[EP:04] Tairen (Serax POV | Night I | Unbound Mode)

Hey Darksingers and Duskweavers! Today's alternate POV MC is Lydie, crafted by Ayesleigh, which I always read as "I slay" so hopefully that's canon. Here's Lydie's wonderfully detailed backstory.

Episode 04: Tairen

Tairen (verb)
/TIE-ren/

1. To cross the space between oneself and another with intent.
2. To mark a boundary by the act of reaching it.
3. (archaic) The first form of knowing; the moment when distance gives way to understanding.
4. (contemporary) To touch.

‘Are you questioning my judgment?’

Serax answers the terse question with a mental sigh. He feels the internal vibration of the sound leaving his mind and slipping into Valdricht’s, and then he waits.

And waits.

After a moment, he prods the connection, but it’s gone still and silent. In his chest, he can feel that Valdricht has already jumped. Every few seconds, the distance between them stretches wider and wider as his sire bends reality to his will.

Sairvahn, or jumping as Serax called it, wasn’t an ability he’d yet learned, though not for lack of trying. After feeding on Valdricht’s blood, all of his capabilities were heightened, and there were times when he could move so fast that the world seemed to go still. However, he’d never understood how Valdricht could simply be in one place, and then blink to another in a single step.

‘You still think as a mortal,’ Valdricht told him the last time Serax tried and failed to jump. ‘Distance is not something to be traversed, but rather to be subjugated. The moment you believe you can bend it to your will, you will be capable of sairvahn.’

It was only Valdricht’s confidence in him that made Serax believe it might one day be possible. There were many things that Valdricht could do, such as drevahn—dreamwalking—that he never suggested Serax attempt to learn. It was difficult to say which of Valdricht’s abilities came from being a darksinger and which came from...whatever else he was.

Serax glances down at the woman in his arms, this time making his sigh audible. “And now we shall wait,” he tells her. “Half of my life is spent waiting on him.”

He sets her down by the fire and collects wood from the corner. Two pieces of pine and a slender split of cedarwood. The latter was simply to spite Valdricht. He hated when Serax burned the aromatics while he was away.

He tosses them onto the fire without care, cinders flying up into the air but turning to ash before they settle on the woman.

Looking her over, he returns to the bags, this time searching for clothes. He talks idly as he does so.

“I could leave him. In fact, I’ve done so, several times. But I’m always sucked back in. He’s a void I can’t turn away from.”

Not even to a sleeping stranger whom he may yet kill does Serax admit the real reason he always goes back.

Each time I walk away, it is only in the hope that he will follow.

And he never does.

He pulls out one of Valdricht’s favorite shirts. It’s a blend of fine linen and silk, dyed black and embroidered with a knot design of midnight purple. It’s freshly laundered, yet still carries a hint of Valdricht’s scent. As much as he’d rather not share his own clothes with the interloper, Serax doesn’t think he can tolerate having her scent mingle with Valdricht’s.

He folds the shirt and replaces it, instead taking out one of his own tunics, an older, plain white one. On himself, it comes down to his hips, though he suspects it could pass for an immodest dress on the woman, petite as she is.

Returning to her side, he unbundles her from the pelts she was wrapped in. To his annoyance, the final fabric garbing her is Valdricht’s cloak. He peels it off, revealing what he only glimpsed before. A pale, frail-looking female with long hair the color of dirt and hardly any chest to speak of.

He pauses, attempting to recapture what he felt earlier.

What Valdricht felt for her.

It still doesn’t feel real.

It isn’t simply the desire, longing, or the potent lust he felt for the woman. That would have disturbed Serax, but also enticed him. Feeling desires through their bond—and the satisfaction that often followed—was a rare treat for him. Serax could have excused Valdricht’s cravings for the female, so long as Valdricht kept their connection open as he claimed her. For as many times as he knew Valdricht experienced Serax’s trysts vicariously through their bond, Serax felt owed the same pleasure in return.

It was only later, once the reverberations of the emotional starfall had begun to ebb, that Serax began to contend with what had most disturbed him.

It wasn’t the lust, but the devotion.

Hidden behind the torrent of desire was a profound adoration. Something Serax might call love, were he to believe Valdricht capable of such a thing.

And he couldn’t believe that, because to do so would be to concede that Valdricht felt more for this woman in minutes than he’d felt for him in a century.

Serax dresses her without care, yanking her limbs into place and contemplating the amount of force required to pull them free.

Not much.

He hopes she wakes and conjures a fantasy in which she rouses, finding his hands on her, and attacks like the malevolent beast that she is. How angry would Valdricht be if he killed her in self-defense?

Once she’s dressed, he despises her marginally less. After a few minutes by the fire and garbed in his tunic, her natural scent—one he has to admit isn’t objectionable—begins to blend with his own in a way that’s unexpectedly pleasing. More minutes pass, and then he finds himself lifting her up and placing her onto his bedroll.

After folding and storing the other pelts and Valdricht’s cloak, Serax busies himself with sharpening his blades.

He draws a whetstone from his bag, wetting it lightly before setting the first blade to its surface. He rotates through knives of varying lengths. Paring blades for close work and longer daggers for combat, each honed until they could split a hair. The rhythmic rasp of stone against steel fills the tent, blending with the soft crackle of the fire.

