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Arrows in the Wind

“Oh—no, come on you can take him! There you have i—ah!” Lithian laughed aloud and moved, half-stumbling sidelong as a sharp ripple unsettled the earth beneath his feet. Cas’ ‘comeback’ for his teasing. After regaining his balance, though, he immediately grinned, turning his attention back to them but stepping a bit further away from the focus of their spar. He settled on an upraised rock — probably also Cas’ doing, from the look of it — to sit and watch in more peaceful silence.

After the events of their last get-together, there had yet to be a meeting with all four of them at once, but a couple more days of house hunting had left Araceli restless, and when he mentioned he headed out for near-daily practice sessions with Casseth, she had been eager to come along. Bringing yet another element to the floor, she broadened the playing field, and so far seemed to hold her own decently well, though it was clear she too relied heavily on her magic, and had not had the added experience of daily one to one practice.

When they looked to be near to tiring enough for a break, Lithian stood again. Water, he knew, was always appreciated after any fight, which held especially true after baking under Eowyn’s sun. Halfway to the house, however, he paused at a familiar shape approaching.

“Ah…Casseth…we have—”

Detraeus frowned upon spotting Lithian, but after a moment, snorted and continued on, ignoring him for the most part. When he rounded the corner of the house, however, he froze in place.

Moments before his arrival — both of them figuring they were nearing their final strokes anyway — Araceli had given a last, concentrated burst of air, meant to knock Casseth off his feet. Mostly successful, she did topple his balance, but not before he yanked at the earth beneath her own boots, catching her off-guard at the last second: just in time to send him fumbling to a messy land on top of her as her back hit the earth.

Detraeus arrived to see only the pair of them, flush faced, out of breath, and covered in sand and grit, lying on top of one another in the dusty open air. His tail lashed at the tip: quick, stiff, angry jerks for reasons he couldn’t pin down, and he narrowed his eyes.

“Busy?”

Detraeus folded his arms as he watched their interactions, shoulders squaring off and eyes narrowing further as they progressed. At Ara’s laugh — light and airy, though it wasn’t directed at him — he felt his cheeks heat, and his gut clenched at the sight of Cas’ hands on her, his own fingers tightening against his arms. She looked so happy in that moment. Relaxed. And ignoring him all but entirely.

How did such things come so easily for Casseth? He made people smile, laugh, and just want to be in his presence without seemingly any effort. Detraeus was aware that Cas had cycled through several young women as potential interests in the fairly recent past, but seemed to take them on and let them go again without worry. He was cheery virtually all the time, and put people at ease — even him at ease, to an extent — all with natural flow of someone who simply exuded positive energy. All of this when he was a hybrid, at that.

Meanwhile he, Detraeus, a pureblood in his own right and at least decently accomplished in several practical fields, couldn’t seem to brush shoulders with someone in a casual setting without tensing up. And he hated the sound of his own voice. Privately, Detraeus snorted and tapped his tongue against the backs of his teeth, curbing the desire to spit.

“Spar,” he said. Glancing back between them, his attention settled on Ara, and lingered too long: on bare skin, scales, and the faint glint of perspiration. Flushing hot, he pushed between them, moving over to where they had been and scuffing his boot on the dirt. “Anyone?”

Detraeus bristled, chest puffing out like an offended quillboar. “I wasn’t—I’m not scared of you. I just—” ‘—wasn’t expecting you to KISS me…’

He grit his teeth, snorting through the nose as his face lit up again. After a last ditch glance to Casseth proved useless — he was making no move to step in instead — Detraeus drew a slow breath and forced his fingers to the belts on his chest, unbuckling and removing his weapons. He shed his throwing daggers, the knives at his wrists, and those at his belt, all the while forcibly shoving away images of Araceli stalking towards him — leaning in, her breath on his lips, her lashes an inch away, so close he could have counted each one if he—

He threw his last blade to the ground harder than he intended, tail twitching and coiling around his leg.

“Tell me when to hit you.”

“No…” Though he said it aloud, the word barely came out vocal enough to be heard over a pin drop, and Detraeus shook his head, clearing his throat and trying again, louder. “No. No, I didn’t—I didn’t mean…” He had stumbled back at the first gust, wings spreading wide to steady and catch himself, but the second came hard enough to knock the air from his gut, toppling his already off-balance body to the earth, and he winced, less from pain and more from the sinking guilt in his stomach.

Angry. Angry. He was supposed to get angry. He was good at getting angry. But even as Ara’s winds cut at him, his first reactions were all guilt, frustration, panic. He hadn’t meant to upset her, he just—

What was he supposed to do?

