Chapter Text
The garden of the dead lays in languid disarray, all curling ironwork and weathered angels tilting upon their pedestals. Moonlight scatters itself across the smoothed ground, pale as spilt milk, and the air hangs heavy with the perfume of damp earth and lichen.
It is here, at Vedrfolnir’s insistence—"Go to your little graveyard and clear your head, Rerir. I'm serious. Walk it off, before you do or say something you'll regret." —that he found himself striding the marble orchard, spinning his family’s signet ring around his finger, an old nervous habit. He must look half mad, on his fifth circle of the cemetery and flailing an arm as he rants and raves to no one, words spilling like venom into the night air.
Though Khaenri’ah lay entombed in its own dark ignorance, Rerir never let its walls make a prisoner of him. While he despises the Heavenly Principles equally, if not more, he could walk here until the fury drained from his bones without enduring unwanted company. Yes, the cemetery served well enough : quiet, abandoned, and no one there to badger him about—
"Marriage," he spits incredulously, rolling the ring against his knuckle faster. "As though my blood and birth are not enough to claim allegiance." He kicks over some poor sod's fractured headstone, throwing his arms wide at the angel leaning askew and letting out a defeated huff of laughter. "Well, color me impressed with the perception of simpering fools. Khaenri’ah can rot so long as the Crimson Moon is restored and the lie above our heads is shattered."
No vow could bind his heart to the care of Khaenri’ah’s future, yet the royal council dangled this quid pro quo before him as if it could, as if such a inane thing would keep his mind humble and sharpened for their gain. And the worst part? Those morons were wrong, but had the power to make good on their threats. He could be blacklisted by merchants and libraries alike if he doesn't play along and then where would that leave him? Khaenri'ah's gates may be open, but it's shelves are closed to all but those of true blood.
This nation is a prison of contradictions. They're follow no God, they swear no unwavering allegiance to a higher power and yet now they demand it of their citizens?! He needs to think of a way around this, a way to keep them pliant enough to allow him to finish investigating the preserved knowledge of the Crimson Moon he's managed to gather. After he's set, he can abandon to somewhere else. Possibly Sumeru? Maybe farther?
Frustrated he slaps his arm down at his side, the sudden motion sends the signet ring careening from his finger and tumbling across the well traveled path. Stupid thing has always had a loose fit, and the amount of times he's lied to himself about getting it sized properly is borderline comical. He gives casual chase watching it finally come to rest against an fallen black metal lantern. It gives no glow and given its similar shape to the multiple hanging on fixtures interspersed through the cemetery, Rerir thinks nothing of it. Things like this have long since become background noise here.
Exhausted and incensed beyond reason, Rerir fixes the device with a withering look as he crouches down to collect what he owes. "Well, they never claimed it had to be a human partner did they?" He tosses it up and down a few times before setting the ring on one of the lantern's points. "I hereby vow my hand to this lantern and all it encompass. May it shine light in my life like no other could and hold my heart for all eternity. Well? Do you think they'll let me work in peace now?"
It was meant to be a simple jest.
For a heartbeat, the lantern remains inert, then, as he's reaching to yank off the ring, the black glass flickers to life. A pale, cold wisteria flame bursts outward like a cloud, and all at once a person materializes from nothing sending Rerir falling to his ass in shock. Long indigo hair is fluffed and settled against their back as they stretch, yawning and turning in place to peak down at Rerir through harvest moon yellow eyes.
"I do," he hums finally, voice dry but warm as he turns his pale hand, admiring the ring now on his finger. He seems awfully fixated on the gem, holding it closer after a second. "Red isn't a color that I think will compliment me, but I suppose human marriage is about compromise, is it not? And these scratches are quite lovely. Is this old?"
Rerir stiffens, fists clenching, eyes darting between the stranger and his metal band now snug on their finger. There are a million questions in his mind, none of them reach his mouth. No, his first thought to make it is, "Give that back! That is not yours!" He stands to his full height, happy to be an entire head taller than this thief and reaches for the jewelry.
"I can't say I'm interested in divorce at this time," the creature(?) turns gracefully out of reach, eyes still fixed down on the gem. His next words come muttered, "It just seems like careless handling now that I look at it. Still, it's quite beautiful."
Rerir’s hand closes around the air where the troublesome thing once stood. “Not interested in—? What do you mean, ‘not interested’?! I'm not asking, I'm telling you! Give it back now!” His voice grates with equal parts anger and disbelief.
