Morrigan had told Kvasir plenty of stories of grandeur. Tales that had been completely fabricated, lies about the Great Wizard of the Wastes and their exploits. Stories about monsters they’d never faced, problems they never solved. And every time they had, Kvasir listened with rapt attention, as if nothing could keep him from listening to the honeyed lies that had escaped Morrigan’s mouth. Morrigan reveled in Kvasir’s attentions, always wanting to appear larger than life, spouting greater stories and more mystical feats if it meant Kvasir would continue to look at them that way.

They had expected another of these requests, prepared to regale Kvasir with a fake story of how they’d once dined with the Sultan himself, when Kvasir shyly asked for a story about Morrigan.

That was it.

Just… Morrigan.

No- not even that. Kvasir wanted to know about Kaivalya.

Morrigan’s fingers twitched where they were in the middle of braiding Kvasir’s hair- Kvasir’s gaze was hesitant, as if he believed he’d overstepped some boundary between them asking to catch a glimpse of the man behind the curtain, though excited, as if there was something underneath the layers of gilded cloth that was worth looking at.

Which…

Hm.

Morrigan’s nose wrinkled, brows raised at Kvasir with what they hoped was a fond look of amusement. “But that’s so boring! I’m certain I could find something much more entertaining for you… like the harpies! Did I tell you the story of how I faced off against a swarm of angry harpies?”

But Kvasir only nodded, and Morrigan’s resolve began to crumble.

“I… I don’t know, Kvasir. There are things about me that you don’t know… things that might change the way you look at me. I can’t-“ They swallowed, squeezing their eyes shut. There was an odd tension in their voice as, for once, the flowery prose and excitement they spoke with was absent. No, this sounded more like a plea. “Surely there are more pleasant things you wish to hear about.”

But then, Kvasir’s voice cut through the silence, sure and heavy with a meaning that Morrigan could not begin to interpret. Somehow, it felt the most certain he’d sounded all evening, as if this was one fact above all others that could not be disputed.

“As I said, you don’t have to. But I promise you, there’s… there’s nothing that could change the way I look at you, now.”

Morrigan wasn’t sure how to take such a promise. Kvasir could claim that all he wished, but they could never know for certain, that Kvasir would regard them with the same adoration that he thought he’d placed in the enchanter. Morrigan did not miss the way Kvasir treated Morrigan’s titles with reverence- what would happen if that was stripped away, if the layers were peeled back to reveal the selfish bastard underneath? Morrigan supposed they were about to find out.

Kvasir deserved honesty, and even if that was one thing that Morrigan did not know how to deliver, they would certainly try.

“... Where to start?” They asked, mirroring Kvasir’s earlier question. “I hail from Zeinav, as you know. Though I did not grow up in the city. My home was as ever shifting and ever changing as the White Sand Sea… no one village or settlement held my allegiance. We moved wherever the winds took us, in search of the most noble pursuit of them all- coin.”

To put it simply, Kaivalya had been born to a merchant’s caravan, in the back of the wagon on its way to the next high market. Perhaps it should have been a sign that a child born in the hustle and bustle of a trader’s life would never be satisfied standing still, but much to everyone’s surprise, Kaivalya had never been much of an outspoken child. In fact, they lacked much of a spirit at all.

The merchants took to calling them Husk.

Barely a little sliver of a child, really.

“They called us the Scorpions- a band of tieflings with sharp teeth and tails and even sharper senses for a deal.” And the Hridyanshu family were the best of them all. “My mother was a healer, and my father, an ardent worshipper of Ginma who carried his blessing.” He could move the sands with a wave of his hand and conjure fire in his palm. “And I…”

Had been born empty.

Elka and Payekha Hridyanshu were in for quite the nasty shock when their child wasn’t able to do much of anything. Kaivalya simply… existed, shuffled around from place to place, sat in chairs and unable to participate when trade deals happened, and unable to learn with the other children in the caravan. They were not allowed to wander far out of sight for fear that any dangers of the desert might snatch them away and eat them. Elka and Payekha loved their child, but they did not understand.

