Chapter Text
It Takes a Village.
Chapter 2. Baby Steps.
“Annnnd here she comes! The mightiest of all the dragons, soarin’ across the skies! Defendin’ our lands from the west with her mighty flamin’ breath. Raaaaaahhhhrrrr!!”
There is something so endearing about an excited child. Everything is so new and compelling when seen through fresh, new eyes. They bounce and dance and squeal, much like how his fourteen-month-old daughter is reacting now. Kicking her chunky little legs and pressing her hands against her mouth before flinging them out wide and squealing an excited. “Aaahhhhhwwrr!”
The corners of Lain’s mouth twitch. He’s pretty sure that he’s losing his fight with an impending smile as he brings the toddler to his face to blow raspberries against the crook of her neck. And he's certain that he has as he finds his own delight in the peals of screeching giggles that the farting sounds pull out of the child. “That’s my girl.”
Then his smile vanishes and his eyes widen as he draws his head back with a startled gasp. “Oh, no!” He cries, a smirk toying with his mouth while Rayla's soft features twist with alarm at her father's sudden cry. “Those tricksy, dastardly fiends have found th’ mighty dragonesses weakness! Relentlessly, they attack.” Then he dramatically inhales before darting in to assault the same ticklish spot with a second, louder series of raspberries.
From the cozy little kitchen nook that the small and humble home boasts, Ethari catches the contented little line that teases Tiadrin’s lips. It’s easy to discern the cause of the she-elf high spirits; her child’s bubbling laughter bounces around their ears, her husband too is in good cheer. The smith smiles gently to himself as he accepts the tea that she offers him before she joins him, standing alongside the beautifully lacquered table with her own tea in hand.
“You look happier, Tia.” He says softly. Turning the cup around in his artistic hands before he sips delicately at the hot, sweet liquid. “And Rayla sounds happier. I assume that the lunastar roots are helping?”
Another excited baby squeal pierces the air, followed quickly by the same infantile voice babbling a string of “Daddaddaddaddaddah!” and “Ooohwoowoowooo!” They are more sounds still, rather than words, but they warm her heart. Though, if she were honest, it’s the accompanying sounds, the slaps of extremely enthusiastic little hands clapping firmly against what she assumes to be Lain’s face - if his sharp grunts of complaint are to be believed - that allows Tiadrin’s smile to fully catch.
“They are. Greatly.” She murmurs, leaning her hip against the table edge. She brings her own cup to her lips to blow lightly over the rim and watch through a shuttered gaze how the surface ripples with her skimming breath. “Rayla really doesn’t like the taste of the juice, but we’re finding ways to get it into her. The poor, wee bairn has just been so miserable and in so much pain -- cutting teeth and budding horns all at the same time. It was breaking our hearts to hear her crying like that.”
A sudden screech cuts across Tiadrin’s words, and reflexively she pauses. Her shoulders hold her rigid and her spine snaps taut while her pointed ears perk upwards. Only allowing herself to relax again once the screech of her offspring dissolves into rambunctious laughter, punctuated by the onset of hiccups. “I’m just relieved that she seems to be through the worst of it now.”
“Aye, she does.” Ethari agrees. His lips lift upwards and crinkle a single dimple in his cheek. Enjoying the familiar warmth, simple happiness and easy domesticity that his own home currently lacks.
Lacks without Runaan to share it.
With Runaan away - tasked with visiting other Moonshadow villages to help set the curriculum for training new apprentice assassins, and his own smithing business slow, Ethari finds himself wiling away his days with the little family. Happy for the easy company with his nearest and dearest friends, and delighting in watching their daughter grow from a fussy and difficult infant into the bright and cheerful little girl that she is now.
A cheerful little girl who, from the telling rhythm of her enthusiastic laughing, was currently rushing upwards through the air to hang suspended for a split second before falling safely into her father’s strong hands again. “She’s such a bonny wee lass.”
“Now she’s a ‘bonny wee lass’.” Tiadrin corrects firmly as she slides her hand over the lustrous gleam of one of the elegantly carved chairs arranged tidily opposite Ethari’s own seat. She pulls it back just far enough so that she can slip herself between the table’s edge and the seat of the chair, neatly perching upon it.
Then she sighs softly, touches a fingertip to the grain in the wood and follows the flow of the lines and whorls as though she could read the life of the tree before it had been felled. “Those first six months were excruciatingly difficult and these last three-” The she-elf pauses, raising her eyes from studying her fingers as they journey along with the woodgrain to hold Ethari’s cinnamon gaze meaningfully. “I don’t think any one of us would have made it through it all with any of our sanity intact without you and Runaan helping us out by taking her as often as you did -- just so that we could sleep.”
