Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Are you going back to Orr already, Firstborn Trahearne?”

Trahearne glances back at the sapling, who has his hands clasped behind his back and is watching him with typical sprout-like eagerness. He looks so innocent that Trahearne can almost forget he made Carys cry for a full hour earlier.

“Yes,” he says.

The sapling’s face falls in ill-concealed disappointment. “Will you be returning soon?” he asks. “There is… much I would ask of you.”

Privately, Trahearne doubts the interest will be mutual. The sapling is curious about him simply because he is a necromancer and a firstborn, and therefore in his mind the only person important enough to respect. Trahearne doesn’t envy the mentor who will have the difficult job of teaching him humility.

“I will see where my journeys take me,” he answers evasively. He adds, however, in full sincerity, “I hope we meet again, Valiant.”

Pale Mother willing, it will be at a time when he has a little more experience and a lot less arrogance. Trahearne knows better than to cast his full judgement on fresh sprouts, young as they are, although this one is… Well. He is something. In time, however—perhaps a long time—this Valiant could be a valuable ally. Maybe he’ll even acknowledge that Trahearne has a thing or two to teach him about necromancy.

~*~

They do, in fact, meet again.

“I want to be your pupil, Firstborn Trahearne,” the Valiant tells him in a tone that implies that it is more an order than a request, really, and he fully expects Trahearne to comply.

“No,” says Trahearne.

The Valiant frowns at him for a long second, before his brow clears. “I understand,” he says. “You disagree because you do not see my merit. Well, I am much more intelligent and powerful than the average sylvari here, I believe. You yourself have acknowledged what I have accomplished. And I have been studying the Risen incursion on Caledon since you last left; I have learned quite a bit more about their nature than anyone else would have in my stead.”

“Strength and intelligence will only get you so far, Valiant,” Trahearne replies, choosing to address the one thing he said that won’t give him a headache trying to unravel. “It is true that you have demonstrated great prowess, but that alone will not suffice if you are to make it outside Caledon’s borders.”

“I have been outside Caledon’s borders.” The Valiant’s spine straightens in something like defiance. “The most time I have spent here is when you have been here as well. Caithe called me in from the Shiverpeak Mountains, to the east.”

“I see.” He must be older than he seems, then—saplings do not simply coast across Tyria as soon as they awaken. Perhaps he has just not learned from his travels. “That must have been quite the journey for you.”

The Valiant scoffs. “No. I was hardly going to waste my time walking there on foot. There was a portal in the Grove, so I took advantage of it. As I have said, I am resourceful.”

Ah. That explains it.

Trahearne makes a mental note to tell the Asura Gate guards to do a better job of keeping wandering newborns away. “In that case, you still have much to learn, Valiant. Perhaps one day, when you are mature enough to hold a conversation without insulting someone else to praise yourself, I will consider it.”

The Valiant’s eyes flash. He looks as if he wants to bite out a retort, but whatever respect he holds for Trahearne seems to stay his tongue. Good—that is a start.

Trahearne turns to leave. “Speak with me again once you learn what happened to Caladbolg, Valiant.”

“Firstborn!”

Trahearne looks back at him.

The Valiant all but stares him down, dark eyes glinting with determination. “If I find and slay Mazdak,” he says, “Will you agree to teach me?”

Trahearne stops. Mother had made the suggestion offhandedly, yes, but this sapling is far too young and inexperienced to fight against a lich and win. Does he truly think he is so special that he can succeed where Riannoc had failed?

He will die.

“If you plan to avenge Riannoc, Valiant,” Trahearne replies, “I will teach you all you want to know.”

The Valiant smiles triumphantly. Trahearne sighs, already regretting his hasty words. “And if we are going to do this, just call me Trahearne.”

~*~

“I don’t know if I like this,” the Valiant confesses to him.

Trahearne looks at him. His time spent exploring the Shiverpeaks has smoothed some of the expressiveness from his face, although that could just be his personality finally getting a chance to emerge. A lot of sylvari do not truly find themselves until they venture far from the Mother Tree’s roots. As a student, he has been… challenging. He is strong and precocious, but he has a bite he needs to put a guard on before he goes out into the world. He has potential—but to cause either good or ill.

“You don’t know if you like what, Valiant?” Trahearne asks. “Actually listening to my advice?”

That earns him a laugh, surprisingly. “No, Trahearne. I value your advice greater than any of the Tenets. I mean… this.” He waves ambiguously. “Coming back here to do things for Mother. Listening to Caithe.”

He grimaces, then adds, “My name.”

Four controversial statements in four neat sentences. Trahearne chooses to address the last one. “What is wrong with your name, Na Rós? It’s a fine one, as names go.”

The Valiant frowns. “It doesn’t suit me.”

Trahearne considers him. Names are known inherently by all sylvari upon awakening. The apparent strangeness of them—to the other races of Tyria, at least—is what makes them unique. Their names tie them back to the Pale Tree. Their names unite them as a race. It isn’t that surprising that this particular Valiant doesn’t like his.

“Then pick a new one,” Trahearne finds himself saying.

The Valiant blinks at him. “I can do that?”

“You can do more than what people expect of you, Valiant.” Trahearne sighs. “I understand your predicament more than I’d like to admit. I myself don’t quite feel at home in the Grove. The sylvari here… they do not live the life I do. I bring Orr with me wherever I go, in mind if not in physicality. Sometimes it feels as if the dragon’s corruption is following me and I can only see people through the haze it casts over my mind.”

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. What is he doing, haranguing to a sapling about his woes? But even as he finishes speaking, the Valiant is nodding.

“I understand what you mean.” He tilts his head and frowns, fixing Trahearne with a discerning gaze—as if he is not too young to truly understand. “I don’t feel like everyone else here. I prefer the snow, the cold, the silence. Everything here is too cheerful and bright.”

Looking at him, Trahearne can believe that. His foliage is sparse, having mostly withered away in the cold air of the Shiverpeaks. His bark seems impossibly paler, his black eyes cooler. He is in a dark coat of norn-make, with not a homegrown leaf in sight. There are sylvari like him out there, but they stray far from the Grove.

“And… sometimes, I feel—"

“Rosa,” Trahearne suggests out of nowhere.

The Valiant blinks at him. “Rosa?”

“If you like it. It’s a human name, but close enough to yours. Perhaps you can spell it differently to make yourself feel special.”

The—insult? Tease?—comes out of nowhere. Trahearne blinks at himself, about to take it back—why had he said that?—but the Valiant twinkles out a little laugh of delight.

“I like it. Rosa,” he says, testing the name out. He repeats it, then nods slowly. “Yes, I think I like it a lot, actually. Thank you, Trahearne.”

“I’m glad to help out, Valiant.” Trahearne hesitates, then adds, “It can be… difficult to find kin in foreign lands. If you like, you can write to me during your travels. I’d be happy to hear of your adventures, no matter how cold they may be.”

The Valiant looks at him in surprise. Truthfully, Trahearne is surprised as well; is he truly so wanting for companionship that he is extending an invitation to the thorniest sapling he knows? But then the Valiant breaks into a large smile, gleaming with innocence, and Trahearne, despite himself, finds himself returning an echo of it.

Perhaps he’s been a bit too quick to judge this sprout. His heart is sweet, though his thorns prick. One day—far, far from now, possibly years in the future—they may even grow to be friends.

~*~

Roza (he had actually decided to spell his name that way, much to Trahearne’s amusement) is… different when they next see each other face to face.

Trahearne had passively felt the change in his maturity through their letters, but the vast majority of those had been discussions on necromancy, Orr, or necromancy and Orr. He had attributed any tonal abnormalities to Roza’s formal, surprisingly poetic writing style (Trahearne, too, remembers when he had first discovered the wonderful world of metaphors). Now, sitting in the boat to Lion’s Arch next to the stern stiffness that used to be a bright young Valiant, he cannot help but feel as if he has missed something.

“It’s not your fault, Valiant,” he finds himself saying quietly. The boat sways.

Roza looks at him, and then away before Trahearne can shiver at the coldness in his eyes.

“My superiors will be disappointed in me,” he replies.

Trahearne shakes his head. “You did your best,” he insists. “If anything, they will be proud. You helped save Lion’s Arch.”

“I let a high-ranking Warmaster die,” Roza says hollowly. “The worms will get to his corpse, and he will Rise again. Someone out there is bound to ask if I did it on purpose.”

Trahearne doesn’t know what to say to that. Before he can think of anything, Roza turns his head, wordlessly cutting off the conversation. The rest of the journey is made in complete silence.

~*~

Trahearne makes this new Roza his second-in-command.

It is a straightforward choice. He has obviously learned tactics and strategy from his time in the Vigil, and he seems to have a natural knack for threat assessment. Trahearne can rely on him for aid in matters where he himself is lacking. As for his combat prowess, he fights as if he is always on death’s door, which is… concerning, but highly effective. He can project his voice across a battlefield. He can bark out orders and stare down anyone who won’t listen until they're intimidated into obeisance. He is sharp as a knife, driven as the arc of an axe. It is easy to see how he got promoted so quickly.

He also has himself clamped down on tighter than a skritt’s grip on a bronze button.

He is cool to Trahearne, although sometimes he eases when he is not watching himself. His militarily perfect posture loosens when they speak about magic, or whenever Trahearne catches himself rhapsodising about his Wyld Hunt. His speech is curt, but apparently he barely speaks at all when they are not together, so that might count as a victory. And there is something—dark and bottomless and aching—in the depths of his gaze.

Trahearne cannot help but wonder at times what happened to the sapling who used to look at him with shining eyes and ask question after question about dead bodies, and Risen, and how does minion summoning work, Trahearne, and do you think you can demonstrate for him? Now all the questions Roza asks him are unsmiling and straightforward. More often than not, there is a bitter comment thrown in as well, all the more souring his curiosity. Sometimes, rarely, he seems like he wants to break free of whatever restraints he has imposed on himself and let his heart burst forth. But following these moments, he retreats further inwards, and the shadow in his eyes ever deepens.

It makes a strange pang grow in Trahearne’s chest. It is true that he hadn’t been fond of Roza’s asperity as a sapling, but… he had been effectively harmless. Now he has been irrevocably exposed to the world, and he is harsh from it. Despite the letters. Despite the smiles Trahearne tries to send his way. He has… missed this development, somehow.

He finds himself, one evening, going through the pile of haphazard correspondence he has received from Roza over the past year. Many of the letters are in a similar tone, replying to something Trahearne has said about his work and either expressing interest or responding in kind. He frowns as he flips through them. Many, many of them. All of them.

He stops. Hadn’t Roza, even once, written about something mundane?

Trahearne is certain he himself had. Or… perhaps he hadn’t, because he had run out of paper after waxing poetic about Orr for too long and had decided to simply end his letter. He recalls that happening a few times. However, there is nothing in Roza’s written half that speak of the day-to-day life of the Vigil, or any new clothing he had gotten, or any new animals he had met (that tends to be a common topic among young sylvari), or even the weather. The few mentions of his own business are about either his promotions or his mission details at the time. He refers to Forgal once or twice, but it is with detachment, lacking either fondness or animosity.

The one subject that bleeds a little more excitement—denoted by either more flowery sentences or long paragraphs that could be construed as rambles—is necromancy. Roza is passionate about the subject, such as the ways the boundaries of magic can be stretched, and how it feels, and why it feels, and what it would feel like to be on the receiving end, and if minions have emotions, even if primitive ones, and, and, and. Trahearne has read all of this already, but now, looking back on it without the natural gaps in time written correspondence calls for, he sees it through new eyes. Does Roza truly only have one interest?

The next day, Trahearne mentions an Orrian resurrection ritual he has finished translating, going into more detail than he usually would on non-Pact matters. Surely enough, the commander’s eyes brighten. Trahearne asks him for his opinion on one of its aspects, and he actually gets the smallest smile.

It should be a relief. Trahearne can’t help but think it is a little sad.

~*~

[Status: crumpled in the bottom of a bin somewhere in a Vigil storage room]

Dear Traherna,

Wow youre name is hard to spell!! I think that is enough. I have not gotten your next letter but I am sure it will be very interesting. I'm glad you have cats and I wish I could have one as well. I only have two friends and they are Lanrantir and Forgal perhaps. If you have three cats then that is a lot of friends.

They don't have nectar here which is very bad. They have other alcohol which is disgusting however the norn brews, are good. I apologize I realize I have forgot, commas. Anyways I am sorry I am writing so much, I have consumed some of the norn brews and they have given me inspiration. Forgal says he is worried about me but he also says he doesn't have feelings, just muscle so I do not know what to believe.

The sylvari here do not like me and everyone else thinks I'm creepy. I do not know what I have done to them besides yell sometimes when they were being annoying. Maybe they should be less stupid. Maybe they should stop hurting me. I tried to go Soundless for a while because the sylvaris complained I was emotioning too much but Laranther stopped me. He says I should try to be nicer to them but I don't see why I have to do it first that seems unfair and a show of weakness to them like sharks in blood water. And I am strong I am very inteligent and I have prompted quickly, I will not bleed. I wonder if sharks eat sap. I feel upset now so I will drink more norn until it goes away.

Love, (although I don't think you like me very much)

Rozzzzzzza (if I add more zs it makes me feel more special)

PS: Tell Caithe to STOP sending me letters!! I am sad too but I do not write people monoulogs about it.

~*~

The Syska incident brings to light only what it obfuscates further.

If Roza had been stiff before, having a mesmer impersonate him to drag his name into the dirt makes him downright rigid. Trahearne naturally assumes it is a matter of pride at first, and it is only after killing the deceiver, when he is debriefing the commander about it, that he realizes that may not entirely be the case.

“Marshal.” Roza salutes him stiffly. “I… hope I have regained your confidence.”

Trahearne nods. “Of course—you’ve always had it. And once I've spread the truth about what happened here, you'll have the Pact's again, too.”

Roza doesn’t answer immediately. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, as if he has still not come down from the fight. When he does speak, there is the faintest tremor in his voice, although his expression is even.

“That is very generous of you to say, but I know I have let you down, Marshal. I should have seen through the illusion. Rest assured that next time I will not make such a simple and deadly mistake.”

Trahearne frowns slightly. “I understand your regret, but do not let it consume you, Commander. You were misled by a powerful mesmer. I'll make sure the families of the fallen know who's truly to blame.”

Roza swallows. “I will not let one mistake consume me, but I hope it will be my last. I am fit for command, sir, I swear to you. I’ve been trained by the best.”

That is… an odd reassurance, not only in its content but in its delivery. Roza is taking this harshly, Trahearne realizes—far too harshly.

“At ease, Commander,” he says, because Roza looks as if his spine will pop if he stands any more rigidly. “Roza. If I felt you were unfit for duty, I would never have made you my second-in-command. You have made one mistake, and you will probably make more. That is natural—it happens to everyone, even I.”

Instead of looking mollified, Roza’s eyes flash with something like fear. “I will not make more,” he says.

Trahearne examines at him, brow creased. Roza grows increasingly more nervous as he does so, although he hides it well. Finally, Trahearne steps away, gesturing with one hand.

“Let us speak in private.”

Roza’s trepidation as they walk is palpable through the Dream, though he stays silent. Is he afraid Trahearne will lecture him? Demote him? If it is simply a matter of a young soldier new to command taking things too personally, why is he not responding to reassurance?

“Here will do.” They stop, and when Trahearne turns to the commander, he is shocked to see him practically on the verge of tears. Roza, being this reactive? What is going on?

“Roza.” He speaks gently, laying his hand on a slim shoulder and trying not to notice how it startles from his touch. “What is it you are so afraid of? Speak freely; I would hear your thoughts in full.”

“Marshal.” Roza’s voice leaves him halfway through the word. He clears his throat. “I apologize for being so loud. I can try and turn myself down.”

“That is not what I asked.” Trahearne frowns. “I seek to alleviate your fears, not condemn them. Tell me what it is that troubles you.”

“I won’t let it affect my work,” Roza says.

Trahearne tries to tamp down on the flicker of frustration he feels at those words; it will not help his commander. Instead, he focuses on his concern, hoping it overshadows his emotions enough for Roza to sense it to whatever degree he is able. He has a suspicion that this is a learned reaction, as much as the idea pains him. Or has Trahearne done something to evoke this? It has never happened before—Roza is usually so put together.

“Please, Roza, I want only to help you.” Trahearne gentles his tone further. “I hope you trust in our friendship enough that you know you can confide in me, if you wish to.”

Roza’s eyes widen slightly at that. “Our… friendship,” he repeats in an undertone, seemingly to himself. “I see. Do you consider us friends, then, Marshal? I confess I do not have experience in such matters. Laranthir says I am just his bully, although I think he simply likes to tease.”

“I do.” Perhaps they are not entirely there yet, then, but they are well on their way. Trahearne shelves the Laranthir tidbit for later (he does have a bit of a playful streak, although Trahearne might tell him to tone it down somewhat if it is giving Roza existential crises). “You have stood steadfast by my side through many an arduous conflict, and your input and advice are invaluable. I hold you in high regard.”

Roza simply stares at him, eyes widening further. He does not reply immediately, but his breathing speeds up, enough to be noticeable.

“I… see,” he says finally. He tucks in his chin, lashes sweeping downwards. “Is that… your veritable truth?”

Your veritable truth. He speaks so differently now than he used to, ornamenting his words and only flirting with their true purpose. What he truly means by anything he says is beyond anyone’s guess save his own. Trahearne, too, can speak in metaphors and skim truth’s borders, when he wishes to. But not now.

“It is,” he answers plainly, and waits.

Roza swallows. In the moment that he hesitates, the Dream quivers. Then his shoulders slump, and he looks far downwards, almost in shame.

