Archive of Our Own

O' child of the Sun,

swept in thou Goddess' arms,

thou shalt know sap of the fruit,

thou shalt know bite of the tongue,

when red drips thy teeth,

thou shalt know thyself.

⋆☀︎⋆

Domes of blue skies are all the eye could see on the sandy dunes of Tuareg. Tuareg meant, the world in an eye, but those from Essos and further North called it the mighty Arm of Dorne, holding the Essosi lands firmly to its Westrosi half. The three rivers kept Tuareg fertile and full of trade through sea and home crops.

Distant dancing bells of his tent echo, the afternoon sun blisters, but he welcomes her heat. The Goddess is both gracious in her shelter and wrathful in her vengeance.

Barefoot, he had sat upon the ground. Disorderly conduct from an heir who would soon rule all that he sees, but he enjoys these moments. He has yet to become the Alpha Patriarch, lead the tribes and their descendants to follow.

Baelor, son of Daeron, allows another comfort, lying on his back as he closes his eyes.  

Dunes sing to him, and he dreams.

Canines drawn, blood on his tongue, a mark on a fair neck— not complete, only half his teeth sinking deeper. Fire warming the back of his brain, song in his blood. Fingers lengthening into claws, his spine lengthening, swelling out of his back.

The first blood that an alpha eats.

The fair neck is only a dream. Baelor never bit anyone, and nothing makes his blood sing. A hidden gift he's assured by his wife. The conflict at Raigrazi only ended a few months ago, but it had ended. Maekar hadn't accompanied the peace treaty. 

Odd as he was sure his brother had boasted of most certainly availing such a pleasure should it present itself. Father didn't allow him, and he didn't reveal his reasons to Baelor. Instead, favouring Aery's company, not that Baelor complained of his more studious siblings.

But, Maekar was simply closer. Baelor smiles despite himself. He could finally smell the citrus groves, crushing the leaves between his fingers and feasting on their blood orange fruit.

Finally, he could return home.

Musicians sing of him, violet and pink petals are thrown with pearls from Arco's bay to greet his retinue of attendants on giant black steeds. Baelor's alone is a white warhorse, raised by his own hand. By the time, he reaches the footsteps of the Grand House, his ancestral home, rings of leaves, flowers and coloured date seeds had made it impossible for his neck to be seen.

Alpha Patriarch Daeron, his father's booming laughter fills the house, and Baelor's face warms as the rings are removed.

"Welcome, my sons," his father pridefully gleams. He need not say it, but Baelor knows they've been waiting for this moment. It was a seven-year-long war, the worst was over, and the treaties were signed. The pact was in place to prevent any future tragedy, and finally, they could breathe.

Long last but it did come.

His mother finds him next, kissing his cheeks and putting him against her chest. Worry-struck, Rhaegel is there, velvet jewels in his hair with a flute as always by his side. 

"Have you not missed me, younger brother?"

Rhaegel smiles, it does not reach his eye, but he embraces Aerys and him in one step after the other. Scents both of them neutrally. His gaze returns to Baelor, forced silence seeping into the beta. It is instinct for Baelor to lift his scents, in turn, Rhaegel stiffens, his smile uneasy.

"Come now, there is so much to speak of," his father tugs, and Baelor gives way, he sends a look towards Rhaegel. They will speak of it sooner, whatever ails his brother. 

He turns to account for another, "Where is Maekar?"

His father's hold softens, "let us eat, son, you have much to know," he doesn't meet his eye, Baelor's alpha rouses on the need to protect.

"Is everything alright?"

"Everything is," his mother chases a smile at him, hand on his jaw, "as it should be."

A bath is the first order of things. Dried blood meets rivulets of water, turning red. There had been a few inconveniences for the signing of the treaty; he had been more afraid for Aerys. Travelling on a horse for days in the sun was not the condition the healer had set for him but it could not be avoided.

He puts down the washcloth, his dream lingering in the back of his mind. For something so false, it certainly feels, Baelor flexes his fingers, true. He has had that dream of the fair neck since he was a child, festival music in the distance, his hands felt like they held someone.

Even now, they position themselves as if they still held someone. 

A sinking dune, whispering sand, the kiss of their mother Goddess— Mine, mine, all mine. He smacks the washcloth on his face, he has yet to see Jena, his true mate. But her neck was not fair, his alpha whispers restlessly. Never satisfied, the greedy bastard. Baelor pretends he knows not, for the other path only left him with guilt.

The maids approach, requesting to dress him.

It's white and gold, Baelor raises a brow, "Is there a ceremony that my father has prepared in honour of me?"

The servant is quiet, she allows then, "There is a ceremony, Alpha Master Baelor, but it is not for you."

Curious. He dresses accordingly, sniffs the air again once he is proper for presentation. He lines his eyes with kohl, blinks away the watery effect. He dips his hand in vermillion and draws the symbol of the Sun Goddess below his ear. 

The process is soul-rattling; he could not remember the last time he was dressed like this. 

The maids pull soft on the side of his head. Braiding the side of his long curls with whispered blessings. They blow it on the warrior beads that he has earned. A long life, patience and strength. "What of joy?" he seeks from the maids who giggle.

"Must be granted by the Goddess, Master Baelor."

He gives her a sideways glance.

Bones in his back ache and groan, Baelor excuses it. A long, white prayer bead and scimitar, he hangs both at his hip. Ritual and practice, he told Maekar of it once. A group of veiled men and women cheer near his tent; they feed each other dates and partake in wine.

His chest rumbles in dread for it. 

Baelor is brought to his father. His mother ushers him close, they sit under the Three Dome where his parents listen to the pleas of the tribe. A section of the curtain separated the listener from the speaker, for the Alpha Patriarch and his Lord Omega are gifts of the Sun Goddess. Their rule is to be shared and honoured. 

His father takes into his hand, he's growing older, Baelor laments at the aging touch. "What is the matter?" He draws from his mother to father.

"Today, there is a ceremony."

"I have seen the preparations," Baelor nods, he is not used to ignorance. It is not a habit he would like to start, either. 

"The ceremony is a marriage between Maekar and the youngest lady of the Dayne tribe," Baelor freezes, not making sense of it. Certainly, a news they would have mentioned earlier to him. He waits for them to continue, but they, in turn, wait on him.

"But the youngest lady of the Dayne tribe is an alpha," Baelor points out, Dyanna, daughter of Ariya, he remembers in that moment, "Maekar's gender would have him better suited for—"

"Maekar is not a beta."

What. Baelor baulks, "What do you mean? He fought by my side, I would certainly know if," his mother's hand reaches for his knee.

"Your brother, he is an omega, Baelor. His," she looks to the sounds of merry outside, in the courtyard, "his Rite of blood has been completed, he is mated to the alpha Dyanna of the Dayne tribe."

A wound to the back of his head, scalp peeling off. He feels alright and then, betrayed, "that is not...that is not possible, a male....You hid this from me," he states bluntly to his parents. The years with Maekar by his side, fighting, killing and defending together. Maekar hid this from him. His heart slumps down, unable to see what is and what is not. 

"Why?"

His father appears pained, his mother looks on nervously.

"Baelor," brings his hands, but he only does when asking something of him. Baelor is uncertain. Disrelished, he lets his hands turn to wood in his father's grasp, "We are of the desert, our sand in our truth, and the Goddess, our passage of life. There is joy to be had in the dunes where no life grows, you and I know of this, and in the face of dreary, waterless terrains, we persevere."

