Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Kabru wakes, rather than on his bare mattress with an unfitted sheet hanging over him, he is buried to his neck in pillows and silken blankets. With this alone, he realizes he is not in his body. Racing to the mirror – feeling foolish, like a storybook character – the reflection that greets him is not his own, but the proud face of Mithrun of Kerensil, with long silver hair, and two intact eyes and ears. Kabru shudders. Even though he’s spent nights imagining what the past Mithrun had looked and acted like, his own imagination was inaccurate. Mithrun possesses a flawless beauty beyond words. He is a peerless image of nobility. The corner of his eyes seem to fold in the hint of a smile even when he himself is not smiling. His eyes have the same silver sheen as his hair, and are filled with light, seeming to sparkle. Even when he lifts up his chin, this past Mithrun does not appear to look down in condescension. He’s perfect, but… something tugs at Kabru when he tries to formulate why his heart has dropped down to his stomach. Though perfect, though unhurt and whole, this Mithrun is not the one he knows. Kabru thinks he prefers the captain the way he is, rising to take his hand after the fall of the dungeon, not because he has to, but because he chose to; how, the first time he heard Mithrun’s quiet laughter, it was soft and gravelly as it left his throat, out of practice on how to laugh at all; and then he looked at Kabru, and Kabru realized this laughter was for him, because of him, with him. Kabru feels sick looking at his reflection. Where is the real Mithrun right now?

In the early morning light, the bedroom door bursts open and Milsiril pops out like a Jack in the Box toy. “Kabru!” Her voice is shrill. She runs over to Kabru and picks him up under the arms easily, scooping him up and kissing the top of his head. “I missed you! I missed you!” He can’t muster up the energy to resist, nor to relax into the touch. He lays in Milsiril’s arms with his shoulders raised against his neck, looking up at her emotionlessly. Milsiril startles when she notices the way he looks at her. “Ah…. you’re not…” She scrambles away from him. “You’re not Kabru… are you?”

Kabru adjusts to his daily routine as Mithrun easily. Caring for Mithrun had already become like caring for an extension of his own body after that week in the dungeon. Washing and brushing his hair, dressing him and fastening that spidersilk armor against his neck, chest, and hips; cooking heartfelt but tasteless meals and feeding them to him, even when it means bringing the spoon up to his lips himself… None of this is strange to Kabru.

There’s something soothing about it to him, knowing with absolute certainty that Mithrun is well cared for, a certainty that he usually lacks, on long days where he is working from sunrise to sunset in the castle, and Mithrun is off looking for dungeons without a care for if Fleki is tagging along with him or not. Kabru remembers–

One day, Mithrun came back alone with a basket of fish, having conquered a dungeon and found a fishing pool beyond it. He lifted up one flopping fish in his hands and waved it at Kabru expectantly, a hopeful glint in his eye, as if waiting for recognition. Or maybe it was Kabru’s own wishful thinking.

“Good catch, Captain!” Kabru shouted when he saw him.

“Not Captain anymore,” Mithrun replied, lowering the fish into the basket. That afternoon, Kabru went back with Mithrun to his home, a small building with a restaurant on the lower level and an apartment above, and Mithrun cooked him hand-pulled noodles using the fish he found for broth and as a garnish. Kabru ate, and praised him heavily, more out of habit than in expectation. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten, seriously, Captain.”

“Not Captain anymore. Just call me Mithrun.”

“You’re the best, Mithrun.” Kabru couldn’t help it. When he looked at Mithrun across from him, a sappy smile slipped across his face.

Mithrun glanced at him then looked away and ate his own meal without being reminded to. Kabru swore that for a split second, the tips of Mithrun’s ears were blush red.

Kabru does not take well to archery. An older elf, wearing traditional robes with gold lacing against his neck, flits back and forth across the field to retrieve his fallen arrows and hand them back to him. Kabru has many misses, arrows littered in the grass and dirt. An amateurish target practice. The target has no critical injuries. Kabru himself could take out a person’s vital points with his blade in three seconds. But, for this body, rich in mana but lesser in strength, using it is like driving drunk. A thought that isn’t his floods his mind. Useless.

