Chapter Text
It takes Scott an hour to thread the needle. Rogol leaves him with the same sewing kit she keeps on hand for any quick mending work so he knows that it should be theoretically possible to thread the needle. However. The hole is very small and the thread wants to splay out and he's certain his fingers are simply too large for the task except that they aren't noticeably longer than Rogol’s and he needs to take a break after a while to sob in frustration because he's so close to being able to get out of here (he's not close he's not close at all) and get back to Xornoth and he's being defeated by something as simple as a needle and thread and–
And his emotions are a bit of a mess, if he's being honest with himself.
He splashes his face with water and takes some deep breaths and finally manages to catch a wisp of thread and pull it through. He pulls a length of thread that’s probably longer than necessary through and ties it off. And then he just has to start sewing. Which is a daunting task in itself. He knows the general idea, but he's never actually tried it.
He rolls his length of fabric out on the floor. He also needs to cut it in half and his sewing kit only has tiny sewing scissors that certainly won't get through the thick, heavy fabric. Still, he tries his best to wrestle with the material. After fifteen minutes of attempted hacking, the edges aren’t even beginning to fray.
Scott thinks that perhaps the fabric is secretly made out of titanium. He could search out Rogol for help cutting, but then he’d be forced to explain his complete failure at a mundane and supposedly simple task, which would not only be suspicious but also embarrassing. And besides, she’s seen so much of him the past few days that she’s probably sick of him by now.
Instead Scott decides to act like an adult and give in to the ever present, overwhelming despair. He lies down on the floor, stomach down, and buries his head in his hands. His world darkens, and he begins contemplating every single life decision that led him to this .
Scott is startled out of his moping by the distinct sound of the door swinging open and the soft, lilting voice of Sivein.
“Oh no,” Sivein breathes. And then, “please do not be dead.”
“I doubt I’ll be alive for much longer,” Scott says, bitterly, from his place on the floor.
The echo of Sivien’s steps falters and then resumes at a slower, more hesitant pace across the room. There’s a small cracking sound, presumably his joints as he kneels down besides Scott.
“I- um,” says Sivein. Scott raises his head, slowly and sorrowfully, to meet his gaze.
“Are you hurting?” asks Sivein quietly. It’s maybe the stupidest question Scott has ever heard. Is Scott hurting ? Is the desert sandy? Is Rivendell doomed?
But there is nothing a foreign tutor can do to help him, and Scott doesn’t want to cause Sivein undue stress. So he pulls himself up to his knees, rubs at his eyes (when had he started crying?), and starts his next performance.
“I can’t sew,” says Scott. Sivein blinks, tilting his head slightly to the side like a confused dog.
“My older brother was a genius at that sort of thing,” Scott lies, “He would always mend my clothes for me, both because he enjoyed the work and because he was so much better at it. So I never really had to learn. And now I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Scott gestures hopelessly at the useless pair of sewing scissors on top of the pile of fabric strewn around him, “And also I need better shears.”
“This is about sewing?” says Sivein. Scott nods, and Sivein noticeably relaxes. The tension in his shoulders drains away and he takes an even, measured breath.
“I cannot get you more dangerous scissors,” Sivein says, “but I think I could cut this up for you.” Scott brightens, grinning up at Sivein with an enthusiasm that isn’t quite warranted.
“I’m making new wing coverings,” explains Scott, “The fabric should be cut here and, hmm, around here.” He touches the material lightly with his index finger, tracing the shape of his imagined creation.
“I definitely have more than I need, so I was thinking that we could cut the excess into smaller pieces to practice on before I try the real thing. Do you know how to sew, Sivein?”
“Passably.”
“Then could you teach me that today, instead of the Pixandrian lessons? Please? I’ll be ever so grateful”
Sivien adjusts the strap of his bag around his shoulders, pausing a moment to glance over the grammar books contained within. His face scrunches up into a thoughtful expression, and he regards Scott with the kind of bemused concern that one would direct towards a child who was liable to burst, unexpectedly, into tears.
“Alright," he says, and the two of them get off the floor and head for actual seating arrangements.
Sivein’s stitches aren’t particularly beautiful, but they’re small and functional and hide well against the fabric. He sticks his tongue out as he works, and does his best to show Scott what to do instead of trying to explain in words.
Having help eases Scott’s frustrations. He doesn’t even snap when Sivein suggests he try to rethread the needle. Sivein demonstrates how to hold it properly and then recommends licking the end of the string. Apparently it’s easier for beginners if the tip of the thread they’re using is a bit damp. Sure enough, Scott gets the thread through the needle much more quickly.
The process of sewing fabric together is actually rather intuitive. Scott only pricks his finger five times before completing his first twenty stitches. He barely registers the pain.
