agateshot

[agateshot]

An Encounter With A Witch

"Can you see it?"

The oncoming night was cool to the touch, the lavender sky was ringed in the soft color of dandelions, the sun still large enough in the skies that the stars hid their faces.

Hawthorn and his brother shared a look between them, ducking under the overhanging roots of the trees as they descended deeper into the cool earth.

"What is it that we are supposed to be seeing?" Meadowsweet asks, glancing up to where she points.

"The night sky." Agatha of the woods tells the brothers, spreading out her hands in a descriptive pattern. "Pitch black with all the jewels of the night sky on full display, the moon, silver in its glory, gazing down at us like a mother who is estranged from her son. It is where I live, all hours of the day, and to access my magic, it is what you need to see as well."

"Nonsense." Hawthorne snorts, turning away, "No directions can be worth this, just to imagine a sight we see in our Lord's service when we return home. I think I'll go sit by that fire we passed on the way in here and wait for this old lady to stop talking nonsense."

"Brother," Meadowsweet says, putting a hand on his arm, "Our Lord may rule the night, but he is not the only one who has power there. I think our dear Agatha has given us a riddle, and a simple one at that. She's even done us the service of reaching out to us if even we should fail, we should see her night."

Hawthorn grumbles, turning the idea over in his head. He was sour today, tail twitching side to side as he crosses his arms.

Meadowsweet was always the brother who could produce stronger lightning, and it is his ability for faith in others, especially in the hands of fate that guided him throughout his life that gives him his strength. When the old woman had come to them, requesting from the brothers a token of a sparkling blue jewel that they had received for saving a village, without thought for his profit, he gave it to her, much to Hawthorn's immense displeasure.

Agatha had promised to pay them back with visions of their future, if only they could follow her to the Oracle she uses.

"I think Agatha is blind, Hawthorn." Meadowsweet admits, "But in the way of the eyes and not to power. Therefore, when all the light is gone, do we not also feel the guidance of the stars and Moon? We are servants of the Nameless Moon, and all of our actions are governed and watched over by him. Close your eyes and reach out, or simply wait until the moon peeks into the sky of its own accord."

Hawthorn rolls his eyes, shaking his brother off.

"Thou paid for her services, thou may use them." Hawthorn huffs, turning to leave, "Unless she reveals some hidden corner of the world, I will hear none of it. If thou wishes to spend time in the woods with an old hag, then go."

His brother could be difficult sometimes. Meadowsweet watches him leave, and then closes his eyes, reaching out much like a fern to brush against the sky. He can feel the lavender shell fall away, and be it by night or transcendence, when he opens his eyes, Agatha is gently glowing in front of him, the sky pitch black and studded with stars. The moon hangs high above them and while he can feel it's related to his god, he agrees that it is much more motherly than the figure he follows as his Lord.

"Come then, o Dragon of the Nameless Moon," Agatha says, tossing her brittle brush hair over her shoulders, "I have much to show ye, and the night wishes to guide you."

It was to the center of the great tree that they were headed, the one that the very roots they walked through were supporting. It towers above them, an ancient giant, leaves stretched to the heavens, and crowned by the Moon itself. It was alive, which was a marvel in itself as it was clear that it was hollow, shining silver light from the opening hidden within its roots.

Yonic in nature, soon they were nestled inside the tree's womb, a statute of something not quite meant to be seen in front of them. She was carved from wood and stone, her tentacles twining into hands and dropping over the front of her head like a face, a jeweled moon within her grasp. As he looks at her, Agatha lifts up the blue gem he had given her, the faceted surface glinting as it lifts off of her palm, starting to spin as it rises. It hangs there for a moment, between her palm and the moon.

With a crystalline whistle, it speeds towards the jeweled moon, and as it crashes into the object, a flash so brightly white blinds Meadowsweet's eyes. When he blinks the fuzz from his eyes, he finds himself floating above a pool of water, the woman holding the moon is right behind him, just out of sight. The moon is large on the surface, and it shimmers, showing him and Hawthorn looking at something.

"It is inevitable that you find him." A voice whispers to him, and he knows it's not Agatha, though it uses her body. "You and he are a storm that rages across the Lordran, bringing the winds of change, championing the cause of Vengeance wherever you may step."

Hawthorn starts to fade away, the surface of the water turning red, the image cracking as blood winds its way across the image.

"It is inevitable that those who focus solely in Vengeance will die. Even those who have forever tend to rot in it, so consumed that they cannot live without it."

Meadowsweet finds himself horrified by the sight, his eyes going wide. He knows his brother, even if he came out now and begged his brother to reconsider, to turn back and do something else, he would not. He would leave Meadowsweet to go die without his shield and his sword in his hand. He's always known.

"I know what you want." The soft voice tells him, "It is what I have wanted for every day of a thousand lifetimes, both mine and others. It is a simple desire to some, but to us who cannot partake; it is a ravenous hunger more consuming than the void."

For a moment he is her, holding a tiny child in her arms, feeling the grip of snakes on his skin, staring down into a beautiful face, glittering in the light, their eyes the color of a sunset.

"My child," She explains, as he comes back to himself, "After many, many attempts. You know them well, I should think. And this will be yours."

His stomach drops as he's transported to the inside of a house he's never seen before, the orange walls washed out by the light of the moon. He looks down and sees a child, his eyes the color of Hawthorn's looking back up at him. He places his hand down on the belly of the child, and the youth starts to giggle, the sound ringing in his ears as he snaps back to himself.

"He can't be mine." Meadowsweet says, shaking himself, "Hawthorn and I promised we would never have children, that we would never inflict the kind of pain we had suffered onto anyone else-- We're always going to be away, doing things that they can't be with us for. It's cruel. It's too cruel."

"I know." She says, and she does. "That is why I had wished to talk to you, Meadowsweet, servant of the Nameless Moon. Our children face a future of loneliness.

Here, the image of the moon fades away, showing the child of the moon in some woods, looking around as the back of another is seen disappearing just out of view. Wide eyed and innocent, they turn around to show off a lovely colored snake, the image fading as their shoulders fall, realizing they're alone. It gives way to the agate eyed child, opening the door onto a darkened house, looking around before curling up on a chair, using a blanket like the lap of someone who cared about him.

Tears come to Meadowsweet's eyes, and he swallows harshly, trying to keep himself under control.

The child of the moon is older now, sitting on a dusty dais, in red brick that's almost familiar to Meadowsweet, dusting off their frock, the shape of a helmet next to them as they turn their head to look at the light coming in from a window. Similarly, he sees the agate eyed one sitting alone at a table with three chairs, the details of his face fuzzy. He's been sitting there a while, books to the side of him, forgotten, as he stares down at his hands, what looks to be a frown on his face.

"What do thee want?" Meadowsweet asks, trying to turn away from the sight, "Why show me this?"

"I want you to entrust him to me." She says simply.

Meadowsweet can see it play out, like two threads twining together to form a rope. In the water, he sees them, his child much older now, talking and laughing with the child of the moon, and the way that both of their laughter starts to attract more people to them, so that neither of them are truly alone. Meadowsweet wants it so badly, he wants that so badly for his son.

He finds himself sobbing now, and through his sobs he agrees. The Moon hugs him gently, and ever so softly….

Returns him to his brother's side, the memory of their interaction slowly fading from his mind.

"Why so upset?" Hawthorn asks, teasingly, "Did thee not get thy money's worth?"

"Don't be cruel," Meadowsweet says, a little defensively "Ye know little of what thee speak."

[agateshot]

The story of the Sunlight Sacrament

It is said that the undead have existed since time began, when the world was freed from dragons and Lord Gwyn rose to power on his lightning and sunlight. Since then, the curse has affected many people, turning them mere mortals to those immortal, undead beings sentenced to walk the earth or to be petrified when their souls finally fall from their bodies.

Lord Gwyn, being a god of light, wouldn't want the undead to run rampant, no.

Their founder knew this, which is why he started the process of cleansing the world.

The undead must pay for their sins, and have the light of God shine into their souls, even if it has to be done by force. Especially if it had to done by force.

The doctrine of their prophet said there was no greater glory than to ingest the bodies of those who were dirty and yet made clean. There was no greater way of cleaning oneself than to hold the body if one with the pure light of Gwyn in their flesh in your body. And thus a sacrament from the sacrifice of the wicked.

Sacrifice was to be made holy, and when their prophet was struck down in the light of the Dark Moon, it was proof that sunlight only exists to drive out the Dark. His tortured form was left to see by all, and in the light of day, he became a martyr for Lord Gwyn. The followers of the Prophet of Sunlight broke into three groups, arguing over who should lead. One group called itself the Reformed Sunlight Church, the second; the Way of Light, the third simply called itself by the name the original Prophet had, and moved west.

The Way Of Light forsake their vows, becoming nothing more than a simple religion that espoused only the meekest teachings of their prophet, and spoke more on the works of Gwyn, and would later dissolve into the order of the Fire Keepers when the flames started to fade.

The Blades of the Dark Moon slaughtered the Reformed Sunlight Church, for blasphemy against Gwyn, as such as the order hailed as such in those days.

The third one, the Covenant Of Sunlight… evaded notice for a time, and went beyond the immediate justice of the Moon. And there it sat, hidden from sight like a spider, waiting for its time, growing fat on what prey it could spare.

Those who bore the mark of the dark sign came from within, and submitted themselves to their fate. Those who did not, had no God but Gwyn to pray to, and he was already consumed by the fire. The eyes of the moon had been veiled and no hand would lift it.

But the moon did not need eyes nor hands, for the Moon had Blades.

And of those Blades, a pair traveled the lands beyond those traditionally thought of the Lordran, looking for an artifact known only to them. In their hunt, they came across the lost covenant of Sunlight.

Should the Dark Moon still wish to prosecute those for taking the name of Gwyn and blaspheming in his name, this covenant would have fallen. As it was, to outsiders such as the dragons of the Nameless Moon, the commune seemed to have given up their old ways. The undead worked among their living families, and there was peace.

Hawthorn was eager to move on, but Meadowsweet begged his brother to stay. What was the harm of one week to them, Meadowsweet had argued, long enough to celebrate the harvest, and get more supplies for their journey.

He would later say that it was because he suspected that the commune still followed the ways of the abominable prophet, though Hawthorn always recalled it as having something to do with a pastry his brother had gotten fond of during their brief stay. Neither of the brothers expressed much surprise when they discovered the sacrament of the harvest.

Of the adults of the Covenant, all were slain.

The brothers debated for a time, before deciding to bring the children back into the care of the Nameless Moon.

While they hesitated to kill the children of the Sunlight, they did not hesitate to slaughter each other. Citing the sacrifice of Gwyn, the older children silt the youngest children's throats while the brothers are sleeping, and then themselves. The only child to survive was a weak child that asked Meadowsweet to care for her that evening.

She may have perished by her own hand, had she not woken up with the Dark Sign of the undead etched into her skin.

Thus ended the Sunlit Cult.

It is said that the sole survivor of that tragic affair converted to the way of the moon, forsaking the sun to live in silver armor instead. May her life have meaning.

[agateshot]

Autumn.

Not even a full year since Petya had met Van Hohenheim. Not even a full year since he had fallen in love with the strange, funny alchemist. Not even a full year since he was stabbed and his life changed forever.

He's taking a moment to reflect on this, leaning against the side of the orphanage, starting out into the garden as the children play in the moonlight, climbing into the sturdy cherry tree that had come with the property. Its leaves were dark silver in the light of Irithyll's moon, though Petya knows that they would be turning a duller gray as autumn has its way with it, only to turn silver again with frost and dew once they fall.

He takes a slow drag off his cigarette, the orange ember lighting up the whites of his eyes for a moment, before he drops his hand away from his face, letting out the curl of smoke into the night air, watching how it twists in the slight wind.

"I'm not sure that's the best for you," A small, light voice by his elbow says, "All that smoke can't be good for your lungs."

He grunts slightly, taking another drag, this time letting it hang from his lips as he crosses his arms.

She laughs slightly.

"All right," She says, "I won't nag you about it, I know my share of stubborn men."

He turns to look at her then, hand coming up to take the ember out of his mouth so he can get a good look at her. It's the messenger girl who was working up at the palace for a while, though she seems… more real somehow.

"Been a while." He says, deciding to put his cigarette out after all, letting it cool slightly before putting it up for later. "How've you been?"

"It hasn't been that long, actually." She admits, her tone a little guilty, "But I suppose I'll get to that soon enough. I've been well, thank you."

"Message to deliver?" Petya asks, turning to her fully, expecting to have to take something from her. She shakes her head.

