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—Oh- oh god- you're, ugh- you're alright. Breathe in, you're going to be fine– he softly held Valter's face, pale as snow and panting heavily, his thick black blood trailing from the wounds in his high cheekbones like petrol from the earth.
He had been badly injured, a Were bite, right through the chest. His natural resistance helped close the most fatal gashes, but the dents were deep, and Fáfila had just found him, after the attack. This would surely leave a mark.
— M-my king — he choked out, his gravelly voice strained — l-leave me. They might- agh- they-...come ba-ack…I-I 's fuh-fine…. by me-….me own…— he raised a hand, tried to gently push Fáfila away, his thick gloved fingers grabbing onto the edges of his Lord's golden chest plate, tainting it orange with the were residue that had soaked through his leather mittens, his conscience slipping out of his body for a few seconds due to the effort.
–Oh- no. No, no, no, no no - Valter, here, stay with me– he crowded the Füh'nnen, touching his face with a gentle but firm caress, tossing to the side his warrior's thick braids– you're coming with me. You- you are fine. You will be fine- oh Gods above, Valter, here, with me, stay– he watched impotent as his white pupils dilated, whitening out his already fair irises, that were reduced to slim rings of turquoise.
He knew-- of course, he did! -- the old dreìr was in no danger of dying, but seeing that icy gaze of his shutting still had his mind in a frenzy. His friend, his companion, hadn't left him. He wouldn't. Couldn't . But, admittedly, he was no longer an infant, he knew his dear friend strived to die on the battlefield someday. Just… not today. Not, by far, surely. Not yet. Not leaving him here.
With all the strength he could muster he grabbed his friend by the waist, raising him from the ground to a sitting position, his imposing frame now a hindrance. He couldn't have lifted him fully, even if he tried. It was no longer a question of growth, Fáfila knew. He had grown so much, and yet Valter still felt like a mountain by his side.
Fáfila wasn't small, not at all. Being Aelfkin, he had a naturally higher stature than most, more along the sizes of big folk like Dunya weres or Raisa weres, but he could not compare to Giant folk like Valter himself, a Füh'nnen, with Giant Beasts or high range werefolk like Magnæ or Nyetna.
That thought brought him back to the moment. Valter needed healing, but they were too big for Fáfila to carry. However, he knew someone that could- Liuva, his Beastren sibling, could carry with some effort the huge man known as Valter to the healing tents, unlike himself.
His high call tin whistle zinged across the scorched battlefield, its cold metal thing on his lips, high frequency unheard by the shapeshifter and human soldiers on his side, only directed to the keen hearing of his beastly brother. Liuva rushed to him, crossing the battlefield in a few bouncing steps, only a few minutes of wait showing his figure clearly between the smoke, bright grin despite the tension behind his features– Fáfila! No men down in the West Fiel– when his dark eye caught the state of their mutual friend, he hesitated, his young voice cracking painfully, letting out an almost childish squeak– Is that Valter!?-- his clever eye quickly ran over the battered body as he quickly fell to his knees, gaze welling up with tears as his deformed hands reached across the Old warrior's torso, searching for buckles to open and wounds to assess– A were bit him, right through the chest. Seems they punctured his lungs– Fáfila quickly summarised, his ashen grey eyes following his brother's scarred fingers, now dirtied with Valter's black syrupy blood.
– The deeper gashes healed already, but I need you to stay calm and listen- Liuva, please ,— at that, his smaller sibling's affected gaze fixed on his own, a slight tremble on his wide shoulders, only perceptible to Fáfila, who continued, still holding Valter's weight so he stayed upright — we can fix this, we are going to fix this. You will carry him to the infirmary while I go alert the healers- you hear me?--- .
