#kahedins

[chaoticstrata]

"I... never really had anyone to fight for. Not until recently. One reason they call me 'Drifter.'"

[gawrkin]

[...]

(Source: Trystan ac Essyllt)

Sooo... Golwg Hafddydd is implied to be the welsh version of Brangaine. (Which is weird when you think Brangaine could easily just be "Branwen" in welsh, but I digress)

The curious bit here is Golwg's admirer Cai Hir (Kay the Tall), obviously, the original Sir Kay

This has some implications since Brangaine's traditional courtier is Kahedins, brother of Iseult White Hands

But what I could find out, it would seem that Kahedins' very name is a corruption of Cai Hir.

So, yeah. Sir Kay is Brangaine's original love interest and may not have been a sibling of Iseult of Brittany (who in turn may be just a literary clone of regular Iseult from a different continuity)

Soooo... Kay x Brangaine when?

[icebrooding]

Found this old piece I never finished of the (other) Firstborn boyfriends so decided to complete it 🫠

[draw-you-coward]

in the middle of the street grove

set late pact days :)

“Remember, your star charts are due in a month,” Malomedies reminds them all as they begin to pack their things. “And do something interesting. Keep in mind that your task is not to track the path of the stars, but rather to read the story they have to tell.”

Roza pauses to jot down, Stars – story not path, in his notebook before he gets up. He thinks he knows which story he would like to tell; the stars over Orr are watching the land without the black haze of an Elder Dragon blocking them for the first time in centuries. And perhaps he can solicit some aid from a certain someone who knows its skies well.

The other students, mostly night blooms, file out of the hut. Some of their persons are waiting for them, despite the hour—less so friends, more so family, partners, beloveds. Trahearne is waiting for Roza.

He extends an arm as the distance between them sews itself closed, gloved fingers wrapping around Roza’s shoulder and pulling him in. He smells of nighttime, of crickets and darkness.

“Good evening,” he greets. “How was your lesson?”

Roza raises his head and inhales deeply, taking in the outside air and letting it percolate through his vines. “Informative,” he replies. “We are learning how the phases of the moon align with the rejuvenative cycles of magic. Did you know we had a full moon for nearly a week after Zhaitan died?”

“I am sure that information is somewhere in my paperwork.” Trahearne half-smiles at him. They begin to walk their usual scenic route home. It is after hours, and they prefer to take their time returning to Fort Trinity. “Here, I brought you some food. Didn’t want you getting hungry on the way back.”

Roza takes the gift—a savoury pastry—and gives it a sniff before nibbling at it. “What would I do without you, my Marshal?”

“Have an intensely boring life, I am sure.” Trahearne leans into his shoulder, and Roza rolls his eyes and pushes back against him. “No one to constantly pester, no one to test the bounds of authority with or socially experiment on… you would be miserable.”

“Alright, smart-arse. You are speaking about me as if I am a pet suited to a particular environment.”

For a moment so brief as to be nearly unnoticeable, Trahearne’s gaze flits downwards. Then he says, “I doubt anyone could tame you.”

“You could,” Roza suggests in a way he does not quite know how to define, in the private tone they use when they are alone.

Trahearne’s mouth curves, and he responds in a similar manner, “I would certainly have fun trying.”

They are walking close together, as they always do, but have to move into single file as they duck underneath a branch at the end of the narrow passage behind the mentor huts. Trahearne lifts it for him, ever the gentleman, and Roza steps into the meadow beyond.

Which is not quite empty yet. A few sprouts are chattering amongst the flowers, youthful and bright in the Dream. Night blooms, most likely, although some dusk blooms distract themselves with their scholastic undertakings well into the evening (current company lovingly included).

“Summer will come soon,” Roza catches as they walk by. “Do you think Secondborn Laranthir will drop by this year?”

“He must,” another says hopefully. “I’m going to see if I can get him to paint my porch. On a hot day, when he doesn’t need all that armour.”

“Perhaps it is you who needs cooling down more than he!” their friend replies, and the rest of the sylvari in the circle begin snickering.

“He’s popular here,” Trahearne says directly into Roza’s ear. “He is judicious enough to gain the respect of the older sylvari, and amiable enough to gain that of the saplings.”

“And exclusive enough to be in high porch-painting demand, apparently,” Roza returns without moving his mouth. They walk by the sprouts without much notice, wading through the knee-high grass.

“We shall get him to paint our porch, one day,” Trahearne says. “That is how we will know we have made it.”