“... I was blessed with different talents.”

Where Kaivalya was not physically the same as their peers, they had a sharp mind, and an even greater sense of ambition. They watched their parents carefully, attempted to light candles aflame with their mind the same way their father could, or heal their own scrapes and bruises like Mama. It never worked. But there were things they could pick up- the value of money, the best way to sweet-talk an innocent rube into giving up all of their coin. Kaivalya may not have spoken for the first ten years of life, but they watched and learned all the same, hungry for knowledge and power.

“We were happy enough. But I always felt like something was missing, unable to place my finger on what might fill that void.” That was, until they stopped in a settlement that seemed unusually full of hustle and bustle, where people in brightly-colored, sparkling clothes set up tents, and music and laughter and all manner of exotic animals could be found. The circus was in town.

Kaivalya, fifteen years old by now, had begged their parents to go. They were allowed to do so, on one condition- that they were chaperoned by their parents. Kaivalya hated that they had to be babied in such a way, but they were so desperate to see this miracle, this piece of heaven on earth, that they had agreed to the terms.

And that was the first night Morrigan felt alive.

“One night, my parents took me to a circus that was in town. The Dreamscape Bazaar.” A smile grew on their lips as they recounted the memories of that night. The lights that sparkled in their eyes, the food from all walks of Charon that they tried, grease staining their fingers as they clutched their mother’s hand while she led them into the purple, striped tent emblazoned with an eye that would change Morrigan’s life. “It was there that I met a powerful divination wizard, an enchantress by the name of Madam Medb. She saw right away that I was… different.”

In reality, she hadn’t paid much attention to Kaivalya- not until they sat in front of the fortune teller’s table and she saw the sharp look in their eyes, the same one reflected in her own- the look of a crooked charlatan, or in Kaivalya’s case, the makings of one. She’d held Kaivalya’s hand, traced the lines of their palm, and said, “I sense great power and success in your future.”

“She invited me to study under her- not in so many words-” In fact, she hadn’t at all- “So that very night, I stole away from my family’s caravan while they slept.” Morrigan had managed to get their hands on sleeping powder from a sleazy merchant long ago, saved for a special occasion, a night for when they needed complete silence. All it took was a little sprinkle in that evening’s dinner, and the Scorpions had been silenced long enough for Morrigan to sneak away with nothing but a pouch of money.

“I ran off, joined the circus.” Begged Madam Medb to take them in, even as scruffy and quiet and bedraggled as they were. They could still remember the look on her face when she woke up and found them sitting crosslegged in front of her tent, a look of quiet determination blazing in their face that had never been there before. Before she’d been able to shoo them away, they stood, grabbing her hand and begging her-

Teach me.

And she’d only smiled, flashing them a mouthful of crooked, old, yellowed teeth, and asked, “Are you sure you’re ready to learn?”

“I never looked back.”

Throughout the story, Morrigan’s hands had never paused in their gentle attentions, running their fingers through Kvasir’s scalp as if that might ground them in the present moment. Now, they paused, resting a hand on Kvasir’s cheek. They flashed him a warm, impossibly fond, smile- one that almost seemed a little nervous, as if they expected to be scorned for their words.

“And it was under Madam Medb that I learned for many years. She was the one that helped me grow into what I am today. She never pitied me for what I was- she treated me as she would any student. She instructed me in how to read tarot, how to make potions. It is because of her that I am-” They paused. “That I am Morrigan Moonweaver.”

They bent down, pressing a kiss to Kvasir’s forehead, withdrawing just as quickly.

“Now, was that enough of a story for you, my dear princess, or do you wish to hear more?”

Kvasir is hardly a stranger to being the recipient of Morrigan's stories.

Part of their endless well of charm, that steady stream of magic that flows from them like a river, comes from their voice alone; they seem to come alive when the chance to weave a tale falls into their lap, happy to seize the strings and loop them into place before bringing the loom to life. It's like a dance with them, the gestures and glitter paired with every grandiose swing of the story filled with the same life as the circles of nighttime dancers in the High Market of Zeinav City or the Moonlit Docks of Eclipse City, a solitary starlit waltz with only Morrigan's dramatic analogies serving as the music. It's always entrancing to watch, to listen to, and they never struggle to capture Kvasir's attention with each flick of their silver-bound fingertips, with every burst of stardust that spills from their pockets to accompany words of triumph.

