#eight himself gets to rest and do menial intelligence work which is largely just helping without being in the field as much

[eorzeashan]

I find it incredibly hilarious that Eight not only was forcibly retired from being Outlander because he got too murder-y with it, but was relegated to trying out assistant work for Theron because everyone deemed him to have at least a moral backbone with which to allow Eight to get a second opinion off of (and hopefully grow his own). Which results in situations like either Theron getting in trouble and his ever-capable assistant whom was assumed to be a pencil pusher suddenly being revealed to be the former Outlander who disappeared from the role, or Eight himself being targeted as a liability to Theron and then said attackers finding out, unfortunately, that Theron's assistant is a much better fighter than him and why does the Alliance have someone like this doing secretary work.

Zakuul learns to be wary of anyone they assume to only be administrative personnel, lest they be secret assassins and former Ciphers, of all people.

[maedarakat]

31st Oct: Monstrous // “Were you ever going to tell me?”

(Dagur/Tuff - Beauty and the Beast AU)

(Notes: So I’m a bit late for the @httydrarepair week, but this turned out to be longer than expected. Hope you all enjoy!)

A Strange Kind of Beauty

——

The boy was a thief.

There was no other way to say it. He’d come onto Dagur’s land, uninvited, and he’d helped himself to what wasn’t his.

(That made him a thief, right? And thieves should be punished. His father had told him that.)

He watched the slim hooded figure wrap a handkerchief around the thorns and petals of his ill-gotten prize, likely to protect it from getting bruised on his journey.

Dagur growled audibly from within the bushes, a low malevolent sound that quieted even distant birdsong.

He eagerly anticipated the look of alarmed dread, the head snapping up to focus on the source of danger just before death. He’d seen it on the faces of deer, rabbits - things that he hunted in the wilderness.

Instead, the boy turned his back on both hedge and beast, and started on his way back to the woods that surrounded the castle grounds. His casual nonchalance left Dagur dumbfounded and more than a little offended.

A frustrated roar shook the bushes like a windstorm. Dagur sprang out of hiding to land on all fours, arched and bristling, his sharp-toothed maw open wide.

At first glance, he looked like some enormous wolf - the kind that appeared in fairy tales to gobble up grandmothers and little girls. The color of his fur was like no wolf’s in existence, however -  a unsettling dark red with mottled patches that looked like the blood spray of some poor animal.

Long black horns protruding from his head like a goat’s and the cloven hooves on his hind legs had sent many a lost hunter screaming from the woods, convinced he had encountered the Devil himself.

Dagur chuffed, knowing he made an impressively terrifying sight and waited for the trespasser to turn and witness his death.

The boy finally turned around, pulling down his hood and allowing Dagur to better see his face. He was just barely a man, with no beard unless you counted that wispy pale peach fuzz as facial hair. With his long hair tied back to keep from getting into his grey eyes, the boy looked about a year or two younger than Dagur.

He also had the gall to look entirely unimpressed.

“Look,” the boy sighed. “Can this wait? I just want to give this rose to someone, and then I’ll be right back so you can kill me. If you want. I mean, unless you’re just here to play fetch or something.”

Fetch? Fetch?!

Dagur pounced, knocking the boy onto his back. Enjoying the pained grunt he’d caused, he snarled in the boy’s face, paws braced on either side of his head. He had never killed another human before. As a beast, it was probably best to just do it quick and tear out this thief’s throat like the fell animal he was.

The boy gazed up at him. His expression still lacked any hint of the devastating terror Dagur had grown accustomed to. After a moment, the corner of his mouth quirked.

“Huh,” he said, looking Dagur over. “Nice teeth - sharp, serrated. So are you going to kill me? You know that death glare you’re giving me can’t actually do it for you, right?”  

Dagur snorted, nonplussed and irritated. He’d never met a person who didn’t seem to mind dying all that much. In that case, the thief deserved a fate worse than death. He reached out and grabbed the boy’s blond hair, starting to drag him toward the castle.

Though his new prisoner winced and even whined a little at that, he didn’t seem to fight it all that much.

——

The castle was large, spacious and besides him and now the boy, it was completely empty. No servants walked these halls, but rather they lined them - trapped forever as sentient oil paintings.

The Enchantress had known he didn’t remember their names. It hadn’t been important at the time, still wasn’t - and besides, he’d already made up his own less than flattering nicknames for them. They would have to do since she’d inscribed their true names in runes he couldn’t read beneath their frames.

Unless he cared to translate those runes and ask nicely for the comforts of a prince, Dagur was sentenced to live in squalor like an animal. For years he had sulked rather than change his situation, letting his hair and claws go untrimmed, and sleeping in a pile of furs.

