Chapter 1: ᚺ – Foundling
Chapter Text
"I do not exist, but faithfully insist
Sailing in our separate ships
And from each tiny caravelle
Tiring and trying there's a necessary dying
Like the horseshoe crab in its proper seasons sheds its shell."
Messes of Men - mewithoutYou
– ᚺ ᚺ ᚺ –
1 - ᚺ – Foundling
In the dark of the smallest sitting room of their large home, Jascha Cunningham was deftly and subtly trying to convince his dark, formidable submissive to take on another – troubled – apprentice. Certainly not an easy feat. Hadrian had been her lovely project, of course, her intrinsic choice that deftly demonstrated who she was, what she stood for, and how formidable she truly was.
Wikhn, the irascible, disagreeable, positively grumpy dark fae, reeling – and lashing – from the heels of a most unanticipated soul scream, on the other hand, had been Jascha’s choice, and was still very much a work in progress – not unlike one Hadrian Maruke, but much, much worse. He did sometimes wonder if Mariana regretted granting his request to take on the dark fae.
The fairy dust was certainly a boon, though.
Yes, convincing his at times intimidating submissive to take on the mere child, a child from the war-torn earthen realm, no less, who was only nearly twenty years into his first century, on behalf of Lord Aiden, was certainly going to be difficult. A worthy challenge, though, he thought.
The boy’s shadows ran exceedingly strong, of course, but so was his mind, his will. Jascha could already see the discordant clashes that such a future would bring, explosive as they would be, he could see the writing on the wall. Or, rather, the blood spatter on the wall.
Sometimes Jascha wondered who exactly was supposed to be learning from whom, in this dance they were all doing. Fortunately, he wondered less often as the days and months wore on.
Her curiosity was certainly piqued, but he knew his direct approach was no longer going to work. She still wasn’t seeing all of the fruits of her labor with Wikhn, so he contrived another solution. She’d have to see it herself, it would have to be her own decision, and subsequently he’d need another conversation with Lord Aiden, again.
– ᚺ ᚺ ᚺ –
It took three tries, in the end. One visit to the pits to witness an awful fight between training circles, all unchoreographed and jarring, shameful, really, resulting in a huge loss from the most obvious side, and then, two visits to Death’s court, that she, of course, also complained about, but even Jascha could admit the meetings were rather… Empty, and with an unexpectedly small amount of time elapsing between. But, needs must. His machinations, his contrivances, to allow his submissive to see the inner workings of one gheyic submissive’s current assigned training circle were difficult, but he knew in his gut they were about to pay off.
“That suite is all wrong for him,” Mariana huffed for the third time, as she watched the small, dark haired gheyic submissive flinch at the movement of his nearby training ACE.
“Why-ever not, my love? All things considered, elementally, they’re quite a good match for him- it’s almost lucky,” Jascha needled, knowing that while the elements of his training suite were stacked in the tiny submissive’s favor, it wasn’t the most important aspect of such a training suite, only a lone, functional aspect.
No, a training suite was an ever-delicate thing, full of sharp corners and blunt twists that had to fit just right — a unique fit, not unlike a puzzle. Gheyos were Gheyos after all, full of pride, bloodlust, the most vibrant of emotions, passion in its every form, all precariously balanced on a razor thin edge.
“No!” She cried, vehement. “He needs something simultaneously harder and softer. A firm hand with a gentle touch. That’s what he needs.”
She wasn’t finished. “And, his interactions with our Lady… Yes, he needs someone to temper him, someone to teach him when to harness his darkness, when to release it, and most importantly, how to pick his pieces up without tearing himself apart every time.”
Jascha pretended to consider her words. “Yes, I think you’re right, my darkling, but I can’t see any good fit in Death’s court, to say nothing of any from the shadow haunts. It’s certainly a unique situation with no… evident resolution.”
Mariana smiled, and she could tell the moment Jascha hid his own, thinking he had won. She did so love tricking her alpha into thinking he’d won. She wondered for a moment if he knew how much of herself she saw in the little submissive.