The story they give him now is no waltz, no thoughtless dance in a city square; this is an uneasy spoken lullaby, the kind of hushed thing one would whisper beneath the roar of thunder and rainfall. In place of sweeping gestures and handfuls of sparkles, Morrigan's hands remain where they had been in Kvasir's hair, combing their fingertips through slowly, carefully, as gentle as though they're handling something priceless, carefully twisting the strands into a braid, tucking away so many of those stray white strands, as though they really are chasing Kasra away, back to a sea of sand and shattered glass, where divine fingertips can touch neither of them.

It makes it easy to focus on Morrigan and only Morrigan, to spare a thought for nothing more than the words that leave their lips, the scene they carefully set, none of their usual grand theatrics in place. They lay the threads in place as usual, slowly begin to weave them in and out, but the tapestry that they spin is softer, sorrowful, the colors less cloying, as if they don't believe for a second that the tale they're telling is worth the oxygen.

But oh, Kvasir does.

His attention remains completely unbroken as Morrigan speaks, his thoughts following the current of the story; it's interesting to hear that they, too, once lived a nomadic life, beckoned forth by wind and sand, though for the sake of a far different pursuit. Things like fortune and Solars had slipped to the back of Kvasir's mind in the years he spent with the Tribe of the Lotus. It was not as though they lacked a need for such things-- far from, in fact. Whenever their ventures would lead them to different settlements, pausing for the sake of trade and sale was always a necessity; as a medic, such a thing had just... never been his specific concern.

For a brief moment, Kvasir can't help but wonder how many years they'd missed each other by-- if perhaps, in another life, there would have been a world where the two of them crossed paths out there in the vastness of the desert, a moment where a budding wizard all in violet may have met a foolish medic aimlessly chasing the sun. It's unlikely. Impossible, really-- Morrigan must have been fairly young when they stole off to join the circus, and Kvasir... Kvasir is no longer aware of how old he'd been when he ran off to Zeinav, though he's... sure it was somewhere in his late teenage years, maybe...?

Either way, it doesn't quite matter right now. It's a strange thing to wonder over, a strange thing to pay much mind to when he has this, has the warmth of their hands in his hair, their voice low and soft and sweet as they place their trust in him, all in this moment, now, not in some nebulous other world.

Kvasir watches Morrigan carefully as the story begins to slow, as their tale of circus tents and fortune-telling and chasing a chance at magic draws to a close, observing the way unease floods back into those clear blue eyes, now hazy with what can only be described as apprehension. It's strange to see their pillar of confidence crumble this way, like they expect Kvasir to stare at the rubble and simply wander away, as though Kvasir could ever even think of going anywhere at this point. He's ready to settle in to pick at the debris, to begin gently pressing it into place with soft palms and softer words--

And then there comes the kiss, brief and gentle against his forehead, and Kvasir's mind goes blank.

It takes all of his willpower not to squeak.

Instead, he lets out a tiny, shuddery exhale, tilting his face to bury it in Morrigan's palm, hesitating for only a moment himself before pressing an equally brief kiss against their palm, an offer of reassurance, some kind of answer.

"...thank you for telling me that," he murmurs, immediately glancing back up at them, sincerity burning in his eye. Truly, he means it; something about the words Morrigan has placed in his hands tonight feel strange, as though they are meant for him and him alone, a story no other spectator has been allowed to hear, and Kvasir has no intention of squandering it. "I'm happy you... you trust me to hear these things. Don't... forget my promise, alright?"

Another moment passes before Kvasir lifts a hand as well, gently brushing his knuckles against Morrigan's cheek, as if urging them to look down at him, to not forget the weight of his words.

"...I leave that in your hands, my knight," he whispers. "Only tell me what you wish. Anything you wish."

