Alarith

i am a tender bird parading as this vulture. i love things unto their very bone & yet have always held grief a fragile vein

The sun had long begun to set, plunging the Mire into a veil of darkness. The trees bent and curled at the whims of the wind, a promise of a tempest on the distant horizon. Already, a light rain began to fall, swallowed by the thick canopy that would see its leaves clawing greedily at any water long before it reached the ground. Alarith had some time before the storm would grow too heavy for her to remain out in the open, and she'd intended to make every use of this reprieve before the swell of it swallowed the Mire in its entirety. Birds watched from the dry warmth of their nests, while rabbits and rodents skittered about the forest floor in last attempts to source some grains for their pups before the rains swept them away.

Alarith's footfalls were near-silent. Long had she taken to the trees, gliding from branch to branch with feline precision, feminine grace. Claws gripped into the branches beneath her, quaking underneath her weight but not giving way. She was ever-mindful of their limits, picking each branch carefully, ensuring that it did not snap or bend from below. Steadily she forged her way above, dusted with rain when the canopies parted and gave way to the darkening skies above. Eventually, she came to settle on a branch with a wide berth, settled beneath a well-covered, thickened canopy. There, the bark was delightfully dry, and as Alarith laid down upon it, a satisfied purr resonated from her chest.

This would do, for now. Until the rains pushed her back to the comforts of her den.

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Another day meant plenty more duties to tend to. With each day, Luther became busier and busier. It seemed as if the calls at his borders were endless, and sometimes there was trouble within the land that he had to tend to. A prisoner causing trouble, or another predator slipping into their caches. He was constantly on his feet, and reprieve came only at night when he truly loosened up. Sleep, however, hardly came.

Evening time was here, and the pale monarch had began finishing up his duties for the day. Tying off the loose ends so to speak. At this moment he was striding quickly beside one of the guards, listening to the man give his report for the day. Fortunately, there had been no incidents on the western border. Good. Unlike the northern border. There had been few too many trespassers. I will need to speak with—

A noise above his head made Luther pause in his tracks. The lion walking beside him took a few moments to catch up to his lord's absence by his side, and eventually when he did all he could say was "...my King?" Luther's had eyes only for @Alarith, even when he began to dismiss the man. Go. We will speak again tomorrow. he told the man, who bowed and disappeared in the thick foliage of the Mire.

Alarith, his little bird, had once again taken up to the branches of the trees. She was a strange woman, and yet that strangeness is what always allured him. A strange place to hide from the rain, mein kleiner vogel. he mused with a smile. Is your den not to your liking? Perhaps he could arrange a better one for her. If only there was a way to build a den in the branches, he was certain she would be happier.

code by cala - art by rabbit

Alarith

i am a tender bird parading as this vulture. i love things unto their very bone & yet have always held grief a fragile vein

At first there was near-silence. Nothing else permeated the hallowed halls of the Mire except for the blissful whirring of cloudburst, the rhythmic pitter-pattering of rainfall seeping through the old bones of this territory. But then began the sound of muffled voices and steps venturing ever-closer through the weirwood. @Luther ♔'s kingdom was growing, and Alarith found it harder and harder to find these moments to herself, where she could be relieved of Ecrosian shackles and reminisce of the days she'd been truly free. Back with her home, back with her people—if they had not rebuilt the clan by now, then they would have likely died in the effort. How easy it would be to slip away unnoticed, to retrace her steps back home.

She stayed out of fear, perhaps. Not of Luther or his machinations, but out of fear that she would return to nothing but the ashes of what once. A nauseous twist unfurled in her belly—the sight of finding her parents' and brothers' corpses among blight and warfare was a sight she simply couldn't bare. By far, this was the lesser of either evil.

Her chin came to rest comfortably upon her perched forelegs, her hind legs dangling on either side of the branch that had long warmed under the heat of her belly. Her tail furled and unfurled, rhythmic motions accompanying the bliss of the rain, the croaking of frogs rejoicing from their lilypads. One eye peered open as the voices grew closer, and louder, and from the underbrush his unmistakable white form took shape. Occupied, distracted.

By her, of all things.

Go. We will speak again tomorrow.

Alarith feels an unfurling of heat across her cheeks, a deep-seeded fervor blooming in her breast. Her heart races, its fervent beat unmistakable from the rain.

Since when had drawing his attention make her feel so—

As the man slipped away into the shadows, Alarith rose to her feet. From here, she could leap down to Luther with little consequence save for sore paws. It felt...unnatural, wrong to look down upon him in such a way. However much the little bird preferred her trees, she'd not use her wings to fly.

