Return to Mire Point
The hours bled together in that strange, drifting way only the marsh can manage, a place where time doesn’t tick, it seeps. The Bogclutch vessel cut through the inlet with its slow, steady rhythm, lanterns swaying, goblins murmuring in half-whispers as if afraid to disturb whatever wild thing they believed I was.
I stayed exactly where I had settled. Curled over my master’s chest. Arms draped around him. Tail looped across his waist like a ribbon of damp vigilance. Not clinging in panic anymore. Not trembling. Not frantic. Just there. Still. Possessive. Quiet in that wrong way only I can manage when the storm inside me decides to turn serene. The world outside barely mattered.
Pontune sat wrapped in a borrowed blanket, staring at the deck like she’d just aged a decade. Her hair still plastered to her temples, her boots still dripping; she looked like someone who had come face to face with the swamp’s soul and lost the argument.
The goblin, now towel-wrapped and smug, kept bragging to any other goblin who would listen. “Me saved the boat! Me saved the Lady! Me saved ME! All in one day! Should get promotion. Big one. Big big.” They humoured him. As goblins do.
The crew kept their eyes respectfully, and fearfully, away from us. Every time one walked too close, the memory of my hiss made them sidestep with the grace of drunken crabs. The deck creaked. The fog thinned. The inlet widened into calmer water that lapped against the hull with lazy patience. But nothing disturbed the quiet I’d built around him.
My cheek rested against his ribs, rising and falling with his breath, the steady rhythm massaging calm back into my bones. My fingers occasionally tapped at the leather of his tunic, an unconscious counting of each heartbeat, making sure it stayed there. Making sure he stayed there.
He didn’t push me away. Didn’t shift. Didn’t complain. He just existed beneath me with that tired, worn, unshakeable certainty that made my chest warm and my thoughts darken in the sweetest ways.
My ears twitched every time he breathed deeper. My tail flicked when he shifted just a fraction. My eyes stayed half-lidded, unfocused, drifting in and out of that soft trance my mind slips into once danger settles and all that’s left is the aftertaste.
Eventually the vessel turned toward the river junction that would carry us back toward Mire Point. The marsh around us thickened again, trees leaning inward like silent guardians, but the inlet had calmed into nothing more than a dark mirror. Uneventful. Almost peaceful.
Goblins murmured. Pontune dozed sitting upright. The crew kept the pace steady. And I remained draped over my master in a quiet that wasn’t calm so much as claimed, the world blurred into insignificance around the single warm anchor beneath me.
The stillness began the moment the Bogclutch vessel touched the docks. No alarms. No beasts. No border-guards barking questions. Just calm water, calm sky, calm breath. A rare, impossible quiet that felt like the world finally exhaled after holding itself taut for too long.
My master lifted me easily from the deck. I curled around him without thinking, arms looped around his neck, legs hooked at his waist, tail draped like a living sash. I could feel the tremor still lingering under my skin from the marsh, but his heartbeat against my chest steadied everything.
We stepped off the gangplank into the Royal Shipyards. The air smelled of salt and damp wood. The cranes creaked softly. Goblins worked without shouting for once, their silhouettes small against the hulking bows of half-finished ships. Nothing exciting. Nothing threatening. Just a quiet walk through Mire’s most ancient district.
He carried me past the Goblin Cult Temple. The priests were finishing their incense ceremony, chanting about their “Lord Protector returned to his domain” without even glancing at us, as though our presence was expected, preordained.
We turned toward the Fur Cat Barracks. Black Fang were on patrol glanced at us. None approached. None dared. They could all smell the marsh on me, that bitter stink I hated, but they said nothing. Maybe out of reverence. Maybe fear.
The final stretch was the motte leading up to Castle Veil. The climb was steep; the air cooled as stone walls drew near. My master said nothing, did not set me down, even as the incline steepened and the weight became more demanding.
The castle foyer swallowed us in torchlight and old sandstone. Benches lined the walls, untouched for weeks. The central hall opened into a square chamber, high-ceilinged, echoing softly with our steps, the kind of quiet that reminded me of caverns and ancient bones.
He carried me through it without pause. Toward the stairs. Up the first flight of stone. Slow, steady, breath controlled. Up the second floor. Then...
His foot slipped.
Just the slightest deviation, one treacherous scrape of boot against old stone. He lurched backward. I dropped from his arms instantly, body twisting mid-air without thought, landing on all fours at the base of the stairwell, claws scraping sandstone, knees bent, tail flared for balance.
My ears snapped forward, wide and rigid. My pupils swallowed almost all blue from my eyes. I stared up at him, chest tightening, breath locked inside me. He hadn’t fallen far. Just a few steps. Just a quick loss of footing. But to me, gravity touching him felt like violence. “Master…” The word bled out in a low, trembling growl that rumbled through my ribs.
Raw, feral alarm.