Across the field he can start to see another elf approaching with a mop of yellow hair. Kabru recognizes him from the past description: Mithrun’s brother, Obrin. It was unlike Mithrun to draw much attention to another’s physical description, seen by both his lacking doppelganger image of Kabru, and the way he refers to the canaries on his team by their magical abilities rather than looks – he would give directions to find Cithis, the illusions user; Lycion, the shapeshifter. In the dungeon, when describing Obrin, Mithrun had simply said to Kabru, My brother, with hair different from mine. And when Kabru had prodded him, Mithrun added, Blond, and turned away, in a gesture that from anyone else Kabru would categorize as hurt.

Obrin calls for him. Obrin is oblivious to what Mithrun finds obvious, their halved lineage. Their parents both have silver hair and eyes, like Mithrun. Obrin’s hair is yellow as hay, unseemly and commonplace. He approaches Mithrun as if he is not aware of his own disfavor in their house and outside of it, with a dumb, puppy-like affection. Why does he act so sure of himself? If it’s him who is favored after all… Mithrun thinks he might hate him. Kabru feels it in the nervous tic of his body, nails digging into the palm of his hand held tightly behind his back. Mithrun is smiling at Obrin, the practiced smile seen in the mirror, and he treats him with kind familiarity that only Kabru can feel lacks sincerity. The nails dig in deeper, leaving crescent circles on the skin of his hidden hand. Resentment. Mithrun wishes that he took to archery with the same natural prowess of their father. Mithrun wishes he did not feel this way. When Obrin wraps his arm around his shoulders and leads him off towards the house, Mithrun has an urge to break away and get back to target practice. This time, he resists more for fear of his own failure than for the sake of decorum. 

Before she was a snake, she was a songstress. Sultha. Mithrun knows her voice but not her face for quite some time. Sneaking into the tavern, Mithrun’s status means nothing. Though he could have reserved a table at the very front, he thinks he likes this better. Anonymity. Mithrun sits at a table at the back corner of the tavern and draws teleportation sigils in his spellbook. He is wearing his finest clothes. Sultha does not see him. One week of this turns into a month, a month turns into two, then three, and half a year has gone by of Mithrun sitting and listening to the songstress without seeing or being seen back. When she does finally notice him, it’s when he’s let his guard down, assumed that no one would acknowledge him in this place, even if it’s out of respect for the reputation of his family.

The night Sultha and Mithrun meet, the tavern is a packed house that clears out as soon as the last song has finished. A group of elves coming from a bridal party and leaving just as fast, uninterested in anyone but each other. Sultha stands on the stage looking lonely and a bit awkward, as if waiting to be coerced into singing an encore. Mithrun looks up, and her gaze falls on him, hopeful. He speaks. “Will you perform another?”

When she finds her way over to him, it is clear what she wants, that she desires him. Mithrun has never had a lover, but he thinks he won’t find it difficult. Mithrun likes being desired, knows how to posture himself, taking her hand in his. Sultha beams at the touch, looks up at him through her eyelashes. He can’t help but find it insincere. But perhaps that’s what’s safe about Sultha. She does not love him yet, but she loves the way he appears to her. In this way, everyone loves him, and nobody does.

Mithrun thinks that maybe he could fall in love with Sultha, if he could trust her.

When they part, she whispers something in his ear that he can’t catch. He asks her to repeat herself, and she just gives him a coy smile. “Come back and see me again, and I’ll tell you.”

He tells her that he will return in the next week.

It doesn’t matter what the whispered words were. Before he can find his way back to her, Mithrun is enlisted in the Canaries.

Sultha, in the dungeon, is very affectionate, but knows nothing of their past. Mithrun finds that the more time passes, the less she has to say at all. They are never able to continue their conversation from that night. Mithrun loves her anyway.

The demon takes everything from him. 

Mithrun does not feel love any longer. He doesn’t feel anything. Many people come to visit him. Obrin, for a long time, comes every day. Mithrun does not care for keeping up his appearance any longer. One of his eyes is gone. His ears, the sign of his status, have been severed. Obrin and Sultha, betrothed, come together to see him once. He doesn’t recognize either of them, or he doesn’t care to.

