Archive of Our Own ^beta

It isn’t all that often that Bluud finds himself sick. It isn’t all that often that Marion finds Bluud sick in the moderate climate they call home, and it’s nothing terrible—not a full-blown fever, but definitely a cold at minimum, and not something that he could muscle through and keep up appearances for an evening, or even for a day, lest he give Jester a case of the sniffles. Marion knows, even with his constitution, that these things are bound to happen. There’s nothing left to do except to wait it out. But even with the bustle of the other staff around the chateau, she starts to feel Bluud’s absence more than anticipated.

Maybe, she thinks, it would be good to leave the house for a change. It would be better than sitting around and wringing her hands until Bluud feels better.

Of course, she wouldn’t dream of going outside without Jester. Jester goes on the occasional grocery run with Bluud; she might even know her way around some parts of the city better than Marion. And she would stay inside her room willingly if she ever found out that her mama ventured outside without her.

But maybe there’s a part of Marion that has stayed inside for too long. There’s a part of her that forgets that Jester is just a child, that has forgotten how crowded the nearby market gets, and how her mind amplifies that crowd to an extreme.

She can’t remember how it happened. Maybe someone pushes past the two of them; maybe Jester slips out of her grasp on purpose. All she knows is that Jester’s hand is closed in hers one moment, and gone the next, and she is standing in the middle of the market, rich colors in her vision, voices barking in her ears, desperately trying to keep herself standing as strangers weave around and over her, like water coursing over a pebble in a stream.

She spins, clocking the corner that they turned earlier, the path that leads back to the chateau. Would Jester have gone back home already?

No.
Possibly?
Probably not.

Her heart has leapt so high into her throat she feels like she’s choking when she tries to find her voice. It’s a pathetic wisp one moment, and a reedy cry the next, and it feels like all of the strangers are somehow staring at her and ignoring her all at once. She pulls the hood of the light cloak she’s been wearing over her head, one anxiety colliding with another. If any of her patrons find her in a state like this, she might be able to get away with it. But if someone finds out she has a daughter—

She feels like she’s cracking her lungs out of a plaster mold, forcing herself to breathe, to seize a moment of clarity in the chaos. Her hair is tied up messily under her hood, stray strands sticking to her cheeks in the heat of the late afternoon. She’s barely wearing any makeup. She’s in a loose shirt and a pair of trousers, trying to look like a dock worker who wandered inland. The market closest to the chateau is nice, but it’s still below the tastes of her usual patrons.

Her patrons, like her, usually have someone else doing the shopping for them.

She murmurs her daughter’s name to herself like a prayer, padding along the cobblestones, searching for spots of blue even as her vision blurs with tears.

“Mama? Mama!”

“Jester?” Marion whirls around in one direction, and then another; Jester is on the opposite side of the street, perched on the windowsill of a dark green shop, gaping at her from behind a half-eaten candy-speckled cookie that’s nearly the same size as her face. “Jester!”

She sprints across the way and scoops Jester up in her arms, clutching her tight, pressing kisses to her hair and her horns, barely relenting when Jester finally whines about the fate of her cookie.

“Don’t ever run away from me again, Jester!” Marion admonishes her daughter, and herself. “I wouldn’t know what to do if I had lost you.”

“It’s okay, Mama.” Jester’s eyes sparkle pink up at her, crumbs on her cheeks. “Mister Yussa said he would help me find you!”

“Mister…?” Marion feels the subtle presence of a third person dipping their toes into their private world, and turns her head. There’s a man standing next to the spot where she first spotted Jester. Maybe half-elven, arms folded over his chest, tan skin, saffron eyes, hair a sprout of curls so blond it’s almost bleached white. A faint smile of recognition plays on his lips. Her heartbeat quickens for a moment.

“‘My mama looks like me, but red,’” He quotes with a breath of a laugh. “As do most tieflings, but based on the reunion, I’m inclined to believe her.” Right. Of course. Marion feels herself relax, releasing the tension of being recognized, though, given the situation, her emotions are alleviated very little. Still, there is something calming about this man's presence as he lifts his hand to shake hers; his shirt, ruffled but still simple, sparkles with intermittent gold thread. Marion's arms are full of Jester, though, hesitant to even shift her to her hip, and he draws his hand back, making a small flourish at his chest.