“There is a part of me,” he admits, as if he is afraid of it, “that is ever in awe of you. Your regard means… too much. I know you saw me as a bit of a nuisance when we first met, but you were—you are—nothing but impressive to me. Your knowledge of necromancy is vast. Your passion about Orr and your dedication to restoring the land is incredible. You see the beauty where others cannot in a rotted scar of a land, and I think that is… I think that is wondrous, to tell you the truth. Through your eyes, I feel as if I can see it too. You are an inspiration, Trahearne.”

That… is… not what Trahearne was expecting, and he clears his throat awkwardly, unused to the praise. He is certain he can feel an embarrassed warmth underneath his bark that isn’t just from the sun, despite how contradictorily miserable Roza’s expression is compared to his words. He lays a tentative hand on his commander’s shoulder—relieved when he earns nary a flinch—and ducks his head to meet his gaze.

“Is that all that bad?” he says lightly. He tries a smile. Roza looks at him for a doleful moment, then shakily returns it. “There you are. And hey—I haven’t thought of you as a nuisance in a long time.”

For a moment Roza’s expression crystalizes, and Trahearne is about to instinctively apologize—then he breathes out a laugh, thready and cool.

“So you did think of me as one once,” he says, and he sounds pained, but also strangely grateful.

“That information is strictly on a need-to-know basis, Commander.” Trahearne smiles truly this time, teasing and warm. It is odd to banter like this, to have a burgeoning friend, especially in this sylvari. But though Trahearne’s socialization skills are rusty, he can still put them to use. With Roza’s standoffish demeanor, they almost match.

“Roza,” he tries, and he sees black eyes widen at the use of his given name, “Is a small case of hero worship truly that bad? It will fade with time. I do not see why it is worth condemning yourself over.”

“It is not hero wo—” Roza cuts himself off with a frustrated chuff. Trahearne releases his shoulder, all too aware of the slippery stones on which they step.

“It is… uncomfortable for me to speak of such things,” Roza mutters. He crosses his arms, hugging himself protectively. “But. If you truly wish to know. I feel, truthfully, as if I do not belong by your side. I am not worthy of it. One of these days, I know your regard for me will fall low enough for you to replace me with someone who is… someone who is not me.”

Trahearne draws back. “Do I truly give you that impression?” he asks in dismay.

“No.” Roza toes at the ground. “It is not you.”

“Roza.” Trahearne reaches out once more—

And Roza abruptly jerks back. “You do not understand,” he denounces. His demeanor turns frigid, as if Trahearne has accidentally flipped a switch he never knew the existence of.

“Then help me understand,” he appeals, though he suspects it is fruitless.

“I cannot.” Roza breathes out harshly. “Not all mysteries are yours to uncover, Trahearne. I am sorry.”

He looks into Trahearne’s eyes, and something beyond the ice in his own moves. “Truly,” he says, quieter.

Fine, then. Trahearne cannot force him to confide his troubles, and he would not push what is yet a growing bond. They will proceed apace, and let the leaves fall where they may. Trahearne nods once, then steps away. “I am here if you ever want to talk,” he says.

Roza looks almost guilty. “I know.”

Trahearne tries to give him one last smile, which he does not return, before turning on his heel and leaving to attend to his duties. Roza watches him go with something like regret, shoulders hunched tightly together.

You see the beauty where others cannot in a rotted scar of a land, and I think that is… I think that is wondrous.

There is something there, to be brushed at beyond the muck and the filthy grime. Trahearne has faith that they will find it.

~*~

Most of Orr is rot. There is life under its waters, coral clinging to its walls, and the rest of it is rot. And Trahearne knows that. He knows it intimately, so much so that one could say he knows the life and breath of Orr more than he knows the life and breath of his own body. To him it is worth it. He knows that although one day the land may be—will be—beautiful again, there is a different kind of life in death, in rot; a growth of something opposite yet concurrent that is beautiful in an entirely different way.

He is aware that there are rumours that whisper that Roza is trying to make himself Risen (It had emerged, he suspects, after one particularly lengthy speech spurred by an asuran scientist musing aloud about the transformative nature of Zhaitan’s minions—from the usually quiet commander, such a thing is… noticeable). But clean eyes are blind to unclean truths, and Trahearne can see what they cannot: that despite his troubles, Roza can see the beauty in the rot as well.

~*~

(He learns what he wanted to know, in the worst way possible. And he mourns for his commander and his lost innocence. But that is a story for another time, and it is not Trahearne’s to tell.)

~*~

“Trahearne,” Roza says with shining eyes, “Your Wyld Hunt is complete.”

His voice is a whisper, as if he doesn’t dare shatter the unspoken rule of silence that has bubbled up around the two of them. Outside of it, their allies shout and clamour and cheer, but Trahearne is not looking at them; he is looking at the biggest smile he has seen in all the months he has known his commander. He is focusing on the hands that are squeezing him almost painfully tight, clinging to him as if they are the only thing holding him upright. Perhaps they are.

“Yes,” he says breathlessly. He feels… He doesn’t know what he feels. He can figure that out later, when he can stand on his own two legs.

Roza’s smile grows so wide it threatens to split his face in half. “It only took you… twenty-three years,” he says, and he drops his face onto Trahearne’s shoulder and begins to laugh.

Trahearne lets out a huff of disbelief. Then it turns into a laugh as well, and he and Roza stand there with each other on the edge of hysteria, giggling like saplings.

“It’s all thanks to you, Commander,” he says when he can speak. Roza shakes his head.

“Fuck no,” he says, and he seems positively ecstatic at the expletive. “This is the culmination of all of your hard work. Your years of research. Your passion, your perseverance, your love for this land. This is all you.”

He removes his hands, and Trahearne barely has enough energy left to be surprised when he feels himself engulfed in a gentle embrace. “For what it’s worth, I’m so proud of you.”

By the Pale Tree, that shouldn’t make tears prick at his eyes. But he is exhausted, and his aloof commander is hugging him, and Orr is cleansed. His land is free.

He throws the arm that isn’t steadying himself with Caladbolg around his Roza’s narrow shoulders. “It’s worth a lot, Roza,” he says softly, and he couldn’t mean it more.

~*~

Things… change, after that.

Roza is less cool with him, for one. Trahearne feels his own behaviour warm as well; it is as if finishing his Wyld Hunt together—and soon after, Roza’s—has opened a latch underneath the titles of Marshal and Commander to a secret passage that is just small enough for the two of them to converse in, underneath the walls of the Pact. In it Roza is insubordinate at best, though Trahearne can barely bring himself to mind. Sometimes, usually in the dead of night, they have time to talk. Trahearne learns things: what Roza’s personality is like, what he really thinks about whatever problems they discuss in general meetings—and, perhaps rudely, about the people in them—what books he keeps hidden underneath his pillow. Trahearne in turn elaborates on his travels and the places he has been. He talks about his research, not only of Orr but of the guild wars, and of how humans managed to harness their gods’ powers. Roza is curious about the domains of magic: specifically, how they can be crossed over, and what it would mean for a necromancer to shift power away from the dead and into the antithesis of light. In a million moments, only a fraction of the happier ones relayed in this particular tale, they have a conversation.

When they do not have the time to talk, they exchange metaphorical notes. A quick glance during a meeting, a brief hand on an arm, even something as significative as an inside joke, once or twice. Trahearne realizes, with some surprise, that they are fast becoming friends. It is not what he ever expected to happen, and certainly not at this pace, but they get along well. And all it had taken was killing an Elder Dragon.

Roza’s case of hero worship, or whatever it had been, seems to not disappear entirely, but rather fade into something else. He seems genuinely appreciative of their friendship, although Trahearne suspects it is largely because he has never before had one of a similar magnitude. But sparkle of novelty or no, he starts to smile and joke more—comparatively speaking—and Trahearne cannot bring himself to find issue with that. Not when it means he stops startling when Trahearne touches him—although that thought and the others, he will tuck away for now.

One day, he gets to witness the rather amusing scenario of Roza receiving a similar type of attention to what he had once shown Trahearne, long ago. And it still hurts, a little, to think of how young his smile used to be and how it will never be that innocent again, but Trahearne has long since accepted his dues.

“You’re the—you’re the Pact commander,” a deep red sylvari says, splaying his fingers over his smiling mouth.

Roza gives him a quick, dismissive once-over. “Yes,” he replies.

“Oh, I—Pale Mother—I saw you in my Dream! I think we’re—well, I know this is a bit forward, considering we’ve only just met—but I think we’re supposed to be soulmates.”

It takes all of Trahearne’s experience as Pact marshal not to laugh at the look that summons on Roza’s face.

“I… see,” he replies after what seems like a mighty internal struggle. “And what makes you say that, ah…?”

“Fionn,” the sylvari bursts.

Roza shoots Trahearne a glance that all but beseeches his aid. “Fionn,” he repeats in a pointed tone when he does absolutely nothing.

“Oh! I’m so glad you asked. Well, as I’ve said—I just said it, haha! Oh, I’m going to repeat myself—I saw you in my Dream! You were—you were bathing.” His voice turns hushed. “In a shower. I was enraptured by the sight.”

Trahearne has a sudden, spontaneous coughing fit. Roza’s right hand spreads over his lips. His left flexes at his side, slowly and deliberately. He takes a measured breath.

“Mulch, this is why I don’t talk to saplings,” Trahearne thinks he hears him mutter.

Fionn appears to be waiting eagerly for his reply. After a long-suffering moment, Roza sighs and grits out, “Did it ever occur to you, Fionn, that that was perhaps simply a vision of—and hear me out—a shower? I might have just been the unfortunate bas… the unfortunate soul who was using it.”

Fionn stares at him. “Oh,” he says. “But I’m in love with you! Aren’t I?”

“What’s my favourite colour?” Roza challenges. “If you’re in love with me, you should know at least that much, right?”

“Uh…” Fionn looks him up and down, before offering, extremely tentatively, “Black?”

“Incorrect.” Roza sounds relieved, though Trahearne has to wonder how he would have reacted had he guessed correctly. “You know what, Fionn, perhaps your Wyld Hunt is to invent a better water filtration system for Fort Trinity. I swear I am bathing in a swamp sometimes.”

Fionn’s eyes go wide. “You mean to say I have been blessed with a Wyld Hunt?”

“Sure,” says Roza.

“Oh! But this is wonderful news!” He clasps Roza’s hand in his and jostles it energetically. “Thank you so much, Commander! Thank you, Firstborn Trahearne!” This is shouted out over a wincing Roza’s shoulder. “Oh, I am off to the Black Citadel to study engineering. Valiant Fionn. Now that is a purpose!”

He scuttles away. Trahearne takes one look at the disgust at Roza’s face and the way he is holding his hand as if he has just stuck it in manure, and begins to laugh.

“Oh, I am so very glad you are entertained.” Roza glares at him. “That is all I am here to be. A circus attraction.”

“A Dream attraction, it sounded more like.” Trahearne chuckles into his fist. “Your soulmate is getting away, Commander. Won’t you go after him?”

Roza gifts him with a gratuitous eye roll. “When he upgrades the showers to be less disgusting, I’ll consider him as a potential suitor to politely turn down,” he says. “What even was that? Soulmates? Is that even possible?”

Trahearne makes a considering noise. “The nature of the Dream is ever-changing and complex. It is possible for two sylvari to see a future with one another in it before they awaken, but how they choose to interpret that vision, and indeed, whether they act upon it at all, is up to them.”

“I see.” Roza drums his fingers against his arm. “Well, I certainly did not see anyone bathing naked in the moonlight, or I would have remembered. Thorns, Trahearne, you don’t know how many people have come up to me claiming they saw me before they awakened. I hope this doesn’t happen again.”

Trahearne chuckles. “Scared of a sapling with a crush, Commander? Worry not—they’re relatively harmless. In my experience, their superficial feelings fade quickly.”

Roza shoots him a mildly quizzical glance. “A… crush?” he says, as if the word is foreign to him. “Oh, right. That hadn’t even occurred to me, to be honest. I forget sometimes that people get them.”

His wording is curiously isolating. “Have you never had a crush?” Trahearne asks. There had been a short time when he’d half wondered if Roza had one on him, but he had quickly dismissed the idea as not quite befitting his behaviour.

Roza stares at him as if the very concept itself is abhorrent. “No,” he says. “What, have you?”

Trahearne’s expression slackens. “Ah.” He thinks about Riannoc; bright, fearless, daring, and years, years dead. “I have not, as such,” he replies, which isn’t exactly a lie. A crush is not love.

“There you go.” Roza spreads his hands outwards. “I hear people talking about butterflies in their stomach and heartbeats racing and I think—what in Tyria are they going on about? Not that we have hearts. But the butterfly thing sounds nauseating.”

“Mhm.” This is treading close to uncomfortable territory, although Trahearne knows that is his own sad memory’s fault. He awkwardly clears his throat, deciding to change the subject. “I fear we must be getting back to our work, Commander. If this ever happens again, however, please grab the nearest asuran recording device and capture the moment. I need something to entertain me during my long hours of paperwork.”

Roza rolls his eyes. “I’ll capture a bramble bush’s worth of swearing for you to listen to instead, how’s that.” he says. He flicks a lazy two-fingered salute. “Afternoon, Marshal.”

“Pale Tree guide you.” Trahearne remembers something just as Roza starts to leave. “Wait. Roza.”

He glances back over his shoulder. “Hm?”

“What is your favourite colour?”

“Oh.” Roza looks surprised. “Ah, violet.”

He leaves. Trahearne looks after him consideringly, then turns to go to his office.

~*~

It is disconcerting. Trahearne tries to tell himself it isn’t disconcerting.

It is a little disconcerting.

Roza is a strangely poetic person at times, derision towards the subject of love aside. Trahearne appreciates his… esoteric viewpoint, and as his superior, he appreciates his loyalty, level head, and bravery. But…

He just wishes he could see his heart more often. That is all.

Roza has confided in him a singular thing he considers a weakness: what he calls his “episodes.” Trahearne has ascertained the existence of something from the months they have spent together, and it is helpful to have confirmation straight from the commander’s mouth. He seems to consider it more of a tactical weakness than a personal one, however, and he gives Trahearne the most detached debriefing possible on it, all the while wearing an expression of great distaste, as if he is only telling him because he believes not knowing will interfere with their duties. Beyond that, he cultivates his petals protectively close to his chest. It means that though their dialogue is entertaining at times, and though Trahearne certainly enjoys Roza’s company, it all has a strangely… depthless quality to it.

It is not as if he isn’t glad that conversation flows smoothly enough between them. He is. But perhaps he has simply been expecting too much too soon. He misses the heartfelt smiles after Orr and Zhaitan, the hug—Pale Mother, he is never getting one of those again, is he—and the breathless laughter. If Roza can trust him enough to bear his honest heart once, Trahearne is certain he can do it again.

He tells himself he wants it for his own benefit, and not for Roza’s. He doesn’t know which option is worse. It is just… he misses having something. He misses Riannoc, who always wore his heart on his sleeve—they all did, at the beginning—he misses when Caithe was open and unscarred, he misses all of his siblings and the conversations they used to have, full of wonder and magic.

Trahearne groans into his arm. He misses love, thorns and brambles, because he is a sad, lonely sylvari, and why he is seeking it from his commander of all impossible people he does not know. He had glimpsed the potential exactly once, and his sorry soul hasn’t been able to let it go since.

“Marshal?” Roza, standing in front of his desk with his hands crossed neatly behind his back, tips his chin down. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, sorry.” Trahearne rubs at his eye with his forefinger. “As I was saying, Commander, we have a moment in which to breathe, one that I intend to take full advantage of. It is a good opportunity to strengthen bonds and for myself as marshal to humanize—if you’ll excuse the word—myself to the Pact. I have picked out one of the supply lines that is moderately dangerous to accompany, as you can see here. That way, it doesn’t look like I am taking the easiest job, but the risk isn’t too great, either. I trust that you can see to—”

“I’m going with you,” Roza interrupts.

Trahearne blinks at him blearily. He really has been sitting inside for too long. “What?”

“I’m going with you,” Roza repeats firmly. His gaze is unflinching. “As your bodyguard. That route is more dangerous than it might appear, and we can’t risk anything happening to you.”

“Commander, that is…” Trahearne searches for a word as he gathers his thoughts. “… not necessary,” he decides on. “This is a good opportunity for you to get a handle on managing the Pact in my stead.”

“Sounds boring,” says Roza. “I’m going to go with you.”

Trahearne closes his eyes, leaning his head into his hand. “Commander,” he says. He cannot deal with this right now. He is going to get a headache.

“Glad that’s decided.” His eyes open in time to see Roza give a decisive nod. “I’ll meet you at the caravan, Marshal.”

“Roza, I don’t need a bodyguard,” Trahearne tells him.

“That’s what all the people who died without taking a bodyguard said,” Roza replies with a scowl.

“I am not going to die.” Trahearne spies a small form pass his doorway and calls out to it. “Warmaster Efut! Come in here and talk some sense into the commander, please.”

Efut pokes her head in, gives one look at Trahearne’s frustrated posture and Roza’s glare, and pokes it back out.

“Uh,” she says, “With all due respect, I’ll leave the high-up decisions to the higher-ups. Sirs!” She salutes, then marches away, very quickly.

Trahearne lets out a harsh exhale. “Commander, your stubbornness avails you naught,” he says sternly, looking back at Roza. “Your duty is to the Pact.”

“My duty is at your side, as your second-in-command,” Roza says.

“And I am telling you that right now, that means here.” Trahearne jabs at the map spread across his desk with perhaps a little more force than is necessary. It has been a long day. When Roza only narrows his eyes, he frowns. “That is an order, Commander.”

Roza’s eyes flash. “Is it?”

“Roza, I do not have time to write you up for insubordination.” Trahearne’s patience is wearing thin. “You will stay here and see to the Pact in my absence, and you will do it happily and with no complaints of boredom. Am I making myself clear?"

