Young Writers Society

He was soaked to the bone.

Resting his head against a tree, James felt a brief sense of respite. The branches overhead shielded him from the rain just enough that it wasn't drenching him anymore. He was still cold, and he was starting to shiver, but at least he had shelter.

Fear and uncertainty pooled in his gut as he looked up to the dark, cloudy sky, wishing the rain would let up so he could go home. Except, he didn't plan to.

Heavy footfalls smacked against the forest floor. Sliding across the mud and fallen leaves, Carter broke through the thick of the trees, resting his hand against a trunk as he caught his breath from running. He was soaked too - but this Carter looked just as young as he did.

They were kids again. But this didn't quite feel right. Was this how it happened?

"There you are," Carter said. "I was looking all over for you."

"Sorry," James said. "I got lost."

But that didn't explain why he'd run away in the first place.

"We should head back," Carter said, walking up to him and extending a hand. "Wouldn't want you catching a cold."

Hesitantly, James reached up, taking Carter's hand. He was looking up into the face of Carter when Carter had been seventeen. His eleven-year-old hand felt so small in comparison. But unlike how he remembered it, this exchange didn't feel safe.

He felt trapped.

James was pulled to his feet, and the shirt he wore clung to his skin tightly. The feeling made him itch to rip it off, before it suffocated him.

"Come with me," Carter said, putting his arm around James's shoulders. It was meant as an act of comfort, but Carter's grip was firm. He wasn't holding James to guide him: he wasn't intending on letting go.

James tugged at his grasp, trying to resist.

"No," he said, about to make a run for it.

But Carter easily overpowered him. Grappling James by twisting his arms behind his back and bending him over, the invitation to go with him quickly turned to a threat. Metal pressed against James's back with a dagger's edge.

"I wasn't asking," Carter said, his voice turning to venom.

Frozen in indecision, James felt like he was waiting for Carter to make the first move. But he never did. He was waiting for James.

Like a horse bucking its rider, James made one last attempt to get away. In that moment he felt just how empty the forest was: devoid of anyone to help, or anyone to hear him as he cried out, and the dagger in his back pierced between his ribs.

The pain felt so visceral and blinding, James was convinced it was real.

Now pinned to the ground, James could feel his lungs filling with blood as Carter's weight sat on him. He thought death would come faster. But instead, it ate away at him.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Carter asked. James's heart was pounding in his head.

"To die a hero, just like your father," Carter said. "Just like Jack. To never see past 30. It would all be easier, wouldn't it? It's so much easier to die for something than live for something. You never have to see it through."

The dagger dug in deeper, and James couldn't breathe. He was looking up into Carter's real face now. They weren't children anymore.

"But you never had it in you to die a hero's death, did you?" Carter asked. "You're still the coward I met ten years ago. You'll live remembered, but you'll die forgotten. But I guess it doesn't matter, does it? You were dead to your family long ago."

A loud rapping on the door made James shoot up in his bed, and his heart was beating so hard he felt like he was choking on it. He sat up so fast he was seeing stars.

"Tiberius!" Ingrid shouted. "This is your last chance."

For a split second, James's mind hadn't caught up to reality yet. He heard those words and thought of something else entirely before Ingrid continued.

"We're heading out in 20 minutes for the games," Ingrid said loudly through the door. "If you're coming be out in 10."

James stared out into his darkened room. The blankets he'd put up weeks ago now had stayed up, but even he could tell that the midday sun was spilling through the cracks, brightly piercing through them. He'd slept through the whole morning. After a night of no sleep, he'd finally dozed off somewhere around sunrise. He'd expected to wake up soon after, but apparently, he didn't.

It had to be almost noon.

Of course this would happen on the day they were all going to the games. The one real commitment he'd made.

"I'm up," he called out, hating how transparently just-awoken his voice sounded.

Ingrid laughed wryly from behind the door, but it was a short, mocking laugh. Her footsteps receded quickly down the hall, and James threw his sheets off of him as he scrambled to get ready. Of course, from the get-go, his head was pounding along with his heart: and that was just great. A great way to start the day when he was going to be surrounded by people, and noise, and too many conversations he'd have to tolerate. Another migraine.

Dragons above his luck was dismal. Never had any to begin with.

He ripped through his dresser and threw on some clothes, tied up his hair, and shoved his feet into his shoes. Assured he looked as shitty as he felt, he resigned himself to the insults he knew he was going to get the moment he went downstairs.

He hurried downstairs to the living-room.

"Morning, sunshine!" Fonzi teased with a laugh, sitting on the couch.

"Oh, you're awake!" Hellen said beside him, with more surprise than anything.

"You made it," Carter said more neutrally, getting to his feet as he glanced James over with a silent look of judgement. He crossed the living room to meet James quickly and whispered by his ear.

"Your shirt's on backwards," Carter said.

James looked down at it. Sure enough, the collar was not facing forward. His cheeks burned as he briefly looked up to see the rest of the room. Kirk and Shane were standing in the corner. Shadowed by Ingrid, of all people.

Mel Sommers was at Fonzi's side again, and there was another character James didn't recognize. Some man with glasses, near Shane.

Great. More people to see this.

Slinking back into the hall without a word, James went just out of view to hastily twist the shirt around. Making sure it was properly adjusted, he returned to the living-room with his head low.

"Caspar's getting the carriage," Carter informed him, standing where he'd left him. "He'll be pulling around front in a few."

A few minutes felt too long for the awkwardness James was about to endure. Because the one person he'd missed in scanning the room happened to be just behind Carter: Hild Ashlund. The woman who, for whatever reason, had said yes to Carter's invitation even though, as far as James was concerned, they'd hardly interacted.

Just went to show how much Carter and him still knew each other.

"Right quick, just to make sure everyone's met," Carter said, already taking control of the room before anyone could do otherwise. "Over here on the couch we have the lovely Mel Sommers of Sommers' Stich + Sews, newfound friend of Lieutenant Fonzi Heart, dear friend of the King's Hand."

Fonzi waved his hand and Mel giggled beside him. And honestly, quite quickly James began to tune out the exchanges in-between.

He knew everyone in the room by name except the man in the glasses. When they got around to him and he heard "Alan Alvaro, violinist and concertmaster," he stopped listening. Not for lack of interest, but for some reason, the longer he stood at Carter's side, the less he found himself able to think.

He wished the dream wouldn't linger.

They always had to linger.

One moment, the room was filled with chatter. He could feel the dull sensation of metal pressing up into his ribs. It wasn't real, but he held his breath anyway.

Then everyone started getting to their feet and rushing out the door. James didn't remember catching anyone say that Caspar had come around. It just happened.

He followed after everyone at the back. Climbing into the carriage with the six of them had been comfortable when it was just them, but now with ten, it was snug. Mel sat on Fonzi's lap with more laughter than necessary, and the rest of them squeezed in like sardines. Hip to hip, and shoulder to shoulder.

What James would give to not be in the corner, with Fonzi and Mel at his side, and Carter right in front of him. Somewhere in this wagon, Shane, Hellen, and Kirk were being normal. Unfortunately, Mel's hair blocked his view of anything beyond Hild's occasional judgemental glance.

"Guys, isn't it funny, we're on like, a quadruple date," Fonzi said.

"Aw, yeah!" Mel echoed. "This is so fun."

"What does that make me, then?" Ingrid said, sounding annoyed.

James wasn't necessarily happy that he and Ingrid shared that annoyance in common.

"Hold on, quadruple --" Hellen said. "Fonzi, you can't count."

"Three dates, Fonzi," Ingrid said.

"Shane and Kirk," Hellen listed. "You and Mel. Carter and Hild."

Fonzi held up his fingers, counting on them as Hellen went on.

"Man, I could've sworn there were four," Fonzi said.

"I don't think an eleventh person would fit in here," Carter said with a laugh.

James didn't like the sound of his laugh anymore. He could never hear it like it was genuine. Even all of this felt like a performance.

"You know who we're missing," Fonzi said, waggling his finger. "The one who got away."

Fonzi's eyes turned to James with a smirk, and James thought about slapping it away. Just for a second. But he knew it would be unwarranted, and inappropriate, among other things.

Exercising self control, he pleaded with Fonzi with his eyes. The moment was too short, though, and Fonzi kept yapping.

"Come onnnnn," Fonzi said. "At least tell us what she looked like. She had to have been fine to get your attention."

In that moment, James wished he could pay attention to anything other than Ingrid's wide-eyed, intensifying stare as she leaned over Hild's shoulder just so she could make eye contact with him. James simply could not bear to keep it for more than a second, and his eyes dropped to his lap. He was, now, effectively passing away in real time.

"Let's not--" he tried.

"Okay, fine, how about a name, then?" Fonzi asked. "You got her name, right?"

James sunk into the corner.

"I'm not going to run into her again," he said.

"Yeah, yeah, 'cause she got away," Fonzi said. "Not what I asked. What was her name?"

James knew how this went. He'd give Fonzi an inch, he'd go a mile. But if he didn't give him an inch at all, this torment would never end. He'd bring it up over and over, and he was always like this. Any time someone did something embarassing they'd never live it down because Fonzi would remember it forever. So it was with any of their relationships. For some reason, Fonzi was obsessed with remembering.

Which was really saying something, with how many women he sped through in cycles.

"Evaline," he finally said. "I only got her first name."

Shane, who had been listening to something Hellen was saying, suddenly turned his head to James so fast it looked like he could've broken his neck. His eyes were wide, and there was a disbelieving look painted on his face. The emotion in his eyes was much less recognizable.

Whatever conversation Kirk, Hellen, Alan, and Shane had begun at their side of the carriage ended fast, and the brief silence was jarring.

"Evaline, huh?" Fonzi repeated. "You know any Evalines, Mel?"

"Not off the top of my head," she said. "And I know a lot of people!"

"Must not be a very common name," Fonzi hummed. "Evaline... Evaline..."

"Should I keep my ears open for an Evaline?" Mel asked, looking to James with a tilt of her head.

"Did she have dark hair?" Shane asked with sudden urgency, before James could even think to answer Mel. It was almost as if he was pleading.

"Hohoh!" Fonzi said. "We may have a lead, here, folks."

James stared at Shane, baffled at Shane's sudden interest and concern. This seemed... personal.

"Yes," he answered. "Long dark hair."

There was a very awkward exchange of looks between Fonzi and Ingrid, who also had long, dark hair. James's life was a hellscape. Of course it would be this way. It wasn't like he'd approached Evaline! It was the other way around! Not that anyone cared to hear that!

James tried to put their silent interaction out of his mind.

"She was a bit taller," he said. "Thin. Do you know her?

Shane's lips suddenly pressed into a thin line, as if he was now trying to be as unreactive as possible now.

"Did she say she was from Goulon?" he asked instead.

Now James was beginning to wonder how much of this was really a coincidence.

"Yeah," James answered.

Silence fell over the carriage for a few moments.

"I might've known her once," Shane said faintly, as if reluctant to admit to it. "Former friend."

"But you wouldn't be able to find her in Ruddlan," Fonzi butted in, unhelpfully.

James couldn't know for sure, but if Shane remembered her, she had to be someone of importance.

Shane shrank back a little. "...No? I-- I didn't know she'd come here."

"Bummer," Fonzi said. "Guess she really is lost, then."

Which, again, was not helpful. James tried to catch Shane's eye again, but couldn't really lean forward enough to do so. He supposed he'd have to find him when they all got out.

"You know what Goulon reminds me of, though," Fonzi said.

But James didn't bother paying attention to what he said next, because he and Mel ended up pulling Hild and Carter into an entirely new conversation, and finally James's personal drama was forgotten. For a moment. On the other side of them, James could hear Hellen and Kirk pick up conversation again with Alan and Shane, and James found himself turning to look out the window.

The ride was maybe twenty minutes, by carriage. Caspar dropped them off at the entrance, and James was relieved when they could be free of their tight containment. At the entrance, it was difficult not be distracted by all of the fanfare. As much energy as Ruddlan devoted to their festival, they put into the games, and all of the colors, posters, banners, and flyers screamed in orange, yellow, and red.

He hung in the back as they filed through the entrance, showing the greeters and guards their tickets. He was glad they'd bought them beforehand, because the line to the ticketing booth was long and winding.

Passing under the entry's archway, they went deep into the coliseum. They had to walk into a tunnel first, and though the walls of it had been plastered with paint and posters, something about it felt uncanny.

James knew the history of this place...

Mages had been held as prisoners here during the War Against Magic. They'd been made to fight as gladiators.

The tunnel opened into the base of the seating area. Opening up into a massive, concave structure, the seats ascended like stairs rounding the arena. The arena was dug into the ground by at least ten feet, and its dirt was a ruddy red like much of Ruddlands dust; but something about it felt redder than the rest.

He followed as Carter and Fonzi lead the way with Hild and Mel, finding a row higher in the stands to view the game. They'd come ten minutes early, so everyone else was still meandering about. Some had claimed their seats already, but there were a lot of people manning each section selling snacks or beverages, carrying around packs over their arms to hold them. Carter waved one of them over and several people in their group got soft pretzels, peanuts, and other things he lost track of.

Wanting to distance himself from it all, he sat on the very end, finding himself next to Shane. Shane had Alan and Kirk with him to entertain, so James didn't try to insert himself into their conversation as things settled down and the games began.

A hush fell over the crowd as an announcer stood on a large podium at the base of the coliseum, elevated just above the arena, so their voice had nowhere to go but up. They projected their voice through a speaking trumpet.

Introductions to the competing griffins were made, horses paraded around with their riders waving flags, and eventually the arena cleared for the griffins to be released.

James was glad for the reinforced netting and barrier between them and the griffins.

But still, it was a bit terrifying when they both came tearing out of their cages at each other.

Roars of cheering and chanting filled their air. Any meaning in their words was lost in the noise of hundreds of overlapping voices as a whole arena fulled of people leaned in, stood up, and shouted at the griffins colliding mid-air.

It was all a bit too much.

With his head and heart pounding, James found himself rising to his feet. Not to join in the noise, but to escape it.

This all felt... familiar, and foreign, all at once. The only other things that brought people together like this on this scale, together around a spectacle of violence were public executions. And something about the ferocity of the griffins was deeply unnerving.

These creatures were captives, starved to feed their aggression.

It wasn't even 100 years ago that people were the ones being released from those cages with the same intent.

James turned as blood splattered across the arena floor. A griffin was dying, and people were cheering. People were dying, and people were silent. The griffin games were a distraction. A meaningless, fruitless distraction.

He started marching down the steps as the shouting around him turned to white noise. He was relieved when he turned the corner back into the tunnel, where the noise - though somewhat amplified - felt more distant. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, rubbing his face.

He just needed to... leave. He shouldn't have come in the first place.

"Tiberius? Are you alright?"

Shane's soft, concerned voice cut through the blur of hazy sound.

James whipped around. He hadn't noticed Shane had followed. Shane's brows knit together worriedly as he took careful, slow steps his way. James took in a deep breath.

"Sorry," he said quietly. "It's just the noise."

Shane's gaze somehow softened further.

"It's much quieter here," he said. "Do you want me to stay with you until you feel like you can go back?"

James hesitated. "I don't want to keep you from your friends."

Shane looked down at his feet.

"They already understand. And you won't be," he said. "Not if you're my friend too."

James pressed his lips together to keep from pouting too transparently. He didn't feel like he deserved that kind of consideration with Shane yet, and it felt so utterly disarming to be extended such kindness. He... almost didn't know what to do with himself.

"Okay," he said faintly. Because, if he was honest, he would appreciate not being alone.

And... Shane's presence didn't feel smothering.

Shane nodded, appearing slightly relieved as he looked up again.

"It's not my scene either," he said, with a glance over his shoulder. "Too... bloodthirsty. Too brutal."

A sharp screech erupted from the arena that made James's hair stand on end. One of the griffins was on its way out. Tensed, James nodded in agreement.

"I was thinking about leaving," he admitted quietly.

"We can recooperate here for a little while, I think," Shane said. "Everyone's distracted."

"I just... don't want to go back," James said, more honest.

He couldn't bring himself to say he was sick of his friends. Namely, it was Carter, Ingrid, and Fonzi. But he knew how immature it sounded to say he'd rather just avoid them.

Not that he hadn't already been trying to do that already.

Shane nodded understandingly.

"I can always... come and go," he offered. "Just to keep up appearances up there."

"That wouldn't bother you?" James asked.

"Of course not," Shane said. "Hellen and Kirk will understand-- I can tell they want the best for you. And Alan is talking to Carter more than us anyway."

James had a feeling it was Carter who started it, but that didn't really matter. He couldn't give energy to all of the people Carter was pulling in these days.

It wasn't like anyone would listen to him if he tried to warn them. And he didn't want to deal with the consequences if Carter ever heard of him doing that either.

So... silence it was. At least, while things were "good."

Whatever. It was just a one-time outing anyway.

With a small nod, James glanced down the tunnel and then leaned back against the wall, sitting at its base.

"How do you know Alan?" he decided to ask.

Shane huffed with slight amusement, joining him in leaning against the wall and folding his arms over his chest.

"We met about a week ago when he accidentally knocked me off a cafe staircase, breaking his violin and nearly concussing me," he said. "I helped him get it fixed, and he was nice, so we've hung out a few more times since then. I thought he might like the invitation."

James tilted his head to look over at Shane.

He couldn't help but notice all of Shane's friends were very recently aquired. He knew Shane had implied he'd been more introverted - maybe even a recluse - but James was beginning to realize just how out of the ordinary these past two weeks had been for Shane socially.

Ray and Gwen's over-excitement at James and Kirk's sudden invovlement in their son's life was starting to make more sense.

Shane was a kind soul, but it seemed like maybe he'd walled himself off to new connections. That, or he hadn't gone out pursuing them, at least until now. James wasn't sure exactly what changed, but it seemed like it was more outside factors. People coming to Shane, and things happening to him, and not as much the other way around.

It made sense for Shane's personality in what James knew of him. But it also struck him as... odd.

He didn't know how else to put it.

Maybe Shane had other friends or connections he hadn't mentioned. Maybe there were people Shane had met in school that were out for the summer that hadn't come up in conversation. James was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.

But if Shane already had an established social circle...

Maybe James was overthinking this. But the only person Shane had ever brought up that he knew of outside of his family that he seemed to have any meaningful connection with was Evaline.

If it was, in fact, the same Evaline James met the other day.

A bit belatedly, James hummed, to show he'd heard him. James didn't want to remark on the simplicity of Shane's thought process when it came to inviting Alan. It was pure-hearted, if a bit too trusting, and it didn't seem like there was much to it. Aside from a string of accidents.

"I... don't know how else to ask this," he said slowly. "But. Do you have friends here, in Ruddlan?"

A beat.

"That you haven't met in the past two weeks," he added.

He was really hoping Shane would prove him wrong.

But he didn't.

Shane's expression immediately shifted into an uncomfortable frown, losing all lightheartedness.

"I--" he started, something defensive but vaguely panicked creeping into his voice. "Well, it's-- I wouldn't say-- I'm not-- I haven't really--"

Shane's cheeks were tinged with a humiliated shade of red as he broke off, staring determinedly at the ground.

"Not really," he said, as if he were trying for the words to mean nothing.

James reached over and set his hand on Shane's shoulder, hoping to ground him.

"You know what," he said. "I botched this. I shouldn't have asked like that. I didn't mean to imply anything by it."

"It's fine," Shane said, when it was definitely not fine.

"No -- I just did the thing to you that I had people doing to me," James muttered with a huff. "I'm sorry."

Shane frowned deeper. "Doing to you when?"

"Asking something in a way that's unkind," James said, not quite answering the when portion, and instead answering the what.

Shane was silent for a moment.

"It's fine," he said again, and it sounded a little truer this time.

James leaned his head back against the wall and sighed.

"It was rude," James said.

"It's forgiven," Shane said quietly.

James nodded, and there was a short silence that followed. Wondering if he was about to eat his words, he decided to ask his next question anyway.

"Would it be worse if I asked who Evaline was?" James asked.

Shane rubbed his face and was quiet for a couple seconds.

"Worse, then," James said. "Sorry."

"Eve was my best friend," Shane said quickly, like he was trying to get the words out before he could regret them.

Eve.

That was what Evaline first introduced herself as. So it hadn't just been a pun. It was her real nickname. The commonalities were starting to become uncanny.

James might have actually met the Evaline who Shane was best friends with.

"I'm sorry," he said, softer. "It... sounds like it didn't last."

"It did for a while," Shane said quietly. "Eight years. Then it ended abruptly."

James took in a deep breath.

Once again, he wished he'd been smarter. This was not a good time to talk about this, and James had already gone about it in what was potentially one of the worst ways possible. Already starting on the wrong foot, he couldn't help but feel like this was all wrong. He didn't want Shane to feel obligated to share anything, and he could tell that Shane was holding back details. If not for the context alone - in a stadium, at the Griffin Games, with friends inside - then for the company.

They didn't have enough trust established for this. He could understand that.

He should've changed the subject sooner. Now, it was just painful.

"I'm sorry," he said, sincere in his empathy, with or without the details.

He understood what it was like to lose a friend. Suddenly and slowly. In life or in death.

"I don't know if the woman I met was the Evaline you knew or not," he added.

"What happened with her?" Shane asked quietly.

"She... realized who I was," James said, softer. "When I took off my mask."

She'd taken it off, but he didn't think that was important to mention.

"I lied to her about my name," he said.

Shane nodded slowly.

"She would've had a grudge against you," he said.

"But not for the lying," he said, unwilling to say what it was he felt she held the grudge for.

Shane shook his head, lowering his voice. "No. She... We both lost people to the cause you used to champion."

James nodded silently, knowing what that meant.

"I'm sorry," he said again. But this time, for their loss.

"I'm sorry too," Shane said faintly. "That must have stung."

James stared at the ground. He wished he could say it didn't. But he knew it should.

"I guess," he said distantly.

Shane let out a quiet, somewhat mournful sigh.

"If it was her, and I still knew her..." he started, before shaking his head. "But I don't. And I doubt she still knows me either."

James felt the same way about him and Carter, but he had a feeling Shane's was a different situation.

"I guess there's no way to really know," he said softly.

Shane nodded slightly.

"Are you hungry?" James asked. They were due for a change of pace.

"I don't think I could eat," Shane admitted.

Yeah. Neither could James.

"Maybe a walk, then?" he suggested. "The tunnel breaks out under all of the stands I think. Loops around."

"Yeah," Shane agreed softly. "Let's try that."

So, Shane had made a plan to hang out for the day. Maybe for most people, that wasn't an impressive or difficult thing to do. But he was nevertheless a little proud he'd done it.

What he hadn't done was pick the location-- that was Alan. After Shane had wrote to him inquiring about meeting up again, Alan had eagerly suggested they go to a new avant-garde exhibit that Shane hadn't been aware of before. It sounded like a pleasant spot to meet, though, and the choice didn't surprise him, given Alan's artistic inclinations. Besides, Shane was hoping to spend more time with him-- since they hadn't spent as much time together as he'd thought they would at the games-- so the location didn't matter quite as much to him.

The problem with it being an unfamiliar spot, though, was that Shane was doomed to worry he'd gone to the wrong place and hover outside the entrance, anxiously scanning the crowd on the street.

He cast an uncertain glance to the address on the building's exterior wall. Alan had said it was number 124 on Alder Street, hadn't he? Shane should've just brought the letter with him. Or maybe Alan had misdescribed it, and Shane had followed some bad directions--

Relief overwhelmed him when he saw a familiar face walking down the street, and Shane brightened, waving to Alan eagerly to catch his attention. Alan's eyes lit up as he spotted Shane, a grin spreading across his face. He picked up his pace, closing the distance between them with quick strides.

"Hi Shane, good afternoon," Alan greeted, voice warm and inviting. "It's great to see you again."

Shane smiled wide back. "You too, Alan. Thank you so much for finding this spot-- really. I can tell it's going to be a hidden gem of Ruddlan."

"Of course. Thank you for making it and coming with me." Alan gestured towards the museum's entrance with a slight tilt of his head. "Ready to go inside?"

"Ready," Shane confirmed, looking over at the door. As they made their way in, before he could back out of his plan, he added, "I want to make an apology, Alan-- I'm sorry I didn't spend as much time talking to you at the games as anticipated. I got sidetracked a few times, and I probably should've explained that might happen before I invited you somewhere where you didn't know anyone else." He paused, meeting Alan's eyes before saying sincerely, "I hope you had a good time anyway, but I'd like to make that up to you."

Alan halted abruptly, his hand finding Shane's shoulder. "Shane," he called, smiling softly from understanding. His voice was soft and firm, and his eyes warm and sincere. "You don't need to apologize for that. I'm beyond grateful that you invited me, and I had a great time." He ran a hand through his hair, a sheepish grin playing on his lips. "If anyone should be sorry, it's me. I was also sidetracked a few times despite me being a guest to your party." His expression sobered, gaze intensifying. "Did you have a good time?"

"I did," Shane said, although his experience had been a little more complicated than that. "Which is-- which is why it's important to me that you did, too. I wasn't a great host, and I don't like what I communicated to you."

He didn't regret setting aside time and space to watch over Tiberius. Not one bit. It had spread him thinner than he'd planned, though, and most of his remaining attention had gone to Kirk. That wasn't something he regretted either, but he wished it hadn't felt like he was ignoring Alan.

