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dragongodryss · 1 month

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The knight and the dragon

(Stingue centric) (Warning: (Long( 16'000+Words)))

Incorporates the following prompts: Cursed, Impossible Quest, Abandoned Child and Forbidden Love.

Once upon a time, there lived a knight, Sir Sting Eucliffe by name. Though he was well liked by the common folk for his radiant self confidence and easygoing demeanor, his peers despised him for his arrogance and strange origins. Not that he would ever care.

He'd been abandoned, left as an infant at the order's door, and taken in by the knights of the Dawn Order. From a young age, many had taken notice of his talents. Some whispered vicious rumors in envious tones, whilst others sought to groom him into the perfect weapon, to be used for their machinations. Sir Eucliffe was well aware of that, for he was no fool, and so he hardened his heart and carried on.

To the common folk, he was quite the hero, defeating monsters, witches and bandits alike with ruthless efficiency, a confident smile on his face as he fought alone. No one would fight beside him, they all considered it beneath their station. With no one to turn to, all Sir Eucliffe had to rely on were himself and his skills. That was plenty, he told himself. More than those weak willed mongrels that boasted themselves to be knights would ever have.

To the knights, he was an arrogant fool who had rejected the gods themselves, who had only gotten away with it because he was the cruel and corrupt commander's prized weapon. Needless to say, there was no love between Sir Eucliffe and the knights of the Dawn Order. And so, for years to come, Sir Eucliffe of the Dawn Order fought alone, amongst cheers of hollow praise and whispers of jealous hatred.

When he had reached his twentieth year, or thereabouts, he had developed a reputation among the knights for being quick to draw his blade and slow to forgive. That meaning that he had yet to forgive any transgression against him. By that point, some had come to miss the mischievous yet kind and hopeful child he had once been, but it was too late.

Slowly, stories of his many duels had reached to common folk that had once loved him so, and as they found their way back to his ears, he grew enraged. But still, he fought on, further hardening his heart as the only source of warmth in his life started to fade. His light burned on, as cold as the ghost lights that haunted the moors. Present, if only as a cruel mockery of the warmth he once held.

The day the commander fell, all expected Sir Eucliffe to fall with him, and he would have, if not for the king's intervention. Never one to pass up the opportunity to appear benevolent, he offered the fallen knight a chance to redeem himself.

Deep in the mountains, far beyond where any sane traveler would ever venture, a toddler lay crying, deep in a cold dark cave. 'Monster', they had called him as they had dragged him out there, for the simple crime of being cursed by a witch, for the sins of his parents, no less. Not that he understood, not yet.

They had been scared to kill him anywhere near home, for fear that he would return to haunt them, and thus had taken him high up into the mountains, where no one would come across his vengeful spirit. As fate would have it, he wasn't alone, and the voice coming from deep within the darkness started to soothe the crying toddler, offering him his life for his company. Of course it was not so simple, but the child would have done anything to not be alone, for the voice to stay. It was no price to offer the shadow his company, not when he had nowhere else to go. Unlike him, however, the shadow wanted vengeance for the betrayal he had suffered, no matter that it had taken place centuries prior.

Over a few years, the nameless child, with the shadow's help, learned read and write and hunt and gather and make medicines. But slowly, his curse began to rear its ugly head as the small patch of glossy black scales on his hand began to spread up his arm. It was a good thing, the shadow assured him. Harnessed properly, it would give him power. And so the child began to exert control over the curse, learning to force it to turn his fingers into razor sharp claws or to retract back into the small patch of scales.

On his tenth year, or thereabouts, he ventured from the mountains with the medicines he'd made, to find more people at the shadow's behest. He didn't understand why; As far as he'd known, they'd been happy. They'd had everything they needed. But when he finally set eyes on the village, the scent of warm bread filling his nose, he understood, or at least he believed he did. It was busy, but absolutely captivating. His scales covered, he made his way into the settlement, returning the strange looks he received with a silent, wide-eyed stare.

For a couple of weeks, he found refuge in the stables, until one day, a stable hand came across the sleeping child and saw the scales on his hand. Once again, the child heard that nigh-forgotten word: 'Monster'. Never again would he forget it. Many words clung to his mind like the cobwebs that littered the mountain caves, but none like 'Rogue'. The tale repeated itself on occasion, with the shadow's whispers becoming ever darker as he encouraged Rogue to try again and again.

Every time he was rejected by a new village, Rogue fled to the mountains. Every time he was forced to use his magic to defend himself, the scales spread a little further, until the transformation reached his lungs. He was maybe fifteen when it happened, the townsfolk's violence, his growing curse and the shadow's whispers finally getting to him, and all his pain flowed out into a river of darkness pouring from his mouth as he screamed in frustration. As he blinked to awareness, he took in the destruction, the crumbling walls, the shallowly breathing forms of the villagers that had so viciously attacked him.

"Finish them."

The coldness in the shadow's voice snapped Rogue to awareness and he turned to flee when something caught his attention. He was on all fours, his back arched, looking at the small villagers. He looked down at his feet, no, his hands, to find scaly claws digging into the ground. In panic, he jumped back, feeling a surge of pain in a limb he was sure hadn't existed before. He'd hit a house, but with what? He tried to move the limb to find his feet lifting from the ground and flapped his newfound wings once more, soaring into the skies back into the mountains. Only there did he force his body to return to human form.

From that day on, knights and adventurers alike ventured into Rogue's mountains. Frequently, he moved deeper into the mountains, away from the hunters, and away from the shadow, who had once been his only friend. But though he could outrun the hunters, he could never escape the deal he had made that fateful day, deep in the mountains. Never again, he vowed, would he seek out another human.

But his heart was stronger than his mind and his honor combined, for many times he broke that vow. Every time he found one of pursuers injured by the many peril the treacherous mountains his, he turned back to heal them. It was his fault that they were there in the first place. Their lives would be on his hands.

As though they were the plague, Rogue avoided using his powers, for fear that he couldn't turn back to being human. Though the hunters never found their dragon, rumors of a mountain witch started to spread, and many would feign injuries to lure him out. But in spite of the shadow's warnings, Rogue would still go check. What else could he do? What if he let someone who needed help die for fear of his own death?

Sir Eucliffe pondered the impossible tasks set by the king, wondering if it would not be better to die with honor. Retrieve the Heart of the Northern Skies, an ancient gem with the power to grant wishes, lost generations ago, slay the dragon of the Traitors' Mounts and capture the mountain witch and bring him before the king. Any one of these tasks would difficult for a group, but for one man, it was an impossible task.

But Sir Eucliffe would not back down. And as such, he announced his decision to the king and made his way to the mountains, to hunt down the elusive witch.

Cold glares followed him in every town he passed through, but he dismissed them with a bright smile and mocking wave. Perhaps it would have been easier on his heart to avoid settlements when possible, but Sir Eucliffe was a tenacious man, and so he kept his head held high. After two days, he reached his first destination, the home of two of the hunters, one of whom was said to have encountered the witch.

He knocked on their door, loudly and firmly, unwilling to suffer a refusal. Fortunately for everyone involved, a woman, with a jagged scar running from her jaw to her chest, opened the door. Her eyes darkened when she saw the knight, but he entered without a greeting and sat down at her table.

"You are the one who came across the mountain witch, are you not?" He asked flippantly as the woman reached for what he presumed was a weapon. She nodded grimly, closing the door.

"What does that have to do with you?" She growled, moving toward the door on the other side of the room and gripping her weapon. Someone had to be behind there, someone she wanted to protect. Sir Eucliffe couldn't ever have imagined what that felt like.

"The king has tasked me with capturing the witch. That is all that you need to know. Now will you hinder me, knowing I come on behalf of the crown, or will you do your duty to your kingdom?" He asked coldly, all semblance of friendliness gone like the wind. The woman's face set in grim determination, but she called to someone beyond the door. Someone stirred within, carefully making their way toward them. A man, sporting a mangled leg, limped through the doorway, supported by a rough crutch. Fearless, he sat in the seat opposite the fallen knight, his wife standing protectively beside him. Sir Eucliffe repeated his questions.

"Indeed. I was caught in a rock slide as Karina and I were hunting down the dragon, and we got separated. I shouted for help, but with all the wind, I feared that the gods themselves wouldn't have heard me. And yet here he was. A young man, probably about your age now, sliding down the cliff so gracefully that I mistook him for an angel, until I saw his eyes. No angel would have eyes like that. No human either, for that matter. I still dream about them, you know. He couldn't have heard me calling, I tell you! He must have conjured that rock slide himself to trick me. I very nearly fell for it, you know. He pulled the rocks off me as though they were but pillows, but he was smaller than me. Than I am now! Taller than you, mind. He could never have lifted all those rocks so easily, not without magic!" The man rambled. He was a fairly skinny man, about a head shorter than Sir Eucliffe.

"And then? What did the witch do?" The knight interrupted.

"I was just getting there. He pulled out some potions and started healing my wound. Then he just left. Disappeared. Karina arrived a few minutes later. And you know the crazy thing? All the other sightings are the same. Severe injury, the witch appears and leaves just before backup comes. And he'll come even if you just pretend, or so I heard, but only if you're alone. The minute before backup shows, he'll be gone."

"Good thing I'm going alone then."

With those words, he left the village, making his way to the mountains. His sharp eyes, rivaled only by his blade, watched the skies. With his luck, he couldn't rule out that the dragon wouldn't strike while he was distracted.

After a week of traveling, Sir Eucliffe prepared to set a trap for the witch, with little hope that it would succeed. It was hardly a refined trap, merely designed to test the limits of the witch's abilities. Sir Eucliffe would stage a fall, leaving his sword just out of reach, and if the witch appeared, the knight would strike him with a poisoned dagger. The place was isolated, he would see the witch coming from afar.

However, in his plan, there was but one hitch: The ledge from which he would stage his fall was but an arm's length away from the nest of a griffon! Barely concealed by the jutting rocks, it had avoided Sir Eucliffe's attention. As such, when he climbed the ledge, about to 'slip', the griffon struck him from behind. His sword, which he had rigged to fall out of reach, did just that.

His options were to use his dagger, which he had concealed from the witch so far, or kill the griffon with his bare hands. Ever the valiant knight, Sir Eucliffe seized the griffon by the throat, pressing his thumbs into its windpipe. For a few agonizing minutes, he held on, despite the panicked monster's struggles, until it fell from the air into the valley below, far further than Sir Eucliffe had anticipated. With great dexterity, he maneuvered himself to fall onto it, breaking his fall.

Then he lay, with bated breath, at the bottom of the valley, hoping that the ordeal hadn't been for naught. Luck was with him that day, as the witch appeared not an hour later, trotting cautiously towards the fallen knight. "Another?" The breeze carried his tired whisper as he slowed to a walk.

"Please... Help me..." Sir Eucliffe begged, though he was unharmed. The witch closed the distance, kneeling an arm's length from him.

"Where does it hurt?" He asked softly, as though speaking to a frightened child. Sir Eucliffe resented it. The witch's eyes swept over him, and could see what the former hunter had meant. Those captivating red eyes could bewitch any who looked upon them. Such was not an angel's power. His mark's face was gaunt, and his eyes were sunken, almost overshadowed by the dark circles around them. Sir Eucliffe thought that would serve to make anyone else less attractive, but it only made him wonder what could possibly have caused him to look like that. Finally, he realized that the witch was expecting an answer.

