got a bit of inspo from krad for a little volkemark ~date~ in daein winter... noncanon, plays with an au that I've messed with of mark having a tellius rerun in which they actually do tell volke what they are, and things actually go somewhere between them.
"Oh… by the goddess," Mark sighed, "it is so cold."
Volke looked back at them, scrambling up the stairs of the old fort and hanging onto the railing tightly.
"You… you're just… out here, in this… like it's nothing."
He held out his hand, and they snapped onto it, letting him haul them the rest of the way up that segment of them.
"I know you said there is something up here, but…" and Mark huffed, "Today? In a snowstorm?"
"You'll damn well see," he said, though there was a chuckle under his breath. "If you can stop bitching long enough to use your breath for climbing."
"This body was very ill," they said. "Near death, you said!"
"Hmph. So save it," he said, "and keep climbing. In your nose. Out your mouth."
They did quiet, followed, holding tightly onto his hand as he kept ascending.
He kept sneaking glances back at them, watching how they swayed on their feet, how heavily they lifted their legs, watching for anything that truly worried him more than just the complaining of an archivist.
An archivist, a talented thunder mage, and a tactician with control over time. …And still here, which was the peculiar thing. He'd let them have liberties with him in that tower, on the assumption that they'd be gone, and unable to capitalize on any of the further, and yet, it had been a month, now, since the war.
A month and some days since they'd told him exactly what they were. Since he'd decided not to give them the slip.
They stumbled at that top step. He caught them, grasping around their shoulders as their feet had gone out from under them.
"Eh, you did good enough," he said. "Here."
He scooped his arms under their ass, had them over his shoulder.
"I– Volke!? If you were going to carry me, um, nicely!?"
"Settle down. It's easier, for balance and seeing where I'm going in this."
And they did. They relaxed in his hold without becoming dead weight.
"I still am so… so curious what's up in some shuttered fort. Didn't we come through here? In the mad king's war?"
Volke let a low affirmation hum in his throat. "Good eye… we didn't come up this side, though. We were coming from the other direction and passed through quickly. Rested briefly on the north side."
"I know that mountain face," they said, shifting enough that he gave a jolt to them.
"Talk about it when I won't drop you, if it involves craning around."
"Ah– shit. Sorry," they said. "You feel… steady. Kinda lost track…"
He sighed. He turned his head, kissed at their side. He heard their breath hitch, despite their surely not having felt much through the thick padding of their coat. But, they would have heard the soft sound that he'd been sure to include.
"Mm. We're here," he said, and eased them back to their feet, standing under the shelter of an overhang.
"Where's here?" they asked, looking around.
He gave the door a hard shove, fighting against the moisture-swollen and surely partly refrozen wood.
"Here," he said, giving them a push in with a hand in the small of their back.
The fire, fortunately, had kept on burning. It was a small room, all things considered, especially for its being that of the fort's former commander.
"Um– Ahh… Volke? What… What is all of this?"
But he could hear it, that faint break in their voice, the thickness in it. He pulled the door back shut behind them.
He could see how their eyes were drawn to the most notable part of it, to the glass – paneled glass, joined together in large plates by weathered wooden framing – window overlooking the sheer drop of the mountainside that the fort perched on. It faced east. Mark hesitantly started towards it in slow steps.
"Volke…? You… All of this…"
"The lord of this fort is dead. It's disputed territory between Daein and Begnion… I paid a little sum to the officials sorting it out to turn a blind eye so we could take advantage of its being, strictly speaking, nobody's, for a while."
He watched the slowness with which they tore their gaze from the vista, turned towards him. He pulled his mask down, the warm air of the room finally getting to him.
"Is this… some kind of date?" Mark asked.
The shimmer along their waterline was threatening to spill at any moment.
"I hear the nobles call it a retreat," he said. "I have it for a week."
Mark's jaw hung slack, eyes big, and they fidgeted with the ends of their sleeves for a long moment.
"You… oh… oh, god. Really? You–"
He didn't hug, as a rule. How much they touched him was something he did his best not to stiffen at, and not to shrug out of as he may have wished to, with anyone else. Mark hadn't been the sort he'd expected to be so affectionate, but at least they had a discretion about it.
There was little discretion, though, to how they clung onto him, having let themself all but fall against him.
"Yes," he said. "I worked it out. You have leave of some responsibilities, so I can steal you for a special assignment. For the week… you have me."
Their fingers curled tightly into his coat, and they had their face pressed into his chest. He let his arms settle loosely around them.
"Thanks– ah… thank– thank you."
Their head rose, and he could take the ask well enough. He dropped his lips to theirs, kissed them.
"I'm… I've been so afraid," they said, when he pulled back. "I keep being afraid I'll… disappear. Or that the fact that I'm still here… maybe it means something else is going to happen."
Their eyes – big, so coldly grey, and worried – were locked on his.
"Mm. Worry about it later. You disappear… I'll know where you went, at least. Enough about that, let me warm you up."
It felt so foolish to say it and immediately to start working the scarf from around their neck, their coat open, but, it was the flow of things, the flow into bitter herbs pressed onto their tongue, their body quivering under him despite the warmth of the fire, being pressed so tightly against him as he kissed them quiet and took every noise into the dark of his mouth, and finally sleep – sleep he could sink into, with not a soul near save for theirs.
so, have some fluff <3
- - - -
"Oh… by the goddess," Mark sighed, "it is so cold."
