Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It always starts in darkness.  Rokurou takes deep breaths and taps his fingers against the twin blades sheathed at his back.  He has both of them this time; that's reassuring.

When he next opens his eyes – or maybe they'd always been open, waiting patiently for something to see – he's standing in the gardens of the Rangetsu estate.  The old dogwood is shedding its blossoms, cloudy petals fluttering dreamlike across the grounds.  A perfect slice of Rokurou's heart, laid out bare for him to wander at his leisure.  Chrysanthemum pathways carve through the bamboo with their golden lights.  Flowers Rokurou never learned the names of are in full bloom amidst pockets of herbs and medicinals.  Rokurou can’t recall a time he’s ever seen the gardens this lush with color, combined into a dizzying perfume.

A kernel of self-awareness reminds him there is a reason for that; the dogwood blooms in spring, the chrysanthemums in autumn.  Shigure keeps plants for every season, every purpose, and no miracle exists that would bring them all to wakefulness at once.

Rokurou walks through the courtyard, beneath a massive fuschia with bright magenta sepals and deep purple petals.  It's a magnificent specimen, cared for lovingly by old, wisened hands.

Funny this plant would show up here, of all places, where it has never grown before, not even in the tiniest corners of the mountains.  One of the branches dips low, as though in greeting.  Rokurou reaches out, and crushes a flower in his fist.

It's alright to be afraid. A man's voice rings in his heart, protective and comforting.  Rokurou hasn't heard that voice in a long, long time.

That voice is wrong.  He's not afraid.  He can't afford to be.

He steps closer to the house, down a hedge-lined path he dares not stop in.  There’s a wet, sticky sound: the stump of an arm hitting the flattened stone of the walkway.  Rokurou keeps his eyes forward.  Gorou's memory deserves better than to be dwelled on in a place like this.  He digs his nails into his stomach, in disgust, in anger.

Not loss.  Not grief.  Not horror.  Not fea—

He swallows hard, mouth suddenly dry.  Voices scoff in the cadence of his mother.  Turn back.  Look your blood in the eye.  Dreadful child.

He steps lightly inside the house, feet gliding along the floor as though fused with the wind.  There is no thought to where he is going, but he trusts his instincts to guide him.

Before him is the door to Shigure's room.  He can't recall walking the whole way here, yet he must have, for here he is.  A cold sweat runs down his neck and he grips his kodachi with shaking hands.  The air in the hall plummets to a bone-setting chill.  Breath spills in clouds of lost heat.  In the unsettling space between, he can almost hear the sharp kiai of his fellow students off in the distance, filling the training grounds with the uproar of swinging swords.  They bubble inside his skull until the faraway cries become a deafening roar.  Before he can hesitate any longer — always, always, always hesitating — he slams the door open.

He slashes before he can think, sees only a mass inside singing siren calls to the steel in his hands.

The shadow recoils with his strikes, big theatrical motions that fan the flames of his rage into a gluttonous wildfire, spreading through his body with bottomless hunger.  He brings his blades down again and again, until the colors and shapes smear together, indistinguishable.

Spell rings flash eerily on the walls, the ceiling, in his hands, his eyes.  Words of the ancient tongue swim down his throat and throttle his windpipe — what do they say?  The characters merge, glowing an angry red, until their meaning is lost altogether.

Since when did you take an interest in artes?  He doesn't recall, and he doesn't care.  All his hands know is to cut, all his head knows is to kill.

It's all he's good for, but it's not enough.

Rokurou brings both kodachi down, coated black and red and purple, into the heart of the enemy.  They sink into meat with a satisfying weight.

Your emotions best you, even now.  Another familiar voice.  The old man.  Is failure all you are capable of?

Blood, and shadows, and flesh, and petals.  Unwavering magenta and violet, shining unnaturally bright, petals that curl in a mocking smile.

Rokurou screams as he raises his blades.

And all he sees is red.

____

When Eizen hears the noise from the bed, he doesn't think much of it.  It wouldn't be the first time Rokurou rolled in his sleep tonight.  Far more captivating to him is the novel taken from the room's modest bookshelf.  For hours his thoughts have swirled with the world-weary revelries of a roaming bard, and he’d like to keep it that way for a while longer.

Dust coats the spine.  The distinct snap of bending glue when he pries open the cover fills Eizen with a measure of pride to think that he might be the first to take interest in the pages of this particular copy.  Compared to all the excitement of the last few days, the more linear, philosophical fables of the bard's ever-deepening connection with nature's brutality but whets the appetite of his own nostalgia.  He's been where this nameless one has, toiling in the great mountains and across ocean waves, atop scorching dunes and down deathly silent tunnels.  Far and wide, to lands untouched by man, has he wandered.

There’s more rustling across the room, this time curling bedsheets and telltale grumbling.  Eizen tucks a ribbon close to his bard's lyre and turns his attention to the modest single bed. His greeting withers in his throat the moment he looks up.

Rokurou only managed to recover one of his kodachi from the ruins of Tintagel, and the familiar blade is currently buried up to the guard in the man's pillow.  The culprit is clear, down to the bronze-toned fingers choking the hilt.  Rokurou scissors the blade out of the belly of feathers with mechanical efficiency, body tense with a predator's gaze that is slow to fade as he grapples with where he is and why.

"Bad dream?" Eizen ventures cautiously.

Rokurou plucks a few feathers from the edge of his blade and juban.  Too casually, bloodlust caught in his eyes, he shrugs.

"Was trying to cut down a tree."

Eizen observes the mutilated pillow.  As curious as he is, an interrogation in the Capalus manor is not what someone needs first thing in the morning.

"Well," he ventures, "I hope you succeeded."

Rokurou shrugs again, the stiffness of his shoulders exposing his irritability. With a great yawn, he hoists himself out of bed and paws along the seams of his wardrobe until he finds purchase on the handle.  Inside hangs his Abbey uniform, insistently washed and pressed by the chamberlain not two steps into their return from the forest.  The doorman had gone pale seeing their garments stained in blood, ash, and Empyreans knew what else.  Makes Eizen wonder what he'd expected an exorcist's work to involve this far out of town with such deadly weapons hanging off his back.

Barely visible past Rokurou’s arm is Teresa's book of arcane artes, resting on the nightstand amidst its roll of leathers.  The events of Tintagel spurred them into finally putting it to use, whenever there are moments to spare.  Eizen does what he can, answers any questions Rokurou has — and there are many — but even he has limits.  Malak artes are plentiful and boundless, but operate on instinct, experimentation, trial and error.  Techniques based more on feeling than thought, tailored to the needs and personality of each malak.  Earth can become unbendable bedrock, tidal mudslides, blustering sandstorms, molten tar pits.  It’s not natural to think about them in terms of hardwired mechanics.  Eizen’s an academic through and through, so of course he’s put some stock into the theories of more arcane formulae, but his knowledge is moderate at best.  Evenings are spent with nightcaps in hand, knocking their heads together for slivers of progress, and it usually ends in a race to see who breaks and goes to fetch the harder bottle first.

Rokurou shoves the hanging uniform aside and reaches for an unassuming set of plain clothes.  Visible through the thin fabric of the juban are long twisting scrapes latticed along the left shoulder and bruises down the lower spine.  Beneath those marks hide even deeper layers of scars, pale white reminders of a body that has only known violence.  Those fresh enough to have come from Tintagel have scabbed over nicely, and the bruising has faded, more of a soft pink than the mottled purples and greens of before.  Eizen’s still recuperating from his own fatigue; as much as he would like to pump Rokurou full of healing artes, pragmatism comes first.  Wasting reserves on what the body can manage on its own is a move only an idiot would consider — which reassures Eizen that he is still the biggest idiot he knows, as the only thing stopping him from pursuing just that is the temperamental pride of his host.  As Eizen is coming to learn, there is a fine line between reassuring Rokurou of his own merits and making him feel patronized, and Eizen isn’t about to hedge his bets on a few lousy scratches.

A malak should take pride in keeping his vessel in tip-top shape, as a brother should work hard to protect his family from danger.  Eizen is a quirky amalgamation of both, but at his core he is a hardened pirate with the creed of his captain stitched into the leather of his heart.  A bruise today is a callus tomorrow, and a man of ten thousand calluses is deserving of both fear and respect, for he is a man who could walk into hell and carry the head of its lord out with narry more than a whistle.

Rokurou's scars are a testament to his strength.  It'd be an insult to coddle him.  In his mind, Eizen tries to reach a compromise.  If it ever seems like Rokurou is neglecting his own needs, he'll have someone fetch them some gels.  Rokurou often vocalizes his distaste of the fruity medicines, but too bad.  Eizen will shove them down his throat himself if that's what it takes.

Clothes in hand, Rokurou offers him a brief wave as he slinks out the door.  Down the hall is a small communal bathroom, likely empty by now.  The earliest risers are up well before the sun, which Eizen can see filtering into the halls in bright golden swaths.  Rokurou never complains.  He’s more than willing to refill the tub himself, as the kitchens are but one door over.  Of course, being one door over means someone will inevitably spy Rokurou lugging the buckets of steaming water and fret over doing it for him.  Eizen has overheard many an argument between the swordsman and the servants over whose hands the task must fall to, and it usually ends with Rokurou standing aside on the caveat that he at least be the one to bathe himself once they’ve finished.

There was one time over drinks when Rokurou recounted to Eizen the joys of bathing from the home in his memories, of evening lounges with his brothers or their students after a long, hard day.  It’s one of the few instances where a warrior can be at ease with his fellows and return to simply being a man.  Bloody swords are exchanged for soft cloths, through which their bonds are reinvigorated, for no greater trust can be forged than in offering one’s back to another.  Even among his brothers, all become equal amid the boiling waters of a mountain’s onsen, a concept that sadly doesn't exist for nobles catered to by the lower class.

Eizen too has fond memories of soothing spring pools in the peaks of his old life.  He used to chastise his sister whenever she squirmed in his grasp, and she’d cry whenever he got soap in her eyes.  She was always so stubborn about wanting to do things certain ways.  Her pushy independence, even at such a young age, never failed to make Eizen that much more proud of her, seeing so much of himself in her sharp gaze and obstinate frown.  It was always such a struggle to get Edna into the bath, then equally a struggle to get her out after she'd settled in and decided that she quite liked how the water felt now, actually.  Over time, his paranoia would steadily grow into an obsession.  Testing and retesting and triple testing the water's calmness, that the rivulets feeding them were not in danger of flooding, that there wasn't a hidden current lurking beneath the flat surface that would mercilessly suck them under.  If they were to bathe anywhere, it had to be shallow enough for Edna to stand in, and she must always linger near the edges, just in case.  Looking back, maybe it's inevitable she would become just as controlling about it as her hopeless brother.

He used to make their soap by hand, too.  At first out of necessity.  Then, when Edna took an interest, as a hobby.  They would take turns choosing what scents to add in the next batch, and carefully gather each ingredient, refining the recipe to their tastes.  The only stage of production he refused to let Edna near was in preparing the caustic lye — at the time, he could never have known the reason he accrued so many unfortunate burns.  Together they would mix in tallow and flour, then mold in the aromatics.  Edna's favorite was lemongrass with honey, and she preferred spherical soaps over her brother's flatter, longer bars.  He never did teach her how to make the lye, but she's always been resourceful.  Did she read his journals and figure it out for herself?  Maybe the practice grew dull without a fretful brother hovering over her every moment, for it was his keenness in the craft that had drawn her in to begin with.  Maybe she still ventures into towns, and now procures her wares from humans.  It was around that time when she had become enamored with them, their sweets and their trinkets alike, and soap in these modern times is much softer than what Eizen used to make.  Maybe he should try to send her some, and pray she doesn't immediately throw them to the fire.

If Rokurou could hear his thoughts right now, he’d probably groan over how dreary the tone had become.  Trust Eizen to turn anything into a sob story, even something as mundane as soap.  Must be a hidden talent.

Eizen’s back creaks when he stands, and he grumbles a few meaningless jokes about getting old.  He stretches his arms out above him and shakes out his legs to jostle the blood back into form.  As he’s giving his neck a good roll, it occurs to him what he just did.

He thought about what Rokurou would say, how Rokurou might react to his constant downpour of pessimism, when on any other occasion it would be Aifread.  The advice of his captain should surely take precedence, as it has since he first met the man.  It’s no exaggeration that Eizen owes his life in every conceivable fashion to Aifread.  Countless moments where his captain has spoken some truly incomprehensible drivel, Eizen has stowed someplace sacred in his mind.  There is a place inside him for anything Aifread is willing to share, sensible or not.

For instance, some years back, when Aifread grew irritated by the lethargy of certain crewmates.  Eccentric as he is, he unveiled a set of ten grueling exercises to whip them into shape.  Over time, he kept adding more, to test the limits of the crew's endurance.  Before long it became a hardened game of chicken as the crew refused to bend beneath their captain's boot.  There are now ninety-nine Aifrecises, a perfect blend of herculean test and fiendish joke; even knowing this, Eizen has memorized all of them, reached the point where he can perform them in his sleep.  And he isn't the only one.  Such is the love of the Aifread pirates, that even the most preposterous trials are followed with well-humored sincerity.

Eizen never really stopped to consider at what point in their relationship it became normal to insert the orders of his captain into his thoughts.  Whether it came in an instant or in a slow, creeping tide.  In the end, it matters little.  It’s enough knowing that wherever he may be, he can always count on his friend's wisdom to salve his soul.

So then, he asks himself now.  When did it start becoming normal for him to imagine Rokurou in that same vein?

As he's mulling it over, there comes a knock at the door.  Rokurou is not very forward-thinking and would not hesitate to barge in without a thought to Eizen's privacy, so it must be one of the servants.  They've frequented the room multiple times in the last few days, mostly to offer ale or fresh baskets of fruit to their esteemed guests, or at other times calling Rokurou out for business.  Eizen continues to stand outside the door during those times, and though it infuriates him to no end, he finds he can bear it so long as each meeting ends with Rokurou opening that door without a hair out of place.

Since their return, Capalus has been in high spirits, a spine-chilling shower of positivity that trickles down to the house's very foundation in unsubtle ways.  Well, in all ways but one; the room they sleep in is notably a tiny guest hovel shoved in the farthest corner of the manor.  To look for the silver lining, Eizen would rather drink lava than be forced to engage in daily pleasantries with Capalus for longer than the bare minimum, and he'd bet the bones of his whole crew that the feeling is mutual.

