Multitude of various creatures. Those mainly fronting right now are Hound, Quinn, Wrasse and a few others who do not have formal names. Most of us don't usually engage with others outside the system unless in person.
This is a side blog for artwork, writing, and other things. Posts will mostly be from a queue for now.
*Under 18 DNI as some posts will contain explicit content (tagged and flagged, but still).
Current interests at the moment:
Tiger & Bunny
She Loves To Cook And She Loves To Eat
Hello Kitty Island Adventure & general Sanrio
Blair (Roblox)
Destiny 1 & 2 (just as a fandom thing, not a 'currently playing')
further DNI and additional info here🧡;
🫧Hello! Primary external name is Xander🍊 Queer trans, autistic fish creature system. Have various disabilities and am very mentally ill and
Characters: Tevis Larsen, Tevis Larsen's Ghost, and Andal Brask
TWs: Bickering and name-calling, grumpy and cynical narrator/POV, strained relationship, Angst, smoking and cigarette mention
Word Count: 4,951
Summary: Tevis stokes the coals between him and an old friend after a ridiculously long time away.
Note: Made up my own personality and mannerisms for Tevis’ Ghost based on his. Their dynamic is so funny to me /affectionate
Parts of this are honestly just an homage to Destiny 1's Tower, love that place!
I wrote this back in July or August of 2024. It was originally meant to be a lead-in to some OC stuff, but I never got back around to finishing or working on the rest. Also got VERY focused on writing the Hunter lads ; w ;
††††††
Were you digging something up or
Did you bury something down?
In your soul, I found a thirst
with only salt inside your cup
In your eyes, I saw a longing
While I longed to lift you up
-
The Conflict Of The Mind
by
AURORA
+
There's parts of me I think you know
More than anyone at all
I know it wasn't just for show
So where does all the love go?
-
Holy Ghost
by
Neon Trees
+
And love the things
I know might disappear
And the last light of the sun,
I let it slow me down
I'll crawl where everybody runs
We're good people
And we deserve peace
It's difficult, it seems
-
Some Type Of Skin
by
AURORA
††††††
The Hunter's ship had barely finished its landing procedures with the autopilot function, when Tevis started to transmat onto the floor of the hangar. He hardly spared a second glance as he signed off the approval for his ship's maintenance, leaving it up to his Ghost to send the required glimmer over.
The Tower mechanics could probably use whatever spare change they got, so the Nightstalker didn't care if they overcharged him. The number of ships that came through during their work day was likely in the hundreds, having to keep track of and maintain all of them was an astonishing feat in and of itself. Tevis certainly didn't envy them one bit for their workload, especially for the fact it required them to stay in the hangar— as opposed to being out in the system.
“Your engine isn't even broken, it was running just fine,” his Ghost complained, as the ship's logistics already came through. That was fast.
Tevis had merely stopped to drop his sparrow off at the other mechanic station, but then he and his Ghost had been making their way out of the hangar. Their destination was in the common area of the Tower, specifically; the vaults. Tevis had a major haul that he needed to drop off.
“You sure? Could've sworn it was smoking on that last leg back… Whatever. If they wanna put in a new one, I'm not stopping them,” he grumbled. Tevis shrugged off his Ghost's concern with a wave of his hand for emphasis. Ghost bumped into his fingers in response, repeatedly hitting them with the side of its shell.
“You said you wanted to start saving glimmer,” it scolded him, core whirring.
Tevis swiped his hand away in time to dodge the Ghost's next mini-ram, then tucked his hands into his pockets so they were out of its reach. Ghost huffed at that, and began looping around him at head-level instead.
Tevis frowned, he hated when Ghost did that— and the drone was well aware. The orbiting whirs were reminiscent of a bee or fly buzzing, he had to resist the urge to swat Ghost away.
“You're damn annoying, you know that?” He griped, starting to walk faster as a way to outpace the buzzing Ghost.
“So are you!” It called from behind him. “Next time you accuse me of misplacing glimmer, I hope you'll remember where it really went!” It continued scolding, clear exasperation in its voice.
Nearby Guardians, Ghosts and others turned to watch the two of them with interest. While a Ghost chiding their Guardian wasn't unusual to witness, the scene was still cause for most people to drop what they were doing and stare. Catching an argument so loudly displayed in the Tower common was always of interest. One could never know when they'd see or hear something juicy— also, loud sounds were kind of a Guardian's cue to pay attention, anyway.
“Can it. You're inviting annoyingly nosey busy-bodies,” Tevis emphasized in a loud, harsh tone. He hoped that would deter most onlookers.
In a considerably quieter voice, he addressed his Ghost again, “Besides, I still have shit to sell. See if we don't make back triple what those mechanics charged. Plenty of riches to be had. You don't even care about the glimmer usually, little fly.”
The Nightstalker was trying and failing to not be annoyed, but it was more at the prying eyes than with his loud-mouthed Ghost. Tevis simply hated others being privy to his business, another thing Ghost knew well enough. They'd likely been away from other people for too long, if Ghost had slipped up on their mutually preferred decorum.
To its credit, Ghost merely scoffed at Tevis’ words, and let the insult he'd thrown out pass. The Nightstalker was pleased when he heard no further complaints from behind him. Good. He hated drawing unnecessary attention, and hated keeping said attention longer than necessary (which was at all. It was never necessary. Best to have no attention).
Tevis finally made his way over to one of the vault terminals. He was resisting the urge to look around, but eventually gave in; scanning the courtyard to see if any eyes were still on them.
Various groups and pairs of Guardians roamed around, mostly lining up at stalls or gathering around the main ledge to wave at passing ships. A solitary individual or two weaved through the clusters, in as much of a rush as Tevis was. To Tevis’ relief, it seemed no one had spared him and his Ghost a lasting glance. Good.
The interface in front of Tevis beeped to life then, and he typed his information in with quick, practiced movements.
There was still a considerable amount of junk leftover from the last time that he had forgotten to clear the vault of. All manner of valuables and tech looted from caches out in the wilds, to miscellaneous stuff from long past runs with the Crew, and…
“Seriously?” Ghost asked incredulously, keeping its voice quiet. It had fully caught up to where Tevis stood, and came to settle in the space over his shoulder.
Mixed between the various spoils, there was also a stash of half-busted gear and dirty clothes. What else was the vault good for if not tucking away the laundry that you just didn't feel like doing?
Tevis simply shrugged at his Ghost again, and began to transfer over items and weapons from his current inventory. Aside from the immediate equipment he'd just been using, he put nearly everything in the vault's storage.
“Don't you dare leave it like this,” Ghost started to warn, already beginning to skim through the mess of data on its end.
“I won't. Just needed it all in one place. Besides, this is what I have you for, right?” Tevis let himself smile just a little, even raising a brow as he shot a glance to the Ghost.
“Hate you,” it muttered dryly. Its eye squinted at him for a moment, in clear judgment of his nonchalant demeanor. Tevis’ little smile grew to a smug grin at that. He couldn't help it, the drone was as easy to irritate as Tevis himself was, and being the cause for it amused him to no end. That feeling was definitely mutual.
Ghost turned away from him with a scoff and an eye-roll, setting its attention back towards the vault terminal. It fussed over where to start with the mess, whether it should sort by item type, durability, or just alphabetize everything.
“Here, let's just do the gear by what's worn, what's newer, and the guns by what I'll use. Everything else can be sorted by quantity, then whatever's the most valuable can go in a separate window, too,” Tevis said, his hands rapidly swiped through the interface to do his own organizing.
Ghost hummed thoughtfully, taking a moment to consider his suggestion. It bobbed in place as a show of agreement.
The two of them spent the next half hour —give or take— to get everything in order. It was a few more minutes after that still to rifle through what they wanted to sell or scrap. Tevis then had to make a few trips between Banshee's station and back to the hangar mechanics with all the guns, parts and tech he'd amassed (and would certainly never use). Troublesome as the back and forth was, it would be better served in other hands. It was also arguably much better than continuing to clog up the vault. He'd even gotten a few Engrams opened, with some decent goodies to make even more glimmer from.
Ghost let out a triumphant chirp of delight as Tevis shut down the vault terminal for the final time. They would find somewhere to wash his clothes later on, because while there were open laundromats for Guardians to use at this hour, Tevis was not in the mood for waiting around anywhere, nor being stuck in a dingy little building.
As it was, the high towers around and closed-in structure of the courtyard were already making him itch to jump back in his ship and leave.
But, he was damn tired. It'd been weeks on his feet out scouting and fighting, and he still had bounties and other reports to turn in before he could finally settle down. The Nightstalker tried to make a point of getting most of his business done all at once, especially seeing as how he'd let way too much pile up over the past few months.
Tevis followed behind his Ghost as it bobbed its way over the courtyard. He strode up the set of stairs across from the Postmaster, and approached the Frame that acted as the main handler of bounties this side of the Tower.
Xander 99-40 stood with his usual rigid posture alongside the bounty posting board, and to Tevis’ great luck, the Frame had no company around. There'd be no waiting around here at least, which was good.
“Welcome back, Guardian,” the Frame addressed Tevis as he walked up. His tone was ever cheerful and polite, but Tevis could never tell if that was intentional of the Frame himself, or if it was just a programmed feature.
“Hey there, rust-bucket,” he greeted back, knowing the Frame probably couldn't even roll its eye if it had wanted to. Was that rude? Xander 99-40 never seemed to mind any jabs or insults, he simply attended to Tevis as he would any other Guardian.
Ghost beeped a couple times as it transferred over their completed bounties to the Frame, then pulled up the new ones Xander 99-40 currently had available. Tevis watched his glimmer count go up with only a half-interest, he was more curious to see what manner of foe the Vanguard currently had it out for. It wasn't too often from this selection, but there'd sometimes be bounty postings for particular enemies or areas of interest that needed clearing out.
Unfortunately, nothing of particular note stood out to Tevis from among the listings. There wasn't even a Fallen Captain or other troublemaker to hunt down. It was all just routine patrols, scan-reading requests, and some comms beacon check-ins. Bounties like those were better left to the greenhorns in Tevis’ opinion; subpar fodder for the small-fry to pick over and settle into routine with. Tasks like that were more likely to keep them out of trouble, too.
Tevis gave a sigh of resignation, and Ghost didn't say a word as it closed the bounty listings knowingly. Xander 99-40 raised a hand to wave after them as Tevis turned and hopped the railing that overlooked the main stairway. A Warlock walking below cursed at him as they barely avoided being jumped on. Tevis dropped to his feet past them, graceful nonetheless, and took the rest of the stairs two at a time.
“Leave the stunts for the field, cape-head,” the Warlock spat from behind him, before they resumed their ascent. Ghost laughed as it watched the fuming Guardian stomp away. It thought their insult was funny too, especially because Tevis’ eyebrows had raised at the words.
“How uncreative,” it said sarcastically, its shell points spinning in amusement.
“Tower's just lovely this time of year,” Tevis grumbled back, not even bothering to look at the Warlock's retreating form. Ghost chuckled once more at that, and tucked itself into his hood for the rest of the way.
Tevis crept quietly past Arcite's counter, thanking his lucky stars that Shaxx was too preoccupied with a cluster of Guardians to call out to him at the moment. The Titan did still nod his head towards the Nightstalker in acknowledgement, however. Tevis nodded back out of simple politeness, he wasn't in the mood for further pleasantries, particularly not with someone as high-energy as Shaxx often was.
Tevis had only one person in mind for whom he desired conversation with.
The man in question was a refreshing and welcoming sight in the bustling Hall of Guardians— regardless of how off-putting it still was to see him working here. That was just going to be an always thing.
Andal Brask stood in a corner on the upper level, as opposed to his more common spot near the big table in the room's center. “Hunters need their Vanguard to stand out and be easy to spot, especially the new ones. The middle of the room is perfect for that,” he'd said. Even before taking the gig, Andal had quite the penchant for looking out for other Hunters— so it was almost a given he'd settle into the mentorship role so naturally.
Tevis watched from afar for a moment, taking him in. It seemed like Andal was currently talking to a pair of Frames, he must have been directing them for some task or other. Whatever busy-bodying the Hunter Vanguard could get up to that kept him stuck in the Tower, Tevis supposed.