"Yussa," He introduces himself. "Your little one almost collided with my knee. She said she wanted to go to the fountain, but hadn't gone there yet, and couldn't remember where she was when she saw you last. So we mostly stayed put, save for the pit stop." He inclines his head towards the bakery. “"And she definitely didn't cry." He emphasizes with an extra kindness in his voice, though his smile deflates with sympathy as he looks at the back of Jester's head. Marion's fingers tighten around Jester just a fraction more; she murmurs another apology into her hair.

"How. How long has it been? How long was she lost?"

"She was with me, oh…" He quirks a pale eyebrow and fishes a small time-piece out of his pocket, the lid flashing gold. Gold again. "Ten minutes, more or less. I would have reported her as missing if another ten had gone by, but." Yussa's lip scrunches upward, eyeing the nearest Zhelezo in red; he makes a disapproving sound.

"There—there must be something I can do, to thank you," Marion scrambles, remembering herself. "Jester is my everything. I've managed to keep my coin on me, I can—" Yussa lifts his hands in polite refusal.

"She's worth more than you could ever put into gold, I'm sure." He smiles. "Money isn't a worry. It is reward enough to have done a good deed."

"No, I, there has to be something. Please. I sing! I sing, at The Lavish Chateau. I can treat you to a performance—not tonight, certainly, but maybe tomorrow, or the day after, if you would be willing. It's the least I could do."

"Well," Yussa admits after a pause. "I'll have to make time in my schedule, but I suppose it couldn't hurt."

“Thank you! Really, thank you. I promise it’ll be worth your time.”

”...Do you happen to know where the nearest herbalist is?” Marion ventures. “A cleric, or a church? I’m no good with crowds, and my friend is sick—"

"My, mm, associate has taken ill as well." Yussa hems. "He does most of the shopping, so I'm mostly getting swept along by the crowd myself." He eyeballs the officer, grumbling about a last resort before stepping into the bakery to ask for directions. Marion cocks her head, noticing he's shorter than her for the first time.

***

Yussa smoothes the fabric over his chest, exhaling. It’s been far too long since he spent a night outside of his home.

He wears a black shirt that clings to his slender frame, showing off the bronze of his shoulders. A fine mesh turtleneck has been layered on top, the sleeves billowing out before tapering at his wrists. A dark skirt sits high at his waist, flaring out into wide pleats, the hem kissing the floor. Freshly polished boots give him an extra two inches of height. And then, he has dusted himself in gold. Thin chains dangle from his earlobes, then rings, then studs. Necklaces of various lengths fall over his chest like a loose, artistic rendering of chainmail. His index fingers gleam with gold polish, matching rings on his middle fingers, unobtrusive gold bands.

All that remains is knocking three-quarters of a century from his features. It wasn't a ruse he had intended to keep up, but he knew couldn't exit his tower as Archmage Yussa Errenis just to hunt down some lozenges for Wensforth a few days ago. His mind had wandered to that tiefling woman, unsure if he would make good on her request, once he had started looking through his wardrobe later that evening, he found himself inspired, unable to resist the opportunity to peacock.

Wensforth is able to find him the location of The Lavish Chateau once he is feeling well, and Yussa teleports across the city within a few blocks of the locale. He is feeling bold enough to wander past the line and give his name at the door, and he is invited inside with a flourish and a small spark of urgency, finding himself preening as he is sat at his own table with a small spread of fruits and meats and cheeses, accepting a glass of pink wine when it is offered to him, and flagging a waiter for a glass of tonic water once he’s settled in. He feels somewhat humbled, markedly less ostentatious surrounded by the glamor of this place, chandeliers threatening to drip dewy crystal onto him, doused in white and silver and marble. A pianist plays amongst the chatter and laughter of the other patrons, politicians and the like, socialites, some new faces, some familiar, older than before. People important in Nicodranas, and those with ties to the outside—the Empire, Marquet, even Tal’Dorei.

The music shifts in key, and Yussa settles back in his seat as the lights dim, the proprietor welcoming the evening's guests, encouraging them to enjoy 'The Ruby of the Sea'. Yussa vaguely wonders if it's a comedic act at first, a bard perhaps, and then the woman from the market begins to glide down the staircase.

Ah. He never caught her name, did he?

