Kvasir Sigurros has never been one for storytelling.

His dreams are tangible, confined, held within the planes of this reality; things yielded through study and dedication, promised by pouring enough of himself into a subject until it becomes a part of him in turn, until he is finely stitched into the knowledge he's accrued. He's never been one to grasp for stars knowing he might just wind up with handfuls of glitter and dust; his heart has always been bound to the earth. It's a surprise to him still that Solaria's blessing lies within his veins, but he's always known better than to count on that alone. He can spin miracles from light, turn back time's mark on flesh, but there will always be shadows that the sun cannot reach. But in all the crevices heavenly things dare not touch, there is still room for earth-born treasures-- what Solaria's domain cannot fix, the gifts of the earth often can.

And still, as earthly and within-reach as his aspirations have always been, Kvasir knows quite well of those who aim higher-- those who desire to dance beside Lunala's watchful eye and are happy to play in the garden of stars anyway. As messy and fragmented and foggy as his memories may be, he still remembers being young, being his father's apprentice, listening to travelers speak of their own ventures, of those who came before them, of the campfire stories and myths that sparked them to journey forward.

He remembers a fireside tale of a man who desired Solaria's attention so deeply that he built wings to rise to meet that holy light, only for that very light to send him spiraling down.

He remembers a hushed story some woman once told him of a man who loved so deeply he walked through hell to bring his love back, only to doubt at the final moment.

He remembers a story of a rebel in a tyrant's kingdom, one who brought flame back to his people so they could know warmth, only to be punished in some hellish loop for daring to love them so.

They're myths, fabricated stories made up by adventurers to keep the nights lively before they set out for the next morning-- something wild and unheard of, strange and absurd, something to provoke some thoughtfulness or inspire some pride for all the ways in which one has dodged such idle, petty notions, but stories like those are one of the few fragments of memories Kvasir has never been able to shake, no matter how the golden, gleaming god who prowls in his mind claws at his mind.

Every story brings him back to Morrigan. Every story brings Morrigan to ruin.

It's these very thoughts of melted wings and an eagle's beak and cold despair that keeps the door to Kvasir's inn room at Bleakfort solidly locked, the key set on the nightstand behind him; the second he and Morrigan had practically crashed through the door, he'd paid for two rooms without a second thought. He'd done all he could to ensure Morrigan was okay, triple-checked that they were accounted for, that they were well and truly safe, and then he'd slipped away into this cold and quiet room, buried himself beneath the blankets of the bed, and immersed himself in silence, his hands scrubbed clean of any traces of red, but so raw still that he swears he can still see Morrigan's blood staining his fingertips.

It aches to be apart from them. It aches to shut them out, to close the door and keep the key out of reach, but this... this is for their own good. This is safer-- this ensures they will not share a space with a monster who masks as a healer, desperate to pour as much kindness out into the world as possible to make up for the ruin that sleeps in his veins.

This ensures that Kasra cannot hurt them, and that Kvasir cannot hurt them either.

...even so, his chest aches with more than just exhaustion, with more than just the torment he'd put his body through. Kvasir burrows further beneath the blankets, hugging one of the four pillows he's practically made a nest of closer to his chest as if it will be enough to chase off his heartbreak, ears flattened against his skull like it will be enough to drown out the knocking, the worried voice, anything at all.

It isn't, of course, and he knows it likely never will be.

They’d made it.

Even though Morrigan had acted with bravado and enough confidence to challenge a god, there were several moments where their venture that was supposed to be innocent and fun could have ended with their lives lost. Kasra could have killed Morrigan in that bleak, empty wasteland. The Girallon could have smashed them both into paste. What if, what if, what if.

But none of that even mattered, because they had made it out, and there was no point dwelling on the past. Hell, Morrigan cast aside bad memories the way people disposed of old coats with holes in them. The parents, that boring name, the weird quiet personality no one liked. If they got all up in a tizzy every time they were put in danger or got attacked because of their own hairbrained schemes then nothing would ever get done. For Morrigan, the incident was already forgotten, their only lament that they had still yet to have any form of picnic, especially considering the basket they’d pulled from the grab bag of wonders was left back there with the Girallon, who wouldn’t even properly appreciate the fine selection of artisanal cheeses and decadent sweets laden in that gingham cloth.

… So, why.

Why had Kvasir purchased two rooms for them?

It was hardly as if they couldn’t afford it- Morrigan was, more often than not, rolling in cash and could afford to take care of expenses when Kvasir could not. But it was always more fun to share a room, which was what they always did when they traveled together, because what was the point in seeing the world together if you were just going to be holed up in silence once the sun set?

Granted, they’d both been through a lot today- Morrigan still remembered the feeling of Kvasir’s composure finally crumbling in their arms on the ride back to Bleakfort, the way he shook like a leaf while he professed his gratefulness that Morrigan was alive. And Morrigan thought that would be the end of things. Saying what happened had sucked would be a monumental understatement, but they’d both survived, and Kvasir chided Morrigan for being a reckless idiot, and they were all okay.

They should have been okay.

Instead, Kvasir had paid for two rooms instead of one and shambled up the stairs like a man possessed- which probably was not the best metaphor to use at the moment despite the fact that it was an apt one. He didn’t even listen to Morrigan as he handed them the key and stiffly made his way to his own room, shutting the entire world out.

Or maybe he was locking himself away from the world.

And so Morrigan sat in their own room, cross-legged on the bed with a frown marring their features as they tried to figure out their next game plan. They’d tried knocking on his door and calling out to him, to no avail. Hell, they’d even tried the ‘I've broken my leg again and need healing’ excuse… only to receive silence in response.

The rejection hurt more than Morrigan wanted to admit. They weren’t used to forming genuine connections- superficial ones, like the kind of superficial friendship they had with the bard Cantio Von Lumen. There were business relationships, like Lady Kamille. But Kvasir was probably their first true friend. Given that they were well into their thirties and had been around the continent several times, this fact should have been sad. But the truth was that no one had cared like Kvasir, or made them laugh like he did. And now, all because of some stupid dead god who shouldn’t have even mattered anymore, Kvasir wanted to pull away.

They stared down at the tattered remains of their wizard jacket, one that they’d made so long ago, before they’d truly become who they were today.

Perhaps this was one old coat Morrigan wasn’t ready to cast away yet.

They neatly folded the wizard jacket up and set it on their bed, a new wave of determination hitting them. If Kvasir was determined to shut Morrigan away, whether because he’d finally decided he’d had enough of Morrigan’s own lies and deceit, or because he was afraid he’d hurt them of all things, then they would get to the root of it. It was all the more thankful that their room was right next to Kvasir’s, and if they understood the layout properly, then there were two windows connected by a very thin strip of stone jutting out from the wall. Small, but just big enough for a tiefling of Morrigan’s stature to shimmy across.

And, well… Morrigan prided themselves on their ability to be a problem.

A few minutes later, Kvasir would be startled by a sharp tapping sound- not at his door, but his window. And if he looked up, he would have seen Morrigan clinging to the wall for dear life, their face mashed against the glass in a manner that could only be described as ridiculous. They were also completely jacketless, wearing only a skirt from their trunk of clothes and a thin cotton shirt, looking every bit the shivering, pathetic, miserable little creature they felt in that moment.

But they would stand there and wait until Kvasir let them in.

The worst part of being left alone in this kind of silence is that it gives Kvasir too much time to think.

Usually, such things are a mercy; he savors every opportunity he has to get his thoughts in order, to keep everything in line, to string his memories together like fairy lights and ensure the connection burns strong. With a mind that's constantly failing him in the ways that it does, he'll take any chance he can get to try and keep it together, going over the stitches over and over and over again until there are no gaps left between them to tear into, even if he knows divine teeth are all too aware of where the seams are weakest.

