Archive of Our Own

It's been a long day.

They set out from Port Maje early in the morning; finished all the business they had in town, bought supplies for the day ahead of them, and left before noon.

They’d considered traveling at night to avoid the heat, but none of them are familiar with the wildlife in the Deadfire. It would’ve been too much of a risk.

So they’d set out early – Tryggvi doubts he's the only one who didn't get enough sleep, this time – and spent the next twelve hours under the scorching sun, making their way to Vilario’s Rest at what felt like an ant’s pace. The group of Dawnstars they encountered didn’t help, only delaying them and proving to be little more than a waste of time. But Edér and Xoti had insisted.  

And all because Governor Clario – the spineless fuck – told them the ship would be repaired and ready to sail by today. And by the gods, Tryggvi was ready to get off this fucking island. He'd been ready since he first woke up here.

What Clario didn't tell them, however, and what they had to find out on their own when, and only when, they finally got to the beach, sweaty and sore and exhausted – was that there had been a delay. A delay that kept Ikawha’s people from starting the repairs.

The ship certainly looked better, but not yet ready for sailing. The hull was repaired, but the masts were still in bad shape. It’d be suicide if they tried to sail with the state the ship is in. So they’re stuck on this island for at least another day.

They figure there's no point in going back to Port Maje, and decide to camp on the beach with the rest of Ikawha’s workers.

Of course, everyone’s still glad to be leaving soon. So, of course, they decide to celebrate. Tryggvi can’t blame them – everyone’s been restless, impatient. And it’s a good opportunity for the party and the crew to get to know each other. Bond. Tryggvi knows people… enjoy that sort of thing.

He figures it can only be a good thing, especially considering Xoti had only recently joined them on their travels. She’s been mostly keeping to herself, despite being friendly towards everyone. But she seems to be enjoying herself now, trading stories with the ship’s crew around the campfire. She and Edér even seem to be getting along, for once.

And Aloth…

Gods. Aloth. It’s been over two weeks since he joined them, but Tryggvi can still hardly believe it.

They still haven't really had a chance to sit down and talk. Truthfully, Tryggvi’s been avoiding it. He suspects Aloth has, as well. It feels like whenever they’re alone, he suddenly remembers something he forgot to do, or has to do research on the Leaden Key – there’s always something.

Or maybe it’s just a coincidence. He did say he wanted to talk once they were off the island. Maybe Tryggvi is just reading too much into it.

He sighs, rubbing his forehead.

It's been a long day.

He's got a pretty clear view of the beach from from where he’s sitting on the rock outcropping, now. The rising moon, bright orange and almost full, casting everything in a soft, milky blue – it reminds him of the beaches back home. A desert of ice, with sand as black as the night sky, and water stretching as far as the eye can see. Watching the horizon from that beach, watching his breath disappear into the air like smoke – it always made him feel like he was standing at the edge of the world.

He remembers the time he and Ari stole a boat, just big enough to fit two people, from some fisherman or something. It was their idea, which, looking back on it now is not so surprising. Ari was quiet, but they loved mischief, and always found a way. They were smarter about it, too. Never got caught.

And Tryggvi remembers they'd had to carry it to the beach themselves, just the two of them. It was summer, so plenty of time before sundown. He'd had to ditch Kosmas, but it was worth it. Besides, Kos didn't mind. He never did.

And when they finally sailed away from the beach, Tryggvi remembers it felt like time had stopped. Like the world had stopped existing beyond that boat. Like they were the only two people left.

They'd sailed until they couldn't see the beach.

And he almost feels the same way, now. Of course, there are a lot more insects and plants here – that is to say, there are actually insects and plants – and considerably less ice, and gods, it's so fucking hot – alright, maybe not the same feeling. But he does feel like he's the only person in the world.

That is, except the crew . Tryggvi can hear them all the way from here – not clearly enough to make out words, but they’re loud. Their voices cut through the steady buzzing of crickets and the low, familiar sound of waves crashing on the beach.

