Archive of Our Own ^beta

*** 1 ***

The night that it happens, the moon is awfully bright.

It’s both a blessing and a curse that he’s lost the tip of his horn, Ethari decides, glancing at his reflection in the dirty mirror. Behind him, the forge is lit, casting a yellow glow over his shaggy hair. He shakes his head and runs his fingers through his locks, tousling the longer clumps so that they fall more evenly over the shaved sides. Satisfied, Ethari smiles at himself and gets to work.

As a newly appointed smith in the Silvergrove, he understands that his primary task is to assist in creating and fixing weapons. It doesn't matter to whom the weapons belonged—assassins, members of the Dragonguard, or even just a regular elf—if there was something wrong with it, he was to fix it. But when there aren’t any weapons to fix, and when he’s run out of ideas for things to build, Ethari always finds himself gravitating towards the small and delicate. Not that weapons don’t consist of small and delicate parts—no, he couldn’t possibly claim that after painstakingly cleaning and lubricating the individual segments and connecting mechanisms of Tiadrin’s longsword—but he knows that the weapons will eventually have to be used. (He doesn’t like to think about that part too much, no matter how often his fellow smiths reassure him that Moonshadow warriors only attack when necessary).

His hand wraps around a piece of gray clay he’d collected earlier in the day, using the mirror to help shape the clay over his left horn. Once he’s certain he's fully covered, he gingerly eases the drying cast from its precarious perch and sets it on the table before him. With a small brush, he mixes some leftover clay with a few drops of water, and paints the slip along the inside of the mold, sealing any cracks and uneven spots.

This kind of work is what he loves the most. As much as he enjoys constructing enchanted weapons, there’s something fulfilling about making things that bring joy (rather than pain). He smiles to himself as he waits for the clay mold to dry completely by the fire—who would’ve thought that he would prefer making jewelry over swords and bows? Whenever he tells someone that, he’s not surprised if the elf blinks in confusion. After all, Ethari’s well aware of his bulk and stature; months and months of pounding metal and testing prototypes has filled out his already tall frame. But maybe that’s why he continues to do it, because despite his gentle-giant appearance, he prides himself in the intricacy of his smaller decorative pieces.

When the clay’s completely dry, Ethari walks around the forge collecting scraps of wax from the other workbenches. It’s easy to heat up the pellets and pour the melted liquid into the clay mold, where it takes the exact shape of his horn. He dips the soft wax model into a barrel of sand—it’s not exactly sand, but it’s easier to just call it sand than to list all the individual granules—and places it in the kiln, where the high heat turns the fine grains into a hard casing while the wax melts away.

While it bakes, Ethari peruses among the metal samples by the fire. He and the other smiths often discard their unwanted but still usable scraps in baskets organized by metal, and anyone’s welcome to use the leftovers. Ethari settles on a sheet of Argentum because of its lightweight yet durable nature. He flips the sheet in his hands a few times and runs his fingers over the dents. Once he smooths and polishes, his new prosthetic horn tip will glow like moonlight in his hair.

The sun is rising as Ethari finishes up: he melts the Argentum, pours it into the porcelain mold, and adds a thin band with which he can easily attach and detach the tip. He’s polishing his piece when the first of the other smiths enter.

“Have you been here all night?” she asks thickly, clearly not fully awake as she stumbles to her bench.

“Yep,” Ethari says. He holds up his piece proudly. “Been working on this fella.”

From across the forge, she narrows her eyes as she peers at the shiny cone of Argentum. “It’s lovely, Ethari. What’s it supposed to be?”

He chuckles, then beckons her to come over. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been a little off balance recently,” he says as he dips his head so his missing tip is clearly visible above the waves of his hair. “I had some extra time last night, so…”

“Ah,” she breathes. “You made yourself a new horn tip. May I?”

Ethari drops the prosthetic into her upturned palm. She’s a much more experienced smith, having worked in this very forge nearly ten years longer than he has, but she still looks impressed as she examines his work.

“Beautiful,” she murmurs under her breath. With a smile, she hands it back to him. “And it fits?”

“It should,” he says honestly. “I haven’t tested it yet in this form. Would you like to do the honors?”

Her smile widens as he lowers his head. Ethari can feel her fingers, feather-light along his horn, and the weight of the prosthetic as she secures it to the broken edge.

“There,” she says. “It fit perfectly, you know. You’re a talented craftsman, Ethari.”

“Thank you. How is it? I’m only as good a craftsman as my pieces look.”

She purses her lips for a moment. “The one who wears your wedding cuffs will be one lucky elf,” she says at last, turning to greet the other smiths who walk in and leaving Ethari to blush under her praise.

*** 2 ***

Ethari’s walking through the Silvergrove during his midday break when he hears a loud crash from inside the training pavilion. He’s about to keep walking when he suddenly hears a familiar voice and a selection of her favorite words.

“By the shade of the moon! I swear to the stars above, Lain, if you don’t get up right now—”

Ethari stifles a laugh behind his hand at the scandalized looks from the other elves walking around. Whatever is happening in the pavilion is far more interesting than having lunch alone, and it’s an easy choice to head that way instead of back home.

When he arrives, he notes that the pavilion is empty except for three figures by the sparring ring: two of whom are battling it out inside the ring, and one of whom is screaming expletives from the outside. Between the curses, grunts, and sounds of impact, Ethari manages to sneak up pretty easily.

“Hi Tiadrin,” he greets cheerfully.

“Ethari!” She presses a hand to her chest. “You scared the living shade out of me. What’re you doing here?”

Ethari gestures towards the ring with his head. “I heard the sounds of your lovely voice floating through the village and knew I had to stop by. What’s going on?”

“Well, your eyes have probably told you by now that my lovely beloved darling Lain”—despite her sweet words, Ethari winces at her venomous tone—“and Runaan are training. What your ears have probably told you by now is that one of them”—her volume increases to rise above the din—“is mucking it up!”

“Thanks for your support, moonlight,” Lain grits out as Runaan swings a staff and presses him up against the side of the sparring ring. With a yell, Lain pushes upward with his polearm and swipes at Runaan’s feet with one of the hooked blades. Runaan jumps out of the way with such ease and grace that it nearly takes Ethari’s breath away. Tiadrin merely snorts and rolls her eyes.

“You’re being sloppy,” she shouts.

“Again, thank you,” Lain pants back, his eyes amber eyes trained on Runaan.

Ethari pays the bickering couple no mind. He’s too busy watching Runaan, who barely looks out of breath. Even armed with a staff as opposed to his usual bowblade, the assassin is deadly. As Lain catches his breath, Runaan strikes—first from the left, then from above—and as Lain struggles to block each of his attacks, Ethari suddenly understands what Runaan is trying to do.

“Lain, watch his—”

Too late. With agile steps, Runaan zips around Lain, causing the latter elf to spin furiously in order to keep up with his attacker. Two spins later, Lain’s eyes squeeze shut for a fraction of a second as his own hair whips him in the eyes, and that’s when Runaan strikes.

“Oh, come on,” Tiadrin whines as Lain lands on his back with a loud “oof!”

Runaan smirks at her. “Sorry to disappoint, Tiadrin, but I’m not going to go easy on him just so you can parade him around the Silvergrove and say he beat me.” His gaze meets Ethari’s and he winks. Ethari grins back at him.

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbles. Tiadrin pushes herself into the ring as Runaan offers Lain a hand. With a grunt, he pulls the elf onto his feet and hands him back his polearm. Tiadrin busies herself with brushing the debris from Lain’s armor, muttering under her breath the entire time. Lain merely smiles and rolls his eyes for the benefit of Runaan and Ethari.

“You saw what I was trying to do,” Runaan says, jumping from the ring and landing in front of Ethari with barely a sound. “You tried to warn him.”

Ethari swallows. Was he mad? “It didn’t seem like a very fair fight,” he tries to explain, but the corners of Runaan’s lips twitch.

“It’s his own fault he keeps his hair so long,” Runaan says, nodding toward where the other two elves are bickering in the middle of the sparring ring.

“Uh.” Ethari gazes between the choppy lengths of Lain’s hair and Runaan’s silky white locks that flow past his hips. “But your hair is even longer?”

Runaan smiles. “It’s his own fault he keeps his hair so long and fails to secure it properly,” he amends. “It makes him vulnerable. I could strangle him with his own hair, or pull on it to disarm him, or use it to blind himself.”

“Ah. But his hair is too uneven to braid,” Ethari notes. In fact, most of Lain’s hair is shoulder length except for a rather long clump that falls over the right side of his face. Why he didn’t cut it or even it out is lost on Ethari, but to each his own. After all, not every elf can have hair as smooth and orderly as Runaan’s.

“There are such things as hair cuffs,” Runaan reminds him. “And, in a worst case scenario, string.”

