Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

     "And until next time, take it easy, guys, gals, and non-binary pals! Peace out!"

     Those happy, optimistic words rang out through the speakers to the ears of a young man named Thomas Sanders.

     Thomas had finally finished his latest YouTube submission, watching his own face smile goofily back at him from his computer screen as he finished editing. The work was truly exhausting, and his eyes strained as he had spent the last several hours poring over just as many hours of footage before condensing it into an online video just a quarter of an hour long. The young man tilted his head back, tired yet content, rubbing his eyes before letting his fingers run up into his locks of magenta hair and letting out a squeaky, high-pitched yawn. He stretched along the back of his couch, feeling his back pop once or twice before leaning forward again to chance a look at the clock, with a sensation of foreboding rising in his chest, to see just how long he had been consumed by editing.

     He let out a groan, "Ugh, I need to get to bed."

     Quickly saving his finished work and telling himself that he'd upload it first thing tomorrow morning, Thomas stood and stretched once more before he closed his laptop with a satisfied, little sigh. He laughed a little to himself, knowing it would probably be the early afternoon before he remembered that he had told himself to upload it earlier, but his eyes felt heavy and he was too tired to care. The sky and street were, of course, dark outside as he passed a window, his feet carrying his exhausted body through his apartment to turn off lights and head up the stairs to his room, his mind mulling over the next day or so; he wondered how well his video would be received, if he had truly done the best job he could, and what video project to work on next.

     Thomas was a YouTuber, and quickly becoming quite a popular one with a certain series that seemed to catch the attention of millions of his viewers. He would stand in front of a camera and talk to himself, as many others would do in videos, about dilemmas in his life such as a loss of motivation, or growing up, or fitting in. In truth, whether he chose to believe it or not, he was heralded among the online community as something of a wholesome, self-help guru. However, Thomas would solve these problems in way that no other YouTuber had truly dared to try, in a way that no other YouTuber truly could. He would actually speak to himself, or rather, the facets of his personality, directly.

     As in, he could conjure these facets to appear as people, out of thin air, to speak with them in a forum discussion to work through whatever his present issue was.

     He originally believed that they were simply imaginary friends of his in his youth, a coping mechanism he could turn to when the world around him seemed too much to handle that day. Perhaps, as well, maybe his imagination was just a bit more attentive to detail than most. It wasn't until his late teens, however, that Thomas began to realize that these sides of himself that he was conjuring and talking to seemed as real as he was, that they had a tangible, physical form that he could touch and, in the case of one particular facet of his personality, hug. Oddly enough, he was able to work through the shock of that discovery by talking it over with the facets themselves and that, as he grew from a child into an adult, there were four facets, or "sides," that held sway over much of his consciousness.

     The first was Patton, who was first conjured to embody Thomas's sense of right and wrong. While bearing Thomas's face like the other sides, he wore thick, black glasses and there were touches of gray peeking out amid the fuschia and brown locks of hair. To Thomas's younger eyes, he was a classic father figure, in his blue golf shirt and gray cardigan wrapped around his shoulders, telling him to help others in need, to always tell the truth, and to stand for what is right even when it is not always easy. As time wore on, though, and Thomas became older, Patton was found to be at the center of many of his deeper emotions, always there to cheer with Thomas through the fun times and be a shoulder to cry on in the not-so-fun times, but always ready with a corny joke. In truth, Patton was a contradiction in and of himself, as he was not only a moral father figure, but also the giddy inner child that outright refused to grow up. In his own words, Patton recognized that life was short, so he'd might as well make it short and fantastic.

     Shortly after Patton, as must be the answer to temper emotions, was Logan, the avatar of logic within Thomas's mind. To see him, he seemed a perfect counterpart and complement to Patton, with an equally thick pair of glasses and a sleek blue tie at the collar of his own black golf shirt. Logan always seemed to wear expressions ranging from cold calculation, to puzzled curiosity, to exasperated annoyance, the latter generally reserved for the distinct lack of common sense on the part of one of the other sides. In addition to serving as something of a mitigating force to some of the more fanciful thoughts floating in Thomas's head, Logan is also the thrill of discovery and a constant, nigh ravenous, thirst for knowledge. Throughout Thomas's life, there was always Logan in the center of his mind as he would read, driving the young man to read one more paragraph, which would inevitably turn into one more page, then one more chapter. For all that emotions, in Logan's own words, might be the bane of his existence, there has always been one source of commonground between himself and Patton: a boundless sense of wonder.

     As Thomas would grow, his youth shaped by fantasy stories and Disney musicals, it was inevitable that the facet of creativity would thrive within him, eventually taking the form of Prince Roman. Physically toned with a dazzling smile and perfectly groomed hair, Roman looked every bit the Disney prince he was created to emulate, donning a crisp white jacket with golden emblems and epaulettes and woven cords, wrapped in a bright scarlet sash. While a pompous diva more often than not, Roman always served as a driving force behind many of Thomas's creative exploits in singing and theatre, behaving as something far more than just a manifestation of creativity, but embodying those more complicated thoughts of self-expression, passion, and romance as well. While Patton could easily be termed as Thomas's heart, it was definitely Roman in the driver's seat when Thomas put his heart into something.

     With any creative endeavor, of course, comes the fear of failure, the what-if thinking, and regrets that everything could have been done just a little better, and it is in these anxious thoughts that Virgil was given form. Created by the spark of fear in Thomas's youth, Virgil started his existence as a defense mechanism to protect his host, but eventually grew into the little storm cloud on every clear horizon. Looking perpetually tired and morose, even without his smudged, smoky eye shadow, and donning almost all black clothing, Virgil could easily fit the metaphor as he incessantly continued to butt heads with Roman the dreamer, Logan the voice of reason, and Patton the eternal optimist. It had taken years before the three other dominant sides truly saw the good that Virgil brought to Thomas, keeping him moving each day before the others could take over for whatever task they had set ahead of him. In essence, as Roman had begrudgingly put it to him one day, Virgil was their stage manager, and no show ever gets off the ground without someone trusted doing the important work behind the scenes. In all honesty, being the backstage guy was quite pleasing to Virgil, since being in the limelight himself always served to get his own anxieties flowing.

     Thomas blinked back from his musing daze, surprised to find himself in his bedroom as he had gone through his nightly routine completely on autopilot, mentally exhausted from a day of editing. He padded over to the side of his bed to sit down, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Patton's fatherly nudging telling him to get changed so he wasn't sleeping for the next couple of hours in the dirt of the day. Groaning as he stood back up, he shucked off his clothes clumsily, inwardly pushing aside the more measured voice of Logan that told him to put his dirty clothes in the basket to keep the room tidy and organized.

     First thing in the morning, I'll put the clothes in the hamper, Thomas reasoned to himself as he turned off his bedside lamp and pulled himself under the covers.

     He sighed a little in delight as he nestled into his nest of sheets and blankets, purple hair already ruffled against the soft pillows as rest slowly began to overtake his body. Thomas sank further and further into relaxation before the taunting, gravelly voice of Virgil stirred up inside his head, conjuring up an image from grade school where he wet his pants during his chorus concert. The image seemed to come out of nowhere and Thomas himself let out a groan as he pulled his covers up over his head.

     "Nope!" Thomas blearily and quietly called out, "Not the time for that. It's time for bed."

     Just doing my job, Virgil seemed to respond before the room was quiet once again and Thomas, uninterrupted this time, was able to finally close his eyes and feel the sweet embrace of sleep.

     Today was over. Tomorrow would be another day.

Chapter Text

     When Thomas would sleep, dreams would generally fall under the purview of Roman, who personified all of the host's fanciful thoughts, passions, and fantasies, and this night was no different as Thomas surrendered himself to sweet slumber. His eyes closed and, as he sank further into blissful rest, dreams slowly began to tug at the edges of his vision. Little did Thomas actually realize that, inside his head, in the homey mindscape conjured by his imagination to house the four dominant facets of his personality, Prince Roman sat in his room, eagerly buzzing with creativity.

     Much like the other three facets of Thomas's personality, Roman's room was based heavily on his host's bedroom but with his own dramatic flair. The walls were painted a deep red and plastered, over almost every inch of free wall space, with Disney posters, posters of Broadway musicals, playbills, cast pictures of past shows, sheet music, and countless other mementos alluding to the passions in Thomas's life. Bookshelves were packed just as full and heavily disorganized, but every book appeared deeply loved and thoroughy read dozens of times. The posts of his huge four-poster bed reached up almost to the ceiling, draped in red curtains that seemed to just barely mask the messy bed within, red, gold, and white pillows tangled amid a scarlet blanket emblazoned with a pattern of golden crowns and white horses. Hanging down from the ceiling was a chandelier decorated with twisted branches and pointed antlers and, buzzing between the lit bulbs were tiny floating fairy lights that orbited the chandelier like a miniature sun.

     Roman himself, clothed in a fluffy red plaid fleece robe over silvery satin pajamas, sat at a polished mahogany desk in an overstuffed, brown leather cigar chair. He flipped through paperback books with covers adorned by fantasy heroes as well as dusty leather bound tomes that were scattered all over the desk, throwing down each book to write down another note on pieces of paper that were piled in four, misshapen, little stacks. He moved with singular purpose, eyes wide and bright with ideas and his tongue peeking out of the back of his mouth.

     Truth be told, Roman thought to himself, I really do love working in here.

     It was absolutely true that something about Roman's room got the creative juices flowing, but the same could be said of being able to think clearer in Logan's room, to feel a sense of happiness and cheerful nostalgia in Patton's room, and even the exhilarating, if sometimes unpleasant, sensation of nervous energy in Virgil's room. Their rooms were dedicated to what they were, and spending an extended amount of time in one would turn the inhabiting facet towards that end. A chill ran through Roman's body as he remembered the sensations of spending too long in, or even around Virgil's room; the wholly uncomfortable impression of nervousness that seemed to seep deeper and deeper into his spirit with each passing minute was completely unsettling. In short doses though, letting one of the other sides see things from another's point of view seemed to make the whole living situation between the four of them a bit easier to deal with.

     Roman smiled to himself as he thought of the plan he had hatched, plotting to bring the other three sides to his room for a night of unbridled creativity and wonder. The prince's hands moved even more feverishly over papers as he thought about events within the mindscape earlier that day.

----------

     "Morning, chum-chum-charoo!"

     Logan, the personification of logic within Thomas's mind, was seated in an armchair in the common room, his ankles crossed as he hummed along, off-key, to a half-remembered melody before freezing at Roman's greeting. He peeked up at the prince from behind a copy of Warfare in the Middle Ages: The History of Medieval Military and Siege Tactics, a pair of russet brown eyes, behind thick black glasses, only visible above the open book, one brow quirked. Just from seeing only half of his face, Roman could already sense the waves of annoyance rolling off of Logan at even the thought of his peace and quiet being interrupted.

     "Good morning, Roman," Logan simply replied, his words crisp and precisely spoken as always, "What do you want?"

     Roman knew that efficiency was one of the more desirable traits that Logan preferred, so time was truly of the essence in keeping this conversation going so the fanciful side could get the logical side on board for his plan.

     Roman looked at Logan with a visage of shock, "What!? I'm surprised at you, Logan! I can't just greet one of my fellow facets and tell him how deeply I value his..."

     The prince trailed off at seeing the unamused expression in Logan's eyes, Plan B, then. Direct approach.

     "Tonight," he answered, quick and to the point, "You. Me. Patton. Virgil. My room. Late night fun. Be there."

     "No, thank you," Logan responded curtly before his eyes returned to his book.

     Indignant, but his spirit beginning to deflate, the prince whined, "Come on! Whyever not?"

     Logan did not even bother looking up from his book again as he responded, "Because Thomas has a full day of editing to get through today, which is going to require all of my willpower to focus on the task at hand. That means that, this evening, when Thomas finally finishes, I would prefer to get a full night's sleep so that we can be productive tomorrow."

     "Come on, Logan!" Roman knelt down, resting his chin on the arm of Logan's chair, "It'll be fun!"

     "Then go ask Patton. He enjoys fun," the spectacled brain answered, unmoving.

     "I shall," the prince continued, undeterred, "after you say, 'yes.'"

     Turning a page, Logan dryly responded, "Then it appears as if this is going to be an unproductive day for you, but who's surprised there?"

     Letting out a frustrated sigh, Roman was quiet for another moment or two. While he had been expecting Logan to be the proverbial stick in the mud, he had not truly expected the intellectual to be so completely and vehemently against a night of fun.

     You could just tell him what you want to do, Roman thought to himself, before another thought quickly shut it down, No! What's the point of a surprise if you have to spoil it to get them to show up!?

     Roman contemplated Logan for another moment or so, the latter shifting in his seat once or twice, obviously noticing the former's uncomfortable gaze on him. The prince continued to think as he watched Logan's eyes peruse through yet another page before the teacher's fingers shuffled over the page corner.

     Then, he smiled before leaning in again, "Come on, Logan. Doesn't Thomas deserve a break tomorrow? He has been working me, his spirit of boundless creativity, to the bone to get all of the filming done for his new video, and today is only going to be a day of frustration as he tries to get that perfect transition, the perfect shots, the perfect... everything! Aside from uploading the video tomorrow, it's going to be a day of rest for him anyway. Where's the harm in all of us enjoying some downtime?"

     Logan's eyes stopped, and then a second or two later he rested the open book on his chest before turning his head to face Roman fully.

     "What are you planning?" Logan asked, his eyes zeroing in on Roman suspiciously.

     The prince held up his hands in mock surrender as he replied, "Nothing wild! Just come to my room tonight after the editing is all done and Thomas heads to bed. I promise that it'll be fun for everyone."

     Roman could see Logan weighing the choice in his head, so he pressed his argument, "Besides, isn't a night of fun and a day of rest here and there more conducive to a healthy mental outlook? Come on, Logan... please? Pretty please?"

     The fanciful side did his best to look at Logan with a sad pair of puppy dog eyes. With Patton, it would be a surefire way to get what he wanted, but with the logical side, it was always hit or miss depending on the day. Roman felt good about this one though, as he could see his simple, but effective argument winning in Logan's own mind. Another couple of moments seem to pass, and Roman held his breath...

     ...before Logan nodded, conceding.

     "Fine," he answered, "but just for tonight. We don't want this to become a habit."

     A rush of excitement flooded through Roman as he shot up from his crouched position, punching the air as he cheered, "Yes!"

     Phase one, complete! Roman thought to himself before looking back down at Logan, "Epic! Bring some snacks up to my room tonight! I'm off to snag the others!"

     As Roman ran off to another part of their mindscape house to harass Patton and Virgil, Logan shook his head and went back to his book, having to reread another section on the physics of ballistae.

----------

     Patton, the facet that embodied Thomas's morality, emotions, and inner child, sat at the table in the kitchen. His hand, a robin's egg blue crayon wrapped tightly in his fingers, was moving back and forth over a piece of paper to color in the sky behind stick figure drawings of their little tight-knit group. His tongue peeked out the corner of his mouth and the frenetic pace at which his hands moved shook his body as he sat in the chair, his thick glasses sliding down to the edge of his nose. A mug of hot chocolate, filled to the brim with marshmallows and whipped cream sat next to him, the floating sugar puffs bobbing with the motion of the fatherly facet's coloring.

     Roman watched from the entrance archway into the kitchen, completely unnoticed as Patton seemed to be in his own little world. The prince could hear a bit of nonsensical humming come from the side of morality, one melody bleeding into another with no real rhyme or reason. It was only when the song seemed to morph recognizably into A Bushel and a Peck from Guys and Dolls that Patton was shaken from his coloring-induced stupor. His hand stopped for a moment and he just stared into space for about five seconds, silently, before returning to his coloring and murmuring a decidedly different tune.

     The fanciful side actually felt for a moment like he was intruding on a private moment Patton was having with himself, and wondered whether he should wait an hour or so before trying to wrangle this new target into tonight's activities, when Patton looked up and the smile that spread across his face was instantly mirrored by Roman as if on instinct.

     How does he do that? Roman mused.

     "Well, hey there, hi there, ho there, Your Highness," Patton began, pushing his glasses from the edge of his nose back to the bridge, "Need somethin'?"

     "Thomas is taking a brief respite from editing, so I have some time before he has need of my talents again," Roman responded as he took a step or two past the threshold into the kitchen, his boot heels clicking on the linoleum floor as he walked up to the table, "You all right, my friend?"

     "Nah," Patton answered, shaking his head and his smile faltering, making Roman's own heart sink a little, before he looked up over the rim of his glasses, "I'm half left."

     Roman could not help the grimace that crossed his face or the groan that left his lips as he facepalmed, Patton continuing through his laughter, "Sorry, bud, I couldn't resist. But yeah, I'm doing pretty okay. Last couple o' days of filming kinda left us all feeling a little flustered, so I thought a little downtime coloring was the perfect thing to smooth out my edges."

     The prince stepped up to the side of the table so he can clearly see what Patton was drawing. He was greeted by a fairly blocky drawing of the four of them and Thomas on a field of green grass under a blue sky and a smiling, yellow sun. If Roman were being completely honest, it wasn't all that good, but the pride on Patton's face as he turned the piece of paper for Roman to see it better; that was truly all that mattered.

     The prince looked from the picture to the dad's face as a smile came to his lips, "That's very sweet, Patton. And colorful! And I do believe you truly captured the perfect balance of brown and purple in my hair."

     "Our hair color is all the same, but thanks a bunch," Patton replied, his cheeks turning a little redder at the praise before he proceeded, "What about you? Any plans to unwind once all the editing is done?"

     There's the opening, Roman thought to himself as he ran his fingers over the waxy blue and green horizon of Patton's picture, a moment or two passing before he answered, "Now that you mention it... Want to hang out in my room tonight with me, Logan, and Virgil? I have a surprise I want to show you guys."

     When the word "surprise" fell from his lips, he knew immediately that he had Patton in his grasp as he watched an excited grin spread across the other side's face before he broke into rambling chatter, "A surprise!? Sure! What is it!? Wait! Don't spoil it for me! And for Logan and Virgil, too!? You shouldn't have! I am kinda curious as to what it is, but I know that a surprise is a surprise and I don't want to ruin it..."

     Patton took in a breath, calming a little in the quiet second or two before he simply asked, "Should I bring anything?"

     "I certainly wouldn't mind a thermos of your famous hot chocolate," Roman responded, a smile on his own face that he didn't have to jump through hoops with Patton as he had to with Logan, "But truly, any snacks you wish to bring are perfectly fine with me."

     Patton smiled as he stood up from the table, his mind obviously abuzz at just what Roman was planning, as he spoke, "You got it, Roman!"

     As Patton started to move among the different cabinets and cupboards above and below the kitchen counter to begin making some more hot chocolate for all four of them, Roman took the time to truly look at the picture that Patton had drawn. The four of them, each dressed in their favorite outfits with fuschia hair, were all holding hands from one end of the page to the other. It was truly heartwarming and Roman simply could not help another smile from widening across his face.

     "Patton?"

     "Yeahp?" the moral side responded, turning around with measuring spoons in his right hand.

     Roman picked up the picture and looked at the other side through a swooped curtain of magenta bangs, "Would you mind terribly if I took this? I like it very much."

     Patton's cheeks burned the reddest Roman had seen yet, the red flush moving up even to his ears as he answered, "Sure thing! If you like it all that much, it's yours!"

     The prince brought the picture to his face, letting out a little squeak behind the paper at Patton's Beauty and the Beast reference, a blush of his own tinting his cheeks, "My undying gratitude!"

     With only another hearty chuckle, Patton turned back around, and Roman decided to leave the other side to the work at hand. The fanciful side had gotten what he wanted, and then some, but could not help feeling a combined sensation of pride and dread. The pride came from the fact that he managed to corral both Patton and Logan into his plan for the evening, and dread... Well, that came from the knowledge of what was ahead.

     Patton returned to humming as he worked, and Roman decided now was as good a time as any to pay a visit to Virgil.

----------

     The door to Virgil's room loomed tall and foreboding before Roman as the prince stood there, his fist mere inches from the door as his eyes glimpsed over the myriad of Keep Out signs taped all over the black wood. He was paralyzed from the memory of his last venture into anxiety's domain, where he had been left bitterly jittery and not very glittery, the extra rush of nervous energy sending his passionate side scrambling to overcompensate. His mind raced as the decision kept rising in his mind as to whether he wanted to put himself through all of that again.

     You could just pop in, Roman reasoned with himself, It'd be like jumping in a really cold pool. Shocking, unpleasant, but you'd get used to it quicker.

     While an enticing, Gryffindor-like notion, jumping headfirst into an uncomfortable situation, Roman shook his head to dispel the thought. The only reason that he and the others, along with Thomas, had popped into Virgil's room last time was because the anxious side had decided to completely remove himself from the situation and it was an emergency that needed immediate action. Somehow, the prince mused, a night of creative frivolity would not qualify for the same level of urgency.

     Going with plan B in regards to Gryffindor bravery, Roman simply bit the bullet and rapped his knuckles three times on the black door, admittedly a bit sharper than he would have cared to, before letting his hand fall to his side once again.

     There we go. First move made, he thought, waiting in the silence of the hallway for any kind of response from behind the door before him.

     In Roman's own mind, the suspenseful silence stretched on for far longer than he felt it truly should have, long enough for his mind to race with the possibilities that it could just be the three of them that evening while Virgil did his usual sulking and brooding. He was doing his best to include the anxious side in group activities that included everyone else, to make up for how he treated the gloomy side, even with the quips and sharp, barbed remarks the two continued to throw at each other. Patton had been right for so very long; Virgil was one of them, and an opportunity for fun should be shared between all four of them.

     I'm such a good person, Roman conceitedly mused to himself as he heard a slight brushing of noise from just behind the door, the creak and click of the turning doorknob, and then a shadowy, amber-colored eye peering out.

     "What?" Virgil asked, with only the single word lingering between them as the ball returned to the prince's court.

     Roman, giving his best royal smile, replied, "Greetings, friend! How art thou on this fine, breezy da...?"

     The prince's voice trailed off as he could practically sense the quirked, cynical eyebrow on the other side of the black door. Virgil never really had the patience for Roman's flowery approach to language, much in the same way as Logan did, and he was apathetically waiting for the fanciful side to quickly get to the point.

     "Look," Roman conceded, his shoulders slumping a little when his natural charm seemed to fail, "Patton, Logan, and I are chilling in my room later tonight. I have a surprise for you guys that I think you'll all enjoy. You in or out?"

     Quick, direct, and simply cutting to the heart of the matter was the best way to approach things with Virgil, Roman knew. Talking around the subject only invited doubt and assumptions, and, given the fact that the emo nightmare before him was the literal embodiment of anxiety and nervous energy, perhaps spelling it all out was just the way to go, that way there was no way for things to get misconstrued or lost in translation.

     Virgil came out a little bit from behind the door, smudged, smoky black eyeshadow stark against his white skin and beneath his amber eyes as he stood, wrapped in his oversized, black and purple hoodie. He slouched as he stood there, the polar opposite of Roman's own puffed out chest and confident demeanor. Silence continued on between them as Virgil simply regarded him, eyes wary as if he was searching for some unspoken signal or cue on Roman's own flawless face, objectively speaking, of course.

     As the quiet vigil wore on though, doubt slowly began to creep its way into Roman's mind as his smile twitched and faltered, Did I say something wrong? Did I stutter something? Was I unclear in some way about what I asked of him? Maybe my succinct wording of the request came across as more annoyed rather than straightforward and to the point? Doesn't he realize that I'm trying to be nice? What is wrong with him? What's wrong with me? Why is he still looking at me? Is there something on my face? Is there something in my teeth? Does my breath stink? Did I brush my teeth this morning? What if he says no? This whole plan would be ruined! Patton and Logan would surely think that I simply decided to not ask Virgil at all and they'll blame me for everything!

     Roman's face must've given something away, because when he snapped out of his inner monologue, Virgil was looking at him with a puzzled expression.

     The prince shook his head as he asked, voice cracking, "I'm terribly sorry. Did you say something?"

     "I said, 'yeah,'" Virgil responded, just as succinctly.

     Surprised at having not had to plead his case to the anxious side, it was Roman's turn to wear a puzzled expression.

     "What is it?" Virgil asked, his voice gravelly as his own eyes flashed with a touch of self-doubt, an inner monologue obviously running through his own mind this time.

     "I just," Roman began, clearing his throat as he stood there uncharacteristically sheepish, "I was half expecting to have to actually convince you to come along. Just pleasantly surprised is all."

     Virgil shrugged, his expression unchanging, "Well, I mean, yeah, I figure if I'm gonna try to do better about fitting in with you guys, I gotta take some kind of initiative. Besides, you came to me and decided to make a conscious effort to involve me. So, thanks, I guess."

     As Virgil shifted uncomfortably on his feet, scratching the back of his neck, Roman just smiled warmly, "Well, fantastic, then! Patton and Logan will be headed over once Thomas is out for the night, so feel free to join them as well."

     The prince, inwardly relieved at both getting an easily affirmative answer as well as getting away from the anxious aura that pervaded Virgil's room, turned on his heel to walk away, taking a few steps down the hall.

     "Wait up."

     Roman froze and spun back around to face Virgil, "Yes?"

     The anxious side looked down at the floor, his feet shuffling as he muttered, "Just, uh... Thanks. For including me."

     As Roman opened his mouth to give some sort of flowery remark and a flourished bow, he was met with the black door closing shut again. It would seem that Roman would have to be satisfied with only the peek of a blush that tinted Virgil's face behind his magenta bangs in the split-second before the door was closed.

     Satisfied, the prince continued back down the hall, his plan now set fully in motion, Game. Set. Match.

Chapter Text

     KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

     The sharp tapping shook Roman out of his reminiscing as his head snapped toward the door.

     "Just a moment!" he called out, standing up from his comfortable chair as he tied his robe closed around his pajamas.

     Roman closed his eyes for a moment, visualizing his room in the way he wished to rearrange it to accommodate the other sides this evening.

     Now comes the fun part, the prince thought to himself as he waved his hand once in front of him, channeling his imagination from out of his body and into the air around him, and smiled as he heard the rattling of objects around the room.

     Opening his eyes, he was greeted with the sight of his room shifting and changing around him to match the vision in his head. The red walls faded and cracked, along with the posters and memorabilia, with streaks of grain flowing through them to become planks of wood while intricately carved rafters wove from one side of the higher, newly-arched ceiling to the other. The bookcases, and everything on them, jumped out of their corners and shrunk before shoving themselves back into the walls as handmade windows, dusty rays of sunlight streaking in once each window found itself in place. The floor, normally a cozy cream-colored carpet, hardened to become a well-worn, scratched up, wooden floor. The desk that Roman was sitting at mere moments ago flew through the air, morphing into a large, square table, and situated itself in the middle of the grand, new room; the four haphazard piles of paper now recompiled themselves into neat, little stacks on each side of the table, as the overstuffed cigar chair seemed to clone itself three identical copies which found their way to the table as well. Roman's great, four-poster bed shuddered and sank into the wall to become a homey, stone and mortar fireplace, which immediately began to ignite and crackle happily, filling the room with the rustic scent of a campfire. The chandelier above, all twigs and antlers and fairy lights, remained the same amid the clamor above and below.

     Even after all these years, and even with the knowledge that he was the bulk of Thomas's imagination, Roman couldn't help but look around himself in awestruck wonder as only his imagination and will changed the world around him. He moved between the well-constructed chaos, picking up books and setting them up in neat piles, and humming A Spoonful of Sugar as he wove his way toward the door, which was now faded gray-brown wood wrought with iron. The prince's hand reached for the doorknob, cold black iron in his grasp, and turned it with a little creak. A puff of dust issued from the corners as he pulled open the heavy door, just a few inches so he could see the three other sides gathered outside in the hall.

     The three of them looked ready for a sleepover. Patton was smiling brightly, dressed in his cat onesie with his shoulders wrapped in his cat hoodie, carrying a plate of cookies in one hand and a big thermos in the other with four paper cups. Logan, in his baby blue unicorn onesie ringed with his signature necktie, hugged two snack bags, pretzels and potato chips, in one arm while his other hand came up to adjust his glasses. Virgil carried a little canvas bag at his side, two bottles of soda peeking out, as he shifted from foot to foot, wearing a The Nightmare Before Christmas t-shirt and purple and black plaid pajama pants.

     Roman looked at the three of them, a wide smile on his face, as he exclaimed, "I'm delighted that you all could make it!"

     Logan's brow furrowed as he replied, "We all live in the same house, Roman. And you cornered each of us."

     The smile on the prince's face cracked for a moment, with a hangdog expression breaking through, "Yes, well... It worked, didn't it?"

     "It sure did!" Patton's voice rang out, standing on his tiptoes to try and see past Roman into his room, "Now, you mentioned a little something about a surprise?"

     The usual bravado of the fanciful side's voice returned as he answered, "Indeed, kind sir! I think I have come up with a truly fun activity that is going to knock all your socks off!"

     Logan looked down at his feet for a moment, shaking his head before looking back up, "How would I know? My feet are completely enclosed in my current garment."

     "No," Virgil cringed, "too literal, still."

     Undeterred, Patton bounced excitedly, "Come on! Don't leave us hanging, Roman!"

     "Very well!" Roman exclaimed, before holding his hand out to them in a grand gesture, "Are the three of you ready for an evening of boundless imagination and creativity? Of intrigue and cunning and, even... dare I say it, a little magic?"

     "YES!" Patton screamed instantly, both Logan and Virgil jumping in shock.

     Adjusting his necktie, blushing from his outburst of emotion at Patton's sudden exuberance, Logan replied, "I suppose a bit of imagination and a sense of wonder are healthy to maintaining mental acuity, so I'm ready to take part."

     "Yeah, sure," Virgil responded, shrugging.

     "Well then," Roman continued as his other hand lay flush against the outside of his door, "Come on inside."

     With a push, Roman's door creaked open and the prince stood to the side to allow the three other sides to see within.

     Roman's bedroom had been completely transformed into the inside of a fantasy town's tavern. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all creaking, wooden planks that had faded with age and were wrought, like the door, in hammered iron. Handmade and hand-refined tables and chairs were placed all around the open floor, with empty stools sitting in front of a bar off to their right. Sunlight streamed in through windows, red curtains drawn to each side of every window, the beams of light visible thanks to a light haze of dust. Off to their left was a great stone hearth already crackling with a cozy fire, casting a happy orange glow across the floor before its light mingled with that of the sun, the wall lamps, and the chandelier above. In the center of the newly-refurnished room was an ornately-carved wooden table surrounded by four comfortable chairs and topped with papers on all four sides as well as a discolored parchment map in the center. All in all, the room itself was spectacular and seemed to be plucked out of any fantasy story that could have been buzzing through Roman's mind.

     Roman walked ahead of them, his slippered feet sliding on the wooden floor before he turned around to regard them, a smile on his face, "So? Am I good, or am I good?"

     Patton squealed in delight, "Oh my goodness!"

     Logan's eyes widened, "This is... impressive."

    Even Virgil could not help a look of wonder washing across his face, "Wow."

     The other three sides filed into the room, their faces awestruck as they inspected the new surroundings. Patton bounded around after placing his cookies and hot chocolate thermos on an empty table, heading to a window to see just how far Roman's imagination went. He was delighted to see a dirt road outside that wound off into the green countryside beneath a blue sky, brightened by a brilliant sun. If he did not know better, he would have sworn it was the same background from the coloring of his that Roman had taken. Virgil's path took him to the fireplace, where he held his hand close to the flame, a look of surprise on his face as he felt actual warmth emanating from it. His eyes then flicked up to the mantle, where candles were lit in a simple, little candelabra, a trickle of wax sliding down the side of the half-melted wax taper. Logan put down his bags of snacks and walked around like the others, swiping his finger over the top of a chair's back and grimacing as he saw a fine layer of dust on the pad of his fingertip. He rubbed his fingers together before making his way over to the decorated center table to look at the papers piled there.

     Walking a step or two past Roman, Logan nodded to himself, "Roman, this is a wonder. The level of detail your imagination can create... Really, truly well done."

     Roman closed his eyes for a moment, basking in the praise before answering, "I know, but it does warm my heart to hear it out loud."

     Virgil turned towards the two as well, his usual, somber sulking an obvious mask given the excitement sparking in his eyes, "I can't believe I'm the one to say this, but I kinda feel underdressed."

     The anxious side's eyes widened a bit at the thought of that sentence coming out of his own mouth. It was apparent that the aura of the room was already beginning to settle a bit.

     "I couldn't agree more!" Roman announced while pointing at Virgil dramatically, before he snapped his fingers to show off once again, "Boom!"

     Virgil looked down, his body suddenly feeling a fair bit heavier, to realize that the t-shirt and pajama pants he had once been wearing had been replaced by finery on par with Prince Roman. He wore a deep purple velvet doublet, with skulls and lilies embossed into the fabric, over a fitted, black linen shirt, trimmed with silver. A modest black and silver belt was wrapped around his waist, and his legs were tucked inside black and purple linen pants, ending in midcalf-length, black leather boots. In all, Virgil now looked, in many ways, the regal villain to Roman's hero.

     Anxiety looked up, his eyes now wide with surprise, "You changed my clothes!?"

     "Well, you did say you were feeling underdressed," Roman pointed out, inwardly proud but trying to keep his pride from bubbling too far up to the surface.

     "It was an observation!" Virgil argued.

     "Well, you look better like this," Roman dismissed, "Besides, I don't hear the others complaining!"

     "I don't know what you," Logan started before he looked down at himself, "Oh."

     Logan's unicorn onesie had disappeared in favor of his new, noble appearance. While simpler than Roman's usual outfit and Virgil's current one, Logan wore a simple black tunic, trimmed in blue and bronze, from his chest down to his lower thigh, belted with black and bronze at his waist, with a blue emblem on his chest that depicted a unicorn with an eagle sitting on its horn. He also wore blue pants that ended, very similarly to Virgil, in high, black boots.

     Patton, near the window, no longer wore his cat onesie, but was instead clothed from head to toe in an outfit similar to the others. A long gray vest, in a shade very similar to his cardigan and reaching down to his knees, hung over a teal blue shirt. The vest almost appeared to have teal and tan polkadots, but, upon closer inspection had a pattern of tan dogs chasing gray cats chasing teal balls of yarn. Below his brown and gold belt were tan pants with a teal stripe down each side which came down to gold-clasped, brown boots.

     Patton squeaked indignantly before looking up at Roman, his face colored with distress, "Where's my cat onesie!?"

     "It's safe!" the prince held up his hands in a comforting stance, "It's back in your room, safe and sound."

     "Oh, thank goodness!" Patton exclaimed, his hand on his heaving chest to calm his pounding heart.

     Logan shifted from foot to foot, his face puzzled, as if he were testing something for a few moments before he looked at Roman, "These are actually far more comfortable than I thought."

     "Well, though I do enjoy the finer things, why should one have to sacrifice comfort as well?" the prince nodded before looking back at Virgil, "See? It's just to get into the feel of it all. The clothes, the atmosphere, it's all to get into the spirit of the occasion! The surprise I have planned!"

     "You mean... ALL THIS," Logan gestured to their outfits and their surroundings as he regarded Roman, "wasn't the surprise?"

     "This?" Roman mused, imitating Logan's gesture as he walked over towards one of the other fine, stuffed chairs, his fingers moving over the brown leather, "Oh no, no, no. This, my friends, is merely set dressing for the main event. Speaking of dressing..."

     The prince snapped his fingers again, and his own pajamas disappeared to be replaced by his usual, regal attire. A bright scarlet sash was draped across a white shirt trimmed in gold, with a gold cord and epaulettes, that came down to a thin back belt at his waist and flowed further down to his knees. Fitted, almost tight black pants came down to perfectly polished, knee-high, back boots. He turned, regarding the other three, looking at them through a swooping curtain of purple bangs.

     Virgil looked up, nervous, "Main event?"

     The fanciful side smiled, his flair for the dramatic now apparent with every word falling from his lips, "Oh yes. You see, I gathered you all here for a very singular purpose. I promised you intrigue and imagination, courage and creativity, magic and..."

     "Muffins!" Patton added, smiling blankly.

     "Wha--? No," Roman chided, annoyed at being interrupted.

     "Sorry, muffin-osity. See? Two syllables, then five? Just like you did?" Patton thought he corrected himself.

     "No. Shut it," the prince shot him down again.

     "Sorry," Patton apologized, muttering, "Just wanted to hop on board the alliteration station."

     "Fine, whatever... As I was saying," Roman dismissed, before adopting his dramatic voice once again to pick up where he left off, "I have decided, this night, to introduce you to a game of wits and guile, where the only limit is that of your resourcefulness and ingenuity. Your willpower and creativity, on your own and in cooperation with others, will be sorely tested in the greatest..."

     "Scrabble?" Logan asked.

     "No, will you let me--"

     "Life?" Virgil tried.

     "No, if you would--"

     "Ooooh, Battleship!" Logan attempted again.

     "N... come on, guys--"

     "Candyland!?" Patton asked, bouncing.

     "NO!" Roman shouted, before grabbing a book from the table and holding it up next to his face, flushed red and a vein in his forehead pulsing, "WE'RE PLAYING DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS."

Chapter Text

     The other three sides' eyes shot to Roman as he finally snapped, revealing the name of the game that they would be playing. Each of them wore a curious expression as Virgil and Patton took tentative steps closer to the table, joining Logan.

     "Dungeons and Dragons," Logan commented, looking over the set-up Roman had laid for them on the table.

     It appeared to have been meticulously laid out for the game to come. On each side of the tabletop was a colored folder with each of their names emblazoned in gold: Roman with the thickest folder in red, next clockwise was Logan with blue, then Virgil on purple, and finally Patton on brown to Roman's right. At each side, as well, was a little brown leather bag and a yellow pencil. Between all four of them were two longer pieces of what appeared to be parchment, one being a map of some unknown country, and the other a blank grid of inch-long squares.

     Logan looked back up at Roman, his face puzzled, "This is actually a surprise. I would never have thought you the type who enjoyed tabletop role-playing games."

     Roman let out an amused scoff, "Ah! The creative side shirking an opportunity to show off his boundless whimsy!? Proposterous!"

     "You mean, for real?" Virgil asked, a look of surprise on his face, "Fireballs and demogorgons and stuff? I'm kinda with Logan. I never would've pegged you for it."

     "Well, stranger things have happened," Patton muttered, giggling under his breath.

     Logan held an admonishing finger at Patton, "No... No."

     "And why's that?" Roman asked, putting the book in his hand down onto his own folder in front of him.

     Virgil shrugged, "More of a nerd activity, I guess?"

     Roman gasps dramatically, "Virgil! I'm surprised at you! How could you be so narrow-minded as to think me capable of such judgment!?"

     "Really?" Virgil returned, "Right, like your first joke upon meeting Morality and Logic wasn't to call them nerds because of their glasses?"

     "Well, I wouldn't necessarily say," Roman began, before being interrupted by Logan.

     "And your initial distaste for Virgil, due in large part to his representation of social anxiety, a trait shared by many who have suffered judgment due to eclectic interests not being fully understood by their peers?" Logan asserted.

     "You're on his side!?" Roman gestured between the logical and anxious sides.

     "Nerds unite," Virgil quipped, before he and Logan, not even looking at each other shared a fist bump and echoed in unison, "Boom."

     Logan smiled and muttered under his breath, "Savage."

     "Now, come on, guys," Patton gently scolded, his hands on his hips, "Roman is actually taking a big leap of faith in trusting us with this interest of his, and don't forget that he invited us here to share this with us."

     Roman turned and gave his seeming ally a winning smile, "Thank you, Patton. Very well said..."

     "So it is absolutely okay if he's as big a nerd as the rest of us," Patton continued, not even looking over as the prince deflated.

     "Anyway," Roman brusquely carried on before softening, "Yes, I will admit that this venture is a tad more... cerebral than what you lot would usually expect of me, but I've been planning this story for a while and, well, it's something that I want to share with all of you."

     Virgil and Logan regarded him skeptically for a moment, before Virgil asked, "No pranks? No tricks? Just... four guys playing a game?"

     Roman nodded, his eyes bright, "Yes. Do you trust me?"

     In the silence of the moment, the other three shifted uncomfortably around the table as they all exchanged looks, having a silent conversation back and forth. It normally took a lot more needling to make Roman open up like this, and, if the events of the day were any indication, he actively tried to get them all together for tonight, taking the time to speak with each of them one on one, even Virgil. Between the change of his room, the level of detail on their outfits, and all of the setup for the game, it was apparent that he had gone through a fair bit of time solely for their benefit. After a moment or two, they all seemed to come to the same conclusion; if Roman had been planning a night of fun for all of them, to include everyone, who were they to burst his bubble?

     "Alright, Roman," Logan conceded, angling the comfortable chair closest to him so he could sit down to the prince's left, and scooting himself in, "Count me in."

     "Can't wait to see what you have in store for us!" Patton did the same to Roman's right, seating himself down in front of his given folder, muttering, "I'm so proud of my boys."

     Virgil still stood, his eyes doing his best to read the face across from him, and, while the two shared the same exact face of Thomas, it was incredible to all of them just how much their different personalities seemed to color their features. Between Virgil and Roman, tumbling magenta bangs over smokey amber eyes staring through a fuschia swoop into honey-colored eyes, it almost felt like a battle of wills. A moment passed unspoken between the two before the anxious side finally took his seat directly across from the fanciful side.

     "I got nothing better to do tonight," Virgil mumbled, giving a half smirk to the rest of the table, "Never let it be said that I wasn't a team player... sometimes."

     "Outstanding!" Roman beamed at his seated players as the brightness of his eyes doubled in his exuberance, "Now, generally, with a game like this, you'd all spend time creating characters and backstory and, while that can be great when you guys get the hang of playing, for this time around, I've created characters that I think you might enjoy."

     He clapped his hands together before gesturing to the folders, "If you guys could open those up?"

     Roman watched with bated breath as the other three sides opened their folders and rifled through their papers. At first, there were furrowed brows of confusion on all three of their faces, and, as the seconds dragged on, Roman's own brow began to furrow with doubt as he wondered whether they were going to start off the whole adventure displeased with their roles. That doubt was immediately disproved as a smile appeared on Patton's face, then on Logan's as he rested his jaw on his fist, seemingly completely drawn into what he was reading. Even Virgil's face had lost that usual edge of his and now his character sheets were held in both hands as his eyes zoomed across the page.

     "So? Can I make the introductions?" Roman asked, bursting at the seams to truly set the stage for his players.

     A general murmur of Logan's, "Proceed," and Virgil's, "Go ahead," mixed with Patton's, "The chair recognizes... my butt! Heehee, but you go right on ahead, Roman."

     Amid the groans from Logan and Virgil, Roman actually pointed right at Patton, his voice again adopting that theatrical flair, "You, Patton are going to play the role of Sir Dauntless, a young Blessed Knight of the Order of the Father. You're a paladin, fresh-faced and eager of course, but still able to stamp out evildoers, and evil spirits, with the tremorous force of your hammer, the stalwart strength of your shield, and the fearsome radiance of your good and just spirit. With your abilities, you can dispel dark forces and magic, heal and rally allies, and resolutely stand firm as a holy beacon of light against the forces of evil!"

     "Oooh, I like that," Patton murmured, his eyes wide with wonder, "Well, I don't know about you fellas, but being holy and doing good works doesn't really pay much. The benefits, though, are just..."

     "Don't," Logan warned.

     "...heavenly," Patton finished, snickering to himself.

     Logan groaned to himself before Roman's dramatic voice rang out again, "Logan! You will be portraying an acolyte of magic by the name of Tennyson."

     "I noticed in reading," Logan pointed to his character sheet, "No doubt named for Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Poet Laureate of Great Britain and Ireland and still one of the most celebrated British poets to this day."

     "With one of his most notable works being Idylls of the King," Roman added, smiling as Logan caught on and seemed content with the name choice, "a collection of poems centered around the tales of King Arthur."

     Logan mused, a smile on the corner of his lips, "That is quite insightful, Roman. Please, do continue."

     "As I was saying," Roman resumed, boosted by the praise from his players, "Tennyson, you are a wizarding acolyte of Wickswane School of Magic, spending your days reading and training to perfect your skill in the magical arts until that fateful day when you must venture out into the world to discover your place in it. Will you be a force of good, aiding townsfolk with your arts? A force of evil, bending all to your will? Or perhaps simply a force of nature, an unstoppable reckoning that your foes are powerless to stand against, like the coming storm."

     "You do paint quite a picture, Roman," Logan complimented.

     "Now do Virgil!" Patton exclaimed happily, clapping at each word.

     Virgil hid his face in his hands, mumbling, "Phrasing, please."

     Roman decided to grant Patton's request, turning towards Virgil, a dark grin on his face, "And Virgil, you are Blackwood, a rogue scraping out a modest living doing whatever work you can in the city of Oldhollow. Lying, cheating, stealing, cleaning up messes, in a discreet manner, of course, but no job is too dirty as long as it puts some coin in your pocket. You dream of more though, fatter marks to rob, darker, juicier secrets to sell, more gold to line your pockets to get yourself out of the slums of the city and be set for life. You await that day, patiently, taking whatever work you can. Patience is truly a boon to your trade and to that of your weapon, the bow. The patience to line up that perfect shot, just to hear that little thwip and the jingling of riches headed your way."

     Virgil looked at his character for a second or two before his eyes came back up to meet Roman's, "You know, I can't help but notice that you made Patton and Logan paragons of justice and higher learning, and I'm just on the lookout to stab my next meal ticket."

     The prince's eyes suddenly widened as panic started to well up inside his chest at the thought that he had inadvertently still held onto a bias against Virgil, enough to make him a criminal, nay, an undesirable, even in a fantasy game. The thought that his game was going to crash to the ground before it even began immediately ran through his mind.

     Roman sputtered, "Wha--? No! That's not how I meant..."

     "Just had to needle you a bit," Virgil confessed, smirking a little as he waved off his mock offense, "I'm good."

     Breathing a sigh of relief, Roman rounded back to his own chair, his boots thumping on the wooden floor.

     Just before he sat down, Patton piped up, "Wait a sec, Mister Game Master, what about you?"

     "Indeed," Logan added, puzzlement and curiosity on his brow, "Who will you be portraying?"

     Roman looked at his assembled party with a smile, "I'm glad that you asked. I will be playing Prince Roman Coronam, of the first royal family of Estea. A fearsome warrior with tons of charisma, I had been forced to flee the capitol after my evil younger brother, Adam, stole my rightful crown. Now, I ride through the countryside atop my noble steed to right wrongs, win the hearts of the people, and, in time, gather allies to my side to strike back against my loathsome brother and reclaim my birthright!"

     There was silence in the room for a moment or two before Virgil piped up, "Well, that's original."

     "So," Logan added, "we are to be the supporting cast for one of your fantastical, nonsensical advenures?"

     "Yes," Roman admitted, a smile still plastered on his face.

     Patton jumped with a look of excitement on his face, "Oh, does this mean we get to fight a dragon witch, too!?"

     "I don't know. Probably," the prince answered.

     Logan continued, "Why your name, though? I mean, you thought up such wonderful names and backstories for our heroes. Why short change yourself?"

     "Well, what better hero is there for me to play than the greatest hero I know?" Roman gave the logical side a look of disbelief, as to say, "You had to ask?"

     "Right. Conceited," Logan stated.

     Virgil nodded, "Yeah, I could've told you that one, Logan."

     "Shall we continue?" Roman asks, his voice stern before he sits down in his own chair, completing the assembled set of them.

     They all ready their own spaces in relative silence, with the prince setting his red folder up to act as a screen so that the other players cannot see their gamemaster's notes. Patton happily flips through the pages in his own folder, reading little snippets here and there on the holy abilities his character, Dauntless, has in his arsenal. Virgil shifts in his seat, trying not to get too comfortable in the aura that pervades Roman's room, but finding that the squishy, warm seat that cradles him is making it very difficult to stay vigilant.

     It is Logan who looks around at his own gaming space before looking over at Roman, "Do we have dice? I was under the impression such items were required for this game."

     "Indeed you do," Roman answered and, above the shield of his folder, he emptied his little leather bag into his hand, rolling out a myriad of transparent red dice, flecked with gold: a four-sider resembling a pyramid, four six-sided dice, an eight-sider, two ten-siders with one marked in increments of ten, a twelve-sider, and the infamous twenty-sided die.

     "Yet another gift to you, my friends," Roman added, his hands held out like the gracious host, "A set for each of you to shape your own destiny within my realm!"

     Patton quickly upended his bag, squealing as he sees enameled rainbow dice spill out across his gaming space, little gold numbers emblazoned on each side as he admired each and every piece.

     Logan also emptied his bag much in the same fashion as Patton, though corraling them with his hands to keep them from scattering all over the table. He hummed in approval at seeing his dice were a deep blue, almost black, with stark white numbers, and swirled with specks of white, blue, purple, and green, like the aurora in the night sky.

     Virgil also took the little leather bag in hand, but reached inside to pull out a singular, random die, choosing his own twenty-sider. His dice were a hazy stormcloud gray streaked with veins of lighter and darker shades and numbered in a deep plum purple. Virgil rolled the die over and between his fingers, the corner of his mouth turning up at how they seemed to feel right in his hand.

     Roman's heart swelled with pride as he watched the faces of each of his players light up at seeing their personalized dice.

     His voice cracking just the tiniest bit, just once, the prince spoke, "We have the atmosphere just right, snacks at the ready, your characters are created, and you are each armed with that which will make or break the adventure before you.

     "I ask you all, one, last time," Roman eyed each of his players, all of them, even Virgil, hooked on every dramatic word to come from his mouth, "Are you ready?"

     "Let's go, my dudes," Patton replied, practically bouncing in his seat.

     "As you would say, Roman," Logan answered, before posing himself for but a moment, "'Onward to adventure!' I'll stop that now. Too silly."

     Virgil simply nodded in response, silent, but there was a spark in his eyes that spoke volumes.

     "Very well," Roman spoke, "Welcome to the land of Estea, my lords! For generations, it was a quiet realm, ruled by the benevolent monarchs, King Esmond and Queen Madelynn, until tragedy struck the royal family! Taken by an unknown illness, I, Prince Roman, was next in line to claim the throne, but my dastardly brother, Adam, raising his armies and generals, usurped my birthright, forcing me to flee into the countryside with only what my steed and I could carry."

     Roman paused as he looked around the table, inwardly thrilled as everyone kept their eyes glued to him in rapt attention. This feeling, the attention, the quiet laurels, the silent praise, coursed through Roman, and that warmth that filled his heart was what he truly lived for.

     "I ride into the night until I come across a tavern, much the one that we are currently sitting in. Unbeknownst to me, I would be meeting three men who would shape my destiny. I dismount my horse and enter the tavern, seeing among the rabble, a warrior dressed in gleaming, silver armor at the bar with a hammer at his waist, a dark stranger by the window with his feet up on a table, his eyes unblinkingly watching the room, and a mage poring over a thick tome in a corner. It's a crowded night at the tavern and you see a nobleman, run ragged by a day's ride, lumber into the building. What do you do?"