Volke looked back at them, scrambling up the stairs of the old fort and hanging onto the railing tightly.
"You… you're just… out here, in this… like it's nothing."
He held out his hand, and they snapped onto it, letting him haul them the rest of the way up that segment of them.
"I know you said there is something up here, but…" and Mark huffed, "Today? In a snowstorm?"
"You'll damn well see," he said, though there was a chuckle under his breath. "If you can stop bitching long enough to use your breath for climbing."
"This body was very ill," they said. "Near death, you said!"
"Hmph. So save it," he said, "and keep climbing. In your nose. Out your mouth."
They did quiet, followed, holding tightly onto his hand as he kept ascending.
He kept sneaking glances back at them, watching how they swayed on their feet, how heavily they lifted their legs, watching for anything that truly worried him more than just the complaining of an archivist.
An archivist, a talented thunder mage, and a tactician with control over time. …And still here, which was the peculiar thing. He'd let them have liberties with him in that tower, on the assumption that they'd be gone, and unable to capitalize on any of the further, and yet, it had been a month, now, since the war.
A month and some days since they'd told him exactly what they were. Since he'd decided not to give them the slip.
They stumbled at that top step. He caught them, grasping around their shoulders as their feet had gone out from under them.
"Eh, you did good enough," he said. "Here."
He scooped his arms under their ass, had them over his shoulder.
"I– Volke!? If you were going to carry me, um, nicely!?"
"Settle down. It's easier, for balance and seeing where I'm going in this."
And they did. They relaxed in his hold without becoming dead weight.
"I still am so… so curious what's up in some shuttered fort. Didn't we come through here? In the mad king's war?"
Volke let a low affirmation hum in his throat. "Good eye… we didn't come up this side, though. We were coming from the other direction and passed through quickly. Rested briefly on the north side."
"I know that mountain face," they said, shifting enough that he gave a jolt to them.
"Talk about it when I won't drop you, if it involves craning around."
"Ah– shit. Sorry," they said. "You feel… steady. Kinda lost track…"
He sighed. He turned his head, kissed at their side. He heard their breath hitch, despite their surely not having felt much through the thick padding of their coat. But, they would have heard the soft sound that he'd been sure to include.
"Mm. We're here," he said, and eased them back to their feet, standing under the shelter of an overhang.
"Where's here?" they asked, looking around.
He gave the door a hard shove, fighting against the moisture-swollen and surely partly refrozen wood.
"Here," he said, giving them a push in with a hand in the small of their back.
The fire, fortunately, had kept on burning. It was a small room, all things considered, especially for its being that of the fort's former commander.
"Um– Ahh… Volke? What… What is all of this?"
But he could hear it, that faint break in their voice, the thickness in it. He pulled the door back shut behind them.
He could see how their eyes were drawn to the most notable part of it, to the glass – paneled glass, joined together in large plates by weathered wooden framing – window overlooking the sheer drop of the mountainside that the fort perched on. It faced east. Mark hesitantly started towards it in slow steps.
"Volke…? You… All of this…"
"The lord of this fort is dead. It's disputed territory between Daein and Begnion… I paid a little sum to the officials sorting it out to turn a blind eye so we could take advantage of its being, strictly speaking, nobody's, for a while."
He watched the slowness with which they tore their gaze from the vista, turned towards him. He pulled his mask down, the warm air of the room finally getting to him.
"Is this… some kind of date?" Mark asked.
The shimmer along their waterline was threatening to spill at any moment.
"I hear the nobles call it a retreat," he said. "I have it for a week."
Mark's jaw hung slack, eyes big, and they fidgeted with the ends of their sleeves for a long moment.
"You… oh… oh, god. Really? You–"
He didn't hug, as a rule. How much they touched him was something he did his best not to stiffen at, and not to shrug out of as he may have wished to, with anyone else. Mark hadn't been the sort he'd expected to be so affectionate, but at least they had a discretion about it.
There was little discretion, though, to how they clung onto him, having let themself all but fall against him.
"Yes," he said. "I worked it out. You have leave of some responsibilities, so I can steal you for a special assignment. For the week… you have me."
Their fingers curled tightly into his coat, and they had their face pressed into his chest. He let his arms settle loosely around them.
"Thanks– ah… thank– thank you."
Their head rose, and he could take the ask well enough. He dropped his lips to theirs, kissed them.
"I'm… I've been so afraid," they said, when he pulled back. "I keep being afraid I'll… disappear. Or that the fact that I'm still here… maybe it means something else is going to happen."
Their eyes – big, so coldly grey, and worried – were locked on his.
"Mm. Worry about it later. You disappear… I'll know where you went, at least. Enough about that, let me warm you up."
It felt so foolish to say it and immediately to start working the scarf from around their neck, their coat open, but, it was the flow of things, the flow into bitter herbs pressed onto their tongue, their body quivering under him despite the warmth of the fire, being pressed so tightly against him as he kissed them quiet and took every noise into the dark of his mouth, and finally sleep – sleep he could sink into, with not a soul near save for theirs.
#volke #mark #telliusrehide