For a second a flicker of… something appears on Roza’s face, but then stoniness slams over it. “Yes, Sir,” he all but snaps.

“Good.” Trahearne sinks back into his chair. “Dismissed. And I do mean that, Commander.”

Roza storms out of his office. Trahearne pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes again.

Overreaching loyalty, that’s all it is, he tells himself. Perhaps it is better if he maintains a certain distance with his commander after all. Pale Mother only knows how he’ll act up if he starts to get ideas about what their friendship means.

Still, a part of Trahearne that he cannot help but be aware of is saddened, wilting from the thought of driving away his one potential companion. One bud blooms and two buds wither, he thinks halfheartedly. But even a neat aphorism plucked from the prettiest boughs of the Tree is of paltry comfort to him in his empty office.

~*~

Roza, as Trahearne has long since judged, has a natural knack for threat assessment.

He also keeps more to himself than he absolutely has to. And really, Trahearne thinks as he is carried to Fort Trinity’s infirmary on a stretcher held by a norn and a human who are most unfortunately not the same height, perhaps he should try to speak his mind more often.

Trahearne groans when he is jostled and the pain in his skull spikes. “Sorry, Marshal,” mumbles the norn at his head. “Trying to bump you as little as possible, but Hector here doesn’t have steady hands.”

Trahearne only groans again in response to that. His head is killing him, hyperbolically speaking. He doesn’t know whether it’s the headache or the throbbing wound; perhaps they have simply amalgamated into one large cluster of pain.

Any soldier of any skill can get injured on the battlefield, he knows rationally. He has been spending most of his time of late in his office and is a bit rusty, he knows as well. Roza is going to rip into him when he finds out about this, he does not know for certain, but has a niggling suspicion.

He closes his eyes, and they fall heavily. It is his own damn fault that he hadn’t trusted in his commander’s assessment enough to listen to him. Clouded judgment indeed. Hopefully Roza is mature enough not to say I told you so. He cannot quite let go of that last thought, and it echoes in his mind, bouncing around as his weariness overtakes him. Slowly, he fades into unconsciousness.

He comes to in the midst of what feels like a throng of people. They are all so hazy, he finds as he opens his eyes, and their heads are mixing with blurry circles of light. He cannot make out all of their voices, save one that is familiar, and quite near him.

“… medic. Yes, I understand the situation. What’s your name?”

Trahearne closes his eyes again. The light hurts less that way.

“… Abigail, that’s a lovely name. Take a deep breath for me, Abigail. We have enough people to tend to the wounded, if we’re smart about it. See to it that the head medic attends to Crusader Gatt first.”

Roza is not speaking to him, but Trahearne tries to take a deep breath regardless. The caravan had been largely understaffed. He knows that the Pact has been short on resources and bodies both since Zhaitan. They cannot afford to take hits. He should have known better… But by the Tree, is it hard to think right now, and his guilt only makes the pain pulse stronger. His thoughts break weakly apart.

“Yes, the marshal will need a mender. I can watch him until one is available, not to worry. Thank you, Abigail.”

Trahearne feels someone idly brush off a leaf on his chest. Cool fingers lightly pry open his armour, and Roza makes a considering noise.

“You mostly just hit your head, huh?” he murmurs in an undertone, not loud enough for anyone else in the room to hear but the two of them. He doesn’t seem to expect a reply—his fingers tap twice, and then his presence retracts.

Trahearne cracks his eyes open once more, watching Roza through a heavily lidded gaze as he moves about, since that is all he can do in his state. He is a commanding figure drifting around the infirmary, directing medical staff when they come up to him with harried hands or occasionally barking out an order to a panicked attendant in a tone that snaps them out of it. It is… actually rather impressive to watch, Trahearne’s woozy mind tells him. He hadn’t realized how much his commander had grown.

Roza’s calmness seems to have a gradual but palpable effect on the room, and soon enough the hectic energy quietens. He glances at Trahearne a few times, but only returns to his side once things have calmed down. “How are you feeling, Marshal?” he asks when he notices his gaze.

“You’re… good at this,” Trahearne mumbles.

A ghost of a smile flickers across Roza’s face. “It is my job,” he agrees mildly.

“No, you’re very… soothing.” Trahearne studies him with heavy eyes. Even his bark is a calming colour. “Your fingers are cold, which I think helps.”

Roza’s right eyebrow raises by a fraction, which means he is shocked, possibly even stunned, Trahearne knows. His mouth raises as well, which means… something else, that Trahearne doesn’t know. “You certainly have a head injury,” he says.

Trahearne is tired. “You should smile more,” he mutters. “Don’t get to see it often.”

Roza looks surprised, this time with almost his whole face. Then it softens. “Get some rest, Trahearne,” he says quietly.

He brushes his cold fingers against Trahearne’s jaw, and they are just as soothing as they were earlier, possibly even more. His magic reaches out, dark and warm, and Trahearne is just about to tell him that that isn’t fair before it takes him, and he falls asleep in its embrace.

~*~

When Trahearne awakens once more, his thoughts are clearer, and his head is numb and warm. He reaches up to touch it and feels the edge of a cloth bandage, tied to be tight but not uncomfortable.

“Ah—Marshal.” Roza speaks up at his right. “You had better not disturb that, or you shall bring the wrath of the head mender down upon yourself. She seemed very cross with you.”

Trahearne looks over to see him sitting there with the most aloof of his cats curled up in his lap. One hand is idly stoking through her fur, and the other is neatly resting on his armrest.

“Harley, you traitor,” Trahearne croaks.

The corner of Roza’s mouth lifts. “I think she likes me. How are you feeling, Marshal? Before you ask: no, there were no more casualties, and yes, you’re supposed to recover soon. I will take over until then.”

Trahearne lets out a weary sigh. “That is good to know. I am glad for the lives I could save, but… we were overwhelmed.”

He speaks quietly. Guilt paints his breaths, wetting his throat. He should have known better.

“So I heard.” Roza’s gaze is undecipherable.

Trahearne’s shoulders feel heavy. “Commander…” Roza’s help would have been invaluable, and they both know it. But Trahearne foolishly let himself fall to hubris, despite all that is resting on his shoulders. It is as if his title blinded him to the lessons he learned from his long years of life. And now a sylvari of barely a year old had to have his rightful contribution dismissed because Trahearne did not have the wisdom to listen to him.

“You are not to leave this bed for a week, and you are not to return to active duty for another one, just to be cautious. I’ve shuffled some things around to distribute the workload, so I would greatly appreciate it if you respected that and tried not to get back to work too early.”

Roza’s tone is mild. Trahearne winces, trying to read his expression. “Commander, I might as well address the dolyak in the room. You were right.”

Roza nods. “I am aware. It’s fine, Marshal.”

“Roza…” Trahearne swallows. His throat still feels tacky. “I should have humbled myself and trusted in your judgment. This could have been avoided.”

Roza looks at him for a long moment. “It could have been,” he says in a low voice. “But it was not, and we must move on. Do not let yourself be consumed by regret.”

It is the head injury, but his tone sends a strange tingle through Trahearne’s stomach. He smiles back tiredly, although his heart is not in it. He will dwell on this all later, when he has a clear mind to think with. “Wise words, Commander.”

Roza winks at him, and for a frightening moment the tingle forks to Trahearne’s chest. “Indeed. I should let you get your rest, Marshal. Now,” He pulls up the hand that has been petting Harley to waggle a finger, “If I hear of any attempts at escape, I will come in here personally and hold you down to the bed until you desist. You are allowed complaints of boredom, but keep it quiet.”

He smirks, Harley mewls in complaint, and Trahearne thinks about the fact that he needs a glass of water, really, because his mouth has just gotten quite dry. Roza gently lifts the cat off his lap as he rises from his chair. He stands there for a second, pausing, before he reaches down to brush the back of his knuckles over Trahearne’s jaw.

“Feel better, Trahearne,” he murmurs. Another small smile, and then he is walking away.

The coolness of the air fades with him. Trahearne thinks as he shifts to stare up at the ceiling that without it, he is rather uncomfortably warm.

~*~

Roza comes back in to check on him every day, which means Trahearne does not get a free moment to reflect on his sorrows. But his visits are easily the highlight of the following week, although he does nothing but sit there and talk about Pact matters in a strangely detached fashion. Trahearne finds his attention caught on, of all things, the way he gestures when he speaks. His arms move very little, but his fingers flutter in small, controlled movements to punctuate his sentences, or to emote along with him when he raises the occasional dry eyebrow or makes a sideways comment. It is… nice, to see his personality bleed through even when he is speaking on the most mundane subjects.

“Have you been thinking about the soul-marking sigils you were talking about the other day?” Trahearne asks him once, hoping to perhaps tap out some enthusiasm. “I remember you saying you wanted to experiment with them.”

Roza gives him a mild smile. “I haven’t had the time, Marshal,” he says, though not accusingly. “I’ve been busy.”

Trahearne feels a pulse of guilt. “Ah, yes,” he mumbles. Roza is doing both of their jobs right now. More than is his due—he should not be burdened with Trahearne’s heavy duty.

“Really, I can get back to work earlier—” he tries to say, but his commander holds up a hand.

“None of that. It isn’t too much for me to handle, with support. I know you don’t believe me, but I really have redistributed the workload. Efut’s been complaining at me the whole week.”

“She doesn’t have your knack for glaring people into submission.” Trahearne doesn’t know why he says that.

Roza laughs, which is startling in its rarity. “That is true,” he agrees. “I keep telling her to just get a higher box to stand on. I think she really wants to hit me by now.”

“Ah.” Trahearne breathes out a laugh as well. “Oh, I enjoy when you tell me these things more than I should. But I do wish I could get back to my desk.”

“You can’t enjoy that dreary little office.” Roza leans back in his seat, regarding him through half-lidded eyes. “Really, getting hit in the head was good for you. It forced you to take a much-needed break.”

“It isn’t dreary. There’s a window,” Trahearne protests.

Roza rolls his eyes. Trahearne finds himself smiling at it, despite the attitude. Because of the attitude.

“This is nice,” he says, quieter. “To be free from my bonds for but a moment so I can enjoy it with you. I know it is transient, but… perhaps that makes it all the more precious.”

Roza gives him a look he can’t quite decipher. He leans down, laying his hands on Trahearne’s arm.

“I am always here, my Marshal,” he says. He squeezes. “All you have to do is call for me, and I will whisk you away for as long as you like.”

Trahearne smiles weakly. The words warm his chest, and he thinks once more about how grateful he is that Roza has taken it upon himself to visit him as often as he has. “Efut won’t like that,” he says.

Roza’s eyes cant to the side. “Efut can get a higher box,” he replies.

It’s not even that funny. Trahearne laughs anyways, longing for the warmth of a companionship he has not known for a while. Roza smiles at him, loose.

“I fear must get going now, Trahearne.” His hands slide down to squeeze Trahearne’s gently. “Stay out of trouble for me, mm?”

With that gaze and the way he says those words, Trahearne might likely agree to much. “For you,” he concedes, and earns himself a soft wink before those chilled hands squeeze once more and withdraw.

Roza’s back is an elegant line as he walks away. He has such good posture, Trahearne thinks. He is curious if it is something the Vigil teaches its soldiers; he has never noticed it in anyone else before.

~*~

Trahearne wonders why Roza is so reserved.

Less and less is it becoming towards him, and that is… well. That is something. But he still has that rigidity—although it is fluid, that coolness—although it is warm, and that air about him that makes people give him an overabundance of personal space—although he sometimes gets into Trahearne’s, and neither of them mind.

He is a network of contradictions. He smiles sometimes when they are speaking of formal matters, but it is that smooth, slight curl of his mouth. He even laughs, occasionally, though it is more of a huff of air. Does he truly feel amusement then? Does he ever laugh simply for joy?

Trahearne had missed much of his upraising. He wishes he could go back in time to look at it—and is this what he is thinking of nowadays? Spying on his commander’s past?

“Laranthir,” he calls out one evening, on impulse. “If you have no immediate business, I would like to speak with you.”

Laranthir pauses by the doorway, then steps neatly to the wall to let the other officers pass by. They file out of the room, although Efut stops to whisper at him.

“He found out about the golem suit joyride,” she says in a failed attempted at an undertone.

“Hush,” Laranthir murmurs without moving his mouth. She snorts at him and trots out.

After everyone has left he waits, gaze curious and steady. Trahearne scratches the back of his neck. “It is actually a more personal matter, Grand Warmaster. Off the record, if you don’t mind.”

“I have time,” Laranthir replies. “What is this about, Trahearne?”

“Ah, Roza, actually.” Trahearne clears his throat. “You knew him when he first joined the Vigil.”

Laranthir gives him a searching look, then goes to close the door. “Yes,” he says. Trahearne gestures to the chair in front of his desk, and he sits.

“Are we gossiping about the commander, Marshal? You know his ears are in the walls.”

“I don’t think that’s quite the expression.” Trahearne folds his map up, stacking it neatly on top of the pile of reports at the corner of his desk.

“But it is true regardless, isn’t it?” Laranthir’s posture is good as well, Trahearne notes, but it is more militarily perfect than Roza’s. “Alright, I’m up for a chat if you can guarantee my safety. What do you want to know?”

Trahearne taps his fingers against his arm as he considers. “A few things,” he decides. “He is much different than when I first met him.”

“Saplings often sprout far from their roots,” Laranthir agrees.

Trahearne leans forwards, unconsciously making as if they are having some surreptitious discussion. Laranthir mirrors his posture—and here they are, about to gossip as if they are new blooms instead of two of the most renowned and well-respected sylvari in Tyria.

“You must remember when he first joined the Vigil as a fresh recruit,” Trahearne says in what he tells himself is not a conspiratorial whisper. “What was he like?”

Laranthir laughs. “Insubordinate.”

Trahearne chuckles along. “I can imagine.”

“He was… younger.” Laranthir’s eyes drift off to the side as he thinks. “Overconfident, but also lost. He wasn’t exactly the most popular soldier, which did not ameliorate his situation.”

“His situation?” Trahearne waits until Laranthir looks back at him and nods. “Tell me.”

His mouth quirks upwards. “Really, you are taking the blame if he finds out about this conversation.”

“I’ll weather his ire,” Trahearne promises. It isn’t as if Roza is going to scold him.

Laranthir raises an eyebrow, hesitates for but a moment more, and then speaks.

He tells Trahearne that Roza’s glow had all but faded when they had met. That he had been a skeleton barely recognizable as a sylvari, with hollow eyes and naught a bloom in sight. Laranthir had assumed that it was the cold region that was affecting him, or, more likely, albinism—a rare but serious condition for sylvari.

“He was young yet. I saw the way he was ostracising himself from everyone, but I didn’t think at the time to attribute his appearance to his mental wellbeing rather than physical.”

“Ostracising?”

Laranthir pauses. “Behaviour often prompts its own reflection,” he says non-belligerently. “Roza snapped at people’s heels, so they snapped at his. He snapped again, with more teeth.”

Trahearne inclines his head. “If one lines their garden with thorns, others will come to curse it.”

“Exactly, Firstborn.” Laranthir catches himself, blinks, and chuckles. “Sorry. But yes, he isolated himself. He… had his reasons—” A glance at Trahearne that is almost cautious. “—But young saplings need to be socialized properly, and I learned afterwards that he left the Grove far, far earlier than he should have. He isn’t the most, ah, sociable leaf from the Tree, as you well know.”

Trahearne frowns a little. “He can be sociable.”

Laranthir shoots him a look he that doesn’t quite know how to decipher. “I am certain,” he says in a tone that sounds suspiciously complaisant. “But at the time, he more than kept to himself. Oftentimes, he stirred up trouble with the other soldiers. It came to my attention that there were more than a few complaints filed against him, so I eventually decided to speak to him myself to see why he was causing so much trouble.”

He pauses. Trahearne leans forwards unconsciously, curiosity piqued. “And?”

Laranthir’s eyebrows draws together in a small frown. “And, he was haughty, disrespectful, and far too full of himself. I asked him to cut the bullshit and told him that he was on the verge of getting himself kicked out.”

Trahearne hadn’t expected that. “Oh.”

“He folded. Begged me not to, said that Firstborn Trahearne couldn’t find out that he had been kicked out of the Vigil. That’s you,” he adds.

“I’m aware,” says Trahearne.

“Well, I didn’t know he knew you. So we chatted for a bit. He told me that he hated how he lived. People avoided him in the mess hall and whispered about him in the barracks. They were harsh during training, or didn’t want to go out on missions with him. There is… more, but it is not mine to reveal. Anyways, I decided to take him under my wing.”

Trahearne tucks away the hidden knowledge that there is hidden knowledge, and smiles. “Your bleeding heart got the better of you,” he teases.

“You’ve been spending too much time around the humans, saying things like that.” Laranthir smiles back. “But essentially, yes. He was a lonely, lost little sapling with no hope in his future, and despite his behaviour, I felt badly. So I told him that if he had joined at your recommendation, he had better start showing why he’d earned it. And so he did. Exceptionally well, in fact.”

Trahearne nods. Roza rose through Vigil ranks quickly, he remembers. He lets out a small laugh as he belatedly processes what Laranthir has said. “It was you. You were the unfortunate mentor who had to teach him humility.”

Laranthir makes an agreeing face. “Among other things. I never expected to be a makeshift mentor at the age of twenty-one, but there I was. Of course, he soon outgrew my guidance. That was something of a relief, I will admit. He is much easier to deal with as an equal than as a pupil.”

“Oh, I know.” Trahearne chuckles, then pauses as he realizes something. “You… were likely his first friend.” Egoistic, to think he held a claim to that title.

Laranthir’s eyes curve. “I suspected as much at the time, yes.”

