Archive of Our Own ^beta

They’re bothering him again.

They're bothering him because they are talking, and Roza is trying to read, thank you very much. Really, he knows they are in a military keep, but is it that difficult to keep buffoonery to an absolute minimum?

After a few more minutes of trying to ignore their—distracting—grunting and laughter, Roza snaps his book shut with an irritated sigh. Idiots, he thinks as he stalks over.

“Oh no,” one of them mutters as he approaches. “You summoned the stick with a stick up his ass.”

They snicker. Roza glares at them.

“I know the lot of you cannot help but make complete and utter fools of yourselves wherever you go,” he intones, crossing his arms, “but would it kill you to do it away from people with a brain between their ears? Some of us are attempting to chase higher pursuits and don’t want to be interrupted.”

“Maybe you should ‘chase your high’ somewhere more private, string bean.” A human woman imitates his posture. “We aren’t doing anything wrong. Fuck off.”

Roza bristles. “How dare you insinuate—I wasn’t—how dare you! I am trying to read. I’m sorry you’re too much of an idiot to understand the value of literature.”

“Then you should have joined the Priory.” A glare from a charr. “Vigil’s no place for bookworms. You wanna pick a fight with us? Pick one.”

Roza smiles, unhooking his scepter from his belt. “To teach you all the only lesson that will get through your thick skulls? Gladly.”

He wins. He also gets assigned to latrine duty for a week.

~*~

Dear Trahearne, Roza considers writing, The other day I was harassed by some morons who don’t understand the meaning of the word ‘quiet.’ I beat them into submission until they learned it the hard way.

He doesn’t. Trahearne’s last letter had been about Orr, so Roza smiles and writes a reply to what he had said. He loves hearing about Orr. He loves hearing about Trahearne, who is incredibly wise. He knows so much about necromancy—knows everything about it, probably—and while Roza had left for the Vigil before he had a chance to equal his level of skill, he is never one to let an opportunity for learning slip through his fingers.

The table he is writing on is jostled suddenly, and his inkwell spills over his paper. Roza jerks up with a start, panicked insult already pressed to his teeth, and sees the back of a suit of armour, walking away.

“Oops,” he hears them mutter, oily.

“Idiot,” Roza hisses to himself. He shakes his paper to drip the ink off, noting with dismay that a good amount spilled onto Trahearne’s letter.

A jolt crosses his chest, and he swallows it down forcibly. Fine, it’s fine. He can dry it out near a fire.

“Put that shit out,” his bunkmate snaps when he attempts to do just that later. He doesn’t remember her name, if he had even asked—he goes through them quickly, and this one will probably request a transfer soon. “It’s bad enough that you glow fuckin’ pink.”

“Lavender,” Roza corrects automatically, distracted by what he is doing. He might need to mix a solution to be able to read the contents of the letter—but where is he going to find the materials for it in Vigil Keep? He couldn’t even find a lemon last time.

“Pink,” says his bunkmate.

“I think you may be colour blind, charr.” It’s about as dry as it’s going to get. He doesn’t want to burn it. “You probably aren’t aware, but it is a genetic mutation that isn’t uncommon amongst your race.”

A growl. “Don’t make me push you into that fire, kindling.”

Roza will figure it out tomorrow. He puts out the fire with an icy breath, and, dusting the ashes off his skirt, stands up. He can wake up early the next morning, before training, and try to loot around the keep to see what he can salvage. Hopefully, he won’t be missed.

“You’re adorable when you’re irritated,” he calls to the curled-up form at the opposite end of the small room. “Goodnight, kitten.”

A snarl. Roza smiles to himself as he lays on his own lumpy cot, slipping the letter underneath the mattress with the others. He gives this one three days until she’s gone.

~*~

After nearly three exhausting hours of trying to salvage the letter, Roza is forced to give up. He all but stomps to the training grounds, frustration curling hot and bitter in his stomach. It’s not fair. Trahearne’s letters are so rare and he almost never gets—it’s just not fair. He kicks at a practice shield leaning against the outer wall, relishing in the blunt pain it results in. It’s not fair.

“Crusader!” The Warmaster leading the rotations barks at him. “You’re late! Again.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Roza mutters under his breath. Cattish old crone.

“What was that?” She cups a hand behind her ear. “I didn't quite get that, soldier.”

“I said yes Ma’am!” Roza salutes her, then hurries to take his position.

“Actually, Crusader, you’re sitting this one out.” She gives him a thin smile. “Summons from the Grand Warmaster himself. He called for you, oh,” She pauses to make a considering expression, “about half an hour ago, when we started.”

A low oooh rolls around the soldiers near Roza. He ignores it, striding back out of the yard with his head held high. He doesn’t bother to acknowledge the Warmaster as he passes her by. Crone.

“Must have done something real bad to piss him off,” the quartermaster mutters to him as he passes the gate. Roza rolls his eyes.

“Better actually doing something than using your ‘old knee injury’ as an excuse to sit out on training every day, Frie,” he returns. The words earn a guilty flinch.

Roza has to ask for directions on how to get to the Grand Warmaster’s office, and they somehow manage to turn him around worse than if he’d just wandered through the Keep guessing at random, which means he is even more delayed by the time he raps two knuckles on a tall wooden door. Oh well. It isn’t as if the man is doing anything other than following Almorra around all day, anyways.

“Enter,” calls a soft voice from the other side.

Roza pushes open the door, stands there, and waits. The Grand Warmaster—the secondborn Laranthir, right—is by himself at his desk. He watches as Roza enters, and gives a small smile.

“Ah, it’s you. I called for you nearly an hour ago, soldier.”

“I got lost,” Roza tells him bluntly. “So…?”

Laranthir’s eyebrows raise. “I suppose saying ‘At ease’ would be redundant,” he says. “Alright then, I’ll get straight to the point. You’ve prompted a rather alarming number of bunkmate transfer requests, the last one being from a few nights ago. Something about…” He glances down at a paper on his desk with a small frown. “…‘inhospitable sleeping conditions.’ Sylvia claims you lit a fire far past a reasonable hour, nearly burning the place down, and then proceeded to make the entire room, ah… well, I won’t use her exact words, but ‘uncomfortably cold’ will suffice.”

Roza smirks. “What were her exact words?”

A pause. “‘Colder than an ice wurm’s anus,’” Laranthir says without inflection.

Roza barks out a laugh. “Ah, there it is.” He chuckles. “Well, charr have fur, don’t they? I don’t see what the problem is.”

“The problem, Crusader, is that this is the ninth request of its kind this month.” Laranthir leans forwards over his desk. “We can’t afford to keep shuffling people around like this. As a result, I’m assigning you to a solitary bunker.”

Roza brightens. “Oh! Peace and quiet.” Finally.

“There are no windows,” says Laranthir. “Or a firepit.”

He won’t be able to read Trahearne’s letters. A jolt of panic shoots through Roza, and he automatically swallows it down. Fine. It’s fine. He can think of something.

“I see,” he says evenly. “Fine. Is that all?”

Laranthir gives him a searching look. “Not quite, Crusader. You’ve come to my personal attention, so I will offer a word of caution: if your behaviour continues as it is, there will be consequences. It may be in your best interest to step in line.”

“Mhm.” This secondborn must not know very much about Roza at all, then, because there is no foolishness worse than being underestimated. “May I go now?”

“Yes.” Roza turns to leave, and—“Oh, one last thing.”

He tries his best not to roll his eyes as he looks back expectantly.

Laranthir’s smile settles somewhat. “Next time you speak to a superior officer, especially if you are personally summoned to their office and arrive forty-seven minutes late, salute. Dismissed.”

It takes all of Roza’s willpower not to mock salute with a choice finger at that, but he isn’t that self-sabotaging. He leaves.

~*~

Dear Trahearne, Roza thinks to himself as he walks through the keep, Turns out not everyone here is an illiterate blockhead! I’ve found a lovely little poetry book tucked behind a bench, and it’s actually by one of your sib—

“Move it, twig!” Roza and his daydream both are roughly jostled to the side, and he barely manages to catch himself against the wall as two soldiers barrel past him, legs pumping.

Roza growls. It is late, latrine duty is exhausting and filthy, and he does not want to put up with this right now. “Watch where you’re going, you bull-headed imbeciles,” he snaps before he can think it through.

One of them ignores him. The other one, a tall human man, slows, stops, and turns around. Roza vaguely recognizes him—a Warmaster whose name starts with the letter S, he thinks.

“What did you just say to me, soldier?”

Roza clenches his jaw. Too late to turn back now. “I said that you should watch where you’re going if you’re going to prance around in the halls in the middle of the night,” he hisses. “I’m not here to be a bump in the road.”

“Hold on a second, I know you.” The human crosses his arms. “You’re that sylvari, right? The one who’s been getting into fights, causing trouble? Rosie or something?”

“Roza,” Roza bites out.

The human barks out a low laugh. “Six, you smell like the latrines,” he says. “Yeah, it’s definitely you. Alright, listen, Roza. You ever speak to me like that again, I’m reporting you for insubordination. Clear?”

“Maybe you should just watch where you step instead,” Roza snaps, “And I won’t have to speak to you like that again.”

“Wow.” The human huffs in disbelief. “Never mind, you’re sorting your shit out either now or never. Hope you like the latrines, little sylvari. I have a feeling you’ll be staying there for a while.”

Roza bristles. He is not little. He is about to bite out a retort—maybe insult this human’s stature in return—but before he can he is gone, running off after his companion.

Roza glowers after them. He stalks to his new bunker—it is more like a cell, really—swiftly, all but slamming the door behind him.

He conjures a small, frosted ball of light—a tweaked version of a spell he’d seen used by a mesmer. It is enough to read by, if he holds his book close.

He doesn’t know the hour without a window, but he knows it is late. Hopefully, he can get a few dozen pages in before he has to sleep—he doesn’t want to risk being late to training once more. He tugs out Kryta’s Flowering Beauty from underneath his bunk, calls his little light close, and begins to read.

He is late for training.

~*~

This time, it is evening when he gets told that the Grand Warmaster wants to see him again.

Roza stops on his way to the mess hall, turns on his heel with an annoyed sigh, and heads to his office. He raps again with the back of his hand, twice, and again is called to enter by that same soft voice.

This time Laranthir doesn’t say anything, just raises his eyebrows expectantly. It takes Roza a moment, and he has to wrestle down an eye roll, but he makes an awkward salute.

“We’ll work on that.” Laranthir nods, then crooks two fingers at him. “Come. Have you eaten yet?”

There is a small plate of food sitting on his desk, half eaten. Roza shakes his head, wondering how long before he doesn’t have to go through the mess hall to get his meals. He doubts anyone throws scraps at the back of Laranthir’s head.

“Then I will make this quick. The short of it, soldier, is that you have, quite frankly, an abominable number of complaints filed against you. The offenses range from big to small, but they're piling up, and that isn’t good for you.”

“I’m flattered you’re taking a personal interest in my ‘attitude problem’, Grand Warmaster.” Roza doesn’t bother to hide the roll of his eyes this time. “Is that all? I’m aware people don’t like me. Can I go now, or do you want me to salute you again?”

Laranthir looks at him for a long moment. His gaze is steady. Roza meets it unflinchingly.

“Perhaps I am not making myself clear,” he starts.