Ethari laughs. “Is this coming from first hand experience?” he teases. The image of Runaan tying up his hair with a scrap of string is too amusing, and he continues to laugh even when Runaan glares at him.

“No comment,” the assassin says haughtily before walking off and putting away his training gear.

Ethari stays behind and observes Tiadrin and Lain, who are now making their way out of the ring. As they pass, Lain meets Ethari’s eyes and gives him a small smile and a tiny shrug, like oh well, there’s nothing to be done.

Nothing to be done? Not if Ethari could help it.

Two days (and two sleepless nights) later, Ethari sets a package by Lain’s front door, knocks rapidly, and leaves before anyone sees him. He’s confident that the gift, marked with Ethari’s seal and addressed specifically to Lain, will find itself in the hands—hair, actually—of the intended recipient.

A week later, Ethari watches with a proud grin as Lain uses his new hair cuff to his advantage, whipping his braid so quickly  that Runaan doesn't see it coming. The metal hair cuff smacks the side of Runaan’s face; his shocked expression is absolutely worth it.

*** 3 ***

Ethari rests his head on the other elf’s shoulders, squeezing him tightly in his arms. “When will I see you again?” he asks, trying to stay upbeat.

“Don’t you worry, we’ll be back to bother you soon enough,” Lain promises him with a cheeky grin. “We’re not official Dragonguards yet, there’s still weeks of training to see if we’ll make it. I mean, Tiadrin’s going to make it for sure. Who knows, maybe I’ll get kicked out—”

“Lain, don’t you dare!” Tiadrin pipes up from where she’s talking in hushed tones with Runaan. “You earned that spot just as I did, shade be cast! Don’t downplay your skills. I mean, not every elf gets to boast that he defeated Runaan in a fight.”

“That was one time,” Runaan complains. “I only had a dagger and I was blindfolded!”

“A win is a win,” Tiadrin says with a smile. As assertive and colorful as Tiadrin is, she’s just as loyal and supportive.

Lain blushes and busies himself by reorganizing his pack. “Thank you, moonlight.”

“Anytime.” Tiadrin heaves her own heavy pack onto her back and beckons towards her partner. “Come on, we should head out.”

At their request, no one escorts them out of the Silvergrove. Instead, Ethari is left to watch the magic veil cover them from inside the village, wondering when he’ll see his friends again.

It’s been lonely in the Silvergrove with Lain and Tiadrin gone. Sure, it’s been peaceful and he’s managed to finish more tasks than he usually does, but without the ruckus and chaos of the Silvergrove’s favorite chaotic couple, Ethari finds himself wandering aimlessly, peeking into the training pavilion only to be disappointed when no bickering reaches his ears.

Instead, Ethari’s been trying to occupy himself in the forge. The other smiths have noticed the prolonged shifts he takes, but they thankfully say nothing. His days are a blur, consisting of work and sleep and little else. Except, well, Runaan stops by more often now.

It was a gradual change—it started the day Tiadrin and Lain left for training. Runaan had walked into the forge, drawing everyone’s attention with his stiff posture and dark assassin’s uniform. He’d gone straight to Ethari, dropped his bow on the table, and asked for him to tighten the string. The next day, he came in with arrows to be sharpened, and the next day there was a bend in one of his swords.

He’s almost used to it by now, and he’s not surprised when Runaan walks into the smithy. In fact, Ethari’s been expecting it.

“Hello, Ethari,” Runaan says as he approaches.

“Hi, Runaan,” he responds with a smile. Somehow, seeing Runaan has become the highlights of his days. Who would've thought? “What can I do for you today?”

The assassin places his bowblade on the workbench. Ethari feels his eyebrows rising on their own accord. “There’s something wrong with the enchantment,” Runaan explains. “It’s not transforming into a bow as quickly as it used to.”

Ethari lifts the bowblade, examining the intricate details carved along the handles. “Incredible,” he murmurs. Whoever made this was obviously a skilled craftsman, someone far more experienced than he. Ethari sets the weapon back down and frowns. “You want me to take a look?”

“Yes.”

“But there are more experienced elves here.”

“I’ve seen the dedication you put into your work, Ethari. I trust that you’ll be careful.”

“Of course,” he says, and he can’t hide his excitement at getting to fix Runaan’s bowblade. His bowblade! The weapon was almost legendary among the elves of the Silvergrove; the assassin was almost never without it, and even the young elves spoke with reverence whenever they gossiped about the adventures on which that bowblade had been. “I’ll do my best.”

He starts on the bowblade immediately. As soon as Runaan exits, Ethari starts placing tools on his workbench, grabbing anything he might possibly need. The other smiths watch him for a bit, though they quickly lose interest now that Runaan’s gone, and go back to their own projects.

Ethari starts with a sketch, trying to capture the current condition of the bowblade. It’s currently in its bow form, taking up nearly half the length of the table, but Ethari doesn’t want to break it apart just yet without having a backup plan in case he can’t put it back together again. He traces the outline of the bow onto a long roll of parchment, careful to avoid the delicate string that connects the tips of the bow.

It’s beautiful. Even though it’s not in perfect condition—he can clearly see the wear and tear on the blades—it’s still a magnificent piece. The balance is nearly perfect and while the paint is starting to chip at some places, the curved handles are intricately carved and decorated with shadowy vines. Absolutely breathtaking. Ethari can’t help but smile; surely this project will take his mind off of Tiadrin and Lain even if just for a few days—

“Ethari?”

He starts. That’s Tiadrin’s voice…?

“Oh, good, you’re in here.”

And that’s Tiadrin, standing in the door to the forge. He stands abruptly in shock, nearly knocking the bowblade to the ground. “Tiadrin?”

She grins and runs inside, engulfing him in a tight hug. A really, really tight hug—clearly training is doing her well. “Hi,” she says once she releases him. “Oh, it’s good to be back.”

“What’re you doing here?” he asks, bewildered. He looks her up and down, checking for any injuries or telltale signs of distress, but no—Tiadrin’s in her shiny silver Dragonguard armor and looks fine. A little peeved, but fine.

She shrugs. “It’s a bit of a long story, but I need your help.”

“Anything,” he says immediately. “What do you need?”

From within her armor, Tiadrin produces a handful of dark green beads. She places them on his workbench and he immediately creates a barrier around them with whatever he can find, just to prevent them from rolling off the table. “These are a part of my Dragonguard uniform,” she tells him, reaching inside and producing yet another handful of loose beads. “There’s supposed to be two pieces, one around my wrist and one around my waist. Except I broke both of them—don’t give me that look, it was during a wrestling match and it got caught on one of the crystals inside the Spire—and well, I need them replaced.”

Ethari picks up one of the beads. They’re circular and when he takes a closer look, he can see tiny engravings on the surface. Rolling one between his fingers, he looks up at her. “The Storm Spire doesn’t have a craftsman to fix it for you?”

Tiadrin plops down across from him with a sigh. “They do,” she admits. “But I’ve only ever had my things fixed by you. I’m sure they’re great over there, but I trust you the most.” Her sincere gaze turns a bit mischievous. “Plus, it was a good excuse to visit.”

He chuckles. “Classic Tiadrin,” he says with a smile. “Why didn’t Lain break his so he could come back with you?”

“Lain actually doesn’t have these beads. Not everyone does, it depends on your skillset”—she lowers her voice conspiratorially—“or so I’m told.”

“What are the beads supposed to do?”

“A whole variety of things, really.” Tiadrin picks up a bead herself and tosses it in the air. “Each one is enchanted in a most basic sense; they’re magical and—well, of course you can tell they’re enchanted so I’ll just move on—they’re not enchanted for any specific purpose. They’re more like…” she trails off, trying to find the right words. “Uh, okay. So, the most basic forms of magic allow them to be flexible, if that makes sense. We’re taught a bunch of spells in training that are specific to different arcana. I can’t really tell you any spells because apparently they’re supposed to remain ‘secrets’ which I think is bather droppings but anyway…”

The entire time, Ethari is smiling. He’s missed Tiadrin; missed her rapid-fire speech, her blazing personality, and her burning passion for everything she loves. As she jabbers on and on about the uses of the beads (“I can enchant one pretty quickly to cast an illusion if another elf needs it last minute,” and “Lain learned a pretty complex spell that can reflect moonlight into the darkness even on moonless nights”), Ethari feels a weight lifting from his chest. He’s never been very close with Runaan, and while the assassin has been frequenting the smithy recently, he’s never really stopped to talk.

“And I’ve seen a Skywing elf enchant one to give a temporary boost while jumping, just for a few moments,” Tiadrin is saying. When she realizes Ethari isn’t exactly listening, she frowns. “Am I boring you?”