It isn’t hard for him to recognize her based on their personal interaction, but it takes a fraction of a second for the realization to click, like his eyes refocusing after waking up from the depths of sleep. Her hair shines in the evening glow, dark waves cascading down her back. Her maroon skin is spotless, with touches of gold glimmering on her eyelids, her eyelashes dark even from afar, her lips red and full. A muted turquoise velvet dress falls off her shoulders, hugging her figure, the neckline plunging, a slit in the fabric rising to showcase her thigh as she descends the staircase, the train of her dress trickling like a serene waterfall after her, and Yussa holds his glass to his lips, feeling mildly indecent for looking. Still, he can’t bring himself to look away, tugged forward in his seat to watch, caught by the magnetism of her performance.

She sings a ballad in Infernal, something slow and melancholic but not mournful, near operatic, full of yearning and emotion. It lightens when she reaches the foyer, her white teeth gleaming when she gazes out over the crowd, smiling while sweeping between the bassist and the other members of the house band. It lasts maybe all of five minutes before it ends, the audience erupting into applause. Yussa does not join them, if only because clapping feels like an inadequate response. He watches as the demarcation between a respectful audience wobbles, men at the front of the room calling to her, regulars, each trying to be more exuberant than the next. She accepts their praise with poise and polite little acknowledgements, a practiced smile. Before she begins her ascent up the staircase, her eyes meet Yussa’s, and she gives him a grin, something real amidst all of her finery.

The lights glow with new fire, the volume of the conversation rises once she disappears from view; Yussa, taking a sip of his water, wonders mildly as to whether there will be an encore. He tries not to aspirate when a hulking minotaur appears beside his table. He fails at an attempt to lower his eyebrows.

"...Good evening."

The minotaur gives him a nod.

"The Ruby would like to see you upstairs."

Yussa finds himself sitting on another level of the Chateau, now with an empty teacup in hand and an empty seat across from him, an immaculately made bed in the periphery of his vision. A doorway is cracked open beyond that, seemingly leading to a porcelain tub in an adjoining room. At his back, there are gauzy curtains letting in the moonlight through intricate, glass-paned doors to a balcony; Yussa has cracked the balcony door open, letting the sea breeze drift into the bedroom. The minotaur isn’t magic—he had given his name as Bluud—but Yussa can still feel an echo of his presence from outside the bedroom door. Oil burns in a small lamp on the table, a warm burst of light in the evening. Yussa slumps in his chair; he sits up straight, trying not to fidget. He takes a deep breath. The teacup is white and blush-pink, with gold around the rim. He reminds himself he’s not being held prisoner, but if he were, he could make do with this cell.

The door creaks, and Yussa looks up as the Ruby steps inside with an apologetic smile, changed into a short, silken robe. She settles into the chair opposite him with an airy sigh, her features illuminating in the lamplight like a sunrise.

“I didn’t know if you would come! I was hoping you would, of course, but—” She grins, casting her eyes away to pour herself a cup of tea, bouncing back to him as she empties a spoonful of sugar into her cup. Her eyes are pure honey, and Yussa has to bite the inside of his cheek. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“Did I—I didn’t know what to expect, but my goodness. You sounded, you looked—you look phenomenal. It was a treasure.” He extends his hand once she lowers the cup from her lips. "And it is a delight to see you again, Miss—"

She lowers her cup, Yussa watching her mentally scold herself behind closed eyes. He must be smiling like an idiot.

"Lavorre. Marion Lavorre," She smiles graciously, taking his hand, squeezing warmth into his palm. "It's a pleasure to have you, Yussa."

“Marion.” He tries her name on his tongue. “Now we might feel a little less like strangers.”

Marion’s fingers still rest atop his hand, the points of her nails sparkling with pinpricks of gems. She grins so easily. Like mother, like daughter, Yussa supposes.

"Speaking of pleasure, I—" Yussa casts a look at the bed, eking out a small laugh. "I couldn't possibly accept anything more than a cup of tea for the evening."

“A cup of tea and some company is just fine.”

“That being said, I would be able to compensate you,” Yussa continues. “You won’t have to lose any money for spending the evening with me instead of one of those men."