     The prince smiled as he looked around at his players, all of them thinking for a moment as to what they, or rather their characters would do in the given situation.

     Roman mused, This is going to be amazing!

Chapter Text

     This is turning into a disaster! Roman thought as his fingers threaded through his hair, tugging at the magenta strands.

     In the span of an hour of these four facets sitting around the table and beginning this game, it had descended into utter chaos. In the meticulously detailed questline Roman had thought up for them, the titular character of Prince Roman was supposed to enter the tavern, ask for people to join him on his quest, be groveled to by the mayor, join up with a paladin and a mage, wrangle the thief, and the four of them would be on their merry way. Simplicity itself, or so the fanciful side had thought.

     Like all well-laid plans however, it did not seem to survive standing up to his players.

----------

     "What do you do?" Roman asked, having painted the picture for his players of Prince Roman entering the tavern after a hard day's ride.

     After a moment or two of contemplative silence, Virgil piped up first, "Is everyone's attention on the man who just entered?"

     Roman paused for a second before responding, "Yes. All attention seems to be focused on me."

     "What a surprise," Logan mumbled under his breath.

     "What was that?" the prince asked the logical side with a touch of irritation.

     Logan answered a bit louder, "Order some fries. As in what I think Tennyson would be doing at this point in time."

     "Now that's all fine and good, Lo-- I mean, Tennyson," Patton interjected, "But I think it's still Blackwood's action here."

     "Yes," Virgil added, "Now, if I may?"

     The group of them gestured and murmured for him to continue.

     Taking a breath, the anxious side asked, "You said that there were other people milling around the tavern and stuff. Is there anyone close by, say, at the bar, who looks like they have money?"

     "Why do you need to know that?" Roman asked, not quite sure where this line of logic would lead.

     Virgil shrugged, "I'm a thief. It's what I do."

     Roman paused for a moment before stating, "Roll Perception."

     For the first roll ever, Virgil had to look around his page to determine the numbers that made up the entire mechanic of the game. He looked at his skills, perception modifier, determined what needed to be added to his roll, and then rolled his d20. It came up with a seventeen. A cheer arose from both Patton and Logan at the high roll.

     "Rolled a seventeen," Virgil reported, before calculating out loud, "Then, add perception modifier... 21?"

     "Blackjack, Blackwood!" Patton complimented.

     After flipping through his notes, a bit more flustered and attempting to hide it from the others at the table, Roman replied, "I... Umm... Yes! At the bar, there is a gentleman who seems a bit more well-dressed than the others milling around the place. A bit more gold on his person than you're used to seeing. He had just ordered a drink and is now focused on the new arrival."

     Virgil states his intentions simply, "I'm gonna pickpocket him."

     "What!?" Roman looks at him wide-eyed, "Why!?"

     "I'm a thief," Anxiety states again, "It's what I do."

     "'I'm a thief. It's what I do,'" the prince imitates before pointing at Virgil, "Roll it!"

     A bit more sure of what he is doing now, Virgil shakes the twenty-sided die in his hand before tossing it onto his character sheet. His exhilaration dropping as he looks up with a grimace.

     He confesses, "Rolled a two, for a grand total of five."

     "He catches you," Roman relays simply before adopting a gruff voice to act like the man whom Blackwood had just tried to pickpocket, "What do you think you're doing!? Do you know who I am!?"

     Virgil asked, confused, "Do I know who he is?"

     "Yeah," Roman answered, "He's the mayor."

     Both Virgil and Logan exclaimed in frustration.

     Virgil shot first, "Well, wouldn't I have known that!?"

     "Indeed," Logan added, "Considering that Blackwood is, at least, even slightly proficient in acts of larceny, and most likely would've been learning the ins and outs of this town, as well as its own elite, in order to do business, it stands to reason that he would have known that this man was the mayor. As such, that information would've surely forced him to modify his approach or encouraged him to choose a different target."

     "However, as a pickpocket, he must also realize that stealing from anyone runs the risk of getting caught and being turned over to the law. He simply expedited the trip this time," Roman reasoned before turning back to Virgil, "Four other men at the bar turn to face you. They seem to be the mayor's hired bodyguards and they're armed."

     Virgil groaned, but accepted, thinking for a moment before proposing, "Gonna try to bluff my way out of this."

     The anxious side looked down and cleared his throat before looking back up at Roman, with a sympathetic sparkle in his eye as he spoke, "Please, Mr. Mayor, sir, I was just trying to get past you to order a drink of my own."

     "Roll your bluff," Roman told him.

     Patton then piped up, "Can any of us hear what's going on between them?"

     "I would imagine so," Logan answered, looking from the moral side to the fanciful side, "I mean, you're at the bar and the mayor just drew attention by yelling."

     Roman just waved it off, "If you're at the bar, yes, you can hear the exchange. But you also have to roll a sense motive check as to whether you believe the thief or the mayor. Virgil, roll your bluff!"

     The pitter-patter of two d20s rolling on the table was followed quickly by their results.

     "Rolled a ten, which would make it a thirteen," Virgil revealed.

     "I rolled a one," Patton declared, and eyes sprang open from the other three players, "What? Is that bad?"

     "Critical failure on a sense motive check," Roman explained.

     Logan reasoned, "Wouldn't that just mean that he's purely convinced of Blackwood's truthfulness?"

     "And did I manage to convince anyone else?" Virgil added, "Like any of the armed men here who are about to skewer me?"

     Roman rolled his own sense motive rolls behind his own screen before looking up at Virgil opposite him and shaking his head, "No, the mayor and his guards aren't moved by your story, but it woud appear the heavily armored warrior further down the bar looks to get a better view of what's going on."

     The prince, flustered with trying to keep up when his story idea had been turned sideways already, then turned to Patton, "Dauntless, in drinking at the bar, you hear a ruckus and turn to see a well-dressed gentleman yelling at another man, calling him a thief while the accused states, quite convincingly to you, that he was just trying to order a drink of his own. The well-dressed man and his guards appear to be ready for a fight. What do you do?"

     Patton shrugged, "If someone's getting picked on, I guess it's only right stand up for him."

     Roman gestured for the father figure to continue while feverishly and surreptitiously turning through his notes.

     "Well, I walk up to the lot of them and try to keep things civil," Patton continued before clearing his own throat and trying his best to play a character, "Let's keep things nice and easy in here, folks. No need to be harsh and hasty."

     The fanciful side piped up as the mayor,"But he's a thief!"

     "All I heard was this little guy trying to get a drink while you and your boys are hogging all the room," Patton fired back, "So why don't we all just calm down and let everyone go about their business?"

     "Why don't you mind your own business, out-of-towner?" Roman answered, and the moral side first had a look of shock on his face before seeming to realize that it's part of the game.

     Patton actually turned in his chair to face Roman, a dead serious look on his face, "My business is protecting the weak and innocent from getting stepped on."

     "He tried to steal my money!" Roman asserted.

     Patton shot back, "He was trying to get past!"

     "And you're a blind fool who'll hang alongside this cutpurse if you stay in my way!" the prince spat.

     A moment of silence filled the room, the tension thick as Virgil and Logan looked between Patton and Roman, actually wondering whether the two would come to blows over the outburst.

     In his most measured, calmest voice, Patton asked, "I do have my hammer, correct?"

----------

     What followed was a display of carnage as Patton had Dauntless lift his hammer and proceed to steamroll over the mayor at the mere hint of his threat against not only Dauntless, but of Virgil's character, Blackwood, as well. Panic, of course, gripped the rest of the tavern as the heavily one-sided fight ensued. Logan, or Tennyson, was eventually dragged into the fight as well when a stray body amid the bar brawl came crashing into him. One missed fireball later saw the bar set ablaze, with the fire eventually spreading to the tavern itself and Blackwood doing his best simply to avoid destruction wherever he could. Roman himself, too stunned at how quickly the humble beginning of his story had gone so horribly awry, simply sat as the events played out, the gamemaster too busy trying to keep up with the other holes in his sinking ship to man his own boat. Within an hour of the game starting, the three of them had laid the tavern itself to waste, and, between death by hammer, death by fire, or just the sheer pandemonium of the moment, no one had been left coherent enough to give them a clue as to where they were supposed to go next.

     Roman's head sank down beneath his screen, saying nothing but only letting out a strangled groan.

     Kill me now, he thought to himself as he slowly bashed his head into the table repeatedly, each time the light impact resounding with a dull thump.

     "Wow, well all that imagination has really worked up an appetite," Patton leaned back in his chair, a dopey, cheerful smile on his face as if he had not just shot days of gaming plans right down the toilet.

     Logan called from the table as the moral side opposite him stood up to amble over to the table where he had put down his plate of cookies, "I still don't see how you, with your one hammer, however impressive, can match the debilitating effects of, not only severe burns, but also smoke inhalation. It's completely unrealistic!"

     "What's completely unrealistic is how close I came to death multiple times thanks to you two!" Virgil interjected, pointing an accusing finger at both Patton and Logan.

     At the table, Patton mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie, "Nobody talks about my son like that."

     "He's not your son!" Logan answered heatedly, "He was playing an arbitrary character in a game who, if you'll remember, actually DID do what he was accused of!"

     "Attempted to do what I was accused of," Virgil corrected.

     "Semantics," Logan dismissed, "You were guilty."

     Patton continued to talk around the cookie in his mouth, "So it's completely okay for them to threaten to hang him? And me for defending him?"

     "Blackwood and Dauntless, not Virgil and Patton," Logan replied, "And does that mean it's completely okay just to smash them all with a hammer!?"

     Patton swallowed his cookie before grabbing another, "From what I saw, a bully and his cronies were picking on my defenseless, little guy."

     "So you kill them!?" Logan squawked, incredulous.

     Virgil chimed in, "Unless I'm mistaken, you lit the tavern on fire because someone bumped into you. At least, Pat-- Dauntless acted in defense of someone else."

     "Awww, shucks," Patton blushed at the unexpected defense, "Call me a proud papa."

     "Still a thief," Virgil pointed out, "so I wouldn't be too proud."

     "Already stole my heart, kiddo," the moral side answered, before turning back to Logan, "It's a good point though. And, with all that talk of smoke and burns before, you seemed like you wanted to cause more damage than anything else. Almost..."

     Patton paused for a moment before his eyes lit up with understanding.

     Logan regarded him curiously, "What?"

     "Almost," Patton repeated before looking the logical side dead in the eyes, "like you wanted to be the star of the show."

     Another pause swept through the room as the accusation seemed to settle in the air.

     Logan tried to explain, tongue-tied as his mouth tried to keep up with the racing thoughts in his head, "N...No, that is not the reason why I acted the way that I... I was simply stating that there was a more effective..."

     "Up until you joined in, it pretty much was just me and Patton," Virgil interrupted.

     "'Patton and me,'" Logan corrected him venomously.

     The anxious side dismissed the obvious deflection, "Whatever."

     "I mean, it's totally okay," Patton comforted, but with a little grin at the edge of his lips, "It's just a game, right? It's okay to want to be in the limelight."

     The barely-contained giggling noticeably frustrated Logan before his own eyes widened in understanding, "It's the room."

     "The whuh?" Patton asked, not following logic's line of thought.

     "The room!" Logan burst, before explaining, "We're in Roman's room, the seat of passion and fantasy and where the love of performance within Thomas was born and fostered! It all makes sense!"

     "Uhhh," Patton looked at Logan slack-jawed before weakly offering, "Cookie?"

     "Meaning you're under the room's influence?" Virgil asked, trying to put together the reasoning behind the logical side's babbling.

     "Yes!" Logan exclaimed before he continued, "But not just me! You two as well!"

     He was met with vacant looks, so he went on to explain, "Virgil, at the very beginning of the game, you acted very unlike yourself, in being the first to ask a question about the surroundings and the first to actually take a risk in pickpocketing the mayor. In any other given situation, you would have bided your time, seen how the mechanics of the game flowed and then moved with them."

     "Go with the flow," Patton giggled under his breath.

     "And you, Patton!" Logan continued, hurling what appeared to be an accusatory finger at the other side, "While you have shown in the past to have something of a soft spot in protecting Virgil from harm or criticism, charging to his rescue, the rescue of his character, no less, whom your own character doesn't even know, seemed quite... reckless."

     "LIKE A GRYFFINDOR!" Patton gasped, hands to his mouth and eyes wide.

     "Not to mention the fact that, even as just a character in a game, you fought tooth and nail to protect someone you love," Logan continued to reason, "Quite the passionate act."

     Patton shrugged, his face flushing a little, "Well, I love all my guys."

     Logan kept spewing his stream of consciousness, "And then, finally there's me. You two were absolutely right. More than anything, I wanted to join in, to be noticed and have my character make an impact right from the very start. It's a little disconcerting, I'll admit, but I think I'm beginning to understand what Roman sees in his frivolous stage displays."

     Patton's eyes widened as he cast them towards Roman's seat, a dull thump still pulsing from behind his gamemaster's screen, "Ummm... speaking of Roman..."

     Virgil and Logan continued their conversation undeterred.

     "Are you saying that we're only going to get more," Virgil asked before gesturing between the three of them, "like this?"

     Logan answered, "Quite possibly. I think the best course of action is for us to adjourn to the common room. That way, if we wish to continue, we can do so without the room's influence affecting our judgment."

     The thumping continued to drone on, Roman's legs not moving under the table as Patton squeaked, "Guys?"

     "I agree," Virgil nodded before the two of them stood up.

     "Come along, Patton," Logan gestured towards the moral side, who was still rooted to his spot, "And you, too, Roman. I understand that this was something you had been planning, but maybe it was a little much for our first go-around."

     Patton squeaked again, not a word coming from his mouth as Logan and Virgil followed his gaze.

     Aside from the dull thumping of his head against the table that had persisted through the whole of their conversation post-tavern havoc, Roman hadn't made a move or a sound over the last several minutes. It was truly an eerie prospect, considering the prince's usual propensity for speaking at length regardless of whom was around or even had a wish to hear him. To see him, or rather, only the lower half of him below the table, so still and silent was unsettling.

     Logan cleared his throat, nervously, "Umm, Roman? While this was a valiant effort on your part to get us all together for a fun evening activity, I think maybe we should move to another setting. Perhaps the common room or the kitchen?"

     Patton added, his voice tremoring, "It's a fun game, buddy. Why don't we set back up downstairs?"

     Virgil himself was too stunned or frightened to move or speak, his eyes watching the screen as the dull thump, thump, thump continued through the air.

     All of a sudden, the thumping stopped.

     Then, from the table, in a low, rumble with Roman's timbre but not his usual whimsy, a voice answered, "What makes you think you'll be going anywhere?"

     From the side of the screen, Roman's arm stretched out slowly and then, in a flash, he swiped it across the table, sending the screen and a stack of papers and dice, Patton's in fact, scattered across the wooden floor.

     It was undeniably Roman before them, with his flawless skin and honey eyes behind the swoop of purple hair, but the expression he wore was very unlike him. A vein throbbed in his forehead and his eyes watered. He appeared tired, his normally perfectly coifed hair sticking up erratically from having tugged at it. Patton gasped at the sight, and both Logan and Virgil felt their stomachs drop out as they recognized the look scrawled on the prince's face. They had seen sadness, exhaustion, annoyance, even anger adorn his features before, as they would, given the fact that Roman embodied Thomas's passion. This look crossing the fanciful side's face was something else entirely, something beyond.

     This was pure, unbridled fury.

     This is what I get.

     Roman's eyes bore into the other three sides before him, all of them staring back at him with a mixture of fear and uneasy foreboding. The prince's hands twitched and flexed, one set of fingernails digging into the table and the other digging into the armrest of his chair, actually ripping through the leather and touching the stuffing underneath. It was taking every ounce of control he had not to simply throw himself at the other sides. His mind raced with words and intentions and disappointment, unable to keep up with the deluge of emotions and thoughts that overwhelmed him.

     This is what I get for having ideas. This is what I get for acting on an idea that was mine, mine alone, one that I didn't have to share with Thomas to give him inspiration, one that I could keep all to myself. This is what I get for wanting to share that idea with these other aspects, my so-called friends, for doing my best to include them in something that made me happy. I showed them something I loved, something I worked hard on, something I slaved over for weeks to make sure that every detail was perfect. I went to each of them, wanting to surprise them, putting myself on the line to be rejected or humiliated. I brought them to my room, my personal realm of fantasy and wonder and awe, a place to give them a little nudge so they wouldn't have to worry about looking silly when portraying these characters that I specifically designed for each of them. I gave them me.

     "Hey, Princey," Patton coaxed taking a step or two towards the table, "So, ummm, I can tell that you're kinda miffed. Want to talk about it?"

     And they squandered it.

     They took a quest that would have given them no end of thrills and surprise and intrigue, and twisted it until it was nothing. Even that could've been forgiven. They were all new to this, after all, but then they bickered amongst themselves, throwing good-natured jibes about how they hadn't done enough. How Logan could've done more to lay waste to my land of fantasy, how he, in reality, would've done more damage. How Patton saw this as some kind of inane board game and not something to be experienced, to actually be a part of a fairy tale and have a say in how the story unfolds. And Virgil, he was the one to make the first twist that made everything fall apart.

     Virgil spoke up, obviously nervous and shaken, "R...remember when we were in my room? Breathe in for four seconds? Holding for seven seconds and then out for eight seconds? Maybe that can help?"

     They didn't understand, they couldn't understand the depths that a creative soul plumbs for inspiration. They make up the logic, emotions, and insecurities of one person. Yes, I represent Thomas's creativity and passion, but I'm so much more than that. I am his dreamer. I create worlds and the people and things within them, all inside this mind. Every rock and hill and blade of grass, every lion, rabbit, and spider, every man, woman, and child across hundreds of fictional fantasy worlds that Thomas can pull from on a whim. My god, even the inspiration for the Sanders Sides themselves was due to my genius in no small part!

     "Roman," Logan joined in, trying to simulate Patton and Virgil in giving some kind of comfort, "You're angry at us. Can you help us to understand?"

     Help them understand? Roman repeated in his own mind, slamming his palms down into the table, making the others jump at the sudden noise, and then slowly rising to his feet, I can help them understand.

     "I can certainly do that, Logan," Roman spoke in a very measured tone, devoid of the usual, dramatic edge, his voice very detached and cold, and his mind moving at a mile a minute as a new plan took shape in his head.

     If the three other sides were being honest, it would have been easier for them to hear him shout at them. This side of Roman, having been pushed inadvertently to his breaking point, well past anger into blind rage, was actually incredibly difficult for them to watch. As he came out from behind the table, his boots making foreboding thumps along the floor with each calculated step, Roman moved towards them, his eyes roaming over each each aspect.

     The prince locked eyes with Logan, "You wanted a more realistic experience?"

     Even the logical side's cool exterior could not shrug off the frost in Roman's voice as he stammered, "N...No, I was merely stating that..."

     Roman interrupted by turning his glare to Patton, who recoiled at the sight, "You want a chance to be an actual hero?"

     Patton simply stood there and shook his head slowly, fear having taken away his ability to speak.

     Finally, the fanciful side's eyes turned to Virgil, "You want the opportunity to do whatever you like?"

     Virgil shook his head, mumbling under his breath, "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no..."

     "Oh, but you did! That's exactly what you told each other only a minute ago!" Roman exclaimed before heading to the table, his hands rifling through the skewed papers still sitting on the tabletop, the piles disorganized after his initial outburst.

     The prince continued, "You see, each of you turned my game on its head. I won't tell you how long it took me to actually think up the storyline of the quest I was going to send you on.

     "Weeks, by the way," he added, before turning back to the table.

     "But I'm honestly not all that mad about that. Frustrated, perhaps, at having all that work flushed right down the toilet, but that is the nature of any creative endeavor. Risks, chance, rewards, rejection, all of it is simply a part of the process. No, what truly bothers me is that... none of it actually bothered any of you. I went to each of you with my heart in my hand, painstakingly created the story and the outfits and the characters, gave you the aura of my room in which to flourish as these new personas... and it was all a joke."

     His hands fell upon the world map he had created, showing the land of Estea and its various landforms and cities. It looked and felt like old parchment to his narrowing eyes and quivering fingers. He had actually made this map by hand; He stained the paper and gave light touches with sandpaper to rough it out, sat down with a dip pen and ink to make certain every detail of it was perfect and appeared hand-drawn, because it actually was. Just another bit of his work that was underappreciated.

     No more.

     He picked up the map of Estea, before his voice sounded out again, "I'm going to give you all the greatest gift I could possibly think of. One that I know you'll appreciate."

     Patton finally spoke up, trying to do his best to help as only a father can, "We do appreciate you, Roman!"

     Roman looked over his shoulder, looking at Patton as a smile crossed his face, "It's all right, Patton. We're just going on an adventure."

     The words hung ominously in the air, but before any of the sides could react to the meaning of Roman's words, the prince extended his arm to the heavens and snapped his fingers with a burst of white-red light and a crack like thunder. In that instant, everything went black. No Patton, no Logan, No Virgil, no Roman, no room, no table, no papers or dice. Just nothing... but a pair of green eyes that glowed above where Roman once stood, and, while everything faded to black around the four facets, only those eyes remained, burning in the darkness.

Chapter Text

     Green eyes. Where did those green eyes come from?

     Patton gasped, sucking in a breath of stale air that sat heavy in his chest, coughing at the sensation as he pushed back against the cold ground to sit himself up.

     When did I lay down? he thought to himself, the ground hard, rough, and cold beneath his hands, like stone.

     Taking in another breath, clearing his throat a little at the uncomfortable weight that sat deep in his chest, Patton opened his eyes. The air left his lungs as quickly as he drew it in.

     Those eyes.

     A great shadow loomed above Patton, seemingly human in form but only those glowing, green eyes visible as they burned into his own. Their lurid light threw a small portion of the room into sharp relief. He was in a great, stone chamber, the damp, cobbled floor reaching to mortared walls that arched up into an inky blackness, masking what the ceiling looked like if there was even one above him. What was worse was that, while Patton last remembered being surrounded by friends, he was alone with this green-eyed shadow that glided closer and closer, glaring into him.

     As the shadow moved towards him, Patton tried to skitter back along the cobbles, the floor biting into his hands as the spectral form continued its grim approach, eyes unblinking in their pursuit. The moral side did his best to rise to his feet, but his shoes slid on the damp stones, sending him sprawling onto his stomach. His breathing moved faster and faster, heartbeat drumming deafeningly in his ears, as he grew light-headed from the heavy air filling his lungs, only adding to his dread.

     He closed his eyes tight, trying to sink out of wherever this was, to find his way to his own room. To be in his own soft bed, safe and secure against the monsters in the dark.

     This can't be real! Logan! Virgil! Roman! Where are you!? This isn't real, this isn't real, this isn't real...

     Patton's collar went tight as he was jerked to his feet and then off them, his eyes flying open in surprise. An armored black gauntlet held him almost a foot off the ground, his teal shirt, tinged green, locked in the stranger's metal grasp. The arm the gauntlet was attached to was just as heavily armored, covered in black plate and ringmail and leather, leading to a black breastplate sashed in green. Those horrible, luminous eyes emanated from a visor slit in a great, ebony helm, shielding from view any other detail about this dark knight's face.

     "I am quite real," it spoke in a low, rumbling, multi-toned voice, "As real as you, it would seem."

     Patton's hands came up to clasp the gauntlet that held him in thrall, trying to pry the fingers loose to no avail.

     The moral side could feel tears welling up and trailing down his face as he begged, "Please! Stop!"

     "Know this," the knight continued, "There will be no mercy. Not for you, nor your friends."

     My friends, Patton thought, plucking up the first string of courage since waking to answer, "Where are they!?"

     "There is fire in you, after all," the sentinel observed, and Patton could feel those cold, dark hands tightening even harder around his collar, "but not enough. A spark, an ember to be smothered. I will destroy you in due time, and there is nothing you can do to stop me. You simply lack the will.

     "As for your friends, you will be reunited soon enough. However," the great, dark warrior chuckled as he brought forth his other hand, armored as heavily as the one that held Patton fast, to rest over the moral side's heart, mere inches from touching him, "I have need of you first."

     The knight's palm glowed as green as his eyes and, immediately, a fire rose within Patton's chest and stomach, coiling and writhing him painfully as a scream echoed off the stones around them. It was excruciating, the heat within the father figure burning hotter and hotter until it felt like his insides were molten and still not abating. He twitched within the knight's grasp, kicking and thrashing and screaming, but still held fast.

     "Stop! Stop!" Patton cried, his voice both a shriek and a squeak.

     The black knight was relentless as his hand surged forward, the cold touch of his armor against his captive's body proving no comfort to the moral side as the horrible fire within him rushed to meet the cold touch. Another surge of pain wracked Patton's body as the fire threatened to melt outward from within.

     Finally, the armored behemoth's hand began to pull away, slowly, and taking with him an aura of dark red. To Patton's eyes and mind, he imagined that the hand was covered in his own blood. The knight continued to pull, the crimson cloud doing its best to remain latched to its host, but no match for the strength of its captor. With one last wrench of the armored hand, the aura was free, and Patton, though relieved of the burning sensation that had been blazing through his chest seconds earlier, was now besieged by a bitter, empty cold.

     Seeming to have what he desired, the knight released Patton, who fell to the ground in an exhausted heap. He gasped for breath, sweat mingling with tears as he dared to look up.

     His heavy, armored steps walking away, only that horrible, rumbling voice echoed off the stones, "Yes! Born of the father, I will give you form!"

     The green-eyed knight was carefully molding the blood red mass, his attention now completely fixated on his work, Patton having been discarded like refuse. His armored hands moved feverishly, as if crafting a sculpture from stormclouds, until the aura quickly seemed to begin taking some kind of shape, led by its master's movements.

     Patton had never felt so drained and exhausted, What did he do to me?

     He thought of the others, wishing and hoping and pleading within his own mind that they had somehow managed to escape such torture. It was enough that he himself had to suffer it, but imagining Logan completely helpless, or Roman burning from within, or Virgil left as nothing but a cold, miserable shell, it was more than Patton's full heart could bear.

     Please be all right, he hoped against all odds.

     As he thought of his friends, wishing more than anything to see them unharmed, a flicker of light caught his eye. He upturned his left hand, and gasped, quickly looking up to see whether his captor had heard him and relieved when the knight seemed to involved in his own work to pay him any mind. Patton cast a look down at his hand again.

     A weak, white light flickered from within.

     Patton looked at his other hand to find the same, a steady, if dim light emanating from it.

     Well, that's new, he thought to himself, trying his best not to be awestruck, but to keep his wits about him, They need me, after all.

     The glow in his hands grew stronger and Patton wondered just how this newfound power could help him escape. He knew he had to, but did not have the slightest clue where to begin. The knight was far more powerful than he was, and, while distracted, Patton was clearly still on his captor's home field.

     All hope seemed lost. There was nowhere to go. Eventually, this force before him would finish his task and then Patton would be disposed of.

     Shakily, Patton slowly rose to his feet, knees wobbling and footing unsure on the wet stones underneath him. He looked at the knight's back and took a shuddering step forward.

     They need me, was the only thought running through his head as he took another step towards the armored warrior, then another, and another.

     Patton thought of the others. Logan, as bright and clever as he was, would eventually wither without him, the thrill of discovery utterly empty without emotions to share it with. Roman, for all of his drama and hot-headedness, required the moral side for encouragement, for that spark of creativity to be nurtured to grow. Passion was nothing without the foundation of the emotion itself. And Virgil... His dark, strange son needed him the most. He had grown so much in the last year, grown wiser and closer to everyone, had learned that he was needed and valued, had learned his worth!

     A fire grew in Patton's chest as he stared down that green light, that black armor, defiance replacing fear in his heart, They need me.

     "Hey there, mister... You know what's meaty and bad for your teeth?" Patton asked as he placed a glowing hand on the knight's shoulder and, using all the strength in his body, turned him around to face the moral side.

     He could not help but feel a rush of elation as his eyes met those green eyes again, wide and surprised.

     This one's a classic, Patton thought to himself as that old, fatherly flair returned to his tired voice, "My fist!"

     In a fairly uncharacteristic show of aggression, Patton balled up his fist and struck, trying to sink all of this newfound energy into the punch. His hand collided with the metal helm, a white-blue light shining forth like a starburst as he made contact. Steel bit into his knuckles and he felt as though he had just punched a wall, but the moral side did not even seem to register the pain as a rush of excitement and satisfaction coursed through his body. He had apparently hit with enough force that the helmet flew off the knight's head.

     The helmet sailed into the darkness, black steel falling to the ground, the face that held those hateful, green orbs now unmasked before Patton's very eyes.

Chapter Text

     THUMP.

     The steel helmet hit the ground and rolled, kicking up dust with its impact. It rolled along the dirty ground, leaving an indent, like a wheel, in its wake before it finally settled, edging on its rim before settling. It sat there, sunlight gleaming off of the polished metal.

     Sunlight? Patton thought as his eyes followed the helm's trail before looking back up.

     Everything around him had changed. Gone was the great stone chamber and the green-eyed knight and his blood red abomination, gone was the cold and the heavy, strangling air, gone were the damp stones and clawing darkness. In its stead, Patton was standing outside, in crisp, clear air under golden sunlight, dry earth underneath his heels and breeze in the air. The surrounding area was a truly picturesque hillside, his own present clearing tamped down by heavy travel. The gentle winds were accompanied by the sounds of rustling leaves and chirping birds and... cheers?

     Patton blinked once then twice trying to reconnoiter his surroundings, but only one thing commanded his attention the moment his wits returned to him.

     Before him was another warrior, clad in heavy plate armor, not in black but a steely blue-gray. He had staggered from a hit, heavy footfalls sending up clouds of dust from the packed earth beaneath his boots. He struggled to regain his footing, and as he rounded again on Patton, the moral side's eyes widened. His helmet had been completely removed, and blood was trickling from all over the right side of his face, from his ear, his mouth, under his blond hair, and little lacerations from where the helm must have cut him in its departure. In one hand, this other knight held a shining, heavy-looking broadsword, steel-clad fingers adjusting and retightening around the grip. In the other was a formidable steel shield that, in his current state, the warrior seemed to have trouble lifting. He blinked, attempting and failing to focus on Patton as his eyes glazed over, legs trembling to support his weight before, with a hard clank, he fell to one knee, his sword falling from his hand and to the ground, bouncing once before it was still.

     "Sir Evers!" A gruff, booming voice bellowed from off to the side, and Patton jumped, turning his head to see where it came from.

     Whomever he was, he was a titan of a man, and he stood a mere ten or twelve feet away. He easily topped out at about six and a half feet tall, with copper blond hair tied back in a ponytail and a long beard that hung down to the middle of his chest. His face was chiseled and rough, with scars, great and small, over every inch of exposed skin, and his blue eyes, cold and fearsome as a northern winter. Across his broad shoulders, barrel chest, and boulder stomach, he wore a simple, heavy tunic, that looked like it must've taken the entire bolt of rusty dark red-orange wool to make, and a pinned, white-gray sash from one shoulder to the opposite hip. Strapped to his back, the leather belt lashed across his chest, was a greatsword, knicked and burred, looking as if it had seen dozens, if not hundreds of battles. Right now, his eyes were cast onto the field with Patton and this other knight as a crowd of younger and older, fresh-faced as well as seasoned, armed men cheered beside and around him.

     His voice boomed out again, "Sir Evers! Do you yield!?"

     The warrior Patton was facing turned to face the giant man, and Patton had to resist the urge to gag when he saw that half of this man's face was now covered in fresh, red blood, dripping into the dry dirt. He braced his shield next to his leg and pushed, attempting to rise, but wobbled and staggered before crashing back down, earning jeers and laughter from the small crowd. Patton's heartbeat pulsed loudly in his ears as he watched, wondering whether this Sir Evers would actually give in.

     "Aye," he muttered once, his words cracking and defeated, as if trying to find his voice before calling for all to hear, "Aye! I yield!"

     Cheers, laughs, and jeers rolled through the crowd at the announcement, the gathered men conversing between each other, chattering excitedly. The mountain of a man stepped forward, footfalls thundering as he loomed closer and closer, looking taller and taller, like a great bear. Patton audibly gulped as the armed giant blocked out the sun, casting the moral side in shadow.

     The brute's head turned first to the fallen knight, "Sir Evers, do you need help?"

     A moment passed before the blond warrior looked up, half of his face looking a ruin, but a smile on his lips, "No, sir, Captain. I'm peachy."

     "Hello, Peachy," the titan replied, a smile curling under his beard as he held out a hand, "I'm Spalter."

     Patton's eyes widened at the obvious dad joke exchanged between the two men, watching each of their shoulders bounce with laughter, THESE ARE MY PEOPLE.

     Evers took the hand of this massive Captain Spalter, and was pulled to his feet with little effort, his armor shifting and squeaking as the plates clanged together. He appeared unsteady, legs trembling, but did not seem in danger of actually falling again. Turning his head to the side, he hocked back and spat a mix of blood and saliva into the dirt before his eyes returned to Patton.

     "Well done out there, Sir Patton," he declared, and the moral side felt his eyes grow wide at hearing his name off the stranger's lips, "You've definitely smashed my chances of defeating you."

     How did he...? Did he just...? Wait, SIR Patton? He thought, confusion running rampant through his mind, but. after a moment of the two other men staring at him, he replied, "Thanks. Uhh... You as well, Sir Evers. You're definitely ahead of the pack."

     The two shared a laugh, Evers squeaking in pain, before Captain Spalter turned to face the crowd of other warriors, their jovial murmurs coming to a quick, if gradual halt as a single, smooth gesture from their captain's hand silenced them.

     "Brothers of the Order! For this month's war games tourney," he bellowed, "I give you your champion!"

     Patton felt a massive hand close around his wrist before his arm was thrust into the air.

     "Sir Patton Dauntless!"

     As a cheer erupted from the assembled warriors, a wave of several emotions ran through Patton's mind. There was the overwhelming sense of confusion at having come from such darkness into this light and still having no idea what was actually going on. There, oddly, was also a sense of elation at finding himself with, out of anything else, an order of knights who delighted in dad jokes. Finally, in the back of his mind, there was worry. Where was Roman? Where was Logan? Where was Virgil?

     Questions for later, his mind tried to coax, Soak in the moment. They're cheering for you!

     Patton could not help the smile that crossed his face as he basked in the adulation, but, with the adrenaline of the last several minutes beginning to wear off, he felt heaviness all over his body.

     Looking down, he gasped, eyes widening, Now, the "sir" thing makes a bit more sense.

     More confusion rushed through Patton's mind as he realized he was clad, from neck to toe, in armor all his own. Gorget, breast and back plate, pauldrons, couters, vambraces, gauntlets, cuisses, greaves, everything in a deep teal with a steel sheen. As he shifted, he could now feel chain mail moving against layers of leather and wool, padding against the unforgiving metal. Across his torso, much like the titan who raised his arm and over half of the others cheering him on, was a gray, almost white sash tacked down with a pin resembling a silver sword before a gold sun. Most menacing of all, weighing down his other hand at his side, was a warhammer, perhaps a bit less than a yard long, its studded shaft wrapped in brown and dyed teal leather. At the business end of the weapon, it came down to a nasty point, and the steel hammerhead itself had a brutal flat face on one side, and a wicked, five-inch spike on the other. This was a weapon made to kill knights.

     His stomach falling out at the very thought, Patton looked to his side, past Captain Spalter to Sir Evers, who stood there, still dazed and wobbling from the strike that loosed his helmet. His hair was still matted with blood that caked itself all over half of his face. It was clear that, somehow, in the course of this fight, Patton, or Sir Dauntless, must have struck him in the head with this deadly weapon, knocking him silly and taking his helm clean off.

     Oh god, Patton thought, a chill running down his spine at the very notion, I could have killed him.

----------

     Patton sat on the bed in his warm room, his backside sinking into the stark, gray blanket atop the surprisingly comfortable mattress. Minutes ago, after gingerly placing his hammer and shield next to the door, he set about shirking off his armor with the help of a spritely, young boy who had introduced himself as Toby, his squire. Everything from the plate, to his chain and leathers came off, down to a simple, sweaty, teal undertunic and brown, woolen breeches. Aching from the exertion, but comfortable and cool, Patton thanked Toby before sending him off and plopping down. His eyes cast sullenly down to the floor as his shoulders slumped forward, the events of the last few hours running through his head.

     After the conclusion of the tournament, he, Captain Spalter, Sir Evers, and the full retinue of warriors among them had made the short trip back to Castle Darpley, the ancestral home of the Order of the Father, or so he had overheard one of the other brothers tell a potential recruit. Cheering on and lauding Sir Patton Dauntless as a champion, the other, slightly drunken brother compared him to the first of the Father Knights and regaled the captive youth with a tale of their sect's storied history.

     The Order, as this group called themselves, was established hundreds of years ago when the Father Knight, Kinder Darpley, rescued the young, newly-crowned King of Estea from certain death by brigands, fighting off the attackers and nursing the young king back to full strength. Upon returning the king to the capitol in perfect health, thanks to his healing arts, the Father Knight and his men were lauded as heroes by the people of Estea. In honor and recognition of his service, the king named Sir Kinder and his greatest warriors as the clandestine protectors of the realm, establishing their order as one to be respected by all under the rule of law. In addition, he charged them with questing around the country to help those in need, to protect the weak and innocent, to heal the sick, and give counsel wherever asked.

     As a Knight of the Order, apparently, that was what Patton's mission in this world was, and, to be honest, it was a truly noble calling.

     They had returned to Castle Darpley, and, as it crested over the hillside, the very sight of the great fortress had taken Patton's breath away. Surrounded for miles on every side by farmland and rivers dedicated to feeding the knights of the Order, the high walls of the castle rose, easily, thirty feet into the air, composed of gray bricks, stone, and mortar. The watchtowers at either ends of the wall rose even higher, and the keep, with great spires and towers all its own, rose higher still. From the walls hung light gray banners emblazoned with a yellow sun behind a darker gray sword, the banner of the Order of the Father.

     Patton could hardly contain a snort at the words that were chiseled into the stone above the gate, reading, "Esurio. Salve, Pater ego sum," which translated to, "I am hungry. Hello, I am dad."

     In this great castle dedicated to helping others, in his own room where could find solace, the moral side closed his eyes, only to immediately open them again when he sees those green eyes staring back.

     That green-eyed knight, Patton thought, shuddering at the image that was recalled behind his eyelids every time he blinked, and then I'm here. I'm a knight... in some faraway, mystical land. And I nearly killed someone.

     Letting out a rumbling sigh, the moral side fell back onto his bed, legs still dangling over the edge as the bed cradled him, soft enough for him to sink into, but firm enough that he could still shift himself around without too much hassle. In all honesty, it felt perfect; he'd have to commend Roman on making him think twice about the bed in his own room, not here, but... home.

     Roman, Patton mused to himself, wistfully with a touch of worry tugging at the back of his head, Where are you?

     The prince's easy smile worked his way into the father's mind, with his swooping purple hair and perfect, pearly white teeth, his constant preening and singing and overdramatic outbursts that brought spice to Patton's life. A smile of his own graced the moral side's face as he reached up to pull off his thick glasses, unchanged through the ordeals of the last couple of hours, folding them up, and resting them beside his head on the mattress. Sinking into fatigue just as deeply as he sank into the mattress, Patton risked closing his eyes once more, inwardly dreading what he'd see. He let out a contented little sigh as the image of Roman stuck around, his mere presence warding off those leering eyes as sleep took the moral knight.

----------

     KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

     "Sir Patton?"

     Patton's eyes opened, still heavy with sleep, and a jolt of panic ran through him as he did not recognize, for a moment, where he had woken up, but the flurry of confusion passed as the day came flooding back to him, followed by calm. He rubbed his eyes and grabbed his glasses, slipping them on and blinking until the room, once again, came back into focus. He threw a quick glance at the window, and it appeared that the sun was beginning to set in the sky.

     "Yes?" he called out to the door, clearing his throat to shake the sleepy haze from his voice, "Come in."

     The door creaked open and his squire, Toby, poked his head into the room. He was a young lad of thirteen or fourteen years, on the smaller end of the spectrum in height, with a short, unruly mop of shaggy, black hair that fell like a curtain over perpetually grubby cheeks and hazel eyes. When he saw that Patton was roused and awake, he bowed his head once in respect.

     "Hey, kiddo," the father figure greeted, standing up from the bed to regard his visitor.

     The boy stepped into the room, wearing a simple, gray tunic belted at his waist and emblazoned with the Order's coat of arms across his chest.

     Toby spoke, "I've been sent to fetch you, my lord. The Lord Commander has requested your presence."

     Patton followed the squire's words, looking at him over the rim of his glasses as he repeated, "The Lord Commander?"

     "Yes, my lord," Toby replied, "You've been requested by name."

     Patton did his best to recall anything he might have heard about the Lord Commander from any of the other brothers, but all he had managed to glean was that he was an older man by the name of Leofric and was known the world over as an expert swordsman. Aside from the man's name and alleged battle prowess, nothing at all about him actually came to mind. On the trip back from the hills earlier, the only talk about the Lord Commander himself was made in passing.

     "Well, then, we had best not keep the man in charge waiting, right?"

     Patton immediately started heading towards the door before a hidden grin broke across Toby's face and he began snickering, "What is it?"

     "Ummm... With all due respect, my lord," Toby spoke, clearing his throat to get the giggles out of his throat, "don't you believe you should, ummm... actually get dressed?"

     Patton looked down at himself, still dressed in a sweaty, now cool and crusted undertunic and breeches.

     Sheepishly, his eyes returned to Toby as he conceded, "You may be right."

     Another, easier smile stretched across the squire's face as he stepped further into the room, "I'll fetch you clothes for your audience, my lord.

     "Thank you very much, Toby," Patton thanked, before adding, "And you don't have to call me 'my lord,' either. You can just call me 'Patton.'"

     "If you'll forgive me, my lord, but perhaps another night," Toby answered as he moved between the drawers of the bureau before turning to Patton with a smile, "Would you prefer 'Sir Tristan,' or 'Sir Gawain?'"

     It took Patton a moment for the joke to connect in his head, but once it did he let out little peals of laughter, "Heehee, 'another knight!' I get it!"

     Toby moved around the room far more quickly than Patton would have, sifting through tunics and breeches and vests and belts before bringing the proper clothes to the bed and laying them cleanly across the top blanket, neat and tidy. Patton prepared to get dressed for his audience with the Lord Commander, but turned and stopped, seeing Toby as he waited dutifully at the foot of the bed. No way was he getting undressed in front of this young lad.

     "Ummm, anything you need, kiddo?" Patton asked, unsure why he was waiting, an embarrassed blush spreading across his cheeks.

     "I thought that was my line," Toby quipped before a confused look spread across his own face, "I'm your squire, Sir Patton. It's my job to assist you in whatever you need. Cleaning your weapons and armor, tending to your quarters, and... well, helping you get dressed as well. Surely, you know this."

     "Yeah," Patton replied, "But, ummm... I think I got it from here. Mind waiting outside? I'll call if I need any help."

     The squire paused for a moment, before inclining his head, "Of course. Whatever you need, Sir Patton."

     With that, Toby left the room, his heels clicking on the stone floor and echoing so that Patton could hear that he did not go far. The moral knight turned towards the bed, looking at the myriad of different clothes laid out before him. A long, muted teal tunic, bordered in tan fur, sat on the bed, along with a cream-colored undertunic, dark brown breeches, a brass-ringed, brown leather belt and boots, his pinned, white-gray sash, and, with a blush, what could only be termed as crudely-sewn underwear.

     I can do this, Patton let out a sigh as he pulled off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor.

     He picked up the off-white shirt and walked around the room, about to put on the shirt before he passed a mirror. He jumped, almost not even recognizing his reflection before he turned to it, taking a closer look.

     In a word, Patton actually looked kind of... hot. Normally, if he was shirtless before, the fact that he enjoyed sweets a little more than most tended to show. A little extra to his tummy and arms, a veritable, "dad bod," as Roman referred to it once. Now, though, it would appear that Sir Dauntless must have been conditioned to wear heavy armor from an early age. Patton now saw a very well-defined chest and muscular arms where he had once seen pasty plumpness, and, while his abdominal muscles were not cut into his stomach, the moral side could easily see that the body he now had was one that was built for power. He inwardly chuckled at the comparison that ran through his mind at the sight of his burly body and thick, unchanged glasses.

     Clark Kent, eat your heart out, he thought as he shamelessly indulged in a little flexing for his own benefit.

     After his moment of vanity, he proceeded to throw on his shirt, then the overtunic, the smallclothes, breeches, and boots, leaving his sash on the bed as he attempted to wrap the ring belt around his body and tie it in place.

     How did it go before? Patton asked himself, growing increasingly frustrated as, for the fifth time, the leather strap undid itself and flopped down to his ankles.

     He closed his eyes, embarrassed at the words that called forth from his mouth, "Toby! Still there, kiddo?"

     "Of course, m... Sir Patton," the squire called back from outside, "Do you need help?"

     Nodding to the closed door, Patton replied, "It'd certainly be appreciated!"

     In an instant, the door opened and Toby swept back in. Within seconds, he threaded the belt through the brass ring and tied it off, Patton doing his best to pay close attention so he could mimic the procedure in the future. The knight leaned down as his squire threw the sash over his head and one arm, expertly pinning it in place on the moral side's shoulder before taking a step back.

     "Is there anything else?" the boy asked, eager and attentive as ever.

     Patton thought for a moment, realizing very quickly that he actually had no idea where he was going, and answered, "Yes, actually. How would you like to accompany me to the Lord Commander's chamber?"

     The boy's eyes went wide at the question.

     The knight furrowed his brow, "Ummm, there a problem, bud?"

     "N...no, there's no problem, sir," he responded, obviously nervous as he continued, "It's just that... you know that squires are meant to do our duties. Be seen and not heard, and even, well, not be seen if we can help it. To accompany a knight to an audience, especially with the Lord Commander of all people, well, it's unheard of."

     Silence pervaded the room before Toby inclined his head once more, "With all due respect, of course."

     Patton could feel nothing by sympathy for the boy. He barely knew anything about Toby himself, save that he was assigned to be his squire when he, or Sir Dauntless, had risen to knighthood and that he was fairly new to the job on the whole. The thought, however, that these boys were being treated as nothing but servants when they actually did all the hard, menial labor actually flustered Patton a bit, a flare of anger rising in his heart. This boy had been nothing but be helpful and respectful today, attending to every need that Patton had.

     I won't be another person to treat this boy like trash, Patton thought as he laid a comforting hand on Toby's shoulder, looking him in the eyes, "Well, you've heard of it now."

     Toby's eyes widened again, a spark of admiration in his eyes that warmed the father figure's heart. With a pat, the knight smiled and gave an order, "Lead the way, kiddo."

----------

     Toby led Patton through the winding corridors of the keep, inclining his head respectfully as they passed other knights along the way. While alone for some stretches of the walk, Patton did his best to make some easy conversation with Toby, asking where he came from, why he wanted to become a Knight of the Order, what his parents thought about sending him off to squire for warriors so far from home, and even the trivial things, like his favorite color and food, his favorite thing about training, activities he enjoyed in his spare time. Before too long, the two of them were actually laughing as they shot words back and forth.

     Patton smiled at the passionate way the young lad spoke, so full of hope and enthusiasm when he realized he could open up around the fatherly knight. Toby was an orphan from a coastal town called Redrise, where the orphanage sold him into service of the Order when he was deemed too old to be adopted. It was not unwanted, however, as Toby had spent much of his young life dreaming about becoming knight, of riding through the country and helping people with his words and deeds. He exceled far more in reading than in martial pursuits, but lauded himself as a decent fighter all the same, reasoning that his small size and speed make up for his lack of strength. His favorite color was yellow, and that meatpies were the key to his heart.

     The laughing between them ceased as they reached the door to the Lord Commander's chambers. An aura of intimidation seemed to emanate from it as the two of them stood before it. Behind this door was their leader, a man who had risen through the ranks of the Order, a man who was the head of a brotherhood of trained, seasoned warriors and accomplished healers, a man widely respected as one of the greatest knights in the realm, and Patton had been called before him, by name.

     The moral side and the squire shared a quiet look between them before Patton stepped forward, and, being ever so polite, rapped his fist against the door.

     "Enter," a rough, husky voice ordered at once before Patton could even lower his hand back to his side.

     Sending a look of unease back at Toby, Patton's hand found its way to the doorknob, iron and ice cold to the touch in his grasp. He turned it with a squeaking click before it opened and the knight took a few tentative steps inside, gesturing for his squire to follow.

     The Lord Commander certainly appeared to be a man dedicated to his work. Stepping into the well-lit study, a sense of warmth flowed over Patton. A great, if simple, iron chandelier hung from the tall ceiling, as long across as Patton was tall, its many candles bathing the space in a homey light. On every wall of the large octagonal room were bookshelves stacked high to the ceiling with tomes and maps, ranging from histories of Estean war campaigns, memoirs of generals and Lord Commanders of old, to books of healing herbs and poultices. Scattered among the books and adorning the few free spaces of wall were mounted weapons and pieces of armor that appeared ancient, the displays each having a story all their own attached to them. Moving off towards the left led further into the Lord Commander's own private quarters, but the man himself stood towards the right, placing a dusty volume back in its place before casting a glance over to Patton and Toby as they entered.

     Lord Commander Leofric had the severe appearance and dark eyes that looked as if they had seen years of battle and hardship. He stood perhaps just a hair taller than Patton, and his face tinted a fair pink with murky, blue eyes sunken within, behind bushy blond-gray eyebrows. His hair, falling down to his shoulders, was the same shade of straw blond streaked with nearly invisible rows of silver, as was his well-trimmed goatee that did nothing to mask the surly frown that sat on his resting face. He was dressed in red and gold velvet, linen, and leather beneath a more ornate mantle of that same, familiar gray-white, clasped in the emblem of the Order. He turned, every movement sure and calculated as his wizened eyes glancing over Patton, who could not shake the feeling that this man, old as he may be, was easily the most deadly man in the castle.

     "Sir Patton Dauntless," he spoke, each word crisp as it left his lips, filled with the knowledge that, within these walls, his word was law, "I must congratulate you on your victory in this month's proving."

     Patton was struck dumb with intimidation for but a moment before a smile graced his face again, "Well, that's very kind of you to say, my... ummm, my lord."

     Oh my goodness, how does Roman speak like this all the time!? Patton thought as a blush crossed his face, and he flicked his eyes toward Toby, as if to say, What do I do now!?

     Lord Leofric's brow furrowed as his eyes fell upon the young squire, and he gave a motion of dismissal, "Leave us."

     "But I," Patton spoke up in a soft voice before a look from the Lord Commander cowed him into silence.

     A second or two passed before the commander spoke again, "Yes, Sir Patton? Do you have something to add?"