“Then be more succinct,” Roza interrupts before he can continue.

Another pause. Then, “Crusader. Do you know what would happen, hypothetically, if one person made one mistake too many? If they kept talking back to their superiors, or skipping training, or being disrespectful, or starting fights constantly, or anything else?”

“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

“They get kicked out.” Laranthir’s tone is simple. “So I do not know what is going on with you, or why you keep doing this, but if you don’t cut the bullshit and get your act together, you’re out of the Vigil by the end of the week.”

Roza stares at him, stunned speechless. He… What…?

Laranthir notes his expression, and smiles grimly. “Ah. I see I’ve finally gotten your attention.”

Roza swallows, blinking rapidly. “I…”

No. He can’t get—he can’t—he—Trahearne can’t find out that he—Roza—

“Crusader,” says Laranthir.

Roza can barely hear him over the rushing in his ears. Kicked out of the Vigil. Him. Kicked out of the Vigil. And if Trahearne finds out? Oh, by the Tree. He’d hate him. Hate him even more. Roza would be a disappointment, a failure, a—

“Roza!”

Roza jolts. “What?”.

Laranthir’s expression smoothens too quickly for Roza to make out what it had been. “Back with me,” he murmurs. “Good. So, as I was saying, you are on a precipice. I would say this is your final warning before you’re on a probationary period, but I’m fairly certain I remember giving you that last week.”

A cold feeling settles in Roza’s stomach. “You can’t kick me out,” he blurts.

“Oh, but I can.” Laranthir crosses his arms. “As the Grand Warmaster, as you so emphatically put it, I can do quite a lot of things. And the Vigil—my Vigil—is a place of honour, Crusader. Not a place to tolerate disrespectful saplings who joined just to start conflict.”

“I didn’t—join to just…” Roza trails off. “Please,” he pleads, and he ordinarily wouldn’t bend a knee to this secondborn who thinks he is better than him somehow, but he finds the words leave his mouth almost without his bidding. “Please, you cannot kick me out. Firstborn Trahearne would hear about it, and I can’t have that happen. Please.”

He is fairly certain he has never said the word “please” that many times before in his entire life. But he can’t—this is—he has to do something. He has to.

Laranthir looks somewhat surprised. “You know Trahearne?”

Roza nods eagerly. “He was my mentor, for about a week.” His hands are shaking. He presses them together, willing them to stop. “Well, I-I never actually had a mentor. But he taught me much of what I know of necromancy.” He ducks his head. “I am ever in awe of his capabilities. I… I write to him, when I can. When he writes me, I mean. He likes to talk about Orr. I mean, I think it’s—incredible, what he’s doing. He can go on for pages, and pages, and sometimes I think he forgets the last one, because I don’t see him signing off. But his passion about it is really quite something. I’ve learned a lot about coral. And Risen. We talk—well, write—about Risen quite a bit, actually, not least since our Wyld Hunts are so closely linked. I was studying the incursion on Caledon before I joined the Vigil—I told Trahearne about this, and he seemed—proud, I hope—and I actually learned quite a lot. I think they have some sort of shared sentience, you see. A lot of people assume that the Risen version of a corpse is somehow related to the entity the corpse was before it died, but I believe this isn’t true at all, and that the body is simply a vessel for Zhaitan. Yes, they can communicate with each other and they speak as if they are not all aware of the same things, but why can an Elder Dragon not be made of separate pieces of consciousness with varying degrees of connection? After all, if we look at the dragon champions, are they not simply extensions of the dragons themselves? If this could be achieved on a minor scale, it would make sense as to why Zhaitan is—relatively—so physically small. The other—”

Laranthir clears his throat politely. Roza stops, blinking at him in puzzlement, and flushes when he realizes he has been rambling.

“Oh.” He ducks his head, looking down. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s quite alright.” Laranthir’s tone has an oddness to it, a sort of… upper curve. “Ah… how old are you again, Valiant? Sorry—Crusader.”

“I awakened in the spring, Sir.” Roza clasps his hands together.

“It is spring,” Laranthir points out.

Roza’s hands tighten. “Yes.”

A short pause. “I see.” A noise that sounds like papers being shuffled. Roza is still looking down. “May I ask, ah… how you came to join the Vigil? It’s quite the trip from Caledon.”

Roza shakes his head. “I was only in Caledon Forest because Trahearne was. The Mother Tree wanted my help with something, and she told me to join an Order at the end of it. I picked the Vigil because I find the methodology most closely aligned with my own. And… Trahearne said it was an impressive and honourable organization. He convinced me.”

“I see,” Laranthir says again. “And how do you find it here?”

“I…” Roza’s eyes dart up to his to gauge his expression—neutral—and then back down again.

Laranthir gestures with one hand. “Speak freely, Crusader.”

Roza swallows. “It… is an impressive and honourable organization.”

“I sense a ‘but.’”

“But…” Oh, what can it matter? Roza is about to be kicked out. “I don’t understand where I fit in. No one seems to want me here. They… they whisper about me and laugh when they think I can’t hear them, and I get shoved and pushed and I don’t know if that is normal, but if it is then I do not know if I can keep taking it.” A shaky breath, and he raises his hands to press to his temples. “And then they file complaints when I do the same, or when I start fights. And people throw food in the mess hall but I do not know where from because no one ever sits with me anyways, so I try to avoid it altogether but apparently I am not allowed to eat anywhere else. So there’s a complaint. And I do not avoid training because I am lazy, alright—it just—it is just—it is easier not to go, sometimes. I would rather read my—” He can’t breathe properly. “I-I would rather read—my poetry book because it is so lovely and First—born Dagonet is a masterful author and sometimes I can forget that everything else exists, if I can just read, but then I am wanted at training and it hurts everywhere and I just want—to go back to my poems. So there’s a—complaint. And I wish I had some sunlight in my room because I cannot see anything but I have a light I can make although it is cold, but I cannot sleep because of it, which makes training worse the next day, and people keep spilling ink all over Trahearne’s letters and I do not know why they would do that! Why would they do that?! Is it that difficult to just—have some basic—some basic respect for literature? I just want to read—I just want to—”

“Alright.” Laranthir has somehow gotten in front of him, and now he holds out his hands, slowing Roza’s spiel. “Alright. Take a deep breath, you’re hyperventilating.”

Roza moves to bat his hands away but finds that his own are shaking, badly, and Laranthir may be right because he can’t breathe—he feels lightheaded and woozy and perhaps, a bit, like he is going to die. Which is fine. He just needs—just needs—

“Where’s my book?” He can’t find it. It’s not on him.

“It’s safe. Roza, look at me.”

Roza looks at his blurry face. It is shaking. Everything is shaking.

“That’s it. Now take a deep breath. In…”

In.

“Very good. Now out, slowly. That’s it. Now in again, I know it’s hard.”

It is hard. But Roza manages, and it after a little while of Laranthir talking him through it, it becomes easier, and he is a little big calmer.

“There we go.” Laranthir gives him a smile, which he doesn’t know how to react to, so he doesn’t. “Why don’t you sit down whenever you’re feeling ready, and we can discuss your options. You are only on probation now, so you do have them.”

Whenever he’s feeling ready. Roza doesn’t need to be treated delicately, no matter his—his—He sits.

Laranthir’s eyebrows inch upwards, but he returns to his desk and seats himself as well. “Very well then. So your first option is likely the one you desire least: nothing can change, you can continue down the same path, and you will probably be gone by the end of the week.”

Roza’s hands start to shake again. He stares at them, and clenches them into fists.

Laranthir notices. “Easy. As I said, that is only one option. Your second one is that you can pull a miracle and shape up to be a top soldier worthy of a promotion within the coming few days, enough to give the general herself reason to take notice of you. And the third option is, since Warmaster Forgal is off on an assignment and is unavailable for the current period, you can be assigned an additional, temporary mentor to guide you. They would monitor you closely and aid your progress.”

Roza stares blankly at the desk. He… alright.

“Top soldier?” he questions. That seems preferable to yet another person badgering him.

“Ah. That means addressing your superiors properly and respectfully, absolutely no backtalk, getting places on time, not bothering anyone nor giving them reason to bother you, and overall not having a single complaint filed against you. Do you think you can pull that off?”

No. Roza nods.

Laranthir gives him a discerning look. “It also means eating in the mess hall, soldier. And going to training every day, no matter how much you don’t want to.”

Roza jerks up to stare at him. “But—!” Hadn’t he listened to what he had just said? He just—he can’t.

“However,” Laranthir continues, “if you are needing accommodations due to… let us say personal circumstances, having a mentor would allow that person to give you leeway at their discretion. You would have a bit more wiggle room, but you would also have to report to them directly. They would hold you accountable for your actions and would have the power to discipline you in whatever way they see fit.”

Roza thinks about that for a long moment. “Who would my mentor be?” he questions.

“Ah, now that I cannot say for certain. I would have to go through your file and pick one that I feel would directly benefit you.”

Roza nods, going quiet once more. Power to discipline you echoes in his head, and he cannot help but be wary of it. What does that mean? Would they… be allowed to beat him to a pulp? Hurl verbal abuse? Forbid him from reading? He cannot take—he does not want to go through that. Not directly.

“Perfect soldier?” he questions once more.

“Roza.” Laranthir’s expression softens. “If I may say so, I do not think you will be able to manage that.”

That strikes harshly. “Oh,” Roza chokes out, curling his loosened hands until they tighten. The kindest person he—Laranthir himself doesn’t think he can do it. That is lovely. That really does wonders for his self-confidence.

“It is not that I do not see your potential,” Laranthir continues gently. “It is just that, from what you have said, circumstances are… difficult for you at the moment. It will take time to reach the point where everything runs smoothly, and it won’t be manageable by the end of the week, at least not without creating a whole set of separate problems. Interpersonal issues need to be handled delicately, especially since you are… so young. I will have to look into that as well, come to think of it.”

Roza just nods. He doesn’t need to be told he is a disappointment in a million different ways. “I… suppose I have no choice but to take the mentor option, then.”

“You always have a choice, and of course the final decision is up to you. I am simply giving you my assessment, if you would like to consider it.”

Roza nods again. He may not like it, but he knows Laranthir couldn’t have been put in this position of command without a good reason. “I’ll go with the mentor,” he says quietly.

“Very well, then.” He watches as Laranthir sets one stack of papers aside and pulls out another one, quickly writing something on the top page. “I will… take the necessary steps, in that case. Report back to me this time tomorrow, and I will see what I have for you.”

“Alright.” Roza slumps in his chair, watching him settle his documents.

Laranthir pauses with his pen raised, looks up, and gives him a small smile. “Dismissed, soldier. Go get yourself some food.”

Oh. “Right, sorry,” Roza mutters, and all but flees the room.

He remembers too late that he was supposed to salute.

~*~

By the time the next day comes around, he has picked up his pride from where it fell and rolled in the dirt. Laranthir thinks he cannot be the perfect soldier? Roza will show him. He will show whoever this new mentor is, too, that he does not need them. He can manage everything by himself—he does not need pitying looks, or falsely sympathetic smiles, or patronising words. He is fine.

He is not a disappointment.

Clenching his fist, he knocks on Laranthir’s door, this time firmly. He is told to enter in the same fashion as before—and now he has to question whether Laranthir speaks in that tone to trick people into letting down their guard, like he did with Roza—and he strides in with a posture that is as close to militarily perfect as he can manage. He will show him.

