Tags: M/M, Guide/Original Character, Character Study, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Obsession, Possesiveness, Mutual Pining, Blood, Death, Angst, Horror
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chapter 6: i will be the house that holds every part of you
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Morning arrives and with it stalwart radiance.
Gone are the whispers speaking of his impending doom. Gone is the fear of himself that had paralyzed him into inaction. The dark and the horrors with it have fled his home and in the soothing light of morning he awakes to the kaleidoscope of colors reflecting off the broken window bouncing across his flickering eyelids.
When he blinks his eyes open and steps blearily back into existence it feels significant, although he couldn't say why. He feels like he had on that very first morning of waking up in the clearing. There had always been a strange buzz underneath his skin since that day; a sort of call to arms. A sense of purpose that he was too naïve to comprehend.
That same sense of purpose had never been snuffed out, merely waning here and there with his accumulating failures and victories. Today, however, he felt it most acutely. The call or whatever it was, it nearly has him jumping out of bed carelessly and rushing to get dressed and out the door to do something- anything.
He of course aborts the action as soon as he starts it, quickly remembering that Kieran, while not at all asleep, was still laying atop him. Jostled by the movement, Kieran lifts their face off his bare chest and peers up at him. A part of that wild, nearly manic feeling must reflect in his features because Kieran watches him for a moment but only one before a small smiles graces their features and they lean up to kiss him before sliding off his front and sitting up. He lets Kieran force the two of them into another bath, accepts a small sip of a healing potion so that the hickeys and bites soothe away, and dresses for the day in record time. Truthfully, he would have preferred all the marks Kieran had left to remain, but he isn't ignorant to the fact that it would garner attention he would rather not have.
Still, as ready as he is for the day the first thing he needs to do other than go and apologize to the others is address the main problem at hand, the source of the past few days of misery; the doll.
"What should we do with it? We already know what happens when I'm alone with it." He asks Kieran when the latter has managed to convince him to eat something- something being a heaping plate of fried greens and mushrooms.
As of now the doll sits where it had since last night, sat in a corner with its face to the wall and while its shaking had stopped at some point, now, with Kieran's attention on it, the doll shakes up a storm.
It does feel nice seeing it scared after being at it's mercy.
"Not to worry. I'll take care of it." Kieran says casually.
Relief washes over him but he's only really lulled by it momentarily.
"What do you mean by that?" He presses, entirely forgetting about his food and scooting his plate from him.
"I mean," Kieran starts and gently, but firmly nudges his plate back towards him with the back of their knuckles. "-that I will keep the doll safe with me. What happened to you was..." And they pause again to visibly temper their next choice of words.
"What happened to you will not happen again. Make certain of that." They say at last. To assure him further, Kieran nudges his hand until he picks up his fork.
He isn't content to just sit there and eat dumbly.
"But what about you? Doesn't the doll unsettle you at least a little? It's trying so hard to imitate you-" And he thinks of Pasqual's painting just then, or at least, the attempt that had been made.
For whatever reason, any physical depiction of Kieran always seemed to be at least a little profane in nature. Why was that? What was it about Kieran's form that made copying it in any media, in any degree, cursed?
That same failed portrait had been burned. When he had found the doll initially, he had been incensed with the urge to cast it into the lava. But he didn't, and worse yet he had brought it home. Was this all because he had failed to destroy the doll in the first place? He had only refused destroying the doll because at the time he had been desperate and alone and it had looked like the one person he wanted to speak with the most.
Now that he has that person across from him, what was the point of keeping this doll in one piece?
"What happens if the doll is destroyed?" He asks suddenly.
The fireplace roars all at once, the meager flame now a pillar of heat that undoubtedly reached the top of his chimney before dying out completely. The only thing illuminating his home now is the morning light.
Across from him, Kieran sits hunched in their chair, eyes wide and mouth parted and a sheen of sweat across their face.
"I know you can't tell me certain things," He quickly assures them. "-and I'm not forcing you to. I won't ever force you. But is the doll as a whole something you can't discuss?"
Kieran says not a word. They don't rightfully need to either, as the guilt and resignation is as clear as day on their features.
"I see." He says, deflating, and Kieran slips from their seat entirely to round the table and stand just near him.
"Zach..." Kieran settles a shaking hand onto his shoulder and squeezes gently.
"It's alright." He stands to his feet and slips both arms around Kieran's waist. He repeats it as much as he needs to until Kieran finally relaxes against him and returns the embrace. "One way or another things will work out. If not today, well, that's just another reason to keep getting out of bed each morning, right?"
"Right." Kieran agrees through clenched teeth.
--
Knocking on the front door of Will's treehouse feels both familiar and strange after the last couple of days. It's comforting that as always he's made to wait a full second before Will bothers with answering the call of a visitor. When the palm wood door finally opens and Will looks up at him with a squint, the sun overhead nearly blinding the boy, he offers a sheepish grin.
"Hi?" He says, feeling a little bit stupid.
"Hi yourself." Will huffs, looking him up and down as if inspecting for injuries. Funny how the boy has managed to pick up that particular habit from Kieran. "Are you feeling better now?"
"Y-yeah. Yeah I'm feeling better now. Did Kieran tell you I was sick?" He asks.
Will nods and moves aside to let him into their home. He takes his usual seat at their table but ignores the bowl of snacks because breakfast still sat somewhat uncomfortably in his stomach. The boy's tacklebox is picked up from off the floor and brought to the table. Will sits across from him and begins to meticulously take out each piece of equipment one by one and lays them out on a cloth.
