#this is about prentice and quinlin. of course

[aphelea]

the best way to avoid out-of-character moments in your fics is to write about characters who are so obscure that they don't even have canon personalities. "he would not fucking say that" well he wouldn't say anything if this was canon so hey what can you do

[do-you-ship-this-book-couple]

saw that annoying ask about keeperblr and while they were annoying about it I do think it would be fun to introduce some older lore! Specifically the phrase “it’s not gay if you’re cognates.” For context, cognatedom is described as similar to marriage, and there are two popular mlm adult ships of telepaths. One of which, Prentice and Tiergan (who were told could have been cognates) are raising kids together. The other ship is more of a good luck, babe! ship where Alden and Quinlin had a lot of drama and essentially got divorced (cognate bond) for very serious angsty reasons.

Oh, new lore is always welcome, of course. And I do have a lot of fun reading all the confusing yet entertaining lore!

The previous anon was just very condescending

[gay-otlc]

There's going to be a Tiergan/Prentice wedding in Stellarlune, I just got a call from Shannon.

[aphelea]

my eclipsed sun

Ao3

the quinlin & tiergan arguing fic!

Summary: Tiergan and Quinlin, in the wake of Alden's mind break, and the guilt and anger that lingers.

Tags: @cogaytes @lgbtqforeverything @give-me-caffeine @gay-otlc @bookwyrminspiration @winterfireice @arsonistblue @moonelight

“No.”

Quinlin’s shimmering form glares at Tiergan through the hologram screen of his Imparter. His hair—usually gelled back into a smooth ponytail—is haphazardly tied up into a loose bun, the shorter pieces falling wildly around his ashen face. 

Tiergan raises an eyebrow. “You don’t even know what I’m asking.”

“I can guess,” Quinlin replies, rolling his eyes. “It isn’t like you have a habit of hailing me for social calls.”

“No, I suppose not,” Tiergan muses. “Still, you can’t possibly know—”

Quinlin laughs dryly, effectively ending Tiergan’s statement halfway. “You’re going to ask if I want to see him,” he says, scowling at the screen. “I don’t.”

“Fine,” Tiergan says, rolling his eyes. He doesn’t care what Quinlin does with his time. Even when he firmly believes that Quinlin’s decision is entirely ridiculous. “Though, you knew him best—”

“And what good does that do me?” Quinlin snaps. “He’s gone already; there’s nothing I can do to save him. You know as well as I do that it’s pointless to try and reverse a break.”

Tiergan sighs. “It’s not about reversing it. The healers simply said it may be useful to try and understand what’s happening inside his mind while the pieces are still large enough to do so.” He’s completely bullshitting at this point. But Fitz, Biana, and Alvar need someone who can actually help them at Everglen, right now, and there’s no chance that either Tiergan or Della will be able to fulfill that role. 

Quinlin’s lips curl at the statement. “And, what, you think I would be better suited to the task than you?” It’s about as close to a compliment as Quinlin has ever offered him. 

“It’s certainly no secret that you and he were…close,” Tiergan replies, with a slight chuckle. “I seem to recall that day in school, when we found you—”

“ Shockingly , the things a person does at seventeen are not exactly relevant for the rest of their life,” Quinlin interrupts, a light blush dusting his cheeks. “And, regardless, the only reason I’ve survived being inside a broken mind before is that I had my Cognate by my side.”

Tiergan pointedly decides to avoid thinking about the owner of the broken mind that Quinlin refers to.  

“You know the situation I’m referring to, of course,” Quinlin continues. 

Ah, but Tiergan should have realised that Quinlin is incapable of leaving well enough alone. 

“Don’t bring Prentice into this.”

“And here I thought you had begun the discussion of our shattered ex-lovers,” Quinlin replies. Somehow, amidst everything, the man has the audacity to look smug as he speaks, as if it isn’t his ex-lover, his best friend lying half-conscious in the bed beside Tiergan. 

Tiergan’s patience is wearing thin; of course, he knows every conversation with Quinlin is like this, the two searching for any way to get under the other’s skin, tossing blades with every scathing remark thrown. “There is no our, Quinlin. I’m nothing like you. And Alden could have only dreamt of being as good a man as Prentice.”

Quinlin raises an eyebrow. “Speaking ill of the dead, are we?”

“Is it really speaking ill if the man wholly deserves it?” Tiergan replies. He can match the fire in Quinlin’s eyes easily; they’ve been playing this game for decades. “And he’s hardly dead, yet, Quinlin. Have some faith, at least.”

Quinlin scoffs. “Faith?” he repeats. “What faith can I have? The moment Alden laid eyes on Prentice in that godforsaken cell, he was already beyond saving. I’m not foolish enough to believe that a miracle will occur.”

Tiergan is about to return with another scathing remark, when Quinlin’s words process fully in his mind. “How did you know he saw Prentice?” he asks, low and careful. There’s no way Quinlin could possibly know; Tiergan himself had only just gleaned the information from Sophie yesterday morning. (He almost wishes he hadn’t asked her—he can’t quite make sense of the mix of satisfaction and guilt curling in his gut, yet, at the thought that the mere sight of Prentice could have caused this mess.) 

Quinlin stutters and stumbles over his next few words, which itself offers Tiergan all the answers he needs. “It wasn’t hard to infer,” he says, but his eyes are shifting and somehow, Tiergan can’t quite believe him. 

“He visited you,” Tiergan guesses, and the situation feels achingly familiar. “He knew what was coming, and he wanted you to hear it all from him.” 

Quinlin looks away with a haunted expression. “I told him—” He pauses, then seems to remember who he’s speaking to. “Well. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“You know that’s classified Council information, what he told you,” Tiergan notes, and there’s something strangely satisfying about being on this end of the conversation, for once. “Technically, you should both be arrested for that.”

Quinlin rolls his eyes. “As if you’re any paragon of law-abiding citizenship.” 

“And yet, you still can’t prove enough to arrest me.”

“I certainly could, if I wanted to,” Quinlin counters. “But have you considered that I simply don’t want you Exiled?” 

Tiergan…isn’t sure what to say to that. Of course, it’s a preposterous idea—why wouldn’t Quinlin want him Exiled, a two-for-two completion of his mission from long ago? 

“Though I suppose you must think I deserve this,” Quinlin says, with a dry chuckle. “Equal pain for pain I delivered you.”

“ Equal ?” Tiergan scoffs. “In what universe? Alden is only facing the consequences of his own rash actions. Prentice was innocent.” 

He expects Quinlin to take the bait once more, to snap back and continue the never-ending cycle of insults that has followed both of them since their Foxfire days But instead he quietly looks away, a pained expression on his face, and asks,  “Was he really, though?”

Tiergan frowns. “What?”

“Prentice,” he repeats. “Was he really as innocent as you claim?” 

Tiergan stays carefully silent, at that. It’s too early to give away anything, not with Sophie as weak as she is. And this is information Quinlin is already well aware of, anyway—anyone could have seen how secretive Tiergan and Prentice were, all those years ago. And Quinlin and Alden had seen through them far too well. 

Quinlin laughs dryly, ending a long moment of shared, tense silence. “Of course. The same answer as always. Because you know as well as I do—”

“Fuck off.”

Quinlin pauses, and raises an eyebrow. “You know, you’re really doing a horrible job of convincing me to come see him.” 

Oh. Right.  