Our porch? Roza peers at him from the corner of his eye, and sees a queer expression, as if he has caught himself in a trap he’d forgotten he had set. Then Trahearne gives him a tight smile, the one that means Drop it, and ushers him onwards with a gentle grip.

Roza swallows down a sudden swell of grief and lets himself be led. He stays quiet, his humour now a shelled husk, and Trahearne shoots him a few guilty glances before putting on a comforting, ungenuine smile.

“Let us take a bit of a detour today, if you don’t mind,” he offers. “I, ah, have something I’ve been wanting to show you.”

He leads them back the way they came, which means it wasn’t a particularly planned detour, but Roza does not protest, gazing at the soft glows of the Grove’s nightlife and letting them soothe him. Trahearne’s hand in his is warm.

They stop in front of a small hut secluded from the rest, overgrown vegetation softening its silhouette and merging it with the surrounding landscape. A brightly coloured sylvari stands at the entrance, raking away dead leaves.

He looks up as they near. “Trahearne,” he greets in surprise.

Trahearne inclines his head. “How grow the grounds, Kahedins?”

Kahedins? That sounds vaguely familiar. Roza smiles at this sylvari blandly. A friend of Trahearne’s, perhaps? A former lover? Is Trahearne taking him here to show him that he—

“Quietly, Eldest Brother. The life here slumbers in your absence, but sustains itself still. It knows you return to it sometimes, though your visits grow increasingly rare.”

Eldest Brother. Firstborn. Oops.

“And you, Commander!” Kahedins raises his head and gives Roza a beaming smile, which he returns at crooked half-mast. “I have heard much of you from our brothers. I suppose this is a long-overdue initiation, hm?”

He winks. Roza, puzzled, looks at Trahearne, who stammers for a moment before saying, “I just—er, I brought him here to see the house.”

“I see. And have you told him whose house it is?”

Trahearne scratches the back of his neck. He mumbles to the ground, “It is, um, ou—Mine.”

“You have a house?!” Roza says perhaps a bit loudly.

Kahedins laughs—a rich, warm sound. “Indeed he does, not that you would have any way of knowing! He more or less abandoned it years ago. But I am its groundskeeper, if Brother dear ever deigns to pay it a visit.”

Trahearne mutters something unintelligible at that, but to Roza gestures stiffly towards the front door. “Would you like to, ah, go in?”

“… Sure,” Roza answers, trying to read his body language. Does he want him to go in?

“Come on in, come in. This was before we had keys.” Kahedins beckons to him and pushes the door open to a dark interior. “You’ll be meeting the family next, I suppose, hm?”

Trahearne makes a muted noise, but only smiles when Roza glances back at him. Roza steps forwards cautiously, looking around the interior of the hut. It is barren, save the vines twisting out through the open windows, and the air is musty and lonely. He sniffs.

“It smells like you,” he notes.

“Do you hear that, Brother?” Kahedins sounds delighted. “It smells like you. Isn’t that a wonderful observation?”

Trahearne pinches the bridge of his nose. “And you wonder why I do not visit often.”

“You certainly never visit with company.” Kahedins smiles at Roza almost suggestively. “What are your favourite kinds of biscuits, Roza? May I call you Roza?”

“Yes. Um… the sugar ones?” Roza looks to Trahearne for aid. “I don’t really know…”

“He hasn’t had much opportunity to eat biscuits, Kahedins, considering what our duties demand of us.” Though Roza does not understand the second conversation the firstborn are having underneath this one, he does recognize Trahearne’s I’ve had enough of your bullshit tone, having been the recipient of it many a time.

Kahedins clasps his hands together. “Then a little family meeting is a perfect opportunity to try all of them and discover which ones are your favourites. You know, Aife has been dying to meet you.”

Roza’s alarm must show on his face, because Kahedins chuckles before remediating, “Perhaps one at a time, then. We may begin with the nicest, which would be me. Have you met Dagonet?”

Roza nods shyly, but Trahearne steps in front of him—literally—before he can process how to respond to the invitation. “I am not parading him around for you lot to gawk at—”

“Clearly.”

“—before he even reaches a decade! Grant him some peace.”

“A decade?” Kahedins whines. “Come on, Trahearne. That is years away.”

Roza’s face is bright lavender. A decade? Trahearne thinks he will—they will—a decade? Will they even remain alive for that long?

