#baronyofthesilverwolf

Mavis says something as she passes, but it's ignored.

Soon she approaches... the library! The sound of soft conversation from within.

She smiles, and sneaks in.

The library is a quiet sanctuary of wood and parchment, the air thick with the scent of old books and soft lamplight.

Art is hunched over a large, ancient tome, his brow furrowed in concentration as he turns its pages with care. His deep focus on the text means he does not immediately notice the figure standing just beyond the threshold.

Fornax, perched on a stack of books nearby, DOES notice and watches Thistle’s entrance with a curious tilt of its head, the tiny wings on his back fluttering excitedly as his bright, purple eyes flicker from Thistle to Art. He let's out a soft trill, his voice echoing as he recites: "Glistening, ethereal, luminous... sublime."

Art responds distractedly. "Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right. All of those things and more." He turns another page, his attention still on the book in his hands.

Thistle smiles at the little dragon.

And gently lays a hand on Art's shoulder - a very different one, uncalloused, with slender, elegant fingers and manicured nails. No knobby knuckles or chipped polish or burns from the soldering iron.

Why, it's practically perfect.

Art’s eyes drag slowly, reluctantly from the pages, his focus shifting to the hand on his shoulder, then to the figure standing before him.

"Do you mind? This is a very interesting treatise on how the boundaries between dreams and waking blur during the long winter nights, and how changelings once bound their power...
...

...to...

...to the... uh. The solstice’s magic..."

He trails off.

"Hello, Art." She leans in and kisses his forehead.

Art looks up again, his expression a little more puzzled. He blinks a few times as he takes in Thistle's new appearance, clearly thrown off. He scratches his head and sets the book down slowly, eyes still flicking between the pages and Thistle, and he rubs his eyes - eye strain from reading in the dim light for too long?

"Thistle...?" he repeats, voice soft but uncertain. "You look... different. It's, uh, not bad, just... unexpected." He studies her with a furrowed brow, his tone a little confused, not quite connecting all the dots.

"Thistle." She beams, as bright as the sun after a storm, casting rainbows through a just-washed sky.

"Alteration, transformation, metamorphosis, modification, shift, variation." The bookwyrm peeps.

"Do you like it?"

Art reaches up slowly to touch her cheek, his fingers brushing where the swirls had once been. His eyes carry a hint of confusion as he looks at her with a furrowed brow.

"It's... different," he says quietly, his voice soft and unsure. "What happened?"

Fornax hops a bit and says, a bit pointedly, "Admire - appreciate, esteem, favor, respect, treasure."

"There were these cookies. Gwen's a boggan, like her mom...."

"Blossom got to be a bird. Pooka, but a bird, like she loves."

"Are you... happy?" He takes one of her hands, examining the fingers - the soft delicate pads that have never known a callus, the perfectly manicured nails.

He shakes his head a bit. "The implications of such a change are... mind-boggling!"

"How do you FEEL?"

Her eyes shine, full of hope. "Pretty."

"But..." He looks puzzled.

"You were always pretty."

A hesitation, less certain.

"Did... did I never tell you that?" Suddenly he looks worried, and holds onto her hand as if afraid she will flee.

"...but... this is... isn't this better? This is perfect."

Fornax mutters, "Dolt: blockhead, dimwit, dullard, numskull, simpleton."

He runs a hand through his hair, not realizing how it falls perfectly to frame his face where it is absently dropped. "You... are beautiful, yes." Art stammers, but looks rather uncertain. He looks at her hair - what color IS her hair?

All of them - a tumble of silken rainbow curls, gently ombred from one hue to the other. Pastels, like a watercolor, soft and delicate and flawless.

No dark roots, no frizz, no awkward spot behind her ear that she always misses.

"Is this who you want to be?" He asks. He touches that spot that always seems to be the 'wrong' shade, letting his fingers gently trace the curve of her suddenly perfect, pointed ear.

"I had to show you. I wanted you to see." Why does this seem like it's still going wrong? She's a sidhe now, she's supposed to be perfect. Flawless. She should be enough.

Art holds her gaze, his voice sincere.

"If I wanted perfect, I’d be chasing after someone like Nadeen, or Mavis, or any of those courtly ladies who spend their days gliding through parlors and gardens. They’re hothouse roses—beautiful, sure, but fragile. Every one of them the same, and to me? Utterly bland."

His grip on her hands tightens slightly - more grounding than to try to hold her back. "But you—Thistle—you’re not a rose coddled and pruned into shape. You’re a... a wildflower growing from stone, stronger and more, uh... vibrant, because you had to fight to bloom. You’ve got edges, grit, the kind of beauty that’s alive, full of life and spark and soul."

"You always were perfect. You still are, even under this... lovely shell."

Something cracks, and she starts to pull her hand away.

"To... uh. To answer your questions. I do like it... you... but because it's you."

He pulls her hand BACK.

"Did, uh. Did you know?"

He reaches and touches the crown of her hair, just above her forehead.

Art isn't a beefcake, no strong warrior, but his grip right now is FIRM.

"I... I knew I was - am- your friend... I..."

"Not that." He smiles at her, a little uncertain, but... standing, he pulls her in - and gives her a very firm, very thorough kiss.

She could break away. He's not restraining her.

A soft noise of surprise. It takes a second before she melts into the kiss, returning it.

"I meant..." when he pauses for air, "That someone put mistletoe in your hair."

She's blushing pink, looking more like herself for it.

"I've wanted to do that for a long time."

Art chuckles softly, his forehead still resting against hers for a moment, his voice warm but teasing. "If I’d realized that... maybe I would have looked for mistletoe a long time ago."

He leans back just enough to look at her fully, his thumb brushing over her hand. "But you know... I don’t need it? I guess I just... got comfortable knowing you were always here. By my side. I think I took you for granted."

Apologetic. "Forgive me for not saying what I thought you already knew."

From his perch, Fornax lets out a plaintive croak, the flutter of his stubby wings betraying agitation. "Neglected: disregarded, ignored, overlooked, passed over!"

"I... I've spent my whole life trying to make beauty. I dream of it, you know?"

"Beauty is life. Imagine that, making that everything. But I always... whatever I dream, I never quite.. could never quite get there."

Art rubs the back of his neck, glancing away for a moment before meeting her eyes again. "I... I know you do, Thistle. Dream of it, I mean. Beauty. And you’re... amazing at it. But, uh… I don’t think perfection is the same thing as beauty."

He fumbles with the words as he tries to explain. "Perfection’s, um… it’s like... it’s too much, too smooth. No cracks to catch your eye, no… no story. It’s like a statue, y’know? Polished and cold." A pause, "No offense to David." A hint of a smile as he continues.

"But real beauty... it’s alive. It’s in the things that have, uh… been through stuff. That’ve been shaped by life. It’s you—your strength, your spark, even when you’re... you’re grumbling at Citrine or… swearing at the soldering iron."

He glances down at the hand he holds. "You don’t need to be perfect to be beautiful, Thistle. You’ve always been beautiful."