#( all the companions would hear was [disgruntled bat noises] )

[endawn]

you dont understand how much this makes me happy

[aminiatureworld]

Connection

Ship: Geralt x Jaskier

Warnings: None

Premise:  Jaskier calls Geralt out for his reticence on hand holding. Geralt is quick to deny this, but even quicker to prove the bard right, as well as prove to himself how much it matters.

Author’s Note: Sorry for the horrendous summary, but I actually quite like this fic. Also two thirds of it was written at midnight, so forgive me for any typos or odd shifts in tone, scene, etc. I realize most of my fanfiction is written between midnight and three am. Maybe I should fix that.

Ao3 link in reblog

“Tell me Geralt, what are your thoughts on hand holding?” Geralt’s head snapped up in confusion as he stared incredulously at his companion. Jaskier was perched on top of the room’s dresser, feet propped up on the windowsill. It seemed a particularly stupid way to sit to Geralt, but he’d long ago learned that the bard didn’t really care what Geralt saw as stupid, or perhaps Jakier did care and then made a concerted effort to do everyone one of those things, Geralt still hadn’t quite decided, having instead accepted that his companion was of a particularly odd, if vaguely endearing, nature. Now though Geralt was very sure the bard must be pulling his leg, perhaps in an effort to spark some new lyric to try on the disgruntled inn patrons, or perhaps out of sheer boredom. Shifting his weight slightly Geralt hoped that this conversation would be as short as possible, for sometimes it felt like a sprint to keep up with the odd, twisted conversational logic that Jaskier often took. Even the opening statement gave the Witcher pause, for who on the Continent thought actively of such things? Grunting he shrugged his shoulders.

           “Oh c’mon!” Jaskier prodded, plinking a particularly pretty chord, though Geralt could tell one of strings was becoming a bit shredded; which one he had no idea of course, picking up on subtle things like off strings wasn’t the same as retaining a shred of musical knowledge that Jaskier, seemingly daily, tried to impart on Geralt. Now Jaskier almost looked the same way he did during his teaching attempts, slightly bemused, ready to whip out the chalkboard and textbooks. It was a bit unnerving, and Geralt looked down, not particularly looking forward to where this was going. He could hear the bard swing down and hit the floor, and looked up in time to see Jaskier sit crisscross on the small pile of boards that passed as a trunk-made-table, honestly did the bard know how to sit normally?

           “Why,” Geralt stared at Jakier. “do you think of such odd things?”

           “Why don’t you think of such normal things!” Jaskier cried out in return, beaming like a child who’d just proved himself right. “Honestly Geralt, who doesn’t think of such things? For someone so grouchy about any close contact, you don’t actually have any rules set out about it. Or any logic. I think I’ve washed your lovely body more often than our two palms have touched. Don’t you think that’s even a little odd.”

           “Tch.” Geralt wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this, realizing that the bard was indeed right, Jaskier probably had touched Geralt’s hair more than his hands, but wasn’t quite willing to admit it, for doing so felt oddly like defeat, or perhaps it was just that Jaskier, when proven right, seemed never to shut up about it. Deciding that he’d rather just humor the bard than have this conversation, Geralt sighed and gestured for Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier needed no encouragement, quickly slapping his hand into the Witcher’s. It stung a bit, Geralt had realized that musician hands were quite calloused, and that Jaskier was unnervingly strong, about the second time they’d met, and even now he marveled at it. He squeezed the bard’s hand, thinking it was dry and warm, and oddly comfortable, before letting go. “Happy?” The bard shook his head.

           “That won’t prove me wrong Geralt, and you know it. Anyone who has to do something to try to prove they’re right is only admitting failure. Nevertheless,” he patted Geralt on the shoulder, a familiar action, which originally caused Geralt exasperation, but now brought only a sense of fondness for their ritualistic banter, not that he’d admit that, not on his dying breath. Just as he’d never admit that, now that Jaskier brought it up, he realized he’d rather like to hold the bard’s hand more, well, he’d like to do a great deal more than that if he allowed himself to drift down that particular vein of thought, but he was buried approximately one hundred levels too deep in denial to cross that bridge. He could only imagine the months of gloating that would cause, or maybe there wouldn’t be gloating, but rather, a closer relationship, which scared Geralt even more, those close to him had bad track records for fate being kind on them after all. It was better just not to try and approach that bridge, much less cross it. With that thought in mind Geralt stood up.

“Where are you going?” Jaskier exclaimed, flopping onto the bed where Geralt had been sitting moments ago.

           “To get information, I want to know what exactly we’re looking for.”

           “Wasn’t that it’s a kikimora well established?” Jaskier asked, laughter in his eyes. “Look Geralt, you don’t have to run away from this, I full believe in your ability to hold my hand, give it seven years and I’m sure you’ll have mastered it.”

           “Tch.” Geralt grunted, rolling his eyes. Jaskier looked even more pleased, evidently the Witcher would have to say something or cede the board, not that this wasn’t already doing that. He looked for some sort of excuse. “This is for your sake, not mine. I don’t want to hear you complaining the whole way back if you accidentally stumble on it and get your doublet dirty or whatever.”

           “Aww, you care.” Jaskier smiled, a smile which flipped something in Geralt’s stomach and made him want to return the gesture, every. damn. time. “Well, this is the price you pay for never revealing your big dark secrets to me, best of luck to you then, and remember you wouldn’t have to do this if you let me go with you.” Geralt barked out a half laugh, half snort.

           “Never.” And with that he strode out and slammed the door. Standing for a moment he could hear the bard chuckling inside, he had a nice laugh that one, before focusing on his music. The familiar pizzing and strumming, a melody picked up here and dropped there, random words, some louder than others, escaping the bard’s mind into sound, it made Geralt feel some sort of happiness, to see someone so in their element and so happy. He was glad that Jaskier was happy. Wished he could share in the effusive sunlight of his companion. But to do would be to go down that path in his mind, and a second moon would appear in the sky before that happened.

             Geralt came back from his expedition covered in black blood, and buzzed enough off of potions to feel completely overwhelmed by the bustling tavern, filled with sounds and smells and colors which seemed to knock into him like a wave. He stumbled his way towards a seat in the corner, head pounding in a myriad of different ways, as if being both smashed by a hammer and stabbed by a million needles. He felt too nauseous to ask for food or drink, worried he might cause a scene in the middle of high hours. Instead he leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to slow his breathing and get the steel he’d need to make his way upstairs and, hopefully, into a bath.

           Slowly he managed to pick his way through the wave of sound, trying to find some sort of lifeline. It was the busiest hours of the night, and Jaskier was in the middle of a performance, singing some sort of song about a highwayman leaving his lover with the promise of gold and riches. Right now the lover was despairing over his disappearance, and Geralt, having listened to this song many times before, reflected on the silliness of the song, for never in real life would a highwayman suddenly save his fair love, declaring that they’d be together in life and death. Still the song was mysterious and repetitive and softer than the usual fare, and Geralt found himself lifted up by it, by Jaskier’s voice, and the slight scratch the strings made when he lifted his hand from them, and for a moment the pain was beaten back by comfort and routine, and by a beautiful voice belonging to a beautiful bard, and, as if by magic, all seemed not overwhelming and gross and dirty, but pure and beautiful and calm.

           The spell, of course, lasted not one second when Geralt made to move, and the nausea, pounding, and overwhelmed sensation slammed back into him like a wall. The Witcher gritted his teeth as he lurched up, determined to make it upstairs. His steps were sluggish and slow, and he marveled that if a monster were to come upon him now he’d probably be useless, for the potions were a double edge sword, and when the adrenaline left so did his focus, and the outside came crashing in, blocking out everything that made him good to fight. A feeling of frustration and uselessness came over him, and Geralt nearly slammed into one of the wooden beams. Immediately he could feel the noise shift, and cursed himself. Jaskier’s music had stopped, and Geralt looked up through his haze of discomfort to see the bard rushing to collect his coin, before hurtling towards Geralt. Looking at his companion, Jaskier called to the innkeeper behind the bar, asking for a tub to be brought up along with hot water, before draping Geralt over his shoulder. Geralt grunted, feeling slightly self-conscious, but now wasn’t truly the time to be batting away the bard’s help, and thus the Witcher leaned onto his companion’s shoulder, and allowed himself to be brought up to their room.

           “Don’t sit on the bed.” Jaskier said, dumping the Witcher onto the trunk. “I don’t know if we’d be able to get clean sheets by tonight.” Taking off his now bloodied doublet, Jaskier placed his lute, which had been slung onto the front of his chest to keep it from being broken or dirtied, on the windowsill, before sitting down on the trunk next to Geralt. “Now, we wait. Bad round this time?” Geralt grunted in assent, and Jaskier nodded. “How you witchers manage it without companions I don’t know.”

Geralt, who was barely keeping upright, wanting nothing more than to sleep and blackout the truly horrendous head pain and waves of discomfort, dragged his hand towards Jaskier. The bard looked slightly confused, and Geralt grunted once more. “What, do you want something?” Jaskier laughed softly, it came out in a huffed, confused way. Slowly he entangled his fingers into his Witcher’s. “Is this it?” Geralt closed his eyes and hummed, not feeling altogether comfortable to confirm, both in fear of being sick and due to the small voice in his mind jeering him this was very foolish indeed. They kept like this for some time, until a knock on the door notified the pair that a bath was finally ready. Everything was brought in, and nothing was said as Jaskier stripped Geralt, shoved him into the tub, and helped the poor Witcher clean off, as well as preventing a drowning, for Geralt was truly bound and determined to sleep, come hell or high water, in this case the latter being more likely. Still, it was accomplished, and as Geralt stumbled onto the bed, he felt a tugging sense of gratitude and comfort, and something else. “Jaskier?” he called out.

“Yes Geralt?” Came the immediate reply, and Geralt smiled slightly to himself, comforted by the familiar reply, the constant presence.

“I ruined your doublet.” He could here a burst of laughter coming from the bard, all in a heap, a lovely soft sound, amplified by the after effects of the Witcher’s potions.

“That you did.” He heard the reply, heard the bard approach, surprisingly quiet and soft. A hand reached out and Geralt took it. It was warm and strong, calloused in the best way, a symbol of talent and tenacity and beauty. “Well. Perhaps it was Fate.” came a soft reply. Geralt smiled, and as he drifted to sleep, he considered that, though the night had been in many ways a debacle, he was glad that he had an anchor to keep him steady, a hand to guide him through the noise and lights and disorder, and if that remained the case, maybe the world wasn’t so great a cesspit as he thought it to be.

             The squat village seemed even squatter from the main path, and as it disappeared into the distance Geralt looked back one last time, not because it was noteworthy in any way, but because it’d become some sort of habit after his leaving of Blaviken, you never knew when someone was going to turn an entire village on you, might as well enjoy an easy parting. It wasn’t something he told anyone, to bring it up was also to bring up a past he’d rather forget, but he still kept onto the tradition. Looking down he noticed Jaskier was smiling slightly, and for a moment Geralt wondered if he was going to bring it up, but instead the bard simply sighed and, kicking in a rock off the path, began to speak.

           “So, I see that you didn’t shake hands with your business partner after claiming your sum.” A rush of relief and irritation accompanied the statement, and Geralt huffed, turning so his gaze went straight ahead. They’d not brought up the night of his job, a source of great relief and consternation for Geralt, and now, faced with the idea of talking about it, he realized that it was easier to theoretically be nonchalant and aloof than actually feign disinterest in a topic or event. “Geralttt.” Jaskier was evidently plunging straight ahead into this topic, “We need to talk about it someday. You need closeness! Contact! A friendly handshake every once in a while!”

           “Why?” Geralt grumbled.

           “Well because it’s not normal for a one night stand to be easier than a handshake. Besides,” he added, grinning mischievously, “I think you’d quite like holding hands, at least every once in a while.” Geralt shifted his weight and looked once more at the bard. Jaskier was looking quite smug, as always, but there seemed to be something behind it, some genuine worry or care, Geralt could tell in the slight way his shoulders were pushed back, the quiver in his smile and in his hands, which were being wrung together. It struck him as odd that anyone should care so much, but evidently Jaskier was one such person. And, though he didn’t like to admit it to himself or anyone else, Geralt did care about Jaskier being happy and content, even if it seemed like a silly reason to be so upset over. If Geralt didn’t care about it, why did Jaskier? Still, the bard could be persistent, and might as well humor him even if he wasn’t, after all, it was just hand holding. Even if it was something that Geralt rather not think about, or talk about. Even if it was easier to pretend he didn’t care.

           Swinging off Roach, Geralt gripped the reins with one hand. The other reached out, and slow disentangled Jaskier’s right hand from his left. Looking straightforward again, Geralt grumbled; “There. Happy?”

           “Mhmm.” The bard hummed in reply, and gave Geralt’s hand a squeeze. Geralt huffed slightly, but he had to admit, it was nice to hold hands, as if a small, quiet part inside of him was suddenly glad to be connected to someone, to be able to share such a mundane and human connection with another. It passed a spell over him, seemingly, and for a moment he was incredibly content.

           “So, what about a kiss?” Jaskier’s playful voice broke through the reverie and Geralt’s stomach took a flip. He went to remove his hand, but Jaskier had a strong grip, and held on. “I’m kidding!” He assured, and laughed slightly. Geralt simply grunted, and tried to ignore the slight burning beneath his cheeks. Still he made no attempt to separate himself from Jaskier again, and, as they walked towards whatever new adventure was awaiting the pair, Geralt reflected that he was quite content where he was, and was grateful for the bard, and for whatever strange humor Fate had been in when linking the two together.

[williamsilverwood]

Aftermath: Chapter One

Imprints of hooves and boots lined the streets of the small Gilnean city. A small brigade of returning men and women walked slowly through the town. At the head of the procession, a large Worgen sat upon an even larger, armored Nightsaber. Unlike the imprints behind it, the Saber’s paws left large indentations in the slick ground that a small child could play in. 

The Worgen wore a full set of darkened plate armor.. Deep grooves and scratches lined along its surface. Most of them fairly recent.

A man and woman rode side to side with the Worgen. Each of them upon a purebred Gilnean steed. A stockier, more muscular horse than those of the southern Kingdoms. The woman’s steed had no armor whereas the man’s next to her did.

“Feels good to be back home.” The male remarked, rolling a shoulder as his plate armor jingled slightly.

“Aye, its been too long.” The Worgen responded. 

Along the streets, the many citizens of Grymm’s Vale watched the proceeding. Some faces watched with joy and relief while others were more grim and foreboding. Whether it was because of the returning soldiers or if it was just the natural disposition of Gilneans was up to interpretation. 

As the procession went on, it eventually reached the center of the city. In the middle of the square, a  large wooden structure stood with a few stairs on either side. On the center stage, a podium stood. The citizens began to walk with the procession until they began to crowd.“Line up.” The Worgen’s voice boomed over the soldiers as they began to fall into lines in front of the structure. The saber, along with both horses made their way around the back of the stage and their riders soon dismounted from them. 

“Will.” The female said as she slid off her horse. Her body was lithe and her stature dwarfed by the Worgen she regarded. She had delicate features. Pale skin; black hair that was tied into a messy ponytail behind her head. Her eyes were relatively small and always squinting. The armor she wore was form fitting; leathers that wrapped around her body and hugged her comfortably. Like her other companions, the color was mostly greys and blacks with the symbol of two wolves upon her shoulder piece.

“Yes, Catherine?” William replied.

“Do you want Marcus and I with you?” She glanced to the direction of the stage before looking back at Will.

“Of course. You do not have to say anything but you’re welcomed to do so.” 

“Few jokes maybe? Tell some stories?” Marcus said with a grin, strapping a sack to his horse as he glanced towards the other two. 

“Save that for the tavern.” William replied.

“Alright, I believe everyone’s in position.” And they were. The soldiers patiently stood; stalwart. In front of the four lines of men and women were seven caskets. Each with a Gilnean flag wrapped around them. The wood was white in color and perfectly crafted. 

William began his ascension to the stage with Catherine and Marcus flanked on either side of him. He stood behind it and clasped his plated claw gauntlets against the wood. 

