Time was a strange thing. It moved faster and slower on its own terms. Moments you wanted to last forever were over in a blink. Horrors you wanted to end dragged on for what felt like centuries. Theo and Fletcher bounced back into their rhythms as if nothing had happened between them, as if they didn't love each other, and as if they weren't both pretending that they didn't because they simply couldn't.

His bodyguard left in his day off and Theo pretended not to care. His hands shook and more and more he snuck away to drink and Theo pretended not to notice. But his heart knew, and it bled for him. He was doing this to Fletcher, he was sure of it. Driving a man to drink, how often he had heard his father declare he would. He just never imagined the man would be the one he loved. The thought filled his belly with lead.

Then everything was moving all at once and his apparent savior was sweeping into his bedroom with all of the grace and suaveness of a great big hunting cat. Theo nodded to Fletcher as he got to his own feet to greet the newcomer. His brows raised in surprise to find he was actually shorter and found his eyes sweeping up and down the newest addition with something akin to appreciation.

"A pleasure to meet you, sir," he murmured softly, holding his hand out to shake. "I trust Mr. Daw has explained the parameters of your role? Do you have any questions before we proceed with planning?"

The water was revitalizing and he found himself thinking clearly despite the nausea that remained and, would probably, remain for some time yet. He had been stupid to drink in an attempt to chase away his problems and even stupider to think a giant suit of armor would have a shred of understanding on how human bodies worked. No, drinking with armor was never a good idea.

At least he was alive to learn that lesson. Fuck, when did that become a good thing? His life meant nothing. He was nothing.

With a sigh, he trudged back towards the shore where the oddly corporeal looking spirit now sat next to her blade. She was intriguing, far more so than her prison - at least to him. She had a code of honor it would seem, and expected others to live by it as well.

Foolish girl. She had been imprisoned and yet still saved someone who might try to kill her in the future. That kind of honor was deadly. It was the kind of honor Snarg had nearly two decades ago before everything had fallen to shit. He was no longer honorable. He was a mercenary who killed without a thought, followed orders without question, and was lost when there weren't clear instructions. He made poor decisions, that was the whole reason his life had become what it was. He couldn't trust himself. The wind decided his fate, now.

He was on the bank and sat, soaking wet and without even an attempt to dry off, next to Kiri, probably closer than he should have, and stared off across the water without speaking.

He didn't need to say a word.

The carriage rattled as the remnants of the Saronieth family continued their travels from Summervale into the central city of Serendipity. It had been a lengthy journey from their small estate by the sea, with plenty of stops in between for Lady Saronieth to stretch her legs and for Lord Saronieth to disappear for a few hours on "important business," which Miriel knew was to find some tavern to spend what little money they had on some drink or another.

This was a big, important trip, she had been told. It was going to change everything! Her great Uncle Erilon had personally requested an audience to see his great niece in person. Elesar felt like his hard work was finally paying off and there would be important hands guiding their future from here on out.

You just can't ruin it, Miriel. he had said, Smile, be pleasant, get that dull look off your face and act like the high born lady you were always meant to be. Your sisters all married up, so can you.

Sure. She wasn't stupid. She knew what he had been up to these past months, years even. She had seen the copious amounts of letters he had written and overheard the conversations her parents had about their simple daughter who was their last hope at advancement.

She also knew that, no matter how he schemed, Elesar would never rise in society, not after all of the horrible financial and social decisions he had done over the years. Frankly, she was surprised her great uncle had even agreed to meet with them. Besides some distant family ties, he owed them nothing. Even being associated with Elesar and his family could have potential negative results. Which lead her to one question: what kind of information did her father have against the man? It had to be good, she knew that in her bones.

"Are you listening, Miriel?" Her mother's sharp tone cut through mindlessness and Miriel blinked up, not even bothering to speak in reply.

"Elesar, this is pointless." She snapped at her husband, "Erilon is going to take one look at that and send us away."

"Miriel, you do know what to do, do you not?" Elesar asked in frustration.

In response, Miriel smiled pleasantly, as was expected, and nodded like the good little noblewoman she needed to be. No one cared what she thought or what she said as long as she was pretty and compliant.

Her father sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed.

Miriel didn't care. She didn't want any of this and knew that, as their last ditch effort, she had more control over all of it. If she was lucky they'd just stop this pilgrimage and turn around so she could live out the rest of her spinster life in peace.