Alan's finger show up between them. "I'm stopping you right there," he said, his voice a mix of teasing and warmth. He pointed at Shane, eyebrow raised. "You are a great host, and you've only ever communicated positive messages to me. Even now, you telling me all this shows how caring and attentive you are." He smiled, patting Shane's shoulder. "You didn't upset me. I promise. I'm really glad you're here."

Shane faltered a little. That was reassuring, he supposed-- he felt like he still had to prove it more, but it seemed like Alan hadn't assumed the worst in his interpretation.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "This is, well..."

He hated betraying his own loneliness. It was an excruciating thing to admit to, and he could still feel the sting of giving it away to Tiberius. It was even worse to reveal it to someone who had never lacked connection and probably vested much less significance in this than he did. But he didn't know how else to communicate this.

"This is important to me," he finished.

"I am sure," Alan affirmed gently with a smile. "You are important to me, Shane, and I'm so glad you want to spend your time with me-- especially because we are friends, and I rather enjoy your company. Just like the griffin games, I'm here because I want to spend the present moment with you. There's nowhere else I'd rather be right now."

Shane allowed himself to feel relieved as he gave Alan a slowly-spreading smile.

"Thank you. That's good to hear," he said softly. "I'm glad to be here too."

Alan smiled, tilting his head towards the ticket booth. "Are you ready to go in? Or would you prefer to talk or do something else?"

"I'm ready," Shane said, widening his smile slightly.

Alan bought their tickets, and they entered the exhibit. Right away, Shane could feel that this visit was going to be quite different from all the many other times he'd been in a gallery. The art was in an... abstract style. Shane was used to looking at art and knowing exactly what it meant in the literal sense first, then assigning a figurative meaning to it. Paintings, drawings, sculptures-- it was all a precise reflection of reality. But here, where he couldn't look at a canvas and immediately know what physical thing it represented, because it wasn't intended to appear like it, he realized his process of interpretation was going to be different.

Scanning the first room with wide, fascinated eyes, Shane looked back to Alan.

"I've never seen a collection like this before," he marveled with a smile. "It's... as if I've only seen art in one language before and now it's suddenly speaking another one to me."

Intrigued, Alan tilted his head with open curiosity and asked, "And what is it saying?"

Shane stepped closer to a painting on the nearest wall. The card on the wall read Child Holding Kitten. The canvas itself, however, did not depict the detailed sitting portrait that such a description would normally be used for. Instead, the 'child' was a pattern of unblended colors that vaguely resembled a human shape, with a splash of black for hair and a non-geometric shape of blue for the clothes. The 'cat' was an indistinct blob of brown, but he could make out where its paws and ears were meant to be. Despite the lack of detail, he felt there was a sort of... domestic peacefulness reflected in the scene.

"It's saying that we don't need to chase after realism in art to find meaning in it," Shane answered. "We can still read into the emotion behind a piece without needing it to look exactly like what it's meant to represent-- and we can even deepen our interpretation of it that way. You can't reasonably argue a realistic work represents something that it doesn't look like. But when you remove the detail, a work can suddenly depict a different thing in each of our minds, the same way we see cloud shapes as different objects, or how we assign different meanings to constellations. And we all get to be right about our interpretations."

Alan stood, arms crossed, eyes drinking in every splash of color and jagged line. "I've been hearing mixed opinions about the abstract art lately. You would be the first I've heard to bring in this perspective." He tore his gaze away from the canvas, turning to Shane to study him with newfound curiosity, as if he were the next art piece to analyze. "If the art doesn't appear to depict an obvious subject or message, then how do you go about interpreting it?"

Shane hummed softly. "This artist didn't paint how this scene looked-- they painted the impression it gave them. To them, this was a softer, more tranquil moment that they decided to capture in delicate, smooth shapes rather than trying to portray it through strict details. Maybe this wouldn't be suitable for a commissioned portrait, but I don't think this was ever about that. The creator painted how they felt-- and we can feel it too, can't we? Because feelings are intangible and abstract, it makes sense to me that we can still feel them without having to tether them to particular details or features."

Alan watched Shane speak with awe, then slowly and wordlessly, pivoted back to the canvas, his gaze tracing each stroke and splash of color. His brow furrowed in concentration as he contemplated Shane's words, and he tilted his head, viewing the piece from different angles.

"That would just be my way of thinking, though," Shane said with a bit of a laugh. "What would yours be?"

"I'd tell you, but I'd essentially be echoing everything you said," Alan said with a growing smile, shaking his head. "I couldn't have said it any better."

Shane tilted his head with curiosity and a hint of confusion, still smiling. "Your opinion doesn't have to match mine," he said.

"I know," Alan affirmed more quietly, contemplation washing over him as he considered the painting. "Well..." He shifted his weight to his other foot, gesturing to the canvas. "It's rather raw, isn't it? Like you said, the artist is capturing an emotion, pure and unadulterated by the interpretation of our mind. I think when we think of a child holding a kitten, we already have preconceived notions of what this should look like. But this is so... raw. It's unfiltered and unaffected by assumptions, opinions, and judgements." Alan rubbed the side of his head, narrowing his eyes at the painting to mutter, "Or something like that. Hopefully that made sense."

"It did," Shane confirmed, smiling wider, although he couldn't help but notice-- this felt like it could've been the first time he really heard an opinion from Alan that had any substance to it. From the way he'd encouraged Shane to pick a place to eat without seeming to care where they went, or how Alan's favorite festival events were somehow his as well... It was rather early to be sure this was a pattern of his, but now Shane wished he'd gotten to hear what Alan thought without his words influencing him. "Although, are you sure there's really no filter getting in the way? Since, after all, we're seeing the scene how the artist feels about it. If there were some bias-- maybe if this was a more nuanced or divisive subject in the painting-- it would seem like we are only feeling what the artist wants us to about the topic."

Alan hummed, pondering the question. "I suppose our own interpretation is the filter. And perhaps a subject as ordinary as 'Child Holding a Kitten' is meant to portray that. It is easy to be at awe when viewing the extraordinary, but this piece shows that there is still emotion, depth, and beauty behind the ordinary."

Shane nodded, deciding that was a decent start. He'd hoped to see how far Alan might go in conforming to his thinking-- he hadn't disagreed, but at least he'd added something new.

"I wonder how this style might apply to something less ordinary," he mused. "Maybe a subject where the feelings it evokes aren't so universal as this one. Something that creates conflict between viewers. With a clear vision, an artist could entice others to join their feelings on the topic and gain popularity in their stream of thinking in a sort of artistic indoctrination."

Alan nodded, gesturing down the hall. "We could see if there are other paintings that convey what you're looking for. I'm curious too."

They walked on, and Shane kept an eye out for a painting that matched what he was envisioning, but most of them seemed to have rather tame subjects-- landscapes, more people, and vague shapes and outlines that he couldn't match up to any real thing. He was about to look at a sculpture when Alan suddenly stopped in front of a sprawling canvas. Normally, such a painting could be full of paint and color. Instead, it had only... a small smear of black paint that couldn't have taken up more than one percent of the total area.

"What do you think of this one?" Alan asked curiously.

Shane raised an eyebrow, admittedly a bit amused at the... lack of labor involved. "This?"

"It certainly feels out of place with the others, doesn't it?" Alan mused with a smile.

"It does," Shane said, tilting his head at it. "It's... it makes the other paintings seem very maximalist in comparision. Very bold use of negative space. I don't believe it's up to me to say that it doesn't belong here, though-- that's a judgment I can't exercise over this exhibit. Still, the other works here are more fluid in what they can mean-- with this one, I can see how someone would think it means nothing at all."

"Is that what you think?" Alan asked. "That a simple dot on a canvas means nothing at all?"

Shane paused. "No," he eventually said. "I don't think anything has ever meant nothing. If this painting means anything to anyone out there, then it can't mean nothing. I think the question is rather what it means. There's no context, no clues to work with. And when this is all we have to look at, the meaning could be that the meaning itself is elusive. We'd be searching for deeper answers, for more than what meets the eye-- and while we all might manage to come up with our own interpretation of this simple dot, the purpose of it might just be to cause us all to begin that searching process and ask ourselves what, if anything, we feel before it. Even if it sparks nothing, we looked anyway."

Alan had gone silent in thought again. Shane peeked at him through the corner of his eye.

"Do you see anything in it, when you go looking?" he asked.

Alan hesitantly glanced at him. "Aside from the simplicity of a black dot, you mean?"

"Aside from that," Shane confirmed. "If you can see anything besides that."

Alan went silent again, curious smile fading as he engrossed himself in the montony of the painting. Finally, he sighed, answering more earnestly, "I see a rebellion. There is a sense of defiance behind the singular stroke of the brush, in submitting the daringly simple piece to an art museum where perfection is the impossible standard to achieve." He paused, pursing his lips as he mulled this over. "Or this could be an ironic piece. Or perhaps the artist paid their way to be here. It could be a lot of things."

Shane smiled, pleased that he'd taken a stance. "It is a completely new thing to appear in an art gallery," he said. "Whatever the reason, it's one of a kind. The artist shook things up whether or not they meant to." He hesitated, then added, "I find it interesting how this is what you find when there's nothing to look for. You're an artist, too, and artists like to change things. It's why they create and perform. I see how you might value rebellion-- maybe how you might want to join in it yourself. It's a difficult thing to do, breaking out of the mold." Shane furrowed his brow, curious again as he looked back to Alan. "But forging a new path for yourself is easiest when you start by acknowledging and saying your thoughts-- and you don't seem very opinionated, Alan."

Alan stiffened, completely caught off guard by Shane's insights. Faintly chuckling, he ducked his head, running a hand through his hair. "Do I not?" he murmured, the defensive feeling of being exposed apparent in his voice. "I feel like I say plenty of opinions..."

"You really don't," Shane said with a small huff of laughter, hoping he hadn't made him uncomfortable. "I don't think there's been a single thing that you haven't deferred to me on."

Alan stared at him with a beat of outrageous disbelief, shaking his head. "No, no," he said with casual dismissiveness, waving away the thought. "I was just making conversation."

But he continued on, not allowing Shane to retort back. Possibly because he knew Shane was right, and Shane knew he was too.

"For example," Alan needlessly emphasized along with a pointed gesture towards the canvas. He shook his head, already satisfied with the words that were still left unsaid. "No. I don't value rebellion. I actually find it quite bothersome when others break rules." He faltered, squinting at the dot. "Not to say that this art piece is breaking any rules. I don't think it is. It's just..." He pursed his lips, idly swirling a hand in the air. "Loud. It's a statement. That's all."

Shane couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in amusement at the deflection.

"It is a statement," he said. "One with nothing spelled out for you. And when you went looking for what it had to say, you thought of rebellion. I'd say that came from you and you alone."

Still awfully defensive, Alan opened his mouth to speak, but then snapped it shut, pointing his annoyed gaze back at the painting. "Well, should I have instead said that this painting is literally just a black dot on white canvas?" he muttered.

"You could've," Shane said, with a bit of a laugh. "But that wouldn't have been true to you, would it? That's what I'm interested in hearing."

Alan pressed his lips together, biting back his reservations. He glanced at Shane with increased uncertainty. "Sorry," he sighed, offering an apologetic smile. "You're right. We're just sharing our thoughts on art." He loosely crossed his arms, quick to return his focus on the painting. "I didn't think you'd have a lot of opinions on this, but I like to hear them too."

"I didn't think it'd be the most thought provoking work in here," Shane admitted. "Sorry if I said anything that wasn't fitting. I appreciate your insights too-- and I'd like to hear more of them."

"That was thought provoking, Shane," Alan affirmed. "Most people would pass by and not give this piece another glance. But you had so much valuable insight to share, bringing in new perspectives I hadn't considered yet. I think I just need some time to think through some things."

Shane nodded understandingly with a smile. "Of course. You can always have that."

"'A pinch'?" Hild echoed dubiously. "What measurement would that equate to?"

Bo plucked a "pinch" of salt up between his forefinger and thumb.

"A pinch," he said with a smile. "But with cayenne pepper flakes."

Brows furrowed and lips pursed, Hild cast him a doubtful look. This was not a satisfactory explanation, by any means. "The size of 'a pinch' would vary, though," she said stubbornly, "since the sizes of our hands are vastly different. Right?"

"It's more to taste," Bo said. "If you like spice, use a bigger pinch."

She slowly nodded her understanding as she turned back to the pot of lowly simmering meat. Briefly, she considered adding a bigger 'pinch' of cayenne, just to spite her brother for messing with her filing system. Then thought better of it since Tove likewise would not have appreciated it. So Hild simply took the picadillo off the heat, and took the spot by Bo at the counter.

"Now we wait," Bo said with a small smile as he looked down at her fondly. "And get to the dough."

In a large clay bowl, he deftly mixed together flour, salt, and baking powder, then added in shortening via a process he called "pinching". It was a different kind of pinching, though, to gradually homogenize the shortening with the dry ingredients. Once the beaten egg was added in, the dough began to take shape in his experienced hands. All without getting even a speck of flour on his clothes.

Just from portioning the dough, Hild's own sleeves didn't fare so well.

Regardless, rolling the dough out into balls, then discs once they rested for a half hour, was a soothing process. One with rhythm that allowed the mind to turn to more pressing matters that one had little to no control over.

By now, her mother had to have arrived at the hospital. For further testing, and treatment plans for worsening symptoms.

After making discs out of the dough, Bo glanced over at Hild with a small smile. He glanced at her flour-covered hands and then smacked a floured handprint on his apron. Ducking her head, Hild let out an amused sputter as flour puffed out into the air.

"Is that a traditional Isles meal I smell in the making?" her brother's voice suddenly piped up from directly behind them.

Hild almost swatted a handful of flour at his face out of surprise. She stopped herself short just in time, thankfully. Lest she would have contaminated her hands with his face germs. She glared hard at him as he quickly stepped back, hands raised in surrender, to avoid a collision.

"That it is!" Bo responded cheerfully. "We're just about to fry these. Just have to tuck the baby veggies in with the pork."

"Sing to them, too," Lyall said playfully, "I heartell that works wonders."

Taking him seriously, but probably just playing along, Bo scooped some vegetables into one of the dics of dough, humming a melody.

"Get in to the 'nada," he sang. "Veggie in the 'battah."

Bo turned to look at Lyall over his shoudler, egging Lyall on to sing the next line with a tilt of his head.

"Not me," Lyall countered with a laugh. "You're their father."

"Which makes you their uncle or something," Bo said, starting to sing his next words. "It's a family event."

With a now-flat look, Hild picked up her brother's hand and slapped a small round of dough into it. "If you're here," she said, "you can help."

Lyall gawked at the both of them. "How do you know I wasn't in the middle of a shift?"

"Edith's covering for you right now, otherwise you wouldn't be up here," Bo said with a knowing grin.

Lyall frowned with a tsk. "Touché," he conceded, rolling back his sleeve.

"Wait," Bo said, pulling an apron off the hanger on the wall. He reached over and smoothly plopped it over Lyall's head.

"Ah," Lyall exclaimed, accepting his fate, "thank you kindly, sir."

"Don't 'sir' me," Bo said with a laugh, turning back to work on filling the empanadas.

Hild shoved a spoon into Lyall's other hand. "Now sing to your nieces and nephews."

"Why the hurry?" he demanded, switching the dough to his spoon hand to flick flour at her. "Have you somewhere to be after this?"

It was Hild's turn to frown at him with a reproachful click of her tongue. "There's no hurry," she argued.

"No somebody to meet?" Lyall pressed, lightly bumping her aside to stand between her and Bo.

"No," Hild insisted sternly, picking up and filling a round herself. Very pointedly to communicate that she was not in a chatty mood.

Lyall hummed with a hint of smugness. "The flowers in the hall, addressed to Hild Ashlund from a measly, mysterious little 'c', say otherwise." He nudged shoulders with her. "Secret admirer?"

She cast him a sharp look with a moodier huff. "No," she said stubbornly.

"No admirer?" he asked with a teasing pout. "Or is it not so secret?"

Setting her jaw, Hild caught from the corner of her eye a brow-raise from Bo as she set aside the filled and closed-up empanada.

No, it was no secret. The little 'c' of course clearly stood for Carter. But the offwhite of the cardstock with the gold filigree along the edges was also a clear indicator of the sender - it matched the style of Carter's suit and mask almost precisely.

That said, now that Lyall was acting like a child about this, it would remain a secret to him.

Hild didn't offer to help cook with the intention to talk about potential personal connections, anyway. She hoped to address with Bo the other gold mask from the masquerade. Work matters, she didn't mind openly speaking of around Lyall. As a matter of fact, shop talk was the perfect redirect with him.

So long as he didn't go mindlessly yapping about everything within earshot of their mother.

Setting her fifth empanada aside, Hild stepped around her brother, then similarly hip-checked him out of the way to snatch the spot in the middle.

"Actually," she said, chin tilted up as she started filling a sixth, "I do have a slightly sensitive matter I'd like to broach with you."

Lyall opened his mouth to say something--

"No," she cut in flatly, "not the flowers."

"What is it?" Bo asked, softer, but attentive as he continued prepping the empanadas.

"First, I'd like for it to stay between us," Hild started, already closing up the sixth and moving on to her seventh. "As in..." She hesitated.

"I can keep a secret from your mother," Bo said, as if predicting what she was about to say. "We're friends, but that doesn't mean I tell her everything. I'll respect your privacy."

Hild was ready to argue her case for discretion - then stopped short when it fully registered, Uncle Bo was already agreeing to it, without her even having to expressly ask.

It made her hesitate a second longer. It briefly crossed her mind that this would put him in a difficult spot. Yet again.

Lyall let his dough-meat-covered hands drop to the counter with a groan. "Really? From Mum?"

Hild's next look his way took an even harder edge. There was a similarly determined set to Lyall's brows too.

"I won't swear to secrecy," Bo said. "But what I'm saying is: I'm willing to hear you out. And I won't tell anyone anything without your consent and your knowledge."

Unrelenting, Hild kept her eyes fixed on her brother. Waiting for some indication of yielding on his end too.

Eventually, Lyall sighed and dropped his misshapen work onto the counter. "I won't do anything to actively out you," he assured her, sounding mildly exasperated, "so get on with it already."

Hild nodded, turning her attention back up to Bo. She took in a steadying breath, and firmly blurted out before she could think herself out of it for the twenty-fifth time, "I want to join the resistance."

Rehearsal went well.

Alan didn't think his heart was in the music today. He was reading the sheet music and he was moving his bow, but they felt like empty notes. Noise, really. That didn't stop the conductor from praising him, spending less time on his solos and more time on the second violin section that needed more rehearsed practice, playing the same section over and over again.

As he drifted away from his fellow musicians to leave the music hall, Alan could hear the same shrill violin notes echoing in his ears, over and over again, like some cursed omen. Or perhaps that was his inner voice, telling him to head to the gallery, over and over again.

Alan slowed in his steps as he approached the wide double set doors, realizing who was standing with his attention fixed on him.

Was that... Carter Haddon?

Leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, Carter grinned as Alan approached.

"I thought I might find you here," he said. "You mentioned you're staying active with the symphony this summer."

Alan adjusted the straps of the violin case on his back, pleasantly surprised that Carter remembered this. They had exchanged fairly forgettable conversations at the griffin games, mostly small talk about what they did and what they liked about the festival.

Did... Carter come for him?

"I didn't think you remembered that, but yes, that's right," he answered with a quiet chuckle. "It's nice to see you again, Carter. Unfortunately, you're a week early to the concert. What brings you to rehearsal?"

"I just wanted to say hello, really," he said. "My afternoon opened up, and I thought of you."

"Oh." Alan racked his brain for something-- anything-- else to say, but his mind completely emptied, caught completely off guard by the sentiments.

He was all for setting the best first impressions, but he didn't know what it was exactly that would cause someone as busy and esteemed as Carter Haddon to go out of his way to seek him out on such short notice.

"Hopefully I'm not interrupting anything," Carter said. "Are you busy?"

"No, not at all," Alan answered more quickly this time. He smoothly chuckled and added, "Sorry, you just caught me off guard. I'm not busy, and I'm more than happy to make time for you."

"Apologies for the surprise, then," Carter said with a smile. "Are you on your way out? I could walk with you."

Alan nodded, leading the way out the music hall with a tilt of his head. "Sure, yes. I was just going to drop my violin at the lockers then head to my dorm. We can walk."

Carter nodded, falling into step beside him as Alan led the way.

"I'll admit, I did listen in on the rehearsal," he said. "Or at least, the tail end of it. I got to hear some of your solo."

"Oh... really?" Alan found himself chuckling again, becoming more aware of how self-conscious he felt that the First of the King's Hand was listening and talking to him one-on-one. "Apologies. I'd have played more earnestly had I known you were listening."

Carter chuckled. "I prefer to hear the song you'd play when it's not a performance. Doesn't that make it truer?"

Alan quietly hummed, turning down the hall towards the instrument locker room. "I suppose that depends on who you ask. Some people use rehearsal to practice. For them, the song played during rehearsal is in a rougher spot, which may be less pleasant to an audience."

"I suppose I don't mind hearing the music in-process, then," Carter said.

A beat of silence passed as Alan stole another glance his way. Entering the locker room, he fiddled with the key in his pocket, focused on piecing together a real answer for him.

"I don't think the true nature of a musician's song comes from rehearsal," he said more slowly, slowing to a stop in front of his locker. He bent down, inserting the key to open and adding, "It comes from a true solo act, from when the musician is practicing alone."

"That so?" Carter hummed, watching as Alan tucked his violin away. "It's a wonder you're not doing solo work, then."

"It's... well." Alan huffed a weak laugh, closing the locker before standing upright again, palms facing up. "Sadly, violins are not frequently touted as a solo instrument. They sound best when paired with another."

"That may be the case traditionally," Carter said. "But molds are made to be broken."

Alan really tried not to let the pleasant surprise show too much on his face, but this entire conversation had only left him with awe. He hummed a laugh, resuming in his steps to leave the music hall with Carter alongside him. Though, he was acutely aware of his stride length decreasing to prolong the conversation.

"I do play other instruments," Alan offered instead.

"Do you, now?" Carter asked. "Well, now I need to know. What else do you play?"

Alan slowly nodded, again processing. "I can play most string varieties, but I can also play piano decently. I'm familiar with most other instruments, but I can't say I'm good at them."

Carter lifted a finger, pointing in the air like an idea had come to him.

"You know, there's a piano in my suite, at the manor," he said. "I'm the furthest thing from a musician, and I've had an awful time trying to make anything decent come out of it. To be honest with you, I'm not even sure of the last time it was tuned."

Alan turned another corner, finding himself distracted by the implication... Of which he didn't have time to truly consider right now, but he had to say something. "I'm not sure I could tune the piano," he said more slowly, "but if it's a song you want to hear, then it's a song I'd gladly play."

"Maybe one of these days you could come over again," Carter said. "I've got plenty of time in the coming weeks, and we're not leaving Ruddlan anytime soon. I know you're a friend of Shane's, but I felt like you fit in seamlessly with the rest of us."

Alan opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out right away. Instead, he found himself laughing out of a self-conscious feeling. Again.

"I'd like that," he said with a smile, vaguely aware that he was unsure of what he was agreeing to, but he felt that the specifics didn't matter. "And I think so too. You're all so approachable and easy to talk to. You'll also have to let me know the next time you all go for a round of drinks. I can't say no to a good time with fun people."

"You know, Fonzi and I were talking about going out tomorrow night, if that's not too short of notice for you. Would you want to join us?" he asked.

Alan nearly agreed without thought, but he instead faltered, remembering that he had plans to see Lyall tomorrow. It wasn't like he had to hang out with his best friend every day, so perhaps seeing each other for the second time this week was excessive. But Lyall was also undergoing big changes in his life, from new creative endeavors, to...

Heartache throbbed against his chest as he remembered Lyall's confession of Astrid being sick. That was a heavy night, and Alan could only imagine how many more heavy nights Lyall will face in the future, alone.

"I'd love that," Alan answered with an appreciative smile. "Is this an open invite, though? I did have plans to see a friend, but maybe he could tag along. Only if the option is on the table, of course."

"I suppose it depends," Carter said amiably. "Who's the friend?"

"Lyall Ashlund. He runs the Ashlund clinic. Do you know him?"

"Lyall! Ah, yes, we've already met!" Carter said. "Of course, it's been nothing substantial but we are acquainted. I'd love it if he could join us. It'd give me a chance to know him better as well as you."

Alan breathed out a sigh of relief. You're welcome, Lyall, was what he'd smugly say to his friend if he were here, since he was sure Lyall would be overjoyed to be in the company of yet another person with esteemed status.

"That's great to hear. I'll be sure to tell him," he said with a nod, opening the exit door and stepping aside for Carter to leave first. "Are you sure I wouldn't be intruding?"

Carter scoffed, stepping outside. "Alan," he said. "I invited you. Intrusion is the opposite of accepting an invitation. I want you there. I look forward to seeing you. Why don't you and Lyall meet us at the Three Seasons? How does 2100 sound?"

Alan nodded again and stepped out after him. He let go of the door and idly watched as it locked back into place. It dawned on him that Carter had been so gracious and inclusive thus far, and yet, Alan hadn't totally given him his undivided attention or mutual investment. He pushed back the prickling of guilt, already stewing in ideas in the future for how he could show his appreciation.