With no-one to clean, the castle’s Italian marble floors had become tracked with mud and moldering dead leaves. There were cobwebs on the chandeliers, slashed remnants of velvet curtains over the windows, destroyed antiques and furniture heaped in dark corners. It was a desolate atmosphere, but Dagur didn’t mind it.

As for food, he had learned to hunt for himself and, partially just to spite everybody, had grown to prefer the taste of raw meat. Every morning he dragged in breakfast, and ate it sitting at the carved oaken table next to the fireplace - because it amused him to do so.

Apparently, much to his annoyance, the servants seemed to like his new prisoner - enough to cause a bowl of hot oat bran exist for him the following morning. It appeared across from him, at an empty place setting.

Dagur had paused halfway through his freshly caught rabbit, and stared at the bowl cluelessly before realizing who it was meant for.

He supposed he could have just eaten it himself, but his prisoner had all night in a cold cell to realize his sorry fate, and Dagur looked forward to hearing him beg for forgiveness. He may as well take the food down to him if he was going to gloat.

Finding the thief sitting in a calm meditative lotus position had not been what Dagur expected. Did this kid ever do anything that was expected of him?

He huffed in exasperation, sliding the bowl beneath the grate and watching him.

The blond picked up the bowl, tucking into it like he hadn’t seen food in months. He was skinny enough that it might have been the case. “This is good. Did you cook it?”

Dagur held up his oversized paws with a flat look, wordlessly commenting on the intelligence of that question.

“Well, my compliments to the chef, whoever they are. So how long am I in for?”

“Forever,” the beast sneered.

“For a rose? Eh. I mean, I guess it was a pretty one. It’s too bad you crushed it when you pounced on me. You know, whoever your gardener is does not keep those things properly trimmed or pruned. Otherwise you’d have tons of new buds by this time of year, instead of like, eight to one entire bush.”

“Are you a gardener?” Dagur asked, curious.

“No, but my sister loves roses. That’s who I was getting it for.”

“Your sister. Not a sweetheart? Some foolish girl who sent you on an errand to a haunted castle?”

The thief actually burst out laughing at that, slapping his knee as though Dagur had told the funniest joke in the world. “You’re hilarious. Okay, so I’m here forever, right? So does that mean you’ll continue to feed me and give me a roof over my head for as long as I live?”

Wait, what? The boy had no right to sound content with that . . .

“You’re in a dungeon. You’re my prisoner,” he reminded sharply.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been in worse places overnight,” the boy said, looking around him appreciatively. “I can get used to this. It’s got no mold or damp spots. The bars make nice musical instruments. Maybe I can catch a few rats, keep them as pets . . .”

Dagur growled, inches away from a tantrum. “You aren’t supposed to enjoy your stay here!”

“Why wouldn't I? It could be worse. All I have  to do for the rest of my life is sit here, look miserable, and get at least one square meal a day. Easiest job I’ve ever had.”

The boy gave him a brilliant smile. Dagur felt himself bristling. This wasn’t fair - the thief shouldn’t be able to make himself happy with a bad situation (certainly not when Dagur couldn’t. He was a prince - he deserved every happiness; it wasn’t fair!)

He flung open the cell door so hard it crashed against the stone wall. The boy had the nerve to not even jump a little.

“Get out here,” Dagur snarled. “You want a job? I’ll give you a job then, and make you earn your meals!”

If the servants didn’t want to clean the castle, then this brat could. He could work day and night, scraping mud and dead leaves off the marble, scrubbing the mildew off the banisters and polishing every piece of unbroken furniture until it sparkled. Dagur would work him until he dropped from exhaustion.

That should teach him, the little snot.

——

The entire castle was conspiring against him.

It had to be, because every menial task Dagur put before Tuff  (which was the thief’s name apparently) was done perfectly within the hour, and the boy looked like he hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Floors were polished as though they had never witnessed a speck of filth, the furniture dusted, polished and some pieces even fixed as new. Pots had been scrubbed as though they’d never been used, and there was a cheerful roaring fire in every suddenly clean hearth at night.

He never caught the boy slacking, but he never caught him working all that hard either.  

Tuff got his meals nonetheless; there was nothing Dagur could do about that - and though he’d made a point not to offer Tuff his own room, the boy had not complained. He simply stretched himself out by the big kitchen fire each night, curling on his side to sleep on the floor.

Dagur wanted to hate him. He really did. It was extra irritating to eventually figure out that it was quite impossible. Tuff was the first person to not be afraid of him in ten years.

