Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His favorite spot to hang out at school was undoubtedly behind the gym. Nobody except the janitorial staff ever came by here. It was the one place in the whirling madness that was high school where he could hear himself think. The faint smell of garbage rotting in huge containers nearby was a small price to pay for some peace and quiet. He felt his nose crinkle as an especially potent smell wafted past him, and he dabbed a drop of peppermint oil above his upper lip.

Currently, he was hiding from two people in particular: his history teacher looking to give him detention for “disrupting his class” (he had simply pointed out that the official version of certain historical events wasn't entirely accurate – which Mr Borasil did not appreciate) and his best friend Felassan looking to congratulate him on derailing their studies to such a degree that he'd been able to slip out, smoke some elfroot, and sneak back in without Mr Borasil even noticing.

He didn't need praise or jovial pats on the back – he was just insisting a teacher relay accurate accounts of history. If this upset that teacher so much he needed to have a screaming match with a sixteen year old instead of keeping an eye on the other students, that was just a skill issue on the teacher's part, not an accomplishment on his. As if he'd planned on getting yelled at just so Felassan could get buzzed.

He flipped on his battery powered mini amplifier, connected his headphones, and strummed a few random chords on his old electric guitar, adjusting the settings. Spirit-born like some elves still were, he didn't have a “family home” so much as a large building where they lived together in rather crowded dorms, and there was never enough time to really sink into his music. Someone always came by to chat or to ask for something, someone always interrupted him to complain about the tinny noise of his guitar strings.

Bright sunlight was filtering through the trees above him, making light and shadow dance on the ground. He didn't hear a single sound outside his headphones as he went back over his most recent attempt at a historical ballad, his beat-up notebook precariously balanced on his outstretched right leg. It just didn't sound quite right . He'd had the lyrics figured out for weeks but singing them and playing at the same time was mostly beyond him. And without singing them while he was also playing, he couldn't figure out what to fix. It was frustrating.

So many dreams where broken,

and so much was sacrificed

Was it worth the ones we

loved and had to leave behind?

So many years have passed,

who are the noble and the wise?

Will all our sins be justified?

His eyes were scanning his neatly annotated lyrics while he hummed along to the riffs of the main melody, feeling the vibrations of his voice against his jaw and skull. It felt... angry. Rough, when he wanted to convey sadness over the heavy, pounding bassline and dramatic instrumentals he imagined. He wanted a clash between soft and hard to create the emotional impact he felt appropriate for one of the greatest injustices Elvhenan had ever committed and never taken responsibility for. But his voice just wouldn't do. He was by no means an untalented singer – but singing in his comfort range, which he needed to do to keep his voice smooth, meant that the music and his voice bled together instead of the voice rising above the dark chaos of the overwhelming-on-purpose guitar. Screaming or growling outside his comfort range would also mean losing the contrast he was after. It would be just another loud metal track – which, nothing wrong with that, but that just wasn't what he wanted for this particular subject matter.

He kicked at a small rock by his boots, dust rising with a gust of wind – and suddenly there was a loud cough behind his left shoulder. Whirling around, he pulled off one side of his headphones, fully expecting to be snarling at his best friend. “What?” He hated being caught unaware almost as much as being interrupted. Would Felassan never fucking learn?

“Wow, sorry for having lungs, I guess.” The voice was decidedly female, just like the slender frame and elegant, waist-length silvery hair – the tone, however, was acidic, and the golden eyes gleaming through the clearing dust narrowed at him like he was prey.

Mythal. The prettiest girl in school, student council president, and two years his senior.

Why the fuck was she out here by the dumpsters?

“Have you never been told that it is rude to sneak up on people wearing headphones?”

“No apology for barking at an innocent girl? Classy.” She rolled her eyes and walked around his side to face him.

“If you require an apology for terse language, I foresee a multitude of rude awakenings in your future.”

“Oh gods, you really do talk like that. I thought people were exaggerating for comedic effect.”

Something about her pissed him off. Maybe it was the insufferably, acerbically mocking cadence of her voice, or the way she artfully twirled the ends of her hair around her slender fingers, or maybe it was the fact that she was grabbing for his notebook without even asking.

Yes. Definitely the last thing.

“Are you quite serious?” He tried to give his tone a drawling, uninterested quality, but the anger bubbling up in his throat managed to push through. That was his notebook. His privacy she was invading.

Mythal ignored him, tapping the page in the rhythm of what she must have just heard him play, mouthing the words with her perfect, pink lips. Rumor was she didn't date, fully concentrating on school and her many extracurriculars. He didn't know why that was the thought suddenly popping up in his mind.

“Give me that first chord of the chorus. D minor? Just so I know where we're at.”

“Excuse me?”

She smirked at him over the pages of the notebook. “Well obviously you're having trouble with this song, judging from your frustration and the fact that you've replayed this section – I'm guessing it's the chorus? – five times already without really changing anything.”

“And you think you can do better?” The audacity of her damn-near stole his breath away. He'd been working on this piece for weeks, it was his music, and not only did she think she could sneak up on him, interrupt him, grab his stuff and annoy him – she also thought she knew his music better than he did?

“Oh, no.” Her eyes narrowed again, like she was about to go in for the kill. With a sickly-sweet smile she continued. “I know I can.”

Who was this girl? And why was he so into what she was doing? Probably because he seldom got someone's full attention for anything – he was considered a know-it-all nuisance by most classmates and teachers. Also, probably, because any girl he'd ever talked to had turned around and walked away as soon as they realized that, while he did have abs to grate cheese on and a jawline that could cut glass (thank you, Spirit-Born Accommodation Legislation), he was not particularly smooth or skilled in the romance department. To his own chagrin.

What the void.

“Be my guest, embarrass yourself. We are alone out here, after all.” Unplugging his headphones from the mini amp gave him an excuse to pretend he didn't hear her sarcastic snort. Without any further comment, he jumped straight into the chorus, playing the chords pluck-style and not strummed – simply in a spiteful, childish attempt to confuse Mythal.

And at first, he seemed successful: Mythal scrunched her delicate features, thrown by the change in tempo, struggling to find the correct notes to sing, now that they weren't all provided in one go but instead spread apart. Exhaling her frustration on a short break, she laid the tips of her fingers against her temple to hear her own voice more clearly – a dead give-away that she usually sang with others backing her up.

On So many years have passed, however, she finally found the melody – and when she did, it struck him like lightning: He needed this voice to complete the song. Her crystal-clear mezzo-soprano soared and glittered above the low, melancholic guitar, and he immediately imagined synthy strings and maybe some vocal layering enhancing the effect, the perfect clash between light and darkness, duty to the empire and regret over its abominable actions.

When the chorus was done, he stopped playing – but Mythal did not stop singing. She launched straight into the second stanza:

The curse of his powers tormented his life

Obeying the crown was a sinister price

His soul was tortured by love and by pain

He surely would flee but the oath made him stay

Calling back to the ancient, at this point almost fully mythological, figure of Fen'Harel, who once crafted the weapon that made it possible for elvenkind to subjugate the dwarves and continue exploiting their resources, leading to Elvhenan's rise to a global political and military super power.

It was more than ironic that Mythal carried the name of the ancient god-queen who had not only ordered the dwarves' destruction but was also rumored to have been Fen'Harel's lover. He felt heat creep into his cheeks. Being named after myths and gods wasn't anything special or unusual. Mythal was the goddess of the moon, motherhood, and benevolent justice – all qualities and associations parents would wish to be reflected in their daughters. So why did he strangely feel something clicking into place?

He cleared his throat more awkwardly than he would have liked. “I must confess, that was quite beautiful. As you may have gathered, I was unable to figure out what was missing... I think I may have found it.” Getting to his feet, he carefully leaned his guitar against the tree behind him and patted dust off his jacket and trousers.

“It's a beautiful piece, I see the vision.” Mythal stroked her fingertips across the page, almost lovingly. “You were thinking strings? Bombastic drama set against a light voice to drive home the theme of overwhelming injustice and regret?”

“Who are you?”

“I'm pretty sure you know who I am.” Snapping out of her reverie, she flipped her long hair over her shoulder, looking at him expectantly.

“I mean. I know who you are. Technically.”

“There you go.” She smirked again, and the haughtiness of it only deepened the blush in his face.

“But why are you here? What do you want from me?”

