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Chapter Text

The wild concert of hoof-pounding percussion, humming wheels, and whistling wind was peaceful to ride to when it was not being accompanied by a pitchy soprano. 

“Papa, are we there yet!?”

Twilight sighed for the fifteenth time that day. “Anya, as I said before, the Royal City is a couple more weeks from here. As you can see, we haven’t even left the countryside.” He was starting to suspect Sylvia’s frankly absurd mission assignment wasn’t going to be the hardest part of the upcoming journey. 

The girl grumbled, kicking her legs. “Anya’s so bored!” Bond ‘borfed’ as if in agreement. “Weren’t we gonna go on a cool adventure!? Slaying bad guys and trolls, and robbing dragons!”

“What!?” 

Those were the last things any reasonable person should desire—well, this was Anya, so he’s not sure what he expected. Are all children this strange? He felt a flicker of worry. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done those sorts of things before, as a spy…

He shot a questioning look behind him to the small olive caravan his horse was pulling. “What makes you think we’d be doing any of that?” 

Anya, who was sitting at the edge of the caravan entrance, gave him an abashed look, before slinking backward into the wagon. 

He sighed.

Children enjoyed fairytales, and such activities were often central to them. It was possible her vision of the world was solely illustrated by those stories, especially after being isolated to that dingy orphanage for so long. She imagined the world as more exciting and fun than it really was, dangers and all. Reality was boring for her, he concluded. Or maybe that’s just how children are?

He looked back at her pink head, now resting on a pillow from what he could tell. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing for her to be hopeful, if it gave her some joy in life. That was what he was fighting for after all.

Or, that voice responsible for his endless worrying rebuked, it could make her less careful in the face of danger. His stomach churned.

“Anya?” Her head perked up. 

Letting out a long sigh, he began. “Get some rest now. Later, I’ll… make us a treat and tell you some campfire stories.” Some hopefully fun, but most importantly, educational campfire stories. He’d need her bright and cautious for the coming mission. 

Anya’s responding beam lit the place brighter than the sun filled sky. A girlish screech sounded, calling birds to flight. “Did you hear that Bond!?”

Huffing to himself, he fixed his eyes back on the road, a quirk now at his lip.

~🏶~

Once finding a flat clearing among the pine, Twilight settled the caravan and horse, making camp. Anya hovered over his shoulder as he furiously sparked a fire, squealing at the flickering embers. 

He boiled a broth for dinner (because he was now a responsible parent) before cooking maple candy over the flame, adding some peanuts to one side, despite cringing, at Anya’s behest. He wasn’t sure where her peanut obsession had come from. Certainly the orphanage would have never served such a rare, more costly food. But she ate the odd combination nonetheless, grinning and chirping, clearly not lying about her love for it. 

Once the broth went down, and Anya had made it halfway through the candy, hands now more sticky than the treat itself, it was storytime. Which brought up a problem: he didn’t know any fairy tales. Only vague memories of those his mother used to tell him, and he didn’t trust that his improvisation skills extended to entertaining a child.

Anya’s face was already changing from one of excitement to one of judgement, severe enough to send a jolt through him.

He waved it off. It shouldn’t be a problem. He had lived through many experiences that would surely be thrilling to a young child oblivious to and unfazed by worldly dangers! Selecting one of his more child-friendly missions, he began to speak.

Illustrating with hand gestures, he regaled her with the time the legendary (fictitious) spy, Sir Bondman (actually him) snuck into a den of orcs (Ostanian hired mercenary Orcs) to retrieve a stolen treasure chest (maps outlining the major Westalian villages along the border) from within a tunnel cave system. He wasn’t going to reveal his secret identity to a child, regardless if she was now supposedly his.

During the tale, excitement once again slid from Anya’s face, now into a look of confusion. “Why didn't yo—Sir Bondman—just kill the orcs with the faerie bomb, Papa?”

He held back a sigh. The girl seemed unusually enthusiastic about violence, which was exactly what he didn’t want for her—or any child—and especially one that was going to be posing as a baron-healer’s daughter for his mission. Though admittedly, the luring strategy he’d used to separate the orcs from the cave had been risky and almost left him with a club in his hinny. He was intending for the story to teach her about caution; checking for dangers before jumping into action, but that had seemed to have gone over her head, along with the sanctity of life.

“Anya, life is sacred.” In a way. “Violence is not the answer.” Sometimes. “And killing should be avoided whenever possible.” It was messy. 

But yes, life should be valued. A world that didn’t was one he’d be fighting to change. 

And he was.

Anya’s round ivy eyes stared at his forehead unresponsively. What she was looking for up there, he did not know. His repressed sigh finally escaped. It seemed their relationship would be characterized by a mutual confusion. But it didn’t matter. He needed to make things work.

After a few moments, his daughter smiled. “Anya gets it, Papa.” She patted him on the leg. “Heroes protect people, even not so friendly people.”

Surprised, his eyes softened. “That’s right, Anya.” While not a sentiment he always abided by, it was a healthy one to have, especially as a child.

She beamed at him for a bit, before her eyes caught on a pink glint above the horizon. Turning, she peered at the sun, now descending, dying the sky a color matching her locks in its fall. 

“So pretty, Papa!”

“Yes, it’s called a sunset.” He wasn’t sure if children her age knew that yet. “It’ll be twilight soon,” he added, smirking to himself.

“What’s that?” 

“It’s the period of time when the sun can’t be seen but there is still light in the sky.” He let out a breath, and paused for a moment. “It’s also the time when young children should be going to bed.”

Instead of bemoaning bedtime as she usually did, Anya looked at him with wide eyes, before turning them back to the blazing skyline. “Can we watch it together first?”

“Okay.”

As the sun slid lower, they settled down together on the caravan ledge. Bond came too, snuggling into Anya’s side, while she leaned into his, clutching his shirt in a baby fist. 

The quiet lasted for a few minutes, giving space for the crickets to play their song, before they were joined by a small voice. “Thank you for today, Papa. Life has been really nice since leaving the orphanage, thanks to you!” Heart softening, his hand found the top of her head, ruffling her hair.

“I’m glad.”

Ominously shaped clouds crept up from the horizon as the sky darkened and more stars awoke. Anya’s weight soon became heavier and her grip looser. 