His gaze moved across the crowd gathered around the town square. He took a few long moments to look at the citizens gathered. His citizens. 

“It has been a long few months.” He began. “Many have fought and many have lost their lives.” He glanced towards the caskets. “All because of Sylvanas Windrunner.” A collective disgruntled noise came over the crowd. 

“However, she is no longer in power of the Horde. The War of the Thorns is over. The Battle for Darkshore is over. But, the fourth war has still yet to be concluded. The Alliance and Saurfang’s rebellion have indeed driven the Banshee Queen from her seat of power and a new council has now taken power in the horde. But Sylvanas Windrunner still yet lives. Until she is found and killed, the war continues.” He took a long pause, taking a moment to look across the people gathered in front of him. 

The citizens watched. Predominantly Worgen and Humans among them. A very sparse few of other races also mixed in. All of their attention on William. 

“Leo Stanton. Jamison Rowley. Kira Foy. Joris Atherton. Alison Swale. Evelyn Preston. Jalen Thorne.” He paused, staring at the caskets in front of the lines of soldiers. “These men and women gave their lives for this war. They fought bravely. They fought valiantly. And they will be remembered as such. Never forgotten.” He paused again.

“There will be no immediate deployment in the foreseeable future. No mandatory draft. Even if the Banshee Queen is still alive, we need our rest. No more of your fellow patriot’s lives will be taken because of her.” He looked over the crowd, seeing some relieved faces and hearing a couple of straggled, ‘Aye’s’. “Over the next few weeks, I will be consulting with my officers.” He glanced for a brief moment to his right and left. “And other officials regarding the situation at hand. But for now, we will rest. And of course, celebrate!” His voice boomed over the square and cheers emitted from the crowd. Though a single man could be heard shouting through the cheers.

The young lord’s ears flicked, rotating like satellite dishes, trying to hone in on the sound. He held up a claw as the cheering eventually died down. “Yes?” He called out into the crowd. 

“They died on Night Elf land!” A man shouted towards the Gilnean commander.

“Yes, yes they did.” William responded.

“They should’ve died on Gilnean soil! Defending our lands like they are dutied to!” The man stepped forward and in front of the crowd. He was robust, at least in his forties. Most likely a worker from one of the local lumber mills.

“They died fighting for Gilneas. For the Kaldorei people.” Heads began to turn in the crowd, incoherent murmuring. William shuffled slightly behind the podium. 

“Ha. For the Kaldorei… they are the reason most of our people have this disease!” He shouted back towards the young lord. William’s fur bristled and he stepped away from the podium, towards the end of the stage, staring towards the man. 

“Our King was the one who ordered Arugal to use the Worgen to combat the Scourge. He knew the risks. The Kaldorei had no influence on his decision.”

“He didn’t know that the Worgen would become uncontrollable, be able to spread their disease through each person and turn them into beasts!”

William’s right gauntlet clenched, that familiar rage building within his body. The very rage the man was addressing. The one that could turn him into that sort of ravenous beast.

He felt a touch to his arm. Catherine had placed a gloved hand against his armor, offering a single look towards her superior before taking a step back.

William turned to regard the man once again.

“Our King gave the order for the Gilnean army to be used in the War of the Thorns. He assisted Tyrande Whisperwind because she assisted us when we most needed it. Without their help, we most likely would have all died in the invasion.” There was a slight snarl to his words. “Are you going against our King? Are you a traitor?” William asked, staring directly at the man.

“No. I am a patriot. And as a patriot, I believe our men and women should be dying on our soil. The very soil they grew up on. Lived on!”

“They will be buried in it.” Will remarked. “They fought for their country and for the well being of others. And that is that.”

The man waved a hand, muttering something along the lines of ‘Kaldorei sympathizer’. The young lord heard it. But, he maneuvered back into the crowd, silence permeating the air.

“A feast will be held tonight. Please, enjoy yourselves and rest easy.” He paused for a moment to look over the crowd. “Glory to the Grey Hand. Glory to Gilneas.”

Metal clashed against metal as the soldiers in front of the podium clanged their weapons twice. A few cheers and applause was heard. But it was not all of the crowd. 

“Fall out.” The commander addressed his soldiers who promptly began to file out of their lines and towards the nearby barracks.

William ran a claw through his mane and breathed out a sigh. Marcus reached over and gave him a hard pat on the shoulder. “I better see you at the feast, commander. We have some stories to tell.” A sharp burst of laughter and a wide grin followed.

William smiled back, nodding a few times. “Yes, we do. Take care, Marcus.”

Marcus promptly left the stage, taking his horse with him and leading it towards the barracks with the other soldiers. His voice was heard shouting orders, mostly about their lines.

“I wouldn’t let it get to you.” Catherine had appeared to William’s side, walking alongside him as they went to their mounts.

“I won't. I understand his frustration… to an extent.” He shook his head slowly, grabbing the reins to his saber who was idly licking at a paw, clearly discontent with the mud.

Catherine went to lean back against the Feline, crossing her arms over her chest, looking up towards her superior. She waved a hand dismissively. 

“They’ll understand. I mean, he’s a lumberjack, right? Can they even read?” The corners of her lips upturned into a slight smirk.

It caused William to let out a bit of a snicker, shaking his head soon after. “C’mon now, they’re our fellow country men. They’re allowed to have their opinion.”

“Doesn’t mean they still can’t be dumb.” Her smirk grew just a bit wider. “Anyways, I should get home.” She pushed off of the saber’s fur and moved to her horse.

“Give your grandmother my regards.” William said.

“She’ll probably just tell you to get off your lazy arse and visit sometime.” Catherine winked before hooking a leg over her horse and gripping the reins. “Take care, Will.”

She pressed her heels into the horse and was off.

Will turned to his own mount and gripped the reins. He tugged upon them, trying to get the saber off of it’s rear. “C’mon, now.” It bared its fangs towards its owner. “Oh, you’re going to be like that to me now, huh.” He tugged harder, prompting the saber to flop onto its side upon the ground like a child throwing a tantrum. “C’mon you big baby. I know its cold but I’ll give you a big warm bath.” He patted the beast's stomach, ruffling its fur.

“Having some trouble there?” A familiar voice caused Will’s ears to perk and he stood up immediately, turning to face the voice.

A tall but stocky male stood, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at the young lord. He was aged. His hair entirely grey with harsh white stubble to match. He wore darkened chainmail and a tabard upon his chest with the sigil of a large white tree upon it.

“Dammit. I thought with all those months I was gone, that hopefully you’d pass by now.” William remarked with a massive grin.

“Oh, piss off.” The man grumbled before bursting out in laughter and moving to embrace the Worgen. Will leaned down, laughing and patting the man on the back a few times before moving back.

“Its good to see you, lad. Got a few new scars, I hope?” The man asked, looking him over a bit.

“Of course, Thoros. More to the collection.” Will replied.

“Thatta boy.” 

Will moved away to grip the reins of the saber who now stood up and shook off some of the mud, flinging it towards the men.

“I doubt he likes it here. This isn’t Kalimdor.” Thoros remarked. 

“No, he does not.” Will laughed and tugged the beast along who began to follow. “Let’s walk to the manor.”

“Really? You’re going to make an old man walk all the way up that damn hill?”

“Quit bullshitting me, I know you walked all the way down here. You stubborn bastard.”

Thoros barked out in laughter, slapping the plated arm of Will. “You know me too well.”

“Well, I’ve known you my whole life. I hope I’d know you pretty well by now. Otherwise I’d be a terrible people-person.” He paused. “Speaking of which, did you watch my speech?”

“Of course, of course.” Was all he said.

“... And?”

“Well, that is something we ought to discuss. Something I wanted to bring up to you at some point. We don’t have to talk about it now. You should rest up and drink. C’mon, where’s the flask?” The old man prodded him.

“Thoros, I’d like to know.” Will looked down towards the older man who breathed out a heavy sigh. 

“Well, there has been some discontent within the Vale. Primarily with your association with the Kaldorei. And your frequent, often long, trips to Kalimdor.”

William’s brow furrowed and his fur seemed to bristle at his words. “Hmph.” He glanced down towards the mud he was walking in. With each step he could feel the coldness that permeated against his bare paws. For a moment, he sympathized with his saber.

“And how widespread is this discontentment?” 

“Primarily within the northern lands. Families such as the Ashwoods, Atherton… Stanton..”

Will frowned. “The Atherton’s and Stanton’s both lost a son. That is probably what started that.” He readjusted his grip on the reins, eyes downcasted towards the mud.

“For what is worth, William, the numbers are not terrible.”

The young lord shot a quick look towards the older man. “It is the truth. You came in with what, a little over a hundred? Hundred ten, twelve? And lost seven?”

“I know. But they’re not numbers to me, Thoros.”

“I know, I know.”

[journalxxx]

No Rest for the Wicked (4)

The darkness vanished in overflowing hues of gold, red and pink as the first sunrays appeared. Few thin, non-threatening clouds streaked the sky, promising a wonderfully clear and bright day. All was calm and silent, save for the occasional chirping of the birds and the cheerful burbling of the food in the crockpot. The scent from it was delightful too, exciting like only a simple and hearty breakfast could be for an empty stomach. Between the fire and the hot pots, even the temperature was pleasant, just cool enough to shake off the torpor of sleep and get one into gear for a productive day. Wilson crossed his arms and leaned back against the ice box with a content sigh, focussing all his senses on letting that invigorating atmosphere permeate his very soul. Whether by design or by accident, even the Constant offered its moments of beauty and peace, and one had to be either foolish or heartless not to partake in those rare gifts.

“These eggs are runny. Practically raw.” Maxwell grumbled, poking around the bowl with his crude fork. “It takes some skill to mess up frying an egg.”

“Why don’t you make your own breakfast?”

“Why waste the effort? You’re going to make it for everyone anyway.”

“Now that I think of it, why don’t you make breakfast for everyone? You’re always awake before anyone else anyway.”

“Oh, sure. Why don’t I, on top of taking care of the heavy gathering and the occasional magic necessities, also do the cooking? Why don’t I give everyone back massages and polish their shoes too, while I’m at it?”

“Why do you hover around me and pester me for an early portion, only to complain that it isn’t cooked properly? Intriguing questions, I agree.” Maxwell snorted, and Wilson finally averted his attention from the horizon to consider his unhappy diner’s plate. His whites were a bit transparent, and not nearly the most disgusting or dangerous thing either of them had ever ingested. “Fine, leave that. I’ll give you another.”

Maxwell waited in irreproachable silence for the remaining minute of cooking time, while Wilson finished preparing more meat and proteins than Maxwell himself had in his whole body.

“Oh, by the way, we’re planning to hold a birthday party tonight.” Wilson casually offered, along with the second, piping hot and perfectly executed portion of bacon and eggs.

“A what?”

Maxwell wasn’t exactly the kind of man who wore his heart on his sleeve. However, he had a way of openly displaying few selected emotions, contempt and bewilderment in particular, that could have earned him a living as an actor in the real world. There was something oddly likable in how his whole lanky body bent forwards to deliver an accusatory glance or backwards to highlight the most artificially genuine shock, or in how his features crumpled in disgust or bloomed in deranged amusement, something that inexplicably made one tend to chuckle and humour his curious mannerism rather than mock it.

“Nothing grand, mind you, but I think the kids will appreciate it anyway. They haven’t celebrated it in who knows how long, and this happens to be roughly the time of year they were both born in, so-”

“A birthday party?” Maxwell repeated, still shell shocked by the news. He was even letting his precious second portion get cold. He wasn’t getting a third one, that was for sure. “You do realize that seasons - hell, that time itself is purely ornamental here, right? They aren’t any older than when they arrived!”

“Maybe not physically, but I’d say they’ve certainly grown in other ways. Hardship and death toughen the spirit, don’t they?” Wilson mused, sitting beside Maxwell and claiming the discarded dish for himself. He eagerly shoved a good quarter of its content in his mouth with a single forkful, almost tearing up from how tasty it was. It was the small things in life.

“Don’t go all philosophical on me, it doesn’t suit you.” Maxwell spared him a single judgemental glance before picking at his own food too, thankfully without further complaints. “Besides, we have more urgent things to worry about. It’s almost winter, we have to mend the warmer clothing and make some new thermal stones-”

“The’e ifnt mah two-”

“Were you raised in a barn!? Chew, you animal!” Maxwell unceremoniously pushed Wilson’s head sideways, censoring his regrettable lack of table manners. Wilson doggedly chomped on his food and gulped it down purposefully loudly, ignoring Maxwell’s disgruntled groan.

“There isn’t much that still needs to be done, actually. And we have a huge surplus of food, we may as well put it to good use before it spoils.”

“And, instead of turning it into meat statues or feeding it to the birds or the pigs, you suggest you fools simply stuff your face with it while singing obnoxious tunes near the fire? Have you people learnt nothing at all about resource management?”

“Relax. We’re good on supplies for food and materials, we all have life-giving amulets, neither hounds nor giants will attack for another week, at least. We can afford to take it easy for a single day.”

“Ridiculous. I won’t be taking part to any of this nonsense.”

“Believe it or not, no one was really expecting you to.” Wilson sighed. He helped himself to an extra portion from the crockpot, as a reward for putting up with Maxwell’s charming personality so early in the morning, every morning. “Woodie and Wolfgang have kindly offered to decorate the camp according to the kids’ every whim. Willow will be taking care of the cooking-”

“Oh God, why would you let her do that? She’ll set the whole place on fire-”

“In her own camp. Wickerbottom will keep an eye on her too. She’s objectively the best cook out of all of us, even though her dishes tend to be-”

“Charred.”

“Slightly overcooked. Sometimes.” Wilson patiently corrected. “Are you sure you don’t want to join us? You could use some-”

“I can think of at least half a dozen better things to do with my time, frankly. Including catching fireflies, reading, and being murdered by bats.”

“That is certainly one way you could spend your night, yes.” Wilson absently commented. He eyed his grumpy companion with mix of concern and curiosity. Maxwell wasn’t the most easy-going and jolly fellow even at his best, but usually he wasn’t that unsociable. “You know, I was thinking that you could-”

“Pass.”

Wilson pouted. “Hear me out, at least-”

“No. Whatever you’re thinking of suggesting, no.”

The tempting scent of breakfast was always the best wake-up call in the camp; the low murmurs and rustles coming from the tents informed Wilson that the others would be joining them soon, and by that time Maxwell would have already disappeared. Ordinarily, Wilson wouldn’t dedicate too much mental energy to challenge Maxwell’s rebuttal: the man needed to meet his daily quota of lonely sulking just like air, apparently, and experience had proved that dragging him into forced socialization would only backfire tragically. But that day, Wilson decided, was going to be a good day. A day of merriment and rest and good food and birthday parties, a good day like no one in the Constant had had in ages, and he didn’t want a single, fleeting worry to cross his mind even for a second. He wouldn’t worry about death, he wouldn’t worry about finding a way out, he wouldn’t worry about the Shadows and their throne, and he wouldn’t worry about where the hell Maxwell could be or what could be slaying him at any given moment. He gobbled down the rest of his eggs, eliciting yet another disgusted noise from the object of his current predicament. He put down the plate and casually threw his arm around Maxwell’s shoulders, giving him his widest smile and holding his fork like a cigar, channeling his best impromptu impression of demonic persuasion.

“Listen, pal-”

“I will gouge your eyes out with my bare hands, Higgsbury.”

“You know, death threats lose their edge after being enacted more than 50-60 times. Anyway, I was merely thinking that you may delight us with one of those fascinating shadow shows of yours, like you did on Hallowed Nights. Everyone loved it, especially the kids!”

“Oh, how flattering. I’m being recruited as the court jester. Too bad the mime isn’t here.”

“What mime? Is there a-”

“No. There isn’t.”

“Mh. Too bad. I think you’d make a decent mime yourself, to be fair-”

“YOU TAKE THAT BACK-”

“Whoa, all right, no mimes! But I do wish you performed for us tonight.” Maxwell didn’t reply, and Wilson flashed him a marginally more honest smile. “Do it for the children, at least? You know, the children you kidnapped and likely mentally scarred for life? One of whom is your own flesh and blood-”

“Oh, for the love of - why are you so insistent about this?”