At Liuva's shaky nod, he sighed, standing up and transferring the heavy weight on his younger sibling who took it with a small grunt, the heaviness still more than notable even for his stronger body. He quickly looked around, making sure that no half-alive Werefolk lurked in the shadowy battlefield before sprinting his way to camp. This was one of those moments in which he was glad for his relatively pure bloodline, the Aelfen long stride and light bones made his race faster than wind, and he reached the healer's canvas tent much faster than would've been possible, for anyone else, at least.
He bowed his head, coming inside and quickly directed his voice at the old Beast slave healer, his tone stern — Lord Hudricsühn brings Lord Stór with great urgency. Prepare yourselves, as I will be thorough in your tanning were I to lose a friend on this day because of your inadequacy. Quick! — and just as swiftly as he arrived, he left, assured that the healers had probably not even caught up on his identity by the time he disappeared.
Distressed he made his way back to the field, stopping by the woods, looking out for his brother and Great Friend. He saw no threat, and thus decided to reach them, gingerly pulling on Valter's other arm as he wrapped it around his own shoulders, giving all the stability he could to the already difficult task of carrying the giant dreìr.
His friend's limp body swayed with every step the brothers took, his long, matted braids swinging like pendula on time, gooey jet drops dribbling down his sharp nose, his soft lips. For being such an old bastard, Valter didn't look the part. 700 years came and went, and he held the appearance he himself controlled, stuck in his youthful young dreìr years.
But the centuries did take a toll, his body slower to recover now, even at the inhuman rate he still held, his skin not as taut as it is fabled it once was. And, oh, how his skin had glowed with sunny warmth, as if the natural vitality of his forest had formed his very self, meadow flowers manifested as freckles across his tanned cheeks, his raised, arched brows like mountain peaks. And, oh, how pale he now was, like snow, like marble, like ash. Almost as pale as Fáfila himself, only sickly. It sent Fáfila's heart on a road of despair to see his guardian like this, to see him so un-lifelike, so far away .
It had always been himself who despaired, who battled with his weak health. It was him who woke to old prayers and warm, strong, hands, always covered in those leather mittens he so adored , holding his tiny digits gently, as if he were godsent. He still remembered the scent of animal grease and tobacco that perfumed his Warriors neck when he bent over his small bed, the feel of his strong, big nose and his soft exhale as he delicately sniffed at his hairline, when the fevers caught him badly, but a toddler.
When he became of age, in his “zwynnitude'', as his dear friend would say, it was in Valter's comfortable hand-made coats and pelts that he snuggled in, when a strange illness that came from the west hit him devastatingly, killing dozens of lads his age and all but throwing his father into the position of planning funeral arrangements for what he assumed was a soon-to-pass young princeling.
If seeing his Old Friend, his most loyal Warrior, suffer was the price to pay for his well being, then he simply didn't want it. Life held no meaning to him, and he was ignorant to the injustice that was to all the lives he himself had taken.
He knew he had a mission, hell , he'd killed for that mission, all the way to the very top, in his wake leaving destruction. He’d stood in the throne of blood and bone of his ancestors, as tainted as they were. Threw the robin’s egg blue mantle of his blood-thirsty grandfather, positioned the crown of gold on his temple and stood, chin up and smile sharp, looking into the void he himself created. His father's blue Aelven blood still fused with the sky when he fell asleep under the stars at night, memory crisp as moonshine light, the tang of it permeating the walls of the royal wing to date.
But it was all useless if someone that he felt held everything sacred , everything pure and natural and old in life, everything forgotten and legendary, everything untouched and untarnished, and all of Fáfila's heart , fell. He'd happily pave the way to his own sacrificial pyre with strips of his own damned skin if he was told that, in doing so, Valter would never suffer, not even a slight concern,ever again. He’d smile and laugh and tremble in joy as he watched his beloved live .
It was lunacy, and idiotic. It was forbidden. It was revolting . Valter was nigh-on immortal, one of the last specimens of a race from the 3rd Age, who had, quite literally, fought in the legends he was told by his father, and his father’s father before him. Old enough to have dwelled in the greatest of kingdoms and domains, filled to the brim with Ogres and Orcs, fae of all sorts, the elder Beasts and pure Aelf.