"My...my back. And my shoulder. The right one." He cursed himself for getting caught in the witch's spell. He had been the kingdom's greatest knight! Shame crept over him.

"Can I take a look?" The witch asked. What did he think Sir Eucliffe expected him to do? "I mean, because of your armor. I can't check with your armor on." Some witch he was.

"You may." Sir Eucliffe agreed. The witch shuffled over, trying to make sense of the knight's pauldrons and how to remove them. It didn't help that Sir Eucliffe was lying on his supposedly injured shoulder. Perhaps he could stab him now, but he wanted to give the witch a chance to let his guard down first. Finally, the witch sighed.

"I didn't want to do this before knowing how grievous your wounds were, but I don't suppose we have a choice. I'll have to move you." The witch paused, waiting for Sir Eucliffe's assent. The knight nodded slowly, his back was supposed to be injured after all. "This will probably hurt. I could give you something for the pain, but it will make it harder to find what's wrong. It is your choice." The witch kept his voice low, but even then, it was bewitching. If this was how he spoke, Sir Eucliffe feared to hear him sing.

"I'm strong. I'll do without." The first part had been an affirmation to himself more than an answer. But it was the right choice. Who knew what side effects the potion would have?

Carefully, the witch snaked a hand under the knight before lifting Sir Eucliffe's left arm over his shoulder, preparing to pick him up. As the witch started to pull, with a gentle strength Sir Eucliffe hadn't anticipated despite the hunter's warnings, their chests connected, and Sir Eucliffe wondered when the last time he had been held was.

The dagger was in his left bracer, his left arm conveniently at the witch's back. The knight shoved down his sentimental side, which had to have come from the witch's magic anyway, and struck. He felt the weapon slide smoothly into the witch's lower back, prompting a cry of shock from the witch. Sir Eucliffe braced himself to be dropped as he roughly pulled out the dagger, but even as the witch crumpled to his knees, he didn't drop the knight. Worried, Sir Eucliffe contemplated stabbing him again, not wanting the witch's strength to be turned against him. It didn't come to that, as the witch carefully placed him against the griffons cooling body and staggered back. It seemed like the poison wasn't working, Sir Eucliffe noted for future reference.

Lifeless red eyes met Sir Eucliffe's cold blue ones. No surprise could be found the witch's face, only disappointment.

He dropped his bag of potions within reach of the knight and staggered away into the bushes, away from this newest betrayal. It was foolish, Rogue knew, to hope that things would be different every time he met a new person. In his defense, however, victims of legitimate accidents were usually less likely to try to kill him and any who did end up attacking usually did so a lot sooner, as soon as he came into range. His shadow mocked him once again, as always when he was betrayed, but Rogue could barely hear it. Could only register the ground approaching at frightening speeds. Had the dagger been poisoned? As his limbs grew ever heavier, Rogue concluded that the answer was yes.

So this was how he would die. A raindrop narrowly missed his eye as the rain he'd been looking forward to since that morning finally came.

Sir Eucliffe looked through the bag, filled with potions and medical supplies. The witch had made the effort of labeling the potions and had clearly made the conscious choice of leaving the bag with him. Not for the first time, the knight was starting to suspect. Thud. Sir Eucliffe looked up in the direction of the sound, where the witch had gone. Gingerly, he got to his feet, picked up the bag of medicine and followed the witch's path as it started to rain.

The rain had started pouring in the short minute it had taken him to reach the witch, who appeared to have succumbed to the poison. He was still conscious, at least somewhat. The side of his face that was visible was wet with rain, his hair and clothes already drenched. Though he lay still, Sir Eucliffe could see the fear in his eye. The knight looked around for a dry place to hide and wait out the rain. His eyes fell on a small cave nearby and he gritted his teeth, preparing to carry the witch there. Because he needed him alive. For no other reason.

To Rogue's surprise, the knight picked him up and started to walk away. Didn't he know that it was dangerous to travel in this weather? Rogue tried to tell him, but he could not make his tongue cooperate. Fortunately, the knight stopped soon after, putting him down on the rocky floor of a shallow cave. Then he started rummaging in his backpack out of Rogue's sight. Desperately, Rogue tried to turn his head to look, but he couldn't move. He could feel his eyelids growing heavy and fought to at least control them. He couldn't fall asleep now. In a frantic attempt to free himself, Rogue called upon his curse, scared of the knight's silence.

Wings burst from his back, tearing his shirt and painfully colliding with the cave wall. Thanks to them, he got to his feet, but those couldn't hold him.

Sir Eucliffe spun around as he heard something hit the wall, just in time to see the witch fall to the ground. He tried to lift himself up by his draconic wings, but he seemed to have less control over them with every moment that passed. In his addled state, the witch still seemed to realize it. In but a second, the wings folded in on themselves and disappeared, leaving the witch to collapse miserably onto the floor.

Sir Eucliffe grabbed the rope he'd been looking for and made his way to the witch, dragging him to the wall once more, below one of the roots partially protruding from the deepest wall of the cave, far from the rain. He looped the rope around the root and started to bind the witch's wrists together, all the while contemplating the implications of the draconic wings. As he worked on securing the restraints, the witch's sleeve fell back to reveal glossy, obsidian scales. Sir Eucliffe ran his finger over them, marveling at how smooth they were. The witch's hand twitched, as though he had tried to pull his hand away, and the knight turned to see that he was still stubbornly clinging to consciousness. He took his hand away from the scales and got up to set up camp. They weren't going anywhere tonight.

The witch had finally gone to sleep, slumped against the wall. He was turned towards Sir Eucliffe, reproachful even in his sleep. If Sir Eucliffe was right, and he was sure he was, the dragon and the witch were one and the same. Problem was, he needed one dead, and one alive. He would cross that bridge when he got to it. Now all he needed was to find the Heart of the Northern Skies, a gem lost for centuries. Daunting as defeating a witch and a dragon seemed, the task he'd feared most was this one, the one he'd left for last. Where could he even start?

He'd heard rumors of a seer on the other side of the mountains, perhaps he could start there. But for now, he needed to perform a little magic of his own. He looked at the enchanted cuffs in his hands, recalling the ritual. Draw blood from himself and the witch, pour it on the cuffs, then cuff the witch. If it worked, it would bind the witch to him, preventing him from going further than Sir Eucliffe allowed and, more importantly, from using magic. The king had lent them to him for the purpose of bringing the witch back, like a trophy of sorts. Though disgusted by the idea, the knight started the ritual. His life depended on this mission. Meticulously, he cleaned the dagger of any traces of poison before drawing blood from himself, before suddenly remembering the stab wound that he had given the witch. He took some blood from the wound, smearing the cuffs. They started to glow red, absorbing the blood. After untying the witch, Sir Eucliffe cuffed him, before carrying him to the open bedroll. He laid the witch down on his stomach before cleaning his wound. Removing the tattered shirt, he saw scars, many of them. Not from weapons, or at least not from things intended as weapons. If he had to guess, the two round scars, one on his arm and one on his lower back, had come from a pitchfork, several years ago. The slashes had probably come from a bullwhip, Sir Eucliffe thought, tracing them. They were also old, likely sustained during childhood. Feeling sick to his stomach, Sir Eucliffe wrapped the knife wound before wrapping the witch in his blanket and tucking him into the bedroll.

The knight removed his armor before sifting through his supplies for food. As he ate, he watched the witch. What was his name?

After a couple of hours, the witch started to stir, but stayed asleep for the moment. Sir Eucliffe wondered if he should wake him to offer him some food. Looking at the shadows under his eyes, he decided against it.

Rogue felt warm. Warmer that he had in a while. He wanted to go back to sleep, but the memories from before he had fallen unconscious started flooding back. Warily, he opened his eyes. He was lying face down on... was it a bed? He wasn't sure. Gingerly, he sat up, or at least tried to, until a sharp pain shot through his back. Gritting his teeth, he tried again, more slowly this time. The cold air bit at his exposed back, and the resulting shiver made his arms give way. An arm snaked around his chest before he could fall down again, lowering him gently back into the bed. Rogue turned his head.

The knight was crouched beside him, a look of concern on his face. "Stay still. You've torn your wound open." He told Rogue firmly. Rogue froze, abruptly aware that the scales on his arm were in plain sight. Had the knight noticed them?

Sir Eucliffe worked on wrapping the wound again. He felt the witch's heartbeat quicken and tried to work more gently. In the corner of his eyes, he noticed the witch's arm move, then felt him wince beneath his hands. Firmly, he took hold of the witch's arm, stilling it. "You'll hurt yourself."

Rogue was tempted to ask why the knight cared. It wasn't as though he had stabbed himself. More worryingly, the knight's hand was on his scales, though he had yet to comment on them. "Let me go." He ordered, as menacingly as possible.

"I'll get off you when I've finished taking care of your wound." The knight told him, but let go of his arm. Once again, Rogue tried to hide it under the blanket. He was already a witch to the knight, no need to appear a monster. Suddenly, he froze, remembering his attempt at escape before passing out. The knight had seen his wings! Then why was he taking care of Rogue now? "I know you're cold, but I'll only take a minute." The knight promised. Now that he mentioned it, Rogue was cold.

Once the knight had finished, he put one of his hands under Rogue's shoulder and put the other around his waist, carefully turning him around. Rogue hissed at the unexpected touch, but the knight carefully put him down and pulled the blanket back over him before moving away.

Sir Eucliffe pulled the food out of his bag before returning to the witch, who was warily watching him. "You must be starving. Help yourself." He handed the witch the food. Hesitantly, the witch took it from him, not taking his eyes off him as he started to eat. "My name is Sting Eucliffe. What's yours?" The witch swallowed his mouthful before answering.

"Rogue, I suppose." He said. He took another bite of the dried beef, still watching Sir Eucliffe. The knight sat down beside him, meeting his reproachful eyes.

"Please to make your acquaintance, Rogue." Sir Eucliffe said, desperate to stop the witch from looking at him like he was some sort of monster. He didn't know why. He had stabbed Rogue in the back mere hours ago, after all. He had every right to see Sir Eucliffe as a monster.

"Are you really?" Rogue asked dully. Sir Eucliffe bristled, forcibly reminding himself that Rogue was asking a reasonable question, no matter how much it stung. He thought for a moment, searching for an answer.

"More than I have been meeting most people, especially of late." Rogue would have hated to be someone he wasn't pleased to meet if that was the case. "Are you still cold?" Absolutely, but Rogue wasn't going to tell him that. He shook his head, and yet Sting clearly didn't buy it. Before he could respond, however, Rogue finally noticed the cuffs on his wrists. What were they for? Were they magical? They had to be. What did they do?

"It's alright! They're just there to stop you from running away. Just try to ignore them." Sting said quickly. He unbuttoned his coat and took it off. "Since your shirt is ruined, you can wear this." He reached for Rogue, but now that he had regained some strength, Rogue didn't intend to let himself be picked up. Hastily, he tried to shuffle away, but the pain in his back made him pause. "Careful!"

"I'm alright. I'm not cold." Rogue lied.

"You're still shivering. I know you're afraid of me, and you have every right to despise me. That doesn't mean I am going to let you make things worse for yourself." Sir Eucliffe told him firmly. "Now we're going to put the coat on you, and then I'll go back to my book and leave you alone. Then when the rain stops, we'll leave." He reached for Rogue again, and though the witch glared at him, he didn't back away. Sir Eucliffe would consider that a victory. He sat Rogue up and bundled him up in his warm coat. He was already missing it, but Rogue needed it more. "There we go. Now as promised, I'll leave you alone."