But this silence feels so loud, his self-imposed solitude practically painful in everything it brings to the forefront, and if he was a weaker man with less experience with the sort of pain divinity can throw into the lives of those he lets too close, perhaps he'd let himself go fall right back into Morrigan's arms, as if he'd learned nothing from the hell they'd suffered today.

And yet, Kvasir has had his moment of weakness. He has let himself weep, he has let himself hold, and now, he will have to let himself let go.

He squeezes the pillow a little tighter, the fabric of the pillowcase damp against his cheek as he practically nuzzles into it, shoulders trembling all over again as he lets out a shaky whimper. Dear Solaria, he feels so pathetic; he's already resigned himself to what comes next, resigned himself to withdrawing from the one person who lights up his heart like fireflies in the Moonglade's clearings, but he still can't seem to stop crying over it.

Things were supposed to be different.

They had been getting better-- they really had been. Kvasir was finally getting better with introducing himself without slipping, his own name flowing from his tongue with more and more ease, with more confidence; he hadn't forgotten his father's name in ages, could keep his Mehr and Kasra's Sahar distinct in his mind more often than not, had a good hold on where he was going and what he was doing nearly every day. He'd thought Kasra's hold on his heart and mind was finally beginning to weaken, the forgotten god slipping away into obscurity once and for all, like a headache, like a bad dream.

Had he just been waiting for an opportunity like this the whole time? Had he just... been waiting in the shadows for the chance to leap forward and seize Kvasir's own body from him, all for the sake of killing the one person he could not erase from Kvasir's mind? How can Kvasir ever let Morrigan near him again, knowing that the capacity to deliver such a fate sleeps at his fingertips?

Hot tears rise up all over again, threatening to spill over, but they never get the chance to-- for as soon as Kvasir is about to fold over and break down crying all over again, there's the sound of a tap against the glass of his window. His ears perk just slightly, his shoulders protesting as he leans up to look, and... there, somehow, is Morrigan, barely managing to support themself against the windowpane, looking utterly ludicrous with their face pressed to the glass, their body shaking with the cold swirling all around them. They show no signs of being willing to leave, keeping that same idle pattern of tapping going and going and going, persistent as they've ever been.

Gods, if his face wasn't still wet with tears, he'd almost consider laughing.

Kvasir is quick to lift his arm to his face, rubbing away the lingering tear stains, willing the glassiness to leave his gaze, praying he can pass the despondence in his face off for exhaustion as he kicks the blankets back, shoving the pillow he'd been clinging to off to the side and stumbles to his feet. Even though Morrigan has a perfectly clear view of him, frost on the window pane allowing, he's still desperately trying to preserve some sense of normalcy-- he doesn't have time to tie his hair back up like he normally does, and it hangs down his shoulders in messy, feathery wisps, but it'll just have to work for now. It's a shame, really. He usually relies on those tiny, tight-knit braids he weaves into his ponytail to keep as many of those steadily-spreading white strands of hair out of sight, but there's no point in it, now.

Morrigan is well aware of most of the marks Kasra has left on his body, now; what's one more insignificant little thing?

He lets out a heavy sigh as he walks across the room, moving to tentatively unlatch the lock on the window, sliding the window upward and extending a hand forward to take Morrigan's to help them inside, unable to help but note that it is cold, deathly cold, stinging with the Frost Gale's brittle kiss, a brutal echo of mere hours before when Death had spun them around in a waltz that threatened not to return them--

Kvasir gasps, pulling his hand back as though he's been burned, his eye wide and wild as he takes a few shuddering breaths. His shoulders tense, drawn up in a tight line, and he quickly rushes forward to close the window once more, his palm shaking against the lock once again as he takes a few more shaky breaths. It takes a minute before he's able to turn around, his arms wrapped tightly around himself as he turns to look at the man he nearly brought to ruin hours before-- like sunlight, like fire, like the doubt that creeps in so steadily.

"...Morrigan Moonweaver," he finally manages, beginning as he always does, his eye dismal, voice quiet and raspy with the echo of all the tears he's shed today. It's hard to look at them, but he tries to anyway. "...What in Charon do you think you're doing? You-- shouldn't you be getting some rest...?"

In theory, perching outside Kvasir’s window until he let them in was a good idea. In practice, however, they were cold and miserable and from the third story of the inn, dangling precariously from a window probably was not the best idea. Especially considering there was a chance that Kvasir would stubbornly refuse to let Morrigan in through the window as he had through the door- Morrigan was counting on him to take pity on their tiny, miserable and snow-covered appearance and let them in before they so cruelly froze to death.

This turned out to be the case, as Kvasir eventually pulled himself up with the long-suffering practice of someone who was used to dealing with Morrigan’s bullshit. His hair was down- Morrigan could make out the strands of white playing through it more prominently now, and couldn’t help but wonder if this was because of the stress Kvasir kept complaining about every time he scolded Morrigan for doing something reckless and irresponsible.

… Suddenly a heart attack by the age of forty seemed a worrying possibility.

But then Kvasir opened his window, and extended a hand to Morrigan to help him in. Morrigan grinned, grateful for that small piece of familiarity, but just as their hand brushed against his own, he immediately pulled away like the contact with Morrigan’s skin was poison. They frowned, thoughtful as Kvasir immediately closed the window, shoulders trembling with each breath he took. Withdrawn. He attempted some form of normalcy when he finally spoke, but it wouldn’t have taken a liar as practiced as Morrigan to spot that he’d been crying, enough so that his voice sounded as hoarse as if he’d swallowed glass.

And Morrigan hesitated.

Admittedly, even though they’d planned this, they hadn’t really thought about what would happen once they were inside. They opened their mouth, a thousand things swirling around in their mind that they could say. But once more, the concept of genuine emotion eluded them. Morrigan could lie and flatter as easily as the rest of them, but for some reason, asking if Kvasir was okay seemed an entirely impossible question to ask. And a stupid one. Of course Kvasir wasn’t alright! Any blind idiot could take one look at him and see that he looked like death warmed over.

So Morrigan defaulted to what they knew.

“I, uh…” For someone who had so confidently declared their hatred of a god to his face, Morrigan sure was having a difficult time picking their words now. Instead, they reached into their pocket, pulling out a vial. “I wanted to show you this. I put some snow in a health potion to see what would happen, and…” They now uncorked the bottle of glittering, swirling pink snow, and sparkling snowlings fell to Kvasir’s floor before picking themselves up and scuttling around Kvasir’s feet.

That much was the truth, at least. During Morrigan’s boredom while Kvasir had been isolated in his room, the stillness had gotten far too overwhelming, so Morrigan decided to go for a walk and stretch their legs. Jittery with unexplained nerves, they’d decided to strike up a scam, something familiar- but when they’d gone to pour some snow into a health potion and dilute it, these creatures had happened instead. They were cute enough, and so Morrigan had collected them back into the bottle, only to bring them back out now in an attempt to put a smile on Kvasir’s face. That was something they knew how to do.

Or so they thought.

The budding worry blossomed to concern when Kvasir remained silent, only managing a weak twitch of the lips at the sight of the tiny little sparkle-snowlings attempting to paw at his feet. Morrigan was suddenly struck with the feeling that this endeavor was not working. But what the hell were you supposed to do when you couldn’t patch things up with humor and a grin that was beginning to feel less effortless by the second?

They sighed, running a hand through their hair. “... That was stupid.” They murmured softly. They took a moment to compose themselves, attempting to put together some semblance of a mask- anything to bring back that charm that had enchanted Kvasir on their first meeting. Why the hell was the conversation with Kasra easier than this one?

“Look, Kvasir Sigurros.” They began, the words somewhat stilted and awkward, but as genuine as someone like them could muster. “I know you’re upset about what happened. But if you think that you can get away with playing this self-sacrificial game, then you’re dead wrong. I didn’t ask for your protection- I asked for your company and your friendship, and I refuse to be locked away for my own safety again.”

Oh. They hadn’t meant to say that last part.

