Though the full moon was approaching its zenith, you wouldn’t be able to tell it by glancing skyward. Thick, dark clouds darted across the air, almost as if they were locked in a race. Howling wind whipped gnarled trees every which way, ripping dying leaves from their branches and stirring up foliage coating the ground - the autumnal night’s fury in full force. Given recent events in the world, it was difficult for the pair of elves traipsing through the woods to tell if it was due to the fact that only weeks ago, a primordial god had been slain at the basin of a volcano in the north, or just mundane seasonal change. Either way, the night had been calm and still until only moments ago - only a second for the tempest to grow and spread, buffeting the pair of travelers with wind and hail. It had not started raining yet, but there was no telling how long that would last.

One of the elves, a traveler clad in dark fabrics, ink-dark hair framing a concerned, weary expression, turned to pat his horse on the side before reaching for the lantern attached to its side by a wrought-iron chain. Rather than emit light, the lantern seemed to drain it from their surroundings, leeching off of what little dim traces of moonlight remained around them. That was more than fine for them. The two elves were more than accustomed to spending time in the dark.

The man raised the lantern, squinting while he purveyed their surroundings. There was little around save trees and the blinking eyes of wild animals watching them, but not pouncing. Moonveil Forest was not especially dangerous, but that simple fact did not make him overconfident. Even a lone wolf could take out an overconfident lion if it was clever enough. They’d made good progress today… and it surely would not hurt to stop for the night.

Perhaps, in part, it was due to the fact he dreaded their destination.

Motivations aside, it was not safe to continue on while the weather got worse. Time would tell whether this would turn into a full-blown storm or not, but he didn’t want to stick around to find out. The tent his companion had would not last long in this wind; they needed to hunker down and find something fortified. Or make something, if they could.

With that in mind, Cyran - soon to be of house Fenastra once more, and with any luck, soon to be Asiliari as well - turned to his intended and put a hand on her shoulder. “I think we should find shelter for the night.”

Behind him, Nightmare snorted, as if in agreement.

He hummed, purveying their surroundings. Back in the days of… after the exile, he’d sought shelter in these woods from time to time. He’d met - well - he’d met Caedes for the first time here as well.

Point being. He was vaguely familiar with the secrets these trees held, knew the best places for a defenseless man to take shelter when he needed warmth and solitude. If this was the part of the path that he remembered, then…

“There should be a cottage just a half mile off the path in… that direction.” He murmured, inclining his head. “No one lives there, and it’s fairly well insulated. We might have to shoo out some raccoons and squirrels, but it’s better than nothing, if you are amenable.”

---

SPOILER: Click to show

Quest Name: Trapped!
Participants: Two or more
Location: Anywhere
Post Requirements: 5 posts per person, 200 words per post
Reward: +1 Mystical Archive Ticket, +1 Mysterious Reward
Description: You find yourself as the main character in a Black Harvest story! Write out a spooky or scary story where you find yourself trapped in a dangerous or suspenseful manner. The location, villains, and details of the story are completely up to you, as long as this year's theme is obvious and consistent throughout the topic.

It had been quite a journey to get here from Darkveil, but ultimately, a necessary one. With the new... situation around Cyran's current status in Darkveil, it made sense to be on the move as much as possible. It was a life Del was used to, but not one she would wish on anyone. Still, it was no secret that Cyran was hardly a stranger to the road himself. The difference, of course, was that this time, neither of them were alone. And Cyran had always been wonderful company, even before their engagement.

Even so, the path before them was far from easy. The world was in a state of upheaval, society responding to the devastation and the reveal of a primordial entity the only way it seemed to know how-- through control and domination. That she and Cyran had been able to ensure the children were safe and to get themselves out safely and securely was no mean feat, but by keeping an eye on those who travelled the roads, by minding the Crown's soldiers when they saw them, by listening to drunkards in taverns on the way here (and getting some very good information to boot), they had done remarkably well for themselves on this trek. Considering what awaited them at their destination this had gone by, thus far, without so much as a hitch.

That was, until the weather turned.

It couldn't be helped, Del supposed. It had to happen at some point, and even travelling at night would not spare them from the elements. She clutches her cloak around her a little tighter, leaning her face away from the icy wind as it swirled around them on the road. Her amber gaze shifted back to Cyran when he placed his hand on her shoulder, leaning close so she could hear him speak over the wind. "I agree. We should get to cover. And of course, where you go, I go. It's good you remember this place as well as you do," She shifts her arms out of her cloak to wrap around his waist for a moment, gauging to see if he was picking up a chill. Though even she loved a good storm, she puts her hood up, holding it in place with one hand tugging the fabric. "We should hurry if we want to beat the rain. I don't think it will be long now."

With every passing day on the road, Cyran thanked his lucky stars that Del was by his side. Their departure from Darkveil had been swift, but not easy; not while Cyran was a wreck, leaving Del to pick up the fragile pieces of what remained, be strong for both of them. Cyran had been nothing more than a glass knife - perfectly honed for a single, well-timed strike, only to break apart into brittle pieces when the job was done. His edges only cut everyone around him who attempted to pick them up. Cyran had been something of a burden to Del, he knew. Oh, not a day passed that he did not think about what a saint she was for hearing what he’d done, the danger he’d put them in, and agree to pick up a life on the road once more when he was supposed to provide her peace and security.

