Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is a generally agreed upon fact that mountains are cold.

To try and convince someone of the existence of a warm mountain is like attempting to communicate in two separate languages. The two of you would simply leave the conversation more frustrated than before, both believing themselves to be the one wronged, the one that was slighted by the other. For believing in a mountain that is able to be warm, to be free of the biting cold and creeping frost, is a laughable idea, truly.

Their high altitude gives way for thin, freezing air- certainly not something that the faint of heart should attempt to climb. And certainly very few do dare to venture to the very tips of a mountain, to trudge onwards and upwards, towards those snow-capped peaks. It is certainly not for those predispositioned to stress of any kind, for there are many things to consider when embarking on such a trek, many things which would be more than enough to turn away those that aren't truly prepared to face the challenges of the biting cold.

And yet, people do indeed trek to the very peaks of those mountains. Though many of those from outside, the observers, are hesitant to call these beings ‘people’ in any sense of the word. They are far too content to hide themselves away amongst the peaks of the mountains, nestled carefully in their homes atop one of the highest peaks of the Rivendell Mountains.

The beings, for they are not people, for they live far too long to be anything close to resembling a person, they are entirely and wholly other - these beings are content in their isolation. And their ruler seems content alongside them, rarely descending from the peaks of his mountain to grace others with his presence. When he does descend, it is as though he has forgotten he is no longer nestled amongst the snow, carrying an air of ice and a bite of frost with him, nipping at the ankles of anyone who dares to step too close.

It is a generally agreed upon fact, just as the previously agreed upon fact of all mountains being cold, that the Elvenking of Rivendell is odd. He has all the traits a leader must possess to lead their people well; he is charming and confident, his smile is enough to ease even the most anxious of people, allowing them to relax in his presence, to allow words to spill forth more freely than they might have with someone else. And yet, very little is ever revealed to the odd man (it has been debated upon whether he is truly a man, for no man has ever carried the same air as this one, but no-one was able to bring forth a better descriptor for him, so man stuck, as ill-fitting as it is), largely due to the unsettling nature of spending more than five minutes near him.

The unease he brings with him, only aided further by the chill he carries on his shoulders, is enough to make people uncomfortable, for them to clam up and begin considering their escape routes, how quickly they might be able to abandon this conversation entirely without jeopardising the relations between their empires, how easily they might be able to escape were he to turn on them. Which is certainly an odd feeling to consider around the Elvenking; Rivendell has been at peace with the other empires since before anyone could remember, even in the history books there are no records of conflict between any of the neighbouring empires and Rivendell itself, almost as though there never have been such conflicts.

Discussions revolving around the Elvenking often discuss his odd behaviour and demeanour, though no one is entirely certain who was the first to word the pervasive sense of unease that follows wherever he steps with his oddly charming smile and relaxed posture. Still, it is a word commonly brought up in discussions relating to him, though the different iterations of his description vary depending on how polite the company you are keeping is. Those in the most polite of settings will only ever describe the Elvenking as a little odd, ever-aware of the ears in the walls, and the careful balance that comes with toeing the line between friendly chatter and endangering their empires.

And yet, no-one is certain who coined such a phrase to describe the Elvenking first; it is something that a few scholars have mulled over in their free time, between academic papers and research, pulling forth sources from word-of-mouth (which is never the most reliable, but the word ‘odd’ has certainly never been written in the same sentence as ‘Elvenking’ ), but this only ever leads to a more puzzling conclusion- for how can even the elders of an empire quote their own grandparents describing the Elvenking as such, despite such a time being several aeons ago. The origin of the term is just as mysterious as the current Elvenking’s ascension to the throne.

Oh, certainly, the elves must know; the elves know most things, especially when it comes to history. It is likely rather hard to forget historical events when they may very well feel as though they were only yesterday, or perhaps last week. So, certainly, the elves must know of the current Elvenking’s coronation, or perhaps any details of the mysterious man, but they're hardly forthcoming with their secrets; their high opinions of themselves and elusive appearances mean that very little information can ever be learned from them.

Truly, the only elf that makes consistent public appearances is…the Elvenking himself. He appears alone, always, amongst the people on the streets, disappearing again a moment later, as though he was never there in the first place. He has been approached, by the brave, observant few that notice him before he disappears once more and manage to summon the courage to step towards him; and these few people have asked him many questions, some attempting to mislead and gain information that way, others blunt and forthcoming in the answers that they seek, though they all boil down to mean roughly the same thing.

How long have you ruled the Mountains of Rivendell?

The Elvenking is a polite man, many find when speaking to him. Soft-spoken, yet they find themselves drawn closer, leaning in, ears pricked, to find whatever wisdom he may choose to impart upon them. Oftentimes, when asked this question, he will laugh, or perhaps simply smile at the questioner, as though they're a particularly small child asking an adult questions that a child should not know the answers to. Or, some have likened it to the last thing a spider likely sees before it is crushed.

Some have approached the time-old (and it may truly be as old as time itself, at this point, many are rather certain that the Elvenking is as old as his mountains) question from another angle, turning to those that spend, arguably, the most time with the Elvenking outside of his Court. The emperors, upon being questioned, will mostly say the same thing, with slight differences in phrasing. That he’s fine, really, perhaps a little cold at times, too blunt with the words he uses, on occasion, but that he has his people’s best interests at heart, that he knows when something he proposes is asking for too much, and will retract it with little more than a smile and a shake of his head.

Perhaps, if you catch them by surprise, or if Lady Fate herself is smiling down onto you, you might hear them mutter something beneath their breath as an addendum to the usual spiel, something that they will adamantly deny happening if questioned further upon it. Still, the small hints and bits of information that have been gathered by those truly dedicated to discovering the secrets of the Elvenking are dutifully collected and communicated; the image is pieces together, bit by bit, is incomplete despite the years of scavenging for loose bits of information. To compare the man to a puzzle would be a rather apt description, but the puzzle is only half-completed, currently, as though you've only finished piecing together the outer edges, giving you a basic framework to work with, but still leaving the majority of the image incomplete.

There is a massive chunk missing from the mystery that is the Elvenking, and the man seems rather content to leave it that way.

Scott, Elvenking of Rivendell, is aware of the rumours that circulate him. He enjoys listening to the newer ones, the ones that pop up occasionally, within earshot of him, or close enough to eventually make its way back to his ears. They're usually entertaining, something he listens to when he’s in need of something to pass the time. A few of the rumours he hears within the Palace walls would be enough for his Mother to be rolling in her grave.

He knows that he is described as odd, finds some entertainment in listening to his knights mutter back and forth about the newest rumour; usually, a small smile is enough for them to snap their jaw shut, pretending that they hadn't just been discussing how odd the Elvenking is. Without fail, that smile, no matter where he is, is enough to end conversations completely. It is a polite smile, one that was trained into him once he began his public appearances, allowing him to perfect the art of a diplomatic smile early on.

This fear is something he likes to keep in mind whilst he deals with the hours-long line of petitioners that have come to throw themselves at his feet and beg for additional funding for whatever project they're attempting to keep afloat. Many of them are simply trying to drain the treasury dry, or are incredibly misguided in how much gold is required to run a small, independent business. The current petitioner is one of the former, someone that he’s seen in this hall several times already. The first, second, and third time, he had been more than happy to hand over a small loan to the petitioner, but as time continued to drag on, the clock ticking forwards and not back, and the petitioner is yet to show results, he begins to become a little less benevolent in his judgement.

He leans slightly to the side, chin resting in his hand in a way that toes the line between interested and bored, reminding the elf at his feet that his presence in this hall is only tolerated for as long as Scott tolerates his presence. He watches as the elf squirms, shifting from foot to foot as Scott continues to pin him beneath his gaze. His discomfort betrays itself as the elf becomes unable to stand still, beginning to rock back and forth on his heels, hands fiddling together as the elf refuses to meet his gaze.

The petitioner murmurs something, chin tucked into his chest, loud enough for him to hear, just barely, but quiet enough for him to sit up straight. He pulls his chin from its resting position in his palm, and asks the elf to repeat himself.

The elf stares at him for a moment, eyes wide and wild, like a cornered animal that has found itself backed into a corner and is only just realising the inevitability of its fate. Their mouth hangs slightly open too, as though they're unsure on how to proceed. The elf stares up at him, finally meeting his eyes. The petitioner stares at him for several long moments, seemingly lost in thought, mouth continuing to hang agape, as though he is some kind of drowning fish.

The petitioner’s awe, or perhaps it is fear, doesn't last much longer as he prompts him by clearing his throat, watching as the elf startles forward, rocking forward far too much in his absent motions, flailing as he attempts to regain his balance. The elf ducks his head in apology, hair falling over his face, before continuing.

“As I was saying, Sire,” the elf stumbles over their next words, swallowing heavily and glancing up at him, as though he might not have heard such a glaringly obvious verbal blunder. He gestures for the elf to continue anyway. “I do believe that there would be a benefit if the funding for my ventures was continued, and not…cut off, as was proposed in one letter written to me. Truly, it will be something useful to the empire-”

“And have I seen any results of this so-called usefulness yet?” He asks, tilting his head to the side and watching as the elf squirms in place a little more. The bells hanging from his antlers make a small sound as he moves, and he watches the elf’s ears flick forward at the noise, before pressing back again. The elf’s clothes don't quite fit him, a little too tight around the shoulders and far too loose around the wrists- loose enough that it is no longer a choice of style, but rather a lack of properly tailored clothes. It leaves him looking like a child that has stolen his older brother’s clothes to play dress-up. “All I have seen is money leaving the treasury, depleting our resources; and what do I have to show for it?” Scott does not raise his voice then, does not raise his voice where many other rulers may have chosen to show their anger in an explosive rush of words. “How am I supposed to know that you are not simply stashing it in a cave somewhere? Hoarding it like a covetous dragon, slowly adding coin after coin to the growing stacks of gold.”

The elf pales at his words, before flushing a deep crimson. Even his ears turn a glowing red, the heat seemingly stretching down the elf’s neck. He stares at the elf, and the elf stares back for one, short moment before averting his gaze, flushing a little more. They are both aware of the truth in his words; he is not one to make unfounded accusations, and certainly not in such a blasé manner. That is a surefire way to get oneself unseated from the throne in a rather rude and abrupt manner. And ending Rivendell’s centuries of peace in such a disastrous way would certainly be unfortunate.

“Truly,” he leans back in his throne, tail flicking as he readjusts how he is sitting, before curling around his ankle once more. The elf follows the small action, before glancing back at his face again. He smiles, tilting his head back into his hand. “I cannot know any of this for certain, especially as you refuse to work with others, Mr…?”

“Agaraen.” The elf supplies. There’s a small burst of power that comes with the name, and the elf’s eyes widen as he realises what exactly he’s just handed over to Scott. He smiles, leaning back in his throne and gesturing for the elf to continue speaking, to attempt to convince him otherwise. “But, Sire, truly. I do believe that Exor may still be out there. He may even be collecting followers as we speak!” The elf seems to be growing desperate, gesturing wildly around himself, the whites of his eyes visible, even from his slightly elevated position on the throne. “How could you know whether the guards in this room are truly loyal? What if they have been infected with Exor’s plague? Drawn in by false promises, drawn to the darkness he exudes as a dragon is drawn to the gold of another’s hoard?”

He stands, cloak swirling around his ankles as he sweeps down the steps. The metal of his boots clicks against the stone, echoing around the grand hall as he stalks towards the petitioner. The elf’s jaw snaps shut, clicking loud enough for him to hear. Scott watches as Agaraen’s teeth grit together, jaw clenching as he seems to consider biting his own tongue off. Perhaps he should encourage such a thought, it may allow the elf some time to think before he opens his mouth next time. 

“Do you truly believe I would be unaware if one of my own guards had been infected by Exor?” He asks, voice lowered to a whisper, though the pretence of keeping the conversation between just the two of them is lost as it echoes around the hall, amplified by the arching ceilings, curved for this very purpose. He can hear the clinking of mail, the metal of swords rasping against the metal of scabbards as his guards prepare themselves to fulfil their duties to him.

He is perfectly capable of handling himself; he has had more than one crazed petitioner launch themselves at him once he’s denied their plea. And this one is truly rather clumsy, stumbling over his own feet and as he trips past him. And the elf would still have missed him by several inches, even without Scott side-stepping the clumsy attack.

He sweeps a leg out, hearing the heel of his boot rasp over the stone tiles, and nudges the elf in the small of his back, watching as he overbalances rather easily. The elf twists as he falls, hands reaching out, grabbing towards his tail as Scott turns to face him. He lifts it out of the way, pulling it back. Agaraen’s panicked grab for his tail fails, and they hit the ground with a solid impact, letting out a wheezing breath. He steps on the elf’s hand to prevent him from attempting any other misinformed attack.

He can hear the rattling of his guard’s armour as they hurry over, waiting until there’s one on each of the petitioner’s arms before he steps back, rolling his foot over the back of Agaraen’s hand for good measure. He’s hauled to his feet a moment later, hair falling free from its tie, clumping around his face and neck in thick chunks, fraying at the ends. All in all, it makes him look incredibly unkempt, not at all the image he had attempted to convey earlier while he was still trying to swindle Scott out of his gold.

The guards almost successfully remove the petitioner from the room entirely, the sound of their boots uniform as they march over the flagstones. It echoes around the entirety of the hall, silent apart from his own, near-silent breaths, and Agaraen’s more ragged, harsh breathing. There is a small nudge at his back, a hot breath over his shoulder. He doesn't turn to face the being stood beside him, instead straightening up once more.

“Agaraen?” He calls, watching as the guards turn, shoulders stiff and backs straight as they force the elf to face him again. He watches, with a slight amusement, as the elf seethes for a moment, ears pinned back against the sides of his head. He can see him shaking, slightly, though whether it is from the cold permeating the room or simply sheer anger, he’s not sure. His tail flicks behind him, just barely brushing over the flagstones, as he resists the urge to grin at him. It would hardly be appropriate, in such a situation. “Perhaps you did discover Exor, on your journeys, as doubtful as it seems. But,” he continues to watch the elf, observing the exact moment that Agaraen’s eyes narrow, lip curling back with the beginnings of a snarl. “I would suggest a little more self-reflection next time, before you come hurrying to throw yourself at my feet and accuse my guards of something that has obviously grown root within you.”

Agaraen’s eyes flash as his head jerks upwards, straining against the guards holding him contained. The guards themselves hardly have to put in the effort to keep him properly contained, his weasel-like body no match for his well-trained guards. He nods, signalling for them to continue on their solemn march from the room, watching as Agaraen spits and curses his name the entire way out, struggling in their grasp like a fish pulled from water.

He watches until the door swing shut, silent on their hinges. The banging sound echoes throughout the room, slowly fading away. He continues staring at the door for a moment longer, considering, as hot breath continues to ghost over the back of his neck. The faint smell of fresh snowfall hangs in the air around him.

“Send away the rest of the petitioners,” he instructs, watching as the two guards beside the main doors jump to attention, saluting. “That interaction has soured my mood rather considerably, and I’d rather no one else suffer from the foul mood that man has left me in.” He needs no further response, turning and sweeping out of the room, through one of the doors beside the throne, halfway hidden behind one of the pillars. He is rather fond of his dramatic exits, and entrances, allowing the doors to swing shut behind him, swinging back and forth on their hinges long after he’s turned the corner.

“Was such a dramatic exit really so necessary?” He doesn't flinch at the chastising tone that materialises beside him, appearing from nothing. Instead, he simply falls into step with the stag now walking alongside him, slowing his pace to a more sedate one, matching with His steps. 

“Really?” He asks, hardly glancing over at the stag as he walks beside him. The body of light that keeps in step with him is hardly suited to be under scrutiny for long periods of time, and would certainly risk blinding him if he stared at Him for too long. “ That one felt a little too much for you? All I did was send the poor fellow away, likely to the cells, and leave.” His shoulder brushes against the stag’s shoulder, his brain reacting and yet not, unable to comprehend the physical nothingness beside him. He watches, with a slight amusement, as the stag greatly reduces in stature, the form of light condensing until His head is bobbing along at the same height as his own. It means that He doesn't have to duck His head beneath the next archway they pass under.

“As I said,” the stag sniffs, tilting His head upwards until their antlers are at risk of becoming tangled together. And that would hardly be a refined state for either of them to be found in; the Sovereign of Rivendell and Rivendell’s Great Deity, antlers locked together like young bucks in the middle of a brawl. “A touch dramatic, no?”

“No.” His boots click against the tiles at they walk, maintaining their leisurely pace, overshadowing the half-muffled click of his hooves against the floors. “I rather think my most dramatic exit was after you had me murder someone,” he sighs, shaking his head slightly in mock disappointment. “Honestly, the palace servants had to scrub and scour for days to remove the evidence of that particular exit.”

“She deserved what came to her.” The stag raised His head again. Scott can feel His eyes fixed on him, placing him beneath His golden gaze. “She was seeking answers to questions that should not be spoken; knocking on doors that should not be visited, and then having the gall to be surprised when someone answered? Yes, I do believe she rather got what was coming to her there.”

“I do believe you surprised everyone with that particular stunt, not just her.” He can't help the note of amusement that worms its way into his voice as he speaks, tilting his head to the side until he can almost see the stag, watching for His reaction.

“Not I,” the stag says. “ You . They believed that it was you that sent the order for her to be brought before you, down upon her knees to beg for mercy or leniency for you. You had an audience that day, too, numerous other petitioners peering through your oversized entryway to watch the spectacle. They believe that it was you that killed her.”

“On your orders, don't forget.” He reminds, even as the air around them crackles slightly and the feeling of a stare upon the back of his head intensifies. “I am simply a vessel for the will of His Great Majesty Aeor, the Great Deity of Rivendell.” He pauses, just below another archway to scrape into a low bow, holding back a small laugh that threatens to escape him as he simply hears Aeor snort, feeling but also not as the stag brushes past him. When he straightens up again, one of the tapestries is fluttering against the wall.

“You and I both know that is a ridiculous title.” Aeor’s form is a little more solid, a little more real. Condensing into something that almost resembles a real deer, if a real deer had a snowy-white coat and branching antlers of pure gold resting upon their heads. He has to hurry to catch up with Aeor, heels clicking over the ground as he walks to catch up with the stag.

“And yet,” he manages to catch up with Aeor, slipping an arm around the stag’s neck and tugging him a little closer - though not too close, wary of their antlers interlocking as Aeor’s form slowly becomes less and less wispy - ignoring His annoyance at the action. “You and I both know that you love it. Besides,” he slips his arm away, resuming his position at Aeor’s shoulder before he pushes his luck too far, “Elvenking Sytumal, Scott if you speak nothing but the Common Tongue, Sovereign of Rivendell and Blessed Champion of Aeor does not exactly roll off the tongue .”

“Many would kill to have such a lengthy title.”

“Many have tried.” He reminds.

Aeor pauses at that, though His step does not falter, before simply nodding. “In that you are not wrong, I suppose.”

“I hardly ever am,” he straightens up a little as they turn a corner, posture correcting itself and tail pausing in its absentminded flicking back and forth, nodding his head to the guard that stands just beyond the archway, blending in amongst the various suits of armour that line the walls of his home. He watches as the guard attempts to pretend she wasn't openly staring at him, averting her eyes and staring back ahead, eyes glazing over in a way that screams please don't talk to me! He takes pity on her, noting the dark circles beneath her eyes, and moves on. Perhaps he ought to send another reminder to his Captains that overworking his guards is simply not acceptable, unless they are able to pick up the same amount of shifts as the normal guards deal with. “Besides, it would be more than a little insulting if the wise God of Knowledge chose an utter fool to become His vessel.”

“The Court is still out on that one.” Aeor says, the air chiming with the sound of bells, which he knows is the closest thing to a laugh he can ever hope to receive from Aeor. He’s been attempting for hundreds of years, yet he still hasn't heard the stag make more noise than the twinkling of bells.

“I resent that notion.” He’s rather sure his parents, may Aeor rest their souls, and the several tutors he’s had over the years would resent it too. He was their star pupil.

“I'm sure you do. Now, don't forget-”

“There is a compulsory meeting amongst all the empires at sunset and that my attendance is not just expected but required, yes, I know.” Interrupting a God would usually have you smote where you stand, until you are nothing more than a pile of ash. Thankfully, Aeor holds him in slightly higher regard than others, so the God merely considers the prospect before moving on once more. “I have already been reminded several times over by several different people, all of whom were rather eager to provide their input into what should be discussed and brought forth at this particular meeting. I can hardly miss it when everyone seems so eager to have me out of Rivendell.”

“Just make sure you use the correct channels this time. There’s hardly a need for my Church to be overflowing with worriers and well-wishers that believed you had ended up in a ditch somewhere and came to me for my help.” The air chimes again, the aftermath of that particular event rushing to the forefront of his mind; there had been many teary-eyed citizens waiting for him at the gate come morning. “Besides, it is important.”

“Hardly any more important than any other meetings I’ve had with them.” He grins at Aeor, ducking his head as Aeor’s eyes twinkle in their shared amusement. “Besides, what could go wrong in such a simple meeting?”

“I'm sure you can conjure some inkling of what could happen, if only to amuse yourself with whilst they squabble amongst themselves.”

He hums, not giving a proper response as they slow to a halt in front of his door. His walk back to his rooms had taken longer than usual due to the far more relaxed pace they had taken, compared to his usual brisk walk that could get him from the north wing of the palace to the south wing within a few minutes. Normally, there would be a guard on either side of his door, hands resting on the pommel of their sword as they watch for intruders, prepared to die in exchange for his life.

However, due to the fact that he should still be entertaining the petitioners for another few hours in the grand hall, there are no guards present at his door. Hardly worth guarding a room when the most sought after occupant is absent. Which means that his personal guards are getting a well-deserved break from their usual duties.

“Now, off with you.” Aeor nudges him closer to the door, until he can grasp the handle himself. “I'm certain we both know you have not collected the correct reports yet, and I do not want to hear anything about you jumping over balconies again. One spectacle is certainly enough for the month.”

“You speak as though you are not occupied with tracking my every move; you will know if I make a fool of myself before even my Court hears of it. It is as though you have nothing else to be occupying yourself with when I am absent.”

“I have plenty to amuse myself with.” Aeor nudges at him, more of a friendly gesture than anything else, though the nudge still pushes him a little closer to his door. “Though you cannot blame me if the repetitiveness of my Realm bites at my nerves on occasion.”

“Yes, I can.” He twists the handle, allowing the door to drift until it is half-open, the light from the room beyond spilling into the corridor, bathing it in a yellow light that cannot be achieved with the high windows that the rest of the palace is filled with. “If you watch me while I ready myself for the meeting I shall renounce you in front of the entirety of Rivendell at the service this week. I shall even invite the other empires to watch me do so.”

“Not many would dare speak to me in such a manner.” Aeor’s voice has a slight bit to it, an edge that attempts to ward him away from the current direction of their conversation.

“Not many have listened as you complained and bemoaned the monotony of your Realm. It destroys the ineffability of your wondrous presence, just slightly.” He holds his forefinger and thumb just a millimetre apart, to the point where they are almost touching, just to emphasise his point.

“If you insist. Now, truly be off, you have a few hours before you're required and I would rather you didn't show up looking like a newborn deer simply because you left Rivendell too late.”

He scoffs, still stood just in the threshold of his rooms. “As though anyone would dare to say anything of my appearance. I do believe they're rather convinced that any slight against my person would result in them becoming an ice sculpture of some sort.”

“And would you?”

“Of course, who do you take me for?”

“Someone procrastinating on speaking to Daphne.” If deer had eyebrows, he’s rather certain Aeor would be raising one right now. As it is, all he can do is look at him disapprovingly, which is just as effective.

He opens his mouth to respond, leaving it hanging open for a moment, before realising he doesn't have an argument in response. “Fair.”

Aeor doesn't say anything else, simply nudging him the rest of the way through the door, before seeming to curl in on Himself, a plume of smoke rising from the ground where He had just been standing. He leaves a small sprinkling of ice over the tiles, and he stares at it for a moment, before very abruptly wishing Aeor could have been a God of Fire, or something similar. Something less annoying to clear up than ice.

“Prick.” He says into the empty air, knowing that Aeor is listening anyway. “I hate it when you do that.” 

He can hear the distant sound of rattling metal, slowly, steadily, growing closer. He swings the door shut, allowing the latch to click into place before he locks the door too, giving a single test of the handle before he drifts away, moving further into the room.

Most of his reports have been gathered, either delivered to him in anticipation of the approaching meeting, or something he had collected himself. They are scattered around the main room, a few of them making their way to his study, but not many. He collects them dutifully, sorting them based on importance to the meeting. It would hardly do to leave the reports behind where someone could find them, certainly not if said person would then use it as an argument against him.

He mutters to himself as he collects them, already planning what he wishes to say as he dresses, smoothing down his dress shirt in front of the mirror, tightening the corset a little further until he looks truly presentable.

Only then does he collect the reports, a thick wad of paper that will fit neatly into one of his guard’s bags, and prepare to depart.

Chapter Text

House Blossom is as quiet as it always is. Rarely anything disturbs the peace that settles over the empire, and the most frequent interruptions to that peace are people like himself, trudging through the streets to reach a meeting.