Andal in his ‘Vanguard work-mode’ was such a strange sight— the man had a different set to his posture than he would've out in the Wilds. Down here, he was professional, formal, all manner of proper. Tevis tried to ignore the way his heart panged with an unrecognizable feeling at the observation.
There was no use in wasting precious time by being a fly on the wall now, so Tevis willed his feet into motion. He stepped carefully across the room, knowing that even with his back turned, Andal would surely hear him approach.
“Hey,” the Nightstalker grumbled in greeting, coming up alongside the other Hunter.
As expected, Andal didn't startle or seem surprised to have company. He turned to bestow Tevis with a dazzling smile, like it was the most natural thing to be meeting here, of all places. Even after all this time, it wouldn't ever feel natural, but… it had to be.
“Oh, hey. You again? Thought I was rid of you by now,” Andal said jokingly.
He waved the Frames away with a quick dismissal, before doing a once-over of the Nightstalker. There was a familiar and analytical glint to Andal's eyes as he took in the sight of Tevis— not sizing him up per say, but reading him over like an old book that Andal knew by heart. He was looking to see if anything had changed since the last time they were together.
“Can't stay away. Believe me, I've tried,” Tevis muttered with a note of levity. He gave the Vanguard a half-shrug, too.
While being the subject of scrutiny was certainly never his favorite, Tevis had long grown used to it with the Gunslinger. Andal observing him so carefully had a reassuring way about it, something comforting… It felt like coming home— in all the ways the hangar landing strips, Tower courtyard, and crowds of people never could.
Under Andal's watchful gaze, Tevis could just be himself outright. He didn't have to worry about ruffling any feathers, nor did he have to schmooze it up to garner favor (not that Tevis was in the habit of doing so). No matter how deeply he'd traversed the Void, how far out in the wilds he'd gone, or how long he'd been away exploring their universe… Right now, held here; in the fixture of Andal's amber-speckled eyes— he would always return as the one and only Tevis Larsen. That was more than enough, for the both of them.
“Is that sand from Mars?” Andal finally asked him, eyes fixed squarely on Tevis’ dusty boots and pant-legs.
Tevis barked a laugh, low and gruff.
“Hah, no. Too hot there for me. Just a beach here on good old Earth,” he explained, letting his posture settle into a less-tense one. Tevis’ guard was still up— this was a public place after all, but the set of his shoulders relaxed considerably.
In the meantime, Ghost had risen from its spot in Tevis’ hood, and floated past the pair to a table against the wall. It went about greeting Andal's Ghost, the two exchanging their own endearments. They spoke in tones too quiet for the Hunters to overhear, though. Ghost then transmat their finished reports and remaining bounties onto the tabletop for the other Ghost to catalog.
Andal didn't mention the added workload, instead, he pouted at Tevis as his attention came back from the Ghosts. He had his arms crossed too.
“You went to the beach without me?”
His voice held a hint of accusation and hurt to it, but the Nightstalker figured that was more in jest than out of genuine feeling. Then again… there probably was some real hurt to it. Tevis was having trouble getting a proper read on Andal's honest feelings these days. At some point in all this Vanguard business, the man had fashioned himself too sturdy of a facade to see through. Even with someone as trusted as Tevis, Andal would not be so easily perceived, not if he wished to keep his walls up.
The Nightstalker had a fleeting, gut-twisting thought that maybe he had begun to lose his way from Andal's own cover to cover. That this man before him was becoming more unrecognizable by the day. He shook the feeling off immediately, not wanting it to sour their time— nor wanting to truly ponder it, ever.
Rather than openly acknowledge why Andal couldn't have gone with to the beach, or inviting him for a future outing (that they both knew he could never go on), Tevis settled for teasing the man instead, something to lighten the mood and redirect his lingering thoughts.
“Sure did. I absolutely went to the beach without you. I had to get in some quality ocean-gazing time without the nefarious sea hurler around,” the Nightstalker said, grinning. The crooked way his mouth set would've rang alarm bells for anyone else, but this was Andal; his longtime packmate (current circumstance be damned).
Andal, who —instead of startling at the show of teeth, was gasping in mock-offense and swatting a hand at Tevis with an exclamation of, “Hey, not where the New Lights can hear!”
The Gunslinger tried his best to level Tevis with a scowl as well, but was failing as a fond smile tugged his lips upward.
“Reckon they should know the infamous legend behind their mentor,” Tevis quipped back. He shrugged again, playfully, like sharing the story of Andal's raising to the rookie Hunters would bring him great pleasure. Andal knew his secrets were safely kept with the Nightstalker, but he also knew that Tevis would not miss a chance to let a thing or two slip— should anecdotal humor call for it.
“I suppose I'll have to keep this in mind for the next time I send would-be Nightstalkers your way. Still, you won't get out of teaching New Lights so easily, Larsen,” Andal said thoughtfully, voice dripping with sarcasm. He was still serious about the teaching thing, Tevis could tell.
The old Nightstalker tsked and put his hands up. “Damn, you got me,” he relented in mock defeat.
“The last group kept asking why Golden Guns were gold, though. Can't promise I won't make a break for it if the next kids ask shit like that,” he added, shaking his head.
Andal chuckled, “Good thing you were there to teach them. You're the perfect Hunter to add color-theory to the lessons.” He gestured to Tevis’ primarily green and grey gear, his currently-maroon cloak.
Tevis gave an exaggerated sigh.
“Totally. The next generation is gonna be oozing with kids who wield the Light in very crafty ways. Can't wait,” the Nightstalker huffed, rolling his eyes.
“Hey! You never know, New Lights can always find a way to surprise you. Like that one who always got tangled in their own Void tethers!” Andal said, chuckling.
Tevis scoffed and shook his head.
“How could I forget that one? Poor kid. Next thing you know, I'm gonna be asked why Nightstalkers can't make a Ward of Dawn or Nova…” He griped, brows furrowed at the thought.
Andal snorted, and clapped a hand on Tevis’ shoulder.
The two Hunters exchanged looks, a fond understanding passed between them. The inside jokes and ribbing would never grow tired nor old— even as they both did. The two shared a genuine laugh then, letting the moment wash over them. It eased some of the awkwardness and tension of having been apart so long.
Andal's laughter was full and from the belly, a hearty sound that filled the space around them with a warm mirth. It was music to Tevis’ solemn ears, a sacred sound that he'd missed all too much. Tevis wished that this moment would last a little bit longer, but all things had their end.
“Awh, I missed you,” Andal said once he'd caught his breath. He removed the hand on Tevis’ shoulder, instead putting both to his own hips as he took the time to appraise Tevis once again.
Whatever the Vanguard saw in the Nightstalker's face must've set him at ease, because Andal smiled softly and nodded in approval to himself.
Tevis held himself back from saying an, “I missed you too,” —it would've just made Andal feel guilty at this point, as much as he wanted to return the sentiment. In place of words though, the Nightstalker reached out to give Andal his own rare pat on the shoulder.
“You need to sleep more,” he mused, keeping a firm hand on Andal's leather-clad shoulder. It was true, Andal's eyes bore a darker shade of color that could not be attributed to make-up. Tevis intimately knew what sleepless nights and weariness looked like on a face. Particularly how when the bruising started, a Ghost couldn't always whisk it away with the other deprivation effects.
The Hunter Vanguard sighed at that, it was raw and heavy. Andal let his cheeriness fade for just a moment, those carefully crafted walls of his dropping like they always tended to when he was alone with Tevis. This was more familiar ground, compared to the solid and put-together front Andal maintained so often now.
“It's been hard, I won't lie. I'm not used to having to ask around just to hear how you guys might be doing. Or to go weeks or months without a single word from any of you. Not to mention, all of this,” Andal gestured to the mounds of paperwork and datapads strewn haphazardly across the various desks and tables.
“It's a lot. Things are a completely different world in here to what they are out there,” Andal continued, exhaustion seeping into his voice. His brows were furrowed, and he gnawed at his bottom lip. The skin was already peeled there, like his Ghost hadn't had time to heal it yet with how constantly Andal must've chewed it.
Tevis sighed too. He felt for Andal, he really did. While personally, he would never understand the how's or why's or the what in the hell were you two thinking— of Andal and Cayde's Dare, Tevis knew that this was their reality now.
Andal wouldn't go back on his word, and the lot of them would be damned if they didn't start accepting that and figuring out how to make things work. It had always been Andal's specialty not so long ago; making magic from whatever shitty hand they'd been dealt. But now Andal Brask was stuck here; in a big important room, high up on a fortified Tower, surrounded by hundreds of people who all depended upon him. He was thoroughly boxed in by walls at every side, metaphorically and physically.
“You're still doing a good job,” Tevis started to say, even knowing Andal probably heard enough of that from others. He meant it just as much, though.
“I'll wrangle Cayde and make him call you, or at least send a message. Sundance still occasionally pinging you?” The Nightstalker asked, scowling as he mentioned the Exo. It was inevitable, but out of the majority of Andal's worries, whatever Cayde was doing, and wherever he even was half the time— Andal was sure to be splitting hairs over imagining the worst. The two had just been so close before, so inseparable. One could hardly stumble upon one man without his counterpart being too far behind. Even if they were so often now at odds and bouncing between talking and not talking, Tevis knew that the worrying would always be there.
Tevis also wanted more than anything to offer his help, to have Andal point him in a direction to aid the Hunter's efforts, like old times. He knew help wouldn't be accepted so easily— Brask was a stubborn man, even worn down as he was. He'd taken up these responsibilities, given his word, and Andal would see them through no matter the toll it took.
“It's not just about Cayde… And yes, Sundance keeps me up to date every once in a while, but little good that does,” Andal sighed again, and turned to find a nearby chair to sink into.
His tired eyes looked up at Tevis. In an unexpected rare show of weakness, something in them silently pleaded for the Nightstalker to find all the answers to his troubles, to save him, get him out of the Tower. The look was gone just as quickly as it had appeared, however, and in its place Andal still looked exhausted—but he'd steeled himself considerably better.
“Let's go for a smoke,” Tevis offered, holding out a hand to pull Andal back to his feet.
“I shouldn't. I've gotta get back to work. Ikora hates when I smell like tobacco, too,” Andal said. He didn't take Tevis’ hand, just remained sitting for a moment, looking up at him.
“They don't even let you out for smoke breaks?” Tevis grumbled at him in disbelief.
“I take them sometimes! Just not when there's so much that needs doing.”
“Right. How many do you have on you, then?” Tevis asked, inclining his head towards Andal's breast pocket.
Andal's expression took on a sheepish look, like he'd been caught fibbing. He still fished out his cigarette pack, though. It was nearly full, just two or three missing.
Tevis scoffed, “You sure it's not you keeping yourself from taking a break? Ikora is around enough incense that tobacco probably doesn't even bother her much.”
Andal shrugged and held the cigarette box out to Tevis.
“Just take them, I really do need to get back to work. I don't want anyone on my case for slacking, either,” Andal said, almost pleadingly.
Dedicated work-ethic or not, this was unusual for Andal.
“Is that it?” Tevis asked, tilting his head, and narrowing his eyes. He hoped he'd get something out of the other Hunter.
Andal instead just sighed, and got to his feet. He forced the box into Tevis’ hand with a determined motion, and leaned forward then, almost hugging him.
“Go to my place and rest-up. I'll be back for an early dinner, and I'll explain myself better then. Just drop it for now, alright?” He whispered low and quick to Tevis’ ear.
Tevis nodded, his thoughts already racing. Had something happened? Were things bad in a way he couldn't see from his point of view? Would Andal actually get out of here to meet him for dinner? And… for all it was worth, the Gunslinger smelled nice. It was only a fleeting whiff as he leaned in, but Tevis caught his usual leathery musk.
Andal stepped back then, “Good. It really was nice to see you, Tev… I've gotta go oversee a mission, I'm probably already late.” He turned to leave.
Tevis fought against the frozen posture he'd taken up, and grabbed Andal's shoulder once more to level him with the sternest glare possible.
“You don't show for dinner, I'm dragging you out of here,” he threatened. Andal gave a tired shrug, and… smiled.
“Usually it's the other way around. Alright. I'll be there, you have my word,” he said, finally sauntering off.
Tevis frowned as he watched the man go, a combination of dread and worry filling him.