“Because it would be fun! It’s the point of this whole thing, to get everyone’s mind off things and just have fun, for once! And I do mean everyone, including you- don’t give me that look, I saw you last time, you were having a blast with those illusions-”

“Gööd mörning, Wilsön!”

Wigfrid’s fierce salute startled them both, and suddenly a swarm of famished survivors assaulted the steaming pots, in a lively cacophony of greetings and compliments to the chef. Maxwell immediately seized the occasion to weasel out of Wilson’s grasp with the efficient grace of an annoyed cat.

“You’ll think about it, then!” Wilson threw out, somewhat hopeful. He thought he saw Maxwell’s hand waving in response, utterly vague and non-committal, before he disappeared among the tents. Well, it had been worth a try.

Wilson’s day was indeed one he’d later remember with fondness. It had been so long since he had been able to afford the luxury to pour his remarkable inventiveness into purely recreational activities! Crafting decorations and trinkets with no purpose other than making them pleasing to the eye and amusing, with no concern for their durability or their usefulness, was incredibly refreshing. Everyone seemed to be feeling the same, and the camp was soon filled with a playful and gaudy atmosphere that drew laughs and jokes out of anyone who happened to stop by. Time literally flew by as the preparations for the party proved to be just as enjoyable as the main event was going to be. It was dusk before Wilson realized it, with three firepits blazing to light up the whole base and more than a dozen lanterns strategically placed for extra safety and ambience. Willow and Wickerbottom had produced enough delicacies to satiate a whole army, and everything smelled and looked so damnably appetizing that Wickerbottom had to guard the food with a stick to keep rude hands from snagging an early bite: Wilson himself got slapped once on his wrist for trying to steal a butter muffin, and twice on his head for trying to get Chester to commit the heinous deed in his stead.

The official start of the party was signalled by a veritable barrage of firecrackers and applauses for the youngest pair of survivors. In truth, Wendy’s mood didn’t seem to be any better than any other day’s, impervious as she was to any sort of positive emotion, but Wilson considered the fact that she wasn’t openly annoyed by the noise and the celebration of a prolonged lifespan a small victory in itself. Webber, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. Somehow, he had interpreted Wickerbottom’s constructive speech about age and personal growth as an encouragement to share what he had learnt in his hypothetical year in the Constant, starting from a genuinely impressive wrestling technique to be employed against pig warriors. Naturally, that had quickly devolved into playful roughhousing between Webber and Wolfgang, aptly clad in pigskin to better fit the part, and Wilson could only hope it wouldn’t result in too many accidental bruises. He watched in genuine amusement for a while as they tumbled on the ground at a safe distance from the fire, chuckling at Wolfgang’s belligerent oinks and Webber’s boisterous battlecries. Soon, however, Wilson’s enthusiasm started to wane. Not for any particular reason, just… well, Wilson wasn’t exactly a party animal. Noise and abundant company usually entertained him for an hour or so, but it was never long until he automatically gravitated towards the edge of the room and just got lost in his own head, letting the music and the chatter and the people blend in the background as his mind drifted back to that one project he was so invested into. Currently, he was short on idées fixes, so he simply let his eyes wonder. On the food first, yes, he was that base. While Wickerbottom was busy scowling at the brawl, he casually strolled to the table and snatched one of the coveted muffins; he idly munched on it as the little bubble of enthusiasm around the contenders kept sizzling without him.

Eventually, he noticed that Wendy wasn’t among the cheering crowd. He gazed around the camp in concern, but he spotted her soon, sitting at the very edge of the light and rather far from the group, holding her flower in her lap. Beside her, intently observing the unique item, was Maxwell. Wilson hadn’t noticed he had arrived; in fact, he had given up hope he’d even show up soon after he’d made himself scarce at dawn. Wilson couldn’t tell what they were doing: they appeared to be talking only now and then, and very briefly. At one point, Maxwell cupped the flower under his palm; when he removed it, shadows bled from its petals, morphing into copies of the flower itself, tied together and elegantly arranged as a whole garland. Wendy gingerly took it in her hands and studied it carefully, before wearing it. She was smiling.

A sharp cry from the crowd distracted them. Webber was standing victoriously on top of a squealing Wolfgang, dramatically begging for mercy. Neither Maxwell nor Wendy looked especially impressed, but Maxwell smirked when the girl whispered something in his ear. He closed his fist and made an odd gesture, as if he was rolling something between his fingers. He opened his palm, and tiny lumps of shadow plopped down from it, rolling here and there on the ground. They immediately grew small appendages and started crawling towards the group - they were spiders, Wilson realized as soon as they were close enough: not the kind of abominable arachnids that dwelled in the Constant, but the inoffensive earthly sort. Wilson hadn’t seen an ordinary spider in so long that he had almost forgotten they existed, and for some reason the realization made him inordinately nostalgic. How long had he even been away from home? It felt like a lifetime… Well, technically it was. Many, many lifetimes, however brief.

Wilson lost sight of the shadowy critters as they creeped among the crowd, unseen. Wolfgang’s scared yelp, a genuine one this time, made it clear where they were headed, and Wilson rolled his eyes. For all his haughty talk and composure, Maxwell had some rather juvenile tastes on the matter of pranks. Webber, on his part, immediately started collecting the spiders with obvious delight, letting them scuttle freely on his shoulders and head. He was positively adorable, at times. He ran to the dastardly duo as soon as he identified them as the responsibles for the disruption, and the rest of the group spontaneously followed. Maxwell didn’t look particularly happy about the invasion of his little corner of darkish solitude, but he didn’t complain vocally.

Finally, Wickerbottom declared it was time for dinner. Wilson barely managed to shove the rest of the muffin in his mouth before she finished her sentence, half choking in a desperate attempt to erase all incriminating proof. He obligingly waited for everyone else to grab their servings before approaching the banquet with an innocent smile. He was met with no reprimands, but the tight line of the librarian’s mouth made him suspect that he’d be charged with a sizable amount of crockery to wash later.

The feast was absolutely to die for. The loud chatters and laughters were soon replaced by the sound of vigorous chewing and a veritable onslaught of praises for Willow, who kept insisting that the best ingredient in any winning recipe was a fierce, crackling fire under the pot, and possibly around and inside it too.

“We should do this more often, eh?” Wilson heard Woodie comment amidst the other voices. “Lots of us usually eat at the same time, but we rarely do it together. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“You are absolutely right, dear.” Wickerbottom agreed. “It isn’t always easy to find the time and the energy to be properly sociable in this dreary place, but it would undoubtedly do us a world of good.”

“For what purpose? When death will inevitably seize one of us, our bonds will only deepen our suffering and haunt us to our own grave.” Wendy objected, and Wilson didn’t miss the small smile her words elicited on Maxwell’s face. Everyone else remained understandably silent, until Webber, probably used at the girl’s candid morbidity, chimed in as if no one had just exposed the tragic truth of human attachment.

“You know what would make this party even better? A story!” He looked straight at Maxwell, his many eyes shining with the unbridled excitement that only a hopeful child could harbour. If possible, everything went even quieter.

“...You want a story, eh?” Maxwell popped his last honey nugget in his mouth, without looking up from his plate. Suddenly, the old man was the center of everyone’s attention, and Wilson could bet that at least half of the bystanders, including him, were more or less expecting him to single-handedly ruin the evening with some untimely jab or rant. He unhurriedly put down his empty dish, cleaned his hands, and slipped his black gloves on.

“You know, I met a sailor once, just come back from a lengthy trip on the shores of Angola, who told me the tale of a boy just like you.” Maxwell stood up and started pacing in the middle of the rough circle of people, slowly rubbing his hands. Wilson could vaguely spy something coming into existence between Maxwell’s palms, some sort of fine, black mist; it almost looked like the gloves themselves were dissolving into thin air. “Anansi, the boy was called. A bright, mischievous lad, half human and half spider, with a heartfelt craving for stories as well.”

Maxwell waved his left hand with a flourish and a whiff of smoky shadow wafted from his fingers, coalescing into a vague Webber-shaped cloud. The apparition was different from Maxwell’s usual puppets: it was more ethereal, less defined and completely immaterial. Nevertheless, it fluttered and danced around with delightful ease and fluidity, immediately capturing everyone’s gaze and even earning Maxwell a couple of awed ‘Ooooh’. The story, as far as Wilson could tell, was a charming and classic fairytale with an exotic flair: a young boy sent on a quest for dangerous beasts, which he managed to capture against all odds through sheer wit and cunning. Despite the simplicity of its content, the tale positively enraptured the audience thanks to Maxwell’s stunning performance. Characters, monsters, items and even scenery were promptly summoned by Maxwell’s magic as soon as they were mentioned, interacting with each other, phasing through the onlookers and fusing hypnotically. Maxwell himself often stepped out of the circle to leave his creations under the spotlight, only to suddenly jump in again with a dramatic roar to highlight the plot twist. At one point, he even dived face-first into the silhouette of the current villain, brought the lit tip of his cigar to his lips and blew out, reproducing, in all its erupting magnificence, the impressive burst of fire the monster had just spit towards the protagonist. Wilson found himself wishing he had two pairs of eyes, so that he could watch both the shadows and Maxwell at the same time, for they were both spectacular in their own merits. The former King’s hands never stopped moving, his fingers wiggling and flicking as if he was really controlling his shadows via invisible strings. He never stopped pacing either, circling his spectators, drawing bizarre shapes in the air with the smoke arising from his cigar, as if tying his story together with that ephemeral strand. His narration was impeccable as well: he acted out each character’s lines with genuine passion (needless to say, he had a talent for channeling villainous threats and malignant snark), and his low tone and naturally coached voice had an enthralling quality that literally stole the show. When the story came to an end and the triumphant spider boy was promoted to God of the Stories, no less, for his brave deeds, Wilson felt the genuine impulse to join Webber in his enthusiastic request for one more tale. Everyone clapped warmly, and Maxwell dispelled his shadows with one last, wide motion. For the first time in the whole evening, Wilson’s and Maxwell’s eyes met and for a moment, just for a moment, Maxwell’s perfect showmanship seemed to falter: something shifted imperceptibly in his studied confidence and he stopped, briefly holding Wilson’s gaze, before bowing deeply to his audience.

Sadly, Maxwell wasn’t in the mood for an encore, and soon he retreated back to the farthest corner of the camp, away from the mounting buzzing and chit-chat. Wilson graciously allowed him five minutes of respite from human interaction, before deciding to fetch two cups of berry juice and join him there.

“That was amazing.” He sat beside Maxwell and handed him a drink. The other man accepted both the compliment and the juice with a nod. “You really have a knack for this sort of thing. You always look perfectly at ease when you’re in the spotlight.”

“I have been told. You could use developing the same skill, you know. The quality of your stitches is inversely proportional to the number of people observing you while you’re applying them.”

“Ehr, yes, I’m working on that. Speaking of peculiar skills, what’s the deal with that fire-spitting thing you pulled off back there? You can’t actually create fire, right? Because that would have come very handy on a bunch of different occasions-”

“I swear you get more gullible every time the sun rises. No, I can’t spit fire. That was just some basic fire-breathing trick.”

“I guessed so. It was fairly impressive but, if I were you, I wouldn’t have done it with Willow watching. She’s definitely going to try to do that, probably setting the whole camp on fire in the process. And when that happens, I’m going to blame you.”

“Like hell you are! She’s a grown woman, she’s responsible for her own actions.”

“Maybe, but you do have a talent for bringing out the worst in people. Anyway, how come you know how to breathe fire? Do you get a free course when you’re hired as a demon? Does that figure among the key curricular skills devils in training need to acquire?” Maxwell snorted in his drink, and Wilson smiled as well. “Do you have to pass a fire-breathing qualifying examination before you’re deployed to torment mortals? I suppose that demons who can’t properly handle the heat must be fairly damaging to the corporate image-”

“You cheeky sod.” Maxwell burst out laughing heartily. That jovial sound, so rare to hear, warmed something deep within Wilson’s chest. “Sure, why not? If I told you the truth, you wouldn’t believe it anyway.”

“Oh, yeah? Try me.” Wilson grinned, leaning his cheek on his palm and turning face Maxwell fully.

“Mh, let’s see…” Maxwell stroked his chin with a playful smirk. “I’ll give you three options. See if you can figure out the real one.”

“Nothing is ever easy or straightforward with you, is it?”

“Number one: I learned it from my own creations. I simply had to study how the dragonfly harnesses and redirects heat from the atmosphere to grasp the basic mechanism.”

“Mmmh… an intriguing explanation, but a faulty one. You can’t possibly create something functional without knowing or at least guessing how it works beforehands.”

“With just that one sentence, you fully proved your complete ignorance about the very foundations of the magic arts. Anyway, number two: I learned it from an alcoholic, self-proclaimed fakir travelling with a circus in exchange for half a bottle of Port.”

“That’s so ridiculously out there I can’t even imagine how you came up with that.”

“Number three: I never learned it. This was my first attempt ever and I instantly nailed the technique by virtue of my natural, unrestrained talent.”

“...This is stupid. All of these are stupid. You’re just pulling my leg.” Wilson pouted. “You’re right, I’m just going to assume Satan taught you.”

“Suit yourself.” Maxwell chukled, taking another sip.

“What did you use as fuel? Oh, wait-”

“You guessed it. Nightmare fuel, what else?”

“I didn’t see you put it into your mouth though… Where did you keep it?”

“Inside my very soul.”

“Ha! Ha ha! That- that was a joke, right?”

“Oh, I wish.” Maxwell declared with the utmost seriousness, taking a long drag from his cigar like the overly dramatic ass that he was.

“Is nightmare fuel even flammable? I experimented with it a few times, but I never managed to ignite it…”

“It can be, in the right hands. It’s extremely versatile if you know how to use it.”

“Well, that wasn’t an unnecessarily vague or creepy explanation in the slightest.”

“Oh, my apologies. I’d hate to accidentally give you the impression that your onslaught of childish and nosy questions was getting on my nerves.”

“Oh no, you aren’t fooling me, you know?” Wilson waved his finger at Maxwell with a knowing smirk. “You’re in high spirits tonight, no matter how hard you try to hide it. It’s quite telling that you even went as far as to waste some of your oh-so-precious fuel for the sake of our silly entertainment-”

“Mph! I only used few drops for the fire. The shadows didn’t even require any, they were little more than glorified tricks of light-”

“Nevertheless! You had a whale of a time and it showed, and damn if that wasn’t refreshing to see you waltz around like that!”

Maxwell gave Wilson a strange look. “Well, I’m certainly glad that my favorite petulant brat enjoyed the show. And Webber and Wendy too, of course.”

”Hey, no need to be- oh. Ha! See? You’re on fire tonight! With or without fuel.” Maxwell pinched the bridge of his nose with a pained groan, but it wasn’t enough to hide the obvious smile on his lips. “...You know, I’m glad you took up my suggestion. We’ve all been in dire need of a break for a while. Especially the kids, especially considering it’s their birthday-”

“It really isn’t.”

“It probably isn’t.” Wilson conceded. “But what’s the point of surviving just for the sake of surviving, with no real perspective of escape in sight, if we can’t find it in ourselves to enjoy our hard-earned lives?”

Maxwell didn’t reply immediately, regarding Wilson with something awfully similar to concern.

“...Say, is everything all right?”

“Uh? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, you’ve been awfully sentimental lately. And what’s with all this ‘poor kids’ here, ‘poor kids’ there? Where does this misplaced parental solicitude come from?”

“What an asinine question. I’ll give you a pass for not caring about the unjust punishment you’ve served to a bunch of naive adults, but Webber and Wendy, of all people, deserve better than being confined in this dreadful place. They’re just children!”

“Tsk! If you ask me, children are just as selfish as adults, if not worse. They’d literally sell their siblings for a handful of liquorice.”

“Oh come on, how can you be so cynical?”

“I am not, it’s perfectly true. My brother did it twice, and he didn’t even share the sweets. Wretched rascal.”