“You’ve given me your answer. I don’t care enough about either of your lives to bother arguing about it.” It’s a blatant lie, and Tiergan hopes that Quinlin won’t call his bluff. But, alas, he is not so lucky. 

“If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be calling. You wouldn’t even be at Everglen,” Quinlin counters, with a raised eyebrow. “I suppose I should be grateful that you’re taking care of him, even after everything.” Tiergan takes an absurd amount of joy in the fact that Quinlin squirms at the attempt at gratitude—although it’s entirely unfounded. 

“Don’t invent kindness that isn’t there, Quinlin. I’m here for Sophie, and for Fitz, Biana, and Alvar—the children you’ve left behind.” 

Quinlin steps away, as if taken aback. “Well, we can’t all take in every lost child that shows up at our doorstep. They’re not my responsibility.” 

“Not your responsibility?” Tiergan scoffs. “All you do is break minds and break families and leave destruction in your wake, and somehow, I’m always the one to pick up the pieces. I don’t recall you being any help when I took in Wylie—when I could barely muster up the energy to leave my bedroom in the mornings, and then suddenly I had an entire child to take care of all alone —”

“I understand your frustration, Tiergan, but I really think you should blame Prentice for your son’s plight, not Alden and I. After all, I certainly didn’t make the decision to put allegiance to a group of rebels above my love for my family. Mr. Endal’s situation is, unfortunately, the natural consequence of poor decision-making.”

Tiergan itches to lunge for the hologram and strangle the man, but for civility’s sake he settles for a sharp glare and a scowl. “I could say the same about Alden.”

A long beat follows, in which Quinlin appears to cycle through every possible emotion at once. “Yes,” he agrees, though his lips seem to recoil at the words. “I suppose you could.”

And then a tense silence hangs over then—a rare sight, after years and years of endless quips and muttered insults, a constant stream of petty noise directed toward one another. Tiergan opens his mouth to speak—but before he can do so, Quinlin leans over and shuts the call with a scowl.

And suddenly the room is empty, save for Tiergan and the man he’d once declared his enemy, drooling on the sheets. “Well?” Tiergan asks, partly to Alden, and partly to the memory of a lover, long-gone. “Was it worth it? Was it worth ruining him? Do you know how much I—”  He forces himself to stop, because this isn’tPrentice, this is ten years later, with old wounds reopened. “Thank you for giving him a proper goodbye, at least. It’s more than I ever had.”

Alden, predictably, stays silent, and Tiergan wants to scream—but he settles instead for throwing his imparter at the wall, imagining all of his grief in holograms of silver mist, dissolving in the air. Quinlin’s taunts. Wylie’s missed hails. Leto’s face, revealing the news.

As the device lands, it cracks into hundreds of glistening shards, and Tiergan can’t help but smile. 

[gay-otlc]

So. I wrote a small fic based on the headcanon I've been discussing with @aphelea and these tags by @xanadaus

I'm also tagging @solreefs because lun cannot escape the Tiergan angst.

Content warning for cursing, violence, and internalized homophobia.

...

It wasn't as though an angry Tiergan arriving on his doorstep was unexpected. That's how one might react to their best friend's mind breaking. Still, Alden couldn't deny that he'd been hoping he could avoid Tiergan a while longer. He sighed and opened the door.

Tiergan lunged at him, and his quick reflexes just barely enabled him to dodge a punch to the face. "Tiergan, listen, I-"

"Fuck you!" Tiergan screamed. His eyes were rimmed with red. "How fucking could you? The love of my life is as good as dead, and for no fucking reason."

"He broke the law," Alden protested weakly.

"That doesn't mean he deserved what you did to him!" Tiergan threw another punch. This one landed, and Alden touched his jaw gingerly. It would probably bruise. "What did Prentice ever do to you, you asshole? Did you just decide to ruin his life because you were fucking jealous? Are you somehow still obsessed with me? That's pathetic."

"I'm married," Alden snaps, and his anger rises as well. "Of course I'm not obsessed with you. There was never anything between us."

"You kissed me," Tiergan says, deathly calm all of a sudden. "But if you'd prefer to keep pretending you're a perfectly respectable straight man, then carry on. I'm sure Quinlin won't mind."

"What are you implying about my relationship with Quinlin?" If rumors about this got out...

"I'm sure he'd be thrilled to hear you're still not over your ex from Foxfire, is all I'm saying."

"I am over-"

"Face it, you practically killed a man over some petty jealousy. That's a dick move."

He didn't have a response to that. Tiergan, unfortunately, was right. He wasn't jealous of Prentice in the way Tiergan had been implying, he wasn't still in love with him, but... he envied Prentice for having the courage to pursue a relationship he had run away from all those years ago. A part of him regretted that split-second decision to choose his reputation over his heart, and a part of him often wondered what might have happened if he'd chosen differently. Prentice had chosen Tiergan, and they were happy, and perhaps Alden could have had that if he weren't a coward.

So, yes, he was a bit jealous, and now Prentice was in Exile, and Tiergan was sobbing on his front porch, and yes. That was a dick move.

"I'm sorry," Alden whispered.

"You can shove your apology right up your ass." Tiergan wiped his eyes, held up a middle finger, and left without another word.

[aphelea]

ooh please tell me about the superhero au it sounds very cool

ok so i honestly don’t have much of the actual plot planned out yet!! but what i do have is:

so this is a human au, except eternalia + the lost cities are their own country/region

it’s set vaguely in the past so modern tech isn’t really a thing

but this world is the opposite of canon in that they don’t like people with powers/special abilities

the only exception to this is powers that aren’t as physically obvious, like telepathy and empathy

so the vackers and the sencens are respected even with their abilities

but della of course keeps her vanishing a secret because a vacker like her can’t have powers

meanwhile alvar detests that he has to keep his ability a secret (per alden’s insistence) and joins the neverseen

(which is led by fintan, who does have a dramatic getting-back-together scene with bronte later but that’s not important)

anyway when alvar discovers that biana’s also a vanisher he recruits her into the neverseen’s ranks

and she becomes a villain who ends up fighting the black swan’s superhero team

now for the black swan’s superhero team. they’re called the keepers, for lack of a better name

it consists of sophie, fitz, dex, keefe, tam, marella, and linh

none of them know anyone’s identities

anyway sophie and biana have this whole enemies to lovers thing and a bunch of homoerotic fight scenes

biana has a knife because. knife at throat gay scene of course

also they all go to school together

as for what actually happens, there WILL be a heist scene where they rescue prentice

tiergan and prentice are in love but that’s nothing new

also qualden are exes-in-a-cognate-way here

that’s not really important to the plot but it’s incredibly important to me

della and livvy are also pining for each other

prentice wakes up and is like. what the fuck do you mean you’re not together livvy you’ve been in love with her for fifteen years

and alden is entirely oblivious to the fact that his entire family are either superheroes or supervillains. also to the fact that quinlin is in love with him

i’m debating whether or not i should include the matchmaking system since it doesn’t really serve a purpose when special abilities aren’t a good thing

anyway sophie and biana are very gay very hate the council it’s a whole thing

this is very long so i’m gonna cut it off here but. thank you for asking i love rambling <3

[aphelea]

keepers of ink and bone

Ao3

summary: a kotlc great library au, based on the great library series by rachel caine. this follows certain kotlc characters through the plot of ink and bone, but with some kotlc changes. you don't have to have read ink and bone for this to make sense, but it would probably help.

word count: 3986

@gay-otlc

-

EPHEMERA

Text of a secure Library correspondence from the Artifex Magnus, addressed to Obscurist Magnus Keria Fathdon. 