Before Kvasir could ask anything, Morrigan breezed past him, taking a stubborn seat on his bed, an unspoken message that they would not be removed so easily. “I know this is some grand, lovably stupid attempt to keep me at arms distance. You probably think it’s for my own good. But I’m insulted that you just assumed what I wanted. When have I ever cared about risk, Kvasir Sigurros?”

They stared up at him, forcing him to meet their gaze. Their eyes were no longer harsh and cold, like hell frozen over- now, they were simply concerned, and perhaps even a little bit hurt. Not upset that Kvasir had hurt them, but angry at being pushed away after the fact.

A thousand different things have collectively united to break Kvasir's heart today-- too many things to name at this point, really-- but somehow, nothing seems to hurt quite as badly as watching Morrigan Moonweaver hesitate.

For as long as Kvasir has known them, from the moment the two of them met beneath the ethereal glow of the Lantern Light Wood, he has never known them to be the kind of person to waver; they are always moving forward, always carried forth by whim and whimsy, nothing ever seeming to deter them. They hardly ever even seem to care when things shouldn't be going their way. Logic seems to fall at their feet, the rules of the world sometimes bending just to accommodate them and their bold, unabashed brilliance; only they could strike fear into a creature that couldn't understand such a concept, only they could pry a miracle right out of the ribs of defeat, only they could press hope into the hands of a boy who'd long-since lost all of it beneath fog and golden sand.

But here they stand, trailing off before their sentences can begin-- here they stand, smaller and more unsure than Kvasir has ever seen them, the magic they bring into a room just by breathing left outside in the snow. There are some miracles even the most glorious of mages cannot perform, and it seems his darling diviner, enchanter, and heart attack can't quite work this one.

Oh, still, it does not stop them from trying.

On any other day, before all of this, the odd little creatures that Morrigan sets loose onto the floor would summon up an easy laugh from Kvasir; they're sweet, cute little things, pale as carnations and sparkly as the pocketfuls of glitter that line Morrigan's pockets, but where the usual temptation to scoop them up and coo and fawn over them-- fawn over Morrigan and their talent, too-- would spring forth, there's a hollowness festering instead, spreading down so deep he can't see how far it goes. He fights to force a smile, but sorrow is etched into his face like old runes, a lost text of tragedy laid bare.

Gods, why must he be like this? Why can't he just get it together and force a smile and laugh along until the inevitable news comes that this can't last?

Kvasir is halfway through shaking his head, halfway through opening his mouth for another well-deserved apology when Morrigan speaks up, their voice shifting, tone sharp but sincere and so, so strange because he's never heard them speak that way before. It isn't harsh, but it's achingly vulnerable, the words direct and a bit stilted but packed with so much meaning all the same, a fiery insistence steadily kindling behind it as the words keep flowing, as they keep talking-- all until they seem to think they've said too much, and there's a brief pause, a moment of realization, of remorse.

Again?

And yet, Morrigan parries before Kvasir can even lift a blade; they speak quickly, sharper now, more sure of what they're saying as they lay everything on the table, leaving no room for delay in the equation. Kvasir may be no stranger to a fight, but Morrigan is the one who knows close-quarters, and they give him no room for escape-- their gaze is piercing. It is not unkind, but those glacial eyes are fixed on him, burning with questions, burning with sorrow, with what can only be a lingering ache. That alone is enough to make Kvasir wince, wilting like a morning glory in dusk, his tail painfully still and his ears pressed flat against his skull, the very picture of some pitiful, cornered creature with no defenses left to dive behind.

"...I think 'upset' is... quite the understatement," he elects to say, lips tightening into that thin, frustrated line as he turns his next words over in his head, arms still wrapped around himself like they'd be enough of a shield. "...He... I..."

Another shaky, pained breath punches its way from his lungs.

"...I nearly got you killed," he whispers, voice tight with effort to prevent any more tears from falling, that lone eye wide and wild and haunted with ghosts yet to perish. "I-- If I had j-just told you about h-him before, then-- then maybe this wouldn't have happened-- but instead I just assumed things would be fine and then he showed up and decided to try and kill you, a-and you're being so damned nonchalant about it--"

There's one more pause, one more desperate, hopeless attempt for Kvasir to compose himself, though he knows it's futile. His heart aches too deeply and the sorrow is all-consuming, and he swears he can feel, somewhere in the corners of his consciousness, the ghost of dead laughter and a snide promise.

"...what if I'd woken up an hour later...?" Kvasir practically chokes on the words, they sting so badly to say. "W-What if he-- I'd.. I'd hit you a few centimeters to the side, instead...? M-Morrigan Moonweaver, do you think I ever could've forgiven myself if I woke up in the middle of the World Crown with no memory of how I got there with your corpse on top of me? E-Even if I could bring you back, I..."

I could turn back time, but I couldn't really take that back.

That final thought goes unspoken.

It was unfortunate that the sparkling-snowlings were still scuttering around Kvasir’s feet, demanding to be held and cuddled, while the dam holding back Kvasir’s flood of emotions finally snapped, demanding to know why Morrigan wasn’t angry about what had happened, how they could be so normal when there had only been a few seconds between Morrigan’s life or death.

“I don’t understand what you mean.” And truly, they didn’t. “You didn’t nearly get me anything. Kasra tried to kill me, and you were an unfortunate bystander. Would it have helped if I knew about him beforehand? Perhaps, but I do now, and that will not change what happened in the past. And I am all the more prepared for it should it happen again.” Would it? Kvasir and Kasra both seemed to act like this was something that happened frequently, but Morrigan, for all their lies and bravado, really had no idea how deities worked, nor possession.

In the end, though, they supposed the logistics of it didn't matter. Kasra could attempt to show up and fool Morrigan again, but they would be ready to be the only thing standing between a god and his goal once more, no matter what it took to prevent that horrible parasite in Kvasir's body from reaching the White Sand Sea.

One of the snowlings eventually got tired of dashing around on the floor and attempted to crawl up the bed- Morrigan scooped the strange little creature up and settled it in their lap. They idly ran their fingers along the never-melting snow before looking back up at Kvasir, still wearing that hopelessly despondent expression on his face, as if he truly were imagining what it would be like if he hadn’t awakened sooner.

“Stop that.” Morrigan said, not quite sharp but firm, commanding Kvasir’s attention. As if saying, look at me, I’m alive. Do not prematurely bury me up in those mountains. I am your friend, not a martyr to further your fears. “Do you blame the arrow for striking an enemy? Why would I ever think any of this was your fault? Your only crime, Kvasir Sigurros, is keeping secrets, and I would never begrudge you for that.” They would be a hypocrite if they did.

“I don’t trust any man who claims they have none.” They added, after a moment’s thought.

“Obviously what happened was horrible, and painful. But it is done, and wounds were made on both sides. Don’t think for a second that I don’t regret having to injure you so.” They may have been a reckless bastard at the best of times, but that gambit had been a roll of the dice, one Morrigan shouldn’t have had to make. It had been necessary at the time, but there had still been the lingering doubt that Kvasir would not have been able to heal himself when he woke up. “And now that I know about Kasra, I will not be made a fool by him again.”

They continued on before Kvasir could get another word in, determination as sharp as the knife they’d used to sever Kvasir’s spine. That particular weapon, along with Morrigan’s sickle and their potions, had been left deliberately in their room. Morrigan refused to walk on eggshells around the most harmless person they’d ever met. “And you can try to remove me from your room all you want, but I’m not going anywhere. I’m spending the night here tonight.”

But Kvasir still looked utterly crestfallen- Morrigan could attempt to hang the moon and stars in the sky for him once more for him and create miracles, but Kvasir was just as sad and scared and lonely as he’d looked when Morrigan forced their way inside. Morrigan’s words were doing nothing when Kvasir held this much guild on his shoulders, an impossibly heavy burdened that godsdamned deity had placed upon him, and Morrigan’s worst fears about Kasra were confirmed. Something like this had happened before, and Kvasir had once been left behind to pick up the broken pieces that Kasra had made of his life.