When the rain ceased a couple of days later, Rogue watched Sting pack up his camp, valiantly ignoring the way his stomach felt as though it had been filled with lead. The knight had been silent for the most part.

The only conversation of note was when he had told Rogue that he was free to go as far as the cuffs would let him. That had been followed by a short argument once Rogue had found out just how short that distance was. After dragging himself ten meters along the cave wall, his feet had simply ceased to move. Panicked, Rogue had sought another path, but never could he stray further from the knight. The bastard had been watching his every move from the dry safety of the cave, likely gloating at the terrified man’s attempts. Rogue had, in his desperation, tried to manifest his wings. That was when he had discovered the cuffs’ secondary properties. Distraught, he had slumped down beside a tree, which did little to shield him from the pouring rain. His wounds were tearing into him, some of his old scars even acting up.

Once Sting had dragged him back into the cave and Rogue had caught his breath, he had started shouting at the knight, demanding to be set free. Of course, his request had been denied, and after repeated attempts, Rogue had stopped trying. He hadn’t spoken since then and had no intention of changing that.

Sir Eucliffe felt Rogue's glare on his back, but every time he turned around, the witch had turned away. Sighing, Sir Eucliffe finished packing and turned to the witch. The silence had gone on long enough. "Alright, Rogue. Ready to go?" Not a word. Shame. "Come on Rogue. Lovely voice like yours, tis a shame not to use it." The witch still didn't speak, but he found the courage to glare at him again. Anyone else, he would have challenged to a duel. It was an insult after all. But not only did Rogue have every reason to look at him that way, not least of all after his comment, he was completely the knight's mercy. Not to mention it would have been odd to challenge him after staring at his eyes for so long. "I suppose that was hardly appropriate." Sir Eucliffe conceded gently. Rogue looked at him blankly.

The knight made his way over and slowly tried to lift Rogue to his feet. Letting himself go limp, the witch gave Sir Eucliffe a wide smirk. Sir Eucliffe rolled his eyes. "Not going to make this easy for me, are you? Brat." Rogue stuck his tongue out. Sir Eucliffe chuckled faintly, the first genuine laugh he'd had in a long while, and carefully set him down. The witch's triumphant smile brought new laughter to the knight. "I'd wager you're proud of yourself."

"Very." Rogue didn't manage to stop that one word. He cursed himself internally as Sting's cold blue eyes lit up the slightest bit. He locked his jaw and looked away. The knight chuckled gently.

"Very well, but we need to go. We still need to find the Heart of the Northern Skies. Come on."

"What do you mean we?" Rogue spat.

Sir Eucliffe explained his quest to the highly unimpressed Rogue. Slowly, the witch grew more worried. "And as you're bound to me for the time being, you're coming with me." Rogue didn't seem to be paying attention. His normally sharp eyes were wide and glazed over, staring slightly over the knight's shoulder. After a moment, his shoulders jerked, and seemingly subconsciously, curled up into a ball.

Until now, Rogue had not fully grasped the extent of the trouble he was in. He didn't want to know what the king had planned for him. Witches were dangerous. He wasn't one, but the king didn't know that. Keeping one around, especially one who was here against his will, was deeply foolish. What could the king possibly want with him? "Rogue? Focus on me." Sting ordered him firmly. Rogue blinked at him. The knight was kneeling beside him, genuine concern on his face. His hand cautiously hovered over Rogue's wrist, and he almost pulled it away out of habit.

Rogue wanted to ask him what would happen, but the words wouldn't come. All he could do was look intently at Sting. Comfortingly, the knight brushed his fingertips against his scales. "There, there-" His whisper cut off, his hand stilling against Rogue's arm.

Briefly surprised by the tears flowing freely, Sir Eucliffe resumed his attempts to comfort the witch. Guilt stabbed at his heart as he watched Rogue break down. He'd seemed so stoic, and Sir Eucliffe hadn't expected him to fall apart in front of a stranger. "Come on. Tell me what's going on." Rogue glared at him, hastily wiping away his tears.

"What do you think? I got stabbed in the back and you're going to drag me back to your accursed king for who knows what." The witch growled in a cracked voice.

"My apologies, Rogue. It is the only way for me to find redemption."

"Redemption for your crimes. Why must I bear the consequences?" Rogue snarled, looking more dragonlike than ever. "What have I done to deserve this?"

"The people fear you, and nothing else matters. Perhaps I can persuade the king to release you, when we return victorious. But for that to stand a chance, you'll need to convince the people that you aren't a threat to them. Come with me. Help me find the heart." Sir Eucliffe requested earnestly. Rogue's glare softened, and Sir Eucliffe could practically see the moment he started to hope. The knight prayed that it would not be in vain.

With that, Sir Eucliffe carefully helped Rogue leave the cave, slowly making their way down the winding mountain path. Fortunately the skies remained clear as they cleared the mountains in a week's walk. Fewer and fewer people recognized the knight, and slowly, his demeanor brightened. Rogue grew less nervous the longer they traveled, as they never stayed long enough for his scales to be discovered.

They reached the town where the seer was said to live. Sir Eucliffe asked around as to where they lived, and soon, they found the house. The knight knocked on door, breath bated. Rogue stayed behind him, eyeing the door uneasily. The door swung open with a creak, revealing a blonde woman, far younger than Sir Eucliffe had expected the seer to be. Maybe she was their granddaughter. "Good day, madam. We come to seek a seer, we heard of one who lives here." The knight told her. She shook her head.

"Begone. You aren't welcome here."

"For what reason?" Sir Eucliffe demanded.

"Your reputation precedes you, Sir Eucliffe of the Dawn Order. You are not welcome here." She reiterated, her voice growing heated.

"Let us go, Sting." Rogue suggested. Maybe if they never found the Heart of the Northern Skies, he would never be turned in to the king. The woman's brown eyes briefly flashed gold, so quickly that Rogue almost thought he had imagined it.

"A moment, please. You, we are willing to deal with, Ryos of Anemone. No... Rogue, isn't it?"

"What was the first one?" Rogue asked quickly, the rest of her sentence rapidly fading from his mind. Her eyes flashed gold again.

"You didn't know? Your given name is Ryos. Ryos of Anemone." We know our target. Anemone. His shadow spoke for the first time since he's run into Sting. Having grown used to the quiet, Rogue jumped back. Sting caught him as he stumbled, drawing his blade as he glared at the woman.

"What did you do to him!" Sir Eucliffe shouted. He hadn't registered anything the woman had said, had only seen her eyes flash gold.

"Sting, what are you doing?" Rogue hissed, struggling to his feet. The woman, no, the seer, tapped her knuckles against the door frame. Rogue heard two people get up and make their way to them, stopping just out of sight.

"Will you come or not?" The seer asked, her patience seemingly fading fast. Little as Rogue wanted to find the Heart, he didn't really a good reason to refuse. He nodded reluctantly.

"No. He won't be until you tell me what you did." Sir Eucliffe threatened.

"Yes I will be. She didn't do anything, Sting. Besides, you have no reason to care." Rogue snapped. Sir Eucliffe considered dragging him away, but they needed the information,

"Very well then. Call out if you need me." Rogue had no intention of doing that. A little annoyed at himself for giving up an ironclad reason to reject information, he stepped inside. The seer shut the door, and the other two people stepped into the light, seemingly from nowhere. The tallest one, a pink haired man somewhat shorter than Rogue, spoke:

"Luce, why have you gone back on our decision? We agreed that we wouldn't assist knights, and certainly not the witch-slayer himself!" He asked, confounded. The white haired woman was still eyeing the door cautiously, watching the seer lock it.

"We'll discuss this upstairs, Natsu. Lisanna, sweetheart, could you get us something to drink? This may take a while." Sting would be very pleased with that. Natsu led the way upstairs, gesturing for Rogue to follow him. Luce joined them after assuring that the door was properly secured.

"Who are you?" Natsu questioned, sitting down in a plush chair.

"Rogue."

Natsu waited for a moment, as though expecting Rogue to continue, but Rogue didn't, still wary of the trio's motives. "Could out-babble a brook, you could." The man commented, reaching out towards a candle and lighting it with a snap of his fingers. Rogue's eyes widened. "Never seen magic before? Hey Luce, why would you let him in if he's traveling with the witch-slayer and he's not magic?"

"Not now, Natsu. Wait until Lisanna gets here." The seer said. "It will save me my breath."

Fortunately, it was not long a wait, for soon Rogue heard her footsteps on the stairs. She carried two platters, one containing two jugs and four cups and the other carrying a mountain of bread rolls. They were still warm, their smell carrying over to where Rogue was seated. "Milk or wine?" She asked. Rogue asked for the former, his experience with wine limited to observing the occasional town drunk. Hardly a favorable impression.

Once they all had their respective foods and beverages, the seer started to speak: "As you may have gathered, my name is Lucy, and these are Natsu and Lisanna. Lisanna, this is Rogue." The white haired woman waved at him, and Rogue hesitantly waved back. "The three of us are all witches, so I hope you understand why we don't wish to deal with your companion." Rogue nodded. He didn't really want to deal with his companion either. Perhaps it was in his head, but the half healed wound in his back twinged a little as he thought so. Lucy had stopped speaking, and Rogue realized that she was expecting a response. He nodded hurried, turning his focus back to her.

"We came here to ask about the Heart of the Northern Skies. It's been missing for centuries. We don't know where to begin looking." Rogue explained.

"Yes, I am aware. But that is not why I let you in. You're not here of your own free will, are you?" Lucy asked. Natsu and Lisanna's eyes widened. Rogue shook his head, wondering where this was going. "I can't see the specifics, but you have two options: The first is to stay with us, and kill the witch-slayer. The second is to go with him and fulfill his quest." Her tone was grave, and Rogue knew she was hiding something. Silently, he waited for her to continue, twisting the cuffs around his wrists. "If you stay with us, your curse will never be lifted. Your mind should remain the same, but eventually, you'll transform permanently."

"I don't believe I could stay. These cuffs bind me to him." Rogue admitted, revealing the cuffs and by extension his scales.

"That is why we would have to kill him." Lucy stated, folding her hands into her lap. Rogue didn't know what to say. Freedom was within his grasp, but he wasn't sure he could kill for it. It was of no matter. He didn't want to kill for it. He didn't want anyone to die for it.

"I'll go with him." Rogue decided.

"What do you mean? He put a sealing spell on you, and you want to help him?" Natsu growled, baffled by Rogue's choice.

"It would be for the best, yes. If you are willing to do that, there is a chance that your curse will be broken." Lucy said. "And we'd never be able to rest with the Dawn Order after us."

"How? Can it really be broken?" Rogue asked hopefully.

"I don't know how, I just know that it can. Sorry I can't be more of more help."

"That's alright. Do you know where we can find the Heart of the Norhtern Skies?" Rogue asked, trying to hide his disappointment. Lucy shut her eyes, trying to find at least something.

"I see you two finding it, but I can't see how. As far as I can see, no one will tell you. -Wait! No. It's strange. Like you suddenly knew. I'm sorry, I don't know." Lucy apologized. Rogue froze, looking at his shadow.

"Thank you. I think I know who to ask." He wasn't looking forward to it. What he looked forward to even less was whatever the king had planned. "One more question: You called me Ryos of Anemone. Is that really my name?"

"Ryos was the name your parents gave you, yes. Anemone is your hometown."

