wayfarer. oc/mc. teen. 1,3k words.
mind mentions of recreational drug use.
"You finally came," Tiva says, contentedly. She sits close to the door, a reed in her hand, and takes a smoke.
"I was held up," Senna explains. "We had to make more arrowheads than we'd accounted for. I don't know what Varyn needed them for."
"It's not for Varyn," a voice calls. Senna's head whips in the direction of the couch; Cassander is sprawled on it like cat. Low light turns his curls into wispy flames. "Sero tried to teach me archery today. Again. You'd think they'd give up, considering my glorious track record of messing up arrowheads, but nope, I had to shoot as if I was Aeran."
"He's been keeping the couch for you," Tiva whispers into Senna's ear when he passes her by. "Poor Thane was relegated to the floor."
wayfarer. mc/aeran. gen, 473 words. set during ep 1.
a little gift for my friend @sekaiouja! marina donna belongs to them! bertolis nation go brrr
If there is one constant in Rona, it's the rain. It's there day and night, it beats and patters against rooftops and streets. It's the only thing that is beating over their heads more than a lack of money, a lack of jobs, a lack of food.
There was an offer from the Crimson Count, though. Find me the chalice for so and so amount of gold. Aeran was trying to calculate whether it was enough to escape this wretched city, but to no avail. The rain patters on his brain day in and day out, making him unable to focus, unable to think.
Thankfully, Mar thought for him. Not always, but here? Her sang-froid was instrumental in them securing the only contract they could for a while. He'd smiled widely, happily at her, breathed out a thank you when they were away from the villa, and she simply looked at him as if it was expected of her.
Now, Aeran knows little about the politics of Covera's merchant princes, but he knows a thing or two about expectations. Gods know how many she'd had to live with before Cenric picked her up, how many she lives with to this day. Varyn was not easy on them sometimes and there were days when Aeran complained about it moreso for Mar's sake than his own, knowing she would never utter a word of woe.
Years have gone by. The world is not easy on them either. Mar still doesn't complain, a Bertolini through and through. Securing the deal was expected of her.
Still, Aeran insists she sleeps enough. He offers to cook for them, and when he feels like she's overworking herself, trying to prove a point to someone only she knows, he gives her portions of his meal when she's not looking. He offers to help tie her hair, or the necklace around her neck, and the intimate touch of fine hairs on her skin makes his mind spin a little.
He keeps track of where her goggles are every morning, in case she misses them. He watches her haggle with street vendors for lunch ingredients, letting her work at what she does best, and sometimes even says she's doing a good job later.
No expectations. All he wants is for them to eat that day and for the rain to not fall. He's capable of feeding them as well, and none of them can argue with the weather.
No expectations, except for her company and the gentle touch of her hand when the going gets rough. She looks out for him as much as he looks out for her. That's what partners do, right? Look out for one another?
If there is one constant in Rona, it's the fucking rain.
And if there's one constant in Aeran's mind, it's Marina Donna Bertolini.
wayfarer. brissa varyn & aeran kellis & mc. set post prologue, pre ep 1.
gen. 1,6k words. written for @wayfarer-exchange.
caswyn brynmor belongs to @seismologically-silly! surprise, i was your exchange partner! your boy was fun to write and i hope you like this!
The Spire’s kitchen feels like home after all these years. Lingering smell of food fills Caswyn’s nostrils as soon as he opens the door, and he’s suddenly hit by a pang of familiarity that doesn’t come from the last ten years of his life, but a time before. Venison, if he had to guess; in another life, he watched his father bring home deer that fed the entire clan. Too small to help, he spent one whole evening watching venison cook and change color, and just as it’d become a rich brown, he was dragged away to play with the other kids.
These odd moods are frequent these days. He feels restless, agitated, like he wants to be somewhere else, like this place isn’t enough anymore. His skin feels a little too tight, his name too small. Apprentice Brynmor, as Sero has a habit of calling him, in that particular tone of theirs.
Grandmaster Sero, Caswyn greets back, puffing his chest. It never fails to make them laugh.
He hears footsteps from the hallway. Traces of a heartbeat, the rustle of clothes. Aeran’s head pops up over his shoulder much faster than Caswyn had anticipated. “So, what’s gotten into Varyn tonight?”
“No idea,” Caswyn shrugs. It lifts Aeran’s head up a little. “She doesn’t strike me as a sit and talk in the kitchen type. That’s what Cenric does.”
“You think he has a stash of the same stories that he tells to every apprentice? In a little notebook?” Aeran’s eyes are bright and muted in the light of the nearby candle.
“Should I go look for it?” Caswyn squints playfully. “I have a meeting with him tomorrow to talk about alassar. And, how much do you think Sero is willing to pay for it?”
“Entirely too much,” Aeran whispers conspiratorially and straightens his back. “So, Brissa! Your apprentices are here! You didn’t specify you wanted us to sneak around!” Another set of footsteps, to the right; unhurried and easy. Clinking of metal.
“I didn’t, Aeran,” Varyn intones from a nearby table. She places a wine bottle right in the center of three beautifully arranged, expensive looking cups. “I was merely getting what I needed.”
“They do hide those cups well,” Caswyn says gently. Varyn smiles.
“Sero and Cenric had a bet, once,” she says by way of explanation. “If Sero managed to hide them so as Cenric couldn’t find them, they would go to Sero. If Cenric did find them, they stayed in Cenric’s custody. It was him who had originally brought them to the Spire at some point or another.”
Caswyn looks at her. Her hair is pulled up in a bun, lit by the candles she doesn’t need as an elf, her hands secure and practiced as she pours the wine in each of the cups. Her nails are uneven, her face a picture of calm joy. “So who do they belong to?”
“I found them before Cenric ever did,” she answers. She almost sounds proud. “I suppose it makes them mine, but I’d declared them cups of the Spire.”
“Cups of the Spire,” Aeran snickers. “You did mention them during a trip to Erenvor once.”
