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mindifirelax · 20 hours ago

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And I wish you joy, and happiness.

Hamnareth, Pre Fall Au, based on @aldoodles amazing art.

Airiadne is property of @twitchtips

It had been years since Mareth had first been assigned to Hamnet’s detail, and yet some part of him still thought of the boy as he had found him—small and broken, a frail figure hunched in the gloom of that cell. It was an image burned into his memory, the kind that could never be shaken entirely. He had been so young then, Mareth remembered. Both of them, really. Mareth, still a boy trying to prove himself as a soldier, had believed the prince would forever remain the thin, hollow-eyed shadow who could barely meet his gaze.

But time had a way of shifting things quietly, like water wearing grooves into stone. Mareth didn’t see the changes as they were happening. He only caught them in glimpses—moments that lingered longer than they should have.

It happened again that evening, in the quiet dusk of the stables where the bats roosted. The smell of warm fur and polished leather filled the air, the hum of wings settling into the rafters above. Hamnet knelt beside Ariadne, running a soft-bristled brush along her silken fur, murmuring something Mareth couldn’t quite hear. The bat, towering and gentle, lowered her head as Hamnet pressed his forehead to hers, a gesture of quiet affection that seemed too intimate for a soldier to intrude upon.

And that was when Mareth noticed it again.

Hamnet was taller than him.

He froze, a hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the thought settling like an unexpected weight in his chest. When had that happened? When had the boy he was sworn to protect—frail, silent, stunted from months of confinement—grown into someone who could look down at him? Mareth’s mind scrambled, flipping through the years they’d spent side by side: the mornings sparring in the arena, the long rides across Regalia’s outskirts, the silent evenings where Hamnet sharpened his blades by the firelight while Mareth kept watch.

Where had he been looking while Hamnet grew?

He remembered those early months, Hamnet’s frame barely filling his training armor, his hands thin and almost delicate on the hilt of a sword. Perhaps it had been the dungeon, six months of neglect that made him seem smaller than he was. Malnourished, pale, brittle like glass. Back then, Mareth had towered over him, a shield against the world.

But that boy was gone now.

Hamnet’s shoulders had broadened with the hours of training they’d poured into him, his arms and chest carrying the lean muscle of someone who lived by the sword. Their sparring sessions had changed, too. What had started as Mareth guiding him through basic forms had shifted into something more competitive, their bouts growing longer, sweatier, and harder to predict. There were moments, brief but undeniable, when Mareth felt the strain of keeping pace.

Hamnet was taller. Stronger. He had become something or someone—Mareth could no longer define as simply a prince in need of protection.

And why did that thought stick so stubbornly in his head?

The day had been uneventful by most measures. Escorting Hamnet to sit silently on the side of council meetings. Guarding him during the occasional trip into the city, where the people whispered about the prince who rarely smiled but always listened. Watching over picnics with Judith, where Hamnet seemed less like a royal and more like the boy he might have been, had life been kinder.

None of these things felt like duties anymore. Not really. The edges of the assignment had blurred. Mareth knew his place, knew the chain of command that bound him, but the line between duty and something else had started to fade. He couldn’t explain it. He only knew that around Hamnet, he didn’t feel like he had to try. The silence between them was never heavy, never awkward. Hamnet’s presence was…easy. Natural.

And Mareth couldn’t decide if that made him stronger, or dangerously unguarded.

He lingered on the thought too long, watching as Hamnet turned, his profile caught in the lantern glow. His jaw had sharpened with age, his hair falling neatly against his neck now, his expression calm but never unreadable. He was no longer the boy Mareth had found in that cell.

Mareth exhaled, quietly.

It didn’t feel like a job anymore. But what did it feel like?

He didn’t have the words for it. Not yet.

Not as Hamnet turned to him, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

“You’ve been staring,” Hamnet said softly, setting the brush aside.

Mareth swallowed the response that tried to rise, his throat tightening just slightly.

Hamnet had not wanted to bring it up.

He had sworn to himself—firmly, repeatedly, stubbornly—that he would let it go. But it gnawed at him, quietly, persistently, like a thread he could not stop tugging at. The feeling. The moment. The way Mareth had looked at him back in the training hall—hovering at the edge of interference, lips tight, fists half-clenched, ready to step in as if Hamnet were still that boy in the cell.

