Private Tales Empty Chairs and Empty Tables

[Anais]

“Vey athra miir valen tua.
Seyl’en vahl ren’dar tua.
Sael’mir vaen doras a’nai.
Tir shael veyen… kael’thra nai.”

For a heartbeat, nothing moved. There was no sound, no breath, no whisper from the world around them. Just the trembling rasp of her own lungs trying to remember how to work.

“Fingal…” Her voice cracked. It wasn’t meant to come out as a sob, but it did anyway. “Please-”

Then that sound. A terrible, beautiful gasp tore the silence apart. She startled forward with a cry that wasn’t quite a word, her hands hovering, uncertain where to touch when his body arched and twisted in pain.

Her eyes blurred with tears as she watched the black veins spread beneath his skin. The smell of burnt magic filled the air, sticking in her nostrils and lungs.

When his hand shot up to grasp her wrist, she flinched, but didn’t pull away. His grip was iron and ice at once, and she froze under his gaze.

"It's dead," she confirmed quickly, voice trembling. "It's gone."

He was shaking, the corruption writhing just beneath his skin, and every flicker of pain that tore through him felt like it was being dragged through her too. When he told her not to touch the blood, she could only nod, her chin quivering as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Tell me what to do,” she pleaded, her voice cracking. “How do I make it stop? Tell me..”

Her hand trembled as she pressed it against his chest, feeling the erratic flutter of his heart beneath her palm. Her own magic, small and fragile, answered it, threads of warmth flickering from her skin to his. “What can I do?” she whispered again, panic climbing her throat as the wounds continued to flow.

Her lips trembled as she leaned closer, whispering the same words. Her tears fell freely now, splashing onto his bloodied chest.

“Vey athra miir valen tua.
Seyl’en vahl ren’dar tua.
Sael’mir vaen doras a’nai.
Tir shael veyen… kael’thra nai.”

May my life be bound to yours.
My heart, entwined with yours.
My soul, surrendered and made one.
For I give it freely, wholly, and without end.

 

[Fingal]

For a heartbeat, Fingal’s world was nothing but pressure.

It felt as though something vast and unseen had sunk claws into his spirit, dragging him between two worlds. His magic convulsed, raw and unbound, tearing through him in jagged waves.

The words she spoke found him through that storm, familiar and ancient, a melody that reached where his body could not. The bond flared, hot and blinding.

His back arched again, a strangled cry breaking from his throat. Then he stilled

"Anais," he breathed.

Her magic felt familiar. It wasn't Ley, but it was something old. Not the bookish magic of human scholars.

His hand reached for her, trembling. His fingers found hers, slick with blood. He wanted to tell her to let go, to save herself, but his grip tightened instead. The light between their hands pulsed once, then again, and the black veins along his arm began to fade, retreating an inch at a time.

"Anais... what have you done?"

 

[Anais]

Anais’s eyes went wide as Fingal convulsed, her pulse hammering in her chest. The magic she’d called filled the air like smoke, thick and heavy and alive, and she could feel it coil around them both, binding and burning in equal measure. Her lips trembled as she whispered the words again, the ones that had spilled from her heart more than her mind, over and over, as though repetition could make them true, could make them work.

Her voice broke on the last syllable. Tears streaked her face, the salt of them stinging her lips. She could taste the air shifting, it hummed between them, the bond reshaping.

When he gasped her name, she flinched, a sob tearing from her chest. The black veins beneath his skin began retreating like shadows chased by dawn. Relief hit her so sharply she almost collapsed with it, a breath left her in a shudder, trembling through every limb.

She clutched his hand tighter, her other palm pressing to his cheek, smearing blood and tears together. His skin was still cold, but he was there. Alive.

“I…” she started, words catching in her throat. She searched his face, those golden eyes, fever bright and pained, and for once, she didn’t stop herself.

“I could not bear it if you left me.” Her voice was soft, shaking, but certain. “I love you, Fingal. I was already yours I just.. I knew the words and I spoke them, in hope.."

Her fingers trembled as they brushed his hair back from his brow.. "I thought I was losing you.."

 

[Fingal]

For a moment Fingal could not understand the words she spoke. The world was still tilting beneath him, heavy with the stench of burnt magic, his senses warped by the demon’s poison slowly webbing from his veins.

Her binding words - old as starlight - still circled them in a trembling loop of magic that was slowly becoming a part of them both.

When she said she loved him, the world lurched.

His eyes snapped open, gold bright and uneven. He hissed out a breath and breathed in slowly.

"I love you too," he said. "I think...you might have nearly lost me."

"You done some old bonds. If my magic breaks, yours will break with it."

She was a mortal creature. Fae were creatures of passion. Love burned bright and grief could hollow them out for centuries at a time.

"Hold me a moment," he whispered. "We've got to get away from here."

Fingal slowly shifted. It was easier to heal as a cwn. Easier to limp on four legs too. The way the stench hit his nose - he would damn well limp out of here fast too.

 

[Anais]

Anais felt something click into place when he said it. Not a spark, not a flutter, but something deep, something anchored. As if a piece of her had been wandering for years only to finally find where it belonged. Her breath hitched, her chest aching with relief so sharp it was almost pain.

She brushed trembling fingers through his hair, her touch gentle.
“Then whatever I did… it was worth it,” she whispered.