Caswyn purses his lips. He was not invited to that trip. “Cups for future Wayfarers?” He supplies.
“Yes,” Varyn replies. “In three days’ time, you will both be my and Cenric’s equals. But I wished to drink with you once more as apprentices. Would you rather be elsewhere, Caswyn?”
Caswyn swallows. “No,” he mutters. It echoes in the otherwise quiet room. “I am quite happy to be here with you and Aeran.”
Varyn smiles. “Good. Sit, then.”
Aeran squeezes Caswyn’s shoulder and brushes past him. “Let’s go,” he repeats, and it takes Caswyn a second to see past the similarities between him and Varyn. There’s something in that motion that Varyn does. It makes his heart clench. Does he have any mannerisms of her? Did Aeran pick it up on the way to Erenvor that one time, when Caswyn wasn’t invited?
He shakes his head and walks over to where Varyn gestured. The rich smell of wine hits him, and he smiles. “Thank you, Varyn,” he says gently. “Did this come from Vestra?”
“Didn’t know aeda had a good sense of smell as well as hearing,” Aeran mutters into his cup. Varyn shoots him a look. “What? We aren’t meeting any stuffy noble, Varyn. We’re drinking with friends. Relax.”
Varyn blinks. “You’re right, Aeran,” she relaxes her shoulders. “This is.. Entirely too inappropriate unless we are conspiring. But yes, Caswyn. Vestran brew from Vodena, 1203. A gift from a friend, from another life.”
“Court customs are weird,” Caswyn comments. Forests of Artanis seem like an entirely simpler world to him. He raises his cup. “Cheers!”
“Cheers!” Three cups echo in the quiet room at this late hour.
“To the Wayfarer Order,” Caswyn adds. Aeran nods and takes a hearty sip. Varyn daintily sips hers, and leans back. They sit in a comfortable silence until Caswyn speaks again. “This reminds me of Clan Brynmor gatherings.” His brow furrows in memory. “A cousin’s wedding.”
“Oh?” Aeran turns his head to him. “Embarrassing the newlyweds?”
“We wish them good luck in Vestra,” Varyn whispers, her tone light, “but customs vary across this great continent of ours.”
“No!” Caswyn laughs. “We were kids, we grew bored of the adults' party so we made a separate little fire from theirs. One of the grooms was the brother of one of the other kids, so they shared stories about him, and then we all started doing the same. Sharing stories of our family, I mean.”
“They let kids drink at Brynmor?” Aeran asks curiously.
“Only if we ask nicely,” Caswyn whispers conspiratorially. “Don’t tell Varyn or Sero.”
Varyn laughs. Her eyes are soft. That’s a rare sight. “What story did you tell?”
Caswyn takes a sip. His heart aches a little. “My mother, Alarani, she died when I was young,” he says. “She was..” Words linger in the air, barely formed. Like Varyn, in some respects.
No! Wrong! Caswyn looks at the table, ashamed. Alarani was nothing like Varyn; she was cold and judgmental, whereas Varyn is like a mother Alarani wishes she’d been. Too bad she’s dead. Caswyn isn’t terribly concerned. Aeran’s just had his “went to pick berries in the woods with mom” moment, and if he looks close enough, Caswyn will find that he had those moments too.
Like when Varyn left Aeran to study magical classification once while she and Caswyn went for a trek in the woods around the Spire. It was summer, she could see in the dark, and she’d been living for decades in this place. She taught Caswyn the winding paths around the Spire while they talked for hours about the stars and whatever else.
They are both Varyn’s sons.
“She took me on a walk through the woods,” Caswyn says. “Told me what it was like to fly.” A pause. “I sometimes do wish I had her wings. They were beautiful.”
“I think aeda wings are cool,” Aeran replies. “You’d look great with aeda wings like your crest.”
“I would not have met you and Varyn, then,” Caswyn shrugs. “I am happy being wingless, in reality.”
He tries to imagine his life without Varyn and Aeran. Faces of Clan Brynmor’s children are a distant and blurry image, left behind in a life Caswyn doesn’t want to return to. Aeran’s fingers glide over the engraving on the metal cup. Images of Sero and Cenric, either asleep or engrossed in their work, stand in sharp detail as if they were here with him.
Maybe Caswyn’s gift to the life the Order had given him could be wooden statues. Alas, he doesn’t have enough time to carve them all.
He’s becoming a Wayfarer in three days.
And he will decide to forget how Varyn takes Aeran with her to diplomatic missions and not Caswyn. He will decide to forget the inside jokes she shares with Aeran. They’re elves. They will outlive him by decades, if not centuries. He refuses to harbor hurt where joy could take root.
Instead he will remember Sero’s pranks, Varyn’s gentle smiles, sparring with Aeran. Apprentice Brynmor now exists as tomorrow’s relic, forming the altar of Wayfarer Brynmor with all the happiness of a childhood his clan couldn’t really give him.
Alarani’s bones dig deeper into the earth.
“Will we have gatherings like this once we’re Wayfarers?” Caswyn asks. “Once we’re back from the road, Aeran and I, I mean.”
Varyn looks at her cup with an expression Caswyn can’t decode. She then looks at him and reaches out to squeeze his hand just once. “I would be happy to hear of your stories and adventures,” she says softly.
Aeran laughs and places his own hand on top before Varyn can pull hers away. “Maybe we finally stop sharing the same ones, Cas,” he says with a brilliant smile.
I recall certain stories I wasn’t here for, Caswyn almost thinks. Instead he just runs his thumb over Varyn’s finger. “It’ll be glorious,” he says, and it feels true.
He will still carve out those statuettes. He will bring them back as gifts. Aeran and Varyn will be happy to see them.
The Spire’s kitchen feels like home, after all these years.
(Years will go by. Aeran and Varyn will see those statues and they will smile and be happy to see them. The kitchen will periodically smell like Vestran wine again.
Years later, the Spire, the kitchen and the statuettes will burn in flames. Elven hands will dig through ashes, soaked in Vestran wine.