The longer Morrigan spoke, the more Kvasir’s eye lit up in interest, treasuring every word like Morrigan was telling a worthwhile story. As if Kaivalya was something he wanted to remember, even if he did not know that accursed, dead child’s name but treasured it all the same. In fact, out of every story Morrigan had ever shared, in the dead of night in other hotel rooms like this, or in the silence of travel- the grandeur, the excitement- Kvasir seemed to adore this one the most.

And that just didn’t make sense.

There was a reason Morrigan had shoved Kaivalya down- they had no presence, nothing that was worth loving. But somehow, they had a feeling that if Kvasir met that child… he’d still find some way to love that empty husk.

“Think nothing of it.” They mumbled in return as Kvasir placed a gentle kiss on their hand, a physical reminder of the promise that he made. Morrigan was not sure if he’d inferred anything about their upbringing, and if he did, he did not show any pity or disgust on his face. In fact, he only seemed even more enchanted, if that was even possible.

“... I could never forget the promises of my dearest healer, lest I accidentally break them and risk causing him further grief in the form of a heart attack.” They replied eventually, which was as good of a concession they could give. For someone who had so brazenly told Kvasir to trust them with Kasra, Morrigan could not comprehend what it would be like to place Kaivalya’s heart in his hands.

It was an awfully selfish and hypocritical thing to think, but then again, Morrigan was practiced at those sentiments at this point.

Perhaps one day, Kvasir would get the chance to meet the dead, ancient spirit that Morrigan had left behind much in the way that Morrigan had encountered Kasra up in those mountains. Then, and only then, would Morrigan know if Kvasir would make good on his promise or not. Perhaps Kvasir would stand above Morrigan and rend and tear flesh and nerve with a surgeon’s scalpel to make recompense for all the lies Morrigan had told him.

But that didn’t matter, they supposed.

Kvasir may not have known everything, but neither did Morrigan. They didn’t know much about the family he’d left behind, his old lover that had attempted to bury him in the White Sand Seas, or exactly how much of himself had been lost to Kasra’s meddling. But as they had willingly taken up the grueling task of repairing the tapestry of Kvasir’s life, Kvasir had accepted Morrigan as they were- the lies, the scamming, and the lack of magic.

Kvasir had granted Morrigan something that no one had done for Kaivalya before.

Treat them like a person.

“We make a hell of a pair, do we not, my dear medic?” Morrigan asked with a ghost of a laugh, barely so much of an amused huff. They were two celestial bodies, hopelessly intertwined with one another, ever-rotating in a cycle of give and take. “I have… nothing more to share tonight. But I will tell you more, in due time, if you wish to listen.”

Though they had the feeling that Kvasir would, without hesitation.

And maybe then, Morrigan would introduce him to Kaivalya, from their unfortunate life to their subsequent death. They would show him where Morrigan had lived, the Dreamscape Bazaar and everything that came after. And then Morrigan would show him where they had discovered happiness.

That had been found in the recesses of the Lantern Light Woods and in the High Markets of Zeinav City.

“Sleep, for now, Kvasir Sigurros.” They finished with, their tale finally coming to an end. Their objective, hopefully, had been achieved- Kasra would not haunt his thoughts as he drifted off into the Sandman’s hands. “You are tired, and you must rest. I will be here when you wake, and we will… we will figure out where we go from there.” They’d gained entry to the Golden Consortium, weathered the storm, but Morrigan had a feeling that more loomed ahead. A single conversation would not fix the tears in these old jackets, and they doubted it would be the last time that Kvasir ever attempted to pull away for Morrigan’s own safety, or the last time that Morrigan lied for Kvasir’s own.

But those uncertainties would not reach them tonight, with Kvasir drifting off in Morrigan’s lap, finally feeling safe enough to relax, to let himself go.

And in that quiet moment, Morrigan would continue to thread their fingers in his hair and sing him a lullaby.

He shouldn't be doing this.

