Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

These papers seemed stuffy and boring, but you couldn’t care less about Marth’s duties. 

Yes, he was busy, you knew. That was no reason not to relax once in a while!

Marth is sitting in his study now, flipping through pages of old historical books about Archanean politics. A pile of documents is on the desk next to the books. The lamp flickers on the desk, seemingly ready to fizzle out any moment. 

You wonder if you could persuade Marth to rest for the night. He doesn’t startle when you press down on the doorknob to make the door squeak, nor does he seem to mind your presence in the room entirely as you walk over and lean over his shoulder. 

“It’s late.” 

Marth exhales at that, leaning his head toward yours. “I know. I will not be much longer.” 

The words seem well-intentioned, but you doubt that he will hold true to what he says. “Will you?” 

“Yes.” Marth sets down his quill. “It was a coincidence you arrived just in time. Let’s go?” 

You can see that there is still more for him to complete, still more for him to do, but he stands and moves around you to the door. Marth turns back to offer a smile and his hand - even though you do not need guidance around your home, you take Marth’s hand despite that and let him lead you to your bedchambers. 

The Altean wind is cool tonight, giving gooseflesh to your skin as you walk hand-in-hand through the hallways of the castle. It wasn’t long before you reached your bedroom, at least. Marth lets go of your hand to get ready to retire. With nothing else to do, you do the same. Now that the cold season is beginning to trickle into the days further and further, you’re secretly happy Marth wears so many layers: he’s so warm to cuddle up to! Not to mention, the piles and piles of blankets already on the bed makes you wonder if you could bake a loaf of bread under all of the material. 

Tonight is no different. Marth is already in bed once you are finished with your routine, flipping through another book. At the very least, he closes it when you cross the distance and crawl into bed as well, leaning close to him. 

“Good night,” Marth murmurs to you, before pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

Though you mumble back your own ‘good night,’ you don’t think Marth is paying attention. Mostly because he’s slack against the mountains of pillows. How did he fall asleep that easily? It seems a little too quick. Now, you are sweating because there are so many blankets and pillows and Marth, who doesn’t react to anything when he’s asleep. It sounds like a bad idea for when he is on the battlefield, but now there is not a war his sleepiness does seem to be more helpful. You settle against him, wondering when he will start to sleeptalk. 

Chapter Text

Frey was a man with many tales - you can’t help but be enraptured with every lecture he gives, as you feel smarter just by talking to him. He manages to make most of the boring stuff fun. 

Most, that is. You don’t know when you’ll ever need to know how vulneraries are made, just what the effects of them are. 

You don’t know the answer to the questions on your exam. Frey sits with you despite your silence, watching you etch and smear ink over the paper. 

“Do you want a hint?” 

“No, I think I know.” You don’t. You weren’t paying attention no matter how focused you were - it was because you were focused on him, and not the lecture. 

Frey leans back in his chair. “Stop wasting your ink, then,” he chides. “Did you study the material at all?” 

No. “Yes,” you lie, then begin to scribe an answer you know is incorrect. 

The worst part is that you can feel Frey’s disappointment the further you get into your response. You’ve been writing about poultices and then about chickens and animals and the fact that you were very hungry at that moment, maybe not to eat dinner but a snack would be nice. Once you have suitably filled up the page with your chicken scratch, you set your quill down and smile. “I’m done.” 

Frey takes the paper, reading over it even if he knows the obvious. “We’ll need to study this material again. Maybe I should make you write an essay on the history of vulneraries as well?”

That sounds like torture. He’s trying to torture you, isn’t he? 

“How about we pause and eat something first?” A plan already forms in your mind - you will sneak away so you do not have to be lectured. It’s a perfect plan! 

Frey raises an eyebrow - you doubt he’ll fall for it. Much to your delight, though, he sighs and acquiesces to your wishes. "Shall we, then."

There's a kitschy little bakery just a jaunt away from Altea's mighty castle. Frey's horse always loves the attention from its riders as well. The bakery isn't far at all, there are still people milling about the village, carrying pails of water and bags of coin. You glance down to where you keep your purse, feeling the weight of the gold clinking together. It should be more than enough for you and Frey to share - maybe you'll purchase something for his horse as well? Not from the bakery, though. While Frey has not given you descriptive caretaking lessons on horses, you don't think sugary treats are the best things for equines to eat.

Maybe the pegasi could eat those. Not that you would know…

Chapter Text

Peering around the corner of your home proves one thing: Cain is very good at clicking very fast. 

He’s playing one of his video games again, a man in radical armor swinging a giant broadsword around his body to kill tons of bad guys. You watch him for a moment longer, noticing his own health bar being depleted no matter how much he attacks. As soon as the LOSE screen appears bright and red on the monitor, he pulls up the chat and seems very angry at his teammates. 

You can’t claim to tell the difference between the MMORPGs Cain plays in his spare time. Shuffling your feet to indicate your presence, you watch as he pauses mid-word and swivels his chair to look at you. 

“Hey.” 

“Hey, yourself.” You smile at him and he smiles back before returning to his message. It’s only a few more seconds (and way too many words typed) before Cain presses the Return key and sends the message. 

“How is it? The game.” 

“Fun. Nobody knows how to play it, though,” Cain says with a laugh. “Maybe I’ll teach you.” 

There was a time where you wouldn’t get vertigo just by looking at the screen. Still, it could be fun. There’s some time to kill, anyway - might as well make him happy and at least pretend you care about the game. 

So, you take his place in his fancy chair, and Cain brings up another to sit next to you and coach you through the first leg of the single player campaign. You doubted that there would be something for you to get shown the ropes - even if the game is with NPCs that fought in a standardized manner. Cain is the type of person to only play competitive games and then yell at the screen when he loses. That’s fine, of course, but you thought there would be a lot more frustration. 

Cain watches as you press W on the keyboard to let your armored-dudebro march forward in the getup that only the most insane people would wear in war. Seriously, it doesn’t seem very logical to have the characters look like… that. 

“Hey,” Cain says, and you notice a little slimy creature burbling towards your main character. 

“Which button was ‘attack’ again?” 

“...click the mouse.” 

“Oh.” You do just that, watching as your mighty armored guy unsheathes the broadsword from his back to wreak havoc on the little slime guy. It spatters in pixelated gore before melting into the ground. The mystery voice that has been guiding you thus far says that you did a good job defending yourself, but stronger enemies may approach. 

“Don’t get scared but there’s an enemy that’s gonna-” 

You jump despite his warning as a giant, bloody wolf-thing lunges at your little guy with a loud enough sound effect that it has you flinch.

That was not funny. Cain covers his mouth with his hand, but his eyes give it away. “Sorry,” he mumbles, but you doubt he’s sorry in the slightest. 

Chapter Text

The shop that you frequented was quite nice. 

Knickknacks and vintages from eras long ago littered the shelves, and not to mention it was popular enough to get new stock regularly, but quiet enough you could browse in peace without asking others to move around the tiny aisles. 

The shopkeeper was dashing, too. Not that a romance with him would be up for sale, but you could dream! Abel is so kind and intelligent that you cannot help but fall for him. 

You bring up a handful of random trinkets to where he sits, organizing something that looks like cleaning equipment. “Good morning, Abel.” 

Abel smiles at you, greeting you in turn. “Back again? I’m always happy to see you.”

“Uh- me, too. I’m happy to be here, I mean.” You set down the trinkets before picking up one of the items you brought up. It’s nothing more than a shiny rock, glimmering with iridescent pinks and blues. “Don’t you think this is pretty?”

“It is,” Abel agrees. “The woman who brought it to me said that it belonged to a dragon.” 

“A dragon,” you echo back. You don’t know much about dragons - you’ve never seen one in the flesh, after all - but you would believe it. “It’s pretty enough to be one.” 

“They say that the old dragons were able to take human forms and they adorned their clothing with chiseled gemstones.” Abel pauses for a moment, looking around his back corner before kneeling and bringing out a dusty old book. “They have hypothesized outfits those dragons might have worn, if you’re interested in taking a look?” 

You’re more than happy to oblige. Abel opens the mighty book and flips through a few of the pages to find the one he was speaking to you about moments prior. There are two designs on bodies, ink smudged in the parchment from the exquisite detail that went into each of the outfits. They look mighty, regal… you could easily imagine some divine deity wearing resplendent outfits with thousands of little crystals embedded into them. 

“I think it would hurt to wear all of those gems,” Abel comments with a laugh. “But I can think of a few people that might look lovely in them.” 

“They say there is pain in beauty, isn’t there?” you remark, watching Abel flip to another page with carefully-etched dragons amidst the scrawling script.

He flips through a few more pages to show you the dragons before closing the book entirely once the doorbell chimes with a new customer’s arrival. “I’ll take 100 for all of it.” 

“100?” That’s a bargain. The rock alone looks like it’d be worth more than that. “Are you sure?” 

“Well, I have to make sure my favorite customer keeps coming back, don’t I?” Abel’s smile grows as he procures a leather pouch for you to place the supplies in. It’s an easy transaction, and you hand over the required 100 gold pieces (though you feel like you give a little extra… he can keep it as a tip, if he desires). Saying your goodbyes, you meander out of the store. 

Wait. No. You turn around and walk back in. Abel raises an eyebrow, and so does the new customer inside the store, but you could hardly care. 

“Do you ever take days off?” you ask. “Because I would like to spend time with you when you are free.” 

“Ah,” Abel doesn’t meet your eyes. “Tonight? Come by before sundown.” 

“Right, then.” You feel like your cheeks might explode, but you did it! Without another word, you scurry out of the store. It wasn’t like your question wasn’t met with an enthusiastic response, but it still feels weird to even attempt to court him! 

Chapter Text

You didn’t know how to ride a horse.

Sure, you’ve been training under Jagen’s wing for quite a long time now. Foot combat was one beast in itself. But on a horse? You don’t even know how to ride a horse, much less fight on one! Jagen stands next to you while you look at his own mighty steed up-and-down. First of all, his horse is so tall you can’t even get on it. Second of all, Jagen doesn’t seem to want to help you. 

“What if you get knocked off your horse in battle?” is his rhetorical question. “I will not be able to come to your aid.”

There’s no way you can do it without severely angering Jagen’s horse. Nevertheless, he’s looking at you like he wants you to attempt to ride it. “I’m sorry,” you say to the horse, gripping the saddle along its back for purchase. Then, you hoist yourself up. There’s a bit of floundering (and you hear Jagen wince when you accidentally kick the side of his horse - mercifully, he only startles a tad and doesn’t get angry) before you manage to use the stirrup to hoist yourself up, crawling over the horses’ body to settle yourself in the too-big saddle. 

Jagen looks awed, certainly. Or, maybe that’s his ‘he didn’t realize you could succeed’ face, in which case that is interchangeable. “She’ll know what to do if you hold the reins.” 

You scoot forward and reach for the reins, holding them steady in your hands. You don’t expect the horse to do much of anything, but Jagen moves over and pats her back hard enough that she begins to trot.

It’s… bumpy. How does he expect you to fight on a horse? You can hardly hold the reins steady, much less the reins and a weapon! How do archers do it? You’ve heard the rumors of legendary archers, the type that ride horses into the plains and are able to strike a foe across the battlefield. That is serious skill, serious dedication, and serious training - not that you want to be one of those madmen! Jagen has taught you to wield a sword and you know a bit of lancefaire, but-

-you tug on the reins and hope Jagen’s horse will stop. Instead, she veers left and breaks into a faster trot, beginning to pick up speed. How do you stop her? Trying to pull on the reins again only makes her go faster. You can see Jagen standing in the middle of the clearing, and even though he’s quite a ways away his smile is unmistakable. 

At least you’ve impressed him! Hopefully, you will have your own horse. One that is not so tall. And one that knows how to slow down, because you feel a bit nauseated… 

Chapter Text

“Gordin, I don’t think it’s safe to eat this apple.”

It’s a nice day, all things considered. You caught Gordin in the midst of training and managed to make him take a break with you, sitting under the shade of a tree. Of course, hunger struck and though the crabapples are tart you decided that one of them would stave your hunger long enough before supper. 

Gordin, of course, wouldn’t want any of those apples he was shooting down to go to waste. It’s clear that he procured the most edible one, but even in its pristine condition you can’t help but feel how… mushy it is. 

“It was fine before,” Gordin assures you. “It was just the arrow, I promise.” 

“I think if I eat this I’ll get sick.” You squeeze the apple gently and watch the juices spill out of it and run down your hand. “Gordin…” 

“Okay. I’ll get you another one!” He’s already grabbing his quiver and his bow from where he left it, scurrying away from the tree to position himself properly. You attempt to call out after him, saying that it doesn’t matter, it’s fine, but clearly he won’t take no for an answer. 

You watch Gordin grab an arrow from his quiver and slide it into his bow, aiming upwards toward the tree. He squints, readjusts his arm a little, and lets the arrow leave his hand to fly true. 

Thunk!

You hear the impact of the arrow striking the tree, and just an arms reach away a branch falls with two small crabapples attached to them. 

“I did it!” Gordin exclaims, rushing over to where you are relaxing once more. “You saw that, didn’t you? I did it!” 

“You did. That was pretty impressive.” You look up to see the arrow stuck in the tree, loosely hanging on to what is left of the branch that has been broken off. 

Gordin settles down next to you, grabbing the branch to pluck the two apples off of them. It wasn’t even worth it, you decide, as he hands one of them to you and bites into the other. They’re too tart, too gross, and you find that your appetite is gone even if Gordin worked so hard to get you a snack. 

“Do you want mine?” you offer. 

He tilts his head, and chews his own apple as he speaks. “Whash wrong?” 

“Uh. Just don’t feel like eating anymore.” 

Gordin nods, but doesn’t look like he believes you. He takes another bite of his own apple, then shovels in another bite before tossing the pit a ways away where it will be enjoyed by the ants and the ground as nutriment. 

“You can save it for later,” he suggests. “I thought you said you were hungry?” 

Well, you were. You shrug and hand the crabapple to him. It’s not like him to refuse food, and so he takes it and eats it, hopefully enjoying it in lieu of your nonexistent appetite.

Chapter Text

“Hey, can you open this jar for me?” 

Draug is overly modest when it comes to his strength. Even though he’s what most people would refer to as ‘swole,’ he believes he can go further with his training to be even stronger for the people he wants to protect. 

He wants to protect you, of course, among his friends and family and everyone close to him. He’s modest with his strength, but you think Draug likes showing off from time to time to open things you can’t. Such as this jar of sauce, which he takes in his hands and opens easily. The lid decompresses with a loud pop. 

Draug hands the jar back to you. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Leaning over to steal a kiss, you press one to his cheek and go on your merry way to make the rest of the meal. 

You wonder if he’ll catch on to the fact you can open a lot of these jars and bottles, but elect to make him do it despite that. What else would he be able to open? Part of you wants to superglue a few jars shut to see if he’ll be able to break the seal just with his strength. 

…why shouldn’t you do that? 

The superglue is sticky and you get some of it on your hands, but you manage to close the jar of pickles and leave very little sticky residue behind. Draug probably won’t look too closely at the jar, but if he finds out that you’re testing his strength he wouldn’t know what to think. Washing your hands off, you set the jar back in the fridge and go about your business. 

It’s only when you actually need the jar of pickles do you remember that you put superglue on the lid. Draug is in the kitchen with you, helping by cleaning the dishes and throwing out the garbage and generally, being a very helpful, loving man. 

“Are these pickles good?” he asks, holding the jar in his mighty hand. 

You turn and pause, remembering your little plan. “Uh. I don’t think so.” 

Draug hums, looking around the jar for the expiry date. “It doesn’t say when it expired.” 

“Open it and if it looks bad, then just toss it.” This is it. This is the ultimate moment you’ve been waiting for. If he can open something super glued shut, then what can’t he do? He’d be able to rend a boulder in two with just his hands, wouldn’t he? 

Draug grunts as he opens it, but instead of opening it the grass shatters under his tight grip. Out spills glass and pickles and pickle juice. You know you will never be able to step into the kitchen without the pungent scent permeating your very soul. 

“Oh-!” Draug doesn’t move, looking around. “I guess I don’t know my own strength. Could you get me the dustpan? Uh, be careful. There’s glass.” 

You know there’s glass. The rank scent of the pickles tickles your nose and makes it burn - maybe Draug will break something else to counteract the scent (probably not, but you can hope). 

Chapter Text

“Could you hand me the onion powder?” 

Caeda sits over the pot, stirring the stew with a ladle. She had wanted to teach you the basics of outdoor cooking, but brought along a few choice spices to make it taste better; it was only practice, after all, and the chefs were more than happy to provide a few seasonings. You hand over the small jar with the onion powder, watching Caeda give nary a care and dump a good portion of the powder inside. 

“Now the salt, please.” 

For a moment, you rummage through the basket before finding the salt and giving the jar to her. She dumps the entirety of it into the stew before stirring the mixture once again, ladling the broth out. 

“Do you want to try it?” asks Caeda, holding her hand over the dripping ladle.

You lean over to taste the broth. It’s flavorful, even through the paltry amount of spices you’ve added. The meat gives it a delicious flavor, and even if you didn’t pick enough of the herbs Caeda asked you to procure there are earthy undertones that make the savory dish all the better. 

“It’s good!” You lean away from the spoon with a smile. “It’s tasty.” 

“See? Just a little bit of love goes a long way.” Caeda’s delicate hand reaches over to touch your cheek, but she thumbs away a bit of broth before returning to stir the mixture. “If you have bread, it makes for an even heartier meal. Now, let’s see…” She takes a spoonful of the broth herself, tasting it for a moment. “Let’s add some of the rosemary.”

You take the jar of rosemary out, handing it to her. The cooking doesn’t take much longer. Caeda asks you for more spices, asks you to taste it every once in a while, but when she finds it suitably done as the dying embers of the fire fizzle out, she reaches over to procure the bread she brought to share. 

“Doesn’t it make you feel accomplished?” Caeda breaks off half of the bread, handing it to you. “I love cooking. It makes me so happy that I was able to make something delicious to share with you.” 

You feel loved, that’s certain. The stew is warm and hearty, and you don’t say a word about the fact Caeda is quite an enthusiastic eater - if the stew and bread bits around her mouth are anything to go by. Maybe one day, she’ll teach you a new recipe - maybe one that is more sensical for the battlefield instead of sitting around a campfire waiting for broth to boil. 

Not that you mind, of course. Caeda’s cooking is worth it, and you feel a bit more knowledgeable on the topic yourself. 

Chapter Text

You wonder if Wrys can tell that you’re getting hurt on purpose. 

If he notices, he’s definitely not saying anything. You hobble up to the cleric’s house and knock, hoping that he isn’t busy with… old man stuff. Gosh, all he did when he wasn’t tending to the wounded was play checkers by himself and knit. How boring could an old guy be? 

Luckily for him, you know a few things that are, in your opinion, ‘fun.’ 

The only problem is that - no matter how much vigor Wrys has - he is an old man. You’ve been waiting at his door for a minute at least, but he does finally open the door and smile at you. “Oh… I see you’ve gotten hurt again.” 

“Yeah,” you reply, not sure what else to say. The wound on your arm doesn’t hurt, but you scraped it against a tree enough times there would be something for him to heal. “I have something to show you, too. Can I come in?” 

