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violent-little-thing · 2 days ago

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More Blood Than the Tears We've Shed

Relationship(s): Bodhi Durran & Riorson!reader, Xaden Riorson & sister!reader

Summary: After watching your father die and being separated from your brother Xaden, you don't know how to cope and try to get rid of the relic now marking your arm, as if that could erase everything it represents. Though Bodhi can't save you from falling into that bottomless pit of despair, he does his best to pick up the pieces.

Warnings: Angst with a hopeful ending. Suicidal ideation, trauma, loss of a parent, grief, feeling hopeless and helpless, forcible separation of siblings, lots of crying, panic attacks, graphic descriptions of self-harm, blood, homesickness, Iron Flame spoilers.

Written for @empyreanevents's Tyrrendor Week Day 5: Marked. Title is lyrics from Alright by Hollywood Undead.

AO3

In the first rays of morning sun, you stare at the unadorned wall of your new quarters, and wish for death.

Though the bed looks comfortable enough, you'd elected to curl up on the worn hardwood floor instead, in a sort of alcove created by the head of the bed, a chest of drawers, and the wall. Indulging in the simple comfort of a mattress and soft blankets is unimaginable, when everything is so terribly wrong. The only shred of comfort you allow yourself is that of this niche you're hiding in; such tight spaces have always made you feel safe, though today, it does little to make you feel better. Far away from what remains of your family, safety is as foreign to you as this place where you've been taken.

Over and over, your dad's last moments replay before your inner eye, blurring together with everything that had led up to his death until it's all a jumbled mess churning through your mind.

How you'd learned there were real monsters out there. The uncertainty of knowing something big was happening, but being too young to be told any details. The fear when Dad told you Navarre was launching an attack on Aretia; Xaden's anger at being sent out of the city with you, doomed to babysit instead of fighting at your father's side like he wanted to. The horrible realization that the battle was lost, soldiers taking you all to Calldyr as captives. The endless questions you couldn't answer, about what exactly your father and his officers had been intending, who their allies were, what else they'd had planned. All those cuts on your brother's back with which he took responsibility for the rest of you. And, flashing through your thoughts more than everything else, that courtyard, Dad and the other adults lined up like criminals — traitors. General Melgren's monstrous black dragon. Fire. Pain racing up your arm, leaving that strange, shimmering mark on your skin.

It had hurt so badly you'd dropped that damn runestone, the one you'd been told to always carry with you because it would protect you, though no one had bothered to explain what exactly that protection would look like. No one had explained much of anything at all during those last chaotic weeks, too busy bringing about their own doom to bother with all your anxious questions. And now, there's nobody left to answer them.

When that pain had shot up your arm, right at the same moment the flames shot from that monsters maw to engulf your father, your first, nonsensical thought had been that you had somehow caught fire, too. The useless runestone had clattered to the floor, the sound lost beneath your cry of pain. Countless similar cries sounded all around you from the other children whose parents were being killed alongside your father.

You'd looked down at your arm, but there had been no burns on it — only those abhorrent swirls and slashes, reaching all the way from your wrist up your arm and to your shoulder. Every bit of skin you could see with the short-sleeved shirt you wore was covered in them. The matching mark branded into your brother's skin went all the way to his jaw. You'd been too shaken to ask if your own spread just as far.

In the commotion caused by the appearance of those strange marks, you had then forgotten all about the stone you'd dropped.

You suppose it doesn't matter. Though homesick and in the worst mental anguish you've ever experienced, you're not actively in danger. You don't think the stupid thing worked, anyway. What use are those runes on it if they can't protect you from having to watch your father die, from your home getting extinguished, from being taken away from your brother and cousin? However the stone had been meant to work, it had done you no good.

Maybe its purpose had been only to keep you alive and nothing more; in that case, it would have fulfilled its purpose.

But gods, you wish that wasn't the case. You wish you were dead, wish Navarrian leadership had simply turned you into ashes along with your father. At least then you wouldn't have to live with the memory of his death forever ingrained in your mind, wouldn't be cowering on the floor in a stranger's house.

The smell of smoke from the execution still clings to your hair and clothes. You don't want to wash it off; not when it's all that remains of your dad.

He didn't even get any last rites — they just executed him, and that was that. You weren't given any chance to burn his belongings, either. Aretia may be destroyed, but you don't think the flames got past the thick stone walls of Riorson House. You wonder if any surviving citizens will dare to enter the soot-stained fortress to offer your dad's things to Malek, so that his soul might find peace in the afterlife — if there is such a thing.

You're not sure if you want there to be, if you want your dad to be whole somewhere in Malek's realm, forced to watch his children mourn him. It brings you a certain comfort to imagine him watching over you, to believe that you'll be reunited when you die too, but even if he really is watching over you — he couldn't protect you from the consequences of his actions in life, so how could he possibly help you in death?

No, nobody can, or will, help you now. You're on your own, cut off from anyone who cares about you, left at the mercy of your father's enemies. You will never get to go home.