To distract from the unwelcome feelings, he looked down at the cigarettes in his hand. The label was very different to Andal's usual brand. This one had a pattern of vines and golden swirls, with a collection of lilies in the center. Somehow, it looked oddly familiar…
Lilium Apothecary, it read. Huh. Where had he heard that name?
Tevis’ eyes caught sight of a note tucked inside against the rolls. Thank you for your patronage! 50% off your next purchase. It was a coupon. Andal insisting he take the box meant Tevis could use the discount for himself, right?
Maybe he'd go and pay this Lilium Apothecary a visit.
Characters: Tevis Larsen, Shiro-4, Andal Brask, and Cayde-6
TWs: smoking (cigarette), implied sleep deprivation, insomnia, minor death mention, vague animal death mention (in the context of hunting/cooking), cynical narrator
Word Count: 1,000
Summary: the lads are on a surveillance mission somewhere in the EDZ, Tevis' brain won't shut up, but… the pack make his life better and he finally gets some rest
Note: Tevis POV. Written sometime in July or August 2024
When would it all end? It seemed every damn alien species across the Sol System and beyond was determined to snuff out the last sparks of humanity. All for the sake of some giant cue ball above them. They hadn't asked for this, none of them had. That damned Traveler was like an unending curse; as if its very being fed on the misfortune that kept befalling them.
With each offset, humanity would somehow still continue to stride forward, the sheer force of adamant determination (or pure folly) pushing them towards what they could all only hope was a better future. It was in their nature to reach out and expand their domain, to conquer the unconquerable, to seek out sights and places across the universe that those before them could have only dreamt of reaching. In their doing so, it was inevitable that every other sentient being out there would turn their attention to humanity. The clash of every single force would rage on, until the end of times it seemed. And it had all started with the Traveler rolling into their solar system. Like the universe's worst catalyst, or attempt at a twisted joke.
Yet, despite all of it… Tevis knew that here in the haze of the fire's smoke with the weight of a body against him, and the droning buzz of snores around camp—he wouldn't wish things any different. Through all their pains and struggles, while Tevis may occasionally desire to set back the clock and do things over, better—with less death and loss—his time with the Pack had still been the best of his entire Risen life.
He wouldn't trade that—or them, for anything. Not even for a chance at peace.
Was that selfish? Maybe. Peace was never guaranteed though, and not by the price it was theoretically asking for either.
If Tevis ever had anything to thank the Traveler for, and you would never get him to utter those words, not even at knifepoint— it was for the existence of his crew. The ragtag band of Hunters were just about the only thing keeping Tevis going. He'd be all but nothing if he lost them. Not even putting his faith in humanity, unceasing as they were, could get him through the worst of the worst these days.
Tevis huffed on the last of his cigarette, flicking it into the fire as he breathed out smoke. He watched the remainder of its filter turn to ash in the flames, and wondered if his thoughts could ever quiet down that quick.
He eased Shiro from his lap then, just enough to reach over and snatch the spare blanket off Cayde's feet. Shiro startled awake at the movement, grumbling and grabbing at Tevis’ side with a firm hold. Meanwhile, Cayde groaned a curse in his sleep, even kicking a boot at Tevis’ hands. His feet didn't even get cold, the blanket hog.
Tevis couldn't help the snort that left him as he settled back down. Shiro's grip softened as he caught sight of the blanket in Tevis’ hand. He even hummed appreciatively as Tevis wrapped it over them both. The Exo shifted back into him, resting his head against the man's shoulder and settling his arms around Tevis. He'd pretty much draped himself over the Nightstalker like a second blanket.
Tevis didn't have it in him to push Shiro off, not that he minded the contact to begin with. Shiro was a welcome presence, and the Exo was toasty warm to boot.
Before his eyes could finally close, comfortable as he was now, Tevis caught Andal's glance from across the cave.
Andal smiled at him, his eyes seeming to glow as they reflected the light of the fire. He mouthed, “get some rest already,” before turning his attention back towards the cave's entrance.
Tevis was currently ‘banned’ from night watch, seeing as he'd gone the last 80 hours or so without even a wink of sleep. While the others protested his insistence that sleep deprivation made his Void more effective, they typically let him be. Tevis could be a pain in the ass when he wanted to make a point.
It wasn't until the fourth day, when the topic of sleep arose once more over comms— that Andal himself moved from his cover over to Tevis’. The Hunter had raised his voice (they were far enough out to not be heard by their target), and settled his hands on Tevis’ shoulders firmly.
“Tev, you're going to get some damned sleep tonight. Traveler help me, I'll put a bullet in ya and talk your Ghost out of rezzing if you don't go willingly. The rest of us will handle keeping an eye out for one night.”
There was no arguing when Andal took on that tone nor gave you that look. Tevis had grumbled his last for the sake of grumbling—but nonetheless, after their sortie of the day, he'd plopped himself down against the far wall of the cave they'd been operating out of, and made no moves to take up watch.
That had been the end of the discussion.
Now, some time after a hearty stew made from someone's lucky hunt (Cayde and Andal were sure to keep bickering over who'd made the killing shot), Tevis couldn't find it in himself to complain. He had the weight of Shiro on him, and while Tevis knew that was probably an intentional means to keep him from getting up and relieving whoever was on watch— the Exo's body was warm and solid, a familiar yet rare comfort. He’d had so little of that these days, what with the circumstances of their constant harsh and unforgiving reality.
So tonight, Tevis would rest. Wrapped in an old blanket and an equally old Exo. While sleep never came easy, deprived of it as he often was, it found him well that night. Surrounded by his pack, and enveloped in the warmth their collective presences brought, Tevis slept soundly.
They would fight for their own slice of peace in this world, one night around a campfire at a time.
Summary: Duchess recalls a moment from her childhood.
Note: This is not a finished piece. The intention was for various memories and moments of the siblings' childhood over the years leading up to their separation, and then a moment between them in the present at the Shrouded Roundtable Hold. The work never got there, but the little amount written here might still be enjoyable to someone.
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The Duchess sat in the half-torn dining hall, staring into the fireplace absently.
A cup of tea sits in an intricate saucer on the table, gone cold and long forgotten about. Her hand rests beside it, no longer desiring to bring the porcelain to her lips.
Her eyes reflect the flicker of flames, dancing and flowing… There's an anguish swirling within the glow.
In this moment, she is no longer the Duchess—nor the Priestess of the Shrouded Roundtable Hold. Instead, a much younger girl sits at an equally worn down table.
She watches closely to the hearth in her family's home, and sees her father tending to the coals. Behind the girl, there's the telltale clatter and fuss of food being prepared.
The girl looks over her shoulder. There at the counter, her mother is hard at work adding various ingredients to a large pot. Alongside her is another child. The boy stands only a few inches shorter than their mother, even while he's leaned over the counter, kneading a special dough.
Her brother had always been taller than other children—he took after their father in that regard. The girl was more like her mother; average in height and built delicately.
The boy catches her looking, and his face lights up with a smile.
“You'll have to wait a while yet, dear sister, but I promise this will be the best bread you've ever eaten! Better than mother's, even,” he says to her, beaming wide.
The woman at his side swats a playful hand at his shoulder.
“You still have a long way to go before you can make claims like that!” She scolds lightly. Their mother turns to the girl, rolling her eyes.
“Can you believe your brother? So full of confidence. I wonder who he takes after.”
The girl giggles, and her brother sticks his tongue out.
“Isn't it good to be surpassed? To stand ahead and encourage others to overtake you,” the voice of her father cuts through.
The man is incredibly tall, and well-built. His shoulders are broad, and scars line his thick arms. Although his face is set in a rugged and stern way, there's still a gentleness to it.
He wipes soot from his hands on a pant-leg, and glances over them with a warmth that matches the fire.
“I suppose when you put it that way, I should be honored this little griffin seeks to best me at baking,” their mother muses, hands on her hips.
The girl's brother nods eagerly, excited.
“Exactly!” He says, and then realizes her words in full.
“But mother, I'm not little. Not any longer!” The boy protests, giving an exaggerated pout.
His hands are coated in flour, and they reach for their mother's apron to coat it.
“I should think that no matter how big you grow, how old you get… You'll always be our little griffin. Don't you agree, dear?” She insists, nimbly dodging the boy's advances with a laugh.
The older man nods, and chuckles at the scene. He turns to the girl then, smiling as he regards her.
“This one as well. You'll ever be our precious gale.”
The girl shakes her head.
“Why am I only a small bird? I want to be a griffin too!” She says, frowning. Her arms rise from the table, and cross.
Both her parents laugh, clearly endeared by her.
Her brother comes over and puts a hand on her shoulder, getting flour on her shawl with the gesture.
“It's alright, nightingales are not lesser than griffins! You're just as beloved,” he reassures her.
The girl tries to keep frowning, but finds that she can't with the fond look her brother is giving her. She smiles up at him.
“It's your turn to do the washing next, since you've dirtied my shawl,” she reprimands in a serious tone.
“Oh! Forgive me,” her brother says, taking his hand back. He looks genuinely apologetic.
The girl giggles and shakes her head.
“I jest, dear brother. Just make me the greatest bread in return, since you promised!" She says to him.
“Alright! I'm going to bake bread so good, it'll become your favorite. None shall ever compare,” the boy proclaims triumphantly. He goes back to the counter, and resumes preparing the dough with even more determination than before.
ーーーーーーーーーー
There were so many things she wanted to ask him.
Do you remember the embroidery on the cloth mother used to drape over the table for special occasions—how I'd accidentally spilled soup over the corner, but rather than let me take the brunt of her disappointment you insisted that it was your clumsy hands instead?
Do you remember the name of the little flowers you always use to gather to adorn my hair with?
Will you still draw breath, after all of this is over?
TWs: Hand and arm injury (not described in detail), canon typical violence, blood, eye injury, animal death (lion guardian)
Word Count: 2,300
Summary:
After Ironeye is injured looking out for him in Limveld, Wylder tries to find a way to repay him.
Note: Due to life circumstances and stuff, there are many many works that will never be finished, but... figured sharing them as is would be alright still. This has sat as a draft for months, and unfortunately it does cut off abruptly;;; Some of the writing is messy as well.
ーーーーーーーーーーーーー
Thunder rumbles in the distance as the oncoming storm moves in. The clouds cast an eerie blue glow over the land.
It's as unnerving as the swift onset of rain, and Ironeye can't help but keep wanting to turn back and look at it. He doesn’t—to do so would be irresponsible and leave him open to attacks.
Ironeye is already trailing behind the others, as he often does. Up ahead, he sees Wylder and the Guardian begin scaling a small cliffside. Their movements are quick and calculated. The nature of the storm and the angle from which it cornered them has left the group with no choice but to take any path necessary to get away—even less conventional ones.
At his position from below the cliff, Ironeye cannot see what lies ahead. But already he can hear the clash of steel upon steel. It makes the archer climb faster.
Ironeye scales his way upward quickly, keeping his balance with ease.
As the archer reaches the summit, Ironeye immediately notes the danger they have just put themselves in.
A large tangled mess of hair frames the head of a massive beast. It towers over the Guardian and Wylder. A heavy claw swipes at the two, and is just barely offset by Guardian's shield.
After the beast is unsuccessful in landing a single hit to either warrior, and is even forced to cede ground to them and their shields—it gives an ear-piercing roar. The beast then sinks low, lunging forward.
Wylder barely manages to roll out of the way, but is still knocked off his feet by the impact. Guardian is also pushed to the side, his shield sent flying.
The beast has its flank towards Ironeye now, and he looses a barrage of arrows to it. Unfortunately, its movements do not still, nor does the beast turn to regard him as a threat.
Instead, it continues looming over Wylder. There is a large blade attached to the beast's other claw, and it is poised to strike the knight as he stumbles to his feet.
Ironeye knows that the next few arrows he'd nocked would do little to stop the beast in its tracks now. Instead, he secures his bow to his back and starts running towards the beast's blade without a second thought.
He'd seen the force of its mass, and knows that his bow would be split in pieces by it. The archer lunges straight for Guardian's dropped shield, and hefts it over his head as he dashes to defend Wylder.