“Oh, well, by all means,” Wrys answers, hobbling out of the way toward the kitchen. “I was just making some tea… would you like a cup?” 

Wrys manages to make the two cups of tea, sitting down next to you once you help set down both mugs. You don’t like the tea he makes - it’s always bitter and nasty because he uses medicinal herbs instead of, you know, tea leaves. 

Wrys sets his cane-slash-staff down before picking up his mug with his feeble, wrinkly hands. “What did you want to show me?” 

Oh. Right. You found a tome that was - supposedly - able to make little magic tricks come from its pages. You didn’t know whether the merchant was lying or not; you’ve never been able to use a tome at all, ever, but Wrys is old and with age comes experience. He should be able to operate a tome, right? You pull it out of your rucksack, setting it down on the table. 

“Can you use this?” you ask. 

Wrys laughs, a hearty “ho-ho-ho” that never fails to make your own heart melt. “I’m afraid I cannot,” he replies. “I have always been but a humble curate, even back to my youth. Ho, I remember my mother wishing so hard I would take to tomes, but alas…” 

Lame. Shouldn’t something like a tome make him occupied? He doesn’t have any family, you’re hardly around unless it’s to talk to him… it’s a sad existence, but if he’s happy being a curate then you’re happy for him. 

(It would be nice if he reciprocated your feelings, but alas.)

Chapter Text

The cute cashier at the ice cream parlor was a flirt. You wondered if that was her personality, or she just liked flirting with you. 

Part of her flirting was making the ice cream incredibly cheap. You weren’t a worker there, but you didn’t mind the employee discount she always gave you, and a wish to ‘come back soon!’

Norne was smitten with you. Unless the parlor hires cute girls that flirt with everyone to bolster their sales, she was totally smitten. She even remembered your usual order, and made sure to make the scoops hefty for the maximum amount of ice cream. 

Her grin grows when she sees you, waving you over. “Hi~. We’ve got new flavors in. Do you want to try some of them?” 

“Sure.” It couldn’t hurt. Maybe you’ll switch up your usual ice cream order. Norne grins at that and snatches up those tiny spoons meant for sampling the ice cream, turning to wander around the three aisles that host all of the flavors. She leans into one bucket and pulls out some sort of blue-colored… something. 

“This is our Cotton Candy Explosion. It has Pop Rocks in it!” Norne hands over the spoon to let you taste the ice cream. “Oh, and we change up the color of the ice cream all the time. I mean, I’m not one of the ice cream makers, but if you have a suggestion I’m sure I can pitch an idea.” 

It’s good. All ice cream sold here is good, that’s to be expected. You watch as she gauges your reaction before wandering back to scrape off another bit of ice cream. This time, the ice cream is some chocolate-looking flavor. 

“This is our Tiramisu flavor.” Norne hands over the next tiny spoon. “It’s really good.” 

It is, as she says, really good. “It’s tasty, but I think I’ll just get my usual flavor.” 

“Oh.” Norne pauses, and breaks into a smile. “Okay. I’ll even add a cherry on top. And some sprinkles, because you are what you eat.”

You don’t know how she jumped from sprinkles to nutrition, but you’re sure there’s some sort of compliment in there somewhere. It clicks a second later: she’s calling you sweet. “Thank you,” you finally say, watching Norne’s cheeks turn bright pink just like the strawberry ice cream. 

She rings up your order and lets you pay for it before wandering around the back with pep in her step as she makes your ice cream. It’s mesmerizing to watch her work, she’s so bubbly about it that you have a hard time figuring out what she would be doing if she didn’t work here. Either way, she’d be making someone happy or helping people. 

Norne hands over your ice cream. “Here you go! Hey-.” She pauses as you take your ice cream. “Move closer for a sec.” 

…what could she want now? Seeing nothing wrong, you move forward-

-and you’re met with a sticky, cold kiss on your cheek. You can’t tell whether that’s lip gloss or ice cream, but Norne looks mighty satisfied with herself once she steps back from the kiss. 

“Have a nice day, sweetcheeks.” Norne giggles, leaving you to shuffle away. The heat of your cheeks is going to melt your ice cream in record time. Next time… next time, you’ll pay her back and reciprocate your affection. It’s only fair, isn’t it?

Chapter Text

You initially spot the man in Talys. 

It was rare that there were new faces in your humble city, but it wasn’t rare to see strangers looking like him. Talys didn’t have much of an army, after all - they used the coin from the lack of an army to pay mercenaries to train and fight under Talys’ name. He wasn’t stocky, but muscular with a big sword strapped to his back. 

He also looked very lost, and you didn’t know whether or not you would get your head cleaved off if you came up to him to talk. 

It was now or never, right? There were enough people that you felt confident enough you could talk to such a threatening-looking mercenary. The worst that would happen is that you would get ignored or maybe shoved aside (some of those sellswords need to learn some manners). 

“Excuse me, are you looking for something?” 

The man turns to you, inadvertently showing off the criss-cross striation on his cheek. “Yes. Might you know where the church is?” 

Is he in need of aid? You shouldn’t pry, but the question remains in your mind. However you nod and point eastward. “If you follow that alley and turn left, you should be able to find the church. Do you want me to guide you?” 

“It’s alright. Thanks.” The mercenary moves past you, following your orders just as you told them. There’s some sense of satisfaction, knowing you helped someone no matter how small that help was. 

You see him around a few more times, mostly around bars that make him look, strangely, out-of-character. In the shopping district, talking to merchants with a basket around his arm. With Princess Caeda, of all people, walking towards the castle. 

He seems to recognize you as well, giving you weak smiles whenever you stare at him too long or saying ‘excuse me,’ when you are accidentally in his way. It’s far too often to be happenstance. You have to know more about him. 

“‘Scuze me-”

“-What is your name, sir?” you ask, reaching to stop his endeavor of moving around you. 

The shock of being asked for his name seems to make him pause, but he returns his cool attitude. “Ogma. And yours?” 

You give him your name in turn. “We’ve been running into each other lately, haven’t we? Isn’t it a mite strange?” 

“Not particularly,” he replies, tilting his head. “We live here, don’t we?” 

That’s true. That’s absolutely true. “You’re right. But, it’s nice to know your name now. Sir Ogma.” 

“Just ‘Ogma’ is fine,” he grits out. “I must be going.” 

Just as fast as you encountered him, he’s walking away to finish the rest of his tasks here. You hope that his mercenary life treats him well, but you can’t get rid of this feeling that it wasn’t at one point. 

Well, he’s here, and he seems to be in okay spirits. That is what matters, doesn’t it? 

Chapter Text

“Anyway, and then the geezer was all, like, uh, nyaaargh!” 

You wonder when you’ll be able to get away from this conversation to steer it to something you care about. What was supposed to be a lovely date turned into a hangout with two extra people, and now Barst is telling you pirate stories. Bord and Cord are, uh, fighting? They claimed that they were trying to figure out who was the best woodcutter - truthfully, they both have their own strengths, but they explained (all while shouting and swinging their axes) it was to figure out which one was deserving of your love. 

Barst said that you were wooed by humor, not strength, but clearly none of them realize you’d love actual food instead of raw meat and no tinder to make a fire with. Getting sick isn’t fun, but every time you try to get a word in with Barst he conveniently finds another story he simply must talk over you with. It’s getting infuriating - more than infuriating, maybe. 

No longer will you let your stomach grumble. You need to eat! 

“Barst-” 

“-Oh! Oh, thar’ was this one time where I was with Sir Ogma, ‘n Bord ‘n Cord, right?” Barst leans back and grins. “When a thousand swordsmen came ta kill us!” Think it was somethin’ called the Soothsayers.” 

“Barst.” 

The next part of his story is drowned out by Cord and Bord’s raucous arguing. It’s about you, because of course it is, even though you are in no part related to any of the events transpiring. They both stride up to you, pep in their steps. 

“Which one of us is more handsome?” Cord asks. 

Bord glares at Cord across from your seat. “It’s obvious it’s me! Look at my hair! I keep it shiny ‘n everything!” 

Cord scowls. “But I can defeat a hundred men in a fight! Ain’t that impressive? So what if you’re handsomer?” 

Barst interjects. “It’s clear my fightin’ abilities are way above yours! Can’t protect someone if you don’t got the strength for it!” 

“I think whoever is most handsome will be the first to get the tinder for dinner,” you say loud enough that all three men pause to stare at you. Then, by some miracle of Naga, they all nod and agree, leaving three separate ways to gather the wood. 

Truthfully, none of them are the most handsome people on the planet. At least you’ll get your dinner’s worth out of this date-turned-argument, even if you have to sit through a thousand more of Barst’s stories to get your fill. 

Chapter Text

Castor is really, really strange when it comes to giving you gifts. 

First of all, he doesn’t need to give you gifts. Sure, you’re with him, but the time spent with him is more than enough of a gift. He sends any spare cent to his mother, and money is hard to come by in your lives… especially when all you eat is the cheapest things you can get at the grocery store. 

Castor giving you anything is strange. However, when he holds the teddy bear in his arms and looks absolutely terrified that you might decline his gift, it’s only kind of you to take the stuffy and set him on your bed. 

“Thank you, Castor,” you say as heartfelt as you can manage. The faux fur makes your hands smell weird. “Where’d you find it?” 

“That’s not important,” Castor replies, scarlet spreading across his cheeks. “I jus’- I jus’ wanted to show you my appreciation! For everything you do, ‘cause it means so much to me.” He pulls you into a hug faster than you can comprehend, and you feel like your organs might squeeze out. For being so scrawny, he has some serious upper body strength!

“You’re welcome.” You pat his shoulder and try not to pop like a balloon. 

You may be grateful, but Castor has suspicion written all over his face and his mannerisms. You know it’s more than ‘not important,’ and you’ll figure out where he got that weird-smelling stuffed animal if it’s the last thing you do!

He could have washed it, couldn’t he? Alas.

You call Castor that night once it’s an hour and a half before he goes to bed. You sit and wait and wait and you almost think he’ll send it straight to voicemail, but he picks up. “Hello…?” 

“I was just thinking about you,” you reply to his greeting. “What’cha up to?”

“Nnn. Gettin’ money. Uh, workin’.” 

“Working,” you echo. “At the store?” 

“Yep,” Castor answers, but you do not hear the general ambiance of the store. “It’s pretty quiet.” 

You don’t believe him. Glancing at the stuffed animal that you’ve moved to the dresser, you frown when you come across the realization of where he may have gotten it. “Are you dumpster diving?” 

“Duh-dumpster diving? No! No, I’d never!”

That’s a lie. He’s a dumpster-diving aficionado… and you can’t hate it, because there are a lot of expensive things people throw away he can sell to make a quick buck. Still, it’s not the nicest feeling in the world. 

“Come on. Let’s go to the nice neighborhood on Saturday and we can dumpster dive there. Together.” 

Castor makes a whining sound before he hangs up the phone, most likely from shame. Well, maybe he’ll get a new laptop to sell. Or a phone. Or something of value, because those rich hoity-toity folk don’t know what they have.

Chapter Text

The sea was unrelenting. Crashing waves, the caw of birds, the scraping sound of a broom against the wood that awakened you every morning without fail. Secretly, you’re sick of the sea. The swaying wasn’t bad once you got used to it, but the eternal rocking makes you nauseated far more often than it used to be. It feels like you’re a burden to Darros’ crew more than anything, when you should be giving them a helping hand. 

Darros notices your glum and jaded spirits, the way you’ve not been eating as often as you did before to keep your meal down. The way you rock with the boat, the way you’ve been slacking on your chores. Of course he would - he keeps an eye on everyone in the crew, including you. 

“Ye’ve been gettin’ greener ever since we set sail,” Darros comments. “What’s the matter?” 

“Sick,” you reply. Of the sea? Maybe. Of eating nothing but fish three meals a day? A little more. 

Darros’ arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you close to him. “We’ll be landin’ soon, we will. Ye’ll be mighty glad to have a night where ye don’t have to move wit’ the sea, aye?” 

When is soon? You don’t ask for him to clarify, lest that answer isn’t one you would prefer. “Aye.”

“Ye can rest today,” Darros assures you. “I’ll bring a blanket. Do ye want to sleep in my quarters? It has a window.” 

That’s how you find yourself sitting on Darros’ uncomfortable cot, watching the waves of the sea. churn and churl. A blanket is wrapped up over you (courtesy of Darros yelling at a crewmember or two…), and a spare cup is filled with sugar water that doesn’t quell your queasy stomach in the slightest. 

Darros kisses your forehead. “Rest, aye? We’ll find Valentia soon enough.” 

Valentia? That’s how far this ship has gone? What about Archanea? You miss your hometown, you miss the food, you miss solid ground even if Darros himself does his best to satiate your homesickness. If they don’t start running from an enemy ship, or a storm doesn’t pick up, then perhaps Valentia will be on the horizon by the morrow.

You can hope that Darros is right. Maybe he’ll buy you something to eat that doesn’t smell like fish nor rot. Hopefully, Valentia’s port towns have more than just the catch of the day on sale!

Chapter Text

Port towns in Macedon were rife with thievery. It’s a shame that you were a thief as well, and you knew exactly who stole your purse last time you were here. 

All you need to do is find him. He’s got bright red hair - he can’t be that hard to find, can he? Weaving through alleys, looking around spots where you often pickpocket to see if there is any hubbub that needs attending to… you can’t find him. 

That becomes your life for several days, this little stakeout that’s more trouble than it's worth. As the days pass, you doubt you’ll find him. He must have left already, searching for bigger and shinier things to steal. 

It’s not long before your suspicions are proved incorrect. You see him talking to some younger, blue-haired lad before the latter nods and slips away, seeming to melt into the crowd despite his (admittedly odd) hair. 

And guess which of those idiots had your purse? It should be a cinch to steal from him! You begin to make your way over to the thief, watching as he slips down an alleyway that you know will lead out elsewhere. Running might seem suspicious, but you have to corner him and steal your purse back from a thief that thinks he can get away from you! 

Surprisingly, it’s simple to catch him. He’s crossing the street when you grab his wrist and yank him so hard he yelps a little and furrows his brow once he makes eye contact with you. 

“Can I help you?” 

“You stole my purse,” you say, gesturing to it. “I saw you. I want it back.” 

“Oh.” The thief tilts his head. “I’m sorry, this is my own purse. I’ve had it since I first began to work.” 

“As a thief, right?” You grip his wrist tighter, as if that will help any. 

He smiles, trying to pull away. It doesn’t work. “It’s mine. I didn’t steal this one.” 

“You did!” you insist, trying to drag him back into the alleyway lest people start to stare. It would be awkward if they did, watching you two bicker over illegal activity… “I want what is mine back, or… or…” 

“Or you’ll what?” his smile grows, and you notice that even if you won’t salvage your purse, you can certainly take the contents inside. 

Springing into action, you lean up and kiss him. The thief makes a startled noise and pulls away just as fast as you kissed him. Too bad for him, though, because you’ve already yanked out some sort of pocket watch that probably belonged to some spiffy Macedonian noble. To think, could he have obtained it from the mighty prince or princess themselves? 

“That’ll be enough payment.” You let go of his wrist and slink away, holding the pocket watch close to your chest. He might know of your tricks, but the silly thief lets you leave with your justified revenge. 

Chapter Text

Lena doesn’t take a lot of time off - you know that she hardly makes time for herself. Doubting that she’ll let you do anything to help her relax that takes more than an hour, you decide to help her pretty herself up. It won’t take very long, and she’ll be happy with it… hopefully. 

It’s a simple matter to procure a bottle of nail polish the color of new leaves bursting from the trees. Lena is sitting and mending a shirt when you catch her in her room. She looks up at you and smiles, noticing how your hand is gripping something she can’t quite tell. “Do you need something from me?” 

“I need something from you, actually.” You pull up the other chair in her room, sitting right across from her so your knees press together. Lena looks a little stunned at how immediate she is needed, but quickly sets her sewing kit and shirt aside to aid you in whatever you might need. 

Her brows furrow when you open your palm and set the bottle of polish on her desk. “Ah… what is this supposed to be?” 

“I saw it in the market,” you explain. “I just wanted to paint your nails. Is that okay?” 

Lena looks at the bottle for a moment, then rolls up her sleeves and offers her right hand. Truthfully, you believed she would have laughed and proceeded to do her best in order to persuade you to leave, but you’re happy she’s letting you do this. 

Setting her hand on your lap, you unscrew the bottle of polish. Her hand is cold, the interior of it calloused from the use of magic and staves her entire life. The back of her hand is still soft and smooth. Taking the handle of the polish in your hand, you carefully make the first swipe to smear the green nail polish over her thumb. 

Lena watches with rapt fascination as you swipe the polish over her nail again to evenly coat her thumb. Moving her hand, you begin with her pointer finger, then her middle finger. 

“I don’t think green suits me well,” she admits. 

“Nonsense. It suits you perfectly well.” To be honest, it doesn’t. If it was a darker green, perhaps, or maybe a different color entirely. This was the only bottle you were able to procure, unfortunately. 

With her right hand done, you let go of her. “Try not to mess with it as it-”

Your words are a little too late, for Lena throws her hand up and bonks it against the desk. Thankfully, she is not harmed, but the underside of the desk is now sporting a bright spring green. 

“Oh- drat,” Lena mumbles, looking at the smeared polish on her hand. She turns to you with a sheepish smile. “I apologize…” 

There’s no need to be sorry - well, maybe apologizing to the desk by cleaning it off might prove beneficial. 

…or, it will stay stuck there until the ends of time. That seems like a much more likely option.

Chapter Text

It’s hard to understand what goes through Navarre’s head at times. 

He’s quiet. Too quiet. He doesn’t open up to you or anyone, and what little you do know about him has been coaxed out from months and months of patience and trying to get him to converse with you. 

Navarre looks out of place reading. 

He’s sitting on the sofa, the book placed uncomfortably upward on his lap. You peer around to look at the cover of his book: it’s some sort of Archanean history encyclopedia. A picture of a dragon and a sword are on it. 

“What are you reading?” you ask. 

“Archanea’s history,” he says, and you don’t know why you expected him to be more eloquent about what he is reading. 

You can’t make out the words on the front cover, but you decide that it’s not important - if Navarre is happy sitting there and reading, you are more than content to let him be. “Do you want something to drink?” 

Navarre’s gaze moves to the side. You see his hands grip the book tighter., “...Fine.” 

“And a snack?” 

“...I don’t care.” 

You take that answer for what it is, knowing he’s fed up with your antics already. It is of little hassle to pour him a glass of water and set it on the table next to the sofa. He’s shifted his position a little, legs hunched up as he flips through pages with pictures of maps upon maps upon maps. Archanea isn’t the biggest continent, how can there be so many maps of it? 

“Come here.” 

Turning to Navarre, you see that he’s staring at you expectantly, leaning to one side of the sofa to offer you an entire cushion to yourself. You sit down next to him, feeling very out-of-place. Navarre usually doesn’t… talk to you, at all, ever. 

He scoots closer to you once you have seated yourself, putting one side of the book on your leg and letting the other side rest on his. Navarre lets you lean closer to him as he flips back a handful of pages, pointing to a poorly-drawn picture of a sword. “Tell me what kind of sword you think this is.” 