     The knight gulped and took a breath before answering, "If we are to be training these boys to become knights like us, shouldn't we be treating them with a little more respect? They do all the hard work to take care of us, in taking care of our weapons and armor and everyday needs, that I think it's rude to just dismiss them so thoughtlessly. How can we expect them to hold their heads up high if we treat them like nothing?"

     A tense silence engulfed the room, with both Toby and the Lord Commander looking at Patton as if he had grown another head. Toby's face held the utmost respect for the moral side at having so quickly jumped to his defense, but was stunned that he had jumped to his defense against that of the Lord Commander himself, one of the most celebrated knights in all of Estea. Leofric looked like a man who had not heard a challenge against his authority in quite some time, and was surprised that it came at the prospect of him treating a squire with anything other than civility. Patton did his best not to fidget and stand his ground, his face reddening underneath his thick glasses as he wondered whether he had crossed a line, and just what the consequence was going to be for such a trespass.

     The quiet lasted for what felt like far longer than the short moment it occupied before Leofric nodded, his face softening by the smallest of margins, "Fair enough, sir. However, what I must discuss with you is something that I would prefer to keep within our own company.

     "Toby, is it?" he asked, his face turning towards the young squire.

    Toby's eyes widened at being addressed directly by the elder knight, "Y...yes, my lord. I mean, L...Lord Commander."

     "Thank you for bringing your lord to me," the Lord Commander conceded, "I wish to speak with him alone. Return to your duties. Please."

     Patton stood there, relieved that, not only was he not going to be drawn and quartered for his opinion, but that the Lord Commander even attempted to change his demeanor, however awkwardly, right then and there. Toby, a smile on his face from ear to ear, simply bowed to Lord Leofric before happily trotting towards the exit.

     "And please close the door on the way out," the Lord Commander added, before the sound of the heavy door swinging shut echoed throughout the small study, leaving the two of them alone.

     The Lord Commander spoke first, "You certainly are... forthright in your opinions."

     Patton shrugged, feeling sheepish, "Well, he's been nothing but helpful."

     The ordermaster gave a simple grunt before turning on his heel to walk towards the center of the room, his boots thumping against the carpeted floor. His eyes seemed to rove over the walls surrounding them, moving from a row of tomes to the shattered remains of a long-rusted sword. Patton could not help but fidget as he stood, eager to learn why he had been summoned.

     "Well, umm," he began, "Is there, uhhh, anything you need, m...my lord?"

     It was as if Patton's question had shaken the elder from his mental wandering as the commander spoke, "Are you familiar with the Estean line of succession?"

     Patton looked back at Lord Leofric utterly gobsmacked before he thought to himself, The line of succession? Oh! Who has the crown! Well, when we first started this game... Oh, darn, what were their names? The benev... ben... the really nice king and queen who ruled! What were they? Roman told us before we sent the first game into a jumble...

     A pang surged through his chest at the thought of the event that brought him to this predicament in the first place, then, as if to answer that pang, another errant thought ran through his mind, guided from somewhere in the back of his brain right to his lips.

     "Currently, I think... King Esmond and Queen Madelynn rule," he spoke, eyes widening at the incredible fact that he must have somehow remembered, against all probability.

     The Lord Commander gave a slow, somewhat solemn nod as he replied, "His Majesty King Esmond knighted you and his mother was the one who knighted me. Do you know who is next in line after His Majesty?"

     That was an easy one to answer as Patton piped out, "Prince Roman."

     "Correct," Leofric answered, the merest hint of praise to his voice, "As the eldest child, he was, of course, named Crown Prince, and thus, the legal heir, once he was of age. When King Esmond passes on, the rulership of Estea would inevitably fall to him. Or so it should have been."

     Patton could feel the weight of the words fill the room with tension before he queried, "What do you mean?"

     The Lord Commander gave a heavy sigh before he replied, "King Esmond has passed on. As has the queen. By all accounts, it was an illness that ravaged them quickly. But, even with the capitol in a state of mourning, plans had to be set in motion to put the crown on Roman's head, as was the law of the land."

     "Well, ummm," Patton reasoned, "Good for Prince Roman, then... I mean, King Roman. The new His Majesty, I suppose."

     "Would that it were so simple," Leofric responded gravely, "Prince Adam, Roman's younger brother, the snake... While Roman and the country were stunned by the abrupt passing of the king and queen, Adam consolidated his forces, made up of blackguards and sellswords and upstart noble serpents just like himself, to take the city and the throne for himself. Gods be good, Prince Roman managed to escape with his life, but Prince Adam now rules Estea as an usurper."

     "That's horrible!" Patton exclaimed, taking in the commander's words.

     Leofric nodded as he continued, "As paladins of the Order of the Father, we are sworn to the one, true ruler of Estea. As long as I live, I will not stand by while the throne of good King Esmond falls illegally into the hands of a viper like Adam. I will not have it."

     Patton noticed that the Lord Commander's fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white, and asked, convinced of his leader's courage, "What does this mean for us then?"

     The question again caught Leofric's attention as he continued his ambling through the room, ending in front of the archway that led further into his chambers, "For the lot of us here at Castle Darpley, it would appear that are to commit treason against the current king, even if he is a simple thief at heart. It means that we ready ourselves to right the greatest wrong seen in our age. We will secure the castle, I will send riders forth to every backwater corner of the country to raise support, and we restore order by putting the one person with the rightful claim back on the throne. As for you, it means..."

     "It means, Sir Patton..."

     Out from the archway behind the Lord Commander, interrupting him, came a voice, a familiar voice, before it was followed by an even more familiar face. That brilliant, white smile, those honey-colored eyes peeking out through bangs of vibrant magenta, that puffed out chest wrapped in white and gold and bright scarlet, all of those wonderful things culminating to make Patton's eyes widen, his mind race, and his heart flutter with insuppressible happiness.

     Roman! the moral side thought to himself with unbridled excitement, trying his hardest not to squeal in utter delight.

     "...that you and I are going on an adventure!"

Chapter Text

     Roman stood there in the archway of the Lord Commander's study, cutting a truly regal and princely form as he revealed his presence to Patton. In truth, he had been waiting off behind the doorway, just out of sight, from the moment Patton had been summoned to the Lord Commander's chamber, awaiting the most opportune and dramatic moment to make his grand entrance. A swell of pride flooded Roman's chest as he watched a massive smile light up Patton's face, and the prince could not help the grin that appeared on his own. It seemed that, no matter the character, Patton would always have that effect upon him.

     All at once, the courageous facade broke as Roman's stance relaxed, his perfect smile easing comfortably, "Sorry, you know me. I had to make a grand entrance."

     Patton did nothing, just stood there with a big, goofy smile on his face and eyes wide and alight with elation. He was practically vibrating from his barely contained excitement.

     "Ummm, You all right there, Patton?" Roman asked, a tinge of concern eking into his voice.

     All of a sudden, the moral side exploded with joy and hurled himself at the prince, wrapping thick, heavy arms around him and pulling him in close, "ROMAN!"

     "Whoa! Hey there, Patton!" Roman exclaimed amid the laughter, holding the knight just as close as he settled into the embrace, "It's all right, buddy. It's all right."

     Roman would, of course, prefer not to admit it, but Patton's hugs were something he deeply enjoyed. The father figure lit up all of their lives like a ray of sunshine, and hugging him just seemed to take some of that light, warmth, and goodness into themselves. While he could not speak for either Virgil or Logan, for Roman, he felt that Patton's hugs were an assurance that every grand adventure had a humble beginning and a place to rest your weary head. For every dark, murky forest or cursed, storm-weathered castle, there was a cozy cottage where one could take their respite. For every sword in the stone, there was a hearth with a happily crackling fire. Feeling Patton's arms circle around him and being squeezed by all that warmth and love and fierce positivity always gave Roman such a warm rush that he could feel down to his fingers and toes. He breathed in that scent, like warm, chocolate chip cookies, freshly-cut grass, and hot chocolate loaded down with marshmallows.

     His famous hot chocolate, Roman mused as he hugged Patton closer, nuzzling into his magenta hair and inhaling that homey scent deep.

     That famous hot chocolate that he never got to drink, the prince continued in his mind, a well of guilt intermingling as a flash of Patton's face raced through his mind, The last time Patton's eyes fell on you, he was terrified. You were cold and distant and blaming him and the others for ruining your hard work. You actually said almost the exact words to him then, too.

     Roman had looked over his shoulder, looking at a terrified, paralyzed Patton as a grim, sinister smile crossed his own face, "It's all right, Patton. We're just going on an adventure."

     The prince's worries seemed to dissipate as Patton hugged him closer, the father figure's voice vibrating against the crook of his neck, "I'm so happy you're safe, Your Highness!"

     Roman smiled and closed his eyes.

     So warm. So, so warm.

----------

     So cold. So, so cold.

     As soon as Roman snapped his fingers, the world went dark.

     Gone was his room. Gone was the tavern that he had created. Gone were the squeaky, wooden floorbards and wrought iron windows. Gone were the tables and chairs and papers and pencils and dice. Gone was the fire that had illuminated the whole room in a cozy, warm glow. Gone was Patton's normally happy, bubbly face transfixed with horror. Gone was Logan's usually cool, straightforward gaze that had soured as the situation flew out of his control. Gone was Virgil's ordinarily timid, anxious stare that had grown wild and fearful as his one outgoing moment was met with utter disaster.

     They were just gone. Blinked into a world of Roman's creation to be living figurines to play out his story. His playthings that had been given form in his new world to be taught a lesson.

     The question became then... Where was Roman?

     He had expected that he would have been blinked into the new world of Estea along with his fellow sides, that he would be able to gather them all and their grand adventure would commence, but when Roman snapped his fingers, nothing of the sort happened. Everything went dark and cold and the air grew heavy, stagnant, and stale. Roman coughed as he tried to take in a breath, his royal posture breaking as he gasped for air, but only feeling his lungs fill with cold, dead weight and no relief. He hunched over, trying to loosen the collar of his shirt, pulling it away from his neck, as one foot staggered forward to support his weight. A rush of morbid curiosity clouded his mind as he heard the click of his boot hit cobblestones, in place of the wooden planks which had been there mere moments ago.

     Where am I? Roman thought to himself as he looked up, squinting as his eyes acclimated, or he hoped were acclimating, to the darkness, This isn't right. Where am I?

     In front of him, there was darkness extended out as far as he could see. Roman took a shuddering, blind step forward, wincing at the clack of his heel on the stone floor as it echoed all around him. To him, it almost sounded like a bone snapping with each foot step. Panic was beginning to set in the prince's heart as he wondered what he had done, where this enterprise of his had gone from bad to worse, and, with an even heavier heart, what had happened to his friends. A heavy, cold breath only seemed to heighten the unease plaguing his chest.

     Had they met the same fate? Roman thought to himself frantically, I didn't mean for anything like this! I was upset! I was angry! I acted rashly, but I... I didn't mean it!

     "I didn't mean it!" the prince's voice squeaked into the darkness, his face cringing at the echo that rang back into his ears, attempting to brace himself as he thought he heard his own voice reverberating back at him.

   "Yes, you did."

     He took a gasp inward at the voice that had returned to his own ears, uncertain as to whether it had been a hallucination or not. The heavy air, however, caught in his throat, as if struggling to enter his lungs. Roman choked out a sputtering cough, lurching forward and catching his toe against a cobble, sending him sprawling down to the hard floor on his hands and knees. The prince hissed as he felt the slick, damp stone bite into his palms and knees, closing his eyes in pain.

     A whooshing rush of wind moved past his ears, and Roman's eyes flew open. He was pleased, however minutely, to see that the stones beneath him were slighty more visible, bathed in a lurid, green light.

     He looked up to see the source of the light, his eyes first falling upon a black, leather boot, up to greaves molded from black steel. The cold, dark metal extended further up, to the stranger's knees, thighs, and hips, coating over black leather and ringmail. Black-armored hands and arms hung at the side of a broad chest, encased in more leather and chain and steel, coming up to a gorget and ornate, sable helm, holding a pair of bright, burning, green eyes.

     What the, Roman thought to himself, the identity of the dark, menacing stranger before him a mystery.

     "Who are y--," he began to ask before, with a metallic creak and groan, the black knight raised his boot and thrust it forward, careening into the face of Prince Roman with a sickening crunch.

     Roman's head and upper body wheeled around from the strike and were sent down into the floor, the slick stones biting into his cheek. He tried to hiss, to breathe in, to do anything, but only a sharp, constant throbbing pulsed through half of his face, and his mouth welled up with a taste he knew quite well, the sharp, metallic tang of blood. On his chest and stomach, the prince slowly turned over, spitting out a mouthful of red blood, colored black in the green tint of the room, falling onto his back. He looked up, hearing the echo of clanking footsteps as the knight fell upon him once more.

     "Why are you doing this to--," Roman tried again before a heavy, black boot stomped down hard on his chest, and he let out a rough, "Oof!"

     In a deep, multi-toned rumble of a voice, the knight spoke, his green eyes flashing, "To you? Yes, it is always about you, is it not?"

     Roman tried to speak, his hands moving up to grab at the boot. He felt the cool leather and outright cold metal on his palms and fingers as he tried to push it off or push it away, but to no avail. The knight merely shifted his weight to put more pressure on Roman's ribs, eliciting a hard grunt from the pinned prince.

     "You think of your friends," the knight spoke, grinding his foot into the prince's chest, "but you turned on them so easily.Tell me, why shouldn't I crush you here and now?"

     The knight pressed his weight further onto Roman's chest, and cry squeezed itself through his throat, "Stop...!"

     "Why should I?" the voice rumbled as those sinister, green eyes narrowed, "You parade as a selfless, charming, noble prince, but, in reality, you are nothing but a preening egotist who cares for nothing but himself, for your praise, for your reward. You are a self-serving sham."

     As he tried to suck in a heavy breath, anything to be able to expand his lungs and breathe, Roman could swear he was beginning to hear his ribs crack and splinter under the knight's heavy weight. Only a dull sigh and gasp escaped him, words unable to form on his tongue to leave his lips.

     There was a pause, before the voice rolled on, "But you do have your uses. In your outburst, however fueled it was by your self-obsession, you gave me form. For that, you have my gratitude."

     The knight continued, raising a great, metal gauntlet and hovering it above Roman's prone, struggling body, "You will assist me further, whether you choose to or not."

     The stranger's palm flared with a bright, green aura to rival that of the glow emanating from his eyes, and a bitter cold began to swirl inside Roman's chest. The prince opened his mouth to scream, to let out that one, last gasp of air he had within him, but only a sigh escaped, that last breath fogging into the air right in front of his eyes and dissipating into nothing. The cold within him surged onward, Roman feeling his heart slow within his chest, and imagining his blood freezing where it stood. Colder and colder he felt, shivering and shuddering as his body madly attempted to recover any kind of warming friction just to survive.

     The knight turned his hand upward, and Roman could feel the concentration of frigid cold within him begin to move, to rise up against his ribs from within his chest. The prince wanted to thrash, to scream, to do anything that would ease his torment, but he could only look down to watch in terror, fearing what he would see as the seconds ticked by. Surely, his chest had been frozen brittle by this point, and whatever was inside would shatter the fanciful side's body as it left.

     The black-clad stranger pushed his foot even harder down onto the prince's body, his hand raising up, higher and higher, and Roman felt the presence within his chest rise the same, higher and higher.

     It's coming, he knew, The end.

     A spark of surprise rushed through Roman's brain like a hot knife as he watched a glow, a light, icy blue glow from his chest begin to lance its way out. The pain, as it pushed and clawed through his body, was incredible, excruciating even, but the fire of the sensation almost felt like something of a comfort. To feel every nerve lighting on fire once again after shriveling from the bitter cold, to feel his blood course through his arteries once more after freezing in his veins, his heart pumping hard against the flaring pain and sending blessed warm friction where had once only been that terrible, ice cold grip, all of these things brought Roman back.

     He was even able to suck in enough air to let out a scream, the last few seconds of which fluttered with a sound not unlike laughter. Everything around him, bathed in a combination of ice blue and acid green light, was thrown into sharp relief as he watched the aura of light finally be ripped from his chest, held by this terrible black knight. Roman's body jerked up once, still pinned by that heavy boot, before he lay back, still, his brain wracked from the sensory overload of the last few minutes.

     "It is done," the stranger spoke, holding the hard-fought, blue aura within his grasp, "Now, behold, lordling, what your anger has wrought!"

     The knight extended his hand out again, this time to his side, and the aura left it, moving through the air like a luminescent cloud, its glow pulsing from within. It coalesced on the ground, and began to form upright into a column, moved by gestures of the stranger's guiding hand. The light began to constrict and tighten around itself, binding its essence into something resembling a humanoid shape.

     "Born of the creator," the black knight gasped, his eyes widening beneath his helm, "I give you form!"

     Roman looked on in horror, cold sweat making his magenta hair cling to his forehead, as the knight twisted the icy blue aura to his own will. He grabbed the foot that kept him pressed down, summoning all his strength, all his might to try and move it. Desperation flared in his eyes; he had to escape! He had to warn his friends! He had to save them!

     All at once, the knight turned his face back to Roman, picked up his foot and slammed it back down again onto the prince's chest, thundering, "There is no hope for you or for your friends. I will crush them as easily as I have crushed you. Tremble before me, my prince! Tremble before my power!"

     His eyes alight with manic glee, the knight kept them trained on Roman as his hand continued to mold and sculpt the icy blue aura as he saw fit. It was hopeless. This was the end.

     Roman felt his full heart break as he thought about the others. Where would they be without passion, without inspiration? Virgil, why, if anything, he would grow, but not well. He would go from a being of caution to a being of paranoia, with no hope on the horizon to dispel that horrible darkness that would envelop his honest, kind heart. Logan, well... what does a thirst for knowledge, for discovery do when the well of inspiration has dried up? There would be no drive to do more, to learn more, to see what the world had in store! No creativity to think, "What if tomorrow were different?" And Patton... Dear, sweet Patton. Without passion, emotion has no spark. Happiness came from a jolt of ecstasy, sadness came from heartbreak, anger from a split-second of hot, burning fury! He would wither without Roman, and would be no more.

     No. No more. He would not see Virgil corrupted by a sea of black clouds on the horizon with no sun to light his way. He would not permit Logan to succumb to sloth and apathy, unwilling and unable to grow and thrive. He would not allow Patton to turn to dust, unable to feel anything without that one spark to set everything in motion.

     "I will not have it!" Roman roared as he locked eyes with the knight once more, his hands calmly finding their way to the boot again.

     Those wicked, green eyes widened as Roman's hands began to burn a bright red, and the black greave, lashed onto his leather boot, began to glow with it, the metal softening at the prince's touch. The knight moved to pull away from Roman's grip, but he held fast, the fanciful side's eyes, once dark and fearful, now glowed scarlet from within, undaunted and determined. For once, upon seeing this new power arise in the prince, the knight seemed to feel fear.

     The black knight boomed, "You cannot win!"

     In one savage pull, he wrenched his leg up just to bring it back down, intent on crushing this new light, this new resolve out of Roman once and for all. As his foot came down, however, the prince quickly shifted to his side, moving out of the way as the boot crashed into the stone floor. The force of the blow crushed a number of the cobbles underneath, but the missed stomp threw the heavily armored knight off-balanced. Roman took advantage of the opening, sliding out from under the knight and rising, unsteadily, to his feet.

     "My turn, tin man," Roman's own voice rumbled.

     The prince stepped forward, planting his foot into the cobblestones, his muscles quivering from the torture he had endured at the hands of this hated knight, but he paid the pain no mind. He raised the other and, in an act reminiscent of his first foray with his opponent, slammed his boot into that twisted, black helmet. Roman's heart rose in his chest as a burst of red energy flashed on contact, lighting up the dark room, accompanied by a tone like a bell.

     At that ominous tone though, the room around him fell away. The heavy, dead air, the freezing, damp chill of the stones, the halfway-sculpted, ice blue aura, even the horrible, black knight himself, everything disappeared only to be replaced by a great castle drawbridge before him. Sweet, fresh air filled the prince's lungs and the sun, low in the sky, either in sunrise or sunset, caressed his face with a seemingly long-absent warm glow. Roman turned around to see his horse, a valiant, white steed, its saddlebags loaded down with supplies and weapons and armor. The prince himself, while dressed in his usual finery underneath, wore a threadbare, brown cloak over his body, a hood pushing down on his purple locks.

     He looked up and read the inscription over the arch that led into the castle before him, "Esurio. Salve, Pater ego sum."

     A smile stretched across Roman's face, this place as plain to him as it had been on the map he had created for this very adventure. Before him was Castle Darpley, the home of the Order of the Father, and where he would, inevitably, run into Patton, or Sir Patton Dauntless. The thought of the moral side himself was enough to warm the residual cold right out of his chest. He grabbed his horse's reins and took a step forward onto the drawbridge, his boots thumping along as he was led inside by one of the order brothers.

----------

     The sound of a throat being cleared shook Roman out of his reminiscing. Not too abruptly, but far too quickly to his own mind, he let Patton go and took a step back, watching as Patton did the same.

     Lord Leofric shifted, obviously surprised and slightly confused at such a touching display between the rightful king and a knight of the order, "I was not aware that either of you were so... familiar with each other."

     Patton's cheeks flushed a dark pink as he attempted to answer the Lord Commander, but Roman interjected, "We are simply old friends, Lord Commander. There's no need to concern yourself any further on the subject."

     Curious, but seemingly satisfied with the prince's succinct explanation, Leofric nodded, "No concern, Your Highness. Merely surprised is all. However, it does explain why you asked for this one by name. You require men you trust to achieve your objective, and who better than an old friend who has pledged himself to the defense of the realm?"

     "My thoughts exactly, my lord," Roman replied, inclining his head towards Leofric in a show of respect, before he turned his attention back to Patton, "Sir Knight, I would charge you with a quest for king and country! You and I will travel throughout this land, bringing allies to our side, so that, in time, I will reclaim my lost throne. It will be perilous, but I--"

     "You got it, Princey!" Patton piped up, that same grin on his face as he ruined the dramatic buildup.

     Roman let out a sigh as he deflated, "Oh, should've seen that coming."

     Patton's eyes went wide though as a hand flew up to cover his mouth, his voice squeaking, "Oh, no. Did I ruin the thing again?"

     A twinge of guilt ran through Roman's heart at the sight of the moral side going from loving to excited to fearful, all on account of the prince's actions towards him over the last several hours. Roman could not help but concede that, in truth, Patton was right to fear him. He had been possessed by rage the last time all four of them had been around each other, and he had lashed out, bringing them here. It was only right that, to make amends for it, that he give Patton, and Logan and Virgil when they were found, the best, immersive gaming experience he could possibly give them!

     "N...no, Patton," Roman comforted, his voice softening, "You're doing fine."

     Lord Leofric interjected, obviously confused, "Is there something that I am missing here?"

     Roman sank back into character, "No, of course not, my lord. As Sir Patton has agreed to the mission, I humbly request that he be permitted to join me on my journey. I thank you and the Order of the Father for taking me in and embracing my claim to the throne so whole-heartedly, but I feel that, if we are to continue, it would be best for us to leave sooner rather than later."

     "You honor my order with your gratitude, Your Highness, as your ancestor did with our founders," Lord Leofric bowed his head respectfully to Roman before turning to Patton, "Sir Patton Dauntless, as a Knight of the Order, I hereby charge you with the safety of Prince Roman. You will defend him from harm, heal his wounds, and keep his counsel as the Order of the Father has done from our very beginning. Do you understand?"

     Patton, a confused smile on his face, looked at Roman expectantly, finding the prince nodding his head excitedly.

     The knight sucked in a breath, rolled back his shoulder, and puffed out his chest, doing his best dramatic stance as he responded, "You betcha."

     "What?" the Lord Commander asked.

     "Yes," Patton answered, the goofy grin back on his face.

     Shaking his head, Lord Leofric moved away from the two, the business of their meeting concluded as he instructed, "Very well. Prince Roman, you are more than welcome to take the hospitality of Castle Darpley for the evening if you would wish."

     Roman, standing tall, ever the regal figure, replied, "It is much appreciated, Lord Commander. Food and rest would do me well before we begin our journey."

     "Of course, of course," Lord Leofric spoke, "I will have your horses fed and prepared for your departure. Might I recommend the magic school of Wickswane as your next port of call? Bringing the mages to your side would be a prudent action, if I may be so bold as to advise you, Your Highness."

     "You're simply doing as your order does best," Roman laughed lightly, before he continued, "Your advice is sound, however, my lord. I will not forget it."

     "Sir Patton," the Lord Commander added, and Patton's head turned to regard him, "I will instruct your squire to prepare for your journey. Pack your armor, weapons, saddle your horse, and you two may leave at first light with my blessing."

     The prince turned to share a look with Patton, who was wide-eyed as he mouthed silently, "I have a horse?"

     With that final instruction, Lord Commander Leofric bowed to Prince Roman, and the prince returned the courtesy in kind. Patton did the same, bowing to the master of his order, before he started following Roman out of the room. Halfway to the door, however, he stopped, as did Roman when he no longer heard the knight's footfalls behind him.

     Patton turned to the Lord Commander, "Ummm, my lord?"

     Leofric, who had turned to his books, turned back to regard his subordinate, "Yes, Sir Patton? Was there something else?"

     The knight seemed to be summoning up courage, drawing up his chest before he asked, "My squire, Toby. I would like to take him with me."

     The question hung unanswered in the room for a few seconds, the silence stretching. Squires tended to stay at the castle, where they could learn how to fight, how to heal, how to ride horses, how to behave at court, how to serve the realm. In essence, they stayed to learn how to become knights, serving those already stationed at the castle as a way, simply, to gain actual experience. To take one on the road with him, to expose him to the real world, in essence, simply was not done. The furrow on the Lord Commander's brow seemed to convey this as he thought over the request.

     Patton continued, more to end the silence than anything else, "He's a good kid. Helpful and honest and hard-working... Plus, I'll admit that I could probably use the extra help putting on my armor. I think seeing the world would be good for a kid his age."

     A long moment went by before the Lord Commander nodded, "He's yours. Arm him lightly and saddle a horse so he doesn't slow you down."

     "What!?"

     The squeaky, little voice came from behind the closed door that led back to the castle proper. The barely held back snickering from Patton answered the question as to whom the voice belonged to. Toby had been eavesdropping on the whole conversation.

     A breath of laughter seemed to escape as Patton inclined his head once more, "I will, and thank you, Lord Commander."

     "You're welcome," Leofric responded, a hint of a smile behind his blond-gray beard for he straightened again, ordering, "Dismissed!"

     Turning on his heel, with a bit more of a spring in his step, Patton joined an aghast Roman once more as they left the Lord Commander's chambers, a dumbstruck Toby greeting them as they opened the door. The knight couldn't help the guffaw of laughter that left his mouth at seeing his squire's face, the possibilities of the journey seeming to run through his mind behind those hazel eyes. Just as the door closed, Roman could have sworn that he heard a hearty chuckle at their departure.

----------

     Prince Roman lay on the bed in Sir Patton's homey, little room in the castle, propped up against a pillow with his back to the wall, as he watched the knight and squire move around the room, packing bags for the adventure. Mostly, it was Toby finding things and handing them to Patton, who would pack what was given to him. Three sets of wooden bowls and plates sat on the bedside table, picked clean, as the squire had gone to fetch food for the lot of them, knowing that their preparatory work would likely last into the night.

     "So?" Roman spoke, talking over the thumping of boots against the floorboards.

     "Buttons," Patton looked up with a grin, not even stopping his work before he looked back down again.

     Roman quirked his brow, trying to think through the odd response, "Buttons?"

     Packing a coiled, leather belt into one of the bags, Patton replied, "Things you sew."

     "Things I... oh," the prince groaned at the joke.

     Apparently, sending Patton to an order of knights who delighted in dad jokes worked far better on paper than it did in real life, or, well, in this immersion.

     Another moment or two of relative silence passed, punctuated only by the clamor of gear being shifted and moved, before Roman tried again, "So? What do you think?"

     "Of what, bud?" the knight answered, not even looking up as his hands moved with his work.

     "Of... this," the prince continued, holding out his hands to gesture to the whole room around them, "All of this. This whole world that I created!"

     Patton slowed slightly, as if he were trying to think of an answer to satisfy Roman while he continued to work, "It's... It's quite nifty."

     "Nifty?" Roman asked, his eyes narrowing, before letting out a sardonic laugh, "No, no, no, Patton. Taco Tuesday is nifty. Finding a dollar on the walk home is nifty. Rainbow-colored socks are nifty."

     "Don't worry. I packed those already," Patton chimed, showing off the balled up pair of rainbow-colored socks before pushing them back into the bag and turning to Toby, "Can you give Prince Roman and I a minute or two alone, kiddo?"

     "Yes, Sir Patton, Your Highness," Toby obeyed dutifully, before quickly taking his leave.

     Alone now with Patton, Roman let out a grunt of frustration, "I built a world! So you guys could be a part of it, part of a story that you can shape with your words and deeds! I think that's a bit more than just, 'nifty!'"

      Patton replied, stopping his packing to look Roman in the eye, "Of course it is, big guy! This is fantastic and wonderful and I'm absolutely, totally flabbergasted at how... real the worlds you create are, but we still have to find Virgil and Logan. Now, I'm guessing that we meet up with them further along in your story here?"

     "Well, yes," Roman admitted, shifting on the bed to ponder the question for a moment.

     The father figure wore a small, tired smile on his face as his shoulders settled, "Alright, can you tell me where?"

     "You're all where I told you that you were from," the prince explained, "You were from the Order of the Father, so you were dropped close by their castle headquarters. Logan is a mage scholar, so he should be at the magic school of Wickswane. It's a bit further north and relatively close by, and it's on the way to Oldhollow, where Virgil should be."

     A look of relief washed over Patton's face as he let out a sigh, "Good. That makes me feel better. We leave in the morning, head to Waneswick..."

     "Wickswane," Roman corrected.

     "Right. Wickswane," Patton amended, "Grab Logan, loop over to Oldhollow, grab Virgil, and then you get all of us out of here."

     The prince threw the knight a wide-eyed stare, "Out of here? But the whole adventure hasn't even begun yet! We haven't done anything!"

     Patton looked tired and exasperated and seemed to be trying hard to keep the smile on his face from faltering, "Fine. Let's just... cross that bridge when we come to it, alright? Can you do that for me, Roman?"

     A tense silence hung in the room as the two sides looked at each other. Roman, on the bed, had his arms crossed, looking as if he were the petulant child who had just found a treasure trove and wanted to share with his friends, but was being told simply to leave it behind. Patton, midway between packing breeches into his bag, looked like the dad trying to hold it together when all three of his children darted off in different directions. It was a truly apt metaphor, in a way; Patton was, just now, finding one of his children at his favorite toy store ever, and had to convince him to leave that cherished space to find the other wayward children to simply go home. To Roman, it was equally true, he had created something just for the four of them, and to see it left behind, before it had even begun, simply was not fair to his mind.

     Between the two of them, there had to be a middle ground. There had to be a compromise. Patton had extended the olive branch, and, while Roman wanted desperately to knock it out of his hand, a nagging guilt plagued the back of his mind, telling him that his knee-jerk selfishness was what got them all into this in the first place.

     He nodded, "Yes, Patton. We find the others first."

     "Good," Patton concluded, before he put down the breeches and set his pack aside.

     "Thank you, champ," he comforted, walking over to the edge of the bed, where Roman lay, and extending his arms, "Can I maybe get a hug?"

     Roman looked up at Patton, wanting so badly to turn him down, to be petty and get a dig in at the moral side. He wanted to stamp his foot and be disagreeable, to feel some kind of dark glee at making Patton sad. But he could not. He just did not have it in him to deny Patton something so simple after everything he had put the father figure through. Reluctantly, Roman pulled himself over to Patton and leaned into the embrace, mashing his face into the moral side's stomach, the woolen, teal tunic soft against his face and warm from the strong body underneath. After a still moment or two, he wrapped his arms around Patton's waist, burying his face deeper, and eliciting a fit of giggles from the knight.

     "There you go!" Patton squeaked amid his light laughter, carding thick fingers through Roman's hair, "Heehee, hey, you! That tickles!"

     The prince's only response was to let out a long groan into the hugger's stomach, setting off another chain of giggles.

     "By the way," Patton asked, and Roman looked up, honey-colored eyes peering, "I thought I was Sir Dauntless in the game we were originally playing? Why am I being called Sir Patton Dauntless now?"

     "Ease of communication," Roman answered simply.

     "Ah," Patton uttered.

     After a few more comfortable seconds, the father figure patted the prince on the head, "Alright, Roman, we good?"

     Prince Roman nodded, and Sir Patton stepped away, heading back to his bag and calling Toby back into the room. The young squire immediately returned and set back to work at a dizzying pace, eager to prove his worth to his two elders. Roman settled back again, against the wall to watch the two work. He had admittedly been taken aback when Patton stuck his neck out for the young squire, and even more so when he requested to take the boy with them. It was not very often that Roman was surprised within his own domain of fairy tales and fantasy, but the sensation was certainly a welcome one. Watching the squire and knight share some silly dad joke between them, Roman couldn't help but think that if the times to come were as surprising as these last few hours had been, then it was surely to be a grand adventure indeed.

     That pleasant thought in mind, Roman allowed his eyes to close and soon sank into the sweet embrace of sleep.

     "Sir Patton... the prince is asleep."

     "That's my bed!"

Chapter Text

     How did he do it?

     That was the buzzing question burning through Logan's mind as he ran a clammy hand through his purple hair, his glasses sliding down to the end of his nose. Quickly, to catch them before they fell off, he pushed his spectacles back up to the bridge of his nose and let out a tired sigh, one of many that he had uttered that day. He sat at a desk, poring over a book, one of many that he had read through in the several hours he had been here.

     Wherever here is, Logan thought.

     What he did know is that somehow, he had actually become his character from Roman's ill-fated, inane fantasy, that of the mage, Tennyson. Logan Tennyson, it would seem, as many would refer to him, much to his own curiosity as to how they knew his first name. This person he was portraying seemed to make his home in this magical school of Wickswane, nestled within a place called the Greygreen Forest in the country of Estea, wherever that was. In truth, all Logan truly wanted to do the moment he woke up inside this fiction, was to find a way out of it.

     Until he saw the library.

     The Great Library of Wickswane was apparently one of the true wonders of this world, and as soon as Logan rested his eyes upon it, he understood why. There were ten floors, stacked with great, tall shelves that were crammed full of dusty tomes and scrolls, each one full of knowledge that the mages here were desperate to learn. Students, both young and old, and teachers were constantly moving from floor to floor, bookshelf to bookshelf, from the lowest reaches up to the heights of the garret. The roof itself was utterly astounding, as it was a single, curved pane of crystal glass that was said to measure eighty feet from one side to the other and made the stars shine so brightly that one scarcely needed a lantern when reading in the dead of night.

     Most of the floors also seemed to correspond to each of the types of magic that were taught here. The lowest floor was dedicated to the study of necromancy, out of the way so that only those who were intentionally looking for books on that subject would be able to find them. Up the first set of winding staircases took students to the second floor, which held references for divination and scrying, which Logan purposefully tended to overlook. The third and fourth floors were dedicated both to the studies of both evocation and abjuration, the former of which was the study of the raw forces of elemental magic and latter which taught protections against such powers, as well as that of magical seals and sigils. Above that was the fifth floor, where mages went to study and practice the art of conjuration, or making objects or even animals appear out of thin air. Onward to the sixth floor were the books on transmutation and transfiguration, or changing one object into another. The seventh floor was dedicated to books relating to the subject of illusion magic, spells that were used to confuse, confound, or simply to mask one's true intentions. On the eighth floor, and off-limits to many of the younger students, were books on enchantment, a step further than illusion, that taught direct control over another's own mind and body. The ninth floor was dedicated to the healing arts, and not just in the magical sense, but also herbs, poultices, and how to treat dozens, if not hundreds, of injuries or illnesses. The tenth, in a giant ring at the very top, just below that fantastic window, was everything else: histories, novels, poetry, languages, any of a thousand subjects of knowledge across thousands of tomes.

     Needless to say, Logan had spent almost every waking moment of his time in the Great Library, sitting at a table, surrounded by books. If he was to be stuck in this fantasy created by Roman, there certainly were worse places for the logical side to be dropped. Here, no one batted an eye as he pulled down five or six books and just sat, soaking in all the knowledge that the library had to offer and knowing that he would never, in his entire life, be able to actually read, and thus know, everything. Last night, a wizened old woman, perhaps a librarian to his mind, had even come to bring him supper, warm vegetable soup, bread, and tea, taking special care not to disturb his reading any more than she had to. He had even fallen asleep at the table, at heaven knows what time, beneath that beautiful, starry sky, until he had been awoken by the same old woman, with a leatherbound book in her hands and a thoughtful, if stern look on her face.

----------

     "Mister Tennyson," a woman's voice spoke, and Logan opened his eyes blearily, blinking once or twice before pushing himself up to rest his chin on his elbow.

     Logan regarded the woman, "You... you're the one who brought me food last night."

     The first thing Logan noticed about her was that, even while sitting, he was almost tall enough to look her right in the eye, as she stood about a head and a half shorter than almost everyone else in the library. She was an older woman, no doubt, with gray hair, streaked with white, that came down past her hips, nearly to her knees, some strands braided, others left to fall straight down. Old, sunken, slightly milky, green eyes, flecked with gray, peered out at the younger mage, a crooked, hooked nose between them. She stood tall however, her back straight, shoulders squared, in modest, gray robes and a green shawl. A light, rasping laugh left her thin lips, making Logan think of a witch in a Halloween haunted house.

     "It's my job to look after all of my students," she spoke, a pleasant tone to her voice despite the stern glower her face seemed to adopt.

     "Thank you for looking after me then," Logan replied, before his brow furrowed in curiosity, "And your students?"

     An uneven, little smile curled her lips, "Unless I am mistaken, I'm still headmistress."

     Logan was dumbfounded, stumbling over himself as he attempted to apologize, but the woman simply held up a hand to put him at ease.

     "Shhhh, don't worry yourself, my dear," she comforted, "I admit that I don't tend to get out very much as my legs won't carry me as fast as they used to. The ravages of old age and whatnot."

     "Of, ummm, of course," Logan responded. She inclined her head slightly before standing up straight once more, "Tessaly Weller. And you must be Logan Tennyson."

     The logical side felt the urge to correct her, to tell her that only the first part was his name and that the surname was part of some elaborate fiction that he had been dropped into, but he choice, instead, to politely smile, "Yes, Headmistress."

     "Then I believe that this," she continued, holding the book she had been carrying out to Logan, "is yours."

     "I don't know what you," Logan began, not sure what the headmistress was referring to, but then his eyes fell upon the book and widened.

     It was a heavy book, bound in black leather that streaked with a sapphire blue when the light hit it just right. Its pages appeared warped and wrinkled and did not seem to lay flat within the closed book, looking as if it had spent more than its fair share of time being written in, its spine pressed down as its author feverishly penned words in. As if on instinct, Logan took the book from Weller's hands, and a silent gasp escaped him as he read the sleek, silver letters emblazoned across the cover, spelling out, "Grimoire." The leather felt warm in his hands, comfortable, as if it had been made especially suited to his touch.

     "This is," Logan remarked, an edge of wonder to his voice before he cleared his throat and looked up at the headmistress, the mask of logic set back in place, "How... how do you know this is mine?"

     She eyed the young scholar knowingly, "Call it intuition. This is yours, Mister Tennyson."

     Logan could not find the words to deny her as he held the book tighter to his chest, "Well, thank you then, headmistress."

     "You are quite welcome," she spoke graciously before her eyes narrowed, that stern glower ghosting over her still cheerful face, "But know this. Knowledge is power here, and, within this library, within each book, lies the potential for great power within you. That grimoire is your link to this knowledge, and thus, its power. Without it, you are nothing. Do you understand?"

     As Headmistress Weller spoke, Logan clutched the leather book closer and closer to his chest, the woman's warning, if only a conjured figment of Roman's incredibly realistic imagination, feeling like a heavy weight settling over his heart. She leered at Logan with an unblinking gaze, like a mother chastising her ill-behaved child, and after a moment or two, the logical side could not muster up the will to keep eye contact with her.

     Undeterred, she put her hand under his chin to return his gaze to hers as she repeated, "Do you understand, Mister Tennyson?"

     Logan could feel his ears burn a deep red along with his cheeks as sheepish embarrassment tinted his face, "I understand, Headmistress."

     Weller's fixed glare softened as she gave his face a comforting tap and rubbed along his cheek, looking ever like the doting grandmother, as she quietly praised, "That's a good lad."

     Logan grimaced a little at the contact, but, thankfully, it did not seem to last very long as she returned her hands to her side and gave a slight nod, "Well then, I'd best be off. Other matters around the academy to contend with. I wish you the best in the quenching of your thirst for knowledge, but, if I may, a word of advice before I go?"

     The logical side nodded silently, before remembering himself and answering, "Umm, of course."

     "Come with me. It will only be a moment."

     Headmistress Weller turned on her heel and began to walk towards the balcony, Logan standing from his seat to go with her, grimoire still clutched close to his side. She approached the railing of the overlook, her wrinkled hands moving over the dark brown hardwood, inlaid with gold, that reached around the entire ring of the tenth floor. Logan moved to her side, feeling his hands get clammy and sweaty as he saw the nine, bustling floors below him. He had never been actually been afraid of heights, but the disorientation of the last day had left his mind somewhat exhausted, and now he felt uneasy looking over the railing to the floor so very far below him.

     "Mister Tennyson," she spoke, her tone even, "I have taught at this school for a very long time, and there is but one truth I have learned.

     "All the knowledge in the world is utterly useless unless you do something with it. Plenty of the mages here will sit in this library. Learn. Grow. But that is all they will do, and all that knowledge will turn to dust in the end, along with their bodies."

     There was a rueful tone that had bled into her voice, almost mournful as she looked over each floor, at the studious and the curious below her, at those who sat at tables, just as Logan had, poring over dozens of open books, and at the children, clad in robes, chasing each other between the great pillars. Her gaze moved to those who sat at their tables, maybe one or two books before them, moving their hands as they practiced, and the look of elation on each of their faces as their fingers spouted a gout of flames or a shower of sparks, or the look of curious disappointment when nothing seemed to happen. There was simply activity everywhere below them.

     "At its very core, magic is an incarnation of our will," she continued, "Spend your time here, learn the foundation, but don't linger. Use your knowledge. Travel the world, teach another, inspire another. A thirst for omniscience will only serve to shut you away from the world you seek to know."

     Logan pondered her words, looking at this woman before him. She was small compared to him, feeble, and ancient, but there was a fire within her that the logical side could not ignore. Though a constant thirst for knowledge made up the core of his being, he could not dismiss her words so easily. She truly was right; what good is knowledge if nothing is done with it?

     Without another word, Headmistress Waller turned and shuffled away for a moment before she piped up and turned back around, "Oh! One more thing. For the ease of travel, I placed a spell in your grimoire. I think it will be something you'll very much enjoy."

     Logan leveled a curious look at her, but was only met with a smile as she turned back around and continued walking, and thought, What an odd woman.

----------

     The memory of the headmistress was fresh in Logan's mind, but he had not seen in her again since he had awoken. Instead, he busied himself with reading through more of the library's collection, staying with the histories and poetry, things that he was comfortable with outside of this nonsensical realm of magic and sorcery. But the temptation was always there, as his eyes would constantly sneak quick looks over to his grimoire, sitting to his side, its leather backing gleaming blue whenever his gaze would turn to it.

     What harm could it do? he thought, I mean, it's just one spell. And I'd imagine I'm still technically in Roman's room, so it'll be interesting at least. Probably.

     He shook his head, embarrassed to think of what Roman would say is he knew Logan was actually tempted to give in to the magic of this world around him. The temptation was too great to resist, however, as Logan set down his current book on an Estean war of succession centuries before, and allowed his fingers to brush over the cover of his grimoire. A rush ran through Logan's arm, a tingling surge that shot right to his heart. In any other situation, he would have pushed the book away and that would have been it, but the words of the headmistress rung in his mind.

     "At its very core, magic is an incarnation of our will," she had said, and, with that sentiment, Logan decided to be willful.

     He slid the book across the table until it sat before him, and Logan leaned forward, gingerly placing his fingers on the edge of the cover, before he quickly flipped the book open to the first page. He flinched, not sure what to expect upon opening the book, but felt foolish when nothing actually happened except to see words on the page looking back up at him. Adjusting his glasses, he leaned to read the looped handwriting that was, quite clearly, not his own neat script.

     "For this spell, you must envision change within your mind. Think of the seasons, or the cycle of day into night, of death and rebirth. Allow those thoughts to fill your mind, let the feelings they exude fill your heart, and read the words:

     A book can sit, but I must go

     to work the ebbs of magic's flow

     Take a form, familiar be

     for thou must rise and walk with me."

     Logan could feel the instant reaction in his head, thinking that this whole thing is nonsensical and utterly pointless. However, this world was not his own. This was Roman's domain, the realm of imagination and fantasy, and, within it, the ordinary rules of logic did not apply. With a resigned sigh, he reasoned to himself; if he was to be a pawn in Roman's little game, it would be best for Logan to learn how to play by the prince's rules.

     The logical mage closed his eyes and tried to order his thoughts, pushing aside the logical notions that this would never work, or that no one, in their right mind, would actually believe that any of this was real. Instead, he did as he was instructed, imagining a tree, standing tall in the summer sun, green leaves adorning its branches. Then, its leaves began to wilt and brown as the cold autumn winds blew. Those bracing breezes of fall would inevitably give way to the chill of winter where the tree would remain barren and still before new life would begin to bloom once again with the spring. The constant cycle of death and rebirth, of respite and awakening, of the great circle of life.

     Then, Roman's encyclopedic knowledge of Disney lyrics blasted like a trumpet through his mind, "It's the circle of liiiiife!"

     Logan's eyes shot open as if the outburst had been real. Nothing had changed. Mages around him were still moving in a hustle through the study tables and the myriad shelves, and the grimoire remained before him.

     This concentration thing may be harder than I thought, the logical side thought ruefully as he closed his eyes once again.

     He imagined a beautiful midafternoon in a meadow, high grass and flowers coming up all around him, their scents mingling with that of the fresh breeze and the chirping of birds off in the distance. A feeling of utter serenity washed over Logan as he imagined the sun moving off into the west, the sky darkening above him and shadow encroaching from the east as the day bled into night. When the sun fell, the great moon rose to take its place, bringing its own light across the field as the chirping of crickets replaced that of the birds. With the moon midway across the sky, the sun began to raise its fiery face once again in the east as its light drowned out the moon's. On and on the cycle would go, day to twilight to night to sunrise to day as each hour would inevitably bring change to the world around him. However, his concentration began to meander as he watched the sun and moon slowly begin to resemble Patton and Virgil's faces, respectively, more and more until the sheer ludicrousness of the moment force his eyes to open once again, his concentration broken.

     Again, nothing had changed, and frustration began to wend its way through Logan's mind, both at the failure to keep his mind focused as well the sheer lunacy of the situation. He took in a deep breath, held it, and then let it out again, trying to settle his nerves before he closed his eyes once more.

     Third time's the charm, as Roman would say, Logan thought, doing his best not to call up the fact that three seemed like a completely arbitrary number of attempts to call upon for the sake of not feeling like an utter failure.

     A baby came to mind, maybe only a few days old, small and innocent and helpless, eyes closed and grasping with tiny fingers. Its eyes opened and Patton's soft, cooing, fatherly voice came to mind, but Logan gently pushed the sound to the side to focus on the tiny child as it grew and rolled over onto all fours, shuffling forward before rising to its hand and knees, one hand in front of the other. Within moments, the child, a toddler, pushed itself up to stand on two, wobbly feet, taking tentative steps forward with a dopey, happy, toothy, little smile. The steps gradually became more sure and the strides longer as the legs, and body became longer themselves. The child, a little boy, continued to grow, four, seven, ten, twelve years-old, taller and stronger.

     Just as the teen years began, Virgil's voice eked in, croaking about how it was all downhill from here. Logan pushed that thought to the side as he did Patton's, watching as this person developed more and more, growing up literally before his very eyes. Before too long, a fully grown man stood before Logan with a strong jaw and stronger frame, and a surge of something raw and hot and intense rushed through the logical side's mind, a passion that could only belong to Roman. His mind clouded with only what he could describe as lust, it took all of Logan's willpower to keep his mind on the task at hand.

     While this incarnation of change grew to be pleasant, in a sense, the vision was only half finished as Logan forced the cycle to continue. Lustrous hair faded and grayed and bright, hopeful eyes dulled and sunk back with a tired glaze. Strength began to fail the person before him, as that tall, straight back curled in upon itself to a hunch, and feeble legs began to buckle under the slighter and slighter weight of the body it desperately tried to hold up. Within moments, the person who had just opened his eyes for the first time moved closer and closer to shutting them forever, falling to the ground on his hands and knees in a grim parody of the beginning. While Logan knew that this was life and it all, eventually, must end, a surge of distress tugged at his heart. He was watching someone die, and, while it was a change, something he had to visualize, nothing could lessen the impact of what was happening before him.

     Is that all we are? the inevitable question came into his mind, and he had a difficult time trying to shove it away.

     Logan took a deep breath as he watched those eyes close for one, last time and then the person before him was still. It felt as though an invisible hand was grabbing his heart and squeezing it harder and harder at the very sight of death. It was a truth, he knew, but reading about it, hearing about it, even seeing the end result at a viewing or a funeral, all of those things paled in comparison to actually watching that moment and knowing. He knew that one moment, they were alive, and the next, they were not. Was that not the greatest change any of them would ever experience?

     And then, after that, there's nothing.

     A chill ran up Logan's spine as a different voice, an unwelcome voice rushed through his mind like his head had been pushed under frigid water.

     And if that is all there is... What's the point?

     This was not a voice Logan knew, and, from the sensation that accompanied it, it was a voice he did not wish to know.

     There isn't one. That's the one truth. The only truth that matters.

     Another rush of cold ran through his mind, as if this voice was trying to drown him in it. As if it were trying to drag him back to a dark place. That place.

     Let me show you.

     The cold was utterly unbearable as Logan's eyes flew open and, where there was once sympathy and distress and sorrow, there was only fear.

Chapter Text

     There was no use.

     Roman had been in one of his moods, ruled by his passions, as always, and when he got this way, ranting and raving and flailing about for whatever reason, there was no dissuading him. Normally, he would tire himself out and then he would be more of a mind to see some kind of rational thought. That was the way of things; it was the logical order. That look in his eye, that spark of creativity that tended to drive Logan to the end of his rope, that, however, was different and new altogether.

     It did not follow the usual progression. It was an aberration, a change in the variables, and one that Logan did not expect. Even less did he expect that, within Roman's domain, the creative side was perfectly capable of acting on his threat to send them on a little, "adventure," as he called it. A change-up and a miscalculation together did not a happy situation for Logan make; it led to uncertainty, and the mire of uncertainty that was emotions, and passionate emotions at that, was something completely alien to the logical side's way of thinking.

