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Chapter Text

Alfur knows something that no one else knows. He sees it interlinked between people, kinked and frayed but real and tangible all at the same time. He sees love and hate, family and friend. He sees the way people are inexplicably drawn to each other, by fate, by themselves, by those around them.

Alfur sees strings wherever he goes.

He sees strings of red and blue, of yellow and black. He sees connection everywhere, all of it bound to happen by some... inextricable force. But Alfur is an elf of logic. He's tried for years to study them secretly, to deduce what (or who) is behind them. He's tried hypothesis after hypothesis, even going so far as to intrude into his own sibling's personal lives, none of it has worked. Nothing yields answers that aren't confounding or entirely nonsense.

It's simply become a fact of life. He is alone, and he will never mention that such a thing exists in his eyes. He has strings wrapped around his fingers, each of them leading to someone who has no idea that they are seemingly destined to be together.

Alfur has twelve strings. He has met exactly half.

The first two being his parents. The red string between them gives him a smile each time he sees it. There's his mother, with a well off job that gives her plenty of time with the family—a court stenographer—and his father, who opts to stay at home and expand the garden. They have fresh produce and meat from the butcher's every night. All is well. They both have a blue string connecting to him, each on their middle finger, right in between his siblings. (He was the middle child after all.) His matched, connecting and mirrored on both of his hands.

His brother, Adrian, two years older and a bit rougher around the edges, also had a blue string. Laying on their right pointer fingers, Alfur had noticed the pattern years ago. He was the adventurous type, always going into the plains to explore and tussle in the dirt with his friends. He liked helping his father tend to the garden and flirting with the butcher, Daphne.

His sister Alyssa, the youngest, was always the first to help Alfur, especially with his shortcomings. She took it upon herself to help with anything, no matter how small. She feeds grain to the callfowl that flock to the after-rain ponds, and sings to the honey-wisps while gathering their sticky threads. But she also has a core of molten fire, ready to burst when someone slights another. Continuing the pattern, her blue string was on his ring finger, slotted right at home with the rest of his family.

Except for his cousin, the holder of his second black thread. On his pinky is a spot reserved for Aloysia Aldric, their shared string as black as charcoal. She was... Well, she was mean. Or at least, she was mean to Alfur. Always lording over him her accomplishments when he struggled to simply get through the day. Ever since they were kids, it was him versus her, and there weren't any signs of change. He treated her well—he was still an elf!—but he held contempt for her nonetheless.

But what colored his threads the most was yellow. Out of the one he has met, there were four. Edic was always there for him, coming around to drag him out of the house, even if it was for something simple like a walk about the town. He was graceful in his kindness, unlike his sister who could be a bit pushy at times. Edic could say anything, and it would make Alfur feel better.

For as long as he could remember, he would stare at the strings that slithered into the distance. He would tug and pluck at them, wondering exactly who was on the other side. Who were destined to be his friends? Who was destined to be another bully? Was there a missing family member connected to his last blue string? But, most importantly...

Who was at the end of his red string?

Chapter Text

Alfur knew it was going to be a bad day even before he opened his eyes. He was stuck, half-asleep and replaying his dreams from the night before. Even with that, all he could focus on was the intrusive voice in his head, looping over and over again until it drowned out everything else.

You're lazy, why can't you suck it up and do what everyone else does?

Stop that, I'm not lazy. He tried to argue back. But it was weak, half-hearted at best.

You can do better, I know you can. You need to try harder.

Alfur opened his eyes.

The sunlight filtered through his blinds in horizontal stripes. If he had to guess, it was mid-morning. The smell of bacon and pancakes wafted from down the hall, his father's humming twining around it and filling his senses. He took a deep breath, even as everything in his body resisted the idea of getting up.

Get up, you're being unreasonable.

He didn't get up. Instead he curled up on his side, facing the wall. Why couldn't he be like Alyssa? Or his mother? Or Adrian, or Edic? Or, hell, even Aloysia is better than this. They were normal and able to get up and do things, and he just couldn't and—

There was a tugging on one of his fingers. He has never completely ascertained what it meant, but his longest standing theory was that the string was pulled whenever the person on the other end felt love—or disdain—for him. He looked down at his fingers when the pull became more insistent. It was his right middle finger, his father.

He must be bringing you breakfast, how thoughtful. If only he didn't need to do that.

Alfur blinked, eyes becoming watery. The voice was right. If only Alfur was better, then his father wouldn't have to work so hard. He took the blue string that was going through his core, towards the kitchen. It was stark against his white skin as he slowly snaked it around his arm. In his wrapped hand, he held the end tightly, its length criss-crossing his fingers and forming an anchor. In his free hand, he took the length at the base of his forearm and pulled.

The string dug into his flesh, not quite biting. It was simple pressure. But he tugged harder, increasing the tension until the grounding sting bubbled up and flooded his senses. He felt pins and needles wherever the string wound against his skin. Alfur watched, almost distantly, as his hand blushed red from the lack of blood. (He knew he could stay like this for a few minutes before he was in danger of damaging himself.) Breathing shakily, he felt the world narrow in on the pain until it was all he could feel.

