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Quietly huffing and treading along through the silent outskirts of the Moonshadow Forest, was a large and extraordinarily fluffy steed.

Lugging her elf’s belongings, she looked forwards on her path unwaveringly. It was an easy task for her, a beast twice the weight of the heaviest luggage you could manage to fit on her back, including her rider. Even though he was sure that she got sad about him not being able to return the favour at times. 

They weren’t quite out of the woods yet, but the gentle paleness of the full moon overhead had substantially lit up their surroundings, without the cover of the slowly dispersing canopies above to soften her unyielding light. Travelling under a full moon was an ideal situation for a moonshadow elf. Although with all the light that she had granted tonight, Ethari felt a bit exposed. He obsessively looked over his shoulder, and even that didn’t stop him from nervously plucking at his shadowpaw’s reins. 

Directing his attention to something else, he reached around to the satchel on his side and retrieved a crinkled map. Unravelling it and making an estimate of his location did not help his nerves at all. 

They were getting dangerously close to the border. He had heard stories, but truthfully he had never been this close to the edge of Xadia. Lux Aurea, outlined with red ink, looked at him tauntingly from its cozy place on the map, sitting just above the treacherous Midnight Desert. He’d have to stick as close to the border as possible in order to avoid becoming a snack for any soulfang serpents. 

He looked behind them once more, wondering if it was too late to head back. 

Thinking about the books and materials he’d return home with from the sunfire elf kingdom, his heart skipped a beat, and it alone was enough to convince him to continue onwards. The mental idea he had crafted of their Sunforge alone, added with their famous Great Bookery, made him feel confident to deal with the difficult attitude sunfire elves apparently had. 

He had only ever met a handful who made their way to Silvergrove to trade goods or had come sightseeing, all extremely proud to mention their brilliant kingdom of origin. Ethari wanted to at least give them a chance. That wasn’t to say that the odds were in his favour at all. 

An indistinct noise from the forest to their left made his ears twitch, and his shadowpaw stopped dead in her tracks. Her loud panting had been hushed, her head raised with an enormous nose pointed towards the wall of underbrush. 

“What is it?” Moving in closer to her, he put a reassuring hand on her mane. They both waited with bated breath for a few moments, staring into the abyss of the moonlit forest surrounding them. Ethari felt himself involuntarily seep into his moonshadow form.

With a near silent whipping noise, a loop of rope swung over his shadowpaw’s head and caught her antlers, making her stumble backwards. A disgruntled roar shattered the quiet atmosphere and trailing it were multiple shouting voices coming from the treeline. The rope tugged her head back, and so she reared up onto her hind legs with another mighty bellow. More ropes flicked and seized her mouth, silencing her, and then another flew to bind her front paws together. 

Struggling to maintain a firm grip on his mount through her panicked tugging and pulling, Ethari fumbled his hold on her saddle. After another jerk of resistance against the ropes from his shadowpaw, a sudden pit of terror formed in his stomach as he felt himself lose his hold on her entirely. He slipped, crashing into the ground and landing directly on his left arm. He was unable to stop a pained grunt from slipping through his gritted teeth. 

The commotion in front of him had gone blurry. His entire world was a daze, his heart panickedly beating against his chest and in his ears, spelling it out for him to run. But he couldn’t just leave his friend here like this. He had to help her. 

In an attempt to follow through with that grand indestructible scheme, he pushed against the ground with the arm he had just fallen on and felt a sharp debilitating pain stab through his shoulder. Overcome with pain, he collapsed onto his side again and laid in defeat, helplessly watching as his shadowpaw was seized and tugged to the ground despite her many snorts and hisses in protest. 

Turning his eyes to the full moon overhead, the pale beacon above shone her light through his heart and lit it up with hope, if not for a brief moment. It would have to be a quick and effective spell. Ethari’s connection with his arcanum had never been particularly strong. But now, under a full moon, he had all of the power that he needed in her light. So why couldn’t a single phrase in Ancient Draconic come to his mind? 

Hurriedly fixing himself into a sitting position, he tried not to use his injured arm. He looked to his shadowpaw helplessly squirming under the weight of the people fighting to hold her down. 

Five fingers. His attackers were all human. No amount of thick clothing and hoods could hide that. He’d have the advantage of the moon arcanum tonight, if he could remember any spells. Muddled with just about everything that was happening right before his eyes, progress did not seem too smooth in that area, rather, his brain had decided to hone in on the pure terror of all things. 

Ethari needed to calm himself first. All his brain was able to focus on, or more accurately his heart, was the terrified look in his shadowpaw’s eyes. His own mind felt just as trapped as she was. She was looking to the world around her for help, lips curled into a fearsome snarl that was betrayed by her wide and frantically searching eyes. Through her fear and desperation for her own life, she was looking for him. She was terrified because she couldn’t see him.

He didn’t notice that as he slipped out of focus, so did his moonshadow form wane, unable to hold the philosophy to achieve it any longer. Through his purposeless attempts at taking deep breaths, devolved into a drawn out form of hyperventilation, he heard footsteps approaching him. Looking at his hands, he realised, but not before it was too late. 

An arm wrapped around his neck, yanking him back. Instincts kicking in, Ethari reached up to grasp the back of his attacker and felt a scream of agony tear out of himself as he lifted with both arms. With all of his might he flung them into the ground, hoisting them over his head, the human landing with a satisfying thunk just in front of him. Even if he still was just an apprentice, you never engage a metalsmith without any weapons. 

An onslaught of new attackers slammed into his side. Ethari had barely managed to recollect himself before his injured arm was in searing pain again, catching him off guard and shoving him to the ground. He felt the weight of human after human pile on top of him. They were holding him down by his horns as if he were just any other wild animal they’d caught. 

With the last remnants of struggle in his mind, he cast one more desperate glance to his shadowpaw. A small prick in his neck was all Ethari remembered after that. The moon disappeared and his world slipped away into darkness. 

Life itself was numb around the edges. 

As his world slowly materialised before him once more, he felt almost nothing, and yet everything at the same time. Pain subconsciously registered to him through a thick sheet of freezing dullness. His present situation was slowly dawning on him and becoming abundantly clear. And as it did, he felt his blood run cold as though a tidebound elf had cast a spell on him, turning his blood to ice. 

The humans, his shadowpaw. He willed himself to push through the stinging numb feeling.

But his hands were tied, and long gone was the moon. He was trapped. Captured by humans, more than likely for dark magic purposes. Ethari felt a chill creep up on him. 

No, he wouldn’t just sit and take death like this. He had to do something, anything. 

His blind hope didn’t last very long, however. After fighting to open his tired eyes, he wished he had never opened them at all. 

There in the clearing before him lay his shadowpaw, fixed to the ground with ropes held down by wooden stakes, horns cut short and patches of fur plucked from her dark pelt. One of her front paws was missing, too, crudely patched up with stray bits of cloth rather than actual bandages. Ethari felt his mouth swell with saliva at the sight, threatening to bring up his last meal. 

She was still alive, he realised with a stab of horror and frayed hope at the same time. She was alive, and her chest lifted ever so gently, as though she was dreaming of the warmest meadow and the softest of pats. In contrast to her missing paw, her face was beaming with sleepy contentedness. She didn’t deserve any of this. 

Why, then? Why were they being kept alive? It would have been far more efficient to harvest them for parts if they were dead, as morbid as the thought was. 

A wave of even more dread managed to wash its way through him. A beating elven heart is more valuable than a dead one, after all. 

Ethari wasn’t able to fathom any of this. None of it made sense. Not to him in a perfect state of mind, and definitely not to him with one wracked with fear and guilt. He tried to back away impossibly further from the scene, hands bound behind himself to a small tree that held him in place. Now, he was drowning in that sea of dread, lost plummeting beneath the surface. He could barely breathe anymore, through awfully silenced sobs and intense nausea. 

Sparing his stomach, he looked away from his shadowpaw and hopelessly hung his head towards his lap. There, on the ground next to him, he noticed a few pieces of equipment through his teary vision. Among them were a vial and a bundle of saw wire. The vial was empty, thank the moon, although it must have been placed there for eventual use, killing his short lived relief. It was when he laid eyes on the saw wire that he had to swallow back his sickness. This, this must have been what they used to cut his shadowpaw’s horns. 

Ethari felt a muted stinging sensation from the tip of his right horn, as if on cue. Instinctively trying to reach up to touch it, he was reminded that his hands were bound. His injured arm ached quietly against the ropes. 

How foolish was he? He didn’t care to heed the many warnings whispered throughout the shadows of the Silvergrove. He went ahead, alone, if not for the company of his shadowpaw and now they were both suffering because of it. Because of Ethari , and his reckless decisions. He had known the risks associated with travelling to Lux Aurea. 

Every time he considered the library, the Sunforge, the materials there he wouldn’t be able to find anywhere else in all of Xadia, nothing else mattered. His passion made him overlook the dangers and the stories of death that permeated this route, as of late. The stories of elves going missing, of humans finding a way into Xadia and slaughtering their flora and fauna for dark magic. Anything imbued with primal magic were seen as simple components to spells for them. A venomous aid to their drab magic-less existence. 

Through it all, he was mad at himself more than anything. He’d let his passion get the better of him, and his shadowpaw, his magnificent steed who he couldn’t bring himself to look up at. Visions of her dopey grin burnt into his eyes even when he shut them as tightly as he could. There was no hiding from his mistakes, and what he had taken from her. Maybe this was the fate he truly deserved for being so foolish. The stinging feeling spread through his right horn slowly, growing restless. 

Resonate notes of a crackle bird's song rang through his ears. All of his senses had gone fuzzy, and it took a few moments for the echoes of the bird’s voice to become clear to him. Once it did, he couldn’t tell if the bird had moved further away, or if his hearing was fading away again. All of the birds and their melodic chirping in the thick canopy above had become strangely distant. An eerie silence filled the clearing.

Then, something hissed through the air behind him. He recognised the sound of an arrow being fired, and plunging into its target. A shudder crawled up his spine as he heard what he assumed to be the arrow’s target fall to the ground. Again, the sounds repeated in quick succession. Three times more, the exact pattern. All three targets silently fell, with a disturbing amount of weight behind each colliding into the dirt beneath them. 

Ethari writhed against the ropes binding his wrists, his injured arm stinging in protest. His very being still wavered around the edges with exhaustion and that odd cold numbing feeling he now recognised must be the remnants of a strong dark magic sedative.

Multiple people from behind him shouted in alarm. The familiarity of their voices sent him into a panic, similar to when he’d first heard those voices scream. The humans were being attacked this time. 

He’d finally managed to wriggle around to face the commotion, coming to the realisation that the humans had their camp established behind the tree he was bound to. A few of them stood with horror woven through their face and posture, eyes wide and arms out by their sides, ready to grab any necessary weapons to defend themselves. Another three of them were on the ground, a singular arrow piercing the exact spot in each of their chests. Ethari recognised their craftsmanship. They were moonshadow arrows. 

A blur of navy blue and green, fitting in near perfectly with the shade of the leaves above, slipped through his peripheral vision. The humans reacted as well, but they did so too slowly. By the time they realised something was in the trees, another arrow had already been fired from behind them, and another human collapsed into the dirt. 

With a scream a vile mixture of anger and terror, one of the humans whirled around to face the direction the arrow had come from and flung a small dagger towards the obscured assailant. The knife flew with dangerous precision as it disappeared into the branches. Ethari stared at where it had gone, and an unsteady silence fell over the group of poachers as they too bathed in the painful anticipation.

An elf descended from the treetops with a series of quick and graceful jumps, using branches like a segmented staircase. Humans reeling to grab for their weapons, he darted towards them with two gleaming blades in hand that curved like crescent moons. 

The poachers were helpless, fumbling for protection, but death was a near certain reality no matter what they did. The moonshadow elf’s expression was that of unyielding fury. 

He raised his swords, and brought them down onto one of the unlucky humans who had managed to grab a weapon in his panic. The man was disarmed without so much as a thought. With the elf’s next movement the human’s chest was pierced, a sick sound ripping out from his throat as the blade was removed. Ethari looked away for a brief moment of respite, wishing his hearing hadn’t returned to him. 

Another human flanked him, the woman who had thrown the knife. Her movements were practised, parrying his blades with her own, the anger in her eyes rivalling even her elven attacker. She was the last human standing now.

The human, perhaps their leader, wielded every fibre of her being. She fought off the elf’s blades furiously, but was met with an equal amount of vigour in response. The elf was far too agile. Each time their blades met, her movements grew less calculated. 

She was growing desperate. Ethari’s breath caught in his throat. He knew exactly what humans did when they got desperate. 

Staggering backwards from a particularly strong swipe from the elf, he saw something akin to a spark light up in her eyes; the harbinger of fire. She ditched her sword, throwing it at her opponent who used his blades to bat it out of the air with ease. Ducking out of the way of the merciless elf, she barely managed to dodge another sweep from his unrelenting crescent shaped swords. But she had a plan. Someone as trained in combat as her wouldn’t throw away their weapon without purpose, Ethari thought with a sinking feeling.

She fled from her unforgiving assailant behind a tent, just escaping yet another studied slash. The elf was enraged by this, deciding to rip through the fabric of the tent like an angry banther. Once he quickly tore through it, she appeared on the other side holding something in her hand. A jar. This was exactly what he feared would happen. 

The jar was thrown at him, right towards his blades. He acted on instinct, and they made quick work of the glass, contents of the jar spilling out onto both of his swords. Ethari watched the elf’s eyes widen. The human reached her hand out and opened her mouth, a ghostly slur of words slithering from deep within her. 

“Latem eht taeh, hcuot gninrub.” Her words echoed around in his brain, a deadly darkness swallowing her eyes.  

The bloodstained elf cautiously stepped away from her. Ethari smelt the nose-wrinkling stench of boiling blood before he saw the steam coming from his blades. Despite this the fellow moonshadow elf was stubborn, his grip remaining firmly on his swords, expression intensifying. They were so hot the blood previously coating them was bubbling off. He couldn’t possibly expect to be able to fight her with his own blades searing his skin, could he? This elf was more of a lunatic than he thought. 

The dark mage had bought herself time to retrieve her weapon. She ran towards him, putting all of her might into swinging her sword, meeting him halfway. The elf cried out, sizzling blades flying loose from his bare hands and clattering to the ground. That was about as well as Ethari expected the situation to play out. The elf’s persistent demeanour had lasted a matter of seconds when it came to actually wielding the smouldering things. 

Ethari had never felt so useless. From the painful images of his shadowpaw writhing under the humans restraining her, to the elf and his burnt hands, he wished he could have done something. Anything to prevent all of this, he would have done anything. 

The quiet throb of the numbness slowly melting away from his body was a welcome feeling. A feeling he could have been relieved about, but whilst he was still weakened by the sedative, and bruised from the night beforehand, he was useless. A fire grew within Ethari to do something, the feeling squirming around powerlessly like a beached leviathan. All he could do was watch what played out before him. 

Focus snapping from his fallen blades to the human, the elf quickly stepped back to avoid being skewered. The way he slipped out from underneath the human’s wrath with movements that made him seem as light as the air surrounding him turned the violent scene almost artistic. Amidst this elegant dance of death, the human tripped on the body of one of her fallen comrades and lost her footing. She flailed to keep her balance, sword waving madly. But the elf had already seen an opening. She had already made a fatal mistake.

Ethari blinked, and he was behind her, reaching to his back for his bow with wobbly hands. In her panic, the human stumbled almost right into him while trying to steady herself, like her own fate was fighting against her. And fate himself had just about won this battle. 

Instead of nocking an arrow in such close proximity to his target, he instead swiftly reached the bow around her throat and held it back with his forearms, his hands pointlessly rigid in the air. The belly of the bow choked her for a painful few seconds as she struggled against it. Having mercy, a stomach-churning crack marked the end of her last moments. The leader of the poachers fell to the ground lifeless, released from the strangling hold of her killer’s bow as it too joined her amongst the dead bodies. 

Then, a somehow untouched pearly white ribbon wrapped around the elf’s arm ripened to a deep red and came loose all on its own. A blood ribbon . This wasn’t any ordinary moonshadow warrior. This was an assassin. 

Said noble assassin looked at his damaged hands with a mournful groan. He may have completed his mission, as evidenced by the unbound blood ribbon, but he sure wasn’t the sharpest blade out there. Gloves at least would have been a good idea. Although, Ethari supposed he wasn’t one to judge, given his current predicament. 

The assassin’s cold eyes shot up to meet his, and at an instant he felt guilty for his previous thoughts as though he could see right through to his brain. He remained frozen in place as the other elf turned away to pick up his now cooled weapons. Then, he started walking towards him. 

Ethari was ashamed to admit that his quickening heartbeat wasn’t due to the elf’s clothing being splattered with blood, nor the two blades in his hands that he’d used to spill it all. Or maybe that did, in fact, play some part in elevating his heart rate, but not at all in the way that it should have. 

If he wasn’t already shrouded in guilt, maybe he would have considered how wrong it was that he was feeling this way. 

He was focusing on this bloodstained killer’s pretty face instead of the deadly blades he’d just witnessed him wield, as they too advanced towards his rather helpless position. 

He held his breath as the other elf kneeled down next to him. The assassin was struggling to hold his sword, trying to grip it as firmly as he could with just his fingertips. Ethari tried to help in severing the ropes, using his tied hands to push against the moonsilver, but all it did was make it harder for him to grip his weapon, and eventually the handle slipped out from his fingers. 

Up close, Ethari could see how dull his pretty dual blades really were. He must have forgotten to sharpen them. This elf continued to perplex him. 

The purplish-navy markings across his nose wrinkled as he scowled at the ropes, like staring at them angrily would make them shrink away in fear. Ethari was considering it, almost half due to embarrassment. 

“Do you need any help there?” Moon above, his voice was more croaky than the last time he remembered using it. His vocal cords felt like miniature adoraburrs were mingling around between them. He made sure to discreetly clear his throat before speaking again. “I can manoeuvre a blade around and try to cut it with my own hands.” 

“No.” was the assassin’s logical and impenetrable argument. Ethari would consider his stubbornness endearing, if it weren’t currently to the detriment of his own hands. 

With a shaky breath, he grabbed hold of his sword again. This time with both hands. Ethari couldn’t help but wince, knowing exactly how fresh burns felt against anything that wasn’t cold water, especially when holding something as tightly as he was. That pressure wouldn’t help his wounds at all. 

He closed his eyes, steadying his breathing, and for a moment he seemed at rest. The other elf was undeniably beautiful like this. He was young, around his age, which concerned him. Unimaginably long white hair was tied up in a concise bun which rested just behind the back of his neck, smart considering his messy job, bar the loose locks of hair surrounding his face that could block his vision.

Ethari wasn’t rendered completely blind by the sight before him. The peaceful expression he wore was so strangely distant from the bloodbath directly behind him, as if he was purposefully distancing himself from it.  

He knew there was much more to him than his looks. Growing up in the Silvergrove, Ethari had been exposed to assassin practices for his entire life. It was an honourable position. Yet, the scene painted out before him in a deep crimson begged to differ. 

An assassin must be able to balance this carnage in their mind with the good outcomes of their victim’s death. To balance the weight of life and death. Ethari knew the weight of entire worlds was hidden across that perfectly quiet expression. This was his duty, and by the strict rules of his profession, he had to do this himself. No matter if it killed him. 

The elf opened his intense eyes once more with a newfound sense of determination narrowing them. His face smoothly morphed into a concentrated grimace, carefully lifting his blade. Then, he drove it downwards with a deadly swiftness, wedging it between the bark and the ropes. A bolt of pain shot up Ethari’s arm as the ropes were tugged back by his dulled blade. Until, finally, the itchy squeeze from the fibre wrapped around his wrists was released. 

He took a moment to anchor himself, rubbing at where the rope had been, taking a few breaths that tasted of iron thanks to the elf next to him. When he looked over to the assassin, he could tell that he was doing the same. Trying to. 

He looked worse. His hair was a mess, the locks bordering his face nearly touching the ground while he bowed down in pain, hands held close to his chest. His breathing had gotten noticeably heavier too, shoulders shuddering with the effort of each breath he took. 

An aching concern for the elf grew like a hazardous lump in his chest. Much like himself, he was reaping what he had sown. 

His shadowpaw. Ethari lurched upwards, hurriedly grasping at the small tree as his legs buckled underneath him. She was still blissfully snoozing away a short distance from the two. The poachers must have given her a much higher dosage due to her weight, though she normally wasn’t a very light sleeper. 

Biting through the happy memories threatening to surface in his mind, he ducked to quickly grab one of the assassin’s blades and began to hobble his way to her sleeping form. The assassin didn’t move at all. 

He stumbled towards her, collapsing onto his knees in front of his wounded steed. Reaching out, he put all of his weight onto her huge and fluffy forehead. A relieving warmth radiated from underneath her thick fur, fur that smelt calmingly familiar to him. A hug from her was always all it took to bring him back to his senses. 

He had to force himself back up onto his feet. Feeling her heat slowly wash away from his skin in the morning air was nothing if not demotivating. But, he knew he had to persist for her, and for the pitiful assassin still currently crumpled on the soil behind him. Both of them were wounded, and neither of them would be getting up on their own.

One by one, he worked away the ropes holding down the dark fuzzy lump his shadowpaw was with the borrowed blade. The ropes were rightfully thick, and the moonsilver wasn’t nearly as sharp as it could be, so most of what should have been severing was difficult tugging and pulling before they eventually snapped. In the end, his muscles did most of the work. 

A groan came from underneath him, unlike anything he’d ever heard before. It was muted and painful at the same time. And it had come from his shadowpaw. She was stirring, thanks to the blunt way he had gotten rid of most of the ropes. 

All at once he felt his heart crumble into jagged little pieces, feeling nothing but the urge to lay alongside the shadowpaw and weep. Another low mournful noise came from her as he gently put his forehead to her’s. Her injured voice was too much for him to handle. Ethari didn’t recognise this level of tired agony from her, his steed’s voice sounding uncharacteristically defeated for the loveable pile of fluff and muscle he was used to.

“You’re alright, I’m here.” Ethari brought both hands up to cup either side of her fuzzy face, gently dragging a thumb through her fur to comfort her even when tears began to trace down his facial markings. His shadowpaw slowly opened her sleep ridden eyes, responding with more rumbles from deep within her chest that only seemed to get sadder. “You’re going to be okay.”

Ethari stayed resting his head against his shadowpaw for an amount of time he didn’t care for. Eventually, something soft buzzed against him and shook him from nearly slipping back into unconsciousness. A solemn purr was rumbling out from underneath him. It didn’t sound normal either, it sounded broken, but it was the only recognisable noise he had heard this morning that wasn’t an arrow whistling through the air. Finally, something familiar had graced his ears again. “I will get you home, no matter what it takes.” 

Now, inevitably, it was time to make good on his promise. As if he hadn’t been through enough torture in under the span of what he knew was less than twenty minutes but had instead felt like hours, Ethari wrenched himself up again. Tempting as the warmth was, couldn’t rest, not now. 

When he turned, death slammed into his gut. Reminding himself of the gorey clearing sent him into a harsh feeling of whiplash, nearly losing his balance of which he’d fought to earn in the first place. Squinting and trying to ignore the smell as he took in a deep breath, he made his way through the bloodied field and towards the tents set up on the other side. The assassin remained still, in the exact position he had last been in, as he threw the blade back towards his knees from where he had stolen it. 

Cluttered didn’t begin to describe the interior of the human tents. The first tent he inspected for resources was filled to the brim with a selection of different weapons, ropes and other tools of the like. The other one, with a rabid slash put through the centre, was more concerning. Boxes, jars, dishes, all neatly packed together in crates that were individually labelled. Ethari didn’t dare linger on what they were labelled as, but he tried to pay attention for his own sake. Soon, he spotted a crate named ‘Medicinal’. Thank the moon that hadn’t taken any longer.

He grabbed a small pouch that was on top of everything else. Loosening the drawstring revealed three little green berries inside. Numberries, exactly what he needed, but there were only three. Adult moonshadow elf dosage is one whole berry, and the dosage for a shadowpaw the size of his steed would be at least two. The assassin needed his hands numbed more than Ethari needed it for himself. 

A roll of his shoulder quickly disproved his point. They would have to share it, then. 

Ducking out of the claustrophobic space, a brown bag leaning against one of the other tents caught his eye. It was his satchel, and a quick glance before lifting it over his good shoulder told him that it was still just as overpacked as it had been when he’d left the Silvergrove. The weight on his shoulder alone proved to him that nothing had been taken. 

Ethari returned to his shadowpaw first. Lifting her chin up onto his lap, he attempted to ease two berries through her clenched jaws.

Eventually, he succeeded, squishing both of them through a gap in her sharp teeth, making her snarl at the sour taste and then quickly swallow. He considered himself very lucky that she was still dazed and hadn’t bitten his hand.

He made sure to split the last berry as carefully as he could. Its soft green skin was a lot harder to work with than the moonsilver he was used to shaping. It squished and moulded in ways he wished it didn’t, its valuable juice oozing out onto the dirt. Once it was fully broken apart, he quickly put one half of it in his mouth and swallowed, miraculously without wincing. Worse things and worse tasting things had been in his mouth before. 

The assassin still hadn’t moved from his defeated posture. He had accepted his fate, curled over his injured hands, not resisting the backdrop of death behind him. If human reinforcements arrived, he would be a sitting duck. He couldn’t just leave him there. 

Hesitantly, he approached him. The other elf didn’t seem to pay him any mind, his head remaining bowed even as Ethari scuffed the dirt as he walked. The assassin’s breathing growing harsher was the only sign to him that he was still responsive. 

“We need to go.” Ethari urged him. The elf below him gave nothing in response. The dangerous lump of concern Ethari was trying so hard to ignore only persistently grew within him. “Come on, I’ll help you up.”

“No.” As eloquent of a response as ever. His voice was quieter this time, and it sounded noticeably strangled by emotion. Long silvery white strands of hair waved as he shook his head. “Leave me. Your shadowpaw needs you.”

“So do you.” Ethari kneeled down next to him, nervously reaching out a hand to touch his arm. The assassin jolted away from him, sharply exhaling as though Ethari had violently knocked the wind out of him rather than just lightly touching him. 