     When Roman snapped his fingers, Logan knew he there was no way out, and there was no more foreboding omen that he was absolutely correct than the green eyes that opened right behind the incensed prince.

     That dreadful, green stare stayed even when everything went dark, and the teacher found himself somewhere completely different from where he had been mere seconds before, his compatriots gone to parts unknown. In their place was darkness expanding in every direction, save for the direction that was illuminated by that viridescent glow. In it, Logan could see slick cobbles adorning the ground, and his own breath in the chill of the damp chamber. More distressing, the air had become heavier and every breath became harder and harder to take in. Logan's heart hammered in his chest from the difficulty of taking in oxygen as well as the sheer anxiety of the moment.

     This is not normal, Logan reasoned, trying to make sense of what had just happened, but unable to find the words, Where are they? Patton, Virgil, even Roman? They were figments, yes, but surely they couldn't just be gone.

     "This is not your domain, scholar," a rumbling voice spoke from the darkness and stepped forward, metal clanking against stone, "Your way of thinking will give you little comfort here."

     Logan's fingers went to the neck of his tunic, trying to pull the fabric away from his throat so he could suck in the relief air would bring, but was ultimately denied as he rasped, "You seem to have me at a disadvantage."

     The metallic, green-eyed giant loomed closer, its body still shrouded in shadow as it moved, voice still growling and reverberating off the walls, wherever they were, "It is of no consequence. You will fall, as will the others."

     Unease wormed its way into Logan's heart as he took a timid step back, but the green stare and metal footfalls loomed ever closer, "Th...that is not an answer. Who are you?"

     Even as it moved, the gaze seemed to change. While it was still unnerving and fearsome to behold, there was a softness of consideration to the stare, as if it actually pondered the request before it rumbled forth again.

     "I am a child of man," it spoke, "and ambition, lust, greed, and envy all number among my own children."

     The clanking settled before Logan, and he squinted his eyes trying to make sense of the silhouette that stood in front of him, thinking, This has to be one of Roman's tricks.

     A veritable knight stood atop the slick stone floor, armored from head to toe in black steel and leather. In any other situation, Logan would have been excited to be able to study the suit up close, to see it assembled and just how it was placed upon the knights body. He knew, however, that he was unlikely to get the opportunity, especially as those watchful, green eyes never seemed to stray from Logan himself.

     The knight continued, "I have burned kingdoms and laid them low. I have set brother against brother, son against father. I fuel your delightful dreams and dark fantasies."

     The great, armored shadow took one more step forward, Logan squinting at the pointed clank of his armor before that dark voice asked, "Who am I?"

     "A riddle?" Logan asked in return, trying to steady himself and right the pattern of his breathing, but proving unsuccessful at both, "That's how you answer?""

     "You believe that you are smarter than everyone else," the knight reasoned, "and yet you answer a question with a question. Curious."

     Indignity seeped into Logan's voice as he looked up at the knight through his glasses and a curtain of purple hair, colored black by the green light, and petulantly responded, "So did you!"

     The knight turned on his heel and and began to walk around Logan, his footfalls echoing on the stone floor, each step resounding with clanking plate or jingling chains or shifting leather. The helmet was always kept trained on the logical side, however, as were those taunting eyes. This ebon sentinel seemed more and more like a stalking predator, which, conversely and logically, would make Logan the prey.

     "I answered with a riddle," the knight responded, and Logan could almost swear that he heard that voice speaking through a smile, "I gave you an answer as to who I am. You simply have to be clever enough to figure it out."

     Logan had to strain to hear the knights words over the clamorous sounds of his footfalls mingling with the logical side's labored breathing and the drumming, thundering pulsing of his heart pounding in his head. It was so hard to think clearly, so hard to stay standing, so hard to do anything, and the black knight did not relent, his thundering footsteps rounding behind Logan, and the teacher could not even summon the energy to turn and face him.

     "But perhaps," the armored behemoth spoke again, "you aren't as intelligent as you think. Intelligence requires will, and what are you truly without your friends? There's no will, no drive, just a stream of consciousness with nothing new to contribute to the world, because all you can spout are facts, and footnotes, and other people's words. You're nothing."

     Logic seemed to evade Logan, and that sensation in and of itself was utterly terrifying. He felt robbed of purpose and meaning, and without them, what was he?

     He was nothing.

     "Good, we can begin," the rumbling voice rattled behind him.

     Suddenly, a pain wracked through Logan's body and his knees immediately gave out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor. A grunt escaped his lips as his knees collided with the stones below, but that sensation paled in comparison to the exquisite pain that wormed its way through his chest.

     It was like nothing he had ever felt before. He tried to take in a breath, but only gasped and coughed and sputtered, each tremorous movement a shock that made his chest to throb more and more. It felt as though something filled his lungs, and continued to fill them, more and more, those organs pressing against his ribs and his heart and everything inside of him. In truth, he felt like he was choking, drowning, and the cruelest part of it all was that whenever he tried to take in a breath, he would only be met with a stabbing pain and no relief. He leaned forward, onto his hands and knees and wretched, crying and heaving at the sharp pain, his vision beginning to fade around the edges. As he heaved, and nothing would come up, he could practically taste and smell the salty tang of seawater.

     I AM drowning, Logan thought, panic coursing through his mind, This is impossible! This can't be happening! I'm going to die!

     Then, a cold, metal hand grabbed at his back, gauntleted fingers ripping into his shirt and pulling him back to his knees. Instantly, with enough speed to send his brain through whiplash, Logan's full lungs felt as though they were being pulled backward, crushing into his ribs and spine. Another metal hand placed itself on his body, gripping around the back of his neck as if to grant leverage, but the cold metal only made Logan gasp fruitlessly once more. His body shuddered in pain, unable to breathe or move or think or do anything other than feel, and that was the one thing he simply did not want to do anymore. He certainly did not wish to feel his waterlogged lungs burst out of his back, takng his spine, his organs, and his life with it, as they felt like they were about to do.

     Logan closed his eyes, trying to steel himself against the end to come, when, suddenly, the cold hands left his body and he was pulled onto his back, the back of his head slamming against the stone floor. Dazed, he took in a breath on instinct and, while the air was heavy and stale and dead, he could breathe! He wanted to laugh, but anything other than his labored breathing only made his lungs ache, now empty, but feeling as though they had been stretched to beyond capacity and now had to deal with the sudden emptiness. Logan's head was spinning as he looked up into the darkness, but could see the green light of his captor's eyes dancing around the room. He looked up, seeing the knight, upside-down from his position, holding something in his hand.

     The ebon knight held an inky, black mass in his hands, almost indiscernible against his dark armor. The only way Logan could see it was because the green-eyed sentinel had his luminous gaze fixed upon it, and the aura hungrily drank in and absorbed that green light.

     "Yes," the knight rumbled as he set the held darkness free, "Born of the scholar, I give you form!"

     His curiosity ever getting the better of him, Logan rolled onto his stomach, wincing at the hard ground and the slick stones biting into his body as he pushed himself up onto his knees to watch.

     The black aura, darker still than the tenebrous shroud that already pervaded the room, fell like oil or ink from the knight's hands and onto the floor. It landed and splashed like a liquid, but began to eerily rise, like a haze, into a column. Guided by one of those horribly cold, gauntleted hands, the knight crafted at the black aura, guiding it with his movements and gestures. Before too long, it slowly began to take a humanoid form, at least as far as Logan could discern in the utter darkness.

     Logan tried to get to his feet, but his body ached and creaked until he gave in and stayed down, his thoughts moving to the others.

     Perhaps this horrible, armored creature was right as Logan thought, What if I am nothing? What would happen to Roman? To Patton? To Virgil?

     Without Logan, without logic, there would be no stabilizing force. Roman, without some semblance of order, would fall into chaos. Unbridled creativity with no focus or rhyme or reason, moving from one thing to the next to the next as it pleased him. Nothing would ever get done and he would drown in his ideas with no way to stay the course on any of them. In addition, his passions, untempered by logic, would inevitably destroy Patton as well, burning him out. And Virgil, without reason or logic, he would be the only one to be able to stand against Roman, but for horribly similar reasons. His anxiety would quickly escalate to rampant paranoia on par with the prince's passion and the two would tear each other apart with nobody to stop them.

     "Do you know who I am yet?"

     That dark, rumbling voice cut through Logan's mind, bringing him back to the room as the black knight stood before him, his creation's form almost indistinguishable behind the armored behemoth.

     "Does it matter?" Logan responded, his voice broken and tired and croaking.

     A cold laugh rattled that black, steel shell, "No, I suppose it doesn't. Not to you anyway."

     The knight took rumbling steps toward Logan, his footfalls clanking along the ground.

     CLANK.

     Roman deserves a second chance, and if anyone is creative enough to find his way out of something like this. It's him. I can't let him down.

     CLANK.

     Patton is a dolt, but he's my polar opposite, my counterpart. It was the two of us first and, without him, I actually AM useless. He's also morality, and emotion, and stronger than any of us give him credit for. I can't let him down.

     CLANK.

     Virgil is a part of us. He's necessary and valid and, without him, there's no caution, no example to turn to to actually be effective AS the voice of reason. He's cunning and cautious and tenacious. I can't let him down.

     As his three compatriots came to mind, their faces identical, but each of them with their own strengths and weaknesses and quirks and oddities that made them all so wonderfully unique. In that one instant, he felt his heart rise in his chest, swelling with hope. He felt a surge of tingling warmth flow through his hands, and, looking down, saw them glowing a brilliant royal blue. He flexed his hands, curiosity and rational thought beginning to return to his mind once again, like an old friend.

     He looked up and saw the knight standing right before him, locking his russet brown eyes on that lustrous, green gaze. The knight raised a great, armored fist and let it fall down upon Logan. It was a massive strike, one that would have surely taken the logical side's head off.

     If Logan had not already predicted where the knight would strike.

     Logan threw himself forward, summoning all that was left of strength and hope, to get inside the knight's defensive space, cutting off any momentum he could build. In a flash, his eyes flew to a joint at his opponent's couter, his elbow armor, and, as if acting on instinct, Logan punched at it, his blue fist burning brighter and brighter. He grunted as his hand made contact with the dark metal, but was rewarded as the piece of armor twisted at the strike, rivets popping out and hitting the stones below.

     "What!?" the knight roared in disbelief.

     I won't let them down, Logan thought as he took full advantage of the new opening and raised his other hand up to strike the knight right under his chin, eliciting a burst of blue light as he made contact.

     He could feel the metal of the helm dig into his knuckles, and blood flowed through his fingers, colored purple by his blue aura. Logan carried through on the hit though, adrenaline surging through his body, accompanied by a wave of triumph as he watched the knight stumble back into the darkness and disappear.

     Then, however, so did everything else.

     Everything around Logan changed. All of a sudden, he was no longer breathing in heavy, stale air, but took full, deep breaths of cool, fresh air, the scent of books and paper carried along with it. His feet still sat on a stone floor, but below him were well-let bricks in place of dark and dank cobblestones. Instead of an inky black darkness, there were torches hanging off of walls and brilliant chandeliers casting light against every wall. Finally, in place of the armored knight and his horrible, black aura creation, there were people everywhere, dressed in robes and chattering excitedly through this new hall. Even Logan himself had changed, as he looked down and saw he was now wearing black and navy blue lined robes with a striped, blue kerchief knotted around his neck.

     He was out of that nightmare, and was greeted with words set in stone above a beautiful, marble archway that read, "Scientia potentia est," or, "Knowledge is power."

     Wherever he was, this was a more than welcome change.

----------

     "Mrow."

Chapter Text

     Logan was jolted back into his chair and his eyes flew open.

     He was still in the Great Library, sitting down before a desk that had held a number of books, including his grimoire, but, now, the whole tabletop was shrouded in a bluish haze that obscured everything upon it. Logan coughed, and honestly could not even remember reading the words that had been written on the grimoire's page. Other mages, who stood close by, murmured and chuckled as they paused to spare him a quick look before moving on about their business. To them, this was probably just an entertaining, momentary distraction, but to Logan, the words of Headmistress Weller rang in his head.

     "That grimoire is your link to this knowledge, and thus, its power," she had said, and Logan could practically feel those stern eyes boring into him, "Without it, you are nothing."

     His chest tightened at the memory, along with an anxiety to actually find the book amid the blue smoke. He leaned forward, fanning his hand and blowing in an attempt to dispel the cloud. He felt a swell of satisfaction as it cleared away, swirls of the blue mist curling into the air before dissipating, revealing more and more of the table. Scattered across the tabletop were plenty of other books that Logan had been reading, histories and poetry and sciences, but no grimoire. Even when the cloud had completely abated, that blasted book was nowhere to be seen. Logan stood straight up, incredulous as his eyes scanned over every inch of the table, his hands moving and looking under everything scattered upon it.

     "No," he muttered under his breath, hands moving feverishly fast, "no, no, no, no, no, no..."

     Logan groaned in exasperation. He had had the grimoire for a grand total of perhaps five minutes before his first foray into magic somehow managed to spirit the tome away. The logic of the situation escaped him as he looked under the same book five times within one minute, as if expecting the book to have somehow materialized underneath it each time he picked it up. The anxiety soon gave way to frustration as he plopped back into the chair in a heap and let out a miserable sigh, slouching.

     This never would have happened in my room, Logan thought to himself bitterly, No misplaced books or stupid, hare-brained escapades or anything of the sort!

     The logical side huffed, and his magenta bangs, which had fallen in front of his face, flew up before settling right back down in front of his glasses. He pondered what to do next. Should he continue with another fruitless search? Should he try, most likely in vain, to find the headmistress again and sheepishly confess that he had lost the book? One thing was certain, however. The next time he saw Roman, there would be such a reckoning as to...

     "Mrow?"

     Logan's brow furrowed as he heard the little noise, and outright jumped as he felt something warm rub and coil around his leg, looking down to see the culprit.

     At his feet, coiling around and between his legs and robes, was a little, black cat. As it moved back and forth, threading itself around Logan, the logical side could not help the little coo that escaped him. The animal was apparently quite sweet and affectionate and, as Logan reached down, his hand cautiously outstretched, the little feline looked up, and he was met with the most vivid pair of blue eyes he had ever seen on a cat. It first looked at the offered hand, leaning forward to sniff it before looking up to catch Logan's russet gaze. Their eyes connected for a moment before the cat leaned into Logan's hand, fur and ears pushed back as it moved forward, eyes closed, and purring.

     "Awww, aren't you the sweetest thing!" Logan squealed, and then immediately cleared his throat and blushed, as if hearing Patton's voice come out of his own mouth, "What's your name?"

     Logan continued to run his hand over the cat's head, stroking down its back before repeating the process again and again. It was not until the third or fourth pass that he felt something else, a collar around the cat's neck. He reached down with the other hand, scooping the cat up to take it into his lap, eliciting only a surprised meow to break up the constant vibration of purring. The little feline was warm in Logan's lap as he continued to stroke its sleek, short fur with one hand while the other moved to its collar.

     The mage leaned forward, murmuring, "Okay, little cat, let's see who you belong to."

     The collar was black leather, and smooth to the touch. Logan's hand moved to follow it around the cat's neck, all while petting with his other hand, doing his best to be comforting and setting the animal at ease. He tried to feel for a charm or tag or anything that he could read to learn anything about his new friend or its owner, but his brow furrowed as, instead of any tag, he could feel letters embossed into the leather itself. Logan's fingers moved over the engraving as he tried to figure out what it spelled, but the collar was too small and his fingers too big to discern them through touch alone.

     "Apologies, little," Logan apologized as he grabbed the cat under its front legs and shifted it around, observing, "lady."

     The cat let out a pitiful cry of protest as Logan scanned the collar over the rim of his glasses.

     "G," Logan spelled out as he read each tiny, silver letter, "R. I. M. O."

     His eyes widened as he read out the last three letters in his head, his brain twisting itself around what this could possibly mean, No. It can't be.

     His eyes moved back up to the cat's own vivid, blue eyes, and curiosity seeped once again into Logan's voice as he whispered, softly and tentatively, "Grimoire?"

     The transformation was immediate. There was a puff of blue smoke. One moment, Logan was holding a small, black cat with the bluest eyes he had ever seen. The next, it had reshaped back into that black, leatherbound tome the headmistress had given to him. It fell back into Logan's hands, as heavy as the cat had been, but its weight distrubuted differently. Shocked at what the one simple word had done, Logan threw the book back onto the table and pushed himself and his chair about three feet back.

     What did I just do!? Logan thought, wide-eyed and on the brink of panic, This is impossible! A cat doesn't turn into a book! The very thought is... What is...

     Logan turned his head around, wondering who had seen what he had just done. There were people everywhere, men and women and children in robes, some milling about, others reading quietly at their own tables, but, oddly, everyone seemed to be minding themselves. Nobody spared Logan, or his incident, anything more than a passing glance at the thumping sound of his grimoire hitting the table, but, even then, the distraction held for only a second before they returned to whatever they had already been doing.

     This was odd to Logan. Had they not just seen him turn a book into a cat and then back into a book again? By all accounts of what the logical side knew, that could very well have been a textbook example of what constituted the word, "odd." However, no one seemed to really notice.

     Then, Logan took a further look at the other mages milling about the library. While most were moving between shelves, pulling out books, strolling along each of the levels, or talking amongst themselves, others were actively practicing magic to the same result as Logan. An older gentleman, much older than Logan, who must have been one of the librarians, moved about the the shelves pushing a cart of books. He stopped at each shelf and, with a wave of his hand, books levitated from off the cart and found their way back to their proper places there, before he would move on and repeat the gesture again and again. Another mage, a woman, stood about twenty feet away from Logan, and was using her finger to trace out a magical seal, looking over at a reference book, next to her, after every couple of strokes. As her index finger moved, it was trailed by lines of orange energy, like fire, that floated, suspended in the air before her. Only two tables down from Logan was another young man who was attempting to summon a candlestick he had placed at the other end of the table. The young man held his hand out, screwing his face up in concentration as he focused on the small piece of brass. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen, and the young man only intensified his stare, blood rushing to his face and his eyes lighting up as the candlestick skittered about two inches towards him. The mage seemed to redouble his efforts, focusing even harder, tensing so much that his outstretched hand began to tremble at the exertion. In a streak of brass, the candlestick flew towards the mage, spinning wildly, and collided, with a fair amount of force, right against the young lad's forehead. With a hard clunk, he and his chair tipped back and he fell to the floor with floor in a heap, knocked unconscious. Aside from some laughter from his compatriots who rushed to his side to rouse him, nobody seemed to bat an eye. It was almost as if everything being done here was simply par for the course, and a magenta-haired, bespectacled mage making his grimoire switch forms between a book and a cat just did not seem to register on anyone's radar as anything out of the ordinary.

     Slowly, he rounded his gaze back to his book, sitting on the table where it had landed, closed and still. Logan stood up from his chair and took timid steps towards it, his knees slightly bent, as if he were primed and ready to jump out of the way in case his grimoire decided to suddenly pounce at him. He tentatively rested his fingers on the tabletop, looking down at the sleek, black, leather face of his grimoire, its dark blue sheen and silvery letters glittering in the light. From here, it looked quite harmless.

     Logan let out a ragged breath, thinking to himself, I must be crazy.

     He outstretched his hand once again, just as he had done with that little, black cat when he first saw her, and stammered the word again, "G...grimoire?"

     Logan's heart jumped as another puff of blue smoke engulfed the book and revealed that same, sweet, little cat. She sat on the table patiently, her tail twitching and slowly moving from left to right as she leveled her blue gaze into Logan's own watching, russet eyes. She stayed sitting for about five seconds before her eyes fell to Logan's offered hand. Leaning forward, she gave him a sniff, puffs of her breath tickling Logan's fingers before she slinked forward and pushed her head into his hand and rubbing against it.

     Well, I guess I have a cat now, Logan reasoned, now having a bit more of a grip on the situation as he actively started petting the cat, his heart warm as he began to hear her purring again.

     "I can't just keep calling you, 'grimoire,'" Logan mused out loud, tensing slightly as the book's name left his mouth for fear of changing the creature back, but it remained a cat.

     Perhaps it's just the word that causes the metamorphosis, or an emotion behind the word, he thought, scratching under the cat's chin, and she seemed to enjoy the scritching immensely.

     It was of no consequence to Logan, truly, as he continued to pet his new cat. There were other times to argue with his firmly logic-bound mind about the niceties and semantics of casting magic spells. For now, he had cleared one hurdle in getting the grip of one, simple spell, and he was quite content with its results, as much of a shock as it had been. He continued to pet the little grimoire cat, a smile slowly growing across his face as he raised his other hand to add to the love he showed the little feline. The cat reveled in the attention, her purring growing louder and louder.

     He continued petting her for a full five minutes longer before hushed, chattering voices grabbed his attention.

     "You can't be serious," one of the voices piped up, that of a young woman.

     Another voice replied, the squeaky voice of a teenage boy perhaps, "I am! Abe said that he saw the prince himself!"

     "How many times have I told you not to listen to what that boy says? He's nothing but trouble!"

     "But he's telling the truth, I'm sure of it! Prince Roman is in the courtyard right now, and he's here with a knight! I think Abe said he was from the Order of the Father!"

     "Abe needs to not let his imagination run away with him, and you should do the same!"

     "But, Narda..."

     "Don't, 'but Narda,' me! I have to head down to the eighth floor to finish some research for Master Parthegill and you still have homework. Now, I'll hear no more of this foolishness, Vasquer. Off you go."

     "But..."

     "Vasquer. Go."

     "Oh, alright."

     Logan generally did not make a habit of eavesdropping, as it was a rude invasion of privacy, but he could not tear himself away at the mention of Roman. What was he doing here, in a school of all places? And who was this knight accompanying him? A shudder ran through Logan's body as images of that horrible, black knight flashed for a split-second in his mind. These were questions that needed answer, and, as he heard running footfalls move past him, he turned to their source.

     "Vasquer," he replied, thinking this to be the boy's name and hoping he was right.

     The boy halted and turned to face Logan. He was seemingly rather tall for his age, maybe fifteen or sixteen, and he wore brown robes that appeared to be far too wide and far too short for his slight frame. He was gawky and inelegant, with closely cropped black hair and tan skin pocked with acne.

     Logan continued, having caught the boy's attention, "What was this about Prince Roman?"

     Vasquer's eyes lit up at the thought of someone actually believing him, and he was quick to respond, "Yeah, my best friend, Abe, told me that Prince Roman is here in the courtyard, along with some big knight."

     "Do you know what this knight looks like?" Logan asked, thinking that he had might as well ask as many questions as he can before this lead dried up, "Did he see him? What color is his armor?"

     The gangly teenager shook his head, confused, but more than eager to answer, "Just that he thinks that he's a Knight of the Order of the Father."

     Logan's eyes narrowed in slight bewilderment, "The Order of the Father?"

     "Umm, yeah," Vasquer replied, as if the name should have rung a bell in Logan's head, "One of Estea's highest orders of knights? They have that grand castle a ways down the road? Y'know?"

     "Yes, of course. How could I have forgotten?" Logan lied, hoping that he could shrug off his ignorance as simple fatigue, "Anything else about him?"

     Vasquer shook his head, "No, nothing. You'd think you'd be more interested in the prince after what happened to him!"

     "What happened?" Logan asked, wondering what trouble Roman could have possibly gotten into.

     "You don't know!?" the lad answered, his eyes wide in amazement, "Prince Roman was next in line for the Estean throne after his mum and dad died, but it's Prince Adam who sits on the throne now. Prince Roman's younger brother!"

     The story he was going to send us on before this whole mess began, Logan thought grimly, before he asked further, "Then, why is he here?"

     "Beats me," Vasquer replied, "Maybe he's in hiding. How am I supposed to know what a prince is thinking?"

     At that moment, Logan resolved that, if there was anything that could be done to get out of this whole facade around him, the solution rested with Roman. He gave the cat in his hands a pleasant pat before locking eyes once again with Vasquer.

     He asked, "Are you certain your friend said that the prince was in the courtyard?"

     Vasquer nodded before looking past Logan, his eyes growing wide in fear, before he gave a hasty, "See ya!" and quickly resumed his hasty exit from the library.

     In his absence, another set of footfalls stormed up to Logan's side as the female voice from before called after the boy, "That homework had better be done when I get back, Vasquer!"

     Logan turned to face this new voice and, in every way that the the teenage boy had been tall and scrawny, the woman before him, Narda, if he remembered correctly, was squat and stout. She was dressed in shabby, brown robes as well, with her black hair down and pulled back from the sides of her tan, plump face.

     She apologized regretfully, before sinking into a babble, "I'm so very sorry if my brother disturbed you. He can be something of a gossip, no matter how many times I tell him to keep his mind on what matters. It's his friend, Abe, or, 'the terror,' as I like to call him. He's such a bad influence on Vasquer and I keep telling my brother that he needs to stay away from him, but, of course, he never decides to actually listen to me, and I think that's his biggest problem. Well, that and his acne. I mean, have you seen his face? He keeps stressing how it's bound to clear up at some point, but I keep saying that maybe he should check out a few books on the medical floor, but, as I said before, he just doesn't think he needs to listen to me..."

     "It's quite all right," Logan responded, trying to cut her off politely and fake his way through a pleasant smile, "No harm done."

     "Oh, there will be harm alright," she muttered under her breath before her eyes moved down to see the cat nuzzling in Logan's arms, her tone changing instantly, "Oh! What a cute familiar!"

     "Familiar?" Logan asked, confused.

     "Yes, you know, a magician's assistant animal," Narda explained, eyes glancing up once to Logan's face before returning her attention to the cat, "Changing a grimoire into a familiar is one of the most useful transmutation spells any of us will learn. It's especially useful when traveling and whatnot so you don't have to constantly keep an eye on a book that can, say, fall out of your pack or accidentally get left behind or something. Keeps your grimoire close by and at the ready."

     Her matter-of-fact voice suddenly began to resemble baby talk as she leaned in closer to the feline, "And you are just the cutest, little kitty, yes, you are!"

     The sheer sweetness of the moment was beginning to grow somewhat overwhelming to Logan as he scooped up the cat, a rigid smile plastered on his face, "That is... incredibly sweet of you to say. And thank you. For those kind words. About my cat. But, ummm... I have to go. Now."

     Logan awkwardly tried to angle his way out of the conversation, his shoes clacking along the floor before he realized that he actually had no idea where the courtyard was, and his informant had long since run off. He inwardly sighed before turning around to face this motor-mouthed ball of enthusiasm once again.

     "Ummm," Logan uttered, before he closed his eyes and asked, "Can you tell me where the courtyard is?"

     Narda's face lit up and Logan's stomach dropped as he knew the words she would utter next. "I can show you!"

     "No, please, no, that is not necessary. No, thank you, please, god, no," was the response his mind gave, but different words left his lips as he replied, "Sure thing."

     Logan did his best to keep the fake smile plastered across his face as Narda quickly moved to his side, a smile on her own face as she gestured forward, "Right this way!"

     The logical side looked down at the sweet, little cat in his arms and raised his eyebrows at her apologetically, trying to focus on petting her as the two of them set off from the library, trailing perhaps a step behind an already babbling Narda.

     I hope it's close by, Logan thought ruefully as he already tried his best to tune the girl out.

     "So what's your favorite school of magic? I would guess transmutation, but I guess that's only because I've only seen you do one spell. You know, changing your grimoire into that itty, bitty kitty. Me, though? I prefer evocation. You know, that's like the real magic stuff we all wanted to do when we were little kids and stuff with the fireballs and lightning bolts and all that cool stuff, and, speaking of lightning bolts, we had a wicked storm here last week and, apparently, from what Beth told me... Oh, Beth is my best friend whom I met..."

----------

     "So, of course, I think of bananas, because, you know, monkeys eat bananas and I figure, hey, bananas are yellow, so why not, right? But it wasn't, even though I still think that my line of reasoning for it is actually rather foolproof, but at least I still got some partial credit, so I guess that's not something to look down my nose at."

     She never stopped. For the whole walk from the Great Library through the winding hallways and corridors of Wickswane, Narda kept talking and talking and talking. Logan chanced looking at her a few times, trying to determine if she actually took breaths amid all her rambling. Even the cat had seemed to have enough, shifting herself around to dig her face into the crook of Logan's elbow and away from the incessant chatter.

     The school itself was certainly expansive, a massive stone and marble keep that was supposedly built hundreds of years ago around the Great Library, which is older by hundreds of years more. It was full of winding pathways that led into huge chambers and auditoriums, where expert mages would lecture and demonstrate fantastical feats to acolytes young and old. While walking and attempting to look as though he was listening to Narda, Logan would look in the cavernous classrooms as he passed, seeing teachers evoking gouts of fire, abjuring massive and intricate magic seals, and even one room where pupil necromancers were attempting to resurrect caged mice. While completely going against every fiber of his logical being, he was truly fascinated, not only at the school environment he had been dropped in and how everyone around him seemed to dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge, but that Roman had the insight to know that this was the perfect environment for him to feel the most comfortable in at the start of this whole scheme, and, even more mind-boggling, is just how real everything seemed. The books were filled, the architecture was heavily detailed, and everyone just seemed so alive.

     As they rounded a corner, the two mages walked through an archway that led out into the courtyard. A large enclosure of green grass and white-barked birch trees rounded on all sides by stone verandas supported by complexly carved, marble columns, the courtyard was a truly breath-taking sight to behold. Logan could not help the gasp that escaped his mouth as he admired the raw beauty of nature mingling perfectly with the stonework of the castle. Even here, there were students all over, some sitting at benches in the outcroppings, others sitting in the grass, and still others, mostly children, climbing up and and down the sturdier-looking trees. Even here, in the majesty of nature, many students were still dedicated to their study, simply looking for more pleasant surroundings than the dim stone bedchambers.

     "This is," Logan spoke, "simply magnificent."

     He turned to Narda, for a moment unaware of her presence, "Umm, you have my thanks. I think I can handle it from here."

     She looked disappointed for but a moment before the bubbly smile rushed back to her face, as she squeaked, "It's no problem! I definitely needed the walk. And feel free to bother me anytime! I know my way around the castle pretty well, so don't hesitate!"

     Logan had to bite his tongue to keep the sardonic remark at bay, and simply responded, "I will certainly keep that in mind."

     With a wave, she was off and seemed to disappear most easily into the sea of other acolytes. In his heart, Logan actually seemed to feel bad that he had tuned her out so easily, but the sensory overload of everything around him was simply so much to register. By himself, with his cat still nestled in his arms, the logical side took a step off the stone veranda and onto the green grass, soft beneath his shoes.

     As he moved further, his eyes began to scan the faces around him, looking for any inkling of Roman or the knight who was rumored to be accompanying him. Amid the playing children, chattering teenagers, and pensive adults, the air was brimming with activity that constantly threatened to distract Logan from his task. To be fair, with everything going on, it should not have been much of a surprise when a familiar voice actually found him first.

     "Logan!"

     In an instant, two heavy arms wrapped around Logan's sides and hugged him tight, lifting him into the air as he squeezed. For a split second, the logical side thought that he was under attack, but the joyful laughing that rang directly into his ears quickly subdued any anxiety as quickly as it had arrived. That homey scent wafting to his nose, that of chocolate chip cookies and hot chocolate and fresh grass muddied only the slightest bit by the hint of sweat and leather and steel, Logan's head quickly turned to see Patton's face only inches away from his own.

     The moral side must have been the knight with Roman, and it made perfect sense now. Who better to protect a prince than a heavily armed and armored bodyguard, and Patton now seemed to fit that description entirely. He was dressed from neck to toe in shining, muted, teal plate and silvery gray chainmail padded with leather and wool, a steel shield was strapped to his back, and a great warhammer hung from a ring frog at his side. His face, though, still bore his usual thick, black glasses and bright, brilliant smile. As Patton squeezed, the cat shifted to brace itself against Logan's chest, nestled in the folds of his robe. The knight must have felt the little squirming because he looked down and his eyes widened even more.

     "You have a cat now!?" he squeaked out, elated, and nuzzled even closer against Logan until, after several seconds, a curious look washed over his face, "Why am I not sneezing?"

     "Ummm, you do know that hypoallergenic cats are a thing, right?" another familiar voice called out from behind Patton, and Logan angled himself to see past the moral side.

     Roman stood farther back behind Patton, that trademark swagger still utterly apparent even in the way he stood. However, unlike Patton, who was dressed in all his heavy plate and jingling chain, Roman actually looked somewhat shabby. He wore a simple, burgundy cloak, patched here and there with different colored fabrics, with a billowing hood that the prince was pulling down. If anything, the great Prince Roman of Estea, cheated heir to the throne, appeared to look like any common traveler.

     As Patton placed Logan down, the logical side simply inclined his head towards the fanciful side, "Roman."

     "It's good to see that you are well, Logan," the prince graciously greeted.

     "I would certainly hope so," the mage replied, an edge to his voice, "It's your fault that we're in this whole situation to begin with."

     Patton tried to intercede, "Now, Logan. That's not the whole..."

     Logan, without even turning to look at the knight, simply chided, "Patton, be quiet."

     "Y'okay," the moral side muttered before backing up.

     "I was hoping that the rumors were true, that the prince had actually found his way here," Logan explained, taking steps towards Roman, "I was hoping that when I found you, I could either persuade or, frankly, force you into calling an end to this whole charade and sending us home. I even, perhaps, hoped that I would be able to punch you in the face, at least once, during the course of said forcing you to return us home."

     Logan now stood directly in front of Roman, looking him dead in the eyes, russet leering into honey. The moment was tense between the two, and the smile had soured upon Roman's face, degenerating into an awkward, empty smirk with a flinching eye, almost as if he were expecting the logical side to actually slug him. The silence stretched on and Logan could almost swear that he was seeing sweat starting to bead on Roman's brow.

     Breaking the silence, Logan spoke, "But this, truly, is most impressive."

Chapter Text

     The tension seemed to be broken with Logan's compliment as the prince let out a ragged rasp of laughter, "Oh, well. Thank you."

     "Truly," Logan continued, "Every book that I have read in the Great Library is filled with rich histories or complex stories full of nuance and intrigue. Every person whom I have met here, however briefly, actually seems like a living, breathing person with their own past experiences that formulated who they are today. There are even creaky floorboards, chipped sections of marble columns, no shortage of ambient atmosphere and activity. The level of detail you put into this world is simply astounding!"

     Roman, blushing and his usual dashing, debonair smile having returned, gave a light flourish as he inclined his head, "Oh, you're far too kind, dearest Logan."

     "Also," Logan spoke, a bit more softly as he reached into the top layer of his dark robes and pulled the cat out into the light, its curious, blue eyes flashing, "You studied enough about folklore and history to use the proper terminology in regards to, 'familiars,' and, 'grimoires,' from pre-Abrahamic, pagan religions where the use of magic seemed to be most prevalent."

     "And also also," Patton piped up, "You gave Logan a kitty that doesn't make me sneeze, so all aces in my book, buddy."

     Logan knelt down, letting the cat down onto the soft, green grass below and, immediately, the thin, black feline rolled over once, eliciting a choked, little squeak from Patton. The cat's head turned to face his direction and ambled over to him, cautiously at first and approaching the knight's outstretched, armored hand. Another volley of squeals escaped Patton as the cat seemed to accept his love, nuzzling into the steel and her eyes closing in pleasure as Patton softly stroked her head. Logan could not help the soft smile that graced his face at the truly wholesome sight, and turned to not only face Roman once again, but also a boy who seemed to attend him.

     Logan asked, "And who is your friend?"

     Roman sidestepped to allow the logical side to see the young lad, a mop of black hair like a curtain for his hazel eyes. The boy looked up at Roman, as if asking permission, which was quickly given with an unspoken gesture for him to speak up.

     "I'm Toby, Sir Mage," he spoke with a slight, nervous squeak to his voice, "A squire from the Order of the Father sworn in service to Sir Patton and, quite recently, His Highness, Prince Roman."

     "Quite matter of fact. I like that," Logan stood, "But, you needn't refer to me as, 'Sir' anything as I am not a knight in any sense of the word. I believe that mantle falls upon the shoulders of your cat-captive commander."

     "Choo-choo! Alliteration station!" Patton looked up and exclaimed before focusing back down on the cat, "Who has the teeniest, sweetest beanie feet? You do, kitty!"

     Logan composed himself before taking a step forward and offering his hand to the squire, "It is quite a pleasure to meet you, Toby. My name is Logan."

     Roman let out a mumble, looking at the logical side expectantly.

     The mage turned his gaze to the prince, glancing at him over his glasses, "You said something, R... Your Highness?"

     He spoke again, still with a low voice but clearer this time around, "And your surname?"

     "Tennyson," Logan obliged, before looking back at Toby once again, "Logan Tennyson."

     Squire Toby regarded the darkly dressed mage for but a second or two before reaching out, past Logan's hand, to clasp around his forearm and giving it a firm, if clammy squeeze. Even for his slight stature and somewhat timid mannerisms, Logan could see a spark in the young lad's eye, a certain plucky courage that the logical side could see as well as feel. No doubt that both Patton and Roman had seen it as well when they decided to take Toby along.

     After a moment, Logan's hand dropped back to his side as he turned to regard Roman once again, "I assume that you're here to collect me?"

     "Indeed," Roman admitted, before his voice dropped into his low, dramatic baritone, "Mage Tennyson, acolyte of the hallowed academy of Wickswane, I would charge you with a quest for king and country! We will travel throughout this land, bringing allies to our side, so that, in time, I will reclaim my lost throne. It will be peril--"

     "Yes, count me in," Logan remarked, cutting off Roman. The prince's narrowed, honey-colored eyes glared at the logical side for a moment before he reached up to slap against his own face, letting the hand rest there and letting out a groan. Logan believed that this practice was referred to as a, "facepalm," but he would have to check his vocabulary cards to be sure. He believed, if he remembered correctly, that it was used to emote displeasure.

     Confusion marred Logan's features as he asked, "Unless I'm mistaken, that... was the response you were hoping for, correct?"

     Roman shook his head, seeming to throw off his distaste, "No, no. I mean, yes. It's fine, it's fine."

     From behind Logan, a soft, metal thump against the ground resounded, and the logical side turned to see Patton, a sheepish grin on his face as he sat down in the grass. He, apparently, had some difficulty in setting himself down with all the extra weight on his person. The cat, however, was glad to have something warm and friendly to climb upon and took no time in scurrying into the knight's lap.

     "She wanted me to sit down," Patton explained, his voice a strange mixture of embarrassment and excitement as he stroked the feline's fur again, "I couldn't say no."

     The cat mewed in agreement.

     Logan turned his attention back to Roman, reasoning, "I would surmise, then, that our next course of action would be to leave here and move to collect Virgil?"

     The prince shot a finger gun at Logan, "You would be correct, but I believe I should take the time to meet with the head of the school. I am trying to amass allies to retake my throne and having the mages is simply too great an opportunity to pass up."

     Logan tried to deduce the logic of that choice, "But, surely, if this is a world of your creation, you could simply manipulate the situation to your advantage without having to actually ask for anyone's help."

     "Still just trying to play the game," Roman explained before gesturing to the other two sides, "same as you two."

     "Fair enough," Logan conceded, "Well, the headmistress is a woman by the name of Tessaly Weller."

     Roman remarked, "You sound as though you've met her."

     "Indeed," Logan replied, "She was quite kind to me."

     The prince questioned further, "Any advice you can give me about her?"

     Logan seemed to consider the question. In his limited interaction with the Headmistress of Wickswane, she had proven, at least to the logical side, to be a woman of incredible kindness and intuition, as though she were guided by her feelings as well as by her seemingly formidable intelligence, which was a quality that was quite alien to Logan's way of thinking. That quality, however, seemed to give her somewhat of a fearsome, if straightforward, edge, as if she were a person to lay all of her cards on the table before laying someone to waste. All in all, she seemed like a person who was not to be trifled with.

     Logan searched for the right words, and answered, "Just... be respectful and honest. Give her the respect she's due, but know that flowery language or half-truths or melodramatic tendencies will not serve you in this regard."

     Roman's brow furrowed at the response, "So, go against my entire state of being?"

     "More or less," Logan nodded, pleased that the prince seemed to grasp his meaning.

     Roman let out a sigh before he conceded, "Well, then, if I'm going to meet with her, then I suppose it would be best to deal with her sooner rather than later."

     "You would be correct," Logan agreed, "The sooner we finish with business here, the sooner we will be off to wrangle Virgil."

     "Quite right!" Roman affirmed, "Now, the question is where can I find the headmistress?"

     Logan opened his mouth to answer, but no clear answer came to mind. Closing his mouth again, he attempted to remember the brief conversation he had had with Headmistress Weller, amid her advice and warnings pertaining to the use of magic. The two times she had found him had been in the Great Library itself, but, as Logan recalled in his own mind, she stated that she did not tend to get out too often.

     "I imagine," Logan surmised, "being headmistress, that logic dictates she would have an office within the castle. Perhaps that would be the most prudent place to look."

     Roman snapped his fingers, pointing at the logical side, "Spectacular deduction, nerd!"

     "Gee, thanks," Logan deadpanned.

     "And where is the office in question?" Roman continued further.

     Logan's face went blank, a sensation that he certainly was not used to, before confusion marred his features, "I don't know."

     Roman's own dramatic flair seemed to fall flat once again as his hands went to his hips, "You spoke with the woman to gain valuable insight and you didn't bother to ask where you could find her if you had any more questions?"

     "I had just been dropped into a completely alien world, not to mention into the persona of a whole, other person. Thanks to you, I might add!" Logan retorted, "The question simply did not cross my mind!"

     Roman rubbed his chin, trying to help solve the problem, "Well, surely someone around here must know where it is, right?"

     "It's perfectly okay to ask for help, kiddos," Patton added, the cat now nestling herself in the crook of his knee as he sat.

     "But from whom?" Logan asked, "Aside from her, there's only two other people here whom I've said more than two words to."

     Roman faced the logical side again, "Well, can either of them be of help to us?"

     Logan's knee-jerk reaction was to deny him, but a half-remembered, half-ignored voice repeated itself in his head, "And feel free to bother me anytime! I know my way around the castle pretty well, so don't hesitate!"

     "Something wrong?" Roman's voice broke Logan out of his recollection.

     Logan's eyes shot up to meet his, "What?"

     "Your face," Roman explained, "It looks like you just sucked on a lemon."

     "Oh," Logan muttered, "Nothing. It's just that I think I may know someone who can help us."

     "Really!?" Roman piped up, excited again.

     "Look at you, teach!" Patton praised, "Coming through with that big, awesome brain of yours!"

     Logan shook his head regretfully, "Hold your praise. Please."

     The logical side grimaced as he looked at the three hopeful faces staring at him, Looks like I'll have to bother Narda once again.

----------

     "So I told her, I said, 'Calia, you can't just throw potions ingredients together in your stores and expect everything to just work out! That is, if you can even find them again!' Besides, I know that she uses dried herbs and, while that's okay for some ingredients, it just means that, in some cases, you'll have to use more. And it's like.. they have to be properly dried, not just something you left out and just forgot about! I mean, it's simply about knowing the basics before you get started with anything, right?"

     The group of them, Logan, Roman, Patton, Toby, and the grimoire cat, were being led by the incessantly chatty Narda up towards, what was referred to as, the Head Tower. Logan had been somewhat reticent about asking the motormouthed lady for help, but had been left with little choice given his lacking knowledge of the castle's expansive layout. She had been delighted to help again, quickly leading them to their first ascending staircase before she started talking again, at length. The chatter continued through each hallway, around each corner, up each stairway, and Roman seemed far less patient with the noise than Logan had been.

     More than once, he would look over at Logan with wide eyes and whisper, "My goodness, does it stop?" or, "You couldn't find someone mousy and quiet like Patton had?"

     "You're absolutely right, kiddo," Patton replied to Narda, keeping pace with her, "It is about a firm grasp of the basics! The same goes for almost any skill, but I imagine it goes double for magic, at least!"

     Logan could not help his incredulous look at Patton as he actually seemed to listen to Narda's rambling, and even encouraged her to elaborate more. On one hand, the logical side was somewhat incensed that Patton was inciting her to speak at greater length about the goings on of her day. On the other hand, he was grateful that the moral side was forcing the talkative girl to focus all of her attention on him, thus leaving Roman and Logan in relative peace.

     "Exactly! It's not as simple as everyone seems to think. Form is very important! You have to get gestures just right, and that's not even in reference to things like magic seals or abjuration, where it's even more important! One wrong swipe of your hand and it turns from a shield against fire to an explosive trap! That's certainly singe your eyebrows!"

     "That's quite a mix-up!" Patton exclaimed, "Well, you know what they say! If you can't stand the heat..."

     A wave of laughter echoed off the walls as Narda and Patton fell into a fit of giggles, undertoned, but not broken, by a groan from Roman.

     The group of them continued along the path Narda had laid out for them, until they rounded a corner and came upon a stone archway that led to a tightly wound, marble staircase that led up and out of sight. It was here that their guide stood by the archway, but moved forward no further.

     "Up these stairs is the headmistress's office and chambers," Narda explained.

     Patton turned to her, "Oh, you're not joining us?"

     She shook her head, wide-eyed and her dark hair swaying with her movement, "Are you kidding? She's one of the most powerful mages in the world! My great-uncle Emmerand used to tell me that he served under her when they were in the Mage Corps and the stories that he has about her... Let's just say that I'd much prefer not to be one of the people who knocks on her door unannounced. I remember, one time, my uncle told me that she knows a spell that can..."

     Roman cleared his throat loudly.

     "Oh, sorry," Narda apologized, a light blush to her cheeks, "I umm... I'm sure that she won't have any problem receiving an audience from someone like the prince! But yes, incredible as she is, I have no business with her, so I think it's best if I just leave you all to it. I still can't believe it, Your Highness. My brother was actually right, for once! Who'd have thought?"

     "Indeed," the prince answered curtly, but trying to be nice upon realizing that Narda would be taking her leave, "You have our thanks."

     She gave a clumsy curtsy before turning on her heel to return back to the more traveled reaches of the castle, leaving the three sides and the young squire before the tower staircase. Her footsteps echoed against the marble floor, moving farther and farther off before her footfalls finally failed to reach their ears.

     "Well," Logan gestured towards the stairs, "Shall we?"

     "Just a moment," Roman paused before he began to undo the ties of his shabby-looking robe.

     The logical side regarded the prince with a perplexed look, "I'm not quite certain how stripping down will influence the headmistress to aid you in your cause. It's doubtful that a naked prince would sway a woman of her years and standing."

     "First off, gross," Roman pointed a warning finger at Logan before he continued disrobing himself of his top layer, "Secondly, I am actually wearing something under this. I figured it would be better, while traveling with only Patton and Toby, to wear something a bit more discreet so as not to arouse as much attention. And thirdly, this naked prince could sway anybody."

     As the robe came off, Logan could see what the prince had meant in regards to his attire drawing attention. He wore armor, though not as heavily plated as Patton. While the moral side was loaded down with unforgiving steel plate and mail, padded with wool and leather over almost his entire body, Roman instead wore hard, white leather, embossed with the seals of the royal house of Estea and inlaid with small, gleaming steel plates and alternating steel and brass scale mail over his more vital targets. In place of his usual red sash, he wore a red halfcape, lined in white and trimmed in gold studded with garnets. In truth, he looked every bit the crown prince who was dressed for combat.

     Logan looked Roman over, up and down, for a moment before he remarked, "I can certainly see why what you mean."

     The prince handed off the discarded robe to Toby, who dutifully took it and stuffed it inside the satchel that hung from his shoulders.

     Roman moved forward to the front of the group of them, his boots clicking along the marble floor, as he stepped to the bottom of the spiral stairs. He placed a foot on the first step before looking back at the others.

     "Onward!" he exclaimed, his finger pointed up to the heights of the tower as he took another step.

     Logan followed the prince close behind, eager for a chance to speak with the headmistress again, his grimoire cat following right after. Patton followed as well, up the first step, but paused when he realized that his squire was not following.

     "Everything good, sport?" Patton asked, turning his head to regard Toby and his brow immediately furrowed in unease at what he saw.

     Toby was standing stock-still, his wide, nervous eyes looking up into the unknown of where this path would lead. If Patton even looked closely enough, he would see that the young squire was actually trembling where he stood, hands clenching and unclenching, fidgeting with nerves.

     Patton, with concern in his voice and on his brow, stepped down and knelt, to look up at his squire, "Hey, Tobes. You've, ummm... you've been quiet. What's up?"

     Toby jumped at the question, and turned his head to face the knight, a blush coloring his cheeks at being startled, "I ummm... I'm sorry, Sir Patton. It's silly."

     "Now, bud," Patton coaxed, "Being afraid is never silly. Tell me. What are you afraid of?"

     The squire shuffled where he stood, his heartbeat falling into rhythm with that of the footsteps of Roman and Logan as they ascended the stairs, completely unaware that they were not being followed by the other two.

     Toby answered in a hushed voice, "It's the headmistress. Lady Weller."

     Patton questioned further, "What about her?"

     "You don't know?" Toby asked in reply, his eyes wide and incredulous.

     "Been rather focused on keeping the prince safe, big guy," Patton explained, "Obviously, it's something that worries you, so I'd like to know."

     Toby took a breath before he spoke, quietly, "The lady is a member of House Weller, renowned for generations of magical talent."

     "Well," Patton reasoned, "That would mean that she was literally born for this job, I suppose. What's the matter with that?"

     "Lady Tessaly is no exception," Toby continued,"She's one of the most powerful magic-users in the world, and she even rose to the title of Mage General in the last war against the Greidon Dominion. An old knight used to come by the orphanage where I grew up and tell us stories of the battles he fought in during the war. They sounded like adventure tales, but one person he never talked about was the Lady Weller. She was a hero and everyone wanted him to tell the real story of her victories, but he never would. One time though, I overheard him talking to the mistress of the orphanage over a few mugs of ale, and she asked why he never told us stories of the Lady Weller."

     The squire paused, but Patton gave him a reassuring nod, "It's okay, Toby. You can tell me."

     Toby took a breath and resumed his story, looking Patton dead in the eye, "She had led a team of other mages on excursions into Greidon territory, and, everywhere she went, she left destruction in her wake. Scorched earth, ages-old keeps torn asunder, burnt bodies everywhere... Men, women, children... She came back and, well, she had earned the moniker of, 'the Witch of the Greygreens,' for good reason. The old knight, with all his war stories, had never seen anyone create so much carnage.

     "She's a force of nature, Sir Patton," Toby spoke, in a voice only a touch louder than a whisper, "And I'm honestly terrified of her."

     "Toby," Patton comforted, rubbing his hands up and down the boy's shoulders, "Why didn't you tell us before?"

     The boy shrugged, his face sheepish, "I serve you and the prince. He wanted to meet with her. I didn't want my fear to get in the way of my duty."