Rayla had been such a colicky infant. She would sporadically feed for an hour, scream for an hour - filled with trapped air that just never seemed to clear, no matter what they tried - before finally sleeping fitfully for an hour. One single hour in every three for the new parents to snatch a broken nap or eat or snap at each other over petty little things, and then the whole cycle would start all over again.
Throughout Tiadrin’s words, Ethari says nothing. He can tell, just by the way that she talks that she’s insecure; the tension returns to her body as her shoulders hunch and she curls in a little on herself, as though she expects to be rebuked for her complaints and grievances.
But she won't find such treatment from Ethari.
Instead, Ethari simply places his cup carefully to the side and lets her talk. He listens to her without interruption; validates her venting with warmth in his smile and kindness in his eyes. And it’s in his understanding as well as in his sincerity that Tiadrin finds that draws the final words from her lips in a barely audible whisper.
“What kind of a mother hands off her child when she simply can’t cope?”
It breaks Ethari's heart to hear the doubt in his friend’s voice. The tone and words of self admonishment from the usually confident and proud she-elf hang heavy in the air and sit foreign in his ears. Then, when he’s sure that Tiadrin has said her piece, Ethari reaches one of his large hands out to cover hers. Curling his thick fingers around her slender, fidgeting ones. His thumb passes gently over her knuckles. His touch now offers his friend a physical validation and comfort that she so clearly needs from someone outside of her husband. And, from what he says next, it’s obvious that he had been thinking over his next words carefully.
“A mother who cares, Tia.” He says softly as he squeezes her hand gently. “There’s no shame in asking for help, especially when the help is there and readily offered. You know, better than we, that neither your pregnancy nor labour were particularly smooth events for you. And we know, regardless of if you wish to admit it or not, that you’ve had a difficult time with recovery. And, until now, none of us could be of much help to you, no matter how badly we wished otherwise.”
Ethari gives the hand in his another squeeze, another gentle sweep of his thumb, and his soft features soften further when he feels Tiadrin squeeze back. “But, all that has passed and now, just listen to how she laughs. Listen to how your husband plays with her. You are a wonderful, loving mother and she is a healthy, happy child.”
There’s no judgement in his voice. There never is with Ethari. No underlying dryness in his words to twist the she-elf’s self-depreciation for what she saw as her most intimate short-comings into reality. The he-elf’s patience knows no bounds, an unusual trait to find in a Moonshadow elf. Perhaps that’s why he and Runaan match so well - Ethari’s steadiness softens his husbands sharp, sharp edges and bladed words, all the while drawing out the more highly-strung elf’s own gentleness.
A natural protector. A guardian.
“Besides, I’ve been rather enjoying Rayla’s wee little visits. Especially with Runaana called away so frequently as of late.” The smith continues, sipping his tea as merriment and mischief dance in his eyes. He keeps his tone light and easy as he talks, further reassuring the still tense mother. “Your daughter is excellent company. A wonderful conversationalist, and her grumpy little face, especially when she’s tired, is an absolute delight. It’s almost like having Runaan home.”
He pauses, then pointedly catches Tiadrin’s eye as he raises a single, coy brow. “Not to mention, she is a budding culinary genius. Were you aware that moonberries have a more exquisite flavour when served already part-chewed?”
For a moment, Tiadrin’s forehead puckers. Her gaze drops and her eyebrows arch high in mild confusion as her thoughts briefly scatter. Then, the she-elf glances upwards once more, her lips pursed but her mouth hangs slightly open and loose behind them as the comprehension suddenly hits. “Oh, no.” Tiadrin laughs. “She didn’t.”
The grin that had been teasing at the edges of his lips spreads over Ethari’s face. Wide and open as it lights up his eyes and shows his teeth as he nods. “Such a generous wee soul, your little Rayla. And so insistent.”
Laughing now, Tiadrin covers half her face with one hand. “Oh, Ethari. I’m so sorry. I should have warned you.”
“And deny me the experience of Rayla’s good heart and that concerned little frown she has while she persistently feeds me her mushy berries?! I would have been devastated.” Chuckling himself, the forge master waves away the she-elf’s apologies good-naturedly. Then he sighs and carefully meets his friend’s eye. “So, you see, Tia. While I may have been helping you in taking care of Rayla, Rayla has also been helping you in taking care of me.”
When he glances up, he catches the little shadow of emotion that shifts behind Tiadrin’s irises. A tiny, dimming flicker of guilt in the flame that usually warms the tropical discs of blue and the barest shift in her focus that belies her discomfort at being caught out. “I am very much aware that Runaan tasks you and Lain with keeping an eye on my well-being while he’s away.” Then he lowers his eyes again, studying the mostly empty cup in his hands as his smile softens wistfully. “That man has many talents, however, alarmingly for an assassin as skilled as he, subtlety is not one of them.”