…he should tell you why he’s ordering you to do this! You tell yourself to not mind it; Navarre so rarely expresses his own interests (you’re pretty sure his favorite two things are swordplay and money, but other than that what else could there be). 

“It looks like a rapier, I guess.” The blade is squiggly, but it’s not squiggly enough to be indicative of a magic sword. Truthfully, you don’t know about swords as much as Navarre does - any guess is your best effort. 

“They make swords called Ladyblades in Valentia.” Navarre points to the hilt of the sword, which looks the same as every other fancy, hoity-toity hilt of a sword you’ve seen in your life. “The grip is supposedly easier for women to hold in their hands.” 

“I’m sure you’d be able to wield a sword like that, too.” It was meant to be a silly compliment, but Navarre stares at you for several awkward seconds before flipping two pages back.

The awkward air doesn’t diminish. “I should make you train with this. It’s called a wyrmslayer.” 

True to its word, the sword looks potent enough to fell a dragon. The sword looks oddly bulbed, and there is a small drawing in the corner of the page depicting a man striking a dragon with it. 

“It looks heavy.” 

“It is. I would find great enjoyment seeing you attempt to spar me with it.” Navarre offers one of his rare half-smiles, thinking about the prospect. 

He isn’t one for violence against you (perhaps it pertains to his moral code), but sparring is a great deal of exhaustion because he keeps you on your toes. With such a wieldy blade, you doubt you would stand a chance against his quick flurries of attacks. 

Still, he’s happy to work on his swordsmanship - even if you aren’t the most valiant foe to be fought. 

“I guess we should find one of those, then,” you muse. Navarre regards you for a moment longer before flipping the page to speak about yet another blade - at least he takes enjoyment in this.

Chapter Text

“The wind is nice, isn’t it?” 

You’re inclined to disagree. Any time with Merric is well-spent - especially when you’re having a picnic with him - but the wind has nearly toppled your drink four-times-over by now. It’s starting to get frustrating. The basket is askew, and your foot presses on the handle lest it fly away entirely. 

Merric’s cape is spread out and billows to the side. You’d think the robe’s sleeves would make it difficult to eat in the wind, but they stay pressed against his side as he finishes off the finger food he’s been eating. 

He smiles at you once he realizes you’re staring. “Penny for your thoughts?” 

“It’s windy.” 

The next gust of wind knocks over your drink. It topples over the cloth you’ve been sitting on and seeps into the fabric and the ground. Merric quickly grabs the flask. “I think we can both see that,” he says with a laugh. 

You eye the tome next to him, the one that looks ready to topple open for all of the pages to fly askew. “I’m still eating, and I’d prefer it if there weren’t any leaves in my mouth.” 

“You need your veggies too,” Merric jokes (it's not funny), setting down the flask once the wind slows down a little. “But… I’ll look for something.” 

His tome has many pages, most of which are dedicated to the actual offensive magical properties of Excalibur. Merric leafs through the pages before skimming a passage, pressing his hand to the tome. The incantation written on the page glows green before becoming malleable in Merric’s hand, to which he raises his hand up and forces the miasma down onto the grass. 

A glimmering shield erects around the picnic blanket’s perimeter, leaving Merric’s cape now untousled by the wind and your food miraculously upright. 

Showing him an appreciative smile, you continue to eat your food unperturbed. It’s a shame that there’s a wet spot in the middle of the cloth now, but you suppose it doesn’t matter. But then, you realize you could air dry it, and you look up to Merric who has been watching you eat for the better part of the last minute (weird, but okay). 

“Could you clean this?” you gesture to the wet spot. 

“I- yes? If you want me to.” He looks a little confused as to why you’re asking it, but he nods anyway. 

You wait for him to use Excalibur. “Right now, I mean.” 

“Oh!” Merric flips to a different page in the tome, swiping his hand across the page to gather the magic. “Move your knee. I don’t want to accidentally hit you.” 

Once you scoot back, Merric casts the magic. Unfortunately, it does not do anything close to drying the cloth. Instead, it makes an Excalibur-sized hole, a thin line showing the grass below you. 

“Isn’t that wind magic?” 

Merric shrugs, carefully flipping through a good handful of pages. “Let me try to fix it.” 

What? He can’t fix it. “Does Excalibur have mending-” 

You can’t finish your sentence before your drink and your food spill all over your clothes, for Merric casts a strong gale right at you. Your hair is mussed, your clothes are now stained, and now the remnants of your meal are on the grass. 

“Oops,” Merric says, not-at-all apologetic. “I’m sorry,” he adds, rubbing salt in the wound. 

“You’re cleaning this,” you state, pulling at the damp spot on your shirt. “I hope you know that.” 

The kiss Merric gives you right on your cheek is sticky and not-at-all worth your while. “I know. Your face was funny, though.” 

Oh, how you long to wield Excalibur for yourself… if only to make his life a little more inconvenient. 

Chapter Text

Matthis doesn’t like doing anything, at all, ever. He’d rather laze on the couch as a date and while you can force him to do something else with you, tonight is cold and windy and rainy: it would get very miserable, very fast. 

Something is on the television when you sit down next to him. It’s a cooking show; Matthis is watching and seems to be uncaring of the fact you are right next to him. 

That’s fine. You scoot closer and lean on his shoulder. Matthis’ hand comes up to pet your head, but he pokes your cheek instead, and then your forehead just to be annoying. And then your nose. “Boop,” he says, like that’s still a thing people say. 

You smile. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” echoes Matthis. “You’re cold.” 

Sure, you feel a little chilly. You reach up to rest the back of your hand against Matthis’ cheek. His warmth is evident on your hand, but he leans away. “I guess I am.” 

He doesn’t seem to care that you’re cold, and lets you lean on him in an attempt to absorb some of his warmth. It’s not working exactly like you expect. Matthis is cold as well, making this mostly uncomfortable. 

“You should get us a blanket,” you suggest. 

Matthis wraps an arm around you instead, pulling you close. “I’m feelin’ kinda tired, actually.”

It’s not hard to tell that he means lazy by tired. You groan but decide to drop the topic, turning in his grip to watch the television show. It’s boring for a cooking show, but at least the food looks okay. 

It cuts to a commercial break. Matthis’ grip tightens before leaning his head forward to kiss your forehead. You’re still cold. Why is he still cold - you’re practically laying on top of him!

You decide to repeat your request. “You should get a blanket.” 

Matthis sighs. “Get offa’ me, and I’ll go get a blanket.” 

Once you scootch off of him, Matthis sluggishly stands up and walks over to the linen closet. He opens the little door and pulls out the thick comforter, pushing the door shut with his foot before walking back over to the couch. The comforter looks hefty in his arms. 

Matthis neglects to tuck you in, and just sets the heap of fabric on you. “Have fun with that.” He sits down next to you just as the show returns from the commercial break, leaving you to your own devices. 

Well - at least you’re warm.

Chapter Text

Etiquette training for the high courts of Archanea was boring and dumb and ultimately stupid. Hardin was attempting to be a just coach, but you were purposely making it hard on him: putting your elbows on the table, slouching, talking in your ‘commoner tongue’ instead of using spiffy vocabulary so common to nobles. 

“I don’t see why I have to do this,” you complain for what seems like the millionth time. “They’re gonna hate me anyway ‘cause I’m not royal. I don’t care about their feelings.” 

“Politicking is a tricky thing to maneuver around,” Hardin explains - you think he’s agreeing with you. “Though we are knights, we are expected to hold our heads high and greet kings and queens with as much respect as they believe they give us.” 

“But we just go on the battlefield and ruin it,” you complain. “They’re gonna think of us as stupid dogs who only lust for battle. There’s more to someone who fights, but they can’t see that-” 

“-I understand your frustration.” Hardin reaches to take both of your hands in his. “I am sure the other knights understand those sentiments, as well. So long as you are under my employ, nothing will happen to you.” A pause. You frown at the silence, but he continues. “But, I would prefer not to hear the jesting and japing of blue-blooded princes and princesses who do not understand our cause.” 

It’s stupid that he’s right. All you get is either disrespect or backhanded compliments for your services. Some of those niceties are truer than others - The King of Aurelis was one, always commending his brother and the knights training under him. Someday, that old coot will die, and then Hardin will have no choice but to ascend the throne. 

Maybe then you’ll care about your posture or your tongue. But for now, this is an absolute waste of time. 

“Let us practice our bow, then.” Hardin stands and pulls you up as well, making you groan. Again? You had trained in the morning until the afternoon, and now you can’t even rest even after learning that you have to hold your utensils a certain way when eating? This is stupid. 

Hardin lets go of your hand, stepping back. “Bow at the waist. Ensure your weapon is in its scabbard. If it were to fall, it would be seen as a threat.” 

“That-.” You refrain from calling it stupid. “I wouldn’t be bowing if I wanted to kill them. I would just ask Wolf to do the honors.” 

If Hardin finds your joke funny, he’s not laughing. “Let me show you. Generally, we place our hands over our hearts as we bow…” 

Fine. You’ll do as he requests, bowing but feeling the hilt of your blade poke you in the elbow as you place your hand over your heart just like he said. 

Either you misjudged your bow, or Hardin misjudged his height. As you lift your head back up, you realize that you ignored the ‘let me show you’ part of his last words when you collide with his forehead. 

Hardin makes a wheezing sound as he stands up and reaches a hand to his forehead. “I apologize-”

“Oh- sorry!” you rush to help him just as he backs up. This time Hardin does wince as you stomp on his foot. It was completely accidental, but now you wonder if he thinks you’re not taking any of this etiquette training seriously (you’re not, but that’s no reason to accidentally bonk into him over and over again).

He takes a deep breath. “It only startled me. I think it would be best to take a break now, though.” 

You could not agree more. 

Chapter Text

“Come on! You’re weak!”

Wolf is mean when you’re sparring against him. You know that his harshness comes from a place of wanting to see you grow, to see you perform better and better, but… this is getting to be cruel. He’s not even using a bow, but the swords you two wield are as sharp as the insults he’s been hurtling toward you this entire match. 

Blood pours from a cut on your face. It must look worse than it actually is - Wolf would have stopped sparring ages ago if he was worried about you. Maybe. Or, perhaps he just hates you and this is his way to make sure you are incapacitated. There is a wound on your sword arm, making it hard to swing upwards for any attempt to surprise Wolf. Battered with cuts from the sword, you push forward past a puddle of what is probably your own blood to strike again. 

A dodge. Another dodge. Your strikes are getting slower. Iron-on-iron resounds through the training hall, scraping and scraping but not slicing. Wolf swipes at you with his own blade. You manage to turn away in time only for your shirt sleeve to rip. 

“What’s the matter? Are you gettin’ tired? You haven’t even hit me.” You don’t know how long you can keep standing. Blood obscures your vision. Even if he doesn’t mean it, Wolf is terrifying even when he’s sparring with you - dark, glowering eyes across his snarling face - he really lives up to his name when in battle. 

“Come on!” he goads. Your sword is met with his own. Sweat pours down your body as you try to push his weapon away. It’s not working. You are no match for his strength.  

In a fluid motion, Wolf hits your sword so hard it flies out of your hand to clatter against the floor. He smiles, cocky with his newest victory. “Do you yield?” 

Instead of answering, you show him your gratitude by collapsing to the ground.

…you recognize it’s some time later when you are roused with a cool cloth against your forehead. 

Wolf’s lap is nice. Your head rests on the muscle of his thigh, and his upside-down face is mildly humorous to look at as he wipes away your sweat and blood and what-have-you. 

“You’re up.” It’s a fact. Wolf swipes the cloth down your face, pressing it to your neck before flipping it over to utilize the colder side.

“Sorry.”

His face falls. “Don’t be. I should be sorry. Sedgar bitched at me for fightin’ you like that.” 

“I didn’t mind,” you lie. “I knew you were tough.” 

“Ya know…” Wolf trails off to swipe the cloth around your eyes. He looks like he’s concentrating on making it hard to see his face. “I was a little scared when you just crumpled like that. Thought it was worse than it was. I’ll go easier on you next time.” 

You’d like to say something, but Wolf is pressing so hard with the cloth that you feel like anything you say will make him embarrassed and stop taking care of you entirely. His lap is nice, anyhow, so you stay silent and let him meticulously clean your face even though you’re certain all he’s doing is rubbing your skin raw. 

Next time, you don’t want to lose. You won’t faint, at least, and that will account for something. 

(that is, if Wolf even spars with you again…)

Chapter Text

Sedgar is just a little weird. 

He likes knowing amounts. The amount of money he’ll spend at the shops, the amount of money he has left over, the amount of rice in a bag, how much of something he needs if he’s trying his hand at cooking or baking. It’s scary how accurate he is - you spent an afternoon sorting out different color M&M’s only for him to prove that yes, there were 56 brown ones in the entire family pack. 

At some nondescript cafe you visit with him, there’s an entirely-innocent jar of gumballs on the counter. An austere sign beside it reads guess the amount of gumballs correctly = your purchase FREE! 

“How many do you think are in there?” you ask, elbowing Sedgar’s side. 

It’s something that Sedgar vies to do. “Excuse me,” he calls to the shopkeeper. “Can I pick up the jar?” 

“Go ahead,” she replies, watching the two of you closely. 

With permission given, Sedgar lifts up the jar and begins to inspect the varying array of colorful gumballs inside. He tilts it, looks at it from a few different angles, then sets the jar down. That fast? Somehow, it’s still hard to believe. “I think it’s 125.” 

“Oh.” The shopkeeper quirks her eyebrows. “That’s right. It is 125. How’d you guess so easily?” 

Sedgar shrugs. “Trade secret.” 

Would Sedgar tell you? Probably not - he’s not one to tell you stupid sorts of secrets like how he always gets those right. At least your purchase is free, and you’re too happy with the free cake pop Sedgar gives you with a sly little smile. 

Once you’re out of the store, you elbow him again. “How do you always guess correctly?” 

Just as you expected, Sedgar takes a sip of his coffee instead of giving you a proper answer. “I dunno.” 

He doesn’t know. That’s got to be a lie. 

“I don’t believe you.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

Just like that, your conversation settles into an awkward silence. You’re still befuddled - he has to know! There’s no way he can be right all of the time. It’s not fair. “C’mon,” you goad, elbowing him again. Sedgar looks annoyed with your antics. “You have to know.” 

“...you can’t tell anyone else.” 

Victory! Being annoying has its merits. “I promise.” 

“Pinky promise,” Sedgar clarifies, switching his coffee to the other hand to offer up his pinky. You cross your pinky with his, waiting eagerly for his answer… right after he takes a long, slow sip of his coffee. And then another, making a small mm sound as he does it. 

Finally, you get your answer: “I recognized the brand of gumballs. There’s 125 to a full-sized bag. All ‘ey did was unwrap ‘em and put them in the jar.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

Well, that was anticlimactic. And also, not helpful - that doesn’t explain how he’s accurate every other time he guesses the amount of something. Is Sedgar just lucky, or a good guesser? 

“Hey.” 

“Yeah?” 

You place one of your hands behind your back, holding up a 4. “Guess what number I’m holding up.” 

Instead of what would be a correct guess, Sedgar leans over and kisses your forehead. “Six,” he answers, but there’s no way that’s possible unless you sprouted a finger in the past five seconds.

Chapter Text

Fridays are your favorite day. 

You have a pen pal who lives across the continent in Aurelis. Every other week, you receive a letter from Roshea, whom you know very little of except what he says in his letters. You don’t think they’re meant to be romantic, but there are times where he’s quite whimsical in his words and you can’t help but swoon. 

You love Fridays, and you love his letters. A collection of them is growing in a box under your bed. The postman can’t come soon enough! 

He does, eventually, when the vestiges of the late afternoon stretch into evening. You thank him generously as you take the letter, trying not to seem rude by snatching it away from him. Finally! Finally, you have Roshea’s response in your hands. Truthfully, you’ve forgotten most of what you have said in the past letter you have sent; though, does it matter when you’re so happy to receive a response in the first place? 

Tearing open the letter, you unfold the paper to read his squiggly handwriting and poor penmanship. 

Hello, 

It’s good to hear back from you. I know this letter travels a long way, but I always look forward to receiving each one you send me. It’s been hectic as of late, but working at the orphanage always makes me happy. Of course, I don’t know you - but I think you have a good personality were you to help people. What do you do for a living? I’ve told you before, I think, but I’m a knight under Aurelis. It’s hard work, but knowing that I am protecting people makes it worthwhile. 

One day, I think one of us should visit the other. I have a break coming up in two months for the holidays - perhaps we could visit each other then? I’d like to treat you to the food and drink from our taverns. Though, I would also like to visit your country. It would make me happy to bring souvenirs back to the children. 

I pray that you are safe and healthy. I’m looking forward to your next letter.

Roshea

It’s not a long letter, but any response makes you happy. After all, it means he’s not sick or dying or dead, and you would be out of a pen pal. Setting the letter down on your desk, you take out your pen and paper - the sooner you write this letter, the sooner Roshea will be able to read it! 

Chapter Text

On a normal day, with a normal sky, and normal activities to go about it, you find yourself losing every single card game you have played thus far. 

Gin rummy, Go Fish, Slapjack - all of them give you a bad hand and even worse luck. Vyland is 3-0 now, shuffling a deck of Uno cards because a normal deck is bad luck at this point. 

“You know, it’d be funny if I won again,” Vyland says in that stupid, smarmy tone of his.

No. It wouldn’t be funny. It would be frustrating, and even if you’re a good sport there’s only so much you can handle before you don’t want to play any further. Vyland cuts the deck and shuffles the cards again to pass out seven for each of you, then places the deck down with one card facing up. It’s a green 3. 

Three of your cards are blue. Three are yellow. One is red. Zero of them are going to help you, because none of them have the number 3 written on them. 

“You go first,” Vyland offers. 

“Uh, no, you go. Winner gets to go first.” 

He tilts his head, frowning. “That’s not right. Draw from the pile if you-” 

“I can’t go first,” you argue. “Just go!” 

“Jeez, fine, okay.” Vyland sets down a green skip card, then a wild. All four of the colors mock you. “Red.” 

You set down your red card. Vyland sets down his - a red 7. None of your cards are emblazoned with 7, either, so you begin to draw from the deck. And draw. And draw. Vyland holds back a snicker once you finally get a Wild card a dozen (or maybe four dozen, who knows) cards in. “Yellow,” you say. 

Vyland sets down another Wild card. “Red.” 

None of your cards are red. None of them. Holding in every curse word you know, you draw again - this time, it’s a Draw 4. You set it down. “Yellow,” you repeat, hoping it sticks, and begin to set down your trashy cards now that his turn is skipped. 

Then, it is his turn. Again. Vyland - being an asshole - smiles with all of the love in the world and sets down a yellow Draw 2. And then another, because that’s legal play. 

You begrudgingly pick up two cards. Even by discarding most of your pile just a turn or two prior, you have a good quarter of the deck in your hands. All of it is numbers and things you can’t play. He puts down a yellow 2, and you put down a yellow 2 in retaliation. 

It’s the icing on the cake when he sets down a yellow 5. “Uno.”

