Mitral

Submission from Mythdancer:
Water courses down your cheeks. Your chest heaves with sobs. It hurts. Oh, how it hurts.
You didn't think it was possible to feel so much pain.
They keep telling you it'll get better. Empty platitudes for your grief. They haven't lived your heartache, don't know the agony which beats within you.
It's still so raw.
And so you sit, and you cry where no one else can see you. No empty reassurances, no meaningless comfort. You wrap yourself in your pain and surrender to the hurt.
But you're not alone.
Such a tiny little thing - no bigger than a butterfly. The bloodred of his wings catches your eye even through the tears. Your sobs pause as you look at the tiny fae.
Bright green eyes look at you with so much sorrow that you feel your heart crack in your chest. There's nothing empty here, no pity - just a shared grief.
He understands. You can feel it.
The wings flutter, quick as a hummingbird, and the fae comes to rest on your arm. The compassion writ on his face makes you squeeze your eyes shut.
You feel his tiny paw on your shoulder, the gentle squeeze of miniscule claws.
It's too much - and it's exactly what you need.
You wrap your arms around the little fae and weep openly. His wings spread as wide as they can, not even the width of your chest. There's a comforting weight to them like that of your favorite blanket. You can feel the shuddering sobs of the fae as he rests atop you. Your shirt grows damp with his tears.
You've never seen him before in your life. But he shares your grief. He takes the terrible pain that's been crushing you, and shoulders it. He eases the vice around your heart, wrapping it in his wings to guard it.
You're not alone.

It hurts, it hurts.
You grip your chest with a heavy hand; pain and a discomfiting fluttering sensation heaves across your solar plexus. It's been getting worse, but this time an icy grip seizes your heart. You can feel individual veins and arteries pulse and struggle with each labored breath you take, your lungs trying, and failing, to take in meaningful breath.
The agony in your breast forces you to your knees. You've suspected it for quite some time; as first the pain was as unnoticeable or as soft as the beating of a bird's wings, but over time it's become something much more sinister. You recoil as one of your aorta squeezes itself as though caught in a vice-lock; you're on your back now.
Cold sets in; beginning with your fingertips and the tips of your toes. Like frostbite, it begins its steady upward climb to your feet and your hands.
A breath tickles your ear. You wrinkle your nose and flick your ear to try and chase the tickle away; it's oddly strong enough to pull you out of this reverie you've been battling for what feels like months. The tickle comes again as your eyes roll about the room, cleanly disoriented by blinding pain. You gasp for breath and struggle to focus; your gaze flits over to a tiny figure no larger than your hand seated on its haunches less than a few inches away from your head. Its eyes are strikingly green, alive, alert, yet curious. You could almost swear its tiny body looks like a web and mesh of interspersed capillaries, veins, and arteries. It trills at you, almost as if to say, "Hello," or, "I see you."
It lilts its frilled head to one side, as if to inspect you. It stands on four tiny paws, and meanders it way to your chest which you grip for dear life; you fear that this might be the end if you were to release.
Tenderly, gently, the creature nudges at your hand. Its tiny frame simply can't compete with your raw strength, it's almost as if it's... Asking? To be let in.
This clearly isn't the time for this, but the little fae is asking so nicely.
With catlike grace and precision it crawls up on your chest; its wings flutter to hold it in balance. You can feel almost imperceptible pinpricks from the claws on its feet dig into your arm and chest past your clothing, seeking purchase. Its wings steadily begin to glow, to thrum and pulse. You can even make out what appears to be the flow of life-giving blood coming from its body to its wings.
It comes to a rest on your chest, spreading its wingspan across your heart. You move your hand to admit the tiny fae; it closes those striking green eyes, tenderly grips your chest, and begins to shed its tears. For you? Even as the icy grip of death closes in? You've never met this creature before, why would it grieve so? Why should it?
Its tiny body hiccups, once, twice, thrice; pacing in time, working against the agitated rapid beat of your own heart. Slowly, but surely, your breath returns; peace and a tranquil sense overcomes you. You heave a few heavy breaths as if to clear your lungs; you violently cough, but no amount of movement seems to dislodge the blood-tinged fae from you. It appears to work tenaciously; you feel a powerful cleansing force flowing through your very blood, purifying, detoxifying, shredding curses held by weaves of dark energy.
With one final gasp, the fae opens its eyes and trills; coos, using the force of its wings to pick itself up from your chest and stare inquisitively into your eyes.
"Is that okay?"