You cannot protect him forever, Keria. Do not let sentiment cloud your judgment.

Text of a response from the Obscurist Magnus. 

You may burn these heretical ideas out of him, torture him, whatever you deem necessary. But do not kill him.   

I will not lose another son to the Library today.

-

“May I sit here?” 

Tiergan doesn’t bother looking up from his Codex. “No.” 

“Great.”

Tiergan’s seat dips slightly, and he sighs. Of course the idiot sat there anyway. 

 “Are you a postulant?” the intruder asks, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. 

Tiergan finally looks up and slams his Codex shut, in an effort to make his annoyance known. The newcomer doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest. 

“I am,” Tiergan replies. “And you?”

“Yes. Like most of this train.” Tiergan can’t quite place his accent– maybe German? As the boy mutters something to himself in an unfamiliar language, Tiergan strains to hear it. Yes, definitely German. 

“My name is Prentice,” the boy says, this time in English. “Are you excited for training?”

Tiergan shrugs. “Tiergan. And, yes, though mostly nervous.”

Prentice chuckles. “I don’t think there is anyone here who isn’t nervous.” He pauses, and then his gaze catches on something in the corner of their carriage. “Other than him, maybe.” Tiergan follows his gaze to find another boy of about their age, scribbling furiously in his personal journal. Beside him sits a man with a silver band clasped around his wrist, and similar features to the boy – likely a relative of some sort. Tiergan raises an eyebrow. Surely the Library doesn’t allow nepotism as a means to land a placement. 

Prentice notices his skepticism and says, “His name is Quinlin Sonden. Apparently, he had a perfect score on his placement exam. The first person in recorded history to do so.” The awe in his voice is evident, and a hint of jealousy rises in Tiergan’s throat.  “Well, what did you score?” Tiergan asks, partly out of curiosity and partly out of a morbid need to prove himself better than this stranger. 

Prentice’s lips curl up. “Eight hundred.”

Eight hundred. 

Tiergan had scored a mere seven hundred and fifty. 

Prentice must notice his distress – embarrassing, really, since Tiergan has years of practice hiding his feelings – because he says, “Though they say anything above six hundred is exceptional. And it isn’t as if the tests are perfectly constructed– I would not have scored so high if there had not been so many questions about engineering.”

Tiergan vaguely remembers those questions. He remembers calling on the knowledge of the illegal books in his father’s office to help him; he remembers each book, inked with the names of ancient scientists in their own hands, and his father’s warnings not to write too well on his exam, lest the Scholars come knocking at the Ruewens’ door. 

He assumes, however, that Prentice is not a smuggler, and that he learnt his information from perfectly legal sources. 

“You like engineering, then?” he asks, and he can practically feel the way Prentice lights up at the question. 

“I’m hoping to be a Research Scholar, if I make it,” Prentice says, with a shy smile. “And you?”

Tiergan pauses. What does he want to do? He can’t very well say, ‘keep up my illegal family business with my father and sister.’ “Er,” he says, “I suppose a Scholar as well? A traveling one, maybe.”

“Stormcrow,” another voice cuts in. 

Tiergan’s gaze snaps towards its owner – the girl sitting across the aisle from them, her eyes scanning them with boredom. “What?” he asks. 

“A Stormcrow,” she repeats. “That’s what they call traveling scholars. Because wherever they go, death seems to follow them.” She casts Tiergan an appraising look and snorts. “You don’t really seem cut out for that.”

Then she stands and walks away, tossing her long braids over her shoulder with a sharp finality. 

Prentice gapes. “Did you do something to offend her?” 

Tiergan sighs, and thinks the interaction over. “Not me, specifically,” he replies, realization dawning. “But that girl was definitely Welsh.”

Prentice stares at him blankly. 

“She’s Welsh,” Tiergan repeats, “and I’m English.”

Prentice furrows his eyebrows.

Tiergan sighs. “There’s a war,” he explains, “between our countries.”

Prentice nods. “Ah. We don’t see much news from your part of the world, at home.”

Tiergan supposes he can’t really blame him. After all, it isn’t like Tiergan knows anything about German politics. 

Not that it would matter if he did. The moment they step foot in Alexandria, the Library says, they lose all nationality, all loyalties beyond the city limits. Once you are a postulant, knowledge is your first priority. 

Until you inevitably fail, of course. There are at least thirty people here, and Tiergan is certain there can’t be more than ten spots. 

Twenty people have to go, at least. And Tiergan’s not so sure he won’t be one of them. 

-

A Scholar waits to greet them at the Alexandria station – though perhaps ‘greet’ isn’t the right word for it. He stands on the platform, scowling at each of them individually as they exit the train. 

Tiergan accepts it. He’s used to Scholars and High Garda chasing him down with fury, so this man only being slightly unpleasant is like a gift. 

Prentice shudders beside Tiergan. “I see why people call them crows, now.”

Tiergan sees it, too: the man’s black robes, and piercing gaze, and the short, dark hair cut close to his head. He can imagine the hair as feathers, almost. 

The man clears his throat, and Tiergan instinctively straightens.  

“My name is Scholar Fathdon. I’ve been assigned as your teacher, and I intend to do my job well,” he says, in smooth Greek. “I have six positions to fill by the end of this program. There are thirty of you here. I would hope that you are smart enough to infer what happens in between.”

A low murmuring begins within the students, but one sharp glance from the Scholar cuts it off. 

“Ptolemy House will be your residence for the duration of your stay in Alexandria. You will drop your things there now, and the Captain will pick you up at exactly five o’clock. Do not be late.”

Nobody bothers to ask who ‘the Captain’ is. Questioning the Scholar seems like a surefire way to failure, so they wait for their dismissal and file out in silence, making their way to their residence. 

Ptolemy House turns out to be rather luxurious, as far as dormitories go, with a lush common room and dining area. The bedrooms are quite simple, however – two beds and two dressers, and an attached bathroom. As Tiergan sets his belongings on one of the beds, he wonders what his roommate is like – smart? Rich? Disgusting?

The boy that comes out of the bathroom is most certainly rich, although the jury is still out on the other two. He scowls when he notices Tiergan’s presence, and smooths back his neatly combed hair. 

“I’m not supposed to have a roommate,” the boy says in Greek. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Well, you have one now, so deal with it,” Tiergan replies. “My name is on the door. Cry about it.”

“You can’t speak to me like that,” the boy says, stepping forward. “Don’t you know who I am?”

Tiergan snorts. “I know you’re an ass.”

“I’m Alden Vacker!” the boy says, seeming genuinely offended. 

Tiergan vaguely recognizes the surname – a rich and powerful family around these parts, with deep ties to both the Library and the government of Spain. It doesn’t seem like this boy is a prince, so he’s likely just a spoiled brat with no duties to waste his money on. 

“And I’m Tiergan,” he replies. “Now shut up so we can go downstairs.”

Downstairs, as the Scholar had said, waits the Captain, who is in fact hard to miss. His hair, for one, is much longer than Tiergan would ever have expected from High Garda, held back by a loose blond braid that falls to his waist. He scans each of them with mild annoyance as he says, “Follow me. If you get lost, I’m not coming back to find you.” With that, he turns and exits, and the Postulants follow suit. 

He leads them to a vast hall, empty except for Scholar Fathdon standing within it. “Thank you,” he says, as the Captain closes the grand doors. Then, he turns to his students. “Now. Are you ready for your first lesson?”

