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Fire.
Everything feels slow. There’s heat, and there’s movement, but the only sound you can hear is your own breath. It’s yours, but a stranger’s.
You are… a soldier on a battlefield. Dirt and soot is caked under your claws, matted in your fur so dense you don’t think you’ll ever be cleaned. Another explosion rocks the earth beneath your paws, so close you can feel the heat bloom across everything. It shocks you into action, into movement, rushing forwards across the battlefield to pull, to shield with your body, to protect –
–there’s feathers under your grip. Soft and downy, and your right claw is right by a peony, and you've found… Rue, in your panic. The smell of– something, on them, be it the peonies or some otherworldly effect of their magic, something bright that smells like– well, how a summer night feels , natural and wonderful at the same time.
The feeling of being deftly, terribly unaware, to sharply, extravagantly aware is something that leaves you scrambling for purchase.
"I– I do apologize for laying hands upon you, Master of Ceremonies," you stammer out, trying to remind yourself that battle and ash is far away, that the floor is smooth, cold tile, that it's simply colors and lights bursting above. It's not exactly effective. "The noise, I-I worried we were under attack. Loud noises, as a military man–"
And their lack of a response sends you almost worrying farther, in a different way. Your claws, on their arms, and that could be seen as something ruinous , so out of place, that… and they tense up, and take your claws to move off, and you've made the most horrible offense ever. You cannot stop yourself from thinking that this is the way it always will be, the dirt under your nails has given them great offense, you are nothing but a soldier and you should keep it that way–
–"Oh, I– Captain Hob, thank you so much for– but it was just the magnificence of the fireworks that truly startled me. I am quite fine." Their beak opens in a bit of a smile, and there's a war in your own mind– look up, or don't?
You look up, and realize– yes, the Master of Ceremonies has spoken to you, and you have to respond.
"No, I understand– they startled me as well, my action was not a reflection on– on your startlement, but my own." You look down, and your eyes catch on their dress, the liquid underbelly peeking out of rigid skirts, and idly, you think of touching it. Of feeling the fabric, almost like it could pour between your claws. "You– you look resplendent."
"I was going to say the exact same thing." They say, and you can almost trick yourself into thinking it's fondness that lets the words fall from their beak so smoothly. "You look… divine."
For so out of place you feel with the goblins, you are glad that the fur covering your bugbear face is dense enough to hide the blush you feel underneath. You need to change the topic, or you'll– explode, and maybe it won't be beautiful and vibrant colors, it would just be an unmaking.
"As full as I am sure your–your dance card must be…" you begin, looking away again, up to the sky, feeling eye contact too much of a statement of equal ground. "...sorry, no, I meant only to mention your," and you laugh, quick and fumbling, "I'm sure you must be being bothered by everyone asking you to dance."
And they pick up your sentence as soon as you awkwardly finish it, shaking their head with something– again, you can trick yourself into thinking it's fond, warm, kind.
"Captain Hob," and you think that for all the good the title has given you, this must be the best of all. "look around you. Who?"
And within their claws– long, green, curling things (and you realize, however dully, that your hands look like that– not green, of course, brown like mud and dirt, covered by gloves right now, but your hands look like that . You match them.) is a piece of parchment, and it may be the trick of the light, but there's no– ink bleeding through to the other side. Delloso de la Rue's dance card is empty.
You sniff, eyes wide with a pushing sense of awareness, of something fleeting, of an opportunity you can't deny.
"Might I have the honor of transcribing my name upon your card?" And for once in this night, it comes out so smoothly, so pointedly driven it surprises you for the fifth time tonight.
And they respond so softly, a claw reaching to hand it over, claws meeting claws, something sharp and monstrous and yet it is you and them. "That would please me greatly."
And now you have an excuse to not look, to not transgress your station, to not get lost in the extravagance of their dress, of their claws, of their own gaze. Because you take a quill and start writing your name– you start with "Captain", of course, but in a night full of risks, you add more, too.
"There have been many instances that led me to believe that here amongst these Fey… I might at times have been surrounded by fools. Seeing that I have beat them all to the most desirable card in the room, I have never been more certain."
You bow, and finally hand off the card to them, and before you can plague your own mind with another uncertainty, they speak.
"Now let's take a look at your dance card."