"No," She admits, and he sees something strange about her. She's… somehow smaller than she's been before, and more hazy around the edges despite being so solid. "I wanted to talk to you about something. It's… something I've been worried about for a while, but I'm afraid it can't wait any longer. I've been… Waiting for the right time, you see, but unfortunately there isn't a right time for this at all."

He laughs slightly, feeling a little uneasy. He can't exactly say why, but the tone in her voice fills him with dread, like the moments before an attack is launched he knows he cannot dodge.

"You're worrying me," he tells her, "Out with it then, my dear, tell me already."

"My husband," She says, and he finds himself knowing exactly what she's about to say, "Is Van Hohenheim, and he doesn't know I'm here."

Hearing those words-- it's like the floor dropped out from under him, the shape of his life slipping away like so much water running out of a tub.

"Trisha?" He asks, eyebrows going up, "Trisha Elric?"

She nods, and all at once he sees-- Her. He sees her. She's still humanoid, for now, but it's like one of the illusions that Gwyndolin commands, in fact he can see now that whatever this is was Gwyndolin's magic entirely, though not like a spell… More like being bound to the Dark Moon through fate. In the light of the full moon, she is an angel.

Her arms are lined with feathers, creating a modest robe as she folds her first two fingers and her thumb over her chest, the other fingers trailing feathers that hide the bulk of her body. Her face is tiny, her bird bright eyes shining with a kindness that doesn't seem to be able to be contained in such a body. As he looks upon her and sees her, she seems to grow slightly, looking up at him eagerly.

"I'm not all there yet," She tells him, "If I hold my wings properly then I go back to being just the pigeon, but I can feel even that slipping away from me. Soon I'm not going to be able to hide from him, nor my son, and I don't know what to do. I don't know what you'll do."

"I'll be fine." Petya says, his mouth dry, "I was fine before, and I'll be fine after I promise. I wouldn't think about trying to get in your way not after all that's happened to Van-- he deserves to be happy."

"Oh bother!" She says, distress coming to her eyes, "That's not what I meant at all."

"You'll keep him safe won't you?" Petya asks, "Of course you would, what am I saying?"

"Indeed!" She says, a little angry, "I don't want you to leave him, that would hurt him as much as anything else."

Petya thinks about this for a moment, and another moment longer, and yet another moment more. He ends up taking the cigarette he had just put away out again, lighting it back up to continue to smoke.

"What do you want?" He asks as he reignites the ember, "I'm not sure I follow. You leaving would be worse, it's clear he's still in love with you after all this time. You can't expect his dear pigeon to leave anyway, that would break his heart just as much as if he knew who you were."

"Of course I'm not leaving, not if I can help it." She retorts, fluffing out her feathers, "Sir Petya, I wanted to talk to you first before talking to my husband for exactly this reason--"

"Warn me that you're going to make him choose?" Petya snaps, "He's going to choose you, it's not even a competition."

"It's not a competition." She says, rather loudly, "I'm not trying to compete with you, I'm asking if you're okay with having me here with the both of you!"

That startled him, the cigarette hanging loosely in his hand, his heart beating in a strange, uncomfortable way.

"W-....What?" He manages after a few confused blinks, "Why? You haven't been able to talk to him in so long, why don't you want him for yourself? He's…"

Wonderful, Petya wants to say, he's everything! His reason to get up in the morning, his warmth in the night. Petya hadn't known exactly how completely and profoundly lonely he had been until finding his way into Hohenheim's arms, and he can't imagine willingly giving that up if he actually deserved to be there.

His thoughts are cut off by a small sound from Trisha, and he turns his gaze to her, seeing something like a blush on her face.

"I've… this is silly, I know, you may have lived with me for some time, but you haven't had nearly the chances that I have had to get to know you… But… Sir Petya, I've fallen in love with you."

Petya wants to scoff at that, but there's something about the way she looks, and the way she says that-- she's telling the truth, and he feels it like a bolt of lightning through him.

"Me?" He asks, confused, "You love me?"

She nods.

"I love Van dearly as well." She tells him, "I always will. I've never doubted my love for him for a moment, and I know I never will. The love I feel for you is different, Sir Petya, though I know that if you should come to harm my heart would break just as it would for Van, or my son Alphonse, and how it has broken for my son Edward. I can't imagine a life with my family without you, Petya. I wanted to tell that before I spoke to Van… That you will always have a place in my family, whatever role you choose."

"Oh."

He means to say more, he does. His head feels foggy, and despite himself, knowing how long it takes him to get back to his feet, he has to sit down, leaning his head into his knees as what he's feeling washes over him. A soft hand presses against his face, and he looks over to meet her green eyes. They always did look a little too human for a bird's eyes.

"Are you all right?" She asks, looking at him anxiously, "You seem a little pale."

"I'll be fine." He tells her. He hesitates for a moment, wondering if he should…?

He leans over slightly, she leans up, a peck of a kiss being shared between them for half a second. The flutter that follows he is sure is his heart, but when he looks over he sees the pigeon perched on his shoulder, looking quite pleased with herself.

"Petya," Van says, coming out to look at him, "What are you doing on the ground? The chair isn't too far is it?"

Petya shakes his head, not really trusting his voice at the moment, reaching up to take Van's hand to be pulled to his feet.

"You and the pigeon seem cozy," Van remarks, "I'm glad you're making friends with her. I couldn't love a man who didn't like my pigeon."

"I-- I suppose not." Petya murmurs, thinking to himself just how true that statement really was. Trisha, for her part, coos in agreement.

"Oh! You shouldn't be smoking around her." Van says, taking the cigarette from Petya's fingers and extinguishing it, "I'm sorry, I should have told you."

"No it's… I had forgotten I had it." Petya says, running his now free good hand through his bangs, "Van…."

Van hums slightly in acknowledgement, already petting the pigeon's feathers, looking so perfectly content.

"I don't ever want to leave you." Petya tells him, and Van looks up to him, eyes golden even in the moonlight, a casual, happy smile on his face.

[agateshot]

"I was surprised, that the Sunless Realms get summer." Van was saying, gently scrubbing down Petya's back, tracing the curves of his body, "Or at least... Less cold. I honestly thought I would be confined to snow when I moved here."

Petya squirms a little under Van's hands, the edges of his wound tingling as it gets touched, though it soon fades into silence on his skin. There's always a chance that the nerves may regrow, but the scarring from the healing spells used to save his life-- while necessary-- have impeded it so far. He's embarrassed sometimes, to need the help, but Van needs help too, in different ways than he does, and he's not about to be so proud that he would attempt to give help he will not allow returned-- Van is as stubborn as he is, and it is only through their mutual reliance on each other does their pride allow them to receive the help they both need.

"This is your second summer with us, isn't it?" Petya observes, "Since you arrived during the winter before last. A lot has happened in the year and a half you've been with us."

"Well… for me personally, yeah." Van says, "And you. It's unfortunate you got stabbed right after we met."

"I was thinking about that today, actually." Petya admits, "We may have officially met at that party, but we've ran into each other several times. Alphonse and Sugar were talking about it, and Alphonse told me about something that had happened--"

"Oh, story time?" Van says, coming around to look at Petya, "Why don't you tell me it like I wasn't there? …because honestly I can't remember seeing you before the party."

"Well!" Petya laughs, "I was in full armor at the time and you were trying not to cry, but sure. I'll tell you what happened to my best literary ability."

"It was a summer day, one of those days that the promise of autumn is hanging on the air, even in our eternal night under the moon. I had been assigned to field duty the day, asked to train some of the new recruits that were looking to find a place within our ranks of the Silver Knights.

I remember at that time, we had a few boys from the families that had served Gwyndolin as his knights, though not nearly as many as we've had before. None of the girls joined up that year, though only because the girls that would qualify were too young at the time. It wasn't strange that we recruited a few people outside of the typical families this year, mostly adults that had proved themselves stalwart and loyal to Gwyndolin in other ways, but the young man that we had trouble placing was…. Strange.

Flighty, almost. Larger the size of our typical pages and capable of beating everyone hand to hand who sparred with him, but for the life of him didn't know how to use a sword. I remember talking to him, and how cheerfully he told me that it was because he was an alchemist, first and foremost. That Lorian had told him that if he trained with us, he'd be able to keep himself in shape and his mind sharp, and that he didn't like fighting with Lorian because his knees were bad.

I asked if he wanted to learn how to use a sword, and of course he agreed to it, asking if his then frail body would be an issue. He told me at the time that his dad often brought him snacks during the day, and if I saw him to be nice and act like I've been gentle, seeing as his dad gets worried that the other Knights are going to bully him. I laughed at the time, saying that I wouldn't hurt the lad, but he just shook his head, a smile on his face.

It did get me curious about what sort of man his father was, though I never seemed to see the young man with his father-- though looking back on it now, he and his father were so strongly reminiscent of each other, I'm surprised it didn't hit me over the head when I caught sight of him. I did wonder if the boy had any trouble getting his father's snacks, but I found out later that Alphonse hasn't been formally inducted into the Knights, but has been granted an order of authorized observation and clearances in participating. Seeing as the boy needed to rest frequently, I can't say I'm surprised he wasn't an official trainee.

It was a little after I made sure he was doing the sword drills properly, that I had stepped away to observe from a distance. Some youth like to slack off when they don't think they're being watched, and those are the ones that we have to handle closely. Basic training like this, needs to be habit by the time they're out in the force, something that itches at you day and night and all throughout your thoughts as something you need to do, so badly that you feel as though your life cannot be correct if you haven't done it. Even now, though I cannot, it's a burr that irritates me in ways I cannot describe, but it is also something that has saved my life time and again, and will save every single person who has learned it.

To my delight, he seemed to understand this already, and continued on by himself, monitoring himself closely to ensure that he would not slip his pose. I was making my way back to him to give him his next set; when I had the displeasure of hearing someone yelling at another person. As I grew closer, it wasn't only the words that drew my alarm, but the face of the man being screamed at. Before the color and shape of his eyes, I saw how hopeless they were, and could see on his face that this was a very old man who was expecting to get hurt. I didn't like that, my own father had those eyes nearly every day of my life and I would have done anything to see him smile for a whole day, without seeing the look of despair on his face.

What was repugnant, was that the person yelling at him was saying terrible things about how worthless this man was compared to our Lord Commander, that at least Lorian had value. What had this old man done for the kingdom? Why should the Nameless Moon favor him above anyone else? I remember how badly I wanted to snap that head from those shoulders, remembering this same talk from Knights who had later turned against Lorian and our Gwyndolin. However, I am not his Blade, the judgment I would have passed would not have been sanctioned by Gwyndolin's hand, and so I stopped mine from drawing my sword.

I pulled the man from where he was hiding, I remember that his heart was beating so fast that it made my armor ring with its pulse, and though he did not know me, I remember he hugged me tight, despite the metal I was wearing. I took a moment to insure he was uninjured, and that same time to collect my thoughts.

I spoke to the person after I had, asking to explain to me why they had thought it correct to scare an old man. They told me a story, of a strange smelly old man, come from seemingly nowhere, attaching himself to our Lord and our God's every movement, and how he seemingly brought with him a strange new goddess, and a son, and-- most egregious of all, a pigeon who kept annoying them in particular. It was at that point I asked them where the pigeon was, and they handed me a struggling bag, shame on their face.

After opening the bag, I was rather surprised to see a woman tumbling out of it, quickly comforting the man in my arms. It must have been a trick of the light and my helmet, because when I looked again, it was only a pigeon. I then told the individual that contributing to a society at large was not a measure of a person's worth, and that our land was one built not on the ideas that injured and old people must work, but that the support of others makes us stronger. How lucky, I told him, are we to have a god who takes in an old man. How lucky are we to be blessed by new divinity and new children, and how blessed we are to know that we shan't be thrown away when we get old or lose our way. I also informed them in how strongly I believed in our God that I have fought for him and would die for him, and how I have killed for him.

They thought on this for a while, and apologized for it, and I told them that should they have learned from this, then they needed to apologize to the man when he was well, and that should they feel the need to yell at an old man again; our God of Justice would turn to Judgment and may decide what would happen to them next.

Now that I had seen him of course, it was clear what child was his, and it was easy enough to unite the boy and his father. I honestly thought little of it past that, the incident was over as soon as it happened, and my life moved on."

"Ah yes." Van says, smiling ruefully, "I honestly blocked that incident from my mind, I didn't realize they stole my pigeon."

"Oh yes." Petya nods, "I arrested them for that-- seeing as the property was returned, it was light communal service, but they honestly appreciated the chance to reconnect to Irithyll by providing service. Either that or they were glad that Lorian didn't kill them when he received the report, but they seem to have stopped their habit of waylaying old men."