Kahedins is bargaining with Trahearne. “Teatime with Malomedies,” he pleads, pressing his hands together. “They have already met. Let him try biscuits, Eldest. Please.”

Trahearne draws in a breath as if he is about to protest, but stills when Roza lays a tentative hand on his arm.

“I… would like that,” he ventures. “I think.”

Trahearne’s hackles visibly come to rest. “Very well, then,” he says softly, to Roza, and then in a firmer tone to Kahedins, “A short visit next week, before your class, when you are not inundated with saplings. He does not like crowds.”

That look of delight has crept back onto Kahedins’s face. “I swear by Mother’s roots it shall be perfectly curated. We will have flowers, even. Afternoon sunlight filtered in through the leaves. Deer. Perhaps a moment alone for the two of you.”

“We already do that,” Roza informs him as Trahearne opens his mouth. “Trahearne takes me somewhere every week.”

“Does he? Thank you for letting me know, my dear. Young sylvari such as yourselves are such refreshing conversationalists.”

“We are leaving,” Trahearne announces. His glow is holding now as well, and Roza touches the tips of his fingers to his dotted cheek to catch it. His marshal glares at Kahedins warningly, for what he does not know, and Roza ends up getting his wave goodbye returned to him with considerable enthusiasm.

“He is nice,” he declares as they walk away, swinging their hands together. “Much nicer than Niamh. I still do not know why she wanted to fight me.”

“Nice is one word for it,” Trahearne mutters. “If they so much as let the tea steep for too long next week, I am whisking you away.”

Roza gasps. “My hero,” he says, pressing his fingertips to his chest. Trahearne looks at him with warm cheeks before muttering something and facing away. His hand is a comforting pressure in Roza’s, making him nearly forget the question that has been nipping at his mind for the past five minutes.

“Um, Trahearne? How does he know my name?”

~*~

“You did not get the sunroom.” Roza blinks at him owlishly.

Laranthir pauses, his paint roller hoisted on his bare shoulder. “The… sunroom?” he repeats.

“It is Trahearne’s favourite room.” Roza tucks a delicate bit of hair behind his ear. “It is warm in there, of course. Perhaps you can paint all the coats today. Or you will have to come back tomorrow.”

Whatever game he is playing, Laranthir is too weary to dissect it. “Point me to it,” he sighs, and Roza smiles, sweet as poisoned wine.

Trahearne is in the sunroom on a lounger, next to a small table holding a book and a tray of drinks that he notably cannot consume.

“Lemonade?” he offers, holding one up now. “For your services.”

Laranthir feels as if he is Tyria’s first exotic painter. “Thank you,” he accepts, gulping the beverage down.

Trahearne is eyeing the discarded shirt draped over his arm. “You know, it is quite warm in here. You don’t need that.”

Laranthir throws it at him. “Make me dinner,” he demands.

 “We need to supervise your work first,” Roza says from the doorway, and Laranthir certainly does not jump.

“When did y—you know what, I will take it. Help speed this along and move the furniture, at least. Show me that your martial lessons have been paying off.”

Roza preens and flexes his non-existent muscles, and Trahearne presses a hand to his cheek as if it is the most charming thing he has ever seen. Laranthir gets started on the wall.

~*~

[prismaticaurene]

Them (minus trahearne who i drew here! ) 

[moonlit-grove]

(Image by @fellis-world)

Moonlit Walk

A short story inspired by a commission

The memories of Dubhan still, occasionally, haunt Aengus. The courtier's love that turned into twisted obsession. Tonight, the moon barely illuminating the world past the purple fog, was one.

He hadn't been able to sleep. He couldn't bring himself to go to bed. There was some comfort, though, in Kahedins joining him as he walked through the Grove. The luminary stayed at his side, smiling despite his yawn.

The mesmer wanted to stop hurting over the courtier, he wanted to be happy in loving his beloved firstborn. But the memories, the good times he had with his ex-beloved, still haunt. The times before he'd fallen to Nightmare, when he would laugh and happily pick up the raven…

His heart twisted at the thoughts, he couldn't keep walking. Kahedins' voice, gentle and loving, cut through the echoing memory of Dubhan's.

"Aengus," Kahedins said, reaching a hand to take his, "sit, dear. Sit down."

Into the slightly dew damp grass, the tall sylvari sat. His breathing irregular, trying to fight his mind from those memories.

Kahedins took his hand, gently kissed the palm and each finger. He moved to the other hand, did the same. He could sense the slow calming of his beloved, sense his mind coming back to the current.

