Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

is there such a thing as destiny? fate? 

you are ten when you are sitting on your father’s lap as he takes your small palm and examines it closely. he traces the small lines on your still-soft hands. 

“you will have a good life. a happy life,” he smiles proudly, as if it had already happened. 

you do not know what he sees when he looks at your hand. after all, you are only ten. you just know that it makes your father happy, and his smile is infectious. you are smiling back at him, filled with pride as well. 

those hands have grown since then. they have become bigger, just as the rest of you has. there are a few more lines tracing them, like flowing rivers across an otherwise barren land. most noticeable, perhaps, is that they have grown colder and more lonely. the feeling of your father’s hands tracing your own have become long-lost now, but you can still almost feel them when you close your eyes. sometimes, you try to mimic exactly how he had done it, slowly but with a certain amount of pressure as well. but you can never do it. you guess there are some things that only a father can do. 

now, no longer a little girl but a woman, you live alone, in a relatively small village. in the midst of the ongoing conflict between the large, powerful rival kingdoms of arborea and aecoris, life is difficult. conflict is commonplace, and villages like yours are often the subject of conquest. otherwise, it is quiet. you are poor, yes, but you are poor together. and it seems that a sense of camaraderie that is born when people experience the same misfortunes together. there is a strange comfort in the fact that you are not alone, even in things like poverty. you work together, you grieve together, you starve together, you eat together, and you celebrate together. there is beauty in this, you think.

despite this, you are still alone, and you wish you were ten again, in your father’s lap as he smiles down at you, or in your mother’s embrace as she sings you a lullaby. you wish you were eleven, insisting that you would be able to sleep on your own now, that you were not scared of monsters anymore. but you cannot go back. you are still you, as you are now, and you are still alone. and it is strange. you had always loved deeply, intensely, and easily, and when you had lost that love, you had to learn again. love is now as easy to you as it was once, but sometimes, it is hard to see the beauty of the world. 

it is on a day like this when you are sitting on the fields barefoot, tracing the lines on your palm, and humming the lullaby that your mother always sang to you. for some reason, the lines that had once seemed as though they were set in stone feel strange today. they are almost fluid, more shallow than they had been before. have they changed? there is a sense of worry that suddenly fills you, but you push it away, just like how you push away the thrumming of the earth beneath your feet. 

and you swear to yourself that you will have a good life. a happy life.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

the final sparks of fire are finally swallowed by the dark of the night and there is nothing left where your home used to stand. at least, that is what you hope. you do not wish to see what is left. you cannot bear to. you turn your head, opting to stare past the now-calm steed and into the hollow forest instead. you are afraid that if you do look, then you will see that it is not all gone. that the village people, the baker that used to give you spare bread, the old carpenter who would give you his spare wood, the ‘whores’ of the small village who used to care for you as their own sister, the mothers, the fathers, the old and young, would all be lying still alive, silently begging for you to come back, for you to save them. you fear that you will see their moving mouths fiercely cursing you for leaving them, for not dying together. you silently beg them for their forgiveness. your arms wrap themselves around you, trying to give you comfort from the hungry night, but they are not enough to ease your red eyes and your burning throat. you will not cry, you swear. you may bleed, you may fall, you may be hurt and maimed beyond comprehension, but you swear that you will not cry. as you blink furiously, trying to push the tears back, a gentle wind flows towards you from the forest. it brings you the comfort that was missing from your own arms as it embraces you, gently kissing your forehead and reddened cheeks. and it is as if the wind had heard all of your promises from before, because it caresses your face, telling you that it was okay. that for you, the heavens will turn the other cheek.

then, the knight returns. you feel him before you hear him and hear him before you see him. his footsteps are heavy and tired, and as he gets close, you can feel the ground thrum, as if the soil is whispering its praises for him. he is surprisingly quiet. what you hear first are not the sound of his footsteps but a sigh that falls from his lips. you want to turn around to look at him once more, but you cannot find the courage in yourself to even try. he walks towards his horse, not sparing you even a simple glance. you take the chance to look at him more carefully now. his tan, battle-worn skin somehow seems to glow, even beneath the layers of his sweat and the scars and the ashes from the fire. his hair, an ebony brown, is messy and swept back. i could almost see his muscles rippling beneath his heavy, gray-blue armor as he moves. a large, heavy sword hangs from his hip and with the way he moves so effortlessly, it makes you think that maybe you could wield it just as easily too. everything about him, even his face, screams strength. his sharp nose, set jaw, and broad brows all portray his authority. perhaps his face itself was one of the widely sought-after divine keys, you think to yourself. his plush lips part slightly and you see that he has fangs. even in the dark of night, you can see them glinting. its shining almost hypnotizes you, daring you to prick your finger on them, to see your crimson blood stain the perfect white of his fangs. his eyes finally turn to you, sharp and harrowed. they search you, and his brows furrow even more. you worry that if they somehow find a way to come even closer than they were currently, then they would touch. you are petrified. the red of the fire was nothing compared to the vermillion of his eyes. finally, he mutters something under his breath, quite clearly cursing his fate.

“come,” he says after a long pause. he seems reluctant at first, but he never moves away or comes closer. he waits for you to make your way to him in your own time as he stands there, unwavering.

you realize that you are given a choice. you could run. you could become a free person once more, perhaps taking this chance to explore the world. after all, you have no home. maybe you could finally go see the ocean that your mother had loved. despite having gone as a small child, you do not remember it now that you are all grown up. but something holds you back. maybe you are too tired. maybe the fear was catching up to you now, freezing your legs. you stand still, caught at a crossroads. every rational thought tells you to run, to never stop and never look back. you beg your own body to start moving, to run until all hell break loose, yet you are still staring at the knight and you are still glued to the forest floor, barefoot. despite all rationality and all thought, you cannot help but look up at the knight’s face. everything in your body was telling you to step forward, to follow the stranger. you silently pray that the gods will protect you as you find yourself gravitating towards him. and as your feet finally slowly lift off the wet dirt one by one, you swear that you feel warm hands pushing against your back, silently encouraging and guiding you as they sent you off.

and so, you find yourself on his steed, sitting in front of him as he grabbed the reins tight. he tells you to pull the cloak around you and to never show your face. he makes sure to tell you that it is imperative that your identity remain a secret, for you to practically disappear. it makes you realize that you were never supposed to escape any of it. you were a dead man walking, an anomaly of fate. a deep chill settles into your bones as you realize your situation. it is a disgusting, disgusting mix of fear and guilt and relief. they refuse to mix like water and oil, yet forced into your body, it threatens to burst you open. however, even with the cloak, you doubt that you are inconspicuous, but regardless, you do as he says. maybe he was not the brightest, you think to yourself, but he still saved you, and you decide that you at least owe him this. everything is a blur as the horse takes off into the night, leading a group of what you gather to be around 20 other men. his thick arms are by your side and his broad chest is flush against your back as you sit, tense, on the horse. he smells like the iron of his armor and the ashes of the fire now long-gone. and there is a hint of something warmer too, maybe cinnamon or sunlight or vanilla. this scent envelops you until all you can smell is him, even as you race through the forest. his body around you radiates warmth, and against the cold wind and the undoubtedly scary things that you had experienced today, there is comfort in his warmth.

“relax. you won’t fall,” he finally says. he looms over you as he says this, leaning next to your ear. you can feel his warm breath against you. it was unavoidable, truly. otherwise, with the rushing wind and the thick cloak around you, you will not have heard him (or so the knight tries to convince himself).

you do not know what to say. because despite what he has told you, you are almost sure you will fall. what good would all of this have been if you fell from the tall, racing steed and died in the middle of the dark forest? you simply shrink even more into him. you swear you can almost see him roll his eyes, but you could not care less. if he is to find your cling for life laughable, then so be it. you much rather value your life than his view of you.

“i will not let you fall, so for the love of everything good, stop being so tense,” he growls, clearly frustrated and tired. and he is true to his word. he leans more forward and holds you with one arm, leaving the rein to his other, “and if you do fall, then i will not just leave you there. this is ridiculous.”

you still look back at his face, expression riddled with worry. he is a strong man. you know that he is capable of ensuring your safety. and he had just rescued you, so he would not kill you if he had even a shred of rationality. still, there was an unexplainable fear. and there is tiredness too. oh, how tired you are. the fear keeps you awake, but your body screams simultaneously for you to rest. if there was truly a hell, then you felt that this would be close to what it would feel like. and the knight seems to notice this too. your tiredness, your anxiety, everything. he looks down at you for just a moment, meeting your eyes. something changes, and for a second, his eyes turn soft. for a moment, you see a flash of sympathy and understanding.

“just…” he pauses. he is reluctant, trying to choose his next words carefully, “just rest.”

he says this in a soft voice, unlike anything he has said to you before. it bleeds honesty, and it apparently has some effect on you. you slowly nod and try to relax, letting out a breath. you lean into the knight’s chest, and you try to find a beat to the steed’s furious gallop. you wrap the black cloak around you tighter, burying your face into it. in the distance, you can hear someone calling out to him, voice a mix of disbelief and anger and curiosity. without even hearing the words, you know that they are asking about you. and you grow a little curious too. who are you? you are no longer the small child of your parents. you are no longer the young adult of the small village in the woods. everything that deems you as you seems to have disappeared, and you wonder if you will disappear soon as well. will you be razed to the ground too, just as your home had just been? will you dissolve into sea foam, like in one of the stories that your mother had told you as a child? the knight just looks ahead, gritting his teeth as he unknowingly brings himself closer to you, but you don’t look back to see the knight’s response. you just look ahead, over the dark mane of the horse and into the forest with an empty gaze. the tears from before have never really gone away. your eyes sting, but you try and convince yourself that it is just because of the wind stinging your eyes. you know it is not. it cannot be. the wind has been nothing but gentle and soft to you. you hold your breath, hoping, praying that, somehow, the halted breathing would take your tears away, but it does not work. and the more you think about it, the worse it becomes. you know the knight knows. with his keen senses, there is no way he does not know. you glance back, eyes red and teary, and he looks away with a soft scoff. this is a kindness, and you are infinitely grateful for it. from the distance, the wind comes to you bearing the smells of home, and you swear that you hear your old friends and neighbors. you swear that you can feel your mother’s soft touch and your father’s warmth. they all tell you the same thing: you are okay, you are forgiven, you are loved, you are free. and hidden in the night, you let your tears fall.

Chapter Text

you only realize you had fallen asleep when you find yourself waking up. your eyes burn as you fight to keep them open. they are so swollen, most likely due to your crying last night. your voice feels foreign to you in your own throat as you let out a groan, hands rubbing your eyes. a quick looking around tells you that you are not out of the forest yet. the horse moves at a slower pace than yesterday. the sun is rising now, but there is still a grayness cast in the forest. you can feel the moisture of the midnight fog now dissipating on your face, licking at your cheeks like a frenzied puppy. this combined with the uncomfortable feeling of being on a horse makes you wake up fully, coming to your surroundings. the events of last night hit you again, and there is an emptiness in you when you remember them. but it is no longer the heavy emptiness that you had felt last night. instead, it feels as though someone had taken away the guilt, the shame, and the regret. there is a certain lightness to it. and maybe someone had taken them away. maybe this was the village people’s final gift to you. now, there is only the emptiness left to deal with, one that is solely yours. it is not comfortable to bear that weight still, but you are grateful that it no longer weighs down on you like the weight of a thousand skies. you notice that the knight is still holding you tight as he had last night, swearing that he would not let you fall. usually, this gesture would have warmed your cheeks, made your heart beat a little quicker, but right now, still caught up in the haze of sleep and memory, you find yourself too preoccupied to even process it fully.

“finally awake,” he grunts. his tone is now rough again, the sympathy from last night nowhere to be seen. yet, there is a slight softness to it, to him, that is almost undetectable, “we’re nearly there,” he keeps his sentences short.

you nod. your throat is so scratchy and dry, you could not have replied properly even if you had tried. if there is one thing you notice about him, it is that he is a grumpy man. then again, if you had burned an entire village the night before and had spent the entire night racing back home on horseback, you think you would also be grumpy as well. still, some hospitality would be nice. all around you, you can hear the first creatures begin to wake up. the air smells of morning. it is a scent that you cannot describe, yet you know deep inside that it is the smell of the sun rising and the world waking up, of the moon letting out a final sigh as the sky bids her farewell. it is cold as it enters your nose, burning your lungs. in the distance, you can see the trees beginning to thin out.

you can feel the knight take a breath before shouting an order to the rest of his men.

“stay here. i’ll be back,” he barks, and then he hesitates for a while before coming to a decision, “peter, follow me.”

you peer back to see who peter is. the man that is presumably peter is lanky and scruffy. he is also older, with a few wrinkles and smile lines adoring his face. his eyes twinkle with the peace of a man who could not want anything more than he already had. all in all, peter looks as though he is more fit to be a poet rather than a seasoned warrior, but you know better than to doubt his skills. the warriors of arborea are renowned for their battle prowess, hand-picked by their ruler, the wotan herself. maybe he is more fit to be a scribe, but he just never had the chance to choose the pen rather than the sword. perhaps he was chosen before he could make the choice himself. a part of you envies this, but there is also pity. choosing is hard: there is always a chance of failure, and sometimes, you wish that the burden of choosing is not yours to carry. and yet, you know that you must carry this burden if you wish to become truly free. it is but a small price in comparison to the magnitude of the reward.

peter begins to move closer atop a beautiful brown horse.

“i knew you would need me,” peter grins.

“shut up,” your knight replies, voice flat.

it does not seem to phase peter at all. they must be great friends, you think to yourself. some day, you wish to have a friendship as special as theirs.

as just the three of you continue forward, the forest flattens out into a clearing until you can see the beginnings of a small city. it is nothing like the rural town you had just lived in. even in the early morning, people were bustling about already, getting their shops and stalls ready. the entire time, peter does not stop talking. you learn that he is married and has a child, a wee thing, named mayday. his rambling somehow brings peace to your cluttered mind, and you find yourself beginning to listen more intently to him. you do not respond, but the things he says are still very amusing. and the knight’s response, or lack thereof, made it doubly, maybe even triply amusing. the entire time, the knight’s arm is still wrapped around you as tight as it had been the night before.

the horses finally enter the city, warm brown next to midnight black, and people begin to gather at the sides of the road. there are all kinds of people, more than you had ever seen in your entire life living in small towns. they all look in awe at the horses, and, presumably, the two knights. some clap, some wave, some point, and some just stare. peter is a natural amidst all of the admiring gazes of the people. he waves back, smiling and taking in all of the attention, but not in a way that makes you think that he sees himself as better than them. to you, at least, it feels as though he is simply exchanging everyday greetings. however, your knight is the opposite of him, it seems. he does not acknowledge anyone, simply staring straight ahead. his hands remain steady, one around you and the other on the reins. despite this, you know that it is not arrogance. and the people seem to know it too. they are not discouraged by his non-response, even smiling and laughing harder. as for you, you feel strange. you are sitting in front of one of the very people that so many people were praising so openly, yet you are nothing. the emptiness inside you seems to widen a little, swallowing just a little bit more of you inside. you are surrounded by love, yet none of it is for you. you pull the cloak around you tighter. there are more people as you reach the heart of the city, and there are more eyes that stare past you, through you.

perhaps your knight has grown tired of the people around him, or perhaps he notices your discomfort, because he hastens the horse’s gait. whatever the reason is, you know that peter must have noticed it too, because he follows immediately. for a moment, you just travel wordlessly, no one saying anything as the city whirls past you. everything is unfamiliar, from the bright colors to the loud noises to the strange, yet welcoming smells. you do not know what to focus on, so you try and take in everything at once. it is too much, and you end up not taking in anything at all. it slips through the fingers of your mind like a minnow in a pond evading the relentless hands of a child.

then, peter speaks up.

“what’s your name?” he says, voice light.

finally, someone acknowledges your presence. you had not even realized that you had been longing for someone to give you attention too. you think that you are selfish for thinking that, but you cannot stop the wisp of happiness nor the small smile on your lips as you look back and tell him your name.

“stop talking,” the deep voice behind you snaps, and then quickly turns apologetic, “wait, not you. you. peter. shut up.”

his awkwardness makes a small laugh escape you. you could feel his arm tense as soon as he realized he had not specified to whom he had barked the order to. maybe he is not as mean as he tries to make himself be. he is just rough. and awkward. a smile plasters itself onto your face at that thought. you do not know what normal is, but you think, you hope, that this is what it feels like.

you look around and see that the crowds of people surrounding the pavement are now more sparse. ahead of you, there is a large manor, one that you had imagined that the princes and princesses from your mother’s old stories had lived out their happily-ever-afters in. the manor is majestic. the roof is tiled with brilliant blue, and the cream walls are lined with more windows than you think you can count. surrounding it, you see lush, green, clearly well-maintained gardens and hedges. you catch yourself feeling envious as you wonder who the owner is. you also wonder why the knight had purposefully come here by himself, leaving the rest of his men (minus peter) in the forest. the giant gate guarding the manor opens and the guards bow. here, the horses break into a full gallop and no one stops the three of you.

as you halt in front of the large, looming oak doors of the manor itself, you see that there are people standing in lines in front of the equally large steps. they all bow their heads, welcoming the knights. one stands in front of all the others. she is a woman with choppy orange hair and a wide cheshire grin on her face. you notice that instead of the same working dress that all of the other women are wearing, she is wearing a dress shirt and black pants. she does not have the perfect posture nor the rigidness that is uniform in all of the others.

“miguel! long time no see, huh?” she exclaims as soon as the knight behind you dismounts the horse. her arms are spread wide out, as if welcoming him for a hug. her voice is loud and cheery as well, but in a more boisterous way than peter’s had been.

after an entire night together, you finally learn his name. miguel. you try out each syllable, each sound of his name in your mouth silently. it is undoubtedly new, but it is somehow familiar. then, miguel holds out a hand for you to help you get off too, but you do not know how. yesterday had been your first time on a horse, and now, this is your first time getting off of one. as you glance down towards the ground, you realize just how high you are. miguel senses your hesitation and lets out a harsh breath. miguel is a tall man, taller than you had realized. he wraps his arms around you with ease and puts you on the ground. you cannot help but feel embarrassed for not knowing how to get off of a horse. you feel your cheeks burn slightly.

“sorry,” you say quietly.

miguel does not respond, but he acknowledges you by letting out a soft grunt. peter is standing on the ground now too.