“He must have been grateful.” Trahearne’s voice quietens. He clears his throat. “Even if he has never said so. I suspect he hasn’t.”

Laranthir gives him a long, indecipherable look.

“When I met him again at Fort Trinity, I didn’t expect to see him healthy,” he says finally. “As I said, I had up until that point simply suspected his appearance was due to nutrient deficiency. So you can imagine my surprise when I saw leaves, let alone purple ones.”

Trahearne goes silent, recognizing the continuation of the story for what it is.

“Roza came up to me later with a… smile, of all curious things. He plucked a leaf from one of his branches and told me that it was the first one that had regrown. He said that it was thanks to me, and that he wanted me to keep it.”

“Oh,” says Trahearne softly.

Laranthir drums his fingers idly on his forearm. He waits.

“Do you still have it?” Trahearne asks.

Laranthir gives him a small, knowing smile. He undoes a clasp in his armour, pulling it away and reaching inside to a small hidden pocket. He takes out a leaf: a fading violet colour, flattened for preservation.

“A reminder,” he says, putting it on the desk, “that I do not have to be wielding a sword to make a difference.”

A strange lump rises in Trahearne’s throat. He blinks at the leaf, staring at it until Laranthir takes it back and tucks it away once more.

“Is there anything else you need from me, Marshal?” he asks.

Trahearne clears his throat. “No. You’ve given me a lot to think about. Thank you, Laranthir.”

Laranthir nods deeply. He gets up and makes for the door.

“Laranthir.”

He looks back.

“Really,” Trahearne says. “Thank you.”

Laranthir smiles. “You’re welcome, Trahearne. “And… good luck with the commander.”

He leaves, closing the door quietly behind himself. Trahearne folds his arms on his desk and slowly lowers his head into them.

Good luck indeed.

~*~

“You are meditating?”

Roza’s eyes open. “I was,” he says blandly.

Trahearne leans across his desk curiously. “To what end?” he asks.

It is fairly late in the evening. Most of the Pact have either gone to bed or are heading there now. Trahearne has not, because he has a small pile of paperwork to do (he had more, but Roza had skimmed some off the top of the stack, placed it in the middle of his desk, and threatened with a withering stare that if he did any more than just that, there would be repercussions. Trahearne doesn’t know what he can possibly do, but he will listen to that glare), and Roza had declared that he would stay up with him to ensure he went to sleep at a proper hour. He has been spending more of his free time with Trahearne as of late. It is… nice.

“The Soundless perform meditations to separate themselves from the Dream,” he explains now. His chest rises and falls with his breaths, slow and even. “They aren’t that difficult. I figured that I could modify them to achieve the opposite effect.”

Trahearne wonders at ‘they aren’t that difficult,’ but he doesn’t ask. “You’re trying to augment your connection to the Dream?”

“Yes.” Roza’s lids droop languidly. “Usually I wouldn’t; I am unfortunately somewhat sensitive to it, and the last thing I want is to feel it even more intensely. But nights are quieter. Mostly. Carys dreams very loudly.”

Trahearne chuckles. “That she does. I suppose it makes sense that your connection is strong. Scholars such as you and I who are versed in the arcane tend to have an easier flow of the mind.”

Roza gazes at him. “I don’t know if you know this, Trahearne,” he murmurs, “but you are the first sylvari to have ever existed. It may be ill-advised to use you as a base standard.”

Trahearne laughs, even as he warms in embarrassment. “I suppose that is true,” he admits. He drags his chair over to where Roza is sitting at the window, ignoring the silent question—a raised eyebrow—it gets him.

“What can you feel?” he asks. “I am curious.”

“Ah.” Roza’s eyes close once more. He concentrates for a long minute, his breathing slowing. He looks serene, and it is odd, for him—more so that he feels serene as well. His usual sharpness has melted into languidness.

“I feel you, first and foremost,” he mutters finally. “Your presence is very strong.”

Trahearne tilts his head. “And what do I feel like?”

“Gentleness.” Roza’s reply is immediate. “You’re also a little tired, both physically and mentally. You should get some rest. And you, ah.” He pauses. “I can feel how you perceive me, I believe. Other than that, you are at peace right now. It is comforting. You, ah, usually are. Comforting.”

Trahearne smiles at his stumbling. “I am glad to hear it,” he says. Violet brightens around them for a pulse, coming from either or both of them, and he casts an idle glance about.

“What else?”

This time, Roza’s pause is longer, and when he speaks, his speech is somewhat slurred. “Other sylvari… a lot of them in the fort. Easier to sense the ones I know. I think Laranthir just fell asleep... No nightmare tonight, good. Pale Reavers are together… some awake. Mm, and… oh. Hah.”

He opens his eyes. Trahearne notes the change in his tone and makes a questioning expression.

The side of Roza’s mouth curls upwards. “Side effect of doing this at night. Below us somewhere, I think near or in the storerooms. There is a couple having sex.”

Trahearne blinks rapidly. He hadn’t expected that. “Oh. Oh. You can…” He feels himself flush, and is thankful for the fact that it is already nighttime, and so any unwanted glowing is at least masked. “… feel that?”

Roza gives him a look that is half indifference and half knowing mischief. “I can feel the faintest echo of their desire,” he says. “I feel none myself, so it is easy to isolate.”

The question that statement sparks immediately begins hammering at Trahearne’s mind. He gets half of it out. “You don’t…?”

Roza’s dark eyes glitter in amusement. “I do not,” he confirms. “A body is a body.”

“I see.” Trahearne should not feel this embarrassed, because they are only talking about sex, and he is a grown sylvari who has seen—and experienced—much of the world. But this is different, somehow. Perhaps it is because he is tired, or perhaps it is because of this new mischievous streak of Roza’s. Must he smirk like that?

Roza’s thoughts are apparently running along a similar line to his. His smile curls further. “Oh, Marshal,” he says in a tone he really should not be able to use, “Look at that blush. Don’t tell me you are embarrassed by a little carnality, first of the firstborn.”

Teasing. Roza is teasing him. By the Pale Tree. “I,” is all Trahearne gets out, caught in his own voice, and his commander’s smile only grows.

“You’re adorable,” he murmurs. Trahearne feels himself flush further, and Roza laughs.

“Thorns, this is fun, and I’m terrible,” he says. “Did you know, Marshal, that lack of desire aside, I’ve always been curious. Mind giving me a few pointers in case I decide to… experiment?”

And he winks. Trahearne is convinced he has been set on fire. “Depends on the partner,” he finds himself replying, mind too scattered to do much more than answer forthrightly.

Roza’s smile widens into a grin. “Oh?” he says. He leans forwards off the edge of his chair, bracing himself with his hands. “How about… a sylvari?”

His face is very close. Trahearne stares at him, taking in his brazen posture, his hooded eyes, the bright flash of lavender from his pattern—and pauses.

Is Roza… flirting with him?

No, Trahearne tells himself immediately. He isn’t the type. He does not even know how to. He wouldn’t… would he?

Roza is staring at him patiently. His expression is smug at the edges, turning more so by the second, and suddenly, whether he is purposefully flirting or not, Trahearne wants to upend it. This is all a power play for Roza, most likely—he is still a young sylvari who is testing the boundaries of social interactions, seeing how much he can get away with before he gets a slap on the wrist. Trahearne isn’t going to let himself be verbally bested by someone who would still be a toddler in human years.

“Male?” he questions.

Roza looks surprised for a second, before delight creeps into his eyes. He wrinkles his nose playfully. “If you like. But let us not be human about the distinguishers,” he says.

“Fair enough.” Trahearne settles his chin on his hand, giving his commander a cursory once-over that is only partly for show. He makes a considering noise.

“Firstly,” he begins, “work on refining whatever it is you are trying to do right now. You’re being far too obvious, and subtlety is an art from. Secondly, do not be a selfish lover—you seem like the type, and trust me, it isn’t endearing. And thirdly,”

He leans forwards and taps his forefinger against Roza’s lips, a daring gesture. “Swallow.”

Roza stares at him, eyes wide, dumbfounded for a glorious second. Then he swallows audibly, and his glow flares.

Trahearne laughs heartily, throwing his head back. His chair screeches backwards a few inches from the force of it. Roza only gapes at him as his shoulders shake with mirth, unable to find his composure. After a moment he glances away, cheeks tinged gold.

“Oh,” Trahearne finally manages through his chuckles, one hand held to his stomach, “Oh, that was fun. Thank you, Commander, I really needed that. Perhaps try to embarrass me more often, hm?”

Roza makes a muted noise and scuffs the floor with his foot. Trahearne grins.

“I’m off to bed now I think, little sapling,” he says, getting up with a long stretch. Roza shoots him a glare at the last word, although it is impotent, and his grin widens. Hit the glow grub on the tail, has he?

Maybe it is the high of his victory, but Trahearne feels cheeky enough to pause by the door and wink before bidding his farewell. Oh, it is a good night to be older and tempered by the world.

He misses the tail end of Roza’s reaction.

~*~

Trahearne quickly comes to realize that he should not have told Roza to try to embarrass him more often.

He shouldn’t have challenged him at all, really, he bemoans to himself. What was he thinking, testing his commander’s competitive streak? Testing his pride? One does not challenge a norn to a boasting competition.

From then on, needless to say, it only gets worse. So much worse.

Roza has seemingly latched on to the one brief moment of triumph Trahearne has managed to obtain, and is doing his very best to show him that no, really, he isn’t giving up on this fun new competition he has just invented and forced the both of them into for no reason, and yes, really, he is taking the blow to his pride far too personally, and another yes, again, he is willing to play chicken—Risen chicken, Trahearne thinks to himself hysterically—in public in front of anyone and everyone, and no, he doesn’t see any point in stopping, no matter how many little “victories” he gains from it.

Victories seem to count as: Trahearne blushing, Trahearne stammering, Trahearne clearing his throat, Trahearne scratching the back of his neck, Trahearne losing the end of his sentence, and overall Trahearne showing embarrassment in any and every way, shape, or form. The following few weeks are pure torture. Roza has absolutely no shame; anything that gets a reaction is fair game. Trahearne gets ushered into impromptu speeches, made to sing in front of half the Pact, becomes the recipient of a frankly abominable amount of dirty jokes—Roza seems to have sunk his teeth into that particular weakness with glee, so that is fun—made to do demonstrations in front of the other half of the Pact with weapons Roza knows he is not proficient in, gets to hear himself being over-complimented—that one is actually sweet, but still incredibly embarrassing—gets called out in meetings solely during the fleeting moments he is not paying attention, is forced to try and work through loud and dramatic readings of… books he is certain are banned, considering their subject matter—and Roza really has latched on to that, hasn’t he, and he won’t let go, will he?

“He’s yanking your pigtails,” Logan tells Trahearne during a diplomatic visit. He has absolutely no idea what that means.

The Pact of course takes notice, because its second is chasing its leader around the proverbial mulberry bush, and again, Roza isn’t exactly subtle. Trahearne thinks that if it were anyone else, he would be annoyed at the impertinence. No—he should be annoyed, because it more than crosses the line into insubordination, and despite the fact that no one seems to mind, he should not let one of his commanders get away with that kind of behaviour when none of the others would.

Except, damn it all, it is fun. The power play is fun. Roza trying continuously to dethrone him and apparently not being convinced he has succeeded no matter how many times he tries is fun. The way he silently fumes when Trahearne smiles at him after an attempt is very fun. Trahearne hasn’t been this entertained in years, and although his cheeks are probably burnt from embarrassment at this point, he will endure it for the sheer joy of it all. The rush of spontaneity in a life as predetermined as his is such a precious thing.

They have also, apparently, given the Pact something to gossip about. The rumours Roza seems to drag behind him like a second shroud turn more playful, and even begin to involve Trahearne. It is nothing novel, however; they are no Seraph captain and human queen, and such whispers are bound to sprout in any organization.

Trahearne catches the tail end of one of them one day as he is heading to the barracks. He hears a giggle before he rounds a corner, and some instinct spurs him to stop and wait it out instead of interrupt.

“Have you seen him order people around? I want him to look at me with that smoulder while he…”

Trahearne raises his eyebrows as she continues. He is surprised when he flushes only faintly—perhaps Roza has tempered him to such talk by now.

More giggling. “I’m sure the marshal would agree. Do you think they’d let someone else join?”

“Aisha!” A short, playful shriek, a soft slap, and then loud hushing. Footsteps. Trahearne borrows a trick from Roza and steps backwards into the shadows before they round the corner. A human and a sylvari scamper past him, stifling giggles.

Trahearne finds himself caught on their train of thought as he emerges and continues on his path. Do people actually find them… attractive—he blushes at the thought now, thorns—or is it just due to their status? Is Trahearne attractive? He has never really had much interest expressed in him, besides from people who are just odd enough about it to make him uncomfortable. Roza certainly doesn’t seem to show any inclination towards him, but then again, he doesn’t with anyone.

Is Roza attractive?

Trahearne unconsciously slows. He…

Well.

He thinks of the way Roza winks at him, the playful curve of his smirk, and flushes. There is some superficial level of… coquetry, perhaps, but Trahearne would react similarly to such attention from anyone. Other than that… beauty is in the eye of the beholder. His own opinion isn’t going to be very accurate in and of itself. Where was he going, again? Outside, right. It has gotten quite warm inside the fort, all of a sudden.

~*~

"Do you think Roza is attractive?" he asks Laranthir one day when they are eating breakfast.

Laranthir pauses with his spoonful of unsweetened sludge—porridge—raised halfway to his mouth. His expression suggests that Trahearne has just asked him what the novel Destiny's Pledge is about (which he knows now, thanks to Roza), or how quaggans make babies.

"Aesthetically speaking," Trahearne clarifies. He doesn’t quite know why, but he feels ill at ease with his commander being thought of in… other ways.

There is a pause. "With... all due respect, First—Marsh—Trahearne," Laranthir says stiltedly, and jabs his thumb towards the wall. He shoves his spoon into his mouth.

Trahearne sighs. “Right, right.”

He decides to take that as a maybe.

~*~

Roza’s vengeance-fueled rampage comes to an ungraceful end when, quite out of the blue, he falls ill.

He is in the middle of humming to Trahearne about how once he had walked in on two Vigil recruits getting… personal with each other (he is most likely making it up, Trahearne suspects, but he is arching towards him on his tiptoes with his hands clasped behind his back, and despite his closeness, he doesn’t quite reach his height, and overall it is endearing enough that Trahearne lets him continue) when he cuts himself off with a heavy cough.

Trahearne raises his eyebrows. “That does not sound healthy.”

“What?” Roza frowns. “No, that is just how I cough.”

“Of course, Commander,” Trahearne murmurs, and lengthens his stride.

“Wait—” Roza jogs to keep up with him, before he stops, and begins to cough again. This time, it is throatier, and goes on for longer.

Trahearne looks at him in concern. “You should see a mender,” he says.

Roza finishes coughing to roll his eyes. “I just inhaled some dust, that is all. I’m fairly certain I am in perfect health.”

“Are you, Commander?” Trahearne steps closer, and frowns. “Actually, you look a little ill. Are you sure you are feeling alright? You’re not warm? Dried out?”

“Oh, for—” Roza makes an expression Trahearne is fairly certain is disrespectful enough to demote him for. “I am feeling fine. Perfectly normal. Let us keep walking.”

“Wait.” Trahearne presses a hand to Roza’s chest, but cannot feel much through the fabric he is wearing (Roza does not react badly, as he might have a while ago. He is used to Trahearne’s touch by now). “Undo the top of your tunic. Let me check.”

“There is no need for fussing, Marshal—I do not get sick. And even if I did, I am perfectly healthy right now.”

Oh, the hubris of youth. “You’ve barely lived long enough to know what it is like to be ill,” Trahearne counters. “Let me check, and if it is nothing, I will leave you alone. If you do not, I will continue to pester you.”

He gets another, more exaggerated eye roll, but Roza complies, arching his neck to undo his collar.

Trahearne presses one hand to the white bark he exposes, steadying the other against the small of his back. “Hold still.”

“Yes, Mender Trahearne.”

Despite the sarcastic nature of the appointed moniker, Trahearne actually does know his fair share about sylvari physiology and how to identify if there is a problem with one of their functions. He had been his own only caretaker for years in Orr, after all. Without the knowledge of how to tend to himself properly, he would have been consumed by the land.

Roza is definitely not in perfect health, contrary to his protests. The energy running through his body is thrumming weakly, his bark is more withered than it should be considering the season, and his lungs, when Trahearne undoes another clasp of his tunic to check, breathe feebly, if a bit quickly. He is also warmer to the touch than usual—his magic has retreated from the surface of his bark, as if to recuperate.

“You need to see a mender,” Trahearne tells him without preamble. “Your body is weakening, and if it is not taken care of, you will get worse.”

A brief look of surprise passes across Roza’s face. He studies Trahearne with eyes that he only now notices are sunken. “I’ve been like this before and it was fine,” he reveals after a pause.

“You thought I would not notice.” A jolt of something like fear passes through Trahearne, and not just from the attempted deception. It is unlikely, considering the depth of his situation at the time, but if Roza returns to the state that Laranthir had described first meeting him in…

“Roza, I cannot risk you getting rot.” Trahearne crosses his arms. He cannot quite keep the worry from sharpening his tone. “And do not try to lie to me about your health again. Understood?”

Roza seems to notice his concern despite it, because his expression softens somewhat. “Understood,” he agrees in a quieter voice. “But Trahearne…”

He touches Trahearne’s hand, where it is still loosely curled to his chest. “I am going to be fine. This simply happens sometimes when I don’t get enough sunlight. It is usually not that much of an issue, but I’ve been staying inside a lot lately, I suppose.”

Rather than be reassuring, his words having the opposite effect. Trahearne frowns. “If it is consistent enough for you to recognize it at this severity, it is indicative of a larger problem.”