"... So how long did it take you to realize that you saw me with Sugar?"

Petya thinks about this for a long moment, pulling Van to sit so he can wash Van's body now that Van had finished with him.

"I don't think I ever did." Petya says, "Not until after the party. I was distracted, by my life and my thoughts, and while I had many thoughts about my place in the world, I gave little thought to who I was, to the point I didn't bother looking around me. I don't think I assigned myself the same value as I gave to everyone else, and I think I would have died for it."

Van seems like he has something he wants to say, his jaw working with the thought. Eventually, though, he puts his hand up on his shoulder, waiting for Petya to place his hand over it. When he does, Van takes it, turning his palm over to place a kiss to it, holding it against his face.

"I know." Petya says, running his thumb against Van's beard, "I love you too. I'd have hated to die without meeting you, and I'm sorry… I should have taken better care of myself."

Van nods, giving Petya's hand a squeeze.

"Does it ever upset you that I'm an old man?" Van asks, "Not only my age but also the problems that come with it?"

"You mean like how you forget where you are sometimes?" Petya asks, "Or how sometimes you're cranky with no reason?"

Van nods again.

"No," Petya says simply, "Maybe it reminds me of my father sometimes, but only in the way that my father was the first person I knew who did that. As for the age… we can't help how old we are, and it wasn't as if you forced me into anything by claiming you are wiser than I. In a strange way I'm glad it took us a while to meet, until we were both calm and confident in ourselves, until we felt like equals."

"I feel the same." Van admits. "I love you Petya."

"I love you, Van."

[agateshot]

"If I don't hate you now, I never will."

Petya looks up at those words, his head tilting to the side in confusion. Van had been distant lately, off in his own thoughts, struggling to do his chores around the orphanage. With Sugar and Alphonse helping, though honestly, they were little more than children themselves, they managed to get by. Alphonse was a strange boy, often distant, but caring. A lot like his dad.

It was on days like this that he can't help but wonder if he's made a mistake volunteering for this job. He had anticipated Van's support here, but with wherever Vans mind is…

"I honestly thought he loved me," Van murmurs, shifting on the bed, arms coming to hold his knees. "That we had a story that we were going to tell together, no matter where it led. That we had a romance that would be woven along the lines of stars."

Ah. Sotha Sil.

"You gave up a lot for him." Petya says, but Van just shakes his head.

"No, not really." Van admits, "I had nothing. I was poor in body and soul, spent by the events of my life. I had turned to him expecting to be filled by the same kind of care and love that my wife had been so kind to give me, and instead I got… scraps. The casual difference of a friend who is too afraid to tell you he wants to leave. I was supposed to move on, start a new life. Make friends with new people. Have dreams that were more than my past. I was supposed to forget, forget him, forget Alphonse… and because I didn't, he allowed me to grind what I was down to a nub on him."

"Why wouldn't you move on?" Petya asks, coming to hold Van's shoulder, having set the book he was looking at down, "Wouldn't it have been easier to start a new story than try to start a new story? Than to try to read it over from the beginning like it was set in stone? Why try to fight something like that when it was clear he was growing bored of you?"

"At the time," Van grumbles, his voice thin and drawn out like a worn memory, "I thought he was my friend. I thought he would understand me. I wanted to be his friend, but he wanted me to shut up and stop talking to him because he didn't like me anymore. I was beaten for this-- beaten because I couldn't understand it because he was the only thing I had. Why would I leave him if the only thing I can think about is him?"

"Beaten?" Petya says, alarm crossing his face, "Did you say you were beaten?"

Van nods, though it's caught between a shrug and a strange kind of shake, like a fish struggling to be put back into the water.

"His name was Arixis." Van murmurs, "He took me and he beat me and I had to hide until he went away. I couldn't see Sugar. I had to take care of the pigeon, but oh… it was so hard. He would have killed her and then I would have wanted to die too…"

Petya sits there in shock, unable to find words to say, not for lack of them, but the sheer number of things of which he wants to say and ask.

Did Sil know? Was this allowed to happen? Was Arixis punished? Why did no one stop this? Why didn't Van stop this?

"He was someone who had been bound to Sil." Van explains, as if sensing his thoughts, "Someone who was supposed to obey Sil, but he fell in love, so when Sil was hurt, he was hurt."

"Hurt?" Petya says, obviously confused, "What?"

"I hurt him." Van replies, "I hurt my husband. I couldn't… I couldn't love him the way he wanted to be loved. I asked him to talk to me and work with me so I could… So I wasn't the only one always getting upset. He left me, because I hurt him."

"Van-- that doesn't make any sense." Petya admits, "You told me before that when you were with him, you couldn't get Alphonse. Why would he be expecting you to be cognizant enough to be in a relationship when you couldn't get to your child?"

"I had to be, because I couldn't get Alphonse." Van explains, though it honestly sounds like Van is just repeating what Petya had said to him, "I had to be because that was my life now and that was how things had to be. I can't get upset over how things are. He doesn't like it when I do."

"He's wrong." Petya says flatly, conviction in his voice. "You have every right to be upset about the way things turned out, Van. From the beginning, you have the right to be angry at how people treated you. Sil can't expect you to push your feelings aside just because he doesn't like the way things turned out."

"But he doesn't be my friend if I do that."

Petya is about to say more, wanting to shake Van slightly for saying that-- but he pauses, looking at the expression on Van's face. It's not of a man trying to argue that he's currently in a relationship, it's the look of his father, wondering why he can't seem to make his mouth form the words he wants to say. The look of an old man so upset that his words and his thoughts are so disconnected that it's causing tangible pain to himself.

"....hey." Petya murmurs, pulling Van to lean against his chest, tugging on him until Van wraps his arms around the crippled knight. "What Sil did to you was wrong. It was wrong and it was gross and no excuse he could give is valid. He should have listened to you. He should have known. He should have been there for you. That man who hurt you shouldn't have even gotten close to you-- but he did. He did, when he should have known better. That means that you have a right to remember and be angry, especially when you're here with me. You don't need to force yourself to forgive."

"I don't want to be angry." The words are accompanied by a half sob, the old man's shoulders shaking, "I don't want to be mad at him, or Arixis or anyone. They were nice to me until they weren't, and I want to remember them as nice people. I want to remember how much fun we had talking, and how we dreamed the future was going to be, and how we imagined a world where we settled down and had a family. Every time I think about them-- Every time I think about Sil, I can't help but think of how angry he was, how nasty Arixis was to me, and how I was just… expected to be a good man and a good father and save everyone and I couldn't! I couldn't do anything and it's all my fault! Everyone is dead because I didn't know what to do! I didn't know how to stop anything, and I can't even get people to like me!"

Van is gripping him now, threatening to overpower him in his panic, both acting like he's trying to fight Petya and run from him. Petya places his hand on Van's neck, gently shaking him back forth until Van's grip relaxes, softening into him laying against his chest rather than attacking him.

"I like you." Petya reminds him, "I'm people just as anyone else is. So too is Lorian, and you've gotten Gwyndolin to like you as well. In my experience, people can come to love you and know you without you being aware that they do. Being kind, having a good heart… the wish to help people though sometimes failing… the effort is never wasted as long as it is made. A stronger failing, though one could argue a more statistically logical one, is setting aside the wants and feelings of those around you. Had I died in service to Gwyndolin and we had all died, including him, I would still be proud. Had I betrayed him and live, I would have been tainted in ways that only the damned have felt. You are not damned, Van. You have seen hell, but hell experienced by a good man to see the other side is purgatory-- and not all men who see purgatory deserve it."

Van sniffles, rubbing his nose on Petya's shoulder. Not that Petya minds it.

"Do you always make speeches when trying to get to a point?" He asks, "You sound like a bible."

"...please Van." Petya mumbles, abashed, "I… spent a lot of time alone, and when I wasn't I was expected to have something interesting to say."

"Can I get your definition of interesting?" Van teases, and Petya can tell-- that at least for now, Van is putting aside is sadness.

"Sure." Petya says, "As soon as I get your definition of 'being a brat'."

Van chuckles though his tears, leaning his face against Petya's neck. It hurts, in a way, to know that he, Petya, won't be able to take the ones who made Van cry, and shake them down to their bones.

[agateshot]

He has had quite a few visitors over the days, each one stranger and more baffling than the last. So many people have been coming to visit him, and it's not that surprising that he knew them-- he knows all of them.

What confuses him, is that every single one of them knows him. Everyone. The baker comes to visit and brings him a bit of his favorite bread, and the butcher comes along in the next hour to make it into his favorite sandwiches for him, telling him that if he had known when Sandra was planning to visit, they would have come together. Petya of course is quick to understand, but--

The steady stream of people don't stop there, giving him things, helping him in little ways.

Everyone calling him by his name.

It gets to a point where it's overwhelming, that even their gentle kindness has been too much. He can't keep the tired confusion out of his face anymore, but even then he isn't belittled for it or told that he's been ungrateful. The lady he's talking to, Yenna, gives him a kiss on the cheek and a hug, and tells him she'll make sure the word is spread that he needs to rest for a while. He thanks her, and she smiles at him, calmly leaving him to his thoughts.

A few days pass after that, and it's quiet, no one bothering him. Petya can't seem to wrap his head around it, how do all these people so effortlessly know him? He hadn't been aware that he had left such a strong impression with the Silver Knights, let alone people in the city.

There's a soft knock at the door, pulling him out of his thoughts, Petya blinking as the thin form of Princess Yorshka walks in, greatly taking him aback.

"Your guards--" He says quickly, but she shakes her head slightly.

"At the end of the hallway," She tells him, "Perchance thou hast been asleep."

"Damn my sleep," He grumbles, only for his face to go pink as he realizes he's cursed in front of Yorshka, adverting his eyes, "I mean… Your safety is more important than my rest."

"Wouldst thou have me call them closer?" She asks, and he nods. She ducks out for a moment, the sound of metal clad footsteps following.

He struggles to sit up as Yorshka comes back into his room, the young lady opting to crawl onto his bed instead of sitting on the chair, setting her basket on the table as she arranges herself so that she's sitting behind him without pinching her tail, pulling out a silvery brush to start pulling through his hair.

"Did you come all this way to groom me?" Petya asks, "That's a little silly."

"I should have come sooner," She admits, "But Lothric cautioned me that thy mood has been poor lately, and that today thou would enjoy some company again. He says he shall visit next time with mineself, but his brother has plans for a day with Lothric."

Petya nods slightly. Lothric kept doing that, knowing things, but in a way it was almost comforting. Almost. At least the mysterious little boy was consistent in his strangeness. Yorshka pauses, putting aside the brush to place her arms around him, and Petya realizes that for the first time since she was a baby, this was the only time she has touched him when he hasn't had the metal shell of his armor.

It slams into him with such a force that tears are rolling down his face, and try as he might, he can't keep them at bay with the palm of his right hand. Yorskha hands him a handkerchief and he thanks her, using it to wipe at his face.

"It's good to know you're safe." He tells her, "That I was able to keep you safe this long. It's been an honor and a pleasure being there for you, Yorshka. I'm sorry I won't be there in the future to continue to do so."

"Ser Petya…" She's got that tone in her voice, and curse him, curse his body, he can't even turn around to wipe her face! "Thy loyal heart hast not perished, nor has thy body. Perhaps thou shalt not be my guardian as thou has been for the years of mine life, but mine brother has always entrusted to me thy service as a Knight. As long as thou breath in loyalty to the moon, thou art my Knight, wherever thy duties and life bring you, and I should never throw thee away."

She crawls around him, coming to face him, taking her Knight's face in her gentle hands, meeting his agate eyes with her pale ones, the delicate featherlike scales that grace her cheeks and brow damp with her tears. She is as beautiful today as the day he had seen her, the pale pink tendrils peeking out from behind her redish hair.

"On the occasion mine brother need abdicate his throne, though in such an occasion I should hope it were in the happy pursuit of living a fuller life away from conflict," Always the optimist, of course, "It is true Knights, such as thineself, that I shall have to support me in my reign. Thou hast not lost any of thine worth in this accident, and thou must know this. Thou must."

"Is that an order, My Lady?" Petya murmurs, and Yorshka nods, eyes shining with a light that rivals the moon's.

"An order and a decree." She says, "And I knowest my brother shares mine heart in this. Thy duties shall change, they must. Cease thy dark thoughts in thine value, I, Yorshka, bid you. Thou hast always been by mineself when I should need thee, and thou shalt always be."

Petya nods, his mouth pulling down into a frown, trying and failing not to cry. Yorshka pulls him into a hug, and Petya returns it, burying his face in her hair.

