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As he laid in his bed, Alistair wondered if he should have followed the impulse. Now that he knew what was at stake, he couldn’t help but ponder the possibility. If he could just go back, would he change any of it? Would he pursue Elrohir instead of Vanessa, knowing the young man pined for him this whole time? Would he have made a move on the elf then? Invite him into his tent and allow them to express a year’s worth of the feelings they bottled up inside? Touch Elrohir as Zevran—and now Morrigan—got to touch him?The thought was swept away like a crab in the tide as the hinges of his room’s door groaned to life, the light of the hallway torches bathing the elf standing there in golden hues. Alistair turned his head and sat up, gaze wavering and expression falling into worry as he saw Surana’s face. There were bags under those brilliant blue eyes, now stained red in their corners, and the smile he offered was just short of meeting them. The tension in the air was so thick between them, he feared not even the sharpest blade could cut through it.It was a wonder his voice managed as he muttered, “El?”Surana nodded. “It’s done. I…” The elf shook his head. “Let’s just hope the plan works.”“And…if it doesn’t?”“We won’t know until the Archdemon is slain. For now, we follow Riordan’s plan and…see what happens, I guess.”Alistair took pause, thinking over what he wanted to say next as he studied his fellow Warden. Elrohir was dressed in a light tunic and a pair of trousers. His arms were crossed, and he appeared to almost be curling in on himself as he leaned against the doorframe. His gaze had faltered, eyes now glued to the floor, as his lips pursed. For a moment, Alistair considered walking over and pulling the man into an embrace. For all he knew, this would be the last chance he got to do so. Any one of them could die in this fight—no matter how much he hoped they’d live to see the end of this—and if he had to say his goodbyes, he’d prefer to do it when they weren’t in the midst of battle. Once they made it to Denerim, there would be no going back.The bed creaked under him, as if to protest the loss of the warrior’s weight upon itself, and Alistair wasted little time in marching across the threshold to wrap his arms around the elf. Elrohir made no noise as he was cradled, head tucked just under the other man’s jaw, save for a hitch in his breath. He leaned into Alistair’s touch, but kept his hands to himself. Alistair could feel his shoulders trembling, and so he tightened his grip, squeezing Elrohir just off the point of crushing.It was Elrohir who broke the silence first, “I should talk to Vanessa…and Zevran. Say what I need to before I don’t get another chance.”Alistair winced at the assassin’s name. He knew the two of them managed to make amends just before the Landsmeet. Leliana wouldn’t stop cooing and awwing at the mage from the minute she noticed the earring he wore. Zevran’s earring.But now was not the time for jealousy.“Are you going to tell him?” he asked. “About…you and Morrigan?”“I…” Elrohir sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s better if nobody finds out.”“But then… How are you going to explain—?”“I won’t have to… She’s leaving once this is all over.”Alistair pulled away, his eyes shooting open as he stared at Elrohir. “Wait, seriously? She’s just…going to up and leave, just like that? With your child?”“I don’t care for the child, Alistair.”There was a pause. Then, a whisper, “You don’t mean that.”Elrohir looked up to meet his gaze, lips parting, as if to speak, only for hesitation to reign him in. He took a deep, audible breath.“You’re right, I don’t, but…” He groaned, frustrated, as he pinched his nose bridge. “I did this to save our lives. The child is no more than a means to an end, and if I’m not going to see them anyway, there’s no point in trying to get attached. Morrigan won’t be found if she doesn’t want to be.”“I guess you have a point there. Still…”The mage turned his gaze away from him. “It’s late… Goodnight, Alistair.” He spun on his heel, walking off into the hall. “I’ll see you at dawn when we begin the march to Denerim.”“Ellie, wait!”Blue eyes looked over a pale shoulder at the warrior, and when they met Alistair’s own brown ones, he could only stare back. His body frozen stiff where it wanted to reach out for him just one last time. He recalled the afternoon he first looked into them like it was just yesterday. The sun was already a little more than halfway through its journey across the sky, the chirping birds that stalked the trees days prior had long since fled—as if knowing what was to come—and despite his casual jestering, he was admittingly a little miffed with the mage he’d just spoke to before the new recruits arrived. He noticed Vanessa first, her fierce energy more than a little hard to miss as she snarled at him, but when he looked at Elrohir it was like time had stopped moving. The world ceased spinning, and the threat of the darkspawn didn’t hover over him like a cloud for the first time since arriving at Ostagar. Those eyes stared back, just as starstruck, but Alistair thought he was just seeing things then.They no longer held that excited wonder or awe, but they were still just as beautiful as they were that fateful day. Elrohir was still just as beautiful. Worn down and unmistakably tired from the past year and some months they spent traveling Ferelden—and the scars along his cheek and over his eye still stood out stark against his skin—but that only made him long for the other more. Filled him with the desire to hold him, kiss him, offer himself as refuge from the exhaustion of leading this entire war.But no. That would be selfish of him. He had Zevran, now, to do those things for him. He knew Elrohir loved Zevran, and Zevran loved him, and the last thing Alistair ever wanted was to hurt his best friend.“So long as he’s happy,” he reminded himself. And if Zevran was what made him happy, so be it.Alistair stepped closer, took Elrohir’s hand into his, forcing him to fully turn around, and squeezed as he said, “Whatever happens, you should know: I’m glad to have met you, and…” The warrior smiled warmly. “...and that you’ve stuck by me, all this time, even when you didn’t have to.”Elrohir’s gaze softened. “Alistair…”“Sorry. Didn’t mean to get all sentimental like that.” Alistair forced a grin. “Get some rest. You’ll need it for tomorrow.”There was a beat before the elf gave him a slow, awkward nod. He gave another mutter of “goodnight” before he slipped out of Alistair’s grasp and left the room, his boots echoing off the stone as he walked down the hall and towards his own quarters. Alistair watched him go until Elrohir turned a corner and disappeared. He waited a moment before slinking back into his room, shutting the door with a soft ‘click!’ and leaning against it. His hands flew to his face, rubbing at his eyes, as a groan slipped past his lips.“Great job, Alistair. Add that to your list of regrets…” he muttered into the empty air. A sigh escaped him, and Alistair shook his head. “Maker, what a mess…”

