Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Runaan paces back and forth at the edge of the room. The moon is rising, casting silver halos around the white hairs of each Moonshadow elf present. Across the room, he can see the elves of the Moonshadow Council gathered around a table, talking in hushed tones. Every now and then, one glances over towards him, and it takes a lot of control for Runaan to not scowl.

He’s not mad, at least not yet. Runaan’s eyes flicker to the moon again. Judging by its position—and the fact that it’s up in the sky—Ethari is very late. The smith was supposed to be here right before sun down and yet…

What if something happened to him on the way over, Runaan thinks anxiously. His training kicks in as soon as the thought crosses his mind. No, he reassures himself. Ethari is an elf capable of defending himself, and everyone in the Silvergrove knows and adores him. He is not in danger, he’s merely late. He frowns. Very, very late.

He hears one of the Council elves clear her throat.

“Runaan, leader of the Moonshadow assassins, are you prepared for your dance?”

He can feel the eyes of every elf on him—the Council, the Moon Druids, the other representatives of various aspects of Moonshadow society, even the servers who are walking around offering small delicacies to the attendees. Runaan walks quickly over to the Council and bows stiffly to the elegant Council elf, who’s dressed in navy blue so dark that it mirrors the night sky. “My apologies,” he says through gritted teeth. “It appears my partner has not yet arrived.”

She purses her lips. “Hm,” she says, and she doesn’t need to say anything else for him to understand her disappointment and judgment.

“What did I tell you,” one of the Council elves whispers to another. “That blacksmith is all over the place.”

The other Council elf snorts haughtily. “Yeah,” he whispers back. “What’s he good for anyway, other than being loud and bumbling and—"

“Ethari is a brilliant craftsman and creates only the best enchanted weapons,” Runaan says sharply. He ignores the knot in his stomach as he continues to defend the elf who should be here—should’ve been here hours ago. “The assassins I lead and the entirety of the Silvergrove are lucky to have such a skilled elf on our side.”

“Yes, yes,” the first Council elf says impatiently with a wave of her hand. “We understand how useful his craft is. However”—she narrows her violet eyes at Runaan—“we aren’t talking about his craft. We're talking about how the elf in question is absent.” Behind her, the rest of the Council nod in unison.

Runaan grinds his teeth. He has so much he wants to say but instead he merely says as calmly as he can, “I understand.”

The first council elf breaks away from the group and steps up to him, so close that he can’t stop himself from taking a step back. “We’ve discussed this, Runaan,” she says under her breath. Her tone is lukewarm, her eyes are ice. “The Council agreed to let you court this elf on the condition he would not be a detriment to you, your role, or your mission. This was your chance to prove to us that the smith is worthy to be your companion, and that the two of you can control your emotions and be professional. Not only is he not here, you can barely control your emotions and it’s obvious how bothered you are. This is not what the Council expects from the leader of the assassins. You’ve made a mistake, Runaan, in choosing him.”

The tightness in his chest only constricts more. He’s staring into her violet eyes in defiance, when all he wants to do is turn around and walk away. But he can’t do that, not when he and Ethari are already in such dishonorable standing in their eyes. His mind is whirling—should he apologize? Try to explain the circumstances (even if he doesn’t know them himself)?

Before he can decide, the Council elf steps back. In a roar, the din of the background rushes back into his senses, the clattering of knives on plates grating on his ears. “You are dismissed,” the Council elf says emotionlessly, and turns her back to him.

It’s a lonely walk out of the Silvergrove Nexus.

There are a lot of emotions whipping around in mind, each surfacing for a moment before being drowned out by the next. Shame, at having been embarrassed and humiliated in front of the upper echelon of Moonshadow society; Anger, at Ethari for not being where he was supposed to be even when Runaan had reminded him three times this morning; Worry, for if Ethari was hurt somehow while he was waiting around in the Nexus he would never forgive himself; but most present is the feeling of terror. Terror that the elves would gossip and Ethari’s standing in the Silvergrove would crumble, that all of the smith’s hard work over the years to prove himself worthy would be undone, that the Council would demand he leave Ethari behind—because how could he leave behind the elf who gave him his heart?

The deeper part of Runaan’s mind is raging. He must be terribly injured, he thinks, because that’s the only logical explanation he can think of that would have resulted in his absence. He must have been ambushed on the way to the Nexus, maybe his attackers didn’t recognize him in his ceremonial garb, maybe he was taken by surprise and the attackers landed a well-timed kick at his head and now he’s lying on the floor of the forest unconscious—

He’s spiraling and he hates it. He doesn’t want to admit the Council elf had a point—when it came to Ethari, all of his training disappeared. Ethari made him laugh, he made him cry, he made him feel the emotions he was supposed to keep separate from his daily routine, and Runaan thought it made him better—stronger, even. He stalks past a puddle of water, catching a glimpse of his reflection as he pushes past it: every single emotion he’s feeling is so clearly written into his features. With a snarl, he kicks at the puddle, the ripples distorting the embarrassing and shameful reminder that he’s too weak to even control his heart with his mind.

