#its barely visible but please know i shaped their lashes to be kinda wing shaped

[squidpedia]

Moth Clover.

I suggest.

(Unless you’ve already done a Moth Clover and I’m a dunce that hasn’t seen it yet.)

Never before have i been so weak to suggestions

[feynites]

Could I prompt for some more Thenvunin and Uthvir stuff, pretty please? Don't care which AU!

Sure, Anon! I don’t think I ever posted anything for the Fox & Tengu AU that @pyrrhy and I speculated on a while back, so have some of that maybe?

Also, if you haven’t seen it, @pyrrhy’s gorgeous art for it can be found here, and here, and NSFW art here and here 

Warnings for smut, some heat-cycle dynamics (not A/B/O), and the sort of take on Japanese folkloric beings that’s vaguely in line with modern anime and fantasy, but only kinda waves at the actual folklore.

Thenvunin’s home inside the Spirit World is not an elaborate place.

For a Fox of his age, it is… well. Not typical. It signals his lack of personal success and power, which can in turn make him something of a target. So Thenvunin does not often bring outsiders here as guests. The boundaries of his household do not extend far beyond a small garden, with a single decorative pear tree. Beyond that there are only visible wisps and clouds of ephemera, denoting the walls that separate it from the rest of the Spirit World, and from the mortal realms, too.

If Thenvunin were to accumulate more power, he could make his household bigger. He would be able to afford servants and attendants, even. The households of some Foxes his age rival the estates of grand nobles in the mortal world.

But not Thenvunin’s. Thenvunin’s own is small, without many walls or external wings. The bedroom is partitioned off from the main room by a simple screen. There are no servants; there would be no space to house them, and truthfully, no real need for them to attend so small and humble a building. Thenvunin would honestly never bring guests here, but…

There are times when needs must.

And in the fog of his rut, he can scarcely think clearly about left or right. Up or down. He does not think twice, when Uthvir finally falls upon him, about wrapping his tail around them and summoning his fox fire to carry them both to his home.

His Tengu suitor flaps their wings once, in surprise. But then they seem to realize what he has done, and only look around curiously for a moment. Thenvunin hardly wants them peering at his house, though, and so he grasps them firmly and draws them inside. Away from the small garden and its lone, sad tree, and past the interior screens, to the single mat placed upon the bare floor. They might as well get it over and done with. Thenvunin has found it is better to have a partner for these things, even with the costs to his dignity. And even if said partner is the sort of disreputable spirit he would be repulsed by, in a better frame of mind.

Uthvir still pauses, anyway, and looks around. Taking in the sparsely decorated walls. The lights are all Thenvunin’s own doing. Well, the doing of his presence, anyway. He does not have to focus his magic on keeping the fox fire in the sconces burning. They just draw on the natural energy of his presence, and fill the house with a glow like moonlight.

With a snap of his fingers, he deliberately puts them out.

“I did not bring you here to snoop,” he says, as his tail lashes in agitation behind him. His skin is all but burning, and he has been hard for long enough already. He is aching, and the potions he took to help ease the way have been in effect for three hours. More than enough time to settle in. He opens up the front of his robe, and frees more of his pheromones into the air between them. In the dark, he can still see Uthvir’s nose twitch.

“I cannot see you very well,” they tell him.

“You can see well enough for this,” Thenvunin insists.

Uthvir finally turns back towards him, and moves a little closer.

“Oh?” they say. “And what precisely is ‘this’? Do not tell me you brought me to your home with lustful designs on my person!”

Thenvunin’s face heats with embarrassment as much as arousal. That low tone of their voice is absolutely infuriating. The way it makes his nerves spark and sinks right down to his loins, it is absolutely ridiculous, they must be putting some kind of spell or affectation on but he cannot see how, and in his current state of being it is all he can do to not pounce. His tail betrays him anyway, of course. Unruly thing. It presses up against the side of Uthvir’s leg.

“Do not feign ignorance,” he growls at them. “Your designs on me are clear enough. And needs must; so you are in luck, Tengu. In this state, I can scarcely resist even you.”

“Stop, stop, the flattery is too much,” Uthvir drawls. Their eyes glint in what little light from the outside makes its way in through Thenvunin’s moon-shaped window. And their wings nearly fill up the room, as their nose twitches again, and they finally press him down to the sleeping mat below them. Their fingers find his belt. Thenvunin leans back and closes his eyes, braces himself for the inevitable rush of ripped clothing and scratched thighs, for the sting of their teeth against his skin, the press of their cock to his backside. His heat never makes his lovers gentle, and Uthvir has been free enough with their teeth and claws in their past trysts. If a noble and disciplined warrior like Sethtaren could not keep his head during Thenvunin’s cycle, he knows that some disreputable Tengu is going to tax his healing powers.

Uthvir undoes his belt with their fingers. They inhale sharply as his full scent strikes them. His tail keeps brushing up against them. Thenvunin feels their breath caress his skin, as they press a kiss to his collarbone. He braces for the press of teeth, but there is only the hot, wet slide of their lips and tongue. They taste him, trailing slowly down his exposed chest, as their hand push his clothes out of their way. His robe ends up bunched around his arms, until Thenvunin summons enough prescience to sit up a little and fling it away. His skin feels too hot for it. It feels too hot for anything, but somehow the molten press of Uthvir’s mouth is a relief.

And then they keep heading downwards. Their wings still filling up the room, as they hitch up his hips, and spread his thighs.

“Just get on with it!” Thenvunin growls. He cannot - he can’t - in this state he cannot help himself. He opens his eyes in the same moment that Uthvir closes a hand around his shaft and licks the head of his cock, and the sight of them wrings a gasp from his throat. His tail curls up and wraps around their shoulders, and draws them closer as they look directly at him, and gradually swallow him down. Taking him into the same wet heat that had gently marked his chest. But this time, he can feel the points of their teeth. Just faintly. Teasingly.

He smacks his hand against the bedroom wall to steady himself, and lets out a sound that would only ever escape him in throes of his rut.

 ~

 Uthvir had heard about the reputation of Foxes, of course.

It is not an easy reputation to avoid hearing about. Though Uthvir generally also makes it their business to know virtually everyone’s reputation, insofar as they can. Foxes are known for their promiscuity, of course. They have sex magic and trickery. They can addle the minds and cloud the thoughts of mortals and weaker spirits, and like the moon, they are subject to cycles. They are renowned for being the best of bed partners. Catching one in the heights of their most lustful stage is considered equal parts fortunate or, if one is not particularly powerful or careful, dangerous.

Thenvunin is by far the strangest Fox that Uthvir has ever met.

They have been puzzling for months over this strange, self-contradictory, fickle, prickly Fox, who may or may not be seducing them. If all his odd behaviour has been part of a ploy to catch their attention, then Uthvir would consider it a job well done. But somehow, they do not think that is actually the case.

Still, the reputation of Foxes seems to maintain some merit, as they do not think they could possibly resist Thenvunin right now. Their jaw is sore from four rounds of sucking him off, and their fingers are tired from thrusting inside of him. But with each passing moment he seems to lose the last of his prickly reservations. And the scent of him, the sight of him - well. They have been more grateful for their night vision, but only when it saved their life.

They let him come in their mouth a fifth time, and finally pull their lips off of his length. It has not gone down since all of this started, and despite the seed they can taste on their tongue, it shows no signs of softening even now. But any more and they will cramp their jaw, and might do him some harm with the friction, too. Thenvunin presses his hips down against the fingers still inside of him, before letting out a low growl, and flipping himself onto his stomach.

“Enough teasing,” he insists, in a ragged voice. “What are you even doing? Do not tell me you have somehow forgotten how to fuck.”

Uthvir’s mouth goes dry, and their eyebrows fly up. Their own arousal certainly does not need much more of an invitation, as Thenvunin’s tail curls backwards and he presents himself so blatantly. His hands fist into the material of his bedroll. Uthvir takes a moment to shrug off the last of their own clothes - it just seems impolite otherwise, somehow; and they know the two of them are quite alone here - before they spread his thighs wider, and guide themselves to his wet, soft entrance.

“Are you certain?” they nevertheless ask, more teasing than anything. His invitation would be hard to mistake. They part his cheeks with their free hand, and dig their nails into the ample flesh. Thenvunin lets out a growl that turns, in moments, to a whine.

“Please,” he begs.

The word sinks through them and sets them aflame. It makes their wings flare, makes some of their magic actually spark into the air. They almost feel sorry for making him ask, except that they don’t, not really, not ever - the tone of his voice is too scintillating, the call of his desire too enticing. They thrust into him, and he is so ready that they meet no resistance at all. Just slick heat and and a snug channel, that compels them to snap their hips more urgently than they meant to. But their passage remains easy, and Thenvunin’s whine turns swiftly into encouraging gasps and moans, as he rocks his hips back towards their thrusts.

His tail curls over their shoulder. Uthvir grips his hip with one hand, and sinks their fingers into his tail with the other. A whispered spell and some stray motes of magic begin to traverse through the fur of it. Uthvir is not actually versed in sex magic, but they know some spells that are stimulating enough. The little sparks in the fur seem to have a good effect, anyway, as Thenvunin’s gasps turn more throaty, and his hips move more urgently.

The feel of him is just… they cannot bite back a growl of their own as they take him. The rising heat in their own loins bids them go faster. Harder.

Claim him.

They thrust into him until his thighs are trembling, until they need both hands just to keep him up. They do not realize that he has come until they see the spatters on the mat beneath them; and then it is just in time to see him come again, his flushed cock bouncing beneath them as the cheap floorboards creak, and their pleasure builds like a lit rocket.

They fold their wings around the both of them, and hilt themselves inside of him before they come with a cry of their own.

Their vision whites out for a second, their whole body tingling with the rush and pleasure of culmination. It steals their breath. Leaves their throat dry and their limbs trembling, better than it ever has been before.

What in…?

Ah, but, they suppose that would be part of the reputation, wouldn’t it? Sex magic, and all.

Thenvunin makes a soft sound, and they regain enough sense to pull out of him. He growls in complaint, at that. Uthvir snorts back at him, but still takes a moment to check him over. His chest heaves with his breaths - so does theirs, actually - and even his tail seems a bit tired, now, as it flops to the side. And finally, his erection goes down, as they help settle him back against the mat. They would angle for a clean patch, but. Well.

…At least it is all still warm.

“Well that was an experience,” they say. Their own voice sounds low and raspy in their ears.

Thenvunin reaches up, and pulls them down on top of him. In a move they are not expecting in the least. It nearly gets him an uppercut to the jaw, before they catch their own reflexes. But as they freeze in a moment of stalled reactions, the Fox folds his arms around them. He buries his nose into their hair, and sinks his fingers into the feathers at the base of their wings. Their primaries flutter in response. That area is sensitive, and Uthvir has cut off arms for less presumptuous transgressions.

This time, though, they can only feel something in them come a bit loose. Something ragged and ill-treated, as Thenvunin’s fingers brush across the numbed flesh of deep-buried scars, and draw a shiver from them as he parts feathers. The ones that are hardest for them to groom themselves; the ones most liable to itch and ache.

What is…?

They swallow. Thenvunin makes an odd, warbly sort of sound in his chest - not quite a growl, not exactly a purr - and gently pets their feathers.

…Uthvir supposes they can allow it, so long as he does not try and twist or yank them. But of all the things people said of Foxes, post coital cuddling had somehow never managed to come up.

 ~

 The rut builds.

Thenvunin loses all of his senses. Because of course he does. Except for the ones he keeps, but well, they really aren’t anywhere near enough to hold him back from the animalistic call of his urges. His cursed nature. And this time seems stranger than any before, as Uthvir tends to him with appalling thoroughness. Indulging their lusts in a way that… that… that Thenvunin of course can only attribute to their sexual depravity, and wide range of appetites.

They do not even cast him aside when they are finished sating themselves. The first time he thinks they might be doing such a thing, they come back only a few minutes later. Carrying a water jug and two cups, and a plat of preserves he had left here… oh, ages ago, it must have been. But nothing rots here, not unless Thenvunin is injured or dying. He has no desire to eat, but Uthvir still cajoles him into drinking. He no longer has any reservations about reaching for them, though, and after a moment he pushes the tray aside and pulls them to him instead.

“Please,” he says, because the word seems to work so well on them. “Please, please, Uthvir, sweet Uthvir, I need to feel you inside of me again.”

“You need to eat something,” the infuriating Tengu insists, twisting in his grasp. “It has been hours over hours.”

“Time doesn’t matter here,” Thenvunin says. It is a half truth, but not entirely a lie. He licks his lips.

“Oh yes it does. Do not treat me like a mortal,” Uthvir growls. But they also turn towards him, and pin him down. Thenvunin whines and rocks his hips towards them, needy, so appallingly hungry for the feel of them. He would say anything, do anything. He does not resist as they pick up a length of rope from the curtains, though something inside of him quails at the thought of blows and choking, pain and punishment. Another plea escapes his lips. This one slightly different in tone.

Uthvir pauses, and then leans down and kisses his forehead.

“I am going to tie your hands,” they say. “You are getting up to too much mischief with them.”

“Anything you want,” he agrees. “Just please do not leave me again. I need you.”

Uthvir pauses. They look struck, and Thenvunin only has enough mental wherewithal to hope that it is in the good way. He reaches for them again. They catch his hand, but they do not dig in their claws, or hiss a rebuke; or tell him he is pathetic. Instead their gaze softens, somehow. Their hands are firm but not harsh as they bind his arms, and they stop to brush a hand across his cheek.

“I will look after you,” they promise.

He rocks his hips upwards, even as something inside of him almost… eases, at that.

“Please,” he tries again. Why is it not working anymore?!

But this time seems to do it, as Uthvir settles themselves on top of him. Their fingers drift towards his mouth. Thenvunin seizes the opportunity, and sucks them between his lips. Running his tongue over their digits, tasting some sweet remnant of the preserves as they trap him with their thighs. Their flushed cock presses against his own. But his efforts to rock his hips up against them are stymied by the startlingly firm weight of their body atop his own. Their eyes fall to his mouth, and they lick their own lips, before pulling their fingers out.

They drag the tray closer to the both of them. A wriggle of their hips, and the electric heat of their cock pressing to his vanishes as they change shape. Replacing their cock with damp, inviting folds of velvet-soft flesh, that rest snugly against his arousal. The scent of them intensifies.

He twists in his ropes, as it makes his skin heat even more. The urgency, the need, grows. It spikes even further as Uthvir manhandles him, and gains only some relief when they shift their hips up and start to take him into themselves.

They bite their bottom lip, and stare at him intently while the do.