The clanking of metal does nothing to maintain the peaceful atmosphere, either; both of his guards walking either side of him, a little closer than is comfortable as they both watch the people around them. As though some random House Blossom citizen might lunge for him and attack him. He’s almost tempted to see what Alsof would do if someone did lunge for him, but that’s hardly happened since she took up the role of his personal guard, so he’s not holding out any hope for a quick moment of entertainment before the meeting.

He passes beneath a small string of lights, strung up and hanging between two parallel buildings. A House Blossom banner hangs from the centre, and he has to duck to ensure his antlers don't get twisted in the fabric. He’d rather not be forced to wrestle with an inanimate object to free himself, especially not when there are multiple citizens watching his every move.

He doesn't understand their wariness- he’s a perfectly nice guy! Sure, the immortal being thing might be a little off-putting, but surely it isn't that off-putting? The way a child hides behind her mother’s leg when he smiles suggests that he might just be that off-putting.

He focuses his eyes ahead again, straightening his shoulders.

He’s rather certain Katherine enjoys forcing them to parade through her streets, likely watching from her castle as they each make their slow way to the meeting room. Or perhaps them being forced to wind their way through the streets of her empire in such a slow fashion frustrates her as much as it frustrates him. It’s certainly not a favoured pastime of his to be gaped at like he’s some kind of circus animal putting on a performance; especially not when all he’s currently doing is walking.

He ascends the steps quickly, Ailwi and Alsof still sticking to his side as though they're walking through incredibly dangerous territory rather than approaching one of the few places in the realm that demands you leave all weapons at the door.

Ailwi hands the messenger bag over to him, waiting until he’s got it safely in his own hands before they relinquish their grip on the strap. Scott can already hear the faint sounds of conversation from just beyond the doorway, muffled by the distance he currently stands at. But it appears that a few of the emperors are already here, at the very least. It’s always rather boring when he’s the first to arrive, having nothing to entertain himself with other than small talk with Katherine, or reading over the papers he’s near-memorised already.

He gives a nod to both of his guards, watching as both of them nod back, straightening up and saluting once. He leaves them outside with no instruction. He knows they occasionally enjoy wandering around the markets, perusing the wares that House Blossom has to offer. Ailwi enjoys the market days in particular, picking through the several book stalls that pop up around that time. Scott has no issue with them finding a way to entertain themselves, especially during the meetings that drag on for several hours, as long as they are still able to fulfil their duties once the meeting ends and the return trip begins.

He brushes through the curtain of flowers, feeling the petals brush over his skin. He shudders a little at the feeling, bracing himself for the wash of unfamiliar power that crashes over him a moment later, muffling most other sensations that relate at all to his own powers. The conversation lowers to murmurs for a moment as the current occupants of the room turn to face him, registering who it is, and turning back to their previous conversation.

He understands the reasoning behind Katherine’s precautions, not that they are her original precautions. But he cannot, for the life of him, remember whether it was her predecessor of a hundred years, or two-hundred. It’s certainly been around long enough for him to adjust to, but Katherine’s own magic is far more jarring than any of her predecessor’s was, stinging where it should be a soothing wave of calm. It’s a wonder how she ever managed to achieve the title of Guardian, really.

He takes his usual seat, unlatching his cloak from around his throat and laying it over the arm of his chair. He nudges the placard announcing who he is forward, making space for the messenger bag, withdrawing the small stack of papers, flicking idly through them for a final time. He doesn't truly read the words on them, his report already cycling through his mind as he watches the other occupants of the room.

The Codfather Alliance are huddled around two of the seats at one end of the table. He’s rather sure they're intending to whisper, but their whispering is far too loud to be anything but talking. What is interesting, though, is the Codfather’s apparent refusal to participate in the conversation around him. Usually, he’s more than happy to be making a fool of himself, talking more than he can back up, relying on his more powerful allies to back him up when he manages to, rather ineloquently, shove his foot in his mouth.

Now, though, he’s slumped halfway down in his chair, head leaning awkwardly forward from the angle; the cod head he insists on wearing everywhere looks rather miserable too, threatening to slip from his head with every minute movement of the man. At least he isn't wearing the full-face helmet he had attempted to show up to a meeting with once, that’s not an incident Scott is eager to see repeated.

Still, his miserable state is highly unusual, especially with the way his allies seem to be ignoring him at the moment. Though, he can see the Ocean Queen occasionally sending a darting look towards the Codfather, before looking back to her other allies and shrugging. Either they don't know what’s wrong with the Codfather, or it’s a problem they so far don't have a solution for, and are simply leaving it be until a solution is either found or he moves past it. Which likely won't take long; the Codfather has the attention span of an overexcited puppy, jumping from one topic to another, completely forgetting what he was first discussing, dragging you along in his wake.

With only a few people for him to watch, and one of their most entertaining companions currently sullen and sulking in his seat, his mind quickly drifts to boredom, staring down at the page in front of him, but not truly seeing what is written upon it. It’s something to do with the wool production beginning to increase once more, after the earlier deficit that had originated from a less than stellar crop turnover in Gilded Helianthia. He’s certain the other emperors will be pleased to know that the usual textile exports of Rivendell will be surging forward once more, at the very least.

The furtive glances the Ocean Queen and the Mezalean King keep sending each other are making him uneasy, though; wary of what may unfold during this meeting. Their matching, sharp grins do no more to reassure him either, and are incredibly telling of whatever chaos they're preparing to unleash upon the meeting room when the meeting actually begins.

He looks up at the sound of skidding, watching as the Farmer Queen slides into the room, golden wings spread behind her as she screeches to a halt. She spares a moment to readjust her clothes, fussing about with her flower crown. She then sits down, as though her entrance was an entirely normal one and hasn't left the whole room staring at her.

She looks up after a moment of silence, away from the small bag she’s fussing with, raising an eyebrow and looking around at all of them. Scott looks back to his reports, listening as the conversation on the other side of the room slowly picks up again.

He can still see the Farmer Queen from the corner of his eye, sat two seats down from him, fussing with a chunk of her hair, twisting and then untwisting it, running her fingers through the strands to separate them out again, only to begin twisting it again.

He ignores the repetitive motions as best as he can, listening instead as the Mezalean King regales his two, listening companions with the story of how he walked in to find two of his head sculptors quote-unquote “sucking face”, whilst covered in clay. It renders all three of them unable to speak for a few moments, and even the Mezalean King struggled to finish telling his story. The Codfather continues to sit, not even cracking a smile as those around him continue to laugh. It is rather like a sulking child, though he seems more angry than upset.

He glances up as someone pulls back the chair beside him, watching as the King of Mythland drops into the seat between him and the Farmer Queen, slumping back in it as though he’s undertaken some great journey to arrive here. The High Wizard sits down too, fWhip following not long after. He greets all of them with a nod, reluctant to engage in conversation yet. Times like this are for observing, of gauging how eager everyone is to be at the meeting, just how much nudging and prodding it would take for someone to blow their fuse and have the whole meeting cancelled.

He reshuffles his papers, stacking the reports neatly together once more and folding his hands atop the stack. His statement for the meeting is as brief as it can be- there’s little reason for him to wax poetic about the exports of his empire, not when there’s several other emperors that intend to do exactly that. Scott’s not sure if it’s a tactic of some kind (and an ineffective one, as it does nothing but bore everyone present) or if they simply like the sound of their voice that much.

He watches fWhip throw a sharp grin in the Codfather’s direction, gaining the first reaction from him that Scott has seen all day. It’s enough for the Codfather to sit up straight, practically throwing himself forward in his haste to lean against the table, glowering back at fWhip, lips pulled back in the beginnings of a snarl. How interesting.

Katherine clears her throat, just as the Codfather’s snarl begins bubbling into something a little louder. The gnome scurries into the room at the last moment, hopping into the free chair nearest to Katherine’s own seat. She ducks her head, almost embarrassed, as everyone turns to look at her.

“This meeting is at its start,” Katherine says, noting something on a piece of paper. Personally, he thinks delegating the minute-taking to the ruler hosting the gathering is rather rude, but Katherine had insisted on being the one to do it, despite it delaying her own report as she paused to note items on the list. “Now, does anyone have any concerns regarding items discussed at the previous meeting?”

She surveys the room, grey eyes passing over the faces of each person present. Nobody raises their placard or attempts to get Katherine’s attention, so she nods, satisfied, notes something down in her small book, and continues onwards.

“Alright. If there is nothing to discuss regarding the previous meeting, then we shall begin how we always do. Elvenking of Rivendell, do you have anything you wish to declare?” On occasion, he hates sitting directly beside Katherine’s seat, as he’s always the one required to truly begin the meetings. The seat certainly isn't worth it, despite it making the statement that he alone is one of Katherine’s oldest and most powerful allies.

“There’s not much to discuss, if I am being entirely honest.” He hears someone make a disbelieving noise as he finishes speaking. He ignores it. “The textiles industry is recovering, and should shortly be able to surpass previous rates of production, allowing the deficit of wool, and other textiles, in previous months to hopefully be compensated for. In addition, recent mining ventures have found three different gold veins, slightly deeper within the mountains, that should have bountiful rewards, should we explore them further.”

He settles his hands on top of the reports once more. Truly, most of the reports he is handed before the meeting are superfluous, though he cannot slight one of his Court members by choosing to leave their report behind. Such an action would certainly remove him, rather firmly, from their good books. It might even be enough to begin sowing a seed of resentment, which is never something you want as a ruler.

“Thank you, Elvenking of Rivendell.” Katherine nods, and he nods at her in return.

The formalities of their meetings are common, even if the faces he speaks to are slightly different each time he cares to think about it. He doesn't often care to think about it, but he finds himself watching the room as the King of Mythland begins to speak beside him, boasting about nothing in particular and yet everything at once. He speaks in such a way that you want to believe him, but his words are hardly notable when you push aside the layers of charm he’s placed upon himself.

The Farmer Queen is as honest as always, though her explanations leave much to be desired; their meandering, wandering route could be cut shorter and her explanation given with just a few succinct words, yet she seems to enjoy telling the room of the minute details in just how the wheat has been harvested this year. It’s almost enough to send many of the emperors to sleep, even her allies beginning to look bored and their eyes drooping as she continues on with her speech.

These meetings are for nothing more than posturing in an attempt to intimidate whichever empire they've each made an enemy of in the last month. It is also a wonderful time to observe his fellow emperors; note which ones of them seem to be getting less sleep than they usually do, who is sitting a little closer to who, and who is purposefully distancing themselves from someone.

The Codfather doesn't do a very good job of remaining subtle in his current hatred, glaring across the table at fWhip, eyes narrowed and the thin fins behind his ear flared out. It’s a small attempt to intimidate the man, and one that Katherine is certainly eyeing before it can devolve into something worse. He keeps an eye on it too, aware that the Farmer Queen’s lengthy explanation on crop yields is drawing to a close, and then it is onto the small alliance clustered at the end of the table.

The Codfather seems to be positively vibrating with fury at this point, the tap-tap-tap of his foot becoming faster and more irritating, to the point where Scott considers snapping at him for it. He breathes in slowly, reminding himself that to do such a thing would be inadvisable at this stage. The man is clearly in a foul mood and even daring to speak up about it would certainly create a target for his ire. And far too much would be at risk if the man’s ire turned on him at such a moment.

The Copper King clears his throat before he speaks, though he doesn't seem to realise he even made such a sound, tapping a finger on the singular slip of paper in front of him. Scott, and likely none of the other occupants of the room, miss the way that the Vigil Keeper’s eyes continuously glance over at the Codfather, before darting back to the sheet in front of him.

“There is very little to address from Pixandria,” the King says. “Several new copper veins have been extracted, and the ageing process has begun for several rows of copper.” He glances up. “Meaning that if you want a specific age of copper, speak now or forever hold your silence,” the man lets out a little laugh, “or send an order to us within the week. It is inconvenient for everyone involved when you want a certain type of copper, and it has already aged beyond that point.”

“Thank you,” Katherine nods. She looks a little nervous to pass the speaking role onto the Codfather, as does everyone in the room. Personally, Scott is just interested in how this is going to go wrong, and how quickly it will take for the room to descend into chaos. “Codfather, do you have anything you wish to discuss?”

The Codfather laughs, which usually wouldn't be something unusual. Certainly not something worth commenting on. The man is a rather cheery guy, cracking jokes, even at the worst of moments and when jokes should most certainly not be cracked. But the anger that has been slowly simmering in the man throughout the meeting, something that every person in the room has likely picked up on. And his laugh is not pleasant, either, grating on the ears when it is usually pleasant (though Scott has believed the royal bloodline of the Ocean Empire has had siren heritage tucked away in it for several centuries, as much as they seem willing to overlook it).

“I certainly have something I wish to discuss Katherine, though only if you would be so kind as to indulge me.”

“That is what this meeting is here for,” Katherine says, rather diplomatically. “If you wish to air any grievances, then this is likely the best place to do it.”

“Thank you,” the Codfather dips his head, respectful of courtesy as ever. “The matter I wish to discuss today is one of utmost importance to my empire, and the culprit of the crime is here in the room with us.” The Codfather’s eyes narrow, his glare landing on fWhip. No prizes to whoever guesses who said culprit is.

“Oh, just get on with it.” fWhip calls, smirking as it only seems to make the Codfather more furious.

“No cross-talk,” Katherine reprimands. “You may speak when it is your turn, for now we will respect the Codfather’s wish to air his grievances.”

“Thank you, Katherine.” The Codfather glares at fWhip. “Recently, I have received reports of odd materials appearing on the surface of water, mostly in the main river that runs through my empire. This river, as I am sure we all know, runs through several other empires before it reaches mine; though it is unique within the cod empire, as many cod live in its waters due to the meeting of seawater and freshwater creating a saline enough environment for them to live and thrive in.

“Recently, however,” Scott does believe the Codfather is beginning to overdo it with the expression of fury, just a little. Though he is impressed by the lack of papers the man is reading from, simply speaking from memory alone and hardly stumbling over his words as he does it. “There has been a change. We have found many cod washing up on the shoreline, dead, with no clear cause of what could have caused such a widespread effect. At least, that was until I began examining the river more closely, finding that the usual green hue of the river, created by the plant life within, was not, in fact, the usual green. Instead, several harmful algal blooms have begun forming within my rivers. Now, how much do any of you know about algal blooms?”

“Enough to know that it’s boring,” fWhip calls out, the King of Mythland nodding in agreement.

“fWhip.” Katherine warns, and it is enough for him to settle back in his seat, looking suitably chastised.

“These algal blooms become dense incredibly quickly, blocking sunlight and clogging fish’s gills, which, upon closer inspection, was the cause of death for so many of these fish that had been washing up on the shoreline. The main cause for the sudden algal blooms could be nothing other than incorrect disposal of chemicals, which I do believe we addressed several meetings ago, fWhip.”

“Boo-hoo,” fWhip waves the Codfather off. “So what? A few cod are dying out. Good riddance I say! The world could use a few less of them, really. So what’s the problem here?”

“Katherine,” Jimmy says. “Can I demand an apology from fWhip?”

“You certainly can, on what terms would you like this apology to be for?”

Scott has seen this song and dance many times before. Though the conflicts have certainly stirred up between the Cod Empire and the Grimlands only so intensely in the past century or so, he has watched many conflicts play out between the two empires. Though with the way it is currently moving, it is getting more than a little ridiculous.

“For insulting my empire and dismissal of concerns.” Though the conflict has certainly made both fWhip and the Codfather aware of the rights they are able to exercise during these meetings, which are mainly employed to try and shame the other as much as is possible before Katherine gets fed up with both of them and sends them outside, like misbehaving students.

Katherine looks expectantly at fWhip.

“Fine. I am sorry, Codfather.”

“And what are you sorry for, fWhip?” Katherine asks. She smiles, though it is a little tighter than before, strained around the edges, betraying her frustration at the seemingly endless back and forth between the two of them.

“For speaking my mind.” fWhip says, with perhaps one of the smuggest grins Scott has seen someone wear- and he has certainly seen a number of smug grins in his time.

There is a scrabbling sound from the Codfather’s end of the table, and he looks, just in time to watch the Ocean Queen haul the Codfather back into his seat, pushing him back down into it until he gets the message and remains put.

“Do you have anything else you wish to discuss, Codfather?” Katherine asks. fWhip laughs, behind his hand and beneath his breath, but they can all see the shaking of his shoulders and the crinkling at the corners of his eyes. The High Wizard even has a small smile to spare at the Codfather’s expense.

“No.” The Codfather grits out, slumping back in his seat.

“Very well, shall we continue?”

The Mezalean King is next, and as soon as he realises the task of speaking is upon him, now, he suddenly looks a little bashful. It is rather unusual to see the Mad King look so suddenly nervous, when he usually attempts to take up as much space with his words as is possible. Scott, personally, believes it is a way of making up for his shorter than average stature.

“My announcement is more of a joint one, for this meeting. And there is very little concerning Mezalea as well.” He glances over at the Ocean Queen and- oh. Oh . Katherine is positively beaming when he glances over at her, and he knows that she has been wondering how long it would take the two of them to make the next step. “Between now and our last meeting, me and L- the Ocean Queen have had a discussion, and we have decided to move forward with our relationship.”

“The wedding invitations are in the process of being made,” the Ocean Queen interjects. The wispy feather-like gills on either side of her face flare a little as she speaks, though it is nothing like the threat display the Codfather had attempted earlier. “And they shall be sent to each of you once they are ready. The expectation is that you may only bring a small party of people with you, and those that do accompany you are expected to behave well at the wedding.” She pulls a face. “If any of your diplomats even consider getting drunk and vomiting I will consider it a declaration of war.” She smiles sweetly after she said that, though Scott must admit that it is a rather reasonable condition. If any of his Court tried to pull something like that, he would consider legalising beheadings just so he could behead them personally.

The Codfather is still grumpy, though he at least looks happy for the Ocean Queen and her soon-to-be husband. For whatever curious reason, as well, the Codfather’s eyes keep glancing over to him. Though it is not in hatred, and certainly not aimed at the people sat near to him. Instead, it is a calculating look, as though the man is weighing up options in his mind. Interesting.

The Ocean Queen doesn't have anything to say after that either, shaking her head when Katherine attempts to hand the speaking role over to her, apparently content with her joint announcement. Not much going on in the Ocean Empire, he supposes.

The Emperor of the Lost Empire enjoys the sound of his own voice, Scott suspects. Though you can hardly be a ruler without enjoying the sound of it, he supposes. But some of them take it to a new extreme. Personally, he doesn't need to hear about the Emperor’s prize raptors, but everyone else seems content to humour him.

The High Wizard seems incredibly excited to tell them about the three students that have recently graduated from her school and gone on to do great things in their own empires. Though the standards of the Crystal Cliffs Academy are far lower than the standards of Rivendell’s Academy, he can respect that there is hardly a way for mortals to study for several decades in the way that the elves do. He congratulates her anyway, alongside several of the other emperors.

He does not miss the way that the Codfather refuses to acknowledge their speaking, being reprimanded by Katherine several times for speaking whilst someone else is already talking.

But the meeting is not as painful as it could have been. Certainly there was taunting from the Wither Rose Alliance, and that taunting was met with hostility from the Codfather Alliance. It is certainly not a meeting that drags on for too long either, as everyone seems aware that the Codfather is simply a ticking time bomb and that leaving the meeting room as swiftly as possible is perhaps their greatest idea yet.

As such, when he steps outside, the sun is still in the sky, and there are still people moving around in the streets of House Blossom. The Farmer Queen wastes little time in escaping, taking to the skies with a few swift beats of her wings, buffeting the few people around her. He smooths his hair back down once she is a safe distance away, watching as the remaining members of the Wither Rose Alliance disappear into the streets.

Neither Alsof nor Ailwi have returned yet, but this meeting was far shorter than any of their meetings ever are, so he’ll allow it to slide for now. Still, he has nothing to do but wait, watching as the last few emperors trickle out of the meeting room. The Codfather glances at him again as he leaves, and there is something that Scott cannot quite read in his eyes. That, in and of itself, is unusual enough as the man is usually an open book for anyone around him. And yet there is something in his stare that makes Scott unsure of his intentions.

Still, he smiles and nods his head as the small alliance group moves past him as well, sparing a moment to congratulate the Ocean Queen and the Mezalean King on their engagement. Though they do not linger for long after that, with the Ocean Queen ushering the Codfather along, borderline pushing him through the streets.

Katherine is the last to leave, as always. She enjoys tidying up the meeting room before anyone else arrives to do it for her. He understands where her caution comes from- it is customary for the ruler of House Blossom to do such a sweep, out of caution for confidential documents that may have been left behind.

“Scott,” Katherine greets, coming to a stop beside him. He doesn't turn to face her and she doesn't turn to face him, both of them overlooking the streets of Katherine’s empire.

“Katherine.” He returns.

They stand there, for a moment, in silence. Katherine appears to be gathering her thoughts, and he allows her the time she needs to think about her words before she begins to speak. All of her other flaws aside, her diplomatic prowess is certainly impressive, and is likely the only thing preventing a full-blown war breaking out between the Cod Empire and the Grimlands.

“I…may be mistaken, but I do believe the Codfather’s anger was more than what he let on today.” She says, after a long moment. He can see Alsof and Ailwi, off in the distance a little. Though they have both spotted him and Katherine, stood side by side, and are waiting at a respectable distance for them to finish their conversation before either of them approach.

“You noticed it too, then?” He says, though it was clear that Katherine had noticed as well, otherwise she wouldn't have come to him with her troubles.

“It was rather hard not to when he made certain that everyone else would be aware of his fury.” Katherine says, and when he glances at her from the corner of his eye, he can see her frown. “I simply worry for what may happen if relations between the Grimlands and the Cod Empire truly break down- the outcome of such an event would be nothing short of cataclysmic. I mean, you and I have both seen the ravine that has been forcefully created between him and Mythland. It is only one step further for a true conflict to begin, beyond the petty disputes that have occurred so far.”

“I have been keeping an eye on the Cod Empire,” he assures her. “And from what I have seen there is little preparation for conflict. If something were to begin, it would come from the opposition, or as a poorly thought-out idea from the Codfather’s side of things.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.” Katherine sighs. Scott isn't sure when Katherine decided he was someone to turn to with her worries, but it had simply happened. And he certainly isn't going to begin turning her away when she wishes to unburden herself from the anxiety that seems to follow her every step.

“I do believe the Codfather has a plan.”

“What makes you say that?” Katherine glances over at him, hands clasped in front of her. He’s sure it would only take a moment longer for her to begin fiddling with her fingers.

“There was something in his eyes.”

“Cryptic as ever, Scott.” Katherine says, though there is a slight laugh in her voice, something that betrays her amusement. “Though I do hope you are right.”

“If all goes how I believe it is going to play out, then we shall know rather soon.” He steps down the first step, before pausing and turning back to Katherine. The step does little to take away from how tall he is, but it at least brings them face to face as he looks at Katherine. “I will write to you,” he promises, “and until then, try your best not to worry.”

“Thank you, Elvenking.” Katherine straightens her shoulders, face smoothing over again as she picks up the mantle of Guardian once more. “May the flowers follow in your footsteps.”

“And may the wind guide your voice.” He returns, before turning back again and continuing his descent of the steps, towards where his guards stand. They come to attention as he approaches, though neither of them utter a word.

“I have a request for both of you.” He begins, which is apparently enough to warrant worried looks from both of them. “Oh, come now, such worry is unwarranted.”

“With all due respect, sire,” Alsof says, which is her way of saying she’s about to stop respecting him. “But anything that you say to us that has the word ‘request’ nestled in amongst it, never ends well. For any parties involved.”

“Perhaps not,” he concedes, because his track record may not be the best. “But as long as you follow my instructions, everything will play out as it should, alright?”

It is certainly odd to walk without his guards with him. He rarely gets to leave the confines of Rivendell without a guard or two, or a whole entourage, following behind him. If anything, such a large party only makes them a larger target, and makes it harder for him to defend himself if it comes down to it.

Though he certainly takes the opportunity to admire the scenery around him, striding swiftly down the gravel path that winds between the trees, following the natural landscape rather than attempting to cut through it. It is something that he can appreciate, even if it makes the path rather meandering, and longer than it needs to be.

But the winding of the path is perfect for what he is certain is about to occur. Especially if the crackling of twigs and rustling of leaves just to his left is not a particularly persistent wolf that has followed him from the boundary of House Blossom to here. If it is, then it is an incredibly patient, and stupid, wolf.

He takes the shove when it lands, allows himself to be pressed up against one of the nearest trees. He even takes the knife at his neck with a surprising amount of grace. Truly, it might be one of his best performances in a while.

It also means he gets to watch as the Codfather’s face twists in confusion, perhaps a little bit befuddled by his lack of reaction.

“Ah, Codfather.” He greets, smiling down at the man. This seems to make him nervous, for he glances away, head ducking a little. Though his arm does not waver and the blade remains firmly against his neck. He gives him kudos for that. “I did wonder when you might emerge.”

“You knew I was there the whole time?”

“I would hardly have survived as long as I have if I could be caught off-guard so easily, now would I?”

“I…suppose not.” The Codfather remains suspicious, glancing up at him again, watching him from beneath his hair.