"Right. Are my parents alive?" Rogue queried.

"A moment, please." Lucy said, her eyes flashing gold. She reached a hand out to Rogue. "May I?" Rogue nodded. She touched his forehead lightly, the gold color in her eyes fully taking over the brown for several seconds. "They don't appear to be. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Thank you for telling me." Rogue thanked her. "I thank all of you for letting me in, and for the food."

He said his goodbyes to the other three and walked out to Sting, who hadn't moved from the door. "Did she tell you where we'll find the heart?" The knight asked once the house was out of sight.

"She said we'd find it, but she was vague on the how. I think we need to keep going until we figure it out." Rogue would be damned if he told Sting about the talking shadow that kept telling him to seek revenge, preferably through murder. Sting sighed irritably.

"Well isn't that helpful? Fate could not possibly have spared me this, could it?" The knight complained. "Could she have lied to you?"

"No. No, I believe she was telling the truth." But Rogue was the same person who had fallen for the same trap a hundred times, so what did he know? That very thought seemed to be on the knight's mind. However, he let it go.

Since they had no leads, aside from the vague prophecy, Sir Eucliffe decided to start searching in a more enjoyable place. The coast was nearby and was said to be wonderful this time of year, and it was as good a place as any to start their search. Though it was not far, Sir Eucliffe felt that they would be traveling a lot, and as such decided that a wagon would be a wise purchase.

The trouble was, he lacked the funds to purchase one. Thus, followed by a confused yet resigned Rogue, he started to look for something to do.

"Would you care to tell me why you seek an audience with the count?" Rogue hissed into Sir Eucliffe ear, wrapping the knight's coat around himself uncomfortably.

"We need money for a wagon and horse and supplies, and we need it soon. Might that the count has some monsters that require slaying." Sting told him. As long as the 'monsters' he spoke of weren't witches, Rogue didn't mind. Not that he would have a choice in the matter. As such, he nodded in understanding, warily following the knight's lead as they were announced.

It was but a short conversation, as Sting left out much of their story in his explanations. The count might have found it suspicious, had he not been desperate for help. But as luck would have it, he was, for a town south of the one they just left had recently become the hunting grounds of a griffon. Considering just how well Sting's previous griffon battle had gone, there was no way this could go wrong.

Still, the knight accepted at once, for what Rogue assumed was a high price. As Sting turned to leave, the count spoke again: "And your companion? What of him? He hardly seems to be a fighter." Sting turned around, briefly glancing at Rogue as he did. It was a fair question. With the cuffs on his wrists, he couldn't transform.

"You think me incapable of slaying a griffon alone?" Sir Eucliffe growled disdainfully. The count started to rescind his impertinent question. "He is traveling with me. He isn't here to fight." Sir Eucliffe didn't know why he was angered by the idea of Rogue having to fight, but he didn't have to.

"Of course, of course! My apologies, I shouldn't have pried." The count said shakily, hurriedly trying to get back into Sir Eucliffe's good graces. Magnanimously, Sir Eucliffe decided to forgive the man, brushing off his prying. On the edge of his vision, he could see Rogue rolling his eyes. He turned around to shoot him a brief glare, but Rogue didn't flinch, looking unimpressed.

On one hand, Sir Eucliffe was worried that this would make the count rethink his fear of him. On the other, Rogue didn't seem to be scared of him anymore, which could only be a good thing. Fortunately, the count didn't seem notice. Thanking his lucky stars, Sir Eucliffe left the building, Rogue right behind him.

They set off right away, back to the mountains to slay the beast. While Rogue wouldn't be helping him fight, he couldn't stay in the village alone, and thus he had to go with Sir Eucliffe. He didn't seem to mind, at least.

Rogue wished Sting good luck when they separated at the foot of the mountains. Due to the magic of the cuffs, he'd still have to follow him, but at a distance, hopefully far enough to stay out of the fight.

He watched Sting make his way to the griffon's nest, sword drawn. As such, he noticed the griffon before the knight did, seeing it circle back when it saw him. He could just stay put, do nothing. The knight would likely win, but the sneak attack would injure him. Rogue would be able to easily overpower him.

No. Rogue gripped his arm, his nails cutting into flesh. The shadow's voice was becoming ever harder to distinguish from his own. "Sting!" He called out to the knight. Sting didn't turn, not until the griffon swooped him. Then, as fluidly as a river, he spun around, his sword finding the beast's heart. It's momentum carried it forward, Sting's sharp blade almost tearing it in two. As the bloodstained blade caught the light of the sun, it cast small speckles of red and white light onto the mountainside, dancing among the spatters of blood that covered it as Sting moved.

The spell broke as the knight lowered his blade, walking over to the griffon's corpse to sever its head as proof of his triumph. Unfazed, he made his way back to Rogue. "Let's go get our reward." He said simply. Rogue nodded wordlessly, following him back down the mountain.

It had taken all Sir Eucliffe had not to turn around the moment Rogue had called his name. He had expected the griffon to move the way it had, as that was their typical hunting strategy, and had planned accordingly. He had neglected to tell Rogue as much, but even then, he was surprised that he had chosen to warn him.

Now, his main struggle was not to bring it up. Rogue had always helped people when he could. He wasn't special. "I apologize if I distracted you."

Sir Eucliffe froze at the unnecessary apology, but responded swiftly: "Nothing to apologize for. I should have told you about the plan." They walked in silence for a moment before he spoke again: "When we get our reward, we're going to go to the seaside to start searching. I don't expect we'll find anything, but we should go regardless." Rogue nodded.

"Is it far?" He asked.

"Not very. But as we will be traveling for a while, we may as well buy a wagon." Sir Eucliffe explained. "It's quite nice there, I'm sure you'll like it."

"Will there be many people?" Rogue asked, twisting the cuff on his scaled arm.

"Some, I'm sure. We shan't stay in one place for too long. The weather will be nice, or so I'm told, so we should be able to stay in the wagon some nights." Sir Eucliffe offered. They had reached the foot of the mountains at that point, not to far from their destination. When Rogue nodded, the knight continued: "It may be pretty warm, so we'll need to get new clothes. Something light. I'm sure we'll find something to cover your arm."

They returned to the count, with the griffon's head as proof of their victory. He was a little surprised at how quickly they had returned, but compensated them as promised. Within the week, Sir Eucliffe had managed to get his hands on a wagon, alongside the necessary modifications. Rogue stayed beside him as he did so, working on his potions. They went out for more herbs when Sir Eucliffe wasn't negotiating, Rogue finding those he needed with practiced ease. Still, he checked them every time, just in case he was wrong.

Their last job before they set out was to pick up their clothes from the tailor. Sir Eucliffe dressed quickly, not bothering to put his armor back on. When he came out, Rogue was already waiting for him. For a moment, Sir Eucliffe felt that he had forgotten how to breathe. Rogue had decided to cut his hair that morning, and had put it up in small ponytail, exposing a small sliver of his neck above the high-necked collar of his shirt. That might not have been an issue were it not for the fact that the shirt only had one sleeve, loosely covering his scaled hand in contrast to how the shirt clung to his upper body. The bottom of the shirt was tucked haphazardly into his light trousers, as though he'd done so in a hurry. Sir Eucliffe barely spared the clothes a glance, his eyes drawn to the exposed arm. He could barely make out the muscles, but they were definitely there, moving as Rogue shifted awkwardly. Sir Eucliffe tried to snap out of it. He'd seen Rogue without a shirt before. Unfortunately, as he snapped his head up to face Rogue, he met his gaze. Those enchanting eyes were no longer surrounded by dark circles, and as such appeared a far deeper red, small specks of violet and a lighter red catching his eye.

Rogue shifted as he noticed Sting watching him, worried he had been caught staring. His shadow berated him, telling him that he was being distracted. It could shut up.

Without his armor, Sting looked far more approachable, gentle even. He was wearing a sleeveless blue shirt, which he hadn't bothered to tuck in, as well as white trousers and brown leather gloves. His sword hung at his hip, swinging with every step he took. When the knight met his gaze, Rogue froze, trying to place the look Sting was giving him. His deep blue eyes had widened slightly, following Rogue's eyes every time they moved. His mouth hung slightly open, revealing perfect white teeth. They were straight, unlike Rogue's sharp fangs.

"Shall we go?" Rogue asked, attempting to cover his face with his hair before realizing he had put it up. Quickly, he ran his fingers through some of the strands, loosening them from the ponytail to frame his face. Sting jumped, hurriedly agreeing. Rogue decided not to question whatever that was about, instead waiting for the knight to lead the way.

Embarrassed, Sir Eucliffe walked to the wagon, his face burning with the might of a thousand suns. Rogue, walking beside him, suddenly sped up to stop in front of him, rummaging in his bag. "I can feel you burning up from here. Just a moment, I should have something for a fever. Is anything else wrong? Headache, sore throat?" Sir Eucliffe hadn't thought he could have been more embarrassed, but it appeared he was mistaken. He hadn't thought that Rogue's heightened senses would pick up on something like this. Was it really that bad? "Do you need to sit down?"

"No- No, Rogue, I'm fine. I'm not sick."

"You don't look fine. You look sick." Rogue argued, still sifting through the clay vials for some medicine.

"Rogue. I'm not discussing this with you. I'm not sick. Trust me." Really convincing. Rogue didn't look like he believed Sir Eucliffe, but he closed his bag. "It's not serious." He tried to reassure Rogue more softly. He hoped he was right. That this wasn't serious. It would become a huge problem if it was. Rogue wasn't paying full attention.

"That's weird. Your fever is going down."

"It's not a fever, Rogue."

"Alright. If you say so."

The rest of the walk to the wagon was quiet, with Rogue occasionally throwing concerned looks at him. Once Sir Eucliffe moved past his initially embarrassment and annoyance, he found it somewhat endearing.

Whatever was wrong with Sting wasn't among the ailments that his shadow had taught him about. That meant that it was either extremely trivial or extremely rare. Rogue wasn't on speaking terms with the shadow right now, but he might have to change that once the knight was out of earshot.

The first hour of the trip was largely uneventful, but Rogue found himself feeling sicker as the road grew rockier. When he couldn't stand it anymore, he opened his bag, running the possibilities through his mind. Food poisoning? Some other disease? He had a concoction that could make him throw up if it was the former, but he wasn't sure.

"Rogue, I told you I'm not sick." Sting reminded him. He turned to look at Rogue as he spoke and his face fell. Within moments, he stopped the wagon. "What's wrong? You look like death warmed up." Was it really that bad? He did feel faint. Before he could respond Rogue felt the bile rising in his throat and leaned over the side of the wagon, gracelessly emptying the contents of his stomach onto the road. He felt Sting pull away the hair that covered his face, waiting until Rogue was done to speak again: "Easy now. It's alright. Are you travelsick? Or is it something else?" He pulled out a handkerchief, gently wiping Rogue's face. When he regained his bearings, Rogue took it from him.

"Travelsick?" Rogue croaked miserably.

"Some people get sick on wagons and boats. When it's just boats, we say seasick. Do you think that's it?"

"I don't know. I've never been on a wagon before." He did feel better now that they had stopped moving. Slowly, he leaned back into the bench, staring at the wagon cover. The sunlight filtered through it, not too bright, but still warm. Rogue closed his eyes, enjoying it.

