Archive of Our Own ^beta

Grian circled high above Scar’s base just as the sun was setting—it cast the nearby landscape in a technicolor display of pinks, yellows, and oranges. After he descended, he landed on a patch of soft moss with little more than a oof that escaped his lips; Mother Nature cushioned his fall easily. He brushed his fringe out of his eyes as he glanced up at the massive tree before him, his wings folding against his back on autopilot. 

Grian was struck by the way that the landscape around him seemed to be a living, breathing thing—every friendly blade of grass swayed in the breeze and every tree curled its branches towards him in an inviting manner. He felt welcomed here. Not just that—he felt safe, here, in a way that he had never felt before.

It didn’t bear thinking about. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and set off for the entryway of Scar’s base before he could psych himself out. He’d been here before, once or twice: the first time had been before Scar finished construction. The second time had been during one of Scar’s infamous parties. Grian, admittedly, had had a few too many cups of Elven lemonade to remember most of that night—but he did remember the path to the front door, and that was all that mattered.

To his shock, the door was ajar, ever so slightly. Grian slipped through it and pulled it to; the door creaked as he did so, and he gritted his teeth against the sound. Goodness. He had to be stealthy. What was he doing?

Scar’s grand library took up most of the tree’s upper trunk. Grian found it entirely by accident—he kept close to the walls, his wings tucked close, and peeked into every room he found as he ascended a long staircase. 

He didn’t mean to snoop—he was just, well. Naturally inquisitive was one word for it. Nosy was another. Look: Grian liked to know things. And he liked to marvel at beautiful builds, like Scar’s base. It really wasn’t such a mystery after all.

When he stepped into the library, he knew instantly that it was the perfect place for answers. Books lined the place from floor-to-ceiling—shelves towered dizzyingly into the air. Grian had to crane his neck back in order to see the ceiling, a gorgeous thing made of cedar that stung his nose sharply. The pervasive, woody scent of the cedar wood seemed to cling to every book he passed; Grian ran his finger along a few spines in awe before he snapped out of his dazed state.

Right. He had an objective—he needed to see if there were any books on Elves. But where to start?

It took some trial and error (read: Grian getting lost several times in the dark recesses of the bookshelf labyrinth) before he hit the jackpot. The book that slipped out from between two boring anthologies was a slim green edition that looked older than any hermit Grian had ever come across. He blew the dust off of the cover in a reverent state, stroking the gilded letters of the title with awe.

The cover read Elves and Their Habits. The author’s name, below the title, had been scratched out with a sharp pin; Grian couldn’t quite piece together the letters. Maybe they had been written in a script, once upon a time. Not that it mattered—Grian found a nice spot on the carpet and settled there with his legs crossed. He resigned himself to his reading as he cracked open the cover, letting the thin pages fan out between his fingers. 

Thankfully, he did not have to search for long. His thumb fell on a paragraph that briefly mentioned Elves’ appearance; all at once, Grian snapped to attention and began to read.

Most Elves today stress the importance of their appearance. This habit is not limited to Elves, either—it extends to most Fae. One will find even the tiniest of forest Pixies applying glitter to her eyelids in the early morning, or the Brownies from the Enchanted Woods paying extra care and attention to their mustaches. However, an emphasis upon the care and keeping of hair is an Elven tradition, sacred through the many millennia of their species.

Grian blinked. He’d figured Scar’s whole Elven hair thing was a one-off. He’d never thought that it might extend to more than just his friend. Gingerly, cradling the spine of the book between his thumb and forefinger, he began to read on.

Elves spend hours tending to the wellbeing of their hair. Most will grow it out. There are very specific methods used to wash, dry, and cut Elven hair, the likes of which are sacred and secret to the Elf himself.

Grian’s eyes fell down the page a bit, skimming the next few paragraphs—and his jaw fell open at what he found.