     Patton let out a sigh, his eyes betraying the fact that his mind was ill at ease, "You have to be honest with us, buddy. To me, your, 'service,' comes second to the fact that you're just a kid! If you're scared or unsure or... anything, I want you to tell me. Do you understand?"

     The two shared a long look between them before Toby nodded, "Y...yes, Sir Patton."

     "Do you want to wait down here?" Patton offered, "I can tell the others you're guarding the staircase on my order."

     Toby was silent for a moment as he seemed to ponder the choice before Roman's voice rang out from above, "Hey, Sir Patton! You joining us today!?"

     "Just a moment there, Princey!" Patton shouted back, before looking again at his squire, "So?"

     "I can come up with you," Toby decided, but then he shook his head slightly, "But... would it be all right if I waited outside the door?"

     Patton smiled and ruffled Toby's hair, "Of course, buddy."

     The knight then stood again, his armor clanking together as he turned and mounted the first step once again, another clank resounding off the marble walls as he was followed closely by Toby. The two continued to ascend the steps higher into the Head Tower, hot on the trail of both Roman and Logan.

----------

     At the top of the staircase, Roman, Logan, Patton, and Toby stood before great, wooden double doors that led to the office and chambers of the headmistress, Tessaly Weller.

     The doors themselves were made of hard, dark mahogany and stood eight, perhaps even nine feet tall in front of them and spanning, easily, six feet wide. Carved into the wood, like a great mural, was a massive nine-pointed star that spanned almost the whole of the two doors and was halved right down the middle. At each point was a symbol that seemed to denote one of the nine types of magic that was taught within the walls of Wickswane, and, in the center, was a carving of a human brain enveloped in a starburst, as if to tout the mission statement of the school itself: knowledge is power.

     An air of intimidation emanated from the door, or, perhaps, from what was inside.

     "Well," Patton began, audibly gulping, "Should we knock?"

     Roman turned to him, "You know what? You go right ahead."

     "Roman," Logan founded, in turn, to face the prince, "This was your idea. You should be the one to take initiative."

     The fanciful side's head turned to Logan, "Remember when I said that maybe the logical side should know when to mind his own business? That time is now."

     "You're such a child," Logan retorted.

     "You're such a child," Roman repeated, his tone nasally and mocking.

     Logan gestured to the prince's face, "I rest my case. Child."

     "Hey, Logan! There's no need to resort to name calling," Patton chided, "And Roman, you're not being very nice. You know better."

     "You always take his side!" Roman turned back to Patton.

     "Falsehood," Logan replied, "He literally just chastised the both of us."

     "This is you, not minding your own business again," Roman muttered.

     The door lurched inward with a heavy groan, the two, great, mahogany planks parting down the middle, splitting that great star between them as the doorway opened. The four stood petrified as it seemed to open of its own accord, their eyes wide and breath hitched as they looked into the room before them.

     A voice called out from inside, "I haven't all day to stand around and listen to you lot bicker outside my door. If you've come to see me, get on with it."

     Timidly, Roman took a step forward over the threshold, and then another and another. Logan followed, a curious air of cautiousness surrounding him as his eyes scanned the room ahead of him. The cat trotted along to remain close behind her human. Patton moved to follow as well, but then turned to face Toby.

     "We shouldn't be too long. Just wait here," he instructed, with a small, warm smile, "You all right?"

     Toby nodded once, "Yes, sir."

     The smile widened on Patton's face, "Good. Be brave, buddy."

     Toby nodded again and drew himself up, standing tall with his back straight, shoulders rolled back, and his chest puffed up. It was obvious to Patton that he was trying to compose himself like the many knights he had seen at court during his time at Castle Darpley, to look brave and heroic and daring. The knight himself was not about to burst the lad's bubble and instead gave him one last word of encouragement.

     "We're counting on you, Toby," he spoke, before turning back around to enter the great doors at the top of the Head Tower.

     As soon as Sir Patton had taken three steps inside to join the other sides, the great, dark brown doors groaned and swung back into place. The two wooden doors came together with a dull slam, causing the three to jump in surprise, before everything was quiet once again. The only way to proceed was forward, so they moved together as a group.

     They stepped together through a short anteroom hallway, dimly lit by braziers that lined the wall, but that sported no flame. Inside every one was an orb of golden light, each one as brilliant as the last, like eight golden suns marking the straight path before them. As they walked, the three of them passed a myriad of objects and books that were strewn about on small, dusty side tables that held tightly to the walls, which were also mounted with awards and paintings and even a brilliant mirror in a large, gilded frame.

     "She must, ummm, not entertain much," Roman remarked in a quiet voice.

     The others did not even humor him with a response, but they were met with a murmuring voice from further down the hall, most likely in the headmistress's office proper. As they walked forward with tentative steps, they hushed and tred to hear what was being said. Lady Weller's voice seemed to carry over the silence.

     "That is quite a tale," her voice muttered, the echo barely above a whisper as it reverberated off the walls, "I would normally be disinclined to believe such words from someone of your... profession, but these are, indeed, strange times."

     Roman turned to look at Logan, mouthing silently, "Is she talking to us?"

     Logan shook his head, mouthing back, "I don't think so."

     Then, another voice, from the person she must have been speaking to, resounded to answer her, "That is... quite the understatement."

     The three sides stopped, wide-eyed, at hearing that response. It was a voice they knew, one that they would immediately recognize anywhere. A slight rasp to a deep baritone that they all shared, this was a voice that seemed to creak like the door of a forgotten, abandoned house, holding shadows of weighty gravitas that touched every spoken word. To Logan, there was recognition in his eyes as the voice touched his ears. To Patton, a smile broke out across his face as his own ears perked up. To Roman, a mixed sense of completion, but also foreboding as their final puzzle piece was about to slip into place.

     All three of them, Patton taking the lead with abandon, threw caution to the wind as they darted down the rest of the hallway and rounded the corner, through an archway, spilling into the headmistress's office.

     As dark as the hall had been, the Head Tower chambers were bright. The lowest level, where they entered, consisted of the office, which was rounded with more of those orb-light lanterns adorning the walls, as well as more paintings and plaques, and other, seemingly magical, knickknacks. The next level, accessed by an iron staircase, seemed to be the headmistress's study and own personal library, lined all the way around the circumference of the tower with packed shelves. Finally, the topmost floor held the Lady Weller's personal quarters below a great tower ceiling that let in the day's sunlight, illuminating the whole chamber.

     Before the group of them, however, seated in an ornately carved wooden chair behind her desk, littered with books and papers, was Headmistress Tessaly Weller. She sat in her gray robes and green shawl, her long, gray and white hair pulled to the side as her two, wrinkled hands were folded around a cup of tea. On the chair in front of the elderly mage, seated between her and the three new arrivals with his back to them, was a familiar silhouette, dressed in brown rags with a shock of brown and magenta hair atop his head. One glance and Patton, Logan, and Roman each knew who sat before them.

     Patton was the first to cry out, "Virgil!"

     The man's back cringed sharply at the address just as he leaned forward to place his own cup of tea down on the edge of the headmistress's desk. He then turned, and the moral side gasped at the sight as Virgil completely rounded on them, pushing himself out of the chair and standing to regard them.

     Virgil stood a hair shorter than the other three as he was barefoot, wearing roughspun, rag-like clothing over his chest and legs, belted in the middle, at his waist, by a length of thick twine. His frame was easily visible through the garment, lithe and lean with his arms and midsection coiled like springs, ready to strike. He wore the same dark make-up underneath his eyes as usual, but it was smudged far more than it should be if he were trying to be edgy and mysterious. In fact, his entire face had a film of grubby dirt and dried sweat that permeated every inch of his exposed skin. His hair, normally falling into fairly neat bangs, like magenta curtains in front of his eyes, was tousled, disheveled, and sticking up all over. And his eyes, those amber-colored orbs, were harsh and cold as they moved from Patton, to Logan, and then froze at the sight of Roman.

     Almost imperceptibly, Roman shuddered at the glare, a frigid rush running through his chest and dissipating as quickly as it came.

     Virgil's eyes narrowed as he took a slow step forward, then another, and another as his pace quickened. Within seconds, he had crossed the room and, before anyone could say anything or raise a hand to stop it, the anxious side raised his own fist and punched the prince right across his face.

Chapter Text

     Oh, god, that felt good, Virgil thought to himself, his knuckles pulsing in pain, but it was all worth it watching Roman stagger and wobble before regaining his balance.

     The prince's face was tinged with wide-eyed disbelief as his hand moved up to cup his own cheek, which was now a dark pink as blood rushed to the spot that had been struck. Exclamations of surprise rang out from both Patton and Logan as they each ducked to the side, themselves worried about becoming collateral damage between the two.

     "Whoa, come on, kiddos!" Patton tried, in vain, to regain a handle on the situation.

     "Is this necessary!?" Logan's admonishment rang out alongside the moral side's as the two tried to chasten the conflict.

     "Ow!" Roman cried, rubbing his cheek as he looked back at Virgil with wild, confused eyes, "Sweet Gaga, mother of monsters, what is the matter with you!?"

     The creak of a chair squeaked out from behind Virgil as Headmistress Weller rose to her feet, more than a head shorter than the four sides, as she placed her teacup on the desk, her wispy voice leaving her thin lips, "I believe I shall make myself scarce. I get the undeniable impression that the four of you wish to be alone to work through... whatever this is."

     Logan tried to intercede, "No, Headmistress, that isn't..."

     Roman added, still cradling his cheek as his attention flew from Virgil to Weller, "No, I came all this way to speak with you!"

     "Don't worry your pretty, little head, Your Highness," she spoke, "I shan't be gone long."

     She stepped out from behind her desk, her head held high as her gray robes fluttered behind her.

     Headmistress Weller gave a cursory look around her office before giving the sides one, last look, "Please, don't make a mess of the place."

     Then, in an instant, the elderly mage vanished into thin air as if she were simply a mirage, leaving the four, somewhat mirrored sides all alone within her office. The tension only seemed to increase tenfold as the anxious side's head rounded back on Prince Roman.

     "This is your idea of fun, you pompous cretin!?" Virgil spat back, a fury written over his face that seemed to give the others pause.

     "What are you talking about!?" Roman answered, his voice raising to match Virgil's, righteous indignation beginning to worm its way back through the shock of the last several seconds.

     Virgil fired again, "We upset your stupid, little game and you decide that it's suddenly okay to make us your playthings!? You drop me into a dark room where I can't breathe, send a freakin' hulking, black knight to torture me, and then blink me out only to sentence me to hang? For being a thief!? When it was your idea in the first place!?"

     "Wait a gosh darn minute! To hang!? Like," Patton piped up, before bringing a hand to his throat and looking nervously around the room.

     Virgil answered, "Yeah! This time tomorrow, I would've been walking to the gallows!"

     Patton turned to the prince, disappointment on his brow, "Roman, what do you have to say for yourself?"

     "Well," Roman tried to explain, "Blackwood is a thief! It makes sense that he would start on the wrong side of the law."

     Logan chimed in, sarcastically, "And it, of course, had nothing to do with any sort of distaste you harbor for Virgil. That's completely beyond all imagining, I'm sure."

     Roman turned to verbally spar with the logical side, "You have got to be kidding me! Haven't we tackled that issue more than once? It was purely a part of the narrative! I had every intention of getting there in time to barter for his freedom! I'm the prince, for Beyonce's sake!"

     The three regarded Roman with confused stares and awkward silence.

     "What?" the prince asked to the quiet room, "She's royalty."

     "'The narrative?'" Virgil asked, incredulous, "I get to spend nearly two days under lock and key, wearing rags, and freezing in a cell while constantly getting told by the idiot guard that, tomorrow, I swing, and that's just all, 'part of the narrative!?'"

     Roman was forced to consider the point, fidgeting sheepishly, "Well, ummm... Perhaps, that, uh, wasn't the best way for me to go. Would a, 'my bad," be satisfactory?"

     "Ugh, hardly," Virgil scoffed, before continuing, "And that's not even harping on what I was put through before this whole fiasco started! I mean, if that's what it's like in your imagination, you're even more messed up than I am!"

     Logan's brow quirked curiously at Virgil, "What do you mean, before this all started?"

     Virgil's hands moved as he spoke feverishly, "It was right after this psycho threw the lord of all tantrums and snapped his fingers. Everything went black, but... I don't know. Not all black, I guess..."

----------

     Green. Every light had died around Virgil except for that eerie, green glow.

     Nothing remained of the room that he had last inhabited. The floor had turned from knotted word to hard stone, indented with slick cobbles, and the homey glow of the fire, the lanterns, and the chandelier gave way to darkness that extended in all directions. Even the air, once holding the delicious aromas of cookies and hot chocolate, mingling with the smell of dust and firewood, now hung heavy in the air around Virgil, like a shroud. It was stale and dead as he tried to breathe in, but with how difficult it felt to breathe, it only made the anxious side's heart beat faster. Even worse, what made his heart hammer within his chest, was the fact that none of the other sides, not Roman, not Logan, not even cheerful Patton, had traveled with him.

     He was alone. Alone against whatever this new threat was, this new threat with glowing, green eyes.

     "R...Roman?" Virgil called out into the darkness, and only grew more disconcerted when he was greeted with nothing but his own voice echoing back to his ears, "This... Come on, this isn't funny! Patton! Logan! W... Where are you!?"

     He took a step forward, his boot heel clicking sharply against the cobbled floor, and he cringed at the sound. Another step, another click. He strained to listen against the darkness, trying to move his gaze away from that green-eyed stare, but no sound came to his ears except his own labored breathing and his hammering heart, the pace of his pulse quickening the more he thought about it, and his eyes never wavered from that horrible leer before him.

     He almost jumped as a rumbling voice thundered from the shadows around him, "Are you afraid?"

     Virgil's breath hitched within his chest, and when he tried to recover, his breathing was tremorous and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

     "Are you afraid?" The voice repeated as the clunk of metal on stone resonated throughout the chamber, and then another clunk that sounded even closer, "You should be."

     Fight or flight impulses made up the core of Virgil's being, and that had never felt more apparent than it did at this very moment. Still, petrified with terror, his feet refused to move, even as another clunk rang nearer, and nearer, and nearer.

     The voice rumbled out again, its clanking footfalls like a drumming beat beneath its heavy words, "You are alone, paralyzed in the dark, with no one who will be coming to your aid. Not the father, not the creator, not the scholar. There is no one to protect you. There is nowhere to run. Even the very air around you foretells your doom."

     There was a flash of a green gleam on black metal, and a spark inside Virgil's mind told him to cover his face. His arm, wrapped in a black, linen shirt still, came up to shield his head, and was struck with a heavy blow. Virgil could feel cold steel slicing into his shirt, into his arm. He gasped as the strike followed through, the momentum carrying his arm down and out of the way and knocking the anxious side down to a knee. He could feel blood, tinged black by the green light, flowing out of his wound. He huddled, cradling his arm close to his chest.

     The great, metal behemoth stood before Virgil, its two, armored feet settling on the ground right before his eyes. As the anxious side looked up, he found that those green eyes belonged to a knight completely encased, from head to toe, in black armor, and its horrible gaze was still fixed upon him. Virgil could not help the errant thought that rushed through his mind, that he was not sure which was worse: knowing or not knowing to whom that luminous leer belonged.

     "You cannot fight," the knight spoke, its voice rumbling through the closed visor, "You cannot flee. Is there anything you can do aside from cower at my feet?"

     Fear actually did grip Virgil's heart as hard as he gripped his bloody forearm. He tried to take in breaths to steady his body and mind, to breathe in for four seconds, to hold for seven seconds, and breathe out for eight seconds. As he tried to inhale, however, the heavy air caught in his throat, as if outright refusing to grant him any relief, and Virgil's heart stuttered in his chest as he gasped and wheezed.

     "You can feel it, can you not?" the knight taunted, "The knowledge that the end is inevitable... and near."

     One of the knight's arms moved forward, around the side of Virgil's head, and five cold fingers laced through the hair on the back of his head before closing into a tight fist. The knight jerked and Virgil's head rocked back with the steel grip, trapped, and the anxious side was forced to look nowhere but up into that green gaze. A cracked whimper squeaked out of his mouth, pitiful and fearful, as if he was looking upon the face of death itself.

     "I can feel everything you do. The hair standing on the back of your neck, your sweating palms, your racing pulse," the knight thundered, "That is what I want to see. Feel it, embrace it, and know that it spells your end."

     The knight's other arm raised and moved forward until that great, armored hand settled just above Virgil's chest, but not quite making contact. Then, with a green pulse through the armored hand to the tips of its metal and leather-clad fingers, an electric jolt ran through the inside of Virgil's chest, so hard that the anxious side's body snapped back, held only in place by the knight's death grip on his hair.

     "Yes," the knight continued as another jolt ripped through Virgil's insides, and another, and another, "It crackles through your body, setting every nerve alight. Such... exquisite agony."

     The armored hand moved closer, and the surges of electricity within Virgil's chest only seemed to intensify. He could not breathe, he could not think, save to listen to his heartbeat that thrummed in his ears as he could not control the will to open his mouth and scream. As each agonizing pulse ripped through his body, Virgil could swear that he could hear his own heart beginning to beat out of sync.

     Bump. Bump-bump-BUMP. Bump. Bump. BUMP-bump. BUMP-Bump.

     Virgil's teeth clenched within his head so hard that he worried, if only for a split-second, that he was hearing the splintering of his jaw and teeth. The horrible electricity coiled within his chest, moving from his heart, to one lung, then to the other, and even dipping down towards his stomach before making the circuit again and again, more frantic each time as Virgil actually mused that there was something within him. Something that only existed to cause the anxious side incredible agony. Something that existed only to torture him in the most painful, harrowing way possible. Something that existed solely to destroy him.

     Finally, the second, armored hand made contact with Virgil's chest, and the pain within Virgil's mind only seemed to grow as the distance closed. As if of its own accord, his jaw dropped open, so fast and so hard that he felt his jawbone pop, and let out a scream. He could not even hear his voice over the uneven thrumming of his heart and the searing burn that permeated his entire body; the only way he knew he was screaming was the tremorous vibrations within his own throat and those of his eardrums as the sound echoed off the walls and back. The horrible coil of lightning with his chest surged forward to greet the hand of the black knight, and Virgil tried to writhe, twisting and jerking, but unable to do much else as the dark sentinel held him fast. The coil pushed harder and harder against his chest, seeming to push all of the air out of Virgil's body with no ability for the anxious side to actually breathe in and replenish it.

     The knight lurched back and Virgil's chest moved with him, and, as his eyes flicked down for a split second and then doing a double take to cement what he saw in his mind, he saw that a twisted, yellow aura was locked within that ebony grasp, lightning-like tendrils still doing their best to latch on to Virgil's chest and searing into his flesh, setting fire to his nerves. With one more mighty tug, the tendrils disengaged.

     Suddenly, everything stopped. The pain stopped. The cold hand in his hair released. Virgil took a breath in, with great effort to practically slam the air into his lungs, but he could actually seem to hear his heart settle back into a steady, if quick and pounding rhythm.

     "Yes," Virgil heard the knight's voice ring before he opened his eyes, and he absently wondered when he had closed them.

     The armored behemoth still stood before Virgil, tall and triumphant, encased in ebon steel, with a yellow aura within his grasp, illuminating his form in a green and yellow glow. Swiftly, he lowered his hand and allowed the energy to pool on the floor before it rose in a wicked, golden column that filled the room with its light.

     "Born of the watcher," the knight boomed, "I give you form!"

     With his words and the guiding gestures of the knight's hand, the yellow haze began to coalesce more and more into a shape resembling a human form. Virgil could do nothing but kneel in awe.

I gave him what he wanted, somehow, he thought, disappointment and a numb, sad emptiness flooding back to replace the abyss carved out by that horrible pain, I couldn't fight him. He was too strong. And now... I'm going to die. Logan, Roman... Patton. I'm so sorry.

     The three had been given a mild taste of what would happen if anxiety had simply taken himself out of the equation within Thomas, but things would only get worse if Virgil himself were actually destroyed. All three would spiral without caution to curb their impulses. Logan and Roman would inevitably destroy each other as an unyielding, orderly drive for knowledge and efficiency would clash time and again with the unbridled fire of creativity and passion and chaos. One would eventually envelop the other and then die out with nothing left to actually sustain the winner. And Patton... dear Patton would destroy himself. Even aside from the fact that anxiety and overcoming it fueled many of the emotions that made the moral side himself, the father figure would never forgive himself if anything happened to Virgil. Trying so hard to make the anxious side more outgoing, more friendly in some ways, a member of his family... For Virgil to die, Patton would inevitably shift the blame inward and be no more.

     The thought hurt. It hurt too much.

     Virgil looked up, at the knight before him, at the aura that it slowly and deftly began to craft little by little into human form. There was an all-encompassing purpose in those green eyes. Those horrible, bright green eyes that had brought him so much misery.

     Suddenly, an idea sparked in his head. The knight was not watching him. This was a chance.

     To do what? spoke one half of Virgil's mind, that voice of doubt and fear and caution that had been with the anxious side since the very beginning.

     If I can't flee, then there's only one option, the other half responded, a newer half, a half that had been nurtured by his new family and sounded an awful lot like an amalgamation of those other three, I fight. Even if I lose, I have to act to stand any chance of winning.

     Even with the former side of his mind screaming that it was a bad idea, that this great behemoth could kill him with barely a thought at all, that it was hopeless, the other, brighter side was still louder. Logan, for all of his faults, was a kindred spirit to Virgil, and he would not allow his friend to suffer. Roman, even if he was a hare-brained fool, did not deserve to be left to such a fate, and Virgil could practically see the look on Roman's face if he saved the prince's life again. And Patton, he worked so hard to bring Anxiety into the fold with no thought of what he would get in return. He did it simply out of the goodness of his heart, and nothing would allow Virgil to stand idly by while someone snuffed it out.

     Thinking quickly, Virgil hunched over, still down on one knee, and let out a, hopefully, pitiful-sounding cry. He keened for a moment before he heard a flutter of leather, the tinkle of chain mail, and a shifting of metal plates against each other, and he knew that the knight was looking right at him. Virgil had to stifle the excitement that ran through his chest, focusing on jerking his shoulders up and down to simulate crying.

     As he lay on the ground, doing his best to keep the sentinel's attention on him, a soft glow drew his attention to his hands. He originally thought, with a Logan-like edge to it, that the cold was killing the circulation in his hands, but his eyes widened as he realized that his hands were beginning to resonate with a soft, purple glow. While it piqued Virgil's curiosity, he hoped and prayed that it would escape his captor's notice.

     "Tears?" the knight rumbled, and Virgil thought that he heard some sort of sick glee tinging the voice, "It is only right to feel fear when faced with oblivion."

     Another shift in the armor, and Virgil felt fingers grip through his hair again. His fists clenched at the cold discomfort against his scalp, and the purple glow only seemed to strengthen through his fingers. His heart leapt into his throat, but he did his best to suck in a breath for four seconds to quash it down. He had to keep his wits about him as the knight began to pull Virgil's head up to face him.

     "Face your end with courage," the knight commanded.

     Virgil's head slowly rose, his eyes moving from the ground, up to those armored legs as he did his best to quietly clear his throat again and again and again, feeling a pool of saliva well up in his mouth and thinking, You got too close.

     Judging his trajectory for a split second, Virgil wheezed back for the other half of the second before he hocked a huge glob of purple-tinted spit right into the knight's face. A rush of elation coursed through the anxious side's mind as he watched the phlegmy spray coat the visor and those spiteful, green eyes. Instantly, the knight recoiled and his grip on Virgil's hair loosened, but did not drop completely. Taking full advantage of the distraction, Virgil summoned all of his strength to lunge up from kneeling to standing. While his feet protested, his knees wobbled, and his thighs quivered at the exertion, he actually managed to jump up off the ground and collide, headfirst, under the chin of the helm with a purple burst of light that flashed bright enough to illuminate the whole room. Virgil grimaced, feeling the steel bite into his scalp and immediately well with blood, but it felt like a little pinch compared to the wave of euphoria that accompanied a rumbling groan from the knight as he stumbled backward from the blow.

     In that one instant, the stone dungeon faded, as did the column of horrible, yellow light. The stone floor remained, but was lit by starlight to reveal a cobbled street in the middle of an old, almost medieval town. Surrounding Virgil, on all sides, were buildings made of wood and brick and stone, some with thatched roofs and others shingled, but all seemed relatively quiet in the night around him. The stars danced twinkled above him, and Virgil took in a breath of fresh, light air.

     Only to feel two pairs of hands grip around his wrists and wrench them behind his back.

     "What the," Virgil muttered as he looked from side to side, seeing a man on either side dressed in leather, chainmail, wearing dark tabbards.

     The anxious side then cast his eyes forward to where the knight had been, and, stumbling in much the same way his former adversary had been, was another man dressed in much the same way as the two holding Virgil still. The struck man regained his footing, spit out a tooth covered in blood and spit, before making his way back over to Virgil and his new captors.

     "In the name of Mayor Rondbury of Oldhollow," the man spoke, "you are hereby placed under arrest as a prisoner of the town guard."

     The town guard! Virgil thought to himself, his mind going a mile a minute before he recognized the town name, realizing, No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no! This is Roman's stupid game!

     The guardsman spoke once again to his compatriots, "Take him away. I'll be sure to inform the mayor that we've finally captured the knave, Virgil Blackwood."

----------

     Virgil stood, silent and raw as the gravity of his testimony sank into the minds of the three other sides. He looked even more pitiful in his meager rags and haggard shabbiness, as if he had spent the last two days stepped on and abused for no other purpose than it brought delight to his jailors. It was Patton's voice that brought Virgil's mind back to the office and the matter at hand.

     "You saw him, too?" He spoke, wide-eyed, timid, and fearful, an alien look to adorn the moral side's features, "The black knight?"

     Virgil turned to face Patton, and gave a solemn nod.

     "I," Logan squeaked, before he cleared his throat and began again, "I have, as well."

     A deafening silence hung about the room as pieces of each of their stories seemed to come together, forming a truly damning mosaic.

     The connotation was quite clear, Virgil thought to himself, that Roman was the cause of their suffering. After all the understanding Patton had shown, all the tolerance Logan had shown, and how Virgil had done his best to meet the prince halfway, Roman would do something like this because of a stupid game? When the haze in his eyes faded and clarity returned, he regarded Roman again with a cold and calculated sharpness.

     "How could you?" Virgil spoke, his voice quivering.

     Roman gulped, sympathy and confusion written all over his face, "Virgil, I..."

     "I mean," Virgil continued, "I know that we butt heads constantly, but I thought that, maybe, we had actually started to work past that. When you came to me, actually asking for me to join in on something with you, something that you seemed eager to share with everyone else, I honestly thought we had turned a corner."

     "Virgil," Roman tried to explain, "You don't understand. That wasn't... I didn't..."

     "Me, too," Virgil replied sorrowfully, "I didn't think you'd actually sink that low."

     Roman fumbled over his words, "No, it wasn't me. Virgil, I need you to understand..."

     "It has to end," Patton spoke up, all sense of mirth and joviality gone from his voice as he raised his eyes to Roman, empty of everything but utter disappointment, and then repeated, "It has to end, Roman."

     Logan added, "It's the only logical discourse."

     "Guys, come on!" Roman implored, "Let me explain, please!"

     "Why should we?" Virgil rasped, the guard that he was slowly beginning to drop over the course of this year beginning to rise back into place, "So you can just toss me back the next time I inconvenience you? Fat chance!"

     Logan added, "I'm inclined to agree. What we have experienced... It was hardly in good taste."

     "Roman," Patton spoke, his voice empty and tired, "I'm just... I expected better."

     "The knight wasn't mine!" Roman shouted, his voice fluttering at the end, just to stop them.

     The room was silent for a moment as the tension, while it did not break, suddenly shifted somehow. Now, it did not seem to just be a conflict between Virgil and Roman, but both Patton and Logan wore looks of surprise and fear over their features. Even worse, the surprise and shock on Roman's face changed as well, and there was a glimmer of doubt in those honey eyes.

     Wait a moment, Virgil thought to himself as his eyes ranged from Roman, to Patton, to Logan, and back to Roman again, What is going on?

     "This is your world, Roman," Virgil answered, his tone still cold, but his volume returning to a talking level, "You created everything here! The castles, the people, everything that we see and feel. How can you tell us you didn't create that black knight?"

     "Because," Roman started, fidgeting uncomfortably, "I... I saw him, too."

     Patton's eyes widened at the prince's revelation, but Logan shook his head, "That's... not possible. If this is your world of fiction, why would you put yourself through the torture that we were subject to?"

     "Exactly the question, isn't it?" Roman answered, defensive eyes rounding on Logan before his momentary bravado faded again, "All I know is that you were all supposed to just be sent to your starting locations. Patton with the Order, Logan at Wickswane, Virgil at Oldhollow. I come around to gather you gents for a quest and then, off we'd go into the wild, blue yonder. That was the script, but, as soon as I snapped my fingers... I don't know. Everything went wrong."

     Logan muttered, "I'll say."

     Undeterred, Roman continued, "I had planned to blink myself to the gate of Castle Darpley, to meet with Lord Commander Leofric and do something of a grand entrance for Patton."

     "It was quite grand, Roman," Patton admitted, not exactly smiling, but simply giving some small credit where it was due.

     "Thanks, Patton," Roman replied, but, oddly, not resting on the praise that had been given, "But, I didn't show up at the castle, not immediately. First, everything went dark and cold and then this ebon-armored monstrosity... Well, he kicked me in the face."

     "Lucky," Virgil retorted under his breath.

     "Please?" Roman turned, and Virgil actually seemed to feel a pulse of shame in his chest at his comment, so he backed off as the prince continued, "He just kept talking about how I should be punished for holding myself above everyone else, just lashing at me, before he... pulled something out of me as well, but it... it wasn't like yours, Virgil. Not quite, anyway."

     "What was it?" Patton asked, fearful apprehension written on his face.

     Roman paused, blinking once before he answered, "Cold. A bitter cold that made me feel as though my chest was going to shatter when he pulled that, that... thing out of me."

     "Come to think of it," Logan mused, his arms folded and his chin resting ponderously on his fingers, "My experience differed as well. The knight asked if I could deduce who he was... with a riddle."

     "A riddle?" Roman repeated, a puzzled expression on his face.

     "Echo much?" Patton piped up, trying to add his own patented levity to their conundrum, but his hopeful smile could not quite reach his eyes.

     "Yes," Logan answered, ignoring the moral side, his mind focused on the case before them, "I'm attempting to remember it."

     The logical side stood pensively for a moment, staring off into space as his eyes seemed to track thoughts inside his head.

     Then, he spoke, tentatively, as if trying to repeat something from a lost dream, "'I am a child of man, and ambition, lust, greed, and envy all number among my own children. I have burned kingdoms and laid them low. I have set brother against brother, son against father. I fuel your delightful dreams and darkest fantasies. Who am I?'"

     Patton shook his head, "I don't like that riddle."

     "I don't think any of us do," Roman muttered, before speaking up again, "Do you know the answer?"

     "I didn't think about it," Logan answered sardonically, "I was a little busy wondering whether I was about to die."

     "Fine. Fair enough," Roman answered, "Did the knight say anything more? What did he do to you?"

     Logan gulped once, and everyone in the room shifted uncomfortably. It was eerie to see a look like that adorn the logical side's features.

     Still, Logan replied, "He told me that, if I couldn't deduce his identity... if he was smarter than I was, then what good am I?"

     "No!" a light squeak escaped Patton, and Logan looked to him, offering only a sad smile before he continued.

     "As for what he did to me," Logan spoke, his arms hugging around his arms as if trying to bring himself some kind of comfort, "It was emptiness. A horrible emptiness, and... and I was drowning in it. In both a metaphorical sense as well as a literal one. I couldn't breathe and I could actually taste and smell seawater. It was... most unpleasant."

     Roman quipped, "Leave it to the brainiac to call drowning merely, 'most unpleasant.'"

     Patton asked further, "And he took something from you, too? Some kind of... gosh, I don't know how to put it. Like, a light or haze or energy whatchamacallit? Like Virgil and Roman?"

     Logan nodded succinctly, staring off into space before his eyes focused on Patton, his face twisting again in curiosity before he spoke, in a hushed, almost scared voice, "And what about you, Patton?"

     "Me?" Patton's hand came to his armored chest, but Virgil could immediately tell that the moral side was trying to deflect.

     The logical side persisted, "Yes, you. I am not enthused at all to ask the question, but what was your experience like?"

     Patton swallowed a lump in his throat, before he muttered, low and timid, "Do I have to?"

     "It would help us, Patton," Virgil spoke up, and even the anxious side was surprised to hear his own voice after having been thoughtfully silent for so long.

     The father figure's head turned towards Virgil, and, after a second or two, the knight nodded, "It was... ummm... It was..."

     Patton looked around at the other three, from Virgil, to Logan, to Roman, and back before he gulped once more, "It was brutal."

     The look of fear and hurt that cracked the moral side's face gripped at Virgil's heart, and he felt an overwhelming surge of sympathy for his counterpart, but also a seething anger and hatred that anything thought it had the right to subject Patton to such pain. Looking around, Virgil could see similar looks of indignation and fury on both Logan and Roman. The prince, admittedly, was something of a surprise, and it only cast more doubt on the ever-dwindling possibility that he had been behind these atrocities.

     That, of course, raised a question in Virgil's mind, If it's not Roman, then what?

     "Go on," the prince coaxed, "You can do it, Patton."

     Patton took a breath, "It wasn't all that different from what you guys described. Great, big knight wearing black armor from tip to toe, but umm, he... He grabbed me by my collar and lifted me up off the ground and, well, he told me that he'd come for you all, too. I tried to fight back, but he said I wasn't strong enough, that I lacked the... the stomach to do what I had to. And he was right."

     Patton let out a sigh, crestfallen, and all traces of his usual, happy-go-lucky demeanor had seemed to fade from this proud knight who stood before his friends.

     He continued, his words fluttering more and more as he spoke, "When he took... whatever it was, from me. It burned through me, like... like I was being torched from within, hotter and hotter.

     "I'm sorry," Patton's breathed, his shoulders slumping as if he were trying to retreat into the shell of his armor to hide from the world.

     "Thank you, Patton," Virgil rasped, doing his best to take up the mantle of reassurance.

     "Indeed," Roman added, "That was very brave of you."

     Logan nodded in agreement, "You've been quite helpful."

     Virgil looked once again at Roman, "I, umm... I'm sorry for blaming you for... all that. I should have known that, even if you were angry, you wouldn't have done something like that to us. You're many things, Princey, but heartless isn't one of them."

     Roman seemed to soften a little at the patently Virgil-like near-praise, until the anxious side continued, "Still not too thrilled about where you placed me in the story though."

     "Come on! I'm sorry!" Roman squawked, the moment nearly gone before he calmed down and admitted, "I admit now that, well, it wasn't the most... sensitive of choices. But, umm, what do we do now?"

     "The only thing we can do," Patton reasoned, looking over to the prince as well, "I know that this was a big thing you wanted to do, champ, but, if something's in here with us and can do... well, that to us, maybe it's best if we table this story."

     "I agree," Logan added, "To stay could only invite more visits from this dark knight."

     "Yeah, I mean, who knows? Next time, he could be swinging a bat, man," Patton muttered under his breath, the smallest smile seeming to return to his face, "Get it? Batman? Because, 'dark knight?'"

     "Yeah, umm, we get it, Pat," Roman replied, his face in his hand at Patton's patented sense of humor, "Time and place though, buddy."

     Logan brushed off the comment and continued, and his gaze moved somberly down to the sweet, black cat that coiled through his legs, "Still, I think it's best for you to just bring us back."

     Virgil added his nod of silent affirmation to the room, and then all three sides could see that Roman was wrestling with the thought himself. They all knew that, on one hand, this was the prince's fantasy, to bring them all into his world for a grand adventure that the four of them could share and look back on with fascination and amazement. On the other hand, from the beginning, this had all seemed to spiral completely out of his control and if this knight, whomever or whatever he was or represented, was still out there down the path of this storyline, it would be best to head it off at the pass.

     "I, ummm," Roman began, before nodding gravely, "I don't like it, but I agree. I'm sorry for how all this turned out. It was never my intention."

     "We know, bud," Patton comforted.

     "Very well," the prince spoke, a shadow of his usual, dramatic bluster, but a tired smile on his face as he sang, "Back from adventure in the great, wide somewhere!"

     With that, Roman snapped his fingers and the four sides of Thomas Sanders cringed expectantly.

Chapter Text

     SNAP.

     And nothing happened.

     Roman held his pose for a moment, back straight, shoulders rolled back, chest puffed out, chin held high, with one hand on his waist and the other in the air, the snap of his fingers resounding through the headmistress's office around all four sides. Even after several seconds, there was no shift. They did not return to the tavern Roman had crafted for them before this whole fiasco began, nor did they return to the familiar bedroom of his they had all seen before, with the red walls plastered in theatrical memories, nor did they find themselves in any place other than the same chamber in which they had spent the last several minutes.

     "Well," Patton's head moved to scan the room for but a moment, his hair flipping every time his head moved, "this all looks... familiar."

     Logan's grimoire cat mewed and Patton looked over at her, excitedly whispering, "That's right! That's you!"

     "Don't encourage him," Logan looked down at the feline sitting between his ankles, only to receive another meow and a flash of those bright, blue eyes.

     Roman's posture deflated as he shook his hand, his face screwed up in confusion and frustration, "What the...? Come on!"

     SNAP. Nope. SNAP. Nothing. SNAP. Nada.

    Logan turned his attention to the prince, regarding him over the rim of his glasses, "Is something wrong, Roman?"

     "I, ummm," the fanciful side began, attempting to explain, snapping his fingers another three times, to no avail, before returning the concerned look to the logical side, "I'm not sure."

     Logan immediately put his brain to use to remedy the situation, "Alright, then... Well, let's think about..."

     "No, no, no, no, no," Virgil muttered under his breath, whispering and whimpering under his breath again and again as dread slowly began to settle into, not only his heart, but the hearts of all four of them.

     Turning to Virgil, who was drowning out his words to Roman, Logan attempted to give some level of comfort, "Now, Virgil, everything is fine. We are all together and if you combine..."

     "Maybe, ummm," Patton piped up, trying to be helpful, "Maybe it's like in Wizard of Oz? You know... click your heels together and stuff?"

     "I hardly see how," Logan began, his focus shifting from the whimpering Virgil to the somewhat panic-stricken Patton, "I don't think that's going to be..."

     Immediately, the knight did just that. He started pivoting his ankles back and forth, his armor clanking and squeaking as it fell into the quickening rhythm, the leather boots tapping together.

     "There's no place like home," Patton chimed quietly, "There's no place like home. There's no place like home."

     Logan looked at each of the sides, all of them desperately, frantically trying to figure out how to get out this world they now seemed to be trapped in. Roman kept snapping, groaning louder and louder in frustration at each failed attempt, and only clicking his fingers harder on the next try, and the next, and the next after that. Patton kept tapping his heels together, mumbling his inane mantra with his eyes squeezed shut, tighter and tighter, with them peeking open every few seconds, to take in any change to the surroundings, before resuming the fruitless ritual. Virgil, even more anxious at the thought of being trapped, kept running his hands through his hair, pale, white-pink fingers carding and tugging through brown-magenta locks, all the while whimpering a steady, fearful stream of "no, no, no." Logan's hand flew to his temple, feeling it pulse as he tried to think his way through the clamorous din of his fellow facets.

     This is getting us nowhere, Logan thought to himself as the desperate actions and mumblings of his compatriots only seemed to grow louder and louder, echoing off the walls more and more.

     Finally, the cacophony grew loud enough that Logan finally shouted, "Enough!"

     Completely drowning out the other voices as the shout reverberated off the walls of the chamber, the resulting silence was instantaneous. Virgil, Patton, and Roman's heads all turned, at once, in Logan's direction, their eyes wide and mouths shut. The logical side shifted on his feet slightly at all the attention, his hands straightening out the glasses that sat at the bridge of his nose. Even the cat seemed to look up at Logan with rapt attention.

     "I apologize for the outburst," he began, a pink flush rushing to his cheeks, "but, as distressing as this may be, panicking will get us nowhere."

     "We're already going nowhere," Virgil remarked, his nerves still frazzled.

     Logan sighed, trying to soothe his annoyance at the flippant remark, and knowing that a curt reply would only serve to make things worse, "Roman brought us here, but, in effect, we are still in his room, within the mindscape. Now, can we sink out?"

     "After spending a day on death row," Virgil answered, irritated and, of course, anxious, "do you really think that sinking out wasn't the first thing I tried?"

     "Fair enough," Logan conceded, "Well, I'm sure that we can come up with some way out of this if we all just keep calm, cool, and collected."

     "You're right, Logan," Patton nodded and took in an audible breath, sucking it in before holding it in his lungs for several seconds, before letting it out in a worried, fluttering sigh.

     "Ummm, did," Roman asked, quirking his eyebrow over to the knight, "did that help?"

     Patton smiled and nodded once more for a second or two before it shifted into a negative shake, "Nope."

     "I can't believe this. We're stuck in a stupid, fantasy fiction with a maniac, killer knight after us, and the proverbial voice of reason's only bit of advice is to just calm down!?" Virgil griped before turning his eyes once again to Roman, "It's still your fault!"

     "It's a game!" Roman replied, adopting a defensive posture, "How was I supposed to know that something like this would happen!? It's not the first time I've gone on an adventure like this! Generally, I just quest on through and, when it's over, poof! It's over!"

     "Wait a minute!" Logan exclaimed, "That's it!"

     "Poof?" Virgil asked, his eyebrow arched quizzically.

     "Not the time for loud noises, Teach!" Patton cried, his smile a mask that looked as if it were about to crack.

     "Regardless of what may be in here with us," Logan mused out loud, "This is still, at its core, one of Roman's creations. If we simply play through, act as our given characters, and complete the objective laid out before us, the game should end. I mean, it's always how it seems to work for Roman when he goes on one of his insipid escapades, right?"

     "Hey!" Roman responded to the slight, but then his eyes brightened with understanding, "But, you do have a point. I had a storyline pretty much planned out for you lot, just like I do with any of my own adventures! This whole game was, honestly, just an excuse to bring us all together to share in one of them. Once we finish the set storyline, that should be it!"

     "In addition," Logan continued, "While not the ideal solution, I know, we stand a better chance against this knightly aberration if we're together and aware of its presence. Safety in numbers and all that."

     Patton seemed to mull it over in his head, "Well, I can't lie... As scary as some of this has been, there have been some fun spots, too."

     "That's the spirit!" Roman praised, "Onward to adventure!"

     "Wait," Virgil asserted.

     Roman's posture sank yet again, "Of course. Yes, Broody Valentino?"

     The anxious side looked across at the prince, dumbfounded, "What?"

     "Wordplay? Rudy Valentino? Silent film star of the roarin' twenties? Gave it a... Virgil-inspired twist? No?" Roman explained, but ultimately gave up at Virgil's continued vacant expression, "I really do waste my best material on you."

     "Go on, Virgil," Patton coaxed Virgil to continue.

     "What is the storyline that Princey's so keen to set us on?" Virgil asked, as he elaborated, "Unless I'm very much mistaken, which I'm not, he mentioned something before about us putting him on the throne of Estea after he got deposed, or before he could get crowned, or whatever. That would mean us essentially toppling a the head of a kingdom."

     "A kingdom headed by an evil megalomaniac!" Roman specified.

     "Which begs the question of, 'How?'" Virgil shot back, "How are we going to complete this whole storyline of bringing down a king defended by guards, armies, and magic?"

     "By playing the game," Logan reasoned, before gesturing to Roman, "If this was Roman's storyline all along, I'm sure that he would have given us the tools and contacts necessary to complete the objective. In addition, with taking Roman's own vanity into account, I very much doubt that his own storyline would allow us to actually fail to deliver him into the limelight."

     "I mean," Roman admitted, "You're not wrong."

     Patton added, "We just do what we were going to do anyway. Gather allies, level up our characters, learn how to act and fight as these people we're playing as, and just... become heroes."

     "Simplicity itself," Logan surmised, a proud smirk on his face.

     "Sure it is," Virgil muttered, unimpressed.

     "If that's the case," Roman spoke, "Then, speaking with the headmistress was the right move. Not only did it bring Virgil into the fold, but it also means that, if she treated him and you well, Logan, then she could be sympathetic to my cause."

     Logan nodded as more pieces seemed to fall into place. Continuing with the story seemed to be their best chance to get out of this world, and, if Roman's deduction was anything to go by, they did seem to be on the right track. However, as the logical side's gaze moved around to gauge both Virgil and Patton, he found that, while the anxious side seemed to reluctantly agree, Patton's once-hopeful smile appeared to grow more uncomfortable.

     "Patton," Logan addressed, "do you disagree?"

     "I, ummm," Patton started, "N...no, I am thankful that she was so nice to you guys, but... we barely know anything about her."

     "What do you mean?" Logan replied, "She's the headmistress of a seemingly prestigious institution dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge. She's also, by all accounts, one of the most powerful mages in all of Estea. Logic would dictate that bringing her to Roman's side would be quite beneficial."

     Virgil added, "To be fair, she got me out of that cell in, like, the blink of an eye. I may not like that we're stuck here having to play through all this, but, ummm, she didn't have to do that."

     "I just," Patton explained, apparently trying to gather his thoughts, "Are we sure that we can trust her? Virgil's got it right, she didn't have to get him out. Roman said himself that we would have found him when we got to Oldhollow anyway. Why would she lift a finger to help us if she wasn't getting anything out of it?"

     "Oh my!" Roman mocked, a smile on his face, "Virgil, I thought you were the one in rags!"

     Patton blushed at the jibe, his cheeks flushing a dark red at being called anxious or suspicious, "We don't know her."

     "You trusted Leofric, did you not?" Logan asked, "The Lord Commander of your order?"

     "That's different," Patton countered.

     Logan seemed unconvinced, "How so?"

     "There's history to the Order," Patton reasoned, "We're under oath to protect people and defend the rightful rulers of Estea. Leofric took the same oath, pledging himself to Estea and, in his mind, the rightful ruler, Roman. He's too... stubbornly honorable to do anything else. But this Lady Weller... she's..."

     "I'm what?" a reedy, feminine voice echoed off the walls as Headmistress Tessaly Weller reappeared beside her desk, responding as heads snapped, surprised, in her direction, "I did tell you that I wouldn't be gone long. I assume you've worked through the issue at hand, as I observe that my office is still in one piece?"

     Logan nodded, inclining his head, "Umm, yes, Headmistress. We've all seemed to reach a mutual understanding."

     Lady Weller scanned the four faces before her, her milky eyes seeming to capture every detail, "Did you, now?"

     Roman stepped forward, his half-cape fluttering at his shoulder, as he stated simply, the mask of the Prince of Estea falling into place, "Headmistress Weller, you know who I am."

     "Prince Roman Coronam of Elderhall," she answered just as matter-of-factly, "Son of the departed King Esmond and Queen Madelynn, elder brother of Prince Adam. On paper, you are the, 'rightful,' heir to the Kingship of Estea, but, in practice, your brother would appear to have beaten you to the punch."

     "Oh, I like her," Virgil muttered, a smirk on his face at the straightforward description of Roman.

     Undeterred, if somewhat rattled, Roman replied, "And you are Lady Tessaly Weller, by all accounts, Lady of Briarguard, though your younger brother, Hollerand, sits in rule while you are Headmistress of Wickswane. Former Mage General of Estea, Hero of the Dominion Wars..."

     "And Witch of the Greygreens," Patton interrupted, his voice loud, but lacking his usual sweetness.

     Logan's head turned to look at Patton. He stood tall and resolute, his fingers seeming to twitch and fidget, but, aside from the gentle rise and fall of his armor from breathing, they were the only movements the paladin made. His chocolate-colored eyes were locked on the headmistress, stern and dark behind his glasses. It was a look that Logan had not seen on the moral side in many years, not since he was the chief voice of teaching Thomas right and wrong as Morality. It would have been somewhat threatening, if Lady Weller's eyes had not turned to regard the knight with the same fervor.

     "'Witch of the Greygreens.' I will admit, I have not heard that name tossed about in a good, long while," she spoke, her attention now on the moral side, "I confess, that I'm not too familiar with you, Knight of the Order of the Father. It's something of an unusual sensation for me. I know much about His Highness, as I'm sure many Estean nobles do. I've spoken pleasantly, if briefly, with the thief, Virgil Blackwood, and Mister Logan Tennyson, here, is one of my students. You must be Sir Patton Dauntless, I presume?"

     "You'd be right," Patton answered, clipped and curt.

     "Patton," Logan spoke quietly, face tinged with concern, This isn't like you.

     "It is perfectly fine, Mister Tennyson," the headmistress dismissed, with a wave of her wrinkled hand, though her eyes never left Patton, "The prince's protector is leery of potential threats to his charge. There's nothing wrong with that. Besides, I can appreciate impertinence from time to time. It shows will, backbone."

     Lady Weller continued to lock her eyes with Patton's, as if she were reading him, appraising him, learning him, "You needn't hold me accountable for travesties of old, Sir Patton. I am well aware of what I am, what I have done in service to my kingdom, what I will do in service to my kingdom. I was a General for a reason, and I'm still alive today because I was a bloody good one."

     Patton's eye seemed to twitch at her words, but, while her answer did not seem to quiet Patton's nerves if his stone face was anything to go by, he kept quiet, possibly considering his odds against a woman of such exceptional power, and determining that they were not in his favor. He simply stood, uncharacteristically silent, until Lady Weller turned her gaze away from him and back to Roman.

     "Ummm, indeed," the prince spoke awkwardly, before he quickly recovered, "Am I to take it from your words that you will help me regain my throne?"

     "I shall," she answered candidly, moving back to her desk, her long, gray hair nearly sweeping the floor with each step, "If I were not, I would have already alerted your brother to your presence the moment you set foot on my campus. Suffice it to say, while I appreciate his tenacity and ambition, it's treason, plain and simple. Treason must be punished with all due severity."

     Her words sounded almost bored and uninterested, as if she were talking about the weather as opposed to ending the reign of the nation's usurper with the rightful ruler. She once again strode behind her desk and, with a light spiral of her finger, refilled her small cup of tea before sitting down in her chair once again. Logan stood somewhat shocked. For one, he had expected her to require more convincing to bring her into the conflict, and two, the extreme change from the warm, stern grandmother-type traits she had shown Logan before to this all-business, no-nonsense, apparent former General persona that she portrayed now. The duality was rather dizzying.

     Roman, however, only seemed to have heard her approval, "Well, thank you! Thank you very much, Headmistress! You can be certain that I will not forget this."

     "I certainly hope not," she responded, somewhat tartly.

     "Umm, very well," Roman assented, attempting to regain his equilibrium, "As we were instructed to come here by Lord Commander Leofric, I must ask, in turn, if you have any insight on where to travel next?"