“The Lavish Chateau rents rooms; we have more than one way of making income.” Marion rebuffs him gently, though she draws her hand back, taking a polite sip of tea. “But as you said, my daughter is worth more than more than any sum of platinum or gold—at least for an evening.” She rests her chin in her palm. “I’m hardly virginal to my clients, but they can’t know that I’ve given birth, that I have a daughter. We’d be fine if they stopped wanting my services, but if they stopped coming for the performances—that’s my fear.” She pauses as she confides in Yussa. “You carry yourself like one of them, you know.”

Yussa can’t keep from making a face.

“That’s not—well, some of them I could care less for, but—you carry yourself like you have power. You have power, but you respect it, and you fear it, as much as you need to. Like how the tides ebb and flow.”

Yussa quirks an eyebrow.

“Are you from the coast?” Marion shakes her head.

“No. I only settled in four, maybe five years ago.”

“Well, if you are so keen on unmasking me, at least let me discard the rest.” He waves his hand, dropping his more youthful disguise. “Yussa Errenis, of Tidepeak.” He reintroduces himself with a small smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Marion’s mouth makes a small ‘o’.

“Oh Gods,” Marion claps a hand over her mouth, laughing into her palm. “Thank goodness I didn’t come on to you. I must look like an infant!”

“What, the crows’ feet don’t make me look young?” Yussa teases. “You look plenty adult, don’t worry.” He catches himself trying to take a sip from his empty cup. Marion’s robe is sheer enough, displaying all lace underneath. “You were certainly dressed for an adult occasion.”

“You’re a handsome man—you still are, and I wanted to keep all avenues open!” Marion laughs, tossing her hair back. “You’re a whole elf,” she marvels, and Yussa reclines in his seat, making a poor attempt at hiding his grin behind his knuckles.

“I am.”

He finds himself playing with the post of an earring, and the jewel loosens; he almost deposits it in his empty teacup before Marion takes his wrist.

“Let me.”

Her fingers trail up his forearm, bouncing up to his shoulder as she stands up, walking over to his chair and pulling it out for him with a little squeak on the floor. Yussa stands, letting Marion guide him over to her vanity, her hand applying gentle pressure to his upper back. She lowers herself just enough, eye to eye with him as she coaxes one earring out at a time, depositing them into a small, spare velvet box. Yussa feels a breath choking in his throat, his eyelids fluttering closed without his permission. Her arms drape loosely around his neck as she toys with a necklace; she unclasps them next, the sleeve of her robe caressing his cheek as she lays them out in front of him.

"I can't," He murmurs. “It would be too much.”

“You don’t need to explain yourself,” There’s a kindness in Marion’s voice. She says this, but she does not hurry as she draws her hands back to his shoulders, his mouth going slack as she lays her cheek against his, the ridges on her horn on his temple. He sighs something in a language he thought his tongue had forgotten. “I’m going to help you out of this chair, because I’m afraid you’ll sit here all night if I don’t.” Yussa finds it easier to keep his eyes open when he’s no longer held by her gaze, no longer looking at himself in the mirror. Marion is sitting in front of her mirror now, combing through her hair with her fingers, reapplying her lipstick. “Undress to your comfort. I’ll be with you when you’re ready.”

Yussa has unzipped the hidden zipper on the back of his turtleneck, the sheer fabric pooling around his wrists; he lets it spill onto the edge of the bed, all the while wondering how ‘ready’ he’ll be. He’s raised his shirt partway up his middle before remembering his skirt, and though he isn’t the kindest minder, he mentally winces at the thought of Wensforth having to iron out any new creases or folds made in the garment due to sleeping in it.

“Could. Would it be possible to borrow a pair of trousers?” He ventures, trying to not damn himself for his surely quavering voice, though Marion, again, is only warmth when she meets his eyes.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Yussa sits down in bed, one leg folded over the other to untie his boots. Marion returns with a set of dark pajamas, a shirt with a front pocket, and trousers, the hems piped with white, and places them into his hands, the fabric impossibly soft.

“I hope these are alright,” She smiles, her hands finding the rough shape of Yussa’s in the fabric, seemingly not wanting to let him go. She lifts a hand—she could guide him back onto the bed, if she wanted—and pushes her fingers through his hair, along his scalp and around the shell of his ear. Yussa somehow keeps from nuzzling the whole of his face into her palm like an animal. He exhales his gratitude, and Marion flutters her hands, a shy musicality in her apology as she moves around to the other side of the bed; he turns his head, letting his eyes stay on her just a little longer.