When twilight blinked into night, he picked up the child, and by the guidance of firelight, carried her to her small caravan bed. 

She seemed so tiny and fragile in his arms compared to the skipping lighting bolt she was when awake. A protective feeling swelled in his chest, followed by amusement.

He was becoming a father— 

No. 

Deflating, he tucked Anya into a thick blanket, which Bond huddled under too. 

He could act like a father—in fact, he needed to—but he could not be one. Once he finished his mission, he would have to leave Anya behind, making her an orphan once again. 

A man that would do that could not be a father, his mind scolded.

He was a shapeshifter. A nameless canvas. A secret ear and a hidden eye. Anything he was required to be. 

He’d change in every way but one: being a spy. 

And a spy could not have attachments. Sentiments. Loved ones. Definitely not children.

But that did not mean Anya had to be alone. 

As part of his mission, he needed to find a wife. No baron, especially one with a child, would be unmarried. Widowers always remarried, for the production of more heirs, and so the current ones had a mother. Those who did not were seen as suspicious. They wouldn’t be allowed into the royal palace’s medical team, and definitely nowhere near the Royal Eden Academy, King Donovan or the shady magical experiment project he had ordered. 

That was not to say that all stepmother’s embraced the role with any maternity. Though it would mean pulling another innocent into a doomed relationship, he’d have to find a woman willing to be not just a wife, but a mother. Someone who would love Anya as her own. It would be more difficult, but he had a few weeks and he was the best spy in the West, master of the honey trap, as he was called, and that had to mean something. 

He’d do it, and not just for the sake of peace.

Chapter Text

The following day came with the unpleasant confirmation that his suspicion about the oncoming weather was correct. It was absolutely pouring.

As Anya yelled about cats and dogs, frogs and fish and to his bafflement, God’s tears, he’d hurriedly secured the caravan so rain wouldn’t flood in.

Soon the downpour billowed into a storm. Every crack of thunder sent the wagon swerving as their horse, Samson, startled. The largely abandoned dirt road became a river of mud, slowly sinking them.

Eventually he found his sense, and surrendered to nature, pulling them to the side of the road to wait it out under the safety of a tree. 

A faerie must have cursed him, because the clouds only darkened further as the sky did, condemning them to what was essentially a night sleeping in a pond. Despite the rain, it was still warm, but that wouldn’t last. He wasn't sure a fire could hold out through the night as water began leaking through the canopy of the most well-endowed tree he could find. The cold, misty air didn’t allow fire’s warmth to travel far, and he wasn’t willing to risk sending a caravan up in flames with a sleeping child and dog inside.

Calling out to Anya to stay put, with Bond guarding her side (to the best of his fluffy, old ability), he took a “privy break.” In truth, he shifted into a hawk and took flight. It was likely his most valuable ability as a spy, guaranteeing infiltration successes and allowing him to discreetly deliver mission reports in animal form.

He’d chosen to travel through the area specifically due to its scattering of abandoned small villages and houses. Perfect for crashing the night during unruly August weather or when the caravan finally gave the child cabin fever.

His research paid off, when low and behold, he spotted a small tower hidden among brambles, illuminated by the blaze of the full moon, just a twenty-five minute ride away. If by some slim chance it was inhabited, he’d employ all his WISE training and Anya’s rather effective puppy dog eyes to guilt themselves into an overnight stay.

Zipping back down, he pulled the caravan shutters open, revealing a girl trying to braid her dog’s fur.

“Anya, get ready to take a ride through the rain. I found a place to shelter in for the night. We’ll need to leave the caravan here for now.”

Wide eyes reflected the dim firelight and glanced at their canine friend, as if she needed the dog’s opinion on whether he was sane. 

At confirmation, she beamed, before appearing puzzled. “But how did you find it?”

“Uh—It was on our map.” Anya’s eyes widened in realization, and he thought he was in the clear, before they narrowed in mirth.

“Papa was looking at the map while going potty?”

He choked. The girl may be more astute than some of his past targets. “I just happened to remember it then. Now, no more questions, get ready to go.”

Anya later stared daggers, sharper than his own, while she waited for him to properly conceal the caravan in foliage. Admittedly, she was being pelted by the rain, but seriously, did she want him to risk it getting stolen? Few travelled along their current route but it was not completely abandoned. Its vacantness only made it more appealing to the rare shady figure, such as himself.

The looks continued throughout the ride, and he heard “are we there yet?” for the nineteenth, twentieth and twenty-first times on their journey. 

Like a cross flung down before the devil of his creeping vexation, it appeared. A stony tower, with a small stable at its side and arched, darkly stained windows and an iron door at its base, draped in ivy and enwrapped by bramble spiraling down the small hill it stood upon. The blazing moon allowed them to take in every detail from under the forest edge.

As much as the sight was relieving, it was also odd. Creeping closer, horse reins in hand, with Anya protectively behind him, the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

He was no fae, but magic coursed his veins, and he could sense a kind in the air. It was old and calm, but powerful. Likely of faerie origin. But there was no evidence that anyone had been on the overgrown land in years.

Anya fidgeted nervously behind him. Possibly sensing it too? He hadn’t investigated if she was Gifted as well. A bumbling and uncharacteristic oversight on his part. His teeth gritted.

She peered out from behind him, momentarily forgetting to complain about how drenched she was, while Bond on the other hand, looked less canine and more drowned rattish, and he could swear his horse was glaring at him.

Sighing, he decided to commit to his original plan. “Anya, stay put right here while I check if the tower is safe to enter,” he commanded, already tying the reins to a tree. 

“Huh!?” She glanced at Bond then back. “But Papa, it is safe!”

His brows pinched. How could she possibly know that? And why did she keep looking at the dog? Her lying needs work.  

“Stay here.” The tone of his voice indicated there was no room for discussion and Anya immediately harrumphed. Appalled at himself, but not quite enough, he put trust in his horse and dog’s ability to watch out for a six year old. 

He yanked off his cloak and wrapped it around her for extra warmth and protection. “You can bring Bond under this too. Stay here. Stay safe. Scream if you're in danger.”

Pulling his scabbard from a saddlebag, he added, “seeing an ugly bird does not count.”