When Obrin can’t bear the lack of response from Mithrun anymore, he hires a series of helpers, who all get tired of him as well.

Milsiril comes to see him after a year and a half. She wanted to kill him before. It makes no difference if she is here to kill him today or try to save his life. Milsiril approaches his hospital bed and lifts the bandage at his eye. She redresses the wound and begins to unravel the bandages to wrap back around his eye.

“Mithrun,” Milsiril says. “Have you forgotten about the demon?”

He stares at her. He holds no desire for revenge. A tear leaks down from his empty eye.

The dream bursts.

Kabru wakes up to a slap in the face. He is lying in a pool of water on the floor of the dungeon where he fell into the dream. Mithrun, his Mithrun, is kneeling over him. “Kabru.”

There is a tear running down from Kabru’s left eye. Mithrun wipes it away with his fingertip, from the same hand that shocked him into consciousness. “It was just a dream.”

“I know—I know, fuck….” Kabru wraps his arms around Mithrun. Mithrun stiffens, then eases into the touch, letting Kabru hold him close. Mithrun’s hands are trapped between their bodies. Kabru is too scared to test if Mithrun would hold him back. Tears flood his eyes again. Kabru sniffles, burying his face in Mithrun’s neck, tears wetting his skin. Mithrun’s pulse is racing faster than usual.

Wait. Mithrun’s pulse is faster than usual. “Are you hurt?!” Kabru rises to his feet, dragging Mithrun up with him and resting him against the wall.

“I’m fine. My dream broke after a few minutes. I didn’t see much of your memory.”

Kabru pats him down to check for injuries. Mithrun lets Kabru adjust him as he pleases. Satisfied that Mithrun is safe, he takes a few steps back and remembers personal space. “What did you see? Um, in my memories?”

“I saw Milsiril after your first day of combat training. It seems the illusion breaks when the people within the memory no longer believe you are who you are supposed to be. I had no desire to pretend to be you.”

In the illusion, Kabru was stuck in Mithrun’s dream from the time of his adolescence to the fall of Mithrun’s dungeon, nearly one hundred years of an elven lifetime. Meanwhile, Mithrun had broken away from the curse minutes into the first dream. “Ah, I see…” How embarrassing.

Mithrun hesitates. “I think – I had the desire not to pretend. I wanted to leave the dream. And get back to you.”

Mithrun takes a step closer to where Kabru is standing. He takes another step. Then another. Then Mithrun is standing in front of Kabru, close enough for their feet to touch. Kabru thinks he might be in another dream. Mithrun… had a desire to break free and come back to me?

Mithrun leans forward, one dark eye fixed on his. Kabru doesn’t back away even as he feels warm breath brush against his face. Mithrun looks at him a second longer, time at a standstill. A stalemate. Then Mithrun is lifting his face up to meet his, standing on the tips of his toes. Mithrun presses his lips against Kabru’s softly. After a second, he moves away. Without thinking, Kabru follows after his lips and kisses him again desperately, biting at Mithrun’s chapped lower lip until he gasps and Kabru is able to press his tongue inside his mouth, tracing the soft warmth of his mouth, the heft of his own tongue. Mithrun stumbles back and nearly falls, so Kabru wraps his arms around his waist. Mithrun clenches his fists in the back of Kabru’s shirt, holding on tight as if he thinks he might fall over again. “I’m,” Kabru kisses him, “so,” and kisses him again, “happy.”

I’m so happy you came home to me.

Chapter Text

Mithrun hovers at the doorframe, waiting to be invited in, unsure. He doesn’t come to Kabru’s place very often. Though Kabru wants him here so badly, the idea of telling him to follow him into his bedroom is somehow deeply embarrassing. Having snuck Mithrun in like a fugitive, careful to avoid anyone in the halls of the castle, lest he explain why he was bringing the elf captain in with him late at night, Kabru is ready to collapse in bed and sleep his stress off. The whole thing made him feel like a teenager again. It’s not that he was trying to keep Mithrun a secret. It’s just that the conversation will take some careful easing into, for the optics, and also for the sake of sparing himself from Marcille’s many, many, inevitable follow-up questions.