Her eyes strayed to Wikhn and Hadrian, their places further within the rest of her circle that had turned out to Death’s court. Still, probably close enough to hear. Hadrian’s face betrayed nothing – pity. She did delight in any emotion she wrought from him, on those occasions that she could. She wondered if the gheyic submissive would develop such a fondness. Wikhn, as expected, was much more easy to read, looking a little put out, a storm already brewing behind his narrowed eyes. She smirked.
Mind firmly made up, she strode from her place beside her alpha, to Lord Aiden and his place near the embarrassingly off-kilter training suite he was unobtrusively trying to wrangle in some sense of cohesion and decorum, to ask for an introduction and the release of a favor he owed her. She’d certainly make the hound use one up, she wasn’t stupid, after all.
“Lord Aiden,” she breathed with a curt smile. “A word, if you would?”
Behind Mariana’s back, Jascha smiled, shadows curling and crowing quietly in delight, aligned with his emotions, alight with his accomplishment.
And, for once, unnoticed by the Lord and Lady Cunningham, the shadows of one Death’s favored reaper and one vicious dark fae were calm – calm, but delighting, anticipating, curious. No one noticed a curling, lilting, lazy shadow ambling from its place near a dark, harrowed reaper, around and to the back of the room, heading to the back of a floundering, troubled submissive – a tiny anchor for a sinking ship on similarly troubled waters.
Hadrian watched with a nearly impassive face, save for the slight furrowing of his brow, as the lone shadow curled about, quickly and happily making itself a new home, snug and content, almost catlike, amongst much younger, lighter shadows.
Chapter 2: ᚢ – Fighting
Summary:
At the express request of Lord Aiden Arythmoor, Lord Jascha Cunningham is uniquely compelled to convince his formidable submissive to take on a new apprentice – a gheyic submissive recently arrived from the earthen realm, bearing many scars, some visible, some not. Not dissimilar to the project she'd taken on herself in death's favored, though troubled reaper, and not dissimilar either to the project he'd asked her to take on - one irascible, disagreeable, positively grumpy dark fae.
Or alternatively, Mariana Cunningham’s Home for Wayward Gheyos.
Notes:
This chapter was READY and then the Lady Mariana of course found (fought? Yes, fought) her way into a scene she wasn’t originally in, and then last night I read through all my notes on Hadrian from canon, and realized that even though I tried really hard I didn’t get him right. (I absolutely ADORE the way Hadrian speaks in canon. Also, I had to go back and add more scowls.) I still didn’t get him right, of course, but I’m glad I took the time to try a little harder, and then I was drawn to writing some of the very last chapter, for some reason?! Anyway. This is all edited now. Hope someone enjoys xx
PS, in my current little corner of this universe, Sirius and James were both Gheyos, Lily was a submissive; Sirius was Harry’s third of course. This is why Harry is a gheyic submissive in this story. But I'd like to know - who do you think Harry’s third is, since we know it is not the usual suspects? I couldn’t even begin to guess, I have only one idea and I just don’t see how it fits with TBDH canon, so it’s really not an idea at all…
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"Such distance from our friends
Like a scratch across a lens
Made everything look wrong from anywhere we stood
And our paper blew away before we'd left the bay
So half-blind we wrote these songs on sheets of salty wood"
Messes of Men - mewithoutYou
– ᚢ ᚢ ᚢ –
2 – ᚢ – Fighting
“The child is absolutely infuriating!” Mariana shouted to her alpha, because she did not whine.
While her alpha was trying to formulate a response, she continued, “No sense of decorum, brash, foolhardy–”
“Yes – however–” The lady continued as if her lord had never spoken, but could she be blamed? He’d interrupted her, after all–
“–self-deprecating, absolutely no sense of self worth – his adamantine sense of honor, of duty that isn’t even his to embrace – it would almost be easier if he were as arrogant as his power should command!”
“Would it really, my pet?” Jascha asked mildly, with what might have been a tiny smile. She huffed.