“No, no,” he rushes to assure her. “I just… it’s good to have you back, Tiadrin.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says nonchalantly, though a pleased smile is threatening to show on her lips. “So, can you fix them or not?”

“Seems simple enough,” he replies. Ethari gathers the beads in his hands—there’s enough to warrant both hands—and drops them inside a bowl nearby. “They just need basic enchantments to save you some time when you need them, right? Anything else?”

Tiadrin smiles. “That’s about it, I think. If you want to add anything else to it—I know you, Ethari, and I know you like to add extra little tidbits to your pieces—I’ve already consulted the Dragonguard rules, and there’s nothing that says I—or you—can’t add extra enchantments to my gear.”

“Perfect.” Ethari digs around on his desk for a blank sheet of parchment. “Anything you want me to add?”

She purses her lips. “Could you change the color, actually? Dark green doesn’t exactly match the color scheme of my uniform.”

“Done.”

“May the Moon bless your horns, Ethari. You’re a lifesaver.” Tiadrin rises to her feet and takes a look around the forge. The other smiths are working on their own projects, but are obviously eavesdropping. “If any of the rest of you have ideas, run it through me first. No one’s to bother Ethari while he works on this. Understood?”

Appeased by the following chorus of affirmations, Tiadrin gives Ethari one last blinding smile. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Runaan is?” she asks.

“Not sure. But I do know that he’s bowblade-less…” He shoves aside some papers to reveal Runaan’s bowblade, still lying on the table where he left it.

Tiadrin’s turquoise eyes—ones that so eerily remind him of Runaan’s—twinkle. “Good to know,” she tells him as she walks out the door with a mock salute. “Time to challenge him to a duel.”

Ethari chuckles as she disappears through the door, shouting for Runaan to show himself and effectively startling every elf in the village. He casts one last look at the bowblade, now buried underneath piles of parchment and miscellaneous items, and utters a silent apology to its owner. He's got more pressing things to attend to, including figuring out which color will best suit the beads and Tiadrin's uniform.

(Turns out, it's a warm golden yellow. Tiadrin loves it.)

*** 4 ***

Dragonguard duty is rotational, Ethari learns. 

It's been a couple years since Tiadrin and Lain first left for Dragonguard training. Thankfully, both had been accepted as formal members of the elite force (despite Lain's constant joking that he'd be the first elf to be kicked out). Their shifts are five and a half months long, with half a month off, twice a year. When he asked why such a strange schedule, Tiadrin shrugged; Lain said, "it's so that we don't get antsy about what's going on back home. If they let us go home every now and then, we'll be more focused at the Spire."

Whenever the couple return to the Silvergrove, there's always a huge feast welcoming them home. It's an honor to have one elf—let alone two—represent the village up at the Spire, so everyone is invited, and most of the elves in the Silvergrove attend. Ethari loves the ceremonies: not only does he get to see his two of his closest friends return, he also gets an excuse to spend more time with Runaan.

Runaan, of all elves. Who would have ever thought it would be the prideful, confident (to a fault, sometimes), somewhat-cold assassin that would capture his heart? Every time Runaan enters the forge, he always walks straight up to Ethari, no matter where he is. (One time, Runaan followed him into the storage room below the main floor and nearly scared him to death). Recently, his visits have lasted longer and longer; first there was small talk, then conversations about the comings and goings of business in the Silvergrove, then questions that were strangely personal. He learned that Runaan's morning ritual always, always included a glass of moonberry juice, that he especially adores the green Adoraburrs, and that he particularly abhors the blue ones. 

One time, Runaan invited him on a walk after the sun had set, citing that there was something interesting in the forest he wanted to show him. Intrigued, Ethari had left the smithy without a word of protest, following the assassin out of the Silvergrove and deep into the woods. They ended up at what Ethari could only describe as a site of destruction: something (or—and he shudders to think about it—someone) had absolutely wrecked the land. Trees were uprooted and boulders overturned, like something even bigger than Sol Regem had decided to unleash its anger on this particular area alone. Runaan led him to a specific boulder, bending down to indicate something shiny encased in the stone. 

It had been some kind of ore, though not anything Ethari recognized immediately. Runaan suggested they bring it back to the forge, clean it up, and examine it ("I saw it and thought of you," he had said). Well, Ethari got up to the second step, and he's been carrying the polished metal in his pocket ever since. 

Tonight, the hidden pocket sewn on the inside of his tunic isn't as hidden as it should be. Ethari blames the unknown mineral—though he knows he doesn't need to carry it around with him everywhere, it hurts to leave it behind. 

"No matter," he reassures himself. He glances at his reflection in his mirror one last time, adjusting the purple scarf around his neck so that its loose ends are tucked in neatly. "Tiadrin and Lain aren't going to care about a pocket rock, anyway."

Sure enough, when Ethari arrives at the celebratory feast, the Dragonguards don't mention the suspicious bulge in his tunic pocket (even if they do cast some curious glances at it). 

Seated in the middle of the long table, Tiadrin is busy regaling the surrounding elves with tales of her adventures as a Dragonguard. "We protect the Spire, of course," she says, waving around a fork upon which is speared a hunk of potato, "but we also get sent out to different parts of Xadia as needs permit. One time, I had to go into Tidebound elf territory." She shudders at the memory of it. "It was...wet."

Runaan is already sitting next to Lain, who's watching his beloved with a fond expression etched onto his face. With a small smile, Ethari slips into the empty seat on the other side of Runaan. 

"Did I miss much?" he whispers to the elf who's sitting so rigidly beside him. Ethari helps himself to a serving of roasted potatoes and yams, sighing when a few chunks inevitably tumble from his plate onto the table.

"Not really," Runaan replies quietly. Before Ethari can even react, he's scooped up the fallen pieces and piled them neatly on the edge of his plate. "Tiadrin has been exaggerating her duties to entertain the masses—nothing new."

Lain leans over Runaan—who looks mildly offended—and taps Ethari on the shoulder. "I have a favor to ask you," the Dragonguard says seriously. Lain glances back at Tiadrin, who's now involved in an argument with some other Moonshadow elves over whether or not being in such high altitude affects the color of their skin. "Can you keep a secret?"

Ethari frowns. "Of course I can," he says indignantly.

"Good elf," Lain says, patting him on the arm. "I'll find you later, if you don't mind." He goes back to supplementing Tiadrin's tales with his own details, leaving Runaan to peer curiously at Ethari. He makes a mental note to practice raising one eyebrow in the mirror when he gets home tonight (though he knows he'll never do it as well as Runaan does, no matter how hard he tries. That elf is a master at it).

"Do you know what he's talking about?" Ethari asks.

Runaan shakes his head, his long hair waving behind him—Ethari is only momentarily distracted by it. "No idea."

"Huh." Ethari shovels some tossed grains into his mouth and chews pensively. "If you don't know, then no one would. Guess I'll find out later."

Runaan hums.

"I wonder if he's broken his beads too," Ethari muses out loud. "Or maybe he needs a new weapon?"

"But why would those tasks be kept secret?" Runaan counters.

"Uh. He's afraid Tiadrin will shame him in front of the entire village?" Ethari offers. 

Both elves glance down the table, where Tiadrin has conveniently tricked Lain into admitting that he did take the last of her moonberry surprise. "I knew it," Tiadrin shrieks triumphantly as Lain groans and lowers his head into his hands. "I knew it!"

"Yeah." Runaan sighs. "I don't blame him."

Ethari forgets about Lain's strange request for the rest of the evening. These celebrations have plenty going on to distract him, and it doesn't help that he finds Runaan staying by his side throughout the night. Even when Ethari wanders over to where other elves are dancing, Runaan sticks close by. 

When the melody of one of his favorite songs starts to float through the evening air, he can't help it anymore. "Would you like to dance with me?" Ethari asks tentatively, hoping his blush isn't too obvious.

Runaan blinks. "Okay," he says, looking surprised but—and Ethari prays to the Moon he's not just imagining it—also vaguely pleased. 

The band plays the sweet, gentle melody that floats over the heads of the dancing elves. Above them, the stars and the moon shine down and cast a comforting glow on the top of Ethari's head as he twirls in a tight circle with Runaan. He's stunning, Ethari admits to himself as he stares at the elf in front of him. Runaan moves with the elegance and grace of someone who's been raised in formal settings their whole life; every step he takes is sure, every move of his arms is commanding, and Ethari can't help but follow. In the back of his mind, Ethari recognizes that elves are watching them—who wouldn't be, seeing as how well they moved together?—but his attention remains fixed on Runaan.

Runaan’s got a faint blush across his cheeks as they weave in and out of the crowd in synchronized motions. His turquoise eyes never leave Ethari’s, and he’s sure that he has an echoing blush painted across his own nose. Even as the music rises and falls like the tides of the ocean, Ethari is so entranced by the elf that he can’t look away.

