The fairies did not merely circle. They struck.

Claws of glass raked Thorne’s chest, ribbons of blood cutting down his torso as he bucked against the chains. They clung tighter, the iron biting deeper with every thrash, dragging him back to his knees. His roar cracked the grove, but it only made them laugh—high, chiming, cruel.

“You’d claim dominion here, little moon-born? You'd claim a beast?” hissed one as Aelorian stepped into the clearing. “You, who trembles behind silk?”

"With pleasure," Aelorian purred, head held high, every inch the prince he had once been raised to be. “He may be a brute with the manners of a swamp toad—” his gaze cut to Thorne, blood streaming, muscles straining against iron—“but he’s my brute. And no one touches what’s mine.”

A hiss shuddered through the swarm. Then they descended.

He moved before he could think. Moonfire bloomed in his hands, silver flames licking his veins raw. Words spilled sharp as shattered glass, and light erupted across the clearing. Bolts of starlight cracked outward, burning holes into the dark, slicing wings clean from tiny bodies. They shrieked, furious, scattering back—except for one.

It darted through the blaze and struck him. Claws dug across his cheek, tearing down to the jaw, hot blood gushing. He reeled, vision blurred red—but he did not falter. Silver bled from him brighter, harsher, until the grove itself seemed carved in moonlight.

“In nomine deae vires tuas voco ut has catenas frangas!” His voice thundered as he seized the chains, palms searing instantly, the stink of burning flesh choking the air. Pain tore a cry from his throat—but he wove it into the spell. Sparks cracked, iron split, and with a thunderous snap, the chains shattered.

Thorne fell forward, free at last and covered in blood as the last of the fairies fled, their laughter breaking into furious hisses as they vanished into the trees.

Silence fell, broken only by the ogre’s ragged breathing.

Aelorian staggered, burned hands trembling, blood running down his face in crimson lines. Still, his mouth curved in that mocking, perilously fragile tilt. “Well,” he rasped, voice unsteady but defiant, “someone had to save you. Imagine the disgrace if the bards sang of you—slain by pixies.”

Thorne’s chest rose and fell, too fast, his whole body tight with something he couldn’t name. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered—half growl, half plea, the words so worn they were practically a mantra between them.

 Aelorian’s lashes lifted, sly even through the pain. "And yet," he murmured, brushing Thorne's blood-slick bicept with a featherlight touch, "you keep suffering me."

Thorne's jaw clenched. His silence was dangerous, heavy, as though the ground beneath them might split. His gaze dragged helplessly to the curve of Aelorian's mouth, the crimson staining his lips.

Finally, Aelorian breathed, softer now, the mask slipping just an inch: “We’re even. You saved me. And now…” His gaze flicked to the shattered links glinting in the moss. “…I’ve saved you.”

Thorne said nothing. Just stared. At the blood streaking his face. At the burns across his elegant hands. At the fact that he had bled for him, burned for him.

The silence between them was heavier than any chain.

Aelorian cleared his throat, desperate for air, for armor. He straightened, flicked his sleeve. His lips curved, bright and false. “You’ll forgive the theatrics. The fair folk adore a bit of possessive posturing. Strictly performance, of course. I hardly meant mine in any binding, vow-laden, swoon-worthy sense.”

Thorne reached out and grabbed his wrist, chest still heaving, blood still dripping, but his hands—his enormous, scarred hands—reached not to hurt, not to cause pain, but for him, to hold him.

Aelorian froze as calloused fingers caught his wrists, turning his palms up into the light. The burns were raw, skin split and angry red, trembling under Thorne’s grip. For a moment—just a moment—the ogre’s face softened, something unreadable flaring in his eyes as his thumb brushed the edge of a blister. " You burned yourself," he growled, low and rough, though the sound trembled strangely. "We'll have to wash these when we get to the cave. Keep em' from getting infected." 

His gaze flicked to the blood on Aelorian’s cheek, tracking the thin crimson line down to his jaw. His hand twitched, as if he might wipe it away, cradle his face, press close enough to taste the blood and salt.

"It's fine," Aelorian murmured, curling his fingers and starting to pull back, "Elves heal quickly."

The spell broke in seconds.

Thorne jerked back like he’d touched fire himself, muttering a curse under his breath. His hands fisted at his sides, the softness slammed shut behind his scowl. “You're a fool to hurt yourself over me, elf. Bloody idiot in silk.”