The stranger tilts his head, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he brings the ring playfully to his lips. The way he looks at Rerir, you'd think he is really looking at something beloved. It's unnerving.
“Oh, I mean exactly what I said. Divorce is so much trouble, even by fae standards. We're better off attending counseling or something equally inane.” He bends one hand behind his back and placing the ringed hand over his chest. “But where are my manners? You can call me Flins by the way.”
Fae?! Fae!
"I don't have time for these ridiculous games," Rerir is on him in an instant, and its only with minor delight to watch a modicum of fear flicker through those big yellow eyes when his hand clamps down onto the fae's wrist hard. Now that he's caught him, he forces the hand in close, quick to yank on the ring and—
It doesn't move.
Another try. Nothing. Why, it is as if it is glued there!
What?!
The surprise flees Flins lips and his smile peaks once more, golden eyes glinting. “Oh?” he murmurs, tilting his head much like a cat. “You thought that would work?” He stretches the fingers flat to mock him, playfully showing off the ring. “If you conduct research the same way you conduct your proposals, perhaps Khaenri'ah has more to fear that just your non-existent allegiance? Aren't all good experiments supposed to start with a question? What was it, a hypothesis?"
One breath in. Out. A second in. Out. Nope, not calming down. It doesn't help that he's sure he's heard those exact words from Rhinedottir a few weeks ago.
That's not important. What is important is that Rerir's going to kill this fae, but first he needs his ring back. "Why won't it come off? What are you doing to it?" He squeezes the wrist, pain teasing at the creases of Flins's eyes. That should've broke a bone and yet this fae looks like he merely closed his finger in a door.
"It's simple. I don't want a divorce," Flins seems ungodly unbothered by being the living embodiment of a pain in the neck. "And if I do not remove the ring, it will not move from this finger. You, of course, could cut it off but I doubt you'll get very far." Something about that wry amusement doesn't make Rerir feel its that simple. "Now that I've answered your question, I'd be happy if you answered a long burning question of mine. Do humans always talk to themselves this much when angry? Or do you just happen to like the sound of your own voice?”
-
Rerir’s grip on Flins’ wrist is firm but careful, a polite compromise to growing the idea of dragging him along by the back of his neck like the obnoxious pest he is. Sadly, Rerir does have a reputation to protect so alas, he must maintain the appearance of civility. More so the pity. If any onlookers notice the sharp tension in his jaw, they seem to do the smart thing with the information and stay clear out of the duo's way.
You would think that would afford him some peace. You'd be wrong.
“I thought married humans were joined at the hands or lock arms. Why do you hold me by the wrist? Is it something more intimate than that or is this particular to you?” And then there is that. These ridiculous questions.
Rerir’s jaw twitches, chancing a look back at his proverbial lantern and chain. "No, there is no intimacy about this. I'm making sure you don't run off with my ring like a thief. It's been in my family for years and its not yours. And stop calling me that! We're not married!"
Flins frowns, the corners bunching just so. —. "By fae standards we are."
"Are you pouting? What are you twelve?!" Rerir scoffs, turning his attention back where they're going. Last thing he wants is to crash into someone and explains this. Still, he can't help but wonder. "What is your fascination with marriage anyway?"
"I've always been interested in humans. The way you view the world is so fascinating and there is a light reflected in your eyes that I wish to comprehend." Flins drawls, doing the worst thing possible for Rerir's image and catching up to walk more at his side. Now the Khaenri'ahn just looks clingy! "Normally when humans come to the graveyard, nobody is in much of a speaking mood, especially not the ones in the lacquered caskets. And the few times I've shown myself, the living flee in terror. It's terribly boring and lonely. I see this as my chance to learn and experience something wonderful."
“You wanted it for the experience?” Rerir repeats, incredulous. “You don't need to get married to experience humanity, you idiot. Just give me back my ring and take a walk or something. Trust me, you'll get sick of it all soon enough—”
“Sir Rerir!” The voice is piping but precise, like a flute. Footsteps rapidly approach them from behind.
Rerir groans. Fuck him. Fuck his entire life. Of course it would be—
Young Master Dainsleif, no taller than his thigh, runs into their path and stumbles to a stop. His pale blonde hair is free of its meticulous order and his beloved cloak has some fresh holes at the base no doubt from improperly scaling his home's fence again. For a second he looks up at Rerir excitedly, but the expression falters upon seeing the new face.