"That's perfect. Thank you again," he said with utmost sincerity. Then paused for a second too long as he once again racked his brain for something else to say that would show that he cared too.

"Of course," Carter said with a nod. "I don't want to keep you. I'm sure you have things you need to get to. But I greatly look forward to seeing you tomorrow! I think it'll be a good time."

"Oh, nonsense," Alan answered with a casual smile and wave of his hand. "I can imagine how busier you must be than me. I'll be there tomorrow, though. Thanks again for inviting me."

Did he already say that? He already said that. He smiled on anyways, moving on.

Carter grinned. "I'll see you," he said, beginning to part ways with a wave.

"See you."

Alan waved back, watching the back of Carter's head bob with his steps. He wasn't sure what exactly he was feeling...

Awe? Wonder? Surprise? Something like that.

But it felt... good? Alan wasn't sure what he did exactly that caught Carter's attention, but having known that he was important and special to someone was kind of... nice.

Alan frequently met new people, but the list of those who left a lasting impression was short. And today, that list grew by one more name.

Speaking of... there was one other person who left a lasting impression on him this week, and Alan was determined to find him again.

Finally, he tore his gaze away from Carter's back, turning his heels the opposite way so he could head towards the art gallery for the fifth time this week.



Alan felt like he had lost his damn mind. He had far too much shame to explain himself to the ticket booth representative of why he was here for the fifth time this week, and he had already memorized the gallery's layout and noted where the back exits were anyways, so...

It wasn't exactly his proudest moment, but. Yes. He sneaked in. It was that easy.

The museum ought to have better security, considering the artwork here were of high value. Maybe Alan could pitch that idea and get that job himself. No, that was ridiculous. He didn't have time to do that.

Alan didn't have much of a plan aside from meandering down all the halls, taking note of who was inside, then leaving. In retrospect, this felt just a little unhinged and insane, but Alan didn't care. A nagging, unshakeable feeling had burrowed inside of him since meeting Conway five days ago, and Alan felt that he had to see him again. He had to ask why he was so drawn to that painting, and most importantly, why did he feel the need to talk to him, share then criticise his opinions, then leave.

Turning the next corner, Alan's thoughts about how to best address these delicate topics were abruptly halted when he realized that his vision was truly processing the familiar outline of Conway thoughtfully peering at a painting. For a split second, Alan thought he imagined him as a consequence for having gone insane. But after a few furious blinks, he realized the man was indeed still standing, which sent Alan panickedly scurrying around the corner again.

Why? Gods, he didn't know. Now pressed against the wall to hide, Alan immediately regretting fleeing, especially since he had been going out of his way to see Conway. Why was his instinct to hide? This was stupid. He was being stupid. He just had to approach naturally...

Wait, did Conway see him? No, there was no way. Right? Right.

Okay. Yes. He could do this. Be more prepared, put on a class act, and act natural.

Taking a deep breath, Alan felt the confidence surge through his body as he dipped back around the corner again.

...Only for his confidence to wilt away nearly immediately when he locked eyes with Conway.

Head tilted and lips quirked with a mix of pleasant surprise and amusement, Conway stood a mere yard away. "Ah! Don't tell me..." Smile growing, he tapped a finger to his temple in a show of thinking deeply. Then tilted his hand Alan's way as he slowly ventured, "Alan? The violinist."

"Conway. Hi," he greeted back with a faint laugh, lifting a hand to wave, though only for a fleeting moment since he deemed that too awkward. Was this what he was feeling now? Awkward? Twice today, now?

In the midst of the bungled charm, Alan couldn't help but note that Conway called him a violinist despite them not having talked about it. He was observant, then. Possibly even watched him play.

"It's a small world," he continued with a pleasant smile. "It's nice to see you again-- and in the same place, no less."

"Quite unexpected," Conway replied, "but not at all unwelcome." He cast a quick, backward glance over his shoulder. "Do you visit this gallery often?" he asked curiously, leaning a shoulder against the corner that Alan had hidden behind.

Alan couldn't help but follow his gaze, having just enough time to flit his eyes over to a dark-haired woman in that general direction, studying a painting.

"Not often," he replied smoothly even though he had been obsessively returning every day this week. "In general, anyways. But I have been coming in more often lately because of school." He offered another smile, not wanting to dwell on the thought. "What about you?"

"Not often," Conway echoed, "and my work doesn't really give me an excuse to, either. I happened to have a free day today, though."

Alan softly hummed, loosely crossing his arms. "It seems rather fated that we meet twice at the same location then."

That earned him an almost teasing grin from Conway.

"How could we be so sure it was actually by fate?" he asked innocently.

Alan faltered, weakly chuckling as he shifted his weight to his other foot, wondering if this was a simple tease or if Conway was challenging him. After all, he had seen him dip out in a panic before he approached. It couldn't have been that obvious that he had been here repeatedly, across multiple days, walking down the same corridors, hoping to come across Conway again, but having not at all prepared in the slightest of what he would say or do. Right?

"As it so happens," Conway smoothly went on with a light laugh, "I was here to see if 'The Dot' artist had updated her exhibit at all. You convinced me that she might have been onto something."

Oh. So the impact of the conversation wasn't one-sided. He had been considering the same subjects too.

"And had she?" he asked with a curious tilt of his head.

The man shrugged a shoulder in answer, then grinned again. "Why don't we go find out?"

"Okay... yeah," Alan replied more meekly. Then faintly cleared his throat to say more confidently, "I'd like that. Let's go see."

Conway pushed off from the wall and lead the way down the corridor at a relaxed pace. It was as they passed behind the dark-haired woman where he slowed, just enough to lightly tap her shoulder. She only turned her head at first, then faced the two of them fully when she caught sight of Alan.

"Friend of yours?" she asked, folding her arms.

"A fellow appreciator of the fine arts," Conway answered simply, discreetly echoing Alan's exact wording from their prior interaction. He swept an arm his way. "This is Alan. Alan, meet my close colleague, Agnes."

With a smile and a slight inclination of his head, he greeted back, "Hi, Agnes. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Oh," Agnes said, her tone turning dry with recognition, "that Alan."

What did that mean? But if she recognized his name...

She bowed her head likewise, a bit stiffly. "A pleasure."

It dawned on Alan that this meant Conway had discussed him with her. And considering the negative reaction, he wondered if their prior discussion had turned sour.

Conway only huffed through his nose in amusement. He stepping closer to her side, his back to Alan and his head bent down to her ear for some semblance of a private conversation as he murmured, "We'll be in the west wing."

Agnes let out a huff through her nose too, sounding tired more than anything. "Should I--"

"We might be awhile?" he answered.

She nodded once and patted his shoulder with the back of her hand. "Go do nerd stuff, then." She lazily waved her hand at the painting in front of her. "Once I'm done ogling this man's jewels, I'm out of here."

Conway's next huff was both entertained and weary at once. "I'll see you," he said in farewell, stepping away.

Agnes only hummed. "Nice meeting you, Alan," she said distractedly over her shoulder.

"Nice meeting you too," Alan replied, quietly trailing off as he realized that neither Agnes or Conway were listening. Even if her back were turned towards him, he quietly nodded his goodbye before hastily catching up to Conway.

Uncertain, Alan glanced over his shoulder towards Agnes as he stepped by his side again. "I'm sorry if I disrupted any plans you two had. I wouldn't want to intrude..."

Conway waved off the sentiment. "We work together all the time, so we won't miss each other."

Alan nodded, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he disappointed Agnes somehow. They hardly knew each other, and yet, he had the sense that she harbored negative opinions about him. But why? Did they come from Conway? If so, what did Alan do to warrant those thoughts?

"So you said school has brought you here more as of late," Conway started again. "More performance opportunities, then?"

Oh, gods. Conway was observant. Really observant. He had a sharp memory and was an astute listener, calling back phrases Alan had used, and returning to unresolved conversations like this one.

He knew in his gut that Conway saw through him, and yet, he casually replied, "That's right. The Ruddlan string quartet plays for gallery events."

Conway nodded, brows quirked with an impressed air. "When's the next gallery event, then? Perhaps that is when the artist will display a new piece, if she hasn't already."

Alan opened his mouth to speak, but found himself faltering, biting back a faint nervous laugh. "That would be ideal, but we'll see. The next gallery is a month from now."

Brows then furrowing, Conway peered sideways in questioning at him. "So what brings you in today?"

From the way Conway posed the initial question, Alan knew that he was going to be found out. He knew that Conway would see right through him, know that he had brushed off their encounter as fate, when in reality this was all very orchestrated on his end. He knew this, and yet, Alan felt the red hot embarrassment flush his cheeks, because he didn't want to admit the truth.

"It's... well," he began with a quiet, hollow laugh, distractedly turning away to pretend to study the paintings they passed in their walk. "I guess..." He pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes, acutely aware of Conway's perceptive gaze that bore a hole through him.

Was it getting hot in here? He felt his back sweating through his shirt. Maybe he should roll up his sleeve. Yeah. That was a good idea.

"...Well, I do like the art here," Alan answered more quietly. Immediately, he cringed at his own pitifulness as he slowly folded the hems of his sleeve, unable to shake the heat still pooling in his face.

Humming softly, Conway brought them around a corner, into the hallway with "The Dot". But stopped abruptly just on the threshold of the west wing, gaze drifting out for a moment. Alan nearly ran into him, instead stumbling over his own feet in time to come to a stop with him.

"So," Conway started again, smile perfectly amicable as he glanced back at him, "I'm to believe 'fate' brought us both here, at the exact same time and place, for your next big concert, which is a whole month out from now? Thus of course explaining your slightly erratic behavior. After all, you're meant to be here, right? Sans the rest of your orchestra."

'Erratic behavior'? He wasn't... well... maybe.

Alan found himself dropping eye contact, unable to sustain it else his embarrassment eat him alive. Conway was teasing him while also completely calling him out on his lie, and it was so small, and yet, he felt like he hadn't ever felt this exposed and naked for someone to see.

Bumbling an awkward laugh, he turned away and crossed his arms over his chest, half-heartedly uttering, "That's right." But that felt even more pitiful, and so Alan stared down at a shiny tips of Conway's shoes and quickly added, "I'm sorry. I don't know how to explain myself."

Conway hummed a laugh. "You can start by being honest?"

"Well, I..." Alan tightened his grip around himself, squirming in place. He managed a glance towards Conway, but was unable to sustain it for more than half a second. "Not to make this weird or uncomfortable, but..." He shifted in place again, idly tugging at his collar.

The windows must have been letting in the heat of the desert sun. That was why it was getting warmer. Not at all because Conway was patiently waiting, smiling, listening. Perceiving.

Alan quietly sighed, relenting with a soft, anxious laugh as he now felt the the confession roll to the front of his tongue, softly admitting, "I was hoping I'd meet you again, actually."

Tilting his head down to try and catch his attention, Conway grinned with unbridled amusement in his eyes. Alan didn't think it was possible to blush even deeper than he already was, and yet, here he was. Praying to the gods that they have mercy on him.

"Not weird or uncomfortable at all," Conway assured him. "I meant it when I said I'd like the opportunity to talk with you again. And I'm rather flattered to discover it's a mutual sentiment."

Alan felt a strange relief flood through him, expelling the tension in his body. "Really?" he uttered, his voice nearly breaking.

"You can breathe again," Conway lightly teased in further reassurance.

Alan cleared his throat to prevent any potential voice crackage. "Well, you were rather quick to leave. So I guess I was just left with more questions than answers."

Conway's expression softened in apology. "Oh, well, that is my bad then. I only had pressing matters to attend to. It wasn't my intent to make you feel as though I was fleeing the scene."

"Oh, no, no, not at all," Alan quickly assured, waving both his palms in front of him while shaking his head. "You didn't. I know you're busy, and you still are. I'm grateful for any time you give. I was just left with wonder and awe. That's all." He dropped his hands, offering a more steady smile. "Thank you for being here."

"No need for gratitude or thanks," Conway replied warmly, "I'm more than happy to clear my afternoon for you." Lifting a hand, he lightly patted Alan's shoulder, and let it rest there to guide him down the hall now. "It doesn't have to be just today, though. How about I arrange for our next meeting? Somewhere besides the gallery, with less skulking around corners."

Alan made a new mental note to self that he needed to act more natural around Conway, otherwise he was never going to live this down. Still, he managed a nod and a grateful smile as he matched the pace of Conway's guidance.

"I'd like that."

Smoothing out the edges of the picnic blanket over the park grass and glancing over the spread of food, Shane looked up to meet Kirk's eyes with a smile as he sat down.

"Is this going to be enough food?" he asked.

Kirk met Shane's eyes with amusement.

"Plenty," he said, reaching over to tear off a piece of pita bread before dipping it in the bowl of hummus at the center of the plate.

Shane chuckled, relieved. He'd brought a variety of foods that were in season-- summer melons, a platter of vegetables, white beans cooked in tomato, roasted nuts-- and of course, homemade pita and hummus. He'd taken care to plan the whole date, but he'd worried there was something he was missing.

"In that case, dig in," he invited, settling comfortably closer to Kirk.

With a smirk, Kirk leaned in, eagerly scooping up a few carrots in his hand as he dipped them one by one in the hummus. He crunched through them while Shane served himself to a slice of melon.

"You know, Terran food will always be my strong suit and personal favorite, but I would also be happy to make some classics from the Isles and Moonlight Kingdom," Shane said with a laugh.

"Hey, I'm not complaining," Kirk said. "Terran food is my favorite, too. But the Isles have better wine and beer. Sorry, Lettera."

"I'm with you on that one, actually," Shane said. "Which is why..."

He reached back into the basket for the last items in there, setting two wine glasses out for them. Shane then grinned, lifting out a wine bottle-- just the right size for two-- that was labeled as being produced in Pavv.

"...I changed things up for our refreshments," he said.

Letting out a surprised, gleeful laugh, Kirk reached over and took the bottle, turning it over in his hands to inspect the label and the date.

"Shane," Kirk said. "Where did you find this? How much did it even cost?"

Shane grinned wider, shrugging innocently. "I have my sources. Let's just say my dad's friends with every wine merchant in town."

"How convenient," Kirk smirked. "And impressive."

He scanned the basket. "Should we open it?"

"Let's do that," Shane agreed. "We can make a toast."

"What will we be toasting to?" Kirk asked, popping the bottle open.

"Could it be us?" Shane suggested shyly.

Already taking a glass and pouring the wine, Kirk smiled softly. After he filled the second glass, he set the bottle back in the basket and lifted his glass.

"To us, then," he said.

Shane smiled back as he took his glass and clinked it with Kirk's, leaning in quickly to peck his cheek.

"To us," he echoed.

Kirk pecked Shane's cheek in return, pulling away with a wide smile. He lifted his glass briefly before taking a drink.

"How is it?" Shane asked hopefully, taking a sip of his own. The wine was sweet and full-bodied.

"A perfect balance of sweet and tart," he said.

"Excellent," Shane said, bumping his shoulder to Kirk's as he leaned their heads together.

It was a beautiful day in the park. The weather was warm and the sun was bright, but neither the heat or light were too oppressive, especially in the shade of a tree they'd set up their picnic in. The lawn and trees were alive with color and sound, with birds chirping happily among the deep green leaves overhead. It felt peaceful. Restful. Safe, even despite the threats of last week.

Shane wanted to keep this peace. He wanted to keep Kirk. And there was something he'd been thinking he should do to maintain this.

Handing over trust.

"Can I be honest about something?" he asked softly.

"Of course," Kirk said softly. "What's on your mind?"

Shane set his free hand over Kirk's, brushing his fingers gently over his.

"This is, by far, the best summer I've seen in years," he said quietly. "Because it's the first in several that I've actually had people in my life for it."

Kirk's eyes softened, and he nodded to show he was listening. He set his glass to the side, turning to face Shane with his full attention.

"It wasn't always that way," Shane went on. "And... because of what came up in the carriage yesterday, I want to offer you some context for that."

He took a deep breath, trying to still the anxious tremor running down his spine.

"But I also want to be more open and trusting, on purpose, with you," he added softly. "You've already entrusted me with quite a bit, and I want to return that to you-- especially since I've felt safe telling you everything I've said thus far, Kirk. So, this is me... sharing a story I haven't shared yet with anyone, I guess."

Kirk met Shane's eyes with a tender gaze and a small nod.

"I'm listening," he said.

Shane nodded slightly. Okay.

"You remember when Evaline's name came up, right?" he asked quietly, just to confirm, even though it felt so strange and wrong to use Eve's real name. "How I said she could be a former friend of mine?"

"I remember," Kirk said. "You seemed distressed at the mention of her."

Shane knew he hadn't hid it very well. His friends had helpfully changed the subject, moving on from the interruption, but he hadn't been able to ignore the heavy cloud he'd felt settling over him, or the ache tearing through his heart. It was an ache that said Eve was very likely in Ruddlan, and she hadn't told him. There was no way she couldn't know he hadn't made his residence here. She'd gone to his city and hidden herself from him.

"Yeah," Shane said faintly. "Evaline-- Eve was someone I knew very well once. She was my best friend, but... she was also like a sister to me." He paused, quietly adding, "A lot like what Hellen is to you, actually."

"How long ago was it, since you last saw her?" Kirk asked.

Shane's heart clenched.

"Five years now," he said.

"That's a long time," Kirk said.

And the only time she'd gotten in touch since then was to impersonally send the news that Raya was dead.

"We were friends for eight years before that," Shane said. "Her parents were ambassadors, too, from Goulon. For a while, our families were on good terms with each other, and our parents sent us both to the same international school in the Isles that I think I mentioned. That was where I got to meet and know her-- and it's where I met Jordan and another friend, Raya, too. I really didn't have any friends before I met them, so... They all meant the world to me."

He didn't know what else there was to say about the time before meeting them. How was he to describe that certain sense-- which he'd felt even as a small, inexperienced child-- that he was fundamentally strange and quiet, and therefore would always be ignored by his peers? That certainty had since dulled-- for a time. But the bleak loneliness still felt too fresh to enter into detail about.

"Eve's parents weren't very good to her," Shane went on. "They cared less than they should have, and they failed to show up for her on most occasions. My parents saw that and... well, adopted her in every way except the literal meaning of the word. They did the same with Raya, who was orphaned like Jordan, although they later ended up actually adopting him. We'd spend our summer breaks together on the coast, living like a family. It felt like we were one, for a time."

Shane took a steadying breath.

"Then there was an election scandal in Goulon," he said. "Eve's parents were getting unpopular at home, and they were at risk of being replaced. Somehow... I don't know how, but Eve's parents got access to some very detailed data on how people voted for their local ambassador in the last election. They realized that many of the people who opposed them and were on a different side of ideological lines tended to be concentrated in certain districts. Not only that, but they realized that if the districts were carefully changed, they could redistrict such that the majority opinion that wanted to replace them would actually win a minority votes, and they could rig the election. They redrew the lines accordingly-- and they won, but their victory caught my parents' attention. They knew most people wouldn't want them back in office. Not only that, but the shapes of the new districts were incredibly suspicious, because they were so misshapen and non-compact that it seemed no one in their right mind would draw the lines that away. It wasn't easy for them, but they looked into it."

Shane dropped his gaze to the picnic blanket.

"My parents came forward with proof that this redistricting was not done with fair intentions in mind, and Goulon decided to redo this election with their old map," he said. "Eve's parents lost. It was humiliating for them-- they'd gotten their reputation ruined, and by nobles who'd never had to be elected to earn their power at that. I wasn't surprised they burned their bridges with us after that. But I didn't..."

Shane trailed off.

"Eve had been in a closer relationship with us than she ever had with them for years at that point," he finished quietly. "She'd seemed to quietly resent them, having found family and a safety net elsewhere. But I-- I never expected her to cut us off just the same."

"Did it seem like she wanted to?" Kirk asked softly.

Shane swallowed thickly.

"When she shouted at me that she never wanted to see me again," he said weakly, "it certainly sounded like she meant it with her whole heart."

"I'm so sorry," Kirk said, reaching over and setting his hand on Shane's knee as a show of comfort. "That's an awful way to say goodbye."

Shane had never actually gotten to say the words. His tongue hadn't let him.

"She immediately transferred," he said quietly. "Even though we had only months of senior year left. Raya went with her-- she and I were close, but she was closer to Eve. I thought... I thought maybe that was a good thing, because even if I didn't know where Eve was going and wouldn't get to follow, I knew she'd still have someone with her who cared. It hurt too, and I hated seeing Jordan getting separated from them, but I didn't have the power to do anything otherwise."

Shane placed his hand over Kirk's on his knee as his throat tightened.

"We only ever heard from Eve once since then," he said in a whisper. "We got an unsigned piece of mail in the form of a newspaper clipping, a couple years later. And it said the guild killed Raya."

Kirk's expression turned saddened, and pressed his lips into a small frown as his brows drew together.

"That's awful," he said softly.

Shane could only nod weakly.

"Jordan's death was only a month later," he said. "I... haven't had much company since. I don't know what particular relevance this information has to you, if any. But... maybe that earlier moment makes more sense now."

"It's relevant to me if it's relevant to you," Kirk said in gentle earnest. "I'm glad you told me. I can't imagine how hard it is to relive those painful memories."

Shane cracked a sad smile, letting his head fall against Kirk's shoulder.

"Thank you for listening," he said quietly. "I haven't had that in a while either."

"Someone to listen?" Kirk asked.

Shane nodded hesitantly.

"Yeah," he said. "I mean, my parents will do that for me. But they're only here one month or so out of the year."

"That sounds like a very long year," Kirk said softly.

Shane breathed in deeply. "It feels like it."

The two of them rested in silence for a few moments. Shane sank into Kirk's side a little more deeply.

"It sounds like a lot of this has come up recently," Kirk said. "Jordan, Evaline, and Raya - all in the past few weeks."

"Yeah," Shane murmured. "I'm a little unprepared for it."

Why did this summer have to be a time of old wounds reopening?

"Has it been overwhelming?" Kirk asked.

"Yes," Shane admitted. "But, well..." He offered Kirk a solemn, gentle smile in gratitude. "Other people make it easier."

"Maybe... it's not so bad, then," Kirk said softly. "It sounds like if all of this came up earlier, or even a month ago... you might not have as many people to share the burden with you."

Shane nodded, taking Kirk's hand in his and interlacing their fingers as he met his eyes with tenderness.

"I wouldn't," he said softly. "And I wouldn't have known what to do. So you have no idea how grateful I am that you're here."

"I guess that makes this all the more special," Kirk said, giving Shane a small kiss on his cheek.

Shane smiled with a little more hope, reaching up with his other hand to cup the side of Kirk's face.

"It does," he confirmed, a little bashfully.

Kirk's eyes flicked down to Shane's lips, smirking ever so slightly. With a smile and a bit of relief, Shane leaned in and kissed his lips tenderly-- with what was almost shyness at first, but turned into gentle, sweet passion. When he pulled back, Shane rested his forehead against Kirk's for a few moments to meet his eyes with a wider, elated smile, before shifting so he could let his head fall on Kirk's shoulder, his temple pressed against his cheek.

"Feel better?" Kirk asked with a smile in his voice.

"Most definitely," Shane said, with a quiet laugh.

And he sincerely did.

"Good," Kirk said, picking up his wine glass and taking a sip.

Shane did as well, still smiling gently and taking some more peaceful breaths. He gave Kirk's hand an affectionate squeeze as a few seconds went by.

"It's a bit strange," Kirk said after a long, comfortable pause had passed. "This... Eve, Evaline. Whoever she is. I'm not sure if the woman Tiberius met was your childhood friend, but of everything I've heard about her from the both of you... well, it has me wondering if I've met her too."

Shane blinked, moving away just enough to face Kirk. Unintentionally, he found himself holding onto his hand more tightly.

"...What?" he breathed.

"It's... well, it all feels like a big coincidence," Kirk said. "And I could be wrong. But I met a woman who very closely matches the description and mannerisms both you and Tiberius have described to me. The only difference is she introduced herself as Gwendolyn. Which..."

Kirk let out a weak laugh.

"I'm not sure if I should toss that up to happenstance," he said. "Considering that's your mother's name. But it was very clear she was giving a fake name upon introduction."

Shane could only stare in something approaching disbelief. It wasn't disbelief-- he trusted Kirk-- but he didn't know what to do with what he was hearing.

"I should explain how we met," Kirk went on. "It was all very odd. She came in as an inspector at the Lumshade farm that belongs to the Ruddlan's DAMG headquarters. I happened to be there, mostly for formalities due to my position, and because I wanted to see what the lab here was like. While I was in the lab, one of the guys at the farm pops his head in to let the head chemist know there's a surprise inspection. Before I know it, the chemist disappears, asks me to finish up his work, and in walks 'Gwendolyn.' A woman who, much to her credit, committed to the role of an inspector, but clearly has more interest in the lab's connections to the Blue Suns. To make a long story short, we arranged to meet later away from the lab and the farm. It was cordial, and she admitted to being a fraud. I looked her up and there was no 'Gwendolyn' working in the Ruddlan department of Resource Management."

Kirk paused to sigh and take another sip of wine. He shook his head as he swallowed.

"It was all rather bizarre circumstances," he murmured. "She said she was a PI looking into the suns. I told her I'd be willing to help. She declined that offer quite passionately, and may as well have told me she thought me and my whole family line were dogshit. Not that she used those words, of course. She was more graceful than that. But I understood very well that she had an intense distaste for anyone in the Moonlight Kingdom military, and especially an emissary of the king. She stormed off, and to be honest, I thought that was the end of it."