"How did you grow up like this?" He sighed, "What did we do wrong? You had everything. You had six sisters to teach you properly. They all learned how to act, how to be proper. Not that you even understand what that means." He turned towards Riae, his wife, and shook his head. Miriel's hope started to rise. She knew that look: they were beginning to realize this was all most likely folly and should just turn around and go home. Perfect. In a few days she would be back staring off the cliffs at the sea while the sun rose to the east.

"Why are we stopping?" She asked suddenly as the first one to realize the carriage had begun to slow. They didn't know it, but she was the brightest one in this caravan.

"I don't know....we can't be there yet." Her father replied while sticking his head out the window to look at the driver.

"Road's blocked, My Lord." Came the muffled reply, "Looks like a storm downed a tree. Could take a bit to get the debris moved."

Muriel sighed again and rested her chin in her hand against the windowsill.

Great.

"We could always just go home?" She offered.

He shut the door firmly behind him, pulled the flask from his pocket, and downed it. All of it, until the last drop fell on his tongue. And still, like a man dying of thirst, he wanted more. It was never enough these days. It didn't last the way he needed it to, and sooner or later, everything that he'd been desperate to avoid would inevitably creep back and set him off balance. And if it wasn't something within him, it was Theo doing it: reeling him in close until he thought he was safe and then finding the sorest bruise and jabbing at it hard. For what? For fun? For attention? What did he want? Did the man even know?

He paced, anxiously waiting for that fuzzy, hazy warmth to numb this over. His heart beat in his throat, and his nerves felt like fire, and something else burned in him, awakened once again by their latest argument. And he wanted it gone. He needed it to leave. He needed to be aloof and cool-headed and he needed not to care.

Why did he care? He'd said it himself that he didn't. He'd said that if Theo wanted to have a little fun with their newest bodyguard, whomever he may be, that he wouldn't be bothered by it. But he was. He hated it. The thought alone twisted him up inside in a way that it shouldn't have at all. Theo wasn't his. They'd both agreed to leave it be — to back away and not pursue this. So why did he feel so sick at the thought of the man behaving just as freely as he did? Theo didn't get upset when he'd talked about the brothel, after all. The man knew his habits. He knew where he used to go at night.

Oh, but that bothered Fletcher, too. He stopped in his tracks and his eye narrowed at the realization that he'd wanted to see jealousy. He'd hoped for it. He'd instigated this just as much as Theo had, digging for a reaction, looking for a sign that the man wanted him. He scoffed in disbelief. What were they doing? This was madness. Absolute madness. And he wondered if there was even a way out of it, or if they'd simply both been doomed to break and succumb to this siren's call.

It was fortunate that the whiskey had begun to work its magic. He'd found himself wondering. Bargaining. Finding ways around the rules so he could act on his desires. But every path led to pain — his, Theo's, or both. Was there no way forward, after all? Had he condemned himself to an impossible situation, convinced that he could weather it? And if that was the case...why hold back? To keep from hurting Theo a little longer? To keep from hurting himself? He fell backwards on the bed, arms spread wide, and grunted softly as he hit the mattress. He stared up at the ceiling and watched the world begin to spin, willing the booze to sweep through him and cleanse him of this sickness.

And then he heard it: Theo's voice. Theo, talking to himself. Berating himself. Saying Fletcher deserved better. Wanting to do better. And to his surprise, Fletch smiled at the absurdity of it. He laughed quietly and closed his eye. He allowed himself to drift. "What if I don't want you to be better?" he murmured.


In the days that followed, they went back to their careful dance again, stepping gracefully between the pitfalls of their hopes and wants. But he could feel himself slipping. There were moments when he thought the fire in him would sear his insides until it compelled him under the duress of torture to speak it aloud. Each time, the whiskey did less and less to quench it, and when his hands began to shake from the withdrawals, he could no longer deny that he had another, more serious problem. "Turning into you, old man," he said to Ven's memory as he watched his fingers quiver and felt his throat burn for more drink. "Look what you've done to me. We're all bloody hypocrites, now, aren't we?"

But he held it together: every cracked and broken piece of him. If he thought he smelled of whiskey, he'd cover it up with a cigarette. If he began to shake, he excused himself and blamed the cold. He didn't rightly know if anyone could see it. If they did, they didn't tell him, and he preferred it like that. It was none of their damned business, after all. He'd sort it all out eventually. He'd pick himself back up after midwinter, like he'd told himself before, and he'd carry on like nothing happened.

Only...he wasn't sure this time around. He couldn't tell anymore whether he drank to hide from his want of Theo or just to lay Ven and Ash to rest. It all spun together now, each thread inextricable from the twine. And if he didn't know, then he couldn't say for certain that it would get any better in the spring. And then he buried that thought, too, under more whiskey.