It's one of many identical rooms lined along this wing of the estate.  Functionally, it's meant to house extra servants of visiting nobles, given its easy access to the kitchens, washrooms, and stables.  Sharing a wall with them is a narrow stairwell that tunnels out to the manor's primary servant quarters across the grounds.  In the early hours of the morning, when the sun still hides and the walls cling to the frost, Eizen will hear the shuffles of tired cooks, chambermaids, and stewards eager for a spot of coffee or beer before they make ready the day's work.  Outside, the marshal will be tending to the horses, the smith and carpenter to any repairs, the gardeners to any needed pruning or watering, and the huntsmen to their warmups and game parties.  All manner of groundskeeping staff will be hurrying to tend to their respective duties before light has even touched the rooftops.

"It works out better this way," he recalls Rokurou saying.  "You wouldn't keep your pack dogs next to your chickens, right?  Same thing."

The metaphor is clumsy, but Eizen holds his tongue.  He sees the point.  Still, he can’t forgive how brazenly the count takes advantage of him.  Sworn loyalty or not, a legate of the newly theocratic kingdom of Midgand more than outranks the likes of a mere count.  Not one, but two of Capalus’ former servants have overtaken him within the span of a few years.  If Eizen were a nicer man, he might pity the count for the crush of shame he surely must have endured.  Sadly, the closest Eizen can muster in his heart is a sincere wish for the bastard to drop dead.  Capalus pushes orders onto Rokurou as though he were an errand boy and suffers little more than the occasional rude comment.  Does Capalus realize how lucky he is that Rokurou holds his debts in such high regard?  In the same shoes, Eizen would never shoulder such a burden.

Irritation settles in with the ease of a well-worn shirt, and Eizen answers the door before he thinks to shake the mood from his face.  He realizes his error as soon as he sees the much gentler lady waiting on the other side, startled by the sight of his glare.

She is the spitting image of the young girl painted in oils at the front of the manor.  Like her father, she has matured some years since the portrait was done, but her eyes still sparkle with the vibrancy of youth.  She tucks her knuckles against her cheek apprehensively, eyes flicking up at Eizen, then down to the floor.  They're forest green, like her father's, and the way her hair flows down her back in soft waves reminds him starkly of Teresa.  Eizen grits his teeth, willing his mouth against twitching into a deeper frown.

This girl played no small part in exacerbating Capalus' ire the other day.  Rokurou may have considered it unnecessary information, but having only realized her role after her arrival, Eizen sorely disagrees.  While the presence of the Tintagel cult certainly spooked valuable merchants and crafters from the northern coast, one such passenger among them was Capalus' young daughter, whose entourage would not dare take to the road while such ruffians remained at large.  The haste in which the two of them had gone, which Rokurou continues to insist stemmed from his own impatience and poor mood, Eizen no longer believes.  Not entirely.  Rokurou is not the kind of man who would forsake the safety of his sworn liege.  He cares too much, is far too loyal.  Having his personal feelings align with that goal doesn’t mean both can’t be true.  Forgive Eizen if a part of him still feels duped.

The count’s daughter fretfully rubs one of the rings on her hand, and takes a hasty step back.

"Heavens, I beg your pardon," she says, and she sounds so young that an echo of guilt dares to prod at his conscience.  "I had thought — no, it is no matter.  Might you know where Rokurou is?"

Eizen sighs, and tries to remember how to smile.

"It's fine," he says gruffly.  "Rokurou's in the baths right now.  He'll be back soon."

"Is that so?  That's good to hear.  I feared I might have missed him."  Lunete relaxes with a heaving breath, like Eizen pierced her lungs and let all the air out of her shoulders.  Her relief is short-lived though, for within the same breath, she suddenly grows flustered.  "Dear me, where are my manners?  I am so sorry, sir.  I am Lunete du Capalus.  You've met my father."

The girl lifts the edges of what must be half a dozen skirts in a formal curtsy, her head bowed in an unexpectedly humble gesture.  Eizen leans against the doorframe and imagines all the ways he could steal a painting to diffuse any lingering anger.  When the girl makes eye contact again, he's managed to push his face into something of a friendlier arrangement.

"Eizen," he says.  "Rokurou's malak."  It's embarrassing to introduce himself like this, like his only value is in being the property of a human.  He almost refrains entirely, but can't see what good it would do.  If he doesn't lay the groundwork on his own terms now, someone else — a certain detestable count, perhaps — definitely will.

"A malak?" Lunete repeats with wonder.  "I didn't know you could speak."

There are many things Eizen would like to say to that.  For now, he settles with, "Most don't have much to say."

"I see."  Lunete peers up at him, utterly fascinated.  She's trying to hide her excitement, rather unflattering for a lady of the court, but it is half-hearted.  Distantly, Eizen wonders if this is how a circus animal feels to be gawked at.  "Forgive me.  Not many exorcists travel so far east.  You're the first malak I've seen up close."

"That's probably to your benefit.  Where there are exorcists, there are daemons."

Lunete gives a hushed gasp, and her eyes well with emotion.  Naivety like hers is endearing, but tiring, a relic of a simpler era Eizen sorely misses; it simply won't survive in times like these.

"Yes, I suppose you are correct."  Pinching her brows, she scrutinizes Eizen with such sudden determination it gives him half a mind to shut the door in her face and retreat to his fictional bard.  It's far too early in the morning for this.

Then Lunete smiles, so soft and warm the kindling of Eizen's traitorous heart sparks to life.

"But you are a malak," she reaffirms.  "Even if there are daemons, you'll keep him safe, won't you?"

She is not referring to Capalus.  Words fail Eizen for several halting beats.  Lunete is patient,  entirely unaware of how complicated Eizen's feelings actually are.

"Of course."  Eizen means to say it with conviction, with finality.  Instead it comes out breathless, like a prayer.

Lunete's nod feels like an approval, for what exactly Eizen can only guess.  It nearly distracts him from the commotion at the farthest end of the hall.  The young lady turns her head at the sound and laughs delicately, while Eizen thanks the stars for the distraction.

"Ah, my attendant," she explains.  "I may have absconded from my morning lessons.  My poor tutor."

Well, shit, maybe the apple falls farther from the tree than he thought.

"Didn't take you for the truant type," Eizen says, genuinely amused.

"I hope this doesn't color your impression of me."  Lunete presses her hand against her cheek again, but this time there is a playfulness to it.  "Tea will be served in the garden this afternoon.  Might you extend the invitation to Rokurou when he returns?  It would be a pleasure to serve the two of you beneath the gazebo."

Eizen resists the urge to pat the girl's head.  He has no idea if that would be considered a crime in the circles of court, but he wouldn't put it past Capalus to be overprotective on top of petty.  Though, to be objective about it, any move toward Edna is grounds for execution in his book, so maybe Eizen isn't fit to comment.

"I'll be sure to pass it along."

The commotion down the hall grows in volume, now a more discernible mix of concern and vexation.  With an apologetic hurry in her step, Lunete bids him farewell, hoists her skirts once more, and rushes off in their direction.  Eizen closes the door, surprised to find himself in a far fairer mood than when he'd opened it.  Perhaps there is hope yet for these fractured noble lines.

Over an hour later, his traveling bard's tales of whimsy and woe are once again interrupted when Rokurou throws open the door and waltzes in.  Here Eizen realizes what Rokurou took from the wardrobe were not civilian clothes, but a servant's uniform.  Hair usually left to nature’s fancy has been groomed back into a high ponytail with the bangs neatly parted to the side, accentuating the angle of his cheeks and the amber of his eyes.  It’s a clean look for him, almost too good for a meager servant.

Rokurou tugs at the stiff collar buttoned at his neck.  "How does anyone wear this?"  Catching Eizen's eye, Rokurou's grin turns wolfish.  "Hey.  Ready for a hunt?"

"Depends. Who is it?"

"Oh, no one in particular."

Rokurou's smile becomes unsettling as he makes a beckoning motion with his hands.  Seeing little reason to delay, and in no mood for obtuse games, Eizen returns his bard to the table and withdraws to his vessel.  They sorely needed these days of rest, but that wasn't all they were doing; they were waiting for something to arrive.  Someone.

Stepping back into the hall, Eizen spies through his vessel a serving cart piled high with assorted food.  Smoked meats of at least four different beasts, eggs cooked three ways, buttered breads, puffed pastries piled high with cream, fruit both fresh and jammed, a plethora of cheeses and cured sausage, and an enormous savory pie, still hot.

As Rokurou reaches for the cart, it occurs to Eizen that there is still quite a bit of commotion at the end of the hall, festivities that recontextualize Lunete's earlier disobedience.  Distant music and laughter accompanied by the faint odor of smoking pipes.  Before they cross the threshold into the merriment, Rokurou whispers to Eizen under his breath, and it's enough to put his earlier smile into more chilling context.  Despite his vessel's apparent levity, the words are starved of any joy, and only communicate an accustomed bitterness for what is to come.

"Our guest is Lord Kay eu Dragonia.  He's only a minor lord, but he's come a long way to be here today.  The least we can offer him is some Rangetsu-style hospitality."

_____

The bottle of spirits that rests on the grand table of oak is largely unremarkable.  A fine enough gift for the esteemed guest of this morning's feast, but nothing to draw attention to.  At least, not to any outward eyes.  The two men who know better are too familiar with this routine to let something slip.

Lord Kay eu Dragonia is third cousin to Lord Dragonia of Midgand, and fifth cousin, once removed to Lord Capalus.  He is the current head of a long line of barons seated atop Northgand's fishing trade.  He was born a generation before the count, hair wistfully peppered in gray with a roundness to his cheeks that compliments his life of comfort.  The wrinkles sinking between his brows reflect the hardships from recent years, however, as the northern snow falls earlier, heavier, colder.  The port of Meirchio used to draw trade across the whole empire.  With such harsh temperatures, the docks have been overrun with flows of ice.  Once an exceptionally beautiful shipyard, reduced to the scattered bones of abandoned skiffs and iced-over mooring lines that will never again meet the iron cleat of a fisher's boat.

Far more favorable nowadays is the port of Hellawes.  Before, it was no more than a humble fishing town, until the rising demand of flamestone ballooned the hamlet into a shipping empire that made the closing of Meirchio's docks all the more embittering.

Make no mistake that the northern baron still rests upon a veritable throne of wealth, more than enough to keep his legacy afloat until he or his sons might renew their foothold in Northgand's center of commerce, but it is no secret among the inner whispers of the royal court that his displeasure runs deep.  The fish are thriving, yet the industry has been devoured by flamestone.  What shipments can be claimed by his associates are only further bottlenecked by the Abbey's strict guidelines.  Without a passing inspection from the exorcists, no ship can set sail for the southern seas, and as the list of pending inspections grows longer, the window for business shrinks.

In another time, in another place, perhaps Lord Capalus might have extended an arm of interest.  The count suffers blows to his own station in small, but constant measures.  An ally in retaliation to the church's impenetrable influence would be a tempting hook for the count, were his eyes searching so low to the ground.

Unfortunately, Rokurou was instructed to facilitate no more than the illusion of friendliness.  He will dutifully serve the plates, fill the goblets, and clear the empty trays as a proper serving boy.  He will be mindful of their guest, and present to the baron a gift from his noble count: a pristine bottle of spirits, fermented with the starch of local potatoes.  He will keep his head bowed, his shoulders squared.

And most importantly, he will keep his ears open.

Blend in.  Learn.  Form a map of the enemy's behaviors and habits.

There are two others who arrived with the baron, a young stableboy and a seasoned huntsman.  While Rokurou was in the kitchens, he overheard them being introduced to the marshal.  That narrows their options, but if worst comes to worst, Rokurou can handle two mediocre servants.

His Lordship is particularly fond of the partridge this morning, served on plates garnished with berries and stuffed with buttered herbs and nuts.  He eats with his arms more than his wrists, turning the immediate vicinity into a laughing safety hazard.  Symptoms of privilege, a man who's never had to consider the space of others, where a careless gesture has never been followed by threats of missing fingers.  Blessings be that this is such a private meeting.  The baron and the count are the only occupants seated at the long dining table, leaving ample room for any jovial arms.

The baron is being cautious, having kept his beloved family back home.  Such a long journey from the north, with only two servants and meager belongings, dressed in plain tunics and plainer cloaks.  Had he not the mannerisms of nobility, Rokurou might have guessed him a commoner.

Lord Capalus found it only proper to answer such secrecy in kind.  Lunete was quickly ushered back to her room, forbidden to leave until the meal's conclusion, when they can be certain all talk of business has reached its end.  The only servant attending them is Rokurou, wheeling his cart of food like a well-trained dog.  All according to plan.

Only a Rangetsu can be trusted to protect the count's favor this way, to willingly don a cloak of shadows and plunge his hands into deeper, darker sins, heedless of consequence.  Today's job is simple, so simple that not even the clan’s clumsiest son can fail.

Bitterness twists in his chest, until all his thoughts slur to a drunken fog.  How starved he must be, to be sated by crumbs.  How low he has sunk, his pride nothing but dust in his lap.

If Shigure saw him, would she be proud of her smallest, her youngest?  He can’t say for certain anymore.  That might be his most shameful defeat of all.

Eizen hasn't said a word.  What does he make of such an ugly display?  Does he care enough to watch in the first place?

Nevermind.  Rokurou would rather not know.

He waits on cue for the baron's throaty laughter before ducking in and removing another empty platter.  Though his kin may be absent from the table, the baron fills their empty chairs with bountiful praises.  Their full names were recited at length throughout the meal, but at some point Rokurou disregarded them as unimportant.  Lady Dragonia of Northgand would have sat to his right with a fine white wine and her favorite brooch set with diamonds mined deep in the caves near Mount Killaraus.  To his left would have been his eldest son and daughter-in-law, who recently blessed his house with a third grandchild.

As he continues to boast, his fingers glance over everything.  Gentle touches around his plate, his glass, his gifted spirits, as though imparting a piece of his esteemed self within the wares.  He speaks loudly, with a minstrel's charisma, the kind that draws in ears as skittering bugs do fish.  As he regales the count with gossip, Rokurou thinks it a shame it had to be this way.