But he was not. Not anymore.

And that look—that look—had stung more than he was willing to admit.

The teasing had been minor, foolish really. A few soldiers making jabs about the prince's delicate fingers, his clean boots, his quiet disposition. None of it unfamiliar. But something inside Hamnet had snapped—not out of anger at them, but out of desperation to show Mareth he didn’t need saving. Not anymore. Not by him.

So he had stood his ground. Pulled rank. Sharp voice, steady hands. Dismissed them with command and control. It had worked. They had backed off. But Mareth’s silence had followed like a shadow.

Hamnet had hated how it made him feel—uncertain, unsteady, as if he’d done something wrong.

Was it wrong?

Was it wrong to want Mareth to see him as something other than fragile?

Hamnet pressed his forehead again to Ariadne’s soft fur, her warmth grounding him.

I want him to see me strong, he thought. So he knows. So I know.

Because it was driving him mad—the uncertainty. The silence between them, weighted and unspoken. The lingering glances. The accidental touches. The way Mareth would hold eye contact for a beat too long before looking away, as if afraid of what he might betray.

Who has a conversation with someone while pinning them to the ground? Who jokes, laughs, with their knees pressing into someone’s hips, chest hovering inches above? And who lets it happen without a fight? Who enjoys it?

Was he losing those sparring matches on purpose?

Hamnet sighed. He was losing his mind.

Behind him, Mareth cleared his throat. “I was simply admiring your progress,” he said stiffly, as though trying to reel back whatever thoughts had leaked through his expression. “With your flyer, the two of you are becoming quite the pair.”

Hamnet let out a breath, a shaky exhale laced with relief. A reasonable explanation. Something simple and unassuming. Something safe. He turned back to Ariadne, pressing a final kiss to her brow.

“Rest well, fly you high.”

“You as well,” the bat rumbled gently, already lowering into the gentle folds of her wings. “Have courage, Hamnet.”

Courage.

He turned back toward Mareth, his voice caught somewhere between his throat and his chest.

The lantern the guard held flickered with the movement, casting a golden sheen across Mareth’s face—across his sharp cheekbones, his furrowed brow, the slight tension in his jaw. And suddenly Hamnet forgot how to stand properly. His knees buzzed. His hands felt too aware of themselves. It was too much light. Too much of him.

“You and Andromeda make good teachers,” Hamnet said, voice steadier than he felt. His eyes flickered downward, grateful to shift focus.

Mareth gestured down the corridor, back toward the warmth of the palace. Hamnet nodded, and they began walking side by side, the soles of their boots soft against the polished stone.

“You visiting your bond to brush her fur every night,” Mareth said, after a pause, “comes from your heart.”

There was something layered in his voice. Something knowing. As if Mareth had seen past whatever wall Hamnet thought he had managed to maintain.

As if he knew what stirred in Hamnet’s heart, and was giving him permission to speak it. Or warning him not to.

Hamnet's mouth was dry.

“Will you join me and Judith for breakfast?” he asked, sudden and a little breathless. “I can ask Vikus if you can.”

Mareth arched a brow, mildly amused. “I have been by your side all day and evening, Your Highness.”

Hamnet flushed, already regretting it.

“And the only thing that separates us from one another,” Mareth continued, voice softer now, “is rest.”

Hamnet faltered in his step, just slightly.

He looked at the floor. Then up.

And whatever he had been holding down all night, all week, maybe longer—it fluttered up, just under the surface.

Hamnet’s brow twitched—subtle, almost imperceptible—but Mareth saw it. He always did. The prince rubbed his hands together, fingers fidgeting in a rare display of unease. That nervous energy had become uncommon over the years, dulled by discipline, training, and time. It stirred now only in moments like this, when something unspoken hovered just between them.

“It is just…” Hamnet said, his voice casual in a way that was never quite effortless, “some of the fruits have been brought in from the fruit flyers. The entire produce room smells sweet. You would be able to get your hands on some before the other soldiers.”

It was meant to sound offhanded, Mareth knew. But the offer was too specific, too careful. An excuse. An invitation, quietly wrapped in practicality. Another reason to linger.