Runaan is nearing the center of the Silvergrove when a figure sprints up to him. He recognizes the sturdy build and silhouette of the elf immediately. He’s filled with relief as he takes in Ethari’s body—no cuts, no bruises, no limp; he’s unharmed. And then he’s filled with anger fueled by confusion and frustration and shame.

“Where were you?” he spits when Ethari is close enough to hear him.

The smith halts in his steps. “I’m so sorry, Runaan,” he says, and he sounds genuinely apologetic, but Runaan is too riled up to care. “I lost track of time—”

Runaan’s eyes scan over his body. “You were in the forge.”

Ethari rubs self-consciously at the smudges on his clothes—his normal, every day, usual clothes. “Well, yes,” he admits. “I was working on something that I thought you would like, and I became so engrossed in it that when I looked up the moon had already risen. I ran straight for the Nexus, Runaan, I—”

“I can see that.” His voice is soft and so, so furious.

Ethari looks down at his smudged clothes. “I wanted to change, but I was already late so I thought if I just showed up as soon as possible it would be better—”

“You thought wrong,” Runaan says. His voice is level but the edges are sharp, and the anger inside him is so satisfied when he sees Ethari flinch ever so slightly. “I told you three times this morning alone, not to mention Moon knows how many times the past month that you need to be at the Silvergrove Nexus no later than sundown because we need to perform a dance in front of the Council. Do you not listen to anything I say? Do my affairs not concern you enough for you to remember?”

“I do care, Runaan, I really do. I’m so sorry. I know you reminded me many times, but you know how I get whenever I’m working on something that I care about.”

Ethari reaches out like he wants to grab his hands. Runaan rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. “If only you showed that much dedication to the elf you supposedly care about,” he snarls.

“Runaan, what’s this about?” Ethari steps up to him anyway, his light brown eyes concerned and confused. “This was only a regular Council meeting, wasn’t it? I’m sorry I was late for it, but it couldn’t have been that big of a deal—”

Runaan spins away from Ethari’s grasp. “Of course it was a big deal,” he hisses. “This was your chance to show the Council that you’re worthy to be with me, that you’re disciplined enough to court the leader of the assassins, and you only proved their beliefs that you’re not good for me!”

“What?”

Ethari’s voice is so quiet it breaks Runaan’s heart. But it was already broken, when Ethari didn’t show, so he ignores the shattering inside his chest and turns on the smith. “Don’t play dumb,” he snaps.

“You didn’t tell me this was some kind of test,” Ethari whispers, looking at Runaan with eyes wide in alarm. “You didn’t say I needed to prove myself to them, why didn’t you tell me—"

“I shouldn’t have to tell you, Ethari! Why does it need to be a test for you to do what you promised you would do? They think you’re never where you’re supposed to be, that you’re always running late, that’s you’re scatter-brained and unorganized—I was hoping that you would be able to show them you’re more capable than that, but apparently you can’t do that unless I give you an advance warning.” He laughs bitterly. “Do you know how humiliating it was, Ethari, to be in the middle of that room and have the Council tell me you’re not good enough for me?”

Ethari swallows. “Let me go speak with the Council,” he says pleadingly. “I can explain everything—”

“No,” Runaan snarls. “It’s too late. They’ll only see you groveling as more proof that you can never commit to a time and a place, that you’re always coming up with excuses.”

The smith looks down at his feet. Runaan’s breathing heavily, but the constricting inside him is loosening. That’s a good thing, right? He’s so caught up in bracing himself for Ethari’s fiery retort that he doesn’t expect Ethari’s next words.

“It’s not just the Council that thinks of me that way, is it?” Ethari’s voice is even and so quiet Runaan can barely hear him over the roaring in his own ears. “You feel this way about me too, don’t you.” It’s not a question.

Runaan scoffs. “No,” he blusters. “No, it’s not—I don’t—no—”

“Right,” Ethari says quietly. Then, “Runaan, I wish you had just told me. About how you feel, about tonight being a test, about—”

“Would that have changed your behavior?”

“Yes.” Ethari’s eyes are sincere, and hurt, and genuine. “I wouldn’t have started the project if I had known this was as important as it is. I wouldn’t have given myself the opportunity to lose track of time.”

“Well,” Runaan sneers, and he can’t help himself because Ethari brings out all of his hidden traits, all the good and all the bad. “It’s too late now, isn’t it.”

Ethari sighs and runs his hands wearily over his face. “Runaan. I’m sorry. For everything—it’s clear my behavior has been bothering you for a while now. I wish you’d told me earlier about… everything. I would have changed; for you, I would have changed. You mean too much to me for me to ignore how you feel.”

“You’re always telling me that you care for me, that I’m a priority in your life, but words are just words. When were you going to show me?” He can hear how whiney he sounds, and Runaan hates that he’s come to his. But the words that are just words are spilling out of him and he can’t stop them from rolling off the tip of his tongue. Ethari’s right—he’s been harboring these feelings too long, hoping, waiting for the day when Ethari would realize what he was doing wrong and finally show Runaan that he cared. Turns out, as it happened, that day never came.