Hope was a thing with feathers, and Tuff’s appearance had started making it fly around again.

There were only a few months left until his twenty first birthday, until the curse became permanent, but he’d successfully stopped hoping for a miracle far earlier than that.

Or so he’d thought.

The boy kept mentioning a sister. Day and night, whenever Dagur was around - Tuff seemed to talk incessantly about her. How she loved roses. How she hated being in the squalid, boring village, how much she’d love the library here because nobody in town liked girls who read and there were only five books in town for her to borrow.

At first he’d grunted in mild disinterest - not particularly caring about the subject matter, but liking the sound of his chatter. After years of silence, he’d sort of missed hearing another person talk.

He surprised himself one night at dinner, actually interrupting a brief silence to ask a question.

“This sister of yours . . . she pretty?”

Tuff looked up, eyes wide and strangely startled. “Um, well, kinda awkward to ask me, but yeah. I suppose so.”

“Does she have a boyfriend?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. He looked strangely downcast and Dagur wondered why. Wait . . . of course.

“Huh. You miss her, don’t you?”

The boy didn’t answer right away, but he fell silent for longer than a minute, staring at his soup. Dagur sort of felt like a heel for asking. Of course Tuff would miss his family. He was stuck here forever, wasn’t he?

“Well, she’s probably fine,” Dagur said, cluelessly. He scrambled to try and lift the sudden heaviness, in no mood to deal with someone else’s sadness. He could barely deal with his own negativity. “Tell me something else about her.”

Thankfully Tuff seemed to brighten up at that. “One time she punched a guy so hard he had to get false teeth.”

Dagur grinned, liking her already. If he could get Tuff to warm up to him more than he was already, maybe he could get the boy to bring his sister here.

She would learn to love him, hopefully quickly, and if he also fell in love with her, the curse stood a chance of being broken. He would be free to do whatever he pleased, and she’d get to stay in this castle, read all the books she wanted and tend to the roses she loved.

It was the perfect plan.

——

By the next week, he’d stopped heaping chores on Tuff, and they shared more meals together.

It wasn’t all bad actually. He asked countless questions about Ruffnut - which Tuff was only too happy to answer. In return though it meant he had to put up with endless annoying questions about him.

“So what cursed you anyway?” Tuff asked, around a mouthful of roasted elk. Dagur had caught it, but had graciously given some of the flank to Tuff. The castle had served it up for him in a white sauce. Dagur wrinkled his nose up and sulkily took another bite out of the raw leg. For the first time in a while, he found himself coveting a fancy meal.

“How do you know I was cursed?” he asked, trying not to sound irritated. “Maybe I was born like this.”

“Well, not unless you were born on Christmas, but then you’d be a werewolf and I’ve never heard of one of those with horns. Also you would’ve changed back at daytime. So it must be a curse.”

Dagur scowled, wanting to tell him it was none of his business. But nobody had ever come close enough to him since to hear the story. He surprised himself by giving in and telling it, curtly but truthfully.

“My father died unexpectedly in a hunting accident. So my little sister was sent to live with kin, and as Lord of the castle, I got to do whatever I pleased. I . . . may or may not have been very nice about it. Didn’t invite enough poor people over, or something. I guess.

“So one night, this crone shows up and it’s late, I have guests over, and she wants a room to stay in in exchange for a rose. From my own garden, probably. I told the servants to shut the door in her face, but she wouldn’t leave until I came out myself and told her . . . well, pretty rudely to get off my property. And maybe to go die in a ditch while she was at it. Guess she didn’t like that much.”

Tuff snorted. “Go die in a ditch? What, were you twelve?”

That earned him a scowl. “Eleven, actually.”

The boy looked taken aback. “Seriously? You were only a kid when she did this?”

Dagur shrugged. “Yeah? So? I pissed the old lady off and she turned out to be a witch. That’s on me.” He’d never actually admitted that before. Dagur felt a small spark of pride in himself. “I got turned into a beast, my servants got turned into all the nice little paintings you see.”

Tuff sat up straighter and snapped his fingers. “I knew it! I knew they were alive! I keep seeing them make little tiny movements out of the corner of my eye when I’m not looking. They never get to change position though. Wait, why did she punish them? What did they ever do?”

He sounded just as worried about them. It made a Dagur scowl; they were only beautiful paintings forever. He was the one cursed to live like an animal.

“Why are you concerned with them? They’ll be immortal works of art. Not like they’re good for much else lately.” Dagur gestured to Tuff’s fancier meal. “They won’t even cook for me.”

“Well, can you blame them? They didn’t do anything to piss off that witch. And now they have to stay perfectly still, even if a fly lands on their face or if they have to sneeze or worse . . .  what if one of them has had to hold it for ten entire years?”