“I saw you playing out here and in other places a few times.” Mythal cocked her head to the side and her silvery hair rippled with the movement. It was captivating, just like her singing. “You're always alone, you're not in the school band or orchestra, or in any other music club. And people tell me you're insufferable as fuck about all that history and literature stuff – which is probably one of the reasons you're alone so much.”

He raised his chin in defiance of her mockery and straightened his shoulders, but he already anticipated the effect to be severely diminished by his heated face. “So?”

“So I like things no one else has. I like to be the first. And you seem... rare. Even if you are insufferable.” This time, her tone was less acidic, more like an almost overly familiar inside joke.

“I am not some bug or artifact for you to collect.” He crossed his arms.

“No, you're better. You're talented and passionate – and pretty hot, by the way – and I think we can generate some serious attention if we work together. You can get your message across-” she rolled her eyes “-oh don't look at me like that, it's super obvious that you're one of those dwarves' rights people – and I can finally get some recognition for my solo talent. I'm sick of being shushed down by Ms Levandil. This is my senior year. If I want to go into media and music after graduation, I need to start building my brand.”

He was thrown. That was a lot of unexpected calculation and shrewdness from someone who, overall, had a reputation for being positive, helpful, and socially engaged. But, to be fair, he'd only ever seen her stride past in the hallways or on stage at school functions. What did he really know about her? Well, except that she had an angelic voice, great music sense, and few scruples, apparently.

“And you think you will achieve this by throwing in your lot with – and I am quoting you – one of those dwarves' rights people?” He said dryly, turning off his amp to save battery and packing up his guitar.

“Sure. It all depends on how we spin it.”

Now it was his turn to roll his eyes. “I am not a gifted liar and have no desire to practice, especially not for something as trivial as views and likes.”

“One: With that attitude, you'll never get anywhere. Not with your music and not with your message. And two: You don't need to lie. We just need to make the main theme something that people will connect with more easily.”

“Such as?”

Mythal's golden eyes glittered in the late afternoon's sunlight. “Romance.” She emphasized the word with dramatic jazz hands.

He snorted, chuckled, then found his words when she didn't say psyche. “Oh, you are serious.”

“Look at your own lyrics. What did you write? He's torn between his honor and the true love of his life? This is obviously about the suspected romance between Mythal – the god-queen, not me – and Fen'Harel. I'm pretty sure you're aware of the historical accounts claiming he didn't want to create the weapon that wiped out the dwarven kingdoms but he did it anyway. For love. Which makes him an incredibly tragic and tragically hot figure.”

“Wow.”

“I'm telling you, girls are into this. The only thing people love more than a hero is a morally grey hero.” She pretend-swooned a little. “Ah~ to have a knight so devoted he'll commit literal war crimes for you, drenching his hands in blood while yours remain clean. It's the ultimate love story.”

“Except for all the guilt on his conscience and the eventual torturous psychological after-effects of such actions – but do go on about how you would like to date a war criminal.” The discussion was, of course, completely academic – and not in the valuable insights sense but rather in the absolutely meaningless sense. But, somehow, her perspective was fascinating in a way that tickled the morbid curiosity in him. He' d only meant to allude to the theory that Mythal and Fen'Harel had been lovers to show that their decisions were likely influenced by just as much emotion as today's mortals' were, both humanizing the historical figures and criticizing them as unfit leaders. But where he saw historical insight and social critique, Mythal saw a love story. Fascinating.

“As you may have noticed, I'm – regrettably – not an immortal god-queen.” She started playing with her hair again, her tone playful. “So I'll pass on the actual war criminal. But what's so weird about wanting your partner to be devoted to you? The war crimes are just a metaphor. As per the records, he didn't want to do it – or at least he had strong objections – but he still did it. He developed and handed her the weapon even against his own morals. He prioritized his love for her over his own conscience. I just think that's beautiful.” She shrugged, looking away for the first time since sneaking up on him. “Every girl dreams about something like that.”

“Including you?” That was a lot of information to give away freely, he realized. She was probably lonely, projecting her own feelings of loneliness onto him. And she was likely initially drawn to him purely due to his looks and his reputation for being kind of... off. An outcast by his own choice – when Mythal felt alone against her will, standing above and apart without knowing how to integrate and not lose her ego in the process.

“Last time I checked, I was, in fact, a girl.” The sarcastic bite was back in her voice.

He decided to just go for it. This was a chance. A chance to get what he needed to – at the very least – finally finish this gods damned song. And maybe crack into the weirdly fascinating mind of this preternaturally lunatic in the process.

“So, would me selling out for views and likes against my better judgment qualify?”

Mythal beamed at him, her smile so genuinely happy, it hit him straight in the chest.

No wonder she was popular. Witnessing her joy was like looking at a full moon, the beauty of it capable of moving hearts to the point of tears.

“It's definitely a start.” She stretched out a slender, long-fingered hand – not for him to shake, but obviously meant to he held and kissed.

And, like the teenage idiot he was, he played along obediently.

***

This was the fifth loop of him watching the newly uploaded short video clip on InstaFade. They'd filmed it with Mythal's Jphone 15, the latest model with (apparently) one of the best cameras available for the (considerable) price. The image was jittery and grainy on purpose, fast cuts from different angles showed Mythal in an ethereal-looking, blood red gown, black feathers accentuating her shoulders, and him, face cast in the shadow of a large, dark hood, kneeling before her, handing her a prop knife from last year's theater production of “The Dread Wolf and the Moon”.

He'd done a ton of research to find and approximate an authentic mural of this very scene from the Anderfels, but drawn the line at showing his face like the mural did. And Mythal agreed, mumbling something about “needing to remain a mysterious canvas for people to project their fantasies onto”.

The clip started over again, the aggressive bass pounding against the fragile yet demanding quality of the synthesized strings and multiple layers of Mythal's enchanting voice. He made that. This was the culmination of weeks of work, his music, his lyrics, his thoughts – out there, for everyone to see.

And people were watching. Just while he'd been stuck on repeating the video over and over, the views, comments, and likes had grown into the hundreds. The attention made him dizzy with pride – but the associated expectations felt suffocating.

XVeilWarriorX: Oh my gods this is so hot!

MabariFan: Is that Mythal??? She totally goes to my school!!!

TheGodsAreListening: Actually, this isn't a very accurate depiction – when will females stop trying to make actual history into romance content? *eyeroll* It's a well-known FACT that Fen'Harel was Mythal's EQUAL. You can't change history, stupid feminists!

QunariEnjoyer69: Oh, I'd like to have this Fen'Harel kneeling for me, iykwim haha!

The comments made him cringe. This wasn't really the reaction he'd been looking for.

The screen flashed “Hand of Sorrow – On FadeFrequency soon – Early download available for subscribers!” in a deep red, before the video began again, while he continued scrolling through the comments, transfixed. Horny, horny, horny, doesn't like the music, doesn't like the “political theme”, doesn't like the “beta cuck depiction of Fen'Harel”, horny, horny, obvious robot, obvious horny robot,... Oh!

~AWhisperingSpirit~: Glad to see someone tackle the obviously problematic relationship between these two! So-called history holds them up as heroes, but they're nothing more than mass-murdering lunatics who couldn't control their emotions. Whoever decided to show the overblown drama of it all like this is a genius, good job!

His heart painfully hammered against his ribs. This was all that mattered. One person in a sea of superficiality. One person who'd been inspired to think, to question. Maybe, this could be the start of something. Of some kind of change – or at least awareness. And if he had to wear a hood and be shirtless to get attention for his work, just so it would get noticed by as many people as possible, then that was what he should do. Mythal, as annoyed as he was to admit it, was right in this respect, at least.

And spending time with her... wasn't actually that terrible, either. She had a sharp mind and a good ear for music, she took anything she did very seriously, and, he noted only quietly, even in the privacy of his own thoughts, her hair always carried that irresistible scent of jasmine and vanilla – regal and sweet. He both loved and hated that he could now always tell where she was. He only needed to follow her scent that wound through the school's hallways and classrooms like a silver rope connecting them.

It was irritating as fuck.

But it was also comforting.

He enjoyed the barbs traded between them, and he enjoyed sitting on a flannel picnic blanket (she refused to sit on the bare ground) behind the school gym and just playing for her while listening to her crystalline vocalizations, soon to be substituted with new lyrics.

Today, though, he was alone. And he really needed to get some research done, so he wrenched himself away from the ever-climbing numbers on InstaFade, clicked his shattered phone screen off, and returned his attention to the stack of library books in front of him.

