𝓢𝓲𝓵𝓴𝔂 𝓱𝓪𝓲𝓻 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓻𝓮𝓶𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓼 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓸𝓾𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓭 !!!

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

previously, part 5 - ⍣ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐝'𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 - 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟'𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧‗ ❍

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

•writer's note•

ᴴᵉˡˡᵒ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵒⁿᵉ! ᴵ ʳᵉᵗᵘʳⁿ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ᵒᶠ ᵃ ˡⁱᵍʰᵗʰᵉᵃʳᵗᵉᵈ ᵖᵒˢᵗ ⁻ ʷʰⁱᶜʰ ⁱˢ ᵐʸ ᵍⁱᶠᵗ ᶠᵒʳ ᵐʸ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳˢ ᶠᵒʳ Cₕᵣᵢₛₜₘₐₛ ^ᵘ^

ᴵ ʰᵃᵛᵉⁿ'ᵗ ᵖᵒˢᵗᵉᵈ ⁱⁿ qᵘⁱᵗᵉ ᵃ ʷʰⁱˡᵉ ᵇᵉᶜᵃᵘˢᵉ ᴵ'ᵛᵉ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ʷᵒʳᵏⁱⁿᵍ ᵒⁿ ᵐʸ ᵈʳᵃᶠᵗˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵃᵖᵗᵉʳ ᵒᶠ ᵐʸ ˡⁱᵗᵗˡᵉ ˢᵗᵒʳʸ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉˢᵉ ᵗʷᵒ ˡⁱᵗᵗˡᵉ ᵇᵘⁿⁿⁱᵉˢ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᴵ ʰᵒˡᵈ ˢᵒ ᵈᵉᵃʳ ᵗᵒ ᵐʸ ʰᵉᵃʳᵗ ⁻ ᵗʰᵉ ⁿᵃᵐᵉˡᵉˢˢ ˡᵒʷ ʳᵃⁿᵏⁱⁿᵍ ᵐᵒⁿᵏ, ʳᵉᶠᵉʳʳᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ ᵃˢ "ᴹⁱᵍᵘᵉˡ" ⁽ᵇʸ ᴬˢᵗʳⁱᵈ⁾, ᵃⁿᵈ ᴬˢᵗʳⁱᵈ ˢᵃᵈᵈˡᵉʳ ⁽ᵗʰᵉ ʰⁱᵍʰ ᵖʳⁱᵉˢᵗᵉˢˢ ᵒᶠ ᴸᵒˢ ᴵˡˡᵘᵐⁱⁿᵃᵈᵒˢ⁾ :)

[ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵗᵃᵏᵉˢ ˢᵒᵐᵉ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ᵗᵒ ˢᵒʳᵗ ᵒᵘᵗ, ᵃˢ ᵘ ᵐⁱᵍʰᵗ'ᵛᵉ ᵃˡʳᵉᵃᵈʸ ᵍᵘᵉˢˢᵉᵈ ᵘ.ᵘ ]

ʰᵒᵖᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ᵉⁿʲᵒʸ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵐᵉʳʳʸ ʰᵒˡⁱᵈᵃʸˢ ᵃⁿᵈ Cₕᵣᵢₛₜₘₐₛ ᵗᵒ ʸᵒᵘ ᵃˡˡ :> ♡♡♡

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬: 𝐀𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐝 𝐒𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐫 (𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐈𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐬), "𝐌𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥" (𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲, 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 ---> <<𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬)

ᴱᵛᵉⁿᵗ ˢᵖᵃᶜⁱⁿᵍ: ᴿᴱ⁴ ⁻ ᶜᵃˢᵗˡᵉ ᵒᶠ ᴸᵒˢ ᴵˡˡᵘᵐⁱⁿᵃᵈᵒˢ, ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵃᵐᵇᵉʳ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ʰⁱᵍʰ ᵖʳⁱᵉˢᵗᵉˢˢ.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Astrid stood behind Miguel as he sat on a low stool in the quiet corner of her quarters. Miguel’s long hair, dark as a oak's crust, fell in a curtain around his shoulders, reaching almost to the middle of his back. Astrid combed through it gently with her fingers first, the motion slow and deliberate, a soft intimacy lingering in every touch.