Huh. Well that would certainly explain Sir Snoudlout’s expression in the main parlor. Or wait - was it Sir Snothat? Snoodledoot?

Either way, Dagur had to admit, that did sound a lot worse of a fate now that he thought about it. At least he got to scratch and relieve himself.

“Well, what do you want me to do? Apologize, I suppose.”

Tuff smiled sweetly. “It would be a start.”

——-

Dagur frowned up at the gilded frame painting of a stern looking young woman, flaxen haired, with her arms crossed. In one hand she held a ladle and her expression was of someone who would dearly love to crack it down on top of someone’s head.

He didn’t really have to wonder who; Dagur guiltily remembered insulting her cooking constantly when he was younger. He hadn’t meant it but in jest, though truthfully she was a far better fighter than a cook. Certainly gave Sir Snortport a run for his money when he’d run drills for Dagur’s vanguard.

Tuff scrutinized the runes beneath the girl’s frame. “Says here her name is Lady Astrid.”

He could read runes? Well that was handy! Dagur laughed in relief. “Astreed! that’s right, I remember! I used to mispronounce her name just to tick her off - oh.”

Tuffnut was giving him a flat look, shaking his head. The portrait somehow looked even more pissed off.

“Now say her name right and tell her you’re sorry.”

Dagur puffed up his neck fur and scowled, fidgeting. After a flustered moment, he gave her the best bow his current form could manage. “My sincerest apologies, my Lady Astr- um?”

Momentarily stumped, he glanced at Tuff. “Astrid,” the boy stage-whispered.

“My Lady Astrid.”

“Good start. Now maybe ask her to make you a little something. Politely.”

“Hmm. Well. I’ve already eaten dinner. Can you make me some tea, please?”

Tuff gave him a thumbs up. Dagur beamed at him. “Tea’s easy right? It’s just boiling sugar and water - she can’t mess that up.” 

He’d unfortunately stage-whispered that right back, which meant Astrid had clearly heard it.

Wincing, Tuff turned it into a thumbs down, just before an entire porcelain tea set, tray included, manifested in midair, a foot above them. A second later it crashed down onto Dagur’s head, showering him with hot water and broken crockery.

Dagur froze and then his temper flared. Unable to take it out on a painting, he whirled on Tuff. “You see?! There’s no reasoning with them! They won’t give me a chance and they’ll never forgive me!”

“Well, not all at once! Forgiveness takes time, effort. You made a decent start. You cared enough to start. That’s worth something, right?”

Dagur quite forgot himself, snarling. “I don’t have time for this! Two more months and the spell becomes permanent. For everyone.”

He hadn’t cared any more. Not until Tuff had showed up. It was his fault Dagur had started to care again - now it hurt. How dare he?

“I’ll help you break it. You have a huge library. And my mom was a witch - I can try to research spells like yours, maybe we can figure out a way to reverse -“

“No. You say you want to help? I know exactly how you’re going to help me, thief.”

Dagur collared Tuff and dragged him to the door, then out to the gardens - about where he’d first encountered him. It was just edging into autumn, but the first telltale signs of frost damage were visible on the surrounding rose bushes and grass.

He pushed Tuff to the ground and snapped off one of the still blooming red roses, tossed it at him.

“You can go fetch that sister of yours. Give her that rose, and tell her it’s cost you your life. If she doesn’t get here in a month and agree to break this spell, then I will hunt you down and kill you myself.”

It wasn’t the best plan, and it was a half-empty threat at best - but right now Dagur was overwhelmed and panicking.

Maybe it was the bits of broken ceramic piercing his skin, even through his fur. Maybe it was the fact that he’d actually been trying to be nice for once, and it had blown up in his face.

He didn’t want to hope anymore. He didn’t want to think there was a chance when there maybe wasn’t, and besides, it would be cruel to let the servants think there was, wouldn’t it? Dagur knew he was being horrible enough that the boy might not dare come back - he’d just run, and the castle would have nobody to gang up on him with.

Tuff was crouching on the ground, looking up at him imploringly. “Don’t do this. Please, I don’t want to go back there - look, I can stay forever no matter what. I - I can even tell you everyone’s name. We’ll figure something out, just please don’t send me -“

“Shut up! I told you how you can help, and you’ll do it or else!”

“But - you don’t understand - please, I want to stay -“

“I don’t want you here any longer!” Dagur roared at the top of his lungs. His bellow actually made the kid flinch back this time. “Go home to your family, and say your goodbyes while you still can! Because in one month, if your sister isn’t here, I will tear out your throat!”