Or, at least until a tap on the shoulder jars him.

"Sorry to interrupt," Lain whispers into his ear. "But Tiadrin's finally distracted enough for me to slip away. I need to speak with you." He motions to Ethari to follow him and, with an apologetic glance at Runaan, the smith trails behind the Dragonguard to a secluded area away from the festivities. 

"Are you sure she won't notice you're missing from the feast? It is to celebrate you both, after all," Ethari says quietly, glancing around. He can still hear the faint din in the distance.

Lain chuckles. “She’s gotten into an arm wrestling match with a group of newer trainees,” he says in his normal speaking voice. “That’s sure to keep her occupied for a good while.”

“That’s our Tiadrin,” Ethari agrees with a grin. “The poor fellas.”

“They’ll be sore for days.”

Lain settles against a moss covered boulder and sighs, letting his eyes drift close in the silence. His Dragonguard uniform glistens in the moonlight, the chest plate rising and falling silently as he breathes. Mirroring his friend, Ethari leans against a neighboring boulder and waits. When Lain opens his eyes, Ethari is slightly surprised to see a fierce look of determination.

“I’ll get straight to it, then,” Lain says. “I want to ask Tiadrin if she’d like to marry me”—he does a stellar job at ignoring Ethari’s dramatic gasp and comically wide eyes—"and I need a pair of cuffs for the proposal. You’ve been our friend for so long, it would mean a lot to me—to us, really—if you crafted them.”

“Yes! Of course!” Ethari sweeps the Dragonguard into a tight hug. “I would be honored.” He sets his friend down and smiles softly. “When are you going to ask her?”

“Before we head back to the Spire. I figured I’d ask while we were home, just to give it that little bit of nostalgia.”

“Ah, I see,” Ethari muses. “You’re worried she’s going to decline, so you’re hoping to manipulate her emotions so that she’s more likely to say yes?”

Lain rolls his eyes. “Oh yes, you’ve caught me,” he responds dryly. “I was just so worried that my partner of seven years secretly hates me and is waiting for the perfect opportunity to reject and humiliate me in front of the entire village.”

“You never know,” the smith says with a grin. He holds out a hand and helps Lain to his feet. “I’ll get started right away,” he promises as they head back to the feast. “Anything you’re thinking of in particular?”

His companion hums pensively. “No,” he says after a long pause. “Whatever you think is appropriate. I’ve seen what you can make, and I leave the design entirely in your capable hands.”

A loud crash and an even louder cheer interrupts the tender moment, and Lain sighs (even though Ethari can tell he’s trying to hide a proud smile).

“That’ll be my Tiadrin,” he says fondly. “I hope she didn’t break anything too valuable this time. I should head back and make sure the village is still in tact.”

“Best of luck holding her back from a fight,” Ethari replies with a laugh. “I’ll head over to the forge, then. Need to sketch out some ideas before I forget.” When he catches a sudden flash of nervousness in Lain’s eyes, he adds, “don’t sorry, I’ll go the long way so she doesn’t see me. Go on, go get your elf.”

Lain gives him a comforted smile, and sets off in a jog to find Tiadrin. Right before he disappears into the shadows, he turns. "I meant to ask," he calls. "What's up with your pocket?"

"Nothing," Ethari hastily responds. He adjusts his pocket rock to no avail; it's still rather obvious. Thankfully Lain just shrugs and continues back to Tiadrin. Ethari heads in the other direction toward the smithy, where he knows he’ll have some time alone to think. Just the thought of the peace and quiet within the forge—after all, everyone is attending the feast—is enough to make him pick up his walking pace.

He’s sitting at his workbench, carefully sketching a fifth design iteration under the flickering light of a candle, when a muted thump lands behind him. His charcoal skids across the page—he groans inwardly, but if there’s an intruder then his ruined sketch is the least of his problems—as he spins, startled, to face whatever (or whoever) just entered. It takes a second, but then he sees the open window behind him, and the figure now rising to his feet and delicately lifting his hood to reveal his face.

“My apologies for startling you,” says Runaan.

“Ha,” Ethari wheezes breathlessly, nervously—nervously? Why in the name of the Moon would he be nervous?

Runaan’s gaze scans over his body, then focuses on messy pile of papers on the desk. “You never returned from your conversation with Lain,” he continues. “Lain returned alone.”

“You’re here to check on me?”

Instead of answering, Runaan pulls a stool from a nearby bench and seats himself across from Ethari. Despite his stoic exterior, the telltale light pink blush on his cheeks doesn’t escape Ethari’s eyes. They sit in silence for a little while, before Runaan speaks. “I was a little worried,” he finally admits.

“Worried about what, me? Did you think I’d been attacked or something, and that Lain just left me there?”

“You never know,” Runaan mutters under his breath. “Lain’s unpredictable.” Then, louder, gesturing at the topmost sheet of the precarious pile of sketches, “what’s this?”

“Well.” Ethari turns the parchment so that it’s facing his companion. “It was a design for a pair of horn cuffs, and then someone scared me into drawing a line right through it.”

“Oh.” Runaan’s face, which mere seconds ago had shown genuine curiosity, has suddenly become a schooled expression of polite disinterest. “They’re lovely,” he says unconvincingly, immediately thrusting the sketch back into Ethari’s hands.

Ethari’s brows furrow. Something has shifted between them, but he can't identify exactly what. “Thanks,” he says slowly, unsure of what else to say.

He waits for Runaan to say something else, anything else, but the elf before him just rises silently to his feet. Runaan isn’t the most agile Moonshadow elf in Xadia for nothing—Ethari’s barely blinked before he’s already halfway across the room. But then he hesitates—even though Runaan never hesitates—like he’s warring with himself. After a beat, Runaan turns partially so that Ethari can only see a part of his face. “Who’s the lucky elf?” he asks quietly in a tone that sounds like he hates to ask, but needs to know.

“Who’s the lucky—” Something clicks in his mind. Ethari jumps to his feet, hands outstretched like he’s trying to calm a particularly feisty moonstrider. “I’m not giving these to anyone, not like that,” he rushes to assure the elf who’s standing motionlessly in the middle of the room. “This is actually for Tiadrin, per Lain’s request. That’s what he wanted to talk about.”

Runaan doesn’t turn, but Ethari can see the tension melt from his shoulders. His hands unclench, and he drops his head the tiniest bit, letting his long white hair sway behind him. “I should’ve known,” Runaan murmurs with a breathy laugh (Ethari thinks he can hear some relief, too). “I knew he was acting strangely, but I couldn’t figure out why.”

“Hard to keep a secret from Tiadrin, especially when it involves her,” Ethari agrees. “It’s a Moon’s miracle she hasn’t noticed him sneaking around.”

“Or perhaps she’s already figured it out.” With swift movements, Runaan returns to his stool from earlier, relaxing into the seat as if his little outburst hadn’t happened. “She’s clever, that one. There’s a good chance she’s only pretending not to know for Lain’s sake.”

Ethari hums. “She would do that.”

A comfortable silence settles in the workshop as Ethari returns to his sketches. He can feel Runaan studying him, but without a conversation already flowing he doesn’t know what to say. So he does what he does best—turn his ideas into an illustrated reality. As the night wears on, Ethari finds that he doesn’t actually mind having Runaan beside him, even though his company is completely silent. It’s reassuring to have someone else in the forge, even if his guest is merely observing him work.

He’s finished Tiadrin’s design and halfway done on Lain’s when Runaan picks up the most recent sheet parchment he put down. “Who’s this for?”

“That’s Tiadrin’s.”

Runaan purses his lips. “Why this design?” At Ethari’s puzzled look, he adds, “I’m not looking to critique your work, Ethari. You’re the master craftsman, not I. I merely want to know your thought process behind the design.”

“Ah.” Comforted, Ethari leans on the workbench to put himself on the same plane as Runaan. “We all know our dear Tiadrin loves a good close-quarter combat situation, and since her horns curve like that”—he makes a vaguely wavy gesture in midair—“I wanted to protect the base of her horns. Cause, you know, the tips don’t stick out as much, so they should be fine.” Next, he points at the layered segments that extend from the main body of the cuffs. “That’s decorative. Actually, there are two main decorative features that I put in her cuffs. This one recalls her weapon of choice—”

“Her segmented sword,” Runaan says as realization dawns on him. “The layers—”

“That’s right. The layers resemble her sword when it’s extended and flexible. That’s why I have it curving up her horn.”

Runaan nods. “Clever,” he says, and Ethari feels a proud blush blossoming on his cheeks.

“Can you find the second theme?”

There’s a twinkle in his turquoise eyes when he responds, “I can try.” Runaan angles the parchment closer to the candle, brows furrowing as he carefully examines the rough charcoal sketch. “The raised band?”