     She looked up, from Roman to Virgil, and replied, "As much as I'm sure you are not thrilled to return, I would imagine your next port of call should be Oldhollow. It's a fairly large city on the edge of the forest, a hub of travel and commerce. From there, you should be able to find able-bodied warriors to fight for you, if you're none too particular about criminal pasts and such."

     "I take it back," Virgil groaned, "I don't like her."

     "So, it would appear our next stop is to a den of thieves," Roman determined.

     "You could almost say," Patton spoke up, still standing a ways from the headmistress's desk, "it's a wretched hive of scum and villainy."

     Logan sighed before shooting a look of disdain over at the knight, who simply returned it with a small smile, a little bit of that old, Patton-patented glimmer returning.

     Roman closed his eyes at Patton's reference, collecting himself before he turned his eyes back to Lady Weller, "You have our thanks, my lady. We will be off. I have no wish to impose on your hospitality any longer."

     "As you wish, Your Highness," she replied courteously before she looked to Virgil, once again, "And, two parting gifts to you, Mr. Blackwood."

     An instant later, she waved her hand, and Virgil, clothed in rags and dirt, was smothered in a column of purple smoke.

     "Virgil!" Patton called out, taking a step or two forward, his hand almost instinctively moving to the head of the warhammer slung in his belt.

     "Don't be alarmed, Sir Knight," she coaxed, "I am merely returning what is his."

     As the smoke dissipated as quickly as it appeared, Virgil remained at the center, not looking far more like the notorious thief, Virgil Blackwood. He was dressed from head to toe in leather, ranging from black to tones of deep purple. Hard-heeled, black boots lashed with thick, hard, leather greaves moved up to reinforced wool pants that were held in place by a thick, pouched belt. He wore a sturdy, leather cuirass on his chest beneath a thigh-length black linen and wool vest eerily reminiscent of his usual, pathwork hoodie, and a baldric filled with pouches and pockets even beneath that. Even Virgil's hood was black, lined in purple within, easy to pull over his head to mask his features if necessary. The most prominent change, however, was the ebony wood recurve bow slung over Virgil's back, and a dark quiver to match, filled with arrows fletched in black and purple feathers.

     "Whoa," Roman's eyes widened at the change, "Impressive."

     Virgil looked over his new armor and weaponry, muttering through a small smile, "I can get used to this."

     "And my second gift, young thief," Lady Weller continued, unfazed by the new form of the anxious side that stood before her, "I would give you a little advice. I suggest, if you wish to avoid being recaptured, that you get better at the skill that all good thieves learn first."

     "Ummm," Virgil thought, before posing a weak answer, "Stealing?"

     "Lying," she answered, and her tone spoke with a finality that made the thief simply incline his head and back away.

     Clearing his throat, Roman turned to the headmistress and offered a courteous, flourished bow, "You have our sincerest thanks, Lady Weller. We will take our leave presently. Might I trouble you one, last time in asking for horses for my two new comrades?"

     "Very well. It's settled," she nodded but once, rose to her feet and gave a bow, "I don't have the knees to curtsy anymore, Your Highness. I'm sure you understand. Good day."

     "Good day," Roman repeated in kind before stepping back three paces and turning on his heel, "Come along, boys! Adventure awaits!"

     "Hi-ho, Silver! Away!" Patton exclaimed, falling in behind Roman.

     Virgil followed, muttering, "I can hardly contain my excitement."

     Logan turned as well, but stopped when he heard Lady Weller speak, "Mister Tennyson. A moment, if you please?"

     The logical side stopped in his tracks, feeling his cat skitter along with him, nestled against the inside of his calf, "Yes, Headmistress?"

     "I assume you mean to see this lordling back on his throne?" she asked, resuming her seat behind her desk.

     As he heard Roman, Patton, and Virgil move farther and farther away, Logan nodded, "Yes, that is my intention."

     She only nodded as well, pondering over a thought in her head before she leaned forward, her eyes finding Logan's with that razor sharp focus, "I am pleased to see that you took to your grimoire so quickly. Remember my words, though, as your teacher and as a friend: without it, you are nothing."

     Logan's heart seemed to squeeze in his chest at her words, the words of the black knight having told him the same thing. That without his intelligence, his knowledge, his will, he was nothing. The words were not pleasant to hear, but a certain stern warmth seemed to return to Lady Weller's face when it was just the two of them conversing as fellow mages.

     "I understand," Logan responded, "And, thank you, my lady."

     "Scientia potentia est," she declared, the apparent motto of the school, "Knowledge is power."

     "Go. Gather your things," she ordered as her eyes scanned over Logan just once more, "Farewell, Mister Tennyson."

     With that, her gaze moved down to her desk and she regarded Logan no more. The younger mage knew that he and his sides had now overstayed their welcome as he copied Roman's actions from moments ago. He took three steps back, his eyes flicking down as he watched his cat follow, before turning around in a flurry of robes and making all due haste to catch up with Roman, Virgil, Patton, and, of course, young Toby.

     With a sigh, he thought to himself, in an almost Roman-like voice, Well, onward to adventure.

Chapter Text

     The afternoon sun shone through the canopy of the trees as the four sides and their squire rode along the trail through the Greygreen Forest, the academy of Wickswane shrinking behind them. Using the great school as a marker for how far they had traveled, the castle was eventually shrouded by the trees of the woods and then disappeared altogether with not a glimpse of the library or even its tall Head Tower above the treetops. The five of them now surely seemed to be on their own along this path to Oldhollow, with naught but the sun above their heads peeking through the trees, the chattering of the birds above, and the rustling of woodland creatures through the underbrush below. They simply continued to ride, every one of them on horseback, single file along the path that wound through the forest, some focused on the adventure ahead while others took solace in the peaceful atmosphere around them.

     Roman, clad once again in his commoner's traveling robe, led the line atop his snow-white stallion, Dane, a beautiful horse that was a true staple of the prince's many adventures, for how could a dashing, handsome knight not ride in on a mount as dashing and handsome as he was? More than once, Roman and Dane would charge into glorious battle to save a damsel-in-distress, or more often in the prince's case, a bachelor-in-a-bind, with his sword's luminous brilliance rivaled only by the steed below him, hooves thundering against the ground at a full gallop. Dane was made in the mindscape to be a perfect riding companion. He was intelligent and responsive to Roman's tempered grip on the reins, while also brave during the rough times and gentle during the quiet times. Honestly, while the glorious battles and grateful lordlings made these fantasies exciting, it was the peaceful riding in Dane's brown saddle through verdant surroundings that truly captured the essence of what this whole thing was about, the anticipation of adventure right around the corner for a hero and his steed.

     Patton followed just behind Roman, saddled atop a hulking, palomino destrier, named Butternut, that completely dwarfed the other horses in the line. A cream-colored giant of a warhorse, he carried Patton's heavily armored body in a worn, brown saddle, hooves pounding into the dirt path even at a slow gait as if every movement was meant to be a show of force and dominance. Possessed of something of a surly disposition, Butternut merely seemed to tolerate Patton's gentle stroking of his white mane while the horse's reins were clasped in an armored hand. All the while though, despite his eagerness for battle, to do what he was bred and trained to do, Butternut was always disciplined, walking perfectly in line behind Roman and Dane, his tail twitching with each resounding thump along the path.

     Unlike the other sleek or gigantic horses before and next to him, Toby rode alongside Patton on a short, stocky packhorse, his brown and cream mane bobbing from side to side as it bounced at a trot to keep up with Butternut's long strides. An easy mount for the inexperienced rider in the saddle, the packhorse was also loaded down on both sides with armor, food, and supplies for the journey from Castle Darpley to Wickswane, Oldhollow, and beyond. Toby had taken to calling his squat steed Finney, prompting Patton to sing Winnie the Pooh quietly to himself in his own saddle, but changing the words just enough so that he sang Finnie the Hoof.

     Just behind Patton and Toby was Virgil, in a black saddle atop a darker black mare, his pale fingers relaxed on her reins as they moved along. True to form, when first presented with the horse that would be his mount, the anxious side's mind raced with unease, What if I fall off? What if the horse hates me? What if I do something wrong and she rears up? What if she's just having a bad day and she bucks me off and I break my neck? What if I hurt her? At that last thought, though, the shock of his worry for the horse's well-being seemed to strengthen his own resolve. He would never hurt this beautiful creature, and, in turn, she appeared to be just as careful with her rider, taking measured steps and clopping along to an almost relaxing rhythm. In the short time they had been riding, Virgil had given her a name, Night, and could not help the smile that crossed his face as they trotted along, his fingers constantly moving from the reins to stroke her black mane.

     Logan brought up the rear, one hand loosely gripping onto the reins of his chestnut mare and the other holding open his grimoire, a book once again, as he braced it against the horn of his saddle. The mage kept most of his attention on the book, allowing his red-brown mount to keep pace and line with the rest of the horses in front of them. To her credit, she seemed very careful about her footing, avoiding roots, and keeping the bouncing of her gait so minimal that Logan had no trouble reading and studying as they followed along the dirt path. While his logical mind kept telling him that learning magic spells was a fool's errand, there was some sort of contentment in exercising the order of thought it required to cast magic in this world, and, if all else failed, at least there was the pleasing silence of reading in the quiet serenity around them.

     The same, quiet serenity that would be broken as Roman inhaled, taking in the scent of the woods, and sighed contentedly, "Mmmm, this is what it's all about, isn't it?"

     "You said it, Roman," Patton piped up, smiling in the saddle of his ill-tempered warhorse.

     "This is actually the third time you've said it, Roman," Logan answered, not even bothering to look up from his grimoire.

     "Well, it'd be nice if someone other than Patton were to comment on the wondrous majesty of nature all around us!" the prince shot back, his head turning and his voice getting louder throughout the sentence.

     "Yeah, it's all very pretty. We're super impressed," Virgil muttered in an unconvincing deadpan, before continuing, a slight edge creeping into his voice, "Now, can we actually just sit and enjoy a quiet ride back to Oldhollow?"

     "We won't even be arriving in Oldhollow until late in the day tomorrow," Roman argued, "Are you really saying you want us to just ride in silence the whole time?"

     The question hung in the air for a moment or two, the silence getting more and more pointed, before Virgil scoffed, "I mean, you asked."

     Logan added dryly, "Even five minutes would suffice, but I doubt we'll even get that much."

     "Alright! Fine, fine," Roman said, letting a second or two of quiet pass before continuing, "You know, for a fugitive, you seem really excited to be going back to the place that locked you up."

     "Roman!" Patton chided.

     Virgil shot back, "Excuse me, Mr. Fishing-For-Compliments-When-This-Is-All-His-Fault-In-The-First-Place?"

     "Virgil!" Patton chided again, his head whipping from one side to the next.

     The prince replied, feigning innocent, "It's just an observation!"

     Logan countered, finally looking up, "An observation based on what exactly? This is your game, Roman, and this Oldhollow is merely the next stop on the road for us. Any excitement we may exhibit, I'm sure, is purely the anticipation of us finally being done with this folly."

     "Folly!?" Roman squawked, "I'm stuck just as much as the rest of you, but there's nothing that says we can't have a good time while we're here."

     Virgil muttered under his breath, "Yeah, a good time. I'll have a good time, just let me sink a few arrows in your back..."

     "I heard that!" the prince snapped back, "And Logan, you're really going to take his side after he just threatened--"

     "All of you! Stop!" Patton roared, and silence seemed to follow, not just from the sides, but from the creatures all around them, broken only by the clattering of dull hoofbeats against the ground as the line skidded to a halt.

     The knight looked over at his squire, a slapdash attempt at a smile on his face,, "Hey, Tobes, would you mind riding ahead a bit? Scout out a place for us to camp for the night?"

      The squire, who had been sinking in his saddle and blushing red beneath his curtain of black hair, piped up immediately, "O-of course, Sir Patton!"

     With a quick "Let's go," and a jangle of the reins, Toby and Finney clopped forward, ahead of Patton, then ahead of Roman as the horse and rider trotted further down the dirt road and around the bend.

     Patton then rounded himself back on the other three, doing his best with the reins in hand to have all of the other sides in his sight. Atop the monstrous Butternut, the moral side towered over Roman, Virgil, and Logan, looking down on them like a steely centurion, a smile still plastered on his face, but it didn't reach his chocolate-colored eyes, which were now wide and piercing. The knight could feel a vein throbbing in his head from the constant ups and downs of the last day or so, and it was time for this roller coaster to stop for a few hours. It was time for full-on Dad mode.

     "Alrighty," Patton began through his smiling, gritted teeth, and then in measured words, "I am very happy to know that you are all safe. You need to know that. That being said...

     "Roman," the knight's head turned towards the prince, "It has been nearly two days since we have been dropped into this whole, big world of yours, and while everything around us is beautiful and detailed and what have you, this is still your mess that we have to clean up. Is there going to be some fun along the way? I'm sure there is, but we're not you. We're not built for extended time on adventures and quests and the things that make you happy. We're gonna get tired, we're gonna get short at times, and getting short back is not helping.

     "Virgil," Patton's head swiveled towards the thief, and then towards the mage, "AND Logan. I'm sorry for the stuff you kids had to go through, I really am, and if you need to talk to someone about it, you know that I'm always around for whatever you need. But, we're all dealing the best we can with the situation we've been dealt. Yes, even Roman is doing what he can. This is as much of a hard time for him as it is for the rest of us, and he's only trying to be engaging. If you don't want to talk, that's fine, but I'm reaching the end of my rope with the bickering. So, please, help me out here."

     The three chastised sides looked bashful in response. Roman pouted as he sat in Dane's saddle, his face red, embarrassed and defeated as he looked at Patton through the curtain of swooped fuschia locks. Virgil could not even bring his eyes up to meet Patton's, looking every bit like the child whose hand had been caught in the cookie jar. Logan's shoulders merely slumped and he nodded, closing his grimoire.

     Logan cleared his throat for a moment before he spoke up first, words a tad forced, "Roman, this ummm... This is a beautiful setting. I am surprised by the variety of flora you have managed to exhibit in this small section of forest. You should be proud."

     "Ditto," Virgil muttered, and turned towards Roman, still unable to raise his eyes, "And... thank you for my horse. Despite everything that has happened, she's an incredible gift, and I'm... grateful for her. And I'm sorry for threatening to shoot you in the back. That wasn't cool."

     Roman took a second or two to compose himself, taking a deep, somewhat teary breath and letting it out before looking at his three companions, "I don't think anything has gone this sideways on me before, and, if I'm being honest, it has definitely thrown me for a loop. I just wanted to show you the things that I'm proud of. That's what this whole venture was supposed to be about, but I keep messing it up... and I'll probably mess it up a few more times before we're done with this whole thing, but if there was anyone that I had to be stuck with, I am so very glad that it was you three."

     A relative silence hung in the air between the four, all of them sharing thoughtful glances, even Virgil finally being able to look the other three in the eyes. While there was still plenty to do before the lot of them could get out of this mess, it felt as though, for now, that a weight had been lifted off of all of them. They were all trapped in this world for now. That much, indeed, was true, but they were four friends trapped together, and that was far better than the miserable moments when they had been alone, wondering what was happening to the other three.

     "Well," Roman cleared the lump in his throat, gently tugging the reins back towards the front of the line and down the path, "shall we?"

     Logan nodded, agreeing, "Indeed. It'll be getting dark soon. Here's hoping that Toby fond an adequate space for us to rest for the night."

     "Yeah," Virgil added, "all alone in a dark forest, where anything from bears to demogorgons could be lurking. What could go wrong?"

     Patton waited atop Butternut as he watched Virgil and Logan trot past, following Roman's lead once again, before the knight took up the rear. He knew this would not be the last time he'd have to wrangle his friends back into line, and he knew there would be times ahead where he would have to be wrangled himself, but it was moments like this that warmed his heart, the times when the four of them were reminded just how much they cared about each other. There were bound to be tough times ahead, but, like every challenge they had faced, from coming out, to heartbreak, to accepting Anxiety, they would face every challenge to come the best way they knew how: together.

----------

     The sun was low in the sky by the time the four adventurers caught up with Toby at a small clearing in the forest, and night would fall soon after. They all dismounted from their steeds, and set about making camp for the night. Virgil immediately set about gathering wood for a fire, walking around the perimeter of the clearing to pick up twigs and branches and logs, bringing them to Logan who divided and assembled them in the middle of the clearing itself, muttering to himself how best to arrange the wood for the most efficient use of their fuel. Patton and Roman tended to the horses, securing them to close-by, surrounding trees before the two knights carried bags of armor to be cleaned, as well as supplies and bedrolls towards where the fire was being built, the moral side grabbing two heavy loads at a time thanks to his newly-gifted strength. 

     Once the wood was arranged, Logan decided, instead of trying a more traditional way of starting a fire, he would use a rather utilitarian spell he had read in his grimoire. Closing his eyes and concentrating, the others all let out gasps of elated surprise as a small gout of flames lanced from the mage’s hands towards the tinder and, in an instant, a happily popping fire illuminated the clearing. The others praised Logan for his success, the logical side blushing ever so slightly with the feeling of accomplishment just as the first stars began to dot the twilight sky above.

     Toby, who had managed to kill and clean a rabbit for their supper, thankfully not around Patton, prepared a meal in a small pot suspended above the crackling fire while the others rested their road-weary legs and warmed themselves around the flames. Before too long, the smell of burning wood and fresh air mingled with the scent of cooked meat and simmering spices. The sides could feel and hear their stomachs growling, the small meal provided at Wickswane feeling as though it were a lifetime ago, and each felt a rush of joy as Toby came around with small bowls full of a hearty rabbit stew and pieces of hard bread. Roman eagerly tucked in, bringing the bowl to his lips and wolfing it down, followed by Patton who timidly tasted the stew first before eagerly dipping his bread and complimenting the squire on a fine meal. Virgil and Logan, however, each regarded the meal with some apprehension, the two of them, either through anxiety or an overabundance of knowledge, worried about the cleanliness of eating freshly-killed meat cooked over a campfire by a teenager younger than half their age.

     “Is… Is everything all right, my lords?” Toby asked nervously, wiping his own mouth with his sleeve as he brought the bowl down from his lips.

     “Well,” Logan began.

     “It’s just,” Virgil started as well in time with the logical side, before both were stopped by pointed looks from Roman and Patton.

     “I’m sure everything is fine, kiddo,” Patton reassured his squire, without even looking away from the thief and the mage, before he mouthed, “Eat.”

     Roman added, “Everything is fantastic, Toby. You’re a credit to your profession!”

     Toby inclined his head, his blushing red cheeks visible even in the orange glow of the campfire that danced across his face, “You’re too kind, Your Highness.”

     Using the squire’s genuflection as a distraction, Patton whispered to Logan and Virgil, “Just eat it. It’s not gonna kill you.”

     “Are you sure about that?” Logan responded, keeping his voice low as well.

     Roman added, “Do you really think I’m gonna let your characters die of food poisoning? Of all things?”

     Virgil shot back, his voice already low, “Who said we’d have to die?”

     Patton responded, gesturing between him and the prince, “We’re both fine.”

     Virgil scoffed, “Yeah, for now.”

     “Just trust me this once? Eat, please?” Roman implored, doing his best to still keep his voice low, before turning back to Toby, “Please, arise.”

     The squire raised his head and then sat back, returning to his meal as Patton and Roman practically liked their bowls clean.

     Virgil and Logan shared a look between them, letting out a sigh, and then touched their bowls together with a dull, wooden clunk, both of them murmuring, “Cheers.”

     The two holdouts then did the same as their more adventurous counterparts, bringing the bowls to their mouths and each taking a hearty sip. After a second or two of obvious apprehension radiating off of them, their own sounds of contentment mixed in with gulping as they joined in on dinner. Roman could not seem to help the little chuckle that escaped him as he watched the two most reserved sides tear into their meals like starving men, Virgil only seeming to look up when he felt the eyes and smiles of the prince and the knight on him.

     “So?” Patton goaded, “How is it?”

     “It’s ummm,” Virgil started, blushing a bit behind his eye shadow and then just nodding as he went back to his meal.

     Logan brought the bowl back down from his mouth, the broth coating his lips as he just cleared his throat and nodded as well, “It’s… adequate.”

     They each finished up their meal amid peals of laughter and conversation until the pot above the fire was picked clean, much to Toby’s pride and happiness as he cleaned up. From there, they each set about finding tasks to while away the hours until they went to bed.

     While Toby cleaned, Patton armored down, doing his best to remember how everything went on, but finding it to be far easier to take everything off. Before too long, he braced his armor, shield, and hammer next to a log close by his bedroll, wearing only his wool gambeson, undertunic, breeches and boots as he cleaned his steel with an oiled rag.

     Logan sat on his bedroll next to the campfire, comfortably wrapped up in his robes as he read his grimoire by the firelight. The black book was opened to a page on all-purpose spells, the mage having snagged one of the dirty bowls from dinner and attempting to clean it using magic.

     Roman pulled his sword from its scabbard at his stallion’s side, the curved blade casting a white gleam off the moon in the sky, and then an orange glow from the popping campfire. The prince took his sword about twenty feet away from the other sides, further into the clearing, where he began to swiftly step through spins, swings, and strikes. His face was completely devoid of his usual charming smile, adopting instead a furrowed brow of concentration as he moved from one stance and strike to another, his feet moving in measured steps to avoid putting himself off balance.

     And Virgil laid on the log next to Patton, listening to the constant, though comforting, stream of babble that came from the knight as he worked. Between filming for days, editing for hours, and now this new misadventure that Roman had dragged them all on, Anxiety had been working overtime, and there was something peaceful about simply looking up at the stars while half-listening to the night unfold around him.

      Who’d have thought? Virgil thought to himself, In one day, I went from being on death row, to being blinked out of prison to a school of magic, reunited with my… friends, and now on some grand adventure to topple a kingdom, all to get back to the usual day-to-day life. What IS my life?

     The anxious side could not help the little chuckle that ran through him, a sound that even felt alien to his own ears. Goodness, it had been so long since he had felt at peace enough to let his guard down, to find anything funny enough, to see the silver lining enough to actually just laugh.

     To be honest, it felt… good.

     He heard Patton’s laughter join in as the moral side remarked, “I like that sound, Virgil. What’s so funny?”

     “Nothing, Patton,” the rogue murmured, shaking his head before he continued, “Just… happy to be here with you all.”

     “Roman included?”

     “Roman included.”

     The two then shared another round of laughter, a bit louder this time, and there was a lightness in Virgil’s chest that he had not felt for some time.

      This won’t last, Virgil thought to himself, his dark nature almost seeming to reassert itself before a little jolt of optimism that could only be described as Patton-esque thought back, You’re right, but that’s why it’s important to take the good times as they come.

     SNAP.

     The joy that Virgil felt immediately abated as his guard sprang up at the unexpected sound, a snapping twig, and the thief shot to a sitting position, his eyes wide as he looked around.

      Something’s there, he thought, as he surveyed the bottom of the treeline, looking for any uninvited guests, and his heart fell as he saw something: bushes swaying and the glimpses of faces illuminated by the filtering moonlight, Son of a…

     Patton, looking alarmed as Virgil darted up, asked nervously, “What is it?

     Seeming to know that they had been discovered, whoever they were, the bushes rattled enough to alert everyone in the clearing of the simple truth that Virgil now knew as he looked back at Patton, his eyes wide and alight with grim anxiety.

     “We’re not alone.”

Chapter Text

     “TO ARMS!” Roman roared, double-timing it as he ran back to rally the sides for their first battle.

     “ONE HAMMER!” Patton thundered in response, unable to pass up the obvious dad joke as he quickly snatched up his hammer in his left hand and slid on his shield with the right.

     Logan’s head snapped in the direction of Roman and Patton as the two’s shouting cut through the still night air like a knife before the noise of rustling bushes and broken twigs grabbed his attention. He rose to his feet, robes billowing around his body as he flipped through his book, trying to find any spell to ready for the imminent skirmish to come.

     Virgil rolled off the log, his feet landing on the ground before he was off like a shot towards the horses. He just had to get to his black mare, Night, and retrieve his bow and quiver full of arrows from his saddle bag.

     Toby, upon hearing the call to arms from his prince and commander, immediately dropped the dirty bowls, halfway through cleaning, and drew his short sword. He then ran towards Patton, trying to calculate in his head as to whether he’d be able to get some armor on the knight, but knowing that it was far too late and they’d have to enter battle with whatever they had.

     As soon as Virgil found his bow and quickly slung his quiver over his back, he turned and ran back to join his friends, just as the group saw what was emerging from the bushes below the treeline.

     Bathed in moonlight as they stepped into the clearing, one humanoid shadow stepped out first, a bow in his hand and one arrow nocked and ready. This mystery archer was dressed in rough leather armor and a large pelt cloak wrapped around them like a serape, their face covered to veil their true visage. Another mystery warrior stepped out from the bushes, much shorter than the first and wielding two nasty-looking handaxes. A third figure, wearing a hood and robes that clung to their body stepped out next, not seeming to wield any visible weapon. Yet another unarmed hooded figure stepped forward into moonlit clearing, as a raven flew down from the trees to land on this being’s shoulder, cawing only once, before, in a puff of smoke, it transformed into a mage’s grimoire and tumbled into an outstretched hand. Finally, pushing apart the bushes hard enough that wooden snaps rang through the night, a tall monster of a man stepped onto the field, not wielding any weapons but cracking dark knuckles loud enough that they rivaled the sound of the splintering branches. As one, they stepped forward, then again, and again, before they broke into a dead run at the prince and his retinue.

     Taking a deep breath to stem the pre-battle jitters that always worked their way into his heart, Roman asserted, “Well, five on five. Rather even odds for our first battle, wouldn’t you say?”

     Logan nodded, “One for each of us then. It would appear we face an archer, a fighter, a mage, and two opponents of unknown armament.”

     “We all have eyes, thank you,” Virgil replied, his grip tight on his bow, but his fingers fidgeting over the nocks and fletching of his arrows.

     “Just an observation,” Logan added, “Any recommendations on whom each of us should engage, Roman?”

     “Pick one and go!” Roman barked, eliciting a sigh from the mage.

     “That’s helpful,” he responded sarcastically.

     Patton stared wide-eyed at the oncoming warriors, having completely forgotten that, as a knight, he would have to fight to protect those he cared about. This was so different compared to when they were just sitting around a table talking through it. The hammer and shield were heavy in his arms and Patton knew that danger was fast approaching, closer and closer.

     He turned to his squire, ordering, “Toby, get to your horse and ride for safety!”

     “What!?” Toby reacted, his eyes wide and betrayed, “No!”

     “You heard me!” Patton bellowed, “You’re just a kid! This is no place for you!”

     Toby immediately seemed to take on the visage of a kicked puppy at his knight’s words, but the look only lasted a second or two before steely determination took its place, “I’m a squire of the Order, and we do not run!”

     To Patton’s utter terror, Toby hopped once before running out onto the field at a dead sprint towards the approaching danger.

     “TOBY!” shrieked Patton, before immediately setting off after him, though his hammer and shield proved heavy enough to keep him from gaining on his impulsive squire.

     “What is he doing!?” Virgil squawked, “What does he think he’s doing!?”

     Not to be outdone by the moral side and a non-player character in his own adventure, Roman followed in Patton and Toby’s footsteps, shouting as he ran, “CHARGE!”

     “So I noticed!” Logan muttered as he followed along behind, not quite at a run, but knowing that he’d have to act as support for the front-line fighters.

     Virgil sighed before following along behind Logan, “They’re gonna get us all killed.”

----------

      I have to keep him safe. I have to keep him safe. I have to keep him safe.

     The mantra kept playing Patton’s head, again and again as he ran, trying his best to keep Toby in sight as the night’s darkness bled onto the field more and more and the campfire’s light lessened and lessened. He had to keep Toby safe, there was no question. It was Patton’s own stupid suggestion that brought the boy out here from the safety of Castle Darpley, and if anything were to happen to his squire, the knight knew he would never be able to forgive himself.

      Real or not, Patton panicked, He’s my boy! He’s real to me!

     As the opposing warriors grew closer and closer, it quickly became apparent who Toby was targeting. He planned to use his small stature to blow through the front line and get to the archer behind them. Patton picked up his pace, his heart pounding in his ears from exertion and panic as he noticed just how small Toby appeared compared to the mystery fighters.

     Then, in a flurry of gleaming steel, the two sides met as Patton watched the axe-wielder take a swing at Toby. Deftly, the squire sidestepped the swipe, spinning on his nimble feet, but keeping the forward momentum as he righted himself to continue running. The knight had no time to shout any praise, though, as the axefighter spun as well, equally nimble, and taking one step forward before bounding at Patton, both handaxes coming down.

     Patton’s eyes widened, as a single thought ran through his head, I’m going to die.

     Just as the moral side steeled himself for the awful bite of those axes, another voice cut through the doubt and panic, Drop to a knee, brace the shield, and table them.

     With no time to argue with the new voice in his head, Patton did just as he was told. Taking one last step forward, he dropped to one knee, bracing his long shield at an angle with his raised knee and hammer. A half-second later, his he felt a new weight clattering against his shield, accompanied with two hard clangs and then raking down the length of the steel table. Patton did not even need to wait for the next command to come, summoning all of his strength to rise to his feet and swing his shield arm back, tossing off the new weight.

     He was greeted with a thud and a loud, “Oof!” as he turned to see where it came from.

     The knight could not help the rush of elation as he saw the axe-wielder splayed out on the ground, stunned from the impact of being flipped head over heels and slammed. Their axes were still in hand, but even Patton could see dazed eyes through their cowl.

      Now, finish them, the other voice asserted and, on instinct, Patton’s hand, formerly choked up under the hammerhead, bounced the weapon up so he grabbed it around the leather-wrapped handle.

     He reared back, about to bring a swift end to the fallen foe before him, when Patton’s own voice cut through his mind an instant later, NO!

     That moment of hesitation felt like a short-circuit in the moral side’s mind as he stumbled back, his sincere desire not to hurt anyone at odds with this new voice that had saved his life.

      You’re a knight! the first voice shot back, As a knight, you are sworn to protect the innocent and those you serve!

      I don’t want to kill anyone! Patton’s inner monologue shouted back, Who are you!?

     After an instant’s pause which seemed to fill an eternity, the voice responded in one word, Dauntless.

     Patton’s eyes widened as he realized that this new voice in his head belonged to the character he was playing, the character of Sir Dauntless, Knight of the Order of the Father, sworn to return Prince Roman Coronam to his rightful throne. The voice would be with him on this journey, telling him what to do, how to act like a knight, like a warrior.

      Like a killer, Patton concluded grimly, and he felt his stomach clench at the very suggestion.

    During the knight’s moment of inner turmoil, the axe-wielder had thrown off their daze and returned to their feet. Instead of taking on Patton and his shield again, though, they resumed running back towards the campfire, towards Roman, Patton, and Virgil.

     “No,” Patton began before another cry of pain cut through the night to his ears and his head snapped in its direction, eyes widening at the sight before him.

     The archer had won.

     Toby lay on the ground, still alive, but clutching at an arrow shaft that stuck out of his shoulder, now slick and wet and red with blood beneath the light of the moon. His sword was gone from his hands, and as he tried to stand, the archer came around with his bow like a quarterstaff and cracked the boy across his face. Toby ragdolled into the grass, shifted once in an effort to keep conscious, and then slumped, completely still.

     The color drained from Patton’s face at the thought that he had failed, and that this innocent boy paid the ultimate price for his failure.

     “No,” Patton mumbled as he stepped forward towards his fallen squire, then stepped again, and again, “no, no, no, no, no, no…”

     The knight watched as the archer quickly nocked another arrow and prepared to fire, the voice of Dauntless bellowing, Shield!

     In a flash, Patton raised his right arm to bring the shield between him and his foe, and an instant later, felt a sharp shock as the barrier absorbed the blow. When he realized that he was not hurt by the attack, a new emotion reared its head, one that did not show itself very often from the paternal side.

     RAGE.

     Dropping the shield to his side once again and charging forward, Patton saw red. Anger gripped his heart as he ran at the archer, readying his hammer to bring it crashing down on this foe, this enemy that attacked his friend, that could very well have killed him. The archer loomed closer and closer with each of the knight’s tremorous steps, his hands not moving fast enough to nock another arrow before Patton could get to him, his wicked hammer raising up into the air. And just as the knight was about to strike…

     ...something else struck him first.

     A glass vial slammed into Patton’s left shoulder and shattered, splattering across the knight’s chest and weapon arm with the sickly green substance held within. The knight had no chance to ponder as to what the substance was before the pain immediately set in, a burning pain that felt as though his arm was being eaten away. The hammer dropped from his hand and thumped onto the grass below as Patton screamed, unable to draw in enough breath to do more than grunt as he fell to a knee once again, cradling his burning arm. Only able to keep himself relatively upright by planting his shield into the ground and leaning on it, the knight could only suck in breath as he looked up at the person who had felled him.

     It was not the archer who had delivered the decisive blow, but another. An enemy that, this close, looked to be of feminine physique, covered in thick robes and gently curved face hidden by the hood as well as a curtain of dark hair. Patton could do nothing as she loomed above him, casually reaching towards another glass vial at her belt, this one filled with a shimmering blue powder.

     “Breathe deep,” she spoke only once before she shattered the vial against his shield and held the powder in her hand, leaning down to blow the contents into Patton’s face.

     He could not resist even if he wanted to, taking in breaths in a vain attempt to stave off the pain from his burning arm. Patton could feel the powder immediately go to work, his eyelids getting heavy and darkness creeping in from the corner of his eyes, further and further. He swayed where he knelt, his body trying its hardest to throw off whatever this poison was that he had breathed in, but between the pain in his arm, the pain in his heart from seeing Toby fall, and the exertions of the last day or so, it was just too much. He nodded himself awake once, only once, before his head slumped and he fell forward, letting out one last sigh into the grass below.

----------

     Roman followed as Patton ran after Toby, the three of them inadvertently spearheading the attack against the mystery foes before them. While it was true that this band of ruffians had caught them unprepared, it was of no consequence. They were no match for the sheer awesomeness of Prince Roman, a man who spent every free waking hour rescuing lordlings from scum just like this. His sword arm was ready, his heart full of the promises of adventure, and there was glory to be won.

      Hero time, Roman thought to himself as he raised his blade to deliver the first of, surely, many killing blows.

     He watched as the forward two broke through the lines, the axe-wielder jumping at Patton, only for the knight to retreat under his tabled shield and sink the hit before tossing the small berserker like a ragdoll.

     Roman could hardly help the bit of impressed laughter that fluttered up as he shouted, “Well done, Sir Patton!”

     He then watched as the knight raised his hammer above the axe-wielder, about to bring it down, but the prince soon became distracted as his running seemed to line up with the brawler.

     The unarmed fighter seemed to tower over Roman the closer and closer they got, their face hidden in a cowl, but their reaching arms and long legs seemed to be built for power. While the giant was clad in leather armor over most of their body, they wore steel bracers on their forearms and steel greaves on their shins, as if knowing they’d have to defend themselves against armed opponents.

     A tingle of fear wormed its way into Roman’s heart at the size of his opponent, but he quickly shook it off, I’ve taken on krakens and dragon-witches bigger than you!

     The prince readied his sword, holding his breath and only hearing his own thunderous heartbeat in his ears before his foe finally got into range. Then, he exhaled, swinging his sword above his head once, the blade gleaming in the moonlight before it swooped down with a whoosh, cutting through the air…

     ...which would be all it would cut through on that strike.

     Without even stopping his charge, the brawler ducked to the side, out of the way of the swiping blade, and used the momentum of the turn to spin. In an instant, their feet left the ground, arm extending like a coiled spring to send their fist colliding with Roman’s jaw.

     Roman stumbled off, his face feeling as though it had just been hit full-force with a rock. He could immediately feel his lower lip swell, and taste that metallic tang he knew far too well. He was bleeding already.

     The prince whipped his head around to deliver a retaliatory strike against the brawler, only to find that the giant was already bearing down on him, pressing their advantage. This enemy’s fists and feet moved fast, faster than a person of that size should be able to move, raining blow after blow upon Roman. He barely managed to get his guard up in time block some of the more sweeping strikes, his blade casting sparks off the metal armor of his foe’s extremities and then pushing forward, only to be driven back again from the sheer aggression of the attack.

     Roman could feel himself breathing heavy, knowing that he could not keep up this defense forever as he thought, Watch him! Find something, anything I can use to turn the tide. At least to give me some room to maneuver!

     Just like that, with a quick shift of his body and footing to square himself against his opponent, Roman adopted a fully defensive stance, forcing the brawler to extend themselves further to strike the prince. While Roman would still take as many hits as he deflected, he kept his eyes trained on his opponent’s shoulders, their legs, watching how they distributed their weight. It was times like these where Roman felt a kinship with Logan, watching and waiting and calculating for the perfect moment to press their advantage.

     And there it was.

     After forcing his opponent to overextend their long limbs to reach him, Roman found an opening. The brawler lunged forward, delivering a strike that could have taken the prince’s head clean off his shoulders had it landed. Instead, Roman sidestepped and forced his opponent forward and off-balance. Seeing an opportunity and taking it, he gave a quick flourish of his blade, before stepping forward into his opponent’s side and striking low. The fanciful side was filled with a rush of satisfaction as he felt the blade bite into the brawler’s thigh and, hearing a gutteral groan, pulled the blade through, slicing the rest of the way to cut even deeper. Roman knew to push his advantage, now that his opponent was on the defensive, and kicked, his boot careening into the brawler’s ribcage. The force of the hit sent the brawler rolling on his side and then to a kneeling position as he hissed and groaned, favoring his bloody legs and injured side.

     Roman, now with a moment to breathe, could feel everywhere that his opponent had hit him, his face, chest, stomach, and ribs peppered with hits from the brawler’s piston-fast arms and legs. Every muscle in his core cried out in protest as he raised his bloodied sword to the brawler’s throat.

     “Y...yield,” Roman commanded through a swollen lip and aching teeth, “If you surrender, I’ll let you live.”

     His opponent looked down and shifted to place their weight on their uninjured leg, seemingly defeated and willing to take the prince’s offer, and Roman relaxed at the show of deference. A screeching cry from behind the brawler, however, immediately set Roman back on edge again as the axe-wielder, small and light, ran up behind their fallen comrade. In an instant, they jumped forward, planting a boot on the shoulder of their braced ally, and kicked off, gaining height and momentum over the prince, two nasty-looking axes raised and ready to come down for a mighty blow.

     Roman moved to raise his sword to block the hit, but a sharp jolt ran through the muscles under his arm as he attempted to lift the now-weighty sword above his head. With an earth-shattering clash, the axes came down on the prince’s pitiful defense, and knocking the sword from his hands and rendering him completely defenseless.

     His eyes widened in panic, Where did they come from?

     In a flash, the axe-wielder pressed their attack, both axes swinging dangerously close to Roman’s throat as he just barely skittered back and out of the way, his entire body strained from the punishment it had endured. His new opponent, however, would not let up, lifting their leg with the spinning momentum of the savage strike and sinking their own boot into Roman’s stomach.

     Instantly, his entire vision went white as the pain jolted through his entire body, his stomach feeling like it had been whipped back against his spine.The sheer force of the hit sent Roman to his own knee, and it took every bit of self-control he had not to simply collapse onto all fours and vomit.

      Oh, god, this hurts, Roman winced, even thinking proving to be a painful activity, Everything hurts!

     He had apparently close his eyes when he had taken the last hit, not even noticing until he heard the axe-wielder let loose another blood-chilling battle cry and their footfalls hitting the ground closer and closer.

     Roman opened his eyes, just in time to watch as the berserker got a running jump, coming at him like a cannonball, before extending their legs in what was sure to be a punishing dropkick.

     And the last thing he saw was the bottom of those boots right before they impacted with his skull, and everything went black.

----------

     Logan’s mind seemed to shift into overdrive as he ran onto the field, not at a dead sprint in the manner of Toby, Patton, and Roman, but enough to get closer, enter the fray, and watch the battle unfold.

     It appeared that the three frontmen were going to spearhead through their ranks and try to divide them, as Logan mused, A strategy not without its merits. Divide them, hold their attention, and Virgil and I attack while they’re distracted by the fighters. Not perfect, but not bad for only having mere seconds to plan.

     And the mage, of course, could not help the swell of pride as he watched a figure he recognized as Patton completely upend one of the opposing warriors, sending them flying.

      Maybe he actually does know what he’s doing, Logan thought, just as he watched Roman engage with the brawler, missing his first swipe, but the two quickly squaring off against each other again.

     Strategy continued to play through his mind, Alright, so Patton and Toby have gotten through the enemy line, which means they’ll engage the support archer, Patton appears to be dealing well with the axe-fighter, Roman is engaging the brawler. That leaves two, one of them being…

     The mage, spellbook in hand, seemed to be making a beeline right towards Logan, their robes fluttering behind them as they opened their grimoire and let it fall from their hand. Instead of tumbling into the grass, however, it rose all on its own, staying about chest height with the cowled mage and keeping pace with their stride.

     Realizing that this fight was about to begin for him, Logan’s eyes widened, I have no idea what I’m doing.

     As if to answer, another voice responded in his head, Don’t panic! We’ll get through this together.

     Even as he kept running, clutching his grimoire close to his chest, Logan questioned the voice in his head, “Don’t panic,” doesn’t help! Who are you anyway?

     Later! For now, you have to concentrate, the voice replied before it screamed within Logan’s skull, MOVE!

     Logan puzzled for an instant, wondering what the voice meant, but when his mind returned to the battle, the question seemed to answer itself.

     The hands of the mage running at him seemed to burst into flames, though they did not scream, nor did they do anything to denote that they were in pain. If anything, the smallest hint of their face was now visible from the underlighting of their fiery hands…

     ...and they were smiling.

     It took a moment for Logan to realize that this was magic at work, but more than that, this was combat magic, something that the logical side had never really thought to truly delve into. After all, what’s the use of a logical mind in a world of swords and sorcery? Now, however, Logan had that unwelcome feeling of sitting down to a test that he had not studied for, but with dread on the horizon, knowing that if he failed this test, it could kill him.

     The enemy mage sent out the first volley, throwing bolts of fire in quick succession. Logan quickly tried to predict their path, narrowly managing to avoid getting seared as the fire passed dangerously close to his body and feeling the incredible heat of each bolt.

      Do something! the new voice in his head shouted.

      Like what!? Logan responded, Suggestions would be helpful!

     You’re a magic-user! USE MAGIC!

      Now, it seemed to feel like a test where, not only had he not studied and the price of failure was death, but now there was someone standing over Logan’s shoulders screaming in his ear to write the correct answers quickly. Fire continued to fly by his body, far too close for comfort, while this new voice in his head kept telling him to do something that he had to concentrate to do even when he was not already under duress. Logan could feel the frustration rising higher and higher as those firebolts ranged closer and closer and that damnable voice pushed louder and louder.

      FOCUS!

     Then, the enemy mage’s aim rang true and a gout of flames connected with Logan’s chest, hitting with the force of a fastball and sending him reeling. The firebolt ignited the logical side’s robes, and he desperately tried to pat himself out while, between the trauma to his chest and the sudden lungfuls of smoke from his burning garment, he had trouble taking in full breaths. Logan collapsed to a knee, coughing and sputtering and he continued to try to pat out his singed robes, looking up through the veil of smoke.

     The archer was still up. Toby had been defeated.

      DO IT!

     The knight lay face down in the grass at the feet of a hooded woman. Patton had been defeated.

      DO SOMETHING!

     The berserker just drop-kicked the prince. Roman had been defeated.

      DO ANYTHING!

     It was down to Logan and Virgil, but how would they stand against these odds? It was now five to two, and victory was nowhere in sight. Logically, hope was lost, because magic required concentration, and how could Logan possibly even begin to concentrate when he couldn’t figure out how to save his friends? How to save Virgil? How to save himself? All while it hurt to breathe and smoke filled his lungs and he couldn’t know whether Patton and Logan and Toby were even still alive and the answers refused to reveal themselves to him and this constant voice in his head was telling him to do something that was completely outside of himself and everything just needed to…

     “STOP!”

     Logan shrieked, and a stroke of lightning lit up the sky, a patch of clouds forming in the once-clear night sky, followed by a deafening thunderclap. The tremor of it seemed to shake the very battlefield, the five foes before the logical side covering their eyes and ears before, an instant later, another bolt of electricity lanced down from the sky between Logan and the enemy mage. The bolt slammed into the ground, throwing up burnt chunks of dirt and grass into the air and scorching the earth around the point of impact. The most miniscule fraction of a second later, another thunderclap hit, more deafening than the first, so loud that the sheer force of it blew back Logan’s hair and robes and shook the eardrums in his head. As quickly as the lightning strike hit though, it dissipated, leaving the logical mage still kneeling in the grass, utterly exhausted.

      What’s going on? Logan’s mind panicked as fatigue crept in faster and faster, I… I did it. Why can’t I…? What’s happening?

     Magic is an incarnation of our will, an extension of it, that alien voice responded in his head, with a hint of something that Logan would term as grim finality, and now you’ve seen what happens when you overextend.

     Logan was powerless to resist as the enemy mage closed in. Gesturing with one hand, and Logan’s grimoire flew from his loose grip as if it had been snatched away, flying off into the night and landing somewhere in the darkness with a dull thump. Gesturing with the other hand towards Logan, and an unseen force just slammed into the logical side’s chest, knocking out any wind left in his lungs and leaving him flat on his back.

     It was over, and all Logan could see as he lost consciousness was the mage standing above him, looking down at him, before raising their head towards someone else.

     Towards Virgil.

----------

     Virgil knew, logically, that with a weapon like a bow and arrow, he would have to keep his distance, ranging on opponents instead of rushing in to engage. In a way, he’d have to thank Roman for at least having the foresight of allowing Virgil to keep his distance while participating in this whole crazy misadventure. Even as he watched Toby charge forward, then Patton, then Roman, and even Logan jogging into the fray, the archer couldn’t seem to help the thought that ran through his mind.

      Better them than us.

     Shame welled up in his chest at the thought, and he began to run onto the field, trailing behind the other sides.

     An instant later, however, he caught the wording, his hackles already seeming to rise at the thought of something else rattling around in his head, What us?

     Just ol’ Blackwood, don’t you worry, the voice seemed to respond, and Virgil’s eyes widened at the very notion.

      No, I’M Blackwood, Virgil asserted, hardly believing that he’s having an inner dialogue now, of all times, Well, I’m playing Blackwood.

      The voice responded, its timbre the only thing Virgil could hear above his own pounding heartbeat, You’re right… to a point. You’re Virgil. I’m Blackwood. WE’RE Virgil Blackwood.

      Virgil shook his head, in a vain attempt to shake this voice out of his head, I really don’t have the time to be arguing with myself.

     Don’t worry, the voice of Blackwood responded, and the anxious side could not help the scoff that escaped him at yet another person telling him not to worry when that was the embodiment of what he was, Just here to guide you along is all.

      The voice was oddly comforting and gentle, but Virgil still responded, ever wary, Guide me along with what?

     With being us! the voice responded, before it continued, We’re wearing black and keeping to the cover of night. This is good. It means they haven’t seen us yet. Pull up our hood. It’ll help.

     Virgil made an attempt to gauge the intention of this new advisor in his head, but it only responded, Trust me. I know what I’m doing.

     The anxious side could feel the involuntary twisting of his guts at some unseen force telling him to trust it, but this whole situation was completely foreign to him. He was in the middle of a forest clearing, in the dead of night, wielding a bow and arrow while his friends crossed swords with forest-dwelling bandits. No part of this resembled anything of Virgil’s usual day to day, so he did as he was bid, reaching back to pull his hood over his head.

     The change felt instantaneous and indescribable. As soon as the hood fell over his head, hanging low on his brow, the shadows seem to cling around him, veiling him from sight. The dark surrounding him felt like the embrace of an old friend, and it carried him along faster, swiftly and silently. Virgil himself could no longer hear his own footfalls against the grassy ground, following the intuition of his new guide off to the side of the clearing, on the outskirts of the fray.

      All the better to line up a clean shot, it reasoned, and, at this point, Virgil was not of a mind to refuse.

     When he stopped, he looked out of the field, his hood allowing his vision to quickly get better acclimated to the darkness. While still nighttime to his eyes, the moon above allowed for fantastic visibility, and the first thing that Virgil saw was Toby and Patton about to break through the front lines.

      How did we get ahead of them? the thief thought to himself, flabbergasted.

      Just a trick of the trade, Blackwood responded, before it further instructed, Ready the bow. Survey the field. Find a target.

     Virgil did just that, taking a knee and pulling an arrow from his quiver while his eyes quickly scanned the field. Toby and Patton had finally engaged the enemies, breaking through their ranks with Roman close behind, readying his sword as it gleamed in the moonlight. Logan trailed behind at a jog, but still well on track to enter the fray. Among the enemies, the archer and one of the unarmed foes hung back while the berserker, the brawler, and the mage were wading headlong into battle.

      If we shoot into the big scuffle, we’re as like to hit one of ours as one of theirs, Blackwood summarized, turning Virgil’s attention towards the two enemies in support, further back, Take one of them.

     One’s an archer, Virgil thought, but shook his head as his eyes moved to the other, And I… I don’t know what the other uses.

     We’ll focus on the archer, then. It’s the more immediate threat, Blackwood responded, and Virgil nodded in agreement.

     The black and purple-clad archer, at first, looked at the bow and arrow in hand, his own anxieties rising as he realized he had never actually shot an arrow in his life. Guided by Blackwood, however, he tabled the weapon, loaded the arrow, fidgeting for only a second or two before getting it set, and then raising the bow up and drawing back the bowstring so he could look down the shaft of his arrow towards the raging battle. He aimed at the archer, who appeared to be readying his own shot, and loosed.

     And with a sharp pluck, the arrow promptly flopped into the grass maybe ten, eleven feet from Virgil, and he could feel his cheeks burn with embarrassment. While no one was around to see, there was now a new audience of one watching in his head.

      You’re an archer, Blackwood coached, Pull back on the bowstring more. Line it up with the corner of your mouth.

      Blushing fiercely, thankful that no one was around to see it beneath his dark hood, Virgil readied another arrow, pulling the bowstring back, further than he was comfortable with this time, and felt his arms tremble from the exertion as he lined up the shot, his breath trembling as well. When he let the string go, his wobbling arm threw off the shoot, and the arrow careened into the night. No way was it going to land anywhere than in another patch of grass, just like the first.

     Frustration began to tug at Virgil’s nerves as he failed again, and the voice of Blackwood cut through, You’re taking short, shallow breaths because you’re nervous.

      Of course I’m nervous! The anxious side retorted, My friends are fighting down there and I’m over here doing nothing! FAILING at doing nothing!

     You're not doing nothing. We're support. This is what we do. Now, shut it and breathe, he voice cut through the chatter, giving familiar advice, Deep, ordered breathing.

     That was when it clicked.