Tuff looked at him, eyes wide and oddly devastated, holding onto the rose’s stem tightly despite the thorns. He was trembling from something other than fear. “I see. A month, then? You’ll come to kill me in a month if . . . if she doesn’t come? Th-that a promise?”

Dagur bared his teeth at him in a dark grin, though he hated himself for it. He’d actually started to like the boy.

If Tuff was smart, he’d take his sister and run very far away and never come back.

He watched as Tuff unsteadily got to his feet, looking pale. He walked toward the woods lining his property, leaving the way he’d come months ago. Dagur watched after him a long time before finally turning to stalk inside.

——

Winter was going to come earlier than normal this year. Dagur could tell from his hunts; how the animals had fattened up.

The month was nearly over. Nobody had come to the castle, not the girl, not even Tuff. Dagur wasn’t surprised.

He hunted alone, ate alone, whistled tunelessly as he ambled through the castle like Tuff had, just to fill the empty air with something. His loneliness and boredom had only increased since sending the boy away, but he figured it would pass.

Eventually. Yeah, maybe in a couple years, everything would dull up again.

Dagur woke at some point later that night, listening to the window panes shudder from the force of a cold wind, blowing in icy sleet and thunder. There was no fire in his room, but his fur and several tattered blankets kept him warm enough, like always. He felt a brief moment of pity for the unsheltered animals of the woods, and after some uneasy thought, wondered about Tuff.

He wondered where the boy was sheltering in this storm, and why Tuff had called being thrown in a beast’s dungeon a ‘roof over his head’. He'd been so delighted with common gruel, even at being given just a hard floor by the fire to sleep on.

Weird kid - hadn’t seemed to protest being kept from his family at all, for as much as he’d talked about them, about his sister.

The wind howled desolately through the chimney in his room, and Dagur got out of bed, walking toward a small table he kept carefully guarded, in an alcove by the window. Ignoring the shedding rose beneath its dome, he picked up the mirror the Enchantress had given him.

“Show me the thief - I mean, Tuffnut.”

He barely had time to wonder at the name coming to him so easily, before an image appeared on the mirror’s surface.

There was a ratty old church he recognized from his many horseback rides as a child. It had belonged to a quiet dull little village - something else he’d never bothered to learn the name of.

The boy was leaning against stone, either tears or rain tracking down his face - possibly both. He looked even thinner than when Dagur had first laid eyes on him, and he could just barely make out what Tuff was muttering. He caught the word ‘sister’ and ‘together’, and a glimpse of red petals on the dead grass, pressed beneath Tuff’s fingers.

Dagur blinked, finally noticing there were words carved into the stone - realizing what it meant.

His sister had loved roses . . .

A cough tore through the boy’s body, making him have to lean more of his weight his against the gravestone.

Dagur cursed, heart aching. Why hadn’t Tuff told him? Now he was all alone and ill, and . . . and it was entirely Dagur’s fault.

He put the mirror down abruptly. There was no more time to waste.

——

It was hours later that he strode into the castle, eyes wide, chest heaving and carrying a form draped limply in his arms.

Tuff was hardly even breathing - he hadn’t even been conscious by the time Dagur reached him.

Worse still, the churchyard had been crowded with gravestones, far more than what was normal, and there had been a half-finished fence around the old churchyard, as though the parishioners had been trying to make room for more before they fled.

The village, which had been bursting with activity this time last year when he’d crept close enough to spy, had been reduced to a graveyard itself - full of gutted out buildings and red crosses painted on barred doors.

It had been Tuff’s home once, but not any longer. He’d begged not to be sent away, and Dagur hadn’t listened. If he’d only known Tuff had nowhere else to go . . .

“Please,” Dagur moaned, carrying him to the fireside and cradling him. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, stay with me - please . . . Hey! I need medicine!” he hollered, begging any portrait that would listen.

The castle was supposed to give him anything he wanted as long as he asked nicely, and remembered names, right!? That’s what the Enchantress had told him . . .

Dagur held Tuff closer to him, crouching before the cold hearth next to the table - where they’d once shared their meals together. He struggled to throw wood into the fireplace one-handed, unable to make himself let go of him even for a moment.

The boy was shivering and his skin was too hot - he didn’t know what to do other than start a fire, get him out of those wet, filthy clothes and into a warm dry bed. But none of it would do any good without medicine for that cough, the fever.

What had been his court physician’s name? Dagur screwed up his face, trying hard to remember.

The man had served his father faithfully, and he’d been a genius with alchemy and potions. A droll sense of humor, with mildly condescending intelligence . . . Dagur knew he’d blown up at the man more than once in his youth, even threatened to have him hung for witchcraft.