For the Gods' sake, he'd even met and married one of his great great great aunts, from the 4th age. He even killed her before formalising their union, and kept that said great great great aunt´s remains for only the Gods know what reason, hidden, never to be seen again. And still, one word out of his cold lips and Fáfila would end it all for him.
The thought of losing him scared him so much. Would his God accept Fáfila as their servant, just to see Valter once more when he inevitably cut his throat open after Valter breathed his last breath? According to his Old friend's beliefs, that was high sacrilege. Killing oneself would amount to one of the highest forms of cowardly, as one should always die fighting back, never surrendering. But he’d only be joyful to be viewed as lower class in his love's paradise, as long as he could even be in his presence, for eternity. No, if that had been the case he'd happily spend his ever-more doing the most horrid of work, degrading himself, uncaring of his nobility and title and everything he’d supposedly earn, if they at least shared space.
Sadly, in his love's religion there was no space for weak souls like himself, of course, they would be either eaten or burnt. On contemplation, he didn't want to burn, though he figured being eaten, alive or not, wouldn’t be that bad. He knew Füh'nnen ate every animal or plant one could imagine, and every other “sapient” species, too. He, himself, had he not been born Aelf, would be up his love's menu, the feral instinct his darling had probably not even giving him a chance against those sharp fangs of his.
In fact, in the many campaigns he’d shared with his beloved, it was quite a common occurrence, if his love felt nobody was watching, that he'd sneak a bite or two out of some raw carcass, friend or foe, to complete his diet and stay strong, to protect him better that he would do if half-starved, without imposing on the tight rationing his military took on. And so, an unknown and questionably unlucky human, shapeshifter, draugr or beast caught in their crutches would feel what Fáfila could only dare dream about. In his eyes, those bastards had been basically touched by Fortuna . But, alas, his Aelfen condition would make him extremely unappetising, and, thus, to the stake he'd most surely go.
He could almost imagine it, Valter's turquoise eyes fixed on his body, as he concluded his existence, consuming with every lick of the flames on his pale white skin. He'd cry, and beg, and laugh, and confess everything , every ugly truth he's ever felt, every memory he cherished like a covetous dwarf chases gold, every egoistic, jealous, agonised desire that’s held him tied to the semblance of composure he’d so meticulously crafted with the sole purpose of leeching off more of his love’s precious time. And Valter would stare, and in his eyes there would only be disgust.
Disgust at seeing an Aelf so corrupted, so perverted, the mask of propriety finally falling, showing his true, pixie-like craze. Disgusted at seeing him love it, love the fact that, even if only for a few seconds of his Love's almost unfathomably long lifetime, it was he who held his attention, himself. And disgusted, surely, at the bones and burnt flesh of his quasi full-blooded body as they fell from his still living, still writhing, screaming corpse, as he stained one final time the land he and Valter shared, his soul finally cleansed, a blemish out of Valter's beautiful wild entity.
If destiny were so kind, if his own Gods existed, he'd wish to continue following him. Even as a ghost. Even as an animal. The idea of being the thing his love fed off, accompanied or just quite simply used as a mere tool, even in paradise, for eternity, had his skin rising into goosebumps. To be one, at last, with him– oh, how much he'd love that.
Watching Liuva carry his beloved inside the tent, the sound of medics and slaves fussing over his wounds gave him pause, relaxation. Liuva exited the tent, looking stricken still, albeit much calmer, his soft childish face having gained some colour back, one of his deformed fingers gently scratching at the dried black blood on his hands as he approached Fáfila.
He was sure that if heaven, or reincarnation, existed, in one of his lifes he and Valter composed only one being, two pieces of a perfect puzzle, finally united in one as should be. In another surely it would be Valter who laid his devotion onto Fáfila, and not the other way around. Would his love burn as fiercely as his own?