The baron was first sighted some weeks prior, passing through Stonebury on his way to the far coast.  It was around that time when the count received a very detailed message from the ruling lord of the northern province, a connection the count has taken great lengths to sustain since arriving in this town.  The letter documents the lord's meeting with the baron, on the grounds of forming an alliance against the church.  As expected, he played along to milk as much of the baron's treason as he was willing to divulge.

The letter went on to describe Lord Dragonia’s subsequent travels, several days spent visiting the neighboring counties, introducing himself to the lord's knights and exploring the coast.  Nearing the end of his loop, he returned to the lord of the north.  By then, rumors of Tintagel had swept the region.  Having only brought a single huntsman for defense, the baron dared not move until it was confirmed the cult had been dealt with.

During this waylay, it was nonchalantly slipped to the baron that there was another lord who might be negotiable nearby.  The head of House Capalus is a recent addition to the outskirts of Midgand, but holds wealth and power beyond nearly anyone in court.  He would prove invaluable should the baron win his favor.

Lord Dragonia recounts much of this during their meal in loving detail, completely unaware that everyone within earshot already knows.  Their meeting was set into motion days before the baron even realized the count was here.  He traveled to Midgand hoping to forge a powerful sword when all this time it had been sworn to another crown.  Will he even notice the blade aimed his way before it swings down?  Poor bastard.

The baron's precautions are admirable, but completely ineffective in the face of professionals.  He dresses as a commoner, but does not act like one.  He left his family behind, but talks enough for all of them.  He traveled light to keep a low profile, but certainly made a ruckus up and down the coast.  He lacks discipline, and is doomed for self-sabotage.

No one will miss him.  Rokurou hadn’t even heard of him before yesterday.  If he hadn't gone kowtowing to every knight in the province, Rokurou might have considered a quick beheading in bed to be sufficient, but it's better to err on the cautious side for this.  The death will be slow, made to look natural, and Rokurou will swallow any distaste with an easy smile.  Roundabout assassinations never sit well with him, but duty must come first.

Anything can be used to kill with enough creativity, and it is often left to a Rangetsu to determine the most fitting course of action.  This town is too small, where even the news of fresh bread is enough to attract the chatter of locals for hours into the day.  The disappearance of a boisterous man who rode in through the count's gates but not back out would burn the plains down with the heat of its gossip.  Measures must be taken thoughtfully.

Stonebury is provincial, but its people hearty, and many fine drinks have been crafted from the springs of these mountains.  The potatoes are something of a legend in these parts, in spite of — or perhaps because of — the limited edibility of each harvest.  The particular bottle that rubs elbows with the baron is one of a kind, its secret known only to a select few in the household.  A uniquely crafted brew that utilizes the whole potato, from skin to root.

The townsfolk call them radishbells.  They grow with a thick cherry-red skin that gives them the sheen of berries.  Children and perhaps witless dogs might mistake them for a delicious treat, but cleverer beasts won't even sniff them, for the skin of the radishbell can be fatally toxic.

Perhaps one or two on their own wouldn't be enough to cause undue harm; dehydration, headache, stomach pains, all excusable after a few days.  But many dozens of potatoes fermented together, and imbibed with the odorless dust of vermillion ore to ensure the poison sets?  The baron will suffer as though taken by sudden disease, at first as a cold, and then a distressing malady.  He is a notorious creature of habit, known by peers to down two short glasses each night before bed, and often substitutes alcohol for syrups at the first sign of illness.  His body will be cold long before he makes it home.

And if by some miracle the poison is found, there are endless other avenues to explore in its stead.  Perhaps the baron's attendant serves as taster for his bottles, and once both of them alone fall ill, it will be easy to pinpoint the cause.  The count should have little trouble deflecting blame to the town.  After all, it is still so young, the potatoes are a robust and promising enterprise, but the stages of experimentation are still being pruned, it's understandable a bottle or two might rot on the shelf!  There are many fine bottles of untampered radishbell spirits to offer in its place.

He could poison the breakfast tomorrow, before the baron leaves.  He could tamper with the horses and strand them on the plains, left to the mercy of daemons.  Capalus could send him along as an escort to personally slip his knife under his ribs.  Many, many options.

"You there, exotic lad," the baron calls with a giddiness to his laughter.  "Two more of those delectable roasted beef cuts, if you would.  Good, very good.  Lancelot, you gutted weasel, hiding yourself so!  Imagine my shock when I was told not just any man, but the head of House Capalus was stationed here, in this shanty of a town!  I was certain this visit would greet me with log cabins and unseasoned game meat.  But this!"  The baron sweeps his arms wide and nearly knocks the spit propped in Rokurou's hands.  “This is magnificent!  You're doing quite well for yourself, you scoundrel, you!"

A few more days, and it will all be over.  Praise be to Innominat.

As the count laughs along politely, Rokurou carves his knife through the roast, and imagines it as the baron's thick neck.

_____

The gardens of the Capalus estate are exquisite, and much larger than Eizen originally believed, having only glimpsed them briefly through the cabinet room window.  The high walls and treeline surrounding the estate ensures ample privacy for those wandering its many paths.  Constructed of light stone and arranged in artful patterns, the walkways crisscross the expansive grounds, creating appealing shapes as they intersect in wide arcs and sharp corners.  The outer path forms a large oval around the perimeter, with straight paths that connect to each quadrant and diagonals that make direct lines to the gazebo placed at the center.

Lunete leads them in front, while Eizen and Rokurou follow some steps behind.  Her attendants are away, granting them a rare moment of privacy while they ready their lady's tea.  Eizen wouldn't think it wise to leave a young girl alone with the reaper, but Rokurou keeps a diligent eye on his liege; so far, so good.  The path is wide enough for two to walk side by side, but it's a cozier fit with grown men of their height.  Eizen knocks arms with Rokurou every other stride with the occasional misstep onto someone's foot, while Rokurou's sword knocks into everything no matter how carefully he moves, but neither seems to mind.  At the very least, he never apologizes, always teasing Eizen with a crooked grin.

Although Lunete walks these paths almost daily, she isn't much of a tour guide.  She's learned the names of her personal favorites and studied the relevant strains to commercial trade, but her breadth of knowledge is expectantly minimal.

For a while, Eizen manages to keep his tongue close.  Until Lunete starts asking questions.  Benign to begin with, little curiosities and harmless speculations on what certain plants are, how they came to hold such lovely fragrances, why they came to grow in such peculiar ways.  Then Rokurou decides he wants to answer them, each more unbelievable than the last.  By the time he's worked himself into truly outlandish territory, the bristling beneath Eizen's skin becomes too much.  He has to speak up, if only to set right this affront to his intellect.

He cuffs Rokurou's shoulder in punishment as Lunete stifles laughter behind her hands.  A chord of warmth hums in him, longing for siblings, for family.  Before he knows it, he's pointing out herbs and flowers completely unprompted, and all Rokurou has to do is nod every once in a while with barely contained smugness.

How does Rokurou goad him so effortlessly?  Eizen should be bothered by this, yet he lets it happen, caught in the uplift of his vessel’s whims like a sweeping tempest.  It slips between the folds of his sails and blows him wide open, even as he tries desperately to stay knotted to his post.

He can hear it now: for a little while couldn't hurt, isn’t that right?

Eizen recognizes the idle glaze over his partner's eyes.  He's seen that same face worn by every member of his crew at some point or another.  Rokurou is doing his best to stay attentive, but it's clear a lot is flying over his head.  In spite of that, he seems to be enjoying the experience, maybe more on an empathetic level than a personal one, basking in whatever energy fuels Eizen to know what makes the world tick.

But Eizen can tell by his stiff shoulders that Rokurou is uneasy.  Crust walls him off layer after layer, even as he smiles and laughs and prods Eizen further into the spotlight.  His gaze will list to the side, observing each passing interest as though from a great distance; a tired man lost at sea, searching for home on an empty horizon.

Aye.  For a little while couldn’t hurt.

Take a look here, these are perennials native to the nearby mountains, hardy little fellas who can survive even through harsh snowfalls.  Those over there were imported from overseas, and are especially vulnerable to changes in humidity, and must be monitored with great care.  The leaves of this crop may take the appearance of a weed, but are actually a medicinal root of the eastern woodlands, used to treat various illnesses and upset stomachs.  And this is a type of squash common to Westgand, where the water is plentiful and the mites horrid.  Another Westgand crop further down, parsnip judging from the shape of the sprouts.  They look almost ready to harvest, actually, and would make for an excellent soup base.

Lunete can't seem to get enough, pushing Eizen for more with the diligence of an apple press.  Her enthusiasm makes Eizen happier than he will ever admit to aloud.  He gushes to great length about the alien-looking groves of distant islands, how certain barks and fronds can be woven into all manners of crafts, his own youthful forays in crossbreeding peaches with various fruits.  For someone who didn't want to be the center of attention, the realization is slow to dawn on him.

When did he last hear Rokurou speak?  From the corner of his eye, Eizen searches.  Before, they were standing shoulder to shoulder, but now Rokurou has fallen behind.  Lunete hasn’t noticed, still leading with her back turned.

Eizen keeps talking to not draw attention, and catches Rokurou by the arm.  The muscle tenses under his grasp.  When Rokurou finally looks his way, an entire conversation occurs in that moment of eye contact, too much to fully understand.  Eizen pushes everything he has into a single squeeze before letting his hand drop.  His fingers curl around air, unwilling to part, but in the end he forces it back to his side.

Relax, he tries to send through the parting.

It’s not until later that Eizen feels a tug near his waist, so light he swears he must be imagining it.  A hand clinging to his coat, following the natural lift and fall of his steps.  Eizen can't bring himself to look back — in case he’s wrong, in case he’s right, in case he likes being right more than he's ready to acknowledge — but the idea alone makes his pulse flutter.

They circle the garden twice before heading for the gazebo.  Curtains of trees part to each side, unveiling pearl white stairs leading up to the main stage.  One side is covered by a massive fuchsia, tall enough to graze the rails of the platform in hundreds of hanging flowers.  Vivid pink and purple blossoms, almost too bright to look at, with petals curling outward like tiny hats.  Awash with an overly sweet aroma, Lunete hums pleasantly as she passes by.

Eizen follows without much thought, until he notices Rokurou has once again fallen behind.  He’s still by the curtain of trees, leaning forward like a cat raising his hackles.  He’s glaring fiercely at the fuchsia like it's done him a personal disservice.

"Hey," Eizen calls.

Rokurou crosses his arms, almost defensive.  The frown deepens.  "Yeah, I'm coming."

Eizen grasps uselessly at his chest, instinct bracing for the prickle of malevolence.  Many seeds have already been sown, waiting patiently to germinate.  Human emotion is the fulcrum that weighs their purity, and those same emotions can easily slip into corruption.  That moment when the heart can no longer suppress the weight of its sins; when duplicity claws too deep to embrace; when lines are crossed beyond what reason can repair.  The intent of one's actions, be they of good or ill, inevitably forces mankind to confront the face of their karma.

Legends of old say the Empyreans made this earth.  Eizen doesn't particularly concern himself with how true that is.  The flow of the planet was certainly dictated by malakhim, but whether they came in the form of four deities known as Empyreans is irrelevant.  The likelihood is that a few choice malakhim were made figureheads for religion, much in the same way those myths have been hijacked by the Abbey to embellish their fledgling malak, Innominat.  Over time, prayers build their power, to the point where they can no longer be measured by human means.  Which came first, the Empyreans or the prayers?  A good philosophical debate, but nothing that wavers Eizen's life to any significant degree.

But if the gods do exist, and if they indeed fashioned this world to their own liking, Eizen does have to wonder what they would say looking at the state of their creation now.  What did they believe the purpose of malevolence delivered in this world?  At the end of the day, Eizen is a washed-up malak with a bad attitude and a penchant for disaster, and he isn't about to give any of that up, but sometimes he looks at these humans he so adores, and he asks himself where the fairness in all of this is — whether fairness was ever part of the deal to begin with.

"Is something wrong?"  Lunete's voice is muffled from the opposite side of the gazebo.  She's already halfway up the stairs, the top of her head barely visible.

"Nah, it’s all good," Rokurou replies.  Lunete reaches the top of the platform and leans over the railing while Rokurou makes a half-hearted gesture toward the flowers.  "Just didn't expect the old man to come all the way out here, is all."

He gives Eizen one of his easy grins, and Eizen wonders for whose sake that grin is for.   Maybe Eizen looks as shaken as he feels.

Up the octagonal platform is a beautiful set of cushioned walnut chairs and a table with stylized baroque curls.  Covering the table's surface is a pane of glass, intricate carvings of flowers and birds preserved underneath.  By chance, Eizen winds up in the seat nearest to the fuchsia.  The branches have spilled over the lip of the rails more than he could see from the ground.  Two colorful blossoms tickle his cheek, close enough for his nose to pick up traces of citrus in the honeyed scent.

Eizen considers how he wants to word this.  He almost doesn't ask, but he pushes the discomfort aside.  "By old man, do you mean Melchior?"

Rokurou's grin tightens into a sardonic curve.  "You wouldn't think it looking at him, but he’s got a hell of a green thumb."

"If I recall," Lunete says, "Lord Melchior arrived with them some weeks after Rokurou received summons for Westgand.  It was quite touching.  The Abbey's resources are finite, and Lord Melchior is such a prominent figure.  There really was no need to offer compensation, much less a personal audience.  It was almost too much to accept."

"Can I ask what was being repaid?"

"Of course, Lord Eizen," Lunete says, and fine, maybe it tickles Eizen’s ego a bit to hear an honorific attached to his name.  "After the Opening, House Capalus was among the first in the court to stand with Lord Artorius."

"How generous of him," Eizen says.  He can't entirely keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but thankfully, Lunete doesn't seem to notice

"From what I understand, Melchior assessed those in the house who met the qualifications to become an exorcist.  Father enlisted them all without any delay.  Their departure presented many difficulties in performing his duties, but he believed their work would serve better under Lord Artorius."

"You said that was after the Opening, right?" Eizen says.  "Meaning there was a second enlistment after the Advent."

Rokurou perks up at that.  "You could say that,” he says.  His eyes narrow.  “The count put his foot down that time, said that as the last of the Rangetsu line, the debt owed by my family had to come first.  King Asgard must have thrown him a bone with that, cause I bet you anything the old man would never have agreed to those terms otherwise.”