"He said you fought some monster and it gave you weird effects. Must have really messed you up because when I tried to visit you days ago you shouted at me to leave. Oh and Nasrin- you shouted at her too."
He slides a hand over his face and groans.
"Sorry about that. I wasn't myself."
Will snorts but he catches the way their eyes flicker over him with concern.
"I was annoyed, yeah, but the more I listened to you the more it was apparent that you were frightened for whatever reason. I don't think I've ever heard you sound like that. What kind of monster was it that caused all that?" They ask.
At the convoluted look on his face, Will shakes their head.
"Don't answer that. Maybe it's for the better that it's between you and Kieran."
"Maybe." He chuckles uncomfortably. "All that aside, I'm back to my usual self."
"Excellent. You owe me loads of fish. Once I'm done reorganizing my tacklebox I'm going to get you started on that debt."
At that reprimand, he perks up. Flying to the beach is exactly what would clear out the lasting muck and anxieties from his mind, not to mention his wings have felt stiff from disuse from huddling in his home for days on end.
After some preparation, he and Will gather all of their rods and supplies into their respective inventories and the two of them step out of the treehouse; Will kicking the door closed behind themselves. Out of habit, Will steps into his space and holds their arms out in an expectant manner.
He bites back the pleased grin that threatens to spread across his entire face along with the urge to point out just how comfortable Will's become with him and instead slips down onto one knee and scoops up the boy as tradition. One arm is all he needs to keep someone so small safe from falling but he's always liked the way Will loops both of their arms around his neck for further safety.
The flight to the beach is as soothing as he'd expected.
The sun above warms his wings, back and the crown of his head. Getting his blood pumping has always been a sure fire way to get him back in order so he flies a bit more theatrically than usual, more concerned about the fun of gliding through air currents and doing spins then conserving energy.
Will laughs and screeches equally in turn, sometimes hiding their face against his chest when the adrenaline becomes too much before just as quickly peeking out to see what they've missed. By the time he descends down to the beach both of their faces are strained with the sheer amount of laughing and smiling on the way over. Before he sets Will down, he stops abruptly.
"What is it?" Will asks, already looking frantically for a threat.
"Not sure. There's something- or someone over there. Look, by those palm trees." He points out and Will's blue eyes trail the gesture.
Tucked behind two palm trees a good three hundred feet away is what he thinks is a person- their skin colored blue. He can't make out the finer details from this far away.
"Is that armor they're wearing?" Will asks.
"Looks like leather armor. I don't see any weapons on them."
Will frowns. "Do you think they mean any trouble?"
"Could always ask, I guess." He shrugs and straightens out to full height to regard this anomaly. "Hey! Yes, you! What are you doing over there?"
As soon as he addresses the thing it suddenly looks distressed as if not knowing what to do now that they had been noticed. It's hard not to, really, given the blue skin peeking out from the brown of a palm tree.
His yelling is all it seems to take for the thing to take off running.
"Huh." He remarks, thoroughly confused. "What do you make of that?"
"It's probably just another weird person- one that you'll no doubt end up inviting to our village."
"Am I that predictable?"
After a quick scouting of the beach to make sure nothing and no one was there aside from the two of them, he and Will makes quick work of getting all the tackle, rods and bait ready. Hours pass by in a blur of salt tinged revelry. He catches an abysmally small amount of fish, not out of lack of skill, but because he can hardly contain himself to sit idle enough to catch them before he's up and about.
He's surprised that no matter how much he messes around and gets distracted, not once does Will fuss at him or demand that he get back to the task at hand. The boy even lets themselves be pulled away from fishing for multiple rounds of searching for good enough coconuts to crack open and drink as well as particularly pretty shells to bring back home.
Will is sharp eyed naturally and quick to point out something amiss, he knows, but recently their ability to read people had really seemed to come ahead. There is some guilt in knowing that Will was probably humoring him with his antics because they can tell something is clearly on his mind and there is further guilt when Will doesn't at all press to ask what exactly it might be that's worrying him.
As kind as that may be, it is now the second instance of that day where he felt as if he were being protected from something unknowingly.
The feeling doesn't sit well with him. Not in the least.
The feeling lingers as he and Will pack up their things to leave and it lingers on the flight back to the village as well. It lingers still, even, when he says goodnight to Will and tries now earnestly to find Nasrin and give his apology.
Finding Nasrin turns out to be more difficult than anticipated. Usually, he can find her either in her home, in the forest, or by the apple tree that he himself always falls asleep under. He finds her in none of these spots and figuring she was busy, he heads back to his own home and starts on some cleaning.
Or he does, until he gets distracted by the large pile of bloody clothes he had been meaning to burn. He gets a fire going outside and dumps the ragged clothes into the pile, glad to be rid of the smell of dried blood in his home.
With the ruined clothes taken care of, all that was left was to bring all of his mildly ruined clothes to Raziel so that they can mend them. He takes an armful of shirts and pants, tosses them in a basket and walks over to their home.
He hopes they aren't in the middle of dinner.
When he gets to their home and stops in front of the door, one arm raised to knock, he pauses and listens. There's animated conversation inside, one of the voices distinctly feminine. More importantly, distinctly Nasrin's.
He hadn't known the two of them had become friends.
