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Gerome enjoys his solitude. It brings him a sense of peace. Hiking through nature, going on a flight with his wyvern friend Minerva, or spending the night by the fireplace and tugging away at a needlepoint canvas, it is heaven on earth for the loner. Nobody irritating him about the latest castle gossip, the latest trends or fads, or other Shepherds challenging him to a fight to see who’s the toughest solider in the army.
It’s just him and the calm stillness. And unlike most days where he’s busy with knight duties, everybody is obsessing over the upcoming ball, so he has extra time to occupy hobbies.
Being alone never bothered Gerome, not until this day, where a burning meteor of energy that is Owain crashed through his home.
Lifting a heavy bucketful of fresh meat (only first-class cuts will do!) Gerome carries it over to Minerva. The huge beast is pacing out in the clearing behind the house staring at the food and drooling. With a big smile Gerome tosses chunks in the air and Minerva hungrily gulps them down. Blood dribbles down the wyvern’s jaws and by the time the bucket is empty, Gerome is dyed crimson.
The pink-haired knight scratches the wyvern’s scaly chin and sighed. “I know Father and Mother want me to go to the ball…but it’s just not my thing. Nothing but narrow-minded nobles bragging about their wealth and fanciful stories. What’s so fun about that?”
Fraught knocking at the gate brings Gerome out of his sullen stupor. He thinks it could be a messenger from the castle, a call to wipe out a bandit camp or some other important task. He hurries to the gate and finds someone else entirely.
He’s slapped in the face by white ruffles, gleaming beads, and fake feathers. Beyond the mountains of expensive couture is prince Owain, looking terrified. He pales further when he sees Gerome drenched in fresh blood. The two stand their awkwardly, both shocked, knowing that a simple “good morning!” wouldn’t suffice.
I can’t run now, Owain’s eyes boggled fearfully at the blood and how unbothered the wyvern knight was about it. Gerome is scary but he’s the only help I’ve got! The prince bowed, his voice trembling nervously. “Please! I need your help, my knightly countryman! I shall die a most torturous death if you do not lend me your bloody –kindly services!”
The man blinks dumbfounded at Owain. Couldn’t he of gotten a servant to help him with this problem? Still, Gerome wouldn’t turn away the prince. If anyone is in need be it an Ylissean royal or beggar, he’d run to aid them.
Stepping aside, Gerome lets Owain in, and the prince runs into the clearing sputtering a thousand “thank-yous!” He follows Gerome and stops dead in his tracks when he sees a fearsome-looking, scowling wyvern towering over him.
Minerva narrows her eyes and blows smoke from her nostrils at the guest. Owain is about to abandon his important quest, dump the dress on the ground, and run for his life right there. He’s seen how strong those beasts are on the battlefield! Their massive maws can snap through armor and bone like a pickaxe to stone.
But Owain finds a fleck of burning bravery thrumming in his chest. That and facing an angry Cynthia would be a scarier fate than being eaten by a wyvern.
Gerome eyes Owain curiously. “I was feeding Minerva breakfast when you stopped by. Let me clean up and I’ll brew us some tea.”
“Sounds great, Gerome. Thanks.”
Leaving the glade, they enter the stone cabin which doubles as a cylindrical battlement. Owain takes a seat and waits for Gerome to arrive with tea. He looks around and is surprised by his discoveries. Gerome’s home is nothing like he imagined it. It’s cozy. Except for a row of axes by the fireplace, it feels like Owain stepped inside an old grandmotherly lady’s cottage.
There’s a working desk, two sofas, a coffee table, some maps of Ylisse (marked by ink for patrol routes), and tons of needlepoint decorations. Where were the scary statues, the blood-soaked walls, the cobwebs and bats?
It’s a breath of fresh air to Owain. Gerome’s house is so calm and quiet. He’s used to castle life being so busy and loud. It’s always a stormy current dragging him further and further out to sea while here in Gerome’s cabin it’s the silence of a white sky.