What it means to be a son of Shamsiol, the radiant Sun Goddess. 

Baelor's breath is caught.

"Let it go, son."

What are you asking me to give? He wants to say, I do not know what you ask for. I do not know if I even have it. But his father's grip is certain, and Baelor, a man weathered past twenty-four winters, feels like a child learning to be heir again. 

"Tell me that you will forsake it."

Something of mine, Baelor guesses, a chasm deepens. But if father says so, he does it with the wisdom of his years. If mother is quiet, she does so with instinctive direction. He may fault one at a time but not both.

"As you command, my Lord Patriarch."

He would expect them to be relieved. Or even explain what they meant. They droop further like a flower withering before its time but his mother smiles at him, "You did well to say so."

"Are we to see Maekar during the marriage ceremony?" There are so many questions. Practicality of is the dowry arranged, does he have enough, how many guards are we allowing for his protection shining above the darker why didn't you tell me? Decades, decades you've hidden this from me, why, why, why, my brother, and you, why are we sending him so far? Baelor permits confusion over upset. 

"Through the veil."

Baelor's mismatched gaze finally finds protest, "Father, am I not even allowed to see him?"

"Baelor, have faith in us, 'tis best you know nothing of it—"

"He is my brother," Baelor states, anger now in his eyes, "fought with me. Those battles, when I was wounded, when he was wounded, we were together—"

"Rest assured, I know of the shield and sword you have been. Years of fond memories and chivalry have weathered a strong bond between—"

"Then, why? Why would you ask this of me?"

His father's misery reaches his mother, leaving him in the dark. His mother pats his arm, and then looks to Baelor, "Because we believe it is for the best, and," her omegan scent lifts, blooming desert flowers, bitter and sweet when firm as they are now, "it is what Maekar wanted."

Baelor abandons struggle, neutralising his own scent that no doubt warranted the action. 

"As you say."

His mother narrows her gaze, venomous on its own interpretation. She knows him too well, "Baelor, do not go to him."

He rises to his feet, his parents watchful of his conduct, "You are my sire and dam, I must obey you such is the word of the law. Conduct of culture commands me, however, to watch over the well-being of any omega born in our family line, I shall not disobey one for another."

"Baelor."

He turns away, bold to leave his father hanging. Mayhaps, the only one who would dare do this to the Lord, save for his wife.

Baelor descends into the courtyard where tents have been put up. Three weavers have set upon the spinning mills, to make the ceremony tapestry. Why. The insignia of the head tribe is upon a large tent in the corner, why, why would you, golden and silver in its colouring. Easy enough to spot with the number of their own house guards, something is not correct, why, those from Dayne tribe's are not yet here. 

"—any sense of it?!" Rhaegel's voice echoes, gentle as he is; the beta is distraught. 

Before Maekar's answer sounds, the flaps of the tent are thrown open. The guards hadn't stopped him, and so there was no warning to foretell his visit. 

Rhaegel's face pales, "Baelor, best not—"

"I have had enough from our parents," Baelor turns to Maekar.

He looks different, Baelor's mind drones.

Maekar, dressed in hues of the sunset, Maekar, with his earlobe cuffed to a long, nuptial earring, beads of his, their, war honours, the wedding crystal at the end has a carving of the Dayne tribe. The marital jewel. Maekar whose initial scents are a mystery now, for Baelor only knows him as an omegan mate.

Someone else's.

Inexplicable rage gathers. Rhaegel warns, "Baelor."

Maekar leans against the table, observing, quiet. Never been quiet. Even his silence held weight. Mostly rage. He's amused by this, Baelor figures. It was so like him to be amused at Baelor's anger, he had often wanted of its rarer occurrences.

Baelor's fist tightens, he puts it behind his back. 

"When did you present?"

Maekar blinks, adjusts his jaw, "...there is no use in talking about it."

"I doubt that."

"Brothers, please," Rhaegel pleads, coming in between them.

"Rhaegel," his mismatched glance is one and rooted, "leave."

Rhaegel stiffens to recoil, Maekar pats his back, "I am standing outside both of you," and when he reaches Baelor, he is meeker, "Hold back, I beg of you. Do not let him see you, brother," there is victory in pretence, Rhaegel leaves unsaid.

See me. What has he not seen of me?

Maekar's arms are folded in front of his chest, sullen as he is. Freshly mated. And knotted, why, Baelor's mind splinters in outrage. Like when he married Jena, the morning after had such malicious pain in the back of his head. Only ever shrinking at the sight of his dream.

His peace. 

"Why would you lie to me?"

"Would you have allowed me to battle otherwise?"

"No," Baelor declares, "and neither should have mother or father. Do you know what could have happened—"

"Brother, do you know better of my kind than me?" Maekar retaliates, an ugly snarl well-placed on him, "I had a chance to fight and be a warrior in the same, I took it."

"If Daemon of the Blackfyre tribe knew so at Raigrazi when we challenged him, did you think the same then?"

Maekar narrows his gaze to slits of violets, "I held the line of shield for you to crush against, you," he growls, and Baelor's ears perk at the challenge, "would do well to remember that."

Baelor remembers and he shouldn't be angry at him. This seems like something Maekar would do; he was always someone wanting more than what was given. More meat, more honour, more want. Baelor feared that his brother's hunger would not be satisfied through ordinary means.

Something feels eerie.

Like a sword changed without his knowledge. The hilt is less worn. In his soul, something is amiss and it has to do with Maekar, "What have you done?" he can't help but ask. Surrendering eventually and Maekar's scent mated with Dyanna's, is proud. Baelor comes to fear it.

"I stole from you."

A sharpening through the fog. Baelon's alpha howls in him.

".....what was it?"

Maekar breathes out, ground between them breaking, a sharp pang in his head, "You remember, don't you?" he says.

"What?"

"Night of Qalun."

Baelor gasps sharply, nerves pulling sharp as he falls back onto a nearby chair. "No, no, it can't, it can not be," had he looked back, he'd find Maekar reaching midair, and then pulling back to the sides. Perhaps he should have, it would be a relief to remember in the days to come.

Baelor's head is in his hands, "it can't be, that wasn't real. Mother said so—"

"She lied at my behest. On the night of Qalun, when we had finished our offerings to the Moon, I came to find you, we fought with our wasters and—"

Baelor grins at having the upper hand, his foot narrow but Maekar meets him with such strength and wrath. He knows victory would taste sweet when he'd win. And what of wounds?

"We were wrestling."

Swords abandoned, Maekar, small but so very fierce, picks him up by half before throwing him on the other side. Baelor is awe-struck but also challenged. He does not allow a challenge to go unanswered, least of all, when it's from his little brother.

"And then, you—"

pinned him down, knee digging into Maekar's hip and his hand bearing down on the shoulder. Every point of struggle crumbled. Glee simmering in Baelor, finally, finally, now—

"'Twas my fault," Maekar admits, jaw firm, "I shouldn't have—"

Maekar's teeth clamp down on Baelor's wrist nearby. A snap at the back of his head, scalp on fire. His eyes blow back, Maekar slides up, his knee kicks Baelor in the chest.

His brother looks away, "...you could not let it go."