“who’s that? you finally brought home a woman, miggy?” the orange haired woman teases, cheshire grin never fading. she looks at you curiously and you feel even more embarrassed.

home? this was all miguel’s home?

“shut up, lyla,” miguel rolls his eyes so far that you worry that they might become stuck. he then turns his attention to you, “this is lyla.”

miguel introduces you to lyla too, and you are surprised when he introduces you by name. you had thought that miguel was not listening to your brief interaction with peter, but he remembered. your name sounds unfamiliar as it rolls off his tongue, but he says it so effortlessly that anyone else would have thought that he had been saying it for ages. lyla waves at you, still smiling cheesily. you finally take off your cloak and wave back.

“you can stay here for as long as you need. think of it as your new home,” he says to you. despite his kind words, his face and tone does not betray the same warmth. he says it all as if this was the most obvious and easiest thing to offer to you.

“thank you, miguel,” you finally bring yourself to say his name out loud. it rolls off of your tongue easily.

miguel’s eyebrows twitch slightly as he hears you saying his name. he turns away from you and walks towards lyla.

“you have to make sure she stays here, understand? she cannot leave. no one outside of anyone here should even know that she is here. got it?” miguel’s voice is strict and somewhat hushed.

you presume that he had tried his best to make sure that you did not hear, for it was never nice to hear such things, yet he is a big man. it is inevitable that big men make big noises, even when they try not to. being talked about so openly makes you feel embarrassed. you understand that you should have died last night, so you understand why you have to be hidden. however, it still stings. if he had not burned my home down, then maybe, you would not have to be hidden so seriously.

“don’t worry about it too much,” peter walks over to you with a friendly smile, “seriously, he tries to be so mean but he really isn’t.”

“okay. thank you,” you smile back. and you think he is right too.

peter is a nice man, a warm man. there are people that are warm like the summer sun that shines onto your bare skin through the green of the budding trees, and there are people like peter, who are warm like a fireplace. you feel that you will enjoy this fireplace company.

“i’m peter, by the way, but i’m sure you know that by now. peter of the lady wotan’s army, at your service,” he grins, holding out his hand. like miguel’s, you see that it is calloused and rough, but his fingers are far more lithe, long and thin. you once again wonder what else they could have been holding if not the sword.

you are shaking his hand when miguel finishes talking to lyla. he angrily calls peter’s name, already mounted on his horse again. peter grins sheepishly before he bids his farewells to both you and the manor’s workers, then mounts his horse. before the two leave, you swear that you see miguel’s eyes glance back to you briefly. your eyes meet, and in that second, you swear that you see an undecipherable emotion filling the vermillion red. but he is gone all too quick, and all you are left with is the dust left behind by the speeding horses and lyla.

lyla turns to you, toothy grin still present but with a sprinkle of awkward tension.

“sorry about him, he’s always like that. don’t take it to heart,” she says, “anyways, i’m lyla, this is the team,” she pauses to gesture to the people behind her, who are now starting to head back to presumably continue what they were doing, “and we basically do everything around here. i do all of miguel’s stuff other than the actual sword swinging, and they do everything they can to keep the house looking at least presentable.”

“oh,” you say quietly, unsure of what to say. there is too much to unpack with this entire place all belonging to miguel, and lyla’s fast talking does not make anything easier. you take a moment to take everything in, "i'll be in your care," you add. 

“pretty cool, right? and you’re the first woman he’s ever brought home. hooray! maybe he’s finally growing up and i’ll have a wife to share my document duties with,” she laughs loudly. her laugh is loud, like thunder maybe, and it is felt with her entire body. she throws her head back and smiles wide as she does so, “welcome to the o’hara manor.”

she opens the doors and you walk inside alongside her, cautiously. even through the slightly parted doorways, you can see the lavish furnishings inside. it is all unfamiliar to you. as you take your first steps into your new home, you hope that one day, you will find your own place there.

Chapter Text

days pass and you find yourself slowly getting used to the manor. your huge room is now less shocking to you than when you had first seen it. it is easier for you to talk to the people around the manor, especially the maids who insist on helping you with even your everyday routine. although you had told them that you were capable of doing your own things for yourself, they had insisted that you let them help, that their top tier skills were rotting away in the usually-empty manor. it is no longer uncomfortable when they bathe you, rubbing your skin and massaging your tired muscles, telling you about how the oils they were using would make your skin as smooth as milk or as fragrant as spring. and they are more comfortable around you as well, often engaging in friendly conversation with you. yet, despite all of their courtesy, you quickly realize that there is still a line between courtesy and kindness. you wish so desperately to be able to cross it, consumed with a profound loneliness, but relationships take time, you realize. you still have to eat alone in the huge dining hall while the maids eat amongst themselves. sometimes, you can hear one of them talk or laugh a little too loudly as their sounds travel through the large, empty halls and reaches your lone ears at the large, empty table. it is often followed by a laugh and a hush. you wish that you could be able to join them.

sometimes, in all of your newly found free time, you find yourself looking back on your past, the life that you had in the village. you feel guilt when you realize that you cannot cry for them anymore. the tears simply refuse to fall. everytime you think this, you feel a voice that tells you that you are forgiven, that you are free, but you ignore it. you are afraid that if you accept it so easily, then you will simply forget them. and you could not let yourself forget them. you pray that you would be able to carry their stories in your heart if it were the last thing you would hold. you pray that eventually, somehow, their stories would be immortalized in the stars through you.

around a week passes and you are, once again, eating your lunch alone in the hall when you find the castle bustling suddenly. the maids rush you into your room, hauling in clothes and soaps and oils and jewelry. you just sit in shock, eyes wide at the luxury that you witness for the first time. then, you hear lyla’s voice.

“miguel’s coming back today. i thought it would be nice if he had a pretty friend waiting at home, no?” she smiles one of her cheshire grins, and you realize that there is no choice in this.

you doubt that you being here would make his mood any better: you are practically a fugitive that he hid and took into his home, begrudgingly at that. would he really enjoy coming home to see you dressed up and waiting for him? and would it be alright for you to enjoy such luxury after what everyone else had gone through? guilt washes over you like a tidal wave eating away at the rocks.

“it’s okay,” lyla grins, “we have so much money and nobody uses it. i never get to buy clothes for someone else. and the maids never get the chance to do this either. just enjoy it,” she is nonchalant about the entire thing, arms crossed as she leans against the huge doors. occasionally, maids come up to her and show her something, whether it be boxes or vials or dresses, and she nods in approval.

you look around and see that she is right. lyla herself is glowing; usually, you had found after nearly a week at the manor, her face is dark and tired. the maids are filled with a fire that you had never seen before too. they gush excitedly as they quickly move themselves around you. and something else too: a breeze enters your room through the open windows, and it too seems excited. it rushes around the room and around you, twirling your hair gently and laughing. you swear you hear laughing. it bears an uncanny resemblance to the laughter of brothel girls from back home. you decide that this time, you will let this be.

after a few hours, you are ready. although you yourself had not done anything, you seem to be the most tired. the maids all seem to glow with satisfaction and accomplishment. lyla also looks proud, presumably with her choice of dress. it is a soft pink, adorned with beautiful flowers and patterns, each and every stitch done by hand. you cannot help but marvel at the beauty and luxury of it. you slowly run your hands over the dress and you think that this is what heaven must feel like.

“is it really okay for me to wear this?” you ask. after all, you were not even royalty, nor from a noble family. your hands are dry and calloused from years of chores and work. your skin is far from the soft and supple skin that you hear of in the stories of nobility. even in such a dress, you think, it is not possible to hide your common blood.

“you look nice,” lyla says proudly. her grin never leaves her face as she takes you in, “i never miss.”

“if this dress was not made for you, then it is made for no one,” one of the maids exclaim. her name is patricia, you remember.

“thank you,” your voice is soft as you feel your cheeks bloom. you cannot stop the smile that gently perches itself on your lips.

then, you hear the blowing of horns, followed by a loud shout:

“the honorable knight has returned home!”

your face drops as you realize that you have to meet him. in the flurry of getting ready, you had forgotten what you were getting ready for. your heart fills with dread. you do not know how to interact with him. what will he think when he sees a commoner all dressed up in fine silks and expensive perfumes? you have seen firsthand how ruthless he can be. will you become subject to his wrath as well? your arms unconciously wrap themselves around you, trying their best to hide as much of you as possible. still, the maids drag you out with them with lyla leading the way.

you meet miguel in the entrance hall, at the bottom of the huge stairway. he is still donning his knight’s armor and his sword, clearly having just entered the house. his men follow behind him. he meets your eyes, and his eyebrows furrow. for a moment, you are afraid that he finds offense in your lavish wear. however, when you look closer, you realize that his gaze is not angry. there are a multitude of emotions, but none of them is anger as he looks at you. you bow with the rest of the maids. you do not know where you stand in the manor, so you follow the example of the majority. although your head is bowed deeply, hands folded at your waist, your eyes cannot help but trail up to look at your knight.

he stands tall and muscular, the light coming from the dusty windows glinting off of his shining armor. you swear he is made of almost pure muscle, yet despite this, he is also the word regal come to life. you wonder if he knows this too. your eyes meet his and you quickly lower your gaze, feeling electricity travel through your body. you squirm in your new clothes, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

then, lyla’s voice breaks you out of your spiral.

“finally, you’re home!” she exclaims, throwing her hands up, “officially, that is. the townspeople are probably going to hold a celebration for the knights’ return. will you go?”

miguel considers for a moment. you are not bowing anymore. instead, you stand tall and straight, like the other maids are doing. his eyes land on you. he pauses. you do not know what it is you feel when you realize this, but your heart beats a little bit quicker and you feel blood rushing to your face. it feels like embarrassment, but it is different. you do not know what it is. you try to convince yourself that it really is all embarrassment.

“i won’t go,” he decides, but he then turns to the rest of his men, “but you all are free to do as you wish,” he says, and his voice is louder this time.

you feel a question rising in you. why is he not going to celebrate? such a large festival is being thrown for him and his men, and still he refuses to go. a part of the reason for the question is because you wish to go to the festival. the spinning lights, the vibrant chatter, the loud music and dancing are all things you miss dearly from your childhood. you push the longing to the corner of your mind and try to remain present as you stand in line with the maids.

“okay,” lyla shrugs.

behind her, butlers and stablemen come to take the knights’ things away and lead the horses to their stables. there is a sort of routine to how everything is carried out, and you think that this must be a common ocurrence: the castle’s owner and his men often vacate the castle and return victorious, bearing gifts from the wotan herself. your eyes move back to miguel, who is beginning to take his armor off, handing them over to the butlers already waiting at his side. there is grace even as he takes his armor off. his motions are fluid and strong, and you cannot help but stare. underneath, he wears a simple black tunic. you can finally see his tan skin, littered with moles and scars. it ripples as he moves, just as you had imagined before.

“tell them to prepare dinner,” miguel finally tells lyla, finally done and beginning to walk upstairs. he walks as how you imagine a bear would, strong and powerful and heavy.

“your room?” lyla asks. she sounds as though she is simply making sure, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

you notice miguel glance over to you before he answers. your skin almost burns where he looks. you feel so out of place, dressed in expensive silks in the midst of the maids. you cannot bear to meet his gaze.

“no. in the hall,” he says curtly, and with that, he is gone.

a small smile plays on lyla’s lips as she follows behind miguel, and your heart beats so loud that you fear that the other girls around you will hear. one by one, they begin to walk to where they were before, whether it were doing chores or chatting amongst themselves. patricia approaches you with a large smile.

“i think the master didn’t mind,” she sings, “no, he did not mind at all,” there is a lilt to her voice.

“i hope so too,” you say softly, looking down at your fingers. you try to tell yourself it is because you are afraid of him, the same knight who had led troops of men to slaughter villages. you try to convince yourself that it is for your own life that you hope he found some pleasure resting his eyes upon you, but there is a nagging feeling that it is something more. despite everything, you find a small part of you longing for him to like you.

“now, you must get yourself ready for dinner in the hall,” she insists, and there is no way you can refuse her. in your short time here, you have already learned that patricia could not be moved if she set her mind on something.

you are rushed back into your room. ladies bustle around as they undo, then redo, then undo your hair. gentle hands massage your skin with oils and perfumes. you try to tell them that you would be able to do it yourself, feeling bad that you had to be taken care of like this, but they insist on your silence, that you had moved when you opened your mouth to speak. every time you moved your hands to help them with something, they were lightly slapped and you were chastised. surrounded by laughing women, you slowly tune everything out and stare out the window. in the distance, you can see the bright lights and bustle of the festival. you try to imagine yourself there, dancing with the people, surrounded by neverending music and cheer. flowers would adorn your hair as you spin wildly, spurred by the twinkling laughs of elves and faeries who would dance too, drawn in by the vibrancy of the fete. the sun quickly sets. a smile brings itself onto your face as you continue to watch from the distance. then, a voice breaks you out of your reverie.

“you are ready,” a lady says proudly. she is another one of the maids, older than patricia. her face is lined with wrinkles and her twinkling eyes are wise, “now, go. someone bring her to the dining hall.”

“i can go by—“ you try to protest, but you are immediately hushed.

“we have nothing to do. please, let us have this,” she smiles.

patricia grabs your hand, rushing to get you to the hall. she seems more excited than you, her own face glowing. you do not understand for what she could be so happy for, but you follow her nonetheless. as you reach the hall, your hands become more sweaty and you are once again anxious. you do not know if you would be welcome, if he would welcome you. dressed up, you worry that it is too much. yet there is not even time for you to worry as patricia gives you a smile and a reassuring squeeze to your hand.

“you are beautiful, i swear it,” she says firmly, a fire burning gently in her eyes. you wonder if it is something common to the people from this land. she pushes open the doors and you are met with the familiar large table, only that this time, there is another seated there.

your feet begin walking before you know it. you think this is a common ocurrence recently; your body acts in a sort of instinctive way, as if something had been calling upon it. you are almost tempted to sit at the seat furthest from miguel, but you push it down to walk towards the seat already prepared for you. fear and worry consumes you as your heart begins beating out of your chest. with his keen senses, you swear that miguel probably hears it too. you sit down in the seat in front of miguel. you notice he is already eating. he grunts in acknowledgment as you are seated.

there is a long moment of silence before you decide to say something, anything, to change the mood. there are a million things that you could say, that you wish to say, but you carefully choose from the million.

“how was your trip?” you say. your voice is shaky and your apprehension bleeds through it. you bite the insides of your cheeks, chastising yourself for being so afraid.

“fine,” he says. he continues to eat as if you had not said anything.

you are then served your own dinner. you begin to eat it slowly, still wary of miguel’s presence so close to you. it was strange. you had leaned against his chest on the horse, but sitting face to face is different. he is more intimidating this way.

suddenly, he sighs roughly, a mix of anger and frustration. your eyes widen as you look up to see him.

“why are you so afraid? stop—“ he pauses to gesture at all of you, “stop all of this,” his voice is angry but he does not move in a threatening way. miguel wishes that you would stop being so afraid. he had rescued you and put himself in danger of the wotan’s wrath by doing so. in the spur of the moment, something in him had told him that he needed to save you. and, now, here you were, trembling as if he were a monster. his jaw clenches at the sight.

“sorry,” you say softly.

miguel just scoffs. there is silence once again. you want so desperately to say something, but you do not know what.

“thank you,” you speak up after a while. there is nothing else you could say, not when everything else had led to silence, “for everything. for saving me, for letting me stay, everything.”

the knight looks up at you, finally, as you say this. his face turns into something softer, lips slightly parting. in that moment, face lit by the warm candle lights, you think he looks like an angel. the thought comes faster to you than you can stop it. you almost reach out in wonder but you catch yourself. miguel looks back down, then up to you again.

“it’s…” his voice is softer now too, “it was nothing.”

“no, it is not. i don’t know it so clearly, but i know that i wasn’t supposed to have made it out alive, right?” you say, trying to tell him that you know the extent of his sacrifice, the weight of his decision, “really. thank you.”

“it’s okay,” he says. he hesitates before he continues, “i am sorry too. for your home. it had to be done.”

anger rises in you for a moment. why did anyone have to be killed? who decided what had to be done? it flares up in you, red and scorning and ugly. yet you find your anger calms quicker than you realize. it was not him who had decided it; he had just followed orders. as a knight of the queen, it was what he thought was the best option for everyone. his voice is remorseful, and you find a semblance of regret on his face. you eventually just sigh. in place of your anger, there is just an emptiness.

“if you are sorry, then that is all you can do,” you decide to say. and it is true: there is nothing more that he can do for the dead, especially the dead that were not his own.

miguel’s mouth opens as if he wants to say something, then he closes it again. he is nearly finished with eating while you had just started. silence falls once again like a thick blanket of snow.

“is the food okay?” he asks awkwardly. he looks so out of place, alone at a table with you.

you are surprised at his sudden question, and despite yourself, you laugh a little bit, the sound like a rushing stream to miguel’s ears. such a large, confident man should not be so tense, you think to yourself. he perks up a little, no longer looking so strained.

“it is good,” you say lightly, “but sometimes i miss eating with other people,” you say. you hope that the conversation does not end here.

he stares at you intently, waiting for you to continue.

and you do. you begin to talk about your old life, and how you were never once left alone, even in such a tiny village. he listens as you tell him little stories and anecdotes, even surpressing a smile or two. once you start, you find yourself unable to stop. you tell him everything about everyone, taking your time to remember each ond every one of their faces. suddenly, remembering is not such a bad thing to do; the emptiness begins to fill up with something good. by the time you are done, miguel is long finished with his food, but he is still seated, listening to your stories.

“thank you,” you smile, feeling more yourself now. as you look at miguel’s face, which you had not really focused on as you had begun to talk, you think that he relates a little to the stories you had told. it puzzles you, but you do not pry.

“no, that wasn’t half-bad,” he replies, feigning disinterest now after having listened so intently for so long. even he finds himself foolish for doing such a ridiculous thing, but he could not help it.

you snort at his nonchalant response.

“you were not so disinterested when i told the stories, no?” you tease, and he grumbles. for the first time in the past week, you find yourself growing slightly closer to someone.

“what? you saw wrong. i should call the apothecary over and have him check your eyes,” he responds, yet even he knows that he is lying through his teeth as he says this. but when you simply laugh, and miguel feels a small part of him warm.

the dinner soon ends, and you wish that you could stay a little longer. you hesitate to get up but know that you must. your plates and glasses are empty and your bellies are full. the night is pitch black outside the window. as you get up, something flashes across miguel’s face, but it is gone too quick for you to see what.