“Wh-” No. That’s not possible. He just had, like, ten cards in his hand! “Are you cheating?” 

“Honest I’m not,” Vyland says, but it sounds like he’s lying. 

You don’t want to play any longer. Setting down your hand of cards with a heavy plap to the table, Vyland turns his card over and does not apologize when you see a Draw 4 in his hand. 

The apology-slash-pity hug afterwards isn’t enough to make up for it, but Vyland says he’ll go easy on you next time. Like that’s possible!

Chapter Text

You feel bad for your neighbor. 

Sometimes some random kids come over - probably his sons, but they don’t look anything alike. They don’t seem bothered that they’re taking care of some old guy - in fact, they look happy to be there. 

Today, one of them knocks on your door. He has green hair and a smile compared to his brother who always dons a frown. Something must have happened. 

“Hi?” you say once you open the door. He’s holding a basket of treats - for you? It’s too nice. 

“Master Wendell made these for you,” the kid says, and that makes you wonder why is he calling him such a weird title? He holds out the basket for you to take. “He also requests for you to come over tonight for dinner.” 

“Uh… okay. Tell him I said thank you, I’ll be there.” You take the basket. There are breads and sweets and all manners of bread products. Did he make these, or did he buy them? Maybe one of the kids did that. The kid turns and walks one door over as you shut the door. 

Weird. You pick up a croissant-lookin’ thing and bite into it-

Salt? 

Too much salt! Who’s adding salt to a croissant? What is this supposed to be? You spit the revolting food out and see large chunks of salt sandwiched between the fluffy layers. 

Weird. Hesitantly, you bite the corner of one of the other pastries - and notice your suspicion is confirmed. They are disgusting. 

Well, it’d be rude not to come over later that evening for dinner. One of the kids answers the door and regards you for a moment - it’s the other kid with the normal-colored hair, this time. You smile. “Hi, I’m your neighbor?” 

“Oh!” Wendell exclaims, and hobbles over to the door. “Welcome, my dear. Come in, go ahead, get yourself seated. You have perfect timing - dinner’s almost ready. I made chili - it’s very spicy, so beware!” 

The blond kid leans close to you as you sit down. “Just say you like it. It’s beans and salt and tomatoes. It’s not good.” 

“Uh.” You figured Wendell’s favorite spice was salt. 

The green-haired kid looks similarly pained. “We just tell him it’s good because he cries himself to sleep when we don’t. It’s just easier to pretend.” 

Ouch - harsh. Still, you suppose it’s warranted. Wendell isn’t even serving cornbread with the meal - instead, you get a sad, sad bowl of beans and tomatoes and a generous sprinkling of salt throughout. The granules are even larger than within the pastries. 

“I’m so excited!” the green-haired kid exclaims, picking up his fork. “Thank you for the yummy meal!” 

You wonder if it would be better for an animal to eat this - well, nothing should eat this due to an entire bottle of salt (or maybe several) mixed throughout. 

Bottoms-up… you guess.

Chapter Text

Rickard’s always been a bad influence. Cutting class, skipping school when you were children went further and further and now you’re breaking the law with him and trying to steal something. 

He’s lockpicking the back door at the current second, kneeled over all small like a mouse. It’s cute. You’re shielding him, standing and watching as he works his magic. 

“You gotta be quiet,” Rickard whispers to you. “The lady’s still in here, but she’s sleepin’ ‘cuz the kid’s knocked out cold.” 

“We’re stealing from a family?” you hiss. “Rickard, that’s horrible!” 

“No, we’re stealin’ from the husband’s own stuff. It’s totally different. No hard feelin’s to the missus, okay?” Rickard pulls his lockpick from the door, stuffing it in his pocket. “Cover for me, babe.” 

You don’t have a choice. The thrill is mortifying, it’s exciting, but it’s wrong. Rickard opens the door, pressing down on the doorknob so it creaks less. He ushers you in with a pat to your shoulder, then shuts the door behind you. 

“Follow me,” he whispers, creeping towards the hallway. You follow, unsure of what else you are supposed to do. Oh, gosh - someone is snoring. Rickard curses under his breath, but continues onward to the master bedroom. 

There are people in the bed, and a bassinet with a slumbering baby inside. Rickard turns, grins at you, and steps over to the dresser. You’re too focused on watching the couple in bed - and then you recognize Julian, Rickard's old boss. Ah. So this is a tale of revenge, isn’t it? Quietly, quickly, with all of the training his old boss probably gave him, he opens a drawer and picks up a purse that seems full of junk and not money. Then, he shoos at you in an effort to make you leave. Seeing no reason to stay, you tiptoe out of the room. 

“I’m hungry,” he whispers as you walk down the hallway once more. “Let’s stop ‘n get pizza before we go home.” 

“Shut up, or you’re going to-” 

You can’t help but yelp as an alarm blares. Loudly. 

Rickard surges forward, grabbing your hand and yanking you down the rest of the hallway. He flings open the door and pulls the two of you out, shutting it with a slam in his haste. The alarm is still deafening, panicking cacophony surrounding the houses and you. 

“Shit, shit, shit!” Rickard yells. “Come on. Stop bein’ a slowpoke!” He’s pulling and pulling and forcing you onward. Your arm hurts. You hear a vague yell, but maybe that’s from the neighbors because you’re already halfway down the block. 

He makes you run for another two blocks before slowing down, turning, and pressing a kiss to your lips. It’s dry and lame but he does it anyway, cheshire grin across his face. “Yer the best, babe. Let’s go get celebratory pizza, yeah?” 

You would rather not because all of the money he stole isn’t his, but you suppose that you didn’t play a part in this whatsoever and karmic revenge will come to get him. Eventually. 

Chapter Text

Athena likes arts and crafts. That’s as far as you can tell, anyway - maybe she hates it and she’s only doing it because there’s nothing better to do. She’s pushing a little charm through the string for the bracelet she is making for you. 

You’re also making one, of course, but feel like your bracelet is going to look a lot more pathetic compared to Athena’s. Your string has been frayed, you’ve had to take off the beads and put them on a different way, and not to mention it somehow ripped apart and all of the beads fell on the floor. It’s not very fun, but you’re trying to keep your head up. 

“You look like you are struggling,” Athena comments as you’re cutting out a new section of string. “Do you need our help?”

“I got it,” you answer. “Thanks, though.”

“...vatever you say,” she replies, and continues working on the bracelet in her hands. Gosh - and her hands are so pretty, too. You didn’t realize how nice hands could be to look at until Athena came into your life. Her’s are slender and long and they hold your hand nicely, and she’s just so gosh-darn pretty but you can’t tell her that because she’ll call you stupid for even thinking that - she’s a warrior, not some prissy princess. 

But Athena is so damned pretty, and neither of you can help that!

“Vat are you looking at?”

Oh. You were staring. “You. I like your hair.”

Athena frowns, glancing down to a lock of it that reaches her midsection. “Vat makes you like it today?” 

“Oh, I always like it,” you assure her, “I’m just happy I get to see it every day.” 

She makes a funny face at that, crinkling her nose in the prettiest way imaginable. “You are always strange. Especially today. But we vill take your vords to heart, thank you. Give us your hand.” 

You do as she says, and realize she’s already finished your bracelet. That fast? Sure, you needed to restart, but she was barely starting when you were barely starting! 

Of course, her bracelet is perfect. She fastens it around your wrist, then looks at the progress with her bracelet. “Let us do it,” she suggests, leaning over to push beads through the string. 

Well, that’s okay. You’re content to let her make her own bracelet, especially because the face she makes is funny when you lean over and kiss her cheek.

Chapter Text

You’re not an overly healthy eater, but you know that it is important. However, you are also feeling particularly spiteful; thus has borne the game you and Bantu play. It is called ‘child, eat your food.’ It is where you do not eat any fruit nor vegetable off your plate, and Bantu complains endlessly about it. 

It’s a very fun game: just not in Bantu’s eyes. 

“Child,” he begins again, watching you make a smiley face out of broccoli florets. “Eat your meal. It’s getting cold.” 

“It tastes weird,” you complain. It doesn’t, not really, but it’s part of the game that the two of you play. 

Bantu frowns. “What is ‘weird’ about it?”

“I don’t know!” you exclaim. “It just is!” 

He sighs, seeming to give up early on this fight. “Fine. Do not complain about being hungry, then.” 

Little does he know that is also a part of the game you two play. You stand to excuse yourself and clear the table, of course eating a few big bites of the broccoli in the kitchen where he can’t see it. It’s quite tasty and you’d be ashamed to let this perfectly good, actually edible meal to go to waste. 

Bantu doesn’t know that, of course. He’s too busy muttering to himself about something-or-other, standing up from the table to find something to do. This is yet another part of your game: annoying him! It always brightens your day because Bantu can’t tell you to shut up, he’s far too kind for that. 

So, when he goes to the study to read some book that has captured his interest, you wait a few minutes for him to truly get absorbed into the material. It’s all a snoozefest - something about, like, dragons? Something like that. It’s not important. What is important is the way you waltz into the room and make all the floorboards creak and echo. It’s annoying, and that is what you aim to do. 

Bantu looks up. “...child. You have chores, do you not?” 

“I’m bored,” you complain, collapsing into the squeaky armchair next to Bantu’s seat. “What are you reading?” 

“I am reading about the history of the earth dragons,” he explains, “and of Loptyr, whom traveled to Jugdral and engaged in a blood pact with a horrible bishop.” 

You recall some facts about that… vaguely. “Well, I have something to tell you.” 

Bantu nods his head in his sagely way that means, ‘go on.’ 

Grinning, you lean forward. “I’m hunnnngry!” 

His face falls. Bantu looks more annoyed than anything. “...child,” he eventually begins, too fed up to scold you. That only means you win the game, and your winning streak is still afloat! 

Chapter Text

It’s a dangerous journey to Valentia. The seas are rife with pirates and gnarled beasties, and there are enough mercenaries in Port Warren to pick whom you want. Thankfully, it is easy enough to find one advertising his services with a sword on his hip and a pouch of gold on the other side. 

“Excuse me.” 

He understands you through your accent, turning to regard you. “Excuse you.” 

“You’re a mercenary?” 

“I am.” He nods. “Need me?” 

“I’ll pay you plenty,” you promise. “I’m taking a ship to Valentia. We’ll have to go around the south part of the continent, but I have plenty of coin. I’ll keep you fed and healthy and-” 

“-Why are you going to Valentia?” he asks, his gaze growing sharper. 

A part of you wants to lie, but there’s no reason to lie. It’s a bad habit to do so. “I live there. I traveled to Archanea in pursuit of knowledge, but it’s time for me to return home.” There wasn’t much you could do here. His gaze grows even more suspicious; for a moment you believe he’ll decline your request and send you away.

“It won’t be cheap,” the mercenary warns, but quiets down when you procure your own pouch of gold for him. It’s enough to get ‘round the southern section of the continent, surely, across the sea back to the harbor. You can procure the rest of it in Valentia. 

It’s not long before you can catch a ship with a handful of other people - the captain says that it won’t take you all the way to Valentia, but you have your mercenary by your side to keep you safe from the beasties in the ocean when you inevitably cross it. You learn that the man’s name is Caesar, and he’s well-traveled by the sounds of it. He knows a handful of different languages, is pretty quick when it comes to knowledge - charismatic, too. 

One week. You pray to Mila that your journey will be safe. 

Caesar sits next to you on the swaying, rocking ship. “You’re from Valentia,” he says. It sounds like a statement instead of a question. 

“I am.” You remember saying it to him. 

He thinks for a moment, looking to the wooden boards nailed together under the two of you. “I’ve only been there twice, and never to the west. What’s it like?” 

It’s not much different than Archanea. “Zofia is warm and the crops grow easy there. Rigel… well, they’re poor. They’re not bad people though. Just like the ones in Macedon and Grust. Misunderstood, maybe, but not evil.” 

“Politicking nonsense,” Caesar scoffs. “I’ve never cared much for monarchies. As long as the people in power let us live our lives, they can have whatever petty squabbles they wish amongst each other.” 

“It doesn’t matter to you?” you ask. How could that be? In Valentia, even two opposing factors are exhausting. The constant plight of Rigel in turn threatens the safety of Zofia… it’s hard to imagine how exhausting it could be in Archanea. 

Caesar shrugs. “I belong to Port Warren. It’s as free as a city can be. I’m away too often for politics to be a problem. Taxations here, new laws there. Exhausting, but I live by the people. It doesn’t bother me.” 

That freedom sounds lovely. You can imagine it yourself - no objective except the base needs and to be proud of something, to be happy keeping yourself busy and bringing safety to others. Being a mercenary sounds nice, but you’ve not the strength nor bravery for it. 

“Maybe you could spend some time doing mercenary work in Valentia. There are these nasty creatures called Terrors,” you explain. “They’re not that hard to kill, but they’re plentiful. Maybe you could protect the priestesses going on their pilgrimages to the Temple of Mila.” 

“Hm.” Caesar seems to be considering your suggestion, eyes closed in thought. “Maybe. I’d have to brush up on my tactics, but I might do that. My first priority is keeping you safe.” 

The thought is nice. He’s being paid, yes, but being protected brings a smile to your face. Caesar will protect you - as long as you have the coin. 

Chapter Text

Sometimes you wonder how Radd is still alive and well.

It's not that he's dumb, but he does dumb things and manages to get away with it. Once, he did a backflip off of a moving car and landed on his feet. Another time, he nearly sliced his entire hand off doing stupid sword movements (who even owns a sword in the twenty-first century?) but only had to get stitches around his wrist for a while. Miraculously, he wasn’t hurt when he played around the skate park on a Razor scooter instead of, you know, something sensible like a skateboard or roller skates - but his tales of the skate park paint a very terrifying picture.

It’s all dangerous and entirely unsafe. Today, he is looking for tomfoolery. Radd is carrying an empty laundry basket, smiling as he attempts to ignore your stare. 

“Where are you going?” 

“Laundry,” he says, but there are no clothes in the basket to prove that.

You tilt your head. “With what clothes?” 

“They’re in the dryer. ‘M gonna fold them.” 

“We did laundry yesterday. Be honest.” 

Radd thinks for a moment, then decides to be honest. “I’m going to slide down the stairs in the complex.”

That is dangerous. And unsafe. And stupid. His puppy-dog eyes are too cute to resist, though - and you’d like to see if he gets any karmic revenge for the dumb things he does. “I’ll come with you.” 

The complex stairs are grimy and dirty and probably have great traction for this sort of thing. Radd stops at the end of the hallway, setting down the laundry basket and stepping inside. He turns to you, smiles and sunshine and bravado you lack. “Wanna join?” 

“There’s not enough space in the basket,” you point out. “Wouldn’t want to break it.” 

“True! Then you can have a turn afterwards.” Radd scootches around and gets comfy in the laundry basket. Without a countdown or any other hypothetical warning, he pushes the basket by scooching forward sharply, and then does it again to finally slide down the stairs. 

The sound is loud enough the neighbors at the very bottom of the complex will probably come to complain. It echoes, a thunderous BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM as the laundry basket makes its way down the dingy carpet. 

“That was so much fun!” Radd exclaims, pushing himself up and out of the basket to drag it back up the set of stairs. “It’s your turn, now.” 

“I’m good.”

Radd’s puppy dog eyes are too adorable to resist. He frowns, putting on a good show. “But… but, if you do it I’ll kiss you! Please?” 

That trade isn’t remotely worth it, but you suppose Radd will drag you back here to have some fun. Why couldn’t he be into something normal… like cards? Or practicing his stupid sword skills where he’s not going to break everything in the living room? It’s unfair. Once Radd sets down the laundry basket, you walk over and step inside, gripping the handles for safety. 

“I’m gonna push you down.” Radd squats and leans to kiss your cheek, no real affection behind it. His only palpable emotion is excitement - ready to see you be dragged down the stairs by a stupid laundry basket. “Ready?” 

“I gu-” 

Your assent is cut off because Radd pushes the laundry basket so hard you hear a sharp crrrrack! as the plastic breaks. You yelp as well because he pushed it - he pushed it hard. You fly down the nasty steps and the only saving grace is that the laundry basket protects you from smashing your face into the wall. Another echoing crack proves your laundry basket is good and broken. 

You turn to look at Radd. He isn’t smiling, not now, and perhaps now he knows the brevity of this situation. “Sorry,” he calls, voice echoing. 

He’s not sorry - not in the slightest!

Chapter Text

It’s your duty to help Roger out. As his friend, you’ll give him all the dating advice you can muster: even if you don’t have any experience yourself. Nor does Roger, but perhaps that’s why he goes to you instead of anyone else. 

“I don’t think pick-up lines are going to work,” you sigh, tired of this monotony. It’s the seventh week you’ve met up with Roger, with no luck on either side of the court - you can’t find someone who would find you to be charming, and Roger is having difficulties once he strikes up conversations with someone he might be interested in. 

Gray couch. White walls. Roger, sprawled across a chair with a miserable frown on his face. “I’ve tried everything. Nothing’s working!” 

“...pretend you’re interested in me,” you suggest, sitting up. “Do what you would do to anyone else, and I’ll react accordingly. Maybe we can figure out where you’re going wrong.” 

Roger’s face flushes as bright as his hair when you suggest that. “Like… try to ask you out on a date?” 

“Yeah. Exactly like that.” It couldn’t hurt, but somehow Roger turns even redder at your confirmation of what he should be doing. 

How is he nervous? The two of you are just friends. Friends who are helping each other out, friends who are trying to get a significant other so the two of you can be happy and content in your life. 

It’s not like either of you have anything better to be doing. Roger sits up, taking a deep breath. “Okay. Uh, now I’m all nervous. I don’t know how to start.” 

“I’ll start.” You think for a moment - what would be a good scenario that Roger could play along with? “Excuse me, sir,” you drawl in a hideously stupid voice, “do you believe in love?” 

Theoretically, it should be silly enough that Roger could find something smooth to say - all of your pep-talks with him should give him plenty to reply with! He’s charismatic enough that he can reply with something, can’t he? But instead of anything smart and flirty, he buries his head into his hands and groans. “You can’t just ask me that!” 

…maybe some other girl asked him that - but it’s so silly, how could he not find something to reply with? “Why? What’s wrong with what I said?” 

“I do believe in love!” Roger exclaims, pointing at you directly. “It’s because I love you!” 

Oh-

Oh. 

Maybe… you know, lots of things start clicking once he says that. You think that your own face must be the same shade as Roger’s hair, maybe brighter. He hasn’t stopped blushing either. There’s not really a lot you can say to that, but actions speak louder than words… Standing up, you walk to where he sits on the chair, gently guide his hands away from his face, and kiss him. 

It’s not a very nice kiss, but the relief that the feeling is mutual must be more important than being kissed.

Chapter Text

Being the favorite servant wasn't bad - not at all. 

Jeorge of Menedy likes you. You don't know why, considering you are there to do a job, but he does. It sends a thrill through your body every time he thanks you, he makes you blush with every compliment on your fine work even if you've been doing these chores for years. The other members of the noble court could be a little prickly when they came to discuss matters with one another, but it was, in all fair reason, a good job. 

It is good because Jeorge likes you. It's hard to comprehend. 