Grinning, he knocks on the door eagerly. After a moment, Raziel, dressed down to just their button-up and slacks, answers the door. Funny enough, they have the door opened just enough that he can see Raziel, but nothing else of their home. Even funnier, is the red fur on their white shirt and the small tear near their shoulder. Almost as if an animal had accidentally caught their claws on it. Things make entirely too much sense all at once and barely concealing his grin, he offers a quick apology, turns on heel and heads back home.
His clothes can wait another day.
--
The doll may be out of his home but it's still taking residence in his thoughts.
He can feel that it's still in Kieran's home whenever he visits but try as he might, he hasn't once been able to spot it. He thinks a little morbidly that maybe it had been buried underneath the floorboards like a dead body. The thought turns his stomach...but there's also the unbridled urge to laugh.
What to do with the damnable thing is the main task at hand and in his turbulent thoughts on the matter he always seems to end up back at the very place he'd found the doll; deep, deep down in the hole he's been digging for months on end, off and on.
It's now that he stands on the craggy precipice of that hell, time and time again stopping himself from reentering the lava lake strewn biome. Why he stops just of entering the place is a mystery usually but this time the reason is startling clear- a person, face down and clearly unconscious causes him to nearly trip and plummet down into the lava but he balances himself with a flap of his wings.
Annoyed, but much more concerned about this unconscious person rolling to their inevitable doom, he kneels down next to them and uses both hands to try and flip them over onto their back. It takes a lot of effort, given the man's size, but he is nothing if not stubborn. On the last tug, the man flops over gracelessly onto their back and he rears back with horror when he sees that their eyes are wide open and alert.
"If you were up you could have said something!" He says upon a sharp inhale and backs away from them to stand to his feet.
On their back now, he can get a much better look at this stranger. The man is just as bald and burly as they had appeared from behind, no surprise there, although the white apron tied around their waist and the frankly majestic bushiness of their eyebrows throws him for a loop.
"Wasn't sure if you were friend or foe so I thought playing dead until I could sniff out your intentions was a good move." They explain from their spot on the ground, their voice booming in the man made passageway to hell.
Slowly, their face turns to regard him. It's a robust face with thick, bristly salt and pepper eyebrows that loom over deeply set blue eyes. Extremely expressive in voice and tone but their face was passive.
"I hope those wings of yours don't mean I've died for good." They say with humor but there's very visible anxiety in those eyes.
"You're alive as much as I am."
"Good. Good, that's a relief really. Better to be alive and lost then otherwise. Where in the blazes have I ended up then?" The man asks while sitting up. "And who in the blazes, might I ask, are you?"
"You're a trip and a fall away from hell." He remarks with a grin before pointing down to the beds of lava below. "As for me, I'm Zach. A friend, in case you were still wondering what my intentions were. You don't seem injured, but I've got plenty of healing potions on me if you need any."
"Stars above!" The man barks loudly when they at last turn to their immediate left and notice the small distance away from oblivion. "I was unconscious next to that? I take it that wherever I've ended up, it get's better than this, right? Zach, was it? I'm Elandrian, but my friends call me Elan."
A hand, probably large enough to grab most of his skull very easily, extends out to him.
As custom, he slips off his sharp gauntlets from his right hand before returning their handshake firmly.
"You're leagues more polite than the other knights I've met in my time." Elan says and to that he quirks a brow.
"Knight? I'm no knight."
"I know a fighter when I see one and that armor and weaponry of yours is far too well loved for you to be just a casual adventurer." Elan replies as he helps them up to their feet, which is no easier than it'd been to roll them over.
Once upright, Elan releases his hand. The man towers above him by an entire foot.
"Consider me a seasoned adventurer." He supplements while slipping his gauntlet back on.
"Fine, fine. Now, courtesies aside, do you mind directing me out of this quite literal hell hole?"
"Of course. Here, you can borrow my magic mirror. It'll take you back to my village. If the others see you, just explain what happened. They'll believe you, no worries." He pulls out his mirror from his satchel and hands it over to them. It looks comedically small in their hands.
"Do I have to say magic words?" Elan asks, eyeing the mirror with trepidation. "And what about you? How are you getting back to your home without your mirror?"
He spreads out his wings.
"Ah. Right."
"There's no special words. Just close your eyes and think about wanting to teleport. That's all the mirror needs- intent. It can sense when you want to leave somewhere but it'll only act on that intent when held." He explains while settling his helmet back on.
"Well, my thanks, then. I'll be seeing you in a bit it seems."
"Won't take me long." He smirks and kicks into flight.
--
Now at days, Zach is more than accustomed to having someone in his home waiting for him when he returns from his adventures, that person always Kieran, of course, given that the two of them shared a bed more often than not. There were a few nights that he went to sleep to an empty home and an even emptier bed, but that was rare.
So when he glides into the village at night, just as the moon has fully risen and is grinning down at him, he makes a beeline for his home- which he sees the fireplace has been lit. At first he assumes it to be Kieran in his home, given it was around the time they'd be cooking, but with a quick glance to the right he sees that Kieran's home is well lit as well.
Shrugging, he slips off his helmet, red mop of curls pouring out and quickly shaken to get any lingering sand away from his flight to the desert. Tucking the helmet under the crook of one arm, he heads into his home.
"You look steady on your feet." Raziel greets from their seat in front of his fireplace, the sight of the elderly man shocking to a degree, but not wholly. "It'll take more than a doll to keep you bested, isn't that right, lad?"
He promptly drops his helmet and the resounding clatter of the platinum against wood flooring is enough to make him flinch.
Raziel regards him fully now instead of just glancing at him from the corner of their vision. There's genuine sympathy for him in those old eyes, but also shining mirth.