“You want to do what now?”The other’s lips pulled into a frown. “As good as it is that you’re taking your job seriously, you’re working yourself half to death most days. Even a small vacation may be a benefit.”“Ohohoho no. Mr. Workaholic is not going to lecture me about needing a vacation,” the elf shot in return.Without even batting an eye, the warrior said, “Alright. Then I’ll come with you.”“Huh?”“I’ll take care of whatever work remains for the next few weeks and simply make up for the time missed once we return to Skyhold.” Cullen picked up a report from his desk, completely dismissing the way Emeril’s jaw nearly reached the floor.Emeril rushed to the older man’s side, ripping a glove off and pressing his palm against his forehead. Cullen took a step back, surprised, but Emeril merely gave chase as he narrowed his eyes.“You’ve got a fever or something? Caught the plague, perhaps?”Cullen gave a scowl. “What? No! Don’t be ridiculous…”“I’m sorry,” Emeril chuckled, pulling away. “But I thought I just heard Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford say he’s putting his work aside.”“And?”“Cullen… You never stop working.”“I’m more than willing to make this one exception…if you promise to do the same.”Emeril stepped back, still eyeing him with suspicion. “Okay, who are you and what did you do with my commanding officer?”The Commander rolled his eyes at Emeril, although there was still a glimpse of a smile on his face. A tiny, almost indiscernible line along the curve of his lips.“This isn’t a joke, Emeril. I know you don’t take Cassandra’s concerns seriously—”“She worries over me worse than Mimaya, and she treats me like a literal toddler!”“—but I think you’ve definitely begun pushing yourself too far if she says your habits are becoming worse than mine.”Emeril opened his mouth to retort only for his jaw to shut just as quickly. Okay, maybe he was pushing himself to the limit…  Especially in the first few months after the healers cleared him for a return to his duties. His body was in critical condition, and by all forces of logic there was no way he should have survived that tower falling on top of him. The fact he only fell into a coma was a bloody miracle. However, he wasn't completely out of the red, only given permission to perform very minimal tasks. Anything that would put strain on his body was out of the question. Despite no longer feeling like his bones were made of jelly, he was still technically in recovery. But Emeril had been itching to get back onto the field. It took many months before he was far enough along to be able to jump, run, and hold a staff without pain. When that happened, Emeril practically abandoned all his paperwork and made a beeline for the stables to ride BoBo out on their first expedition since the war ended. Once outside, the elf realized just how much he missed exploring the vast land that was Thedas. In the span of a little over a year, he’d gone to places he could have only ever dreamed of. He couldn’t help but want to return to that. To find out more, discover new places, make new allies. Emeril wanted adventure again. Craved it, even.The Inquisition, on the other hand, thought he was beginning to take it a tad too far. Prior to this conversation, Emeril, Bull, Cole, and Dorian had spent roughly three months in the Deep Roads after they received several reports of odd tremors around Northern Ferelden. Upon their return, Emeril had bruises on top of his bruises, ribs that definitely didn’t set properly, and several scars that had the awful habit of reopening whenever he pushed himself during a spar. Cassandra had to physically drag the Inquisitor to the healers—who, by the way, had the absolute pleasure of getting to witness the Seeker lecture him on how diluted healing potions weren’t “an acceptable substitute for proper medical attention”. But he was completely fine otherwise!…Alright. Admittingly, Emeril had been a bit reckless with his work, and he definitely wasn’t taking care of himself as he knew he should. But he swore it wasn’t that bad! Besides, how was he supposed to know a massive rock monster powered by lyrium—which turned out to be fucking Titan’s blood—would be the cause behind those tremors, and that to stop them he’d have to kill it? Not to mention the damn thing was tougher than it looked! Even Bull was struggling to chip in any damage. Their journey through the rest of the Deep Roads before coming face to face with that monstrosity had been a breeze!The Inquisitor let out a sigh, leaning on the Commander’s desk as he said, “Look, I appreciate the concern, but you know as well as I that Thedas is still in bloody shambles. There’s far too much to—”“You’re taking the damned vacation and you’re going to like it!” A familiar voice shouted from the loft above. Emeril threw a glare at the wooden planks.“This doesn’t concern you Raleigh!”“It does if the alternative is letting you keel over again.”Damn it! He was never going to live that down, was he?Emeril growled between clenched teeth, “Fine. Since you insist.”For all their sakes, he opted to ignore the smirk Cullen gave. “Excellent,” the Commander said. “I’ll begin making preparations at once.”A whiny groan escaped the Inquisitor as he invited himself to prop his bottom atop Cullen’s desk. He knew the other wouldn’t mind so long as he wasn’t sitting on any important documents or carelessly spilled something.“Where are we even bloody going?”“Crestwood.”“Crestwood?”“Yes, that is what I said.” Cullen set the report in his hand down before reaching for his quill to sign it. “You’ll be pleased to note that it won’t be a vacation so much as a small retreat. There’s still some activity in the area that requires our intervention—”“Venatori?” the elf asked, his face lighting up instantly.“Bandits,” Cullen said. He tried not to roll his eyes at the Inquisitor’s deflation. “It’s a fairly sizable faction. Probably a stray group come back to reclaim their fortress.”“Pfft. They can certainly try.”“They’re holed up in the nearby mountains. Their numbers are enough for them to be a potential threat to the villagers, but I think we can make due with just ourselves.”Emeril hummed. “If anything, we could always turn tail to Bronach and go back to their hideout with reinforcements.”“Precisely.”“But I thought you said we needed to relax?” the Inquisitor quipped. “This is still work, no? Unless you’re going for a ‘two birds, one stone’ approach here.”“I am, actually.” Cullen moved around the desk to file the report away with the others. “It is work only by technicality, and it gives us something to use as clearance to be away for a few weeks without anyone prying.”Ah. Now he saw where Cullen was going with this. Still, he could hardly pass up an excuse to go sightseeing that also wouldn’t be a total waste of his time. Even if it was just a bunch of bandits, it was better than nothing.“And certainly far more pleasant than dealing with Orlesian emissaries.”Tossing himself off the desk and offering a shrug, Emeril replied, “Alright, then. I’ll be in my quarters for a few hours, and then I’m heading down to the stables for the rest of the afternoon. Bobo needs his weekly scrubbing.”“I thought you did that yesterday?”“I did, but he decided to have a nice little mud party with the fucking harts right after. All my hard work just…gone! It hadn’t even been five minutes!”A crackling laughter echoed in the tower, and Emeril threw Samson yet another glare from beneath the loft. He scoffed at the bastard before turning back to Cullen.