“He worries, ‘thari,” Tiadrin says quietly. Her eyes offer the smith the smile that can’t quite find its way to her lips when he glances up. “He worries for you if, one day, he shouldn’t come home.”
Ethari sighs as he nods. “I know he does. That prideful man thinks that he has me fooled with all of his swagger and bluster.” Then he snorts a single humourless laugh. “And, maybe I am. Or maybe I am simply foolish for letting him believe that I am. But, I know that he worries. And I know when he is afraid. And, I know that these little groups of humans that somehow slip past the borders into Xadia without Avizandum’s and Sol Regem’s notice have him deeply unsettled.”
Slowly Tiadrin’s lips slant into a thin curve. The warmth in her gaze finally radiating outwards and thawing her stiffened cheeks. “Well, you know that Runaan has never been comfortable with things that are outside of his control. Not even as a lad. That’s why he’s always thrown himself so fully into his work and his training. To try and be ready for anything and everything.”
There’s a lilt creeping back into Tiadrin’s voice now. Steering the seriousness of the conversation back into light-hearted banter. “But, there are still some things that he’s not been quite ready enough for, though, aren’t there?” The familiar gentle teasing dominates her tone, with the warm, darker undertones of her natural snarkiness threading through the cadence of her words. “Like, that time, when he and Lain were young and my hopeless husband convinced your hopeless husband that camping overnight in the Midnight Desert, outside of the Oasis, would be a good test of their balls and skills. Or when Runaan was selected, out of all the apprentice assassins, for specialized training under master Sgàil’s tutelage. Or that moment that he lost his heart to you. The Silvergrove’s prodigy assassin falling for the weaponsmith’s son.”
To this, Ethari laughs. A rich, hearty sound that emanates from his gut and his heart. “You make everything sound so scandalous, Tia.” His hand pushes through his short tresses. Sweeping away the curling ends from tangling against his lashes “Like our marriage is some peculiar flight of fancy or disreputable tryst.”
Swallowing down the last of her cooled tea and holding the ceramic cup in her outstretched hand - her fingers curling around it just tight enough to keep grip of the smooth sides - Tiadrin bites down upon the edge of her smile, her eyebrows slightly raised.
“Well, firstly, I’m going to point out that it was you who referred to your courting and marriage to Runaan as a ‘disreputable scandal’, not me.” She pauses. Her head tilts and the corner of her mouth twitches up into her cheek beneath her teasing, dancing eyes. “But, I do seem to recall - on more than one occasion - spying Runaan’s swords master furiously stomping off to retrieve his somewhat dishevelled and truant student from your father’s forge.”
Cupping her hand to her chin and with her smirk taking full possession of her lips, the she-elf leans closer. Relishing in the delicate flush of colour that settles prettily over Ethari’s dark complexion and nips at his ears. “So, tell me, ‘thari,'' She croons, her slitting eyes flick upward from her lazy lounging. “What would you two get up to in that warm and sweaty workshop that saw poor, besotted Runaan on the receiving end of master Relv’s disciplinary drills?”
Ethari says nothing. But it’s clear in the way that he stares confidently back into those arctic blue eyes, burning bright with mischief, that any embarrassment Tiadrin's teasing caused is short-lived. He smirks a knowing smile and raises a single, cocky eyebrow that he aims at the prying she-elf and taps a finger to the side of his nose. Saying nothing to satisfy his friend’s curiosity.
Tiadrin is clearly disappointed by the weaponsmith’s silence. And, thankfully, before she can tease further and bring the gentle flush fading from Ethari’s cheeks searing dark again, the sound of quick, light feet bouncing across the floors behind them sees them pull apart from their conversation and brings their heads twisting around.
The smile on Lain’s face as he charges into the room is a contagious one. A smile of pure, unfathomable happiness.
His eyes shine, alight and dancing, as he swoops his squealing, giggling daughter through the air. His velvet voice is warm and playful as he brings Rayla soaring over Ethari’s horns and toward Tiadrin as he declares. “With her duties complete, th’ great arch-dragoness lets all of Xadia know that they are, once again, safe under her rule with a thunderous roar! RAAAAARRRRHHHWW !!”
But the elfling doesn’t roar. She just stares and then giggles. Her baby voice climbing higher as her wide eyes, fixing on her mother, shine and her chubby cheeks dimple. Then she’s moving under her own power. Lurching as she tries to throw herself out of her father’s firm hold and into her mother’s arms. Her little hands grabbing excitedly as she reaches out for Tiadrin’s hair, smooshing her face against her mother’s cheek and babbling her delight between sloppy, wet toddler kisses.