Thenvunin feels near dizzy with the sense of them enveloping him. He did not even know they could do that. He cannot do that! What a strange thing, to think a Tengu would have such skills that a Fox does not. But then he can scarcely think of anything, as they lower themselves fully on top of him; and stop to lift up their tray.

“Eat a bite,” they say.

“Uthvir,” he whines.

“Eat a bite, and I will move my hips,” they promise him.

Thenvunin opens his mouth, with scarcely a thought. Their fingers slide to his lips again. The piece of fruit is sweet and soft, and slides easily down his throat. He licks the juices from their softened fingertips, and is rewarded when they slide up, and take him in again. The electric feeling drags a shameless moan from him.

“Good,” Uthvir murmurs, in a tone that feels him with appalling pleasure. “Another bite, and I will move again.”

Their own voice sounds a little strained, though. Thenvunin obediently parts his lips. But this time, when they move, he is ready for it; and he moves, too. Rising up to meet them, and pulling a stuttering breath from them in return. His gaze goes hooded, as his magic curls around them. He squirms enough to get his tail free, and wraps it around their waist. Teasing their chest with the tip of it.

“This will take an awfully long time,” he purrs.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow. Their wingtips flutter. They resolutely lift another piece of fruit.

“You are not going anywhere,” they counter. Thenvunin whines a little, but accepts the offered bite. It is worth it, to feel them move again. He is so pent up he feels like he might burst; the last round ended long ago, and Uthvir left, and now he needs to come again, but they are being so bossy. He does his best to entice them. Throwing his head back, and saying their name. Begging them to put aside the platter and just take him, but they get through a dozen more bites before Uthvir picks up the water again.

They drink a mouthful themselves. Then they take another mouthful, and lean in. And kiss the drink right to his lips.

Thenvunin nearly grimaces, expecting the taste of spit and salt. But somehow, water from the Tengu’s mouth tastes like the kind that flows from fresh mountain streams. He actually enjoys the next mouthful. And then the next, but he can only resist so much, and before they pull away again he slips his tongue between their lips. Their mouth tastes cool, now. Soothing and sweet, as their trick becomes Thenvunin’s kiss. He rocks his hips up, and finally their impossible restraint seems to crack.

They kiss him ardently, with that river-tasting mouth of theirs. They slide up, and then bring their hips back down, until they are riding him in earnest. Building the pleasure up and up, until he reaches his peak. He comes inside of them, a rush of satisfaction that lasts but a moment before the heat presses in again, and he needs more. But Uthvir is still going - beautiful, wonderful Uthvir, with their bright kisses and strong legs and wings that cover the both of them as they move atop him. Their mingled scents building and building, and finally coming together in a crash of desires.

Uthvir sighs.

Thenvunin still needs more.

They slide off of him. But at his sound of protest, they pat his hip. He watches as they change shape again; their flesh seems less spent, now.

Useful, is all he cant think. Yes, this will be useful, they can change shapes and then they will not get so tired, will not have to pause so often…

“Keep going,” he pleads.

They angle his hips upwards, and stroke themselves to hardness against him.

“As you wish,” they reply.

~

 How long, Uthvir wonders, do these sorts of things usually last for?

They have lost count of the rounds, though they have tried their best to keep track of the time. It has been days, they know. Less than a week, but not by much. They have managed to give Thenvunin food and water, to relieve themselves and guide him to the water closet when he must do the same. Things have - mercifully - slowed down some, but they do not show any times of stopping, either. Both of them have slept, intermittently. Thenvunin still gets aroused in his sleep, and tends to move against them when that happens. Uthvir does not mind - by no means do they mind the fantastic marathon sex - but it requires some… managing.

They had not been entirely prepared to throw an entire week to the wind and spend it fucking an insatiable Thenvunin.

Not, again, that they are complaining. But a little forewarning would not have gone amiss.

And the cuddling remains a… thing.

Uthvir would complain, but obviously, Thenvunin is not in his right state of mind. So there is not much for it but to permit him to run his fingers through their feathers and hair, and snuggle up against them whenever exhaustion wins out over his libido. Hugging him back seems to help his ‘relaxed’ time last a little longer. So it is pure pragmatism to put their wings around him, as well as their arms, and block the moonlight from his tired face.

The both of them sorely need baths, though.

Thenvunin stirs from his place wrapped around them. They took the ropes off of him again, to keep from damaging his limbs. But it means he is free to slide his hands across their skin, as he kisses the underside of their jaw.

“Uthvir,” he murmurs. “Take me.”

They sigh, and brush a trembling hand against his hair. Everything is spent, and slightly sore.

“You have tired me all out,” they admit. “I do not think I can move just yet.”

Thenvunin makes his sound of complaint. Their loins give a solid effort at responding. After a moment, Uthvir sighs again, and shifts their lower shape to an inwards one. They spread their legs wider; inviting. Wondering if Thenvunin will take the invitation, as he mouths lazily at their skin. They would not ordinarily permit such liberties, but right now they find themselves too tired to care. Let him satisfy himself this round. Their muscles are all shaky, in a way they are accustomed to only feeling in their wings after long, long flights.

Thenvunin pauses, and seems a bit befuddled by their change.

“Go on,” they say, mustering up enough energy to raise an eyebrow at him. “You want it, you can do it this time.”

He looks a them strangely. The lust is still clouding his gaze; but not entirely.

“Do not offer Foxes such things,” he says. His voice is low, and surprisingly coherent. Clear. “Not when we are like this. We cannot control ourselves.”

Uthvir has no idea what to make of that.

“I am not asking for your restraint,” they say. “Besides, you are nearly as tired as I am. Go ahead; if you hurt me, I will just use magic to knock you away.”

Thenvunin hesitates, still. Uthvir wraps their legs around his waist, and he makes a breathy sound. His hips rock towards them. But rather than push his way inside, he instead ends up just tiredly thrusting against their skin. His cock rubs at the juncture of their thighs, sliding over the sticky remnants of their last rounds, as he grips them close. His mouth latches onto the side of their neck.

Uthvir blinks at the feel of Thenvunin’s own sharp canines pressing there. They wonder if he will bite them.

Well, turn around is fair play, they suppose.

But at the last moment he gasps and pulls back. They think he is coming; but he keeps thrusting without pause, and they do not feel his seed against their skin. He bites the filthy bed mat beside them instead, and rocks against them until he finally does come, some minutes later.

His bite on the mat eases, and leaves behind some tiny puncture marks.

His arousal actually goes down, to Uthvir’s surprise. After one round?

Maybe things are slowing down, at that.

They run a hand up his back, and feel his tail flop against them. Their legs fall back down, too exhausted to do much else.

“Well done,” they murmur.

He sighs, and turns his face back towards them. Pressing a surprise kiss to their shoulder.

“Be more careful,” he says, before drifting off to sleep again.

Uthvir is still puzzling over his sentiments, long after the fog of arousal has lifted from Thenvunin in earnest, and he has all but chased them from the walls of his quaint little house.

 ~

 Uthvir is resting in their favourite tree when the branch in front of them catches fire.

Not fire-fire, thankfully. The purple foxfire gleams and dances without actually billowing smoke, or devouring the branch in front of them, or even letting off much heat. Good. This is Uthvir’s favourite tree, in a region they have long been named Guardian of. They would have to take unpleasant action if someone actually damaged it.

After a moment, the foxfire goes out. They sit up, and rustle their feathers, and then look down. Their lips twitch as they see Thenvunin standing beneath their tree. Dressed in rather nice clothing, and glowering up at them as if they have offended him.

“Thenvunin!” they call down, far more happily than they had meant to. They twist their lips into a smirk, and give him a lingering once-over. “What a pleasant surprise!”

The man’s scowl deepens, as he folds his arms.

“And just what do you think you are doing?” he asks.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow, and hops down from their branch. They unfurl their wings and flap just once, easing their landing.

“Well I did think that I was resting in my favourite tree,” they tell him, before they begin to circle around him. He looks good. Healthy. He has some colour in his cheeks. “But now I am not so certain. Is anything amiss?”

“Amiss?!” Thenvunin demands. His tail twitches, and his ears flick in the direction of their footsteps. He purses his lips, though, and keeps his back straight as a board. Not bothering to follow them with his eyes, even though his ears give away his desire to. “Of course something is amiss! There have been deliveries!”

“Ah!” Uthvir exclaims. They stop in front of him, and let their smirk widen to a grin. “So you got my gifts!”

“You audacious rogue!” Thenvunin replies. “You sent couriers to my house! Mine!”

“They were just little kappa, nothing dangerous,” they say, wondering at his ire.

“No one goes to my house but me! And… guests,” the Fox insists. Which finally lets Uthvir pinpoint the source of his ire. His home was distinctly humble - part of the inspiration for their gifts in the first place, actually. They had not considered that Thenvunin would be averse to having others visit it, though. Not since he brought them there.

Hmm.

Perhaps he trusts them a bit more than he let on. Or perhaps it really was a matter of great necessity. Uthvir doesn’t suppose, in a state like that, that they would want to be anywhere except inside their own home either.

After a moment, they incline their head.

“Of course, Thenvunin. My apologies; I should have thought more keenly on your privacy.”

The Fox comes up a little short at their response. He narrows his eyes, and thins his lips. His tail twitches in agitation.

“Yes. Well. You should have,” he finally agrees.

Uthvir claps their hands together.

“Next time, I shall simply have to have you over to my own abode,” they decide, as they settle their wings. “You may take your gifts home with you, then. No more couriers. I trust you liked my offerings? I did take some care to select them for you.”

They lean in closer.

Thenvunin’s cheeks colour, but his ears flatten. It actually gives them another moment’s pause, as some fearfulness seems to strike him. There and gone again in an instant.

“I suppose you expect me to be grateful,” he grits out.

“Grateful?” Uthvir asks, as they pull back. They tilt their head. “No. That is the wrong word. Gratitude implies a certain degree of need. You hardly need my gifts. I would hope you might like them, though. That is generally the intent of a gift.”

Thenvunin’s rigid posture eases only slightly.

“And how do you imagine I would express my appreciation?” he asks them. “I suppose you have all sorts of ideas on that. You and your - your wiles. What exactly did you do to me, to make it all… to… with…”

Uthvir blinks, while the Fox stumbles over his words for a moment, and his cheeks darken further. His tail twirls, just a little, before he seems to consciously settle it down behind him. His ears stay flat, and for some reason, it makes Uthvir feel badly. That is negative body language, isn’t it? Sorrow, or fear, or somesuch. They let him fumble over his words a few moments, until they actually realize what he is trying to say.

“With the - and it couldn’t possibly just be - it felt good and I…” he trails off, giving them a caught look.

Uthvir lifts an eyebrow.

“It felt good, did it?” they ask, letting their tone drop a little.

Thenvunin looks as though he might slap them.

Just for a moment.

Then he lets out a frustrated huff.

“You know full well that it did! Because you did something!” he insists.

Uthvir raises their hands defensively.

“Thenvunin,” they say. “I know nothing of such magic. It is not in my nature.”

Thenvunin’s tail outright lashes at that.

“Liar,” he accuses. “You did spells! I saw you! With the light in my fur and the way the water tasted from your lips, and, and-”

“Spells, yes,” Uthvir concedes. “Light and some sparks, like the electric storms off a mountain’s peak. Clarity and cleansing, like to heal pollution from the air or streams. Tengu are guardians of nature, these sorts of things create a pleasant atmosphere, but there is no beguilement in them.”

The Fox does not look convinced.

“There are other ways to learn magic. Sigils and - and witchcraft! Potions! Curses! You have absolutely beguiled me, why else would I…”

He trails off.

Uthvir smirks, and leans a bit closer again.

“Why else indeed,” they counter, with an internal thrill of their own. The Fox is certainly diverting. And, no doubt, the best lay of their life so far. When he is in rut, anyway. Outside of it he tends to be more… challenging.

It keeps things interesting, they suppose.

A few steps, and a twist around. Thenvunin moves away from them, and ends up backing himself against their tree. They use their wings to corner him there. The tree is old and sturdy. Its trunk is more than wide enough to accommodate Thenvunin, as well as both of Uthvir’s hands, as they frame him with them. The bark beneath their palms is smooth, and hums with natural energies quite attuned to their own. It is, of course, more calming than sexual. But the bob of Thenvunin’s throat, and the slight tremble of his mouth, make up the difference.

“For what it is worth, I find myself quite charmed by you, too,” they tell him. Before they lean up, and claim his lips.

His tail brushes against them. Then moves swiftly away, as he keeps his hands firmly at his sides. Uthvir sighs into the kiss, but pull back after a moment.

“Not going to ask me for another round?” they wonder.

Thenvunin’s face turns vividly red, but his ears plaster themselves flat against his skull again.

“Do not ever reference what goes on in… that time when I am not in it,” he insists, in a low, furious voice. His eyes refuse to meet theirs. His shoulders slump, and something worryingly like defeat seems to steal over him.

Uthvir moves a hand to brush his cheek. They think the better of it before they can complete the motion, though, and instead they take a step back.

“Alright,” they agree. “I will not mention it.”

Thenvunin swallows. His eyes are still fixed on some random patch of undergrowth, rather than on them.

“And do not send any more visitors to my house,” he insists, again.

“I have already agreed not to,” Uthvir reminds him.

He nods to himself.

“Then we are done here,” he decides. “You may go back to… ogling random travelers, or whatever it is you were doing.”

Uthvir clucks their tongue.

“Certainly not,” they decide, and snap their fingers. Thenvunin startles as a gateway begins to open in the tree behind him. He moves aside, and watches - ears up again - as the trunk of Uthvir’s favourite tree obligingly warps and twists, and gives way to an entrance. Not quite as dramatic as a foxfire portal, but still rather impressive, they think. The view beyond shows a pathway, leading up towards an elegant - if rather fortress-like - home. Walled in, but behind the walls are glimpses of blossoming tree tops, and sloping roofs. A tanuki gardener tends to the plants along the front pathway.

“You invited me to your home, and were a most diverting host,” they say. “Come and stay a while with me. It will give me a chance to ply you with gifts. Tengu are quite generous, you know.”

Thenvunin glances at them, and then looks swiftly towards the portal again.

“I have not heard that,” he says. “Tengu always seem quite stingy to me.”

Uthvir settles a hand over their chest in mock horror.

“Well then, it is my clear duty to set the record straight,” they insist. Reaching over, they wind their arm through one of his. When he finally looks at them again, they offer him a wink.

“Come now, Thenvunin. What is the worst that could happen?” they ask.

He looks as though he could think of a fair few ‘worsts’ to suggest.

But after a moment, he obliges their tugging, and walks through the portal with them.

 ~

 Uthvir is slightly more prepared for Thenvunin’s second rut, when it starts up.