He couldn't breathe, couldn't see Maekar turning to crawl out from under him. A glimpse of his fair neck swarms his vision.

"...you could never let go."

Baelor's fingers are on fire. 

Maekar slackens under him, loose. The dream sings a song, and Baelor hums, his voice deeper, no longer recognisable. Whimpers under him, he awakens to Maekar's accusation, 'What have you done?' and then, terrified:

'What have we done?'

"I marked you," horror soaring in him, "I marked you as mine."

"No, you didn't," Maekar snorts, "you left it halfway as you do everything," he finishes, eyeing him. Mother and father had been informed in utmost secrecy, but soon after Baelor went into a rut. Drawing much attention to the firstborn and not its causation. A sleep draught was given to him, and what had been true was left for a dream.

"Why, why didn't you tell me?" He looks up, and Maekar is so close to flinching. But he's better than that. Always better than that.

Maekar leans back against the table, "...a male omega is not fertile enough and you are heir of Tuareg, of its sandy terrains, and the passage of Shamsiol. Our Goddess favours you," wicked bite sounds at the end, "I was not suited for you. And we are brothers."

"That is little to dissuade me," Baelor retaliates. An omega and alpha pair were sacred in the eyes of Shamsiol. Whether uncle-niece, aunt-nephew, brother-sister, or brother and brother. He could fight it.

"And so, they chose to pretend it was a bad dream. I didn't agree to it," Maekar takes a long breath, holds his stance, eagle-like gaze set on Baelor, "I bartered with them."

Baelor's lips part, wheel spinning, a tapestry forming. Of what could have possibly happened on the day he first ate blood. I will not tell big brother, Maekar must have stood, shivering, a half-mark is a mark nonetheless. He would be compelled to Baelor's bed. I will not tell big brother, Maekar's voice is firm, humid with resolution, nothing like loose sand, if I am raised as a beta until of age, by his side.

Matters propelled from there. The murder of their elders at Nabath's pass by Blackfyre traitors, rogue trespassers who had stolen omegan wives away, and the rushed marriage between Baelor and Jena. That summer, war had come to the doorstep of the Grand House when Jena miscarried. Maekar was nearly fourteen and Baelor eighteen, their father must have been forced to have the armies represented by his sons.

Secrecy was simply convenient. 

Now, he stands adorned in another's trap. 

Baelor wants to tear his hair out, scream into the sands, nerves fluctuating and an ancient curse set upon him. Stole from me. Stole mine.

"How dare you?" how could you.

He can not help the betrayal, his most trusted in warfare, his second-in-command. Baelor should have trusted him with everything but his heart.

"You were my brother, how could you not tell me?" Baelor feels so out of place. 

Tell me this is false and I will believe it.

At long last, Maekar relaxes, riveted, "I never thought you'd be able to look like that," he whispers, "do you know what it was like for me? Knowing I am an omega? That I could never fight you again at Ley. To live in your shadows as a mate," disgust argues unfair rage, "to be yours. To be forever in service and never in honour—"

"Enough," Baelor raises his hand, words crushing into each other; he can't understand anything. Their scents clash and chase, hair on his arm stands, Baelor is too close to not hunt.

 Maekar gestures to his ear, "You have the Goddess whisper to you—"

"Don't," Baelor rises, caution falling.

"Do you not? Ask her, why she made me this way, why did she make me," Maekar snarls, saliva dripping in his growl, "yours!" Baelor shuts his eyes, "If it was my fate to be unfortunate, return to your Goddess, tell her I would perish. There was only one way I could make you feel the way I do," Maekar allows, "only one way you'd see how it is for me."

Wetness on Baelor's cheek, the blur of his sights. He stares at Maekar, resentment from the day, or longer, much, much longer. The plotting, the scheming, his own blood. He must be shaking with bitter ire because Maekar nods at it, in furious approval.

"So you stole from me."

I love you, I loved you so dearly, you were my mated brother, I would've done anything you asked. 

"How could I not?" Maekar spits out, tender in aged anger, "You were given in our mother's womb what was no longer left for me."

Baelor has no words, but his frustration only grows. There is nothing he can do. Maekar is mated, and so is he. He and Jena already have a child from his short return. There is nothing I can do. The trap challenges him but there is truly no escape, Maekar has won this and nothing Baelor could do would remedy the score. 

Maekar had outwitted him. That in itself burns him.

"Take your prayer beads and get out of here," Maekar snarls, a glint emerges in Baelor, "bask in your victories, and," his little brother stares back, "your losses."

Blood rushes to his ears, spine moving in his back. A growl rips from Baelor, and he pounces on his brother. Canines distended, piercing into Maekar's lips, teeth clicking against each other. Maekar loses balance when the table falls, fighting him off.

"Listen," Baelor commands, primal alpha voice slackening Maekar's protests. The omega glares at him, bares his open neck and Baelor loses breath. Fair, untouched neck— Maekar slams his head against his nose. Knocking him back, Baelor wipes at the blood on his lips

"Not your fucking slave, you baseborn viper," Maekar curses at him. Not quick enough to stop Baelor grabs his throat, pulling closer. Bites down as far as he can. And, it is still not near enough to his nape. Only a drop comes his way.

It's repulsive. Another alpha's taste is mixed in. Baelor can not take it out. You were mine first. But he swallows the little blood he's given, swallows it because it's Maekar.

Until two hands and Maekar's pushing strength work against him. "Gods save us! Baelor," Rhaegel barks at him, Baelor looks and his eyes widen, "Baelor, your eyes. Baelor, you're going into rut," Rhaegel screeches for the guards.

Baelor grasps Rhaegel's collars, "Did you know?"

Helplessness seizes his brother, "Only this morning."

"Take that mongrel out!" Maekar growls back at him, rising to his feet, "Return him to the fucking fire!"

Three guards aren't able to hold him back; Baelor is going to reach him. Nails sharpening to claws. Nonethe-fucking-less. He hears something behind his back. 

Then, the world goes black. 

Baelor wakes up. Naked. Still in rut, water to his lips. A familiar scent sticks to his skin, saltier by the waters of Arco's bay. Jena, his mind supplies, comforting him.

"Sleep, you need much of it."

"Maekar..."

A pause. A testament to their marriage that even without sight, he could see her pity, "they made for Silqa hills, four days ago."

A tapestry of purple threads, falling white stars defended by a sword. The night takes him away, the moon hides behind the chariot of clouds.

How long have I been in rut? 

"Father?"

Jena's hand is cool on his chest. But he can't open his eyes, "Sleep, alpha," and so he does.

The next time he awakens, the sun is not on the horizon. He feels a lament settle on his ribs, and he hears voices.

"....I do not know, Myriah, that is merely the cycle of life, he is resilient.....my son."

"....I worry for the weight upon our young....have we committed an error, perhaps as we did for Daen—"

"No....you know the way he is. At mere eight, Maekar knew...wished not....those two best.... separate..."

Sinking.

Falling.

In an abyss where no light crawls through.

Blade against his chest, Maekar proclaims, "I will always fight you," vows of the past are such strange things. Meant to promise certainty and in the present, he had wanted for anything but. What does it mean? To become heir?

The answer waits before it lingers, a whisper from his own lips.

In the coming days, he rises from bed once the sun does.