“Regardless, it is Our Lady who commands. However, consider it from his perspective, milady – torn from his own realm during bone-and-blood-won peacetime, by the rough hands of Lord Aiden, no less, to stand resolutely in a court he is unfamiliar with, with instincts he’s only beginning to learn, that he shies away from, in spite of his own desire… This is what you wanted, and that our Lady, intervening in –your–” Arielle, he’d nearly said our, nearly betrayed his true motivations, yes, it was a very near thing… “–plans, ultimately granted the boon of such a transfer of his wardship from Lord Aiden to yourself, the boon you so wanted that Our Lady initially endangered…” He trailed off when she huffed again, not wanting to hear any more of his words. Another tiny, near smile on his lips, in his fondness.
And that was fine. It was all fine. He knew that his lady, his terrifically magnificently dark submissive, relished in biting off more than she could chew, in her hunger for taming the untamable. But his almost-smile began to falter. He knew that burgeoning look in her eye, that gleam, and it meant… it meant… Well, nothing good.
“Yes, I know just what to do. I’ll set the twins on him.” She smirked, with resolute eyes.
“The – the jokers, my love? Is that wise?” The alpha asked, almost in a whisper.
She breathed a drawn out “Yes,” nodding slowly.
– ᚢ ᚢ ᚢ –
“Well, he’s certainly scrappy,” Wikhn huffed. His hands swirled in the almost unbearably hot water of the large tub he was sharing with Hadrian to clean and nurse their wounds, perhaps indulge in a spot of intimacy, and possibly a little more, if so inclined. Harry had said absolutely nothing upon departing from their latest sets of spars, a flat look on his face, and was likely nursing his wounds alone in the adjacent, but walled off shower, far enough for their conversation to not be overheard – yes, alone, because he didn’t understand or accept what his instincts told him he needed yet. That, and because he was likely licking his wounds, grumbling to himself, placatingly, under the hot, comforting spray of the shower, that two on one wasn’t fair.
The start of conversation broke Hadrian’s ruminations of how much he did love a fight first thing in the morning, even before breakfast, because didn’t that make it all the better to savor... Though, he had been a bit distracted from his own, with Wikhn, eyes straying ceaselessly across the yard, attempting to catch a glimpse of pearlescent peach scales, or soulful green eyes, green eyes that were ensnared, locked in the perilous throes of his own fight with the Vega twins. Hadrian was certainly betrayed by his own undeniable instincts – his need, to protect the tiny, dark haired submissive – but not quite betrayed enough to lose to Wikhn, small mercies.
He snorted belatedly at Wikhn’s blunt understatement. “That’s certainly one way to put it. Yes, he is tenacious, often to his own detriment. He does have my sympathy – the twins never fight fair.” A pause.
“I do wonder if he’ll ever learn.” Hadrian murmured thoughtfully.
“Learn what, exactly?” Wikhn asked mildly, but there was something darker in his tone that Hadrian couldn’t quite place.
“Whatever the Lady Mariana seems to desire that I teach him.”
“And what about what she wants him to teach you?” Wikhn smirked. He certainly knew what was going on here. They were, of course, all being taught a lesson – a great many lessons. And perhaps – no, definitely – being punished. Punishment could take a variety of forms, of course.
Hadrian rolled his eyes. “For me, I’m not sure if it’s a lesson in patience, or simply recompence.”
Wikhn smirked, one hand dropping further down into the water and inching ever so slowly towards Hadrian’s thigh. “Both.”
Hadrian’s trademark scowl betrayed him – Wikhn did so love the sharp exultation he felt when he pulled it out of him. And what he could do in turn to make it disappear – the dark fae leaned forward, capturing full lips in his own.
– ᚢ ᚢ ᚢ –
Hadrian’s eyebrows rose searchingly as the raven haired gheyic submissive, slight and lithe, pushed away from the breakfast table and headed to the stairs in a huff. Going to sulk, most likely. He scowled. The lady Mariana pursed her lips at her throne – for any seat upon which the lady sat should surely be called a throne, not for any reason like arrogance, rather, the sheer amount of respect and deference that her presence alone commanded – gravitas – and eyed the most exasperating dark fae to ever darken her already blackened doorstep.