But tonight, Caswyn knows he will be happy. At least for a time.)
wayfarer. aeran/mc. takes place before ep 1. 600 words, gen.
„I’ll be back in a minute,“ Aeran is saying, though his voice barely reaches my ears against all the noise around us. „Are you sure you’re going to be okay out here? Not bash anyone’s face in?“
I grumble. „No promises. Some people have really punchable faces. Have you seen the guy from yesterday? With a bandana and an arrogant smirk? I would’ve enjoyed wiping that off his face.“
„Cassander.“ He squints. In the low light, he looks even more tired than he actually is. I’m sure I don’t look any better myself. „I know you’ve had a fucking week, I have as well, but restrain yourself, please.“
„Fine, fine,“ I sigh and signal towards an empty table. „Hey, do tables count?“
„As long as you can pay the innkeeper for them later, which I don’t think you can. I’m not paying your debts.“ He’s fucking done with me, and I know that, but I have been in a foul as shit mood all week for a reason my body and my body alone knows. Part of me feels sorry for him, and another feels like biting things.
Maybe a good, hard bite from my dear, dear best friend Aeran Kellis would fix me. I’ll never find out though. I did spy a rather funny little bump in his pants the other day, though..
Fuck off, primal brain. I dig my heels into the ground. „So no tables, no people, just.. Okay, okay, fine. I’ll behave. We need his job, I’m not stupid. I’m going to be professional about it.“ My professionalism is the one thing I like about myself, one of three total I think, and I’ve worked under worse moods. Headaches even. There’s pounding someone with your sword, but doing that while your head’s pounding you? Ha-ha, nice joke Cassander, do you want a joke medal now?
He squeezes my hand and his voice drops the edge. „I’ll massage you later if you’d like?“ He says it in this weird voice, a little hopeful, a little soft, and his eyes are looking for mine and he’s holding my hand. It’s all rough and calloused, and the scar on his eye scrunches just so and fuck, he’s probably the sweetest being in Rhesainia right now?
Maybe a massage from my dear, dear best friend Aeran Kellis would fix me.
„Sure,“ I mumble, unable to say no. How could I? „Listen, I have the money. We can pay for the room together, or let me pay for the meals. It’s been ages since we ate a proper hot meal we didn’t make ourselves. We’ll get it back with the money from the contract?“
„We’ll split bills later,“ he replies, still not letting go of my hand. He’s even started rubbing little circles on it. He looks down at our joined hands and laughs softly, as if trying to offset the offensive energy that’s radiating off me in waves. „Shit, how many freckles do you have, Cass?“
Too many for my own good.“ I glance down, against my fucking will might I add, and notice he’s pouting a little. Fuck. „Go get us food,“ I add, shaking my head. I’ll be at the table, waiting patiently like a wilting maiden.“
„Hey, boyfriends,“ a voice calls out from behind us, „didn’t wanna interrupt, but if you’re not going for that table, I am.“
Aeran abruptly lets go and heads for the innkeeper. I pout and look at the interruptor – human, dark hair, has a nose ring – and just nod my head in thanks.
We’re not boyfriends, for fuck’s sake. But maybe, my dear, dear best friend Aeran Kellis could fix me.
wayfarer. mc/melchior larkspur. set post game.
gen, 1,7k words.
Settling down is not a new practice for Melchior. He did, long ago, many a time; he welcomed family and descendants that way too. It is not a bad thing, everything considered. He’d simply forgotten the little details of it. Thankfully for him, he now has someone to pass his knowledge to and thus revise.
As to the receptiveness of his pupil, well, he cannot say there’s nothing to be desired. It’s hardly Cassander’s fault, though. Being born magiani in a world and a culture that despites your very existence does not yield itself to a lot of domestic bliss.
“I halfway expect to die in a fight or something,” Cassander says, once. He doesn’t look all too pleased with the world that day. These moods strike him, like an oddly built mechanism, in a way Melchior has yet to decode. “This domestic shit feels unnatural.”
“Unnatural?” Melchior raises his eyes from the manuscript he’s working on to pointedly stare at him.
“Yeah! It’s like I’m waiting for a roof to fall over my head, or to trip on my own fucking sword and bleed out in the kitchen! Is this how you people with magic are all the time? Peaceful? Sounds like a fucking scam, that’s what it is. You’re scamming me right now.”
Melchior knows better than to take the bait. Cassander is simply looking for a fight to calm his nerves. “You can always leave, if that’s what you’d prefer,” Melchior says calmly.
Cassander huffs. “Work’s scarce. By the time I find any you’ll be who the fuck knows where and this thing between us? Scattered to the wind. Dead and buried. Only fond memories until we both live out our remaining centuries.”
Melchior stares still. “And do you want that to happen?”
Cassander holds his gaze for a long time. He taps his fingers on the table, trying so hard to sit still under the onslaught. At some point, however, he drops his hand fully on the table and presses until his nail beds turn pale. “No,” he says, and his voice breaks. “It’s just that– Fuck. Why am I like this?”
Melchior sighs. Cassander isn’t looking at him, shoulders bent under the weight of his own head. Hair shadows his face against the bright daylight that reflects against the gold in his long ears. Parts of the tattoos covering his arm hide with him, yet the brightness of the roses on his forearm catches attention.
Almost enough to make Melchior miss how his shoulders shake.
Chair creaks as he rises, settling the papers that rustle when his hip catches on them. His slippers make no sound when he rounds the table and comes to stand by Cassander’s side. With a gentle hand, Melchior removes hair from Cassander’s shoulders; the curls, heavy and coarse, seem as ill equipped for such soft touch as Cassander himself.
Cassander breathes a little cry-laugh. “I’m trying to be miserable here,” he says. “Stop trying to make me laugh.”
“That was not my intent,” Melchior responds. “I was trying to offer solace.”