Turning his head away from his bleeding hands, the bloodstained elf looked up at him with wide eyes. Like he’d been snapped out of a deep trance. Ethari could only offer a look of sympathy in return. 

It seemed as though the elf considered his concern for a second, cold eyes flicking between his, before shaking his head again and scrunching up his nose, looking back to his hands. “This is where I’m supposed to be.” 

“Really? I’m no fighter like you are, but I find it hard to imagine that there’s much tactical advantage from the ground.” Ethari barely had time to playfully raise an eyebrow before a pointed glare shot it down. His smirk quietly submitted into a weaker smile. 

“You’d be quite surprised.” The assassin’s eyes narrowed at him. Fear should have been what he was feeling primarily, but his deepened tone in an attempt to appear more threatening made Ethari’s heart quicken for a completely different reason. The sedative had begun to wear off, and so he was left without an excuse this time. 

After a beat of silence, he was made aware of the leaking berry that was still in his hand. Making the most of his attention, Ethari held out the numberry to the assassin. His angry pout remained as he followed his hand with his eyes, before looking back up with additional confusion in his expression. 

“It’s a numberry.” 

“I know that.” The assassin grumbled through his bared teeth, like a grumpy moonstrider disturbed from a nap. He snatched the berry with his unscorched fingertips, looking at the ground rather than Ethari’s eyes, and put it in his mouth. His entire face scrunched up. 

A laugh was unbefitting of their situation, so he held it in, but the emotional weight on his shoulders felt a bit lighter upon seeing his reaction to the berry’s flavour. It was comforting to know that there was some life still within him.

“Let me help you up.” Ethari lent out his hand in an offer. The bitterness on the other’s face didn’t wash away, only slightly mellowing to a frown as he dipped his head again. 

A moment of silence passed. And then another, before Ethari realised that the assassin had gone unresponsive again. Words weren’t going to work. 

As slowly as possible, he reached his extended hand out fully to touch the other elf’s shoulder again. He didn’t flinch this time, only slightly tilting his ducked head to look up at him. He was sure he had some brilliantly bright turquoise gems stored away in a chest somewhere that would match his eyes perfectly.

Ethari gently moved his hand down from his shoulder to his forearm, deciding to try and not think about the muscles underneath his fingers, and grabbed. As he stood, he used all the strength in his back and in his wobbly legs to pull the stranger up to his feet alongside him. He stumbled, like Ethari had when he first got up, if not somehow with a little bit more grace. While no sedative affected his stability, he was sure the weight of his actions would feel crushing enough. 

Eventually finding his balance, he looked up to the future metalsmith still holding onto his arm. The assassin was staring at him in a meaningful way his mind currently couldn’t decipher. His eyebrows were curved upwards, frowning with his mouth slightly open. If this was his form of expressing gratitude, he looked awfully too much like a kicked moonstrider about it. 

The assassin’s gaze fell down to his blades still on the ground. If his eyes faltered slightly on their journey downwards from Ethari’s face to the dirt below his boots, he chose to pretend it didn’t happen. Ethari watched him closely, and tugged on his arm as he noticed the assassin start to move downwards to pick them up. “Forget them. I don’t have enough capacity in my satchel to take them with me, and you certainly can’t carry them.”

The elf turned to glare at him. Despite his position as a mysterious assassin, taught to hide in amongst the shadows and be unseen, his stand-offish body language was easily perceptible. 

“I’ll get you new ones.” Ethari continued, trying to sooth him with a pat on the arm. The assassin retracted from the touch, but his hackles seemed to have smoothed themselves down again. They needed to leave as soon as possible. Making him new blades was truthfully the least he could do to repay the elf that had saved his life. 

He nodded, and Ethari took that as permission to turn back towards his shadowpaw laying on the end of the clearing. She’d lifted her head off of the ground properly and was watching the two elves converse, if you’d call it that. Next to no signs of pain were visible on her face anymore. The numberry had worked its magic.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he walked back over to her with the other elf slowly following behind. Ethari took a moment to scratch behind her ears, plant a kiss on her forehead, before grabbing her fluffy shoulders and helping her to push against the ground. She rose to her now three feet with a groan, leaning on her elf as slightly as a bulky shadowpaw could where she didn’t yet know how to balance herself. Holding her up was taxing, but the whole morning thus far had been incredibly taxing as it was. Pushing through to get his shadowpaw home was all that mattered now.

The forest around them was noticeably smaller than that of the Moonshadow forest. The dirt below them was dusted with black sand. In this moment, it broke to Ethari that the poachers had taken him further away from his home than he’d been when they were ambushed. He wouldn’t know the way back. However, the assassin would. 

“Can you lead us back to the Silvergrove?” Ethari redirected his attention from the shadowpaw against him to the elf silently observing them from only a few short paces away. 

The assassin gave a nod. “Such is my duty.”

Chapter Text

Runaan had failed on the first mission where he was trusted by himself.

He would return to the Silvergrove with marred hands, and yet without the blades he had forgotten to sharpen before embarking on his mission. Those blades were not his to forfeit. He could already feel the heat emanating from the furious expression that he knew would be on his father’s face. The magnificent weapons were given to him by his own father. How could he have just abandoned them? 

The dulled blades were inefficient, and evidence of that was splattered all over his freshly made assassin’s uniform. He could accidentally find a major artery with a blunt sword, but he couldn’t even manage to locate the poacher’s camp before the full moon sank below the horizon. He’d failed to make use of his moonshadow form like so thoroughly planned. Moon, he’d failed to make use of everything his ancestors provided him. 

Now, he’d be useless for a decent amount of time before his hands healed. He wouldn’t even be able to train. All he’d succeeded in doing without fail was finding an elaborate way to handicap himself. It wasn’t exactly like he was taught how to deal with dark mages, nor warned about what this particular target was capable of. A mound of salt quickly worked its way into his brooding. 

He would have balled his hands up into angry fists if the skin there wasn’t blistered and bubbled away. It was torture trying to keep the tendons in his hands relaxed. He would have cursed and kicked a rock, too, if it weren’t for an elf and his shadowpaw trailing behind him. The bitterness from the numberry still bit at the back of his throat like a frustrated scream itching to escape. 

The elf was polite enough to him that he decided that he didn’t deserve to witness an angry outburst. He’d helped him up, pulled him from the spot he’d chosen to die in. Maybe if he hadn’t, Runaan at least would have been spared from the village’s scorn. He had gone into the mission dead, and had come out of it barely alive. He was supposed to be dead and he knew it.

Just how close he’d come to meeting his own demise, on his first mission bearing the weight of the lives he took alone, was a thought that made his head spin. He had succumbed to his fate long ago in choosing this line of work. He could have chosen to be a warrior, like his father, but he hadn’t. This was his path. To protect his family and friends. 

He was already dead. So why was he still alive? Why did he get to live, and yet deny his victims that?

He shook the questions off, trying to evaluate the scenery in an attempt to rid himself of it, but it quietly persisted, agitating him from beneath his skin. From somewhere deep within his mind it clawed, just like it had countless times before. And just like with every other mission, he was a master at repressing it. The burning ache in his hands was a good distraction. 

Carrying half of a shadowpaw’s weight all the way back to the Silvergrove was not going to be an easy task. The humans had hooked around north from the Moonstone Path, setting up their camp between a small valley close to the border, which made it incredibly hard to find and even more inconvenient to climb out of while injured. Rocky hills neighbouring the Midnight Desert slowed them down, but failed to deter them. 

They had stopped twice already to allow the other young elf to catch his breath. Breaks such as these were something the assassin rarely allowed himself, but the same attitude he applied to himself did not apply to others, even in training. He’d offer his opponent mercy, and often spare none for his own hide. Especially when Lain would whine about him being ‘too fast’, as though an assassin wasn’t trained to be punctual in their job. 

Thinking about his friends in a pre-established mindset of death and doom hurt, and made his headspins worsen. He silently elected to repress that part of his brain for now. They did not deserve to mourn any of his possible mistakes. Mulling over such outcomes was a distraction from his mission and needed to be squashed.

The landscape around them had finally levelled. From here, it would all be downhill as they descended back into the enormous canopies of the Moonshadow Forest. A noticeable lack of shelter from this elevation, however, left them unprotected from the summer sun. As a result their stamina was quick to drain. The sun scorched the back of Runaan’s neck. Letting his hair down wouldn’t lead to a better outcome, and would more than likely make him overheat quicker. As it were, the locks of hair that weren’t tied up had annoyingly gotten stuck to his cheeks. He was muscled, but lean and comparatively spare of fat to most other elves, so the heat passed right through him. Regulating his own body temperature was not his specialty. 

Runaan had been keeping an eye on the elf behind him. The heat didn’t seem to bother him as much, but his legs were far less adapted to scaling up hills. In Runaan’s experience of detecting physical weaknesses in his opponents, it was rather obvious to him that the weight of his shadowpaw was beginning to wear on him again. He’d lost his strength far quicker than the first time they’d stopped, so perhaps it was time to rest for the night.

He spotted a relatively small outcrop to the side of their tracks. Large broken off pieces from the deposit laid scattered around it, which would form a cool and protective barrier from between the boulders whilst remaining under the shadow of the rock face. That would have to do for the night. As he stopped, so did the other elf and his shadowpaw. 

“We should rest for the night.” Runaan gestured his twisted dagger-like horns over towards the rocky formation. “You will need all of your strength for traversing the roots of the forest tomorrow.” 

The other moonshadow elf nodded from where he was plastered to the side of his mount with a drained noise of agreement. Hands dug deep into the long fur of her shoulder, he turned towards the outcrop and started guiding her there. Runaan followed, offering a shoulder to the other side of the shadowpaw to aid her limping, then trying to provide as much leverage as he could with useless hands as she settled in the shade. Eventually she was laying fully, her back resting against a rejected lump of rock, letting out a satisfied huff as she laid her head against the cool stone beneath her.

“Thank you.” The other elf was breathless, briefly smiling at him before sinking down next to the shadowpaw with an ‘oof’ as he landed. He brought up a hand to pry his hair off of his sweaty forehead, the rest of it tied in a short ponytail that was squished against the rock behind his back.

Not knowing exactly how to respond, Runaan nodded a little too late. He wasn’t quite sure what’d distracted him. The elf’s attention had returned to his shadowpaw by the time he’d responded, and it probably seemed as though he was staring. Oh well. 

Dismissing the interaction, he leapt up onto a boulder where he sat and looked on to the horizon as the sun neared its edge. It painted the Moonshadow Forest in the distance below them a dark red, mirroring the stains on his uniform. 

Blood, that he’d spilt for his people, was blood nonetheless. Pain that he’d caused. Families that he’d torn in two. Runaan knew he couldn’t run from his own guilt forever, hunting him down by day and by night. His parent’s voices echoed reassuringly from somewhere deep within his mind in protest. You honour your people, Runaan. You honour your family. You protect us. Sacrifice is necessary. 

Your sacrifice is necessary.

For them, he’d persist. For them, he’d wield a sword through blisters. 

Perhaps he’d be dead by the time that guilt finally broke through and he caught himself beneath that very same sword he’d used to take. 

Ethari’s shadowpaw had long since fallen into a deep sleep. Sometimes he envied her ability to flop down just about anywhere and be perfectly comfortable. Her excessive body heat would be unnecessary on a warm night like this, but he was simply grateful to have somewhere soft to sleep in amongst the jagged rocks. He was simply grateful to be alive.  

This was more than he could ask for. Sure, the spot they’d chosen to rest wasn’t exactly perfect, but Ethari couldn’t care about it even if he tried. Every glance over to his shadowpaw, alive and breathing, dispelled all of his worries. 

Along with the many bits and pieces he’d stuffed into his satchel to take with him on his journey, there was a large array of medical supplies. Ethari never imagined his overthinking would actually prove so useful. His shadowpaw rumbled and grunted as he fixed her wound, wrapping her leg in proper bandages that wouldn’t leave her infected and at risk of amputation. Losing a paw was enough for her.

Seemingly inspired, the assassin had snatched away some of his cotton balls and leaned against a boulder as he dabbed his own hand with one. He’d been completely silent and still for most of the evening until now. It made Ethari wonder what was going through his mind. Fruitlessly he tried to stop the bleeding, only to open up his wounds further and agitate his burns which should have been left alone. The very sight of it made Ethari feel ill. If he wanted to stop the bleeding, he should have held it still. Not that you should apply pressure to a burn in the first place.

He was an assassin. He should know how to heal himself properly. His very job was centred around risking his life. An elf capable of taking out a whole camp of humans surely would be able to patch up a burn, and know something as simple as to not agitate the wound further. The painful growing lump of concern had returned yet again. His dull blades and dubious healing methods spoke to a possible inexperience. Certainly not when it came to his fighting skills, however. Memories of the gorey morning had already started to mute themselves to his consciousness. 

“Are you new to being an assassin?” The question he’d asked was genuine, but the fury on the other’s face quickly reflected to him how bluntly he’d put it. “Not— Not that you’re new to it, rather you’re still learning.” 

The quick amendment Ethari made eased the assassin, if not only a little. Light from the barely waning gibbous in the sky above escaped his eyes as he turned them downwards to look at his hands. “This has been my calling since I was small. My experience is irrelevant.” 

His last sentence seemed to hide something sour behind it. From the moment just before he’d snapped the rope from around his wrists, Ethari felt there was something more to the elf in front of him. Something that wasn’t right. It was a craftsman’s nature to figure out how things tick. The small occasional hints at something more such as these made him both anxious for the other elf, but insatiably curious all the same. 

Curiosity had certainly almost killed the shadowpaw, his shadowpaw, and Ethari knew it would one day best him if it truly hadn’t already. Especially when it was concerning an assassin of all elves, a far riskier curiosity than any. But while he had his chance, he would make the most of it. After all, if there was anything a metalsmith was good at doing, it was choosing to dip their hand in and risk their bare skin against the flames of a forge regularly. 

Flames. Pearlweaver silk. He’d completely forgotten about one of the other supplies he’d brought with him to Lux Aurea. Or, at least planned to. Pearlweaver silk was exactly what the assassin needed right now. He jumped around to his satchel, still neatly sitting by his side, which startled his shadowpaw awake. She grumbled in sleepy interest at her elf’s newfound burst of energy, watching him dig out a flask and a familiar thick roll of silk. 

“That isn’t how you mend a burn.” He warned the elf across from him. Either choosing to ignore him or too focused on his task, he didn’t respond. He was great at doing that. That, and both looking and smelling of death. 

He couldn’t just sit and watch him painstakingly persist on moving the cotton around to absolutely no avail anymore. Ethari got up on his knees and slowly shifted forward, the other elf’s attention turning upwards to watch him warily, his pained frown confusedly growing in response. Drawing closer, his muscles visibly tensed. 

He recoiled his hands protectively closer to his body as Ethari reached out to him. “May I see your hands?” 

When he met his eyes, he could tell the elf was pensive. He averted his gaze to stare at one of the many rocks surrounding them. Ethari knew this silent trick. Whether it was deliberate or not, his silence offered him an easy escape from a conversation. He would let him think, but not when his thoughts went on for what he deemed was long enough. Ethari knew how very dangerous ruminating could be. 

“I’m familiar with burns, let me help you.” Easing back to sit on his heels, Ethari asserted the fact that he wasn’t planning to give up. The elf looked at him with what he could only guess was a pricklier form of nervousness or thoughtfulness.

Ethari tried to shift closer as subtly as he could, slowly attempting to reach out for the other’s hand again, taking care not to scare him as though he was a wild and wounded animal. In his mind, there was little to no difference between this elf’s attitude and that of a hurt moonstrider. Both were just as fierce and defensive. 

To his surprise, the young elf reciprocated, carefully unfurling his hands from where they were tightly held against his chest. He cautiously put his hand in Ethari’s, surely calculating every small movement and where his hand would go against his. Hesitant, but undoubtedly alive. The warmth from the topside of his hand was a great contrast to the dead coldness he had felt that morning grabbing his arm, though likely influenced by the ugly burn on his palm, currently defenceless facing the night sky. Wounds like these, he had mended many times.

Flicking the cap off of his flask, he brought it to hover just above the assassin’s hand. “This will hurt, but it’s best if the wound is hydrated and cleaned before bandaging.” 

The other elf nodded, signalling his permission. Carefully, he tipped the flask, letting cold water stream down the hot and bloodied hand. A small hiss was let out from between the assassin’s teeth. His eyes were squinted closed in a way that reminded Ethari of a small elfling reluctantly being tended to. 

Once the wound was as thoroughly cleaned as it could be without being touched, he asked for his other hand and repeated the process. Then, he lifted the roll of pearlweaver silk that was sitting on his lap.

“Have you ever used pearlweaver silk before, assassin?” The assassin shook his head in response gravely, as though he’d forgotten a key part of his mission. “Pearlweavers are spiders of the ocean arcanum. They create these dazzling little webs that naturally remain cold and wet. They’re amazingly handy for burns.” 

Methodically, as though he was a pearlweaver himself, he weaved the silk bandage around his hand. Though, spiders usually wrap up what they plan to eat later. 

Ethari caught himself on the thought, and gave himself a mental whack. He was pretty, very pretty, but he was an assassin. Ethari had no business thinking of an assassin that way. The other elf silently inspected his handiwork, unaware of his thoughts. His momentary patient seemed content to listen to him.

“Their silk is incredibly gentle, too, like that of any other spider.” Ethari forced his attention to what he was mending, attempting to examine his hands for the hilts he’d eventually make. He made a silent note that his own hands were bigger and rounder, and the skinner elf had fittingly slimmer hands with longer fingers. “So it will apply little to no pressure on the burn, only protect it. Burns should not be given any pressure.” 

The other elf looked incredibly grumpy at that and turned away from him. The low hum of crickets and the occasional cicada rejoicing in the summer night filled the silence between them as Ethari paused his pearlweaver talk. In the pale light of the moon and stars, he could have sworn he saw a darker pink on the edge of his pointy ears. Was he embarrassed? 

“Look, there’s no shame in it.” Realising he’d finished wrapping one hand, Ethari reached for the other. Instead of letting go of the one he was done with, he held both by their uninjured sides, which directed the elf’s attention back up to him. The assassin looked him in the eyes. 

“What you did is good for some injuries, just not burns.” His reassurance stumbled around in his mouth before making it out surprisingly intact. Cold eyes inspecting him for weaknesses as he spoke made it increasingly hard to think. The elf thought for a long moment, thoroughly inspecting the night sky and consulting the moon herself for words, before speaking. 

“Pressure is the only way I’ve been taught to deal with wounds.” Surprisingly, the assassin’s words came out just as awkwardly as his, abashedly looking away from Ethari at his admission. “I may still be learning, but this was only my first solitary mission. Many assassins don’t get to embark on their lonesome at all.” Despite admitting a deep and sensitive truth, he still stubbornly protected his pride. Ethari smiled a little. 

“Well, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He sighed, starting to mend his other hand. The assassin was a little less tense now. “But I’d advise you not to use your hands for a while, at least until a healer has ensured it would be safe to. Your burns are quite severe.” 

“I’ve gathered that.” Ethari wasn’t expecting such a monotone response, but it made sense. He supposed he’d done enough tormenting to himself over that within his own mind. What he needed now was comfort, not advice, he decided. Whether the other elf would admit that or not. 

“I can’t imagine your profession would be too easy. You did well, one apprentice to another.” To be honest, he had never heard of an assassin going on a solo mission at such a young age, if his looks didn’t betray him. They certainly did, considering he was already so skilled so young. Taking up the role of an assassin was an incredibly selfless act. A sacrifice that took skill and nobility. He hadn’t expected a young adult to fill that role by himself, dealing with the weight of his job alone.

“I would never be able to do what you do. Taking a life…” It was suddenly very hard for Ethari to speak. He didn’t need to keep dwelling on what had already passed. 

The wounded elf he was wrapping a bandage around looked very tired. There were bags under his sharp blue eyes, his shoulders practically sagging. The smell of the blood that stuck to his clothes wouldn’t smell any nicer to him than it did to Ethari. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” 

“You’re an apprentice?” They both broke the silence at the same time. Blinking at each other, Ethari was quietly happy that he’d spoken up. He took great pride in talking about his occupation, and the chance to was increasingly rare as his kind often liked to try and pretend they weren’t interested in each other’s personal endeavours. 

“Yes. Metalsmith apprentice.” He finished the slow and careful act of bandaging his other hand, tying it into a small bow on its upper side and then softly patting it to tell the other elf he was done. “Pretty far along in my training though, if I do say so myself.” 

“I see.” The assassin brought his hands up and turned them around, idly studying the silk as it shimmered in the moonlight. “As am I.” 

I could tell, Ethari said to no one but himself. The elf was fearsome when it came down to it, he’d seen so with his own eyes and he wished he hadn’t. No human would stand a chance against him with only blades. Ethari wondered if his brooding was a part of their training, too. 

“I trust solitary missions as a metalsmith would be rather different?” The assassin continued, his eyes remaining fixed on his wrapped hands as he dropped them back down into his crossed legs. 

“They’re much safer, I assure you.” Metalsmiths don’t have to kill people . Ethari quickly reconsidered his approach. “Your swords will take around three weeks, give or take. Working on them will be no burden to me, assassin. It is the least I can thank you with.” 

Still wordlessly examining his hands, the assassin’s eyelids widened a fraction and his lips curved downwards. His once sharp and impenetrable face was now only just perceptibly more soft and vulnerable. It was similar to the same expression he’d worn that morning when Ethari pulled him up to his feet. The kicked moonstrider look, as he had dubbed it. It was adorable. 

“My name is Ethari.” Judging by his ever softening expression, he took now as the time to introduce himself. The elf would need his name in order to ask around for the location of his forge. Or, he could just simply tell him where it was, but making him investigate was far more fun. “You’re more than welcome to come by the forge to check in on their progress.”

The assassin remained quiet. Perhaps it was time to give him some space. 

Ethari got back up onto his knees, waddling over to his shadowpaw who’d fallen asleep again. He settled down next to her, leaning on her stomach like the big cushion it was, squeezing the cap onto his flask and returning the supplies to his overloaded satchel before scooching it to the side. Closing his eyes, the sounds of the night orchestrated a calming, albeit unfamiliar, lullaby for him.

“Runaan.” His voice was so quiet Ethari could have mistaken it for an illusion, a simple trick on his mind, but he knew that it had come from the assassin. He lifted his head up from the softness of his shadowpaw. Ethari offered him a confused look. Only then did he realise what the assassin was trying to tell him, a moment too late.

“My name.” Runaan felt the silk on his hand with a thumb. His body language alluded to something any moonshadow elf would desperately try to cover. Weakness. 

“Oh.” For once, he was unsure of what he should say. Ethari wasn’t any moonshadow elf, and he refused to respond with typical ignorance. There wasn’t much in terms of comforting an assassin about his name that he could think of. What was he supposed to say, that it could kill people? “That’s a… Strong name.” 

Runaan. Rolling it over in his mind a few times, the association clung to him easily. He couldn’t explain it to himself too well, but the name fit him and it sounded a tad familiar. The more he learnt about him, the more curious he became. It seemed like a bottomless pit at this point. 

Assassins were never supposed to show weakness to this extent. Not even another moonshadow elf he’d met in passing was like this. He must be dealing with a lot, and perhaps it was all purely accidental and out of exhaustion. He silently hated that he was so judgmental towards another elf showing emotions. Ethari highly doubted that an initial solitary mission as an assassin would be too easy on a young elf’s heart. 

Ethari had attained a few small scratches and scrapes the night they were attacked. They’d scabbed over by now and had begun to heal, but one in particular on his arm was growing incredibly itchy. He subconsciously rubbed at it. Lifting his top half up from his shadowpaw bed, he stretched out his sore limbs. Spending a night after fighting for your life propped up against an uncomfortable trunk, supporting his shadowpaw up steep hills, and then the next night laying on rocks was not ideal for his muscles. He’d probably strained his calves, and he knew he’d find that out in the morning. At least the view from here was nice.

As he twisted around to stretch his back, Ethari flinched and gasped at the same time so hard he was thrown into a coughing fit. The assassin was sitting right next to him. 

“My apologies,” Runaan started, but was quickly silenced by the choking craftsman weakly raising his index finger to tell him to wait. Once Ethari could breathe again, he rubbed a few tears away from his eyes and addressed the abruptly appearing assassin. Not even a mouse could be that quiet. It didn’t take much to get him to double over again, this time with laughter. 

Sensing Runaan’s serious expression, Ethari promptly cleared his throat and made an effort to compose himself. The elf was looking at him with a frown and a raised eyebrow. Like he was the one that had just materialised out of thin air. 

There was a clean piece of cotton held between his unburnt fingertips, undoubtedly one of the many bits he’d stolen. The young assassin leaned forward with it. Ethari sat with wide eyes as he brought it up to his arm. 

“Hold still.” Runaan’s tone told him that he was now locked on, and there was no room for any resistance. An assassin’s protocol was not one to be argued with, and nor was a stubborn moonshadow elf. 

The hands that had once brutally taken so many lives now gently pressed a cotton ball in an attempt to mend Ethari’s wounds, of which weren’t bleeding to begin with. Something warm bloomed within him at this unbelievably careful act. Looking up, he silently watched as Runaan’s eyebrows pinched together in utter concentration while he tended to him, the feeling growing tenfold, now almost burning him from the inside out. Ethari felt his cheeks flush the tiniest bit. 

“I thought I advised against using your hands.” His voice came out quiet, crushed underneath the assassin’s laughably focused expression, but more so by the weight of the warmth within him produced as a byproduct of it. When Runaan’s blue eyes flicked up to meet his, Ethari gave him what he was sure to be a lopsided smile. 

“My hands should be the least of your concerns.” His eyes went back down to survey the scratches on Ethari’s arm, before continuing to cluelessly agitate them with the cotton. He would have said something about it, but receiving more of the elf’s calm voice wasn’t doing anything kind for the growing pit of mush inside of him.

“Your horn… Has it always been chipped?” His gaze had raised upwards while the fuzzy-brained craftsman was distracted. A wave of shock went through Ethari, rocking him from his blissfully warm feelings, as he remembered the strange ache from his right horn and the bundle of saw wire. Runaan’s expression somehow grew more serious. 