At Del’s response, wrapping gentle arms around him, Cyran opened his mouth to voice the words that had been on his tongue for the past few weeks, his first thought in the mornings and his last before he drifted off to meditation in the eve.

You are far too good for me, my Fighter.

It would not be forever, he hoped. The battle before, and the battle with Vulcadreus had… compromised Cyran’s position in Darkveil, somewhat. Enough so that it was easier for him to abscond while the aftermath of Vulcadreus settled out, allowing Oriole and Andromeda to take care of the orphanage in his stead. Perhaps a foolish choice, but Cyran wanted everything to resume as normal, with the hopes they would not be gone for long. And so they set off, Moonglade their destination - off from one hell to another.

So no, Cyran was in no rush to return to Eclipse City.

He turned back to Del, eyes misty with adoration and unspoken words on the tip of his tongue. That brittleness shifting once more, glass shards aching in his heart.

“Okay.” He said instead, throat dry. “This way, then. Should not be too far from the main path.”

He grabbed Nightmare’s reins, lamenting loss of warmth as Del pulled away from him. Gods, he was a mess. Nevertheless, he forced the stoop out of his shoulders, forcing on some semblance of normalcy as he led Del away from the dirt path into the brambles and swaying trees. The trek was slow, careful to prevent scratches against Nightmare’s legs, but Cyran’s memory proved true - not but twenty minutes later, they stumbled upon a single, squat, cobblestone house.

Ivy brambles grew up the sides, neglect sinking into the foundation. Despite the hand of time threatening to pull it apart, the home stood firm and true - a cottage that may have once belonged to a hermit, now used by squatters. Cyran remembered spending nights huddled in front of the hearth here, wondering what it would be like to live in a place like this.

The home was blessedly empty - a small relief. There were no stables so Nightmare would have to reside within them to take shelter from the cold, but the foyer was big enough that she would be able to rest without feeling too cramped. Cyran opened the creaking, partially-rotted driftwood door for Del, the ghost of a smile on his face.

“Ladies first, love.”

The inside was just as lonely as the outside - but there was a table for Cyran to place Lightdrinker on, four walls and a roof around them, and old wood stacked in the corner near the hearth.

Cyran rubbed his hands together, attempting to bring back some circulation. With the storm threatening to rain hell upon them, they’d need a strong fire to keep their bones warm.

“It’s not much, but it should be safe enough to wait out the weather.” He said, getting to work setting things up alongside Del; without words, both knew what needed to be done to make this place a little brighter for them both.

The sweet look of adoration in Cyran's eyes makes her heart tremble within her ribs, the unbridled fondness sincere... and raw. Del knew the sharp, jagged edges of the wound behind it all, still bloody and healing. Much as she wanted to insist against those feelings she could sense through their connection, Del knew it would only pick at the scab. That wasn't her goal anyway; she was his partner, his fiancee, one day his wife. Supporting him meant giving time for those wounds to heal, and stop him from becoming hurt again, apply a balm with her words rather than prodding it. If the expression on his face when he looked at her was any indication at all, that heart wrenching mix of gratitude and love was all the certainty she needed to know that she was helping.

On top of that, though, he was cold, too. Something they would have to fix once they were within safe walls-- she could carry him, she supposed as they trudged along, but he needed to guide Nightmare and lead the way. Even so, she sticks close to his side as they pull off the beaten path, on her guard as they proceed through the trees, the wind creating sharp hisses with branches and autumn leaves. Thankfully, it isn't far-- though the property is in a right state. Ivy rises over the exterior wall in a thick, crushing curtain that probably went into the stone itself; the roof was patchy, but apparently made of shale, so it was holding up quite well, all things considered.

Even in spite of this, the house appeared to be uninhabited. Which was saying something; Master Maruyama had a saying when she was under his tutelage in the mountains-- 'There's no such thing as an empty cave'. Shelter was shelter, and all manner of creatures sought it out as a matter of survival. That made the emptiness of the cottage a little more unnerving. Still, it was quiet. Quaint. In dire need of some repairs.

Del resists the urge to fix everything, but makes a note of this place for the future.

As Cyran opens the driftwood door, inviting her through with a small smile, Del cracks one of her own, and steps forward. "Such a gallant Rogue, my betrothed is," she chuckles, reaching up to touch the side of Cyran's face fondly before heading inside.

As she suspected, a sweep of the interior reveals nothing currently living here, although there were signs of temporary inhabitants here and there. Assured they were safe, she looks to Cyran, frowning slightly as she watches him wring his hands for warmth. She removes her cloak and carefully drapes it over him, leaning over his shoulder to kiss his cheek. "It's perfect, love. Far better to be in here than out there." she agrees, smiling sweetly before they get to work.

It doesn't take much to make as cozy of a space as they can near the fireplace. It is a miracle that the wood left near the hearth wasn't rotted and damp. Apart from a few very angry insect residents who did not appreciate being disturbed, the wood was perfect for their needs. It doesn't take long for the pair of shadows to light a fire, shifting the remnant furniture behind them to create a little barricade of warmth and light, so the fire wouldn't have to work as hard to warm the space they needed.

