Why does Jarl hate magic so much?
It can’t be because he doesn’t deal with it enough: Manus has been in Shantown for many years now, refusing to leave its borders for very long due to his effervescent love for one of its inhabitants: Jasey.
Jarl’s Jasey.
If Manus, of all magicians, is the one exposing Jarl to the wisdom known as magic, Jarl shouldn’t hate it.
(Yet he does...)
~
Áesta frowns as he contemplates the glitter sitting in the trash bin.
It’s a dual sided glitter, pink on one side and gold on the other, that glimmers white wherever the sun hits it. As one would expect, it’s a perfect representation of the mage that uses it: Manus; who’s perpetually in pink, forever grinning with his big gold eyes, and always glamorously flaunting his true age with his wise white hair.
Manus, who’s probably the only reason someone as sheltered as Jarl knows a thing about magic.
How could someone like Manus lead to a hatred so strong?
(Áesta should be the reason; or any other daemon.)
~
After making sure the exhausted magician is fully tucked in, Áesta grabs one of the keys they were given before slipping out of the room and striding towards the lobby.
These mortals might be here to rescue their precious Jasey, but he’s only interested in a good meal.
He’ll weasel one out of Jarl later—when he’s returned from that deplorable place he’s most likely in now.
In the meantime: the innkeeper mentioned a bar…
~
“Aye! It’s named Cunning’s Bar. It’s just up the road, really; can’t miss it.”
The kind innkeeper smiles as she draws yet another map for the brown bean in front of her. Her insightful eyes twinkle as they bore holes into the thoughts of the suddenly uncomfortable daemon waiting for her.
“‘Till ya gotta go, anyway; you’ll be missin’ it, then!”
Torn between amusement at her jokes and alarm at how intelligent she seems, Áesta smiles quietly—unassumingly—and nods while taking the offered paper. He’ll deal with the fact that she seems aware that he’s not what he says he is after he’s buried himself in the pleasures he’s sure to find at the bar.
Or he would if she hadn’t gently rested her hand on his; “Did you two have a fight?”
“Us two?” Áesta tenses briefly under her touch but quickly shakes the response off—it’s too suspicious.
The innkeeper nods, “Yeah; you and the priest ya came in wit’.”
The disguised daemon’s lip twitches—defensive snarl morphing into a nervous smile before it’s fully seen. “O-oh… I…” How’s he supposed to answer that??? He upset Jarl, certainly, but fight with him? No.
He’s just a daemon that a holy man like Jarl is destined to hate.
“Um…” The green eyed being chews his lip for a moment, contemplating, while the innkeeper watches. Figuring that this mortal’s uncomfortable intelligence should be put to good use, Áesta huffs and nods, “Ah, feck it! Yes. Yes, we had a fight. It weren’t a big one, but it were one!” One that he feels set them back—far.
The innkeeper seems remorseful; she squeezes his hand comfortingly, “What was is about, honey?”
Áesta sighs heavily before stepping closer to the counter. He rests his elbows on the surface and leans in, creating a private bubble for the two of them to talk in (for peace of mind and also just in case). “Ah… Well, Ah’m not exact’a’ly…” The daemon in disguise winces, “Religious.” (Such an understatement… or lie, depending on how you look at it: technically, a daemon IS a highly religious being; or, rather: sacrilegious.)
The innkeeper raises her brow—very high, “Clearly: ya’re tryin’ ta get wit’ a priest, hon.”
Áesta laughs; he supposes that’s true—technically—even if it is just for a meal. “Yea… yea Ah am…”
“Did he try ta convert you?”
Green eyes look up into hazel, perplexed. The gaze that meets the daemon’s is surprisingly intense—protective. Áesta slowly shakes his head; even if the man had literally chained and locked him up at first, none of it had anything to do with making him worship or idealize his capital g god. In fact, one could argue that Áesta’s the one trying to convert Jarl (although, for what purpose…). “No, no; not’in’ like t’at.”
She nods back, “Are you trying to get him to step down or leave the church?”
“HWAT‽ NO!” Áesta shakes his head, looking completely incredulous. And he is: what would that do?