Remembering his training—it is not that he doesn’t pay attention—Roza salutes, holding it until Laranthir smiles at him with a gentle, “At ease.”

“That’s a start.” There is a shine of something like amusement in Laranthir’s eyes, and it rankles him. He is not here to be made fun of. “Come, sit. We must speak.”

Roza obeys, sitting down stiffly. Hopefully his new mentor is someone like Forgal, who wears his orneriness like a second skin. Roza isn’t here to blunt his words or get told off for hurting someone’s feelings.

“Alright, then.” Laranthir looks at him steadily. “I have discussed the matter with General Soulkeeper to get her personal input. I also have contacted my correspondent in the Grove about the incident you referred to with the Mother, and am awaiting a reply. As for your new mentor—or co-mentor, rather—I’ve chosen none other than myself. I believe that considering both what I know of you so far and as a fellow sylvari, I am best aligned to assist your situation.”

Roza digests that. So he is a ‘situation’ now, enough that the general herself is aware of it. And Laranthir…

Roza blinks at him. “Don’t you think you’re a bit soft to be a mentor? I don’t want you to be offended for no reason from simply talking to me.”

Laranthir raises his eyebrows in a now-familiar expression. “Do not mistake kindness for lack of strength, Crusader,” he says. “Regarding your rudeness, be certain that I notice it, regardless of whether I respond in kind. Tell me—you say you never had a personal mentor other than Trahearne. But how did your nursery tutor deal with you?”

Roza frowns slightly. “I did not stay in the nursery for more than a few minutes,” he says. “I hated the Grove, so I snuck through the Asura Gate and left for Hoelbrak.”

Laranthir stares at him. “Oh,” he says.

Roza can feel his shock at this proximity. He clenches his jaw, trying to ignore it. That revelation isn’t novel, surely? It means he is strong. It means he learned to take care of himself from the moment he awakened and he does not need—he does not need this soft secondborn who is looking at him as if Roza just told him he is an abandoned snow hare with an injured leg.

“Alright,” Laranthir is saying, seemingly to himself. “That’s fine, I can work with that.”

Anxious annoyance sharpens Roza’s tongue. “I am glad you’re so confident in your ability to lead that you have to psych yourself up,” he snaps. “How in Pale Mother’s name did someone like you end up as Almorra’s second-in-command?”

Laranthir looks at him for a long moment. “I don’t have to do this,” he says simply.

The words hit like a physical blow. Roza’s mouth goes dry.

“Right,” he croaks. He clears his throat immediately, frowning at himself.

Laranthir frowns back. “No,” he says, and Roza’s stomach drops. There marks the end of this false kindness. “Let us start with that, actually. What’s stopping you from apologizing to me for that comment? Right now?”

Roza stares at him. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I am.” Laranthir settles his forearms on his desk, leaning forwards.

Roza scoffs. No, he will not be humiliated like this. He refuses.

He stays silent.

Laranthir raises his eyebrows expectantly, and when no answer is forthcoming, smiles a curious smile. “Alright,” he says. “I will wait.”

Roza rolls his eyes. He can play this game. He can play it better than Laranthir can, that is for certain.

A minute passes.

Laranthir simply gazes at him, not dropping eye contact.

Two.

Roza looks away.

Three. Roza is getting hungry. He hasn’t eaten yet.

“I…” he starts, then immediately stops. No. Laranthir will—pounce at weakness. Bite. Tear.

“Go on,” Laranthir says. His tone is suspiciously patient.

It is the same tone that Warmasters use on Roza to ask him what he did wrong before punishing him no matter his response. Laranthir already knows the answer. He is just waiting to humiliate him. Roza wonders what it will be—latrine duty again? (He has it once more. He had yelled at more recruits for laughing next to him when he was trying to read. It is not fair that they get to laugh. It is not fair that they get friends, and Roza does not).

“I can wait here all evening, Crusader,” Laranthir says. “Tell me, why do you refuse to apologize? What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of anything!” Roza glares at him. The words bump into each other, and he clenches his jaw, swallowing forcibly.

“Then why? Answer the question, and I promise we can move on to the next one.”

Roza must make some expression at that, because Laranthir gives him a small smile. “It’s alright,” he adds in that same gentle—lying—tone. “Nothing bad will happen if you tell me.”

Lying. Lying. Roza digs his fingers into his hands. “It… gives you an advantage,” he admits finally, forcing each word from his throat. He doesn’t know why his voice is shaking so badly. He does not know why his eyes heat, so he cools them, inhaling magic to frost them over.

“I see,” Laranthir says softly. “Thank you for telling me, Roza. As I promised, we can move on now.”

Roza stares at him. “You’re not going to force me to apologize?”

“An apology should never be forced.” Laranthir’s dark eyes are calm. “It should be given freely, and if there is something stopping it, then that should be addressed first. You may apologize, if you wish to, but what is more important to me is that you trust me. I hope one day you will believe that I would never force you into an unequal position of respect, despite any difference in our ranks. Honour sees no title.”

 Roza blinks rapidly. “I…”

Laranthir gives him a small smile. “Moving on. The next thing I wanted to address is this attitude of yours. I understand you feel targeted, cornered, bullied even. But that does not excuse your disrespect and callousness. Nothing excuses it.”

Roza looks down. So… it is going to be like this, then. He had thought…

Fool. He is a fool. “Understood,” he mumbles, directing the word to a knot in the desk.

“Roza.” Laranthir waits until he looks back up, and when he does, it is to kind eyes. “That does not mean you deserve to be treated that way.”

For the second time in the evening, one simple sentence sucks the words from Roza’s throat. He only stares, vulnerability writ unwillingly into his expression.

“I am going to look into the situation.” Laranthir’s fingers drum on his desk. “If such a thing is happening, it cannot be allowed.”

“No, don’t,” Roza blurts. Laranthir raises an eyebrow, and the strength drains from his words. “Please don’t… say anything.”

“I understand your alarm, I do. But rest assured that I know how to conduct an investigation with subtlety. Besides that, we are all adults here, and I am certain the situation can be handled maturely. Now tell me,” and his voice hardens, “Are you being—physically or verbally—harassed by anyone?”

Roza looks back down at the desk. He doesn’t say anything.

“As of today,” Laranthir begins, “You respond directly to me.”

Roza’s throat closes up.

“Which means,” he continues, “that you are under my protection. Anyone who bothers you without provocation will have to face the consequences. If someone is targeting you, I must know so I can put a definite end to it. Harassing a sprout is bad enough, but being a part of an organization like the Vigil and doing so directly to my personal ward? If I were smart, I would avoid it. If it happens again, at any time, you come to me. If someone shoves you, or spills ink onto your letters, or throws food at you, you come to me. Understand?”

The lump in Roza’s throat means he cannot speak. He only nods, swiping at his eyes.

“Good.” Laranthir smiles. “Ah—do note I said, ‘without provocation.’ If you yell at someone for simply existing when you are trying to read, you bring that confrontation on yourself. Clear?”

Roza nods again. “Thank—thank you,” he manages. “No one’s ever…”

“I’ve gathered as much.” Laranthir’s smile flattens at the edges. “Now. That being said… I remember you saying you avoid eating in the mess hall. Do you think you will do so again?”

Roza hesitates. But Laranthir has been… oddly kind to him thus far, and he does not have to be. He nods.

“I see. In that case, I can arrange for an extra serving to be sent up with my own dinner, and we can eat together before our meetings. Does that sound agreeable to you?”

Roza nods again, eyes wide.

“Only for one meal every other day,” Laranthir continues, waving a hand, “And sometimes there may be another Vigil leader in here with me as well.”

“That’s fine,” Roza blurts. He doubts Almorra is going to hurl boiled vegetables and plant puns at him. “I—am very grateful, Grand Warmaster. Thank you.”

“Of course.” Laranthir smiles. “I admit I would welcome the companionship. And you may deter General Soulkeeper from starting food fights or comparing me to vegetation while I am trying to have my meal. Now one last thing, and I will let you go.”

“I’m listening.”

“How do you find ‘Crusader’ suits you?” Laranthir’s eyes curve. “I was thinking of promoting you to tactician, should you make it the week and still be in good standing with the Vigil—and I feel as if you will. Your, ah, little rant about Risen yesterday was impressive. If you truly have been studying the incursion on Caledon Forest, you could be a valuable asset to our efforts there.”

Roza stares at him. “You want to… promote me?”

“If you meet my expectations.” Laranthir’s smile says it is likely. “You would be put in charge of squads as necessary rather than be a simple foot soldier. Forgal tells me you have quite an eye for tactics.”

“I… would be honoured.” He cannot believe this.

“Good.” The smile curls. “If we can wash away your backtalk and blatant disrespect, I will see what I can do. Dismissed, soldier. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, say at the sixth bell.”

“Yes, Sir.” Roza stands and salutes him, just to see if it will get a positive reaction, and is rewarded with another smile. Oh. Oh.

He leaves the room feeling warmer than he has the whole month.

~*~

Roza very quickly learns that some things are much more easily said than done.

He wishes he could simply magically change into a more likeable person and stop getting into… altercations. Oh, how he wishes. But the world does not change simply because one wills it. His sharp tongue is his primary defense and it serves him well. If he snaps at people, they avoid him. If they avoid him, he gets… he wants to snap at them more. By the time he sees Laranthir again, nothing has changed.

“It says here that…” Laranthir squints at a paper, holding it up. “… you told a fellow Crusader to ‘put his coin where his brain is and flush it down the latrines?’”

Roza smiles. “It’s a clever rewording of an oft-overused expression,” he explains.

Laranthir looks at him. “Right,” he says.

Roza frowns slightly. “I don’t think you see what I did there.”

“Oh, I do.” Laranthir puts the paper down. “Speaking of latrines, I hope you enjoy cleaning them. Let’s add a couple of days onto your current sentence for that, shall we?”

Roza scowls. Laranthir only smiles, pain in his eyes.

Another time:

“Do you even know Ventari’s Tenets?”

Roza stares at him, aghast. “I don’t believe in brainwashing,” he says.

That… expression Laranthir puts on around him that Roza is quickly becoming familiar with appears again. “I… see,” he says. Then, to the ceiling, “Pale Mother help me, I don’t think I knew what I was getting into.”

“She can’t hear you,” Roza informs him. “She isn’t actually telepathic, you know. I’ve tried. Did you know that she can feel physical sensations through the Dream as well? It took a few shallow stabs to the hand, but I think I’ve figured out the radius on it. We’re nowhere close.”

Laranthir’s expression grows in magnitude.

And yet another time:

“… although the presence of blubber presents unique quandaries. I’ve theorized that—”

“Stop. I have to stop you there.” Laranthir has gone an odd shade of light green. “The quaggans are our allies. We are aiming to recruit them. By the Tree.”

Roza tilts his head. “You are my ally as well, Laranthir,” he says. “That does not mean I do not know how to utilize your different organs and body parts for necromantic rituals, if you are ever dead and I have to.”

“Have to,” Laranthir repeats.

Roza shrugs. “If I have few other alternatives, I suppose. No better alternatives,” he quickly corrects at the face that gets him.

Progress is slow. But it is there.