“Really, now?” Tiadrin coos, wiping the soggy mess from her cheek when her daughter recoils. Then, she listens intently while Rayla continues to converse with her in her broken baby language. Her soft, contented smile deepens as her child’s excitement grows. Carefully, she catches the little girls flapping hands as clumsy gestures become more and more wild.
“Why, yes, wee one, I quite agree with you.” She strokes soothing fingers through the soft strands of downy, baby hair - still ruffled from the nap that Rayla had recently woken from - in an effort to tame the unruly tufts that stick out from behind the toddler’s ears. And, as she presses a kiss to the tip of her daughter’s button nose, Tiadrin slides her eyes to her husband’s boisterous expression. A single brow rises as the crystalline blue irises beneath glint wickedly. “Your arseling father is heading for a whole heap of trouble if he keeps on with all of this rough-housing.”
She leans in to touch her brow to her daughter’s -
- And misses.
Rayla is already moving again. Lifted high into the air by her father’s strong hands and held to dangle over his face as the he-elf frowns playfully.
“Oh, Raylly-roo,” Lain scolds gently. Despite his efforts to restrain the grin that creeps along his lips, his mouth still twitches at the corners as tiny fingers grasp at his wrists as best they can. “You were supposed to roar at mama. Like this.”
Again, Lain roars. Drawing his daughter close to his face as he inhales and then thrusting her into the air as the guttural sound erupts from his throat. But, despite his best efforts and to his dismay, Rayla still doesn’t roar. She simply stares at him, showing off the handful of tiny teeth that poke through her reddened gums before she begins to bounce in his firm grip. She kicks her legs violently in delight and claps her hands together as her excited laughter dissolves into a fresh bout of hiccups.
Hiccups that come faster and more aggressive than the last.
“RAAAAARRRRHHHWW !!”
Hiccups that jolt through Rayla’s small body, even as Lain tosses her into the air and catches her again.
“RAAAAARRRRHHHWW !!”
Hiccups that interrupt her giggles and twist her smiles into brief flashes of confusion and discomfort.
“Lain.”
Hiccups that are coming so fast now that, between them and her exuberant giggles, the only way that the elfling is able to catch a breath is on the sharp inhale of each ‘hic’ before losing it again on each equally sharp ‘cup’.
“RAAAAARRRRHHHWW !!”
“Lain!”
Tiadrin’s sharp voice slices through the air so keenly that it catches her husband off-guard and has him whipping his head around, his eyebrows raised in surprise. Accosted by her husband’s hurt look, the she-elf sighs and offers him a thin placating smile. Hoping that the fragile expression is enough to soften the sharp sting and concerned bite out of her words and to soothe the wounded little shadow that stiffens Lain’s cheeks.
“You just gave Rayla her lunch. You do recall what happened the last time that you decided to swing her around so soon after she ate, don’t you?”
The he-elf’s eyes flick away from his wife’s. Observing how the toddler entertains herself, now that the game has stopped. Screeching in delight at her fingers and then pushing them into her mouth, chewing happily.
“Oh, she’s fine,” Lain says. Dismissing both his wife’s concerns and her warning as he tickles his fingers along his daughter’s sides. He grins wildly when the child grabs at his wrists with spit-sodden hands, the quick little squeals that he pulls out of her easing the tension from his shoulders. “An’ that was like half an hour ago now anyway. An’ big strong dragons don’t throw up on their father’s, again , do they Rayla?”
Listening to her daughter’s breathless laughter and her husband's endearing cooing, Tiadrin sighs softly through her nose. Her thumb and centre finger find the outer corners of her shuttered eyes and lightly press. Then, when her hand lowers and she lifts her gaze to meet that of her husband, mirth softens her expression and tweaks at her lips, pulling them upwards into a mischievous grin.
“Ballsy idiot.” She chides quietly. Her gaze follows her daughter’s journey as Lain returns his attention to their game. Though this time he’s more daring - or, perhaps the more accurate descriptive would be fool-hardy - with his confident tosses. Each time that Rayla leaves her father’s grip, she soars higher, hangs longer and then lands harder. And, as Tiadrin’s observant eyes catch the subtle little twitch straining at the corners of the toddler’s mouth, she adds. “I’m not helping you when she shares her milk and berries with you again, Lain. And I’m not going to launder your clothes either.”
“Ach, you worry too much, woman.” Lain drawls, unconcerned. “Rayla’s fine. Look at her, she’s havin’ a blast.”
So, Tiadrin simply shrugs and settles back in her seat with a slick smile spreading her lips. On his own fool head be it then.
Lain may have missed the way that the pirate grin commandeers his wife’s features as she lounges to observe her husband’s folly. He may have missed how it lights her features in such a way that it catches the unmistakably wicked glint of mischief dancing impishly in the depths of her eyes. Lain may have missed these subtle tells - distracted by entertaining his daughter - but Ethari does not. Nor do warm, cinnamon eyes miss the way that the she-elf catches the tip of her tongue between her teeth, or the way that her ears perk up in anticipation.