     Virgil grabbed another arrow from his quiver, nocked it into place without even having to look down to see if his fingers were doing the right thing, and settled his breathing. He took in a breath as he raised his bow, and held it as he aimed down the shaft of his arrow. Fear gripped his heart as he saw that Toby was now engaged with the archer, his own sword gleaming in the moonlight and his opponent ducking and dodging the squire’s sword strokes.

     The thief only thought one thing as he exhaled, It’s now or never, and fired.

     The arrow launched into the air, its purple and black black fletching fluttering in the wind as it arced from Virgil’s bow into the sky. It flew up, so small and far and dark against the black of night, that the archer almost lost sight of it as it came down.

     Right into Toby.

     In an instant, Virgil’s blood was ice. His heart stopped and his fingers were numb as he watched Toby fall to the ground, his ally’s own arrow sticking out of him. His eyes widened with the realization that, not only had he missed, but he had struck down a kid. No amount of coaxing from Blackwood could dull the inner cacophony that rushed through Virgil’s head.

       You killed him! You killed a kid! You killed Patton’s squire! It’s all your fault! What’ll you tell Patton!? He’s going to hate you! He’s never going to talk to you again! Is Patton going to even live long enough for you to tell him!? Roman was right in the first place! You don’t belong here! They were right to fear you! They were right to hate you! You’re a failure! You’re evil! And everything you touch dies!

     As if to make matters worse, Patton’s own scream cut through the night, like a dagger in Virgil’s heart. His eyes dared to wander out onto the field, and he watched his friend collapse, kneeling before another enemy before falling facedown into the grass, not moving.

     Grimly, his eyes moved further down the field, watching as, just for a moment, it looked as though Roman might triumph over his opponent.

     A plucky voice of hope, sounding not unlike the fallen Patton, spoke up in Virgil’s head, If anyone can win the day, it’s Prince Roman!

     And just as quickly as the thought occurred to him, the battle turned once again as the axe-wielder rushed the battered Prince, swiping their axes and forcing him to retreat. One kick and a brutal-looking dropkick later, and any hope of Prince Roman winning the day was completely dashed.

     “STOP!”

     Logan’s voice, screeching through the night, drew Virgil’s attention yet further down the field, and his grief-stricken heart would not show him the mercy of allowing him to look away.

     Above the field, clouds instantaneously began to swirl in the sky, gray and purple against the black, star-dotted sky. Blue-white lightning streaked across the newly-formed cloud and a crack of thunder shook the field, and for once, Virgil could see the opponents recoil from the sudden flash and boom. An instant later, a jagged column of lightning touched down from the heavens, exploding onto the field with another, infinitely louder, instantaneous thunderclap that shook the ground.

     Virgil could not allow himself a small glimmer of hope, but vainly mused, What if Logan were to actually win?

     And like a self-fulfilling prophecy, just as the conjured cloud cleared and the dirt finally settled back to earth, so, too, did the sides’ chances of victory vanish as Logan, the last of them, was thrown back and defeated.

      It’s over, Virgil thought, the shock in his brain not even allowing him to scream or cry or anything, but just to kneel there, dumbfounded, We lost.

     Virgil was no stranger to despair, having wallowed in it ever since he first sparked into existence. He was the personification of Anxiety, creeping in the dark corners of Thomas’s mind, whispering fears and falsehoods and questions into his host’s ear like a parasite. The shadows were where Virgil belonged, because one never knew what could hide in the shadows, and that was what gave Anxiety his power.

     He was powerless now, as he stood up, and pulled down his hood, his white face now bathed in moonlight. He started the walk down onto the field, towards his fallen friends.

     Patton had never shown an inkling of disdain for Virgil. For all that the “shadowling” represented fears and unease and many of the icky emotions that the moral side did his best to cover up in his own self, he never treated Virgil with disrespect, even putting his best foot forward multiple times in vain attempts to get to know Anxiety better. At first, he had thought it quaint, even tempted to take advantage of that kindness just to stab Patton in the back with it later, out of… spite, maybe? But as time went on, Patton had endeared himself, never wanting to put Virgil in an imposition and always doing his best to include him in activities with the other sides that really wanted nothing to do with one of the Others. Patton was his shield though, someone to hide behind when Roman said a mean thing or Logan called him a defeatist, and, even though they were all friends now, Patton was special.

      And before he fell, you finally stabbed him in the back, Virgil’s dark thoughts surfaced as he walked past Patton, and then past Roman, already attracting the attention of his victorious foes.

     Roman had been tough to deal with, Virgil was not too proud to admit. He was arrogant, selfish, conceited, and hurtful of anyone who criticized him. More than once, Anxiety enjoyed toying with and perverting the ideas the fanciful side would create for Thomas, instilling doubt in the host just to watch the prince’s face fall when his ideas were rejected, all because of his meddling. The two constantly butted heads, but there was no denying that Roman was a charmer, and that charm inevitably cast its own spell on Virgil, especially when the prince, along with the other sides, charged to his rescue, with no thought to his own safety, when Anxiety reached his impasse, having to decide whether to go on living in the shadows or stepping out into the light. The two still failed to see eye to eye more often than not, but the edge was gone, as if they were simply two disagreeing friends. They’d argue, but then Roman would invite him for some activity that Virgil would grumble through. They were together though, and that was what mattered at the end of the day.

      And you couldn’t save him, Virgil thought as he continued walking forward, one foot in front of the other, not even noticing as the enemies began to encircle him.

     Logan had been Virgil’s greatest challenge, for how do you intimidate someone who can’t be intimidated? At first, Anxiety settled for simply being a thorn in Logic’s side, clouding Thomas’s view of reality by being the darkness in the corner of his eye, corrupting what Logan showed him just enough to make Thomas question, to make him worry, and giving the anxious side more control. Every time, though, he’d be thwarted as logic would win out, casting light into Virgil’s darkness and showing their host that all these fears and doubtless were baseless. It was maddening for a time, but then, Virgil slowly began to feel comfortable with the light and felt a kindred spirit in Logan. They were the pessimist and the realist who could keep the optimist and the idealist in check. While their relationship was never more than lukewarm, that was just Logan’s way, and there was no one whom Virgil wanted more at his back when things seemed at their darkest.

      And yet, darkness stands victorious, Virgil concluded, surrounded by his foes. He simply cleared his throat and asked, trying to keep his tone even, “Who’s in command here?”

     The mage stepped forward, the one who had taken out Logan, and smiled under their cowl as they responded, “I am.”

     Virgil nodded but once, before stating simply, “If you’re going to kill me, make it quick. I surrender.”

Chapter Text

      Fire. Food. Rustling leaves. Enemies. Running. A thumping heartbeat. Patton fell. Roman fell. STOP. Thunder and lightning. Darkness.

     Logan’s eyes snapped open, squinting as all he could see for a moment was light. He closed his eyes immediately, allowing them to get used to the light level just outside his eyelids before slowly opening them again. At first, everything seemed like a green blur, and as his hands came up to his face, he realized, with a little bit of embarrassment and curiosity, that his glasses were missing.

     The mage sat up and did his best to look around with his limited vision, observing that he was in a lumpy bed, in a wooden structure, a lean-to, with one wall open out onto greenery. The mage looked to his side, and spied his thick black glasses lying on a little table by his bedside. He reached for them, and immediately felt the pang of a strain in his chest. Casting his gaze downward, he noticed that he was shirtless, but wrapped in gauzy bandages around his chest.

      Where the fireball hit me, he remembered, and reached forward, ignoring the pain to snatch his glasses from the bedside table and slip them onto his face.

     His vision cleared and the room was thrown into sharp relief. An assortment of bandage rolls and salves were also settled on the table where Logan’s glasses were, and the floor was made up of planks of wood, just like the walls and sloped ceiling. Outside, it was daylight, and the logical side appeared to be in a camp in the middle of the forest, sunlight filtering down through the trees, and activity seeming to buzz all around the structure. His folded robes and boots were neatly piled on the floor next to his own bed, though his was not the only bed in the room. Four more small cots filled the lean-to and, though two were vacant, the others were occupied, the closest one holding the resting body of Patton, and against the far side was Roman. Logan rose out of bed with a start, the floor creaking as he stood, at the sight of his comrades sleeping off their injuries.

     Patton looked pale, his glasses on his own side table and the usual rosy flush to his cheeks alarmingly missing. Stripped of his armor, hammer, and shield, he lay beneath his sheepskin blankets, his own shirtless chest bandaged in much the same manner that Logan’s had been, though the gauze continued from his chest and down his left arm. At the edges of the bandages, the logical side looked closer to notice raised pink skin indicative of healing, though widespread, burns. Logan was finally able to relax the slightest bit when he saw the knight’s chest rise and fall with each breath, resting in a deep sleep and not in agony, though the absence of the heavy snoring that the moral side was known for was more disconcerting than Logan cared to admit. However, a part of him could not help but notice how muscular Patton had become, with pronounced pectorals and biceps, underneath the wound dressing, coming down to large, calloused hands. Logan had always known Patton to be something of a “soft boi,” as his vocabulary cards stated, but this was admittedly something of a surprise.

      No, none of that. That’s Roman’s purview, Logan shook his head at the thought and the flush that he willed not to spread across his face before his head snapped over to the other side in attendance, Roman.

     The prince lay in a bed against the opposite wall from the one Logan had occupied, also nestled snugly under fur and cloth blankets, and he looked far more worse for wear than Patton did. While not bandaged, there were only patches of skin that were its usual soft pink tone, while the rest of his exposed flesh was varying shades of red and purple and green from the multitude of bruises that dotted Roman’s face and body. He was sporting a busted lower lip, a black eye that seemed to even be mildly swollen, and a nose that appeared to be… well, mostly straight, and Logan could almost hear Roman’s screams and sobs at the very thought that he would never be a model after such a life-shattering, debilitating injury. His sword was still missing, though his shirt, sash, and boots were, like Logan and Patton’s, folded at the foot of his bed.

     The curious thing about the injuries to both of his comrades was that, while apparently extensive when they had been brought here, the wounds now appeared to be days old and well on the way to healing, prompting a single thought to escape Logan’s lips, “How long have we been here?”

     The words escaping his lips seemed to rouse Roman as the prince's eyes creaked open.

     “Hey, good-lookin’,” Roman rasped sleepily, the sudden greeting making the logical side jump in surprise before a small, lazy smile adorned the prince’s lips, “I didn’t know angels would look this pretty.”

      He thinks he’s dead and gone on to the afterlife, Logan thought, trying to suppress the hot flush that crept up his neck and into his cheeks at Roman’s delirious praise. Instead, he merely shook his head, “We’re not dead, Roman. Though I would not suggest looking in a mirror for the time being.”

     Roman’s eyes screwed up in confusion for a moment, before they widened and he gasped, bringing his covers up to his chin in terror, “Oh my Lin-Manuel Miranda! How bad is it!?”

     “The damage appears to have been,” Logan began to explain, trying his best to word it in a way that would not send the fanciful side in a hissy fit of vanity, “extensive.”

     Immediately, however, Roman’s hands came up to his face, wincing and gasping at the bruises that still covered a heavy portion of his exposed skin. He let out a fluttering sigh as his hands moved over his swollen lip and an even louder one at the swelling caused by his black eye. Logan thought the worst sound to escape Roman was when he touched his nose, the fanciful side having memorized every curve of his self-described angelic face. Feeling the slightest distortion to his perceived perfection, the prince let out a choked sob. Logan was mistaken in his prior assessment, however, as the worst sound came when Roman lifted his covers to look beneath and outright screamed.

     “WHAT HAVE THEY DONE TO ME!?” Roman screeched.

     “Flag’s a big plus!” Patton groggily shouted as he was startled awake from the prince’s outburst, tiredly squinting as he looked towards Roman and Logan without his glasses.

     Logan let out an already frustrated sigh as he asked, “Switzerland?”

     “How’d you know?” Patton asked, a smile on his face before his brow furrowed in confusion, “Which one of you blurs said that?”

     “Glasses, Patton,” Logan advised, “On the nightstand next to you.”

     The knight immediately turned around to find his spectacles, Logan averting his eyes at the show of powerful back muscles flexing as he moved. After a moment or two of grunting, and an occasional, “Ouchies,” thrown in there, Patton turned back around, glasses on and that familiar, welcome smile lighting up his face.

     “Logan! Roman!” he exclaimed ecstatically, immediately pushing himself up to a sitting position, but shuddering as a sudden twinge of pain seemed to jolt through him.

     “Slowly, Patton,” Logan admonished, concern evident in his voice.

     Roman added, “Yeah, slowly, padre. Looks like you’ve been through a lot.”

     Patton gave an exhausted sigh as he stretched out his neck, “So do you two. And Roman, you should try to quit hiding.”

     The prince looked up, confused, “What do you mean, Patton? I’m not—”

     “Because you’ve already been spotted!” the knight joked, his usual sense of humor seemingly returned with gusto.

     “Brilliant, Patton,” Logan deadpanned as Roman groaned and pull the covers over his head.

     Roman sulked, “I’m not coming out!”

     Logan could not stop Patton as the words left his mouth, “Too late to head back into that closet, kiddo!”

     “Uuuuugh,” the prince grumbled, amid the giggles from the knight.

     “Say, by the way, where’s Virgil?” Patton asked, light-hearted and curious, before his face instantly turned stone serious, the blood draining from his cheeks as he added, “And Toby? Where is he!? Do either of you know if he’s all right!?”

     Roman’s bruised face popped out from under the covers, and both he and Logan shared a look before turning back to Patton, shaking their heads.

     “We’ve only just woke up for the first time since the battle, Patton,” Logan explained.

     “Yeah, things have never gone that… badly before for me,” Roman admitted, then turned his attention back to the moral side’s question, “We haven’t seen him. What happened out there?”

     Patton already looked like he was on the verge of bursting into tears as his mouth just started moving, “It was my fault. I couldn’t get to him. I couldn’t save him. He just… he ran, and I couldn’t get to him in time to…

     “Slow down, Patton,” Logan coaxed, “Breathe.”

     Patton did just as he was bid, taking in and letting out a shaky breath that seemed to do nothing for his nerves as he simply squeaked out in a voice barely above a whisper, “It was the archer. He shot Toby.”

     The knight leaned forward, his face in his hands, as the words seemed to hang in the room like a numbing shroud. Even Logan could not deny the thought of how devastating this must be for Patton. True, the squire was a figment of a figment’s imagination, namely Roman’s, but the group of them had commented, more than once, on how lifelike this whole experience had been. And real it had been, lifelike to the point of all three of them thinking they were going to be killed in the last battle, and yet, here they were. Toby and Virgil, however, their fates seemed to hang in the balance, with none of the three sides in attendance having any idea as to what happened to their allies.

     “He’s alive.”

     All three heads turned towards the voice that spoke, and both eyes and smiles widened at seeing Virgil.

     “And so am I, you know, just for your information,” the anxious side quipped.

     Virgil looked untouched. He was just leaning against the side of the archway that led outside, still dressed to play the part of Blackwood. His iridescent magenta hair, flecked with brown, shone brightly in the streaks of sunlight, curtains that gave peeks of his brilliant amber eyes. While that same perpetual scowl seemed to color his face with annoyance, the shadows under his eyes were darker than usual, a dead giveaway that he had gotten no sleep since the battle and his brow fraught with worry over the well-being of his comrades. The most noticeable, and the thing that Virgil probably tried the most to hide, was the slightest glimmer of a smile that twitched at the edges of his mouth. While the personification of Anxiety, it was clear that relief was rolling off him in waves.

     One in the group, however, could not be bothered to even attempt to veil his joy at learning his own dark, strange son was safe.

     “Virgil!” Patton exploded.

     The moral side shot up from his bed and bounded over to the anxious side, immediately wrapping his massive arms around Virgil and squeezing in a bear hug. On any normal day, Patton’s hugs, though relentless, were harmless, but after a few seconds of taking the knight’s love, Virgil was forced to tap out.

     “Air!” he gasped, “Air! I need air, Patton!”

     “Oh, whoops. Sorry,” Patton sheepishly replied, a joyous smile still plastered on his face and that rosy glow returned to his cheeks, as he released Virgil and took a step back.

     While the archer’s chest was still heaving, Logan added, “Indeed, I’m pleased to see that you’re safe, Virgil.”

     “And you’re out in sunlight!” Roman exclaimed dramatically, “And you’re not bursting into flames! It’s a miracle!”

     Virgil’s eyes flashed at Roman for a second, but then his lips curved up into that lazy half-smile, not appearing to have reached his eyes, but the glimmer in them telling otherwise, “It’s good to see you all, too. Even the dalmatian here.”

     Roman’s head flopped back onto his pillow, “UGH, they’re just bruises!”

     They basked in each other’s presence for a moment, the four of them together once again, safe and sound for the most part, before Patton piped up again, “Wait, you said that Toby’s alive? Safe? B...but I saw him get hit, I saw him go down.”

     “Y...yeah, he’s fine, Patton,” Virgil reassured, his cheeks and ears blushing as he explained, “It was a shoulder hit. The healers worked on him and, after a day or two of resting the sword arm, they say he should be good as new. About that, though, ummm…”

     “Wait, what healers?” Logan interjected, as Patton’s hand covered his heart and he let out a sigh of relief, “Who are ‘they’? Where are we, Virgil? How long have we been here?”

     The anxious ripped his attention from Patton to turn it towards Logan, “We’ve been here two days. After the battle, we were escorted back to this camp. You guys were asleep all yesterday as the healers patched you up. As for where we are and who our hosts are… Ummm… Well, that’s why I’m here, to get you guys. Can you all get dressed?”

     “For what?” Roman asked, sitting up, “Where are we going?”

     Virgil replied, “To meet the leader. It’s… easier to show you than to explain.”

     “Because that’s not ominous at all,” Roman muttered under his breath as he grabbed his pile of clothes, sifting through it to pull out the first article of clothing, before his head snapped up towards the anxious side, “Wait a minute! My sword! My beautiful sword! Where’s my beautiful sword?”

     “Yeah, my armor’s gone!” Patton added, “And so’s my hammer and my shield!”

     Logan blanched, kicking himself that he had forgotten all about it, “And my grimoire, too. Where are our weapons, Virgil?”

     Virgil tried his best to placate his fellow sides, “I promise, just… get dressed and you’ll get all your answers.”

     Once again, unease seemed to hang in the air at Virgil’s request, but what could they do? While they were all well on their way to a full recovery from the wounds they sustained in the battle two nights ago, between his and Patton’s burns and the myriad of deep bruises that dotted Roman’s body, there was no way they would get far. The only logical choice was to comply.

     Nodding his head in acceptance, Logan moved back over to his own bed to begin putting on his robes, “Very well, Virgil.”

     Patton nodded in kind, grabbing his tunic, “If that’s what you think is best.”

     “Not like we have much of a choice in the matter,” Roman muttered, forcing himself up and out of bed to grab his clothes.

     Virgil flushed at seeing the three other sides in such a state of undress, as well as the strange, if predictable, rush of admiration that accompanied the sight. Turning and walking off a few feet away from the opening to the lean-to, he decided to allow his friends the privacy to get dressed in peace.

————

     Minutes later, the four were walking through the encampment, led by Virgil, as people seemed to bustle all around them. The camp had been erected right in the middle of another, larger clearing within the Greygreen Forest, but there was no shortage of activity here, in an area that, for all the sides knew, was nothing but woodlands for miles and miles. Tents and rudimentary wooden structures lined the dirt paths that snaked and meandered their way through the makeshift village, with tall trees towering still higher over them. At first, with the amount of men and women in armor, Logan thought this to be some sort of military encampment, but villagers of all ages ran and pushed past them, from grubby, little children to worn, weary elders.

     What’s more, people of different races pushed by, not simply humans of differing skin tones, but appearing to be of other species altogether. At first, they only noticed those with incredible variations from the human status quo, such as tusked, green-skinned orcs, giant, hulking goliaths that towered twice as high as the average man, and the more minute races of halflings, dwarves, and gnomes, all three of which Patton had mistaken for children as they walked on by. Then, the more subtle races became apparent, in the pointed ears of the elves and the bushy beards of some of the taller dwarves, as they blended in with humans of all sizes, ages, and colors. It was a veritable melting pot of diversity!

     While Logan and Patton looked in awe at all the passing curiosities, doing their best not to just rudely stare at them, even Roman could not help the smile that crossed his face as he seemed to feel so comfortable here, in the fantasy setting of his creation, but still mesmerized by the scope of the world around him. All three were so engrossed as they followed Virgil, that none of them even realized that he had stopped, and all of them softly collided with the anxious side and then with each other.

     Virgil cleared his throat before gesturing to the structure ahead of them, “Here’s the command tent.”

     A large canvas tent stood before them, the closest edge of which was around eight feet in height, raising up to its pointed center at about fifteen feet as it towered over most of the other structures. Two armored guards stood outside the door, grizzled, battle-hardened looks on their faces as their hands cautiously went to the hilts of their swords. Between them, the tent door flaps hung down, and the four sides could see obvious activity going on just within the tent through that thin slit.

     Virgil quickly spoke to the two guards, “Just went to grab the others. Let us through.”

     To Logan, Patton, and Roman’s surprise, the two guards parted, allowing them to pass unimpeded into the command tent, and the three sides stood dumbfounded, before Virgil turned his head back to regard them.

     “Shall we?” Virgil asked.

     “So,” Roman began, “not even gonna lie here. Forceful, take-charge Virgil is kinda hot. Just sayin’.”

     Virgil’s eyes widened for just a moment, while Logan closed his eyes, let out a tired sigh, and shook his head, while Patton’s cheeks flushed, hardly able to suppress a soft giggle.

     “Let’s… let’s just go,” Logan stated.

     Without another word, the four of them walked right past the guards and into the tent, and, immediately, the hustle and bustle of outside already sounded so far away.

     The inside of the tent was somewhat utilitarian in appearance, with only a shabby cot, a bedside table, and a desk off in the corner as the only creature comforts to be seen, the latter two topped with lit lanterns and a few pieces of parchment. The large space of the room was dominated, however, by a large table near the center, covered also in lanterns, candles, books, and more pieces of parchment ranging from small strips to a full-sized map of Estea that was weighted down to the table. Around the table were five figures having a conversation at varying volume levels, from level-headed words to seeming shouts of accusation. Looking closer at the revealed faces of them all, save for the one with their back to the tent opening, something was indeed amiss.

     Familiar faces immediately turned towards the new arrivals; they each wore the visage of Thomas’s friends. Dominic stood off to the left, a quiver of arrows at his hip and a red-brown fur and feathered cloak wrapped around his shoulders as he looked up and down each of the sides when they walked into the tent. Next to him was Valerie, an elf by the looks of her pointed ears and serene, peaceful demeanor, her fingers lightly drumming on the table. By her side was a goliath with the face of Leo, his dark skin now grey to denote his new race within the game, but he still towered over everyone in attendance, his muscles honed to peak physical performance. Finally, as if to contrast Leo’s height was Talyn, looking smaller than usual, maybe a halfling or a dwarf, but with those mean double handaxes at their side. They slightly slouched, but straightened their posture as Virgil lead the new group in.

      What… is going on? Logan thought to himself, and could see the same thought mirrored on the faces of his fellow sides.

     Roman appeared confused, and the expression made it quite obvious that this was completely outside of the fanciful side’s original idea for the game, possibly even more ludicrous than the green-eyed black knight or the fact that they lost their first combat so horribly. Patton’s face bore an odd mix of emotions. There was barely held back excitement at seeing familiar faces, bewilderment at some part of him knowing that, while these people bore the faces of people they knew, they were not, and were merely just part of the game. The knight’s eyes, however, were fixated on Dominic, and the dark red arrows in his quiver. Virgil merely looked at the other three, having been conscious enough to know that this was coming in the last day or so, and looking apologetic that he had not warned them earlier.

     “Here they are, Crow,” Virgil announced, “Logan Tennyson of Wickswane, Sir Patton Dauntless of the Order, and Prince Roman Coronam, Crown Prince of Estea.”

     Logan, Patton, and Roman all looked between themselves, not trying to look flustered at seeing all eyes in the room turn to regard them, all except for the figure with their back still to them. Then, the mysterious figure spoke.

     “Well,” they spoke in a voice that was immediately familiar, “Thank you for gracing us with your presence, Your Highness.”

     Roman’s eyes widened and he paused for a moment before he shook himself back into the moment, responding, “You, ummm, you seem to have me at a disadvantage, Mister…?”

     “Just Crow will do,” this figure responded, turning to face the four sides as they stood there, dumbfounded and their heads filled with even more questions than ever.

     Roman’s eyes widened. Patton gasped. Even Logan could not help as his eyebrows rose in surprise. Virgil merely looked towards the other three, biting his lip in worry.

     Before the four of them stood none other than Joan.

Chapter Text

     The four sides looked at this person before them, this new person who bore the face of one of Thomas’s best friends: their hair, their eyes, everything about them sent the four new arrivals into a confusing emotional maelstrom of familiarity and alarm.

     Crow was certainly dressed for purpose rather than style, as Roman observed. They wore shabby, patched robes of black and brown over a dark tunic beneath, lashed at the waist with a simple, black, brass-studded belt, and brown pants, surrounded by furs and hides, extended down their legs to dark boots. In their hand, clothed in fingerless gloves, they held a gleaming, leather-bound grimoire, not unlike Logan’s tome, but which Crow seemed to hold close to their own chest. Finally, on their head, in true Joan fashion, they wore a black beanie, some dark locks curling out from underneath. They regarded each of the sides with careful, calculating, chestnut brown eyes, looking from one to the next, to the next, before their eyes settled on Roman.

     The prince, the knight, and the mage exchanged looks between them at this new bit of information, before they saw Virgil’s face, amber eyes a tad anxious, of course, under the curtain of his iridescent hair. There were definitely questions that needed to be answered.

     Silence hung in the room before Roman drew himself up, his chest puffed out a bit, “I believe it’s still customary to bow, or even kneel, in the presence of royalty.”

     Patton’s head turned towards Roman as he squeaked out, his voice soft, “Roman!”

     Crow stood there for a moment before they stepped back and inclined their head and upper body, a clear show of deference that was copied by the rest of those assembled around the table.

     “Our apologies for the attack, Your Highness,” Crow spoke while bowing, before they rose back to their former posture, “We had no idea that it was you. Unfortunately, you’ve just made our position a whole lot more complicated.”

      You have no idea, the fanciful side thought as he answered, “‘Complicated’ is quite the perfect word for it. I’m afraid I don’t have much knowledge of you or your operation, whatever it is, Mr. Crow, if that is your real name…”

     “It’s not,” this ringleader interrupted, “and I’m sure you already knew that.”

      Rude much? Roman thought, trying to keep the annoyed edge out of his voice as he continued, “That being said, my band and I were merely on our way to Oldhollow when you and your people attacked us. You’ve apologized, of course, and I thank you for healing us, but I haven’t the time or the stomach to deal with brigands of any kind.”

     “Brigands!?” the berserker, Talyn, piped up, their hand dropping to one of their axes.

     Virgil stepped forward, giving a pointed look towards the prince, “You… might want to hear them out, Rom-- I mean, Your Highness. These people have information about Oldhollow that we should listen to, maybe to get all the facts?”

     “Facts are good,” Logan added, “Especially since we apparently have no clue what’s actually going on here. The sheer dichotomy between our last two experiences is staggering, so maybe some clarity could help us choose a more appropriate course of action?”

     Patton just wore a bewildered look as he stared at Crow’s face, “What is happening?”

     “Fine! We’ll hear you out, but we have questions of our own,” Roman acquiesced, before turning his attention towards the others assembled in the room, “Do you think the five of us can speak privately?”

     A tense silence hung in the air as the sides regarded those gathered around the table. Logan and Patton stood behind Prince Roman, while these warriors bearing the myriad faces of Thomas’s friends remained close by yet another one of his oldest, closest, and most loyal friends with Virgil caught glancing between them. The silence stretched on as Crow and Roman seemed to size each other up, eyes narrowing from one to the other.

     That is, until Crow nodded and looked back towards their retinue, giving orders, “Leave us.”

     Talyn stepped forward, “Crow, you can’t expect us to—-”

     The leader turned their head to answer, cutting them off, “I’ll be fine, Wolf. Just… see to preparations.”

     Another moment of tension filled the air before Crow’s group turned and left the tent, the berserker with Talyn’s face standing in the entrance for just a moment, and words passed unsaid between them and Crow. A second or two later, they departed as well, leaving the four sides together with this newest curiosity.

     Roman began, “Preparations for what, may I ask?”

     Crow stood for a moment before rounding back on the table, seeming to invite the sides further into the tent, “Self-preservation, Your Highness. As I mentioned, your arrival complicates things, and if I’m being completely honest, you couldn’t have come at a worse time.”

     “Well, I’m sorry to have thrown a wrench into whatever plans were being concocted by a group of ruffians in the woods,” Roman answered sarcastically.

     Crow’s eyes zeroed in almost threateningly, before they asked, “You really have no idea, do you?”

     “I’m definitely more confused now,” Patton admitted in a squeaky, tired voice.

     Logan muttered under his breath, “No surprise there.”

     Crow’s glance scaned over to Virgil, “You didn’t tell them anything?”

     Virgil answered, “I figured it would be better coming from you. You have all the information that’s needed and I couldn’t risk leaving something out.”

     Roman pushed, obviously annoyed, “Then someone’s going to need to get to explaining. What’s going on? Why did you attack us?”

     “You were traveling along the road attempting to be discreet,” Crow explained, seeming to match Roman’s attitude as each one watched the other over the large table, “and failing by the way, but you say that you were headed into Oldhollow, is that correct?”

     Roman paused for a moment, trying not to throw a temper tantrum at being outdiva’d by this character before him wearing Joan’s face.

     “YES,” Logan, Patton, and Virgil all replied loudly.

     “Yes, we were,” Logan answered, “According to Headmistress Weller at Wickswane, that should be our next port of call. We were on the road there before we became your guests.”

     “Yeah,” Crow spoke, drawing out the word before they shook their head, “Don’t.”

     “Don’t what?” Roman asked.

     “Don’t go to Oldhollow,” they explained succinctly.

     “Okay,” Roman stated, annoyed confusion apparent on his face, “And why not?”

     “Because you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy,” Joan answered, seeming to have no idea that, in their heavy robes, they could have easily been cosplaying as Obi-Wan when they spoke.

     “And we’re back to Star Wars quotes? Because Patton already made that joke back at Wickswane,” Roman interjected.

     Patton turned towards Logan, a smile on his face, “Oh my gosh, he’s right! I did!”

     Crow looked dumbfounded at the two of them, “I beg your pardon?”

     Virgil shook his head, exasperated, “Don’t worry about it. Just go on.”

     “I don’t know, you could almost say the Force is strong with this pun,” Patton piped up.

     “Stop,” Logan grumbled, his face in his hand.

     “Anyway,” Crow continued, seeming to return a bit more to their usual demeanor, “It’s bad. Mayor Rondbury of Oldhollow has been tightening his grip on the people who live there. Higher taxes to fill his own personal coffers and crime has only run more rampant in the city since most of the thugs have joined up with the Mayoral Guard just to get a cut of the action, shaking down the folks who won’t or can’t pay. They’re desperate, and those who were the most desperate to get out of the city, for their families, for what little they had, what have you… They came here.”

     They held out their arms as if to present the bustling camp around them, “Welcome to the Caravan, the Greygreen Forest’s largest traveling city.”

     It finally clicked in the minds of Roman, Logan, and Patton as to why this camp was so abuzz with activity and filled with people, humans and otherwise, of all ages and walks of life. They were all refugees from these horrible happenings that were going on in Oldhollow, and had sought protection from Crow and the others in the relative safety that was afforded by the sheer vastness and wilderness of the Greygreen Forest.

     “There’s a lot of people here,” Patton observed as he looked towards the walls, where voices and movement could be heard in every direction.

     Crow nodded, “And more coming to us every day.”

     “If you’re warning us to steer clear of Oldhollow, then message received. Thank you very much!” Roman responded, “You could’ve come out and told us that instead of being such jerks about it.”

     “You have to understand,” Crow explained, “We saw five rather heavily armed people traveling the road to Oldhollow. For all we knew, you were coming to broker some sort of agreement with Mayor Rondbury. It’s no secret that he’s been trying to foster alliances in an attempt to bolster his forces and further secure what he believes to be his city. We saw weapons, horses, and armor and I made the choice to hit you hard and fast.”

     “Well, if I had a red card, I’d throw it down now, because that was a bad call,” Roman spat.

     Virgil replied incredulously, “You don’t even know what that means! You don’t know sports!”

     Logan added, “Was actually a good call on their part. They thrashed us rather soundly.”

     “Shut it,” Roman muttered under his breath, through gritted teeth.

    “Once your man, Blackwood, here,” Crow continued, gesturing to Virgil as they spoke, “told us who you were, we knew that we had to get you out of here before someone else found you.”

     Patton’s eyebrow quirked, “What do you mean, ‘someone else?’”

     Crow paused for a moment, as if weighing in their head whether or not to divulge what was on the tip of their tongue.

     Finally, they spoke, “Mayor Rondbury has openly declared support for the usurper, King Adam.”

     The information seemed to hang in the air like a noose that the group of them had just narrowly managed to avoid slipping into. They, Roman included it seemed, had no idea that they were walking into a trap the further they traveled along the road to Oldhollow, and it was only by the intercession of this band of commoners that they were not set to be captured, and probably executed, the following day.

     “Furthermore,” Crow went on, “a price has been put on your head by both King Adam and Mayor Rondbury. Quite a heavy purse, it seems.”

     Roman’s eyes closed in defeat as he asked, “And you’re going to collect that purse, aren’t you?”

     “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted,” Roman’s eyes opened to see Crow’s own leering back at him, the two of them standing there regarding each other before Crow shook their head, “but I’ve seen what Rondbury does to the people he considers beneath him, and if he’s thrown in his lot with the False King Adam, then that tells me exactly the kind of person Adam is. We don’t need that sort of filth on the throne, and we sure as hell don’t need it in Oldhollow.”

     “Sure as heck,” Patton corrected under his breath, lightly blushing at the rather tame swear.

     Logan asked, “Well, we thank you for keeping our confidence, Jo… Crow.”

     “Don’t thank them yet,” Virgil interrupted grimly.

     Patton whimpered, “Now I’m confused AND I have a bad feeling about this.”

     Roman asked, now wary of the answers to come, “What is he talking about?”

     Crow answered, an edge of anger burning hotter and hotter as they talked, “While I trust my inner circle to follow me on this, to harbor the fugitive prince here, I’m afraid that I can’t expect the same level of confidence and loyalty from everyone else who calls the Caravan their home. One of our scouts didn’t report for duty. We can only assume he’s headed for Oldhollow, where he plans to tell Rondbury where you are. That means he’s going to tell him where WE are, and we’ve been making life very hard for the mayor as of late. If me and my captains are caught, it’s the noose for all of us, but I have no doubt they’ll put everyone else to the sword first just to set an example.”

     “If you call this the Caravan, then why don’t you all get ready to leave? Head to another space further into the forest before the mayor’s forces arrive?” Logan asked.

     Crow’s eyes, dark and cutting, turned towards Logan at the question, as they explained, “That’s the plan, but we have several thousand people here, many of whom are elders and children. By my calculations, it’s a day and a half ride, maybe two if they have to navigate through the heavy woodlands, to get to Oldhollow, which means that Rondbury will have known about you by now or will know very shortly. After that, perhaps a day or so to muster his forces, and then they’ll simply begin scouring the forest, looking for us. Thankfully, the larger their forces, the longer it’ll take for them to maneuver through the woods. Even if they burn it, that’ll give us more warning of their position so we can better avoid them.”

     Roman chimed in, interrupting Crow’s tangent, “So… what IS your plan?”

     “Apologies,” the mage inclined their head before continuing, their hands moving over the laid out map to different landmarks, “We move the non-combatants with a small force further into the forest, while we muster our own forces, cut through the forest to the other side of Oldhollow and take the city under cover of night. With most of their forces deployed looking for you, Your Highness, there will most likely only be a skeleton crew guarding the city’s defenses. We’ll be able to take out Rondbury before he even knows what hit him.”

     “Wait a minute, kiddos! Take out? As in,” Patton interjected before drawing a finger across his throat, his face uneasy.

     Crow answered, chuckling to themselves, “I prefer to draw it out a bit, but whatever you think is best, Sir Dauntless.”

     “Oh boy,” Patton responded, looking away as his face turned white, then tinged with a little green, “I don’t like being right.”

     Roman proposed, “This is your command, Crow. I certainly won’t shed a tear to see the likes of Mayor Rondbury put down for good, but perhaps we can create a diversion for you? Maybe ride in the opposite direction to split their forces even further?”

     Silence settled for a second or two before Crow answered, “And why would I do that? You’re coming with us.”

     Virgil grumbled, “And there’s the other foot dropping.”

     Logan added quietly to Virgil, “Feet don’t leave droppings. They lack a digestive tract of their own.”

     The look on their host’s face was clear: they had no intention of letting the prince and his entourage go anywhere except with them on this crusade to take Oldhollow.

     “You just told us not to go there,” Roman stated.

     Crow nodded but once, “Not without us.”

     Roman attempted to reason, “You’ve already warned us that Oldhollow is bad news, and that if I’m captured it will only legitimize Adam’s claim to the throne. Why do you want us to ride into the jaws of death? Especially when it’ll only serve this tyrant whom you have no wish to see rule Estea! You’ve said it yourself!”

     Tense silence stretched on before a light of mischief seemed to twinkle in their host’s eyes.

     “Your Highness, do you have any idea what your position is right now?” Crow’s attitude shifted once again, as the merest hint of a smug smile tugged at the corner of their lips, and they rounded their attention back onto Roman, “You’re on the brink. A fugitive in the backwater of Estea with nothing but a famous, royal name and a few followers to his cause. It’s precarious, at best. Now, according to Blackwood, you now have the backing of the Order of the Father and the mages to take back your throne; two pillars of the kingdom that are steeped in Estean tradition and custom! But you’re not going to be ruling over only knights and mages, are you?”

     Roman responded sheepishly, “N...No.”

     “No, you’re not. You’re going to be ruling over the common people, the rabble. Farmers, tradesmen, craftsmen, artisans, beggars, their children, all of whom truly don’t care who sits on the throne of Estea until it begins to affect them directly,” Crow continued, their hands beginning to gesture wildly as they moved closer towards the prince, “Now Rondbury has brought the issue of the throne to Oldhollow. He has put them on the chopping block to find you and deliver you to your brother or they suffer the consequences. The king’s wrath is now a very real thing hanging over their heads. So, I ask you, why should the common people stick their necks out to support yet another royal who’s not going to stand up for them?”

     The silence in the room was deafening at the very question Crow had posed, though it was a completely fair question: why should anyone follow Roman at all if the only thing he thought about was himself? It was a question that each of the sides had thought about at one point or another. Logan watched in rapt attention, listening to how this intellectual who was a figment of Roman’s imagination actually brought the fanciful side to task. Patton continued to wring his hands in worry, wondering where this whole thing was leading, how it would unfold. Virgil stood, knowing that this whole discussion was coming, but, like Logan, he could not seem to help the little bit of satisfaction that welled up in his chest at watching Roman squirm.

     “If we help you,” Roman asked, backing down off his usual, high and mighty disposition, “can we expect your support when I make my move against the king?”

     Crow shrugged, “Stir up Caravan yourself with your own fine example! I have no doubt that, when the people see the brave and selfless Prince Roman fighting alongside them, word will spread like wildfire. They’ll rally to you, I know it. It’s those people that’ll put you on your throne, Your Highness.”

     The prince stood for a moment, weighing the options in his head, before he nodded, “Very well. Where do we go from here?”

     The choice seemingly decided for the group, Logan piped up, “Well, it’s going to be hard for us to help take Oldhollow in any way if we’re unarmed. Our armor, weapons, my grimoire, where are they?”

     Crow returned to the other side of the table once again, all manner of gravitas gone from their voice, “They’ll be returned to you. Your horses as well. They’ve been kept fed and well cared for. We just needed to have this conversation first.”

     “And my squire?” Patton added, nervousness and worry eking into his voice, “I heard he had been seen by the healers as well. The kid who fought with us. Black hair, super polite.”

     “I remember. Lot of heart, that one,” Crow replied, “When he woke up, he tried to fight us again. It was thanks to Blackwood that we were able to calm him back down. He actually spent most of yesterday at your bedside.”

     Patton practically swelled with warmth as he smiled at the news, but remembered an instant later, “Where is he?”

     “He requested work to keep his mind and hands busy, so we gave it to him,” Crow answered, “He should be with the smiths, cleaning and readying weapons for our fighters. Just across the way.”

     Patton immediately made his way to leave, but stopped at the entryway, his hand on the canvas door flap before he turned his attention back towards Crow to give a quick, polite, “Thank you very much.”

     Not even bothering to wait for a reply from their host, the knight was out the door, his heavy footsteps moving further and further away before they blended in with the constant undertone of activity outside.

     “And the rest of us?” Virgil asked, after watching Patton leave and his amber gaze returning to Crow, “Anything you’ll have us do to, ‘keep busy?’”

     “I’m sure you’ll make yourselves useful. We all want this to be a success, after all,” Crow replied glibly as they grabbed another book off the table, “And Mr. Tennyson. Catch.”

     Logan had only a second to react as Crow tossed him the book, the tome sailing through the air and into the logical side’s hands. They slipped once on the slick leather cover, causing him to fumble, but he recovered, catching the book in mid-air to hold it securely against his chest. Looking down at it, it was evidently Logan’s own grimoire, reflecting the light of the surrounding candles and lanterns in its own blue luster and the silver letters gleaming on its cover. The feel of the spellbook back in his possession once again sent a rush of warmth through Logan’s body, and he could not help but revel in it for a split-second before his own curious nature kicked in, pondering that strange, yet welcome sensation.

     “Oh, ummm,” Logan answered, looking up from the book to incline his head respectfully towards Crow, “Thank you.”

     “Now, if there are no more questions?” Crow asked, waiting expectantly for one of the three sides to pipe up with something else, but, being met with a resolute silence in response, they continued, “Very well. The hospitality of the Caravan is yours for the time being. We have food, drink, merchants, smiths, anything you require, and if I may make a suggestion?”

     “Of course,” Roman replied.

     “Hit the training yard,” Crow recommended, “We’re all going to need to be in tip-top shape in a few days.”

     With that, Crow resumed their work, their hands and eyes moving over the map to different books and pieces of parchment, mouthing to themselves as they made further preparations. Any number of thoughts could have been running through their head: the easiest and most productive way to move the population of the Caravan, overlooked paths through the Greygreen forest to avoid detection by Rondbury’s forces when they finally made their move, or even battle plans for the anticipated taking of Oldhollow from its contemptible mayor. In any case, they had spent enough time on the wayward prince and his followers and were eagerly back at work.

     The three remaining sides shared a look among each other and headed towards the door once again. The first to depart, walking out into the sunlight of the busy day around them, was Logan, followed by Virgil who squinted in the sudden change from the relative darkness of the tent to the bright day outside. Just as Roman himself was about to leave, a voice stopped him for only a moment.

     “Prince Roman,” Crow spoke, their eyes looking up from the map, “If we pull this off… If we live through this, I will be the first to address you as Your Majesty.”

     The next moment, they refocused on the map once again, back to business as usual.

     Roman stood there for a moment. The Prince of Estea, bathed in sunlight, cloaked in glorious purpose on a quest to regain his throne from a wrongful usurper, across from the Crow of the Caravan, a mage driven by the demands of circumstance to safeguard an entire city of people from a power-hungry tyrant. Two leaders, trying to do the best thing they can for their people against impossible odds, now forced into working towards a common purpose.

     Roman thought to himself as he walked out into the light, Here’s hoping it’s enough.

Chapter Text

     The entire Caravan city was abuzz with activity the day after the sides met with their host, the enigmatic mage named Crow that bore a truly uncanny resemblance to Thomas’s friend, Joan. Within an hour of their meeting's end, a proclamation to the town was delivered by none other than Crow themselves, stating that all elders, children, and other non-combatants were to pack only what they could carry. Everyone else, those who swore to defend the traveling city, were to take up arms and report to their designated captains, one of the four others who also bore the faces of Thomas’s friends, namely Talyn, Dominic, Leo, and Valerie. Within a day, the tireless city of Caravan seemed ready for war, with blacksmiths and other provisioners working through the night to make certain that soldiers were properly outfitted, captains delegating the city guard to disseminate all orders and information to the population, and the entire populace just doing their part to ensure that both the army and the civilians were able to get underway as quickly as possible.

       While Patton used his strength to help with moving crates and loading wagons, the time eventually came for what he had been dreading the most: his turn on the training field. Ever since Sir Dauntless asserted himself in Patton’s mind, the moral side did whatever he could to stifle the knight’s voice. While it guided him in combat, the thought of actually harming another person completely clashed with Patton’s good, gentle nature. Every time he walked by the training yard, he could remember that night with such horrible clarity, that barking voice telling him to bring the hammer down after knocking someone to the ground. The very thought that he’d have to do the same thing again ate at him, but he knew that repressing the voice was only a temporary fix, and eventually, he’d have to take up his armor and shield once again.

     The time came faster than he would have liked and, early in the morning, he was at the yard, his shield planted in the ground and his hammer leaning against it as Toby helped him arm up. The two had finally reunited after the meeting yesterday, and as Patton watched Toby work, he could not help the warmth that blossomed in his chest at remembering the day before.

—————

     Crow said that Toby would be with the smiths, cleaning swords and stuff, Patton thought to himself upon leaving the command tent, eager to find his missing squire.

     It had been two days since he’d seen the young lad, and the last image of him playing in Patton’s mind was something he’d rather forget. The squire’s shoulder and arm bloody, a long, dark arrow sticking out of him as he tried with all his might to stagger back to his feet, just in time to take a full hit to the face from the archer’s bow. He sprawled in the dirt and tried to lift himself back up one more time, but finally slumped in the grass, far too still for Patton’s liking.

     The knight shook his head to dispel the thought, reasoning with himself, Virgil and Crow said that everything was okay now! Don’t worry!

      But worrying was all Patton really could do. Sure, Virgil had said that Toby was healed of his injuries and was well on the way to a full recovery, and Crow had said that the boy was all heart, still eager to fight and, when there was no one to fight, just as eager to help. The knight admitted to feeling something of a swell of pride for the young lad upon hearing just how tenacious he was, but until Patton laid eyes on Toby himself, any words about the lad could only be taken as hearsay.

     He walked across the dirt path, navigating through the sea of people and listening for the sound of hammering metal. He politely pushed through the crowd, finally hearing the sounds he sought and turning to face them. Then, he inhaled the acrid scent of burning wood and heated metal, a smell that sat heavy in the nose and the back of the throat, but its lingering only made it easier to follow. Like a hound seeking its quarry, Patton eventually found his way to the craftsmen, his eyes scanning for familiar faces, but only finding grizzled, sweaty, soot-covered smiths working hard at the blazing forges. The knight meandered through, wiping his brow as the heat intensified here. His eyes moved from person to person until finally, Patton’s eyes widened.

      There he is!

      Toby was seated on a tree stump in front of one of the merchant’s tents set up outside of a blacksmith’s stall. He was wiping down a steel shield with an oil-stained rag, one of many different metalworks he had cleaned if the pile next to him was anything to go by. He seemed engrossed in his work, hands moving quickly, deftly and his sweat-slick hair swaying with every movement. The squire had not even looked up to notice Patton’s approach as the knight quickly made his way over.

     Patton stood there for a moment, just watching his squire work, sweet relief flooding his chest to soothe that knot of worry, before he spoke, “You know… I find the easiest way to describe what a squire does is calling it—-”

     “Knight school,” Toby finished as he looked up, and a wide smile spread across his face.

     The rag and shield dropped from the squire's hands as he scrambled to his feet with a running start, clearing the distance in three steps before he crashed into Patton, wrapping his arms around the knight and squeezing hard. After a second, though, he quickly disengaged and stepped back, patting himself down and wiping sweat off his brow.

     “I’m… I’m so sorry, Sir Patton,” Toby apologized once he had passably reined in his exuberance, his cheeks turning red, “I was just so worried. And seeing you there in that bed all bandaged up, I just couldn’t…”

     “Well, that makes two big worrywarts,” Patton replied, a wide smile on his own face, “I’m just so relieved to see that you’re safe and sound.”

     The squire nodded, “Yes, sir. Mr. Blackwood was already awake when I came to. Said the same brigands who got us brought us back to their camp, had healers take care of us. At first, I didn’t believe it, but… well, everyone’s been very kind. I just umm… I needed to do something to take my mind off it all.”

     “I completely understand, big guy,” Patton said before continuing, “The rest of us only just woke up ourselves, and then we had to get the run-down from Crow. It looks like we’re gonna be around here for a bit.”

     “Are we going to be traveling with the army towards Oldhollow?” Toby asked.

     “Prince Roman is going to be working closely with Crow, which means that I’ll definitely be going along for that ride,” the knight explained, and ignored the lump in his throat that began to form, “As for you, though, I think it might be best if you stick with guarding the caravan.”

     “With all due respect, Sir Patton, I,” the squire shot back before catching his tongue, looking down and taking a breath, “I disobeyed your order, and I’m sorry about that. I just… I’ve wanted to be a Knight of the Order ever since I first arrived at Castle Darpley and when you told me to run, it just felt like…”

     “Like I didn’t need you,” Patton finished, “Like you didn’t matter.”

     Toby only nodded once as his head hung down in shame, and Patton immediately closed the distance again, grabbing the boy’s shoulders, softly but surely, “You have to know that’s not true, Toby. You’re important, you matter, and I’m sorry for panicking and making you feel that way. It was never my intention. My only concern has ever been for your safety.”

     “But knights have to face danger all the time,” Toby reasoned.

     “And you’re not a knight yet,” Patton replied, and the words seemed to hang in the air between them before he went on, “You’re learning, and I want to make sure you have a good, long life to learn as much as you can, more than me, so you can be better than me.”

     Toby finally looked up, and choked back tears were welling in his eyes, “I’m sorry for making you worry.”

     “It’s my job to worry,” Patton smiled back, a calm, but stern sense of understanding to his voice, “If you want to be a knight, then how about you do the first thing that all knights are sworn to do? Defend the innocent. There’s a lot of innocent people in the caravan who’ll need a strong sword arm like yours to defend them. I’m trusting you to do just that.”

     “You still trust me, Sir Patton?” Toby asked, his eyes wide and disbelieving that he was getting a second chance, “After all that’s happened?”

     “Of course I do,” Patton shrugged, as if that answer was the easiest thing in the world to give, “Everybody makes mistakes, big guy, me included. What matters is that we learn from those mistakes and make sure that we do better next time. Do you understand, bud?”

     A second or two of silence passed before Toby nodded and responded simply, “Yes, sir.”