Mithrun watches from the door with one devoted eye as Kabru kicks off his shoes and his armor. Kabru takes off his shirt and pants, remaining in his boxers. He looks at him not quite with desire, but with a spark of curious interest that makes Kabru's heart surge with an excitement that may not be deserved. He can’t tell what Mithrun thinks of what he sees. It’s unnerving. 

Kabru settles into bed and Mithrun still does not follow. “Come here,” Kabru finally relents, lifting up the blankets. Mithrun shuffles over, springing himself into Kabru’s arms, burying his face in the curve of Kabru’s neck. “I can hear your heart,” Mithrun mumbles. “So loud.”

“Sorry,” Kabru starts to pull away but Mithrun holds onto him tighter, keeping him in place. 

“It’s okay. You can hear mine too.” Mithrun lets go of Kabru and moves to lay on his back next to him. Kabru leans over him and presses his head against Mithrun’s chest. Mithrun cradles the back of his head with one hand. His heart is beating louder than Kabru can feel his own racing in his chest. Kabru is fascinated by it -- the sound of his heart beating insistently, proof that Mithrun is alive next to him and feeling so much of something … 

Kabru wakes up to a cacophony of noise outside his door. It sounds like two people are arguing. Two people he immediately recognizes as Canaries. A fist pounds on his door insistently. “Open up!” 

Kabru sighs, rubbing his face in his hands, and gets up, unentangling himself from the captain, who is wrapped around him with all four limbs. He goes to open the door, not thinking to put on a shirt. 

“Have you seen Mithrun? No one has been able to find him since--” The vision that faces their visitors is this -- Kabru, greeting them in nothing but his boxers, and Mithrun, wrapped up in Kabru’s bedsheets like some ravished maiden, covered up to the neck for the sake of protecting his modesty. Mithrun’s hair is disheveled, a bad case of bedhead that sends each strand of silver hair sticking out in a different direction. It makes him look bullied. 

Pattadol storms in, fuming. “How dare you do this to our captain!” 

“No—that's not what’s happening, I mean, I haven’t done anything weird to him—”

“Oh, the captain can’t get it up?” Fleki’s grin is hysterical. 

“Don’t say that! He’s capable of whatever he wants to do.”

“So it is possible.” 

“Stop talking about him like this! Both of you!” Pattadol cuts in. “Don’t objectify him.” 

“I don’t know if it’s possible, Fleki, we haven’t tried it yet.” The only sign Mithrun has risen behind him is his statement. Fleki breaks out into mad laughter. 

“Captain!” Kabru can’t help getting flustered. Part of him is shocked the thought even occurred to Mithrun. He feels the blush rising to his face. 

Mithrun moves to stand next to him, and reaches out his palm to press against his forehead. “Are you feeling alright, Kabru?” 

He looks up at him with so much tenderness that Kabru is completely taken off guard.

At the domesticity, Fleki and Pattadol both quiet. Pattadol pales. 

“Alright— fine. Captain, just make sure to tell someone before you go off on your own again.” Pattadol sees herself out. Fleki squints at them a moment longer, smiling from ear to ear, before turning and following Pattadol. 

The sleepovers at the castle persist. After a second, somehow more hostile visit from Lycion, who snarls and lunges at Kabru in his full lycanthropic form, Kabru has had enough. This isn’t working. Nearly every canary has come to make a scene in the early hours of the morning. Kabru needs to keep the peace. But also, more than anything, he needs to make sure Mithrun is getting enough sleep. It’s easiest to do that sleeping next to him. And, even if not for his sake, he sleeps better himself with Mithrun’s weight pressed against him. Kabru can’t remember the last time he voluntarily got a full eight hours of sleep before Mithrun started coming over. 

When Mithrun wakes, blinking up at him drowsily, the words are already rushing out of Kabru’s mouth. “Mithrun. Let’s move in together.” 

“Okay.” The corners of Mithrun’s lips turn up in a slight smile. He looks up at him in that familiar way, always trusting, waiting for Kabru to be ready. It takes a different shape as of late. Mithrun, allowing himself to want and to have. He gets out of bed first. Backlit with sunlight haloing around him, Mithrun reaches a hand out to Kabru. “Come on, let’s go.”