Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Weeping Rose perched at the edge of a quiet forest clearing, its timbered walls glowing softly in the pale morning sun. Moss clung to the shingles of its steep roof, and smoke curled lazily from the crooked chimney, smelling faintly of pinewood and last night’s fire. Ivy clung stubbornly to the corners of the building, and roses — pale pink and deep crimson — climbed the trellis along the outer walls, their petals damp with dew. A small wooden sign swung gently in the breeze, the painted words slightly chipped, but still elegant: The Weeping Rose. Beyond the clearing, the forest loomed, a tangle of oaks, birches, and firs, their leaves whispering in the wind. Somewhere distant, a brook murmured over stones, and birds called their morning songs into the open air.
Inside, the tavern was a haven of warm shadows and quiet anticipation. The air smelled faintly of rosemary and old wine, mingling with the tang of wood smoke from the hearth. Dust motes floated in sunbeams that pierced the high windows, glinting like tiny suspended stars. The main floor was a cozy expanse of worn oak: tables scattered for private conversations, a hearth large enough to warm half a dozen patrons at once, and the bar, polished to a faint shine, lined with bottles of ale, mead, and strangely labeled potions. Every surface had its story: scratches from old adventures, nicks from dropped mugs, the faint imprint of a hand that had traced the grain a hundred times.
Beneath the main floor, the basement was a darker, more secretive space. Dim red lanterns cast long, flickering shadows along the stone walls. A small stage stood at the far end, its instruments carefully arranged, dust gathering in the corners like forgotten memories. Here, the tavern’s magic felt most alive: a place for stories, songs, and the mischief that never dared to appear upstairs.
Upstairs, the rooms were simple but inviting, each door marked with a brass plate and smelling faintly of lavender. Travelers could rest here, safe from the wind and the wandering creatures of the forest. Small windows framed views of the clearing outside, letting in enough light to see the dance of leaves and the slow sway of roses climbing toward the sky.
Gem moved through it all with the practiced grace of someone who knew the place intimately. Her pale, freckled face caught the sunlight streaming through the windows. Two Dutch braids framed her features, the floral dress beneath her brown apron brushing softly against her calves as she went about her morning ritual. She hummed a tune without a name, part melody, part gentle scolding to herself, as she polished the bar and set mugs in neat rows. Her fingers lingered on the edges of the counter, arranging bottles in descending heights like a tiny orchestra of color.
She paused at the stairs leading to the basement stage. The red light flickered over the instruments waiting for hands that might never come. She straightened a stool and brushed a layer of dust from the stage, imagining it alive with laughter, music, and the low hum of conversation. This was the heart of the Weeping Rose, and it pulsed quietly, waiting for its Hermits.
Outside, the roses swayed gently in the breeze. Gem knelt to tuck a stray vine back into the trellis, her hands gentle despite their work-hardened feel. She liked the roses. They were patient, resilient, and beautiful — unlike the Hermits she knew would soon wander in, bringing chaos in their wake.
She lived alone, but solitude had taught her patience and attention to detail. She knew every Hermit by reputation, their habits, their whims, the subtle rhythms of their wanderings. Today, though, there was something in the air, a subtle charge, as though the forest and the tavern themselves whispered that company was coming.
Gem inhaled the mingled scents of rosemary, dust, and wine. Her green eyes sparkled, a small smile tugging at her freckled cheeks. She gave herself a slight, theatrical bow to the empty tavern. “Well then,” she murmured, “let’s see who wanders into my little world today.”
And for a moment, the Weeping Rose seemed to breathe with her, ready to welcome the chaos, the stories, and the life that was soon to arrive.