Their next song was already a work in progress. A piece on the hotly debated eventual falling-out between Mythal and her second in command possibly turned lover. He was reticent to accept their romance as a historical fact – it might all just as well have been propaganda to discredit either of them – but it was clear that the romance theme “pulled numbers”, as Mythal (his Mythal, however strange that sounded) put it. And if he was smart about it, this could spark a new and more salient discussion in regards to modern perception of the two figures.

Accurate sources from before the dawn of historical record-keeping were rare. And even the ones that survived the ages were often subjective accounts: diaries, letters, art.

The timeline, as it was commonly taught, was this: At the dawn of time, the first of the gods took bodies. They liked having bodies and so urged more of their kind to do so, creating the first Elvhen. But the material these bodies were made from was actually – and this was where things already got muddy – the “life blood” of enormous beings called “Titans”. The resource, a precious metal called Lyrium, still existed today, and the dwarves also certainly still existed, but accounts of these “Titans” were lackluster at best. Maybe they were only a metaphor for “mother earth” or the land itself. On that same note, what history, even today, called “gods” were only spirits taking on bodies. By that logic he was also a god.

He rolled his eyes at the textbook he was consulting and lit a cigarette. Another dud of a book. The school library just wasn't enough.

There was nothing here that he hadn't read about a hundred times. “The earth itself” apparently rose up to wage war against the Elvhen, and they answered in kind, “only defending themselves”. As the war demanded more and more casualties, and the leading generals were out of options with their people dying around them, two figures – Mythal and Fen'Harel – devised a weapon of mass destruction to end the war once and for all. The weapon did indeed the war, but the guilt over the heavy blood toll ended their relationship (whatever form it might have had), and Fen'Harel became a traitor to the people instead of their god-queens' loyal knight.

However, the accounts varied wildly on what happened next. Some sources said Fen'Harel fought a guerrilla war against the newly formed empire to assuage his own guilt, other sources called it jealous retaliation for Mythal's marriage to Elgar'nan, and yet others claimed that the servants in the employ of the so-called gods were actually slaves and Fen'Harel made it his mission to free them (again, probably to lighten to load of his guilt over his role in the dwarven genocide).

If he could just find one credible source...

But without consulting the treasures kept in Elvhenan's most prestigious university libraries in New Arlathan or Halam'shiral, that task was a fool's errand.

He let out a puff of smoke on a frustrated sigh. Fine. He would work with what he had.

You'll burn this time

Seeing the violence

It's speeding my mind

No one is saving you

How can you find

A heaven in this hell?

Leave it behind

Hearing your silence, it screams our goodbye

Cannot believe it's an eye for an eye

Let us go to waste

Angels have faith

I don't want to be part of this sin

I don't want to get lost in this world

I'm not playing this game

This was certainly vague enough to fit all of the most popular interpretations of Mythal's and Fen'Harel's split. The beauty of it, as he noted, not without a healthy dose of self-satisfied smugness, was that it could be read from both of the figures' perspectives. Mythal would have tried to appeal to her former knight and/or lover to stop the bloodshed among their own people, unwilling to join in another war – and Fen'Harel would have tried to convince his former general and/or lover to no longer ignore the injustices they had caused.

Either way, the theme of romance still fit neatly – even when he himself didn't know if he really believed Mythal and Fen'Harel to have been lovers. They might have been very close friends. History tended to misconstrue relationships between men and women as romantic, even when there was no realistic basis for it. Emotional bonds forged in war and genocide may have looked like romance, and the flowery metaphors of archaic Elvhen might have added to that impression, but Mythal did marry Elgar'nan after the war. Had the romance between her and Fen'Harel really been so deep, she might have not done that – and especially not so soon after the break-up. Then again, politics was politics, even back then. It might have been “good optics” for the two most powerful generals to forge an alliance like that, to bring stability to a new empire still finding its feet.

He snapped the textbook closed and took another deep drag from his cigarette. Whatever. Why was he so obsessed with this whole thing anyway? Sure, history and accurate accounts of it were kind of his thing, and the deeper he dug, the better the chances of finding material to counteract today's Elven Supremacist propaganda – but a hypothetical romantic relationship between two genocidal maniacs from more than ten millennia ago really didn't matter. Gods damn Mythal (the jasmine-vanilla one) for getting him into this. Who fucking cared if Mythal (the war criminal) and Fen'Harel fucked before riding into battle? What mattered was that they did what they did, and current political groups were using them (and the other so-called gods) as props for their discriminatory legislation.

So he would use those very same tools to change the narrative and call attention to their atrocities and misguided emotional squabble, which the entirety of their modern life, for better or worse, was founded on.

With an angry flourish, he scrawled the title of the new piece at the top of the page in his notebook:

A Demon's Fate

***

“So you're really doing this, huh.”

“Yes, why would I not?”

“I don't know, man. Going to the Senior Prom as a Junior and revealing that you're the mysterious figure in Mythal's InstaFade Shorts may not be the smartest idea you've ever had. Just sayin'.”

“We have discussed this at length already. Will you please just assist me with this void-damned tie?”

Felassan had just helped him touch up his side-cut and apply some eyeliner, but all the other trappings of so-called formal dress were just as beyond him. He did realize the event was black tie and Mythal would probably literally have his head if he showed up in boots and ripped jeans, but gods, he still hated making a show of himself like this. To his best friend though, he only said “This is the price of dating an ambitious, beautiful woman – one day you may experience something similar if you try really, really hard.”, a non-malicious mocking edge to his tone.

They stood before the large mirror in their dorm room, both fiddling with the infuriating strip of silk.

“Someone is going to beat you up tonight.”

“And that would be their loss. A couple of bruises could really accentuate my cheekbones.” He made a show of sarcastically preening at the mirror.

“Don't joke like that, I'm just worried for you. The comments have not been kind to you on that last clip.”

“Envy and jealousy, nothing more.”

“Yeah. Exactly. A recipe for explosive disaster.” Felassan gave up on the tie, pulling his friend in close by the loop around his neck. “You won't listen to me anyway, but please don't provoke anyone?”

“Superior intelligence is always a provocation to those of lesser mental faculties.” He grinned and Felassan gave him a harder-than-necessary headbutt before releasing him and groaning.

“Ugh, that is exactly what I mean.”

He turned around to face the mirror again, opening the misshapen knot in his tie and just draping it around his open shirt collar. He was technically “wearing a tie”. Good enough.

“I am surprised there has not been one single question about my plans with Mythal tonight.”

“Yeah, as if.” Felassan snorted, voice dripping in sarcasm. “You haven't even kissed her yet. And after what? Half a year?”

“So? She wanted to take her time, and I respect that.”

“Can you even call it going out if you're not physical?” Rolling his eyes, Felassan flopped down on one of the bean bags strewn across the room.

“All that truly matters is that I enjoy her company, and she mine.”

He knew very well how this looked. These past months, Mythal had dragged him around their school in secret, spending large amounts of time with him, scooting closer, holding his hand, touching his shoulder when he played the piano for her, a cloud of her scent enveloping them both like their own version of the mythical “Veil” – but never in anyone's company but their own. A lesser man would have thought she was ashamed of dating a nerd like him. But he knew she was only trying to protect her reputation and their “brand” (though he loathed that word). He was supposed to be unknown to keep fanning the flames of adoration from their female fans. And, in a way, he quite liked being only hers . Her secret. Just like she enjoyed having someone rare and unique only to herself. Someone who challenged her instead of bending to her every whim – though he still did a lot of bending, if he was completely honest with himself. Cosplaying the ancient “God of Rebellion” for online clout had not been on his bingo card for junior year.

But tonight would be different. Tonight, he would accompany her. Officially. She would be on his arm, she would dance with him, and they would promote their latest song, The Truth Beneath the Rose . Mythal had encouraged a few members of the A/V Club to let her use the sound system and projectors in the gym for a guerrilla song release. The accompanying video showed him, this time in severe-looking armor and a fake wolf pelt (both “borrowed”, once again, from the school theater's prop room), contemplatively walking through “ancient ruins” (an abandoned factory building from the time of the industrial revolution just outside the suburbs) while Mythal's voice lamented Fen'Harel's regret and conflicted conscience. It was their most overtly critical song yet.

Pray for me, for I have lost my faith in holy wars

Is paradise denied to me

'cause I can take no more?