A knock on the door pierced through the quiet, bringing everything back in an instant. How warm his blanket was, the whir of his fan, the smell of food, the crumbs on his sheets. His inhale hiccupped, and he lost his grip on the blue string. The stinging receded slowly, leaving him heaving.

"Alfur?" His father's voice rang out like a bell.

He couldn't manage to turn around, fingers still tangled in a cat's cradle of blue thread. Instead, he weakly called out. "Yes?"

The smile in his father's voice was evident. "You're awake! I brought you some food. Adrian left for work, so he won't be back until Tuesday, you know how it is as a medic."

Alfur managed to laugh weakly, managing to roll onto his back, hands crooked. He could do this, it was only a small conversation.

His father, Atticus, was beaming as he set a plate of food on Alfur's nightstand, taking the old plate of half-eaten dinner in his hands. "Amelia left a few hours ago, apparently there's a high profile case in the courts today. She said it was a trial for embezzlement!"

He stared at the ceiling, tracing circles between the dusty glow in the dark stars tacked up there. "Embezzlement?" He managed.

You can do better than this.

"Yeah, apparently it was the old mayor. Crazy stuff." His father replied, slowly making his way to the door from the corner of Alfur's eye. As he ducked around the door, he added one last: "I've gotta help Alyssa with the honey-wisps, but I'll drop by for lunch. Take care, son."

And with that, the door was shut and he was gone.

Alfur let out the breath he was holding, feeling the numbness in his fingers finally leaving as he wriggled them out of the blue string. His father's string tugged on him again, this time joined by his sister's as well.

You don't deserve them, they're too good for you. Why are you even fated together in the first place? Something must have been lost in translation.

He turned back to the wall, curling his arms to his chest and trying to ignore the pulse in his fingers.

Chapter Text

Ever since Alfur introduced the young human, Hilda, to the proper paperwork, he's been going through non-stop motion.

(He stared at the blue string that connected him to the girl. He didn't even have time to process the fact that he was bound to a human before she took him and they were off.)

He felt bad for her and her mum, mustering up enough energy to get an appointment with the new mayor (the embezzlement case was clear-cut in the eyes of the jury). He then had to muster up even more energy to go to the king. With all the chaos, he barely had time to tell Edic that he had willingly left the house.

("Dude! That's awesome! Only you would be able to get an audience with the mayor, prime minister, and king in the span of a week!"

Alfur frantically waved him off. "It was mostly the human's doing! She's the one who carried me there, I only went through the proper channels that she couldn't!"

Still, Edic slung an arm around his shoulder, practically hanging off of him. "That's still doing something, you're selling yourself short! You've done a lot man, you deserve some recognition for it."

The voice in his head disagreed.)

It was only when he was packing his bags for Trollberg that it all caught up to him. A deep, deep exhaustion hit him in a rush, causing him to slump over his suitcase and grip his hat. What was he going to tell his family? His friend? He could barely take care of himself when he was at home, how could he keep himself afloat in a strange city built for humans?

But he wanted. He wanted to go, and it was the first thing in months that he had genuinely yearned for. He missed his college days, where every class was filled with new knowledge and skills to learn. Ever since he got his degree, he hadn't had the drive to pick up a job. Falling deep into a pit of laziness and guilt. But this, this was something new that he was tempted to chase.

Shouldn't he follow his heart? It's what his parents always wanted for their kids. Not to follow in their footsteps, or to get married with kids, but to have fun. And, as much as he loathes to admit it, going out on terrifying adventures was a little fun. Helping Hilda was rewarding, and he wondered if there were other humans that were as kind to magical creatures as she was.

Alfur took a deep breath. His family was supportive, and he had little doubt that they would let him go off to Trollberg. Edic would be all for it, and he could finally say he had done something that Aloysia hadn't. With renewed vigor, he kept packing, rehearsing what he was going to say to his family and Edic when he finally broke the news. Maybe he does need to get out of this town, maybe he does need a change of pace.

For the first time in months, Alfur felt excitement.

Moving into Hilda's cuckoo clock was easier than expected. His parents mailed him what he couldn't bring himself, sending him a letter congratulating him, again. They mailed a good luck gift in the form of new furniture for his unfurnished home. They even bought him a new bed, one larger than his childhood frame. His siblings contributed their own too, Alyssa gifting him an old filing cabinet from her workplace and Adrian giving a few bottles of assorted alcohol.

("Wha—Adrian!" Alfur exclaimed at the crate that showed up via carrier pigeon. He almost sent it back immediately, since he couldn't hold his liquor, but figured the wine would be nice to have for guests, should he ever meet another elf in Trollberg. Not to mention, he was lacking the funds to mail a package so heavy.)

It was then that he discovered who one of his strings connected to. Johanna had a small yellow thread wrapped around her pinky that led to Alfur's. He also dwelled on Hilda's connection to him. How could he possess a familial connection with a human? He understood being friends with humans, they seemed to be as varied as elves in personality and temperament, but to have a familial bond? Or perhaps they weren't familial bonds, but what else could they be? He was uncertain about the universe trusting him with such a precocious young girl, but he vowed to be the best—father figure? Brother? Trusted adult?—that he could be.