Towards the end of Sivein’s designated lesson time, Scott splays out his half sewn sample against the table and regards it skeptically.
“How do you know if it’s any good?” he asks.
“Any good?” Sivein repeats.
“Yeah,” says Scott, “If I’m using this for my wing covers, I need to make sure no sand or grit can get in. Or water, I suppose, if it will ever rain here. There’s nothing worse than soggy feathers. Is there some way to test it?”
Sivein hums thoughtfully. “I have not had to make my stitches so secure before,” he says, “but I suppose you could try putting small water on the seams? To see if it goes through.”
“That’s a good idea,” Scott says. He pokes at his newly crafted seam. It’s difficult to imagine the chunk of scrap fabric and crooked stitches ever becoming a functional waterskin. If it works, Scott would have one more resource at his disposal. But, then again, if it works…
Scott looks over at Sivein and barely manages to stop himself from wincing. It isn’t the first time he’s thought about the potential collateral damage of his future escape, but it is the first time he can picture it so clearly (Sivein, sprawled out on the ground, facing the fury of a man who can kill without touch).
“Hey, Sivein,” Scott says in his most conspiratorial tone.
“Yes?”
“If anyone asks, I did all of this by myself. Because I am a very competent and beautiful worker who most definitely has known how to sew for years .”
“Of course,” Sivein laughs. Scott smiles and ignores the way his stomach twists
Pix doesn’t look so stunned to see him that afternoon. Scott has finished his sewing for the day and has turned to novellas instead. They’re a lot easier than the poetry and he can almost get lost in the stories, though sometimes he’ll guess what a word means wrong and embarrass himself in front of Sivein.
Still, things are peaceful and calm when Pix opens the door just as the sun begins to glitter over the river. Scott puts a silken bookmark in his place and greets the king with a gentle kiss on the lips. Pix hesitates for just a split second before returning it, stern and demanding and with a harsh edge that Scott is all too happy to melt into.
It’s humiliating, really, how quickly Pix can take Scott apart. He steps forward and Scott steps back, an eager partner in a familiar dance. Pix’s left hand around Scott’s wrists, his right hand in Scott’s left wing. Scott’s right wing raised so Pix can pin it under his left elbow. Pix’s teeth in Scott’s collarbone, his thigh shoved between Scott’s legs. Scott balances all his weight against the Copper King and rolls his hips to the rhythm of his heart pounding in his ears.
“How shall I serve you today, lenva?” he murmurs.
Pix bites down even harder. “Quiet,” he orders. He clearly isn’t in the mood for anything elaborate today. He just grinds Scott relentlessly against the wall until Scott cums in his pants and then flips him around and fucks him senseless while he sobs from overstimulation and pleasure-pain.
Scott is honestly astonished he still has tears left at this point with how much time he spends crying. Pix lets him go and he flops down on the bed, panting and spent, his pants still tangled around his knees, his feathers crumpled where Pix’s fingers dug into them.
“Long day?” he guesses.
Pix tucks himself away and sits down next to Scott, placing a gentle hand in his hair. “I’ve begun receiving words from my spies in Rivendell.”
Scott’s heart leaps into his throat. He forces himself not to react outwardly. “Mm?” he prods, as nonchalantly as he can.
Pix’s all too clever fingers curl the hair around his temples. “It seems that Rivendell is not as cowed as House Blossom would like me to think,” he says. “Do you know anything of an elf called Erodrem?”
“Erodrem?” Scott repeats. “I don’t think so? Why do you ask?”
“Curious,” Pix remarks. “He’s been appointed as Steward of Rivendell by the High Council. Clearly with House Blossom breathing down their necks, but it’s… interesting that they would choose a political outsider. Unless you simply didn’t pay attention to the Council?”
Scott stretches his wings back and uses them to push himself upright. His ass is still sore, so he leans against Pix’s shoulder instead, legs curled up under him. “Not as much as I probably should have, but I knew their names at least.” He’d like to be able to see Pix’s face, but not as much as he’d like for Pix not to see his.
“Right. Well, we’re already looking into him more,” Pix says. “He’s handling the civilian affairs for now. Rivendell’s military has formally been demobilized, but it seems that a large body of the soldiers simply vanished into the mountains. My latest reports indicate that they’ve been… rather active.”
Scott nods. “That makes sense. If they rally around the Taragrim, they could definitely do a lot of damage. The mountains are their home country, even more than for the rest of us.”
“They haven’t. Those are under Erodrem.”
Scott blinks. “No they’re not? They’re… Oh! Did your spy perhaps spell the name wrong? The leader of the Taragrim I knew in my time was named Oredrom.”