“Just let me know when everything’s set to head out. Now, I’m going to go before I kill this one,” he said, gesturing to the room above their heads.Cullen shook his head at the pair as Emeril left his office and walked off towards his quarters, likely before he actually did climb that ladder to pounce on the unsuspecting ex-templar. He didn’t think Emeril would genuinely bring harm, but he’d rather not deal with any rough housing that’d accomplish little beyond distracting him from the rest of his tasks.Once the elf was out of sight, Cullen waited a beat before turning to his desk. He knelt beside its accompanying chair to open one of the lower drawers and rummage through it: pulling out old reports and empty, ceramic ink jars until he finally spotted the round piece of silver. The templar took a quick peek over his desk to make sure Emeril hadn’t walked back in—the elf potentially deciding it would be worth picking a fight with Samson if only for the satisfaction of getting revenge—but caught no sight of his superior. Cullen quickly pocketed the trinket, reorganized the drawer, and then shut the compartment. He kept his eye on where he hid it as he patted down his pants, hoping its outline didn’t visibly press against the dyed cotton, and sighed in relief when he knew he was safe.“Maker,” he muttered, “I just hope I don’t make a fool of myself…”

Three days went by before Byleth had returned with the others. She was the first to visit him where he always stood. Dimitri glared at her, his lips pulled back to reveal sharp teeth. Like a skunk raising its tail. She stared at him with just as hard of an expression. His faltering gaze was the only answer she needed. Byleth shook her head as she walked back out, her boots tapping against the marble tiles below.Another set came in after her. Dimitri paused, catching himself before he turned to see who it was. Not that he needed to wait very long to find out.“If you go on like this, you’ll just keel over in here. Likely standing up in your sleep.”“Felix,” he warned. But, of course, the other ignored the venom hissing in his voice.“If you’re not gonna fix it yourself, let someone do it for you. What use are you to us like this?” the man growled. “You want to please the dead so badly, you’re willing to become one of them.”“My life is of little consequence.”Felix shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “You say that, but do you even understand what you mean?”“Was there something you wanted?”“Yeah. You, to wake the fuck up and snap out of it.” Felix’s arms fell to his side as he puffed out his chest, his fists clenched on either side of him. “Don’t even consider that no one’s noticed you not eating or sleeping either. Do you ever fucking think? Or did all of your brain cells die when you did back in Faerghus?”What an insolent little brat, muttered his father. The ghost of his rotting flesh tingled Dimitri’s ears. Such a disrespectful tone… He knows nothing of sacrifice.Dimitri said nothing to his father, his remaining eye instead gazing into Felix’s burning amber irises that stared back with such fury. He scoffed at his old friend and quickly turned back away.“I will kill that woman, or die trying. Whatever details lay between mean nothing to me.”“...I don’t know why I expected you to say anything different,” came the reply. If Dimitri looked back he would see Felix nibbling on his bottom lip, and those eyes that glared daggers into him were now downcast. “Let someone know when you decide to stop being such a fucking prick. And get that injury looked at, you stubborn fool.”And just like with Byleth, Felix stormed out of the cathedral, leaving Dimitri to his lonesome. The others that straggled nearby paid him no head. They took to their prayers, saying what they needed to say to the Goddess, before scurrying away from the beast.But just as the last son of Fraldarius took off, a third pair of boots came tapping in. Dimitri had to stop himself from growling at the approaching figure that dared to disturb him. Though, he couldn’t help the startle of annoyance at the sight of fluffy, red hair and pink lips pulled into a lazy grin.“Mind telling me what that was all about?” Sylvain asked. Dimitri huffed, but answered no further. As always, the prince’s attitude did little to discourage the fox that was Gautier. “Right, Felix probably just being Felix, huh? Let me guess, he came in here because he was pissed about your injury. Did I hit the nail on the head, Your Highness?”Dimitri narrowed his eye at him. “Must you all come here? Is there a need for any of you to disturb me beyond your pitiful concerns?”Sylvain raised his hands in surrender. “Whoa, buddy, chill out. I’m not here for that. I was actually just looking for Felix, the guy took off as soon as we got back before anyone could flag him down. But I’m guessing I was right then...”“Will you say anything about it?”“Well...” Sylvain hummed, his eyes looking up to the gap in the ceiling. “I’m sure you’ve got a mouthful from Felix already, and the professor was probably the first person to bring it up. So nah. I’ll let you off the hook this time-”Dimitri nearly sighed in relief. He was getting rather tired of the attention.“-But they both have good points. Maybe you should listen every once in awhile? Just a suggestion, though.”The prince huffed. “If I desired any aid, I would have sought it out.”“I, uh...don’t think it’s a matter of wanting help so much as needing it, my friend. I mean, just look at that thing. It’s getting bad, ‘Mitri.”The Gautier pointed to the prince’s abdomen where, just below his breast, dried blood seeped through cracks in the chainmail. Dimitri had considered seeking out someone to at least look at his armor, but that would mean they’d attempt to heal him as well. Dimitri only glanced at the damage briefly before returning his gaze to Sylvain.“It would have killed me already if it was a real threat.”Sylvain gave that smirk of his. The one he’d always wear when passing a lie to a pretty girl, or trying to get out of classes to talk to pretty girls. Sometimes he’d wear it when Ingrid would lecture him on his habits, particularly the ones that left Sylvain an emotional mess for weeks despite how hard he tried to hide it. But with a little liquor and a warm body to keep him company—much to the prince’s dismay, for the Saints knew he barely got enough sleep as it was—he was back at it the next day.With that same smirk plastered on his face, he said to the prince, “Not everything’s gonna kill you as quickly as a blade, Dimitri. Death is sometimes...subtler than that. Just consider what they’ve already told you. I know how much you hate to be told things repeatedly.”Sylvain turned on his heel and left after that. Dimitri brushed him off, shrugging his shoulders before returning to stare at the pile of rubble before him. Same place, same time, same everything, with the exception of an itch in the back of the prince’s skull. Sylvain’s words echoed in that corner of his mind, and he could feel the ghosts clawing at him again.He speaks of something he knows little of. Such foolishness.