And then, with Rayla’s newest hiccup hanging alarmingly wet in the air, Ethari’s own ears perk.
As do Lain’s, then the he-elf freezes.
His eyes widen, watching in horror as the little elfling’s formally bright smiles twist into strange and uncomfortable expressions. His hands can feel the small and sobering telltale contractions of the toddler’s insides squeezing. And now he’s very, very aware of the mistake he’s made - of what fall that is coming to correct his prideful boasts.
“Oh, bollocks.” He sighs miserably from between clenched teeth as he braces. Steeling himself - as well as his own now queasy belly - against the seeping warmth that splatters his clothes. The reacquaintance with his daughter’s lunch slithers down his chest in thick sluggish pellets while the raucous laughter that his wife dissolves into echoes around his ears as she delights in the he-elf’s misfortune. His retribution to his own self-inflicted idiocy.
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Runaan is tired. Exhausted actually, and sore. His aching feet long to drag and plod as his companions do. The desire to trample noisily through the whimsical forests, scattering bushels of squeaking adoraburrs as he does so burns through his muscles almost as fiercely as the fatigue that he feels. But he doesn't. He can't. He is the newly appointed master assassin of the troupe. A respected position to hold for any Moonshadow assassin, especially an assassin still so young. It is an honour, and it is his sense of honour and responsibility, as well as the stealth and nimbleness that have been meticulously trained into his muscles over the years, that deny him the leniency of exhaustion.
So he continues to stride with grace and silent dignity. His features stoic as he ignores the murmured complaints of his kin as well as his own limbs, even as his whole body aches and throbs just as bitterly as their own. He stubbornly ignores how the chill in the air bites as it rattles into his lungs with every carefully measured inhale. His mouth tightening and eyes narrowing with every complaint the assassin to his right grumbles.
It's foolish. Petty. Complaining now is a meaningless expenditure of energy. They're almost there, almost home. And it is his thoughts of home, of who is waiting there, that are the only reasons that Runaan can still place one foot in front of the other in schooled silence.
Home.
It calls to him. Like a siren's song. Home is safety. Protection. Surrounded by loved ones, kin, and finding comfort in familiar sights and smells while he tends to his injuries and can privately mourn the elves lost while in his charge.
And, for Runaan, nothing could speak of more truth than that as they slip, as silent as moonlit shadows, through the magic and illusions that shroud the Silvergrove. His companions have grieved and honoured their fallen brothers and sisters in battle. And they had spilled their enemies blood tenfold in kind. It was what was expected. So, for them, their return home is to simply mark the end of the assignment. They are now safe and protected and can freely look forward to rest and recuperation.
But for Runan, it is never his first steps into the perpetual twilight of the Silvergrove that allow him to feel as though he can breathe again. His duties will continue beyond the shroud. He must make his reports to the council and plan for the next assignment. It is he who is tasked to break the news to the widows and widowers and the orphaned children that the lives willfully given to defend Xadia and the Dragon King is an honour to be borne with pride. And it will fall to him to select from the adolescent Moonshadows their replacements. To select those who show the most promise to become the newest trainee assassin's of the Silvergrove.
It will be hours before those tasks would be completed. Hours before he can see his husband. And his heart requires more than simply returning home to be quelled into peace. His peace is found in eyes of soft hazelnut, swirled with warming cinnamon flecks. His safety, his protection, does not come in the form of the illusions that hide the Moonshadow village. It is not found in magic that could fail or be pierced, but rather in the form of a wide chest and broad shoulders. And it is in the strong, strong arms that envelop him so completely that he could never doubt his security.
So, when his feet carry him the wrong way, away from instead of toward the hallowed hall where the council of elders would be anxiously awaiting his arrival... he lets them.
He needs a moment away from his responsibilities. A moment away from his reputation and the expectation that it brings.
He needs a moment to simply be Runaan the man, not Runaan; Xadia's blade.
As he walks, he allows himself to take stock of his injuries and think. His lip stings as he thoughtlessly prods at the sensitive split in the corner with his tongue. His cheek is tender and discoloured and his left eye is already starting to swell beneath the bruise that marks the brutal blow that he'd received as reciprocation for squeezing the life from his target.
Shaking away the horrific memory of bulging eyes and purpling skin, Runaan sighs heavily. He holds his shoulders tense even as they sag under the exaggerated exhale. The lithe muscles refuse to loosen, remaining coiled so tight that even the light armour touching his flesh scorches pain into his nerve endings. And they will remain tightly wound until he lays eyes on Ethari.