All because he’d once lost at a game of chess.

“Viggo!” Dagur gasped, after what felt like hours. “Viggo? Sir, with all due respect, please - I’m sorry. I know you must be very mad at me, but - but that isn’t Tuff’s fault! Please, if you can save him, please help! It isn’t fair to him!”

There was silence, and nothing happened for a long while. Dagur sobbed, listening helplessly as Tuff’s breath grew more labored, and feeling worse than he ever had in his entire life.

He’d killed many an animal in his time, but he’d never killed a friend before.

There was a polite scrape of metal on the polished wood of the dining room table. When Dagur didn’t turn around to look, it happened again.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes wet, and saw a metal tray with a stoppered vial of amber liquid, a tin full of loose-leaf tea, and a weathered piece of parchment with clear handwritten instructions.

Dagur gasped out a ragged thank you, and reached for the tray.

——-

His paws had been large and clumsy, but he had managed to do everything Viggo had instructed, by sheer carefulness.

By morning, Dagur -  who had never tended anyone in his life, and barely even himself at that -  had administered medicine, had gotten Tuff cleaned up and tucked into a warm bed, and had made the prescribed tea with a pot of hot water he’d humbly begged from Lady Astrid.

She’d been nice enough to refrain from dumping it on his head this time.

Tuff looked miles better than he had the previous night, but Viggo’s script warned he still had a hard road of recovery ahead of him. He looked pale and small, dwarfed by the size of the bed.

It was with just a little consternation that Dagur realized he would do literally anything to keep this boy here on earth with him.

Tuff groaned his way to consciousness a few days later, sometime after noon. As soon as he opened his eyes and lifted his head, there was a sound like a large stack of books hitting the floor, followed by a curse. Dagur was at his side, peering anxiously into his face.

Despite how big and fearsome he was, he looked like a scared puppy.

“You okay? You need anything?”

The boy looked at him and then around at the room glassily. “You brought me back here?” he rasped, not comprehending.

He remembered their last exchange and flushed with shame. “I’m sorry I said all that. I didn’t mean it, and I’m not going to kill you or even hurt you. I . . . I didn’t realize you had nowhere else to go.”

Tuff was looking at him like he’d been betrayed. “You - You didn’t mean any of it?”

Dagur felt a surge of concern at that, and put his paws over Tuff’s shaking hands. “No? I didn’t actually intend to hunt you down and kill you? Most people would find that good news?”

The boy bit his lip, eyes filling with tears though they still met Dagur’s. “You wanna know what the worst thing I ever did was?”

Dagur swallowed, then nodded hesitantly.

“I dared my sister to kiss a boy she liked. He was just a traveler, passing through. About a week later, he was dead from the plague. A few days after that, s-so was my sister . . .  then my mom, my whole family. The villagers that didn’t die packed up and left the village. I stayed behind. I had to. She was my twin. I couldn’t leave her all alone.”

Tuff’s voice was no higher than a whisper, and tears spilled unchecked down his face. Dagur gently wiped them away. “You never told me you were all alone. Were you ever going to?”

He bit his lip. “I’m sorry. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. It was just . . . it felt like she was s-still around whenever I talked about her.”

Dagur nodded, feeling a pang in his chest. He could see why Tuff hadn’t wanted to go back to that empty shell of a village. In a moment of thoughtless anger, he’d forced him to.

“None of this is your fault. None of it, okay? You couldn’t have known that boy was sick. That’s why this plague kills so many and moves so fast. Because nobody knows who’s infected until it’s far too late,” Dagur said as gently as he could.

Tuff absorbed that for a moment and leaned into him. “Why do I feel like I’ve been spared as punishment?”  He’d trailed off before he could add ‘twice, now’, but Dagur heard it clearly enough.

He wrapped his arms around Tuff, half climbing into the bed with him, and let him grieve. Even after the boy had exhausted himself from crying and fallen back to sleep, Dagur didn’t leave his side.

——

The last of autumn died out, making way for winter to ice the region. Soon even the leaves that had been blown up against the great doors were lost and buried by snow storms.

Dagur usually hated this time of year - when running in the woods was too cold and food was scarce. While Tuff slept, as Viggo indicated he would mostly do, Dagur found other things to occupy his time with. Like finding books of runes in his library and struggling to transcribe them.

The castle had started tending to both their needs. Now two bowls of hot cereal appeared on a cart outside the doors to the bedroom, sometimes just quietly rolling in when Dagur was too engrossed in his studies.