He left her shielded under a tree and marched forward, eyes squinted against the rain. Quietly, he unlocked the iron door with his favored lockpicks. It’s odd. This place seems home to faerie magic, but iron has long been used to ward them off. While iron hardly has an effect on the fae, it carried a clear message. 

Entering, he senses were alit by the spark of magic. As if lightning had ignited the air. 

It smelled expectedly of dust, oddly of wild roses and most concerningly, he drew his sword,— of the distinct iron and copper of blood. Old blood. It stained the floors, the carpet, the walls, and furniture feet with a violent russet. A shiver crawled up his spine. 

There had been a massacre here.

And someone had taken care to clear out the corpses and litterings of battle. 

The walls were stacked from cold, grey stone and dotted by the occasional inoffensive ocean painting. Simplistic furniture was shaped from cheap, unpolished wood, and clearly aged. 

While it was decorated presentably, it lacked any true wear or character indicative of a home. It reminded him of a safehouse. But fortunately, at least for his purposes, a long deserted one.

He’d have to keep Anya to the (hopefully existing) unbloodied side of the tower. 

He continued to scope out the rest of the floor, spotting two abandoned bowls across from each other on a table, a small pot of jewelry he immediately pocketed (WISE funding was scarce) and a messily, but sincerely, knitted scarf. Aiming to find a hopefully stocked hearth, he rounded the outside of the center stairwell and turned the corner towards the back of the tower. 

From the horrors of war, to his spywork’s unique ability to illuminate the absurdities of human nature, he believed very little could shock him now. 

His sight proved him wrong.

Lightly glowing, was a woman lying upon a window bed. His hand dropped, and his WISE training activated before his sword could clatter to the floor.

 Hair cascaded around her like shadow and ink, entwining in briar tendrils bejeweled by sanguine roses that embosomed her form and crowned her head. 

Well, that explains the smell. 

Brambles grew around her like a mother bird’s nest, burrowing in from a large crack in the window glass. His focus narrowed onto the heated magic blazing off her. It haloed around her like a protective bubble.

He would have thought her dead, if not for the soft rise and fall of her chest, and the pink at her cheeks. It made sense, because, otherwise, what was there to protect? 

Eyeing her overgrown hair, the untouched dust of the floor and the entangled vines, he knew the woman had not moved from her resting place in ages—and was likely not to despite his presence.

A sleeping curse?  

It was a true blend of cruelty and mercy. From the powerful spell, to remnants of bloodshed, he knew this woman must have found herself amidst a dangerous clash between man and faerie. Not a place he’d recommend. Fae were as artistic in their curse-work as humans were in their brutality. 

He gently surveyed the woman. She likely never saw this coming—unless she had been an active participant in whatever conflict that had occurred. His gaze hardened once again.

Prying was costly and risky. And he was no curse-breaker. He’d simply have Anya bunk upstairs, on what was a hopefully ungored floor. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave just yet. 

Trailing forward, he’d studied her for one last moment. 

He was likely the last person who’d ever see her. To know that she still breathed. Maybe there had been someone who waited for her. They would have mourned despite the veil between them not being one of death. And maybe they would have found comfort knowing their souls still shared a world even if one stayed in permanent slumber. But he couldn’t give them that comfort.

Would it be better if she was like him then? Dedicating their life to something that could so easily take it away, but finding peace in knowing there would be no one to leave behind. No one to cry for them. No one left to care for brutalized hearts.

Was that how she lived?

He studied her face now, instinctively memorizing it as he did with every one he came across. Her features were all soft curves ending in elegant points. 

Gentle. Kind. Bright.

No, he decided then. She knew love.

A thunderous pop sounded. 

Warmth descended into cold and light into darkness.

The magic had…broken?

Tensing, he readied his sword right as the woman’s eyes shot open, like two ruby stars bursting to life in the dark. How...?

A slim but mighty hand shot to his neck while his own came up to defend, not yet ready to stab the woman—but her fist found his collar rather than his throat. 

Shock racked through him, and not only from the sudden movement. With the nature of curses it shouldn’t have been possible for hers to be broken so easily.

I’m…?” She croaked out, throat likely rough from disuse. Disbelief ravaged both their faces. 

“You’re awake,” he answered for her, slightly breathless. “You’re awake.”

Chapter Text

As soon as her grip slackened, he backed away, distant and cautious.

The woman followed his movement, swaying to her feet, one hand out, before she began tipping. He twitched towards her, but she caught herself, and started ripping away the offending bramble, casting vine and bloom alike to the ground in a scarlet burst of petals reminiscent of blood spatter. 

Misty red eyes, found wild, wintery blue. “I’m awake.”

He nodded.

“I’m awake!” She stepped forward to him, and he stepped a foot back, as if in dance. She didn’t seem to notice it, nor his sword. Or if she did, she was not fazed.

Rather than hostile, he observed, she behaved joyfully, reveling in her freedom. Wholly unthreatened and wholly unthreatening, which seemed odd for a woman who’s last waking memory was likely that of battle and damnation.

Regardless, he let his sword lower. (Though he readied a dagger concealed in his sleeve.) 

Appearing amiable would improve relations. He was intending for his daughter to stay the night after all, and he was willing to make friends with any sort of deviant to do so. Though this ‘deviant’ was undeniably more of an angelic kind. A logistically important fact to acknowledge as it indicated she wouldn’t scare Anya, who had no qualms about declaring someone a “weirdo” out loud.

Celebrating, she twirled across the stone floor, bright laugh tinkling, black dress billowing, while her fingers combed through ribbons of hair.

When her eyes snagged on a moonbeam cast through the window, she took flight out the door. And forgetting his usual habit of overthinking before leaping, he followed into the raging storm.

Under the moon’s shine, rain fell like tears of starlight, cutting at tender skin.

Regardless, the stranger howled joyfully at the sky, in time with the thunder, her dance only increasing in passion as she leapt and spun in arcs that moved the wind and rain around her, as if performing for the watching gods of nature. 

Yes, this was her ode to the world, as much as it was for herself.

