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The sky is blue and the white-capped peaks crisp the day Lorenz meets Hilda at the foot of the mountain road up to the Locket. The village is the last outpost before the fortress proper; a sleepy hamlet that does a bustling trade supplying the fortress kitchens with wheat and vegetables and the fortress soldiers with trinkets and wine and friendly companionship. One would not know this from its current state: crammed to bursting with soldiers and men-at-arms in rainbow liveries, enterprising peddlers from leagues round hawking their wares, and the countless heralds and clerks and functionaries of an Imperial diplomatic entourage.
Lorenz surveys the chaos with distaste. "Is this really the best they could do."
"Stop complaining," Hilda says cheerfully. "Say, 'Gee, Hilda, bestest buddy, thank you so much for getting me a special invite to the event of the century. The Rocket at the Locket!"
"You're not—"
Hilda rolls her eyes. "Oh, don't be such a stick in the mud. There's some official name Ferdie came up with. The Something Something Summit of Adrestian and Almyran Friendship. Bo-ring."
"Quite suitable," Lorenz says, with an approving sniff, just to see Hilda make a face.
In truth he can't deny a certain thrill at the prospect of being privy to one of the most historic moments of an historic age. A formal meeting between the envoys of Fódlan—Adrestia—and Almyra, the first in centuries to occur outside the battlefield.
The Gonerils, keepers of the Locket, are hosts to the occasion. The duke and Holst are already at the fortress; have been for days, overseeing preparations. This undoubtedly explains the preponderance of military pageantry. If Lorenz were in charge—but he is not. The Empire will be formally represented by Ferdinand von Aegir, tapped for appointment as Prime Minister within the year. Informally, as Lorenz and indeed anyone familiar with the Imperial throne must know, Hubert von Vestra's long shadow will have fallen over every step of the proceedings.
It has been an eventful two years since the Emperor of Adrestia cemented her conquest—unification—of the continent. Lorenz sees to what must be done. Gloucester thrives. His friends live. What more could one ask, in the wake of the earth moved.
He says now, "I am surprised that you wish to be present for—what was that charming summary of the territorial jurisdiction talks—‘a bunch of old blowhards blabbing to hear themselves make noise.'"
She gives him a look. "Um, duh. That's why you're here. I'm going to need company."
Lorenz eyes her in return. "Do not make me regret my attendance."
"Oh, I don't know," Hilda says. "I have a feeling it'll be worth your time."
"My lady." A groom in Goneril cerise and white stands before them with reins in hand, Lorenz's dapple grey and Hilda's black bay. "Duke von Aegir will soon depart. If you wish to join the procession…?"
"Gotcha," Hilda says. "Let's ride, Lorenz."
She places a hand on the pommel. The air is charged. The groom looks anxious.
Lorenz steps forward and offers a hand. "Allow me."
"Aww, Lorenz, such a gentleman." It's half-hearted. But Hilda accepts his hand, and allows him to help her up.
Hilda doesn't walk the same these days; she never will again. Men and women of every station jump to anticipate her needs. It makes her eyes metallic, her smile tight. Lorenz must simply hope she will forgive an old friend.
Together they guide their mounts to places near the head of the coalescing column. Ferdinand von Aegir greets them with a friendly wave; engulfed by Ministry diplomats, he is removed from easy conversation.
Lorenz does look forward to the assured invitation to tea after the Almyran delegation has departed. They will never be bosom friends, but there are things Ferdinand understands without having to be told, and things he will never ask. And he has an excellent palate.
The herald raises the Imperial standard. The horses break into a ceremonial trot.
The ride up the mountain is easy, the road broad and well-kept. Grassy vistas fall away to either side, patches of snow lying in the shadow of the rocks. The air is clear and sharp, cleansing Lorenz's chest with each deep inhale. At one point, he twists around in the saddle to take in the full splendor of the column snaking behind them, red and black and gold glittering like jewels in the sun. This for what is, in essence, a diplomatic icebreaker. It is undeniably impressive. As it is meant to be.
As they draw near to the Locket, Lorenz sees it is arrayed for the occasion. The portcullis is up, the drawbridge down. The iron spikes along the wall have been adorned with ribbons in Imperial red and black and Almyran green and gold, the arrow slits and murder holes wreathed in flowers. Lorenz can't decide if it's tastefully symbolic, or slightly grotesque. Beside him, Hilda groans. "Holst," she says.
Lorenz raises a brow. Like brother, like sister, he would have thought, in this particular instance. "Objections?"
"Obviously! Just look at those things! Big gaudy dinner plates? No way. This is a peace talk, he should have gone for something little and delicate. Definitely white or pastels. Moonflowers, maybe lilacs."