He tries to ignore the guilt prickling at his chest. Roza has been inside because he has been with him. Doing what, keeping him entertained with a little social experiment? This is Trahearne’s own fault. He should have known better—he should have noticed, at the very least.

“Trahearne.” Roza takes his hand and squeezes it lightly. “I can practically feel you taking far more responsibility for this than you are owed. Do not, alright? It isn’t a big deal, and I was already monitoring my condition. I simply let myself slip. I… have been enjoying my time with you, I suppose.”

The confession loosens some of the stiffness in Trahearne’s shoulders. Even so, he is not going to let Roza keep traipsing around the fort if he is unwell. “Then help alleviate my worry and go see a mender,” he replies.

Roza’s mouth lifts in a small smile that, Trahearne realizes with a start, is more genuine than any he has seen for months. “Is that an order, Marshal?” he asks, with only a hint of the archness he usually applies to the title.

Trahearne smiles back grimly. “It can be, Commander,” he answers. Half unaware of what he is doing, he brushes his thumb across the knuckles of the hand holding his, stroking slowly.

Roza does not grin facetiously and say Then make it one. He looks down, still smiling softly, tugs his tunic together with his free hand, and begins to walk to the infirmary.

Trahearne almost forgets he is still connected to him until he gets dragged along. Roza’s grip on his hand is gentle, and he could easily break free to go attend to his business, but… He glances around. The Pact can do without him for a little while, he supposes. Perhaps he is giving in to an impulse of fancy. But it will be alright. This is for his commander.

“Next time, do my shirt back up,” Roza says in a quiet voice. “It is cold.” Despite the words, he does not seem to mind.

“There won’t be a next time if I have anything to say about it,” Trahearne replies. “How long has this been going on, Commander?”

Roza ducks his head. “Why do I feel as if you are trying to scold me?”

“Apologies.” Trahearne gentles his tone. He had not meant to trigger that particular response, if it is what Roza is hinting at. “I do not mean to. I am simply worried for you—I did not know you had any underlying health conditions.”

“I don’t.” Roza gives a small, uncertain frown. “Or at least, I don’t think so. We will see.”

They reach the infirmary. Roza lets go of his hand with a look that borders on shy. Trahearne waves off the round of belated salutes their presence incites, and asks to see a mender.

They are soon greeted by a tall, dignified sylvari of dark brown bark that reminds Trahearne of Malomedies. “Is all well, Marshal?” they ask.

Trahearne gestures to Roza. “The Commander is unwell,” he says. As they give him a considering onceover, he continues, “From what I could tell, the flow of his energy is unbalanced somehow. He says he hasn’t been getting enough sun, but his state should not be this severe.”

“I see. Commander, if you would?” They nod at a nearby cot, and Roza sits neatly.

“Look at me, please.”

Roza obeys. The mender goes through their checks, examining him in a manner similar to which Trahearne had earlier, if more thoroughly. Roza stays quiet and compliant throughout the process, which… should not make Trahearne as worried as it does.

“Are you feeling alright, Roza?” he finds himself asking.

Dark eyes glance up at him, and then away. “Yes. I’m just a little tired.”

“You are most certainly not feeling alright.” The mender pulls back to give him a considering look. “Tell me, when you awakened, did the mender who checked you declare you fully hale and hearty?”

Roza folds his hands together in his lap and looks down at them. “I never got checked,” he says.

Trahearne frowns. “They didn’t check you?”

“Oh. No, they were going to.” Roza glances up at him with a little smile, which dies when he sees his expression. A thought to mind his manner does not quite breach Trahearne’s conscience. “There was some funny business going on with the Dream, so there was a lineup. I, ah, slipped away.”

The mender opens their mouth, but Trahearne presses, “Slipped away to where?”

Another quiet glance. “Lion’s Arch.”

The mender frowns. “You never returned to get examined?”

“You travelled to Lion’s Arch the moment after you awakened?” Trahearne takes an unconscious step forwards.

Roza looks at both of them, and then flashes Trahearne a hesitant grin. “I grabbed some clothes first,” he says.

He isn’t so easily mollified, and for a moment he ignores the warning ringing in the back of his mind to temper his voice. “Did you at least stay long enough for your initiation lesson?” Upon a silent shake of Roza’s head, “Then you never so much as learned the Tenets. Did you spend any time in the nursery? At all?”

Newborn saplings are all but physically trapped in the nursery for at least a week, separated even from the rest of the sylvari until they are deemed old enough to leave. It is there that they learn about the other races, the Dream, their lifestyle… everything. Roza cannot have simply skipped all of it.

Roza glances down at his hands once more. “No. I snuck past the Wardens when they weren’t looking. The whole business with the Nightmare had them distracted.”

Trahearne stares at him. The mender politely clears their throat, drawing his attention.

“Firstborn,” they say to him with a nod of deferral. “With all due respect to your wisdom and experience, please let me see to my patient. You are upsetting him.”

“I…” Trahearne looks back at Roza, whose hands are now clasped tightly together. He is upset, he realizes after a moment. The anxiety Trahearne feels has a high and stringy quality to its fringes that does not stem from him. Oh.

“You are right. My apologies.” He steps back to give them space, dipping his head to hide a wince. Watch yourself foremost, Eldest of us all.

“Thank you.” The mender kneels in front of Roza, before addressing him in a far gentler tone of voice than Trahearne had. “Roza, my name is Mender Aire. Tell me, have you ever received a full examination from a mender before?”

Roza throws a quick glance at Trahearne, then shakes his head. “Just for seeing to injuries,” he says in a quiet voice that makes Trahearne feel both guilt and an odd surge of protectiveness.

“I see,” Mender Aire continues in the same fashion. “You have never been in for a checkup, mental or physical?”

Roza shakes his head again, drawing his shoulders together.

“It is alright, petal,” Aire soothes. “No one is upset with you. I am just trying to figure out why you are ill, and Trahearne is only concerned.”

Trahearne watches quietly, noticing the endearment with a spike of discomfiture but letting it pass. Thorns, Roza looks so young. He seems like just a fresh sprout who is trying his best to be strong in a world that is too harsh for him.

The mender takes a moment of consideration before asking, “Roza, do you know the effects of albinism in sylvari?”

That gets a frown. “I do not have it,” Roza says, voice strengthening somewhat. “My glow and foliage are healthy. Look.” He ducks his head.

“They are,” Aire confirms. “That is what makes me dismiss it. It does not, however, rule out leucism.”

Trahearne’s head raises. “You think he is leucistic?”

Roza glances at him. “What is that?” he asks uncertainly.

“In short, partial albinism.” The mender takes Roza’s hand and holds it up to the light of a nearby window. “See. Your bark absorbs far less from the sun than it should. It makes you more susceptible to illness, fatigue, and malnutrition.”

“There is something wrong with me.” Roza’s voice is low. He pulls his hand back, cradling it close to his chest.

Aire shakes their head. “No. You have a genetic mutation, petal, and that is all. You are no less valiant or whole for it. The Pale Tree herself is, well, pale, is she not?” They give Roza a reassuring smile, which he doesn’t seem to know how to interpret.

“Is that why I am ill?” He reaches up to touch his forehead, and his eyelids flutter. “Because I feel…”

“You also have a fever,” Aire says plainly. They turn to Trahearne. “Marshal, I am ordering bed rest for him until it breaks, and he is not to work until he is fully recovered. Make sure he is by a window so he gets plenty of sunlight—he is deficient—and that he drinks a lot of water.”

Trahearne nods. “Understood.”

“Bed rest?!” Roza protests.

“That means no walking around or following the marshal about his day as I hear you have been doing. Also no attending meetings, no training, no excursions, and of course no drugs or alcohol.” Aire fixes him with a stern look. “Do you hear me?”

Roza looks as if he has just been told he will spend the rest of his days handcuffed to his bedside table. “Can I do necromancy?” he asks after a beat.

“Absolutely not.”

“Trahearne!” A plea.

Trahearne cannot help the small chuckle that escapes him. “I’ll bring you a squirrel to dissect if you’re bored,” he assures, and then, at Aire’s pointed glare, “Or… not. Apologies, Commander. Mender’s orders hold superiority over even mine, I am afraid.”

Roza slumps. “This is terrible. I feel terrible. This is going to be terrible.”

“It won’t be so bad.” After a moment of hesitation, Trahearne extends a hand towards him. Roza takes it, curling his fingers slowly. He gets up, swaying on his feet for a second before using Trahearne to steady himself.

Aire watches them with a small, private smile. “Nectar is allowed,” they add. “In fact, if you have any aches or pains, I would recommend you take a small amount. The more herbal the blend, the better.”

Trahearne nods in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Mender,” he says. Aire gives a deep nod in return. “Come, Roza. Let us get you to your prison.”

Roza has enough energy left to glare at him for that, at least.

~*~

Roza being quiet is strange.

Trahearne remembers only too well how dutifully he had visited during his own bed-bound confinement, and it is easy enough to return the favour by traipsing over to his room the following morning. Roza realizes what he is doing, if the faint smile he does not stifle is any indication. But he does not say much. Mostly, he just lies there, eyes half shut, and occasionally quietly mentions that he is thirsty. Trahearne cannot even tell if he is being listened to—the stare he receives in response to his monologue is startlingly blank. He recalls Roza’s comment about his presence being comforting through the Dream, however—and isn’t that a warming thought—and so he stays.

When Roza appears to have fallen asleep, he makes to leave; he should let his commander rest. A soft call of his name, however, gets his attention.

“You can… bring some of your work with you, next time.” Roza’s suggestion is hesitant.

It takes Trahearne less than a second to parse his actual meaning, and he cannot help the smile it invokes. “I will see how much paperwork I can carry,” he obliges, lowering his head.

He gets a mumbled thanks. It is only later, when he is going over a scouting mission report with Agent Zrii and she keeps shooting him odd looks, that he realizes he hasn’t stopped smiling.

The next day is even quieter. Roza is palpably weary, enough that there is, amusingly, a huddle of sylvari outside his door clutching a surprising variety of wildflowers for the climate. Trahearne raises an eyebrow at them.

“These are for the commander, Firstborn Marshal Trahearne,” one of them bursts, holding out his makeshift bouquet. “We would go in to give them to him, but, ah…”

“He saved me from Risen once and then yelled at me for ten minutes about putting my fern hound in danger,” another one speaks up. “I am grateful, but we do not wish to face his orneriness.”

Trahearne wrestles down his smile. “I would be glad to take the flowers and convey your well-wishes,” he says. “I am sure he will be grateful. Pale Tree guide your paths, young ones.”

They leave with mutterings of Thank you Marshal-Firstborn-Trahearne and Tell him I said hello but don’t give him my name and Can you ask him if he’s going to the springtime dance at the Grove, please, I am asking for a friend. Trahearne nods, smiles, and escapes through Roza’s door.

“You have fans,” he greets, waving the flowers before setting them on his desk. “I will get a vase for these later.”

“Throw them out,” Roza mumbles from the bed.

“Hush.” Trahearne clears Roza’s desk—he really must organize all his scrolls, this space is a mess—settles his stack of paperwork, and begins to work.

It is peaceful. Trahearne does not attempt to talk as he had the day before, and Roza is quiet, so aside from the scrawl of Trahearne’s pen and the occasional turning of a page, the room is silent. It is pleasant to feel Roza’s presence without being constantly badgered by some inanity he has derived in a fit of misplaced competitiveness. He is more genuine simply lying here like this, trickling into the edge of fatigued slumber.

Trahearne realizes he has slipped over that edge about halfway through his stack. He glances behind him, and surely enough, Roza is asleep.

Struck by some compulsion he cannot quite name, Trahearne lifts his chair and carries it over to the bedside, trying to be as silent as possible. He sets it down, sits, and stares at his commander.

Roza’s bark is still somewhat withered, which is concerning. Other than that, he looks peaceful, diminutive, and honestly quite young. It is as if the glimpse that Trahearne had gotten at the infirmary of a sapling who had left the Grove far too early—Laranthir hadn’t been exaggerating, by the Tree—is what is truly hidden underneath all his layers of posturing and tugging at people’s ferns.

Trahearne is struck with the oddest urge to plant a kiss on his forehead.

Which… is normal. They are friends. Good friends, even, by now. And being so close to his commander when he is like this would natu—

His commander.

When had he started thinking that?

His commander. Trahearne enjoys the possessive pronoun more than he’d care to admit. My commander, he thinks to himself, and warms.

Well then. There is… that. Trahearne decides to not think about it, instead neatly slipping the thought into the far end of his mental Roza bookshelf, somewhere between Favourite colour: violet and Has an attractive smile.

Ah.

Thorns.

Trahearne sighs. It is not a strife to lay out in bloody detail now, where it would disturb the tranquility of this moment. He leans down, lightly brushes his fingertips over his commander’s cheek, and, doing his best to banish all thoughts of injudicious transgressions to the back of his mind, gives him a gentle kiss on the forehead.

~*~

Roza recovers quickly. Trahearne tells himself it is a good thing, because trying to sort out the tangled fact that he is—that he has some sort of romantic inclination towards someone who acts frightfully like a sapling isn’t fun. Except… it is not that. He just likes Roza’s peacefulness. He likes the shy smiles, the sideways glances, and the way his commander had taken his hand, hesitant but firm. And he decries himself for liking it all, despite a hesitant thought that wonders if a little sweetness in his life would be so bad, really. What would it say about him, eldest of the sylvari, if he could be lured off his path by a bit of confection, like a child? Has not his life shown him that there is no room for such things in the pursuit of his duty? Eventually, inescapably, one must take the fall for the other.

Then Roza gets back to his more commander-y self, and Trahearne very quickly realizes that he likes that too. He is just so… pragmatic. He gets things done. Oh ye gods Trahearne does not worship—he sounds so old.

(But look at the way he kills things, the determinate flick of his wrist—is that not something to behold? Yes, Trahearne’s tastes may have… warped a bit. It is Roza’s fault.)

“I’m going to Hoelbrak,” Roza tells him with a curt nod. He spins his focus the right way up and snaps it to his belt. Trahearne fixates on the movement, because he is pathetic. “I know I’ve just recovered, but I believe I could be of great aid to the relief efforts there. May I take my leave, Marshal?”

It takes Trahearne a moment to realize that Roza has just asked him for permission to do something. “Of course, Commander. You are your own sylvari.”

Something in his tone must catch Roza’s attention, because he looks up. He gives Trahearne a small smile and claps him on the shoulder, squeezing lightly.

“I won’t be gone terribly long, don’t worry.” He winks before pulling away. “I have people here I long to come back to, after all.”

Trahearne blinks at him. Did he just—

“Like Harley,” Roza calls over his shoulder. He is already leaving. “Tell her that I will get her the softest of cat beds from Hoelbrak, and she will never be left wanting again.”

And he is gone. Trahearne tries to tell himself he is not jealous of a cat.

Roza does return soon, but he leaves again equally quickly. The following months are a blur of meetings, distributing resources, organizing troop movements, and writing to diplomatic leaders. Trahearne is busy, Roza is busy, and they barely have time to see each other in the midst of it all. More than once, Trahearne catches himself glancing at the spot near his window, as if he expects to see a monochromatic form leaning languidly against the wall, about to make a smart comment about Trahearne’s décor, or the manner in which he organizes his books.

During a particularly boring day he does it twice in the space of five minutes, and has to stop to scoff at himself. He is not pining. He is no lovestruck sapling. It is just… a fancy, that is all. It will pass.

(But why does he feel so guilty at that thought?)

The opportunity for Roza to spend more than a breath of a moment at Fort Trinity does not quite come in the manner in which Trahearne would prefer.

“… queen won’t be available, but I am told Countess Anise will be here in her stead, which is more than what we could have hoped for. As for our own representative, Dagonet has sent me a missive telling me he is willing to fill the role. He—”

“Dagonet?” Roza interrupts, looking up in sudden interest. His scepter, which he has been restlessly twirling in the air, stops. “The firstborn?”

Trahearne stops as well. “I—yes,” he says. “He is a great scholar amongst our kind, more than equal to myself. He has been acting as a diplomat in Kryta—”

“Yes, yes—I follow his work.” Something like excitement shines in Roza’s eyes. “You say he is coming here? To Fort Trinity?”

Trahearne shoots him a look before slowly nodding. “I was about to, Commander, before you interrupted me. As I was saying, he has—”

“Can I meet him?” Roza interrupts again.

Trahearne pinches the bridge of his nose. He enunciates, “If you can stop acting like a bored charr cub for a moment, yes, you may attend the meeting as well. In fact, as you apparently know, he is an experienced diplomat. You may have a thing or two to learn from him.”

“I’m certain I do!” Roza chirps. Trahearne stares at him. He quickly adds, gesturing with his scepter, “He is from the Cycle of Dawn, is he not? That is my cycle. I’ve—Well, I’ve always wanted to meet him. I never met my luminary, you know, and he is, ah, somewhat of an inspiration to me.”

“I see.” Trahearne takes in his shining eyes, how he is arching on the balls of his feet, and the way his words are all but tripping over one another. “Hmm. I always pinned you as a Night bloom. But I suppose Dawn makes sense, now that I think about it.”

Roza is already nodding impatiently. “Do you know when he will be here?”

Trahearne was about to tell him that. “The meeting is the day after tomorrow,” he says evenly.

Roza’s face splits into an eager smile. Trahearne is glad to see it, he tells himself as he signs a missive with a bit more force than is strictly necessary.

~*~

Firstborn Dagonet arrives for the meeting early, as a true diplomat does, which means that of course Trahearne isn’t aware he is there at all until he overhears a pair of sylvari soldiers gossiping about it. But what he is aware of are all the books Firstborn Dagonet has written, and all the studies Firstborn Dagonet has published, and the poem Firstborn Dagonet wrote about the gardens of Divinity’s Reach that is thirty-one stanzas long.