Where I am from, we sleep under stars, she muses gently, before slipping free of the branch. Paws carefully leapt from limb to limb until, with a faint thud, she lands before him. Dens were used only for sal'shiral—whelping. Anything else had left them susceptible to being cornered. They had taken their lessons from foxes who so easily snuffed rabbits out of their burrows. Her clan had always been rabbits, the outsiders their predators gnashing their teeth.

Predators she lived beside now. A lamb among wolves.

But you are Adahl'en Ha'raj, she continues, taking a step closer. Here, she can feel the heat of his breath, and revels in its humid warmth, My den is warm, safe, under your guard. The trees quake with jealousy—esh'an ane 'ma, are ame as'el—I am chattel to their whims.

---

¹ I am theirs, and they are mine.

code by cala, art by kite

Upon nimble feet @Alarith makes climbing down look like child's play. It is a miracle how the branches do not break underneath her weight, or how agile she is to even score up the bark of the tree at all. How many lions harbored that skill? She was true to her name - a bird nestling, always, in the branches of the trees as if that is where she belonged.

Why 'as if'? She had said not once that her kin choose the trees as their home, rather than the ground like the natives did. How peculiar. He wondered what other talents she had hidden, what other tricks she had underneath those emerald eyes. At this very point, he would not be surprised if she one day sprouts wings and takes flight.

Except he would first place nets above the Mire than allow such thing to happen.

Sleeping under the stars was uncultured in Luther's mind, and yet he could not stop his boyish mind to wander at places it must not. Implications that led to things he must not imagine, and yet he did. What else do you do under the stars, little bird? From the day he'd met her underneath that winter canopy, lewd thoughts were always lurking in the back of his mind. His greed knew no bounds. "Dens were used only for sal'shiral—whelping." It takes him a few moments to shake off his lecherous thoughts and return to the present. Do you not fear other predators? Like leopards, for example. They were the true kings of the trees, if you had to ask Luther. He'd had one too many altercations with those spotty tricksters.

A step closer, and she was standing an arms length away. No, far closer than that. He could reach down and press his lips into hers. Adahl'en Ha'raj, she calls him again. There is an undeniable thrill that travels through his body every time the words leave her lips. King. The trees could quake with jealousy all they want - she was to be his and his alone. If he has to, he will cut them all down... except something told him Alarith would not be happy with that. They cannot have you forever, fiery gaze glanced down at her with a feverish need, the only dead giveaway about what desires lurked underneath the surface. Do I have to steal you from the trees, Little Bird? I have fought the sea before. I can wage war against the trees, too, if it is for you. The corner of his lip pulled upward in a small mischievous smile.

code by cala - art by rabbit

Alarith

i am a tender bird parading as this vulture. i love things unto their very bone & yet have always held grief a fragile vein

There is a shift, an electricity in the air Alarith cannot describe. She is half-content to write it off as a shift in the pressure, in the wind. The rain whirled in response, growing heavier, though its trill had difficult permeating through the thick canopy above. Where they stood, they were pelted only by soft pattering, droplets hanging on the fringes of her eyelashes and falling away with every blink. Whatever presence he had whisked away is well and truly gone, with little indication of prying eyes or ears. @Luther ♔ and Alarith are contently alone, sharing their presence with no one else but the trees and the storm and each other.

Do you not fear other predators? he asks, and Alarith's lips press into a firm, thin line.

The only fear we had was your kind, she replies, her tone markedly icy, as if tinged with some semblance of fleeting vexation. Not for Luther, but for all like him: Untouched by their druidic gods, blighting everything they touched. Everyone who was not them was an outsider, and thus impure. Impurity sought destruction. It were the actions of outsiders that had brought her world crumbling to her feet. Isa'ma'lin would hang his heavy head if he saw us.

Consorting with outsiders. Eating their food, sleeping in their beds. She had become everything they feared—Banalhan'derem—blight-touched.

And yet, they had already usurped their sanctity by sending their people out into the wilds, and Alarith felt no regret in doing what she needed to survive. Her guardian was dead, and the little connection she'd had to her Gods were waning. She needed protection, a conduit, and their creed proclaimed she could reinstate it by any means necessary. Finding herself living among the ranks of a King could be forgiven if she could restore the connection to her past, to her deities. Even if—even if the stutter of her heart leapt into her throat, the heaviness of his breath upon her lips tempted her ever-closer.

They cannot have you, he commands, and Alarith's lips half-part, her breath freezes in her throat.