Setting her pack on the floor ahead of them, Del takes her place next to Cyran, sliding beneath the cloak again to help warm him a little more thoroughly. "You know, I like little places like this," she lifts her gaze up to the rafters above them, the holes in the roof beyond the attic whistling angrily under the wind. "It's like a memory, making use of something long forgotten like this. It reminds me of living in the mountains in the Crescent Isles." Her head lists back the other way to look at Cyran properly. Soft voices in the low firelight, while the storm raged outside. A microcosm of sanctuary. "How do you know this place?"

Cyran flushed, Del’s gentle, almost teasing complement and the gentle touch of her hand a warmth to cut through the chill. It was unfortunate he’d been so withdrawn since they left Darkveil; Del was doing so wonderful, holding everything together, and Cyran knew that he was being far too emotional for his own good. He could not imagine it made him the best traveling companion, he knew. Something ugly had lodged its way into his chest back in Darkveil, in the events leading up to the battle of Vulcadreus and during it. It settled in his ribcage during his brief stint with death. And he’d not been able to leave it behind in their hasty departure from their home.

Cyran wished he could take his knife and surgically cut out whatever it was that haunted him now; but he had a feeling Del would not take kindly if he plunged his dagger into his chest a second time in as many months.

He would have to simply settle for learning to live with this. Inadequacy, guilt, whatever you might wish to call it. In all his years Cyran had never truly learned what it meant to give your love to another until quite recently, and the burdens of dealing with the realization that no matter how many good intentions you may carry with you, your actions could still be the sweetest poison to someone else; it was a bitter pill for the elven man to swallow. He’d hurt people, of course. But never ones he cared so much about.

Thoughts that he could dwell on later, when they were out of the hazardous storm and he was alone with his melancholies in the dark of the night. For now, Cyran settled for allowing his fiancé into the room with a gentle laugh. “My apologies - I cannot help it. I was trained from a young age to be polite to every fine lady I meet.”

It was not the same as his usual affectionate banter; but it was a start on the path to new normalcy.

He would be okay again, because he wasn’t alone. He was with someone who would stubbornly refuse to let him forget the good while he could only remember the bad.

Inside, he watched Del inspect everything with a carpenter’s eye. It was a bit of a fixer-upper, he was aware - the stone foundations provided little more than thin insulation and a roof over their heads from the storm, but it was something. Del reassured him by draping her cloak over his chilly frame and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Cyran dipped his head, resting his chin on her shoulder, savoring the closeness for only a moment.

“I’m certain we’ve both taken shelter in worse places.” He murmured into her skin. “It might even make a lovely summer home.”

The joke fell flat as they got to work at making the room more comfortable and hospitable for their rest. Small miracle; the firewood was still usable, and Del’s survival pack gave them the spark they needed to get a crackling fire roaring. Cyran pulled out a small fireside pot, pouring water from a pouch and a small packet of warm cider powder he’d obtained from a market in Thunderhoof Village. As an afterthought, he added two cinnamon sticks and some cloves before leaning back on the dusty floor. It didn’t take long for the aromatic scents of warm cider to fill the air. Cyran curled under Del’s cloak, letting the peace wash over him. He forced his muscles to uncoil while Del scooted next to him, shrugging her own cloak over herself so they were both huddled under its warmth. A familiar position. A comfortable one.

He let out a content sigh and leaned against her shoulder once more. With her at his side and the fire warning his front, the fatigue clawing at him didn’t feel so daunting.

“Really?” He asked, shifting so he had a better view of her face while she spoke. The flames shifted delicately like autumn petals dancing across her face. “Did you live in abandoned spaces with Maruyama, then?” It was not the life he’d imagined her living with her dwarven master, but he supposed it made sense. They must have had to shy away from society; for her sake.

He hoped it was not a lonely existence.

Cyran fell silent when she asked about his experience here.

“I was a squatter for a bit in the months after my exile. I was not especially talented and had little money. I often sought refuge in the forests of Moonglade while I learned my craft. This home, I stumbled upon it one winter night when I was hungry and cold. Back then there were a few other homeless people and refugees living here. It looks like all of them have moved on by now, though.”

For better or for worse; Cyran was not a praying man, but he hoped it was the former.

She tilts her head to cover Cyran's as he lowers his head to her shoulder, tucking him into the curve of her collar with that aching fondness burning a hole through her chest. If only he could understand just how truly and fully she adored him. She felt like she belonged at his side like no other, and the sylvan elf had lived too long a life of scarcity and detachment, separate from the whole as a means of keeping herself safe. Cyran was the first person in many, many years she had set that aside for, exposed her heart to all the wonder and fear of being attached and in love. Even though at times it felt like Cyran had given up on himself, Del would not ever give up on him. He deserved all the good in the world. She was far from good, but dammit, she would try.

Even though it was said in half-hearted jest, Del nods as she looks around the room, the gears in her mind turning as she imagines the space for what it could be. "It certainly would."

But, one thing at a time. Once they were settled beneath her cloak with the scent of cinnamon heavy in the air, Del pulled him close, allowing Cyran to lean on her fully as she pressed a long kiss into the hair on his crown. It was the quiet, still moments like this that she cherished so much. Humbling, to be in such sparse and dilapidated surroundings while feeling so fulfilled. "Thank you, love," she accepts the cider with her other hand to take a few light sips. Pleasant, fragrant, and not too sweet.