For a while, he was busy. It was like his college days. He barely had any time to dwell on his lack of hobbies, or his dwindling personal time. He helped out around the apartment, dusting in corners that Johanna couldn't quite reach, watering plants when the humans forgot, and organizing the fridge. He accompanied Hilda on adventures, promising to fill Johanna in on what her daughter didn't tell her. (He may be small and unable to directly protect her, but he can advise her and keep an eye out.)

Surprisingly, it was easier than Alfur thought to upkeep himself. Johanna made food every night, enough for two humans and an elf. He struggled to eat what small portions he was given, but Johanna insisted that the rest wouldn't go to waste in their compost bin. Besides feeding himself, he was able to keep his cuckoo clock house clean and tidy, which surprised him the most. With all the reports he was sending home, being filed by his sister, he found himself up to his shoulders in work. The voice hardly had any time to interject before he went right back to solving the next puzzle or doing the next chore.

And then Hilda came home with Frida, claiming to have found elves in Trollberg and requesting the acknowledgement paperwork. He was telling his tale as he walked, feeling warm with the way Hilda tried to gasp in all the right places. He didn't even notice the red string on his thumb going lax.

"But unfortunately, nobody's been able to find them for generations." Alfur concluded, holding his hands up as he shrugged.

He truly does wonder what happened to them, if they survived outside of elfdom. He wants to find them, to have them sign the contract. And not just because he's an Aldric—they've had enough land to live comfortably and managing real estate is a nightmare—no, he genuinely wants to bring them back. They've missed all the festival days, all the new jobs, the new technology—

"And it's going to stay that way." Said a new voice, a deep baritone that spoke of many tales.

Alfur whipped his head around, while he didn't think Hilda was lying—never in a million years would she lie about magical creatures she's found—he thought she might've been mistaken. Yet, there before him was a clan of elves and their distinctly non-northern counties architecture. With all the people, the air was filled with strings. But he was used to them. He had been since he was a kid and even more so since he left the countryside, but something felt... off. He couldn't place it, but something about this view was not normal.

"You were right. They are hairier!" Frida said, but Alfur was too caught up in studying the scene before him to interject on the matter.

The string on his thumb, his red string, was being tugged at. Habitually, he looked down. And then his heart skipped a beat.

There, lying spread out in the clearing, was his red string. It looped in on itself several times before leading to Alfur's soulmate. He traced the path, throat thick with apprehension, before—finally—he found the end.

"Are you... the Lost Clan?" Hilda hesitantly asks, taking a step forward.

The two elves looked into each other's eyes, one uncomprehending of the situation, and one all too aware of what this meant.

"Some call us that, yes. I am Bartell, leader of the Bragga family." The elf who spoke before, Bartell, said. He was still looking at Alfur, eyes filled with anger.

Alfur paled, taking a step back on Hilda's hair.

"Alfur? She whispered, glancing up at him hesitantly. He was frozen, dread and shock traveling through his body in waves.

He gripped his hat, "No. Nonononono! This can't be happening. This cannot be happening."

Bartell cleared his throat, and Alfur stopped his muttering. "What brings you to our territory?" He asked, his spear held threateningly.

"We were—" Frida started, but Alfur cut her off when he finally snapped out of his disbelief (he snapped at the voice before it could overwhelm him with what-if's: we can deal with all the thoughts of our soulmate later—) and jumped down.

"We want to help you! Your exile can be lifted!" He said, nervously walking up to Bartell with a bow. "All you have to do is sign this—"

A spear point pressed against his face, and he froze. "No." Bartell said. "We swore off contracts after our exile. We will not sign another document, not. Even. A. Receipt."

"B-But—" Bartell cut him off.

"No! We will not sign the contract!" Bartell drew closer, leaning into Alfur's space. "What's your stake in this?"

Alfur couldn't help but laugh nervously. "I'm just a good samaritan trying to help?"

Somehow, Bartell leaned even closer. "No, it's more than that. You're... You're an Aldric aren't you?"

He gulped, "Uh. Ye-Yes?"

Bartell growled, and Alfur managed to unfreeze himself and lean back. "Then," Bartell started, "You are responsible for our exile! You must face trial by combat for your crimes!"

I'm going to die. I'm going to die and it'll be because of my soulmate. He doesn't even know he's my soulmate!

Thankfully, Frida stepped in, like the paperwork angel she was. "Now hold on! Contracts have loopholes, I'm sure we can find a solution that is beneficial to both parties."

Alfur breathed a sigh of relief when Bartell straightened up, running a hand through his beard in thought. He scrambled to get back on Hilda's head, trying not to reach for the strings floating around him. He was incredibly disoriented, but there wasn't an easy way to get the pain he needed to ground himself. He barely heard Bartell's next words.

"Fine. You have until sundown, and if you fail, then the Aldric must be put into combat! We will keep your friend to make sure you come back." With one last raise of his spear, Bartell motioned for the rest of the clan to return to the village.

Feeling like his head was underwater, Alfur couldn't make out what Hilda said next. He climbed into her hair and curled up, ignoring any words sent his way. Under the bright blue strands it was easy to pick the red thread on his thumb and bring back those pins and needles.