There is much to do in the main centre of Tuareg. Trade has been slower as a result of war, there are still reparations for families of both living and fallen soldiers. They had mapped the borders, but there will be several other meetings to fortify the treaty. 

It was a time of watching and witnessing. To see what may arise, what may fall. His father was pleased with the developments, and his mother as well. Though hers was a nervousness he couldn't vanish.

Months later as is usually the case with Rhaegel, he calls to meet with Baelor. Date wine set in cups and spiced fruits between them, Rhaegel sheepishly smiles, "I didn't mean to hit you so hard."

Baelor raises a brow from his carving of the wooden stone. Young children receive wood stones, dried in the heat of the Goddess as gifts from their father. A wooden stone traditionally was a stone, sometimes, fathers could be creative and carve any other likeness if they so pleased.

"Knocked you out with a wooden statue that night. The one our father gave to Maekar,"  Baelor pauses, the recollection is faint now. His alpha is less disquieted. He had made his peace with it. Bearer of the passage he is, good and dutiful he shall be. 

"No wonder."

"You can hit me in the head if you'd like."

"No, thank you, however, Rhaegel. It is sweet of you."

Rhaegel smiles at him, frown beset because he likely worries of Baelor. The elder appreciated it but before he could ask his brother to put an end to it, Rhaegel's violet gaze scales to Baelor's head.

"You've cut your hair."

"A return is a big event, Rhaegel. It is natural to honour it."

"You keep it short. You always said you liked your hair clasped with warrior beads."

Baelor smiles at his brother's memory, "You say as though I have changed, Rhaegel."

Rhaegel competes with his own surprise. "You have not?" his fingers twirl the ring on his thumb, "You are not lonely then?" Baelor's hand reaches for the knife to begin his carving. There wasn't a time in his life that he knew without Maekar by his side.

Always up at dawn, always at Ley with swords drawn.

"Obstacles occur often in life, an upheaval is eventually going to return to the norm."

"As the sun rises and fades?"

A cheerful smile spreads across Baelor's face, "As the sun rises and fades," he wonders if he should ask how Maekar might be doing. He chooses not to. He would have heard that something had gone wrong. There was something delicate in his routine, the way his alpha stirred violently in mere sparring matches. 

His ruts were in a frenzy. He relies on the draft prepared by healers to calm him. His mate is pregnant. He couldn't risk being careless with her at her most vulnerable months. Valarr already looked forward to having a brother. 

Building a family and a state from the ruins of a devastating war is a lot of work. His father is ageing; it is part of life, Baelor admits. With Maekar gone, there is nothing that fills it. It isn't merely the question of a void, but Maekar has wrenched his hand into Baelor's body and stolen his harmony. 

If he came home to him and asked for forgiveness, Baelor might easily allow it. 

But Maekar won't. 

Maekar would never.

Some things never returned from the war, and Baelor cannot survive peacetime as easily as he once prayed for. Rush of battle sometimes seizes him in the middle of a meeting between tribe heads, you have the making of a Sun Lord, from one of the war-mongering tribes, is rarely a compliment. 

Letters from Maekar lessen over time, Baelor is tempted to write if not for anything but the sanity of his senses from the scent it may bring.

Time slows when his newborn turns into a child who knows now that he can bite anything as long as he is the will. Baelor reprimands the boy, no use of having fates repeat. To his sick, happy, pacifying pleasure, both his children show inclinations towards presenting as an alpha or a beta. Baelor is content and decides the Goddess has blessed him once more.

Jena's head is light on his shoulder, he reads her the letters from her maternal home. From the little seagrape grove that her parents sent wine of.

These letters are much more digestible than the ones sent by Shiera and Brynden. At least the latter has a boorishness that Baelor could stomach somehow, but Shiera is nothing short of a crude headache at best and pooling dread at worst. 

She had foretold of an event where one of his insensible relatives no doubt would seek a love potion from her. He had spent the better part of the day raining free counsel on his kin that meddling with Coven magick or witchcraft was ill-advised. 

He hoped she sent him on a wild goose chase simply to amuse herself, and not mean in any relevant structure that someone would request such a drought.

Knowing her, however, Baelor will likely not know until it shows itself. 

Baelor withers at the thought of her. The night breeze lightly carries his omega's scent, Baelor absent-mindedly rubs across her wrist. "Sleep has evaded you, alpha," a feminine voice speaks from his chest.

"Burdens of the land," Baelor flexes his hand, feeling flesh and pressure keenly in his fingertips.

"Or burdens of the soul?"

Baelor fades, "One and the same."

She turns her brown head, long hair following. She was much stronger than he, his Jena. "I fear we have been trapped where you and I would have been otherwise set free," she wraps around his fingers, "sometimes, I can not make out what your misfortunes are."

"You could not trap me where I would've chained myself, Jena," he whispers against her hair, oiled light of rosemary, "some men are better kept in those."

"I would rather you free where you fly," she kisses his chest and he is luckier for it, "blessed with grape wine flowing in your cups, and heavenly dreams."

Baelor's gaze hinges upon the sword he had hung upon the wall. His omegan mate is long asleep in his arms by the time his alpha rouses, hands reaching for the drought. An answer begs on his lips. 

"There are no true dreams for me, Jena."

Ley is a long strip of a stony hillock. The first place the sun shines when gracing a new day. His white steed, Sol, is left under a tent with his attendants. He walks into the dust of the desert, twirling sand occasionally, singing against the rock for any wind that could reach so high.

He reaches down to remove his shoes.

Footwear dropped aside, Baelor makes for a walk as he did at least once every seventh sun. 

His guards follow, scavenge the area and patrol at lengths, but Baelor no longer feels safe with the world pulled from his feet. Suppose he didn't feel a mate's absence because Maekar had always been there. 

Hunt, his alpha growls, find and bite. Search. Search. Search. How does he make it understand? He knows where the Dayne tribe takes up residence. A long journey with a retinue. It speaks for something, Maekar choosing the tribe of Dayne, the tribe farthest from Baelor's seat. 

A tribe of star-watchers and star-readers. Their predictions always aided the Alpha Patriarch of the Grand House. A tribe that preferred not the sun but the company of the moon, her chariot of clouds and her guiding starlight. 

Kill.

Baelor closes his eyes, prayer beads counted as if they were grains of sand. Merciful Goddess of everlasting light, grant me strength so as to bear this burden. Merciful Goddess, how could you allow for such treachery, Goddess of mine, rid my heart and soul clean of deceit, make me duteous and whole again. 

He leaves Ley, riding on Sol with sand caked in his boots. Clash of swords ringing in his ears. A dull ache coughs up at his nape, climbing to the back of his head. He refuses to think of anything that may soothe it. 

The short tables are set up for breaking fast, servants filling his table with spiced fruits, warm flatbreads, and golden wine pouring into cups. They are fast approaching the Day of Consumption. The day the Sun is eaten by the moon and darkness disperses over the lands of Tuareg.

He will be leading the Fire Cortege this year. 

Chatter begins on the table, Baelor lends a ear and a brief comment when relevant. His brother's wife, Aelinor, sparsely touches her full plate, and Rhaegel leans from the opposite sides.

"Shall we have roasted nuts instead, cousin? I know you dearly prefer them," He smiles at her, but she swallows and does not smile.

Jena looks up from her plate, "What is the matter? Would you rather fast longer?"