“You’ve been letting it grow again,” Astrid remarked, though there was a note of fondness beneath her words.

Miguel, sitting still with his hands resting on his knees, tilted his head slightly as though to listen better. “Is that a complaint?” he asked dryly, though his tone lacked any real edge.

“Not at all,” she replied quickly, her fingertips still tracing through the silky strands. “I like it this way. It suits you.”

He exhaled slowly, his shoulders loosening a fraction under her touch, though his posture remained guarded—old habits of tension that hadn’t fully left him. “I doubt it makes me look any more impressive than the others,” he muttered.

Astrid smiled faintly at his remark. “You don’t need to try to impress anyone. Not me, not anyone here,” she told him softly. “You’re enough as you are.”

Miguel didn’t respond, but she noticed the way his breathing deepened ever so slightly. Taking the wooden comb that rested beside her, Astrid began to carefully work through the tangles in his hair, starting at the ends. Her touch was light, patient, as though each strand was something precious.

“Did someone do this for you when you were young?” Miguel asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

Astrid paused momentarily before answering. “No.” Her voice was even, but there was a slight tightness to it. “But I always wanted someone to.”

Miguel frowned faintly, though he kept his gaze lowered, fixed somewhere ahead. He didn’t press her for more. Astrid’s relationship with her father was a subject that lingered on the edges of their conversations like shadows—unavoidable but often unspoken. Instead, he said quietly, “You’re gentle.”

“Sometines I too find that surprising.” she spoke softly, though she couldn’t help but feel her heart ache a little at the sincerity in his tone.

She began to weave his hair into a loose braid, her fingers deft and sure, as though she’d done this for years—even though she hadn’t. Occasionally, she would hum softly under her breath, a gentle tune without words, filling the silence between them like a warmth. Miguel didn’t comment, but he sat there quietly, listening, his presence still and contemplative.

When she tied off the end of the braid with a simple ribbon, Astrid stepped back to ire her work. “There. You look… dignified.”

Miguel let out a short, quiet laugh that surprised even himself. “Dignified? I’m not sure that word suits me.”

Astrid came around to stand in front of him, her expression soft and serious. “It does,” she said firmly. “It suits you because you’ve endured so much, and yet, here you are.”

He lifted his head to face her, his eyes holding hers for a long moment. There was something unreadable in his gaze, a mix of wariness and gratitude. “And what about you?” he asked. “You’ve endured much more.”

Astrid shook her head gently, lowering herself to kneel in front of him. She placed her hand lightly on his knee. “Who knows. Besides, we’re not keeping score, Miguel.”

For a moment, the room was silent again, save for the distant sound of wind against the stone walls. Miguel reached up with a hesitant hand and touched the braid she had made, his fingers tracing its pattern. There was an unspoken vulnerability in the gesture, as though he were acknowledging something tender that he rarely allowed himself to feel.

“It feels... interesting. Does it look good?”

Astrid smiled at him, her thumb brushing lightly against the fabric of his tros before she rose again. “It's beautiful. I’ll do it again tomorrow, if you’ll let me.”

Miguel didn’t answer right away, but the faintest ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “We’ll see,” he said softly, though they both knew he wouldn’t say no.

As she stepped back, leaving him sitting there in the light of the fading sun, Astrid felt a quiet warmth settle in her chest. For all the struggles that surrounded them—for all the weight that Miguel carried silently—this small moment was theirs. A braid, a touch, a quiet understanding. A fragile piece of solace in a world that often gave them none.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

𝑀𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝒷𝓎 𝒞𝑜_𝒟𝒽𝑒𝑒𝒶

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