Has darkness overtaken me,

consumed by mortal soul?

All my virtues sacrificed, can heaven be so cruel?

I believed it would justify the means

It had a hold over me

Forgive me my sins

And Mythal, when the video cut to her standing on a sun and moon mosaic surrounded by Crystal Grace, looked so gods damned ethereal in her white, flowing-yet-clinging dress with enormous bat sleeves; her shimmering hair crowned with a diadem that looked almost similar to the crown the historical Mythal was usually depicted with.

His face flushed bright red every time he thought about it, and he really needed to get a handle on that for tonight. It probably wouldn't get any better with literally everyone staring at him while he was holding Mythal's hand.

Oh gods. What the fuck had he gotten himself into.

Sensing the sudden look of horror on his face, Felassan got back up to pat him on the back. “Uh-oh. I know that look. Stop overthinking and relax, Solas. I'm just being a dick. You're gonna be fine. The song is a banger, the video is fire, and you – if you don't mind me saying – look hot as all hell.”

He raised an eyebrow at his friend and that earned him a punch in the shoulder. “Oh come on. You know you're hot. Stop playing. If you're gonna go for it and kiss her, tonight's the night.”

“You are probably correct...”

“And you never know what she's doing after graduation. You still got another year of school, you can't go chasing music contracts with her in New Arlathan.”

“Yes... Yes. I should 'go for it', as you say.”

He looked himself in the eyes, light-blue with a strange ring of violet around the pupils (which doctors had pronounced “not medically relevant”), and evened his expression. He was a talented musician and he was doing this for the right reasons. If his – their – music career took off, he could spin his potential popularity to serve good causes. Like getting dwarves and non-magical humans full citizenship. Ending indentured servitude for those same groups. Funding and popularizing research into what actually happened in the time between the gods disappearing and the strange magical barrier between the Fade and the physical world crashing down after holding for a good two millennia.

“There you go overthinking again.” Felassan gestured dramatically and emphasized his words with a deep sigh. “Not to interrupt your wild and probably insanely inappropriate fantasies, but I think you're gonna be late if you don't get it together.”

“Fuck.”

***

The gym suddenly went pitch dark, the music stopped, and the assembled students – mostly seniors with a few lucky juniors and sophomores mixed in – immediately began their high-pitched screaming, as expected. Mythal, probably with the help of a partial shape-shifting spell for her eyes, found her way back to his side and squeezed his hand. His heart suddenly beat everywhere in his body except for within his ribs.

“You ready Fen'Harel?” She whispered, cheeky sarcasm bouncing in her tone, her glossy lips briefly glancing the tip of his ear. He was glad they couldn't see each other right now (except, she probably could see him – though likely not in color, depending on the animal she'd chosen for her eyes). She looked truly stunning tonight in the same white gown she was wearing for their latest video, but enhanced with a corset that looked like silvery armor and shoulder pads that looked like matching pauldrons. Instead of a boring, conventional corsage for her wrist, he had brought her a wreath of Crystal Grace from their filming location for her hair to complete the look. Being this close to her in the dark was almost more than he could handle without actually whimpering.

Was he pathetic? Yes.

But was it a shame to be pathetic in the face of so much beauty, talent, and raw wit? Also yes, but probably, hopefully, understandable.

He thought about dropping a cheesy one-liner from a movie like “I was born ready.” or “Ready or not, here I come.” - but instead, he chose to be earnest.

“Yes. I am.”

Mythal sent up a single, magical spark as a sign to her “minions” (that's what she “affectionately” called the A/V Club) and, almost instantly, the entire gym was bathed in flickering footage projected onto multiple canvas screens draped around the gym. Ominous bells, synth strings, and a choir of Mythal's layered voice pumped through the massive sound system at full volume – the new song's intro.

As planned, a spotlight appeared above them, nearly blinding him while Mythal dramatically spread her arms and turned, facing the crowd around them. With the first drum beats and guitar riffs, she made a show of whirling back around toward him, her golden eyes burning even brighter than the spotlight. Her stride towards him was so aggressive that he felt the people around him actually taking a few steps back.

This was no time to falter.

He straightened his spine, locked his jaw, and made “Fen'Harel” bow deeply to his god-queen, asking her to dance. By now, the first stanza was over and the song launched into the heavy, thrumming bridge to the chorus. On Blinded to see the cruelty of the beast, she pulled him in close, and, as if on instinct, he grabbed on to her waist, leading her, the crowd giving them space while, all around them, cellphones flashed like a synthetic thunderstorm.

They had practiced the dance, of course. As if Mythal would leave their official public reveal up to chance and a possibly inept or clumsy partner. But with the eyes of half the school (including teachers!) glued to them and people taking pictures that would flood social media within minutes, he thought he could be forgiven for feeling like he would revisit his lunch in the near future.

“Relax, Solas.” Mythal leaned in more closely than she ever had during practice, her breath caressing his ear, a cloud of jasmine and vanilla numbing his senses. “You're doing great.”

He wanted to bristle, to quip back at her that he didn't need her compliments, that he knew he was doing a good job because he had put in the work, just like she had – jokes and deflective acidity to protect his vulnerable feelings. She was probably aware of them anyway, but if he didn't acknowledge them, then he couldn't get hurt by her rejection. Right?

He just bit the inside of his lower lip and nodded with what he hoped looked like stoicism, as they followed the song into the final chorus.

When the projectors showed “New Single – The Truth Beneath the Rose – Out now on FadeFrequency!”, the lights returned to normal and colorful, and deafening cheers erupted around them.

What followed was a blur of voices and bodies, people asking for selfies, shoving between him and Mythal – and, in the chaos, he lost her.

He needed a smoke, and he needed it now.

***

He wasn't exactly sure how much time had passed – just enough to smoke about half a pack of cigarettes and listen to about one and a half albums by his favorite band to calm his nerves. He only had his crappy in-ear headphones in the pocket of his trousers, but it was better than startling every time he thought he heard steps heading towards the dumpsters he was hiding behind. It had started raining maybe ten minutes ago, and, while the dumpsters themselves were protected by a roof construction, and he with them, there was an ever-growing puddle creeping closer and closer to the spot he was camping out on the ground.

Fleeing from the attention inside the gym was not very man of the hour like of him. He knew. But those people weren't interested in him. Not really. Those were the same people who groaned their annoyance when he started speaking in class. The same girls who walked away from him when he tried talking about all the reasons he thought it was unfair that dwarves were considered second class citizens, when Elvhenan was at fault for their lacking development in the first place. This was all a game, a popularity contest. And online, the few positive, insightful comments kept him going, made him feel like there was some hope that he was reaching someone.

But a screaming crowd of girls trying to rip open his shirt to touch “Fen'Harel's abs” certainly didn't, thank you very much.

The only girl he maybe wanted to rip his shirt open, was probably off somewhere with her friends from the cheer team or the show choir club. She didn't necessarily want to be a part of those groups – because that implied being only one of many – but she would gladly take their adoration when offered. And adoration was definitely on offer tonight.

He just wished she'd let him adore her, too. In private.

He stubbed out his current cigarette and was about to light another, when a weirdly dripping shadow stepped into the puddle that had been creeping closer, broke the surface tension, and made the water run toward him instead. Unable to get up fast enough, the left leg of his trousers got drenched immediately, and he was just quick enough to get his messenger bag off the ground, sparing it the same fate.

“Sulking behind the dumpsters as always, I see. You must really like the smell or something.” Her tone was mocking, but it lacked the bite it would have had six months ago. Mythal, hair decorated with the diamonds of dripping raindrops, white dress clinging tightly to her rounded body, stepped into the cold neon light illuminating the dumpsters for the night-time janitorial staff.

“I like the quiet.” He crossed one of his arms across his torso, leaning the elbow of the other on it to keep his cigarette level with his head. “I like not being torn to shreds by a mob of over-enthusiastic girls.”

“Girls not to your liking? You prefer boys, then?” The twinkle in her eyes was a clear invitation to play-fight, and he would indulge her.

“I would not refuse a beautiful man, but, alas, no worthy candidates are in attendance tonight.”

“None? Rathvir from the football team is pretty hot. So is Fenneth from show choir.” She twirled her hair around her index finger, sharpened nail laquered in a deep, bloody red matching her glossy lipstick. “All that toned muscle. Sharp angles. Or, if you prefer, a purring baritone and silky-smooth locks?”