Once finished with his own, his gaze flicks to Duvfhyr. Valdricht has left his sheathed sword propped against the side of the tent near the flap. If he focuses, he can feel the subtle vibrations it lets off. Like himself, the sword can feel when Valdricht is away. It sings a soft, discordant sound, imploring its master to return.

Rising to his feet, he goes to it and reaches for the hilt, its dark woven leather gleaming with the same luster it had a century ago, and many centuries prior, he suspects. Before his hand can make contact with it, Valdricht’s voice cracks across his mind like a whip.

‘Do not lay a hand on my blade.’

Serax grins and attempts a response, but his words aren’t able to carry across the vast span of distance that is now between them. The range of Valdricht’s mental voice is another one of those things he never encourages Serax to emulate.

He nudges the blade with the tip of his foot and waits for the reprimand, but his mind is silent, save for the restless churn of his own thoughts. Disappointed, he returns to sit, this time busying himself with carving arrowheads.

Once each head is shaped, he binds it to a shaft with sinew, then fits fletching plucked from a pouch at his side. At first, he hums an idle, tuneless sound, and then the humming deepens into song.

Hours drag by.

The scents of cedar and the woman saturate the tent. She carries the scent of warm musk and sunlit herbs, sweet and earthy, like a garden brushed by summer winds.

Deep into the night, she finally begins to stir, turning onto her side and murmuring something. Serax sets the arrow he’d been working on aside and crawls over to where she lay.

“…supposed to mean…”

He arrives at her side, listening intently.

“…deserve to know…”

She speaks with a Summer Isles accent that is incongruent with her pale skin. Begrudgingly, he admits that Valdricht is similarly pale despite hailing from the summerlands.

“A fine pair you’ll make,” he mutters, leaning in closer.

Her face scrunches, and for a moment she appears distressed. He debates waking her, yet as his hand hovers over her shoulder, he imagines Valdricht’s voice entering his mind.

Do not lay a hand on my woman.

Scowling, he withdraws his hand just as the woman rolls onto her back. He’s still leaning over her when her eyes spring open.

He freezes.

Bright eyes, green as the forests he knew in boyhood, lock onto his. The depths of them seem to pull at him, beckoning him inward. His body tightens with something, an involuntary clenching of muscle and breath, as if seized by fear.

Fear? Of her? This delicate little nothing?

Not nothing.

She’s something.

She shoots up, swiping clumsily at his face. She’s slow—so slow he could have dodged with his eyes closed. He catches her wrist instead and pins her effortlessly.

Lowering his head, he stares more deeply into her eyes, searching for something he can't name.

What is it about her?

What is she?

She goes still beneath him. The longer Serax remains atop her, the more a rosy hue creeps up her neck. He hadn’t considered the suggestive nature of their position until the scent of her arousal curls into his nose like a potent perfume.

He hardens in an instant.

In an effort to project a nonchalance he doesn’t feel, he says, “Good evening to you, too.”

She swallows, the muscle in her throat shifting. He wants to lick it.

“Good evening,” she says.

Her voice is lovely.

She feels good beneath him.

Right.

Perfect.

Perhaps he won’t kill her after all.

My thoughts:

Weirdly, my favorite part about this episode is answering the question: what kind of hobbies/pastimes does Serax have? There are so many little details to their day-to-day lives that I haven't dug into yet due to the upheaval of the MC's arrival, such as how they remain active and the kinds of conversations they have when the MC isn't there. We'll learn a lot more about their routines in Week Two.

As I was writing the name for this episode I realized that "tairen" was the word for the creatures in Tairen Soul. Did anyone else read those books? I read them when I was a teenager, I'm pretty sure it's what got me started with my obsession with the fated mates/opposites attract tropes, although (and this is just to my recollection, maybe I'm mis-remembering) the books seemed to drag on after Book 2. I remember even then thinking, 'Oh my gosh, can these two just sleep together and have babies already, I am so over all of this interpersonal drama and villain shenanigans.' That said, if you like slow burn fae romantasy, definitely give that series a read. The first book in particular is quite the page-turner and I adore the author's worldbuilding.

I considered changing the name, but I couldn't remember if I'd already used the verb to touch in any of the Wyransith passages and then I said to heck with it, I'll use it to rec a good book series.

The next episode won't contain an MC, it'll just be Valdricht, battling some inner-demons and dropping some lore. After that, we'll go back to catch up with Serax and the MC for their first feeding from his POV, and when she really starts to wrap him around her finger. Duskweaver members feel free to reach out if you want your MC written into that scene, otherwise I'll keep going down the list. My current MC rotation is a mix of order-that-they're-received, membership tier (as in, I don't want to write a free member's MC into a Darksinger/Duskweaver-exclusive POV scene), and (when possible) preferences expressed by the player. Most of the preferences are Valdricht scenes, which poses a bit of a challenge.

See you in a few days with the Heretic Standard update and some more chat about the tendencies and story route changes I have planned. I've read all your feedback even if I didn't respond individually and I think I've devised some ways to preserve the MFM & MF routes without overcomplicating things.

-Mortish