The heavy impact is greater than he'd calculated for, and Ironeye is brought to his knees over a stunned and confused Wylder. The archer knows that he is not adept at using shields—but it had been a desperate moment. Still, he did manage to take the brunt of the hit and beset the beast's strike. Something in his right hand feels terribly wrong now, though, and the shield soon falls from his grip.
“You—” Wylder starts to call out, but the beast gives another ferocious roar, drowning out his words. It's enraged at having been foiled once again.
The massive beast frantically jumps forward to sink its teeth into whatever flesh it can find.
Guardian is already there to meet it, the point of his halberd strikes the side of the giant lion's head, causing it to snarl and turn to attempt shaking him off.
Wylder meanwhile has gotten back on his feet. He positions himself between Ironeye and the beast, with his shield raised protectively. The warrior guides Ironeye to a safer distance—slowly but steadily, inching them further out of the monstrosity’s reach. He does not have time to tend the archer's wound, but he retrieves a roll of cloth from a pouch on his belt. The knight sets the cloth on a nearby rock as he urges the archer to sit behind it. He also leaves his shield next to it, and nods to Ironeye.
“Use that if it turns its attention to you before we can stop it,” Wylder says quickly, before stepping away.
He lifts his arm with the grappling attachment, sending the hook forward to latch onto the ground near Guardian's discarded shield. Before Ironeye can even say anything, Wylder leaps back into the fray.
The archer's glove is wet with blood, and any movement sends jolts of pain spiking up his arm. It makes him grit his teeth, and eventually Ironeye uses his uninjured hand to pull his face cloth down enough to bite into it.
Ironeye can still fight, so long as he draws breath…
He reaches for his bow, deftly maneuvering it around one-handed. Ironeye leaves it propped up on the rock, waiting for an opening. He readies some throwing darts in the meantime—they're something the archer had retrieved earlier that day and had been saving. The blades are imbued with poison.
Ironeye observes as the two warriors take turns letting the beast charge at them; only to be dodged and then attacked from behind by the other. It's a wild sort of dance, but an effective one. However, he knows the two won't last long at it if the beast does not fall soon.
As he watches the battle unfold, Ironeye removes his glove, and wraps his arm and hand with the cloth tightly to stem the flow of blood. Then, he takes aim with one of the darts in his other hand, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
There. Wylder has just run the beast into a tree, dashing to cover as its uprooting sends up a spray of dirt.
The massive beast stays in place for a few moments, shaking the dirt from its eyes and trying to regain its balance.
Ironeye throws the dart with striking precision, hitting one of the beast's eyes dead-on. He throws a few more, aimed at the lion's neck.
It roars, and lurches in his direction.
“Over here!” Guardian shouts, trying to direct its attention back on him.
The beast ignores the avian, and is determined to get at the archer.
Ironeye takes a deep breath.
He swings his special bow around in front of him and nocks it with one of its unique arrows. Ironeye props the bow against his knee the best he can, supporting the weight while he grips it with his injured hand. The pain from the movement makes him bite down on his face cloth again, but Ironeye persists—his other hand draws the string back.
The giant lion is running straight towards him now, disregarding the fate about to befall it in its desperation.
Ironeye waits for only a second longer, and then his hand pulls free, loosing the arrow.
Dust kicks up in the arrow's wake as it streaks through the air, the sound of rushing wind echoes over the area. The arrow's trajectory is straight towards the beast's open maw.
As the giant lion falls forward, the two warriors sprint up on either side, and both give heavy stabs to the monstrosity.
Blood sprays forth as it is pierced. The beast gurgles a few times, before the light in its eye dims.
After ensuring the creature has been slain, Wylder and Guardian turn their attention to Ironeye. They both approach swiftly, with no less urgency than they had in the fight.
Ironeye feels a twist of something unfamiliar in his heart at knowing he's causing them concern.
“Are you alright?” Wylder asks as he comes to stand beside the archer.
Ironeye makes to get to his feet, and the knight puts out a hand to steady him.
“I'm fine,” he grumbles out, hiding the grimace that runs through him as his arm throbs.
Wylder doesn't seem convinced, and Ironeye can see in Guardian's eyes that the avian is worried too.
“I am sorry we were not better prepared,” he offers, bowing apologetically after he assesses Ironeye's condition.
The archer shakes his head slightly.
“No need. The fight was unexpected, but we prevailed, so that's all that matters. I can still continue on,” Ironeye states firmly, trying to shrug off the concern from his comrades.
It feels wrong. Not quite stifling, but more like he's undeserving of it.
“Thank you for saving me,” the warrior says then. The words convey his gratitude, but Ironeye can still sense the underlying guilt in them. It's a heavy feeling, knowing that Wylder likely regrets ending up in danger in the first place.
“Of course. Think nothing of it,” Ironeye responds curtly, before turning back towards where his bow had been left.
“The next Site of Grace might help you feel better…” Wylder muses, following to retrieve his shield from the rock.
Guardian seems to hesitate for a moment before nodding in agreement.
“We should make haste, then.”
Wylder insists on helping Ironeye strap the special bow onto his back, giving no room for the archer to attempt doing it on his own.
Accepting his help is the better option to not delay their departure, Ironeye tries to convince himself. He doesn't want to feel like a burden to either of the warriors.
Soon enough, the trio head off, charting a course back across Limveld in search of a Site of Grace and to continue with their mission.
~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~
The trio had managed well through the rest of the expedition, even with Ironeye's delicate condition. They hadn't fought a Nightlord this time, but had still uncovered helpful clues in pinpointing one's whereabouts.
After the usual debrief that follows a group's return, the Priestess was quick to dismiss everyone. She had turned to Ironeye with worry in her posture, but did not voice it aloud. She knew he likely wouldn't want the extra attention, especially given the jeers and gawking from Raider.
After looking him over, the Priestess directs the Iron Menial to retrieve any medical supplies that Ironeye might need.
She departs from the expedition room soon after, likely to record the information they had gathered.
“Old ‘quick on his feet’ got caught, huh?” Raider laughs, moving to throw an arm over Ironeye. The archer ducks under it swiftly, and makes for one of the doorways with a grumble.
“He was protecting me,” Wylder interjects firmly, coming to stand between them lest Raider continue after Ironeye.
“Was he? Good for you, then,” Raider laughs again. He gives the knight a wink, and crosses his arms.
“I wouldn't deliberately prod his injury, was just a bit of fun is all,” the pirate adds more quietly, only for Wylder to hear.
The warrior doesn't seem convinced by that, but nods anyway.
“I am aware you two joke around, just be mindful. Careful,” Wylder suggests, seeming to glare directly at Raider from beneath his helmet.
The pirate gives a dramatic shiver, but smirks.
“Ooh, touchy! You're protecting him too, eh? All the better.”
Wylder doesn't find the words amusing, but he says nothing else about it. Instead, the knight promptly turns and exits out the same doorway Ironeye had gone through.
The archer seemed to make for one of his usual perches. This time, it was the cliff spot that overlooked the Shore.
Wylder feels the sea breeze blowing in as he gets closer to where the archer is.
“You worry too much,” Ironeye calls out, his tone neutral.
The archer is nestled against a rock—his bows, quiver and various other things are spread out over it.
“I feel… It was my fault,” Wylder says, tone somber and guilt-ridden.
Ironeye keeps silent for a moment, and then pats the ground beside him with his uninjured hand. The knight nods and settles down next to him.
The archer turns to Wylder, blue eyes nearly piercing through him as they regard the warrior.
“I made the choice to run in on my own,” Ironeye states, his tone firm.
“But—”
“Don't. It's not even that bad, besides. It could have been much worse. One has to wonder what pinionfolk shields are made from, to block an attack that heavy,” Ironeye says, leaving no room for argument as he tries to change the subject.
Wylder wants to protest that, but knows Ironeye is at least a little right; it certainly could have been worse. It wasn't, but that still didn't mean he had to be okay with Ironeye getting injured over him.
Instead of pushing it though, he says,
“I'm relieved that you're alright otherwise, truly.”
The warrior reaches to put a hand over Ironeye's thigh, squeezing it gently before moving his hand back.
Ironeye hums at the touch, and raises his hand to lower his face cloth.
“And I'm glad you made it out unscathed,” he offers, looking to where he knows Wylder's eyes are.
The knight nearly shrinks back under his gaze, but doesn't.
“Thank you, again. I should have said that first, but…” Wylder trails off, searching Ironeye's face for any hint of pain, or of something negative. The only thing that catches his attention is the overgrown stubble coating the archer's jaw and chin.
An idea comes to Wylder immediately upon the sight, but the matter of asking and the task itself is…
“What's on your mind?” Ironeye asks, quirking his lips in a knowing smile.
The knight's face grows warm under his helmet. Nothing ever gets past Ironeye, not even in a situation like this.
“If you wouldn't like me to fuss over your arm… Perhaps I can help you in some other way—to repay you for saving me,” Wylder suggests, watching the archer's reaction closely.
Ironeye's expression doesn't change, nor does it give anything away.
“It's that obvious I don't like being fussed over?” He asks, huffing a small endearing laugh.
Wylder's heart seizes at the sound, and he's caught by the urge to
Simple sketch (from april) of my Drifter, Harmony!
Pronouns are he/him, they/them, and mer/merm :3
I made my own species, as although the human Drifters and Operators are fun, I felt the variety lacking. Harmony is a kavat-lanx person! My lore on that; unknown whether it was the Orokin or another group, but they came about from experimentation and DNA mixing. They've lived alongside other sentient species and races across the Origin System for a long time, but are still regarded as rare. (As for why kavant and lanx features... meow likes both a lot and wanted a character that reflected fish and feline traits :3 oh yeah Harmony's features are Moonless kavat specifically!!)
Pairing: Wyldeye (Wylder x Ironeye, although it's not the focus here and is only briefly referenced)
TWs: Angst, self-deprecating language and thoughts, references to violence and death/killing, existential crisis (kinda)
Summary:
Ironeye reflects on himself, and settles on a path forward.
Notes:
This has a bit of a grim and heavy tone, just as a forewarning. It gets a little lighter, but take heed.
*Spoilers for Ironeye's Remembrance up to chapter 6!
He was a hypocrite.
No amount of good deeds could change that. No matter how many times Ironeye looked out for the other Nightfarers during their expeditions in Limveld, or did things for them during their daily lives around the Roundtable Hold… None of it meant anything.
He was never going to be like them.
He was always going to be a monster;
One of Those Who Live in Death. The perfect puppet of the Fellowship's making.
Most of the other Nightfarers were people. Surely, they'd never had to question their humanity before, not to the extent that he was. Not a single one of them—barring the doll, whom Ironeye supposed shared at least this with him.
And so alike to her he felt right now. Although lacking the sculpted and jointed body of a doll, the archer certainly thought himself to be just as much of an imitation of the human form as the Revenant was.
Flesh, blood and bone made up his vessel, sure—but still a vessel it was. He had to wonder… the heart beating in his chest, was it even real? Or was it some cruel mockery meant to trick Ironeye into thinking himself different?
What defined a person…?
What gave them their humanity?
As much as he had urged the Wylder to seek out his personhood, to separate himself from his duty as their leader… To strive for something more than just going through the days clad in his armor, losing sight of the person he was inside…
Ironeye was a hypocrite, and a contradiction to his own words.
He'd never put anything but his own duties first. Whatever it was that the Fellowship commanded him to do, Ironeye had only ever sought to fulfill it. He had always moved forward, following their orders, and seeing through every last grim deed asked of him.
Nothing had ever existed for Ironeye outside of that purpose. He was a killer; an assassin, a tool to be wielded. And he was skilled at what he did, efficiently tuned to carry out the Fellowship's work. Everything else that Ironeye had picked up in his spare time was all for the sake of improving the sharpness of his blade.
There was never a person behind the moniker “Ironeye”. No such man drew breath. There had only ever been a stone cold killer; wielding his bow or knife, and biding his time between the work assigned to him.
His presence in the Roundtable Hold had been no different—the Fellowship simply sent him here to fulfill yet a another objective. And bound by that objective Ironeye was, even when the nature of time here twisted and corrupted his memories of it.
And yet… And yet.
Everything about being here had shaken the very foundation of Ironeye's reality. It had stripped him bare, laid out all of his pieces, and shown the man that maybe he was no mere tool after all.