For the first time that night, Ethari lets his façade—one of sorrow and regret—crack. There’s a glimmer of frustration, of his own anger and resentment, that shines through and it fuels Runaan’s rage. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Ethari says with a bitter laugh, except this time he doesn’t actually sound sorry at all. “I’m sorry that I think words actually mean something, that telling you I care for you isn’t enough, that my promises are—”

“Your promises? You mean like your promise that you would be there tonight?” Runaan’s voice has gone cold, the heat from before extinguished by apathy. He narrows his eyes at the elf in front of him, who won’t meet his gaze despite his own anger. “If you really cared for me, you would have remembered. And you would have been there.”

Runaan sees the moment Ethari registers his words. It’s a whole-body reaction, from the rapid blinking to the biting of the lip, from the wince to the inward turn of his feet. It hurts him, too, because as good as it feels to let out his anger, he’s throwing it at the one elf that matters to him. But he’s so furious, and even more angry when Ethari doesn’t try to defend himself, that he can’t seem to calm down and take it back.

Ethari says nothing as Runaan brushes past him, giving the smith a wide berth that he knows will sting because when was the last time they left each other’s presence without a lingering touch on the arm or a quick kiss on the cheek? Even now, despite everything, out of the corner of his eye Runaan sees Ethari’s arm twitch as he passes. But the smith doesn’t reach out, doesn’t try to stop him, doesn’t do anything.

Runaan ends up at the reflecting pool, and for the first time since childhood, he lets himself cry.

Chapter Text

The sun is beginning to rise when someone finally approaches, though his body had stopped producing tears long ago. They’re not sneaking up on him, no, because the footsteps are too loud and purposeful to be subtle, but Runaan’s ears perk up anyway. For a moment he thinks it’s Ethari and his spirits soar while his stomach drops. He doesn’t want to face him, not when Ethari’s hurt him like this. Not when he’s hurt Ethari like this. The footsteps approach him from behind and he observes the shadow that falls over him. No, it’s not Ethari, his horns don’t look like that.

“Moon above, Runaan,” Lain sighs.

“What do you want,” Runaan says. His voice is monotonous and hoarse and he hates himself for it.

Lain steps in front of him and Runaan turns away from him. Partly because he knows if he looks at Lain’s sympathetic smile, he might cry again. Or punch someone. Or both.

“I ran into Ethari,” Lain says simply. “He looked rather upset.”

“Good.”

He hears Lain sigh again, and then the sound of moving water like he's dragging his hand across the top of the reflecting pool. He looks up when the noises become louder, and is greeted with a splash of water in the face.

“Lain!” he yells, jumping to his feet. His hair is wet, the stagnant water from the reflecting pool stinging his eyes. Shaking his arms, he glares at his friend who merely looks back at him matter-of-factly.

“The Runaan I know would never wish the misery I saw on Ethari’s face on anyone else,” Lain says quietly. “Not even a human.” There’s suddenly a lump in Runaan’s throat that won’t go away no matter how many times he swallows. With a huff, he sits back down in front of Lain, who offers him a sad smile. “What happened, Runaan?”

“He didn’t show up to the Nexus.”

Lain frowns. “For your dance?”

“For the dance, and in general.” Thinking about the events of the night reignites the fire in him, and he turns to Lain and looks the elf in his eyes. “The Council dismissed me, Lain. In front of everyone. I reminded him so many times that tonight was the night, the one time he needed to be on time and presentable, and he forgets. Forgets! Now the Council thinks he’s worse than they already think he is.”

“What did they say about him?”

“That he’s uncouth. Unorganized. All over the place.” Runaan scrunches his nose. “They’re wrong, of course, and I told them as much.”

“Oh,” says Lain, who looks somewhat impressed. “You talked back to the Council?”

“You weren’t there,” Runaan says heatedly. “They were so disrespectful to the elf who creates their weapons and protects them in battle. Disgraceful!” He slams a fist into the stone wall of the reflecting pool, relishing in the throbbing aches that follow. The pulsing pain echoes up his arm, and he uses the rhythm to slow his breathing.

Lain waits until he reopens his eyes. “So you spoke up on Ethari’s behalf,” the elf prompts.

“And they dismissed me in front of everyone.”

“Ouch.”

Runaan huffs out a bitter laugh. “And of course, after being humiliated in front of the Council, the Druids, and everyone else, who do I run into on my way back but the source of the problem himself.”

“So Ethari was on his way over?”

“Don't try to defend him, Lain. He was four hours too late,” Runaan snaps. “He was dirty, Lain! He’d just come from the forge because he lost track of time—again, I might add—and he didn’t even clean himself up or change. Dirt! Soot! Everywhere!”

“Maybe better late than never—”

“No.” Runaan scowls at his friend. “He shouldn’t have been late in the first place, if he’d just remembered that he needed to be there.”

Lain shifts so that both of his legs are now tucked neatly beneath him. He leans one arm against the stone wall of the pool and lays his head down. “So,” he says slowly. “You’re mad at Ethari because he didn’t show up.”

“And humiliated me.”

“Right.” Lain nods languidly. “Can’t forget that.”

They’re silent for a moment, and it’s suffocating. The fire inside Runaan dies down a bit, and his anger and indignance are overrun with immense sadness and remorse. The Runaan I know would never wish the misery I saw on Ethari’s face on anyone else, Lain had said. Not even a human. Now that he thinks about it, the more Lain’s words ruminate in his mind the more guilt he feels. Runaan tries to ignore it, because Ethari hurt him first, but deep down he knows it doesn’t matter who made the first mistake.