Cassander lifts his head and looks Mel in the eye, bewildered. “I know,” he whispers. “I don’t think solace will fix my head, but– Look, I don’t mean half the things I say, okay? Especially not– not this. You con people, sure, but you’re not playing with my heart, and here I am, accusing you of doing your job. No, that sounded wrong. Go scam rich people, I don’t care. Do your job elsewhere. I am not your job. I’m just an impossible to deal with fuckbuddy you keep around for whatever fucking reason and I’m making this even harder for you.” He blinks. “Not like that. Not all the time, anyways. I’m sure you’re not hard for me right now. That’d be weird. You’re angry, right? You’re probably so angry deep down but you’ve seen a lot of nutcases like me–”
“Cassander,” Melchior says in a low voice. Cassander nods and looks away. “Go weave, or sew. We will talk later, after you’re not one hair’s breadth away from jumping out of your skin.”
“That’s an order, boss?” Cassander says, in a strange voice.
“Alternatively, you can kick something,” Melchior adds. He isn’t angry, not really, but he is starting to feel like conversations need to happen later. If today needs a boss, he will step up to the task. “No fights with the crew. We cannot talk when you’re like this.”
“Got it,” Cassander says, frustrated. He stands up and marches to the door, playing with the tail ends of his hair. He closes them louder than intended; Melchior watches for a few more moments before he sits down again and rubs his face with his hands.
It is true he is not angry, but he would be lying if he said these moods of Cassander’s didn’t make him exhausted. It is hardly Cassander’s fault, of course; no sane person would choose this kind of suffering. He doesn’t take any of the accusations personally, either. Were he younger, were his life less full of a senseless number of years, perhaps. Now, all he does is sigh deeply and rub his temples.
He loves Cassander. When he chose to invite him into his life as a partner, he knew it would be through joy and difficult times alike. That same love makes it difficult to watch him struggle, but he knows far too well that Cassander needs to make the call himself. There are people who can help; he just needs to reach out. All Melchior can do is wait and pray.
The manuscripts glare at him in an accusatory manner. He feels restless. He’s suddenly all too aware of the half-empty cup of tea Cassander had made him, and he downs it with a grunt.
Someone knocks.
“Melchior?” Kit’s head peeks through the barely open door. “We need you at the rehearsal. We can’t seem to decode one of the scenes.”
Good, Melchior thinks. There’s work to be done before he can talk to Cassander properly. That’s good for taking his mind off things a little.
***
Evening falls on their little troupe. Running a company of actors requires a lot of time and a lot of work, a work Melchior deeply enjoys, and time spent with his people, his friends, never a time wasted.
However, his thoughts turn, ever so slightly, to Cassander throughout the day. Melchior hasn’t seen him at all since breakfast, and the troupe hasn’t either. He trusts Cassander can take care of himself; he’s a Wayfarer after all. His heart aches a little every time he remembers what had happened, but he brushes it off.
It is, after all, temporary.
Cassander finds him when Melchior retreats for a pause. His clothes are fresh, his hair braided away from his face, long and sad. There’s a bruise on his right hand.
“No civilians were harmed in the making of it,” Cassander says by way of explanation. “I was trying to stick it to the wall. Sero taught me just how hard I can hit it before I break my hand.”
Melchior blinks. “What?”
“You never had wall hitting lessons?” Cassander tilts his head. “You never had a don’t rage at other people talk? It was either the wall or some unfortunate fucker. Lots of dwarves today for some reason.” He stops. “I don’t like kicking people while they’re down.”
“Are you less angry now?” Melchior redirects the conversation and rubs his neck. “Will you bite my head off?”
“Depends if you’re a dwarf,” Cassander says, in a joking voice. “For real, though, I’m not as on edge as I was today. I don’t know what triggered it, but I did feel like my skin was too tight and I figured talking to people further while I’m like this will just make me feel worse.” He sits on the bed and taps the place beside him. “Uh, I’m sorry about that. How you have the patience for me is beyond my wildest dreams. I would’ve kicked my ass out of here long ago.”
“Fortunately, no such luck,” Melchior responds. He looks at Cassander’s awfully bruised hand. “Where’s your medical kit?”
“I can do it myself,” Cassander mutters and pouts. It’s unintentional, but delightfully adorable nonetheless. “It doesn’t hurt, it’s not as bad as it looks–”
“I need your medical kit,” Melchior orders gently.
“In the first drawer by the bed,” Cassander gives in, putting his hand gingerly on his lap. Melchior takes the kit out and sits beside him.
“You sweet, poor man,” Melchior whispers and takes Cassander’s hand. He hisses a little when Melchior kisses the bruised knuckles.
“What are you doing?” His voice goes a pitch higher, embarrassed.
“Kissing it better,” Melchior simply says and opens a jar of herbal-smelling salve. Cassander doesn’t move his hand away, though he does hold it a little stiffly, when he starts rubbing it into tender flesh.
“I’m not a kid,” Cassander says - whines - as he stares pointedly at his injured hand. “I can take care of it myself. Sirin taught me well enough–”
“That I do not doubt, but let me take care of you. You’re not helping anyone by punishing yourself.”
Cassander looks away. “Go fuck yourself,” he says, with no real heat. He huffs. “I– Fuck off. Just. You don’t– For fuck’s sake.” He sighs deeply and with feeling.
“What happens when you love someone,” Melchior continues, gently spreading the salve, “is that you will have patience for them and not abandon them when it gets difficult. What happens is you take care of them, even on their bad days, even if they inconvenience you. Because this is a partnership, no?”
Cassander is quiet.
“This is a partnership, Cassander, not servitude,” Melchior repeats, massaging his fingers. “I welcome inconvenience from you because it means you are my equal, just as you welcome inconvenience from me.”
“And the sex thing?” Cassander sounds strained. He flexes his hand.
“That is sex,” Melchior replies. “Relationships are more than just sex. If I ever make you feel like you are not cherished, I trust you’ll tell me.”
Cassander lets out a chopped breath. He pulls Melchior closer and buries his face in the side of his neck; his eyelashes, wet with tears, tickle Melchior’s skin.