He’d look up, grin his thanks, and gently wake Tuff so he could eat. The boy was weak still, making it necessary for Dagur to hand feed him. He did this slowly and carefully, struggling to hold the spoon steady in his great big paw, and before eating himself. The castle kindly kept his bowl warm for him until he’d finished.

Tuff regained his strength slowly, and Dagur loved the days he was able to sit up and talk to him.

“What are you always reading?” he asked once, when Dagur thought he was out cold. The beast jumped, dropping the book, but somehow his place was kept by a cord and none of the pages had bent when he picked it up.

He turned it around to show the boy.

“It's a book of runes. I know you can translate them, but you’re still recovering.  I tried copying down the markings on paper, but . . .” Dagur spread his paws helplessly.

Tuff smiled warmly at him. “Look at you making all the effort. Maybe I can get up and help?”

“Are you sure?”

Dagur’s anxious, eager question was met by Tuff’s palm caressing his face. “Might need help walking, but yeah, I can - oh!”

The boy trailed off as Dagur effortlessly picked him up, taking care to wrap a blanket around him to protect him from drafts. Not that it was as drafty as before. There was a roaring fire in each hearth as Dagur carried him through the house, and though wind outside shook the windows, no cold air could find any gap to intrude.

Tuff wrote down all the symbols and translated them into names, helpfully sketching a thumbnail of the painting next to its respective inscription so Dagur could study and remember who was who.

“Thank you,” Dagur said sincerely, once the last portrait had been found and recorded.

Tuff only shrugged. “It’s okay. If I’m going to stay here and eat all your delicious magic food, I might as well learn everyone’s name, right?”

Dagur blinked. “You - you’re - you still want to stay here? I mean, I want you to stay with me too, but it doesn’t have to be your only option. I can use the mirror to find any kith or kin you might still have?”

“I don’t want to go bother any distant cousin - not if I can stay with you. I think you were right, Dagur. It . . . wasn’t all my fault. My sister would have wanted me to keep going. And besides,” Tuff managed a grin. “I can’t leave you behind now. You’ll get all grouchy and sad again.”

He snorted. “I wasn’t grouchy and sad.”

“Yeah, you were.” Tuff softened the statement by leaning in to kiss his cheek.

Surprised, Dagur nearly dropped him on the floor.

——-

They memorized all the names between them, each one bringing forth cherished memories Dagur had forgotten with time.

Astrid was the best fighter in the entire court. She’d been unbeatable, especially on horseback. It was her parents that had pressured her to be the cook, and Dagur now knew with regret that it had been a thankless job.

Fishlegs had tended the garden, while Sir Uglethorpe (he’d been so far off with that poor man’s name it was embarrassing) had been captain of the palace guard. He’d bullied those two incessantly, but they had just patiently borne through - forming a close companionship that had seemed odd at the time, but not so much now.

Viggo’s brother, Ryker, was the castle’s huntsman - and he’d always been kind enough to ignore or at least chuckle fondly at Dagur’s awkward posturing. Which he now realized - much to his mortification, had been early attempts at teenaged flirting.

Gobber had been the boisterous, singing forge master. Hiccup had started out as his scrawny apprentice, but had proved himself to have a talent for training even the wildest horse.

Dagur had been delighted to find that his favorite steed was among those in the stables, kept alive in a painting of a herd , running through a beautiful valley. It seemed one of the few paintings able to truly move or shift, so long as you weren’t intently watching it. Sometimes the horses were drinking from a stream, or laying down rather than running. Apparently the Enchantress had some pity on them.

“Shattermaster,” he said, pointing. Dagur hadn’t needed any translation to remember his horse’s name. “And that’s Windshear, my sister’s horse.”

“You have a sister?”

Dagur smiled at him. “Yeah, she’s about your age. She went to go live with our cousins after Dad died.” He faltered. “I have no idea if she’s even alive.”

Tuff wrapped his arm around Dagur’s, knowing better than to offer false promises. “Who’s that one?” he redirected, pointing at another horse.

“Oh, you’d like him. His name’s Torch.”

They spent their days together this way now. Dagur had forgotten about time, more focused on making sure Tuff was recovering, and on improving his relationship with servants. They were feeling more like old friends from another life rather than just the common folk who’d worked for his father.

By the end of the week, only three petals on the enchanted rose remained, yet every portrait in the castle was smiling.

—-

He’d wanted to do something for Tuff.

Normally, he would have asked someone else to do it for him, but now he wanted it to be all him. Dagur did think to ask for advice though, since his gardener would be the one to know about this one particular thing.

Armed with handwritten instructions and a shovel, Dagur set to work late that night, after Tuff had fallen into a deep restful sleep.