“Your brother?” Wilson couldn’t help but ask.

“Mm-hm.” Maxwell didn’t notice his surprise immediately, but he did when Wilson kept staring silently at him in mild fascination. He made a face. “What’s that doe-eyed look for? You chewed my head off for having a niece, you already know I have a brother.”

“No, I didn’t! It could have been… a sister… too…” It didn’t sound nearly as silly of a reply in Wilson’s head, truly. And Maxwell’s raised eyebrow did nothing to diminish his rapidly growing embarassment.

“Can’t argue with that airtight logic.” He deadpanned.

“Give me a break! You hardly ever talk about yourself, let alone your family. Sometimes it’s hard to remember you didn’t just burst out of a sulphur mine.”

“I really sold you the demon shtick flawlessly, didn’t I? Hey, and get this - you won’t believe your ears. I had…” He leant towards Wilson cospiratorily, lowering his voice and shielding his mouth with a hand. Wilson felt automatically compelled to draw closer as well. “...A father.”

“...Ha. Ha ha. Hilarious.”

“And a mother too! Astounding, I know. Don’t let the claws and the magic and the devilishly good looks deceive you, I’m 100 percent human, plus another 15 or 20 stemmed from the murkiest depths of darkness itself-”

“Will you stop that?” Wilson giggled despite himself, punching Maxwell on the shoulder. The old man let out a completely unwarranted yelp and leaned away from him, nursing his injured arm with an affronted scowl. Wilson was tempted to call him out on his dramatic reaction, before he remembered that that happened to be the spot where he had administered the injection.

“...Oh, sorry. Is it still sore? It’s been a few days, it should-”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Maxwell ineffectively tried to wave Wilson’s hands away as he prodded the area. “It’s barely noticeable by now.”

As far as Wilson could tell, there weren’t any perceptible swollen or hardened lumps beneath the clothing. “Are you sure? I can have a look at it.”

“You don’t get to act all compassionate and thoughtful after deliberately poisoning me. Hands off.” Maxwell retorted without any real bite, and Wilson raised his hands in surrender. After a beat, Maxwell looked away. “Besides, you have no reason to worry about it. I think there may be some merit to that formula of yours.”

“Really?” Wilson instantly perked up. “Have you been feeling better?”

“Something of the sort, yes.”

“As if you had never died in the first place?”

“Possibly.”

“Yes! I knew it!” Wilson grinned, pumping his fist in triumph. He didn’t let Maxwell’s half-hearted answers mislead him: if he had felt like spontaneously bringing it up, the improvement must have been undeniable. “Now we only need to wait a little more to make sure it won’t have any odd side effects in the long term...”

“Glad to see you’re still expecting me to kick the bucket at any moment. How long will I supposedly be in danger for?”

“Now, I wouldn’t say you’re in ‘danger’… but I’d wait at least a full month before using the medicine on others.”

“Oh, bloody hell.” Maxwell rubbed a hand on his face. Wilson chuckled and patted his back encouragingly.

A comfortable silence stretched between them as Wilson nursed his drink and Maxwell smoked quietly. They watched absently the small but lively crowd from afar, lost in their own thoughts. On moments like those, when Maxwell was in a decent mood, Wilson was honestly glad they had met after the throne. If one managed to grow a liking or at least a tolerance for Maxwell’s cutting humour and his peculiar ways, having him around could be positively invigorating. It could be fun. For all his gratuitous complaining and gloom, he wasn’t one to just sit and let the world kick him the teeth. By hook or by crook, he’d pull himself and anyone he needed together and he’d come through, with a sharp sword and an even sharper grin. On moments like those, when they were virtually alone and their past misgivings didn’t weigh on their minds and their words, Wilson could even take a honest look at himself and contemplate his own feelings without worry. On moments like those, it wasn’t difficult to see all the disquieting thoughts and suspects about the throne’s influence as the overgrown paranoia they actually were, and dismiss them with ease. And when the little tidbits of Maxwell’s past, the unguarded laughs and genuine concern, and even his distinctly British interjections reminded Wilson of how exquisitely human that self-proclaimed fiend actually was, accepting the undeniable affection he felt for the man was as natural as breathing.

“What did they do?”

“Mh?“ Maxwell came down from his own reverie with a surprised puff of smoke. “What? Who?”

“Your parents.”

Maxwell let out a deep, long-suffering sigh. “You have this unfortunate, ingrained habit of mistaking thinly-veiled insults for viable topics of conversation. I didn’t mention my parents because I feel like sharing my life story, I did it to highlight the fact that you’re as dumb as a rock.”

“Oh, I don’t do it by mistake, I assure you. It’s a deliberate choice.” Wilson answered genially. “It’s also basically the only way I can ever talk with you for more than thirty seconds.”

“Lucky me.”

“What about your brother? Who did he sold you to?”

Maxwell flashed him his widest, most disturbing grin. “The Devil, maybe.”

“...All right, I guess I walked into that one.” Wilson rolled his eyes, still smiling as well. A couple of high-pitched cries made them both turn towards the crowd. Wilson couldn’t quite see what was happening back there, but if he had to hazard a guess, Webber was probably testing his fighting skills against Wigfrid, this time. “...Have you thought about what I told you? About trusting the others a bit more?”

“Not really, no.”

“But you must see it’s for the best. Hell, just tonight you had proof of how little it would take you to make a great impression on them. I’m not going to say that now all is forgiven and forgotten just because you put up a fancy magic show, but you can bet everyone will be more friendly with you tomorrow. That’s a start, and it took you no effort at all.”

“That’s an awfully simplistic way of conceiving human interactions, and you’re well aware of it. It’s certainly easy to see everyone in a good light now, with full bellies, warm clothes, good health and relative safety. But when food starts to grow scarce and danger approaches, that’s when people show their true colors.”

“And your solution is to treat them as if they had already betrayed you, without even giving them a chance? Especially when you’re the one who betrayed them? What sort of backwards logic is that?”

“A more cautious one than ‘let’s just hope for the best’, surely. Besides, this whole situation is beyond worrying in and of itself.”

“What do you mean?”

Maxwell’s eyes narrowed, and his tone lowered. “...Do you really see nothing strange in this?”

“In what? What are you talking about?”

“This.” Maxwell made a vague, all-encompassing gesture, including the camp, the survivors, the darkness, everything and nothing. “All this. This… this is all wrong.”

Wilson blinked. He had no idea what Maxwell was referring to, but he sensed it must be something more important than his usual overly dramatic pessimism, so he waited for him to continue.

“Us. All of us. Meeting each other, surviving together, faring so well that we can afford to hold birthday parties, for heaven’s sake. Look at all the statues and the amulets and the piles of food! By now, death has become a mild inconvenience for us, rather than an actual threat. This is a far cry from the hellish experience you’ve had in the Constant when you first arrived, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is.” Wilson agreed, dimly seeing where Maxwell was heading. Maxwell nervously shook some ash off his cigar.

“There’s a reason why you never stumbled into another living soul during all your travels, and that’s because I made it so. I kept you all accurately separated, I organized the connections between each world you crossed so that none of you would ever meet. Because surviving in pairs or larger groups is easier, both practically and psychologically. And this place was not crafted to make life easier. It’s an instrument of torture, devised to induce exactly as much pain as humans are capable of experiencing.”

Wilson didn’t speak. Maxwell crossed his arms, sulking at the noisy crowd. “And suddenly, within the span of few months, so many of us are reunited in a single place. Not by sheer chance, that’s for sure. Suddenly we’re allowed all this… comfort, company, cheer. It makes no sense.”

“Well, maybe the new Queen is on our side, inasmuch as she can be.” Wilson ventured to say. “You said you knew her, and she freed me from the throne. Maybe she genuinely wants to help us.”

“No, that’s not it.” Maxwell shook his head grimly. “Even if she harboured any sympathy for any of us, which is doubtful, she’d be in no position to favour us so blatantly. They wouldn’t allow it. Nothing happens here without Their permission, and They only care about Their own entertainment, which invariably involves slaughter and suffering.”

“So you’re saying that this is some sort of ploy?” Wilson frowned. “What are you concerned about, exactly? That there may be… I don’t know, a spy in our midst?”

“That is certainly a possibility.”

“Mh… that doesn’t sound right to me. It’s needlessly contrived and time-consuming as a way to torture us.”

“It certainly isn’t something I’d have resorted to… but if I was replaced, I guess They must have been growing bored of my methods to begin with.”

“I thought you got replaced because I bested you in a battle of endurance, stubbornness and wits.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, if it helps you sleep at night.” Maxwell deadpanned. “Anyway, there are much simpler ways our current arrangement can damage us.”

“How so?”

“What Wendy said earlier is true.” Maxwell shrugged. “Wounds of the soul are much more devastating than those of the flesh. When this idyllic period of peace will inevitably end and corpses will start to pile up, loneliness will be a heavier burden than ever, and loss will only add to its weight. That kind of pain is definitely something I can see Them enjoying.”

“So you think this is only temporary.” Wilson murmured, considering Maxwell’s words carefully. “That it was given to us only to be taken away.”

“That much is obvious. Still, I don’t think that’s quite all there is to it. It’s too much trouble for too little reward. They’re planning something, and I have no idea what it is. I don’t like it.” Maxwell rubbed his eyes slowly. “I don’t like it one bit.”

So much for his day without worries, Wilson thought. He had never really stopped to question which conjunctures might have caused the survivors’ paths to cross, but, as Maxwell put them, they did look suspicious. The thought that he may, possibly soon, be out there on his own all over again, completely alone with his struggles and his hallucinations against a whole, murderous world, was indeed depressing. Yet, for some reason, it was even more depressing to see Maxwell similarly affected by that perspective. Wilson silently considered the other man, all traces of his earlier mirth and lightheartedness gone; suddenly he looked very old and very tired, barely any more alive than the listless shell of a man he had found caged on the throne. Something within Wilson found that simply intolerable. He reached out and gently squeezed Maxwell’s shoulder.

“...Hey, look. There isn’t really any point in catastrophizing. We all know this place is terrible and evil, but that doesn’t mean nothing good can ever come out of it. Look at yourself, you’re free now. That’s an improvement over being bound to the throne, isn’t it?”

“Tough call.” Maxwell replied laconically.

“That’s an improvement.” Wilson declared. “I’m faring better than ever too! I’ve learned a lot, I’m free and in great shape, and I have at least one person I can unhesitatingly rely on, and that’s more-”

“Who?” Maxwell asked, with ridiculously genuine curiosity. Wilson gave him a look. “...Oh, you mean me.”

“No, I meant Chester. Who else, you thick-headed prick!?”

“Sorry, it was the ‘unhesitatingly’ that threw me off. Please continue.”

“And!” Wilson added, and abruptly stood up and walked away. He marched to the table and filled two plates with as much food of as many different varieties as they could hold, and brought them back to their comfortably private corner. He proceeded to refill their bowls to the brim with berry juice as well, and he added those to the heap before sitting down again, while Maxwell kept observing him with a mix of confusion and amusement. “We are currently in the perfect position to build our strength for whatever obstacle They might be planning to throw in our way. So eat up, stay safe and gather comrades.”

“My God, this has to be the most predictable and shallow pep talk I’ve ever heard.”

“Trust me, you just have to tackle the most immediate problems one at a time and don’t let remote fears distract you. Small steps. That’s how I made it all the way to your den.”

“Every time you rub that one victory in my face, you come up with a different reason for it. Last time it was by exercising caution and always having a backup plan, which is just about the opposite of what you just said.”

“That too. And also by being generally better, smarter and stronger than you. I’m just an extraordinary guy all round, when you think about it.” Maxwell snorted. Wilson smiled and held out his bowl of juice. “To peace and prosperity, however long they’ll last?”

Maxwell shook his head, but he was smiling. He lifted his own bowl and clinked against Wilson’s. “To short-sighted optimism.”

“Good enough.”

They drank their juice and enjoyed some more of Willow’s cuisine. It was true, Wilson didn’t have much valuable insight or advice to offer about Maxwell’s worries, but small steps did it, for real. And as of now, managing to turn Maxwell’s frown into a crooked smile felt like a worthy milestone.

“Maxwell!” Webber yelled. “Willow wants you to teach her how to spit fire!”

Wilson sighed. Maxwell, at least, had the decency to look alarmed.

[wabart]

companions react to ss dying, but being animated like handsome jack on their pip-boy or smth?

Thanks for the request! For this one, I only used companions that could take Sole’s Pip-Boy. So, there’s no Dogmeat or Strong.

Cait: She always felt like trash. Since Sole had died- an event for which she blamed herself- she’d begun drinking more heavily. Her thoughts wandered to chems more often, and there was little to stop her from partaking in them now. She sat on the couch, staring down at the Jet in her hands. It’s the same arm that wears Sole’s Pip-Boy. She can’t bear to look directly at it without thinking of them. She lifts the Jet canister to her lips, slouching back to get ready for the high.

“Wow. We spent hours goin’ through that vault just for you to throw it all away once I’m gone. I’m offended.” Puzzled, she looks around the room. The echoing voice of Sole is there, and she wonders to herself if she drank more than she thought. She hadn’t even puffed any Jet yet, so why was she hearing things? She cursed quietly, hoping she wasn’t going crazy.

“Honestly, I don’t blame you. From what I remember; I was pretty much 80% of your impulse control.” She scoffs at the voice mocking her. “Yeah, right. More like 60, if you ask me.” She hears familiar laughter, and notices a light on the Pip-Boy blinking in time with it. She can’t help but smile, happy to hear their voice again.

Codsworth: Everyone in Sanctuary had noticed how obsessively- or, rather, more obsessively- the Mr. Handy had been looking after things once his employer had passed away. He’d go over the same spots three, sometimes four times before circling around to do it again. He’d talk to himself, saying things like, “There, there, old chap. No need to be upset.” or “Just the way Mrs/Mr. Likes it!” He seemed to be going crazy. The residents kept away from him, for fear of the spinning razor of his to be used on them, rather than on trimming the dead hedges outside of Sole’s house.

He’d been humming some Pre-War song from his memory banks one day, furiously dusting the shelves in what used to be Sole’s bedroom. From the bedside table, where their old Pip-Boy lay, came what sounded like a grumble. He coasted over, curious about the sound. The screen lit up, but only showed the scrolling code of the interface. After a few seconds, the Mr. Handy did his version of a shrug, and floated away. He continued humming, going about re-dusting the whole room.

“Buddy, you really gotta mix it up. I’m getting bored to death here. Oh, wait-” The familiar voice of the Mr. Handy’s employer forces a gasp of surprise from the bot. He swirls around, seeing some kind of projection of them lying on the bed. He floats over, haltingly nervous. While he can’t make out the exact details of the projection, he can tell it’s now sitting up and looking at him.

“Ma’am/Sir! You have no idea how glad I am to hear your voice! Oh, I could sing!”

Curie: “Psst, Curie!” Came a whisper on the wind. The synth woman had grown more used to the familiar voice of her now-deceased comrade floating through her work space. She discovered, after much worrying about her mental state, that their Pip-Boy had stored a model of their likeness; projecting it to her for a reason she had not discovered. She was a woman of science, but her speciality was not in electronics such as this personal computing accessory. Now, her old colleague would float around her, attempting to distract her form her experiments.

They were of some use- in that they could disappear and collect information for her, or spook people she didn’t want in her laboratory. Other than that, no tests had been conclusive- Sole couldn’t interact with objects actively, but rather passively. They could walk on floors or lean on counters, but they couldn’t force anything. Sole also had a radius in which they could exist- approximately 100 metres of the Pip-Boy, which she kept on her person for their sake.

While the discovery of their projection was shocking- it caused her to drop a glass vial, but otherwise no more damage was caused- Curie grew fond of it. It was similar to having Sole around before their death, but they used up less bandages and disinfectant. While they couldn’t easily protect her as she went into the world to collect data, she had learnt from them how to fight effectively. They would also warn her whenever an enemy would approach. Altogether, she was thankful for them. But, she was anxious for the day when the Pip-Boy’s battery eventually died, and could no longer conjure Sole’s likeness.