“And I read the whole thing and it was so beautiful, Trahearne! He has such a way with imagery.” Roza lets out what is certainly not a dreamy sigh. “I wish I could capture nature in writing the way he can.”

“I am sure you can tell him that yourself after the meeting,” Trahearne says. If he is walking a bit quickly, it is neither here nor there.

Roza trots along beside him with a spring in his step. “Do you think he knows who I am?” he asks.

Yes. “Probably,” Trahearne mutters.

Roza covers his smile—wider than any Trahearne has earned in what feels like forever—with his hand. “Oh,” he says.

The door to the meeting room is lighter than Trahearne remembers, which must be why it opens so quickly when he pushes at it. Roza crosses the threshold and instantly transforms into the picture of dignity.

In all but one sense, at least. Trahearne wonders if even the non-sylvari in the room can feel the excitement vibrating from him.

“Commander Roza.” Dagonet bows neatly at the waist. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Marshal Trahearne.”

“You as well, Firstborn.” Roza imitates his bow perfectly.

“Dagonet.” Trahearne simply nods. “We are all here, good. Let us begin.”

The meeting is a standard affair. That is, besides the fact that Roza magically turns into the most courteous sylvari Trahearne has never met, and his own speech is perhaps more curt than usual. But he is certain it isn’t noticeable.

“I must say, Marshal,” Countess Anise comments at the end of the conference, her voice soft and pretty as a daisy’s petal, “If I wasn’t a mesmer, I’d swear that you and the commander switched places today.”

Before Trahearne can so much as think of a response to that, Roza is chuckling lightly. “I am certain you are not the type to say that all sylvari look alike, dear Countess!” he says. “Perhaps we will stand further apart next time.”

She gives a little laugh. “Oh, it is a delight to speak to your race sometimes,” is all she responds before she glides out of the room. The rest of the representatives, save Dagonet, follow after her.

Roza’s smile drops the moment the room is clear. “What an unpleasant woman,” he mutters.

“She is the oleander flower of humans,” Dagonet speaks up. “Beautiful in appearance and fragrance both, but deadly once cut open. I would stay true to your namesake when you speak with her, Commander.”

“Firstborn.” Roza bows to him once more, deeply. “It is a great honour to meet you. I… have followed your work for a long time.”

Dagonet smiles. “The honour is mine, Commander. Never would I have thought that I would be speaking to the slayer of Zhaitan.”

Roza blushes. “It was a group effort.”

“And that he is humble!” Dagonet chuckles. “Come, let us walk and talk. Trahearne, whenever you’re feeling ready to speak, I would love to hear about what you have been doing here.”

“I do not wish to interrupt,” Trahearne murmurs. He watches as Roza pulls the door open for Dagonet, his posture even straighter than usual.

Dagonet glances between the two of them, and his eyes twinkle with something like amusement. “My thanks, Commander.”

They walk through Fort Trinity. Despite Dagonet’s comment, Roza is in fact the one who takes over as tour guide, pointing out people and places of interest with something akin to pride. Trahearne has to smile while watching him, in spite of himself. It is easy to see that he really does love the Pact, and that he cares about what they have accomplished together.

Dagonet is, of course, a perfect gentlemen. He even listens when Roza manages—somehow—to lead into a tangent about the versatility of quaggan corpses as underwater minions, which, well. It makes Trahearne glad for the first time that day that they are with Dagonet out of all of his siblings. Niamh might have stabbed him. Eventually, however, Roza is called away, and he farewells them with sad eyes.

“It was good to meet you, Firstborn Dagonet,” he says forlornly—Roza, being forlorn. Trahearne doesn’t know whether to turn to amusement or despair.

Dagonet graciously solves that conundrum for him. “You as well, Roza. I pray our paths will cross again soon,” he says, and he takes Roza’s hand, bends down, and presses a chaste kiss to his knuckles.

Roza tilts his head curiously. He says something, but Trahearne is too busy trying to resist the urge to draw Caladbolg and bury its blade somewhere he will very much regret to pay attention. He barely registers Roza shooting him a puzzled glance before he walks away.

Dagonet looks at him.

Trahearne pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do not start,” he warns.

Apparently today isn’t “Trahearne is a Firstborn, too, and perhaps people should listen to him on occasion” Day. Dagonet says in his gravelly voice, “Jealousy does not become you, Brother.”

“Dagonet,” Trahearne groans. He did that on purpose, didn’t he? Just to see what reaction he would get.

Dagonet gives a deep chuckle. “Do not fear, Trahearne. That one only has eyes for you.”

Trahearne looks at him. There are half a dozen things he could say in response to that—he could deny his interest, deny the possibility of Roza's interest, claim to not know what he is talking about…

“Are you certain?” he asks tiredly.

Dagonet smiles. “Yes. I’ve had to fend off a few unwanted advances in my time, and that wasn’t one of them. He is only, I believe, an enthusiastic fan. It is actually quite flattering.”

Of course Dagonet, tall and handsome, would know what it is like to have admirers. Trahearne sighs. “He used to be my enthusiastic fan once, you know.”

“Oh, Brother.” Dagonet looks at him with something like pity. “Do not be harsh on yourself for not having eyes to see what is right in front of you. Sometimes it takes an outside perspective to expose the truths we keep too close to our hearts.”

That statement strikes truer than Trahearne would like to admit. He scratches the back of his neck, ducking his head.

He looks up when he hears Dagonet make a considering hum. “Do you know—and forgive me for saying so, but—he’s a bit like Riannoc.”

Trahearne shoots him a look. “He is not.”

“He is,” Dagonet insists. “Headstrong, stubborn, likes to make you tick… you have a type, Brother.”

Trahearne blusters through a scoff. “That—well—he isn’t—” He quickly gives up trying to defend himself. “He isn’t always like that,” he mutters to his brother’s knowing look. “He can actually be very sweet.”

“Oh, yes, I was listening,” Dagonet replies. “Did he really read the entirety of Kryta’s Flowering Beauty? It was a complete flop with the humans.”

“He… likes poetry,” Trahearne says.

Dagonet’s smile is grand. “Then I can think of no better way through which you can court him.”

Trahearne gives him a look. “Dagonet.”

Dagonet laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. “There is potential here, Trahearne. This one is already roots over blossoms for you.”

Trahearne glances off to the side. “Even if that is true, it is unwise.”

“Why?” Dagonet asks.

Trahearne looks back at him, and meets steady grey eyes. He cannot be…? No, he is serious.

“I cannot afford the distraction,” he says quietly. To enjoy Roza’s company is one thing, but to act on it… “I have made my commitments, and right now the Pact is my top priority. Besides, he is my commander. It would not be right.”

“And leading him on is?” Dagonet’s gaze is shrewd. Trahearne automatically frowns at the accusation, before his expression slowly loosens. He is not… leading Roza on. Is he? They are not anything. But…

“I have advice, Brother, if you would heed it: either commit to him or renounce him, but whatever your choice, tell him. Do not skirt around the matter. Because right now he speaks to you as though straight from his heart to yours, titles and duties aside, and you seem perfectly content with it.”

More than content, his eyes say. Trahearne winces. “I will… consider it,” he allows. He will reflect on it later, though even now he instinctively shies from the thought of cutting his and Roza’s—connection? Relationship?—off. “Either way, thank you for your input. You have given me much to think about.”

(Act with wisdom, but act. Does being the oldest permit him the pride to ignore a tenet?)

“I am glad to help.” Dagonet bows neatly, one hand spread across his chest. “It just… would not hurt to see you happy for once, Eldest Brother. Anyway, I am certain you have marshaling business to attend to. I won’t keep you any longer.”

“One last thing,” Trahearne says.

Dagonet gives him a questioning look, and Trahearne pulls him into a hug. “It is good to see you again,” he murmurs.

“You too, Brother.” His grip is strong and solid. “Take care. And… good luck with him.”

That marks the second person who has wished him good luck with Roza. Trahearne has to wonder why he needs it.

~*~

Unfortunately, he is left with little time to consider something as mundane as his relationship with his commander (and no, he is certainly not using current events as excuses to set the topic aside). Things are coming to a head, and Roza is busier than ever. He stops by Fort Trinity to bless Trahearne with a wink or a smile—sometimes both, if he is lucky—but all too soon, he is gone again.

He also, for some reason, begins to bring him… gifts.

They are just little things, oftentimes not even monetarily valuable. A sand coin from Lion’s Arch. A fragment of a karka shell he thought was pretty. More memorably, a shard from an icebrood. Every time Roza comes by to visit, he has something different, which he hands to Trahearne with a smile that varies from shy to sly. Most of it is either junk or something that can be found in great abundance somewhere in Tyria, but different in some way that had appealed to him. A lot of it is pink or light purple—Roza seems to have a preference for spring colours. Most recently, a ribbon of deep, royal violet that he had seemed almost hesitant to hand over.

Trahearne places each and every one of these presents on his desk, lining them up neatly in chronological order. He tells himself it cannot hurt. Little tokens of affection will hardly wrest his will away from the Pact, and neither he nor Roza has of yet turned into a blubbering fool from their interactions. He is just about running out of room on his desk when Lion’s Arch gets blown up.

Roza doesn’t return for a while after that.

~*~

Trahearne is taking a particularly late night. People are all but banging on the Pact’s door demanding why they didn’t help with Scarlet—with Lion’s Arch—with anything—and Trahearne has his official answer, but it tastes like ash. He has letters to write. He has work to do. He has decisions to make and he has…

No commander. He hasn’t seen or heard from his commander in weeks.

Which—he is certain he is fine, reports of airships exploding be damned. Laranthir’s correspondence saying he hasn’t seen him even though he had looked be damned. Not that it is his job to look. It is his job to represent the Pact. Trahearne wants to write back and ask him why he hadn’t looked harder.

It is late, and the candle on his desk has almost burnt out.

Trahearne closes his eyes for but a moment, and when he opens them, his office is in pitch blackness.

“You know what’s really fucking unfair?” whispers a voice from the dark. “When other people get things and you—you don’t. Because you just—you don’t, and—fuck.”

The sound of glass shattering against the wall. Trahearne is already up, striding forwards, reaching blindly into the shadows where he thinks the voice is coming from. He tells himself that his concern is a normal thing, that his reactivity, and the anxiety spiking in his throat, means only that he—

“Why?” Roza continues. Trahearne should be able to see him, but he isn’t glowing, and the moonlight isn’t reflecting off his bark like it should be. “Why don’t I—why don’t I get things?”

“Commander,” Trahearne says, though the word feels wrong.

The shadows flare. “Don’t fucking call me that.”

“Roza.” Why is he like this? What happened? “Where are you?”

“Right next to you.” His voice is bitter.

“I can’t find you.” Trahearne closes his eyes and reaches out with his magic, and he feels Roza’s—dark. Spiking. Hazy at the edges.

“Are you drunk?” he asks.

A laugh that sounds like broken glass. “I am fuck—ing sma-ashed.”

Trahearne lets out a breath of relief that feels like he is pulling himself out of the depths. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

The laugh turns into a sob. “I wish you were gladder,” says the voice, and suddenly Trahearne can feel him, feel hands like claws grasping onto the leaves of his chest. “I wish I could… be…”

He trails off. His hands clench into fists, almost painfully tight. Trahearne can smell alcohol.

He tries again to reach out, and this time he touches a body, narrow and trembling. He encircles it with his arms, gently. Then tighter.

Roza chokes into his collar. “You should hug me more. I feel like I’m going to die.”

“You’re not going to die.” Trahearne pulls him close. It’s fine. It’s fine. And if it’s not… Roza needs him. He will face the consequences, just this once. “It’s alright. Tell me what happened.”

Roza lets out a noise that sounds halfway between a sob and a gasp. “You’re so gentle I missed you,” comes out, slurred. “I missed you so much.”

Sweetest petal. The thought comes unbidden, with ease it should not have. Trahearne blinks through the tightness in his throat. He allows himself a weakness: “I missed you too, my dear Roza.”

Roza presses his teeth to his neck and inhales, raggedly. “You don’t,” he says. Then, before Trahearne can reply, “Marjory got a kiss.”

Oh.

“I,” says Trahearne.

“You don’t. You don’t,” says Roza.

Trahearne shushes him. “I do.”

“You don’t,” Roza repeats, and his voice tears.

Trahearne didn’t think he would be dealing with this—whatever it is—so soon. He didn’t think he’d be dealing with it at all. He thought he had time. His Wyld Hunt is complete—does he not have years to plot this into his life?

But the Pact has only just begun.

Roza is speaking again. “You weren’t there with me,” he accuses. “You weren’t there with—for me. I’ve been so lonely. I’ve been—by—myself. Again.”

Each word cuts like a knife. Trahearne squeezes him tightly, for which one of them he does not know. “Roza…”

“They don’t count!” Roza protests against something he has not said. “They don’t… they're not you. I want you back.”

“I’m right here,” Trahearne whispers. He doesn’t know why he feels so guilty.

Roza shakes his head. “You don’t want me,” he says, and he starts to cry, jagged breaths reeking of alcohol and bitterness. “You don’t want when I’m not pretty.”

Trahearne tries to reassure him through the hole tearing his heart open, but Roza keeps shaking his head. He repeats himself, again and again, a litany of You don’t want me and You weren’t there for me and I can’t do this by myself and I don’t know why I’m trying and eventually, muttered so quietly he almost doesn’t hear, I should just give up.

Trahearne doesn’t know what to do except hold him and attempt to comfort him. He doesn’t know how this happened, he doesn’t know why it happened so suddenly, he doesn’t know—what he has done.

Nothing. He has done absolutely nothing.

Maybe, he realizes too late, that is the problem.

~*~

When Trahearne enters his office the next morning, he goes to the window and stands there for a few minutes. He watches the troop movements as they go through their morning routines. He is holding a mug of coffee—a new habit that he shouldn’t have picked up from the humans. He turns to set it down on his desk.

He stops.

The violet ribbon is missing.

Everything else is there—Trahearne checks and double checks. The shells, the bones, the skelk claws, the teeth. Everything is in its proper order and at the very end of the line, at the corner of his desk, the ribbon is missing.

The cold, gnawing feeling in his stomach only grows as he searches through his bookcases and doesn’t find it there. It is not in any of the drawers. It is not on the ground, under the rug, hidden inside the candleholder, above the doorframe, by the window in the spot Roza always stands. It is nowhere.

Trahearne is on the verge of panic—and now he knows how significant this has all been to him, now he can see—when there is a soft knock on his door, and the commander steps through.

“Roza,” Trahearne breathes as soon as he sees him.

Roza’s eyes quickly scan the room, taking in its disordered state, before they fix on him, quiet and dark. “Marshal,” he says.

Trahearne’s stomach sinks in trepidation. “Roza,” he repeats, ignoring it. It may just be him, but Roza feels less present in the Dream. “How… How are you feeling? You must have quite the hangover.”

He can’t quite smile. Roza doesn’t. “I’m managing,” he replies. “Anyways, I’ve come to apologize for my conduct last night. I didn’t mean to have a drunken meltdown on you.”

He chuckles, flashing teeth. Trahearne shakes his head. “Please don’t,” he pleads. He will not let this slip through his fingers. Not when he has just started to grasp it.

Roza tilts his head. “Don’t what?”

Trahearne goes over to him, taking the plunge. He has room on his path for sweetness. He has already made room, though he was too much of a fool to see it. “Don’t withdraw into yourself.”

Roza gives him a smile that is tight at the edges. “My Marshal,” he says. His voice is even, but his eyes are sad. “That is all I know how to do.”

Of course. He has no experience in navigating these streams. He has no experience to even know what they are doing, and yet he is bold enough to bring them to a tipping point. He sees the two of them with more clarity than Trahearne and his shying away has ever granted. How…?

My Marshal. Trahearne dares to hope, and takes his hand. It doesn’t pull away, but it is limp. “Then try something new,” he offers. “We have time now to take a break. There are many good getaways in Tyria this time of year.”

The sadness in Roza’s eyes grows. “You should go and enjoy yourself. I am sorry—I am having one of my grey periods, and seeing Kas and—i-if you want me to—I just don’t know if. If I-I—”

He ducks his head, expression folding. And Trahearne is stupid—has he not just established that he needs to be—

He leans down and kisses his commander on the cheek. “I want to take you to the Festival of the Four Winds,” he says, trying to pretend as if it is a normal thing he has just done. “I think you would enjoy it.”

Roza’s eyes are wide with shock. “I went,” he says after a long beat. “And I didn’t.”

Trahearne smiles at him, though it is forced. “You didn’t go with me.”

Roza gives a trembling smile back. “I don’t want to drag you down with me.” His chest quivers with the words. “I know it’s not your fault. I’m sorry.”

Trahearne hugs him. Roza makes a quiet, gasping noise, and doesn’t hug him back.

“Do you feel like you’re going to die?” Trahearne asks.

A breath. “I feel as if I want to,” Roza admits. Then, immediately, “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. I’m sorry for not being there with you.”

Roza shakes his head. “Not your fault.” His voice is thick. Hands start to creep around Trahearne’s waist. “Find a better commander. Who is—who is—not me.”

“My dear Roza,” Trahearne says, “I do not want anyone else.”

“I don’t deserve you.” A whisper.

Trahearne kisses him on the forehead. It come easier, this time, and Roza’s hands barely twitch at it. “On the contrary. You deserve far more than I.”

Roza squeezes him until his fingers are digging into his back, and it hurts. “I don’t want anyone else,” he says.

Thorns, Trahearne wants to kiss him, really kiss him. It’s an awful time for it.

He presses his lips together and forces himself to lay his cheek against Roza’s branches. He can’t. Not now. He doesn’t know if—despite this, they are not anything.

Not yet. But they could be.