"Ah. You weren't aware that I knew. Or are you more surprised that I can speak of it?" Raziel continues, unfazed, and stands up from the wooden chair to walk past him in order to close the door and pick up his helmet, which they offer to him.
"I would have liked to discuss it sooner, but you're a difficult man to keep in one place. Not to mention that last time we ran into each other I was....busy at the time." At Raziel's mention of it, the shock of their words subside, if only a little.
"Right." He agrees, Nasrin's playful laughter ringing in his ears. Despite the evening taking such a weird turn, he still manages to get out the few words that have been hovering just on his tongue. "I'm happy for you two, by the way."
Raziel clears their throat, scandalized, but happy nonetheless. "Thank you. Now, personal matters aside, why don't you join me for a glass of wine? There is much to discuss and I am of the idea that a man should well and truly drown their sorrows, so long as there's a cup to be filled."
With a nod, he deposits his helmet on top on one the empty chairs at his table and takes a seat, not bothering with removing the rest of his armor. Maybe to relax him, maybe out of sheer whimsy, Raziel pulls a bottle of wine and two glasses from behind their back, showing them off with flourish before settling them on the table and then dragging the chair from the fireplace back over to the table.
Sitting across from him, Raziel pops the cork off the bottle and pours the first glass with a hefty portion. He accepts the offered glass and takes a deep drink, immediately feeling some of the sore muscles in his back and shoulders relax. Once Raziel has poured himself a glass and taken a few humble sips, he watches them fully relax into their seat but sees that not once do their eyes soften. Whatever it is they are preparing to tell him has been prepared with tact. He'd be thankful, if only his nerves weren't eating him alive.
"I sensed that accursed doll the day you brought it back." Raziel begins, "And while I had been astonished that you managed to find such a thing, I am far more astonished as to how you were able to bring it with you. Did you not feel the inexplicable urge to cast it into the fire? I'm told that the desire is damn near unavoidable."
He tips his face down in shame.
"I didn't have the heart to destroy something that looked like him." He confesses miserably.
"Ah."
He nods and takes a drink, nearly finishing the glass entirely. Raziel pours him a second glass and tops off their own.
"...What exactly are these dolls?" He asks. Better to start of with the simpler questions.
To that, Raziel breathes in deeply before leaning back in their chair and swirling their glass in contemplation.
"These dolls- they are anything but. They are vessels of curses. Profane items that deserve nothing more than to be expunged from this world, for the longer they remain intact, the longer their evil proliferates. The doll craves to be destroyed and in sparing it, you are prolonging it's hateful life and it in turn comes to hate you as well. It wants nothing more than the comforting black of oblivion. Life to it is just as much of a curse."
It's strange. Usually, when such discussions are had, he would notice odd occurrences, such as shadows in his field of vision, fires suddenly being extinguished, or cold shivers running up and down his spine. He has spotted not a single thing as of yet.
Regardless, he keeps an eye out for it.
"The only definitive way to destroy these dolls is to cast them into lava. But, there is a cost to this destruction. I cannot tell you what happens when the doll currently in our midst is destroyed, but I can tell you with full confidence what shall happen if you ever come across mine." Raziel continues, eyes knife sharp.
"If cast into the fire, my doll will be destroyed and I with it. In my place, the skeletal horror I once knew as master will be unleashed once more. It is why, despite you freeing me, I am still very much cursed. At any point of time, so long as my doll is found and subsequently destroyed, my master will return."
"Do you mean to tell me that it's all been for nothing? That you won't ever be free?" He asks, dejected in a multitude of ways.
"Zachariah, you're definition of freedom is vastly different than my own. Has it all been for nothing? Of course not. While I may remain a vessel, I am more free than I have ever been in this long life of mine. Without you, I'd still be the shell of a man I was mere months ago. Alone, bitter and without dignity. Now, I am welcomed, loved and can hold my head high with confidence in knowing that my actions, my choices are my own entirely. That is not something I can ever repay to you."
It's admittedly a lot, all of this, and without thinking he stands from his seat to start pacing around his home, the armor he's still got on clanging a bit.
"You said that you know what happens when your doll is destroyed, but not the one here. We can guess that if it's destroyed, Kieran will die as well, right?" He offers, face scrunched with a frown as he mulls all the information over.
"It is not his death you should be worried about." Raziel admits and for the first time that evening there is a sprinkling of fear in those words.
It really isn't a surprise that Kieran is cursed like Raziel and Nasrin. There had been plenty of signs pointing towards it. What confounds him is the nature of this curse. It's clearly the strongest curse of them all, given that Kieran is physically unable to speak of it, while Nasrin and Raziel openly speak about theirs.
Three different people, cursed all the same, but with varying degrees to it and with different circumstances.
"What if he doesn't come back?" He speaks the horrible question aloud. "He was so frightened when I asked him what would happen if the doll was destroyed."
"We all come back." Raziel assures him.
"Can you tell me without a doubt that he will?"
To that he's met with silence.
With shaking hands, he downs the rest of his wine before tossing the glass into the fire, the feeling of breaking something very, very rewarding.
"I'm going to figure this out." He tells Raziel and whatever it is they see on his face when he turns towards them is enough that all they do is simply nod.
--
The platinum plated armor that has been his go to for many phases of the moon now feels more and more like a poor fit as he once again inspects it before starting his day of adventuring. He doesn't melt all the platinum back into ingots to repurpose into another project and instead equips one of his wooden dummies with the armor instead. A backup never hurt to have.