She does have a point. He says as much.
"Right? Can't believe they didn't ask me."
It hangs there, a pang of wistfulness under the flippancy. Hilda says, quickly, "Next time one of these shindigs rolls around, I'm gonna run the show whether they like it or not."
"I'm sure the men of Goneril wouldn't dream of displaying such poor taste," Lorenz says smoothly.
Hilda giggles. "Flatterer."
The Gonerils, father and son, have stationed themselves at the end of the road, greeting notable personages with due ceremony and no doubt conducting on-the-spot threat assessments of everyone else. Hilda appears to be attempting to shrink from sight. Lorenz narrows his eyes.
"They do know you're—"
"Of course," Hilda says, too quickly. "Well, dad does, and that's what's important. Holst isn't in charge yet, big fancy general or not."
Lorenz massages the bridge of his nose. Naturally, it's only moments before Holst's searching gaze alights on them and he stiffens like an alarmed guard dog.
"Hi Holst, don't wanna hold up the column, bye Holst." Hilda attempts to maneuver past him. Holst plants himself squarely in their path—all six feet three inch fifteen stone bulk of him—and draws an outraged breath.
"Hilda, you know how dangerous this could be—if the talks go wrong—if, Goddess, uh, fates forbid, this is an ambush—"
"It's gonna be fine," Hilda says, speaking over him. "Lorenz is right here, look. Hey, is that guy causing trouble? You should go take care of that."
Holst's eyes follow the line of her pointing finger and Hilda spurs her bay past him. "By the way, your flowers are terrible," she calls as they canter by.
Holst's sad, reproachful gaze follows them toward the fortress. The Locket is perched on a mountaintop plateau, thick alpine grass and windswept rock leading to a sheer drop. The perfect landing field, as it were, for a company of wyverns. A soldier—these days it's the Imperial army manning the Locket, of course—leads their horses away to be stabled while diplomats and their aides mill about at loose ends, arguing and gossiping. Hilda and Lorenz stand slightly apart.
Hilda asks, "How's the old man?"
Lorenz presses his lips together. "The same."
"When's he gonna give it up and hand over the reins?"
"When they rot from his grasp in the crypt."
Hilda wrinkles her nose. "Ew."
Lorenz says, words sour, "He was pleased Gloucester is of sufficient consequence to merit courtesies today."
Hilda scoffs. "As if I got you here because—"
The herald trumpets, "Almyra approaches!"
A stir of restless murmurs. "Really?" Hilda says. She shades her eyes against the sun.
Lorenz mirrors her. He can't make out a thing. No—
There it is, in the sky. A flight of wyverns, diamond-shaped, soaring over the peaks.
Lorenz blinks spots from his eyes. They must have circled wide to approach from the northeast, so that they appear to fly from the heart of the sun. A cheap trick, to be sure, but an effective one. And that is why Lorenz does not see, until the wyverns are overheard, close enough that he fancies he can feel the breeze stirred by their wings, that the beast leading the flight is a pure and ghostly white.
Murmurs stir the assembled entourage, snatches carried on the breeze.
"—wrong with it?"
"—royal family, but I'm sure there was no—"
His hand is in a vise. Hilda, gripping so tight it hurts. When he glances at her, surprised, her eyes are locked on the sky and her lips are white.
"No, not at all." Ferdinand's distinctive and earnest voice briefly rises over the rest. "There was absolutely no word of a royal presence—I am sure not even Hubert—"
Funny to think a white wyvern should be the prerogative of royalty in Almyra when the only white wyvern Lorenz has ever seen was—
"Ow," Hilda says, suddenly. Lorenz cannot loosen his fingers. His heart thunders in his ears. Preposterous. Impossible.
They stand there, hand in hand, watching as the white wyvern descends in a slow, graceful spiral. The beat of its wings raises a breeze, sending cloaks and hair askew, as it settles to the ground. Its rider's bearing is confident, easy, black curls swept back from his face. "Wait," Ferdinand says. "Isn't that—"
"Surprise," Hilda whispers under her breath.
Lorenz says, "You knew."
"Well, somebody had to run interference, just in case. I—" She breaks off.
What control Lorenz possesses is the result of practice, not instinct. He knows he is laid bare. Every line of his face must speak the truth. And Hilda's no fool. Her eyes widen. "Lorenz—"
He is Lorenz Hellman Gloucester and he will master himself. By the time Claude's gaze sweeps the gathered assembly, oh-so-casually—not a chance—Lorenz thinks his expression is composed, beyond ordinary or garden surprise.
"Lorenz," Hilda mutters under her breath.
"Later," Lorenz replies, equally hushed.