“And you have a proposal for me, I suppose?” He tilts his head to the side, almost smiling at the way the Codfather pulls the knife back from Scott’s throat, hesitant to cut him, even now.

“You are a strange, strange person, Elvenking.”

“Please,” he smiles, “if we are to be doing a deal, call me Scott.”

“Alright.” The Codfather continues to regard him with suspicion, as though suspecting that the scales are rapidly tipping out of his favour. “If you know so much, why am I here?”

“Likely for some revenge plot. Some misguided attempt that, alone, would only end in failure and a catastrophic conflict that would pull in most of the other emperors, until nothing is safe. And no one wishes for a war like that.”

He smiles, and the Codfather scowls in response, pulling the knife back from his throat and stepping away.

“If you knew I was going to find you, why leave your guards? Why send them away?”

“Because I wanted to talk to you,” he leans a little closer, watching as the Codfather’s eyes widen with their proximity. He raises a hand, brushes it across the skin of the Codfather’s cheek, just to watch his eyes blow even wider, a faint flush beginning to stain his face and throat. “I find myself rather intrigued by the plan you may have concocted in your mind, and for the role I might play in such an act.”

“You would play a role similar to my own.” The Codfather says, stepping back and out of range of Scott’s hands. How disappointing. “You hold the most power in this realm, and yet you rarely exercise it. The blame would not land upon you.”

“And yet it would land upon you.” He steps forward again, though not as close as before. Still, their closeness, and perhaps the memory of his touch, is enough to make the Codfather flush once more, glancing down, before looking back up at his face again. “How do you plan to prevent that?”

“I wish to begin an allyship.” The Codfather stands strong, even as his voice wavers. And no doubt, either, for it has been centuries since an empire has approached Rivendell for a personal allyship. “One that would be mutually beneficial to us both, if you were to accept my conditions for the deal.”

“Oh, I certainly will. But only for the right price.” He smiles at the Codfather. It would definitely be interesting to form a new alliance, especially with one of the newer empires. Oh, certainly, his Court will be furious with him for not consulting with them beforehand, but the potential for entertainment here is too great for him to pass up.

“Name your price.” And still the Codfather does not waver in front of one of the most powerful fae of the lands. Scott commends his bravery.

“Your name.”

And he can see the hesitation that takes over the Codfather then. Can see the way he regards Scott’s outstretched hand with a healthy amount of fear and caution. To give your name over to a normal fae is dangerous enough, but to give your name to a fae as powerful as he is? It is potentially suicide- potentially handing away all autonomy for himself in the process.

Yet Scott watches his face harden, his eyes turn steely with their resolve.

“I accept your conditions.” The Codfather says, grip firm as they seal the deal with the shaking of their hands. “And in this moment, I give you my name, so that you may know me as Jimmy.”

He feels the wash of power. Of something ancient stirring, and of something singing in his blood as the name settles in his mind, pulsing with a heartbeat of its own. Oh, this is certainly going to be the most fun he’s had in a while.

“Oh, it is so wonderful to meet you, Jimmy.” He relishes in the shiver the Codfather gives in response. “Where shall we begin?”

Chapter Text

The Court of Rivendell is regarded as playing host to some of the brightest minds and most silver of tongues that their generation has to offer. Admittedly, the use of the term generation is used rather loosely, in that those speaking are alive to witness the current Court, as many of its members are old enough that they are not, on a technicality, still a part of the current generation. But they are still some of the best minds, and those brains are still in working order.

It is expected for the advisers of the Elvenking to be smart; it would be a disgusting insult to serve the God of Wisdom and be nothing more than a fool, after all, but there is also the very real possibility that each of the elves occupying the seats of the Court only rose to those positions through their wealth and the nature of their birth. And, perhaps, before the reign of the current Elvenking, that may have been the case.

Scott, however, much prefers the way his Court treads a little more softly in their actions, completely aware of how easily they may be thrown from their position- discarded for someone that provides a better insight that they do, and does so without embarrassing the entirety of the empire in front of several delegations from each of the other empires.

For that particular incident, he had almost been tempted to make a public spectacle of that man- to introduce the other empires to the way Rivendell slips through the holes in the law he himself created, finding the loops that he may exploit in order to continue with many of the older traditions he still favours but were deemed as having poor taste .

(It had been an irritating part of the charter that he had drawn up for the other empires in a hurried attempt at establishing peace; it had also been towards the start of his rule, and as such there are far fewer loopholes than he would have preferred, limiting him rather considerably in what power he is able to exercise when he chooses.)

The only reason that man had not been disposed of immediately had been due to his several of his advisers advising him not to do that, lest he upset the House Blossom representatives- the stability of the empires resting upon a singular, pacifist empire is a rather interesting decision, especially as several of the other empires are so incredibly volatile. However, he is now, though only moderately, glad that he decided to restrain that particular urge; giving into such violence, in front of honoured guests no less, would have been fodder for several centuries of horror stories revolving around Rivendell and its barbaric elves , and such stories only become more twisted with time so he dreads to even consider what the state of them would be now.

Still, based on the respect that is placed upon those within the Elvenking’s Court, you would perhaps have thought those members themselves would hold at least a modicum of respect for themselves. Just a small fraction, even, enough that they do not embarrass themselves publicly, where everyone can observe and form rumours about how poorly the best of their empire behaved. It is not the example Scott wishes to set for the people of his empire.

Yet, as always, Scott finds himself apparently hoping for too much and overestimating the self-preservation instinct that his Court holds. Which is none, apparently.

He is not sure how word managed to reach his Court so quickly, because there is not a single doubt in his mind of what the source of this behaviour is, but one look at Ailwi has the guard folding, glancing away with an expression that is nothing short of intensely guilty. Just that is enough to incriminate his guards as those that relayed the message to his Court, even if Alsof refuses to be cowed by his stare he knows it was her- Ailwi would never dare to send such a message ahead, especially as he told the both of them, specifically, not to do so.

He glances back towards where his advisers are currently crowding, just inside of the gates of the city, as though them waiting within the walls makes this spectacle any less of an incident he will no doubt have to address at a later date. He just hopes that the damages to their images is minimal, and that news of this doesn't reach the other empires (oh, who is he kidding? News of this is certainly reaching the other empires).

Just as he thinks it cannot get any worse, surely it cannot, one of his advisers chooses to break free of the herd, bouncing forward and waving both xir arms at him, the words xe shout to him are lost on the wind, but Scott is rather good at reading people, and he can tell that xe are certainly not just overjoyed to see him. It takes a significant amount of patience and self-restraint for him not to snap at his adviser and remind xem just how many citizens are watching the entirety of his Court make fools out of themselves.

“Personally,” Aeor Himself is not physically present, but the voice echoing throughout his head is enough to remind Scott that his God is annoying and has no life outside of watching over his every move, only deigning to pull some of His influence back from his mind as Scott snaps at Him, throwing up slightly stronger mental walls. “I do believe xe are the next to go, though, please, do correct me if I am mistaken.”

He is, but Scott is not about to respond to such a question. Mainly because Aeor can already grasp the answer from his mind with little difficulty, and also because speaking to himself as he walks towards his embarrassment of a Court will not do any favours for his public image, even if it is assumed that he is speaking to one of his personal guards rather than himself.

“Ingolmondur.” He greets, stopping just beyond the gates. His adviser straightens as xe realise xe are being addressed, shuffling xir wings. It does very little to make xem look less like xe have just emerged from xir study for the first time in several days- the red rimming xir eyes and the general unkemptness of xir appearance (barely hidden by the cloak xe had, very obviously, hurriedly thrown on) are the obvious factors pointing to such a thing. “I do hope you have a rather good reason for making such a fool out of yourself when you could very easily seek me out once I have returned properly.”

“Such a thing could not wait until you had properly returned ,” xe poke him in the chest with an accusing finger, though it is hardly done with much force behind it and he doesn't even blink at it anymore, far too used to xir mannerisms by now. “Your idea of properly returning is to disappear for a week, refusing to speak to anyone until you have had sufficient time to consider the events of the meeting . Such a thing will not do! Especially when you made such an impulsive decision- which you weren't even going to inform us of, I presume?”

“I would have informed you.” He assures them. He is unable to enter Rivendell’s capital city, blocked by the line of his advisers, eager to see and speak with him. Though they seem rather content to use Cormac as their mouthpiece for now.

“And when would that information have been revealed?” Xir wings fluff behind them in clear agitation, dark feathers bristling as xe continue to stare at him. “Once the current Codfather is long-dead and buried? Or, perhaps, even longer?”

“You have been alone for too long,” he pushes xem back with a hand to the chest, and xe go with it, allowing him to step forward, actually entering the city. “Your literature has clearly gotten to you, tell me, what has Leukos been giving you?”

“Leukos has not been giving me anything, sire.” Xir frown makes xir brow crinkle. “And perhaps we should begin to discuss your own loneliness if you stoop to such a level as to bring up the material I consume in my free time?”

“I am not stooping ,” Aeor’s chiming laughter rings around his head and he frowns a little deeper. “I am simply speaking to you on a similar level.”

“If I may,” another of his advisers steps forward, bright hair flashing in the light as they step forward, looking between him and Cormac. “Sire, perhaps it would be best to move this discussion beyond the streets, perhaps to a formal meeting room?”

“I do believe that would be best.” Scott agrees with her before Ingolmondur can make any further comment, though xir responding scowl is more than enough for him to glean their feelings on the decision. “As much as I loathe the very idea of stepping into a meeting room just after leaving one, this matter seems to be something that should be resolved immediately.”

His tail flicks over the ground behind him, skimming across the smooth stone; clear of any obstacles. He steps back, folding his arms neatly behind his back, watching as his Court’s thoughts begin to process, realisation flashing across the faces of the few that have more than a fraction of their brain working. “I shall meet you there, please try not to keep me waiting.”

Ice flashes around him, swirling around his feet in a wave that would be dizzying to anyone but him. He hardly even sways on his feet as the ice retreats, leaving him in his main meeting chamber. There is a small pattern of frost on the floor around him, spiralling out in an intricate design that is never the same, no matter how many times he does it.

Aeor watches him from the doorway as he seats himself, pulling his chair back from the head of the table - though whether it is actually the head of the table is debatable, as the table itself is round.

“If you have something to say, I implore you to say it before they make their way here.”

“It will take them some time to reach you yet,” Aeor says. Which just tells Scott that the old deer is actually rather forgetful; two of his advisers have wings that they can use to their advantage, and they have very few qualms over squeezing themselves through the narrow windows just below the roof. “And what I wish to discuss with you is not a lengthy matter.”

“Then you may as well get on with it.” He takes his circlet from his head, smoothing down his slightly ruffled hair after he sets it on the table with a small clink. The wind on the returning path had not been kind to him, nor did the icy gale of his teleportation do much for his windswept appearance. 

“I have smote elves for better behaviour than you are currently displaying.”

“I am rather certain those elves were not your only connection to the mortal realm,” he twirls his circlet in his hands before he rests it on his head once more, nestled comfortably between his antlers. “But please, do feel free to sever that connection- the scrambling of the Palace to find the culprit would be more than enough amusement for me.”

Aeor levels him with a firm stare that would be a glare if the deer had eyebrows to frown with. Still, He does a rather impressive job of it before He looks away again. “Your alliance with the Codfather,” Aeor says, after a moment. “It is…interesting.”

“It is what you wanted, is it not?”

“Yes, it is. However, I had not expected him to approach you with such a manner.”

“I get it,” he shrugs, tail flicking back and forth as he counts the seconds down. Less than a minute until the first few begin to arrive, unless they have chosen to move as a pack. “He considers me as dangerous, I was an unknown factor in an equation he could not fully see. Yet he still knew what he wished to do, and such a conviction was more than enough to convince me of his terms.”

“I have nothing against the Codfather.” Aeor states, with the tone of voice that reveals that, actually, He does have something against the Codfather.

Scott sighs, running a hand over his face. “Is it truly so bad for you to be shut from one mind? It is hardly as though you need an influence over him- every other being in existence can have influence over him, and yet it is you that has been shut out. Did you truly piss-”

The doors slam open and Scott snaps his jaw shut, sitting up slightly straighter in his throne. Several of his advisers are bent at the waist, hands braced against their legs as they attempt to regain their breath, no doubt from the marathon they have just completed to reach him so quickly.

“Please, do not strain yourselves for me,” he says, just to watch as several of them aim glares at him before they realise who it is they are glaring at. Alsof continues to glare at him from the back of the herd, nudging the lagging advisers further in before closing the doors behind herself. Ingolmondur takes xir seat at his left, and Neithaor sits at his right, scroll already unfurled and quill poised to begin taking notes.

They shiver beside him, their hand gripping at their quill a little tighter before relaxing again. She is the youngest of his advisers, younger than even Ailwi and only just beyond the age of majority. Still, they had completed their studies at the Academy by this time, and to allow such a promising mind to go to waste would truly be an unforgivable crime.

Cormac does not shiver- xe have spent far too long in his company to react to the air of ice he carries with him. The rest of his advisers take their seats with the scraping of chairs over stone, only once they are all sat and settled does he clap his hands together, casting a sharp smile over the assembled group.

“So, my dear advisers,” he can hear Cormac groan from his left. “What was it that you wished to discuss?”

“You know very well what it was that we wished to discuss.” Eilianther speaks first, adjusting their glasses as they talk. A nervous habit they have had since their childhood, not something they have been able to break. “Playing the fool does not look good on you.”

“Perhaps I should choose them as my next Champion,” Aeor muses. Scott can hear the sound of hooves over the stone, though Aeor’s visible form does not make an appearance. “They are rather straight-forward, incredibly clever too. Though,” Aeor’s voice turns considering. “The addition of antlers to wings seems like a little too much. Only that their form would become rather cluttered, and it would be-”

He mentally waves Aeor’s voice away, putting it to the back of his head as he focuses on smiling diplomatically at Eilianther from across the table. It is perhaps a little more strained than it usually is, but the only people to blame for his less than stellar mood would be those currently staring at him. To return from a meeting with the other empires, with no meal other than the small breakfast he had that morning, is nothing short of exhausting.

“Playing the fool does not look good on anyone, my dear Librarian,” he tilts his head to the side, ears twitching at the sound of gently ringing gold filling the room. The decorations he wears on his antlers are truly not worth the annoyance they bring with them. “Unless, of course, you choose to wear the bright colours of a jester. However, I will not dance around the topic, for that will bring nothing but frustrations to all those involved - something that I wish to avoid for now.”

“You're dancing around the topic with your flowery words anyway.” Cormac mutters beside him too. He chooses to ignore xir words.

“Yes, the message you received ahead of my arrival is true, an alliance has been agreed upon with the Codfather.”

“How could you do such a thing!” Rimdor slams their hands on the table, hair swinging around their face as they glare at him. “You are well aware of how unstable the Cod Empire is, and yet you choose, willingly, to make an alliance with such a volatile ruler? Have you gone mad, sire? Or are we the only sane ones remaining in a world of madmen?”

“I can assure you, Rimdor,” they sink back into their seat as he speaks, “that I have not lost my mind. The alliance is beneficial to both sides of the agreement, and we have been looking to expand our alliances recently, have we not?”

“Remaining uninvolved in the matters of mortals has served us well so far,” Holiilo grumbles, crossing her arms. Neithaor’s quill scribbles beside him, and he glances over to their page, finding them dutifully taking the notes, easily keeping up. “I do not see why we should involve ourselves further.”

“Because it is to our benefit,” he soothes. “The other empires regard us as aloof and cold, and that is hardly beneficial to our image; maintaining such a reputation will only lead to issues in the future, and these issues could develop into tensions and then, in turn, conflict. Building rapport with one of the most volatile empires also has another benefit.”

“And what might that be, sire?”

“It is also one of the friendliest empires. The codfolk, and the seafolk that choose to join them on land, are the same as the waves; they change with the time and the opportunities that are presented to them. To remain rigid with the environment they live in would cause nothing but disaster.”

“I presume,” Neithaor pipes up from beside him, her ears tinting pink as she realises all eyes in the room are now focused upon her. “I, ahm, I presume that you are also rather pleased with this alliance due to its close connections with several other empires.”

“Exactly.” He nods, and Neithaor ducks her head back down, scribbling down a few more notes. “The Codfather sits as the figurehead for one of the strongest alliances outside of the House Blossom union.”

“I still dislike it.” Cormac adds, though xir opinions on the matter have hardly been quiet so far. “The Codfather is an unknown quantity, even his own people know very little about him.”

“Much of the same could be said in regards to me,” Scott reminds them. “I am an unknown quantity to many of the people here.”

“But that is due to you never leaving your rooms.” Cormac nudges his leg beneath the table pointedly. Which is rather hypocritical of xem, though he does not bother to point it out- such a thing would be nothing more than a waste of breath. “The Codfather is unknown not due to the scarcity of his appearances, he is constantly with his people. His home is among theirs and he does the same tasks as they all do- he is unknown because nothing is known of him.”

“To mingle with his people is not a crime,” he frowns. “It is the culture of codfolk to work as a community, to suggest he distance himself would be rude on several different levels.”

“I heard that he doesn't even have parents in the empire,” Rimdor murmurs, though all of the gathered elves hear them anyway. They smile as the attention lands back on them, and Neithaor glances at him, as though questioning whether to continue writing. He shakes his head, and they set their quill down. “They just found him one day, washed up on the shoreline.”

Rimdor needs to get away from the infirmary far more often, obviously. Spending their time around sick elves, all of whom have nothing better to do with their time than gossip, has obviously influenced their habits far more than he had previously thought.

“I heard that he walked free from the ocean,” Tawaren adds, breaking the silence they had held so far. Scott had thought they simply were not going to involve themselves, but his advisers live to prove him wrong, apparently. “None of them knew what to do, for he just walked free of the ocean as though he had been born from the waves- just manifested, fully formed in front of the few codfolk on the shoreline.”

“And then the previous Codfather took him in!” Rimdor takes over the story, pulling the focus back to themselves. “He was taken in, and it was never spoken of again. No complaints when he was taken as the previous Codfather’s apprentice and chosen as his successor, not even when there were several other candidates that had been vying for the position since birth.”

“I do believe it would have been their parents vying for the position,” he adds, which seems to make them realise that, yes, he is still here and listening to them discuss their newest ally like this. Rimdor doesn't even have the decency to look properly embarrassed, setting their jaw.

“The point being,” Cormac says, “that he is still an unknown factor, and that makes me hesitant to trust him.”

“You are hesitant to trust everyone, Ingolmondur,” Scott reminds. “It is not as though being distrusted by you is a special privilege.” Neithaor chuckles beneath her breath at that, noting it down in the minutes.

“I still dislike him.” Cormac decides on, crossing xir arms. “His alliance is strong, I will give you that, and there are potential benefits to becoming his ally, yes. But those alliances he already has, his longer standing ones, are just as able to turn on you if this alliance turns sour.”

“It will not.” He says, voice firm. “We are meeting two days from now to confirm the exact details of this alliance; Eilianther, between now and then I wish to meet with you to discuss a contract to be drawn up. One has already been sealed,” he holds a hand up to maintain the silence, sensing the way it almost breaks at his words, “and the Codfather will hardly choose to betray our agreement when I have something so valuable.”

“Sire,” Leukos sounds almost disappointed in him, but there is a small amount of amusement in their eyes as they look at him. “Please tell me you didn't.”

“That would depend on what you are asking me?”

“Did you learn the Codfather’s name?” Leukos asks, blunt as always.

“Of course,” he grins, “how else would I ensure the stability of this alliance? And the knowledge of such a name is always so rewarding, especially when they hold such power in their position.”

Leukos sighs. “You truly need to find better ways to amuse yourself than toying with those you find interesting.”

“I am hardly toying with him- such a thing would imply that I sought him out first. And yet he chose to approach me with a deal, despite knowing what it would potentially entail.”

“Sire, I do not wish to disrespect you,” such a statement always means he is about to be disrespected, “but you have a certain…type when it comes to these people.”

“The Codfather is no idiot,” he states, already knowing where Leukos’ trailing thoughts were going. His advisers are looking back and forth between him and the Librarian as though it is a particularly entertaining whatever-match (he hardly keeps up with the names of the sports Gilded Helianthia invents, though he does know this one involves hitting balls with wire nets). “He is more than aware of his surroundings, and possesses mental capabilities that are impressive, even to my standards.”

Neithaor mutters something beside him, something that Scott will pretend he did not hear for her sake, but it makes Tawaren laugh all the same. They choke it off after a moment, attempting to cover it with a cough.

“I appreciate your advice,” he stands from his seat, nudging his seat back slightly as he does so. “But for once I will not be heeding your advice. I am comfortable in my own decision; I have plans that you are not yet privy to, but I must ask that you trust me on this.”

“As long as it does not bring conflict to our doorstep, I will step back from this matter.” Cormac decides. Xe still do not look pleased, feathers ruffled, but xe meet his eyes when he looks at xem. “It shall not harm our empire, right, sire?”

“Of course not,” he smiles. “I would hardly be a good emperor if I brought conflict after so many centuries of peace.”

“Let us hope that peace can remain for centuries more.” Cormac says, standing as well. “Good evening to you, I shall be returning to my office.”

“Oh, yes,” his call halts Cormac in xir tracks, the other advisers freezing from where they had begun to stand from their seats, all eyes resting upon him. “Make sure you each have formal attire suitable for a wedding, the invite should be arriving within the next few days; I would hate to leave any of you behind for the event.”

He sweeps past Cormac, grinning at xem as he steps out into the hallway.

“Sire?” Neithaor’s voice rings out behind him. “Sire! You cannot just say that and then disappear! Come back !” He ignores their calls, nodding to both Alsof and Ailwi, dismissing them from their duties as he begins to walk back to his rooms.

He shall sleep like the dead this evening, he is certain, for there is nothing more exhausting than dealing with meetings. One is enough, two is far more than is necessary.

“Two meetings is hardly enough to be considered torturous,” Aeor chimes in. Scott shoves the mental presence away as hard as he can, ignoring Aeor’s laugh at his actions.

“It is when everyone is an idiot.” He mutters, only to himself. Aeor’s presence was long gone before he even uttered the first syllable.

Chapter Text

The water swirls around him, brushing over his fins and scales with a gentle hand. It’s cooler here, on the border between the swamplands and the open ocean. The murky waters of the swamp mix with the crystalline blue of the true ocean. The cold sends a sharp wave of awareness over him, wiping his mind clean as he swims from the warm waters of his home into the sharper waters of the ocean beyond it.

He darts a little deeper, propelling himself easily through the waters. He twists sharply, swerving around a thick patch of kelp with ease. He’s not exactly looking to get tangled up in the weeds, nor is he eager to arrive at his very important meeting with kelp still trailing from behind his ear- to show up like that would be to insult the Elvenking, and he’s really not looking to do that. No-one ever believes him when he tells them how easy it is to become tangled in the kelp, it’s like the stupid plant is sentient and trying to ruin his day whenever he comes across it.

Anxiety swims in his stomach still, despite the cold waters bringing clarity back to his mind and wiping it free of the stress-induced haze that had settled over it at some point last night. The anxiety squirms and coils in his gut like a fish on land- flopping around ungracefully until it dies. He tries his very best not to think about what has driven him so far from his usual stomping grounds; what has pushed him to venture out beyond their borders and into the ocean.

Many of the elders seem to find it funny when he returns to the swamp after his ventures, finding amusement in the fact that he returns to the ocean whenever his mind is hazy and his thoughts are jumbled and clunking around in his head. And he can never hide it from them, as hard as he tries, the smell of salt seems to cling to his skin no matter how long he spends in the waters of the swamp afterwards to try and cover it up.

And each of them will know today, when he returns to meet the Elvenking at their agreed-upon time, that he had to dip into the ocean for some clarity of mind before his meeting. He cannot help but return to his roots, they will say- because he knows what they say! Several of them do not even try to hide it from him, speaking in front of his face as though he will fail to hear them. But they speak comfortably, knowing there is nothing he can do to remove them from their positions- they shall sit and pass judgement upon him until they die .

He knows he cannot control what they think of him, cannot control what they choose to say about him nor when they say it, but he does wish that they at least liked him a little more. Most of the words they speak lack a sting or a barb, because he’s heard them over and over again throughout the years and the lack of creativity from them makes it hurt a little less. But he still can't help but wish that they liked him more- that they would stop spreading rumours about him. Because he knows the elders are the root of many rumours that circulate and none of them are particularly nice or pleasant or make him look at all good in front of any of the empires, including his own!

The knowledge that his own Council does not respect him has made him an easy target to the other empires. He is someone that is able to be pushed around, because his own empire probably wouldn't even back him up on it.

He grits his teeth until his jaw begins to ache and gives up on swimming, allowing the current to tug him along- to pull him in any direction that it wants him to go. Because that’s all he seems to be good for- for following other’s instructions and doing their bidding in the exact way that will make them happy.

And he knows the sudden potential of a new alliance with the Elvenking is not something that his Council wanted, and it isn't something that they saw as a possibility either. Jimmy won't lie, he didn't see it as a possibility, not until he was stood in front of the Elvenking, knife to the elf’s throat and threatening him into an alliance.