“They sound like options for yourself, rather than for me.” He tsked at her. “I did not see them in the frenzy around me earlier.”

“True. I guess you don't have that many male admirers, then. Sorry.”

“Ah. But would they commit war crimes for you? I think not.” He gave her a sarcastic smirk. “The best they could do, is being ineffectually average for the rest of their lives – and yours, if you so desire.”

“I don't.”

Insulting what she perceived to be flexing her social capital was a good way of ending this silliness, he noted. Mythal prided herself on her pull. The more desirable her targets, the higher her own value. And since Rathvir and Fenneth were both at the relative upper end of the proverbial food chain, she coveted her potential influence on them as a means to prop up her own ego. It was endearing how she trusted him enough to show her vulnerability like this. Underneath it all, Mythal was soft. Not weak. No less sharp or intelligent. But a soft romantic all the same.

“You are drenched. Why would you run out here to come looking for me? I have done my part and it was a resounding success.” He flicked his cigarette butt out into the rainy darkness.

“Okay. Fine.” Mythal groaned, annoyed that he won their little exchange. She stepped closer. From this distance, he was able to see the tiny white hairs on her arms standing up. She smelled less like jasmine and vanilla, and more like the Crystal Grace wreath she still wore, and wet hair. His heart skipped a beat. “I wanted to see where you were. It was your party almost as much as mine. You put in a lot of work, just like me.”

“I am aware.” He deadpanned. Gods damn his childish defiance. He cleared his throat. “I mean-”

“Yeah, I know.” She sighed and grabbed one of his hands, swinging their arms between them like she didn't know what to do with it. “You're not as mysterious as you think you are.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Look, it's obvious as fuck you have feelings for me, Solas. You can try and be a dry, sarcastic dick about it but I'm not blind.”

“I am aware of that, as well.” He wished he could have deadpanned that, too, but his voice got a little too rough to be convincing. Shit. This was going nowhere fast.

“Gods, I'm gonna miss you.”

She hugged him. Hugged him. A full body hug, wet, clinging dress and all. He felt the curves of her breasts meld against his torso, and her hands tangling in his now considerably less tidy hair. His heart, just having found a steady rhythm again, promptly went into overdrive, pumping blood into all the regions he would, presumably, according to elven biology, be needing it in the immediate future. On reflex, he closed his arms around her and held her probably more tightly than was appropriate.

But what the void was appropriate in this situation, he definitely didn't know.

“You are leaving for university in the fall, then?” Was the only thought he could half-way eloquently come up with.

She clung more tightly to him and giggled into the crook of his neck, her breath tickling his sensitive skin there. “Wow, you're such an idiot for being so smart.”

He let his hands wander up and down her back, couldn't help himself. He'd been wanting to touch her like this for months, and she felt so perfect against his body. “Then I need you to be aware that you are – apparently – currently being held by an idiot.” He mumbled into her hair, inhaling her scent to the bottom of his lungs. Fuck. She felt like heroin. (Not that he'd ever tried, but he had read about the experiences of heroin addicts for an essay once.)

“Solas, I'm leaving.”

“Yes, that much was obvious.”

“No. Right after graduation next month.”

“Oh.” He took a moment to let the realization hit him. “To do what?”

“I've been scouted. An agent came by tonight to watch our live reveal and since it went so well and they've been following the account for a while, they said I could join their label as soon as I have my diploma.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

That's why she had wanted him to enjoy the party. Why she came looking to bring him back inside. Guilt. She loosened her embrace and he reluctantly released her. The prolonged awkward silence between them was only broken by the rain pattering on the tin roof above them.

“It was you who got scouted?”

“Yeah.” She repeated.

“So our... whatever we were doing... is done?”

“Yeah.”

“Ouch.” He gave an insecure laugh with as much sarcasm as possible, digging his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

“I'm sorry. I should have told you.”

“That would have been nice, yes.” He sighed and shook his head. “But you... are not nice.”

“No, I guess not.” Mythal twisted her hands, a rare show of discomfort. “Do you hate me now?”

He raised his head to look at her, then dropped it again, following the steady stream of rainwater toward the gutter underneath the dumpsters. “No. This endeavor was your idea. You achieved what you wanted. I just handed you the tools – which was not without its advantages for me, either. And no, the irony does not escape me.”

She snorted. “Yeah, I'm definitely gonna miss you. But not the insufferable way you talk.”

“If you do not mind, it would probably be a good idea for me to head home now.”

“To cry into your boyfriend's shoulder?” The attempt at their familiar humor failed spectacularly, she couldn't make her tone biting or cheerful enough. It just sounded sad. “Sorry. Too soon.”

“Felassan thought I was going to provoke someone into a fistfight tonight. Yet, somehow, this is worse.”

“Well, I know one thing I can do to make it up to you.” Her face visibly blushed in the sparse, cold illumination. “If you want.”

“Please. Do not trouble yourself with something you will later regret.” He wanted so badly to sound cold, the noose of his first heartbreak slowly but surely tightening around his neck. But his voice just sounded pathetic in his own ears. He needed, desperately, to get out of here.

“You've given me a ton of work and insight and time and... look. I'm not good at being all sincere with my feelings. But if there's one guy I want to have my first kiss before I go off and get swarmed with paparazzi every day, it's you.” Mythal took a step closer again and held on to his arm, like she was trying to stop him from leaving. It hurt. He wished he could do the same to her without appearing like a selfish dick. “You said you don't get the romance thing between Mythal and Fen'Harel, but I don't think there's anyone who gets it more. I want my first kiss to be safe with you. Forever.” She looked off to the side. “And you can tell your friend about it, if you absolutely have to. If that... makes it better somehow.”

This was absolutely not how he had imagined the night going.

A sudden end to his budding musical career.

A sudden end to his relationship(???) with Mythal.

But, on the other hand, their first kiss?

Could he really say no to this?

He wanted to know what those bloody, glossy lips tasted like so badly. Devil's Food cake? Strawberry? Cherry? Vanilla, like her hair? And he would likely never see her again, at least not in person, if everything went according to her plan. So what did it matter? Right in this moment, in this point in time, he was the only one she wanted. The only one she had ever wanted. She wanted him. For herself. To herself. In secret. Her first kiss would be his secret. Only for him. Nobody else.

“I think-” He had to swallow and clear his throat before he could look her in the face, a gorgeous blush tinting her cheeks. He felt his own face positively burning as well. “I think I would like that. If you would like that.”

She smiled. And her smile stopped the rain from falling and robbed the night of its darkness. It was like they were back in the spotlight in the gym. The entire world narrowed down to this exact point in time and space, as she closed in and wound her arms around his neck. Her face was so close he could smell her lipstick – vanilla and cake.

“You are so beautiful.” She whispered, the gold of her eyes merely a thin ring around her blown pupils.

“I lo-”

She kissed him. Softly, at first. Her lips glossy, sticky, delicious. He moved his head closer, nuzzled his nose against hers, deepening the kiss, weaving the movement of their lips together. He felt her tongue probing the seam of his mouth, and he groaned softly as he opened for her. Their tongues slid against one-another, licking, writhing.

Then came a careful attempt at teeth. This time, it was her turn to moan into his mouth, when he gently pinched her lower lip with his canines, immediately soothing the pretend bite with his tongue. Her retribution was swift and lethal, a sharp nip at his tongue that drove all remaining blood from his brain towards his center. He wanted her to do it again. Preferably not just on his tongue.

He moved his hands up between their bodies to grab her face, experimentally caressing her long, elegantly pointed ears, which made her whimper. Gods, she was whimpering at his touch, became fiercer, more daring, biting at his lips, his tongue, and, before long, their kiss devolved into sucking and biting, tongues shoved deep as they would go, her hands pulling at the hair at the nape of his neck, making him shudder in previously unknown pleasure.

Mythal, with some effort, pulled away first, breathing heavily, all swollen lips and flushed skin down to her clavicles. Panting puffs of condensing breath into the cool late-night spring air, they stared at each other like two vipers ready to strike.

He reached for her, but the shake of her head finally broke the moment. “Thank you.” She rasped, then cleared her throat. “I... I won't forget this.”

Then she turned. And she ran.

And that was the last he saw of Mythal.

At least for the next nine years of his life.