Nodding gently against his head, Del hums an assent. "Sometimes we would go to small villages to ply the trade, but that meant crossing mountains. There were a couple of occassions where we found ourselves stuck, fully snowed in and having to take refuge in an unused cabin or shack for a few weeks at a time before we could free ourselves. It was usually quite cold and dark, being in the heart of winter, though I think the most notable thing about it was that it was... silent. Sometimes a good silence, like watching snowfall, but also the cloying oppressiveness of being surrounded by muffled white for miles and miles, with no means of immediate escape. It was one of those times when I learned to play the lute. I had nothing else to do, once we fixed the cottage enough to withstand the cold, so I was able to get decently proficient."

She tilts her gaze down to Cyran as he speaks about his time here, taking refuge in these very walls to give him a place of tentative rest and hope. Her arms secure around him a little more tightly; Cyran had struggled so much through his life. All Del wanted to do was give him the life he deserved. One of happiness and warmth and companionship, where he never had to question where it was safest.

"It does look that way," she murmurs, resting her cheek among his black and silver hair. "It was not easy, but you did it. I am proud of you for surviving the worst of what the world has to offer. It is a far better place with you in it. Though I may be biased." Del chuckles low in her chest, watching the fire.

Though Cyran had spoken in jest, there was something so sure in Del’s reply that he felt something flutter in his chest, a butterfly’s cocoon breaking apart and spreading its wings for the first time, a cautious thought taking root. He’d only been joking; but why couldn’t they start thinking of a home? Well. Aside from the obvious reasons at the present moment, the running and hiding and laying low while the aftermath of the battle of Vulcadreus and everything that came with it died down. It wasn’t practical. But after that… why not?

Cyran had built his lodgings into the bones of his business, the first time he’d settled down in a decade. It made things far easier to navigate the self-imposed barriers of the fortress he had built in the stone and ash of Darkveil. It was a business as well as a home, and a place where he made some kind of value for himself, justified him deserving the roof over his head. But it also, at times, created a degree of separation. He had started sleeping in Del’s bed once they solidified their engagement; but even before her arrival in his life, he’d never even made a room for himself. When they got married, though… would it be so bad to start thinking about a place of their own?

The forge and the orphanage had flourished, despite the odds. Their passions, brought together in a small corner of the world. But maybe, just maybe… it was time to start considering laying their own foundations, once all was said and done.

There was much to be accomplished before that point - but now that he’d allowed himself to consider the possibility, the planted seed had already begun to flourish into something new. He sipped his cider, leaning in while Del pressed a gentle kiss to his head. The drink was near-scalding, but he did not mind the heat. An autumnal drink that warmed his insides and the spices stuck pleasantly in the back of his throat. Oh, he should not have been drifting off, but the constant sturdiness of the woman next to him and the warmth of the fire was such a wonderful break at the end of weeks of harried travel; he blinked, drowsy, while listening to the murmur of Del’s voice. Settling into a pleasant lull.

“I didn’t know you could play the lute.” He laughed, a quiet rumble in the back of his throat. “How many more secret talents have you been hiding from me?” The jest in his voice was only a thinly veiled cover for the wonder he felt at learning all these new little things. How she lived with her master, the discipline it had instilled in her. It sounded like a solitary life, but not always a lonely one, while she was with her master. “And what must I do to hear you play?”

It did not bother him as much as it once did to speak of his past. Mainly because he knew Del would not pity or judge him for it. To her, he never doubted he was more than a failed noble’s progeny. Still, he appreciated her embrace, and her understanding. They’d both been wanderers, once upon a time.

Cyran closed his eyes, relaxing in her arms. Safe.

“Thank you. I wish I’d known I had such kind words waiting at the end of it all, when I was younger. I don’t think that man ever considered that life might get better for him. Nor did he yet know that in a sea of stars, a vast eternity of time and space that might separate us, we would one day have the luck of meeting.”

In front of him, the fire crackled. The wind howled against the foundations of the home - and under the storm, it held strong. Sturdy. Cyran glanced around him, the ivy that crept up the windows, the overgrowth sealing them shut. Time had weathered this building, but not broken it.

“You know…” He started, mostly to fill the silence with small talk. “This looks like it could be a witch’s cottage, like from the fairy tales I used to read Marlow. Do you think we’ve intruded upon some vengeful hermit mage’s home?” He asked, affixing a serious tone that was undercut by his stifled laughter.

Del blushes furiously at the compliments and light teasing, giggling as though taking delight in the reveal of a scandalous secret. It was thrilling that she could find ways to surprise him still; how had she never mentioned the lute before? Fidgeting restlessly, a sheepish look crosses her face. "I mean, ah-- it's been some years and I'm sure I'm wildly out of practice... but for you, my darling heart, you have only but to ask." Del kisses the side of his head with light affection, pausing for a beat. "Though I suppose that would be easier if I actually had one." she adds, a light laugh leaving her lips. She watches his lovely visage for a while, admiring the way he relaxed in her arms, secure and safe. "Maybe we'll be able to procure one once we're in the city, and I can serenade you properly?"

"I don't think my younger self would have thought such a wonderful, eloquent soul would be part of my world either." She murmurs in reply. Knowing how much of a burden he'd carried through those early times, where he was shunned and sidelined and belitted for the benefit of others... much as she wished she could have helped that younger Cyran earlier on, Del was also grateful that she and Cyran had found one another when they did. With the recent things that had happene, Del knew she only had an inkling of an idea of what he was going through.

Though Del, perhaps, understood better than anyone.