“Was it something I said?” Wikhn asked, dark and playful, mouth twisting and eyes alight with mirth and something else, perhaps a little sinister, as they danced across Hadrian’s.
Hadrian rolled his eyes, frowning. “Obviously. Must you needle him so?”
“Yes,” Wikhn crowed, drawing a piece of fruit around Hadrian’s lips. Hadrian swallowed, but opened his mouth, savoring the fruit and the look in Wikhn’s eyes. Straightening up, he stole the plate and headed upstairs. Wikhn glared at his retreating back.
They were Hadrian’s favorites, because he didn’t know Harry’s yet, but they’d do, with the bonus that such an action would frustrate Wikhn, who did act as a good king would – when he felt so inclined, that is to say – in caring for his ACE, training or not.
“You know, it was meant to be a compliment – tell him as much, since you’re going to him, and feeding him your food.” Wikhn shouted to be heard.
“You might consider telling him this yourself, you impudent-” Hadrian shouted back.
“Fine!” Wikhn huffed.
Hadrian took the first set of stairs two at a time, chastising himself and taking the next two sets at a more leisurely pace.
He reached Harry’s door, and knocked, only to receive no answer. So naturally, he sent his shadows in, just to observe. They reported back that Harry was sulking and didn’t want to be disturbed.
One lone shadow – that he belatedly realized wasn’t his, young as it was – attempted to contradict the others, telling him that Harry did in fact want to be disturbed, but only by Hadrian. That settled, Hadrian went to open the door, only for it to open on its own, dark eyes meeting impossibly green ones that held unfathomable depths and a tiny well of tears. There was a harsh tick of anger in his taut jaw. Hadrian took in the hard set of it, the few creases in his forehead, the downturn of his generous mouth.
Hadrian looked him over silently, and decided not to mention what he saw.
“You still need to eat.” He lifted the plate in his left hand.
The lips he belatedly realized he hadn’t ceased staring at, thinned.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” Hadrian whispered, then, louder, more sure, “You fought well before breakfast – impressively well.”
The compliment induced a tiny preen and a gentling of Harry’s stance, which Hadrian instinctively took as an invitation, feeble as it was, and sat upon the bed. Harry eventually followed, perching next to him.
“When you fight like that, so magnificently,” – yes, temper the suggestion with a compliment, very good – “you expend a great deal of energy. You’ll need to replenish that energy – a bit of blood wouldn’t be remiss, either.”
Harry cringed faintly, his button nose wrinkling. Then, decisively, “No, thanks.”
Hadrian began slicing a bit of the blue fruit on the plate between two claws. “Sugar, then. There’s also other things you need,” he said, reaching his free hand out and placing it on Harry’s arm. But Harry flinched, so he removed it.
Harry reached toward the plate, but Hadrian put that lost hand to use moving it away – another flinch – but in the same moment, raised the juicy bit of fruit in his other to Harry’s lips, asking for entrance. After a moment, Harry’s lips gave, and he savored the succulent, cobalt blue pear-like fruit. A tiny moan slipped out, and Hadrian’s eyes widened feebly.
“This is – absolutely delicious! What is it?” Harry eyed the plate, a pleading look within them.
Hadrian smiled, happy with the new fact he had wrangled out of Harry. They were infinitely difficult to collect, he’d found. “My favorite. A moonpear. A bit of a delicacy. Its life cycle is very long, ridiculously so, as it only grows during the full moon. Not a leaf or a bud grows outside of that.” Harry reached for the plate, trying and failing to slice a piece free with one claw.