You're in the middle of sweeping the guest bedroom when Jeorge comes across you, regarding you for a moment. 

"Hard at work, I see."

"Yes, sir." The last noble who slept here was quite dirty, but it wasn't toiling work like Jeorge might have believed. 

He studies you for a moment longer. "When you are finished, would you like to have a cup of tea with me? It's lovely outside, and your company is invigorating."

Tea time does sound nice. "Yes, sir, uh- give me a few moments and I'll be ready."

"There's no rush," he assures you. "Meet me in the garden when you are done."

It only makes you work faster and skip a few steps in your cleaning routine. Tea - with Jeorge? It's horribly romantic, and puts horrible, filthy ideas in your head. What if he tried to hold your hand, or kiss you, or--

It sends you into a beet-faced stupor, is what Jeorge's invitation does. You hurry to prepare yourself and practically fling yourself through the exit when you are ready. 

The Menedy gardens are not very big - perhaps two rows of red roses and another of miscellaneous flowers that aren't native to the land. It isn't your job to take care of them, thankfully - you doubt you could make them as beautiful as they are. Jeorge is already sitting at the outdoor table, watching you rush up and take the opposing seat. 

"I tried to hurry," you explain. "I didn't want you to wait and get frustrated."

"You could never make me frustrated," he assures you, then glances at the tea set on the table. You've never seen this set before - a royal red with a black filigree etched around the upper half of the cup. The handle looks ornate, as well - a handle with jagged grooves to properly hold the cup. 

"Where do you think this tea set was obtained?"

You think for a moment. Red, black - dark colors, aren't they? Menedy controls a section of Gra, but it must be a gift from Macedon because King Jiol doesn't seem the type of person to gift something like this. 

"Marquess Noah must have pleased the court of Macedon, I believe. It must have been from them - I can think of no other country that would gift away something so… dark."

Jeorge smiles. "Truthfully, I do not know from where this tea set originated. But, you may be right. Shall I pour you a cup?"

You nod, watching Jeorge's deft fingers pick up the even prettier teapot. His hands are so lovely, with long fingers. Though he is skilled with the bow, you find that the callouses only make his hands more beautiful. Jeorge is beautiful - the sort of grace only a noble can achieve, with suave splendor and a pretty smile and--

"I apologize if the tea isn't to your liking," Jeorge explains and interrupts your thoughts as he leans to pour your tea. "I picked leaves that seemed to be the freshest." He is so graceful, so dextrous! You watch as he effortlessly pours your tea, then sets the pot down. 

"It's okay," you assure him. "I'm sure you prepared it wonderfully." The scent is light, of berries - it must be the blend from Gra that King Jiol so graciously gave an entire kilo of - nobody in the house drinks tea enough to warrant a kilo, but you suppose it doesn't matter. The taste is light and sweet and not particular. It's okay, and there is something to be said about its simplicity. 

Jeorge has been watching you sip your tea. "I have an inquiry for you."

An inquiry. It's an odd way to word it. "Which is…?"

"If you were not serving House Menedy, what would you rather be doing?"

Oh. An odd question. You only obtained this job due to luck, being in the right place at the right time in order to say the right words. You love Menedy, more specifically serving them (as silly as that may sound). They aren't very loud nor chaotic nor rude - Jeorge is the epitome of kind and noble. Sometimes, you dream of what sort of noble he may make in his future. Surely a just and right one… You think for another moment. What would you do? You're not knowledgeable about the blade nor magic, but war is not appealing. "Maybe… a cook?" You cook often, or help with cooking. It would have to be under the employ of someone else, but perhaps cooking wouldn't be bad."

"Hm. I see." Jeorge thinks for a moment, glancing to the two rows of roses. "You would make someone happy with your cooking. Where would you go?"

"Um…" you trail off, but the answer is easier this time. "I'd like to stay in Archanea. Truthfully, I was thinking I would stay here forever - and make you happy when you eventually succeed your father." That flight of fancy must seem pathetic to Jeorge. Perhaps you should not have said that at all - but instead of laughing and saying that you could not possibly do that, he becomes even more intrigued. 

"Pray tell," Jeorge begins, voice softer than it ever has been thus far. "Does your loyalty lie with Menedy, or with me?"

"With you, sir," you assure him. "While the marquess is very kind to me, he is… uh, that is, I mean to say- uh, Sir Jeorge?"

Jeorge has left his side of the table to circle around and loom over you. He's even beautiful like this, the closest he has ever been to you. He smells of wood and tea, not an unpleasant scent but notable because he's close.

"If I told you that I was planning to leave with no intentions of returning, what would you say to that?" Jeorge is looming above you, but his face is not one of malice. He looks curious, if anything, face maintaining neutrality. 

You have to compose yourself for a moment. He's planning to leave? But why? Is he unsatisfied with his soft life? His father seemed to support his archery, but perhaps he wants more.

It is easy to understand that sentiment. "I would say, 'when would we leave?''

Jeorge's hands are not as soft as they look, but his palm is warm on your skin. He closes the distance between the two of you with a kiss, letting you brace your hands against his shoulder. The kiss his slow and sweet and just how you imagined he might have kissed you, complete with chapped lips and a small smile when he finally breaks it. 

"We leave tomorrow night. Prepare anything that you must."

Before you can prepare, you glance to your cooling tea. Drinking the rest of it is in order - waste not, want not. There will be plenty of opportunities for teatime with Jeorge in the future.

Chapter Text

Where could Maria be hiding? You could hear her footsteps take her into the library, loud because she attempted to be quick instead of quiet. You’d like to drag out the anticipation - Maria always likes it when you look in the silliest of places. 

“Ready or not, here I come!” 

Your voice echoes through the castle. Thankfully, you receive a reply of silence: at least Maria knows how to play hide-and-seek and be quiet.

Casually, you meander through the hallways. Macedon castle is always unbearably muggy or horribly cold - today, it seems as if it is the latter. The chill makes you cross your arms, pushing the door to the library open with your shoulder. 

“Hmmm,” you say far too loudly for a library. “I wonder where Maria could be?”

She stays silent. Maybe she isn’t in this room - but out of the corner of your eye, you can see her hiding one of the study tables in the corner. Her white dress sticks out even in the dim lighting, but she’s pulled most of it up into her lap in an attempt to hide it. It’s not working too well, considering a good majority of her dress is shiny and pure. 

“Maria?” you call, pulling a book down from the shelf to pretend she might have shrunk down. “Maria, where are you? Are you in here?” You put the book back, then move where she can see you directly. 

Trying to look above the towering shelves is a hard process, but you hear Maria stifle a giggle when you climb up the ladder. “Maaaaariiiia,” you call. “I can’t find you! Where are you?” 

Another giggle. It’s too loud to pretend you didn’t hear it. 

“Huh?” you say, climbing down from the ladder. “Was that a mouse?” 

Maria giggles again, crawling out from under the table. “It’s me! I’m not’a mouse!” 

“Whaaaat, you were here all along?” Your voice drips with sarcasm, but Maria finds it funny instead of rude. She stands up and nearly jumps on you to hug you, burying her face into your stomach. “You’re so good at hide-and-seek.” 

“I know! But now it’s your turn to hide!” Maria lets go of you, whirling, whirling around and covering her eyes with her hand. The white of her dress is even brighter now that you’re closer to her, golden threads gleaming in the dim library. “How much do I count to?” 

“Count to thirty.” 

“Okay! Ready, set… one, two…” 

You set off in a run once she begins to count, turning left and running down the hallway. What would be a good hiding spot? The kitchen? The scullery? Maybe you could sneak around back to the library where she hid - it would be a funny idea, but she might not think it to be fair. 

Turning the corner, you yelp as you fall… into a pair of arms, thankfully. Minerva looks surprised to see you. “Well, hello there.”

“Hide me,” you say, watching her begin to smile. “Maria and I are playing hide-and-seek.” 

With your request in her mind, Minerva pulls on your arm to drag you into a perfect hiding spot - one where Maria won’t be able to find you, surely! 

Chapter Text

This room, you find, belongs to neither of you. Minerva shuts the door with a satisfied grin. “I’m glad to see you having fun with my sister. What say we give her a challenging game of hide-and-seek this time?” 

“Well,” you reply, your own smile growing, “what do you have in mind?” 

Minerva decides kissing you is a great waste of time, pushing you against the door with her arms sliding down to your waist. There would be many people surprised that the beloved Minerva was not as pious as Macedon attempted to make the royal family appear. You brace yourself against her shoulders, her arms, feeling the muscle there from her years of hauling axes and conditioning. 

She smiles at you when she breaks the kiss, one of her hands moving up to cup your cheek. “Later tonight, the sky is to be clear. I want to take you on a journey around Macedon, if you would be willing.” 

To ride on Minerva’s wyvern is nothing short of extraordinary. The ground below you is vast, the sky above is so large and imposing it frightens you. The cold air, the warmth from Minerva as she expertly handles her wyvern with her arms around you - all of it makes you gleeful at the idea. “I’d like that.” 

“Would you?” Minerva asks, but she doesn’t give you time to confirm your answer once more before kissing you once more. She’s warm, holding you close to her own body and pressing her thumb into your cheek. The fire inside you only burns hotter when you think about the fact she is with you. 

The moment is broken when you hear the doorknob shake, and realize that Maria is on the other side of it. “Is anyone in here?” 

Minerva glances at the door for a second, then regards you. She shoos you to a corner of the room that is away from the door, then unlocks it to regard her sister. “I am studying. What is it?”

“Studying?” Maria does not sound convinced. “I was just wondering if you’ve seen your sweet-heart anywhere! We’re playing hide ‘n seek, and I can’t find her!”

Minerva hums, moving closer to hide the crack of the door even better. “I saw her last in her quarters, I believe. I have no idea if that was before you began to play, but perhaps you should check there.” 

There’s a moment of hesitation, perhaps of disbelief. “Okay,” Maria finally agrees, and skips off as Minerva shuts the door. 

You feel a little bad, but Maria has a lot of ground to cover and only one of you to find. Being with Minerva a while longer won’t matter if Maria checks all of the hiding-spots.

Chapter Text

On Monday, it was a vase of flowers. On Tuesday, it was a gift basket of fresh fruits, the tastiest you’ve tried. On Wednesday, it was another bouquet with too many flowers to count. 

You think that this bright yellow 'Chocolate Sampler (72 Pieces)' is a bit much to come home to at your door. 

You don’t know who is giving you any of this - but you do have a clue. The new neighbor is too pretty to be around you, so beautiful you can’t help but blush at the very thought of her. She’s the only one capable of this, isn’t she? 

She seems to have a knack for flowers… would buying her a bouquet be a gift she could appreciate? Maybe something sweet, like a bag of candy packaged nicely. You don’t have any money, but maybe a card will show your appreciation until your paycheck gets here. 

That’s exactly what you do. You’ve only spotted your new neighbor once - and like a fool, you neglected to ask for her name. Still, you bring out your markers and printer paper to make something pretty for her, drawing flowers on the front and adding a nice message in the middle of the card, saying that you love all of the gifts and that her kindness is appreciated. You deliver it to her door some time later, ringing the doorbell before leaving for your own apartment. 

The next day, you find that she’s waiting outside of your apartment door with another bouquet. Where is she getting all of these flowers? The gesture is sweet, but you’re already running out of vases to put them in. 

“Hi… you’re my neighbor, right?” It’s a dumb question, and you find yourself feeling embarrassed as soon as you say it. 

Thankfully, she seems none the wiser. “Yes. I’m Linde. It’s nice to meet you properly. I read your card, as well…” she’s blushing, the pink flush across her cheeks only accenting the floral pink of her dress. “I was wondering if you’d like to go on a date with me? You’re very beautiful.” 

Why wouldn’t you want to go on a date with her? She is the epitome of grace and beauty, with a pink dress and pink cheeks and a smile that makes you feel pink, too. “Of course. It’d make me happy if we could go on a date together. I’m free tomorrow, if you want to go out to eat or something…” 

“Out to eat,” Linde echoes, then nods. “Yes. I’d like to do that. I know a nice place we can visit - it will be my treat.” She extends the bouquet for you to hold. “And, here. I got these for you.” 

As always, the array of flowers is beautiful. You take them, smelling the fresh scent they emanate. They’re pretty, but you wonder how you can tell Linde you appreciate these while also asking for her to stop giving you flowers - you have enough to look at, and there are only so many containers and places you can put all of them!

Chapter Text

“Could you pass me the yellow?” 

You do just that, going back to your own word search. What was originally supposed to be a cleaning day morphed into finding stuff you and Jake hadn’t seen for years - it was the prime time to at least use it before you toss it! 

“Now the green.” 

“Get the green on your own.” You circle DRACOKNIGHT and cross it out in your word bank.

Jake huffs, leaning so his fingers scrape the box with the colored pencils but not much else. “Move it with yer foot. Just a little bit. Please?” 

You do move it with your foot - after all, it is such a minor favor that you don’t mind. Except you push it away from Jake’s hands, hiding your smile as you circle SNIPER in your word search and cross it out.

“You’re annoying, you know that?” Jake makes the effort to lean forward to grab the box of colored pencils, placing it on his lap above the coloring book he’s holding. 

“I know,” you reply. That’s why he loves you… probably. 

The two of you settle into silence. Silence isn’t a bad thing, especially with Jake because he’s quite content to sit there and look handsome as he colors in a frog on his coloring book page. You glance at him occasionally, finding that you meet his gaze more than once. Several times, actually. 

“Quit it.” Jake knees you gently. 

“Maybe you should quit it. You’re just too good lookin’ to look away.” You circle HUNTER and cross out the last portion of this word search, closing the book to toss to the table. 

Jake huffs, but it’s clear he doesn’t mind the compliment. “Yeah? Same to you. Sometimes I watch you sleep.” 

“That’s creepy.” 

“In a non-creepy way,” he assures you, but that doesn’t make it less weird. “But you’re so cute! You don’t even snore that loud. It’s cute!” 

You can’t think of something to say back. First of all, you didn’t know you snored in the first place - second of all, Jake snores like a pig oinks. You’ve gotten noise complaints from the neighbors before, for goodness’ sake. It’s a miracle you don’t wake up every night to listen to his melodic (or deafening) snoring. 

The more you dwell on it, the more you realize Jake is kind of… disrespectful - but that’s not the term you’d want to use. It’s always unintentional, of course - he’ll snore so loud you can’t get to sleep some nights. Sometimes, he’ll leave the lights on in the house when neither of you are home. Not to mention, he has a hoarding problem with things that might come in use in a decade. Nothing like keeping trash, but odd things that he wouldn’t miss were he to donate or toss them. 

Speaking of… “Okay, break time’s over. Help me toss all of this stuff.” 

Jake groans. “But I’m not finished with my frog yet.” 

He’s not going to finish his frog. Instead, he will get partway through, get bored, toss the colored pencils and the coloring book back into the closet, and leave it to rot there until he finally gets the gumption to clean in a decade. You’d like to have more closet space, if only to fill it up with cool things the two of you would actually use.

Chapter Text

Wartime is hard on everyone - royals, nobles, and peasants alike. One thing that stays the same is mealtime. 

You break bread with Dolph, praying over a meager meal. It’s the night before you are to leave for the castle for knightly training and one month before you are to be shipped off to fight in a war no country wants. Dinner is silent, save for the sounds of eating.

You don’t want it to be quiet. It’s the last night with the safety of being in a small place in the middle of the country. You don’t want to spend your last moments of peace with silence. 

Dolph pushes his plate toward you. “Eat a lil’ more, why don’t you. It’s good fer you. Keeps you healthy.” 

“I’m not hungry.” It’s the truth. How could you be hungry when you are going to war? “I’m scared.” 

“I know. It’s scary, ain’t it… but all of the higher-ups are gonna be the ones fightin’ on the front lines. With a grunt like you, you’ll probably get stuck handing out provisions and providing care to the wounded. Maybe you’ll be good with a staff, yeah?” Dolph smiles at you, but his words mean little. 

He’s one of the higher-ups. He’s the one that has to fight on the front lines to keep Princess Nyna and Archanea safe. He’s the one with a higher chance to die, and when this war is said and done who will you have to go home to? Nobody. 

You’re crying before Dolph even moves around the table to hug you. War is terrifying. Even now, before the peak of it has hit your village it is terrifying. The smell of burnt bodies carries across the plains, the gore is embedded in your mind. You have seen things that no man should see. It is torture. Dolph knows war well; a battle-hardened soldier he is. 

“I’m so scared,” you sob. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to fight.”

“I know.” Dolph presses his hand to the back of your scalp, smoothing down your hair in an attempt to make a soothing motion. “It’s scary. Ain’t it.” 

“But I don’t have a choice. I don’t want to die, Dolph, but I’m so scared that I will.” Even worse if your betrothed died. Carnage is one thing. Carnage of your sweetheart is another. 

“Look at me, darling.” You do as he says through your teary eyes, trying your best to slow your sobs to quiet yourself. “I promise you that you aren’t going to die. I don’t have a death wish either, and we’ll make it out of the war alive. Got it?” 

“Got it,” you mumble. He is a warrior, he is the might of Archanea. Saying that he doesn’t have a death wish only means he can’t promise you he will not die. If he dies, then… then what? 

Tonight, you will pray. Tonight, you will allow yourself the weakness of the if. Tomorrow, you will be as scared as every other recruited knight, but do your best because Archanea requires it of you. There will be an after the war you can look forward to. After the war, you’ll make sure neither of you touch a blade again. 

Chapter Text

It’s not fair how Boah is good at this game. You’ve been trying to trump him for half an hour at this point, but he’s still finding words to come up with.

“Excalibur.”

“Ring.”

“Great.”

“Terrible!”

Ha-ha! The point of the game is to find a word that starts with the last letter of the previous word. Because you said ‘terrible,’ which ends in the letter E, he’ll have to think of something that isn’t Elephant or Eye or any other E-word!

Boah thinks for a moment, looking down at his hands. “Elysian.”

Darn it! You could have sworn you bested him. “Necrodragon!”

“Nothing.”

“Gradivus.”

“Stonehoist.”

“Thunderbolt!”

“Thoron,” Boah responds, and you could swear he might have a smirk on his face.

You’re good at this game, though, and it’s not like you’ve placed a time limit on this game. You can take as long as you need to. You’ve already said necrodragon, but now that you’ve thought of so many words it’s getting hard to think of new ones. “No?”

“Opposite.”

Darn it. The letter E is horrible. You think for a while, trying not to think of elephants or eyes or anything else that starts with the letter E. “Elfire,” you come up with, and now he’ll have to think of something that starts with the letter E! Serves him right!

“...I think my age is catching up with me,” he finally responds after some time of mulling it over. “Let us say that you win this time.”

Victory! Except it’s not that satisfying because he’s wimping out. Wait. Wait.

“Except,” you say. “You could have said except.”

“I could have,” Boah agrees. “But I am hungry. How about we make lunch together? We still have that meat that we cannot waste, yes?”

Part of Boah being an old fart means you have to do most of the work around the house. However, he is very good at making sandwiches. Applying condiments and whatever veggies and meats you have left over, he crafts Archanea’s most perfect sandwich. Princess Nyna would beg to have something so delectable! Maybe. Do the royals even eat sandwiches? It’s more of a finger food… the thought of seeing some stuffy prince or princess eating a sandwich with a fork is mildly humorous.