The worst part is that they separated you from Xaden. You don't know where he was taken, since you were sent away first. You don't even know where you are, don't know if any of the other kids the rebellion's leaders left behind are here with you, since you'd been too busy begging and pleading for permission to stay with your brother to pay attention to anyone else.

It makes no difference. Xaden certainly isn't here, the only person who might have been able to make you feel remotely safe in spite of everything. You doubt you'll be allowed to visit or receive visits from him, either.

Even in the fog of your despair, you understand why. They want you all isolated, maybe in part as punishment for the crimes your parents had committed, but mostly so you can't follow in their footsteps and conspire, so you can't plan revenge. A hysteric laugh interrupts your sobs at the thought. As if there is anything a bunch of kids could do against Navarre's military might.

Yesterday had proven just how utterly helpless you are. You'd known it all along, even before they dragged you away like a piece of luggage — a loud piece of luggage, thrashing and screaming at the top of your lungs, but a piece of luggage nonetheless.

All throughout your capture, you had kept your composure, even during the execution, but at the announcement that they would now split the hundred seven of you up to be fostered with various loyal nobles, you started to tremble. Your nails dug into your brother's hand with how tightly you clung to him, yet he didn't complain, didn't so much as grimace. Compared to the cuts on his back, that pain was probably nothing. And maybe he, too, had been scared to let go. Maybe he silently started praying at the same moment you did, praying that Navarre would not be so cruel as to take you away from him.

If the gods existed at all, they ignored you in that moment, as they had in the days and weeks before, when you'd begged them to let your father's cause succeed, to let him win the Battle of Aretia, to let him live.

By the time your name was called, you were already in tears.

Not even Xaden was able to calm you; realizing what was about to happen, he had whispered to you to be brave, that you had to stay calm and go where they told you to, and you had tried — you'd tried, but when the moment came that you were to say goodbye, you just couldn't. The fear and helpless rage drowned out any logical thoughts, until the only thing you knew was that after everything you had already endured, you could not bear to be separated from your brother on top of it all.

But you were helpless against all those adults — nobles and riders and infantry, all of them loyal to Navarre, every one of them filled with hatred for your father, and, by extension, you. There was nothing you could do when their patience snapped, and someone barked an order to get that fucking brat into the carriage before I slit her sorry throat!

Resistance was futile as a black-clad soldier gripped your hands so tightly you cried out in pain, squeezing until you were sure she would pulverize your bones. Still you clung to your brother, but the soldier forced your fingers open one by one, merciless and much too strong for you. You could only scream and cry as she wrenched your arms behind your back and hauled you away to the carriage waiting to take you only-Malek-knew where.

One last, tear-blurred look at Xaden was all you got as the door was slammed shut, his face so full of grief and guilt over not being able to spare you from this that you cried even harder. You cried so hard the world turned fuzzy from lack of oxygen, so hard you had no strength left in you to even attempt fighting the guards in the carriage, who pressed you into the hard wooden seat to stop you from throwing yourself at the carriage's door.

You suppose you should be glad you hadn't been killed for your attempted resistance, that Xaden hadn't been killed for it. Part of you wishes they had killed you, though. It would have been less cruel than to leave you here all alone, surrounded by strangers — enemies.

Not that you've seen much of anyone in wherever the hell you are so far. By the time you arrived, you'd had no fight left in you. You didn't know whether the journey had lasted days or mere hours, but the sun burned down on you with the intensity of afternoon as you'd stepped from the carriage. Tuning out the voices of the soldiers who brought you, of whoever this place belongs to, of their servants, you had allowed yourself to be led into the room that was to be yours without really looking at anyone or anything.

The room in question is plain but tidy, with a big window overlooking what seems to be a vegetable garden — not at all the dark cell you'd half expected.

It makes no difference. There might be no bars in front of the window, but you're a prisoner all the same. The only reason they didn't lock the door behind you is that they know you have nowhere to run.

The rest of the day had dragged on forever, no time seeming to pass at all as you sat in that sunny room and cried, and cried, and cried. Once, a woman appeared in the door, asking you to dinner. You'd hurled the pillow at her — the only throwable object in reach. She'd left without a word, a pitying look on her face, and nobody had come to bother you again after that.

It's the best you can hope for, you suppose — to be left alone. If whoever has been made your legal guardian hates your father enough, they could well decide to make you suffer for his actions.

But no one had come to gloat over your misery, or to beat or insult you, and finally, night had fallen. It had been a relief to know that horrible day was finally over, even though you had little hope that the next would be any better. Somehow, the darkness made all the grief and despair coursing through you slightly more bearable.

Still, you spent the whole night curled up on the floor in that little alcove, crying until your tears ran dry for a time, only to start again.

In the first morning light, your tears have momentarily subsided once again. Leaning against the wall at your back, you try to simply breathe and not think of anything.

It never works for long.

The skin under your eyes and nose is raw from all the crying, and your throat burns. You don't remember when you last drank any water. There's a pitcher on the table by the window, but you lack the energy to get up and pour yourself a glass of water.

What's the point, anyway? Any water you give your body will just end up turned into more tears.