But Tryggvi has managed to tune it out, focusing on his own breathing. He can almost hear his own heartbeat, the blood running through his veins and what he thinks is a faint ringing , coming from deep inside his chest. He tries not to think about that.

And it’s easy to get lost in his thoughts watching the ocean like this, with the soft breeze and the cool humid night air tricking him into believing he can finally have some peace. It’s why he left the camp. To– to clear his mind, was it? It’s bullshit. He doesn’t remember the last time had so much on his mind, and spending some time alone isn’t going to change that. He knows it, and he suspects the crew does, too.

But it’s easier to just embrace it, he figures. Let himself get lost in memories, watching the stars.

And he hardly has to try. He still can't shake the memories of home. It feels like the only thing missing is a knife in his hand, and the smooth, familiar texture of ivory. It’s like he’s looking at the same sky, but it's been over forty years, and he's miles away from where he was back then – and not just physically.

He's stopped wondering about everyone he knew back then a long time ago, but he can't help it, now. He can't help thinking about–

No. He's been down this road too many times.

So instead he shifts his focus to the fireflies around him; glowing bright yellow in the darkness, flashing their lights in a mesmerizing rhythm that seems to get more and more synchronized.

He remembers the first time he ever saw fireflies – he was in Old Vailia. Remembers being fascinated, watching them for hours. He’d never seen anything like it before. And he remembers how he’d felt the exact same way when he first arrived in Vailia.

Of course, the White was beautiful in its own way, but Vailia…

Gods. It’s been so long.

He can’t deny it’s been on the edge of his mind since waking up. He's not even entirely certain if the feeling of nostalgia ever disappeared, or he just got used to it. The sailing, the architecture, the weather – the fucking weather. Everything seems to be a reminder. Familiar, but not too similar. Different enough to remind him how long it’s been. Enough to remind him how much things have changed.

How much he has changed.

The past five years – no, longer than that. The moment he joined that caravan to Gilded Vale… It feels like his life has been in a state of constant change since. Perhaps it started even before that.

And it hasn’t been entirely unwelcome – hasn’t been unwelcome at all, really. Looking back on it, he didn’t realize how much he needed a change until the whole Watcher thing happened – and everything that followed.

He almost scoffs at himself. The Watcher thing. It’s just a regular part of his life, now. Ordinary, even. He’s gotten used to it. When did that happen? He thought he'd either go mad, or die before he got the chance.

He never thought he'd be glad for it. For everything that happened.

But it’s not just that. No, it's never that simple. There’s always something else.

The sound of footsteps pulls him from his thoughts, catching him off-guard. The next thing he knows, he's already turned around and aiming his pistol at whoever’s approaching.

But even before he can make out any features, he recognizes the presence. There's something familiar about it – it's his soul, he realizes.

It's Aloth.

“Oh,” he breathes. “It's you.”

Then the reality of what he just did hits him, and he's speaking before Aloth can open his mouth, quickly lowering the pistol and holstering it.

“Shit, I'm– I’m so sorry, I didn't–”

And it’s not like him to stutter and hesitate, but being around Aloth has that effect on him. He’s different with him than he is – or ever has been – with anyone else. He’s aware of it. It’s still a scary thing to realize.

“It's alright,” Aloth cuts him off, lowering his arms. Because, Tryggvi notices, he'd put them up. Because he just pointed a gun at him.

Great. This is going well.

He thinks he sees Aloth smile, though. Rueful, and only for half a second, but still a smile. He figures it must've been a trick of the moonlight.

Aloth takes a few cautious steps, and stops. And they just look at each other. He’s fairly certain it’s only for a few seconds, but it feels like a lifetime. He feels like he's in freezing water and burning at the same time.

Then Aloth sits next to him.

And then it’s just the burning.

He can't bring himself to look at him. Not when he's so close. Not when it's just the two of them.

He leans forward until his head in his hands, elbows leaning on his knees. And he sighs.

“Is this a bad time?”

