#cillian freeborn

[tevinter-songbird]

Beloved Farewell

They've run far, but death follows them - a hound after their scent. Alauda sees the bodies of the other slaves every time he blinks, but the blood that has been spilled is not enough to quench the thirst of those who hunt them.

"Proditores! Ratti sporchi!"

Alauda screams as he's thrown back against the trunk of a tree, bracing himself for the strike that never comes. A spray of red across his neck and shoulders brings the metallic scent of blood. Cillian crouches over him, expression one of shock and pain and, finally, resignation. Alauda tries to reach for him, but he's too slow. With a roar Cillian pulls back, fells the soldier who tracked them in a single, decisive blow to the head.

Then he collapses.

There's so much blood, staining the plain linen tunic, spreading to the grass underneath. Alauda drops down beside him, holds trembling hands over the wound, shaking as the blood pours, wet and hot, over his fingers. It's too late, he knows it's too late, and it's his fault. If he'd just run when Cillian told him - or if he'd never said anything to the masters in the first place...

Cillian coughs. There's blood in his hair from the earlier fight, a smear of red by his lips. He's dying, yet he still reaches for Alauda, still tries to speak.

"Look at me?" Such a simple request, and Alauda doesn't understand why he would even make it. How can he even stand the sight of him after his betrayal? Cillian is dying because of him.

Cillian is dying.

Alauda shakes his head, the tears spilling from his eyes, but he looks, meets those eyes clear and blue like a summer morning, still so alive.

"There's my songbird." His hand shakes as it brushes Alauda's cheek, a trail of blood in its wake. Alauda grasps his fingers, squeezes, and Cillian smiles. It's shaky too, weak but no less adoring than it's ever been. "Maker you're beautiful."

A laugh bubbles up despite it all. It's supposed to be a laugh, at least. Partway through it becomes a sob - a broken, ugly sound that wracks Alauda's shoulders.

There's shouting in the distance. Out of time, they're almost out of time. Maybe he'll just let them kill him too.

"You have to run," Cillian says. His voice is soft, too soft. His breathing is coming fainter.

"No," Alauda says, a low mantra. "No, no, I can't. I won't leave without you."

"Oh, songbird." Cillian sighs, eyes slipping shut. "I'm already gone. You have to live now... for both of us. Get out of this place, be... be free. It's all I w-want for you." He sighs, looking peaceful as those nights they'd lay together in the stables or the armory. Alauda wants to lay beside him, pretend it's just another of those moments, that everything that's happened today has only been a bad dream. He wants to wake up in Cillian's arms and know it was only a nightmare.

"You're going to grow old," Cillian says, rambling. He's still stroking Alauda's cheek, catching strands of his hair and twirling it. "...Wish I could see it. Wish I could build you a house. Somewhere on the river, teach you to swim."

Alauda caresses his jaw, pets his hair, letting him talk if only to let the voice wash over him, seep into him, so he can carry it with him when.... After.

"Kiss me."

Alauda does, without hesitation. "I love you," he whispers, as he kisses him again, and then again, and again, until the hand holding his falls slack.

There's no profound moment where he feels Cillian's soul depart his body. Simply one moment he is alive, and the next he is not. His body lies motionless and cold in Alauda's arms. Just like that, he dies.

Just like that, a part of Alauda dies as well.

[prince-of-humbug]

Harry Potter AU

Cillian runs a hand through his curls, exhaling a bit shakily as he paces the corridor in front of the pile of barrels he knows leads to Hufflepuff’s common room. He doesn’t dare touch the barrels. The first and only time he attempted to mimic the passcode to reveal the entrance he’d guessed incorrectly, leading to one of the barrel lids exploding off and subsequently drenching him with vinegar; if the sound of Lark’s laughter hadn’t been so delightfully musical, Cillian might have died on the spot from embarrassment. But that laugh, and his smile, and the way his eyes lit up—

Damn it, Cillian thinks, covering his mouth with his hand; he has it bad. He isn’t even sure how it happened, or when, and now he doesn’t know what to do about it. He feels like a moron just standing here, out of place in his Gryffindor reds, and all he can think about is the fact that he is a moron, and that there’s probably something wrong with him because Lark is cute - pretty, really, with his long brown hair, big eyes, and that adorable constellation of freckles on his nose - but he’s young. There’s four years between them; what will people think?

Cillian turns and paces the opposite direction.

It shouldn’t matter what other people think. If he asks, and Lark says yes, then that’s what’s important. But... is it even appropriate to ask? The fear has kept him at a friendly distance, but things changed after the winter dance.

An annual tradition, the winter ball was intended for upperclassmen only, fourth years and up, but sometimes underclassmen were invited. Cillian hadn’t even recognized him at first: all done up in a lavender gown, brown hair swept up and pinned intricately atop his head in a manner similar to the dark-haired Ravenclaw girl he danced with.