- 

Greek fire. 

The Scholar had placed Greek fire in his room full of students. 

Tiergan isn’t sure what to think, really. Fathdon had praised him for noticing the vial first, but Tiergan had been in too much shock to really process it at the time. 

Everyone is still reeling, that night. Tiergan hears whispers, about the three students told to leave that day, who had drawn an unlucky tile from the pot. Some are whispering about Fathdon’s “clear intention to kill them,” which Prentice snorts at. 

“He isn’t a murderer,” Prentice says, when Tiergan raises a curious eyebrow. “He was likely teaching us to be aware of our surroundings. When you focus too much on one screw, the entire machine collapses.” 

“Not everything needs to be an engineering metaphor, Endal,” Alden cuts in. “It doesn’t make you seem any smarter.”

Quinlin shrugs from across the table. “I don’t know, I think they’re quite clever.”

Nothing has ever given Tiergan more joy than the torn expression contorting itself on Alden’s face. “Yes, of course”—the words seem like acid on his tongue as he forces them out—“Of course you’re right, Quinlin. I only meant–” 

“–You meant to insult him,” Quinlin interrupts with a raised eyebrow. “As you’ve been insulting everyone at this table tonight.” 

“Not you,” Alden replies. 

Quinlin’s lips quirk into a smile, but he says nothing in response.

Beside Tiergan, someone snorts. “This is ridiculous,” she says, and Tiergan realizes it’s the girl from the train – Livvy, he recalls from that morning. 

“I know,” Tiergan replies. “He’s even worse as a roommate.”

“Alden?” Livvy asks. “I can imagine that.” She turns back to her food, effectively ending the conversation. 

Tiergan turns back to Prentice, who leans in closer. “What do you think Fathdon will have us do tomorrow?” he asks, voice low. 

Tiergan shrugs. “Another lesson, probably. A less lethal one.”

Prentice laughs. “We can only hope.”

-

As it turns out, they may have hoped too well, as the next week is entirely boring classroom lessons on what is, in Tiergan’s opinion, irrelevant information. The names of every single Archivist and Artifex Magnus? The exact text of the Treaty of 1436? Absolutely useless. 

He doesn’t voice his concerns, however. He’s not that stupid. 

And with twelve people gone already, he’s fairly certain that he’s only hanging on by a thread. 

It’s not like he doesn’t know his Library history – he’s probably the best in his class, save for Quinlin and maybe Alden. But Fathdon still casts them all with an equally critical gaze, as if he’s waiting for the day when he can send each of them home as failures. 

But he can’t do that, obviously: there are six positions to be filled. And there are eighteen Postulants left. 

…Until the nineteenth arrives. 

Tiergan meets her by complete accident. In an attempt to escape his dreadful roommate, he stumbles into the dining hall at five in the morning, deciding that he may as well get some breakfast before today’s High Garda training. 

And there he sees her. The stranger. 

She’s wearing a long, heavy dress, the kind that Tiergan’s mother wears back home. She’s dressed much too warmly for the Alexandrian heat, and her once-white sleeves are caked with mud, evidence of what must have been a long journey. 

“Who are you?” he asks in English, just to test his hypothesis. 

The girl looks up. “I’m here for postulant training,” she replies. “You’re English?”

“From London,” Tiergan says. “And postulant training started a week ago – you’ll have to talk to Fathdon, but I’m not sure he’ll be quite forgiving–”

“–He knows,” the girl cuts in. “I’m from Oxford. It’s rather hard to catch a train here in the middle of a warzone.” 

“Ah.” He moves to take the seat beside her, and grabs an apple from the fruit basket. “I’m Tiergan, by the way.”

“Della,” the girl responds with a smile. “Pleasure to meet you.” Her eyes are a brilliant blue, and her gaze feels like she’s taking him apart and examining his insides. 

Something is strange about this girl, he thinks. But then, there’s something strange about everyone here. 

Even him. The smuggler’s son. 

“So,” she asks, “what’s the Scholar like? I assume not very pleasant, from your description.”

Tiergan pauses. “He’s strict,” he finally says, considering his words carefully. “But he isn’t unreasonable, I don’t think. As long as you know what you’re doing. Which I hope you do.”

Della laughs. “I hope so, too.” 

At that, the other postulants begin streaming in, desperate for lunch before training. Today, they’ve been told, is High Garda training, physically intensive in a way that suits none of them except Livvy. 

“Who is this?” Prentice asks, in Alexandrian Greek. 

“Della,” Tiergan replies. “A new postulant.”

“Nice to meet you all,” she says, and quickly gets dragged into conversation with Livvy. 

Tiergan is about to join in when the grand doors to the hall open once more, and Scholar Fathdon stands in the entrance, the Captain looming behind him. 

Everyone freezes, forks in mid-air. 

“Keep eating,” Fathdon says. “You’ll need it for today.”

“For High Garda training, sir?” Quinlin asks, the only one comfortable enough to do so. 

“No. There’s been a change in plans,” the Scholar replies. “You’ll be splitting off into groups and conducting raids.”

Raids. 

Tiergan’s far, far too familiar with those. No Scholar has ever come to the Ruewen household, but he knows of others in the trade that have fallen victim to them. He’d never expected to be the one on the other side of them, but here he is. 

A Library rat. 

“Ruewen, Sonden, Anwen, and Beckett will be with me,” Fathdon says. “Everyone else will receive their assignments from Captain Pyren. Be ready in fifteen minutes.”

Fifteen minutes later, Tiergan is certainly not ready. But he sits in the carriage with Quinlin, Anwen, and Beckett, anyway, dreading what’s to come. 

They make the journey in silence, and Tiergan realizes that none of them have actually been told what to do. 

As they exit the carriage at their destination, Tiergan asks the Captain, “What exactly are we supposed to be doing here?” 

Captain Pyren looks down at him, and for a moment, Tiergan swears he can see fire in the man’s eyes. “Do what you’re told,” he says. “Bronte knows what he’s doing.” 

Bronte? Tiergan is about to ask, but then he realizes. Bronte Fathdon must be the Scholar’s full name. 

He wonders how close the Captain and the Scholar are for them to be on first-name basis. Good friends, maybe. 

Not that it matters, of course. 

As they make their way to the door, Tiergan realizes with a jolt that he recognizes this home. He’d stolen from this place maybe… four days before?

A mission from his father. Sneaking out in the dead of night, slipping inside a fellow smuggler’s house and stealing a precious work by Archimedes. Delivering the book to an alleyway, where, strangely, his sister had been waiting. 

“Juline,” he’d said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Father’s orders,” she’d replied, a smirk dancing on her lips. “Glad to see you’ve not lost your touch in your days with the enemy.”

And then she’d disappeared. 

But now, Tiergan is standing at the door of someone he knows is a smuggler, and not for any legal reasons himself. 

He wonders, briefly, if this is a trick, if Fathdon somehow knows who he is and has brought him here to arrest him. 

He dismisses the idea. If Fathdon wanted to arrest him, he would have done it in the morning, in front of the entire class. Here, now, it would be an unnecessary waste of resources. 

The door opens, and a maid steps out. “Scholar?” she asks. “Is something the matter?”

Scholar Fathdon holds up something. A scroll. “We’re here on account of the illegal books inside your master’s home.”

The maid seems fearful, but not quite surprised. “I…”

“Fetch the master of this household, please,” Scholar Fathdon says, and Tiergan is struck by how harsh his voice is. 