Or perhaps Kvasir was just so tired of trying to fix the things Kasra had broken that he no longer wanted to try.

Morrigan’s features softened as they whispered, “Oh, my dear medic, what has he done to you…?”

Morrigan does not need to admit they do not understand for Kvasir to know that they don't.

They speak of everything that has transpired so easily, as if they can cleanly distinguish between the sins staining Kasra's hands and Kvasir's, as if the same two souls don't swirl within the same body, as if two sets of memories don't melt freely into one another like candy left in the sun, sticky, golden caramel pouring over fading traces of chocolate until the latter is only faintly there. They look at Kvasir like a different set of hands had delivered a light-born blade between their shoulders, like it hadn't been his magic that had split through their body in all the same ways it usually stitches it back together, and he almost can't stand it. He can't stand the gentility, the kindness that still swirls in those eyes, all the color and urgency of a forget-me-not entangled in their irises.

Even hearing Morrigan say that they don't mind, that they know now, that they can prepare for a next time-- something about it makes nausea blossom within Kvasir's stomach, a toxic flower unfurling through him, thorns and petals and poison all jolting through his gold-stained veins. He digs his fingertips into his arms, focusing on the pinch of his nails against fabric against skin, desperately clinging to something to ground him, to prevent him from spiraling all over against into that pit of empty sickness.

"...I-- I don't want it to happen again," he admits weakly, his voice still a shaking, pathetic thing, a leaf caught in a thunderstorm it was never meant to brave. He sinks to the floor, albeit carefully, not wanting to harm the glistening snowlings still playing around his ankles; he opts just to sit down in as compressed a position as possible, knees folded, tail curled around himself, as small as a man of his stature can be, gaze firmly fixed on the tiny, twinkling creatures vying for his attention. "Th-This... Something like this has never happened before. I didn't even know it could happen. But now that I know it can, I-I... I don't know what to do. I trust myself even less to fall asleep, I--"

Kvasir trails off, taking another shuddering breath as he watches one of the snowlings try to climb up onto his knee. He swallows, forcing another inhalation as he reaches to pick up the sparkling little creature, letting it settle in his palm as he sweeps a gentle fingertip over it, the chill of its body a pleasantly grounding distraction from his distress.

But even the snowling feels warm against his skin in contrast to the chill that clamors through his blood as Morrigan announces, in that resolute way they so often do, that they will be spending their night here, as if they dare Kvasir to try and get them to leave. And, knowing Morrigan and all their tenacity, all the ways they cling and refuse to let go when determination roots itself within them, Kvasir is well aware he cannot simply usher them out, cannot simply persuade them to leave-- they'll worm their way back in, no matter what it takes. That knowledge makes his skin go cold, his heart practically stopping, breath hitching in his throat with the pure fear that lances through him.

"...M-Morrigan Moonweaver," he whispers, voice as flat and serious as he can force it to be. He's still unable to lift his gaze. "You-- What if he comes back and tries something while you're asleep...? I-I-- please--"

He practically chokes on the sob that tears its way from his throat, the thought of having control of his own body torn from him again overpowering in its awfulness, all-consuming. No matter how desperately he fights to keep himself assembled, pressing puzzle pieces flat against any surface he can find to keep the picture from crumbling, the seams won't stay together, the portrait falling apart. He can't do it, can't live with the worry of falling asleep like normal and waking up with a cold body beside him, can't live with the fear of having someone he cares about so deeply torn not only from his hands but from this world, too.

For the fifteenth time that night, Kvasir breaks down in tears, and not even the sweet, gentle concern of Morrigan's voice is enough to break him out of it.

"What has he done to you...?"

Kvasir almost wants to laugh.

---

"I don't understand why you all keep talking about him like he's a lost cause."

Mehr's voice is sharper than he's ever heard it, biting, a bladed weapon with a deeper cut than any scimitar he's ever wielded, a burning ray of desert heat instead of the sun's gentle glow. He's difficult to see from here, from where Kvasir is buried beneath two blankets, feigning sleep as well as he possibly can, but with every glance he sneaks, he can see the tension rippling through those strong shoulders, the fire in those amber eyes as he stares down his mother's impassive face.

Sariya Mirzadeh's eyes are cold as the moon, her lips drawn into a neutral line, the heat-aged lines of her face shifting just so as she surveys the anger blossoming like a desert flower through her son's body. It's as strange to see her this way as it is to see Mehr angry-- she is harsh, strict, but never cold, her rough edges followed by cotton and water.

"You do know," she says simply. "We all do. The signs are all in place, ya zghiri. He's fading, and he is fading fast."

There's a beat of silence, stretched thin, a tense and fraying thread, and then Mehr's voice cleaves through it again.

"Quit talking about him like he's-- like he's already dead!"

"In a way, child, he is."

"He--"

"Your grandmother left her final prayers for him with Niloufar this morning. He no longer remembers our goddess's name, and it took him thirty minutes to realize that he'd been referring to you by the name of Sahar in a conversation with your father last night. Thirty minutes, Mehr."

"That--"

"Half of an hour. Last time, it only took him three."

There's another heavy pause, long, unforgiving. The silence hangs in the air and refuses to leave, and Kvasir starts to wonder if this woman and her son have merely ended their conversation here before one of their voices raises up again, hushed and solemn and grieving, ready to bury a boy who's yet to take his final breath.

"...you need to make preparations to let go, ya zghiri. When the sands take hold of something, they never release them. If things are as we suspect, then... then we need to accept that there is nothing mere mortals can do to challenge the will of a god."

---

The memory melts away with a tangle of voices, with the distant, familiar feeling of calloused fingers in his hair, slow and gentle but resigned, the last kind touches delivered to a man on his deathbed. His ears twitch, chasing the ghost of a ghost, before they come to rest as usual, flattened down against his unkempt hair. It takes a minute to process that Morrigan has asked him a question, that they're still waiting on an answer, and even so, he falters, caught up in choked-breath silence for a long few moments before he can force the words.

"...where do I begin...?" Kvasir whispers, finally glancing up to Morrigan, the question broken but genuine.

Really, where the hell does he begin?

The silence stretched out while Kvasir clung to himself as if he alone could stand as the anchor preventing him from drifting off into the white sand seas. In a small voice, he admitted that he didn’t want a repeat occurrence. He was shaky as he eventually sat on the floor, unable to even trust his own feet to carry his weight. Morrigan swallowed, unable to find the right words. Eventually, they came all on their own.

“Then trust me.”

Those were not the words any criminal should be allowed to utter. Morrigan’s word was as sturdy as foundations built on sand, and lies spilled out as easily as the breath from their lungs. And yet, this much they were sure about.

But Kvasir begged, pleading Morrigan with not so many words that it would be easier for them to leave. Morrigan had never seen him so unsure in the course of their friendship, so broken that he was unable to even raise his head to meet Morrigan’s eyes. And so Morrigan, the liar, had to find some small part of themselves that was still honest, a part of that young, bright-eyed child that Morrigan thought they’d killed long ago.

That child- Kaivalya- was unnecessary.

They were naive. Weak.

… Honest.

Kaivalya would have reached out to Kvasir with soft hands that had yet to learn how to shuffle cards and spoken with a soft tone that had yet learned how to lie. Morrigan often found themselves disgusted with the things Kaivalya would have done, but right now, that was what Kvasir needed.

So Morrigan picked themselves up from Kvasir’s bed and sat on the ground next to him instead, pressing themselves to his side. The little sparkle-snowlings, the traitors, all fled from Morrigan’s side to Kvasir’s while Morrigan pulled him into a hug. It was not the kind of hug Morrigan was used to, the kind that ended by divesting some poor sap of his wallet. This was like the hug that Kvasir had given Morrigan back in the Lantern Light Wood, when he was so distraught over their injuries that he needed to reassure himself that they were tangible and alive.