The morning sun had climbed higher, spilling warm light across the wooden floors of the Weeping Rose. Dust motes still drifted lazily in the beams, and the faint aroma of rosemary mingled with sizzling fat and fresh bread from the hearth. Gem moved between tables with ease, ladling thick porridge into bowls and setting plates of warm bread and honey before the empty chairs. The tavern hummed softly with its own quiet anticipation, as though it knew it would not remain empty for long.
A sharp creak at the door heralded the first visitor. Gem looked up, one hand resting on a bowl, and saw him: a solitary figure cloaked in muted browns, mud caked along the edges of worn boots, hair sticking to the damp sweat of travel. His eyes, weary and watchful, scanned the room as though mapping it, cataloging its walls and corners, before finally resting on her.
“Morning,” he said in a low, measured tone, his voice carrying a slight cadence she couldn’t place. The words rolled off his tongue in a rhythm that made Gem tilt her head in curiosity. “Morning,” she replied, offering him a small nod as she filled a mug with steaming herbal tea. “Sit anywhere you like.”
He chose the corner table nearest the window, letting the sunlight fall across his long coat. Mud left faint imprints on the floorboards as he crossed the room, and Gem noted the precision in the way he moved, despite his obvious fatigue.
As she set a plate of bread and honey before him, she struck up conversation with practiced charm, allowing the questions to flow like a gentle stream. “Long day on the road?” she asked.
He nodded once, eyes narrowing slightly. “Long, yes. Roads twist in ways you would not expect. Trees lean where they ought not, stones shift.” His words were odd, carefully measured, as if he were translating thoughts from another language into hers. Gem’s curiosity bloomed — could it be a cursed tongue? she wondered fleetingly, though she dared not ask aloud.
Between spoonfuls, she learned more in fragments: he collected objects, odd trinkets that he swore carried magic or whispered secrets. A cracked compass, a shard of glass that shimmered in sunlight, a small, smooth stone with veins like lightning. He examined each with reverence, turning them in his hands as though listening for their hidden stories.
“Do all travelers carry such things?” Gem asked lightly, brushing crumbs from the table.
“They speak,” he replied, glancing at the shard in his palm. “Some speak louder than words.”
Gem smiled. “And you? Do you have a name, or do your objects speak for you?”
A faint pause. Then he looked up, eyes meeting hers. “Ren,” he said simply. “Ren of the wandering road.”
The name settled into the room, quiet but definitive, and Gem tucked it away, like a bookmark in the story she had yet to learn.
She noted the subtle rhythms of his presence. Hermits didn’t settle, not truly, but they always left traces — impressions on a chair, a carefully chosen spot by the fire, a few stories told in fragments. And yet, for some reason, they returned. They could not help themselves; the Weeping Rose had a way of rooting itself into wandering hearts.
He ate in silence mostly, speaking only when he offered a thought about the road, the forest, or the small curiosities of the world he carried with him. And though Gem kept her questions light, she discovered enough to imagine the life he led: long nights under the stars, whispering winds in his ears, and the quiet discipline of a mind attuned to small, magical details the rest of the world missed.
When he finished, he stood, brushing crumbs from his coat. He left a few coins on the table, careful not to jingle them too loudly, and nodded once to Gem. “Thank you. Your hospitality is… rare.” His eyes flickered briefly toward the roses climbing the walls, and for a moment, the faintest trace of a smile crossed his lips before it was gone.
As the door closed behind him, Gem lingered by the window, watching footprints fade into the dirt path. Mud-stained boots, weary eyes, strange words, a name now known — Ren. He would return, she was certain. They always did.
The tavern settled back into quiet, dust motes dancing once more in the sunlight, but the Weeping Rose had already been touched, subtly, by the presence of the wandering Hermit.