“thank you for listening. and also for the clothes,” you say. you are a little more awkward now that you have left the table.

“no, it was…” he catches himself before he could tell you that it had been fun, “it was okay. and the clothes were all lyla.”

“but it is your money,” you protest, still wishing for your gratitude to reach him. you look at his eyes, hoping he could somehow feel it through your gaze.

miguel seems lost in your gaze for a second before he says something.

“okay. you’re welcome,” he digresses, unable to win against your gaze. something in him prevented him from acting as he usually did, cold and distant and unfeeling. you see something dancing in the vermillion of his eyes as he purses his lips.

then, the two of you part ways as you head to your room and he heads to his. in the halls, you can faintly hear miguel calling lyla’s name. you do not pay attention to what they are saying. you are too far and too tired to make anything out. from the moment you begin walking to your room, you feel as if you are floating. it almost feels unreal, like a dream or a hallucination. the conversation that had bloomed so naturally between the two of you seemed impossible. for the first time, you just let the maids clean you and get you ready for bed. you are too preoccupied within your own mind. the feeling chases you until you are finally asleep.

and the next morning, when you wake up, you are met with piles upon piles of fine jewels and beautiful dresses.

Chapter Text

miguel does not leave for a long time. so far, it has been a few weeks over a month, and he has not stepped foot out of the manor yet.

during those weeks, you get a relatively clear idea of how he spends his time. from morning to afternoon, when the air is still cool, he and his fellow knights spar, training to make sure they do not ever turn dull. even from your room, you can sometimes hear laughter and the high, ringing sounds of polished metal against polished metal. you cannot see them from your room, although sometimes, when you can hear their deep voices laughing in the way that little boys do, you wish you had been able to. miguel eats lunch with the other knights in the smaller hall. it is not as lavish as the one that you are always led to, resembling a tavern more than anything, but it is always warmly lit and when they are inside, it is always loud, their cups nor their plates ever emptying. sometimes, as you pass, you can see inside through the gap of the doors left slightly open. if you are lucky, then you can see miguel sitting amongst the knights, cracking a smile or laughing. then, after all of this, he goes to his office. you do not know what he does in there, and you do not wish to either. you have a feeling that it is important, and you have a feeling that you are not at a place yet to know important things.

for dinner, there is a new part in his routine. you do not know how he had lived before your arrival, but the maids swear that it is definitely new and unexpected. they tell you these things more easily now than they had before. you are sometimes let in as part of their gossip circles, smiling and laughing at their inside scoops on the manor’s people or the people outside. they insist that this is unlike him, that he had always eaten alone in his office, if he had even eaten at all. he apparently had a habit of forgoing his meals in favor of working. you do not know why a knight works so hard, but then again, you do not know much about knights at all. miguel always eats dinner in the hall with you. at first, you had questioned if he would accept your presence in the hall every night, but now it is as obvious as the sun rising in the morning and setting at night: you and miguel always share dinner together. no matter what. most often, miguel is there first, waiting for you. you know he had been waiting—the maids make sure to tell you, a wide grin plastered on their faces—but he insists that he had not, that he would never wait for you. every time he says this, you tell him that you believe him, hiding a smile behind your hand. and every time you tell him this, he rolls his eyes and turns away, grumbling under his breath. soon, you had found yourself waiting for dinner each day.

you have gotten to know miguel himself better too. for instance, he is not a picky eater, but he especially enjoys eating spicy food. it was unexpected for someone living in such a large manor, one that was nearly a castle: strong flavors were the defining trait of commoner’s food, sold on the streets and made in small homes by fiery mothers. when you tell him this, he scoffs, asking if you had thought that he had always lived in a castle. he always talks in that way, tongue sharp and lashing, but you have also learned that he does not mean to drive you away, that it is a habit. you do not really mind it, especially when you are presented with that hint of a smile at the corner of his lips and a flash of relief when he realizes that you are not offended. that is a new thing you learn about miguel as well: he is not born noble. it does not matter to you, but you had always thought that nobility flowed through his veins. after all, if such a being that exudes honor and strength is not nobility, then who is more fit for that status? but you do not tell him this, instead choosing to laugh and tell him that it did not matter at all. 

the same goes for miguel as well. despite being so large, his senses are accutely tuned, surprisingly so. you think that if he tried, then he would be able to hear the townspeople talking over their own dinner tables, or see through the tiny cracks in the walls. miguel is not one for starting conversations, so most nights, you are the one that begins. you tell him about yourself, your day, things you notice around the manor, and other small things. and even things you do not say, he notices too.

for instance, you had always pushed the carrots on your plate to the side, leaving as many of them as you can. one night, the fifth or sixth time you had eaten together, he glances down at your plate and hums.

“you don’t like carrots?” he asks, but it was not really asking. it is been as clear as day that you do not like them. he had watched you shovel your carrots to the side of your plate numerous times.

you nod, slightly embarrassed of your childish palate.

miguel laughs, the first time you have seen him do so. it is deep and rumbles from the base of his throat. it unknowingly brings a smile onto your face as well. however, like thunder, the sound disappears as quick as it had come, and you are left wanting more.

you had though that it was the end of that, but the next time you eat together, he holds out his own plate, looking at you expectantly. you do not understood what he means at first, then he tells you to give him your carrots as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. you are taken aback by this kindness, your heart beating a little quicker than it had before. when you do not comply right away, miguel begins to get embarrassed. he tries to hide it, but the red of his ears is glaringly bright. if it were not for your own beating heart, you would have smiled, laughing at the scene in front of you.

“well? are you going to eat them?” he asks gruffly.

you quickly shake your head and place your carrots on his plate. he takes his plate back and finishes them along with his own food.

it is kind gestures like these that leave you a winded mess. it is the same one that you had felt when he had first arrived at the castle, dressed in unfamiliar clothes and standing in front of his burning gaze. deep inside, you know what it is, an emotion so primal and pure that it drives people to do the unimaginable, yet you deny it as many times as you realize it. it cannot be love or infatuation or anything like that. if anything, should it not be fear? here is the man that slaughtered thousands, millions of people, even your own, yet you find a certain quickening of your breath as you are met with him or even just the thoughts of him. still, that was not him, you reason. it is strange that you reason for him inside your own mind. the miguel you know listens whenever you reminisce your old friends. he holds the burden of remembering with you now, and shares the emptiness. still, he is just kind, you tell yourself, and you are just lonely. it is not love; it is just that you are too starved of everything. at least, that is what you try to convince yourself.

however, despite it all, as time passes, you find yourself longing to spend more time with him. he and you are much closer now. even when there is silence between the two of you, you no longer scramble to make conversation. now, if there ever is silence, it is a comfortable silence, where you simply indulge in his presence and he, yours. you wonder if he feels the same, if behind every look he gives you there is a pull underneath.

soon, it is nearly two months since you had first arrived. the weather begins to feel colder, the summer warmth fading day by day and the green leaves that had been full and rich at the start of your days here becoming drier. the summer seems to have given its warmth to the earth as the first leaves begin to turn a deep, rich orange. you hear from the maids that the city is bustling for preparation for the festival. it is traditional belief that the sun takes charge of the spring and summer, while the moon provides during the autumn and winter months. it is held on the last day of summer as people celebrate the end of the reign of the sun and honor the beginning reign of the moon. you hear that this festival is grand. all the townspeople dance and spin with the forest elves and faeries who are drawn in by their prayer and song and cheer. you wonder if you would be able to go. you wish to be able to go.

you often wake up to gifts, and it is around this time that you finally learn that miguel is behind all of them, from the merchants and tailors that come to take your measurements to the small trinkets and decorations that slowly begin to fill your room. his gifts for you are extravagant, but you notice that he never indulges in the same luxury that he insists you do. he is always wearing a simple tunic and comfortable linen pants while your own closet is beginning to fill to the brim. you do not know why. is it pity? guilt? you hope it is not, and that it is for another, not yet known third reason. you may share your stories of your past life with him, but they are not his to mourn. you do not feel for his pity, and you are sure that they, the subject of your stories, do not either. it is not something he can pay back with his gifts. when you confront him about this, he insists, swears, that it is not. his eyes are unwavering as you stare into them, searching for something to tell you that it had been a lie, that he pities you so deeply that he tries to assuage your pain with dresses and gold. you realize that there is nothing like that. you feel guilt eating away at you as you realize this. you apologize, eyes falling to the ground, and he reaches out a hand, almost touching you. he says that he understands, that it is okay, but your own anger is too much. you turn away and leave, miguel’s hand grasping only the breeze that follows you.

the next day, your heart is heavy with worry and shame. you cannot stand this a moment longer. you leave your room in search for miguel. that in itself is not difficult; you know him like the back of your hand. he is in his office. you had never stepped foot inside before, and you hesitate before firmly knocking on the wooden doors thrice. miguel’s voice is deep and tired and loud. he yells for you to come in. he does not know it is you. it is evident by the way his eyes widen as he sees you enter. his office is grand, but messy. there are piles upon piles of books and maps and papers littered on his desk, on the walls, and even on the floor. it is evident that he is just as smart as he is strong. his face freezes, darkening as he draws his eyebrows closer and twists his lips into a frown.

“why are you here?” his hostile tone makes the heaviness in you multiply tenfold.

“i am sorry,” you say, unable to meet his eyes. you stand awkwardly in front of the doors, unsure of how to place yourself.

miguel’s eyes narrow before closing altogether.

“and you believe me now?” his words sting like a thousand swords.

“i am sorry,” you can only repeat your apology, “i did not want your pity.”

it is short, but it is the truth. you hope it is enough for him to understand, to forgive.

he sighs. his face briefly changes into something else, and you think it might be sympathy or understanding. perhaps he has dealt with a loss like yours before.

“okay.”

this is all he says.

you stand there, perhaps wondering if he has anything more to say, but he does not. he busies himself with the documents he had been looking at before. you slowly walk out, gently closing the door behind you. you wonder if he will show to dinner tonight. you dread eating alone again as you had before, but you prepare yourself for the heavy silence as you approach the dining hall that night. however, when the doors open, miguel is sitting at his chair as if nothing had happened. relief floods your entire being. everything is normal. it is easy to believe that nothing had happened. he still takes your carrots and asks about your day. once again, you are grateful for his kindness.

“i thought you might not come today,” you finally say, when the dinner is nearly over. your voice is quiet.

“no,” he responds as if it is the easiest thing to do.

there is a pause before he continues.

“if you are sorry, then that is all you can do, yes?” he says, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he copies your words to him from before, “your company is… it is nice. and i do understand. trust me. but my gifts are not out of pity. believe me when i say this,” he is more serious this time.

“i do,” you say. truth be told, you had believed him last night when he had first told you. however, pride is a strong, strong thing.

then, another question arises.

“if the gifts are not out of pity, then what for?” you ask, puzzled.

“you do not have to know. just know that it is not pity,” he says curtly. his response is strange and he almost stumbles over his words. he then asks you another question, this time more hesitantly.

“are they to your liking?”

“of course,” your eyes widen as you nod frantically. you do not want him to think that you did not appreciate the gifts. they had warmed your heart when you had first gotten them, but learning that they had come from miguel, handpicked one-by-one, you had found yourself praying that the night would end a little quicker in anticipation of the gifts that would be waiting at your door the next morning, “it is just that i have never gotten such gifts before.”

“is there something you want in particular?” he asks. you have learned that miguel does not like taking roundabout ways in conversation, often saying things as soon as he wishes to say them. there is a directness that you admire in him.

you think for a while. there was one thing, something that you had wanted to do since you had first heard of it. you wonder if it is too much to ask, but still, you ask it anyway.

“the festival, i hear it is soon. can i go?” you ask, voice dropping down to nearly a whisper. you know the chances are slim. after all, you were not meant to be alive at all. how could you attend a festival, where so many eyes were looking? where even the eyes of the gods would be looking?

however, against all odds, miguel does not immediately shut you down. instead, he thinks for a moment. his mouth opens then closes again. he falls deep in thought. it is a face that you had become familiar with; his eyes are slightly unfocused as his brows draw closer together. his jaw clenches the slightest amount. you wish to reach out your hand and smooth out the space between his brows.

then, something unexpected:

“i can think of something. it will be done,” he says finally. he sighs and his brows finally smooth.

“really?” it pushes itself out of your mouth before you can notice. your face blooms with hope and anticipation.

“i can try,” he says, a slight smile on his face as he sees your expression.

“thank you,” your smile can be heard through your voice. even a blind man would be able to tell your excitement.

you try to calm yourself, to lessen your expectations. you do not want to feel disappointment at something that was not meant to belong to you in the first place. yet, the way miguel tells you that he will try is so firm and strong that you cannot help but find yourself believing him wholeheartedly.

when the day of the festival arrives, you do not hear anything from miguel. the disappointment that you had tried to keep away ultimately plagues you. you tell yourself that you had wanted too much, wished for something impossible, but you still feel the pang in your heart. then, after lunch, the maids rush into your room as they had done when miguel had first arrived.

“what is this for?” you ask, perplexed. had there been something today that you had forgotten about?

“no,” one of them says excitedly, “you are to come to the festival with us tonight!”

that is when you notice that all of the maids are dressed up as well. they were wearing flowing white dresses with jewelry and flowers in their hair. still, you are not supposed to leave.

“i cannot leave,” you tell them sadly, “miguel told you all so, no?”

“no, you misunderstand,” another laughs.

“the master himself told us to take you with us! he gave us this dress for you, for today.”

“you must come. we will have fun!” they say.

when you hear that it was miguel that had suggested this, you cannot describe the feeling that you feel in your chest. there is a grand mixture of excitement and gratitude and anticipation. this is all written on your face, it seems, as the maids laugh when they see it. this would be your first time outside of the manor in two months now. one thing that you had realized during this time was that no matter how big, walls were walls. you had longed to breathe the air outside of the manor, to feel the sun against your skin or the moonlight gently washing your hair. your heart begins to beat quickly.

“will miguel come too?” you ask.

“no, he says that he is busy. lyla will accompany you instead,” patricia responds. you and she are close now, friends even, “he tells you to enjoy yourself and to not worry,” she adds.

and so they begin to get you ready, dressing you in the same flowy dresses that they are wearing. your hair is braided and adorned with flowers and your wrists, with gold. they say that it is tradition to be dressed like this. your skin is massaged with perfumes and oils that leave it shining and supple. it is hard to notice that you had not been outside in months. when they are done, you look in the mirror and you swear that you feel the most beautiful that you have ever felt. the wind flows excitedly into your room, making your dress flow as if you are floating. the room is filled with laughter. you thank the maids for everything, and quickly run out of the room. none of them follow, as if they know where you are going. you soon find yourself in front of the large doors of miguel’s room. coming here had been so easy, but you are suddenly filled with hesitation as you are met with the doors that lead to his room, to him. is this too much? should you just leave him be?

suddenly, the doors open and you are met with lyla’s cheshire grin.

she is dressed like you too. she looks good, you think, beautiful. but before you can say anything, lyla’s grin widens and she walks out.

“i’ll be waiting downstairs,” she sings. there is something in her voice that makes you think, no, know, that she is teasing you somehow.

your cheeks glow red. as lyla leaves, you are now alone in miguel’s office with him. he is sitting at his desk, room as messy as ever. his vermillion eyes are looking at you and only you, and his face is unreadable. but it is not a bad thing. he is not angry or upset. it is a good kind of unreadable, but still unreadable altogether. you are overjoyed with everything, with the prospect of leaving the manor for the night, with being able to join the festival, and, strangely, most of all, with miguel’s eyes scanning your figure. your chest beats like a drum. it is so loud that you can hear the rush of your blood and your pulse in your ears. your face feels hot, as if you are drunk.

“thank you. for letting me go and for the dress and for everything,” you smile. you think this is the widest you had smiled in front of him. you hope he thinks you are beautiful too.

“it was nothing,” his voice is soft as he tears his gaze away from you. he sports an angry scowl but his face glows the slightest bit redder.

you frown. does he not think that you are nice? as you do so, he notices—miguel notices everything—and he falters, mouth beginning to open to tell you that he did not mean it. however, before the words make it out of his mouth, you find yourself moving closer to him. you are soon standing in front of him. he looks at you in surprise. you reach your hand out, thumbs touching the place between his brows. his skin is surprisingly soft and warm under your skin. so this is what he feels like. a part of you wants to never leave, to study him until you can recognize him with your fingers alone. there is a difference between seeing him and feeling him. the knot under your fingers comes undone.

“you should not frown so much,” you tell him. you are surprised by your own boldness. it is brought on by equal parts of your excitement and your disappointment. did miguel not like it? like you?

miguel stares at you for a moment, then looks away again. his brows are furrowed once more. unbeknownst to you, his skin feels like fire where you had touched him.

you almost reach out again, but you stop yourself before you can. you search his face for something, anything, but he refuses to let you see. your shoulders drop, and you turn away, heading for the door instead.

“okay. i will be leaving then,” you say. you feel disappointed, even more so than when you had thought that you would not be able to go to the festival at all, and it shows. there is a deep desire to be acknowledged by miguel. you find yourself hanging on dearly to every compliment he gives you, every favor and kind word. it fills you with a warmth that starts in your chest and spreads all throughout your body, leaving you feeling breathless yet cozy at the same time. so when miguel does not even spare you a smile, you find yourself longing for that warmth like a kicked dog for affection. your hand presses against the heavy doors when miguel calls out. you turn back to see his face: it is one of annoyance as he massages the bridge of his nose with his fingers. however, something in you tells you that it is not directed towards you.

“wait. you look,” miguel sighs, baring his fangs before continuing, “you look nice.”

your cheeks bloom, and your lips turn up into a smile. a laugh leaves your mouth. the warmth that you had so desired is finally there, filling you up with a bubbly feeling that leaves you winded.

miguel sees it and thinks that it is lovely. you are lovely. the light of the sun, now beginning to set, on your silhouette makes you seem like the maiden of myths and legends. heroes and villains and gods alike would fight for your hand, miguel thinks. however, he only thinks these things. they are not meant to be known by anyone else. so he turns away before you can see his own face bloom, masking it with what he knows best: a scowl.