…Perhaps not the greatest basis for an alliance. But the elf had agreed easily enough, his eyes shining beneath the light in a way that had left Jimmy almost breathless- almost too breathless to give any response to what the Elvenking might have said.

But he managed. He pushed through the heart-stopping moments where the Elvenking’s eyes shone, and it looked like the sun breaking over the waves of the ocean. He pushed through as best as he could, had ignored the thudding of his heart as the Elvenking continued to stare down at him, face as unreadable as always, and hoped, desperately, that the elf could not hear his heart attempting to escape his chest.

He’s heard many things about the Elvenking, probably about as many as the Elvenking has heard of him. Though he probably isn't on the same level of infamy as the Elvenking, there are still many rumours circulating about him and it would take an idiot to not have heard at least one of them.

Jimmy, himself, has heard many a rumour about the Elvenking. Rumours that he is actually a god of time and that he is simply counting down the moments until the Universe crumples in on itself and everything is over. Jimmy hardly believes that one, but Pix seems to enjoy it quite a lot. He’s a strong believer in it, really, quoting the lack of dates associated with anything that the Elvenking has accomplished, which is apparently unusual for historical records. Not that Jimmy would know, he’s not in the habit of reading books- hands-on experience is much more useful, he’s found.

Personally, he doesn't think there’s anything actually going on with the Elvenking. He just seems like someone who balances his responsibilities rather well and is just naturally a closed off and slightly cold person. He’s practically laden with responsibilities, with the whole Champion of such-and-such thing he’s got going on. Jimmy doesn't blame the guy for being a bit tired and snappish all of the time. Especially if the rumours of him being able to talk to the gods is true. Stress like that would kill anyone’s personality.

Fish dart about his ankles, not shy to brush up against him when he drifts into their path. The sudden touch of cool scales on exposed skin jolts him back into reality, gills flaring as he glances upwards.

The sun wavers and ripples with the waves, its light watery as it reaches down to him. None of that prevents him from seeing that it is very firmly at its apex, meaning he’s absolutely late for his incredibly important meeting.

He almost swears, before realising that will just get him a mouthful of seawater. He settles, instead, for darting back the way he came. He barrels through several more shoals of fish and almost has a close encounter with a pufferfish before he’s bursting back into swampland; the water turns murky around him, thick with silt and mud and only made cloudier as he weaves around the mudflats and deeper into his territory.

He pokes only the top of his head from the water when he reaches the docks, expecting for the elders to be waiting for him in a disapproving line, just to make sure that he knows they aren't pleased with him. Surprisingly, there’s no one around at all. Maybe everyone’s just too preoccupied with the Elvenking’s arrival, or too busy cowering in fear.

He hauls himself onto the docks, water splashing over the wood and darkening it as he stands. The water slips from his clothes easily, like water off a duck’s back, but his hair remains clumped in front of his face. He can only pray that no weeds have become tangled in it as he sweeps it backwards, away from his face.

It’ll have to do because he really doesn't want to leave the Elvenking waiting any longer than he already has.

The path to the cod statue is quick, the cobbles cold beneath his feet. They make a quiet slapping sound as he does his best not to run while also making sure he hurries. He’s rather tempted to break out into a run, but he also doesn't want to show up to the meeting red-faced and out of breath.

The elders are congregated in a worried huddle, several feet away from their guest. He has to fight the urge to roll his eyes at their complete lack of hospitality- they may hate the elf, but this alliance will be good for them, Jimmy’s certain of it.

The Elvenking stands rather patiently, arms crossed neatly in front of him yet managing to not look at all impatient. He stands there, as though he would be content to stand there for several more hours before he even considers moving. Jimmy doesn't even realise he’s come to a halt until the Elvenking’s eyes land on him, watching him impassively.

He startles forward, and curses himself for it immediately, trotting over to greet the elf and hopefully make up for his lateness. The elders watch his approach with distaste, glancing between him and the Elvenking.

“Good afternoon,” he greets, coming to a stop in front of the Elvenking. “I trust your journey here was pleasant?”

“It always is,” the Elvenking continues to watch him. There is no heat behind his eyes, only curiosity as he watches Jimmy, yet he feels the weight of the elf’s stare anyway. “Any landscape outside of the ice and snow is enjoyable to me, and these swamplands are as far from the mountains as I can get without entering the Ocean Empire.”

Jimmy fails to remember, every single time, how tall the Elvenking is. Sure, elves are known for their tall stature but the Elvenking takes it to new heights (literally). It makes Jimmy feel rather small in comparison, even though he is easily the tallest in the Cod Empire. Just another thing to make him stand out.

He shivers a little in the silence that follows, rubbing a hand up and down his arm. It breaks the frost that had been slowly forming over his skin where water still lingers. He can't quite see his breath in front of him yet, but he glances up at the Elvenking anyway, watching him carefully. The Elvenking either ignores him or doesn't notice him staring, eyes drifting off to the side, watching something with surprising intensity.

Jimmy swallows, hoping the Elvenking doesn't hear the way his throat clicks. His mouth feels incredibly dry, as though he’s just swallowed a bucketful of salt water. He turns away from the elders, ignoring the way they stare at him, waiting for him to introduce the Elvenking to them. They should know better by now; Jimmy is hardly ever one to stick with tradition and he’s definitely not acting pleasant with him after they stood and whispered about him while ignoring their guest.

“Shall we?” He sweeps an arm in front of him, almost offering his own arm to the Elvenking before he stops himself, pressing it back to his side. He doesn't miss the way the Elvenking stares at him for a long moment, eyes unreadable, before nodding his acceptance.

Jimmy tries not to feel like he’s walking to his own execution, but that’s really hard, actually, when the Elvenking walks alongside him- he glides more than walks, really, feet hardly making a noise as they step first over cobbles then over grass and further into the swamplands. The Elvenking doesn't seem bothered that they're walking away from civilization, making their way deeper into his territory. If he’s surprised, he hides it well. Though Jimmy doubts he’s actually surprised at all, he seems to carry an air of acceptance with him.

The chill that settled over Jimmy hasn't dispelled, and he’s had to brush frost from his arms several times, as it keeps reforming. He tries not to watch the Elvenking too suspiciously, but he’s heard the rumours about how cold the Elvenking is, he just hadn't realised that they were literal.

“Is your Council intending on following us all the way into the swamps?” The Elvenking asks, speaking casually as though he’s simply commenting on the weather. “Or is this an incredibly elaborate murder attempt? Because if so, then there is certainly congratulations to be had for getting me this far into it.”

The look the Elvenking shoots him promises him nothing but a slow and cold death. He swallows, turning to peer over his shoulder. Movement flashes from the corner of his eye, as though someone has just rapidly concealed themselves.

“I apologise,” he turns back to the Elvenking, wishing that the swamp could simply open up and swallow him whole. “They weren’t supposed to follow us, but they do what they want most of the time.”

As soon as he’s said it he regrets the words that just tumbled out of his mouth, jaw clicking as he clamps his teeth together.

“Do not fret,” the Elvenking rests a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once before drifting away again. It sends a shiver of cold down Jimmy’s spine. “We are allies here, are we not? The point of such an allyship is to make up for each other’s weaknesses, correct?”

“I…guess so.” He glares at the bush he’s rather certain he just saw Colm disappear into.

“You do not have to follow us!” The Elvenking calls out from beside him, turning to face the seemingly empty swampland. “I assure you, your Codfather will be returned to you whole and hale.” The Elvenking pauses, face taking on a slightly harsher cast. His features look at though they have been carved from ice. “And if you wished to engage me in any form of polite conversation, then there was plenty opportunity earlier; time that you squandered chattering amongst yourselves like a group of chattering gulls.”

Jimmy bites his tongue as first one, then two, then three more elders rise from where they had concealed themselves. He’s more than a little pleased to see that James is soaking wet, watching him from behind a trailing piece of weed that has stuck to his forehead.

“See?” The Elvenking tips his head to the side, the bells on his antlers chiming softly, smiling. “Isn't this far more pleasant?” Jimmy has to contain his shudder at the Elvenking’s smile, feeling his own bravery waver for a moment in front of a grin that is nothing more than a baring of teeth. The elders seem to get the threat, at least, backing away whilst murmuring apologies that are too quiet to actually hear. “Now,” the Elvenking looks at him, “what was it we were intending to do?”

“I was, uh, going to show you the extent of the damage.” The Elvenking terrifies him, actually.

“Splendid, shall we continue onwards?”

He nods, silently, continuing to lead the way forward.

“I apologise if I startled you earlier,” the Elvenking breaks the silence before it even has a chance to settle. “Attempts on my life get a little dull after a while and I was not looking to become ensnared in a trap.”

“I wouldn't have attempted to kill you,” he rushes to correct. “I wouldn't set up an alliance only to betray it before it even gets finalised.”

“Hm.” The Elvenking watches him. Studies him. “No, I didn't think you were the type.”

Jimmy tries not to think about what that might mean; instead, he focuses on picking his careful way across the swamp, vowing to himself that he’s not going to lead the Elvenking into the boggier areas. He doesn't want to send the elf home with mud up to his knees- that’s a surefire way to get any alliance dismantled.

He finds himself watching the Elvenking. He tells himself that it’s to make sure he isn't getting bored or frustrated with what they're doing. Really, it would be far quicker to simply swim down the main river, but he’s not sure how far down the river the pollutants have reached and he really doesn't want to risk anyone’s health for it. He tells himself, at first, that that’s the only reason he’s watching the Elvenking so closely.

Nothing to do with the way the elf’s features seem to have been formed by a rather talented sculptor, formed from smooth porcelain so white that it puts fresh snow to shame. He averts his eyes whenever the Elvenking looks over to him, focusing on their path ahead, course correcting whenever he finds they've drifted a little too far away from where they're meant to be travelling.

He knows they've reached the right area before he can see it, mainly because of the silence that lays thick over the area. It puts the silence they've been walking in to shame.

“Is this the place?” The Elvenking asks. His ears are pricked slightly upwards, jewellery glinting as he looks around.

“Yeah.” He steps forward, brushing through the Marram grass and holding it aside. It bites into his palms slightly as he allows the Elvenking to walk past him, to take in the damage done.

The Elvenking stops just short of the edge, boots dangerously close to the water. If he slips, Jimmy might actually start crying. The Elvenking looks back at him, watching him with calculating eyes.

“How long has it been like this?”

“A week, at least.” He steps forward, swallowing down the sadness as he takes in the area in front of both of them. Before, it had been a wonderful river, flowing clean and fresh and populated with several species of fish. It had been a favourite spot for aspiring biologists, from both the Academy and within the Cod Empire itself. Now, the water swirls a bright green, scum and blooms populating the surface of the water.

“It’s…terrible.” The Elvenking’s eyes shine for a moment, with something Jimmy cannot decipher, before returning to their normal icy sheen. Those eyes flick to him a moment later, brow furrowing as he thinks. “And you're certain this is the Wither Rose’s doing? It couldn't simply be a natural phenomenon that struck at an unfortunate time?”

“No.” He scowls down at the water. “There are very strict laws in place for Mythland, dictating what can and can't be discharged into the river and what needs to be done to that water before they can even consider discharging it.”

“They discharge it into the river?” The Elvenking watches him. There’s something unsettling about the elf’s stare. He simply…watches, and does not stop watching. It’s enough to make him start shivering again. Or maybe that’s the ice spreading around the Elvenking’s feet.

“Only when they can't store it anywhere else,” he crosses his arms and tries not to huff. “Those were the only laws we could agree on for this - Mythland had the backing of several other empires at the time and this empire was still struggling after the loss of the previous Codfather.”

“Yes,” the Elvenking glances back at the river, then back to him. Jimmy wished he would stop watching him. “You were rather young for the position, weren't you?”

“Only slightly.” He dismisses it. Everything is probably young to an elf. “Do you have an idea for what can be done? Or are we just going to keep standing and staring at the water?” He clamps his mouth shut, reminding himself that the Elvenking, as much as he appears calm, is apparently very volatile and willing to kill someone for disrespecting him.

The Elvenking cracks a smile.

“I have an idea,” he says, eyes drifting off to the side, then back to him. “But there are a few books that must be consulted first. All of which I did not think to bring with me, though that would have certainly been far more convenient than trekking back to Rivendell only to return later.”

The elf is leaving so soon? Jimmy had thought he would want to stick around for a bit longer, perhaps to look at the largest populated area in the Cod Empire. Walking to a river and back is hardly a good basis for a new alliance.

“Tell me,” his eyes snap up to the Elvenking’s face, “how irritated would your Council be if you were to accompany me to Rivendell?”

“Probably not bothered at all,” he says, he doesn't really think about it. It’s the truth, really, and the Elvenking seems to have figured that out himself already. He nods along to it sagely, humming something below his breath.

“Then it’s settled, dear friend,” the Elvenking presses a hand to his shoulder and Jimmy tenses until the elf releases him again. “Trust me, Rivendell is one of the most beautiful places you shall ever visit; she’s had centuries of work from the same architects rather than relying on their children to pick up where they left off.”

It’s not too bad. Jimmy’s always wanted to visit Rivendell.

And if the Elvenking keeps smiling at him like that, well…he’ll probably do anything the elf asks him to do. 

Chapter Text

Ailwi and Alfsol are waiting, as he instructed, just outside of the Cod Empire’s borders. Their horses are tied to nearby branches, though that action is more to prevent them from tripping over their loose reins or becoming caught on a nearby bush rather than any worry that they might escape- the knots are far too loose to do anything and they are also too well-trained to even attempt it.

Jimmy’s eyes widen when Ailwi and Alfsol reveal themselves from the underbrush, and Scott takes a moment to consider how this might look to him. His lips quirk up at the edges as Jimmy glances at him, pupils slitted as he stares at him.

“Did you think I walked here?” He asks, gesturing to the horses. Jimmy’s eyes remain wide, even as he nods slowly, watching his guards as though expecting them to lunge forward and attack him. Really, is there so little faith here? “I would hardly have made it on time if I walked here from Rivendell.”

“I…well, I suppose not,” Jimmy says. “I just didn't expect-” he waves at Alfsol’s turned back “-the guards.”

“Can hardly leave without us, hm?” Alfsol yanks on her horse’s saddle as she speaks, slipping a few fingers under the girth and testing how tight it is. She frowns a moment later, muttering something under her breath before she continues, “Tawaren would pitch a fit, and then we’d all have to deal with that.” She snorts, shaking her head.

Ailwi has remained silent throughout this encounter, nervously looking between him and Jimmy, then back again. The question is clear in their eyes, though they look far too worried to actually voice their thoughts. He shakes his head when they choose to meet his eyes, holding the gaze until they turn around, pulling themselves onto their horse.

“Besides,” he continues, “I’ve found myself becoming rather fond of them, and their company is bearable when the trip is long and slow.” It would be far quicker for them to simply push their horses to their limits and arrive as quickly as possible, but to do so would only end in him arriving windswept and unkempt; not at all the impression he ever wishes to make, especially not when he was meeting the highly esteemed Cod Council for the first time. They have done a rather good job of keeping out of his sight for this long, but, judging from their regard of Jimmy, perhaps he needn’t have worried so much.

“You flatter me, sire,” Alfsol says, pulling herself into her saddle easily, though perhaps not as gracefully as Ailwi. “I’ve found myself growing rather fond of you too. Though your attitude could use a little work.”

“Never just a compliment with you, hm?” He untwists his own horse’s reins from the branch he had looped them around a few hours ago, tugging her closer to him, smoothing a hand over the side of her neck. She turns to bump her nose against his shoulder, snuffling about in his pockets for any treats.

He turns back to Jimmy, almost expecting to turn and find that the Codfather had disappeared back into his swamps, deciding to take his chances there rather than with him. He’s pleasantly surprised to find him still stood there, watching his horse with open fear, as though she’s spontaneously grown a second head. He looks back, checking on her. He’s rather fond of her really; Glorandal is a wonderful example of his empire’s horses, with strong legs, thick enough to rival some tree trunks. She blinks at him now, breath hot through his gloves when he raises a hand to stroke at her nose.

“She won't bite,” he promises. “She’s rather lovely, really.”

Jimmy continues to watch her with apprehension, eyes raking over every inch of her, as though studying her. His voice, when he responds, is quiet. “I've never ridden a horse.” He looks faintly embarrassed, the fins he has in replacement of ears twitching backwards, flattening almost to the sides of his skull before the movements stop completely.

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing you won't actually be riding her, hm?” He loops the reins over Glorandal’s head before releasing them, knowing she is far too good to move. He slips a hand into the crook of Jimmy’s elbow and guides him forward with a soft touch. He ignores Alfsol’s scoff, focusing on pulling Jimmy closer to the horse.

The man seems as though he’s a mere moment away from startling and disappearing into the swamp, never to be seen again. And Scott would really rather that they return to Rivendell while it’s still light and the mountain paths are slightly less treacherous. His hand slips from the crook of Jimmy’s elbow to his wrist, gently uncurling his fingers and pushing his hand forward.

Jimmy tenses as Glorandal sniffs at his hand, fingers twitching when she almost begins nibbling at the tips of his fingers. Truly, what does he expect her to do? Rip his entire arm clean from its socket as easily as breathing? She’s hardly Mary , who would sooner eat your fingers than let you ride her.

“See?” He keeps his voice quiet, just between the two of them as Jimmy brushes a hand over Glorandal’s nose again, a little more confident than he was before. “She’s really quite nice. All I need you to do is make sure you don't fall off, and even then I will catch you before you can even begin to slip.” Jimmy shudders as his breath ghosts over the delicate webbing of his fins, and Scott tucks that particular detail away for examination later; he ignores the bell-like laughter in the back of his head, and the way Ailwi turns their head away, as though embarrassed to watch him.

He slips around Jimmy, hand slipping over his wrist, touches still light and fleeting. Jimmy follows after him anyway, watching as he hooks a foot into the stirrup, pulling himself up in one fluid movement. His cloak sweeps over Glorandal’s back, and Jimmy flinches away, squeezing his eyes shut as though preparing for an impact. When nothing comes, he squints his eyes open, watching Glorandal with all the caution you would approach a wildcat with.

He leans down, extending a hand towards Jimmy. Jimmy takes his hand immediately, not pulling his gaze away from Glorandal’s face for a long moment. When he does, he seems almost surprised to see their hands joined, eyes darting up to meet his. The palm of his hand is warm, even through his gloves, and he’s certain Jimmy can feel the icy chill of his own skin too. If he does, then he does a rather good job of hiding it, face not even twitching with slight discomfort as he looks back up, seeking directions.

Scott brushes Aeor’s quiet murmurs away, focusing back on Jimmy. “You can step on my foot, if you would like.” He offers, “Or I can direct us to a rock or fallen log to help you get up.” Glorandal is quite a tall horse, and Jimmy’s shoulders just barely come up to her own.

“Step on your foot ?”

He smiles at Jimmy’s reaction, the small squeak in his voice. “I assure you I won't feel it, steel-toed boots are certainly not something to scoff at.” He readjusts his grip on Jimmy’s hand, slipping over the bones of his wrist as he grips more at his arm than his hand, preparing to aid in pulling him up.

“I, uh, I suppose not.” Jimmy still looks rather nervous, bouncing on the balls of his feet before he seems to decide just to go for it without a single warning being sent in Scott’s direction. Scott leans back to assist Jimmy with hauling himself up, as well as avoid bumping their heads together. The bells on his antlers chime as he leans backwards, matching almost perfectly with Aeor’s laughter. He can see the faint glowing of gold, just beyond Ailwi, but he refuses to look in the God’s direction.

At least Alfsol will feel better about her horrendous lack of grace when mounting and dismounting, Jimmy has truly put her to shame.

Scott shuffles back slightly, adjusting for the extra space that Jimmy is taking up. There really isn't space for them both in this saddle and the leather of it digs into him uncomfortably. Jimmy shifts in the saddle as well, spine digging into Scott’s front as he leans backwards. He stiffens a moment later, breath turning a little harsher, loud and slightly rasping as he breathes.

Scott slips his arms around him, sliding his thumb along the leather of the reins as he readjusts his grip. He nudges Glorandal forward, encouraging her into a brisk walk with a small squeeze. Jimmy’s breath hitches as she moves, jolting at first, then relaxing as she settles into the gait and adjusts to the added weight. He’ll have someone check her when they return to Rivendell, but he’s certain the extra weight won’t have done her any harm.

“I need you to be as still as possible,” he murmurs to Jimmy as they walk through the thick forest, quickly slipping onto a dirt path. “Any movement you make, she will feel, and if there’s two of us moving, it might confuse her.”

Jimmy nods, the tickle of his hair brushing along the underneath of Scott’s jaw. He’s tucked himself rather securely against Scott’s chest, even if he remains as stiff as a metal rod.

“If you continue to tense like that, this is not going to be a pleasant ride,” he says. Glorandal snorts as he nudges her a little faster, not quite trotting but also not very far off. Jimmy stiffens further in the saddle, knuckles white from how hard he’s gripping the pommel.

“How else am I meant to sit?” Jimmy hisses back. “Do you want me to fall off?”

He laughs, head dropping, chin almost bumping against the top of Jimmy’s head. “No, of course not. I would catch you before you fell, either way. Just…relax a little. Move with the motions.”

“Oh, yes, because that’s so easy,” Jimmy snorts. Scott finds himself smiling at the biting edge in his voice, much preferring this version of Jimmy rather than the one that refuses to speak in front of him. “Just relax , while riding the massive animal that could trample you to death without even thinking.”

“Glorandal would not trample you to death. She refuses to step in puddles, she’s hardly going to step all over you. She’s far too fussy for that,” Jimmy doesn't respond, and he sighs, sitting a little taller so Jimmy’s hair stops tickling at his face so much. “Just go with the movements, imagine it like you're in the water- when you get pulled into a strong current do you fight against it?”

“I- no . That’s how you die, and I quite enjoy living .”

“Then just think of it like that, if you put too much energy into remaining tense, you're going to grow tired quickly and slip off far easier.” Jimmy goes lax so quickly that he does almost fall off the side of the horse, slipping just slightly before Scott is pushing him back into the centre of the saddle. “Perhaps not that much, but that is better.”

He gives Jimmy a few more moments to find the balance between relaxing too much and too little, before nudging Glorandal forward a little more forcefully, bridging the gap between walking and trotting. It becomes far bumpier then, Jimmy stiffening against him initially, before realising that it’s far less sickening to sink into the saddle. In fairness, it is far easier to sink in like that with stirrups than it is without, so he is already putting Jimmy at a disadvantage.

Glorandal keeps tugging at the reins, trying to yank him forward and give her more slack so she can pick up the pace. He cannot tell if she’s simply eager to gallop or return to her stable. He keeps at the slow trot for another few minutes to make sure Jimmy isn't sick when they begin to go faster. It is almost silent, the only sound around them the crunching of gravel beneath hooves and the wheezing breaths Jimmy keeps letting out.

Jimmy doesn't look green around the gills when he checks on him, and he’s remained mostly relaxed so far. The only incident so far was when Scott’s chin collided with the top of Jimmy’s head, leaving both of them grunting in pain and shying away from the other. He pretended not to hear Alfsol laughing at them for that one.

When he’s certain of Jimmy’s ability to hold onto his lunch he nudges Glorandal again, heel digging into her side as she slackens the reins, giving her the space she’s been craving. She pushes her head forward almost immediately, pushing forward into a canter. The bumpiness smooths out as Glorandal finds her paces, though Jimmy takes several minutes longer to settle into the new speed.

He’s gripping Scott’s wrist rather than the pommel of the saddle now, but he doesn't seem to have noticed this yet. Scott doesn't comment on it, far more focused on the way he can feel the heat bleeding through his sleeves from the singular point of contact. It’s far hotter than anywhere else they're touching, leaving him almost dizzy with the sensation.

He shakes it off a moment later when he almost gets a branch to the face, ducking at the last moment and praying his antlers don't get tangled again. The trees around them blur into a mass of green and lime, the colours melting into one another as they continue to pick up speed, gravel skittering behind them.

He can hear the hoofbeats of Ailwi and Alfsol’s horses behind them, keeping pace at a respectable distance. Though not so far behind that they risk being hit by a stray spray of gravel.

They veer to the left when the path forks. It takes them away from Mythland’s capital, deeper into the forest bordering Mythland and Gilded Helianthia. Jimmy clings to his wrist so tightly he can almost imagine his bones grinding together. It’s nearly enough to stop him from guiding Glorandal with slight twitches of the reins, keeping her on the centre of the path.

Did Jimmy not believe that he would save him from falling? Did he simply lack that much faith in his newest ally? But if that were the case, then why would he agree to ride to Rivendell with him? He could have easily declined politely and suggested an alternative meeting date, where the Codfather could travel to Rivendell himself. Or is he really that desperate for whatever information Scott might be able to give him, desperate enough to follow him even when it places him at a disadvantage. There is no advantage with following him into his domain, especially not when Scott has his name. Perhaps there is some truth in calling the Codfather impulsive- more likely to swing first and ask the questions later.

He leans further forward, ducking his head until his lips are close enough to brush against the delicate fins adorning the sides of Jimmy’s head. They shiver as he exhales, the fine membranes quivering as his breath ghosts over it. He smiles at the repeat reaction, satisfied that it wasn't just a one time thing from their proximity. He inhales slowly, pushing the further thoughts away as they attempt to invade the front of his mind again, before speaking. “I am going to start galloping in a moment. I would recommend you hold onto something.”