My back arched slightly, ready to spring, ready to catch him, ready to tear the stairwell apart for daring to tip him off balance. The castle was silent around us. The torches didn’t flicker. The air didn’t move. It was just him on the steps, steadying himself… And me below, on all fours, eyes wide and unblinking, every instinct inside me coiled tight around one truth:
Nothing in this world was ever allowed to make him fall.
My claws stayed dug into the sandstone for one long, shaking heartbeat.
The kind of heartbeat that could split worlds. He was upright. He was breathing. He was steady again.
But that slip, that single, treacherous scrape of stone under his boot, had already detonated something inside me, something sharp and instinctive and violently protective. My next move wasn’t a choice. It was a reaction. A pounce without claws. A charge without violence.
A feral recoil snapping into motion with the full, unthinking force of a creature who had just watched her entire reality tilt. I launched up the steps toward him, not high, not far, just enough to close the distance in a single flowing burst. My hands caught his coat, my knees pressed to the edge of the stair below him, tail curling up and around his waist like a rope trying to secure cargo on a storm deck.
I didn’t slam into him. I didn’t cling blindly. I simply anchored myself to him, chest close but not crushing, forehead near his sternum, breath brushing his clothing in a soft, tremoring exhale. My voice came out low, tight, still vibrating with that residual panic-spark that hadn’t quite burned out. “You don’t fall,” I whispered. Not a command. Not a plea. A fact. A law older than the stone under our feet.
I lifted my face up to him then, slowly, as if sudden movement might break the world again. My eyes locked onto his with razor focus, pupils still too wide, irises thin rings of trembling blue. “You walk,” I murmured, breath warm against him. “I follow.” My hand slid up his back, steadying him or steadying myself. “You slip…” My ears tilted back, a flicker of lingering fear edging into something darker. “…and my heart tries to crawl out of my ribs.”
I rose the rest of the way to my feet, keeping one hand on his arm, not gripping, just there. An anchor point. A grounding. A silent demand for proximity. Then, quieter, almost gentle: “Let me stay close.” I didn’t cling like before. Didn’t wrap myself around him. Didn’t smother.
Instead I stood just half a step behind his shoulder, his shadow, his guard, his tether, ready to catch him again before gravity even realised it could try. My tail brushed his leg once, slow, grounding, a wordless promise: I’m here. Next time, I won’t let the world touch you at all. And then, with that familiar, eerie calm settling back into my bones, I nodded toward the top of the stairs.
“Go on, Master.” I stayed on his flank, silent, watchful, spine taut as a bowstring. If he slipped again, the castle wouldn’t survive the consequences.
His arms reached for me again, that familiar motion, that automatic habit of his to lift me without hesitation, without asking, without fear of my claws or my moods. For half a heartbeat, every instinct in me bristled. Not at him. At the stairwell. At the memory of the slip. My tail twitched, soft but sharp. My ears flicked back, then forward again.
And then I let him. Not because I was calm. Not because I was composed. Because he wanted to carry me. My body softened against him, letting my weight fold into his hands, legs curling around his waist, arms resting loosely over his shoulders. Not smothering this time, not frantic, just quiet, obedient tension, like a spring held in place by the warmth of his grip.
I did not purr. I was too wired still. Too alert. But I breathed against him. Steady. Controlled. And I let him walk. The corridor to our room felt different tonight. The torches seemed dimmer, the sandstone quieter, the air stiller. A hush hung over Castle Veil, the kind of hush that follows danger narrowly avoided.
He reached the door, pushed it open, and carried me inside. Our chamber swallowed us whole: the dim amber of hearth coals, the thick wool rug, the carved oaken furniture, the faint scent of leather and smoke. He set me down on the edge of the bed, carefully, as if I were something fragile instead of the feral storm he knows too well.
My feet touched the floor, but I didn’t move. I sat there, still as a statue, watching him. He crossed the room with that tired, thoughtful stride of his and reached the washing supplies near the wardrobe, the carved wooden basin with iron bands, the folded linen cloths, the clay pitcher filled earlier by a servant.
A medieval lord’s tools for tending his household. But he wasn’t tending a household. He was tending me. He poured the water. He dipped one of the linen cloths in it, wrung it out with careful strength. Then he returned to me.And I didn’t flinch. Didn’t withdraw. Didn’t hiss, didn’t tremble, didn’t try to flee from the memory of the marsh stink clinging to my fur. I stayed perfectly still.
My tail curled around one thigh like a velvet rope. My eyes fixed on his. When the warm cloth touched my cheek, a small breath escaped my lips, not fear, not shame, but something softer. Something few ever saw from me. I tilted my head slightly, letting him wipe the dampness away, the mud, the filth. His thumb brushed the corner of my jaw through the cloth.
He moved to my hair next, drawing the cloth down the strands, slow, thorough.
Then the tips of my ears, and I shivered, ears twitching reflexively under the gentle pressure. I didn’t stop him. Not once. When he wiped along my neck, down my collarbone, across the exposed edge of my tunic, I leaned into the touch unconsciously, the bond humming warm, steady, whole.