“No, it hasn’t.” Ethari awkwardly reached up to his right horn with the arm that wasn’t being attentively assaulted with cotton. The tip of it was gone. Ethari felt his heart sink. Runaan gently pressed the cotton padding against him, the firmness of his touch helping to ground him and simultaneously send his brain back up to the moon again.  

“Well, that’ll teach me. No more border visits, even if it’s a few mountains removed.” Still lightly shaken up, Ethari leaned his chin on his knuckles with his arm stabilised against his knee. He’d worked through a few troubles and anxieties in his life, and this whole event didn’t exactly make him feel any more safe in the surrounding Moonshadow forest. 

The elf working on his arm pulled the cotton back, and fresh crimson caught his eye spotted on the small white ball. So he was bleeding. He must’ve bumped the wound trying to quell its itching. Runaan’s honed eyesight would have seen his blood.

“You are not to be blamed for this.” The assassin’s voice darkened in a reflective way. So had his eyes and stereotypical moonshadow frown. “This is our home, and they come to gut our creatures and steal our magic. If I had been quicker…” 

“Yet you tell me not to blame myself.” Ethari disagreed, shaking his head. Runaan retired the arm holding the cotton ball back to his own leg where his bandaged hand rested. He was trying his hardest not to take this assassin as a fool, and a justified one at that. “If this isn’t my fault, it isn’t yours either.” 

“Keeping the elves and other creatures of Xadia alike safe isn’t your job,” Runaan argued back. “But it is mine.” 

Oh, and what a justified fool he was. He saw a glimpse at him properly now through his brooding. 

“It shouldn’t have to be.” Ethari lowered his voice to let the other elf know he wasn’t interested in arguing. He disliked getting into arguments. “Not alone.” 

Runaan hadn’t expected that, which was evident in the way he opened his mouth to respond before quietly snapping his jaw shut to consider his words. His eyebrows tightened in thought. Ethari had triggered yet another philosophical staring contest with the ground, it seemed. Great moon above.

This elf was a vicious assassin, capable of mercilessly taking out four humans without so much as a flinch of regret. He’d seen that clearly. Now, Ethari understood there was more to it than honouring his fellow elves. It was a necessity to him, to be able to do that, for the sake of protecting not just the Silvergrove but Xadia entirely. That is what he believed his job to be. To mend the wounds that didn’t need mending of a craftsman even more foolish than he was. 

And so very foolish Ethari, specifically his heart, was indeed proving to be right now. Runaan had just shown him an undeniably genuine display of compassion. So not only was he extraordinarily pretty, but he was caring in his own indirect way, too. Ethari was hopeless at this point. 

He could not be feeling what he thought he was feeling. He could not be falling for an assassin, and an elf he’d known for under a day, no less. This was absolutely hazardous.

Nevertheless, at his spiralling realisation, his heart fluttered like a caged archangel lunaris that was fighting tooth and nail to escape away to the moonsilver lantern that was Runaan and circle around it aimlessly. Moon, Ethari had forgotten how dramatic he got when he was feeling this way. It was pathetic, honestly. Why did it have to be an assassin? The elf in question was still stuck staring at a rock next to the long boots on his even longer legs. And of course it was this assassin. 

“I’ll wake you when the sun passes over the treetops.” Though Runaan was clearly neglecting to follow up the conversation, something in the way his voice softened near the end told him he’d not quite finished that conversation in his own head yet. That was alright. He could take his time. The young assassin lifted himself, and reclaimed his perch up high on the boulder he’d previously watched from for the whole evening.

Now was not at all a time for a sudden heart attack like this. Ethari had spent the entire day lifting and climbing under a hot sun, which was not at all comparable to his usual lifting and hammering next to a forge for hours. That, he took in moderation. There was nothing at all moderate about the way he had exerted his body and mind all day. He deserved some rest.

Yes, maybe this was all due to his light-headedness. Maybe it was all a bad mix of the dark magic sedative and a mental workout and a half. Tomorrow, he would wake up, and it would have all been him spiralling in on himself. 

That wasn’t to say he’d blame himself if he awoke and felt no different. No, he could not blame himself at all for feeling it ten times the strength even. Maybe, he was just weak hearted. Maybe, he just wanted to love despite it all.

Chapter Text

Three days. Runaan had not slept for three days. Moonberries and meditation were two of the primary things keeping him in motion. He wouldn’t allow himself rest, not even after he knew his initial mission was complete. There was an elf and his shadowpaw he now needed to protect until they were back in the safety of the Silvergrove. Besides, even if he wanted to sleep last night, Ethari and his steed’s combined snoring resembled the distant thunderous cries of Avizandum himself. 

Speaking of thunder, dark clouds had rolled in high above their heads overnight. Runaan was not in the slightest bitter that they couldn’t have appeared yesterday to block out the unforgiving sun. Now that they were under the cover of enormous canopies, all they did was lull the exhausted assassin closer to collapsing, and increased the humidity so that it was near unbearable. 

His boots were still soggy from a river they’d crossed, and that he’d embarrassingly stumbled over. Runaan’s mind was not sharp enough to consider the slippery algae covered stones he was stepping on, but too sharp that he was more focused on how the shadowpaw was fairing across the overflowing river. Rainfall from the north had made it exceptionally hard for all three to cross without getting wet. So it was a good thing he’d gotten soaked enough for all three of them, because Ethari and his shadowpaw had gotten to the other side barely touched. The other elf clearly must have found it funny, but quickly reconsidered his humour when Runaan shot him a glare. 

The proof he’d fulfilled his oath, though only a feeble piece of enchanted ribbon, weighed down on a secretive pocket inside of his streamlined vest. He was supposed to report immediately to the lead assassin, but right now all he wanted to do was keel over and pass out. Acacius wouldn’t blame him for being tired after his first solitary mission. He wanted to go home. 

What home was there for him to return to? As soon as he would step in the door without his blades, he’d get an earful. Then his parents would start fighting over it. He didn’t have half the energy or emotional patience to deal with that. Runaan needed rest, and he knew that his father would deny him that. At least not before scolding him and giving him a whole new array of bad feelings. 

To avoid a worsening headache, he would find sanctuary at the home of his friends. He’d escaped to them multiple times in the past when he wasn’t able to handle his own household. Runaan was jealous that Lain had managed to secure both a partner and a home for them to live together, the house part above all else. He desperately wanted freedom from the constant bickering of his parents, but the only way to get a house at his age and stature was to have a partner. So quite unfortunately for him, he couldn’t have one without the other.

Due to his occupation, he could never imagine himself in a romantic relationship. No elf deserved the amount of grief he’d feel if and when Runaan would succumb to the fate he always knew his job would end in. He couldn’t even let himself think of his friends while he worked, let alone a partner or husband. Moon, even if he was to court another, he could hardly imagine that it’d get that far. A relationship was simply something he didn’t have the time for. It was a miracle he let himself have friendship for as long as he’d had it. Admittedly, there was a side of him that yearned for things to be different, but that side rarely ever got a say. It wasn’t as important as everything else. 

He did consider moving in with the two, quite a bit actually, but he preferred to give them their privacy. Besides, Runaan would stick out like a betraying splinter on the hilt of a wooden sword used for practice to the couple’s happy domestic lives between their training. 

The dark brown roots in front of him belonging to huge trees were starting to get blurry. As they ventured further into the depths of the forest, his guard lowered considerably. Home was so tantalisingly close now. His eyes burnt with the desire to shut close and never open again for another century. They wouldn’t, he couldn’t let them, Runaan needed to stay focused on the path ahead. He was trained for this. Was his endurance training for nothing? He inwardly scolded himself to do better. Pushing himself only made things worse though, and soon his vision was starting to darken. Walking forwards was a mindless thing. He just kept going, and going, willing himself to continue, not registering the slowly approaching edge of the massive root they were following. 

A warm hand caught his bicep. Shocked by the flip in temperature, accompanied by the sinking feeling of the ground sloping down below his feet, the last bit of energy in Runaan snapped awake and he turned to face who had grabbed him. It was just Ethari. 

“Are you alright?” The craftsman asked, a worried look on his face. He did not need to be at all that concerned looking. And obviously he was alright. What did he take him for, a novice? An untrained incompetent fool? After last night, Runaan couldn’t exactly blame him. Assassins were not meant to tell strangers their name. He’d been unprofessional at best, treasonous at worst. If any other assassin had seen, he would have surely been executed on the spot. Of course, he was exaggerating. He hoped. 

“I’m fine. We are not too far from the Silvergrove now.” Shrugging off the metalsmith’s hand, Runaan immediately stumbled as he tried to walk forwards. He grabbed him, again, this time gently guiding him away from the edge he was gravitating much too close to. 

Ethari hummed deeply, weighing his options. He looked to his shadowpaw, who was already progressively getting better at walking on her own. Then, he looked to Runaan. He must have looked especially pathetic, because that was when he made his decision. “You can lean on me until we get there.” 

“What?” Runaan made his best effort to sound offended with what parts of his throat were still functioning. “ No, I have had years of endurance training for this. If you continue to patronise me, I will find the two nearest and sharpest branches and shove them into your eyes.” 

He didn’t glare at him for long enough to know how Ethari reacted to that, all he knew is that he went silent, turning around to focus on attempting to walk again. He would be successful this time. He had to be successful this time. But as soon as he took another step, exhaustion raked through his body all at once. The leg that he stepped forwards with wobbled, before giving out completely. The young assassin fell to his knees. 

No. No, this couldn’t be happening. He could not fail. He could not give in. He was told he was amongst the strongest of the assassins. Yet, here he was, worn to his end on his knees. Runaan shut his eyes so tightly it looked as though he was in pain, and he was, baring his teeth in anger against his own tears that threatened to well up. He was too weak. Useless, if he couldn’t even fulfil the easiest part of his mission. Guiding the metalsmith back home wasn’t even requested of him. It didn’t need to be, it was simply an assassin’s job to protect his people. A prerequisite for any of the elves he trained alongside. But a job he couldn’t even complete. A disgrace to his years of dedication, to the noble blood in his veins. One small traitorous tear fell onto the smooth bark below him. 

A hand came to his chest, and then another to his back. Steadily, Runaan was raised up to his own deceitful feet again. Ethari used the hand previously on his chest to lift his arm and drape it over his neck, the other on his back staying in place to give him plentiful support. Runaan wished for nothing more than to have a moon opal in his pocket right at this moment to cast a disguise spell so that this craftsman may leave him be. Right now, he wanted to sit and rot.

Like the bodies of his victims would be right now. Over the border, far away from any family or friends. Never to be given a proper burial. Rotting away, letting scavengers slowly dismantle their skeletons until nothing was in the place it used to be. Until they were unrecognisable. Until they were gone. Cast back into the earth, contributing to the vitality of Xadia’s ecosystem. Runaan wanted to lay and rot alongside them. Perhaps that way, he’d contribute something positive to the larger world of Xadia.

Poor Ethari was simply trying to help, he recognised that. It was that he didn’t deserve it. He deserved to rot, to share their fate. Those poachers would’ve had families, commitments, passions just as he did. All things he’d permanently stripped from the world in a matter of seconds. His own hands did that. He did that. 

Now he couldn’t even hold his own head up. It’d gone limp against the other elf’s shoulder. His legs were still mindlessly working against the ground, walking with his help, but everything else other than the repetitive motion had gone blank to him. He couldn’t feel the blood ribbon in his pocket anymore, the sogginess of his boots, nor the ache of his recovering hands. It was all numb. All he could really register was Ethari’s warmth, from his chest and the hand holding his arm securely over his neck. And wherever else they met as he leaned against him, Runaan’s mind was too muddled to keep track of.

The next while was a blur. The only thing keeping him sentient was the craftsman occasionally tapping his thumb against his wrist. Slowly, the stunningly white and fine architecture of the Silvergrove appeared to him as if he was dreaming it. Each slab and pillar, adorned with markings unmistakably elegant and moonshadow in design. The dancing ritual to even lay eyes on this place had escaped his mind. He was quite lucky that he’d returned in due time, otherwise he would much rather blindly bump around in search of his friend’s home than to even attempt performing the twirling spell.

As they descended the large root side by side, Ethari just that bit taller that the joint in his shoulder started to ache from his arm being pulled upwards, the elf curved his neck to look at Runaan, who was still weakly resting his head on him. “Can I trust that you’ll make it home without first being found and carried there?” 

“Yes, you can.” That was most probably the first time Runaan had said that word to him, and it was to dismiss his wide orange-eyed concerns. “I’ll be able to make it.” 

“For some odd reason, I find myself doubting that.” The craftsman told him through a frown. Runaan wished he could sprint off up the hill of the village to prove him wrong. The worst part was that his worries weren’t unfounded. “I wouldn’t mind guiding you home. Surely it can’t be that much of a detour—” 

“I’ve appreciated your help, Ethari, but I truly think I'll be alright on my own from here. In the time that you’ve assisted me my strength has been replenished. For that, I thank you.” The words he recited felt all too automatic. Runaan tugged his arm back from his shoulder, pulling away from him. A rogue horn from Runaan’s head awkwardly clicked against his as he did so, grimacing as he realised he’d gotten his chipped one. 

“Any time.” Ethari stepped away from him, not seeming bothered by the altercation their horns had at all, a little dazed if anything. His eyes lingered on him for a little, shaped by worriedly curved eyebrows. “Not that you’ll need a stranger to half carry you back to the Silvergrove again. At least I’d hope not, but my services are here.”

How very generous. Runaan could have almost rolled his eyes at the floundering elf. The two parted ways, after Runaan gave the shadowpaw a scratch under her chin, bidding her and the craftsman farewell. 

Predictably, he had to make do with limping his way through the Silvergrove. Everything, from other elves to stone paths and the fluttering wings of giant moon moths blurred together around him in one heap of noise. He relied at this point purely on muscle memory, and let his legs rather than his mind guide him to the doorstep of where his friends resided. Pushing the door aside, he took one last step into their house. Then, he collapsed, meeting the cold stone floor. 

The very first thing Runaan heard upon breaching consciousness was rain. Not the harshest of downpours, but it was muted, pattering against a window somewhere close by. He was inside. He was safe. Warm, too. Gone was his coat that smelt of musty iron, replaced instead by the soft fabric of a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He couldn’t tell how long he’d slept for, but judging by how the skin on his arm was wrinkled from being pressed into the cot beneath him, it had been a rather long while. That, and he had thoroughly enjoyed those few hours. 

Lain was sitting not far from him, fussing about over a plate of armour, seated on a small wooden stool. He was completely consumed by his task, scrubbing hard at something that’d stained the piece of metal. Runaan shifted, causing the cot to creak. At an instant Lain’s ears perked up and his face brightened at the sight of him awake. “Runaan! Here to greet the day at last?” 

“There is nothing about this day that needs to be greeted.” Runaan grumbled wearily, sinking back down into the bed. He winced as his horns struck the wooden frame behind the pillow. He really needed to watch those. 

Runaan’s repressive nature repelled many elves, but his best friend Lain had managed to pester his way through those walls. The elf’s girlfriend whom he was living with, Tiadrin, was a welcome addition to their previous duo. He found himself preferring her much more analytical approach to Lain’s rash and bold style of fighting. She was considerably more of a challenge for him when it came down to sparring, but that might just be because of how long he’d known his best friend for. 

Much like Runaan’s father and his father before him, Lain and Tiadrin were ripe to be warriors. Both were still in training, yet to fight at the border, and often sparred together. They had begun their training far later than he did, but Runaan could already see their strength. None were as loyal to Xadia as they were.

“Not the best first solitary mission, if I’m to guess?” Lain spoke with incredibly uncharacteristic caution and hesitation. For an elf that rushed most of his sparring partners blindly and wildly, the care he showed to Runaan was remarkable. “Well, it’s not every day a handsome young elf drops himself at my doorstep. It has to be a special occasion.” 

“I passed out as soon as I entered your house,” He turned onto his side to protest having to look Lain in the eyes after he said that, facing the wall. His friend wouldn’t let him berate himself, that he knew, but there was so much he needed to get off his chest. “And I returned a day later than expected. It went all different ways of horrible.”

“You came back alive, didn’t you?” Runaan squinted his eyes closed at his words. Maybe if he closed them hard enough, he’d fall back to sleep. He heard Lain get up from his stool. Metal scraped against a table as it was put down, and then footsteps began to approach him. The small bed dipped near his legs as Lain sat down on what miniscule amount of space was left. They’d gotten it specifically for him so there wasn’t much space for another.

“You brought yourself back home.” Lain soothed him with a hand gently patting his shoulder. “That alone proves to me that you’re the strongest elf in this village.”

“I didn’t, ” Runaan's voice wobbled as he put strain on it. He curled in on himself further, biting the inside of his cheek in an effort to maintain control over the emotion on his face. “I couldn’t, Lain. A stranger had to carry me. He had to mend my hands. The same hands that I’d used to take from this world. The same, tarnished hands, that I..” Wearing off to a tired halt, Runaan desperately fought back sob sneaking up his throat. One that had waited a long time to be released. 

He couldn’t believe he’d let himself reach a state such as this. If it were any elf other than Lain by his side, he’d disappear into the forest and never again return to the Silvergrove. 

“You did your job, Runaan. You’re home now, and that’s all that matters.” Lain did his best to reassure him, and for the most part, it worked. He took a few slow breaths in through his nose. His friend was right. He was only doing his job. That was enough of a decent thought that it held his sorrows back for the time being. If he kept on thinking about it now he’d devolve into an incoherent weeping mess too utterly exhausted to even comprehend what was tormenting him anymore. This was something his mind would continue to tear itself apart with, when it had the energy to. 

They stayed like that, with Lain rubbing one hand on his shoulder, until Runaan was sure the rising pressure in his throat had lowered. There was still a light shake in his arms as he pushed himself up. He didn't dare lift his head, pulling stray bits of hair out of his face to behind his ear, but he could see what he assumed were legs belonging to Tiadrin standing nearby. She was probably just as accustomed to his meltdowns by now as Lain was. 

After he calmed down a bit more, she walked up and handed him a mug of tea. He watched the liquid carefully as he raised it to his lips to make sure it didn’t spill. The mug was hard to grip with his bandaged hands, but Tiadrin had given him one with a handle for that reason. Like himself, Tiadrin was much better at helping people in an indirect way. She didn’t have the same set of skills Lain possessed to be able to comfort people head-on. But, being possibly the most observant elf in the Silvergrove, she was excellent at doing it in her own, usually smarter, way. The tea she’d handed him was perfectly mild. Milder flavours helped calm his brain, making him search for the flavour, rather than the taste being too powerful and overwhelming his head, often resulting in a headache even worse. It was a trivial thing, but something Tiadrin had managed to take notice of. That delighted him just a little. 

“Thank you,” he made sure to tell her. Even if it came out a little more croaky than normal. Tiadrin nodded, returning back to the corner she was standing in before. It occurred to him that, despite being in training to be a warrior, she disliked the smell of blood. They both did. Though, due to Tiadrin’s perceptive nature, she’d be more sensitive towards it. Coincidentally, his coat was nowhere to be found, and was more than likely out soaking in the rain. It needed a good wash sooner or later, anyways. He wasn’t about to argue with her. 

“Need something to eat before you go back home? I’d bet you’re starving.” Lain didn’t wait for an answer before he got up, making for the cupboard and bench on the other side of the room. Runaan felt sick at the very mention of eating. 

“No, but thank you, Lain.” His reply fell on deaf ears, the other elf was already busy preparing a bowl and grabbing different vegetables from a basket on the table. Lain mumbled something to himself about soup, and Runaan truly felt like his stomach couldn’t handle even the smallest spoonful just imagining it. “Lain. I’m alright.”

“Save it. Do you know how many times I’ve heard that from you?” He chuckled, turning to eyebrow him before giving Runaan his best stoic assassin impression. “No. I’m fine! I’m the greatest assassin in all of Xadia, capable of taking down entire armies! A good meal wouldn’t do my already perfect muscles and already perfect hair any favours.”  

Runaan scoffed, but returned the raised eyebrow Lain gave him. Along with his team of fellow assassins, he’d once gone to slay a corrupt general. Though it’d been a few years back since now. It was on that journey he realised his purpose, as an assassin. He remembered it fondly, unlike his most recent mission. A ripple of pain went through him as he recalled. “One general. Not an entire army.” 

“Oh, how humble you are, future master assassin.” That did catch him off guard a little. His brain quickly fought to repress the thought that he wouldn’t make it that far. Take a joke, Runaan. 

“Please, if I eat now I won’t be able to have dinner. My parents would get suspicious.” Runaan had found the perfect excuse, and it was a true one. At that, Lain paused. He turned away from the bench to mock glare at him. 

“Alright, I yield. You can starve.” Even Lain knew not to mess with Runaan’s father, more often for his friend’s sake and wellbeing than his own. 

Looking out the window at the murky weather outside, his mind was set. He’d wait for a break in the rain, and then promptly return himself home. He was already incredibly late. Staying with Tiadrin and Lain was nice, and put his mind at ease, but he’d rather rip the bandage off that was facing his father than to sit here and fret over it forever. Unfortunately, now that he had decided on doing that, the rain was very quick to clear up. It seemed the world liked to make fun of him a lot. When he least needed it, too.

“It’s best I leave. I’ve bothered you two enough.” Runaan heaved himself up to his boots again. A brief flash of light-headedness struck him, and so he was forced to still and hold his forehead in his hand. In the time he was debilitated Lain pulled him in for a hug. 

“You’re not a burden, y’know? You’re my best friend.” Lain rested his head on his shoulder for a moment, then moved out of the embrace to smile at him. “I care about you, and so does Tiadrin. You’re always welcome here.” 

“Lain actually offered you soup. Do you know how hard it is to get him to do that for me? I have to be dangerously ill for him to even consider it!” Tiadrin spoke up from her corner with a teasing smirk on her face, aimed mostly at her boyfriend. Runaan was aware that back when he and Lain were still small, the elf had a not so small liking for him. He hoped it was purely coincidence that he was now with an elf with eyes the exact shade of blue his were. 

Runaan thanked his way over to the door, but was reluctantly caught in another hug from Lain before he could escape. When he turned, closing the door behind him, he spotted his coat laying on the steps. It was drenched. He picked it up and wrinkled his nose at how it felt under his fingertips. The piece of uniform was heavier due to soaking up the rain, but the weight wasn’t what was bothering him. He was happy for once that he’d burnt his hands and they were bandaged up, otherwise he’d feel a lot more of the soggy surface. How he loved the gifts his friends gave him.

It was a soggy humid midday during summer in the village, a sight he’d seen plenty of. The trek back to his home was a short one. When they were choosing a house, the decision to be closer to where Runaan lived was a conscious one made by, funnily enough, Tiadrin. You’d think it’d be his best friend who wanted to live closer. Tiadrin was more with her wits than her partner, and knew Runaan would need somewhere to escape to regularly. Even though he already went to Lain before he moved out of his parent’s house. The Silvergrove was a fairly small and tightly knit village, so no matter where they were the distance wouldn’t be too far. 

He did his best to enter his house quietly. An assassin’s years of training meant nothing if the front door squealed like a hog. To his relief though, it was only his mother sitting alone at the table reading a book. The squealing noise startled her so badly that she put her book down without so much as leaving a bookmark in it.

“My son, ” Her voice cracked as she laid eyes on him. She hastily pushed up from her chair, almost toppling it over. Cerys moved quicker than Runaan had ever seen before, striding over to embrace him before he could even blink or greet her. Every muscle in his well exhausted body relaxed as she squeezed her arms around his shoulders, letting his heavy coat fall to the floor. One of her hands came to awkwardly cradle the back of his head against his now very messy bun. 

Cerys moved back a little to allow them both air to breathe, looking at him with utter relief on her face and tears wetting her eyes. “Oh, Runaan. I was worried sick. You hadn’t returned when they said you would, I thought the worst had happened.” 

“I know. I’m sorry.” Runaan frowned mournfully against her hand cupping his face. Seeing his mother cry because of him made something awful and painful within him snap. Cerys sniffled and shook her head.

“No, don’t you dare be sorry.” Almost ramming her head against his shoulder, she insistently tightened her hold on him. That was the most she could do against a son that already dwarfed her. He was considerably taller than both of his parents, in fact. Runaan thought his ribs might crack. Though being suffocated by one of his mother’s hugs wasn’t the worst fate he could think of. It would be a very warm and comforting death. 

Rather reluctantly, she eventually untied her arms from around him, but kept two unwilling to leave hands on his shoulders. She scanned him up and down, searching for any harm done to her son. “Your hands, are they alright? Wait, what of your father’s blades?”

“They’re gone, I lost them.” Runaan looked at the ground in shame. He knew he’d have to admit to it sooner or later. Cerys only uttered a soft ‘oh’, and started gently rubbing his arm. 

“I’ll handle him.” She decided. “He’s at the market now, but when he returns I’ll deal with him. I’m sure he won’t be happy, but you look half dead and you deserve some well earned rest.” 

He did not feel half dead, he felt worse than it. Ever since he was just able to walk, he’d been awfully sensitive to any sort of stimulation, but sound in particular had given him multiple headaches in the past. Which was quite fortunate considering the Silvergrove was just about the most calm village in all of Xadia and that same sensitivity shaped him into a deadly assassin. Cerys had a simple solution for his stress. When he was small and she noticed he was upset, she’d take him somewhere peaceful where his mind could think, most commonly the meadow just outside of the village, and gently rub his scalp to weed out the headache. Contact to his head often made it feel worse, but somehow his mother always managed to help soothe it. She’d also used to do it to get him to sleep when he was restless of a night, but he’d long since grown out of needing that. 

Despite his age she never stopped being there for him when he needed her. Runaan sat down in the chair she was previously in so she could comfort him comfortably and without having to stretch her arms up to reach him. It was probably a funny sight to see now that he’d outgrown her, though, keeping his eyes closed just as he always did. Years may have been and gone, but this was still an effective way for him to regulate.