She figured she should enjoy her time with her friend while she still had it.

Danse: He was working on his power armour as he had been for the past five and a half months since Sole’s death. He’d been working on Sole’s last request- a weird one, but one he’d do nonetheless. He was told to find Sturges in Sanctuary to integrate their Pip-Boy interface into his power armour. The both of them had been working hard, and he was just putting on the finishing touches.

Nearly two months’ work- only breaking for bare necessity- was finally standing before him. It didn’t look any different, and though he knew nothing amazing or catastrophic would happen, he was still a bit disappointed. Somewhere in his head, he thought that maybe if he fulfilled their last request, they’d come back.

He stepped into his power armor, deciding to try out the new interface. It flickered on, and he saw a man with blonde hair, as well a the health of his suit of armor. He flipped through the interface, not paying much attention to it. He found an ‘Inventory’ tab, under which only one item sat. It was labelled ‘Danse.txt’ and, figuring that since it said it name, it was for him; he opened it. Words flashed across the screen, and it was hard to read them at the speed they moved. The last thing he caught was something he was sure was from Sole.

“These days, you always smile like you’re going to cry. Please, give me a real smile. Just this once.”

Deacon: “Pay attention to me.” Sole said, standing with their hands on their hips behind Carrington, who was telling the spy something about a new safehouse. He was trying his best to pay attention to the doctor, but the recently-deceased partner-in-crime over the man’s shoulder was incredibly distracting. He supposed, since no-one else seemed to be able to see them, that he should have told someone about it sooner. But, he couldn’t risk being taken off the field. The only way he was distracting himself from his loss was by burying himself in his work.

He rubbed idly at his wrist where his partner’s Pip-Boy was attached, nodding idly to the doctor before him. Carrington walked off, and Deacon let out a low sigh. He made his way out of the escape tunnel, heading straight toward a place where he could be alone. He went to an abandoned apartment store, immediately lifting his sunglasses to his head so he could rub at his tired eyes in distress. When he opened them, he let out a defeated noise.

His dead partner, illuminated in the same colour as the Pip-Boy interface, sat on the counter of the store, watching him. Their expression was too familiar, and it made him want to throw a nearby can through their hologram of a head. It clanged against the boarded-up window behind them, and they let out a disgruntled ‘hey’. He leans against the counter opposite him, not wanting to or able to bear being near them. Silence passes through the store.

“Why did you have to leave?” He chokes out, his breath burning in his chest. He pushes up his sunglasses, conscious of the burning behind his eyes. Even if they were dead, he still wasn’t comfortable with showing them his weakness. They regard him with a sad sigh, standing from the counter to approach him.

“…I’m here now, aren’t I?” Sole stands in front of him, their arms crossed over their chest. He lets out a wry chuckle, running his hand over his face. “This is the only time I’d accept a hug from you, and you can’t even give me one.” Sole gives him a pitying frown, leaning on the counter next to him. Attempting to cheer him up, they reach an arm behind him and let out a loud ‘ooh, ahh!’ as it appears through his stomach. He lets out an amused scoff and tries to bat away the arm coming through his torso.

“So, does this mean we should change our name to ‘Deacon and the Holograms’?”

Hancock: The clouds of Jet and cigarette smoke were much thicker in the Old State House as of late. It wasn’t a surprise to anyone, when the Mayor would stumble out onto his balcony, the smoke releasing like a vacuum into the night, that he was trying to ignore his grief with chems. It seemed to have become his cure-all; He’d spend loads on caps just to get high for a few minutes and forget the dull throbbing of his chest. He was finally alone.

He rolled off the couch, snatching a bottle of vodka from Fahrenheit’s latest delivery of goods that sat in a pile near the door. He clawed at it with shaking hands, desperately trying to get at the alcohol inside. He could feel his depression seeping in again, and he dropped the thing with a defeated sob. He collapsed on the ground, hoping that he’d just pass out and die along with the last of his dignity.

From the couch, he could feel he was being watched. A ghost, one he was sure was being conjured up by his tormented and drug-filled mind, sat on the couch at all hours. It wouldn’t leave, no matter what he said or did. It felt like a sick trick being played on him. “I need to you to go on living without me.” Sole says from the couch, drawing a defeated scoff from the ghoul.

“Can’t you see that I’m trying?” He whined, but his heart wasn’t in it. Illusion or not, he couldn’t bear to be angry with Sole. They meant too much to him. “Don’t you understand? You were the best thing about me! You were what I loved most about life, and now you’re not even in it.” He splayed out his arms, feeling surprisingly drowsy. He spotted the ghost moving closer, and it lied down next to him.

He wanted a hug. He just wanted to be held by his one friend, but they couldn’t. It was like some sick form of torture.

MacCready: He’d returned to his familiar spot in the Third Rail. Preston, the new general of the Minutemen, had invited him to stay at whichever settlement he wanted. But, after living a sedentary lifestyle for a few months to grieve, he was restless. He sat on the couch of the V.I.P. room, sipping a bottle of Bourbon. He’d only just gotten tipsy when the Pip-Boy on his wrist began beeping. A voice came from it, and with every syllable he was filled more and more with dread.

“You know you’re not even allowed to drink. You’re, like, 13.” The familiar teasing tone from the Pip-Boy made him drop the liquor in his hand. He was fighting to get the thing off him with one hand, but he was too shaky. He manages to slip his hand out of it without undoing the clasps, tossing it onto the couch. Sole, or rather, the Pip-boy, lets out a whining ‘hey’ when it bounces on the red cushion. The mercenary eyes the device, taking a shaky breath. Silence passes between them, and he begins to wonder if maybe he played a holotape by accident. Or, perhaps he was more drunk than he thought.

He runs a hand over his mouth, his chest heaving. He settles back down, lifting the bottle of Bourbon from its place on the ground to his lips.

“Hey, what did I say? Where is Preston when you need him? Who the fuck thought it would be a good idea to leave you alone in a bar? You can’t even pay your tab!” The mercenary puts down the bottle with a huff. “Hey, I can fend for myself, you know!” He points an accusatory finger at the Pip-Boy sitting beside him.

“Oh, really? Because you’re yelling at a high-tech fashion accessory right now, pal! You don’t exactly seem stable to me!” He lets out a groan of frustration. Despite him missing Sole with every fibre of his being, he did not miss being sassed by them.

“You’re a high-tech fashion accessory!” He shouts, not bothering to keep his voice down. He takes a swig of Bourbon, the frustration he was feeling melting into bitterness. “So, you’re a Pip-Boy now. That’s… new.” He shakes his head, having wanted to come up with something better to say. A familiar wry chuckle comes from the device.

“Yeah, really. Your wrist is, like, super sweaty, by the way. You should really see someone about that.” He lets out a scoff and a quiet ‘shut up’. Silence falls over them again, but it’s almost content. He takes another swig, a deep frown on his lips. He spares a glance to the accessory, feeling unusually like it’s looking at him, too.

“Letting go of you will be the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do.” He sighs, putting a cigarette between his lips in the hopes of shutting himself up. There’s a silence, and it bears down on him; crushing his chest and leaving him feeling like he needs to gasp in air by the lungful just to breathe. The emptiness left behind by them is more than he’s able to bear. Just when he thought he’d be able to have only nice, technicolor memories of Lucy; death found him again.

“Then don’t let me go.”

Nick: The radio was old; easily older than he was. It was no surprise when it inevitably died. Though the synth typically had no quarrels with the silence, recent events had made the Agency feel lonelier than usual. Hesitantly, he opens the drawer of his desk to pull out the Pip-Boy his old partner had left him.

He puts it down on his desk, fiddling with it to get it to work. It zaps him at one point, and he begins to wonder how much he’d have to bribe Piper with to let him take her radio. The device crackling to life draws his yellow eyes to it. He wipes the dust and grime from it, his brow furrowing when ‘Hello!’ is the only thing displayed on the screen. He shakes it; having done some brilliant I.T. work, and it being one of the multitude of solutions he had. He goes to turn it off and on again, but the screen flashes a new message.

“Wow, not even a hello? That’s a bit rude. And here I was, thinking you still had that Old-World charm you always brag about.” He reads the messages out quietly, looking puzzled. He leans back in his chair, making sure Ellie was indeed out at the noodle stand before completely embarrassing himself.

“Ah, hello?” He tries. The screen flashes, and a new message shows. “Hey! It’s been a while, huh, partner?” He lets out a scoff, assuming it’s some old prank. If he found who messed with Sole’s Pip-Boy, he’d tear them a new one. Evidently, the prank was prepared for his heavy eye-rolling.

“I promise this isn’t a prank. It’s me, Sole.” With a displeased grumble, he puts down the Pip-Boy. “That’s in poor taste.” He grumbles out, unable to remove the deep frown etched into his features. The Pip-Boy lets out a small beep, and he hazards a glance at the screen.

“I’ll prove it.” He reads. The screen flashes again, and then goes blank. He inspects the Pip-Boy closely, not seeing anything else happen. His brow is still furrowed in confusion.

“Please forgive me. It’s hard to get that interface working, and well, you didn’t exactly pay a whole ton of attention to the thing.” A familiar voice comes from behind him. He swivels around, seeing his old partner. Sole, despite being not-quite-there, is just as he remembers. He lets out a scoff, an amazed smile on his face.

“Hell of a trick, kid.”

X6-88: He kept the Pip-Boy. It was the first time he’d ever lied directly to his superiors in the SRB. He knew that if he didn’t hide it well, it’d be the end of him, and worse, he’d never see it again. He was never one for being outwardly sentimental. Of course, he’d told Sole when he was impressed by their skill, or when they did well. He never told them he enjoyed being around them, more than anyone else he’d met. He never told them he would be proud to call them his friend.

He’d been spending more time dawdling on missions as of late. He remembered that Sole always walked slowly outside, watching the sky or the water with a small smile. He’d taken up doing the same less because he found the sight visually appealing, and more as an homage to this amazing being who had inspired him so.

He was sitting on a rooftop; ‘scouting out the area’, he’d decided to say, if anyone asked. He fiddled with the device between his hands, not really trying to do anything with it. Evidently, he’d pressed something, because a loud beep sounded from it. He decided it would be best to set it down.

He watches the sun slowly setting the sky on fire; letting out a low sigh as he’d seen Sole do so many times before. He wasn’t sure why it was nice, but it made him feel almost calm. It was the most peaceful he’d felt his entire existence, not to mention since the future of the Institute had died.

“I like the evening sky more than the morning. Something about seeing everything turn into a silhouette against the bright oranges and yellows is just amazing. I also love when the clouds are like cotton candy against the blue sky.” X6 looked to his left, seeing a vague figure sitting there. With furrowed brows, he reached out to touch them. This was Sole, no doubt; but for one, they were dead. Two, if they somehow weren’t, how did they sneak up on him? He was starting to doubt himself.

Piper: “Any juicy new information for me?” Piper asks as her old friend floats through her office. Like Curie, she was shocked by the Pip-Boy projecting Sole back into the world. She was slightly more violent towards the hologram at first; trying to shoot it out of her office while it tried to explain. Now, she used Sole’d new-found ability to be good at scouting out information for new stories. Piper had become the best newspaper in the history of Boston thanks to Sole’s death.

While she had trouble writing, or doing… anything, just after Sole’s death, being able to work with this weird hologram version of them gave her some good closure.

Preston: Sole had given him so much to live for; so much life was thriving in the settlements they’d made, and now he had people to rely on him. Things could finally be good. All that was missing was them.

He sat in bed reading, so as to distract himself from creeping thoughts. He’d been using their old Pip-Boy as a light to read by, finding it as a pleasant reminder of them. His sappy, poetic side compared it to Sole being a literal light in the darkness. It was effective in its job, except until the screen turned off completely. With brows furrowed, he tapped the screen. It did nothing, so he tried again.

“Oh, I love that book!” Comes a voice from behind him. With an incredibly effeminate shriek and a wild dive for the floor, he leaves his book behind. A translucent version of Sole’s face, the same colour as the Pip-Boy interface, in coming through the wall above his bed. It’s busting a gut laughing at him, and moves through to sit on his bed.

“You’re about as graceful as a train barreling through a china shop. Or a baby doe on a trampoline!” Sole dissolves into a fit of laughter, hardly concealing it for his sake. He lies on the ground, watching this relic of his lost friend with amazement. They quiet after a while, their gaze landing on him.

“It’s good to see you again, General.”

[decanthrope]

A Cock In Hand (Is Worth Two In The Bush)

Hey, @castielsburger, remember when I spammed you with all those ridiculous, over the top messages and then went “never mind, it’s nothing”? This is why! I really wanted to write this for you, because you’re always making me happy!

On AO3.

Draco is in his mid twenties when the stress gets to him and he goes down faster than a sinking ship.

It’s completely unexpected, but then again, midlife crises do have the tendency to be unpredictable. That’s rather the point.

In a fit of complete and utter madness, he disappears in the early afternoon without warning. This after six months of willful confinement to the Manor.

Narcissa goes into a state of uncontrolled worry that niggles at Lucius so much, he locks himself in his library and refuses to come out until she’s either calmed down or taken a potion to keep her from fidgeting and otherwise making a nuisance of herself.

Many hours later, Draco returns, and Narcissa couldn’t be happier—could certainly be less confused, but is happy nonetheless.

Draco isn’t alone. For whatever reason it seems only he’s privy to, he’s gone and purchased a chicken. Not a peacock, not an albatross, not any of the birds of paradise or even a Lady Amherst pheasant, but a chicken.

Narcissa is perplexed. She tries to understand, she really does, but no matter what angle she tries to look at it from, it just doesn’t make any sense: she can’t understand what about this plain bird has caught her son’s attention.

As time goes on, it becomes obvious that he doesn’t hold any real affection for the thing, and even though it defecates everywhere and runs wild and scratches their floors and creates more messes than Narcissa truly thinks it’s worth, he refuses to get rid of it. Even though he moans and complains and yells at the silly thing, he won’t hear a word of its removal from the Manor, or even its replacement with something more delicate, something more pleasing to the eye, something less… ordinary.

Narcissa starts to think her son has finally lost it over the course of the next few weeks. Draco takes the chicken with him everywhere. Wherever her son is, the chicken follows, scampering behind him like a puppy, screeching and making all kinds of horrid noises, and, even worse, leaving all kinds of horrid fluids on her nice, pristine floors.

She asks Lucius about his opinion on Draco and his rooster friend one night while they’re getting ready for bed. Lucius gives her a pained look as he slips under the covers.

“Narcissa, it’s nothing to worry about,” he tells her long-sufferingly. “The men in the Malfoy line have always had a special connection with birds. Draco is… respecting his familial heritage.”

Narcissa thinks even he sounds doubtful as he says it.

“Yes, but dear, I don’t think this is quite the same thing as that,” she insists, fussing with the blankets until Lucius shoots her an irritated—but fond—look and covers her hands with his own.

“This is a phase,” he stresses. “He’s experimenting. I’m sure he’ll grow out of it soon enough.”

Narcissa bites her tongue against telling him that he’s a hypocrite and that his thing with peacocks wasn’t just a phase. She doesn’t press the matter after that, and Lucius, grateful of its dropping, rolls over and goes to sleep. Still, she worries. What if Draco really has cracked? His behaviour is worrying. What he has with that chicken isn’t normal. She has her doubts despite Lucius’s words.

What puts pain to it is the fact that Draco seems to have formed some kind of bond with his newest companion that seems to transcend what a relationship between owner and pet ought to be. Several times, she’s caught him alone with the bird, talking to it as if it were another human, even a friend.

It wouldn’t be so bad, really, Narcissa thinks, if it weren’t so terribly unhealthy. She lingers outside the door of the library in the east wing one morning, peering anxiously through the crack in the doors and watches as Draco, once again, is ensconced in a one-sided conversation with the bird.

“You’re a horrid, spiteful little thing. Do you know what you’ve done? Well? Do you?” he peers very seriously at the animal who’s resting noncommittally on the arm of Narcissa’s favourite Victorian carved rosewood arm chair. It has boulle brass and tortoiseshell inlay, is one-of-a-kind, over 100 years old, and costs more than a small fortune alone. Her anxiety ratchets up several notches to see the bird on it, to think about all the damage it might be doing.