The memories from his previous encounter are sharper than his blades in his mind. He’s tried to suppress them while he was alone, but now that Lain’s words are stuck in his thoughts, he can’t help but replay every interaction, ever reaction from Ethari. He realizes now that Ethari's posture and tone throughout the entire conversation—if yelling at your beloved counted as conversation—was not even remotely hostile. Rather, Ethari was holding out his hands the entire time in a reassuring manner, like how Runaan approaches his Moonstrider when she's being particularly testy. He was trying to comfort me, Runaan thinks. I was insulting him and his character and he never once tried to stop me.

His next thought hits him with the force of a banther running at its top speed: that’s how he shows me he cares. It’s almost enough to make him sob out loud.

“I told him he didn’t care about me,” Runaan whispers brokenly. "I told him that his words mean nothing to me."

"Ouch," Lain says with a wince. "That's cold, Runaan."

The assassin groans and drops his head to his hands. Everything aches and he despises that his emotions have left him defenseless and vulnerable; but even more so, he hates that he can’t even blame Ethari for all of it, no matter how badly he wants to. “I just don’t understand,” he mumbles into his palms. “He’s always jumping from one thing to the next even when he knows he’s prone to forgetting things. Why can’t he just stop?”

“It’s not that easy for him,” Lain says. “Not everyone has a mind as trainable as yours, you know. Take Tiadrin, for example: I’m sure you would agree she’s one of the bravest, most courageous elves we know. After all, it’s not just any elf that can become a Dragon Guard.”

Runaan nods. Tiadrin was a fearsome elf when it came to sparring and solving puzzles. Her sharp wit and quick instincts made her a formidable opponent in almost every realm.

“Well.” Lain nudges at the grass with his feet. “Tiadrin often stays up all night because she can’t turn off her brain.”

Runaan frowns. “What do you mean? Can’t she just meditate?”

Lain laughs softly. “She tries, Runaan, she really does. It’s like she can’t help her thoughts from spiraling downward. When she’s not on duty in the Storm Spire, she’s a mess. No, really,” he insists when Runaan rolls his eyes. “You haven’t seen her when things get bad. I mean, when she’s on duty as a Dragon Guard she’s perfectly fine. It’s when she’s back home with nothing else to do; it’s almost like it takes so much energy to be on duty that when she’s not, she’s got too much going on in her brain that she can’t turn it off. She just worries, and worries, and worries. Sometimes it gets so bad that she ends up curled in a corner, alone, hyperventilating.”

“Oh,” the assassin says. “I’ve known her for years and I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t think lesser of her because of it, and I swear to the Moon that if you do, I’ll stab you”—Runaan holds up his hands in surrender and Lain looks reassured enough to continue—"but that doesn’t mean other elves won’t think she’s unworthy of her post. She doesn’t want to show others that part of her because she’s afraid she’ll lose her position that she’s worked so hard to achieve.” Lain sighs. “It might be hard to others to understand. I can see your skeptical looks, Runaan, but believe me. If she could stop thinking and turn off her brain, she would. You'd understand too, if you stayed up with her every night she can't fall asleep.”

Runaan says nothing as he thinks. He’s always seen Tiadrin in control and in charge; he can’t even imagine the fearsome warrior curled in on herself. But now as he reminisces, he recalls at least one instance when he visited her and Lain’s home for dinner where she excused herself from the room and disappeared. Lain often left him alone to check on her, but he had always dismissed it as something normal for courting elves.

“Same thing goes for Ethari,” Lain says, interrupting Runaan’s thoughts. “He’s got so much energy that if he’s not tinkering with something in his hands, he’s bouncing off the walls.”

Runaan can’t help but chuckle. “He does fidget a lot,” he agrees, his spirits lifting the tiniest bit as he imagines his beloved playing with his fork at dinner two nights ago. Ethari hadn't even noticed how furiously he was shaking his utensil until a chunk of some miscellaneous root vegetable flung itself across the table at a bewildered and highly amused Runaan.

“Right. You’ve definitely noticed it, because you live with him and being observant is your job, but have you ever wondered why?”

“No,” Runaan says truthfully. “I always just thought he liked to keep moving.”

“Well, yes, that’s true too. But his brain is wired a bit differently from yours and mine. Both he and Tiadrin can’t turn their brains off, but while Tiadrin tends to overthink and worry, Ethari gets so many new thoughts—ones that he really cares about and gets excited about, you know what I mean—that he can’t help but act on them when they appear in his mind. And when he’s so excited about something, or at least so invested in it, it’s like everything else disappears from his memory and he’s entirely consumed by that one task. Surely you must’ve noticed…?”

Runaan hums and purses his lips in thought. Sometimes the smith will be talking about one thing when his eyes light up and he switches topics instantaneously, leaving Runaan floundering at the sudden change in conversation. Now that he thinks about it, he can instantly recall dozens of memories in which he had to pick up after Ethari—at home, in the forge, even as they walk outside. Whether it was leaving the dishes half washed to sketch a new design, or dropping the picnic basket to admire some flowers, Ethari was always running back and forth between too many tasks. Or stuck on only one task; there have been multiple instances in which Ethari didn’t even notice Runaan enter the room until he touched the smith on the shoulder. “Oh,” the assassin says as it clicks in his mind.