She would be at his side whether for good or ill. Still, it was both good and important to see him faring at least a little bit better today. Curling up a little closer, Del's smile turns conspiratorial at his little joke. "It's possible. Maybe they've trapped the door when we came in and now we're well and truly stuck? Or maybe they're just outside the cottage, returning from foraging or picking some herbs."

Smiling devilishly now, Del's hand shifts slowly up to Cyran's side, giving his rib cage a little, playful tickle. "Oooh, I found some prime riiiib~."

He resisted the urge to press with a little more gentle ribbing at her sheepishness, refraining for the sake of not making her uncomfortable. He relished the opportunity to hear about these little parts of her life on the road, the days that resided in the earliest shadows of her memory. He was not so surprised that she knew how to play, really. Del was, at her roots, an artisan. He’d always been amazed at her passion for creation. Her dedication and ability to build, to take what others had decided to use as a weapon and stubbornly saying, okay. Now what can I put back into the world?

“That can be arranged.” Cyran murmured, his mood lighter than it had been after weeks on the road, of the tension in worrying that someone might have been following them, and the uncertainty that awaited them in the after. “I’d play piano to accompany if I wasn’t rusty… though that implies having a talent for it in the first place.” He laughed. Mandatory lessons in his youth, unfortunately, had not imparted much musical talent in him beyond being able to read sheet music.

They fell into a comfortable silence after that, Del’s promises still echoing in his mind. Cyran was truly grateful to have met her now, all the current unpleasantness notwithstanding. It was still difficult for him to remember that partnership was not something fickle, and it was not him trying to constantly prove his worth or make up for things he’d done - but him and her against the world… even if that was a little more literal right now.

And this semi-fugitive state would not last forever. They’d weathered the storm before. They weathered the storm now. They could do so again. No matter what horrors the world threw at them.

He brightened at Del continuing his joke, taking a sip of his cider. Such a silly thing, to weave a story about a witch that did not exist in a home that had lain abandoned for dead gods knew how long. But it felt… nice, to follow the thread of a silly little innocuous story, while they sat here basking in the warmth of the fire.

“Why not both? Her magical enchantment has locked the door with us inside while she finishes gathering herbs outside. All the better to garnish her next meal with!”

Del poked him in the ribs, catching Cyran off guard enough to make him let out a startled giggle - so perhaps he was a bit ticklish, much to his own chagrin. Pretending to let out an offensive gasp, he half-heartedly swatted her hand away.

“Don’t tell her where the best cuts of meat are! What if she decides to slow cook and roast me over the fire? What would you do then? I don’t think I’d make a very good husband when I’m witch chow.” He pressed his weight against her shoulder, heaving a dramatic sigh. “I guess you’d just have to find a bold and daring way to escape her clutches while your poor roasted fiancé lives on in your memory.”

At that little revelation, she lifts her head to look at Cyran, surprised. "I didn't know you played piano!" Del gasps, delighted. "Now who's surprising who with secret talents?" Where Del had never managed to learn sheet music, she was capable of playing by ear, slow and plodding though it was. But with time and practice, who knew what could be managed? Perhaps they would find a way to play together, construct a little song of their own. Much like the life they were building together.

She laughs brightly as Cyran swats at her hand with an abrupt giggle, aghast at the very suggestion. "Now why would I let a witch have even a teeny morsel of my most beloved fiancee when I would much rather have you all to myself?" Chuckling now, Del turns her head a little to find the right angle to kiss his forehead where it rested on her shoulder. "You would be a wonderful husband regardless of how roasted or raw you are. I shall just have to find some thick leaves to wrap you in and keep you in an ice box to keep you fresh. As for the witch.... I hear they are quite flammable."

It was good to see him in such good spirits. He had endured so much as of late, and all she wanted was for him to feel like he still was worthy of the good in the world. What he was going through... Del could not know specifically, at least not beyond what she knew and what she could feel through their bond, but what she knew of it was a pain that was familiar. That, sometimes, it seemed the weight of the actions one had taken, especially those that were cause for regret, bore down with the gravity of the consequences, oppressive, suffocating. It felt like nothing would ever be right again... but Del knew that this would pass, that there was a line on the horizon that he would cross where such things were not right, but more bearable. And he would get there, with time and compassion and forgiveness. Forgiving himself, most primarily of all.

Del sips her cider, finishing the cup, and wraps both arms around Cyran beneath their shared blanket, cheek resting against the top of his head as she hugs him close. "But could we even see her coming! A witch of such caliber would likely know we were already here. She could be anywhere, even right outside--"

Screeee

Del freezes, eyes flying open as adrenaline hits her like a runaway carriage. Her arms flex protectively around Cyran. In a moment of fear, her eyes dart for the source of the noise, a noise that sounded too much like wood sliding on stone, as if a door somewhere was opening, along the edges of the window sill--

Oh.

Narrow branches from one of the trees too close to the house whipped against the glass of the window, sliding along the stone exterior of the cottage and creating shrill, tapping noises as the wind changed direction and buffetted the other side of the house with sleet. Del relaxes, chuckling sheepishly at her own expense.

“Play is putting it generously.” Cyran replied, waving a dismissive hand. “It is more like… mashing at the keyboard and hoping discordant notes make a melody. It is less a talent and more an embarrassment.” He did not seem particularly upset by his own admission. Cyran was not a musician for a reason. Making - creating - that was better left to people other than him, who’d never quite mastered the talent. He’d much rather be the one to dance to Del’s tune than poison her lovely notes with what was the musical equivalent of shaking a jarful of angry bees.