He hadn’t asked her to kiss him. She hadn’t even warned him! She had just, suddenly, been there, half on top of him, and he couldn’t breathe, or think, or—

Detraeus hunkered down as his pulse raced to the wild beat of the wind, gravel and grit scraping against him as fierce as any sandstorm, and finally, he grit his teeth, squaring his posture. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault, and even if it was — somehow — he was not about to do exactly as she said and cower with his tail between his legs. He was not afraid. Snorting and pushing a soft, low growl from deep in his throat, he shifted his posture minutely, swept his tail out behind him, and leapt. The instant he left ground, his wings fanned out to their full breadth, catching her wind like a sail and shoving him up with a single beat far above the fury of her storm.

After hovering only a moment above her, he dropped, coming in from behind, whipping his tail out for her — soft side towards her and spikes away — gripping, and yanking hard enough at her ankles to ground her. He settled in a stand beside her.

“I did not…intend to upset you.”

Detraeus frowned, but after only a moment, shrugged. “Yes. It is. And,” he said, turning immediate focus over to her first question, “I was tripping you. It’s done, on occasion, in fights, meant to throw the opponent off balance and off-guard and make them vulnerable to a more dangerous attack.”

Guilt still edged at the corners of his conscience, though he knew not what to allay it with, so he diluted it instead, pouring other things on top to distract himself.

“Shall I do it again to demonstrate?”

Detraeus blinked, surprised, though he shouldn’t have been.

When in the air, with her wind under his wings, he had felt safe in a way he rarely did. Even though they were, technically, sparring, he had never stopped to consider the damage she could have dealt, the damage he had opened himself up to with blind faith. She was right, of course, and he had been stupid not to realize it. He couldn’t trust the air when fighting her any more than he could trust the ground beneath his feet when fighting Casseth. His brow furrowed, cheeks warming with his embarrassment, but after only a moment, he nodded.

“Of course. I was foolish.” He eyed her, pensive. ‘As I seem to be often around you, as of late.’ He kept his thoughts to himself, though, and dipped his head, taking a step back. “You…” He hesitated, trying to gauge whether more words on the subject would improve or worsen his standing with her. “You do not disgust me. And…your touch is not bad. It’s very…” His brow pinched, thoughtful as he rubbed the tips of his thumb and forefingers together, as though shining a coin, his head angled ever towards the earth. “Soft…?”

Detraeus cheeks warmed, irrationally pleased to have earned a laugh, somehow. He opened his mouth, considering trying to explain the complications, but nothing made sense, and he was loathe to dig himself back into a pit and upset her again when he had just seemed to manage to say something she liked. She was happy, and for now, that was enough. Besides, the prospect of sparring with her properly without her angry or hurt was appealing, and he dipped his head in a quick nod of assent. Together, they sparred.

Though drastically lighter than he and narrower all around in build, Araceli stood almost even in height, which made for an interesting close-combat dynamic. Different, since he was used to facing off against those taller than him in greater and lesser degrees. She was evidently less practiced at one to one fighting with a Magescian than himself and Casseth, but not a novice, either. When he asked about weapons, however, she admitted she rarely used anything but her magic and — on very infrequent occasions — a small dagger that she sometimes kept on her person.

Thinking back to their time in the dragon cave, that did seem to be the case, and he critiqued her on that point. Though every fighter had their weapon — and hers, she carried in her blood — no true warrior lived very long without having more than one dependable line of defense.

Weeks passed afterwards, and the weeks stretched into months. Araceli joined their practice sessions more frequently, and Detraeus’ spars with her became common place to the point of being nearly a daily ritual. Gradually — ever so gradually, over the weeks and months — he grew more accustomed to the small things. Accidental touches, bumps, and brushes. Close contact for practical reasons.

She never kissed him again.

At first, he took it as a genuine blessing, always on edge and unsure how he ought best to respond if she tried again. But he dreamt of her kisses. Grew hot in the night with thoughts he wanted nothing to do with, thoughts that made him shake and swell with panic and want for things he would never have, even if she offered them to him on an open bed. He demanded it of himself that he stop before putting himself to bed and would wake tangled in his thin sheets, damp and groaning.

After six months, he convinced himself that he had succeeded in scaring her away and tried to pretend that the dull pit in his gut was relief.

She found a small, but suitable house to her liking in the meantime and settled into it. Both he and Casseth moved up in rank in Veinrith Stadium, progressing to the lower ranks of actual Magescian fighters. The battles then became immediately far more rewarding, and more intense. Detraeus purchased a set of dual blades for better versatility in close range combat, and had his arrows enchanted with flexible defense spells, etched into the shafts and designed specifically to respond to specific formations. Barrier spells, mostly, to give him a much-needed extra ward off against primary magic dealers.

It was between the months, though, and amidst these other various purchases for himself, that Detraeus began considering a different sort of investment. One of a sort that he had never in his life put forward before.