Sir Eucliffe watched Rogue relax, catching himself smiling as he did. He decided to give him a few minutes to recover. Meanwhile, he would rest as well. Sir Eucliffe didn't remember the last time he had allowed himself to laze around like this. Not in at least a decade and a half, he supposed. It felt wonderful.

Far later than Sir Eucliffe had intended, they set out again, going more slowly than before. In the middle of the afternoon, they reached the seaside. Sir Eucliffe decided to set up camp on close to a small town.

For a few days, they stayed there, questioning the locals for a couple of hours a day before returning to camp. After that, they moved to the next town, going at a leisurely pace, in part to spare Rogue from his travelsickness, in part because they were in no hurry. It was quite enjoyable, but Rogue dreaded the day they would find the Heart.

One night, when Sting had fallen asleep, Rogue got up and walked as far as he could from the knight. "Shadow?" Asking aloud was unnecessary, but it made Rogue feel slightly less insane. It made it easier to tell his thoughts and the shadow's apart. It was listening, Rogue knew. "Are we close? To the Heart?" Further than they'd ever been, his shadow told him. He didn't know how, but he was sure it was telling the truth. Rogue leaned against a rock, letting himself slide down to a sitting position. He was ashamed to find himself trembling in relief, but he couldn't tell why.

The weather was warm and sunny for the most part, but a few days after they reached the second town, clouds started to build on the horizon. "Smells like a bad storm's coming. Day or two from now, I'd say." Rogue warned Sting one morning, pointing to the clouds. The knight frowned, looking into the distance.

"I don't see anything. But it can't hurt to be cautious. We'll leave tomorrow. There's a town further inland, if we make it past the cliff." Sir Eucliffe suggested. Rogue nodded, though he seemed a little disturbed. "What's wrong?"

"I think we should leave today. Just to be safe." Rogue told him. Sir Eucliffe shook his head.

"I want to check the caves. The Heart might be there."

"It isn't. We shouldn't risk it." Rogue knew as soon as the words left his mouth that speaking had been a mistake. In his worry about potentially braving the cliffs during the storm, he'd ruined everything.

"What do you mean?" Since the night he'd overheard Rogue talking to himself, Sir Eucliffe had been sure he knew more than he let on. He'd kept quiet for the time being, for reasons he didn't fully understand. Rogue took a step back, away from him. His face was blank, his eyes darting around frantically, looking anywhere but Sir Eucliffe's face. "I know you know something, Rogue. I heard you, the night before last." Rogue took another step back. "Come back here. I'm not going to hurt you." The knight promised, forcing himself to calm down. After a moment of hesitation, Rogue complied but stayed silent.

For a couple of hours, both stayed silent. Rogue sat on the seat of the wagon, watching Sting make dinner. What could he even say? Should he tell him about his shadow? What would he do when asked why he hadn't said anything? Rogue didn't know. The obvious reason, not wanting to be dragged back to the king, didn't feel good enough for some reason. Not when he had misled the first person to show him compassion! With a jolt, Rogue realized why his original reason felt hollow. It had changed. Well, not changed. He had a second reason: He hadn't wanted to lose the companionship he'd found with Sting. Arguably, that was a far worse reason, and a stupid one at that.

"Sting?" He asked hesitantly. The knight got up from the fire and walked over to him, sitting down beside him.

"Do you know where the Heart is?" Sting asked after a moment.

"No. But I know how to find out." He admitted. "I'm sorry."

Sting flinched at Rogue's quiet apology. "What are you apologizing for? You've been far more helpful than I would have been." Rogue hadn't really done anything to help, but he supposed he could have been more difficult.

"I know how important this is to you. I'll find out. I'll tell you where it is." Sir Eucliffe almost wanted to tell him not to, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he watched at Rogue spoke to his shadow, trying to ignore the self-loathing that sparked up within him. "Huh... I wasn't expecting it to be there." Rogue noted after a few minutes of intent listening.

Shadow told Rogue, for the first time, the story of his death.

Once upon a time, centuries ago, there had been a king. He had been a strict ruler, but a just one. The common folk loved him, but the nobility grew resentful of him, both due to his insistence on holding them to the law and his refusal to use the Heart of the Northern Skies. His sister, hearing rumors of a coup, joined forces with the plotters to save herself and the rest of the family. With her help, the king was none the wiser. When the plotters struck, the king knew that his final hour was near. To his lover, he entrusted the Heart, the kingdom's most valued treasure. Valiantly, the king fought the enemies back, buying his lover some time to flee. The lover fled into the mountains, mortally wounded, and cursed the mountain range itself with his dying breath. For centuries, none had gotten far enough to find the Heart, and many took their search elsewhere.

Shadow had long since forgotten his name when Rogue had been left in his cave, and his sense of self was fading rapidly. Seeing that the child was his only hope at vengeance, he took him under his wing, trying to keep him alive.

Rogue could tell that Shadow didn't want to tell him. He had refused to speak of himself every other time he had asked. But with their rapidly merging thoughts, he had little choice. Rogue pushed his own concerns regarding that aside. Instead of dwelling on that somewhat horrifying fact, Rogue told Sting where the Heart was.

"How do you know?" Sir Eucliffe asked. After taking a deep breath, Rogue told him of the shadow that had followed him since his abandonment, of its history and most terrifyingly, of how their minds were slowly becoming one. He could tell that Rogue was scared of that, but didn't know what to do about it. "Let's eat." The knight instead suggested. Rogue nodded, leading the way to the fire.

Rogue hardly slept that night, dreading the day they found the Heart. When the sun rose, he got up and started to pack everything up. There wasn't much, and as such he finished quickly. With that done, he returned to Sting, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Sting? Wake up! Everything's packed."

"Huh?" Sir Eucliffe blinked a few times to discover that it was indeed dawn. "Rogue, what in the heavens' name is wrong with you? We're not leaving now. Go back to sleep." He grumbled. Rogue quietly went back to his bedroll, lying completely still, seemingly waiting for Sir Eucliffe to go back to sleep. The knight sighed, getting up. "You're worried." He stated. Rogue rolled over to face him, the look in his eyes confirmation enough. "Don't worry about what will or will not happen when we get back. I'll protect you." Sir Eucliffe promised.

"How? You'd barely have regained your honor. What power would you have?" Rogue questioned. He flinched, surprised at how bitter his voice sounded. Sting looked downcast, stung by his words. It only lasted a moment, however, before his eyes hardened, determination written on his face.

"I know what to do. On my life, I swear you'll be safe." Sir Eucliffe knew that that didn't answer Rogue's perfectly reasonable question, but his plan was truly a last resort, and he didn't want to bet on it. To his surprise, Rogue shrugged.

"Shall I trust you then?" Rogue asked, knowing he would regardless. There was nothing else he could do about his situation, and at least trusting Sting would give him some peace of mind.

"Yes. I'll burn the kingdom to the ground if that's what it took to keep my oath." The knight told him earnestly. Rogue felt his heart race.

"I- You need not do that." Rogue told him, trying to slow his breathing.

"Don't I?" Sir Eucliffe asked, smiling as he noticed the blush dusting Rogue's face. He recalled the incident a dozen days ago and decided to give him a hint. He reached out to touch Rogue's cheek, causing him to turn redder. "You're burning up, Rogue... I think it's the thing that happened to me. You know, when we got the wagon?" It took a moment for his words to register with Rogue, but when they did, they had the intended effect.

Rogue's face went from anxious to confused to slightly embarrassed, before realization dawned on him. "Ah, right. Then I guess I'll try to sleep it off." He suggested quickly, flopping back down onto his bedroll.

"You do that." Sir Eucliffe agreed, getting up. He wasn't getting back to sleep anytime soon, he supposed. He made himself breakfast, watching Rogue pretend to sleep. Not for the first time, Sir Eucliffe had doubts. Even with his backup plan, he would still be endangering Rogue. What if he skipped the original plan, abandoned his tasks and went straight to the backup?

No. He wasn't that strong. His whole life, he'd worked to rise in the ranks of the Dawn Order, even as it took everything from him, from his joy to his heart. He wasn't willing to throw all that away, not if there was the slightest chance that he wouldn't have to.

But he would not let it take Rogue from him. He was the one that had made Sir Eucliffe feel like a person again. The only one that consistently used his name. Sting. Not even he could bring himself to do that. Was it such a surprise that he had come to love Rogue? It hit him like a landslide. He loved Rogue!

Sir Eucliffe watched the sun continue to rise, letting it warm him up as he listened as Rogue's feigned sleep faded into being real. The slow, deep breaths combined with the warmth from the sun and his epithany lulled the weary knight to sleep.

It was nearly noon when Rogue awoke again, the sun, though high in the sky, almost fully covered by clouds. He looked around to find Sting leaning against the wagon, fast asleep. Quietly so as not to wake him again, Rogue got up to find something to eat. He settled on an apple and gave another to the horse. Poor thing might have to carry them up the mountains.

After that, he sat down beside Sting, looking out at the sea. He was going to miss this. After a while, he got up to get his brush, fixing his hair, which had become a mess while he slept. Stroke by stroke, he untangled it, wondering how he'd ever made do with just his fingers. Sting shifted beside him, resting his head on Rogue's shoulder. Since Rogue had already finished brushing that side, he didn't bother moving him, instead continuing to brush his hair. Once he had gotten over his surprise at the touch, he found that it felt nice, comforting even. When he couldn't realistically continue brushing his hair, he put down the brush and after a moment of hesitation, rested his head against Sting's.

Sir Eucliffe slowly awoke, the scent of wood-smoke and honey filling his nose. He opened his eyes to realize he was still outside the wagon, his head resting comfortably on something warm, a soft, heavy weight covering it. He could stay like this forever, and likely would have, were it not for the fact that he suddenly realized that he was sleeping on Rogue, who had sat down beside him at some point.

Sir Eucliffe jolted, causing Rogue to move immediately. "Are you alright?" Rogue asked him. Sir Eucliffe acquiesced, not sure if he was embarrassed at laying on Rogue or at his cowardly reaction to discovering that fact.

"My apologies for leaning on you. Must have been uncomfortable." Sir Eucliffe apologized. Rogue shrugged.

"Was it for you?" He asked.

"Come again? -No, it wasn't! I meant, it must have been for you!" Sir Eucliffe clarified, fearing Rogue would misunderstand.

"It wasn't. I would have moved if it were." Rogue assured him, watching relief flood the knight's face before he could mask it.

They made their way back to the mountains, leaving the brewing storm behind them. Driving slowly, they reached the foot of the mountains. Sir Eucliffe made the decision to sell the wagon, to Rogue's chagrin. He seemed to have grown fond of it despite his travelsickness. They kept the horse however. She would be helpful when it came to crossing the mountains. When Rogue remarked that hey had forgotten to name her, Sir Eucliffe spent the whole day coming up with a name. It had to be good. If it was bad, Rogue would think he was an idiot, and he'd made enough bad impressions to last a lifetime. Fortunately, Rogue found the name Solence to be wonderful. He failed to mention that he had been debating between Solace and Silence when Rogue had asked him, and that that been what had come out of his mouth.

Now they rode into the mountains on Solence's back, Rogue sitting behind Sir Eucliffe, both due to being taller and not knowing how to ride. Several a monster came their way, but the knight had ample experience with slaying them, so they were promptly defeated. Every time, Sir Eucliffe felt Rogue's eyes on him, and every time, his heart swelled with pride. It was different from the admiration of the people that he had long lost. It was quieter, warmer. Safer, and yet so much more fascinating.