His jest that the witch might turn him into ribs and cook him earned a round of fresh giggles, and a chaste warm kiss to his forehead. For some reason the assertion that she would not let a ferocious witch turn him into a tasty meal - and that even if one did she would still love her gourmet dish husband - calmed him more than it ought to.

“Mm… that’s assuming she’d let you free with her meal. She’s already selected the wine to go with her elf-roast.” He blinked. “I’ve heard the same thing. That they’re so weak to fire they may even explode when burned…” He stirred his drink with the cinnamon stick dipped inside, allowing the flavor to seep in. “Be careful, you might blow up the entire house when you set her ablaze!”

He was gaining momentum now, an overexaggerated manner by which the elven man spoke and a gleam in his eye. Though he was quite out of practice at the art of storytelling, there was no denying he was an old pro. The timbre of his voice hitting all the right story beats. Countless stormy nights spent curled up in a bed with her at his side, spinning stories of deadly Bogaboo and huntsmen in the woods, of lonely castles and villages haunted by ghosts and vampires, of unwrapped in Zeinav in ancient pyramids; but no matter how scary the story, it would end on a happy note. It would all be okay, because Daddy will always be here to protect you from the monsters.

(And she would cling to him like she believed he could, because as a child she still saw her father as something superhuman, and Cyran had not yet learned there were some monsters he could never kill.)

Oh, how he missed those days. Memory could be cruel - a single vision preserved in amber, and when memory was all you had time passed you by in a blink. Marlow was far too old for stories now. But at least those moments were never truly gone. Different, yes, but change was not a bad thing. In fact, while he and Del spun this silly little tale, the outside storm felt far away and for a brief moment everything felt like it was going to be alright, because Del was here and she would chase away any witch that threatened him.

So odd to be the one protected and cherished.

Strong arms wrapped around him, reminding him of just that.

Cyran opened his mouth to reply, ready to assert that he’d likely be able to see her no matter what darkened shadows she cloaked herself in, when -

An ugly scrape that set goosebumps alight along Cyran’s arms, the ugly creaking of wood, the witch herself brought to life from word alone - one arm squeezed Del’s torso protectively and the other reached for a dagger that was not there and cursed himself for the instinct. But the door remained firmly closed, so what…?

He followed Del’s gaze to the window, their spindly branches scraped against glass where they’d been thrown every which way by the wind. Cyran forced himself to relax, laughing alongside Del before reaching back for his cider instead of his empty belt loops, taking a long sip of the remaining dredges. They were both so keyed up from weeks on the road that this little mistake just felt like a breath of fresh air.

He turned to Del, a playful grin dancing across the shadows in his face as he reached his hand up to her back, dexterously tap-tap-tapping his fingers along her spine like a crawling spider.

“See that? Those are the witch’s fingers, trying to claw her way into the home we’ve so rudely broken into. We’d best barricade the cottage to keep her out.”

"A dessert wine, maybe," she quips, chuckling softly. "Bah. If she wants to step to my man, house explosions might just be part of the deal. She ought to know better. Her own fault really."

The tense moment of alarm passes. Or, rather, it is a relief to observe that there isn't some imminent threat quite literally at the door step, at least not this time. It also helps that in spite of that temporary heightened alertness, Cyran's arm hugging her close protectively imparts a sense that even if all was not well, she would be safe regardless. And that she felt the same for him.

"--PffHKSH Cyran!" Del squirms, giggling and sputtering as he drums his fingers on her spine, trying to wiggle away from his deft manuverings while also staying close. A losing battle. "Perhaps you're what I should be on the look out for, mm?" she teases brightly before huffing stubbornly. "No way, I'm staying put right here. I'm cozy and warm and if some random witch who can't figure out which is the working end of the hammer wants to start something, I will be very cross." she harrumphs, pretending to toss her hair before lapsing into giggles once more, curling closer into Cyran's side as they watch the fire.

After a few extended minutes of silence, watching the fire crackle and listening to the storm howl outside, Del's thoughts turn pensive. She runs her hand up and and down Cyran's back thoughtfully, slow strokes to be close and offer respite, relaxation, best as she could. This would likely be the last time for a few days, before they reached the Fensastra Estate, that they could be alone and playful together in this way. With everything that happened as of late, between having to leave Darkveil and their less-than welcome destination, as heavy as it might be for her, she knew it was a thousand times worse for Cyran. "How are you feeling, love?"

A loaded question, perhaps, but an important one. Her face turns to his slightly to give him a wan, understanding smile. There was no judgement from her.

Cyran made a sour face at the prospect of being paired with a dessert wine. A roast or any kind of savory meat would be horrible with such a pairing! He opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better of it. In a hypothetical scenario such as this, who was he to assume that a witch trapping and eating people in her cottage home had good taste in wine? Not to mention if she was stealing bottles from people then she’d likely take what she could get.

He then realized he was spending entirely too much time getting offended and technical over a silly campfire story, and shut his mouth with a click of his jaw. Besides, Del had just called him her man, which seemed an entirely more pleasant thing to think about, and sent an unexpected wave of butterflies through the pit of his stomach. He pressed a hand to his cheek, which felt warm with flush despite the natural coldness of his cheeks. He didn’t have to see himself to know he was blushing like a maiden over their schoolyard crush at that confident and natural assertion.