“Clever,” Ethari echoes. “The raised band in the middle was inspired by her Dragonguard uniform. Their armor is a prominent part of their image, and—well, you’ve seen it. Lots of layers, plenty of crossing lines. So, the raised band stands for the armor she so proudly wears, and the parallel bands are there to balance out the intersecting lines of gear.”

For a few moments, Runaan is speechless. “I… I didn’t realize how much background you stored in a simple sketch,” he finally manages to say. “I knew you were a skilled craftsman, Ethari, but now I’m realizing you’re also an incredible storyteller.”

Ethari feels unusually warm all over. “I mean,” he tries to say, but Runaan reaches across him and points to Lain’s unfinished design.

“That one’s for Lain, then?”

“I can see why they made you the leader of assassins. That’s some impeccable skills of observation, Runaan.” The responding look that Runaan gives him could have frozen an entire ocean. Ethari merely grins at him, feeling warmer and warmer by the minute. “Go on, take a closer look. Care to analyze it?”

Runaan raises one eyebrow as he accepts the rumpled parchment. “Sure, Ethari. I’ll take a stab at it.” He rolls his eyes—affectionately, or so Ethari interprets it—then turns to focus on the sketch. “It’s darker than Tiadrin’s,” he says aloud. “Shorter, and fewer details.”

Ethari nods. “We know Lain is an elf of few accessories. To set stones in his cuffs would’ve been a betrayal of his personality. And you’re right, the material will be a little darker because Lain’s a shade darker—”

“A shade darker than Tiadrin. Right.”

“Exactly. And the lines?”

“Parallel again. To balance out the uniform?”

“Correct. Anything else you notice?”

“The tips of the cuffs…” Runaan trails off as he traces the sketch with the tip of a finger. “They’re layered again, but not as drastically as Tiadrin’s. Is that related to his weapon too?”

“You got it. Also, if you take a closer look here”—Ethari leans over again, pressing his shoulder against Runaan’s and relishing in the warmth of his body—“the lines are technically parallel, but they spiral upwards a little bit, to resemble his—”

“The rope form,” Runaan blurts out. He blinks, then schools his features into something more reserved and less outwardly enthusiastic. “The lines and the layering resemble the flexible form of his weapon.”

“That’s it.” Ethari takes the opportunity to press closer to the assassin as he gives him a soft smile. “You got it. Next thing I know you’ll be taking my place here in the forge.”

The corners of Runaan’s lips twitch. “Believe it or not, if given the choice between an armed foe and the fire of the forge, I’ll always go for the armed foe.”

“Really? Always? What if there were two armed opponents, or three, or four, or—”

“Aside from all the other reasons, I also don’t really have the… uh”—his eyes linger on Ethari’s exposed arms for a moment—"the build for this kind of work. To muscle through all the preparations just to finesse the tiniest scraps of metal is a kind of patience I don’t think I’ll ever achieve.”

That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me, Ethari wants to say. But even though it’s just the two of them in a dimly lit workshop, a statement like that feels… too vulnerable. Too open. He licks his lips in the silence, hoping something worthy of speaking will come to him.

“Well.” Runaan moves away and gathers his belongings before standing up. “You’re a busy elf, with big projects lying ahead of you. I’ll stop bothering you, and leave you be.”

“Wait,” Ethari urges. “You could stay. If you wanted to.”

“I…” The assassin glances out towards the rest of Silvergrove, where the faint lights and distant hums remind them of the feast they’re missing. He doesn’t finish his thought, but Ethari thinks he knows where he was going with it: what would everyone else think?

He doesn’t blame Runaan for thinking of the repercussions of spending an evening together, away from public festivities. Actually, it makes sense that Runaan would be worried about such things—he is, after all, the leader of assassins who has a reputation to maintain.

“I mean,” Ethari says quietly as if Runaan hadn’t said anything at all. “I do need a model for these cuffs, and while I could use my own horns I’d rather not have to spend the entire morning washing clay and wax from my hair.”

Runaan glances over at him, and Ethari thinks he can see a bit of relief in those bright turquoise eyes. “A model?”

“A model,” Ethari confirms. “Someone upon which I can build up a prototype; someone upon whom I can test out my designs… a muse, if you will.”

There’s a barely-there smirk on Runaan’s lips as he sits back down on the stool for the second time that evening. “Are you saying I’m your muse?” he asks, setting his elbows on the workbench and resting his chin in his palms. It’s a strangely adorable pose, Ethari decides, though he also vows to never say that aloud—Moon knows what Runaan would do to anyone who dared call him “adorable.”

Emboldened by the elf before him, Ethari mirrors his posture—resting his elbows on the bench and dropping his chin in his hands. Only after he’s already there does he realize how close their faces are. He can almost feel the warmth radiating from Runaan, can almost feel his breath on the tip of his nose. “Depends,” Ethari replies just as cheekily. “If I say yes, will you stay?”

“Yes.” There’s no question in his tone, and it warms Ethari to hear it.

“Then yes, Runaan, you’re my muse.” He ignores how natural it is to say that, how easily it rolls off the tongue. They’re just joking around, anyway. “Now sit still, unless you want to spend the next three lunar cycles pulling wax from that ridiculous hair of yours.”

*** 5 ***

One of the perks of staying in the forge all day is the views. Ethari’s known this ever since he was an apprentice; the huge windows and openings in the wall not only served to let in fresh air and ventilate the space, but also allowed the smiths to witness the most beautiful sunrises and the most spectacular sunsets. On occasion, Ethari has seen striking lightning storms with silhouettes of the dragons that fly amongst the dark clouds. Once, he even saw a Moon phoenix soaring around with its luminescent markings aglow from a distance. But today, he’s reordering the list of his favorite views as seen from the elevated forge, because today he gets to see what is one of the cutest scenes he’s ever witnessed in his entire life.

On the grassy clearing below the forge, Runaan is stepping through the motions of how to parry an attack with a flexible sword made of willow. It’s a common kind of training sword, as it’s stiff enough to make impact yet soft enough to only bruise. Beside him, an eager young elf watches attentively, bright purple eyes tracking every movement of her mentor.

“Oh, how she’s grown,” Ethari murmurs to himself, unable to stop the soft smile from appearing on his lips as he watches her bounce around. “Oh, Rayla.”

The wind carries to him the soft words of Runaan, and the chirpy replies of Rayla as they banter. He catches snippets of “cut off the ankles of enemies” and “need to have patience” (accompanied by a long suffering sigh), and then Runaan is handing Rayla the training sword. From the side of the clearing, Runaan grabs another willow sword, then motions for Rayla to get ready.

The fight starts and ends with a nod from Runaan. At the first nod, Rayla charges at him, sword raised above her head with both arms. Runaan easily steps aside, sticks out a foot, and trips her oncoming charge. With the untrained agility of a child, Rayla twists onto her back only to find the tip of the sword right above her chest, inches from her heart. At the second nod, Runaan retracts his blade and offers a hand, which Rayla ignores, choosing to climb to her feet on her own. Ethari can’t help but chuckle at her determined pout as Runaan lists all the things on which she can improve.

“Again!” she demands, her voice shrill enough to be heard from his perch above.

“Rayla, I wasn’t done—”

“Again!”

Runaan sighs, rolls his eyes for the benefit of the spectator—because of course he noticed Ethari watching—then nods at Rayla again.

The fight is over just as quickly as the last one, though this time Rayla finds the tip of the blade pressed to her lower back.

“Again!”

Rayla’s facedown again, the tip of Runaan’s sword at the back of her neck.

“Again!”

Tip of the sword at the tip of her nose.

“Again!”

“Rayla, it’s late—”

“Last one, Runaan, please?” she begs, drawing her eyebrows upward in a pleading look she knows he can’t refuse.  

“Last one,” Runaan concedes. “And then you must go home.”

Runaan must truly be in a hurry to be done with training, because Rayla’s barely even taken one step before Runaan disarms her and has the edge of his sword under her chin. But instead of fear, Rayla’s eyes shine with awe.

“Runaan!” She pushes the blade aside and wraps her arms around his narrow waist in a tight hug. “That was so cool! You have to teach me how to do that!”

Even Ethari can see the smile that Runaan can’t seem to hide. “In due time, Rayla. For now, we rest. Come now, I’m sure your parents are wondering where you are.” Runaan glances up, gaze flickering directly to Ethari, who gives him a smile and a small wave before disappearing from sight. Through the open window, Ethari eavesdrops on their fading conversation.

“Runaan, when can I have my own bowblade?”

“You’ll receive your weapon when you’re ready. One of the smiths will craft you something that matches your skills and needs perfectly.”

“Oh! I want Ethari to make mine!”