~*~

By the end of the week, Roza is—nervous. It is not something he is keen on admitting, and it is certainly not an emotion he is comfortable with having in the first place, but it is there, and there isn’t much he can do about it.  

He doesn’t think Laranthir is going to promote him.

Which is—fine. It was a foolish hope to begin with, after all. Roza knows better than to believe in dreams and wishes. But he is far from unobservant, and he had seen the way Laranthir had gradually deflated over the course of the week as Roza had steadily crushed whatever hope he had of raising a well-behaved, obedient soldier, let alone a perfect one. He was right about that, too—Roza is far from perfect, no matter how much he tries. He is now painfully aware of that fact. He cannot stay his instinct to go on the offensive. Laranthir scolds him more than he praises him, although he tries to be nice about it. He still gets into fights. He still wins. He will always win, because a fight is not lost if one has strength left to surrender. He needs to be good at something.

Speaking of which, he has begun to… experiment more, with necromancy. There are a wide variety of uses for the dark arts, he has learned. It really is quite a versatile field.

… pet, he hears whispered now, in the walls, in the shadows. He smoothes down a flinch. Nothing he hasn’t heard many times over these past few days. …master’s pet… cial project… icked out of th… you imagine?

Echoing laughter, fading as Roza opens his eyes. They are more sunken than they were a week ago—his lack of a window means he isn’t getting enough sunlight. It is fine. He will be fine.

“Enter,” Laranthir calls, the same way he always does. Roza may be imagining it, but he thinks the word grows increasingly weary by the visit. He enters.

He salutes, silent and still (… ike a ghost… seen him?... reepy… swear he’s going… jump out of a…). Laranthir nods at him.

“At ease,” he adds when Roza stays still. He drops the salute and drifts over, sitting in his chair neatly. He keeps his back straight, his posture steady. He will take this rejection with dignity.

“Here you are.” Laranthir nudges a plate towards him. Roza bows his head politely.

“I am not hungry, Sir. But thank you nevertheless.”

Laranthir glances him up and down, a small frown knitting his forehead. “Are you certain? You look like you could use a meal or two.”

“Yes.” He has no appetite.

“Very well. I’ll leave it there in case you want it.” Laranthir settles his papers in a way Roza has learned he does when he is putting something off and trying not to let it show. It is a worthy effort, and he masks it well, but fear is to necromancers what fire is to elementalists. Any form of it.

“Are you well, Roza? You feel a bit on edge.”

Roza forcibly pushes down his anxiety. “Yes,” he replies.

“A sylvari of many words today, are you?” Laranthir gives him a small smile.

Roza’s eyes bore into him. “You are avoiding something, Grand Warmaster. I can feel the apprehension in your soul. Let it out for the both of us to see, and let us be done with it.”

“Ah… right.” Laranthir folds his arms over his desk. “Well, as you well know, today is your assessment day. I have written my report, and I’d like for us to go over it together…”

They sit, Laranthir speaks, and they review the past week. Roza is told what he has done correctly. He is told what he has done wrong. He remembers what he has done wrong. He does not bring up the possible promotion.

“… and that just about covers it. You are off probation for now, which is good news. I am going to continue my role as your mentor, although Forgal is due back soon. We can reassess then.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Laranthir arranges his papers. Nervous habit again, Roza notes. “That is all, soldier. I’m wondering, though, if you were curious at all about that promotion? I thought you would mention it.”

Roza doesn’t blink. “I am certain you would have brought it up had it been relevant.”

“Ah.” Laranthir’s eyes loosen. “Is that why you’ve been calling me ‘Sir’ all evening?”

“No, Sir,” says Roza. Even he does not know if it is a lie.

Laranthir nods anyways, as if that had confirmed something. “Well. The position is certainly something we can work towards…” he begins, and the rest of his words turn empty as Roza disconnects from them.

He supposes he is a disappointment, then.

A soft “Dismissed,” pulls him back to the present. Laranthir is looking at him with quiet eyes. Roza nods, gets up, salutes, and leaves.

He will try harder.

~*~

“We have an event tonight,” Laranthir tells him. Roza doesn’t know if the hesitance in his tone is from bringing it up for no reason, or from talking about something that isn’t every way Roza has made a mistake today.

It is this new thing Laranthir has been doing. Mentioning something that has no relevance, or making the odd comment about his day. Roza… doesn’t know if he likes it or not. He doesn’t know why it’s happening.

He doesn’t reply, simply waits for an elaboration.

“Keep brawl,” Laranthir continues. “It was the General’s idea originally—she says it helps the soldiers get things out of their system. There are rules, of course, but it is still a fairly violent free-for-all. You might be interested.”

Why? “Can’t,” Roza says shortly. “I’m on latrine duty.”

“Ah.” A flicker of amusement crosses Laranthir’s expression. “Right.”

It’s funny, then. It’s an incredibly funny joke that Roza has latrine duty again, haha, that he is always exhausted and stinking and cold, that he doesn’t get enough sleep and his only comfort is a poetry book he can barely spare time or energy to read. It’s hilarious.

“You think that because I ‘start fights for no reason,’ I am partial to reckless violence?” he asks. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be so bitter, or talk back, but Laranthir will probably just give him latrine duty again, so what is the point?

Laranthir looks genuinely surprised. “No, I… I did not mean to imply that at all. I simply thought you would want to let off some steam. You feel…”

His eyes dart across Roza’s face—he is maintaining eye contact, because he still has his pride—and then ease in that same way they had the other day. “Never mind,” he says softly. “Take the rest of the evening off, Roza. Get some rest.”

Roza clenches his jaw as he nods. He doesn’t need this… this pity.

~*~

He has finished Kryta’s Flowering Beauty, of course, because he is a fast reader. But there is value in rereads, he is quickly learning. He tugs his little light closer with his fingertips—it is barely cold to him, anymore—flips to the chapter about deathroot, and drinks in the flowery description of how rot seeps through the soil into the heart of Tyria.

The next day dawns outside the walls of Vigil Keep.

…reepy. Again. ..ecromancy? thought sylv… upposed to be… eerful.

Roza opens his eyes, pulling his senses back. The person next to him starts as he jerks. He ignores them.

He is working on the range of this makeshift scrying spell. The words he hears become more clear the more he practices. He has learned to blunt them, at least when he listens, so they do not pierce and bleed his bark. This is the advantage he holds over the whispers. This is something that is just his own. He can observe. He can listen.

“Can you, uh… do that somewhere else?” His unwanted companion’s voice wavers with unease. Roza feels that same unease in their energy—he can take its power.

He slowly turns to look at them. “Do what?”

“Um… whatever you were doing. It’s kind of disturbing.”

“I do not see what I am doing wrong, human.”

They lean away. “Right. Um… it’s just… you’re here every morning, you know. We’re trying to eat. And you look like a dead person.”

“Maybe I am,” Roza grits. Laranthir will scold him if he says something cruel. It is on the tip of his tongue. He wants to.

The human pales. “You know, necromancy wasn’t… allowed in my village,” they say.

Roza is fed up. He calls to his shadow and makes it scream, roaring over this insipid fool. He gets a startled yell as they scamper backwards, then scramble to their feet and all but run away.

Roza laughs. He cannot help it—it is funny.

Laranthir, the next day, does not think it is funny. “And what was this person doing to you, again?” he asks in a tone Roza has come to dislike greatly.

He hesitates. He does not know on what footing he stands in this office anymore. He does not know who is on his side anymore.

“Nothing, Sir,” he says.

“Roza.” Laranthir leans forwards. “Were they bothering you?”

Roza takes a measured breath. He is sick of that tone. He is sick of doing nothing wrong and getting treated like he is—like he is some abomination dug up from a graveyard that is going to go rabid and kill everyone.

“No, Sir,” he grits out.

Laranthir gives him a look. Roza glares at him, and he actually draws back a fraction. Like the human had drawn back. Like everyone draws back. Ire rises in Roza’s chest, sharp and bitter.

“Fine,” he snaps. “Yes, they were bothering me. They were doing exactly what you’re doing right now. I’m not a corpse. I’m not a skeleton. I’m not creepy. I am simply trying to practice my magic. Is it truly too much to ask that I be able to do it in peace? Do I have to have someone point out to me every single fucking time that I’m ‘disturbing’ them or that I’m ‘bothering’ them when whatever they're trying to do doesn’t involve me in the slightest?”

Laranthir pulls back by barely a centimetre more, but catches himself. Roza notices anyways. His anger spikes.

“See?” he hisses. “Even you’re doing it. You don’t want to, but I can feel your instincts. I can feel your fear. So tell me, hm? What are you scared of? What am I doing wrong?”

“Roza,” Laranthir says. He holds out a hand, and Roza wants to bite it off. “Your magic. Look around.”

He glances around on instinct, even as he is about to condemn the non-sequitur. The accusation dies in his throat. The room is dark. Shadows weigh in the air, thick and stifling. They feel like fear. They feel like they want to scream. As soon as he notices them, Roza wants nothing more than to cower and flee. It is like there is some intimidating, oppressive urge taking over him that is telling him to run far, far away.

“I’m not the one who’s scared,” Laranthir tells him lowly. Glancing back at him, at the forced stillness of his posture, Roza can suddenly see how much he is resisting the very same urge he feels tugging at his own mind. “Your magic reflects your emotions. It is powerful, and it is easy to get drawn into it. But it belongs to you, not the other way around. Reel it in. Calm yourself, and those around you will calm with you.”

Roza draws in a breath that he hates is trembling. “I don’t—know how.”

“That book that you are reading.” Laranthir’s voice is an anchor. Roza focuses on it. “It is a poetry book, right? Tell me about it.”

Roza looks at him. “Right,” he says. He can do this. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. It’s called Kryta’s Flowering Beauty, by Firstborn Dagonet himself. It’s about the gardens of Divinity’s Reach, which are apparently watched over by the human queen. But he says that he has been tending to them himself…”

He talks about the flowers. The roots, the vines, the leaves, the thorns. The metaphors about sylvari and human relations, how interracial concerns twist and change and grow and eventually blossom, if they are watered and taken care of. Dagonet is a diplomat who has seen much in his travels. He compares the citizens of Divinity’s Reach to the Grove. He says there is a different kind of beauty in different kinds of gardens; that though the lush, diverse flora of Caledon Forest is much different than the verdant trees in the human lands, neither are less beautiful for it. Roza doesn’t know who he is speaking for anymore.

“That’s sounds lovely,” Laranthir says after a while. He sounds like he genuinely means it. “My interest lies more in romantic literature than poetic, I will admit. But if I have some free time, I think I may give it a look.”

Roza smiles before he realizes it, and once he does, immediately tamps the expression down. “You should,” he replies. “He has published many works, and I hope one day I will get to read them all.”

“You should visit the Priory, if you ever have the chance.” That earns a curious look, and Laranthir laughs softly. “I know, I know. We’re all supposed to be at each other’s throats or whatnot. But they do have an incredible abundance of knowledge at their disposal. If you express your interest, I am sure they would let you at least take a look at the publicly available tomes.”

“Trahearne has mentioned that they have some books on necromancy I might like.” Roza folds his hands together, glancing down at them briefly. “Maybe one day I’ll get the opportunity to visit.”

Laranthir smiles. “Hopefully. Look now, Roza. The air is clear.”