Perhaps he was going easy on his postulants. 

Five minutes later, as both the smuggler and his wife plead their innocence, Fathdon sends them each to search for the illegal originals. 

Tiergan knows where to look. He’d stolen some only last week. 

He tries to prolong his searching, but there’s only so much time he can waste before Fathdon calls him out on it. 

When the secret room opens, full of illegal original copies, Captain Pyren casts him an impressed look. “That was quick,” he says, and Tiergan’s not sure what to think about that. 

He looks away quickly, as Fathdon says, “Postulants. Tag these books for removal.” He hands Tiergan a set of tags – humming with Obscurist magic – and moves to speak with Captain Pyren. 

Quinlin, Anwen, and Beckett crowd around the originals with him, each taking their five tags. 

Tiergan tries his best to recall the method Scholar Fathdon had taught them for tagging books. This isn’t particularly high-stakes; he’s sure that the Library has records of these somewhere in the Archives. But it’s obvious that this is a test, and he can feel Fathdon’s gaze burning into the back of his head. 

So he takes twenty tags, and sends every single book at once. 

He’s confused, at first, as to why Quinlin is gaping at him. Then the headache hits him, and he remembers Fathdon’s other warning– tags, being Obscurist magic, drain energy out of the average person. Never do more than five at a time. 

Well, he’s still alive after twenty, so that must count for something. 

Ten minutes later, he’s leaning against the wall outside, and sipping water from a glass Quinlin had offered him. 

“Are you alright?” Quinlin asks him. “I’ve never heard of someone transporting twenty at a time.”

“I’m fine,” Tiergan replies, “just a headache. I definitely did more in training, but I did them one at a time then.” He pauses. “I didn’t realize doing them at once would be worse.”

Quinlin raises his eyebrows. “Really? I could barely manage three.” He laughs lightly. “I suppose we all have interesting talents.”

Tiergan chuckles dryly and looks away. “I suppose.”

The question is, will the Scholar see it as enough of a talent to ignore Tiergan’s history? Would employing a smuggler’s son be worth it if he’s good enough at his job?

Tiergan’s not sure whether to be impressed by himself or terrified of the Scholar’s reaction. 

It turns out to be the latter. 

He’s waiting for a carriage back to Ptolemy House when Fathdon calls him aside. Anwen casts him a pitying look, and Quinlin furrows his eyebrows at him – Tiergan knows what he’s thinking. How could you have failed? Tiergan had done everything right, in his classmates’ eyes. 

But he knows. 

He’d known what only a smuggler could have known; he’d moved about the house with the familiarity of only a thief. He curses himself for slipping up, but there really was nothing he could have done. 

As it turns out, Fathdon isn’t calling him over for that. 

“Get in,” he says, pointing to another carriage. 

“Sir?” he asks. “Is this a test?”

Fathdon raises an eyebrow. “Of course it is.”

Captain Pyren, for some reason, joins them on their trip, which only furthers Tiergan’s hypothesis of the Captain and the Scholar being good friends outside of work. He supposes that would be nice, having a friend like Prentice around everyday at work. 

He quite likes Prentice. 

They arrive at the building where they had met the very first day, where Fathdon had nearly dropped Greek fire on all of them. Tiergan has no fond memories of this room. 

Fathdon enters without hesitation, but Tiergan lingers at the doorway. 

Captain Pyren grins, and Tiergan swears that flames dance across his eyes. “Go on, boy,” he says. “He doesn’t bite. I do, though. It’s a benefit of the job.” 

Tiergan isn’t sure what to say to that. So he enters. 

Scholar Fathdon stands in the middle of the room, holding a thick, golden rope in his hands. “Ruewen. Do you know what these are?” 

This has to be a joke. “They’re… restraints, sir. For criminals.”

“Specifically,” Fathdon adds, “for the criminals who run.”

Tiergan’s heart stops. 

“Captain,” Fathdon calls, and Captain Pyren strolls over. Tiergan’s just about resigned to his fate as the Scholar hands Pyren the restraints – until the Captain slips his own hands through the holes in the rope. 

Tiergan looks at Fathdon, who gestures to his wrist. “Touch your identification band to the restraints.” 

Tiergan complies. As he does so, the restraints snap shut with a force that makes even the Captain wince. 

The effort makes Tiergan slightly woozy, but he forces himself to stand straight. 

“Well?” Fathdon asks. At Tiergan’s silent confusion, he prompts, “Did you feel anything?”

“No,” he lies. 

Fathdon raises an eyebrow. “Nothing at all? Not even a little pinch?”

Tiergan winces. “I do feel a little dizzy,” he admits, and the Scholar nods. 

“Interesting,” he says. 

Captain Pyren scoffs. “Not the word I’d use for it,” he says. “This isn’t how I’d planned to spend my day, Bronte.”

The Scholar rolls his eyes. “Thank you for your assistance, Captain Pyren.” Tiergan’s sure his eyes are bugging out of his head – he’s never seen the Scholar so… warm? Friendly?

He vows to tell Prentice about this later. 

“Now,” Scholar Fathdon continues, “Are you ready for a run?” 

Captain Pyren glares at him, though not unkindly. “Someday, I’m going to make you trade spots with me. You could do with a run.”

Scholar Fathdon’s lips quirk into what Tiergan assumes is a suppressed smile. “Well, that day isn’t today. Now, go, Fintan.”

Captain Pyren turns and jogs out the door, into the Alexandrian streets. 

“Where is he going?” Tiergan asks. 

“No idea,” Scholar Fathdon replies. “But you’re going to find him.” 

Tiergan stares at him. “How, exactly?”

“Take out your Codex.” Tiergan complies. “Press your band to the page.”

When Tiergan does so, a detailed map of the streets surrounding appears on the page, with a moving dot that he assumes indicates Pyren. 

The effort drains him of any energy he had left, and as he stares at the page, a sharp pain slices through his head. He closes his eyes, but when he opens them again to see the page, his headache returns with a sharp ferocity. 

“How is the pain?” Scholar Fathdon asks. 

Tiergan grits his teeth. “Fine. Is this all you need?”

“No,” the Scholar says. “I want you to find him.” Then he turns and walks away. 

Tiergan sighs and makes his way down the hallway and into the streets of Alexandria. He opens his map once more, attempting to ignore the spots in his vision. 

He knows how to do this. He’s been doing this his whole life. 

So he takes one more look at his Codex, and runs. 

He weaves through the streets of Alexandria, imagining that he’s back in London, running books for his father. His headache increases each time he looks at his Codex, but he ignores it. 

And when he finally barrels into Captain Pyren, his relief is enough to keep him awake for one final, satisfied grin, before his vision turns black and he collapses into the Captain’s arms. 

Sorry, Captain. Please don’t fail me. 

[aphelea]

my smoking gun

quinlin/alden and tiergan/prentice

summary: basically tiergan and quinlin threaten each other and bond over their ridiculous secret pining over their best friends.

tw: homophobia(not from them specifically!), mentions of outing, and generally threatening each other

-

Quinlin had expected Tiergan to be angry, once the job was done. He’d anticipated a monster of rage to show up at his doorstep one night, seething and maybe screaming at Quinlin for what he had done.

What he had not expected, however, was to walk into his apartment in the middle of the night to find Tiergan sitting quietly on his couch, shuffling playing cards with a bored expression.

“Tiergan?” Quinlin asked, causing him to raise an eyebrow. “What the hell are you doing in my house? And in the middle of the night?”