“Ah? You understand? Ethari doesn’t necessarily want to be forgetful and—what was it the Council said?—'all over the place,' but that’s how he’s wired.”

“Poor Ethari,” Runaan mutters. He can’t imagine how chaotic his mind would be if he couldn’t turn off his brain; Runaan relishes the time he gets to meditate, when he gets to turn off his thoughts and dismiss his worries and just exist in serenity for a few moments.

“I guess,” Lain says with a shrug. “But I think it’s actually an advantage for him, really.” When Runaan gives him a skeptical look, he continues, “think about it, Runaan. His job—other than fixing our weapons—is to come up with new ideas for gadgets and having so many thoughts at once means that statistically, one of them should be a good design. Or that’s how he explained it to me, anyway.”

Runaan looks up sharply. “He’s talked to you about this?”

“Well.” Lain has the grace to smile sheepishly at him. “He and Tiadrin like to talk about their various brain mechanics, and I happened to be walk into the room one time.”

“So he’s willing to talk to you about it,” Runaan says bitterly. “But he won’t talk to his—”

“You forget, Runaan, that most of the elves in the Silvergrove would immediately think less of him if he told everyone. Think of what the Council said, for starters, even when they depend on his craft in all aspects of life.” Lain fixes him with a stern expression. “Might I remind you that up until a minute ago you thought he was being unorganized and scatterbrained on purpose?”

Runaan looks down to hide the shame that rises in a blush on his cheeks.

“So.” Lain shifts so that he’s now crouching in front of Runaan. “Can you blame Ethari for being afraid to tell you? I can’t. But you should know he’s trying, Runaan. I’m not saying he’s perfect—he’s far from it, with tonight being a prime example—but he’s told me to my face that he’s trying to be better because you need him to be better. His words, not mine.”

Runaan blinks rapidly. “Right,” he says because he doesn’t like the silence that follows, and his voice is only a little choked up. He gets to his feet and Lain mirrors him. As Lain dusts off his pants, Runaan wipes at his eyes. “I need to talk to him,” the assassin says quietly.

Lain nods. “Yeah,” he says. “You do.”

Runaan is walking past him when Lain reaches out a hand and grabs his wrist. “He really cares for you,” Lain murmurs. “In case you ever doubt him.”

“Right.”

Lain lets him go just as the sun peeks over the tops of the trees.

It’s early enough that he doesn’t run into many elves on his way back home, except for a few merchants and traders setting up their shops. He ignores their quizzical stares as he passes, his rumpled clothes and knotted hair definitely drawing their attention. On any other day he wouldn’t have even dreamed of walking through the Silvergrove looking as disheveled as he is, but his heart is set on one thing and one thing only, so he forges on.

As he walks, he attempts to sort through the thoughts in his head. He’s mad, still, that he was humiliated in front of the few elves who could influence his future in the Silvergrove. He’s afraid of the consequences of Ethari’s absence, worried that the Council will intervene in his relationship and demand he not see Ethari again. (At that thought, Runaan stumbles a bit). He’s upset at himself for not noticing why his beloved acts the way he does, but more importantly he’s relieved. Relieved that there’s an explanation to the more frustrating aspects of Ethari, that there are reasons why Ethari does what he does. Lastly, there’s still remnants of shame: shame that he said what he said to Ethari’s face without actively listening to his side of the story, shame that Ethari didn’t feel comfortable enough to talk to him about his mind, shame that he purposefully tried to hurt the elf who ignored his insults and tried to calm him down.

He’s got one hand on the door to the home he shares with Ethari when he pauses. With a single push he’d see him. It’s a scary thought, to be so close and yet so far from Ethari. What if he’s not there? What if he refuses to see me? What if he’s done with me? The last thought hurts more than he would ever care to admit. But he’s Runaan of the Moonshadow elves, the leader of the most elite group of assassins in Xadia, and Moon above, if he can fight off a troop of hostile elves with only one sword then he can talk to his beloved. He takes a deep breath to calm his nerves and pushes the door open.

Runaan walks into the living room to find Ethari sitting at their table with his head in his hands. The assassin freezes—he’d expected him to be in bed given the hour. Ethari looks up when the door opens and he too freezes. For a long while, they say nothing; the silence is overwhelming as Runaan looks into Ethari’s eyes. It’s obvious he’s been crying—Ethari isn’t a pretty crier by any means—but the tear tracks have already dried. Runaan wonders idly if his face betrays his tears as clearly as Ethari’s does, if his eyes look as sad as Ethari’s do, if the depths of his eyes truly convey how sorry he is.

Finally, Ethari heaves a heavy sigh. He gets to his feet slowly, like he’s aching and sore, and turns away without a word.

“Ethari,” Runaan pleads tentatively. His voice cracks and the name of his beloved comes out hoarse, desperate.