“No, it's just–”

Tryggvi thinks about that question. Yes, he thinks. This is a bad time. But he figures that doesn't really matter, because it's always a bad time. He hasn't been able to catch a break since he woke up on that ship – no one has. There's no such thing as a good time, because there is no time, and really, every minute they waste on this stupid fucking island running more errands for what seems like half the entire town, Eothas is–

He takes a deep breath. Then he sits up again, running his hands down his face. It feels odd, too rough and unfamiliar. He has a stubble, he realizes.  Then it clicks. He was supposed to shave last week. He’s not surprised; he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about anything other than Eothas, and the gods, and his soul, and–

This is not the time, he reminds himself. He finally looks at Aloth.

“What's on your mind?” he asks, voice rougher than he expects.

“I was just about to ask you the same.”

Tryggvi laughs at that, turning his gaze to the ocean. It's a small sound, not much more than huff of breath. A scoff at worst and a half-chuckle at best.

It makes Aloth give him a little smile, all the same. And it's so completely and distinctly Aloth that it almost makes Tryggvi smile, as well.

But when Tryggvi looks at him again, Aloth looks almost sad. And Aloth always looks a bit sad, but this feels different. Like he's used to it.

Then Aloth meets his gaze, and they share this look again. It's not really a tense silence as much as it is a pregnant pause, like they're both about to say something. Tryggvi knows he has a thing or two to say. Or a thousand. Or a million.

Five years’ worth of heartbreak. There aren’t enough words.

Tryggvi holds his gaze.

Until he finds himself slowly lowering his gaze, taking in every detail. And Aloth looks… tired, more than anything. And there's the stress, ever-present in the way his brows are furrowed in a perpetual frown, and his lips are littered with marks from biting. But there's something else, too. Something softer.

And Tryggvi thinks he looks a bit older, as well. But that's not really it, is it? Because Aloth’s always looked a bit older than he really is, but now… now it fits him. Now he looks mature.

And it's a good look on him. He looks healthy. Happier.

And, Tryggvi can't help but notice, he’s still gorgeous. His features are gentle, yet sharp and elegant. His tanned, golden skin brings out his eyes, and they're the exact shade of teal as the ocean where the water is shallow. And in the soft moonlight, he looks like something from a dream, all poise and silky grace.

His gaze drifts to the scar on his forehead. Something twists in his stomach every time he sees it. He should’ve been there. He should’ve been there with him. They both knew he would be putting himself in danger, and he just let him leave. There's a part of him that will never forgive himself for that.

Thankfully, though, he manages to stop himself before his gaze can linger on his lips.

It's only been a little under three weeks, he reminds himself. It's too early for – for anything.

Or too late, his mind supplies.

So he just watches the waves. The push and pull, the way they crash against the rocks on the shore. He thinks he sees Aloth’s gaze linger, before he also turns it towards the ocean.

“Too much,” Tryggvi finally replies, breaking the silence.

Not that it was truly silent. Not that it's ever been truly silent since they arrived here. The damn crickets just won't shut up.

But it's enough to turn Aloth’s attention to him.

“Everything,” he continues. He realizes it must sound stupid. It's barely even an answer. “Nothing,” he adds absentmindedly. He's not sure if he's talking to Aloth, or himself. “Things I haven't thought about in years.”

“Tell me,” Aloth says, but Tryggvi doesn't miss the way he pauses a second too long.

And Aloth's always been hesitant when it comes to choosing his words, but Tryggvi knows that's not what this is about. They both know this has nothing to do with any of that.

Tryggvi meets his gaze, searching. Does he tell him? Can they just – do this? Talk? Like they used to? He has no idea how much has changed. Part of him is scared to find out.

And the other part – well.

“I was thinking about home.”

Home. The word sounds foreign to his ears coming from his own mouth. But if not the White, then where? Does he not still miss the smell of snow at dawn, and the way the world would seem to go completely silent? The orange-pink midnights and the feeling of layers upon layers of soft fur, keeping him warm?  

“Home? You mean…” Aloth trails off, raising an eyebrow.

Tryggvi only hums in response.

“And Old Vailia. And everyone I knew back then.” He pauses. He's quieter when he continues. “Who I was, back then.”