Maybe it’s just him, but Ethari can almost sense the fondness that creeps into Runaan’s voice when he replies, “I’m sure he’d be more than happy to make something for you.”

The rest of their conversation is stolen by distance and the wind, and with the sudden silence that replaces their voices Ethari realizes he’s done practically none of the tasks he had for the day. Not that anyone cares or is keeping track; he’s worked in the smithy long enough for everyone in the Silvergrove to know of his eclectic work habits, but still, it’s nice to say he’s done something at the end of the day. Ethari sighs and sits down at his bench, glancing around at the scattered weapons and sketches that litter the surface.

“Two hours before sunset,” he mutters to himself. He flips through a stack of parchment, though none of the projects catch his eye; he sorts through the assortment of damaged and broken weapons, and finally settles on a silver dagger with a cracked handle. It’ll at least keep him occupied until sundown, when he can actually return home.

Under the orange glow of the sun, Ethari hums to himself as he fills the crack and sands down the excess until the handle is smooth and polished. It’s a rather simple task compared to some of his previous projects—one time one of Runaan’s assassins asked for a custom enchanted bow two days before she was to leave on a solo mission and Moon above, was that a stressful two days—but it’s engaging enough that he doesn’t notice the elf that slips in through the still open window.

“Enjoyed the show?”

Ethari nicks himself on the blade as he flinches. He winces, then rolls his eyes affectionately when he recognizes his new companion. “Would it kill you to knock first?” he asks, gesturing to the blood now oozing along the cut on his finger. “I’ve only got four and I’d rather not lose any.”

“You need to be more alert,” Runaan counters. Then, softer, “are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, Runaan. There are herbs somewhere in here for cuts. And to answer your question, yes I did enjoy the show.” He rises to his feet and searches in the forge for a particular painted basket that he knows contains healing herbs and a roll of bandages. “I particularly liked the moment when your steely resolve was broken down by a child.”

Runaan scoffs. “Don’t you start,” he warns. “Aren’t you the one who let her mess up one of your projects because she”—his voices pitches up an octave—“really wants to learn how to make a sword?”

“It was a good learning experience,” Ethari insists. He finds the basket hidden behind a stack of dried clay, then sets out cutting a strip of cloth to wrap his finger. “She learned the process of crafting, and I learned to never let her do that again.”

There’s a breathy laugh from behind him. “And today I’ve learned never to agree when Tiadrin asks if I can watch over Rayla just for a couple minutes.”

“Oh, is that what happened?”

“She promised a couple minutes, and the next thing I know she’s fast asleep and Lain’s nowhere to be found.” Runaan sighs, then reaches for Ethari’s hand to examine the bandaged finger. “I figured they needed some rest—"

“Rayla’s rambunctious,” Ethari agrees.

“Right, so I figured I could take her outside and train her. Thought it would get rid of some energy too.”

“Didn’t work?”

Runaan shakes his head. “I should’ve known it would’ve only excited her more. I’ve never seen a child so eager to get into a fight.” He lets go of Ethari’s hand somewhat begrudgingly.

“She gets it from her mother.”

Runaan hums, gazing distractedly at one of the torches attached to the wall. The flames flicker with the breeze that comes in through the open window, casting dynamic shadows throughout the forge. “Did you hear what she asked me as we were leaving?”

“That she wants her own weapon?”

“Mm. Apparently she’s been hounding her parents for days about getting her own.”

“She gets that from her father, the weapon enthusiast that he is,” Ethari says with a chuckle. “What did you tell her? I assume her parents told her no?”

“You know her, she doesn’t listen to anyone. I said she’d get one when she’s ready, and that one of the smiths would make her something catered to her skills and needs.”

“What did she say?” he asks, breaking eye contact to pick up the nearly forgotten dagger. He grabs a cloth from the corner of his bench and begins to nonchalantly polish the blade.

“She expressed interest in having you craft her blade for her.”

“And what did you say?” He knows the answer, of course, but he wants to hear it directly from Runaan.

Runaan narrows his eyes, like he’s unsure if Ethari is joking. “I told her you’d be happy to make something for her.”

“How presumptuous of you to speak on my behalf.” Ethari’s very proud of how level his voice is.

“Oh,” Runaan says, his brows furrowing thoughtfully. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to—”

“I’m merely teasing you, Runaan,” Ethari says, finally letting his grin show. “You can speak on my behalf whenever.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Runaan promises him sternly. Then his expression relaxes into something more pensive again. “She’s too young to have her own weapon. She’s too young to even be thinking about such things…”

Ethari sets down the dagger and the cloth. “Can you blame her though? Think about it: her parents are both Dragonguards and they’re going to have to return to duty sooner or later. And her father’s best friend is the leader of assassins.”

“And her parents’ other good friend crafts weapons for a living. Runs in her blood, I suppose.” Runaan chews on his lip for the briefest of moments before adding, “you know, she often refers to the two of us together.”

Ethari frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” Runaan says airily in an attempt to be casual, but his movements are slightly forced. “She told me there are words that just naturally roll of the tongue in pairs. Salt and pepper, sword and shield, Tiadrin and Lain, Runaan and Ethari…” He trails off, watching Ethari’s expression carefully.

Ethari is very careful to keep is expression neutral, though he’s not sure he can control the blush or the warmth that’s spreading through his veins. “The two of us together, hm?”

“Oh yes. She seems to think we spend most of our time in each other’s company.”

“I mean, in this instance she is not wrong.”

“Clever elf, that one,” Runaan admits. Then, more seriously, “it doesn’t bother you?”

“That she refers to the two of us as a unit?” When Runaan nods, he continues. “Not at all, actually. To be associated with you, you of all elves, is an honor.”

Runaan is silent for a very long time. Ethari’s grown rather used to these long periods of non-verbal companionship; it just means he’s deep in thought or has something all-consuming on his mind. Any attempts to rush him only result in curt responses and, occasionally, a slamming door. (Trust him, he’s learned this the hard way). So he grabs the cloth and the dagger and continues to polish the already glistening dagger.

When Runaan speaks again, it’s with a soft fondness that catches Ethari off guard. “There are certain elves for whom I would willingly lay down my life. Rayla’s one of them.” A long pause. Then, so quiet like he doesn’t even mean to let it slip, “you are one, too.”

Ethari’s not sure what to say. He can’t meet Runaan’s eyes, not after something so sincere and vulnerable like that. “You’re the leader of assassins,” he says after a while. “It’s your job to protect the elves of the Silvergrove, even if it means…” He can’t bring himself to finish his sentence; the mere thought of Runaan failing to return from a mission sends his stomach into a sinking pit.

“No, you misunderstand.” There’s suddenly a hand around his own, and Ethari looks up startled into Runaan’s eyes. The assassin’s thumb rubs slow circles on the back of his hand. “You’re correct—my duty is to protect all of Xadia. But in all of my missions, I know the risks. If I must sacrifice my life, I will. But I will only do so if it is the best option available. What I meant is that for Rayla”—he doesn’t mention Ethari’s name again, but a slight hesitation reveals his intent to—“I would do anything. Even something reckless, even if it means I get hurt. As long as she’s safe…”

The sincerity in Runaan’s words are affecting him in ways he’s never experienced. To imagine that Runaan would be sitting in front of him, admitting his greatest weakness to him, was not something he’d ever imagined would happen even in his dreams. He squeezes Runaan’s hand and offers him a tender smile. “Then we’ll just need to make sure Rayla’s never in a position where she can’t defend herself.”

Runaan’s eyes are on their intertwined hands when he answers. “Easier said than done. Whenever there’s a loud commotion she walks towards it.” He sighs affectionately. “I don’t know how Tiadrin and Lain are getting any sleep when they need to spend every second watching her. A few days ago Tiadrin found Rayla with a cooking knife tucked into the waistband of her pants and a fork strapped to her stomach under her shirt.”

A laugh bursts out of Ethari, shattering the serious atmosphere instantly. Even Runaan cracks a smile, which only makes him laugh harder. “That's precious,” he manages when he can finally breathe, releasing Runaan’s hand to wipe at the tears forming at the corners of his eyes.

“If you can find a way to keep knives out of her shirts and pants, I’m sure Tiadrin and Lain will greatly appreciate it.”

His mind is already racing. “I may have a few ideas up my sleeve,” he muses.

“You’re not also hiding a soup spoon up there, are you?”

“Ha.” Ethari shoots him a look. “You’re funny.” His flat expression is interrupted by a yawn, one he cannot hide. He blinks the last tired tears away as Runaan stands up and tucks the stool underneath the workbench.

“You should return home, Ethari. You look exhausted.”

He hums, choosing to avoid answering. “I just have one thing I need to jot down, and then I’ll sleep. You go ahead, I know you train early in the mornings.”

Runaan lingers for a moment, before nodding. “Good night,” he bids, before strolling to the open window and jumping down.