From within, Draco blows out an exasperated breath and turns away.

“Of course you bloody well don’t,” he criticizes. “You’re a pea-brained excuse of a bird. You ought to be ashamed. What do you have to say for yourself? Well?”

Draco honestly seems to expect an answer from the thing, and Narcissa curls a hand up against her chest to stop herself from brushing through the doors, pulling him away from the chicken, and gently insisting he see a mind healer.

“That’s what I thought,” Draco’s speaking again, a smug look on his face as he turns away and stoops—no, kneels down on the floor to start cleaning up the corpse of a book that looks to have been shredded, apparently at the bird’s—no, monster’s—talons or beak.

She hears him murmur “bloody Potter” and has to wonder if this is a sign, the final straw that’s broken the camel’s back, and if she shouldn’t have insisted he seek help before it had all spiralled out of her control.

Before she can do anything, however, the rooster crows loudly and leaps off the chair and onto Draco’s back, climbing him like a tree until it’s perched on his shoulder and pecking at his neck. Narcissa has half a second to think he’s being savaged by the animal before Draco’s hunching his shoulders up to protect his neck and batting the thing off himself, scowling.

“Don’t try to be cute, Potter. I’m angry with you.”

The chicken skitters around, walks back and forth, heckling as it goes. It keeps its beady, crazed-looking eyes on him the whole time, wattle swaying back and forth under its beak. Draco seems to ignore it, and when he’s done picking up the remnants of the book, returns to his chair.

Narcissa is startled out of her vigilance as Lucius comes up behind her, cocking an eyebrow at her. He opens his mouth to speak, and frantically, she slaps her hand over his mouth, hissing at him to be quiet and motioning for him to look through the door in the same gesture. Lucius looks disgruntled, but does so. She wrings her hands while he looks, and when he steps back, peers anxiously into his face.

“It’s unusual,” he admits at last, and Narcissa trembles.

Unusual, she wants to shriek at him. This is beyond unusual! She’s spent the last two months watching her son go completely mad and all Lucius can say is “it’s unusual”?! Narcissa is so tightly strung, she feels like she could snap.

“What do you want me to do about it?” he asks to forestall her actually doing such a thing.

“Talk to him!” she explodes in a whispered shout. Goodness knows she’s tried, and it’s gotten them exactly nowhere.

Lucius looks pained again, but says he will. She stares at him until he blanches, asks “right now?” and is cowed into doing just that under Narcissa’s fierce stare.

The doors are the heavy kind that close slowly due to their weight, so by the time she takes up her position again, spying into the room, she’s missed the beginning of the conversation.

“Your mother is… concerned,” Lucius is saying, and Narcissa curses him under her breath for betraying her like this.

“Why?” Draco asks slowly, like he’s struggling to comprehend why she might have reservations about his befriending a chicken.

Lucius looks uncomfortable at the question.

“She believes your…” he struggles to find the word he wants, and eventually settles on “association with your cock is verging on an unhealthy dependence.”

Narcissa buries her head in her hands and stifles the groan that tries to escape her. It’s a wonder Lucius was as politically popular as he was in their youth, she thinks. This conversation surely puts him as the least diplomatic person she knows, and considering she knows Pansy Parkinson, that’s a feat. She’s going to conjure worms on his side of the bed tonight—she swears it.

When she looks back up, Draco is about as uncomfortable as she would expect.

“You mean Potter here?” he asks, gesturing to the rooster that’s sitting on his feet.

Lucius’s lip curls, though whether it’s at the name or the animal she can’t tell. She sees the moment he decides to give up on this approach and switches tack.

“Your mother thinks—”

Narcissa shoots a discreet stinging hex at her husband through the doors, grateful that he’s standing sidelong to it, and feels a vicious surge of satisfaction as he twitches and makes a sour face.

“Your mother and I think,” he corrects, stressing his own involvement and somewhat ameliorating her mood. “it might be a good idea to take a break from… Potter.”

Draco’s eyes widen in shock and then narrow suspiciously.

“You’re trying to take Potter away from me,” he realizes. “I won’t have it. I won’t let you. Potter is mine. I won’t give him up.”

Lucius backpedals immediately.

“No, no,” he placates, raising his hands in a show of good faith. “Nobody’s going to touch your cock. We just think you need some space from him. At least for a little while. We’re concerned for you, Draco.”

Narcissa is going to have words with Lucius about his choice in locution and appropriateness. If the look on Draco’s face is any indication, he’s similarly horrified by his father’s inability to call Potter anything else than a cock, even if, Narcissa unwillingly admits, that’s precisely what he is, or has been to Draco since their inception as acquaintances.

Draco gets that look he has when he’s feeling particularly mulish, and Narcissa resigns herself to an uphill battle.

“I’m not letting you take Potter away. He’s my cock… bird… rooster—whatever!” he splutters in increasing aggravation at Lucius’s expression to hearing this, and carries on: “And I won’t let you remove him from me!”

“We just want what’s best for you!” Lucius erupts at last, and Draco’s face goes blank.

“And you think he isn’t.”

Narcissa feels the chill in her son’s voice most acutely.

“You must understand what this looks like, Draco. You running around with a chicken… it’s not normal. Let me take the bird. We can get you something else if you really insist. One of my peahens has just had a clutch: you can have your pick of the chicks.”

Draco glares at his father angrily and stubbornly sets his jaw.

“I’m not getting rid of Potter,” he says mutinously, and scooping up the chicken, who squawks indignantly at such rough treatment, turns to storm out of the library.

Narcissa makes a sound of surprise and throws herself away from the door, sprinting down the corridor and ducking through the first door that makes itself apparent with terror thrumming in her veins. A moment later, Draco is storming past, muttering irately to his chicken.

Narcissa feels as though they’ve just made the whole situation worse instead of better. She stays hidden until Draco’s footsteps have faded from hearing completely, and then a little longer as she contemplates what to do next.

There really isn’t anything for it she decides—the best thing they can do is watch in silence while Draco coddles and abuses his chicken in turn. He seems to cycle between affection and churlishness over the silly thing.

Over the next few weeks, it feels like the bird is everywhere she looks, and wherever it is, Draco’s not far behind. She’s treated to the sight of him pontificating loudly and at length to the bloody rooster.

She doesn’t think she’ll ever quite get used to the sight of it riding around on top of Draco’s head like a glorified hat that moves and squawks and, apparently, shits on Draco freely. This last part she discovers one day when Draco runs past, screaming bloody murder after the rooster that seems determined to bob and weave its way to safety.

“I’m going to roast you alive!” her son screams as he dashes by. His hair is plastered to the back of his head wetly and there are dark stains down his collar and back. She stifles a gasp where she’s pruning the rose garden, both appalled and macabrely amused in the same turn as more murderous threats of what Draco is going to do to the chicken when he captures it disrupt her peaceful garden.

That night, Draco has a new haircut and they end up having coq au vin for dinner. Potter is suspiciously absent, Draco won’t say a word about him through the meal, and Narcissa doesn’t touch hers for fear that they really are eating her son’s beloved pet.

Two hours after dinner, Draco joins her in the library, a tea towel slung over one shoulder and rooster dangling uselessly by its feet in his grasp.

Over the top of her book, she watches Draco manhandle the bird this way and that as he tries to figure out how to fasten the tea towel into a diaper.

She resigns herself to the fact that her son really is going insane, and that she might also be going around the bend, considering she barely even twitches when Potter escapes Draco’s hold and starts clawing at the bookcase.

“Potter!” Draco berates irately, yanking the chicken back into his lap. “We discussed this! You agreed to behave yourself, so behave!”

The rooster clucks broodingly, looking—dare she say it—resentful, but nonetheless settles in Draco’s lap. Narcissa spends the rest of the night observing them subtly, and though she tries to deny it, there does seem to be something almost otherworldly about the creature.

A chill runs up her spine when she catches Potter staring at her, and she hastily looks away.

There’s something unnatural about that chicken.

Narcissa gives in. Potter is here to stay.

Draco has had a midlife crisis and come out of it less intact than before it came. Lucius is sweeping it all under the rug and pretending all is well and Narcissa… Narcissa vacillates between wanting to laugh and cry hysterically on a daily basis.

The only thing to do is give in, accept the reality, and drown herself in expensive booze.

At the very least, she comforts herself, her family isn’t quite as bad as it could be. Draco certainly could have gone off during his crisis and married Pansy. Thank goodness for small mercies, a rooster is nothing by comparison.

She gets used to Potter with all the alacrity she’s in possession of, and comes to expect the chicken’s presence in her life.

Draco lets the thing sleep in his bed, and if he can submit to the horrors of what that must entail, she can tolerate seeing it every night at the dinner table. If she drinks enough, that is.

Funnily enough, it’s Draco who starts it.

“Don’t you think he’s looking a little peaky?” he asks one afternoon five months in.

Narcissa turns from preparing her roses for winter.

Potter does look a sight: his normally immaculate tail is droopy, his eyes seem to bulge out of his head more than they usually do, and there seems to be a general green sort of tinge to him. There’s a particularly manic look in his eyes, she thinks. All in all, Potter looks diseased.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she tries to assure him, but the seed has been planted. The damage has been done.

That night, Narcissa doesn’t sleep. She stares at the dark ceiling until the sound of her husband snoring besides her feels grating and insensitive.

“Wake up!” she hisses, and smacks Lucius’s chest until he starts awake, mumbling about goat soup of all things.

“Lucius,” she says. “Do you ever worry about Draco?”

Lucius groans.

“This again? I thought we’d settled it, Narcissa. Our son is insane. End of story.”

Narcissa kicks him under the blanket and he jumps, changes his answer, resigned.

“No. I don’t worry for him. Why?”

She doesn’t answer that.

“What about Potter?”

There’s a silence.

“Potter? Do I worry about Potter?” Lucius laughs until she’s forced to assault him again. “No. Why would I worry about a damned chicken?”

Narcissa holds her breath, counts to three, and then doesn’t answer that, either.

“What do we do when Potter dies?”

She can practically hear Lucius’s eyeroll in the dark.

“Celebrate,” is his immediate, callous response, and Narcissa smacks his shoulder halfheartedly.

“It’s just… Draco is so attached, and you know how he can be. He doesn’t take separation well. What if Potter dies and he’s inconsolable?” she wonders.

“For Merlin’s sake, woman! Draco is twenty-seven years old! He’ll be fine.”

“But what if he’s not?” she presses, twisting the blanket under her hands as she worries. “I worry about him. I just don’t want to see him hurt, Lucius.”

Lucius takes her hand in his and rolls over so they’re pressed together, his cheek on her shoulder.

“Draco will be fine, Narcissa,” he tells her resolutely, gathering her up into his arms. “Potter’s young. He’s not going anywhere for a good long while.”

She wants to believe Lucius, wants to have as much confidence as he does, but it’s hard.

Lucius starts snoring again, right against her ear, and reluctantly, she allows it to lull her to sleep, too.

Potter goes missing 3 weeks later. There’s no sign of him for three long days in which Draco scours the Manor frantically, tearing at his hair and muttering nonsensically. He seems crazed in his worried grief.

She can’t help but think this was forewarned, that there were omens, and, bitterly, that she was right.

Before Draco can submit himself to the tragic end to his new best friend and spiral even farther out of her control, Narcissa rushes out to buy another rooster and releases it on the Manor grounds. She hopes Draco doesn’t notice the difference, though she braces herself for impact all the same.

Narcissa enters her favourite tea room and finds it already occupied.

She’s halfway through an apology and explanation that she didn’t know they were expecting company when she realizes it’s Potter.

Real Potter—not chicken Potter.

To her bemusement, he looks entertained at her stuttered and mangled excuse, and waves her in to sit like she’s the visitor here.

Stunned, and for lack of a better option, she does sit.

It’s clear Potter is in control here, is the one with all the cards in his hands, and for once, Narcissa doesn’t know how to act.

“How was America?” she asks when she’s settled.

Potter smiles deviously, and she’s put off her guard.

“I imagine it’s lovely,” he says, and has the audacity to laugh at her confused expression. “Is that where they’ve said I went? Do you believe everything you read in the Daily Prophet, Mrs. Malfoy? You shouldn’t.”

“If not America, then where?” she asks, and watches Potter smile disconcertingly.

“I wanted to thank you for your hospitality,” he says instead of answering her.

She stares at him blithely, unsure what to make of this man in her house.

Narcissa doesn’t get the chance to say anything in response to that, because Draco’s throwing the doors open, looking completely dishevelled and frantic.

“Have you seen Po—” he starts to ask, and then sights Potter. He sags against the doorway, as though his legs are no longer sufficient to hold him up. Then, he composes himself and stalks into the room so he’s standing in front of their guest.

“You’re back, and the first thing you do is come see my mother?” he asks vexedly. Though his back is to her, Narcissa knows her son—has no trouble picturing the irritated, pouty look he’s no doubt sporting.

“Of course,” Harry says levelly. “To show my appreciation for the hospitality.”

Draco makes an irritated, wounded sound in his throat and advances harshly.

Narcissa prepares to jump into the middle of whatever altercation is sure to arise, but instead of going for Potter’s throat, Draco collapses on him, throwing his arms around Potter’s neck and all but crawling into his lap.

“I should murder you,” she hears him say angrily against Potter’s chest, but he makes no move to get off or do any such thing.

“You’d miss me too much,” Potter says confidently, stroking down his back.

Draco makes a splenetic sound—or maybe it’s affectionate. Narcissa doesn’t have a lot of experience around her son and Potter, and even less when it appears he and Potter are… what? Friends? More?

There’s the crux of the matter: Narcissa has no idea at all what to make of their relationship.

She shifts in her chair and is rewarded with Potter looking over and catching her gaze. He smiles wanly and turns to whisper something to Draco, who tenses, but eventually releases Potter from the death grip and turns to face her.

“Like I said, I wanted to thank you for your geniality. You’ve been very considerate.”

Narcissa doesn’t know what to say, and so, switches her gaze to Draco beseechingly.

Draco mutters under his breath and scowls, but eventually elaborates.

“Potter’s been staying here the last few months.”

Narcissa raises a skeptical brow.

“I think I would have noticed if The Saviour was under my roof,” she says dryly, and Draco scowls again, but Potter steals her attention by fidgeting uncomfortably.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly myself,” he says, avoiding her eyes.

Narcissa blinks slowly.

“This prat got himself cursed,” Draco interjects, snickering. “Soul-bound to a chicken of all things,” he says condescendingly, and Potter immediately starts an argument over Draco’s phrasing.

It becomes apparent that left to their own devices, they’ll keep sniping back and forth forever, so she clears her throat pointedly. They turn back to her, sheepish.

“Then every time you had Potter the chicken with you…”

“It was me,” Potter finishes grimly.

What a turn of events. This is certainly the last thing she expected to have happen, though in the grand scheme of things, it may not be the most unusual thing to have ever happened. Then again… Potter did spend half a year as a chicken.

Narcissa pulls herself together and realizes Draco is peering at her nervously. He tries to hide it, but she’s his mother and sees the anxiety under the surface. Apparently, so does Potter, because he squeezes Draco’s waist comfortingly.

“And how long has all of this been going on?” she gestures to how Draco’s sitting half on Potter and half on the chair, squashed together and not attempting violent acts in her sitting room.

She’s rewarded with Potter’s averted gaze and blush.

“Just a few months before all this—” Draco gestures around the room, “—happened.”

Well, at least she can lay her worries about Draco having fallen in love with a bird to rest.

“I figure if I can put up with him as a foul, brainless, pathetic excuse of a farm animal, I can put up with him as a human. You’re still a cock, though.”

“Cheers,” Potter says blandly, rolling his eyes at Draco’s smirk.

Narcissa doesn’t understand it at all. She can’t see how it works between them, but Draco looks happy, and that’s all she can really ask for, she supposes. It’s such a relief to know her son isn’t mental and doesn’t need to be committed.