Boah is taking out the bread and the meat and the cheese and the leftover veggies from last night’s dinner. You’re so very lucky to have him - both for his wit and the delicious food he makes.

Chapter Text

Midia is happiest when she has lots of clothes to try on and model. She’s twirling around in a red dress now, looking at the way it sparkles in the mirror. 

“Do you like it?” 

“I like it,” you assure her, “and every other outfit you’ve tried on. You’re beautiful.” 

The blush on her face is almost as red as the dress. “Well… we have to get you a nice outfit too, don’t we? You must dress to impress - even if you are not the center of the party, we are representing Archanea.” 

Nothing you’ve seen in the twenty boutiques you’ve visited has caught your interest. Especially not with the outrageous price tags - doting on Midia and buying her dresses that cost more than even the finest swords is one thing. Doting on yourself when you have plenty of nice outfits in your closet? That’s an entirely separate problem. 

But she is right. Nothing you have would suit a grand, formal party where you’ll have to brush up on your etiquette and keep an obnoxious smile on your face the entire time. 

“Let me find something for you, love,” Midia says. “I’ll make sure you look classy. You look breathtaking in black, maybe I can find something that will fit for the party.” 

Black seems to be a little morose for some party that’s supposed to be a celebration, but it’s a sleek color and you know Midia has much better fashion sense than you do. 

She’s leaving the changing room in her flouncy red dress to go find something for you… should you stay here and be surprised? Come with her? Someone might steal this dressing room, so you stay in the room just in case. Midia won’t be long. Haste is important with her - not rushing is important, but dilly-dallying is the last thing she would do. 

It doesn’t take long for her to come back with a variety of suits and dresses and even some sort of sparkly jumpsuit that, while it is pretty, is too immodest for you to even think about wearing it. In front of Archanean royalty, no less! 

“Try these on,” she says and presses the outfits into your arms. “Pick whichever you like best.” 

So, you don all of the outfits. It feels awkward to wear them even in the dressing room. Midia is oohing and aahing at all of the outfits, complimenting how beautiful and lovely you are in every single one. 

She’s not helping you pick an outfit, despite her kind remarks. If anything, it’s making you more stressed. Midia won’t want to shop again if you don’t pick an outfit right this second, but your shopping trip has been so long you’d rather rest and skip the party due to the stress. 

“Do you like any of them?” 

“Not really,” you reply. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry.” Midia stands up, a graceful smile growing across her features. “I’ll make sure to find something that you will feel wonderful in. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” 

You can’t go anywhere. Glancing at the pile of outfits in the corner, you wonder how many Midia will fit in here before she has to return them all to the racks. How is she getting each of these in here, anyway? The sign on the door says LIMIT 3 ITEMS PER CUSTOMER, but there are at least a dozen of Midia’s dresses. 

Well… it’s not your problem, not yet. 

Chapter Text

…ah. Tomas is here. In your bed. 

How did he even get in here? You think for a moment, but all you can remember is feeling tired after a long day of work and collapsing into bed the moment you were able to do so. Hell, you’re still in your work clothes. 

You didn’t invite anyone. You did not invite Tomas, but he’s snuggled up next to you smelling like pine-scented deodorant. He’s not supposed to be here, but you know how to wake him up. 

Before you can backhand him or toss him off of the bed, he’s blinking and mumbling and trying to sneak closer to your warmth. “Good morning, my love.” 

My LOVE? When did he start using cringe-worthy pet names? “Tomas. Get up.” You shove him with the palm of your hand and he grips onto your shoulder to keep himself from falling. Shoving him again gets the result you want, and he tumbles to the floor with a thwomp. 

“You’re a meanie,” Tomas mumbles, sleep thick in his voice. You roll over to go back to bed yourself. He’ll see himself out, you’re sure… but he continues talking instead. “I washed your dishes and made you breakfast and I’m being a cuddlebug but you hate me.” 

“How did you get in.” A worthy question because he doesn’t have a key and you never leave your front door unlocked. 

Tomas grumbles. “I just did. Can’t you say ‘thank you’?” 

“No. I can’t. How did you get in, Tomas?” You lean over the bed to stare him down. He’s still laying there, face lighting up when you make eye contact.

Instead of something smart, he sighs. “I love you a lot. I was wondering if I could practice my archery in yo-” 

“Tomas. Get out.” 

No matter your orders, he seems insistent on staying here for no good reason. Ignoring him is impossible, though, not when he riles you up and can badger you for hours. “But… please?” 

“Go join the army,” you suggest, rolling back over in bed. “I’m sure they have a job for you.” 

“But then I’ll have to go to training and I won’t see you again. What if you forget me?” Tomas stands up and places his hands on your shoulder, gently tugging at the blanket. “Come on. I made you breakfast. It’s toast.” 

“I don’t want your toast.” 

“I’ll make pancakes, then,” Tomas says. “With sprinkles and strawberries and syrup and- oh, or I’ll treat you to breakfast at the diner! You can get a-ny-thing you want, darling. Anything.” 

“You don’t have the money.” If you took him up on that offer, you’d be the one paying for a mountain of blueberry pancakes and sodas and everything else on the menu. Then, Tomas would be bouncing off of the walls for hours. You’re surprised that he isn’t doing that already, but you suppose he kind of is. 

Tomas whines, leaning down to press a kiss on your cheek. “No, I can pay. I pinkie promise.” 

“Show me your coin.” 

You don’t have to open your eyes to see Tomas has no coin nor the fact that he’s probably pouting cutely in an attempt to woo you. It’s not working, but the more you dwell on it the more breakfast does sound tasty… Once you get up and kick Tomas out, of course. 

Chapter Text

Your cooking is a disaster. Macellan has offered to help you, but burnt food for dinner has been (and is) a regular occurrence. Today, you are going to make spaghetti. It's a simple meal and Macellan has already prepared everything - the only thing you need to do is make it and cook it. 

"We're going to make the sauce first!" Macellan gestures to the ingredients in front of you. Tomatoes, garlic, herbs, some sort of thick paste in a bowl… and a larger bowl with tomatoes so mashed together it's practically liquid. "Go ahead and start chopping the tomatoes!" 

Macellan is breathing down your neck as you chop. It's a little creepy, if you are honest - but you know his heart is in the right place. You chop the tomatoes and the garlic and the herbs until Macellan tells you to put them in the bowl. Then, he pulls out a pot from the cupboard and sets it on the stove. 

"Go ahead and put that in here!"

You do just that, letting some of the tomato juice splatter over Macellan's arm because he gets miffed at that and licks it off himself. Then, he turns the stove on a gentle flame. 

"We're gonna stir this every once in a while!" Macellan takes a wooden spoon to give it a good stir. "Get another pot and put some water in it to boil."

It's an easy instruction to follow, and you do that with no problems whatsoever. "Thank you for helping me, Macellan," you tell him. 

"Of course, babe!" Macellan's smile grows. "We're making it together, so both of our love will be in our food tonight. The best part is getting to eat it!"

"I like the part where I cook with you, too," you reply with a smile of your own. 

Macellan likes that, apparently, because he sets down the spoon and swoops you into his arms to kiss you. His mouth tastes like the spaghetti sauce you made; it's not bad, but it's also just tomatoes you're tasting. 

"I love cooking with you!" he exclaims before kissing you again. "And baking," another kiss, "and eating good food with you!" He squishes you into one of his suffocating hugs this time instead of kissing you. Melting into his embrace, you hug him back and rest your head on his chest. 

He's perfect. The two of you do your best to improve the other and even if Macellan isn't the nicest person or the most patient, his tough love isn't rude and cruel - especially when you're cooking--

"The pot!" As fast as you can, you turn to see large puffs of steam coming from the rolling boil. You rush over to turn the stove down, but Macellan attempts to be a step ahead of you and bonks you on the way toward the stove. The tumble is enough for you to have to brace yourself against the first thing you come in contact with: the sauce pot.

It spills everywhere. Across the stove, around the counter, on you. It's only warm, not hot. Macellan makes a vague startled noise at it anyway, turning the stove off to fret over you. 

"Does it hurt? I'm so sorry-"

Instead of screaming in pain, you swipe your finger across your shirt and taste the sauce. It tastes like spaghetti sauce, which means it's a success! The only problem is that the sauce did not land in your mouth when it fell, but now you'll have to clean it. 

Then again… Macellan won't know if you play the pity card and get out of cleaning, right? 

Chapter Text

It's tough to be with Horace. There are so many factors that make it difficult, but you wouldn't trade them for the world.

First of all, he's a vampire. That's actually the most pertinent point: every other problem stems from that. You can only see him at night, and the two of you have to be careful. His body is cold, which makes him horrible to cuddle. Whenever he wakes you, he always scares you. It's unintentional, but to see him standing over you or even lying in bed or even calling your name is scary. 

He'll take your blood often. You don't mind it because the feeling is nice and you like to help your sweetheart with something as trivial as sustenance (especially when he cannot consume human food). It's still tiresome, even if you smile and promise he doesn't have to go hunt around for other humans or animals.

On the good side, he always showers you with tasty food on the nights after he feeds from you. Such as tonight, where you're sitting at your dinner table eating the tastiest roll you have ever eaten. Horace has brought fresh food from all over Archanea, from all sorts of noble up-and-standing houses. 

He's watching you eat with a smile on his face. It's a little creepy to be watched, but you'll manage. 

"Where do you get all this food?" you ask. "Do you just… carry it around with you?"

"I have a good relationship with many Archanean houses," Horace explains. "Modern technology is amazing with food preservation methods, as well."

That's true. There are things called refrigerators. Horace has been around for centuries, but he's a dashing noble all the same. "How'd you preserve it in the old days?"

"We dried vegetables and fruits and cured our meat with salt," Horace explains. "Most of my meals were not fresh. War means you can take what you can get, even if it is beginning to spoil."

"War?" He's been in wars before? Sure, Archanea is a continent rife with hostility from other nations, but there have been simple skirmishes and only one major battle in the past century. "When was that?"

"Have you heard of the War of Shadows?" he asks. 

THE WAR OF SHADOWS? "That was THOUSANDS of years ago, Horace!" That makes him… That makes him several thousand years old! 

Horace tilts his head. "Yes. I fought alongside Hero-King Marth to defeat the evil in Archanea." A pause. "What is so unbelievable about it?"

There are lots of unbelievable things about it. You have one question, at first. "So… were you a vampire then?"

"I was turned after the War of Heroes," Horace answers. 

HE FOUGHT IN THE WAR OF HEROES, TOO? You think you might faint. There are thousands of scholars who would BEG for a chance to meet and talk with him!

One question remains, though. An important one, to be sure. It might be rude, but Horace humors your questions often enough that he must know you mean no ill-will.

"So… you're technically dead. How has your body not rotted yet?"

Horace blinks, then offers a shrug. "I do not know; but I must say you are the most curious of my lovers." His smile grows at that. "Why don't you eat your food, darling. It would be remiss for it to grow cold."

You can't tell whether he knows the answer to your question and is lying or not, but you pick up your roll to continue eating. Horace watches you with a lovestruck stare, pointed canines poking at his bottom lip. 

How old is he? Do vampires usually live this long, or is he a strange anomaly? Horace is your anomaly, but that doesn't make it any better that a walking history book is in front of you. Maybe you could get him to write an autobiography or something - there must be hundreds of interesting stories in his life. 

Chapter Text

Astram is one of the strongest warriors in Archanea. Perhaps he is the strongest: so then, why is he on the ground after you beat him in your sparring match?

He's not hurt. Well, maybe he's hurt a little bit: he fell after you struck his shoulder with the training sword. It's a training sword: he shouldn't be hurt!

"Astram?"

He coughs. 

You kneel down next to him, reaching for his hand. It's clammy and sweaty to the touch. He is clammy and sweaty: it can't be from training. Hazy eyes flicker toward you, and Astram smiles. 

"Seems you've bested me today."

"What's wrong?"

"I am ill."

Ill? You press a hand to his sweat-slick forehead. It's hot to the touch, but the gooseskin flickering across his arms paints a different picture. 

"You shouldn't be here, Astram!" you want to help him up, but would he cooperate with you? "You need to go back to bed. I'll make sure you don't get in trouble, but you need to rest!"

"War doesn't rest," Astram replies, cringing. His voice is hoarse. 

"What if you make Princess Nyna sick?" you counter. "You're going to make your own Princess sick! You have to go back to bed!"

That's a fair and true point. Astram sighs, slowly rolling to push against the ground and stand up. You help him as best as you can manage, but let go of him once he is upright. 

The walk to the barracks is - mercifully - a short one. Astram is heaving each step he takes, wheezing, rattling breaths make you worry and fret further and further. Thankfully, his room is close enough that he does not need to suffer much. 

Astram collapses onto his cot with a sharp intake of breath and a wince. He looks at you grabbing the blanket off of his cot, fluffing it as best as you can before laying it over his shivering body. 

"You need to rest," you tell him, hoping your voice is serious enough that it sticks. "I'll fetch a healer to alleviate your symptoms. But for now, rest."

"Don't leave me."

You don't. You sit down instead of run off to go find a bishop. Astram closes his eyes, offering his hand for you to hold. He must feel miserable if he can't bear the thought of being alone. The spark in his eyes is dead, his gaze is hollow. 

Astram runs a thumb over your knuckles. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Try to rest."

He heeds your word with a soft huff, turning slightly in his cot and closing his eyes. You sit with him for quite some time - you're late for everything you had to do today, but Astram is far more important. Until his chest is heaving with heavy breaths, and he is in a restless, fitful sleep - but a sleep nonetheless - you will sit with him. Then, you will fetch a healer. Once he feels less miserable, he will overwork himself until he cannot. Making sure he is as healthy as can be before returning to training and fighting is imperative, after all: and you'll restrain him with force if you must. 

Chapter Text

"BECK! GET UP! IT'S THREE IN THE AFTERNOON!"

You're at your wits end. Beck is a heavy sleeper and does a lot of sleeping. He promised last night that he would wake up early to help you clean the dishes and do the laundry, but he hasn't even stirred in the past handful of hours. 

"BECK!" you scream again, then shove his shoulder hard enough that any normal person would wake up. Instead of doing that, Beck only snores and mumbles something before returning to his slumber. 

You've tried alarms. You've tried screaming in his ear. You've tried screaming in his ear. There's only so many things you can do, but you're getting annoyed. Beck isn't that heavy, you can probably push him hard enough he'll fall on the floor. Maybe that will wake him up!

With all of your might, you shove Beck toward the edge and force him to topple to the floor with a heavy thud. 

"Mmnbgh," Beck says, then promptly curls up on the floor. 

"BECK." You prod his stomach with your foot. "Get. Up."

His eloquent response? "Hmm." 

That's it. You reach down and grab his ankle, yanking him away from the bed for more space. Beck makes another noise, but he won't wake up. You know he won't wake up unless you take drastic measures. Drastic they will be, indeed. 

As soon as neither of you will hit anything, you sit on his stomach and lean down to kiss Beck. He makes another noise; you kiss him again. And again. And again. And one more time before gripping his cheek hard enough that he'll have to wake up. 

"Mornin', darlin'." Beck looks up at you with unfocused, bleary eyes. "This is a nice way ta wake up."

You muster the best smile you can. "It's three p.m." 

Beck frowns. "Is it?"

"Yes."

"Oops. I overslept. You should'a got me up earlier." His hand is sweaty when he cups your cheek. "Yer perfect, lettin' me sleep."

"Am I perfect, Beck?" You lean down once more, locking eyes with him. The sharp exhale of breath he makes tickles your lips. 

His fingers press harder on your cheek. "Yeah. Yer perfect." 

"What would you do for me?"

"Fight a war." Beck's reply is instant. "I'm lovestruck, baby. I'd do anything for you. I'd drag my tongue through a road of glass t'be with you."

Sappy. It's sappy. "Really?"

"Yeah." Beck tries to lean up to kiss you, but you grab his cheeks and push him back down before he can. 

"You know what you could do for me, baby?" you ask. "You could do the dishes."

"Oh, well…" Beck smiles at that. "I'm a bit tired, actually. Maybe I should take a nap."

Now you know he's fucking with you. You scoff, sitting up properly. "Do the dishes or I'm going to make brussels sprouts for dinner."

Beck's smile drops. "Get offa me. I gotta do the dishes."

That works. You'll use every advantage you can afford to make Beck do your bidding - it's only fair when he naps for 20 hours a day! 

Chapter Text

"Catria? Do you have any dreams?"

It's a quiet night. You invited Catria out to stargaze, but the night quickly became cloudy and you don't want to stop talking to her yet. The two of you are sprawled across the field used for training in your pajamas. It would be an embarrassing sight if someone who cared saw, but everyone else is asleep. Insomnia often plagues the two of you - it is a regularity. 

"Dreams," Catria echoes. "What do you mean?"

"Aspirations? What do you want to do in the future? You're in service to Princess Minerva, but there will come a time where you'll be forced to take a reprieve from battle. What would you want to do then?"

"Oh." Catria thinks for a moment longer. "I don't know. Est has always been the one who has a plan - and that plan is to do what makes her happy. I can't live a life free of responsibilities like that."

Both Catria and her sister, Palla, are too stricken with responsibility to care much about fun. As an outsider, you can see the dynamics of their relationship, the way they truly care for another. 

"There's the constellation of the Earth Mother."

You turn your attention back to the sky. Sure enough, the stars show the shape of the Earth Mother. Her hands extend to a vague outline of a woman that looks more like a coincidence instead of a constellation. 

"And the Shield," you say, pointing to the smattering of stars nearby that extend off of what is supposed to be her arm. 

Catria hums at that. "You know, the stars are different in Valentia: but we have the name for our Earth Mother from the ancient dragon that rules over their land. It's strange; in Valentia, they have a constellation they call the Pegasus. Yet, the armies there have to import them from Archanea."

That is strange. Why does she know so much about Valentia? "Have you visited before?"

"Only stories. Princess Minerva and her brother visited as a child, see. It's fascinating to learn more about them." Catria rolls over on her side, offering you a rare smile. "Not to mention, you're not from Macedon. Why don't you tell me more about yourself?"

About yourself? You think that she knows everything about you, probably knowing more about yourself than you do. "What do you want to know?"

"Do you like games?" asks Catria. "My sisters and I play chess often. Or, if you have any other idea of a game we can play together… maybe for just the two of us?"

Any game with Catria sounds like fun, but you're content to sit and stargaze for a while longer. The conversation drifts from games back to the stars, to which she points out every constellation she can find: the Fox, the Wyvern Wing, Mercurius' Hilt (which doesn't look like the hilt of Mercurius in the slightest), and everything else until you feel yourself being shaken to be awoken.

The streaks of dawn that pull themselves from the bottom of the sky only grow larger. Catria helps you up, and the two of you leave to return to the castle. Hopefully, you'll get another few minutes of sleep before your day truly starts.