“Master Dainsleif,” Rerir grits out, forcing a smile that feels like glass cracking. “Roaming the streets at this hour? I hope your brother enjoys the coronaries you’re giving him.”
“I wasn’t roaming,” Dainsleif insists, puffing up with childish self-importance. “My brother hasn’t come home yet, so I am out here to look for him. When I heard your voice, I thought he might be with you, but—” His gaze trails to Flins full of innocent curiosity. “Who’s this?”
Rerir inhales, prepared to dismiss it all with a half cooked excuse a child would bite at and not think twice of, but Flins steps in with the timing of a duelist’s blade. He gives a graceful bow, hand pressed over his heart. Despite the flared sleeves of his dark purple justacorps coat, his hand peaks out just enough for the garnet-studded ring to wink red in the boy’s sharp gaze.
“Forgive me for startling you, young master,” Flins hums, voice warm as velvet. “Dainsleif was it? I am Rerir’s fiancé. Newly bound, though not yet formally celebrated. You may call me Flins.”
Rerir chokes so hard he nearly swallows his tongue.
Dainsleif blinks once, twice, then looks up at Flins with the piercing judgment only children possess. "No you're not. My brother says he'll never marry anyone cause he's such a grouch!'
But Flins isn't fazed, righting himself and looping his arm through Rerir’s with the ease of a seasoned conspirator. He presses himself close and gives it a pat. “I won't deny you on that,” he agrees, eyes shining with mischief. “He’s very private. A man so wedded to his work rarely has practice with well, other vows, but his heart is generous. See how dearly he trusted me with his family’s ring.”
Dainsleif’s eyes flick to the band again, suspicion warring with the innocent eagerness of one entrusted with a grand secret.
Rerir tries to tug free at the same time, but Flins tightens his grip with infuriating subtlety, that smile never once slipping. “We were hoping to keep it private a little longer, but the council has implied Rerir has no allegiance to Khaenri'ah's citizens so I suggested now might be the time to come forward publicly. I would hate for anyone to think he doesn't care about our wonderful nation. Wouldn't you?"
Rerir is certain he’s about to explode.
Dainsleif, meanwhile, to Rerir's horror seems to be considering the idea. “I…see. But then how come I never met you?”
"Because—" A foot stamps down hard on Rerir's foot locking his jaw up in pain.
"Because it's been a secret, remember? Now it's best you go home. Wouldn't want your brother to worry anymore, hmm? Do give Sir Vedrfolnir our regards when you find him."
As soon as the boy is gone, Rerir yanks his arm free and rounds on Flins, nearly vibrating with rage. “What the hells was that?!”
Flins blinks, golden eyes bright with the glee of a cat who has knocked a priceless vase from its pedestal yet his mouth disparagingly straight. “Oh, don’t look at me like that.” he tilts his head, “Now you have the perfect leverage to get what you need for your research. You’re welcome.”
-
Rerir’s house is not a home meant for guests, and certainly never for a fiancé, yet here Flins is, meandering through it as though the rooms belong to him. At least he has the sense to slide things meticulously back into their places after inspecting them, but still, the idea of having his things handled by a stranger is annoying as all hell.
“Your cabinets are very empty,” Flins announces, having already pried open half of them to find little more than a handful of non-perishables. A jar of preserved jam is plucked out, twisted in the fae's grip with a gleam of interest. “What is this supposed to taste like?” He corks off the lid and gives it a curious sniff.
"Stop touching things." Rerir pinches the bridge of his nose, well past the point of rage.
Flins either blatantly ignoring him(most likely) or not hearing him, drags his finger through the dark blue contents, examining it much like a scientist. Curiously enough, he feeds it into the glowing lantern left on the counter and yet his body is what reacts, gagging at the taste.
Strange, that jam is rather sweet. Aren't fae supposed to enjoy sugar? Best not let him anywhere near the scientists around here. They'd have a field day.
Rerir continues to watch, more so staring at the glinting red gem on his finger, but his mind is somewhere else entirely. It's only a matter of time before word spreads about his supposed engagement…but maybe the fae is right, maybe this is not a total disaster.
Flins is insufferable, yes, but shameless. Enough to twist a child into half believing him, and probably more given his confidence in the act. If Flins is so committed to this bit all for the sake of the human experience, then perhaps Rerir can maneuver this recklessness into a convenient distraction. Maybe, he could…play along and buy himself the freedom to finish the last bit of research that should complete the puzzle of how to break through the false sky. After he has that and a direction, he can disappear.