Chapter Text

The tavern door swung open with a creak, letting in a rush of forest air and the faint scent of mud. Gem looked up from the bar and immediately spotted him: tall, slightly stooped, cane tapping lightly against the worn wood floor with every careful step. His pockets bulged with painted stones, and a faint glimmer of color caught the sunlight as he moved.
“Morning,” he said, voice carrying a playful lilt. Gem offered a small nod, setting a mug of steaming tea on the counter. “Sit anywhere you like,” she said lightly.
Scar ambled toward a corner table by the window, mud streaking the boards behind him. From his pockets he produced a handful of stones, holding them up with dramatic flair. “Symbols,” he explained, tipping one toward her. “Part art, part superstition, part nonsense. For protection.”
Gem took the stone, turning it over in her hand. The swirl of colors was mesmerizing, oddly alive, and for a moment, she felt a flicker of unease. Yet, as the morning went on, she found herself touching it absentmindedly, its weight somehow comforting.
Scar moved through the tavern with careless energy, gesturing, talking, flinging a stone onto a table as he described its meaning with a half-serious tone. At first glance, he seemed like an outsider, a giant goofball incapable of keeping himself safe. He laughed, leaned heavily on his cane, and stumbled slightly over a chair leg.
And yet, Gem knew better. She watched him carefully, noticing the intelligence in his eyes, the creativity in every movement, the way he noticed details others overlooked. There were scars on his hands, faint lines on his face, but they were marks of experience, not weakness. Despite his apparent clumsiness, he had survived. Despite the cane, he was still moving, still observing, still present.
He didn’t speak of politics, of kings or kingdoms, yet Gem could see the awareness behind his jokes and flippant stories. He noticed patterns, dangers, and opportunities that most would miss. The painted stones, the laughter, the exaggerated theatrics — all a mask for a mind that understood far more than he let on.
Gem tucked the stone he had been given into her apron pocket, feeling its subtle comfort. Scar continued to move among the tables, scattering stones, gesturing to invisible forces, talking in a rhythm all his own. The tavern seemed to hum a little brighter around him, alive with energy and possibility.
For now, he was just Scar: chaotic, playful, impossibly alive. But Gem could see the layers beneath, the quiet skill and survival instinct hidden behind the laughter. And even without words, she knew the painted stone would remind her that some wanderers were not what they seemed — and that some, like Scar, left their mark without ever meaning to.
Gem wiped her hands on her apron, glancing at Scar as he leaned casually against the bar. For a moment, her mind drifted back to that first day he had arrived. She remembered the sharp intake of his breath when he saw her face — almost a heart attack, as if recognizing her after all those years had nearly knocked the wind out of him.
She had known him long before this: a man nearly as close to the king as she had been, trusted, competent, dangerous. And now, his head was on every wanted poster in the kingdom. Scar, the former king’s archer, had vanished into the world — and yet here he was, standing in her tavern, alive.
He looked at her, and for the first time in what felt like ages, Gem saw him truly exhale, a slow, almost imperceptible release of tension.
“What are you doing here?” she asked sharply, eyes narrowing as she caught a flicker of recognition in his. “I saw your handsome face everywhere on those wanted posters!”
Scar grinned, tapping his cane against the floor. “Oh, just following in the steps of my favorite chief swordswoman for the king,” he said lightly, voice teasing. “I just… left. What a coincidence, seeing you here.”
Gem rolled her eyes, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “Sush, you imbecile,” she said, glancing toward the fifteen-something boy sitting not far from the bar, who had been watching their exchange with wide-eyed curiosity.
Scar’s grin widened, mischievous as ever. “Okay, go hide in the cellar. The guards are going to come searching for you soon.”
Gem shook her head, half exasperated, half amused.
“Oh, thanks,” he said, leaning in slightly, voice conspiratorial. “You’ve always been my favorite redhead!”
With that, he tipped an imaginary hat, shuffled awkwardly on his cane, and vanished down the stairs to the basement, leaving Gem alone with a faint smile and a painted stone warm in her pocket.
The Weeping Rose settled back into quiet, but Gem could feel it: the tavern had just been touched again by a story that had been years in the making.
As Scar disappeared down the stairs, Gem shook her head with a quiet sigh, returning to the mugs on the bar. There was someone standing in front of the bar, again, this time, a small, wiry boy with tousled blond hair and startlingly dark eyes that seemed to swallow the light around them. He practically bounced toward her, enthusiasm radiating from every movement.
“Are you, like… part of a resistance or something?” he asked, eyes wide and sparkling. “Because if so, I’m so in!”
Gem pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a soft groan. She had dealt with eager, chaotic Hermits before, but the energy of this one was… intense.
And then, as she looked at him, her thoughts drifted back, memories unfolding like dust in sunbeams.
A few days after Scar had first arrived, the boy had wandered into the basement, drawn to the faint red glow of the lanterns on the stage. Scar had been practicing outside, frustrated, pacing while his precious bow lay unattended in a chest. Gem had watched from the bar, smirking quietly.
The boy — Grian, she remembered clearly — had discovered the bow, eyes alight with fascination and mischief. Scar had nearly had a heart attack, shouting and gesturing in panic, but he couldn't blow his cover, so he just gave up, let the young boy have fun, and Gem had simply leaned against the counter, amused. There had been a tense day of Scar practicing outside while Grian tinkered inside, apparently oblivious to the danger he was in.
Gem remembered the relief — and secret amusement — when the next morning the bow had mysteriously vanished from Grian’s bed chest, replaced by a crude, homemade one. Scar had retrieved his own carefully, silently crafting a new bow for the boy in return while keeping his own safe under a floor board. There had been no words between them, just the quiet understanding of mutual respect, the quiet observations of the youger to learn how to hit the target, the growing attachment of the older one and a strange, budding fondness.
Even now, watching Scar’s playful antics in the present, Gem could still see the shadow of that first chaotic encounter. The bow incident had been the first spark of something that, despite all the laughter and goofiness, ran deep: care, trust, and the faintest glimmer of family in a world where none could afford it.
She glanced at Grian again, sitting patiently near the bar, and sighed. “Oh, I always knew you were going to be trouble,” she murmured under her breath, shaking her head with a tiny smile.