Jimmy stiffens in front of him, spine digging into his ribs. It makes him too uncomfortable to lean over in this way, and he’s forced to pull back until Jimmy is no longer wrapped so securely between his arms. The jostling of the horse hardly helps, Glorandal’s wide strides pushing them into one another.

They cross the border from Gilded Helianthia into Rivendell.

And he feels the exact moment they leap across the invisible barrier, Glorandal launching into a gallop as he encourages her forward. The ice sings in the air around him, the cold stinging in his cheeks as it brushes icy hands over his face, welcoming him home, even after such a short absence. The cold sings in his blood and he grins at the feeling of it sparking through his veins.

Jimmy shivers in front of him, curling in on himself slightly. He still holds Scott’s wrist, though his grip is less bone-crushingly tight than before, giving him a larger range of movement. Scott huffs out a laugh at Jimmy’s reaction, before leaning a little further forward, close enough that Jimmy’s hair brushes against his face again.

The small points of contact between them make him shudder, something warm slithering down his spine. Those small points of contact are far more noticeable than the warm weight pressed against the front of his chest, though he’s not certain how such small points of contact manage to elicit such a reaction when they're already pressed so closely together.

He swallows down the words he was going to say, finding that they have turned to syrup in his throat, sticking there and making his tongue feel heavy and useless. The words in his mind swirl around each other too, refusing to order themselves in a sensible way. He can hardly even remember what he was going to say anymore, losing the words in the sticky tangle of thoughts currently clogging his throat.

The first gate they pass through is small and old, creaking as it opens. The guard inside of the tower takes several, long moments to respond to Alfsol’s shout. Scott cannot see into the dark recesses of the tower beside the gate, but he does manage to spot the flash of the soldier’s armour, as well as hear the sudden rattling as they realise just who, exactly, it is waiting at the gate.

They're ushered through rather rapidly after that, and Jimmy looks around them curiously at the small village they pass through. He slows, briefly, as they cut through the town centre, so as not to startle the children playing some complex-looking game beside the well.

They pause to wave at him, several of the children running up to grin at him, but still keeping a respectful distance from the horses. He smiles back at the small elves, waving back at several of them as they pass through. The elves stare at Jimmy, as well, some of the adults pausing in their business to take in the codfolk riding with the Elvenking, before recognising the mask pushed back on the top of his head.

Then they're through the village and picking up the pace again, careful to remain within the bounds of the hedgerows surrounding them. He’s not certain what is being planted in the fields around them currently, but several look as though they've already been harvested, only stubble left behind.

“I didn't know you grew things here,” Jimmy says, sounding slightly out of breath as he speaks. The rocking of the horse has decreased, but the motion would still be uncomfortable for someone not accustomed to riding. “Doesn't everything just…die?” He makes a small, choked-off noise in the back of his throat a moment later, shoulders stiffening as he waits for a response.

Scott frowns at the reaction, straightening his own back to avoid the way Jimmy’s spine digs into his ribs, made even more uncomfortable by the jostling of the horse. “No,” he says. He can hear the small amount of amusement in his own voice, even as the wind does its best to snatch the sound away from him. “But we only grow specific crops, ones more resistant to cold. Like over there,” he nods, towards one of the only fields still filled, brimming with shades of crimson and red. “Poppies are rather good at surviving.”

“Huh,” Jimmy says, small and quiet. Scott doubts he’s even meant to hear it. “The more you know, I guess.”

The fields gradually turn to houses, the beaten dirt track beneath them transitioning into cobbles. And then they really do have to slow, their winding path up the mountain coming to a rather abrupt halt as they reach the first of the larger gates.

Alfsol yells up to the guard in the tower in elvish, asking for entry through the gates. The guard peers down a moment later, a flash of silver from the dark recesses of the tower and a brief sound of metal on metal. He tips his head back, bells jangling as they shift on his antlers, swinging in the breeze. The guard disappears rather quickly after that, and the gate swings open promptly, quiet on well-oiled hinges. Seems he really does need to see what’s going on with the outer villages, then. Or at least find some better soldiers to station out there, if the ones currently occupying the small village have begun to slack off.

There’s three more gates before they begin ascending the final slope up to Rivendell’s capital. This slope is far steeper than the previous ones, being the more private entrance to the stables than the public entrance. Which takes far longer to climb, both due to the crowds and the gradual sloping nature of it. But it means their food arrives at their door with little trouble, no produce rolling from the carts and taking a plunge off the side of the mountain.

Jimmy continues to shiver, his bare arms breaking out into gooseflesh as he leans further back into Scott. He’s far more tense than he was at the start of the ride, which is quite something, because he doesn't think he’s ever met someone quite so scared of a horse as Jimmy is.

Their arrival into Rivendell is quiet and subdued. Just as Scott likes it. They dismount the horses with little fanfare, other than Alfsol getting her foot caught in one of the stirrups, almost falling flat on her face as she attempts to dismount, with at least some of her dignity intact. He turns away from her, pressing a closed fist to his mouth and reminding himself that she will punch him if he laughs at her, again, and that those punches tend to bruise for weeks. He’s not risking it.

Scott dismounts first, cloak sweeping heavily behind him as he steps back from the horse, holding out a hand for Jimmy to take. Jimmy only hesitates for a moment before he places his hand into Scott’s awaiting one, carefully slipping from Glorandal’s back. A stablehand is waiting nearby already, and Scott beckons him over, instructing him to check her over, to ensure that riding with two people hasn't done her any damage.

The stablehand nods, before taking the reins and leading Glorandal away. Alfsol and Ailwi are already waiting for them, prepared to walk them further into the city and back to the Palace. Jimmy continues to shiver, and it’s then that Scott truly registers how unsuited his clothes are for the near-top of a mountain. Scott frowns at him, at the way he’s tightly holding himself, as though he’s attempting to physically cling to every scrap of heat.

Jimmy jumps as Scott swings his cloak around his shoulders, settling it comfortably around his neck and tucking the ruff away from his face and ears. Jimmy stares at him with round eyes as he clasps the front of it, tugging it forward a little further when it goes to slip backwards.

“It’s slightly too large,” he frowns, watching as the bottom of it almost trails in the dirt behind Jimmy as he walks. “I do apologise.”

“No, it’s uh, it’s fine,” Jimmy goes to shrug the cloak off, even as his teeth continue to chatter. “I really don't need it, I swear.”

“I would really rather you didn't keel over where you stand,” Scott clasps one of Jimmy’s hands between two of his own, halting his efforts to remove the cloak. “Please, just keep it on, if only for my peace of mind.”

Jimmy hesitates for a moment longer, before slowly pulling his hand out from between Scott’s, tucking the cloak around himself a little more tightly, wrapping himself snugly inside the folds of fabric. “Alright.” He nods, slowly. “Thank you.”

“Splendid, now, shall we continue?”

Ailwi is looking away again, face flushed a light shade of pink and refusing to meet his eyes. Alfsol has no such qualms, twisting her face into a mocking grin and making a rude gesture. “ If only for my peace of mind ,” she mocks, slipping back into elvish.

“ Shut it ,” he snaps back at her, though it has no real bite behind it. And she must sense this, as she simply laughs at him. Jimmy watches them carefully, eyes dancing back and forth between them before looking away again. Scott’s rather relieved he chooses not to ask whatever question is lingering in his mind, as he’s uncertain of what his own response would be.

They draw more than a few stares, curious eyes lingering on their small party for longer than is strictly polite. But no-one makes to stop them, and they slip through the drifting crowds easily, aided by the two royal guards forging a pathway through. Jimmy looks around the surrounding buildings with interest alight in his eyes, tugging Scott’s cloak tighter around his shoulders.

There is nothing more than a little scrutiny towards their group, which, he supposes, is understandable from an outside perspective. Two royal guards, a codfolk, and the Elvenking walk through the streets late at night. It sounds like the beginning of one of those bad jokes Cormac is so fond of.

The Royal Library is still open, doors cracked just slightly and allowing the golden glow from within to spill out into the steadily approaching dusk. The students coming and going don't even spare him a second look, either too tired to register their surroundings or too used to him slipping in and out of the library when the fancy takes him.

He nods, politely, to the guard stationed at the door. It’s done more for formalities and for the peace of mind of the scholars that maintain the books within its walls. Hardly anything catastrophic will happen to a building in such close proximity to the Palace, but Leukos insisted, citing that the scholars would drive them insane if Scott refused to take action. And Leukos is rather good at their job, and it would be a hassle to find a new Librarian.

Jimmy’s breath hitches as they enter the atrium, head tipping back and fingers loosening their tight, almost strangling grip, on his cloak. He looks…strange, swathed in the colours of Scott’s empire and bathed in the gold light that the library has. It makes something in his chest shift a little at the sight, and he’s forcing himself to look away before he can linger on the emotion for too long.

“When you said you wanted some books to reference, I thought you meant, like…an office,” Jimmy finds his voice again, head dropping back down to look at Scott. He looks rather unimpressed, eyes flat and voice even flatter, even as he continues to look around. “Are you sure you're gonna be able to find the books we need?”

“Of course,” he should feel a little offended at the question- really, for Jimmy to question him in such a way. He could navigate this library with his eyes closed and hands bound behind his back, though he would certainly look an idiot whilst doing it. “The library is organised ,” he says, “meaning that it is arranged in a logical sense making it easier for those using its services to find the books that they might require, whether that be for leisure reading or more academic pathways of-”

“Alright,” Alfsol’s hand lands heavily on his shoulder, pulling him down a little bit as he has to compensate for her height. “I’m sure we all know what something being organised means, yeah?”

“I would hope so,”

“Good, great,” Alfsol pulls her hand off his shoulder, dusting his shirt off before dropping them back to her sides, an entirely unnecessary action as her hands weren't dirty in the first place. She smiles up at him. “Does that mean we’re relieved of our duties? Only because it’s rather late in the evening, and I had this wonderful date later on, really, the things she does with her-”

“I don't want to know that.” He holds a hand up, cutting her off and praying she doesn't continue. “If you continue to torment me like this I will send you to etiquette lessons.” Alfsol’s face scrunches up at the threat but still continue to grin, looking far too pleased with herself for it to be healthy.

He sighs, heavily. He almost casts his eyes skyward, looking for help from some benevolent God. He glares, instead, at the place where Aeor stands, looking far too amused for a creature that has no eyebrows. Or any way of visibly communicating His amusement. “You can go,” he waves his guards away.

He walks further into the library, smiling at the students that look up at him as he passes, dragging their eyes away from their stack of books and references to greet him momentarily. Only one set of feet hurries after him, almost tripping over his tail as he sweeps it to the side.

“Are you sure that was a good idea?” Jimmy asks, falling into step beside him, hands twisted in the fabric of his cloak again. He seems to rather like it, or perhaps he simply likes the comfort of having something in his hands. “What if something happens?”

“If something were to happen, I assure you, it should not be me you are worrying about.” He smiles pleasantly as he speaks. The bookshelves come to an abrupt halt and he steps out from the stacks, eyes set on the desk tucked away into the back corner of the library. For such a large building, Leukos seems to have chosen the smallest desk in existence. And the desk only looks even smaller with the papers stacked on it.

Scott’s certain that he’s never seen the actual wood of the desk, with it perpetually covered in books and tomes and stacks of paper that need to be filed and sorted. And really , they should be looking into obtaining an apprentice. Especially as they never seem to be at their desk.

He taps a finger against the edge of the desk as he thinks, looking around, waiting to see if Leukos is going to appear out of thin air in a few moments. They do it sometimes, appearing in the most unlikely places; he’s certain it’s an attempt to scare him witless, but they never seem to realise that they shuffle their wings far too much to be considered at all subtle.

“Are we…doing something?”

“In theory,” he responds, looking around and giving them a few more seconds. “Come on, let’s go find our missing librarian.” Jimmy makes a small noise at that, as though he’s going to ask a question. Scott doesn't give him the opportunity, rounding the desk and pulling the office door open.

There’s a loud sound of commotion when he sticks his head in. Leukos looks up at him guiltily, holding a hand of cards. Several of those cards are set between them and the other occupant of the room.

“ Cormac ,” he greets, slipping back into elvish. “ What a surprise to see you here. ”

“ Hardly ,” xe laugh, lounging back against the small sofa. Xe hold a hand of cards too, though xe have far more cards than Leukos does. Feathers are scattered across the floor, black and white mixing together, as though a storm recently ripped through the room. “ I'm here quite often, actually. ”

“Sire ,” Leukos stands from where they were sat, abandoning their cards on the floor. They brush their clothes down hurriedly, fixing their collar as subtly as possible, as though Scott hadn't already noticed the way it was nearly ripped open. “ And…guest .”

“ Yes, yes, guest. On other matters, do you have those books ready for me? The ones I reserved. ”

“ You have a guest? ” Cormac perks up, abandoning xir cards too to crowd in the doorway, leaning over Leukos and around Scott to peer at Jimmy. “ My oh my, you sure do move fast, hm? ” Xe grin at him, leaning a little further out of the doorway to wave at Jimmy. “ He certainly does look rather nice in blue, doesn't he? ”

“ I hadn't noticed ,” Scott lies through his teeth. “This is the Codfather,” he introduces, moving back to Common for Jimmy’s benefit. “Codfather, this is Eilianther and Ingolmondur.” He gestures to them as he introduces them.

“Nice to meet you,” Jimmy says. He smiles, though his eyes look like a prey animal’s: darting around and looking for any means of escape.

“Oh, yes,” Cormac pushes forward, nudging Scott out of the way not-so-gently. “Really, it is always so wonderful to meet someone new, especially from so far away. Codfolk, right?”

“Yes?” Jimmy’s eyes glance over to Scott, before he looks away again just as quickly, staring at Cormac with a strange intensity. “Does Codfather mean nothing to you?”

Cormac laughs, “ Oh, Scott, I like this one. ” Xe pat Jimmy on the shoulder, ignoring his confused look.

“I’ll get those books for you,” Leukos says, slipping away from the small gathering, further into their office to retrieve their reserved books. Scott watches them go, not missing the small tug at the edge of Cormac’s rather rumpled shirt. He gives xem an unimpressed look.

“I'm off-duty,” xe defend. “School day’s over, even if they're all intent on working themselves to death in here.”

“Eilianther is not off-duty, even if you are.” He reminds. “You will see each other plenty later, can you not contain yourself?”

“Well, I came here with good intentions,” Cormac says, then stops, xir eyes darting over to Jimmy. When xe continue, it is in elvish rather than Common. “ I received a note from one of my apprentices earlier. The guest you wanted to greet has arrived and is waiting for you. ”

“ Is it time sensitive? ”

“ No. ” Xe shake their head, more hair coming loose from its tie and falling across xir face. “ They can wait several more days, if needs be. ”

He considers it for a long moment, studying Cormac’s face, watching for any twitch of muscle that might betray that xir words are not completely truthful. Xe watch him back calmly, gaze not wavering.

“ Good ,” he nods. “ I will be by tonight, make sure they are prepared for greeting me. ”

“ Of course ,”

“And here are your books,” Leukos doesn't waste any time thrusting them into his arms, leaving him to grunt from the impact and the sudden weight, adjusting himself to hold them more securely. He’s watched them bring several students to tears over a bent page before, and he’s hardly daring enough to damage a book directly in front of them. “Please do not disturb me for the rest of the evening unless you've managed to set something on fire, thank you .”

“Your service is impeccable as always.” All three of the books he had wanted are here, each of them on a similar topic but written by different authors. He’s rather certain two of these authors threatened a duel over the contradictory information in their books.

Cormac rests a hand on Leukos’ shoulder before they can duck back into their office and away from the outside world, murmuring something into their ear. Leukos stiffens for a moment, before meeting his eyes and nodding. Wonderful.

“ Have fun with your new…ally, make sure you treat him nicely! ” Cormac calls, just as Scott is several paces away and certain he was safe. He refuses to turn back to look at xem, knowing it would only give them more satisfaction.

The books make a satisfying thump as he dumps them on a nearby table, pulling out a chair and sinking into it. Jimmy sits opposite him, laying his hands carefully on the table as he eyes the books in front of them.

“Ta-da,” he gestures at the books, “a solution to your problem. Or, at least I hope they are.” He taps at the closest cover, a thick book, bound in blue leather and painted with swirling designs. “This author is rather good with most of their environmental examinations, but it is always best to have more than one source for something, hence, these two.”

“These are in Oceanic.” Jimmy says, pulling one of the books towards himself, the furthest from Scott.

“Well, they are written by seafolk,” he says, “I would be surprised if they chose to write in Common when this is a distinctly water-based problem.”

“You know Oceanic?”

“I can read it, yes. Though my spoken leaves much to be desired. Though I suppose there are just some noises that my throat cannot make.”

“Ah,” Jimmy glances down at the books, thumb brushing over the spine carefully, almost reverent. “These books look…old. Where did you even get them?”

“A friend gave them to me,” he knows the page for this particular problem, flicking open the book and skimming through the pages until he reaches it. “A very old friend, before you ask. I thought it might be useful to me, and she had no use for them by that point. And she never asked for them back.”

Aeor still stands nearby, unobtrusive in his presence, taking on the form of a young fawn rather than his usual choice of a towering stag. The fawn gives him a disapproving look, and Scott frowns back at Him.

“Right,” Jimmy nods slowly, “yeah. Forgot…that.”

“What?”

“That you're kinda old.” Jimmy’s mouth twists at that. “Ocean’s tide, how old are you?”

“That’s not a very polite question. How old are you ?”

“Younger than you.” Jimmy snarks back. “Though that’s probably not very impressive.”

“Not really.” He studies Jimmy again. He certainly is younger than him, but…perhaps not as- Aeor’s disapproving presence grows heavier on the edge of his mind, and he pulls himself away from those thoughts. He glares at Aeor again, mocking the God silently for how He can barely see over the edge of the desk to stare at him. Aeor’s ears flick backwards in discontent, and then He’s gone a moment later, swallowed up by the air around him.

He ignores the sudden disappearance of the God, allowing himself to be drawn into the book in front of him. It’s thick, but the section he’s looking for is rather short in comparison to the rest of the book. The words are close together on the lines, almost blurring into one another and he has to re-read lines several times to make sure that he’s actually understanding what is being said.

He notes down the key points on a piece of parchment next to him, quill scratching lightly at the paper. Jimmy doesn't make a single sound, absorbed in both of the books, jumping back and forth between the two books. He has a notebook next to him. He writes, though without the need for any ink, his pen seemingly producing its own as he writes.

The pages are slightly warped from water damage, the pages crinkling as he smooths them out with a careful hand.

Something groans, and he looks up just in time to watch Jimmy’s head thunk against the table. The sound echoes around them, and he winces in sympathy. His head is rather well-acquainted with the edges of these tables and he knows just how much they hurt when you manage to catch the edge of them. Jimmy makes a wounded noise, lifting his head to cradle it in his hands.

“Having fun?” He asks, before he can think it through.

Jimmy huffs out a breath, still cradling his head delicately. Scott can see his eyes from between his fingers, flashing bright despite the shadow he casts over his face. “What do you think? This is ancient Oceanic , and it’s late, and I haven't eaten since this morning.”

He frowns at Jimmy’s complaining, watching as he slumps back over the desk, though far slower than before. The only sound accompanying his slow descent to laying halfway over the desk is the soft clink of his mask tapping against the wood.

“Is this…not the standard Oceanic still?” He glances at the pages in front of him, thumbing the corner of the page before remembering that Leukos has eyes everywhere in this library and stopping. It would utterly destroy his reputation if Jimmy watched Leukos rip him a new one over slight damage to one of their precious books.

“No,” Jimmy groans into the table. He lifts his head slightly just to drop it back again, landing with a thunk. Scott reaches a hand out to stop him when he lifts his head again, cushioning the table with his hand instead. “You're lucky I know this.”

“If this isn't the standard…why do you know it?” He’s still not certain Jimmy isn't lying to him, taking advantage of his lack of knowledge and the passage of time to trick him into believing this isn't still the correct form of Oceanic. He winces, thinking about the students that he will be needing to break this revelation to in the near future. He can leave it to Cormac, xe would deal with it far better than he could ever hope to.

“The Ocean Queen taught me.” Jimmy says. “She writes almost exclusively in it; she has scribes to translate for anyone that might read it, but she doesn't want her scribes seeing something that’s being sent to me.”

“Huh,” how interesting. To think that the Ocean Queen simply writes in an ancient language that only a few know. “Does the Mezalean King speak it also?”

“He can write it, but he’s pretty shit at it.” Jimmy laughs to himself, shaking his head. “He came to me for help, as though I’m any better.”

“You seem to be coping rather well,” he gestures to the page of notes, written in something that vaguely resembles the Oceanic he knows, but also not quite- a few of the letters appear to be different, swirling in different ways. He’s not sure of how it translates to actual words, but it looks both more complex and less than the apparently ancient version.

“I don't think I can continue with this,” Jimmy thunks his head down on the table again, forgetting that Scott’s hand is still lying there, so he just ends up resting his face in Scott’s glove. He can feel the warmth of his breath on the palm of his hand, warming his skin even through his gloves. He shudders at the feeling, lifting Jimmy’s head just enough to pull his hand out from beneath the weight of his head. “I…do you think I can return at another time to continue reading these, Elvenking?”

“You can come by and read them tomorrow morning,” he responds. His frowns at Jimmy. “Don't call me that.”

“What?” Jimmy blinks up at him.

“Elvenking,” he replies, “I told you a name you could use.”

“I, what ?” Jimmy seems genuinely confused, squinting at him. Scott worries, for a moment, that he’s knocked the sense out of himself with the repeated, harsh descents to the table. “Isn't that, like, something really important to you?”

“My entire Council calls me Scott. I would hardly be giving them my true name, hm?” He tilts his head to the side. The jangling of bells on his antlers is loud enough in the silence around them that he almost startles at it. Jimmy jumps, looking around them worriedly, before relaxing back into his seat. “Please,” he reaches a hand out again, only hesitating for a moment, before he lays it over Jimmy’s hand. “I would feel as though I am a pretty poor ally if you insist on continuing to address me by such a title.”

“Ah, yeah, alright,” Jimmy nods. He keeps his eyes averted, fixed on the table. Scott frowns at the reaction; is Jimmy worried about his reaction? Is he scared that there might be some secret layer to this agreement that he cannot see? He wants to assure the other man that there’s nothing of the sort occurring here, but he’s not certain on how to say that without making it appear even more suspicious than before. “Alright.” Jimmy repeats, slowly pulling his hand out from beneath Scott’s, tucking it beneath his cloak, close to his body.

“Come,” he stands, pushing his chair back across the carpeted floor silently. He’s certain the only other people currently in the building are Leukos and Cormac, but there might also be a student still studying, and he would rather not disturb them. “You said you hadn't eaten since this morning, and we can hardly have you starving here, hm? What would be said about our hospitality?”

“You are already plenty inhospitable,” Jimmy laughs, ducking his head. He freezes for a moment, laugh choking itself off, before he continues, watching him carefully. Scott very carefully does not react to that, only smiling a little to himself, nodding along silently. “Living at the very top of a mountain isn't exactly screaming for someone to come visit you.”

“There weren't other empires around when Rivendell settled,” he sniffs. “The only other colony was what would become the Ocean Empire, and even that was only groups of seafolk interacting for resources rather than living as a collective.”

Jimmy halts, Scott jerking backwards to make sure the door doesn't swing shut on Jimmy’s face as he pauses. He looks around, craning his neck to peer over his shoulder whilst also making sure that he doesn't scrape his antlers along the door. Jimmy’s eyes are wide as he stares at him. “Are you that old?” He squeaks out.

“No.” He’s a little offended, frankly. Axen might be that old, but he certainly isn't. Does he look that old? “Do I…look that old?” Aeor scoffs at him, muttering something to Himself about vanity. He shoves Aeor away, firmly pushing him from his mind and shutting him out. He mentally places a mental chair under the mental handle.

“No!” Jimmy lurches forward, arms out and waving, eyes wide with panic. “No, no, definitely not. Just, uh, I don't really know how you can tell how old you are, because you're definitely a few centuries old, right?”

“Yes.” He nods. “I wouldn't be able to rule the empire unless I was more than two centuries old. Handing the rights to a kingdom to such a young elf would be irresponsible and, quite frankly, just stupid.”

“Ah, right,” Jimmy nods along. He’s far closer than before, from his lurching forward in worry motion, and Scott can almost feel the warmth radiating off of him as they stand there, close enough that Scott could reach out and touch him if he wanted to. He doesn't, allowing himself to be content with watching Jimmy pull his cloak a little tighter around himself, seeing the way the fur ruff brushes against his chin and tucks around his neck. “Uhm.”

Jimmy looks up, towards the very dark night sky. The clouds block the majority of stars, leaving them in grey and black darkness, lit by only a thin sliver of a moon.

“You won't be returning to the Cod Empire for the evening,” he says. He doesn't mean for it to come out so threatening, but Jimmy stiffens anyway, his easy demeanour switching into something far more wary. Scott sighs. “I meant that it would be far too dangerous to traverse the mountain path with horses at this time, and returning to the Cod Empire alone and without a horse would simply be begging for an ambush.”