Wiping at your puffy eyes, your gaze catches on that horrible mark creeping up your arm. Somehow, you'd managed to push it to the back of your mind in the dark, more focused on the loss of your father and the hopeless situation as a whole, but now—

A shudder runs through your body, lifting the hairs on your arms. You curl in on yourself, staring and staring and staring at that shimmering black pattern. Staring, until terror and revulsion drown out any other feeling. Your breaths grow ragged — panicked. Panic at that mark, not of ink or scar tissue or anything else you could explain, permanent and terrible. Wrong. That's the only word you have to describe it. It feels wrong — alien. A violation, etched into your skin without warning or consent.

You have no idea how it got there, what it is, exactly, whether it does anything other than brand you as a traitor's child. If it is perhaps a way for Navarre to monitor you, to track your location should you ever try to escape them. The soldiers had seemed just as surprised as you when those markings appeared, but that isn't saying much.

Even if they weren't the ones who caused them — though who else could it have been? — they will find ways to use them against you. Even in the case that the patterns are purely decorative, that doesn't make them harmless or useless. An identifier, that's what they will be; a brand to let everyone know you are not to be trusted. Word will spread, and soon everyone in the whole kingdom will know what those marks signify, that everyone who carries them watched at least one of their parents executed as a traitor.

Your nails bite into your skin, clawing at that brand until blood wells up. Tears drip on your arm. One lands on one of the scratches you made, turning a watery pink as it runs down your wrist and drips to the floor. The mark remains, mocking you with the knowledge that it can't be washed away.

Again, your nails drag across those shimmering black lines. Sobs catch in your throat as you fight for breath.

You don't want this; don't want to have this abhorrent thing on your arm, don't want to be apart from your family, don't want to live with the memory of your father burning to death.

You still don't know how far those lines reach, and suddenly, that unknowingness is unbearable. You rip at your shirt, arms shaking so bad you barely manage to get it over your head. But you get it off, baring your shoulders for inspection. No good. Even tucking in your chin as much as you can, the mark spreads farther than you can see. Your shoulder is just as covered in those horrible swirls and slashes as the rest of your arm.

You feel along the side of your neck, but there's no telling where it ends. Running a shaking hand over the lines on your arm, you feel nothing, no bumps or ridges to indicate where the mark is without seeing it. The skin is as smooth as ever, as though the mark is part of you, not a brand or scar, but a mere discoloration of skin.

You need to get rid of it — somehow. There has to be something you can do about it. Anything. If you can't scrub it away, can't scratch it off, then— then you'll just have to cut it away. Cut out every piece of skin stained with those lines, until only you remain.

You nod to yourself, calming a little as you resolve to do whatever it takes to remove that mark from your skin.

Two fingers slip into your boot to pull out the small pocket knife you keep there. Those fools never searched you for hidden weapons — though, really, this knife is so small it would hardly be considered a weapon. The blade is less than the length of your thumb, meant only for cutting twine or snacks during long days playing outside.

Your dad had given it to you for your tenth birthday. It feels like that was a whole lifetime ago. A different world, where there had been no rebellions and venin, no evil kings and conspiracies.

In yesterday's panic, you'd forgotten you even had the knife, which was probably for the better. The tiny thing would have done no good against those soldiers. Had you tried to put it to use against them, you would have only made them angry, would have achieved nothing but to have it taken from you.

You clench the knife in your fist, hesitating for a moment as you think of your dad, how horrified he would be if he knew what you're about to do. But he's dead, so he can't stop you. And you can't stand the sight of that mark for even a moment longer.

With trembling fingers, you unfold the blade.

A steadying breath, then you set the knife against your skin, gripping it close to the blade. Just a small cut to start with, right at the edge of the first black swirl on top of your wrist.

Blood trickles down your hand, warm and somehow comforting.

Now for the harder part. Angling the blade so it almost lies flat against your wrist, you slip the edge into the cut, trying to wedge it between your skin and the flesh beneath. With your thumb a little in front of the blade, providing leverage, you drag it forward.

Almost immediately, you have to pause to muffle a scream of pain into your upper arm.

When you look, you see that it's working — a tiny corner of black-stained skin is separated from the flesh beneath, lifted by your blade. You can do this. It's going to hurt like hell, but as long as you don't pass out, you can do it. You can get rid of that brand.

With renewed vigor, you grit your teeth against the pain and keep going.

Just like peeling an apple, you tell yourself. Only you've never been very good at that, usually bugging Xaden into doing it for you, and your skin is already slick with blood, making it harder to control the direction of the blade.

It's not like you want to take away all of your skin — just the parts of it covered by the mark. Once you get to your shoulder, you're going to have to find a mirror. You don't particularly care how the result looks, well aware that this will turn your skin into a patchwork of scar tissue. You don't give a fuck if you cut too deep and accidentally slit your own throat, either. As long as you just get that thing off your skin first, you won't mind bleeding out. You just need to see what you're doing so you actually get all of it.

Slowly, painfully, the blade moves forward.