"Oh–" and you laugh, a little surprised. "--somewhat empty as well."
"Well, may I?" And their claw reaches for your own card in your pocket, and you realize that a ring sits upon one of the fingers in the claw that reaches. It's the badge you gave them, and they made it into a ring, to keep close, to brandish upon their ring finger. The sheer prospect of that being any sort of way they could treat you is enough to leave you breathless. They pluck the card from your pocket, and you are wordless, and they write.
"If the Archfey at this ball are blind," they begin with confidence, "they are also foolish for not seeing the true magnificence of a gentleman amongst gentlemen tonight."
They hand your card back, and you look at it. In swirling, glittery font that keeps moving as you watch, a sage green shimmering with reflections of the colors above, it says "Delloso de la Rue". And you can't hear the explosions. You can't hear the murmurs of the other fey, meeting their own partners and having their own interactions. All you can hear is them, and the rush of the blood in your chest.
You take your card, the swirling script, you fold it. You fold it, you meet Rue's gaze, and you eat it.
(They laugh, a small, fledgeling chuckle– and then attempt to catch themselves. Their claws scrape so gently across his dance card, one nail tracing the H in Hob. It's that same sort of tidal wave feeling, the clearest thought fished to the surface: they love him.
"Knickolas Pnackolas Hob," Rue repeats, the weight of the name delightful within their beak. The sharpness of it, pulled together with the saplike glue of their adoration.)
One of your ears flicks, your own breath coming out in a bit of a laugh as you look-- again, to the floor, always to the floor. A soldier's instinct to defer, knocked away by a soft claw gently landing under your chin, pushing it up to make eye contact, golden yellow to deep green.
"It's a beautiful name," they say. "Perfect for a beautiful man."
(A surface thought comes from you, this time: I never want to stop loving them.)
-
(You dance with them. A part of you bemoans the fact that other dances– the dances that everyone else partakes in do not have instructions like the Lady Binx had at the beginning of the night. These are closer to improvisational, you guess– but you get lost in the swirls of the colors of everyone's outfits, and your claws are in their claws, and you wonder if this happiness can be a home. You wonder if you can live here.)
(You hope you can live here.)
-
Delloso de la Rue eventually brings you somewhere safer, quieter, after the flurry of feet and laughter, the attempts at dancing each of you shared. While the explosions echo above, something about– the place they bring you to, it makes it softer. All you hear, all you need to hear, is their voice and the rustling of leaves.
…Things are clearer when you think of them as battlefields. It's easier to understand everything when you can see the whole map, of the movements between "troops"-- even if the Bloom isn't a traditional battlefield.
It's close enough, right? The courts, moving their troops towards goals. Machinations work behind the scenes, through it all– Lord Blemish and Lady Boil speaking with members of the Seelie court, Prince Apollo with the Princess Suntar. Where do you stand? Where would anyone stand when their orders create their own war with their heart?
You have to make the most of tonight.
You're surrounded in… ivy, you believe, climbing up the walls of the masquerade's venue, curling around stones and bricks indiscriminately, dampening sound in a way that doesn't feel… stifling. No, instead, this is peaceful, an oasis in the desert. Cool night air brushes through your fur, reminding you that you are here, and not on the battlefields you're used to. There is no dirt, and ash, and soot, and blood.
Delloso de la Rue takes a seat on a bench made of intricate stone-and-brickwork, and sweeps a wing out to offer you a place next to them. You do– though you stumble a bit, sore from the dance. When you sit, Rue repositions, twists and pulls a leg to face you. You mirror them, but you don't… look. Instead, your gaze goes from your own claws, the nails intertwined and picking at each other, fidgeting– to above, the bursts of light and color painting neon onto the canvas of the black sky.
When green streaks across space, you find the courage to speak.
"Delloso de la Rue," you begin, the words themselves smooth and unburdened. When you take a breath in to continue, they interrupt.
"Please," and they smile, again, head tilting, eyes wide. "Call me simply Rue, Knickolas."
"Why?" It's impulse, then, that makes you respond. You move your claw to hold theirs, to rub your thumb over their ring made from the badge of Courage. "Your entire name is a masterpiece, Rue. If I do not say it in full, then I do not honor it."