Tryggvi pauses again.

“It's been so long. It feels like another life.”

“I can imagine,” Aloth says.

Then there's that pause again, just slightly too long.

“Do you miss it?”

Tryggvi doesn’t reply. And it's an odd question. Too… casually personal. Outright weird, even, considering their situation.

Their situation . What even is their situation? What is this? What are they doing? Here, just the two of them, at this hour? It's too much, too soon.

( It's been five years, a part of him tells him. It's too late. )

But Aloth knows that. He must know. So if he's still asking, that means he doesn't care. And that is not like him.

Unless–

Unless it's the alcohol. Of course. That's what this is about. He must've been drinking with the crew.

Tryggvi almost laughs at the image that pops up in his mind.

Aloth Corfiser, drinking cheap rum with a bunch of sailors he barely knows. Strange times, indeed.

So Tryggvi doesn't reply. After some point Aloth gives up on waiting for an answer, and once again shifts his gaze to the sea.

And then it's too silent.

“Why are you here, Aloth?”

Aloth gives him a confused look. Tryggvi pointedly keeps watching the ocean.

“I told you, I'm following the trail of–”

“No, I mean–” Tryggvi shakes his head, mostly to himself. “Why are you here ?”

He finally looks at Aloth as he finishes speaking.

It’s a stupid question. It’s a bad idea. He knew it was a bad idea before he asked it, and yet he asked it anyway.

He knows it's only going to hurt, whatever answer he gets. It’s been five years . He had five years to move on, and he didn’t.

Or couldn't. He figures it doesn't make much difference, either way.

(It makes all the difference.)

Aloth doesn't reply for a long time.

At first he just stares at Tryggvi with this look on his face. Blank. Too caught off guard to decide which emotion to feel.

Tryggvi thinks he can see it, almost. Him processing it. Turning it over in his head. Analyzing. Always the logical one, Aloth.

And they've had this conversation several times. Several times, Tryggvi has tried to explain to Aloth that he's not supposed to think about it, but just feel it.

Every time, Aloth had called him out on being the last person to give advice about how to handle emotions, and Tryggvi had had to concede.

And now he thinks he can see it. Shock, then anger, then anger at himself for being angry. Humility, regret, and finally something like sadness.

And he thinks he can see it as he decides on sympathy. And that's worse.

“I don’t want it to be weird between us, Tryggvi.”

He's not looking at Tryggvi this time. He's not looking at the ocean, either. No, he seems to be fascinated with the rock they're sitting on. Maybe it's the moss. It has a nice texture, he'll admit. Or it could be the color. It’s a pretty likeable shade of green.

Or maybe it's something else entirely.

Tryggvi almost scoffs, fighting the urge to roll his eyes, and failing. Then he looks back at Aloth, studying him. Aloth keeps his gaze fixed on the rock, but he looks conflicted. Not because he regrets his words, though. No, he's seen what that looks like – it was how they met. And this is not it.

Tryggvi looks away again as he speaks.

“It's not going to be the way it used to be, Aloth.”

“I know that, I just–” Aloth pauses, thinking. Always thinking. Thinking too much.

But when he finally looks up at Tryggvi, all his hesitation is gone, and he sounds tired. Like he's had this conversation many times, before.

“It’s been five years, Tryggvi.”

“You think I don't know that?”

But as Tryggvi finishes speaking, and once again meets Aloth's gaze, he immediately regrets it. Aloth looks like a child being scolded.

He was too abrasive. He curses himself for it.

But then Aloth's expression shifts into something else. Something much, much worse. And Tryggvi feels his heart sink before Aloth even speaks, quiet and soft.

“Tryggvi, I can’t.”

And there it is.

Aloth shakes his head, seemingly to himself. It's… small – like any big sudden movement might break something. Tryggvi can't blame him. Even the air feels fragile right now.

“Not now, not when it’s…” Aloth trails off, looking away. He seems lost in thought.