Time continued on, and Dimitri’s condition only grew worse. He still had barely eaten a morsel—at most, he would nibble on a wheel of fermented cheese left on a tray on one of the pews by the professor—and his side went from a dull ache to a full throb whenever he twisted the wrong way. He was also experiencing random, sharp stabs in his skull, especially when the choir’s voices echoed too loudly within the hall. It left him irritated. Even more so than the fact that the march to the Great Bridge was quickly approaching, and he still hadn’t held up his end of the deal. The headaches would sometimes leave him so dizzy his already impaired vision somehow got worse, and his body emitted a fever so high that just touching his forehead felt like touching a flame. His figure was so weak from lack of nutrition and care, it was a wonder he was even standing at allNeither Felix, Sylvain, or the professor came in to bother him again. He was left in the cathedral, his body shuddering with every step and turn he took, when someone else came through the large doors instead.The tap, tap, tap of leather boots stopped just short of where Dimitri stood by the destroyed altar. The prince waited, his breaths shallow as his ears tuned in to any sound from his visitor. After a short moment, a small pitch echoed in his ears.“I um… I heard about what happened,” came Marianne’s soft, soothing voice. “I know you probably would refuse, but I’d be more than willing to look at your wounds. Only whenever you feel comfortable of course! But um… I-I can’t help but...”Dimitri said nothing to her. He hoped to turn towards her, make a gesture that he would hear her out at least, even when his body was screaming at him in agony. Despite the wailing dead hissed at any who dared to distract him from his goal, he couldn’t help but feel for Marianne. When she had first been recruited into the Blue Lions, he understood her. Even if only a little bit. It was clear that she, too, had her own demons to face. Perhaps for that reason, he was always kinder to her than most. Even with the bitterness in his chest, the guilt that would plague him were he to harm her would be an even greater pain. One worse than any wound or broken limb.“I will be fine,” he reassured her when her voice faded into silence. “Do not concern yourself over me.”“A-Are you sure? I mean, we could take you to Manuela’s office at least if you don’t want to do it here. But you should get your injury checked, Dimitri. You’re only getting worse.”Dimitri shook his head, leaving Marianne to sigh. “Truly, will nothing convince you?” she asked. Of course she didn’t expect an answer, nor did she exactly get one.A few beats later, and soon she, too, left the prince to his despair.There was a stinging in his chest, a pang of guilt he was all too familiar with. He had felt it many times in his life—when he woke up in Fhirdiad covered head-to-toe in burns and scars,  when the memories of Duscur flooded his mind as he sat there in bed sobbing, when he saw the look of horror on Felix’s face when they returned from the uprising, and many times after. In varying degrees, in various circumstances, but regardless it had always felt the same every time.Dimitri glanced down at his injury. For the past few days, the very thought of releasing  his grip on where the blood spilled through his armor was enough for him to flinch away. His fingers flexed beneath metal and leather. He hoped to feel around it, but not touch the wound directly.They all had a point.His condition was only going to get worse the longer he let this go on, and so would the wound. Already could he smell the vile scent of puss leaking through bloody scabs and dried skin, and parts of his side along the scar were completely numb. It would not be long before his body gave out, and he would be useless to anyone. Especially to the dead.But still, the prince’s stubbornness prevailed. Dimitri shook his head for what felt like the hundredth time in the past few days. Perhaps a short walk along the bridge would do him some good. The voices were quiet now, he would be able to enjoy the fresh air in peace.Dimitri turned to leave the cathedral, but just as he did so was there a pain in his stomach. A scorching jolt erupted where his hand clutched his side before it spread up to his chest and down his legs. Dimitri’s mind went completely blank, his ears deaf to the gasps and cries as his body hit the hard floor with a thud, and all feeling in his limbs faded away like a dream as darkness consumed his vision.

The days leading up to the ball are quite troublesome.Firstly, no one had seen Kronya since the night Dimitri drove her out of the monastery. Claude considered this a win, as the goal was to avoid Jeralt’s death, and it seemed fate was working in their favor. However, there was still no telling of what could happen. It was in everyone’s best interest that he stay on his toes.On the brighter side, Dorothea and Cyril had been recruited by Byleth to join the Golden Deer. The professor claimed Cyril had a lot of potential as a warrior and offered him a seat in their class. When the boy wasn’t convinced, Lysithea was beside Byleth and encouraged Cyril with the promise of extra lessons in reading. Those kids sure did get along pretty well recently. Claude couldn’t help but smile, remembering the talk of their relationship before Lysithea met her end. Cyril ended up right back at the monastery when the war was over to serve Byleth once Rhea, too, passed away from her injuries.Dorothea, meanwhile, joined so she could practice with the professor for the White Heron Cup. Byleth believed she would make for a great dancer in battle, and so invited her to join them. She happily agreed to do so and help them win. Now she, too, was safe.While that was all fine and dandy, there was just one more problem Claude had to deal with regarding a certain prince.Claude and Dimitri had been completely avoiding one another since that time in the former’s room. It made the archer think that it was, perhaps, a bad idea to just kiss the other teen so suddenly....Yeah. It was totally a bad idea.Not only did it now make things awkward between them, but Claude knew his mind was just thrown into a panic once Dimitri started getting angry. There wasn’t even a good reason to kiss him other than it working as a distraction. Well, it certainly did the job, but how was he supposed to get the other’s help to secure a safer Fodlan now? Claude knew wallowing in self pity wasn’t going to get anything done, so he told the professor during one of his visits. In hindsight, that was almost as bad an idea as kissing Dimitri.The first thing Byleth did was laugh—actually laugh—at him. Claude had never felt so flustered in his life! To have his own teacher laughing at him was a new level of humiliating.“It’s not funny, Teach!” he cried out, face flushed red.Byleth’s laughter slowly died down to a soft chuckle. “My apologies, Claude. I just- Pft, haha! I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” The professor wiped away a tear. “But how else do you expect me to react?”“Well, I certainly didn’t expect you to laugh at me, that’s for sure.” The archer shook his head, which currently rested in his hands to hide his embarrassment, and sighed. “I thought you’d be more surprised than entertained.”“To feign surprise would be dishonest of me, Claude.”The boy’s head shot up as his eyes blew wide open to stare at Byleth with his jaw dropped almost down to the floor. “Wha- But, how-?”Byleth offered him a smile. “You and His Highness are not exactly subtle with your affections, you know. I’m surprised no one had to point it out to the two of you. Even Sothis believed you were utterly hopeless.”“I still do,” the goddess muttered. Not that Claude could hear her, though. “But at least they aren’t you and that boy from Abyss.” That earned the goddess a glare from her host as she giggled.“So wait... Everyone was able to tell!?” Claude once again threw his head into his hands, this time throwing himself on the bed on his back and groaning. “This can’t possibly get any worse.”“Well,” Byleth said, “there is always the ball.”“Right. The last thing I need is bumping into him that night...”“No, Claude, I’m saying you should go.” Byleth sighed as the archer gave him a bewildered look, his green eyes practically screaming ‘are you fucking crazy?’. “We still need Dimitri to help us get through the war. Edelgard doesn’t seem like she’ll be backing down, so it’s best to prepare while we can. If we can’t avoid my disappearance then you two will be on your own for the next five years.”“And I’m guessing you want us to talk this thing out, huh?”A nod came from the professor, and Claude could only feel his anxiety grow. He was never that good at confronting people. At least, not when it came to feelings. With strategies, battles, and small civil disputes he never even broke a sweat. But this? He was way out of his league.The teen couldn’t help but let out a sigh at such depressing thoughts.“Alright, I guess I can give it a shot,” he said. “But I don’t think Manuela would clear me from bedrest just for a party.”“If you’d like, I could talk to her,” the professor offered.“Nah. I can fight my own battles. Thanks anyway, Teach.”“Of course. Then I’ll be seeing you at the White Heron Cup.”Byleth stood up from his seat and made his way out of the dorm. He turned the knob, but just before opening the door he glanced over his shoulder at his student.“Oh, and Claude, when I say ‘talk to Dimitri’, I mean talk to him.”Claude, who was already midway through scheming up a plan to get out of this mess, let out a nervous chuckle. Oh, to be caught before you could even do anything...“Right. You got it, Teach!”Byleth said nothing else after that. He nodded to the archer, opened the door, and closed it as he left the room. Claude was left to his own devices now, but with less of a choice than he had hoped.This was going to be a long week, wasn’t it?