If Ironeye were truly just a vessel of purpose—a trivial puppet whose strings only danced to the Fellowship's tune…
How was it then that the Wylder could gaze upon him with such fondness? Could hold him so tenderly and treat his body with such adoration and care?
How was it that the brash and rugged pirate would laugh so often in his presence (even with an arrow pointed to his face)? That the demure and soft-spoken witch would always tip her hat to acknowledge Ironeye whenever their paths crossed? More than once, that she had left out books related to archery or other subjects of interest where he would find them. What brought the lonely swordsman who was always painting to nod towards Ironeye (when he was not absorbed in his craft), to defend the archer whenever an enemy drew too near in Limveld, or to carefully hand him useful items found along the way? Even the Pinionfolk warrior regarded Ironeye with a level of camaraderie unlike any he'd experienced before
—always asking to spar in the training grounds, reliably having his back on the battlefield, even routinely checking up on him during the day to day, asking how he was fairing.
The Duchess and her mechanical companion treated Ironeye no differently either; they had been nothing short of hospitable when there was absolutely no reason for it. And they both knew, surely. Even after having found the traitor, and seeing him come back from death. After hearing the truth he spoke…
The Duchess did not treat Ironeye with so much as a hint of caution nor distaste. Her tone was always kind, ever helpful.
As for the Revenant… Given the way in which she was attuned to the life force of others, she as well must have known something set Ironeye apart from the rest. Yet, the doll never regarded him with more disdain than she gave anyone else—and even that had been fading as she spent more time around them all.
Indeed, he had found a place among them. Somehow. But, he had to keep reminding himself that it was built upon a lie.
Ironeye was not like them, and he never would be.
How would the rest act, if they ever knew that he was as much of an abomination as the creatures that plagued Limveld?
Could Wylder continue to seek him out, soft eyes looking upon Ironeye as if he were the most valuable person around? Would the sweet way those calloused hands of his handled Ironeye's body become violent? Would Wylder's desire turn to disgust?
Ironeye found himself dreading it, afraid of such a day ever coming.
So long as Ironeye's true nature remained shrouded in shadow, could he continue fulfilling the role of an ally. So long as things here stayed the same… Then so too would these merry days, he hoped.
Hope was one of few things he could really afford to let himself have.
Ironeye did not want for this time to come to an end. What he did want, he realized, was to fight for it, for something everlasting.
And so… fight for it he would.
He would find a way to remain alongside the other Nightfarers, for as long as possible.
Ironeye might think himself merely a twisted vessel, but he had also come to learn that he was capable of containing more than just the means to kill. Within him, he could hold admiration, affection—lasting tenderness and care directed towards those around him.
He had a heart, and with every beat of the organ pumping blood through his corrupted veins…
Ironeye held love. Love that was worth fighting to keep.
TWs: Angst, grief, descriptions of a pierced ear, and of an earring being put through the pierced area (not an ear being pierced for the first time or being re-pierced, but I know it can still be an ick to read or hear about all the same)
Summary:
Wylder has compared the worn earring to the one belonging to the Duchess... He knows that they're a matching set.
Resolved to seeing if the jewelry indeed fits him, Wylder only confirms what he already knew.
Notes:
*Spoilers for Wylder's first Remembrance.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Might I request for your help?” Wylder asked to Ironeye one day.
They were standing around the Roundtable, having recently made it back from a trek through Limveld.
The subsequent debriefing that followed the group's return had already concluded. As such, the rest of the Nightfarers all went their separate ways—whether to resume what they had been doing prior, or to decompress after the long battles.
Ironeye turned to regard the warrior with interest, and nodded.
“Of course. What do you need done?”
Wylder glanced around the room, making sure that it really was just the two of them present. After he couldn't spot anyone else, the knight spoke again,
“It is merely a small task, truly. You see, I have this…” his voice lowered considerably and he leaned in towards the archer, “...earring. I need to know if it is mine.”
Ironeye nodded once more.
“Alright.”
Wylder gestured towards the courtyard then, and led the way outside.
Once the men were under the open sky and within a private distance of the Hold, Wylder sat on the ruins of an old wall. He fished inside the pouch on his belt.
The warrior's hands held up a worn earring. It was a rusted silver with an intricate design in faded blue. Its clasp and hook were intact still, just old.
Ironeye looked the piece over carefully, before Wylder set the earring in his lap.
The archer had come to stand in front of him, but decided to sit down alongside the knight instead.
Wylder was removing his helmet, and placing it on his other side.
“I have noticed that my ear looks to be pierced, but it was for too brief of a time to be sure. Might you be able to tell if it goes all the way through?” He asked, turning his head away from the archer.
Ironeye leaned in close as Wylder brushed his hair away from the back of his ear.
Sure enough, the obvious mark where the skin had been pierced was present.
“It appears so,” the archer confirmed.
Wylder didn't lower his hand, however, and made a hum of consideration.
“Do you believe this will… fit?” He asked. There were notes of uncertainty and doubt in his voice.
Wylder's other hand held up the earring, letting Ironeye take it.
The archer held the piece up to Wylder's ear. The width of the hook seemed to match the pierced spot well enough, but it couldn't be known with absolute certainty unless the earring was put through.
“I believe it does, but you may have to try it on to know for sure,” Ironeye informed him.
Wylder nodded, breathing out a tired sigh.
“I suspected as much.”
He turned in place, reaching for Ironeye's hand that held the earring.
“I have to do this with my own hands,” the warrior explained dutifully, as he took the jewelry back into his palm.
Ironeye nodded in understanding.
“Shall I guide you still?” He asked.
Wylder paused, seeming to consider the offer.
“...only if it is alright with you.
I suppose it wouldn't do to pierce this through a new spot,” he remarked, letting out a short, unamused laugh.
He seemed wrought with nerves.
Not wishing to draw attention to that, and knowing Wylder's words were not out of real humor, Ironeye merely hummed.
“I don’t mind,” the archer finally said, settling closer to the knight.
Wylder nodded in gratitude. He cradled the earring carefully in one hand, and wiped the hook clean using a small cloth that he'd also pulled from his pouch.
“Very well…” The warrior breathed out softly, as if to center himself.
He faced away from Ironeye once more. This time, the knight's own hands held the jewelry up to his ear. They angled its hook to the pierced notch at the front.
Ironeye leaned in and raised a hand to Wylder's ear as well, lightly pinching the lobe between his thumb and forefinger. The pierced hole stretched at the movement, and Ironeye caught a glint of silver through it.
“Straight through,” he directed, his voice calm and gentle.
Wylder guided the earring's tip into the notch, successfully pushing it all the way until it arced over and settled. It hung perfectly—snug, against his ear. The light sway of the medallion was a welcome weight.
It was familiar, incredibly familiar.
But it was also a painful reminder.
The warrior's heart tightened with a bittersweet ache.
“I suppose you're thinking that earrings normally come in pairs…” She had said to him.
The thief had a similar way about her, so startlingly alike to the woman from his memories, that fleeting presence in his dreams. But Wylder had come to remember again.
His nameless sister.
He had even forgotten her face once, but now…
Now, he recognized her in the Duchess. As the Priestess of the Roundtable Hold.
“Good bye for now, dear brother. Once we're done, we'll meet again.”
And meet again they had…
Those parting words had been spoken with her trademark smile, the very same smile that the Duchess had given again to Wylder.
Did she know?
“It suits you well,” Ironeye said, interrupting Wylder's troubled reminiscing. The archer had long dropped his hand back to his side.
Wylder turned to face him.
“Thank you…” The knight said softly, giving a small—yet pained, smile.
Neither of them acknowledged the tears shining in his eyes.
Ironeye did, however, scoot backwards and make room for Wylder to come closer. He raised out his arm and beckoned to the man, offering comfort.
The warrior slowly eased himself into Ironeye's embrace with little hesitation, and buried his face against the archer's shoulder.
“What am I supposed to do?” Wylder asked quietly into the fabric of his cloak. It was a rhetorical question, Ironeye knew, but one he still felt inclined to give an answer to.
“You continue to move forward, and to fight the same as ever,” the archer stated. His fingers carded through Wylder's hair, trying to soothe him.
The knight nodded, and sniffled.
The two remained that way for a while longer. Ironeye held onto Wylder carefully, and the man let himself cry.
He was grieving; of past loss, and of the future loss that was sure to follow.
Wylder had thought her gone once, for good. But now, here his sister was again. Alive, well. And yet… not well at all, not as tethered to this otherworldly place as she was. How cruel fate had been, to bring them together now of all times, here of all places. Reuniting the siblings only to see them separated once more when all was said and done.
“Two horses gallop side by side. May the wind spur us on our path.”
He wanted to curse this world, for doing this to them. He longed to wail like the wind of the Knoll they had both come from.
For a fleeting moment, deep in Wylder's heart and mind, he felt himself uncaring of whether or not the world outside was destroyed. If there was even a sliver of a chance that he could spare his sister from doom by its destruction, then he would lay waste to it all himself.
His tears soon dried, and Wylder found within himself a semblance of calm. It was akin to the heavy air before a rainfall, like the reliant crackle of a fire. Tempered, predictable, but so ready to become a raging torrent at a moment's notice.
Wylder pulled free from Ironeye, and wiped at his face absently. He then settled his helmet back into place with steady hands.
The knight would not meet Ironeye's gaze, and neither of them spoke a word as they got up and left.
Wylder knew that Ironeye knew. There was no way the archer could have overlooked the resemblance, not as observant as he was. If any of their mannerisms had not given them away before, and if Ironeye had somehow written off their shared features as mere coincidence, well… There really was no hiding it now. Yet, still, the warrior was not going to voice it aloud.
Wylder is in dire need of a distraction from his concern for the Duchess when she embarks on an expedition without him. Perhaps, the archer whom he's grown increasingly attached to can lend a hand (or boot) to help him?
Contains: Depictons of sex; oral, foot job, cum swallowing
Notes:
Spoilers regarding Duchess &
Wylder's early to middle journal entries and Remembrances, as well as a reference to the reveal from Ironeye's 6th journal entry (regarding his identity).
Top? Bottom? Dom? Sub? NO just vibes👁️👁️ Okay… Ironeye does kinda come off as a soft-dom here, so take that as you will!
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Wylder had just finished seeing off the day's scheduled expedition team, which happened to once again include his sister. She seemed dead set on fighting alongside the other Nightfarers. Wylder would certainly not deny the Duchess her share of vengeance or purpose, and while he more than knew the woman could hold her own… It worried him to no end to not at least be beside her in battle, to directly ensure her safety.
It would be all too evident that they had a connection if he voiced his concern to the others though—or constantly accompanied her for every expedition she went on.
As such, Wylder once again watched her go with fear gripping his heart. It never seemed to get easier, remaining behind as the woman left without him. He'd never know if she would come back or not, all the way up until she did. The time between her departure and return was an abyssal stretch that often had Wylder more than beside himself with worry.
It ate away at his heart, a very large piece of it carried off with her each time—much the same as the pocketwatch the Duchess kept.
In an attempt at patience, and to temper his inner conflict, Wylder busied himself polishing and attending to every last armament thrice over; the shields, every blade in sight, ranging from small throwing knives up to the large swords—even the polearms and maces alike saw his attention.
He had little left to work on, and held no desire to further stew in solitude. By this point, the kitchen was also already well-stocked on pita bread, such that their flour supply was nearly depleted.
The Iron Menial had assured Wylder that it was alright, as now they had a good supply of rations to tide everyone over. And so far there had been no complaints as to the quality of his bread, either.
With nothing further to do in keeping himself busy, and having put off troubling anyone else so far… Wylder finally decided to seek out the other person around the Hold who carried a piece of his heart with them.
Ironeye.
The archer-assassin had caught him by surprise with the extent at which they connected. Perhaps it was foolish to have made a partner in all this—although Wylder was hesitant to call what they had a partnership, the knight found that he didn't regret pursuing it. There really wasn't a proper word to describe what was between the two men.
The only thing that came to mind was… Understanding. They had developed a profound understanding of one another.
Wylder turned from his spot at the fireplace, having dutifully made sure the flames died down. He hadn't stoked the fire too much during his time cooking, but the knight felt bad to leave it unattended without first ensuring it shrunk back to a manageable level.