More than the ill fit, had been the discovery of a new raw material for him to test out; an ore as crimson as blood and at the very least, mildly profane. Considering he'd gathered it from the massive brain underneath the gore infested lands south, he isn't at all surprised.
Really, bringing profane things into his home seems to be a new habit of his. Luckily enough, the ore doesn't at all seem to have negative properties as he holds it this way and that in his hands. What interests him the most beside the lightness of the ore is the way it seems drawn to the papercut on his finger.
Curiously, he pricks the tip of his finger with a dagger and offers it to the ore. The clump of ore doesn't move on its own towards the blood, thankfully, so he presses his thumb against his finger to coax the blood to bead out and watches as a singular drop falls onto the craggy, vein like texture of the crimtane.
The drop of blood is absorbed within a blink of an eye and the crimtane, while still appearing mostly dry, now offered a minute luster. He thinks endlessly on what it could mean.
Before making a full of armor with the stuff he first decides to make a singular gauntlet. It's extremely difficult working with the crimtane, as it was brittle when completely left alone and only malleable to a degree when doused with a helping of blood. He isn't about to cut up his hands a hundred times while he works so he settles with taking a break to go hunt for an animal that he can bleed out and then cook for a meal.
He sets everything aside, walks out of his home and heads towards the forest.
There's not really any animal he's in the mood for, but now that he's thinking about it he is terribly hungry. And terribly stupid, since he's forgotten the dinky bow that he rarely uses to hunt for himself or the dagger he uses for foraging.
Laughing at himself at the thought of hunting some poor animal bare handed, he makes a turn to leave the forest and head back home but stops when he feels eyes on him.
Turning around, he finds nothing and no one.
His eyes scan the various shades of green of the foliage before stopping on a particular shade of blue that did not belong.
He huffs a laugh and relaxes.
"Will." He says in greeting, walking over to a bush half hidden by a tree. Just as the boy is rising to his feet, bow strapped to their back, he hears rustling behind him and thinking it to be just a slime or a small animal, he doesn't think much of it. That is, until he feels arms suddenly wrap around his waist and he jumps a foot in the air.
"Fell for our trap, did we?" Will asks him with clear amusement and steps around the bush to approach him with a smug look.
"He left his guard down." Kieran remarks from behind, squeezing him once in an embrace before slipping away and coming to stand in front of him. "You're a bit bigger than the rabbits we were looking for.”
“Y-Yeah.” He spits out, disoriented, not from the tame prank, but from observing Kieran just now. Kieran always looked perpetually tired to some degree but the exhaustion looks particularly acute just now. Sleep schedules aside, he couldn’t help but notice that Kieran’s arms around him a few seconds ago had been warm.
Not cold or tepid but warm.
He doesn’t mean to ignore Will telling him about their day, nor does he mean to stare at Kieran with the calculating look he’s no doubt got on his face, but they of course notice and instead of just quirking a brow at his staring, Kieran actually stiffens and pales a shade or two.
Something is not right.
He’s not about to ask and put Kieran on the spot, not with Will here, so he swallows down the uncertain feelings and pays more mind to what Will is saying, but the boy stops in the middle of their words.
“What did you hear?” Kieran asks them, eyes flickering around the forest.
“I think I heard rustling in that bush over there- the one with the berries.” Will whispers back.
Nodding, Kieran crouches to their feet and he and Will follow the same.
Kieran smoothly slips their bow off their shoulder and readies it with an arrow, the bow pointed towards the berry bushes. Crouched next to them, it’s hard not to notice the heat rolling off them in waves and the way their breathing seems uneven. There is the slightest tremble as Kieran attempts to pull back the arrow taut.
Huffing a breath, Kieran lowers their bow.
“I think this would be a succinct opportunity for you to show Zach how much you’ve improved.” Kieran tells Will, who looks mildly confused as well, but the aspect of showing off is too much to pass up and Will eagerly begins preparing their bow.
While Will steadies themselves, eyes forward and body focused with the task at hand he shares a worried look over at Kieran, who doesn’t really want to look him in the eye.
How was it possible that the two of them had become this close and yet he still felt as if Kieran could slip from his fingers at any moment?
Beneath his ribs, as always, his heart pounds relentlessly with the love he feels and the all consuming dread that nothing, not even this, will last.
--
It's not like him to have problems sleeping. Ask anyone, really, and they'll contest just how easily it is for him to fall asleep. Give him a warm ray of sunshine or a nice glass of wine and he'll be pleasantly dozing within minutes. Tonight, however, no matter how he tries to make himself comfortable in bed he cannot sleep.
It stings worse that he doesn't have Kieran in bed with him. Lately, Kieran has deigned to sleep in their own home, decidedly not telling him if there was a reason in particular. A small part of him thinks that it might be because both of them were running hot now and it would be unpleasant. The other, far larger part of his brain knows that there is something going on and that Kieran is hiding from him.
What troubles him is that he isn't sure whether to push or to give them space.
Staying in bed being miserable won't help. It never does.
Frustrated about a multitude of things, he kicks the sheets off, throws on a shirt and grabs sun fury. He exits his home, tries not to stare at Kieran's like a lonely idiot and starts walking. He patrols the perimeter of the stone wall that encircles the village, always checking the front and back gate when he saddles up to them.
He does this maybe three times before a sharp whistle stops him mid-step. Turning towards the sound, he finds Elandrian standing outside of their tavern, their eyes nonexistent as they squint at him.