It still takes them a while to piece together that it is starting. It’s only when they find Thenvunin’s tail winding its way around their waist - a quip about familiarity dancing on their tongue - that they catch a distinct note to his scent, and the mental light goes off. Thenvunin retracts his tail swiftly, of course, and accuses Uthvir of… doing something.

They are not entirely sure Thenvunin himself is clear on what they have supposedly done.

But on the off-chance that the Fox intends to invite them over for another riveting marathon sex week, Uthvir begins to plan for it. Adjusting their schedule accordingly, and accumulating some supplies. Thenvunin’s little house does not have a bath. Just a basin to wash in. They think about inviting him to stay over at their own household instead, but one look at his increasingly antsy countenance, and they nix the idea.

In such a state, they themselves would hardly trade security for a bath.

They enchant an extra basin instead, and begin gathering up some good preserves and easy-to-prepare foods, and some potions that might come in handy. Oils and lotions and soft silken ropes, too. They pack soothing balms and optimistically bring along their wing-cleaning kit, just in case this time they should actually get an opportunity to groom a bit between… instances. And after a few discreet inquiries, they acquire a delicate bristle brush, that is ostensibly quite good for fox fur.

The salesman may have conned them on that front, but Uthvir supposes it is worth a thought, anyway. And it did not cost much.

When Thenvunin invites them quite bluntly to his house, they are ready.

“Just let me bring a few things,” they say.

“We should go now,” Thenvunin insists, rubbing up against them like… well. Like a rutting Fox. Uthvir lets him follow them into their room, and finds themselves fighting the urge to give in to his invitations and wandering hands as they nevertheless sweep up their travel bag, and place it onto the somewhat larger chest full of most of their supplies.

“What are you bringing all that for?” Thenvunin wonders, nearly petulant about it. “You will not be needing any clothes…”

“Open a portal,” Uthvir requests, instead. They have scarcely gotten the word out before Thenvunin grumbles a ‘finally’ and snaps his fingers. A circle of foxfire erupts into the middle of the room, and shows the way to his quaint little house. Uthvir floats the chest and bag through ahead of them, and then lets themselves be dragged in as well. Thenvunin gets a bit unsteady on his feet at that point, though.

They take the opening to lift him up. Still levitating their luggage, too, as they carry both in through the screen door to the Fox’s home.

Thenvunin makes a very interesting sound when they scoop him up. His ears go flat, but his tail twines around them. Now that they’re trying to pay more attention to his body language - in particular his ears and tail - they sometimes gain better inroads to what is going on with him. But sometimes he remains as confusing as ever.

They are quietly pleased with the improvements to Thenvunin’s home, though. It is still small and… humble, which they do not think quite suits his demeanour. But there is something to be said for the quiet of it, and with some of their gifts now decorating the walls and softening the contents of his bedchamber, it seems more lively. Intimate, rather than tiny. The pear tree in his garden has begun to bloom, too.

They settle their things into the main room, and carry on with Thenvunin into the bedroom. Their lips quirk in satisfaction when they see the veritable nest he has made of all the blankets and cushions and pillows they have given him. Much cozier than the single bed mat of before.

“I had nowhere else to put it all,” Thenvunin says, as if he can read their thoughts.

But despite his protestations, it all looks very well slept-in.

Uthvir turns their head and grazes his lips with a kiss.

“Silly Fox. This is exactly where you were supposed to put it all,” they say.

It is a testament to how far-gone he must be that Thenvunin only sighs, rather than offering up further protests. He moves a hand to their head and threads his fingers into their hair, his tail still wrapped firmly around them, as he nuzzles at the side of their face.

“Then put me with it, and come and touch me,” he beseeches. “My body is aching.”

His skin certainly feels heated enough. Uthvir swallows back some of their own reaction to his words, but not all of it. They give him a long look first, though. Taking in the colour in his cheeks, and the building fog in his gaze, and the ears still flat against his skull.

That keeps worrying them. Is he afraid?

“I will look after you,” they promise.

Thenvunin’s ears stay flat, but his chest rumbles a little with something suspiciously like a purr.

“Then take me,” he insists.

Ah.

Well.

Since he insists…

 They lower him to his nest of blankets, and kiss him until they can feel the heat of it right down to the tips of their wings.

 ~

 It feels so good.

Thenvunin does not think he can ever remember feeling this good so far into one of his ruts before. He did not even know it could be… pleasant. Beyond the obvious bursts of release and relief, of course. He has no idea what to do with this scenario. His thoughts are not clear on how much time has passed, but he knows it has been a few days, at least. His cock is hard again but it seems… less urgent, somehow, as Uthvir brushes a cool, damp cloth over his skin.

The silken ropes on his arms and legs are holding him, but they are far more comfortable than he might have guessed. The bedding around him is still soft, and smells like himself and like Uthvir, like sex, but not cloyingly so. He has his tail draped against Uthvir as they wash off the remnants of their last few rounds. The strokes of the cloth against his skin are soothing, just like their hands when they had covered him with lotions and oils. Their wings have filled up the room; and they have moved his screen, too, so that he can see them when they go to fill up the water flask, or bring a tray of food.

Thenvunin’s mind is still a fog of lust, but the usual, sinking anxiety of it all is quiet. Somehow.

He tries to move into Uthvir’s touch.

“Untie me?” he asks.

He needs to… just… to just touch them back…

Uthvir regards him for a moment. He makes what submissive gestures he can, like this. After a moment, they relent, and with a sigh they move to take the ropes off of him. His arms are freed first. Thenvunin shivers as the soft, silken bonds slide loose, but he barely has time to focus on that before he reaches for Uthvir.

“I need to get your legs,” they tell him, evading his grasp just long enough to do that. Thenvunin knows he should just let them, but he cannot help it. He pulls them to him, and sighs as he buries his nose into their hair. Their feathers feel so soft. Spiky in a few places, too, but like their hair, they are nowhere near as spiky as they look. The damp rag smells faintly of fresh pine, which he doesn’t mind, per se, but he doesn’t want it either. He wants their scent and his and nothing else.

Pulling them to him helps solve the problem. Their wings smell most strongly of them, the glands at the base of them secreting the oils that help keep their feathers clean, and also the scent that Thenvunin wants. He cards his touch through them, carefully straightening them out - wings are delicate - even as he grinds his hips against them. A pleading whine escapes his lips, until Uthvir closes a hand over his cock, and playfully nips at the side of his ear.

His breath catches at the gesture. He shivers nearly as much from the little lovebite as from the feel of their hand. Oh, yes, something in him thinks. Good, good, bite me, claim me, please, please, please…

He wants it to always be like this. It should always by like this. Why weren’t the other times like this? The irrational, animalistic part of him ignores all the practical thoughts that tell him why and how and try to remind him that Uthvir is a disreputable Tengu. His fingers stall over one of the odd marks on their wings. They pull that hand back, not ungently. Thenvunin can scarcely think about the reaction, though, because then they flip him fully onto his back, and move to straddle him.

Their own cock has not recovered yet, but that does not seem to deter them much, as they press the soft skin up against his flushed arousal, and stroke him. Thenvunin reaches to pull them back down, though, wanting them closer still. His hands find their shoulders, and his need settles some as their wings furl around them.

And then his world is caught up in the building fires of his pleasure. The slide of their touch, the press of their nails at his chest. The spark of magic, brief but distinct, that makes his fur tingle and his tail twitch, and draws their name from his lips like a breath of relief.

He comes a second afterwards. Not entirely satisfied - not in this state - but enough that he sighs and manages to pull them back down to him again. Forgoing the feel of their hand for the feel of their lips, as he incidentally unbalances them, and forces them to brace themselves on either side of his sleeping mat instead.

“Please,” he breathes against them.

“Almost,” they promise. “I just need a little while longer.”

Thenvunin presses flush to them. His lips find the side of their neck. It is a force of effort not to sink his teeth in there.

Bite, mark, claim…

No.

Uthvir is a Tengu. It would not mean the same thing to them. And besides which, that is not what they are to one another. This is a… an arrangement. A tryst. He does not know why his ravenous libido should somehow keep forgetting that.

He keeps just enough of himself to fend off his foolish instincts, and presses a kiss to them instead.

 ~

 Uthvir can tell when things are starting to slow down again.

They know the signs to look for again. They find they can keep count of how many culminations it takes for Thenvunin to go into a relaxed state, or soften, and that tends to be a very good indicator. For the last day Thenvunin mostly goes down after every time he comes. Which is good, because Uthvir is still quite exhausted by that point.

They fall asleep a few times, only to wake to wandering hands and kisses, whispered pleas - but despite them anticipating it a little, Thenvunin does not take advantage of them while they are sleeping. Not to do anything more than drape himself all over them, anyway, and offer some aggressive snuggling.

But the real tip off that Thenvunin is snapping out of it is when he stops trying to cuddle.

Uthvir’s legs and arms feel like jelly, and even their wings are a bit tired, when Thenvunin finishes for the last time and then rolls right off of them. He has to press against the far wall to do it. Uthvir watches his expression drop, and his nose wrinkle.

The little room is fairly rank with the scents of sex and sweat by now, of course, but up until even just a few minutes ago, Thenvunin had seemed to enjoy that quite a bit. And last time, Uthvir was themselves so desperate for a bath that they could hardly fault the reaction.

But this time they have managed to do a fair job of keeping them both clean, if they do say so themselves.

Not that they mind being suddenly freed from all that needless touching, of course. It is just that it suddenly makes things rather drafty.

“If you’re giving me the cold shoulder, you must be coming to your senses,” they quip.

Thenvunin freezes. And then he turns, and fixes them with an affronted look.

“What did you say?” he demands.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow, and glances pointedly at the distance between them.

“Just that it must be wearing off, if you are not being all cuddly anymore,” they explain. Not unreasonably, they think, but Thenvunin’s ears move backwards, in a gesture they have begun to recognize as the ‘anger’ position.

“And I suppose you would like it best if I played the simpering, desperate fool all year round,” he says.

“What?” Uthvir replies, taken aback.

“A rut is a rut, it changes my behaviour,” Thenvunin snaps.

They manage to sit up, wincing at little at some of their aches.

“Yes, I noticed,” they say. “That was what I was commenting on. It’s not as if I am the one who kept insisting on as much contact as possible all week.”

“Oh but you certainly took your pleasure from it, did you not?!” Thenvunin fires back.

It is Uthvir’s turn to freeze up, then. Indecision striking them with nauseating fervency, even as defensiveness rises in its wake. Did they take advantage, somehow? They had not thought… and he came to them, he was well aware of what was going on beforehand… but… during, did they do something wrong…?

“The lion’s share of pleasure spilled on these sheets was not mine,” they drawl, as they pick themselves up a bit more.

Thenvunin flinches as if struck. It deflates some of their defensiveness.

“Thenvunin, I-”

“No,” he snaps at them, and rolls over. His tail curls defensively around himself, as he pointedly disappears into one of the blankets. “The rut is over. There is no reason for you to be here anymore.”

Uthvir feels struck at that themselves.

I am done with you. Get out.

Awkward silence drags down the atmosphere. It makes them painfully aware of just how tired they are. How spent. Despite their efforts, their skin still itches in places. They could probably do with a warm meal - actual food, not just occasional tidbits and water - and some rejuvenation. They should get back to their territory, too, to make certain nothing has happened to their range in their absence.

Thenvunin is fine now.

Clearly.

“Well. Far be it for me to overstay a welcome,” they say, as they manage to push themselves to their feet. They are not too tired for stubbornness, as they gather up their discarded clothing and armour, and dutifully pull it back on.

The Fox remains a lump in the blankets, glowering at his wall.

It takes long enough that there is plenty of time for him to roll over and offer some… retraction of sentiments.

He doesn’t.

Uthvir makes their way gingerly out of his front door, and tells themselves they should not be surprised.

 ~

 Stalking has been far too long away from court.

It could not be helped, of course. First there was that business with the nobleman and his mistress, and then with charming two-tail from the mainland, who required all of his attention to simply keep occupied for long enough to… make use of. Her lack of genuine contacts and natural trust of her own kind made her too tempting a target to pass up, though. Much to his benefit, in the end. Despite his absence, Stalking returns to court with a new wing in his household, several new attendants trailing after him, and a fourth tail twining with his other three. His fur and hair are luxurious and soft, and he has gained another inch in height.

The court is all a-titter at his return. As it should be. Depleting that two-tail was time-consuming, but now he need only reap the rewards.

And look for another target, of course. Always the best part of any hunt.

He works his way through the various social circles that welcome him in the palace of the gods. Mirena has gone off to chase her artistry again; good, for it means she will not be around to caution anyone against him. Her son is at court, though, and is a source of much gossip. The one-tail apparently having run around with a Tengu, of all things.

And not just any Tengu, but one bound to the Dark God. Stalking is nearly impressed by the level of seduction that probably took; but it means he initially writes the man off as a poor target. Too skilled, in that case, and also being Mirena’s son, probably all too wary of him. The better marks are the newcomers. He pursues some other lines of gossip. A Cat has come to court, new but not really powerful enough to be worth it. More promising, the young cousin of one of his rival courtesans has been staying away from court. Reputedly too good-natured and innocent for the rigors of politicking, but still hailing from a prominent bloodline. Stalking indulges in a few lovers and plots a few plots, makes some strides to gain invitations here and there.

Court gossips whispers that Mirena’s son has fallen out of favour with his Tengu. Stalking is not expecting luck to deliver a one-tail right into his lap; but he happens to be invited to the first party which Thenvunin visits, subsequent to the drama.

He is older than Stalking would expect, for a Fox with only one tail. But still, of course, quite pretty - tall, and broad, but clad is soft tones that try to downplay it. He keeps his chin up and his shoulders straight, makes a lot of excuses when he speaks, and isn’t much good at disguising the signals of his tail and ears.

Pathetic, Stalking thinks.

And the weakness is promising.

He makes his way over, being certain to advertise his status as he fans his tails outwards. Thenvunin departs from his current conversation, and nearly stumbles over himself as he takes note of Stalking.

“Oh!” he exclaims, before flattening his ears, and ducking into a bow. “My Lord Four-Tail, forgive me! I did not realize you were there.”

“Hmm. Shall I be offended at your lack of courtesy, or pleased that my footfalls are still so quiet, after all this time?” he wonders, taking more thorough stock of his potential target. Green eyes. Thin lips - shame. A little too much meat on him, perhaps, but despite his lack of tails, there is definitely a certain amount of power to him. Well. He is a purebred; and Stalking has yet to add any of Mirena’s bloodline to his collection.

But how wary is the man…?

Thenvunin bows again.

“I meant no offense at all. My thoughts were distracted,” he says.