So, if the council insists he need a spouse, they can choke on this one.
“Alright,” Rerir grouses at last, voice cutting through the fae's bullshit. “I’m willing to make a deal with you.”
Flins looks up from his cabinet pilfering, one brow cocked.
Rerir stands, closing the space between them, letting the full measure of his height cast its shadow over the smaller man as he traps him against the cabinet. Nowhere to run. Normally, that scare tactic makes the lower minds instantly agreeable or looking for any opening to dart. The fae only looks up at him with an almost open curiosity, body relaxed and head tilted to show he's paying attention.
“You want the human experience. I want to finish my research before I leave Khaenri’ah.” His mouth twists, the next words sour on his tongue. “I’ll show you whatever you want, within reason, so long as you pretend to be my…” He has to pause, swallowing back the urge to gag. “…betrothed in public and keep doors open for me. You also will not cause me undue delay in my plans. When we’re both adequately satisfied, you’ll return what you’ve taken.”
He braces for an insufferable debate or ridiculous negotiation, but none comes.
Instead, Flins only watches him with an unreadable calm. The lantern at his side flares briefly, his eyes flashing lightning blue to match, though his expression remains almost blandly pleased, like Rerir has just suggested something rather adorable instead of a contract adjustment. When the fae finally speaks, his voice is soft, like an illicit secret slipped between lovers. “Consider it done.”
-
Rerir does not sleep.
The fae, incidentally, also does not sleep. Turns out the damn thing is practically nocturnal, and even if Flins has the decency to try and keep it down at night, Rerir still finds himself finely tuned to the sound of clinking coins and footsteps on the floorboards. Old pocket change seems to fascinate him, by the sound of rustling papers near three in the morning, Rerir’s bookshelves provide equal entertainment. Getting used to company, even temporary, will be difficult.
When the artificial dawn finally stutters to life, fabricated sunlight bleeding through the grim panes of the bedroom, Flins’ footsteps cease all together. He waits for ten, then twenty, but they don't continue and only then does Rerir risk getting up and glancing into the main room. Only the black lantern remains, glowing faintly surrounded by meticulously sorted coins and no unwanted roommate to be seen.
Well, alright then.
Left to his own devices, he seizes the opportunity to strike out on his own. He doesn't bother with a shower, just gets changed as quietly as he can and strides out the front door. It's early enough that he should be able to avoid the mass of the public on the street. Chances are his ability to move later tonight, once the gossip starts to pick up (because Vedrfolnir's little brother could never hope to keep his trap shut) will be a much different story, but that's a problem for later.
Or so he thinks.
One second he's walking, and the next he is struck as if some beast has sunk its claws into his chest. Fire rakes through his ribs, heart thrashing violently against his sternum before seizing into a dreadful, strangled rhythm. Knees buckle and he hits the ground hard, though the ache is secondary to the instinct to claw at his core. The world tilts sideways, vision tunneling, the meager sounds of the morning street receding into a hollow, distant rush.
“Now why would you go and do that?” Flins’s voice drifts lazily from behind him, thick with sleep and irritation. Rubbing at his eyes with the back of his wrist, he crouches beside the prone Khaenri'ahn with unhurried grace.
Rerir drags in a ragged inhale, cold sweat beading along his brow. The worst of the pain ebbs away as if soothed by the fae's appearance, but it leaves him shaking from the shock. “What…did you—”
Casually, Flins presses two cool fingers over the center of his chest, directly on the place that still throbs with phantom agony as if he knows where it is. The touch convinces the rest of the sharpness to fade. “I told you,” he starts, mildly exasperated, “you wouldn’t get far.”
Rerir seizes his wrist, violence promised behind barred ivory. He should snap it. He should break it, he knows he has the strength to do so.
“You promised your heart,” Flins says it slowly as if correcting a child. “And so it is mine to keep. Wander too far, and it will stay with me. I figured by your request last night, you'd been aware you'd promised me more than just this ring, but it appears I expected too much," and it might be the pot calling the kettle black, but the sadistic bastard has the audacity to smile. "So is there somewhere you'd like to go?"
-
Research.
They were supposed to go to the library. Originally, it was so Rerir could dive into the forbidden section that he'd just recently copied a key from (yes even someone of his accolade still gets walled off behind red tape), but with this morning's little incident, he is considering diverting some time in the upper floors as well to seek out a way to break this contract early. Eitherway, he'd need to be at the library to do either of these things.