“Darling,” she interrupts their bantering. “You couldn’t have told us what was going on?” That Potter was, well, Potter?”

Draco blinks at her blankly.

“I thought it was obvious,” he says, and Narcissa purses her lips. Upon seeing her look, his face smooths over into an expression of hauteur. “You and father were so determined to thinking I was mad, neither of you ever bothered to ask for the explanation.”

Narcissa feels her back straighten at that, but before she can start on him, Potter is throwing his head back and laughing like this is the funniest thing in the world to him.

Draco shares a confused, somewhat put out glance with her, and they both turn to stare at Potter.

“Ah, sorry, sorry,” he chokes out when he sees their scrutiny, wiping tears from his eyes and wheezing. “It’s just… all of those conversations make so much more sense now. Mr. Malfoy—” he gasps out, and then succumbs to laughter again.

Beside him, Draco goes pale and looks queazy as he stares at Potter in horror.

It’s enough to make Narcissa smile faintly, recalling her husband’s dramatics and the ironic facetiousness of the conversation in hindsight.

She supposes this might just be the most ridiculous thing that’s happened to any of them after all, and the stunned look on her son’s face is enough to transform her smile into faint laughter that has Draco whipping his head around to stare at her in betrayal.

He crosses his arms over his chest and says petulantly, “I don’t see that this situation is humorous at all,” which only sets Potter off more fervently.

Draco sulks and Narcissa is amused in spite of herself.

Despite Potter being returned to his rightful body, Narcissa still spots a chicken running around the Manor, Draco hot on its heels in pursuit, screaming bloody murder at it and calling it Potter.

She would be concerned that whatever Potter has gotten mixed up in has somehow come undone again if Potter, fully human, hadn’t shown up and looked on beside her in pained resignation at the scene. Narcissa is somewhat confused as to where the chicken has come from and exactly why it’s around.

“Please tell me we didn’t look that barmy when I was… you know…”

Narcissa smiles peaceably at him, tucks his hand into the crook of her arm and very tellingly doesn’t answer.

Potter groans just as Draco approaches, raving rooster under arm.

“What?” he asks defensively, shielding the chicken from sight with his body when he sees their questioning faces. “I like him.”

Narcissa has nothing to say about that, and it seems neither does Potter, except, miserably: “The press is going to have a field day with this.”

Immediately, Narcissa resolves to keep Lucius as far away from reporters as possible on this matter.

He’s bound to make a mess of it all with his inability to call a rooster anything but a cock—even if that is precisely what Potter is. Linguistically speaking.

[this-basic-mage]

The Light that Binds Us

https://archiveofourown.org/works/16899525/chapters/39698892

Bart Trevelyan thought he was done with The Chantry after he ran off to become a bard/mercenary/professional bum. But after fours years of wondering Thedas he finds himself en route to the Temple of Sacred Ashes to beg his wealthy family for more money (again). Ariel Lavellan is the First of her Dalish clan, but she seems more interested in digging around ruins and hoarding various junk human travellers leave behind than learning the duties of a Keeper. But as she travels to The Conclave she finds the world is a lot more than she thought. Neither are meant to be leaders, yet that's exactly what they must become when they emerge from the rumble of The Conclave with the answer to Thedas’s salvation burned into their hands…

A sharp wind sailed down the Frost Back Mountains, whipping the fine white snow across the burnt orange sky and right into the disgruntled traveller’s face. As if walking up a hill in five inches of well-trodden slush, which was already on its way to turning to ice in the evening cold, wasn’t bad enough he had to stop every few paces to pull his damp woollen scarf back over his numb nose. Not to mention the rolled up tent that batted against his thighs with every step, or the holes in his gloves. He certainly wasn’t the most dishevelled person on the road to the village of pilgrims, those apostates really did look like they’d spent the last few months hiding in hedges and ditches, but he definitely knew what he was going to spent that piece of his inheritance on: a whole new wardrobe. A horse would be nice too, or at least a donkey to carry all his damn equipment.

“Urgh, fuck the Maker,” he muttered at the crowd overflowing from the settlement’s only tavern/inn. He’d thought what with the Temple of Sacred Ashes becoming the prime tourist destination for any self-respecting Andrastian they would’ve built at least one more in the last ten years. But even if that had been the case he couldn’t have really expected to get a room now, could he? The road had been clogged up with mages, Templars, clergy, and Maker knows how many bureaucrats since he’d joined it that morning. Another night in the tent it was then, if he could find a dry place to pitch it far enough from the route of the drunken rabble the tavern/inn would be evicted in the early hours that is. Well, there was nothing stopping him having a drink first, even if he had to stand elbow to elbow with his fellow travellers at least he’d be standing in the warmth.

As entered he pulled down his scarf to breathe in that earthy smell of beer, jellied meat, ashes, and vague damp that always radiates from such places. The inside was as crowded as he thought it would be, even the stairs leading up to the rooms had become extra seats for the barrage of patrons. He tried to slowly weave his way through them, but all his worldly possessions on his back made it impossible not to hit someone with it every couple of steps. He gave up muttering any apologies when it became apparent they were getting lost in the thick mist of a hundred conversations happening at once.

When he got close enough to take in the bustle around the bar itself he was relieved that at least the barman was keeping on top of things. The old man paced up and down the bar dishing out tankards with the same leisurely pace as he would serve the dozen or so villagers and pilgrims that came in on any other night, no matter how many impatient hands were waved in his direction. He didn’t even bat an eyelid when the towering form of a Qunari lent right across the bar to get his attention. The top of her curled horns scrapped against a low hanging beam, dislodging one of the cups than hung from it. It fell out of the traveller’s sight, he didn’t even hear it smash above the noise between them, but he did see the golden tip of the Qunari’s left horn glint in the candlelight as she freed herself from the timber and shook her head at whatever the barman was saying. It couldn’t be, could it? What would she doing here? She made a mockingly resigned gesture before straightening up and reaching for something in the pocket of her crimson coat. A coat she’d had made out of Deepstalker hide after they’d killed an entire nest of the blighters that time they’d tried to find some smugglers’ hideout on the Storm Coast because ‘I want to get at least something out of this wild fucking Nug chase’…

“Ataashi!” he waved across the crowd. She didn’t even glance his way. “Hey, Ataashi!”

He barged his way to her side. It better be her otherwise he was going to look an utter fool.

“Ha, no way! Bartholomew Trevelyan, you son of a bitch. Come to bum another drink off me after bailing on a job, have you?” Yes, it was Ataashi alright. “Well, tough luck, I’m all out,” she emptied a coin purse with frayed embroidery onto the counter. The barman counted the coins, nodded to himself, then shuffled off to get a broom.

“Aw come on, you’re not still mad about that, are you? I’d talked about going to Orlais for ages. And I said plenty of times in advance I don’t do giant spiders.”

“Doesn’t make you any less of an ass for fucking off before we got a replacement for you. Elera was right, it really should’ve been a six-man job,” she shuddered. “One bit me right on the ass, made it go numb for two days straight.”

It was this bit of oversharing, and the way she leant on the bar, that finally tipped Bart off to the fact she was at least a bit tipsy.

“How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to get a table. And no, you can’t join us.”

“Us? So the rest of the crew is here too,” Bart took a longer harder look around the room. Ataashi let out an exasperated sigh. “Yeah, but we’re on a job so-”

An elven man in the corner of the room threw his tankard up with a cheer and pointed in their direction. The rest of the table had a similar reaction when they followed his gaze. Bart grinned and waved back.

“Not at the moment you’re not.”

The elf and his companions at the crowded table beckoned him over. Bart certainly hadn’t planned to run into them, but he couldn’t deny his luck as he started towards them. He may have hesitated to call anyone at that table his friends, but catching up with them was just the kind of distraction he needed after the long day of travelling, and the even longer day to come.

“Hey, get back here!” Ataashi barrelled in front of him, nearly knocking a couple of unsuspecting patrons over. “Do really think you can just strut in here and act like nothing happened?” bending down so that her glaring amber eyes were level with his startled hazels.

Bart flinched at this before regaining his cool and holding his hands up.

“Whoa, Tash! Aren’t you the tiniest bit pleased to see me? I mean, we did-”

“Nope, not at all.”

“…Well the others are. Just let me catch up with them at least.”

He didn’t remember Ataashi being the spiteful cold-shoulder type. So either she took…what they had, more seriously that he’d thought, or that cold shoulder was more of a lukewarm one, testing him. Making him work for his spot at their table now he wasn’t a Dragon anymore, if he ever officially was. “Hey, how does this sound?” he raised his voice so the others could hear. “Since this place looks packed to rafters I’ll gift the money I was going to spend on my room to you, to buy another round for everyone!”

There was a roar of approval at this.

“And no excuses about work in the morning,” he dug a coin pouch out of his trouser pocket. “How does that motto go again?” he asked the table. “There’s no job that can’t be done with a hangover!” the mercs yelled in unison.

Their leader frowned at them, then at Bart, then back at them. Bart held the pouch out to her, it wasn’t anywhere near as weighty as he’d like. “Just one round though. Unless you only get beer.”

She frowned at the money, then back at him.

“You know I won’t,” She snatched it from him with a little smile he couldn’t figure out was resigned or triumphant. “We’re playing Wicked Grace, Balvik will deal you in.”

“How can I? I’ve got nothing left to bet with,” he gestured at the pouch already retreating out of his sight as Ataashi went back to the bar.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. You still got that pretty pair of daggers daddy bought you?” Balvik, a dwarf with a beard so dark and thick it was impossible to tell where it ended and his Carta tattoos began, teased as he shuffled dished out the cards.

“Hey! I’ll have you know I bought my babies with my own money. Well, Father’s money…but still, I’d sooner give away the boots on feet than those,” He gave one of the ornate sheathed blades a squeeze and he slotted himself between Elera sour-faced elf of few words, and the wall.

“Pity, they’d make great letter openers,” the dwarf’s retort earned a bigger laugh, especially from his fellow axe wielder Elera. She handed him some cards and nodded at the table.

“Hey, I’m buying you all drinks. Doesn’t that exclude me from betting for at least one round?”

There was a chorus of ‘no’s.

“Well too bad, I gave all my money to Ataashi.”

“You don’t get out of it that easy Trevelyan, you could fill a house with the shit strapped to your back. You’ve got plenty to bet,” Faron, the elf who’d first spotted him, said.

“Yeah, don’t you remember the rules deserter? You’ve got to pay to play, one way or another. Or you could just run back to Orlais,” a boy who couldn’t be a day over sixteen patted the table with a grin.

“What? You weren’t even there when I left!”

The boy just laughed at his dismay and tapped the wood more insistently. Looking around at all the other playfully mocking faces Bart couldn’t help but think this was some kind of impromptu revenge. So much for being welcomed back. Oh well, they’d forget about it after Ataashi came back with the drinks. In the meantime he’d have to just be a good sport and roll with the punches.

“Alright, alright,” he comically rolled his eyes before fumbling with his backpack. He pulled out the first thing he found and slammed it on the table. “Ah ha: a cup! Made of finniest tin. Quite a prize.”

By the time Ataashi returned with three bottles of ‘the best wine I could get’ he’d lost that cup to the boy, whose name was Darren (or something beginning with d), and was starting to wonder if bumping into his old friends was really a blessing after all, especially when she confirmed she’d spent every penny he had. He should’ve expected that, The Dragons were experts at spending each other’s money, in fact what he remembered these games Wicked Grace was kind of like their personal bank. They poured all their money into it, withdrew some by winning, and saw the rest get stored away by whoever became the group accountant after being the biggest winner of the night. Thank the Maker that hadn’t been him when he took off, otherwise he’d got more than snide comments from them. But he couldn’t reach up to those hands so easily, he had to travel across half the country to get his share. At least that meant he’d actually earned it, in a way.

“Wow, was that really your last bit of cash?” Ataashi chuckled as he slapped his riding gloves onto the table for his latest bet.

“If I don’t win anything it was,” Bart tried to sound hopeful.

“Considering Elera is playing I don’t fancy your chances kid. Unless she’s willing to go easy on you,” Balvik muttered from behind his cards. Elera scoffed at this possibility.

“Huh, you’d think a rich boy would be better at taking care of his money. They usually hoard their fortune until it poured out of their cold dead hands into the open palms of their children,” Ataashi pondered as she uncorked the bottles with no effort.

“‘poured out of their cold dead hands’, how poetic Tash,” Faron poured another into his tankard which still some beer at the bottom.

“I’m quite the bard after a few drinks. After finishing this you might even get me singing,” she took a swing of the deep red liquid right out of her bottle.

“Well Tash, unlike those other noble pricks I can’t reach up to those hands so easily. I had to travel halfway across the country to get my share. So I’ve actually earned my inheritance, in a way,” this earned him a much bigger laugh than any of his deliberate jokes.

“Wait, aren’t your family all back in Ostwick?” She asked.

“All except my uncle, who just so happens to also be the lawyer overseeing my dear departed Grandmama’s estate. Trust my luck to start asking about what she left me right as he’s whisked away to The Conclave to help with all the bureaucracy that goes along with that. He insisted I meet him here to talk it over.”

“And that couldn’t be done through letters because…”

“Fuck should I know? Probably another of Mother’s ploys to bring me back into the light of the chantry. Though I can’t see why hanging around intense negotiations between magic wielding madmen and sword-wielding fanatics will give me a spiritual awakening,” Bart lowered his cards to look for the third bottle. When he saw it was in Elera’s vice grip he gestured to Ataashi to let him have some of hers. After a moment’s pause she passed it over. The wine was very dry with only an afterthought of any flavour resembling fruit. Definitely made in Ferelden.

“Urgh, don’t. We all agreed we wouldn’t discuss politics here,” she leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “We travelled through The Hinterlands to get here. The place looks like The Blight hit it. Burned cottages and fields…” she took the bottle back to another big swig from it. “I don’t think this conclave thing is going to work. Too much blood has been spilt.”

“Probably not, but at least they’ll be arguing about it instead of just trying to kill each other. If the rest of those bureaucrats and diplomats are anything like my uncle they’ll get something out of it. Maybe even a ceasefire,” Bart shrugged as if he hadn’t been thinking about it for most of the trek up to Haven. All he’d been able to conclude was that it was hard to be optimistic when you were neutral because you could see the fools on both sides.

“I don’t think our client is very hopeful. Don’t tell him this but he’s really overpaid us to be his bodyguards. He’s some noble mage sympathiser. All three of his kids have ended up in the Circle. Well, they were in The Circle.”

“Wow, all three kids. That’s…unfortunate,” Bart tried to focus on his cards, but the serious turn in conversation and the wine going rather suddenly to his head made that difficult.

A wealthy client. That would explain the particularly good spirits everyone was in. Bart wondered if that meant they’d been put up in rooms as well. Perhaps there was room for him on someone’s floor.

“I still think he’s planning on finding his apostate kids and making a run for it. Hide them in the depths of his big castle or something,” Elera piped up.

“In that case he’s not paid us enough to deal with pissed off Templars. Maybe you were right to bail on us, Bart. We always get the shit end of the stick,” Balvik placed his hands on the table.

“I think everyone is dealing with the shit end right now. Civil war to the left of the mountains, mage rebellion to the right. And here we are, stuck in the middle with the bloody Chantry. After I get my money I’m sailing off to Antiva. All I’ll have to worry about there is sunburn and assassins.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Ataashi wiped some wine off her lips, smudging the rouge in the process. “Any chance you can take us along? I would kill for a holiday.”

“Ha! Haven’t I given you people enough already?” he felt his laugh die in his throat the moment he showed his losing hand. Elera raked her winnings over to her.

“Nice gloves, Trevelyan” she smiled as she tried on Bart’s former riding gloves.

“Can I have the wine back, Ataashi?” he asked meekly.

“Haven’t I given you enough already?” she smirked before downing the rest then slamming the empty bottle onto the table in front of him.

Who needed the Maker to dish out divine punishment when people could do that just fine by themselves?

