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softquietsteadylove · 9 months

Note

I’m sure that Thena loves Gil’s feathers in the Maleficent AU. Maybe you can do soft moments where Thena observes his feathers and wings without Gil’s knowledge? <3

"Thena!"

"Hm?" she blinked, looking over at Ikaris who huffed through his teeth in annoyance. "What were you saying?"

"I was asking if you are sure about this," Ikaris nodded his head at their younger brother, very visibly, very publically, offering Makkari a little trinket upon her return to the nest.

"Sure about what?" Thena mumbled, her eyes on the head of the guard, walking further into the nest from the stormy weather outside and flapping his sodden wings with displeasure. "We have known from the beginning that Druig was taken with that sentry. I think they make a very sweet pair."

"We do not live here, Thena."

"Don't we?" she countered, finally giving her brother the benefit of seeing how serious her expression was. "We have already extended our stay, brother. Druig is very happy with Makkari, and I believe you too have found companionship in Ajak's ambassador."

Ikaris flushed, whether by guilt or anger at her needling him. Or perhaps it was a truly emotional response to the bringing up of Sersi. "She is...pleasant. But I never would have expected to ground you and Druig here because of it."

"Do you think he does?" Thena argued again, gesturing to how Druig, thorny and disagreeable in nature, offered sweet and gentle smiles to the quick winged flyer. Her scarlet red feathers complimented Druig's pitch black ones.

They were different from Gilgamesh's, whose feathers were iridescent and dark, with earthy brown undertones.

Ikaris looked at her, "you want to stay."

"I wish for Druig to be happy." It was far easier to say that than thinking about any particular reasons she had for delaying their departure again and again and again.

Gilgamesh flapped his wings a little before walking further into the nest.

"And I do wish the same for you," Thena gave Ikaris a look that made him roll his eyes. She flicked his wing, "against my better judgement."

With that, she took off, letting her wings guide her gently down from the loft of her observations to the floor of one of the many entrances. She walked quietly, keeping her feathers from dragging behind her as she followed the captain of the guard into the mothernest's twisting tunnels.

"Gil?"

He turned, surprised at first but then offering her one of his very warm smiles he had.

"How was your flight?" she asked, regarding his still dripping and somewhat bedraggled wings. "Is the storm coming in fast?"

He nodded with a sigh, his wings sitting heavy behind him. "I think so. It'll be on us by tonight, from what Kingo spotted."

"Let me see."

Gil blinked, not catching on at first that she meant his wings, and their current condition. He fussed, "n-no, it's okay, really, I'm just-"

"Gilgamesh," Thena pursed her lips at him. Was he really embarrassed of his ruffled wings, like a young fledgeling. "I'm sure you need help at least with your pinfeathers. Allow me."

Gil simply went quiet as she took the liberty of turning him by the shoulders and examining his wings. He cleared his throat, "I, uh, guess you saw Druig and Kari."

Thena smiled as she brushed some of the beading dew off his shimmering feathers. "Indeed I did. I was the one who advised him on presenting her with something upon her return."

"Oh really?" Gil moved his wing to try and peek at her over his shoulder.

She moved it back in place to continue her work. "I want Druig to be happy. And it seems my fledgeling brother has finally chosen a mate."

"You think it's that serious?"

She smiled at the centre of Gil's back as she plucked an errant feather barely clinging on. "I think he asked me if he should serenade her."

"Ah." Gil's shoulders moved as she continued to preen him. It was a very intimate activity by sheer merit of how sensitive one's wings were, and how vulnerable any fae's back was. "You're right, the gift is way better."

They both laughed, the gentle sound of it echoing down the corridor one way and then out the other. Thena cleared her throat, "so, if you have any advice on courting rituals here, then I'm sure I would like to know for Druig's sake."

Gilgamesh moved his wing to look at her again, "hm, nothing fancy I guess. We don't have a lot of ritual to it--you wanna court?--court. If no one objects, then fine."

How easy it sounded. Thena moved his wing between them again. "I suppose it is becoming less common to have such archaic tradition. In the Isles, the trinkets and serenading are rather standard practices of courting. Many have mellifluous voices for song."

"Do you?"

She laughed again and pulled a feather more harshly, "certainly not."

Gil's shoulders rolled again, although his wings certainly seemed relaxed with her work on them. He sighed, "me neither."

Thena raised an eyebrow, not that he could see her, "I suspect that is not true."

He looked over, now lifting up his entire wing over her head, "I guess I could serenade you to test it."

Thena blushed faintly, his feathers still in her hands. "I wasn't done!"