“My love?”

She didn’t turn as he swung the door to her chambers open wide. She sat by her window, overlooking the castle of ice that she ruled, her wings folded close to her body and shed of their usual armaments and chains. No war today, then.

Mitral closed the door behind him, padding across a floor of solid ice. It felt too cold underneath his palms—it always had—and he couldn’t fathom staying in one place in these halls for so long. But Error looked as if she hadn’t moved in hours.

Slowly, gingerly, Mitral slipped up behind his love and wound his body around hers. His head came to rest on her shoulder, his wings curling to blanket her body. Her heartbeats—Mitral never had to strain his ears to hear them—came shallow and heavy. He shifted and rested his head closer to her chest, closing his eyes…

But Error moved. She turned to rest her forehead against his—one of her new favorite affectionate gestures she’d learned—and Mitral forced a smile as he leaned back. Her armaments were gone, but she still wore her mask.

“Let’s go to bed, love,” he said, before the cold metal of her mask could leave a print on his face.

Wordlessly, Error rose to her limbs and gracefully moved to the dais of furs and warm beast hides where she slept. Mitral curled his body as tightly as he could manage around hers and gently placed a hand on either side of her mask. He didn’t need to ask now. Not verbally, at least. Error sat still in his touch and allowed him to slip the mask from her face.

One pale blue eye half-squinted open at him. Pain creased her face, and without hesitation, Mitral shushed her and cuddled up closer. Eyes once more closed against the light, Error buried her face under her mate’s wing and stayed there.

“Are you hurting, sweetheart?” Mitral asked. His voice never raised its volume above the soft hush used for anxious animals or frightened children. Error was neither of these things, but the sweet tone worked for her all the same.

Error slipped a claw over Mitral’s shoulder and hooked it there comfortably. There were a few seconds of silence, but her mate would have given her longer.

“It’s better now,” she decided.

Her voice was always quiet, and Mitral had to discern which flavor of quiet this was. Nothing distressing crackled in her tone, and her words fell sleepy-soft against her mate’s skin like feathered down. She was okay. Mitral hooked the edge of a blanket with his foot and brought it closer, cuddling up in a two-Fae burrito. With the added warmth and safety, a little more tension melted from Error’s body. Content with this progress for now, Mitral took a minute to preen and nuzzle through Error’s tawdry head-fans.

Error wasn’t good at communicating. Mitral and all the other children of war who cared enough to notice had learned this the hard way. Their tiny war-goddess hadn’t been raised with the type of family who spoke of their feelings or offered comfort to the turmoiled young. Error, he assumed, had never asked for love. She didn’t know how.

But she was learning, and Mitral was a patient teacher. Error couldn’t always enunciate her anxieties and frustrations, and oft-times she struggled to discern if the pain in her chest had a physical or emotional source. But she was trying. Her affectionate headbutts were still new, and Mitral’s heart bloomed with joy when she gave them. She was doing so well…

Mitral paused in his thoughts, laying his chin atop Error’s head. After a moment, he shifted and pressed his cheek to her heart, listening to her heartbeats with a keenness that no other healer possessed. Each drum beat came more regularly now. Life and warmth had returned in full force to her body after her long watch on the icy floor. Mitral twisted just enough to lap tenderly at his mate’s neck—just the gentlest possible grooming—and he felt Error’s heartbeat flutter. Satisfaction burst like fireworks in his chest.

Error’s heartbeats still ran heavy, but there were precious times like these when the beats softened, and no longer mirrored the drum of war. If he sought it, he could feel the ache at the center of her heart—the visceral spike of pain that came natural to her with every breath—as if the blade she often spoke of truly existed in the core of her chest. Each beat was a stab, each breath a deathblow. The pain pulsed within her—with her—like a living thing. If Error existed, so did the suffering that defined her. But the beat of pain that was once overwhelmingly loud to Mitral had quieted long ago. He sought it and felt the edge of that blade, but retreated, and it was gone from his senses. The pain was deep down. The tree was healing around the axe.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” Mitral whispered. He twined necks with Error and blanketed her with his wing. She snuffled her head readily under his limb and seemed to relish the shady spot. No light for her sensitive eyes here, only comfort. “I’m so proud of you, you know that?”