Not wanting to wake all the others due to Elan's booming voice, before the tavernkeeper can shout at him to come over he kicks into flight and saves them the trouble. He lands just in front of them.
"It's an odd time to see you out and about." Elan says. "Can't sleep, eh? Neither can I. To be fair, I'm more of a night owl. Used to serving drinks to rowdy folks til the early morning."
"As much as I'd like to try your ale finally, I don't think it'd be good to get drunk this late." He returns.
"Not a problem! While I wanted to you be the first to give it a go, I'm happy to say that I can brew just as mean of a pot of tea as I can a pint. Either way, I've been meaning to thank you for providing me with such a lovely establishment!" Elan tells him loudly, loud enough that the home nearest, Callahan's, was starting to have oil lamps flicker on.
"Let's head inside before we get dynamite thrown at us." He tells them in a hushed tone and Elan starts to laugh heartily, before clamping one of their massive hands over their mouth. With a nod, Elan opens the tavern door and lets him inside.
While technically a tavern, he had built a small attic above it with a bed to work as a bedroom and had built a basement, where allegedly all of the brewing took place. Elan's tavern is some of his finest work, he can admit readily. Rich mahogany flooring and walls, lattice windows with white curtains, red carpets near the stairs and fireplace. To top it off, a marble statue of a warrior he'd managed to bring back. The statue stands proud just near the entrance of the tavern as if watching over it.
"It must be weird settling down here while you still have a home somewhere else." He says firstly while slipping inside and taking in all the little differences that Elan had added to the tavern. Behind the bar, next to all the mugs and glasses was an impressive stack of lace doilies. The image alone of such a hulking man crocheting something was nearly enough to make him forget why it is he can't sleep.
There's a vase of flowers on each table, all fresh and hand picked.
"If it doesn't hurt to talk about, why don't you tell me a bit about where home is for you?" He continues.
As Elan brews a pot of tea, they tell him of their home of Etheria and of the magic that powers the land. They talk of the great heroes and the even greater enemies.
"There are knights who's tales have been past through the ages. Valiant heroes who laid down their lives for their cause. I can still hear the songs and see all the colorful banners." Elan explains wistfully, sagging into their seat before perking up and turning towards him.
"Speaking of which, where's your banner?" Elan asks him.
"Banner?"
"You know, a cloth with a house crest on it or some other symbol representing your cause or loyalties. It's carried around like a flag in battle. Matter of fact, you don't have a family crest either now that I'm thinking back on your armor."
"I don't know what you want me to say. I told you I wasn't a knight and besides, there's no royalty in this land. Unless you count certain slimes..." He says.
"Fine, fine. Tell me this, then: what do you fight for? What's your cause?"
"According to Iris, I'm cleansing this land of evil."
"A noble enough task. But what do you think you're doing?" Elan presses.
He thinks on that.
"...I'm not exactly sure. I'm always running into new and daunting enemies but when I'm up against them I'm not burning with some righteous fury. I'm not thinking of much besides just staying alive, you know?"
Elan drinks deeply from their cup of tea, nodding sagely.
"After the fight finishes I'm always just relieved that no one else will have to deal with the thing I just dealt with. I can't describe it- it's this great relief. A calm. I can rest easy knowing that you and the others won't have a great beast stalking you. I guess that means I am fighting to purge evil, but more than that I just don't want to see anyone hurt. I don't want this place to be anything other than a safe haven. I think I would do anything to make sure that no one had to fall asleep with one eye open anymore. Is something like that possible? Am I capable of providing that much unfaltering safety? Or will I screw up at the very last second when it counts the most?"
He hadn't meant to spew all that. Must be the lack of sleep getting to him.
Elan blinks a myriad of times before reaching over and taking his empty cup of tea from his hands, refilling it and sliding it back over before clapping his shoulder comfortingly.
"I can see why you're so well loved here and listen: failure is inevitable. You know that. But you also know that the point isn't to lie down like a dog when you inevitably fail the next time. The point is to learn and keep going. The only true failure is quitting, right?"
"Right." He agrees, tentatively raising cup. "A toast to that then- to never staying down."
"Oh, aye, I'll toast to that in a heartbeat. Cheers!"
He stays for another hour, maybe, before thanking Elan for the talk and the tea and heading back to his own home, not at all tired still, but feeling more like himself. Slipping into his home, he first glances at the bed, empty and uninviting, before dragging his gaze back over to the crimtane gauntlet on his work desk.
This time, when he begins his work on his next set of armor he puts his entire being into it.
--
For days on end he works on his armor.
While him working the forge usually garnered curious gazes, this time he receives more than just that. The crimtane ore needs to be fed to be made malleable and while he himself has gotten over the initial shock value of having to drench the ore with blood while he works it with a hammer, most, if not all of the others have not.
Twice now as he's been working, he's caught someone or another giving him an odd look. It's completely warranted, given how morbid it must be to see him shirtless and covered in animal blood; looking more like a butcher than a weaponsmith. As strange as it may look, no one bothers him about it, nor do they bother him about just how well the deathweeds have been growing in the greenhouse.
