Work Text:
Fate, treacherous thing it was, possessed a talent for cruelty. Dainsleif had resigned himself to the role of an afterthought lifetimes ago, haunted by a starlit specter. Fair hair, golden eyes — they'd faced him with reciprocated adoration half a millennium ago, but not now. Not ever again, he thought, until that semblance, equal parts foreign and dear, strode into Angel's Share and inquired the price of his company.
“Five hundred mora, and three answered questions,” he replied, knowing the true cost far higher still.
More to his penance, then: longing and remembrance, poison-bitter, coiled around the remnants of his heart.