Chapter Text

Dear Edic,

Alfur looks at the crumpled ball of paper he had cut from the letter. It was long, explaining the strings he can see, and how he found his soulmate. Groaning, he forcibly throws it into the waste bin and goes about mailing his newest letter to Edic.

After the lost clan debacle, he and Bartell were... tentative friends. Every once in a while he would ride over on Cedric, stay at the cuckoo clock for a few hours, offer a sightseeing ride to Alfur (which he would politely refuse each time), take some cookies for the road, and depart for his home.

Throughout it all, he learned the intricacies of running an entire clan, the responsibilities Bartell held. He learned the elf genuinely enjoyed gathering honey from the bees they managed to find decades ago, and that weaving was one of the most relaxing things to him. He learned about the native flowers they had there and the different teas that they could be made into.

Meanwhile, Alfur tried to keep his distance. He told folklore of great paperwork battles, even though Bartell could never follow along. He told of his family, how wonderfully odd they were and all the jobs they had held over the years. He told him about his reports, even going so far as to bring out the originals that he copied to Alyssa. (Bartell was much more engaged in those stories.) He told the elf many things about his life, but never his hobbies, and never what was bothering him. After all, what hobbies did he have? He liked writing his reports, but that was becoming more of a 'job' than a simple hobby. It was how he made up all that laziness. And at merely the thought of telling Bartell about how horrible he is—about him not being able to force himself to do anything until he moved out—made him curl up into a ball on his bed.

Just as he finished stamping the letter, he felt a human-sized knock at his door.

Opening the door, Alfur was surprised to see Hilda standing on a step-stool, eye to eye with him.

"Oh, Hilda! Is everything alright?" He asked, leaning against the cuckoo clock's door.

Her eyes were fiercely determined, but she softened when she saw him. "Alfur. You never explained what happened when we first met Bartell. You hid in my hair, and you wouldn't talk to us until we got to the library. Were you okay?"

Alfur resisted the urge to wrap a string around his arm. He was not prepared for this conversation at all.

"O-Oh, uhm. I guess I was just—uh—surprised! I was surprised to see another elf, and I was..." He glanced at the letter and report on his hand, both needing to be mailed. "...so entranced in writing my report that I didn't hear you?"

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, and she let out a low 'hmmm'. However, after sitting on it for a few moments, she blinked. "And it wasn't anything else? You seemed pretty upset about something."

Sweating, Alfur dug the hole deeper. "No! Of course not! I just couldn't believe that there were other elves in Trollberg!"

Hilda hummed again, but this time didn't say anything. She simply backed away, eyes still narrowed in suspicion. "Okay... But if you need anything, don't hesitate to tell me or mum, okay?"

Alfur nodded, but he knew that he was lying. Johanna? Perhaps. She was an adult and had plenty of years to practice enforcing her own boundaries. Still, he didn't want to ruin the delicate friendship they had, nor had he told anyone about the strings. Hilda? Absolutely not. She was a child, and Alfur refused to put his problems on her.

However, his nod seemed to satisfy her, and she picked up the step stool. "Okay, goodbye Alfur! I'm off to sparrow scouts!"

He waved her goodbye, even as guilt weighed on his heart.

Alfur must revise his theory. He was simply unable to believe that the tugging meant feelings of love or hate. After all, if it did...

Why would Bartell feel love for him when they first met?

Therefore, it must be when he crosses their mind, or when the universe wants them to think about each other, or—or, something! There is simply no other explanation for it! There is no way that an elf like Bartell would fall for Alfur. He was always doing something, he was so capable. And Alfur...

"Alfur! Bartell's at the window!" Hilda's voice rang out, and his head snapped up. Bartell? But he hadn't sent any letters recently announcing that he was planning to visit!

Something must be wrong, get up right now!

He managed to get out of bed, slipping on his boots as he ran. Opening the door, Alfur saw the young girl sliding the window up and removing the screen to let Cedric and his owner through. He quickly hopped off the shelf, sliding down a string of fairy lights until he hit the bed. There, Bartell was waiting for him. Quickly, Alfur searched him for injuries. He didn't look hurt, nor was he disheveled, he seemed... normal, happy.

"Alfur!" Bartell boomed, "I wish I could've sent a letter but this could not wait. I have great news!"

Some of the tension leaves Alfur's shoulders. Oh, he couldn't send a letter because he wanted to inform Alfur immediately. That's... not a disaster. Just excitement. He can probably deal with sudden excitement.

Suddenly, he was being wrapped in a hug, a beard tickling his cheek as Bartell picked him up and spun him around.

"The first luckphoe have sprouted, and we are hosting a celebration tonight!" Bartell said before setting Alfur down and taking a step back. "Would you like to join us?"

Alfur blinked a few times, a bit dizzy from the hug and the offer. He hasn't gone to the lost clan since the incident. He was worried about doing the wrong thing, about saying something offensive. But he remembered when he made his toast, and Bartell repeated it after only a moment's hesitation. Didn't that count for something?

"Y-Yes. I'd like to accompany you. When will we be leaving?" Alfur said.

Bartell grinned. "Excellent! We will depart right now!"

"Now? But I haven't—" However, before he could protest, he was hauled onto Cedric. They took flight just as he tried to dismount, causing Alfur to course-correct and cling onto Bartell instead.