“... Trust in me to watch over you.” Morrigan assured him. “To chase Kasra away from your dreams. He will not have any place here tonight, or any night, if I have anything to say about it.” Their voice was, for a moment, uncharacteristically quiet before they flashed Kvasir a small, amused grin. “And if he does, then I’ll just shoo him away again. There are many words I would use to describe that parasite, but actor is not one of them.”

The act had tricked them, only for a moment- because somewhere along the line, feelings like concern and care had taken root in their mind, and prevented them from thinking clearly. It was… difficult, reconciling the realization that they were capable of these things, and even more concerning that it had so easily affected their rationality. Morrigan was not always the smartest person, but they were shrewd, and the loss stung.

Because Morrigan now had a weakness, and Kasra knew it.

But Kasra would not trick them again.

Kvasir lapsed into silence, as if he hadn’t even heard what Morrigan said. He simply stared at his lap for a long time, before his ears twitched and he looked up at Morrigan, so overwhelmed that he couldn’t even seem to gather his own thoughts. Morrigan’s tail twitched as they thought about what to ask- Kvasir had put the wheel in their hands, and it was now upon them to steer this ship.

“Let’s start small.” They said eventually. They had a feeling that this was going to be a rather long night, and there was a rather long story to all of this. How could there not be? Morrigan was certain it was not a long and pleasant road that had led up to this… possession, and it seemed like things hadn’t gotten any easier, after. They doubted Kvasir had much opportunity to tell it, either. That was just fine. Morrigan could sift through this fractured story and listen for as long as Kvasir needed.

And perhaps they would write it down later, once this was all said and done, and after Kvasir had cried himself to sleep. Morrigan had written stories for others before, epic poems for dark mistresses and heroic tales of their own exploits (and all of those had been lies, too), but this story would be different. If Kasra wanted Kvasir to disappear, then Morrigan would only work twice as hard to make sure that didn’t happen. It was only one small step towards ensuring that this accursed deity did not erase him from existence, but all of Charon would remember Kvasir Sigurros, as told by Morrigan Moonweaver- enchanter, diviner, and storyteller.

But those were thoughts for later.

For now, Morrigan would listen.

“Let’s start with how this happened to you.”

Kvasir is not entirely certain what he expects Morrigan to do in response to all the pleas he's choked on, to every admission of his fears, to all the talk of the divine game he's been so unwillingly dragged into, but it most certainly does not involve them moving down to settle beside him, their arms wrapping around him in an embrace that can only be described as loving.

His breath hitches once more, but there's no ache behind it, this time.

There's so much softness in their voice, a desperation behind the assurance-- just as they are promising him something, they are begging to be believed, begging Kvasir to trust that divine hands cannot strike them down, that they are safe with him and he is safe with them. That gentle urgency, bound together with that sweet softness, settles over him like a warm blanket, as comforting as the very feeling of their arms around his shoulders, of their body pressed against his, and--

"Okay," he breathes, his voice tight. "Okay."

Even in the moment that follows, he cannot force himself to lay the story out immediately-- he hesitates, the words caught in his throat before they can even spring free. It's strange to speak of something he's only ever acknowledged in writing, something no other breathing being knows of; he has no way of gauging how Morrigan may respond, no way of knowing if this will be too much, if this may be the thing that truly pushes them away, but... they had asked Kvasir for his trust. They had asked him to give them his trust, and Kvasir is far from a pious man, but there's no one else he'd sooner lay his faith before.

He takes one more deep breath.

"...You... already know I did not grow up in Zeinav," Kvasir begins slowly, carefully, starting with the safest thing he can think to start with, the easiest thing. "I... journeyed there when I was younger, with... someone very important to me. A, um. My. Former fiance, in fact."

He forces a weak laugh, as if the notion is absurd, though he doesn't know which part it could be-- if it's the thought that he didn't spend the entirety of his life in the desert he so clearly adore, the thought that a boy so young could run across the continent for another, the thought that he'd loved and been loved in turn, even if it hadn't lasted. There's no humor in it, the sound fragile, threatening to shatter as soon as it sounds, but it's something he needs, something to break up the tension in the story, something to make it even slightly easier to tell.

"...His name was... is Mehr, and he was... son to the chief of a nomadic tribe in the White Sand Sea," Kvasir continues, pausing every few seconds to string the details together, embarrassment over how fuzzy it all still is flashing across his face. Oh, how strange it must look to claim to have loved someone once, only to barely remember something as simple as their birthright. "And... I lived among them for years. I thought I'd live with them for the rest of my life, but I... I found this... strange thing, one morning, when I was looking for some kind of fruit. This... hourglass of sorts, I think. I can barely remember it, but I do remember that it gave me this terrible feeling, like if I went anywhere near it, something terrible would happen, so I just... ignored it and kept looking for what I'd come there for. But no matter where I went, it kept showing up. Like it was... following me."

Another laugh falls from his lips, this one hysterical, pained, accompanied by a shudder. Oh, of all the things that have been pried from his mind, he remembers that all too clearly-- the dread that had stirred within him at the realization, the desperation to go, to get home, to finish his work and get out--

"...I... I don't remember how, but somehow, in my efforts to avoid it, my hand brushed against it," he whispers, tone hushed and haunted. "And... And I remember so much pain. The worst pain of my life, and all this screaming, and... waking up a week later in Mehr's lap, unable to see out of one eye and... barely knowing who I was. I knew my name and Kasra's. I knew love for my fiance and grief for people I can't have ever known. I knew the people around me and I didn't at the same time, and... and everyone in that room with us started grieving me before I was ever really gone."

Kvasir tilts his head, a shaky, exhausted sigh leaving him as he rests his cheek against Morrigan's shoulder.

"...He started taking my memories. All of them. As many as he could. There's so much I no longer know about myself, I-- I've forgotten my own name so many times, now," he murmurs, two lifetimes of agony poured into the words. A moment passes before he manages one more bitter laugh, this one not entirely forced, a tiny drop of stardust glimmering in that dismal eye. "...the night that we met, after you went to sleep, the very first thing I did was write as much as I could about you in the journal I keep on hand."

He lifts his chin up, a tiny, pained smile pulling at the corners of his lips as he meets Morrigan's eyes-- the ground and sky, the earthly tether to their unfettered heaven, the point where the stars fade as morning climbs up over the horizon to greet all Charon's people.

"Even then, I knew I couldn't ever stand to let him make me forget you."

They nodded along as Kvasir told his story in short, halted sentences with the hesitancy of someone who wasn’t even sure of what they were saying. Within time, Morrigan understood why. That Kasra wasn’t content to simply push Kvasir’s own loved ones away, but to erase his memories of them entirely-

Suddenly, a lot of pieces fell together. Signs that Morrigan had picked up on during their first few meetings, the very things about Kvasir Sigurros that had intrigued the charlatan, but had never managed to quite fit into any comprehensive picture.

The way he flinched at his name.

The way he spoke about Zeinav.

The lost lover, one he never spoke of but Morrigan had managed to pick up on all the same.

All those roads led back to Kasra, and that horrid creature’s meddling. Morrigan kept their face passive as Kvasir continued on, starting with the hourglass, and that horrible sickly feeling that he felt upon looking at it, but on the inside, a sickly kind of anger had seized them, the exact hatred they’d felt upon meeting Kasra in the first place. If Morrigan was a leech, then Kasra was a worm, a horrible wriggling maggot that had latched into the nearest host and refused to let go until they’d sucked all the energy out.

Morrigan had met vampires before, and they somehow seemed more pleasant than… this.

And then the story shifted to their first meeting, and Kvasir described how he’d recorded all these thoughts in a journal so he would not forget. Kvasir, who supposedly couldn’t even remember his own name often times, had found their meeting important enough to note down every little detail, as if that were somehow more important than himself. And then he finally flashed Morrigan that smile that seemed to be reserved just for them, even as pinched as it was-

And that was the first time Morrigan experienced what it was like to be spellbound.