With that settled, Wylder made his way down into the grass just below the dining hall. He strode past the Executor—the man was ever absorbed in his own craft. The delicate manner in which the warrior painted was captivating to behold, even for someone with meager knowledge of the arts as Wylder was.
He nodded politely as he passed, although he was uncertain as to whether Executor noticed or not.
Wylder ventured forth into the Garden, it was entitled such for its lush greenery and decorative statues—although most now lie in ruin, crumbled remnants of what once was. The majority of things in the Roundtable Hold appeared to be that way, and Wylder hoped that he would never be among them.
Passing alongside the most unmarred and solid statue—depicting whom Wylder could only assume was a saint of sorts—the rocky clifftop finally came into view.
And there Ironeye was, carving away at arrows with his uniquely curved knife.
He looked up at Wylder's approach, nodding in acknowledgement.
“I must admit, I find myself enamored with the fact that you also enjoy watching the coast. Tis much higher up here to what I personally prefer, however,” Wylder said by way of greeting.
Ironeye hummed thoughtfully at that.
“Yes. You much prefer sitting directly amongst the waves, with no regard as to whether you'll catch cold or not after,” he finally replied. The words had no sting to them though, merely a teasing edge.
The archer raised the current arrow in his hand, holding it up for inspection. After turning it over carefully and seeming satisfied with the shape, Ironeye placed it on the stack of other arrows.
Wylder came closer, settling down onto the rock alongside him. Ironeye gave a quick hum of approval, and finished his work on the remainder of his pile.
They sat in conversational silence; the only sounds were of the wind through the trees behind them, the distant crash of waves below, a cry or two from a hawk circling overhead, and the rhythmic widdling of Ironeye's knife against wood.
Finally, the archer returned his blade to its sheath, and turned his head to regard Wylder.
The knight's relation to the Duchess was a well-known—albeit unspoken, secret around the Hold. The other Nightfarers had all respected the two enough not to pry or give their opinion on the matter so far.
As such, Ironeye would have asked how Wylder was fairing, but he knew that it would be skirting much too close to the topic.
Instead, he settled the finished arrows into his quiver, and then reached for a pouch on its side. After retrieving the small object he sought, Ironeye moved to face Wylder.
His hand found the knight's, where it had been fidgeting with the armor around his belt.
Ironeye squeezed his hand gently, hoping the gesture was reassuring—before pressing the object into Wylder's palm. His hand settled on the knight's leg.
Wylder looked down at what Ironeye had given him.
It was a small wood carving that resembled both his shield, and one of the wings from his helmet.
“Did you…? No, of course you did,” Wylder said with a soft chuckle, about to ask if Ironeye had carved the piece.
There were none other aside from the archer that he knew to be skilled at the craft, and even less so to gift him such a token.
“Thank you,” the knight said joyously, nodding his head towards the archer.
Ironeye knew there was a smile beneath the man's helmet, and returned it with his own—also hidden behind his armor.
“I'd like to… kiss you,” Wylder spoke again. His voice was quiet, as if afraid to be overheard. He glanced back towards the Roundtable Hold nervously. This spot had a clear view of the dining hall and the Garden's entrance. He could see why Ironeye had chosen it, it would be easy to tell if someone was approaching.
“Hmm, what shall we do about that?” Ironeye mused, following the knight's gaze.
He'd spent many hours sat out here, carving arrows and lost in thought. Ironeye guessed that although Wylder could obviously see the view of the Hold from here, he might not realize that it was also a perfect spot to watch him at work, baking his special bread.
Admittedly, that was a secret delight Ironeye preferred to keep close to his chest.
Wylder glanced to the trees behind them, and then turned back to Ironeye.
“Might we go find a spot with more…privacy?” He asked the archer, before once again looking to where Executor sat painting in the near-distance.
It was far too risky to do anything out here, much less remove his helmet to begin with. Anyone could see if they stood near the dining hall or garden and faced this way.
Ironeye nodded, humming thoughtfully.
“Follow me,” he instructed, letting his hand leave Wylder's lap.
The men both stood, and Ironeye left his quiver on its side against the rock. Meanwhile, Wylder tucked the wood carving into a pouch on his belt, securing it tightly.
Ironeye then started off into the treeline, stepping over rocks and the like. They were far enough from the cliff's edge that it was safe if one happened to stumble on roots or stones, but both kept their footing well.
Wylder followed after the archer, excitement and anticipation growing in his stomach. Desire bloomed there too, bubbling up through him.
Ironeye hopped down from a particularly high boulder, and turned to lend a hand to help Wylder. The knight took it gratefully, feeling entirely too giddy at what they were doing.
Shurking his duties to go and sneakily kiss a man behind some trees? Hardly befitting behavior for such a prestiged knight, and yet… Wylder delighted in it.
The pair reached a tucked away spot behind some large trees, and Wylder looked around to make sure there wasn't still a sightline to the Hold from here.
“It's alright, no one comes this far out,” Ironeye assured him.
His hand hadn't left Wylder's, and he used it to pull the man in. Their helmets bumped gracelessly, but Wylder laughed with glee.
“Look at us,” he crooned, swinging Ironeye's hand in his.
The archer tugged at the cloth around his face with his free hand, lowering it. Wylder's stomach leapt at the smile he wore.
“Go on then,” Ironeye said, encouraging.
Wylder nearly forgot what he’d meant, before realizing his helmet was still in place.
Trying not to let anxiety rise, the knight dropped his hand from Ironeye's, before grabbing the armor piece with both hands. He lifted it slowly, then looked for a spot to place it.
Wylder undid his scarf too, and folded it on a nearby rock before setting the helmet down carefully. He reached for Ironeye's then, after the archer had removed his own helmet.
Ironeye placed it into Wylder's hands, watching him go through the motions, and the care with which he handled the piece. He couldn't help but to also bask in the sight of Wylder's face.
The knight was gorgeous. Not entirely rugged, but certainly far from baby-faced. His features still had a softness to them—like his long lashes and the gentle line of his brows, and yet… His face was hardened in all the ways one might expect from a swordsman.
The archer beckoned towards him invitingly, and Wylder came to Ironeye with enthusiasm.
They'd had more opportunities to kiss since that first time on the Shore, and Wylder had found himself growing bolder and much less hesitant each time they'd done so. There was still a level of shyness, a small hurdle of shame he'd had to get over, but Wylder was happy to work through that if it meant being with Ironeye like this.
As the knight drew near, their lips met desperately. It was tender and passionate at first, but the kisses soon turned open-mouthed and heated. It had both men craving for more. Their hands roamed freely meanwhile, grabbing at whatever they could reach between layers of armor and leather.
Wylder soon pressed Ironeye's back into a tree, and slid his leg between the archer's, pushing up the armored tunic there.
Ironeye groaned into their kiss, his teeth biting down on Wylder's lip—but not enough to draw blood.
“Is this okay?” Wylder leaned back to ask. He realized that perhaps he'd been going too fast, been too eager.
Ironeye nodded.
“More than. Please, continue,” he said, voice nearly a growl. It spurred Wylder on.
The knight resumed his previous motions, feeling out the shape of Ironeye with his thigh. The man was steadily getting hard against him.
Wylder leaned back in to kiss Ironeye more, brushing his tongue up against the archer's as he did so.
Saliva eventually trailed from their lips, and Wylder found himself chasing after it, licking the line of the archer's chin.
Ironeye chuckled at the movement, but the sound turned to a groan as the knight's thigh pressed forward again.
“You're certainly good at getting me riled up,” he muttered, biting his lip to keep from groaning again. Wylder smiled at him, and moved once more.
The archer's hips bucked into his leg, nearly humping it.
“It would appear so,” the knight agreed with a hint of mischief. His eyes glimmered as he watched Ironeye, they were burning with desire, want.
“May I…” Wylder started to say, before trailing off. He grew still, and his face—already flushed, took on a deeper shade of pink.
He tilted his head down, towards Ironeye's lower half.
“With your hand?” Ironeye asked outright, not even hesitating.
Wylder shook his head.
“No, well—I'd like my hands on it, but…” he trailed off once more, clearly too flustered to voice his desire aloud.
Ironeye smiled, and reached up to pat him on the head.
“With your mouth?” He asked, for confirmation.
Wylder nodded slowly, averting his eyes.
“Then yes, you may. Since you've asked so nicely,” Ironeye gave his permission teasingly.
The knight immediately swallowed so hard the sound was audible, and then he gave a short, embarrassed laugh.
“I don't know if I've ever been so nervous with this before…” Wylder admitted softly.
Ironeye hummed in consideration, before his hand smoothed through Wylder's hair, soothing him. The other hand came up to the knight's shoulder, pulling him in for a gentle kiss.
“It's alright,” he said quietly against Wylder's lips.
The knight nodded, before pulling away to remove his gloves. He promptly set them on his scarf, alongside the helmets, before stepping back over.
He leaned in for a final kiss, open-mouthed, wet, and wrought with more desire than any kiss had ever contained—before dropping to his knees.
Ironeye leaned back into the tree, shifting to a more comfortable position. His hands worked the clasps of his tunic, but when they moved to undo the belt, Wylder's hands pushed his away.
The knight deftly slid the notch free, minding the blades strapped to the piece. Once that was carefully set to the side, he helped Ironeye remove his chestpiece.
“Should we put it on my scarf as well?” Wylder asked, making to get up.
Ironeye shook his head.
“No, the grass won't hurt it,” he said nonchalantly. He nodded as Wylder took the armor from his hands, and set it beside the belt.
“Alright,” Wylder breathed out.
His hands paused in the air, hesitation once again coloring his expression.
Ironeye couldn't help but to smile, and he did so gently, trying to reassure Wylder. Their eyes met, and then Ironeye was sliding his breeches down past his thighs. The archer's dick sprung free, erect and already dripping from the head.
His hand closed around it, stroking himself a few times as Wylder watched on, hungrily.
“Come on then,” Ironeye coaxed him. The fingers of his free hand beckoned the knight closer.
Wylder obliged swiftly, pressing in close to Ironeye's dick.
His hand slid over the archer's, before shooing it away. After giving a few experimental strokes to the shaft, feeling out its shape, Wylder leaned his head forward.
His lips brushed across Ironeye's dick softly, almost hesitantly. The archer's hand went to his head, patting it with more reassurance.
Wylder pushed down his lingering hesitation, steeling himself. He wanted this, more than anything. To return the man's care, to make Ironeye feel good.
It had been all too long since he'd last sat before someone, in a situation such as this. But having a person like Ironeye be so patient and encouraging, Wylder couldn't help but to grow emboldened.
His tongue lapped against the archer's dick slowly, mixing saliva with the slick already there. Wylder inhaled deeply through his nose then, taking in the heady musk. He licked greedily over the cock, relishing in its taste, and the way it pulsed against his tongue.
Ironeye groaned above him, and the hand in Wylder's hair tightened its grip.
Urged onward, Wylder took Ironeye's length between his lips, pressing his face into the archer's abdomen as the cock slid fully inside his mouth. It filled him up, he could feel the swell of it pushing his cheeks outwards.
Ironeye gasped at the movement, and he tugged Wylder's hair lightly. His hips bucked, grinding his dick along the roof of Wylder's mouth.
The knight let out a surprised groan himself, the pressure against his throat was tantalizing. Ironeye made to push his head back then, thinking he'd gagged—but Wylder grabbed hold of the archer's hip, keeping him in place.
Ironeye got the hint, and let the knight continue taking him in deep.
Wylder's head bobbed back and forth between Ironeye's legs, increasing in speed. The archer's face had turned to the side, biting his lip to hold back from groaning further. One hand remained in Wylder's hair, while the other gripped at the tree's bark desperately.
The knight hummed and moaned rhythmically, sounding rather delighted as he worked Ironeye over. The sound eventually made the archer glance down curiously.
Beads of sweat dripped from Wylder's brows—which were drawn together in intense focus. Despite this, he seemed wholly pleased by the activity, as if he wanted nothing more than to stay right here in the grass, servicing Ironeye. The way his eyes were closed in bliss, eagerly swallowing up the cock before him, even going so far as deep-throating it without trouble.
Wylder's hand had left his hip at some point, but now Ironeye caught sight of it in the knight's lap, tucked below the armor there.