Tiergan shrugged as he dealt out cards along the coffee table. “I’m here to visit a very close friend.”

Quinlin felt a warning hand on his shoulder, which he promptly shook away. “We aren’t friends.”

Tiergan scoffed. “I never said I was talking about you.” He finally looked up, a piercing smirk gracing his lips. “Now, your wife, on the other hand…”

Quinlin lunged forward, a variety of colorful thoughts running through his mind, but was stopped by an arm in front of him.

“Calm yourself, Quinlin,” Alden said, stepping out of the shadows and pulling Quinlin closer. “Mr. Alenefar, why are you here?”

Tiergan raised an eyebrow. “Well, why are you here? It’s a little late for the Council’s business.”

“All good Cognates are friends before they are coworkers,” was Alden’s response, and he smiled down at Quinlin. Quinlin, despite himself, smiled warmly in return, and found himself lost in the sea of Alden's teal eyes.

Tiergan coughed, drawing their attention back to the issue at hand. “I see,” he replied, eyebrows raised as he glanced between the two near-embracing men. “Quinlin, may I speak to you? In private?”

Quinlin turned to Alden, who nodded slightly. “Yes,” he said, “but keep it brief, since we are all in desperate need of sleep.”

Once they sat down in his office, Tiergan leaned forward over the desk table. He examined Quinlin for a silent, and rather awkward moment, before speaking. “I wondered,” he began, “why your only argument against Prentice was his involvement with the Bla – with the rebels.”

Quinlin paused, and chose his words carefully. “As far as I was – and am – aware, there was nothing else substantial to accuse him of. He was a model citizen, save for his one fault.”

Tiergan scoffed. “That it certainly one way to view him.” He was quiet for a moment, then continued, “I will say this, Quinlin, and this is not a question, rather a mere observation: you and Alden Vacker are not friends.”

“Of course we are,” Quinlin replied, confused. “We have been since we were children.”

“No, you misunderstand me,” Tiergan said. “You were once friends, but now… Quinlin, it’s as obvious as daylight that you’re in love with the man.”

He wanted more than anything to protest, to deny the accusation thrown at him. But he could not force himself to tell the same lie, even to someone who had every reason to blackmail him with this information. “If you tell a soul,” he threatened as Tiergan smirked, “I will do everything in my power to make sure that you end up right beside your friend in Exile.”

“You understand that only makes it more enticing.”

“I’ll make sure you never see or speak to Prentice ever again,” Quinlin amended, and Tiergan nodded.

After a beat of silence, Tiergan asked, “But why did you do it?”

“Haven’t we been over this?”

Tiergan shook his head. “What I mean is – well, what would you do if someone sent Alden to Exile?”

“Destroy them,” Quinlin immediately replied. “But that’s hardly the same – oh.”

“Indeed,” Tiergan said. “I had not realized you were unaware. I thought – well, never mind.”

Quinlin was quiet for a moment, unsure how much he was even allowed to reveal. “Tiergan,” he began, “I’m not sure if you truly understand why Prentice was guilty.”

Tiergan stood up straight. “What do you mean?”

Quinlin sighed, and made a note to apologize to Alden later. “You know that Prentice was associating with the rebels, yes? He was withholding information on a girl, hidden in the Forbidden Cities, and so we had no choice but to perform the break on him.”

“You had a choice,” Tiergan cut in. “But you both are cowards when it comes to the Council. You would murder if it was under their orders – I wouldn’t be surprised if you already have.”

Quinlin huffed. “You’re veering into treasonous territory, and I would like you to recall that I already have more than enough information about you to get you Exiled.”

Tiergan recoiled. “Hardly! Prentice is as good as a dead man, and even if you were to find proof that he loved me as I do him – good luck with that, by the way – it would only get me fired, at the worst.”

“You misunderstand,” Quinlin replied. “Once one starts looking into Prentice’s affairs, the affairs of his close friend are not far behind. Or rather, the suspicious lack of them.”

Tiergan narrowed his eyes. “What are you implying?”

“You’re certainly not subtle about your hatred of the Council, at least between the two of us. And you can’t expect me to believe that your ‘friend’ was such a valuable asset to a group of powerful rebels and yet you are completely innocent.” Quinlin had to give Tiergan some credit: his face stayed perfectly blank throughout the statement, no confirmation or denial present.

“Look,” he finally said, after a long silence, “I don’t like you. But I understand that what you did to Prentice… well, you certainly could have done worse. You destroyed his life, but you could have destroyed Cyrah’s and Wylie’s, too, with the things you know. You could have me Exiled right with him, and I’m sure you know that I could do the same for you.” He stepped back, and glanced around the office. “I have no reason to hurt you, Quinlin, not yet. But rest assured that if you make one wrong move…” He dragged a finger across his throat.

Quinlin stared at him. “Our business is secrets, Tiergan. We deal in them, we trade in them, we keep them close to our chest. So, yes, I may have sabotaged some of Alden’s missions for the Council, and you may have conspired with the rebels, but neither of us have any concrete evidence to prove anything.” He paused, then remembered Alden standing in his living room, likely running his hands through his dark brown hair and pacing worriedly. “And as for our other situation,” he continued, “well, I suppose we really are only hopeless, pining idiots at the end of the day.”

Tiergan scoffed. “At least yours is alive.”

“I’ve apologized for what I did to you, Tiergan, must you keep bringing it up?”

“I don’t forgive you.” Tiergan swiftly turned and walked out of the door, eyes burning with fury. Just before he could slam it shut again, however, he turned to Quinlin. “By the way,” he said, “I wasn’t lying to you, earlier. I came here for Livvy, not for you.” He paused once more before adding, “But I am glad we spoke. It was certainly… eye-opening.”

And with that, he was gone.

[gay-otlc]

Snap the Pen in Half

Tiergan/Prentice angst lmao

Summary: Dear Prentice, Hi. This is stupid. This is really stupid. Why am I doing this again? It's not like you can read this.

Content warnings for cursing, and like death/loss

Word count: 3477

@if-only-wishes-were-answered you asked to be tagged?

Read on AO3

Okay, so, maybe it was irrational that Tiergan wanted to snap the fucking pen in half. It's not like the pen was to blame for anything. But xe wanted to break something, and the pen was conveniently in xyr way. With a sigh, he stopped looking at the pen like it personally had taken Prentice away from him, and started scribbling furiously.

Dear Prentice,

Hi. This is stupid. This is really stupid. Why am I doing this again? It's not like you can read this. Not that anyone can ever read my handwriting, but you can't even try to decipher it, because you're...

Nope. Not writing that. Not in pen, where xe can't erase it, because writing it is too permanent. Maybe if he doesn't write it, he can pretend this isn't permanent.

This is stupid.It's supposed to be therapeutic, or whatever. A healthier way to deal with everything than locking myself in my room and blasting the Beatles so loud it hurts my ears and eating ice cream and crying. I don't think this is helping. I just want more ice cream, even though this is something that even Ben & Jerry's can't fix. And before now, I didn't think that was possible.

Dammit, Prentice, why'd you have to get yourself hurt? I don't care if the moonlark fixes the world or whatever, you were my world. (That sounds ridiculously cheesy. But it's not like you're around to laugh at me. I wish you were around to laugh at me.)