"I received a letter from the Dayne tribe."

Murmurs melt, his father at the head of the table and Baelor at his right, look quizzically at each other, "They wrote to you?"

"Maekar wrote to me. The letter came this morning, Alpha Dyanna and Maekar will be visiting and are said to arrive days before the Day of Consumption," she informs the tables. Baelor glances at Rhaegel, who matches his confusion and hurt. Quiet solace in shared despondence.

Aelinor takes a deep breath, as if out of vain, "he is coming with his children."

Baelor's heart yanked; he asks, "Children?"

"He mentioned the eldest is a son, named after your," Aelinor's gaze fluctuates to his left, "father."

Chaos erupts on the table. It isn't in the likes of the Dayne family to keep secrets from them, but Maekar would. His nostrils flare, he can sense his own scent lifting. A hand reaches his wrist, soothing in circles. 

His father gives him a meaningful look. 

Baelor finishes his food, leaves to meet with the guards from the borders. There is still important work to be done, he reminds. Their reports are long, teeming with complex difficulties. Baelor listens to them, twirling his ring, giving counsel that might better pair two circumstances.

Tension dissolves, the Headguard nods in appreciation, "Your reputation precedes you, Young Master Baelor. Our borders are in good hands."

"I'd argue the same for your own."

The Headguard snorts, "I didn't fight in the war, chest fever they called it. All I could do was pick up the pieces left behind."

Baelor stays with that, his seagreen ring glittering, "We need that more than ever, Alpha Melour. The war has brought fragments of alphas back home, they ought to be taken care of. War is," wooden fingers, bludgeoning at his head, blood and cold, "violent, surrounded by ghosts you knew. A life-long haunting."

War was kinder, he would never dare say it. 

"You were taken care of, no?"

Baelor grins, it's short on his face, "I would like to think so."

Returning from the meeting, he comes to two conclusions: he will have to write to the tribes on the Southern end. He will have to write to Brynden's Coven. 

God, discard me fro that man and keep me of his functions, he drolls in his head. With Brynden's Coven, one might expect a barter unless the cause serves both of them. The last time he had to make a barter with the one-eyed alpha, Brynden had requested a coat made out of three thousand strands of goat fur. It had been such a gruesome task, tempted his father to banish him into Vath mountains. In any case, an inquiry was to be done into the current conditions of Nabath's Pass. 

Nabath's pass lay in the distant north-east of the Grand House.

His weeks go by in sorting much of it. His back aches one afternoon as the Sun steadily falls from the sky. Valarr has fallen asleep on the floor nearby. He wears Baelor's warrior beads and is still holding the waster. 

"What am I to do with you?" He mumbles, picking his child up. Waster abandoned, beads tightly at hand, that Baelor does not bother slinking it away. Patting on his back as Valarr snores away. In the quiet of father and son, Baelor thinks he might be able to take joy and do it. 

His duties, to his family and to his people. He told so to Jena the other day. Their designs are mortal and fleeting; the good of the people triumphs over the individual. Jena paused the braiding of threads for Valarr's hair and held him by her eyes. 

She spoke no more. 

Valarr's drool darkens on his red robes. He kisses the boy on his head, closes his eyes. Soft footsteps trail outside, and is let it in on its own, "Master Baelor," and upon seeing Valarr, the servant is softer, "your brother is at the gates. Your father, the Patriarch, has granted entry." 

He nods and asks him to call for the nursemaids. And, is slightly loath to give Valarr away. 

They are dressed for receiving the retinue, brown steeds with violet plumes. Stars returning after more than half a decade, Baelor stands next to his father. His father, who looks shaken under the surface, but the cheer of a return sweeps it off the ground. 

The first on horseback is Alpha Dyanna, lean and tall, draped in flourishing purple robes.

"Jena!" She greets first, politely scenting her, "It has been so long, I say, we should have met for the twins' birth."

Jena smiles, weakly, "I was in dismay to receive word of your absence."

"My son was sick from eating mud," Dyanna confesses, exhaustion at her brow, and then she looks back at the carriage. "Children," she sings to them, some attendants help the boys outside. 

Three. Three healthy children, the first favouring Dyanna's hair, the second and third of her omega's. "Aerion, stop it. Your dam will—" Another horse gallops down the street, a second carriage swiftly following. 

Baelor's heart catches rib. 

Maekar is in riding robes, preferring a simple silvery band of a circlet on his head. He gets off his black warhorse, the waist band is tight, not a hair out of place. He moves to the carriage, ushering those inside out. Two more children slip out, a girl and a boy. 

Five, Baelor corrects in wonder. 

"How is this possible?" His father murmurs, chancing a look at Baelor and then retreating. He tugs his father to greet them, Rhaegel had already left. By the time they descend from the little balcony, there is a new addition. 

A cooing baby, surrounded by Aelinor, Jena and Myriah. Six children. Baelor's hand stretches fully. 

"Rhae," Maekar introduces, meeting Rhaegel's eye whose anger can not outlast his love, he hugs his brother and scents him. Aerys is next, Maekar meets Baelor's eye. Their mother steps in between, pulling her youngest.

"...ought to hit you under your ear....how could you," she scolds him too softly to hear, until his father squeezes her arm, "they have fared a long journey," he reasons. 

"Children," Dyanna calls them to the front, holding Rhaella, "this is your Uncle Baelor."

Daeron and Aerion creep out, latter tugs on Maekar's robe, wonder-struck, "Sword?" Aerion is made so painfully in Maekar's image, Baelar smiles warmly, "That would be me, yes," he bends down to the pair of them.

"The sun colours you," Daeron says, starry skies for a pair of eyes, "it will set and yet, rise with you."

Baelor blinks, ruffles his brown hair. Scenting him lightly, Daeron preens. "So they say," he resumes his full height, "You have been missed, brother," he tells Maekar, gives his hand, hoping Maekar will walk past it. 

Maekar not only takes but tugs him into his arms, and Maekar's scent mated to another Alpha, Baelor unearths, is still Maekar's. 

"You seem well," Maekar observes, being perceptive was never his strength, Baelor grieves. 

"Better than you'd imagine," he answers, withdrawing from the embrace. 

The Grand House has not been witness to so many children playing in this courtyard. His Valarr and Matarys are thrilled, and compete in running around with Aerion and Daeron. Under the nursemaid's eye, Aemon sits by Aerys, listening to his brother's scrolls.

Maekar finds him before he does, he wouldn't have, but that is neither here or there. 

"You never wrote your apologies."

"Apologies," Baelor's hands find each other, "might I ask the nature of my charge before I defend myself?"

"Don't be daft with me, brother alpha," Maekar fiercely combats, accent heavier of Silqa hills, "You have bitten me twice now. Do you consider yourself the sort of rogue who needs to be reminded of simple courtesy?"

Take, his alpha begs. I can't, Baelor holds back, he's not meant to keep a shield up. "You will forgive me, brother," Baelor savours each word, "if I don't recall it as a simple courtesy."

"Then, would you have me apologise?" Maekar's disbelief is palpable, "Have you burnt your fucking wits?"

I do not know how to reconcile our relations. Baelor would not say it loudly, both because there must be clemency if he digs into the wellspring of emotions for his brother, and as they hadn't noticed, Dyanna and Rhaegel approached them. They speak of the borders at the foothills of Silqa Hills.