He is right. Roza doesn’t even have to look to feel the sunset against his bark, painting him in colours he has not earned. He holds out his hand, and it warms in orange and pink and glorious purple. He does not feel skeletal. Not right now.

“I am sorry that your presence incites such negative commentary.” Laranthir sounds truly regretful, and Roza looks at him in surprise. “It is not the way it should be. People fear what they do not understand, and they unfortunately have little will to learn.”

“I…” No one has ever apologized to him before, least of all for something like this. “I mean no, it’s…” Roza sighs. “It can’t be helped, I suppose.”

“You could practice your magic in here, if you like,” Laranthir offers, but Roza is already shaking his head.

“It is kind of you to offer, but no. It is too inconvenient for the both of us.” He straightens his back. “Thank you for today. I… didn’t know I could even do that.”

“I did what I can, but I fear I know little about the nature of magic.” Laranthir gives him an apologetic look. “Perhaps write to Trahearne about it in your next letter? He would be able to offer much greater insight than possibly anyone else.”

“I’ll do that.” Roza nods. “Thank you, Laranthir.”

Two thanks in less than a minute. It is strange. It is so strange. Laranthir gives him a warm smile, and that is strange too.

“I am always glad to help. Go now, enjoy your evening. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”

Roza has nothing to look forward to other than his cold little bunker and his poetry book. He nods, rises, and doesn’t tell Laranthir that he can never enjoy the evening more than he does here, in this office of gold and warmth and smiles.

He forgets to salute.

~*~

On his next knock, the “Enter,” is delayed.

Roza opens the door, and immediately sees why. He salutes in a hurry, forgetting to close it.

“Crusader, I hope you don’t mind that I asked General Soulkeeper to join us. We had a discussion that needed to be carried over, you understand.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“At ease, soldier.” Almorra speaks up. “And close the door, please.”

Roza hurries to obey. He remembers Laranthir mentioning that the other Vigil leaders might show up, but it has been a couple of weeks, and he hadn’t seen any until now. He certainly hadn’t expected Almorra to be the first of them.

He takes his plate, a little embarrassed at its existence—Laranthir’s is empty, and Almorra doesn’t seem to have one—and goes to stand by the wall, giving the two of them space to discuss.

And perhaps eavesdrops a little. It is difficult not to. He is right there.

Almorra glances at him briefly, then turns to Laranthir. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t send a squad to Kraitbane Haven. It would be most efficient there.”

Laranthir shakes his head. “Kraitbane Haven is filled with Lionsguard who want nothing more than to leave their post for somewhere else. If we sent them help, I fear it would be effectively wasted.”

Roza looks up. They’re speaking about Caledon?

They are, in fact, and they continue to do so. Roza frowns as he listens in, nibbling on a chunk of bread.

“… still posit that Wardenhurst would be the most effective distribution of our forces. It’s close to the Grove, and the Wardens need our help more than the Lionsguard.”

“It’s a risk, Laranthir.”

“I know. But the Risen are at their shores. They are spread thin.”

Roza makes a considering face. Not untrue. He finishes his bread and starts to nibble at the dried meat instead. Ah, Vigil rations.

“Alright, smart aleck. What do you think?”

What an odd thing to say. Roza takes another bite of the meat, looks up, realizes they're both staring at him, and stops eating.

“You’re asking me?” he mumbles, covering his mouth.

Almorra snorts. “I can come up with a better nickname if you prove yourself worthy of one.”

Roza chews, swallows, and wanders over. He frowns at the map that is stretched over Laranthir’s desk.

“Go on, Crusader,” Laranthir says quietly. He takes a step back.

Roza taps at the upper-left corner of the map. “Wychmire Swamp.”

“The troll swamp?” Almorra sounds incredulous.

“Trolls, Nightmare Court, hylek, imps, skelks, spiders… and jungle wurms, I believe.” If he is remembering correctly. He only went there once.

“No Risen,” Laranthir observes.

“No Risen,” Roza confirms. “But the Wardens concentrate their efforts there. The Nightmare Court are as much a threat to the Grove as the Risen are. Possibly even more so, considering their intelligence. Risen assaults are predictable, learnable once they are driven back, and slow to change pattern. The Nightmare Court adapt quickly, and they are far more intelligent. They know how to target sylvari especially well. Risen mostly only know how to kill.”

“You’re saying we should focus on the greater threat, regardless of the presence of an Elder Dragon’s minions,” Almorra says.

“I am saying that if we help maintain a foothold in the swamp, the Wardens will be more mobile and able to redistribute their forces to Wardenhurst to help fight off the Risen. I am also saying that trained Vigil soldiers would be more effective thrown at Courtiers than zombies.”

“Huh.” Almorra crosses her arms. “Laranthir?”

He nods. “It… is a better idea than mine.”

“Alright then. We’ll do that.” She nods at Roza. “Soldier, I’m promoting you to Tactician.”

“What?” says Roza.

She snorts. “I don’t repeat myself.”

“Yes—sorry, I heard you.” Roza quickly recovers from his surprise. “Are you, ah, sure? I haven’t done anything yet.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Are you trying to argue with me about your own promotion, soldier?”

“No, Ma’am.” Roza straightens up.

Her lip curls over her fangs in what could be either a smile or a snarl. “Good. As for the squad we send out, you’ll be leading it—see how that new rank suits you. You leave tomorrow at dawn. Alright, that ends this meeting. May the… Pale leaf… whatever you sylvari say.”

She nods at them, turns, and leaves the room. Roza watches her.

When she’s gone, he looks at Laranthir, who is trying—badly—to hide a smile. “You planned that,” he accuses.

“Now, whatever gives you that idea, Tactician?” A soft chuckle. “Congratulations, by the way. You’ll be a Warmaster in no time.”

Roza scoffs, but it is through an odd, warm feeling, and he realizes that he is flustered. Him. He cools himself automatically, trying to regulate his body temperature.

Laranthir is still smiling at him. “I noticed that you seemed more mature the last time we spoke,” he says, “but I thought there would be no better judgment call than Almorra herself. Of course, you more than proved yourself. I am proud of you, Roza.”

That… is… Roza chills himself further, because his face has suddenly become very warm. Proud. Laranthir is proud of him. He gets the urge to look away in embarrassment, and he soldiers—ha—through it. He isn’t going to blush like some sapling.

Laranthir beckons to him. “Come, let us talk tactics for the evening. Preparation is never an oversight, and this is the first mission where you will have command over other people. I will let you know what to expect.”

~*~

The mission goes well.

The mission goes very well, actually, and Roza is on a high as he waltzes back into Vigil Keep. No one died, save lots of Courtiers. He got to dissect a troll. A troll! Trahearne will love to hear about that.

“You’re terrifying on the battlefield,” one of his recruits says to him before she leaves. Roza smiles at her beatifically.

“Thank you,” he replies.

Oh, a troll.

Dear Trahearne, he writes that evening, Firstly, I have gotten promoted to Tactician. I was sent on a mission where…

He finishes the letter five pages and two hours later. He remembers at the last minute what Laranthir had mentioned the other day, and he squeezes it in at the end of the long, gratuitous account of the dissection. His exhaustion has taken over the excitement of his victory by now, and the hour is late, but he signs off as legibly as he can. Sincerely, Roza, he writes, as he always does, and flips back to proofread with heavy eyelids.

He doesn’t realize he has fallen asleep until he is rudely woken up.

“‘And the liver would really make the most efficient acid container!’” The voice is high-pitched and ringing with false enthusiasm. “This is disgusting. You really think your boyfriend wants to read about you going through a corpse?”

“Wha’?” Roza blinks blearily. Where is he? Judging from the sunlight shining in his eyes, this isn’t his bunker.

He startles, looking around. He is in the break hall. In front of him is a tall human—or norn? Sometimes it is hard to tell—woman, holding…

“That’s mine!” Roza grabs for the stack of papers, and she easily lifts them out of his reach.

“They're mine now, twig.” She squints at him. “You’re not Priory in disguise, are you? Scrawny little thing like you obsessed with writing about dead things? Fits. We don’t tolerate Priory here.”

Roza remembers what Laranthir had said. “The other orders actually have a lot to off—”

“I said we don’t tolerate Priory here.” Her voice is a warning.

Roza bristles. “Your intolerance and ignorance will get you to nowhere but a dead end,” he says. “Now give me my letter.”

She scoffs. “Make me.”

Roza stares at her. His breathing quickens.

Without provocation, Laranthir had said. Without provocation. Without provocation.

He extends his hand. “Please give me the letter,” he says as politely as he is able.

She laughs. Offense jolts in Roza’s stomach, next to something he doesn’t want to identify as fear, and he swallows it down.

Is he… allowed to defend himself? Would that be provocation? He doesn’t know. Thorns. Thorns and brambles.

He tries to stand up and grab for it, but she is far taller than him, and she easily holds it out of his reach. He doesn’t want to touch her—that may be provocation. But she has his letter. She has his letter to Trahearne and—

He calls for his magic, but even he feels its hesitance. He doesn’t know what he is allowed to do.

She seems to notice. “You so much as poke me with your creepy voodoo and I’m reporting you to the Grand Warmaster, twig,” she says quickly. “He won’t take kindly to you assaulting a captain.”

Captain. She outranks him. Of course she does. Roza takes a steady breath, trying to quell his rising panic. She is right. Laranthir will be—

Laranthir will be disappointed. And he had said he was proud. Roza wants to keep that for as long as he is able (He dreads the day when it will leave. He knows it will. It is inevitable). He doesn’t want to feel that gut-wrenching feeling again, or see the look in Laranthir’s eyes—that sad but resigned way that he gets whenever Roza does something wrong. He doesn’t want to see that look ever again, in fact. He doesn’t want to be the cause of it ever again. Laranthir is the only person who has shown him—kindness. The only person who has ever believed in him. He cannot forsake that. He cannot.

“Please give me back my letter,” he says, and his voice shakes.

He blinks his eyes cool. Pale Mother, but he misses Trahearne. His gentleness, his patience.

Trahearne doesn’t even like him.

The woman smiles at him. It is not a nice smile. “How about this,” she muses. “I put this in the fire, and you can see how fast you can get to it and put it out.”

Roza’s mind blanks. “No,” he begs. “No no no. Please.”

The please leaves his mouth before he can watch it, but he barely cares. His letter. His letter to Trahearne. He cannot let her destroy it.

The smile grows. “I think you mean yes, yes yes yes,” she mocks. “Because the Grand Warmaster isn’t here right now, and I am sick and fucking tired of getting reprimanded for pointing out that there is a freak in the Vigil. Did you know necromancy wasn’t allowed in my village? It was for a good reason! Your kind bring only death. With your unholy experiments, your,” She stabs at the letter, “dissections. May Balthazar take you, lich.”

She stalks over to the fire. Roza cries out, scrambling over the table. He bangs his forearms and his shin on hard wood, but he doesn’t care. His letter. His letter his letter his letter his let—

Is burning. Sheer panic overwhelms him, and his world turns to blackness.

He is in the fire, and it is burning him. He doesn’t care. He is holding his letter. It is safe. It is a little singed, but it is still legible. He breathes ice, hastily, and the flames around him die.

He hears a sputtering sound and startles, clutching his letter protectively to his chest. The woman is sprawled on the ground in front of him. When he looks at her she scrambles away, swearing violently.