They stay like that for a moment, Petya unable to let her go until the moment he does, cupping the side of her face in his good hand.

"Thank you." He says.

"Nay," She says, a shake of her head, "Thank thee, Ser Petya. Thy service to mine brother and mineself thou hast already given is that which cannot be repaid. It would be a failing and a dishonor to allow thee to face thine turmoil alone, one that shalt not happen. Now; if thou wouldst…"

She turns, pulling from her basket a few ribbons to present him.

"...Which of these shall I decorate thee with?"

There was comfort in familiarity, and Petya Lebedev, Silver Knight of the Nameless Moon, smiles.

[agateshot]

The problem with his new promotion, is that as an officer, he had so much less time for Yorshka duty. Of course he doesn't say a peep about it, but he misses it so much.

Finally, Petya has had enough, assigning himself the six hour shift that he had his eye on, paperwork be damned. He'll be pulling longer shifts to beat back the hoard of work that tends to creep up when he actually decides to do anything, trying to mitigate it somewhat so that when his shift is over and his armor is off, he has a night to himself and he can end this miserable week on a high note.

He has been thinking about his parents a lot, despite how hard he tries to banish the thought from his mind. There was a time he would seek out the Nameless Moon and express what he was feeling at the blank wall of mist, but now that Gwyndolin walks among them, and Tobais has been lost in the war…

He knows the people around him don't mind him, and that some people have been reaching out to him lately, such as the other officers, but he can't seem to shake the sad, awful feeling that has stuck with him since the war with Sulyvahn and his goons. He keeps thinking about how Yorshka had been so close to getting kidnapped and taken away forever. He keeps thinking about the men that he lead as a Sargent being wiped out in a single fiery magical blast. He can still hear them screaming as their armor trapped them like lobsters in their shells.

He had found out that even if you take revenge and utterly destroy the enemies that had killed your squadron, it doesn't bring them back.

So he found Yorshka instead, and defended her until after the battle.

He remembers trying to attack Gwyndolin for getting too close, though before the blow could land, he had recognized him, the blade tumbling from his hand carelessly. Gwyndolin had stunk-- the slime of Aldrich clinging to him, but Yorshka and Petya had never been more relieved to see him in their lives.

Petya still feels that strong sense of relief even these years later, both when he sees Gwyndolin, and when he sees Yorshka. Now that he's an officer, he hasn't been able to spend time with the regular foot soldiers as casually as he had before the war, and wasn't very confident around the officers to spend his time off with them, leading him to spend most of his free time around his parents old house. Being able to spend time with Yorshka again…

It was selfish but he needed it.

She seems glad to see him as well, showing off her new pet, a large gold ginger kitten-- er. Well is this a kitten? It was a very large kitten, standing up to be chest height with him, but also not looking very old at all. Yorshka and Lothric call her Sugar, and she seems to be responsive to the name, happily playing with the two dragon children.

His six hours is up much too quickly, and the replacement rotation are on time. Nothing for it but to go home, and sulk.

He debates propping his empty armor up in a chair, pretending that he's not the only one in this house while he's off duty, but as of yet he isn't that far gone and lonely for it, and puts his armor up properly. He heads into the kitchen, putting on his kettle of tea, when he hears a child talking in the other room.

"Papa? Why are you all metal now?" The child says, "Don't you know that's the wrong color? You should have let me help, this one knows the right color."

What the--??

He looks in, seeing the massive kitten nudging the suits armor with her nose, steaming up the shining metal and leaving kitty nose prints everywhere she bumps. Okay, but where is the child?

"Sugar, stop that." He says, and the poor cat leaps out of her skin, turning to look at him, long fur on end. He sighs, shaking his head. He's going to have to take her back to Princess Yorshka.

He ducks back inside his kitchen to turn off the gas, only for the child to speak up right behind him.

"Daddy?" She says, "I'm hungry, do you have any snacks?"

He turns around to see what child had gotten in with Sugar-- only to see Sugar, looking up at him with big teal eyes.

"--Er." He stammers out, blinking sharply at her, "Do I have any what?"

He means to say I'm not your father or perhaps Are you talking to me? but instead he finds himself looking around for something to feed her.

"Snacks?" She repeats, eyes going wide, "Daddy? May I have a cookie?"

"Are you supposed to eat cookies?" He asks, despite himself, "Aren't you supposed to eat meat?"

"Momma says cookies and sweets are okay." She tells him, "She sometimes gives me candy to lick while she prepares food for me. She says Sugar should have some sugar."

"You momma, huh?" Petya's eyes soften a little, holding out a hand for the kitten to rub her head against. "Does she live here in Irithyll with you and your papa?"

Sugar shakes her head.

"Momma and Papa don't live with me anymore." She explains, "I live with my dad, the silver one brought me here to live with him. But there are so many papas and daddies I get lost sometimes."

"Is that why you followed me home?" Petya asks, "Did you think I was your papa?"

Sugar nods. Petya sighs, rubbing her ears, listening to the way she purrs.

"I'll take you home to Yorshka." He decides, "She'll know where your dad is, okay Sugar?"

"Please can I have a snack?" She asks, looking at him with pleading eyes, "Please?"

"I don't have any cookies right now." Petya admits, "I don't usually bake this time of year, I'm sorry sweety."

The poor kitty looked like she was about to start crying, and Petya quickly drops to his knees, holding her face in his hands, petting her cheeks. He use to do this with Yorshka when she was about to throw a tantrum, making the child look at him.

"Sugar, if you don't go home, your daddy is going to worry about you." He tells her, "He's probably looking for you right now, I don't want to take the time to make some cookies while he's worrying about his little girl."

"Make cookies?" Sugar says, eyes going wide, "You can make cookies?"

Ah. This was a very sheltered child. He blinks, and she blinks. His eyes go to the side, not wanting her to see his thoughts in his eyes right away. Well… there was no guarantee that soft footed Sugar wouldn't follow him home again the second that Petya walked home.

Besides, how long do cookies take to make anyway? He can always give the extra to Gwyndolin and Yorshka, and it would give him the opertunity to think about the good times with his parents, instead of the awful memories that have been dogging his step for the past few months. He would really appreciate the break.

"All right." He says, "I'll have to get a few things, but if you promise to be a very good girl, I'll show you how to make cookies."

She perks up greatly at that, ears swinging forward.

"Oh yes! This one will be the very best girl!"

She's so cute. She wants to walk with him to the market, and while he has some reservations about it, he allows her to accompany him. She wants to carry the basket, purring as she picks it up in her mouth, her steps high and proud.

Petya has no clue how this child came to look like a giant cat, but honestly in a world where their god has snakes for legs and dragons exist, and montrosites that are spider women, at least a kitten child isn't the worst thing one can encounter out of armor. Especially one that only wanted a snack. He buys her a small pastry while they're out, telling her that she'll be able to have more desserts after he's done making them, and also buys some things to make for dinner while they're waiting for the cookies.

There isn't any point to letting her gorge herself on desserts and then return her to her family on a sugar buzz, even if that's in her name.

"Tell me about your father." He says to her, once they're back in his kitchen, starting to measure out his flour, "Baking like this always makes me think about my mother and father, and I would like to hear about yours."

Sugar nods, front paws resting on the counter, her back legs on the floor with her tail curled around them.

"I have two." She says, "One is really tall and gray, and he wears a funny metal hat. His hands are the same color as his hat, and are cold, so I think they're metal also. They're redish goldish. He's really busy and he doesn't like this one. He puts me in dresses and the metal bits get stuck in the fur on my back. It hurts."

She places her head on her paws, looking sad for a moment, before looking back up at Petya.

"The other one looks like thee." She continues, and Petya notes that she's picked up some of Yorshka's and Gwyndolin's speaking habits. "His hair is long, and the same color as me. His eyes are that color as well and he's very kind. He was also busy for a while, and I couldn't see him. I missed him a lot and am glad I get to live with him now."

"You don't seem to know him very well." Petya says, moving to look at her, "How old are you, Sugar? You seem very well spoken."

The sound of eggs cracking punctuates his statement, the whisking underscoring Sugar.

"Oh yes. When Daddy went away the first time, Papa spent a lot of time with me." She says, eyes going wide, "He use to really like holding me in his arms and telling me stories, and about things he was interested in. We used to play all the time until I got too big to pick up and hold one handed. Daddy came back around that time, but then he left again. Momma was taking care of this one then, but after that I didn't grow fast anymore. I've been around this size for a while I guess, but I don't know how old this one is."

"Not a very fun situation." He murmurs, "I'm sorry, Sugar. It's rough sometimes, having to go through this. While my family wasn't like that, my own father struggled to call me by my name, and while I know he loves me now, when I was a boy it sometimes felt I was being ignored in favor of something else."

"Oh, rather?" Sugar says, " You're so old, did you really have parents?"

He laughs at that, nodding slightly, folding his batter together.

"A lot of people do." He tells her, "They may not be kids anymore, but even old lined grandparents had their own parents. Though, some people have a brother instead of a father, like Yorshka and Lothric do, some have two fathers like yourself, or even two moms or an older sister. Parents can take a lot of shapes, I think. I'm actually making something my mother used to make me and my father when I was younger."

She seems really impressed at that, blinking in mystification. Petya smiles at her, setting the batter off to the side, taking the small timer he had and winding it a few times. Ideally it would sit for much longer, maybe a day or so, but they would be fine as they are. He wants to do dinner first, and sets to making the eggs and fried ham he's going to share with Sugar this evening.

"Do you know how to read, Sugar?" He asks her, only for her to shake her head.

"No." She says, confirming it, "I use to have some picture books when I was very small, but I tore them up when my teeth started to itch, and I never got any more. I was a bad girl that day."

"Wait, you didn't get a teething toy?" Petya asks, turning to look at her, "Surely whoever was taking care of you knew to get you something to chew on…"

"Teething?" She asks, tipping ber head to the side, "I don't understand."

That just makes Petya sad, and he shakes his head.

"Your daddy?" He prompts, though he can feel his stomach dropping. "Where was he?"

"He wasn't there." She says simply, "I couldn't see him."

He takes some solstice in the fact that she's here now, and with playmates such as Lothric and Yorshka. He's sure the other children will treat Sugar with the respect and kindness that she deserves. Dinner is ready, but he lets it cool slightly as he scoops the cookies onto shape, setting them in the preheated oven before sitting down with Sugar, once again winding the timer.

She looks at him.

He looks at her.

She looks at the food.

Her paw comes up to pat at the fork, a frown on her face as she fails to pick it up. She doesn't have opposable thumbs.

"Ah, right." Petya says, "Go ahead and eat it as it's easiest for you, Sugar, I'm not mad."

"Can you put it on the floor for me?" She asks, "I can't eat very well sitting like this."

Her other paw comes up, and she slips out of the chair a little, the wooden object squeaking against the floor. He nods, picking up his plate and takes hers as well, setting it down for her to enjoy, sitting next to her as he eats.

He pulls out the first batch to cool before they finish eating, setting them by the window to cool, finding to his shock, a green eyes brown pigeon looking at him through the glass, a note around her leg. He opens the window, inviting the bird onto his hand, gently taking the paper from her.

It's brief, no more than three lines including who it was from (Lothric), saying only that the next tray should wait, and to return Sugar soon.

He looks at the pigeon. She looks at him.

Before he can say anything, the pigeon flies off.

He doesn't know how Lothric does that, he doesn't want to know, and he certainly isn't going to argue with him. Not when he knew how it took effort for Lothric to scratch out a note like that.

He finishes his meal with Sugar, feeds her a slightly warm cookie, and ties the rest of them in a bundle around her neck, promising to bring the rest of them in a day or so when they're all cooked up.

She thanks him sweetly for the cookie, licking his fingers when he wasn't looking to get the rest of the crumbs off, following him diligently as they head back up to the royal residency. Once there, Sugar gives a little gleeful whoop at the sight of a blond man in the distance, leaping ahead of him to jump into his arms.

"Sugar!" He hears the man exclaim, "I was so worried about you! I'm so glad you're safe!"

Despite Sugar's large size, the man easily picks her up, balancing her on his hips and shoulders, and turns to carry her inside. As they go, Sugar's tail dragging on the ground, she looks at Petya with those piercing eyes, and waves a paw at him as she's being carted off.

She seems happy, Petya decides. He thinks that she's going to become something wonderful here.

[agateshot]

The Dark Moon Dragons

When Humanity was still young, and the world was still dark, and the Lords had not yet gone to war with the Everlasting Dragons, there had been a strange lull in the world. The First Flame and its Champions were collecting themselves to begin the Era of Flame, to tear the scales from the dragons, and to wipe them from the world, to begin the cycle of time.

