Work Text:
“You know the day you die it’ll take a few hours and then that cat will be chewing on you, right?”
Illya suppresses the twitch that tickles the corner of his mouth, focuses instead on the animal in his arms, on the greenery of the garden below the balcony. He’s aware of Solo’s presence beside him the same way he is aware of his own shadow. It’s familiar by now, an old friend.
“You do not have enough faith in animals,” he says dryly.
The Americanian dark elf grins, flashing his sharp cuspids. “I don’t have faith, Peril. Doesn’t matter what you try to point it to.”
As the prince of a realm which worships the Lady of the Sun, Illya almost wants to chastise him for his blatant mockery. But he doesn’t exactly Believe either. Not in old tales and rumors of signs and ancient eyes watching their every move from the celestial heavens.
“Faith is a foundation for everything,” he says.
Solo laughs, head thrown back, the sound sharp in the afternoon air. “Those are the priest’s words, not your own.”
Illya rumbles his own amusement, shifts so he is pressed against Solo’s side. The dark elf slips an arm around his waist, solid and warm. Leans his head on Illya’s shoulder as they watch a trio of smoke geese fly in an arrow across the lowering sun, the rays turning Illya’s cornsilk hair to spun gold.
He’s happier than he’s ever been.
It’s been almost two years now, and Illya can’t pinpoint exactly when he fell for Solo. They are not alike, not really, Illya serious and silent where Solo is a whip of wicked humor. It had been an arranged engagement, as was custom, Illya’s father unmoving despite his mother’s pleas.
The dark elves are monsters, Nikolai! he remembers her sobbing. Illusha will be trapped with one for the rest of his life if you do this!
Illya has to confess that he had been slightly fearful on the day when the delegation had finally arrived to cement the betrothal. The old red mist flaring at the corners of his vision when his father had stressed upon him the weight lying on his shoulders.
He remembers feeling the heavy chill of his ceremonial robes on his skin, the press of his circlet against his forehead.
He’d certainly not expected his betrothed to be male. Not with how his father had always tried to thrash his preferences out of him. But there he was.
The delegation’s leader, Baron Sanders, had taken the tirade Nikolai had laid on him with a small smile, unconcerned. Had born the scorn from the light elf king over treating this communion as a joke.
“You said You would prefer the match be of royal blood, sire,” he’s finally said, in a voice like chalk on granite, eyes shrewd. When Nikolai had finally halted, startled, Sanders had nodded at the younger dark elf, who curled his lip and glanced away. “Solo’s the last of his house. Nephew of the old king.”
Nikolai had scowled, but Illya doesn’t recall the rest of the exchange.
He’s been ensnared in Solo’s luminous eyes.
Now, Illya turns his head to glance at the man he’s destined to spend the rest of his eternity with.
Solo’s well built for an elf, strong, with skin like milk and faint little silver scars like snowdrifts. One side of his head is shaven, arcane tattoos covering the hinge of his jaw and his cheek with dark ink, while the other side is a mess of black curls. Illya knows from experience that they are like crushed velvet against his fingertips. The dark elf’s smartly dressed as ever, a black suit with an undershirt of pale grey, signet ring shining on his pinkie.
His eyes are a luminous orange, like the fires of New Ark, the underground city he hails from- rumored to put even the great home of the dwarves to shame with its artistry and sheer scale. A fact that the tunnel folk dispute with vim and vigor. Illya does wish sometimes that he could get out of the City of Stars. Of his kingdom. That he could travel the backroads of the world, see sights he could only ever hope to dream of,
They wed on the equinox, finally given a date by Nikolai. Perhaps Solo has grown on him, perhaps he has just given up and decided to swallow the slight. It’s two weeks away now, and Illya hates that his old nervousness has returned to lodge in his throat like nausea. It brings with it the echo of destruction. Of bleeding knuckles and his father shouting. It’s red mist and weakness, and lungs that tear along the seams.
It’s the rift along which he is broken.
“Hey,” Solo’s voice softens. He brushes a hand over Illya’s shoulder, smoothing the blue velvet of his doublet before cupping the light elf’s neck. In Illya’s arms, Irva mews, kneading at his arm with her paws, claws pricking him through the fabric. “You okay?”
Illya draws a breath that aches and nods. It’s not a lie, not yet anyway.
Solo lifts himself onto his toes and presses a chase kiss to the light elf’s cheek. “I’ve been meaning to ask,” he says, when he’s pulled away again. “Do your wedding traditions include honeymoons?”
Illya, startled, huffs a sound of amusement. “Da, they do.” He sees the small flicker of mischief blink to life in Solo’s eyes. “Why?”