Stalking ventures a bit closer, and reaches out to brush a finger across Thenvunin’s jaw. It draws a blush. Some flustering. But he does not pull back, nor raise his hackles; nor attempt to protest the familiarity.

Interesting.

“Then I shall forgive you, pretty thing that you are,” he decides. “Do you know me?”

“No my lord, I fear we have not met,” Thenvunin tells him.

“Hmm, and yet I know you,” Stalking counters. “You are Mirena’s son, Thenvunin? Yes? And I am Lord Stalking, to you.”

No light of recognition shines in the younger Fox’s eyes.

…Perhaps he has been gone too long from court, at that. How old was this one when he left? Grown, yes, but only just. It seems he has had some time to come into his own. Albeit poorly.

“Ah, how remiss of me,” Thenvunin says, still making submissive gestures, and bowing his head again. “Forgive me, Lord Stalking, for not knowing you.”

“It seems I must be quite benevolent this evening, to grant forgiveness so often,” he counters. Thenvunin tenses, as if awaiting some form of reprisal. But he does not seem prepared to argue or counteract it at all.

Yes. This one will do.

“Well, I shall do you one better,” he decides, and brushes a tail ‘accidentally’ against the side of Thenvunin’s leg. “I shall let you keep me company this evening. We might get to know one another quite well, and thereby avoid any further… mishaps.”

The pathetic one-tail tries to demure.

“I could not presume to take up such time,” he says.

“It is not a presumption. Are we not both Foxes here?” Stalking counters.

He hesitates, still. Just a moment. Enough to be concerning. But in the end it just adds a little spice to the challenge - hardly any, really - before he capitulates, and falls into step with Stalking. Keeping his ears flat and his tail low, and following him as Stalking leads him to gather some refreshments, and then to join some of the more influential gossips in the palace gardens.

With a Fox like this, giving a taste of influence is usually wise. Many older Foxes take on apprentices in earnest. It is a social convention which Stalking has used to his great advantage. Young, eager Foxes often seek out older and more experienced ones. And he can see the tentative hopefulness come into Thenvunin’s countenance, as the evening draws on, and the wheels of his little mind turn. Every kind word or simple bit of flattery Stalking offers him seems to impress the hope more and more.

Yes, he thinks. There you are. Such a nice older Fox. A potential mentor, in these stormy, isolated times.

He weaves a little magic around it. Subtle enough to deny as a random wisp, were it to be caught. But Thenvunin scarcely seems to notice as he starts to stand more easily in Stalking’s company, and leans a bit into his touch, whenever he ventures a hand towards his shoulder, or pats at one of his cheeks. Stalking keeps it subtle, though. Too much is too obvious, and Foxes know the feel of such magic innately. Even the most miserably unsuccessful and dull-minded among them do.

But he doesn’t need much, truly. By the end of the evening Thenvunin looks near to adoring, and Stalking does not even bother to request it as he leads them both back to his chambers.

It is almost comical, though, once they get there. The big idiot flusters and tries to play delicate, talks himself in circles and even tries to leave, twice, without breaking the unspoken contracts of etiquette that Stalking deftly weaves into a noose, and lets his prey hang himself with. By the time he takes him to bed, Thenvunin is begging more apologies for his ‘unconscionable behaviour’, and Stalking is magnanimously permitting him to make amends.

He goes gently, though. That is the key. He has rarely had a Fox so clumsy in bed before, but rather than snapping and biting and forcing, he sighs and pets and takes his time. At least Thenvunin’s hair is soft. Quite pleasant for sinking his fingers into, as he weaves a few more subtle threads of magic, and tries not kick the man aside for his joke of a bedroom manner.

At least the one-tail knows his place. The deference is quite pleasing, even if his form is somewhat ludicrous a vessel for it.

When morning comes, the one-tail sneaks back out of his rooms. Stalking permits it, because it is convenient. He takes a moment to rest, and then wrinkles his nose at the lingering scents of the night before. Summoning a servant up to clean, he bathes, and reconsiders.

He probably could not make this one disappear like the two-tail. He is too well-known. People would go looking. But depleting him would be easy enough; and hardly suspect. The man clearly has poor enough prospects anyway. He has lost the one thing of note he seemed to accomplish - the Tengu - and after so long without accumulating much power, it would not beggar belief that his own might wane. Fading until only a simple fox remains, barely more magical than their animal cousins.

It almost makes Stalking nostalgic for the first time he pulled off such a feat.

He makes up his mind, and arranges to have an invitation sent to Thenvunin. Requesting his presence in Stalking’s entourage at the next event he has scheduled. But he does not abandon the other paths of interest, either. Merely setting them aside; it is too soon to fully commit. Good prey, like a good relationship, takes some testing of the waters.

 ~

 Thenvunin cannot believe his luck.

A lordly Fox has come to court. A four-tail, even! And he is handsome and charming and kind, powerful and well-spoken, and for some unknowable reason, he seems to have taken an interest In Thenvunin.

It is remarkable. The exact kind of opportunity that Thenvunin has hoped for! Like something straight out of a dream. It nearly makes him forget about all of the… the untoward business with… with that Tengu.

He should have known that Uthvir was only feigning interest in him outside of his ruts, to get access to him during them. The disappointment in their tone lingers in his mind, burdened with unspoken accusations. Cold, they had called him. After a week of subjecting himself to their every carnal want and whim! And then they had just left, with no further discussion. Probably happy to be short of a Thenvunin who was no longer hanging on their every breath and sigh, no longer dizzied by his own fantastical libido.

There are times when Thenvunin hates being a Fox.

But he is one, and to that end, the whole incident has just served to remind him of how inescapable it all is. His mother had warned him when he was younger, of the dangers and unlikelihood of finding other spirits or mortals who would truly understand and appreciate them.

Some things, only other Foxes can know.

He keeps those thoughts in his mind as he gets ready for the evening’s festivities. Lord Stalking has invited Thenvunin to accompany him for a poetry reading. One of the court’s up-and-coming playwrights has prepared it as a sort of exclusive pre-event to the play she has been writing for the past decade. It is the sort of small, privileged event which Thenvunin himself would never be invited to; the type likely to present opportunities for rubbing elbows with powerful spirits and godly servants. Courtly folk of high esteem; not just bound warriors and hangers-on.

Needless to say, the prospect of dressing well for the evening has him somewhat on edge.

He has formal attire, of course, but… the nicest things he owns are… well…

He glances towards the chest where he packed away several of Uthvir’s gifts, and purses his lips.

Gifts are gifts, of course. And it is not as if Uthvir themselves is liable to attend such an event. They would probably never even know he wore something they had given him. Most people at court would even take it favourably, to see Thenvunin showing off the spoils of a ‘seduction’. Nevermind the particulars; that is what Foxes are supposed to do.

He debates only a little longer, before giving in. He will have to start dressing in a hurry, either way, if he wants to be ready in time. Opening the chest, he pulls out the box with the fine hair pin they gave him, and the purple silk robe, with white cranes on it. The fabric feels smooth as rain on polished stones. Thenvunin finds the belt to go with it, too, and from there, makes the rest of the outfit from his older closet. A person would not ordinarily be able to dress themselves, but in lieu of servants, he makes do with a few carefully placed spells.

When he is done, he regards his reflection.

He looks… square. And there is something off with his make-up, he thinks, but he cannot decide what. He checks the time, and then does it over again. But finds himself barely satisfied with the changes. Thinking carefully, he selects a fan - another gift from Uthvir - to go with it, and help hide any potential embarrassments. There is no disguise for the fullness of his frame, but then, there never really has been. He leaves most of his hair loose to help compensate, and politely wraps his tail around his own waist, before he finally sets out to meet Lord Stalking.

The palace halls are fairly quiet. It is not an evening of broad revelry. Thenvunin walks with as much haste as he can manage in his outfit, eager to avoid being late, and having to make more apologies.

Not that he would mind, of course! But… well… better to avoid the need for such things, anyway.

His mind turns towards Lord Stalking’s invitation to his bedchamber, and dutifully skips over the particulars. He felt compelled to bathe himself a lot more thoroughly the next morning, although, Foxes tend to have heightened scents as compared to… others. Such things are to be expected, particularly since there are no assumptions and certainly no agreements between himself and the four-tail.

Only hopes.

Thenvunin is distracted enough that he fails to note the shadow of winds on a nearby wall, and rounds a corner, and freezes.

Uthvir is standing in the palace hall, near to Lord Stalking’s guest chambers. Walking towards some other destination themselves. But their feet halt as they fold their wings behind themselves, and take in the sight of him.

They are also dressed quite nicely, he notes. In their formal armour, the sort that is more for ceremony than sport, with their hair done up and their dark nails painted gold. There is a faint shimmer on their lips, too, a ludicrous balm that draws his gaze there, and cannot help but conjure up memories of kisses and whispers. The feel of those lips against his skin.

Thenvunin’s heart speeds up, and he curses his luck.

“…Thenvunin,” they greet.

He swallows. His lips thin, and it does not escape his notice that they are giving him another once-over. The tiny shiver that rises up in him is easy to quell, and is mostly reflex besides. He unfurls his fan, unthinking, but wishing to hide.

“Uthvir,” he returns, more tersely.

“You look very nice,” they tell him. “Are you going to the-”

“Why Thenvunin,” Lord Stalking’s voice calls. “There you are!”

He nearly roots himself to the spot. Oh no. His gaze darts between Uthvir, and the approaching Fox Lord. Stalking is wearing attire that puts Thenvunin’s own rightly to shame, the sort of meticulous, handmade, elaborate garments that would take actual decades to make. His hair is tied up into elegant knots. The slashes of silver paint on his eyelids match perfectly with the fur of his tails.

He remembers himself just in time to flatten his ears, and duck into a deep bow.

“My lord,” he greets.

“I was beginning to wonder if you had gotten lost,” Lord Stalking says, with flattering concern. He draws close, and then turns his gaze towards Uthvir.

His lips part, slightly. His eyes widen. Thenvunin stalls on his way up out of his bow, gripped by a sudden, unpleasant feeling of vulnerability.

Uthvir returns Stalking’s assessment much more coolly.

“My, my,” says Lord Stalking, faintly. Then he inclines his head. The gesture not quite deferential, but still more respectful than Uthvir generally seems to get. Even with their power and relative prestige. “You must be the Vassal of the Dark God. I confess, I had not pictured you so beautiful. In my experience, Tengu tend more towards homeliness.”

Uthvir raises an eyebrow, as Thenvunin nearly chokes over Lord Stalking’s flattery.

Flirtation? he wonders.

The idea does not suit him in the least. But then, of course it does not. A Fox of Lord Stalking’s station would only be lowering himself to consort with the likes of Uthvir.

“You must have quite limited experience, then,” Uthvir rudely replies - not even bothering to return the flattery. Thenvunin does not know whether to be relieved or appalled, but Lord Stalking only smiles at the slight.

“Perhaps so,” he concedes. “Much as I would love to discuss the matter more, Thenvunin and I are about to head to a poetry recital. I would invite you along, but the guest list is necessarily limited, by will of our hostess.”

Uthvir shakes their head.

“That is alright. I am heading to a performance in the gardens myself,” they say. Then they turn their gaze towards Thenvunin, and rest a hand on their hip. The spot where the hilt of their blade would be, if they were wearing one.

“Perhaps Thenvunin would care to accompany me instead?” they suggest. “If your hostess is worried about over-crowding, I certainly would not object to escorting you to a different venue, Thenvunin. It would be a shame to waste such a lovely outfit on a stuffy indoor recital.”

Before Thenvunin can begin to formulate a response, Lord Stalking laughs.

“Are you trying to steal my date out from under me, Tengu?” he asks. His countenance seems amused, but there is a gleam in his gaze that makes Thenvunin nervous. A spark of ire. “That is rather bold of you.”

Uthvir shrugs.

“I have a rural upbringing. My manners are far from exemplary,” they say.

“Clearly,” Thenvunin scoffs. His stomach lurches somewhat, however, when Lord Stalking closes a hand around his arm, and draws him pointedly to his side. The atmosphere in the hall is tense, and not in a way he can readily decipher. If he did not know any better, he would think he was being fought over. But his rut is another year away yet, so Uthvir cannot want him. And Lord Stalking is being benevolent in his interests; so why would he fight over him?

Wishful thinking he decides, with a twist of humiliation. He is busy swallowing it down when he realizes that Uthvir has unfurled their wings, and is looking very sternly at Lord Stalking.

“Thenvunin?” they ask.

“What?” he wonders, less elegantly than he might have preferred.

The four-tail’s grip on his arm tightens. But when he looks over, Lord Stalking is smiling again.

“How quaint,” he says. “The Tengu thinks you might actually choose to go with them.”

“Well…” Thenvunin replies, before stuttering a little. It earns him a sharp look. He ducks his head. “Well of course not!” he exclaims.

It would be the height of foolishness to do such a thing. Particularly when Uthvir is probably just attempting to sabotage him. Ruin his prospects, and keep him downtrodden, and thereby always available to them for their needs. Of course, that must be it. Even if it does sound rather more deplorable of them than Thenvunin might suspect.

Perhaps they are simply not thinking things through. Being reckless, and petty.

“There you have it,” Lord Stalking says. He begins to turn, and pulls Thenvunin along with him. “Come along, my dear. Hopefully we can speak to your friend again when they have a cooler head on their shoulders.”

Thenvunin can feel Uthvir’s gaze on his back as they set off down the hall. And all the way until they reach the end of it. Lord Stalking’s grip remains firm, until they are out of sight and earshot, and can no longer see the shadows of wings on the walls.

“However did you seduce that one?” he asks, once they are alone.

“I did not,” Thenvunin replies, automatically. Then he backtracks somewhat. “That is, Uthvir simply had an interest in my… cycle. And it was convenient, for a time.”

Lord Stalking makes a sympathetic sound, and pats his arm.

“Of course. I might have guessed that such a dalliance would be more of their design than yours,” he says. “Still. That is useful information. If they are susceptible to such whims, perhaps I might enact some vengeance on your behalf. However enthralling you are, after all, my charms could leave a lasting mark on that presumptuous spirit. One they would likely regret.”

Thenvunin’s nerves jangle in alarm.

“My lord?!” he asks, aghast.

Stalking glances at him, and his expression softens some.

“Only if you wish revenge, of course,” he says. “I had assumed you might, given the situation you described.”

He shakes his head before he can even think of a tactful response. But then he catches himself. Of course; it has been too long since he spent much time around other Foxes. Such an offer would be meant kindly, not… not as a…

“I believe that would be overkill,” he says, more tactfully. “Besides, Uthvir is bound to a powerful god. It would not be worth it to risk drawing such ire to yourself.”

Lord Stalking smiles in comprehension. Then he pauses in his steps, and reaches over to pat Thenvunin’s cheek.