That explains a lot, actually.  Why Melchior said nothing about their abrupt departure, despite their journey clearly interrupting his agenda.  It certainly explains Capalus’ abrasive behavior, grandstanding to all who will hear, taking his aggression out on what little he still controls.  Maybe that’s part of why Rokurou feels so lost, stuck in this transient space where he doesn’t seem to belong anywhere.  Uprooted from his past and constantly pulled between Melchior and Capalus with no consideration given to what he wants.

Under his breath, Rokurou sighs.  “Maybe if I’d had higher resonance, he would have picked me instead.”

Eizen wants to respond to that, but before he can he’s interrupted by Lunete’s waylaid attendants.  Between the two of them is a boastful array of tea and sweets, served in glistening porcelain and a golden three-tiered cake stand.  Edible petals provide splashes of seasonal color to the tea's rich ruby hues.  After drinks are served and plates are filled, the attendants take their leave, but wander no further than the bottom of the steps.  In an instant, Eizen is no longer in the mood for talking.

Lunete holds her cup beneath her nose, wisps of steam caressing her cheeks as she takes her first sip of the afternoon.  Eizen notes that her face is discernibly more troubled now.  Hands stiff, Rokurou picks at a lemon cake dusted in confectioners sugar, pulverizing an entire corner to crumbs before he seems to come to his senses.  With the composure of a bear trap, he shoves half the dessert into his mouth and chews with a contemplative look.  More out of politeness than any real appetite, Eizen bites into a cake packed with berries and dalloped in cream cheese.

“Ichirou says hi, by the way,” Rokurou says suddenly, as though he’d forgotten about the promise he’d made until that moment.  A good deflection, but a poor lie.  With how obsessed Rokurou is with his brother, there’s no way part of him hasn’t been repeating those words nonstop since that night in Loegres.

They take Lunete by surprise, and she nearly spills her tea.  “Does he, now?” she asks, a smile stretching her cheeks.  “Perhaps he might be braver and write me his words himself, then.”

Rokurou returns the grin.  Maybe Eizen is being overprotective, but the action seems performative, as though Rokurou rehearsed how this conversation would go.  Is he jealous of her affection, for the brother he wishes to slay by his own sword?  Does that make him angry?  Sad?

Jokingly, he says, “Ichirou doesn't even read, let alone write.”

“I’m sure he recalls something,” Lunete insists, "though it might be too much to expect the same lyricism Shirou could pen.”

Rokurou’s response catches in his throat.  Must not have expected that reply.

Lunete sighs, suddenly wistful.  “I didn’t understand what happened, at the time.  When Shirou stopped attending to me, I thought I had done something wrong.  I remember thinking that Ichirou was a big and scary man, and I blamed him for many things he had no control over."

She pauses for tea, a silence that seems to stretch into infinity.  Eizen swallows his bite of cake and tries not to draw attention.

"When he escorted us over long travels," she continues, "I would go out of my way to make matters difficult.  For the time we had together, he showed remarkable patience.  He was crude, of course, and quite loud.  Every opinion on how I held myself, he certainly announced to all who would hear.  He’s such a strange man, but there’s something soft in his heart; something kind.  I think that’s a quality shared between every Rangetsu man.  You’ve all been far too good to this troublesome girl.”

The tea is still scalding hot, but Rokurou lifts his cup and pours all of it into his mouth.  Burns choke his voice with pain — to mask the more complicated sort deeper inside, mirroring the lurch in Eizen’s chest.

“It’s no trouble at all, miss,” he says with a brittle laugh.  “If anything, it’s you who is too kind.”

Eizen sips tea to avoid speaking.  It burns his tongue, but he’s gone numb to the pain, to the whole conversation.  The topic trickles back into the lighter topics of Stonebury’s development, and the fascinating network of trade posts and towns that will soon fall under the management of Lunete’s future husband.  Insider info that a knowledge shark like Eizen would gorge on any other day, but can’t seem to raise an appetite for right now.  Distantly, he can hear himself responding, can hear Rokurou chime in with some manner of meaningless words to keep the momentum, but neither of their hearts are in it anymore.  He can see it in the young girl’s eyes that she knows something is wrong, but hasn’t the context nor the years to address it.  Eizen feels a bit bad for her; she's so young, it’s not her fault she's always kept in the dark.  He has no doubt she will later look back on the ill mood of her former servant and be taken by guilt.

And maybe this makes Eizen an asshole, but he spends the entire reprieve watching Rokurou and the way every beat of silence becomes a bruising pressure in his chest, and thinks this is her karma for not simply staying in her room.

Fortunately — for Eizen, at least — their afternoon is cut short by an approaching storm.  No sooner does the kettle empty its last drop do the skies shatter with lightning and heavy downpour.  The gazebo serves to shelter them initially, but once the winds pick up they find themselves instantly soaked to the bone.  Though condolences are voiced, Eizen couldn’t be happier to finally shut the door to their room.

He waits until they've both dried off.  Though neither of them cares, he respectfully keeps his back turned as Rokurou shimmies out of his wet clothes and throws them atop the linen hamper.  Plain black trousers and a loose-fitting white shirt await; finally, the dress of a civilian.  Not an exorcist, nor a servant, but Rokurou Rangetsu, a simple man who loves swords and a good drink.

"Can I ask what you meant earlier?"  Eizen figures he'll start simple.  "Back in the gardens.  You mentioned something about resonance."

Rokurou goes to retrieve a fat bottle of plum wine off the nightstand.  The quiet makes the room feel even tinier.  Once they've settled at the table in their usual spots, several servings of wine pass before Rokurou finds his words.

"The first time I met Melchior, he told me strong resonance ran in my blood.  Passed down from Shigure, and the Shigure before her, and so on."

"What made him think that?"  There isn't a great deal of information about the Rangetsu clan to be found in the underworld.  It'd be interesting to hear where Melchior might have heard something Eizen hadn't.

"Through other exorcists, so to speak," Rokurou says.  "Oracles who traveled to Midgand from distant lands.  People of the old ways, who speak with the dead and divine the will of the gods.  My mother consulted with them now and then; at the time, I never thought it was anything more than an old tradition."

Of course.  Melchior likely keeps tabs on as many of these groups as he can find.  People are born of higher resonance across all lands and seas, carving out their own cultures with their own needs for pilgrimage.  Who better to associate with in a foreign land than those who can also see what others cannot?  Before the Advent, the chances of meeting another resonant human were exceedingly rare.

What happened beneath those scarlet moons that forced such an abrupt change?  Transformation on such a global scale isn't natural.  It's not a question Eizen necessarily needs an answer to, but the more room he has to make assumptions, the darker they'll color his impression of the holy church.

He doubts he’ll ever know whether the Abbey was the direct cause of those incidents, or if they merely took advantage of the results.  The Opening triggered the rapid onset of daemonblight; the Advent exposed the existence of malakhim; a sudden swell of exorcists rose up with the church, followed swiftly by the transfer of power from the crown to Artorius.  A fairytale ending too perfect for reality.

Stray drops of water run down Rokurou's cheek.  They fall in steady taps against the table.  "Ichirou could see them his whole life.  Hell, everyone probably could.  Except me."

The jealousy and bitterness is so evident Eizen could reach out and grab it.  While it's true resonance is more likely to be passed on if there's a strong presence in the bloodline, that's not always a guarantee.

"I think it's more like your brother got lucky," he says.

"Figures.  He always gets what he wants."

All humans are typically born with some degree of awareness, but where daemons are scarce and malakhim keep their distance, most children's sensitivity will stagnate from disuse.  As they grow, they rely more on their other senses; sight, sound, smell.  More importantly, they frame their perceptions on the words of their elders: creatures no one else can see only live in your imagination.  They learn to forget that fragment of sixth sense connecting them to the earthpulse.  For those of strong resonance, the power falls dormant.  For the weak, it disappears entirely.

For someone like Rokurou, Eizen could believe either outcome.  Perhaps Rokurou is the runt of his family in all things, missing out on the full potential of his blood by pure chance.  Or maybe he did show strong signs of perception growing up, and convinced himself to believe otherwise.  Eizen's seen humans overcome staggering obstacles, rationalize illogical circumstances, and succumb to entirely fabricated illnesses, solely through the power of their beliefs.  When those thoughts are funneled more purposely toward a malak, they become the prayers that power their domains.  They are what make humans truly formidable creatures.

And Rokurou is just the sort of hardheaded idiot who would decide on his own that nothing else existed in the entire world except his vendetta against his brother.  Purely selfish conviction that shuts out even what’s right in front of him.

Eizen drains the rest of his glass, and moves quickly to refill it.  "Going back to what you’d said, then: if you had that higher resonance at the time, were you hoping Melchior would have taken you instead of your brother?"

"I think he would have tried to get both of us, honestly."  Rokurou wears a crooked smile.  "He's greedy for an old bastard, ya know.  But I think if the count had the option...yeah, he'd rather have Ichirou than me."

"It sounds like you would have preferred that."

Rokurou fiddles with a damp strand of hair.  “Maybe."

"Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression you didn't want to leave."

Rokurou looks tired.  More than tired.  Weary.  Fatigued.  Older than a twenty-something with his whole life ahead of him.

Maybe what Rokurou is meaning to say is that he wished some clearer lines had been drawn.  A role to play where he didn't have to question himself.

Quietly, Rokurou says, "I don't know what I want anymore, Eizen," and it sounds like a pin dropping onto glass.

"Rokurou," Eizen says carefully, "why does having resonance matter so much to you?"

Rokurou is a swordsman who uses the power of his own body to imbue his artes with mana.  His techniques don't require the use of a malak.  For that matter, Ichirou Rangetsu doesn't seem to use his malak for anything other than training and strategy, much like what Rokurou has arranged with Eizen.  If he envies whatever advantage resonance may or may not have given to Ichirou growing up, the catalyst triggered by the Advent seems to have been more than enough to level the playing field.

Resonance isn't something that can grow through training.  In fact, there are very few safe methods through which to heighten that sensitivity.  It seems antithetical for Rokurou to be this hung up about it, even taking his obvious inferiority complex into account.  There's something Eizen's missing.

Rokurou looks down, his glass resting at an angle in his grip.  "It's stupid."

"If there's one thing I have more experience in than anything else, it's dumb shit.  Try me."

“In your old age, you would know, wouldn’t you?”  Rokurou rubs the back of his neck with a short laugh.  "Alright.  I hate that plant.  The one Melchior put in the garden.  He did that on purpose, so the count will always be reminded of him when he looks outside."

Eizen leans on his elbow with a smirk, serpentine winking in the candlelight.  "If I didn't hate him so much, I might respect that as an intimidation tactic."

Rokurou arcs a brow.  "Wow, you're a pretty nasty guy.  Don't let me get on your bad side."

"You've already been there, in case you've forgotten."

"No, my fingers have not forgotten, thank you very much."

He’s rambling, either to distract from the point, or to delay getting to it.  Though it seems cruel to think about it in such a calculating way, what Eizen ultimately needs are answers, not smalltalk.  That said, if Eizen is going to lead Rokurou into saying what he means, his best move might be to ease off and let them come naturally.

They shoot the shit for a while longer, skipping from thought to thought until like freshly kneaded pastry dough, the apprehensiveness begins to ease out of Rokurou's shoulders.  The taut lines along his neck and the creases around his eyes soften their intensity, until the final wall crumbles and Rokurou has nothing left to hide behind.

"It's his favorite," Rokurou finally says, and the shift in his tone is enough for Eizen to sit a bit straighter, "it always has been."

"Is that a problem?"

"The plant?  No.  It took Melchior a long time to make, but it's just a flower."  Rokurou runs his fingers around the rim of his glass, producing a low, ominous hum.  "But it reminds me of someone whenever I see it, too."

Hearing that, Eizen regrets his earlier words.  To intimidate Capalus is nothing worthwhile, but to intimidate his vessel is unforgivable.

"Someone else you want to kill?" he asks quietly, unsure if he wants to know.

Rokurou laughs.  "Nah.  I don't even know if she's alive.  But I've heard of her.  Everyone in the Abbey's heard of her.  She's known as the lost legate."

Eizen sits up even straighter.  "Lost, as in-?"

"Gone," Rokurou says, "Disappeared; deserted; dead; who knows.  By the time I arrived, all that was left of her were whispers and rumors.  She was a prodigy, could weave artes like no one else.  She was so powerful, I'm sure she would have overtaken the old man in no time, had she bothered to stick around."

"Did Melchior feel threatened by her?"

"No," Rokurou says with an emotion Eizen can't quite identify.  "When I asked him about it, all he said was: 'she was my biggest disappointment'."  Rokurou flicks his empty glass, and it gives a hollow ring.  "And fool I was, I actually believed him."

"It sounds like they knew each other well."

"More than that," Rokurou says.  "She's his daughter.  Adopted, but that didn't matter to him.  He loved her like nothing else.  Whatever happened to her, well, I'm sure that's what really upset him."

"And you know that because of the fuchsia?" he guesses.  "It takes a lot of work to cultivate a stable variant.  You mentioned Melchior has a knack for botany, and that one is his favorite.  Was it also her favorite?"

"I don't know," Rokurou admits, "but he named it after her — Magillanica.   Old man loves flowers more than he does people, so to go and name a flower after a person?  At Lothringen, his office was always full of 'em.  After our sessions, I'd always come out of it seeing him tending to that stupid thing with a look he'd never show another human being.  After a while, I guess it started to piss me off."

What exactly does coming out of a session with Melchior entail?  The wording raises all kinds of red flags, and Eizen pockets it for later.  A question for another time.

Instead, more pertinent, he asks, "Did you see Melchior as something of a father figure yourself?"

"Me?" Rokurou asks.  "Not really.  Well, I don't know.  My dad was never really around much.  We were close to his side of the family, but I was real little when he bit the big one."  Rokurou slows to a still, and goes very quiet, lost in thought or some remembered experience.  "I wonder — if looking at it reminds me—"  Rokurou trails off, unable to finish, and at this point, Eizen isn't heartless enough to make him.  His guesses alone are sad enough.

It sounds exhausting being the youngest in a family that pits siblings against each other, that intends for them to kill each other.  Constantly outshined at every turn, unable to keep up.  Over the course of time, more things crop up that seem to divide Rokurou from his identity, an unending, desperate struggle to be recognized as himself.  How many times has his heart been crushed, convinced that he is only a poor stand-in for someone greater, someone more deserving of attention than him?