“I have a friend who lives near Germania,” says Solo, and Illya’s heart does an odd little leap in his chest. “She said we were welcome to join her for the Autumn festivals.” The dark elf leans his forearms on the railing, unaware that he has just uttered Illya’s deepest dream into existence. “I thought you might like to get away for a while.”
“Does…” Illya’s voice breaks, his hands shaking where they hold Irva. She’s purring, tail like a soldier plume. “Does my father know?”
Solo looks up sharply. He truly misses nothing, this one. His dark eyebrows pull together over his glowing eyes, mouth a careful line. “I spoke to your mother…”
Illya swallows. The pain of disappointment familiar by now. While his mother has grown to adore Solo like a second son, the exception to her prejudices, his father is an entirely different monster. “He will not allow it.”
Solo smiles, but there’s something cold in it. “I’m not asking him to. He’s not my king.”
Illya knows that the last dark elven king had been Solo’s uncle, dead in the tunnel wars. It is said his bones are scattered along the crossroads outside of New Ark and Bookerlyn. Now the dark elves are governed by a council of barons. Adrian Sanders, the man who had delivered Solo being one of them.
“We have a history,” Solo had said that first night, the two of them alone on a balcony of the glass tower. Both awkward and uncertain of their futures. “None of it’s good.”
Now, Illya shakes his head, but can’t help smiling at Solo’s fire. “I admire you, but you waste your time.”
Solo waves a dismissive hand. “Eah vai. You let me worry about that.”
Illya’s muzzy with sleep, worn out from duty and sensory overload, curled up against Solo’s side, the dark elf’s hand rubbing gently at his back.
He doesn’t really remember much from the ceremony; a lot of people and noise, bright lights glittering in the sky as the priests had set off crystal flares to call on the Lady of the Sun. He recalls Solo dressed smartly in black and red, his family’s crest pinned over his heart, pointed ears dripping with shimmering red beryl earrings, his tattoos gilded in gold paint.
He remembers his father walking him to the altar, handing him off to Solo. Remembers the stiffness of his blue and silver robes, his heavy circlet. Remembers the hissed “Do not embarrass us,” as Nikolai has retreated.
“You looks like the epitome of discomfort,” Solo had murmured, smirking as the priests had begun to intone in high elven.
Illya remembers glaring, tugging one handed at his collar. “I feel like a starched grandfather.”
Solo had laughed into a fist, shoulders shaking.
He remembers the kiss, hot and searing like everything that has ever been forbidden to him. Remembers the almost whiskey-like taste of Solo’s mouth, the breath like a northern breeze on his skin…
“I spoke to your father,” says Solo quietly, and he drags Illya out of memoriam and back to the present. To the two of them tangled up in each other in Illya’s ridiculously opulent room.
He blinks, sits up to look down at Solo. “What?”
“I spoke to your father,” repeats Solo, and he’s smiling, so it cannot be a bad outcome, surely? “He agreed.”
Illya stares, floating, caught in a state of disbelief. What could Solo have said that managed to convince his father? How…
Solo reaches up to smooth a lock of errant flaxen hair away. “We ride out in a week. If you still want to make the festival, that is-“
He’s cut off by Illya’s lips. And it deteriorates into tongue and teeth, and the promise of the world at their feet.
Flowerfall is tucked between two rolling mountains on the south border of Germania, a sprawling town of wood, stone and nature, the streets carpeted in amber leaves. The air smells like spice and maple, cinnamon oil stinging Illya’s nose as he and Solo guide their horses through the square to an elegant lodge on the outskirts of the town, watching as the folk bustle to prepare for the festivals.
There’s a woman waiting in the front garden of the lodge, her brown hair tied back and delicate hands on her hips.
“Aivereén, Prince Illya,” she says cheerily as they dismount. She’s a druidess, that’s clear from her green clothes and dark hazel eyes, and her wrists jingle with bracelets hen she gives him a fierce hug. “I’ve heard an awful lot about you from Solo’s letters.”
“Aivereén, Lady Teller,” says Illya, unable to kill the flush that blooms in his cheeks.
She laughs. “Gaby, please. I’m no more a lady than Solo is decent.”
The dark elf grins that wicked grin of his. “And they say absence makes the heart grow fond,” he taunts.
“Ich eicher,” says Gaby pleasantly, smiling sweetly as if she’s commented on the weather and not just told the man to fuck off.
“I see why you two get along,” says Illya dryly, and she rolls her eyes.
“Gather your things.” She turns and strides back towards the lodge, skirts swishing. “Horses to the stable, and then Solo-“
“Yes?”
“You can help me with dinner.”
And then she’s gone. The dark elf lifts exasperated eyebrows at his husband, but he’s smiling. There’s something warm in Illya’s heart, like a splinter of coal, melting the ice of solitude and rules.
“Welcome to the world,” says Solo, and Illya laughs, feeling like a butterfly; light for the first time in his life.