An unfamiliar awe came over him, and rather than professionally stomping out its flame, he allowed himself to savor its warmth for just a moment. Though unintentionally, he admitted, wincing, his actions had allowed this woman a moment of peace, and that was worth appreciating. 

Hair and cloth clung to her, now thoroughly soaked, but she seemed not to care. Moonlight illuminated her. It was a spectacle of silver, sable, sage and—and a spot of pink…?

Anya!

The little girl scampered up the hill, her young mind clearly enthralled by the witchy display, coming before the celebrating woman. Twilight was halfway into a dash when they met. 

The stranger, while pleasant now, was still an unknown with a questionable history. Not someone he, or any responsible guardian, would let their child come near without close supervision.

As he hurtled forward (in what he hoped outwardly appeared to be a causal stride), and over the deafening storm, he read the lady mouth the words, “Oh, and who might this be?”

Anya replied instead with, “So pretty!”

He arrived, but it was too late. His heart almost followed Anya’s soar into the air when the woman grasped the girl and tossed her to the stars—

“It is!!”

—And caught her, spinning the giggling child around with her.

That toss had (astonishingly) been twice as high as his own on the rare occasion he gave his (fake) daughter “spinzzies,” but she cheered nonetheless.  

In her twirl, the woman’s eye caught him and her face fell for the first time that night, into a look of mortification. Releasing Anya, her hands came up to her mouth.

“I-I’m so sorry! She must be yours! It’s so rude of me to just pick up and throw your child like that!!”

Anya patted the woman’s leg. “It’s all cool, lady. That was so fun! Cooler than Papa’s!”

He rolled his eyes. The downpour was all forgotten about now it seemed.

 “Do it again!” The girl screeched.

The woman sputtered, looking to him. 

“Anya, that’s not polite to ask of strangers. Come here,” he commanded, over the rain.

Nose wrinkled, the girl trudged to him, continuing to believe absolutely nothing he said but complying nonetheless. Belatedly, he realized it was long past Anya’s bedtime, drawing from him what was hopefully the final sigh of the week. Drying off would take at least half an hour, and her bedtime routine the other share. In addition, he’d have to provide assistance so the stranger could get back on her feet, after determining she was not a threat.

He needed to get these sleeping arrangements signed, stamped and confirmed.

Looking to the woman again, about to introduce himself, he was momentarily halted by the expression on her face.

There was a look of profound revelation glowing in her eyes, which seemed to be taking in every part of him. He almost flushed.

“Y-You’re the one who awakened me, didn’t you?” He could hardly hear her past the storm. 

Amidst the roaring, the only thing he could do is nod. He knew his “rescue” had to have some implications, but he was almost too tired to deal with them. An indecipherable blush rose to her cheeks. 

This was going to be a long, baffling night.

~🏶~

Yor Briar ? The irony was more pungent than the flowers. 

Following introductions, Twilight led Samson to the musty, but thankfully dry, stables and thoroughly dried his dog and daughter’s hair before planting them in front of the now lit hearth on their packed bedding (a thick towel for Bond and a roll-out feather mattress with woolen blankets for Anya.) 

Snoring sounded soon enough and Twilight thanked all the gods he neither respected nor prayed to that there had been some wood, spared from the rain, stored by the fireplace. It may have been dried and crumbling, but it worked, and that was more than he could hope for typically.

Throughout the process, the woman—Yor Briar, stayed silently perched upon her window bed. While he couldn’t feel eyes on him, he knew she would be looking, based on her gaze earlier and the fact they’d essentially be rooming together till the storm passed. In their context, never looking was just as suspicious as doing so too intently. And Yor made sure she was never caught with eyes on him (somehow), though a light blush always graced her cheeks.

The first theory he’d propose about her peculiar reactions was rather cocky on his part: a crush, partially induced by him (accidentally) saving her. It’d be convenient, considering he was in dire need of a wife, but taking advantage of a woman’s likely trauma induced feelings was both ethically dubious (not that he was always unwilling to partake) and risky long-term when the high of the save faded. Additionally, he was suspect of anything that made life too easy.

 And someone who’d been put under a powerful curse was definitely a person to be suspicious of. 

Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself for another sleepless night of subtle interrogation followed by drastic overthinking. Fortunately, Anya was a sound enough sleeper he could duel a banshee without waking her.

He sat down on his own bedding (two blankets and his arm for a pillow), and adopted a posture that conveyed amiability. One leg down, one propped up. Stance open. An arm laying casually on a knee. 

“So, Miss Briar,” her spine straightened. “I, uhhh—I hope you don’t mind me inquiring, but how did you find yourself under such a terrible curse?”

Her eyes saucered, practically popping out of her head, before she looked away. “Oh, uhhh—you know, the normal way people do!” She chirped.

His mouth almost fell upon. The normal way? There was a “normal way" to this woman? Judging by her body language, she was most definitely hiding something.

She must have read the disbelief scrawled over his face, because she continued. “You know, the normal way! Um, I got into a spat with a fairy! Over…property rights?”

One of the first things he’d note about Yor Briar was that she couldn’t lie. Which would only make it easier to exploit the cracks in her armor of deception.

“Miss Briar…I saw the blood stains on the other side of this tower…”

She squeaked. “Uhhh…Yeah, it got pretty heated…” A weak laugh sounded, one that indicated she didn’t believe herself either.

Eyes narrowing, his voice deepened with intensity. “I understand the situation may have been personal for you, but as a father with a young child to protect, I need to know if she’s in any danger being here, in this tower—or with you .”

Yor stiffened, face soon washed with guilt. He gave her a beat to think.

“I understand. Completely.” The sincerity in her tone almost caught him off guard. “And I swear, no harm will come to you or your child while I’m here.” His brow twitched at the oddly phrased assurance.

 Sighing, she continued. “My…mistress—She needed to escape from her husband, and I—a-and a few others—aided her, but he was powerful. He sent knights and a skilled faerie after us.” Face falling grim, she added, “I got caught in a spell aimed for her— Oh God, he must have taken her in the end.” Her eyes grew glassy.

Real sympathy could be seen on his face. It was an old tale, one he’d heard and seen too many times. A cruel husband and a persevering wife.

“I’m sorry that happened to her, and to you,” he offered gently.