"Sorry, sorry," he acquiesced, turning and offering his wing to her again. "I guess I've never really tested it out."

Thena pursed her lips. "Ikaris and Druig have no voice for song either. Trinkets are a much better language for them."

"And you?"

Thena blinked, wondering if she had heard him right. It seemed impossible, given their hearing ability and the general quiet of the caverns. But even a whisper could travel through the corridors, and Gil had such a nice, gentle voice.

It was most definitely suited for song.

"Hm?" she asked in not so many words, trying to focus on plucking any loose downy feathers.

"Almost done?" he asked more firmly, his wing still between them.

"Almost," she muttered, running her fingers over the smoothed out feathers only as far as she dared. He seemed much more preened and presentable, at least. She snapped her hands away, his feather pressed between her palms. "There."

Gilgamesh turned, lifting his wing up and over her again in their tight proximity. They settled at his back, sitting higher after a nice refresher. He smiled, "thanks."

Thena looked down at the sandals on her feet. The straps were wearing from age. "Any time."

"I, uh," Gil nodded his head behind him, "should get outta these wet robes."

Thena nodded. Indeed he should. "I'll make sure there's a plate for you by the fire."

"Thanks," he repeated, with a slight change to his tone. He tilted his head at her, "I'll see you out there, I guess."

"Right," she smiled, taking a half a step back from him. Her wings trembled nervously behind her.

"See you soon, I guess," he said finally, turning and continuing down the tunnel with his drier, lighter wings.

Thena looked down at her hands and sputtered. She still had his feather in her hands. "Gil!"

"Keep it!" he shouted back to her before dropping down into the lower tunnels, "a trinket!"

#Thenamesh Maleficent AU #I do love this au #the wings the horns the magic #the pointy ears!#preening is a very intimate action of course #I guess it's like giving someone a massage or washing their hair #what's something that's not illegal but feels like it #nothing untoward but it's weird if a stranger offers #these two are fLIRTING #Gil is really flirting #poor Thena's more used to faes with tall hair crooning at her from the tops of palm trees #remember she's from the tropics #it means colourful wings and crooning love songs and bringing fruit as gifts #she'll accept the fruit but everything else you can piss off #don't let Ikaris know tho #he'll lose his damn mind #I'm sorry my sister is WHAT with WHOM???#Druig's here like dude it's just preening relax you're not our father #meanwhile Ikaris is pacing around in their nest pod like WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN YOUNG FAERIE?!

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starry-bi-sky · 5 months

Text

There are two things that Damian knows that he knows Father doesn’t.

He has an older brother

He was dead

(And a secret third thing: Damian was glad he was dead. They did not get along.)

Well. No, correction, they were two things that Damian knew that Father didn't. Past tense. Strange magic swirled through the air and created a mirage before his eyes, and immediately a scowl forms across his face.

The mirage shifts and shimmers like the light hitting a slowly turning prism, and then it settles into a memory. One that Damian does not recall. Like looking into a tv screen, it shows, faintly, a room, with most of the magic going into the image of a crib.

His mother was standing on one side, and next to her, standing on his tiptoes was a small five year old boy looking up at her. With dark hair and skin that was only few shades lighter brown than Damian's, the little boy's resemblance to Damian was undeniable.

However, his eyes were blue. Not green. Damian's scowl deepens, and he sinks back. "Danyal." He mutters, and feels eyes turn on to him.

Danyal Al Ghul. Damian's older brother. A prodigal swordsman like Damian, and five years his senior. He'd be fifteen if he was still alive. His memory of the last time he saw his brother was still clear in his mind.

(A sword to Danyal's neck. Stars were glittering through his window. Damian was five, Danyal ten. He is not sure why Danyal had snuck into his room, all he remembers is hearing a sound and on instinct reaching for his sword.)

(His brother had intercepted easily. But had not shoved the sword away. Moonlight hit his blue eyes, and Damian remembers seeing the pupils shrink to let the light in. His eyes looked almost silver.)

(His brother bares his teeth at him. Damian wants to slice his neck more than anything, and he bares his teeth back. "Good." Danyal says, his voice low in a hiss, "Your reflexes are good, little brother.")

("Of course they are," Damian remembers snarling, and presses the sword closer. But it does not budge. "I am an Al Ghul.")

(Something unrecognizable passes through his brother's eyes, and his mouth twists into something like a smile. "I know." He says, and tilts his head downwards at him. "And you will be great.")

(His brother shoves the sword back, causing Damian to stumble. And like the wind, he is gone.)