They drink the rest of the bottle, and Eizen watches Rokurou's nightly practice swings.  For a while, it seems Rokurou is able to lose himself in the rigid structure of his routine, but when he reaches his final swing — over two thousand this time, every night more and more and — the ache is quick to return.

They skip studying the book.  The mere thought of arcane artes leaves an even fouler tang on Eizen's tongue than before.

By this point, Eizen has dressed down to his simple outerwear, his coat and vest hanging in the wardrobe, his boots nestled by the door.  His bangles and gloves, Edna's locket, and his myriad trinkets are neatly arranged on the table.  He doesn't always do this, but it's a nice change of order on nights when he wants to be comfortable.

Tonight, he puts a little more forethought into it.  Coming to the edge of the bed, he catches Rokurou off guard by demanding he slide over.

"Why?" Rokurou asks, bewildered.

"I'm going to sleep, so move," Eizen explains.  Simple as that.

Rokurou's mouth hangs, but he moves over regardless.  "But you don't need sleep?  What's gotten into you?"

"Tonight I feel like it, so I'm going to.  Goodnight."

Eizen lies down, and the last of the candles are blown out, dousing the room in darkness.  He makes no indication he's doing this for anyone but himself.  He's a selfish malak doing what he wants, that's all.

In the dark, surrounded by rain, he hears the soft voice of a lonely boy, alone no longer, at least for tonight.  "Thanks."

They wake up the next morning, and Rokurou has rolled over again and tangled his arms around him, head buried in his shirt and covers kicked halfway off the bed.

Eizen breathes in the scent of his hair, his lungs crackling, and tries to tell himself it'll all be okay.  

____

That rumble of dread does not ease.  In fact, it worsens.  By their fourth day back on the plains, Eizen's chest quakes as though filled with water, defilement rising in his throat like a fat layer of oil.  He wakes at first light, knees and back stiff from another bout of sleeping upright.  The edge of Rokurou's brow is digging into his arm, long gone numb.  Wordlessly, he leans his vessel in close and allows them an extra minute of laziness before he nudges them both up.

Rokurou grumbles as usual, bleary eyes searching for what causes the sun to rise so he might take a sword to its head.  He overdid again last night, tossing back so much liquor he saw the world in eight silhouettes.  Huddled next to Eizen, wound around their only blanket, he leaned a rosy cheek on his arm and asked him why he thought birds flew.  With a head full of cotton and a clumsy mouth to match, Eizen can't recall what he said, only that half of it couldn't be described as earthly language.  Did Rokurou even acknowledge it?  That part's missing.  What comes to mind next is Rokurou sucking down the last fifth of their whiskey — that they were supposed to be sharing, the bastard — and collapsing against Eizen with a flush that reached halfway down his clavicle.  In another lifetime, Eizen would have been livid.  Instead he made sure the ends of the blanket met at exact angles across Rokurou's chest, and counted raindrops until his eyes slipped shut.

The skies are dreary and gray this morning, barely letting the light through.  The last traces of Stonebury sank beneath the horizon two days ago, leaving untamed wilderness as far as the eye can see.  With so much rain, the plains are starting to look more like the roads along Galles Lake, but they press westward no matter what.  The sooner they reach the Danann Highway, the better.

Unlike their initial crossing, Capalus has no grand motive to warrant parading them around by coach.  On top of being gaudy, it would be terribly slow given Aldina's lack of official roads, made worse in the poor weather.  The point of hauling Bors from Loegres to ferry a single legate across the plains had been about asserting control, not efficacy.  Capalus couldn't care less how Rokurou returns to the capital, but his dismissal carries the heavy implication that he does so on foot.  Honestly, Eizen is fine with that.  Horseback might be marginally faster than walking, but horses untrained for combat would only attract unwanted attention.

The words of that lady knight linger in the back of his mind.  If he loosens his focus, he can sense the spiraling trails of mana embedded in the peaks dividing the plains in half, ancient remains of malak artes that have shifted the very fabric of the land.  If he reaches out further, he can almost brush up against the pulse of the earth, that river of light breaking through the gloom.  Beyond that — the back of his neck prickles with cactus needles from the sudden chill that seizes his spine.

Starting today, nothing about the weather will be measured by normalcy.  Engulfing the west is a hellscape that makes the seasonal rains of the east look like a lazy afternoon shower.  The reaper's grin tickles his paranoia, making it difficult not to hear roars in every crack of thunder, or spy wing tips brushing the heavens, a snaking tail sweeping the clouds.

Four days ago, a missive was delivered to House Capalus, stamped with the church’s seal.  Tragic reports of tornadoes ravaging caravans near the peaks.  While investigations are underway, the checkpoint leading out of the Danann Highway has been shut down.  It is highly recommended the count take action to deter any outgoing traffic from Stonebury until further notice.

But Count Capalus cannot be asked to suffer so great an obstacle, now can he?  He, who invested immeasurable wealth and time in his daughter's betrothal, whose purpose first and foremost is securing commercial trade between Port Zekson and the northern province.  Why, to halt the process at such a critical juncture is unthinkable!

For the multitude of questions Capalus has, Rokurou must answer.  He divulges what they learned from Judith about the Class 4 designation, how the tornadoes are likely an accurate report, but missing the key detail regarding exactly what caused them.  The ban will put a halt to the majority of travel, but functionally serves more as a warning than an enforcement.  Particularly foolish, ignorant, or stubborn folk can easily sidestep the blockade and test their luck, but they'll be up against monsters even the Abbey isn't willing to risk its numbers for.

Capalus doesn't focus on the risk.  He focuses on the daemon, and the setbacks it will cause.  Whose job is it to clear out daemons?  Oh, yes, that's right.  And who among the exorcists is most suited for killing?

Even if Rokurou's creed would let him say no, his pride as a Rangetsu wouldn't.  It takes all of Eizen's thousand years not to commit an unspeakable crime at the thought.

He misses when the two of them were on the same page.  That is to say, he misses the peace of mind from before he realized that since the beginning, they have never been on the same page.  The difference is tangible, an open wound shared between them, yet neither is ready or willing to uproot their principles in order to bridge that chasm.  They're on opposite ends of a chapter hurtling toward the same conclusion, yet destined to be eternally out of sync.

A yawn stretches Rokurou's face, his hair in disarray and his breath clouding the air in bright little puffs.  "Must be a good morning if you're already frowning."

Eizen spits the staleness out of his mouth, imagining Capalus' face in the mud.  "Better already."

"Gross," Rokurou says, despite immediately copying the gesture.  He tilts his head with a wrinkle in his nose.  "Hah, mine's got more snot than yours.”  Like it's an achievement.

Cold air wafts out of the stone walls Eizen erected around their camp, as leftover rain skips across their meager canvas roof.  No downpour yet, but that sliver of black Eizen spies between the gaps is a hefty promise.

Out in the open, the winds buffet their cheeks in such deafening volume that even their rawest shouts are swallowed within steps away from each other.  Squeezing waterlogged earth into structurally sound walls every evening is no easy task, but it’s well worth the effort for the reprieve from the howling bellows.  Silence is never fully appreciated until it is irretrievable.

The downside is they are essentially spending their nights sleeping in an ice cellar.  Nothing the two of them can't handle in the short term, but definitely something that might raise concerns if left unchecked.

With this in mind, Eizen leans over and swings their double-wrapped store of rations into Rokurou's lap, nearly knocking him over.  "Increase your citrus today.  Water, too.  We're still at least two days out from the highway, so don't get careless."

"Sure thing, Dad."  Rokurou rolls his eyes, but obediently nibbles on a slice of dried porange.  His free hand continues to fumble around in the pack, likely searching near the bottom for their jar of honey.  “Any other words of wisdom?”

The tips of his fingers are paler than they were the day before.  The blanket slips from his shoulders, allowing colonies of bumps to skitter up his arms with a vengeance.  The chill of the plains is a slow creep, incrementally sinking into the bones until anything short of lighting oneself on fire becomes a hollow imitation of warmth.

Rokurou crosses his legs, bumping their knees together.  He bows forward like a turtle, centering heat around his core, breathing against his knuckles between bites of fruit.  At least the cold hasn't slowed down his appetite; a good sign.

“What’s your opinion on that domain up ahead?”  Try as he might, Eizen can't keep the irritation out of his voice.  None of it is pointed toward Rokurou directly, but it's difficult to tell if Rokurou perceives it that way.

“Well, it’s a Class 4 zone, so either a bunch of venomized daemons, or one really big one,” Rokurou replies playfully.  "Considering how the Abbey’s treating the whole affair, I'd bet on the latter."

As would Eizen.  If the domain is truly migrating at the rate the reports claim, it would make more sense for a single daemon to be at its epicenter.  Withholding action saves on resources as well.  When the beast moves on, so will the storm, and the roads can reopen without incident.  A few irate merchants can be dealt with easily compared to the mass hysteria of a public announcement.  How many might doubt the Abbey's capability if word spread that a class 4 daemon was allowed to roost on the capital's doorstep?  Doubt breeds fear, breeds malevolence.  Weak hearts cannot bear the weight of the truth.  Lies are woven for their protection.  So says Reason.

"Hey," Rokurou calls when the silence stretches too long, "you okay?”

Lately, that's been Eizen's line.  How surreal it is for Rokurou to be the grounded one this time.

“Fine.”  Reaching into the pack himself, he nudges Rokurou's arm aside to grab whatever's on top, which turns out to be a wrap of smoked meat and a cube of hard cheese.  Not exactly fine dining, but now that the domain is upon them, he needs all the energy he can get.

Rokurou isn’t worldly or scholarly, but he’s razor sharp in a lot of understated ways.  He watches Eizen with pinched brows, turning his easy grin into a strained smile that looks suspiciously like pity.

“You’re totally not,” he says.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“Nothing in particular means something in general, you know.”  If Rokurou weren’t showing such candid concern, Eizen might have considered decking him for his insolence.  “Are you worried it might be a dragon?”

Tense shoulders betray an honesty that can't be conveyed with words.  “Do I give off that impression?”

“Just a guess."  Rokurou leans back, hair brushing Eizen's neck.  His eyes follow the gentle rotation of the arte ring stamped above, serving as their makeshift lamp.  "Back at Tintagel, you were out for blood more than I was.  Maybe I'm a little curious how far you're willing to go.”

"I'll go as far as these fists will take me," Eizen declares with a weary pride.  "I'm not so noble that I'll hunt down every dragon out there, but I won't ignore what's right in front of me.  When a malak transforms, they lose the ability to steer their own ship; malevolence is what charts their course, and malevolence doesn't care who or what they used to care about.  As a dragon, they'll raze everything to the ground, their wants, their beliefs, their loved ones  — I won't stand for it.  These fists will put an end to that farce."

A blinding flash suddenly illuminates their camp, chased quickly by a deafening roar of thunder.  A plague of rain chatters loudly against their roof, as though in defiance of Eizen’s declaration.

Rokurou wears a curiously wry smile with hooded eyes.  He keeps his focus on the lamp and shoves the last few wedges of porange into his mouth.  Minutes pass, leaving Eizen uncertain what he's supposed to take from the behavior.

"Do you intend to stop me?" he asks.

The swordsman shrugs.  "Oh, I'm not in any position to be doing that, though admittedly it did cross my mind.  Actually, I expected you to raise a fuss over taking orders from the count, but it sounds like your goals are still your own."

"Damn straight.  My wheel is mine alone to hold."  And in an ideal world, Rokurou's would be as well.

In an ideal world, Eizen wouldn't feel like he's watching a man slowly suffocate, shearing away his humanity bit by bit to fill a mold intended for someone else.

Forget it, he tells himself, it's none of your business.

A futile effort.  Business or not won't stop Eizen from wishing they were true.  From wishing they were home.  How exhilarating it would be.  He'd flip Rokurou right out of his hammock for sleeping through even a minute of his duties.  Buck up, he would tell him, because a sailor can't afford to slack off when they're so far out to sea.  Not to worry, though.  He'd make it up to him later.  Once they made it to dock, he’d be more than happy to let the man savor the taste of doing whatever he wanted.  He'd let Rokurou sleep in, or watch him rise with the sun.  Bask on the deck.  Breathe in the salty air.

He pictures amber eyes splashed with lawless blue, an old and endless hunger sated at long last.  Or would those eyes smolder with an appetite newly awakened, beyond containment now that it's been set loose?  What would an unfettered Rokurou look like in a world that welcomed his unbridled greed?  Realistically, it would be an ugly clash of sin. Blades clashing, drawing blood, crawling to higher and higher peaks until the day he comes cratering down by the might of someone stronger.

But there would be quieter moments too.  Rokurou can try to hack off his desires the way he might an arm or leg, but even a bound wing will flutter at the touch of a breeze.  Committed to Eizen’s memory is the angle of Rokurou's smile when preparing his own meals, his wistful sigh into a cup of good sake.  How the sight of a fine blade will make his cheeks puff up, while the tales of strangers bring forth a liveliness in his eyes.  He has a bizarre enamorment with livestock, making faces at the sheep and cattle whenever they pass by, almost as insatiable as his hunger for sweets.  If Rokurou hadn't been born with a blade in each hand, might he have become a farmhand?  Would he raise cattle, rappigs?  Or perhaps cloud sheep?  Eizen could teach him how to shear and spin wool, if the trade suited him.

Those sorts of thoughts form cobwebs in his mind.  Attachment leads to poor decisions.  Eizen knows this.  On the road they walk, it is unlikely what Eizen envisions will come to fruition in any feasible manner.  One day, they will reach an impasse where their goals align no longer, where Eizen can’t simply sit back and respect Rokurou's choice for what it is.  Inevitably, something will break under the pressure, and Eizen has a sinking feeling it won't be him.

When that happens — what then?  Will Eizen jeopardize everything they've built to get what he wants?

Will Rokurou hate him for that, as he does Magillanica?  As he does Ichirou?  Hate him enough to want him dead?

Eizen can't fathom the thought.  But neither can he fathom an outcome that doesn't result in exactly that.

The thought hurts like a widow's bite, spiking his blood with feverish rot.

When that time comes—

The airy pop of a jar lid bursts that train of thought.  Seems Rokurou has finally unearthed the stash of honey.  Okay, Eizen.  No more glowering.  Focus on the present.  It might have been sound advice had Eizen not lifted his head to the scandalous scene of Rokurou hooking his whole finger into the jar.