This... could be like Eve. She'd had an interest in law, and like Shane had told Tiberius, she would hold a grudge against anyone in the King's Hand. But that didn't mean this made any sense.

"But then," Kirk continued. "I got a letter to the manor yesterday, addressed to me, from none other than 'Gwendolyn Hayes.' No niceities. Just a time, a place, and a 'let's meet again.' Really has me thinking."

Kirk looked over to Shane, his expression softening, but searching.

"I know it's been some years since you've known her," he said. "But... what do you think?"

Shane inhaled deeply, trying to find the strength to speak.

"Gwendolyn Hayes," he heard himself say faintly. "It sounds like Gwendolyn and Ray."

And they'd been her parents too.

"It's... yeah," Kirk said with a sigh. "Either that was intentional, a subconscious decision, or this is all just extremely uncanny."

Shane bit his lip.

"I'd recognize Eve's handwriting anywhere," he said quietly. "What did her letter say?"

Kirk hesitated.

"I... have it with me," he said. "You can read it, if you'd like. But I should mention. She did tell me what her 'real' name was, after admitting Gwendolyn was a lie."

"What did she say?" Shane asked quietly.

"She said it was Evelyn," he said.

There was no way. Shane had to be imagining all of this. Maybe he'd ascended to some sort of cloud nine after the kiss and he had lost track of all reality.

But he knew that wasn't true.

"I can read it," he said quietly.

Leaning away, Kirk reached into his pant pocket, pulling out a note that looked like it'd been folded over several times to be as small and discreet as possible. He offered it to Shane. He accepted it, unfolding it carefully.

Kirk Fayek,

If you would like to continue business, please meet me at the Estate Stables...

Some sick feeling settled in Shane's stomach, and he quickly folded it over again, dropping it into his lap before he could get any further, as if the paper had burned him. He couldn't bear it past that. It stung that the first words he'd read from her in the last five years weren't to him at all.

"That's it," he said faintly.

Kirk watched Shane, his expression saddening.

"It's her?" he asked, just as quiet.

Shane struggled to hold his gaze. But he did, with his throat closing up and his hand shaking around Kirk's.

"It's her," he whispered. "It's Eve."

Kirk's eyes widened in shared revelation.

"Dragons above," Kirk muttered, before pulling Shane into a tight hug.

Shane instantly wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close and tucking his head over Kirk's shoulder as he felt his eyes start to burn. Claws tore into his heart, but he didn't want to cry. Not this time. Maybe, if he could just be held through this, he could have the strength to feel this and not have it break him.

He closed his eyes and hugged Kirk even tighter, not letting an inch of space remain between them so he could feel every bit of his comforting presence.

"I'm so sorry," Kirk said softly, holding Shane tightly. "I know this isn't how you would've wanted to find out."

Shane drew in a deep breath, squeezing him in his arms for a moment.

"She's in town," he said hollowly. "She must know I'm here. And she doesn't want to see me."

Kirk patted Shane's back.

"I don't know all of her reasons," Kirk said softly. "But we don't have to assume them. I know she hasn't sought you out, but..."

He pulled away, holding Shane out at the arms so he could look into his eyes.

"If you wanted, I could ask her if she's open to meeting with you," he said. "I don't think it'd be helpful to force either of you into anything, or spring it upon her."

Shane hesitated as he looked into Kirk's steady gaze, and he knew he appeared scared. He was scared. He hadn't been seriously contemplating the possibility of getting to be the one to reach out to Eve, but now that he did have a chance...

"I don't know if I could handle hearing that she isn't," he said faintly.

"But would you rob her of the chance to choose that?" Kirk asked softly. "I know it feels safer not to try. But you can't know what she'll say."

"I'm just taking her at her word," Shane murmured uncertainly.

"I know," Kirk said. "And that's extremely respectable of you to honor that. But that was also five years ago. A lot can change in that time."

Shane knew he had changed, and that probably meant Eve had too. But changes weren't always better. It was just as possible for her to have become even more entrenched in her grudge as it was for her to have lightened, and her treatment towards Kirk wasn't a hopeful sign.

"This still isn't great for you," he started softly, looking at Kirk with concern for him. "She's obviously embittered towards you. If she doesn't like your suggestion, I don't want you to be the target of more anger. Especially since you are trying to work with her."

"If she chooses to sharpen her resentment towards me, that is her choice," Kirk said steadily. "And proof that a working relationship would not be beneficial for either of us. If it does go in that direction, at least we'd both know, and we'd be able to pull back with a clear conscience that at least we tried. But I do want to try. I won't force you to, but I do think this is an opportunity that may not come around again."

Part of Shane wanted to resist further, give in to fear. But he knew Kirk had a habit of being right about the things that made him want to hide from a necessary action.

He could hear the tremble in his voice as he whispered, "Okay."

Kirk lowered his head and his brows knit together with concern.

"I just want to make sure this is something you want," he said. "I don't want to pressure you into it anymore than I want to pressure Eve."

Shane breathed in deeply, reaching over to hold onto Kirk's shoulders.

"I do want it," he admitted quietly. "I've wanted it for a while. I'm just... afraid."

"That's okay," Kirk said, still holding Shane firmly. "We can do it while scared."

Shane nodded barely, allowing his lips to quirk faintly in a ghost of a fearful, grateful smile.

"Yeah," he said softly. "You're right. You always seem to be when it comes to this."

"I'm just glad we can agree," Kirk said with tenderness. "I know you're unsure, but I'm hopeful, and I'm proud of you."

Shane met his eyes for a few moments longer, trying to contain every bit of the adoration he felt in his gaze, before he drew Kirk close again and held him to his chest. He hoped he did for Kirk what Kirk did for him-- granted him a safe place where no fear or pain was too heavy or too insignificant to approach with.

"Have I said that you're incredible recently?" he murmured. "I think it needs saying."

"The sentiment is mutual," Kirk said, gently brushing the side of Shane's cheek.

Shane smiled with warmth, leaning into the touch. Without it being forced, he felt some of his tension lift.

"You're incredible," he said in Pelspeak.

"You're my favorite," Kirk said in Terran.

With a soft laugh filled with real lightheartedness, Shane turned his head to softly kiss Kirk on the lips again.

He had a new favorite, too.

All of James's emotions about this moment could be summized in one compounding feeling: dread. Caspar had showered James with assurances for days, telling him that this was needed, and good. More help was more help, and for Caspar it was trusted help. For James, it was all new.

He was nervous. All morning his heart had been racing, and a tight, tense ache knotted in his chest. The journey outside the city felt ominous in the early morning light, splitting off the road into the thick of the forest, east of Ruddlan.

For something so secret, it made sense to meet somewhere secluded. But normally, areas of seclusion were best met in with people you could trust. James could not admit to having such confidence, as he felt he was following Caspar blindly, hoping that this morning wasn't going to end in tragedy.

He also wasn't told where they were meeting. Caspar apparently knew "the spot." But said "spot" was a nondescript portion of the forest that didn't have any signifiers apart from another bush, and another tree.

For what seemed like no reason other than to glance back with some concern, Caspar came to a stop. "This is it," he quietly announced, giving James a light reassuring pat to the shoulder.

James could be lying if he thought any of this was a good idea. Stiffly, he looked around the forest, only able to hear the songs of the early morning birds in the trees and the chirps of cicadas.

"You're sure," he asked flatly.

Caspar pressed his lips into a thin line. "Well..." He scanned the trees above them, as if expecting the third party to appear in the boughs. "...yes."

James sighed through his nose.

Well, this was just great. He hoped they hadn't walked themselves into a trap. Because the trouble was: he trusted Caspar. But Caspar was too trusting.

"He's pro'ly just running a little late," Caspar murmured, patting down his pockets in search of a timepiece.

"Nah, I was just being mysterious," a man's voice said out of nowhere, appearing from behind the thick trunk of a tree like some kind of apparition.

James jolted back, caught off guard by how hidden and silent this massive man had been. Now stepping out into the open, James found himself staring up at an absurdly tall and broad one-eyed, bearded man dressed in all black, utilitarian clothes. The man had a sleeveless vest that revealed brightly colored tattoos of what appeared to be the bodies of white and blue dragons swirling up each arm, surrounded by streams of something like fire.

The man's face was marred by a trio of scars scraping across where his left eye used to be. He looked like someone who could snap James over his knee like a twig with little effort - and yet, the first thing he did when he came to Caspar's side was smile warmly, pulling him into a hug.

Bewildered, troubled, and increasingly nervous, James watched as the two patted each others backs before pulling away from one another.

"You and your dramatic entrances," Caspar said fondly.

"I've got to have a little fun these days, you know?" the man said with a brighter smile and a laugh. "It gets draining when it's all so serious all the time."

The man turned to James, meeting his eyes with the same friendly smile he greeted Caspar.

"The name's Bo," he said, extending his hand to shake.

James forced himself to take it, shaking it firmly for a few bounces before pulling away.

"Tiberius Hemming," he introduced.

Though Bo had only used a nickname - or an alias, for all James knew - it made no sense to lie to the man about his own identity. The whole world knew who he was. Especially the resistance.

"Good to meet you, Mr. Hemming," Bo said. "I had a feeling it would be you."

...What?

With a small huff through his nose, Caspar nudged him with his elbow in gentle chiding.

Bo sputtered nonsensical half-words for a moment before waving his hand.

"Okay, sorry, sorry," he said. "No more Mr. Mysterious. I'm glad it's you, is all I mean."

But that made even less sense.

Coming around to James's side now, Caspar gestured between himself and Bo. "He's an old friend of mine," he explained softly.

"Very old," Bo added, patting his chest. "Older than I look."

"So," Caspar continued, casting the taller man a mildly amused look, "what I mean to say is we've known each other a long time."

James nodded slowly, looking between them.

"Can I ask how you met?" James asked quietly.

Caspar's next glance Bo's way was questioning.

"Of course you can," Bo said. "But let's make this a walk-and-talk conversation. I have a better place for us to meet."

Bo waved his hand for James and Caspar to follow. Caspar fell in to step at Bo's side, while James remained by Caspar. Frankly, he felt more comfortable with Caspar between them.

"It was a long time ago," Bo said. "I think Cas was closer to your age when we first met, in the Isles. Caspar was still in the navy then, and he'd docked back on his home-island, Herron. I heard about Caspar through a friend of mine he helped shelter as a stowaway on his ship, making sure they got to the mainland safely. I, of course, had to go thank him in person, and the rest is history."

"It's been awhile since we last saw each other," Caspar added. "Before arriving here in Ruddlan, anyway. And, for a lot of reasons you could probably guess, we don't talk very freely about each others' whereabouts, so." He shrugged, a bit sheepishly. "That's why you haven't heard about him until now."

Right.

So... Caspar had been a part of the resistance, at some point in his life. Their paths diverged, James assumed, somewhere between marriage, parenthood, divorce, and losing Jack. It was possible their roads split as early as Caspar's move to the Moonlight Kingdom. James had a feeling their reunion was bittersweet.

"I understand," he said simply, aware that whoever Bo was - to Caspar, but especially to the resistance - it was no small thing.

Caspar could've mentioned Bo in passing. Changed the name, changed some details. While it was possible the subject simply never came up, James had a feeling the secrecy ran deep. Even in his position in the Moonlight Kingdom, he'd never heard of a "Bo" or anyone matching his description. At least, not exactly. And Bo had some notable identifying features.

"Which probably means Caspar hasn't told you of any of our escapades, either," Bo said.

James turned to look at Caspar.

He had, in fact, never done so.

Shrugging again, Caspar mustered an apologetic smile. "Believe me, there were times where I wanted to." He bumped his elbow to James's shoulder and mused, "Actually, now that you're in the know, maybe I could later...?"

James wasn't sure how to feel about all of this. It felt both underwhelmingly casual and too understated for how important of a moment this was.

"I... suppose," he said weakly.

Bo and Caspar shared another glance, in which Bo shrugged with a small smile.

"We're about to share a lot more, in a moment," Bo said. "So I don't see any harm in it, so long as it's in private."

"Sure thing," Caspar agreed warmly.

"Oh," Bo said, reaching into a pack he had belted at his waist. "Anyone hungry?"

James watched as the giant man pulled out a paper bag and unwrapped it, revealing two... muffins. They looked homemade. Blueberry, from the looks of it.

It was not what James expected to see, to be honest.

"It's so early I figured you might not have had a chance to grab breakfast," Bo said, offering the bag to Caspar.

With an appreciative smile, Caspar simply passed both muffins along to James. James hesitated, but he knew that Caspar never had big breakfasts, and he'd already had a bite and some coffee. James, however, had forgotten to eat anything this morning, as he'd been a bit too focused on mentally preparing for what could potentially be a life-altering meeting.

He meekly bowed his head in thanks to Bo, who barely noticed. Bo's attention had already gone ahead of them again.

James didn't know where they were going, but Bo was walking with purpose.

"How are the horses?" Bo asked Caspar.

James tried to subtly peek into the paper bag without crumpling it too loudly.

The smell of freshly baked muffins wafted out. There were still a little warm. They must've been made just this morning.

"Comfortable today," Caspar answered quietly, tucking his hands into his pockets, "since we decided to go on foot. How 'bout Rusty?"

"He's a happy 'ol lad," Bo said. "Happy as a clam, as the islanders say."

"We actually don't," Caspar lightly corrected.

"Well what do you say?" Bo asked with a silly grin.

"Chipper as a skipper," Caspar answered smoothly.

Bo smiled brightly, and in that moment, James could see where the two got along.

They had the same type of humor. Puns, and wordplay. It seemed even after years of distance and being out of contact, that still remained the same. Even though Bo was still physically intimidating, a small part of him was endeared to him, seeing a little bit of Caspar in his character.

"Chipper as a skipper," Bo repeated. "That's how I aspire to feel everyday."

"If only it were that easy," Caspar said with a feigned sigh of woe. "Even skippers aren't always chipper."

"And they aren't always skipping, either," Bo said.

"Depends on the kind of skipper, too," Caspar agreed with a nod.

Now James definitely saw the shared humor. They really were just two old men. James had to remind himself what he was here for.

Another gentle bump to his shoulder quickly jostled him from sinking into said reminder. He caught Caspar's brief yet meaningful glance between James and the bag of baked goods. James hesitated again. It felt unprofessional to eat at the moment. Caspar's pointed glance persevered for another moment, and James relented with a shy bow of his head. He took a muffin out of the bag to take a bite, ashamed that his first thought was: what if it's poisoned? Because the moment he tasted it, it felt like an insult to make that accusation.

It was really good...

"So, I should prepare you two a bit for what to expect with this meeting," Bo said. "There's someone I'll have you meet when we get there who will be helping you, should we come to an agreement."

Already, James regretted that he was chewing while Bo got into important information. He nodded, since he didn't want to speak with his mouth full.

"Have I met them?" Caspar asked curiously.

"You haven't," Bo said. "Though she knows of you, and you of her."

Brows raising, Caspar seemed to already be mentally combing through a list of names he might've known. James didn't know how connected Caspar was, but he assumed Bo and Caspar had met a few times prior to this meeting to hash all of this out.

"I also hope we can be more forthright," Bo said. "I plan for that to be reciprocal, to the measure that we can."

Which was a nice sentiment, but vague enough for James to wonder what that meant. If they were to keep this soley about business, the only thing he'd need to be forthright about were his practical plans. Maybe he'd be required to give a declaration of loyalty or moral alignment, but he'd already made it this far with Caspar vouching for him. At this point, their alliances were implied.

"If we want any of this to work, then yeah," Caspar agreed, glancing back James's direction. "That'd be nice."

James was presently trying to inhale what remained of the muffin, though. So, for a second of uncomfortable eye contact, Caspar caught James with his cheeks full of muffin.

Initially James had intended to fall behind a few paces so this wouldn't happen. Of course Caspar would look back anyway. Swallowing his pride and chewing as fast as he could manage, James crumpled the paper bag shut and stuffed the other muffin in his jacket pocket to save for later.

"Ah," Bo said. "Here we are."

Coming to a stop in the middle of the forest, James didn't see what Bo was referring to at first until Bo scraped his boot along the forest floor, pushing aside a blanket of moss and leafy vines that covered a wooden hatch built into the ground.

"It's a nice little nook," Bo said. "You remember how it is, Cas. Hard to spot, hard to find."

"On brand," Caspar hummed with a nod, setting his hands on his sides.

"We should make mugs that say that," Bo murmured as he squatted down, tucking his fingers into the dirt to find the hatch's edge before he lifted it with a heave, like it was a lid popped open.

Glancing in, James could see the metal rungs of a steel ladder leading down.

"Caspar, would you do the honors?" Bo asked.

Heaving a short breath in preparation, Caspar nodded and went down the ladder first, leaving James standing at the entrance with tense anticipation. Bo was knelt beside the opening, arm over the hatch to keep it open. There was a wordless understanding that James was to go in next, but he found himself reluctant to move.

In a few seconds of pained eye contact with Bo, James decided to steel his nerves and trust Caspar.

If this was going to go poorly, it would go poorly for both of them. He wasn't going to leave Caspar to rot.

So he slid down, finding a rung of the ladder with his feet before he began to climb, descending into the earth. He wasn't sure what he expected to be underground, twelve feet below the surface, but when he landed on his feet and turned around, he wasn't expecting to see anyone familiar.

Standing behind a small wooden table paired with four simple stools was Evaline: unmistakably the woman he'd met at the masquerade, but this time, dressed unassumingly. Her hair was pulled back, her clothing was simple and loose, and her eyes met his with a dead-eyed, soulless stare.

James froze in his tracks.

Caspar hadn't noticed the shared look between them, and he politely began to introduce himself. Stiffly, Evaline engaged in the exchange, turning her eyes away pointedly, as if to ignore him.

Overhead, James could hear Bo's heavy footsteps coming down the ladder. He skittered out of the way so he wouldn't get stepped on.

Thank the gods for Caspar, who kept Evaline engaged long enough for James to get his bearings. James let himself scan the room, taking in the details of what seemed to be a small bunker: probably a hiding spot, or a storage space for people to draw from or drop supplies. The walls were lined with deep shelving, sealed crates, covered baskets, and bottles. Everything was neat and organized, and the table in the center was the only other addition to an otherwise threadbare space.

Hanging overhead, at the center of the ceiling, was an oil lamp already alight. It was the only thing keeping them from being plunged into darkness when the hatch overhead shut.

Daylight was replaced with the dim, warm light of the lamp, and the shadows cast on everyone's faces turned severe. Bo drew everyone to the table with a wave of his arm and sat down, taking the nearest stool beside Evaline.

"Take a seat," Bo said, and both James and Caspar obliged across from them.

"Up until now, both parties involved have been withholding information for our own personal safety," Bo began, folding his hands together at the edge of the table. "Caspar and I have many years of trust to draw on, but the rest of us are strangers."

James glanced at Evaline. She didn't respond to that comment in the slightest. Her focus remained fiercely on Bo.

"I understand that it is a risk for all of us, meeting here," he went on. "And I want to thank both of you for going out of your way to do what you think is right."

Bo's attention shifted. Formerly, he'd been looking primarily to Caspar. But now, he turned to meet James's eyes.

"You are in need of our assistance, yes?" Bo asked.

James felt glued to his seat.

"Yes," he answered.

"I'm told you have precious cargo that needs a secure resting place," Bo continued. "Somewhere hidden from prying eyes, where it won't get into the hands of the kingdoms."

"It would be helpful to know the general contents of this 'precious cargo' as well," Evaline added stoically, folding her arms on top of the table. Despite this suggestion being aimed towards James, she still was not directing her attention towards him.

Bo lifted up a hand.

"Before we get into the details," he said. "A proper introduction is in order."

With a gesture to Evaline, Bo inclined his head.

"Caspar and Tiberius," he introduced. "Meet Eve. I am not always in town, nor will I be able to directly oversee this matter in the weeks to come, so Eve will be your point person in our negotiations and arrangements moving forward."

Finally, she landed her gaze on James, but there was no recognition or emotion behind her eyes or words as she evenly replied, "Pleased to meet you."

James couldn't manage a smile. This all felt too poetically cruel to put words to. It didn't even feel real, but he knew it was.

Deciding to put his heart out of his mind, he reached across the table to offer her a handshake.

"Thank you," he said. "For this opportunity."

But instead of responding in kind, Eve pulled out a sheet of paper from her lap, pencil already in hand as if she had prepared for this moment. James let his hand linger in the air between them for but a second, before he shook it out and pulled it away, hoping to brush past it. It was best not to address it.

There were more important things at hand.

"I'm going to take notes," she announced, tapping the tip of the pencil against the corner of the sheet. "But only as a method to memorize the small details. I will destroy any notes taken here so you know that written information hasn't left this room. I trust that whatever confidential information is shared today will be held to the utmost secrecy, not discussed or written down without prior consent. Is that understood?"

She asked the last question more sternly, questioning each of them evenly with a rigid glance.

"Understood," James said, while Caspar and Bo murmured their agreements.

Eve nodded. "Then let's brush past trivial matters here. What are the contents of the cargo?"

James clenched his jaw, squaring his shoulders in his seat as he cast an anxious glance to Caspar. His quiet anxiety was met with a small, encouraging smile. With a small nod, James turned his attention to Evaline --or Eve-- watching her pen.

"Hidden away in the palace, the king keeps a secret library of records and stolen literature from the guilds of old," James said quietly. "Among them he's also stored away letters and journals recording pieces of history prior to and during the War Against Magic that have been scrubbed from the public record. I intend to steal his collection from the palace so the forgotten and hidden history can hopefully see the light of day."

And saying it out loud felt surreal. Only Caspar knew the fullness of his plan until now.

"Documents, then?" Evaline clarified more concisely.

"Yes," James agreed. "Essentially."

"And may I inquire why these documents are so important that it requires the help of the resistance?" Eve asked pointedly. "In other words, what would be the impact if they were left in the wrong hands?"

Swallowing nervously, James cast a glance Bo's way.

He may have delegated this task to Eve, but it was clear that he was the person in charge. James had to wonder what position Bo held in the resistance, and just how important the man sitting across from him was. Bo merely met his eyes with an attentive, neutral gaze.

"In short," James said. "The documents will expose Blackfield as the primary conspirator prior to the calamity responsible for the anti-magic movement that led to the war he created."

James noticed Bo's eye evaluated him with a controlled, keen interest. Eve, however, retained her icy glare.

"Perhaps these documents would provide concrete evidence for a statement that was only previously a theory," she said neutrally with fierce focus. "It is not an uncommon theory across mages, after all. Even the general public is aware of this claim, even if commonly dismissed to be fictitious." She sharpened her glare on James, gingerly setting the pencil down to fold her hands neatly on top of one another on the table.

"But that truth may not matter," Eve continued, more cooly this time. "Even if a historical revelation, the future impact may be dismal. This information may not sway the masses, who need someone to blame for the destruction the Calamity left in its wake. And so I rephrase my question: if not for mages or magic, then what caused the Calamity? Does your documents explicitly state that?"

The intensity of Eve's questioning felt like an interrogation. James understood that it was warranted in this situation for a number of reasons, but it was still jarring to have it come from the mouth of Eve, who days prior had been of a completely different countenance. It was difficult to separate the subject matter from the person delivering it.

Once again he had to set those thoughts aside to address her real concerns.

"There is no certain evidence for what caused the calamity," James said steadily. "But there is damning evidence proving Blackfield's premeditated attack on both the guilds, and the former earth dragon known as Jord."

That caused Eve to grow silent. Bo glanced at Eve, who exchanged an equally leveled look. Bo then he looked at James. It appeared that this was the information that engaged their attention most.

"Including the means and the methods?" Bo inquired.

James nodded. "In thorough detail," he said.

The details had been admittedly harrowing to read, but had also been the very thing that drove him to this moment, meeting with the resistance.

"Go on," Eve prodded.

James hesistated, swallowing thickly.

This was new information to them. Unexpectedly, it dawned on him just how hidden Blackfield had kept all of this from the rest of the world. The depths of the lies, the secrecy, and the twisted narratives made him sick to his stomach, and it sickened him all the more to think even the resistance hadn't been able to discover all of this. Almost a hundred years later, he was one of the few people on the earth who knew how the only dragon ever to be murdered had died.

The room felt heavy.

"They ambushed them," James said quietly. "The guilds. It had been planned in secret for eight months before they took any action. The guilds didn't see it coming. They called it: 'The First Wave.'"

He dropped his eyes to the table.

"It was different for each guild. For Burninghood, beneath the Marooner's sea, they saw it fit to raze it to the ground. They captured the few survivors. The NorthPoint guild was attacked in the mountains, and razed to the ground in turn. They captured or killed any survivors. Those who were captured were imprisoned, or forced into a gladiator ring, and later killed."

James's leg began to bounce beneath the table.

"The Stormwatcher guild was smoked out with a deadly poison in the dead of night. There were no survivors. The Firehead Guild was eviscerated in an explosion set off by a suicide bomber on the inside. There were no survivors."

James's heart pounded loudly in his chest.

"For the Riverbeast Guild in the south," he continued. "They destroyed its supports with bombs along the riverbank. Anyone who didn't drown or die from the blast was killed by an army awaiting them on the shore. One of those survivors was Jord."

He swallowed.