Alpha packs had roamed more frequently around the hills and were causing incredible trouble there.

The following silence gives way to Dyanna clapping her hands, set in determination.

"Are you finally asking him?" Dyanna pats Maekar's back, smiles back at Baelor, "few guards, alpha or not, in Silqa Hills have matched him in combat, he has been very—"

"Anna."

"—upset. I told him to send for you," Dyanna draws from memory, "I would fear he'd run himself into trouble, searching for worthy opponents. Then," she looks between them, "will you finally face each other?"

Baelor doesn't even hesitate, "If my brother wills."

Offence is a small word for what amasses on his brother's face. Maekar steps closer, it's so simple, it's like breathing, and he's already at the edge. "And, why shan't I," he demands. Rhaegel clears his throat.

"But you have just come, surely—"

"He will have me in a fight and I intend it so, Rhaegel," Maekar declares, eyes demanding the beta to do away with any excuses. 

Rhaegel does not inform anyone from the family. His pleading violet eyes at Baelor every now and then, perchance, for good reasons. A thin film of wax dries over Baelor's scent glands on the neck and his wrist to prevent leaking, unwanted scents. 

They could be quite the monsters in battle. 

Maekar and him.

Filled with wounds and vows, a disturbing want of digging deeper when the bone should be covered, flesh left to heal. 

There is a reason for being which is buried so deep in the rumble of his chest.

And Baelor—

And Baelor answers.

Hours before dawn, two horses, one of ink and one of light, travel the path to Ley. Singing sands and the fading moonskies for company. No stars roam the indigo skies. Maekar squints as if someone had asked for his firstborn's life.

"What is that?"

"A temple."

Maekar rolls his eyes, or Baelor supposes he does, "I can see that, I'm asking why is it here?" 

Baelor shrugs.

It is a small temple, simple by the way that it tempts no thief. Made of common stone and painted just enough to know what God may answer. Some traveller must have made it, Baelor didn't find it in his heart to remove it. Simplicity fulfils purpose sometimes.

They move further uphill, and they reach the place their boyhood had flourished. Scrapped knees, bruised cheeks, the swing of closed fists. Dented metal in their armour, uncertainty of what was to come and war. 

"Used to be that we would come here all the time," Baelor gets down from his horse, turning to Maekar, "spend hours getting scarred." 

Maekar snorts, "As I recall, it was your back often against the ground."

"That doesn't signify defeat, brother."

"Sure."

Baelor can't charm away the smile that comes. Descending from horseback, Maekar removes his headband, cloak and other unnecessary accessories. He is close to removing his ear cuffs but decides against it. 

"What do you do these days then?" Maekar makes busy putting everything in the satchel, "with your Goddess's passage, your title."

"Think of the old days."

Maekar groans, "The old—"

"And the war."

Baelor watches him become quiet, "You think of it too, then? I pray our fallen companions may find peace in the afterlife," he is dressed for a fight. Anything that could be taken wasn't worth keeping on his person. 

"...and what if there is no such thing?"

"Gently, brother," Baelor warns. 

Maekar stares down at him, "What if all you have is now, Baelor? I believe in seizing things for myself even if I am not permitted." I know well, "on my dying breath, I will want more, I will not stop and I will go on. That is my design."

Was it part of your design to break me?

"Did you break?" Maekar asks, and only then Baelor realises he had said it out loud. Winds whistle between them, Baelor unsheathes his curved blade, his warhand, cuts his thumb to bleed just so and draws the symbol of Shamsiol and kisses the hilt. 

Maekar watches him as if he were a man walking to his death. Proud by chest and the lift of his chin.

"We must honour our duties."

 Maekar tightens his steel vembraces, "Your death, brother."

Their swords clash. Baelor charges, doesn't give him the breath of life. Maekar dodges the third blow and makes the first cut across his chest, Baelor does not stop. His blade is lighter, draws a straight red line on Maekar's cheek to his eye. 

He pauses, wiping it away. Disgust and abhorrence, Maekar storms at him. Unforgiving and raw, teeth clenched. Baelor imagines blood between them and groans, stepping away sharply. Ducking when the slice of sword follows, but it delivers a shallow stab into his shoulder and Baelor's free hand nearly breaks his jaw.

It happens just as it did when they were boys chasing vigour. 

'It's no fun,'  Maekar had said when they were so much younger, 'if there's no spoils for the victor!' and from then on, every fight has a victory, every fight has a loss, and every fight has them.

There was play back then.

Now, there is rage.

And lust.

Baelor's sword is knocked out first, Maekar's strength is no joke, and Baelor lunges at him. Falling. Sinking. A ruthless struggle ensues, savagery renewed. Baelor feels young again, Maekar spews curses at him, and his answer is voiceless. But an answer nonetheless.

"...always so fucking proper, everything you are,"Maekar knocks his skull against Baelor's, "—God, I'm going to kill you, I swear it," his snarl is so mean, Baelor can't help wanting to bite into his gums. 

"—serpent, why, why the fuck did the Heavens grant you—"

Baelor finally cracks the sword from Maekar. Tossing it away.

"...baseborn, and you would never look at your shadows."

Maekar grabs the back of his neck to spit on him.

"—know that I fucking lived there!"

Mad rush in Maekar as he tries to headbutt him again. But Baelor is wiser, has his hand clamped down on Maekar's throat. Slamming it down. "Stay," he orders through his alpha, watching Maekar howl so terrifyingly. The hair on the back of his neck stands. 

He's beautiful.

Maekar's leg moves beneath him. "Fuck," Baelor growls, guttural. Oldest fucking trick in the history of them and Baelor still falls for it like it's the first time. They struggle, but years of wanting, of not having, of betrayal win out against Maekar.

In the end, he's back under Baelor. Knee crushing his pelvis, throat snug in Baelor's grip and laboured breathing between them.

"Yield," Baelor demands, give it to me, his scent rampages. 

Let me knot you. Let me taste you.

From gritting teeth, "Fuck yourself, viper," spits out.

Driven mad, Baelor moves his knee, prepared for Maekar's kick and dodging it in one. He pulls that leg against Maekar's chest, slamming the other to the side. Spreading him open, pressing his groin against where he'd imagine is Maekar's hole. He imagines slick soaking his knot, two broken halves coming together, Baelor's throat runs dry.

He wants to burn their clothes.

Maekar hitches, "Baelor," his sentiment is repulsed at their position. It would be less humiliating for him to present. "Have you taken leave of your senses?! I am married, rogue!"

Baelor's gaze is darkened, resonating.

"You were mine first."

As if an assault so brutal that some organ, Maekar bites forward, "I was never yours! I will never be yours!"

Baelor bares his teeth, "yield."

Maekar rasps, breath like a lullaby, words like honey and a strangling of his throat gives way.

"I yield."

His gaze finds Baelor as if through a camp of fighting warriors, on the other side, still there, "What would you have of me?"

Baelor's alpha gasps wetly. Pupils diminished, trembling in the sight of his victory. Maekar smells divine under him. "I want," tip of his tongue, instincts of a thousand years desperately waging against reason. 

It doesn't slip out of his lips. He could not. Honor-bound that he is.

Maekar laughs at his face for it, "I told you," he rests on his back, "You will die in it."