Melchior puts the salve down and wraps his arms around him, lets his hands rub Cassander’s back and buries one of them gently, yet firmly in his hair.
One mistake does not make the lesson less worthwhile.
wayfarer. mc & amali sero, set post prologue and pre ep 1.
gen, 927 words.
on importance and access to choices.
divider credit
“We can cut it, if you’d like,” Sero suggests. The room is warm; there’s a fireplace and cups of hot tea on Sero’s desk. Yet, the boy sits in one of the grand chairs for guests covered in furs to his chin. They almost miss his response, a slight lifting of his head. “Your hair, Cassander. Have you always worn your hair long?”
Sometimes, they don’t know what to talk about with him. They can feel him watching and measuring their every word and motion. He probably knows they like to press their cuticles when they’re idle and that they like their meals slightly oversalted. There’s an intelligence behind his red eyes, bright and open and radiant, and they’re certain the kid knows way more than he lets on.
If he ever does, in reality. Most of the time, Cassander doesn’t speak much. He seems to take forever to answer a question, if only because he’s measuring something in that overfilled brain of his. It’s unsettling, and if Sero was being honest with themself, it makes them question whether he’s a right fit for their apprentice sometimes.
They’d never say it, though. They’re oddly attached to the unsettling, scrawny elf Cenric dragged from Vodena. Life hasn’t been kind to him there, Cenric said. Be patient with him, Cenric said. And Sero’s heart cracked a little from that walk in the snow, from watching an obviously terrified kid try and put on a brave face for survival, and their mind was made up.
No kid asks to be hurt by adults. Sero’s doubts shame them. They feel Cassander’s eyes sliding over him, and they ask, gentler, “Have you always had your hair long?”
“Yes,” he says. He tries to sound as neutral as possible. “For ease of styling.”
“Ease of styling? From what I’ve seen of Vestra, your hairstyles are anything but easy to do.” Sero reaches out to one of the cups and drinks a sip. “Spire must be a downgrade in that regard.”
“It is easy to style long hair,” Cassander says. He squirms on his seat. A halo of warm, red curls flies about his face, framed by the fire. Sero imagines they were more defined before winter took its toll on them. “Everyone has long hair.”
“Not here, though. Some Wayfarers keep it short for practicality. We’re of a wandering sort and hair gets in the way sometimes. That’s why I asked if you would like to wear it short for a while.”
Cassander shoots his head up and sits a little straighter. Sero almost regrets it; it’s rare to see him relaxed, but this time around, Sero notices, it’s less defensive, held back composure and more curiosity. Like a cat, they think. He schools his face to be neutral but it’s a struggle. His mouth is slightly open, as if to ask something, but he seems to decide against it. His hands grip the big fur coat.
“It is up to you,” they say. Their heart tightens a little. Their nails click against the clay cup. “I’m not trying to force anything, Cassander. If you want it, it can happen. But if you don’t, there’s no harm done.”
“That’s possible?” Cassander says, all too quiet, like he’s asking for some sort of permission. Sero is suddenly hit with a gods-awful reminder how young he is; Cenric’s asked around and the kid is ten. Ten years old, on the cusp of eleven, and they’ve seen many ten year olds running around and grabbing the world by the throat. Sero suddenly stands up, like something physically pushes them upward, leaves their cup on the table and walks over to Cassander, mindful of their step.
Like approaching a spooked cat.
“Can I hug you?” Sero asks. Their voice feels heavy in their throat. Cassander looks up. There are freckles on his nose and on his neck, faint in the winter. A moment passes, and Sero is just ready to step away, give him space, when he says a small, barely there yes.
So they kneel a little to be on his eye level and wrap their arms around his small shoulders. He burrows his face against their neck and they feel his breath hitch and then even out. His hands grab Sero’s shirt and he holds tight, as if he wants to get under their skin. And Sero would let him. Part of them wants to card their fingers through his curls.
“Has your hair ever been your choice?” Sero asks quietly.
“No,” Cassander responds.
“From now on, it is,” Sero says with determination. “I can teach you to take care of it. I can teach you to style it. But it is on you how you want to wear it. It’s on your head. The look of your hair is not that big to me as it is for you to become a good Wayfarer.”
Cassander swallows, thickly. “I–”
“There’s no need to make your choice now. Think about it. Should you come to any decision, let me know.”
He simply nods and furrows back into Sero’s embrace. Sero has little heart to let him go just yet. Fire cracks behind them as the wind blows harshly outside. It doesn’t matter though, does it? Sero feels awfully out of their depth, but they know that this kid is theirs.
Oh how Cenric would laugh if he saw them. Laugh, yes, but also hide a happy little smile that one unfortunate magiani child has found a home in their Order.
wayfarer. mc/melchior larkspur. set post game. 2,1k words.
“It’s like in a fucking fairytale,” Cassander says. In the dim light of the room, his eyes almost glow. A candle banishes shadows from the corner of his lips, shading them a golden brown. He’s squinting, leaning in from the other side of the table. “We’re both too old for that shit.”
“Nobody is too old for gentleness.” Melchior reaches out and presses a fingertip to Cassander’s nose. Cassander pouts and then huffs out a breath.
“Theoretically,” he responds. “I mean, yeah. A cuddle is nice. Kisses are great too. But this whole - how’d you called it, the adjective game? - feels like something that’s in fairytales for kids in their first relationships.” He leans back and crosses his arms. “They met, fell in love and told each other what they liked about each other’s bodies every night for a few days. I suppose these kids are fucking too.”
Now, Melchior is entirely familiar with Cassander’s brand of jadedness. He expected this response. He knows not to take it to heart, especially because Cassander’s eyes keep darting to his, as if torn between anxious adoration and the desire to squash it. Instead, Melchior sits there, patient, gliding a finger over the freckled skin of Cassander’s face.