“I couldn't impose on-”

“Nonsense,” he waves it off. “I may as well treat you to the entirety of Rivendell’s hospitality whilst you're here, no? Besides, do you really want to go through Mythland to get back to the Cod Empire? This late at night?”

Jimmy scuffs his feet along the ground for a few moments, the cold air swirling around his face in clouds of breath as he thinks. Scott watches him, only reaching out to adjust him in one direction when he almost turns down the wrong road. “I suppose not,” he manages, when they're almost through the Palace gates.

Jimmy looks up at that moment, gasping as he sees the Palace they've stopped in front of. Scott winces at his reaction, placing a hand to his back and pushing him a little further forward, waving off the guards that begin to make their way over to investigate the sudden disturbance. When they see who it is, they relax, far too used to his nightly exploits out of the Palace to register it as anything unusual.

It’s easy to find a maid still willing to fetch some small things from the kitchens, and Scott sends her off with a smile and several nuggets of gold for her efforts. He watches her go, before turning back to his personal rooms, slipping himself back inside.

Jimmy is still stood in the place he left him, hands loose at his sides and cloak slipping over his shoulders, threatening to fall loose from how the clasp has been undone. Scott tucks it a little more firmly around his shoulders, which seems to bring Jimmy back to himself, realising that he had been staring at Scott’s personal rooms for far too long already.

Jimmy jerks back, face flushing as he mutters a quick apology.

“There’s no need for apologies here, it is just the two of us.” He pats Jimmy on the shoulder. “Though I can understand your wonder, the rooms truly are rather large.” His seating area is certainly the largest part, though it wouldn't look like it with the bookshelves crammed against the walls and the various seats scattered around the room.

There’s a quiet knock at the door and he turns back to thank the maid once again, retrieving their meals from her with a nod. She scurries down the hallway, past a set of patrolling guards, and he locks the door behind her.

“It’s not much,” he apologises as he guides Jimmy over to the small dining table, tucked neatly away in the corner. He hardly uses it, preferring to take his meals in the kitchens where he can speak with his staff and ensure that they are content with their work. He’s found he also picks up some rather lovely tidbits when he sits in there, one ear pricked for the latest gossip on that lord or this lady. “But hopefully it’ll be enough to tide you over until morning.”

It’s some of the leftover breakfast pastries, cold and a little bit stale, but they're still plenty nice. He eats in silence, allowing Jimmy a few moments to take in the rooms around them, even though he wants nothing more than to lay down in his bed and sleep for ten hours.

“You can sleep in the guest room,” he says, when his plate is empty and Jimmy is chewing the last mouthful of his food. “There should also be some nightclothes in there, seeing as you don't have your own. Though I am uncertain of how well they will fit you,”

“It’ll be fine, it’s nice enough of you to even let me stay overnight.”

“I could hardly leave you outside in the cold, especially not when you seem to get cold so easily.” Jimmy still wears his cloak, keeping it tucked tightly around himself. Jimmy seems to realise this now, hands flying to the fur ruff, beginning to pull it off. “Don't,” Scott interrupts him, “keep it, I don't mind losing it for a little bit. Especially not if it provides you some comfort.”

“I,” Jimmy flushes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he smiles. “You’ll probably take better care of it than I will.”

Jimmy blinks at him, long and slow. He’s tired, both of them are in reality, but Jimmy is far more open about his tiredness. It does not surprise Scott, with how much they've managed to do today and the possibility of Jimmy’s lower tolerance for remaining awake for days on end.

“Your room is just through here,” he takes the initiative here, guiding Jimmy into the room before he has to carry him in there himself. Aeor’s presence lingers over his shoulder as he stands in the doorway, watching to make sure Jimmy doesn't fall over his own feet.

Aeor doesn't appear beyond a slight wavering in the air beside him, the slight glow of faint, white mist drifting over his shoulder. Scott feels His presence anyway, standing with his spine straight as Aeor lingers on the edges of his mind. But Aeor does not voice whichever thoughts it is that is keeping Him hovering in such a way.

“You don't have to watch me,” Jimmy says, after a few long moments. “I can figure out how to get into bed without supervision.”

“I do apologise,” he steps back from the doorway, unable to tear his eyes away from Jimmy’s face, watching as his eyes seem to glow in the darkness, spilling a faint light over his cheeks. He had thought the man had brown eyes, but they're a rather dark amber, in reality.

He pulls the door closed behind him, but not quite all the way, leaving it open just a crack.

He doesn't retire to his own rooms, settling himself in one of the seats scattered around the room, holding a book but not reading it, thumb tucked between the pages only to make it look as though he is doing something while he waits.

Only once he’s certain that Jimmy is asleep, or close enough to sleep that it doesn't matter either way, does he stand. He keeps his footsteps light, tail brushing just above the floor as he slips out of his door once more, shutting it carefully behind him.

He feels almost guilty about slipping away while he has a guest, even guiltier for not breathing a word of this to Jimmy. He can only hope that he does not wake while Scott is away.

This could not wait a day longer.

Chapter Text

The morning is bright, and he’s sat awake when the sun begins to grace the horizon with its presence. The light it casts is cold, bathing the room in shades of white rather than gold. He deliberates for only one reason, sat on the edge of his seat and frowning.

He continues to frown at the coat hanger, tucked neatly and just inside the doorway of his personal room so that it will remain hidden unless someone manages to slip inside. His second-favourite cloak, definitely not his finest with the slightly wonky embroidery on the edges but definitely his most comfortable, hangs there. He had been intending to wear it today, seeking comfort rather than to appear perfectly put-together; he doubts that any untrained eye would notice the slight error with the stitching.

A small splash of crimson makes that entire impossible.

On any other cloak, perhaps the one he dons more frequently when he slips out of the Palace for the evening, it would be unnoticeable. Black fabric was made to conceal such bright, offensive colours. The pale grey-blue of his cloak means it stands out starkly, though, drawing the eye towards it no matter how he positions the fabric on his shoulders. He frowns a little harder at the stain, as though that would convince it to disappear.

“Frowning like that is going to do nothing but give you frown lines.”

“Speaking from experience, are we?” He tips his head to the side, not enough to actually turn and face the God, but enough to let Him know He is being acknowledged.

“When have you seen a deer with wrinkles,” Aeor asks, sounding almost intrigued before He sighs. “No matter, I don’t wish to find out what answer your mind can summon.”

Scott ignores that last comment, giving up on the cloak as a lost cause until someone comes around to collect it for cleaning, digging into his closet for an alternative. He passes over the first few options, rubbing the fabric between thumb and forefinger, finding it far too coarse to even consider wearing for the rest of the day.

“You could go reclaim your usual cloak,” Aeor says, ever the voice of reason.

He snorts in response, a rather deer-like sound that he would never dream of making outside of present company, shaking the idea off physically. It causes the bells on his antlers to jingle at the motion, filling the air with a quiet twinkling before they still and silence settles again. It leaves just the sound of his breathing and the brush of fabric over fabric as he sorts through his closet. The hangers scrape along the railing, loud enough at one point for his ears to flick away in protest of the screeching.

He gives up and plunges his hand in a moment later, closing his eyes and grabbing the first soft bit of fabric he feels and pulling it loose.

“Now that is something I haven’t seen in a while.” Aeor’s comment is almost enough for him to hang it back up; he’s not certain where his irritation with the God is stemming from- His attempt at reason or the words exchanged yesterday evening, after their business was finished and Aeor had more or less settled back into His own skin.

He pulls it on anyway, brushing a hand over the dark fabric. The midnight blue isn’t something he’s worn in several centuries; the last time he wore this cloak was…

He turns around, admiring himself in the mirror. The stains are long gone from the cloak, leaving it unblemished, as though it has never been worn before. It had been his favourite at one point, something that he was loath to part with, even for washing. It doesn’t look any worse for wear, despite its extended stay in his closet.

He clasps the cloak at the front, doing one last spin in front of the mirror before he’s satisfied with what he sees.

Jimmy is already awake, sitting on the loveseat and fiddling with one of his many books. He startles to his feet when he hears Scott’s door open, spinning around fast enough that his tail nearly swipes several fragile objects off the end of his coffee table.

Jimmy laughs, cradling several of the ornaments to his chest, fumbling as he attempts to set them back down without dropping any of the ones that he’s currently holding.

Scott takes pity on him, stepping forward and aiding in replacing the ornaments. And if it brings him closer into Jimmy’s space than is strictly necessary, than that is between him and no-one else (except for the God poking around in his head). Jimmy is wearing the same clothes as yesterday, wrapped tightly in his cloak, too. The sight of him like that settles something in Scott, reassures him that the necessary sacrifice of wearing this cloak is more than enough to see Jimmy like this. It’s far too long on him, though; something to consider if he intends for Jimmy to continue visiting Rivendell. Perhaps he wouldn’t be opposed to visiting Scott’s tailor this afternoon, just to see if any fabrics or styles capture his fancy-

“Are you hungry yet?” He asks, once the last of the ornaments is safely back in place and Jimmy has taken several (unnecessary) steps backwards to avoid a repeat incident.

“I- yes, I suppose so.” Jimmy has a habit of fiddling with his cloak. Scott has noticed how he tugs at the fur ruff surrounding his neck, tucking it closer and fiddling with different strands of the fur, rubbing them between thumb and finger as he thinks.

“Wonderful,” he smiles, a genuine smile, a holds an arm out for Jimmy. It’s an old habit, something he falls easily into. Jimmy stares at the limb for a moment, and it’s for long enough that Scott almost pulls his arm back and considers consulting his texts on ocean inhabitants and what gestures they may take offence to.

Jimmy’s hands curl around his arm a moment later, eyes steadfastly avoiding his. He can see the pulse in Jimmy’s neck jumping as he tugs Jimmy a little closer, watching his gills flutter at the action. He smiles at the response, wiping it away a moment later when Jimmy’s eyes turn back to him again, steelier than before and lacking the original flustered look he had worn.

The halls are filled with more guards than the night before, each of them greeting Scott, before doing a double-take as they notice the codfolk swathed in Rivendell colours beside him, before their brains catch up and they realise they are ogling the Codfather, rather than any regular codfolk. Scott pretends he doesn’t feel the way Jimmy’s grip on his arm tightens when people continue to stare at him, but nor does he make his own dissatisfaction with the staring of his staff secret.

Some message must have passed along by the time they reach the kitchens, for they are all studiously doing their own tasks, preparing meals and shouting orders. Either that, or they are hard enough at work to barely notice his arrival, let alone the extra company he has brought with him.

Alais appears barely a moment after he’s forced Jimmy into a seat and taken his own, laying his hands neatly over the countertop as he waits.

This specific corner of the kitchen is always kept clean, available for seating; it’s for both the staff to use and also for him to sit at whenever the fancy takes him. He prefers eating among the bustle of kitchen staff than sitting alone in the dining hall far too big for only a singular person to be occupying it.

“Good mornin’, sire.” Alais drums zir hands on the countertop, eyeing Jimmy with a curious look before ze look away again, yelling in elvish. “Hold the fish! We gotta seafolk over ‘ere, make somethin’ different!”

Scott doesn’t bother to correct zem on zir assumption, knowing full well that most seafolk will eat fish, including the species they originate from. Jimmy is not an exception in that case, despite his passion for the conservation of the cod species. He’d watched, alongside the other emperors, as Jimmy ate cod without complaint at several of their extended meetings. He almost wished he had a painter to capture the expressions of each emperor in that moment, including the second when they all hurried to appear as though they had not been staring at him eating a fish.

It was rather ridiculous, really. The fae of the Overgrown had practiced several…creative events for the consumption of human flesh. He had attended a few of those celebrations, out of pure curiosity as to what the event would entail, but had declined to participate in any further activities. As far as he knows, the practice died out about a century ago, but Katherine’s uneasiness in the face of Jimmy willingly eating fish was more than amusing with that added context.

“That is rather unnecessary,” he tells Alais, once ze turn back again. “Fish is a staple part of seafolk diet; codfolk are not an exception to that.”

“Better safe than sorry,” ze sniff. “And you shoulda said that before I yelled.”

“There is little that can be done to stop you from yelling.”

“You're right on that one, I’ll give ya that.” Ze laugh, patting him on the back of his hand before turning zir attention towards Jimmy. “To what do we owe the pleasure of a visit from the Codfather ‘imself?”

“Oh, uh,” Jimmy looks nervous at being addressed directly, before he sits up straighter in his seat and forcibly discards that nervousness. The change is almost impressive, would be far more impressive if Jimmy didn’t dart a glance at him before answering. “Nothing much, really, just…looking for extra resources for solving a problem.”

“And so polite too,” Alais looks at him, raising an eyebrow. He knows exactly what that look suggests, ignoring it entirely. “Shame you don’t bring more of his type around ‘ere.”

“I don’t bring many people around here.” He corrects.

“And a fuckin’ shame that is,” ze shake their head. “You gotta put yourself out there more often, see if you can’t get another pretty one lookin’ at you like he is.”

“I am older than you.”

“And I'm apparently wiser than you. You been mopin’ around for the past few decades, all alone except for your damned owl.”

“Urith is pleasant company. Rather unlike my present company,” he teases. Ze rap the back of his knuckles for that, laughing a little when ze see the startled look Jimmy sends him.

“Aw, don’t worry love, he’s the least harmful outta all of us.” Ze pat the back of his hand, ignoring the scowl he sends zir way for the action. “Rest of us have knives, he’s just got his silly little staff.”

“It’s a sceptre.” He corrects, “And it’s a slight bit more than a simple staff.”

“Touched a nerve there,” Alais says to Jimmy, conspiratorially, as though he cannot hear them. “He gets all defensive ‘bout his fancy magic shtick, careful you don’t prod him too much- maybe he’ll show you exactly what that staff does.” Ze wink, before disappearing again, perhaps sensing that the final comment was a little too much.

He sighs, watching as Jimmy stares confusedly after zir retreating back. It means Scott gets to watch the exact moment zir words click together in his mind, coming to form a final picture. He rather rapidly goes red after that, wheezing in a breath as he turns away from Scott. It does little to hide the fluttering of his gills, or the way his fins press to the side of his head in embarrassment.

Scott simply takes a sip from the coffee that had arrived moments prior, nudging Jimmy’s mug towards him when he continues to attempt to recover from his first interaction with Alais.

“How successful,” Aeor muses, “I do believe that broke him.”

Scott ignores the comment in favour of enjoying his coffee and listening to the staff around him. They don’t hold their tongues out of fear for what he might do like they had in the beginning, settled in the presence of their sovereign sitting casually in the kitchen. He rather enjoys the gossip they exchange amongst each other, most of the time contradictory and not at all true.

He does, however, hear gems on occasion. Small little titbits of information that are so odd they can be nothing but true. Like the youngest future-viscountess stealing several of her father’s deer so she could free them into the surrounding woods. Now, that one he does know is true, as the young girl’s father had come to him to complain about the difficulties of children and their changing whims. One moment she had begged to keep the deer, and the next she had been demanding they be set free as a life of containment was one too cruel for even a slug to bear.

He had consoled the viscount, doing his very best to hide his amusement at the whole idea.

He doubts he did a very good job of hiding it, as that viscount has seemed to hold a grudge against him ever since. He glowered, rather fiercely, at the last banquet he had been invited to as Scott encouraged his daughter on her quest for freeing most of her father’s collectibles. She had been rather enthusiastic about it, even as she nears the age of majority, and had taken his ideas rather giddily.

Breakfast is a quiet affair between the two of them, with Jimmy still recovering from Alais’ parting words to him as he eats. He feels Jimmy’s gaze on him, though, as he exchanges words here and there with several of the staff that approach him, some even being so bold as to sit down beside him until Alais spots them slacking off and storms over to haul them back upright.

Jimmy doesn’t put his thoughts into words until they have left the kitchen, the rest of the Palace oddly quiet in the aftermath of the noise that had come from the entire kitchen. He can still hear the clatter of pots and pans as they are washed, despite them being too far away for him to still be hearing it.

“The kitchen staff seemed to like you,” is what Jimmy says when he manages to summon enough confidence to put his thoughts into spoken form.

Scott hums in response as they turn into a more public hallway, one of their more decorative ones, with massive tapestries hanging high above their heads and tassels brushing along the ground. He pauses, there, to allow them both time to admire the handwork gone into the pieces.

“Not what you expected from me, I take?”

“I- no, that’s not what I meant, I mean. It’s just…” Jimmy trails off, shrugging as he looks up, tipping his head back and exposing the long line of his throat. Scott follows where he looks, if only so he doesn’t get caught staring at that bare patch of skin. “There are a lot of rumours about you.”

This particular tapestry depicts Aeor. It’s not one of his favourites, had been one of the first tapestries he completed when he had finally begun to pick up the royal tradition. Several of his later tapestries, hung further down the hall, are much better in their quality. The only reason this one continues to hang is because of sentimentality.

He can identify the exact position where its original creator stopped and where he picked up. The slight unevenness in the next line. Something that only less practiced hands would be able to create. His brother had been far better at weaving than him, and it was evident, even if the only tapestry they ever managed weave was left incomplete by their own hand, finished and hung by another.

“There are many rumours about you too.” He responds, when the silence has stretched on for long enough. “They say you walked free of the ocean, fully formed and without awareness of where you came from.”

Jimmy sucks in a breath, though he doesn’t tear his eyes away from the halo circling Aeor’s head. “They say you used to make a public spectacle of anyone that dared defy you. Would kill someone simply for questioning you too far down a certain line.”

He doesn’t give a response to that, even as he feels Jimmy’s eyes linger on him a moment before he looks away again. He continues to study the tapestry, feeling the thread beneath his fingers again, as though he’s still weaving it. Can hear the clunk of the frame settling back into place after a completed line. He hadn’t understood the appeal; why choose such a time-consuming tradition when their duties are certain to keep them almost constantly busy.

His mother had been displeased with his questioning, shaking her head and sighing at him, deeming him a lost cause for this tradition. His father had been undeterred, taking him from the classroom, leaving his mother and brother behind as he was ushered out into the gardens.

He had been shown a spider, sat down in front of its web and forced to watch it weave. Made to follow the movements that were driven by nothing but instinct. Spiders are not taught how to construct their webs, they simply know, stitching different threads together until they have made their own pattern.

“If it is what keeps them safe,” he sighs, looking away from the tapestry. He really hates that tapestry. “If it is what keeps my people safe and content, then there are very few things I am unwilling to do.”

There is a small tapestry depicting a spider on his office wall, hung just slightly to the left of where his head is. He’s had several of his Court ask him the purpose of it, why he would choose a spider when there are several other creatures he could have chosen to represent himself to any guests he was hosting in his office - a deer, or even an owl, would have been a far better fit.

What a deer lacks, however, is the ability to pull upon the strings of the beings around them. To weave them into a neatly spun tale until they are unsure of how they even ended up in the position in the first place, puppeted by strings too fine for them to see, threads too woven into their being for them to distinguish as something not their own.

“Come on,” he turns his back on the tapestry. “I'm sure Eilianther wants those books back within the next few days. He’s been holding them for me for several weeks already.”

Chapter Text

The Library is busier than it was the evening prior, though that may be more to do with the late hour rather than everyone simply choosing to come to the library on this specific morning. It might also be examination season- he stopped paying attention to when the end of course examinations were a few centuries ago, relying on watching Cormac for more stress than normal and for the Library to be busier than it usually is.

Scott has to manoeuvre them around several groups of overtired students, each of them standing right in his path. They seem unaware of the inconvenience they pose to him, and he has to nudge a few of them out of the way when they continue to stare off into space. He finds himself reluctant, but admittedly curious in the end, as to what they’ve consumed in order to be standing at this very moment. From his experience, the older students (those that have already been studying for a few years and so the shine of their experience has dulled a little) prefer not to emerge from their homes until well past noon.

One student grabs his friend when they don’t move from his path after the first nudge, yanking on the friend’s arm to clear the path for him and Jimmy.

“Thank you,” he nods to the student as he moves past, slowly so he doesn’t bump into the back of another student. Jimmy squeezes himself through the crowds after him, floundering for a moment as he attempts to avoid elbowing a student out of the way, giving up, and latching onto the back of Scott’s cloak to avoid them being separated again. He pretends not to notice it, even as Jimmy presses himself much closer, the warmth of his body seeping into Scott’s own.

He moves away quickly after that, Jimmy’s grasp on his cloak almost choking him as he moves away from the sudden warmth. It sends an odd sensation down his spine, and he tries not to focus on it too much, rubbing a hand up and down his arm as he slips between two groups of students.

No doubt Leukos is losing their mind, slowly, from wherever they currently are. He’s surprised they haven’t appeared yet to chase the students away, wings spread to make themselves appear taller and larger than they actually are. Surprisingly enough, Leukos is rather talented at forcing people to scatter, despite their unassuming appearance. He has, however, also witnessed them hit someone over the head with a thick tome before, so maybe that fear is warranted.

It only takes them a few extra minutes to find a mostly empty table, sitting at one end so they don’t disturb the student at the other end. He winces in sympathy as he glances over her shoulder, scanning a few lines of text and identifying it as an astronomy book. Sleep is fleeting for those that choose to study astronomy, and she doesn’t look as though she’s faring particularly well with the challenge.

He sets their books down on the table gently, distributing them evenly between himself and Jimmy before he sits down too. Jimmy sits across from him, not taking his cloak off even as Scott drapes his own over the back of the chair. It adds a little extra padding to these frankly rather uncomfortable chairs. He raises an eyebrow at Jimmy, and his lack of movement to remove his outerwear.

Jimmy meets his eyes across the table and shivers, rather pointedly, then tucks the cloak a little further around his shoulders. As far as he knows the ocean is rather cold at the lower levels, where light rarely reaches, so for Jimmy to be so susceptible to the cold still…it’s odd, to say the least. Though perhaps he has just become accustomed to the warm waters of the swampland.

He contents himself with making the occasional note (on another sheet of paper, not in the margins of the book, he’s many things but suicidal is not one of them; he prefers to remaining in Leukos’ good books) as he flips through the first of many books. It’s not particularly interesting, but research is a necessary evil, as much as he may hate it.

Jimmy seems to be taking a more active stance for his dislike of research. In that he has a book open in front of him, though he is not reading it. He hasn’t turned a page in the last twenty minutes, and he had flicked aimlessly through the pages for a solid fifteen minutes before that. Scott doesn’t comment on it, as commenting on it would mean revealing that he had noticed Jimmy’s lack of reading.

Jimmy seems to be keeping himself occupied at least. The last few times Scott looked up, he found Jimmy watching him, eyes tracking over his face. It would be an odd feeling, if he weren’t so used to people watching him wherever he went. Inside of Rivendell, he was their Elvenking, as thus drew attention wherever he went; outside of Rivendell, he was elven, which was enough to draw the eye of many towards him.

He's also been called many complimentary things in his time, ranging from beautiful to handsome. Compared to a porcelain doll, once, though that was a rather odd compliment compared to any others he’s ever received.

He isn’t surprised that Jimmy is taking the opportunity to watch him, even if the neighbouring tables of students are now taking the opportunity to make fun of him for his staring. He would have to be some kind of idiot not to realise that Jimmy was attracted to him, especially with how fast his heart beat in his presence and how often he blushed when Scott directed a majority of his attention over towards him. Not how he had imagined the Codfather to act with an infatuation, but he supposes it can bring out something new in every person.

Still, he might have to make his staring less obvious if he wants Scott to continue pretending he doesn’t notice it.

For example, Jimmy has not noticed the several times he’s glanced at him in the last few minutes, admiring him in return. His scales glint rather nicely beneath the natural light of the Library, shimmering over his cheekbones and seemingly disappearing into his hair. They're like a pattern of freckles, covering large patches of skin. He’s also, admittedly, curious as to how far those scales go. He has some on the backs of his hands, and across the skin of his arms, but everything else is rather covered up.

Jimmy does not notice him watching him in return, because Scott is able to keep up the illusion of studying the text and making notes. He only pays half of his attention to the information he’s reading, instead seeing how many different ways he can watch Jimmy without him, or anyone around them, noticing.

He saw the group of Cormac’s apprentices nearby when they took a seat, and he’s not stupid. Anything that happens with Jimmy and him is going immediately back to xem; he suspects he placed his apprentices there for the sole purpose of watching him and Jimmy interact. Truly, xe act as though having an open and honest conversation with him is the worst experience ever, resorting instead to spying on him at the expense of his poor apprentices.

He would be embarrassed at his own actions, if Jimmy weren’t so intriguing. He keeps himself carefully shielded, and yet wears his heart on his sleeve. He seems to enjoy the quiet and calm, though only when he has something to occupy himself with, and yet he seems to stoke conflict wherever he goes. Though whether the latter is on purpose is still to be determined, and also not a question to ask in public, where it is likely to stoke conflict.

As such, he is able to appreciate the small glances he steals at Jimmy when the man looks away, attempting to keep up the pretence of reading. Perhaps his parents would be disappointed in him, though likely for his lack of courting manners than anything else.

…They would also probably hate everything about Jimmy.