Eventually, they made their way back to the cave where they had stayed when they first met. The night was close, and Rogue's cave a few hours away, so they decided to make camp. Sting decided that they should make stew, given that they had a few hours to spare. Rogue brushed out Solence's coat while Sting cut up the meat, and then went to sit down beside him, stirring the pot while the knight cut up the vegetables.

"What are you going to do once you're redeemed?" Rogue asked, continuing to stir lazily. Sting thought for a moment, his face slowly twisting into a haunted look.

"I don't know..." Sir Eucliffe realized in horror. He didn't want to go back to the way things were. The other knights had always hated him. The common folk had turned their backs on him the moment he was less than perfect. The king had only made a show of sparing him. Sir Eucliffe suddenly realized he had never been meant to succeed, much less in under two months.

He wanted to be safe! He wanted to be loved! He wanted to be able to look in the mirror every day and be proud of the person he saw looking back at him! He wanted to be Sting Eucliffe. But he'd come too far to turn back now, hadn't he?

Sir Eucliffe sighed, trying to shut away the incoming existential crisis. The concerned look Rogue shot him almost broke his resolve, but he stayed strong. "I'll have the king release you. After that, I'd like to continue traveling with you, if you'll come with me. Or at least stay in touch." It was more than he deserved ask for, or so he thought. Until he saw Rogue's face light up, his eyes wide and hopeful.

"I would love that!" Not like. Love. Was he overthinking this? The knight looked into Rogue's eyes. There was no doubt in Sir Eucliffe's ability to get him released, only the desire to go with him. Rogue was smiling at him, as happy as Sir Eucliffe had ever seen him.

"That's good to hear."

They left the next morning, reaching Rogue's cave by noon. It was high up in the crags, likely dangerously windy even on the loveliest of days, let alone now, with another storm a day away. "They left you here?" Sir Eucliffe asked, looking at the gaping entrance. Earthen spikes jutted from the floor and ceiling, a small brook chattering in a corner, leading outside of the cave. At the far wall, Sir Eucliffe could identify a crude shelf and a tightly woven nest. Some threadbare clothes hung from the shelf, along with some clay bottles.

"The bed and shelf weren't there yet." Rogue pointed out lightheartedly. Sir Eucliffe resolved to make sure Rogue got to experience a real bed soon. A nice one. With soft blankets. Maybe with some furs. Winter Wolf furs were really soft! He could get some of those if he went up north. They were pretty difficult to hunt, but Sir Eucliffe was a hardened warrior. He could handle a few Winter Wolves.

Suddenly, he realized that Rogue had started searching. Hurriedly, he joined him in his search. After an hour or two of digging and searching Sir Eucliffe's hands found a small smooth rock. He called Rogue over and unearthed it in full, washing it in the brook, revealing a black, heart shaped stone, hanging from an undamaged silver chain. Blue and green and purple speckled and swirled within it, like the polar lights Sir Eucliffe had seen on one of his missions. "It's pretty." Rogue said, a massive understatement if you asked Sir Eucliffe.

"Yeah..." He agreed breathlessly, struggling to tear his eyes from it as he held it into the sunlight, watching the colors dancing on the cave walls.

Rogue watched Sting, the look of wonder on his face captivating him. He looked so amazed, so innocently happy, the cool colors of the Heart of the Northern Skies reflected in his eyes. After a few minutes, Rogue decided to check on Sol. He left the cave, running his fingers through her mane. "Give it a bit longer, Sol." He told the horse, handing her an apple. For a while, he sat by the cave's entrance, watching Sol crunching up her apple.

Sir Eucliffe had barely registered that Rogue had left the cave. He got up from his seat beside the brook and went out to find Rogue, who was watching Solence. "You should get your things. We're nearly out of the mountains, and I'd like to make it down by nightfall." Rogue nodded, disappearing into the cave.

With a heavy heart, Rogue looked around the cave that had been his home for so long. He folded his clothes quickly and piled them onto the shelf. His hand hovered over the bottles, but thought better of it. He could always make more. Someone else might have use for them. With that in mind, he left all but one change of clothes behind too. And with one last look at the cave, a goodbye on his lips, he turned away, towards Sting. He packed the clothes into one of the saddlebags and looked at Sting, nodding to the horse, as though saying 'shall we go?'

With Solence, the journey was quicker than Sir Eucliffe's way there. More people recognized him as they came closer to the capital, dirty looks and insults becoming more common as they approached the palace. Rogue shifted closer to Sir Eucliffe, anxiously eyeing the rapidly forming crowd. "It's alright Rogue. It's fine. We're almost there, love." He didn't realize just what he'd said until it was too late. Mortified, he kept guiding Solence to the palace.

"Love?" Rogue asked, stunned to the point that he forgot about the crowd. Love? Rogue hadn't considered it. Now that he was forced to think about it, he wasn't sure. He did like Sting, a lot. He wanted to stay with him. But Sting had stabbed him and had been willing to take him here. But Sting had been kind to him since then. He had a plan. Rogue decided that that shouldn't have any bearing on if or not he was in love with Sting. He looked at the back of the knights head, trying to figure out his feelings. He closed his eyes as they kept riding, Sting still not answering his question.

He felt safe with Sting. And he did like him. Romantically? Maybe? He didn't really have a frame of reference. "You love me?" He asked again softly. So quietly that only Rogue's draconic senses allowed him to pick it up, Sting acquiesced. "How do you know?"

Sir Eucliffe jumped at the gentle, curious tone. He wasn't sure what else he had expected, but for some reason, it wasn't this. "I want to be closer to you. And I think about you all the time, even when I can't see you. I want to keep seeing you. I don't mind if you don't feel the same way." He whispered as the gates to the palace opened.

"I- I'm not sure how I feel. But I like you and I want to stay with you. I think I feel the same way you do." Rogue admitted. He did feel all of those things. He clutched Sting more tightly, knowing that soon, he would have to let go.

Sir Eucliffe was announced soon after. He made his way to the throne room with a large escort, Rogue in tow. As they entered, he briefly brushed against Rogue's hand with his own, an encouraging smile on his face.

The king sat on his throne, disdainfully looking down at them. His face twisted to feign kindness as they approached. "Sir Eucliffe! I see you completed your first task. You've acted faster than I had expected. Congratulations on capturing the witch. The guards will take him off your hands." Helplessly, Sir Eucliffe watched as a guard roughly grabbed Rogue by his arm as the King continued to speak, waiting for the king to finish talking. Interrupting him was a punishable offense. "I expect that you'll be leaving soon?" Though Rogue was perfectly cooperative despite the rough treatment, one of the guards grabbed his hair, twisting it to bring Rogue to his knees.

"One moment please." Sir Eucliffe requested. The king nodded his assent. With that, Sir Eucliffe strode over to where the guards were manhandling Rogue. "Let him go. I need him for this." He ordered coldly. The guards turned to the king, who once again nodded. Immediately, they released their grip on Rogue. Sir Eucliffe helped him to his feet, taking his scaled wrist in his hand. "I request permission to approach, your Majesty."

"Denied. Why?"

"Rogue has been cursed. It forces him to transform into a dragon. The cuff you provided me with have halted the curse indefinitely." He pulled Rogue's sleeve back, giving his wrist an apologetic squeeze. "I show you those scales as proof, your Majesty." He explained, holding Rogue's arm out towards the king.

"You may approach."

The two of them slowly approached the throne, showing Rogue's arm to the king. The king ran his fingers across the scales, to Rogue's visible discomfort. "Since the cuffs seal the curse, I would like him to be released." Sir Eucliffe requested. The king stared at him with cold, baleful eyes.

"Guards. Remove the witch. This impertinent fool and I have a lot to discuss." At once, they were surrounded, Rogue again being grabbed by the hair and dragged away. "Let me make two things very clear, Eucliffe: Firstly, you have no right to ask anything of me. I am giving you a second chance. Secondly, I don't care about the witch's circumstances. The people are going to see that I have captured the witch they have feared for years, and when they have all seen him and sung my praises, I'm sure many will pay to see a freak like him once again. Now go back out there and retrieve the Heart for me or die here in disgrace."

Panic shot through Rogue's veins as he heard the king's words, causing him to freeze up. His body wanted to flee, but his mind knew, rationally, that he would only make things worse for himself. Unfortunately, the guards kept pulling on his hair, and before he knew it, he found himself on the floor. Hastily, he tried to find his feet, but the guards continued to drag him, and his feet couldn't find enough purchase on the ground to get him up. Until suddenly, the guards could no longer move him, as the cuffs worked their magic.

"You want the Heart, your Majesty? Well I'll show you the heart." Sir Eucliffe said, regretful and yet not surprised that it had come to that. He pulled the Heart of the Northern Skies out from under his shirt, revealing the dazzling jewel. With every ounce of his body, he felt its power respond to his determination, surging through him as it waited to bend the world to his whims. Right now, he was invincible! Lost for words, the king stared at him, mouth agape. He knew it too.

Four wishes. That's how many the Heart of the Northern Skies could grant. One for every 77 years that passed. He knew it instinctively, as though that knowledge had always been there.

He had made his plans quite carefully, at least well enough to know his first two wishes. He knew to word them carefully, having read tales of being that could twist wishes to the maker's undoing. He didn't know if the Heart was one of them, but the fewer chances he took, the better.

"I wish for the ability to control the land and the waters in their entirety, as much or as little as I please." No sooner than the words were spoken, Sir Eucliffe felt the power within him take form. Suddenly, he could feel the world around him, his own to command. He reached out to the earth below the city and willed it to shake, and for a moment it did. Some of the guards fell to their knees, while others started to flee. One, however, had drawn his sword, holding the blade to Rogue's throat.

"Stand down, knave, or I shall tear out the witch's throat and feed him to the crows!" He threatened. Rogue eyed the sharp blade, before turning to look at Sting. The king stood up, livid and more than a little terrified. On stiff legs, he made his way to Rogue and roughly grabbed his arm, or more precisely the cuff. On instinct, Rogue tried to pull his arm away, but the guard tightened his grip on his hair. "Stay still!" He barked tensely. Rogue complied, given that the lunatic was holding a blade to his throat. Sting was clearly seething, trying to find a way around this.

The cuff fell away, and the guard tightened his grip furthermore, dashing any hopes of escape. The king did something to the cuff, muttering angrily, before ordering the guard to draw blood from Rogue. At once, the blade sliced the skin of his neck. The smell of blood filled the air, the warm blood dripping down his neck, soaking his shirt. He stifled a cry as the king dug a finger into the wound, before smearing the blood onto the cuff and clasping it onto Rogue's wrist once more. Or at least he tried.

For the guard had moved the blade to allow the king to gather blood, and thus gave Rogue the space he needed. He yanked his arm away at the last moment and spun around, grasping the guard's sword arm with one hand and kicking the king in the gut, sending him scrambling. Squeezing the guard's wrist, Rogue forced him to drop his sword, before kicking him away and fleeing towards Sting. Separated from the first cuff, the second too fell away, freeing Rogue at long last.

Once Rogue was by his side, Sir Eucliffe -No! Sting- didn't waste a second. The ground rumbled beneath his feet as he growled: "Enough!" Everyone left in the audience chamber froze, watching the former knight, hanging on to his every word. "Rogue and I will leave. You will not pursue us. If you see either of us in this kingdom again, I suggest that you mind your business, under pain of death. Am I making myself clear?" Frightened nods and mutters of agreement rippled throughout the room, but the king stayed silent. "Your Majesty?" Venom dripped from Sting's words like the blood from Rogue's throat, making the king quake in his boots.