“now go. don’t leave lyla waiting,” he says. he tries to preoccupy himself with the documents that he had been working on, but the letters do not seem to make sense anymore, “have fun,” he adds, more quietly.

with that, you leave his room, giddy like a little girl. your smile does not fade, even when you arrive at the heart of the town, and lyla notices it too. her own teasing grin never fades. when you arrive, the town is already loud, stall owners calling out to passerbys and music ringing through the streets. it is filled with a life that you have never seen before. this is different from the festivals in your small town, but it is still good. the sun is almost setting now, a telltale cool breeze spinning around you. you think that this is the height of everything—it must be, for how can anything become grander?—but the maids say that this is just the beginning, laughing at your awe. and their words ring true: the maids all disperse and you are left with lyla, who says that miguel made her promise to stay with you, and patricia, who says that she wants to be with you. patricia offers to stay with you and tells lyla that she could go if she wanted to, but she refuses. it seems that lyla too is not close with the maids. you walk around the seemingly endless streets, visiting stalls that catch your interest and buying the strong-tasting street foods that you had oh-so-missed in the manor. the manor’s food tastes good, but there is just something about the food outside that makes it different. a kind man hands the three of you wreaths of flowers to put on your hair, and you all accept. then, everyone suddenly leaves, rushing to the town’s center once more. you three follow.

“now it must be starting,” patricia gushes as she excitedly drags you and lyla along with the crowd.

when you get there, the sun is finally setting. the sky turns a beautiful orange, then pink, then purple. the music changes; it is more louder and livelier. the people begin dancing and singing and cheering. they are all wearing clothes similar to the flowing, white dress that miguel had gifted you. as you look closer, you swear you can see other things as well: when the light glints a certain way, you can see elves and faeries floating in the air, joining the people in their celebration. they twirl around in the air, their shining hair flowing around them as though they were submerged in water. this is a festival, you think to yourself. the beauty of it all leaves you breathless. laughter surrounds you as patricia continues to drag you to the heart of the dancing. she begins to spin and dance, her white dress floating around her like an angel.

“you must join,” she laughs, continuing to dance.

“i do not know how to,” her smile is infectious as you begin to laugh as well. you look to the side to see lyla dancing as well.

“it is fine,” she insists, “it is enough to just spin.”

and so you do. you twirl with the music and the people and with the faeries. you can hear their soft laughter as well, like the twinkling of stars. they take hold of your hand gently as they begin leading you, spinning and running and dancing. you let yourself follow their lead as the wind carries their delight to your ears. the people around you seem to be doing the same as well, welcoming the appearance of the new beings. the festival breeds a amicable mood. the music sings of the bravery of past heroes, of the powerful sun, and the gentle moon. you find yourself immersed in the moment, singing along as you feel the thrum of movement against your feet. when you return to your senses, only the final faces of the sun can be seen. it is the last sun of this summer. as it begins to set completely, everyone lowers their heads, bowing to the sun. the sky is a cold blue when they finally rise again, the briefly halted music beginning to start once more. your heart beats madly in your chest and your breath runs away from you as your skin is sticky with sweat, the summer’s final gifts. in the distance, you can see the moon beginning to appear. the people cheer, some pointing and others offering prayers.

you are too out of breath to continue dancing, so you leave the crowd for a moment. you find a secluded spot in front of a small fountain. you dip your fingers inside and the water is cool to the touch. the stars begin to show themselves as well. despite the darkening sky, the city is still vibrant, lit up by thousands upon thousands of colorful lanterns and lights. you wonder if miguel can see this from his study. if not, you wish to be able to bring this to him somehow, to hold it gingerly in your own two hands and show him the beauty resting just outside of his castle. you begin to offer your own prayers to the moon as well, as she finally shows her beauty in full against the dark night sky. you pray for your now-gone loved ones, that they will be guided well in the afterlife. you pray for her protection and guidance to you during these seasons as well. you pray that you will be able to experience more moments like these until there are too many to count, and that you will be able to find your own place here. and to your surprise, you find yourself praying that you become closer to miguel as well. it is strange: normally, now would be time for you to be sitting in front of him in the dining hall. your body longs to be able to see him, and you wonder if his does so too. as you stare at the reflection of the moon and the bright lanterns in the surface of the water, you can only think of him.

suddenly, the wind blows a little stronger and you hear a small laugh against the shell of your ear.

“a small gift for dancing with me,” it whispers, and when you turn your head, there is but a barely visible silhouette of a floating figure, one you had danced with.

the reflection in the water ripples and changes until you see miguel. he is hunched over his desk, face scowling as he works. his room is nearly dark, save for the candles burning on his desk. there is such a large contrast to the bright night of the town. his room looks cold. your eyes widen as his name spills out from your mouth. he turns towards you, head snapping up. you do not know if he can see you as you see him. he calls out your name and you reply with his. he finally seems to see you, moving towards the reflection you see in the water.

“how?” he asks.

“i don’t know. a faerie,” you tell him, heart giddy as you are met with his face.

miguel smiles, his eyes crinkling into small half-moons. it is warm and soft.

“how is the festival?” he asks.

“it is good. it is so beautiful, i wish you could see,” you tell him honestly.

“you can tell me,” he suggests, “i will listen.”

and so you do. you tell him about everything, from the music to the dancing people to the giggling faeries to the bustling stalls. you tell him about how the moon seems brighter today and the stars more pronounced. you tell him how the breeze feels against your face and the faint scent of the forest that it brings you. miguel listens intently, laughing as you continue to talk. the warmth in you grows, and soon you grow drunk on it. it is better than any honey mead that you have ever tasted, more sweet and soft as it fills you up, leaving your head spinning. when you are done, miguel is still staring at you through the reflection, a certain softness on his face. suddenly, it is too much inside you and your heart is beating too fast and your face is burning too hot. you look away. it is only when you look away that the look disappears from his face. however, it is not all gone. his lips are gently bent into a smile.

“i am glad you are having fun,” his voice is rich honey to your ears.

“next time, i hope you can come too,” you say. you do not know if this is a luxury that you can indulge in, truly. the next summer seems so far to you, impossible to reach. still, you hope that it happens, that the next time you are here, miguel is here with you in person. you wish that next summer, the festival is even grander than it is this year, so that miguel can finally indulge in its beauty in full.

and selfishly, you wish that when that happens, you two are closer than you are now.

Chapter Text

perhaps the gods have turned a blind eye to your prayer, because you are sure that you are not closer to miguel. in fact, you think that you two might have grown further apart in the span of just a single night. the dinner of the day after the festival, miguel is cold, colder than he had ever been to you. wordlessly, he had eaten his food, leaving as soon as he finished. he had not meet your eyes, ever. confusion, anger, but mostly hurt filled your entire being, soaking you with a dreadful feeling. had you done something wrong? did you cross a line somewhere, somehow? was miguel tired of you? was asking to go to the festival too much? you learn that a lack of something hurts more when it is something you had once held in your hands. as days pass with nothing but a distant coldness from miguel, you find yourself chipping away slowly every time that you are not met with his warm gaze. the burning vermillion that had once been scary had become something like a burning hearth, and now it was something entirely different. this is the first time that you realize that red could be such a cold color. like a selfish child, you try and grasp onto the kindness that miguel had once bestowed upon you.

then one day, miguel does not show up to dinner at all. instead, you are met with lyla sitting down where miguel usually sat. your heart drops, but you still force yourself to sit down. even swallowing is hard. it feels as if there is a rock inside of you, pushing down so hardly that you cannot even properly breathe.

“is it because of me?” you whisper, afraid of the answer. still, you wanted to know. you had to know. you could not bear the departure of another person without at least a reason.

lyla opens her mouth, then closes it. her smile is heavy, too heavy, it seems. she struggles to carry it on her face.

“no. just give him some time,” she says.

a bitter smile makes itself known on your face.

“you do not have to lie.”

“it is not a lie. i swear it,” lyla says.

yet you notice all too well how her voice changes when she swears that it is the truth. it is a far cry from miguel’s firm one, the one that you know will always tell the truth. you find that the food tastes akin to sand in your mouth. you excuse yourself from the table, running towards your room.

miguel soon begins to leave the manor, going on quests and missions. every time he returns, you irrationally hope that this time, miguel will look at you warmly once more. you are always watching from your window. sometimes, he meets your eyes briefly as he comes back covered in the blood of beasts and men alike. his eyes harden like steel and he looks away as quickly as he had looked at you. you are filled with a loneliness once more, even greater than you had felt before. despite the fact that you had become friends with the people of the manor, you find that you long desperately for miguel’s company. it is a selfish, selfish thing inside of you, cutting like a dull knife. it is so profound that it swallows you whole. in your own loneliness, you can almost hear the creaking of your own bones.

you wish to be able to ask him for a reason, to demand it as if it were a right, but you are afraid of his answer. what if he truly had become sick of you? if that were true, then you would not know what to do with yourself. perhaps if you had been of noble blood, pampered and loved for years, you would have been angry instead. perhaps you would have been able to demand him to see you. but to you, with not even a drop of nobility or class inside your body, it is not in you to demand nor feel entitled to something. it is something that had always been taught: the common people do not ask, they listen. so when you find yourself outside of the huge, oak doors that lead to his office, you are filled with an all-consuming dread that leaves you shaking as if you were prey in the face of a flying arrow. still, you would rather brave the arrow and find an answer than never find it at all. you long for him to look at you again like he had done before.

you knock. the door is cold under your rapping knuckles.

you hear arguing inside. you distinguish lyla’s voice and miguel’s. then, lyla opens the door. she does not smile.

your mouth runs dry as you slowly step into the room. lyla leaves, closing the door behind her. the room is so cold. in the autumn months, it is cold everywhere, naturally, but there is a certain coldness in miguel’s study that is different. it sends chills up your spine and leaves your heart squeezing so tightly that you are sure it will stop.

“leave,” miguel growls. he does not look at you still, eyes glued onto his desk.

you are not sure that the being that had just spoken was beast or man. it is almost primal, scratching the earth like a longsword.  still, you would not leave. you were done leaving, not until you had an answer.

“look at me,” your voice comes out quietly than you intend. it wavers, betraying your emotions.

miguel does not answer, his jaw clenching harder instead of acknowledging you.

“i am sorry,” you begin. like a child, apologizing fills you with a shame that you had not felt until you begin apologizing, “i do not know for what, but for every wrong i have committed against you, i am sorry.”

now it is you that cannot look at him. your eyes glue themselves onto the ground. you will your tears away, hoping that they do not fall like a child’s.

miguel’s eyes snap up to you the moment he hears you apologize, voice heavy and shaking. his eyes fill with a multitude of emotions—confusion, anger, shame—and his eyebrows furrow before it is all gone once more.

“leave,” he instead repeats once more. he does not show you anything that he is feeling.

you just shake your head, unable to say anything.

“tell me what i have done wrong,” you try to demand. but you are a commoner, and commoners do not learn to demand properly. your voice shakes and you have to blink your tears away. you still cannot look at miguel.

there is a long period of silence. the heaviness inside of you grows and grows until it is all that is left inside of you.

“if you do not leave, then i will,” his voice is deep and cold in the silent tension between the two of you. he gets up from his desk and begins walking towards the door.

as he begins to walk past you, eyes cold and jaw set, your eyes widen in panic. you fear that if he leaves now, then he will never return. you will never see him again.

“please,” you finally look up at him, eyes teary and desperate, “is it because i am not a noble? is it because i have wronged you? have i crossed a line? have you grown tired of me? please do not leave. i will be better. i will get better, so do not leave,” you beg. it all falls out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. your hand desperately try and grasp onto his moving ones.

miguel falters as he hears this. he turns towards you, eyes filled with hurt.

“what?” his voice is angry, and you fear that he will lash out.

“please,” you finally grasp onto his arm, so thick that you cannot wrap your hand around them. they tremble lightly, and you swallow hard as you try to make it all stop. you look into his eyes, praying that he can see how desperate, how genuinely sorry you are.

he lets out an angry breath, teeth gnashing as his one free hand grips his face in frustration.

“you do not know anything. do not make it so hard for me,” he nearly shouts as he looms over you.

you worry that the vermillion in his eyes will spill out and burn everything. you cannot speak. your tongue is too heavy, throat too tight.

then, he lets out a scream of frustration, ripping his hand from your grip. he sits down onto the settee in the middle of the office. his chest heaves up and down, and he sits in silence for a moment, contemplating something. you are still standing where you had always been.

“you do not understand anything. i cannot become close with you,” his voice is calmer than before, “i cannot bear it,” the last part is more quiet than anything he had said before. it is riddled with fear.

you look up as you hear it. if you had not strained to hear every syllable that left his lips, you would have surely missed it. you can hear your pulse rushing in your ears. your lips part as you search for an answer.

“then i will not leave. you will not have to bear it,” you say quietly. there is a certainty to your voice, as if you were promising it, swearing it. as if it were fact.

he laughs, but there is no humour in it.

“you will. you cannot choose it,” his voice lacks all hope. it is quiet and empty.

“if i do not choose, then who does?” you ask.

“the wotan. my queen,” he scoffs, his voice is bitter as he says this. it is as if he detests the fact that he has sworn his loyalty to her.

even with everything, you still think that he is like a god on the small settee. there is beauty, even in his hopelessness. you hope that he thinks the same about you.

“then i will come back. and if i am made to leave again, then i will come back again,” you kneel in front of him now, as he covers his face with his large palms, keeled over his knees.

“you do not know what she is capable of,” his voice breaks. perhaps he knows. perhaps he had witnessed it firsthand.

“i do not care to,” you gently put your palms on his wrist, bringing them away from his face.

he looks at you softly, the very way that you had longed for for so long. your chest finally warms, the heaviness that had been pressing down upon it dissipating as if it had never been there. a small smile paints itself on the corner of your lips. you bring his palm onto your face. it is rough and calloused from years upon years of training and combat. you finally understand miguel, you think. he does not take his hand away this time. instead, he looks up, looking at your face. he does not look convinced of your promise, but he does not move away. he finally rips his gaze away and leans his forehead against your shoulder.

“i am sorry,” he finally says.

“it is okay,” you answer, “but please, never again. i would not be able to bear it.”

miguel nods against your shoulder. the two of you do not move for a while, him seated on the couch and you on the floor in front of him. you feel that where you had been filled with love and forgiveness, he had filled himself with anything he could desperately grasp onto. you long to gently blow it all away and mend it anew. as he rests his head in the crook of your neck, you hope that one day, he will be able to forgive himself.

Chapter Text

from that day on, the distance between the two of you disappears quickly. before, the two of you stood behind thick, crudely drawn lines, but now, those lines are washed away by the autumn rain. and like dogs pulling against leashes, the moment that the lines disappeared, both you and miguel begin running towards each other. miguel seems to have decided that if he cannot push you away, then he will guard you fiercely, holding you close against his heart.

miguel is a kind man, despite everything he tries to do. this, you have known since the first day that you had seen him. but he is also a rough man. he does not know how to be at peace with his kindness. you quickly find that he is too aware of his large stature and his own strength. he tells you that it drives people away, but you think it is endearing every time you see him so awkward. now,  nearing winter, the knights’ training grounds and halls are not so far out of reach anymore: miguel brings you along with him when he leaves for the morning, sitting you down at the training grounds—albeit not too close, as miguel insists that you will get filthy with their sweat—and then taking you to eat lunch with him and the other men. he never lets anyone get too close, glaring at them if they try. this rarely intimidates his men though, who instead laugh and appease him while also giving you a teasing grin. miguel just grumbles under his breath, but you know he is all bark and no bite. at least to them. your own loneliness is washed away as you simply listen to the loud chatter around you. it fills you with your own joy. you make sure to tell miguel this, to thank him for letting you come, but he only smiles in return. it is so sweet, like the nectar of a summer’s fruit dripping down your palm and to your elbow.

then, one day, training ends later than usual. the sky is painted red and orange and yellow. the leaves have nearly all fallen off of their branches, instead decorating the floor that they once used to look down upon. lunch is well past and is soon time for dinner. the wind has more bite than before and the air stings your face as it greets you. miguel says that he is sorry for making you wait, and that he must leave. he is busy preparing the town for the colder months, he says. as he tells you this and begins to leave the training grounds, you find that he looks reluctant to leave. these days, you are rarely apart from miguel. perhaps, you think, he is worried about you.

“i will be fine,” you reassure him.

miguel’s face drops for a moment, then he opens his lips. he does not say anything for a moment. his eyes never seem to leave you.

“i know,” he finally says. he finally tears his eyes away from you, then continues on his way.

suddenly, he turns around again and jogs towards you. he takes off his cloak, placing it gingerly around your shoulders. it is still warm from his own body heat, but it warms you up more than it should.

“it is cold today,” he says. miguel never speaks more than he has to, and you do not mind it.

the kind gesture and the warmth combined brings a smile to your face.

“thank you,” you glow.

miguel finally seems satisfied and walks back inside the manor. you are now left alone, surrounded only by miguel’s men. you had never been without miguel when you were around them, and you do not know how to carry yourself. they are clearly surprised too, and they look at you, then amongst themselves. you pull the cloak around you tighter. someone comes towards you.

“today, we will bring you to eat. yes?” he asks, with a big grin. he is so tall that you have to crane your neck up to look at him. his hair is the color of straw and hay, and his skin is rough from years of fighting and the sun.

before you have the chance to say anything, the rest of the men cheer. you are quickly surrounded by them as they begin to walk towards the dining hall. there is a kind of excitement bubbling up in your stomach. this would be your first time sharing dinner with anyone other than miguel. inside the dining hall, they sit you down as if you are one of them. they act as if nothing is different, and you feel at ease as well. the man next you, the straw blond one that had come up to you first, introduces himself as alex. and as alex finishes introducing himself, the rest of the men around you rush to do the same. they take your plate and pile food on it, insisting that you try it all, that it was the best to be had.

“do you drink?” one of the men asks.

before you can finish, another begins to speak. he is already pouring wine into your glass.

“you must try this with the meat,” he laughs. he hands you the glass, so full that it is nearly spilling over, “miguel treats you too carefully. drink, have some fun,” he laughs.

you take it in your hands and hesitate before taking a sip. it is bitter, but there is also a sweetness that masks it. it is different from the cheap, sour wine that you had when you were in your old home. you continue drinking and eating until it is all gone, and then it is filled up again. you fill yourself until you are so full that you are sure that nothing else can go in anymore. the wine gives you a warmth that heats you up from the inside, and you feel a little dazed. you could not help but continue to drink with the men who downed glass after glass, yet also seemed unaffected by the alcohol, unaware of how much you had actually drunk. you laugh as someone moves to fill your glass again, amused by your state, when suddenly you feel a hand on your shoulder. it is heavy and warm and familiar. you do not even need to look back to know that it is miguel. you smile when you feel it find its home, and you look back anyway to see his face.

unlike you, miguel’s face is dark. his jaws are clenched and his teeth are bared as he looks down at you.