They walked in tandem, boots soft over stone, the palace dim and hushed around them. The sconces along the corridor flickered gently, their flames casting slanted shadows across the walls. These late-night halls felt hollow and still—emptied of courtly voices, emptied of tension. This was the hour the palace gave back a little silence.

This was the part of the evening Mareth had come to know well.

The bat, the conversation, the return. They never called it a ritual, but that was what it had become. A shared routine, steady and unspoken. Something that held shape even when the rest of the day unraveled.

“Punishment?” Mareth asked, raising a brow without turning.

“There are perks to being royalty,” Hamnet replied. “Not everything has been soured.”

Then, quieter, and with something faint but deliberate in his voice: ��All these years, and you have managed to remain the same.”

Mareth’s gaze flicked toward him.

He did not respond immediately. The words hung there, heavier than they sounded. Was it admiration? Frustration? A kind of envy?

He wanted to ask what Hamnet meant by same, but the look on the prince’s face suggested it had already been said enough.

“I shall join you,” Mareth said after a moment, “but only if I may bring food back for Perdita. You know she grows jealous of my bounty.”

Hamnet exhaled, amused. “You make it your mission to do so, Mare.”

“It brings me amusement,” Mareth admitted, with a rare softness in his tone.

Hamnet laughed. Mareth did too—quiet and restrained, but real.

They rounded the final corner of the night.

The laughter faded.

Not because of any shift. Not because something had gone wrong. But because it was time.

Ahead, the corridor narrowed gently into the royal wing. No guards. No noise. Just stone and torchlight and the faint creak of old wood and tapestries shifting with the air. The stillness here was deeper than the rest of the palace. More personal. This was where words tended to thin out, where partings were expected.

The same place Mareth had escorted him to for years.

Each evening ended here, as if the palace itself insisted on it.

The walk slowed slightly, naturally. Their steps softened, but neither spoke.

The routine was drawing to its close—another evening wrapped in quiet conversation and careful proximity. Another moment Mareth would fold away in memory, even if it felt almost indistinguishable from the hundred others like it.

Except it was not.

Not quite.

And Mareth could not help but feel that whatever was growing in the silence between them… it was not done.

But the night was.

He could feel his heart pounding as they neared his door—loud, persistent, like it had something to say before the night gave it no more time.

“Have courage.”

Yeah, right.

He heard Ariadne’s voice echoing faintly in his mind. He always did in moments like these, when everything was still, when everything in him was not. But the words felt hollow now, too soft to cut through the heat in his chest.

Mareth walked beside him, steady as ever. Calm. Unshaken. Clueless.

He had to be.

It was the only way any of this made sense. If Mareth knew—really knew—how Hamnet’s thoughts tangled every time they were alone, how every word Mareth said felt like a test he could not study for, then the man was either merciful or cruel. But Hamnet believed the first. He had to. Believing Mareth was simply unaware, simply dutiful, dulled the ache into something bearable.

It had been easy once. The partings. The rhythm. They would say goodnight, and he would see him again after study or training or a lesson with Vikus. Time had structure back then. Emotion did not get in the way.

But that was before.

Before whatever this was inside him began to twist and bloom like some invasive vine. Before Mareth walking away made the hallway feel colder. Before the recon missions—routine at first—turned nerve-wracking, not because of the danger, but because Mareth was in danger, and Hamnet had to pretend that was fine. That he was fine. That he was not rehearsing grief before it even arrived.

Be strong. Have courage. That was the mantra. That was what he told himself.

And it was what he wanted—truly. To be worthy of Mareth’s respect. To be someone Mareth could look at and not see a charge, or a child, or an obligation. But someone real. Someone seen.

“I am proud of you,” Mareth said suddenly, his voice low but sure, slicing through the silence like a blade softened by care.

Hamnet’s breath caught mid-step. His pulse roared in his ears. He blinked, turned slightly—had he imagined it?

“You surprised me,” Mareth continued, glancing forward again, not meeting his eye. “I had not expected you to—I mean, that is not to say you are not—”

“Mare—” Hamnet began, barely able to speak around the pressure in his throat.