He wasn’t supposed to be there.Maker’s balls, he wasn’t supposed to be there.When Samson had been told the army would move into Ferelden, the new center of the Mage-Templar war, he breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t know what he would have done had the fight been brought to the Marches. The Marches had Kirkwall. Kirkwall had the Den. The Den had Gwyn, Garson, Mimaya, and, most importantly, Emeril. They were still supposed to be over there. He was still supposed to be over there, helping the city recover, rebuilding and regrouping.But there was no mistaking those green eyes gawking at him in the snow. Eyes that once, long ago, looked at him with nothing but unlimited adoration. He could still see them in his dreams gazing down at him—accompanied by a warm smile and tender hands holding his tired face between remarkably unmarred fingers. The moon would pour in from the broken windows and bathe freckled skin in its glow, giving the elf an ethereal look. He’d reach up to hold rounded cheeks flushed red and listen to the melody of giggles emit from plump lips.“I love you.”Maker… How he longed to hear those words again. To see that smile and those eyes, to feel the press of those lips against his own. His army had successfully made it out of the frozen wasteland of the Frostbacks, unable to track down what remained of the Inquisition who dared to oppose his master. They traveled north towards the abandoned Shrine of Dumat, per the instructions given by Corypheus, and settled in to prepare for their next move.Corypheus wanted the Herald dead, and Samson was, at first, inclined to agree. The idea had once brought him great joy: the blighted thief of his master’s anchor into the Fade defeated by his hand. His sword piercing his chest, the bastard’s blood dripping onto the snow, and glazed-over eyes wide with fear as he perished before the mighty Red General. That was meant to be the plan. That was how Haven was meant to fall: the Inquisition to be lost forever and its Herald gone from this world, so Corypheus may rise from its ashes as they burned the village to the ground.But now the image made him sick. And the whole march back to the shrine, he could only think of the Herald not as who he thought he was—some Chantry bootlicking sucker whose worth could only be measured as a corpse—but, rather, as who it turned out to be: Emeril.Sweet, loving, beautiful, courageous Emeril. A force of nature who could not be swayed by pretty words, who valued people’s actions above any sort of title or riches they possessed, who saw broken men and took them under his wing to nurse their pains away. A man of his word who did not trust an ounce of the Chantry’s, he understood better than anyone of its corrupting influence and empty promises. He did not let the obstacles life threw at him stop his plans—always finding some sort of way to make things right. To do what needed to be done. His passion to bring his ideas to life was unmatched, and for the longest time Samson had always admired him for it. Emeril was his one bright light in that desolate city, and there was never a day he regretted stepping in on that fateful night at the docks. Knowing he’d be saving one of the purest souls in Thedas, if he were to go back, he’d do it all again. He’d do anything for his beloved songbird, whose comforting melodies were all that kept him from falling to the brink of madness.Anything, that is, except leave Corypheus’s side.Even if he wanted to—even if he didn’t choose to remain his general to bring about a new and better world, one where a mage like Emeril and a mundane like himself could find joyful peace—he could not. Samson glanced over at the vials of red lyrium he had yet to consume for the month. It wasn’t like with the Order. There was plenty to go around., so it wasn’t like he was attempting to conserve his supply. Not when the red stuff grew so much faster, so much easier, than the blue. But he felt too sick to drink any of it. Too disturbed to ride the high and feel its power flow through his veins.Was Emeril disgusted by him? He knew he would be if he were in his shoes. For all that Samson talked about wanting to help his fellow templars who were tossed into the streets and left to fend for themselves, he knew he was no better than the Chantry. Here he was, after all, turning his men into monsters. Granted it was better than losing one’s mind and dying alone in some filthy alley. But if they had known this would happen, what they were ingesting before it consumed their minds and bodies, would they have agreed to it?“General Samson!”The ex-templar’s head snapped towards the open door to his quarters, attempting not to roll his eyes when he saw the familiar robes of his new Tevinter ally.“Calpernia,” he bit at her. “The fuck do you want?”The mage glared at him, a blonde brow raised and hands on her hips. “I thought you were supposed to head south towards Emprise du Lion?”“Was I?”“You were meant to capture it an entire week ago! Have you just been sitting in this mess and moping around the whole time?”“So what if I was? It’s none of your damned business,” he spat. He turned back to his desk, leaning on the wood as he pretended to read through the numerous documents scattered across the surface. “Now get the fuck out.”“You have been acting odd since our victory at Haven.”Samson scoffed. “I’d hardly call it a victory.”“The Inquisition is scattered. They have, at most, a month before they perish in those mountains. Their supplies will run quickly, and then there’ll be nothing to stop us.”“Ferelden is colder than a tit. Be grateful Kirkwall is too far north to get that bad.”That’s right... Emeril always hated the cold. He and the rest of the Inquisition would freeze to death if they didn’t starve first, and every minute of it would be agony for them all.Had they already died? Was the elf’s body somewhere in those mountains now? Was he buried beneath the snow, or did he perish in his sleep, resting on some worn cot? Perhaps Samson would never know the answer.“Samson, are you even listening to me right now?”The General bolted upright, his spine straightening like a pole, as a hand suddenly grabbed his shoulder to spin him around. The ex-templar glared at Calpernia again as he smacked the offending touch away.“I heard you, bitch. Calm yourself.”Calpernia gave him a sharp look. “Then what did I just say?”“Er…” He glanced off to the side. “Something about that other robe. Erick? Erin?”“Erimond.”“Right. Him.”“Yes. I was saying that he’s already successfully infiltrated the Orlesian Warden-Commander’s forces.” The blonde let out a huff as she crossed her arms. “You’d know that if you read any of the reports I’ve sent you.”“I’ve got a lot of shit on my plate, cut me some slack.”Samson’s body went rigid as a shard of ice barely missed his skull, flying straight past his shoulder and stabbing the wall behind him. It had all happened so fast. He didn’t even have time to blink. Calpernia’s gaze was harder than stone and colder than the frost she had just casted from her outstretched hand, which fell back down to settle at her side.“If you are going to be Corypheus’s vessel, you need to start taking your position seriously. No more games, Samson,” she spat at the man. “It is only by his good graces that you even still live when he very well could have left you to rot in that backwater city. If you do not succeed in your mission, he will have no choice but to undo that foolish decision, and I will not stop him. Are we clear on this?”