You tug harder, and it glides farther than expected, severing the piece of skin you'd been working on and sinking into your thumb. You barely feel that cut, head swimming with a mix of nausea and elation over your small success.

Letting the thumbnail-sized scrap of skin drop to the floor, you squeeze your eyes shut and fight the urge to throw up.

You tell yourself you can do this, repeat the thought until you believe it. You can remove that mark. Nothing else matters, not the pain, not the disgust that constricts your throat. Even if you can control nothing else in your life anymore, you can control what your skin looks like.

You continue, but the progress is slow, the task much more tedious than you expected. Frequently, you have to pause, close to passing out or hurling up your guts.

It had seemed so easy in your imagination — painful, but quick, efficient. As the idea took shape, you'd seen the tainted skin peel away before your inner eye as easily as that of the carrots the cook at home used to peel for you to snack on. Maybe it's because you're using the wrong tools. If you'd taken the time to find the kitchen and steal a paring knife or vegetable peeler, this might have been easier, but you didn't think that far — hardly thought at all, driven only by the need to free yourself from the shimmering smears branded into your skin.

Regardless, you keep trying, removing piece by tiny piece of skin, your only indication of the passing time the brightening sunlight that announces the start of another hot summer day.

Someone slams to their knees before you, causing you to flinch so badly the knife slips, leaving a long gash diagonally along the side of your wrist. You barely feel it, frozen in place as your eyes lock with those of the person in front of you and your heart starts to race.

Can it be? Can he really be here?

"Bodhi?"

It's the first word you've spoken since you'd been taken from Xaden, and comes out accordingly hoarse.

Gods, you hope you're not just imagining him. If the pain of what you're trying to do has driven you mad and you're hallucinating—

But no, if it were a hallucination, surely you would be seeing your father. This must be real.

But how? How can Bodhi be here? He had already been led away when it was your turn to be carted off to gods-know-where. Wouldn't they have put you in the same carriage if you were headed for the same place? Or had he been in that carriage with you? In your despair, you had payed your surroundings no heed, and somehow you doubt the soldiers would have allowed him to comfort you. He could have well been sitting in the opposite corner, crying too quietly for you to hear over your own gasping sobs.

Bodhi doesn't seem inclined to answer, his horrified gaze snagging on the blood that drips from your arm and the knife in your other hand. The leg of your pants is soaked with blood, droplets of it scattered on the floor around you like tiny red flowers.

Breaths quickening with rising panic, Bodhi snatches your shirt from the floor and ties it around your arm to staunch the bleeding. Then both his hands close around your own, not crushing or trying to pry your fingers from the knife when you don't let go, but simply holding. Keeping that tiny, bloodstained blade angled away from you.

You let him, mumbling, "I thought they took you somewhere else."

You didn't think you had any tears left in you, but as it sinks in that you aren't as alone as you'd thought, a fresh wave of them rises to your eyes.

"No. I'm here." His eyes are also swimming with tears, so full of love and worry it cracks your heart. "I'm with you, honey. They just wouldn't let me see you any sooner. Said we should adjust to the new environment separately, or something like that. I'm so sorry. I didn't realize you didn't know we're here together."

"Not your fault," you sniffle. "I was—"

Shame floods you as the rest of the sentence forms in your mind: —too focused on wanting to stay with Xaden to pay any attention to you. Bodhi loves you just as much as your brother does, is just as fiercely protective of you, always cares about what you have to say and never makes you feel left out for being younger, and yet, you hadn't spared a single thought to where he might have been taken.

"Too freaked out to note who went where?" Bodhi offers gently.

You nod, since it's true enough and sounds better than what you might have said.

"Is that why you—" He nods toward your arm, unable to find the right words to describe what you did. "Because you thought there was nobody here who cares?"

"Nh-nh."

Bodhi looks like he wants to ask more, find out what had been your reason, but seems to decide it can wait.

Taking a deep breath to gather himself, he shakes his head. "Okay. We can talk about it later. First we need to patch you up."

You frown. You aren't finished with removing the mark from your arm. Not even close to it. What you managed to cut away is only a tiny fraction of the whole thing. But Bodhi isn't going to let you continue, you know that. You're not sure you want to continue — not with him watching.

"Can I leave you alone while I go look for first-aid supplies?"

Apparently, your answering nod isn't very convincing, because Bodhi glances at the knife in your hand, still caught between his own. "I'm gonna need you to give me that."

"No."

Dad gave you that knife; it's the only thing you have left from him here. You're not giving it to anyone, not even your cousin.

"Please, baby. It's for your own good," Bodhi pleads. "I promise you'll get it back when I can be sure you won't use it to hurt yourself again."

So never, you think. Even if Bodhi can somehow make you come to terms with having that mark on your arm, the temptation to continue cutting it out will always remain.

But what choice do you have? You can't sit like this forever, and he's right about your wounds needing to be cleaned and bandaged. You don't want to die of an infection; not if Bodhi would have to watch. And even if you don't relent, he could easily take the knife from you by force if he thought it necessary.

Reluctantly, you open your hand, and let him take the knife.