Well. Maybe his mother will roll in her grave if he actually attempts to court Jimmy, though that is something that needs far more thought and also a discussion with his Court. Not something to attempt on a whim.

In the end, Jimmy lasts a shocking fifty-seven minutes before he gets too bored to remain silent.

“Is there any point to doing this still?” Jimmy asks. One of the books is splayed open in front of him, though Jimmy hasn’t turned a single page. Instead, he watches Scott with a strange kind of intensity.

Scott sits up from where he was hunched over his own book, leaning against the back of his chair as he considers Jimmy. He looks a little frustrated, and he shivers again as Scott looks at him, cold even with how he’s swathed in some of the most expensive furs in the empire.

“Whatever do you mean?” He taps a finger against the page, the small sound enough to pull Jimmy’s eyes from his face for a moment. He looks back again once he’s found the source of the sound, eyes still containing the same, odd intensity. “Is the information something that you already possess? Or are the techniques not achievable for the problem at hand?”

“No, it’s all- it’s fine,” Jimmy huffs out a sigh. “But it’s not what I wanted. Or expected. This is all,” he gestures aimlessly, “it’s great, but we had a deal with our alliance. I mean, the help with this problem is appreciated, of course, but I was expecting your help in other areas too.”

Jimmy scowls at him, then seems to remember who he is looking at and where he is. He looks down at the book in front of him, staring at the page for a moment longer before he slams it shut. The sound alone is enough to draw eyes towards them, and Jimmy’s hushed voice had already pulled the attention of several students towards them.

He sighs, closing his own book as well. “And yet you neglected to bring it up the entirety of yesterday; there were several opportunities for you to demand that we lay out a proper agreement of terms for this alliance, but it seemed as though you were content to sit around and find solutions for your current problem.”

Jimmy hisses out a breath, glancing around at their silent audience. They really are doing their best to pretend they're not eavesdropping on this conversation. He sighs silently and resigns himself to dealing with his Court this evening, once the rumours reach them.

“I came to you with a proposal for revenge, something that you seemed happy to help with seeing as you waited for me,” Jimmy says. “I can solve things myself, what I want is for you to help me with that, not the environmental problems we’ve got going on. Or did you forget what our agreement was about?”

“I did not forget.” Suggesting that such a powerful fae would somehow manage to forget a bargain delivered to them is almost laughable. He smiles gently at Jimmy, only because he is rather fond of the Codfather, and continues quieter, so their audience will have a harder time listening in. “Don’t mislead yourself in thinking that this was only me whiling away time, you were rather content to follow along with my whims, hm? I cannot stand people that do not put their foot down and demand respect, and I will not stand beside someone that is content to roll over when he is told to.”

Jimmy’s eyes narrow at the veiled insult. “Meaning this was all some messed up test.”

“Precisely.”

Jimmy snorts and leans back. “I can see why you don’t have many allies.”

“I can also see why you don’t have many.” He smiles as Jimmy looks back at him. “You're a rather volatile man, seeming calm and relaxed until you're nudged over some invisible line, and then it’s just as though some switch has been flipped.” He snaps his fingers for emphasis, “And you're suddenly the worst of enemies.”

“The Grimlands and the Cod Empire have been at odds for longer than I've been alive.”

“That may be true…but,” he glances around, watching as several heads turn away from him quickly. Still pretending as though they aren’t listening. He sighs, “Let us discuss this elsewhere, away from prying ears and eyes.”

“And the books?”

“We can return them to Eilianther on our way out, I'm sure they're eager to have them back after so long on reserve.” He stands gracefully, almost painfully aware of the eyes still weighing heavy on his back. No doubt they're simply bursting with the need to speak about him, but they won’t dare to do it until he is safely out of earshot. He pulls his cloak back on, disappointed that they only managed to spend an hour in the Library before they're leaving again.

No matter, he has far more important things to attend to.

“Leukos,” he greets the Librarian, surprised to see them at their desk for once. They make a noise in greeting, though they don’t look away from the book they're repairing, poking gingerly at the damaged binding on the spine. “I apologise for reserving these for so long, I wasn’t certain of when they would be needed.”

“Funnily enough, books on Oceanic methods of dealing with coastal hazards and management techniques are not in high demand. It wasn’t any hardship for me to pull them from the shelves for a few weeks.”

He hums, setting the books down on the edge that looks the least precarious, and also has the fewest books already stacked there. He takes the books that Jimmy is carrying too, setting them carefully on top. It’s a rather delicate balancing act, one that Leukos watches from the corner of their eye as they continue fussing over the damaged book.

“You look tired,” he comments, for lack of anything else to say. Jimmy makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat at the continued conversation; though whether it is out of an eagerness to discuss the true purpose of their alliance or his distaste for not being able to understand the conversation, he’s not sure. “Trouble sleeping?”

The top half of the book stack wobbles dangerously, and he nudges it until it looks a little more balanced. He much prefers returning his books without the risk of being gutted in broad daylight by one of his most loyal.

Leukos smiles a little at his tease, pausing in their work to look at him properly. They do look rather tired, more than normal at least. “You look tired as well, your new friend keep you up late into the night?” Their eyes flicker over to Jimmy for a moment then back to him, still smiling. “Everyone’s talking about him- have you run into Axen yet? They look ready to have an aneurysm, even worse once they heard about the whole cloak debacle.”

“They’ve dealt with worse,” he waves their concern away. “Am I dismissed, or do you want to inspect the books while I'm within reaching distance?”

“As though I could keep you here when you have somewhere else you would rather be,” Leukos is still smiling, watching him in a way that almost makes him swear to never poke fun at the Librarian again. “Or something- someone else you’d rather be doing.”

“That’s crass.”

Leukos doesn’t respond to his last comment, smiling a little self-satisfied smile that succeeds rather thoroughly in irritating Scott. It almost feels like there’s something crawling beneath his skin as he walks away. His retreat doesn’t at all look like one – he cannot have their onlookers thinking Leukos holds some power over him – because he’s not actually retreating. He’s simply walking away at a normal pace.

“Do you know how annoying it is when you do that?”

“No,” he smiles down at Jimmy. “Please, do enlighten me though.”

Jimmy squints up at him. “No…I don’t want to.”

His office is pleasantly warm when they step in through the door, someone having been in prior to their arrival to build a fire in the hearth. It crackles happily in the corner of the room, several logs already stacked beside it and ready to be added when needed. Jimmy makes an immediate beeline for one of the seats in front of the fire, making himself perfectly comfortable without even asking.

Apparently, his previous hesitance around Scott up and left after this morning. It leaves Scott feeling a little off-balance as he readjusts to the concept of Jimmy as someone more willing to speak his mind and push back. He’s not sure what the turning point was, but he’s rather glad that it happened now rather than later; he was certain to begin performing acts of violence if Jimmy continued to act all the subdued, and not at all like the person he interacts with at their meetings.

Urith watches him silently from her perch behind his desk chair, but refuses to come over when he offers her an arm. He leaves her to sulk in the corner of the room, slipping out of his cloak and hanging it up before he sits across from Jimmy.

“So,” he folds his hands neatly in his lap, “what were your ideas for…certain revenge?”

“Killing livestock.” Jimmy doesn’t hesitate. “Maybe strike a little more fear into the hearts of their citizens. Spread distrust. Inconvenience them, I don’t know; the plan didn’t get beyond get revenge at any point.”

“Hm.”

“Hm?” Jimmy repeats. “What’s that meant to mean?”

“It means that I am thinking.” He frowns at Jimmy. “It might be an unfamiliar concept to you,” he teases, “but I prefer to think and jump in feet-first – I have a better chance of landing and succeeding.”

“Has anyone ever told you you're shit at metaphors?”

“Only just now, though I appreciate the feedback.”

“You're very welcome.”

“Violence may not be the best first response,” he redirects their conversation back to the original point. “Perhaps a diplomatic discussion, with the assistance of your allies this time around- no, listen to me,” Jimmy snaps his mouth shut, though he looks annoyed about it. “If you want your grievances to be listened to, you need the backing of at least one of your allies, even better if you can get more than that. You have me, now, and I'm certain you can sway both the Ocean Queen and Mad King to your cause.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“My apologies,” it had simply been habit, an embarrassing slip that he now needs to make up for. “The Mezalean King and Ocean Queen should be willing to back you up. Of course, Katherine will remain impartial in this conflict, meaning you will need to convince her of the severity of this problem.”

“And then what? They don’t enjoy listening to me, so what happens when it doesn’t work?”

“You don’t know that it won’t work.”

“Humour me.” Jimmy says, with a straight face. His arms are crossed, and Scott sighs, knowing that anything he tries to say and reason with will simply be ignored.

“Then we can go about it your way of things; violence and whatever else your heart demands.”

“And you’ll help?”

“Of course, I am not one to betray a deal like that.” He watches as Urith lands on Jimmy’s chair, claws scraping over the wood as she perches herself on the back. Jimmy doesn’t notice her, even as she bends down to peer at him. “Though if you wish to sow distrust among the members of the empire, there is an opportunity to do so rather soon.”

“I- what?” Jimmy blinks at him, and Scott gets to watch as everything slips into place. “No, no way, I am not chancing it. What if I ruin Li- their wedding?”

“I am more than happy to assist.”

“Yeah, no.” Jimmy sits back in his seat. “Not happening, she’ll kill me, and then probably try and kill you too.”

“She can certainly try.” He smirks, “And wouldn’t it just be so fun?”

“I- no.” Jimmy frowns. “Scott, no. Gods, why am I the one doing this now, I wanted the violence- but not at a wedding!”

“You still have time to change your mind.”

“I'm not going to!”

Chapter Text

Scott was…satisfied with the outcome of their meeting. It had lasted longer than he first anticipated when he visited the marshy lands of the Cod Empire, but that extra time spent was not for naught. The Codfather is certainly the character that every other empire swears he is – quoting him as impulsive and reckless, yet passionate and only ever acting on what he thinks is for the best – though Scott had very few opportunities to ever observe him properly.

The rumours are somewhat accurate. Some are so incredibly outside of reality that he cannot help but laugh at them; Cormac had agreed with him on those, xir disbelief at some of the more unsavoury rumours surrounding Jimmy had certainly overstepped some boundaries. And Scott places all of his money on those rumours being started by Jimmy’s Council.

Such thoughts are only at the back of his mind as he stands, rather patiently, and allows Axen to flutter around him anxiously. His advisor pulls at some of the layers of clothing, muttering about the heat as they run their hands over the fabric of his cloak, smoothing it out so it sits more comfortably on his shoulders.

Only when they reach to adjust his gloves does he halt them, circling one hand gently around their wrist and pulling it away.

“I do believe I am capable of adjusting my gloves myself, if I see fit.”

“If you were trusted on matters like ensuring you are presentable, then we would have you arriving in Mezalea looking like you had been hauled through several bramble bushes.”

“You overexaggerate.” He almost rolls his eyes at Axen’s fussing, only pausing because he’s rather certain they’d smack him for the disrespect. Aeor stands further back in the room, not having said anything; and yet He still manages to positively radiate amusement.

As a child, Scott had been a firm believer that animals were less adapted to communicate feelings based on expressions. Deer, he found, were rather inexpressive unless you studied their eyes or body language closely. Aeor destroyed all of those beliefs, presenting him with the knowledge that a deer can look incredibly smug when it wants to.

“I most certainly do not,” Axen protests, attempting to adjust something else with their still free hand before Scott manages to capture that one too. He can hear several elves snickering behind him, like the children they often are. “Do you not remember the most recent Mythland coronation? How you and your brother had to be wrangled into looking halfway presentable? There were so many resignations over the course of your fittings I worried there would be no tailors left to finish your clothes.”

“Again,” he releases Axen’s hands and steps back, carefully outside of fussing range. “You overexaggerate.”

Axen looks like they're going to continue. Scott ignores them easily, turning to where the rest of his Court stands, all of them abruptly straightening up as though that would disguise how they’ve been stood there snickering for the past few minutes as Scott was subjected to the torment of Axen’s last-minute fretting.

“I assume we are all ready to depart?” He clasps his hands neatly in front of him, feeling rather than seeing Aeor come to stand at his shoulder. The warm breath of the deer brushes over his cheek as he surveys the elves in front of him. Their luggage consists of only the bare minimum, Scott warning them that they were not to impose upon their hosts for the duration of their stay. “Fantastic,” he doesn’t wait for a response. “Now, I know a few of you dislike this method of transportation, but it beats having to travel by horse, hm?”

There’s a small round of assenting hums and quiet yeses, though no-one looks particularly pleased about the concept.

“Then we shan’t delay any further-“

“Sire,” Leukos interrupts him, looking rather out of place in the stark light of day rather than the muted tones of their library. “Please, let’s not make a grand entrance out of this? I don’t think any of us can cope with it after the last time.”

“Last time was not as bad as you all made it out to be,” he scoffs. He’d been a lot younger, and far more inexperienced with this specific talent. It had not been his finest moment, but at least he hadn’t been left to suffer it alone. “And I can promise, this time will be far less embarrassing.”

He ignores the murmured comment from Cormac about seaweed and fish, closing his eyes instead and feeling for the humming in the air around him. It reaches out to him easily, aided by Aeor’s close proximity.

It responds quickly, the sound of crackling ice travelling over stone reaching his ears. He tugs a little harder, a little harsher, and the sound of wind roars up around them, buffeting his clothes and drowning out any other noise.

It disappears just as quickly, leaving a wave of warmth behind it as he peeks first one eye and then the second eye open, looking around at the red sands of Mezalea gleefully.

“See?” He turns to his slightly dazed Court, a few of them looking rather pale. “What did I say, nice, non-dramatic entrances.”

“I think you’ll find that’s still rather dramatic.” Someone kicks at the ground behind him, and he turns with a smile to greet the Mezalean King. He’s nudging at the edge of the frozen ring of sand disdainfully, before looking up at Scott. “How am I meant to clear this up? Your ice doesn’t melt.”

“It will eventually.”

“Eventually isn’t good enough,” the King crosses his arms, looking more annoyed than angry. “I quite liked this bit of ground. Nice, not too much sun, not too much shade. A rather pretty spot with a good view. And now it’s covered in ice. What am I meant to do with all this ice?”

“You could use it as ice cubes in drinks.” Scott suggests.

“Ah, yes,” the man nods along, looking thoughtful. “A new trend – take the ice from the sand and put it in your drinks. It won’t ruin it at all, with the bits of sand stuck in it, why would you ever suggest such a thing?”

“Do you make it a habit to harass all of your guests?” He asks, voice dry. The warm air is beginning to make him feel overdressed in all of his layers, something that is normally not a problem suddenly rearing it’s head and making him feel uncomfortable in the heat.

“Just you,” the King smiles up at him. “Special treatment for my favourite person.”

Mezalea and Rivendell have never had great relations. What had started out as Mezalea distrusting anything magical, had quickly turned into them vehemently denying the existence of any magic. It was enough to break off the alliance between his great-grandfather and the King of Mezalea that had been ruling at the time. Such an event has been misconstrued and even stricken from records, leaving the actual cause of such a falling out to become blurred over time. The resentment has faithfully been upheld, however.

“Why, I thank you for your generous hospitality,” he presses a hand to his chest, bowing himself forward a little. He notices, with slight glee, that it does nothing to put them at eye level. “Though, some of us have a little baggage. Is there anywhere we would be able to leave this?”

“Your rooms are with everyone else’s,” the King jabs a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing towards the steady flow of people heading in one direction. It’s an interesting mix of people, with all the different colours and clothes of other empires mixing in together. He sees a few flashes of House Blossom lavender and whirling Grimland greys and blacks. “Someone’s waiting for you to arrive, and they’ll guide you to your rooms.”

He sounds bored, like he’s rattled the speech off a thousand times already. He likely has, judging by the sheer number of people that have arrived. Scott thought he might be pushing it by bringing the entirety of his Court, but his group seems like the smallest here.

…Ah, well. It simply means other people have a higher chance of embarrassing their empire.

He has to shove his way through the crowd none too gently, most of the people standing and speaking to their friends rather than actually moving towards their destination. Really, he cannot understand how someone can bear to move so slowly, inching along at a snail’s pace – do they not realise walking faster means they reach their destination earlier?

The “rooms” with everyone else that the Mezalean King had mentioned is actually several buildings specifically built with the idea of hosting people in mind. Rivendell hosts it’s guests in the Palace, with a specific quarter dedicated to visiting dignitaries and diplomats.

But Mezalea’s Palace is rather unfinished still. He can see workers scurrying over one of the domed roofs like ants, passing materials and clambering over the scaffolding. He hasn’t kept track of how many years this project has taken, but it’s something that had been ongoing for several generations of rulers at this point. It was being handed down like some kind of inheritance, but one that acted as a burden on their resources rather than anything actually useful.

Still, he much prefers sleeping in something with a completed roof, so he’ll take the accommodation they’ve been provided with happily.

“Elvenking,” one of the workers greets him. “And other esteemed guests. I hope the journey wasn’t too difficult.” The poor woman looks bored out of her mind, eyes drifting around the room as though looking for something more entertaining to occupy herself with. He wonders if they had to draw straws for which group they would receive. And which empire had the shortest straw assigned to them.

“Oh, it wasn’t too terrible.” He smiles, “A little cold, certainly, but nothing we aren’t already accustomed to.”

“That’s wonderful to hear.” Her tone of voice suggests she couldn’t care less. “Right this way, please.”

They're guided up a grand and winding staircase in the centre of the room. He may dislike everything Mezalea stands for, but they really can make a rather grand staircase. She stops them on the second floor, handing out keys she fishes out of her pockets seemingly at random.

She disappears a moment later, a shout from downstairs summoning her. She gives him what he assumes is meant to be an apologetic smile, but comes across as more of a grimace before she descends again, leaving him alone with his Court.

With the outsider gone, they begin squabbling again over who is sharing rooms with who. And then it devolves into squabbling over which rooms they wish to be in. He sighs and reaches for Cormac when xe look as though xe are about to wrestle a key from Ophelia. He admires xir bravery, but he prefers his Head Mage in one piece.

“Alright,” he yanks the keys towards himself, pulling them together with the minimal cold lingering in the shaded corridors. His grasp over it is weaker than usual, driven by Mezalea’s refusal to acknowledge anything other. Disregarding the fact that their land is nourished by a magical tree. “I will be assigning rooms to each of you, seeing as you are unable to keep your manners intact for more than five seconds.”

He pauses at the sound of footsteps on the staircase behind them, turning his head slightly to watch the Crystal Cliffs diplomat meander their way on up, eyes set in a far-off look, not even seeing them. He waits until they're gone, far out of earshot, before he returns to berating the elves in front of him.

“You are representing Rivendell right now, I do not care that this is a celebration of an engagement. You will not be getting drunk and making a fool out of yourself where the other empires can watch you. Whilst we are here, we are the ones that make Rivendell look good and I will not hesitate to send you home if I think you are not taking this seriously enough, alright?”

“You sound like our mother.” Calla comments, snickering as he turns to look at them. “Sorry, sorry, I was just saying what everyone else was thinking.”

“Alright,” he takes a deep breath in, reminding himself that he would definitely be heard by everyone else in the building if he raised his voice any more. “Ground rules, yes? Those are always a good way to make sure there is no confusion on what I expect from you, is that clear?”

“Aeor above,” Cormac mutters, “he really is acting like our mother.”

Scott gracefully ignores xem. “I expect you to exercise the entirety of your court training, meaning I expect there to be impeccable manners and for you to be polite. Please, I beg of you, be polite. I do not need to be defusing any situations because you riled up the wrong person and their ruler took it personally. And,” he overrides Sorin before he can even think to protest, “I do not care if someone else started it. You are all much, much older than them and therefore know better. You might act like children, but you are certainly not, so please, be the mature adult if someone else is determined to be the child.”

“You take all the fun outta these things,” Cormac huffs. “What’s a little scuffle between friends?”

“It’s the difference between keeping peace and stoking conflict.” There’s enough conflict looming in their future, he hardly needs anything more on his plate. He has been bored as of late, but overworking himself in an effort to maintain semi-peaceful relations is not the solution for that boredom that he envisioned. “Now, room assignments.”

He hands the keys out to people, ignoring Cormac’s protests when he pairs xem with Axen rather than Leukos. He silently apologises to his advisor, but Cormac needs someone to keep an eye on xem, and he certainly doesn’t need to hear whatever it is that xe do with xir boyfriend.

Leukos accepts it quietly and with far more grace than their partner. That is the way that he expects his Court to behave while in the public eye.

He manages to have a room entirely to himself, slotting the key neatly into the lock and ignoring the beginnings of another squabble behind him. It might be his circus and his monkeys, but he is far past his threshold of tolerance for the day, and it’s barely past noon.

It is with a barely restrained sigh of relief that he shuts the door behind him, blocking out the worst of the noise.

His room is nice, spacious enough for his three-day stay here, at least. He sets his bag down at the foot of the bed and pulls his cloak off a moment later, feeling far too warm still.

“You should bring fewer of them next time,” Aeor says.

“Yes, yes,” Scott sighs, shaking his head. “I expected them to be better than this really, I would have thought our last incident would be enough to dissuade them from acting in such a manner.”

When he looks up, Aeor is wavery and opaque, almost entirely see through with how little of Him seems to retain a solid form. He wisps away into smoke and mist at the edges, looking for all the world as though He would disappear with a small breeze.

“You should not hold a physical form if it will be a drain on you.”

“It does not drain me,” Aeor sniffs. “It simply weakens me. As though I am stood on the other side of a door rather than in the room with you.”

“Not exactly a comforting metaphor.” He comments. “Nor one that fills me with any kind of hope.”

“It was not meant to make you feel more hopeful, only to make it so that you understand the situation. To send you forward with false information would be foolish, if you were to find yourself wedged into a corner, you may reach for power you do not have access to.”

“Yes, whatever,” he sits down on the bed with a thump, toying with the edges of his gloves. He almost takes them off, just to see what Mezalea is doing to his hands. “I thought it had been getting better? When we visited for the coronation-”

“The current King’s claim over the land was not fully settled,” Aeor interrupts. He flickers out of view for a moment before He consolidates Himself into a deer once more. “The Mother Tree was still recovering from the loss of her previous child, and he was still growing accustomed to the matters of the throne. It is not surprising that whatever protection She has placed was not yet functioning at its fullest potential.”

He sighs, staring down at his upturned hands. “Shame.”

“Oh?” Aeor’s hooves do not make a sound against the tiled floor as He steps closer, but Scott can see the sparks of frost that sparkle for a moment before fading away. “Did you have something planned?”

“I don’t always have something planned,” he rebuts. “I had simply thought that Her protection for the land was failing – She could have been dying for all we know. Can you imagine the state of things if she simply began withering and nothing could be done for it?”

Aeor hums. “I see your point. However, if it got to that point, someone would be able to bring in a mage to heal Her. If the She begins to die, so too does her protection. If that protection dies, then magic can once again be performed on these soils.”

“Hm.”

“You can simply tell me to stop talking if you grow bored,” Aeor’s nose nudges at him. Where he would normally feel a slightly wet sensation and the pressure that comes with being touched, he only feels the whisper of cold over his skin before it disappears again. “I do not wish to lull you to sleep.”

“I am simply thinking.”

“About what?” Aeor asks, ever persistent. Scott has seen His realm before, on the few occasions he’s been invited into that landscape; it’s possibly the most boring place he’s ever seen, with everything a sterile white and glowing slightly, stretching on for miles and miles of nothing but the same white expanse. He would prefer to bother whatever Champion he had chosen too. “No, don’t tell me, actually, allow me to guess.”

“I don’t need to tell you if you're right.”

“You can’t bear to let someone go uncorrected. Now, let’s see if I can get it with my first guess: you're attempting to decide whether to go looking for your dearest ally.”

He continues to stare at his gloved hands, but his non-answer is apparently enough to amuse Aeor. The faint sound of bells fills the air as Aeor laughs, shaking His massive head in disbelief. “Are you sure he is right for it?”

“I am rather sure,” Scott replies. “He’s been around for several years, settled comfortably into his power and influence for just as long.”

“And yet you never interacted with him before now.”

“Interacting with him wasn’t something that mattered. I was simply watching him. He is a rather interesting being, don’t you think?”

“Oh, there are many interesting things about the Codfather. Which one is it that you wish to discuss with me?”

“None of them.”

“Not even his purpose? Not even the reason why you had chosen to accept his proposal when it promises nothing but calamity for you? Did you think about the possible repercussions of your actions before you agreed to assist him in his ill-planned revenge plot, or were you simply considering what he could do for you?”

“You make me sound so shallow.” He complains.

“I did not call you shallow, I am saying that you rarely do anything without some ulterior motive. Forgive me for being doubtful of your motives in this situation.”

“You already know the motives.”

“Do I now?” Aeor laughs, again. “I may know a lot of what goes on inside of your head, but I don’t know everything, dear Champion. Are you sure your mind will remain clear during this alliance, and that it won’t be…polluted by whatever infatuation he has with you.”

“Infatuation is so offensive.”

“And what else would you call it? He has watched you at every single meeting for the last few years – the entire time he has held the title of Codfather, he has seemed to hold some level of attraction to you.”

“I am aware.”