"Yes. You are." The king spat out.

With but a look, Sting asked Rogue to fly them out of the city. Obsidian colored wings sprouted from Rogue's back, followed by a soft smile. "Where to?"

After looping back to pick up Solence, they made their way to the mountains. In a small wood on the way, Sting decided to make his second wish. "Do you want your whole curse to go, or just the parts you can't control?" He asked Rogue. Without hesitation Rogue picked the latter. It was what he was used to. It was part of who he was.

Sting made his wish, transferring most of Rogue's curse to Solence.

In but a moment, Solence transformed, becoming more reptilian in nature, her eyes becoming more intelligent by the second, until a dragon stood in her place. Meanwhile, Rogue could feel his curse weaken, like a weight off his shoulders.

"Good evening. Pleased to finally make your acquaintance. Solence, at your service!" The dragon chattered, beaming at them.

"Sol? How are you feeling?" Rogue asked.

"Better than ever!" Solence chirped loudly. Sting smiled.

"Good to hear! Quick question. Do you want to stay with us, go your separate way or decide later?" He asked bluntly.

"Ooh! I want to stay. You're both fun."

Sting's third wish was for Shadow to pass on, to let go of vengeance and to go reunite with the one he loved.

And the fourth? That one was for emergencies. Sting hoped from the bottom of his heart that he would never have to use it.

The three of them continued their journey, Solence flying them into the mountains. Deep within them, they came to a halt.

"This place would be perfect!" Sting exclaimed. Rogue couldn't see how. The slopes were steep and the wind howled constantly. But as Sting called upon his powers, the place started to change around them. One of the mountains started to sprout walls and pathways and windows, becoming something between a mountain and a fortress. Springs spewed from the sides, forming waterfalls and streams. Trees and grass and wildflowers grew on the mountains. Moss and vines and other flowers grew throughout the fortress. Trees sprouted, bearing fruit. Rogue thought he could see vegetable gardens. Sting grabbed his hand, running towards their new home, Sol flying along behind them. Inside, there were many rooms, large and small. Some were open and flat, whilst others were made up entirely of shelves and corners. Fluorescent moss grew all over the place, in green and yellow and blue for the most part, though other colors popped up on occasion. "Wow! It turned out way better than I thought!"

"It's beautiful, Sting." Rogue praised him as they looked around.

"Yeah! It's so shiny! Solence agreed, the multicolored moss turning her midnight scales as stunning as the Heart of the Northern Skies itself as she flew around one of the larger rooms.

Even inside the fortress, streams flowed, one even leading to a small lake, while others passed through small pools.

Rogue dipped his hand into the water, finding it pleasantly cool. "Is it too cold?" Sting asked. "I can make it warmer."

"No, I think it's nice." Rogue said. With a splash, Sol dived in, soaking the other two.

"I agree!" She chirped joyfully.

The next few days were spent traveling to get supplies Sting couldn't make. Solence and Sting went to get the larger things, while Rogue got the smaller ones, using the money they had left over from selling the wagon.

He flew from town to town, landing out of sight so as not to scare the villagers. In the end, he found the town where he'd met the other witches. He already had most of what they needed. He just wanted to pick up some flour and recipes. Sting had talked about trying to make some treats. He wandered the market, looking at the stalls.

"Rogue?" A faintly familiar voice called out. He turned around, to find himself face to face with Lisanna. "How have you been? You look far better." She said.

"I am. I'm living in the mountains again, with Sting and Sol. Lucy was right, the curse stopped spreading! Speaking of which, how are you guys?" He asked, happy to see a familiar face.

"We've been doing well. Natsu's employer found out about his powers, but he agreed to keep it a secret. He even got a raise, because fire magic is really useful when blacksmithing!" Lisanna told him proudly.

"That's wonderful!"

"Right? And Lucy's writing another book. She won't let me read it yet, but I know it will be good! And I'm working at the Violet Road Bakery now! It's been fun. We've been doing pretty well for ourselves."

"Really? Then you wouldn't happen to have any recipes to share with me?" They chatted for a short while, Lisanna writing down some recipes as they did. He bought his flour and bade her goodbye, promising to visit again.

He flew home, to find that Sting and Sol had already returned, animatedly talking about a hunting expedition up north. Rogue dropped his purchases off in the designated kitchen area and joined them, sitting down beside Sting and listening to him talk about his plan. "We should only be gone for a few days. Rogue, since it's a surprise for you, you should probably stay here. Do you mind?"

"A surprise?" Rogue asked. "What is it?"

"It's-" "Solence we talked about this." Sting interrupted her before she could reveal his master plan. Take down five Winter Wolves. They were a menace up north, and they were enormous. He would be paid handsomely and he would get to keep the furs. Besides, rumor had it that they tasted good. They would need five furs, he and Solence had decided. Three for her nest and two for his and Rogue's shared bed.

While not officially courting, they had gotten used to sleeping side by side, they had continued to do so. On many a night, one or the other would wake up to find himself fully entangled with the other.

A month later, the night before Sting and Sol's hunting expedition, Rogue decided to broach the subject of a romantic relationship.

"Sting? Can we talk?" He asked gently.

"We are, aren't we?" Sting quipped. Rogue rolled his eyes. "Sorry. Not the time?"

"Not really. I wanted to talk about us. What you said about love." Rogue admitted bashfully. Sting smiled.

"Alright. Well, my feelings haven't changed. I love you." He said sincerely, smiling as Rogue's face flushed red again.

Rogue took a steadying breath. "I love you too. I've been thinking about what you said. I've started making other friends, and I don't feel the same way about them." Sting's eyes brimmed with tears, taking Rogue by surprise. Not as much as the hug that followed.

"I love you. I love you. I love you." The words were like music to Rogue's ears, and he returned Sting's hug.

"I love you too. You don't need to cry." Rogue whispered softly, his breath brushing past Sting's ear. Sting shuddered, causing Rogue to hold him more tightly. After a few moments, Sting pulled back to look at Rogue again. Warm red eyes looked back at him.

"I want to kiss you." Sting stated, trying not to get lost in Rogue's eyes.

"Do it then." Rogue invited him, a small smile on his face. Sting didn't need further invitation, leaning in to capture his lips.

It felt like coming home, or seeing the sun rise for the first time, or stepping into the shade after hours in the sun, and so many other things, both comforting and exciting.

When they finally broke apart, after what felt like an eternity (probably a few seconds), Sting grinned at the large smile on Rogue's face.

"You're pretty." Rogue told him earnestly.

Sting struggled to come up with a response. Honestly, it was unfair of Rogue to throw that at him when he had just kissed him. "Takes one to know one." Really? That was what he had settled on? Rogue chuckled, and good grief he looked like an angel. His laugh was contagious, and soon Sting was laughing right along with him.

Sting's laugh was beautiful. That was simply a fact. One that Rogue was quickly rediscovering.

Neither expected to sleep that night, too giddy at finally having said told the other how they felt. But they did, and quite quickly, curled up together on their bed. The next morning, Sting and Sol bade Rogue farewell, to embark on their next adventure. Once they had left, Rogue made his way to his friends' town. He'd visited them several times in the past month, and had even introduced them to Sol. They had adored her, Lisanna especially. Even more so when Sol, upon discovering Lisanna's shapeshifting ability, had challenged her to several races. None of them were fond of Sting, and had no interest in meeting him again, and Rogue hadn't pushed the subject. Today, he was going to visit the library. Lucy had promised to show it to him.

The king's soldiers had come after them about a week after their escape to attempt to wrest the heart from Sting, but without success. Rogue could only hope that they had given up.

That would be all it took for them to have their happily ever after.

#FTOUAT #fairy tail #rogue cheney #sting eucliffe #stingue #natsu dragneel #lucy heartfilia #lisanna strauss #naluli #fairy tales #a sincere attempt was made at writing it with a fairy tale vibe in mind #it kinda fell apart at the end though #gonna post it to ao3 if you'd rather read it there (same username)

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sheliesshattered · 11 months

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Sylki fic: When She Sings She Sings Come Home

Loki/Sylvie, 3200 words. Post s02e06 fix-it, angst with a happy ending. Also available on AO3 under the same title and username.

When She Sings She Sings Come Home

Sylvie wakes with Loki’s voice in her ears.

It’s been months since she last saw him, striding out to the Loom to save the timelines. Winter has come and gone, here in this little corner of a branch that she’s made her home. Every day that’s passed, she’s half expected to turn around and see him standing there, like that night he appeared in the parking lot next to her truck. But for months, there’s been nothing but the absence of him, growing larger and more crystalline every day.

She wakes with his voice in her ears, singing that ridiculous song from the train on Lamentis.

To Sylvie, everybody! he’d said, grinning at her, not drunk only too full. She would give anything to see him smile like that again. She would give anything to see him again.

And it isn’t that she hasn’t looked. Of course she had. She’d barely gotten through a single shift at McDonald’s after leaving Mobius standing outside his variant’s house before she’d used He Who Remain’s TemPad to try to find Loki.

He wasn’t dead. She knows he isn’t dead. But he also isn’t anywhere. There are an infinite number of branches now, layers of reality twisting around each other into something larger, a shape she can almost see, almost recognize. But Loki isn’t on any of them. No matter where she searches, he remains just outside her grasp.

Sylvie goes to work, she drives her truck home, she listens to music at the record store, she checks in on Mobius, she tries to sleep. But everywhere is marked by Loki’s absence, and every moment is overlaid with the sound of him singing.

She can’t find Loki, but that song is a thread she can pull at. Where did he learn it? The words were almost Asgardian, but not quite. Something similar, a branch of the original. A variant. Because of course it was.

It’s not until she thinks to quietly spy on the New Asgard settlement in Norway, forty years on from her quiet life in Oklahoma, that she hears the language again. Norwegian.

Remember this place, she hears Odin say, in a memory that is not hers, rippling through the interwoven timelines because it is what she needs in this moment. Home.

She turns her back on New Asgard, on the man who is almost but not quite her brother, on the Valkyrie who will come to lead their people like the hero out of a saga that Sylvie had once wished she could become. She turns her back, and walks into this strange, beautiful land. Norway. One tiny place on one tiny planet in one insignificant branch of the ever-growing tree of time, where the syllables are shaped into words that resonate with Loki’s voice from so long ago.

Sylvie wanders into pubs, into taverns, into bars, into concerts. She hums the few notes that never leave her head, and hopes to find someone who knows the song.

Until, miraculously, one day, she does.

“It’s an old drinking song,” the bearded man at the bar tells her, gesturing with his beer. “It’s about taking the long way home, but knowing you’ll get there in the end.”

“Can you teach it to me?” Sylvie asks, unblinking, gaze trained on the stranger’s face.

“For that, I will need a lot more beer.”

So she buys him beers. She coaxes the song out of him. She buys rounds for the whole bar, until they are all singing it. They teach her the words in Norwegian, teach her to shape the vowels as carefully as any incantation, and then teach her the meaning behind the words.

In storm-black mountains, I wander alone

Over the glacier I make my way

In the apple garden stands the maiden fair

and sings, “When will you come home?”

“You, I think,” her drunk bearded acquaintance says to her, “you are the maiden fair.”

“And what if I am?” Sylvie asks, raising her chin, still dead-sober despite the bourbon clutched in her hand.

“Then you must sing for him to come home!”

