suddenly the topic of a glaring contest between Dray and Taron was brought up between @clockworkgalaxies @for-the-love-of-angst and me, and you kno i’m a ho for drawing so this happened :’D

Thiago’s getting a little bit concerned, just a little bit

TALLIES

TW: Scars, implied non-sexual nudity (Taron is taking a bath so), guilt

She should know better by now. Her heart shatters with every tally she counts on his skin, every mark. Today she stops at the three hundred winding around his stomach and arms as her stomach turns and threatens to force up the meager breakfast she'd inhaled this morning. Taron doesn't notice her silent inventory, he never notices, and lowers himself into the warm bath with a quiet, contented sigh. His head rests on her lap, his eyes closing as she slowly pours water through his curls. 

The shampoo is next and Zeria hums, dropping a kiss onto his forehead. A smile flickers over his lips - the first one she's seen in a year and half - as her nails gently scrub his scalp. The action draws another deep, contented sigh from Taron and puts a smile on her own face. His shoulders drop and he sinks lower into the tub as he takes a deep breath. 

She scrubs harder and he sinks lower with a soft moan that startles them both. Zeria recovers first, raising a brow. 

"Is it that good, My Love?" She asked, grinning. The blush that immediately graces his cheeks makes her want to kiss him again but she resists, letting out a small laugh and patting his cheeks when he turns his face away with a quiet whine. 

"Smells good. Smells like...smells like you," he answered sheepish. His voice cracks. It always cracks these days in the same way he barely raises it above a whisper. In the same way every sentence ends with a question mark as if he's still seeking permission to speak and apologizing for having his voice heard. In the same way his skin is a piece of parchment paper covered in tallies and boasting of her failure. There isn't a surface of her love General Montrose didn't mark. There isn't a spot he hadn't claimed as his. 

His hands drift over the water and tap it lightly - a nervous habit he's picked up recently - when she doesn't reply. They still tremble and she has to keep herself from counting the marks on that part of his skin. Zeria's smile fades as she stifles a sigh.

Is her silence too loud?

Anger, her too familiar friend these past few years, threatens to choke her but she forces it back and down, once again locking it back down as Taron speaks. "Missed….missed this….I missed this. I missed...I missed you," he whispered, "Held, I held onto you….I held onto you for as long, for as long as I c-could," and then quieter, so quiet she almost didn't hear it, "held, held onto me as long as I c-could."

Zeria swallows the lump in her throat, rubbing her burning eyes with her wrist and brushing away the tears. His words prick her conscience and condemn her. 

She hadn't dared hope he was alive. After six months, it had hurt too much to realize she was truly helpless. All that power and she couldn't go to him, she couldn't rescue him if he were still alive.  What good was a crown, what good was the highest seat of power, if her love suffered for it?

"I know, know it was….I know it was h-h-hard, Zizi." 

His hands grip hers, still weak. She feels them, those tallies, her mistakes. His hands are rough beneath her touch and she resists the urge to pull away and hold her own hands. 

"It was, it was the ri-ight, right thing, amica. Was the ri-ight thing."

She hums in response, kisses his hand - that rough hand, those tallies marking her failure - and finishes washing his hair. 

She's not sure she believes him.

TO BE A PUPPET

TW: IMPLIED CONDITIONING, GASLIGHTING, EMOTIONAL ABUSE

The sight of the general, with a smile as warm and generous and kind as it had alway been, stopped him dead. He’d known this was coming. He’d known he’d be here. He’d been preparing himself for today for the past three months.

It hadn’t been enough. His world still spun and flipped upside down. 

His stomach clenched, mouth and throat turning to sandpaper. His heart thundered in his ears, drowning everything else out. With a few deep breaths, Taron lays a shaking palm against the cool pillar, steadying himself, mind churning. He could run, he wanted to run, but his feet wouldn’t follow the command of a brain thrown back into the dark.  His wrists ache, they’re burning, spasming, making it difficult to think, and Taron rubs them mindlessly. They feel…heavy. 

Need to get the chain off. Need to….obey.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t have to obey. He’s not…He’s not there anymore. The sun is shining, birds are singing, he’s safe at the palace with Zeria and Mikara and Lehan. He’s not alone. He’s not alone. He’s NOT alone. 

He looks….He still looks good for a man with his centuries. His blond hair is graying at the temples but that’s the only sign he’s gotten older. There are no scars, no frown lines, only laugh lines around his eyes. He was happy. Zever was happy and Taron was still picking up all his shattered pieces. His heart still bleeds from the effort it’s taken to put himself back together. 

He doesn’t get to be happy. Not after everything he’d done. Not after everything he’d put Taron through. 

“It’s such a pleasure to see you again, Vexo. I’ve missed you.”

Taron would like to say that the feel wasn’t mutual but he knew, if his voice hadn’t run the moment he’d seen Zever, he’d be lying.

The smile didn’t reach his eyes and there was no pleasure in his voice, just cold,cruel amusement. Taron pushes himself off the wall, straightens to his full height. He’s not small, he’s taller than Zever, always has been. He’s not going to cower in a corner. He, he, he can’t. Not this time. 