“There’s more to like a body for than simply sex,” Melchior says. “This one is free of charge, of course, but for example, I like the shape of your nose. It makes for a majestic profile, perfect for the walls of an estate.” A theatrical pause. Cassander huffs again.
“I also like–”
“Ah-ah,” Cassander interrupts, with a smile. “That makes two. I’d owe you one. What more can I give you that you don’t already have?” There’s such a soft sincerity to it, invisible to Cassander himself, that makes Melchior’s chest warm.
“I’ll demand nothing you can’t take,” Melchior replies, softly leaning in. He almost gives a throaty chuckle when Cassander breaks eye contact and shakes his head. Melchior chases his face, but they end up hitting noses at an odd angle.
Cassander laughs, unexpected, loud and high-pitched. Melchior laughs with him, playing with a strand of his hair.
“Don’t wanna burn the whole place down,” Cassander says once the laugh subsides. His voice is tinted with amusement.
“So?”
“So what?”
“Do you accept my proposition?”
“I…” Cassander leans back and taps his nails against the table. He then rubs his face. “Do I have the option of backing out?”
“Of course,” Melchior replies. He watches the shadows play over the fiery roses inked on his Wayfarer’s hand and forearm. “I never wish to make you uncomfortable, unless it is what you ask of me. And even then.”
“Yeah, consent’s very important,” Cassander mutters. “This can go between I like your dick to I like the curve of your left ear?”
“Exactly. You can make it as sexual or non-sexual as you like. The only rule is that we exchange them once a day for a week, as long as we’re both agreeing to it.”
“I’ve faced fucking monsters less scary than this,” Cassander says, though his annoyance seems more aimed at himself. “Okay, fine. We can try. We can do this. It’s just words. Words have meaning, and words can impact, but it’s– it’s good words, you know? Kalon rhēma.” He then adds quietly, “Kalon rhēma..”
“Kalon rhēma,” Melchior repeats in an accent that probably rings ancient to Cassander’s ears. But the accent doesn’t matter when the intent is good. He leans in and kisses Cassander softly, and somewhere in another room, the Lilac Company laughs.
***
The day after their agreement, they hardly see each other. Melchior is busy preparing a new play, he’s trying to win a music score and everyone seems to need his attention. Cassander comes at one point to bring them something to eat, himself busy with errands and work, but they don’t get a moment together.
A shame, Melchior thinks. He finds a lot of people intriguing, he’s seen many come and go from his life, and it is not often that he lingers on the sensation of noticing someone’s absence these days. But he feels Cassander’s absence; he feels the days where they don’t see each other more heavily than he’d done so for a long time.
It is only in the evening that Melchior gets to see him. Cassander is sitting in the company common room, propped by the pillows, lost in thought. Shadowfall gleams unsettlingly in his hands, bare in the moonlight, but he isn’t afraid of it harming him. A waterfall of red hair covers the hilt, highlighting the sharp bridge of his nose.
“Hello, Melchior,” he says, raising his head. “How were the rehearsals?”
Melchior blinks. “Kit almost broke her leg during a jump.”
Cassander frowns. “Is she okay? I can straighten any–”
“She’s fine, Cassander. She shook the shock of it off as professionally as her job demands.” He walks over, eyes fixated on Shadowfall. Cassander sheathes it and scoots to the side. “How was your day?”
“I did some deliveries for a quick pay, nothing special,” Cassander replies when Melchior sits down tiredly beside him. He wraps a hand around Melchior’s shoulders. His hand - the one with the inked flowers - reaches out to play with the ends of Melchior’s tunic. “Ayden gave me some of their new baked goodies to try today. Said it’s on the house for being a cute little helper. Now I don’t know about little, exactly–”
“Your hands,” Melchior interrupts. Cassander stares. “I like your hands. You have long fingers. I find the way the flowers sit on your hand in motion very pleasing.”
“That,” Cassander clears his throat. “I like how your hair looks when it’s all messy and unstyled. Imperfect. Without illusions. Less of an act.” A pause. “Honest, in your own way.”
Melchior cuddles closer. Cassander hugs him and softly plays with his messy, blue strands.
***
The next day, Melchior leaves Kit in charge for a few hours to stare at numbers. Leading a troupe is often a busy, grueling work. He would not trade his people for the world, of course, but at some point, even numbers begin to look like past enemies, like dangers of Lyrian’s smile right before they pull him in trouble, like dalliances he should have forgotten already.
And he has yet to learn to resist the pull. Thankfully, the choice is made for him.
A kitten, naked and pink like a baby bird, jumps on his lap. He meows around the green ribbon in his mouth and tilts his wrinkly, small head to look into Melchior’s eyes. Melchior gives him a small pet behind his ears.
“Balthazar!” Cassander screeches from the door, grabbing the doorframe like his life depends on it. “Workout’s nice and all, but it’d be nicer if you didn’t steal my fucking hair tie!”
Balthazar digs his small body into Melchior’s shirt. Cassander spots him and squints, trying to fight a smile.
“Gotcha,” he says confidently, and it looks beautiful. It makes the corners of his eyes crinkle just so, his whole face softens and the scar on his cheek forms a misshapen line. He strides to where Melchior is sitting, leans down to gently get a hold of the kitten, and pulls the hair tie from his maws. He even manages to smoothly drop a kiss to Melchior’s cheek.
Melchior laughs. “Let him be. He is innocent.”
“He’s a thief,” Cassander retorts and hugs Balthazar to his chest. “We're a little naked thief, yes, we are, little man!” Balthazar meows in protest and wiggles, reaching a paw to the hair tie. Cassander giggles and kisses his pink head.
Melchior watches his wide, gummy smile disappear into another kiss. Then, Balthazar decides to bite an unsuspecting strand of hair.
Cassander sighs. “Cats,” he grumbles without any heat. “If you ruin the curl pattern, you’re giving me one of your own, you naked beast. Sorry if he bothered you, Melchior. It’s just that– I’ve been chasing him all over the damn place and I know you guys are busy. Someone’s gotta watch over the kitten, right?”