Well, if he wasn’t awake earlier Ethari is definitely awake now—nothing like seeing his heart’s desire jump out of a window to shock his senses. He listens closely for any sounds of a potential injury, but is greeted with only silence. Good; that means Runaan is okay. He stifles another yawn and stretches, relishing in how his back pops and cracks as he twists from side to side. With one last wistful glance out the open window toward his home (and, coincidentally, the same direction that Runaan would go to get to his own home), Ethari grabs a clean sheet of parchment and gets to work.

By the time the sun rises, he’s truly exhausted. Delirious, even, given how he couldn’t stop laughing when he dropped the tiny round stone he was working with, and spent over an hour on his knees combing through everything to find it. (Not to worry, he eventually found it nestled in one of the many folds of his scarf—this led to ten more minutes of hysterical giggling). But at last, as the sun starts to warm the air outside, he’s done. And he can’t wait to show Runaan. And Rayla, of course, for whom he made this thing in the first place, but he can’t lie to himself—he’s most excited to see Runaan’s reaction.

It’s almost second nature to know where the assassin leader is. Ethari had learned Runaan’s schedule long ago, putting together bits and pieces depending on the assassin’s condition and the state of his weapons when he frequented the forge. Ethari tucks the present into his side, and hurries toward the training pavilion, where Runaan will be soon finishing up his morning routine.

Somehow, Ethari times it perfectly—just as he reaches for the door handle, it swings open. The momentum knocks Ethari in the head and, as delirious as he already is, he loses his balance and falls onto his back.

“Ethari?”

He winces, rubbing his hip. “Hi, Lain.” Then he frowns. “Lain? What are you doing here?”

Lain offers him a hand, which Ethari accepts gratefully. “I needed to speak with our dear friend Runaan. Don’t worry, I’ll leave you two be.”

Ethari’s tired mind barely acknowledges the wink that Lain sends his way as he leaves. He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it, because the next second Runaan steps out of the pavilion and looks around for the source of the commotion.

“Ethari?”

“Yes,” he answers, spinning around so fast he almost loses his balance again. “I made something!”

Runaan steadies him. “Don’t tell me you spent all night working on this,” he says softly. “Come on, you look worse than you did yesterday.” Ethari allows himself to be pushed into the pavilion and onto a bench, where his aching body sags unceremoniously onto the cold surface. “So? What did you make?”

Ethari grins proudly and pulls the gift from his side. He lets it dangle in front of Runaan’s face, the silver brooch swinging back and forth like a pendulum, before he drops it in the assassin’s lap. “For Rayla,” he clarifies. “As tiny as you are, I don’t think you’ll fit in it.”

“Call me tiny one more time, and I’ll—”

“You’ll what, kick me in the shins?”

Runaan only glares at him until Ethari laughs and puts up both hands in the universal gesture of surrender. Appeased, Runaan lets careful fingers run across the smooth leather band. “A belt?” he asks. He holds up the belt and untwists the straps. “No,” he thinks aloud. “Not just a belt.”

“Nope,” Ethari agrees. “Not just a belt. It’ll serve just fine as a belt, but it also has some extra space here”—he points to the extra piece of leather on one side of the belt—“and here in case she wants to carry around a soup spoon or a kitchen ladle.”

“Innovative,” Runaan comments. He continues to examine the belt, his fingers sliding along the leather until they hit the silver brooch that will secure the belt across her hips. “This is beautiful,” he murmurs as he holds the brooch closer to his face, a single fingertip tracing over the turquoise jewel. “What kind of stone…?”

“Amazonite,” Ethari informs him. “Rather rare for this part of Xadia, but if not for Rayla then for whom would I use it? It’s called the ‘hope’ stone, and supposedly it has healing and calming properties. I thought it rather apt for our young friend, who so eagerly and recklessly rushes into fights.”

Runaan says nothing, but the pleased smile on his face says it all. It’s this smile, in fact, that emboldens Ethari to reveal the other hidden meaning behind the stone: “it’s also the color of your eyes,” he adds tentatively. “So that she’ll know that you’re always with her.”

When he finally looks up at Runaan, his heart nearly stops. Because Runaan, the stoic assassin, is staring at him with glassy eyes, his mouth slightly ajar. Ethari gets to witness this side of him for just a few moments before his companion blinks, and all traces of tears or surprise are wiped from his face. Instead, Runaan swallows and clears his throat awkwardly. “Ethari,” he says, and if Ethari didn’t know him as well as he does he wouldn’t have noticed the barely there tremor in his voice. “Will you accept an invitation to dine with me at my home tonight?”

Ethari is slightly taken aback. “Of course,” he says with a confused smile. “I eat with you almost every night. Why the formality?”

“Because I don’t know how else to tell you that… I just”—his brows furrow and he chews on his lips, a rosy blush on his cheeks—"I’d like to…” He groans in frustration and crosses his arms. “I want to court you and I didn’t know how else to ask.”

“You what?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. At Runaan’s offended look, he scrambles to clarify, “no wait, Runaan, I’m not saying no. I’m just… I don’t think I heard you correctly. You want to court me?”

“Who else?” Runaan mumbles under his breath. Then, louder, “yes, Ethari. You. If you’ll have me.” He has the audacity to look peeved, like he’s doing Ethari a favor. But Ethari finds it endearing, he really does.

“Yes, of course. Always,” he answers breathily, and before anyone can stop him, he steps forward and wraps his arms around Runaan. The assassin’s stiff posture relaxes after a beat, and he feels Runaan’s reciprocating embrace. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to ask me,” he whispers in his ear. Runaan’s body is warm against his; the feeling of the assassin’s strong grip is enough to make him swoon. Or maybe that’s the lack of sleep causing him to lose his balance—it doesn’t matter; either way, he melts in his arms.

“Then why didn’t you ask me first?” Runaan whispers back, his arms tightening automatically around Ethari as the smith sinks into him.

Ethari scoffs quietly. “Me? Ask you? You’re asking why I, a mere craftsman, didn’t ask you, the leader of the prestigious Moonshadow assassins, to be in a relationship with me?”

“I would’ve said yes,” Runaan insists indignantly.

“Well I didn’t know that!” They break apart just enough so that Ethari can stare into turquoise eyes. Had they always been this mesmerizing? (The answer, whether he’ll admit it to himself or not, is yes).

“That’s your own fault, then.” Runaan caresses the side of his face with a gentle thumb. “Lain says I was overbearingly and obnoxiously obvious.”

“Is that what the two of you were talking about earlier?” he asks through a yawn.

With a secretive smile, Runaan shrugs. “Among other things,” he says airily. Then he drops his arms from around Ethari’s waist—he has to hold back a whine; how embarrassing—and promptly takes up Ethari’s hand. Interlacing their fingers, he offers the smith a soft smile. “Let’s get you to bed, shall we?”

“How forward of you,” Ethari teases with a wink. “Bedding me before our first—”

Runaan slaps a hand over his mouth. “Don’t you dare,” he warns lowly, eyes narrowed. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“Who says I can’t finish?” Ethari counters, and he’ll never forget the heat that flashes in Runaan’s gaze. Right then and there, he decides that whether he’s going to bed or they’re going to bed, he’ll always be Runaan’s partner in whatever adventures he chooses to pursue. After all, what’s life without a little fun?

*** +1 ***

Ethari has always prided himself as a quick learner no matter what the subject, and his relationship with Runaan is no different. During that first dinner, he learns that even though Runaan starts every day with a glass of moonberry juice, his guilty pleasure is actually a glass of moonberry wine. That night, he learns that Runaan falls apart whenever Ethari nips at the sensitive skin of his neck, right under his jaw. Within the first month, Ethari learns that Runaan has strict boundaries between his public and private lives, and while he isn’t afraid to appear beside Ethari as they stroll through the Silvergrove, he prefers to be recognized as Runaan the Assassin rather than Runaan the partner of Ethari. But Ethari doesn’t mind, because it’s obvious enough that Runaan is smitten. Whether it’s lingering glances or little quirks of the corner of his lips, Runaan isn’t very good at hiding his emotions when he’s around Ethari. (Runaan assures him that he’s quite good at masking on missions; but since he’s home, he can let his guard down just a little bit).

During the second month, on a romantic walk through the forest outside the Silvergrove, Ethari learns why Runaan prefers green Adoraburrs to any other color (the first one he ever found was a particularly friendly green one) and why he abhors the blue ones (in his youth, a particularly feisty blue one refused to stack properly and that’s why he was late to training—the first and only time he was ever late).

Sometime after the fourth month, Ethari learns that Runaan needs a warm bath and comforting skin-to-skin contact to recover after particularly brutal missions.