Though he sensed she was still holding back details, for the sake of privacy or something more insidious, he wasn’t certain yet. But he left it be for the moment.

Yor nodded, before her eyes narrowed. “As soon as I can, I’m going back for her.”

She meant it. 

He knew that hardened look. He made sure not to let his surprise show on his face. She’d just gotten out of her own curse.

A whisper from that tense voice passed through his mind—and his gut began to churn.

“Yor…” He unintentionally slipped into given names at the sensitivity of the subject. “How long exactly do you believe you’ve been here?”

Eyes widened, a barely repressed panic now began to bubble within them. “Surely not–not that long, of course...?” She sputtered.

His gaze was drawn to the thick, practically caked on, sludge of dust along every rim, ledge and surface in the place, her eyes following. 

She went shakily to her feet, and he mirrored, searching his memories for all his lessons on comforting people.

“H-how long has it been since the war?” She bit out fast.

Gently, he replied. “Seven—”

“Weeks?” She squeaked. At no confirmation, she continued. “Months?”

She was trembling fully now. 

“Years—I’m sorry, Yor.”

A broken sob shattered the peace of the night.  One he could feel deep in his chest, being echoed back within his mind.

Chapter Text

He watched Yor's face as she fell through layers of hell.

Denial. Desperation. Despair. Dread. And finally, horror. 

A horror of an almost existential kind, if he was reading her correctly.

He turned away, not only to give her grief privacy, but because a distant part of him couldn’t bear to look. His earlier guess about her was likely an accurate one.

Yor slowly descended back into her window bed, and turned to the window, hiding her face. 

Remaining awake, he hoped his earlier response would communicate he was available for support if she required it. Sleep wasn’t likely to come for him quickly anyway, as was usually the case.

Yor was a shockingly quiet crier, he’d later somberly note. 

Her body had shook in tears for almost an hour and he hadn’t heard a sound. She’d essentially awakened to a new world, one adjusted to existing without her. Family, friends and communities would’ve mourned and moved on, finding a way to live a life untangled with hers. Re-entering would mean carving a whole new place for herself. She must have been a woman well experienced in battling and concealing suffering if she was this adept at keeping her pain soundless. Her steel lasted into the following morning. 

He’d fluttered to consciousness long past dawn at her hushed “good morning” to a newly awakened Anya, face red, but smile sweet. 

To his shock, Yor had changed her clothes before he awoke, somehow slipping past without him noticing to go upstairs, based on the direction of her dusty footprints, to retrieve them.

It was an unusual but attractive black dress with an outer corset and layers of slitted skirts of varying lengths. An elegant rose pattern was embroidered in red along lacy sleeves. Based on Yor’s nervous sniffing, it likely smelled stale from its years of unuse. They quietly got set for the day. He asked Yor how she was doing and she responded with a polite dismissal, clearly not ready to address the dragon in the room, so to speak.

After fanning their aged fire’s simmering embers back into a full flame, he pulled a frying pan from his leather travel pack, along with six eggs, a handful of dried meat and some butter.

He cooked silently as Anya hopped around Yor, excitedly introducing her to her “Mr. Chimera” doll. The toy was so at odds with where he’d found her, he couldn’t help but wonder who her parents had been and how their daughter had found herself so far away from home after their deaths. At least she would be given the opportunity to have a more affluent life once again.

He would have warned Anya to give Yor space after her ordeal, but the woman treated the girl with a softness that made him hesitate. And planted a niggling at the back of his mind.

Yor, at first, politely refused breakfast, abashed and melancholic, before finally conceding to a single egg. He gave her three, along with chopped bits of meat as garnish. 

He figured a woman who hadn’t eaten in seven years would be starving for a good meal, if not physically, then spiritually. And she’d need sustenance to recover in both those realms.

They settled at the recently cleaned dining table, pulled in from the bloodied living room they refused to let the child see, and covered in one of his blankets to hide the blood stains. Anya still stared at it, wide-eyed, regardless.

The girl ate ravenously, as usual, much to his embarrassment, as did Yor, who expertly devoured a quarter of her large plate whenever he glanced away. He was content that they both enjoyed his food at least.

As he chewed, he strategized. 

He needed a wife. 

Fundamentally, his goals could not be met without one.

Sneaking into palace grounds to investigate the Royal Facility of Scholars by himself was more appealing, but infinitely more risky. A successful break-in had only been accomplished once, by an assailant who, amazingly, not only managed to enter undetected, but was able to kidnap the then crown princess and escape without notice till the next day. Afterward, security became exponentially more tight, aided by, much to the West’s shock and fear, faerie magic. 

Ostania was colluding with the fae, and to what purpose, they did not know, which was the second issue. All of his superiors’ questions pertaining to the possibility of another war could not be derived in one lucky night. He needed to get close to King Donovan and wheedle out as much information as possible.

And Yor, a seemingly single woman, had just (quite literally) magically entered his life. 

Based on her earlier statement about working for a noble lady, who she intended to return to, Yor was likely heading to the Royal City as well. Meaning they’d be travelling together, probably in the same caravan, as Yor had no means of transport and he was a gentleman—or at least posing as one. Which was a set-up that’d scare away any prospects he could find on the journey over.

It’d just be all so convenient. For both of them, really.

While Yor had been asleep, Ostania had made drastic changes to its defense and surveillance practices, implementing city border pass and identity checks. Yor, as someone from a time before that, did not have the papers to enter…

Though she would, as Baroness Forger.

Marriage would provide her all the necessary records and documents, forged and real, needed.

It could be fruitful for both of them; a marriage of convenience of a more unique kind.

And observing how Anya beamed at Yor, who smiled and responded to every little thought the girl spoke aloud in her child-like whimsy, he knew his final, more personal requirement could likely be met.

If she wanted it, Yor could be a good mother to Anya.

His daughter’s head jerked towards him, eyes wide, and her grin turned so bright, the cutlery sparkled for a moment. 

Confused by her responses yet again, he brought a spoonful of egg to his mouth, smiling politely back at the child.

Anya turned to Yor once more, with one of her smug, scheming faces on. Should I be worried? He side-eyed her.

“Thorn Lady, do you have any family?”

He almost choked and his eyes whipped towards Yor, braced for her reaction. It was a foolish oversight not to coach Anya on what topics were okay to bring up around the woman.