“I needed a break anyway,” Melchior waves a hand. “He is a nice, if not an odd-looking distraction. I do like your smile, Cassander. It suits you.”
Cassander looks away, cheeks tinted red in the sunlight.
Later that day, he stops Melchior in the kitchen to whisper, “I like your smile too.”
***
The day after, he has Cassander pinned to a wall, biting urgently into his neck. Days’ worth of absence have caught up to him.
“I do quite like your ass,” Melchior whispers into the heated skin between bites. Cassander’s neck looks like a garden of blooming roses. His eyes are heavy-lidded.
“And I have a feeling I’ll like your cock soon,” he says between pants, half-way between a witty remark and genuine comment.
“Let us see how correct your feeling is,” Melchior whispers and kisses him again.
***
“Turn a little to the right,” Cassander shakes his hand vehemently. “Not that much. Just– I need to see the flow of the fabric, not a twirl.”
Another on his long list of professions over the years, Melchior can now add a serithan model on it. He obeys with a small smile, happy to support his partner’s project; he had discovered, much to his sadness, that Cassander for a long time did not have a hobby. Having pastimes is key to a journey of healing, after all, and if spending an extra hour at night on work means taking care of his partner’s mind, that is a risk worth taking.
Besides, Cassander gets an adorable little wrinkle between his brows when he concentrates. And Melchior enjoys having someone’s attention so intently.
“You’re cute,” he says when Cassander adjusts the fabric on him. Cassander sticks his tongue out in response.
“Let me do my job,” he mumbles. Melchior pulls at a stray curl. “Let me do my job!”
“I can’t keep my hands off you, it would seem,” Melchior shrugs and shimmies.
Cassander lifts his hands and puts them on his hips. He holds Melchior’s gaze; light from a nearby window brightens his red eyelashes. His eyes, equally red, seem to dig into the depths of Melchior’s mind, looking to bend it to his will.
“I’ll invent a new tea blend for you if you let me do my job,” he says, deathly serious. His hands rest on Melchior’s waist, not quite pressing, but present. Gold rings slide against the cotton.
Melchior’s too experienced to shiver at his tone, but it thrills him nonetheless. “Cassander, if I may,” he says. “Your eyes can be incredibly intense.”
Cassander squints. “And your waist can be small, if you just stay still.”
Melchior simply smiles.
***
“Hey, Melchior?”
“Hmm?”
“It’s the last day of our game, isn’t it?” Cassander whispers into Melchior’s chest. He chose to lay on top like a cat and Melchior had no heart to chase him off. Part of him thinks he’s taking after that silly kitten of his.
“I wouldn’t personally mind continuing,” Melchior runs a hand over the scar on Cassander’s back. His hair, messy and dark red, tickles Melchior’s sides; the heat of his bare, textured skin leaks onto Melchior’s own. There’s so much to explore under his fingertips, scars, tattoos, coarse hairs, patches of acne. “Would you like us to stop?”
Cassander considers. “Yes,” he says after a time, sighing. “I’m just– I’m just not used to all this positivity. It makes me feel a little weird. Not because it’s you saying it, but because–” He groans helplessly. “My head’s fucked up, that’s all.”
“I understand,” Melchior replies softly. “We will stop because you asked to.”
Cassander blinks. “That easy, huh.”
“Yes. Consent is a must in any relationship,” Melchior murmurs. “Did you see the value of a body outside of sex? Value of a kind word?”
“Kalon rhēma,” Cassander says. “I.. I do. It’s new to me, sure, but I do.” And then, he adds quietly, “It hasn’t been like this since Senna. Aeran is..” He laughs weakly. “He’s many things, wholesome even. Sometimes. We never did this, though.”
“I am happy to be the first,” Melchior kisses his head. Because he loves this strange, red elf, in his capacity as a Wayfarer, as a man, as a survivor. He has loved many people, and his love is not a finite thing, but he almost feels like he might love Cassander almost as much as he loves Lyrian.
It is a very fascinating thing.
Cassander huffs and settles by Melchior’s side now. It’s a quiet summer night, and they both descend into a pleasant silence, sharing time and bodies.
fandom: wayfarer
ship: cassander/aisanne
characters: cassander inteus, aisanne bjornsdottir
rating: gen
words: 1625
note: this is my entry for @idrellegames' three year anniversary event! prompt i'd chosen is paramour - expected of me, i know - but i've hardly written about cass' bisexuality and i felt like it needed to be written about! excuse the ya-sounding title lmao i could not resist
also, aisanne is a gw2 oc that i've ported to wayfarer. she lives over on @i-mybrunettelady most of the time :)
divider credit
I am tired of grief. I don’t know if it ever goes away, but for fuck’s sake, I’m so tired of it. It’s summer, though, and a part of me feels like the sun will chase it away, if only for a day or two. Our house needs the sun right now. Grief hangs over it like a veil, and we don’t speak of it, but maybe the rays that come through our window each morning help.
Or so I hope. Hope’s a stupid thing by and large, because every time I hope something happens it decidedly doesn’t, as if the gods above or whoever sits and watches this farce of an existence keeps laughing at me and says, “Add more!” But I can’t help but wish, in my heart of hearts, that sometimes, maybe one day in this lifespan that’s entirely too long for one guy, I don’t feel like a tossed out, crapped on kitten on the streets.
It’s summer. That feels important to repeat to self. I am feeling a little less grief. The room around me is loud and messy and sounds jump from one place to another like rabbits, in a cacophony ruled over by the harmonious noise of music. Sanne’s the one behind the harp, golden under the candlelight, and if she was a different woman, she’d be singing in a Meissandic temple.
She cares little for the traditional rites, though. She cares little for the chants I’d attended once or twice when I was a kid. She looked at me all confused when I told her how courtly, Vestran services happen, and said, in a strange tone, “I don’t understand how people like that.” I don’t understand either, and thank fuck I’m not a Vestran aristocrat anymore.