"So I know I'm not the sharpest egg in the basket," Rokurou says, wrapping his mouth around the finger as though there couldn't be a more proper way to eat, "bu' wha's yo' p'wan f'oh th' g'hesh?"

Eizen can't tell whether Rokurou is mixing idioms on purpose or by accident, nor can he decide which option pisses him off less than anything else happening in front of him.  Intentional or not, Rokurou always finds ways to get under his skin.

"Finish one thing before you start another, idiot."

"Or you could learn to listen better."  Rokurou laughs, going in for another helping.  Eizen makes a note not to touch that jar for the rest of the journey.  A real shame considering its value as a universal preservative.  "But seriously, what's the plan?  If it really is a dragon in there, it'll be tough to maneuver given our little handicap."

"As long as we stay within a hundred and fifty meters, we'll be fine."  Eizen sends a burst of mana through their link, taking a petulant sort of amusement when Rokurou jolts from the shock.  "Keeping track of each other like this will be more reliable than our eyes."

"Yeah, okay."  Rokurou retaliates with a sharp prod of his own, pouting when Eizen doesn't react.  The stiff manner in which he returns to the jar reminds Eizen of a younger Edna, salving the bruises of her pride in the comfort of sweets.  "I guess that wasn't what I was trying to ask.  If things get bad out there," Rokurou pauses, teeths along his bottom lip, "if it got bad, and I called for you…would you answer me?"

Eizen's heart gives a discordant thump in his chest.

"I don't know."

Rokurou looks elsewhere, chewing mindlessly at the finger hanging on the edge of his tooth.  He remembers what happened last time as clearly as Eizen does, a mirror of unease that cracks with the prospect of approaching that boundary again.

Then: "Do you want to try it?"

Eizen's response is tight, unwilling to part with the words until he rips them out by force.  "I won't stop you.  But—maybe take it slow."

Rokurou nods.  A hesitant thread of mana spools in Eizen's abdomen, and that alone is enough for him to flinch.  Rokurou eases off immediately.  Waits.  Tries again, gentler this time.  Mana gathers once more in the abdomen, and Eizen welcomes the sensation in spite of how wrong it feels.

There was a book he once read on ancient medicine, filled with diagrams postulating the flow of energy in the body.  These meridians accumulate in three specific points, the most vital one located approximately three finger widths below the navel.  This was said to be the focal point of all life energy, the storehouse of one's chi, the means by which the human form takes shape: physical, psychical, and spiritual.  All vitality ebbs and flows from this gateway, its power so grand it is often likened to that of a second brain.

Eizen's belly swells with a molten sphere of starlight that warms him, that burns him.  Eizen pours everything into the distraction, to calm the frantic clip of his pulse.  Was there any merit to that ancient text, or is it only a coincidence Rokurou decided to connect them in such a significant spot?  The philosophy of the three dantian originated from the far continent, developing a broad selection of names and interpretations depending on the culture.  Perhaps Rokurou merely chose this mythical ley line because he grew up with the teachings and believes in their authenticity.  Where better to transform the body, the mind, the soul, than to harness them at their core?  It certainly lends sincerity to the intent, if nothing else.

His insides melt — pleasant, uncomfortable, familiar, alien.  It's a lot.  Contradicting instincts prickle Eizen with alarm.  Don't let this happen.  Resist.  Fight.

Suddenly, his stomach gives a tremendous lurch, and his heels dig into the ground.  Swaths of mana curl deep inside him, becoming a fist that tightens around his soul, that beckons to him.  Embrace that newborn star, the temptation says, gravitate to his orbit.  That star will never go out, will always glow a radiant gold.  Follow him, for he is the pactmaker, and Eizen his tethered flock.

His neck is chilled with sweat, his ears muffled with the echoes of his own breathing, the hammer in his chest.  He grits his teeth.

No.  This star is different from the others.  Eizen is no more tethered to him than he was to his coin or his ship.  This star does not expect to lead in absolutes.

Eizen can trust that faith, that warmth.  That bright, solid glimmer of human resilience.

This isn't an order.  It's an olive branch.

He reaches out, eager to accept—

—and there is only red.  No, agony.  No, nothing.  Nothing but nothingness.  Black nothing, abyssal nothing, nothing, nothing, noth—

Thoughts crack, fall away, too far to retrieve.  An idea forms, only to slip between his fingers, sand in an hourglass.  Where is he, what is he doing?  Layers of voices, indistinguishable.  Trapped, bound, suffocating in a voiceless, soundless emptiness as the sand piles higher, into his mouth, filling his lungs.

Just do as he's told.  No.   Okay.  No!   As he's told.  He can do that.  He must do that.

Never!

His hands move without him.  His body abandons his mind.  His soul is in stasis.  His mana, red.  All red.  Inside burns with acid, leaking through his throat, raw like he's been screaming for days, months—

"—xtent of his domain.  Fascinating."  An older man.  Familiar.  Alien.  He's surrounded by robes, white, gold, green.  Nothing but white tile and gold glyphs and red, and red, and red.  "No, not yet.  For now, we will place him under the care o—"

—where is he, where is he, where is he, where is h—

—zen—

—gods, he's going to be sick—

—his mind, gone, his body, his no longer, where in this nothingness is the red burning star lodged in his stomach—

—Eizen—

—his vision clears, and suddenly he is here.  A room, a bedroom, a bedroom in Loegres, and the first thing he sees are ugly golden eyes, ugly white robes, green, red, re—

—"Fahsvuw!"—

—gold.

Vivid, radiant gold, pinched into a grimace of worry and pain.

Eizen's chest is on fire, yet he feels clammy, feverish.  The mana link is boiling with his frenzy, molten stakes piercing repeatedly.

But none of that matters.  Everything fades away, except for the pressure on his face, two hands pressed up against his cheeks.  Hands that pulled him out of the nothingness, that anchored him back to earth.  Eizen raises his own trembling hands, finds purchase on two wrists, and holds onto them like a lifeline.  Once again, Eizen rejected the call.  Once again, his star came to him instead.

Rokurou doesn't let go, even after Eizen's breathing levels out and his heart sags between his ribs.  His vision blurs with ghostly trails of red and green and gold, of a black abyss, of phantoms pulling at his limbs.

Rokurou guides him lower, and Eizen allows it, too boneless to resist.  He can't stop shaking, but that's fine because Rokurou's hands are firm, solid.  Moments later, the hot press of a forehead brushes against his.  He's never seen Rokurou's eyes this close, so tender and wrought with concern.  There are hidden slivers of hazel, of brown, of blue and green and orange woven into each iris.  A bottomless sea of color more beautiful than any painting.

"Hey," Rokurou calls again, his voice hoarse, like he too has been screaming for days.  "It's okay.  You're okay."

Eizen swallows, tastes acid on his tongue.

"I'm—"

Weakly, he tears himself out of Rokurou's arms.  Dropping to his knees, he barely manages to lean forward before losing his breakfast in the mud.  He feels strong hands lined with calluses rubbing circles into his back, and it makes Eizen sick for an entirely different reason.

He should have realized it sooner, how deep his depravity had reached.  How long has he felt this way?  When he met Capalus? Judith?  Before even then?  Maybe he'd always known, deep down, that glimmer of attraction would only grow into its own strangling curse.  Perhaps it was back in Loegres, when Rokurou first called out his name.  How lovely it sounded in hindsight, formed around his lips.

How much lovelier would his true name sound on that tongue?  It's enough to turn his ears red.

Rokurou helps clean him up, and won't stop apologizing.

"I knew how it made you feel," he says, "and I pushed it on you anyway."

"I agreed to it, didn't I?" Eizen washes the taste out of his mouth and spits.  He lingers on the unpleasant evidence of his vulnerability, his mind racing.  "So we underestimated what would happen; we'll just have to try again later.  We don't know what we'll find in that domain.  The more we can learn now, the better prepared we'll be later."

"You know, most folks don't come out of a panic attack saying that sort of thing."

"Get used to it.  I didn't become the man I am by letting my own fears get the best of me."  Bravado, of course, but if Eizen can convince the world, maybe he can convince himself.

Emboldened, he reaches out and tilts Rokurou's chin to look at him.  Rokurou responds with a mix of wariness and concern.  Where before Eizen would have ignored it, he now fixates on the subtle dilation in his eyes.

"Next time, I will come to you.  I promise."

Eizen still aches like he's been punched by a mountain, but seeing Rokurou smile is a powerful anodyne.

Look what you've done.  You can say you're only doing what you want, but you can't say it's all about you anymore.

This whole time Eizen fantasized about stealing a painting, when the real prize was right beside him, locked away inside Rokurou’s heart.  Something more priceless than gold.  More alluring than gemstones.  More irreplaceable than the collections of ancient relics meticulously cared for aboard his ship.

A treasure Eizen wants to unearth with his own hands, to shine until it reaches the pinnacle of its beauty.  To protect and lavish with attention until the end of days.

A star that burns bright and will never go out.  A star he has stolen, but can never be his.

Eizen gazes longingly into the face of his karma, the burden he must shoulder anew, and thinks to himself how cursed his existence truly is.

_____

Zaveid has been able to read the wind for as long as he can remember, since the day he was born out of the earthpulse.  Awake or asleep, he is always attuned to the slightest breeze.  What he senses are not words or spoken tongue, but an abstract presence of the wind itself, the traces of life it picks up and the changes it accrues on its constant journey over land and sea.

As a cat swishes its tail, the wind will bend and curve.  When humans breathe, it is displaced in little pockets.  Where daemons lurk, it will carry the scent of corruption.  Constant cycles, each rotation a bit different from the last.

The wind remembers many things, history stratified in every current.  Some date back as far as time itself, when the universe was nothing but gas floating in a wide and empty void.  Or so he's heard.  Zaveid is sensitive to the wind's chimes, but he's never really bothered figuring out how to read into them that deeply.  Perhaps when he reaches the age of his elders, he might be tempted to grasp those ancient hymns in a meaningful way, but as it stands he's more of an in-the-moment kind of guy.

Which is why he snaps right to attention at the earliest sign of a fight.

"Shit."  He scans the storm ahead.  He can't see her, but he can feel the spike in malevolence.  Sharp tangles in the incoming breeze, mixed with blood and the leftover traces of malak artes: exorcists.

They were thorough in taking out the team sent to track her, delaying their trip to Stonebury by a whole week to pull it off.  They couldn't have missed one, could they?

No.  More likely, whoever's fighting her must have come from the other side of the plains, knowing she would return eventually.  Did they ignore the memo calling off the hunt?  Or did their friends not care enough to inform them?  Are there no levels to which the Abbey won't sink?

"Hey!" he hollers, reaching for the weapon strapped to his hip.  "There's trouble up ahead.  Take care of things here, I'll be back soon."

His partner in crime gives him a cocksure grin.  "Do what you have to."

"My, my," the Bloodwing sighs beside him.  "Always in such a hurry.  I think my feelings are hurt."

Zaveid aims the device to the side of his head.  When he first tried this, he was so nervous he couldn't pull the trigger.  Now, he pulls without hesitation, welcoming Siegfried's amplified mana as it pierces through him.  The pain is momentary, soon replaced with a rush of adrenaline that leaves him breathless, unstoppable.  It's a dangerous high, but necessary for what he has to do.

"Sorry, sweetheart, tell someone who cares," he says.  "If I had the option, I wouldn't speak a word to any of you people."

"Well, now.  Impatient and honest, what a thrilling combination.  Compared to your friends, you're practically a gentlem-"

Zaveid doesn't stick around for the rest.  He hitches a ride on the nearest breeze, and the Bloodwing's sarcasm is swallowed with the wind.

He leaps from current to current, until he spots her through the storm.  The downpour is wicked, but there's no mistaking the massive white horns fanning out from her head like an angel's wings, her large snaking body the sparkle of emeralds.  He should have known she'd be here.  It's one of her favorite places, the grassy summit on the tallest peak.  Zaveid would take her here whenever he could find the time.  Here, at the edge of everything, they would nestle side by side in the flowers and watch the world turn.

Feels like a lifetime ago.

He barely makes out two figures alongside her, identifying the exorcist by the bright seafoam cape framing their right side, patterned with familiar gold symbols that shine even through the dark expanse of the storm.  They wear a thick hooded cloak, often worn by exorcists on assignment, made of a breathable material that's both insulating and watertight.  An arte glyph is sewn into the back, offering extra layers of defense.  It's already seen heavy use, the entire right side shredded and stained with blood.  It reveals enough for Zaveid to tell it's a man, brandishing a sword almost as tall as he is.

The malak is in the back looking equally beat up, casting artes at a rapid pace.  Blond hair, male, wearing a uniform unlike any other Abbey malak.  Odd.

Zaveid launches himself onto another current, eyes trained on the duo as he makes for the peak as fast as he can.

There are no others.  Only the one exorcist and his one malak.  Is he insane?  Does he have a deathwish?

The fighters blur into vague shapes, lost between clouds and rain and fireballs and the massive swipe of a bludgeoning tail.

Zaveid pushes himself to go faster, praying he's not too late.  Not like this!  Not her!

He can't help but cry out in horror when the exorcist manages to skirt beneath her claws, raking his blade through her chest.  His beloved shrieks amidst the deluge of blood and malevolence, but the exorcist is not deterred.  He presses forward and goes in for another swipe, right as Zaveid arrives overhead.

He wastes no time, plummeting right into the center of the fray, meters away from the swordsman with his devil's claw.  He screams, the raw and strangled noise of a desperate animal.  "Get away from her!"

Several things happen at once.  He takes aim with Siegfried, blessedly easy given the size of the target, and fires.  At the same time, he whips his pendulum into the wind, driving the mana-sharpened point deep into the swordsman's shoulder.

For a moment, he does not see what she has become.  He sees her, he sees Theodora, his bountiful spring breeze, recoiling from the shot with a cry that tears holes in Zaveid's soul.  With the newfound strength provided by Siegfried, her wounds begin to knit back together.  Unleashing a great bellow she takes to the skies, vanishing in a cage of mist.  Silently, Zaveid begs for forgiveness.  He's never learned when to stop causing her pain.