A haunted look had darkened her face. 

Anya sank into her chair guiltily, and he was about to sputter out an apology when Yor spoke.

“I…do. I have a little brother.” She gave Anya a sad smile. “He was just like you when he was your age,” she laughed ruefully, poking the girl’s fork, stacked only with meat bits. “He loved his bacon the most too.”

The girl giggled, and Yor receding back into her chair, a kind smile masking her face. He had enough experience with it himself to know turmoil still lingered. 

He should have been more focused on the present woman and how she’d emotionally and physically deal with her situation rather than planning out hypothetical futures based on incomplete information. He’d yet to answer other pressing, possibly safety related, questions such as how it was possible for him to have broken the curse to begin with.

Most curses had a rule or two baked in to act as lock and key for the magic. The more complicatedly powerful the spell, the more specific the rule. Yor had said the curse was aimed for her mistress, which begged the question: how did a key tailored to a noblewoman’s circumstances work between two commoner strangers?

It was a concern, because faeries could be unpredictable and incorporate deals and secondary curses into their primary curses. Like specifying that a deceitful man could break the curse, but doing so would prevent him from ever verbally lying again.

He’d tested that scary thought already to fortunate results.

And while he could just ask Yor what cantation she heard before being damned, it was the type of sensitive and odd inquiry that needed to be built up to. Luckily, he was skilled at that sort of thing.

They finished their meal in silence and cleared the table. Sticking their dishes out the window, they let the still bawling storm rinse them off before placing them by the fire to dry. 

He let Anya play by the window bed, which she’d hopped onto with Bond, after he’d tutted at her to ask Yor for permission. Yor had been agreeable, saying it hadn’t been hers to begin with. Despite his cautioning, Anya played with the few remaining brambles, plucking petals from drying rosettes, before getting distracted by the storm outside.

While Anya yelled about how their tower now had a moat, Yor took him aside. Without the child watching, a grim face was now revealed. “Mr. Forger, can we please talk?”

They moved out of hearing distance of Anya, now leaning against the tower’s center wall.

“Firstly, I want to thank you for generously allowing me to stay here with you and your daughter, and including me in breakfast.” He raised his brows. The tower had been her residence first. “I was hoping you’d be able to catch me up on all the major changes that have happened while I was cursed.”

He took a moment to think. “Well, as you know the war ended seven years ago, likely just before you were put under.” She nodded. “You’ll be happy to hear that we’re still at peace with Westalis.” A peace held together by lies, charades and cheap rope, but a peace nonetheless. “And…Queen Melinda got married to Minister Desmond. He is now king.” 

Yor grimaced at that, a fiery anger swirling alive in her kind eyes, along with a king of dread he could not place, clearly not a fan of that political move. It had had some controversy back in her time, but through the King’s crackdown on dissenters, public opinion was now positive in more of a “held at sword-point” or “deceived & brainwashed” sort of way. And some fully agreed or simply did not care. “I can see you’re not a fan…”

She shook her head fervently. “I need to get back. Back to the Royal City. My mistress, my brother…” She sucked in a breath, trying to reign in her emotion. But a thick grief bubbled to the surface nonetheless.  “My brother  was just a boy when I—when I left,” she choked out. 

His heart clenched for her. Her loved one was now a stranger in more ways than one. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how hard this has all been on you,” he said gently. 

Yor nodded, hiccupping. “He was just about to start at an academy when it happened. I don’t think I could bear it if he had to drop out because of me…or worse.” Her voice broke, before finding its strength once more. “I have to go back, now .”

He nodded, admittedly influenced by her passion. “My daughter and I are also relocating there, actually. I’d be happy to escort you, or find you travelling accommodations.”

Her eyes grew wide and misty. “Truly? No—” She shook herself. “I can’t ask that much of you!” Looking away, a confused contemplation entered her eyes, one he could not read. She bit her lip, clearly conflicted despite her vehement refusal.

He let out a congenial sigh. “Truly, Yor. I’d be glad to help.” Laughing lightly, he scratched his neck. “And, honestly, I’d enjoy the company. Anya is a joy, but also a handful. Having an adult travel companion would be a relief.” 

Red eyes bloomed with flitting emotion. “Okay… Okay! Thank you, Mr. Forger!” 

Laughing, he added, “Considering our circumstances I believe it’s only appropriate for you to call me by my given name. And I hope that extends to me as well…?”

A light blush graced her cheeks as she nodded.

His plan was going smoothly, it seemed, but he couldn't account for the slight twist it left in his gut. 

Chapter Text

Seven years prior...

The night was awkward. 

Yor wasn’t any good with people, but even she knew one was unlikely to befriend the person they’ve kidnapped. At minimum, she’d hoped for an amiable professional relationship. Unfortunately, the Crown Princess was more of the stern, silent type during an uncomfortable situation.

“Umm… Prin—Your highness, w-would you like some dinner?” She shakily held up a pan of casserole. Her smile was not conveying her confidence well. The dish looked good to her, but she knew having fish heads, green steam and bones coming out of food scared away appetites, other than hers and Yuri’s of course.

And well, the princess looked horrified. 

“I thought this was a kidnapping, not an assassination!”

Yor spluttered. Oh gods, I can’t have her thinking that! Shopkeeper had told her not to scare the kidnappee. 

“No, No! I would never!” She quickly put a spoonful in her mouth. It was a disjointed symphony of flavors. It tasted like home! Smiling around her mouthful, she nodded as if to say, “See?”

The sage-haired woman’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not some ditz. Any assassin worth their blade would have a poison tolerance, and you clearly do.”

Yor almost smiled at the compliment before there rest of royal’s words caught up to her.

Deflating, she put her casserole down. “I-I’m sorry. Truly, I’m just a bad cook.” It came out as more of a whimper.

She began collecting the raw dinner ingredients, including the vegetables and cheese and anything else that didn’t need to be cooked. “Here, you can have these as a meal,” she offered weakly. 

The woman crisply took it and scarfed it down as regally as she could, clearly hungry.

Yor sat down slowly at the other end of the plain table. “Your highness,” she began gently, “we’re truly not intending to harm you in any way.” 