Zever cocked his head, russet eyes sparkling, as another smile danced on his lips. His hand brushed Taron’s cheek, smooth against the scar his ring had given him. Taron freezes, skin crawling, barely managing to cut off a snarl. It catches in his throat and Taron swallows hard, not daring to breathe. He hasn’t been ordered to.

A good soldier follows orders.

“Look at you,” he murmured, taking in every inch of Taron’s face . There’s something shining in his eyes. Pride? Irritation? Taron can’t tell and the uncertainty makes him nauseous. If he can’t read his Atta, then he can’t follow orders and if he can’t follow orders, then he’s going to get hurt, thrown in solitary, “Look at you, pretending to be whole. Has she put you back together, kada?”

They both know the truth. If he ordered Taron to kneel, to beg, to take his sword and drive it through his own chest, he would.

Taron knows this but he still raises his chin, a trembling hand resting on his sword even as his heart threatens to jump out of his chest. They both know he won’t use it, not on him, but it helps Taron gain some courage. Zever removes his hand anyway, humming. 

“From one puppet master to the next,” he mused, “Were you ever really in control, little one?”

Taron stays frozen, stays silent, stays breathless even though the quirk of Zever’s brow tells him he expects an answer. Zever hums again, gaze darkening with displeasure.

“I suppose you don’t follow my orders anymore, do you, Vexo?”

Teeth grit, Taron cut off the *no sir* that thoughtlessly sprang to his lips and demanded escape. He cut it off, strangled it, and ground it under his foot.

“You…you have to have a puppet to be a puppet master, s-sir,” with another deep breath and a voice shaking with every emotion swirling inside of him, Taron finally moved, dropping his hand and bowing, “I’m a soldier, General. Remember? Excuse me,” He gave another bow, forcing his brain to communicate with his feet, “My Queen needs me.”

He walked away with feet feeling like lead and doesn’t break down until he’s safe in his bathroom, trembling and sweating and losing his breakfast. There’s twenty four doors between him and Zever, seventy-two locks. Sixteen on the door to his bedroom alone and two on the bathroom door. 

There’s no punishment coming. He’s safe. He’s safe.

BLANK

BTHB- HOPE IS SCARY, STARVATION

Requested by- @wildfaewhump, @mielosastuff

Character (s)- Captain Taron Caslon, Mikky Amrin

The bones in his hip grated against each other, sending waves of agony through him, but he grit his teeth and kept his head down, shivering. He pulled his threadbare coat tighter against his fragile frame. No money. He has no money. He needed food. The alley smells disgusting, like excrement and death but Taron didn't notice. 

He was too cold and exhausted to do anything but lay under the piece of cardboard he'd found by the dumpster two weeks ago.

Had it been two weeks? He can't remember. Atta had locked him up in, locked him away in the cold and the dark and the silence and hadn't come back. Taron had been abandoned. He’d been left and then he'd left. 

He'd crawled out, had forced himself to stay awake and stumbled to freedom.

Safe. He had to stay safe. Atta would be looking for him. He'd be furious. Taron hadn't stayed. Taron had disobeyed an order and run away.

He knows he's supposed to care about that. He knows he's supposed to care about something, about anything, but he can't feel anything other than the deep emptiness.

He'd hoped for rescue, he supposes, a long time ago.

Sweat beads on his forehead and dazed eyes look around. Food. He needs food. His stomach, flat and aching and bruised, roars at him. How long has it been since he's last eaten? He can't...he can't remember. He knows he's hungry, his stomach keeps reminding him but he doesn't feel it.

The light streamed through the cracks of the cardboard he'd put over himself to hide and keep him warm. 

He didn't move even when the cardboard is taken off him and the cold air hits his skin. He hasn’t been ordered to move. His Atta hasn’t ordered him to move. 

“Captain Taron? It’s...It’s me. It’s Mikky. Mikara.” 

Red hair. Blue eyes. Soft features. Softer hands cup his face and Taron stared up at her blankly. 

Another hallucination. 

He turned away and the hands disappeared. He’d been dreaming about this for weeks. He leaned away from the touch. Curled tighter into the corner. He wished they’d stop, the hallucinations. He wished they’d leave him alone. He’d been happy for their company at first. They’d given him something to talk to but he’d grown tired of his own voice, his own head a long time ago.

“It’s alright, Captain. You’re safe now. Going to get...going to get you to Her Majesty.”

Warm hands gently lift him and Taron knew he should be feeling pain. He’s hurt….somewhere...but he can’t remember to care about where that was. He knew his body was sending him pain signals, can feel them feel but he doesn't care.

What good is caring anymore anyway? It doesn't stop the pain, it doesn't stop his Atta's anger.

Doesn't stop Graeme and Brax from dying. 

Graeme and Brax. 

That name should make him sad but it doesn't.

Taron felt nothing.

It’s a long ride. He felt himself moving, saw blue and green and red and purple rushing by. He heard the chirping of birds, the rustle of wind in soft feathers. He smells the flowers. He smelled jasmine and lavender. He smelled rain.

He stared blankly at the sky. 

Atta has moved him before and now all he has to do is wait for orders.