He uses the hem of his shirt to wipe the blood from the blade, probably knowing you'll never forgive him if he lets it rust, and pockets it. "You stay right here until I'm back, okay?"

You nod, too exhausted to tell him you couldn't get up if you wanted to.

When Bodhi returns some minutes later, he has a bowl of water in one hand and a bundled up towel in the other. As he sets the latter down on the bed, you see that it contains multiple rolls of gauze bandages, as well as a small bottle of what you assume to be some sort of antiseptic and a few washcloths.

"Could you come out of that corner?"

You would rather not, but there isn't enough space down here for both of you. He can reach you kneeling outside the alcove, but it'll be much easier to treat your wounds if you come out. Avoiding straining your injured arm, you rise on your knees and squeeze through the gap between bed and chest of drawers, slumping back to the floor with your back against the side of the bed.

Bodhi sits down in front of you, setting the bowl of water at his side. As he dips a washcloth into it, you loosen the bloodsoaked shirt still wrapped around your arm.

Bodhi carefully wipes away the blood smeared all over your arm. At the closer look this allows him at the wounds, his face turns so pallid you think he's going to faint. Thankfully, he doesn't, though the effort it takes him to keep his composure is obvious.

His hand shakes as he dips the used rag into the water, turning it red.

"What exactly were you trying to do?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper and thick with unshed tears.

Maybe you should lie — maybe he only asked because he hoped you would lie. You can't, though. There isn't a single excuse you can think of, no matter how flimsy.

Your silence seems to be answer enough, because the sorrow in his eyes doubles. The wounds make it pretty obvious, you suppose — the tiny bits of skin hanging half cut off, the raw flesh bared in the places you'd already succeed, and above all, the bloody shreds of skin on the floor where he found you, those black markings on them gleaming faintly in the morning sun.

"Why? Why would you do something like that to yourself?"

"That— that mark. I just— I can't stand it. I look at it and it, it's just wrong."

You can't explain it very well, but surely he'll understand, at least to some degree. Maybe he can't relate to the urge to claw your skin off that the mere sight of that brand ignites in you, but he, too, must feel tainted by it.

He nods slowly, but the devastation in his eyes only grows.

"Skinning yourself isn't a solution," he says softly.

"It's the only way to get rid of it."

"But is getting rid of it worth all that pain? Would it really be better to be covered in scars instead of that mark?" At your silence, he adds, "We all have it. Maybe we can learn to think of it as something that connects us, instead of something horrible."

"Everyone who sees it will know I got it because my dad led a rebellion. It might as well be spelling out Traitor."

Bodhi nods, running a gentle hand over your hair. "Yes. You can't control what other people will think. But you can control how you think about it."

You shrug, not sure you'll ever feel in control of anything ever again, but unwilling to argue the matter right now.

The bottle of antiseptic Bodhi brought looks like it has been gathering dust in the back of a medicine cabinet for at least a decade, and he grimaces as he opens it. "Fuck, I really hope this stuff is still good. It's all I could find without asking someone."

You appreciate that he didn't tell anyone what you did, didn't ask them to get a healer for you. He must have been tempted, if the worry in his eyes in any indication. But it seems he understands that having to interact with strangers in this state would only wreck you further. And who knows what might become of you if they decide you're a danger to yourself — they might lock you in isolation, put you into one of those jackets with the sleeves tied behind the back. If it ever came to that, you really would try to kill yourself.

"I'll survive it," you mutter, holding out your arm in silent request to get on with it.

Once all the wounds are thoroughly disinfected, Bodhi bandages first your thumb and then your arm, wrapping the latter all the way to the elbow. You only managed to skin a fraction of your arm near the wrist, all the patches where you removed the stained skin combined amounting to less than the size of your palm, but the scratches you made before taking the blade to your skin are scattered all over your whole arm. Maybe it's also so you won't have to see the mark, won't be tempted to continue what you started. The t-shirt Bodhi dressed you in — taken from his own pack of what few belongings he'd been able to take when leaving Aretia — is so big on you the sleeves reach to your elbows, hiding the rest of the mark not covered by bandages.

Bodhi presses a kiss on top of the bandage for good measure, then rises to get you a glass of water.

"Do you think you could eat breakfast for me?" he asks after you drank it.

You shake your head. The mere thought of food makes you nauseous, and leaving the room to go eat would probably mean encountering the people you are to live with. You won't risk that, not now that you've finally calmed down thanks to Bodhi's presence.

He looks like he already expected that answer. "Okay. How about a nap, then? I'm guessing you didn't get any sleep last night."

Since he's right about that, and you're exhausted from all the crying and blood loss, you nod. Last night, the thought of going to sleep hadn't even crossed your mind, but in bright daylight and with Bodhi by your side, you might manage a few hours.

He looks like he didn't get much sleep, either, and you feel a pang of guilt for causing him additional distress. All of this is just as horrible for him as for you, and yet he is keeping his shit together to look after you.