Realization dawned, and Ironeye couldn't help letting out an endeared chuckle as he pat the knight's head.
“Hmm?” Wylder intoned, letting Ironeye's dick slide from his lips on an upstroke. A string of saliva remained connected between the knight's mouth and the cock. More of it dribbled down his chin, messily.
The sight of the mighty Nightfarer in front of him… brought to his knees, lips red and slick with both precum and spit, a hand wrapped around his dick, the other pleasuring himself… Ironeye could hardly believe it to be real.
What had he ever done to deserve a beloved thing like this? A monster such as he was, accepting the affections of and care from a righteous man like the Wylder.
Instead of dwelling further on it, Ironeye pushed away his doubts, and smiled down at Wylder.
“I wonder if I haven't made a mistake, encouraging you to self-indulge,” he remarked.
The knight looked up at him, clear confusion in his eyes.
“Have I done something wrong…? Does this displease you?” He asked in earnest, letting his hand fall free from where it touched the archer's body.
Ironeye chuckled again. This man was ever forthright, all too eager to please. Someone like him was hardly deserving of such consideration.
“Quite the opposite; it’s good. I was just thinking about how greedy you've become, and how charmed by it I am. I like seeing you eagerly take what you want,” he explained, voice twinged with both honesty and endearment.
Wylder flushed further at that, even the tips of his ears went pink.
“Oh…! But still, do forgive me… I hope I've not been too selfish. I want nothing more than to bring you pleasure. Although…” Wylder trailed off, averting his eyes.
He leaned back then, so that his face wasn't as close to Ironeye's dick.
“Although…?” Ironeye echoed, prompting him to continue. The archer kept his hand on Wylder's head.
The knight flushed impossibly more, and fidgeted in place.
“I must admit, doing something like this… It is rather, well… The way that you taste, your smell, the feeling of you in my hand and mouth. Everything is simply so intoxicating. It feels as though my head has gone blank in such a delightfully vexing way—as if I am drunk on wine,” Wylder admitted, continuing to avoid Ironeye's gaze.
The archer ran his fingers through Wylder's hair, petting him as if in praise.
“Good, that's very good. I wouldn't wish you to partake in something if you didn't like it as well. You need not feel ashamed deriving pleasure from such acts. Be bold in your desire,” Ironeye said, voice low but encouraging.
Wylder looked back up at him then, nuzzling his head into the archer's hand. His eyes soon fluttered closed again, clearly enjoying the attention to his hair.
“Thank you,” the knight whispered, smiling softly.
Ironeye's hand didn't still, continuing to stroke through Wylder's locks in consolation.
“Might I continue…?” the Nightfarer eventually asked, again looking up at the archer. He still seemed a little shy to request such a thing, yet a fire burned in his eyes all the same. Please, let me do this, please… the light in them said.
Ironeye could only nod, and pulled Wylder's head back towards his cock.
“Do as you wish,” he said, but was quick to add,
“What of you?”
Wylder tilted his head slightly, before shaking it.
“No, this is more than enough for me,” he tried to reassure the archer.
Still, Ironeye raised the tip of his boot, wiggling it slightly. He made sure the movement caught Wylder's eye.
He let the suggestion hang in the air for a moment, before finally speaking again,
“I assure you, I won't press too hard. It's all yours, if it would please you,” Ironeye offered, keeping his foot propped up.
Wylder fidgeted in place, clearly conflicted at taking him up on the offer.
Eventually, the knight's desire won out, and he shifted forward in the grass.
“Please…” Wylder whispered, letting his thighs fall open. Ironeye worked his boot between them, the tip eased its way beneath the armor there, pressing into Wylder through his breeches.
The knight groaned, raising an arm to cover his mouth. He shuddered, and rolled his hips forward. Ironeye let Wylder's other hand wrap around his leg, holding it still to thrust against as he so desired.
With a comfortable rhythm finally set, Wylder leaned further forward, eagerly. His other hand grasped for Ironeye's dick, guiding it back to his lips. He closed his mouth around it, sucking diligently once more.
Ironeye bit his lip as the wet heat of the knight's mouth worked him over. The sole of the archer's boot twisted against Wylder's body.
Wylder hummed in gratitude—a delightful sound that rumbled against Ironeye, heightening the pleasure he was being given.
The archer's hand remained in the other Nightfarer's hair, gently tugging it as Wylder bobbed up and down quickly. The knight's hips continued rutting in sync, desperate against the underside of Ironeye's boot.
It wasn't long at such an erratic pace that Ironeye was nearly over the edge. Despite his attempts at pushing the knight back—Wylder stayed on him, sucking his cock in persistently, as his hand also stroked the shaft's base. He wanted to swallow everything down, including the archer's spend. His hips thrust even more wildly at the same time, keeping Ironeye's boot wedged between his thighs.
The archer was more than fine with letting Wylder do as he pleased, not a sense of decorum left in him as his own body thrust desperately into the heat of Wylder's throat.
The wave of pleasure in him rose, and then it reached its crescendo, buzzing through the archer's mind as he finally came. Ironeye trembled as it left him.
Wylder moaned with elation around his dick, as if Ironeye's release was a delicacy. Hardly a drop escaped the knight's eager lips, so determined was he to savor each and every last bead of cum.
Ironeye shuddered as his sensitive cock softened in Wylder's hand. His breath left him in long sighs, as if he were winded.
Wylder's other hand slid to firmly hold Ironeye's foot through the boot, guiding it to rub against himself. The archer matched the pace, trying to put his own movements into it. The knight groaned openly, now that his mouth wasn't occupied. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his breaths came out in ragged pants.
He finished soon after, groaning curses and what sounded like Ironeye's name. He ground his hips forward a last time before they twitched, and he went still. Ironeye couldn't honestly feel much through the boot, but he could tell that Wylder was spent.
As he came down from the haze of his release, Wylder let his grip loosen.
Ironeye was about to pull his leg back, but after seeing the blissed out look on the man's face, he got the sudden urge to tease the knight. He tapped the tip of his boot between Wylder's legs, once, twice—causing the man to shudder and let out a whimper.
“Please, have mercy,” Wylder breathed out desperately, hand once more gripping the archer's boot.
Ironeye couldn't help smirking.
“Alright,” he relented, his leg shook free, and withdrew from between the knight's thighs.
Wylder sat back then. His face was lit up with a lopsided, yet triumphant smile. He wiped the excess spit from his mouth with the back of his hand, then rubbed it over the grass next to him, trying to clean it.
His eyes rose to meet Ironeye's.
“Good?” Wylder asked breathlessly, still smiling.
The archer huffed a breathy laugh, nodding.
“Very good,” Ironeye sighed, content.
“Now come up here, so I might kiss you,” he requested. His hand beckoned Wylder upright.
The knight got to his feet shakily, before stopping to stretch a little. His legs and other joints audibly popped at the motions. Ironeye watched him, meanwhile pulling his own britches back into place.
“I suppose I shall need more practice in sitting that way, as my knees are rather sore now. Or perhaps… I should just bring you to release quicker,” Wylder suggested. The sultry tone he'd taken on was belied by the adorable flush of his face—ears once more tinged pink.
Ironeye couldn't help chuckling at that. Thinking on it briefly, he'd never laughed so often like this before. No one had ever made him feel this way.
“I'm certainly game to see you try,” he challenged, albeit lightly.
The archer then reached out for the knight, motioning for him to come close.
Wylder finally obliged, tucking up against Ironeye. His arms snaked around the other man's body, embracing him.
Their lips met passionately—their tongues even more so. Ironeye found that the salty tang of his own release had a curious taste, and lapped over the roof of Wylder's mouth to get more of it. It made the knight moan softly.
As they finally slowed down and parted, Wylder nuzzled his head against Ironeye's. He'd all but melted into the archer.
“Let this not have an end…” he muttered to Ironeye's shoulder.
Whether he meant this moment in particular, or their entanglement in general, Ironeye couldn't say for certain.
All the same, the archer held Wylder tight to him. His hand once more found purchase in the man's hair to smooth the locks back.
Evening was only just coming upon them, but the men knew they couldn't linger for any longer. They would have to collect themselves, and return back to the Hold, resuming their duties.
Ironeye turned Wylder's head to give him another kiss, before eventually pulling away.
“Thank you,” he said, nearly too quiet for the knight to hear.
Wylder's eyes searched his, and then he was nodding, and went about retrieving their scattered armor pieces.
Ironeye helped Wylder fix his hair back into place, before the knight's helmet followed. They embraced one final time, before turning to head back towards the direction they had arrived from.
If the circumstances had been any different, the two likely would've kept on long into the night. Entwined, enjoying one another's company under the rising moon overhead.
Haunted by fragments of his past, Wylder looks for comfort at the Shore. A certain archer comes along to give him some much needed encouragement, and maybe something more...
Notes:
NO Remembrance spoilers, only references most of the earlier journal entries; but up to the sixth one for Wylder (references something from that one specifically). The contents of the later entries (and Remembrances) do make this more angsty!;; But it takes place around the first few entries, like not progressed in either story.
My Wylder hc is that he doesn't let any of the others see him without his armor or helmet. Only the Iron Menial has seen him (at least over the course of the current story events, like obviously Duchess has at a point, but not since their past?).
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Wylder bolted awake, shaking and covered in sweat. The bulk of his armor immediately felt stifling. It was never quite pleasant to sleep in, particularly not when he woke from nightmares like this.
He glanced around, trying to parse what time it was. The candlelit walls of the Hold gave no hints as to the hour, not even the open ceiling at the far end of the room gave tell. Typically, light filtered through it at most hours.
Had the others already departed on their quest? The Wylder distinctly remembered asking the Iron Menial to wake him to see them off.
Perhaps he had only been asleep for a short time, then.
Wylder sat upright in the small bed, still trying to get his bearings. The images from his nightmare were determined to haunt him, it seemed. They were likely memories, given the vividness of each detail.
Blank faces no longer able to meet his eyes, the recurring weight of a body in his hands… gravestone upon gravestone…
He shook his head, wishing to remove the helmet so he may wipe his face of sweat. There were tear streaks too, he was certain. With the chance of someone coming upon him, however, Wylder would keep his helmet in place for the time being.
The sound of floorboards creaking from the doorway snapped him to attention.
“Ah, my lord, you are awake. Forgive me, I thought it best to let you sleep longer. I assure you, we have seen the other Nightfarers off without trouble. Twas the lady Priestess, the Raider, and the Revenant who have departed,” the Iron Menial's voice carried over as he stepped into view.
Wylder nodded at him politely,
“I understand. Thank you.”
The Iron Menial bowed his head to the knight.
“Is it evening still?” Wylder asked, hoping it was.
“It is not. Morning is nearly upon us, although the sun still slumbers yet. The crux of dawn, if you will,” he replied, words ever poetic.
Wylder nodded once more, and then made to stand up. His armor gave an uncomfortable creak at the movement.
It truly did feel stifling.
“Might I draw up a bath for you?” The Iron Menial asked, having sensed his displeasure.
“No. But thank you,” he declined simply. If any of the others were still around, then his armor would not leave his person.
Given that only one team had been sent on an expedition this time, the Roundtable Hold was likely well inhabited.
“Alright. Do not hesitate to ask though, should you need one. Or for anything else I might assist you with,” the Iron Menial offered, again bowing his head before stepping out of the room.
Wylder soon trailed after him, and made his way through the halls. He caught sight of the sky through a large gap in the ceiling.
It was fogged over, not even a hint of starlight peeked through.
Perhaps he should visit the Shore?
Surely the others would still be resting in their own places around the Hold.
A heavy fog was not ideal for being up and about.
The Wylder set out towards the Shore then, hoping to quiet the terror and sorrow still filling his heart.
Typically dusk was his preferred hour for venturing out to the sea, but something about the fog was beckoning to him after the torment of fitful slumber.
The Nightfarer had soon made it outside, managing to avoid coming across anyone. He descended the hill with careful steps, as its grass was slick with dew.
He successfully reached the rocky shoreline without so much as a stumble. Even as fogged over as it was, he had the sound of the waves to guide him onward.
Wylder stepped cautiously towards the rock's ledge, having been out here enough times that even with limited sight, he could easily navigate his way along it.