Perhaps it was because of where the night had taken them, or all of these lingering vulnerable thoughts that once belonged to Kaivalya bouncing around in their mind, but for once, Morrigan didn’t respond with their initial, flirtatious thoughts. The temptation to respond with a dry of course you’ll remember me withered away and died as they stared at the earnest expression on Kvasir’s face. He’d put his heart in Morrigan’s hands, and gently asked them not to break it, and Morrigan was not sure what to do with it now.

Their brow furrowed as their own words from earlier replayed in their mind.

Love me or hate me, Kvasir Sigurros will remember me.

They’d proclaimed that with such confidence, and yet.

“I don’t… understand.” They mumbled. “All I did was give you a couple of kind words and some glitter. How could that make that much of-“ Their voice cracked as they suddenly found themselves unable to ask what was on the forefront of their mind.

How could I make that much of an impression that you would go to such painstaking lengths not to forget me?

And then, another, darker thought- that if Kasra could not simply purge Kvasir’s memories of Morrigan, then he would resort to more drastic measures. Barbaric tactics, as he might put it.

Within that story though, Morrigan realized something- an odd little thought, barely worth paying attention to, but something that had bothered them nonetheless. Kvasir described that artifact, the hourglass, as something that had seemingly followed him around. Not something he stumbled upon by random chance. When Kasra had introduced himself with somehow more horrible monikers than even Morrigan used, he’d listed Patron God of the Foxes as one of his divine titles.

It could have been a coincidence.

Morrigan didn’t believe in such things.

Divine fate and chance were things they’d stopped believing in after learning under Madam Medb. Every seemingly random tarot card that seemed just too good to be true was a careful manipulation made by skilled hands, and every prediction was made after careful observation and leading questions. Fake potions were sold after you convinced the buyer they couldn’t live without your product. Their bread and butter was concealing lies within fate, creating coincidence where there was none- and Morrigan smelled something fishy here.

But they needed to be sure before they brought it up. Kvasir was beginning to sound more like himself as he slowly regained his composure, and Morrigan couldn’t break that down.

“Answer a question for me, if you wouldn’t mind, my dear Kvasir Sigurros.” Another pointed use of his name. They’d always made it a point to use it, but never known why Kvasir sometimes showed discomfort at the fact. “Your… vulpine features.” Their eyes flicked upwards briefly to stare at Kvasir’s nervously twitching ears, “I realize I have never asked. Were you born with foxfolk blood, or was this a result of Kasra’s… possession?”

They had a budding theory in their mind that Kasra’s choice of host might not have been as random as Kvasir might believe.

Their grip tightened protectively around Kvasir in response to the thought.

There's a second, however brief, where some of the sorrow dispels from Kvasir's features at the muted surprise Morrigan's voice adopts, the sheer disbelief that leaks into their tone over the idea that they could come to mean so much to him so quickly-- where solemnity once lingered, shock of his own comes to play, settling in to take root for as long as it can before Kvasir chases it away, his hand rising up to nudge at Morrigan's cheek, urging them to meet his eyes once more.

"How could you not?" he laughs, softly, quietly, the sound sweet and genuine, closer to his normal tone of voice than anything else he's said the entire day. For a moment, just this moment, once and only once, that fondness he always regards Morrigan with creeps right back into his expression, unburdened by guilt-- his eye is alight, that ghost of a smile on his face springing to life as he reaches for one of Morrigan's hands, interlacing their fingers and giving a gentle squeeze. For just that moment, it's easy to forget about the blizzard whirling outside the window, about the blood staining both their hands, about the bitter memories hanging in the air; for a moment, it feels like another day, another journey laden with banter and gentle, easy companionship, the way it always was. "You... you worked a miracle that night, Morrigan Moonweaver. You made me feel like I... mattered."

In the life Kvasir Sigurros lived before meeting a fallen lilac star, he had been content to wander, to travel, never sowing seeds, never planting roots, well aware that his name and face would fade to the back of strangers' minds by the end of a conversation with them, his existence little more than a wisp of a possibility once he'd departed for the next place. It was a life he'd forced himself to be fine with, a life he had no choice but to be fine with; if a storm would tear through the garden anyway, why should he bother planting seeds? Why should he try getting anyone to remember him, to know his face or name or anything about him? Why should he try to pretend that he could matter to someone when divine claws tore at the fabric of his existence with every waking moment?

But then starlight had breached through the canopy of leaves he hid beneath, silhouetting him in a silver that followed him no matter where he went. That star had wished to know him, had spoken his name like it meant something, over and over and over, and in that gentle lavender light, Kvasir had felt as though for once, he could wander out of those woods unforgotten.

It was hardly so simple, of course; Morrigan had done so much more than merely provide Kvasir with some sense of importance, more than merely bring a smile to his face. They'd dived in to save his life, carefully commanding the attention of a dangerous creature at every risk to themself, all for a stranger's sake, and... and they hadn't needed a speck of their magic for Kvasir to be hopelessly, impossibly charmed, wrapped around their finger like one of those pretty, serpentine silver rings.

"...you're important to me," he whispers, that weariness slipping back into his tone as he rests back against Morrigan's shoulder, his eyelid heavy. "I knew you were. I knew you would be. And that's why I... I can't let him hurt you."

Kvasir lapses into silence, then, his eye sliding shut as he leans into Morrigan's warmth, a heavy sigh leaving him as he lets himself relax against the steady pillar of their body. As uncomfortable and rigid as the floor beneath them is, his body still aches, his mind heavy with the fog of exhaustion, and in this moment, despite the cloying little voices of panic still clawing at his brain, he feels warm and safe and so close to toppling off this ledge, so close to letting himself be weak and rest despite how afraid he still is.

But then Morrigan asks their question, and Kvasir... pauses.

"...Now that is one thing I can answer with confidence," he says, trying to force another half-hearted chuckle, though the weakness behind this one is just as apparent as ever. "I was born this way-- one of the memories I wish he'd gotten rid of for me is all the times I'd trip over my own tail when I was little. My dad's like this, and... I..."

He pauses, his brow furrowing as he tries to force some mental image of his ever-elusive mother to spring to mind, trying to conjure up some idea of her in his head-- there's only a blank space when he tries to think of her, no defining features coming to mind, no colors, no angles, nothing. He gave up on trying to remember what her name was ages ago, but he'd at least like to try to remember the portrait his father owned-- the one he'd commissioned not long before she'd passed, the one that had hung in the hallway of the stairwell of their house for some unknown amount of time.

"...I think my mother... might have been?" he resolves to say, though he's clearly quite unsure. "I... I don't know. But either way... why do you ask?"

It's a strange question for Morrigan to ask, but it's not something they would ask without reason-- and that, combined with the way they pull Kvasir a little closer against them, protective, adoring, but ready to rise to his defense, almost, is enough to send a nervous shiver up his spine.

What's going through Morrigan's head...?

It turned out, the answer was more simple than they thought. For someone who had said only hours ago that they needed no complicated reason to enjoy another’s presence, it almost took an embarrassingly long time for Morrigan to believe that same courtesy to be extended to them. They knew Kvasir liked them, of course. They were not so blind as to miss that they held Kvasir’s affections, and that his fondness for them made him blind to certain aspects of Morrigan’s life. Hell, Kasra had even hinted as such. But there was a difference between knowing that Morrigan’s charisma and flowery prose accompanied by a bit of moonshine had rightfully intrigued a person as intended, and knowing that they had known, upon first meeting, that you would be the only thing standing between them and a god.

Morrigan was used to being looked upon with awe and delight- in the minds of the simple people of Zeinav they were something to be touted and put on a pedestal, adored as longingly as one might gaze upon the distant moon. They adored that respect, reveled in it.