His husband. That dear, sweet wonderful he-elf who won't ask questions as Runaan crushes their lips together. Wouldn't ask why salt danced on his tongue, but would simply and carefully peel away his armour - both physical and emotional - while softening the harsh kisses to tender brushes at the corners of his mouth. Murmuring secret words of devotion against elongated ears and tangle gentle fingers into his hair.
The man who would delicately strip him of his clothes and his unbreakable facade with ease. Leaving him shaking and vulnerable while he radiates a safety and security that Runaan could never know without him. The same gentle and loving soul would bathe him. Cleanse him of both the blood of his enemies as well as the sins and darkness that Runaan is burdened to carry deep within his heart, and do so without even the slightest hint of judgement.
The man to whom Runaan would clutch and cling to -- soaking his tunic with both bathwater and tears as he trembles and shakes and gasps out the terrors that he has inflicted before his mind can tangle the memories into traumatic nightmares that would plague him for years to come -- and still did not fear him.
The man who is his husband, his home and his heart.
Ethari.
His Ethari.
His Ethari who, he now spies, is seated neatly upon the edge of the lotus pool. Seated with his head bowed low, as though sitting in silent vigil as he would have throughout his husband's absence. Watching the enchanted, bejeweled flowers drift lazily over the liquid silver water, his heart in his throat as a flower sank with the loss of the elf it was bound to.
But, even at this distance, Runaan can see his gentle mouth smiling. See it move as he encourages the tiny elfling girl clinging to his fingers with soothing words while she determinedly tests the strength in uncertain legs.
And, inside his chest, Runaan's heart quickens and beneath him, his leaden steps lighten.
Ethari.
His Ethari. Whose gentle rumbling chuckles are drowned out by the startled whimpers of a frightened toddler. A toddler who has suddenly found her legs giving out from under her as she thumps down on her swaddled rear.
His Ethari. Whose forehead crinkles ever so slightly in concern at the first note of the child's frustrated cries. And who obeys the request to be held, scooping her up before little hands can even fully extend out to him.
His Ethari. Who radiates patience and love and fathomless sincerity in his poise and actions and words as the he-elf settles the child to his hip. Who gently hums and coos while he uses the edge of his tunic's collar to gently wipe away tears. His Ethari who smiles with not only his expressions but with his whole heart and who can effortlessly placate the bruised egos of man and child alike.
Runaan is close enough now that he can hear how the infant elf's sobbing softens. Placated by his husband’s gentle sounds and soothing touches. He can hear how her tiny shuddering breaths ease as she stands on his thighs and burrows under his chin for comfort.
And his heart aches when his perking ears catch the melodic rise and fall of Ethari's one sided conversation with the small elfling. It aches to see his husband so naturally at ease guiding and encouraging and nurturing the youngling as a father would his own.
"Come now, Rayla. No need to cry," He croons in his deep, warm words in a voice that comes soft over his lips while his fingertips dance intricate patterns against her shuddering back. Patterns that are familiar to Runaan's eyes. They are the same delicate patterns that Ethari adorns each and every piece of his work with. The same lines and swirls and soft curves that his clever fingers stroke into Runaan's own skin every time they lay together in the quiet of the night. "Patience is the key to all of life's challenges. You will never be a master of any task upon your first try."
It's like his words are meant not just for the little girl he is carefully coaxing from her hiding spot beneath his chin, but for the haunted master assassin who hangs back in the shadows and watches the glossy, lavender eyes lift and meet with Ethari's warming smile. "Give yourself time to grow just a wee bit more before you begin to expect miracles of yourself."
Then he folds the toddler close. Pressing his forehead to hers for just a moment before he settles her in the crook of his neck. It's a gesture that is so painfully familiar to Runaan and one that his heart aches for that he almost starts forward into a run.
Almost.
The soft expressions that had caressed Ethari's features just moments ago have fallen. And that roots Runaan's feet to the ground, forcing him to watch how Ethari's face pinches into something more remorseful and melancholic as he murmurs a plea hidden under placation. "But don't be in such a hurry to grow up, wee one. There is a dark and rotten world out there, and it can wait a few more decades before it can have you."
And then Runaan's heart tears just a little as Ethari's voice hitches and his hidden plea turns desperate. "Just be safe and small, and stay here with me, for a little while longer."
There is nothing that Runaan longs for more than to be held by his husband, but there's something in the words that the he-elf murmurs to the elfling that sees him hesitate in his approach. Something that pierces and slices at his insides as though his own blades had been pushed through his innards.
Ethari is afraid.
Guilt twists in Runaan's throat and gnaws ravenously at his insides. Though he would never ask and, even if he did, his husband would never admit to it, Runaan knows that he despairs each and every time he is called away.