But then something about his expression – his entire posture – changes. His voice sounds different when he speaks again. And it’s barely above a whisper, but still clear.

“I didn't even know if you were alive.”

Tryggvi gets the sense he's talking more to himself. It still hits him like a slap to the face. He sounds broken.

“I'm not so sure myself, these days,” Tryggvi replies.

It was supposed to be a joke. He said it like a joke, he smiled and everything – thinks he did, anyway. He's pretty sure.

But Aloth looks – he looks absolutely horrified.

“Sorry, I shouldn't have–” he stammers, “I'm sorry, I didn't mean–”

“Hey,” Tryggvi cuts him off. His voice comes out quieter than he expected. Softer.

He wants to reach out. A friendly hand on his shoulder. A comforting grip on his arm. Fingers lightly brushing against his.

He keeps his hands where they are.

“It’s okay,” he offers.

Aloth gives him that look he always does when they both know Tryggvi is lying. Equally affectionate and unimpressed. And so incredibly, ridiculously Aloth.

It makes his heart ache.

He can't help but smile.

They're both quiet for a while, after that. And the silence stretches on and on and on – is a comfortable one.

Or at least, until Aloth breaks it.

“I'm sorry I left,” he says, out of nowhere . And it's so – casual. Like he's talking about what he ate for breakfast, or the– or the fucking weather or something–

And when his head immediately snaps towards Aloth, he finds that he's not even looking at him. He keeps his eyes on the ocean, which to Tryggvi seems hugely overrated in this moment. All those songs and poems. It's just water. There's water everywhere. He won't even look at me.

And Tryggvi goes very still. It feels like there’s ice water running through his veins. His stomach drops. And for a moment it feels like he can't breathe, and then it's – something like anger, but not quite.

He takes a deep breath. He looks away.

Don't be , he wants to say . We both agreed to it. It was for the best. It's not your fault.

But it's been five years. And some part of him wants to say you don't get to be sorry. You can't do this to me. You left.

And it's been five years. But an even bigger part of him wants to say it doesn't matter. You're here now. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't–

All that comes out is a choked sound.

“Don't–” he starts, but finds that he can't speak, can't continue. His throat feels like it's grown thorns; words blossoming into flowers blocking his airway.

“Don't.”

It's barely audible. He swallows.

“But I'm here now,” Aloth continues, ignoring him. He's still not looking at him. For a moment Tryggvi wonders if he heard him at all.

“And I want to help. Whatever may have happened between us in the past–” Aloth pauses, as if to give Tryggvi enough time to recover from the impact of the words. It's not enough. It's nowhere near.

“You were a good friend,” Aloth continues. “Perhaps the only one,” he adds quietly. Then he finally looks at Tryggvi. “I don't want that to change.”

And Tryggvi just stares at him, almost disbelieving. Because that's all he can do. Because Aloth is serious. Aloth is serious.

Does he even understand what he's saying? Does he realize what he's asking of Tryggvi? He can't even get angry. The pit in his stomach seems to swallow any other feeling.

“What do you want me to say, Aloth?”

He voice is quieter than he intended, and he sounds defeated. Tired. Suddenly he realizes he feels tired, as well. Exhausted, even. But underneath it all, there's also a sense of relief. He had been dreading this conversation for too long. At least now he knows.  

Tryggvi studies him for some time, without speaking. What does Aloth want him to say? Does he want Tryggvi to tell him what it was like, the past five years without him? Does he want him to say he missed him – so much and for such a long time that it just became a part of his life? Does he want him to say he would still do anything for him, if he asked?

Because he would. Tryggvi would. He would tell him everything, all of it, because it's the truth. He would tell him, if that was what he wanted to hear.

But it's not.

"I sent letters, you know," Aloth says. He doesn't even try to make it sound like an answer. Tryggvi figures that's an answer on its own.

But the conversational tone is still there. Like they're just having a chat. Like Tryggvi doesn't feel like he's being stabbed in the chest.

It aches.

And gods, the letters. The letters.