It is in this period, that it is said a stone scaled dragon, perhaps feeling the weight of eternity and eternal boredom, took it upon himself to sniff out the gardens of humanity, hiding himself in the illusion of a man. Should he have wished it, he could have opened his jaws and swallowed humanity whole, and instead he found himself enchanted by a rose. He placed in her his seed, and from her form sprung forth a soft flowered meadowsweet, and the large spiked hawthorn.

Their entry into the world had wilted the poor rose, haggered her beyond recognition, and the stone dragon felt disgust at this betrayal. He, unfamiliar with roses, had believed her beauty should last the ages, as he did. So too did he believe that her prodigy were malformed and disgusting, and left them to wither and die in the dark.

He returned to his kind, to find them under attack by the Lords with souls of fire, managing only to escape with his life, though his wings and mobility had been torn from him. In the last days of the war, there were whispers of children of the dragons, fighting against the dragons. He closed his ears to this, and would hear no more.

While the meadowsweet and the hawthorn were hardly the firstborn of the dragons with the other races, it is said, however, that they were the firstborn of a human mother. For some time they fought with Gwyn, under the sunlit banner, they kept their faith under the Nameless Moon, their service to the gods ending only on one stringent, bitter condition. Should their father fall, their faith will fall also.

In so far as legend can be believed, this volume contains their myths. Truth can only be determined by those who lived it. Such as it is, such as it will be.

The Sunlit cult

[agateshot]

Petya wasn't in a great mood when he put up his reading. The orphanage had some interesting documents now that he finally managed to find them, or rather, when Van had sniffed out the cellar when clearing the rubble. All of it was going to be sent up to be dealt with officially, the books sure to be added to the large library, and the scrolls filed away for what use they had.

Unfortunately, the leather bound volume that had fallen into his hands was… Well, he doesn't want to say unpleasant. Unpleasant was the way people had looked at Yorshka before Lorian and Gwyndolin routed out the festering pus that was betrayal. Unpleasant was the smell of Aldrich that had lingered for months afterwards.

This was just… Uncomfortable. Like being shut in a box.

It's just an old legend, he tells himself, those knights in the book weren't anything but old stories. Hawthorn and Meadowsweet, ancient dragon knights.

The names were as familiar to him as his own. How could they not be, not after what Meadowsweet-

His father. His father, his father. That is all the old man was, not some dragon knight, probably named after him though. He shakes his head, going out to find Van, needing the company.

He finds him by the lone tree that the previous owners had planted, watching as sap drips onto a bucket from a tap. Petya doesn't say anything, not at first, instead settling into Van's side, watching the process.

"Got lucky," Van says, "Fruit tree."

"Are you planning to make something?" Petya asks, looking at the tree. Van shrugs a little.

"Something for Gwyndolin to chew on." Van admits, "Literally. I made him some before, but I figure he might enjoy a cherry flavored one. Don't tell the kids though, it's a big tree but to make enough for all of them to have some…"

"I understand." Petya says with a nod.

"...It's not that I don't want them to have any," Van says quickly, though Petya hadn't asked, "I'll make some when it fruits, I can make a lot more then, though I'll have to change how I go about it, I just want Gwyndolin to have the first."

"You're kind to think of him." Petya says, squeezing Van, "And the children as well. They're lucky to have you."

"Thank you, Petya." Van turns to look at him, though there's something in Petya's ringed eyes that causes Van concern, his hand coming up to touch his chest. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Pensive." Petya admits, "I remembered that I have some unresolved feelings about my family. It's nothing a little rest won't soothe, but I think I'm very sad."

Van nods, eyes still full of worry for him. Petya can't help but smile, though the expression holds no happiness.

"You can't control people." Petya tells him, "You can control what they do, or when they'll die. You hope you can resolve things with them while they're still alive, but after they die you'll never have that chance. I've been thinking about the last time I saw my father. I remember looking around the house thinking 'shit, he's going to die here and I'm not going to be able to stop it!' Something like that sticks with you, far longer than it should. The same thing happened with my mother. She was looking out the window, but I could tell she wasn't seeing anything. She was waiting for him, my father, and I could hear it on every word she breathed."

"She must have loved him greatly." Van murmurs. Petya nods.

"They fought together." Petya tells him, "All the they would go out hunting hollows and ogres and monsters, my father was her shield, and she was his sword. I saw them practice as a boy, and I still haven't seen a single life be so whole as they were together. She died in battle shortly after he died to his sickness, unable to wait for him to return, but unable to fight without him."

"Oh, Petya." Van breaths, voice low, "I'm sorry."

"I know." Petya says, "I am too. My father's sickness affected his mind, while I am sure he loved me, he was never able to call me by name. I think that's what hurts most of all, to this day. I always grew up in a hawthorn's shadow, always unable to get a look at the source."

"Did something happen?" Van asks, turning to face him head on, "Petya, what's wrong?"

He doesn't want to say at first, lowering his eyes to look away. He shrugs weakly.

"It… maybe. Nothing that should concern me, but I found… a legend I think. The two men in it have the names of my dad and his brother." He admits, "But it's… If they were well known, it's not uncommon for people to name children after heroes right? That's normal, isn't it?"

Van hesitated, before nodding, giving Petya's face a reassuring touch.

Petya leans into the hand, eyes closing as he accepts the comfort.

"Maybe we can send the legend over with the cherry gum." Van suggests, "Gwyndolin will be able to figure out what it is, and how it's connected to you, if at all. That and I'm sure Gwyndolin will always appreciate another book."

"Yeah." Petya says slowly, "Yeah. Something to chew on, anyway. Thank you, Van."

Even though he hugs Van, he can't say the decision makes him feel any better.

[agateshot]

"A baked casserole with cheese and… pasta?" Petya asks, eyebrows going up in concern, "I can't say I've had the…. Pleasure…. Of experiencing such an… abomination."

"It's good, I promise!" Van says, pulling out a few eggs, "You'll like it."

"Eggs?" Petya asks, somewhere between teasing and genuine horror, "Who came up with such an awful idea."

"It's a dish from my home." Van explains, "Not where I grew up, but where Alphonse and I lived as a family. He wants me to make stew, but Alphonse always wants me to make stew. So I decided to make something I haven't had in a long while."

Petya doesn't have anything to say to that other than a quiet hum, coming over to drape himself over Van, arms around his neck. Dragging around Petya like a man cape was a little hindering, but Van didn't mind. Petya's teasing isn't mean, his jokes nothing more than a way to pass the time until dinner was ready. He can tell Petya is interested, and for now that is enough.

When the stoneware is in the oven, he turns, pushing Petya up against the wall to look at him. There's a flustered look in those cool eyes, a shy smile playing nervously on his lips. It was always funny to see how Petya reacted when Van goes to kiss him, and Van savors the expression as he lean in. Clearly anticipating it, Petya's lips part slightly, his warm breath falling on Van's lips and..!

"Oh! Pardon mine intrusion!"

Petya jumps slightly, neatly hitting his head on the wall that's supporting him, and Van takes a moment to check him over before going to give Gwyndolin a hug.

"I had thought to come early," Gwyndolin explains, "To offer mine assistance with the meal preparation for tonight. However, if my presence is not required, I shall adjourn for a time."

"Please stay," Van pleads, "We haven't talked in so long, Gwyndolin, I don't want you to go."

"But Ser Petya and thee--"

"Would be too nervous to continue." Petya murmurs, his usually pale skin flushed with embarassment, still standing against the wall. "Pay no mind to it."

"Ser Petya," Gwyndolin murmurs, hiding his smile behind the lift of a wrist, "Truely, I must apologize to thee. It was not mine intention to pin thee to a wall for examination."

"It was mine though." Van teases, and chuckles slightly as Petya flusters.

Not wanting to make the poor man cry, Gwyndolin takes Van's hand kindly, attempting to reassure Petya with a smile as he leads Van a short distance away so he can collect himself.

"Lorian and Lothric shall be here shortly," Gwyndolin explains, "They've gone to help Yorshka finish her duties and will collect her on their way here. Should you need anything, there is time to have a letter drafted and sent with thy dear pigeon."

The pigeon, perhaps hearing herself being referenced, flies in to land at their feet, looking up at them shrewdly. Van shakes his head, though leans down to pet her face before sending her off again.

"She's helping Alphonse tend the children right now." Van explains, "Alphonse does all right, but he tends to focus on the kids who don't play as much, and often lets the bulk get into trouble because he doesn't keep an eye on them. I made sure that I had a list this time so I didn't leave anything out."

"Ahh, I see." Gwyndolin says, nodding slightly, "Is it-- Common for pigeons to tend to human children?"

"Well, no." Van admits, "But she's bonded with me, you see. Pigeons have a good sense of family and community and so I don't find it entirely strange that she would want to help raise some young, even though they aren't pigeon squab. I don't think animals are all that different from humans on that level."

"It is heartwarming at any rate, to see any creature bond with another." Gwyndolin admits, "Though, and I mean this in the kindest way, I have found mineself curious as to thine reasoning for not attaching a name to her."

"Every name I've thought to utter doesn't fit." Van says simply, "Some things have a name before they find you, and the pigeon is one of them. I hope to find out what it is, but until then, she doesn't mind being the pigeon. She does hate it when I attempt to call her by a word that isn't hers, though."

"That… is rather profound." Gwyndolin murmurs, shaking himself slightly, "I shall have to remember that in the future."

Van smiles slightly, and heads back into the kitchen to tend to dinner.

It isn't long until dinner is served, the adults long since learned that the peace is kept when food is already on the table before the children even see it. Empty plates cause needless anxiety, and while the food may be not as warm for some as others, they had learned which children need cool food to prevent burned mouths.

There had been enough time that Yorshka and Lothric had been able to play with the other children, and when it was time to eat, a stampede of hungry youths pour in from the yard outside.

As matter of routine, Petya calms them down, preparing to offer a prayer, pausing slightly to look at Gwyndolin before doing so. Van, not paying attention to this part, took the silence to mean that Petya was done, starting in on his food-- and chaos erupts again, hungry children being unable to be contained.

Petya sits down, dejectedly starting in on his meal, picking at the food at first, before heartily digging in.

"I was right." Van says, grinning at him, "And it's easy to put together, which is always a delight."

"It's fantastic!" Petya admits, "I'm sorry for calling it an abomination."

Gwyndolin, who had been able to prevent himself from giggling over the rest of the day's events, can't help but laugh at that, the sound of his joy twinkling high above the noise of the children.

Though this meal had not been prayed over, it was truly blessed.

[agateshot]

"My parents are old." Sasha was saying, leaning back on her elbows, settling in easily into Meadowsweet's lap, letting him pleat her hair, "They're the elders of the village, actually. They appreciate what I do for them, for everyone, but I've been disowned."

"That doesn't seem very fair." Meadowsweet murmurs mildly, "Disowned for fighting?"

"Well… not hollows. There was some important something or other that came by once, tried to claim me as a bride, as I'm head daughter and all. The boy wasn't the problem, it was the obnoxious parents. Their town is hardly bigger than ours, and I don't begrudge the idea that you should marry outside of your village once in a while, I simply couldn't bear the idea." She laughs, reaching up to brush her hand against his face."I told him if he could flip me in a fight he could have me. He couldn't, and my parents quickly disowned me and allowed my younger sister, who was smitten by the boy, marry him instead. They still talk to me, but I have to resign myself to the fact I'll never inherit more than the blade I already use."

Meadowsweet nods in understanding, a smile crossing his lips.

"My parents… were troubled." He says, "Mother knew a lot about herb lore, my father wasn't around much. She was in love with him, but Hawthorn and I saw it on his face the last time he was with us, that he didn't think Mother was lovely anymore. She was, though. Not in any way he cared about, but her beauty was in her jams, and her healing. He wanted someone eternal, but she was a spring flower. Lovely in her season, nurturing as she faded."

"You're a poet." Sasha teases, but Meadowsweet only smiles.

"Her name was Rose," He explains, "Her name and her tragedy lends well to it."

Sasha looks sad at that, but Meadowsweet shakes his head, leaning down to hug her.

"That was a long… long time ago." He murmurs, "Something that has been resolved."

"Meaning you don't want to talk about it."

He nods. She lets it lay, breathing slowly across his neck as she stretches up backwards to return his embrace.

"We still need to get you that new shield." She whispers, "The one we've saved up to commission."

He hums, not wanting to commit to it. Sure the rusted hollow shield he's been using isn't great, but… a new shield? To fight with Sasha? He already does so, but it seems so final. Seems like he really is deciding to move on from Hawthorn and pair up with someone else.