They’ve fallen into a routine with each other in which they spend nearly every evening in each other's company, and sometime after the first year, Runaan invites Ethari to move into his home. “Good thing you offered,” Ethari had told him, “because I’m running out of space in mine.” He hadn’t been joking—one unforeseen downside of becoming the Silvergrove’s most popular craftsman was that he was always working on something. More accurately, multiple somethings. So many somethings that he’s constantly in the forge, sometimes waking earlier and sleeping later than even Runaan himself.

He doesn’t mind, though, because he gets to do what he loves and he gets to make things with love. What else could he ask for?

After one year and two months, Ethari finds himself face to face with a pair of luminescent moon opals. A scout had brought them in the night before, dropping them off on Ethari’s workbench as payment for a particularly tricky enchantment on a set of throwing knives.

As soon as he sees them, Ethari tucks them away safely and begins to sketch. He surprises himself with how giddy he is—he hadn't expected the opals so soon. But now, as they hid in the deepest corner of his designated drawer full of miscellaneous objects, he can't wait to get started. 

He first got the idea from a project he did for Tiadrin and Lain's anniversary. The Dragonguards were back for their rotation, and as they approached Ethari and Runaan from behind, it occurred to him that he could hear Tiadrin's beads clinking gently against her armor, while Lain moved silently. Two days later, he presented them both with a new set of enchanted beads, ones that matched and didn't make any noises when sneaking around. As he watched Lain help Tiadrin fasten hers to her armor, he couldn't help but smile at how loving the gesture was. And then it hit him—if only he could do the same for Runaan.

"It's hard hiding things from Runaan," Ethari complains. He's sitting at Tiadrin and Lain's table, watching Rayla run through the house. As her parents weren't often home, Rayla stayed with Runaan and Ethari; but when her parents returned, she immediately moved back in with them. 

Tiadrin, who's on the other side of the room tidying up, sighs and sits back on her heels. "I don't see why you insist on keeping it a secret," she says. In her hands, she has a small stack of books—he recognizes an encyclopedia of elven weaponry and a book of recipes featuring moonberries—and a pile of Rayla's stuffed toys. She crams the toys into a nearby basket, and sets the books at the edge of the table. "You could just tell him, you know."

"That's not very romantic, now is it?"

"Since when is Runaan a romantic?"

"He... he appreciates gestures," Ethari stumbles. When Tiadrin opens her mouth, he hastily adds, "don't worry, I've checked with him before. He likes it when I surprise him with little things."

Tiadrin purses her lips. "I wouldn't categorize this as a 'little thing' though, Ethari. It's a pretty grand gesture."

"Yeah, well." He looks down at his hands folded neatly in his lap and tries his best not to fidget. Maybe Tiadrin's right; maybe Runaan wouldn't want something like this, maybe Runaan would think he's overstepping—

"Hey." A hand lands on his shoulder. Tiadrin leans over and holds his gaze. "I'm sorry if what I said made you doubt yourself. Runaan's going to love it, I just know it. He loves everything you make."

Ethari smiles sadly. "What if he rejects it?" he whispers brokenly.

"Then I'll beat him up," Tiadrin replies matter-of-factly. "If he's idiotic enough to reject your gift, then I swear by the Moon I will pummel him into the ground. If you want me to."

"Thanks, Tiadrin."

"Anytime, Ethari. And I genuinely mean, any time."

When Ethari returns to the forge that night under the guise of having an urgently time sensitive task, he opens the drawer and pulls the twin opals out. In the flickering candlelight, the opals glisten like stars; as they rest in his palms, he can feel the pulsing energy of the Moon arcanum swirling within them. 

"Right," he tells himself. From underneath a pile of fabric scraps, he produces four delicately crafted metal frames. (It had been such a happy coincidence when he realized the rock he'd found on the walk with Runaan could be purified into something usable). Each consists of a thin circle, inside which is intertwined four crescent moons and four supporting arcs. Creating these frames was truly a labor of love—to work with such thin strands and not break them was a feat that required his undivided attention. But now that he's finished sculpting and enchanting them (so that the frame will only break when crushed by its owner), he's ready to assemble the final form.

Compared to everything else, the final assembly is easy. The frames, modeled to perfectly surround the front and back of each moon opal, slide into place with little resistance. All it takes is one last enchantment and the two halves meld into a sturdy cage around the centerstone. 

It's even more magnificent, now that both pendants are finished. Well, almost finished. Ethari threads a length of brown string through each of the pendants—chosen for its durability and its lack of flare (any attention should be on the pendant, after all)—and melts the loose ends together. 

There. Now it's done. 

The moon hasn't yet reached its peak, so Ethari cleans up his station and heads home, the two pendants tucked securely in his pocket. Runaan doesn't usually sleep until the moon is past its peak; Ethari's counting on it. As he nears the home he shares with his beloved, an illuminated window signifies that Runaan is still awake but who knows for how long. Ethari quickens his pace.  

"Runaan? Are you asleep?" he calls as he steps through the door.

"Yes," a deadpan voice calls back. 

Ethari grins. "Fine, stay asleep then." He sets his boots by the door and starts up the stairs. "I'll just give you your present tomorrow."

There's the sound of footsteps hitting the floor, and Runaan's head pokes out of their bedroom. He's in a plain tunic with his hair unbraided—looks like Ethari made it home just in time. "Present?" he asks with an arch of an eyebrow. 

"Aren't you supposed to be asleep?" Ethari pushes past him into the bedroom. He can feel Runaan's gaze on him as he changes into his own bedclothes, careful to take a pendant into each hand while his back is turned.

"Someone rudely woke me up," Runaan replies. He steps up behind him, wrapping himself around the smith. Ethari leans back, rests his head on Runaan's shoulder, and presses a light kiss to the side of his neck. Runaan shivers, and pulls Ethari closer into him. "You mentioned a present?"

"Mm." He shrugs his shoulders and Runaan understands immediately; he releases Ethari from his tight embrace and allows him to turn around so that they're facing each other, and mere inches apart. "Lower your head."

Runaan obeys without complaint. With a deep breath, Ethari slips one of the pendant over Runaan's head, careful to avoid his horns. As soon as he steps back, Runaan's hands reach up to cup the centerstone gingerly.

"A pendant," he says, surprised.

"Care to analyze it?"

Runaan huffs a laugh. "It's been a while since you last asked me that," he notes, but he complies anyway. "A crescent moon? No, four crescent moons."

"That's right. We are Moonshadow elves, after all."

"Thank you for the reminder, I nearly forgot." Ethari doesn't even have to look to hear the metaphorical eye roll. "I don't recognize this metal..."

"Do you remember when we took a walk together and you showed me something shiny inside a cracked boulder?"

"That was a long time ago."

"Right. Well, I may have been carrying the ore around with me ever since—hey, don't laugh at me!" Ethari swats playfully at his partner's chest which rapidly rises and falls with his chuckles. "I thought it was so romantic and I couldn't bear to use it."

"You've used it now," Runaan points out between laughs.

"I figured you were worth it." He relishes in how quickly a blush rises on Runaan's pale cheeks. Gotcha. "Anything else you notice?"

Runaan runs a finger over the intricate swirls, then pauses when he touches the centerstone. His eyes widen when it registers what he's holding. "A moon opal," he says in wonder. "I can feel it. Where did you find a moon opal?"

"Payment for a particularly tricky mend."

"You could've used this moon opal for anything, and you chose to make a pendant for me?"

"Not just you," Ethari says, and finally reveals the second pendant in his other hand. "For us."

"Oh," Runaan breathes, and his voice is so full of admiration that Ethari melts. He glances down at the pendant again. "So many moons," he murmurs, tracing the crescents. "And yet none of them compare to you."

"Then maybe you'll think of me whenever you feel that moon opal on your chest." Ethari goes to put his own pendant on, but a steady hand stops him. Instead, Runaan carefully untangles the string from his fingers and maneuvers it over Ethari's head for him. As the pendant settles atop his purple scarf, Ethari intertwines his hand with Runaan's. "My hope is that you'll never need to use it, but if you are ever without the moon..." His voice trails off shakily.

There's a hand on his lower back and a hand on the back of his head as Runaan pulls him back into a tight embrace. "Ethari, don't," Runaan whispers. "You don't have to—"

"No. I need you to know this." Ethari presses back enough to stare him sraight in the eyes. "I need you to know that my love will be with you, even when the moon is not. If you are ever without the moon, perhaps if you know that I'm always with you, then you'll always return home to me."

He feels Runaan swallow thickly. "I promise," Runaan whispers, looking into the depths of Ethari's amber eyes. "I promise that I will always return home to you, if it’s the last thing I ever do."

That night—as Ethari lays in bed with a sleeping Runaan curled up beside him, their matching pendants aglow like stars in the dark—the moon is awfully bright.