"The army was waiting for him with the first mass supply of lumshade," James said quietly. "The serum's invention had been kept secret up until that moment. When Jord was spotted, the first thing they did was bombard him with lumshade darts. They threw everything they had at him before he had a chance to shift, confirming Blackfield's theory: dragons were just like any other mage. They weren't immune to lumshade, and shifting was a part of their magic. Having prevented Jord from taking his more powerful form, they proceeded to..."

He bit the inside of his lip, forcing himself to continue, as much as the retelling felt agonizing.

"Hit him until he was down, and then dismember him to ensure his death, eventually resulting in his beheading," he said. "Of which... that was all they left behind."

Bo breathed in a slow inhale through his nose. His expression had darkened, as he, too set his eyes on the table between them.

The thick and somber silence sat heavily in the room until Eve more quietly said, "I understand the need to safely transport these highly sensitive documents." A stiff pause. "But once secured, it is possible to carefully disseminate information in a controlled and careful manner. What information do you wish to be public?"

James nodded at the question first, before speaking. He forcefully stilled his tapping foot.

"I believe it would be extremely negligent and unwise to tell the world how to kill a dragon," James said quietly. "But they need to know that it was done. They need to know the depths of Blackfield's cruelty. Until now, he's been lauded as one of the most morally upright and benevolent leaders in history. The world needs to know that his legacy is written in blood."

Eve exchanged a discreet look with Bo. Bo nodded subtly in admission. As if this were the silent validation she needed, she directed her determined focus back on James, tightly clutching her hands.

"The world does need to know his legacy is written in blood," she agreed. "But simple stating of information is not going to change opinions, especially ones so deeply entrenched in one's psyche. King Blackfield caused immense anguish across the world because he took advantage of a lie: that magic was the source of all their suffering and evil. The public believes this because the War on Magic seemed to work; disasters were lessened, and the lives carried on as normal. Therefore, to truly convert the masses to believe that Blackfield was not the benevolent leader he painted himself to be..."

Eve paused, tensing her jaw. "We need an equally believable lie: one that is appealing, convenient, and plausible. Thus, I propose a careful release of information, one that shifts the blame to Blackfield. Along with the evidence that he rose to power by blaming the Calamity on the mages, we also reveal that Blackfield murdered a dragon... and that was what truly started the Calamity."

She paused, leveling her severe expression between the three of them before continuing. "Additional information will need to be fabricated, but this shift in perspective will rile the masses and bring true change, potentially unseating Blackfield from power."

It was a good plan.

It pained James to think that the world had to be fed another lie because the nuance of truth wasn't powerful enough to provoke change: but he knew it was true. The mystery of the Calamity would haunt them for generations, and still would haunt them, but maybe, at least for those outside this room, they could provide the world with an answer that didn't cause another genocide.

Even if it wasn't fully true.

"I think that's an excellent strategy," Bo said. "It would accomplish what I think we all are hoping for; the dismantling of Blackfield's empire, and the beginning of change, as world leaders will be forced to question everything they know."

James nodded in solemn agreement.

"Agreed," he said simply.

"Is there anything else in the documents that we should know?" she asked.

James felt his mouth go dry. He swallowed again.

"There's... more than just the documents," he said. The air around him was getting thin.

Eve frowned, furrowing her brows. "What do you mean?"

"When I served in the Resurgence," James said tensely. "My platoon uncovered an unmarked coffin while burying the dead. My platoon leader ordered us to bring it back to the Moonlight Kingdom because, while there was no headstone or indications of a grave above-ground, the coffin itself had been marked in an ancient text with one word we were able to translate."

James fought to keep his leg still. The tension building in his body felt like a winding spring, dying to be released. He forced his heel to stay flush with the floor.

"'Dragon,'" he said.

And though Eve and Bo's stared had already been penetrating, it felt as if, at the mere mention of the word, they were seeing straight through him.

"It's now in the King's possession," James continued, before their stares could turn to questions. "He believes it contains a living person inside of it because, under great investigation, they discovered the coffin was sealed with some kind of impenetrable wood they believe to be from the ancient lifeblood tree. Which... is now extinct, to my understanding, but in times past it had the magical quality to preserve what was kept inside of it."

James brought his hands together under the table, digging his nails into his palms.

"They found a heartbeat. Faint, but there," he said. "I don't trust them with it. Nor do I want them to discover what's inside, if there really is someone in there."

Eve was taking furious notes, but then pounced on the next lull of silence, vigorously pointing the pencil at him to ask, "The coffin. How long has it been underground? And how long has it been with in the King's possession?"

"The king's scientists estimated that it's been underground for at least 100 years," he said, accidentally catching Bo's eyes. He quickly looked back down to the table. "We brought it to the kingdom at the end of the war. So it's been... over a year and a half that the King has had it."

"And... what..." With creased brows, Eve pressed her lips together to collect herself, weakly weaving the pencil in the air. "What does the King plan to do with the coffin?"

"He intends to break the coffin open and subdue whomever is inside by inducing a coma," he said. "Primarily using lumshade."

The air in the room thinned, growing tenser.

"When?" Eve asked.

"When they can figure out how to break it open," James answered. "That search is ongoing."

"What is your timeline?" Bo asked.

"I plan to steal both the documents and the coffin two days after I return to the Moonlight Kingdom," James said. "In nine weeks, and five days."

"From what Caspar's told me, you have a plan fully formulated for how to get them out of the kingdom, right?" Bo asked.

James nodded. "With the exception of where to go afterward."

Hence their meeting.

"We can keep the documents and the coffin safe," Eve assured. "You will have to transport it outside of the castle and the Kingdom. From there, we can transport them to a hidden and safe location."

"We have made preparations to transport them as far as Ruddlan," James answered. "But are not opposed to reinforcements. Because of the importance of the documents and the coffin, I would like to personally ensure that it makes it into the hands of the resistance safely."

He paused.

"As in, to a safe location," he said. "Which I assume is not here, but nearby."

"Correct," Bo answered. "We have a base hidden outside of Ruddlan that would be a secure holding location, as well as somewhere to recoup."

James flicked his eyes to Caspar.

There was... more, that would follow that. Once they left King's Peak, they wouldn't be able to go back. They'd never be able to go back.

Shifting a bit in his seat with a slight furrow of his brows, Caspar seemed to be able to follow his line of thought. And was just as comfortable asking for accommodations as James was - which wasn't very at all.

"After we re-meet in Ruddlan," Caspar tentatively piped up, "we... won't be able to go back south again. Our bridges there would be gone." He sat straighter and nervously scratched behind his ear. "If it's not a trouble, could we tag along? If only for a short while at first."

"You are welcome here with the resistance," Bo said gently. He then looked to James. "For something of this importance we can assemble a team to assist you to ensure you and the cargo make it here safely. As for arrangements after your arrival here in Ruddlan, we can have further discussions about your options once you get here. There are different opportunities that could be available to each of you, but I don't think we have to rush to a decision yet until this is seen through."

With a soft, appreciative smile, Caspar nodded once. "Thank you, Bo," he said warmly and with open relief.

"Eve and I will have to consider who would be the best choice for this mission," Bo said. "We don't have an answer for you right now, but I know you both will be in town for some time, so we will reach out again when we've assessed our resources and put together a team. It would be wise to send you off with help. The Moonlight Kingdom is a formidable enemy and I'm sure once your heist is complete they'll spare no expense in search of what you've stolen. In like kind, we want to send you the best we can offer."

James nodded, feeling a strange mixture of relief and dread that they'd been offered more help than he'd anticipated. On the one hand, it was good. They would have more security, more manpower, and more assurance of making it out.

On the other hand, it felt terrifying to share control of this scheme with another party. He'd spent so many months guarding his trust that it felt foolish to hand it out now to someone he'd only just met, even with Caspar's testimony of their character.

James bowed his head to Bo.

"We are in your debt," he said.

Bo blew air through his nose. "No," he said. "We're in this together."

As James looked up, he saw Bo had extended his hand for a shake. Hesitantly, James took it. Bo shook more confidently than he did.

"I'm very, very grateful you and Caspar reached out," Bo said. "I can't imagine trying to figure all of this out on your own. I look forward to working with you on this, and whatever comes after. I see a lot of promise in you, Tiberius."

Bo pulled his hand away, but didn't stop speaking.

"I know this is an incredibly dangerous position you're about to put yourself in," Bo said. "And I just want you to know I see and acknowledge the risk you're taking to do what's right. Thank you for your courage."

James sat stiffly, unsure of how to rightly respond to the unwarranted praise.

At a loss, he merely nodded. Thankfully, Bo moved on.

"Eve," Bo said, turning to her. "Is there anything you think would be pertinent to discuss between us while we're still in the early stages of planning?"

"No," she said, folding her notes in half. "That is all." She screeched her chair back and stood up, signaling she was ready to leave.

Bo reached out and set a hand on her shoulder, also getting to his feet.

"If that's so, then I'd like to have a word with my friend Caspar privately outside," Bo said, making eye contact with Caspar.

"Or would you rather have a private word inside?" Eve asked tensely through a locked jaw, fiercely staring at him.

Bo made more pointed eye contact with Eve.

"Outside," he said, patting her shoulder. "We'll pop the hatch when we're done."

Bo tilted his head, motioning for Caspar to get up and follow. Glancing uncertainly between all three of them, Caspar rose and joined Bo.

And in that moment, James knew: Bo knew.

Bo knew that this was not the first time he and Eve had met. As Bo and Caspar climbed the ladder out of the bunker, James felt all of the air get sucked out of the room. A deep sense of shame and embarassment glued him to his chair, and when the hatch overhead shut behind the two men, James realized just how much their presence had been for the purpose of mediation as much as establishing trust.

Now James and Eve had to face each other alone.

And Eve didn't waste a single second, her ferocious glare stabbing him as she pointed the folded note at him, voice hostile. "What are you thinking? What's your plan here? Did you think you have something to gain?"

James found himself staring at her, unsure if she was referring to the conversation they just had or their first meeting.

"I... I had--" was all he got out.

"I don't trust you," she quickly and curtly went on, frowning deeply. "We may work together, and we may strategize, but I don't trust you. You are for mages, and yet, your history says otherwise. You are hypocritical, Tiberius. This plan doesn't absolve you of your misdeeds. You truly do have a way with words, which you use as a weapon-- and for that, you cannot be trusted."

James still stared, trying to catch up as she spoke at a breakneck speed.

"Do you understand me?" she asked more pointedly, voice intensifying with hostility.

Delayed, he tried again.

"I understand," he said meekly. "I'll... keep it about business. If that's what you want."

"That's not what I want; that's what's needed," Eve replied cooly.

Somehow, the boundary got clearer but her intentions got fuzzier.

It wasn't what she wanted? He didn't feel like he could ask for clarification. That felt like asking to die. She was clearly unhappy and he did not want to provoke her further. At this point, he just wanted to land on an agreement: and he could be professional. He would set his feelings aside for the sake of the mission. He was used to doing that all the time. Even if it wasn't what he wanted.

"Alright," he said, softer. "I'm sorry--"

"No, you are not!" Eve cut in again, now yelling across the table.

James shrunk back in his seat as Eve towered over him, resuming her violent criticism.

"'Sorry' is insufficient. 'Sorry' does not begin to cover the amount of death and loss you have caused, because of your actions. Did you finally feel guilt, Tiberius? Did it cause you to create this plan of yours? Did you want to remove this stain on your conscious? Did you truly think this will bring proper justice of yourself? Because it doesn't. This is not enough. Your actions will never be enough to absolve yourself of your horrific misdeeds."

Slowly, James's focus on Eve departed, and he found himself staring down at the table.

There was something... poetic, about having all of his hypotheses come true. After Eve had stormed off that night, he'd predicted it was because of this. He'd heard these exact accusations in his own head, in her voice, in different words. The message was the same. In that moment he could feel his heart withdrawing under the berating, like it always did.

It was the same when Ingrid berated him. When Carter berated him. When he berated himself.

"I know," he said quietly.

Eve's glare bore a hole through his skull. She dramatically pushed her chair towards the table, legs screeching in the silent wake.

"I refuse to feel sorry for you," she said lowly. "You don't even deserve pity."

James couldn't find it in him to argue with her, because he agreed. But to voice that agreement would be viewed as another plea for what he didn't deserve.

"What should I call you?" he asked instead.

He knew her by many names, now.

"Anything you relay, you can relay to Caspar. He will be my point of contact. We do not need to meet unless absolutely necessary," Eve replied instead.

James nodded emptily.

"Alright," he agreed, since he didn't have a choice in the matter.

And with that, Eve picked up her bag and stormed around the table. She hesitated by the exit, but then resumed in her steps, knocking open the cellar door despite Bo not having knocked yet.

She was gone quickly, and James couldn't bring himself to move.

Caspar would be down any second, and he'd have to collect himself. He had to... to get over this. It was only going to hinder the mission. It was only going to...

James buried his face in his hands and held his breath. He counted down three solid seconds.

One.

Every bridge was burning. Even new ones.

Two.

Life after this would never be the same. He'd be hated everywhere he went. Forever an enemy of the resistance; forever an enemy of the kingdom.

Three.

He couldn't think about what came after. Tomorrow wasn't guaranteed.

He just had to make it to the end of Aurna. If he could make it there, his mission would be done. Whatever came next, at least he could rest knowing he did it.

He'd finally do something right.

Music filled the community hall as the string quartet played in melodic harmony with the floutist soloist and the bassoonist. The stage sat at the end of the room, slightly raised over the wooden floors. The walls were strung with greenery and strings of popcorn. Candlelight filled the room with warmth in every corner, flickering from the chandeleirs. Tables lined the edges of the room with arrays of treats; cookies, cakes, and hot teas. At the center of it all was the dancefloor, where dozens and dozens of townsfolk danced to the music.

James stood nervously at the furthest snack table, watching Ingrid across the room, talking to Hellen and Fonzi.

The Dance of the Winter Solstice was always the biggest dance of the year. Normally, James tried not to think too much on it, and he'd merely enjoy the food and the music with friends. But this year was different.

For several months, now, he and Ingrid had been... pining. Back and forth. It was all a little vague, and new to him. He was, after all, only 16. He'd never been on a real date before. And... he'd never asked a girl he actually liked to dance, either.

He was debating on it. Really, he was being a coward, thinking on it for far too long.

And apparently, he'd been hiding long enough for Jack to take notice, because he snuck up beside him, bumping his shoulder.

"How many have you had?" Jack asked in a teasing tone, pointing his chin to the array of baked goods beside James.

James scrunched up his shoulders, sheepishly looking down at the powdered cookie in his hands. Now self aware, he dropped it on the plate in front of him.

"Three," he lied. "How many have you had?"

Jack's next look suggested he didn't buy the lie. But, he instead answered confidently, "I stopped counting once I started needing two hands to keep track."

Feeling a little less guilty about his own over-consumption, James shrunk his head down a bit.

"...I've had twenty-two," he admitted. Because unlike Jack, he had been counting. Mostly because he'd set his maximum to 30.

Jack lowly whistled, looking impressed. "Damn. Got me beat." He glanced out over the dance floor, seeming to follow where James was previously gazing. "Think you can still manage a dance, then?"

James tilted his head to the side.

"I don't know," he said timidly. "I... might not."

That earned him a mildly questioning look from his friend. "But, you like dancing," he countered simply.

James shrugged stiffly in defense. "It's... well, yeah. Yes."

Jack quirked both brows, very pointedly. "And you like Ingrid, right?" he prompted, tone gentle but unashamedly blunt.

James huffed through his nose.

"Well -- y-yes!" he said, his voice cracking in a squeak.

"Perfect!" Taking the plate from James's hands, Jack patted his shoulder with a far-too pleased grin. "I'll make Fonzi save eight more of these for you, so they'll be here for when you get back."

James awkwardly set the plate down on the table, but he wasn't sure why he was doing so. He didn't actually have the guts to ask Ingrid. Did he?

"Well what about you?" James retorted. "Have you asked Hellen yet?"

"Uh," Jack scoffed, "what's there to ask about?" Then promptly found himself a pastry and aggressively bit into it with another, more nervous-sounding, scoff.

"If I'm asking Ingrid to dance," James said, keeping his voice down. "Then you're asking Hellen!"

Mouth still full, Jack shushed at him. "Can't, I'm busy."

James narrowed his eyes at him, pouting. "I'm not doing it if you're not doing it," he challenged.

Mirroring his expression, Jack swallowed his food. Then sighed after a beat of sustained staring. "This is stupid," he murmured, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "We can maim a guy in more ways than we can count, yet we can't ask pretty girls to dance."

James sighed, scrunching up his nose as he stuck his hands in his pockets, looking over again to where Hellen, Ingrid, and Kirk were all laughing together by the edge of the dancefloor. Ingrid had her hair done up in a bun, and she was wearing long, dangling earrings that looked like little icicles.

It was really pretty.

Ugh.

"Yes we can," James said, feeling a surge of determination on behalf of his friend. He turned to Jack and offered him a hand to shake. "You're going to do it because I'm going to do it. We're going over there together."

Jack, who'd already lost himself to watching Hellen longingly, turned back with a surprised look and smudge of powdered sugar on his face. "...We are?"

"Yes!" James said, wishing Jack would catch on faster before James lost his courage. "And we're doing it now."

He grabbed a napkin off the table and handed it to Jack.

"Wipe your face," he said.

Jack had powdered sugar on his upper lip. Bolstered by James's bout of confidence, Jack obliged with renewed determination.

"Dessert be damned," he declared, dropping his own plate on top of James's, "we're going dancing."

"We're going dancing!" James echoed, taking Jack's hand and pulling him out past the dessert table so they could stop being cowards and get a dance.

How had it all come to this?

James hadn't been asleep when his door creaked open late that night, but he jolted up anyway. He thought he'd locked it, but he must have forgotten, because someone was clearly in his room.

It was past midnight. He couldn't see a thing.

Sitting up straight, James tried to will his eyes into adjusting faster as the shadow closed the door behind them. From what little he could perceive of their silhouette, they were tall, lean, and dark-haired-- Ingrid.

It was Ingrid, wasn't it?

"What are you doing?" he asked, seeing her shadow drift to the desk. He could only hear the sound of shuffling as she searched for matches, and then one sputtered to life in her hand.

The dim light of the flame caught just enough on her face to confirm it was her. She held the match to the wick, waiting for the sitting lantern to catch and breathe to life. In a few seconds of tense silence, James stared at her, trying to figure out what was going on.

And then he smelled it. The stench of alcohol wafted over to his side of the room, and he realized Ingrid and Hellen must've gone out again.

Ingrid was drunk. Which meant she'd be even less rational than normal.

Nervous, he already began thinking of the best way to usher her out of his room. She shook out the match as the lantern filled his room with dim light. It was just enough to see by, but her face was still cast in dark shadows.

Was Hellen asleep already? Maybe he could get her to mediate.

"It's not fair," Ingrid said, slouching down into the chair at his desk.

James hesitated. Slipping out from under his covers, he swung his legs off the side of the bed, watching her.

"We can't even have a real conversation anymore," she said.

That was true. But she'd also been avoiding him as much as he had been avoiding her.

"I just didn't think you'd be so quick to move on," she continued, her words slurring. "Like all of it... didn't mean anything."

James felt it would be unwise to respond. She kept talking.

"How long were you waiting for it to be over?" she asked, holding her head in her hand as she leaned over the desk. "How long did you resent me for not ending it first? Was I wrong for hanging on?"

She paused, as if expecting an answer. The proceeding silence was agonizingly empty as James pressed his lips together, forcing himself not to answer. He knew she didn't want to hear it.

She wanted pity, and she wanted comfort. If he gave her a real answer, the naval gazing would turn to anger, and he'd rather not be on the recieving end of another one of her tirades. That was part of what had pushed him to cut it off to begin with, if not for the impending heist and inevitable life change. There was no way for her to know their lives were about to sever in two very different directions, and he couldn't explain it to her to make her feel better either.

There was enough material on the surface to justify their relationship ending. She just wanted something he didn't anymore.

James watched as she rubbed her face, leaning heavily onto the desk in visible distress. He got to his feet, briefly rubbing his eyes as he let out a sigh.

"I still love you," she said.

And the way she said it made him feel numb and guilty at the same time. She sounded like she was about to cry, but more than anything, she was likely to do or say something she'd regret, if she hadn't already. James would've been willing to have this conversation if they both were sober; but this wasn't fair, and he didn't want her to feel the sting of embarassment in the morning. At this rate, she already would. He just didn't want it getting worse.

He walked up to the edge of the desk, tapping the wood lightly to get her attention. She lifted her head from her hands, looking up at him with tears shining in her pale blue eyes. Even in the dark they still managed to be piercing, and it was hard not to feel bad for her.

She reached out to him, but he gently brushed her hand away.

"You should go to bed," he said.

Her eyes drifted to the bed behind him.

"Your bed," he said.

"Can I stay?" she asked instead, clearly ignoring the distinction.

James let out a longer sigh.

"No," he said quietly. "You can't stay."

Ingrid looked up at him pleadingly. James blinked slowly, feeling weary.

"Go to bed, Ingrid," he said softly. "For your future self, that has to deal with you in the morning."

"You think I wouldn't be here if I was sober," she said slowly. Her eyes travelled down him in a way he wished they hadn't. He wasn't sure if another 'get out of my room' would suffice at this rate. Perhaps he'd have to bargain. Pointedly, he gestured to the door behind her.

She inhaled sharply as she pushed the chair back and got to her feet, exceeding him in height as she always did - by a good four inches. She exhaled slowly, and the smell was even stronger. Her long hair hung over her shoulders, shading half her face.

"It's a good thing she left," Ingrid said quietly as she locked eyes with his.

Though he hadn't shared much about that night, he knew how much everyone else talked. If she didn't hear it from Fonzi, she heard it from Carter or Hellen. And it stung. Not just that she knew, but that she was using it as a weapon. He wished she didn't know where it would hurt, but she did.

Ingrid said slowly reached to touch his face. He wanted to inch away, but instead his body grew rigid, and her thumb brushed against his cheek as she looked down at him.

He couldn't tell if she was looking at him with longing or disgust.

"Spare her from this," Ingrid whispered. "She doesn't deserve it. No one does."

And for an uncomfortably long time and many seconds followed, James waited for her to pull her hand away as she looked down at him.

She didn't.

Swallowing, he brought his hand up to guide hers away. Thankfully, she let him, but she didn't back off either.

"Please," he said wearily. "Just go to bed."

He didn't know how it'd come to this. How they'd come to be two completely different people. Maybe they always were, and he just didn't see it before.

Her eyes turned up with a wry smile that made his skin crawl.

"Ask me again," she cooed with a growing smile.

His stomach dropped.

Had he been playing into some sick kind of game?

For some reason, she wanted this. She wanted him to plead, or beg. To roll over for her, and let her walk all over him again. Because when she couldn't keep her distance, she had to use him for something. If it couldn't be comfort, then it was this. It wasn't fair.

Frowning deeply, he shoved her instead.

Which he quickly realized was the wrong decision.

She swayed, and her hip bumped into the side of the desk, where she slapped her hand against its surface to steady herself with a dry laugh in surprise. He hadn't pushed her hard at all, and he wanted to think she'd exaggerated the fall, but it didn't matter what the truth was: one second in, and this looked bad. Really bad.

Two seconds in, she was lurching forward towards him, and annoyingly, his instinct was to catch her. She fell into his arms but brought momentum with her. With a laugh, she fell into him, knocking them against the bed, and his legs dangled off the edge as her full weight hit him.

"No. Not this," he said, pushing her off.

He hurried to his feet, and decided it was better to do something in his control. If he couldn't get her to leave, then he would leave.

"Tiberius," she slurred as he ran for the door.

"Nope," he muttered again as he closed the door behind him, fleeing down the hall in his pajamas in the dark, grateful that he'd at least been in the manor long enough to know there was nothing to trip over.

He was sure everyone could hear his hasty footsteps darting down the stairs. The further he got, the more his head clouded, and he stumbled out the front door, closing it louder than intended.

Maybe if he stopped, someone would come out and talk to him: but that possibility was a path ridden with potholes. If it was one of the manor staff, he'd have to make all of this make sense. If it was any of his friends, he'd have to explain it even more. Either way, he'd have to go back, and no matter how tired he was, he wasn't ready to return to his room.

It wasn't safe anymore, and James didn't know where to go at this hour that was.

Stumbling through the darkness, James went the only direction he could think of: to the stables.

Billy, at least, wouldn't question him, and it would be quiet. No one would bother him there until morning, and he could manage a short nap. He just needed to be away, until Ingrid had sobered up, and things were normal again.

Just as James thought he was about to find refuge, though, he discovered that the stables were locked at night. Growing more desperate and admittedly a bit manic, he abandoned the locked door and went around to a window that had been propped open. Climbing atop barrels and hay bales, he pulled himself up to the narrow window at the top of the wall, pushing his way through.

There wasn't a lot to grab onto that he could see, and he fell in from the eight-foot height with a grunt.

He landed on his back. Too winded to get up, and too dizzy to look around, James leaned back into the pile of hay he'd landed in, hoping it didn't have any droppings in it.

It was too dark to tell anyway.

He thought about getting up from it several times, but it never happened, and when his heart finally stopped racing, the world did too.

Until cold water was dumped on him, and his eyes shot open.

James shot up with a gasp, squinting into bright morning light. Behind the water dripping in his eyes, he recognized Carter standing over him.