Chapter Text

After a three-days-four-hours-of-sleep-total research frenzy, he thought the distinctive scent of jasmine and vanilla in his corner of the university library must be a hallucination. Clearly brought on by him falling asleep to a loop of Evanuris' latest promotional Short for their new single on InstaFade, while drooling on his notes. Even with his headphones now on the floor, he could still hear that familiar voice calling out to him.

I'm here on the edge again

I wish I could let it go

I know that I'm only one step away

From turning around

Can you still see

The heart of me?

All my agony fades away

When you hold me in your embrace

Don't tear me down

For all I need

Make my heart a better place

Give me something I can believe

Don't tear it down

What's left of me

Make my heart a better place

A rather generic ballad titled All I need, with none of the wit or bite of his own lyrics, of course – but Mythal's voice and the romance theme were still crowd pleasers that pulled not only large numbers of likes and positive comments, but also streams and concert ticket sales.

Mythal's latest band project, Evanuris, had practically exploded in popularity within the last year. They played on mythological themes, leaning heavily on sexy interpretations of Mythal (the ancient god-queen) and her god-mage family/pantheon. No social critique – just horny. And people were absolutely rabid over the concept, “shipping” the band members with each other, or simply lusting after their personal favorite. If the comments were anything to go by, their drummer (“Andruil” - probably not her real name) and mysterious bassist “Dirthamen” (always masked, also probably not his real name) were almost as adored as Mythal herself.

He didn't care for it. Any of it. The one time he had cared for romance was when he was sixteen years old and walking home in the rain, alone. And yet, he couldn't stop himself from following Mythal's every move on social media, as if there was some strange curse linking them. Or maybe, being abandoned alone in the rain at sixteen, right after his first kiss, was precisely why he couldn't seem to let go of her. And precisely why he woke up imagining the scent of her hair among the smell of stale air and dusty tomes.

He was 24 now, for gods' sakes. He'd had many enjoyable partners over the course of his late teens and his university years – and been an enjoyable partner himself, if he did say so himself.

Just. That feeling. That ripping, tearing, forget your morals and your pride yearning, had never shown itself again. When he closed his eyes to seek self-gratification in the dark of night, it was still those sticky lips with the bloody gloss and vanilla-and-cake scent he imagined on his own lips, on his face, on his chest, and on his cock, making a sweet, sticky mess that would look like a mauling. Like she was using her teeth.

He groaned very quietly, as his thoughts had their (right now not entirely) desired effect.

Since having basically moved into the library three days ago to put the finishing touches on his Master's thesis (Elvhen Murals through the Ages: Analyzing Shifts in Symbolism and Meaning from Ancient Arlathan to Modernity) and to get a running start at research for potential dissertation topics, he hadn't really left “his” corner. Barricaded behind a wall of literature, all alone with his beat-up laptop, most other students gave the space a wide berth. At this point, he also suspected the reason to be the smell. He sniffed at himself and scrunched his nose. It was definitely time to go home, take a hot shower, and go to sleep without listening to Mythal's voice.

Or. Maybe just a little. Just to fall asleep on an orgasm-induced endorphin high.

Semi-aware of his utterly ridiculous half-asleep thoughts, he began packing up his notebook, laptop, and assorted books and copies to take home – when he suddenly heard laughter. Yes, laughter in the library was rare (noises were mostly frustrated exhales and stifled sobbing), but her laughter would have been impossible. He was definitely still dreaming.

“Yeah, I think he's still back there – if he hasn't starved by now. Going by the smell, you may need to call the police. Good luck!”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

Now it wasn't only laughter he was hallucinating. Interesting. She sounded so smooth. So warm. So real.

“Hi.” A girl with silvery-white hair sheepishly leaned past a stack of tomes, lifting her sunglasses and baseball cap, golden eyes flashing. It was almost absurd that she thought this poor excuse for a disguise would prevent people from recognizing her. The students were just either too self-involved or too polite to confront her. Calculation on her part or sheer luck? His mind was reeling. “You look... well... less dead than I was lead to believe.”

He could only stare at her. There she was. Mythal.

And he was wearing baggy, low-hanging, grey sweatpants and an old (very old) Fuck the Chantry! hoodie with torn up sleeves, his long hair unwashed and stringy – and, only adding to his shame – his cock, visibly, at half mast.

“Hello.” Was all he could manage to utter as he stared at the girl – now a 26 year old woman – who had walked out of his life about eight years ago.

“Hi.” She repeated.

“Yes. Hello.”

Mythal took a careful, awkward step towards him, into his little sectioned-off corner. “Are you okay? Do I need to go get someone...?” Real concern mixed into her mischievous lilt.

“No. I am...” He pulled down the front of his hoodie in a futile effort to hide the remains of his waning erection. “I am fine. Perfectly fine.”

“Great!” She clapped her hands loudly and was immediately met with several Shushes from all directions, her face scrunching in embarrassment. More quietly, she continued. “I have a favor to ask... or... probably more of an offer to make, I guess. And I don't have a lot of time.”

Way to go in dry, he thought sarcastically but still, embarrassingly, topically relevant to his thoughts.

“I was, uhm, just about to leave? You are welcome to accompany me, if you wish.”

“You still talk like that, huh.” A fond smile curled the corners of her plush lips, and his heart skipped a beat.

“It does come with the territory, I'm afraid.” He lamely gestured to the stacked books around them.

“Well, at least nobody is making fun of you here. I hope. For their sakes.”

“Interesting.” He mused, pretending not to size her up while stacking the papers that wouldn't fit in his backpack.

“What?”

“You seem to be the one willing to commit war crimes now. How very chivalrous of you.”

Their shared chuckle warmed his heart more than he wanted to admit to either of them.

“Look at you not immediately trying to explain the origins of the word chivalrous in the ancient Orlesian Chevalier combat tradition! That's what I call growth.”

“It has been a long eight years. I have had an abundance of time to grow. To think.” He didn't try as hard as he could have to not sound bitter.

“Yeah...” Mythal's chuckle died awkwardly at the implicit accusation. “So...” She wrung her hands again, playing with the seam of her sweatshirt sleeve.

“I was about to head home. We can talk there. I think Felassan should still be out – what day is it?” Shouldering his backpack and clutching paper copies of a plethora of research papers to his chest, he pushed past her to leave his corner.

Her “Wow.”, probably regarding his smell or his lack of temporal orientation – or, possibly, both – was only pretend-quiet. He knew that she knew he would hear it. Great. He'd just woken up, had his high school crush walk in on him with an erection, he felt like death, looked like it, too – and she wanted to play-fight like old times. As if nothing had happened. As if she hadn't disappeared on him without a real explanation for eight years while becoming a massive media personality. No text. No e-mail. Not even a card or something.

If only he didn't find her and her attitude so unbelievably hot.

***

Stepping out of the steam-filled, tiny bathroom in a towel, the first sound to hit his ears was Adriel Genet's Kiss Me You Animal with Mythal humming along.

Ten thousand candles couldn't

light all the darkness in your heart

God, it's crazy how I need your friction

My thriller-scandal, take a bite,

girl you know my favorite part

I'm so desperate for your sweet affliction

Silver, crystal, carousel

your effervescent touch

But everybody knows that home

is where your teeth sink, love

Kiss me you animal

I need to take you in real slow

Cause dying on your lips

is how I wanna go

“I see you have made yourself at home.” He tried desperately to sound terse, and not embarrassed, as he toweled his hair in an effort to keep from looking directly at the still fully clothed celebrity-crush sitting on his bed.

“I was bored.” She shrugged, eyes glinting playfully. “And your JPod was just... there.”

My tongue and smoke along your curves

Something darker on your mind

Pools of mercury and sunbeams in your eyes

He bit the inside of his lower lip and turned towards the closet for clothes. He would not give Mythal the satisfaction of asking her to turn off the music. The track was almost over. And she'd heard it anyway. How much worse-

“Nostalgic Heartbreak, huh? That's-”

“Nothing. It is nothing. I made that playlist years ago. I can promise you it is simply a... relic.”

“You like relics.” Mythal pulled her legs up onto the bed, sitting cross-legged and scrolling through his JPod with greatly enhanced motivation, ignoring him and giggling to herself.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he decided that having this particular conversation clothed would be much preferable to half-naked. Unfortunately, the first T-shirt he grabbed was an Evanuris fan shirt, and he had to crumple it up and stuff it to the bottom of the closet, opting for a Maker's Balls shirt instead – though musically crude, he enjoyed the colorfully creative insults of their lyrics. Plus, the band had a dwarven drummer, which was always worth supporting.