Ethari only shakes his head, his back to Runaan. “I was only here to make sure you returned safely,” the smith says. His voice is also hoarse, Runaan notices. Ethari picks up a sack from the ground that Runaan hadn’t even noticed and slowly, as if it pains him to do so, lifts up his head to look at Runaan. “I have to leave.”

Runaan’s lips part in a silent gasp. No. He can’t be… It’s like his body has a mind of it own, because he can only follow Ethari’s movements around the house that they share—shared. “Where… where are you going?” he asks quietly.

Ethari shrugs. “Anywhere but here,” he says simply, diverting his gaze. Runaan understands immediately: anywhere is better than here. It hits him right in the gut, and when Ethari gives him a wide berth as he walks out the door just as the assassin had done hours ago, he can’t stop the tears from sliding down his cheeks.

He wakes up stiff, his back tense from the curled up position in which he slept on the floor, where Ethari had left him. With a groan as the sunlight filters through a window to shine right in his eyes, Runaan sits up in the middle of the living room. His joints crack as he rises to his feet, feeling parched and empty. His cup is on the table like it is every morning, but when he swipes it to take a drink, there’s nothing in it. Runaan is confused for a second, and then is hit with an urge to cry so overwhelming that he needs to sit down. It’s absolutely absurd that he’s nearly in tears over an empty cup, but it’s not just the empty cup: it’s that Ethari wasn’t there to pour any Moonberry juice into it like he does nearly every day.

The house is ominously empty, and it’s surreal to be inside when the sun is nearly at the peak of its path across the sky. Usually Runaan has some sort of training to do, something to run off to, but in a move he’d thought was smart, he’d cleared his schedule for the day after the Council meeting. He scoffs bitterly now, feeling foolish for thinking he was planning ahead for any late night activities he and Ethari would have enjoyed to celebrate a successful performance in front of the Council. The differences between what he thought would happen and what actually did are so drastic he can only laugh at himself.

Nice going Runaan, he thinks to himself. Now you don’t even have anything to do to distract yourself.

He doesn’t particularly want to expose his face to the rest of the Silvergrove, not when the few merchants who saw him must have already spread the word. The entire village would know by now that the esteemed leader of assassins was walking alone at night looking distraught and disheveled. No, he needs to wait for that nonsense to die down before he can leave the house. But the interior isn’t much better; everywhere he looks he’s reminded of Ethari’s absence. Their bed is untouched, the dishes on the shelves unused; there’s no whistling elf to greet him good morning with a sloppy kiss on the temple, nor a plate of his favorite berries waiting for him to indulge in.

“That’s how he shows me he cares,” Runaan whispers to himself. It’s the little things, it’s always been the little things. Things are clearer now, because it all makes sense. While he was waiting for a grand reveal, Ethari had been showering him with little gifts; he’d been looking for sudden, drastic change when Ethari had been moving him gradually. He swallows thickly and looks around their house. Their walls are decorated with a variety of objects—unfinished weapons and practical household items—but what catches his eyes this time are the presents Ethari has given him over time. There’s a set of dried flowers above their fireplace that Ethari had presented him when they first started courting; above the stove hangs a bundle of herbal beads which Ethari gave him when he complained of getting headaches while cooking; there’s even a scrap of parchment tacked to the wall, a remnant of Ethari’s first love poem. It’s overwhelming, to realize this all at once.

He's been showing me, Runaan thinks. He’s always been showing me, I’ve just been too dense to see it. The realization fills him with a sense of urgency—he needs to find Ethari and apologize now. With one last look around his home, he takes a deep breath and heads outside. He knows his partner like the handle of his swords, and there’s only one place Ethari could be.

I’m going to find him, Runaan tells himself without a doubt in the world, and apologize, and tell him I love him. And he’s so certain that he knows nothing will stand in his way.

Chapter Text

There’s an elf standing in his way.

Had he been more observant he would have noticed the subtle shimmer of an elf hiding behind an illusion, but his mind is occupied with one thing, and one thing only. He’s halfway across the middle of the Silvergrove when she appears out of nowhere, and Runaan’s first instinct is to draw his bowblade, pressing its tip against her throat.

“No need to cause a scene,” drawls the elf opposite him. Her voice is soft and commanding, and he recognizes it instantly.

Runaan drops the sword and bows. “My apologies,” he says as respectfully as he can toward the elf whom he blames for starting this whole thing.

The Council elf—the one who insulted him, insulted Ethari, and dismissed him—sneers. To any other elf she looks pleasantly emotionless but to Runaan, who’s standing much closer and has trained to read body language since he was young, recognizes the curl of her lip. She thinks lesser of me already, he realizes, and has to stop himself from sneering back at her. Don’t test me, he wants to tell her, but retrains.

“The Council discussed your situation after you left,” the Council elf says quietly. Runaan has to take a step forward to hear her. His senses are overwhelmed by the sweet scent of berries and it makes him long for a glass of moonberry juice and a certain elf's company. He’s vaguely aware of a scattered number of elves walking past them, but her next words capture his undivided attention. “We simply cannot allow you to continue courting the smith, Runaan of the Moonshadow assassins.”

Runaan jerks back. “What?”