He waited through the weekend and chose an off day to visit The Siren. He wanted to do this thing quietly. Correctly. He wanted fewer witnesses — both to this scheme, and to his asking for a man. Still, Lydia gave him one hell of a look when he finally did. "I didn't have you pegged for the type," she snorted. But she sent Fletch along to a room nonetheless, and the man in question entered shortly thereafter.

He was tall. Taller than Theo, even, but certainly not a waifish beanpole. He had light hair that fell to his shoulders, and startling green eyes that could no doubt draw in men and women alike. His tanned skin suggested some southern blood, as did his full lips. Yes. He'd do. He wasn't Fletcher's type, really. He was uncannily good-looking in that shimmery, fairy-like way that the people of this country seemed to find pleasing for some reason. But if Edwina didn't look at him and see stars, then she was blinder than Fletcher's left eye.

"Like what you see?" he asked with an air of supreme confidence.

Fletch chuckled. "For me? No. For the woman I've got in mind? Yeah. Sit down. I've got a proposition for you."


He took some time to consider it — longer than Fletch had anticipated, honestly. But by the third day, delivered in a pretty, perfumed envelope that made Neish do a double take, they had their answer. By the fourth, he'd cleared the new guard with the Baron, and by the fifth, he'd sorted out the new rotation. Now all there was left to do was set the real plan into motion. So at the evening changing of the guard, when the house had quieted for the night, he dismissed Tiff at the door and slipped in with their new honey trap. He approached Theo where the nobleman sat, leaving a respectful distance between them.

"Theo, meet Neal," he began, keeping his voice low. "Neal, this is Theodore Archer. You're going to come to his rescue."

Ohhhhhh?

Peering into Wisselworth's eyes, Juniper's eyebrows rose the slightest bit as she studied him with genuine surprise—and, perhaps even more surprisingly, genuine respect. Well, well, wasn't this a twist? It seemed they had a common goal. Selenius owed Wissilworth. Selenius owed Rufus. Then Wolves wanted her to give the man a scare. Wissilworth wanted her to torture him. A little.

The stars in her little pocket of the universe had aligned. She would get to do her job—and she didn't even have to be sly about it now! She would get to spook him very, very publicly and something about that absolutely delighted her. Ahh, it seemed she may have misjudged this Wissilworth, silly name and all. The man had bite!

Even better? Even Constance seemed to hate the man. For the moment, at least, the three of them had a common enemy. Hopefully that would stall the bitch a little.

"So...just a little playful hazing, M'lord?" she whispered, their faces so close together it was bordering on uncomfortable, but she didn't dare look away. "I...I think I can do that. As long as it's nothing too...um...extreme?"

Yeah, right, she was going to make the man writhe.

"I can certainly try my best!" she concluded with a nod, eyes wandering to the assortment of gowns. Gods, she was going to feel as ridiculous and flashy as a peacock in those, but there was no going back to the comfort zone of anonymity; that ship had sailed and she was stranded on this island now for however long this played out. Holding in a sigh, Juniper turned from Wisselworth and scanned the selection, hoping for at least one discreet option, but saw none.

Ah. Fine.

"How do I even choose?" she mused, biting her lip in feigned indecision. Finally, she closed her eyes and pointed to a dress at random, which about summed up her fashion sense. "That one!"

He physically shrunk at the look knowing immediately in that moment that Fletcher was not sick. He was furious with Theo who had once again stepped in it. Theodore did nothing to stop the other man and remained still long after the nanny door sent vibrations through the floor at being shut.

How did Theo keep doing this? How did he keep spewing hurt at Fletcher and then expect the man to take it and be alright? How did this man manage to break all of Theo's walls into dust? It left the nobleman scared and raw and hungry for more. He said he would be good. He said he'd behave and not fling himself at Fletcher or beg the man to love him and want him.

But, inside he still wanted him. He wanted his attention, his smiles, his scowls, his embraces, his kisses, his touches. He wanted to feel the rumbles of speech and laughter. He wanted intimacy that was more than just sex, that was love and closeness and warmth and he wanted it with Fletcher in a way he'd never wanted it before. He did not think he could ever want it again with someone else. And how deeply that both scared and exhilarated him.

Theo felt as if he was spiraling into a thousand tiny cracks. That at any minute he was going to explode and shatter and left to pick up the pieces of his heart all over again. Everything was far more complicated this time around. Was it maturity? Or was it the intensity that came with everything that Fletcher was and did? Or was it because it was forbidden? He had walked this path before so why was he so tempted to stumble down it again? He said one thing and did another. It must drive Fletcher insane for it surely was doing it to Theo.