“Are you suggesting I’m unfit for my position?”“I’m merely saying that the Elder One has no time for mortal disinclination, and you are not excluded,” she replied. “It is only by some miracle that the Inquisitor chose to pursue Alexius and the mages. Had it not been for that, well…”The rest of the sentence died upon her lips, but Samson didn’t need her to say it to know what was being implied. If Corypheus had the mages, there would have been no need for the templars, and Calpernia would have been chosen instead. Who better to aid him in tearing the heavens apart than those who were born with access to the Fade? After all, had it not been mages who broke into the Maker’s Golden City and tainted it with their mortal desires? Who was to say they couldn’t succeed a second time?Calpernia was right. He hated to say it, but she was. Though he wouldn’t say it was a miracle that granted him this chance to show his prowess—rather, it was the fact that the Herald had been Emeril of all people. Of course he would side with the mages! Anyone who believed him to choose otherwise was either stupid or plain mad. The elf kept his disdain for the Order no secret, and Samson had little doubt that the Inquisition learned that very quickly. Especially their precious Commander Cullen.That would have been a sight: the infamous Fendalen of Kirkwall becoming allies with Meredith’s lapdog. Oh, how he would have loved to see Emeril rip that stick-up-the-ass limb from limb. It would have been well deserved, too.…But now they were probably both dead. Left to rot somewhere up on that mountain, far away from anyone who’d be able to dig up their bodies.Samson had promised, albeit years ago, that he would protect Emeril. That no matter the circumstances, they’d have each other. In joining Corypheus, he had begun to fulfill that promise: building a new world from the ashes of the old one just as he swore he would. A world where there were no mages and templars, no Chantry, and no Maker. A world where they could be safe and free and happy. And yet, by destroying Haven, he had also failed to deliver his promise. If Emeril perished in the avalanche, it would be his fault.He had, for so long now, been furious on the elf’s behalf. Furious at the Order for failing its duty. Furious at the Maker for abandoning them both and leaving them to their suffering. Furious at the Chantry for allowing that suffering—encouraging it, even—all in the name of His pretty little prophet. It was from them he wished to protect his songbird, and so it was them whom he planned to bring to their knees. Delivering the justice they deserved but never got.What did it say about him, then, that Emeril’s death came not at the hands of a templar, or by order of the Chantry, but as a consequence of his choices? That his bright light, his lone candle in the darkness, was snuffed out by his armies?Samson’s mood had turned from sour to disgustingly bitter as the thought began to plague his mind like a disease. He scoffed at Calpernia and dismissed her with a wave of his hand, clearly not of mind to continue this sorry excuse of a conversation they were having. The mage did not heed his warning, however, and stepped closer to continue whatever argument she had made up in her mind. But the minute her hand touched him again, he spun around, grabbing her by the wrist, and glared daggers into her.“Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Me.” Calpernia’s gaze was wide. Her soft baby blues stared into Samson’s dark browns as the general snarled, “It doesn’t matter how it happened: I was his chosen, not you. If you have any complaints I suggest you take them up to the Elder One yourself. Now, if you’re quite done, get the fuck out of my quarters.”Calpernia showed no hesitance in pulling away from Samson’s grip. She stared at him silently for a second before, quickly, turning on her heel to exit. He returned to his desk and the many reports scattered across it, not even bothering to watch as the door closed behind his ally as she left him to his devices. His eyes scanned the numerous words and details in an effort to distract himself, but his mind did not allow him to process what any of it meant. It seemed far too busy bombarding the general with sickening images of his songbird’s corpse instead: Emeril’s feathers plucked and tattered, limbs mangled and stiff, as he laid motionless in the freezing snow.Then, suddenly, Samson thought of the ring, and if it still sat on the elf’s finger where he placed it during that early summer morning nearly three years ago.If anyone noticed the abnormally red tint to the general’s puffy, swollen eyes an hour later, no one said a thing.

“It’s not what it looks like, I swear!”Alfonse glared at him. “Not what it looks like?” they hissed. “So do you just try to bite every bunkmate of yours, or am I special?”“I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed…” Astarion took in a breath, glancing away as if in shame. “Well… Blood.”“Hells,” Alfonse gasped. Their lips pulled into a scowl as they watched the high elf lick his teeth, then his lips, as he stared back in what they could only describe as hunger. “That hunter was right… You are a vampire.”“A vampire spawn, technically,” Astarion corrected. “I don’t get the same powers. Just…the hunger.”Alfonse eyed Astarion carefully. “So you were…trying to feed from me?”The other slowly nodded, and for a brief moment Alfonse felt a twinge of pity for the bastard. From his defensive stance to the wild look in his eyes, it was clear Astarion was as frightened of Alfonse as they were of him. He knew damn well and good what this looked like, and, more importantly, how this might end for him.They turned their head to glance at the others, noticing everyone was still in their bedrolls, seeming completely undisturbed by what just happened. It didn’t look like any of them had been attacked either. They could see Shadowheart and Wyll laying peacefully in their cots, their forms rising and falling in time with their labored breaths. Lae’zel was likely off near the party’s makeshift training grounds, or still sharpening her blade by the tents, and Gale was probably at his desk reading that tome they found in the crypt.If that was the case, and by the gods did they wish it was, that meant Alfonse was Astarion’s first choice in regard to who he’d feed from. The thought sent a shiver down their spine.They looked back at Astarion as they asked, “How long has it been since you killed someone? Days? Hours?”“I’ve never killed anyone. Well, not for food…”“Then what have you been sustaining yourself on all this time?”“Simple: I feed on animals. Boars, deer, kobolds—whatever I can get my hands on.”Boars, he says… So that beast they’d found on the way to the goblin camp had been his doing. Alfonse had never seen an injury on a creature like that before. It was…unnerving, to say the least: the way it looked like it was merely sleeping, its eyes shut and face calm, yet it was as still and stiff as any other corpse. The only indication that the poor thing had been attacked at all were two puncture wounds along its throat.Puncture wounds Alfonse would have woken up to thanks to this mongrel, assuming they got to wake up at all.Their eyes narrowed again. “So why not go into the woods and find some unfortunate squirrel to bite into? Why risk your life drinking from me?”Astarion’s brows creased. “It’s not enough. Not if I have to fight. I just feel so…so weak.” He shut his eyes, as if even muttering the word brought him pain. The high elf had always seemed like the arrogant type. They had no doubt such a confession stung the man’s pride like a blaze against bare skin.