Error didn’t reply, but she didn’t need to. Mitral knew she heard, and he knew each of his words made the tiniest impact in her self-image. Someday, he knew… Someday she’d look at her mates and verbally agree that she was loved.

Seeing as Error—and by extension himself—wasn’t going anywhere, Mitral lifted his head and called to the guard outside the door.

“Tijah!”

A brilliantly-dressed Pearlcatcher opened the door. Scars lined every inch of her body like a pale golden web, belying the coup that robbed her of her noble estate. Her broadsword—the very same she used on her traitorous family—hung at her hip.

“Does the goddess require anything?” Tijah asked briskly.

She was one of the few who Mitral and Error trusted to see their queen vulnerable like this. The Pearlcatcher never judged, and Mitral felt more grateful for her loyalty and secrecy with each passing day.

“Could you send for Hellhound, please?”

“Sir.” Tijah nodded and closed the door without another word.

It wasn’t long before her task was fulfilled. A handful of minutes passed, and then Hellhound burst through the door with all the subtlety of a cavorting greattusk.

“Error, my love!” The drake bellowed. “Who has brought you grief today? I’ll bring you their head on a pike, and drop the rest from your tower!”

Error, albeit unmoving, hid a snort under Mitral’s wing. Hellhound was all bared teeth and sharp words—and fluff. So much fluff—but the battleworn warrior was the only one capable of drawing a laugh from Error. Mitral scooted himself and Error aside to make room for their shaggy companion. Hellhound gladly flopped on the offered space, and in spite of his size, gently pressed his fluffy hide on Error’s other side. Their queen made no noise but a hum of contentment as her two mates sandwiched her with warmth.

Mitral took a good long look at the smile that wound up Hellhound’s face. As happy as the Tundra made Error, Mitral was glad that Error brought happiness to Hellhound as well. The drake was a mishandled beast, heavily scarred beneath his thick winter coat and—when Mitral first met him—adorned with dozens of bandages. Hellhound had been a war-dog, serving Gladekeeper-knows-who for Gladekeeper-knows-why. And when the war was done, a wounded Hellhound had been abandoned on the battlefield as a casualty of war, tallied down like a mere statistic—like his loyalty meant nothing. As Hellhound bared a skeletal grin and bumped heads with Error, Mitral thought fiercely—maybe a little passionately—that the drake’s loyalty meant everything now.

“My love,” Mitral roused Error’s attention with a touch on her cheek.

Error opened one eye a fraction to see where he was, then closed it again and successfully bumped foreheads with him too. Mitral melted inside.

“Does it still hurt?” he asked. Such questions had become routine to help Error and her two mates understand what she was feeling and why, but this time, Mitral was given a swift reply.

“No,” Error said confidently. With the grace and pomp of a proper queen, she cozied herself better between her two mates and dragged each of their wings closer until she was blanketed by one limb from each of her drakes. Error laid her head down on her crossed claws, her tail twining first with Mitral’s, then capturing Hellhound’s as well in the embrace.

“It doesn’t hurt,” she assured Mitral without hesitation. “Not anymore.”
Red veined wings flutter softly,
Eyes of forest leaves open and dart slowly.
A crackleblood fae, some would say,
But when a heart meets his, they know him, truly.

A soft song of the beating of life,
Hearing it thrum in ears when in strife.
He comes, he knows, he eases those who warred,
Not only pain, but a deep down, growing hurt.

Red, crimson, the colour of lifeblood,
Drawn together from lives aflood.
Healing each other, mayhaps they are,
Slowly, quietly, perhaps in time they will part.

Masks he removes, be they hurt or cold.
It's not much difference, weather they are either foretold.
A heart to a heart, pain to pain,
Soft wings brush the hurt and return it whence it came.

-Poem by the amazing Flitt