The princess looked skeptical behind her half eaten block of cheese.

“As you know, I work for Garden,” she cringed, still not used to admitting such an explosive secret. “As a group, we’ve worked closely with the royal family, including your father.”

The woman twitched.

“We’re doing this because we think it’s what’s best for this country. And for you. What we believed your father would have wanted.”

The royal shot her a glare. “You think my father would have wanted you to kidnap me?” 

Yor shrunk into herself, but continued, hoping the clear earnestness in her voice would pave a way. 

“We believe your father wouldn’t have wanted you to marry Lord Desmond—”

A bitter laugh interrupted her.

“My father was the one who introduced us! He trusted that man more than anybody in those last few years.” She turned away, grief now transforming her features.

Yor grimaced.

It was rumored, and believed by Garden, that the previous king’s health, and most significantly, his mind, had unraveled in his final years, making him vulnerable and susceptible to the influence of others. Meaning his trust in Desmond was…questionable, to say the least. Normally, Yor wouldn’t have been briefed so thoroughly on the details of her assignment, but Shopkeeper had deemed it necessary this time for a reason she still hadn’t deduced.

The princess worried her lip. “Lord Desmond…He’s not, well he’s not an unseemly match.” 

She looked up into Yor’s eyes. “I’m not just looking for a husband. I’m looking for a king. He is experienced, powerful, well-regarded and of noble birth. It's my duty as future Queen to pick the right man. And my father…” The woman cringed. “He approved of Lord Desmond. It’s my duty as his daughter—as his heir, to honor his wishes.”

Yor frowned. “I think the first duty a child has to a parent is to protect their own happiness.”

Green eyes widened then looked away. “You just don’t understand.”

Yor sighed. “Are you even sure that Desmond is befitting of someone who should be king? Some of his thoughts, his policies…”

The princess rubbed her face, sighing. “I know. I know. Some of them are…” She bit her lip. “I don’t know what to do. I’m really so…” She buried her face in her hands. “Truthfully, I’m not prepared to be queen. The war has just ended, and we all thought there’d still be at least half a decade before I’d have to ascend.”

 She looked up at Yor, eyes misty. “I don’t trust myself… But I trusted my father.”

Yor’s heart swelled. Some part of her understood. Understood being thrown unprepared into a tempest, grasping for anyone or anything to hold on to amidst the chaos.

The assassin gently clasped the princess’s hand. “You can give it a couple years. Wait until you’re of age to ascend, and then you can marry him, if you still want to. That’s what we really meant for you to do by taking you away.” Realization dawned in her green eyes.

 “Remember,” Yor continued. “You won’t be alone in this, even without a husband. And have some faith in yourself.” She squeezed her hand. “People are stronger and more capable than they often realize, including you, your highness.”

Glassy eyes saucered, and the woman let out a shaky breath.

Before the age of twenty-one, a monarch would have to rule with a regent, typically an older relative or advisor. In this case, her great-uncle. But if she married, that power would be shared between the spouse (if they were of age) and the regent, giving Desmond more authority than Garden believed was wise, especially since said regent had been his father-in-law. They were most definitely colluding.

The princess took a couple steadying breaths.

“Do you…Do you know what it’s like?” She cringed, waving her hands. “I mean…You’re this extremely skilled…person, yet you’re clearly so…”

“Young?” Yor finished for her, a rueful look on her face. The woman nodded.

“You’re right.” She closed her eyes, steadying herself. “My brother and I were orphaned at a young age, due to the war. And it became my responsibility to provide, but,” she let out a nervous laugh. Dark memories were threatening to surface. She willed them down. “Well, let’s just say my…work became the only escape I could see.”

The princess gave her a sympathetic look.

“But you’d never know it looking at me,” she chuckled. “I’m clumsy. I barely understand people. I can’t cook to save a life—though I can to take one.” They both snorted. “And yet, I'm successful. I made sure my family survived against all odds, when no one expected us to.”

She patted the woman’s hand. “We never quite know the person we can be until we have to try.”

The princess’s discreetly dabbed at her glassy eyes, now shining with some relief.

After a moment's quiet, she spoke again. 

“So,” Yor began again, after a moment’s quiet. “why don’t you think it over, your highness?”

The royal let out a choked laugh. “S-Sure. I mean, this kidnapping has given me a lot of free time. Might as well make use of it.”

Yor smiled, feeling a sense of accomplish and even the sensation of comradery, a rare feeling for her. “Thank you, your highness—”

“You know, I think I’d prefer you call me something less formal, seeing as we’ll be spending all this time together.” Even with the confidence in her tone, a light blush could be seen on her cheeks. “Call me Melinda.”

Yor straightened in shock. “N-No, I couldn’t—”

“You’re defying a request from your future queen?”

The assassin spluttered. “O-of course not your—” The princess quirked a brow. “M-Melinda.”

The night had ended better than Yor had hoped. 

The next would not.

~🏶~

Battling knights was like preparing crawfish.

If one aimed their blade, just so, it would slip right under armor, straight into fleshy joint. 

Yor did not like fighting knights. It was harder to make their deaths quick and clean. But there were just so many of them abusing their power and committing violent assaults on the regular. And being sent after her.

A calvary of bloodied metal-men filled their relatively small tower, surrounding her, in the air and at her feet. They were attempting some sort of circular attack formation, but she kept breaking the line. She avoided dealing death blows, but amidst the hectic horde, it was becoming increasingly difficult.

Half the men bore the royal insignia of a be-eyed-triangle amidst carnations, and the other half, a gryphon. The Desmond gryphon. 

The knights had ignored Melinda’s hollered order not to attack and Yor was forced to corral the royal upstairs. As expected, Demond and the regent were playing their own game, vying for their own power.

And somehow, they’d found the location of their safehouse. Gritting her teeth, she had a feeling how. 

Far behind the man she had just slashed, stood a tall, dark-haired figure—with equally dark horns.

A fairy.

An opponent infinitely more threatening than any royal cavalry. They were unpredictable. The more powerful ones were capable of the unimaginable—or more accurately, any impossibilities that were imaginable. And she had a good feeling this one fell into that category.