“And…people's blood…that makes you feel stronger?” they dared to ask. Alfonse didn’t like how the vampire’s eyes practically lit up with hope glimmering through the vibrant reds of his irises.“Yes. But I understand the idea may not exactly be a savory one.”“Of course not. Not after how you left that boar on the road!”Astarion flinched. “Oh… You saw that, did you?” He sighed at the hardened expression Alfonse gave. “Look, I… I had no other choice! Not if I still wanted to be of use. I know you have your whole…thing with animals, but it was a necessity.”“You killed the poor creature!”“It must’ve bled out on its own! You have my word the same won’t happen to you.” Then, almost pouting, he pleaded with the half elf, “Please. I only need a little blood. Enough to think clearer, fight better. Please.”They eyed Astarion, lips curling into a scowl. Alfonse wasn’t quite sure what to do. They had faith in their companions—wanted to, at the very least—but Astarion… There was just something about him the other rogue couldn’t bring themself to trust. Something that almost made them want to put a dagger to his throat, a stake to his heart, and just be done with the matter.But the look in his eyes spoke of a desperation not even Alfonse would be willing to expose should their roles be reversed. That made them hesitate. Yet, a more sensible voice in the back of their mind nagged its way forward. There was half a chance Astarion was telling the truth and posed no true threat to the group, but there was also half a chance Alfonse would be wrong to believe him. That the moment they let their guard down, he would simply take and leave their body in the wilderness somewhere.Alfonse knew an easier way out of this—to at least set the odds in their favor—but they’d never turned that power to their companions… At the goblin camp, and on the road the other day near that owlbear cave, those were different. Strangers, and especially enemies, were one thing. And yet, the half elf saw no other way.Their brow twitched as they set their focus, reaching for the power that connected their minds and pushing into Astarion’s. The vampire’s eyes grew wide, and he shook his head, dazed and irritable.“Wha…What…?”Realization flashed across his face, and then it was gone, replaced by a cloud swirling in those bright red eyes. Astarion stared off into the near distance as something stirred within Alfonse. This was…different. Using the tadpoles before had only allowed the rogue to tap into others’ emotions, their greatest strengths and where to pluck holes in them, but this was something else entirely.
Alfonse first saw shadow, and in it dark eyes that stared back. Then, hunger suddenly struck, and with it a voice commanding them to… To…They shook their head, but it was no use. Their belly grumbled and groaned in agony, their throat grew dry with ragged breaths, even as their mouth dripped like a feasting hound’s, and that hunger became starvation. A salivating tongue darted out to dash across cracked lips, and those eyes glowed with amusement. Something had been uttered, but they couldn’t hear past that damned ringing in their ears.Thankfully, they didn’t need to. They could feel the command in their bones, in their head and down to their toes, and they pounced on the creature with bared teeth. No, not teeth. They were nothing like the rough pair of canines that could barely tear through a piece of well-cooked steak. Those could not sink into the leathery skin of a twisting rat as easily as they did just now: blood gushing onto their tongue before they could properly drink. The urge to simply have what was already theirs and feed grew stronger, but Alfonse sensed something else. Just beneath the surface—in the flush of their cheeks, and the flash of red across their vision—was mortification. Embarrassment mixed with shame and rage filled their lungs, their heart, their blood and it was only by the threatening glare of their master that they hadn’t lunged for the son of a bitch.Then, just as suddenly as the vision appeared, it was gone, and Alfonse was back at camp. The stars blinked above in the sky as brightly as they had before, and standing just a few steps away was Astarion. A chastened expression crossed his face, then something akin to dismay, before it settled on restrained fury.Alfonse’s gaze softened. “You ate animals because you had to, not because you wanted to…”Astarion gave them a look. “I…”“How does one…become a vampire?” they asked. “Did… Did someone turn you into one?”“...Yes, actually. My… My master,” the elf spat the word with a venom in his tone. “It was either eat whatever vermin he decided to give me or starve.”“I see…” Alfonse shut their eyes, momentarily hoping this was all just some crazy dream. But when they opened them again, there the pair still stood, and what little hope they had left faded. Pressing their lips into a thin line, they told Astarion, “Fine. But not a drop more than you need, you hear? If I so much as feel funny…”The threat was left to hang in the air, forgotten like it’d never been made as Astarion gasped in reply, “Really?”“Yes.”The elf gave a hum. “And here I thought you’d…” He shook his head. “Of course, not one drop more.”Alfonse nodded firmly. “Good.”Astarion gestured to the bedroll. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”

The campfire crackled in time with the hissing smoke wafting from their dinner. Alfonse watched by the fire as Gale tended to the savory pork they gathered from that exsanguinated boar they came upon. It was still a mystery as to what exactly had killed the beast, but the meat looked safe enough for consumption, and so it was dragged back to camp.“No use in wasting perfectly good food!” was their suggestion.Lae’zel had to give a bit of a hand in bringing the carcass to their campsite. They settled along the river under the bridge, though were careful to keep their distance from the nearby owlbear cave—lest the beast came stalking for a quick bite. Alfonse helped to skin it and separate the meat, offering the freshest parts to the self-chosen chef. Its ribs and thighs were in surprisingly good condition. A relatively fresh kill, as it were, despite the thing likely being on the road for days. If only they had some salt, they could keep more of it for later. Alas, there was not a pinch to go around in these parts it seemed.Despite the glistened char of pork skin and succulent smell accompanying it, tonight’s dinner was the last thing on Alfonse’s mind. It looked delicious—who knew Gale really could cook?—but their eyes kept wandering across the way at a certain folk hero.The Blade of Frontiers. An impressive title, and its bearer even more awe-inspiring. What a relief it was to see someone else lend their aid to the tieflings. Gods knew Zevlor and his people would need every hand on deck should the worst come, and Wyll seemed a good man: selfless, compassionate, and a hunter of fiends, he stayed to defend the grove from those Absolute cultists even while his target was still on the loose. They knew right away he’d make a good ally.But it wasn’t just his heroics that convinced the half elf to invite him in their journey.Their gaze trailed over his face, tracing the trajectory of his scars. How the left side curved up towards his hair while the right fell over his cheek, then down further under his jaw. Whatever had given them to him got a good grip before unleashing its fury. Perhaps it’d been that devil he was hunting when he got infected. They wondered briefly how he looked prior, staring as though they could will the scars to fade. If they imagined hard enough, they could see a matching deep brown rather than the pale marble of his prosthetic eye, and soft skin they yearned to caress where it instead shriveled up into patchy tissue. Despite their efforts, the vision might as well be curtained in the thick fogs of the Misty Forests. When that face pulled into a wide smile—teeth flashing under supple lips and eyes filled with twinkling mirth as they crinkled in their corners—Alfonse felt their own grow hot.