Chapter Text

The morning rush had just started when Gem found the note.
It had been slipped under the tavern door sometime before sunrise — a single sheet of paper, folded three times, weighed down by a small rock painted with concentric red circles. Scar would probably claim it meant good fortune. Gem privately suspected it meant please don’t lose this.
She picked up the paper and unfolded it. The handwriting was neat, looping, and far too polite for anyone who regularly dealt with the king’s guards.
Gem,
I dearly hope this message finds you well (and not still threatening Scar to stop painting stones indoors).
I require the following items, preferably by sundown:
– 12 lengths of canvas rope
– 4 sacks of gravel (fine grade)
– 1 barrel of honey
– 6 yards of copper wire
– A shovel (sturdy)
– Another shovel (sturdier)
– A bag of mint candies
– 3 vials of blue dye
– And absolutely no carrots
Please leave them at the old well by the west road.
I will retrieve them without entering town.
Warm regards,
Mumbo Jumbo
P.S. I am not avoiding the town. I am merely… tactically absent.
Gem stared at the list. Then stared at the signature. Then snorted.
Scar, who was currently balancing three mugs on one palm while lecturing a stone about “proper spiritual etiquette,” perked up.
“Whatcha got there, Gemmy?”
“A supply order,” she said, handing it to him. “From a Hermit named Mumbo.”
Scar read it, raised his eyebrows, and let out a low whistle. “Oh, Mumbo. Brilliant man. Extremely competent. Expert builder. Really tall. Terrified of towns.”
“He says he’s tactically absent.”
“That’s Mumbo-speak for the guards looked at me funny once and now I’m never coming back.”
Gem rolled her eyes, but something in Scar’s tone made her pause. There was fondness there — yes, but also the faintest thread of concern. Another Hermit who wouldn’t cross the border into town… another name they would have to add to the list of people quietly avoiding the king’s gaze.
“Is he in trouble too?” she asked quietly.
Scar shrugged with forced lightness. “Aren’t we all?”
Before she could reply, a familiar voice piped up from a table:
“Does this mean we’re helping another outlaw? Because that is SO COOL.”
Gem didn’t have to look to know Grian was practically vibrating with excitement.
Scar groaned. “Please don’t encourage him.”
Gem folded the note carefully and tucked it under the counter. Another Hermit to help. Another secret to guard.
The old west road was little more than a dirt track carved between wheat fields and scattered pine. Gem balanced the final sack of gravel on her hip and adjusted the rope coil slung over her shoulder. Scar had offered to help — which meant he had nearly toppled a shelf, tripped over his own cane twice, and declared himself “morally supportive” instead. She’d sent him back inside before he broke something or someone.
The well stood crooked at the edge of the trees, its stones mottled with moss. Gem set the crates down in the usual spot… and waited.
A branch snapped.
“Mumbo?” she called. “Your… supplies?”
Silence.
Then, very softly, a mutter: “Is she still there? She’s probably still there. Oh, this is terribly awkward—”
Gem pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mumbo, I can hear you.”
A tall man eased out from behind a pine, hair windswept, eyes wide with the guilt of someone caught stealing bread — or, more accurately, someone who just didn’t want to make eye contact with a single other human being. He wore a long coat patched with bits of copper wiring, small gears and doodads sewn onto the sleeves like decorations. In his arms he cradled what looked suspiciously like a… miniature windmill?
“Oh! Gem!” he said, as if discovering her for the first time. “Fancy seeing you here. What a coincidence. On this road. At this exact time. With all the supplies I ordered.”
“…Yes,” she said flatly. “Very coincidental.”
Mumbo cleared his throat and knelt to inspect the crates. “Wonderful! Excellent! Perfect rope quality. And the gravel — fine grade indeed! You are a treasure to society.”
“You know,” Gem said, crossing her arms, “most people would just walk into town and buy things themselves.”
Mumbo froze. “Most people aren’t me.”
She followed him as he carried items deeper into the trees. Leaves parted to reveal his camp — if “camp” was even the right word. It looked like a workshop had exploded and then politely rearranged itself into a living space:
A tarp roof suspended by an improbable number of pulleys