Except they're not there yet.
Flins is currently stood still, one arm coiled snugly around Rerir’s like a serpent unwilling to let go, his golden eyes fixed on the swelling market square. So much for avoiding the masses. The fae doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe in any discernible way, but the tension in his fingers betrays him. For all his outward calm, Flins clings with the barely leashed excitement of a child pressing against a toy shop window.
Rerir stares down at the hand gripping his bicep, jaw tight. He could try to shake him off, but that wouldn't exactly help the narrative they're going to try and push. And, unfortunately, it isn’t as though he can just leave Flins alone. He'd also be a liar if he didn't admit he's still physically weak from earlier. To think the fae literally has control of his heart.
Even if he wanted to abandon the signet ring, it would kill him in the process.
“It’s very different, isn’t it?” Flins murmurs at last, voice hushed but colored with something almost reverent. His gaze flicks all over the place, the people, the mess, the rise of bargaining voices layering over one another. “The way you live. All this…noise. It's so warm.” And then he pauses, looking up at Rerir with a furrow in his brow as if he can't understand something. "Do you not feel it?"
"I feel irritation," Rerir drawls, the corners of his mouth betraying him with the ghost of a smirk when Flins scoffs, unimpressed at his never-ending misery. It's fun to watch him suffer. That's another thing he supposes. If he can convince Flins he's so intolerable to be around, he may discard his hopes of human experiences into dropping him sooner rather than later. Given his reputation, Rerir would bet on that more so than the contract ending 'naturally'.
Three cheers for divorce.
“You really are blind to it." Flins seems despondent yet strangely impressed all the same, as though baffled that anyone could miss the beauty he sees. And then for some reason he starts yapping. "While not true of all fae, we tend to be selfish creatures. Some will not willingly part with an object even if they are in need of something else so to see an exchange on such a grand scale, and so freely with no dirty tricks is…truly something to behold. May we?"
Rerir follows the line of Flins’s finger, deeper into the market where the crowd thickens. "Absolutely not."
Flins tilts his head, eyes narrowing with faint amusement. "You promised I would be allowed to try human experiences. Is this not one?" He lets out a performative sigh, his voice rising now just enough so a couple people passing by them on their way out of the market can overhear. "I suppose I can survive the morning without your entertaining presence. If you do not wish to join me, darling, by all means you go ahead and I'll catch up."
This.
Bastard.
Rerir’s jaw flexes, teeth grinding as those few departing shoppers slow to glance between him and the fae releasing his arm. His chest gives a small, traitorous twinge, nothing dramatic this time, but sharp enough to remind him what happens if he steps too far. Play, or die. Charming alternatives.
Is suicide really so bad?
The only thing that has him tipping the scales towards a reluctant yes is the sight of Flins staring up at him, those big golden eyes shining and every ridiculous emotion bared as if Rerir were a sun and he had spent weeks mapping its light. Oh Rerir is going to choose to live if only to savor the moment this contract is over. He'll take no small delight in wrapping his hands around this fae's neck and watching those eyes go dull and lifeless. And on his honor it will be a slow death.
For now? He exhales slow and level, forces a thin smile and grips Flins by the forearm before he can make towards the crowd to swallow him. He does take a moment to squeeze it harshly if only to watch that amusement buckle for a second. "Ten minutes. Make it quick."
Flins’s smile spreads, slow and insolent. "Ten minutes,” he echoes, as if promising nothing and adjusting to slide until their hands are intertwined.
As they embark into the noisy unknown, Rerir's irritation simmering at every step, beneath it, quieter and sharper than he’d like to admit, is something else. Vedrfolnir, Hroptatyr, Surtalogi and Rhinedottir;' he had no trouble establishing himself as an equal among them. But this? This ridiculous little fae with his shameless ambivalence and quicksilver wit has Rerir on a back foot he hasn't had to strength test in years.
Flins is insufferable, yes, but Rerir would be immature to be unable to admit he is also sharp and that is more dangerous than a weaponized annoyance. He knows to hide portions of their unintentional agreement to utilize for leverage, he knows how to put on a performance to get what he wants, and at the end of the day Rerir doesn't know a damn thing about this creature he's bound to for the foreseeable future.
And the truth of it, though Rerir would sooner bite his tongue in half than admit aloud, is that the unexpected challenge in both company and their near futures is almost as compelling as it is intolerable.