She cast a quick, horrified glance toward the daemon’s ruined corpse, bile burning the back of her throat. The sight of that slick, oozing flesh would haunt her dreams for years, she knew. But she turned back to Fingal at once, steadying him as he shifted into his cwn form, her hands sliding beneath him to help despite her shaking limbs.

When he stood, she rose with him, her legs still weak beneath her. She steadied herself on the wall, then leaned close, one hand slipping into the ruff of his fur.

“Perhaps…” she murmured, lifting her eyes to the nearest row of homes, their doors half-open, windows cracked, shadows still and silent. “We can find a place without death in it, where we can clean up and rest a while..”

“Stay close,” she breathed, stepping out of the alley with him, heart pounding as she prayed to the gods that the creature they’d killed had been alone.

Anais let him and his nose take the lead, matching her steps to the slow, limping rhythm of his gait. Every so often she reached out, brushing her hand against the thick fur of his neck. They passed three houses too ruined to enter and another whose door hung broken on one hinge. Then, finally, a small cottage stood at the very edge of the town, half-hidden by trees. Its windows were intact. Its door shut. No putrid scent thickened the air, and it appeared empty.

Anais swallowed, stepped forward, and pushed the door open with the end of her poker. The hinges groaned, but nothing moved inside. It was empty. Blessedly, mercifully empty.

Furniture stood undisturbed. A few blankets still lay folded on a bench. And at the far end of the room, behind a slip of a curtain, she spotted a small washroom with a deep tin bath tucked into the corner.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “There’s a bath,” she sighed gratefully. “I’ll fetch some water and get a fire going."

 

[Fingal]

Fingal stepped into the cottage beside her, his paws silent on the boards and his nose working ceaselessly. Dust. Old smoke. Dry herbs. No rot. No daemon scent. His ears pricked at every creak of settling timber, every shift of wind outside. Nothing made a sound.

Safe enough to rest. For now.

He kept close to Anais as she moved through the cottage, his shoulder brushing her thigh as a reminder that he was watching the shadows even if she was watching him.

Only when the house yielded no threats did he let his weight settle, lowering himself carefully onto his hauncheson a blanket.

The movement pulled sharply at the wounds along his ribs, and a rough huff of pain escaped him before he could stop it.

His eyes lifted to hers, gold and steady.

“I heal better like this,” he said.

He shifted slightly, easing himself down onto his side with a controlled slowness. His tail thumped once against the floorboards in reassurance before stilling.

 

[Anais]

Anais moved through the cottage with the kind of purposeful focus that came from terror wearing off just enough to let practicality take its place. Fear still trembled in her limbs, but her hands were steady now, her mind sharp. She gathered wood, knelt, struck flint, and coaxed a flame to life in the hearth. Within moments the fire was crackling and hissing, heat spreading through the cold air.

Then the buckets - she filled them at the pump behind the house, carrying each one inside, heating them over the fire, sweating through the work though she barely noticed. Little by little, the bath filled with steaming water. Between trips she prowled the cottage, checking every room, every cupboard, every pantry shelf. She found blankets in a chest, shook them out and brought them to him.

She even found a small canvas sack of grain, and her heart pinched with gratitude. Barley. Enough for soup. It would do for now.

Whilst the bath was cooling and soup was cooking, she slid down beside him, the firelight soft on her face, she tucked a blanket over them both and guided his head carefully into her lap. Her fingers drifted through his fur in slow, tender strokes. She had lost the trembling now. The fear that still lurked in her chest had nowhere to go except outward, into care and determined devotion.

“There was an apothecary,” she murmured quietly. “I can go and see what I can find.. You’re still hurting. I can feel it.”

 

[Fingal]

Fingal let himself sink into the warmth of the blankets as Anais settled beside him. The fire’s glow washed over her skin, softening the tight worry lines at the corners of her eyes.

He felt the shift in her breathing, the steadiness returning as purpose replaced panic.

When she guided his head into her lap, he went willingly. His body felt too heavy, dragged down by pain and exhaustion. The steady rhythm of her fingers in his fur lulled the frantic edge of his instincts. His tail gave a faint thump against the floorboards before stilling again.

Her voice reached him through the haze of warmth and fatigue.

He breathed out a slow huff, not quite a sigh, not quite agreement. Her hand paused for a moment, and he lifted his head the smallest fraction, enough to look at her without leaving her lap.

Her concern washed through the bond between them, warm and bright, far gentler than anything he felt he deserved.

He nudged her wrist with his nose, then rested his head back down. The thought that followed brushed against her mind with the quiet weight of a tired heartbeat.

“You have already done enough. More than enough.”

His eyelids drooped, but he forced them open again, stubborn even in exhaustion. He tilted his head slightly to better catch her scent, grounding himself in the familiar warmth of her.

Another pulse of thought drifted to her, softer this time.

“The pain will pass. It just is."

He shifted, slow and careful, until his flank rested against her hip. The movement drew a wince through the bond, sharp and fleeting, but he did not pull away. Instead he pressed himself a little closer, as if anchoring both of them in this small corner of safety they had carved out of ruin.

After a moment he added, firmer now,

“Do not go out alone. Not until I can stand beside you again.”

“Stay here. Just for a little while."

He closed his eyes then, not asleep, but letting the warmth of her lap and the steady stroke of her fingers pull him toward the quiet edge of rest. He turned his gaze towards the bath. They needed to wash, but it would take a moment of gathering his resolve to stand.