Aelorian gazed at him, the sting in his palms forgotten for the far stranger sting in his chest. Slowly, far too slowly, a wicked smile curled across his lips. “Oh?” he purred, his voice honey-smooth despite the blood painting his face. “Were you worried, ogre? Dare I hope you’ve gone tender on me?”

Thorne bared his tusks, but it wasn’t quite a snarl—it wavered, perilously close to something else. “Shut your pretty little mouth, boy.”

“Mm. You’re blushing, old man.” Aelorian tilted his head, hair tumbling over his shoulder in dark waves. “Careful, ogre. If you keep looking at me like that, the bards will have no need to invent embellishments.”

The ogre growled and turned away, running a bloody hand down his face as though he could scrub the moment out of existence.

Aelorian watched him, a sharp smile softening into something he refused to name. Then, he straightened, dusted invisible dirt from his sleeve, and with impeccable timing, slipped his mask back into place.

“Well,” he drawled, stepping past him, voice back to infuriating silk, “try to keep up, ogre. I’d hate to waste my dramatics twice in one night.”

Behind him, Thorne followed, silent, scowl firmly in place—but his ears burned scarlet in the moonlight.

---

They made it to the cave before nightfall, just as the sky split open and poured down a second round of rain. The cave itself was deep and slanted, carved long ago by something older than the trees and the moss that now covered it. 

It felt as if something had once lived inside, and all that was left was the smell of bones, ashes, and old magic. Water ran in slow rivulets along the cave walls, glistening in the dying light. The stone was uneven and cold beneath their boots, and it echoed too much when they stepped inside, each football bouncing back.

Aelorian swept in first, wringing out the ends of his long, rain-drenched hair and wrinkling his nose at the smell that wafted from the damp earth beneath his dainty feet. “Oh, good,” he said flatly, “It’s even damper on the inside. What a charming surprise. Love the stone ceilings and piles of bear shit in the corner. Just what I needed to complement the ambience.”

Thorne’s silhouette filled the entrance as he ducked in behind him, narrowly avoiding bashing his head on the low-hanging stone overhead. “Do you have to complain about everything?” He hissed, one hand cradling his shoulder, fairy bites swollen and throbbing all over.

Aelorian didn’t even turn to look at him, too busy observing the cave with a look of wounded dignity sharpened to a blade. “I’ll complain about whatever I please,” he sniffed, “I’ve slept in gold palaces and luxury bedding, thank you, not…troll dens with a mold problem.”

Thorne made a noise deep in his throat somewhere between a growl and a groan. “It’s a cave.”

“It’s a pit of despair,” Aelorian scowled, hands on his hips.

“It’s dry,” Thorne pointed out.

“Barely. My boots are still squelching, and something in the corner is definitely watching me,” Aelorian argued. “This floor’s going to wreak havoc on my sciatica. I can already feel it conspiring against me. And the mold’s going to give me hives. I’m itching as we speak!”

Thorne looked him up and down and snorted. “Tell me if you see any rats over there. Might be the only thing we have for dinner tonight.”

“You want to feed me rat flesh?” Aelorian gasped and visibly recoiled, one hand flying to his chest. “I will literally perish!” 

“You’ve almost done that twice today, so at least you’re consistent,” Thorne grumbled.

That earned him a glare sharp enough to wilt flowers. “You’re very lucky I’m too cold and wet to commit murder right now, ogre.”

“Lucky me,” Thorne said, lowering himself to the ground with a grunt, one hand pressed tightly to his shoulder, as if he could keep the pain at bay if he applied just enough pressure. 

The whole time, Aelorian watched him, his arms crossed as he stood in the middle of the cave like he couldn’t bear the thought of contaminating himself by sitting on the damp floor. “Are you going to die in that corner, or are you going to start a fire before I freeze to death in an extremely beautiful state?” He questioned.

Thorne didn’t bother answering. Instead, he shifted with a grimace, reached into the damp lining of his jerkin, and pulled out two smooth pieces of river flint, one black, one gray, wet but intact. “Went looking for these earlier,” he muttered, “Before you decided to go fondle some berries. Figured we’d need them.”

Aelorian blinked, taken aback. “You found time to go digging in the mud while I was about to get eaten alive by seductive fruit?”