He passes many hours at work and its when the sun finally sets that he can look back at his finished work. A helm, chest plate, pauldrons, grieves and gauntlets all made from crimtane are now settled onto a dummy waiting to be tried on. It is a truly wicked set of armor, the bulk of it looking like exposed muscle tendons. On the pauldrons, grieves and on the side of the helm are malignant looking spikes he knows without a doubt will keep monsters from clinging to him. As important as the lightweightness of the armor is of course the healing factor he's discovered. As long as someone or something other than himself bleeds on the armor, he's gifted a slow but steady trickle of his own vitality back. Unable to contain his excitement any longer, he begins to strip the dummy of the armor piece by piece and dawn it himself. It's as he's struggling to tie the straps of the chest plate on that he feels eyes on him.
Turning around yields nothing.
With the entire set on, he tests out the mobility by running the perimeter of the village and then doing the same in the air. Compared to his old armor, the crimtane felt like it was hardly even there. He can fly faster and for longer now that he isn't burdened by the bulk of platinum.
He'd really love to tackle a hoard of undead or worse and see how the armor and its healing factors fare, but seeing as how he's been working the forge all day, he saves that for another time. Since nightfall has come he returns back to his home, takes all of his armor off and sets it across his dining table.
All that was left to do was put up the materials and tools he'd been using, which he does in two trips to the shack. On the second trip, he lingers inside of the shack, momentarily distracted by memories. A gust rolls through the village and succintly snuffs out the oil lantern he'd brought with him before shutting the door to the shack with a slam.
Straightening his back, he takes in a breath to steady himself.
"Kieran." He breathes quietly into the darkened shack.
He doesn't turn around from the open chest he's idling in front of. Not because he won't be able to see in the dark, but because he's unsure of what might spill from his mouth just then, alone in this shack with Kieran and his memories; and whatever it was that clung to Kieran's very being.
It dawns on him now that the two of them have never been entirely alone- not with the thing watching and listening to each and every word. An unwanted guest and worse yet, a persistent one.
It surely must be the influence of this thing that keeps Kieran from answering him despite no doubt drawing nearer like a beast looming in the shadows.
They must be near to him now because he can feel their warmth and hear their labored breathing. His ears catch on the unmistakable sound of fabric rustling; a sleeved arm coming up towards him.
Whatever the gesture might have been is left a mystery. Before Kieran's hand settles on him he quickly turns around and catches it by the wrist and holds it. Pulls slowly until Kieran has no choice other than to get closer to him. There is no light, not really, but there is scant moonlight from a gap in the ceiling and that is all that's needed to catch and illuminate Kieran's face.
The brief glimpse he gets is not reassuring.
Flushed in the face, discolored eyes and teeth sharp as anything greet him. More troublesome is the clearly pained, guilty look on Kieran's face. What must it feel like to be a vessel? To be housing something so much greater than yourself? Something foreign and intrusive. To be constantly at work at keeping themselves intact.
"I've been frightened of you exactly once." He tells Kieran, said instance being the very first time he'd laid eyes on them. He brings their captured hand up to his face to pepper kisses on the scars affectionately. "Never again."
His lips curl into a smile as a shiver runs up their spine.
There are so many things that he wants to say, wants to ask, but it has been days now since he and Kieran have been this close and all he wants is to give them reassurance, to give them comfort, if only a little.
"Stay with me tonight." He tells them and clarity blinks back into Kieran's eyes. "All of your worries. Your fears. I'll take care of them all if you let me."
Uncertainty gleams like a precious gem in each of their eyes, the light catching them still and showing him the many facets of their anxieties.
"...Zachariah." Kieran says at last.
"Don't listen to what they're saying. Listen to me. Listen to my voice. Alright?"
It's all too easy to pull them into his arms. At first, Kieran's arms merely hang loosely by their side, twitching here and there, but the longer he holds them the more he feels them react. He feels Kieran nose at his neck, breathing lightly, and their eyelashes are ticklish to the point of stealing a laugh out of him.
At the sound of it, as simple as that, Kieran seems to return to themselves. With an audible gasp, as if finally breaching the surface of a lake, Kieran shudders against him before ragdolling almost completely against him.
"Alright?" He reiterates while bending his knees and placing both his hands on the back of their thighs and then hefting. He pulls Kieran up against him and they aren't so out of it that their body forgets to instinctively wraps their legs around his hips.
It's burdensome, certainly, given that Kieran is taller than him and weighs more, but the struggle is half the fun if he's honest. Kieran loops their arms around his shoulders, hands and fingers grazing the arches of his wings lazily.
They settle their face into the crook of his neck and keep it there.
"Alright." Kieran echoes back.
Stepping out of the shack with his arms full of the very person he'd built it with feels entirely too fitting. With night just starting it's no surprise that most of the village was still out and about, yet as he walks towards his home he finds that no one stares or makes comment. Whether it was out of politeness or the lingering fear some of them had when it came to Kieran, he doesn't particularly care.
It is with that same lack of care that he wrangles his front door open, kicks it shut behind him, and heads straight over to the bed where he then gently deposits Kieran. Or tries to, because Kieran, suddenly struck with mischief, keeps their arms and legs looped around him and forces him to fall on top of them.
He ends up smacking his forehead against theirs and while it stings, the pain is quickly forgotten by the sudden sound of Kieran's laughter; hiccupping and heavily laden with relief. It reminds him eerily of the same laugh that had erupted from him when Kieran had finally broke into his home after days of locking himself away.
Like the pain, the sudden unease is washed away at the sight of Kieran's pearly grin and the sound of their laughter. His heart squeezes almost unbearably tight and he just cannot help but capture their face with both his hands and taste that rare merriment that was now spilling from them.
"You're mine." He says in between fevered kisses. "And I'm yours. Nothing gets between us. Not the horrors of the night or the horrors of the day. Not even the unknowable."