Fuck you. I know it's not your fault, I know you were just trying to help and that you never wanted the worst to happen. It's not your fault, but fuck you, fuck you for leaving me. Didn't you know how much you meant to me? You had to have known. I'm sorry if I didn't tell you that enough. Who am I kidding, of course it wasn't enough. It never would have been, because I never wanted to tell you I loved you for the last time. But if there had to be a last time, I wanted it to be later. I wanted to tell you at least one more time. Just one more "I love you," one more kiss, one more day together. Fuck you for leaving me without that.

I'm pissed at you, I guess. It's not just you. I'm pissed at everything. Alden Vacker, obviously, and the council. Quinlin. Forkle. Me, I'm pissed at myself. Hell, I'm pissed at the pen I'm writing this with. I just hate everything.

Writing this did not help. I still hate everything. I still feel like I'm being strangled or stabbed or whatever poetic shit people use to describe grief. This was a stupid idea.

I barely survived a week without you, Prentice, how the fuck am I gonna survive a lifetime of this?

Xe shoved the paper away before falling tears made it even more illegible. Then he threw the pen across the room. The thud it made against the wall was kind of satisfying. Not satisfying enough. Xe stuffed the letter in a drawer where xe wouldn't have to think about it more.

--

Prentice,

Why am I doing this? I guess the last letter did help. Not that I'll ever repeat that.

So maybe this was more healthy than making himself sick on cookies and cream. It still felt stupid. But xe was out of ice cream now and too emotionally drained to go to the store, so this was xyr best option.

In character for my trademark shitty memory (you used to tease me for that, i'd kill for you to tease me again), I keep forgetting you're gone. Which is weird, since losing you feels like there's this giant gaping hole in my life. Like I've lost a limb or something. But according to Livvy, who's a smart doctor person so I'm gonna trust cer on this one, people who lose a limb still sometimes feel like it's still attached, like they could swear it's still there, but it's not. It's called a phantom limb. I guess that's what my brain is doing with you, stupid brain.

I mean, having a phantom you is better than no you at all. But also, it really really sucks to get punched in the face by reality and remember.

Someone will say something funny and I'll go "Prentice would find this hilarious, I have to go tell him" and I'll be happy for about three seconds before I'm left more heartbroken then before. Or I'll wake up in the middle of the night and it's really fucking cold, so I'll think "Prentice is warm, I'm gonna go hug Prentice" and then it feels like I've been stabbed.

I think my favorite part of the day is just when I wake up. Ironic, I know, since you always have had- was it weird to start crying over verb tense?- a horrible time convincing me to get out of bed in the morning and usually you'd have to bribe me with pancakes. But yeah, I guess I like waking up in the morning now. Awake enough that I can think straight (not that anything i ever do is straight. get it? haha. puns. this is not a good way to cope), but asleep enough that my memory is still hazy.

So in the first thirty seconds to a minute, I think you're still here. I still think you're on the other side of the bed, or maybe downstairs making breakfast. There's no distinction between early mornings Before and early mornings After, because I'm too sleepy to remember After.

And then I remember, and that's my least favorite part of the day.

Love, Tiergan.

Yeah, so, that one didn't really make him feel better. It honestly just made everything worse. Grief was easier to cope with when xe just tried to stop feeling things. Ignoring it altogether was impossible, missing Prentice was just... everywhere, it took over everything. But it was easier to try to just feel less of it. Feeling all of it was too much. Unfortunately, he was now feeling all of it. So, the obvious solution was to sleep. Because maybe xe would forget when xe was asleep. And maybe everything would be okay for a few moments when he woke up.

--

Stupid as it felt, xe decided to keep writing to Prentice. It was like writing in a journal, except he was pretending that the words would be received by his as-good-as-dead boyfriend. Well, when Tiergan put it like that, it sounded really depressing. But it was just... talking to Prentice, like when they would pass notes in boring Telepathy classes, or Black Swan meetings where Forkle wouldn't shut up. And xe didn't have to think about how he would never respond to xem. He would anyway, because his brain was annoying as fuck, but... it did help. Again, xe would never admit that.Sometimes he would just write some lighthearted shit. Xe missed lighthearted times with him. Now, thinking about Prentice was usually heavy and painful, but it used to be that they could just pointlessly banter for hours and he would braid xyr hair and xe would laugh until xyr throat hurt. (Damn, he missed that.)

Dear Prentice,

Fuck Alden.

That's it. That's the letter.

XOXO Tiergan.

And sometimes xe would write to pass along good news, as if he could still celebrate with xem.

Dear Prentice,

Wylie started Foxfire today. They really hate the capes in the uniform. Aww, they take after you. They're also ridiculously smart. Definitely didn't take after you in that regard, we can probably thank Cyrah. Wylie's really excited, but also pretty sad that you're not here to see them. I'm sad too, but that's nothing new, I'm always sad. I'm happy too, though. I'm happy for them. You'd be really happy too.I don't know. I know you aren't receiving these or anything, but I guess it's nice to pretend that I'm actually telling you this. It's something you'd want to hear, you'd be really proud of them.

Love, Tiergan.

And sometimes Tiergan would write when everything went to shit, even shittier when it was normally. That's what he did, right? If it was all just a storm of misery, and xe was completely lost, xe'd still find xyr way back to him. Because when they were together, things were- they weren't okay, but they were slightly easier. He'd take what he could get. So xe would find Prentice when xe was lost and scared and upset and all the bad emotions in the dictionary. Except Prentice wasn't here anymore, so his next best option was a piece of paper that wouldn't respond.

Again, xe'd take what xe could get.

Prentice,

Prentice, fuck, you have to come back and get magically healed or whatever. I don't know what to do. I have no fucking clue what I'm doing. You have to come back, because I need you, because Cyrah died is gone and I'm adopting Wylie and I love the kid to death but I can't do this, Prentice. It's not like I'm gonna try to fuck Wylie up but I probably will anyway. I don't know how to be a father, I don't really know how to do any of this- I can barely take care of myself, how am I supposed to take care of a kid? I'm really sorry if I end up making things even worse for your kid. Our kid? Shit. Shit shit shit. And Cyrah's gone and I miss her and Wylie's devastated, obviously, and I want to help them but I also really want to just go back to blasting the Beatles and crying in my room. It was horrible when you were gone but at least I had her, and now I'm just alone and I have to raise a kid who's already been through so much and I'm going to be so bad at this. Fuck I'm just rambling and this isn't doing anything or helping and dammit, it's so stupid, but writing to you is the closest I can get to you and Prentice, I really need you right now, I can't do this without you, I just- fuck.

That was a really fun time in his life, wasn't it?

--

The letters slowly got less... whatever that was. Not exactly cheerful, never cheerful, but a little better.

Dear Prentice,

So, Alden came by to give some half-assed apology, and I maybe accidentally just snapped and punched him in the face. I am a terrible example for Wylie. But they found it pretty funny. It was pretty funny. Should I feel bad about that? Should I feel bad that I don't feel bad? Whatever. He'll be fine.

-Tiergan

Xe was actually almost happy when xe talked about Wylie. The kid was great. (It was really fucking sad that Prentice wasn't around to see that, but that wasn't the point.)

Dear Prentice,

Wylie manifested as a Flasher. They're pretty talented. Got that from Cyrah, probably, since they sure as hell didn't get that from you. They like making rainbows. I think that means the Gay Agenda is working. They also make a lot of nonbinary flags- they're nonbinary, I can't remember if I put that in one of those letters already, cause I don't reread these, but yeah. Wylie's nonbinary. Sad they never got to tell you, but I made sure they knew that you would support the hell out of them.