He turns to the curtains to undress, feeling the blood coursing in his veins, his cheeks heated like he’s received a faceful of the coast’s sunniest day. The trousers sit low on his waist, and he shrugs the shirt onto his shoulders, debating whether to button it up or keep it undone. He settles for buttoning it halfway, feeling awfully boyish in short sleeves. Marion has swept up his skirt in his dawdling, clipped into a hanger, the pleats hanging with a satisfyingly stiff crease that has lasted the evening.

Yussa settles into bed on his back, staring up at the ceiling until the weight of the mattress shifts beside him. He keeps staring, and then finally looks over, and his gaze shoots back up as soon as it falls over Marion; she has undressed for comfort, her robe clinging to her skin, with noticeable less lace underneath.

“You can look,” He can hear the smile in her voice, listening to how her hand smoothes the top of the duvet, inviting him. “Take your time.”

Yussa holds his breath in his throat. Finally, he looks at her, and lets his eyes cascade over her, following every curve. He holds her gaze, turning onto his side, reaching for her—and ultimately ends pulling his hand back, laying on his stomach, most of his face hidden in a pillow, trying to muffle his thumping heart. He can’t help issuing an apology.

“Don’t.” Marion dismisses his words, brushing the pad of her thumb on the apple of his cheek. “It’s natural to be embarrassed.” She grins at him, her tongue peeking out in a flash of white teeth. “It’s sweet.”

She cuddles next to him, curls of her hair falling prettily over her forehead, along her cheek.

“What do you want, Yussa?”

Yussa knows what he wants, on a base level.

He wants to inlay her in gold, however that may manifest.

If he thinks about it, really thinks about it, he can conjure up an image of himself sitting at home, Marion’s lipstick prints patterned over his fingers and hands. But he doesn’t want that, not right now. He props his chin up on his pillow, and answers her simply.

“I want to be held.”

Marion hums, and takes care to embrace him, folding him into her arms. Yussa is scared that he will jolt out of her grasp before he plunges into dream.

He does end up jolting awake, though, with knocking at the door. Sunlight spills into the room, and he blinks himself conscious, feeling naked even in a pair of pajamas, Marion cursing at a quiet yet rapid speed as she practically dances around the room, gathering his clothes and shoving them into his lap.

“Sorry, my daughter—I don’t usually keep clients for the whole night, let alone in my room—not that you’re a client—Jester, please give Mama a few more minutes!” She calls to the door, and turns back to Yussa, clutching his hands. “I, um, don’t know what to do with you. Can you hide?”

“I can,” Yussa swallows, staggering out of bed. “I can disappear entirely, if you’re willing to sacrifice—” His vision dashes wildly around the room. “A tube of lipstick?” Marion nods and fetches him one, pressing it into his palms. He squeezes her hands in farewell, and dashes out to the balcony, asking for only a minute more as he begins to draw a circle.

There’s a flash, and a pull, the faintest hint of a child’s laughter gracing his ear before he opens his eyes, finding himself at home again. He goes to tug at his earlobe and touches bare skin, and he slowly sits himself down on the floor, burying his face into his skirt. His cheeks hurt from smiling.

***

Marion comes down to the kitchen, still in her robe, yawning for a cup of coffee before she senses something different in the air. Bluud stands next to the table. Jester fidgets in her seat, sat in front of a woven basket dyed a familiar shade of green. It is stuffed to the brim, nearly overflowing with pastries—cinnamon and cardamom buns, cherry danishes, blueberry muffins, golden croissants and more. Jester nearly falls out of her chair when she spots her mother, running over to her, tugging on her robe, crumbs speckling a corner of her mouth.

“Mama, please!”
“An anonymous delivery this morning,” Bluud informs Marion with the seriousness of a funeral, offering a square of cardstock to her. “Someone knows about her.” Marion looks at the note, words gleaming in gold ink:

Marion can’t keep herself from laughing; she feels like a schoolgirl. She tucks the note into her front pocket, clutching it to her chest.

“Only one more, Jester,” She smiles at her daughter, then looks to Bluud, wordless before she finally manages to give him a small shrug. “It’ll be okay, Bluud. I promise.”