"Careful." Kieran warns, laughter dying and eyes sharpening. One of their hands come up to curl loosely around his throat. The palm of their hand is hot enough to brand.
"I'm nothing but careful." He scoffs and and covers their hand with one of his own. "Stop the words if you have to because I never will."
Slowly, he nudges them into tightening their grip and Kieran's eyes widen, startled, and they suck in a sharp inhale. He even does them the favor of turning his face to the side to grant more access to his throat.
Kieran studies him and he returns the gesture fully; watching each and every minute change on their face. Their eyes swirl endlessly like waters muddied with blood. The fingers curled around his neck tighten and the second they do he urges them even tighter in sheer spite.
"You're mine." He challenges. The words are practically squeezed from him.
Kieran's brows furrow and their entire face dims a shade. A brazen flush sits at the height of both of their cheekbones and their mouth, parted, reveals the starting of too sharp teeth. He grins back just as sharply.
That's all it takes it seems.
"I'm yours." Kieran relents. Their hand on his throat loosens entirely and moves to cup the back of his neck affectionately before pulling him down to bring their foreheads together.
For tonight at least, all seemed well.
--
Zach had expected to snooze until mid afternoon, maybe even later if Will hadn’t wanted to visit the beach, but instead he wakes up exactly as the sun is rising the next day to the sound of something crashing through one of his windows. For a split, terrible second, he thinks the doll is screwing with him and Kieran is breaking in to save him, but no, that can’t be, because he’s currently in his own bed and Kieran is very much next to him.
“Put your armor on.” Kieran slips their arm from his waist and sits up to tell him.
Brain flooded by adrenaline, he nods, tears himself from his bed and starts on shoving on his armor piece by piece as Kieran hands them over. As he’s shoving his helmet on and grabbing his preferred weapons and potions, Kieran deigns to hazard a peek out of the broken window.
A second later something crashes through the wall of his home just a few inches from their face. He sees whatever it is this time- a spiked ball made from shoddy metal. Efficient, if it’s only purpose was to tear holes in his home.
“Goblins are approaching from the west.” Kieran warns him.
It clicks in his head why this might be happening. Sure, most things in this world were out to kill him, but he had thought the lone goblin he and Will had seen a handful of times while fishing wasn’t one of them. He doesn’t mind being wrong, but in cases like this, his lack of judgement had now come back to burn them all.
“Right. Right, okay.” He says, thinking fast. “I’m going to go grab Will. Can you tell everyone to go to the bunker? It’s the only structure not likely to get torn down.”
Kieran nods before their face quickly sours. That's fair, seeing as how he’s currently downing an extraordinary amount of potions, most of which he’s been told time and time again not to take multiple sips from.
“I know.” He says, feeling extremely weird for a few seconds as all the buffs kick in. “I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to. Be safe and watch over the others for me, alright?”
He sets outside and takes in the chaos.
The army was quick approaching but as of now only a few of the goblins had actually neared the village. That small few was enough to make significant damage to a couple of homes already- he’s loathe to think just how the place will look after this affair. There’s not really time to think about that so he takes off in flight towards Will’s tree house.
There’s no damage to their home, thankfully, and he’s glad that Will had preemptively barricaded their home as soon as they started hearing commotion. The barricade being taken down does mean he has to watch his back against the spiked balls flying in the air for a moment, but Will has done this enough times it doesn’t take that long.
“What is happening?” Will asks with wide eyes, their bow strapped to their back.
“We’re being invaded. I need to get you and everyone else to the bunker.” Is all he says before scooping them up and flying towards the bunker on the outskirts of the village.
The bunker is somewhat hidden from above by the canopy of the forest but he can spot the white concrete easily. Below, he spots Kieran and Khalid taking aim at a few goblins while some of the others run towards the bunker.
He takes advantage of the attention being drawn on them long enough to glide down to the bunker's entrance which is being held open by Elandrian.
"Everyone's inside now except those two." Elan tells him immediately and just their chin towards Kieran and Khalid.
"And myself." He hears Raziel say from where he stands next to Nasrin. He catches the quick way he brings one of her hands to his face and kisses the knuckles, whispering something that only her sharp ears could possibly hear, before slipping past her and the others to stop and stand near him.
He spares a glance at Nasrin and Will, takes in their anxious faces, before returning his gaze to Raziel and nodding.
"Glad to have you fighting with me this time around." He says in return.
As the two of them head out of the bunker, he whistles sharply and catches Khalid and Kieran's attention. As if reading his mind, Kieran scans the horizon for any immediate threats before slipping their bow onto their shoulder and quickly heading towards him.
As with everyone when digging through their personal inventory, Kieran's eyes become unfocused as they pick and choose through various things. A moment later they produce an assortment of healing and buff potions and hand as many as they can to him.
"Got any to spare for little old me?" Khalid asks while confidently hefting their rifle against one shoulder. In their other hand, blinding in its polish, was their pistol.
"Of course." Kieran nods and splits the rest of their supply evenly between Raziel and Khalid. That taken care of, Kieran returns their full attention back to him. They slip in close and hover their face just near his ear. First, to press a kiss to the curve of his jaw. Second, to whisper: "Give them no mercy."
"Wouldn't dream of it." He counters, grinning.
It isn't until Kieran has slipped inside of the bunker and subsequently when Elandrian has shut said bunker, that the three of them turn their sights back in the direction of the village.
Of home.