“By the gods, he’s beautiful.”There was a cough beside them, and Alfonse’s head snapped in its direction to see Gale following their eyes and grinning. If their cheeks weren’t flushed before, they could now rival the fires of Avernus itself.“Taken by our new companion, are we?” he hummed.“Hm? Oh! No I uh… I was just…”“No need to explain. I myself have been consumed by the thrills of young love once, if you could believe it.”Alfonse snorted, lips turned up in a nervous beam. “I wouldn’t count myself as young Not compared to you, at least.”“Inexperienced, then.”“Who says I am?”Gale waved a finger at them, turning back to the sizzling pork. “I’ve seen that look plenty of times before. There’s hope in your eyes, an untainted yearning most people with enough familiarity could only dream to feel again.”Their hands clenched, curling into fists, across their lap. “Speak plainly with me, Gale.”He shook his head, still smiling. “Come now, Alfonse? Surely you’re not so naive as to misunderstand what openly staring at him like a princess gawks at the knight upon his shining steed could mean?”“I’m not staring!”“Of course! My mistake. Perhaps ogling would be the more appropriate term?”They rolled their eyes. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”“Denial is a wicked vice, my friend.”“Is it so hard to imagine that I may be simply admiring the legend we have in our midst?”“Maybe, but also consider this…” Gale picked up a piece of firewood that wasn’t thick enough to make a spit for their meal, and stabbed at the flames with it. “As fortunate as we are to have somehow delayed ceremorphosis, such luck won’t last forever. Don’t let the prospect of rejection steer you away from indulging in what little happiness we can still grant ourselves. Wouldn’t do to die bearing regrets.”At this, Alfonse’s gaze drifted back towards Wyll. They watched as he sipped from his silver goblet and grinned wide at a disgruntled Shadowheart, the two seemingly engaged in half-hearted conversation. They tucked their bottom lip between their teeth and, absentmindedly, nibbled on the skin with their ears drooped low.It wasn’t that long ago that they had grown all too familiar with loss and regret. They could still feel the searing heat devour their flesh, and in their dreams the wailing never seemed to end. Thankfully they’ve been spared of the memories these past few days. But by the gods, those months locked away in the dark with only chatty rats and the sobs of their fellow prisoners for company were more than they had ever dared to endure. Alfonse rubbed their wrists, recalling how their bones ached from the cold steel. Even now—surrounded by the crisp air of summer winds, their belly growling in aching protest at the smell of dinner, the echoes of laughter from their new allies—they could still see themself shackled and curled up against that moldy, stone wall.The shirt they’d borrowed draped over practically the whole of their body; a burial shroud puffed at the sleeves and dyed a sweet beige. Their pants were singed along the legs, soot staining the cotton almost up to their knees, and they were left barefoot by the guards as a precaution. Ha! If only they knew just how crafty their newest charge could be.Funny how fast things change. Though their escape had been no more than a week or two ago, it felt like many moons danced across the night sky since that fateful evening. Their family, their grove, might as well have been an entire lifetime ago—far from their reach in some unknown and distant past—if it were not for the guilt buried deep in their chest. It was a cold slap in the face of their infatuation with the Blade. A cruel reminder in the form of knots tangled in their stomach every time they looked upon him to see behind that warm smile a reflection of bright red hair and rings of topaz.Gale thought them ignorant to the pains of love, but what greater pain was there than to witness everything they’d ever known be reduced to ash: their joy, their memories, their future? To hold their mother in their arms, feel her skin shrink into leather, and see Death’s veil fall over her gaze? To be bathed in the blood of their love as it splattered over the ground and dripped down the point of a silver sword? To risk the flames that threatened to swallow them whole just to share in what were their final moments? To know their demise had been brought by their own foolishness, and then have their heart dare yearn for another after such loss?Alfonse eventually tore their eyes away, fixing them instead on the fire. An eerie silence filled the space as their ears twitched at the snapping of wood and sizzling of pig skin. Gale stabbed at the pit a few more times before snapping the glorified twig in half and tossing it onto the pile. He stole a quick glance at the half elf and sighed.“Forgive my pessimism. Merely something to think about,” he said. “Hopefully we’ll find this Halsin and be cured of our parasites before any symptoms begin to rear their heads.”“We will survive this,” they told the wizard, tone gaining a sharper edge, “and then we’ll have all the time in the world to cast doubt aside.”Gale’s brows shot up. “You sound so certain.”They nodded. “Because I’ll make sure of it.”The elder of the two examined them, noticing the distant glint in Alfonse’s honeyed eyes, and shook his head. “It’s unwise to make promises you can’t keep.”“It’s not a promise. It’s…” Another beat of silence, but nothing followed.Gale pursed his lips. “...I know,” he said, voice falling to a near-whisper, “but all I’m saying is don’t wait until the last moment before taking that dive. Better for you to have known the thrill than be left waiting, wondering, what awaited on the other side.”Their eyes stole a glance at him, and a faint smile stretched across their lips. “That’s easy for you to say—you wooed a goddess. Wyll is lovely, but I’d hardly put them on the same level.”He chuckled. “True enough. But, still, the point stands, no?”“Maybe one day, Gale,” they replied, rolling their neck as they rubbed at their shoulder “Just…not now, but one day.”The wizard furrowed his brows, and it was Alfonse’s turn to sigh. “Alright, how about a pact, then? If we start to see any symptoms, I’ll ‘make my move’, deal?”Gale tilted his head, stroking his beard with a not-so-subtle grin. “I’m not very privy on contracts—was never into law all that much, far too preoccupied to ever make time for other hobbies—but I suppose that’s agreeable.”Alfonse snorted and held out their hand in invitation. Gale gingerly accepted, squeezing their palm in a brief exchange.“There, we’ve shaken on it,” he pulled his hand away, “and I trust you to make good on your word when, and more importantly if, the time should ever come.”Without waiting for a reply—which, by the playful glimmer in their gaze, Gale already anticipated to be a cleverly crafted jest—he turned to the others and clapped his hands.“Now, who’s hungry?”