He approached the ruins of the brick structure, and stopped, turning to where he knew the boulders were.
With a surge of desperation, Wylder undid the clasps and belts securing his armor in place, removing each piece with more urgency than the last. His scarf and robe were taken off as well. Finally, he lifted the helmet from his shoulders, setting it gently atop the discarded garments. He'd placed them well out of the waves’ reach.
Wylder stood for a moment, trying to breathe through a sudden rise of panic at what he was doing. It joined the lingering bereavement of the night terror still clawing at him, and settled in the pit of his stomach like a poison.
He was completely defenseless… Quite literally armorless—in only an undershirt and breeches now, having removed even his boots.
Wylder inhaled shakily, but listened instead to the sound of the waves against the rocks as opposed to his panicked breaths. He focused on the morning's chill, at the way in which the ocean breeze stung him. Even with its sharpness, the cold began to calm Wylder.
The knight—no, the man, stepped further along the rocky ledge, until water washed over his feet. Soon it reached his knees, before the rock inclined and the waves receded again.
Wylder sat down, with his back to the jagged cliff face. Water quickly pooled back up around him, seeping into the clothes he wore.
The sun certainly had yet to rise, and the fog seemed to hold the very air captive. It was harsh against his skin—much like the water and breeze were, and yet… soothing nonetheless.
Wylder only hoped none of the others would seek him out, and most definitely not to brave the rocky ledge themselves. It was a dangerous trek, and one he didn't wish to be confronted about. He could already hear some manner of chiding, few of his fellow Nightfarers would hold back on remarking at his carelessness in courting the fog.
Wylder was a decent swimmer, but even he knew his chances of slipping out here were high, and given that the rock's ledge was shrouded from sight… Even with his familiarity, the odds were unfavorable, to say the least.
He hadn't a death wish, not by a long shot. It was just that… being out here genuinely helped to clear his mind. The lush, forested areas around the Hold were certainly nice, but the vastness of the open ocean and the ever-present horizon line brought a sort of peace to him that Wylder couldn't find elsewhere. Watching the sunsets from out here made him feel something akin to nostalgia, it was a bittersweet thing. Thus, the spot had become a refuge of sorts in his time here at the Roundtable Hold.
It was also quite pleasant to soak in the water—cold as it was—away from prying eyes. Wylder was a humble, modest man when it came to both his face and body. It was not shame that made him uncomfortable or hesitant in baring himself. It simply took much more courage than Wylder believed himself capable of—to look the other Nightfarers in the eye without his helmet in place. The armor shielded him in more ways than just its intended function.
Wylder brought his hand up from the ocean, lifting it to his face. Salty droplets streaked over his cheek, wetting the strands of hair there.
In the rare show of weakness, he had even let his hair down. It rustled pleasantly in the cold breeze. Typically, Wylder's hair remained tied back and tucked beneath his helmet. Having it fall over his shoulders like this was an odd sensation now, so used to having it pulled back as he was.
Even just seeing his flesh and blood hand—as opposed to the leather and metal of his gauntlets, had him doing a double-take.
The Nightfarer had nearly grown into the armor, into just… becoming the armor itself. Like a spirit possessing it. It was a symbol of his prowess, a required tool in his quest for vengeance. Disarmament meant rest, and rest meant the fighting was over. Laying down one's sword, shield and armor were a privilege meant only for those who had seen their battles to completion. Or for those who had been felled.
The Wylder would not be felled, and so, he would not truly rest. Until the final Nightlord had been slain, and the Night set to end… Wylder's battles would rage evermore.
As such, Wylder rarely gave himself these moments, to exist as only a man; stripped of his armor, yet no less of his purpose. Respite of this manner was too close to complacency in his eyes, an unnecessary comfort set to lead him astray from his path.
The methodical sound of the waves rising over and receding continued on around him, accompanied by the gentle bubbling of seafoam as it caressed his legs.
Wylder let his hand relax back into his lap, and his eyes fall closed…
Just then, there was a telltale splash in the water, an interruption that could only be made by someone wading through.
“Sneaking off again?”
The low tone and quiet voice could only belong to one person:
Ironeye.
Wylder couldn't begin to fathom as to why the archer had sought him out, or even at how he'd been found. The man was a master at tracking, but still…
He turned to Ironeye and made clear eye contact, as if it did not turn his stomach nor seize him with anxiety to do so.
The usual vibrancy of blue from beneath Ironeye's hood was clouded as it reflected the morning's mist. Yet nothing in his eyes gave way to shock or revulsion upon seeing Wylder's bare face. Ironeye either had been dutifully trained as to not let something so natural slip, or he… genuinely didn't care.
Wylder was uncertain of which would unnerve him more.
“Not a bad spot, so long as one keeps their footing,” The archer observed, seeming to nod in approval of the area.
The Nightfarer nodded in agreement, letting his gaze drop back towards what he assumed was the horizon. Far beyond, the sun had only just begun peeking its way above the water. It was shrouded by the fog still, merely a dimmed beacon letting gentle beams through.
Wylder heard more splashing, and felt the waves around him sway with movement.
Ironeye had drawn closer, and now settled into a crouch beside him.
“You've never struck me as anything less than bold. Hesitation ill suits you. You are no frail man, with or without the armor. None would think you weak or complacent to see it set aside.”
Wylder drew in a short breath, trying not to let out the surprise that had overcome him. Ironeye was certainly efficient in hitting his mark—whether that be to a literal target, or at striking the heart of a matter.
So his insecurities were known, then?
It was almost frightening the accuracy with which Ironeye had him read. Perhaps Wylder didn't conceal things as well as he thought. That, or… the archer simply had too keen an eye to hide away from.
“I have no doubt in our companions’ sincerity. It is my own nature that falters in letting me be anything besides a warrior, first and foremost.
I cannot be anything but. Not here, not now,” the words left Wylder easily, as if plucked forth by dexterous hands. Even as his heart raced, and he wanted nothing more than to cover himself from Ironeye's view.
“I see,” the archer said simply, tone as neutral as ever—as if he hadn't just coaxed Wylder into voicing his insecurity aloud.
Wylder's shoulders held as much tension as they would in the midst of a fight. It took several more deep breaths to feel them relax again.
“And yet, you sleep, you eat. Even polishing and mending your weapons can be counted as rest. It does not make you less of a warrior, nor inherently more human to do so. It simply is. The time between resting and action is not a fixed state, and it doesn't have to be. They naturally follow each other, an ebb and flow like these waves,” Ironeye remarked carefully.
It was peculiar to hear the man say more than a few words at once, and even more that he seemed to rebuke Wylder's point of view.
The sentiment went against everything Wylder had built up for himself.
Heavy was his burden, and in all his pushing forward… The bare minimum of upkeep for both his body and his armaments had been more than enough to see his path clear.
Idle hands are the devil's work, so it is said. Was laying down his arms and allowing himself time to relax truly no different to accepting defeat?
“It is moments like these that push one onward. A weary soul is the same as a dulled blade; one cannot hope to pierce through their foes if their spirit is not also sharpened.”
Wylder was at a loss for words, and instead turned to meet his gaze to Ironeye's again.
This time, the startling blue eyes looked over his face without hesitation. They glanced down, over his soaked undershirt, to his calloused hands, and then back up.
A gloved hand reached out, placing itself upon Wylder's arm with a surprising gentleness. It was warm.
“You are always tuned for battle, ever at the ready and wondering, ‘when do we fight?’ So, I ask you this… When do we rest?”
Wylder didn't pull his hand away nor recoil under Ironeye's touch.
He simply stared, pondering the question. Somehow, he'd hoped the turmoil in his heart could be further known, perhaps even… further pried apart.
If one with sharp eyes such as this was set on seeing him for every folly, then Wylder would face him head on.
“We rest when the fighting is done. Not a moment sooner,” he answered, no note of hesitation to his voice.
Ironeye silently returned Wylder's stare, and then his hand retreated. It rose to his own helmet. His fingers worked back its hood with practiced ease, and lifted the armor away.
“You don’t have to—” Wylder found himself saying, but in vain.
The cloth around the archer's face was being pulled down as well, revealing what lie beneath.
Ironeye's features were sharp, yet they held a sort of weariness to them. The steel to his gaze did not falter though, as he continued to stare into Wylder. He felt pinned in place by those blue eyes, yet not unpleasantly.
The man before him was beautiful. Just the sight of his eyes had admittedly long enchanted Wylder, but to see the rest of his face, and the mess of hair adorning it…
Even the fog had begun clearing, letting the sun's warm rays cast over the archer's face, fixed just so that it reflected in his eyes. They were shining, holding something in them that Wylder couldn't fathom.
He found his hand rising, hesitant as it hovered in the space between them.
Something softened in the archer's expression at that, and Wylder soon felt a hand close around his, drawing it near to Ironeye's jaw.
“Am I less a warrior for showing you this?” He asked quietly, hand cupped around Wylder's.
Wylder found his tongue stilled, unable to form words yet again. The other Nightfarer had that effect on him. It was a potent thing, but… not unwelcome.
Ironeye smirked.
The curl of his lips was delightful, a treasured sight to behold. It set butterflies aflutter in Wylder's core— some manner of feeling there twisted and coiling.
“At a loss for words?” The archer questioned. His tone had a teasing edge to it, unlike its usual brusqueness.
“No, I… Perhaps…” Wylder relented.
He smoothed his thumb over the corner of Ironeye's lip absent-mindedly.
He swallowed hard, cursing his body's sudden unwillingness to speak.
“The strength with which you brave the Night has not faded, even as you bare yourself before me,” Wylder finally got out the words, and set his eyes determinedly upon Ironeye's.
The archer nodded, and his smirk changed to a gentle little smile.
Wylder's heart ached, seized by an incredible yearning. He longed to take his hand's place, to feel the man's lips against his own.
“Then kiss me,” Ironeye said timely, his voice low and inviting.
The Nightfarer stilled, caught yet again by how easily read he was. Had he spoken the desire aloud?
“I believe I've come to understand part of why you keep your face hidden, your expressions openly reveal your thoughts,” the archer remarked without missing a beat, as if he were a mind-reader.
Wylder swallowed again, clearing his throat.
“Would you still have me, then? For all of my faults, and with the uncertainty of the future before us. What becomes of this when the Night is brought to an end…?”
Ironeye slid Wylder's hand to rest fully against his mouth, and brushed his lips across it.
“What would you like to become of it?” He asked, breath ghosting over Wylder's hand.
Wylder was transfixed by the sight.
“I know not the extent of my desire, only that… I wish this wouldn't end so soon,” he whispered, suddenly feeling incredibly small to admit that aloud.
“And I the same,” Ironeye said, beginning to kiss each knuckle of Wylder's fingers.
“Even without knowing what may befall us on the path ahead, one thing is still for certain—that we will walk it regardless. Together,” the archer proclaimed, with an unexpected tenderness to his voice.
The man's heart felt fit to burst. The heavy weight of responsibility and the uncertainty of it all bore down upon him.
Yet, it was not even a question as to whether he would have Ironeye, for all the man's peculiarities and aloof disposition. In spite of his largely unknown past, the matter of the Fellowship… All of the things Ironeye had likely done or been made to do in his time… The two men no doubt carried their own share of trauma and burdens.
Wylder still knew with striking clarity that he wanted Ironeye regardless, that he would wish it no different. Maybe it had been fated for two so contrasted as they were to meet. Perhaps even deep down, they weren't so different after all.
“Then walk it together we shall,” Wylder stated confidently.
It was a wish, and perhaps even a foolish one—but he would voice it again, if that meant having a chance at whatever this was.
He would have no regrets here.
Wylder wriggled his hand free, but only to once again cup it along Ironeye's cheek. He leaned in carefully, pressing their foreheads together.
Ironeye nodded against him, satisfied. He then tilted his head, and planted a chaste kiss across Wylder's mouth. The archer's lips were dry and chapped, yet Wylder could want for nothing more.
“Until the Night's end,” Ironeye said, almost solemnly.
Held against the archer, with the cold waves rising and falling around them, the light of the sun making its ascent… Wylder felt at ease, and just this once, he would forgive himself for it.
Perhaps he could even learn to allow himself more moments like this, to take Ironeye's advice.
They had time yet to see where it would carry them.