The luminary pulled himself to sit upon his beloved's lap. He kissed him, quick and gentle. Aengus tilted his head down, to press his forehead into his shoulder. Their fingers intertwined.

"Thank you," The raven whispered, "I love you."

"I love you too, dear… and don't thank me for this, I promised I would help you."

Aengus shifted his head to gently kiss Kahedins' neck. "I'm... happy with you."

"I'm glad." The guardian smiled warmly, watching the gentle blend of their glowing hands.

His beloved had been hurt. But he would do anything to help... and he will, so long as his beloved lets him. Even small things, such as never calling him the term Dubhan used.

"Beloved," Aengus's voice broke his thoughts, "are you tired? We… can go back to our garden."

"Not yet," a response punctuated with a yawn, "I want to stay like this a bit longer."

Kahedins ended up falling asleep on Aengus' lap. They slept in the grass that night.

[studiobythegrove]

🌿 leafy boys 🍃

[cathedralofeternalradiance]

a couple prompts for you from that angst list, if you'd like! feel free to pick whichever (or do both if you want!) :) “You got yourself into quite a/the mess.” and/or “Poke it with a stick.” -kerra-and-company

Thank you for the ask! I’ve been teasing Siona for a while now, so here she is in fic form! Podtwin AU, begin!

-- prompt: poke it with a stick

Entrance to the Grove, 1305 AE

The creature looks at them. It has strange yellow eyes, triangle ears and it’s full of brown, soft texture that covers its entire body.

El stares back. He’s never seen its kind properly before. Then it makes a high-pitched sound, a plaintive one, then it goes silent.

“We should poke it with a stick,” he says. “I think it’s a cat. No, I’m sure it’s a cat. Caithe says cats meow when you poke them with a stick.”

“Meow and attack,” Siona, his podtwin, says neutrally. She crosses and uncrosses her legs on the ground, leaves that cover her thighs catching onto the slight wind. “Besides, you’re no better than the asura if you poke it with a stick just to make it meow.”

“Don’t mention the asura,” Kahedins warns as he shifts his attention to them. Niamh frowns too. “Especially you Nightblooms. Malomedies is your Luminary.”

“I didn’t mention asura, Siona did!”

“As a response to El behaving like an asura!”

“Honestly, Elandrin, with how much you nip at Firstborn’s heels, such behaviour should disgust you,” another sapling says, and El shakes his fist against the ground, feeling sparks burst from his fingertips.

He hates it when they make it as obvious like that. They’re just jealous they haven’t gotten there first, he tells himself. He doesn’t need their company anyway.

El shoots him a dirty look and opens his mouth to speak when he feels Siona’s disapproval through thick layers of his annoyance.

Siona lays her hand over his. El’s always been mildly envious of her ability to not lose her temper. “Remember what happened last time you got angry at these comments?”

“A house burned down,” he says in an angry whisper. “For the record, I wanted it to burn down. It was intentional.” It wasn’t entirely, but he knows how to lie well.

“Look, El, I understand it irks you. Just... Try to rein it in? For me?”

El remembers last time Siona had to cover for him, how embarrassed she was as she walked over to Malomedies. “I’ll try,” he promises, letting sparks die. He’s been getting better at not allowing them to flare.

“You’re lucky Siona is here or you’d all burn to the ground,” El says derisively and with barely contained need to actually jump to his feet and tackle the other sylvari to the ground.

“Elandrin, please,” Kahedins jumps in, not unkindly. There’s something in his voice that calls for immediate appeasement in his heart, as if his anger retreats under a wave of water he still has no idea how to bend to his will. “You’d have had your meow if you just ignored Cadeyrn, you know? Now she’s gone. Sapling squabbles aren’t of interest to her, unfortunately.”

“I didn’t attack him,” El pouts, crossing his arms. “Not this time!”

The Firstborn walks over, sits beside him and gathers El’s hands into his own. “I know, and I’m proud of you for it. I’ll be happy to tell Trahearne about it later, if you want.”

“Will that earn me a kiss?” El suddenly asks, face breaking into a wide grin. “Because-”

“He’ll kiss you if he wants to,” Kahedins replies with a chuckle, “I can’t make him. That’s up to you, Elandrin.”

“As helpful as usual,” he grumbles.

“Well, I’ll give you a kiss if Trahearne won’t,” Siona says sweetly, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Now, if you promise not to poke her with any sticks, shall we chase after that cat?”

------