“You were about to pick them like garnishes for a fruit salad, and I found these in the river you were splashing your dainty elven ass in.” Thorne grunted, “So, forgive me for multitasking.”

The elf scoffed but said nothing as Thorne knelt, slow, with a hiss of breath, and began striking the flint against the now chainless shackles on his wrists, sparks dancing but fizzling out on damp moss. He tried once, twice…but the flames stubbornly refused to take, each time making the ogre grow more and more frustrated. 

Aelorian made a high, strangled noise from behind him.

Thorne didn’t look up. “If you’re about to complain again, now would be a great time to shut the fuck up. The moss is soaked through; we’ll never get a flame at this rate.”

Aelorian, who had finally sat down on a small boulder and crossed one leg over the other, huffed like someone personally being betrayed by nature, and tucked his arms around himself. The stone stole the warmth from his bones instantly, and the damp seeped into his soul. He looked one exhale away from writing a death poem. ”Did you try being better at it?” He sniffed. “I’m over here suffering, and you’re playing with rocks on a wet cave floor! Honestly, Thorne, where is your survival instinct? Where’s your–your ingenuity? We are going to die here. Cold, wet, mold-ridden, and miserable.” 

That did it. Thorne stood without warning. “So help me, elf,” he growled, towering.

Aelorian stood too, glowering like a squirrel about to throw itself into traffic just to make a point. “Or what?” He snapped, jabbing a finger into the ogre’s chest. “You’ll hurl a rock at me? You’ll make another tragic, failed attempt at fire and hope the smoke blinds me before the cold takes my soul?”

“You think I want to freeze to death sitting beside a melodramatic, thong-wearing disaster with a death wish and a fungus allergy?” Thorne bellowed, "You almost got yourself killed by those fairies back there, Lori!"

Aelorian’s gasp could’ve shattered glass. “You absolute swamp brute, my thong is ceremonial!” he cried, scandalized.

“It’s ass floss!” Thorne growled, “And you’re parading around this godsdamned swamp in luxury and lingerie while I’m hauling logs and nearly breaking my spine trying to keep us alive! You half-naked, decorative liability!” 

“Oh, that’s rich! You wouldn’t recognize refinement if it set itself on fire and tap-danced across this swamp! You are a lumbering ode to filth and bad decisions!” Aelorian shouted, “You fire-murdering, fungus-smelling, emotionally constipated walking boulder!”

Without warning, Thorne grabbed the elf, lifted him so that his feet dangled, and shoved a hand into Aelorian’s sleeve, fishing blindly, ignoring the flailing limbs and slapped wrists. 

Aelorian shrieked. “Unhand me this instant! What are you doing? Thorne! This is assault! I have elven rights!”

“Shut up!” Thorne grunted, still digging, “I know you’ve got something dry in here somewhere–”

“In the name of the moon, stop groping me!” Aelorian twisted and kicked, ineffectively, doing more harm to his delicate toes by bashing them into the ogre’s stubborn knees.

Thorne's fingers closed around a thin bundle tucked against Aelorian’s inner sleeve. He yanked it free, holding it aloft like a prize.

A square of soft, worn silk shimmered in the firelight–silver embroidery unraveling at the edges, a delicate cloth stained with some ancient, unreadable memory. The star stitched corners still barely held together. Aelorian’s prized handkerchief. 

Aelorian went still.

“Don’t,” he said, voice suddenly low and deadly. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“We need flamebait. Moss is too wet. Nothing else is gonna take at this rate.” Thorne turned and snatched up the fire bundle, and with no ceremony, stuffed the very last, slightly-damp, tragically beautiful corner of Aelorian’s moonwoven handkerchief beneath the twigs. 

“Not that,” Aelorian snapped, voice breaking as he scrambled forward, “That was a gift, you absolute troll-throttling savage. It’s the last thing I have from–”

But Thorne had already tossed it into the smoldering pile.

Aelorian lunged, but it was too late. 

The silk curled at the edges, embroidering catching first, burning bright, then vanished into ashes in seconds. It hissed, flared, and then, with a rather lackluster performance, it fizzled out.

The handkerchief curled, blackened… and with a faint pfft… vanished in a sad spiral of smoke.

The moss did not light.

The cave remained cold and dark.

“...You’ve gotta be shitting me,” Thorne muttered.