He's tried not to think about them. It had been going well, convincing himself he had moved on. It had been five years. Missing Aloth was just – static. White noise. He didn't even think about it. He'd wake up thinking about him, and go to sleep wishing he was there. And everything in-between was just – something like regret.

He's pretty sure it was not that simple, in truth. But that was what it felt like.

But finding those letters… It's the last thing he remembers, before– before Eothas. But he remembers.

And he hasn't been able to stop thinking about them, especially since finding Aloth again.

Part of him is glad he didn’t have time to read all of them. Because what was worse than finding out five years later that Aloth wrote him so many letters he never received – what was worse was realizing he'd stopped sending them after two years.

He's not sure he would've been able to handle realizing that as he read through all of them.

Aloth glances at him, studying his expression, no doubt. It's only then that Tryggvi realizes he hasn't replied. Then Aloth's expression shifts into one of concern, and he starts rambling.

“I don't know if they ever reached you. I mean, I did address them to Caed Nua, but maybe you didn't–” he pauses, looking briefly panicked. “I mean, I never... got any replies, but I heard you weren't at Caed Nua so maybe you just didn't, but I–”

“You should get back to camp,” Tryggvi interrupts him. He doesn't look at Aloth. He can't.

He realizes how it must seem.

Aloth winces. He immediately looks away, but the hurt is written all over his face. Tryggvi's chest feels like it's being ripped apart. He closes his eyes. The feeling spreads to his entire body.

He can tell Aloth thinks he's doing a good job of hiding it. He’s always had a terrible poker face. Tryggvi always thought it was extremely endearing.

He wants to laugh. He's afraid it'll sound more like a sob.

“I, uh,” Aloth stammers. Then he seems to regain some resemblance of composure. “Of course.”

He's clearly trying to hide the disappointment in his voice. And it almost works. Tryggvi suspects it would've worked on anyone that isn't him.  

“I shall leave you to your thoughts, then, shall I?”

It feels like a pathetic attempt at sounding humorous.

Aloth gets up, making his way down the outcropping. He almost slips, but Tryggvi hears him finally make it to the ground, and take a few steps. Then he stops.

Tryggvi makes the mistake of turning around.

Aloth is looking at him. He flinches when he sees Tryggvi, as if he's about to turn around and keep walking. But he doesn't.

Is he studying him? He looks thoughtful, but there's something else, too. He seems… concerned, almost. Apologetic?

It's too dark to tell.

Either way, his gaze lingers a little too long. And Tryggvi can't shake the feeling he's about to say something. So he waits, holding his gaze.

Then, Aloth leaves.

And Tryggvi watches him leave. As soon as he's out of sight, he lets out a shaky breath. He feels cold.

For a moment he wonders if Aloth was really here at all. If he just imagined it. But then he hears Edér, way louder than necessary as always.

“Aloth! There you are!”

Tryggvi can tell, all the way from where he's sitting, that he’s drunk.

And that… brings back memories. From years ago. And he can’t help but wonder – when did this become his life? He never thought he'd miss the way things were back in the Dyrwood, all those years ago.

But to his surprise, he does. Misses the campfire talks, misses being around the group, misses how… simple things were compared to this, compared to now. Sure, it wasn't wasn't easy then, either, but at least they weren't chasing down a god. At least he still had his soul in one piece.

At least he hadn't ruined things with Aloth.

He sighs, looking up at the sky again. It feels like the stars are mocking him.

He wonders if Berath is there. Watching. He knows it doesn't work that way. He still can't help but feel a stirring in his chest.

He hates this. Hates everything about it. He's spent his life trying to avoid politics, and now he's knee-deep – no, up to his neck in bullshit. And it's not just any politics. It's god politics.

It's a living nightmare.

Another set of footsteps interrupts his thoughts. He knows it's not Aloth, this time. Too heavy and loud to be him, and the soul is–

“So–o,” Edér almost shouts, drawing out the word. “That's where you've been hiding!”

The accusatory tone is there, but he chuckles. It's a rich, warm sound, and Tryggvi can tell even before he turns around that Edér is so drunk. And he seems sober enough at first glance, but the way he keeps shifting his weight from one leg to another, swaying lightly in the process gives it away.