It's a fact that burns candle-bright in the back of Kvasir's mind as an easy silence settles over the both of them once more, sweet and steady despite the sense of heaviness in the air, as natural as the quiet that follows any other final conversation of the evening in their ventures together. As deceptively serene as this is, as deeply as he wants to let his eyes slide shut so he can curl closer into Morrigan's warmth, savor the gentility of their hands and the safety they've promised him, he can't help but feel all too aware of what brought them here, the ashes that followed them in their escape from the blaze. Their skin and bone may be bleached of what had broken it, but it lingers in the exhaustion in their faces, in the weariness that makes a nest within their frayed nerves.

Kvasir wants this, wants to let himself want this, more than anything, but even as he lays here, ribs pried open and heart laid bare, the patient beneath another's scalpel, a voice stained in gold lingers at the back of his mind. It whispers the same wicked mantra, the same threats, the same siren-song that beckons him back to the valley of endless sand, promising that he will wind up there one way or another, with or without beloved blood painted against hands that no longer know their owner.

This cannot last, that voice whispers, somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind.

I know, Kvasir answers. But let me have this.

This, just for tonight, just for this moment, where he can manage another fragile smile at Morrigan's words, a ghost of a laugh slipping from his breath at the attempt at their usual banter, the usual back-and-forth. This, where he can lay here and pretend that this is any other night after any other journey, one with simpler stressors; some wild journey through the woods or desert, something where Morrigan went and did something spectacularly stupid and yet ever-so-charming, something that warranted another round of healing and soft chiding. This, where it's warm and safe and easy to pretend Kasra can never harm either of them again.

"You had best not," he murmurs. "I mean it... you'll kill me at forty, at this rate. I feel my heart grow weaker by the day with you, my dearest enchanter. I'm a delicate flower, after all. One day, I may not recover."

Despite himself, Kvasir can't help but smile against Morrigan's hand once more; if he had to place his life into the hands of anything or anyone in all of Charon, of course it would still be Morrigan's, heart attacks and all. If he passes young simply because of the stress of having known them, the stress of having loved them so deeply that his heart gave out from seeing them hurt one too many times, then it will still have been worth it, a thousand times over.

As much as he should not want this, as much as he knows he should have left the window shut for their own good, Kvasir knows he cannot delude himself. He is a man of logic and structure above all else, but no mortal is immune to the whims of their heart. Morrigan Moonweaver is the sun, a brilliant star, guiding a thousand other heavenly bodies around in a celestial waltz, and Kvasir is just one more thing that's fallen right into their orbit. Pulling away will be no easy thing, not when he's laid his nerves and blood and bone bare-- not when Morrigan has done the same, unveiling bits and pieces of things they've never spoken of, for Kvasir's eyes alone.

If Morrigan is that bright-eyed hero at the heart of all those stories, the one whose crime is always love, then perhaps Kvasir is the flame that leads them out, the light, the doubt that turns them around, just as unstoppable and inevitable as the passion that brought them together to begin with. It will take time to learn how to cease to burn so brightly, how to shield them from doubt and eagle's beaks, but he will learn.

Just not now, not here, when he can let himself have this.

"I will listen to anything you have to tell me, whenever you are ready to tell me," Kvasir whispers, his eye sliding shut for a final time as he settles back into place. He curls up closer, leaning into every point of warmth on Morrigan's body he can reach, one of his arms rising to loosely fall over their waist, his legs and tail curling inward until he's practically wrapped around them. "Until then... goodnight, Morrigan Moonweaver."

It's been a long time, he thinks, since he's felt small; such a thing isn't easy for a man of his stature. He's hardly the most imposing individual around, but he certainly takes up space, what with his substantial height and long legs and all. In this moment, however, he feels the part-- fragile and tiny, safe against the warmth of someone who unknowingly holds his very heart in their hands. It's nice, this way, just to let himself feel small and cared for, to let the darkness of sleep begin to drape itself all over him, his focus lying on the cycle of Morrigan's breathing, on the comfort of their pulse whenever their wrist brushes against his ear, on the promise that they are, in this moment, alive.

Yes, just for tonight, once and only once, Kvasir can let himself have this.