Bodhi simply shoves the leftover first-aid supplies aside, leaving the mess to clean up later, and pulls you to your feet by your uninjured arm so you can sit on the bed. After removing your shoes as well as his own, he lies down in the middle of the bed and opens his arms for you to snuggle into. The room is warm enough that you don't need any blankets, especially when holding each other like this.

"Promise me you won't hurt yourself again?" he mumbles into your hair.

"I— I'm not sure that's a promise I would be able to keep," you admit.

"Then promise me you'll tell me when you feel like hurting yourself. When you start thinking about finishing what you started today. No matter if it's day or night, or what I'm doing, I want you to come tell me."

"Okay. I promise."

Silence follows.

You close your eyes and try to sleep, but it's hard when you can't forget that you're far from home, why you're far from home. You try to shut out all the little reminders of it — the too-soft mattress beneath you, the way the warm sunlight hits your skin at an angle it never came from in your room back home, the sounds of chickens somewhere outside.

"I want to go home," you whisper.

Home — a place that no longer exists, at least not in the way it used to be. The fortress itself may have withstood the fire, but the rest of Aretia... Gone. Turned to ashes just like your father. Ruins and charred earth, that's all you would find if you could return there.

Bodhi's arms tighten around you as the first tear drips onto his neck. "I know. Me too."

"I want Dad. And Xaden. And— and I want everything to go back to normal!"

"I know," he repeats softly. "And you're allowed to feel that way. But you can't let it destroy you. We have to go on, even if it hurts, because otherwise, Xaden will have taken all those scars on his back for nothing."

"How?" you demand. "How do we go on?"

"I don't know. But we'll be alright. Somehow." You can't tell if it's you he's trying to convince or himself. "I know all of this feels like the world just ended, but it didn't. We're still here. Xaden, too, and Garrick and all the others, even if we're not allowed to see them. Someday, we'll all be back together. And until then, we've got each other. I know I'm not Xaden, but I'll take care of you. I promise."

(I'm not entirely sure I like the way I ended this, but I'm tired and if I keep staring at this the chances of getting tomorrow's fic done in time are zero, so here it goes anyway.)

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violent-little-thing · 2 months ago

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The (Other) Gauntlet

Summary: Dain tries to win over Sloane’s loved ones before asking for her hand in marriage. Title is a throwback to “Watching with the Angels,” where Liam references the gauntlet of their friends in his letter.

Warning: slapping of an adult child by his father

Word Count: 2486

This is my contribution to Day 7 of Slain Week. Thank you @empyreanevents for all of the work you put into organizing this. It's been such a fun challenge to participate in each day. And a special shoutout to my other half @violencelittlething. I love the worlds we've created and all of our messages.

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Dain had done well for himself on the Gauntlet his first year. He studied it, practiced diligently, and placed in the top two times in his squad, coming in only below Imogen. He was proud of himself, accepting congratulations and claps on the shoulder from squadmates and other first year cadets, including a mildly impressed look from Imogen herself. He was on a high when he went to Presentation and left the meadow feeling sure that a red swordtail who had approached him would choose him two days later at Threshing. As he made his way back to the barracks, though, a hand gripped his shoulder painfully, pulling him off his path.

Colonel Aetos stood glowering in a dark corner, clearly having been waiting for his son. “Losing to a marked one,” he sneered. “Are you trying to embarrass this family, this war college, Navarre itself or did you just not try hard enough?” Dain looked down at his boots, avoiding his father’s stern gaze.

“Look at me godsdamnit!” Dain obeyed his father’s command, just as he always did.

“I’m sorry, Father. Cardulo is fast, faster than anyone in our squad, and —” Dain was cut off by his father’s hand slapping his face.

“I don’t want to hear your excuses, boy. You better bond one hell of a dragon. I will not be embarrassed like this again. You’re dismissed.” Col. Aetos walked away, leaving his son ashamed and hurting.

It had been years since Dain had occasion to think about the Gauntlet. Today, though, he couldn’t help but think it might pale in comparison to the challenge he was about to put himself up against. Dain was a man who wanted and tried to do things the proper way. He was regimented about making his bed, folded clothes with precision, and even kept his beard neatly trimmed at all times. So it was only natural that he would want to seek the blessing of the father of the girl he intended to marry. But Isaac Mairi wasn’t able to consent to Sloane’s marriage, to welcome Dain into his family while warning him not to hurt his little girl. Nor was Liam there to take up the mantle for his father. Some men might have been relieved by those circumstances, but not Dain. Instead, Dain would seek the approval of the people who considered Sloane their sister: Imogen, Bodhi, Garrick, and Xaden.

Dain was most worried about the last person on that list. Xaden Riorson was not his biggest fan. He was cordial enough to Dain, graciously allowed Dain to live in his home, and hadn’t killed him yet, but Dain knew that this was different. Dain was asking Xaden not only to bless him officially joining their family, but asking him to trust him with Sloane, asking him to one day love and nurture nieces and nephews who shared half their DNA with the son of the man who got his brother killed. Dain also knew that while Sloane would appreciate that he thought to include Imogen, Bodhi, and Garrick, it was Xaden’s approval that meant the most to her. Still, Dain decided to save the brooding King for last.