“How good of you to worry for me,” he says. “Clearly, I have chosen my own company wisely. I shall have to give you a token, in repayment for such consideration.”

His face heats.

“Oh, certainly not!” he protests.

Stalking taps his lips. The heat in his face intensifies at the touch.

“Shh, none of that,” he insists. “I have accumulated more than a few trinkets on my travels. I am certain I can find the right one to suit you. Nothing excessive; you need not worry. Just something to… mark my favour.”

He withdraws his touch, and with a wink, pulls Thenvunin into walking beside him again.

His mind races at the implications.

Favour.

Well that… that is very fortunate indeed.

 ~

 Lord Stalking gives Thenvunin his favour a mere week after the poetry recital.

It is a beautiful silver necklace. Small, not garish, but astonishingly well-crafted. The chain is heavier than it looks. The feature piece of the pendant is a molded silver flame, flecked with tiny jewels that look amber when Thenvunin first opens the box containing it. But when he tries it on, the jewels turn a pale green; the same colour as his eyes.

“The more you wear it, the more it will attune itself to you,” Lord Stalking tells him. “Such trinkets can sometimes help one focus their powers. Although this one is older, so, it may not be as effective as some others.”

“It is beautiful,” Thenvunin insists, and promises to wear it often. He finds that after an hour or so, the chain becomes a little uncomfortable. Digging into his neck more than he would like. But that is a small complaint, and not one he would dare voice to Lord Stalking, lest he seem ungrateful.

More and more, he is becoming intent upon pleasing the older Fox.

He must be doing something right, because Lord Stalking invites him to more events. A dinner party here, a theatre performance there. Thenvunin’s once-sparse schedule suddenly seems full to bursting with activities, although nearly all of them involve his new Fox mentor. Which is only to be expected, of course. Thenvunin’s wardrobe is taxed to capacity as he tries to find suitable things to wear to each event, though, without reusing the same outfits too often. He extends a few of his own connections to beg and borrow off of spirits who owe him favours, and are of a similar build.

But even that has its limits. He is fretting over what to wear to a birthday celebration which Lord Stalking has requested his company for, when he comes to his house to find a gift-wrapped parcel resting on his front step.

He pauses, and looks about nervously for any sign of intruders or messengers. But whoever delivered the item seems to have simply come and gone, and without disturbing any of his alarms, or trying to get into his house. Still, he approaches the package with some trepidation. Checking it for curses or any signs of spellwork, before finally unwrapping it in the front garden.

The slippery fabric nearly falls from his grasp in surprise, as he finds a beautiful outfit carefully wrapped inside.

His breath caches, and he picks up the parcel to examine with more care.

The robe is a pale yellow, with accents of green in the form of the leafy branches printed across the soft material. Splashes of red grace the pattern here and there, in the form of ripened fruit. Small birds nest between the curves of the branches, and soar through the open spaces of the pattern. Thenvunin finds nothing but beauty in the parcel. Not even a tag or card, or letter. Just the wrappings, and the elegant garment, which is perfectly his size.

Realization dawns with giddy wonderment.

Lord Stalking must have noticed his plight, and sent him a gift.

Of course, such an extravagant gift would be… rather forward, for a respectable and deferential relationship such as theirs. The lord probably decided to make his offering anonymous so as to avoid giving the wrong impression.

Thenvunin gets ready for the festivities with a lighter heart, and far fewer worries. He makes certain to wear the necklace which Lord Stalking gave him, too, and is pleased when the pale green stones match the leaves on his outfit, and the green of his eyes. The overall effect is more striking than he thought it would be. It nearly distracts him from the unruly wisps of hair that do not want to cooperate, and the line of his shoulders that still seems too bulky for such delicate patterning.

When he meets up with Lord Stalking, he cannot help but offer his thanks, though. The older Fox seems surprised for a moment. Perhaps at Thenvunin’s skills in deduction. But then he offers a modest smile, and pats Thenvunin’s cheek.

“I am pleased you like it,” he says. “Although I fear I will have to ask for it back after the event is done.”

“Oh,” Thenvunin says, faltering slightly. “It is only a loan, then?”

“Well, I did not want to spoil things by saying so. But yes,” Lord Stalking confirms.

It is still very fine and pleasant to have, though, so Thenvunin tries not to let his disappointment show. Lest it seem like ingratitude. He does wonder at the lack of a card or note, in that case, to clarify things. But Lord Stalking just assures him that there was one, and it must have gotten misplaced by the messenger.

And then Thenvunin does wonder how Lord Stalking knew where to find his home. But the older Fox just winks at him.

“I have my ways,” he says, before drawing him a little closer. The scent of him makes Thenvunin a bit dizzy, and embarrassingly weak in the knees. “Speaking of which, though, I think it is high time I saw where you are living.”

The prospect draws him up short in a rush of insecurities.

“Oh,” he says. “Well that… I do not think that, I mean… it is a very humble place, my lord, I suspect it would be unworthy of you.”

“Undoubtedly,” Lord Stalking agrees. Thenvunin’s heart sinks into his stomach at the certainty in his tone. But the man offers him a smile. “Nevertheless, I would like to see it. How else will I know what state you are living in, and how great your need for me is.”

“That is most kind, but I-”

“Then it is settled,” Lord Stalking decides, with a note of inarguable finality. “After the celebration is done, you will take me to see it. It is most convenient. I can reclaim the loan from you then, too.”

Thenvunin’s light mood falls completely, despite himself. The necklace feels heavy at his throat.

“Of course,” he nevertheless agrees.

The rest of the party lacks the excitement and glamour he had looked forward to, somehow. Thenvunin tries not to let his poor mood show. He thinks he mostly succeeds, as Lord Stalking seems quite pleased, and makes no effort to rebuke him. Not even gently. Each passing minute manages to weigh more, though, and Thenvunin knows he is anxious over taking his mentor to his humble home in the Spirit World.

His anxieties come to roost when the party is finally done, and Lord Stalking motions expectantly at him.

“It really is… it is quite small,” he dithers.

It earns him a look of impatience.

“If your were as prestigious as myself, Thenvunin, you would hardly need my help,” he says. “Now get to it. You are starting to seem ungrateful.”

With a hasty bow and a murmured apology, Thenvunin opens the portal at last.

Lord Stalking, of course, does not look impressed with his small home and his lone pear tree. He raises an eyebrow, and takes it all in. And though he does give Thenvunin a magnanimous smile, and take his arm, he also wrinkles his nose and does not quite hide his distaste for the house. Particularly once they get inside.

“Ugh,” he says, at last. Thenvunin wishes he could sink through the floor. “This place reeks of Tengu.”

The accusation is mortification itself. His face burns as Lord Stalking lets go of his arm, and turns a critical eye towards his walls.

“I…” he begins. “There were… gifts…”

“Clearly,” the elder Fox drawls. His tails swish in excitement. Or, no, given the circumstances, it must surely be agitation. His nose wrinkles as he sniffs, and Thenvunin cannot stop him from opening the screen to his bedroom. He had not even noticed that the place still smells like Uthvir. Not overtly, he had thought. But perhaps he had just… gotten used to it, or was too busy comparing it to the scent of the two of them during rut.

If anything, he had only noted that the scent was gone. Or, as it must be, simply less fresh…

He swallows as Lord Stalking’s expression grows grim.

At length, his mentor finishes his assessment, and turns back to him.

“It is as I feared,” he announces.

Thenvunin bows his head, and braces himself for the judgement. He is not even certain what rebuke he is anticipating, but he feels as if he must deserve one.

“The Tengu has laced your entire home with enough items to sap your strength,” Lord Stalking declares.

Thenvunin’s head shoots back up.

“What?!” he asks.

Lord Stalking nods, gravely.

“Oh, yes. It is an old trick of disreputable spirits,” he says. “To give gifts and items that seem like finery, but are truly magical objects in disguise. They will sap your strength, bit by bit. So gradually that you might not even notice it. By the time you do, the Tengu will have its hooks into you. It will be able to draw upon your magic, and use you up until you are little more than a hollow shell.”

Thenvunin goes cold at the implications.

But…

“Uthvir would not do that,” he says.

Lord Stalking raises an eyebrow.

“No?” he asks. “I wonder where your certainty comes from.”

Thenvunin hesitates.

“If they… if they meant me such harm, they could have taken advantage…” he ventures.

Lord Stalking shakes his head.

“Without drawing the notice of the court?” he asks. “You may not be prestigious, Thenvunin, but you do have some connections. And if your Tengu gained that sort of reputation, it would be much harder for them to find future victims.”

It still sounds wrong, though.

“But I do not feel weakened,” he says. “If anything, I…”

“Illusions,” Lord Stalking interrupts. “Charms and bewitchment. I can see all the signs.”

He takes several steps forward, and frames Thenvunin’s face with his hands. His expression turns apologetic.

“Tell me truly, Thenvunin,” he asks, not ungently. “What other reason would they really have for giving you all these nice things?”

Thenvunin’s heart sinks.

It sinks and sinks and sinks, until he feels numb.

Oh.

“…There is no reason,” he admits. To himself, as much as to Lord Stalking. There is no reason. No one would give Thenvunin such extravagant gifts just to buy his attention, not even for rutting season. It would not be needed. After all, Thenvunin had invited Uthvir over before they even gave him a single thing. And it was only after he let them into his home that they began to send him presents.

“I have been foolish,” he says.

His eyes sting.

Lord Stalking sighs.

“You are too trusting for your own good,” he says. Then he squeezes Thenvunin’s shoulder. “But not to worry. I am here, my dear. If we gather up all these things, I can safely remove the spells from them. It will free you of the Tengu’s influence. But I will need to have everything they have left here.”

Everything…?

Oh, he is a fool. Even with the revelation upon him, he finds his heart wrenching at the thought.

It is just pragmatism, he tells himself. Uthvir’s gifts are some of his finest possessions, and he had already been having trouble acquitting himself sufficiently for Lord Stalking’s outings. Without them, it will be even harder. But… if they are truly doing such harm…

“I will gather them up,” he says.

Lord Stalking stops him with a hand at his chin.

“Cleaning all of this up will not come without some effort from me,” he says, nearly apologetic.

Thenvunin ducks his head.

“Of course, my lord, forgive me. I am very grateful for your help and insights,” he says. “And I will do my utmost to repay you.”

“Good man,” Stalking praises. He lets him go, then. Tails still moving in agitation, as his eyes flit towards the soft cushions in Thenvunin’s bedroom.

Thenvunin does not watch him for long enough to see him smile.

 ~

 Hatred, Uthvir has found, is a very interesting emotion.

Anger and rage are relatives of it, of course, but there are significant distinctions. What one hates might easily make them angry or enraged. Those emotions, however, can only ever be temporary. Situational. Eventually, they fade, even if they can easily return again. Falling to the wayside in the wake of other things, like happiness or calm or sorrow.

Hatred, though, does not wear off so easily. It would not be hatred if it did.

And hatred is not always angry. Sometimes it is very calm. Sometimes it is cold. Sometimes it even wears disguises; masks of civility, tolerance, even kindness. Rage is like the weather; a storm that blows over. Hatred is a seed. Growing, thriving under the right conditions, or perhaps wilting and vanishing if enough time passes without the proper nourishment.

There are seeds of hatred that live in Uthvir’s heart. Not as many as some might suppose, but enough for them to be intimately familiar with the nature of it.

The new Fox at court, however, seems set to plant another one in record time.

Uthvir is trying not to be… unwelcome, in their focus on Thenvunin’s comings and goings subsequent to their terse dismissal from his home. He made himself fairly clear, after all, in asking them to leave, and his lack of overtures towards welcoming them back in any capacity are also clear. They entertain some small hope when they see him wearing a few of their gifts again.

Hope that is dashed when the four-tail Fox called Stalking makes his presence known.

Uthvir is aware that it is not rational to despise a man just because he has taken up with someone they have bedded. They know the dangers of possessiveness, of wanting things from people, and being unrelenting in the pursuit of them. Of thinking themselves somehow entitled to Thenvunin’s time or affections, his exclusive attentions, or really anything at all that he does not simply wish to give them.

If he wants to spend his days courting another Fox, courting Stalking, then that is rightly his business.

But Uthvir also does not like the way that Thenvunin’s ears go flat and his stance turns meek in the presence of the senior Fox. They do not like the way Stalking looks at him, and touches him. They do not like the magic they can feel lacing the air. Unfamiliar, and indistinct, but certainly present. They do not like Stalking’s gaze or manner or tone, though there is very little that they can concretely point to against it.

Just that it seems… wrong.

They do some digging.

After all, they have incidentally been spending more time at court, now - well, why shouldn’t they? - and it pays to know who is who, and what reputations abound.

Lord Stalking does not, initially, offer much clarity on that front.

Around court, Uthvir mostly finds the usual levels of gossip and speculation that surround virtually any spirit of note. Their own reputation is worse than Stalking’s courtly one. He comes from a purebred Fox family, but one of low esteem. He was, however, formally adopted by a more noteworthy line after acquitting himself well and gaining some notoriety. He has most of the usual associations of Foxes. Several known lovers, several former flames, a reputation for promiscuity and some trickery. A few whispers, here and there, of rivals gone missing and acquaintances falling on suspiciously hard times.

Uthvir knows they should probably leave it at that. They know they are not being compelled by pure suspicion on Stalking’s character, but also by their… by some emotional investment in Thenvunin’s fate. A curiosity as much as anything, perhaps. An interest in seeing where the perplexing man will go, and what he will do, and who he will decide to associate with along the way.

They dig deeper.

Outside of courtly circles, things turn a little more promising. Foxes are a fairly abundant type of spirit. And they are very sociable; even among those who are not auspicious enough to really grace the courts and intrigues of those who travel nearer to the circles of the gods.

The peasantry, in essence, seem to take a far dimmer view of the Fox named Stalking.

Uthvir uncovers many more consistent and dubious rumours, in digging through those social circles. They send some spirits who owe them favours to go and make inquiries, and the reports back have enough commonalities in theme that they would be foolish to dismiss them all as mere talk.

Foxes, go the rumours, have a habit of disappearing after their associations with Lord Stalking. So do other lesser spirits. Despite his four tails, Stalking is less than three hundred years old, by all accounts. Possibly even less than two. The minor purebred family he claims to hail from does not seem to exist, either, which means that Stalking could be lying about his lineage - or that they are all gone.

Ominous in either case.

Uthvir, of course, has duties outside of gathering gossip on interloping… on new faces at court. They have a territory to protect and obligations to their Lord to see through. Tasks to perform. Excursions to take. Though they rarely venture very far from their range, sometimes the course of their duties requires them to pursue things further afield, in both the mortal realm and the Spirit World.