"Could you be any less of a disaster?" Carter's voice rang overhead. "For even a day, could you try?"

James wiped his eyes, trying to put together what time it was. It felt like he'd only closed his eyes minutes ago. Clearly, more time had passed.

"You're lucky I woke up first to cover your ass," Carter went on. "The night maid and the night guard saw you run out last night, at 3 no less. I had to pay them hush money to keep their mouths shut. I told them you were having a traumatic episode - tugged on their heart strings for you."

Unsure if he should feel grateful or guilty, James blinked his eyes clear and squinted up at Carter just in time to catch Carter's intent stare, with his hands on his hips.

"What the hell happened, Tiberius?" Carter barked.

There was a lot to take in.

First of all, James had to wonder how Carter had found him here. He could've gotten a tip from the guard out front, but that would've meant James was followed to some degree before being determined "not a threat." If that was a case, that was just another degree of humiliation he'd have to bear and bury with the rest. But if Carter hadn't been told where James was, then he'd gone searching for him.

How early had Carter woken up? And how soon did he realize James was missing?

Maybe the better question to ask was: how much did Carter overhear last night? His room was across the hall. Not exactly sharing a wall -- but that would've been Ingrid's room, which she obviously wasn't in.

Carter wasn't an idiot, nor was he a heavy sleeper. Carter was asking for James to fill in the blanks, but not because he was oblivious.

More than anything, though, Carter wanted dirt.

For years, he'd been collecting dirt on everyone. Hellen, Kirk, Fonzi, James... Ingrid had always been the hardest, because despite her less-than-warm personality, she upheld a very put-together appearance. Being able to strike anything against her was difficult, because there wasn't ever enough solid basis for it.

If James told Carter what she did last night, though... well, he could imagine Carter holding that over her head as long as she'd let him.

Because the only thing Ingrid was truly susceptible to was shame. And she did everything she could to avoid feeling it -- but this would be inescapable. Especially in Carter's hands.

He wouldn't do that to Ingrid. He wasn't happy with her, but he still couldn't bear to spite her in that way.

So he said: "Nothing."

To which, Carter quickly spat: "Bullshit."

"I'll rephrase," James said. "It's none of your business."

"You broke into the stables and you're covered in dirt and hay," Carter said flatly. "It's a miracle nobody else saw you, and honestly, I'm not even sure that's true."

"Add it to the article," James said, flopping back onto the hay underneath him.

"You're unbelievable," Carter said. "What did Ingrid say, hm? That she wants to get back together?"

"You should think more highly of her," James said. "She has more dignity than that."

"Something made you run out here to escape her," Carter said. "Like the dramatic child you are."

"I like hay," James said, patting the pile underneath him.

Carter cursed and then grabbed the front of James's shirt, yanking him upright again. James sat up and lifted his hands, which was enough for Carter to let go, for now.

"You know even Hellen knows how to function?" Carter said. "And she's a fucking alcoholic. What's your excuse?"

"Woah," James said, keeping his hands raised as his head started to spin from getting up too quickly. "That's--"

He wanted to say that was unkind to Hellen, but Carter didn't let him finish.

"Listen, Tiberius," Carter said. "I don't want to hear it. I've been cleaning up after your messes for months now, and it's not fair to me, nor is it fair to Hellen, or Ingrid, or Caspar, or any of us. I'm tired of having to cover for you, and I'm tired of having to explain why the world's greatest war hero can't do basic things like sleep in his own damn bed or draw boundaries with his ex."

Ouch.

"The fact the stable boy didn't find you first is a miracle," Carter said. "I'd thank the dragons, but it would've been better if you didn't look like shit."

James looked down at himself, unsure of what his face looked like, but acknowledging the red dirt that caked his feet and smudged his pajama pants. And his shirt, somehow, too.

Probably from climbing. That was his guess.

"The least you could do is make yourself look presentable," Carter said, setting down a set of folded clothed on the edge of the hay stack.

James looked down, putting together more observations than he wanted to:

- Those were his clothes.
- Carter had gone into his room to get the clothes.
- Carter had looked through his things.
- It was possible Carter had looked through more than just his clothes.
- Carter had seen Ingrid in his room, if she hadn't already left on her own.
- If he saw Ingrid in or on his bed, that truly was the worst option.

James stared at the folded shirt and pants, trying to figure out what to say that didn't sound like an accusation.

"Get dressed," Carter commanded.

And it was strange, because James had two instinctual responses. In his head, he heard the voice of his commanding officer. In his heart, he heard the voice of his best friend. But in truth, both were wrong and out of date.

Carter was no longer his friend, and he'd far exceeded his former rank. Both of them had.

Feeling hollow, James got to his feet and picked up the shirt. Carter turned away with a roll of his eyes, pretending to take interest in the nearest horse while James quickly changed.

He was still without shoes, but at least he wasn't dirty or in pajamas. It left one or two less questions for people to ask when they saw him. He'd have to settle for that.

James let out a loud sigh as indication that he was done. Carter turned back around with his hands in his pockets.

"So, are you going to be able to keep things cordial until we get back to the Moonlight Kingdom?" Carter asked. "Where you won't have to associate with her anymore?"

The way he asked the question made it sound like James was responsible for the both of them. He really only had control over himself.

"I will," James said.

Carter hummed.

"I want to believe you, Tiberius," he said. "But... you really haven't given me a lot of confidence in your character. Your current record is... inconsistent, and if you don't pull it together soon, I'm afraid even the most flattering of articles won't save you."

Carter pursed his lips and sighed, like he was about to reluctantly give James some news. But James could tell from the soulless look in his eyes that Carter had been contemplating whatever this was for a long time, and was glad to have reached this point where he could finally say it.

James braced himself.

"I'll tell it to you straight," Carter said. "You're a PR disaster, Tiberius. If you'd kept up the perfect poster-boy persona, you'd be the opposite, but with your current trajectory, you're only giving me a headache. I wish I wasn't--"

Yeah, right.

"--But I'm forced to think about the king's image in this matter. Not just yours or my own. Because of that, I've made the decision to assign to you..."

Carter paused, like he was searching for the word.

"On paper, she'll be your bodyguard," Carter said too-pleasantly. "But for all intents and purposes, she's your handler until we leave Ruddlan."

James stared at him.

"You're giving me a babysitter," he said flatly.

"Your words, not mine," Carter said.

"At all times?" James asked in disbelief.

Carter shrugged. "She won't follow you into the washroom, if that's what you mean."

James scoffed.

"And I..." he started.

"It's not up for dispute, no," Carter said with a pout. "In fact, it starts the moment you leave this..."

Carter looked around, his eyes scanning the stalls. "...Nice little safe-haven you have here," Carter said with a glint in his eye. "Her name's Deidra, and she's just outside."

As if he couldn't be even more condescending, Carter reached over and patted James's arm with an empty smile.

"Go say hi," Carter said.

James bit back the next words that came to him because he knew they would only poke the bear.

"See you at breakfast," Carter said, pulling away and trotting off to the front door.

James stared after him, catching sight of the back of what looked to be a very tall woman's head just outside the door.

Now he really had to be careful. He was officially being watched.

At all times.

Leilan was early today for his job at the estates, which wasn't unusual for him. The more time he spent there, the more he could learn-- and if he wasn't expected there, the easier it was to glimpse the things he wasn't supposed to see.

Normally, he had to snoop around for a while longer before discovering anything interesting. But today, all it took was passing in front of Barlowe's door to hear something that made him pause in the hallway.

"This is unacceptable," Barlowe said, her voice raising but even. "It's not enough to have your hands on my militia. Now you're making scenes in my estate. I can't keep covering for you if your people are this sloppy."

Leilan instantly held his breath and crept to stand near the door, leaning against the wall and folding his arms as though he were just guarding the office-- which was his job, sometimes. Barlowe had another person from the Blue Suns in there, didn't she?

"Tell him that if he can't get your underlings to get their act together, we're going to have to reevaluate our agreement," Barlowe said.

"Sounds like you want a meeting with my boss," a woman's voice responded with the slyness of a snake.

It make Leilan's skin crawl. Her voice was laced with a threat. And for the first time since he'd known Barlowe, he could hear the veiled fear in her voice that followed.

"I'm just tired of cleaning up messes that aren't my own," Barlowe said, voice lowering.

Whatever looks were being exchanged behind the closed doors, Leilan could feel the tension in the ensuing silence.

"Thank you for your payment, Ms. Barlowe," the woman's voice cooed all-too-calmly. "I'll tell the Revelator your complaints."

Another tense silence.

"Get out of my office," Barlowe said, but there was no heat in it.

Leilan was already moving aside, hurriedly walking around a corner. He could hear her weak exertion of what little power she seemed to have in this situation.

Then footsteps began to approach the door. It creaked open-- and then the footsteps went in the direction Leilan had come from. Presumably to exit the mansion.

Carefully and quietly, Leilan peeked out to see who it was.

A woman was leaving, and Leilan remembered the same dreaded hair pulled back - the height and build of Rita, a high ranking sun. So she was back, then. The first time he'd noticed her at appointments with Barlowe-- much of which resembled this one-- he'd reported back to the resistance, and Cyrin had told him what they knew. She was important, because whenever she did something, she was acting directly on behalf of Sparrow. He must've wanted to keep his hold on Barlowe after the chaos he'd stirred up this week.

Barlowe's office door flew open as Ms. Barlowe stormed out, already lighting a cigar in between her fingers. Heels clopping across the hardwood floors as she bee-lined for the back porch, she fled her office in a hurry. Likely to destress with a smoke.

Now that the hall and office were silent and empty, Leilan peeked out for real. He looked at the door with confusion, but also some hope.

Barlowe probably hadn't had the time or presence of mind to lock her door before she'd left in such a panicked hurry, had she?

It was time to do his second job.

Leilan hurried to the door, pulling at the handle. It opened easily, and he slipped inside.

Barlowe's office overlooked the garden from the second floor. She had her curved desk directly in front of the open windows, with a space designed for meetings: a setup of cushioned chairs facing the desk with a small table in between them. The room matched the palette of Ruddlan, with a russet woven rug on the floor, mahogany bookshelves, and a dark wood floor. Pip, the canary with clipped wings, was huddled in his cage by the minibar. Leilan always felt sorry for him when he was in here.

He waved his hand in front of his face to clear the air of lingering smoke as he approached the desk. It was always surprisingly cluttered, with ashtrays serving as paperweights over spreads of disorganized documents and files covering nearly every surface. She desperately needed a secretary. Well, she had one, but it was Alan, and although he was nice, he never seemed to be doing his job of keeping things in order. In fact, things usually seemed messier after he did something. So Leilan wasn't sure he really counted.

At least it was easy to search through without raising suspicion.

Leilan's gaze landed on an envelope near the top that was not-so-subtly stamped with a familiar seal. Eight rays of a blue sun extended from a center square into the shape of... well, he would've said the shape every gang member had tattooed on them somewhere. But only one person had a full sun.

A short message was written underneath the bottom ray.

Don't forget who got you here.

Leilan picked it up, frowning at it. So, the Blue Suns were calling in a debt. He didn't know how much Barlowe was being asked for, but he had the feeling this was an invoice he was holding.

It was not something to open here, in someone else's office. But it was not something to let slip through his fingers either.

Leilan opened one side of his jacket, slipping the letter flat against his chest. Then, with a look around to make sure everything else was in place, he hurried back out of the office and left down the hall again.

He made a complete loop of the mansion-- ensuring Barlowe would have enough time to return to her office-- before he stood at her door again and knocked.

"Come in," Barlowe barked, a bit sharper than usual.

Well. This was going to be fun. Leilan reminded himself that he had no clue what could be causing her day to be going badly today.

He opened the door, offering Barlowe a polite smile and nod as he walked in and took a seat in front of her desk.

"Good morning, Ms. Barlowe," Leilan greeted. "How has your week been?"

"We'll skip the pleasantries today, Mr. Akamai," Ms. Barlowe said with forced politeness. "Please give your report."

Leilan let some confused surprise flicker over his face, but he carried on, as he knew he would've if he was none the wiser to what was happening.

"Of course," he said. "Now, there's been some unexpected developments..."



With one report down, Leilan now had to deliver another to Bo.

He was weaving his way through the South End, headed to the safehouse, when a dreading feeling started to sink over him. He didn't know what it was, but every turn, every step forward-- it came with the instinct screaming at him that something was wrong, and he was being an idiot for not noticing it. And he didn't like it at all.

Was the instinct right? Was there something bad happening around him that he needed to be aware of?

Leilan slowed his walk, looking around him a few times. The first few glances around, he didn't notice anything. But then he focused on the shadows of a nearby building, and he stopped in his steps when he spotted a shock of familiar white hair.

Dragons above. So Alexander Kingsman was following him? He hadn't been needlessly paranoid?

Alexander, standing at the corner of a shop two buildings down across the street, smiled when Leilan made eye contact. And then had the audacity to wave.

Gods. Leilan was a spy, but it was exhausting to act normal about this. There was nothing normal about it at all.

Channeling every bit of casualness he had, Leilan raised a hand to return the wave, along with a surprised but pleasant smile. Of course, Alexander only took that as an invitation to approach. Much to Leilan's internal dismay.

Strolling over quickly to close the distance, Alexander approached with a smile.

"Fancy seeing you here," he said.

"Likewise," Leilan said. "What does bring you here?"

"Oh, just some idle curiosity," Alexander said. "Saw you walking by. Where are you off to?"

That wasn't really an answer. The South End didn't exactly sparkle with intrigue.

"I thought I'd grab a bite after work," Leilan answered, deciding that of the people he knew here who he could pretend to visit, none of them should be mentioned, for their safety. "It's been a day. My boss appears to be mad-- not with me, but sometimes that doesn't even matter, you know?"

Alexander nodded as if he understood.

"Always awful when they take it out on you, I know it," Alexander said. "Would you like some company for your dinner this evening? I don't mind lending an ear if you need to air it out."

Leilan minded quite a bit. Especially since he wasn't even planning to have dinner, and Bo was expecting him soon. But he didn't have that kind of freedom.

"You'd be welcome," he invited. "I'd like to hear how life's been treating you since the festival, in particular."

Alexander's expression brightened, but just as he was about to accept the invitation, a woman came bursting out of an alley, looking around wildly until she spotted Alexander. Eye going wide, she rushed up to him and clung to his arm with no warning.

"You're a mage hunter, right?" she pleaded, sounding panicked.

Alexander stiffened, glancing up at Leilan with a more sobered, but distacted expression at the woman's sudden appearance.

"What's the matter?" Alexander asked.

"I saw a man using magic down the street! If-- if no one gets him now, he'll get away!" she said urgently.

Alexander shot Leilan a tense smile. At least this time, Leilan didn't have to smile back, as he felt suddenly cold in the summer evening.

"I'll catch up with you later," Alexander said, putting his arm around the woman and beckoning her to lead the way. The woman took Alexander's hand and ran off with him, back the way she came.

Leilan stared at their departing forms in alarm and confusion. Another mage had been caught? Who? Would they make it, or would Alexander claim another victim? Was there anything to do about it?

Then someone tapped Leilan's shoulder.

"Hey," Jordan said as Leilan whipped around.

Leilan felt his shoulders sink in relief-- then tense again with worry.

"Jordan!" he whispered. "You can't be here. Alexander is around."

"I know," Jordan said lowly. "I got him out of your hair for you, silly."

He reached over and playfully ruffled Leilan's hair.

Leilan blinked, slowly putting it together. He let out an amused huff.

"You arranged that?" he asked.

"Spoiler alert: the mage is a guy throwing dirt," Jordan said. "So, it won't last very long. We should both get out of here while it lasts."

Leilan didn't need to be told twice, resuming his walk back in the direction of the safehouse and waving Jordan along.

"Don't know what I'd do without you," he said with a slight grin.

"Die of embarassment, I guess," Jordan teased.

"That," Leilan agreed. "Definitely that."

Shane flopped down on his bed, shuffling over to one side and taking a pillow with him to tuck under his shoulder.

"I have a confession," he said with a silly grin. "I had coffee three hours ago. I think I ruined my sleep schedule again."

Kirk huffed through his nose, flipping onto his side to face Shane.

"You can't keep getting away with this," he teased. "Your body will get back at you some day."

"Uh huh," Shane drew out, as though unconvinced. "Or maybe it'll lose the need for sleep entirely."

"That's not how it works," Kirk said with a smirk.

Shane extended a hand pleadingly to him. "Please, don't burst my delusional bubble."

"Fine. Continue living on in willful ignorance," Kirk said, booping Shane's nose playfully.

Shane grinned wider, shifting closer to his boyfriend and resting his forehead on his shoulder.

"There is a definite upside," he said. "I won't accidentally drift off while talking to you. I get more time."

"I suppose that's something," Kirk said playfully, but there was no bite in his words. Only teasing affection. He let out a small, contented sigh as Shane leaned in.

Shane let out a quiet huff of laughter through his nose, taking a moment to get settled and comfortable. He knew the two of them had things to talk about. Kirk was supposed to have met with Eve today, and he no doubt had something about it to share. And if he was honest... he'd been afraid of it all day. Of what he might hear. Of how he wasn't sure what answers he dreaded and which ones he hoped for.

But the two of them found ways to create a space where Shane's fear wasn't all he could think about. It was hard to focus on it at all. And so he felt ready when Kirk spoke again.

"It went alright," Kirk said softly, finally breaking the silence.

Both of them already knew that Kirk's meeting with Eve was the elephant in the room. He didn't even need to preface it.

"She was cordial," Kirk said. "Open to working together. We came to an agreement that I'd help get her information on the Blue Suns from the militia."

Shane nodded slightly, watching the side of Kirk's face as he listened closely to every word.

"That's good," he said quietly.

"It was a lot of business," Kirk said. "It took some time to establish at least a base level trust. But I think... we've got something. Something we can build on, at least."

So Eve had become less trusting, too, in the last few years. Shane had a heavy feeling that that was his fault.

"When I brought you up in conversation," Kirk proceeded, slower. "She didn't let me get very far."

Shane took a deep breath and held it, feeling his chest tighten. This was it. This was where he learned.

"She said she didn't want me involved," he said. "And... all she really told me was that she'd 'take care of it.'"

Shane blinked, searching Kirk's eyes silently for a couple moments.

"'Take care of it?'" he echoed quietly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think it means you'll be getting a visit from her soon, when she's ready," Kirk said. "At least, that's what seemed to be implied."

Shane furrowed his brow.

Would she be finding him, then? Did she already know where he lived? Had she been completely aware of his whereabouts the entire time and... done nothing about it?

This wasn't the worst thing to discover. It would hurt more to learn she still hated him with a passion. But it still pained him to hear that she could be completely apathetic.

"I'm sorry," Kirk said quietly. "I wish there was more I could tell you."

Shane exhaled shakily, nestling a little closer to him.

"No, you've done your part," he said quietly. "The ball's in her court now. Thank you for talking to her."

"You're welcome," Kirk said, reaching around to give Shane a hug. "I hope she turns up."

Shane hugged him back, pressing his cheek against Kirk's shoulder. He always seemed to forget what a hug could do for him. As much as his heart ached in this moment, it felt bearable with the physical reminder that someone was there for him. He'd resigned himself to pushing forward without that for so long.

"Me too," he whispered, giving him a gentle squeeze.

There was a small silence that passed as Kirk held Shane close, hugging him gently. Between them, there were few words to describe the heartache of this moment, but Shane knew in his heart that this was Kirk's way of saying: I'm with you. I'm so sorry for this pain. You're not alone.

Shane hoped his gratitude-- the silent I know, and it means the world to me. Having you here is the best thing I could ask for-- was just as tangible to Kirk.

After what felt like a long time of simple comfort, Kirk let out a small sigh and pulled away. He didn't quite meet Shane's eyes again, but he seemed to have more to say. There was a saddened but severe expression on his features as Kirk looked down at the space on the bed between them. His brows were knit together, like he was unsure of what to say, or how to say it.

"What is it?" Shane asked softly. "You're thinking of something."

"I'm nervous," Kirk said quietly. "There's something I want to tell you... but I'm not supposed to."

Shane watched his face with a soft gaze, setting his hand over his and brushing the back of it comfortingly with his fingers.

"Why not?" he asked gently.

"I swore to keep it secret," he said softly. "But under the circumstances... I didn't have much of a say in the matter."

His words were a little strange, and it took Shane a moment to realize why. Kirk wasn't talking about Eve anymore.

He took Kirk's hand, holding it gently as he tried to meet his eyes.

"I'm good with secrets," Shane said quietly. "If you wanted to share something sensitive with me, I wouldn't tell another soul. That's a promise."

Kirk took in a deep breath.

"I hope it won't have to stay a secret forever," he said softly. "But... perhaps, for now. With you."

Shane nodded, still watching his face.

"My lips are sealed until then," he said gently. "What's on your mind?"

"There's... a secret," Kirk began. "That me and those in my platoon were pressed to keep, after the war. It had to do with Verna's death, and how the war ended."

Kirk took a deep breath.

"The Resurgence wouldn't have ended if it weren't for me," he admitted lowly.

A pause went by.

Shane wracked his brain for what he knew of what Kirk did that day. It wasn't much, except that he was there-- and he was captured. All of the credit had been passed to Tiberius in a story that made little sense for one man to be able to pull off... but because it was the only repeated account, it was hard to imagine anything else happening.

There was more, then. Kirk had played a part, and it probably made for a much more understandable sequence of events.

"I wouldn't be alive, either," he continued. "The reason Tiberius was able to save us alone was because... he used a weapon. One that I invented."

Kirk swallowed thickly.

"It was, essentially, a powerful smoke bomb," he said. "One that released airborne lumshade."

The implications set in slowly.

Lumshade was a powerful drug-- it could make even the most trained of mages helpless in seconds to minutes-- but it was limited in its application. Syringes and blowdarts, the best ways to deliver an injection, were difficult to use in war. The drug couldn't reliably stop an army in its tracks, even if the soldiers had all the doses they needed for the people they were up against.

But to make it airborne...

Shane had never been to a battle. He'd never seen this bomb deployed. But in his head, he could imagine purple smoke spreading, passing through ranks of helpless fighters, unstoppable and frighteningly effective.

He could imagine Tiberius with it, alone, but with the most powerful and unexpected advantage one could have going into a battle.

Shane held onto Kirk's hand, squeezing tighter as he looked at him with aching sadness.

"Kirk," he said softly. "You do not need to feel shame for this."

"I want to agree with you," Kirk said, closing his eyes as his brows knit together. "But... all I've known since is an inescapable guilt. For the past year and a half... it's been slowly eating me alive."

Kirk looked back up at Shane with his eyes brimming with tears.

"I know it does no one any good to punish myself endlessly for it," he said. "But I don't know what else to do. This... should never have been permissable. It never should've been allowed to happen, and yet it did. And the worst part is... hardly anyone knows."

Shane felt his heart break at the words. Gods, guilt was terrible. It spoke in lies for only you to hear and drowned out truth and reason. And it killed him to hear it had twisted around Kirk's life.

"And my deepest fear is that, even if the world did know -- that it wouldn't even matter," Kirk said. "Because why would it matter how a mage died when no one ever sees the value of their life in the first place?"

He knew what Kirk was saying, and it was chilling. How could the world find an act of war inhumane if it refused to see the victims as fully human?

Shane reached up to Kirk's face, cupping his cheek and gently brushing away a tear that had just fallen with his thumb.

"Kirk, you're an alchemist," he whispered. "A brilliant one at that. This is what you do-- you see potential that no one else does, you figure out how to make it happen, and you see what it does. Sometimes, it has far worse consequences than you ever imagined when you first thought of it-- and it's heartbreaking, but someone has to be the one to learn that painful lesson. If it wasn't you, maybe someone else would come along in a few decades, even centuries, and know how to do what you did. But I know this: they wouldn't have the strength to realize, learn, and try again with more wisdom and a commitment to doing what's right. Because that's something you have, Kirk, and that's special."

Shane paused, intertwining his fingers with Kirk's.

"You will always be better than the worst thing you've done," he said softly. "You've seen that you can change the world. Just imagine what wonderful things could be brought into existence if you did it for the better."

Kirk nodded slowly, and tears began to stream down his face as he began to cry.

Shane knew he couldn't wipe them all, so he wrapped his arms around Kirk again, bringing him close to his chest. Kirk's forehead found Shane's shoulder, and Shane felt his eyes prick a little too as his sleeve turned wet.

"It feels like a weight's been lifted off of me that I didn't even realize I was holding," Kirk said quietly into Shane's shoulder.

Shane rubbed Kirk's back, squeezing him tighter but gently.

"I'm so sorry you've been carrying this," he said quietly. "You shouldn't have had to. It's a terrible and strange fact that the people who should feel guilt feel none of it, and it always goes to the ones who don't deserve it. You're so much more than what your mind has been telling you."

"I know," Kirk said softly. "But knowing that... it's not enough."

Shane was about to speak, but Kirk beat him to it.

"I have to do something," he said. "It's why... I told Eve I'm working on a lumshade anti-serum. And I'm going to do everything I can to make it work."

Shane tightened his embrace, looking down at Kirk as realization spread through him. He felt his pulse quicken.

The resistance was still in Ruddlan, apparently. Eve was a participant. And now Kirk had been recruited into their activities.