He got up from his chair and paced. From door to door back and forth and back and forth he went. Each step a hammer to his heart. Each step as audible as if it was Fletcher's room he paced in. Theo ran his fingers through his damp hair and shook it out again with a soft growl. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Theodore Ransom Archer? Why can't you do anything right?" He bemoaned aloud as he sunk down onto the edge of his bed suddenly feeling so old and broken down. "He deserves so much better than this. I don't understand why he fucking stays when I act like this. I wouldn't stay...," he exhaled. "I would." Theo sighed again sounding even more aggravated and resigned. "Be better, Theodore! Be better. Be better..."

Perhaps Veride had grown a second head. 

Perhaps her flourishing hair, so vibrant and full of blossoms and blooms, had been set ablaze in a fury of rage and red. 

Perhaps she'd become a mortal! 

Any and all of these were just as like to be true, when both Neverlie and Erstwhile alike stopped their bickering, as if entranced or shocked by something beyond their kin, and turned to look at Veride with blank, if not speechless expressions. And stare they did, for a time, with naught but the wind and a stray field mouse to break the silence.

...And then both laughed. Vigorously. Heartily. Yet there was always a clear difference between the Fairy King and his closest follower— for where Erstwhile laughed 'with' Veride, Neverlie very pointedly laughed 'at' Veride.

"'Surely it couldn't be any more dangerous than spring.' Never I, Neverlie, shall hear so hilarious a thing! Caw, caw, pipipi!" Impressive, truly— The Fairy of Crows rarely lose her composure, yet Veride had managed it from each possible angle— mirthful laughter and fathomless frustration alike. Erstwhile, in turn, was just as amused— though there was a far clearer innocence in his joy, as he laughed for a different reason.

"The four courts are alike in that regard— Their beauty and their malignity." He explained, both to Neverlie and Veride. "Indeed, we of the Unseelie can be quite a bit... 'too playful' at times. But... having said that, not all of my subjects are quite like me. For instance... many of my subjects only tell lies," He continued, before looking specifically to Neverlie, "While others like to tease and fuss." This, of course, earned him an indignant pout— which he promptly ignored.

"The spider in my garden... might be a little bit of a problem. She very much does enjoy the taste of Spring fae. The more vibrant, the better."

A pause. Another sip.

This moment was far more important to Kiri than simply rehydrating after the night of vicarious self-indulgence she'd suffered. As she sat at the bank of the river, legs crossed on the ground, sword settled on the ground at her side, she allowed herself a few moments to truly acknowledge where she was— or perhaps more impactfully, WHAT she was.

Free.

How long had it been, truly? She could only recall having been allowed out of that abhorrent darkness— that cage of enchanted metal which her very soul was bound to— once. The circumstances... what were they? If her memory served her truly, the armor which bound her had taken some sort of severe damage. A battle... with a wolf? No... a man. It was a wolf-like man, yes; She could remember brandishing her blade against him in self-defense only moments after tasting sunlight for the first time. A fearsome opponent... one she was much too disoriented at the time to kill.

She'd have to rectify that, one day.

Alas, just as then, Kiri knew she could only enjoy this 'freedom' for a short time. The magic which bound her soul to that... 'thing', was still in tact. Even as she tasted fresh water for the first time in an uncountable number of years, and felt the warmth of the sun on her skin in kind, she could still feel the 'pull'. The compulsion of her very soul to return to the cage in which it was destined to remain.

The Vallyae family's magics were fearsome, indeed. A shame, then, that she was all that remained of it.

As she opened her eyes, and wearily watched the fool of a warrior seemingly come to— or closer to— his senses, she could merely wonder for how long she would be allowed to walk the earth this time. A day? A season? A calendar? It mattered little, in the grand scheme of things. Eventually, the armor would recover— it always did— and she would be locked away once more.

"You are awake, then?"

As for the time she had...

His eye flashed in annoyance. How did Theo do it? Play innocent like that right after trying to go for the jugular? And how did the man not see how very much he needed to back off right now, before Fletcher bit back again? "I'm fine. Leave it be," he warned, and without another word of explanation he headed for the nanny door.

"No...are you unwell?" Theo sat up straighter and stared at Fletcher in concern. "Do you need a shift change or a healer? I'll stay put and not get into trouble but we can send for someone discretely so there's no trouble."