—————

     As Toby continued to tighten the last few straps on Patton’s armor, the knight closely watched everything the squire did, making mental notes of every minute action, no matter how seemingly insignificant, so that he could replicate the process when Toby was not around. He knew that time was fast approaching, when his squire would leave with the non-combatants to move further into the Greygreen Forest in the hopes of evading capture, and the paladin would be saddling up to join Roman, Logan, Virgil, Crow and the rest of the Caravan Army in the hopes of taking Oldhollow. Patton believed, in his heart, that sending Toby away was the best choice in order to keep him safe, but, in truth, all the moral side could do was worry and hope that he had made the right one.

     “Some time today, Sir Patton?” a voice cut through his melancholy daze, startling him back from reminiscence.

     For a second, Patton thought that Talyn stood across from him. An instant later, however, he remembered that this was not truly his friend from the real world. This was Wolf, a halfling berserker and one of the front-line commanders of the Caravan army.

     Wolf bore nearly every resemblance to Talyn. They were both short and slight in stature with pale, tan skin, and every curve to their face seemed like a perfect facsimile to this amazing friend of Thomas’s that Patton knew and loved. They even had that same gawky charm as they slouched just a bit while standing there, appearing even shorter than they already were, and while their tied-back, silver hair was not Talyn’s current shade of unusual, it was still out of the ordinary enough to make them instantly recognizable.

     Even with all those similarities though, so much was different as well. Varying shades of scarring covered almost every exposed inch of their skin. This warrior must have seen countless battles and while they lived to tell their tales, it was more than apparent that they had not gotten through completely unscathed. Their ears were pierced several times through the lobe and cartilage and came to a slight point, in true halfling fashion. While absolutely to Talyn’s tastes, they were dressed in ragged clothing and scuffed leather armor more befitting of a viking than the artist Patton knew. Most striking of all were two cold, steel grey eyes that leered back at the knight with barely-restrained ferocity, in stark contrast to the warm, brown eyes he was so accustomed to seeing.

     Once fully armored up, Patton stepped forward, holding out his right hand as Toby slid on his shield and his hammer slid into his left. While his mind still teemed with thoughts of worry and apprehension, on the outside he appeared ready.

     “As your squire will be with the guard detail, you will be arming up on your own,” Wolf spoke curtly, “If that means you have to wake up earlier than everyone else to get your armor on, so be it. I won’t be easy on you just because you’re some flowery, titled knight.”

     At first, Patton recoiled, hurt to hear Talyn speak to him in such a way, but the feeling lasted for merely a moment before he remembered that this was not Talyn before him, so he merely nodded, “Okeydoke.”

     “What?” Wolf demanded as they stared daggers up at the knight.

     “I mean,” Patton corrected quickly, “I understand.”

     They responded with a mere grunt before turning on their heels and walking out onto the field, “You proved that you know how to run into battle and hide behind a shield, but I’m still wondering if you can actually fight, or if you’re just one of those knight-in-name-only types who swings a hammer to feel like a man.”

     Out in the center of the field, Wolf turned around and pulled their two handaxes free from their belt, spinning them around once. They dropped into a battle ready stance, digging their heels into the dirt and mud, as if ready to spring forward and attack at any time, the wild fire behind their silver eyes only seeming to burn hotter. It was an invitation, one that Patton knew he could not decline.

     Toby patted him on the back, “You got this, Sir Patton.”

     He nodded but once and then stepped forward onto the field, thinking to himself, Dauntless? Do you think we can play nice?

     A long second or two of silence stretched on within the moral side’s head, enough to fuel more feelings of unease before he heard a response, Are you going to let me do my job?

     This is training, so, Patton responded, trying to keep his breathing even and steady as his heartbeat thumped in his ears again, watching himself move closer and closer towards Wolf, let’s not overdo it, but yeah. Let’s go!

     A moment later, there was a feeling of relief running through the knight’s body that he did not recognize as his own, his grip tightening on the leather-wrapped haft of his hammer as he stepped forward faster, with purpose.

     Perhaps ten feet or so from Wolf, and Patton already beginning to realize that he towered over the halfling, he tensed and braced as the berserker finally darted at him, moving faster than he anticipated. Patton stepped back, and was just able to swing his shield up in time as he felt two heavy thuds vibrate up his arm. Looking up, the axes had crashed against his shield, peeking around the sides like two jagged, metal fangs. An instant later, one axe retracted, but the other surged forward, its notched beard catching on the edge of the shield before it was violently ripped to the side, throwing Patton’s shield arm out and leaving his midsection wide open. The knight seemed to act on instinct, raising his hammer to absorb on overhead shot, and jumping back to avoid a swipe that would have cut clear across his gut.

     Resetting his stance in a more defensive posture, Patton felt that, while he retained his own consciousness and could see and feel everything that was happening in the span of the last few seconds, it was Dauntless who was in control of the body, using instincts and techniques honed from years of training to defend against this threat, even if they were only training. The feeling of dissociation was admittedly rather jarring, and Patton could not help the constant worry that flowed through his mind as he dreaded the thought of hurting the person before him. That apprehension, though, caused some frustration within Dauntless, constantly kept on the defensive, hand choked up just under the hammerhead and unable to use the weapon to its full potential.

     Wolf, on the other hand, seemed to feel no such unease as they continued forward, raining blow after blow upon the shield and the haft of the hammer. They ducked, bobbed, and weaved like a boxer, aided by their small stature, any time that Patton would try to gain some distance to regroup. To his credit though, Wolf’s axes had not managed to score a blow on the knight’s body yet, always deflected or avoided in just a nick of time.

     “Fight me, coward!” Wolf bellowed as the two locked eyes for a moment, white-hot orbs of steely gray piercing into anxious, chocolate-colored eyes, and, while Patton felt hurt, Dauntless only felt shame and fury.

      Let me fight! Dauntless complained, just as loud in Patton’s head as Wolf’s voice was in his ears, If I can’t swing a hammer, I’m no good as a knight!

     But what if we hurt them? Patton reasoned, beginning to panic as he regained some semblance of bodily control, defenses slipping and his once sure footwork now half-stepping.

      What if this were a real fight!? Dauntless snapped back, grunting in frustration along with Patton as Wolf hooked their axes onto his shield again and pulled with all their might.

     In a moment of sheer terror, Patton watched as his shield was ripped from his arm by his opponent and sailed through the air, only to land with a splat in the mud some ten feet away. Brown muck tarnished the silver and teal metal, and it was now too far away to be of any use. His best means of defense now gone, Patton had to rely solely on his hammer as both hands gripped it tight, one near the hammerhead and the other down near its buttcap.

     “Nothing to hide behind now,” Wolf taunted as they closed in for the kill, silver hair, silver eyes, and steel axes ready for blood.

      Hit them! Dauntless ordered, as more and more control was ceded to Patton’s fight or flight response, set firmly to flight.

      I’m a giant compared to them, Patton responded, more and more frantic as he dodged Wolf’s attack, each axestroke landing closer and closer to his armored body, I can hurt them!

     The only person you’re going to hurt doing this is yourself, the knight’s voice resounded in Patton’s skull.

     “Hit me!” Wolf screeched, their axe finally landing a hard hit on Patton’s arm, sending him reeling and forcing the hammer out of his hands just the same as his shield seconds earlier.

     Defenseless, Patton prepared to give in, before two voices rang through his head at once.

      You’re weak!

      “You’re weak!”

     In that one instant, Patton saw red.

     “STOP!” he roared, his eyes and fists glowing blue-white as he punched forward, and immediately felt his clenched steel gauntlet slam into Wolf’s stomach.

     For a split-second, Patton saw everything. Wolf’s frenzied look of berserker rage contorting into wide-eyed shock and then into a wince of pain. As his fist connected with Wolf’s midsection, a flash of white light sparked on contact, illuminating both of the fighter’s faces. Worse yet, Patton could feel the hit reverberate through his fist, his forearm, his elbow, into the core of his being; he felt the leather armor give way and then the horrible sensation of steel slamming into flesh, into meat.

     The next thing Patton knew, he was watching Wolf sail off towards the outer edge of the field, landing with a thud and then rolling until they stopped face-down. One of their axes had flown off as well, the other still weakly clutched in the halfling’s hand. Wolf struggled to lift themselves back up onto all fours, silver hair disheveled.

     To Dauntless, the battle was over. To Patton, he saw his friend Talyn in pain, a pain that he caused.

     Within seconds, he was on the move, his heavily armored footsteps clunking against the dirt and sloshing through patches of mud, his hammer and shield forgotten as he cleared the distance towards Wolf. They had managed to bring themselves back to all fours, but the knight could plainly see that they were coughing, spitting up blood. His sense of alarm freshly renewed, he reached down to lift them back up, knowing that, with his strength, he could easily lift them before setting off to search for a nearby healer.

     “Come on,” he coaxed, trying and failing to keep worry from tinging his voice, “Let me help y—-”

     One second, Patton was leaning down to help Wolf back up to their feet. The next, Patton’s own feet were in the air as Wolf shifted, flipping the knight over their hip before he fell like a clattering heap to the ground. The moral side landed with such force that it drove all the air from his lungs and his entire body protested at the sudden, jarring impact. He barely registered as Wolf’s weight settled on top of his midsection, not until their fist collided with his jaw. The punch lacked the spectacle of Patton’s previous strike, but it was delivered with such desperate ferocity that it knocked him silly, a new wave of pain and confusion wracking his mind.

     In one, final act of dominance, Wolf put their axe to Patton’s throat, looking down at the knight with their wild hair, cunning eyes, and spittled blood clinging to their chin, lips, and teeth.

     “Yield,” they ordered, as if asking for a reason to strike Patton again.

     “I was,” Patton weakly tried to respond, tears beginning to well up in the corner of his eyes, “I was only trying to help—-”

     Wolf responded by hooking their fingers in Patton’s gorget at his throat, lifting knight’s head just high enough before slamming it back into the ground. Patton saw stars at the sudden blow to the back of his head.

     “Yield!” Wolf ordered again, pressing the axe so that it actually touched, cold and deadly, right under Patton’s chin.

     Dazed and defeated, hurt and humiliated, Patton whimpered, “I yield.”

     Wolf wore a look of disappointment, and seeing it written so plainly on Talyn’s face only made the loss hurt all the more in Patton’s heart as he felt his opponent’s weight shift off his chest. Rubbing the back of his head, the knight shambled to a seated position and then awkwardly to his feet, accompanied by the unwelcome, clumsy clanking of his armor. He took a shaky breath, finally upright but inwardly grasping for the return of his equilibrium. With the sparring match over, the only thing Patton could feel was pain, inside and out, and the feeling was not helped when he finally noticed Wolf had been watching him struggle back to his feet.

     “I expected more,” they said curtly as they walked to retrieve their dropped axe, “They say the Knights of the Order of the Father are great warriors on the battlefield, winning glory through the ages, but if it’s men like you who are defending the prince, perhaps they were mistaken.”

      They’re right, Patton thought to himself, unable to do anything but hang his head in shame, What am I doing here? I didn’t even want to be this… person. I’m not a fighter. I’m just soft... weak. And now I’m stuck like this with everyone depending on me and everyone looking towards me to shine in some way that I just… I don’t know how.

      Throughout his whole inner musings, Wolf looked at Patton, “Pick up your weapon. Don't bother cleaning it. We’re going again. Do better this time.”

     A tidal wave of dread washed over Patton as he watched Wolf ready themselves for another volley, having been spitting up blood mere seconds ago and now ready to fight once more. Now, they were expecting Patton to endure it all again, the doubts, the humiliation, repeating all of it just to be better at what? Hurting people? Killing them? He walked over to his hammer, leaning down to pick it up. As his gaze returned to the field, however, it was not Wolf that he saw.

     It was Toby. He had been watching the whole time.

     The squire’s facial expression waffled between confusion and disappointment, and the thought of that only made Patton’s heart sink deeper. Regardless of the fact that Toby was just a figment created for this game, he had dreams, aspirations, fears. He was a kid, just looking for a guiding hand and a person to look up to, something that Roman knew would only keep the moral side more invested in this whole fantasy. He was as real to Patton as anything, and seeing that very real look of utter disappointment on this boy’s face as he watched his hero annihilated by doubt, worry, and inaction; it was too great to bear.

     Patton let his hammer fall once more from his grip, thumping on the ground as he turned, his back towards Toby, and just started walking off the field.

     “Where are you going?” Wolf called out, still ready for another round of combat.

     Patton responded as he walked, trying to keep his voice steady while the corners of his eyes burned, “I need a minute.”

     “Training isn’t over!” Wolf shouted after the knight as he walked, “We’re not finished yet!”

     Patton stopped but once, turning his head towards Wolf, and gulped once at seeing Talyn look so angry, “I need. A minute.”

     He knew that Wolf was shouting at him, but the only thing that kept the moral side going and not just breaking down where he stood was just to tune them out and keep one foot going in front of the other. It was the only thing he could do. If he stopped and turned around, he’d be humiliated again, and he’d have to see someone he cared about, whether it was Toby or Virgil or Logan or Roman, someone would wear that same look of broken disappointment, and his heart could not take it. Not again.

     Patton just walked, and he wasn’t sure when he was going to stop.

Chapter Text

   Logan had tried to follow Patton’s example in helping the people of Caravan ready their city for their split and respective journeys. More often than not, however, the logical side found that he was often in the way. Everyone in the town knew what their purpose was here, what their job was in regards to the trials that lay ahead, and Logan just seemed to wander from place to place. He admittedly helped with small projects, as an extra pair of hands here, a careful eye there, but he was never truly needed, so he decided the best way for him to help was to stay out of the way and do something to better himself, his way of preparing for the job that lie ahead.

     That is how Logan came to sit against a tree on a small hill, well within the large clearing that Caravan occupied but far off from the hustle and bustle, reading his grimoire and enjoying the relative silence.

     Ever since Logan had gotten his grimoire back from Crow, he did not dare let the black tome out of his sight for fear of losing it again. Thankfully, it fit in the myriad of pockets that lined his robes, but nothing made the mage more comfortable than to hold it close to his heart, knowing that it was safe. Out here, though, in the serenity of nature, Logan held the book in his one hand, doing his best to practice some of the small spells he found, flexing these new metaphysical muscles that had proved fruitless in the last combat.

     Currently, he was concentrating on a spell called Ray of Frost, conditioning his brain to conjure up images of winter. Pictures of snow and ice all flitted through his mind as he also tried to immerse himself in those visions, to will himself to feel the sensation of cold. Finally, he would do the hardest thing about casting magic, to let all those stimuli fill his being until it became an extension of his will. For the first few minutes, Logan attempted to do just that, watching a flower a few feet away that he deemed a suitable target. Logan conjured thoughts of winter, trying to extend those thoughts out towards the flower, but his logical mind would get in the way.

      It’s too warm. I can’t force myself to pretend and ignore outside sensations, he would think, or, I’ve done little bits of magic before. Why is it so hard now?

     Those thoughts would litter his mind and, inevitably, break his concentration, so he started closing his eyes and outright visualizing wintry thoughts. He envisioned a snow-capped mountain top against a steel gray sky, white flecks of snow descending from the heavens, the feel of its accumulation crunching under his boots as he walked, that sense of wonder at watching the natural world unfold around him.

     Then he heard it, the sound of something crackling. Opening his eyes, he saw an ethereal blue light emit from his hand, connecting it to the flower that had iced over. Its once-fluttering petals now stark and brittle and covered in a light skin of frost.

     Logan felt a rush of satisfaction at his success, but another harping voice perked up, Doing this is no different from doing it in the middle of battle.

     Sure enough, the voice of Tennyson, his character, pushed through his thoughts. At first, Logan had done his best to ignore the inner commentary, focusing on how to do things his own way, the logical way, but as his practice continued, that voice became harder and harder to push to the side. In a way, he was right, it should be easy to do this in the midst of battle, but when he remembered back to that night, when fireballs were flying and his friends were fighting for their lives, how could he concentrate amid all that chaos?

     “That’s not bad.”

     Logan jumped in surprise, turning his head to see Crow walking up the hill towards him.

     To be honest, it was still jarring to see any of the captains of Caravan given how closely they resembled Thomas’s friends in appearance, and Crow with Joan's visage was no exception. Their face, their voice, their little mannerisms, everything about Joan had been replicated to create this new facsimile, but hearing Crow talk, one could not deny how much of a separate person they seemed. Currently, they looked tired, dark circles under their eyes as they trudged up the hill, their robes just grazing the grass along the ground. In their hand, they held their grimoire, a book similar to Logan’s, except, as Crow came closer, the logical side could see embossing on the dark cover that almost resembled pressed feathers.

     “Please, I didn’t mean to intrude,” Crow responded to Logan’s surprise with kindness, “I tend to do the same thing when I get a little overwhelmed. Come out to get some semblance of quiet time and read, practice, collect my thoughts.”

     Logan nodded and replied honestly, “It just appeared easier to stay out of everyone’s way. I’m not built for extended physical labor unlike some of my other comrades, and everyone seemed to have a fairly tenable grasp of the priorities at hand. It simply seemed like an apt time to get in some practice, especially after… well…”

     Crow chuckled as Logan let the sentence drift off, “After the crushing defeat?”

     “There were no crushing injuries involved, as I recall,” Logan corrected, utterly unflappable, “though I cannot necessarily account for the remainder of that evening’s events after I lost consciousness.”

     Crow quirked their head curiously, then seeming to realize that Logan had taken their response quite literally, as they returned, “Just the defeat then.”

     A moment of silence passed between the two, though not awkward as the other sides would possibly term it. It was welcome, companionable even, but all too short.

     “Why didn’t you fight back?” Crow asked, eyes narrowing curiously.

     Logan chuckled this time, “If I remember correctly, I sent a bolt of lightning at you.”

     “An act of desperation, and one that landed you in the infirmary for a day and a half,” Crow explained, before needling further, “Come on. I won’t tell anyone.”

     He contemplated the question, knowing where it would lead. The true answer, of course, was that Logan could not concentrate in order to counterattack, and he had no idea what to even counter with. Amid the constant chaos of the battle around him, Tennyson scolding him inside his own head, and watching his friends fight for their lives only to fall, how could he even begin to quiet his mind in a feeble attempt to order his thoughts? Logan was leery about revealing this truth to a person he just met, even if they did wear the face of a friend and were merely a figment of Roman’s imagination, a figment himself of Thomas’s. However, Crow had shown them all mercy and hospitality, even if it was to press-gang the four of them into service. More to the point, they were a mage, and one that was battle-tested. Perhaps they could shed some light on whatever Logan seemed to be overlooking.

     He simply answered, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

     Crow seemed entranced by the honest answer, flaring out their robes to sit down in the grass across from Logan as they asked, “How so?”

     “Well, magic requires a strength of will, thought, and concentration, right?” Logan asked, “That was one of the first lessons I was taught at Wickswane.”

     Crow's brow furrowing a little at the question, they nodded, so the logical side continued, “I pride myself on being quite adept at all three of those things. I know the world around me, and until very recently, magic did not have any part of that world. Now, I have to throw focus behind something that had always been a myth to me, even though I appear to have some talent for it. I read the spells in my grimoire, I concentrate, and, when I have the time and environment to concentrate, I can do it. Things happen. But… I don’t know. I don’t know how much of it I can truly believe, even having done magic already. And that doubt just fills my mind.”

     Logan surprised himself with just how quickly he had opened up to someone who, mere days ago, was barraging him with bolts of fire. Perhaps the fact that he looked like one of Thomas’s dearest friends played some role in his subconscious, making him comfortable enough to let down his guard and speak his mind freely.

     Crow nodded to themselves as Logan finished talking and slipped into silence, and then answered, “Alright. I think I can see what you’re getting at. You doubt yourself, so you can’t concentrate. You can’t concentrate, you can’t cast spells. I get that right so far?”

     “Indeed,” Logan replied, “But then, in battle, between the constant shifting of one thing to the next, and things happening at me and around me, it’s just… I can’t concentrate, I can’t remember spells…”

     “Then don’t,” Crow summed up simply, quickly putting an end to Logan’s babbling.

     He raised his eyebrow at the suggestion, almost not sure he had heard correctly, “I beg your pardon?”

     “Don’t try to remember spells,” Crow explained, but that did nothing to alleviate the confusion running through Logan’s mind.

     He tried to think it out loud, “But, the spells are in the book. And the book is the most important thing, right?”

     “No,” Crow shook his head before pointing at Logan, “Your mind is the most important thing.”

     “I’m not arguing with you there, but I fail to see your point,” the logical side responded, puzzled.

     Crow sighed, shifting on the ground in an attempt to get more comfortable as they leaned forward to elaborate, “Yes, the book is important. It’s our knowledge, our experiences, and in it is what we learn throughout our lives of study. The spells give us… like a visual prompt to go by. Out of combat, that’s easy. You clear your mind, you concentrate, and stuff happens. Don’t worry about that. Ordering your mind like that comes with time and practice. You’ll get it.”

     Logan nodded, and his newfound tutor spoke on, “But, in combat, it’s different, as you may have noticed. The written spells just aren’t as important. You’re never going to remember them in the heat of battle, and no self-respecting mage is going to start shouting some incantation to throw a fireball. It just makes them a target.”

     Perplexed, Logan sat forward as well, acknowledging their words, “That makes sense, but then, how does it happen?”

     “Willpower,” Crow stated simply, “As you know, magic is an extension of will, so, in essence, that’s exactly what you’re fighting with. Wanting to do something and then just allowing it to happen. Basically, a battle between two mages like us is just two people constantly trying to counter each other’s thoughts. I thought firebolts at you and you think of a way to defend against it. The trick is, of course, thinking fast.”

     “So, then,” Logan pondered out loud, “how did I conjure the stormcloud? The lightning strike?”

     “Well, you said, ‘stop,’ and your mind wanted it all to end in the fastest way possible. What’s faster than light? You just need to work on your aim,” Crow explained, their hands gesturing as they added, “and not spending it all in one go. You’ve now seen what occurs when that happens."

     The logical mage could actually feel some excitement leech back into his heart as puzzle pieces started to slip back into place, but another question came to his lips, “Yeah, how did that happen? I thought lightning bolts were rather par for the course in evocation magic.”

     “Conjured lightning from your hands? Yeah,” Crow explained, “But like any muscle, you can think too much or too hard, and…

     "Well, consider for a moment. As brief as it was, you caused a thunderstorm. Do you know what goes into that?" Crow asked, laying down a walkable path for Logan's mind to follow.

     The logical side's eyes widened at the question as the explanation ran through his head, A science question? I’m being asked a science question!?

     He immediately began to explain with all the grace and tact of a science textbook, “Well, thunderstorms are formed when warm air and water vapor rise up into the atmosphere while the surrounding cooler air is forced downward. As more and more water vapor rises into the air, the cloud gets bigger and rises higher until, eventually, the vapor freezes over again, falling back to earth. The ice droplets bump into each other, creating an electric charge and when enough builds up…”

     “Boom,” Crow finished, seeming completely unvexed by Logan’s knee-jerk explanation, “Now tell me, if only one person’s will could do all those things, in the timeframe in which they happened a few days ago, how do you think that person’s mind would feel?”

     Logan was shocked, staring wide-eyed across at his inadvertent teacher, as he answered, “Probably quite exhausted.”

     “Probably quite exhausted,” repeated Crow with the slightest hint of a laugh as they went on, “Study enough, practice enough and you may be able to do that in time without knocking yourself out, but try to stick to the smaller scale stuff next time.”

     The logical side sat there, this whole magic conundrum, a seemingly insurmountable obstacle before, had now been reduced down to smaller lessons that were easy to keep in mind. Combat magic was not so much concentration and belief, as he had worried, but quick thinking and problem solving, two skills that Logan knew he had in spades. He also had to be cautious of how much mental energy he would expend while casting magic, but that gauge in his mind would no doubt come with experience.

     As Logan contemplated, he was shocked back to the present to feel Crow sitting next to him against the tree, having shifted closer while the logical side was deep in thought.

     “Did I help?” they asked, setting their own grimoire down on the ground.

     Logan took a moment, the smallest inclination of a smile forming on his own lips, and then nodded, “I think you helped.”

     “Then mind if I just sit with you in contemplative silence?” Crow questioned again.

     With a little snort of laughter, Logan nodded again and rested his head back against the tree, “Sure.”

     For the first time in the last several days, the logical side actually felt rested, no longer fretting over how he was going to fulfill his part in this whole escapade Roman had set the group of them on. In fact, if it was Roman’s idea to give Crow the visage of Joan, someone whom Thomas loved and respected, it would mean that the prince knew that Crow would be the perfect magic teacher for Logan. It was a level of foresight that Logan had not truly thought possible from the flighty, fanciful side and, to be honest, he was rather impressed.

      Roman’s a genius, he thought in passing before banishing that musing just as quickly, Let’s not go too far with that.

     Logan was relaxed though, enough to finally allow the voice of Tennyson to resurface, and a simple, warm thought ran through his mind, I told you you could do it.

Chapter Text

      I shot Toby.

      You’ve got to get over it, mate.

     Everything went wrong after I shot Toby.

     Things happen on the battlefield. You just have to accept it and move on.

     And Patton has no idea. No idea that I was the one who shot his squire. He still thinks Dominic or whatever his name is did it.

     Hawk. And if you don’t get back on the horse, you won’t live long enough to make it right!

      Virgil had been having this inner dialogue with himself ever since he had surrendered to the Caravan captains, replaying his bone-headed mistake in his mind's eye again and again and wishing that he could do anything to change how it happened. There was nothing he could do though. He fired the arrow that took down Toby, starting the whole chain reaction that led to their horrible defeat. Toby dropped first, then Patton, Roman, and Logan, leaving Virgil to watch the entire series of events unfold before his terrified eyes. It was his fault, and there was no way that Blackwood, in his head, could tell him any different.

     Blackwood tried though. While a rogue by nature, there were moments between bouts of guilt-driven panic attacks that Virgil seemed to actually enjoy having such a devil-may-care side to his thoughts. The gruff voice was almost a comfort, at times, almost even sounding like Patton with his suggestions of self-care and treating himself better, but try as the voice might, it was only one voice against a lifetime of anxiety shouting it back down.

     Still, Virgil was here, in broad daylight, standing a little ways off from the goings-on of Caravan as people continued to pack everything up for the city split and migration. Virgil had, at first, offered to help, but he could see how people were looking at him. He was a rogue, after all, a thief, and he could feel so many eyes watching his every movement, where he went, what he handled, what his hands were doing. Eventually, the thought of being constantly glared at and judged proved to be a bit too much for the anxious side to handle, especially given his inner turmoil. He left the townspeople to their preparations, and grabbed his bow and arrow, hurriedly thinking some target practice would take his mind off things.

     How wrong he was!

     Virgil stood at the firing line, looking down the way towards a lone tree many yards off. It was a large tree, with a hastily-made white bullseye painted on its barked trunk. From this distance, he could even see some deeply sunk arrows sticking out of it, hardened sap keeping them in place. He was there to practice, but every time he tried to do what he did that day, steadying himself and paying close attention to his breathing, his mind would wander the moment he took aim.

      The arrow arced beautifully into the air, the black and purple feathers of its fletching fluttering as it pierced through the night. Up and up and then down and down, slamming into the shoulder of a young lad whose only sin was being too eager to make his knight proud.

     The event would replay every time, and he would lower his bow, trying his best to not succumb to the memory. Each time, however, that proved more and more difficult.

     “Never really thought it’d be that hard to shoot a tree.”

     Virgil jumped at the new, yet familiar voice, one that stood out in Virgil’s mind, and he could feel his insides tense with dread. He had wished to be alone, but since that was now a fruitless hope, he turned to face the new arrival to the shooting range.

     Like with all the Caravan captains, Virgil felt a knee-jerk reaction of confusion when, at first, he recognized Thomas’s friends in the mindscape, and Dominic’s proved to be no exception. A second later, however, he remembered that this was not Dominic, but Hawk, the captain of Caravan’s archers and, with a darker recognition, the man whom Patton wrongly blamed for shooting Toby.

     To look at him, Hawk had a graceful swagger to every movement of his body, one gesture flawlessly sliding into the next. Even on the field, he could switch easily from nocking and shooting arrows to, in the blink of an eye, engaging at close range with his bow or the knife that was hidden in his boot. What was worse, he knew he was talented, giving himself almost a Roman-esque sense of confidence bordering on arrogance. He wore a red-brown serape, bordered in fur and feathers, over a brown tunic and leather armor. Instead of slinging it over his back like Virgil, he wore a hip quiver, filled with arrows fletched in red and brown hawk feathers, and down at his boots, in its sheath, was a long knife, only a deer antler hilt visible amid the brown leather. Like the rest of his garb, a red and brown bandana was wrapped around his forehead to keep his long, light brown hair out of his face and a light layer of scruff covered his chin and jawline, lips curled up in a smirk. He had apparently come to get in some shooting practice as well, his brown recurve bow strung and clutched in his gloved hands.

     “So, are you just gonna stand there or are you gonna shoot?” Hawk asked, that smug expression still on his face.

     Virgil could feel his cheeks burning red at being rushed and, once again, feeling as though he was in the way. He returned one of his arrows to his quiver and stepped to the side, allowing Hawk to step up to the firing line.

     “That’s a shame. Was hoping to get a chance to see what you can do,” the smarmy archer smiled and pulled an arrow out.

     Virgil shrugged, stating flatly, “Sorry to disappoint you.”

     “Eh, not the first time,” Hawk replied, his eyes now scanning downfield and away from Virgil, “certainly won’t be the last.”

     The brown archer squared his feet, settling his heels into the earth below him, letting out a sigh as he set his arrow and drew back the bowstring, raising his weapon to aim.

     He spoke while he aimed, “I was watching you here for a bit. You have good form. Nice stance, a strong pull back, a steady aim. I can’t tell you how long it took me to whip my own guys into shape. It was a nice change of pace.”

     Virgil shifted a bit, part of him wondering why he was still here and not trying to find another deserted alcove to hide in until he could retreat back to the other sides. Another part of him, on the other hand, enjoyed spending time with Dominic, even if it technically was not Dominic before him, but his brain could be fooled into ignoring the differences. Thomas’s friends helped to level out Virgil’s namesake anxieties, and it appeared their dream duplicates could do the same.

     The anxious side grunted out, “Ummm, thanks.”

     Hawk added, “I should be thanking you.”

     “What for?” Virgil asked, if only to keep the conversation going and have some sort of purpose in remaining here.

     “For shooting that squire.”

     FWIP. Hawk released the bowstring and it shot forward, propelling the arrow down the field. It sailed through the air, its fletching leaving almost a red streak before it slammed into the tree, just within the outermost white ring of the target. Not a bullseye by any means, but it still sunk into the wood with a satisfying, resounding thunk.

     Virgil saw none of it though, heard none of it. All he could do was stare wide-eyed at Hawk as the color drained from his face, He knows!

     As Hawk’s eyes flicked back towards Virgil, the anxious side swallowed and attempted to dismiss it, “I ummm… I don’t know what you mean.”

     “Sure, you don’t,” Hawk muttered sarcastically, winking, before he grabbed another arrow from his quiver, “and it must’ve been some other archer’s purple and black arrow that the healers removed from his shoulder, right? Not distinctive at all!”

     Virgil wanted to facepalm so badly, but resisted the urge, frenetic energy coursing through him as his fight or flight reflexes began to kick in.

     He knew he could not hide it, so he simply asked, “Have you told anyone?”

     Hawk drew back his second arrow, aimed for a moment or two, and then loosed it with another twang of his bowstring. A whistling sound and a dull thunk later, this arrow stuck out just above the bullseye, halfway between the painted and unpainted sections of bark at the center of the target.

     “Nope,” Hawk simply stated, grabbing another arrow from his quiver, not even bothering to take his eyes off the target, his hands moving surely and quickly to ready a third shot.

     While uncomfortable with the thought of other people knowing about his shame, if Hawk had told no one else, then at least Virgil would be able to rest easy for a little bit longer. He let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping as some small amount of tension left them.

     Hawk was not finished yet, “Whether or not it stays that way, however, depends on you.”

     The tension rushed back into Virgil’s shoulders as his eyes widened, his voice stammering, “Wh...what?”

     “You heard me,” Hawk replied, an edge to his voice before it once again became smooth as honey, “How about a friendly little wager?”

      Hardly anything friendly about this, but what choice do I have? Virgil thought to himself before answering, “Not quite sure I like the sound of that.”

     “Oh, I know,” Hawk smiled, drawing back an arrow for the third time, “but I can’t resist. So? How about it?”

     Virgil closed his eyes, willing himself to be anywhere but here, as he responded, “Fine.”

     What answered was another quick succession of noises: the fwip of the bowstring, the whistling of the shot, and the landing of the arrow in its target. The anxious side even jumped at the sound of the tree taking a third hit from Hawk’s bow.

     “Beat that shot, and it never happened,” Hawk proposed, as Virgil opened his eyes to look downfield.

     And they widened in dread.

     It was a perfect shot. Hawk’s red-fletched arrow stuck perfectly out of the center of the bullseye, the thin, wooden shaft still vibrating from the force of the impact. It was clear that Hawk had more than earned the right to be confident in his abilities, and Virgil could feel his insecurities mounting at not only humiliating himself in this contest, but what would happen when he lost.

     “Th...that’s impossible! There’s no way I can win!” Virgil complained, desperation clear and apparent as his voice cracked.

     “I mean, if you’re just gonna forfeit,” Hawk shrugged with a smirk, “I may as well start with that big, armored lug that’s watching the prince’s back. I’m sure he’d love to know who really deserves the blame for shooting his boy.”

     “No!” Virgil squawked, chiding himself for being goaded so easily and hating the look of smug satisfaction written on his blackmailer’s face, “No. I’ll ummm… I’ll take the bet.”

     Oddly enough, while anxiety rose in Virgil’s heart, a sense of excitement and pleasure came from a place that distinctively felt like Blackwood, Oh, lad! Taking a bet, are you? I knew I liked you!

     Don’t like me too much just yet, Virgil thought to himself, It’s a bet we’re about to lose.

     Nonsense! Blackwood thought, just as Hawk backed away and held out his arm to the side, allowing his competitor to take to the shooting line.

     “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Blackwood,” the smug archer presented with an over-flourished, arrogant bow.

     Trying his best to steady his hands and nerves, Virgil stepped forward, taking Hawk’s place in front of the target tree. As he stood there, his fingers flexing and relaxing around the grip of his bow, he felt the constant urge to run, and he was not even sure where to. Just away from here, away from Hawk, away from Toby, away from Patton. Just running. Running away and never stopping.

      That won’t solve anything, though, he thought, and he was unsure as to whether it was Virgil or Blackwood voicing that thought, but it was true all the same.

     There was nowhere to run. There was nothing to do but just take the shot, for good or ill.

     “Anytime now,” Hawk taunted, his bow planted in the ground as he braced himself lackadaisically against it.

     Virgil shot back with some impatience of his own written all over his face, but did continue, settling into his stance just as he had done plenty of times.

     He fretted as his trembling hands went to pull an arrow from his quiver, and he closed his eyes, already beginning to see those ugly thoughts rear their heads, I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

     Yes, we can, Blackwood replied, You’re going to have to do this plenty of times in the days to come. Best we start now.

     Virgil readied his arrow against the bowstring, trying to quiet his mind of all but the thief’s coaching, and drew, raising the bow to line it up with the target down at the end of the line. He could feel his hand shaking, and his aim along with it.

     “Gods, this is going to be too easy,” Hawk’s voice cut through Virgil’s mind like a knife, enough that he winced as he heard his words, “Before I’m an old man, if you please!”

      Too much pressure, the anxious side panicked, roaring in his ears like the drumming of his heartbeat.

     JUST BREATHE, Blackwood boomed, drowning out those other thoughts, those devious thoughts, Just like you did that night. You remember that night.

     Of course you do, lad. But this isn’t that night. It’s a whole new day. A whole new chance to do better, Blackwood coaxed, It’s nothing. Just line up the shot, draw, and fire.

     Even as Virgil tried to steady his breathing, he could feel a tear welling up in the corner of his eye and he desperately tried to blink it away, But what if I lose?

     Then you lose, and we go from there. For better or worse.

     Blackwood’s answer was not sweet, nor was it bitter or sour. It was simply the truth. If he won, he knew it would not absolve him of guilt for what he did, even if it was an accident, and if he lost, he would simply have to face the music sooner than he wanted. That did not mean he would be able to avoid it forever.

     While terrifying to think about, there was an odd sense of comfort in it, enough that Virgil was able to find his breathing pace and allowed the target to settle within his sight. He could feel his fingers start to relax, knowing that the shot was coming. He breathed out, his shoulders relaxing, and knew that this was it. This was the moment.

     FWIP.

     Virgil released and time seemed to stop for everything but the arrow as it shot from the archer’s black bow. It pierced through the air, purple and black feathers fluttering with its tremendous speed, the black missile streaking down the lane like a line of night through the sunshine. At this vantage, all Virgil could see was that it was on line for the painted target, and excitement rang in his heart as he heard a crack and a thunk.

     He had done it! He had shot, but from here, there was no telling whose arrow was closer to the absolute center of the bullseye. It was anyone’s victory. He turned his head to look at Hawk, who only seemed to smile as he looked from downfield back to Virgil.

     “Bows down!” he called out, and then, giving a wink to the anxious side, “And now the moment of truth.”

     The two archers placed their bows down in the grass and then, together, they walked down the field. Virgil’s heart was pounding in his chest. Whose shot had been closer? Was he safe for now? Or would he have to get ready to have a sudden, possibly very unpleasant chat with Patton? All would be decided in mere seconds.

     As they got closer and closer to the great tree that loomed overhead, Virgil could spot all of Hawk’s arrows, as well as his own.

     A red arrow high on the target.

     A red arrow closer to the bullseye, but not quite there.

     Then, both Virgil and Hawk stared wide-eyed.

     A red arrow in the very center... split down the middle by another arrow, feathers of black and purple, that had sunk fletching-deep into the tree itself.

     Virgil had won, and a rush of something foreign to him coursed through his heart at the sight of his victorious shot. It was a warmth that filled his chest to overflowing, down the bottom of his feels and tips of his toes, all the way up to his fuschia-crowned head.

     It was pride.

     Hawk cocked his head towards Virgil, his smile cracked slightly from having been defeated, but his voice still as smooth as ever, “Well shot, Mr. Blackwood.”

     The defeated archer turned fully to face the champion, holding out his hand in a show of good sportsmanship. At first, though reveling in his triumph, Virgil felt a rush of nervous energy return at seeing this person, who had just blackmailed him, suddenly seem so honorable. The very thought seemed to give the thief whiplash, but all the same, he reached forward and shook Hawk’s hand.

     They held for a moment and Hawk leaned in, his face sincere and seeming so much like Dominic’s as he spoke, “Now that you know you can do it, I expect you to deliver. We all make mistakes, but the only choice we have is to bounce back.”

     Virgil stood there, dumbfounded at the unexpected bit of advice that his competitor gave, but Hawk paid him no more mind. He simply walked forward towards the tree’s trunk to salvage his two intact arrows, then turned on his heel once again. Within seconds, he was headed back towards camp, leaving the thief there to enjoy his victory.

     Watching him leave though, Virgil could not shake the hint of curiosity that crossed his mind as he called out after the retreating archer, “What was your mistake?”

     Not even bothering to turn around, his hair, bandana, and serape fluttering in the gentle breeze, Hawk replied, “Only one! Underestimating you!”

     It was an odd feeling that pervaded him as Virgil watched Hawk leave. The last several minutes had been an exhausting roller coaster ride. At first, he could not even draw the bow without being reminded of his failures, and then this blowhard came along and showed him up, only to make matters worse by threatening to reveal his shame to all of his friends. To win, Virgil had to face his fears and just go for it, win or lose, and that seemed to be the lesson. No matter what happens, we just have to keep on going, and there was some odd comfort in that sentiment that Virgil had not felt in a long time.

     The black-clad archer turned his attention back towards the tree, enjoying the flood of triumphant emotions that rushed over him again at the sight of his one in a million shot. However, that feeling could not last forever, as another thought ran through Virgil’s mind.

      How in the world am I going to get my arrow out of there?

Chapter Text

     Patton knew he could not keep up this pace for much longer.

     Everything hurt. His legs and feet hurt from having to shift his heavy weight, allowing for his armor as he climbed up hills. His arms hurt from taking hit after hit from Wolf against his shield and hammer. His back hurt from getting tossed over their hip into the dirt. His jaw hurt from where Wolf punched him. His eyes hurt as he tried to hold back the tears that were constantly threatening overwhelm the floodgates.

     All that pain though seemed to pale in comparison to that pain that gripped his heart like a vise, making every intake of breath sting in his chest. He had been completely and utterly humiliated in front of Wolf, in front of his squire, in front of Dauntless, and no doubt the news of it all would reach the other captains as well as his friends.

     Patton was used to being silly. It was part of his nature, but it always had a purpose; he loved to make someone laugh when they were feeling down, and if that meant he had to be the butt of the joke for a bit, well, so be it.

     This was different though. This made him question his purpose, his usefulness, his true compass of morality, and if that could be called into question, what was he?

      Weak, as Dauntless and Wolf had called him, and that word burned into Patton’s mind.

     What was so weak about not wanting to hurt people?

     Patton had walked off into the forest, his heavy boots thumping against the grassy ground, accompanied by the clanking of his armor. He had left the clearing where Caravan stood, surrounded now by trees grand and tall that towered over him as each step became harder and harder to take. Finally, realizing just how exhausted he was, in his body, mind, and spirit, the knight collapsed to his knees and just started sobbing.

     He tried his best to never show this side of himself to the others. He had to be the person that they came to with their problems, and while he had been caught maskless more than once by Thomas and the others, especially in matters of grief and loss, he never lost that need to be the hero. Not some gallant warrior like Roman, but someone dependable, a shoulder to cry on, a sympathetic ear, a trusted friend.

     “But I’m not a hero,” he told himself, taking off his glasses to keep his lenses dry as tears continued to roll down his cheek.

     “I don’t think that’s true.”

     Patton jumped, a surprised squeak escaping his mouth as his head turned, his eyes red and raw as he faced the owner of that light, calm voice.

     Snake was a trusted alchemist who headed up the healers of Caravan, mixing potions and poultices and tending to the sick of the wandering city. To Patton and the other sides though, she was Valerie, standing tall and beautiful with long, flowing, dark hair. Contrary to the real Valerie that Thomas knew, the Valerie in his head, going by the moniker of Snake, was an elf, her pointed ears sticking out a little through her hair. It was she who personally tended to the wounds of Patton, Logan, and Roman, also having been the one to take down Patton with her own devilish concoctions.

     The elven woman walked through the grass towards Patton, practically gliding over the ground. She was dressed much like the others, wearing light pieces of leather armor over a long tunic of brown and green cloth, a small, utilitarian knife held in a sheath at her waist that she used to collect herbs. She held a little basket, filled with grasses, berries, mushrooms, and all sorts of flora to be used in her work that she foraged on her sojourns into the forest surrounding Caravan.

     She smiled as she came close to Patton, setting down her basket and kneeling next to him, “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

     Patton sniffled a few times and wiped away some tears with his gloved hand, trying hard to put a shaky smile on his face, “Awww, don’t you worry about me. I’m perfectly fine, Val… I mean, Snake. Snake which is your name and nothing else. But I’m okay! Just something in my eye is all. Lots of new things to be allergic to around here.”

     He had immediately started to overcompensate, but Snake simply shifted to sit in the grass, “May I ask a question of you?”

     Patton stared at her for a moment, welcoming the distraction, before he reinforced that trademark smile and answered, “Well, you’ve already asked one, but I’ll give you another!”

     She stared at Patton for a moment, those dark eyes seeming to pierce right through the knight’s armor and flesh into his very soul. He felt naked in the gaze, a blush immediately blossoming on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. People never seemed to look very closely at Patton, tending to see him as just the happy pappy that he always was, but this Valerie, Snake, did not know Patton outside of this world, and would have to make her own judgments of him. Inwardly, Patton hoped she would not be too harsh.

     After a few moments that seemed to stretch on and on, she spoke, “Why do you say you’re not a hero, Sir?”

     “Oh, goodness,” Patton replied, “You don’t have to call me sir. It feels so stuffy and formal. Just Patton or Dauntless will do, ‘kay?”

     “Very well, Patton,” Snake corrected, but repeated, “Why do you say you’re not a hero?”

     He pondered for a second, then another, before he responded, “Well, I mean, when you’re around someone like Prince Roman, it’s hard to share the limelight with someone like that, you know? But one time, I’ll tell you, he actually got so sick on cream of broccoli soup that he--”

     “Forgive me, but why are you evading the question?” she asked, cutting right through Patton’s facade, and his smile cracked for a moment.

     He tried to answer, his voice squeaking a little, “I umm… I don’t know what you mean.”

     There was no frustration in her voice, no malice, just mere curiosity, “I’ve watched you.”

     An ominous statement to Patton’s mind, but he could not help asking, “And ummm… what have you seen?”

     “A good man,” she responded simply.

     The blush on Patton’s face only deepened, “Awww, well, aren’t you just the sweetest thing!”

     “The night of the skirmish,” Snake continued, undeterred, “you ran after your squire to protect him from harm. When you were reunited with him, the only thing you cared for was his safety, doing your best to make certain he would not put himself into harm’s way again so carelessly.”

     Patton shrugged, “Well, he’s just a kid. He’s gonna make some silly mistakes in his life as he grows up. I just, you know, want to make sure he gets the chance to grow up.”

     Snake went on, “And your friends. When you all woke up, your first action was to embrace them. You were relieved to see that they were all right. Your prince, the mage, the thief. Do they truly mean that much to you?”

     “Yeah, you bet,” the knight continued, shifting to face Snake as he explained, “I mean, we may look like we come from different walks of life and we may all want different things, but, at the end of the day, we all just want to go home, right?”

     “And my comrade, Wolf,” Snake pushed further, her voice a bit darker as she spoke, “You had them at your mercy in that last battle. They were dazed and could do nothing to stop you if you decided then and there to finish them. Why didn’t you?”

     Any color in Patton’s face drained out at the very thought, and he took a moment before he replied, “I… I don’t like to hurt anyone. I know it probably sounds kinda silly coming from someone who’s wearing a ton of armor and swings around a big, ole hammer, but emotions are powerful things. Everything we’re passionate about comes from them, and… well, what if those passions were used to harm someone else? I don’t know...”

     Patton’s voice quieted for just a second as he trailed off, before he continued again, in almost a whisper, “I’m scared to death of how something like that could change me. My umm… my own pain, whatever sadness I may have, whatever may be going on with me, I can deal with it so long as I have people I care about, shoulders to cry on, all that super mushy stuff. But to cause that kind of pain to someone else? I don’t know how I’d come back from that.”

     The two sat in silence for a moment, with nothing but the sounds of the forest to keep them company. Patton’s breathing had finally resumed its normal pace, and while his cheeks still stung from his tears, he was no longer crying. He just sat in quiet, contemplative thought until Snake spoke once again.

     “Why did you become a knight?” she asked, posing another question though those eyes never once left him.

     “Not very often that I’m the one being interviewed,” Patton joked, trying to come back from that sinking feeling deep in his gut, “Roman would be so jealous.”

     “I’m sure he’ll forgive you,” she smiled lightly, but continued watching, letting her question linger in the air between them until it had to be acknowledged.

     Patton took a breath, then another, and as he finally spoke, he felt this curious sensation that his words were not entirely his own.

     “I want to help people,” he answered simply, and then the words just started to pour out of him, “There’s so much darkness in the world. Anger and hatred and fear, so many horrible things that constantly threaten to swallow us whole if we’re not careful. But... there’s light, too. There’s goodness and kindness, and if I can, in some way, change someone’s life for the better, they can do the same for someone else, then again, and again, until maybe the world isn’t such a dark place.”

     Patton felt drained by his response, and he let out a breath when he finally stopped talking, and silence fell between the two yet again. There was something inside him that spoke, truly and freely, and as the moral side contemplated those words, he realized that they belonged to none other than Dauntless, who had been with him the whole time.

      Of course! Where else would you be? Patton thought, chuckling to himself quietly, under his breath.

      I’m sorry, Dauntless answered, I spent so long fighting you that I didn’t realize how much I was hurting you.

     It’s okay, big guy, Patton dismissed, and felt a pang in his chest, knowing he was putting his own pain aside.

     He should have known that he could not hide it from someone who shared his thoughts, No, it’s not.

     Snake finally spoke, “That’s an honorable goal for knighthood, as well as life, Patton, and it’s one that I wish more people shared.”

     A warmth flowed over Patton to hear those words. It was just a small amount of reassurance, true, but for the first time today, he smiled wide enough that it finally reached his eyes.

     “A word of caution, though,” Snake continued, and while the pleasure of the moment did not abate, Patton leaned forward to make sure he listened closely, “Being a light in darkness is admirable, but this world’s darkness is tenacious and will seek to snuff out this light you wish to bring. One of the vows of your Order is to protect the weak, and, sometimes, the only way to do that is to actively fight back against people that oppress the weak. I’m not asking you to enjoy the fighting, Patton, because I know the dread that runs through your mind when you lift your hammer... but don’t sit by and let this world kill your light, or those who bring light to yours.”

     She stood, letting Patton ruminate on her words as she took her basket in hand and slowly began to walk back the way she came, her light footfalls gliding over the grass with every step.

     The thought of fighting still terrified Patton. He could not help but think of what could happen if he allowed himself to go to that place, and the very sight of Dauntless’s hammer filled him with dread, but to simply stand by, useless and… weak, meant that he would be putting the lives of his friends in danger. If he were to stand by and watch as what happened to Toby happened to Roman or Logan or Virgil, he knew he would never be able to forgive himself. The whole situation was new and scary, but each of them had to do their part to protect the others.

      Besides, isn’t that what a dad is supposed to do? Patton thought, not feeling better, but feeling calmer.

     “And Patton,” Snake regarded him, and the knight turned to regard his unwitting counselor once more as she spoke, “If you ever doubt that you’re a good man, know that an evil man would not think twice about doing the things that trouble you so much.”

     With that, Snake resumed her walk back towards Caravan, leaving Patton kneeling in the grass with her words and his thoughts.

     As he rested there, feeling some level of strength return to him, Dauntless spoke up in his mind, I can’t lie to you or promise you anything by saying that people aren’t going to get hurt, but we have a job to do. Our quest is to protect the prince, and along the way, there are going to be people who will mean him, you, and our friends harm. I can only promise you that, when we fight together to stop them, I will grant mercy where I can.

     Patton nodded to himself, And I can’t promise that I’m going to be okay with all this, Dauntless. There are going to be bad days, but if you’re willing to work with me, I can at least offer you the same.

     And for the first time in what felt like ages, Patton could feel the warmth of peace wrap around him like a big hug. It was comforting, soothing, like the embrace of an old, dear friend.

     Finally, Patton stood up, strong and tall once again, his legs still a little sore from kneeling for so long as he turned and made his way back towards town as well.

     For better or worse, his job was not over yet.