Bertrand and the Firelord
When Fin asked me for a grumpy Owl, I was all set to do him just the owl.. but then an idea formed.. what about a portrait of my beloved Firemage holding said grumpy owl. Fin loved the image, and so I set out to write this tale.
Fin, my beloved, this is my gift to you, with all my love and devotion.
Fin, my beloved, this is my gift to you, with all my love and devotion.
This is Bertrand.
Bertrand is a Halloween owl.
Bertrand is ancient, wise, mildly cursed, and very done with shenanigans.
He did not ask to be summoned. He did not RSVP to this ridiculous soirée of sparkles, smoke, and seasonal whimsy. He was forcibly recruited, via magical parchment, no less, into the clutches of a man who dresses like a sexy candle.
The man in question?
Fin.
A tall, smug, silver-haired sorcerer with flame-embroidered robes so dramatic they can only be described as "Lucius Malfoy if he was trying to summon pumpkin spice." Fin is elegance. Fin is power. Fin is, unfortunately, Bertrand’s current ride.
And there Bertrand sits.
In the man's perfectly moisturized palm.
Like a judgmental feathered squash.
“I cannot believe you dragged me out of my nice, haunted gourd to stand here and be festive,” Bertrand mutters through his beak, his eyes narrowed into the expression of a creature who has survived three witch trials and still doesn’t believe in your nonsense.
Fin merely arches a brow, glowing embers woven into the folds of his cloak as if to say “You’re adorable when you’re cranky.”
Bertrand refuses to be adorable.
He fluffs his feathers in rage.
And then... he sees them.
The pansies.
“Oh for the love of crows, Fin,” Bertrand hisses, glaring down at the flowerbed with all the subtlety of a hexed tax auditor. “What is this? Lavender pansies? PURPLE pansies? In autumn? What are you, some kind of horticultural anarchist?”
Fin remains unbothered. He gives the pansies a pointed look, then smiles at Bertrand with all the smug satisfaction of someone who has absolutely no intention of defending his landscaping choices.
“The contrast, darling,” he says, voice smooth as haunted velvet. “It pops.”
Bertrand lets out a sound that might be a growl or indigestion.
“I pop. The flowers clash. You’re going to be mocked at the next Familiar Council. Do you want to be remembered as the Firelord with the floral aesthetic of a cursed cupcake?”
Fin, of course, does not reply. Because Fin knows Bertrand.
He knows that behind the judgemental stare and vocal flower slander, Bertrand secretly loves being held like a gothic handbag in the middle of a forest full of whimsical peril. He lives for the drama.
And just as Bertrand is preparing his final monologue about how the glowing chimney smoke is "a bit much, even for Halloween," a single spark of magic twirls through the air.
It lands squarely on Bertrand’s beak.
The owl sneezes.
Tiny firework.
Silence.
“…You planned that,” Bertrand growls.
Fin smiles like a villain who absolutely planned that.
---
Moral of the story?
Never judge a wizard by his pansies.
Especially one who dresses like autumn made a deal with the devil and came back with cheekbones.
This is Bertrand.
He did not sign up for this nonsense.
But he’s here.
And he looks fabulous.
Even if the pansies are a disgrace.
Bertrand is a Halloween owl.
Bertrand is ancient, wise, mildly cursed, and very done with shenanigans.
He did not ask to be summoned. He did not RSVP to this ridiculous soirée of sparkles, smoke, and seasonal whimsy. He was forcibly recruited, via magical parchment, no less, into the clutches of a man who dresses like a sexy candle.
The man in question?
Fin.
A tall, smug, silver-haired sorcerer with flame-embroidered robes so dramatic they can only be described as "Lucius Malfoy if he was trying to summon pumpkin spice." Fin is elegance. Fin is power. Fin is, unfortunately, Bertrand’s current ride.
And there Bertrand sits.
In the man's perfectly moisturized palm.
Like a judgmental feathered squash.
“I cannot believe you dragged me out of my nice, haunted gourd to stand here and be festive,” Bertrand mutters through his beak, his eyes narrowed into the expression of a creature who has survived three witch trials and still doesn’t believe in your nonsense.
Fin merely arches a brow, glowing embers woven into the folds of his cloak as if to say “You’re adorable when you’re cranky.”
Bertrand refuses to be adorable.
He fluffs his feathers in rage.
And then... he sees them.
The pansies.
“Oh for the love of crows, Fin,” Bertrand hisses, glaring down at the flowerbed with all the subtlety of a hexed tax auditor. “What is this? Lavender pansies? PURPLE pansies? In autumn? What are you, some kind of horticultural anarchist?”
Fin remains unbothered. He gives the pansies a pointed look, then smiles at Bertrand with all the smug satisfaction of someone who has absolutely no intention of defending his landscaping choices.
“The contrast, darling,” he says, voice smooth as haunted velvet. “It pops.”
Bertrand lets out a sound that might be a growl or indigestion.
“I pop. The flowers clash. You’re going to be mocked at the next Familiar Council. Do you want to be remembered as the Firelord with the floral aesthetic of a cursed cupcake?”
Fin, of course, does not reply. Because Fin knows Bertrand.
He knows that behind the judgemental stare and vocal flower slander, Bertrand secretly loves being held like a gothic handbag in the middle of a forest full of whimsical peril. He lives for the drama.
And just as Bertrand is preparing his final monologue about how the glowing chimney smoke is "a bit much, even for Halloween," a single spark of magic twirls through the air.
It lands squarely on Bertrand’s beak.
The owl sneezes.
Tiny firework.
Silence.
“…You planned that,” Bertrand growls.
Fin smiles like a villain who absolutely planned that.
---
Moral of the story?
Never judge a wizard by his pansies.
Especially one who dresses like autumn made a deal with the devil and came back with cheekbones.
This is Bertrand.
He did not sign up for this nonsense.
But he’s here.
And he looks fabulous.
Even if the pansies are a disgrace.