(The next morning, he goes on a mission with mother and a few others. Mother is the only one to return with Danyal's sword, and a red-eyed look in her eyes. Damian does not mourn. Now there's only one of them.)

"Momma." The little Danyal-mirage speaks, a furrow between his childlike brows as mother lowers a bundle into the crib. His blue eyes watch her, and lifts onto his toes to peer into the crib as she sets the baby down. "Who is this?"

Their mother's hand comes to rest along his back. "This is Damian, my son." She murmurs, voice low. "He is your little brother. Protect him well."

Damian scoffs internally -- not likely. He remembers every spar he ever had with Danyal, every harsh word and insult. His pushing, pushing, pushing for Damian to get up. To try again. Do it again. The only kindness he ever showed him was when his fingers bled. And even that was harsh, firm. Rolling gauze around his wrist and scolding him, telling him how to wield his weapon better.

(It was the same as everyone else, but somehow it hurt worse coming from his own brother.)

But he watches his older brother's youngest self tilt his head to the side, and then reach his chubby hand through the crib's bars. He runs small, blunt fingers over the baby's arm, and the baby jerks. Through the crib's bars, Damian sees himself grab Danyal's fingers.

And he scowls even deeper.

And Danyal's eyes... widen. He lets out a little gasp, and a small smile Damian's never seen him wear tilts at the corner of his mouth as he looks up at their mother. "Mother," he whispers, "he grabbed me!"

Damian... his scowl falters, for a moment.

He doesn't wait for a response, he looks back to the baby with sparking eyes. His expression melts like sugar as he bounces the finger being gripped tight by the small hand. "Hello, little brother." His brother says, voice its of usual firmness, but there's more fondness underlying it than Damian's ever heard. "My name is Danyal."

The mirage shifts before Damian can comprehend his older brother's voice. It shows the crib again, appearing as if a few days had passed. There is night lilting through the nearby window, and a creek of the door. The baby doesn't stir.

Danyal sneaks in, still wearing his training clothes and a sword strapped to his side. Damian's scowl returns, watching him creep over to the crib. Of course -- the last night he saw his brother wasn't the only time he'd snuck into his room.

Would he go so low as to attack an infant? Damian wonders, watching his brother cross the room to his crib. But while his fingers rest against the hilt, they never curl to unsheathe.

His brother peers into the crib again, and there it is again, that smile wider in the corner of his mouth. It's not a full one, but its as uninhibited as it gets. Dripping honey-sweet with awe. "You are so tiny." Danyal whispers, and pokes a finger back through the crib. It wriggles, then pokes Damian's cheek gently. "Was I as small as you when mother gave birth to me?"

There is no response from the baby. Not a coherent one anyways, the little thing snuffles and turns his head, mouth open to latch. Danyal stills, his eyes grow ever wider again.

Danyal says nothing else, just rests his cheek against the crib and watches the baby sleep in silence. The affection never leaves his young face.

Damian feels unsettled. Off-foot. This Danyal is foreign to him... He wonders what happened to have changed his brother's mind on him.

There's a scuffle, quiet, but there. Danyal picks up on it just as Damian does, and his head pricks up like a deer, head already turning away from the crib. The affection leaves his face, falling away like water into something serious. His blade is already slightly unsheathed.

Two assassins, belonging to grandfather, burst out of the shadows. Their swords swinging into the air and ready to strike.

Danyal kills them both, his back to the crib. It's not without struggle, and when the two assassins lay dead on the floor, the baby is wailing at the top of his lungs. Danyal has a laceration cleaving down diagonal of his cheek. It's close to his eye, just barely missed blinding him.

Damian never knew how he got that scar. He does now. (He doesn't know how to feel about it.)

His brother clutches his bleeding face, sheathing his sword as tears well up onto his face. But he turns towards the crib, and hurries over. "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay." He hushes rapidly, the League-drilled seriousness fallen away to reveal a panic-stricken five year old. He sticks one hand into the crib, the one not clutching anything, and grabs little Damian's hand.

Their mother comes bursting in that moment, and Danyal turns his head towards her. "Mother." He says, his voice cracks un-wantingly. Their mother steps over the bodies of the assassins easily. "They tried to kill Damian."

"But they did not." Talias says, kneeling down next to the crib to inspect Danyal's face and Damian's well-being. When she finds nothing of concern beyond the injury, she continues. "You killed them before they could, Danyal. Well done."

The mirage of his brother nods, his eyes teary and red.

Damian... is discomfited. he never thought Danyal would kill assassins for him. He would have thought his brother would sooner look the other way. The mirage shifts again, and it quickly shows time passing.