Harry frowned – “So that’s why I don’t see it on the table often, and there’s never much of it when I do. You have it then, since it’s your favorite,” Harry offered a shredded bit of the delectable fruit to Hadrian’s lips. Hadrian wondered how Harry had known that shredding it, that releasing its juices, would in turn release a very special polyphenol that wasn’t released when sliced, though it was a very messy affair. His mouth watered at the thought of the uniquely earthy, astringent flavor, reminiscent of how chocolate feels on the tongue, a sensation that would always elicit a delicious pucker of the mouth. Harry, on the other hand, tried not to cringe and hoped Hadrian hadn’t noticed he’d accidentally mangled the fruit, still so unsure of his claws.
“It is, but I am happy to share it with you.” Hadrian opened his mouth a bit wider to take in and savor the delicious fruit, even as a not insubstantial amount of juice dripped down his chin – so messy, mashed moonfruit – and, if Harry called out the fact that his tongue swiped out to taste the juice left behind on his fingers, he would swear it was an accident.
“So how do we get a daily supply?” Harry asked with a small smile, eyes stuck on Hadrian’s lips so near his fingers, as Hadrian’s lips closed, and he belatedly removed them.
Hadrian didn’t answer, but with the next bite he offered Harry, Hadrian intentionally sliced his finger on one of Harry’s helpfully exposed fangs. Harry’s eyes widened, and his lips closed around Hadrian’s fingers for the tiniest moment, tongue caressing the offered finger, but then he released it and pulled back, breathing harshly. “Oops - I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to bite you,” Harry breathed.
“You suppress your instincts a lot – why?” Hadrian asked plainly.
It was a long moment before Harry spoke. When he spoke, it was an anguished whisper – ah, he’d put his paw in his mouth with that question, hadn’t he?
“My instincts have been wrong before.”
Hadrian rather thought that sounded more like mistaking something else for instinct, not instinct being mistaken, because instincts were instincts for a reason, but, perhaps that was a matter of semantics… “Yes, I do… suppose that can happen, but–”
“There were… consequences. Severe ones.” Harry murmured plaintively.
An unbidden and surprising stab of anger shot through Hadrian – he usually had more control over his emotions – which of course, unfortunately, shot through Harry, too, and Harry winced, as if pained. Hadrian suppressed an urge to wrap him in his arms, because in the next instant, Harry closed off. Hadrian could see the emotion shutter in his eyes. But he decided to wrap him in his shadows as the next best thing, and to try anyway.
Telegraphing the movement of his hand, he placed it upon Harry’s knee. “Will you tell me about it?” Harry didn’t flinch that time, so he left his hand and shadows where they were.
It took Harry a moment, but then in a quiet, flat voice, Harry began a harrowing tale.
When Harry finished, Hadrian, usually a man of few words, had a lot to say. He’d had a very difficult time not interrupting – especially when Harry had mentioned thestrals, and then again when he mentioned prophecy orbs – and possession!? – what a strange, dangerous, despicable realm, Earth was – and now he didn’t know where to start. Perhaps soul magic did, though, as the right words slipped out. “I’m sorry – but did you say Sirius Black?"
“Yes – why?” Harry asked, heart lurching. If Hadrian recognized that name, well. He was a reaper, wasn’t he? Wouldn’t it be absolutely awful if he’d reaped Sirius’ soul?
“It’s just – I recognized the name, from…” where? It was in the back of his mind, he could almost feel it, but couldn’t quite pull it forth.
That hurt. Harry huffed. “Yeah.” That lone word was wrought with despair.
Perhaps they weren’t the right words after all, Hadrian thought.
– ᚢ ᚢ ᚢ –
Another fight, another fit, probably. Hadrian could almost sense it. He could see it in the twist in Wikhn’s mouth, in the harshness of Harry’s eyes. They were sniping at each other and not in any way that was productive or educational – and most especially, not what Hadrian had directed. Before the worst could happen, Hadrian decided to end it, dancing lithely away from the queen, and pinned a distracted and surprised Wikhn to the ground. Wikhn’s queen, in turn, found himself surprisingly pinned by Harry, who seemed elated to have found himself free of Wikhn’s attempted clutches. The prince and princess were still wrestling, but it was clearly more foreplay than anything, realizing he’d guessed correctly when they began a bit of blood-sharing.