But as more time passes, the nature of Thenvunin’s new relationship becomes a dissonant note that lingers at the back of their mind. Growing as days turn to weeks and weeks turn to months, and Thenvunin’s presence at court becomes more ubiquitous, but Uthvir does not see much improvement in his actual bearing. He hangs his head more. Flinches more readily. He is rarely seen without Stalking and, after a time, begins to conspicuously avoid Uthvir, too. He does not wear the new gift they send him, and they almost regret it. Wondering if it caused offence, if it was taken the wrong way…

It was just… they heard that he was looking for clothes. Nice things to wear at the events his new ‘patron’ kept taking him to. And it made that little, dark seed in their heart sprout a bit more, to think that Stalking would be dragging Thenvunin to and fro and not keeping him well-dressed on his own dime.

Thenvunin is proud. Prickly and dramatic and strange, yes, but certainly proud, too. It would be a sort of cruelty to leave him scrambling to keep up, even as one afforded him the opportunities to excel.

It seems, to Uthvir, like Stalking is keeping Thenvunin off-balance, more than affording him a path to ascension.

But they have nothing but their displeasure towards the man to support that idea. There is more weight to the reality that Thenvunin needs some new clothes; and while Uthvir does not expect him to be comfortable accepting gifts from them now - and really, part of them thinks they ought not send anything, after all is said and done - it is just…

Perhaps it is their own sort of pride, in the end. Knowing that they would be a better source of a support for him. Some subconscious desire to rub his choice in his face, a little. Even if they are the only one who knows they are doing it. Such an ugly impulse.

They do not talk themselves out of it, though.

And for what? they wonder, at first. When the gift seems to go to waste all the same.

But then there are duties to see to. And when they get back, other niggling concerns and little things to notice, that wear away at their attention. Thenvunin’s drooping seems to worsen. His avoidance grows even more blatant. Uthvir never sees him without Stalking, now, and at times he seems less like a man in company of a fellow Fox, and more like a shadow following in the wake of someone whose own presence has surely not depleted.

It makes Uthvir think of a human lord who once kept a tiger as a pet. The beast was defanged and declawed, slowly starving to death. Beaten into subservience, until it scarcely resembled a tiger at all.

It cannot just be the ugliness in their nature that prompts their concern. Their instincts can lead them astray, but never this badly. The latest trip they have returned from finds them watching Stalking and Thenvunin in the palace gardens. Stalking chatting amicably with one of his known compatriots, while Thenvunin dozes at the opposite side of the bench.

He looks too thin.

Uthvir has only just resolved to do something when the four-tail Fox looks up, and intercepts their gaze.

They do not like the way that man grins.

But what action to take remains less clear. They know they have to consider it. And the best way to consider it is to be certain of what, precisely, is going on. They are near certain that Thenvunin is being mistreated, but how is an important factor. Else the weaselly Fox behind it might just slink off from the whole ordeal unscathed. Or even remain a threat.

The are still musing over the idea when a little bird brings a message to them, as they meditate in their tree.

It is a simple slip of parchment. Lavender-scented, written on in elegant cursive that is familiar to their eye.

Thenvunin’s hand.

Dear Uthvir, says the letter. Their eyes widen at the familiar form of address. We should speak. I know you are probably angry with me, and in truth, you have every right to be. But I beg your permission to air my feelings to you in person. There are some things I must tell you, if my heart is ever to know peace. Please meet me at the lake near to your sacred tree.

Their eyebrows climb more and more, and something stirs in their chest as they come to the last line.

Yours, Thenvunin.

For a long moment they simply sit in their tree, and stare at the missive. Their mind caught by the memory of heated kisses and soft words.

Has Thenvunin figured out that something is wrong with Stalking?

Perhaps he means to ask for Uthvir’s help in escaping the other Fox’s influence.

Perhaps he wishes to apologize, some traitorous voice whispers, too.

They try not to pay that thought much mind. Instead they tuck it away, just as they tuck away the letter. The scent of it seems to linger in their nose long after it should. It is a scent that they know Thenvunin likes. A deliberate perfume? They suppose they can easily imagine him scenting his letters. Uthvir breathes in a few times, almost trying to keep hold of it as they take off from their tree, and wing their way towards the specified meeting grounds.

The lake mentioned is not terribly large, but it is beautiful. Scenic, in its views of the forest. It is fed into by mountain streams, and holds a great many fish. Sometimes mortals come, mostly for the fish, or the surrounding game. A few pilgrims have passed through on occasion, too. They usually recognize Uthvir for what they are, but so far none have been disrespectful. It is a safe enough place; though less secure than either of their spirit homes, or even Uthvir’s tree itself.

But then, it is almost somewhat more neutral ground than many of those places. Perhaps that is something Thenvunin needs too, for some reason.

They spot the Fox at a fair distance.

He is sitting at the small wooden dock a mortal fisherman had built at the lake shore ages ago. As Uthvir lands nearby, they are given pause by his countenance.

The tiredness that seemed to plague him every time they saw him at court does not seem to be present. If anything, Thenvunin looks nearly radiant. He is wearing a robe they gave him; the one they saw him in that particular night they met outside of Stalking’s chambers. His hair is loose. A few motes of foxfire drift around him as he sits and brushes it, and stares out towards the clear lake waters.

There is something… off.

Uthvir lands further away than they ordinarily would. Not certain what it is; or if it is just the surprise of seeing Thenvunin in a relatively good state.

He notes their landing anyway. At the sight of them his face lights up. Uthvir’s heart skips a beat - how long has it been since they saw him smile? And so rarely like that, just full of pure delight. Even a faint note of triumph, as if Uthvir’s arrival has just proven something to himself. They feel their skin heat, a little. They move closer automatically, draw like a leaf on the current.

“I got your message,” they say.

“And you came,” Thenvunin replies, with a long sigh of relief. “Oh, Uthvir. Can you ever forgive me?”

They pause.

“Forgive you? For what?” they wonder.

“I have been such a fool,” Thenvunin tells them. He sets the brush in his lap, and turns his gaze downwards. “You have shown me such kindness. Such generosity. Far more than I deserve, and I have been ungrateful for it.”

“I told you, you do not have to be grateful,” they reply. Something tugs at the back of their mind. An unease that cannot quite place the source of. Disbelief, perhaps? After months of watching Thenvunin avoid them, this turnabout is surprising…

Thenvunin lets out a delicate sniff, and brings his sleeve up to his face. A tear tracks down his cheek.

“See?” he says. “You are too kind to me. I yearn for your embrace, but I have been too cowardly to admit it. My heart swells with the memory of your kindness, but I know I am undeserving of it. My lips miss your lips; but how could I ask for even one last kiss?”

Uthvir starts moving closer again. Drawn in by their growing distress over Thenvunin’s upset. He buries his face into his sleeves as they get closer, curling in on himself and seemingly oblivious of their approach.

Carefully, they reach out, and set a hand on his shoulder.

“What is all this? What are you saying?” they ask him. Their own voice feels odd as they speak. There is something… about the air…?

But then Thenvunin looks up, and they are caught by the brightness of his eyes. Beautiful and warm, like the sunset. He places his hands on their chest, and leans up towards them. His collar slips, and bares a pale shoulder. His lips part. The heat in the air feels electric, like a budding storm. Motes of foxfire catch at the edges of Uthvir’s wings.

“Oh, my love. Kiss me…?” he asks them, breathless and beseeching.

Uthvir is halfway to closing the distance between them when they stop. The niggling feeling in the back of their mind finally pushing through the thick air to resolve into a single, clear thought, as they looked into the Fox’s amber eyes.

Thenvunin’s eyes are green.

Their wings snap outwards. They close a hand around the Fox’s throat, tight enough to draw blood with their claws. The little seed of hatred in them flares out, and feeds into a sudden, reflexive rush of magic as they identify the illusions and beguilement enacted upon them. The tension the air, the building storm, it breaks - but not in a flood of passion.

Instead it snaps in a crack of lightning, a tremble of the ground. Uthvir’s aura flashes bright as they purify the shore, with a blast strong enough to turn the lake waters choppy, and strip the illusions from the Fox in their grasp. One tail becomes four. Stalking scrambles at the arm around his throat as Thenvunin’s features melt away. But something in Uthvir still feels sluggish; caught. Stymied by the magic…

…Woven into the folds of his outfit.

Thenvunin’s outfit. That Uthvir gifted to him.

Too late they realize that the trap has still been sprung, that Stalking is only trying to loosen their grip with one hand. The flare of pain in their chest is hot and sharp. They do not need to look to know that they have been stabbed. They can feel the bite of cold steel in their flesh. Piercing a gap in their armour. And they can feel the pull at their magic, the Fox’s spells trying to drain them, freezing them in place. Stalking closes a hand around their wrist as they tighten their grip, and he burns their flesh.

“Let go,” he grits.

His free hand twists the knife in their chest, until Uthvir grabs him with their own. Their blood spills onto the boards of the dock. They struggle to tighten their own grip, fighting the white-hot pain and the scent of their own burning flesh.

They bare their teeth, and with a burst of defiant energy, shove the both of them aggressively forward.

The knife bites deeper. Stalking’s body crashes against theirs; tails writhing, flames scorching up their arm.

But the momentum is enough to knock them both off of the edge of the dock and into the lake.

Cold waters engulf them. Shining bright with Uthvir’s guardianship bond to the region, and finally breaking the last layer of bewitchment. The leaden feeling leaves their limbs, even as the pain seems to lance through them all the more fiercely. Uthvir keeps their hold on Stalking as he struggles. His fires flicker and snuff out in the choppy waters. Uthvir’s wings, in turn, are weighed down by the lake; too hard to maneuver within the lake.

A wave pulls them back, just as Stalking struggles with both hands to break their grip. And it’s enough to yank them away.

In a desperate rush, the Fox scrambles for the surface. Uthvir tries to swim after him. Folding their wings flat, asking the lake to help but only a moment too late - the Fox heaves himself back onto the dock. His fires flare, and before Uthvir can reach him again, he has flung his way through a hastily summoned portal.

The opening snaps shut behind him.

With a snarl, Uthvir strikes the post of the dock instead. Their nails dig into sealed wood, and crack it neatly in half.

That… that fucking…

Their blood spills into the water. The skin of their arm is covered in long, angry burns, and the blackened tatters of their sleeve.

Thenvunin, they think, with cold dread. He has Thenvunin.

And the little seed of hatred is nourished into bloom.

 ~

 Thenvunin is trying to open a portal to his home.

The corner of the palace he has managed to retreat to is more secluded than most, and that is a good thing. Because he is beginning to panic, and it would not do to have such a sight be seen.

He had been feeling tired all day. The creeping, clawing exhaustion, which Lord Stalking had explained to be a lingering response of having broken Uthvir’s curse on him. It has been enduring for months now, though, with no clear end in sight. Thenvunin had almost begun to think it was worsening, rather than improving. But his lord had allayed his fears yesterday, showing him the vibrance of his own fire. Explaining that it was only that Thenvunin was tired and needed rest.

Still, he had requested to meet today. Only to fail to arrive at their intended spot.

Thenvunin had come looking for him at the palace, and had been trying his best to make discreet inquiries when all of a sudden a wave of disorientation had struck.

And now he is sitting on a stone bench, near an empty segment of the palace pond network, trying not to give in to the rising terror in his chest as his hand trembles and his fires flicker, and no portal will open at his command.

Something is wrong.

Something is very, very wrong…

“Thenvunin!”

He nearly cries in relief at the sound of Lord Stalking’s voice calling for him. Dropping his arm, he gazes blearily down towards the far side of the garden.

“My lord…” he manages to call back. The light is too bright. He can hardly see Stalking, but for the blurry shape of many tails. At least, not until he gets close. Then Thenvunin can only frown in consternation, bewildered as he sees the lord running towards him. As he realizes that he recognizes the soaked outfit that the man is wearing, as one of Uthvir’s cursed gifts.

Consternation turns to worry as he sees the blood on his lord’s throat.

“What happened?” he asks. Trying to muster himself, but still, somehow, wavering on the bench. Lord Stalking’s gift feels far too heavy today, yet his fingers keep slipping every time he tries to take it off.

“Oh, thank goodness you are alright!” the four-tail says. He grabs Thenvunin by the arms and hauls him to his feet, ignoring his soft gasp of protest. His grip is still strong, even if there are obvious signs of injury on him. Thenvunin sways and loses his balance, only to be dragged insistently back towards the garden entrance.

“What…?” he asks again.

“It was Uthvir!” Lord Stalking tells him. “That wretched Tengu. They attacked me, they would have killed me!”

Thenvunin’s mouth goes dry with horror. But his mind still spins with confusion. Lord Stalking drags him stumbling along, as his heart beats too fast and his breaths come shallow, and the sinking feeling beneath his skin worsens. The necklace is starting to feel as though it burns.

“Why are you wearing…?” he manages.

Lord Stalking shushes him.

“I can explain more later,” he says. “Right now I need to get you to safety, before-”

Lord Stalking cuts off abruptly, and whirls them both around. Thenvunin loses his balance entirely, and nearly crumples to the ground. Only the hands on him will not permit it. Ordinarily that might be a relief, and it almost is - at least, until he feels one hand close around his throat instead, with the other presses him firmly in front of Lord Stalking. Turning them both to see the blur of dark brown wings; the figure of a furious Tengu suddenly blocking the entrance to the garden.

With a curse, Lord Stalking drags them both backwards. He lets go of Thenvunin with one hand for barely a second, and when it comes back, it is holding a knife.

Thenvunin thinks, for a moment, that Lord Stalking means to defend them both with it.

“Stay back!” the lord cries at Uthvir, pressing the blade too hard against Thenvunin’s stomach. “One move closer, and I kill him.”

Kill who?

Uthvir stops where they are. Their wings are spread; their eyes are hard.

There is a fury about them that is frightening. It is still, and sharp, like their countenance. Intent as any hunting bird; but burning with hatred. Such hatred that makes Thenvunin inwardly quail, even as his thoughts continue to swim in confusion. Uthvir is here to kill him. Uthvir has attacked Lord Stalking.

But Lord Stalking is dressed so strangely, and the knife he is holding is pressed close to Thenvunin; not angling at Uthvir.

And he just said…?

One move closer, and I kill him?

“What makes you think I am concerned with that?” Uthvir asks.

That seems like a good question. What exactly is Lord Stalking hoping to accomplish with this tactic? It would be better for them to just sound the alarm, wouldn’t it? The palace has guards…

Lord Stalking scoffs.