“And do you intend to act on that?” Aeor continues to prod. His voice hasn’t changed at all, but the tension in the air grows, becoming heavy like the moments before it begins to snow. “Guiding someone because they find themselves attracted to you is a new low, even for you.”

“Ouch.” He presses a hand to his chest, curling over it slightly. “Right through the heart, that one. You wound me, really.”

“I would find that easier to believe if you injected even a little emotion into that.” Aeor pauses, as though waiting for his response, before sighing, “Mortals are fragile little things, their hearts especially so. Did you know they can die from a broken heart?”

“I am just as capable of doing so.”

“Which is why I am warning you of this.” Aeor forces his way into Scott’s field of view, forcing him to look his God in the eye. “You are valuable to me, no matter the outcome of this plan, but seafolk are a fickle species, as prone to change as the tides are. Do not let yourself be led astray by your heart when you have more important matters to focus on.”

“I am not being led astray, sometimes I am able to act upon my feelings without compromising anything. It’s called balancing something. Have you ever heard of it?”

“I have yet to see you successfully put it into practice.”

“Gods, sometimes I am almost glad my mother died. I don’t know how I would cope with two of you attempting to mother me at once.”

Aeor makes an offended noise at that and promptly disappears, leaving Scott to stew in silence until the celebration in the evening – he doesn’t understand the point of holding a celebration for their engagement when they're getting married tomorrow.

Apparently it’s a Mezalean tradition. Everything wrong with the world seems to be a Mezalean tradition.

He has discovered that it does not cool down once the sun sets. He had been hoping for some relief from the stifling heat once the sun disappeared below the horizon, but no such relief has been granted thus far.

The stone all around them seems to radiate heat, having absorbed it during the long day and only now releasing it into the environment. He can be a little thankful, at least, about the celebration being hosted outside. He cannot imagine it would be pleasant inside one of those furnace homes at this time.

It seems they often host celebrations outside, at least, as there is an entire courtyard outfitted to host a part of thrice their size. He’s heard tales of the parties the King is apparently willing to throw, with noise complaints coming in from their neighbours due to how late these celebrations seem to run.

Scott can’t think of one thing that Mezalea has done recently worth celebrating.

He and his Court arrive a few minutes late, just enough to not be the first people there and thus awkwardly standing around as they wait for more people to arrive, but not late enough to offend their hosts. One of which already holds some resentment towards him.

Jimmy does not hold the same qualms as his allies, brightening up as he sees Scott entering the courtyard, passing beneath an intricately weaved flower archway. It’s rather impressive, unfortunately.

Jimmy waves at him, turns back to his allies, and then breaks away from the group to come towards Scott. Huh. He had expected Jimmy to stick with his allies, perhaps to keep the peace for the evening when one of his closest allies holds so much obvious disdain for him. Apparently, though, he has no such qualms about displaying their not-yet announced allyship.

It seems this evening will be the time where this alliance is announced informally. The entire courtyard of people seem to hold their breath as Jimmy comes to a stop in front of him, tilting his head back slightly to look up at him.

“You clean up nicely,” Scott compliments, if only to watch the way Jimmy immediately averts his eyes and goes a little pink in the cheeks. Cormac makes a gagging sound behind him.

“Ah, you look nice too.” Jimmy responds, still averting his eyes. Scott makes eye contact with the Mezalean King for long enough to see him roll his eyes hard enough that he almost falls over. He’s only saved by his fiancée grabbing onto his arm and keeping him upright. She sends a tight smile in Scott’s direction. “I like the, uh, gloves.”

Scott looks down at his gloves. They're different to the more practical leather ones he usually wears, these ones more delicate and made from silk. He turns his hands over slightly, looking at the gloves from all angles, as though he’s never seen them before.

“Thank you.”

“Ah-hah, yeah,” Jimmy pauses. “Did you want a drink?”

“A drink would be lovely, thank you.” Jimmy nods at his response and promptly flees, getting to the nearest refreshments table as quickly as possible without running and looking like an idiot.

“Must you stand and stare at him the entire time?” He turns on his Court, switching to elvish so he can berate them in relative privacy. “He is nervous and you watching on like a flock of hungry vultures hoping for a good meal does not help.”

“He’s pathetic,” Calla says, with some amazement in their voice. “Like a little, cold cat. One you’d find on the side of the road in a cardboard box because no-one else wanted him, and then you can’t help but be drawn in by his sad eyes and general pathetic aura-”

“Thank you, Calla.” He interrupts. “I think we got the idea.”

“Only doing my job.” They chirp, before disappearing as well. Ophelia follows behind them with a quick promise to look after the youngest of their party.

“The walls are thin,” is Cormac’s parting statement before xe leave with Leukos, the librarian giving him an amused look as they link their arm with Cormac’s. He grimaces a little at the thought that forces into his mind, doing his best to banish it before Jimmy returns.

He just about manages, focusing instead on the different details of his outfit – all the ways it differs from what he normally wears. It doesn’t help much, drawing his attention to the cut-out windows of fabric that frames his hips, leaving very little to the imagination.

He averts his eyes, taking his drink from Jimmy with a murmured thanks and immediately downing half of it.

“I didn’t know you liked Mezalean wine so much,” Jimmy laughs, cradling his own drink close to his chest.

“I don’t.” He responds, reminded immediately of why he dislikes it so much when the sourness of it floods his mouth. It’s something to do with the type of berries used and the way it’s fermented out in the heat rather than in a cellar. He had searched for answers after the first drink that had left him feeling discontented rather than elated, a sour taste invading his senses rather than a sweet one.

He drinks a little more of it, if only to ignore the way that Jimmy’s hair has been braided intricately, enough so that he wouldn’t have been able to do it himself and thus would have required outside help…

“Do you know when the dancing starts?” He interrupts his own thoughts with the first question that comes to mind, hand tightening momentarily around his glass, before he looks at Jimmy again.

“Uh, pretty soon.” Jimmy’s eyes meet his, darker than usual in the rapidly approaching nighttime. “I think. I didn’t really ask, actually. Do you want me to?”

“No, no,” he sips at his wine again, unable to help the nervous response. “I was simply wondering if you would like to dance with me when it does start.”

“That’s a rather formal way of asking me, don’t you think?” Jimmy tilts his head to the side, still smiling in that utterly disarming way of his. Everything about Jimmy sets him at odds with himself, leaving him off-kilter and utterly unsure of how to respond to him. “What happened to spur-of-the-moment actions?”

Jimmy must certainly know what he’s doing, watching him from beneath thick eyelashes, idly rubbing his thumb back and forth over the rim of his glass. It’s horrible etiquette to hold your glass in such a manner, but Scott ignores it easily as the wine he’s just drunk turns thick and syrupy in his throat, threatening to choke him if he doesn’t swallow and glance away for a moment.

“I am of the kind to plan my movements out with immense detail. To impose a plan onto someone else without their consent when the purpose is for enjoyment would not be…productive.”

“Wow,” Jimmy blinks, once, then twice. “Did you eat a dictionary before you got here or something?”

“I- no?” He has to resist taking another sip of the wine to fill the silence, regretting the several mouthfuls he’s already had as sourness continues to coat his tongue. Jimmy’s sincereness makes him feel almost dizzy, the sour taste in his mouth intensifying the longer the silence drags on. It’s been no more than a second before he speaks again. “Why would I choose to eat a dictionary? The paper would certainly be rather unpleasant-”

“It’s a saying,” Jimmy laughs. “A joke, I thought it was funny.”

“I am aware. I was responding to your joke with sarcasm, re-emphasising how ridiculous and outlandish your initial statement was.”

“Alright,” Jimmy holds a hand up, his wine sloshing dangerously close to the edges of his glass, threatening to spill over. Scott jerks back, imagining that wine staining his pristine incredibly white clothes. “There’s something up with you, you don’t speak like this outside of meetings.”

“This is technically a meeting.”

“This is a party.” Jimmy sighs, looking immediately like a kicked puppy- and Aeor dammit, he can see the pathetic cat comparison Calla made earlier. He’s never getting that out of his head now, Aeor above. “You're meant to have fun, relax and all that.”

“I am aware.” He swallows, the sour taste in his mouth persisting. Aeor wavers into being behind Jimmy, just over his shoulder, before disappearing again. Scott’s not even certain that he actually saw Aeor and that it wasn’t just some figment of his imagination. Some kind of reminder. “Parties…aren’t my thing.”

“Not…your thing?” Jimmy tries the words out while Scott tries not to shrivel up from embarrassment. The party hasn’t even truly started yet, and he already can’t stand to be enclosed within this courtyard for much longer. These things are far easier when he’s the one hosting them and able to disappear to a secret corridor for a few moments.

“Please don’t speak so loud,” he presses a hand to his head, rubbing at his temples. “It’s not something good for my image.”

“One of my Elders is already drunk.”

“That is besides the point.” His Court knows he’ll strangle them if they get drunk here. “Though I do extend my condolences.”

“Thanks.”

The music bursts to life between sentences, catching both him and Jimmy off-guard by the sudden surge in sound around them. Lights flicker on, too, bright and colourful. It sets a cheery atmosphere that is only bolstered by the happy couple already on the dance floor, hands entwined and practically leaning against each other.

“That’s definitely loud,” Jimmy laughs, releasing Scott’s sleeve. He hadn’t even realised Jimmy was holding onto him. “Jo- uh, he was worried about it not being loud enough.” Jimmy nods his head towards the Mezalean King.

“I think he can be assured that it is plenty loud enough.” He grimaces as a particularly high note is hit, burrowing into his skull in just the worst way possible. He’s been nursing a headache ever since they arrived in this damned place, reeling from the almost complete severance from Aeor’s presence and suffering with the heat that permeates this entire place.

“Why don’t we get out of here?”

Scott looks down at Jimmy, narrowing his eyes. “How will they feel about their most treasured ally leaving them?”

“They won’t notice,” Jimmy says. “Really!” He insists, when Scott continues to look doubtful. “C’mon, they're all wrapped up in each other, all cutesy. I think we’ll be lucky if they notice when the music stops. They're not gonna miss me.”

“That’s rather hard to imagine.”

“I know the best places around here, too.” Jimmy assures, jerking oddly, before slowly reaching his hand out. He offers it palm up, hiding the scales that dot the back of his hand from view. Scott’s own hand hovers over the top of Jimmy’s for a moment, not quite touching, not quite closing the gap between their palms.

His hands are cold. Always have been and likely always will be. There is no way around that fact, and he’s learned to be rather grateful with the gifts that have been bestowed upon him. The leather of his normal gloves does much to disguise the chill that radiates from him, but the silken gloves he currently wears will do nothing to block that.

Jimmy’s hand is bare, warm and inviting below his frigid palm.

He joins their hands together with a held breath, preparing for Jimmy to shout and jerk away at the burning cold of their hands meeting. For him to draw the attention of the crowd towards them, exposing them for their…whatever their small moment in the corner of a party is. He feels almost embarrassed at the thought that people have laid eyes upon them in these moments that they’ve shared.

Jimmy doesn’t react. His fingers curl around Scott’s hand, humming happily as he uses their joined hands as a way to pull Scott along behind him.

They duck back beneath the weaved archway, the fragrant petals brushing over them as they sneak through like children sneaking out. He hunches over awkwardly to fit his antlers beneath the bushes, twisting his head and neck so he doesn’t get caught on the bush.

The Mezalean King certainly didn’t take him into consideration when designing this ridiculous thing. Possibly on purpose, now that he thinks about it, hoping to catch him acting a fool and stuck in the vines like some stupid animal.

“Welcome,” Jimmy glances back at him, eyes reflecting the lights from the engagement party. Scott couldn’t care less about the engagement party right now, or the fact that his advisors could be doing whatever they please with themselves without a care for how it reflects on him. All he can think about is the way that the lights reflect in Jimmy’s eyes and make it seem as though he’s cradling the entire night sky in them. “To my favourite spot in the entirety of Mezalea.”

It doesn’t take much for Scott to realise why this is his favourite spot, looking around himself first, before glancing upwards, and…

The sky is breath-taking. The polar lights are missing here, their colours not filling the sky in the same way, but the shimmering canvas of velvet blue and pale cream is enough to leave him in awe, head craned back so he can take the entirety of it in.

“Fan of the stars?”

“I appreciate them on occasion.” He replies, returning Jimmy’s smile more easily now that they are alone. The wisp of Aeor’s presence at the back of his mind disapproves, but it’s easy enough to brush Him away, as weak as He currently is.

“And by appreciate I assume you mean study them intensively?” Jimmy questions, poking further into him with a smile. The ease with which Jimmy now talks to him, almost an entirely different person to the one that had first approached him with the proposition of an alliance, is exhilarating. He can’t seem to get enough of it.

Maybe there is something wrong with him.

“No, no,” he shakes his head, glancing down for a moment, if only to make his head stop spinning. The sight of his hand in Jimmy’s doesn’t help with that. “My brother was far fonder of the stars than I was; they could name every single one within sight, tell you all the stories they held. It was fantastic, the idea that someone looked at the very same stars I did, and found some kindred spirit in those lights that can only watch over us.”

“Ah,” Jimmy clears his throat, hand beginning to retreat from where Scott grasps it. “I'm sorry.”

He tightens his hand around Jimmy’s, unwilling to release this new warmth that he’s found himself. “Whatever for?”

“Your brother,” Jimmy refuses to look at him, strands of hair drifting over his face as he glances downwards. Scott only barely resists the urge to brush it away, reminding himself that Jimmy is a skittish thing, even if he boasts confidence with everything he says, and too much may scare him away for good. “I didn’t mean to re-open old wounds.”

“Ah, yes, well.” The sour taste of the wine returns, though he had been certain that the lingering flavour of it had long disappeared. “It has been a rather long time since then. I choose not to dwell.”

Jimmy’s silence speaks volumes.

Scott sighs, “I do not believe they would wish for me to mope every time I sit and look at the stars. Perhaps they would not be proud of the person I have become, but they would not wish such grief upon me for so long. Such a burden would send anyone to the grave.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“And I am telling you there is no need.” He squeezes Jimmy’s hand, and waits until he feels the tension in his shoulders loosen again. He looks up at the stars again, studying. No matter how many times he looks, he can never find the same stories that his brother had told him in hushed whispers. “I think they would have liked the stars tonight.”

Chapter Text

The morning light peeks carefully behind the curtains, spilling into the small spaces not covered by the thin fabric. It is blessedly cool this early, the heat of the day not yet setting in as the sun just begins its ascent.

Scott takes the small moment where he can, finger idly tapping against the table as he waits for his tea to cool. The breeze that blows in from the half-open window is almost refreshing, only the heavy smell of clay and terracotta making him turn his head away from the slightest hint of cold.

Still, the morning is pleasant and he finds himself enjoying it.

His companion...less so.

“I take it you had a rather eventful evening?” He asks, attempting for sympathetic. Hints of amusement leak into his voice and betray him, though, something that his companion also registers as she lifts her head to glare at him.

“Don’t act all high and mighty on me now, Elvenking.” Katherine sulks, stirring her own drink carefully, switching rotations every now and then – he knows she’s counting it in her head, polite enough to not count aloud.

He doesn’t envy her. The concoction she lifts to her lips has a rather pungent smell of herbs, tasting no better than its odour, either. It’s a popular treatment among nobles and those of higher class, when there may have been instances of overindulgence the night before an important meeting. Only the high cost of the herbs in it, and the skills to know how to brew it yourself, keeps it away from the general public.

He takes a sip of his own tea, now sufficiently cooled. Its flavours are familiar and comforting; something known even in a new place. Mainly because he brought his own tea bags with him, not trusting any of the Mezalean shops to have halfway decent tea. Or even somewhat decent tea.

He’s seen the things that their King chooses to consume at meetings, referring to them as “typical Mezalean fare”, something that did generally seem to be the case. But much of it is far too hot for him, using too many spices – he enjoys drinks with spice in them, designed to chase the frost from your joints on the coldest days; but such a thing is hardly necessary in Mezalea, where the coldest weather is still sweltering.

“I didn’t mean to act in such a way,” he nudges one of the sweeter breakfast pastries across the table towards her, offering it up as consolation for the bitter drink she’s forcing herself to consume. She scrunches her face up as she lifts her cup, pinching her nose as she tips it back in one go. Normally he’d be a little put-off at the lack of decorum, but he sympathises with her plight in this case. The drink’s taste is not something you’d wish to linger on. “I only meant to say that you seemed to be having fun last night, with the…ah, I believe it was the Undergrove’s Ruler?”

Katherine sinks down in her chair, face flushing a bright pink as she drags the plate of pastries rather aggressively towards herself. It makes a horrible scraping sound across the tabletop, one that has Scott wincing and grimacing at her.

“You're not really helping your case by reacting like that,” he comments.

“Oh, yeah?” Katherine looks up, glancing away from the pastry she’s begun to methodically peel apart, shredding it over her plate and leaving bits of flaky pastry everywhere. He sighs, internally. “And what about you and the Codfather, hm? Lots of people noticed how you two disappeared around the same time.”

“We had business discussions.”

“During a party?” Katherine raises both eyebrows at him, obviously unimpressed with his, admittedly, poor attempt at a lie. “At a wedding?”

“Yes.” He grits out.

There hadn’t been much business discussion. A lot of their short escape from the party was spent in silence, watching the stars together. He hasn’t had such a moment in many decades, not choosing to look upon the stars for too long, lest he begin to wallow in guilty and misery. Neither of them are things that a good ruler should dwell on, lest he wishes to begin losing sight of what it is that he hopes to achieve.

But Jimmy had been a good companion for the evening. Simply the gentle sound of his breathing had been enough to occasionally pull Scott’s eyes away from the vast and starry canvas above them, and he had watched Jimmy. He had been able to see the stars in his eyes, pick different ones out and connect them into small, made-up constellations.

Jimmy had created a few constellations of his own, picking out a few stars. He’d attempted to point them out to Scott, shuffling them both closer so he could lean into Scott’s side and guide his eyes, attempting to point out the cod he’d managed to form with a closely clustered group of stars. And then the pair of antlers he’d imagined just beside it.

It had very quickly begun to feel like he was venturing into territory he was unfamiliar with. As though every step caused the floor to fall out further from underneath him, lacking even Aeor’s reassuring presence or ongoing commentary to ease his nerves slightly.

It left him as shaky as a newborn deer, uncertain of what step was right and which was wrong.

He didn’t enjoy the feeling of being wrong-footed. He much preferred being the one in control of information and the way it was distributed, relying on those around him to trust in his guidance enough to follow it with little resistance in the moment, even if it meant hours of questioning afterwards.

With Jimmy, it felt like he was constantly missing a step, plunging down a few feet before he manages to scramble for a hold again. Like slipping down a step and grasping for the bannister before he breaks something. It left him feeling faintly nauseous, with a swooping feeling in his stomach. Not unlike the feeling he imagines birds must feel when they plunge from a great height.

Overall, not a particularly pleasant experience. And one that Jimmy seems to be entirely oblivious to.

Does he not register the effect he has on Scott? Or does he simply not care? Choosing to ignore the way he’s managed to destroy Scott’s perfect hold over his reactions and thoughts, sending them spinning off into unchartered, and therefore dangerous, territory.

“Uh-huh,” Katherine’s smirking at him now, looking far more smug than she had a few minutes ago; apparently the miracle cure has done it’s work, and she’s no longer feeling incredibly hungover and with “one foot in the grave” as she had bemoaned earlier. “Did you exchange this information with connecting your mouths? Or was it your tongues that did the information exchange.”

“You disgust me.”

“That’s not an answer,” Katherine sing-songs. “Denial only makes it worse, my dearest and most frosty friend.”

He sighs. “Please never call me that again.”

“Oh c’mon,” Katherine whines a little as she leans forward, deconstructed pastry decorating the entirety of her plate and a significant part of the table. He’ll have to clear that up before anyone else manages to see. Aeor forbid that anyone thinks it’s him that destroys good food in such a way. “You never let me do anything – how can I give you fun nicknames when Scotty boy already got vetoed?”

“There was good reason for that,” he sips his tea as Katherine glares at him from across the table. He tucks his feet a little further beneath his chair, just in case she decides to stoop to acting as a child and kick him beneath the table. “If anyone heard you call me that, I think I might just have to kill them.”

“Scott,” Katherine gasps, kicking her leg out – attempting to kick him, just as he assumed; unfortunately for her he kicked many legs beneath tables as a child and thus knows the perfect way to make sure your legs don't get kicked – and acting scandalised. “You shouldn’t joke about such things, you know. Someone might actually think you're serious one day.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Hm.” Katherine narrows her eyes at him. “Now, I don't think I can dispute that, because you were still alive when public executions were the best idea of entertainment. You’ve probably killed some people in your time – how long is that again?”

“You’ll have to try harder than that.”

“Oh, Scott, please.” Katherine starts to actually eat her shredded pastry. He personally doesn’t understand the appeal of deconstructing a meal, only to eat the different parts separately – a meal is created with the idea of the ingredients working together to form a particular taste or sensation. To rip it apart and then eat it like that simply ruins the appeal of food. “How long have we been friends?”

“About twenty years.”

“Exactly!” Katherine points at him, eyes gleaming. “Twenty years, and I don't even know when your birthday is! We’ve celebrated mine so many times, and yet I've never managed to do it for you.”

“You do make an attempt every year,” he reasons. “Just because you’ve never managed to guess the exact day is not your fault. You have another three-hundred and forty-four years, if you wish to do it systematically.”

“Maximum,” Katherine says. “I reckon I've got the day this year.”

“Oh really?”

“And once I know the day, you’ll have to tell me how old you are.”

“Do I, now?” Against his best wishes, he always finds himself amused by Katherine. He had originally approached her to give guidance on how to lead such an influential alliance, and perhaps sway her a little more into his favour; but he’d found himself growing rather fond of her as time continued – she was almost like a younger sister, one that was far too excited about everything most of the time, but endearing in the way she did it. “I don't remember agreeing to that.”

“Well, you do!” Katherine grins at him. “Because I said so! Unless you wanna concede now and tell me right this moment.”

He hums, long and drawn out, watching as Katherine leans a little closer, her anticipation building. “I'm at least twenty years old.” And her anticipation disappears just like that, rapidly deflating in her disappointment.

“You're a horrible man.”

“Hm.” His tea is almost cold now. “I certainly am.”

“You still didn’t tell me anything about you and the Codfather.”

“Did I not?” Scott doesn’t turn away from the sculpture he’s inspecting. It’s certainly one of the more modern pieces, with it’s odd construction and composition. It creates an entirely different image from another angle, adding a duality to the structure that he hasn’t seen before. It’s certainly rather enjoyable. “Must have slipped my mind.”

“You liar!” Katherine appears from the other side of the statue, where she was studying the other side, attempting to make her own interpretation without reading the small placard. The artist quote tells him that it is a piece exploring and making comment on agony and joy, and how often the two co-exist. It gets a little too existential in the second paragraph for his personal tastes, continuing on about how the value of joy would be null without the suffering to make it all that much better.

It makes it seem as though suffering is simply something you must accept; something that must be experience for you to gain fulfilment from your life. Personally, Scott thinks that argument is bullshit.

“Quite rude of you to call me a liar, Katherine.” He turns his back on the sculpture, no longer as fond of the duality of it, as he was moments prior. “Especially when I agreed to accompany you to an art museum.”

“Stop being miserable, old man,” she grabs him by the arm. “I know you're loving this.”

“I resent being called old,” he points out, even though he knows she won’t listen. He continues anyway, “I'm rather firmly in what you would call your ‘twenties’.”

“And I resent you not telling me the gossip in your life!” Katherine tugs on his arm. “The Codfather has been mooning over you for so many years already – when are you going to put that poor boy out of his misery and finally kiss him?”

“Probably about the same time you gather the courage to kiss your darling Undergrove gnome.”

Katherine scoffs. “These two situations are not equivalent. The Codfather has been crushing on you for years. I've barely known her a single year! I've got plenty of time to make my move.”

“I'm sure.”

Katherine smacks him. “Try and sound a little less sarcastic next time; I've got game, you know? Unlike you, I actually know how to flirt in a way that isn’t old and outdated courting rituals that only elven people know.”

“Those outdated courting rituals were the way your mother and father married.”

“Ew, stop it.” She shoves at his shoulder, almost causing him to stumble. A few of the bells he wears ring, causing a few heads to turn towards them. Once those people realise who they're sharing an art museum with they very quickly look away again. “I hate that you knew my parents – did you know my grandparents too?”

“I've met most of the rulers’ parents.” He reminds her. “Only a few continue to be a mystery.”

“Ooh,” she grins, leaning in close to his ear, “is this some gossip? Have you got something fun to tell me- oh! Is the Codfather one of the people whose parents you haven’t met?”

“Hm?” He looks away from the canvas hung just in front of them, a swirl of blues and greys and whites that give the impression of snow and ice and rock, only broken up by a brief flash of brightness. Like a sunrise breaking through a snowstorm. “Oh, no. I've met his mother.”

Katherine laughs. “You really need to stop lying – sometimes I can’t even tell when you do, you know?”

“I wasn’t lying.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Do you want to move onto the next painting?”

“Just another moment with this one, please.”

“You hankering for a blizzard?” Katherine teases.

“Only slightly.”