~*~

“Don’t you want to be with your new friends?” Trahearne asks a few weeks later. “It’s been a while.”

Roza looks up at him from his position on the floor. He acts almost exactly like he used to. He teases, and he taunts, and he speaks formally, only curving the word Marshal. But there is an extra chair by Trahearne’s window now, and he sits in it sometimes when it is late at night, and they talk.

(And sometimes Trahearne takes his hand, and he blushes and looks away, and doesn’t pull it back. It’s small. It’s something.)

“I could use a break from them,” Roza says smoothly. “You never realize how much distance you need to maintain a friendly relationship with people until you meet a teenage asura.”

Trahearne chuckles, even as he feels somewhat badly for it. “I hope you are more charming than that when you speak to her.”

(And yesterday Roza had come to him, voice trembling, in the middle of the night. He had refused to say what was wrong. Trahearne had held him, and not pushed. It’s something. It’s a start.)

“Why, Marshal,” Roza replies, “I am an absolute joy to be around. Just ask the rumours. Last week, apparently, Faren—the idiot human, remember him?—and I had an illicit midnight meeting in the gardens of Divinity’s Reach. Why would he do that if I wasn’t charming?”

Trahearne smiles at him. “You are charming,” he says, because he is letting himself do this now (and Pale Mother is it freeing. Condemningly so).

Roza studies him, then rolls his eyes and looks away. “Don’t pour too much sugar into my ears, Marshal.”

Trahearne knows him well enough by now to recognize embarrassment when he sees it. “Afraid you’ll become too sweet, Commander?”

“Alchemy,” says Agent Zrii. “Why do I have to see this with my own two eyes?”

Trahearne jumps. Roza replies blandly, “I can pluck them out for you, Agent.”

(“I can’t be like you,” Roza had said to him, hollow. “I cannot. The world is too cruel.”

“It’s alright,” Trahearne had answered. “You don’t have to change yourself for anyone, Roza. Least of all me.”)

Zrii gives a lazy salute that looks strangely similar to Roza’s. “Marshal Trahearne! I’ve come with my report. And to judge your tastes, I guess, but,” She looks Roza up and down. “We all have our vices.”

Roza flips her a rude gesture, which she pretends to catch, kisses, and blows back. He hides a grin by sinking into the floor and disappearing in a frankly quite unnecessary manner.

Trahearne clears his throat, trying to will his flush away. By the Tree, he knows they have been going places together lately, but does everyone know? “I’ll have that report, Agent,” he says. “Next time, ah… knock, please.”

“Don’t worry, I want to keep my innocence.” She hands it to him, and her ears perk up. “Oh! And I was supposed to tell you—they’re planning a party for when Lion’s Arch is done! I peeked, and we’re on the guest list, even though we didn’t do anything to help.”

Trahearne doesn’t need to be judged by his own agents. “Thank you. Dismissed, Zrii.”

“See ya, Marshal!” She goes over to where Roza has disappeared, and stomps violently on the ground. “See ya, bookah,” she adds, a lot more affectionately. She leaves.

(“Sometimes I feel as if you will tear me apart,” Roza tells him. He taps his chest with two delicate fingers. “Here. I don’t understand.”

Trahearne doesn’t know what to say to that. “I’m sorry,” he decides on, because he is, about so many things.

Roza smiles at him, and it is beautiful. “I like it,” he says.)

Trahearne drops his head into his hands. He doesn’t even know what is going on anymore.

~*~

He is forced to fuse his two worlds together like this:

They have gone to the celebration in Lion’s Arch. The new hall has been disguised to look like a ballroom, and it is so ostentatiously adorned Trahearne can almost believe it. The air is joyous. People keep coming up to him to thank him, even though he arguably hasn’t done anything.

Roza is a vision in white. It is so unlike him—he usually dresses very conservatively, and very… well, in black. Now he is wearing a floor-length dress that Trahearne thinks, Mother preserve him, is semi-sheer. His arms are bare, his neckline dips down to his abdomen, and he looks like he is going to either die of boredom or kill someone just to get a little excitement from the spectacle. He is beautiful.

Trahearne has had more than one thought to ask him to dance, if he is being honest with himself, but—is that right? A marshal dancing with his second-in-command? To them it would not be too out of the ordinary, but… what would people whisper?

His first dance of the evening is actually with someone else. A sapling, red-orange and shy. She tells him she is here to celebrate her Wyld Hunt’s completion. He congratulates her, and after some persuasion, lets her lead him towards swirling skirts and tapping feet.

Roza all but stalks over to them, glaring like Trahearne is dancing with Mordremoth itself, and spits vitriol. It is shocking to hear it coming out of him, considering he looks so angelic. More so for Trahearne than the poor sapling—who starts to cry—since he hadn’t heard that kind of talk in over a year.

She runs away. Trahearne can’t keep himself from snapping. “Was that truly necessary?” he asks. He is disappointed in his commander. Has he not learned? Can he not see that he cannot do this, that everything is so precarious, that he cannot upset the balance of things if they are to continue as they are?

Roza looks stunned at his ire. “I…” he says.

He stays quiet. Trahearne sighs, and tells him that they’ll speak later to discuss this, because he isn’t going to tell his commander off in the middle of a ballroom. Roza keeps staring at him, and the old, familiar warning bells go off. Trahearne doesn’t have to look to know his hands are trembling; the wide eyes and loss of speech are enough of a giveaway. He gets the urge to reassure him, as he always does, but this time he doesn’t act upon it. They are in public, Roza is his commander, and he doesn’t… He leaves him to his thoughts, whatever they may be.

Trahearne spies him later, staring at the ground as if all he can think about is being scolded. He tries his best to loosen the vice around his heart, and almost convinces himself that he succeeds. Roza straightens when he is approached, posture turning militarily perfect, and bows his head.

“At ease,” Trahearne says softly. It’s alright, he tries to infuse into the words.

He leads Roza away, thoughts turning over themselves. He wants to hug him. He wants to kiss away the uncertainty in the dark eyes that avoid him so. He cannot do that. Roza is his commander.

Trahearne tries to lighten the mood. It doesn’t work. Roza is practically pulsing panic at him.

Trahearne has two lines of action, and they are conflicted. He takes the first one, letting his title speak for him, a marshal talking to his commander. Roza is usually comfortable sinking into that role, and they can speak later as… as the greater thing that they are.

But Roza’s spine doesn’t stiffen, and he doesn’t disconnect with Trahearne. Instead, he slumps further. He looks like he is about to cry. Trahearne cannot embrace him. He wants to. He knows he is making the wrong choice, but every other one feels like an equal misstep. If he is the oldest and most experienced of them all, why does he feel so much like an unemerged newborn scrabbling blindly in his pod?

Roza is so young.

This can’t be right. Trahearne is his superior. He is wiser and older and knows his emotions, and yet Roza is silent and on the verge of tears and he wants nothing more than to kiss them away and this—can’t be right. It was never like this with anyone else.

I’m sorry, is on the tip of Trahearne’s tongue. I still love you, I promise. Well, he dares not say that.

He tries to make Roza open up. Roza tells him that he was—jealous. Oh. Trahearne almost wants to laugh, half out of relief that he has gotten words from silence and half in disbelief. That’s all it was? A bit of immaturity? Oh, by the Tree, it wasn’t worth all this.

He says something—that Roza is young, he is thinking out loud—and it hits wrong. Roza flinches away from him—ouch—and Trahearne tries to backtrack, but he is internally conflicted and that dress is definitely sheer, he can see it very well at this distance, and Roza is a stormy cloud of emotions and Trahearne—says the wrong thing. Again. He stammers to fix it, but his commander is already withdrawing from him.

“Roza,” Trahearne calls out, trying to salvage the conversation, “Wait, please—”

Roza ducks away from his outstretched hand and runs. He disappears into a mass of shadows.

~*~

Trahearne waits for him patiently, hopefully. Minutes tick by, and then hours. Roza doesn’t come back.

He watches the musicians leave with a sinking feeling. There goes his chance at a dance. No, that isn’t fair. He ruined that himself.

Trahearne closes his eyes, reaching out with his magic like he had once before. There is nothing… and there is nothing… and there is something, faint, in the corner of the wall. He inhales slowly, and on the exhale, fades into a dark spot behind a curtain. The shadows there plump.

He waits for longer. Finally, when the lights are out and everyone is gone, he is just about ready to give up. He readies himself to breathe light into his body once more.

A soft white figure, glowing like a ghost, slowly comes out of the far corner of the room.

Trahearne holds his breath. He watches as Roza fiddles with something, then walks to the raised platform where the dancers had laughed and twirled.

Somewhat saved by his natural grace, but still endearingly awkward in a way that makes it obvious he has absolutely no clue what he is doing, he starts to imitate the steps of a dance.

Oh, Trahearne thinks as he watches. If he had any doubts as to the course upon which he is set, they are gone now. Yes, Roza is young. Yes, this is probably ill-advised. But time will fix the first problem, and Trahearne can manage the latter just as he manages all his responsibilities. Dagonet was right—does he not deserve this much, after everything? Just a small seed of happiness? He detaches from the wall and walks towards Roza.

“It’s much easier if you try with a partner,” he says quietly.

Roza whirls around with a gasp. His dress whirls with him. “Trahearne?” he says. “What are you doing here?”

He is still afraid. When Trahearne moves towards him, he moves back. Trahearne stops.

“I wanted to speak with you,” he offers hesitantly.

They speak. Trahearne apologizes, and reassures, and nearly confesses, of all idiotic things, and then he gets close enough and sees that—wow—Roza’s dress… does not leave much to the imagination.

Especially not when his glow pulses.

Trahearne thinks that perhaps it is actually a mercy that Roza had hidden away during the later hours of the evening. Elsewise Trahearne might have been the one biting jealousy at innocent onlookers, and that would have been—unprofessional. Because he is a marshal, and Roza… his…

Oh, who is he trying to fool anymore but himself?

He doesn’t look down after that, because—Pale Mother help him, he can’t, not at all that—but he takes Roza’s hand, puts his own on his shoulder, and teaches his commander how to dance.

He looks so beautiful. Trahearne’s heart is well and truly ensnared.

Fuck, he swears to himself, for the first and last time in years. He is about to close his eyes and sink helplessly into his fate, but then Roza asks, What do you think of me, then, Marshal?

Trahearne cannot lie.

It is all but a confession. If I am a fool for you isn’t, then I care for you too much, despite everything is. It is the truth, honest and bare. Roza practically sobs. He closes his eyes, arches on his toes, and for a terrifying, wondrous second Trahearne thinks he is going to kiss him. He doesn’t.

They rest their foreheads together and sway chest to chest, no longer following any dance but their own. Trahearne wishes they could stay like this forever.

~*~

After that, Roza’s visits grow sporadic. Trahearne easily tells himself there is nothing to worry about. Whenever his commander comes by, he makes sure they do something special together. It is not courting, in the traditional sense of the word—their lives would not permit that—although—no. Well, anyway. They are not courting.

Roza’s smile is bright and wide at the World Summit. “Trahearne!” he cries, rushing up to him. “I have missed you.”

Trahearne could sob in relief. No more retreating. “I’ve missed you as well,” he replies with a foolish, grand smile. “My Commander. It is good to see you.”

They update each other on their respective situations—Trahearne has more news than Roza does—but he can’t help but smile throughout the whole thing, like the lovesick sapling he once told himself he wasn’t. Roza smiles less, but he hums, and drums his fingers on Trahearne’s arm, and touches his cheek—his arm—his chest. He seems happy. Trahearne hopes he is happy.

“One day, after this,” he says. “I want to take you somewhere.”

Roza’s eyes curl. “To another festival?” he asks.

Trahearne laughs. “No. I think riding around on an undead dolyak might have gotten us banned from those permanently. I was thinking the Grotto, in Orr. It’s been a long time, and we’ve been… working on feeding the land. I think it’s in a state you’ll appreciate.”

There. He will tell him everything there, he has decided. He has it almost all planned out; a scene unfinished waiting for just the two of them to complete it.

Roza smiles at him. “I look forward to it, Marshal,” he says. He nods once, decisively. “Alright, I have a speech to give. Wish me luck.”

“Be charming,” Trahearne tells him. He gets a laugh and a dismissive wave.

One day. After this.

~*~

Their mother is attacked.

Trahearne’s mother.

He pulls himself together. He has to. He is the eldest of his siblings, the first of the firstborn. The marshal of the Pact. He stands tall, and swallows down his terror, and talks strategy with Roza’s grim expression.

“A new Wyld Hunt,” Roza muses to himself. He glances off to Trahearne’s right, and stops.

“Laranthir,” he says.

Laranthir’s bark has gone pale. “I feel like a newly awakened sprout, so vulnerable,” he says. His voice shakes. “The Pale Tree—my home, my mother, my retreat... I never thought to see the day when she would be weakened.”

Roza goes up to him and puts his hands on his shoulders. “Look at me.”

Laranthir’s eyes are darting around the Grove, skittering from bough to branch. “If Mordremoth could attack her here,” he says, “Then there’s no telling what it could—”

Roza’s hands move to either side of his face. The touch must be cold. “Laranthir, look at me,” he orders.

Laranthir looks.

“Mother will recover,” Roza says firmly. “But only if we take the fight to Mordremoth. Do you understand? In order to protect her—and keep your haven safe—we have to kill it.”

Laranthir swallows, but nods. “I understand, Commander,” he says.

Roza glances at Trahearne, and then back to him. “Take all the softness you have in your sweet heart,” he says, “And leave it here in the Grove, with Mother. Leave it here to heal her. There is something about this dragon…” His composed expression shivers for a moment, before it smoothens once more. “We need to fight it. Shield your heart and shield your mind, Brother.”

Laranthir nods again, more confidently. His hand flutters briefly to a place beneath his chest. “I will,” he promises.

Roza’s hands brush downwards. “And trust in the Pact,” he adds.

“I do. Always,” Laranthir swears.

Roza smiles. “Good.” His fingers lift and return to him.

“Commander.” Trahearne nods. “I hope we can count on your aid when we get the forward camp in the Silverwastes established. May our Mother guide you with whatever strength she has left.”

Roza salutes him. “Guide her, Firstborn,” he replies.

~*~

“If you’ve a moment, Marshal.”

Trahearne all but rushes to follow him to some place more private. He tells himself they aren’t behaving like two saplings having an illicit affair—and then the thought is funny, ridiculously, because he is about to launch the Pact’s assault on an Elder Dragon, and he is terrified but hopeful, and it is funny that he is stopping to take a moment to talk to his—what?

His Roza.

Unexpectedly, his chest warms at the thought. Pale Mother, in the middle of all of this. Tyria is folding itself in half.

“What do you need, Commander?” he asks when no one will hear them.

Roza winks. “A kiss for good luck?” he says in a low voice.

Trahearne’s mind blanks. Before he can say anything, Roza starts to laugh. “Sorry, sorry. Couldn’t help myself. Ah, you should see your face…”

Impulsively, Trahearne leans in and kisses him on the cheek. “Be safe,” he says.

Roza stares at him in surprise for a second, lips parted, before they curve into a smile. “Can’t.” He sounds playfully regretful. “It is my job to not be safe. Some must be not safe so that all may be very safe, you know.”

Trahearne shakes his head, even as he smiles back. “Look at you,” he says. “Making terrible jokes at a time like this.”

“What can I say? You bring out the sapling in me.”

“You are not a sapling anymore.” Trahearne’s tone turns serious. “You have changed so much, my dear Roza. You have far outgrown this old scholar’s mentorship.”

“My Marshal.” Roza’s eyes soften. He places his hand on Trahearne’s cheek, curling his fingers. “Trahearne. I will never outgrow you, I promise.”

Trahearne leans into the touch, gazing at his commander until sadness begins to creep upon them. Why? Where is it coming from?

(Roza is sensitive to the Dream. Perhaps a change is in the wind, and neither of them know it.)

Roza’s expression sobers. “Trahearne,” he says, “Kill that dragon. If you can’t kill it, hurt it. But most importantly, no matter what, do not die.”

Trahearne slowly shakes his head. “Roza…” They both know he cannot promise that. It is unlikely, but death is always a possibility. It is the deal they have accepted.

“I would not be able to bear it,” Roza says, and his strong voice cracks and mends itself. “So please.”

Trahearne leans their foreheads together. They stay like that for a long moment.

“I must go,” he says finally. “You must go. Find Glint’s egg. Make it back to us if you can.”

“Yes, Sir.” Roza is pulling back his gauntlet, brushing aside the leaves to tie something around his wrist. Trahearne looks down.

“A favour,” Roza says. “For luck.”

He draws away. Tied around Trahearne’s wrist in an elegant bow is a ribbon of deep, royal violet.

Cold fingers tilt his chin up, and then he is staring into Roza’s eyes, his expression dark and unending.

“Live,” Roza tells him.

~*~

~*~

Roza’s ribbon gets torn away.

~*~

~*~

He can see his commander.

“Trahearne.” Roza’s voice is a terrified whisper. Then he is sprinting towards him, leaving his companions in vines and death.

“I’ll kill it,” he says, reaching out and pressing his hands to Trahearne’s arms, his waist. He can barely feel the touch. “I’ll fucking kill it I’ll kill every Mordrem in my way I’ll kill every dragon, I’ll kill everyone I’ll—”

“Roza,” says Trahearne.

“—Pale Mother what has it done to you I’ll kill it I’ll kill it with fire I will burn it I will burn this whole jungle down, I don’t fucking care who lives here, I will—”

“Roza,” says Trahearne.

Roza looks up at him. There are furious tears in his eyes. “What?!”

Trahearne tries his best to smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Roza lets out a shocked sob. He leans his head against Trahearne’s stomach, and shakes and shakes against him, and doesn’t move.