**********

White mist enveloped the rusty lock as the Dalish mage channelled an icy breath from The Fade through her fingers. The chest had been quite a find, hidden under a bed that hadn’t been slept in for a very long time. The rest of the cabin hadn’t turned up anything of note really, a few cups and pots, a wooden figure of Andraste missing an arm, plenty of bugs. Usually she wasn’t so fussy about what she took, but now that she was travelling alone she had to be more selective. Her bag didn’t have unlimited space. Hopefully the contents of this box was worth the discomfort of using ice magic when she was already cold. She gritted her teeth as the wind slipped through one of the many holes in the roof and ran a finger down her exposed collarbone. But she couldn’t draw her cloak tighter or etch up her scarf until that lock was covered in ice.

She withdrew her hand from the crystals of ice that now spiked off the lock and picked her staff up off the dusty floor. The ice cracked and splintered as she struck at it repeatedly with the blunt end. Her strikes were hard and quick, conscious of the noise it created in the twilight, but it still took longer than she’d care to admit until the lock finally broke and clattered to the floor.

The chest groaned as she lifted the lid, the musty smell of disturbed dust flying up to greet her. Most of the space inside was taken up by something long and wrapped in a cloth. She unwrapped it to find a sword untainted by rust. In fact, she could see her smile reflected along the broad steel. The handle was made from a darker heavier metal with a sigil of a griffon engraved at the bottom. Whoever wielded it must’ve been strong, considering she could barely keep the tip pointing upward let alone swing it. She wondered what the warriors in her clan would make of it compared to their light ironbark blades. Souren, their craftsmen, would probably make some comment about primitive Shem smithery. She’d assumed such a lonely cabin in the middle of the woods would’ve belonged to some…what did humans call them? Tree Cutters? Wood People? Woodsman, that’s what one of her books called it. There was a large pile of logs outside that had become a haven for beetles, perhaps he’d meant to sell them to the nearest village. Or perhaps a Huntsman, or were they known as rangers? Were they even the same thing? But there was no axe or bow, just this sword. Important enough to preserve, but not important enough to take with them. She fished out the sparse contents of the rest of the chest for more clues. An amulet with a blood red stone in the centre of some engraved runes. She vaguely recognised a couple of symbols from similar jewellery worn by human travellers the clan had crossed paths with over the years. She knew they were for protection, whether this protection came from enchantment or just a promise of good fortune she couldn’t remember. Since humans hated magic so much it was probably the latter, she couldn’t feel any emanating from this one anyway. The only other things in the chest were letters written in a pretty cursive hand, a hand that she couldn’t read in the fading light. She sprung up and organised them into a pile on the table, and tried and failed to lift the sword up to that height. It remained on the floor for now; lighting her was more important. She went to retrieve it from her pack by the entrance. A sharp gust of wind banged the door against the wall the moment she picked it up, rusty hinges screaming in surprise. She’d left it open to let the last of the natural light in since the windows were too clogged with dust and cobweb to be of much use. But now all it was really letting in was the cold. She began to close it, but stopped, breath freezing in her throat. A dark shape stood in the clearing between the cabin and the woods. A human shape.

She stared it down, silently willing it along. But it stayed right where it was, at the edge of the clearing, directly facing her. Creators, where was her staff? On the bed, out of reach. The magic she could channel from her hands wouldn’t be able to reach the shadow, at least not enough to hurt it. But maybe she didn’t need to… The figure strode forward. She threw the door wide open, lightning bursting out of her fingertips. Purple contrasting against the last red rays of the sunset.

“Stay back!” she yelled, lowering her hand just enough for the electricity to strike the snow, causing it to steam and hiss. But the shadow continued undeterred. “One more step and I’ll bring out my staff.” The shadow raised its hands. Could Templars dispel magic without a weapon as easily as a mage could cast it? With little other options she let out one more intense bout of lightning. The crack of energy made the hairs free of her braid to frizz and stand on end. In the burst of light she leapt to the bed and grabbed her staff. She turned back, blinked, a kaleidoscope of colour crossing her vision, the moss green crystal on the end of her weapon pointed at the entrance, the adrenaline pulsing through veins causing it to quiver in her grip. Painstakingly slowly everything came back into focus. Yet the figure still didn’t attack. It just kept its arms up.

“I stopped, just as you ordered. And you still got your weapon?” it stated in a raspy yet placid voice. The last sparks of lightning faded into the dusk sky.

“I have none of my own. I have no intention of harming you,” it elaborated when she failed to respond beyond lowering her staff slightly.

“Why didn’t you say that earlier?” she finally managed to get out.

“I was about to. But your attacks made it difficult for me to communicate this to you.”

“I wasn’t attacking you, I was threatening you,” she squinted out at them. They appeared to be wearing some kind of robe with the hood up that threw shadow over the parts of their face that weren’t covered by a fair beard. They couldn’t be a mage, could they? Where was their staff?

“Hmm, understandable I suppose, being a lone apostate one must be cautious.”

“Are you alone as well,” she cursed herself for confirming she was by herself.

“I am. And I assure you I found this place the same way I assume you did: sheer luck,” they shifted where the stood, lowering their arms and clenching and unclenching their fists to return the blood flow. “I’m very cold, may I come in? I promise you I’m not a Templar.”

“Well, I figured out that much,” she brought the staff to her side but kept a firm grip on it. “Who are you?”

“Martin Amell. Formerly of the Ferelden Circle of Magi. And you are?”

“Ariel Lavellan,” she relaxed a little at this news. He may be a world away from her, but they had one thing in common at least: magic.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he smiled with only his mouth. “So, am I allowed in, or shall I keep walking? I’m sorry to press you on this matter, but as I said, it’s very cold out here.”

She gave him another once over with her eyes and noticed his right sleeve had been singed by her magic.

“…You can stay until the snow stops falling,” She stood aside to let him through.

“Thank you,” he nodded and entered.

He sat down on the bed as Ariel pulled that lantern out of her pack. It took a few attempts to light the candle within (fire magic was not her strong suit). But just as she thought of asking her fellow mage for help a spark caught the wick and the cottage was bathed in a low orange light. Martin’s face was very pale, combined with his thin lips and large dark brown eyes it made him look sickly. She wondered if it was from being trapped in a Circle tower, perhaps they didn’t have any windows there. And then there was the faint mark on his forehead, partially obscured by the shadow of his hood… She didn’t realise she’d been staring until he gave her that polite smile again.

“So…have you travelled far?” she awkwardly took a seat and placed her staff on the table.

“Yes, I was near Ostagar when I heard news of the Conclave,” he lowered his hood, a few strands of greasy dirty blonde hair falling on his face.

“Ah,” she nodded as if the name rang more than a small bell for her.

She couldn’t take her eyes of that mark, she could see now it was a circle, too neat to be a scar. And his complexion wasn’t natural, there were lines across his cheeks and swirls around the mark which suggested he’d painted his face like she’d heard rich human ladies liked to do.

“What about you?”

“The Free Marches,” like her name she saw no reason not to tell the truth. People from all over Thedas had converged here for the Conclave.

“Is that where the rest of your clan is now?”

“How did you-”

“Your face tattoos.”

“Oh…of course,” she moved her hand away from her staff. Blood rushed to her mortified face, the sudden heat making her pull her hood off. Creators, she’d been travelling for weeks now, how could she still forget about her damn vallaslin! Well, in her defence most people gave away when it was visible by staring at her, and sometimes worse. “…Yes.”

“Why did they send you to The Conclave alone?” he didn't sound concerned, or even curious. In fact, everything he’d said had been delivered with a flat, factual, calm. It may have made all his questions sound less like an interrogation, but it also made him completely unreadable.

“Did they teach you some mind reading magic in The Circle?” she tried to make it sound more like a joke than an actual inquiry.

“No, I just see any other reason you’d be so far away from them.”

“Well, I’m the only other mage they have. And obviously our Keeper can’t come.”

“I see,” it was Martin’s turn to nod as if he understood her completely. “And I thought being thrust out of the safety of The Circle back into the outside world was surreal. At least I was still raised in civilisation, albeit an island one. Not that the Dalish aren’t civilised. They’re just…different.”

“Well, I managed to get here on time, so I suppose we’re not completely hopeless out of the woods,” with no human trinkets or mysterious shadows to distract her anymore she became aware of the hunger grinding away at her stomach.

“And yet here you are. In the abandoned shack of a woodsman a good two miles or so from Haven.”

“Huh, I thought it was a woodsman,” she smiled at this confirmation as she rooted through her backpack. “I thought it would be faster to avoid the traffic on the roads by cutting through the forest, re-join further up. But I didn’t take the snow into account.”

It was still better than suffocating in the village. Sitting by the fire with the clan could be draining enough for her, let alone a human settlement with its narrow muddy roads and static stone buildings stuffed to bursting point.

“Are you hungry? I have some bread, some cheese, and some cured meats,” She pulled out the greasy paper bag with all these things inside. Martin appeared to think for a moment. “I also have bandages, and a poultice for that arm.”

Martin probed the tare in his coat.

“I think I need a sewing needle more than bandages, the lightning barely touched my skin.”

“Ah, well, I suppose that’s one good thing about this weather: makes you put on extra padding,” she couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed at this. Whether it was the way he brushed off her power or that she couldn’t easily make amends for her hastiness in using it she didn’t know.

“Although I wouldn’t mind some cheese. Not wise to sleep on a completely empty stomach.”

“Of course,” she broke a sizable bit off the yellow and handed it to him.

They ate in silence, the wooden boards of the cabin creaking and groaning as it constricted against the cold air outside. Ariel drew those letters closer to her, studying their words in the candlelight. She couldn’t cipher much from them. Like many Dalish elves she’d been raised bilingual due to the patchy preservation of her mother tongue, but only in the spoken word. Most of the books she’d studied under Keeper Deshanna were in Elvish. In fact she couldn’t get past the first couple of lines (basic greetings and ‘I hope this finds you well’) without the urge to whisper every word under her breath, which she didn’t want to do in the presence of Martin. He probably thought her being here was ridiculous enough without learning she could barely read the common language or whatever humans called it. And she’d heard somewhere talking with your mouth full was very offensive to them.

She folded the papers up and stuffed them into the overflowing backpack.

“I doubt you would get much for those,” the mage piped up.

“For what?” she mumbled through a mouthful of crusty bread. So much for etiquette.

“For the things you looted from this place, and a few others by the looks of things,” he nodded at the backpack.

“Looting?! I’m not looting…I’m collecting,” she quickly did the bag back up and nudged it closer to her with her foot.

“For what purpose?”

“What purpose? Uh…” she struggled to swallow the last of the dry bread down. “…research.” She finally said as if she’d only just learned the meaning of the word.

“Research?”

“Yes. It’s not like I ran into humans, every day.”

“I see,” he clearly did not. “Does that research include this gigantic sword at my feet?”

The candlelight stroked the blade on the floor, making its surface appear molten.

“Considering I can barely lift the thing, probably not,” but then she didn’t like the prospect of leaving such a weapon where anyone could find it.

“Then I think I’ll like to take it with me. I don’t know if I can make much use of it myself, but a Grey Warden-issued great sword would serve as a good deterrent against any bandits.”

“What would you need a sword for? You have your magic.”

“Oh, I don’t have any magic,” he started rubbing his forehead.

“But, you said you used to be with the Ferelden Circle…” the realisation of what he was saying hit her stomach before her brain.

“I was…” he brought his hand back to his side revealing the mark on his forehead to be some kind of brand. A brand in the shape of something even she knew well: the sunburst of The Chantry. “…You have heard of the Tranquil, haven’t you?”

Yes, she had: ‘If you stray too close to the shemlen’s village, Da’lin, the Templars will lock you away in a big tower. And if you don’t do everything they say they’ll take away all your magic and your dreams. In fact, you’ll have no emotions at all!’ Of course, she never doubted the existence of the Templars. She’d heard human traders mutter about them through sideways glances at her and Keeper Deshanna’s staffs on the few occasions the clan did business with them. The Tranquil, on the other hand: an out of control rumour at best, a complete horror story at worst. And yet here was a mage with no staff sitting across from her with a face as blank as a mask and a voice as monotone as they come.

The intuitive unease she’d first felt rippled through the rest of her body, putting her hands back on her staff. Martin stared at her with those dark stones of eyes set into a white face.

“Hmm…it seems you have. I suppose elves have just as much of a hard time understanding that means I have no desire to hurt you. Or do anything to you for that matter,” saying this in that flat voice of his made him sound more patronising than reassuring.

“…What did you do?” she finally asked.

“Excuse me?”

“What did you do to have that done to you?” a sticky sickly feeling clung to the back of her throat. Such an unimaginable punishment must be for an unimaginable crime.

“I simply didn’t want to risk the Harrowing. And it really was a risk for me. From what I remember my magic was only strong when I was angry, which only served to make me even angrier. Exactly the sort of frustration a demon would exploit.”

“But even if your magic was weak it was still yours. And you emotions-”

“You didn’t grow up in the Circle. You wouldn’t understand,” he didn’t sound angry (of course he didn’t), but there was a finality to his words that plunged them into a silence that only fuelled Ariel’s anxiety. “…I don’t feel nothing exactly. I feel…a general sense of…wells, tranquillity. Like the levity you feel when you realise you’ve been dreaming. Whatever imaginary monsters were chasing you were just that, figments of your mind. They cannot bother you anymore, let alone hurt you. You can just keep on walking until wake up.”

“Except you’ll never wake up,” Ariel pulled her staff into her lap, running her hands along it absentmindedly. The action didn’t sooth her. Instead she imagined that village on the other side of the woods. How many of the mages sleeping there tonight were like Martin? Did they accept their fate as gladly as he did? How many more Tranquil will be made if this Divine woman ruled in favour of the Templars?

“Why did you come here, Martin? What do you hope will happen at The Conclave?”

“I hope that order will be restored. That I can return to my work enchanting runes,” Martin shuffled closer to the other window.

“You want to go back to the people that did this to you, to a prison!”

He didn’t return her shocked stare.

“It wasn’t a prison to me, it was a sanctuary. I certainly didn’t leave it of my own accord, I was rather forcibly taken by some mages when things fell apart, something about not wanting to leave anyone behind. Well,” he wiped the grime away with his sleeve. “As you can see, they did leave me in the end.”

“Oh…I’m so sorry,” she looked back down at her staff.

“Don’t be. I should’ve seen it coming, mages have never really liked being around me. And ordinary people I’ve encountered who don’t know what to think. Hence the face paint, makes things easier,” he leaned closer to the glass, narrowing his eyes. “I think the snow has settled now.”

He rose and pulled his hood up.

“Wait,” her chair scraped against the wooden floor as she rose out it. Martin stopped and waited for a follow up that didn’t seem to want to come out. Her stomach still clenched at the thought of sleeping in this cabin with him. But if she let him go now she knew her guilt wouldn’t let her sleep at all. “…You stay, I’ll go.”

“It’s quite alright, I-”

“I have a tent somewhere in here,” she hauled the heavy pack back onto her shoulders. “And lantern.” She picked it up, causing the light swirl around the room. “That is, unless you don’t have any candles.”

“I have no concerns about the dark, and I’ve got a sword now,” he nudged the blade on the floor again.

“Good,” with her staff by her side and started towards the door. “Well...have a safe journey.”

Martin blocked her way. Even after everything, she couldn’t help taking a step back.

“If you do insist on going, take this,” he reached into the depths of his pocket. “You’ll need it more than I will to blend in with the Circle mages.”

He handed her a tin about the size of her palm. She screwed it open to find a white paste with clear tracks from when he’d applied it to his face.

“Thank you,” she smiled as she transferred it to one of her own pockets.

They gave each other a final awkward nod before she set out into the growing night.

“Fenedhis lasa,” she hissed as the wind bit into her exposed ears. As she wrestled it for her hood she couldn’t help but turn back to the cabin, but the door had already been shut.

[endawn]

yes, pax can shapeshift. no, it’s generally not a good idea to convince him to because he has a hard time reverting back. is being followed around by a giant dog sized bat as a companion worth it? is it ? he’d sulk in his tent and all the tadcrew would hear was [disgruntled bat noises]