Cerys massaged his forehead and temples, steering clear of his horns. Not only were they sensitive and could be painful to touch when an elf was already amidst a headache, but horns were considered very intimate to moonshadow elves especially. They were where his mother’s wedding cuffs adorned her, nestled close to the base of her horns as a symbol of her marriage. Courting rituals involved head bowing, like you’d see a pigeon or a heron do for the same purpose, except an elf kept perfectly still until met with a response in the form of the other elf’s horns gently meeting their’s. This was how elves courted, and how they asked another to be their partner. Partnered elves usually tapped their horns in greeting to one another. Runaan suppressed an involuntary embarrassed grumble as he remembered accidentally hitting the young craftsman’s horn with his. 

“There’s something bothering you?” Cerys more or less knew this already, so he didn’t know what use there was in her asking him. She’d known him his entire life. Abnormal behaviour was very easy for her to notice. He nodded against her hands and so she stopped her motions, the dim candlelight now enough to put him at ease. “If it’s about your father, don’t worry. As I said, I’ll handle him. He shouldn’t be a problem.” 

“No, it isn’t him.” Runaan shook his head. When Cerys asked what it was, he started to stare off at nothing and everything at the same time. “There is simply… A lot on my mind after that mission.” 

Nodding in a solemn way, Cerys gave his arm a pat. “You know if you need to talk, I’m here.” He knew that already. She’d told him about a thousand times. Yet she never stopped reminding him, because sometimes he forgot and that was something she was aware of. She would tell him as many times as he needed.

“I know.” He smiled a rare smile at her, the first one that’d come to grace his face for longer than he could remember. That disturbed him just a bit.

“There’s my moonlight.” Cerys beamed back at him, her face brimming with pride. The rare sight was something she appreciated and always celebrated getting to see now that he was older and broodier. “Now go get some rest. Oh, and please, bathe before then. You smell.” 

He snorted at her. It was an awkward and strange sounding thing, but something that filled her heart with love nonetheless. “As you order me, my great undefeated leader.” 

“That’s right.” Chuckling, she carefully nudged him over to the hallway that led to the rest of the house, including his room. She was horrible with sarcastically acting as though she was mean, but the thought of her failing to be seen as intimidating even as a joke was oddly adorable. He trudged his way down the hall and through to the bathroom.

He wasted no time at all running a bath for himself as he was told to. Runaan’s clothes had started to irritate his skin about halfway into his mission, and it’d be a miracle if he managed to stop himself from dozing off in the middle of bathing himself. As he freed himself from his tightly fitting clothes, undid his hair and let himself sink into a warm tub full of water, one reassuring thought was on his mind. He was home, and the threat was gone. All that mattered to him was that he got to see his mother smile again, he got to see Lain and Tiadrin alive and bickering amongst each other with mirth again. He would do anything to preserve that sight. No matter if he saw it from beyond the grave. 

What was supposed to be a quick visit with the healers for his shadowpaw had turned into multiple hours of examining, stitches, and never ending questions from little elflings there for scrapes and itching fern rashes. Of course he couldn’t be too fussed about the little elflings in need of a story to cheer them up. Some of their questions were rather strange, however, and he didn’t exactly want to tell them of the poachers. Ethari felt their parents wouldn’t be too appreciative of that, so he had to think long and hard about making up a tale to substitute. He spent these few hours well, and his legs needed it. Turned out they were, in fact, strained just as he predicted they would be. That he could most assuredly tell even without a healer’s say. 

He’d gotten past that mess now, and he was finally at home’s doorstep with his shadowpaw by his side. Patterns etched into the wood curled around the door, meticulously carved by his mentor. Her level of skill and pure artistic talent was something he could only wish to achieve in his dreams. 

How he wished at times that they were his parent by blood. They had enough matching mannerisms to pass as biological parent and son. The same curved nose, short ears and messy hair. Io had passed many things down to him among his skills as a metalsmith, but none he was more proud to inherit than her love for art. Though he could craft weapons and tools, Ethari preferred jewellery making, as much more meticulous as it was. Io often commented that his blades looked more like props for dances. Which was fitting for moonshadow weaponry he supposed. Elegant and deadly, just as their wielders. 

A certain wielder in particular came to his mind. He was going to have a lot of fun creating his blades, for what was art without passion and inspiration? He’d already drawn up many concepts in his mind, nearly all of them including beautiful turquoise gems to match Runaan’s eyes. Perhaps his sore legs weren’t the only things that couldn’t be slept away, but he wasn’t nearly as inconvenienced by his warm fuzzy feelings as he was with his aching muscles. He relied on his legs for walking, and he only needed his heart for, well… Just about everything else. But he didn’t let it concern him. 

Ethari pushed the heavy door open, and then the other to make sure his shadowpaw had enough space to squeeze in through the door frame. She’d long outgrown the house, but now she had special privileges. Io seemed to be redecorating. Tables and shelves were strewn out of place, shifted to the side while she was over at the other end of the room reordering a shelf of different decorative gems. The shadowpaw’s heavy footsteps creaked the wood underneath her, which caught her attention. Io almost dropped the rock they were examining. 

“Ethari? Back so soon?” They said absentmindedly. All it took was one look over to his shadowpaw, and their face was immediately overcome by distress. Despite this she managed to put the rock down before rushing over to them. “Moon, don’t tell me. Ethari you idiot. ” 

And she would be right. She’d warned him many times of the rumours. Of poachers creeping along the border. He’d ignored their concerns and gone straight into danger. He could have died. He would have, if it weren’t for the assassin’s timing. Contrary to her harsh words, Io was gentle in the way she grabbed his shoulders and turned him to look at his scratches and bruises. No matter what she said she meant no harm, she never would. Not to him at least. They cared more about Ethari than the most precious gems from deep within Umber Tor, and quite possibly in all of Xadia. Io and his shadowpaw were all he had. If he lost his shadowpaw that night, he too would be lost. 

“Ethari, I warned you.” Io spoke like everything was managing to escape her, and she couldn’t think or grasp a single coherent thought. Their mouth stayed open, even when they didn’t say anything, chin wobbling around imaginary words that could voice her every emotion. 

Ethari leaned into her arms. They were happy to accept the hug over fumbling for words, rubbing him on the back sufficing well enough for now. Tears were in him somewhere, but they were too tired and dehydrated to show themselves. That didn’t stop him from letting out a small dry sob. He felt a wet nose against his hand trying to nudge in on the hug. 

“We were saved,” Ethari informed her between deep breaths and patting the fluffy head of his shadowpaw, her silky fur a comfort to him. “An assassin had been sent to stop them. He helped us back home.” 

“Well pardon me for not knowing you had the blue moon herself in your back pocket!” His mentor laughed into his shoulder, astoundedly sighing when she couldn’t think of anything else to say. They were eternally grateful that their son was in their arms. So many thoughts must have been racing through their mind, trying to fathom exactly what had happened, but not much else mattered to them in the moment. 

They both stayed in the embrace, Ethari shakily trying to calm his own breathing, giving each other support and the occasional pat on the back. Io finally found the strength to speak. “If you didn’t come back I would have killed you. Which is rather redundant when you put some thought into it, but my sentiment remains, young man. I would have found a way.”  

“I messed up, and I’m so sorry.” His shadowpaw was happy to feel his hand dig deeper into her forehead fur, giving her a more thorough scratch. “I would have killed me, too.” 

“Well don’t.” She lifted her head to give him a stern look that was too serious for him not to laugh at it a little. “That's my job. My job is, also, to make you an awful attempt at a moonberry surprise whenever you're down. So we’ll stick to that for now, shall we?”

It was true that Ethari was a far better cook than her, and her many attempts to best him at it usually took a disastrous turn. His surprising talent with it certainly wasn’t something she’d taught him. Apparently his biological parents were excellent at it, but they hadn’t even lived long enough to teach him anything. The notion that it was in his blood was funny to entertain, and further irritated Io that she couldn’t do the same even if she tried to. 

“I’d prefer that, I think.” Even though Io was horrible at it, sometimes it felt nice to have someone else do the cooking for him. It felt nice to just be taken care of. They smiled and nodded at him, before hurrying off to the kitchen, leaving him and his shadowpaw alone in the torn apart living room. 

By the time the dessert was made, and Io came back in to check on him, Ethari and his shadowpaw had already fallen asleep on the wooden floor cuddled up to each other. 

Chapter Text

The Moonshadow Forest was chilling between midnight and sunrise. Great and formidable mated pairs of moonstriders prowled the thick woods to feed their young, as large griffins snatched arboreal prey sneaking through the higher branches without a sound. Among many deadly predators none, in this unforgiving haven of moon magic, were as feared as the elusive elves that resided there. 

All was silent in the world of a small human child, and not a single torchlight flickered there. The little boy had never contained more terror in his heart at once. Contained however would be a poor choice of words. He called out, screamed, but no one answered, which left his fear festering and scraping against his very skin. The once comforting wood and stone of his human house were now as distant from him as they’d ever been in his short and happy life. Nothing felt the same when he was alone, when she wasn’t there. Familiar grounds felt like a maze. This was his home, but it was all too quiet. Where had the bubbling laughter, the sweet smell of something cooking and the warmth gone?

He’d searched for what felt like hours around the halls of his home, legs and lungs aching, desperately calling out for his mother. Until finally he found her. He realised why she couldn’t call out back to him. 

There she lay on the floor, lifeless, her neck bent into an irregular shape. Her eyes were dull. Gone. She was gone. Pain and horror zapped through him. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t now. Something clogged his throat. Still, he tried, tirelessly pressing his throat to cry. But it wouldn’t let him. Not a single noise came from him.

All he could do was stare at her broken twisted form in pure horror, helpless. The face that had once beamed proudly at him now had nothing but death and coldness behind it. Cold, that was what he felt, thrumming through his veins. He knew who was to blame. Somehow he knew he did this. This was all his fault. If it weren’t for him, the human boy and his mother would be peacefully having breakfast together right now. Instead, she was dead on the floor of her own home. 

There were no obvious punctures on her, but a pool of something dark spread underneath her. It spread to his hands, crawling outwards from his palms, coating his hands in something thick and an all too familiar crimson. Crimson that smelt harshly of iron. It swallowed his arms, consuming him, wrapping around his entire being. 

Finally, he managed a choked scream horrified and guilty combined. It was louder than anything else in his world, louder than all of his thoughts, and it shook him. Runaan’s eyes flew open. He was bluntly met with the familiar sight of his room, and the realisation that he was safe, and that none of it had been real. None of it had been real, had it?

No, it hadn’t. A small tremble slowly washed away, thawing out his nerves. He ran his hand across one of the long white locks of hair over his shoulder and took a deep breath. 

It was still early morning, and the sun was yet to rise. Which, believe it or not, was the perfect time for his mind to wake him at. The problem was more the method of which it had woken him, but he’d grown accustomed to nightmares like these. An overwhelming darkness echoing in his head made it tempting to just lay in bed, but the remaining adrenaline from his dream managed to urge him up this time without much thinking. 

Lifting himself up from his bed, he stretched out his back and arms, before continuing with his morning motions. He fitted himself with his uniform, brushed out his long hair and tied it up unlovingly into a simple low ponytail. Only his mother ever braided his hair, and he didn’t know how to do it himself. She would probably be fast asleep right now.

There was no need to take his blades with him this morning, for not only did he lack them, but he wouldn’t be able to wield them even if he did. His hands were still to be redressed with silk every night, even though it’d been over a week ago now the damage had been dealt to them, and the moon had since reformed into a crescent. That didn’t stop him from slipping a small knife into a spot where it was securely held inside one of his long boots up near its end, close to his thigh, and annoyingly where his knee bent. Bending it was still possible, but the sheath painfully prodded his leg every time he did so. 

All annoyances of the morning thus far aside, there was one last bigger one waiting for him in the main room sitting on his usual chair at the table. He attempted to keep his head down disinterestedly and make it clear enough that his eyes were on the door as he passed. Runaan swore he sat there waiting just so he could talk to him sometimes. It wasn’t exactly like his father did anything besides sit there, and on occasions be just outside the doors observing the village of a morning, so that when Runaan opened them he’d get an awful surprise and jump in fright. Leal didn’t even read like he and his mother did. Perhaps holding a book in place so that the pages didn’t flick over whilst trying to take a sip from a glass wouldn’t be so easy with only the one arm to do it all with.

“Off to training? That’s a good lad.” Runaan froze, and squeezed his eyes shut so he could roll them undetected. He nodded at his father without ever looking his way, and continued his advance towards the door. 

As he opened it and took a good look outside at the village still cloaked in dawn’s darkness, Leal spoke once more to him. “We’re nothing if not for dedicating ourselves. You stay safe out there.” Stay in the shadows.  

“I will.” When he turned back, Leal nodded in approval, which was the closest thing to a proud smile he ever got. Runaan then smoothly stepped outside and shut the door behind him. 

His words were true. Runaan considered them as he wound around the pathways of his village in its still silentness. They were, both of them, nothing if not for dedicating themselves. While his father was now retired from his position at the border due to his left arm, or rather the lack of one, that meant it was now his duty to fill the spot in Xadia’s defences where he couldn’t anymore. In a vastly different way albeit, but the idea of becoming a warrior never worked for him. He worked better in the shadows.

The darkness at this hour was no match for his keen eyesight. Runaan’s blue eyes saw well in the dark surrounding him, more sensitive to light than most elves with more melanin in their iris. Seeing his way through the dimly lit forest before him was quite easy despite it being matted with curling undergrowth and roofed by enormous roots. Fog of the early morning yet to come played a part in hindering his vision too, but he knew the trek to the clearing where they trained better than the back of his own hand. He thought the forest was very beautiful just before sunrise. It was no wonder though, that this same unforgiving place tricked many with its illusions. 

The forest was under a veil of silence at this hour. All of the nocturnal beings, of which the moonshadow forest had in plentiful numbers, were settling down from their hunts and ventures, whilst those of the diurnal variety were yet to be awake enough to make any noise. Crickets though, of course, never seemed to sleep. Neither did the trees, their large canopies shivering with a cold wind brought up from the south. 

It wasn’t long before he met his team, keeping his pace quick so that he may not miss a moment more of training. While his hands were still burnt his mind wasn’t, and he needed as much mental training as he could get after the mission a week ago. Fortunately he hadn’t been missing out on much it seemed. Two elves cloaked in the colours of the forest were sparring in the barely lit clearing, whilst the others to the side watched, including their leader. Acacius. 

The older elf briefly bowed his head in acknowledgement to his arrival. A sign of respect, not lightly given by a lead assassin. A lead moonshadow elf assassin, at that, often touted as the swiftest and deadliest of their elven kin. Quickly bowing back, he took his side, a position of which he’d earned, watching his two fellow assassins battle as they exchanged friendly words of advice between worn out breaths. There was no competition in being an assassin. Unlike the mentality of most warriors in training they weren’t fighting for honour. They fought with purpose. 

Sunrise was equally as important as sunset to moonshadow elves. Just as the sun died in the west, did it breathe life in the east. Early morning was more ideal for training than the usual hour when the moon hangs high above their heads to elves in these summer months. For the forest was thick, and was just as much of a perfect trap for outsiders as it were for any lingering heat the sun shone down on it during the day, so it took a few hours for it to properly dissipate. Training in the mornings instead ensured the temperature would keep them active and not feeling entirely too sluggish. 

As Runaan studied the two training elves, he caught a movement from their leader out of the corner of his eye. He had turned to face him. Acacius beckoned him with a sharp lift of his chin. “Runaan. Come with me.” 

He followed him without question. The two elves walked to the side of the clearing, disappearing into the dark treeline of typically smaller trees compared to the giants that grew in the Moonshadow Forest. Runaan followed behind his leader dutifully in the near pitch black, ending them both up at the top of a small muddy slope that bent down towards the bank of a creek, just barely visible. It was lined with bushes and trees that hung down nearly into its surface. The sprinkling of running water he’d heard from a while off, rocks and logs fallen into the water creating miniature waterfalls. The air here smelt of green things. 

Acacius had started pacing atop the slope. Runaan watched him quietly, silently accepting his fate on what this ‘stern talking to’ could be about. It was his hands, wasn’t it? Or how he missed the full moon on his mission? Surely, that was it. It was about time he got his comeuppance. Runaan’s long ears drooped.

“You’re rotting, Runaan.” Acacius had a low but powerful voice, commanding his attention. “I know that stench on any one of my assassins. I will not allow you to suffer like this. Tell me, what is it consuming you?” 

He knew of his mental state after the mission, specifically the drastic dip it had taken. Honestly, Runaan thought he did a good enough job of guarding it. His performance couldn’t have been that lacking. Despite a quick instinctual turn into defence mode, he knew he could not feign strength to Acacius. That would be utterly pointless. The leader was far too wise, and could already tell that he was suffering either way. 

Runaan bit his tongue, watching a large dragonfly land on a dead branch near his feet. Admitting his weakness to Acacius was not something he ever anticipated doing. Not while he was nineteen, and not nine, at the least. 

“I was their death.” He dared to utter out into the world beyond just his head. Though the world would already know, for it felt their bodies drop to the ground and heard the ring of his arrows through the air. 

“They chose their death.” Acacius moved a step closer to him, but for once it wasn’t his leader he was focusing on nor the dragonfly that had since buzzed away elsewhere. It was something distant, off beyond the bubbling water of the stream below them. Something indescribable. “Death comes for us all, however immediate. It is the fate that binds us inexorably. They chose their path, just as you do yours.” 

“May I choose mine, then? My death?” He let the darkness around them swallow his mind, pinching at his dark green leggings. 

“You already have. You’ve yet to choose your life, Runaan.” His words struck him like a searing sunforge blade had been plunged into his chest. A glowing light in the pitch black. Runaan blinked, finally, his eyes stinging from how long he’d stared at the abyss for. Acacius went on. “In my years, both my greatest weakness and my greatest mistake was not choosing my life. Do not make the same mistakes as me, my blade.” 

Acacius was as old as an assassin could get. Which wasn’t very old, considering he was only in his early forties, he was actually quite young for an elf compared to how human skin aged. But not for an assassin. His words of advice were not to be ignored, and Runaan never did, not once. There was, however, one doubt still nagging and tearing at his chest.

“How can we choose to live, when we are already dead?” Runaan asked, the question coming from some part of him desperate. “When I have denied others life?” 

“Death will not balance death. Only life can. All of us are already dead, held to an oath or not.” The other elf leapt down the mossy ridge, towards the water, the dim light offering him a barely perceptible reflection that rippled with the stream’s gentle flow. “Death is but life’s shadow. They imply each other. This stream cannot exist without banks on either side of it. Without the roots and weeds stabilising it on both sides, it would wash out into grasslands and sink into the earth, dehydrating animals and strangling the plant life. Do you blame the trees and dirt for keeping it in place?”

Runaan followed him down, watching his step against the fragile mud under his boots and weaving his legs through tall young reeds, careful not to break a single leaf. “No, I do not.” 

His own reflection joined his mentor’s. “Then you should not blame yourself for doing your sacred duty. It is your calling. You create life and order just as these roots do. Instead, you should be enjoying the life that you create an environment for. You saved an elf from those poachers, did you not?”

“Yes, I did.” A soft light had started to creep into the forest. Trees and stones were illuminated by a tiny glimmer of light that entered the sky and turned it a deep blue. Dawn, or, ‘an assassin’s warning’ as his leader called it. 

“That elf would have a family as any of us do. A life that you saved,” Runaan contemplated as Acacius spoke, a deep frown making his forehead ache as he stared into the water. “But not just of that elf. They wouldn’t have stopped there. They would have picked more of us off and defiled us all for our magic once they got a taste. You prevented death and pain an immeasurable amount more than what you’ve caused. Your actions were necessary for those of us who cannot fight like you can.” 

There was no bigger authority figure in his life than Acacius. Hearing these words from him, letting himself believe in them, something dark within once spreading through him now receded into the depths of which it had come. The sun now finally started to rise. No other cause made his heart burn with more determination than to defend the defenceless. This was his purpose. This was why he was an assassin. To protect. Not to harm, which his mind was so intent on focusing on. There was more than just the harm caused by his hands. There was peace, too. 

“Perhaps you should spend some time with that elf. Witness the life you fought for and saved. I believe that should change your spirits.” Acacius advised more than ordered. The younger assassin nodded, accepting his advice, but not truly realising that this meant he actually had to socialise. With an elf that’d seen him kill, no less. 

After that, the two elves stayed down near the stream for a while more. They practiced balance, and leaping across the banks, trusting their legs to catch themselves rather than their hands. Runaan’s leg muscles still needed a good amount of exercise to maintain their strength, that the unrelenting weight of depression had denied him most of. So, while initially exhausting, he felt a million times better after giving them a proper stretch. Having his leader by his side made things easier, too. 

He knew his purpose as an assassin, to protect those who could not fight themselves, but what of his mentor? It had never crossed his mind before. Motivation was of course a crucial part to being an assassin. Acacius had no family like he did, and no cuffs atop his horns. So eventually as they trained together Runaan thought to ask him. “Why did you choose to become an assassin?”

In the middle of balancing on a lump of rock with one leg, Acacius almost wobbled. He looked at Runaan, the most surprised he’d ever seen him, which was just enough expression for him to catch. The assassin steadied himself and closed his eyes. He thought deeply about his words before saying them. “My daughter.” 

It was for his family, then. Like himself. Runaan had never heard of his daughter before, and he’d been training with Acacius for nearly his entire life. How’d he not know her? Better yet, why didn’t he speak of her? Assassins were often closed off and isolated, even more so than your regular moonshadow elf, but that didn’t excuse the fact that he’d not once told Runaan of her in all of his years of training. And he had a horrible suspicion why he hadn’t been told. 

“She had your fighting spirit. You two would have gotten along well with each other.” Acacius smiled to himself. “Not too well, I’d hope.” Runaan doubted that greatly, for a multitude of reasons, but namely the one that seemed common knowledge to all elves that knew him well enough except for his parents, and now apparently his mentor too. “A deadly sickness took her. If she lived, she would be the age that you are now.” All of his answers were concisely answered, but he now felt a great deal of guilt for bringing it up.

“I… Wasn’t aware you’d been through that. I apologise.” Runaan would never have a child, or at least he never planned to. He would rather gut himself by hand before it ever became an option than to hurt a child of his own like he knew his job inevitably would. Despite that, he could sympathise, even if it was only a little. 

“If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be here to train you.” On the opposite side of the stream to him, Acacius calculatedly descended from his rock. “In death, she gives me the strength to fight for our people. What happened to her couldn’t have been prevented, but many other deaths can be. That is why I fight.” 

“That is far more noble than my cause.” He’d never had much faith in himself, so the way he talked about his own worthiness was absently done. The older assassin however wasn’t about to let it slip past. Acacius jumped back across the stream and put his hand on Runaan’s shoulder.

“Runaan, do not doubt yourself. I am proud of how far you’ve come. Your cause is justified like mine, if not more. You must keep that determination in you. If you ever falter again, that should be my worst fear.” Sometime between his words, his mentor met his eyes, and Runaan nodded at him blankly. Acacius dropped his hand with hesitance to let him go, lingering for a second more than he needed to. Then, he turned, and they silently made their way back to the clearing together, like their entire talk hadn’t happened. Like they hadn’t opened up to each other, like Acacius hadn’t called him his blade and hadn’t held his shoulder when he needed support. 

By the time they returned to the group, the sun had already risen and his fellow assassins were returning home or elsewhere, heeding the sky’s warning. The summer sun would be more blinding if it weren’t for the cover of the huge canopies above, but regardless it managed to warm the forest and dissipate the fog quickly upon its arrival. With its warmth, he left the clearing with a new feeling of wholeness, stepping through into the dappled light. He was renewed with purpose.

The coos of mourning doves hummed at daybreak in the Silvergrove, just as they always have. Whether he was still a small elfling ready to prove his worth, or an adult with responsibilities and guilts to carry, they had always been there for as long as he could remember. For now, those guilts were a little bit lighter. What was ahead of him for the day gave him a sense of hope.

Runaan would not return home for breakfast this morning. Instead, like he had done many times, he would climb beyond the hill of the Silvergrove and meet his two best friends on a patch of grass the trees allowed the sun to shine on. There, they laid a blanket and a few bowls full of different fruits and sweets they’d gathered. Runaan had forgotten to bring his share this morning. That was alright, because neither of them mentioned it as he approached and sat down on his section of the blanket, ignoring his hidden dagger reminding him of its presence as he crossed his legs. He’d been forgetting an awful lot recently, but not once was he chastised for it. He owed them nothing but his presence, and that was quite refreshing to feel after departing from a group he owed his life to. 

Truthfully, he hadn’t even been out foraging for such fruits this week at all. His mind had chained his body down to the confines of his room and his bed for the most part. Everywhere else other than that little safe haven was tainted, even the forest surrounding the village, and it had been for a long time. After that last mission it became unbearable. 

But this morning felt different from all of the others. Conversations once dull and hollow to him now held substance. The thick haziness that’d been proliferating in his mind was lifted, and he felt for once that he could breathe, so he noticed many more things than he would have under his thick mind fog. Such as the sound of mourning doves flapping as they smacked each other with their wings disputing over seed distributions, or how Lain brought a jug of moonberry juice with him every morning despite Runaan being the only one to have any. Or how tiny little scrubwrens skittered through the thicket that surrounded them, and how Tiadrin devoured two whole slices of cake within the first five minutes that they sat together. 

After inhaling her food, Tiadrin babbled on into a conversation with Lain he didn’t pay much attention to. It was all meaningless fluffy ‘couple-talk’ to him, but in his elevated mood he noticed the way they leaned into each other, and how they smiled with everything they had looking into each other’s eyes as they talked. Around her, his best friend was by far the happiest he’d ever seen him, and he was very grateful for that. Runaan hadn’t much hope in love for himself, but by the moon he wished he had half of their happiness. He had far more serious concerns, like the wellbeing of Xadia, than to busy himself with such unnecessary things himself. His path was one far different to theirs, and he’d reconciled with that long ago. 

From an outside perspective any elf walking past would judge by the serious look forever stuck on his face that the two were an inconvenience to him. They weren’t, especially not this morning. He was quite content just observing them and sipping some moonberry juice. They could still very much so keep their affections to themselves, though.