A crank-operated lantern tower

A series of half-built contraptions involving funnels, jars, and one suspiciously vibrating box

A hammock that looked less “comfortable” and more “likely to yeet someone into the bushes”

Dozens of tiny mechanical birds hanging from branches, clinking softly in the wind

Gem blinked. “So… this is home?”
“For now!” Mumbo said cheerfully, dumping a bag of tools next to a wooden crate labeled DO NOT OPEN (unless you’re me). “It’s wonderfully peaceful out here. Quiet. Private. Full of inspiration!”
“You mean lonely,” Gem murmured, more to herself than to him.
But Mumbo heard it anyway. His smile faltered — not much, just a flicker — and he busied himself fastening the copper wire to some sort of rotating framework.
“I’m not lonely,” he said. “I simply work better without… observers.”
Gem watched him twist the wire with practiced precision, movements steady and clever. For all his awkwardness, Mumbo’s hands held the confidence of someone who knew exactly how the world fit together — or at least how it should fit together, if reality behaved properly.
“You know,” she said after a moment, “Grian would love this place.”
He nearly dropped the wire. “Grian? The young one? Big eyes? Endless curiosity? That Grian?”
“That Grian.”
Mumbo visibly paled. “Oh, no. He cannot be allowed here. He would touch everything. And then everything would explode. And then I would explode. And then I’d have to rebuild myself.”
Gem smiled. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t find the place.”
She didn’t add — not yet.
Later, fate would drag Mumbo and Grian straight into each other’s orbit, whether either of them liked it or not. And once that happened, Mumbo’s lonely forest workshop would never be the same.
For now, though, Gem stepped back and let the inventor fuss over his supplies, muttering to himself, occasionally praising the gravel for being “exceptionally pebbly.” The eccentricity was clear, but so was the exhaustion in his eyes — a man hiding behind projects and polite deflections because the world outside these trees was not kind to people who stuck out.
When Gem finally turned to leave, he paused in his tinkering.
“Gem?”
She looked back.
“Thank you. Truly.”
She nodded once. “You’re welcome, Mumbo.”
And she left him among the trees and inventions — alone, but not quite as alone as before.