Meanwhile, the exorcist's swing misses its mark, a streak of silver gliding through the rain, knocked harshly from his grasp as his arm comes under assault.  The moment the pendulum collides, a wall of wind buffets Zaveid, scratching at the bare skin exposed by his open jacket.  Artes from the tethered malak, no doubt.

Aiming to take advantage of the opening, the exorcist reaches beneath his robe.  Concealed within is a smaller blade, which he grabs for without a moment's hesitation.  Zaveid barely avoids the strike to his ribs, hastily moving to bring his pendulum back.  The attack arcs wide, but still manages to lash the arm and head of his opponent.  The short sword swings, trying to cut the wire, and Zaveid blows him off balance with a well-timed thrust of wind.

Holy shit.

Even when caught off guard, the man's instincts are incredible.  Maybe he isn't another run-of-the-mill exorcist after all.

The exorcist is flung across the clearing.  He touches down once, slides, touches down again, tries to twist his center of gravity to right himself, but Zaveid won't let him.  With another burst of wind, the pendulum springs back with full momentum, tangling around his head, his neck, his torso, his legs, until he's forced to the ground with a strangled curse.  Not a foolproof capture, but he'll at least be out of the action for a few precious moments, which is the most Zaveid can ask for.

The wind shuffles behind him.  The malak has stopped his casting, choosing instead to make a beeline for his back.  Siegfried would be a gamble against someone of his size with full mobility.  He's close, too, mere steps away.

Fine, then.  If the exorcist wants to fight dirty, Zaveid can tango with that.

Zaveid spins around, his left hand curled around Siegfried, his right curled into a full jab, aimed right at—

—blue eyes, square jaw, oh, he recognizes that scowl—

"You!" they both say at the same time.  Any further revelations are cut off when their fists connect, and Zaveid feels what must be a boulder plunging straight into his solar plexus.

He collapses to his knee with a gasping plea to the Four.  Beside him, the malak is laid on his side, gripping his head with an agonized groan.  Zaveid was the luckier brawler today with a solid collision against the man's temple, though at the cost of what feels like one or two fingers.  Are all earth malakhim this resilient, or is this dude some kind of mutant?

Zaveid bites through the pain and forces his body into a roll, away from the golden chains that erupt from the ground.  The malak stands shakily, gripping his head and leaning forward with a low tremor of rage.  Before Zaveid can give thought to what he should do, the malak is at him again with fury in his eyes.

"Hey, hey, hey!"  He tries to dodge, and to his credit, is mostly successful.  "Eizen!  You are Eizen, right?  Quit it!"

But he doesn't quit.  If anything, his punches come down harder, faster.

"And you're the one from the forest," Eizen spits back, "so tell me what the hell you think you're doing?"

He brings his fists together, and tries to slam them down on Zaveid's head.  Desperate, Zaveid brings his arm up, and is punished with an electric pain lancing through his wrist.  His confidence plummets with the sound of Siegfried hitting the ground, knocked from his paralyzed hand with ease.

"That belongs to Aifread."  Eizen doesn't sound like a malak right now.  His tone is dark, ferocious, the bark of Death's hellhound out for his blood.  "And here you are protecting dragons with it."

"She's not a dragon!" he yells back, and it makes him seethe when Eizen's rage simmers into a dreaded face of pity.  "Besides, look at yourself!  Aifread's infamous first mate, in league with exorcists?"

Eizen's knuckles crack from how tightly wound his fist is.  "Don't presume to understand my intentions!"

Zaveid responds with his own clenched fists, letting the anger blind him to the swelling pain in his bones.  "Then why don't you start making sense!"

And with final yells of adrenaline on either side, they let their fists talk for them.  Zaveid's vision tunnels.  Nothing else matters except teaching this blond bastard a lesson.  If he really understood the situation Zaveid was in, he'd know exactly why Zaveid was protecting her.  Then again, if Eizen was half the man Aifread insisted he was, he'd have ditched that Abbey jacket the first chance he got.

Something is wrong.  Something that likely has to do with that exorcist.  He's tougher than an orderly, and more unpredictable than any praetor he's ever squared off with.  He didn't think there were any legates as young as him, but it's not as though Zaveid could pay much attention to the Abbey during his temporary stay within its ranks.  Nearly all of it is a blank spot, muddled voices and brief spells of deja vu.  Unexplainable moments where he'll walk into Loegres or Zekson and be overwhelmed by this pull of anger and loss.  Memories that linger at the edges of thoughts, waiting.  Waiting.

That cape he saw on the man's baldric sticks out in his mind.  Something about the color, that unusual shade of green.  That's right, most exorcists wear blue.  There's something special about green, but what was it?

The realization hits him as swiftly as Eizen's knuckles grazing his temple.  He tries to lean away, but the followup lands even closer to home, striking his skull hard enough to shake his teeth.  Despite the spots in his vision,  Zaveid makes a grab for the arm by his head and swings his knee up, satisfied by the sinking impact it makes in Eizen's stomach, and the choking gasp it drags out of his throat.

There's a certain faction of the Abbey, led by a certain old man, with an exceptionally dark specialty in certain illusory magics.  And the color they wear is green.

He was wrong.  Under the hook of that kind of person, there’s no way Eizen has control over himself.

He needs to get to Siegfried.

Zaveid goes on the defensive, dodging, blocking, trying to find a window where he can make a break for the fallen weapon.  At first, there seems to be no opportunity, the malak’s swings encasing him in a relentless flood that takes everything he has just to stay afloat.  But then, Eizen suddenly pulls his punch and backs off.  A trick, perhaps?  Does he think Zaveid will be baited to follow?  No, he’s going to take this blessing and run with it, all the way to Siegfried.

He turns on his heel, and the wind whistles behind him.  Zaveid realizes his error too late when a scalding sharpness tears into his side.

"What?"  Zaveid's hands come away red.  Thrown with the confidence of a seasoned javelineer, the edge of a very familiar short sword is speared through his lower abdomen.

Before he knows it, Eizen is back into his space, weaving behind him and kicking in the back of his legs.  Zaveid doesn't even make it to his knees before his arms are wrenched against his back, manacled in Eizen's iron grip.

"It's over," Eizen declares.  "Be a good boy and answer my questions, and I might let you wander off to lick your wounds."

"Don't patronize me, asshole."

"Oh, I'll do more than that, just wait."

Ugh, he's such an idiot!  Getting worked up over Eizen, not paying more attention.  Zaveid played right into their hands.  Makes him want to scream.

He hears the voice of what must be the exorcist, barely audible over the ringing in his ears.  He sounds amused, if a big haggard.

"Friend of yours, Eizen?"

"Do we look like friends to you?"

"Well-"

"No.  Don't answer that."

Zaveid struggles to raise his head and look the devil in the eye.  The exorcist is back on his feet, though his movements are uneven and his bad arm hangs at his side, clutching his reclaimed greatsword through sheer force of will.  His other presses into his shoulder to stem the blossoms of red stretching across the fabric.  There are deep lacerations all down his body, the pendulum trailing from where the wire is still wrapped around his leg.  He's in rough shape, but his lips are curled into a smirk and his eyes are alight with a manic determination to keep fighting.

Zaveid scans the scene for anything he can use to get out of this.  Siegfried is still a good distance away, and the earlier boost he'd used to cross the plains is gone.  The weight of Eizen's body against his arms is starting to hurt, the hairline fractures in his arms pulsing in time with the sword still lodged in his side.

He's screwed, isn't he?  Whatever the Abbey does with traitors, it can't be good.  The thought alone is too frightful to dwell on.  Zaveid was never part of the Abbey by choice, but he doubts a detail that minor will add much for his defense.

Despair looms.  This can’t be the end.

Clutching his vows close to his heart, Zaveid bows his head, bites his lip until it bleeds, and prays.

Theodora, give me strength.

And with a roar that sends shivers up and down the mountain, she answers.

Her tail emerges, a shimmering guillotine that splits the heavens in twine.  Whatever heated discussion was happening between Eizen and his exorcist drops to the wayside as the latter raises his blade.  There’s no time to evade, no time to parry, and no chance that a measly sword can block the incoming attack.  They collide in a massive ripple of energy that prickles Zaveid’s skin, and the swordsman is crushed against the mud with a watery gasp.  When he does not get back up, Eizen's grip tightens around Zaveid to the point where he worries he may need to add both arms to his tally of broken bones.

“Hey,” the words come out in a whisper, “come on, get up you idiot!”  He calls out louder, more frantic, knotted with guilt and fear.

Who does Eizen see when he looks at that broken body?  Does he really see the exorcist as he truly is, or does he see someone more familiar?  An old friend, a captain perhaps?  Zaveid’s heart echoes the genuine pain in his words, eerily adjacent to his own guilt, his own love.  He can’t imagine ever holding those sentiments anywhere near the Abbey.

Whatever they’ve done to him, it's worse than he thought.  "Eizen," he implores, "try to remember!  Remember Aifread, your crew!  They're all waiting for their first mate to come back!  Don't be tricked, it's all an illusion!"

His words fall on deaf ears as another roar signals Theodora's return.  She sweeps down from the clouds, this time with her jaws open wide.  Eizen's face goes completely ashen.

Zaveid leaps to his feet, terrified.  “Wait!  Don’t do it!”  No matter what's transpired on these cliffs, it's never been his intention for anyone to die.  Exorcists can meet their end on their own, they don't need Zaveid's help with that.  He's not a killer, and neither is Theodora.  He’ll defend that honor, even if it means putting his sorry ass between the scum of the church and the one he loves.

Easier said than done, unfortunately.  Theodora ignores his pleas, and the act of raising one foot nearly brings Zaveid back on the ground.  There's no way he'll make it in time. 

When Theodora connects, carving a massive bite out of the earth, he expects that to be the end.  Perhaps a few scraps of cloth left behind, or a severed hand waving a macabre farewell.  The impact ruptures the entire side of the mountain, the edge of her bite forming new cliff points as the summit beyond shears away in a massive landslide.

What he does not expect to see is a flurry of motion some distance away.  Covered in mud and rain, the prone body of the exorcist suddenly jerks upright from where he had flung himself at the last possible moment, a logic-defying miracle sparing his life.  His arms tremble, barely supporting his weight as rivers of blood touch the edge of his wrists.

There's no way this guy is human.

Somehow, he manages to stand, making haste for the safer side of the expanse.  He works himself into a slow jog, but the movements are drunken and clumsy.  As though the body has forgotten how to move, forgotten where it's been injured.

It is then that Zaveid realizes why he himself is on his feet.  There's no longer a malak locking him to the ground.  His arms hurt like hell, but they are free to move as he pleases.

First things first.  He reaches behind him.  When he yanks out the sword, he tries and fails not to scream miserably.  The crystal clear image of Theodora at the front of his mind is all that saves him from blacking out, the pain terrible and unyielding.  Sandwiching the wound between his hands, he pumps in as much mana as he can afford.  He never had much of a healing touch.  That had been Theodora, her very presence soothing enough to cure any disease.  Hopefully, it's enough to keep him from falling apart for a few more minutes.

It never occurred to him that Eizen would rush to his vessel's aid so directly.  Now it makes sense, the shaky movement of the exorcist; he's still unconscious.  Eizen is the one moving him, and he's not used to having full motor control.  The exorcist may even be rejecting the control on instinct, making it more taxing for both of them.

They're sitting ducks out there.  He has to do something.

"Hey, babe!  I'm over here!"  Zaveid hurls a gust of wind toward Theodora, but it does nothing to gain her attention, only the devilish swipe of her tail that nearly sends him careening off the mountain.  Ouch.  Zaveid's used to her rejections, but this hurts more than usual.

Still, at least there's a bright side to this.  Zaveid reaches over his shoulder and grabs for the fallen Siegfried.  The metal is slick and heavy in his hands, like it knows the weight of his sins and is judging him for it.  He pulls the trigger for a second time.  Power floods his pores, and the pain vanishes.

He summons a current of wind and rides it to where Eizen is limping along, gasping for breath as Theodora rears back for another charge.  Zaveid places himself in her path, and lets her plow right into him.  He soars with her, higher and higher until the clearing sinks beneath the clouds.  He embraces her ivory horns and looks deep in her wildfire eyes.  They didn't always used to be this fierce, this angry.

"Sorry, darling."  He levels the barrel against her head.  "Wait for me a little while longer.  I promise, I'll fix this."

He pulls the trigger.  And Theodora looks at him.  And he'll swear for the rest of his years there was love in those eyes.

He lets go.  And she lets him fall.

Everything is white.  Everything is anguish and grief, a surreal sort of heartache, watching his beloved trail through the skies.  This time she takes the clouds and the rain and the fog with her.  As she always does.  For she is the spring breeze that welcomes in the sun at the end of a long day.

He stares into that bright yellow orb burning through the clouds.  All the way down.

Until he crashes to earth with a guttural yelp.  Everything is pain down here where mortals dwell.  What an incredibly stupid move that was.  No wonder she's always so angry with him.

But it's not over yet, babe.  He's still got things left to do.

Namely...

He rattles off another healing arte that does almost nothing, but it gets him on his feet long enough to see that Eizen is still inside his vessel, watching him with feral amber eyes that don't belong to him.

"You know, I didn't come here expecting to see you, first mate," he says casually, approaching at a brisk pace.  The vessel is at his limit, struggling to even remain at a kneel.  Lucky break.  "Do you remember who you are yet?"  He lowers Siegfried and aims between his eyes.

Eizen brings the exorcist's arms out in a placating manner.  The right arm refuses to raise past the elbow, a harsh reminder of how wounded it actually is.

With an edge of desperation, he begs, "Zaveid, don-"

Bang.

The emptied vessel of the exorcist slumps forward into the bed of flowers as the malak is blown back, the power of their link temporarily neutralized.  It should amplify whatever's left of Eizen's mana.  More importantly, it should return Eizen to his senses.

This time, do things the right way.  Before Eizen can emit a protest, Zaveid is grabbing his arm, and racing toward the nearest gust of wind.

"Wait!"  He doesn't.  "Stop, you idiot!"

"Not until you and me are outta here!"

"Bastard!  I said," Eizen tenses under his hold, "stop!"

And Zaveid does, though not of his own volition.  His leg flies up from under him as he's unceremoniously jerked back mid-leap.  Ligaments somewhere in his arm protest from the sudden torque.

Eizen's free hand is extended back the way they came, where gold chains are anchored into the earth.  They wind around his arm and torso, ensuring that nothing short of pummeling Eizen unconscious will make him budge.