“They say Sol Regem has been spotted hanging over the Moonstone Path. That’s where the poachers got in, isn’t it?” Suddenly, Runaan was much more interested in what Tiadrin was talking about. “Do you think he’s got any clue about them?” 

“I doubt it.” Chiming in, Runaan thoughtfully took another sip from his cup. “If he did, we would have heard it already.” 

“I’m sick of that old pile of stinking scales and flames. Between how much we had to learn about him in school and his temper, I’ve had enough of hearing his name.” Tiadrin grumbled, muffling it with a freshly cut slice of fruit. “The rangers said that they could smell him well off the edge of the forest, apparently. And the Moonstone Path isn’t even his to hoard anyways, he’s a sun dragon! If Luna Tenebris lived to see this she’d probably behead him for all to witness, and I’d be happily there cheering her name.” 

“I don’t think he’d act any differently headless.” Runaan agreed. Tiadrin shrugged and shook her head with fake disappointment. 

“It would have been splendid if Sol Regem could have just dealt with those poachers instead.” Lain piped up, his voice almost meek compared to the serious conversation the other two were now having. The two other elves turned towards him like a pair of ravenous kookaburrows noticing the existence of a piece of meat in his hand. 

“If he had, he would have burnt down the entire Moonshadow Forest with them.” Runaan immediately shot him down with. 

“Aye, the dragon is just a big golden brute.” Tiadrin mumbled through a mouthful of orange. She wasn’t particularly great at talking with her mouth full, which was painfully obvious. “You know how he feels about human mages. It was a dark mage who took his eyes.” 

“Right, right. You’re right.” Lain submissively looked down at the blanket. Poor elf, all he’d wanted to do was add to the conversation. Quietly, he muttered something else, and Runaan’s trained hearing managed to catch it. “Would have been cooler, though.” 

Runaan wasn’t sure if Tiadrin heard him too, but she did have an unusually dumb smile on her face. If that was her taste in elves, he couldn’t blame her. Lain possessed an irresistible amount of intelligence, really. 

“So, when are you planning to get back into training with us?” As if completely oblivious or trying to move on from what was said, Lain turned towards him eagerly. He hadn’t been too happy when Runaan explained that after his last mission not only were his hands too badly burnt to hold a weapon, but his blades were gone too, which meant they couldn’t spar. Which was mildly amusing to Runaan considering Lain lost almost every fight they had.

“Not for a while yet.” Runaan neglected to mention exactly how long a healer had told him it’d take for his hands to fully recover, and he would continue to do so. Instead, he decided to drive their concerns elsewhere. “I’m not expecting my blades to be complete before two weeks more.”

“Three weeks for two blades?” Tiadrin tilted her head with the confusion of a three-eyed nightfox. “That doesn’t make sense to me. Io’s usually way quicker than that. My parents commissioned them to make me my longsword, and that took them only under a week to get done.”

Well, perhaps he should have gone to the master craftsman themselves instead of just an apprentice. That was surely what his friends expected him to do. Back on their journey home a week ago, Runaan had been too exhausted to take into consideration something like that. He couldn’t say he’d ever met her before, but if Tiadrin thought highly of her craft, that was enough to convince him to regret his choices. 

“My blades are not under their commission. An apprentice I recovered from the poacher’s camp offered to craft me them as thanks. Hopefully his work will suffice.” He trusted that it would, more than enough, even though he’d only known the craftsman for such a short while and thought of him even less. Runaan finished a cup of his moonberry juice. That was the only thing he’d drank all morning.

“Wait a minute, what was the name of that apprentice you met?” Tiadrin paused her assault on her orange, and he picked it as quite odd. He now had her full attention, which was admittedly a whole lot more intimidating than he wished it was. Runaan had ended several sparring matches against her on his backside. 

“Ethari.” He answered with a hint of hesitance. 

“Ethari!” She echoed back excitedly. Runaan winced at her volume. “Oh, he’s Io’s son! I met him while she was making my longsword. Your blades are in more than safe hands. He’s an absolute sweetheart, may I add.” Then, the implications finally caught up to her and her attitude changed drastically. “Poachers, right. Crap. I knew I should have checked in on him. He hasn’t been visiting the library at all recently like he usually does.” Really, only Tiadrin could notice something like that, but trusting her intuition she was more than likely correct that it meant something abnormal. Lain tried his best to comfort her by stroking her shoulder. 

“You can take me to his forge, then.” Emboldened by the words spoken to him earlier by his leader, Runaan decided to be particularly brave today. He was going to attempt to socialise with someone he barely knew. “He didn’t mention to me where it is. I’d like to see what progress he’s making.” If it weren’t for feeling talkative this morning, he probably wouldn’t have gone at all. 

He didn’t have anything against Ethari. It was talking to not only a stranger, but a stranger who had seen him work that was daunting to him. Ethari had seen him at his lowest, most mentally exhausted, bloodstained state. He’d watched him kill, and was there to witness him pitifully collapse under the weight of it. Runaan could only imagine what he thought of him. He really couldn’t afford to deal with something like that today. Or ever, honestly. It was a shame his commission had already been in his hands for a week, otherwise he’d do everything in his power to avoid him and get another elf to make his blades instead. Not for a hatred of Ethari, but of himself.

The sinking feeling as he thought about this was cut off by Tiadrin’s excited voice and he was quickly brought back to Xadia. “Sure! I mean, hopefully he’s awake already. Craftsmen have a blurrier schedule than ours.” 

“Can we finish breakfast first?” Lain asked with a twinge of sadness, still peacefully snacking as Tiadrin, without thinking, started to get up. “Please?”

“Oh, yeah! Sorry sweetie.” Sweetie? In front of his breakfast? Runaan could have brought it all up then and there. What purpose these frivolous names served he hadn’t a clue. And besides, what kind of compliment was ‘sweetie’ anyways? That your partner tasted sweet? Runaan quickly decided that this wasn’t what he wanted to be thinking about. If he looked at their cuddling with any more typical grumpiness than usual nothing was said about it.

Tiadrin settled back down, giving her partner a supportive rub on the back. Lain leaned into her side, happily taking his compensation for almost being left behind and sticking a fruit slice he’d only gotten halfway through into his mouth. 

After they finished, cleaned up, and packed everything away, Lain volunteered to carry it all back home himself. Once Tiadrin gave Lain his individual ‘farewell’ and ‘thank you’ pecks to the cheek they split off for the morning. 

Runaan followed Tiadrin as she guided him up and along one of the many rocky white pathways of the Silvergrove. She seemed weirdly excited about this. Her pace was a lot quicker than his, and a lot more pronounced. Although Runaan had never been too excited for socialisation. Perhaps he was the strange one. Or, no, Tiadrin absolutely was. There was no reasonable excuse for an elf to be this excited about talking. Excitement from Tiadrin however could be easily mistaken for any other kind of adrenaline fuelled feeling, such as anxiety. It’d been two years worth of knowing her but he was still yet to learn the difference. Runaan admittedly wasn’t the best when it came to reading people. 

“That’s Io’s home there.” Soon enough, with her determined speed, Tiadrin was pointing up at one of the many homes of the Silvergrove that was carved into a giant tree. Tree homes were large, hard to make and sparse in their numbers, so were typically reserved for those elves who are higher ranking, which was determined by the way they bettered the community. There was no question why a master craftsman deserved such a home. 

Leaning on the base of the tree, next to a set of stairs was a small shed-like structure, which Tiadrin gestured to next. “And that’s Ethari’s little forge. Cute, isn’t it?” 

Runaan only hesitated to properly call it a shed because of how strangely pretty it looked. The stone that made up the main structure wore beautiful carvings, deliberately set vines and planted bushes around the sides creating a small garden with a stone in the middle that he could imagine the apprentice sitting on to gather inspiration. This clearly wasn’t something only used for storage. It was well planned out and made with love. He had to admit that even he found it rather cute. But such a thought would be out of character for him, so he withheld his agreement from Tiadrin, simply quietly nodding without looking at her like she’d expect him to.

“We’ll try here first. Like I said, I wouldn’t be too surprised if he’s still asleep. Lucky metalsmith.” Striding up to the door, she gave it a flurry of knocks with the back of her knuckles. As they waited for a response, she started to look around. “It’s a bit strange that there’s no usual shadowpaw welcome this morning. I’ve usually got a mound of fluff in my arms by now.”

Runaan froze, a cold chill sneaking up on him. It couldn’t be. She’d been doing just fine the last time he’d seen her, if not already recovering from her wounds amazingly well. He thought she’d be fine. A small panic over that however would have to be delayed for now, the door opening with a squeak. To his relief Tiadrin took the conversation. “Ethari! So glad you’re here.” Otherwise if he wasn’t she certainly had the capacity to welcome herself into his home without asking. 

Ethari’s face appeared from inside, peeking out from between the door and its frame. A welcoming smile lit his face. “Good morning, Tiadrin. The mound of fluff is just fine.” He moved to the side and opened the door to a view of a shadowpaw happily laying on her side soaking up the warmth from the forge. She was alright, quite comfortably at that. Thank the moon. He quickly closed off their view again, perhaps out of fear that Tiadrin would see her wounds. “What can I do for you?” 

“Don’t worry, I don’t need anything from you.” Tiadrin reassured him, flapping her hand at him and returning his smile. It was contagious, for all but the stoic Runaan of course. “I just thought I'd check in. I haven’t seen you around or at the library recently.” 

“Oh, well, the books I have here have been keeping me plenty entertained.” Tapping the door, he shifted his weight onto the stone doorframe, staring off into the ground and fidgeting with a strand of hair. Nothing got past Tiadrin, but even Runaan could tell he was lying. She’d narrowed her eyes at the elf in suspicion and he must have felt it because he immediately caved. “Alright, I’ll admit I haven’t been feeling my best recently, but please don’t worry about it.” 

“You can’t just tell me not to worry.” The topic of conversation aside, Tiadrin’s voice was full of mirth. “That’s not how that works. I already know why you’re not feeling well. Even if it weren’t for my friend telling me about the poachers I’d still be able to read you like a book.” 

“Your… Your friend?” Ethari asked, his interest veering onto the more disturbed side of things. 

“Hello, Ethari.” Runaan greeted him at last. He wasn’t even hidden, he was standing in plain sight, but apparently silence alone kept him out of the metalsmith’s view. 

Then, Ethari looked at him, and he could see the brief flicker of fear in his eyes. Although it was out of surprise he was so thoroughly and vividly reminded of that morning, reminded of that morning he took from the world, of a helpless craftsman terrified trapped by rope and the wood anchoring it watching in horror as he did. The memory was enough to cause his mind to dip below the surface again for a fleeting moment. It was so powerful it nearly erased the progress he made this morning. 

This was a complete stranger, yet he’d already seen things that not even his closest of friends had, or as he hoped never would. In a way this meant he knew Runaan better than anyone else. He’d seen the worst and most ugly side of him first rather than his unbreakable calm facade. It made him feel exposed. And exposure, for an assassin, was a death sentence. For the first time in years, Runaan felt fear. 

But in the blink of an eye any trace of that familiar horror on Ethari’s face was gone, and something else unexpected and unfamiliar to him replaced it. Something softer, but stronger at the same time. A recognition, and an immediate yet brilliant warmth that he was sure he may never have seen before on another elf. 

“Ru-Runaan! Hey!” Evidently surprised, Ethari turned to look at him, his smile brightening somehow. Despite everything he’d witnessed, he chose to smile at him. “I didn’t realise you were here, too! You two know each other?”

“Yep, he’s Lain’s best friend. Could have sworn I’d told you about him before, but oh well. You’ve met now so it hardly matters, even if the way you did meet wasn’t too perfect.” Runaan didn’t miss the way her attention remained on him. There was no doubt she’d picked up on his tensed body language. She knew him too well, but she didn’t need to bring it up. Runaan would have preferred if the manner in which they’d met went ignored or forgotten about completely. 

“So, I gather you’re here for your swords?” Thankfully Ethari didn’t seem interested in digging it up. “I’ve done a little bit of work if you’d like to see. Come in.” He enthusiastically nudged his head in the direction of his forge.

Runaan walked forwards first, since it was he who was invited in, but of course Tiadrin followed behind. The young craftsman politely held the door open for him, the warmth on his expression never seeming to wane. 

He was being far too kind for what he expected this was going to be like. Ethari was acting, that must’ve been what it was. There was no other reason to be so nice. They weren’t stuck together on a journey back to the Silvergrove anymore. He didn’t need to pretend to like him, or pretend that he hadn’t seen him twist a sword out from a human and leave them to bleed out on the soil. Runaan hated fake kindness. To him, to be on the receiving end of that, there was no worse situation. He thought for a moment that maybe this was his leader’s intention, as it would be a fitting punishment, but that would be far too cruel even for Acacius. 

As soon as he stepped foot into Ethari’s humble little workshop, warmth washed over him. It wasn’t too unbearable, for him at least, just comfortable enough for the near skin-tight clothing he wore. He was lithe enough for the heat to pass right through him like a lizard. How Ethari coped with this he could only guess. 

Ethari stepped over towards a bench on the other side of the room from the forge. “They’re still, y’know, being worked on amongst many other projects at the moment. I thought I’d just finalise their design with a few sketches first.”

A few was most certainly the worst understatement he’d ever heard in his life. Piled on top of his workbench were more pages littered with intricately drawn sketches and blueprints than he could count. Some contained little scribbled arrows and instructions or details written in handwriting only the metalsmith himself could possibly decipher. 

He certainly had underestimated the young craftsman’s abilities. If he could truly produce a pair of blades as magnificent as half of the concepts he’d drawn up, the cold assassin would be completely won over in terms of who he’d commission from now on. Hopefully they were as efficient as they looked decorative. 

Runaan was speechless. There were so many pages and so much information to process that he didn’t know what to say. A glance over in Tiadrin’s direction proved that he was truly alone, the warrior too busy crouched down to give Ethari’s shadowpaw the pity cuddle that she deserved. He needed to wring a word or two out of his brain. 

“Your work impresses me, craftsman.” Runaan walked up to the bench to show him that he was observing his work, arms crossed behind his back. 

Ethari lit up impossibly further. The ways in which he could be compared to his shadowpaw mount were expanding. “Really? I mean—” He coughed, clearing his throat. “Thank you. Working on your blades has been fun so far, and I have no doubt it will continue to be.” Fun was the work of a craftsman. Ethari had the luxury of enjoying his work. He and Runaan couldn’t possibly be further apart from each other, but there wasn’t enough time to be envious over Ethari’s far more cozy calling.

The assassin couldn’t tell if this was more feigned kindness, or the truth. The near concerning amount of pages filled with sketches seemed to disprove his theory, but his anxieties were frustratingly persistent. Either way Runaan silently nodded as he always did.

“Do any of the designs catch your eye?” Ethari asked, as though he was fitting him with an outfit for dance, rubbing his arm like the room wasn’t warm enough. Well, Runaan didn’t exactly have an answer for that. He simply thought all of the sketches looked good enough. 

“Not any in particular,” Runaan shook his head. He tilted his head up to look down at him despite being a slight bit shorter. “Although I’m quite intrigued as to how the use of turquoise gems would make my blades any sharper or swifter.” 

“Balance.” The craftsman was very quick to say. Runaan raised an eyebrow at him inquiringly. “Yes. Balance. It’ll help balance out the hilt, and keep the, uh, rest of the blade balanced when you swing it. Makes it easier to wield.” That hadn’t even crossed his mind. This craftsman was good at his job.

“Very well.” Runaan nodded. He lowered a fingertip to pass it over a page, lifting it up to see more of the sketches underneath. 

“M-My forge really isn’t as clean as it should be,” Ethari swept a few of the pages from near Runaan’s hand into a pile on the other side of the table away from his grasp. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.” 

The assassin quickly retracted his hand. He’d forgotten that this wasn’t his home. He didn’t have the right to go investigating here. Although, the other elf did invite him to pick a favourite design. Runaan just wanted to get a closer look.

“Sorry.” He apologised, genuinely, not having meant to make the craftsman so flustered.

“No, it’s fine. I did tell you that you could come by whenever you want.” Ethari sighed, running a quick hand through his hair as his posture relaxed. Something about his kind forgiving expression felt so irrefutably real. 

The more he was in his presence, the more he realised that he wasn’t faking kindness at all like he’d assumed. For one, his smiles weren’t as obviously stingingly painful as fake ones were. That didn’t mean he understood it at all. Runaan was more confused than he’d ever been. At least if he was pretending it’d fall into a pattern he easily recognised, despite it being a frustrating one, but this elf was different. That intrigued him a little in a way he didn’t yet know how to describe. He didn’t need to accommodate Runaan, but still he did so without question. Not one elf he’d met was ever like that.

“I am more than satisfied with your progress.” Runaan continued on with the conversation that was actually happening rather than the confused mixture of thoughts and feelings running through his head.

“Thank you.” Ethari happily messed with the protective sleeves disconnected from the rest of his shirt. 

“I’ll leave you to continue on with your work.” As he turned away from the bench, Ethari sprung to life.

“Ah, yes! Please do remember you’re welcome back here. I can do more for you than just your blades. I make different sorts of tools, and jewellery too, and I can of course, uhh.. Fix your sword up for you. Anytime.” Ethari awkwardly leaned one arm on the bench, directing a shy smile Runaan’s way. “It’s a specialty of mine.” 

That was a rather peculiar thing to remind him of when he was here for his blades, and had already told him he was satisfied. Perhaps it was just the heat getting to the craftsman’s head. 

“Thank you for the kind offer, but I’ll pass.” Brushing him off, Ethari looked oddly deflated. He must have been quite excited to work on another project. 

“Ah, alright.” Ethari awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. 

Tiadrin got up and met Runaan as he walked to the door after giving the shadowpaw one final squeeze to her big fluffy cheeks. Even the cold-hearted assassin wanted to indulge and give the big cat an even bigger hug, but he couldn’t right now. There were too many eyes on him.

“I will see you around, Ethari.” Opening the door for himself, he looked back into the workshop at the craftsman. 

“I look forward to it.” He replied, still smiling just as unwaveringly warm. Ethari remained leaning on his bench with a hand on his hip as Runaan closed the door behind both him and his warrior friend. 

As they walked away from the forge Runaan could feel her eyes on him. “What is it?”

“So Ethari wants to, how’d he put it,” Tiadrin rubbed her chin. “Fix up your sword? Runaan, do you catch anything?”

“I really don’t understand what you’re implying here, Tiadrin. I see it as nothing but a polite gesture.” They made their way to a flight of stone stairs leading towards Tiadrin and Lain’s house, Runaan taking the lead to descend down them without looking back at the warrior behind him. 

“Runaan, you don’t have a sword for him to fix up, you dumbass! Also you dual wield, unless you’ve forgotten.” She quickly caught up to him. Runaan internally groaned. 

“Perhaps he didn’t know.” Runaan calmly ignored what she called him. He’d been called more foul things by her in the past

“He is literally making your dual blades for you. How could he not know?” Tiadrin was getting much louder and expressive than what he preferred. She started talking with her hands when she was this invested in a conversation. 

“So what? I could have an extra sword laying around, for all he knows.” 

“Yeah, underneath your leggings.” 

“Underneath my leggings? I— Tiadrin!” That was enough for Runaan to pause and angrily spin around on his heel to face her. He was taller, but that did nothing to influence away the smug look she wore. “That is incredibly unprofessional.” Ridiculous even, but he fought back against adding it to maintain his controlled attitude. “Our systems of courtship are far more sophisticated than that. If that was an attempt, I would have known.” 

“You are so frustrating.” Tiadrin rolled her eyes.

“Well, so are you.”

Chapter Text

Ethari was deep into his work, and even deeper into his thoughts of the assassin.

He swore Runaan only got more handsome with his hair down. Those long elegant locks of hair cut shorter than the rest, that he desperately wished he could touch without getting his hand chopped off, still bordering his stoic face, tantalisingly soft in contrast. 

Runaan looked slimmer without his coat on too, the darkly coloured vest he wore thin and tight, leading to a lot more of his physique being on display, but the young assassin left as abruptly as he had arrived. If only he was able to get a closer look, for just a couple more seconds… 

This new perspective of him whilst not on the job Ethari’s mind took a liking to. He had the same subtle softness in his eyes that he did the night he tried to heal his wounds. Runaan acted so different, obviously a lot less stabby, but working or not his stubbornly lonely demeanour didn’t seem to wear off. 

That was going to be a hard thing to crack, but if there was any elf up for the challenge it would be the one currently and quite stupidly horns over heels for him despite it. In the end anything happening was incredibly unlikely, but he didn’t let that stop him from dreaming.

Ethari was a creative elf. Filling in gaps in his own artworks came naturally to him, so it was no surprise at all that one glimpse into this assassin’s softer side had inspired a lot of thinking. And not to mention the feelings he felt from it almost immediately. 

It had been well over a week since the events with the poachers transpired and Ethari was still slowly working through his guilt. Thinking of Runaan kept his heart afloat against tides of pain that he’d been dealing with. That, and keeping his mind busy with working on his blades and creating a prosthetic paw for his shadowpaw with Io was helping to keep him from slipping into too bad of a depression. He had his moments where he felt awful but a hug from his shadowpaw was a flawless cure. 

Io was joining him down in his cramped forge to continue work on the prosthetic for his shadowpaw, like they had been doing for the past few days. She was concerned about the impact the poachers had on his mental health and rarely ever let him be alone for too long. Having someone to make him a warm drink and talk to him when he needed to get the bad feelings out of his head improved his mood more than anything did. Io was always there for him. 

They soon finished working on the metal paw together through much measuring and shaping. After properly intertwining the ribbon part where it would attach to her leg, Io handed it over to Ethari. “There you go. She likes you more than me.”

Carefully as he could, he knelt down and fitted the prosthetic paw to her leg, snapping two finely crafted buckles into place. The shadowpaw still held her weight awkwardly, not willing to trust the metal just yet, but Ethari was more than confident that in time she would grow accustomed to it. Shadowpaws were quite intelligent creatures and adapted to changes in their environment with immense efficiency. That was what made them such amazing pets. 

He pulled out a small jar from underneath his desk, shaking out a few of the plant pieces onto his palm from inside and handing them to his shadowpaw. After she’d nosed what Ethari deemed a healthy dose of catnip, she was out on the floor shaking the workshop with her purrs. That was one main reason, among her size, why she wasn’t usually let into the house. She’d once rumbled one of Io’s prized gems off of its high shelf, and didn’t look the slightest bit guilty laying happily on her back next to its shattered remains. 

“It looks beautiful on her.” Ethari settled back on his seat, contentedly admiring his combined effort with his mentor. It served its purpose well and was a work of art at the same time, but he missed her paw. Her old paw; the one that was flesh and blood and belonged to her. 

Now it was out somewhere in the world, no longer belonging to her. A part of her was lost and so was a part of him. His chipped horn was a much easier fix, as Io proved to him by making a tiny metal filling for him the next day after he came back home. His shadowpaw had suffered far worse than him because of his own stupid mistakes. The damage done to her was irreparable and life changing. 

Io put a hand on his back, dragging their stool closer to sit next to him. “You know, if she could tell you she’d forgive you.”

Ethari sighed through his nose, hanging his head. “She’d forgive me for anything, that’s the problem. She loves me too much.”

“She’s a lot more emotionally intelligent than what you may assume. She isn’t just a blind follower for catnip and moonberries. Well… That could be debated, actually.” Io admitted, earning a little laugh out of her son. “Either way, she’d forgive you for anything because she loves you more than anything. Not because she’s blind.” 

He knew that was true. The amount of times she forced her huge head into his arms when she saw him upset or crying left no room for debate. She wasn’t just his steed, she was his best friend. That was why it hurt so much to be responsible for damaging her so badly.

“It is too easy to be harsh on yourself. I think you could learn from her. Look at her. Does it look like she cares?” The large cat was nibbling at her prosthetic leg, her purrs becoming louder the wider she opened her huge jaws before quieting as she closed them around the metal. He wished he could live as simply as she did.

“She didn’t let what happened change who she is, that’s for certain.” A smile finally returned to Ethari’s face. He got up and went over to his shadowpaw, sitting down on the floor next to the fluffy heap. Io proudly watched them and he beamed a smile back at her. “Thank you.” 

As he let his hand drift through her belly fur, Io started to clean up the supplies they’d used. Ethari was extremely messy when he got bursts of creativity, not caring to consider anything else other than the materials he needed and the work he was focused on. He usually left different gems and scrolls inked with enchantments he carved into tools and weaponry littered around his desk. Io was aware of his exact arrangements and places he had for everything and always made sure to honour that to the best of their abilities. 

“So…” Oh moon. He recognised that tone all too well. That was the awkward parent tone, which meant she was about to bring up something horrible. “I was just fetching a few things from down here last night that you borrowed. I, uhm, had a look at your drawings.”

Ethari felt his face go hotter than the forge itself and the warmth from everywhere else in his body vanished. He may have gotten a little carried away in his feelings and drawn up a whole page worth of Runaans, which she’d most probably seen now judging by the awkward parent tone. It was kept buried underneath everything else for a reason. While the page didn’t contain anything inappropriate, Ethari wasn’t that strange, he recalled drawing at least one heart next to each little sketch of the elf. That was too unprofessional for it to be a simple study of a client. 

“That elf, they look… alright.” Her uncomfortable tone made Ethari want to crawl under his desk and start crying out of embarrassment. This was borderline harassment. “So, why do they have a bunch of love hearts around them?” 

“I don’t have a good enough excuse for this.” He gave in, leaning down to hide his face in his shadowpaw’s mane. The cat lovingly rubbed her cheek against him in response. 

“I thought as much.” Io chuckled, moving to sit down next to him. A hand returned to his back and started patting him there. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. But if I may be curious, what is their name?”

“His name is Runaan.” Ethari started to play with the shadowpaw’s fur, braiding a small handful of it to keep his nervous hands busy. Io made an example out of loudly taking deep breaths to remind Ethari to do the same himself. 

“He’s the assassin that saved us.”

“Ethari…” Io murmured sympathetically. He knew exactly what they were thinking.

“I know. Trust me, I know.” Ethari was frowning now, looking down at the braid in his hands. A relationship with an assassin was wrong for so many reasons. The most apparent one concerned their lifespan, but there were others too.