So used to claiming others. Never used to belonging.

“Goodness… you’d really blow up this witch’s home to save me?” Asking was more for his own heart than anything; Cyran already knew the answer. Fairy tales and myth were all well and good, and so far removed from the real world where Del had followed him from the bowels of hell to drag him out. Still. That even in an ideal world that existed in the pages of storybooks and the theater of the mind, Del’s happy ending involved saving him - it made him want to melt into her side and never leave.

A languid, pleasantly content feeling that momentarily vanished at the intrusion. The scare, thankfully, did not last long when both fighter and rogue realized that the only threat around them was the storm. Cyran could not help the naturally growing smile on his face at the sound of Del’s surprised laughter. She made a halfhearted attempt at squirming under the cocoon they’d made for themselves, not really mounting much of a fight. Cyran stopped tickling her back, but he did not remove his hand from her spine, remaining a constant presence. I’m not going anywhere.

It was not something he should have to provide reassurances of, unspoken or otherwise. Del had his whole heart and there was no question of that. But after all the unpleasantness, he still needed to make it known, in any way he could.

“Who, me? Perish the thought.” He asked innocently, letting out a mock-whistle, as if a pretend halo hovered above his head. Though he could not keep up the charade while Del made a play at mock-stubbornness, an unspoken challenge to any evil crone that might dare make the mistake of interrupting their evening. “And now the witch has been staved off for another day, as it appears your love has created a shield to protect the both of from her wicked clutches.” As she leaned into him, Cyran, too, sought comfort in her embrace. Their laughter died off, lapsing into something far more comfortable.

Cyran closed his eyes and let out a wistful sigh at her gentle touch. Not for the first time, he wished they could be enjoying this comfort in their own bed. In Shade’s Valley. But they could not, because Cyran had a wonderful thing and he was so unused to possessing those things that he fucked it up, again. But it was not just the uncomfortable that they’d left behind - a different trial awaited them at the end. Sharks whose weapons were pen and paper and social gatherings, and feasted on the blood of the unsuspecting.

There was a chance this might be their last respite before they reached what had once been Cyran’s home.

Cyran inhaled, exhaled until his breathing was more even, meditative. He was so exhausted of thinking about troubles of the future and neglecting the good things he had now. Del spoke then, and Cyran perked up, opening his eyes.

Yes, a loaded question for sure.

Cyran was tired of feeling this way, as if tar had gathered in the bottom of his heart. It hurt, but more than anything he was more frustrated he just couldn’t set it aside, couldn’t just be normal and whole. Existing as a person had once felt so much easier. Yet, for all his griping and agonizing and spending so long wishing things wouldn’t be so horrible, the one time he’d managed to feel closer to himself was now, so removed from it all that even the thought of what he’d left behind and what would be ahead did not make him feel like his heart was being torn asunder.

“Better.” He said after a prolonged silence.

It was not the most eloquent answer, nor was it entirely good. But better was what he wanted to be. Better was what Del had helped him reach.

“And you? I know it has not been easy. You’ve been holding everything together for so long.” Since they’d left the Ash Lands, really. “Rest, my fighter. No harm will come to you here. No witches nor gods nor nightmares.”

"Yes, you!" Feeling Cyran's affront at being compared to a dessert wine morphing quickly into being flattered as she calls him her man, Del snickers, nudging his cheek with her nose playfully. "I would. I would explode her house and spirit you away to the icebox for protection before she could make you a dessert pairing. You know. Because you are so sweet," Del simpers, giggling a little now as they continue their light banter, a levity in their back and forth Del couldn't help but rejoice in.

Seeing her beloved soon-to-be husband in much better spirits than he had for weeks was as good for her heart as the warm cinnamony drink. Being able to sit and enjoy the levity of one another's company was not something she took for granted, especially not in these times of uncertainty with the Fenastra Manor on the horizon. Even so, Del was confident that no matter where they wound up, as long as they were together, they would have an infinite amount of little things to tease and play and talk about. Comfort to bring to the other, by virtue of presence and love.

Her imagininary witchy foe vanquished, Del sniffs, haughty. "Good. Take that, you bad handy-witch." Del sticks her tongue out at the window and lapses into another round of giggles before it fades once more.

That expression softens as Cyran eventually admits how he is feeling. Better was good. It was better than yesterday, and better than the beginning of all of this. Given their circumstances, even if Cyran had said he was worse, it would have been understandable. With everything he had been through, all that weight she could feel pressing down on him like the stones of a mountain resided on hs shoulders, "better" was as ideal as it could be for their situation, and for that, Del was grateful. A small blessing, but a blessing nonetheless.

"I'm very glad you're feeling better." Del murmurs. It was so easy to succumb to that saccharine gentleness he so readily offered, the steadiness of his mere presence a soothing balm to otherwise frayed nerves. He truly had an effect on her like no one nor anything else. In these arms, she was safe in a way that touched her soul. Her eyes drift a little as she shifts her head where it has made a pillow of Cyran's shoulder. Planting a light kiss to his jaw, her lips curve into a small smile against his skin. Here, she would rest, and as it always was with Cyran, it would be restful and warm in the embrace of her beloved fiance.