“Those soldiers are bastards,” Mareth said, more firmly now. “And you put them in their place. And one day, when you are in charge of this army, they will remember today. They will regret what they said. And they will follow you, because they will see what I see.”

Hamnet said nothing, lips parted just slightly, gaze fixed ahead.

“Today was just the first step,” Mareth went on. “Every day, you prove your mother wrong. You have grown, Hamnet. In every way.”

They stood in front of his door now. The same door Mareth had walked him to a thousand times before. But this time, it felt different. It felt final. Like if Hamnet opened it now, the moment would vanish. Like the door would close on something he was not ready to let go of.

Mareth looked at him now—fully, openly—and said it again, plainly, simply.

“So, I am proud of you."

The words should not have hurt. But they did. Not because of pain. Because of weight. Because Hamnet had wanted to hear them for so long he hadn't even considered them in Mareth’s voice. None of those daydreams came close.

He was proud of him.

Hamnet could not move.

The words hung in the space between them—I am proud of you—and something in him gave way. It was not a collapse. It was not relief. It was something quieter, deeper. A wall that had been pressed against too long finally shifting an inch.

He stared at Mareth’s face, the way the lanternlight softened the angles, how the shadows curved beneath his eyes. His features were always composed, always measured, but something in his expression now was… open. Unguarded. And Hamnet could not bear it.

He turned fully to him, hands trembling slightly. One rose—he was not even aware of it at first—until his fingers brushed against the front of Mareth’s uniform. The contact was barely there. But it was real.

Mareth looked down, uncertain.

And then Hamnet stepped closer.

Too close.

His hand slid higher, fingertips grazing the hollow of Mareth’s collar. His breath caught. He could feel the heat between them, shared in the small space they had never dared to close before.

And before he could lose his nerve—

He kissed him.

It was quick. Unsteady. Barely a press of lips

But it happened.

Hamnet’s lips had barely left Mareth’s when the weight of what he’d done came crashing down on him like a cave-in.

His breath caught—sharp, shallow.

He stepped back so quickly he nearly tripped over his own feet.

“I—goodnight,” he blurted, voice high and too fast, formal in the way someone uses etiquette to cover raw panic. “Rest well, fly you high—Sir.”

And before Mareth could say a single word, the prince turned, fumbled with the handle, and slammed the door shut behind him with a decisive thud.

Silence.

For exactly half a second.

Then—

“Oh my gods.”

Hamnet pressed both palms to his face and dragged them down in horror. “What did I do?” he whispered. Then louder—“WHY did I do that?”

He started pacing. Small, panicked laps. His hands flew to his hair, pulling it back, then to his mouth, then clenched at his sides like they were trying to contain the spiraling chaos inside him.

“What if Mother finds out?” he hissed. “What if Mareth tells someone? What if Judith finds out? Oh no—oh no, no—”

He spun in place.

“I am going to get us in so much trouble."

He staggered to the wall, bracing his palm against it as if the room were tilting.

“He is my guard. My mother’s soldier. Oh gods, she will kill me. She will kill him.”

His other hand flailed for his bedpost, gripping it like a lifeline. “Why did I kiss him—why did I—” He sank down to sit at the edge of his bed, heart racing, cheeks flushed to his ears. “Why did he not stop me?”

Outside, in the hallway—

Mareth had not moved.

The door had shut. The echo of it still lingered in the corridor.

He stood there, unmoving, mouth slightly parted, brows raised in stunned silence. The moment replayed in his head—the brush of Hamnet’s lips, the surprise, the panic, the door slamming shut with such force it rattled the torch sconce beside it.

And then—warmth.

It started low. A slow burn rising up from the soles of his feet, crawling through his chest, spreading into his fingertips. His hand lifted to his mouth, as if to catch something before it drifted too far away.

He could still feel him there.

Still feel the shape of Hamnet’s breath, the heat of his lips, the shaking courage in the act itself.

His eyes softened.

And beneath his fingers, Mareth smiled.