“why is she like this? it is just barely night,” he snaps as he looks down at you. he glowers at the others.

his anger brings a frown to your face. why is he angry? is it you? you wrap miguel’s cloak tighter around you. miguel notices this, and then notices your frown. his eyes widen and he becomes frantic.

“are you angry?” you speak out quietly.

“stop—“ he begins, “it’s not—don’t—“

around you, the knights begin to snicker at their great leader, now trying to appease you.

there he is, you think to yourself, there is your miguel. that is how you liked to see him. he is always trying to look angry, and you are worried that his frown lines would only deepen. oh, how you wish to reach out and smooth it all out like wet clay beneath your fingers. you smile when you imagine this.

miguel brings a hand to his face and presses between his eyes, groaning as he does so. he stays like this for a few seconds, as if thinking of what to do, then calls out your name. it sounds sweet as it falls from his lips.

“let’s go. stand up,” he sighs.

“okay.”

you do as he says, laughing. you know that he is not as annoyed as he pretends to be, at least not at you. your heart still beats quite strong in your ears, and the heat from the wine still lingers in your chest, spreading its roots throughout your body and blooming in your face. the men cheer. miguel does not seem to share their sentiment, but to your surprise, a laugh falls from his mouth too.

“you will not cheer tomorrow, i will make sure,” he laughs. it is dry and meant to scare, but the men laugh back.

“we are always rooting for you,” a man yells out from the back. he is met with more laughter and noises of agreement.

you laugh quietly from next to miguel. there is a warmth that comes from these men. you do not fully understand what they mean, but they are laughing, so you laugh too. miguel takes a look at you, and his expression changes in the slightest. he looks as if he has lost at something, but you do not know what. he lets out a deep sigh and turns away from the men in the room and guides you towards the door. the warmth from miguel’s body combined with the wine’s makes it nearly suffocating.

“you cannot let yourself be so comfortable around other people, other men at that,” he scolds as you both walk down the large hallway, leaving behind the dining hall.

another laugh escapes you.

“i cannot help it. everyone is so kind here,” you say. and it is the truth.

“there is no kindness here. every person in that hall can easily kill a thousand men,” he scoffs.

“still, they are kind,” you hum.

“you cannot be kind if you are capable of something like that,” he says, this time more solemn.

“that is the easy thing to think,” you begin. you have a feeling that miguel is talking about himself. after all, if his men can kill thousands, then he can kill millions, “but i think that they are still kind. you are kind. i do not understand it either, but just because it is hard to understand does not mean that it cannot be.”

miguel looks at you strangely, and you simply look back. you wish that he could simply accept it as it is.

“thank you,” he finally says.

you find that you are walking slower than usual. or maybe miguel is walking faster than usual. you begin to fall behind. then, you remember that he is busy.

“you can go. i can go back to my room by myself,” you say, “or if you want, patricia can come get me. i know you are busy,” you add the last part because miguel often worries.

“no,” he says, and you can tell it is final. his face looks strange and you turn your head to try and see its entirety, but he quickly turns away.

“but you are busy,” you pout.

“no, not too busy for this,” miguel quickly responds as if it is obvious. not too busy for you. never too busy for you.

you notice that he slows his gait to match yours. he looks at you for a while, then begins to scold again.

“you cannot let yourself get drunk in front of other men,” he says, chiding.

“i cannot help it, i have already told you. the wine is too sweet that i simply cannot pass it up,” you grin back.

miguel groans.

“and i am not drunk,” you add. your face is far too red for the statement to even be half believable, and miguel must think this too. he lets out a bark of laughter.

“you are a horrible liar. and you are dressed too cold. do you not know it is nearly winter? you will get sick, surely, if you continue to dress like this,” he is merciless when he gets started.

“but you are the one that gave them to me in the first place,” you frown, referring to the clothes.

“then i will get you new ones,” he says with finality.

“okay,” you say.

finally, you are at your room. he opens the door first to let you in. the maids in there rush to get to you, but when they notice your state, they share a knowing grin amongst themselves. patricia leads the group as she bows to miguel and leaves quickly, the other maids following suit. miguel is left standing in shock at the suddenly empty room, and you are left laughing quietly behind him.

“why did they leave?” you ask.

“i do not know,” he replies far too quickly.

you move to peer at his face, but he turns before you can. you frown. you do not like when miguel hides from you. in a split second, a decision is made. you are sure that you are not drunk enough to do this, but miguel does not have to know. you move in front of him and reach your arms up to turn his face back toward you. his face is so large that you cannot fit his cheek in your palm. miguel is red, his eyebrows furrowed and eyes widened. you smile.

“look at me,” you tease, pouting. you try your best to ignore the burning in your cheeks. you try and tell yourself that it is the alcohol, but you know that it is not.

to your surprise, miguel lets your hands stay for a moment. he looks at you, meeting your smiling eyes with his own tired ones. he seems reluctant to give into you, but still does so regardless. when he finally pulls away, he sighs, as if he does not want to lose your touch.

“it is late. go rest. i will come to you in the morning, as i always do,” miguel says. he is facing you this time, and in his face, you swear that you see longing.

“but it is cold. and i am lonely,” you find yourself surprised as the words fall out of your mouth. you have never been in a place to request and to demand for more, but you have found that you are quite selfish when it comes to miguel.

miguel opens his mouth then closes it before he can say anything. you can see him drawing a small line between the two of you once more. your face falls.

“and you are busy,” you sigh. you open your mouth to apologize, but before you can say anything, miguel stops you.

“no. i am not busy. do not—“ miguel begins. his face is complicated, as if he is holding himself back. he swallows hard before he continues, “do not apologize. i can stay. just for tonight, i can stay.”

your eyes snap up to his as he says this. you are surprised when he gives in. you have a feeling that he is telling himself this more than he is telling you. guilt floods a part of you before you can control it, but you are a selfish, selfish thing, you think, because a giddiness overtakes it far too quickly. you run towards your bed, eager for miguel’s company. you cannot stop the drunken laughs that flow freely from your lips like a bubbling stream. miguel follows slowly behind you, pulling out a chair next to the bed. you watch as he sits down. he looks different in the night’s subtle glow, you realize. you had never been able to observe him this closely during the night before. the tan skin that seemed to burn red like the molten iron from the blacksmith’s sword now hums quietly under the moon and stars. the vermillion in his eyes still glow bright, but where they had seemed to burn during the morning hours, they are warm now, like the red of cooling coals. and when he looks at you, it consumes you with warmth from your head to the ends of your toes. lying down on the bed, you smile as you lay there for a moment, simply looking at him. you wonder if he knows that his skin glows, that his eyes warm, that his face is put together by the gods themselves. that he is handsome. you hope that he does. it would be an insult to the gods for such a gift to go unpraised.

“what are you looking at?” miguel’s voice is gruff as he asks this, slightly embarrassed by your staring. he turns his face slightly. even in the dark, you can still make out the slight red in his cheeks.

“you,” you laugh as you tell him honestly, “do you know that you are handsome?”

miguel looks at you incredulously as you laugh.

“handsome? perhaps your drunkeness has gotten to your eyes. my skin is dark and wrinkled and rough and scarred. i am not slender and lithe like the noblemen. and my hands are rough too. see, they have grown hard from holding my sword,” he holds out his hands for you to see, “my hair is dark as well, and curly and unruly. not even a madman would think me handsome,” he barks out a laugh, as if you had just told him a joke.

you frown because you do not understand why he is laughing.

“maybe so to a normal lady. but i am not a lady. i am a common girl that you picked up. and to me, you are more handsome than any noble,” you huff.

“why are you so upset?” miguel continues to laugh for a while. his laughter is deep and rich and echoes off the walls of the room. it is a rare sight to see him laugh so much.

you press your lips together in frustration, then cross your arms and turn away. you feel a mix of embarrassment, frustration, and disbelief.

“do not laugh at me so much,” you say, back turned against him.

“okay, okay, i will stop,” miguel says, and you can still hear a hint of a smile in his voice. his hand touches your shoulder as he turns you back around so that you are facing him. his hands are as rough as he says they are, but you like them that way. you remember your mother saying that rough hands belong to honest men.

you peer up towards his sitting figure from the bed with a smile, and he is looking down at you with something akin to a smile as well. miguel does not smile often, so you treasure this moment in your heart. and for hours, you stay this way while you talk and he listens, laughing occasionally. you tell him about as much things as you can fit in your mouth: the festival, and the things that you had seen there, and how you had never experienced such cold before, and how you had never been to the beach. he laughs and tells you that he will bring you some time. he says that it is windy and sandy and wet and salty. miguel does not reveal much about himself, but he does not need to. not right now, at least. there is so much time in this world for everything. it can all wait. for now, you think, you can make enough stories for the both of you. as long as the moon and the stars and the sun and the winds are there, you will wait. eventually, your lids become far too heavy for you to bear, and you fall asleep. the biting winds become a little kinder as they enter your room through the small gaps in the slightly ajar windows, and the stars sing a lullaby.

miguel sits, still as stone, in the chair. he watches you, eyes filled with something that he prays will stay a secret. there is fear and worry as he looks at you as well. miguel had never before become so close with another so quickly. but he also cannot help it. it is so natural to be with you, to be close with you, like it is a law of the world. he fears that you will turn him away, saying that he is too rough and too cruel. he fears that he will lose you. it is not uncommon for him to lose things, people, but he thinks that he will not be able to bear it if it is you. there was one similar to you before, and when she had been taken away, miguel had wished the world unto darkness. he wishes sometimes that he could push everything away and follow just his instincts, but he cannot afford to forgo his own mind, trained and sharpened to always be alert. but tonight, you are here and you are safe. in the comfort of his own home, he lets himself free, just for a little while. his hand finds its way to yours. it fits his own perfectly like a puzzle piece. looking upon your sleeping figure, fatigue begins to plague his own body as well. miguel fights to keep his eyes open, to look at you for just a little longer, but in your presence and the presence of the calm night breeze, he cannot help but fall asleep as well, an image of you engraved deep in his mind’s eye.

and unbeknownst to the two of you, the stars sing of you to the early morning sun.

Chapter Text

snow covers everything, the green of summer and the following red-orange of autumn now nowhere to be seen. patricia tells you that the year is almost over.

you two had become even closer since that night, teetering on the line of becoming lovers. however, neither one of you have the courage to lift the soft veil separating one from the other. you can see a shadow of him, faint and blinking in and out of sigh tlike a small flame. every time you reach out, you swear that this time, your hand will touch warm skin, but it grasps at nothing, the outline of miguel, broad and tall and beautiful, gone as if it had never been there. still, it is undeniable that miguel cares for you, and it is undeniable that you care for him as well. even a blind man would be able to tell. for instance, miguel insists that you do not know how to dress for the cold, so you ask him to dress you instead. every morning, miguel comes to your room a little bit earlier to choose your dresses for the day. he swears that he does not think you pleasing to look at, but you notice how his eyes linger, how his gifts become more frequent. then, when miguel heads to his study, sometimes you go with him. miguel works while you sit by his window to keep him company. sometimes, lyla sits with you, and the two of you speak quietly as he works. and sometimes you fall asleep, giving into the lulls of the afternoon sun or the rising moon. every time that you do, you wake up on the sofa instead, with a coat of his as a blanket. miguel insists that you are a nuisance, that you should return to your room and rest next time, but you have gotten too good at reading the true meaning behind miguel’s words to truly believe that he is annoyed.

and sometimes, miguel takes a few of his men on short campaigns, lasting three days at most. he goes to slay the few stray beasts that wander into town. he always returns victorious. after all, he is the renowned and feared sword of the queen, her crazed hunting dog. they say that he is the reincarnation of achilles himself. you think that it must be true. both his battle prowess and beauty are unmatched. no one else is more fit for that title than miguel, but whenever you bring it up, he snorts and insists that you do not indulge in such old myths, that he is nowhere near worthy of that title. and while he is gone, you are left alone. whenever you are left like this, the manor somehow feels colder. before, you would have paid no mind. there is always too much to do, from cleaning to cooking to washing. but now, you have grown tame and free under the care of miguel’s people. you do not have anything to busy yourself with. you simply wait, and wait, and wait until you finally hear the familiar thudding of furious hooves against pavestone.

one day, miguel comes back, but he is nowhere to be seen when you run down the halls to the large doors. you feel a pang of disappointment and worry strike your heart. the worry lights a fire in you when you see the maids hauling miguel’s armor, one-by-one, covered in blood. your eyes widen and you can feel your fingertips getting cold in fear.

“is that,” you start, mouth getting drier by the second, “is that miguel’s blood?”

you dread the reply that is to come, but a knight simply laughs.

“no, he would never fall victim to something as small as this,” his eyes twinkle as he speaks of his leader, “that is ogre blood. he was covered in it, head to toe.”

you let out a breath as your hammering heart begins to calm. but if he is safe, then where is he? why is he not here, polishing his beloved armor himself?

“the lord is outside, at the small well in the garden. he insisted on cleaning up before he came in,” a maid says, holding back a small giggle as she looks at you.

it is a cold day. you are almost shivering inside the manor, so you cannot even imagine how cold it is outside. you do not understand his actions. you had half expected the well to be frozen with how cold it had been recently. before you can even think, your feet take you to the small well, where you know miguel is. he is exactly where the maids had told you he had gone. miguel is shirtless and glistening with the cold water from the well. his bare body is sculpted so beautifully, rippling with muscle underneath his tan skin. just looking at him, you can almost feel the sun burning against your skin as it had surely done his. there are mountains of words that you would use to describe miguel, but the one word that you would choose if you had to would be pretty. miguel is a pretty, pretty man. and perhaps you had missed him more than you had realized, because your face burns bright when you are met with the sight of him. his eyes widen in surprise as he sees you.

“why are you outside? is it not cold?” you ask. your own face stings from the harsh winter wind.

“i am fine. you are cold. go back inside. i will only be a moment,” he says, scrubbing at his skin and hair.

“you should have just gone inside for a bath,” you do not understand why he chooses to be outside.

“i was covered in ogre blood. it is a disgusting thing, and smells even worse. i did not want to bring it into the manor.”

“but the maids seem fine with it. they were hauling in your bloodied armor. stop being stubborn and come inside,” you wish he could just listen to you sometimes. but miguel is miguel, and if he is anything, he is stubborn.

“no,” his answer is short and clear.

but you have lived with miguel for so long now, and you know how to be just as stubborn and bull-headed as he is.

“then i will not go inside either,” you respond, pulling your dress up slightly to sit down on the ground. you wrap your shawl around you tightly to emphasize how cold you are.

“what? what are you doing? go inside,” his face contorts into one of frustration and annoyance as he looks down at you.

you simply turn your face from him, refusing to listen. he will go inside, and you will stay outside with him until he does. miguel groans as he realizes this himself.

“this blood is sticky and stubborn and disgusting. i was sticky and disgusting. i did not want you to see it,” he sighs as he finally confesses the truth, “so go inside. you are shivering. i am nearly done,” he tries to explain to you, hoping that you will give up at his sincerity.

it does not work.

“do you think me so weak that i will faint at the sight of blood? am i so haughty that i will not allow you in your own home because you are bloodied?” you glare at him from the corner of your eyes. you are growing colder by the minute, but you still hope that he will give in.

miguel looks at you incredulously.

“what does this have to do with any of that?” he cries out. he groans. perhaps he should consider being less stubborn. around you, at least. you learn too quickly for his liking.

you glance up at him, waiting for the moment he will sigh and finally break, trying to seem as unwilling as possible as he does whatever you ask.

“i am getting cold,” you say.

“fine. you are so annoying,” he rolls his eyes. he chooses to leave his tunic on the grass, the white of it darkened by blood-red.

you grin as you jump up, cheeks red from the biting wind. miguel grumbles as he walks, and you walk quicker to match his wide gait. he tries to keep up his annoyed facade, but he cannot help the small smile that forms on his lips as he looks at you.

“you must be freezing,” you laugh as you take your shawl off and put it around him.

he tries to push you off, but your touch is gone before he knows it, replaced by your flowing shawl around his broad, bare shoulders.

“you must keep it on,” you pout as he frowns, “otherwise i will not go inside,” you fight back a laugh at his expression.

his face is incredulous, as if he cannot deal with you anymore, but he still complies. you laugh as you run after him, your shorter legs naturally falling behind his almost inhumanly longer ones. miguel finally enters the manor, still shirtless and, despite complaining, with your shawl still wrapped around him. your heart sings with joy as you find yourself in miguel’s presence once more, and regardless of how much miguel feigns annoyance, you know that his does too.

then suddenly, in the middle of the coldest month of winter, miguel is called to lead an expedition. you do not know for what, and miguel hardly tells you either. he says that you do not need to trouble your mind with such violence. but regardless of what he is called to do, miguel has to leave, and you worry. yes, for yourself, but mostly for miguel. you had heard him say that it is the most dangerous time of the year now, with beasts growing hungry and territorial. all of his other men are equally confused: this is the first time that they had been called to action in the colder months, during the coldest days of winter, at that. miguel himself seems perplexed by the sudden campaign as well, but it seems that he cannot deny his queen. still, miguel reassures you that it will be fine, that he is the miguel o’hara. he tells you that he has slain giants and harpies and dragons with ease, but this does not mean anything to you. when you tell him this, his face falls slightly, as if he knows that he cannot console you, but it is gone before you can say anything. miguel is not afraid of the quest itself. he does not worry or doubt; it would not matter even if he did. miguel is upset because he does not want to leave you for so long. even if he pushes on with everything he has, he knows that it will still take him until the end of the year for him to return home. he does not know if he can bear it: despite how hard he tries to push it down, to ignore it, the absence of you seems more harsh than the harsh winter snow or the angry winds or the snapping jaws of any creature or beast combined.

the night before he leaves, miguel comes to your room. it is so late that the stars are nearly gone. you are not asleep, however. not yet. you sit quietly, alone, next to the window, as you rub the sleep away from your eyes in hopes that miguel will come. and he does. the door opens and your head snaps towards the sound. a multitude of emotions fill your heart, but in your mind, there is only a single thought: miguel is here. it echoes in your head until it is the only thing you can think of. miguel walks towards you. he is still dressed in his black tunic and equally dark pants. the swell of the muscles of his chest peeks out from underneath the tunic, highlighted by the soft night. he must have been working until now.