“Oh, please,” he says. “You think you can deny it? I saw the gifts you gave him. Even after he had refused you, you were still sending them, weren’t you? And I listened to the rumours. The mysterious, aloof Tengu who cannot be bothered with court, suddenly turning up at every corner? Granted, I have no idea why you would fixate so much on this pathetic sack of fur. But your kind are known for some aberrant tastes.”

Uthvir glares.

Lord Stalking presses the knife hard enough that Thenvunin feels the cold bite of it, just shy of cutting into him.

He reels as Uthvir raises their hands, and the picture of events slowly disassembles itself, and then puts itself back together again.

“Alright,” Uthvir says. “So, we are at an impasse. If you hurt him, you lose your shield, and I will kill you.”

A portal opens up nearby. Unlike Thenvunin’s, Lord Stalking’s tend to require anchors. Thenvunin had thought it merely a preference; something to make the image of them look more pleasing. But it must in fact be a necessity, if he is still doing it in these circumstances. And the only usable anchor in this quiet segment of garden is the patch of wall next to the entrance. Closer to Uthvir than not.

“That is why you are going to let us walk out of here,” Stalking says.

Uthvir’s eyes narrow.

“If I let him leave with you, it is as good as a death sentence,” they reply.

Lord Stalking tightens his grip on Thenvunin’s throat.

“If you let me leave, and swear not to chase me, then I will equally swear to send him back to his miserable little hovel. Still breathing,” Lord Stalking counters.

He begins to move towards the portal. Conjuring a few flames when Uthvir does not move away from it. The Tengu stares them down, but as the foxfire flicks towards Thenvunin’s head, they take a reluctant step back. And then another. Clearing the way, as Stalking moves, and Thenvunin is dragged, and Uthvir watches them with intensity that seems to grow by the second.

Their gaze catches Thenvunin’s, and holds it for a solid moment.

I’m sorry, Thenvunin thinks. He feels like he is twisting from the inside out. He had thought… he had believed… and all this time, it was Stalking who was taking advantage of him. He should have seen it. The necklace. The eagerness to claim Uthvir’s gifts from him. As they pass closer, he sees blood tricking down to Uthvir’s belt. And burn marks on their right forearm, visible through the tatters of a scorched sleeve.

He remembers Lord Stalking’s bloodied throat.

As they draw near to the gate, he feels Stalking turn - just briefly - to glance towards it. The hand at his throat unthinkingly loosens.

With the last of his strength, Thenvunin leans forward, and then snaps his head backwards. Hard enough to smash his skull directly against Lord Stalking’s face. He hears a resounding crack and feels the knife at his gut slip away, pain distracting his captor.

Uthvir rushes forwards, throwing a blade that Thenvunin only registers as a brief glint in the air, before he hears the wet thunk of metal piercing flesh. Lord Stalking cries out in pain. And in a move of desperation, he shoves Thenvunin forward into Uthvir’s path, and flings himself into the open portal.

Thenvunin has no hope of keeping his feet. He crashes against Uthvir, as his vision swims. His ears ring with the sound of a portal being shut too quickly; the scent of smoke briefly bursting through the air, and leaving scorch marks on the wall behind it.

Uthvir curses.

“Thenvunin!” they then exclaim, urgently.

The necklace burns like fire.

The last thing Thenvunin registers is the sight of their hand, burning, too, as they yank it off of him. Metal warps to ugly black sludge, falling from Uthvir’s glowing claws.

Then he passes out.

 ~

 When he wakes up, his head is pounding.

He does not know how long he lies in place with his eyes closed, trying to escape the angry hammering inside his skull. It feels like it lasts for a long time, though, as the pain consumes his focus, and movement is simply too nauseating to bear. Opening his eyes only subjects him to painful bursts of light, that make the whole thing worse.

He cannot think. He just lies in place, breathing, wishing in a bone-deep way that the pain would quiet. Trying to escape it with unconsciousness again.

At some point, he becomes aware of fingertips on his forehead. The touch is light, and cool.

Gradually, the pain in his skull eases. The touch withdraws, as Thenvunin draws in a few more breaths, and feels tears of relief slip from the corners of his eyes. The abating migraine lets him finally become aware of other hurts. His throat is dry, and aches. His chest feels oddly numb. His limbs are tingling and heavy, leaden, and he feels weak.

Drained.

Drained?

Memory comes back all in a rush, then.

Uthvir!

Thenvunin opens his eyes sits bolt upright.

It is a terrible mistake.

The pain in his head stabs like a knife, and his stomach flips. He dry heaves and collapses back down onto something soft. Trembling as colours swim in his vision. Red and white and green. His abdominal muscles scream from the effort of sitting up. His tail twists. Hands press to his shoulders and roll him to his side, as he heaves again. The reflex conjures of flares of pain, like white-hot pokers in the otherwise numb sea of his chest.

“Easy,” a voice says. “Shh. You’re safe.”

Uthvir’s voice. Not Lord Stalking’s.

Oh, thank the gods.

The blind terror in him releases its hold enough for him to stay still, and shut his eyes. Focusing again on the senses of his body, on trying to gain some equilibrium with it all. He does, after a moment, raise a hand up to his neck. The skin there feels ragged, rough - like a healing wound. It hurts to touch. But there is no chain on him.

Fingers brush tentatively across his temple. Pulling hair away from his face. His breaths rasp in his own ears, when the pounding of his skull abates again.

Eventually, careful hands roll him onto his back again. One of them brushes his cheek, while the hard rim of something presses to his lips. Thenvunin doesn’t feel bold enough to try opening his eyes again, and something in him clenches distrustfully at the prospect of parting his lips. Irrational fear weighing him down. No, don’t make me.

 A murmured apology drifts down to him.

Then another. The hard object at his mouth is withdrawn. A moment later, something softer replaces it. Soft and warm, gently coaxing. Thenvunin parts his lips. Some hazy corner of his mind recollecting passion and care, easing the knot of suspicion in his chest. As the taste of river water lands on his tongue, it eases more. Oh, he thinks. Alright. He opens his mouth, and drinks a few more kisses. The water slides, cool and soothing, down his throat. It helps to ease the pain. Helps to clear the drumbeats from his mind, and the burning from his insides. His breaths stop rasping. Everything eases enough for him to feel his consciousness slide away, too, carried like the currents. Gently lulling him towards a soft darkness that offers a blessed reprieve.

When he wakes for the second time, the ache in his skull is down to a manageable throb.

He blinks his eyes open, muzzily, and sees moonlight. Soft and silver, as it spills through the opening of his bedroom window.

For several minutes he lies on his bed mat, and follows the path of the light to where it lands on an empty square of floor. His thoughts and memories do not take their time in returning to him. For a moment, he almost wishes they would. His body still aches, but there is a sinking feeling in his chest which has nothing to do with physical pain. Guilt, and shame, and a wretched kind of horror. There is an angry voice in his head. Outraged. How dare Lord Stalking take advantage of him? If only that voice could be louder than the other one. The one that seems to stare down at Thenvunin with his own disgust, with pure recrimination.

You fool.

 You unparalleled fool.

It takes him a long while to muster the strength to sit up.

When he does, something drifts down from his chest, and lands on his lap. He blinks uncomprehendingly down at the feather. The large, brown feather, perfectly formed. Soft and so seemingly innocuous against the blanket placed atop him.

Then he brings a hand to his mouth, as tears sting at his eyes, and the feelings inside of him all crack open and come apart. Breaking with him, as a flood of sobs suddenly wrack his frame. His tears drop down onto the feather. His hair falls forward, and blocks them both from the moonlight, as he weeps. Oh, how lucky that he is alive. Oh, how terrible his foolishness. Oh, Uthvir. His fingers tremble as he finally reaches for the feather. They were kind to him, they were genuinely kind to him, and they helped him. By all rights they should have let Lord Stalking - let Stalking - drive the knife into his gut. But they didn’t. Thenvunin had believed Lord Stalking. Had thought the very worst of them, because they were a disreputable Tengu, and Stalking was a lordly Fox.

They were hurt, too.

He gasps as he remembers. Swallowing past a throat that is dry again, he pushes aside the blanket. He is naked beneath it. There are bandages wrapped around the top of his chest, and covering the skin of his neck and collar. He searches blearily for a robe, and finds a small tray set out with a covered jug of cold broth and a cup. But he has to muster his strength to make it to the closet door to find his old robe hanging on the handle, and then remember the fate of the newer one. Gone, along with all of Uthvir’s gifts. Taken by Stalking - given into his own hands by Thenvunin’s foolishness.

His lips thin, the angry voice inside of him getting a bit stronger as he plucks up his robe.

It is exhausting to actually put it on.

But he manages. Sliding the loose sleeves on, and tying the belt to preserve some semblance of manners, before he tackles opening the screen of his bedroom.

The rest of his house is quiet, and mostly dark. Only a few of the foxfire sconces are lit, and they are not burning bright. Thenvunin uses the wall to guide him as he takes careful steps, and looks around.

“Uthvir?” he calls.

No answer.

With increasing concern, he makes his way towards his front door. It is open, he notes. The air outside feels clear, at least, as he pauses to catch his breath. The borders of his property have not collapsed; a lucky thing, and probably a closer call than he would want to admit. A low wind passes by, too, and that is also promising. The grass has died in a few patches. He can see the brittle contrast of it against the greener parts in the moonlight. But some white petals drift along with the breeze.

His tree!

He turns, expecting to see the damage; and freezes at the sight which greets him.

The pear tree is blossoming.

Still small, but hale. His eyes drift down from the snowy white blooms, and gently swaying branches, and follow the dark line of the trunk to where a single, glowing feather has been pressed against it. The brown plumage outlined by the gleam of its magic.

Tentatively, Thenvunin makes his way over. It is harder to cross the garden, with nothing to brace himself. And as he slowly draws closer, the glow on the feather begins to fade. He tries to move more quickly. But by the time he reaches the tree, it is entirely gone. He gets near enough to see the feather itself vanish, turning to a few motes of dust. It leaves behind a feather-shaped mark on the trunk of his pear tree.

Reaching out, Thenvunin presses his fingertips to the soft indentation.

The tree thrums with life. A soft sigh escapes him, and he presses a hand fully to the mark, before leaning against the trunk. Safe. For a moment the relief is overwhelming. And the feel of the tree’s life force against his skin is soothing; old magics of fertility and growth, nature and deep roots, fortifying him against the hollow pain in his bones. But then his foot strikes something. Jostling an object near the tree roots. He looks down, and sees a dark square. With some effort he bends over and manages to pick up the little wooden box, resting by his tree.

He hesitates. Just a moment. Fearful in a way that he cannot name.

Then he opens the lid.

Three more feathers are nestled inside the box. Over top of them is a single piece of cardstock. Thenvunin hesitates again, before angling it towards the moonlight in order to read.

Use them. Feel better.

 - Uthvir

Thenvunin carefully puts the card back into the box, and makes certain to close it properly, before he sinks down to the base of the tree and loses himself to his tears again.

 ~

 Stalking shoves Thenvunin.

Uthvir sees the chain around his neck turn black as night. They see his skin turn grey as ash. They catch him, hurriedly reaching their burnt hand for the cursed item. A swell of purification magic comes at their call, eager in the face of such ugliness. Internally they freeze - letting the predatory Fox lord go, because there isn’t much choice, because Thenvunin is dead weight in their arms and they cannot see him breathing.

They destroy the necklace, reducing it to its impurities and flinging black sludge from their claw tips, but the damage is already done.

The flesh around Thenvunin’s neck is a noxious wound, burned in a circle around his collar. To Uthvir’s horror, as they hold him, his grey skin begins to glow with a weak light. Motes of spirit energy start to rise from him; the surest sign of death, as the natural magic in his body attempts to return to the earth around them.

“No.”

They act quickly. Only one path to take to save him, now, so that at least makes the decisions easy. They need to get him to the Spirit World, but most specifically, to the plane where any energy he loses will be fed back into his own being. Uthvir wrenches open a portal to Thenvunin’s home, and scoops him into their arms.

Motes of precious of light trail behind them as they leap through.

Things do not look good. They observe it with a clinical eye as they run towards Thenvunin’s tree, still holding him in their arms. The house is dark, and the grass is turning brown in places. The pear tree itself has no leaves nor blossoms. Its branches are withered, and even as they draw closer, they see the bark of the tree beginning to shrivel.

Uthvir lays Thenvunin down atop the roots. He needs energy, first. Reaching for their wings, they brace themselves as they pluck a primary feather. The pain lances straight to their spine, and blood trickles from the wound. Healing that will take a while, but their focus is on the Fox lying before them as they press the feather to the drunk of the tree, and call upon their contract with the Dark God.

I need strength.

Purple-black magic cracks around the feather. The feel of it coursing through them is always somewhat alien; strange. Like using someone else’s tools. Which, in a way, is precisely what they are doing. But it works, and that is what matters. The dark gleam engulfs their feather and wraps itself in ribbons around the trunk and branches of the tree, with a boost of power that followers their intent.

The glow begins to fade from Thenvunin. His skin turns from ashen grey to simply pale. Uthvir puts a hand just over his mouth, and feels faint breaths against their palm.

Gradually, the dark energy abates. Their own magic, bound up in the feather, remains. It halts the decay of the tree, and the spread of the dying plants on the grounds. The darkness of Thenvunin’s house eases; though the foxfires do not light themselves again. A distant wavering at the borders also abates, but Uthvir can taste the tenuousness of it all, still. Can just faintly sense malevolent spirits gathering at the outskirts. Drawn in by the scent of weakness and opportunity.

With as much care and speed as they can balance, they strip Thenvunin and take stock of his injuries. He is thin and bruised in some places, but the worst is by far the ugly circle on his chest. It still reeks of poisonous magic.

Folding his clothes, they tuck the bundle beneath his head, and begin to tend to the wounds.

 ~

 It takes three days before Thenvunin no longer seems at risk of vanishing into light and dust on the wind.

Uthvir is not actually a healer by trade, but they cannot leave his side for long enough to fetch a better one. Their energies are required to keep things stable, and Thenvunin has no servants. And their own servants and allies cannot find them here. So Uthvir stays, doing the best they can with what they know. They purify his wound until the scent of poison is gone, rinsing it with cleansed water and covering it with a latticework of spells, and repeating the act as needed. Thenvunin wakes a few times, but never with any great cognition. They try to get him to eat and drink when he does, but he does not always understand.

Remembering the times when reasoning with him during his rut could be difficult, Uthvir resorts to feeding him drinks with kisses. A twist of guilt stirs in their chest, as they cannot help but feel as if they are taking advantage. Some part of them enjoys the feel of his lips against their own. Of being close to him again, after so much time spent in avoidance. It reminds them of the ruts, too, but they push those thoughts aside. The point is not to kiss Thenvunin. He is ill and weak; the point is that he accepts the drinks from their lips, where he will refuse to sip from a cup or bowl. And it seems to calm him down, too. Perhaps convincing some corner of his mind that this is just the exhaustion of his season; relieving him from the fear of what has gone on.