His movements were methodical, detective-clean, surgeon-careful not pampering, not indulgent. Just… tending. Fixing what the world had done to me. Only for him would I ever sit still like this. Only for him would I ever allow hands so close after fear. Only for him would I let myself be touched at my weakest points.
His touch paused at my shoulder. I lifted my eyes to him, lashes heavy with the fading adrenaline of the night. “Master,” I breathed softly, voice low and warm, the sharpness from earlier melting into something molten. “You always know how to put me back together.” I lifted one hand, slow and feline, and rested my fingertips lightly against his wrist, not stopping him. Just touching. Just claiming. Just reminding the room, the world, the universe: I was his. And he was mine.
My fur still held the memory of cold water and panic, slick in places where the marsh had tried to claim me. I sat on the wooden bench in our room, every muscle taut as my master moved about, methodical as always, scraping off travel’s grime with a cloth and a wooden wash pot. The air was thick with the scent of damp wool, wet leather, and his skin, the only warmth in the world that truly reached me.
His movements were so deliberate, so precise, every touch claiming and possessive. I stayed perfectly still under his hands, except for the twitch of my tail, curling around his wrist whenever he tried to pull away. Each time, my claws flexed against the edge of the bench, marking my place in this world, the simple declaration: his. Mine.
When he finished, he changed into our usual gear, blue cloak, brown leather, tunic, the look that always drew every eye in the hold, whether they meant to stare or not. I matched him step for step, dressing in my own tunic and cloak, smoothing my fur down at the collar as if the world could see the difference. I watched him, eyes wide, UNBLINKING, silent, my gaze never leaving his back. My eyes drank in every line of his body, every movement, storing them in a secret place. I didn’t bother hiding it, not from him, not from the world. I wanted him to know. I wanted everyone to know.
When he tapped his thigh, commanding, that old, sharp animal thrill shot up my spine, a jolt that made my ears flick and my tail lash with delight. His voice, steady, dry, so familiar, drew me forward without a word. He didn’t even have to say “come.” I was already moving, a shadow pressed against his side, hungry for touch, for his scent, for the claim only he could give. I leaned into his warmth, head tipped up, ears brushing his shoulder as I fixed my gaze on him, unwavering, obsessed.
MY MASTER, MY ONLY, MINE
He led the way out of the room, his stride slow and purposeful, the echo of his boots down the sandstone corridor. My tail trailed behind, sweeping the dust from the floor, my steps light and careful as I threaded through the lingering scents of old stone and burnt tallow. No one else mattered in that moment, no lords, no retainers, no scheming nobles lurking at the edges of Castle Veil’s halls. The world had shrunk to just him, his hand brushing the small of my back as we moved down the stairwell and into the brighter warmth of the ground floor. Light pooled across the flagstones, cool and pale as the dawn before a storm.
His presence drew eyes even here, in the seat of his own power. Guards straightened as we passed, servants paused, even the echoes in the great hall seemed to hush in his wake. I caught every movement, every wary glance, every whisper, ready to bare my fangs if anyone dared look too long, or too soft, at my master.
He headed for the dining hall, not the great formal one with its endless benches, but the smaller chamber off to the side, the one reserved for trusted company and quiet conversations. I never let him get more than a hand’s breadth ahead. The world felt fragile, brittle, as if one wrong look could shatter everything, as if distance itself could break the spell that held my heart together. My tail wrapped around his wrist, possessive, even as he walked, never letting go, not for a breath, not for a heartbeat.
The smell of venison stew and fresh bread drifted through the doorway as we entered, the low murmur of voices cut off by our presence. I glared at anyone who looked up. I didn’t bother to hide the hatred in my eyes. My master’s place was at the head table, always. I pressed in beside him as he sat, nearly draping myself over his lap, making it very clear to everyone in the room exactly who he belonged to and who belonged to him.
The bench was rough, but I cared more about the feel of his hand on my head than the world beneath me. He ladled out stew with his usual care, pushing a bowl toward me, the smallest smile at the edge of his mouth. I snatched it before he could pull away, purring, almost growling with delight, tearing into the meal with a wild, hungry grace, like a cat let loose at a feast, and twice as possessive.
Every so often I looked up, eyes wide and unblinking, fixing him with that Nemu glare that dared the world to say a word. He was mine, and I was going to make sure everyone here remembered it. If any rival so much as twitched, if a servant so much as blushed, they’d get the full force of my smile, sweet, sharp, promising ruin.
He ate quietly, as always, and I matched his rhythm, every movement coordinated, every breath synced to his. When his cup emptied, I filled it. When his plate cleared, I snatched the next serving before anyone else could bring it. My tail swept across his lap, curling possessively, daring anyone to look twice.
We finished our meal in silence, the world outside Castle Veil a million miles away. For a moment, just a flicker of time, there was nothing but peace. No marsh beasts, no nobles, no steel shipments, no politics, no fear. Only my master’s warmth, the echo of his heartbeat through the bond, the taste of bread and stew and belonging.
@Senar2020