Pix sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “That… is possible.”
“It’s an easy mistake to make,” Scott points out. “Maybe not for a Pixandrian,” he adds when Pix seems unconvinced, “but if your agent got the information written down by an elf– when you’re not used to the alphabet, I promise you, it’s very easy to accidentally put a naiset out of place.” He doesn't like the idea of any of his countrymen giving information out to foreign powers, but it’s literally what he’s doing at this exact moment, so he can’t exactly throw stones.
Pix looks down at him for a moment, then shakes his head. “We’ll explore both possibilities, I suppose. So. This Oredrom, you say he was the leader of the Taragrim? What exactly are the Taragrim? We’ve never been able to quite ascertain if they’re military or–?”
Okay so this information Pix has never even had before. Great. Perfect. How fucking fitting for him to learn it from the prince instead of his spies. But it’s not like this is anything classified. Besides, Scott’s given up far more than his principles at this point. Scott wriggles out of his cum stained pants and tosses them at the hamper. He misses. He really should be monitoring Pix’s expressions, actually. He knows well enough how to guard his own.
“They’re the mountain folk,” he explains, flopping across Pix’s lap. His feathers are going to be a mess later. Good. “They use military ranks and discipline and they’re trained for mountain warfare, but their purpose is to keep Rivendell safe from any threats that come from the peaks and most of those are, well–” he gestures vaguely.
Pix raises an eyebrow. “Well?” he prompts. He places a large, hairy hand on Scott’s forehead and thumbs at Scott’s hairline. Scott wants to suck on his fingers. Or his dick.
“Well, I don’t think I need to educate a Pixandrian of all people about the dangers of the natural world.”
Pix’s lips quirk up in a small, private smile. Scott also wants those lips on his own dick, but that’s a much more distant hope. Besides, Pix would probably just bite Scott’s dick off.
… and wow, okay, Scott is lucky he just got fucked because apparently there’s a part of him that wouldn’t mind that either. The part that would get bitten off no less! He really needs to think about literally anything else. Luckily, Pix stops chuckling about whatever he’s chuckling about this time.
“Fair point well made,” Pix says, his voice still rich and heavy with laughter. “So they protect people from, what, avalanches?”
“Avalanches, mudslides, animal attacks, just getting lost and stranded, that sort of thing. The important thing is that the passes are going to be fairly easy for House Blossom to control compared to, say, the Helianthian fields and bypassing those control points is extraordinarily difficult without proper training and equipment.”
“Does the regular military not have that?”
Scott shrugs. “Sort of. Everyone serves under the Taragrim for at least a year, but there’s a difference between someone who served their mandatory year a century ago and someone who’s been on the peaks every day for that whole century. There’s no other force nearly so well suited to striking back from the mountains.”
“Which makes it rather peculiar that they’ve stayed loyal to Oredrom.”
“That part isn’t peculiar,” Scott replies immediately, unable to keep the bitterness entirely out of his voice. “Anyone in the capital could have seen that coming. The peculiar part is that anyone else is bothering to fight on without them. It’s pointless.”
“Unless Oredrom is feeding the resistance information,” Pix muses, drumming his fingers on Scott’s forehead as he thinks.
“He wouldn’t,” Scott dismisses immediately. “He wouldn’t risk Rivendell’s entire civilian populace while they’re under the thumb of occupiers to feed a suicide mission’s delusions of achieving anything more practical than its own destruction.”
“That’s quite a bold assumption,” Pix remarks with that particular mild courtly reproach that’s meant to sting more than his whips ever have. It does, but not more than the knife to the gut.
“That’s what he said, more or less word for word, when Crown Prince Xornoth proposed building such a force around a unit of his Taragrim,” Scott retorts as he pushes himself upright and wraps his wings around his knees. “He wouldn’t look any more kindly on it with untrained troops.” It’s hard not to feel a little ridiculous, committing treason of the highest order with his dick out, but covering himself with his wings doesn't really make him feel better about the whole treason thing.
“I see,” Pix replies slowly. Then, to Scott’s astonishment, “Would you like me to give you some space? I’m sure this isn’t easy for you to talk about.”
It is easy. That’s the problem. It’s too fucking easy to tell Pix everything and rip his own heart to do it just because he knows how much Pix loves watching him bleed.
Scott pastes on a smile. “I’m alright, lenva,” he insists. “Thank you for the offer, but I’m fine. You can stay as long as you like.”
Pix stands. His thumb rests on Scott’s cheek and Scott is suddenly hyper aware of the tears forming in his eyes and the naked hunger on Pix’s face. But Pix closes his eyes and takes a long, slow breath and pulls himself away. “You know, mlukona,” he says, “You’re not a very good liar.”