That should enrage her. It should compel him to curse his very name, his very nature. His sons should be forced to carry the burden of a man greedy enough to take from nature Herself.

But she doesn't.

I can wage war against the trees, too, if it is for you.

Luther could not take from what was eternal. He could die a thousand times over and the trees would rejoice each death. Their roots would tangle his bones, feast upon the carrion he left behind. They were all resigned to their grand design, and not even a King could rewrite his fate. But here, now, in this strange and suspended moment, Alarith felt as if he could fight the trees, as if he could burn the forest in his wake. And she, who had always played her part so perfectly, found herself tempted by his danger in ways she could not comprehend. Ways that felt wrong, but ways that felt so blissfully right.

She reaches a hand forward, as if to slip into his.

Luther— she breathes, but cannot find the words she wants to speak. For once, Alarith is stunned into silence, unable to think above the quake of her heart. She wants all that cannot be, wars she never thought she'd have to fight waged within her. Whatever monster he held within was disguised by something gallant and cunning, and though pieces of it slipped through his controlled façade, Alarith found that she did not care.

Then control slips, the levy breaks. Alarith tears her gaze away from his.

You need not fight, I am loyal, she continues, her tone markedly strained, words left unspoken. I am your dar'missan, to wield as you please.

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The soft autumn breeze put a pleasant cool under his damp, thick winter pelt. And yet that very same cool was soon overtaken by the warmth that spread so familiarly from his loins and through the rest of his body. A warmth that Alarith continuously teased out of the young Tyrant, one that was increasingly difficult to ignore with every bat of rain-soaked eyelash. With every moment she danced in his presence, so close and easy to grasp. @Alarith. His little bird. Was she not so magnificent in the golden bars he'd manufactured only for her? In the safety of a golden cage, with all the luxury a woman of her caliber could ask for. Luxury meant only for my most prized possessions.

"The only fear we had was your kind," she responds and his head cocks curiously to the side. My kind? He reached forward to try and gently grasp her hand in his own, to play distractedly with her gentle fingers. And whatever is my kind, mein süßer vogel? Were they not the same kind? You are not. He knew that better than anyone - Alarith was as different from him as dark is from light. Perhaps that is why he wanted to taint her light with his darkness, to destroy the innocence in her soul and mar it just like his own soul was marred with tar.

"Isa'ma'lin would hang his heavy head if he saw us." His eyes only shifted calmly to her beautiful face, the only sign of the sudden suspicion that sparked at Alarith's words. Who is he? Fervent fire bellowed in his mind, and he was prepared to grab the sword at his hip and stick it between the ribs of this Isa'ma'lin. He will not have her. He will not say what Luther does with Alarith. She was his. His!

Her touch — her voice — is like a cool river extinguishing the fires of his jealousy. Softness returns to those cruel light green eyes, however, little softness could survive there. "You need not fight, I am loyal," she tears her gaze away, and he wishes she had not. The boldness within her eyes had been a wonderful new thing to see. "I am your dar'missan, to wield as you please." The words shocked him despite how many lies he'd spun, how many webs he'd enthralled her within. Alarith— he reaches to caress her face with a hand that had caused unimaginable grief and pain more often than not. A hand stained with blood that now tenderly stroked her pale brow. He seeks to draw in her gaze once again, to pull on her chin with a thumb. May I kiss you? Only the trees knew that he never asked - he always took without permission - but Alarith was special. Different.

code by cala - art by rabbit

Alarith

i am a tender bird parading as this vulture. i love things unto their very bone & yet have always held grief a fragile vein

The heaviness that settles between them could be excused by the rain. The fervent thrumming of her heart desperate to match the rhythmic whirring of early-autumn tempest. The heat in her cheeks could be excused by the wet cold, the shudder, the trembling of her lips. She felt herself a mess; all things lanky and tired and half-curled, soaked-through fur. Silence lingers between them, only for a moment, but she takes that moment to study the curve of his jawline, the rigid furl of his brows, the cusp of ears that poked through his splendidly-white mane. His face is half-shadowed by the trees, pale silvery light dancing across his face as the leaves whirl in the wind.

And whatever is my kind, mein süßer vogel?

Not of my Clan, not of my people, she explained, and for a brief moment, she hoped she'd not offended him. @Luther ♔ did not appear to be offended, however; his fingers thumbed through hers with gentleness, and the glint in his gaze was inquisitive, prying. She did not feel invaded, she did not feel pressured, even as if his gaze seemed to unravel her entirety. We call them the Tor Vheraan. Those who would cull us.