Elves, the book continued pleasantly, will braid the hair of their beloved in what is colloquially referred to as an elflock. This tight plait, woven far too intricately for the human eye to make out any detail, acts a marker of territory for other Elves. It is a declaration of love like no other.

The elflock has several other names in different languages, including but not limited to...

But Grian had stopped reading. He was staring at the text beneath him, hardly breathing as he grappled with what the implications were.

So this was an elflock. The hair of an Elf’s beloved. If Scar had been the one to braid Grian’s hair—if he had been the one to proclaim Grian as his—his mate, or whatever they called it, for all the world to see—then why had he reacted the way he did days earlier?

Grian grit his teeth together and leaned forward in order to pore over the rest of the page. Goodness, he needed to know—his heart was thundering in his chest at the revelation of this news. There was a part of him, however small, that preened at the thought of being... well, of being Scar’s beloved.

You love me, Scar had said, grinning, don’t ‘cha?

A throat cleared somewhere nearby, and Grian’s chin jerked up to meet the eyes which had been watching him. His lips parted—he could do nothing except shrink underneath Scar’s gaze. He hadn’t heard the other man approach, but here he was: dressed in what could only be his pajamas, with Jellie curled around his shoulders. She eyed Grian in distaste as she cleaned her paw.

Grian was frozen. He couldn’t read the expression on Scar’s face—that was what scared him the most, he thought lamely. There was emotion there, but he could not tell what it was for the life of him.

“Hi, Scar,” he said lamely, once the silence had stretched to an uncomfortable extent. “I, uh—how’s it going?”

“You know,” Scar said slowly, “if you wanted to use the library, you could have asked.” Grian flinched at the reminder, his cheeks blossoming a bright red. “Instead of skulking around my house like a common thief.”

“I—yeah,” Grian said, desperately trying to save face. “Yeah. But it was important, and I couldn’t find you when I knocked—“

Scar’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?” he said. When he took two slow steps towards Grian, all that Grian could do was crane his neck up to meet Scar’s gaze again. “What could be so important about...”

But Scar trailed off when his eyes darted across the book’s title. Grian saw him swallow thickly—the motion ran down his throat like the gentle touch of cold fingers. “Elves and Their Habits?” he supplied weakly, knowing the bit was up.

Scar’s gaze rose again. It practically burned into him; Grian resisted the urge to shudder away from the scrutiny. The Elf standing in front of him was a world away from the man who had fled from Grian’s home earlier that week. Who was he, and what had he done with Scar?

The silence lingered between them, broken only by the soft sound of Jellie’s breathing. Grian inhaled sharply; he braced himself, setting his shoulders in a determined line, and said, “You knew about this.” He didn’t have to gesture to the—the elflock in his hair. His meaning was clear enough that Scar’s shoulders drooped; Jellie made a sound of protest and curled more tightly around the nape of Scar’s neck.

“Yeah,” Scar said finally, his voice hoarse. “But I wasn’t sure until—until now.” He hesitated. “Can we—can we take this discussion elsewhere? I don’t know if I can stand here for much longer… my legs might give out.”

Grian rose to his feet with a rustle of feathers before Scar had even finished speaking. “Of course,” he said, and he had the grace to give Scar a small smile. “Let’s get you to bed, grandpa.”

The joke, as he’d hoped it might, managed to shatter whatever had been awkward and uncomfortable in the air between them. Scar made a squawk of protest and swatted at Grian—unfortunately, he was already across the room and out of range. “Hey!” he complained. “I’m not old!”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Grian countered, but he let Scar lead the way to his kitchen with no further complaints. They descended several flights of stairs and emerged onto a level he’d never seen before—a small, cozy kitchen with a nearby wooden table and four chairs.

Grian settled into one of these chairs as Scar puttered about the kitchen. Jellie leapt from his shoulders onto the counter; Scar reached out to scratch underneath her chin, cooing softly as he did so. “D’you want a cup of coffee or something?” he asked Grian. “Hot chocolate? Tea?”