"I am well, dear heart." she whispers back. "A little nervous about meeting your family for the first time, but much more confident knowing I have you with me. You should think on sleeping as well. I am at your side, my rogue, and I will not let anything interfere with your rest if I can help it." There is a thoughtful pause before she sleepily murmurs "How headbuttable is your dad? Asking for non-suspicious reasons."

He couldn’t suppress a giggle in time as Del pressed her nose to his cheek, blossoming warmth from the not-kiss. Such a little, innocent display of intimacy that meant so much. Being called hers. Her heroic description of his rescue. She was… still insisting that he ought to be paired with a dessert wine, but that was just fine. Cyran cleared his throat, though it sounded more like laughter than anything. He was so overwhelmed with affection over a story that hadn’t happened his heart felt like it was going to burst if Del was any more sweet and considerate. “Actually, if you were to pair my roast with anything, you’d need to use a full-bodied red to accentuate the richness of the meat -“

Oh.

Flushing so hard that the tips of his ears turned pink, Cyran gripped part of his cloak with his hand and covered his face with it. “Gods, you just - say things like that, and I - I’m truly going to need to be carried out of here in an icebox after I’ve melted.” This whole evening she’d been so heartfelt and genuine; refusing to let the unpleasantness and terror they’d faced since leaving Darkveil, since before then, dim her brilliant spirit. It was admirable, truly. For so long the heavy weight from the shackles of his past, what he’d done, dragged him down, and he’d let them, thinking it deserved punishment. That if he just let the weight smother him he might find penance. But Del - the sims of the past kept her chained to the ground but that didn’t stop her from still finding ways to soar.

It was inspiring to watch, really.

… And perhaps, worth a little teasing of his own. As revenge, of course. Lifting the blankets from his face, he turned to rest his cheek on his propped up knee, allowing him to stare at her face proper. The way the firelight danced off her cheeks; her face wreathed in a halo of gold. Even in her mock-disdain and her laughter, she was entrancing. “Are you certain you’re not a witch?” He murmured, his voice low - barely audible of the warm crackle of the fireplace. “Because I’ve found myself spellbound.”

Yes - better was the most apt description of it. They’d left their home out of fear of the mob’s anger, fearful of the ripples that Cyran had created. Del had uprooted her life to follow him to hell - and he knew he’d do the same for her, and always would, but it stung to feel like he was the only one taking right now. Any chance he could take he’d pay her back a thousand times over, because that was what she deserved. And… he missed his kids, the children in the orphanage, Oriole and Andromeda. He’d left them behind on this pilgrimage to what was once his house (not home, never home). It meant he might see Marlow again, under circumstances he’d never expected. It meant seeing his parents. It meant taking on his despicable last name and birthright once more. It meant being side by side with a woman who he trusted more than anything, and whose unyielding and gentle love he did not fear.

He leaned back once more - leaned into her touch where she’d pressed a chaste kiss to his jaw. Reached his hand up and threaded his fingers through her curls, allowing their heads to press close together. “Good.” He sighed, relieved. “Good.”

Though her anxiety at meeting his parents left him worried, too. It had been ten years since he’d seen either of them. A decade was nothing in terms of the centuries he’d lived but he felt every single day of it. He’d changed. He no longer feared them as he once did - pitied them, perhaps, was the kindest term for it. They were so devoid of anything in their life but money and status, and it had torn the clan apart. In his absence, they’d likely imparted the same ideals in his daughter, and that, too, worried him. Whatever happened at home, Cyran had a feeling it would not be entirely pleasant. But they’d survive, because Cyran refused to live in the shadow cast by his father. His own shadow was far darker than anything Lormundel could dream of.

Still. He should probably prepare her for what was to come, just in case.

“There’s no need to be nervous. My parents - neither of them are fighters. My father was from a coalition of fishing merchants with old-fashioned values. My mother was from a family in the Isles. They’re self-made nouveau riche. Their strengths lies not in their physical prowess, but in their ability to rally people. They employ many powerful guards and have a lot of royal families in Eclipse City in their pocket. Therein lies the danger. He-“

Cyran stopped and erupted into surprised laughter at her question. Del had already done a number on Rowan once before - evidently, she seemed determined to give the same courtesy to all the ghosts of his past. The thought of Lormundel, so prim and proper, having all his poise undone by his new future daughter in law driving her head into his thick skull brought a smile to his face. “Physically, it would be very easy to do so. He has a very large forehead and an even bigger ego. But it’s best to avoid starting off with that… it’s not off the table, though.”

And beyond the amusement… he was truly touched she was so up in arms for him. He sighed. “We’ll be fine.” He assured. “I’ve navigated the landmine that is my father in the past. His hands are tied in this regard… there is no way at this point he can revoke my title again now that someone’s gone above his head. He’ll be in a proper mood, but the worst we have to do is worry about poison in the food. So, uh, probably don’t eat your dinner blindly.” While he spoke, his fingers continued lazily toying with her hair. “But no matter what happens, it will be okay. We’ll get through their games together.”

He turned to kiss her sleepy forehead.

“It’s okay, love. You can sleep - I’ll meditate. I’ve had more than enough rest for a lifetime.” He said in reference to the hours spent comatose after winding up on death’s door. He didn’t think he’d be able to fully sleep for a while.

Besides, it gave him the chance to drift off to the sound of her slowing heartbeat; the sound of trust.