Their silence makes you think you misspoke– that your clumsiness strikes again, loses the battle before it begins. The sky explodes in orange, this time, but you only see it in the reflection of the gold of their ring.
(Their ring. It's theirs, and they made it from something you gave them. It is something, clearly, that they find precious enough to display– at least for tonight. If only for tonight.)
"Knickolas," Rue says, softly, moving their unoccupied claw to hold over yours. "please, forgive me if this is forward– has anyone told you how thoughtful you are?"
Your brows furrow. "No." It's a strange question, something that could easily be followed by a simple "Of course not." The Goblin court is not one for thoughts– why, it would be an insult. But something about the way Rue says it, just how they did in the woods, makes it sound like it's a badge in and of itself. It makes your breath stop, halted in its tracks by sheer wonder.
"Then everyone around you must be foolish." They continue, looking up to your face, tilting their head this way and that just to attempt to make eye contact– and you let them, meeting their gaze, again engaging golden yellow with a deep green. "You are the most brilliant man I've ever met, you know. I meant everything I said in those woods."
Again, you're glad your fur hides your blush– though it does nothing for how tall your ears stand up at attention.
"I knocked your hand away because I was afraid you'd learn about… well," and they disengage one of their claws to gesture upwards at their face. " This. But now I see that… we are the same, in a sense."
"How?" You ask, breathless. How could you and I be the same, when you are so wondrous?
"We don't… belong, Knickolas. For all the magic you pull within your court– and I mean not to belittle your military accomplishments, for I know they are as vast as can be," and at this, the claw that moved to gesture to their face moves again to touch your remaining badges, their claw so close you wish they would move closer, spread a hand against your chest. "but they do not treat you right. "
Your eyes water. Your eyes water, and you know you are not one to cry beautifully (not like Rue overlooking the duel, but you think that was the rain, you think it would be treasonous to think Rue in any form beautiful when this is how they are happiest), so you pull away, back from their hands, moving to hide your face in your hands and…
…and Rue grabs your claws. The sky bursts into reds and pinks, and when you look up to watch, as pyrotechnics make paintings of the sky, you instead meet Rue's eyes.
And they pull you into a hug.
It's soft. Feathery down, clean and perfect, wraps around you, applies even pressure. Even though it was already quieter in the ivy hideaway, their wings (it's their wings, you're so close to them) truly muffle everything until it's just you so tightly protected. They smell like peonies– the hunter, the predator within you picks up the iron of their blood and the sweat of their anxiety– but there's peonies, and summer nights, and stars twinkling in the sky, and crackling fires, and pine. They smell like home– not the Goblin court, a distinct, cleaner, safer home. So you allow yourself to be enveloped, safe and so small in the arms of Delloso de la Rue.
You stay there until they pull away, lifting claws up to your cheeks, thumbing away the tears caught in the fur, and when you look at them, it is home. It's not a battlefield in their eyes, not expectation, not orders. You see yourself in the reflection of dark green, and it's more overwhelming and wondrous than soft feathers or explosions of color or dance cards.
It takes you a minute still to regain enough composure to speak.
"...Thank you, Rue." And you're furtive, but you are , truly, grateful. "I do… not get told, things of that… manner. You are," and you stop on "the first" , but– "one of very few who have shown that… kindness, that you overflow with."
And it's true. Delloso de la Rue is a wellspring of many things. Bravery. Wonder. Kindness. Honesty. Sanctuary.
"Then everyone who does not see the good, the wonder that you carry, Knickolas– then they are all fools. Every single one of them."
And that must be true, because Rue says it. And you don't know how to respond, because it is so true, and so earnest– and for a moment, you think about their tone. They say that, and they must mean it, because there is a fire inside them– the fire of a soldier, of someone so connected to their cause that it is inseparable.
The finale of lights explodes overhead, the pure darkness of the sky split with streaks of vibrant color, of all colors, brought together above it all. Rue looks up, this time, and the reflection of it all is more beautiful to watch than the sky.
You wonder if you can live here, in this moment. Rustling ivy, a stone bench, and the most beautiful archfey in the whole of the feywild– damn it, the most beautiful archfey anywhere. Beautiful lights of Summer nights, peonies blooming across sage green, feathers and claws.
You hope you can live here.