Trahearne tells them all that they are doomed. Roza says I’ll kill it one more time but it is with purpose, and he makes a plan. Trahearne wants to smile again. He had always been a star student.

~*~

Roza drops Caladbolg.

“Roza,” Trahearne says. “Listen… to me. You must.”

Roza shakes his head, and doesn’t stop. “No,” he chokes out. He is crying, tears streaming freely down his face. “I won’t,” comes out, inaudible. “I can’t.”

“I am… already dead,” Trahearne tells him with difficulty. He had long ago accepted his fate. “You must kill me. Or I will not… be your Marshal… any longer.”

Roza might say something in response to that. Trahearne doesn’t know. The dragon has reared up inside of him, and it screams.

Roza screams back.

~*~

Finally, peace.

~*~

Trahearne’s soul is torn and ragged.

~*~

Caladbolg is binding down a shard of himself. Trahearne cannot escape it, until one day—he doesn’t know when—he is almost there again.

His shard sees his commander, and he smiles. “Roza,” he says.

Roza looks like a corpse. “Trahearne,” he replies. “My Marshal. I have come back to you.”

“Where are we?” Trahearne’s shard looks around. “This isn't quite the battlefield I last remember.”

Roza tells him. Apparently, they have to fight. Trahearne’s shard chuckles.

“You know, Commander, I have sometimes wondered at the outcome of a sparring match,” he says with a grin Roza’s haunted expression doesn’t look like it is able to return anymore. “Shall we?”

They fight. Roza wins, except he shakes his head.

“If you kill me here,” he asks with a voice that doesn’t quite crack, “Will I get to be with you?”

Trahearne’s shard smiles sadly. “I am not your Trahearne,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Roza nods, as if he had expected that. Still, he swears, “I will find you. One day.”

“Not yet,” Trahearne’s shard answers. “Now go. Take up Caladbolg, and protect this world.”

Roza goes, and the shard is freed.

~*~

“Hm,” Trahearne says, glancing around. “Not what I expected.”

He wanders for a long time. He is a scholar at heart, after all, and now he finally has eternity to do nothing but study. He has no materials with which to write anything down. But he finds, strangely, that he doesn’t need them. He does not forget anything he learns here.

“You know,” he says to someone, “If I could go back to being alive, I could make leaps and bounds in numerous academic fields.”

“Uh-huh,” says the someone. They are an asura, which probably isn’t the best choice of conversation companion, but it is the only one Trahearne has found so far.

He sighs. “Do you know anything about necromancy?” he ventures, although it is a long shot.

They stare at him. “Why in the Eternal Alchemy is a plant talking to me?” they ask.

~*~

He wanders some more.

~*~

A human girl is talking at him.

“And then the Pact commander came in and he was soo dreamy,” she says. “I always told my friends, like, I’d do Logan, you know? Like, the Seraph Captain. But I think he retired now. Plus he’s old. Anyways. But like, I’m not vegetarian or anything but I would totally do the commander. Like, with kissing and stuff.”

“Are you an adult?” Trahearne asks her, because that is the most disconcerting thing about this entire situation.

“What?” she says. “Uh, yeah. I’m like… fourteen.”

“Right,” says Trahearne.

She rolls her eyes in a way that reminds him painfully of Roza. “Anyways,” she says, “I was going to go over to him and like, talk to him, you know? But then the roof hit me on the head and I died.”

“Unfortunate,” says Trahearne.

She squints at him. After a long time (there are a lot of awkward silences here, wherever they are, he has learned), she scrunches up her nose.

“I wouldn’t, you know,” she says. “Ac-tu-a-lly. That’s gross. He’s like, four years old or something.”

“Good to know,” says Trahearne. It is easy to lose track of time here. “Thank you, Gretchen.”

“Uh, I told you to call me Retch,” she says.

Trahearne is not going to call her Retch. “You’ve been very helpful.”

She stares at him some more.

“Aren’t you, like,” she says after a time, “His boyfriend? The dead one.”

“Is that what I am now?” he questions. “If so, yes.”

She rolls her eyes again, this time with her whole face. “That is totally not an answer.”

“My name is Trahearne,” he tells her.

“Oh,” she says.

They stand in more silence.

“Yeah,” she adds eventually. “Yeah, you’re the dead boyfriend, Treehern.”

~*~

He finds a face he hadn’t expected to see ever again.

But they are not the saplings they once were. They bid each other goodbye with promises to visit, and that is all. Trahearne even gets a wink, but it is from a brother, not a lover.

He wonders if his feelings for Roza will one day fade too.

~*~

“Gretchen,” he says, “It’s unfortunate that you can’t age.”

She rolls her eyes. She does that a lot, he has learned. Even more than Roza. “I’m stuck at like, the best age, Treehern,” she says. She can pronounce his name properly, apparently, but she simply chooses not to. “You’re the one who’s gross and old.”

“I’m considered fairly young by human standards, actually.”

They sit in silence.

“What’s sex like?” Gretchen asks him.

Trahearne lets out a weary sigh, even though he doesn’t get weary anymore. It’s really unfortunate that she can’t age.

~*~

The magic around them is incredibly unstable.

Trahearne frowns when it doesn’t dissipate in the slightest after a year.

~*~

Trahearne has found a spot. A little outcropping. He sits there, sometimes, and he watches.

And waits. He doesn’t what he’s waiting for.

~*~

“Have you ever been in love with someone who’s alive when you’re dead?” he asks.

“Uh,” says Gretchen. “I’m like, thirteen.”

“Is that a no?”

She scratches at the ground through the hole in her shoe. She likes his spot, too. “I love my dog,” she says. “I think he’s still alive. He would be, right? He got out of the building?”

Trahearne doesn’t answer for a while.

“Maybe Roza saved him,” he suggests eventually.

“Yeah,” Gretchen replies. She doesn’t sound convinced.

~*~

Something has happened.

Trahearne doesn’t know why he gets a sudden feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. Even when it leaves, he shivers from it the coldness it hollows out.

He has just about talked himself into believing it was nothing to worry about when the sky is sundered in two.

~*~

Gretchen is screaming.

Trahearne reaches out to her. “Gretchen!” he calls. “Gretchen, take my hand!”

The wretched purple beast ravaging the Mists roars, and she screams again.

Trahearne is dead. He should be done with this. He shouldn’t have to lose someone again.

He lunges.

~*~

His spot is gone, which is really quite unfortunate.

Gretchen is sitting next to him, shaking. She has been shaking for hours.

Glint calls to them, calls to everyone. Fight Kralkatorrik, she cries. Rally to me!

Trahearne is done with fighting. He huddles down further, and tries to hide them both as best he can.

~*~

A small being of light comes and fixes his spot.

“Thank you,” Trahearne says to it. “Have you seen my poem? I’m afraid it might have gotten eaten by an Elder Dragon.”

The being looks at him.

“I’m an Elder Dragon,” it says.

“Oh,” says Trahearne.

The being ducks its neck towards him, and Trahearne can see it now—it does indeed look very draconic. “My name is Aurene,” it rumbles in a strangely feminine voice.

Trahearne extends a hand, to what effect he doesn’t know. “Trahearne,” he introduces.

Aurene, apparently in possession of manners, gently bumps his hand with her claw. She explains to him who she is, and he almost laughs. The egg. The egg.

“My commander got to you after all,” he muses.

Aurene tilts her head. “Your commander?”

~*~

He tells her about Roza. She stays and listens, for far longer than an Elder Dragon should listen to a wandering spirit when they have a busy job like repairing the wasteland that resulted from their grandsire’s destructive rampage.

“It’s… humbling,” she says. “To hear about him. He accomplished so much before I was even born.”

Trahearne smiles. “He had help. But yes, he is… quite impressive.”

“Trahearne’s his boyfriend,” Gretchen pipes up. Where had she come from?

Aurene hums in amusement. “I see,” she says. “That’s not how he tells it, but I suppose it’s good to know anything about my Champion, even the bits he keeps to himself.”

“Uh.” Gretchen turns to Trahearne. “Are you only, like… half a boyfriend?”

Trahearne sighs. “It’s complicated.”

“Oh, yeah, totally.” Gretchen nods as wisely as a human child—she’s certainly not a day over twelve, no matter what she says—can. “My sister used to say that, like, all the time. She had five boyfriends.”

~*~

Aurene tells him what Balthazar had done to his commander, and he nearly sets out to kill a god before she reassures him Roza had already beaten him to it, and that he's alive again.

Still. If there is one thing Trahearne will still fight for, it is love.

~*~

“Trahearne,” Aurene says to him one day, and if an Elder Dragon could looked pained, she manages it. “My Champion—Roza—is… struggling.”

“Then you must support him, young one.” Trahearne has learned that Aurene is—well. A sapling wouldn’t be the right word, per say, but she is its dragon equivalent. A jewel, perhaps.

“I don’t know how to,” she beseeches.

Trahearne tries to look her in the eye. “Support him,” he says. “Offer him your love. It is up to him to accept it.”

She hesitates. “How fast did it take him to accept it when you did it?”

Trahearne thinks. “It was actually fairly immediate.”

A longer hesitation. Maybe the Mists are rubbing off on her. “Can you do it again?” she asks.

Trahearne frowns.

“I can open a portal,” Aurene elaborates. “It’ll have to be small, but… it will be easier to make one for him, since he’s already touched death. He keeps going to you—a you in the past, from memories that he found in the Scrying Pool. I think you could help him.”

Trahearne’s brow clears. “No,” he says.

Her silence speaks volumes. Trahearne explains, gently, “He is stuck on a path he has already trodden. If I speak to him as he is now, he is at risk of rooting himself there. It pains me greatly to refuse the chance to see him again, believe me, but I have waited this long, and I can wait longer. I have an eternity in death.”

Aurene shifts. “I think I understand,” she says, although she doesn’t sound too pleased.

Trahearne smiles. “Perhaps one day, you can try. But not when it would hurt him.”

~*~

“I don’t think he’s really, like, my type anymore,” Gretchen comments.

“Right,” Trahearne replies. He finds it’s easiest to speak to her via one-word sentences.

“I mean, even if he wasn’t your half-boyfriend? You know? Because that’s like, bad to do to a friend. And you’re my friend, Treehern.”

“What happened to you pronouncing my name correctly?” Trahearne wonders out loud.

“Oh. That wore off. But like, yeah. I mean, if he dresses like that, he’s definitely not my type.”

“Right,” Trahearne repeats. Then, “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t like, kiss or anything, okay?” Gretchen is getting up to leave. “Because I don’t want to see you kissing anyone. You’re like my big plant brother, or something, and that would be super gross.”

Trahearne has already gone deaf to her words. He turns around, and he has no heart but it is in his throat and he has no breath but it has fled his lungs and he turns around and standing there is—

Roza crosses his arms. “I hope you won’t listen to her,” he says in an amused voice.

Trahearne’s own voice dies. “Roza,” he breathes.

Roza smiles, and he looks so old, by the Tree, he looks so tired and world-weary and utterly exhausted. “Trahearne,” he replies.

Then he laughs, and the years slough off his face, even if the sound is half desperate. “Thorns, I never thought I’d say that name happily again,” he says. “I never thought I’d see you again while I was alive.”

He comes over, and Trahearne is frozen as he sits next to him, folding his legs neatly underneath himself. He doesn’t know what to—say, do—anything.

Has he missed something significant again?

Roza smiles at him. “So,” he says.

“So,” Trahearne repeats.

Roza’s eyes curve. “I hope you’re still in love with me,” he says, and just like that, he instantly steals the conversation.

Trahearne’s non-existent heart jumps. “I,” he manages.

“Because,” Roza reaches out to him, idly brushing a hand down his arm, and Trahearne can half feel him—it is a semi-tangible thing. “I happened to take a little dip in a pool recently, and I saw a few things. And it made me think. Hm, I thought.”

He sounds—ridiculous. All of a sudden Trahearne starts to smile. He hasn’t missed anything. He has, but he hasn’t.

“Please,” he suggests, “Continue telling me about your epiphany.”

Roza’s eyes squint at him, although in a happy way. “Then I thought… Wow, this water is cold.”

Trahearne’s smile is stronger than him now. “Roza.”

“Trahearne,” Roza replies. Suddenly, he is a lot closer. Trahearne doesn’t mind. By the Pale Tree, does he not mind.

“Then,” he continues, “I thought that you looked adorable when you were flustered. Actually, I recall thinking that years ago, but I was too much of an idiot to realize it.”

Trahearne tries to touch him, to put a hand to his branches like he used to all those years ago, and discovers that Roza is far more tangible than he is. “You weren’t an idiot,” he says.

“Oh, please.” Roza rolls his eyes, in a way that is so uniquely Roza—and Trahearne has missed him so much, he could weep for it. “I was an absolute terror.”

Trahearne strokes the ridges of his pattern. “It was endearing,” he murmurs. If he is speaking quietly because he is afraid his voice will break if it is any louder, only he has to know.

Roza’s entire face softens. “You know, I wondered for a long time how you could love me,” he says, matching his tone.

Trahearne’s hand moves down to cup his cheek. “Did you find an answer for that in all your thinking?”

Roza shakes his head in the negative, into the touch. “I thought I’d come over here and ask you.”

Trahearne glances down to his mouth. “I can show you,” he offers.

Silver lips part. A tongue darts out to wet them. “Trahearne…” Roza breathes, “Are you propositioning me?”

Trahearne pauses. “What?”

Roza pulls back enough to look him in the eyes, very seriously. The glint of mischief behind them is the only thing that gives him away. “Because if you are, know that I still treasure the only valuable piece of advice you ever gave to me.”

It takes Trahearne a long second. And then he is very glad he is dead, because it means he can’t blush himself to a crisp. “You cannot be serious,” he manages.

There is no Dream, and he cannot flush, or glow, and Roza should not be able to sense his embarrassment in any way, shape, or form. He starts to grin anyways, that same old triumphant smirk Trahearne never thought he’d see again.

Oh, by the Pale Tree.

“You know,” Roza muses, in his familiar, oh-too-casual drawl, “I came across a couple—and I do mean a couple—of spirits in the Domain of the Lost who were, ah, shall we say, ‘going at it,’ and it gave me a few id—”

Trahearne grabs him by the collar and kisses him. Just to shut him up, he tells himself (and damn what Gretchen would say, and he really doesn’t need to think about Gretchen right now).

It is cold, and inelegant, and only half there. Roza kisses inexpertly and clumsily, like he has never done it before. Thorns, he probably hasn’t. His first even remotely intimate experience is with a ghost.

Like a true necromancer.

Trahearne starts to laugh, little burbles of giggles spilling from his lips. He cannot help it. He pulls back enough to see Roza rolling his eyes with a smile, and then he shifts his head, and angles Roza’s, and kisses him again, with purpose this time. Let me teach you, like I once did so long ago.

This one is a lot longer, and a lot softer. It is still cold, but Trahearne has long since discovered that he likes that just fine—prefers it, even.

They finally break apart, because Roza has to breathe. It is only by about a centimeter, however, and Roza’s nose pokes at his cheek. Trahearne presses their faces together, and it is perfect, for what it is.

Silences stretch forever in the Mists.

“Oh, right,” Roza says after a long time. “You did not answer my question, but I’m certainly in love with you. It would be really embarrassing if you did not return the sentiment. Embarrassing for you, I mean.”

Trahearne breathes out a laugh. “I love you too, my dear Roza.” He can say so freely now. All his bonds have fallen.

Roza shifts back to lean against him. “My Marshal,” he remembers. “Except you are not a marshal anymore.”

“No.” Trahearne intertwines their fingers. “Just yours.”

Roza’s head rests on his shoulder. “Good.”

~*~

“I am not the person you used to know,” Roza tells him eventually.

Trahearne nods in agreement. “You’ve grown.”

“But you still love me?” Roza asks. Then, before Trahearne can answer, “Haha! Kidding. Of course you do. But imagine if we went down that route, right?”

“Roza,” says Trahearne, because he can hear the tremble in his voice, even if it is barely there, “I still love you. I only ever loved you more with each passing moment I spent here.”

Roza swallows, thickly. “That’s a terribly cheesy thing to say,” he says.

Trahearne thinks about what a brother had told him, a long time ago. “I can write you a poem,” he suggests, “And put all my love for you in it. And any time you doubt how I feel about you, you can look at it, and know that you are, in fact, being a fool, and are utterly and completely wrong.”

“Hah. A lot of people would love to tell me that.” Roza smiles shakily. “But I’ll only hear it from you, because I owe you that much. And I would be nothing without you.”

Trahearne knows that’s not true. “Roza,” he begins.

“Trahearne.” Roza doesn’t let him finish. “I don’t think you understand. When I lost you I lost… everything. You were my everything, even if only because I did not know what else to make you. You were my support, my best friend, my path to happiness, my final destination. I was utterly lost without you.”

Trahearne swallows. “And now?” he dares to ask.

Roza looks at him and smiles a beautiful smile. “Now… things have changed. And I have to go.”

Trahearne’s mouth dries. But no, he knew this would be coming. “I… see,” he says. He tries to piece together everything he wants to—has to—say. He tries to piece himself together before he can fall apart from having his happy ending ripped out from under him all over again.

Roza laughs softly. “Oh, don’t start with your forlorn farewells.” He brushes his thumb across Trahearne’s jaw. “I’m going to visit you. A lot. An excessive amount, in fact. Aurene will complain that I am undoing all her hard work.”

Oh, how Trahearne wishes they could do that. “Is that wise?”

“Who cares?” Roza shrugs. “Yes. Maybe. I’ll check with my asura friend, and let him do the math. But I’m definitely visiting again. Stay pining for me, my Trahearne.”

He winks. Trahearne surges forwards and kisses him.

“Always,” he promises after Roza has run out of breath again.

It is like he told Aurene. He can wait for an eternity.