The fae remained at the back of the rabble, gazing on at the slaughter with a bored look. She was making no attempt to help her human allies, meaning she was likely there, not as a true comrade, but as a business partner. Someone purely there to ensure the job would get done and who wouldn’t waste a considerate thought on anyone else.

Yor needed to eliminate her. 

Her best chance would be found amidst the chaos of battle, far before the tail end when the knights would all be done and dealt with and no longer useful as visual or physical obstacles.

But she had a problem. Melinda was upstairs. The knights were vying for her. Yor was at a perfect bottle-neck position guarding the stairwell entrance. Moving away would mean leaving Melinda vulnerable. 

A knight speared towards her. Feeling a tinge of inspiration, she slashed through the man’s grip on his sword, allowing him, now unarmed, to hurl closer, right into her shooting leg.

He flew across the room, flailing but not screaming, not yet aware what had hit him, right towards the fairy, who barely managed to spin out of the way, hair and dress billowing, face now harried.

The fae shot her a chilling look, which she returned with one of her. Liking the fae’s reaction, she continued bashing then catapulting knights, using them as ammunition. 

She could see the fairy woman getting increasingly intrigued, a lethal excitement curving her lip, as if she found their battle to be a novel game. 

Her plan succeeded. The fae soon joined the fray. 

Fireball after fireball, and curse after curse came flying at her, all of which she dodged expertly and with her characteristic grace. If she kept at it, the fae would lose her mana and her stamina, increasing her chance of slipping up and giving Yor an opening. 

The heat of the magical flames soaring past was as weak as candlelight to her, which hardened her opponent the most. 

Yor was Gifted. 

Her senses could rival that of the whole animal kingdom and she was brutally strong, fast and durable. Durable against physical attacks, as well as the magical.

The protection did not provide full coverage, but it was enough to give her an advantage.

She launched fallen sword after fallen sword in the fae’s direction, all the while kicking away the few remaining knights left, often into the fairy’s oncoming attacks. The tower rang with the clanging of metal and the air sparked metallic. One mistake and the client will be served.

Twirling mid air and horizontally over a flying fireball, Yor used her momentum to fling a stiletto like a lightning bolt from the heavens. It struck true, piercing one glowing arm. 

The fairy gaped at her own blood and seethed an unholy scream. One that reminded her of screeching mountain wind. She was clearly a sore loser.

A rush of magic flew towards her, sending Yor crashing into the floor on the opposite end of the tower. Cold and bruising pangs jolted through the shoulder she landed on.

As soon as her position was left open, the three remaining knights hurried towards the stairwell.

The fae stalked towards her, cupping her arm with a glowing—likely healing hand—ready to deal a final blow. “You were an entertaining little challenge, small as you are.”

Blood pounded audibly in Yor’s ears. A seething heat sparked through her chest as she slow rose. There was no way in hell she was letting them take Melinda.

“So were you.” She shot back. A boom sounded as she launched herself off the stony floor, and body-slammed right into the fairy.

The fae soared across the tower and hit the iron door with a deafening clang.

Yor wasted no time shooting up the stairs and gripping the climbing knights by the backs of their helmets and ripping them back down. They tumbled down the stairwell like crumpled armor. 

Now unthreatened for a moment, Yor paused and took take a breath. Looking up, into the topmost tower room, she met the gaze of a scared and trembling Melinda who eyed her bloodied form.

“A-Are you okay? I’m so sorry—I thought they’d listen to my commands, but—” Melinda’s voice broke.

“It’s alright! Just stay—”

A tingle ran up her spine. She spun. 

Shocked gripped her lungs.

A glowing form illuminated the stairwell. The fairy floated in a spinning pool of white, hair swirling like smoke, and eyes inhumanly wide, blackened and stretched in wrinkling circles like puncture wounds. Yor could feel the heat and spark of magic radiating off her in fiery waves. Gripped in one hand, was one of Yor’s golden stilettos. The one Yor had maimed her with. 

Magic stirred and swirled about like the first winds of a budding storm. Thorn Princess positioned herself in front of Melinda, ready to protect her and to finally finish off this fairy.

The fae murmured as her rays of magic twisted.

She was casting a curse, Yor realized, a powerful one.

It was the kind that would deplete the final dredges of the fairy’s mana, leaving her weakened and Yor with an opening for a finishing blow. Her eyes narrowed. I’m ready.

Hoping to break her concentration, she shot a stiletto at her opponent. The figure swiftly jolted away and glid closer, one glowing hand lifting Yor’s own weapon.

She tensed, feeling a magical precipice about to be met. Like a wave rising to peak, just to crash.

Mired in the airy echo of magic, and while dodging and countering Yor’s strikes, the fairy began her spell. Each word thundered, casting sparks about.

“Curse this spindle with my decree:” 

Her voice swirled around Yor, almost hypnotic, even as the assassin slashed her across the chest. 

“Till her true-husband comes to meet, let this princess wait in sleep!”

Registering the meaning of her curse, Yor’s heart almost rocketed out of her chest.

The fairy shot the bespelled stiletto. It soared over Yor, towards Melinda at a lightning bolt’s speed. So fast, it didn’t even give her the chance to think.

Yor hurtled backwards, knocking Melinda down, just in time for the stileto to fly over them, lightly grazing her shoulder.

Seething, she was about to jump back up and finish the job when a heavy heat fell over her. Like a muggy cloud had just descended. 

There was a sinking feeling. Like her soul was being dragged down from within her body. It was almost like—

Oh no.

She'd fallen for the fairy's trick.

Collapsing into a shocked Melinda’s arms, she caught a final glimpse of a smug, pale smile, and the horrified, tear-stained face of the first person, since she began her career, she had held hope could be her friend. 

Oh Gods, what will happen to her—And Yuri! I can’t—

The magnitude of her failure racked her final thoughts, sending her heart pumping wilder than it ever had before. She tried to rise, to find any inkling of that fantastical strength that resided in her body and in her will, that had made the impossible, possible for her, that had allowed her and Yuri to survive for so long, but she only weakened further. Horror of a kind she hadn’t experienced in years clawed through her veins, up her throat. But the adrenaline and pain was not enough to keep her awake.

Images of Melinda’s and Yuri’s grieving faces followed her into the dark waves of eternal slumber.