I remember I used to post really short drabbles and while I go back and cringe at most of them now, I wanted to make a few newer ones as a warmup because I'm having such a hard time finishing longer moments. An unnecessary return to my nonsensical roots... Reject modernity, embrace tradition? Truly suffering at the moment hahaha

Unreliable Narrators and Other Discrepancies

cyrus

He should know better by now. By the time he snags his jacket from the seat at the bar, it's already fraying from where Lynx has dutifully kneaded at it for the hour, his claws having pulled out threads as he marks any unoccupied fabric as his own. The suspect in question lounges lazily nearby, occupying the entirety of a round table with an occasional contended flick of his tail.

"Someday I'm gonna skin you, cat," Cyrus threatens as he walks over, tossing the ruined jacket over Lynx's head. He recoils immediately, shaking the jacket off as he stands on all paws, his back arched and lips curled in a silent hiss. Cyrus has been bitten before - he has an scarred imprint of Lynx's top teeth on the back of his hand to prove it - but that doesn't stop him from going over and flicking his remaining ear before scratching it affectionately on its jowls.

"Yeah, you big softie. Shame you got all the feral bite trained out of you." He continues to pet Lynx but his attention shifts to the dark corner of the tavern. There, he can see the glint of bronze skin and black eyes, the rest of the faerie's form melting into the shadows of the low-lit interior. "Really would've been a sight to see."

...

The deer bleeds into the snow. Its leg drags, the fur torn and bone shattered from a forgotten fox trap that it managed to wriggle free from, and Cyrus pursues with the intent of putting it out of its misery. Winters are numbingly cold but he follows the trail of blood until it slows at a cradle of spiny bushes. He is consumed with the desire to finish the kill that some other hunter has so cowardly neglected to finish. A quick bullet into the brain would be a kinder, softer way to die, but hurting and fearful, the deer only looks at him and gives a shrill bray in protest and pain.

"Stop following me." A younger girl stares back at him, the watery onset of anxious tears in her doe-like eyes as she cowers on the dark street. Her hands clutch at her purse strap, her fringe plastered to her forehead in nervous sweat. "I-...I'll scream."

He pauses, realizing that the smell of blood has run cold. There's only concrete gravel underfoot and the warm blinking of street lights nearby, illuminating a quiet neighborhood that he doesn't quite recognize. A few tears streak down her face - does he make her that frightened? - and she reaches in her bag to fish out a phone, pocket knife, or pepper spray. There's nothing he can do to help her, knowing the danger of wounded animals. Slowly, he turns away and lets his prey escape.

larissa

It doesn't matter how many times the moon waxes and wanes in a hundred irregular cycles: Caspian's name remains a bad word. Larissa avoids it like a curse or a superstition as if giving it sound might open wounds that are too fresh and too deep, and she has only known survival, self-preservation, and certainty. Kane acquiesces to her avoidance. When he rides alongside her, he is careful to skirt around any conversations that err too close to the epicenter of their thoughts.

"Did we-..." She cauterizes the impulse from the start. There are some questions that she would rather leave unspoken and she refuses to second-guess their decisions. Being in command has conditioned her to learn from the past but never dwell on it, knowing that lifetimes of regrets can break the back of whoever attempts to shoulder them all.

"There was no other choice," Kane answers anyway and doesn't seek her gaze. When she turns her face to the sky, there are fewer stars than she remembers.

savannah

Her fingers trail across her bare arm, brushing lightly over the faintest scar that is now partially obscured by a black rune. "And this, of course, was from you," she continues, a hint of amusement playing in her expression. "Do you still wish you'd followed through?"

"I'm not as bloodthirsty as you are infuriating." Though Blake's attention is on an arrow he's snagged from her quiver, she can still catch the small glances he steals of her. Undoubtedly, he has something critical to say about her Shadowhunter-made weapons, though he usually has something more scathing for Shadowhunters themselves. "You have no idea what I want to do to you."

"Oh?" With a soft laugh, she shifts onto her side to reach for the arrow, taking it from his grasp when he doesn't resist. His hand falls against the sheets instead and she can spy the faint scar across his palm from where he'd grabbed at her seraph. He is no stranger to self-inflicted wounds. "Do tell, Blake. I'm sure we can find some middle ground."

blake

He pretends to not watch her.

Do you still wish you'd followed through? Savannah's words are punctuated by a teasing mirth in her voice as her fingers play over a light scar on her arm, but all he notices is the way she reclines with her stomach and throat exposed like she's the most carefree cat in the world. The arrow in his hands is just a distraction. How many times has she bloodied it with greater threats? A throwaway excuse is drawn from him - those roll off the tongue with ease - before a halfhearted comment cuts through the air as well. "You have no idea what I wanted to do to you."

"Oh, Blake." She laughs, at his expense of course, and takes the arrow from him. Now there's nothing to curb the muscle memory of reacting when defenseless in the face of a threat. "Tell me: are you tempted to find some middle ground?"

Is that all you have to say? is what he wants to respond with, but he inhales quickly as she spins the arrow and rests it under his throat. Slowly, she urges him to look over at her fully and he obliges, meeting her eyes with the same acquiescence that he has a thousand times over. "...There is no middle ground," he replies finally and breaks his gaze.

ethos

"I've always been fond of gold," Ethos admits as he lets his fingers dangle over the surface of the pond, watching as the nixie takes his hand to study the delicate bands that adorn his fingers. Her black irises swallow her eyes and her mouth is full of sharp teeth. This is the wild, disconcerting beauty that haunts the Faerie, and he is grateful to witness even a fraction of it.

"Perhaps my appreciation of it is simply innate-" he touches his hair with his other hand absent-mindedly, the gold streaks glinting in the light, "-or a simple coincidence," he continues briefly, unsure if she speaks the same tongue since she doesn't react to his words though her eyes remain watchful and unblinking. He doesn't mind. Speech is far from the only way to communicate, and he can read her interest with ease, holding still as she brushes her fingertips against the rings. With a small tug, she steals a plain gold band, clutching it in her palm.

"You can have it, if you'd like." Still, she says nothing back. An inner eyelid moistens her dark, bug-like eyes before she plunges under the surface, disappearing into the murky water. He calls his horse over so he can mount, his hand still damp where she'd taken it in his own. When he glances back into the pond, he swears he can still see the gold ring glimmering in the dark.

...

He's grown used to the way Kellan's arms feel when they're curled around his waist, the wind whipping through their hair as his horse gallops through the Faerie. They haven't yet settled on a destination, but for now it's nice to run towards the world when he has spent so much of his life simply observing it.

He's also aware of how disheveled he must look. It's only natural for clothes to wrinkle, fabric to pill, and leather to crease, but he has deemed himself unworthy of those flaws as if his blood might be blamed by default. That such imperfection might be expected of him because he's farther away from the Queen and closer to the undesirable products of faerie flings that are forced to live in the mundane world.

And to be so undone in front of the Prince? His hair must be a mess, and an embarrassed laugh escapes him, the sound light and musical in the wind. It belies how nervous he actually feels, his fingers knotting in the mane of his horse as he tries to focus on anything but the way his image must be unravelling before the ever-watching gaze of the Faerie.

"I love the way you laugh," Kellan blurts out, pressing a smile into the crook of Ethos' neck as he draws closer, clutching at him with the warmth of a thousand suns. His red hair is brilliant and wild, and Ethos lets his horse continue her chase of the horizon.