“Exactly,” the Council elf says gleefully, gesturing at his defensive stance and the confused anger on his face. “We elected you to lead the assassins because you proved yourself worthy of the position. The leader of the assassins needs to be strong-willed and absolute in their power, calculating and precise. You were all of those things until you began courting that smith. He’s confused you, weakened you, turned you into something”—Runaan bares his teeth when she refers to him as a thing—“that is fueled by emotion, not logic. This is unacceptable.” 

I am not weak, Runaan wants to shout at her. But he’s exhausted, and he knows that doing so will only prove her point. So he glares at her with the heat of a sun-forged blade.  

“We believe he may have cursed you,” the Council elf continues, ignoring Runaan’s sputters of protest. “The smith is known to be handy with enchantments, and you have been acting unlike yourself. Thus, the Council agrees to give you one more chance as leader of the assassins. Do not pursue the smith, and finish your duties.”

“Ethari hasn’t cursed me,” Runaan exclaims when she finishes. He’s insulted—partly at the insinuation that he would allow himself to be so easily threatened, and partly at her assumption that Ethari would do such a thing. “Ethari may not be an assassin, but he has his own moral code and does not deviate. He would never do such a thing.”

“And yet you have changed,” the Council elf counters. “The Runaan we elected to lead our assassins is not the one who stands before me today.” Her eyes glance at his rumpled clothes and knotted hair. “We cannot allow someone of high status and power to act the way you have been acting. I’ve known you since you were accepted into our assassins as a mere trainee, and this is uncharacteristic of you.”

“And I know Ethari,” he insists. “And he would never do that to me. To anyone.”

The curl of her lip returns. “Then can you explain his absence at the Nexus, Runaan who claims to know he who did not show?” she demands, voice dripping with false sympathy.

Runaan looks away. Anything he says, even the truth, will not placate her. He’s known her since he was young, and this Council elf is nothing but stubborn and set in her ways, unfeeling and cold as the snow that settles on the peak of the Spire.

“As I thought. No one has seen the smith since yesterday; perhaps his curse is wearing off and that is why you seem disoriented. I’ll explain this simply so that you may comprehend." She leans down and speaks slowly, as if to a young child. "You are not to continue courting that elf. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” His voice is barely a whisper.

“Good.” The Council elf smiles pleasantly (though Runaan recognizes this as a prideful smirk of victory) and begins to walk away.

“I understand,” Runaan repeats to her retreating figure, voice shaky but louder, “but I cannot do that.”

She looks sharply over her shoulder, then steps quickly so that she’s mere inches from his face. Despite her formidable stature, Runaan lifts his chin and stares defiantly into her eyes—how could the color violet be so icy?

The Council elf narrows her eyes at him. “I must have misheard you,” she says, her voice dropping lower. “I won’t say this again, Runaan: do not pursue the smith, and finish your duties.”

“I cannot do that,” Runaan repeats firmly. “I cannot, and I will not.”

The Council elf snarls at him. “You’re a fool, Runaan,” she hisses. “You’re wasting your time on him! You are the leader of the Moonshadow assassins, the most elite force in Xadia, and you plan to discard your title for that elf? The one who embarrasses you, humiliates you in front of the Council?"

"If that's what I'll lose to stay with him, then so be it." His voice is shaking with the effort to remain calm; the last thing he needs is to erupt again and add to her suspicion of his supposed cursed nature.

"Ha!" The Council elf tosses her head back and shrieks with unbelieving laughter. "You!" she cries shrilly, pointing an accusing finger at him. "You, Runaan of the Moonshadow elves, have the audacity to defy my orders?"

He stands his ground. "You see, member of the honorable Council, ordinarily I wouldn't dare. But Ethari makes me stronger. He makes me brave. He's makes me a better elf, far better than following your orders would've ever made me. I love him. And no matter what you say"—he raises his voice as her eyebrows climb towards the sky, eyes maniacally wide—"I won't leave him. Not by your orders."

The brief silence that surrounds them is deadly. Runaan can hear the murmurs of the eavesdropping elves, the sound of gravel of others approaching, but he doesn't take his gaze off of her.

"Not by my orders?" she repeats dangerously, eyes so narrow they're practically closed. "How's this for an order: you're demoted. Suspended! No longer the leader of assassins, no longer an assassin!" The Council elf wipes at her glistening forehead with her sleeves, then sneers at him again. "Seeing as you're no longer of any significance, I have better things to do with my time than interact with lowly creatures like you."

She's gone before he can formulate a coherent sentence, the only trace of her a slight shimmer in the air. The gaggle of elves who'd gathered to witness the scene suddenly busy themselves with mundane tasks, avoiding him entirely. Runaan swallows thickly and exhales a shaky breath.

Okay, he thinks to himself, his heart pounding heavily against his chest and in his ears. I'm no longer an assassin. I've thrown away my career, my entire life's work, just to be with someone who might hate me and never talk to me again...for Ethari...

"Ethari," Runaan gasps out loud, the name of his beloved shocking him into action. He glances around wildly, trying to locate his surroundings, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to leave. "I need to find—where's—"

For the second time that day, there's an elf in his way, standing in the middle of the path. This elf, however, he knows. He'd recognize those horns anywhere, know those shoulders and tousled hair from miles away.