“miguel,” you say, your lips curving up gently. you do not realize that you are smiling. around miguel, it is as natural and sure as breathing or blinking.

miguel’s lips part slightly, as if there are so many things that are pushing to come out of his mouth that they force it open. he pushes it all down and comes to sit in front of you. miguel closes the window.

“it is cold. why do you never listen?” he chides gently. it seems that out of everything that he holds delicately on his tongue, this is the one he chooses. miguel quietly berates himself for never being able to say what he means. he wishes desperately to be soft, to have the courage to do so. but he is a coward, and he is always too harsh and too rough. he worries that one day, you will find yourself cut one too many times by his thorny words and leave. however, contrary to his words, his face is so soft when he looks upon you that any stinging thorns are turned into nothing but sweet feathers that tickle and tease your skin.

“if it was too warm, i would have fallen asleep,” you reply, still smiling. his words, unintentionally biting and fierce, do not affect you at all.

“you should be asleep. it is late.”

“you worry too much. i can sleep tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that. but i will not be able to see you for quite a while.” your smile grows sweeter.

a silence flows between you for a while. both you and miguel simply indulge in each other’s presence, trying to commit the feeling of the other to memory. every gaze, every breath, every rise and fall of the chest. you try to consume all of it, all of him, to drink him in and keep him hidden and safe and close against your chest. even now, you worry that when you close your eyes, you will begin to forget miguel, piece by piece, until nothing is left.

“when will you be back?” you finally start to speak again. there is a sort of emptiness when you try and imagine your days without miguel.

“soon,” miguel replies.

his voice is nonchalant. then, he looks away and swallows hard, and you already know that it will not be soon. you have listened to miguel for so long that you know the truth behind even a single breath. but you let it pass. perhaps you want to believe it yourself, that in just a few days, the gates will open like always as he leads his cheering men victoriously back to their homes.

silence falls once more. there is too much that wants, needs, to be said. then, miguel speaks first this time.

“and you. do not step foot outside of the manor,” he says, voice quiet and rough. he makes sure that you understand that what he is saying is final, but he suddenly worries that it is too much. too much to ask, to demand. too much bite in his words. he does not mean it, not in the way that he had said it. he grows quiet again for a moment.

“please,” he adds, this time more quietly than before. miguel is a fearful man deep inside, and sometimes, the fear that he tries to hide grows to consume him. he hopes that you understand.

“okay,” you smile. you see what he is saying underneath the rough exterior, “i will be safe. do not worry about me.”

if anyone should worry, it should be you, you think. you do not understand why he is so wound up tightly for you.

miguel takes a look at you, gaze filled with fear and longing, then sighs as he looks back down.

“you do not understand.”

you can only smile as he says this.

“it is okay. i do not understand, and that is fine. because i will be okay, regardless of what happens.”

a part of you wants to be selfish, to beg him not to go. he has never denied you before, and you think, hope, that he will indulge you once more. no matter how many times you swallow the ugly feeling down, it rises back up twice as strong as before.

“and you,” you begin, mouth becoming dry suddenly, “you have to come back, okay?”

miguel’s face falls for a moment to betray his true emotions, but it is gone quicker than it comes.

“i will,” the words sound foreign as he says them. his throat bobs as he repeats the words, more surely this time, “i will.”

“because if you do not return, then i swear to the heavens that i will never eat with you again,” you say, an empty threat meant to lighten the mood, “and i will never accept your presents, and i will never let you see me.”

miguel laughs. you wish to keep this moment with you forever.

“then i will have to be back. i have no other choice,” miguel smiles, face illuminated by the dark blue of the night sky flowing through the window.

the night sky slowly brightens until the moon and the stars disappear. they leave glistening tears of farewell upon the flowers and the moss and the leaves. you and miguel continue to talk, and then it is time for him to leave. before you know it, you are standing in front of the huge oak doors of the manor with lyla and the maids. miguel and his men do their final checks and begin to mount their steeds, one by one. you can see that miguel is ready to leave now, but he does not. there is an expression on his face that you cannot quite place as he looks at you. suddenly, you are a small child again, trying to hold back your tears as you watch your father leave your home once again to journey to the city. you know that miguel will be back, and you know that he will be safe, but you still do not want him to leave. you simply stand there, a storm of feelings shadowing over your heart as you clasp your hands tightly behind your back. you do not know if you will be able to stop yourself from reaching out to him if you let your hands go. you worry that they will latch onto him like vines and never let him go. there are words that threaten to burst out of your chest. you try and swallow them all down as miguel finally tears his gaze from you and mounts his black steed.

“miguel, wait,” you call out. his name falls from your lips before you know it.

miguel turns to look at you, as if he had been waiting for you to say something. lyla and the maids bow and rush inside before you can do anything else, and miguel’s men begin to head towards the gate. it is just the two of you now, once again.

with fingers numb from the cold, you carefully untie a ribbon from your hair. it flows brilliant white in the wind. you grasp it in your hands as you silently whisper a prayer to the winds. then, you hold it up to him so that he may take it.

“i am sorry that this is all i can give you,” you say.

miguel takes it from your fingers, touch softer than a feather. the ribbon looks so small in his hands that you worry that it will disappear. he ties it around the hilt of his sword. the ribbon glows softly against the black leather.

“i swear it to you that i will return this to you unsullied. i will tie it into your hair myself when i return,” he says. his voice is soft.

you cannot say anything more. you are sure that if you open your mouth again, you will beg him to stay. you bite your tongue and stand in silence.

“and i have something to tell you. when i return,” he is more resolute now, and his gaze is filled with a fire that you do not know.

“i only wish that you return safe,” you smile, “you do not have to swear anything else.”

“but i already have,” he replies, a smile in his voice.

he opens his mouth like he wants to say something more, but he stops himself before he can. instead, he reluctantly says his final farewell. as his men join him at the gates, you can feel the thudding of their horses beneath your feet. it is as if the ground speaks to you. when it is finally gone, you return to the manor. and inside, there is an emptiness that chills you to your bones. it is nothing like the cold of the winter; instead, it seeps into you slowly, like a cloth dipped in water. it makes your body feel heavier and heavier with each passing day.

you try and keep yourself busy. you beg the maids to help them around the manor, and they let you sometimes, albeit reluctantly. it reminds you of before, when your home was not this huge manor, but a house on the verge of breaking down. you cook sometimes as well, and you read. lyla had been told by miguel to not let you do any menial chores, for he had worried that your hands would grow rough and calloused, but she takes pity on you and lets you do some of the paperwork with her instead. she says that you are quite skilled, and you are happy to be able to help out. but you worry that there are too little chores to finish and too little books to read, and you will run out before miguel ever returns. you worry that if that happens, the emptiness will consume you until you are nothing more than a statue. being lonely is a luxury, one that you had never been able to experience. to be able to bask in such feelings had been something that you could never afford to do. the life of a common person is far too busy to dwell on the past. there is always money to be made and work to be done, and if you had been asked about being so lonely in the past, you would have laughed out loud, for you had never experienced such a thing before. but now, you are forced into it, and you desperately lack the experience to be able to face it.

sometimes, when a breeze crosses your path, you swear that it brings with it parts of miguel. sometimes, you swear that you can feel a gentle touch on your shoulders, exactly where miguel had touched you whenever he lent you his coat. on days like this, you smile and pray that he is well. you pray to the gods that the winter treats him well, for you know how unforgiving it can be. you wonder if he thinks about you as much as you do him. does he dream of your touch as well? does he sometimes hear your voice in the howling wind? does he pray to the gods for you as you do him? does miguel hold you dear to his heart as well? you hope that he does. and that is all you can do, hope.

but when days turn into weeks, which then turn into months, it is hard to keep hoping. it is hard to only rely on prayers and hopes alone to keep you afloat. the year passes as if it is such a small thing, to move into a new year. you do not even notice it until lyla points it out. still, miguel is nowhere to be seen. and then one day, two moons since the beginning of the new year, the horns ring throughout the town. you had not realized that this sound had become so welcome to you, but the moment you hear it, something in your chest is lifted off. but you cannot afford to feel so happy, not yet. from the distance, you hear the townspeople cheering before you can see the men on their horses riding through the streets. their flag, navy and red and proud, waves in the wind victoriously. finally, a wave of relief washes through you. you rush outside, and the large gates of the manor slowly push open. you can feel the thudding of hooves against the ground. before you know it, miguel is in front of you once more. he is miguel, same as you remember, from his skin to his hair to his face to his body. the entire manor is bustling once again, with maids frantically hauling pieces of armor from the soldiers. miguel tells them that they can head to the town for the return festival or remain at the manor to rest. soon, everyone is rushing inside the manor to get everything ready. and for a moment, in between all of the bustling, miguel simply sits atop his horse and looks at you, gaze unreadable. warmth fills your body, overflowing onto your cheeks and the tips of your ears. miguel is back, and he has brought spring with him.

“welcome back,” your voice sounds foreign amidst the beating of your own heart in your ears.

wordlessly, he dismounts, taking off his worn leather gloves, and from the hilt of his sword, he unties a ribbon. it shines a pristine white, a huge contrast against the bloodied leather. he towers over you, but you do not feel even an inkling of fear. rather, you can feel nothing but his gentleness. it thaws your frozen skin deep down to your bones. it makes flowers bloom upon your own cheeks. in your chest, you feel as if you are being tickled by a feather. you try to make it stop, but it does not: it only leaves you breathless and laughing and red. there is such irony in feeling only gentleness from a man who kills thousands. he reaches out a hand and ties the ribbon into your hair. it is messy and rough and childish.

“sorry,” his voice is gruff.

“i have waited so long. you have more to say than an apology,” you smile.

“i do,” miguel hums, and you almost keen into him, his voice.

“then you must tell me. i cannot read minds, after all.”

miguel opens his mouth, but closes it as if he cannot say it. not yet. his face is dark, as if he still has something left to finish. what more is left? you cannot bear to see him leave once more.

“are you leaving again?” you almost whisper. you are worried that if you say it too loud, then the gods will hear it and make it true.

his face twists as he grits his teeth. you swear that he growls for a moment. in that moment, you see a miguel that is different from the one you know. you wait, and wait, and wait, but he does not deny it.

“please, just tell me.”

“no,” he finally spits out. in that moment, you think that miguel might rip himself apart.

“it is okay. i can listen. do not worry,” you try and console him, a hand reaching out and touching his arm. but it does not meet warm skin. instead, all you feel is hard iron, cold and unfeeling.

“no, you do not understand,” his voice is like thunder. it is so, so loud that you swear it rattles your bones. for a moment, he breathes heavily, eyes clouded with fear. then, he becomes quiet once more, “you must come to the capital. it is by order of the queen.”

he detests himself for having to tell you all of this. he detests himself for letting the wotan learn about your existence. he had never wanted this to happen. he had hoped and prayed that you could be kept a secret. he had begged to any god or demon or spirit, anyone that would listen, that you be kept out of the wotan’s sight. but how could he hope for such a foolish thing? his hands are forever stained a deep crimson, and his soul is so tainted that even beasts quiver in fear. what god, what demon would listen to his begging? he should have known. she is all-seeing and all-knowing and all-encompassing; it had been drilled into his bones when he had been taken in as a soldier at ten, and again and again ever since. now, these are the consequences of defying her word. he does not know if he can take it, not again. not after what had happened to gabriella. the wotan is a cruel ruler. she does what is necessary, regardless of what it takes. and you will pay for his selfishness. miguel does not even feel sadness or anger or fear. not anymore. it had piled and piled on top of each other until suddenly, miguel had felt nothing. there is just a profound emptiness where everything used to be. miguel is a naturally fearful man. when even his fears cannot amount to anything, like a cornered animal finding out that its teeth cannot bite hard enough, what does he have left?

miguel had learned the answer when gabriella had been taken from him, and he learns it again as he helplessly watches you walk into the wotan’s hands on your own two feet.

there is nothing left but despair.

Chapter Text

the capital is more grander than you could have ever imagined. it bustles with people the way that a hive bustles with worker bees. you do not see the appeal of living here. your entire journey to the capital, miguel is silent. you sit in a small carriage alone as he leads the way on his horse. despite how hard you had tried to put on a brave face in front of miguel, you are afraid. alone in the small, rickety carriage, you are left to fester in a pool of your own fear, bubbling and sticky. you had never seen miguel’s face so dark and so afraid. oh, how you had wished to be able to take away all of the fear from his face, to take his face into your small palms and smooth away all of his worry lines, to hold his head against your chest until everything slowly floats away with each beat of your heart. 

then, everything comes to a stop. you had already arrived at the wotan’s castle. it is such a blinding white that you worry that you will go blind. there is not a single weed, a speck of dirt that is out of place. the wotan’s servants come rushing towards you and miguel. they say that they are here to escort you to their queen. miguel’s face is dark, his jaw clenched so hard that you worry it will snap. your hand almost reaches out by itself. such a pretty, pretty face should not wear such a bitter expression. you are nearly blinded by the white inside the palace, and then you are standing in front of huge doors. your heart races with fear. you worry that it will escape you, but you grasp it tight so that you may stay with miguel for even just one more day. the doors, so huge and majestic, open slowly. every inch that the door moves, miguel’s brows draw closer together and his heart begins to beat even quicker. he does not even wait for the doors to fully open. the moment he sees that he can enter, he rushes inside. you do not follow as eagerly, as desperately as miguel had done. instead, you stand for a while, awestruck by the throneroom. there is not a single speck of dust, everything a perfect, delicate, shimmering white. the chamber is so close to perfection that you think this must be where gods reside. it is so unnatural that it makes your skin crawl. people are not made to withstand such meticulous detail. and then the wotan: she stands, her back so straight that you are sure she will snap. you have never seen a person so tall. her eyes are covered by a veil, white like everything else. she spreads her hands out like a show of welcome, of acceptance, but it lacks warmth. and she smiles. or is it a smile? the corners of her lips, ruby red and perfect, are upturned. her teeth are a perfect, glimmering white. but it is so, so cold. it makes you think of a beast in disguise, imitating a human smile. 

miguel kneels before her, eyes glued to the floor. you think he has done this many times before, because he knows exactly where to go. you can feel yourself frown. miguel should not be kneeling in front of anybody, you think. not in fear. and then his voice calls out to his queen.

“please. please, spare her,” he begs. you have never heard him so desperate before. it feels as though he is on the verge of tears. you wonder if he has felt this way before. 

“miguel,” the wotan finally speaks, lips twisting free of that chilling, stiff smile.

they say that the nobility are known for their beauty and their grace, but when you hear the voice of the wotan ring in the large, empty chamber, you think that it must be wrong. it is an empty thing, hollow like a rotten log, its insides eaten away slowly by worms and beetles and larvae. perhaps there is beauty to be found in that as well, but you think it is near impossible. it commands power and respect, but it is not beautiful. 

“i will never disobey you again,” miguel chokes out. 

“why must you make it so hard for me, my dear knight? why must you go against me?” her voice echoes throughout the chamber. it almost shakes the inside of your body down to your bones. her smile does not fade, not even for a second. 

“never again,” miguel spits out, as if he detests himself, “never again, i swear it. please, have mercy.”

“my mercy was death. you have taken it away yourself, miguel,” she nearly sings. even as she is faced with miguel’s desperate pleas, she is not phased, “and now, you know what must happen. just remember that everything is because of you. you caused this. just like what you did to that little girl.”

you have never seen miguel so deep in despair before. standing behind him, you cannot see his face, but his body, built to stand tall and unwavering, is shrunken down until he is nothing more than a ball at her feet. miguel never gets up from his kneeling position, and he never lifts his head. you wonder what had made such an otherwise strong man so obedient. and who is the little girl the wotan had spoken of? and what will happen to you? judging by how desperate miguel is, you know that it must not be something good. will it be painful? dark? a part of you thinks that it does not matter. perhaps this part of you has always known that you live on borrowed time. 

“please, do not take her,” miguel begs, tears in his voice, “you cannot. i will answer for my own crimes. i will pay. anything you desire, until you deem it fit. but please, do not take her.”

the wotan sighs, still smiling. 

“miguel, was it fun? did you enjoy your time with her? you must know that it was only possible because i let you. i hope you were not under the delusion that i did not know,” she smiles, as if she were simply a mother scolding a child for staying out too late, “but you must know how to control yourself. i had thought that after i sent you on that journey in the winter, you would get rid of her.” 

everything the wotan says makes your skin grow colder and colder. is this how small you really are? just a speck of dust on the wotan’s perfect hands? you try and call out, to say something, but you find that you cannot open your mouth. just the energy flowing from the wotan alone is enough to turn you as still as a statue. you simply stand behind miguel, ears filled with distant conversation and the loud thump of your own heart. 

“this is what must be done. it is the law of the universe,” she smiles. 

miguel stays kneeling, completely silent this time. a tear opens in the marble floor, and from it, rises a dark, black mass. it oozes and drips despair and sorrow as it slowly begins to climb through the rip. slowly, the mass bubbles until it is level with the floor, polluting the crisp air of the room. 

“you must want to say hello to gabriella, no?” the wotan asks, her eyes concealed behind her white veil.

“please,” miguel is more quiet this time, his voice only a soft whisper. perhaps he has realised that this is an uphill battle: nothing he says will be able to change what the wotan will do. 

he turns towards you, eyes filled with sorrow. 

“i am so sorry,” he says. his voice shakes. he realises it is futile to try to stop the wotan. he cannot bear to look at your face.

oh, but does he not know that you would forgive him without a second thought? does he not know that you would take even a sword to your neck if it had come from him? you had known from the moment he had placed his hand on his blade as he looked at your face. you had known when he had reluctantly offered you his hand, lifting you off of the dusty wooden floor. and then you had known again and again with each passing day, with each glimpse into miguel. if it is him, then it would be okay. anything would be okay. even if he bares his teeth at you and bites ferociously into your neck, into your jugular, with your dying breath, you would caress his cheek and wipe away your own blood, still warm, from his face. 

“it is okay,” you reply, “if it is you, then i can take it. i forgive you. in this life, and in the next, and in the one after that,” you smile down at him, hands finally reaching his warm face as you lifted it up gently so that he looks at you. when you feel the warmth under your fingers that you had been dreaming of for months, it is even more softer than you had imagined. 

miguel tears his face away from yours. 