“So. If you are quite finished invading my privacy, would you like to ask your favor now?” Finally dressed and on equal footing with Mythal, he sat down at his desk rather than anywhere near her. And he hated that she would (rightly) read into it.

“Sure. But. Solas. WISH YOU WERE DEAD? Really? In all caps?” Her left eyebrow arched in exquisite mockery.

He grabbed for his vape pen, his last resort. “Rest assured, the sentiment is not to be understood literally. I was seventeen years old. And angry.” He inhaled a lung-full of nicotine and devil's food cake flavor.

“Are you still angry?” She looked up from the JPod with those same molten-gold eyes that had always managed to ensnare him when he was younger.

Purposefully looking anywhere but her, he exhaled, filling the small room with the scent of synthetic cake. “Whatever my feelings are now is irrelevant to this conversation.” Whatever she needed, she probably hadn't come back to date him. The most likely scenario was that she needed someone to research something for her. And if she did, he would make sure she paid him for his work (his professors had been adamant about never working for “exposure”), credited him, and left him out of the public eye as much as possible, lest his association with one of the most adored pop icons to walk New Elvhenan in recent memory harm his budding academic career.

Mythal unplugged the JPod from the aux cable with a loud thunk from the surround system hidden around the room and abandoned the device somewhere in the folds of his bedsheets. “I'd say it's pretty relevant if my new guitarist slash co-vocalist hates my guts or not.” She braced her elbows on her knees, steepling her fingers underneath her chin, her eyes burning through him, her face unreadable.

“I never hated-”

“Not the point, Solas.”

The rest of what she'd said slowly sank in, the words repeating themselves with an endless echo in his mind. New guitarist slash co-vocalist. This was the absolute peak of impertinence – and so very much her. She'd always taken exactly what she wanted. Bargaining, coaxing, scheming, persuading her way into people's lives and good graces with batted eyelashes and well-chosen words. Definitely a skillset he admired – when it wasn't being used on him.

He replayed their strangely affectionate summer like a sepia-tinted movie in his thoughts. Her praise, her gentle mockery, her closeness, her camaraderie, the late-night talks, the shared cigarettes, offering his leather jacket when she got cold, the garland of Crystal Grace in her silver hair, the kiss – and the utter confusion and heartbreak when she left him behind and Felassan had to spend weeks picking up the pieces.

Of course, it was stupid. It was a stupid crush on a pretty girl when he was sixteen. Millions of people all across the empire experienced and grew out of crushes like that. They just moved on.

Why hadn't he?

Why was it eight years later, with him about to finish grad school, and still, he couldn't stomach sitting next to her, the thought of her wanting him near her ringing in his ears like a cruel joke.

“That is... a surprising proposition.” He took a drag from his vape, clenching his jaws and exhaling through his nose instead. “Especially since I was not aware your band needed another member.”

“So you keep up with us?” Mythal's eyes glinted at his slip-up. “Or is it just me? Have you been stalking me for the past eight years, Solas?”

The sudden heat in his cheeks made it way too obvious she'd hit a nerve, and his shaky voice didn't help, either. “In case it's escaped your notice, your information is not difficult to come by. It is hardly stalking, if all it takes is a casual glance at your InstaFade.”

“Wow, this is better than I thought.” She giggled. Giggled. “Are you a fan of the new project as well? The mythological theme doing it for you?”

“You know as well as I do that your interpretations of these semi-historical myths are lackluster at best. Your most recent song barely holds any significance at all in that department. It is vain and trivial, and you should know better after the time we spent together.” Without even noticing, his tone had turned scathing, charged with the unearned bitterness of a gilted almost-lover.

“Well. This is embarrassing.” It was her turn to blush.

“It should be. What we wrote when we were in school was at least-”

“I wrote it for you.”

Silence.

The lyrics of the promotional Short echoed in his mind.

Can you still see

The heart of me?

All my agony fades away

When you hold me in your embrace

Don't tear me down

For all I need

Make my heart a better place

Give me something I can believe

This was absurd. She couldn't still... She couldn't just show up after eight years of not so much as a text and expect him to...

He briefly considered the possibility of Mythal lying. He'd seen her do it a few times during their little project at school. She lied shamelessly and without a second thought, if it got her what she needed. She lied to janitors, teachers, police officers, (presumably) her parents (not that he'd ever met them), her friends – even him. But she always sold it as for a good reason, and he always forgave her. It never seriously harmed him.

This had the potential to do just that.

Inhaling another dose of devil's food cake aroma, he searched her face. If she was lying, at least she wasn't doing so brazenly. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes now downcast, hands nervously toying with a hole in her ripped jeans. Had she simply gotten better – or was this sincerity?

More importantly: Did he care?

“Are you going to say something? I'm feeling kind of vulnerable over here.” Her face drew into a pout that was almost too adorable to not be a practiced maneuver.

“What do you wish me to say?”

“I don't know, you don't need to say anything...” Her glance towards him was brief, and the barely veiled lust within it almost as pathetic as he himself felt when he found his peak to the mental image of her glossy lips.

With a loud groan he got to his feet, pacing, but avoiding coming near Mythal as best he could. This was going to be his whole afternoon. The deadline for his thesis was in two days (he had briefly checked the calendar on his desk, where the date was marked with a thick DEADLINE in red ink). “I do not have time for your games like I did back then, Mythal. Tell me what you want of me, and I will tell you whether I am willing to give it.”

“I already told you. I need you for the project. Evanuris.” She still wasn't looking at him, opting to instead examine a stack of books on his desk. “And. I've missed you, okay?” This time, her frustrated exhale, bare of artful giggles, smiles, or batted eyelashes, sounded sincere enough.

“I am handing in my thesis in two days, and I have already secured a spot in my professor's PhD program. The next three years of my life are spoken for, I'm afraid.” He clung to the firmness of his conviction like a raft torn through the white-foaming perils of a flood. “I would be happy to consult on lyrics and costuming, if needed. As for everything else...” He buried his hands in the depths of the pockets of his fresh sweatpants. “You had no reason to miss me – or to keep missing me, to be exact. You had multiple avenues of contact and yet, used none of them.”

“I love how you make The phone works both ways into a whole thing...” Mythal muttered under her breath, heavy with her usual sarcasm. Louder, she continued. “Look. I know I fucked up, okay? I was eighteen, you weren't in my plans. Falling for you wasn't in my plans.” She got up and took a couple of hesitant steps towards him. “I knew I couldn't give you the time and attention that I wanted to. That you obviously needed.” She interrupted herself to rub her forehead. “Don't look at me like that. We both know it. And it probably hasn't changed, either.”

With another step, she was right there in front of him. She really did still use the same shampoo, though her lips weren't bloody red but instead a mesmerizing glossy pink. “I knew that if I dated you, I would never get out of that town. Not like I did. So I chose myself over a doomed relationship between teenagers and did us both a favor with it.” The spiteful fire in her eyes was new, he noted.

“That much is clear to me.” He stared at her, defiant, his tone a bitter, scoffing huff. “But the questions of Why me? and Why now? remain. I am certain you have access to many gifted and willing candidates who are available. You could likely hold auditions and be inundated with applications in hours.”

Mythal's face softened as she laid her right hand on his chest, and his traitorous heart immediately wanted to jump out of its cage and nuzzle into it. “Sing one song with me. If that doesn't change your mind, I'll leave you alone. Forever, if you want.”

“One song.” He struggled to keep his breathing under control through the gentle assault of her touch. “Fine. As you wish.”

When he helped out friends and students from the courses he taught as a TA with their shows or projects, they mostly needed someone with an electric guitar to play rhythm sections. His old, beat-up acoustic was buried in the back of the closet and pitifully out of tune, the e-string snapped when he tried tuning it. All throughout the aggravating process of re-stringing and tuning, Mythal kept her eyes on him – no, not him, exactly. His fingers. Was her breathing accelerated? Was that heat in her long, elegantly pointed ears?

“So? What song have you chosen? Hopefully something I can actually play.” He grimaced at the potential embarrassment of failing to perform in front of a national musical icon, taking another hit from his vape and sinking a little deeper into his desk chair.

Mythal got back up from the bed and took her place in the center of the small room as if she was walking on stage, loosening her hair from her high ponytail in the process. “There is no chance you've forgotten how to play Hallelujah.” The smile she gifted him was electric.