“I am getting rid of you,” she hisses. “I am telling the Grand Warmaster how you assaulted me. He’ll have you out by the end of the day.”

“I did not lay a hand on you,” Roza snaps, because he remembers fearing her away from—his letter—but he had not hurt her. Power is in control, not strength.

She all but snarls at him. “It’s your word against mine, Tactician,” she spits. “See who he believes.”

Then she is gone, stalking away with her head held high. Roza is—frozen.

She is right.

She is a higher-ranking officer. He is… barely a tactician. If Laranthir finds out about this, he will—demote him? Kick him out? Panic bubbles in Roza’s chest, and he hastily pushes it down before it can boil over. He can’t do this here. He needs to—his letter. It needs to be safe.

He sends his letter off, and the feeling tries to come up again. He pushes it down once more. He doesn’t have a lot of time.

He moves. He walks and then he runs, dashing through the keep. Storerooms. That is where he knows no one goes. There is a—closet.

He finds it and closes himself inside. He shuts his eyes and reaches out to the shadows for their comfort.

He forgets for a second what that allows him to do.

… see him? Grand War… et sylvari. Rushing… like a demon… Hope the… what he’s doing.

Demon. They called him a demon.

Roza pulls his senses back to himself and starts to cry.

~*~

He doesn’t know how long he stays in there. He knows that he is still crying, much later, even after the panic settles and leaves. He can’t stop. He is doing it quietly, because making noises is embarrassing, and he doesn’t want anyone to hear. He must look so pathetic. He feels pathetic.

He hates this. He misses the Shiverpeaks. He misses being by himself. He misses the time before he even met Trahearne, before everything that led to this. When it was just him, the snow, his magic, and the blessed, nonjudgmental silence.

“Roza?” calls a voice. He freezes, eyes going wide. Laranthir.

“Are you in here? I know I can feel you… somewhere.” The voice moves as it speaks. Roza holds his breath and prays to the Tree that he will stay hidden.

“Where are you? Can you hear me? You were supposed to report back to me when you returned yesterday, but I haven’t heard from you.”

Roza makes a panicked noise at that, then immediately claps his hands over his mouth.

“What was that?” Lower, most likely muttered to himself. Footsteps approach Roza rapidly, and he shrinks down.

The closet opens to Laranthir’s frown, which quickly morphs into an expression of shock. He stares. Roza stares back.

“Oh,” Laranthir says. Then, very softly, “Thorns.”

Roza tries to shrink down further. He is shaking again.

“It’s alright,” Laranthir says in an—odd tone—and he reaches out—

Roza cannot duck away. He reacts in a panic, slashing out with a hand that sharpens into defensive claws of blackness.

He realizes he has just attacked the Grand Warmaster of the Vigil a moment later. His eyes grow large.

“I’m—sorry I didn’t mean to I swear I—”

“Easy, easy.” Laranthir holds out his hands, this time cautiously. “You barely got me. Here, I’ll back up. Why don’t you come out?”

Is that—an order? Roza doesn’t know. He slowly slides out of the closet, sagging onto the ground in an ungraceful heap.

“Easy,” Laranthir repeats, kneeling down in front of him. He reaches out again like he had before, but slower, then pauses. Roza watches him cautiously.

“May I?” Laranthir asks.

Roza nods jerkily, not knowing what he is being asked. It must be the right answer, because Laranthir smiles, although it is one of his pained ones.

His arms reach around Roza, as if he is feeling for something behind him, and then they—fold. Laranthir is pulled directly up against him. Roza sits there stiffly, utterly confused and still feeling the last dredges of anxiety.

“What are you doing?” he asks in a strange, sharp voice. Laranthir smells like cedar.

Laranthir’s head—which is very near him now—turns. “I’m giving you a hug. Has no one ever done that before?”

Roza stares at him. He slowly shakes his head.

“Right.” Laranthir speaks to himself in that odd low voice he uses sometimes after Roza tells him something. “Of course not. Two months old. Right.”

He shifts, and suddenly there is gentle pressure everywhere, and it feels… odd. In a good way, Roza thinks. In the same way he had felt inside when Laranthir had said You are under my protection.

He untenses, a little. He leans his head down, and find it fits neatly on the curve of a firm shoulder.

“There we go,” Laranthir says softly. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Roza tenses again. The hug leaves, although he did not tell it to. He draws his shoulders together, fixing Laranthir with a glare.

“Put it back,” he orders.

That earns him an interesting ripple of an expression, which ends, he thinks, in a quickly-suppressed smile. He glares harder.

“Yes, Sir,” Laranthir says. The hug returns, and Roza relaxes once more.

“Was someone bothering you?” Laranthir asks after a minute.

Roza stills. He doesn’t know how to answer that. Was she? Maybe he was the one bothering her. He had scared her away.

“Roza,” says Laranthir. “Do you remember what I said?”

“About what?” he mumbles into the shoulder.

“About how if someone is harassing you, you come to me.” Laranthir’s voice hardens a little, like it had back then, and Roza’s spine stiffens.

“I—don’t know,” he admits. “She said it was her word against mine, so she is probably right since she outranks me.”

A breath before Laranthir speaks again. Roza can feel it enter and exit his chest. “Alright, that is… we will talk about that later. You say she outranks you?”

Roza nods. “She said she’d go to you,” he mumbles. “So you would punish me.”

“I see.” That is said in what Roza has dubbed his Grand Warmaster voice—even and a little bit wry. “Roza, no one has come to me. She was likely only saying that to scare you off from telling me yourself.”

Relief floods through him. “Oh.” He may not be punished that badly, then.

Laranthir shifts somewhat, although Roza clings onto the hug to ensure it doesn’t leave. “Why don’t you tell me what happened? Do not spare the details.”

Roza lifts his head so he can speak properly, and tells him. About writing the letter, waking up, seeing the woman holding it, and everything that had transpired afterwards. His voice shakes more then once, but the hug tightens just a little bit when it does, and it gives him enough strength to smoothen it.

Laranthir presses him for details on what the woman had looked like, so Roza tells him as best as he remembers.

“It was hard to tell if she was a norn or a human, but my guess is human.”

“What makes you say that?”

“She swore by Balthazar,” he replies. “And she mentioned she was from a village that outlawed necromancy. That id…. That person who ran away from me the other day said they were as well. Laranthir?”

“Yes?”

“Am I in the wrong for pushing her away?”

“No.” Laranthir shakes his head. “You were defending yourself. Even if you weren’t, you did not even hurt her.”

“She didn’t hurt me either,” Roza argues.

The hug tightens involuntarily for a moment, then loosens. “Yes,” Laranthir replies, and his voice is strange again. “She did.”

Roza feels warm from that, although he does not know why. He lays his head back down and closes his eyes.

~*~

“The situation has been dealt with,” Laranthir tells him on his next visit.

Roza blinks at him. “What situation?”

That gets another one of those pained smiles.

Laranthir teaches him that evening what an abuse of power is, how to recognize it, and why it is wrong. He has a pinched expression on his face the entire time.

"I will not do that," Roza assures him, to make it go away.

It only grows. "I know, Roza," Laranthir says in a voice to match.

At the end of the meeting he points out the burns on Roza’s arms. “You should get those tended to.”

Roza gives him a small frown. “I can cool them so they do not hurt as much,” he says. He has been doing just that so far.

The pained smile makes a reappearance. “Go see a mender,” Laranthir says.

Roza huffs. “You do not need to babysit me,” he complains.

“That’s an order,” Laranthir replies.

Roza rolls his eyes. “Fine, Mother.”

Laranthir doesn’t tell him off for insubordination. He just keeps smiling, until his eyes are two small, tense dots.

~*~

Roza pauses before his knock this time. He thinks he can hear voices coming from the other side of the door. Curious, he leans against it and extends his magic. He has been practicing this quite a bit.

… right, Laranthir. You don’t need to watch him like this. That is Almorra, he realizes with pleasant surprise. Her voice sounds distinct enough for him to recognize now—it must be the proximity.

With all due respect, General, I don’t think you fully understand the situation. Easily identifiable as Laranthir. He sounds tense. Such things should not even be happening here, let alone to a sapling. The Vigil is a place of honour.

Then keep watching him, if it makes you feel better. But do it from a distance. He’s not like you—he’ll feel stifled without some space to breathe.

“Astute observation, General,” Roza mutters, pulling his senses back. He raps on the door.

The “Enter,” is a little startled. He smiles to himself as he steps inside.

“General. Laranthir.” He salutes them, and Almorra waves him off.

“You’re ‘Laranthir’ now,” she rumbles at the sylvari in question.

“That is my name, yes.”

She snorts in amusement. “He’s climbing over you.”

Laranthir clears his throat. “Roza. Forgal has returned from his excursion, which means I think we should discuss where we stand.”

“You’re sitting,” Roza points out, and then laughs at the sheer awfulness of his own joke.

Laranthir looks like he just stepped in troll droppings. Almorra barks out a low laugh as well, and he turns his head to stare at her.

She juts her chin at Roza. “I like him.”

Laranthir rubs at his temple. “Right,” he mutters. “I suppose I am being trodden over now. That is fine. Roza, considering Forgal’s return, the temporary state of my mentorship to you must now be called into question. I wish to continue it regardless, but…” He glances at Almorra. “The General doesn’t see it that way.”

She nods. “I think you’re more than ready to be let out from underneath this one’s over-fluffed wing, Tactician. I read your report of your mission in Wychmire Swamp, and it was a thing of beauty. Burn me, I’d promote you to Warmaster right now if it made sense.”

“Yes, you did very well,” Laranthir mutters.

Roza gazes at him calmly, noting the tense set of his shoulders and the way his hand is curled loosely on his desk. “I see,” he says.

The vague answer earns him a short silence, and the hand tightens. Roza watches in amusement.

“What do you think?” Laranthir blurts eventually. Roza stifles a smile.

He inhales, deep and dramatic. “Well…” he drawls, tapping a finger against his wrist, “Let me consider my options. So either you and I keep doing this…”

He is speaking deliberately slowly. Laranthir’s obvious unease is delightful.

“And Forgal remains your partner on the field, like he has been so far,” Laranthir continues the thought for him. “Or, we could stop, and Forgal would… take over to whatever extent he deems necessary.”

Roza raises an eyebrow. “And what do you think of that option, Grand Warmaster?”

The hand flexes. “I… think that my opinion does not matter in this case, and it is up to you.”

Roza mock-pouts. “But I would so like to consider your assessment. Remember?”

“My assessment,” Laranthir repeats in an undertone. “Alright. Yes. My assessment is that you are mature enough to consider your own career path and the goals you want to set for yourself. You learn quickly, you plan well, and you easily take the lead in a situation if no one else steps up to do so. Your natural aptitude towards… conversational dominance, shall we say, translates well to a leadership position. I agree with what the General said about promoting you, but it would look suspiciously quick to anyone who does not know you personally and couldn’t see that you more than earned your rank. You would be a huge asset to the Vigil in a higher position, so hopefully we can get there soon.”

It takes a moment for Roza to get a hold of his surprise—he certainly hadn’t expected all of that, and he will think about it later—before he pushes it down. “Yes, but what is your assessment on,” he gestures between the two of them. “This? Is it benefitting me?”

Laranthir gives him a look that is beginning to border on suspicious. “That is for you to say, Tactician.”