It’s true: Jarl not being a priest would make their deal a lot easier—on both of them—but it’s not permanent; as soon as Jasey is rescued and returned home with Jarl and Manus, the deal will end and…
~
“No: while wakin’.” The two lay down with over a foot between them and Áesta wonders why he’s doing this. Sure, Manus is being a loud prick right now and making it super hard to rest; but laying down with the priest? “E kept saying ‘ow much ‘e misses ‘im so Ah tossed ‘im in ‘is room.”
Jarl’s eyes explode; they’re a shockingly pretty sky this close, “You what‽”
Human necks are really intriguing (to Áesta, anyway): they’re thick with muscles, veins, skin, and bones—and yet they’re so very fragile; you don’t even need a daemon like Áesta to tear into this vulnerable flesh, ruin it and the man it all belongs to; anyone else could do it so long as they get close enough and want it enough… The green being marvels at this and the vibrant warmth coming from the priest’s neck as he curls his fingers around it, long black claws tickling the short hairs at the holy man’s nape. That warmth… is oddly comforting.
It’d be comforting in the morning, too, when Áesta wakes up in Jarl’s arms, nose buried in the priest’s neck, and feeling more satisfied than he ever has before.
“E needed it.”
~
“Must ye wear t’at???”
Áesta scowls as Jarl turns away from the mirror before him to stare with wide eyes at the disguised daemon. His priestly clothes move with him, seeming to offer themselves up for critique from Áesta’s new green eyes.
The holy man seems to be fighting the urge to laugh at him, “I must address the parish; so, yes: I must.”
The daemon crinkles his nose; cutely, apparently. Áesta glares, “Feedin’ me ain’t gonna make t’is beth’r.”
Jarl just smiles, blue eyes bright in a way that the daemon’s never seen before; he looks… not happy, exactly, but content… at home: “Okay.”
Áesta’s throat tightens along with his chest and he storms off in a decidedly angry huff, whole body shaking; he rants to Manus about Jarl’s ugly religious habits to distract himself from that frightening tightness and the even more frightening vision of Jarl standing there in his holy splendor with an expression daemons only show their mates.
~
“… It was your nose.”
Áesta blinks and sits up abruptly to stare down at Jarl incredulously. The sound of the human’s heartbeat echoes in his ears as though it were his own (Which is impossible: natural born daemons don’t have hearts.). “Me nose.”
“Your nose.”
The daemon scuffs and shakes his head. He instinctually lifts his hand and covers the body part in question with its tapered (not clawed; Manus didn’t let him keep those) digits, disbelieving and… highly embarrassed. If he could lean down and curl back up in Jarl’s chest (perhaps more literally in it than you’re thinking, too…), hide from the horrible reality this embarrassment means, he would.
To be embarrassed about the effect his body has on another…
How undaemon. How unprideful. How… unhurtful…
Does he no longer want to harm this human?
Beneath him, aforementioned human quickly explains (Well… he attempts to, anyway…): “It crinkled! Like…” He tries to do it, too, like Áesta did: scrunching up his nose, making little crinkles appear in its bridge and around his bright sky blue eyes—aging him in a way that displays all the joyful memories of his past while also illuminating the youthfulness of his character which he usually keeps hidden away in the folds of his piety.
He looks ridiculous (in a good way).
Áesta laughs, both amused and surprised. The face of the priest is hilarious and beautiful at the same time: it’s a defuser, meant to calm and connect them both; but it’s hard to accept such a face when it’s on Jarl who’s spent the better part of the past 3 days constantly trying to piss him off and push him away.
So, he doesn’t accept it.
Instead, he shies away from it: muffling the bubbles of laughter that ridiculous face created with his hand and shielding himself from the strange joy the priest (Of all things, why a priest?) brought him with his openness. If he blocks it—ignores it—he won’t have to think about it, accept it, ador—Jarl suddenly pulls his hand away.
The calluses on the holy man’s fingers surprise Áesta as much as his face and openness did—but not as much as the sudden infusion of sheer warmth he feels through that worn and weathered hand.
They both stare at each other in silence, Áesta’s hand in Jarl’s, as the daemon feeds.
~
“Are you alright???”
Áesta swallows thickly and inhales deeply while nodding.
“Yes.”
Perhaps Áesta does want Jarl to leave the church…
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