Danyal sits in Damian's nursery every night, after that. He lays at the foot of the crib with his sword, a pillow and a blanket with him. Some nights there is nothing but peace -- or as close to peace as a baby could achieve -- and some days assassins break in.

Danyal kills each one.

The mirage shifts again, and it shows more memories of Danyal interacting with Damian during his youth too young for him to remember. His first steps, his first words.

"Danya." The small toddler of Damian says, arms reaching for Danyal.

A frown curls across Danyal's face, and pulls Damian into his lap. "No, no, little brother." He scolds, voice firm but.. softer. "It is Danyal, Damian. Danyal."

"Danya!"

Damian's brother sighs, but there is that same-small tilt at the corner of his mouth. A glimmer in his eyes. A glimmer... that Damian is finding he recognizes.

(He always thought his brother got that look in his eyes when he was mocking him. Was he wrong?)

The mirage shifts again, and this time it shows only mother and Danyal, alone. Danyal is older, taller. Seven, if Damian had to guess. Mother has a stern look on her face, her hands tight on his shoulders. "Damian will be starting training soon, my son."

Ah, then close to eight then. Training starts, always, at three years old. He watches Danyal nod, his expression mimicking their mother's. His arms are folded, always folded, behind his back, always neat.

"You can no longer have the relationship with your brother as you did before." Mother says.

Danyal's expression... falters. It shifts, it fluctuates. He looks surprised, thrown off. Like he isn't quite sure he heard what mother just said. His brows furrow. "What... do you mean, mother?"

"I mean what I said, Danyal." Mother says, stern, "Ra's will be keeping a closer eye on Damian now that he is of age to begin his training. He will not like if he sees you both getting along."

"I am sorry, my child. But your relationship with Damian ends here. You are rivals now, not brothers." In a cruel form a gentleness, mother raises her hand and tucks a stray curl out of Danyal's face.

Of course. Damian never had a relationship with his brother because of Grandfather. Of course. No, he's not feeling a little bitter. No. There's not an inner child that still, like a candleflame, wishes that he'd had a bond with his only flesh and blood.

Danyal is dead now. So it's not like it matters. He's happy about this.

Danyal frowns, and he steps back. He looks lost in thought. "We are still brothers, mother," he says, argues, and looks up to meet mother's eyes. "Let me train him, I will make sure he gets the skill he needs. If we must be rivals, then I will teach him how to defeat me. If he can defeat me, he can defeat anybody."

Their mother, and Damian, both blink in unison. Then mother smiles something sharp, calculated. She folds her hands behind her back. "Then do it. But you will make him hate you."

"...So be it."

Damian.... Damian is silent. His world axis has been tilted on its head. He is sliding, and sliding, and sliding down. Spinning. Many things click into place at once.

More memories from the mirage show. It shows Danyal training Damian. It shows their arguing, their bickering. It shows Danyal going to their mother to praise Damian and his skills, how fast he is picking up on the sword. How one day he will surpass even him.

It shows Danyal sitting outside Damian's bedroom door every night, listening in for anyone who dares to break in. His knees drawn to his chest, his sword at his side. Sometimes he sneaks in, sword drawn, when he hears a sound.

Some nights, Damian wakes up. He remembers those nights. Danyal standing over his bed with his sword unsheathed and tight at his side. He remembers the instant terror as he immediately reached for his own weapon.

His brother always scolded him for his lack of vigilance. That had he been anyone else, Damian would have had his neck cut. He would've been dead already. It only made Damian's hatred of him grow.

But he understands now. Because there were assassins in the room that Damian, four years old, three, did not notice. Not until later. He always assumed the attacks on him after Danyal's death had been because now there was a new heir to target.

It had been the only lesson he'd been even somewhat grateful for.

Then finally the mirage shimmers, and it shows Danyal, ten years old, in one of the training rooms, mid-spar with Mother. It's fast, sharp, impressive and like a blur. Damian is unsure if at ten which one of them was the better swordsman. Some of the assassins who have never met Danyal said Damian was, but the ones who had said it was Danyal. He'll never know.

In a lull in the fight, when their swords are crossed, mother speaks. "Ra's wants you and Damian to fight." She says, teeth grit into a deep scowl. The cross breaks and Danyal jumps back, he frowns.

"We have fought, mother." He says, and dives in first, swinging for mother's feet. Mother dodges, and slices at his arm. He swerves out of the way, twisting on his feet like a dance. "We are always fighting, doesn't he see our spars?"

"Not a spar like that, my son." Mother says, a snarl in her voice. She lunges, and Danyal blocks her blade. "A fight to the death. Father has grown tired of having two heirs."