At ten, Baelor knows every rule to the letter. He is father's pride, he must learn the custom before he can attempt to break it. One night, Maekar steals a blood orange and by law, Baelor would chide him. "Give it a rest," Maekar shooes him, mouth full of red nectar, messy in his consumption.

Baelor stares at the trail of red, and Maekar rolls his eyes, offering that half-eaten blood orange, "Have some, lecher."

He smiles, and looks away. Still watching in the corner of his eye. Forever watching him.

Baelor stares down.

"Does my misery bring you joy?"

Maekar laughs, longer, slower and content. Baelor doesn't know what he's done to deserve this. 

"You are simply miserable because you can not be furious, Baelor. You are miserable because you have no choice." Baelor's eyes stare down at him, the tear falls on Maekar's cheek. His hand rests on Maekar's face, wiping the bloody drop from the cut near his eyes.

Blood and salt.

Then, tonelessly, he states, "But I will have my spoils."

He presses his nose into Maekar's neck for one last time. Remembers it like, the azure birds in the forest, desert flowers, drawing of the water, the children and women singing, and boys fighting forevermore on bloodied soil.

His teeth grow, snatching at Maekar's ear. They feel for the steel cuffs and Baelor chomps down on it. Shattering and chipping of some enamel from his back teeth. It happens so fast Maekar doesn't understand what has happened until he sees his nuptial earring, slapped against his chest. 

Maekar's hand flies up to his ear.

"Have you lost your fucking mind?"

"Spoils of war go to the victor," Baelor gets off him; he's tired. Wants to go home and sleep. Lock himself in a ditch and kill whatever moves.

"Go," before I drag you to my bed by the throat. 

Maekar says nothing, and he leaves. Hooves clambering muting over time, Baelor's eyes are closed. I will pretend this was a dream, he thinks, the only thing I can have. His heart beats, and even without opening his eyes, he knows his mother Goddess rises.

"Mother?" He asks in the dark, for the light that shines over him. Unreachable warmth spilling at ease.

"I am emptied, what more shall I give you?"

As is for all of the devoted, no answer blesses its path from the Heavens.

A hand pats heavy against his shoulder, "The Goddess blesses you."

The fire cortege had ended well, several men of the tribes had declared to him that he was most worthy a warrior, a protector. Their tribes were in doubtlessly good hands. His alpha hums at it, grounded and rooted. 

"They wish to kill me if it makes swifter chariots for you to lead them," His father jests, and Baelor dismisses with a shake of his head. His father's hand stays on Baelor's shoulders, "You are the best seed I could've asked for," he kisses Baelor's brow before patting his back softly. 

"...the Goddess has truly blessed us, Baelor. If anyone was made to carry the passage, it was you. Always been you."

Baelor smiles into his father's shoulders, he had returned from the parade. The day of Consumption is vanquished, the sun emerges victorious, brightening the skies. The bath is quieter, the maids had grown concerned when they were dressing him for the parade. So many knicks, unhealed scars, bruises and they wondered what dog had set itself on Baelor. 

Best not to say anymore.

He would see Maekar after this. Their meetings have only been fraught with anger of the past, regrets and remorse. He knows they have had their disagreements, bumped shoulders when they were still walking the same path. 

But under the shade of the moon, they still slept together. Maekar could not rage at him for more than a day unless the circumstance was very special. There are only a few of those. 

He wants to split a blood orange and sup on its fruit with Maekar. Colour their hands with a sticky red. Tart and sweet on his tongue. 

It is nightfall, the Grand House has quietened after the celebration. Baelor frowns, unable to hear the running around of children in the courtyard. He calls for a maid but is surprised to find one looking for him.

"Where are Daeron and Aerion?"

"Ah, Master Baelor," the maid hesitantly looks up at him, "Alpha Dyanna already left with her family. It was in the afternoon when you and your father were still at the Char. Your brother fell ill and he demanded to be taken back as soon as."

He withers, "gone again then."

The maid shifts, unwilling to look up and instead, brings a box to his notice.

"Your brother asked me to deliver this to you," and she hesitates again, "in secrecy."

Baelor smiles at her, "Thank you, dismissed." 

The maid bows deep, and leaves. The finishing of the wood is soft around curved corners, upon the box is a chiselling of the Sun falling like a star. Baelor's fingers rest against it, you are simply miserable because you can not be furious, Baelor. You are miserable because you have no choice, Maekar had said.

"Were you also miserable, brother?"

He opens the lock, and inside lies Maekar's nuptial earring, threads that had soaked in years of scent. Baelor takes it close to his nose, "Maekar," a litany follows. Like he's a pup snuggling into familiarity. Echoing a time Baelor could simply be.

He leans against the table. Gently, lays it back into the box. Trap the scent, his alpha orders, and he commits one last breath to memory. Let this be enough. Goddess, let this be enough, he begs.

 And our omega?

"I will not."

It is unnatural. To be without. His alpha feels battered against himself, lacking a sync. Baelor has heard of the rift, happens to alphas who take the celibacy oath for border protections. It's like skinning oneself, over and over again. 

One never gets used to it.

Baelor for once thinks this is a mercy. 

If nothing, let me have this. 

Sooner than later.

He picks up the pieces, and he thought it impossible. Wouldn't be the first time he couldn't do sometimes only for him to succeed through it in pleasant surprise. The wax films on his scent stays, he hasn't lifted his scents in public for some time. Save for he needs to scent Valarr and Matarys. 

Matarys is at the age where he'd like to put everything in his mouth. Sometimes they found a button, a gold coin or his grandsire's quill. The last one is admittedly hilarious, he hasn't seen his father this offended over a child's play. 

It becomes easier still. More so because like his son, Baelor takes to the quill as well. 

Maekar's letter, she means. 

Baelor had written to him first. Of Valarr's nameday who missed Daeron's strange poetry and Aerion's...vigour. Baelor isn't certain of the latter, but Valarr found it amusing to always prove Aerion wrong. Children are fascinated with strange things being the conclusion. 

Maekar's response stated that strange things do not include children eating mud until they are sick. Aerion, of course, was abed and with him, little Daella had been influenced so to speak.

"Is the mud there doused with wine?" Jena squints and Baelor tells her, it must be.

It steadily flows, Jena encourages them. She's his rock in a time when he feels split, "It's not easy being denied," her hand goes to her own nuptial earring. 

Baelor thinks to himself, he could do it like this. It would not hinder him, as other paths that tempt him late at night do. 

It happens three months later. 

The borders at Silqa Hills become subject to travelling rogue alpha packs. He'd like to say that they aren't always necessarily hostile, but that would be naming a very slim odd.

Rogue alpha packs are made of alphas unfit to live in society. They steal from the common granary, rape omegas, and kill other alphas to establish dominance. The impulse is higher among them, having never learnt the norm of balance and control.

Baelor in particular both loathed and envied them. 

When a pack like that goes into a rut, it is bad. Some say ruts help in wartime, Baelor disagrees. It's easy to kill senselessly, rape what one sees. The damage is unaccounted for, and too many elders think that wartime immediately changes to peace. It does not. Some natures are inherent and unchangeable. 

He would never be a wild mutt. 

And, he would secretly kindle the urge to take.