Before he went out of earshot, he heard Hilda ask Twig: "What's a luckphoe?"

Chapter Text

luck•phoe
/lʌk ˈfiː/
noun
plural noun: luckphoe

Luckphoe is a wide-spread small clover-like flower that sprouts in the fall. They are considered lucky in many cultures and are often ground into a paste with antibacterial properties.

As much as Alfur loved to have a friend like Bartell (he had recently decided to drop the 'tentative'), he could be too spontaneous. Alfur was left staring at the string around them, holding on for dear life, and hastily building a social interaction plan in his spinning head.

Talk about bees and the medicinal properties of luckphoe to Bartell, make small talk with everyone else. Ask them about themselves, everyone loves talking about themselves.

Above all else, do not tell Bartell how useless you are.

Alfur had heard of luckphoe before, though entirely through diagrams and paper as they weren't native to the northern counties. They were a versatile plant, offering light at night and medical applications throughout all stages of their lives. They were a staple of elf culture, representing newfound love between couples. And for those that were able to afford it, they could be imported into the northern counties. However, from what Alfur had read, they were native to Trollberg and seen as a weed to the humans that inhabited the city. Who knew that two species could have such differing views on a plant?

He was brought out of his musing when Cedric suddenly dropped altitude, and Alfur knew they had arrived at the village. He took a deep breath, willing the voice to stop for once.

(It never worked.)

I'm only here to help, what do you not get about that? You have to be better, you can't let anyone know.

Bartell shifted in front of him, and Alfur let out the breath he'd started holding. When had he done that?

"Alfur, friend, the flight has been conquered! Onto the festivities!" Bartell said, not unkindly, from the ground.

What did you do to deserve someone like him?

Alfur cleared his throat, shakily dismounting from Cedric. "R-Right. Onto the—"

And he looked up. The field was filled with huge clovers, each a vibrant shade of orange or red. There were a few flowers, bright yellow and round with fuzz. All of it was framed by the glow of fireflies and lanterns from the village, giving the area a warm haze.

"Wow..." Alfur breathed, hesitating to join the scene. It was perfectly picturesque.

But he didn't get a choice, as Bartell grabbed him by the hand and started walking the two of them towards the gathering of elves and tables. There were drums and woodwinds playing a jaunty tune that had at least a dozen elves moving in a dance that Alfur didn't recognize. He was pulled towards a table, as well as handed a plate and tankard from somewhere he wasn't quite able to catch. Inside was what smelled like tea, but it had a deep red color. On his plate were a few familiar items at least: scones, cheese, bread, wild berries.

He's sat down, body a bit distant in all the noise and cheering around him. (How could people be so effortlessly happy?) Joining him, Bartell almost spills his tankard from how forcefully he sat down. Alfur couldn't help but smile at that.

"Try the tea! It's from the luckphoe that flowered first." Bartell said, a bit quieter than he usually was.

Alfur took a half-sip, expecting it to be scalding. Instead, it was perfectly warm and filling, leaving an earthy aftertaste that he hasn't quite had before. He smiled, feeling it reach his eyes more this time.

"This is really good, thank you Bartell. And thank you for inviting me, even if it was a bit, er, spontaneous."

Slinging an arm around his shoulder, Bartell laughed. "But of course my friend! We are but comrades in arms, should we not share our victories?"

Swirling his tea, Alfur made a non-committal hum. "I suppose you could look at it that way."

You don't deserve him.

He tried not to sigh at the voice, he really did, but it came out anyways. Bartell, sitting next to him, heard it perfectly even with the noise of the festivities.

"Alfur, friend, what's wrong?" Bartell asked.

Alfur immediately forced himself to perk up, trying to shake off his slumped posture.

"Er, nothing! I'm just—" Alfur stutters for a bit, but fails comes up with anything substantial in time.

Carefully bringing Alfur closer with the arm over his shoulder, Bartell whispers something. "Alfur. Are you okay?"

You cannot let him know.

"You seem scared of something. Is there anything I can do to help, friend?" Bartell presses, not unkindly.

YOU CANNOT LET HIM KNOW.

Alfur is silent, hands gripped around his tankard. He finally finds the words, though they feel like glass in his chest. "I'm... okay. Really."

If Bartell is disappointed by his answer, he doesn't show it. Instead he gives his shoulders a squeeze before unwrapping himself. Alfur manages to look up at him as he stands, watching Bartell slowly unclasp his cloak. When a furred weight is gently placed on his shoulders, Alfur feels himself jump.

Bartell's voice is carefully even when he speaks. "Would you hold onto my cloak for me? Agnes would have my head if she didn't get at least one dance with me!"

Feeling the coarse fur around him, Alfur feels Bartell's leftover warmth sink into his skin. He hadn't even realized how cold it had gotten with the sun setting. But when Alfur glanced back up to thank Bartell, he was already gone.

Chapter Text

Alfur's throat is itchy.

He must be coming down with something, it is autumn after all. He's been socializing with other elves for the first time in months, surely he caught something from the lost clan. It must be a sickness that he's susceptible to, since the clan has been isolated for so long. Something should have mutated away from the northern counties, something that his immune system wasn't prepared for!