"You are?" he breathed with quiet, surprised hope.

"I can't tell you everything," Kirk said. "The who, the where. But yes, I'm going to give everything I can to developing something for mages so they can fight back against lumshade. So they have a fighting chance."

Shane rested his head over Kirk's, taking a deep breath. His chest felt like it was swelling with more relief than air.

"Kirk, that's incredible," he said softly. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. This... this would make such a positive difference. And I know that if anyone can do it, it's you."

Kirk hugged Shane a little tighter.

"That's what I'm hoping for," he said softly.

"It's better than hope," Shane said quietly, lifting his hand to wipe another tear away from Kirk's cheek. "I have complete faith in you. Not everyone can change the world single-handedly, and even fewer people could do it twice, but I think you already have everything it takes."

"Thank you," Kirk whispered.

Shane pressed a light kiss to the top of Kirk's forehead, happy to hold him in his arms as he sensed Kirk getting tired. Despite the recent caffeine intake, he felt some drowsiness settling over him. Maybe they would fall asleep just like this.

Then the sound of something hitting and bouncing against the window startled him out of that thought.

Confused, Shane lifted his head away from Kirk to see Shrimp with his ears flattened distastefully as the cat bonked his head against the window. Something must've been outside-- but birds didn't get his attention like this. Shane assumed he would stop there, but instead Shrimp let out a strident, almost plantive meow and pawed at the window, standing on his hind legs.

"Huh," Shane murmured. "He doesn't do that often."

"He seems... uneasy?" Kirk said as he sat up sleepily.

Shrimp rammed his head against the glass again. If there was substantial evidence his cat had a brain, Shane would've been worried about him damaging it.

"Maybe?" Shane said, sitting up reluctantly and sliding off the bed.

He got to his feet, walking to the window and scooping Shrimp up to cradle him in his arms. Ninety-nine times out of one hundred, Shrimp would immediately beg for pets, but his attention remained focused on the window.

Kirk got up and joined Shane at his side, reaching over to pet Shrimp's head as he glanced out the window.

"...Huh," Kirk murmured.

Shane peered through the glass. Below, the dim gaslights bathed the street in a sickly glow, casting eerie shadows of leaves shifting in the wind. He couldn't see anything else.

"What?" he asked quietly. "Is... is someone...?"

He couldn't stop the thought that sent a shiver through him. Is someone out there trying to hurt us again?

But then something passed through the light-- something that gleamed auburn-- and that question was quickly replaced with another in his mind.

"Is that...?" Kirk asked, squinting out the window.

"Tiberius?" Shane whispered.

It was.

By the time Shane recognized him, Tiberius was already moving out of view. Quickly and quietly, he seemed to be avoiding the view of militia guards that had been posted outside the manor, and even different homes on their street since the shooting. Sticking to the shadows, he disappeared into the darkness. Once he was gone, Shrimp visibly relaxed, no longer appearing interested in anything around them.

Beside him, Kirk merely stared, looking bewildered. Shane slowly turned to him.

"...Is he prone to late-night adventures?" he asked slowly. "Ones where he sneaks out?"

"I don't know," Kirk said. "I don't think he's had to sneak out until now..."

Shane blinked. "Then what's changed?"

"He has a..." Kirk started, then pressed his lips together. "'Handler' now. Per Carter's discretion."

Shane's eyes widened.

"You mean, such as... supervision?" he asked incredulously. "Like he's some unruly child to watch over?"

"I guess he... I don't know, Carter didn't give us all of the details. He said it was for 'protection' but no one believes that. I think something happened a few days ago, but neither Carter nor Tiberius will talk about it," Kirk said. "I think it had something to do with Ingrid, but it's just a hunch."

Shane shook his head disbelievingly.

"That's insane," he muttered. "I'd sneak out too."

"Yeah," Kirk said, staring off out the window. "I don't blame him."

Kirk leaned forward a bit, as if he'd see something more. But Tiberius was already long gone.

"Not sure what he'd be up to at this hour, though," Kirk murmured.

Shane hesitated, lowering Shrimp to the ground. He didn't know either, but he didn't want to cast suspicion on Tiberius.

"Maybe it's nothing at all," he said. "It could just be a way of maintaining agency and freedom while Carter tries to control him."

"Yeah," Kirk said. "Let's go with that."

Shane wasn't sure if he'd managed to convince either of them, but he felt that they both agreed on something: they didn't want to speculate too far on this. Not over a strange and inexplicable, but likely harmless, event that concerned a friend of theirs.

And there were far worse things to encounter outside his house late at night.

He reached for Kirk's hand again and squeezed it, meeting his eyes with a small, gentle smile.

"It's okay," he said softly. "We're alright."

Kirl huffed through his nose, squeezing Shane's hand back.

"Back to cuddling?" Kirk asked with a small smile.

Shane grinned softly, intertwining their fingers together. He'd read his mind.

"Thought you'd never ask," he said.

This dream again.

Alistair knew where he was before he opened his eyes: back at the top of the mountain, where the air cooled his lungs and the wind whispered in his ears. It was normally pleasant up here. Pleasant and peaceful.

But this time, a storm brewed within him, matching the turbulent sky.

"What do you want from me?" he yelled into the vast expanse above.

His challenge seemed to awaken something in the wind. It intensified, pushing against him with increasing force. Hushed whispers blurred together, like an ominous discordant chorus with a rumble in the distance. The clouds, once wispy and innocuous, now thickened and darkened, swirling into a menacing vortex overhead.

"Answer the call," he heard in the overlapping whispers.

"Leave me alone!" he yelled instead, his composure crumbling as he struggled to maintain his footing on the peak.

"Answer the call," the persistent voice echoed again, each repetition overlapping with the next.

"I don't want to," he murmured, ducking his head against the now-violent gusts that lashed at his face. His voice rose to a shout, "I don't want to!"

"The world needs you," the voice said, clearer this time. A feminine voice, similar to the last dream.

Gentle, yet undeniably commanding.

This dream felt too real. Real enough that he felt the weight of his life's sorrows pressing down on him, and he was unable to make sense or care about this nonsensical dream, especially as the wind seemed intent on capturing his attention.

But he didn't care. Alistair retreated inwards, seeking refuge within himself.

"It doesn't," he whispered, eyes clenched shut against the stir of the storm. "It really doesn't."

"I need you," the voice said again. This time, pleading; almost heartbroken.

A sudden fierce gust at his back propelled him forward against the storm, like a hand keeping him from retreating. Forced by the relentless breeze, Alistair finally lifted his gaze to the darkening sky.

His eyes widened in shock as he beheld a massive creature slithering through the clouds, barreling towards him with terrifying speed. Instinctively, Alistair stumbled backward, too transfixed by the the gleaming silver scales and piercing, pale blue eyes that bore into his soul.

"Alistair," a different voice called out, yanking him from the precipice of the dream.

"Alistair," Alan repeated, his concerned face swimming into focus as Alistair's eyes fluttered open. "Hey. I think you had a bad dream."

Alistair wearily sighed, tiredly rubbing the sleep off his eyes. Lazily, he rolled onto his side, presenting his back to Alan. The gesture was more habit than intent as he recognized the rarity of his his brother's presence in his room.

It struck him that Alan must have altered his plans to be here, waiting for Alistair to wake. All because of the shared grief that hung over them both: Andy's death.

"What time is it?" Alistair mumbled, distantly focused on a wrinkle in his bed sheet as if it held all the answers in life.

Alan's weight settled on the bed as he positioned himself against the headboard. "It's... well, late. But not far off your usual waking time."

Alistair huffed a wry laugh, but it felt forced. His hand rested against the mattress, palm up. He was still waiting for the answers of life to materialize in it. "Yeah..."

"I'm sorry for waking you. You were muttering in your sleep. I figured you were having a bad dream," Alan went on. Despite Alistair turned away from him, he could feel his gentle concern emanating out of him, oozing from his gaze and words.

"It's fine," he replied, then hesitated before asking, "What did I say?"

"'What do you want from me', 'leave me alone', and 'I don't want to,'" Alan answered.

Well, he was sleep-talking. That was a thing he did now, apparently.

"What were you dreaming about?" Alan asked.

Alistair sighed again, rolling onto his back. He squinted up at the ceiling, the back of his hand draped across his forehead. He wasn't really in the mood to talk. Yet at the same time, this dream did gnaw at him. It felt so... real.

"I've been having reoccurring dreams," he mumbled after a stiff silence.

"Reoccurring?" Far more invested than he should be, Alan raised a brow and leaned over him. Alistair instinctively waved him away. "What do you mean, reoccurring?"

"As in, I have the same dream repeatedly," Alistair replied, voice flat.

"Well, obviously. But you know how mom says--"

"Yeah, I know what she says," Alistair interjected, but Alan pressed on, much to his dismay.

"--that reoccurring dreams are a sign of your subconscious, telling you that there is something specific you need to learn to get on your destined path..."

Alistair groaned, smacking the spare pillow against his brother's chest in an attempt to silence his nonsense. Alan grinned, holding the pillow close.

"Gods, I've heard enough about dreamy destiny bullshit," he sneered. "It's hell having to hear this constantly from the both of you."

Playfully, Alan tossed the pillow to his face. Alistair didn't react, keeping it there.

"So?" he prodded, sliding the pillow off his face for him, meeting him with an over-eager look again. "What did you dream about?"

Alistair released a long-suffering sigh, feeling dead inside. "...I dreamed that I'm on top of a mountain," he muttered reluctantly.

"...That's it?" Alan asked.

"No." Alistair frowned, tiredly rubbing his face again. "There's wind, and... a storm, and a voice... and..." The memory of the creature flooded back, leaving him at a loss for words.

What the hell was that creature? A flying snake? Lizard? A fucking dragon?

"A voice," Alan echoed. "Who's voice?"

"...I don't know," Alistair mumbled, squinting at the ceiling. "It was a feminine voice," he answered instead.

Alan nodded even slower, processing. "Right... so, a fem--"

"Not Andy," Alistair quickly clarified. "Just..." He repressed a groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Clarifying."

"So, an unknown woman?"

"I think so?" Alistair deflated. "I don't know. She knows my name. And for this one, she..." The voice echoed in his head like a haunted melody, hushed whispers overlapping one another until the melody turned into indiscernable white noise. "She told me to answer the call."

"Answer the call?"

"Answer the call," he affirmed. "And that the world needs me."

He decided to not mention that the voice also told him that she needed him. Because gods, Alan had a track record for annoyingly romanticizing any simple thing in existence, and so he knew he would read into this.

"Hm. And how did you respond?" his brother asked curiously.

"I said it didn't," Alistair replied flatly.

"That's not very nice of you, Alistair," Alan said softly.

"It's whatever. The dreamy voice can get over it," he deadpanned.

Alan poked at his shoulder. "I was talking about you. You're not being nice to yourself. The world does need you. Your existence makes the world a better place. It certainly does for me."

Alistair didn't know what to say to that. It was nice, he supposed, but... he just didn't have the heart to really think about it any deeper.

And so he blurted out, "I think I was talking to a dragon."

That caused pause in Alan as he wrapped his head around this new absurd development. "A dragon," he repeated.

"A fucking dragon," Alistair affirmed.

"Well, what do you think that means?"

"I don't know, man. Nothing, probably. It's just a dream. I'll probably be dreaming of flying horses fighting griffins next."

James had yet to reach the epoch of his suffering and yet, he kept asking himself: can it get any worse?

Life had a cruel sense of humor and kept answering the question with "yes." Because if having a sense of privacy seemed impossible before -- it most certainly was now.

It was for the best that Eve wanted nothing to do with him. At this rate, he'd have so many eyes on him that anything he did would be subject to question. If Eve hadn't drawn the line herself, James would've made Caspar the point-person out of self preservation and the sake of the mission. He couldn't do anything with his 'handler' acting as Carter's extra set of eyes.

The day prior, James had tested this.

He'd gone to the library that morning with Shane. It was gradually becoming a routine between them: every few days, they'd go to the library, ride over in silence, read in silence, and talked on the way back. It felt like the most natural rhythm for them, since neither were very chatty, especially in the morning. And having some subject matter to discuss was helpful, even if it was just about what they'd been reading.

Shane was always passionate about what he'd been studying in the exclusive portion of the library. James was never allowed to follow, and he'd previously been using that opportunity to study up on survival skills (which he was being more careful about now, since Shane seemed curious about it). Now, he was careful to be found reading something mundane or inconsequential: a history book, a fictional story, or shoddy romance.

He found that he wasn't able to follow his normal routine, however, with a new set of eyes always watching him.

His guard, caretaker, or handler -- whatever the hell Carter wanted to call her -- was a woman named Deidra. In any other context, James would have no ill thoughts towards Deidra. She was, after all, only doing her job and following through on what she was assigned to. In the eyes of the militia she was probably a model soldier. She was dedicated, attentive, observant, and insanely tall and strong. Her capabilities were being wasted on James.

And he resented her presence. Because there was hardly a thing she didn't notice.

It wasn't like she was constantly watching him. On the outside, it looked more like she was standing guard. But James knew and Deidra knew that Carter wanted her taking note of James's behaviors. "PR Nightmare" that he was.

James had died many times that day. Internally, of course, whenever Deidra looked his way. Her expression was so carefully neutral it was difficult to tell if she resented being assigned to him as much as he resented the existence of her role, but there was no warmth in her presence, nor was she trying to befriend him in any manner.

That, at least, he could be grateful for.

The last thing he needed was some new stranger schmoozing up to him that he couldn't escape. But her shadow, however neutrally distant is was, was overbearing, and today, he simply could not bear it.

His head was killing him again, and that shot his tolerance in the knee. So, taking the small liberties he was still allowed, he decided to bury himself in his bed, hidden away in his room.

Because at least he was allowed to sleep alone. Oh how generous Carter could be.

His plan for the day was simple.

Rest. And hide. If he had the capacity, he'd sneak out sometime in the dead of night, if only to be truly alone, but he'd already tried that the night prior - and the inconsistency of sleep evidently threw his head into an inconsolable rage, of which he was now suffering the consequences.

His room was as dark as it could be, and yet, it still wasn't dark enough. James held his pillow over his head, sides pressed against his ears despite how hot and stuffy the room had become.

Why did it have to be summer? Why did it have to be here? Why everything. Why, why, why?

He was going to continue to ask that question with no answer, and he would've been content to do so: but then there was a rapping on his door.

A rush of panic shot through him. Not because of the knock, but because he'd forgotten: he hadn't left his room all day (as far as anyone else knew), and he hadn't put away the lumshade he--

The door creaked open, and James tried to roll over as quickly as possible. Perhaps, if he caused a scene, whomever it was would not look over at his desk--

His head was spinning the moment he sat up, and he couldn't even tell who was in the doorway. Door. Room. Closing the door behind them, per the sound of it.

"Hey, sorry," Shane said hurriedly. He was holding something squirming in his arms, and he looked around concernedly. "I just realized you left your new hat--"

He cut himself off abruptly, and James could tell it was too late. He'd seen the desk.

James's head stopped swirling. At least, enough to see Shane rightly, whom he now realized was holding his cat Shrimp.

The cat was wearing the cowboy hat.

On a normal day, James might've been endeared. Unfortunately, the whole mood had been ruined by the syringes of lumshade on his desk, not quite displayed for everyone to see - but not hidden either.

It was hard to miss in an otherwise depersonalized room.

Shane's gaze was fixed on the unmistakable purple shade of the vials, brows furrowed in alarm and confusion. James distinctly heard him mutter something that sounded like an exclaimed curse in Terran.

James supposed, if he had to explain this to anyone, Shane was objectively not the worst person.

Carter would be worse. Ingrid would be worse. Probably quite literally anyone would be worse. Maybe the maid would be better. He could sell secretly being an addict or something to her, right?

Now that he thought about it, even Fonzi would buy that. He didn't know why that made him so sad all of a sudden.

A long, uncomfortable silence hung in the air as Shane waited for some kind of explanation that James was still working on. He also didn't want to say anything too loudly lest his friendly neighbor Deidra overhear. Or, really, anyone else in this gods-forsaken manor, since sound travelled through nearly every possible boundary.

Very, very slowly, Shane turned back to James with an incredulous, uncertain expression. James could tell-- Shane didn't want to make judgments too early without hearing anything. But it was a difficult situation not to judge in.

This was more than awkward.

"It's not what it looks like," James said. Which was an awful start, because most in most situations where people said that, it was exactly what it looked like.

"I... don't even know what I'm looking at," Shane said carefully.

Fair. Fair.

"I -- I'm trying to--" James began again, desperately searching for a believable lie that Shane would understand without...

Oh, he didn't know. This was a mess already.

He leaned forward with a deep sigh, holding his head in his hands. It was throbbing, but that wasn't new. It just felt exceptionally awful, now that he had to explain to his newfound (and perhaps only somewhat true) friend who had zero context for why James would think it was necessary to have lumshade in his possession.

"I just... want to be prepared," James said quietly. "It's... useful. In emergencies."

Shane slowly lowered Shrimp to the ground, meeting James's eyes.

"You're always preparing," he said. "I know you like adventure books, but now you've only been reading non-fiction manuals. Survival in the wild, poisonous plants, medical injuries... It's all useful information."

Shane paused.

"But you're a councilmember, and you're not serving anymore," he said. "Someone like you should never find themselves in the path of an 'emergency' again."

James hissed to shush Shane, even though he had been speaking at a quiet volume.

"Don't... say it so loud," he said.

"I--" Shane blinked. "Okay?"

James waved for Shane to come closer, so they didn't have to speak across the room at each other. Shane uncertainly stepped forward, leaving Shrimp to curl up on the floor with the brim of the cowboy hat falling over his head.

James leaned forward, patting the spot in front of him on the bed. Shane sat down there, still meeting his eyes.

"Everyone hears everything in this manor," James murmured below a whisper. "I..."

He wasn't able to maintain eye contact the way Shane was. He looked down, squinting his eyes nearly shut.

"I'm planning... to do something," he said vaguely. "That will possibly put me in more danger."

A beat.

"Not-- not that," he said quickly, hoping Shane didn't jump to thinking that James intended to end his life. "I'm -- well there's something the king -- I'm --"

There was no subtle way to say it, was there?

"The king has hidden records about the war that need to see the light of day," James whispered. "And I'm going to steal them. But getting out of the kingdom afterward will be dangerous, so I'm -- trying to account for every situation possible."

A dozen emotions flickered over Shane's face in the next second. The clearest one was surprise. But the one that lingered the longest was hope. At least that was a positive reaction.

James wasn't sure what he'd been expecting.

"Hidden records?" Shane said quietly.

"It's a very long story," James said weakly, but in earnest. "I-- you have to understand, this is incredibly sensitive information. No one can know."

Shane nodded quickly, straightening. "Right. Of course."

"No one," James emphasized in a whisper, glancing over to the door.

Deidra better not have the ears of a dog.

"No one," Shane said quietly. "Yeah."

"I've been planning this for months," James said. "I can't risk anything getting in the way of it now."

Shane dropped his gaze.

"I wouldn't get in your way," he said quietly. "I mean, you're-- you're talking about suppressed history, right, Tiberius? That is incredibly important to me."

James hesitated.

He had to decide how much he could trust Shane with, and he had to decide it now.

"Yes," he said. "None of it is public knowledge. It's been intentionally hidden and... rewritten."

The look in Shane's eyes sharpened at that.

"Uncovering that," he said, "is my life's mission."

Which was something James knew, but it felt... all the more real now.

He needed a moment. This was an unexpected conversation, but maybe it was the right one. James didn't really believe in fate, or things that were meant to be, but he knew he wasn't sharing this information with just any confidant. Nor had he befriended just any friend.

Shane was a historian, and a unique one at that, because, unlike those content to keep the status quo, Shane was after the truth. And from all James had seen of him, he'd stop at nothing to find it. Even if it took decades.

Knowing what James knew -- it would be, in not a small way, life changing for Shane.

James had never felt qualified to be a bearer of the information he'd fallen into. But Shane Hawking...?

He might just be the only qualified person on Nye who would steward the information in as much of an unbiased manner as possible.

The only problem was: that wasn't what Eve wanted.

She wanted to rewrite history with a half-truth. James knew enough about Shane that he wouldn't settle for that. And... getting Shane involved...

James would have to run that by Eve first. Which, he wasn't sure how that would go. Especially if she was actually the past friend he once had.

This was all getting far too complicated. This was why he didn't want to tell anyone. This was why he didn't want anyone else involved. This was why he'd been trying to figure out how to do it himself.

His head was pounding more than before. James held his face in his hands as he took in a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," he murmured behind his hands. "I wasn't prepared for this."

For Shane finding out. Especially like this.

"I'm sorry too," Shane said softly. "It's all sudden."

"I wouldn't have wanted you to find out this way," James said.

Shane was silent for a few moments.

"...I'm surprised you would want me to find out at all," he admitted.

James was too, if he was honest. He hadn't planned on telling anyone else.

But for some reason, it felt nice for Shane to know.

"It... feels right," he said.

"It does?" Shane asked.

There was a different kind of hopefulness in his voice now.

James managed to look up at him. Shane's expression was searching but gentle, with that hint of hopeful uncertainty he seemed to have for anything that sounded a little too good to be true.

"I don't know why," James said softly. "But... I trust you. You've been nothing but kind to me. And you refuse to use that kindness as a weapon. You could be anything, with all you've been through. And yet, you're nonduplicitous, and you still give others the benefit of the doubt."

He paused, letting out a sigh that was more mournful, and weary.

"It's what I wish I could be," he said softly.

Shane seemed genuinely caught off-guard, and it was his turn to look aside.

"Well... you could easily be," he said quietly. "But you don't have to imitate me. I don't think that's a good idea. You have your own things that make you admirable, and that I trust you for too."

James wasn't sure if he believed him. He realized Shane was probably of the same attitude.

Were they really both the same way? Quick to encourage, but slow to recieve it. James had been told that sort of false humility was endearing until it became annoying. But he didn't know how much he could trust Ingrid or Carter's opinions on that matter - since they were the only ones who'd ever weighed in.

Would it be pitiful, then, to ask Shane to expound? It felt like fishing for a compliment. He didn't want to sound ungrateful. And he was getting away with himself -- this wasn't about him, anyway.

"What I'm trying to say," he said quietly. "Is I'm grateful. I never expected someone like you to let me in."

Shane kicked his feet slightly, his gaze distantly settled on Shrimp hiding under the hat.

"Me neither," he admitted softly. "I sometimes don't know why you even bother with me."

"Are you kidding?" James asked.

Shane blinked, looking back to him with some perplexion.

"No," he said, as if it were the only reasonable answer.

"You are pleasant company," James said. "I thought you wouldn't want to bother with me."

Shane let out a faint huff, like the thought amused him.

"I don't know why I wouldn't want that," he said quietly. "You're actually a good friend. I don't get a lot of those. You're adding to my life, even when I don't know what I'm offering in return that you'd stay for. Of course I'm glad to have you around."

James couldn't help but huff a laugh in return. This really was amusing, in the saddest way possible. Both of them had perceived themselves as a burden, hadn't they? Maybe that wasn't really the case. He wanted to take Shane at his word.

"I guess it's mutual, then," James said.

Shane cracked a faint, somewhat sad smile as he lowered his gaze to the floor again.

"Have you got... any kind of plan?" he eventually asked after a few beats of silence.

Right. Normally, James didn't tend to reveal one of his deepest secrets with someone he'd met or befriended so soon. Shane was an exception.

It didn't make sense to be secretive about it now that it was out there.

"Yes," James said, leaning back with a sigh. "It's... mostly formulated. There are a few pieces I'm still waiting to fall into place. Those pieces are people, though. That just takes time."

He didn't think he should speak of the resistance openly for the sake of everyone's safety, so he decided to keep it vague. He'd want their consent before sharing their identities with anyone else.

...Especially Shane. He wanted to mention Eve, but he knew it would be unkind to for both parties. He didn't want to meddle.

Shane nodded in quiet understanding.

"I'm going to go through with it within a few days of my return to the kingdom," James added. "Which... I suppose, is valuable for you to know. I may or may not be hard to reach for some time after."

The expression on Shane's face shifted into something like concerned realization.

"Because you're..." he said quietly. "You're not planning to stay there afterwards, are you? Is that why you've got your emergency planning?"

"Stealing from the king," James answered lowly. "Means making myself quite personally his enemy. And... while it could be possible to delegate the transport of the items in question to someone else, I don't confidently have that level of trust established with anyone. I'm also not confident in my ability to avoid suspicion for very long afterward. While I could attempt to hide in plain sight..."

The person he had to worry about most, really, was Carter. There wasn't much James could do that Carter didn't notice or butt into.

"I don't think it'd be wise for me," he said.

Shane stared at him.

"You'd be giving up your whole life," he said.

James smiled sadly. "I know," he said. "I'm fine with that."

He never felt like he had much control over his life, anyway. At least now, he wouldn't be tied to a kingdom or an institution.

"Where would you go?" Shane asked urgently. "You can't-- I don't want you running for your life, for the rest of your life."

"I know," he said. "That's... more of a recent development. Figuring out what happens after. I finally made an arrangement for somewhere to take the information... and potentially find shelter myself. I don't know how permanent of a solution it'd be, but it's something, at least."

"Where?" Shane asked, then added more hopefully, "Here?"

"I'm... not sure if I'm allowed to say," James hesitated.

A beat.