Tryggvi doesn't reply. He is not in the mood for this.

“Shit, Tryggvi,” Edér says, slurring his words a little and stopping next to the rocks he's sitting on. He's quieter when he continues.

“Sometimes I think you haven't changed at all.”

Tryggvi gets the feeling he's talking to himself. He sounds thoughtful, watching him with an unusual expression. Like he's studying Tryggvi. It’s a strange look on him.

“You and me both,” he mutters in reply.

“C’mon,” Edér yells, sounding more like himself. “Aren’t you happy we're finally gettin’ off this island?”

More than you know, he thinks.

The last time he was stranded on an island he was completely alone, had a pistol with exactly one bullet, and no food or water. The past month has been hell, plagued by constant stress and bad memories.

“You're the captain. You should be there,” Edér says, vaguely pointing in the direction of the campfire, “Celebratin’ with the rest of your crew.”

Your crew . The words seem to echo in his mind. He's a captain. He has a crew.

This really is a nightmare.

Tryggvi sighs, and with one final glance at the sea, stands up.

“If you say so.”

He jumps down the rocks he was sitting on, landing next to Edér. Immediately, the stench of alcohol on him is… overwhelming.

“You smell like Engrim.”

“Hey,” Edér says, pointing a finger at him. He sounds uncharacteristically stern. “That was uncalled for.”

And for a moment Tryggvi thinks he might have offended Edér – it's been five years, after all. He’s not sure where he stands with him. But Edér abruptly breaks into a fit of giggles and laughter, shoulders shaking and all.

And Tryggvi's not entirely sure what's so funny, but before he knows it, he's laughing as well. He doesn’t question it – Edér's laughs have always been contagious. But even as he leans against a rock, gasping for breath, there’s an empty feeling growing in his chest.

Tryggvi doesn't even remember the last time he laughed so hard. He hadn't realized how much he needed a good laugh. Maybe getting drunk with the crew’s not such a bad idea. Let himself relax, if only for one night.

He has a feeling this is only the beginning – of something much, much bigger. He figures he should enjoy himself while he still can. Who knows – he might not be there to celebrate after this is all over.

His whole body feels suddenly heavier.

“At least I'm not as bad as Durance,” Edér chuckles. “Come on, let's go.”

Just as Tryggvi thinks he's about to start walking, though, Edér claps him on the back.

And they've been over this; Edér knows Tryggvi doesn't enjoy casual physical contact, and the entire party has seen him lose his shit over it.

But this time, it's not that.

Tryggvi makes a sound between a cough and a wheeze. Because the entire left half of his back burns. His injuries from the keep’s collapse still haven't healed completely.

He focuses on his breathing.

“What the fuck, Edér?” he hisses between gritted teeth.

“Shit, sorry,” Edér says a little too quickly. He looks genuinely apologetic, at least. “Was that not your good side?”

“No, Edér,” Tryggvi manages, but it's barely above a whisper. “It wasn't.”

“Right,” Edér mutters. He looks so guilty, Tryggvi would think he was mocking him if he didn't know him better.

“It's fine,” he says. Edér smiles.

They walk in silence. He can hear the crew more clearly as they get closer. He can make out Aloth’s laughing. He tries to ignore the hollow, sinking feeling in his stomach.

“And you're right,” he adds after a while.

“About what?”

“You’re definitely not as bad as Durance.”

Edér stops walking, and looks at Tryggvi. Then he looks away, shaking his head, and keeps walking.

“Thanks,” he says, voice flat.

“What, it was–”

“Shut up.”

“–a compliment!”

“No it wasn't.”

“If you say so.”

It's all he can do to stop himself from grinning.

Edér glares at him as they keep walking, then starts laughing again. It’s softer this time, though.

“Going for walks in the middle of the night, getting drunk, talking shit about Durance… Just like old times, eh?”

Things couldn’t be more different, Tryggvi thinks.

He doesn't bother trying to force a smile.