Harry let the queen up at once, offering him his hand, but was pulled down in one fell swoop into an, ultimately, unwanted embrace that he bore for about 5 seconds before pushing away, standing back up, and brushing himself off, itching at grass stains on exposed skin.
Hadrian, however, did not let up.
“What did you do wrong, my king?” He breathed.
“Took my eyes off you, didn’t I?” Wikhn spat.
“While you’re entitled to your petty rivalry, next time you’d do well to ensure you keep your situational awareness about you, no matter your current focus.” He advised firmly.
“Yes, ACE.” Wikhn mumbled.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear you.” Something ominous, something deliciously dark and deep, in his tone.
“Yes, ACE!” Wikhn cried firmly.
“Good king,” Hadrian purred, nipping at his neck and drawing blood, feeling Wikhn’s body relax – but not without a perfunctory growl – and he bared his neck further, granting easier access.
Harry watched with envious eyes, and his envy that was greener than his own eyes went uncaught by any that were dark pink or black. His queen reached for him again, and he lurched away.
When Hadrian was finished, he leapt up, helping Wikhn up in turn, and wound his arms around his waist. Chin perched on Wikhn’s shoulder, he looked to his gheyo queen where he stood near Harry, who was eying Harry dubiously. His eyes strayed to the prince and princess pair who were engaged in a furious and bloody lip lock. Harry was blushing.
“I don’t think any of you were paying attention,” his dark eyes straying to Harry’s deep green, “Except for Harry,” he murmured. “Good submissive.”
Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Hadrian noticed, but didn’t go to him. He felt desire too, as it seeped from Harry. Could tell it from his own, in all its innocence, its inexperience. But it wasn’t time, not yet.
“Bathhouse, now!” Hadrian ordered. He’d get them all in a tub together – if only as a learning experience for Harry, if not a claws-on one – or so help him! A hearty chorus of “Yes, ACE!” had him leading the way.
“Kept your wits about you this time, didn’t you?” Wikhn whispered to Harry, needling. Harry bristled, but Wikhn’s next words had him preening against his will, shoulders lifting, the tiny curve of a smile forming on his face. “Good submissive,” Wikhn purred with darkening eyes.
– ᚢ ᚢ ᚢ –
Returning from another emotionally wrought visit with family he hadn’t even known he had, empathy fraying, Harry jumped, not expecting to be startled in the bathroom so late at night, and after such a relaxing bath. He’d thought he was alone with his maudlin thoughts.
“Alright, Grumpy?” Harry, smirked, toweling his sodden hair and resolutely ignoring the fact that Wikhn was naked as he strode into the shared bathroom. Harry watched in the mirror, entranced by dark pink eyes as Wikhn snarled at him and quick as a strike, had him turned and in a headlock, because Lord Jascha had started that infernal nickname, once, and he couldn’t put him in a headlock. The eyes in Harry’s face, now pointed downward as he was caught up in the headlock, were not looking.
“Quit calling me that,” Wikhn snapped.
Harry laughed. “I think you like it.” Wikhn’s arm around his neck loosened minutely. Harry bit him, playfully – Wikhn flinched, and Harry frowned. Then Wikhn released him completely and strode to the adjoining shower. Harry definitely didn’t watch his departure, eyes not once straying to a shapely, rounded bum – and he definitely didn’t sigh, either.
Notes:
Back to the subject of what was and wasn’t originally in this chapter, that little kiss wasn’t originally there either, but I’m pretty happy about it. It snuck in around edit number 4, maybe. I’m not sure what Wikhn likes more, needling him or… You know what, I get the feeling he knows he doesn’t have to choose in his wicked delights. Also, I'm leaving the bath scene to your imagination, but I have a tiny bit of an urge to do a separate fic of, ahem, alternate scenes, we will call them...
Anyway, one more thing for the ether - Mariana feels like Snape to me, except without the blinders of arrogance. Just a thought.