“Tea, please,” Grian said, oddly touched. He’d been the one sneaking around Scar’s base without permission, and here Scar was, taking care of him and offering him something to drink.

You’re his beloved, said that awful little voice in the back of his head. Of course he’s offering you something to drink.

Grian told the voice exactly what he thought of it, in much more anatomically impossible terms, and accepted the cup of tea that Scar offered him. The other man settled into the chair across the table from Grian; Jellie curled up at his feet with a low purr, blinking sleepily up at Grian.

Silence reigned again. This time it was not an awkward silence, but more of a comfortable thing between two friends. Scar considered Grian with his head tilted to the side; after a moment, he said, “I guess you’re wondering if that book was telling the truth.”

Grian hesitated. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I guess I am.”

Scar let out a long breath. A tentative moment passed before he spoke again. “The short answer,” he said finally, “is yes. That’s—yeah.” He leaned back in his chair, watching Grian with something unreadable in his gaze. “I can’t—this is impossible.”

Grian cleared his throat. “If the book is—to be believed,” he said slowly, “then you’re the one who did—this.” He gestured needlessly to the plait in his hair.

Scar nodded: a sharp, jerky thing. “Yeah,” he said. “I braided your hair.” His lips quirked at the corners. “It took a while, actually—you wouldn’t sit still. You kept whacking me in the face with those massive wings of yours.”

Grian hesitated. “Then why don’t I remember that?”

Scar’s eyes practically burned into Grian’s face. “Do you really want an answer to that question?” he asked slowly.

Grian thought about it for all of two seconds. “Yes,” he said, and he meant it, too. “I do.”

Scar worried his lower lip between his teeth with such force that Grian winced. His friend was sure to have an ulcer there later. “Have you ever heard of the Watchers?” Scar asked, with such seriousness that Grian straightened in his seat.

It was like a dam had burst open. Images flashed through his mind, all at once—pain tearing through his body as fragile wings pushed through a pulsing layer of skin. Beings with thousands of eyes staring down at him as Grian writhed in agony. Gulping down nectar with such force that he nearly gagged on it. A whisper from above—he will be useful.

Did Scar really think...? Had Grian never told…? All he could do was stare at Scar, his mouth hanging open. Of course Grian had heard of the Watchers. Of course he’d—he knew—he’d been one—

“Yes,” he said finally. The word scratched at his throat on the way out.

Scar’s gaze was somehow far too innocent and far too knowing at the same time. “Then you’ll know about their death games.”

Grian’s head pounded with the telltale sign of an oncoming migraine. “Not intimately,” he said, and somehow it was the truth and a lie all at once. “But I’ve been acquainted.”

Scar’s expression did something complicated, like he couldn’t decide whether or not he wanted to broach a certain subject. After he’d swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, he said, “We—you and I—were bound together. Soulmates, if you will.” His lips twisted into a wry smile. “I’m sure they were proud of that one.”

Grian stared at him. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around Scar’s tale. “Bound together… in a death game?”

“Yes,” Scar said. He held out a hand, fingers splayed against the table—Grian couldn’t help but notice the way they shook, ever so slightly. “I—I don’t know why I can still remember it. No one else seems to.”

Grian inhaled sharply. He felt like the metaphorical rug had been torn out from underneath his feet. “But—if we were in one of their death games,” he said slowly, “and that’s when you—when you plaited my hair, then why… why is it still plaited?”

Scar shrugged, somewhat desperately. “I don’t know,” he said. “I wish—I wish I could tell you.” He laughed, the sound acidic, and reached a hand up to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear for the first time since this conversation had started.

Grian squinted at Scar. “Is that—what are you—“

He trailed off, because something was not quite right, but he couldn’t quite place it—not until Scar’s hand flew to his temple and ran over the singular lock of hair that had caught Grian’s attention, almost reverently. He stared at Grain for a very long moment as if daring him to say something.