In that moment, Cillian new he wouldn’t be content staying just friends. But how to take that next step?

He tried the subtle approach first: walking him to class, carrying his books, holding doors open for him. Lark hadn’t really understood the gestures so Cillian switched it up to casual, flirtatious remarks, complimenting his appearance whenever possible. The results to this approach varied; sometimes he was rewarded with a faint blush and smile, other times a smack on the arm or with Lark telling him to stop making fun of him before turning and storming off.

Two months of this and Cillian’s just about out of ideas. But he’s hoping what he has in store for tonight will finally change things. He’s decided to stop beating around the bush: he’ll come right out and say it. That he likes Lark - loves him, even - and wants to be with him, in whatever way and for however long Lark wants him. And if Lark doesn’t want him... Well, Cillian refuses to think about that right now.

He turns abruptly back toward the barrels — and almost collided with the very second-year he’d been waiting for. Lark glares up at him, hands on his hips, and demands, “what are you doing?”

Cillian immediately forgets every word he’d been practicing the better part of the day. He actually stammers, looking around the warmly lit hallway for something - anything - to answer with. “I, uh— what are you doing?” he counters, and almost smacks himself because could he be any less cool about this?

“This is the Hufflepuff common room,” Lark points out.

“Yight. I mean— Right. Yes. I know that.”

“So...?”

“So, um.” The cool stone hall suddenly feels stiflingly warm. Cillian tugs at the neck of his sweater. “So I wanted to see you. I was hoping... Will you eat dinner with me tonight?”

“In the Great Hall?”

“No. Just you and me. Like a, um.. a date?”

He’s frowning now. God, he has full lips for a boy. It’s almost not fair. Lark lowers his head and Cillian realizes, horrified, that he’s shaking. “Are you trying to be funny?”

“No!” Cillian reaches out before he can think better of it, taking Lark’s hand and trying to pull him closer. “I’m not, I—“

Lark rips his hand away, and there are actually tears in his eyes when he blinks back up at Cillian. “I saw the way you were staring at me at the dance. I know you think I’m a joke, or a freak, so whatever prank you’re trying to pull—“

Oh, god, is that what he thinks this is? For the umpteenth time Cillian fights the urge to kick himself. How could he have been so stupid?

“Lark,” he says, taking both of Lark’s wrist and holding tight even as Lark struggles against him.

“Lasciami andare, stronzo!”

“Lark, listen to me. I’m—“

“No! Vaffanculo,” Lark shouts, and people are staring openly now.

Cillian’s face is red with embarrassment, and in the end all he can do is shout back, because it seems the only way to get through to him. “I’m trying to tell you that I like you!”

Lark freezes, mouth open as if he’d been just about ready to yell again.

Looking around at the small crowd that has gathered, Cillian flushes and tugs gently on Lark wrists. This really isn’t how he wanted this conversation to happen. “I like you,” he repeats, softer. “I was staring at you during the dance because you were... stunning. I mean, I think you’re always beautiful, but that dress was...” he trails off, coughs, and hesitantly meets Lark’s eyes to find them wide with disbelief.

“You‘re not joking?”

“No. I swear, I’m not. I really... really liked it.”

Lark is silent for a moment, lips pursed as he looks to the side. After a moment he says, almost too quiet to hear, “I have more. I can... wear one tonight. If you still... if you really wanted a... a date?”

Cillian perks up immediately, smiling so wide his cheeks ache. “You want to go out with me?” He releases Lark’s hands just long enough to pump a fist in the air and let out a jovial whoop. Then, before Lark can say anything, Cillian picks him up and spins him around like he’s seen the hero do in his favorite romance film — a move he’s always secretly wanted to try.

When he sets Lark back on the ground, the underclassman looks a bit dazed. His ears are burning and he has trouble meeting Cillian’s eyes. “L-let me get ready. I’ll meet you... Where should I meet you?”

“By the Quidditch pitch.” Another flicker of suspicion crosses Lark’s expression. Cillian squeezes his hands, reassuring. “Just trust me.”

[tevinter-songbird]

Cillian

For all his complacency and smiling obedience, there's a fire in the mistress's songbird, a spirit that may have had its wings tied but, oh, could fly so high and amaze them all if it were only given the chance. Cillian sees it whenever he flashes a flirtatious smile at the boy and is met with a curled lip. Whenever he greets, "hello, songbird," and he's brushed aside with a huff and, "that's not my name."

Fingers pluck idly at the strings of a lute; the songbird hoping to please by learning something new.

Cillian says, "I have an instrument you can play."

A sudden discordant note, and oh! The way his cheeks redden! Cillian dreams about it for at least a week thereafter.

"Why do you tease me like this?"

Cillian wants to plant a kiss on those pouting lips, but he doesn't. "Isn't it obvious?"