Nothing could be like fighting with Hawthorn. His balance has been off since he severed his tail, and no one can match the pure instinct and speed that came from fighting with his brother. The way that each swing of the sword brought him, as a perfect shield to his brother, up to block the return blow, to parry it away and stun any monster, any demon, any giant, kneeling before them. Nothing could be the same as feeling the energy running through their fine fur, connecting them as each breath was excitement, energy, the hunt.

He will always feel the loss of Hawthorn as real as the loss of his own tail. Both something he has done, both something he has to deal with.

"Lot of hollow lately." He says finally. "I wonder if someone has been making them. It use to be part of my job to find out about that."

"It was?" Sasha says, "Why did you stop?"

"Long story, but the covenant I was a part of, I needed to leave." He shrugs, "Though, I can't help but wonder if it would be better to investigate, or pass intel back in hopes it could be sorted."

She's about to say something else, probably ask more questions. He's willing to answer some of them, the Nameless Moon wasn't part of the past he was ashamed of. If he had felt like he could fight… he would still be fighting in his service. He had left his shield on Anor Londo, letting himself wander off into the wilds recklessly.

Unfortunately, his cough kicks back up before she can speak, and as much as he can stifle it while he untangled himself from her, he can't stop it, nearly heaving his lunch out onto the ground as his lungs convulse. She's kind enough to pet his back and neck as the attack progresses, and he leans onto her, grateful for the small comfort. Finally, he settles down, wiping his mouth with the handkerchief she had given him the first time they met-- and the first time she heard him coughing like this.

He's quick to fold it away and hide the blood on it, not wanting her to worry. He's fine, he really is. This is what he wants.

"Sometimes I worry about you." She says, almost as a response to his thoughts, pulling his head toward her to hold.

"I know." He admits, an arm going about her waist, "I worry about you too. You should really think about getting that shield for yourself, and learn how to use it. Its reckless that you don't."

"So you tell me every day." She replies, "And still you swoop in to save me."

"Up until the day I can't." He admits, "But I worry that by then it will be too late, and you won't think to dodge."

She doesn't have a response to that, and doesn't reply. They stay like that, in each other's arms for some time. He runs his hand up her back, intending to pull away shortly after, but the little sound she makes causes him to pause slightly- he looks up to her, and the expression there makes his ears grow hot. She leans close to his face, but he turns away, accepting her lips on his cheek instead.

"Some other time, perhaps." He tells her, "We should probably get back into town for the evening. Place the order with the blacksmith, settle in for the night."

It isn't that he doesn't want her, of course he does. This wouldn't even be their first time, but his head is still spinning from his thoughts, his mouth still tastes of blood. He's worried that if she touches him now, like this, he will break. Or that this time she may lift his shirt up to find the harsh outline of scales that had never been there before.

He supposes that he was the lucky one, his inhuman features have always been less severe than Hawthorn's. While both had been exceedingly covered with white downy fur at birth, Meadowsweet never had spikes. Now, without his tail, the worst of it was that he seemed to be a little hairy. And his eyes of course, but if Sasha thought any of this unusual, at worst she didn't mind them, though it rather seemed she liked them.

Though- he really shouldn't think about the way her fingers stroked through the fur on his abdomen, or his resolve will crumble. He stands up quickly, causing her to snort a little with laughter as she takes his hand to follow him.

There is a lot to think about over the next few days, as they wait for his shield to be forged. He believes the one he has commissioned is a good fit for him, broad and tall, and one that he should be able to handle with ease. At least for a time. Really, anything bigger than the toy shields hollows use would be ideal, but… they had the souls for it, he wants something he can defend her with, against even the likes of an ogre. It's all he can see, really. Something big and massive like an ogre, grabbing her and eating her, while he can do nothing but watch, streaming and screaming and--

"Meadowsweet! Meadowsweet, wake up!" Her voice is thick and warm in his ear, and he clings to it, clings to her, and he sobs.

It seems for a time, his crying is endless. But as all things must, it ends, him in her arms, being rocked and soothed.

"I'm sorry," He tells her, "You shouldn't have to deal with this… I'm so sorry."

"You are my dear companion," She tells him, "If I can't be here for you off the field of battle, I have no right to expect you to be there when we are on it."

She has a point there, and he nods. While there was no way he was going to leave her now, if there was any doubt in her mind over their bond, her fighting style may change. Become unpredictable. She may chose to charge forward without him, and he would be in that situation he so feared.

The shield was perfect. He had been anxious about the weight (and clearly, a great deal many other things,) but it sat on his arm exactly has he intended it to sit. With this now on his arm, he has once more become a wall of metal, and his heart sings with the feeling. What training they can do off of the field of battle, they do, his large, heavy strikes snapping the training strawman off of their wooden poles, Sasha, like lightning, zinging out to lop off their straw heads before they hit the dirt.

They were quickly banned from the training field, sent out to go practice on the hollows. They had as much success here as they did on the grounds, flattening about twice more than they usually do in half the time. They're further out than usual, and while they feel like they had just gotten started, Sasha agrees that they had done their fair share of work for the day.

As they turn to head back, however, Meadowsweet pauses, looking at the hard earth beneath their feet. The wind had changed slightly, and a rancid odor had brushed past his face. Ogre. He thinks that the smell is strange, though, strong, yes, but not strong enough to be a settled one. He frowns.

"Meadowsweet?" Sasha probes, placing a hand on his back. He stands up a little straighter, turning his head to see what direction they would have to go.

"We've got one more fight left." He says reluctantly, not wanting to put her in danger, but it would be foolish to head in by himself, not truly skilled with anything but his shield. "Are you up for it?"

"Please, I've been dying for another fight." She says, excitement crossing her face.

"Hopefully not," He replies, "I'd hate to see it. I truly hope the only one dying is our ogre."

"An ogre?! This close to the village? Are you sure?"

"Well," He says, rolling a shoulder, "If I'm not then we can go home. If I am, you can see the need to fight."

She nods, and they head in. It's not long until they find the tracks in the dirt, pounded over themselves as if the giant had been pacing. Meadowsweet pauses, looking at them. Oh dear.

"Meadowsweet." Sasha says softly, readying her sword.

"Hold on." He says, "I'm…"

"Meadowsweet…" Sasha says, more apprehension in her voice.

"I'm counting," He says, "I think there may be…?"

"Two ogres?" She says, finishing for him.

He looks up, just in time to see the two ogres launch rocks at them. He darts in front of Sasha, slapping the rock back at them. The stone projectile hits the closer of the two beasts, causing a loud, painful bellow. The second one screams in rage, beating its chest and charging at them.

"Stay behind me," Meadowsweet says, "Only attack it when it's on the ground, keep an eye on the other one--"

"These aren't my first braces of ogres," Sasha tells him, applying fire to her blade, "But I shall keep it in mind."

Something happens in that fight. They weren't able to defeat the first ogre before the second recovered, and they end up pinned between them, but-- Their breath was one, and their rhythm transcended. Meadowsweet would knock one beast down, and while to face the other just as it attacked, knocking it back down to the earth, shaking the very fabric of the world. Sasha's blade was sharp and quick, biting at thick hide until the very second the lumbering beast was on its feet again, rearing back.

The beasts fall before them, and finally… they do not rise again. Sasha turns to face him, and Meadowsweet faces her. She's cleaning the blade of her sword on a bit of cloth, high color in her cheeks and her eyes are bright.

She sheathed her sword, and he removes his helmet. It's all the invitation she needs to jump up into his arm and kiss him, pulling off her own leather helmet.

He ends up finding them a sort of shallow nearby, free from the smell of ogre, covered in a soft moss, hidden under the roots of a tree. Their equipment is left outside, save for Sasha's sword, their cloaks, and the large shield placed as a barrier between them and the rest of the world.

Their rhythm turns sweeter, and they stay secluded for some time, enjoying and celebrating their companionship.

By the time they are satisfied with each other, the moon is out, its light catching on the fine fur on Meadowsweet's shoulders like frost on grass as he moves his shield aside. He turns back to look at Sasha, his heart in his throat as he sees how lovely she looks like this. He hardly even notices the small berry that falls from above, sticking in his hair. She does, however, and she leaves her repose, picking out the small sliver berry, turning it in her hands.

"Mistletoe." He says, looking at it. "Some people think it's a symbol of fertility, though I hadn't noticed it when we slipped in here."

"Mistletoe." She repeats, a small smile forming on her face. "I wonder what that means for us."

"Would that be something you…" He says, pausing as he becomes shy.

"I wouldn't mind it." Sasha admits, "You've had my heart since I saw your eyes."

He smiles at that, and he finds himself wanting to laugh. For the first time since his brother has died, he does so.

However, as they're leaving, he happens to glance back at the tree they had been under, his breath catching in his throat.

"Something the matter?" Sasha asks, adjusting the straps in her leather armor, "You look faint."

"The tree. It's a hawthorn." He whispers.

She asks him what the symbolism is there, but he cannot answer. He cannot.

[agateshot]

"Hawthorn… is dead."

Meadowsweet can hardly stomach to say the worlds, but… Such is the life of a Blade of the Dark Moon.

Had they remained Silver Knights, this would have never happened. Being apart of Lord Gwyn's forces during the war against the dragons should have been enough. It should have sufficed for any man's life.

But Hawthorn was never one to quit when he had his teeth in something. Never. He was still angry, still upset at what happened to their mother. Still wanted revenge. Something they couldn't get from the Boreal Valley.

Their mother, Rose, hadn't wanted them to fight, but what did she know? She had been a human, puppeted along by a dragon, believing herself to be in love. Hawthorn and Meadowsweet had ruined her body, and when age had wilted the beauty of her youth, their father lost interest. Left her to care for his sons, left her to go mad.

Hawthorn had always been the stronger of the two sons, Meadowsweet always his shield while he was their blade. Twin brothers, twin dragonkin fighting with one heart, one body.

Meadowsweet always knew that if he failed to go along with what Hawthorn wanted, he would fight regardless. He would die, no matter how often Meadowsweet told him to watch his side.

And he did. Their father had died with Hawthorn, but that was no consolation. His father had a moment where he had apologized for leaving them, but Hawthorn would not be soothed. The memory of Hawthorn leaping at the old, crippled dragon, tail streaming out behind him, and the sick, cold sound of claws slicing open armor. Meadowsweet had frozen, watching his lifeless brother being gulped down onto the maw of the beast, only the sound of his heart ringing in his ears so sharp that all other sounds were drown out.

He wishes he could say he took his father's life, that he was the one who sliced off the head of the beast, but… it was Hawthorn. Not even fatal wounds could cause him to drop his sword, his last ounce of strength, stuck in the throat of his father, was to slice through the muscles, sinew, and scales of the terrible old thing. The look on the face of the ancient dragon was of perplexion, like a cat about to throw up. Like a flash of lighting, Hawthorn's blade appeared, sweeping out into a circle, dropping their father's head to the dirt.

Hawthorn did not live long after that. His last wish was that Meadowsweet take his own and their father's tails to the Nameless Moon, to tell him of what happened.

To explain how thoroughly Meadowsweet had failed to protect his brother.

There's no way… There's no way he can continue to fight. He had only taken up the banner of war for his bother's sake. The only reason he had become a Knight was for his brother, and again, the only reason to become a Blade, was for his brother. Without him… what point was there to fight? He wants to believe in the justice that the Nameless Moon espoused, but… he can't. He doesn't see the point to doing all of this in a world where his brother no longer breathed.

He leaves three tails at the mist wall of the Nameless Moon, his father's, his brother's, and his own severed tail, symbolic of the covenant he had severed with the God of Vengeance. His penance for lying in his devotion. He would have given anything, even his own life, to no longer follow the path that he and his brother had walked for such a long time.

Even though he leaves Anor Londo, his pain and regret follows him, his new companion. The ghost of Hawthorn dogged at his side.

In his travels, regret turns to sickness. It starts off nothing more then a cough in the back of his throat, a persistent ache in his back, (like the stump of his tail calling out for its return), a lethargic feeling that hangs over him like he has scales of his own weighing him down. He knows that if he were to return to the Nameless Moon, his ailments would be banished. But… he embraces them. This agony was at least present, and thicker in his bones than even his grief.

Should he die to sickness, then he still has lived longer than his brother.

Meeting her…

Meeting her felt like a side note. An event so unimportant in his life that had she not returned, he would have forgotten it. She had given him her handkerchief, told him to shut up if he was going to die already, and then promptly fell asleep without giving him her name.

She was gone in the morning, the cloth she left the only sign he had met the woman.