"It would be close, though," he said quietly. "To here."

Shane was quiet for a couple moments.

"For as long as I'm in town," he said quietly. "The Cypress's door will always be open to you."

James smiled softly.

"Thanks," he said. "I'll remember that."

He didn't know how easy it'd be to get to The Cypress, or how easy it'd be to get in through Ruddlan's city gates after news of his betrayal would inevitably be made public, but... it was a nice thought.

"Are you so sure you'll be caught?" Shane said, a little faintly. It sounded like the thought pained him.

"Well, the plan is that I won't be caught within the city," James said. "But after my dissapearance, and the dissapearance of what I'm taking, I don't think there's much I could do to defend my reputation. People may not be able to prove that it was me, but..."

He shrugged. "I don't think I'd be able to return easily," he said. "I can't come up with good reasons to try to, either. Aside from potentially wanting a connection to those in positions of power and influence. In many ways, it's simply easier to leave, and let people make their assumptions."

"So... a self-imposed exile, essentially," Shane said quietly.

"It's that," James said. "Or I have to come up with a legitimate reason why I'd dissappear from the public eye for several months, conveniently after the king were to lose things that were important to him."

"Then it's crucial you do make it out of the city," Shane said. "Right? How do you plan to do that?"

James hesitated. Longer than he would've liked.

"I... have a concrete plan for how to get everything out of the palace," he murmured.

Shane didn't seem to love that answer, because his brow furrowed.

"The plan is to split the cargo some ways between two people, and I'll travel separately, to divert attention," he said.

"A diversion is good," Shane said. "But you're going to need more of them to get to that point, I think. You need to buy yourself time."

James bit his lip. He knew Shane was right, but...

"The problem is," he said. "Anyone I ask to create a diversion I put in the most immediate danger. They won't be able to get away, because the attention is drawn to them. I can't ask that of someone."

The distant look in Shane's eyes didn't dull the fact that he seemed very deeply focused in his thoughts.

"What if..." he started slowly. "What if they didn't have to get away? What if they only seemed complicit for a short amount of time-- even the only guilty party-- before evidence came along to prove them innocent? They wouldn't have to run, they wouldn't have their reputation permanently tarnished... they could just take the fall, only for as long as you need to get to safety and escape suspicion."

"I don't know who would be capable, willing, and trustworthy enough to fill that role," James said. "It's too monumental of a request."

Shane paused, and from the disturbed look that flickered over his face, he seemed to have thought of something new. He didn't say it yet, though. James's brows drew together. Without Shane having said a word, James knew that Shane thought of someone.

"Who?" James asked.

"I feel rotten for thinking it," Shane murmured.

James already knew who it was, then.

"But... Well, I really don't want to volunteer him, without him having a clue we're discussing him here," Shane said hastily. "But, if he was willing, Kirk could potentially fill that role."

James took in a deep breath as he seriously considered it.

Kirk was capable. He was intelligent, self-assured, and confident as a person. Something like this would be within his abilites to take on, and James knew Kirk could keep a straight face, and certainly keep a secret. He didn't doubt that Kirk could hold under pressure, but he'd have to tease out what it'd look like to frame him in a temporary capacity. That would mean planting evidence that looked damning at first, but would hold no water under scrutiny. That required some thought for how that'd be best acheived, and James would have to think about where that'd fit in into the process he'd already built in his mind.

Kirk could be willing. James had no way of knowing until he asked him, but from their previous conversation about desired political alignments and the regret they shared over the Resurgence, namely its end, he knew that something like this could appeal to Kirk for a redemptive purpose. Kirk and James had never had more than a surface level friendship, so James didn't think he had relational equity to draw from that would obligate Kirk into saying yes either. That was for the best: James didn't want anyone agreeing for sentiment's sake. This was bigger than sentiment, and it was bigger than him.

What James couldn't know until was proven was if Kirk was trustworthy. Shane, for only having known Kirk for the lesser part of a month, was already considering him for the role based on his limited experience with him. It was warranted, considering how quick Kirk had been to give loyalty and how reliable he'd already proven himself to be - even in saving Shane's life. James knew Kirk could be trusted in those manners. What was challenging for him was the cost.

Would Kirk be willing to pay it? If they did everything right and accounted for all they could, but it still went wrong?

It had to be considered. What James needed to know was if Kirk would hold up when push came to shove. If it was Kirk's life, or selling out everyone else, what would he choose?

Then again, that was the risk he was taking with Eve, and Bo, and even Caspar.

Would the mission be enough for Kirk? He wouldn't truly know until he asked. And to ask at all would be to bring in yet another person who'd know, which meant even less control over the information if Kirk decided he wasn't in.

James folded his hands together in his lap, staring down at them intently as he continued to think it over.

If it wasn't Kirk, what other options did he have?

Hellen had once been considered, but she'd already declined under the vaguest sentiment of rebellion. She, at least for now, did not have the heart for that. And that was not her fault. It just was.

Pressing his lips into a line, he finally nodded once.

"I'll ask him," he said.

Shane didn't really seem relieved or reassured by that statement, but he nodded.

And then, he looked up to meet Shane's eyes. If Kirk was going to be brought in, and Shane was already this deep, he might as well extend the invitation to Shane as well.

"What about you?" James asked.

Shane blinked, and James could tell he wasn't sure how to interpret the question.

"I will need to discuss it with my co-conspirators," he said, deciding to use the literal term despite how awkward it felt saying aloud. "So I cannot guarantee your involvement, but you've already stated that bringing the true history to light is your life's mission. I don't expect you to make a decision right now, but I feel like I should offer you the opportunity to get involved. You are more than qualified to handle the information I intend to deliver."

Shane's eyes lit up with realization.

"Oh," he said. "I-- yes. If there's anything I can do, before, during or after it happens-- I'm willing to join in."

"You're sure?" James asked. "I don't want you to feel pressured into a hasty decision."

"I'm sure," Shane said firmly. "I feel like... I've just been waiting to do something. I've wanted to do something meaningful for a long time now, but I've never known how. This might be my chance to make some kind of difference, even if my part is small."

James offered a small smile, and briefly tapped Shane's arm with his fist.

"You've already made a difference," he said.

Shane let out an amused huff. "What? When? Where?"

"Well, you just helped me realize a gaping hole in my plan," James said. "Whether Kirk chooses to get involved or not, I won't be able to look away until I fix it."

Shane cracked a faint grateful smile, but it slowly slipped away into something more worried.

"I'll keep thinking on that," he said quietly. "I don't want to leave any room for error where whoever it is could find themselves in real trouble, without their name cleared. I... I don't think I could forgive myself if I thought of this and couldn't keep them safe." Shane paused, then softly added, "Especially with Kirk."

"You and me both," James murmured.

He let out a sigh as he finally turned himself to the side, throwing his covers off so he and Shane were both sitting on the edge of the bed with their feet hanging off of it. He looked down at the floor where Shrimp was fast asleep, getting cat hair all over his hat.

"I'll let you know about how you can get involved," James said. "When I get a chance."

"Thank you," Shane said with quiet sincerity.

"And... about the lumshade," he said, finally addressing the subject that brought them here. "It really is for emergencies only. I don't anticipate needing it, but it can be useful for many reasons."

"Certainly," Shane said. "But you should probably put it away somewhere."

"Right," James said, getting up on his feet.

Might as well do it now.

He crossed over to the desk, shuffling in his pajamas. At this point, Shane had seen him at various stages of dishhevelment, so he didn't bother apologizing for his appearance. With slow movements, he picked up the syringes and vials and tucked them back in the sack he'd bought them in.

"Did you get those last night?" Shane asked.

James froze as he turned with the sack in hand.

"You saw that?" he asked faintly.

"I mean." Shane cringed a little, shrugging. "I wouldn't have noticed at all, if Shrimp hadn't been batting at the window. He was weirdly insistent I look."

James turned to look at the sleeping cat, sending it a frown with no real anger behind it.

"Traitor," he murmured, crossing the room to his coat rack. He began tucking the lumshade away into its many pockets.

Shane huffed a laugh.

"Kirk saw too," he said. "But neither of us thought anything of it, really. My best guess was that you were just claiming some freedom for yourself."

"Not too far from the truth," James muttered, making sure that the pockets were shut and indecipherable from the inner lining as he adjusted the jacket on the rack again.

"I don't blame you," Shane said, a little softer. "The short leash you're on... it's rather messed up."

James scoffed, adjusting his coat one more time, just to keep his hands busy. "Yeah, well," he said. "Things get complicated when people with influence use their power for petty punishment. Go figure."

Shane pursed his lips together.

"It's Carter's doing?" he asked.

James hesitantly cast a glance back at Shane, now out of things to do to ease the flow of conversation.

"...Yes, but," James said, walking back so his voice wouldn't carry. He sat back on the bed near Shane. "It's nothing, really."

It wasn't. He just did not know how to explain it. Shane's silent frown told him he didn't believe him, either. James pursed his lips together and shrugged.

"It's complicated," he offered instead. "We've known each other a very long time."

"Carter said you've been best friends quite a while," Shane said, rather carefully.

"About ten years," James said.

"It... doesn't really look that way," Shane said.

James sighed and looked down at his feet. "I guess it's kind of sad, in that way," he said softly. "It was like that with Ingrid and I, too."

Shane nodded slightly.

"I had to be told you were even a thing to see it," he said gently. "I'm really sorry."

"Me too," James said, barely audible.

But he really didn't want to dwell on it for too long. It was too depressing.

"This new 'arrangement' was Carter's idea to keep me in check," James said. "Since I've been unreliably presentable, lately. Which I can't even argue with, because he's right."

James shrugged. "I mean, look at me."

The corner of Shane's lips quirked up in a smile.

"Well, sure," he said.

"See, even you can't deny it," James said.

Shane held up a finger. "But it's admittedly nice to see someone influential not care so much about their image that they inevitably become boring and stiff," he said. "You're a person. It's like people are obsessed with making sure you aren't."

James wasn't sure if he should take that as a compliment. Shane was a minority in this opinion. Most people liked their leaders to appear put-together. It created a sense of stability. James knew he was not that.

"Last time I checked," James said. "Most people don't actually appreciate the humanity of their leaders until they're dead."

"Well, maybe I want humanity in my leadership," Shane said with a shrug. "The alternative's just sad."

"I agree with you," James said. "You are just not representative of the local majority."

"I think they'd side with me if they met my uncle," Shane said. "He'd bore them so much that they'd be begging you five to show more personality."

James huffed through his nose. "We have plenty of that already," he said.

"I'll give you that," Shane agreed.

With another weak laugh, James looked down at Shrimp and decided to finally get up and grab his hat. As he leaned down, his brain thumped loudly inside his skull, but he managed to slide the hat out from under Shrimp's paws.

As he stuck the fur-ridden hat on his head, Shrimp protested while waking from his cat-nap with a "mow" and an extended stretch across the floor.

"You came all this way just to give me my hat," James said with a faint grin as he watched Shrimp roll over and get onto his feet with a sleepy shake of his head.

"He felt so fashionable," Shane said. "He was the coolest cat in town."

"Maybe you could get a hat just for him," James joked as Shrimp head-butted his knee. James reached down to scratch his neck. "Then we could be matching."

Shane tilted his head. "You think they'll make hats that small?"

James squinted down at Shrimp in thought. He wasn't necessarily eager to see Mel Sommers again, but if anyone would go with it, it'd be her.

"I think I know someone who might," he said.

Picking Shrimp up, he got to his feet and looked to Shane.

"Want to find out?"

Per Mum's insistence, Ulf had gone back to uni by the afternoon. It was his final year of studies, after all, and the academic world was not one that liked to wait on people.

What Ulf neglected to tell their mother before leaving, was that he most certainly did not intend to stay away at the school. On his way out the door, he quietly confided in Lyall that he didn't even pack anything, only planned to grab more of his things from his dorm room to return home with.

Viktor, who Lyall knew already deeply worried what a house with one less member would be like, welcomed the extended stay of their middle brother - even though it was at the expense of a little personal space of his own.

Since Lyall's earlier offer to help move some of Ulf's things back home was declined, Uncle Bo was kind enough to relinquish a few chores post-supper. Just so that Lyall had something with which to occupy his hands and mind.

It all started to feel... odd more than anything. When Lyall looked ahead into the near future, anyhow. Mum already detailed a few times how she planned for the next stages of their lives to go, and what roles she expected Lyall to fill in those times. And he understood the assignment: 1) carry the younger ones through to their college studies, where they'd hopefully be independent, and 2) takeover the clinic. If he hadn't already by the end of closing of step 1.

It was simple - it was basically the plan from the start. Nothing on paper had changed much, aside from a change of hands for the deed and other legal affairs. Life would carry on, as if she wasn't...

That in itself, and the fact that Lyall caught himself already mentally preparing for it, felt wrong. Worse yet, he found himself really mostly dwelling on, where did this leave him in life?

What about Santiago?

"Hey," Bo said beside him, elbowing Lyall gently. "I think you've scrubbed the life out of that pan by now."

Blinking, Lyall found himself elbow-deep in the sink. He straightened with a mustered smile. "Better safe than sorry."

"You looked a little lost in thought," Bo said gently. "Something on your mind?"

"A few things," Lyall conceded in a mumble.

Bo watched Lyall for a second, but returned to drying dishes, letting a lull pass for a bit.

"Well, if you want to talk about it," Bo said. "I'll gladly be a listening ear."

Setting aside the thoroughly-scrubbed pan, Lyall next scoured the saucepan. Taking a moment to carefully craft a response - then opted to blurt: "What will you do?"

Which, he realized was terribly vague. But the moment he tried to clarify, the context snowballed beyond immediate articulation.

Bo hummed.

"A big question, that," he said, looking out at the wall in thought.

The next short pause allowed enough time for Lyall to put something more intelligable together.

"When you just got back," he started again, "I don't presume you immediately heard from Mum that she's... been ill." He poured clean water over the saucepan to rinse it of suds. "So, have your plans for this trip changed at all?"

"Yes," Bo said, taking the pan from Lyall and drying it on the inside first. "They have changed. Quite significantly, actually."

Bo began putting pots and pans away, now that there were too many dry ones taking up counter space.

"I told your mother many years ago," he said. "That if anything were to happen to her, I'd do everything I could to help your family."

Bo tucked a few pans on top of each other before pushing them back in a drawer space. With the sink empty now, Lyall let the water drain, and dried off his hands as he quietly listened.

"I meant it," Bo went on. "And I'm making plans to stay long-term, now. There's a lot I have to rearrange in my life, but a change like this had been a long time coming. Daresay, necessary."

Bo put away a stack of bowls in the cupboard overhead, closing the door before looking back to Lyall with a small smile.

"I know over the years it's been normal for me to come and go. But now you're stuck with me," he said.

The notion that they'd ever feel stuck with Bo was absurd. And Lyall tried to muster a grin in good humor, but it didn't stick. There was, more than anything, a quiet fear in the back of his mind that it would feel more like the reverse though.

"I suppose I could get accustomed to that," he managed with forced lightness.

Bo's expression softened.

"I wish it was under better circumstances," Bo said more gently. "But I'm glad to be here."

And, with such a simple phrase, the will to keep up the charade of levity quickly left him. With something like bittersweetness, Lyall next smiled more sincerely as he replied in earnest, "I'm glad you're staying."

"Me too," Bo said, wrapping his arm around Lyall and pulling him into a hug.

Softening in an instant, Lyall leaned in as he wrapped his arms tightly around Bo. Even though it always felt like a short eternity of waiting between visits, it was practically second nature to melt into the embrace. Let himself feel small again, without feeling exposed or unsafe. A feeling that came back only as often as Bo.

"I know I haven't always been around," Bo said softly as he held Lyall close. "But I'm here now. You're not going through this alone."

The ounce of lingering pride made Lyall hide his face in the hug. He didn't want any of his siblings to walk in and find him like this.

"I'm so sorry all of this is happening," Bo said softly, only quiet enough for Lyall to hear. "I know you're so strong, Lyall. You've endured so much, and I've always admired that about you. But you don't have to be. It's okay to share this burden. You're too precious to be crushed by all of this."

Word by loving word, Bo had gently chipped away at his composure. Lyall hated that he was sniffling.

"I've always thought of you like my own son," Bo said. And this time, Lyall could hear the tightness in Bo's voice as he held him near. "And I've always wished to be close to you, from the moment I met you, when you were just a boy. No matter the distance between us, I carry you in my heart, always."

Bo set his hand behind Lyall's head, shielding Lyall's face from view.

"I love you, Lyall," Bo said. "And you'll always have my love."

The piece de resistance, the final killing blow: a chaste kiss on top of his head as Bo curled down to give it. Lyall had no other defenses left, no more inner-strength for the moment to pretend he had everything figured out. All prior worries had disappeared from sight - Bo's embrace shielded him from the stress, and protected Lyall from feeling shame over his own weakness.

So what else did Lyall have to do, other than to weep like a child just found again?



"It feels odd," Lyall said quietly, staring at the bunches of lavender growing across from them. "To... grieve someone who is still there."

They since moved from the kitchen, away from sensitive ears, and out into the seclusion of the garden. Even with the city market just on the other side of the clinic, the peace of the little hidden world remained undisturbed.

Bo nodded in understanding. "It's painful," he agreed.

Sitting on the stone bench, Lyall leaned sideways, bumping against Bo's arm.

Realistically, there were more threats to himself and his family than he could probably ever count. And something about the time when Tove had arrived into the family when she did had jolted Lyall more awake all sorts of terrible things. So he had learned to worry endlessly. Locked doors at night, the hearth in the kitchen, unruly animals, any strangers who gave the slightest sense of any off-ness - even patients, hunters of either man or beast--

So it felt something of a cruel trick, a bait and switch, to unexpectedly find himself facing an adversary he could do absolutely nothing to prepare for, let alone fend off. Something that targeted possibly one of the most stalwart and stubborn people he'll have ever known.

With all the countless ways someone could die, it was a wonder that anyone ever made it far in life.

"How could life go on?" Lyall murmured, brows furrowed slightly as he absently thought aloud. "How could it dare to go on, like they didn't even exist?"

That was emotion talking, in rhetoric. It was a needlessly big question, with only one of two potential answers; one trite, and the other unfeeling.

The question he truly didn't want to face: What would become of his life without Mum? No longer in regards to the care of his younger siblings, since Bo had put those worries to rest. But in the sense of... what would this reveal of Lyall himself?

It felt selfish to think this way, but he feared not missing her enough too soon. Would he appear heartless for it? What if he could never let her memory go? He'd appear overly attached, unable to function without his mum.

And, what if that was true? What if he truly couldn't function without her every micro-correction? Her constant reminders to do this or that, within a timeframe, within a conversation, within the bounds of a proper society.

Would Santiago tire of him? Lately Lyall could feel his love's patience wearing thin at times already. Not that the writer ever said anything to even suggest as much - Lyall had just learned to read his silences.

Bo turned to look at Lyall, and his gaze was one of gentle prodding to make his inner thoughts outside ones. Which made Lyall realize he had left Bo in a sizeable stretch of silence just now.

"How can--" he tried, but felt the question stop short. He searched for the words - there were too many to parse through and choose. So he tried picking up where he left off over the dishes.

"I was planning on moving out," Lyall started instead, tilting his head up to look back at Bo. "Officially." A beat. "Into Santiago's place."

"How long have you been thinking of moving?" Bo asked.

"Around the time he proposed," Lyall answered, dropping his eyes back down to the lavender.

"Is that still something you're planning on doing?" Bo asked softly.

Lyall let his gaze drop all the way down to his hands. "...I don't know."

"What makes you hesitate?" Bo asked.

Lyall shrugged a shoulder. "I feel like I have to at the very least wait, now. Until... after."

"Why?"

"I don't know," Lyall answered instinctively, brows furrowing even deeper as he gave it further thought. He slowly went on, "Why should I? It doesn't feel fair to leave."

Moreover, to have a new beginning while Mum was expecting a final curtain call.

"Do you feel like you have to put your life on hold because your mother is at the end of hers?" Bo asked.

Dammit. Feel free to just read the hidden print between the lines. It wasn't hidden for a reason.

Setting his jaw, Lyall only managed a nod in confirmation.

"What about it feels unfair?" Bo asked instead.

Well, now Lyall felt he was struggling to reach for the words now. He rarely struggled to find words.

"It just does," he murmured, shifting uncomfortably in his spot beside him.

Bo nodded. "I don't expect you to have all the answers," he said. "I think what I'm just thinking is, it makes sense that you'd want to create space in your life to treasure the time you have left with your mother. But you also have to live the life that's in front of you; which includes your commitment to Santiago. Pausing some things could be beneficial, but I don't think you have to stay home to stay connected, if that's the reason you feel resistant to go."

Lyall wanted to say he felt his best shot at staying best connected, was the closer proximity.

He only nodded instead.

"I wonder if it could be helpful to look at what would make sense to scale back," Bo said. "There are more ways to make space for connection and more ways to be intentional with your mother than living under her roof."

Hm, yes. Solutions. Lyall could do that. He could think of workarounds, he was good at that.

"I think what I'd be worried about most, if you were to stay home," Bo continued. "Or even if you were to move out. Is that you'd over-extend yourself beyond your capacity in this season. I would hate to see you wear yourself out if it's just to keep everyone happy. You have to take care of yourself so you don't end up giving out of an empty cup."

Lyall understood, truly. He was really only aware of this tendency of his, because this wasn't the first time Bo had expressed this concern.

He just wasn't always fully aware that he was over-extending himself as it was happening.

All he could extend in this moment was a quiet, "Thank you."

Bo lightly bumped Lyall's shoulder with affection.

"Of course, bud," Bo said.

Managing a smile that felt more real, Lyall let his head rest against Bo's arm.

"It'd be good to talk to Santiago about it, too," Bo said, then paused to look at Lyall more intently. "He knows about your mother, right?"

"Of course he does," Lyall answered.

"Just checking," Bo said with a small smile.

Lyall huffed, but without any real heat behind it. Because... it wasn't an entirely unwarranted prompt.

"How have things been with you two?" Bo asked.

"Steady," Lyall said, idly bobbing his head with a briefly flashed grin. "We're doing well." All things considered.

Bo hummed. "Good to hear," he said.

There was a lot that he could've mentioned about him and Santiago. But the longer he tried finding a starting point, the more he felt it was better-suited for another time.

In the ensuing stretch of quiet, Bo eventually spoke up again.

"Maybe it's just the feeling in the air," Bo said softly. "But I'm thinking back to when I first met you and your mother."

Lyall tilted his head up again, curious about this new direction.

"You might have a hard time believing it," Bo said. "But when I first met your mother, she was so anxious. She's always put on a brave face for you kids, but I saw how much worry she held -- facing such an uncertain world with two beautiful children, wondering if it'd be safe for them to grow up in."

Bo turned to look down at Lyall with a faint, fond smile. "I know it hasn't been perfect," he went on, "and you've had a front row seat to her greatest shortcomings as the eldest son. But I'm proud of the person you are today and the man you're becoming. Even if it doesn't look like how any of us imagined."

He lost his nerve, and had to look away again. Bo only ever intended to communicate his love, Lyall knew. But something about the words "I'm proud of you" actually hurt more than anything.

Lyall could only muster a murmured, "Thank you," in answer.

Bo smiled softly, but there was a sadness in his eyes as he watched Lyall, just for a moment, and then looked away, letting the space between them fall silent once more.

Lyall wished that silence could've lasted longer, if only to further collect himself. The gate to the garden creaked open, though, and his sister padded halfway down the cobblestone path. She kept quiet, turning a questioning glance at Bo.

"Am I interrupting?" she asked.

"We were just sitting," Bo said with a small smile. "Something up?"

She nodded. Standing straighter, she folded her hands together in her usual way that meant "down to brass tacks". "He's here," she said simply.

Bo blinked. He stared at Hild for a second or two, clearly trying to decipher who "he" was.

"Who?" Bo asked.

Hild furrowed a brow, not getting what Bo wasn't getting. "Mister Leilan."

"Oh!" Bo let out a laugh. "Right, right. Sorry about that."

Bo turned to look at Lyall. "Thanks for sitting with me, bud," he said, gently nudging Lyall's shoulder. "I'll catch you again soon."

Quickly scrubbing a hand over his face, Lyall hopped up to his feet. "Thank you. But, actually, might I sit in while you chat?"

Bo raised a brow, then glanced at Hild. Her expression was predictably unenthused at the prospect."

"It's fine with me, if you want to," he said. "There's no pressure, though."

"I'd like to," Lyall added, turning a grin back to Bo. "Personally screen the chap myself, you know?"

"I don't need you hovering," Hild said flatly.

"It would be my pleasure to anyhow," Lyall countered brightly.

"It'll be business," Bo clarified. "So, maybe not the excitement you're expecting."

Patting Bo on the shoulder, Lyall started down the path first. "I expect nothing less of my dear sister. I don't think the words 'play' or 'fun' exist in her vocabulary."

Bo got to his feet and followed with Hild. Lyall didn't quite catch the look Bo shared with his sister, but he could feel Hild's glare behind him. It was a bit of a much-needed mood lifter, honestly.

"Well," Bo said, breaking the brief pause. "I'll introduce you to him. I think you'll like Leilan. He's a quality fellow."

Spinning on his heel, Lyall walked backward ahead of them to give his sister a cheeky smile. "Only top-shelf men for my family."