After a quick pep talk, Dain left his and Sloane’s wing of Riorson House and headed outside, where he hoped to meet Imogen on her way back from her morning run. Sloane was spending the day in town with Violet and Rhiannon, so he knew she wouldn’t happen upon any of his conversations. He waited nervously, perched on the stone steps. Cath, can you ask Glane how far out Imogen is? Cath was not amused by this request. I’ve told you, Brave One, I am not a carrier pigeon. And I do not enjoy speaking to Glane. I barely tolerate speaking to Thoirt, though I suppose I’ll have to get over that if your mission goes as planned. Dain sighed, running his hands through his hair. Finally, a glimpse of pink hair came into his field of vision and he stood to greet her.

“You my welcome party, Aetos?” Imogen asked as she began her cooldown stretches.

“Something like that. Good run? Make good time?”

“Why, yes, Wingleader, it was a good run.”

“I haven’t been your wingleader in years, Cardulo.”

“Correct, but you also haven’t been this interested in my exercise regimen since you were my wingleader. What’s going on? Don’t tell me you fucked up again and I’m about to find your girlfriend crying somewhere.”

Dain would have rolled his eyes if he weren’t so anxious.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” Imogen sighed. “Lay it on me.” She took a swill from her waterskin.

“I want to ask Sloane to marry me,” Dain said softly.

Imogen’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Fucking finally!“

“You’re…happy about this?” Dain wasn’t sure if it would really be this easy or if he was in the middle of some trap.

Imogen nodded. Apart from Sloane, she was the marked one who trusted Dain the most. Years of being his squadmate had taught her that he was a good man and she had been one of the only people to stand up for him and the first to forgive him for telling his father about Athebyne.

“Sloane is going to be thrilled and you’re already part of the family anyways so you may as well make it official. Besides if you get her pregnant before you’re married — and unfortunately I know the two of you fuck like rabbits — Bodhi will get all flustered and will try to convince Xaden to execute you. Although on second thought, that would be entertaining to watch.”

“Imogen!”

“Okay, okay. This is good, Dain. Why are you being so squirrelly?”

“Because I’m not just telling you this to make conversation. I-I want your blessing.”

“My what now?” Imogen was genuinely confused.

“Your blessing to ask Sloane to marry me. Her dad and Liam aren’t here to give theirs, but you, Bodhi, Garrick, and Xaden are her family, her siblings. So I thought I’d ask each of you.”

Imogen had never in her life felt compelled to hug Dain Aetos, but at that moment she wanted to throw her arms around him. This sweet man loved Sloane, their collective baby sister, so much that he was willingly putting himself through four surely awkward conversations with people who trusted and tolerated him to varying degrees in order to fulfill tradition and make her happy.

“You have it.”

“That simple? You’re not going to make me go through some sort of trial or anything?”

“As far as I’m concerned, you’ve already gone through a trial. You’ve been loyal to Sloane and you’ve treated her well.” Imogen stared into Dain’s eyes. “And that will continue or I will make the rest of your short life a living hell, so much so that you’ll be begging for Malek. Am I clear?”

Dain, still shocked, nodded enthusiastically. “Cyrstal clear. I, uh, didn’t expect this to be so easy.”

Imogen chuckled. “Hate to break it to you, but I’m the easiest yes you’ll get. The boys…well, they might need a little more convincing.” Dain groaned.

“Come on, I’ll help you find Bodhi or Garrick. But I’m not sticking around to help! You’ll do that on your own.”

Dain and Imogen walked into the fortress where they saw Garrick leaving the kitchen. “Good luck, Aetos.” Imogen said, giving Garrick a peck on the cheek before heading to shower.

Dain could feel Garrick sizing him up. It wasn’t often that the two of them found themselves alone with one another. “Need something?” Garrick asked.

“Yeah, actually. I want to talk about Sloane.”

At the mention of Sloane, Garrick stiffened, eyes narrowing on Dain as if he were prey. “What about Sloane?”

Dain knew he couldn’t waver, but gods damn was Garrick an imposing figure. Dain swallowed, finding his words. “I’d like your blessing to ask her to marry me.”

“Sit down.” Garrick gestured to the kitchen where they sat at the table. “You’re a brave man, Aetos. I assume if you’re coming to me, you’ll also be paying a visit to Xaden.”

“Yes. Bodhi as well.”

“Like I said, you’re a brave man.” Garrick sipped his coffee, looking at Dain expectantly. “Go on.”

Dain was silent, not knowing what else to say.

“Come on,” Garrick said. “You’ve got to give me more than just saying you want to marry her.”

“I love her, Garrick. She’s my entire world. She’s my reason for existing. Hell, I joined this family because of her. I live in this house – Xaden’s house – because I love her that much and she needs to be with all the people she loves. I know you don’t fully trust me and I don’t think you particularly like me, but Sloane does. And she loves you, Garrick. She calls you her biggest big brother. She just wants a big family, all of us together and I want to give her that.”

“And why should you be the one to give her that?”