Moonshadow elves fully expected their most skilled and most important elves to pass on their genes so that the future may inherit the safety and the security they brought even after they pass. Any grown elf with a brain understood what that implied. It was an unspoken rule. 

Assassins were a candidate to be among those most crucial of elves to their survival, as they were vital protectors and moonshadow in their purest form. Agile, deadly, and unseen. Runaan was so skilled for his age. It would be frowned upon for him to be with the same sex. 

“I don’t stand a chance.” Ethari admitted with a sigh. He knew from the moment he fell this likely wasn’t something he could have.

“You’re young, Ethari. I think you should break those meaningless rules while you still can and follow your heart. I’m more worried about this Runaan elf than anything. If there’s anything I know about assassins, it's that they live in self sacrifice.” Ethari looked up from his shadowpaw and into their soft lilac eyes. “I don’t want to see you hurting even more than you already are. You need to be careful.” 

He’d always given love at a moment’s notice. Io told him it was one of his strengths, but events in the past had proven her very wrong. His heart was no stranger to heartbreak. This assassin was cold and capable of killing under the motivation of protecting his people, despite it clearly taking a toll on him. What else of himself that he would sacrifice for the better of his kind knew no boundaries as far as Ethari knew. He was so selfless, and that somehow made him fall deeper.

“I will try to be. Runaan is very committed to his calling, but I think he’s different.” Ethari smoothed the shadowpaw’s braid down with his thumb. “On the outside he’s cold and unmoving, but I don’t think that’s what he’s like on the inside. I can tell there’s a side of himself that he’s hiding. He tried cleaning up one of my scratches, even though it wasn’t really a problem at all and he knew he was terrible at healing, but he tried. For me.”

Io hummed in thought, rubbing her son’s shoulder. “He certainly seems like an interesting elf. You have always had such unconditional love in your heart. All I ask of you is that you save some of it for yourself.”

Ethari’s forehead creased. It was always a little harder to spare some of that kindness inwardly rather than outwardly for some reason. For Io’s love of him, he would take care of himself. 

He nodded at them. “I promise.” 

Summer was a time of plenty for elves in the Silvergrove. Moonshadow elves in particular were quite festive. With a surplus of food, they celebrated it nearly every week with dances and song accompanied with as many fruits an elf could sink their teeth into. 

These celebrations peaked and waned in their intensity with the moon coming in and out of its phases. A full moon during the warmer months brought a celebration like no other. For now though these festivities would die down a little, as a new moon approached and the elves would momentarily be blocked from their magic. This month concerningly brought two nights worth of darkness. With keen eyed assassins like himself on the lookout, the village had nothing to worry about. Runaan hadn’t been to a single celebration this season. He didn’t dislike dancing, but the noise and loud music made his head ache. Besides, physical contact with strangers wasn’t exactly something he enjoyed. 

Right now, he was out foraging for the first time in weeks with his father. Their basket had filled up quickly with a variety of different fruits as expected. There was one key fruit missing, though. Runaan was keeping his eyes sharp for a star plum today. He had a mission in mind. 

A familiar violin tune he’d picked up at the last gathering he went to pleasantly played in the back of his head as he searched. It was a beautiful instrument. If he had the time he’d like to learn it one day, but ever having that time was unlikely amidst his duties. He would probably sound absolutely grating if he tried. 

The girl who played it was so fluent in directing the bow and coordinating her fingers, it made him jealous. Unfortunately his father mistook Runaan’s interest in the instrument for an interest in the girl, and he learnt to stop talking about his passion altogether. The odds of him ever learning it now looked quite slim. 

Finally, there, in the glimmering green canopy he spotted hints of purple. The trees of star plums were notoriously slippery, its skin was pale and completely smooth, because it rarely ever shed its bark. When it did, it was when the tree wasn’t bearing fruit. The tree lacked any branches to cling to until a decent way up the trunk. It was a perilous climb for most elves, but the exact challenge he was looking for. 

Without saying a word to his father, he leapt up into the hot summer air. Runaan landed on the low hanging branch of a different tree to firstly build up momentum. He jumped between the branches, slowly climbing higher and higher towards the star plums, before finally leaping out onto the bare branch of the fruit-bearing tree itself. 

Even though he’d planted it firmly in the middle of the surface, Runaan’s boot slipped, making him fall sideways onto the branch. Blunt pain punched through into his shoulder and ribs, but he scrunched up his face through it. He hadn’t landed safely, there was no time to be stunned. As soon as he slipped and fell onto the branch his body had begun sliding off of it. 

Runaan quickly grabbed hold of the branch before it was too late, dangling off the edge and maintaining his grip with just his two injured hands. The pressure he put on them was making his healing burns ache and a blinding pain was extending down into his body. His grip was slowly loosening. He couldn’t fall, not now. Not with his father watching. 

In one last effort to best this tree, he resorted to his flexibility. Runaan gritted his teeth and hoisted one of his long legs up to hook around the branch, at last successfully pulling himself up on top of it. Taking a second to breathe, he looked around himself for the easily spottable purple skin of a star plum. The one closest to him was still a few branches away.

“Hurry up.” Leal’s voice came from below. He needed to make this quick.

Runaan carefully raised himself, feeling the slippery branch dubiously hold his weight. Then, he leapt over to a branch closer. Before he could slide off and hurt himself again, he held onto a smaller branch just above his head so that he could focus on steadying his feet. 

The plum was inches away now, but he was in too precarious of a situation to reach for it with his hands. If he let go of the branch he was holding on to he would slip and fall. 

With a death grip stinging his hands, he slowly reached out a foot to prod at the plum. The one leg he had holding his weight was slowly slipping, he could feel it. Losing his patience, he jabbed at it, finally making the plum disconnect from the tree and fall. He followed it, slipping off the tree after losing his balance, but landing otherwise smoothly on the ground as he had trained to many times. 

His father wasn’t there. He wasn’t even watching. He’d started to walk off, back in the direction of the village. Runaan’s ears angled downwards with disappointment and anger, hastily picking up the star plum before storming after him. 

“Why weren’t you watching? I got the plum.” Calling it just a plum made it sound basic, ordinary. This was no ordinary plum. It was a star plum, one of the most difficult fruits to harvest in the entire forest. 

Leal turned around, looking firstly at the plum in his hand and then up at him like he was being evaluated. His father’s navy eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand why you need to seek more of my validation. Are you not confident enough in your own skills?” 

“I am. I am the strongest assassin of my generation.” He stated almost proudly. Almost. That wasn’t something he himself believed, but his father told him it enough and he knew what he wanted to hear. It was best to avoid arguing with him. “But I—”

“Then there is nothing more to be said.” Leal snapped, cutting his words clean off like he’d sliced a sword through a fragile sapling. “As a protector of this village and its culture you rely on yourself alone, and not the words of another elf.” 

But I did it for you. If Leal hadn’t cut him off, that was what Runaan was going to tell him. 

Without another word Leal turned around and continued on his way. Runaan was so close to throwing the plum at the back of his head on impulse, but the amount of trouble he would get into for that wasn’t worth it. Instead, weakness wormed its way through his heart where anger mellowed. He absolutely despised feeling weak like this. He knew he shouldn’t rely on his father’s words, but he did anyway, and Leal’s rejection of his efforts stung more than his hands did. 

Plum tucked in the bend of his elbow, Runaan turned his back on his father and sprinted off for the forest. Leal couldn’t see him like this. Almost in spite of his years of training Runaan was terrible at keeping control of his emotions once they got strong enough and overpowered him. 

He returned to the cover amongst the canopies, scaring birds away as he hopped between branches. Smaller twigs and leaves whipped at his skin as he rushed by. Runaan didn’t know where he was going or how far, just that he needed to get away. He needed to get away from everything. 

Settling on one branch that seemed sturdy enough, Runaan collapsed against the trunk. He slipped on his hood over his bun and horns, using it to shield his face as he let the weakness take over. Tears began to prick at his eyes and he slouched over himself to hide it. 

He wished he had control over what was happening between him and his father. He missed what they had when he was younger, when Leal was proud of him. Now it seemed all he could do was be a disappointment. Runaan wiped his eyes with the back of his bandaged hands.

The sound of grass being crushed nearby made him freeze, mingling with the soft breeze shuffling the leaves next to his ears. He recognised the walking pattern of another elf easily. Someone else was down below, which wasn’t too hard to believe considering it was gathering season.

They came into view, crouching down next to a moonberry bush. Delicately they plucked at it and piled them into their little basket. Runaan looked at his star plum. He didn’t need it anymore. 

He aimed, threw, and the plum landed directly into the other elf’s basket. The berry picking elf yelped, stared at it for a moment thoroughly confused, before turning around to look for where it had come from. It was Ethari.

Runaan felt what he would only admit was a semblance to panic once recognising him. Most of it was from having his moment of weakness interrupted. The other half was from the craftsman’s warm brown eyes immediately managing to spot him.

Ethari looked a bit more lost than usual, though. “Hello?” The elf on the ground asked. Understanding his plight, Runaan lowered his hood. He hoped his face wasn’t too red from crying. 

The expression on Ethari’s face went from confused to delighted within a second. “Oh! It’s just you.” He laughed. 

Just him? He was surely completely harmless, if he was to believe the way Ethari referred to him. His simple attitude was charming if he looked at it the right way.

“Is this for me?” He picked up the star plum to show him it with a smile. Well it wasn’t his father’s anymore, so he didn’t care. 

“Sure.” Trying to ignore the slight croak to his voice, Runaan absently stared off into the branches and crossed his arms. 

The craftsman lowered the plum to his chest. “…Is everything alright?” The tone he dipped to was soft, careful. “What happened?”

Runaan hadn’t asked himself that question in a long time. He was almost too afraid to consider it seriously, but it didn’t take much deep thinking to come to the conclusion that perhaps not everything was alright. The relationship he had with his father was dissolving and he was doing everything in his power to keep it alive. It was like helplessly trying to scoop up a page of delicate paper from a puddle before it fell apart.

“That isn’t your concern.” Runaan growled, turning away from the elf down on the forest floor. He wasn’t about to have his emotions delved into while he was already struggling to handle them. 

“I do care about you, so I think it is. Is that such a problem?” Ethari asked him with a playful lilt in his voice.

His mind blanked. Yes, it was. That was a huge problem. What was more of a problem was that Runaan didn’t have the heart to turn him away. Perhaps it was that Ethari showed him something he hadn’t seen before, a kindness purely unconditional and not steeped in his skills like that of every other elf. 

But what exactly was his goal? Ethari already had seen him at his lowest. Why did he want to see more? How did he want to see more after not being turned away the first time? Trying to figure this elf out was frustrating him to no end. He certainly was unique.

A strange scratching and shuffling noise caught his ear and interrupted his brooding. Runaan turned back around and looked downwards off his perch to see Ethari awkwardly either grabbing at or hugging the tree’s trunk, slowly slipping from where he was desperately holding onto. Dear moon. Runaan had never been proven more correct. He was weird. 

“This is, ugh, a lot harder than you make it look.” Ethari sheepishly grinned up at him, before trying to hop higher up the trunk and making no progress besides finding his palm a tiny splinter friend that made him yelp out a series of little ‘ow’s. 

“Are you an overweight monitor lizard, or an elf?” Amused, Runaan turned to watch him. Ethari was busy shaking out his own hand like the splinter would just fling loose, but gave him a hurt look at the earliest convenience. 

“Well, I don’t mind the odd crackle bird egg here and there. Would certainly never eat one whole, though. The shell would get stuck in my teeth.” With a finger to his chin, Ethari entertained the thought. “So it seems I’m an elf.” Runaan rolled his eyes. 

“Elves don’t hug trees. They climb them.” Runaan informed him, unimpressed. The craftsman he was looking down on boldly stuck a tongue out at him. Ethari’s persistence was annoying, but there was something strangely endearing about it too. 

He got up to his feet and scanned the surrounding area. There was an orange tree on the other side of the small moonberry bush filled clearing. While not nearly as dangerous of a climb as star plums, citrus trees were filled with tiny thorns that could easily tear skin. Equipped with the proper boots and gloves an elf was almost completely safe to climb one. Runaan was not, but that wasn’t about to stop him.

“The key to mastering the trees is to be light on your feet.” Runaan quickly leapt over through the branches. “To be as light as the air itself, balanced, and calculated. The most unassuming branch could fall right underneath your weight.”

Reaching the branch of a tall and proud ironbark, Runaan easily plucked an orange from one of the parts of the citrus tree that was leaning over it. Ethari’s kindness, while infuriating, was something Runaan intended to repay. Perhaps a peace offering would keep him quiet for now, at least. 

He threw the orange down towards the elf, and Ethari caught it perfectly. He had surprisingly good coordination with his hands for someone who didn’t use them in battle. Ethari had strong arms, too. Although they would be untrained, and simply honed after his work in the forge. No one would know weapons better than him. 

Runaan swung his legs over the edge of the rough branch as he sat down, interestingly eyeing the elf below as he studied the orange in his hands. “You would make for a fine warrior, if you trained for it.”

Ethari forced a laugh like what he’d said was ludicrous, ruefully smiling down at the orange. “No, no I would not. I’m not as strong as you are. But thank you for the compliment, if I may take that as one, and for the orange and star plum.” When he put it like that, Runaan realised how truly soft he was becoming. 

“Do not take this the wrong way. I was simply observing your physical capabilities.” Runaan made sure to quickly assert, correcting his own attitude, but the smile on Ethari’s face didn’t disappear. It was growing, even. 

“No, I’m not at all.” Ethari happily assured, rocking on his heels. Runaan didn’t know how much he could trust that, but he did seem to be weirdly cheerful in any other situation. He was very odd for a moonshadow elf. 

“Actually, I should be the one to say that.” Ethari told him, turning around to put his orange in his little berry basket. “I’ve been meaning to search for you. Knowing my client’s strengths is an important ingredient in making the best weapon possible for them.” 

Evaluations. He was used to those. The assassin dropped down onto the grass, meeting even ground with him. “Then I am here.” 

Ethari looked him up and down with raised eyebrows. “I’d be disturbed if you weren’t.” Runaan crossed his arms and frowned at him. This was apparently very funny to Ethari, who laughed seeing his expression. “Alright, I get it. You don’t appreciate my jokes too much, do you?” 

He answered Ethari’s question by simply remaining silent and unmoving, continuing his disappointed frown. The other elf’s smile was illuminated by a ray of sunlight, somehow making it shine brighter. Ethari started walking towards him, and every muscle in Runaan’s body locked into complete stillness.

Runaan was far too conscious of how stiff his legs were, willing himself not to take a step back as Ethari approached him. Having another elf deeply perceive him always felt incredibly uncomfortable. This was strictly professional and now backing out wasn’t an option, no matter how much he would rather do without this happening to him today.

Ethari reached forward and gently plucked a dried leaf out from his hair, making Runaan wrinkle his nose at the sudden rustling noise right in front of his face. When he nervously stepped back Ethari instantly recoiled his hand.

“Sorry.” He quickly apologised, dropping the leaf. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“It’s fine.” Runaan swept his hair over for any stray leaves but found none. “Touch is not something I’m accustomed to.”

“A prickly assassin thing, I’m guessing.” Ethari commented.

Precisely, Runaan almost said. Ethari pretty much had him down perfectly. If the use of the word prickly implied it was defensive, like an angry little porcupine, he’d be extremely correct. He deeply envied their prickly pelts.

Ethari started to pace around him in a circle, grass and dead leaves crunching under his boots, as Runaan did his best to stay perfectly still, cautiously side-eyeing the inspecting elf.

The craftsman was noticeably bigger than himself. It added a small hint of intimidation to Runaan’s current situation. He clenched his fists, quickly remembering to relax them in order to not make his hands sting. Ethari was getting too close. Runaan disliked another elf in his personal space.

“I must say, you are very impressive. Your build is both strong and gracile, perfect for what an assassin specialises in. It’s no wonder you climb so easily.” Every elf knew what burdens came with the physical skill he bore, but Runaan knew them especially well. Despite these implications, the way Ethari spoke refreshingly made it feel more like a compliment than a painful reminder.

When Runaan remained silent through his praise, Ethari let out an unsatisfied huff and then tried his luck again, stopping in front of him.

“Your hair looked nice when it was down. Ah, but that’s just my personal preference.” He said in an oddly thoughtful way. “Maybe it’s just because you looked more relaxed.”

Runaan squinted at him like it would help him see him through his bright demeanour. Was he trying to court him? No, that would be stupid. 

“You are making me blades, correct? Not a portrait?” Runaan couldn’t help but sound a little more agitated than normal. 

“I do dabble in all sorts of different art! It’s a part of being a craftsman.” Ethari happily responded. This elf was getting stranger the longer he knew him, but some part of himself felt… Intrigued.  

“Really? What other art forms do you practice?” He asked, watching one of the bushes behind Ethari shake as a rabbit harvested its berries.

“There’s a lot that comes with being a craftsman, I guess. I sketch a lot, which comes in handy for conceptualising my creations before I make them. As you’ve seen. And I actually quite like making jewelry.” He added, scratching the markings on his cheek. “But I’m not shy of the lute, either.” 

Ethari was very talented — there was no doubt about it. He was just lucky his skills weren’t considered as vital as Runaan’s, otherwise he’d have to deal with the exact same pressure as he did. Runaan would wish that on no elf and certainly not the most cheerful one he’d ever met.

“I don’t mean to sound like I’m boasting.” Ethari quickly backpedalled self-consciously. “It’s not really much. You protect people while I simply—”

“I did ask.” Runaan interrupted him. “And do not downplay your own position. A craftsman as creative as you are is still undeniably important to this village.”

“...Thank you.” The happier elf gratefully took the compliment.  

For a moment they stood together in silence. It was awkward to Runaan at least, and could have strangled him as he tried to stay as still as possible, making himself a statue. The craftsman’s gaze didn’t seem to be leaving him any time soon even if his supposed examination was over.

“You… I think you got your hand on that orange tree.” Ethari pulled out a small patch of cloth from a pocket near his belt, stepping towards Runaan. He registered his movement before his words and jolted backwards.

Then, he had a look at his hand. There were two tiny little bleeding cuts where his thumb connected to the back of his hand, inflicted by the thorns on the citrus tree, but they were absolutely miniscule. They didn’t need tending to, he could deal with it.

“It’s fine.” Runaan dismissed it immediately, holding his wrist up to show him how insignificant it was.

“We wouldn’t want any hungry banthers tracking you down by your blood, would we?” What Ethari said was so absurd it distracted him, and let him put the cloth to Runaan’s hand.

“My dexterity in the trees would be no match for a banther.” He declared, only now realising that Ethari was stopping his bleeding. It was too late to stop him, so he didn’t mind. It was only two little cuts anyways. 

“But then they’d eat all of our harvest instead!” Ethari argued, chuckling. He made a good point. 

Runaan could feel the warmth from his hands and something about that begrudgingly felt comforting to him. He mournfully watched as the craftsman held the cloth to his arm. “You needn’t bloody your own cloth with my mistakes.”

“No, I needn’t,” The elf mimicked his serious accent, trying his best to hold in a laugh. “But I chose to nonetheless, didn't I?” 

“I suppose so.” Runaan awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other, not sure what to do whilst Ethari was occupied holding the cloth to him.

Ethari was softer than any other elf Runaan had met. Even though he could use his strength to harm he instead chose to use his hands for delicate arts. It was admirable in a way that was just on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t quite put words to.

Maybe Runaan could get used to his company.

“Would you like to come to the library with me? That’s where I was planning on heading next.” The elf suggested, flapping the cloth out to dry it before returning it to his pocket. 

Runaan adored the library. He would absolutely get used to this elf’s company.

“I don’t see why not.” He shrugged.

The Silvergrove’s library consisted of many different levels carved inside of a massive tree. It was built many moons before Runaan was born, and had what he would crown the most pleasing patterns on its walls out of the entire village’s architecture. 

This was a common place of refuge for him. It was quiet, warm, and filled with all kinds of interesting books. While certainly not on par with the likes of Lux Aurea’s Great Bookery, he much preferred this quaint tree. Runaan usually came here at dusk and dawn, when there would be barely any other elves around, so this would be a first for him.

“Do you have a favourite section?” Ethari asked him as they entered. A feeling of calmness washed over Runaan upon seeing the dim light and smelling paper and wood.

“I do, but it isn’t what you’d think.” Walls of bookshelves with elaborate carvings in their sides dotted with different glowing gems made the taller elf walking in next to him seem smaller than he was.

“Oh?” Now Ethari was intrigued. After letting himself grieve for a second, Runaan accepted that his secret reading spot wasn’t going to stay secret forever.

He led the way through towering aisles of bookshelves, around areas with tables used for reading and studying subtly lit by lanterns filled with glowing moonflies, to a bookshelf with a sliver of light peeking out from behind one side. Runaan wasn’t sure how another elf hadn’t found this spot before. The section it was hidden in wasn’t too popular, he guessed.

Grabbing the crack of light, Runaan pulled the bookshelf back. Behind it was a small area padded by soft blue cushions and a window filling the space with warm sunlight. 

“This is where I usually read.” He announced, stepping inside. His cold tone quickly returned to his voice. “If you tell anyone I will gut you and make it look like an accident.”

“I thought you were going to surprise me with a bunch of fiction books about being a human princess, or something.” Ethari’s playful tone was back as he sarcastically jabbed at him. “Trying to stay beautiful and manage the kingdom at the same time.”

Runaan snorted, before pressing his bandaged palm against his mouth to conceal a smile. “Why a human princess? I think I’ve seen a book or two oddly like that before...” 

“You mean ‘A Princess’s Plight’?” There was a brief moment of silence as the craftsman blinked at him. “You read those?” Ethari asked in disbelief.

“...When I was small. Very small.” Runaan reluctantly told him, turning his head away to stare at the wooden floor, feeling mildly embarrassed.

“So did I.” Ethari admitted with hushed excitement. What a weirdo. Runaan silently judged him, but with amusement at their growing number of strange similarities rather than anything that would be hypocritical. 

“Anyway, this is very cozy. How’d you come across it?” Ethari asked, joining him in the small space.

“My mother is friends with the librarian. She lets me use it.” Settling down on a pillow, Runaan primly crossed his legs. Ethari rested with him soon after and sat down with his knees bent on top of each other, leaning to one side.

He put the berry basket down on the floor between them. “Feel free to help yourself to the moonberries. I picked plenty.” 

Runaan looked at the berries, which were squashed by the much larger star plum and orange weighing down on them, and considered for a second. He did love moonberries, but he didn’t feel like stealing from this elf’s harvest. Well, he did invite him to.

The other elf took the two larger fruits out and wiped the berry residue off of their underside with a cloth, putting them next to the basket so they could snack. Runaan humbly snatched one moonberry away and put it in his mouth.

After a while of comfortable silence, and picking away at the moonberries, Ethari asked him a question. “Do you want to talk about why you were upset earlier?”

“I’d rather not.” Recoiling again into his shell, Runaan chewed on the last moonberry he’d dare to steal away from this elf.

“That’s okay. I’d just like to know if there’s anything I can do to help you.” Ethari politely offered.

With the presence of this elf by his side he felt lighter. Not a single thought about his father had crossed his mind since he dropped down onto the soil with him, not until now. Runaan wasn’t friends with many elves. Tiadrin and Lain were his only true ones. Trust didn’t come easy for him, but he had a growing like for this craftsman. 

“I appreciate your concern, but if there was anything to be done I would have done it already.” Runaan picked at his bandages. 

“Alright.” Ethari looked solemn at that, frowning at his legs tucked in under himself. “Are you going to the next dance? It’ll be the last and most dark of this moon.” His eyes glimmered with a spark of hope, one of which Runaan would hate to disappoint. 

He very much so disliked the noise and chatter that dances brought with them. However, the next dance would be the closest to the new moon, and therefore would be sparse of attendees. Maybe he could go. His father wouldn’t be upset if he missed the summer dances, but his mother would. She loved them.

“Yes.” Runaan decided. “I’m not one for noise, but the festivities closest to a moonless night are quieter.” 

“That’s what I was thinking.” Ethari smiled, grabbing his basket and lifting himself up. “I’ve got to go grab a few books. See you there?”

The assassin nodded, trying to feign some confidence in his heart about this decision. “See you there.”

Chapter Text

Tiadrin knocked on Ethari’s door when he was right in the middle of heating a blade. Convenient timing, as always.

He left it to answer the door, lowering the latch and opening it. The warrior stood there, hands on her hips, her analytical eyes narrowing in on him.

Ethari ignored her stare and stretched his neck out of the doorway to look around, realising quickly that Tiadrin had come alone this time. He felt disappointment weigh down on his heart. It was only then after he made sure to check for an absent assassin's presence that he greeted her. 

“Evening, Tiadrin. What brings you here?” Though the sun still twinkled down through the leaves, it was just past midday. 

Tiadrin held a hand up to her mouth, which was doing a poor job to hide her giggles. Having no clue what was so funny, Ethari curiously tipped his head. 

It was time for yet another one of his Tiadrin talks, it seemed. The perceptive warrior loved going on rambles about her findings to him. He was usually working while she did, so he automatically tuned most of it out, but she made for great background noise so that his mind didn’t go in circles.

“You can tell me inside.” He smiled amusedly, opening the door for her.

“Oh, no, it’s nothing. You’re just awfully hopeful.” Tiadrin still nodded and walked in through the door. With a shred of embarrassment, Ethari connected the dots. 

He couldn’t exactly help it if the assassin’s presence had scared him out of his wits last time. Precautions were absolutely normal, but maybe in his case a little obsessive, too. He picked up his sword and dipped it back into the forge once they were inside as in the best distraction he could think of.

Ethari’s shadowpaw was once again hogging most of the space on the floor that wasn’t already occupied by chests and miscellaneous piles of things. A few kissing noises from Tiadrin made her big lazy head perk up, opening her jaw wide in a yawn that showed off her fearsome teeth.

“Aww! Who's a big baby?” Tiadrin cooed, crouching down to ruffle her mane. “You are! You are such a big baby.”