When he is sleeping, Uthvir soaks a small cloth in water and uses it to wet his lips.

They keep him by the tree for the first day. Until the shriveled bark begins to smooth, and a few green leaves start to bud on the branches. Then they carry Thenvunin inside, to make him more comfortable.

They are not quite prepared to see the interior of his house.

Uthvir holds Thenvunin in their arms for a moment, and comes up short. Staring at the bare walls and floor, the sparse furnishings littered throughout. There is not a trace of anything they gave him. The decorations, the pillows, even the rugs are all gone.

It makes a grim kind of sense, they suppose. But for the first time since they hurried him here, Uthvir spares a moment to indulge their hatred of Stalking. Did that Fox take all of what they had given him? No wonder his beguilement nearly worked on Uthvir. Such items would have given the fox advantages, both in terms of seeming like Thenvunin, and also in terms of subverting the notice of Uthvir’s own defenses. Appearing much like a gift himself. But truly, to strip even the cushions from Thenvunin’s bedroom, to take nearly every painting from his walls, as well as the clothes from his closet… or did Thenvunin get rid of it all of his own accord?

The second thought brings them up short again. Before they shake it away, and then carry on to what comfort can be found in Thenvunin’s little bedroom.

It is not important, they remind themselves.

They are not like Stalking. Not like… others. They know the limits of consent, the mandates of autonomy. Thenvunin is not sworn to them. He may do what he pleases, and if it pleases him to cut ties with them entirely, then there is nothing they can do.

…But if Stalking did take it all, then it is just one more reason for Uthvir to focus on getting it back.

They wince a little as they settle Thenvunin onto his bed mat. And once they have him on it, they pause to check their own wounds. Their wings ache from pulled feathers, and the burn marks and stab wound are taking longer to heal than usual. But that is not surprising, given that Uthvir has more pressing things to spend their energy on. Their injuries are healing, too, albeit slowly. Being inside the house reminds them of the existence of bandages. They pull themselves from Thenvunin side just long enough to look for some, and to their relief, find a box of such things stowed away in one of the closets. They bring it back to the bedroom, and claim a bandage for wrapping their stab wound. Before they cleanse Thenvunin’s injured collar again, and wrap it with several others. Letting them ease up on their use of magic. Which is good, because their arms were starting to go a little numb from it all, and they have used up all the favours of their contract for the time being.

The next few days pass more easily than the first. As Thenvunin settles, they gain enough confidence to move between his bedside and his tree. The foxfire sconces begin to flicker, and gain light again. Thenvunin sleeps, but the nature of that sleep seems to shift. Deepening and relaxing into a healing rest, rather than persistent unconsciousness. By the third day, Uthvir’s wounds have healed down to scars, and Thenvunin’s skin is pink. His own injury no longer bleeding. Uthvir checks and double-checks, and finally determines that it would be safe to leave him now. They pull some feathers to leave behind, just in case. The lingering aura of their magic will help finish his recovery, and also warn them if anything malevolent attempts to breach the boundaries of his home.

And then they leave.

Stalking has a three day head start. It could not be helped, but so long as he is out there, he remains a danger.

They feel an enormous amount of trepidation as they go, even so. Bracing themselves once the portal has closed behind them. Waiting to feel the alarm, as if Stalking could somehow have been prowling at the boundaries of Thenvunin’s domain. Biding his time for the first moment when Uthvir would turn their back.

It all remains quiet, though.

And the presence of their own favourite tree has a greater effect on them than they might have expected. They take a moment to lean against the trunk. Wings spread, as the energy of it sinks into them. A few of their torn feathers regrow. The primaries they used still need more time, and that means no flying. But Uthvir can do without. They fold their wings to better conceal the damage, and then set out. Heading for their own household, first, to regain even more energy, and check in with their servants. It is not uncommon for Uthvir to be gone for long stretches of time, but news of the fight had somehow spread out from the court of the gods, and they find their servants uncommonly relieved at their return and filled with questions. And, fortunately, having foreseen Uthvir’s needs, some of their scouts of have been keeping an eye out for the Fox known as Stalking.

Unfortunately, none of them have gained much in the way of leads.

‘Lord’ Stalking, it seems, has retreated in full. At a guess, Uthvir would suppose that the man has gone to his own household in the Spirit World. None of his servants have been seen at court or in the usual markets since their conflict. Though it has only been a few days; more than enough time for a spirit to simply hole up in their territory. One such as Stalking, with no mortal grounds to defend, would undoubtedly be able to stay in such hiding for months at a time.

Uthvir stays at their household long enough to eat and drink, before heading to their next destination - the court of the gods.

They need someone who knows where, in the Spirit World, Lord Stalking’s household is.

For now, that means interrogating his known lovers and acquaintances.

Uthvir strides into court to find the atmosphere alight with rumours and interested glances. The ‘excitement’ clearly having had some time to accumulate. They find themselves impatient with it. But they observe the proper protocols all the same. They confer with the guards, who have interest in their report on events. And they find themselves interrogated by the kirin of one of the higher deities. Lord Tasallir manages the invitations and records of those who are welcome - or not - in the courtly halls. Uthvir is somewhat surprised that he would consider banishing Lord Stalking. But apparently, they are not the only one who has been looking into the predatory Fox’s past.

Albeit, it seems, for different reasons.

“Four months ago, you submitted a request to the archives of my patron, investigating the genealogy of this ‘Stalking’,” Lord Tasallir explains. Like most kirin, he is tall and lovely, pristine but very austere. He looks like a painting, and rather acts like one, too. Moving very little; though, given the heavy finery he is draped in, that may be a necessity of his wardrobe as well. His red eyes are keen. “The paperwork crossed my desk. I noticed a discrepancy in the template. Upon investigating, I found more. And yesterday, it came to my attention that one of the clerks in my employ has been falsifying information for the sake of bribery.”

Uthvir pretends to be surprised, and convey the aura of one who has certainly never bribed a clerk in their life.

“How dishonourable,” they venture.

“Indeed,” Lord Tasallir agrees. “He and his contributions are now being thoroughly audited. In exchange for his life the clerk has promised his cooperation, and has admitted to forging documents of lineage on behalf of this vagrant Fox. Namely, the status of breeding he used to secure the adoption and patronage of a more courtly family.”

“So he isn’t a purebred Fox,” they surmise. That explains some things. They have rarely known the court to actually care much for the transgressions of power-grasping and manipulation. But lying about one’s bloodline is another matter to them entirely.

Lord Tasallir inclines his head.

“Likely not. Whatever his true lineage, it seems he has destroyed the records of such a thing. If they ever existed.”

Well. That puts paid to the idea of digging up any more family, Uthvir suspects. Not that they had much hope of succeeding on that front anyway; it was a line of investigation they were forced to abandon some time ago.

They lean back in their seat, and regard the kirin lord contemplatively.

“Why are you telling me this?” they wonder.

Lord Tasallir blinks.

“Because this Fox is in violation of the Law, and has violated the security of the archivists whose employ I oversee,” he says. “He is an inciter of chaos and an agent of lawless deception. He should be brought to trial; and if there is a trial, then there will be a need for testimony and evidence. I would like to secure yours.”

Uthvir lets out a breath, and folds their arms.

“I am just seeking to kill him,” they say, frankly. “Not bring him in.”

Lord Tasallir blinks.

“Certainly. If you find him before the guardians of the Divine Court do, you seem to have sufficient claim on his life. But I will have others searching for him. If he is brought in alive, I can interrogate him and correct the records,” the kirin explains. “If that eventuality should pass, I trust you wold have an interest in testifying against him to assure his due punishment?”

Uthvir waits for a moment. But that genuinely seems to be what Tasallir is after.

They nod.

“Yes,” they agree. “Do you need me to sign anything?”

The kirin lord carefully slides a sheet of paper over to them, and indicates a quill pen nearby. Uthvir takes a moment to read the legal contract, which really does simply seem to affirm their agreement to provide testimony in case of a formal trial. Nothing in it, to their surprise, inhibits their ability to just plain kill Stalking in challenge if they should find him on their own. It is, as near as they can tell, a standard template.

…Kirin are very strange, sometimes.

Uthvir signs their name, and finally excuses themselves from the office of the administrator.

It does add some more urgency to things, though. Despite Lord Tasallir’s interests in ironing out some paperwork, Uthvir remains set upon their course of just murdering Stalking very definitively.

Their audiences with the man’s known lovers and associates provide a few more interesting avenues, though Uthvir is wary of double-crosses, and one or two just seem to be stringing them along for the sake of gaining notoriety through the scandal. For several days they are consumed with meeting and searching, as their servants keep their eyes peeled in the Tanuki markets and put out word among the more rural spirit communities. Even venturing to some of the mortal courts, with tales of a man of Stalking’s more human-like description being a Fox in disguise, and a malicious one at that.

They feel it when Thenvunin uses up the last of the feathers they left him.

Which means he is alive, and with no whiff of danger, largely undisturbed. Uthvir cannot resist the urge to check on him, however. With their feathers used, their sense of his territory will wane. The guardian in them, perhaps, almost wishes to renew it. But practically speaking, they simply need to make certain that Stalking will not attempt to violate Thenvunin’s home without their knowledge. They suspect he has been there, after all. He knows where it is.

And Thenvunin may know where Stalking’s household is. Though the older Fox is a fool if he did not keep such things ambiguous from a person he was so set upon victimizing.

Thenvunin’s house looks… more normal, when they open the portal to the front to the front path of it. Uthvir waits a moment, taking in the atmosphere. Their primary feathers have grown back, and most of their own strength has recovered. But they were not nearly so badly injured. Thenvunin’s house is lit, though, with foxfire glowing from the windows. The plants are mainly healthy, with a few still-wilted exceptions here and there. The pear tree is blooming. Uthvir walks slowly, taking it in, until he sees Thenvunin emerge from one of the side doors.

At the same time, Thenvunin’s own gaze lands on them.

They both stop. Freezing in place for several moments. Thenvunin is wearing a light robe, and holding a book in one hand. His hair is loose. He looks tired, and too thin, still. The wound on his collar has healed into a circular scar, that seems to trail all the way towards the back of his neck.

Uthvir’s own throat aches in sympathy. They hope, for Thenvunin’s sake, that the scar is quick to fade, and does not linger as too many of their own tend to.

They look at it a little too blatantly, perhaps. After a moment, Thenvunin closes the collar of his robe more firmly, and their eyes move to his face instead. His own linger on the visible bands across their right forearm. Remnants of the burns they neglected.

“…Uthvir,” Thenvunin finally says, at last.

“Thenvunin,” they reply.

A low breeze ruffles the grass.

Another long pause follows.

“Are you… feeling better?” they venture.

“Yes. I… Uthvir, I…” Thenvunin clears his throat, and tucks his book into one of his sleeves, as he folds his arms in front of himself. “I must beg your forgiveness.”

“No,” Uthvir says swiftly, shaking their head. They raise a forestalling hand. “There is nothing-”

“Yes there is,” the Fox insists. Snaps, even. It brings them up short, before he lets out another long breath. His head bows. “I put you in terrible danger. I was… I fell for…”

“You were the one who was in terrible danger,” Uthvir interjects.

Thenvunin glares at their burn scars. They fold their own hands behind their back.

“I was the one who-”

“Stalking nearly killed you,” they interrupt, more firmly. “He might try again. And you are still weak. I take it that he knows where your home is?”

There is an awkward pause, as Thenvunin opens his mouth as if to argue something. But no words come. After a moment, he just deflates again. The rings beneath his eyes look too dark.

“He does,” Thenvunin admits. “But I will not let him back in.”

“You may not be able to keep him out,” Uthvir counters. They hesitate, but… it really does make sense, for security… “You should come to my home. My servants can help tend to you, and Stalking will not be able to find you there.”

Thenvunin looks at them with an expression they can only describe as ‘aghast’. They backpedal somewhat. He has had enough people pressuring and manipulating him for their own ends. And if Uthvir is being entirely honest with themselves… their reasons for wanting him in their own home are not purely pragmatic.

They missed him, perhaps.

“Not that you must accept, I would not force such a thing,” they say.

“I could not possibly,” Thenvunin insists.

Their heart sinks. Their wings drop, just a little.

“I would not do anything to… that is, you would be free to come and go as you pleased. You would not even have to see me, if you did not wish it. I will not be there often,” they assure him.

“It would be much too much,” Thenvunin says. “You have already… with, with the feathers, and… and all these things…”

He trails off, distress visible as he mumbles something about gifts and some other things that Uthvir does not entirely catch. After a moment he steadies himself against the exterior wall. Uthvir feels a rush of guilt, at having upset him so. They make their way closer, extending a hand but Thenvunin sinks down to sit upon his porch without their help. After a moment, they awkward put their hand back at their side.

“My apologies. I did not mean to upset you,” they say.

“You did not,” Thenvunin insists, in defiance of the evidence.

Uthvir supposes it is to be expected, though. He has just been under the thrall of a manipulative spirit, more powerful than himself. One with status and finery and, by all accounts, a fairly large household. In his place, Uthvir would also not be eager to put themselves under the control of another such spirit. Especially not while weakened and still regaining their strength. They let out a breath, and take a step back again. Ducking into a bow, as they let the idea go. Instead they reach into their pocket, falling to their backup plan as they pull a small wooden flute from the folds of their robes.

Gifts may also be questionable territory. But this is not one which Thenvunin would be required to wear.

“I carved this flute from the wood of my tree,” they tell him. “If you find trouble, you may play it. I will hear no matter where I am, and come to help.”

Thenvunin stares at the instrument in their outstretched hand.

He swallows, hard, and then ducks his head so that his hair falls forward. Hiding his face from them.

With another pang of guilt, Uthvir sets the flute onto the wood of his porch.

“I will just leave it,” they assure him.

“You should not,” Thenvunin says, so quietly they almost miss it.

“It is not dangerous,” they promise him. “You may check the magic yourself. You may have someone else check it. And I cannot… please, I cannot leave you without some defense. Not until Stalking is caught.”

“No, I…” Thenvunin begins. But then his voice cracks, and he seems to lose what composure he hand managed to gain. Uthvir wants very much to go over to him. To put a hand on his shoulder, and offer some comfort. But they stop themselves. Such impositions would likely only have the opposite effect. So instead they take another step back, and another. Leaving the flute, and offering a bow that Thenvunin likely does not see; and forcing themselves to step away. To withdraw, lest they take advantage of the situation, and prove themselves no better than Stalking.

It is a force of effort to step through the portal and leave.