So, resigning himself to a few days of sluggishness and drinking more water than should be possible. He was quite lucky to get over colds as fast as he tends to.

He can't get Bartell out of his mind.

He's been thinking about that festival night ever since he got home, doozy and a bit lightheaded, but ultimately content. It was a good night, and he didn't majorly mess anything up. He and Bartell had talked for a few hours, Alfur wearing his cloak all the while. The Bragga had tried to get him to dance, promising to show him all the steps of something they called Ciuleandra. It looked fun. The children laughing as they messed up, the adults knowing the steps perfectly but still smiling, someone stumbling occasionally and hopping back in as soon as they recovered.

Alfur had turned him down, but Bartell managed to weasel a promise out of him. He wasn't looking forward to making a fool of himself—an outsider trying to learn their dance? How inconsiderate—but he promised.

Alfur remembered the way that the other elves looked at him as he wore Bartell's cape. It was something akin to surprise. Surely, with looks like that, they couldn't want a county elf like him partaking in their festival dances? Eating from their tables was already enough!

His thought was cut short as he violently hacked, feeling something lodge in his throat. This cold was proving to be quite formidable, but Alfur was sure that he would be back to normal soon. He tried massaging his throat to dislodge the heavy weight he felt there, but, alas, it did nothing.

He should ask Alyssa for some honey in his next letter home. It would definitely make him feel better, especially with some of the camomile tea he brought with him. However, for now it was water, lots of water. Though he couldn't rest, Hilda was in the middle of another mystery and he had to be there for her.

Alfur feels the tell-tale signs of vomiting before it happens. It's a sickeningly familiar feeling, the way his saliva collects behind his molars. He thought he was doing fine. His sickness was persistent, yes, but it hadn't gotten any worse until now. All this musing, however, couldn't stop him from throwing up into his kitchen sink. Something in him is resigned as he hacks and coughs, he'll have to go to the doctor in a few days if a fever spikes.

He opens his eyes.

What greets Alfur is a scene out of a gorey art piece. There's blood splattered against the metal walls of the sink, thin yellow petals sinking down and pooling at the bottom. The ends of the petals have damp feathery fur tufts, signature to only few plants that he knows of. He reels, physically stumbling back a few steps.

What have you done!? The voice roars.

He doesn't have an answer, because the truth is laid out plainly for anyone to see.

Alfur Aldric is in love with Bartell Bragga.

Chapter Text

Alfur had to bring out his books to confirm it. Both the species of plant and the disease he had contracted. He was correct in assuming he had thrown up Luckphoe petals. And, unfortunately, his second hypothesis was right as well.

Alfur had contracted Hanahaki.

It was fatal, completely uncontrollable. The flowers grew and grew until there was no space left for the alveoli and bronchioles. No surgery would work, as they would always take over, again and again. It only prolonged the inevitable while scarring the lung's tissues.

You can't let him know, he's too good for you.

Alfur flinched as he washed his hands, having just swept. His throat was still bothering him, and he had no doubt that his breathing would start to falter next. He could get through this. He just had to... fall out of love.

(Just because they were fated to be in each other's lives doesn't mean that they're guaranteed to have a romantic relationship. No matter what the universe wants, sometimes they'll stay friends, or even become enemies. Alfur has seen it a few times in his life, elves that fall out of love despite the red string between them. It's rarer, sure, but it's still a possibility.)

(It's a possibility that Alfur is sure applies in his case.)

But how could he ever do that? How could he cut the thread the universe saw in him and Bartell? How could he shy away from that endless kindness?

(Alfur toyed with the red string in his hands, wrapping it in tangles around his arm. He knew he was beginning to lose himself. He pulled at the string, tugging harder and harder until his fingers creaked in protest and his arms started to sting.)

How could he give that up? The almost daily visits, the letters they mailed, the feeling of a warm cloak on his shoulders—it was like salve on a wound. A wound he knew he had, but wasn't sure he could ever heal from.

That's because you're not trying hard enough. You'll die if you don't do better.

He had to try.

He was starting to cough a lot at dinner. And while he may be small, he knew that Hilda and Johanna were perceptive even on their worst days. He could feel the concern emminating from them with each passing day.

"Sorry, my throat still seems to be parched!" He would say after taking a swig of water, feeling it filter through the vines creeping up his throat.

"This cold really is taking its time!" He would say after hacking so much he felt queasy, feeling petals settle in his stomach.

"I'm sure it'll be—"

Johanna cut him off one day. She had her stern face on, the one she used whenever Hilda had hidden something from her.

"Alfur, I really am concerned that you've been sick for so long! You ought to see a doctor."

He cleared his throat a bit, not missing the way his breathing hitched over the plant matter in his throat. "But what about Hilda? She needs someone to look out for her!"

Johanna knelt slightly, eye level with the counter and Alfur. Her eyes were kind, worried. (You don't deserve this.) "Alfur. I'm not going to let you sacrifice your own health for my daughter, even if you help her."

He sighed, feeling a few petals move in his lungs at the action. "I suppose."

She arched an eyebrow at him.

He conceded, "If I break a fever I will go back to the northern counties to see a doctor."