Chapter Text

Manaketes soared above in all directions, spraying hot waves of fire around you and your allies. You had to stay steadfast - a dragon was roaring in the distance, ready to sniff you out and strike you. The golden blade in your hand is heavy, but as long as you can strike the dragon you have faith you will fell it and move forward. Prince Marth is already ahead, and Princess Minerva has flown over the mountains to survey the area around the castle. The other three Whitewings have been soaring through the sky, Dragonpikes rending the hoards of Manaketes that roam the land. 

The dragon nearby has spotted you, bellowing a mighty roar that has you flinch and grip the blade tighter. There's no backing away - praying to Naga, you rush forward to get the advantage on the mighty beast. 

The dragon cries as your blade strikes its front leg, and attempts to swipe at you. It's an easy thing to duck under, forcing your blade in front of you once more. You swing the sword, bringing it high above your head. The dragon howls as you stab the soft underbelly, rearing back to attack. 

You aren't able to dodge in time. You scream as the fiery breath hits your exposed skin, keeling over immediately. It burns. You writhe in pain, arms numb as you attempt to grasp your sword. Someone yells something that sounds familiar - but you can't place what the voice says. You have to kill this beast. Even if you die, you would have helped Prince Marth succeed. 

A shriek resounds from the dragon. Looking up, you see Palla driving her lance through the scales of the dragon, forcing it down to bleed and die. It crumples. Palla's blade is slick with the dragon's blood, but she drops it and forces her pegasus to land as she rushes to your side. 

Palla forces you to sit up. "Darling," she pleads, urgency in her voice. "It'll be okay. It's going to be alright…"

It hurts. Your skin is nauseating to look at, your vision is hazy with blood that might be your own. Palla holds you against her armor, the cold metal nice on your head. She presses her fingers to your lips. "Open." 

You comply, letting the sour taste of a vulnerary overwhelm your senses. "It's okay," she soothes. "It will make you feel better. Keep looking at me, my love."

It's hard to follow her voice, but you try to drink in Palla's frenzied appearance. Her green hair is matted and tangled, sweaty and oily from the nonstop battle. Palla's smile grows when you focus on her. "See? You'll be okay. Let me pour some of it on your wounds. It will help them heal faster."

You can't help but whine and groan as Palla keeps you sitting, pouring the liquid of the vulnerary on your open skin. "It's okay, it's okay. You're okay. Keep looking at me, darling."

"It hurts," you whine. 

"I know." Palla kisses your forehead as if it will alleviate your pain. "Focus on my voice. Don't fall asleep. We'll catch up to Prince Marth soon."

Right. The battle. You have to get up. You have to fight if you are able. The mighty roar of a dragon in the distance startles you, but Palla shushes you with another kiss - this one to your lips. Her lips are cracked, her kiss stressing more than it is calming. "Can you stand? We have to leave. We'll ride on my pegasus." 

Blindly gripping for your sword proves a tumultuous task. Standing up is even harder, even if Palla is supporting you on your unsteady, shaking legs. It hurts to walk. It hurts to breathe. Your skin is already closing over, thanks to the magical properties of the vulnerary. If you have Palla by your side, you will support her to the end as best as you can. Her pegasus proves to be able to handle the two of you easily, lifting off into the sky with Palla's guidance. Holding onto your sword, you wrap your free hand around Palla's midsection and focus on staying awake as the two of you soar over the mountain range.

Chapter Text

Aurelis is cold in the winter. Both of you are ill-prepared for the chill, especially at night. 

You can't understand why Samson is still with you. Your payment is surely not enough for the travelling the two of you have been doing, and both of you have been in a sour, angry mood at each other as the weeks go on. The stress of your journey only builds and builds, but Samson doesn't seem to notice. If he does, he doesn't care. Yet, he's still with you - why?

"I can see lights up ahead. We're close to a village." Samson hoists up the bag he is holding with your valuables. He could run off with them, but he explained that you shouldn't be burdened with them while you are cold. It doesn't bother you, but the chill does. 

On and on you trod over packed-in snow and a howling wind that serves to frighten and turn you into an icicle. Samson isn't dressed as warmly as you are, but he doesn't seem to struggle. Goosebumps are evident on what skin is showing, though - even if he makes an effort to not be bothered. 

The village is small, but there is an inn on the outskirts near the wall. You don't have coin. Samson doesn't, either: the two of you spent the last of it days ago buying more equipment. He spent his own salary for this journey - for what? You can't pay him!

The innkeeper looks surprised to see the two of you enter. It's warm in the small lobby, windows boarded up tight to keep the cold at bay. The innkeeper greets the two of you. "Welcome. Need a room?"

"We don't have the gold to pay," Samson speaks in your stead. "But you can take a look at what I have on my person for a trade."

"A trade," the innkeeper muses. "All right, then. Show me what you're offering." 

Samson lets go of the bags he's holding, turning his wrist over to unclasp the bracelet he wore. You didn't pay much attention to it - supposed it was some bauble he was fond of - apparently not fond enough if he's willing to barter with it. "It was made in Gra. It'll fetch a pretty price if you want to sell it."

The innkeeper makes an interested noise, peering at the bracelet before taking it and sliding over a rusty-looking key. "First room," he says, and that is that. 

The first room is bitterly cold - some horrible person left the window open that Samson quickly goes to shut and close the curtains around it. You're still shivering, so you plod over to the tiny bed and sit on it. 

"Good night," Samson says. He's setting the packs on the floor, propping them to use like a pillow. 

"No, no, stay up," you plead. "Come sit with me. I want to talk to you about something."

"Huh." He's not in a good position to deny the request, so he walks to the bed and sits down across from you. "What?"

"I'm sorry about your bracelet," you state. "I'm sorry about everything. You should be back home and working as a merc, not helping me with my journey that means nothing to you." It feels awkward to say, and your teeth chatter with every word you manage to get out. You're sorry. 

Samson shrugs. "There're millions of bracelets. It was a gift because someone else didn't want it. It'll just break if I keep fightin' with it on. 'S fine."

"It's not fine. We've been travelling for weeks and we don't have food or money or a way to clean our clothes!" The frustration, the futility of your journey has crept up on you. It was worthless to travel to Aurelis, and now you pay the price by making it your fault the two of you are struggling. 

In a swift movement, Samson pulls you into his arms. He's warm. You move closer to him. "Calm down. Get warm first, okay? Yer talkin' nonsense because you're stressed."

"I'm fine," you stress. You would doubt it, the way your weak voice says those words. 

"We'll talk about it tomorrow. Go to sleep." 

Samson doesn't stop holding you - you're too thankful for that, because he lulls you into sleep rather easily. Tomorrow is a new day, and tomorrow you will make it up to him. 

Chapter Text

It's terrifying to be out of the house. 

Arran's condition is worsening every day. Every night you can hear his coughing, the way it rattles and how he can't seem to catch his breath. He's losing sleep. He's not eating as well as he used to eat, a voracious appetite especially during the war. He's not who he was. It breaks your heart to see him weaken day after day. Yet, the groceries don't buy themselves. At a rare time that Arran seems to be fast asleep, you leave to shop as quickly as possible. 

Only a few things, then you'll return. Arran probably won't fret and worry about where you have gone, but if his condition has progressed to be as bad as it is now…

He won't die. He promised you that, bound to honor, he would not die for quite some time. Arran is still young enough that he has many decades before him. He'll become a renowned, worthy, chivalrous knight. Your knight - and he will protect you and this land until he dies with you by his side. 

Even still, you rush to shop. It's not long before you return to the house. 

"Arran?" you call. "I'm home!"

No response. You're not surprised - he's been losing his voice from how harsh his coughs are. Setting down the groceries, you go to the bedroom to greet him-

-he's not there. 

"Arran?" you walk out of the room and knock on the bathroom door. "Are you in here?" 

You open the door just a crack, but Arran is not in the bathroom nor is he in the kitchen or sitting room or anywhere else. By the time you've checked everything twice running ragged, you finally get the idea to check outside. He wouldn't have gone far, right? 

You panic when you can't see him from the back door, but you walk around the house perimeter to see him staring down the pond nearby. It's empty, no thanks to the wet season. Yet, Arran is sitting there. 

Water splashes on your shoes and ankles as you walk up to him. "Hey."

"Oh, you're back. Sorry. I just wanted to go outside and get some fresh air…" Arran regards you for a moment, then turns back to the pond. 

You were scared but you reply with, "I wasn't worried," like that helps alleviate his anxiety. 

Arran takes a deep breath. "It's nice to sit out here… when I was still training to become a knight, I often got discouraged. There was this nice lake a ways away that I always spent my time by… it was silly, but I liked talking to the fish. I didn't have anyone else, so…" 

"I don't think that's silly." It's sweet. Arran changed for the better when he became a knight, but you recall his tales of his troubled youth. 

"But I have you, now." Arran smiles at you, reaching to take your hand and squeeze it. You don't point it out, but his own hand is shaking. 

You don't want to ask - it's been a constant fight. Yet… "are you okay?"

"I feel good today." He leans back with a small smile to grace his face. "Like, if I wasn't pardoned I would be taking up extra work to help out. I'll help make dinner tonight."

If he's hungry, that's a good sign. He is still fighting the good fight. "We'll have something you like tonight."

"I'm excited about that." Arran raises your hand up to press a kiss to the back of it. "We can-" a pause. He lets go of your hand and turns away, hacking and coughing. It rattles. You cringe, covering your mouth as he lurches forward and continues to cough. 

The spell is over as fast as it started. Arran breathes heavily, loud pants ringing in your ears. "I'm okay," he says, looking at you with the sweetest smile he can put on. "It was the air. I'm okay. You look like you've seen a ghost."

You don't want to admit it to him, but you're worried. "Can we go home…?"

"Yes. I didn't mean to worry you. Let's go." Arran is the first to stand on shaky legs, offering his hand for you to take and get up. 

You don't want Arran to die; yet, he doesn't seem worried. It only makes you frightened that his time is soon. Not yet, you pray, not yet… 

Chapter Text

There's a strange person you see every day. 

More than every day. You feel eyes on you every second of every day until you can go home. At the store. Walking down the street. Conversing with your friends, the neighbors, strangers around town. You can feel his eyes on you. 

He's got red hair and a flirty grin every time you look at him. He's cute, but he's weird. You finally get the opportunity to corner him at the grocery store.

"Why are you following me?"

He raises his eyebrows, his hands reaching to brace against his head. He looks stupid when he does it. "I don't know you. I don't know what you mean."

"Don't play dumb. I see you all the time," you argue. 

He giggles at that. "You're fun to watch. You're so boring, 'n it makes you interesting." 

You are interesting? How?! You're as boring as every other person in the world. "Um. Okay."

"My name is Xane. What's yours? Or maybe I should just call you honey?" His smirk grows wider. 

You don't know whether to be annoyed or impressed he's trying his best. After informing him of your name, he moves closer. 

"It's real pretty, just like you." Xane finally stops doing the stupid pose with his hands up to support his head. "Do you wanna date me? We can go out to dinner right now. My treat, of course."

"Um." You're in the middle of shopping. Glancing to your basket, Xane finally gets it. 

"I'll help you, then. I'll even pay for your groceries!" He moves past you, seeming set on helping you. "Let's go, honey!"

You follow him around the store, stopping every so often to get something you need: a carton of eggs, some spices, a bag of sugar. You need oil too but it's too high up for either of you to get. 

"Let me just ask an associate," you suggest, even if Xane said he 'got this.' 

"No, I can do it." Xane smirks. "Watch this. Don't look away, okay? I'm going to do a trick." 

You raise an eyebrow, but let him do his trick. Xane backs up a little ways away, then a gleam of literal light surrounds him. If that's not insane enough, when the light fades HE'S NOT XANE. 

"Haha!" Xane laughs and points at you. "You humans always look like that! Cool, eh?"

It's not cool. It's terrifying. You are speechless - Xane is taller with a different hair color and eye color and face shape and voice and everything is different about him, but his stupid smirk is still on his face as he reaches up to grab the oil. 

"Pretty handy, huh, honey?" Xane sets the oil in your basket. "If I'm not your type, I can be whatever you want me to be~."

"Be yourself," you manage to say. 

Xane flushes as red as his hair was at that. "Maybe. Anyway. Let's keep going." 

Your feet are a little stuck, but if Xane doesn't seem perturbed maybe you shouldn't be either… 

Chapter Text

Etzel has been acting strange. 

Not strange. He's still himself, cooped up in the study reading books or trying his hand at cooking or resting in bed with you, arms wrapped tightly around your body. But he's much more brooding as of late, reading 'til he physically can't or picking at his dinner or opting to sleep instead of go out with you. He can do whatever he wants, but you're starting to get worried. 

You understand it when he's fidgeting with the ring on his finger. 

"Is it the anniversary?" 

Etzel looks up at you, offering a brief smile in greeting before returning his gaze to his hand. "Yes. It's been years, but I'll never forget her."

He can mourn. Even if you've never met Etzel's late wife, you can offer all the comfort he needs. You don't know what to say - you've never had any late significant others of your own die. "Does she have a grave?" you ask. "Maybe we can visit it?"

"It's…" Etzel's gaze grows long. "She doesn't have one. She died on a battlefield I created. Protected me in a battle I was supposed to die in."

Instead of any words you could say, you walk over to where Etzel is and sit beside him. 

"She was kind, like you, and smarter than I." Etzel's hand reaches to hold your own. The ring he dons has a dull sheen in the light. "I dedicate myself to magic in her stead, even if it aches every time I look at a tome."

"I'm sure she's watching you and your choices. I think you would know if she wasn't happy with you." You don't know what to say. 

Etzel squeezes your hand. "I hope so. I think I am going to go out for a walk… to clear my head. Alone," he adds, but you weren't going to ask to come in the first place. 

Instead, you try to smile instead of keeping the somber mood. "Take as much time as you need. I'll make something to eat when you get home."

"I'll be off, then," says Etzel. Then, he is. You don't know where he's going, but he'll be back eventually. It's a simple task to make a dinner that is as filling and warm and delicious as you can make it. 

Etzel loves his wife. He loves you, too. You hope he knows that you want to support him even if he mourns. Grief-stricken as he may be, you love him as well and want the best for him - no matter what. 

Chapter Text

Today has been a pretty crappy day. You got saddled with cleaning the stables in the hot sun. That in itself was a disaster, but it doesn't help that Est of the Whitewings has ruined your clothing by splashing soapy (dirty) water all over you. 

"I'M SO SORRY!" Est grabs your hands tightly. "I'm so sorry! I didn't watch where I was going. I'm so sorry."

"Maybe you shouldn't run in the hallways with buckets of water!" It's the most basic of rules: don't run in the halls!

"I'm sorry," she says again. "Let me help you! Um, I'll go get a towel-"

"-I'm going to hit the showers," you reply instead. "Thanks."

Est makes a noise that sounds like disappointment, but your foul mood has soured by the minute. The showers will be nice, and there won't be any annoying people who dump dirty water on you there. 

It's some time before you see Est again. You're eating dinner with the rest of the knights when she comes over with a tray and a smile. "Hi… Can I sit with you?"

"Go ahead." You don't care. 

Est sits down with her tray. "I wanted to apologize again. It was my fault, and I hope that you didn't get into any extra trouble because of it."

"I didn't."

"Good!" she exclaims, fidgeting a little. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see her two sisters watching the two of you. What are they planning? 

Est starts to speak again now that she has sufficiently apologized. "Also… whenever you're free, would you be willing to come with me to town? I'll make sure you won't get in trouble, but you just seem like such a nice person…" 

That's a lie. You've been nothing but rude to Est, but you suppose that she's making an effort to get to know you. "Sure. I'd like that."

"Oh, that's oka-" Est almost stands up again but she pauses. "Wait. Really?"

You watch as she sits back down. "Yeah. I don't mind. Maybe on the weekend?"

"Oh! That sounds great! I think I can convince my sisters for money so we don't have to window shop." Est is grinning from ear-to-ear. "We'll go to the shops and try on every outfit and eat every meal we see! Then, we'll go to the weapons shop and look there!"

You don't know how either of you could cough up a salary like that, but the thoughts are exciting nonetheless. 

"That sounds great," you say, and Est seems to get even bubblier by your own excitement. 

"Yay! I can't wait!" She finally eats - does it all with a smile on her face. It's a little weird to watch her chew, but her happiness is infectious. 

Chapter Text

With snow piling up outside and dinner cooking, there's only one thing left to do: build a blanket fort, obviously. 

Tiki is bringing blankets from every corner of the house. You're in charge of making the fort itself, using hair ties and heavy books to string blankets across the furniture. 

"Put this blanket like this." Tiki moves her arm to show you. "We'll have a little cubby spot to store our goodies!"

"Like this?" You maneuver the blanket to be stretched taut to the ground. 

Tiki makes a noise of affirmation, so you tie the blanket and set a book down to keep it from moving and ruining the fort. "What else?"

"Ummmm." She's looking through the blankets you have yet to add. With a little hand on her hip and another covering her mouth in thought, she looks silly. You wouldn't tell her that, though. "This one should go on the ground." She picks up a soft one adorned with snowflake-like patterns, handing it to you to add to the fort. 

Once you do, you see her struggling to add another area to the fort. She's messing with the heavy duvet that usually belongs in her room, tugging it this way and that. 

"Do you need help?"

"I can do it!" Tiki pulls on the duvet and kneels. She uses her knees to make the duvet stay taut as she grabs An Encyclopedia of Magicks: Vol. 3 to use as a stopper. "Look! We're done!"

The fort is much more grand than previous times: there is another room entirely separated by a blanket-curtain, and the canopy of the ceiling is high enough Tiki's ponytail won't get squished and annoy her (a complaint from last time). 

"How about you climb in and make a spot for us. I have to go check on dinner." You stand up properly. Tiki does just that and clambors into the fort to make the sitting quarters. 

Dinner is done, but hot. You leave the bowls on the counter to cool and join Tiki thereafter. She's curled up with one of her stuffed animals, staring at the ceiling. 

"It's so warm in here. You did a great job, Tiki." Sitting down yourself, you prop up a pillow to lean against. 

Tiki giggles. "I didn't do much, really. It was mostly you who did it."

"But you helped, and every little bit helps." Compliments are the easiest way to make her happy - the praise goes straight to her proud beaming. 

"Thank you! Next time, we'll make it even bigger!"

You know that will happen: there are so many blankets around the house that you think you could cover the entire house with them and still have extra left over. The only thing that is stopping either of you is your height - or, at least, the inability to touch the ceiling. 

Chapter Text

General Lorenz of Grust is an interesting fellow. For one, he's eating the disgusting rations the army has been having for weeks without much fuss. You expected a general to be a little disdainful of his new conditions, but he seems to be the same as ever: not complaining when he needs to march or work or talk or train or sleep. 

He's impressive. It's impressive enough you admire him and maybe sort-of start to crush on him. Prince Marth is too happy to oblige your request to work with him - with a knowing smile and words that mean more than his kindness, of course. 

You go with Lorenz to gather firewood later that night. You're not nearly as strong as him - not physically, anyway - but you hope Lorenz will be willing to work with you. 

"Why'd the little prince hand you over to me, hm?" Lorenz's voice is gruff and nice even if he's a little rude. "Can't take my eyes off you on the battlefield. You're like a ballista - just tryin' ta find trouble."