The shadowpaw happily grunted as her face was squished between Tiadrin’s hands and her forehead, closing her eyes to take in all of the attention and kisses. She was fatter than ever now that she was let into his forge more often. Most of the shadowpaw’s time was now spent lazing about in its warmth, but she was content. That’s all he cared about.

“You made her a new paw!” Noticing the shadowpaw’s newest attachment, Tiadrin slid a hand over the smooth metal. The feline joined her in inspecting it, sniffing at her hand. Maybe she was wondering why she couldn’t feel the elf patting her.

“Mhm!” He hummed, turning around to pry the sword from the forge. He could watch them sit and mess around forever, but he didn’t want the blade he was currently working on to melt away. 

A scroll with intricately drawn swirls intertwined with occasional small crescents laid open on Ethari’s desk, held down by a fancy looking box that contained pieces of turquoise inside it. The turquoise he planned to slot in with the markings once they were on the blades; they were to be fitted into the ornamental crescent shapes. A small detail, but one that would stand out against the gleaming moonsilver and match the wielder’s eyes.

Ethari heard Tiadrin scramble up to her feet and walk up behind him. “So you don’t want anything from me? Did you just come here to annoy me?” He asked with a smirk. She’d always come here to annoy him.

“Pretty much!” Chirping out a happy reply, Tiadrin held her hands up to the sword Ethari had just heated like it was one of those bar heaters of sunfire invention. To her disappointment, he took it away to douse it in a bucket of water, thick coils of steam wrapping around the hilt and his protective enchanted cuff. How she was somehow managing to enjoy the extra heat in the middle of summer he didn’t have the slightest of clues.

“Of course.” Ethari sighed through the sound of hissing water, smiling. “It’s not like you have anything better to do, like training.” 

Tiadrin gave a challenging laugh. “Don’t try to act like you’re any more professional than me. You’re the elf trying to court the assassin you’re making blades for.” 

Ethari’s eyes widened, which was horrible timing, the steam from the bucket hitting his face and making them sting. Rubbing his eyes with one of his protective sleeves, his mind sputtered for something to say.

“You’re not great at being subtle.” She teased him. Turning around whilst still wiping his face, Tiadrin had a wide smirk directed at Ethari. Her face then morphed into a much more exhausted expression. “Don’t worry, I couldn’t tell him if I tried.”

After staring at her for a moment like a frightened deer, Ethari groaned defeatedly, burying one side of his face in his free hand. “He’s not the most perceptive when it comes to social situations, is he?” 

Tiadrin shook her head. Despite the tricky nature of the elf that their conversation was about they were both smiling. 

“So, do you… approve?” Ethari cautiously peeked an eye out from behind his fingers.

“Approve? Who am I, your mother?” The warrior scoffed, raising one of her eyebrows. “You don’t need my blessing to court that stubborn bittersquash of an elf. If anything, you’re probably the only one determined enough to have a chance at accomplishing it.” 

“You think so?” Ethari sounded a pitiful level of optimistic. 

“Well…” Tiadrin hesitated, causing Ethari’s hopefulness to sink. She winced like she’d been reminded of something painful. “I… Can’t say he’s ever been interested in anyone before. He’s all brooding, and y’know. He’s a tough elf with an even thicker skull. No one’s courted him so far, and I doubt he’d even realise if they were, which is why this is so amusing to me.”

“At least it's sure to be some great entertainment for you, then.” Carefully putting the sword down, Ethari turned to sort a few of the tools that he’d need. “I’ve invited him to the celebration tonight, so we’ll see how that goes.”

“You mean he agreed to go?” Tiadrin’s jaw hung wide open. “Not even me and Lain can get him to do that!” She made a frustrated noise, growling under her breath so she didn’t say anything aloud that she didn’t mean. “I’d curse at you but you’re too sweet…”

Ethari felt flattered at that, letting a proud smile come to his lips.

“I can’t believe he agreed to go.” Tiadrin continued, beginning to pace around in the small amount of floor that was available. “Don’t tell him that I told you this, but he’s a very naturally skilled assassin. He can hear the smallest of noises and pinpoint exactly where they are.”

Gently smoothing his thumb over the handle of his hammer, Ethari imagined for a second that it was the assassin’s hand. He took a deep breath. “His skills are incredible. Though, it is his personality I’m interested in.”

Tiadrin barked a laugh so loud the shadowpaw flinched and Ethari dropped his hammer. When he turned around to the noise, with a serious expression, she stiffened. Something seemed to dawn on her. She had to blink a few times to get a weird look off of her face.

“...Sorry.” Tiadrin shook off her last remnants of bewilderment. “Anyways, as I was saying, while his sensitivity to noise and visual stimulation is perfect for being an assassin, it doesn’t exactly come in handy for dances. He usually never goes because it stresses him out too much.”

Oh. He should have let her finish.

“He did mention that he doesn’t like the noise, but other than that he didn’t say anything.” Ethari pondered, staring at the sword he should have been hammering. He never hammered over the top of Tiadrin’s rambles, but this one demanded his attention more than usual. Embarrassment was still draining away from his cheeks.

“Of course he didn’t. He’s Runaan.” Tiadrin deadpanned, shaking her head despite a smile.

“You make an incredible point.” He agreed. A warmth different from that of the forge filled Ethari’s chest. It felt prideful. Runaan wanted to go for him, not the festivities. Then, a hint of guilt joined the warmth. The assassin wouldn’t be comfortable at the dance.

“Not a lot of elves see Runaan for who he is. It even took me quite a while.” Tiadrin admitted, scuffing her shoes. The lazy shadowpaw grunted at the noise and shuffled her head underneath Tiadrin’s feet so that she could scratch behind her ears instead of the floor. “If it weren’t for him being best friends with an elf like Lain, I’d have no idea.”

If Ethari hadn’t offered to mend his hands that night, he might not have seen it either. There were glimmers of the elf underneath the stoic outer skin before then and after, but none of them measured up to the impact Runaan’s already injured hands had on his heart when they tried to patch up a few measly scrapes on his arm in return. He would never forget the careful look in his otherwise icy eyes, or how incredibly gentle he was with pressing the cotton balls against his arm.

“Let me give you a little bit of insight.” Leaning against the wall, Tiadrin kept rubbing the now extremely content and happily grumbling shadowpaw’s head with her foot. “Runaan is a very cold elf, but he acts that way as a defense mechanism of sorts. I’ve seen the assassins train. They aren’t allowed to show even the slightest hint of weakness. To Runaan, his coldness is his strength. But deep down he has a heart the size of the moon, that I’ve seen for myself. But getting under his rougher skin takes time and patience.”

Ethari listened attentively. There was much more to him than what meets the eye. A whole other elf was tucked away neatly behind his stoic front. Nothing Tiadrin could have said would be able to sink his heart in deeper with this elf than it already had been, or so he thought. In reality, the amount of times he’d feel his heart flutter over Runaan were endless. It wasn’t something Ethari was good at hiding, either. 

“I have all of the patience in Xadia for him.” Ethari ducked his head with a smile that spelt infatuation. At this point he was even getting warm and giggly thinking about his grumpier side. “He’s quite the puzzle of an elf, isn't he? He captivates me.” The young warrior on the other side of his workshop raised an eyebrow at his careful language.

“You sure you’re just ‘captivated’?” Tiadrin asked with as much sarcasm as elvenly possible. 

Ethari couldn’t care for what weapon Runaan held in his hands, as long as he got to hold them too. He would make for him the finest blades in all of Xadia.

“I think it’s a little bit more than that at this point.” He admitted with an honest chuckle.

The moon was nearing its peak in the sky as many elves, including Ethari, were making preparations for the night’s celebrations to come. Ethari was not helping tend to the gardens or set up moonfly lanterns around the pavilion where dances were held, rather, he was patting down the front part of a deep purple gown Io had made for him.

He’d owned it for quite some time. Io had embroidered patterns into it in his likeness, similar to the small yet intricate swirls he often included in many of his works with a little Io flavour thrown in. It was very beautiful, in his swirly-swayed opinion. The skirt wasn’t nearly as flowy as he’d seen on some rather flamboyant dancers before, but he liked it that way. Not too complicated, but not too simple at the same time. 

Ethari had no clue why these long gowns were customary wear for the summer dances as well as the winter ones. Moonshadow clothing was commonly thin and tight, except for their special dancing outfits made to be more pretty than practical that were long and draped down to touch the ground. He was more than certain that he’d get sweaty in this.

Passing through Io’s workshop on his way down and out of the multistoried tree home, Ethari tapped on the wooden doorframe. The master craftsman looked up from the piece of metal wire they were shaping.

“Ooh, dancing tonight, are we?” She raised her chin proudly, admiring her son finally wearing her work. Truth be told, Ethari never usually attended the dances either. He wasn’t the most graceful with his footwork. 

Ethari nodded. “Runaan will be there.” The look in Io’s lilac eyes changed.

They walked forward, first assessing the neatness of his gown, and then dug her hands into his fluffy hair. Io messed with the locks of hair hiding his forehead, unrelentingly attempting to part them.

“He likes the fringe.” Ethari protested, unhappily letting the hair that he’d painstakingly brushed straight be messed up.

“Well I don’t.” They stubbornly grumbled back.

Io grabbed a small purple ribbon off of the bench, taking a handful of his hair closest to his face and weaving her fingers through it. She began to braid it, more than likely to ensure that he didn't mess up her work once he got out the door. Ethari closed his eyes and gave in.

He had plenty of hair, enough of it that it could be comfortably tied back into a ponytail. It was starting to tickle the back of his neck and get in the way of his work, though. Such was the price for having hair that was easy to braid. He loved braiding it himself. If he cut it, it’d be much more difficult. As it were, he had to use a mirror. 

Finishing the braid, Io tied the purple ribbon around its end to keep it secure. She then smacked his cheek more than she patted it gently. “You look beautiful. That tough assassin won’t stand a chance, my amazing little boy.”

Their ‘little boy’ was considerably larger than them, feeling the braid between his fingers, and was chuckling warmly. “Thank you.”

Making his final steps out of Io’s work room and towards the door, he looked back at them, his parent still proudly watching him.

“I love you.” He told her, just as he did every time he left to go somewhere.

“I love you too, Ethari. Now go have fun already. I’ve got two things due by tomorrow.” She shooed him off with her hand, turning back to her work.

As Ethari left his home he heard the distant hoots and giggles of nocturnal griffins, as though they were celebrating this time of plenty in their own griffiny ways off in the huge trees that walled the Silvergrove. Even though they were commonly kept as mounts by moonshadow elves, Ethari had seen plenty of wild ones perch on the branch just outside his bedroom window in the dim light of dawn and dusk before. They were beautiful animals, but he preferred the fluffy manes of shadowpaws.

Ethari wondered if Runaan would be able to make it up to his window, like in plenty of romance books he’d picked up before. For an assassin as skilled as he, it'd surely be made light work. Ethari had daydreamed about it before.

The pavilion where festivities were held glowed against the pitch black night. As the moon neared total darkness, so too did the forest. The darkness may be enough to stop the moonshadow elves from dancing in the winter months, but never in the summer months while food was so plentiful and the nights were warm.

These summer nights spent merrymaking went back to their most distant of ancestors, in fact. Moonshadow elves had canines slightly longer than the other elves they shared Xadia with. Their teeth were specialised and honed over thousands of years to cut through the skins of fruit, underneath a glowing moon.

But the moon was not glowing in the sky on this night, not even down through the huge canopies. Ethari could barely feel her presence through the thick shadow that covered most of her. That didn’t matter tonight. His heart felt exhilarated enough picturing the young assassin in his dancing gown.  

He made his way down through rocky pathways, trying to calm his nerves all the while, until music filled his ears and dancing elves came into view. Tables filled to the brim with fruits surrounded the white pillars that lined the side of the pavilion. Elegantly dancing elves in gowns of all colours crowded in the centre, though mostly a swirl of blues and silvers. 

The traditional celebratory dance performed in summer only required two elves, for it was the time of year associated with the promise of life, and so therefore partnered elves as well. Dances lose their meaning after a few thousands years in practice. Now it was common to see friends dancing with each other, too. 

He soon spotted Tiadrin and her partner, off snacking together near the food tables, Tiadrin leaning against one of the pillars. Their gowns were matching colours. How cute, he thought to himself.

Noticing the approaching metalsmith apprentice, Tiadrin gave an enthusiastic wave. “Ethari! You look stunning.”

“I could say the same for you, Tiadrin, and Lain.” Ethari nodded in acknowledgement of the other elf, earning a smile and a nod back. He didn’t talk to the warrior’s partner as much, but he seemed polite. “Is Runaan here yet?”

There was a moment of silence, in which Tiadrin and Lain exchanged worried glances. Ethari felt his heart sink.

“Well— Well, yes, he got here before we even did.” Scrambling to say something, Tiadrin scratched the back of her neck underneath her hair. “But he’s gone off somewhere. It got too much for him.”

“He’s probably just clearing his head.” Lain put a hand on Tiadrin’s shoulder to comfort the worried warrior. 

“I’ll go and try to find him.” Ethari declared, looking off into the darkness beyond the light of the dance. That would be a hazard and a half to navigate, and he doubted he’d be allowed to take one of the decorative moonfly lanterns with him. “He couldn’t have gone far.”

“He could have gone home—” Lain mumbled, before getting elbowed in the side by Tiadrin. He didn’t spare them of his theatrics, shouting in suprise and then looking at his partner with big round eyes and a pout. Tiadrin rolled her eyes before placing a kiss on his cheek. Her partner instantly cheered up. Ethari quietly wished he could have danced with Runaan alongside Tiadrin and Lain, but that was no fault of his. Festivities were even stressful to himself at times.

“Just be careful out there, Ethari.” Tiadrin warned him, her tone serious and her cold eyes gleaming with something almost threatening. “Runaan won’t be seen if he doesn’t want to be.”

“I’ve learnt that by now.” He was looking off into the darkness, down a slope obscured by a line of bushes. He could see a pathway in between them that led off into the darkness. Maybe the assassin had gone down there. “But even so, I’m more than willing to search for him.”

It was dark and quiet down here. He liked it, though the lack of any outer stimulus forced Runaan’s attention to his headache. Nocturnal griffins hollered off somewhere else in the distance.

To help the burning ache in his forehead recede, Runaan worked his ponytail undone. His long hair wasn’t so stressful on his scalp when it was down. He ached all over, and he hadn’t fought anything, if you didn’t count noise as something. He was exhausted. It hadn’t taken much this time. He was getting worse, far out of practice for social gatherings.

It was wrong to have come here tonight. Now he’d let Ethari down. Runaan scowled at himself. He rubbed his forehead, massaging, in an attempt to abate his growing headache or at least regulate it. 

A twig snapped near where the trees cleared. Runaan’s attention clicked onto the noise immediately. He wasn’t alone here, but he couldn’t see his company.

“Runaan?” The soft voice of the craftsman was asking for him. “Are you there?”

Ethari was trying to search around in the dark for him. He had come looking for him. Runaan breathed through his disbelief, shaking his head. Why? His mind begged for an answer. Why must you insist on seeing me? He could be dancing and munching on fruits with his friends right now instead of nearly tripping over stones. He could be doing anything else and be having a much happier time.

The assassin stepped out from the protection of the treeline, letting himself be seen, which was an incredibly rare display from him. Allowing himself to be visible when he didn’t want to be was something he was actively advised against in training. But this elf deserved it for his efforts, he felt. 

Ethari’s wide eyes spotted him. There was one of his bright smiles on his face again as he trotted up to Runaan, but it quickly faded.

“I’m so sorry.” Ethari immediately said, his dark brown eyebrows curved upwards with worry. His eyelids were stretched open to take in as much light as he could.

“No.” Runaan denied his apology, staring downwards at his boots in shame. “This was my own foolish choice.”

“Foolish? Runaan, this isn’t foolishness.” Ethari sounded puzzled. He paused, as though to let his words sink in. “This is heart, and bravery, for choosing to come even though you knew you’d struggle.”

But it was weakness, a part of his mind whispered scoldingly. Runaan’s ongoing staring contest with Ethari’s boot intensified. It was a foolish decision because it was motivated by the slim chance of friendship, something superficial and unimportant. He shouldn’t have come tonight with all practical downsides taken into account. He didn’t need a friend and, for reasons Ethari had seen, he shouldn’t have a friend.

“These hands are tarnished, bloodied. I can’t let any elf near them.” Shaking his head, Runaan pulled them closer to his chest. “I shouldn’t.”

And now he’d said too much. This conversation was beyond his control. His instincts were screaming at him to hide, to return to the shadows where he was safe, but he already was in the shadows. Ethari had willingly joined him here.

Ever so slowly Ethari reached out and took one of his hands. He held his hand carefully against the bandages, gentle so that he didn’t disturb his healing burns. Runaan cautiously met his gaze.

“I know full well what your hands are capable of.” His amber eyes were brimming with warmth, all of it directed at him. They weren’t judging him; they were simply round and seeing him through the dark. “Are they not capable of dancing with me, too?”

Ethari didn’t care for his ruined hands. He cared for him.

Runaan’s mind was utterly absent. The absence wasn’t entirely blank, though. There was something happy at its core. He looked down at their hands and curled his fingers around Ethari’s. 

The craftsman gently led him out into the middle of the clearing, keeping his warm eyes on him. “Do you know how to dance?”

Should he be dancing right now? Maybe he should have stayed in bed to conserve his energy for when it was needed, or gone out to scout the forest while the rest of the village celebrated and slept. The two nights worth of new moons were dangerously close.

The kind look on Ethari’s face was convincing enough. He had already chosen to attend tonight. At once, Runaan’s mind snapped its attention back to the conversation.

“Do I know how to dance?” Runaan echoed with a frown that made him bare his teeth. “Please, I may not be as talented as you at the arts but I at least know how to dance.”

“Understood, sir assassin.” He delicately squeezed Runaan’s hand, chuckling in a way that brought attention to a strange feeling in his gut. That was odd. Perhaps it was the acid from the fruit he grabbed before distancing himself from the dance. 

“What about specifically the summer celebratory dance?” Ethari dared to ask.

“Yes.” Runaan hissed.

“I was just making sure.” He certainly was being considerate. Ethari was keeping his voice quiet so that no other elf would hear them. “You aren’t exactly the celebratory type.”

“No, I’m not.” Runaan confirmed, though there was no doubt to begin with.

“Care to show me your expertise, then?” Ethari leaned closer. Now that was a challenge if he’d ever heard one.

“If I must.” Runaan puffed, straightening up his posture.

They both tried to assume the male position of the dance at the same time, which led to their hands awkwardly bumping into each other and fumbling around. There were a lot of muttered “ums”, “ah”s, and the occasional “sorry” from Ethari before the craftsman eventually relinquished his male role out of sheer awkwardness. 

Ethari settled for holding Runaan’s waist, which was typically considered the female’s role within the dance. Runaan carefully placed his bandaged hands on Ethari’s shoulders in turn.

The melody of strings and flutes from the pavilion above was still loud enough here to guide their steps. Despite this being a dance performed in the most lively time of the year, it was fairly slow paced and simple compared to other traditional moonshadow elf dances. It allowed Runaan to relax in the rhythm. Soon his once agonising headache was reduced to a dull hum in the back of his head.

Together they gently swayed in the barely lit grassy clearing. The subtle blue and green glow of bioluminescent mushrooms and the occasional lunabloom offered them the only light they had. The moon was barely a pale scratch in the sky tonight. Runaan could see just fine, but Ethari had blinded himself just to take this one chance to dance with him. He sacrificed something for him. The other elf wasn’t nearly as smooth or practiced in his movements as Runaan, but he didn’t mind.

Runaan felt as though he might melt against the other elf’s warmth. It was dizzying. Moon, in the dark the brightness of his happy expression was blinding. This was the most wonderful elf he’d ever met, he was sure of it. 

“You’re warm.” Runaan wasn’t able to sort his thoughts before they slipped out of his mouth. Their momentum briefly strayed. 

Ethari cocked his head, looking both flattered and confused. “Thank you?”

Their rhythm was then completely interrupted as Runaan felt Ethari jolt in a move that certainly wasn’t within the dance’s choreography. A root they’d been dancing over finally caught on the craftsman’s boot and made him stumble to regain stable footing. Runaan remained neutral in his position, keeping his hands steady on his shoulders, but looked surprised nonetheless. The sudden movement had caught him with his guard down.

When the craftsman fixed himself back into formation, he was full of laughter. Runaan had never seen such happiness be freely expressed on an elf’s face before. Not so close up, and so real. Ethari wasn’t a graceful dancer by any means, but something about his form had managed to leave Runaan breathless. There was beauty in his unordinary, in his simple and free joy. It made Runaan feel weightless alongside him.

“I’m not the greatest dancer.” Ethari admitted to absolutely no one, looking into Runaan’s eyes. “Invisible roots don’t help, though.” 

“This is the darkest it gets during a summer night. You’re doing well.” Runaan closed his eyes to avoid the unwanted eye contact. Feeling and hearing the world around him was all he needed to dance properly, and more than likely best the elf he was dancing with too. “Winter is worse.” 

“I would still have walked out here to find you, whether that be more stumbling around helplessly than walking.” The craftsman was so close his voice vibrated against him.

When he opened his eyes, Ethari had looked away from him and was staring off at a bioluminescent mushroom towards the treeline. Runaan could feel his trust in him flourish for one brilliant second. 

This elf was much more than what he thought he was at first. He was unique, talented, and actually seemed to respect Runaan’s boundaries whilst still wanting to spend time with him, which was a rare thing. Being around him made Runaan feel freer in a way. He admired Ethari, in a way that made his muscles tingle with a strange warmth.

With a strange, very strange, warmth that grew when he took in the sight of the elf he was holding onto. The surrounding soft blue light made Ethari look even more beautiful, making the markings that ran from underneath his eyes to his jaw seem to glow. It was his heart Runaan felt drawn to, but his looks were a lot prettier than he’d ever noticed before…

No. Moon, no. A thousand moons worth of no. This was horrible. Terrible was the only word to describe what he was feeling, and destructive might be another. Not now, now was the worst time for this. Forever was the worst time for this. He had duties to attend to! Not to mention a father to appease, or a whole village even.

He must have looked ill, because Ethari stood still and directed a concerned look at him. “Are you alright?”

“I may need a moment. This dance is more strenuous than I recall.” There were no remarks about how such a slow dance could be tiring. Ethari simply nodded and let him go. The warm night air suddenly felt freezing without a dancing partner to hold onto, and the feeling in his stomach was growing worse.

He’d sworn to himself that he would never let this happen, not ever, and he was doing good up until this point. Tonight had shattered his efforts completely. Runaan recoiled back a few steps, holding his forehead.

“Do you need water?” Ethari asked softly. Shaking his head, Runaan started to feel even more horrible for ending their dance as abruptly as he did. 

“No. Sorry, I don’t think I’m feeling my best tonight.” He sighed and tried to relax his stressed shoulders. Every muscle in his body had gone tense, like he was readying to fight something. His body was confused that this battle was mental rather than physical.

“That’s okay.” Was it? Ethari’s voice was so soothing Runaan felt the urge to just let his knees buckle and lay flat on the ground. “Take your time. We don’t have to keep dancing.”

Runaan might need to take him up on his offer. For all he was, a shred of feelings could utterly destroy him. That was why preventing them was so crucial, but he’d now failed that. He needed to regather his energy rather than waste it fumbling around.

“I need to leave.” Runaan didn’t waste any time slinking up towards the treeline, deeper into the shadows. He glanced over his shoulder, down at Ethari. He looked wistful. 

“Thank you.” Sparing a bit of gratitude for the craftsman was the last thing Runaan did before disappearing off into the thick woods and back home. The image of Ethari’s happy smile never left his brain. No matter how hard he tried, he could not curse it away enough.

He didn’t utter a single word to his parents about the dance when he returned home. The bleeding weakness inside of his head was so obvious to him, he feared it would be obvious outwards too. He took off his gown, light blue flopped onto the floor in a puffy pile, in exchange for softer clothing and wasted no time at all retiring himself to bed.

Runaan didn’t get any sleep that night. He tossed and turned in his bed, stared up at the ceiling for hours. No matter how many hours he poured in trying to analyse everything, still, nothing made sense to him. Thinking of the cause in order to figure out how to stop it from happening only sank him deeper into his feelings. He was helpless against this weakness. It was stronger than anything his training had ever prepared him to deal with.

When he woke the next morning he was already an hour late to the clearing where the assassins gathered and noticeably weary.

Chapter Text

A few tiring mornings after the two new moons in a row, night of utter blackness after night of utter blackness and guilt induced nightmares, Runaan was back to testing his hands with a wooden blade. 

The fresh sting of morning air invigorated his muscles, swiping his fake blade at his opponent’s, swiftly weaving out of the way of her counter attacks. It felt incredible to finally be able to train again. He needed anything to distract his mind at the moment from the ever present seeping guilt that still strangles him like he’s up to his neck in thick mud, and from thoughts of a sweet elf he’d danced with one night.

Runaan hadn’t seen Ethari since he left him at the dance a few nights ago. Well, he had, but the other elf hadn’t seen him. Runaan spotted him from the treetops while gathering fruit for dinner, the craftsman happily humming the tune they’d danced to while out on a stroll, but Runaan had instantly locked up out of instinct. Silence was an assassin’s speciality. He simply had pretended that he didn’t exist until Ethari walked away somewhere else. No fruits were thrown this time.

He was too ashamed to talk to him again, and he knew it would just make his terrible problem worse. It hadn’t gotten any better within the past few days. The only way to get rid of it was to avoid him and instead put all of his focus on his training.

But there was still one last thing Runaan had to see him for. In just a week’s time from today, if all went well, he would need to collect his new blades from Ethari’s forge. They would be ready soon. An excitement that he’d fought hard to repress welled up in his chest. He couldn’t tell if it was for the blades, or for Ethari.

Sleep had been scarce for Runaan these past few days, and he blindly hoped his fellow elves hadn't noticed. Any other elves than Lain, that is. Keeping something from his closest friend for long was hopeless. When he did finally manage to rest his eyes his dreams were haunting and ridden with awful imagery, like they'd been ever since his first solitary mission. While he was awake he was intent on trying to analyse himself, solve exactly why he was feeling this way for the craftsman, but each line of thought without fail drew him deeper into a pit he was digging for himself.