She smiled, and Alfur couldn't help but smile back. Maybe things were going to be okay.

Alfur sat, a letter in his hands. It was well wishes and a hope for safety with the first snow, from Bartell. Alfur tried to cut him off, but Bartell was persistent in breaking down every wall he tried to put up. He refused to let Alfur quietly fade away so that he could stop loving his soulmate.

It made his heart hurt, it made him throw up more blood and flowers every time he thought about it. But he was drawn to him, inescapably so.

He should be fine! He should be able to cut Bartell off and live on the love others have for him. Like a moth to the moon, Alfur was guided forward by every little scrap of encouragement sent his way. He found it in Hilda's smile when she got a word problem right, in Johanna's quiet huff of laughter, in Raven's indignant objections, in Tontu's dry words.

He loved them, and they loved him. And that should be all he needs.

Bartell doesn't mean it, he's just doing it to be nice.

Yet, Bartell persisted. And Alfur was helpless to tear himself away.

You need to do better, to be better.

The weeks passed, agonizingly slowly. Alfur would hide his coughs, would swallow back the discomfort, would vomit into his sink. Again and again and again.

He could feel his energy being sapped as the disease progressed. Yet he still engaged with Bartell. He wrote back, he visited the village, he shared cookies and tea.

You're hopeless. You deserve this.

Alfur became sluggish, the cuckoo clock fell into disarray. He would forgo cleaning and tidying to rest and recover energy. Nobody noticed. He kept Bartell away, and no one else was small enough to enter the space. He picked at his food more than usual. Nobody noticed. It's not like an elf eats that much anyways.

You're going to die.

(After the Victoria Van Gale incident, the snow stayed. It was going to be cold enough for snowfall for at least another two weeks. It would take twice that to clear all the snow. The city was not prepared, and neither were its magical creatures.)

Alfur coughs, unnoticed by Hilda and her friends—they're in the middle of tracking a snowstal, and something leaves his mouth. In the warmth and safety of Hilda's hair, he finds a Luckphoe petal hanging in the air, slowly drifting down.

He feels his stomach flip, tastes something earthy on his tongue. When he reaches his tongue back, he realizes he can feel stems in the back of his mouth.

He cursed under his breath, careful not to let Hilda hear. However, he can't dwell on it. The trio found their snowstal and need some help calming it down enough to relocate it.

These were going to be a long couple of weeks.

Chapter Text

It was an ordinary Tuesday when it happened. A peck at Hilda's window, unexpected. Bartell hadn't sent a letter, even though he was exceptionally well at forewarning Alfur. It had only happened once before.

Alfur gulped, but walked forward nevertheless. Maybe this was like last time, maybe he was too excited or it was a last second celebration. He quickly scrambled to the windowsill, a bit out of breath as he hauled the window up. A breeze fluttered in, and Cedric cooed, head darting to-and-fro as he looked at Alfur.

Yet there were no loud declarations, no bolstering laughs, no booming greetings.

"Cedric? Wha—What are you doing here alone?"

Nothing, just another simple coo.

Then, Alfur noticed something white stuffed into the straps on the harness. He hesitantly, gently, tugged it free. Hands shaking, he unfolded the piece of paper. There, hastily scrawled with ink slightly bleeding, was a message.

Bring help. The Bragga Village has flooded.

Alfur felt tugging on his thumb, and dread pooled in his stomach, dripping down his throat. His breathing stuttered, and a few petals bloomed at the back of his mouth.

His stomach was in knots with every moment that Johanna's car approached Trollberg's wall. Hilda had been the first to respond to his calls for help, then Johanna, then Tontu. The young girl immediately called the rest of her trio at the mention of her friend needing help. They grabbed buckets and shovels, and piled into the car. Quickly, Frida and David confirmed they would be on their way, and they were off.

Elves and water never went well together. Even though they could break surface tension on their own, it was a hard task. Many elves drowned each year around the temporary ponds that formed after each rain. They didn't know the extent of the flooding, but after the unprecedented snowfall, many of the local rivers overflowed.

You might find out what happens when one of the strings dies today.

Alfur shook his head to clear it, but he could come up with no reassurances for himself.

The car stopped, the engine going quiet. They were in a lot next to a park, not far from the wall. Most of the bridges had been dismantled in preparation for the snowmelt, but a few were tall enough to take them over the rushing river. Normally the bank was several feet down, surrounded by an eroded drop-off, but this spring it was up to their toes. He shuddered at the uncanny sight.

They rushed across the bridge, finding that the wall rested a few feet downhill from the park. At the bottom of the slope, there was a layer of water at least two inches thick. The forest before the had become a shallow pond.

Swooping down, Cedric landed on Hilda's other shoulder and gave a distressed coo. She trudged on, Alfur on her other shoulder with the others trailing behind. They all had broken out the rubber boots, splashing into the forest without hesitation. Alfur felt his heart in his throat, the vines growing thorns and pricking him with each shallow breath.

The damage was catastrophic. Most of the houses were sitting in water, knick knacks and valuables floating out of windows and doors. There was broken infrastructure everywhere Alfur looked, splintered wood and slack string that used to make up looms and beehives. The air was full of clamour, elves climbing to safety, rescuing others, collecting salvage.