Grian felt like he couldn’t breathe. “Your hair,” he said slowly. “It’s—“

“White,” Scar finished for him, thoughtful. There was an edge to his words: a tone that Grian had never heard before. At least, he thought he’d never heard it before. That voice piped up again to say, Yes! You have!

Well. His memories were hazy at best.

Scar grinned and added, “Death tends to do that to a man.”

Grian swallowed thickly. All he could see in Scar’s eyes was a gentle sort of blame—this is your fault, his gaze seemed to say.

Or maybe that was the voice in Grian’s head speaking. His conscience. It tended to sound too much like Scar, sometimes.

“So,” the real Scar said. He watched Grian put the pieces together through keen eyes. “You see. It’s a little—a little bit complicated.”

Grian nodded helplessly. There was one truth, though, that he couldn’t help but fixate on—the truth that resounded solidly in Scar’s gaze. Soulmates, Scar had said, like he’d meant it.

“Scar,” he said, finally. “Scar, in that death game, were we—was it—oh, God, why can’t I just spit it out?!”

“Take your time.”

“Look,” Grian said. He tilted his head to the side, feeling a little bit lost for words. “In that game, we were soulmates, correct?”

Scar’s expression did something complicated. “Yes,” he said. “We were.”

“And you—you braided my hair. The elflock thing. And you said that the book was right—that I’m your. Your beloved.” Quickly, he added, “Or at least—I was.”

Scar did not speak this time. He simply nodded.

“But you brought me soup.” Grian’s thoughts were racing a mile a minute as he tried to form them into words. “This week. And I think—I think, maybe, that the soup was a declaration of love in itself.”

Scar froze, like an animal pinned beneath a hunter’s gaze. Grian could almost see the cogs turning in his brain like clockwork.

“Am I wrong, Scar?” he asked, voice dropping low. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

The silence stretched—one beat, two beats, three beats—until…

“No,” Scar said, in a hushed tone. The tension between them shattered in that moment. “No, you’re not wrong.”

Grian tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. His heart was pounding in his chest at a thousand miles per minute; he felt like he might faint if he stood up too quickly. “Ah,” he said, and it was all at once too much and not enough.

Because—if he searched deep and forced himself to reckon with the truth—he knew that maybe he was a little bit in love with Scar, too.

“Ah,” Scar echoed, and then it was just the two of them—plus Jellie, of course, at his feet—and the world around them had grown silent. Grian stared at Scar: bloody blindingly brilliant Scar, who had been carrying this secret on his shoulders alone for days already and had not sought anyone’s help in the process. He felt like there was too much he couldn’t say.

So he didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached out and tangled his hand with Scar’s long, lithe fingers, The touch sent a static shock straight through him—Grian barely resisted the urge to shudder at the electric feel of it. Now that he had bridged the gap, he wanted to reach out and pull Scar closer. He wanted to kiss him, yes, but he also wanted to tangle their legs together and wrap his arms around Scar’s waist and laugh into the place where Scar’s neck met his shoulder…

Grian made a noise of abrupt realization; the thoughts tapered off into a warm sense of belonging. His heart beat in time with it. Finally, he raised his gaze to Scar’s eyes—which were heavy with fondness—and said, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Scar repeated. He hesitated, clearly unsure. “Okay?”

“I want all the soup you can muster,” Grian said, with a boldness he did not feel. “You crazy, insane, reckless, stupid, wonderful man.”

Scar’s lips curved upwards into a slow, stunned smile. “You mean—“

“Yes,” Grian said, and he clutched Scar’s hand all the more tightly. He didn’t say, I think I might be a little bit in love with you, too, but it was okay—this was a burgeoning thing between them, after all. They had time. They had more than enough time to figure this out. Watchers above them be damned.

“Yes,” Scar echoed.

In that moment, it was enough. He was enough. “You’re enough,” Grian said, just to remind Scar, and he meant it, too.

You’re enough.