"If it was, I wouldn't be asking!"

Cillian laughs and begins to walk away. "Goodbye, songbird."

Cillian hates these parties. Spoiled nobility everywhere he looks, and he is forced to guard them. What he wouldn't give to run his blade through the master's heart. But he can't, not yet. He has to be patient. Like any other job, it's all about timing.

There is one bright light of the evening: whenever there is need for entertainment, the songbird is close at hand. Tonight he plays the lyre while the senators dine, and Cillian finds himself watching the precise movements of nimble fingers on strings more than for any signs of danger.

After supper, goblets of wine get refilled while a chorus of dancers entrance them. Among them is the songbird, in linens dyed a rich blue that flutter with each movement. He is as good at the dance as he is with his instruments, and Cillian has the feeling that the boy engages in everything he does with nothing but his whole heart. His strive for perfection is in each arch of his back, every twist of his fingers and toss of his head planned and practiced until deemed presentable not because of orders but because he will not allow himself to perform as anything less than his best.

He is beautiful, and Cillian cannot look away.

Apparently the master thinks it necessary the songbird acquire more practical skills. The master is a fool. Cillian places a hand over the elf's - it is smaller than his, the fingers long and bony and dark against Cillian's pale skin - and guides him in brushing the horse.

"What does it mean? That name you call me?"

"Does it matter? As you've said, it's not your name."

He glares - and there's the fire, rising hot to the surface. "You are the most infuriating man I've ever known!"

Cillian steps back, spreads his arms. "I can leave, if you prefer."

But he never asks Cillian to leave. In fact, they spend more time together, finding one another whenever opportunity arises. Cillian brings him to the armory, shows him how to care for the weapons and polish the guards' armor. It is not a selfless ambition. He likes to be able to look up from training and see the elf there, flushed in the heat of midday sun as he works, and is distracted enough on a few occasions that he ends up getting knocked flat on his arse.

Only when a laugh reaches his ears across the training yard does he realize the songbird is doing it on purpose.

"What does it mean?"

He's cornered Cillian against the wall in the armory. Cillian laughs and breaks easily from the weak grip on his arm.

"Goodbye, songbird."

The elves here are so beaten down, and the worst thing about it is that none of them even seem to realize it. There's a small resistance, a hope so fragile they can do barely more than whisper about it for fear that anything louder and it would disappear like smoke. 

Cillian whispers: he has seen the world outside of this place, it is free and bold and beautiful and it can be theirs if they are brave enough to reach for it. He whispers, and they start to listen. He whispers, and seeds take root.

Cillian decides to teach him to fight. This time his motives are not impure. If certain seeds are ever to flower into reality, the skill will be a necessary one. He's not a fighter by any stretch of the imagination but, Maker bless him, he tries - and fails, and tries again. Always once more, always another round.

"If I didn't know better, songbird, I'd say you were just using the excuse to touch me."

He blushes and yanks his hands back to himself. Then he changes his mind and swings at Cillian's jaw, actually sending him stumbling back. "Good thing you know better."

"What language is it?"

Cillian slaps his arse with a towel and grins when he yelps. "Goodnight, songbird."

The seeds are harder to plant in his head, and Cillian doesn't understand how someone with such spirit can be content to live like this.

"You just don't know better," Cillian insists.

Shoulders stiffen, ears flatten back against the side of his head. A flash of hurt crosses his eyes that Cillian never meant to be the cause of; but it's too late to take the words back.

"Don't touch me." The fire is there, hotter than ever, and the burn of it is such a relief. He turns his head to the side when Cillian leans in, struggling against the hold Cillian has on his wrists. "I said--"

"Songbird. Lark. Alauda."

He looks up then. Their noses brush.

"Do you know what it is? Do you know what it means? Your very name means you're meant for greater things than what you've settled for. You should be free, you should be flying so far from this place, letting the whole world hear your song--"

He slaps him.

Then he kisses him.

His back is riddled with scars. Cillian doesn't have to ask why - he knows the mark of a whip, has felt the sting of one himself on several occasions. What he does instead is map each one with his hands, and follow the trail with his lips. Songbird, my songbird, he mouths against the skin, fairly worshipping.

Stronger than he knows, stronger than he cares to see, and still so beautiful, still so good in spite of the ugliness of the world in which he was raised and thinks he belongs.

"Amatus," he breaths, turning to catch his eye.

Cillian smiles and kisses his neck. "That's not my name."

It earns him a laugh and a playful shove. "Well I'm not telling you what it means."

He doesn't have to, though; it's shining so clearly in his eyes, spoken without words in the way his head tips back and his lips part as they come together.

Beloved.

"What does it mean?"

He's holding a paper in his hand, fingers trembling. One day, Cillian vows, he'll teach him to read. He'll show him so many things when they are free.

"It means we're leaving. Tonight."