“From an apple orchard, if you can manage it,” leers his friend next to him.

“Will it work?” she hears herself say.

“Of course it will work! Music is magic. Galdr, they used to call it, in the old religion. The power of your voice to shape reality.” The man is drunk, but his words tug at something in Sylvie’s memory, long buried. “Sing, and he will come home.”

“As simple as that?”

The bearded man laughs uproariously. “When has love ever been simple?” he demands jovially. “When has magic ever been easy? But that does not mean it is not worth trying. There is beauty in the trying. There is love in the longing.” He’s slurring his words, barely managing to stay atop his barstool.

But he’s not wrong.

I know what kind of god I need to be, Loki had said, tears shining in his eyes. For you. For all of us.

But Sylvie is a god, too, she reminds herself, as she tosses back her bourbon and turns her back on the little Norwegian town, with the northern lights rippling over head. She’s not the goddess of chaos anymore, and she hasn’t felt mischievous since she was a child.

But the goddess of galdr, yes, that perhaps is something she could be.

She returns to her little Oklahoma town, cloud cover obliterating the stars, and drives her truck to the record store. There’s only one song she wants to hear, only one voice to sing it, but music has been her comfort since she came to this place, and she cannot simply become the goddess of music-turned-into-magic because she wishes it to be so. Music has been her shield, her cocoon, her comfort these long lonely months. Now she must learn to form it into other shapes, into weapons and tools. Into a lighthouse, shining out into the vast dark of the multiverse.

She taught herself enchantment, while running for her life from one apocalypse to the next. She can teach herself galdr in this quiet little record shop in this quiet little town.

Sylvie slides the headphones into place, and lets the music move through her.

Oh, sweet nothin'

She ain't got nothin' at all

Oh, sweet nothin'

She ain't got nothin' at all

But what if she had something? What if she had the one person who would make all of this worth it?

I know what kind of god I need to be, she tells herself. For you, Loki.

She murmurs the words along with the music, infusing them with intent, with magic.

And for one fraction of an instant, she can see him.

He’s alone, on the throne he never wanted, surrounded by the threads of the multiverse, pulsing green as they grow and twist. There is nothing, nothing else, only Loki alone in that vast emptiness, in that expanse of everything that ever was or ever could be.

His eyes are dull, unfocused, far away. And then— a flicker of recognition, a spark of life—

Sylvie loses the connection.

She’s alone on the sofa in the back of the record shop, with Lou Reed singing in her ears.

He ain’t got nothing at all

She drives home. She tries to sleep. She keeps hearing Loki’s voice, keeps seeing him alone in that emptiness. She murmurs into the darkness— not quite a song, not quite a spell—

But trees dance and waterfalls stop

When she sings, she sings “come home”

There is a shape to the enormity of what Loki has done. There is an order to the way the branches of the multiverse wrap around each other. It is just outside her grasp, but Sylvie feels that if she could just see the shape of it, she might understand.

She might be able to reach him.

In storm-black mountains, I wander alone she whispers to the emptiness of her tiny apartment, in this tiny town, in this little branch of a timeline, one miniscule part of a greater whole, and falls asleep dreaming of trees dancing, of waterfalls stopping, of Loki taking her outside the flow of time to tell her that there was no other way to keep her safe.

Sylvie wakes with her own voice in her ears.

The song is coursing through her, jeg saler min ganger, and she can feel the magic at her fingertips, on the tip of her tongue, pushing at the insides of her ribs, swelling her lungs and begging to be released.

I know what kind of god I need to be.

She gets into her truck and drives. North and east, away from everything she knows, vaguely towards those northern lights dancing over the fjords, too far away to reach on roads such as these.

But once upon a time, when she was very young, there was another road. A rainbow road, the Bifrost, that could take her anywhere just like magic.

Every bit of magic she has now she has taught herself. And this, too, this song swelling in her chest, is magic of her own making.

There is beauty in the trying. There is love in the longing.

She drives past fields of wheat and fields of corn, through days and nights, with the glare of the sun or the pattering of the rain against the windshield. Sylvie drives and drives and drives, and keeps the song tucked away inside her, growing in fury like a hurricane in a bottle, like the storm that had raged outside the night they met.

She drives until the scent of apples wafts through the open windows of the truck, and then she pulls over, knowing this was her destination all along.

Iðunn, a childhood memory whispers, too long ago now to have any meaning at all. The apples of eternity.

Home she thinks, and then hears, from a memory not her own:

Asgard’s not a place, it’s a people.

This could be Asgard. Asgard is where our people stand.

Her brother’s voice. The voice of the man who had once raised her as his daughter. The family she lost and can never regain, no matter what shape the multiverse twists itself into. Words reaching across time, across branching timelines, to reach her here and now, because it is what she needs to hear.

Sylvie climbs out of her truck and walks into the apple orchard and doesn’t look back.

She walks until she can no longer see the road from between the trunks and branches. She walks until there is nothing but the smell of apples, the soil under foot, and the sky over head. She walks until the song finally bursts out of her, all of her desperation and loneliness flooding out of her lungs to shake the very air around her, in the shape of words that are his but also hers, now.

But trees dance and waterfalls stop

When she sings, she sings “come home”

In storm-black mountains, I wander alone

Over the glacier I make my way

In the apple garden stands the maiden fair

and sings, “When will you come home?”

But trees dance and waterfalls stop

When she sings, she sings “come home”

When she sings, she sings “come home!”

And then he is there, standing beside her in the sunshine and the scent of the apple orchard. Loki glances around at the trees dancing in the wind, his eyes bright, before his gaze snaps to hers.

“You’re here,” Sylvie croaks, her voice burned through with the force of the magic that poured out of her, the magic that’s brought Loki to her.

“No, not really,” he says, his eyes never still as they trace over her face. “I’m still there too. I’m sort of everywhere, really. It’s hard to explain.”

“Help me to understand,” she says before the words even have the chance to fade away. “You said you knew what kind of god you needed to be. You saved us, you saved everything, and then you disappeared. Make me understand.”

“I can’t, Sylvie,” Loki says gently, and there is a sorrow in his eyes deeper than oceans, more boundless than the vastness of space. “It’s been centuries for me. Lifetimes. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Enchant me, he had begged her once, standing in the McDonald’s parking lot in his ridiculous TVA uniform. You can see what I saw.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she tells him, raising her hands slowly towards his face, green magic flickering between her fingers. “Just let me see what you saw.”

“Sylvie,” he starts, and there are tears in his eyes again, like there were in that last moment before he turned his back on her to destroy the Loom.

“We’re the same, remember?” she says, and if her voice cracks it is only because of the abuse it’s suffered, only because of the magic that poured out through her vocal chords to shape reality to her desires. “You shouldn’t have to bear this burden alone, Loki,” she tells him, with as much tenderness as she can force into her ruined voice. “Let me understand.”

“It was the only way,” he says, as if in warning, but Sylvie cups his face in her hands before the tears can fall from his eyes.

Centuries. Lifetimes. The same day, over and over again. Reality unspooling, starting with Victor Timely and ending with her, again and again. Their fight in the Citadel at the end of time, relived hundreds of times, always with the same ending. Always the death of He Who Remains, and the unraveling of everything, failure after failure after failure.

And yet in all of them, she does not kiss him. And he cannot bring himself to kill her. Until only one choice remains.

I know what kind of god I need to be. For you.

Sylvie watches in Loki’s memory as the temporal radiation burns away his TVA uniform, as his magic replaces it with something older, something primal, something true. She watches as he grasps the decaying branches of the multiverse and breathes life into them, wills them to live, to be whole and part of a whole.

She watches as the branches twist around each other, each variation of the timeline finding support in its neighbors, building into something greater than the sum of every moment of every timeline that has ever existed.

She sees the shape of what Loki has done, the enormous, infinite tree dancing in the nothingness outside of time. Yggdrasil, the worldstree, green and glowing, alive and growing, all because Loki willed it so. To restore freewill and safeguard it forever. For all of us.

His hands cover hers and Loki gently pries her fingers away from his face. “Enough, Sylvie. Enough. I know what I’ve done.”

There are tears on her face, the apple-scented wind plucking at the wetness as she stands there, staring at Loki. Even without the enchantment, she can see him sitting on his throne, alone but for the infinite tree he tends.

“It was the only way?” she asks in the ruins of her voice. It is only when he folds his hands around hers that she realizes she is shaking, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Not like dancing. Like shattering, collapsing in on herself with the weight of what he’s done.

“No,” Loki admits. “There was one other way. I could have left He Who Remains in charge. I could have let the TVA go back to pruning the timelines. But I would have had to kill you. I would have had to kill you with my own hands, and watch as you died, and then betray everything you ever believed in. I lived every variation of every action I could possibly change, but not that one. Not that.”

“You don’t even know me,” Sylvie blurts out before the words have fully formed in her mind. All of this, to save her? She cannot, she cannot—

Loki’s expressive face twists, stung by her words, hurt in this moment even beyond the deep sorrow that he wears like a cloak. “Of course I know you,” he says, wounded, his gaze searching her face. “Like I’ve never known anyone. Sylvie, I lov—”

She surges up onto her toes and kisses him, there among the apple trees. She kisses him for what he’s done, for what he refused to do. She kisses him for the loneliness they have both known far too much of, she kisses him for coming when she sang for him to come home. She kisses him because there is nothing else she can do, because there was never any other way for her, either.

And Loki kisses her in return, with a desperation borne of years, centuries, lifetimes of facing this alone. He kisses her in the apple garden, as the trees dance and the waterfalls stand still. He is there, kissing her, but also somewhere else, far away and outside time, tending to the tree that he gave his life to save.

“I can’t stay,” he says when they finally part, pressing his forehead to hers, his hands cupping her jaw in an echo of how she had enchanted him moments before. “I want to stay, more than anything, Sylvie, but I can’t, I can’t.”

“I know,” she assures him, even as she clutches at his robes for fear he will disappear at any moment. “I know you can’t stay here with me,” she says, then takes a deep breath to steady her ragged voice, her thundering heart. “But you don’t have to be alone.”

Loki pulls away abruptly, only far enough to see her face, confusion pinching his features.

“We’re gods, you said,” Sylvie explains, tripping over her words, her voice trembling with the weight of what she has already done, the weight of what she plans to do. “We have a responsibility. That’s what you told me, in that ridiculous room full of pie. We can’t just give everyone freewill and then walk away.” She offers him a small smile, the best she can summon at the current moment. “You have to sustain Yggdrasil. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

“I did this for you,” he says, holding on to her as desperately as she is clutching at him. “So you could have a life. That’s what you said you wanted, to live.”

“It’s freewill, Loki,” she says, shaking her head. “You can’t just give it to everyone and then be surprised when I use it to choose to be with you. I know what kind of god I need to be. You taught me that. I won’t let you bear this burden alone. That’s the kind of god I choose to be.”

“I can’t let you sacrifice yourself for me—”

“The only sacrifice would be giving you up.”

He gazes at her for a long moment, his uncertainty slowly transforming, then sings softly, “I stormsvarte fjell, jeg vandrer alene,” and this time Sylvie understands the words. “Over isbreen tar jeg meg frem. I eplehagen står møyen den vene, og synger: ‘når kommer du hjem?’”

The apple orchard dissolves around them, replaced by the rippling greens and blues and purples of Yggdrasil, shimmering in the darkness outside of time.

“Home,” Sylvie says, and kisses him again.

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