficult for him to avoid you, as you’re sure he will.
The mortals do not seek you out for your hospitality, after all.
Yes, of course. This will simply be a brief period of cohabitation.
Then you will return to your solitude.
As you are always destined to…
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Woooh, emotional conflict :3 I can't wait to write him finally waking up. Also I guess I've semi replaced Astra with the broader concept of Fate. For the sake of this story, Fate is just an entity of the world, not embodied by anything, just the irrefutable movement of life. Not going to be evil and sucky like Astra (all offense intended)