That gets Danyal's attention -- or, more accurately, it distracts it. His eyes widen, and his sword lowers for a single moment. A mistake. "What?" Is all he gets out before mother has him on his back, her blade pressed to his throat.

He freezes. As does Damian. Danyal's brows furrow, then unfurrow, only to knot up again. "Mother, what do you mean a fight to the death?" He flips to his feet when mother removes the sword. She walks over to grab her water.

"Must I repeat myself, Danyal?" Mother snaps, rubbing her forehead before swigging from her canteen. "Father wants to find out which one of you is the stronger heir, and so you will fight to the death after your training in a few days."

Danyal's tan face loses a shade of color, he looks ashy. "There must be some mistake!" He exclaims, his arms gesturing out as he peers around mother. "There is a five year disparity between us, Damian has only just started training two years ago. It would be an unfair fight!"

"Do you think me unaware?" Mother whirls on him, and there is a grief-stricken look on her face. Like she is already mourning Damian's death. Damian feels ill. "Your skill is far beyond what Damian can accomplish right now, and there is nothing that I say that can convince Father otherwise."

Danyal wears an expression like he is scrambling for answers. A white knuckle grip on his weapon. There is a long silence, and his lower lip curls up. His throat bobs, he swallows. "Is there really nothing we can do?"

Mother makes a frustrated sound, pushing her loose hairs out of her face. "Not unless Father changes his mind, or I send one of you away. But Father would surely send someone to look for you or Damian."

"What if one of us faked our death?"

Mother stills. As does Damian. No, he thinks, stiff as a rod, no way. These mirages were lying, nothing but figments of an imagination. Of some quiet what-if that Damian had not yet stomped out.

Mother's expression shifts, and then turns contemplative. Danyal notices, and keeps pushing, he looks as hopeful as he could get beyond his usual unwavering, stone-like expression. "One of us could go to father--"

"No." Mother cuts off, voice sharp. Danyal wilts, confusion flittering across his face. Damian, from the corner of his eye, sees Father tense as stone. His white-slit eyes have not left the mirage. Nobody's has.

"Father will undoubtedly check there first, it would not be a good idea. You or Damian will have to go somewhere where he would not think to look. Someone unaffiliated with the League."

Danyal's face falls, shutters, and then closes up again into stone. Mother begins to pace, and Danyal's blue eyes follow her. "So a stranger?" He asks, and there is disgust lilting into his voice.

Mother nods, and she looks just as offput as Danyal.

The mirage of Damian's brother rolls his shoulders back. "Then I will do it, mother." He says, voice unwavering. There is a stubborn note behind it all, one that Damian recognizes. "I will fake my death, and Damian will stay here."

Mother's eyes turn sharp on him, and she stops in her spot. She pivots. "Are you sure?" She asks, eyebrow raising, "There is a chance you will never meet your Father if you leave. Nor will you see I or Damian again, if you do this."

Something like fear flickers across Danyal's face, eyes widening momentarily -- as if that very thought had not crossed his mind. But then it smooths over to sharp determination. He nods. "It would be the same for Damian if it was him instead. I will do it, Mother."

Damian feels ill again. Father has a strong set in his jaw, his teeth grinding.

Mother stares at Danyal, and then her expression softens. And like before, it is grieving. "In a few days time, I and another member of the League will be going on a mission to the American States. I will tell Father that you will accompany me, once there we will dispose of the other member and then orchestrate your death."

The American States. Danyal was here, in the country. He was out there somewhere -- but no this was fake. It had to be. Danyal was dead. A fool who got himself killed on a mission with mother and left the title of Heir to Damian.

Or maybe it had been his plan all along. His and mother's both.

...Was mother ever going to tell him?

The mirage of Danyal nods, sharp. Understanding. There is a gleam in his eyes that is not pride, it is tears. And when Mother leaves the room and leaves him alone, the stone-like expression on his face crumbles and falls.

His brother, ten years old, curls up his lip in an ugly way. It wobbles as the tears in his eyes do, and he brings up his hand to slam it over his mouth. And sinks to his knees, a yell-like sob muffled behind the skin.

His brother, ten years old, looks smaller than Damian remembers him being, and cries.

Damian has never seen Danyal cry. Not once in the mirage of memories, nor in his own.

The memory holds for a minute, and then disappears. And no new one shows up. The magic is gone, and it leaves a silence in its wake. Heavy, staticky, and full of revelations.

So there are two things that Damian knows that his Father now knows too.

He has an older brother

His older brother is alive.

(And a new secret third thing: Damian wasn't sure how to feel about it.)