"We're staying."  Eizen's glare is cold enough to shatter glass.  "Now tell me what you did to him."

Siegfried did its job.  There are no power links, no tethers, no pacts overriding the malak's sense of self.  This is the real Eizen.

This is the real Eizen.

"Nothing," Zaveid says.  It's all he can manage when nothing makes sense.

If anything, the glare darkens.  "If you're lying, you'd best hope Hyanoa favors you better in the next life."

Zaveid gulps.  "I swear, I didn't do anything to him.  All I did was separate you."

Eizen scoffs, an obvious front to distract from how heavy his breathing is.  His hands are shaking, and his complexion white.  Lines worry at his eyes and brow, and all it does is add to Zaveid's utter confusion.

"You have my word, I won't try anything."  As a show of good will, he releases Eizen's arm and returns Siegfried to its holster.  "But I think you owe me an explanation."

Eizen eyes him, understandably slow to dispel the chains.  "You first.  Why do you have Siegfried?"

"Aifread entrusted it to me.  Back when we were in the forest."  Zaveid shifts his eyes, instinctively looking for threats hiding in the weeds.  "I wanted to give it back, but he told me to keep it.  I don't have anything else I can use for a vessel, ya know.  And, well...he thought it would help me."

There's still an icy chill to the glare, but Eizen straightens out of his hunch.  No longer suspicious, but definitely still pissed to shit.

"Was that dragon someone you knew?"

"I told you, don't call her a dragon!"  Zaveid crosses his arms to rein in his temper.  He's honestly not trying to pick another fight, but that will change real quick if Eizen doesn't learn to read the damn room.  "Her name is Theodora.  And I'm going to find a way to turn her back."

Eizen scoffs again.  "Yeah, good luck with that."  He makes no small show of rushing back to his vessel, no longer considering Zaveid someone of importance.  Zaveid follows behind at a distance, weighing whether he should feel slighted by that.

"I don't get you," he finally says aloud.  "If you've had your will this whole time, what are you still doing here?  You can't tell me you enjoy the whole servant treatment.  I'll help you find a new vessel if that's what's keeping you."

Eizen ignores him completely, in favor of rolling the exorcist gingerly onto his back.  The care and focus laid bare between them makes it starkly clear that no, a new vessel is not what's tying Eizen to the Abbey.

"Did you at least go to the ship like I told you to?" Eizen asks.

"I did.  They're not too bad.  Bunch of misfits and troublemakers, and I mean that in a good way.  Seafaring ain't my thing, though, especially not when it sends me halfway across the world."

"I heard they went to the far continent."

"Got the letter, didja?  Then it's obvious why I left.  Aifread agreed with me, too.  Spun me some lines about how a heart bound inland will only sink in open waters."  Eizen shrugs with a noncommittal noise, but it's clear he's paying close attention to the words Zaveid says.  Zaveid doesn't miss the way his lips curl up at the mention of Aifread.  "But he supports my decision.  Said he'd even do a little research on my behalf."

"That so?"

"Don't believe me?  Ask him yourself.  He'll be back in another month, give or take."

"I can't."

"Too busy playing house with your choir boy?"

Eizen throws him a withering glare before returning to dressing his vessel's wounds, delicately peeling away the tattered cloak and outer layers of clothing to examine the fractured bone and skin underneath.  The exorcist is a lot leaner than Zaveid would have guessed from all that fabric.  Hard to imagine someone that thin could wield a sword so huge.

For the first time since he set off into the storm, Zaveid lets the tension leak out of his shoulders, and all at once finds himself sprawled against the cliff, half sitting, half laying.  Exhaustion creeps into every corner of his body.  What he wouldn't give for a nice bottle of wine right now.

"Listen, I'm sorry he got roughed up back there.  It's clear he at least means something to you.  Not to mention he hits like a beast, I'll be feeling this for weeks."  Zaveid motions to his side, dark with clotting blood that ever so slowly bubbles a fresh trail down his bare stomach.  "But he's with the Abbey.  Decent guy or not, you can't trust that."

"I'll decide what I do, Zaveid.  Not you."

"Then at least let me warn you.  The legate he answers to is bad news.  I've been in touch with your underground friends, the Bloodwings.  They say old man Melchior is a master of illusion and mimicry."

Unease washes over Eizen's face, but he continues his incantation in lieu of a proper response.  The gaping hole in the exorcist's shoulder finally stops leaking blood, allowing Eizen to begin the steady process of repairing the lost tissue.  Zaveid continues, observing as the creases on Eizen's face grow more and more taut.

"I thought you were being tricked.  That you were seeing one of your buddies in place of that exorcist, or that he'd convinced you to work for him with a bunch of fabrications.  So think real hard on what your reasons are for staying.  There's no telling what these people are capable of, and I don't have to tell you what they think of our kind."

Eizen remains silent, but Zaveid has nothing more to say, and so gives the man some time to stew.  Eventually, the malak releases a breath that causes his whole body to sway, weary and now wholly depleted of mana, with a laundry list of untreated injuries still to go.

On shaky legs, he wobbles toward an overgrowth of ivy and sloping rocks at the far western side of the summit, where Zaveid suspects the two had initially made the climb up in the first place.  Quite the feat to accomplish, particularly for the exorcist given the storm and the size of his weapon.

While he waits, Zaveid gives him a glance, curious about what makes him so special that Aifread's first mate would shirk duty to stay glued to his side.  The entire time Eizen examined him, he didn't stir once.  Like the rest of them, he's soaked through with rain, the cloak doing little to cover him once it was torn to shreds.  Freshly healed scar lines litter his arm and neck, from where Zaveid's pendulum cord had dug through to the flesh.  With an apologetic wrinkle in his brow, he leans over and untangles his weapon from the man's ankles.  The pendulum comes free with the majority of its line hacked off.  Guess he'll need to replace that next time he's in town.

Honestly, it's a miracle none of them were hurt worse, given how intensely the fight escalated.  Zaveid wasn't kidding when he said he'd be feeling it weeks down the line.  Maybe he'll get a new scar or two out of the deal, wouldn't that be a conversation starter?  He can show off his abs and his scars right in the same story, and won't the ladies at the tavern be impressed by his bravery?  Almost makes the whole ordeal worth it from that angle.

Eizen returns some minutes later, a small medical bag slung over his shoulder.  He seems to contemplate something, staring intently at the steady rise and fall of his vessel's chest.  Whatever it is, eventually he decides against it with a shake of his head and a deepening scowl.

Surprisingly, Eizen does not return to his original position on the exorcist's right, the side with the most extensive injuries.  He instead moves to sit on his left, effectively placing himself between his vessel and Zaveid.  To make conversation easier, or to keep Zaveid from trying to pull something?  Overprotective, much?

"Here."  Eizen shoves something into Zaveid's hand.  An apple gel.  When Zaveid looks at him in wide-eyed silence, Eizen pops what he assumes to be his own gel into his mouth with a shrug.  "Take it or leave it."

"Yep, taking it."  The artificial sweetness of the apple syrup is such a welcoming feel, moreso when the medicine kicks in and aches Zaveid hadn't realized were there begin to fade in slow rolling waves.  "Thanks, first mate."

"Somehow, being thanked by you just pisses me off."

"Wow, bet you're real fun at parties."

Eizen sighs, a long and dramatic noise drawn out of his lungs like a tapeworm.  He seems to contemplate something again, then shakes his head, again.  Then he reaches for a different gel in the pack, one with a distinctly orange sheen.

As he waits for the medicine to take effect, he finally tells Zaveid what he's been waiting to hear.  "I'm not bound by a tether, but I am bound by a pact.  I gave him my word, and I intend to follow through with it no matter what.  This has nothing to do with the Abbey or the exorcists.  This is strictly between me and him, nothing more.  So I'd appreciate it if you kept your business out of our affairs."

"That's not something you can decide for me."  Maybe it isn't a great idea to sass the man holding all the medicine, but Zaveid is a man of passion, not intellect.  "Look, I owe Aifread.  He's the reason I'm free to do any of this in the first place.  I wanted to help as a favor to him, not to you.  You want me gone, I'll leave.  But," Zaveid's tone turns low, dangerous, "come near Theodora again, and you'll have more to deal with than just my business."

Eizen matches his stare with little reaction, as though Zaveid is an errant dog he can't be bothered to discipline.

"If I see that dragon again, I'm not backing down."

"Eizen!"

"That's my choice, and I'm not changing it for you."

"Did you not hear what I said?"

"I heard you.  But I don't abide by hypotheticals.  Keep searching for your mythical cure.  If it's out there, make sure you find it, because whoever Theodora used to be, she isn't anymore.  She's a dragon, and no amount of wishing is going to change what's true here and now."  Eizen shrugs, a lazy gesture packed with challenge.  "Welcome to the Aifread way.  If you want to stop me, stop me with your fists."

Zaveid is proud of himself for staying silent, even as his face burns hot, even as his vision flares red.  How is an asshole like this friends with a guy like Aifread?

He's had enough.  With as much gumption as he can muster, Zaveid forces himself to a stand.  His knee quivers, almost buckles, but he manages to stay upright.  He refuses to look Eizen's way.  He can't guarantee he won't take him up on the offer if he does, and his pride's not likely to survive another fistfight with Eizen so soon.

"Thanks," he grumbles, biting with sarcasm he leaves up to Eizen to interpret.  "Next time, I will.  Don't lose your precious vessel before then."

As he steps into the wind, he hears Eizen's voice.  "See ya, Zaveid."

Zaveid tilts his head in acknowledgment, and the malak and his exorcist disappear with the current's flow.

He takes his time returning.  In a way, Eizen did what he said: Zaveid answered all his questions, and was left to crawl away picking his wounds.  Four above, today was a nightmare.

By the time he makes it back, the sun is setting, and the Bloodwing has long-since departed.  Zaveid isn't particularly torn to see her gone, more that being welcomed by the smile of a beautiful woman would at least be a silver lining.  He is welcomed by the raucous laughter of his friend, a hot meal, and a tall mug of ale, though, which is honestly just as good.

They flip a coin to decide who gets to talk and who gets to eat.  Zaveid loses, and spares Eizen's character little mercy in his retelling.  Based on the reactions to his tale, it becomes achingly obvious this is just how Eizen is.  Again, he cannot fathom what draws someone like Aifread to such a dreary guy.

"Wow, no wonder you look like something the cat shat out."

"Yeah, well, you should see the other guys.  Your turn, now.  What's Tintagel like?"

"Gone."

"Gone?"

"Yep.  Totally done for.  Seems your little choir boy's been busy this week.  Took 'em all out in a single day."

It was silly for Zaveid to think today couldn't fall any flatter.  That forsaken cult had been the reason for Theodora's transformation in the first place.  Of course, his spring breeze adored humans; nature would have claimed her eventually.  But how much time would she still have if that group hadn't interfered?

Zaveid can't help the constriction in his chest, his heart crushed anew.  It's not as though this were a huge lead or anything.  Rumors of the cult's survivors had trickled down to those who live in the shadows.  Pure chance had given Zaveid the opportunity to seek them out.  There was no guarantee they would know anything that would help Zaveid in his quest, but having even that slim chance had given him hope.

"Is there anything left?"

"According to the report, it seems a dragon was involved.  Made a real mess of the temple, but like I said, no survivors."

Zaveid can't even be surprised by the news.  Seeing Eizen's ruthlessness in action, he believes he'd kill any dragon in cold blood.  Heartless bastard.

He rubs the back of his head, frustrated.  "If we hadn't made that detour, we could have gotten there before them."

"And if we did that, we'd be mourning your girl instead.  Don't sweat the small stuff, kid."

"I'm not a kid.  I'm six hundred years old."

"Then stick to your guns!  We do what we have to, but we can't be everywhere."  The man across from him smiles wide and downs his drink in one go, making toasts to the rising moon.  "We'll go anyway, just as planned.  I've been to a million temples, and let me tell you, they don’t need to breathe to tell some good stories."

"Yeah," Zaveid says, brimming with newfound energy, "you're right.  And we can take our time, too.  We won't have to worry about anyone else getting the jump on us."

"Not to mention all the loot left in those coffers!"

The man stretches his arms to the stars, yawns mightily, and falls back into the grass, letting the damp blades tickle the small hairs on his chin.  It's been months, but Zaveid doesn't think he'll ever get used to the clean shaven look of the short stubble and neatly cropped hair.  It doesn't suit him at all.

Beneath the long cross-shaped scar, a devious brown eye winks in his direction.

"But you know," he says, "it doesn't really matter what Eizen's choice is.  He wouldn't have needed to make it if the Abbey hadn't nabbed him."

Zaveid raises a brow between swigs.  "I don't get it.  Simple ideas, pal."

"What I'm saying is," the man's grin turns feral, destroying any illusion of a cleancut civilian, "no one steals from the Aifread pirates and gets away with it.  I won't forgive them for that."  He heaves himself back into a sitting position, legs angled crookedly in front.  He seems to be on a roll, pointing emphatically to the holster at Zaveid's hip.  "And they won't stop there!  They've taken someone precious to me, and still have their sights set on this baby here.  Church is ripe full of greedy plunderers!"

Zaveid is completely lost.  All he wants is to drink until he passes out.  "And?"

"I say we play into their hands a little."

That wakes him up.  "You're not seriously thinking of trading yourself for Eizen, are you?"

"Course not.  I trust the skipper, he'll be fine on his own.  But I heard an interesting rumor from our little butterfly.  Feel like raising some hell with me after this?"

Zaveid's head buzzes.  From trepidation.  From excitement.  A tired smile dares to edge its way past his cheeks.

"Alright, I'll bite.  You've certainly indulged all of my whims up until now.  What do you have in mind, captain?"

Moonlight casts its glow upon Aifread at the perfect angle, exposing the rum in his eyes and the wolf in his teeth.  The metal bars of his earring clink like a pair of old bones.  Before him, the visage of a poor vagrant nobody transforms into the imposing radiance of the most widely feared pirate across the eleven seas.  Where this man helms, navies quake with fear, for the colors of his sails spell certain doom for all who oppose him.

He turns to Zaveid, his magnetic charisma stronger than any tether.

"Something big is being held at Titania," he says.  "It's only fair that we help ourselves to something precious of theirs now, wouldn't you agree?"