The pastries continue, week after week. Yussa regains his earrings, one pair at a time.

He retrieves his necklaces, his fingers lingering on their golden strands.

At some point, Marion is able to send him a list of her planned performances every fortnight, and the nights she plans to have free, just for him.

At some point, there is a teleportation circle in her bedroom, hidden under one of her area rugs.

They try a party once. Yussa, forgetting himself with the alcohol hidden in the punch, gives Marion a kiss on the cheek, feeling both alarmed and deeply pleased after attracting stares from the majority of the men in the room. Marion has something akin to a panic attack bubble up in the middle of a waltz. The events are unrelated, but they end up in Yussa’s study by reflex before the night is over, nearly giving Wensforth a heart attack.

Marion remains frozen, this time not out of shock—well, maybe a little—but she is scared of touching anything, and also wanting to touch everything in sight. Yussa is negotiating with himself as to whether he should lie down on the spot, feeling the weight of the daysweeksmonthsyears he’s been courting Marion suddenly bear down on him, realizing this is the first he’s ever let her into his home. He steadies himself, and takes Marion’s hands, guiding them over his tomes and his treasures, and when he stops to pause, he notices the seam in his glamour, a hiccup, like he’s suddenly become aware of his own breathing.

Slowly, he lets her unravel that thread of magic, too.

Later, Marion muses that she and Jester could live on his wealth; Yussa teases that he’s never wanted to deprive her of an occupation.

There’s a tacit agreement between the two of them to keep their relationship from Jester. Marion and Yussa both have their separate lives to attend to outside of each other, and even when there’s a notion of telling her when she’s more grown up, there’s an incident that ends up with Jester sent out of Nicodranas for the foreseeable future.

And then, just a few weeks later, Jester is back in Nicodranas, inside of Yussa’s tower, with a patchwork of individuals that he could only describe as ragtag: capable, annoying, and with what he’s heard of their travels, mildly terrifying. He wakes up with an ache in his jaw from the stress for days until Marion is free to see him. Staring up at the ceiling of her bedroom which has become familiar as his own, he strokes her horns, her head laying on his chest, and clears his throat.

“I met your daughter. Again.”

Marion’s eyes flick up to him, giving him a small, disbelieving laugh. “Did you find her in the Empire on a trip?”

“No. I found her in my foyer.”

She blinks.

“What? I know she was in the city the other day, she visited me, but—how?” Yussa shakes his head.

“Someone she’s traveling with is a good negotiator. Good enough to convince Wensforth that I should give them the time of day.”

“Oh, Yussa,” Marion lifts her head, her expression contorting with worry. “Is she safe? I tried not to press her. I’m trying to let her be independent, even if that means she might be lying to me, but—”

“She’s safe.” Yussa thinks of the orb sitting in his study, of the dodecahedron they had shown. “She’s safe now.” Marion eyes him, lifting herself up, both hands planted firmly on his chest. Her hair curtains along his cheek.

“You’re strong. You can keep her safe.”

Yussa closes his eyes.

“Marion.”

“Yussa.” He can hear a wavering smile in her voice. “Don’t make me sing to you.”

His lips twitch; he weaves his fingers with hers, opening his eyes.

“There was a fight on the far continent some years back, a little while before Jester was born. A war. An alliance of dragons wanted to claim the land for themselves, and they failed—but a good number of people died trying to stop them.” Yussa expels a sigh. “I helped research how to fight back, and I helped finance it. That’s the kind of life I lead in my tower, Marion. She’s with people who can do better than me. If the circumstances ever became dire, I could—” Yussa swallows his words. “We just have to trust her for now.”

Marion touches her forehead to his. “I’ll try.” She lets Yussa tuck her head under his chin, and he kisses the crown of her hair.

“By the way, I’m almost certain she drew a cock and balls on the outside of my tower. Am I supposed to be offended by that, or…?”

“A bad habit she says she picked up by some imaginary friend,” Marion laughs, placing a kiss on his chest. “She still has some growing up to do.”

“Don’t we all.”

“I could always reaffirm your masculinity, you know.” Marion sits herself up again, her nails trailing along Yussa’s jaw. “If you want me to.” Yussa steeples his hands, but he fails to bite back a smile when she kisses him, always threatening to melt under her touch.