That marks the last drop Roza can milk from this. “Very well then.” He taps his chin, makes a long show of thinking, and then finally sighs. “I do think it is benefiting me, Laranthir. Some things should not be learned through experience. I’d like to keep you.”

“Oh, flame, he’s done now.” Almorra lolls her head back. “That was the funniest conversation I have witnessed in years, Tactician. Thank you.”

Laranthir starts. “Pardon?”

Almorra makes as if she is batting something between her claws. “‘Conversational dominance,’” she says, and grunts out a long, slow laugh.

Laranthir gapes. Roza watches in amusement as his pattern flares for a brief second.

“A bit early for that,” he taps the ridged section of his branches, “at this hour, don’t you think, Grand Warmaster?”

Laranthir glances down at himself. Roza can see when he notices, because teal pulses again, brighter. Laranthir groans.

“I am going to regret encouraging you,” he mutters. He takes a visibly measured breath to calm himself, and Roza grins.

“Moving on. I have…” Laranthir glances at Almorra, who doesn’t budge. “… something for you. First, however, please take your food. It’s getting cold.”

Roza takes the extra bowl on his desk, sniffing at it automatically. Some sort of meat stew, he thinks. “What is it?”

“I stopped by a book shop while you were away, since it meant my obligations let up for a moment.” Laranthir reaches into a drawer in his desk. Roza sticks a spoonful of stew in his mouth and watches curiously as he pulls out a small, paper-bound brown book. “This is for you. I’m sorry I couldn’t find anything bigger, but the humans don’t seem to like non-human literature too much.”

Non-human literature? Roza frowns, going over and taking the book. A Prayer in Peonies, reads the title, by—

“Firstborn Dagonet!” He nearly drops his bowl in excitement. He wedges the book into his elbow and begins to flip through it rapidly.

Laranthir watches him with a smile that he is not looking at. “I hope y—”

“Thank you!” Roza exclaims, remembering belatedly that he is supposed to say that. If he is suddenly a little more lavender-not-pink than he would be at this hour, there is certainly no need to point it out.

“You are very welcome, Roza,” Laranthir murmurs.

“The pages are of a different material. I’ll have to experiment with the frost light to make sure I can find a temperature that doesn’t damage them,” Roza observes out loud. He flutters a hand dismissively. “No, no, I’ll figure it out. I’m smart. Never mind.”

Almorra speaks up. “The frost light?”

Roza conjures it and lazily tosses it up in the air next to him. He is already reading through the introduction.

Almorra frowns, leaning away. “That’s cold.”

“You get used to it,” Roza mutters. Dedicated to all my siblings who plant grace in their gardens, reads the second page. He can’t wait to try and figure out what in Tyria that means.

“It isn’t healthy to read after dark, Tactician,” Almorra points out. Roza realizes that he should probably at least look at the general of the Vigil when she is speaking to him, even if he does not want to, and glances up.

“I don’t have any light in my bunker,” he explains. “I use it during the day time as well.”

Laranthir winces guiltily. “Ah. I… forgot about that.”

“You don’t have any light in your bunker,” Almorra repeats. Roza nods absently, then goes back to his book.

“Laranthir, why is he in one of the solitary cells?” They keep talking behind him. He tunes them out.

“He… kept getting bunkmate transfer requests. I’ll, ah. I’ll fix it.”

“You do that.” A snort. “Hah. Missed that one on your quest to become overbearing plant parent of the year, did you?”

A poignant pause. Almorra laughs again.

“Have the evening off, Tactician,” she says. “Enjoy your, uh. Book.”

Roza keeps reading. He is a few pages in by now.

Laranthir clears his throat. “Roza.”

He looks up. “Hm?”

Laranthir jerks his head towards the door. “You can go now. I’ll see about… your room.” He winces again.

Roza nods. He has enough presence of mind left to salute clumsily before he wanders out into the hall, nose tucked into his new book.

“You know, if I didn’t want to keep him to slaughter Risen like a one-man warband, I’d say he should be in the Priory.” Almorra says from behind him.

Laranthir makes an odd, somewhat hysterical noise. “He should be in the Grove.”

~*~

Dear Trahearne, Roza thinks to himself. It’s been a while since my last letter. Well, the last real one. Anyways, Forgal is back now. He took me off training with other soldiers altogether, which is nice. Laranthir already gave me permission to skip it if I need to, but people do judge rather loudly. Imbeciles. Now every morning Forgal says ‘Try to kill me,’ and we beat each other up. It’s great fun.

He presses his face against the window of his new room, watching the movements of the Keep below him. He thinks he likes watching people. He doesn’t know for sure yet, since he hasn’t had a lot of time to do it—he usually avoids people—but it is interesting to observe them and then try to see how much of their behaviors he can predict.

Laranthir has mostly given up on telling me to try and be nice to people, he continues in his mind. I told him that I think I am the dominant one in our relationship, and he told me not to say things like that out loud. I think he just doesn’t want to admit that I am right.

It is getting near the sixth bell. Roza unsticks himself from the window and hurries—gracefully, of course, and not at all eagerly—to Laranthir’s office.

It is instinct by now to half dip into the shadows while he is walking, since he finds he can disconnect to a certain extent and let his feet travel the path for him. People still talk about him. His excursion to Wychmire Swamp has garnered some whispers, but they are more of fear than awe. He does not understand why. He understands the norn way of valuing battle prowess—if he has power, should he not show it and be proud of it?

It… bothers him. It bothers him more than it should, and he does not know why he keeps listening despite that.

(Sometimes they make him upset again. But he is too embarrassed to ask Laranthir for another hug. He had tried asking someone else, offhandedly, and the result had been… less than fruitful. Apparently it is not a normal thing to request.)

He knocks distractedly. He doesn’t notice that the “Enter,” comes late, when he is already opening the door.

“Laranthir, I was thinking ab—” Roza stops. Laranthir has just moved to flip a paper over on his desk so it is face down. What is more telling is that he covers it with his arm and smiles, far too casually to be genuine.

“What is that?” Roza asks suspiciously.

“What is what?”

Roza points. “That paper you just turned over. Why are you trying to hide it?”

He feels a drop of nervousness from Laranthir (fear travels far easier to him than other spectrums of emotion in the Dream). “Just upper echelon Vigil matters, you understand. My eyes only.”

“You’re lying.” Roza frowns at him.

The smallest guilty wince confirms that. Roza sighs. “Really, Laranthir, you’re easier to read than a fiction book. Try moving your face less.”

“Thank you for your wise words of advice, Tactician. Sit down. What was it you were thinking about?”

Roza pauses for a second, then sighs and goes to sit. He tugs the always proffered extra plate onto his lap and looks down at it.

“Well,” he says, hunching his shoulders together. “It’s… a little embarrassing.”

Laranthir leans forwards. “That’s alright,” he says in the soft voice he uses when he wants to feel as if Roza needs him. “You will find no judgement in this room.”

Roza picks up the bread roll on his plate first, like always, and starts to nibble at it. “Do you remember that one time, when… the thing happened with the human woman, and you gave me a… a hug?”

“I do,” Laranthir says gently.

Roza tears a bit of the roll off with his fingertips. Hesitantly, he offers, “I was… thinking about that.”

“I see.” Still in the same tone. “What were you thinking about it?”

Roza shrugs, hunching his shoulders together. “I don’t know. I… liked it, I suppose.”

“That is good. Such a thing is usually liked. I know you value your personal space, but if you ever want one again, you only have to ask.”

Roza nods into his neck. “I… might,” he mumbles. “Want one. I mean.”

“Now?” Laranthir asks.

“Is that… bad?” Roza winces. “I’m sorry. I never learned this in the Grove.”

“No, it’s not bad at all. You should not feel shame for desiring such things.” Laranthir smiles at him. He rises from his chair, making his way around his desk.

Roza waits until he is at the far end and then snatches the piece of paper, quick as lightning. Laranthir startles.

“Ha.” Roza starts to read it, eyes scanning quickly.

“Wait,” Laranthir says, hand lifting. “Don’t—"

“I cannot believe that worked,” Roza crows. “What is this… a complaint? About…”  His voice fades out.

“Roza,” Laranthir says heavily. “Put it back.”

He reaches out, but Roza pushes his chair away, frowning at the paper in his hands. … that the sylvari Tactician Rosa is a disturbance to our peace of mind. It’s so difficult to concentrate when he’s around. I feel such an obfuscating cloud of negativity, and I know it’s not coming from me nor my fellow sylvari. Please do something to rectify this situation, or at least tell the tactician to learn how to turn himself down. What’s especially troublesome are these spouts of panic he gets. I was minding my own business one day when…

Laranthir’s hand closes over the paper. He tugs it away from Roza’s unresisting fingers.

“This goes in the fire,” he says quietly.

Roza is still.

Laranthir heaves a sigh. “Roza.”

“They spelled my name wrong.”

Laranthir kneels in front of him. “Do not give their words weight,” he says lowly. “It is an immature complaint from an immature soldier.”

Roza stands, placing his mostly untouched food on his seat. “I have to go,” he says.

Laranthir’s eyes are dark and regretful. “Roza.”

“Good evening, Grand Warmaster.” Roza makes to move past him.

He feels a brief touch on his arm. “Wait, please. Do you want—”

Roza pushes him away and slips silently out of the room.

~*~

Trahearne’s letter arrives. Roza writes back to him about Orr. Just Orr, so it is all simply a response. He doesn’t mention the complaint, or the whispers. He doesn’t mention that the words fall to Nightmare have been murmured by the sylvari in the keep enough times to make him wish he doesn’t have this awful habit of listening. He doesn’t mention how the only joy he finds nowadays is every other day at sunset, or that the walls outside of Laranthir’s office are too cold for him to feel alive, or that these days, more often than not, he feels more like the skeleton people say he is than a sylvari.

He does mentions that the norn of Before called him Wraith, because he can appreciate irony.

~*~

Roza does not say much for the next few meetings. On the third, Laranthir pauses.

“You feel odd,” he mentions, almost cautiously.

Roza knows he does. “That isn’t a very nice thing to say, Grand Warmaster.”

Laranthir gives him one of his now familiar pained smiles. “I mean to say… you feel quiet. I can barely sense you in the Dream.”

“Am I usually loud?” Roza asks.

Laranthir notices the deflection, if the way his smile creases into a frown is any indication. “Roza, what have you been doing?”

Roza’s hand clenches into a tight fist, which he holds for a few seconds before forcibly relaxing. “I don’t want to bother anyone,” he says bitterly.

There is silence for a long minute.

Laranthir says, “Your presence is an anchor to me on my more weary days. I will miss it if you decide to go Soundless.”

Roza swallows around a lump in his throat. “I’m fairly certain that counts as guilt-tripping, Grand Warmaster.”

That smile comes back. “Please. You’re manipulative enough for the both of us.”

Roza squeezes out a laugh, although it is tight. He beckons with one hand, diverting his gaze. “Hug,” he mumbles awkwardly.

“I’m not falling for that again.”

Roza looks at him. “Laranthir.”

Laranthir’s expression thaws. “Oh.”

Roza gets his hug.

~*~

“I understand the situation, General, but I am not going to take orders from a common soldier!”

Roza lets out a short sigh. “You do not have to take my orders. It was just a suggestion.”