The next time he had met her, she was neck deep in a horde of undead, nothing but a sword by her side. She wasn't doing well, leaving her flank open, and as clumsy as the hollow soldiers were, they were going to take her life. He can't-- not again!

The shield he uses still had the arm of the undead he ripped it from attached, the flimsy thing threatening to crumble to pieces under the blows, but it was enough. His strength wasn't what it use to be, but it was enough to knock the hollows back, the woman sending them down for another death.

"I didn't need your help." She says, turning to look at him prying out the arm in his new shield. "I had it under control."

"I didn't say thank you for the handkerchief." He replies, looking up at her, his eyes glittering in the light.

She meets his gaze for a long moment, before sheathing her sword, holding her hand out to him.

"My name is Sasha," She says, "You're welcome to come die at my house."

"Thank you, I'm sure." Meadowsweet says, agate eyes rolling as he takes her hand.

She was funny. Sharped tongued, witty, and quick. Harsh, sometimes, but kind and brave. Unafraid to be herself, fearless of the hollow haunted wilds. Her hometown wasn't much, but she was one of their strongest defenders.

He finds himself falling easily into their community, listening to their stories, their histories, and finds himself lockstep with Sasha when she heads out on patrols into the wilds. It was different than fighting with Hawthorn, but he finds that even though he had left it, the desire to fight still sings strong within him. He delights in fighting with Sasha.

He forgets, for a time, that he is sick. Sasha loves him, and he loves her. When she was heavy with their child, she still insists on going out and fighting, even when he promises to take care of it. Their son is born in a den in the woods, Meadowsweet guarding the entrance from any stray beast that may come their way. She is healthy, and their little child is healthy. Sasha calls him Petya.

Try as he might, Meadowsweet can only form the name of his brother.

In his mind, he clearly sees that the child is his son, and he knows that his name is Petya, and he loves his child very much. Smart. Blonde like his mother. Blue eyes ringed in gold. His eyes. The eyes of his brother.

Every time he calls for his son, the name of his brother appears instead. Every time his brother is called, the shadow looms larger over the world, and whispers of the eternal flame rise. It's going out, the world is dying.

Meadowsweet, the dragonspawn who had shunned the Nameless Moon, is dying as well.

"Do you love me?" Meadowsweet had said one day.

"Yes." Said Sasha.

"We need to go home." He tells her. "We need to take Petya home."

"My village will die without me." Sasha says, taking his hand, "You're asking me to let them die."

"I've seen it." Meadowsweet whispers, "I've seen you die. I've seen our boy die. We need to go home, Sasha. We need to save him. Your village is lost, I can't lose you too."

He can see her struggling with the thought, her loyalty to her village-- for what? The ramblings of a dying old man? The whispers of some long hidden god? Surely she can't leave everything she's known, just to go to some distant land that may not even be real.

"Will the life Petya live be worth it?" She asks, "Can you promise me that?"

"Have our lives been worth it?" Meadowsweet asks, "Every moment we draw breath brings something new. I want him to have the chance to breathe many breaths."

She chews on her lip for a long moment, and then hesitantly agrees.

He hopes he isn't making a mistake.

[agateshot]

"Petya." Van calls him, drawing the soldier's attention from the table he is cleaning.

Petya glances at the surrounding area around Van, but there doesn't seem to be any task at hand. But still, Van is motioning for him to come over, hand low beside his belly. Petya has a bad feeling about this.

He doesn't have any reason not to come, so he limps over, pausing right in front of Van. The other man reaches up to him, leaning back slightly… wanting a kiss obviously, but then why is he spreading his legs?

"Um… I'd really rather not." Petya says, quickly moving off to go check on the sleeping children.

He finds himself sitting in the room with them, holding the baby in his arms as he relaxes against the chair, his bad leg propped up. He moves so the little child is securely in his right arm, moving his left to hold his neck. Van has been using his position in his bed to wake him up and leave marks on his neck.

Petya didn't mind, not really, Van was so sweet and caring, and always asked if he could do it. It felt nice, in a strange sort of way, though it always left awful welts and the shape of teeth on some spots. He can't help but wonder if Van's strange behaviour this evening was because he kept letting Van do that.

What was Van wanting from him? ...sure it feels obvious! Like there shouldn't be any doubt to that series of actions, but Petya doesn't know. Is this ignorance? Poor socialization? Anyone who trained with knows while Petya would accept invitation given his preferred downtime spent honing his skills.

Skills that a dagger to his spine severed. It's a wonder he can walk, but his hand had never been able to close fully again. Nor was it able to open properly as well. Stuck forever in a paw like state. Unsteady on his feet as well, he really shouldn't be picking up soft babies like he does.

A lifetime of choosing work over people. Gone, gone… it's lucky that Van had met him at all, without his dear friend who knows what would have become of him? Nothing good. Further isolation. He would never regret his service of course, he believes that he has done well in the service of the Nameless Moon and Irithyll. If he had died in a fight with Sulyvahn's forces, he would have died a proud man.

He would have still been proud of his service if no one had come to care for him like Van had, but… he could so easily see himself losing faith. Not in the God he had fought for, but himself. Easily see himself as recasting what he was into the role of a burden.

Tobais and Sulyvahn would have had one more pointless victory after their deaths, Petya shedding his life like a snake shedding skin.

He will forever be grateful to Van, to Lorian, to Gwyndolin, that they didn't allow him to go that route.

He wouldn't be here, that was a certainty. He likes being here, with the children. With Van. Especially with Van.

He doesn't mean to cry, but he can't seem to help it. The baby gets a little fussy, and he repositions her, letting her little hands cling to the strands of his hair while he rocks her, trying his best not to drip on her.

He isn't sad, or at least not sad enough to warrant this kind of response… overwhelmed. Yes. Overwhelmed. Thrust into a world that he knew must exist, seeing it every day from a distant island, never thinking that he would himself there. This isn't the life he wanted for himself, and yet he's here anyway. Happy, yes. He is happy here, but confused. Unsure. Baffled by Van constantly, in awe that Gwyndolin talks to him so casually like… like they're… like he and Petya are… friends?

Lorian as well. He's been Lord Commander for perhaps… three or so years, maybe four, but has earned Petya's and most everyone else's unflagging respect. More than that, he is a good man.

Petya always knew that he personally was always a good soldier, but until recently… it hadn't occurred to him that he was also a good man. Good like Van. Good like Lorian. Maybe even… maybe even good like Gwyndolin. It would have never occurred to him-- never would have had the AUDACITY to think that he could be compared…

But then again, Gwyndolin hadn't always been a part of their lives. Not in the way he is now. There had been a time that to visit the God had meant kneeling in front of a wall of mist, and that was really only for those who wished to become his Blades.

There had been a time, when he must have been about thirty or so… Back when he had been fighting bears for sport, fool that he was. Back when he pit himself against nature, that he would sometimes go to the wall of mist. Sometimes Gwyndolin would invite him to kneel.

At the times that he did so, Gwyndolin would ask him if he wanted to join the Blades, though Petya would always say, instead, his chosen path was that of the Knight.

There were other times, however, when Gwyndolin wouldn't seem to notice him. Maybe busy with an undead or some other task, and Petya would find himself talking, talking to himself, not really praying to the god on the other side of the wall. Just.

Talking about the kinds of things that were on his mind, but not really the sort of things you'd want your fellow soldiers to know. Nothing shocking of course, but just. Things. The times he'd go back to the house that he technically owned from his parents, to clean up and look at their things. What life had been like outside of Irithyll. How much he missed his dad singing. What kind of cookies his mother used to make.

It had been that… strange kind of relationship, one sided almost for a certainty, that had galvanized him to fight for Gwyndolin when the time had come. Those odd moments of feeling like someone had been listening to him; allowing him to say what was on his mind years before he had even seen Gwyndolin in the flesh.

If Gwyndolin remembered him, which… that is to say, if Petya had actually been speaking to Gwyndolin instead of just the mass of mist that composed his wall… Petya honestly doesn't know if it would bring relief or further embarrassment.

Certainly, it wasn't enough at any rate to claim a connection with him. No connection that any other devout can't claim to have as well.

And somehow, somehow he was on the other side of the wall. With no knowledge of going through it. Where those thoughts he had shared with Gwyndolin such as 'I don't know what I would do if I wasn't a Knight. I think I would be very lonely' being answered with…

There isn't any need to be lonely or lost, as long as you're willing to put up with the absurd. The unexpected. The exciting.

Petya had fought for this life as much as anything else.

Now he wishes he could understand it. Or at least understand Van. That…. That would be enough.

When he finally comes out of the children's room, Van is waiting for him. His golden eyes are quick to pick up on the fact that Petya had been crying, and started to apologize to him. Petya just shakes his head, deciding instead to fall into Van's arms, resting his head on Van's shoulder.

"We can talk about it tomorrow." Petya murmurs, "Tonight… I am glad to have you with me."

[agateshot]

It started with a child crying.

The little boy had been hiding away in a cramped spot, and Van had thought the dirty, ragged appearance of the youth had been due to his time crawling through the mud. Van had thought he was lost.

When the orphanage the boy was living at was found… it unfortunately wasn't the case. The child was taken from him almost instantly, hardly a glance at Van. He would have thought that an enquiry of where the child was would have been prudent, but instead the child was quickly scolded and send away to sleep without food.

Van is quick to remark that there had been ample allotment for resources for food for children, and there was no need to starve the boy, only to be met with a sharp 'in the real world' retort. Real world?! This world was harsh, yes, but the city of Irythill was a safe haven; no child should be sent to be hungry.

What really sent Van was the remark that when Irythill was to fall, then it would hardly matter what child was fed. The implication being of course, that not only did this person expect all of these children to die, but Gwyndolin as well.

So upset was he, that a response wasn't able to be formed, and he left, tongue tied, confused.

He attempts to tell Lorian, at first, and while the knight attempted to console him enough that the words fit together, it was no use. Van left in tears, Lorain sympathetic, telling him that he could always come back and try again later.

He goes to Petya next, hoping that the ease of comfort he felt with the injured knight would allow him to say something. While he doesn't get any of the story out other than there being a little boy and an orphanage, Petya can sense there's something not… Quite right… either. Of course he could, it didn't take a genius to see the tension in Van's body. Petya offered to visit the boy with Van, and he nods… hesitantly.

"Van." Petya says frankly, "You need to tell me what's wrong. I want to help you, but you need to tell me more. What are you thinking?"

"Gwyndolin…" Van says slowly, trailing off.

Petya seems tired, but sighs, rubbing at his face with his right hand.

"Do you want Lord Gwyndolin to come with us?" He asks after a moment. Van nods. Petya sighs again, "Do you want me to come with you to go get him?"

Van nods again.

Petya isn't comfortable being in Gwyndolin's presence so casually, despite how often Van ends up dragging him into his presence, and particularly not so when Van is intent on interrupting Gwyndolin's meetings with other officials. However, today, arm in arm with the ancient alchemist, he felt less like Van was holding him steady, and more like he was anchoring the man from floating away. Petya explains to Gwyndolin, respectfully, Van's request, Van himself more nervous with each passing moment, nearly trembling with tension in his arms.

Upon hearing about the orphanage, one of the officials asks about its location, Lorian's brow burrowing in concern as Van confirms where it is. It was clear the Lord Commander had placed Van's unease earlier today with this; and quickly requests more information. There seems to be nothing out of the ordinary, a new location run by an inexperienced individual in response to overcrowding, routine inspections showing nothing strange, no mistreatment of the children.

"Perhaps, then, it is time for a less routine inspection," Gwyndolin says, rising from his seat. "One that I shalt see to mineself."

It isn't long until the trio find themselves in front of the doors, Gwyndolin wrapped in a hooded cloak, snakes and face hidden, thin and innocuous next to the two men arm in arm. Upon entering, the rooms were quiet. Too quiet for an orphanage that supposedly held happy children at this hour. Perhaps seeking comfort, Gwyndolin's hand finds its way into Van's, the group looking almost lost as they gaze deeper into the structure.

It wasn't for lack of courage did Gwyndolin nor Van pause, but the sense of turning the corner and seeing the sight of the ones that had hurt them when they were small. A sense that was in equal parts icy and angry.

It was the smallest of sounds that had snapped them out of this reprise, the sound of a hand striking flesh. With one motion, the trio surged forward, chasing the sound to its source. Petya seizes at once the adult, Van the child, Gwyndolin hanging back slightly to look in at the scene. From where he stands, he can see how the other children, sitting around at a large table, aren't even looking up at the sudden commotion, eyes fixed on empty plates. This isn't right at all.