All of the strength in his heart was not enough to keep him from thinking of Ethari. Never did the sight of his beautiful smile leave Runaan’s head, and neither did the calming feeling of his warm hands and broad muscles. Thinking about him made his head spin.

An unexpected blow from the assassin he was training with sent Runaan tripping backwards off balance. He quickly regained control, just in time to dodge another attack. That’s been happening too often recently. His training usually went without flaw, but ever since the other elf infiltrated his head he’d gotten clumsy. He was right to think of this as nothing more than a hindrance. An admittedly strong one, at that. 

His opponent opened her mouth to say something to him, but before she could get a word out something crashed into the foliage behind them. All of the assassins in the clearing turned to face the noise. A moonshadow elf hobbled noisily out from the bushes. It was a ranger.

“N-Near the border. There’s s-something odd.” He was out of breath, stumbling on his words. He’d seen something in the forest closest to the Moonstone Path. “We need our stealthiest to get a closer look.”

Runaan trudged along with his fellow assassins through towering roots and underneath trees that touched the sky, across the Moonshadow Forest. This forest was treacherous to explore to the unexperienced. The sudden journey took them hours, and Runaan was bravely powering through on an empty stomach.

He was somewhat glad he wouldn’t have to spend breakfast with Lain’s worried eyes staring him down again. The warrior’s concern for him meant a lot, but it made Runaan feel guilty knowing it was all his fault. All because of his own weakness, that could have easily been prevented by not attending that stupid dance and not swaying with that stupidly handsome elf.

Guided by the understandably exhausted ranger, they reached the forest just before it shrunk into shrubs and sun dusted rocks. The smell was the first thing Runaan noticed. Something was evidently rotting here. Then when they passed a few more bushes, they saw what the smell belonged to.

A few small carcasses lay strewn about, trails in the grass showing they’d been dragged, arrows jutting out of each of them. They were all animals of the moon arcanum, all small and easy prey. What petty huntings they were. The assassins approached cautiously at first, but soon it became clear that whatever cowardly threat there was had left for now.

“By the smell of them, they’ve been sitting here since the new moon.” The ranger told them through a grimace and a hand covering his mouth and nose.

Runaan was the first one to approach the sight, the rest of his team still remaining hesitant. Holding his breath, he reached down to sooth the ruffled feathers of a dead great horned owl. Its talons were lifelessly curled up, large incredible eyes that once mastered the low light of the midnight forest now forever closed. What did it do to deserve this fate? A beautiful creature’s life was taken from it for no reason, and it was left here to rot. Anger prickled at his skin.

“This is disgusting.” Runaan’s voice was so low it was almost a growl. Every word of his was dripping with as much bitterness as he could taste on the air. The monster that did this would not escape his blades. “Taking the lives of these defenceless creatures for the sake of taking them…”

“It’s repulsive. These are human arrows,” Acacius noted, probing at the white fletching sticking out of a hare with the tip of his sword. “Unmistakably basic in design. They must have left them here on purpose.”

“Wasting all of these lives just for a message?” Runaan started, reeling with rage, before the stench of dead flesh baking in the summer sun wafted up to his nose. 

He was barely able to stop himself from gagging, holding the back of his gloved hand up to his mouth. With a shudder, Runaan recognised the way the arrows were left sticking out of the animals. He’d left the poachers camp looking a similar way. The carnage was certainly reminiscent of something those poachers were capable of but, if it were them, it’d be unlikely that they would leave them here when they could be used for spells. Even in death, these creatures weren’t safe from being exploited. Runaan’s scowl deepened. 

“We should send a team across,” One of the older assassins suggested, glaring towards the border furiously, flicking her dagger between her fingers. “Send them a message.”

“If you’ve spent a bloodmoon out in the forest and lost your wits, yes, that’d sound like a perfect plan.” Acacius turned to the assassin with a frown. “Across the lava we’d be nothing but fish out of water against those dark mages. They incited this. They want us to send a team across.”

“They’re waiting.” Runaan stared darkly at the dead owl. “They’ll be prepared this time.”

“Exactly.” The leader pulled his eyes from the carcasses, nodding at Runaan. “We need more rangers scouting around here to prevent this from happening again. If they get any further, then we retaliate.” 

Sheathing her dagger, the other assassin quickly dipped her head in respect of her leader’s decision. “We’ll just have to be more prepared than them.”

As much as he wanted to put the animals to rest and give them a proper burial, he had to keep up with his team. Runaan glanced coldly at the dead body of a fruit bat laying on the ground as the other assassins turned to leave. A bat was small, but incredibly hard to spot in the dark and even harder to catch still. What kind of human was capable of killing a bat under a new moon?

The walk back home was sluggish. Now that they were away from the corpses Runaan realised how hungry he was, and he could hear grumbles from the stomachs of otherwise quiet assassins that proved he wasn’t alone in that. The sun was high in the sky by the time they returned, and he felt hot from the exercise of the journey.

They regathered in the clearing they used for training once more after they got back to rest. Nothing much was said between them before they dispersed, except for two of his team members that were getting closer to each other chatting as they rested. Runaan had all the condolences in the world for what might become of them one day. Runaan left them behind and shoved them to the back of his mind, passing Acacius on his way out.

“Runaan.” His mentor’s voice stopped him before he could leave. The young assassin turned around, but Acacius kept his back to him. He only turned his head to look at him over his shoulder. “I do not mean to repeat myself, but I remain concerned for you.”

Something clawed at Runaan from within his chest. There were a million things he was bursting with to tell the senior assassin, but there wasn’t a single one he could. He sighed, looking at the ground. “I know.” 

“Your mind is still elsewhere.” Acacius observed. Runaan felt frustration climb up his turtleneck. He would not have his dedication questioned.

“I swear to you that I remain loyal.” There was something in Runaan’s voice reminiscent of a beg. “I made an oath, and I dare not disobey it. This is my utter calling.”

“I know it is. That is why I’m so concerned.” An unusual hint of sympathy curved his eyebrows. He looked away from Runaan. “There is something wrong. Something more deeply rooted than what I thought.”

Runaan didn’t have the words to give him a response, staring at his mentor, his mouth still open as if he did. Another desperate guise to feign strength he didn’t have. Runaan clenched his fists, hands stinging.

“I will continue to train you as normal. But by the light of the moon, fix yourself up.” Right now, the older assassin had bigger things to deal with. He didn’t have time for another deep conversation. Acacius moved onwards, disappearing beyond the shadows and ferns through the treeline and towards the side of the village he lived in.

Now his brain was bouncing between images of the sweetest elf in Xadia and the owl as he trekked home, and both were tormenting him. Ever catching a break seemed hopeless. Anger had never left him after seeing the dead bird. All it did was bubble and fester under his skin. Acacius’s words echoed in his head. Fix yourself up, Runaan!

It didn’t help that Runaan already felt utterly miserable due to Ethari. He didn’t understand what was so great about these feelings. So far they’d done nothing but deprive him of sleep and weaken him in training ever since he started feeling them. 

And, of course, his feelings would also get in the way of what he knew his duty as a particularly skilled assassin was. To pass on his strength. Though, he never planned on staying true to that part of his occupation, no matter the looks he’d get from the village for it. Thinking about it made him feel ill. 

Stuck between being too selfish and too selfless, perhaps he should just cut his losses and marry an elf with no gender to speak of. That would solve all of his problems, but unfortunately now it’d create one huge new one. They wouldn’t be him. No elf would ever give him this same feeling, he was sure of it.

“Runaan!” A voice so tiny it was nearly a squeak came from the top of a grassy hill he was passing. The assassin stopped in his tracks and looked up.

Down waddled one of the newest of the moon cubs, Andromeda, a cheery smile puffing out her already chubby cheeks. He was a favourite of hers, apparently, for whatever reason. Runaan was terrible with elflings, so her attachment to him was truly a mystery. She shook her arms excitedly and came to hop in place right in front of him.

“Were you just out on a mission?” She asked, eyes bright and sparkling with curiosity. “How many bad guys did you fight? Tell me everything!”

“None, little one.” Runaan tried to soothe her.

“That’s because he must’ve already beaten them all!” The scratchy voice of Ram butted in. He was running down the hill to Runaan as well. It looked like he’d just happened to stumble upon the entire group of moon cubs. Moon, help me, he begged silently with a quick look up to the sky.

As he got closer, the young elf’s voice dropped to a whisper as if Andromeda wasn’t standing right next to him. “…Did you beat up any bad guys?”

Runaan suppressed a laugh at such rudimentary terms. What young and innocent minds. The only threats to them were ‘bad guys’ and bullies. “Not today. We were only training.”

“Ooh! Can you teach me some moves?” Ram jogged on the spot, squishing the grass to a pulp under his feet. The other moon cub quickly nodded, both pairs of interested eyes latched onto him. Runaan nervously exchanged weight from one leg to the other.

“Leave him be, you lot.” Instructed a familiar voice. Ethari appeared over the top of the hill. “He’s probably tired.”

Runaan froze. He was starting to think he was cursed. What dark mage had he angered? Well, plenty of them, obviously. His luck was atrocious today. Ethari shuffled his way down the hill to join them. He would remain impervious, he told himself, correcting his posture and any softness on his face.

“Hello.” His voice melted in with the warm summer breeze as it too swept over Runaan.

“Hello, Ethari.” He greeted him, as relaxed sounding as he possibly could, his voice maybe a pitch too deep. “Are you leading the moon cubs today?” What a stupid question!  

Not seeming to think so, Ethari nodded. “For Io. She’s got her hands full at the moment.” The taller elf rocked idly on his heels.

Runaan stifled an inconvenienced sigh. The craftsman’s hair was pulled back into a fluffy ponytail today, an unruly fringe covering half of his forehead. It looked indescribably soft. 

“I’ve been trying to teach them about ‘The New Moon Serpent.’” Ethari absentmindedly put a hand on Andromeda’s shoulder to stop her from hugging Runaan’s legs, which she was slowly gravitating towards. “An emphasis on trying. They’re all too focused on how they’d fight it.”

That old legend. Moonshadow elves loved their stories, the older and the more mysteriously insightful the better. The tale was of a huge serpent as black as night emerging only on a new moon to swallow whole any unsuspecting moonshadow elf it could sink its sword-sized fangs into. Runaan was obsessed with it when he was little. He could still recite a few lines from it in his head. 

“The neck is an obvious weak spot.” Andromeda puffed out her chest. “It can’t bite you or coil around you from there.”

“Nuh-uh! Going for the head would kill it instantly!” Ram argued in his little raspy voice. 

“But what if it bites you?” The younger moon cub countered, sternly frowning at Ram. Ethari looked exhausted. Runaan cleared his throat, all attention coming to him.

“It is disgraceful to take when you don’t know what you’re taking. The core of being an assassin is acknowledging the weight of your target’s life.” The rest of the tiny elves had skittered from the hill, and all of them were looking up at Runaan as if he held the answers to the universe as he spoke. “Even the most simple of missions can go terribly wrong if you know nothing of the enemy.”

Runaan thought back to the dead animals that’d been left near the border. They didn’t know much about what caused it, except that they might be human. Their identity may remain concealed, but he knew more than enough of them from their heinous message. He remembered the bat and clenched his jaw to stop a shiver. Were they human?

“It would be wise to listen to Ethari.” Reaffirming his words, he stood tall, imagining Acacius with his commanding presence. “Unless you’d like to become snake food in another moon cycle’s time.” 

The little elves' eyes were wide. Ram looked owlishly at Andromeda, before sharply shaking his head at Runaan. They all reluctantly turned back to Ethari, now ready to hear the rest of the tale.

Ethari smiled at him gratefully, relief flooding his face. Runaan felt it make his heart beat faster. “Thank you. Now, where was I…” 

Runaan scurried off the first chance he got behind the nearest set of trees. He’d wanted to leave as soon as possible the moment he saw Ethari, but he didn’t want to be rude. Now it was like an already fresh wound had been torn open all over again. His heart was in some sort of hurry, pounding at his chest and quickening his stride back home. A gentle warmth was ebbing away at his remaining stoic padding. Moon above, he needed to eat something.

The front door to his home shrieked as he opened it. “The threat of humans is back.” He reported to his father, as if it ever left in the first place, walking in through the doorway and closing the squealing door, his voice wavering. “They left several dead animals near the Moonstone Path.”

Leal had his back to the door, looking through a window. At his words, the retired warrior paced towards the table and scowled. He looked just as displeased at everything as always. “Again? Haven’t they learnt their lesson?” 

“Apparently not.” Sighing with exhaustion, Runaan plopped himself down on one of the wooden chairs. It creaked against the floor as he shuffled it closer to the table so he could rest his head. The residual tingling warmth from seeing the craftsman persisted as he hid his face.

“Have you had anything to eat?” His father asked, placing his only hand on his back to grab his attention.

“No.” Runaan mumbled with his face squished against the wood.

Leal tutted, the pressure of his hand leaving him as his footsteps led into the kitchen. “A warrior cannot be strong on an empty stomach, and neither can an assassin.” 

Well, it wasn’t like it was his fault. Walking through the forest made him feel better at first, but seeing those animals be left to rot ruined it. If he could have chosen not to go he would have, but it was his duty to be there with his team no matter the mission and to protect the forest.

Leal slid a cold bowl of mushcup onto the table in front of him. Sniffing it, suddenly he didn’t feel all that hungry. He hadn’t eaten his father’s cooking in years, and for good reason. Runaan stiffly grabbed the spoon and stuffed a scoop into his mouth.

“What are you doing, love? Trying to make our boy sick?” Cerys appeared in the hallway. Runaan instantly felt a wave of relief upon her presence. Walking up to the table, she tenderly tapped the base of her horns against her husband’s, their horn cuffs ringing as they met. His father was at his happiest with her, his usual frown calming to a neutral expression as he rested his chin on her shoulder.

“I thought I wouldn’t bother you.” Through his grumpiness, Runaan knew Leal loved Cerys very much. She was his solace, his love, and brought him happiness in times of need.

Could Ethari be that for me? Runaan wondered, stirring his mushcup. Being around the elf at the library had made him feel calm, but recently even just thinking of him was enough to give him a heart attack.

Even though it’d only been a few nights since the craftsman had struck something deep in his heart, Runaan didn’t know how long he could keep pretending his feelings didn’t exist. If a conversation as brief as the one he had with Ethari today could start it up all over again, what hope was there? Repressing them wasn’t working. He was starting to get worried they would never go away.

What a shame that was. Runaan would just have to put up with them. There was no way in the endless cosmos above Xadia that he would ever let those feelings show themselves to any other elves. He couldn’t afford to. 

His mother sat down in the chair next to him. She smelled sweetly of flowers and dirt. Cerys must have been tending to the garden out the back of the house. The smell dug up memories, there were many times Runaan could still recall where he’d helped her out with the plants when he was only small, and they made him feel peaceful.

“The mango tree at the back of the house is practically overflowing right now. Everyone’s too scared to take from it.” She told Leal, making him scoff a laugh. Cerys eyed Runaan’s mushcup. “You wouldn’t mind coming with me to help tend to the garden, would you?”

Runaan blinked at her, confused. It’d been years since he’d last helped out. Assassin training consumed most of his time now. He couldn’t remember the proper methods she’d taught him, or even what to do in the first place.

“I’m not sure what help I’d be.” He responded blankly.

“Nonsense, you’d be plenty.” Cerys batted his words away with her hand, rising from her chair. She beckoned him. “Come.”

Runaan shot up, happy to leave his still full mushcup bowl behind. One scoop was all he was able to pass through his gag reflex safely. Cerys made a quick detour into the kitchen to grab a plate of discarded egg shells off of the bench before continuing down the hall towards the back entrance of the house, Runaan quietly trailing behind.

The garden behind their home was beautiful thanks to Cerys. She nurtured all sorts of colourful plants, a variety of flowers and vegetables, stems and buds growing up towards the sky in as many directions as they could. Its layout wasn’t shaped around her needs and ease of access, it was more dependent on the plants. Cerys worked around them, carving out dirt and stone pathways between where they’d decided to take root and let them flower wherever they chose to. It felt natural and wild and smelt of the prettiest wildflowers in Xadia.

A rather plump mourning dove fluttered down onto the bird bath as they walked out into the garden, a patch of its chest feathers disturbed from fighting other doves. Runaan helped Cerys build and set up that same bird bath a whole decade ago now. It still stood strong, the green paint wearing away on the pedestal and washed yellow in some parts due to exposure to the sun.

“What kinds of birds will visit?” Runaan had asked her those many years ago, holding the pedestal with both hands as his mother washed the dish for the bath.

“A lot, dear.” She very helpfully told him.

“Owls?” Runaan lit up. Owls had been his favourites. He admired their great big nocturnal eyes, round facial disks for hearing the slightest of movement, and large deadly talons. If a moonshadow assassin was a bird, they would most certainly be an owl.

Cerys laughed warmly, turning off the tap to the barrel and wiping the dish dry with a towel. “If we’re lucky. But you’d have to stay up very late to catch them.”

“I can do that.” He happily insisted.

“No, you can’t.” Leal reminded him from the table, grumbling and rubbing the shoulder of his lost arm. “If you’ll do as you’re told you’ll be fast asleep by then.”

Runaan couldn’t hide his disappointment, sulking at the floor as the pole slipped slightly from his small fingers. Cerys put a damp hand to the top of his head. 

“Maybe one full moon.” She tucked a lock of hair behind his short ears, a feature that would eventually grow and sharpen within the next decade, her cold fingertips grazing his cheek. “Those are the nights we get to stay up later, remember?”

Hope returned to Runaan’s little heart, but before he could express it, heavy breathing coming from the table distracted them both. Leal was hunched over the table, face contorted in pain, holding where an arm no longer connected to him.

Hurrying over, Cerys put the dish down and kissed his temple. She murmured soft words to him that the elfling wasn’t able to make out. Runaan walked over too, balancing the pedestal against the table so he could use his arms to hug his father. Slowly his panting quietened.

“Dont worry about me.” A navy eye clouded with pain peeked out at him, the other one still tightly closed. “Go with your mother to the garden.”

He didn’t want to leave his father in such pain, but Cerys was tugging at his shoulders to gently pry him off of Leal. Runaan reluctantly unwrapped his arms from him, picked the green pole back up, and headed out with his mother into the garden.

Mind catching up with the present, Runaan stared at the bird bath. The dove waded in, shaking its body to wiggle the water around between its feathers, leaning to one side and stretching a wing up in the air. He could hear his mother crushing the egg shells in her hands.

“Many elves believe that putting egg shells on a plant’s soil will help it grow stronger,” She explained to him, or was even talking to herself like she often did, dusting the crushed up shells into a potted plant. “But that isn’t true. The plants can’t actually break down the calcium in the state that it's in.”

“Then I assume there’s another method to it?” Interested, Runaan kneeled down beside her, watching her sprinkle the egg shells. The plant inside was still small and brightly green, its new leaves bouncing right back up after being battered by the falling shards.

“It keeps the slugs and snails out. Most of the time, at least.” She nodded, wiping off her hands against her legs. “The gluttons are free to feast on the rest of the garden, but I want them to give these little plants a chance to grow.”

Another plant in a pot beside it also had a circle of white shards around it, though they were fewer and dulling. Runaan reached for the tray of egg shells, before quickly snatching his hand back as it was rudely slapped away.

“Help yourself to a mango first, you pest.” Cerys ordered. He understood now that this was just his mother’s sneaky plan to get him to eat something proper. Runaan wasn’t going to protest against that. He was starving.

Runaan made his way to the tree in the middle of the garden, towered by plants all at least waist-height with him, careful not to step on any little bugs or lizards crossing the path. Picking the orangest mango he could reach without doing any climbing, he promptly sank his teeth into it. The skin of the fruit was incredibly bitter and made him wince, but he’d rather use his natural moonshadow canines than dash back inside for a knife. After peeling a satisfactory amount of skin off, he spat it out, tearing into the soft yellow flesh. He was happy to feel the juicy sweetness on his tongue at last and almost melted into the fruit. He could faint from how overwhelmingly sweet and tangy it tasted. His father was right. A famished assassin was not in his best state of mind.

Runaan watched a heartbloom flower bob in a pond surrounded by rocks and small reeds as he chewed, held in place by a stalk invisible above the water’s surface. Its petals were an ethereal shade of light blue, darkening towards the tips, the stamen at the heart of the flower an unusual ghostly white. They were his favourite flowers for their resilience, growing through the water and coming out the other side despite the impossible odds. And they simply looked beautiful sitting atop the reflections rippling across the pond’s surface.

Ethari appeared in his mind again. He’d tried to drown out his feelings, under gallons upon gallons of duty, but in the end they still bloomed above it all. His heart emerged from somewhere deeply hidden as in the name of the flower. Beautiful and delicate, glowing in the dark. Or was the water his feelings, and the flower his destiny? He didn’t know how to interpret it. 

After ravenously finishing his mango, tossing the skin and core to the side for compost, he shed his now sticky gloves. Leal had gotten him a pair of gloves as soon as he could after Runaan returned with burnt hands. He held them by their wrist and laid them down on a stone as he joined his mother again. Warm dirt pressed against his curled up legs as he sat beside her.

“You won’t be crushing up any egg shells under my watch.” Cerys caught him reaching for the plate again. “Not with your hands still healing.”

Runaan grumbled, resting his hands on his knees. He felt frustrated that he wasn’t able to help. “Why did you bring me out here?”

“To snap you out of your moping. Something has been bothering you.” Stopping what she was doing, Cerys looked at him. Worry was in her clear blue eyes. “I… I didn’t want to ask you what it was with your father listening in. You know what he can be like sometimes.”

Runaan didn’t know what he was supposed to say. He didn’t want to lie to his mother, but at the same time he couldn’t risk anyone finding out about his feelings. It could potentially ruin everything. But wasn’t it already starting to do that? He stared down into his lap, down at his scarred palms.

“You’ve been tired all of the time lately and it’s making me worried.” Cerys shifted closer so she could put a hand on his shoulder. Runaan lifted his head and met her sad kicked moonstrider eyes. “You can tell me anything. You know I won’t judge you like he does.”

Runaan took a deep breath, pressing on Cerys’s fingers on his shoulder with his own, considering deeply. He felt safer with her than with Leal. She wouldn’t scold him or pry. His heart started to race as his mind teetered closer to the edge of telling her. He was right on the cusp of releasing his secret. For some reason, he hesitated, the words stuck on his tongue. It seemed all too easy to keep his mouth shut.

But Cerys was patient. She rubbed her thumb along a strand of hair cascading down from his shoulder. She loved him, Runaan remembered with a sharp pang of responsibility.

“I have been facing some… Complications.” Choosing his words carefully, Runaan concealed the full truth, like a moon just a slash of a crescent. “It’s affecting my training.”

“Your training? Runaan, yesterday you passed out in the bathtub and I had you pull you out because you wouldn’t wake up. You could have drowned!” A fierce bolt of protectiveness struck his mother’s voice, one he recognised as a tone he’d inherited. “Your training should be the least of your worries if you can’t even get a blink of sleep. What about you?” Cerys sounded too full of care to be scolding him. Her fingers were digging into his shoulder. She cared about him more than he cared for himself.

Guilt seared at his skin. The summer sun offered him no aid, its rays streaming down into the garden and onto his pale skin through a network of branches and canopies up high. Runaan could only offer her a trapped pout.

Cerys offered one in return, nearly identical to his. “You need to think about yourself. I will always be here to help you.” She insisted. “But there’s only so much I can do. It makes me feel helpless.” 

He could very much use her guidance at the moment, but fear drew a clear line he was too afraid to cross in order to accept it. Runaan recognised how out of control he was getting, his grip on training slipping along with his energy. It was clear he couldn’t go on like this; raking at his mind nightly for answers like a dehydrated animal desperately clawing at the dirt for water only to uncover an underground spring and fall in. But he didn’t want to admit it. If he just ignored it, it would go away, wouldn’t it?

More importantly than anything else, he couldn’t leave his mother feeling like this even if he couldn’t summon up the courage to tell her. Runaan tipped his head to the side to lightly touch her knuckles with his cheek. “I’ll be okay.”

She frowned with disappointment. “I want to believe that.”

“Then believe it.” He prompted as he averted his gaze.

“But I can’t. It’s not the truth. I know it’s not the truth. I know you, Runaan.” Cerys let go of his shoulder to move hair out of his face with her still dusty hand. “And I know that you’re hurting. Please,” She looked at him pleadingly. “Tell me what it is.” 

Runaan wanted to so badly. He’d gotten so close. But he couldn’t. It was close to forbidden. And for what it was, it was rather pathetic. A simple bout of out of control feelings was causing all of this stress. If he admitted to them aloud, there was no doubt that they would seep through deeper into his heart and worsen. He couldn’t take that risk. No one other than himself had to know about this. For now, he wanted to feign control for as long as he could.

“I can’t. I wish I could.” Frowning stubbornly, Runaan shook his head. He shut his eyes as tightly as he could and forfeited himself, slumping forwards. Cerys took him into her arms as though he was still a child. Maybe that was how she still thought of him despite the copious amount of blood now on his hands.

“When you’re ready,” Cerys smoothed down the back of his long white hair, speaking softly. “I will be here.” 

Throughout his struggle with maintaining true to strict moonshadow code and law, his mother would be there for him. That at least managed to strengthen him. His culture was his ultimate crutch and his comfort but, for the first time, Runaan was questioning it. There was supposed to be an elegant beauty in its sacrifice. But, he had to wonder, was this all truly for the good of his own family? There didn't seem to be much honour in keeping secrets from someone who cared for him. It was clearly hurting Cerys. How much he had to keep on sacrificing, he didn’t know.

There were millions of ways he could interpret his situation with a heartbloom flower floating amidst a pond, but only one of them would be true. It would only be proven in time. After seeing the culture he trusted so much hurt both him and his mother, he had an aching feeling that he knew which one was true.

His feelings kept blossoming, like an annoyingly persistent lotus springing up right in the middle of his perfectly clear pond. And attempting to hack away at the roots was only murkying the water further.

Runaan didn’t know what he was fighting anymore.