The prince inhales deeply. Is that the last remnants of vanilla and hyssop?
Gerome soundlessly enters the room. His bright pink hair contrasts with the rest of his fashion. Dark and worn combat boots. A metal band t-shirt. A spikey bracelet. Gerome’s eyes however, draw forth a gleaming jewel-like quality. Owain hasn’t studied them too much before but up close they are of a piercing kiln fire. The black greasepaint that outlines his eyes doubles the intensity.
How can someone not of nobility be so elegant yet so intimidating? Owain wondered. The prince almost drops the teacup but with quick reflexes saves Gerome’s handstitched rug and himself from a painful burn. He takes a grateful sip, blinking tears away from a screaming scorched throat. “I know you must have other important matters to attend to but I seek your help.”
Gerome nodded. “About the dress?”
Said dress lies shabbily between them on the coffee table, a monstrous being, a swan turned into a shredded bouquet of flowers.
Owain stares at the sad dress. “It was once so full of beauty. Perfect like glass. Shimmering like a freshly polished blade.”
“It looks like it went to war,” Gerome said. “Whose dress is it?”
The prince sighed. “Cynthia’s.”
The wyvern knight felt a cold wind claw his spine. Yes, only she would request for the best dress in all of Ylisse. If she doesn’t have a dress for the ball, Owain’s neck will be swiftly detached from his neck. The Pegasus knight is Owain’s personal guard. She’s a bubbly and (annoyingly) cheerful woman, but when it comes to her beloved belongings, not even the Mark of The Exalt can save one’s life.
“Can you fix it? The other servants and tailors are busy because of the ball. I know you can create miracles with thread and needle so I ran to ask you.”
Gerome gauges the damage. “I think I can return it to its original form.”
Owain jumps up and smiles. “Spectacular! I shall be indebted to you, Gerome.”
The wyvern knight shook his head. “Indebted? You owe me not a coin.”
Now Owain gave him an incredulous look. “Surely you’ll be toiling away for days? A craftsman needs to be paid for his work’s worth.”
Gerome shrugged. “I don’t have much else to do.”
The peaceful solitude is broken. Gerome meticulously works at restoring Cynthia’s dress and Owain flies around like a hummingbird in the stone battlement. Anytime the wyvern knight looks up from the thread and needle he’d find gifts at his side. Bundles of cloth, one of his warmer coats when a cold draft swept through, or a hot meal. The pink-haired man often found a smile cracking his stony face. Owain is thoughtful even if he’s fixated by loquacious theatrics.
The hours melt slowly like wax by a steady flame. Gerome thought that Owain would hinder his focus, would be as irritating as a stubborn cold, but having someone around is encouraging.
Bring thread down, through the material, and up. Down…through…and up. Gerome is working at a faster pace thanks to Owain’s comedic existence. The prince is pacing around the cabin; book in hand, narrating aloud lines of poetry. His strong voice is mesmerizing. Gerome has never been one for Shakespeare or Oscar Wilde but he could listen to Owain every day.
Owain’s sparkling-bright personality is gone today. He also lacked his normally endless supply of witty jokes and nonstop chatter for the arts. The man slowly floated around the battlement like a forlorn ghost, his face frozen like a corpse’s. He stared at his sad twin on an axe blade wordlessly.
Gerome sat up (his back aching from being hunched over his work) and turned to look at Owain. “How did the dress get destroyed?”
The prince’s laugh is empty of the light it had before and Gerome feels a needle stab his heart.
“It’s my fault, being the clumsy boar that I am. Always messing everything up.” He turns to stare at Gerome, his eyes cold and bemused by something past the wyvern knight. “I had to deliver it to a tailor for some last-minute changes; Cynthia wanted more things added to the dress, so I took a carriage into town. While there the Myrmidons were on patrol.”