"Their dinner," Gwyndolin says softly, "Did thou not receive rations?"

"They don't eat it," Comes the response, argued from Petya's grip, "Better for them to not have any than to waste it!"

The faintest, most chilling sound of a hiss can be heard from the cloaked figure.

"The youth, then. What causes thou to beat thy charges?"

From Van's position, he can see the light in Gwyndolin's eyes. Not only that, but he can see that several of the children see it as well, and that something like hope is shifting through them. He glances at Petya, who gives him a slight nod. No answer given can absolve this person from their mistreatment of these children, what Gwyndolin was doing now was only a formality.

Van stands up, the crying child on his hip, and casts his gaze around the room again. Without needing to ask, a child stands up, and runs to him, hugging his legs tightly.

"Van. Ser Petya." Gwyndolin says after another question or so, "Please assist these children outside for a short while, mine duties require solitude."

As Petya and Van herd the children outside, Van not forgetting to grab the boy he had seen that started this whole affair-- finding with him a very small baby-- the voice of Gwyndolin shook the very air around them.

"I am Gwyndolin;" He says, "Lord of The Sunless Realms, and thy transgressions shall not go unpunished!"

As the front doors shut, the voice of the god of Irythill carries no further, leaving Petya and Van looking over the children in front of them.

"Funny," Van says quietly, "Only about ten. I thought there were more."

"More than ten would require a second caretaker." Petya remarks, "Though really, there should be more caretakers regardless. I doubt someone would be as bold as that if someone was watching."

"I hope I didn't miss anyone…" Van frets, looking backwards at the door, moving as if to head back in. Petya places his hand over Van's, shaking his head slightly.

"Best to calm the ones we have." Petya says, "I trust you, Van. I don't think you missed anyone."

Van nods slightly, hugging the baby in his arms a little tighter. After a moment, he and Petya settle down on the steps, talking to the children. Clearly starved for kind attention, by the time Gwyndolin appeared, the children had settled themselves between the two men, fast asleep in kinder arms.

The scarred snout of a snake bumps into Van's face, haroling the arrival of Gwyndolin. Van looks up, seeing Gwyndolin's head uncovered, hair shining in the moonlight. The baby in his arms looks up as well, a pleased squeal at the sight of the moonlit god passing the child's lips, little hands reaching up to make grabby fists at him.

"Oh!" Gwyndolin says, gasping slightly, a faint flush on his face. "Do forgive me, I had forgotten myself!"

He's quick to try to pull up his hood, but Van shrugs a little.

"For some reason," Van says slowly, "I can't imagine any of these children minding what you look like, Gwyndolin."

"... Perhaps not…" He says, a wry smile crossing his face, "I should, however, take over charge of thy children for a time, if thou wouldst make a proper meal for them."

"...The owner?" Van inquires gently, lifting up the baby for him to hold.

"Gone," Gwyndolin says cheerfully, taking the baby into his arms, "I shall have to find some new management for these youth."

"Well…" Petya clears his throat, letting the other children migrate from Van to him, "Not that I've ever been involved in child rearing, but perhaps… Van and I can watch over them for a time, until someone a little more suitable can be found."

"I have no issue with that," Van says, getting to his feet, "Gwyndolin?"

"So shalt it be." Gwyndolin decides. "Doest thou think the youth would mind overmuch if I were to show them how to fabricate a whistle from a reed, Ser Petya?"

Van has to smile at the expression found on Petya's face as he turns to go inside.

[agateshot]

They say he's lucky to be alive.

Luck.

Perhaps there was some truth in that; he had been lucky that his father loved him despite the old man's poor memory, lucky that his mother was a kind woman with care in her hands. Lucky that all of them lived to see the city of Irithyll.

Lucky enough that his father lived long enough to see him become a page in the order of the Silver Knights.

On hard days, he can still remember what his father had told him that day. After the ceremony, in a moment of lucidity, his father had taken Petya into his arms, the sharp smell of mint and medicine invading his nose. Petya had hugged his father anyway, the old man so frail in his arms even then. His father called him by the name of his uncle-- but that was common for his father to do. Petya knows that his dad loved him as who he was, but just because he sees the image of his son in his mind, it's hard for his father to remember fresh names, even if Petya was old enough to become a page.

His father had told him that even in those moments were life seemed hopeless, to be thankful for the chance to breathe. As long as air flowed through your lungs, you never knew what kind of amazing things you would see.

His father's eyes, so much like his own, gold ringed with the insides banded like agate, were so clear when his father told him that he loved him. That he was so proud of his son, and thankful that he had gotten the chance to meet Petya.

His father died that night, old age finally claiming him. His mother died soon after, broken-hearted. She had tried to live for Petya, but the wound was too great for her to bear alone.

Some days Petya wonders if he had done the right thing, choosing his training over his grieving mother.

This…. Was definitely one of those days.

The battle for Irithyll had been tough on everyone, no knight wanted to fight each other, at least those who had supported Lord Gwyndolin; but their duty toward him meant that they must. These were their brothers and sisters at arms, even if they had chosen to turn on them. Bonds of family aren't so easily severed, and while the hoards were made up of wizards and monsters… nothing was more horrific than the Knights.

And yet… The invasion and coup was repulsed, Traitor Sulyvahn killed by their God Of Justice and Vengeance. It should have been over. Those that could be captured were, to face trial, and those that had been slain had been counted and noted.

There had been so many Knights slain or missing, horrible horrible unsure knowledge on who had been on what side, the carnage both physical and emotional. The order of knights had been left in shambles for a time, and he had been promoted to a lieutenant from his previous position as a general officer. While he was a good knight and a good man, he was often rash and quick tongued. He was respected by his fellow knights and supported by them, but he knew as well as anyone that his promotion came only because he was the most qualified long standing officer… and because all the others that would fill the position had defected.

He wasn't a young man anymore. By the time he had been promoted to lieutenant, he was nearly fifty. Gone were his thirties where he had taken to fighting off bears single handedly (and gaining a litany of scars for his idiocy), and had assumed that his halted rank had been permanent.

His fellow knights keep telling him that he's earned this, that this was something he had coming for his years of service, but he doesn't know if he can accept that. One of the people that had gone missing, the one person he felt desperate to talk to about all of this, what would Toby say?

Toby…

Tobias was the man he had replaced directly as lieutenant. He had hoped that what had happened to the man he had come to love not just as a brother-at-arms, but as a true brother, was that he had been one of the men that had been on their side, but turned to cinder by the horrible flames of the mages. It was a disgusting thing to wish for, but the alternative is that Tobais has betrayed not only Lord Gwyndolin; but more personally, had betrayed him.

It had turned out however, that Tobias had not died in the service of the Nameless Moon.

Petya had been leading a sweep of the Boreal Valley, trying to flush out the remaining insurgents of the assault, on orders from Lord Commander Lorain, when he had heard that familiar voice.

It was so faint, at first he didn't think that it was real. The Knights that had been with him hadn't heard it, so what was he supposed to assume? But he swears he had heard it.

Rash. He was always too rash.

He went to investigate, telling the men that if he wasn't back within five minutes to come after him.

It took only three minutes for Tobias to slide a knife into his back like his armor was so much hot butter. It must have been magic, because his body instantly went limp, collapsing into Tobias' arms like a ragged doll. It took the remaining two for Tobias to gloat about halting Petya's progress for so long, to reveal how he had always hated Petya, and how much of a fool Petya had been to assume he had ever had family after his parents had died.

Petya wasn't the only fool that day, too caught up in his hate, Tobias failed to see the blade that decapitated him glinting in the moon. Even then, within those ten seconds that his head still lived, Tobias had mouthed at Petya that even if he lived, he would never walk again.

He had blacked out after that, and when he had awakened, he had opened his eyes to the familiar sight of a hospital. His right hand had no problem coming up to rub at his eyes, but it seemed that his left had been restrained to keep him from moving. It was weird, tying him down on only one side, especially considering it was his dominant hand. Being left handed was something of a boon against single armed combatants, often he was able to break the guard of a right-handed opponent when they least expected it, with his own quick reflexes keeping his own guard up.

He can really only think of two times that he's felt so utterly defenseless against a person-- the most recent being Toby's betrayal. The first time had been at the Winter Solstice party, the first time he had been invited to one where Lord Gwyndolin had been in attendance. Part of his new rank he supposed. He had been on his best behaviour the whole evening.

Well.

Almost the whole evening.

"He's been standing there for ten minutes." He heard a lieutenant whispering to another, "Doesn't he know you're supposed to bring someone you know?"

He had turned to see who the "he" had been, and had seen a vision. The way the light reflected off of the green satin of his dress, complements the shade of gold that was his hair and beard, the bracelets on his arms jingling slightly as he nervously shakes them from time to time. Petya can't make out the color of his eyes from here, the man looking away to somewhere else, but he seemed to be around his age.

Ever rash, he takes a step forward, attracting the attention of the gossiping lieutenants. They gasp and giggle a bit, and he glances back at them.

"Go! Go!" They tell him, "He's waiting for you, if no one else. It is a party after all."

He crinkles his brow somewhat at that, but goes anyway. It's not until he arrives does he realize what the fuss was about.

Mistletoe. The man had been waiting for someone who wanted to kiss him. At this point, he was close enough to see the look in the man's eyes. Excited. Worried. Lonely. The excitement grows as he catches sight of Petya coming toward him, an obvious effort not to show it in his face-- one that failed, and hope joined the gold in his eyes.

Oh well… it was just a kiss. He's close now, finding he has about five inches on the man, though he's hardly short.

"Hi." Petya says.

"Hello," Says the man, trailing of before asking a question.

"Mistletoe?" Petya says for him.

The man nods.

"Well, all right. It is traditional after all."

The man smiles, relief creeping into his eyes, and he reaches up to take Petya's face. Unsure what to do, Petya places his hands on the man's sides, leaning in to let their mouths touch.

It's like sipping sparkling wine. At first the fizz isn't noticeable, but after a couple seconds, the tingling- tantalising- grows stronger. He finds himself leaning in for more, a hand finding its way to the bare skin on the stranger's back, feeling the raised lines of scars. The man seems more than eager to deepen the kiss, his beard soft as it rubs against Petya's shaven face. A tongue touches against his lips and--

Oh he's in public, he shouldn't be putting on a display like this--

Petya opens his mouth slightly, and the champagne turns to bursts of light across his vision, even when he closes his eyes. He's never felt anything like it, he's never imagined someone could feel like this. He-- oh it's too much?

He pulls back quickly, his left hand coming up to cover his mouth, the buzzing staying trapped in his skin.

"Thank you for coming over." The man says, golden eyes now considerably brighter. Petya can feel the way that gold eyes search agate, waiting for a response. Petya supposed that the man must have liked what he saw, because he smiled then. "Have a good winter solstice."

The man leaves then, and Petya, still staring after him, realizes he had never gotten his name.

He's still in shock when he returns to the other officers, seeing now that there had been quite a crowd that had gathered while he was gone. As he joins them again, they burst out into cheers for him, many people patting him on the back.

"You know," He says after a moment, the crowd pausing to listen to what he had to say, "I hadn't thought of it before, but I think that was my first kiss."

The moment dissolved into laughter.

Another round of congratulations was issued after someone spotted the man talking to Lord Gwyndolin himself, though Petya was awash in embarrassment as the man pointed directly at him and waved. He waved back, only to excuse himself very, very soon after.

Even now the memory makes him smile, the right corner of his mouth pulling up, the left hindered by an old scar. His right hand comes up to rub at his eyes again-- and a moment later, what feels like a paw hits his left side of his face. He's being attacked? He's quick to slap the object away, pinning it under his right hand. He turns his head to see what it was…

His left hand. Utterly devoid of feeling or sense, curled up into a claw.

Ah yes. Unless he were to lose himself in memories of the past, it seemed that Tobias had been right. He would never walk again, and even if he were to learn the skill, his hand would never grasp a sword again.

[agateshot]

"The kind where he spent the next ten minutes trying to convince me it was just a dream he had." A smile crosses his face, a fleeting ray of sun. "Unsolicited, mind you."

The nickname wasn't a probe for more details, nor did Petya comment on wither he believed it to be true or not. If it was true, then Edward knew it was, and know that Van was being a little too loose with his words, and if it wasn't, that would be that.

"I think he is sweet to tell me stories of his children, whatever they might be, regardless of what objective facts. Whoever let truth get in the way of a good story?"

New Nickname Acquired

@agateshot

“Godslayer?” Another nickname, huh? “Just what nonsense has Hoenheim been filling your head with, anyway?” He asks, laughing a little while at the same time, not exactly denying the name, either. 

[agateshot]