Dain considered his question. “She loves me. You don’t have to like it, but she does. She chose me, just as Xaden chose Violet and you chose Imogen.” Garrick stroked his chin and nodded his head. “I’d die for her, but more than that I’ll live for her.”

They rose from the table, Garrick clapping Dain on the shoulder. “You’re good to go from where I stand, man. But know that if you ever hurt her, you’ll answer to me. And you’d do well to remember how good I am with a sword and how many weapons patches I earned in our Basgiath days. Good luck with the Riorson cousins!” Garrick called as he left the kitchen.

Two down, two to go.

Dain found Bodhi in the garden. He and Violet resurrected the garden that his mother once tended to, filling it with flowers and shrubs. They’d made it a truly beautiful, peaceful spot. Bodhi rose from the flower beds as he saw Dain approach. Bodhi and Dain got along well, for the most part. They’d had to coexist as wingleader and section leader in their third year, especially once the riot fled to Aretia, which became the basis for a tentative friendship. Bodhi was warm and welcoming, unlike his cousin, and he adored Sloane. He was the first to outwardly refer to Sloane as his baby sister, the first to test whether she’d accept that title coming from anyone other than Liam. To his delight – to everyone’s delight – she did. He was protective and known to flash that Riorson temper when it came to Sloane’s happiness, so Dain braced himself for a battle.

“Aetos, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Bodhi said, brushing dirt off his hands.

“I want to ask Sloane to marry me and I’d like your blessing.”

“No.” Bodhi’s answer came quicker than Dain expected.

“Excuse me?”

“Dain, there’s a process here. You don’t just get a ‘yes.’ You have to earn it. So, let’s go.” Bodhi led Dain to the sparring gym, claiming it’s traditional, dating back to the idea of winning a woman’s honor. Dain isn’t sure if that’s true, but he agrees to the match nonetheless. He lets Bodhi get in some good hits, but doesn’t hesitate to land some of his own. Dain technically wins, though it was a very even match throughout.

“Now you have my blessing. You’re a lucky man, Aetos. Don’t ever forget that. She’s our princess and we love her. You got a ring?”

“I do. It’s a ruby, her favorite.” Bodhi nodded approvingly.

“Bring it to me and I’ll put some runes in it for you. Or I can show you how to, but I’d really like to do it for her,” Bodhi said sincerely. Dain’s heart warmed, as it always did when anyone demonstrated their love and care for his girl.

“I’ll do that, assuming I’m still alive after seeing Xaden.” Dain was only half-joking.

Finally, Dain made his way to Xaden’s office. The office had once belonged to Fen Riorson and there was something symbolic about meeting the patriarch of their family, the literal King of Tyrrendor, in that space. Dain knocked tentatively, though the shadows that crept under the door had likely already informed their master that he had company. Xaden tells Dain to come in and have a seat.

“Are you here to see your King or your girlfriend’s brother?” Xaden asks.

“Sloane’s brother.” Xaden tenses. Though he’s not reading Dain’s mind or intentions, he’s not dumb. He knows what’s coming.

“I’m here to ask for your blessing to ask Sloane to marry me.” Dain starts the way he has with the others. “You’re the closest thing she has to Liam and while I know she considers Imogen, Garrick, and Bodhi to be her siblings, you’re the person whose approval means the most to her.” Xaden gives a small smile. “So, please, I’m asking for your blessing.”

Xaden sits back in his chair. “Liam loved that girl more than anything on this earth. And you’re right, I am the closest thing to him that she has left. So I’m going to approach this from that perspective, as Liam’s brother and his representative, who he entrusted his sister to before he took his last breath. Liam didn’t hate you. It annoyed me, to be honest. He would want Sloane to be cherished and appreciated. He would want her to be loved hard. He would want her to be with someone who would protect her at all costs and who would give anything to give her the life she wants and deserves.” Xaden sighed. “That’s you.” Dain’s eyes widened. “You’ve proven your devotion to her, your loyalty. You got through to her and got her to train her signet when none of us could. You know her, you see her. Liam would approve. And so do I. Welcome to the family, officially, Aetos.” Xaden stood to shake Dain’s hand.

“Now, I do have a sword and a shovel and a ruthless blue dragon who will roast you in seconds if you hurt her. But that won’t happen. I trust you with her.”

“Thank you, Xaden.”

Xaden reached into his desk and pulled out a decanter of Tyrrish whiskey and two glasses.”If you’re going to marry into this family, you’re probably going to need this from time to time,” he said as he poured them each a glass and pushed one over to Dain. He raised his glass “To Sloane.”

“To Sloane.”

Dain stayed to finish his drink, telling Xaden about his conversations with the others. When he left, Dain thought to himself about the gauntlet he’d gone through that day. He thought he’d feel beaten down after, but he felt good. He felt like he was truly a part of this crazy family and he couldn’t wait to get down on one knee.

#slain week 2025 #dain aetos x sloane mairi #dain and sloane #slain #dain aetos #sloane mairi #fourth wing #iron flame #onyx storm #the empyrean #bodhi durran #imogen cardulo #garrick tavis #xaden riorson

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