In the past and in the few days before each venture, Runaan instinctively sought more of his love's company. Revisiting the fields where they'd steal away to in the days of their courting. Spending tender moments beneath the Xadian skies outside of the village. And sharing intimacies for hours in the privacy of their own little world.
For the assassin, moments of peace with his husband were so, so much more than simply quiet moments together. They were promises and reassurances that he was loved. For the weaponsmith, however, they felt more hollow. Like simpering apologies and pitiful farewells.
Ethari had known exactly what he had agreed to when he had taken Runaan as his husband. What he might lose. He knew that the life of an assassin is a brutal one and often short. And he had accepted this. Had accepted Runaan. He had made his peace with the knowledge that, one day, it would be he that would be given the news that his husband would not be returning to him.
So, while he would tolerate some of Runaan's apologetic behaviours, he would stubbornly refuse to alter his routines entirely to satisfy his assassin's whims. Changing his priorities meant accepting Runaan's affections as the goodbyes they were. Accepting Runaan's love as pity, and that was not the memory of him that Ethari wished to carry.
It took a while, and more than a few spectacular rows, for Runaan to finally understand why Ethari simply could not miss the deadline on his latest commissions just because Runaan wished to take him to the valley to watch the Moonlillies bloom. And when he had finally bellowed himself hoarse and was forced to listen to Ethari - his chest heaving and with tears and sweat streaming in his blazing eyes - it was easy for him to understand how his husband interpreted the smothering attention. Runaan had learned that leaving his husband with a little bit of the illusion that he was infallible to cling to was what Ethari needed... More so than the reinforcing of love he had never felt the need to question.
Which is why Runaan had not been wholly open about his most recent jaunt across Xadia.
While he had been fully honest about the curriculum assessment side of the assignment, he'd been careful to withhold the full details of the second reason for it. He had downplayed the possibility that he was to be swept up in conflict at the same time. Claiming it as intelligence gathering rather than admitting that they were to be reinforcements. Careful to withhold how the other Moonshadow settlements had been reporting human scouts dangerously close to their lands. And he'd rather be flayed alive than admit to his husband how one tiny hamlet had even reported the attempted kidnapping of a young elven boy. A boy only a few years older than the toddler in Ethari's arms.
That particular detail had been enough to send cold, fat serpents of icy fear slithering through Runaan's own insides. It is also what had set his feet on the path that had ended with Runaan sitting astride a human soldier's chest. His knees crushing the fiends hands beneath them as his own found purchase around the man's throat.
His weapons had been scattered. Lost during the scuffle to securely pin the fiend and skittering too far away for Runaan to risk retrieval without fearing attack. He had planned to stop squeezing as soon as he had choked the man into unconsciousness and then retrieve his blades to finish the job. But before he'd even managed to bruise the vile being's windpipe enough to prevent his taunts and sneers, a threat had been hissed at him. A threat that, even now, hung in his ears. Those cold, malicious words that had rooted him in place and forced Runaan's hand in a way that he'd never experienced before still eddied and oozed through his thoughts.
"I'll be back, elf. I'll be back and I'll see you, your wife, your kin and your children slaughtered. Their body parts in jars." Bluing lips had stretched and trembled as they pulled taut in a feral snarl. A thin string of saliva and blood had dribbled between bared, crooked teeth to ooze and slither down his chin. "They'll bring me a pretty number of coins at the markets. Their bones, their flesh and their hearts. Xadian beings, cut and sold by the pound to our mages." His eyes had bulged and and roved in wild delight, while his words slurred and lisped over his protruding tongue tip caught between his teeth. "But I'll not sell the heads. Oh, no. Not those. I'll keep those. Pretty little Xadian trophies for me to mount on my walls."
It hadn't been the first time that threats of harm had been issued against his kin. And he had every confidence that it wouldn't be the last. After all Runaan was, unfortunately, used to hearing such putrid words hissed before he killed.
The lives of his loved ones were a common target. But threats toward Lain and Tiadrin and even his Ethari were not a concern to him. Had Runaan been slain and that human somehow attempted to make good on his threats… the miserable wretch would be skewered and dead long before he'd even set one foot into the village.
But this had been different. The man, this creature, had issued a threat against Rayla. Only in passing, but that was enough for it to burrow into Runaan's heart and take seed. And oh, how his blood had boiled at those words.
That filthy, fetid human could not have known that Runaan was not a father. That Rayla was not his. But just how much that detail didn't matter to him was startling. For a man such as this to stake a claim on a life before it had a chance to really begin, that had broken something inside him.
Something primal. Something instinctual.
To brag of the cruelty he would inflict, to relish in the promise of slaughtering and violating a helpless elfling child - one so young that she couldn't even walk yet - that had snapped something so infinitely sacred to him that Runaan had almost relished in the death that he'd dealt.
Almost.
"Moonshadow assassin's take life but they do not take it lightly. Never forget that, Runaan."