Baelor had counselled the Dayne tribe to send warriors to neutralise the pack. Alpha Dyanna led one of the commandery, the fight was vicious, Baelor was told, but it was won. Silqa hills honoured their fallen by burying them in the night under the three stars that were said to guide the souls back to dust. Among their dead was Alpha Dyanna herself, proud sire to six and beautiful as she was witty. 

She had fallen amidst the fight. 

Maekar was told, and he finished it for her. He fought through the guards and somehow, somehow, in a way that defies nature, the omega descended into a battlefield of rutting alphas. When it ended, to Baelor, he sent the heads and entrails of the rogue alphas. A note attached, as you'd want, the corpses were made a ghastly parade of.

But Maekar's letters stopped.

The message wasn't lost on Baelor.

His brother blamed him for the death of his mate. 

Baelor is back to where he started. In a way worse than before. A fortnight after the letters stop, he begins hearing the swords again. A call I can't answer, Baelor lays back in bed at odd hours, wondering how different it would be had he known Maekar's truth back in that tent during the war.

Pointless rambling. 

Jena is with their third child. I want a girl, she said. His family is growing and so are the people. Trade is steady, and the routes are becoming more and more secure.  Nabath's Pass is under control. Bloodraven mentioned they wouldn't need anything before its time. 

Whatever that meant. 

When they stand upon the map of Tuareg, Baelor finds himself staring at the far east of the Grand House. His father follows his gaze, clears his throat, "Any further say on the matter, Baelor?"

He shakes his head, dismissive wave. 

Tongue going over that one tooth in the back of his mouth. 

"None on my end," gaze still fixed on the map, Baelor doesn't leave the room when the meeting ends, sits in his chair, watching the east of the map. Hours on end. It gets difficult to bear the ache in the back of his head. 

Would it were that he had returned from war dead.

'No, no, not him. Baelor, no,' Maekar's hands cradled his body, it disturbed even as Baelor lost consciousness from the abdominal hit, 'please anything else, Goddess, anything else,' he had begged from their Sun Goddess. Having so much hate for she who created them, Maekar could certainly return to his roots.

If the Goddess turned back time on its chariots, would Baelor take him away and run? Even then, he knows well enough it would not happen. 

Baelor is not of the mettle to leave and run. Perhaps, the Goddess allowed Maekar to steal himself away because she knew Baelor would not chase, she knows her sons and their blood.

Not for the first time, and not for the last, Baelor falls asleep in his chair.

Dancers circle around the Shamsiol's offerings, the hottest day of the year sees Tuareg dressed in festive cheer, a melee of colours. Gem gold wines exchanged, weavers singing as they spun the threads. Stories of the Sun Goddess make rounds. Nodding elders hum and children gather around the various Siols, or holy fires, listening to tales that Baelor once grew up listening to.

It is the Night of Qalun. 

Upon dusk, they throw azul into the fires. It turns the flames blue for a moment, but it is necessary to honour the Moon and her stars. Meeting and parting.  Baelor grabs a handful of azul, the powder from its namesake's stone. It is said the fires lit from azul stones are forever blue and much hotter. Only a few places in their lands have the wonder of it.

Someone clears his throat.

"Rhaegel," he welcomes, "I have been meaning to speak with you," he thanks him for the bow he gave to Matarys. 

"We went to visit Aelinor's parents, Alys and I accompanied sister a little to the east," the beta tells him as they sit down near the Siol. Bright warmth sways in the room, it is a windy night despite everything. "On our way back, I decided to visit Maekar."

Baelor's gaze flickers.

"He seemed....well, fine. You know how like him it is to pretend everything is fine," Rhaegel sighs, exhausted by the mere thought, "but it seemed bad. I can't...I can't put my finger on it. Even when he left right after the fire cortege on the Consumption's Day, he was sick. The maids told it was a strange heat cycle that they had never seen. It seemed painful."

If Baelor wasn't already unsettled by the start of it, he is fearful by the end of it.

"And Maekar. That brother of ours," Rhaegel forces out with a deepened frown, "he doesn't listen to anyone. I have asked him so many times, but he's so..." stubborn, arrogant, difficult, "terrified to be seen as someone weak when it isn't weakness."

Baelor leans back in his seat.  

"I'm scared, Baelor. At least before, he had Dyanna and of course, the children," Rhaegel discharges with his hand, "what if something happens to him? And if he can't take it....I am afraid, Baelor," he confesses again, "what if we lose him?"

Baelor reaches forwards, hand squeezing Rhaegel's shoulder.

"We won't—"

"Master Baelor!" A panicking maid makes way, rattling, "Your wife, Omega Jena, she's called for you," there is blood on her dress. A distressing scream echoes through the house.

The healers inform him, Jena had begun her labours. Valarr and Matarys are put into Rheagal's care and the screams that follow for hours. Baelor anticipates the worst. The difficulty with anticipation is that sometimes, it is proven right beyond doubt.

He hears her calling for him, barges through the doors. So much blood. Half the bed is nearly drenched, Jena's hands reaching out to him and he's at her side in no lesser than a blink. 

Sweat beads her forehead, "alpha," she whispers hoarsely, and Baelor hushes her.

"It's alright, it's going to be alright, Jena—"

Her face contorts in pain, and Baelor's chest hollows out, "I can't lose you too, Jena, please," he holds her hand but she slips to its chest. 

"Baelor," she calls, Baelor puts his head against hers, "go to him."

His hands becomes wood at her lips.

"....we return to what we are, Baelor. Our marriage was a responsibility," she sniffs, "both of us would not have chosen so—"

"'Twas for the good of the people," Baelor stops speaking when her hand climbs to his lips.

"Are we not people? Do we not deserve goodness?"

Baelor does not have an answer or a companion. The only reason he stands where he is, is because of his family. Is because Jena makes sure the world is less thorny to walk through. 

"I love our children. Valarr and Matarys, our sons," she whispers, meeting Baelor who tensely stares at her, "take care of them. We are good people, dear, you and I. We deserved happiness and softness in the little light we saw in this world," and her last words echo within him forever.

"We deserve good."

She's gone in a cold breath.  A gauntness in her face, the mid-wives could not fathom a reason for the excessive bleeding. 

Baelor kisses her cold wrists for the last time. They were friends, and Baelor's loss weighs so heavily that he can barely manage to look at Valarr and even younger Matarys. The reins are tight on him. Until the funeral is over. Until Valarr has gone to sleep, having cried for hours on end. Matarys is no better; Baelor puts him to sleep himself.

He doesn't sleep for the days in between. When the days begin to wax to a night meant for quiet grieving, Baelor takes his horse, and sets out for Ley. He would've stayed. Would've drunk the wine and stayed, if not for the father then for the children. Jena's words came to him like a haunting.

Darkest hour of the night sees the glance of a hundred stars. Skies enveloping the far reaches of Tuareg, a wave of whispering winds. Darkness swims over the land, silhouettes of clouds on the nearby rocks. He's barefoot again, and Baelor is on his knees.

Sounds from years ago echo in these rocks. Once alive, again in sight.

"I want," eyes closed, he feels the night wind against him, the cold withering his brow.

His alpha rouses, renewed, waiting in the depths of him. Like tasting those dark words in his heart walls, licking blood drawn from biting his tongue. Sacrifice. A pain lingers in his scalp, spine aching to stretch out of his skin.

And, oh, a dream follows behind his eyes. 

"I want Maekar."