The Myrmidons are extraordinary swordsmen and they often circle the capital to protect it from any bandits and enemy forces. Say’ri and Lon’qu are the captains of that unit. They serve under the Ylissean Exalt, Chrom, and are also part of the Shepherds, the kingdom’s army.
“I stole one of their swords.”
“You stole a swordmaster’s sword?” Gerome is shocked. That’s like trying to steal a Manakete’s dragon stone. Not only are they a vital part of the wielder, it is a deadly quest. One that has fatal casualties. “Why steal a sword when you can buy one from the market?”
Owain absently stares at his arm, the one that has the Brand of the Exalt. “Myrmidon swords can cut through anything. They have strength, durability, and speed that can’t be outclassed. Mercenaries and thieves often steal them because of their value.”
The prince had snuck back to his carriage and eagerly stared at his bounty. He recalled the books he’s read and the spars he’s seen, the details engraved into his mind. Every stance, every leap, lunge, and stab. Owain dreamed of being a swordmaster. And now, he can become one, instead of a useless healer.
“My arm aches for blood! With my sword, none shall attack the land of Ylisse! For I am Owain, legendary swordmaster! My foes are slain in one hit!” He lunged forward, swung the blade, and felled his imaginary enemies with a flourish of his wrist. He hadn’t noticed that he had cut the harnesses and the horses, afraid that they’d accidently get cut by Owain’s delusionary battle, started to sprint.
Jaw hanging open in shock, Owain sees the carriage being dragged with the fleeing horses. He tries to run after them but they descend down a steep path crowded by markets into a tree and stone fence. Nobody was hurt but Owain felt himself choke from panic as he made it to the destroyed carriage. He digs through the wreck and finds a shredded dress.
Lon’qu runs through the market and down the hill, quickly surveying the crash and calling for his men to go find the horses. Thinking the prince was injured he helped him back to the castle and to some healers.
Owain’s eyes darken sadly. Hurt clangs in his voice. “Only Chrom’s heir is able to learn about combat and weaponry. Lucina has the Falchion. But me? I had to be a healer.”
“You can save more lives being a healer than a soldier,” Gerome’s voice is calm and dulls some of Owain’s serrated anger.
The prince sighed, tears stinging his eyes. He wipes them away with an arm, feeling useless. “Not me. I can’t even heal a papercut. My mom, Lissa, she’s the best healer in Ylisse. She and Miriel saved so many people when the Plegians waged war on us.”
Owain laughed again. A fatalistic laugh. “I’m useless, Gerome. Just like all the other royals and wealthy aristocrats that the people make fun of. I couldn’t heal any of the soldiers. The people who sacrifice their lives for us to live peacefully. And I couldn’t heal townspeople with a headache or common cold either.”
The prince remembers all the hardened and angry looks they gave him. Their wounds gnarled –blood never seemed to stop flowing, the shouts of pain a chorus of the dying. The blank gazes. An emptiness were liveliness used to be. Those bleeding out from deep wounds were inflicted by insubstantial bandit weapons. Curable. Owain could’ve saved them if only he could wield magic like Lissa and the other healers.
Icy tears trickle from Owain’s eyes. “I studied so much. I can tell you every detail about a weapon and what wound it made, but I can’t help anybody. I can’t mix herbs like Miriel or mend bleeding injuries like Maribelle. The Shepherds and other royals look at me like I’m worthless –and I am.”
Suffering, hurt, anger. These clamorous emotions fall the unfaltering Owain like a swarming flock of vultures to corpses. “I want to show them that I can be strong too. That I’m more than some clumsy noble that doesn’t care about his people. I want to bring smiles to people’s faces but all I do is make them angry, or sad.”
“That isn’t true,”
Owain looked up at Gerome, disbelief scratched on his face.
“Why, I kind of gotten used to you being around. You’ve brightened my days, Owain. Even made me smile.”
The prince laughed, all that anger banished in a moment. “You? I made the scary somber-faced wyvern knight smile? I shall have the scribes write that down for my biography.”