Her clan was powerful, but it was secluded, preferring to remain separate from the rest of the world that might taint their ancient customs, that might blight their teachings. They were skilled but they were small, and their sliver of land was often coveted by those who sought power. It was that very same drive for power that had nearly destroyed her home, and what had compelled her to Amaryllis now in search of more of her people, in search of anything that could bring the fractured remains of her clan back together. Instead, she'd found this: this country, this pride, him. All of him.

He is my brother, Alarith continued, content to leave behind the thoughts of death and despair she'd left behind. Atlassan had departed in a different direction than she when the time came, and Caralan had decided to stay, to attempt to rebuild from the small numbers that couldn't make the journey. Either brother would be equally disappointed in Alarith; both would likely be dragging her back homeward by her tail. Mercifully, they were both hundreds of miles away.

I would have been punished for speaking with a Tor Vheraan.

She would have been crucified for falling in love with one.

The wind shifted, the rain grew heavier. She could barely hear the pounding of her own heart over the rain. She knew it existed only because it fluttered against her breast with vehemence. She caught the inflection in his tone, the underlying demand not simply questioning who and what her brother meant to her, but something deeper, darker. Possessive. Alarith heard for the first time the rattling of her golden cage as her wings tried to spread, but she did not attempt to thrash and break free; she pulled her wings careful and close, and watched from within her gilded prison the ceaseless eyes of her captor.

He takes a step forward. The cage shudders.

His fingers curl around the edge of her face; they are coarse, rough, but they caress her with a gentleness she did not think him capable of. Alarith gently leaned into his touch, relishing in the dry warmth of his underpaw, enthralled by the near-electric sensation it left on her pale skin. Alarith— he breaths, his finger catching her thumb, pulling her closer. Here, she could feel the heat of his breath, could see the glint of his canines peeking through cunning lips. May I kiss you?

Brief surprise floods her, but it is quickly swallowed by her steely demeanor. She wonders what a kiss feels like. She's felt similar rushes before; in stolen glances and brushes of hands amidst prying eyes, in late nights swept deep into the forests, of hurried and hushed promises of secret meetings when the clan was heavy with slumber. But she had never been kissed.

She does not verbalize her permission. Instead, she leans forward, and gently ghosts her lips upon his. It is not as she suspects; they are strangely soft, and warm, and inviting. It takes everything within her to pull away, to push herself no further than their brief and electrifying touch. Her breath is heavy, eyes half-closed, a warmth enveloping in her face she'd never quite felt before, far more intense than mere embarrassment or the wet cold of the rain. It is something new altogether, it is something she was desperate not to push away.

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He did not know what it was to belong to a clan. To your people. Luther Rike had always, unquestioningly, acted in his interest. From day one - no - from the moment he was in the womb, he'd wrestled his siblings into submission, wrestled them so he may be born the crown prince of Ecrosia. The Heir to a powerful family name. Regardless of how big the Starke may be, and how many siblings Luther had, he never thought of them as his kin. Only when it was an advantage, but even then it was not a sense of comradery. They were all - are all - obstacles in his way. Threats to his supremacy.

"We call them the Tor Vheraan. Those who would cull us." Rest assured - I will not harm you. Liar. How many more lies will he spin for her? At this point, he believed in his own deceptions. His fervent inquiry was met with an answer that brought partial relief. Brothers may be as dangerous, if not more, than non-related men. He still felt the desire to keep her close to his chest, tucked away from anyone who may dare reach out for his little bird. Brother or not, he was just as prepared to cull him as anybody else. Worry not, Alarith, he smiled down at her, but the fire remained in his gaze even as he absent-mindedly played with her gentle fingers. They cannot punish you here. He spun another web of false security, of false freedom, when it was far from the truth.

She leans into his touch, her face so gentle and warm against the dampness of his hand. His claws itched to reach for her neck, to pull her close in a forceful kiss. Such dark thoughts were shoved away when she caught his hand with her own, electrifying him from head to toe. She does not respond to his ask, and yet her body language is enough of a green light for the pale brute. Leaning forward, they meet mid-way in a passionate tangle of tongues, a soft press of supple lips. She feels exquisite - far better than he'd ever imagined - and when she pulls away he wants to pull her in once again. To keep them interlocked for hours or days if he could. Alarith— he breathes, longing evident in his half-closed eyes. Mein kleiner Vogel. "My little bird." Where his fingers remained on her chin, he sought to pull her in for a longer kiss. Greed consumed him, lust enveloping him. This kiss was rougher, far more passionate, as muscle tensed underneath his pale coat with obvious restraint.

code by cala - art by rabbit