The chantry hymn they mockingly used as a warm-up back at school because it showcased her vocal range so well and was so comfortable to sing? He'd played it hundreds of times – of course he remembered it. His pride bristled at the notion that he could ever forget something so simple, and he gave her an assenting huff.

During the first chords, his fingers continued shaking and trembling.

C – A minor – C – A minor

He played them pluck-style, like he had done that first time he'd played for her. Maybe to throw her off, like he had back then. But when Mythal hit that first Hallelujah leading up to the chorus, his whole world suddenly shifted back into focus. While she played with the melodic variations of that one word through F major and A minor, and C and G major, too, his hands moved entirely on their own, spellbound by the clear, enchanting voice he'd only been clinging on to through digital facsimile for the past years.

Baby, I’ve been here before.
I know this room, I’ve walked this floor.
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch,
but, listen, love is not some kind of victory march,
no, it’s a cold and it’s a very broken Hallelujah!
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Mythal went off the original version and something in his chest seized. She'd always been able to pierce straight through his defenses. He wanted so badly to stop playing, tell her to leave and never return – but something beyond her voice was calling to him. Was it sheer nostalgia over that one strange summer, was it the feeling of facing a blazing sunrise when she turned the full force of her attention on him, and him alone?

Now maybe there are gods above
As for me, all I’ve ever seemed to learn from love
is how to shoot at someone who outdrew you.
But it’s not a complaint that you'll hear tonight,
It’s not the laughter of someone who claims to have seen the light –
no, it’s a cold and it’s a very lonely Hallelujah!
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah

There was no way he could keep himself from adding on to the harmony of that last chorus. The joining of their voices sent shivers down his spine, his hands clammy, though no longer shaking. When he raised his head to look up from his guitar, Mythal stood right before him, and the strings let out a pitiful wail as he tried and failed to continue playing.

She laid a single finger underneath his chin and tipped his head even further back to face her.

“We're both idiots.” She said. Her cheeks glowing, her eyes glassy, her pupils black pits of desire.

And then she kissed him. Deeply, and with none of the shyness and restraint of their youth. She rammed her lips into his and he immediately tasted blood that intermingled with the cherry flavor of her lip gloss. With something suddenly torn loose in his chest, he answered in kind, the build-up from eight years of yearning and fantasy finally finding its intended purpose. Teeth clashing, Mythal pulled him to his feet by the neck and he abandoned his guitar on the ground as she crowded him towards the bed. He landed heavily on the mattress, his JPod digging into his spine.

When she straddled him, pressing him down, controlling his head with sharp pulls to his still-wet hair at the base of his neck, his moans and whimpers filled the room just like their song had, just moments before. He was absolutely unable to keep himself from thrusting his hips upward on pure instinct, their mouths still clashing, each trying to suck blood and tongue and saliva from the other in a cacophony of uncontrolled motion, her silver hair sticking to their faces, intermingling with his own hair on the bedsheets.

When she moved from his mouth to his left ear, teasing, licking, nibbling all the way down to his neck where she sunk her teeth into his skin, a pathetic, breathy Please finally escaped him – and she stopped.

With heaving chests and swollen lips, they both stared at each other, exactly like they had eight years ago – two vulnerable predators caught off-guard in the humiliating sincerity of their bloodlust.

“So you'll join?” Mythal breathed, flicking the mane of her hair over her shoulder, the resulting jolt of her hips against his making him see stars.

Steadying his hands on her thighs, he desperately fought for control of his voice, and it left his bruised mouth shaky, and softer than he wanted. “You still have not told me why. And I have told you my time is already occupied.”

Her fingertips drew random patterns on his chest through his shirt, each leaving a trail of electric fire in its wake. “The practical explanation is: Anaris left. Artistic differences is the official reason.”

“But that is not the entire story?”

“No.” Her gaze suddenly hardened and her hands stopped moving.

“If this is something you cannot speak about-”

“He wanted more. I didn't. It's stupid, really. But he left over it. Said I lead him on.”

The moment felt so fragile, he was afraid that any movement might shatter the world around them into a thousand pieces. “Did you?” Playing with people's minds and hearts was definitely, he reminded himself painfully, in-character for her.

Mythal sighed, her indignance clearly masking a deeper hurt. “Maybe. I don't know. He wasn't you. No one was. And it wasn't enough.” Her right hand found its way to his face and he turned into the touch without thinking. “That's the... less practical explanation.”

His head was swimming with all this new information and the adrenaline from a festering wound ripped open. It was true. No one had been like her. He'd dated – of course he had. Especially after that fateful senior prom and Mythal's departure, his popularity downright soared. And his damaged pride and freshly broken heart lead him to accept even propositions from those who preferred he keep his mouth shut, or, better, occupied.

At university, he'd finally found people who shared his outlook and interests. They were respectful, passionate couplings, often following long, involved conversations. Sometimes quick hookups, one-night-stands, after the odd indie punk or rock show Felassan usually dragged him to – sometimes drawn-out flirts that slowly moved from the lecture hall to the cafeteria to his bedroom and held for months at a time, before they (mostly amicably) parted, once the chemical high of attraction had run its course.

None came close to occupying his thoughts and fantasies the way Mythal still did.

Was the reason only that their relationship had never gotten the chance to fail?

He propped himself up on his elbows, his aching chest still trying to accommodate both his wildly hammering heart and his painfully expanding lungs. “Indulge my confusion for a moment.”

“Sure.” She dropped her hand from his face and began twisting her hair around her fingers again.

“You propose that I abandon all my plans, my academic career, because you have suddenly discovered you cannot live or, somehow, work without me? The very same thing you were unwilling and/or unable to do eight years ago?”

Mythal pouted. “Well, if you put it like that, it obviously sounds bad.”

“And why?” He continued without missing a beat, without entertaining her performative self-pity. “Because you are not over me? Because no one else quite did it for you?”

“That's not... the entirety of it, though.”

“Enlighten me.” He drawled, his voice dryer than the Hissing Wastes.

“No one else did it for you, either.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Easy.” Her smile was as magnetic as it was dripping with venom. “When I found you, our promo was playing on your headphones. And you were obviously... uhm... enjoying yourself.”

He snorted, falling back into the mattress. “A mere physical reaction.”

“Sure. Just like right now.” Mythal ground her hips against his erection caught between them, making him hiss. “But the fact of the matter is: You didn't say no. I came back into your life without much of an explanation – and everything I've asked of you, you've done.” He wanted to look away but she didn't let him, guiding his jaw with only two fingers so he had to face her, shame suddenly burning in his cheeks. “You let me follow you home, you let me go through your stuff, you let me talk, you played the song I asked, you let me kiss you – you would let me do much more if I wanted, Solas. In fact, you were ready to beg me for it just a few moments ago. Don't pretend you're over this. You're really bad at it.” She leaned down and placed a pretend-chaste kiss on his lips that made him strain for more.

Feeling his heartbeat pulsating in his ears, he had no other choice – he didn't, did he? – than to agree with a small nod. “I have not been pining for you all these years. But I will agree that I have... certain unresolved feelings as well. Their nature, however, is uncertain. I am not sure I could wager my future on them.”

“And why not?” Mythal was still cupping his jaw with her fingers, her face coming closer now, so he could see the pink gloss smeared around her mouth as if she had mauled a small animal.

He licked his swollen lips, eyes trying to evade her piercing, golden glare. “Because you have already abandoned me once, Mythal. I am unwilling to repeat that experience with higher stakes.”

“Listen.” Her other hand joined the first on his face, grabbing onto it and tilting his head so he was unable to look away, her fine features filling his entire field of view. “I'll admit that what I did back then wasn't cool. And I'm sorry for how it made you feel. I thought if I did it fast, like ripping off a band-aid, it wouldn't be so bad. But that's over, Solas. I've got no reason to run now.”

“How comforting.” It was difficult to remain unaffected while hearing everything he'd been dreaming about ever since that rainy night. The sarcasm in his voice wavered and broke against the last syllable, and he had to suppress an unbidden sob as Mythal continued, suddenly sweet like her glossy lips.

“It's okay, you can cry about it.” She caressed his cheeks with her thumbs and pressed a kiss to his forehead that finally fully unraveled him. “I'm here now, I've come to get you. It can be like it was. And we can make up for the time in between. It'll be fun.” Through the veil of his tears, he saw her smiling at him.