“no. do not forgive me so easily. it will be painful, and cruel, and dark, and scary. and i will have caused it all,” miguel tells you. his voice is angry but you know that it is not you that he is angry at. 

“you have done nothing wrong. and forgiving you is sweeter than ambrosia. i do not blame you,” you simply smile. 

and then a voice cracks through the air, sharp as a whip. 

“now, are you finished?” the wotan smiles, “please, join them.”

and what else could you do? your heart pounds with fear and your throat dries: dying is scarier than you had initially thought. but you cannot let your fear show lest you worry miguel. you accept your end, and you accept it with grace. it is the last thing you can do. faintly, you can hear miguel calling out your name. as you near the darkness, you can hear other voices as well, and you realise it comes from the pit. it is filled with cries of pain and anger and despair. the mass is a culmination of centuries of hatred, of dying breaths and final curses, thrumming underneath the ground. it rises up to swallow you whole. your hand rises up slowly to touch it gently. it is warm, yet in no way comforting. it is a warmth that reminds you of fresh blood. from a place unknown, a breeze caresses your cheek, and you lean into it, a small smile gracing your face. this must be your final breath, you think to yourself. it is bitter and unknown and scary, but it is also sweet in a way that is not sickening. you could breathe this in forever and it would still feel just as sweet and just as new each time. then, suddenly, you hear something else. for a moment, you swear you hear cries for help coming from the oozing hatred. it calls for you, pooling around your hand.  as if you are in a trance, you willingly step into it, feeling the mass swallow you, sticky against your skin. faintly, you think someone is calling your name. they sound desperate, hurt. you want to tell them that it will be okay, that you will only be gone for a while, but it is too late. they will simply have to wait, you think. 

inside the mass, the stickiness suddenly disappears. it is an endless chamber of darkness surrounding you. somewhere, off in the distance, you can hear the drip, drip, drip of water. it ripples throughout the chamber until it reaches your feet, the perfect ringlets of water becoming distorted by your ankles. and then, you see a figure in front of you. it is a woman with long, glowing hair and a beautiful face. her entire being screams soft, like the first whispers of spring and the final snowfalls of winter. she opens her mouth, and her voice is filled with sorrow, yet her lips are twisted into a bitter smile, her fair eyebrows drawn together. she calls you by name.

“hello,” she says, smiling. 

you simply stare, not knowing how to respond. the woman is not offended in the slightest.

“i am sorry,” she then apologizes. 

you want to ask her what she is sorry for, what she will do, but before you can, you begin to see the past. you begin to see the stories of the curses and the souls and the people that make up the stagnation. many had been killed at the hands of the queen and died cursing her. their hatred made them unable to leave, to move on, so instead, it had all pooled up into this mass. and then, you see other scenes as well. some, like you, had become swallowed up. in one scene, you see a little girl being pushed in. behind her, you see miguel reaching out, trying to grab her. this must be gabriella. but before you can think of anything else, she is gone and replaced by another, then another, then another until you cannot count how many anothers there have been. finally, it all stops. it is a grueling and tiring thing, to watch other people’s memories.

“i am sorry. i did not want to show this to anyone,” the woman says, looking down, “but you must understand now, right?”

you purse your lips. did you really understand? could you fathom just how much hatred lie here?

“we are all stuck here. usually, when things die, they move on. some are born again, and some simply drift off to another place. but we have all died here cursing the wotan’s name with our final breaths, marred by hatred. and as we lay here in stagnation we have forgotten how to get there. for many of us, anger and despair is all we can remember,” her eyes are filled with sorrow as she looks far into the distance, “can you help us?”

“how?” you ask. you are not a mage nor a witch, and you do not know a thing about the afterlife, “i cannot guide you anywhere, for i do not know as well.”

“please,” she begs, “you might be our last chance. you do not have to guide us. we have all accepted that in exchange for holding onto our anger, we have forgone our peace. simply erase us. you are still alive and breathing. you are the only one that can do it. find our heart and destroy it. i will lead you there. we do not wish to hurt anyone else. not anymore.”

you think back to all of the people that you had lived through in that short moment. for each moment, you had felt their love and hate and fear and pain all course through your veins as if they had been your own. you had lived their memories and loved as they had loved. and in those moments, if you had felt anything at all, it had been that each and every one of those people had lived. they had walked this ground as you had, felt the cool of water and the warmth of another. how could you possibly deny them the right to have existed? it is unfair for them to be erased like that, everything taken away by the wotan. you do not know if you can do it. no, you are sure that you cannot. 

“i am sorry,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. you cannot look at the woman’s face.

“raise your head,” the woman gently lifts your face with a soft palm, “you must. it is a selfish request, we know, but it is our last resort. and do not feel pity. i think you know as well as anyone else that it is not pity that we want,” she smiles, this time like a mother. it has been a long time since you have seen that kind of smile. 

“but it is not fair,” you cry out, like a small child. 

“life is not a fair thing. you must do it quick, while you are still awake. otherwise, you will be stuck here as well, for eternity. here,” she chides gently.

you look up at her, into her eyes. they are a twinkling mixture of many things, but you realize that there is acceptance in them. just like how you had been before getting swallowed up. just like how you had been when you had first met miguel. you see a reflection of yourself, clear and true, in her ghostly gaze. looking down once more, you can only nod. she thanks you, then brings her hands together and opens them again. in her ghostly palm, there is a small pearl, glowing and round and warm. 

“this is our core. it is so beautiful for something made of curses,” she muses, turning back to look at you. 

and it truly is. and yet, as you stare at such a beautiful thing, you feel your eyes fill with tears. you cannot do it. you cannot erase them. and as your resolve slowly leaves you, your body feels sluggish. you had not realised it until now, but your eyelids begin to feel so, so heavy. perhaps this had been what the woman had meant when she had said that you had to do it while you were still awake. 

“no,” the woman calls out, “you must stay awake.”

she sounds desperate, but her voice begins to fade slowly until you cannot make out the words she says. you try to fight off the oncoming drowsiness to no avail. you do not want to die here, you realise. there is still so much that you have to do, so much that you want to do. you want to see the spring festival, and you want to see all of the snow melt. you want to show your family that yes, you had been left alone, but you are not so lonely anymore. they would not have to worry. and there is the promise you had made to miguel. how could you break your promise to him? he will be lonely without you there, you think. who will remind him to eat dinner? to go to sleep? it is a selfish, selfish thought, but you want to stay beside him just a little bit longer. perhpas you had begun to think that you earned your right to stay. as the peace you had thought you made within yourself begins to break, fear seeps in. no matter how much you try, no matter how desperate you become, your body does not listen. you want to cry out for help, but your throat feels too tight and your body is too tired. you beg for anyone listening to help you. 

and then from somewhere, a clear gust of wind blows against your face. it blows away your panic and the drowsiness that had started to set in. 

“if you do not want to end here, then you will not,” a voice smiles against your ear. it is light and airy but you can tell that it holds so much power. and it is strangely familiar, this voice, as if you had been listening to it all your life. 

you take a gasp of air, now cool and fresh, into your burning lungs. it flows through your airways like spring water, filling your veins with mountain flowers and soft grass. the ghost of the woman seems surprised, her eyes wide. 

“tell me, do you wish to end here?” the voice asks once more. 

you know the answer, deep within your bones. there are still things you must do. 

“i cannot. i want to go back. and i do not want to erase them. what do i do?” you ask, breathless and filled with new hope. 

“silly child, you simply need to ask.”

“please, guide them to the afterlife so that they may be remembered. i will remember. like the wind carries the seed to the earth, carry these souls to the heavens so that they may flower,” your voice sounds foreign to your own ears. it is filled with a new power and vigor that you had not experienced before. 

“my, you have grown quite clever,” the voice laughs. it is a twinkling sound, like the midnight stars, “that is the contract between the earth and the wind, until the serpent spits out its own tail, and now, that is the contract that binds me to these souls. it is done.”

you breathe a sigh of relief. you can feel joy rising in your heart as a smile begins to grow on your face. 

“close your eyes; imagine your destination. when you open them again, the wind will have carried you there,” you smile to the woman. you swear that your own eyes twinkle as the stars in that moment, filled with a warm, exciting feeling that you had not known before. 

slowly, around you, the stagnation begins to fade. it bubbles and blows away, growing thinner and thinner with every passing second. the woman in front of you smiles. it is one of gratefulness. you close your eyes as well, and when you open them once more, you are in a field of blossoming asphodels. the petals swirl around you, tickling your skin. a peace, the greatest you have ever known, falls upon you. the woman from the stagnation appears in front of you again. in darkness and in light, her beauty remains unchanged. 

“thank you. we cannot every repay you,” she says, a soft smile gracing her tender lips, “i hope you do not stay here. i hope that the next time we meet is far, far away.”

you open your mouth to speak, but she simply gives you a soft kiss on your forehead, lips warm and delicate, before disappearing into petals.

“it is done, child. you have grown quite nicely,” the voice from before returns. it speaks to you with such familiarity, but you do not mind it, “will you stay?”

you think about it for a while. here, your body is overwhelmed by a sense of peace and rest. your bones scream for you to rest here for eternity, enjoying the fruit of heaven. and your heart begs you to stay as well. there is something comforting about this place. your body feels as though it cannot go on anymore. maybe you should stay, you think. 

“there is no more suffering or pain or confusion here. you can rest,” the voice speaks once more. 

you almost make up your mind then and there, but something stops you. deep from your core, something tells you that you cannot rest, not just yet. there is still more that you have to do. then it all comes flooding back to you once more. how could you have forgotten? miguel is still waiting.

“i cannot stay,” you speak into the open space, not knowing where to direct your voice to. 

“why not?” the voice sounds as though it cannot understand you in the slightest, “why do you wish to return to that place? you will suffer,” it frowns. 

“i know,” you hum, “but i made a promise. to stay.”

“but you will suffer,” the voice states as though it is a simple fact. 

and it is. 

“i know. i have experienced it myself. and i know that i will experience it countless times more to come,” you pause, thinking for a while. words flow out of your mouth so easily in this place, to this stranger, “and i truthfully do not know how much more i will be able to bear. but i know i can bear it just a little while longer.”

“why must you put yourself through this?” they ask. 

for a moment, you think the owner of this voice must be a small child. you laugh quietly at the thought. they are so wise and so powerful, yet they cannot understand such a simple thing. 

“i know better than anyone what it feels like to be lonely. i think that if i do not return, if i break my promise, someone that i love will begin to feel lonely,” a smile dances upon your lips. 

“i think i know that feeling.”

one part of you screams at you to take it all back and stay. you do not want to feel it again, the burn of sorrow against your aching bones or the hollowness of being all alone. you do not know if you will be left standing if you are forced to battle with it once more. it screams at you that nothing in this world is worth more than making it all stop. but another part of you simply laughs at this. yes, sorrow burns and your bones ache, but perhaps that is what it means to be alive. to feel. and there are moments where love and wonder fills your entire being, growing and growing until it overflows. a budding flower falling into your open palm, a small sparrow’s song marking the beginning of spring. the dancing leaves falling towards the ground, the reflection of twinkling stars in another’s eyes. in miguel’s eyes. it is for these moments that we suffer. it is a small price to pay. at this, the defiant part of you telling you to stay finally becomes quiet. 

“you seem to have made your choice,” the owner of the voice finally appears in front of you. they present themselves as a silver stag, its horns adorned with vines and wildflowers. a small smile plays in its voice, “i still do not understand you.”

“it is simple. i do not wish to break my promise,” you grin, “i am still afraid. i do not know what will come when i return. and the uncertainty fills me with a fear greater than my entire being. but i know that there will be moments that make it all okay, that will make me think that my suffering had all been for this single moment.”

the stag snorts, the vines hanging on its majestic antlers shaking slightly at the small movement. 

“perhaps i will never understand those that walk the earth.” 

“perhaps,” you smile back, “but you will be watching, right?”

there is a twinkle in the big, black eyes of the stag, and you know what this means by heart. your smile widens. 

“if you are so stubborn on returning, then do as you please. i have a feeling that you already know the way back,” the voice feigns annoyance, but you know that this being, perhaps a god, will never feel such a way towards you. 

“thank you.”

“small child, you must love the world. then you will see that everything lies in the palm of your hands. you simply need to ask,” the stag tells you, “because the world is filled with love for you. you do not have to earn the right to be loved, for it is your birthright.”

you have a feeling that this might be one of the very last things you hear from this voice so directly for a while. but you know that it will be watching, always there and always guiding. 

“i know that now. thank you,” you reply. and you truly do. to love is the only way to survive. to live.

the stag disappears into twinkling stars, replaced by a warm breeze against your cheek. ah, you think, so this is who it had been. you smile. 

you take a final breath in, enjoying the scent of the asphodels. there is a sweetness in the air that you think you will definitely miss. perhaps you should ask miguel to plant a few asphodels in the garden. you doubt it will make the air this sweet though. you smile at the thought. then, you close your eyes and think of only one thing: home. 

and when you open your eyes again, a familiar vermillion fills your vision. 

Chapter Text

a warmth seeps into your body as you are engulfed by a sea of vermillion. warm arms, strong and sure, open themselves to catch your falling figure. the final dregs of your fear and worry are blown away as you feel miguel’s warmth. they tell you that this is all real, that you are okay. you take a moment to simply look at miguel, from his dishevelled hair to his strong brow to his sharp jaws to his plush lips to his golden skin. and miguel looks back at you as well. his eyes are wide and glistening, and his brows are drawn together once more, but it is not in anger. perhaps he too cannot believe this as truth. you are back. you are safe. his lips tremble like the soft, new leaves against the spring wind. you simply smile back at him and reach your hand out, your fingers pressing gently against the furrowed space between his brows. finally, you can smooth it all away.

“you are back,” miguel speaks, quiet and unsure. his voice trembles.

“i had made you a promise, had i not?” you smile, answering as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. as if returning had been the easiest thing to do.

“but you were gone,” he says, still in disbelief. he whispers. he is afraid that if he speaks too loud, then the world would hear it and make it truth.

“i was,” you hum, “but i had to come back. i thought that you would have been lonely by yourself.”

miguel does not speak. he simply takes you in, making sure that you are here. if it is all a dream, then he prays that he may never wake. he cannot help the tears that begin to leave his eyes, slowly, drop by drop until he cannot stop them. all of the strength in his body leaves as relief fills him instead. he feels as though his legs could give out from underneath him at any moment, but his arms never loosen from around you. a small part of him still fears that you might slip away from under his own fingers, just like everything and everyone else before.

“welcome back,” a sharp voice cuts through the air from behind you. the wotan had not moved even an inch, her lips still twisted into that beautiful, grotesque smile.

you carefully unwrap miguel’s arms from around you and hold his hand instead. they are so large that you fear they might swallow your own hands whole. your own heart filled with nothing but love, you simply smile back.

“thank you,” you bow.

“how did you do it?” she asks. her voice is so empty of emotion that you almost believe that she is truly just curious.

“i simply asked. and the world listened,” you reply.

“no matter. this too, is your fate. i do not make a habit of doing things twice. you may leave,” the wotan dismisses you, as if you had been nothing but an ant, incapable of doing neither good nor harm. as if the life that she had just tried to take had been such a trivial thing, “you are favoured by another, it seems. i do not make it a habit to meddle with the things of others.”

somehow, this dismissal feels even more crueler and colder than anything she had done before. it is truly chilling. you finally understand it; the wotan is a bigger thing than anything you could possibly understand. perhaps you may never understand anything that she does. but such is life. you will simply have to face it head-on, like you had done so many times before.

suddenly, you feel something in your hand. it is a small hair pin, shining even brightly in the white chamber.

a soft breeze whispers against your ear. a little girl asked that i give this to your friend, it says.

you smile. it must be gabriella. you hold it tightly, making sure that it does not fall from your hand.

“perhaps their imprisonment had not been their fate. they are free now,” you say.

“you make a mistake, silly child,” the wotan laughs, “their exile is fate. as is their new freedom. i will not imprison their souls. this too is fate, as i have spoken it. everything is meant to be. i only do what needs to be done. remember that.”

“you may leave, miguel. i trust you will not disobey me again,” the wotan says, “and you as well. do not take my kindness as ignorance.”

“i swear it,” miguel replies instantly. there is a slight tremble to his voice that you choose to ignore, for his sake.

it is as if nothing had happened. the wotan is unforgiving, but she does not hold grudges. everything continues as it must. there is no time to dwell on the past nor worry about the future. a maid comes and escorts you back outside. a part of you does not know if this is real. you return to the carriage that had brought you here. miguel sits across from you. there is a mix of emotions on his face: relief and happiness, but also guilt and sorrow. he does not speak for a while.

“miguel,” you speak his name.

he looks up at you, humming in acknowledgement.

“when i came back, a little girl asked for me to give this back to you,” you say, holding out the small hair clip. it is such a beautiful, intricate little thing, made of soft gold and beautiful pearls. there is a small blue flower tied around it.

miguel’s face immediately drops, his eyes filling with sorrow. he gingerly takes it from your hands as if he is worried it might break.

“i think that she wants you to know that she is okay. she does not want you to worry anymore,” the words come to you without thinking, but you are sure that this is what the little girl wants you to say. her final wishes are carried to you by the wind, and just for a moment, you lend her your voice, “she promises to come back soon.”

he does not look up from the ornament in his hands, heavy with the blood of beast and man alike. his eyes turn glassy, and for a while, he just stares at the memory in his hands. it seems too small, too fragile to be in hands as bloody and calloused as his own.

perhaps you know as well the things that he is feeling, the burden that had just been both lifted off and doubled upon his shoulders. for a moment, you do not know what to say. or maybe you do. you just do not know how to say it. really, there are so many things that could be said in this moment. you could tell him that you are so, so sorry, that you cannot fathom what he is going through. you could tell him that it will be okay. because you know it will be. what used to be everything turns into just a small part of you, immortalised in your memories. but these things are not what miguel needs, you think. and after a while, you realise that there is only one thing that you could do.