When he returned the next morning before sunrise, he had a couple thorns in his paw, scratches on his arms and tears in his clothing, but he could not be happier.

Tuff was waiting up for him when he entered the room, looking anxious and oddly horrified.

“It’s okay,” Dagur soothed, as the boy embraced him tightly. “I’m back, everything’s okay.”

“Dagur,” Tuff started, but he put a finger to the boy’s lips. He led Tuff to the table in his room, not even glancing at the enchanted rose but instead grabbing up the mirror and asking it to show what he’d done.

Proudly he handed it over to Tuff, who took it in confusion. He looked at the glass, then gasped unevenly, eyes starting to fill up.

Roses, in the middle of dead winter, were intertwined beautifully around his sister’s grave. Dagur was no gardener, but he figured even he couldn’t manage to kill an immortal magical bush while transplanting it. It had been remarkable simple - the only hard part had been digging into the frozen ground.

“They’ll bloom forever, pruned or not. She’ll always have roses, no matter the time of year.”

Tuff’s eyes were spilling over. He set down the mirror and wrapped his arms tightly around Dagur’s waist. “Thank you, thank you so much - I’m so sorry,” he managed.

Dagur looked down at the top of his head, confused. “Why? Did - Did I do something wrong? It was roses, right? Not daffodils or something?”

He was about to berate himself, but Tuff looked up at him tearfully and then over to the dome.

At first he thought there was no longer anything inside it, but on closer look, Dagur saw the withered stem lying at the bottom, surrounded by fallen petals.

“I didn’t know you had so little time left,” Tuff murmured. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry - I promised I’d help you -“

Dagur felt a deep surge of disappointment, though for the first time it wasn’t for his own sake. “I guess I’m gonna have to make a lot more apologies to everyone.”

“I’m sorry,” Tuff said again to his chest, but Dagur gently tilted his face up to look at him.

“Don’t be sorry for me. I don’t regret it. I love you,” he blurted casually, without thinking.

Tuff’s gray eyes widened. Before Dagur could stammer out a mortified apology, he put his hands on Dagur’s face and pulled him down for a fierce kiss.

Dagur flailed a little, shocked, but after a moment of Tuffs soft lips crashing against his teeth and lips, he started to kiss back. He was careful even though he didn’t want to be, for fear of his fangs piercing the boy’s lips.

He had no cause to worry as it turned out.

Tuff reared back suddenly, breaking the kiss to gape at him.

“What?” Dagur asked, still in a daze. He couldn’t seem to care about anything but kissing Tuff right now, and reached for him again, drawing him closer.

It was then Dagur noticed hands attached to his body rather than paws. He yelped.

Tuff laughed, a little unsteadily and held up the mirror - now a plain, ordinary glass - showing Dagur his new reflection.

—-

There was pandemonium in the castle. Not the panicked kind, but rather a joyous one.

Tuff held onto his arm (his human arm!) as Dagur walked them carefully out of his room. It was Viggo who met them first, walking purposely toward them with a chair on wheels. Dagur wondered giddily for a moment whether it was for him or Tuff.

Giving him a smile that could only mean ‘well done’, Viggo respectfully nodded his head and eased Tuff down into the chair before looking him over critically.

“I’m okay, I can walk,” the boy protested, not letting go of Dagur. His grip had moved to Dagur’s hand. Viggo only chuckled.

“Have no fear, I will not separate you two. Among other things, our prince has proved himself to be an excellent caretaker.”

Dagur felt himself blushing. Coming from Viggo, it was rare praise, though he was eternally grateful the man wasn’t making a big production out of things.

That task was given to the other servants - now free of their frames - who cheered when they saw them. All except Sir Uglethorpe, who’d had to first run for the privy.

As overjoyed as he was to see them all uncursed, Dagur dreaded having to tell them about the fate of the village, where many had called home. Lady Astrid seemed to sense this and stepped forward to hug Dagur tightly, and then Tuffnut.

“We all know what happened,” she spoke, before Dagur could. “The walls have ears you know.”

Oh. Right. “You can stay here, all of you. Make this castle your new home. And no, you don’t have to work any harder than I will,” Dagur promised.

Astrid smiled. “Oh, going to lead by example are you? Like Alexander the Great?”

Dagur blinked at her, trying in vain to remember a long ago history lesson. “Was he French?”

Her laugh didn’t make him upset or defensive, like it would have in the past. Tuff squeezed his hand. “Currently he’s in your library. You’re gonna love him.”

He grinned back at Tuff. Who knew, maybe he would.

Love had already surprised Dagur more than anything else ever had.

END