"Runaan?" Ethari breathes. His brows are furrowed so low they nearly obstruct his eyes entirely, but Runaan can still see the dark shadows beneath tired brown orbs. He's close enough that Runaan can hear him, but far enough to make a quick getaway; it's hard to read his expression at this distance but Runaan fears he'll scare Ethari away if he rushes forward.

"Ethari..." Runaan swallows again; the damn lump in his throat has returned. "How long have you been...there?"

The smith takes a tentative step forward and Runaan matches him without thinking. "I just got here, but—long enough to know what's going on," Ethari admits. Now that he's closer, he looks like he's about to cry. "Runaan, what were you thinking?"

Something about his words drives a blunt, stabbing pain into Runaan's stomach. Tentatively, he asks, "what do you mean?"

Ethari throws his hands into the air in exasperation. "What do I mean?" he asks incredulously. "You just talked back to a Council elf, Runaan! And definitely not respectfully! Might I remind you that you've been demoted"—Runaan winces as the Council elf's words are thrown at him for the second time—"and suspended! You threw away all that you've worked for, and for what? Because you were angry? Because you were feeling reckless?"

He's actively aware that there are still elves gawking at them, and as much as he wants to shout his frustrations at Ethari, he knows he can't. Instead, he takes another deep breath and walks calmly—as calmly as he can manage—towards his heart. Ethari, for his part, doesn't extend his arms in an embrace, but he doesn't back away either.

"Ethari, this wasn't a rash decision," he says slowly. "I don't know how much you overheard, but I know what I did. If you didn't hear what I said to her earlier, I'll say it again. I did it for us—"

"Why, Runaan?" Ethari continues, like he hasn't heard a single word, like Runaan is simply mouthing words without a sound. He keeps his eyes, his body turned away from the approaching Runaan—clearly he doesn't want to be touched. Runaan keeps his distance. "That was so unlike you. What are you going to do? What is the Silvergrove going to think?"

Runaan blinks. What is the Silvergrove going to think—is Ethari embarrassed to be with him, a former leader turned disgrace?

Into the silence, Ethari pleads, "go find the Council elf and apologize. You're going to regret it if you let her demote you like this."

Runaan can hear the underlying message. Who is Runaan if he isn't the leader of assassins? He looks into Ethari's eyes, searching for the truth. Do you care that much about my—our—reputation? That you can't stand to be with me if I'm not of worthy status? He's spiraling again, and he knows it, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. Not without Ethari by his side, and clearly Ethari is not on his side.

"Don't give me that look," Ethari sighs, misinterpreting Runaan's frustration. "You know I'm right, Runaan. You might be feeling invincible right now, but you'll be miserable tomorrow morning when it all comes crashing down on you."

Of course he's right—Runaan can already feel the storm of emotions threatening to burst through his mask; Ethari's right: of course tomorrow Runaan will be miserable. But Ethari is wrong—right now, Runaan is already miserable.

"Ethari, please. I didn't talk back to her because I wanted to. I did it because I had to. She was—"

A sharp scoff interrupts him. "You had to?" There's an unfamiliar edge to Ethari's words now, and the blunt stabbing pain in Runaan's stomach slowly melts into blades of agony. "I swear on the Moon, if this is something about your pride and useless heroics—"

"I did it because the other option was to give you up," Runaan yells. He's shaking, chest heaving; his vision is blurry except for the elf before him, whose eyes widen in shock. "I did it for us," he continues in a whisper, "because I can't give you up."

Because I need to apologize to you, because I see now that you've always shown me you cared, because I can't live without you. Because I want to learn all about you and your brilliant mind and your beautiful thoughts. Because I love you.

But he can't bring himself to say that out loud.

Ethari's mouth opens, closes. Opens again, closes again. "I—you—" He drops his head in his hands, and it takes all of Runaan's willpower not to wrap his heart in his arms.

"Ethari?" Runaan prompts after a few beats of silence. The edges of his vision are coming back, and now there's an ever bigger crowd of elves watching them. This time, when he looks up at them, they don't even pretend to look away. He wants to make them disappear, transport himself and Ethari to somewhere safe and quiet, but Ethari doesn't respond, and doesn't move. "Ethari, I'm so sorry about what I said yesterday and the night before. I'm ashamed to have said such hurtful things when all you've done is—"

Like it physically pains him to do so, Ethari finally lifts his head and Runaan's words crumble to dust. The smith straightens at an agonizingly slow pace, like he's lifting the weight of the world on his shoulders, until he's looking Runaan in the eyes. His lips move but there's no sound.

"What?" Runaan asks, stepping closer, then freezing in place when Ethari shrinks back. The blades of agony have turned into a never-ending abyss, and Runaan is plummeting into the darkness. "I can't hear—"

"I—I can't do this," Ethari repeats. He whispers, but his words are loud. "You...should go apologize to that Council elf, because"—Ethari gestures weakly at the growing space between them—"I can't do this. Right now. Anymore."

Has someone shoved his head underwater? Runaan feels dizzy. "What," he rasps.

But there's no one in front of him; while he was reeling from the impact of a thousand invisible punches, Ethari has slipped away, leaving Runaan raw and hurt and alone. Even with the slowly dispersing crowd, he is alone.

So utterly alone.