Sgàil had been very insistent that his student understood the gravity of what was to be expected of him when he took his place as Master Assassin. He would have Runaan repeat the expectations and the consequences to him at the end of every lesson until he was satisfied that the young he-elf not only knew them but actually understood them. Any fool could parrot back his words, and any half-witted simpleton could understand them as words. But, it would take a prodigy to fully grasp their importance, and be able to implement them into their actions and honour their burden.
"It is very easy to lose yourself to the darkest side of your emotions in this line of work. And once you do, there is no coming back. An assassin must never kill for personal gain or reasons. An assassin must never kill with their bare hands. It allows the corruption of their target to pollute themselves. And a corrupt assassin who loses their morality is a dangerous one, one that has no place amongst our society."
Runaan had done both those things. He'd lost control. He'd lost sight of the mission and allowed it to become personal.
He had wrapped his hands harder, dug his thumbs deeper and squeezed his fingers tighter, riding out the panicked thrashing and bucking beneath him until he'd felt vertebrae crack and shift in his grasp. But even though he'd known the man to be dead the moment that he fell still, Runaan hadn't stopped squeezing.
He wouldn't stop until his fury drunk brain could comprehend exactly what he'd done and forced him to prise his stiffened fingers from the human's neck. For a moment, Runaan simply stared at the body. And felt nothing. He felt nothing as he forced himself to roll wordlessly onto his feet. Felt nothing as he staggered to retrieve his weapons and returned to stand over the man. His eyes were wide and staring and his head was twisted at an unnatural angle… his neck broken.
Then Runaan finally, finally felt something. Discomfort. Again, not at what he'd done, but that he didn't regret it.
Oh, he was ashamed of it. Shame had quickly flooded through him. Cold, like ice water slushing through his veins. Shame that breaking his control had been so easily accomplished. Just a few words and that human had played him like some kind of cruel puppeteer. Tugging at the right emotional strings to make him dance.
But he did not and would not regret killing that man. He would not regret protecting his kin. Would not regret protecting his husband, friends and their daughter even if he'd been forced to hide his crime by cutting an already dead man's throat. Completing the promise of decapitation, only an elf was not the recipient.
"Oooooo-naanaanaanaanaan!"
It took Runaan a moment for him to blink himself back into the present. It took him a second moment for his brain to kick its way free of the traumatic memories and decipher the view before him. That he was standing not on the battlefield, but in the middle of a Moonshadow village, his village. And it took a third, longer moment for him to pinpoint the strange sound that had roused him from his thoughts.
"Oooooo-naanaanaanaanaan!"
What Runaan sees when he glances up, beckoned by the unfamiliar sound, are the wide, staring eyes of a beaming child. A child who is peeking at him from over Ethari's shoulder.
He's not terribly close, but can still see the shine of teartracks, not yet dried, cutting down her cheeks. Can see the little dribble of snot collecting just beneath her nose. But, what he decides to focus on rather than the results of her distress is the delight and excitement that commandeers Rayla's round little face, as she realizes that Runaan is looking back at her.
With her attention fully captivated, Runaan presses a finger to his lips and offers her a tiny smile when she mimics back the action with her whole hand.
He takes a careful step closer. His feet are so light as they move that he barely stirs the blades of grass beneath them. He keeps his finger pressed to his lips and his eyes on Ethari, though he does allow them to dart over to Rayla every few moments just to remind her that she has his attention too. And to check that she's still silent.
She is. Her little hand is still clasped tightly over her smiling mouth.
Runaan nods his approval and slides a foot closer. He's almost at the edge of the pool now and Ethari is still none the wiser for it. The smile on Runaan's face strengthens. He keeps his attention fixed solely on Ethari now, and that's where he makes his mistake.
All too late, Runaan notices a small movement from the toddler. Notices that Rayla has removed her hand from her mouth. Now both are clinging to Ethari's shoulder, bunching up his tunic in tight little fists as she bounces in excitement. The sudden glee from the formerly crying elfling has Ethari's head moving. Instinctively checking to make sure that the child is alright.
"Rayla? What-"
Then she rocks backwards. Ethari's hand darts up to support her as opens her mouth wide and, much to Runaan's dismay, screeches at the top of her lungs. "OOO-NAANAAN!"
And, just like that, Runaan's cover is blown, but he can't summon the energy to feel disappointed when Ethari twists around, spots him and laughs. The assassin knows how ridiculous he must look, semi-crouched, hiding behind nothing and shooting half-hearted scowls at an overly excited toddler still screeching the butchered babble of his name in delight.
And then, Runaan smiles. Truly smiles. His heart lifting as he finally completes his journey home, wrapping both Ethari and Rayla in his arms.
Especially not for protecting her.