Finally, Alfur spotted Bartell, following his string where it laid soaked in the river water. He was swimming with another elf, bringing them to the last standing ladder. At quick glance, the rest of them has been swept away, mostly likely from the initial flood.

Alfur gulped.

Around him, the others were working to save the village. Tontu and Hilda piled the dirt haphazardly, working hard with shovels, while Friday and David worked on making the wall. Johanna was picking up elves, bringing them to rocks above the flood line. All the while Alfur stood in shock. He had never seen such destruction. How were they going to rebuild?

Cheers sounded from the clan, and Alfur tuned back in to see Bartell climb out of the water and look towards the help. (He did that, didn't he? He brought help, instead of just his useless self.) Bartell was soaking wet, and Alfur felt his heart ache.

He tapped Hilda, "Can you set me down next to Bartell?"

She complied, smiling at him despite the sweat collecting on her forehead from digging. He smiled back, before taking a deep breath.

He never got a chance to exhale before crushing arms wrapped around him and a dripping wet tunic was pressed into him. Alfur blinked, river water in his eyes from the sudden movement.

"Alfur!" Bartell greeted warmly, picking him up and spinning him around until he was dizzy. Alfur felt petals bloom at the warmth that spread through his chest. "I'm so lucky to have you! You have brought wonderous help indeed."

Stumbling when he was let go, Alfur rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "I didn't do anything!" He protested, but before he could continue Bartell cut him off.

"Of course you did! You're helping right now!" Alfur squinted at him a bit before the pieces fell into place.

Bartell had a worried look in his eyes, and his shoulders were stiff. He was shaking as he reached out for Alfur, but the tremors went away as the other took his hand.

He was helping just by... being there?

He's only happy you brought help that's more useful than you.

Suppressing his wince, Alfur didn't let go of Bartell's hand. Instead he let the impulse win, bringing their hands up to his chest. The thread between them tangled in on itself and Alfur's throat felt funny.

"Are you okay?" He choked out, eyeing the destruction around him. The house next to them was soaked at the base, the wood creaking ominously.

Still dripping wet, Bartell smiled. "Yes. I am fine."

It was an infectious smile, and Alfur couldn't help but want this moment to last forever. He wanted to badly to tell Bartell everything, to be honest with his soulmate.

But you can't. You know that. How could he possibly love someone as useless as you?

Alfur pulled away, trying not to let his ears droop. He cleared his throat. "Right. That's, good to hear. There's still elves down there."

Bartell's shoulders snapped back up, full of tension once again. "Yes! I shall be back."

He slid down the ladder, not even wincing at the water down below as it quickly overtook him and he had to start treading. Alfur nervously glanced around at the other elves, feeling their eyes on him. He looked down at the water below, debating between the lesser of two evils. Luckily—well, rather unluckily, but it saved him from his current predicament—there was an elf struggling to keep their head above water. Alfur felt his hands shake with each step, but he climbed down the ladder anyway. He winced as the water lapped at his shoes before deciding to let go and splash into the water.

Instantly he sunk, it was so cold. Alfur's limbs froze up involuntarily, and it took him a few moments to shake feeling back into them and get above the surface. Eventually he started treading at a steady pace. Almost as if on cue, a hand reached out of the water.

Alfur immediately swam, although not as fast as he would have liked, towards them. The water was choppy, making it hard to see the elf as they tried valiantly to keep themself from drowning. Thankfully, Alfur reached them before they got pulled under for the last time. He hoisted them up by the waist, slinging their arm over his shoulder.

They didn't sink below the surface.

Huffing, Alfur started a slow swim back to the ladder. It was arduous, he felt tremors wrack his arms and thorns catch in his lungs, but they eventually made it back. As he followed the half-drowned elf up, his legs shook.

When Alfur collapsed onto the platform, he was greeted by cheering. Confused, he sat up, only to be helped up and cuffed on the shoulder by the group, all of them smiling and offering praise. He turned to the elf that had helped him up, realizing that it was Bartell, eyes glowing with pride.

Something caught Alfur's ear as he heard creaking. It wasn't loud, but he couldn't help notice it. He shot Bartell a hesitant smile, vines winding around his heart just that bit tighter, and glanced in the direction of the sound.

His heart dropped.

The wood of the nearby house was buckling, straining under its weight. It must've been hit by the initial wave, damaged somehow and—

"Alfur? What's wrong? You've gone pale." The wood creaked again, more urgent this time.

(It's going to break and everyone's going to die!)

Another quick glance around, everyone was stepping back as Bartell kept his hands on Alfur's shoulders. They were away from the house, but that still left—

Crumbling from behind, and Alfur knew his time was up. His eyes caught Bartell's, the other's filled with fear and shock. That made his arms move without input from his brain, his hands against Bartell's chest as he pushed the taller elf away. Their eyes were still locked, and Alfur saw the sheer pain that spread through Bartell's features at the realization of what was happening, the disaster happening in slow motion.

Then, the world came rushing back in, and Alfur felt pain light up throughout his body as the house finally collapsed right on top of him. He managed to look up one last time before he blacked out.

The last thing Alfur saw was Bartell's horrified face.