“what was she like?” the words sound foreign in your mouth.

you will do what he had done for you: you will shoulder the burden of remembering.

miguel parts his lips, trying to find the right words. it takes a long time to do so, but once he does, he finds that he cannot stop. he begins to tell you everything about gabriella, his little girl. he tells you about how she had been the brightest little thing in the entire city, and how she had wanted to become a knight, just like him. for a moment, gabriella is alive once more, breathing through his memories, now yours as well. you can hear her laughter, feel her unruly hair under your fingertips as she insists that miguel tie it for her, even if it looks ugly. you can feel yourself breathless, running alongside her through the fields of wildflowers and foxtail. the air burns your lungs as you fall down laughing beside her, just as miguel had done. miguel begins to laugh as he remembers more and more of her, until everything he has is shared with you. it is so strange: you bear this burden of miguel’s, but it does not feel heavy. it is a comforting weight, warm and soft on your shoulders, keeping you grounded. it is sweet, just like every other part of miguel.

for the first time, as he thumbs through the tiny ornaments on the hairclip, he feels as though remembering is not so much of a burden anymore. for so long, he had been unable to speak of this with anyone for the fear that he would begin to lose his memories of gabriella if he spent even a moment talking about them rather than desperately grasping onto each and every one. perhaps this is what he should have done a long time ago. perhaps this is what he needed, all this time. he falls silent, letting the final fragments of gabriella flow freely.

“i am sorry,” miguel tells you quietly after a while.

“you do not have to be sorry,” you smile, “i had forgiven you for everything from the moment i met you, i think.”

“no sane person could ever forgive me. especially not you,” miguel scoffs.

“but i have,” you reply.

there is a long period of silence after this. then, miguel opens his mouth once more, before closing it again. his brows furrow, and his jaws tighten.

“i thought i would never see you again,” his voice is almost a whisper, “and it had all been my fault.”

he pauses once again, just for a moment, before continuing once more.

“and for some reason, i could not bear it. i have killed thousands with my own hands, and yet, if you had joined them, i felt that i would not be able to go on.”

“but i am here,” you reply, “i had promised it.”

miguel does not respond, but his brows are drawn together and his eyes do not meet yours. oh, how you wish to kiss away every inch of sadness and hurt and guilt from this being.

“you must not frown. you will get wrinkles. it would be a crime to mar a face like yours,” you laugh quietly.

and finally, a small smile reaches miguel’s lips. it makes you smile as well.

“only you would say that,” he scoffs, still smiling.

“no,” you insist, “even a blind person would see that you are quite handsome. it is just the truth.”

miguel barks out a laugh. it is still heavy and damp with sorrow, but it is still a laugh. for a moment, he forgets everything that had happened. for a moment, it is just you and him, and he is happy.

“you must be tired. go to sleep. and i will make sure you are safe,” he smiles softly. and he swears in his heart that this time, he will make sure that nothing happens to you.

you grin. it reminds you of the first time you had met him, when he had taken you back home. so much has changed, yet so much is still the same. you wonder what will happen now. miguel does not have to keep you hidden anymore. you are free, yet you find that you do not wish to leave. selfishly, and maybe foolishly, you think that you have earned the right to stay for just a little while longer by miguel’s side. after all, if you leave, how will you hear his voice? how will you feel this warmth?

“but you have to wake me up when we arrive. promise me,” you say. an irrational part of you fears that you may never see him again if you shut your eyes.

“i promise,” miguel replies, knowing well that he will not have the heart to awaken you from your slumber once you arrive. he knows that he will carry you inside, ignoring the lyla’s teasing and the maids’ smiling gazes alike, gently laying you down onto your bed. and then he will sit on the edge of your soft bed and simply gaze upon your sleeping figure. soft with the glow of moonlight, he will think you are beautiful. he will observe how your chest rises and falls, how your eyelids twitch in your sleep. he will be filled with a sense of awe as your defenseless form fills his eyes. how could you be so careless around him? how could you possibly let your eyes rest for even a second? do you not know that he is a killer? that he had been responsible for your death? there is a softness to you, in every moment you breathe. perhaps this softness will linger with you even as you are lowered into your grave. there is such strength in this way that you carry yourself, how you love so easily. to he whom had only been trained in war and obedience, perhaps this quiet kind of strength is an impossible miracle from the gods themselves. perhaps it is not the moon that adds to your beauty, but you who softens the glaring white. to him, you are always beautiful. and after all of this, he will worry: he knows all too well that you are free to do as you wish now, no longer under the watchful gaze of the wotan. if tomorrow, you tell him that you wish to leave, then he would have no choice but to let you do so. you are not his prisoner, after all. the emptiness that he had felt should have been completely filled. he wishes desperately for your happiness, but he cannot but yearn that your happiness is him. he finds himself praying once more, like a fool. perhaps the gods will answer him once more. he prays that you will stay just a little longer, until he learns how to be alone once more. but for now, you are here, by his side, and for tonight, that will be enough to be thankful for.

Chapter Text

the next morning, patricia wakes you up at noon, the same as always. she says that miguel is already out with the rest of the knights. perhaps it is for the better that you are not faced with him. if he were to tell you to leave, you would not be able to bear it.

“patricia?” you call out.

she is combing through your hair, just like always.

“yes?” she replies.

“do you think i should leave?” you ask, after a few moments of hesitation.

she does not respond for a while.

“do you wish to?”

“i am free now, you know. i can leave. i can go anywhere i wish to. i do not know if it is alright for me to stay here,” you tell her.

“i cannot say anything about what should be done, but i think that if you were to leave, it would be terribly cold around the manor,” she hums.

it is a nice thing, to be missed. you would miss them as well.

“perhaps you should talk to miguel about it,” patricia smiles a knowing smile.

“but what if he tells me to leave? i do not think i would be able to take it,” you frown, looking down.

“oh, i do not think he will. not to you. not ever. but even if he does, we will all make sure that you are free to do as you wish,” she laughs.

but you find it hard to believe. miguel is miguel, and you are just you. he is the wotan’s most trusted knight, the reincarnation of the great knight achilles, and you are just you. and you do not know if you are enough to stay by his side. yet even so, as powerless and small as you are, your heart calls out for miguel to come closer, to lend you his warmth. maybe this is how icarus had felt; maybe he did not regret his death, only filled with love and satisfaction as he reached out for the last time. you think you understand him well. even if miguel swallows you whole, it would be okay, because it would be miguel’s light kissing your eyelids as it blinds you.

so, with so much between your heart and mind, you do what you know best: avoid miguel. for days on end, you make sure that you are clear of miguel’s path. this much is easy for you. you know everything he does during the day, after all. it had been your routine as well. and for those few days, miguel does not come to see you. perhaps you had wanted him to seek you out, because when four days pass without any news from miguel, the worry that had begun to sprout started to fester in your core. does miguel not care for you as much as you do him? are you simply a hindrance to him?

and then one night, he comes with a swift knock at your door.

at first, you do not know who it is. most people simply let themselves in, as you had insisted it so many times. still, you open the door, and you are met with the large, hulking figure of miguel. he stands there, hair still slightly damp and as large as ever. he is larger than he had been before, his shoulders broader and his back even more so. it is truly amazing what a few months fighting beasts could do to a man’s body, it seems. you cannot help but stare at the sight, taking everything in.

miguel clears his throat.

“oh, sorry,” your eyes widen, “come in.”

he whispers a quiet ‘thank you’, then walks into your room. it is his home, yet it is almost laughable how awkward he is in your room. he walks towards the small table and takes a seat in front of you, where he had always sat. for some reason, however, it feels strange.

“hello,” you greet him with a smile. you hope that he cannot see how nervous you are.

miguel responds with a curt greeting of his own. he smiles softly in your presence.

“you did not wake me that time. you promised to,” you feign a frown.

“i could not wake you. it would be a crime to have awoken you, snoring like a small bear,” he jests.

you laugh, and it all feels so natural again: the conversation flowing between the two of you, the bubbling laughter. then, you ask the dreaded question.

“miguel, should i leave?” you can tell miguel has been thinking of the same thing as well, tiptoeing around the topic. you steel yourself for the coming impact.

he purses his lips, thinking before he says anything.

“do you wish to?”

it is the same thing that patricia had said, but it feels different coming from his mouth.

“i do not know.”

“i will not keep you here. not if you do not wish to stay.”

but what miguel does not say is that he wants, needs, you to stay. somehow, he cannot say it. he cannot say these words, no matter how desperately he begs for the words to leave his mouth. they spin around inside his mouth, around his tongue, laughing at his powerlessness.

“but i will not stay if you do not want me here,” your heart breaks as you realise that he does not tell you that you are wanted here. by him.

miguel can see you begin to leave with his own two eyes. he calls out to you before he can stop himself.

“i do not mean that you are not wanted here,” miguel begins, hesitating. his heart beats far too quickly and there are too many words he wants to say but too little time, “i do not want you to stay if—“

“miguel, you do not need to force yourself,” you smile at him once more. a bitter taste fills your mouth as you make this face. you hope that miguel cannot see it.

but he does. he has every motion, every face, every slight movement of yours etched into the folds of his own being, kept close to his heart.

“you do not have to worry,” you continue, talking quickly so that miguel cannot interrupt you. you worry that you will break into tears if miguel says something, “i always leave. i am accustomed to moving. i can find another home just as easily as i had found this one, and the one before that, and then the one before that. maybe flight is in my nature. just, do not forget about me. remember me once in a while. as long as you think of me every so often, i think i will not feel so lonely.”

the same bitter smile never leaves your face, and miguel cannot take it anymore.

“do not talk like that, like you are going to leave. not to me. not ever,” he says, voice louder than he had meant it to come out. miguel does not mean to show anger, yet it is the only emotion that he can show in the spur of the moment. he sees how your breathing had been sharper at his outburst, how your muscles had tightened for a short second. he could take on a thousand soldiers at once, fight dragons, but none of it would compare to being met with your fear, “i am sorry. i am not angry—“

“i know. it is okay,” you cut him off.

“it is not. i am never able to say what i want. it does not come so naturally to me as it does to you. but i fear that if i do not try now, then i may regret it until the day that i die. please,” he pleads, and how could you deny someone like him?

“i am listening. i always have been, and i always will be.”

“i do not want you to leave. please,” he says quietly after a moment of silence and hesitation, “i care for you more than you know. perhaps more than you will ever know. i do not know what i would do if you were to leave. but i do not want you to stay if it is not something that you wish to do. if i were to make you stay against your will, i would hate myself more than ever.”

your eyes widen at his confession. your cheeks become hot, so hot, that you worry they might burn. miguel stands up from his seat and walks until he is stood in front of you. he hulks over you, yet you do not feel even an inkling of fear. instead, there is a warmth that spreads form your stomach to your face to the tips of your fingers.

“and you say you are not good with words,” you grumble.

“this is what i had meant to tell you before. i had wanted to tell you sooner, because i was worried that i might lose you as well. and then i had lost you. and even in that short moment, life had felt so truly lonely. so please, stay. just until i am okay with being alone again. just until i have seen you long enough for me to know you with my eyes closed. and then i will not hold you back any longer. indulge me just once more.”

a smile so true and strong makes its way onto your lips and refuses to leave. it spreads until your blushing cheeks ache. and yet your eyes feel wet. such happiness and relief had been so rare in your life that you do not know how to deal with it all. you reach out and wrap your arms around him, your face buried into his torso. even through the fabric of his tunic, his warmth fills your hungry touch. you hope that he cannot feel how your wet eyes stain his fabric.

“i thought that you did not want me,” you admit into his stomach, hard and strong, “i thought that you were just too kind to refuse me. i thought that i would be okay just being by your side, but i started wanting more. i am a selfish thing; you cannot show me such kindness and expect me to be able to leave.”

“how could i not want you? it is in your nature to be loved. and you are. even the ground hums under your feet. yet for me, it is my nature to only love you. and i am not so well-versed in softness, in showing how i feel. you say that i am kind, but you are the only one that sees it, i think. truthfully, i am cruel and ugly and stubborn and brutish,” he lifts your face softly with his hands so that you are looking at him, “i am not good enough for someone like you. and yet you are still okay with me?”

in the brilliant vermillion of miguel’s eyes, you can see your entire being, clear and true, being reflected in just a single, heavy gaze. you pray that you will be the only one that these eyes may reflect so beautifully. truly, you cannot deserve such devotion, you think. not from miguel. you have nothing you can offer him; you do not have the blood of nobility, or the elegance of one either. you do not have riches nor do you have the strength or prowess to match his. you are a simple peasant girl with nothing to your name but your love. but, oh, how your love for miguel flows so wonderfully. it spills over your cupped hands and into the very cracks of the world until the worms and the birds and the dogs all know his name and sing his praise. and you hope this is enough because it is all you can give. gently, you press your lips into the rough palms that caress your face. they are warm, just like the rest of him. you stand up and reach up to caress his face now. as you do so, miguel leans down to feel your hands better; he is too tall for your hands to touch his face fully. he leans down until you can feel his breath, sweet and hot and soft, against your face. it feels as though it burns you. for a moment, the world stops. there is only you and miguel, both glowing with heat and pliable at the hands of the other like soft metal. you do not care if you get burned by this, by him. miguel thinks so as well. no, he is afraid that you will break in his clumsy hands. your hands against his face leave only heat behind in its wake, and he cannot love it any more. your eyes, half-closed and hazy as you look into his own, close as your lips finally meet his.

miguel’s lips are so, so soft against yours. you can taste him, all sweet and bitter and deep. it suffocates you, but you think that if this is how it feels, how miguel feels, then it is okay. then he pulls away, and it is all too quick. you look up at him, the distance between the two of you widened once again.

“i am sorry,” you begin, panicking, “did i do something wrong?”

miguel looks down at you with his brows furrowed once more, chest rising up and down. he worries that you will break, that you will drown in the blood that follows him like a thick swamp. but oh, how sweet you had been against his lips. oh, how it had been everything he had longed for in this cursed life. he does not know what to do. his entire being screams at him to find your lips against his once more, to leave his burning handprints against your soft skin until you are covered with him. he tries so hard to not give in as he looks at you, lids heavy with desire. but then you look at him with those eyes, the ones that look at him with guilt and concern and worry, and the part of him that had been holding on desperately to the last shreds of reason simply leaves. how dare you make that face in front of him? how dare you feel guilt in front of this monster? you could never do wrong, not to him.

“no, you could never do anything wrong,” he swallows thickly. his hands move before he can stop them, and they are against your cheeks once more. they feel like petals under his fingers, “do you not know that they call me a rabid dog? do you not know that my teeth are bloody and sharp? i am nothing but a mutt; nothing can stop me, not now, not ever. i will not be so dignified like the nobles are to their dainty wives. i only know how to take, take, and take. i will not let myself defile you.”

his voice is pained and his breathing is heavy.

yet even at this, you simply smile. it is a refreshing kind of sweetness that he could drink forever and ever. but he does not deserve it, not after all of the things that he crosses his mind when he thinks about you.

“it is okay,” you laugh. you can see his fear in the way that his brows furrow, in the way his lips tremble. you can feel it in the tense hands that curl around your face, “i am not as weak as you think.”

“it is not a question of strength. you are so, so strong. i know this. but you could be the strongest person in the world, and i would still be afraid of hurting you,” miguel confesses, burying his head in the crook of your neck.

“okay,” you hum.

you guide him this time, so that he does not fear that he hurts you. the second time your lips meet, it is even sweeter than the first. miguel is so gentle with you that you worry you will melt at this soft heat. your arms finally find their home around his neck, and then this time, when you break away, he does not move so far. he stays closer, close enough for you to feel his breaths mixing with your own. in your white nightgown, miguel thinks you look like an angel. your arms engulf his entire being as you reach up, but miguel still looks so, so careful as he touches you, fingers ghosting over your face.

you frown, but he kisses your forehead gently, worried that you might break. for a while, there is silence. saying that he had missed you, that he worried for you, that he care for you had all been so easy to say, and yet to tell you that he truly loves you seems impossible. the words have lingered inside his chest for so, so long. he had hoped that one day, they would sprout and flower and bloom into something more beautiful, more fit for someone like you, behind his lips, but they simply become heavier and heavier.

“miguel, you are not some disgusting creature. you will not break me,” you say, leaning into his touch, “i hope you can see it someday as well. how kind you are.”

“me too,” miguel hums. this time, he does not argue with you. you insist that he is kind, and truly, a part of him desperately wishes it to be true, so tonight, he will pretend that it must be. he thinks that you are the epitome of beauty and strength and love and courage. something in his heart whispers to him that it has to be now, that the words will begin to rot away if he waits any longer. so he swallows his beating heart and the fear that rises up with it, and he whispers the words, soft and sweet and tender, against your skin so that you may hear the secret that he had kept so close to his heart for so long.

and when he sees how your eyes crease into crescent moons, how your lips spread so widely that he knows that your cheeks must ache, he realises that perhaps, this is how his words bloom. he will never be a poet or a ruler or a scholar—the blood that runs through his veins is hot and dirty and impure, carrying his mother’s rage and his brother’s impatience—but your smile, ever so bright and soft, is the beauty of his words. perhaps for him, the blooming of his words begins outside of his mouth with you. maybe he will tell you all of this one day, when you are both old and tired, sitting in the garden on a spring day like this one. the words will fall out from his lips so naturally, surrounded by the rosebuds waiting to bloom. he will tell you everyday how he prays that he lives just a day longer than you, so that you may never have to know the loneliness of being alone. he will worry about everything constantly, because that it just how miguel is. and then you will simply smile, because that is just how you are, and all of his worries will fly away like autumn dust blown away by winter wind. but for now, he is content with kissing you once more, hiding his smile against your lips. for now, he is content with simply listening to your voice as you speak, hoping that you do not notice how he tries to commit this scene to memory (for he knows you would laugh at his foolishness). for now, he is content with simply being with you.

the world will be a different place from the ones that you and miguel had lived in until now. it will be bigger and stranger and newer. the seasons will grow both hotter and colder. the trees and the flowers and the birds that had once guided your path will soon change, as all things do with time. and at first, you will be lost. but soon, everything will begin again. the seasons will become kinder, and you will learn how to listen to the trees and the flowers and the birds of now. the world will become all too small again, as it had been before. because this is what must happen. because this is what the thrumming of the earth and the symphony in the skies whisper every night and every morning. to fall. to rise again. to continue. to grow. to love.

this is what you will do until the day that you are finally met with the familiar scent of asphodels once more as you stand with miguel, hand-in-hand. when you open your eyes, you will see that everyone had been waiting. they will ask if it was scary, if it had been lonely. and with the warmth of miguel’s hand in yours and your hand in his, you both will simply smile and begin to tell them of the beauty of the world.