This felt like something else.

They remembered that night in the Lantern Light Woods well. Kvasir had been intriguing, a curiosity that Morrigan wanted to crack. They wanted to know more about him, wanted to appear like that distant deity, the part they’d created for themselves. And yet, Kvasir had made a monument to them all because Morrigan had shown him basic kindness and good conversation. He had somehow decided even from that one night that Morrigan was important enough to remember over his own name, the details of his own life that still remained fuzzy.

“I… well, of course you are important.” Morrigan’s voice was distant, though they did not pull away from this embrace. The uncomfortable wooden floor panels were digging into their legs, a reminder of how uncomfortable this spot was, but they would not move. “You are important to me.”

Maybe not then, but he certainly was now. Somewhere along the line Kvasir Sigurros had become just as much a part of Morrigan’s mantra as they had his.

The moon took its light from the sun.

Morrigan shined because they now had someone to shine for.

It was a strange feeling.

“I will always remember you.” They added quietly. That much was the truth. Kvasir Sigurros had been an unexpected contingency, the kind of surprise you got when you mixed up potion components to see what would happen and ended up with a powerful brew. Morrigan did not copy down their recipes. Their alchemy expertise was slapdashed together from Madam Medb’s training and practice during their years in the circus. When they brewed potions, the real ones, it was all based on feeling and intuition. There had been successes and failures, the latter far more than the former, but Morrigan would craft until they accidentally created something wonderful.

Meeting Kvasir, the unexpected chemistry they had, had created an accidental reaction, and now Morrigan was stuck trying to deal with these… feelings that had blossomed from it.

“Even if you forget yourself, I will be there to remember everything you tell me, and I will regale you with these stories whenever you need to hear." They remembered the medical stories that Kvasir had told them. They remembered his stories about his home in Moonglade with his father, and the tales of his travels in Zeinav. All of these tales Morrigan had collected- and they would covet those stories if need be, to treasure them when Kvasir couldn't.

Kvasir hadn’t yet seemed to forget his name in the time Morrigan had known him. By all accounts, his mind had been… stable, until his health rapidly began to decline right before that fateful encounter earlier today. Morrigan could remember he had difficulty recalling things, growing more sluggish until the point that he passed out. Had Kvasir been dealing with that for all these years? Trying to grasp at concepts he should remember, only to come up blank? That existence sounded hellish.

Kvasir then hesitantly answered Morrigan’s question, sounding slightly unsure, ears flicking in concentration as he tried to even recall his own mother’s appearance. The answer, though, confirmed Morrigan’s suspicions. Kasra had not picked his unwilling vessel at random. There had to be something going on behind the scenes, though Morrigan didn’t have enough of the pieces to form a conclusion. That would require learning more about Kasra, or even, Solaria forbid, talking to him once more. And Morrigan would rather drink a glass of sharp nails than speak with him anytime soon.

“Oh, just curiosity.” They murmured. Another lie added to the pile. “I noticed that your appearance changed when Kasra possessed you, and wondered how much influence he had on your appearance. But don’t listen to me. You are beautiful all the same.”

They did not wish to pull themselves away, but despite how heavy this conversation seemed, Kvasir’s energy finally seemed to be dropping. Morrigan gently collected the sparkling snowlings, scooping them up and nudging them back into the vial. “But you, my little fox, are growing sleepy. Come lay into bed and rest- I will watch over you, if need be.”

"I will always remember you."

The words are so quiet they're almost whispered, but they ring loud in Kvasir's heart, sonorous as temple bells, the promise resonating through him with all the force of Ginma's own earthquakes. It aches, almost, to hear Morrigan say it so plainly, to hear them speak it like it's a promise they know they can keep, but it's the kind of ache that follows a set bone, the kind of bittersweetness that comes with sweating out a fever. His breath hitches all over again, eye flying wide like they've just handed him a love confession.

They may as well have, really, with the way it gets Kvasir's heart racing, the way it sets a summery warmth blossoming through his heart. He can feel tears brimming in his eye again, but these feel different-- no sadness stains these, no grief, no pain. No, these are born of an older, less familiar feeling: joy.

Kvasir still remembers the night he left the Tribe of the Lotus quite clearly; it had been eerily cold, even for a desert night, the chill creeping down past his cloak, beneath the fabric of his clothing, stitching itself into his skin. It had made for a lovely scapegoat, then, for his shaky penmanship as he'd scrawled a note beneath dim candlelight, letters that once flowed cleanly now jagged and ill-connected. The cold was easy to blame for such a thing, a natural, logical explanation for trembling hands, though it would take the fool of all fools to not realize that the night's cold breath played no part in the relentless trembling of his usually ever-meticulous hands.

To my beloved, Mehr

The words would not flow properly.

To my second family

The words no longer felt right.

To those I leave behind,

The words were wrong and right and the ink blurred together with tearstains but he couldn't bring himself to start it over one more time because he was running out of paper and moonlight and the willpower to force himself to say goodbye to a home he thought he'd stay in forever, a home that had performed his last rites without checking his pulse.

Sariya Mirzadeh had quite plainly said that they would need to learn to let go-- learn to move on, as if he was already ash in an urn, buried six feet under, bones in the ocean. So many had seemed to agree with her, ready to yield to divine will, to forget the boy a god had elected to hollow out as his, to pretend they'd seen nothing at all. As hard as Mehr had fought the notion, for weeks on end, the embers in his eyes had gone dim, too, the fire only stoked once more by rage, by exhaustion, by extinguished hope and desolation over a doomed love with a doomed man who called him by the wrong name over and over and over again--

"It's only a matter of time until you forget me too, isn't it?" Mehr had said, defeat taking root in those amber eyes, the sun finally, finally burnt out. "Then what?"

It had been cruel, but not incorrect.

And so he'd left, leaving home with nothing more than a carefully-written letter, one he'd gently stripped of any signs of too much fondness, clinical in its intent. It was easier, that way, for all of them, to remove himself from them the way he'd remove an arrow from between one's ribs, with caution and care and ease, but without familiarity, without love. If they wished to forget him, to spare themselves a god's potential aggression, to spare themselves the weight of grief, then he would make it easier on them, in turn. He would force himself to be content with being forgotten.

To hear Morrigan say, now, so easily, that they would not forget him-- to promise that they would do everything in their power to hold onto the little glass pieces that Kasra chipped away, to promise that they would commit themself to the rotten work of fitting the indistinguishable mess back together if time demanded it of them when no one ever has--

Oh.

Of all the things Kasra had brutally torn from his skull, of all the feelings he'd stripped away, the one that settles within Kvasir's ribs right now is one he'd still know anywhere, as long as it's been since it's roosted there.

So this is love.

He will not speak of it. Now is not the time, not when fear still tears at him, not when putting such a thought forth into the world could give Kasra an arrow for his quiver. His heart beats fast, so fast, but Morrigan does not need to know.

"...thank you," he whispers pitifully instead. "Thank you."

Despite himself, Kvasir cannot resist nuzzling against Morrigan's shoulder, desperate for some kind of way to convey the depth of appreciation he feels for them, some kind of way to make them understand just how much they mean to him. It may not be much, a simple gesture of affection, but it is something. As cold as Bleakfort itself is, Morrigan is a beacon of warmth, like the sunlight and starlight they're spun from-- they are the sun, holding the moon in their loving arms, keeping him aglow with their own brilliant light.

"Mm? A change in appearance?" Kvasir does lift his head at that, just slightly, tilting it in curiosity. How severe had the effects on his body been, exactly? It's a morbid thought, but he cannot help but wonder all the same. "You... flatter me, my dear enchanter, but... how different?"

The intrigue in his expression shifts to a more childish look, indignation pinching his features into a pout at Morrigan's insistence that he should be going to bed-- they may be right, but...

...

...they're right.