Morning drifted lazily across the valley, sunlight pooling in soft gold over the tavern’s wooden porch. Gem was polishing glasses behind the bar, humming under her breath, when the horses arrived.
She didn’t hear them at first — only the distant thud of hooves, steady and disciplined. A sound that once would have made her spine straighten, hand instinctively reaching for a sword she no longer carried.
She stepped out into the cool air just as the wagon rolled into view: deep violet banners fluttering from the poles, a lacquered chest strapped to the back, and at the front, the royal insignia glinting in the sun.
The King’s insignia.
Her old insignia.
Gem’s breath hitched. Reflex, nothing more.
The driver didn’t dismount. He simply lifted a small wooden crate and set it onto the ground like an offering.
“For the tavern,” he called. Not a greeting. Not even a glance at her.
Just duty.
Then he clicked his tongue, the horses turned, and the wagon disappeared back down the road — leaving behind nothing but dust and an uncomfortable silence.
Gem crouched beside the crate. It wasn’t heavy.
But it felt heavy.
The seal was unmistakable — a pressed emblem shaped like a stylized playing card, the King’s new obsession. A symbol of order, he’d once said. A system of control disguised as a game. She slipped a knife under the wax and opened the box.
Inside lay a framed decree. Beautifully painted.
Beautifully threatening.
A Card decree.
A single large card, decorated in gold leaf, the King’s face stylized at the center — smiling, benevolent, all lies — surrounded by ornamental script:
“To be displayed prominently in all establishments of gathering. By order of His Majesty.”
Gem closed her eyes.
So this was how he watched now.
Through cards hung on walls, eyes drawn like artwork.
A reminder: The King is everywhere. The King is always watching.
Lovely.
She carried it inside.
The tavern, still empty, seemed to shrink around her as she held the frame up to the wall. The painted eyes felt like they followed her. The old Gem — the knight who knew how the palace worked, inside and out — would have spat at it, ripped it in half, burned it.
The Gem she was now simply sighed and hung it between two lanterns.
By midday, the Hermits had trickled in.
Ren was first. He froze when he saw the card, ears twitching beneath tangled hair, pupils narrowing slightly — suspicion? Recognition?
“New decoration?” he asked, voice light, too light.
“Mhm,” Gem said.
He laughed, but it sounded strained. “Ha! What a lovely portrait. Very… sovereign-chic.”
Ren didn’t sit with his back to the wall today. He sat facing the Card.
Scar was next, balancing a plate of pastries he absolutely hadn’t paid for.
He looked up, his grin faltering just a fraction. “Oho… new wall art?” His cheerful voice wavered, dipped. “Bold choice, Gem. Very… vintage tyrant-core.”
He turned away quickly, picking at the edge of his sleeve — an old nervous habit she hadn’t seen since before his wanted posters came down.
Mumbo wandered in last, awkward as ever, delivering a jar of something bubbling suspiciously.
He noticed the card.
Stopped.
Stared too long.
Then cleared his throat and said, “Well. That’s unsettling,” before nearly tripping over a chair.
None of them commented further.
None of them had to.
The energy in the room shifted — a collective stiffening, a quiet dread threaded beneath casual chatter. Voices lowered. Gazes flicked toward the painted face and then away. Even the air felt tighter, as though the Card itself stole a little room to breathe.
Gem watched them all, a knot forming in her chest.
She wasn’t part of this world anymore — the politics, the fear, the King’s tightening grip — but somehow, the tremors of power still found her. Still reached her. Still wrapped their fingers around her tavern like roots creeping under a door.
The King had no business with the Hermits.
Not yet.
Not directly.
But his shadow had arrived regardless.
And Gem could feel it — the start of a game she thought she’d left behind.
She looked up at the Card.
What do you want, she wondered silently, and how long until I’m pulled back in?
Grian pushed the door open with his usual chaotic energy, a gust of cold air following him in.
He was halfway through calling, “Gem! Scar! You will not believe the—” when he stopped dead in the center of the tavern.
His gaze locked instantly on the golden-framed Card.
He frowned.
Not the curious frown he used for shiny objects or strange inventions — no, this one was sharp, perceptive, the kind that didn’t match the boyish laughter he used as armor.
Scar was pretending to reorganize his stones — every single one of them already perfectly lined up.
Gem was wiping the counter so aggressively she’d nearly sanded it down to dust.
“…Okay,” Grian said slowly. “Why are you two acting like you swallowed bees?”
Gem didn’t look up. “We’re not.”
“You are,” Grian insisted, stepping between them and the Card. “And that thing—” he jabbed a finger toward it, “—is making you both look like someone set the tavern on fire.”
Scar laughed too loudly, too quickly. “What? Nooo! Gem and I are totally normal right now! Perfectly calm! Love that portrait. Big fan of… facial symmetry.”
Gem rolled her eyes so hard it nearly counted as confession.
Grian crossed his arms. “So. Is there something going on? With you two. And the King.”
Silence.
Gem kept wiping the same spot.
Scar kept rearranging the same stone.
Both refused to meet his eyes.
“No,” Gem finally said.
“Nope!” Scar echoed, voice cracking.
Grian didn’t believe a word — he wasn’t stupid, despite efforts to appear otherwise — but he also knew when to push and when to wait.
“Fine,” he said, stepping back. “But if you're lying…”
He glanced at the Card, then at them.
“…I’ll find out eventually.”
He wandered off toward the back rooms, muttering under his breath about “ominous artwork” and “weird grown-ups.”
Gem exhaled slowly.
Scar sagged in his chair.
Neither said it aloud, but both knew the truth:
Grian had seen too much.
And this was only the beginning.