Love, Tiergan.

When he first met the moonlark- Sophie, her name was Sophie- he felt something weird. Hope? It'd been a while. Xe wrote to him almost immediately, because it was stupid, but honestly it did help. And maybe, with Sophie, he'd eventually be able to talk to Prentice in a way that involved talking and didn't involve that fucking pen.

Prentice,

The moonlark finally came to the Lost Cities. Her name's Sophie. I'm her telepathy mentor, apparently. So I guess I'm going back to teaching. She seems nice enough- really powerful. Was she worth you... getting exiled? Writing that out did not feel good. Especially in pen, where it was permanent. Definitely not. But it's not her fault, so I won't take it out on her. Maybe I'll just punch Alden again. For legal reasons, that's a joke.

Pros of mentoring Sophie: I do still kinda like teaching. She's got perfect mental barriers and can transmit from what looks like any distance, so definitely a pleasure to have in class. I'm in charge of her telepathy training so I can maybe nudge her in the "heal my boyfriend" direction.

Cons: I have to dress up for Foxfire, apparently I can't just show up in a Beatles t-shirt. Blatant homophobia. Love loses. And she insists on calling me Sir Tiergan, which is overly formal and also not a good gender feeling.

Sophie's definitely good at what she was designed for, so it's not like you sacrificed yourself for nothing. And maybe it's gonna work, maybe we'll get you back. I really hope so.

Love, Tiergan.

And then, more hope, when she managed to heal Alden's broken mind.

Prentice,

I think I'm actually going to get you back, this is the first time in... ever that I've been this optimistic, but I think there's a decent chance. Alden Vacker's mind broke, since he felt guilty about everything. Which, at least he regrets it? I still don't forgive him, and it's not like that erases anything, but I guess I hate him a little less. Maybe to the point of, I can have a civil conversation with him but that doesn't mean I'll like it.

But yeah, his mind broke, and it took a little while, but Sophie brought him back.

It works. It's possible. It's actually possible. We're gonna get you back, Prentice, it's going to be okay.

After the Black Swan managed to very definitely legally get Prentice back from Exile, Tiergan was reminded of why xe didn't like optimism. Because it usually ended in disappointment. Because they got Prentice back, almost, they were so close, but he was unconscious and unresponsive and he wasn't really back at all. Still in a coma, just in a different location.

Prentice,

Wake up. I fully recognize the irony of this, of me yelling at you to wake up, but please.

It's really great to have you back. To see you again. You look like shit. No offense, but after you're in prison in the center of the earth for thirteen years (not that I'm counting), and I don't think they have baths down there, you look like shit. It's still really good to see you.

And Prentice, I got to hug you. I know, I know, I don't even like hugs that much most of the time? But dammit, after thirteen years, I really wanted to hug you. So I did. It was very one sided, but I had you in my arms. It was so familiar and at the same time really strange.

I think until now, Sophie and her friends were under the impression that I wanted you to be healed because back in the day we were very close, totally platonic friends. Just bros being bros. I kind of wonder if anyone still believes that. It would be very funny if it weren't very disappointing to remember that heteronormativity is a thing that exists.

You're back, but you're really not. It really sucked to get my hopes up only to have them crushed again. This is why it's best to just always assume the worst.

I still have a little hope that you'll get better eventually. It's pretty small. But it is there, I don't know what I'd do without it.

Love, Tiergan.

--

That was the last time Tiergan added a new letter to the messy pile in one of his desk drawers. Because now, xe didn't have to just glare at xyr pen until it wrote everything xe wished xe could say to Prentice. He could just say it now. And everything xe ever wrote just disappeared from xyr mind. What did you say to the man who was basically your husband for the first time you saw him in over a decade of him being basically dead? There should have been a guidebook for this shit.

"I really fucking missed you," he ended up choking out.

Prentice smiled and opened his arms up slowly, hesitantly. Tiergan didn't hesitate at all to launch xemself into his arms. "It's okay. I'm here now. I'm okay."

"I love you." He'd wished he could say I love you just one more time. Fucking finally.

"I love you too."

And it wasn't great, at first. They were all still pretty broken. With Cyrah, thirteen years, and a decent portion of Prentice's memory gone. It was kind of shitty, but Prentice was mostly back, and this was so much better than a sheet of paper that couldn't respond. Xe could try to help him remember everything, rambling about the two of them Before because apparently xyr memory saved that but not the information for history exams.

They got married. It wasn't exactly what one might call legal, and they didn't get the tax benefits or whatever. But a mildly exasperated Forkle pronounced them husband and husband and they kissed and Wylie yelled "About fucking time!"

(He kind of wondered if Sophie had figured it out yet.)

One day, Tiergan's group of accidentally adopted kids were out shopping together, and xe was lying on xyr bed, trying to procrastinate entering grades for xyr students. Currently, his procrastination method was catching his husband (damn, he loves that phrase) up on human music, and Prentice was having none of it. He was searching through xyr horribly disorganized desk to find the papers xe should be working on and force xem to actually work on them.

He held up a sheet of lined paper, slightly crumpled, that does not look like boring Foxfire paperwork. "Hey, Tiergan, what's this?"

"You think I can read my own handwriting?"

"'Dear Prentice, hi. This is stupid,'" he read.

Oh. That. Tiergan had almost forgotten he'd done that. Xe liked to write the letters and then try to ignore their existence, because the letters were just pain spilled onto a page, and xe really wanted to ignore the pain too. And he hadn't had the reason to think about that in a while. Xe fidgeted with xyr cape as Prentice's eyes scanned the writing. Finally, he set it down on the table.

"Damn."

"Yeah."

"Tiergan, I'm so sorry I-"

"No, I. Um. Don't apologize. I mean, yeah, I was mad at you, but that doesn't mean you did anything wrong, you know? I was mad at the pen."

"Maybe the pen really was behind everything bad that's ever happened to you."

He breathed a shaky laugh. "Probably."

"I really am sorry, though, that you had to go through all that-"

"It's okay," xe interrupted.

"No. It's not."

He didn't have a very good response to that. Eventually, xe said "I have other letters. Same drawer. You don't have to read them, but if you're like, wondering how I was when you were..." he swallowed. "Um, they're there. I don't remember what half of them say. They're probably horribly depressing, though."

"Probably," he muttered.

"Losing you really sucked."

"I'm here now, okay? We're together. I promise I'm not gonna leave you again."

"Oh, you won't. If you do I'll bring you back just to kill you myself." Xe grinned, and Prentice kissed xem on the forehead, and maybe xe was pretty fucked up, but not so fucked up that xe'd never be okay.

--

Dear Prentice,

I've written you a lot of really sad letters over the years, so now I feel obligated to write a happy one.

Do you remember how we met? It's okay if you don't. Maybe you've been pretending that it was super romantic, with candlelight and music in the background or some shit. Yeah, so, in reality, we both had to stay after school for Alchemy tutoring. And I maybe accidentally almost killed you in an explosion. I regret nothing. You were convinced to start up a conversation with the kid who nearly burned your face off, and we started talking, and then we started sitting together at lunch, and then I fell in love with you.I'm really really glad I suck at Alchemy.

Do you remember the first time I said I loved you? Honestly, I don't. It was probably super embarrassing, so it's okay if you forgot that one. But you better not forget that I love you, because I will be reminding you constantly, and it will be very annoying.Love, Tiergan.

He set the pen down and smiled.