Her place is telling stories of heroes and events long gone, to be a musical wayfarer. She’s doing that tonight. I was drunk when we first met here and she had to hold my hair while I was throwing up, apparently. Can’t say I remember that attractive trait about myself. I’m not drunk right now, however, sitting near the small wooden stage, taking small sips of my cider. The drink is irrelevant; she captures my attention more than any alcohol could.
She’s radiant and shiny, half covered in shadows, which makes her golden crest stand out. The bright sheen of her golden hair disappears and reappears after the movements of her head. I can’t see her freckles clearly from here, but I can see the ink on her neck, the roundness of her full lips, an occasional yellow in the blues of her eyes when the candlelight reflects off them. I’m not blind to beauty, but there’s beauty in a way a finely made building is beautiful, and a way a person is beautiful.
You don’t wanna fuck buildings, do you? And if you do, what the actual fuck is wrong with you?
Others are looking at her too. That doesn’t matter, because it’s my bed who she comes to tonight. Or is it me coming to hers? Not fucking important.
These feelings are new. For most of my life, interest like this fell to men. Part of me wonders if I’m just that desperate for any kind of tenderness in my life that my head would start making up attraction; but the way this feels can’t be anything but a solid fucking reality. Women were always beautiful the way buildings were, but now they’re flesh and bone and soul and personality and there’s something so weirdly appealing about that that it catches me off guard.
Not all women are your mother, you dumb fuck.
I know, but women have never been.. This. I think about Sanne when she’s away. I watch her practice for the performances, mesmerized. There’s peace and blood rushing to my face when we’re laughing in bed, or making lunch, or eating, or just existing in the same space. My insides get all twisted up, like I’m a kid again crushing on older Wayfarers. It’s like Senna again, and I simply forgot how it feels like to be crushing on someone this bad.
Nothing will ever happen between us, however. It would be so crappy to prey on a widow’s feelings. She rarely speaks of her dead husband, but he’s not even that cold as far as dead people go; maybe a little more than us Wayfarers, but not by much. Our living together is a result of loneliness, desperation, not a desire to find a partner again. But I was dumb enough to pretend I didn't see it.
She’s cooking, some days after her performance. Sun is shining through the window, leaving her figure in semi-shadows and catching on the ends of her shiny, metallic hair. She’s not as glamorous as she was at the show; right here is a Sanne that’s more down to earth, more solid, dressed comfortably, not worried about how she’s perceived. I’m folding clothes nearby and doing a half-assed job of it, too. It’s hard to concentrate some days over the deafening noise of all this fucking attraction confusion business.
Every so often she turns back to look at me with a strange smile on her face. “That’s what I wore to Kiaran’s funeral,” she says suddenly. I jerk and drop my gaze to the dress in my hands. Sunlight washes away its dark color in places. There are little holes in it that I want to sew shut, but I don’t have her consent to. She’s weirdly sentimental about it.
My Spire didn’t have a funeral, and us survivors only have ashes as funerary garb.
“What’s this stain again?” I ask, raising the dress and jerking my head in the direction of the big, grayish blob on the skirt. “I keep forgetting!”
She sighs and throws a full, peeled onion at me. It hits me right in the forehead and the poor plant, already under threat, pricks my eyes. “You’re horrible,” I say in mock offense. “You don’t want your dress to stink, do you?”
“I’m not burying anyone anytime soon,” she says lowly, in a tone that implies I’m hitting a boundary. I wince and put the dress down, careful of the location of the onion.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper as I approach, gently placing the vegetable on the table. She gives me a hard look. “I shouldn’t have joked about the dress. It means a lot to you and I tend to joke around, right, about the things that I’m sensitive about so people don’t attack me for it first? Offense is the best defense kinda thing? And I forget that sometimes - a lot of the time - people don’t function the way my fucked up head does?”
Shut up, Cassander. You’re making it worse.
Something tightens my throat, like hands choking me from the inside out. I grip the table and swallow thickly. My stomach twists up, and the smell and feel of onion fills the kitchen and I can only focus on the dents in the dark wood beneath my fingers and the uneven pattern freckles of my hand.
“Cassander,” Sanne says. Her tone is too much for me to analyze right now, try as I might. “Cass.”
“What?”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Picking at your scar. Stop it.”
I lower my hand from my face and grip the edges of my tunic. The edges of my braid - I need to take care of those ugly fucking ends one of these days - tickles my hand. You’re scaring people. Enjoy your lifetime of solitude, whether you’re actually into women or not. Who would want someone as shaky and deranged as you are?
Vestra should’ve killed you, if you were so determined to go back.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur to my feet.
“I’m not angry. If you pushed, I would’ve been, greatly so. But you didn’t. Stop shaking like a leaf.” There’s something in her tone that feels like cold water to the face. I breathe out and blink away a small selection of tears. Saltiest one always drops first! I’m imagining a little tear race now, little tear spectators cheering the racers on, tear savants testing the levels of salt in each one. The thought makes me giggle and I bury my head in my hands as I laugh.
“I’m not angry with you,” she repeats, gentler than before. Her voice is still as steely, though. “Go finish the laundry while I make lunch.”
Without a word, I retreat to my location at the corner of the room, where still wet clothes wait to be sorted and hung to dry. I put the dress to the side and continue sorting through the clothes; sometimes, I look at her, her back turned to me, and the shaking of my hands grows for a split second.
I try my best not to cry. Better save that energy for the worst of the shitshow that I know is yet to come.
I’ve forgotten that this is a house of grief and no sunlight can fix it. And I’ve walked over her grief in the same way I would walk over my own, but where I’m used to it, she isn’t. And even when we go to the same bed that night, seemingly forgetting what happened, and even when the sun rises the morning after, this is still a place where two grieving people decided to seek comfort because being broken together is somehow better than being broken alone.
No summer nor new kinds of sex can fix the holes in your heart.
I am tired of grief. I don’t know if it ever goes away, but for fuck’s everloving and everlasting sake, I’m so tired of it.