Gerome snorted but a faint smile flickers on his face.
And Owain thought the man looked absolutely godly with those eyes and smile. I feel like I’ve been struck by Arcthunder!
He opens his mouth to speak, but Owain is interrupted by a bird diving through an open window. It has a scroll attached –an urgent letter from Morgan and Nah to help a panicking Cynthia.
Gerome easily read the expression on Owain’s face (did he too, long to stay just a moment longer?) and waved an arm. “Go on. I’ll deliver the dress before the ball.”
Owain left with a comedic bow.
The stinging emptiness is tangible. Gerome spent the next day until nightfall fixing Cynthia’s dress. Instead of a familiar comfort it was like pulling teeth. Gerome kept looking over his shoulder, expecting Owain to be there but was met by air.
Servants, chefs, and musicians hurriedly fly through the castle corridors before the ball begins. Gerome wonders where Owain could be, but in a moment fate answers by way of a woman’s angry scream. The wyvern knight bobs through some guests arriving early to follow the sound.
“OWAIN! Where is my dress?! Oh no, it’s ruined isn’t it? Or lost? That dress is supposed to be the star of the ball! If I don’t have it by tonight-”
Gerome runs over to Owain and hands him the dress that’s in plastic wrap. Just as Cynthia breaks free from Morgan and Nah, the prince spins and presents it to her like it was the finest artifact of mankind. “Here it is, Cynthia. Like I promised. And a prince always keeps his promises!”
“Well, not like keeping an article of clothing is all that hard to do,” Morgan said.
“Shush. At least Owain has a dress for Cynthia,” Nah elbowed Morgan.
The healer crossed his arms and smugly smiled at his friends. “It was a task for which I fulfilled nobly!”
Cynthia eyed him skeptically as she pulled the dress from its cover. Everyone gasped at it –the dress sparkling like starlight on a clear winter night. “This isn’t my dress…”
“Oh no, I’m so dead!” Owain breathed.
“This is magnificent! It’s way better than I imagined! You asked the tailor to add some extra decorations didn’t you? This is beautiful, Owain!”
The prince and Gerome let out a sigh of relief. “Of course! Nothing but the best will do for my guard and my best friend.”
Cynthia’s pigtails bounced along with her. “I can’t wait to wear it. Let’s go!” She pulled Morgan and Nah with her to the dressing room, leaving Owain (luckily) with his head still attached to his body.
“You came just in time. You saved my life, Gerome.” Owain bowed with an elegant flourish. He then clears his throat, straightens, and a serious emotion dyes his face. “Are you staying? The ball is about to begin.”
I want you to stay.
Gerome shrugs, though his heart is drumming loudly in his chest. “I’ve got no other plans. And I did miss you.”
“You did?”
“It was nice having someone around for a change. It didn’t feel so lonely.”
“But you don’t like parties.”
“I don’t, but it’s worth going if I get to see you.”
Owain blushed. Gerome isn’t the most poetic man but he still made the prince’s heart do loop-de-loops.
“And if you want we could go on patrol. Ever flew on a wyvern before? If you and I fight some bandits I’m sure Chrom will let you join the Myrmidon unit.”
Shock and gratefulness flickers over Owain’s face. “Thanks, Gerome. You being there…all my anger and hurt departed. You’re not so scary after all!”
“Scary? People think I’m scary?”
“For a guy who wears all black, spikes, and rides with a wyvern, yes.”
The two look up when the musicians started to play their instruments. Classical music floats in from some open doors while guests started walking in. Gerome and Owain then let their eyes meet, warm and loving. “But underneath all that is a man that I’d never want to separate from. If you may,” Owain extends a hand to the wyvern knight, his heart now in his throat and ringing in his ears. “Would you like to dance with me?”
Gerome smiled and accepted Owain’s offer. “Likewise. How about the wyvern waltz?”