"...Little fox?" he manages a tiny, weak laugh all the same. It isn't much, but it's closer to his usual humor, still tainted by exhaustion, but rejuvenated by the easy comfort of Morrigan's presence. "I'm taller than you, and we both know it. Still... if you wish to watch over me, I... I won't say no. As long as Bubbles hears nothing of it. I-I'm supposed to be your 'knight in shining armor,' remember?"

He pauses, briefly, for one more moment, a tiny little smile pulling at his lips.

"...though perhaps, I... wouldn't say no to letting you be mine."

There was a hint of morbid curiosity in Kvasir’s voice as he asked about the physical changes Morrigan had described. They paused for a moment, realizing that Kvasir likely had no idea what happened to him when Kasra possessed him. “In terms of the physical… nothing much.” They admitted. “The eyes looked different, yes. They were a sickly kind of gold.” Their grip tightened once more, briefly- they didn’t seem to consciously notice the action. “But what really tipped me off was the way he moved. There was… a wrongness to it, like watching a snake crawl around in a human’s skin.”

It wasn’t necessarily that Kasra looked different from Kvasir- the difference was in the way he held himself, the way he walked, and the way he moved his face like it disgusted him to replicate human emotions. That was the most unnerving part, the part that had filled them with the most dread.

It was almost amusing watching Kvasir pout like a petulant child who was told he’d stayed up far past his bedtime. At least it brought some amusement back into his haggard features, and a light into his eye that had dimmed upon arrival to Bleakfort.

“I promise you, Bubbles will hear nothing of the sort. And I would be delighted to be your knight in shining armor, prepared to whisk their princess away to a world of dreams and peaceful slumber.” Morrigan replied, crossing their hand over their heart with a completely serious expression on their face, as if they were promising something far greater than what their words implied.

They gestured for Kvasir to take a seat on the bed- with gentle, ringed fingers, they would help unclasp the cloak that he had still yet to remove. A frown pinched their features when they spotted the blood staining the scratches on the back, and the place where Morrigan’s own blade had made its mark. The tattered thing would not do. They clicked their tongue as they folded it up, setting it on a nearby table. “Do you want to keep that thing, or find a new one? I could probably make a patch job of it, though I’d need to procure some thread and fabric while we’re in town…”

But the cloak was probably the least of Kvasir’s concerns right now, so Morrigan would let the issue drop. Their hand lingered on the soft fabric a moment longer- another tear they had to learn how to fix- before sitting next to Kvasir on the bed. There was a fond, amused smile on their lips as they bid Kvasir to get comfortable. If he could not even trust himself to sleep, then Morrigan would guide him to that twilight realm themselves.

They remembered nights at the circus, where the silence was filled with laughter and love and tales shared from all over the world. Back then, when Morrigan had difficulty sleeping, Madam Medb would simply hang up dream catchers and chide them for being afraid of visiting spirits. But there would always be laughter, and eventually, noise, as she talked them to sleep with tales of her own adventures.

Back when I was your age… she’d start with.

That must have been a long time ago. You’re a fossil.

Yes, you’re very funny. Now shut up.

Morrigan smiled, the fond memory rising to the surface unbidden. They’d been thinking a lot about Madam Medb today for some reason, though they couldn’t quite put their finger on why. Either way, they had a feeling that was what Kvasir needed right now- someone to guide him to rest. As they settled down, Morrigan ran their fingers softly through Kvasir’s hair, toying with the soft ends before idly moving to braid it.

“I’ll tell you a story.” They said softly. “Whatever you want to hear. Simply name it, and it is yours.”

It always seems to come back to gold, doesn't it?

Kvasir's lips tighten into a thin line as Morrigan explains even the subtle ways his features had shifted when Kasra's consciousness had settled in, from the stilted, marionette motions of a borrowed body to the way the sun itself had fallen into his iris, making a home there, overshadowing the forest-green that usually took root. His fingertips unconsciously stray upward, lingering over his cheek, just beneath his left eye, where one of Kasra's more permanent marks remains-- the eye he's claimed as his, stained by divinity, no longer his to see with. More of that morbid curiosity blooms within him the longer he thinks it over; is his sight restored once more, when Kasra seizes his body? Does everything the God of Remains had forcibly shut down flood back as normal as soon as he takes center stage?

He can't help the yearning that washes over him at the brief memory of a time before half his sight was stolen from him, the time before gold in the sand split his mind in two, before gilded ichor spilled down his cheek and took his vision with it, a god beginning to make a home in whatever crevice of his body it could. He shudders, leaning into Morrigan's embrace just a bit more, savoring the way they hold him just a little tighter; oh, it is selfish to want this, to cuddle closer into the arms of someone he should not want, someone he is endangering by yearning for, but he cannot tear himself away.

"...Oh," he mumbles, grimacing. "...I see. No wonder you said he was hardly a good actor."

Another pitiful, humorless laugh forces its way out of him, but it holds no weight. The thought of Kasra puppeting his body like a broken doll is nauseating, but he'll... he'll elect not to consider it, right now. Not when Morrigan speaks so seriously, their hand over their heart as though they truly are some chivalrous knight making a pledge to a princess, promising safety and freedom. All Kvasir can do is smile, rising to his feet and mimicking a curtsy in answer, the seriousness of Morrigan's own voice and expression mirrored in his own emerald eye.

"I'm happy to be your princess then, Sir Knight," he says, voice soft, no teasing lilt to his words despite the playful nature of the words. Oh, his traitorous heart flutters in his chest now that it knows, his veins singing sweetly with a joy he hasn't known in so long despite the sorrow that weighs it down, a shimmering veil in the sea.

He obediently moves to follow Morrigan onto the bed, letting out a heavy sigh as he sits in place, eye closing as they unclasp his cloak. Even as the relaxation of letting himself just be cared for this way washes over him, he can't help the way his shoulders tense at even the idea of replacing it; he cracks his eye open, staring at the patterned blue fabric, the hand-embroidered flowers and golden patterns, the scarlet stains splashed across it, the places the fabric splits from jagged claws and knife cuts--

"...I... I could try and fix it," he whispers, a little strained. "If you wished to lend me a hand, I wouldn't say no."

It takes a few more moments of hesitation, of wavering, before he lets himself lay down, going as far as to let himself lay his head against Morrigan's lap, his eye sliding shut as the tension slides out of his body. Kvasir lets out a content little sigh at the feeling of their fingertips in his hair, slow and gentle, the repetition of the gesture soothing, only growing more and more calming as they take to loosely braiding it. As miserable as he'd been merely a few hours ago, it's strange to let himself sink into serenity this way, letting Morrigan sweep away all of his despair.

And then they put forward an offer-- a story, anything Kvasir wishes to hear, and he hums in contemplation, tail flicking the air for a moment as he weighs his options. He's heard all sorts of tales in his life, from patients, from his time with the Tribe of the Lotus; he thinks of wax wings and stolen flame and a journey to the depths of hell, and for a moment, that spike of panic returns to his heart, unwelcome and unbidden. He tenses, thinking of all the ways those stories bring him back to Morrigan, all the ways these nebulous figures perish and suffer for a crime of love, and... and it makes him reach for their hand, squeezing it for just one second.

A story sounds lovely, but for all he's heard of magic, of wild adventures and grandiosity, he needs something earthly-- something that brings Morrigan down to stable ground, something that spares them the eagle's beak, something that urges them not to turn around.

"...you've told me plenty of stories about your life as a wizard," he whispers, voice low, hushed. Silence hangs between them, heavy with deep shades of uncertainty, a spiral of darkening watercolors as he waits out his hesitance. He bites his lower lip, worrying it between his teeth before tilting his head back just so, a nervous glint in his eye as he meets Morrigan's gaze. "...I do so love hearing about your... your great feats, and your adventures, but I-- and you don't have to if you don't want to--"

He takes a deep, nervous little breath.

"...tell me a story about you. Just... you. If you'd like."