That's not true, but you shrug. "People like you are defending me on the battlefield, so I don't mind…"

"'Cause you're not dying. Grust would chew you up and spit you out into the world of war." Lorenz laughs. 

That's probably true. Grust is a formidable enemy - you've come to learn that fact quickly. "We need to get wood, don't we?" you remind him. 

The forest is full of life, even in this war-torn country. It's easy to find a tree that's small enough to hack away at - with the axe you borrowed (stole from the convoy), you swing it up and into the wood of the trunk. It makes a solid thunk noise, getting stuck into the wood. Pulling the axe out, you repeat the motion again. 

"Let me show you," Lorenz interrupts your work by taking your axe. You back up to allow him room to work - and he fells the tree with only two mighty blows. He doesn't give you the axe back - instead, he chops up the wood for it to be carried back easily. 

"Arms," he requests, and you hold out your arms for Lorenz to stuff timber in. It's heavy, but you can manage it. 

The walk back is too silent for your liking. "I didn't know you could chop wood."

"Why not?" he asks. "Think I'm too noble to get my hands dirty?"

"With wood, yes…" but he's strong and helped you collect the firewood. "But your help was much appreciated. Even on the battlefield."

"My weapons are only one part of bloodshed." Lorenz readjusts his grip on the firewood. "My body, my mind; they are ravaged from war as well. Everyone suffers. Everyone puts in work, even humble villagers who have nothing to gain nor lose from a war." He looks back toward you with a grimace across his scarred face, eye patch still visible in this dark night. "Even you have and will contribute. Even a ballista who misses his mark throws the tiniest tinder into a roaring fire."

It's not nice to be compared to a ballista. You hit enemies! Most of the time! Sometimes! 

Chapter Text

Ymir isn't an ogre. He isn't a beast, he isn't scary, and you think he enjoys the hugs you give him. 

Even if he isn't a beast, he's still taller than anyone you've met. He constantly has to duck under doorways and move sideways through doorways and doorways are the root of his troubles, most days. You don't mind it, and you hope Ymir doesn't mind it either - it's his height, after all! 

But his hugs are nice. You feel warm - you feel safe in his arms, curled up and resting your head on his collarbone. He is kind, and sweet, and… everything. The best sweetheart you could ask for! 

"Are you done?" 

You've been on Ymir's lap for approximately an indefinite amount of time. He's so easy to fall asleep on, it's almost surprising. 

"No," you answer, and promptly scooch closer to him. 

Ymir pats your hip. "My leg is going numb. Stop pressing your knee into me." 

You shift your leg just enough that he'll be satisfied, then elect to ignore whatever outlandish requests he'll have once he's tired of you sitting on his lap. 

He says your name. Pokes your stomach. Neither of those work. 

"I'm going to tickle you if you don't get off," he warns. Little do you know, you have yet to experience the wrath of Ymir and how unparalleled his tickling skills are. 

You don't get off. Ymir's hands slide up to the junction of your thigh, where you have little time to react before he presses his fingers into the sensitive flesh and tickles. 

Of course, you laugh and writhe and he doesn't stop tickling! You laugh and laugh and laugh and squirm and in your writhing you manage to sock him in the face with your foot. It makes a horrible clap sound that probably sounds worse than it hurt, but Ymir lets go of you to hold his cheek all the same. 

"I didn't mean to hit you." You immediately sit up, sensing his hurt face. "Sorry. I was messing."

"You've got quite a kick," Ymir replies. He's smiling now, at least - thankfully you didn't actually hurt him. "Try to punch me. I want to see how strong you are."

From an accidental kick to a purposeful punch? That sounds stupid, but Ymir is strong and resilient enough you know you can do it. Sitting up properly, Ymir opens up his palm facing outward for you to hit into. 

Here goes nothing…

WHAM! 

The sound of your flesh colliding is loud, and you wince - your knuckles sting a little from how calloused and hard his own hand is. How is he so strong? Ymir's hand didn't even move when you hit it!

"Not bad," he muses. "Could be stronger. I should train you." 

While you'd love to be trained, there are more important things at hand - namely, getting away from the hands that are about to tickle you once more!

Chapter Text

Princess Elice was a stunning beauty. After the war, Altea hosted a ball to celebrate for the public to join. Who wouldn't want to join the Princess of Altea in a dance?

Your hands are slick with sweat as you place them on her waist. She places her own delicate hands on your shoulders  "I haven't danced in such a long time… I'm afraid that I may falter once or twice."

Your lack of experience will surely ensure Elice is tripping over her feet and yours. You want to apologize, but you haven't even begun to dance yet! 

The music is cheerful as the two of you begin your waltz. You focus on your steps, stepping on your own foot once but leaving Elice's without a mar of your shoes. 

"I'm happy I can dance with you…" Elice is gazing around the ballroom with wonder in her eyes. "Everything is beautiful, isn't it?"

"Not as beautiful as you." You feel like that was totally smooth. Her face brightens at the compliment. 

And then you step on her foot when you turn her and everything nice you've said thus far goes out the window. 

Elice winces. You feel forced to apologize. "I'm sorry."

"I can tell you don't have much experience with formal dancing," she laughs. "Why don't you twirl me? I'm sure that can be something we both manage."

Twirl her? You slide your hand to hers, raising her arm up to twirl her. Elise is grace, she is beauty, she is elegance as she spins for her dress to whirl, whirl and-

She yelps as she stumbles over your foot and nearly collides to the floor. Instead of the floor, though, she collides on you.

Elise is cold in your arms, but her metaphorical warmth is evident. "Goodness, I apologize." She laughs. "It seems that we both have two left feet tonight."

You should be the one apologizing. She's the one dancing with a partner that can't dance like her! "It's my fault. I'll try my best." Even so, you can feel judgmental eyes from every corner of the ballroom. 

"Let's try it again. Follow my lead." Elise holds your hands tightly - you can't see her feet from the dress, but you suppose her verbal instructions are sound enough. "Back one. Left. Up, then right. It's simple, isn't it?"

"Back, left, up, right," you repeat and follow her dainty footsteps. 

"Yes. You've got it. Back, left, up, right." Elise repeats the movement over and over. At least you're not stepping on her foot, this time - but the way you stumble over your own must be impressive. 

Chapter Text

Today, Nagi wants to master the computer. 

With a day of absolutely nothing to complete, it's perfect to teach Nagi how to use the computer. For being locked in a tower for millenia (probably way more than she claims), she's not the brightest with street smarts. It makes sense! But when you have to tell her how to use a butter knife to make a PB&J, you're a little peeved at her ignorance. 

"Press the button. You've seen me press it before."

"This one, yes?" Nagi leans forward to press the button on the monitor. It shows NO SIGNAL instead of the colorful background she is used to seeing. In need of help, she looks at you. 

You point to the computer itself. "Press the button on the computer."

"The box is the computer," Nagi says, and presses the Power button. The computer whirs to life, and up shows the loading screen before eventually coming to the password login. You lean over to type in the password - Nagi looks on, helpless - and let the desktop load properly now that you're logged in. 

"There is so much on the internet," Nagi says. "Can we watch the YouTube?"

"We can watch YouTube," you agree. "Or maybe we can even find a game to play?"

Nagi's eyes grow wider. "Games? Like catch?" 

"A little less athletic than that," you tell her with a smile. "Whatever you want to do. The internet is your oyster, Nagi."

Maybe you shouldn't have said that, because the first thing she searches for is oyster. 

"They are eaten?" Nagi asks, reading the little Wikipedia blurb. 

"Sometimes. We can try them another time, if you want."

Nagi doesn't respond, too enamored with the search engine. She types in water animals and clicks on the Images tab, scrolling through pictures of dolphins and turtles and sharks and all sorts of fish. 

You glance at Nagi's concentrating face. She's cute when she's focused - even if she doesn't know it. Her eyes are glued to the computer screen. She is elegant as she types one letter at a time on the keyboard. Even if she is confused, the face she makes is too cute! 

"What is this?"

You look at the screen and realize that she, uh-- 

"Fan-fiction? What is this?"

How are you even going to explain that to her? You take the mouse from her. "Let's not worry about that right now, Nagi. You want to watch YouTube?"

"Yes, please." And watch YouTube she does - you press on the first thing that looks mildly entertaining for her. She asks for you to 'fullscreen it,' and you've never realized how much she sounds like a kid. Who says fullscreen it? Nagi does, you suppose, but she'll be entertained for a while with that. 

Chapter Text

"Good morning."

You're awoken by not-there Gotoh, who is standing by your bed calmly. 

"Dude. It's 7 a.m. I'm not waking up right now." You roll over. Thankfully, he's just an apparition and has no power over you. 

"I have a present for you, but I am unable to transport it due to its weight." Gotoh sounds the smarmiest he's been in a while. "You won't want to tarry." 

"I'll tarry if I want to."

"You have several tasks ahead of you."

Now you're running his errands? How disrespectful! "Y'know," you say, starting to get fed up, "just because you're a powerful, near-mythical sage doesn't mean I have to do whatever you tell me to do-"

Except you feel your bedsheets being pulled away, and your body being dragged to the edge of your bed. No amount of purchase stops you from falling with a thud to the ground. 

When you look back up at Gotoh, he is magicking a proper list for you. "First: you will get dressed. Next, you will go to McDonald's and buy me two hashbrowns and a McGriddle. Finally, you will come to my house, where I will give you your reward for your work."

"I don't have the money for that!" you argue. "Even if I wanted to buy you breakfast - WHICH I DON'T - I don't have the money to pay for it you idi-"

The list materializes in your hand, and the change appears in your lap shortly thereafter. Gotoh smiles in his sagely way. "May your trip prove fruitful, my love. I will await your presence here." 

My love, he says, while exploiting you. Why can't he just materialize a damned McGriddle in his own house? You grumble and mutter to yourself as his apparition fades away and leaves you to your task. Stupid… sages! Stupid sages who can give you orders while not lifting a hand! Stupid!

You wonder if you can get the McDonald's cashier to spit in the McGriddle. It would be a nice payment, even if Gotoh would know about your plan. Fine. You'll get dressed (in the comfiest outfit you can find). You'll go to McDonald's and buy his stupid breakfast, getting a small bite for yourself with the rest of the money he magicked up. And you'll go to Gotoh's house, the one that's shielded from everyone except when you see it because it's one of those magical houses. This present better be worth it. This present better be the best present you've ever received in your life. 

What kind of present would Gotoh give you? Maybe some sort of cool, sagely power? The ability to teleport would be neat! Maybe a million dollars, or the ability to live to be age bajillion like him. Or maybe he'll be of the material sort. Maybe he'll buy you a car… or furniture, or a nice vacuum. You wouldn't be mad with a nice vacuum, especially since the one you have is coughing up dust every time you turn it on. 

You ring the doorbell to his house, and the door creaks open. 

"I have your breakfast!" you yell and shut the door behind you. Gotoh is in his study, reading some sort of stupid book in a language you don't know. 

He smiles at you as you set the greasy bag down on the desk. "Thank you. Let me eat my meal…" and then, what is possibly the longest nine minutes and fifty-two seconds of your life takes place. Gotoh eats his hashbrowns and McGriddle.

"Do I get my present, now?" you ask once he wipes his hands with the napkins in the bag. 

Gotoh's expression becomes confused. "The gift of knowing you did good is the greatest of all. Do you not feel satisfied, knowing that your loved one is happy?"

NO. YOU DON'T. What the hell is his problem? You immediately turn around and walk out of the study: if he can't appreciate YOUR hard work, he shouldn't appreciate YOUR presence! 

Chapter Text

Camus is dead. 

As soon as the army invades the city, you know this to be true. Camus is dead. The knights of the blasted rebellion march through the streets, gleaming swords and lances at their sides. 

Camus is dead. He promised to you he would return. He would return - but that promise is dead and gone. Camus is dead. He will never come home again. His body will be buried in Grust - or left to rot there with not a care of his personal life. This horrible, wretched army must care not for their enemies. Do they believe all of them are evil, are callous and fighting only because they oppose the other? 

You mourn. How could you not? Your lover is dead, weeks after he promised he would fight for your future with him, that he would fight to bring Grust a prosperous glory. You sob, and sob, and sob. Your bed is cold. The clothes hanging in the closet will lose their scent over time, but you clutch one of his cravats and sob into his pillow. Camus is dead. 

You will never hear his voice again. The way he compliments you, his soft affection, his expressive voice as he talks amongst his fellow generals. In your mind, Camus' voice echoes. I love you. I love you. I love you. 

Camus is dead. 

His favorite meal is bland and disgusting. The sheets aren't warm at night. You can't even attempt to see his steed - where has it gone? The Altean army makes itself known in Grust. You know you will have no chance to speak with their leader - a cruel one he must be, fighting for some supposed greater good only to be the one to quash it! Camus is fiercely loyal, yes, but you do not believe he would have surrendered his life so willingly. 

It's difficult to eat, to bathe, to sleep, to move from bed. Camus is not there to comfort you. He is not there to press kisses to your cheeks, to let you curl close to him to feel his warmth. He only feels the Grustian soil, now - those demons murdered him. They are the reason for this. They will never know your wrath - to them, you only need liberating. What rot! 

What would Camus want you to do, in this scenario? Live for him? Flee Grust? You feel useless - to support your betrothed all of this time to betray his promise of being with you. 

Sleep used to come easy, tiring yourself from exhaustion. You have no more tears to cry for Camus. Laying in bed is the most you can do, letting the world wither around you. He is dead - and truly, what can you do? 

Chapter Text

Michalis is ill. This worries you to no end - especially as the only time you attempted to enter his chambers, he yelled at you for the first time in years. 

"Don't you dare intrude again!" he shouted, bedridden and sickly as he was. The room smelled of rot, which scared you most. If he was sick, there were dedicated healers who would have aided him. Princess Minerva was the only one who was able to enter his chambers without getting berated - and when she exited, even her stony gaze showed much about his condition. 

You're but a humble servant. You have to follow the royal family's orders - even if you do not like them. Thus, you do not attempt to enter Michalis' room again. It must be for the best, because you begin to grow ill yourself. 

First, it is a tickle in your throat. Next is a cough. The cough only worsens and worsens, settling deep in your lungs. 

Something is wrong when you cough up an orange petal, slick with fluids. It can't be larger than your thumb. What kind of malaise have you received? Who would cough up flower petals? What sort of symptom is this? The books you read do not paint a helpful picture. Nothing is in the texts. Embarrassed after you cough up an entire flower - some sort of tulip, if you were to guess - you go to the healers in an attempt to cure your disease. 

Yet, the healers do not know what is wrong with you either! They keep you resting for days as your condition worsens. Roses, carnations, forget-me-nots - they all are slick with saliva and unsavory fluids as you choke on them. You're losing sleep. You can't work in this condition, no matter how hard you attempt to do so. 

It's embarrassing to cough up petals soaked in blood. Your lungs have never hurt like this before, a horrible ache that only dulls when the healers cast their magic on you. Princess Minerva comes to see you in your condition - and that is perhaps the worst of all. 

"Flowers," Princess Minerva says, staring at a grotesque, smelly Lily of the Valley that was in your body only five minutes ago. "I want you to see Michalis."

"But he-," you begin, only for the Princess to interrupt. 

"You have the same condition as he." 

You… do? Prince Michalis of Macedon, choking on flowers? The imagery is enough to make you cringe, but it also seems a bit silly! 

Coughing hurts. It's difficult to walk - you're weak from all of the energy you have expended, and your appetite has decreased to only a few pitiful bites of whatever the healers force you to eat. Princess Minerva walks with you, but does not enter with you. 

Michalis looks to be in a worse condition than you. His face looks ghastly, the spark in his eye gone and his gaze too slow and unsteady as his healthy self. 

His gaze hardens when you make eye contact with him, but he does not yell at you to leave. Instead, Michalis mouths your name and watches you approach. 

On the other side of the bed, there is a pail of flowers. They are in different colors, but the scent of decay is strong no matter how beautiful they may have been. It is the same affliction, then. 

"Are you here to take care of me?" Michalis mumbles. He only mumbles when he is well and truly sick, voice soft and scratchy. 

You nod. "I have the same ailment as you. Princess Minerva sent me." 

Michalis exhales, closing his eyes. His breath is sharp. "Your presence is welcomed." 

With his permission, you sit on the edge of his bed. "How can I help you?"

A pause. Michalis' gaze moves to the pail of flowers. He coughs once - not an awful hacking, but it's clear his lungs bother him. "Lay beside me." 

Who are you to deny his request? Pulling the blanket, you move to rest beside him. He is cold, but leans in toward your touch. 

"Thank you." His voice is nary above a whisper. 

"It's my pleasure, Prince Michalis." 

He coughs, turning away from you for a moment. You cringe as he lurches up, covering his mouth as he coughs and coughs and retches into his hand. Out comes piles of petals, varying colors under the muck surrounding them. He drops them into the pail, letting them fall there. 

You'll find a cure for this illness soon enough. Michalis settles into the bed with you, taking deep breaths. Even in his presence, you find that you feel better. If you are healed, then you will work toward finding a cure for Michalis. It is your duty, after all - and you care for him deeply. He will grace the skies on his wyvern once more, you're certain to see it. 

Somehow, it is easy to fall asleep by his side.

Chapter Text

Medeus didn't make you feel very appreciated. 

First of all, he kidnapped you. That was bad enough - you expected he would kill you, but all he does for you is complain about the futility of humans and their lives. Like you can live in his castle! He forgot that you needed sustenance daily for a week - and when you brought the issue up to him, he thought you were LYING! 

Yet, he forces you to sit with him on his throne. Well, you're not allowed to sit on his throne. He sits on his throne in this dank and decrepit castle while you sit beside him and try not to be annoying. For taking a human form, Medeus is awfully ignorant about humans. 

"What are you doing, little human?"

"...sitting here?"

"Sit differently. I don't like it." 

"Can I sit on your lap?"

Your question is innocent. Medeus might kill you if you sit on his lap, but at least you wouldn't starve to death. There's not even a place where you can bathe; you're pretty sure you smell horrible. Maybe death would be better, all you do is follow his orders. 

"My lap?" Medeus responds, eyes darkening. "Where is that, human?" 

You stand up - before he can object, you step over to his throne and sit on his lap. His thighs are comfortable to sit on. He smells nicer than you do. 

"Human," he says, unlike himself. "Does your kind engage in such provocative acts?" 

"Sometimes. You're pretty comfy." And he is. Medeus' robes are nice and soft and he's warm compared to the cold, dead castle. You like sitting on his lap! 

"How lewd." It's not lewd. Medeus pats your head, letting his talons drag through your mucky hair. "Yet, I do not feel the urge to smite you here and now. You are lucky I place such fondness on a mortal such as yourself." 

His hands are nice. Medeus is nice when he's not yelling. You lean into his touch further - how could you not, when the only other living thing you can come in contact with is him? 

Medeus makes a low growling noise that startles you initially. He does it again, rhythmic to the way he pets your hair and drags his monstrous, gnarled hands through it. 

Is he purring? It sounds just like a cat! 

You don't want him to stop. And stop he doesn't, purring and purring and letting you sit on his lap and feel your cheek rumble when you lean on his chest. Medeus is nice so long as you are compliant, and maybe you'll be able to eat something if he is patient enough to do this!