“A suggestion that I am being told to follow!” The asura looks incredibly offended by this development.

“That’s because he’s smarter than you, Mugg,” says the other asura. Efut, Roza thinks her name is. He decides that he likes her.

Almorra makes an annoyed sound. “Warmaster, down. Sergeant, the tactician has my backing. Unless you have a better option, in which case you will have to convince every person at this table. Including him.”

Mugg sputters. “But—but—boats!” he manages.

“Yes, unless you want to swim through krait-infested waters.” Roza tries his best not to roll his eyes. Laranthir has told him that that is ‘unprofessional.’ “They are far more deadly when they're faster and more mobile than you. Meanwhile, the boats are armoured.”

“Those things are heavy! It’ll take time to haul them out there, and for what, a five minute joyride? Not to mention… I don’t trust boats.”

“By the Pale Tree,” Laranthir mutters. “Sergeant, the tactician’s idea already has the lowest risk with the highest acceptable reward. We could sway more either way, but too safe and we risk losing the pursuit, and too dangerous and we risk losing our soldiers.”

Mugg’s face goes red. He looks like he wants to sputter some more, but Almorra growls suddenly.

“Enough! The more time we waste here, the less we have to act. Sergeant, either follow the plan or get someone else to do it.”

“I… fine. Yes, General!” He salutes, and all but storms out of the room.

Roza holds on to the table for support and lets his ears fall into his retreating shadow. …ing plant skeleton thinks he… me what to do. The voice is fading quickly. Roza strains to follow it, distancing himself further. …rand Warmaster’s pet? General’s pet, more like… ger and she’ll throw him at Zhaitan itself.

Roza jerks back to himself with a smile. He barely stumbles, although his grip on the table tightens for a brief second. He is getting better at being more graceful about this as well.

“I think that would be a delightful learning opportunity, Sergeant,” he muses.

That earns him a couple of odd looks. “What?” says Almorra.

“You possessed or something?” asks Efut, although she sounds more curious than afraid.

“Oh.” Roza waves his hand dismissively. “No, it’s nothing. He was just muttering some very mean things about me that hurt my feelings.” He chuckles.

The looks turn into stares. Roza frowns at them.

“What did you just do, Tactician?” Almorra asks slowly.

Oh. What does that tone mean? Roza shoots a glance at Laranthir, who is wearing an expression he doesn’t care to interpret right now.

“I, uh,” he says. “Just… a party trick, Ma’am. Something I’ve been practicing to amuse myself, that is all.”

“No.” Almorra shakes her head. “Don’t give me that. Can you magically eavesdrop on people?”

“Uh,” says Roza.

Laranthir opens his mouth. Almorra demands, “Do it again.”

Roza blinks. “Alright,” he says. He holds onto the table once more and casts his mind out.

He speeds through the shadows, listening for something interesting to report on. Orders… training… laughter… Aha.

…ust visiting. Wow, this place is re… huh? Lots of places to hide… ust an observation. Not like I hide a lot, ha… ourse, of course! This is just a diplom… this talk about a necromancer who can… ossip a lot for a military, you know. The Ord…

Roza jolts back into himself. This time he does stumble, although it is into leather armour that smells like cedar, and strong arms catch him.

“Are you alright?” Laranthir’s voice asks from behind him, concerned.

“Wow, that’s kinda freaky.” Efut sounds impressed. “You should do it more often. Would be useful in scaring the tourists away.”

Roza flashes a grin. “I might. There’s a peppy charr in the yard. Whispers agent, I believe. Bit of a hypocrite.”

Almorra’s lips pull back over her teeth in a snarl-smile. “Now that is a party trick I can value. You should have brought up this ability sooner, Tactician.”

“It’s still in development, General,” Roza admits. “I have had to practice quite a bit to be able to do it to the extent I can now. Actually, it makes use of a new necromantic technique I have been looking into—I’m calling it ‘shadowmancy’ until I can think of a better name—which consists of—”

“Sounds fascinating,” Almorra interrupts. “I’m sure Laranthir will love to hear all about it later. How far can you do it?”

Roza considers. “Fairly far. The closer I am, the easier people’s voices are to make out. For instance, I can stand outside of Laranthir’s office and hear every word from inside with perfect clarity.”

“You can what?” says Laranthir.

Roza gives him a sweet, apologetic smile. Almorra guffaws.

“Tactician?” she says. “I’m promoting you to lieutenant, effective immediately.”

Roza salutes. “Thank you, General.”

Laranthir rubs at his forehead. “You skipped a rank,” he points out, although in a tone that suggests he doesn’t expect anything to be done about it.

Almorra huffs at him. “We don’t have time to do things by the book—I want him to be a Warmaster before Zhaitan gets too strong, and I don’t care what people say about it. Besides, this way he outranks Mugg. That should stay any complaints.”

Efut laughs. “I love that we get all the freaky ones,” she says. “Whispers would love to get a hold of that! Hah.”

Roza assumes he is ‘that.’ “At least you said that to my face,” he chuckles. Laranthir’s eye catches his for a brief moment, and he glances away.

“Alright, that’s enough bantering. Meeting ended.” Almorra speaks up. “Get out of here, everyone, and go do your jobs.”

They file out. “Roza,” Laranthir calls after him before he leaves, and he glances back to a knowing gaze. “I’ll see you this evening.”

Roza curses internally. He nods.

~*~

“This had better be the good soup,” he tells Laranthir at sunset.

“All soup is good soup, Lieutenant,” is the reply. Their meetings for the past month have slowly turned from debriefs and lessons to idle, somewhat work-related chats. Roza thinks Laranthir just gets lonely. He is the only one. Of course.

“You know, I don’t think you’ve been my mentor for some time,” Roza points out. “Not really, I mean.”

Laranthir sighs. “I know,” he says.

Roza quirks his mouth at him. It feels odd. “You sound a little sad, Laranthir.”

Laranthir looks at him. “Sometimes I learn something,” he says, “And wish I could go back in time with that knowledge to prevent things from happening.”

Roza glances away at that. He slurps at his soup.

“Or to help the people I care about, even if they will bite at my hand,” Laranthir continues.

Roza winces. “Laranthir…”

“But unfortunately, such is not the way of the world. We all must walk our paths in the order that fate has laid out for us.”

Roza tries to smile again. “You sound like Firstborn Dagonet.”

“He is a wise man. Perhaps he was even a better mentor to you than I was.”

That… twists. Oddly, and in a way Roza that hasn’t experienced before. He feels as if he wants to rip the thought from Laranthir’s mind and throw it away, somewhere he can never find it again. It is wrong. It’s wrong.

“Don’t say that,” he barks, because he doesn’t know how to voice that feeling. “And don’t think it either. Or… or else.” That helps a little bit, although it is not quite right.

Laranthir looks surprised for a moment, and then smiles that pained smile that Roza has come to loathe now because it is not happy. “Oh, Roza. You are fiercely loyal, but sometimes I fear that loyalty blinds you.”

Roza doesn’t know how to respond to that. “You have given me reason to be loyal,” he decides on.

“I do not mean just to myself,” Laranthir says quietly. Before Roza can think about what that means, he huffs out a small chuckle. “Do you remember when one time you came into my office, half beaten to death from a fight you yourself started? I didn’t know whether to be horrified or flattered when you told me you did it to defend my honour.”

Roza does remember that. “I’d do it again,” he says with a sharp grin. It drops. “I was listening to the whispers in the walls. People were talking about you where you couldn’t hear. They made me angry.”

Laranthir’s gaze turns somber. “How long have you been listening to the whispers?”

Roza looks away, and then back. “A while.”

A short, audible breath. Roza watches Laranthir’s expression with a weight in his chest. He hates that he knows him well enough to read it now.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. It is the first time he means the words.

Laranthir shakes his head. “Don’t be.”

Roza swallows, glancing away again, and Laranthir beckons. “Come,” he says. “I know you think you are too aloof and impressive for hugs. But I am not.”

Roza chokes out a laugh, although it is pained in the same way of Laranthir’s smile. “Yes, Sir,” he mumbles to him for the last time, and rises from his seat.

~*~

Epilogue:

~*~

“I thought you said you had a house here,” Roza mutters, glancing around. It’s hard to see. This place is too damn bright, even in the nighttime. Even the populace is an obnoxious glowing rainbow of colours.

The form leaning against him shifts, and he smells cedar. “I do,” Laranthir replies. “It is… somewhere.”

“That’s incredibly helpful.” Roza keeps walking them around, looking for some sort of identifying… something. Do sylvari have name plates? He should know this. He does not.

Laranthir inhales, then sighs into his neck. “Why can you drink so much nectar and be unaffected? ’s concerning.”

“Why can you drink so little?” Roza shoots back. He is not entirely unaffected. The bright lights are blurring together, and Laranthir is—somewhat—supporting him as well. “Hold on. I’m sitting us down—you’re heavy.”

Laranthir snickers a little, not entirely from the drink. “You’re light.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Roza sets them down on a bench so they can catch their breath. Laranthir leans back, gaze roaming around the Grove.

“Distract me,” he murmurs after a minute.

Roza casts his mind back to his previous comment. “Was it therapeutic to beat me up?” he asks. “Be honest.”

Laranthir chuckles. “A little,” he admits.

Roza smiles. “I figured. I will of course get you back for it. My honour demands it, you understand. But it can wait until you’re sober.”

“‘Honour’ is a generous word,” Laranthir says. He laughs again, more a pained wheeze. “Oh, I’m becoming terrible now. You are rubbing off on me.”

Roza notices the fall in his voice, and searches for another distraction. “Do you know…” he begins. Ah. “I think you rubbed off on me the most out of anyone, really. Way back when, in the old Vigil days. Developmental influence on a young sylvari’s mind aside,” He waves his hand, “You changed me a lot for the better. I will never forget.”

“Mm.” Laranthir raises a hand, as if noting something. Perhaps he is jumping on the opportunity to keep the subject distant. He fumbles with his armour, and Roza watches with detached curiosity as he undoes a part of it and fishes around inside.

He certainly doesn’t expect what he pulls out. Laranthir lays it on his leg: a small leaf, the colour very nearly faded out from the warmth of his body, but still noticeably violet.

Roza’s face softens involuntarily. “You kept it,” he murmurs, reaching out. He touches it with the tip of his forefinger. He feels like if he does more than just that, it might crumble away.

“Of course I did.” Laranthir matches his tone. His head falls, and Roza offers his shoulder. “I feel as if now more than ever, I…”

He fades out. Roza gently picks the leaf up by the stem and hands it back to him, so it will not get lost.

Laranthir tucks it away, then swallows. “My best friend is dead,” he says, almost flatly.

Roza tugs his head down until he bears its full weight. “I know,” he replies.

Laranthir turns his face into his shoulder. His breath hitches. “Even the idea of revenge is paltry comfort. It should be, but…”

“No.” Roza reaches out to relatch his armour, then smoothes his hand down ridged bark. “I know.”

They stay quiet. Eventually, Laranthir looks up again.

“You do not have a home here, do you?” he asks.

“I’ll stay with you,” Roza asserts.

A shaky breath. “You don’t have—”

“No,” Roza promises. “I will.”

Laranthir lays back down against him. Roza, sensing his need for privacy, envelops them in shadow.

And the rest of the world falls silent.

~*~