"...hm."

surprise smooch

#the underland chronicles #gregor the overlander #tuc #fanfic #tuc fanfiction #underland chronicles #suzanne collins #not my art #tuc mareth #mareth #hamnet/mareth #hamareth #tuc hamnet #aldoodles you did it again #aldoodles

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mindifirelax · 1 month ago

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Echo's of Hunger

Seeker Of The Warrior Chapter 18 Excerpt.

He was still mulling that over when Gregor, crouched near one of the packs and digging through for their dried food rations, suddenly glanced up and said,

“Don’t go too close to the brush.”

Owen turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

Gregor stood, brushing some moss off his knee, and pointed toward the edge of the clearing with a short nod. “The vines. Trees. Even the ground sometimes. It can all be dangerous. Some of the plants here—” He trailed off, squinting into the foliage as if he could see a memory replaying itself through the tangled green.

“Some of them hunt.”

Owen scoffed, but not in full disbelief—more like someone who wanted to believe it was an exaggeration. “Okay, yeah. Sure. But what if I gotta take a leak? Or worse?” He gestured vaguely toward the trees.

“What, am I supposed to just pray and pick a corner?”

Gregor’s brows drew together, face all seriousness now. “Just don’t go too close. I mean it.”

“Okay, but—how bad could it really be?” Owen asked, half-defiant, half-curious.

Gregor took a step closer, his voice dropping a little. “There was a gnawer. His name was Mange. Came with us when we were searching for the cure. He wasn’t a good rat, or a bad one, just—practical. Quiet. Kept to himself. When the group made camp in the Vineyard of Eyes—”

Owen’s head tilted sharply, lips twisting into a half-laugh. “Wait. Wait, hold up. Vineyard of Eyes? That’s real? That sounds like some Guillermo del Toro horror set piece.”

Gregor didn’t laugh. He waited for Owen’s smirk to fade before continuing.

"We hadn't eaten Properly for days...tensions were getting high. And something smelled...so good."

"Why not? Isn't that exactly what he and Ripred are doing now? The more of us look, the more likely we are to find something. Said Mange.

"Your sister beat the vines with her hands when she wanted her ball, you've been snapping every other root with those boots, all of us caused damage when we ran from the frogs. Have you seen even one plant make any kinda move to to stop us?"

Gregor had admitted, that he hadn't, and agreed to go along with the rats to search for food. Leaving his sister with a very nervous Temp, with a promise to return. The jungle was a danger, he was fully aware of that. At least, he had thought. But that was all a part of its ploy. He followed Mange and his nose through the jungle, right behind Lapblood. They had moved farther and farther away from the camp, but it wasn't as if they were moving in weird lines, the path had seemed rather straightforward. And it wasn't long before what ever Mange had smelled, had reached his nostrils too.

Hey, I can smell it too!"

"About time," Said Mange. "We're nearly on top of it."

They came to onto a small clearing, and the air in the vicinity had been filled with a thick and sweet odor of Ripe peaches, or was it peach rings? With a shine of his light, Gregor looked around. His vision caught sight of plants, that lookd far different than the vines that line the path. Long, leafy stems curling high above their heads. However, there were these supple looking yellow pods, dangling across the greenery. There wasn't any doubt about it, those were the source of the sweet smell! He could feel himself salivating. He had to have one, something this sweet, couldn't be poison. There was nothing telling predators stay away. He couldn't have known.

The same moment he had reached for one, Mange leaned his front paw to touch one of the pods, raising his head to eat one.

But the plant had lunged forward, and engulfed the rat, in such a breakneck speed that Gregor had choked on his saliva.

The screeches of Lapblood, the fast dissolving of flesh, as a weird steam cloud erupted from the pods. The feeling of coarse vines wrapping themselves around Gregors limbs.

Owen took a cautious step backward, casting a nervous glance at the perimeter.

“So what I’m hearing is, I’m expected to get rolled up like Shorty and smoked like a blunt by a damn plant?”

Gregor let out a low exhale, part sigh, part laugh, shaking his head. “More like… you’ll smell the best thing you’ve ever smelled in your life. Like your favorite meal when you’re starving. And then you’ll be devoured by the thing that gave it to you.”

#the underland chronicles #gregor the overlander #tuc #seeker of the warrior #gregor and the seeker of the warrior #fanfic #tuc fanfiction #underland chronicles #suzanne collins

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