Claude's eyes travel slow and smooth, undoubtedly noting the insignia of rank, the proportion of soldiers to diplomats, familiar and unfamiliar faces. They rest briefly on Ferdinand, on Duke Goneril, on Holst. They reach Hilda, and stop there.
It's a nasty little shock as Lorenz realizes: the last time Claude and Hilda stood face to face was in the center of Derdriu.
Finally—it must have been a second, it feels like a lifetime—Claude's gaze moves on. To meet—
Two years, since Lorenz last saw those eyes, alight with intelligence, alive with ambition. Dark brows go up, very slightly. Then Claude smiles, just barely, a tiny quirk of the mouth. Enough to knock the breath cleanly from his lungs.
The rest of the Almyrans have dismounted. Claude swings over his wyvern's neck and drops to the ground with a familiar light ease. The Imperial heralds are muttering to each other. What is the correct protocol, now that precedence has been turned on its head? The Almyrans save them. Claude nods to one of his company, who comes forward and, in Fódlani tinged with the faintest accent, proclaims, "His Most Radiant Highness, the Crown Prince of Almyra."
A low explosion of sound races through the crowd. Some are staring, brows wrinkled; trying to remember where they know that face. Others are whispering furiously to their fellows. "Duke Ferdinand von Aegir," the senior Imperial herald announces as, slowly, Ferdinand comes forward.
"Your Highness," Ferdinand says. It is opaque and reserved. For a moment. And then his native sunniness wins out, and he exclaims, light breaking over his face, "—it's wonderful to see you again!"
Hilda lets out a long breath. Claude laughs. "You too, Ferdinand. Believe me."
His voice sounds the same. A ridiculous thing to find surprising. Claude and Ferdinand bow in turn, then shake hands, and then Ferdinand is moving to pound Claude on the back, regardless of proprieties. Claude laughs again; it carries, as the words he murmurs do not.
"Shall we?" Ferdinand says, gesturing towards the drawbridge. Claude motions for Ferdinand to precede him. Ferdinand demurs. They cross the bridge side by side, followed by the Almyran and Imperial heralds, then the Almyrans, then the rest of the Imperial entourage, subtly jostling for position.
"Shall we?" Hilda echoes in an ironic murmur.
Lorenz offers her an arm. They proceed into the Locket behind Claude von Riegan, the Crown Prince of Almyra.
* * *
When he'd thought of this moment, as he did in moments of exhaustion or weakness, he pictured something muted and bittersweet. Perhaps years hence, a traveler at the gates. A visitor in the night. Not this: trumpets, fanfare. The heart stopped in his breast.
That's a promise, Claude had said, and Lorenz believed him. Of course he did.
They are blessed to have Ferdinand leading the delegation. Another man might have bridled at the subterfuge, jarring one of the most critical diplomatic maneuvers in Fódlan's history off course from the very outset. Or—it's not a coincidence, of course; Claude would have known the delegate's identity, and his generous nature. Still, what a risk. Lorenz finds his temper rising as he sits in the makeshift summit hall—normally a practice salle—and watches the Almyrans grin, cats in cream to a man. Their prince has outwitted the bumbling Fódlanites again, and how.
This, too, is familiar.
The delegates exchange proclamations of civility, if not friendship. Ferdinand makes a pretty speech about the new dawn rising over Fódlan and Almyra alike. Claude reads aloud a scroll from the king—his father—saluting the Emperor's achievements and praising her willingness to reach across the wall. The turn of phrase is very familiar.
The summit proceeds along predictable lines. A senior Imperial functionary—a minor viscount Lorenz recalls from his father's coterie, now a ranking officer in the fledgling Ministry of Foreign Affairs—takes the floor to propose formal peace talks. Will Almyra agree to negotiations in Enbarr as a show of good faith? Claude smiles. Ah, but the expense of maintaining a full diplomatic embassy in the capital for months at a time, which the Empire will of course offer to bear, is sure to strain even the generosity of the goodhearted citizens of the Empire. The Locket will do. More importantly, is there not much more to peace than the conditions of ceasefire? Perhaps separate talks for trade, for right of way at sea, for right of way on land. Ferdinand disconcerts the functionary by suggesting a scholarly exchange. A personal audience between the Emperor and the King, of course. And so on, and so forth.
Lorenz occupies himself monitoring the Imperial entourage: who is pleased, who is vexed; who is suspicious; who is a cipher. It's harder to read the Almyrans: he can't discern on sight who plays what role, what function. But, of course, Claude will know—
How quickly old habits take hold.
Hilda is restless, muttering snippy asides under her breath. He shushes her absently. She truly does hate these ritual circumlocutions. He should have known all along that she must have had another reason to be here.
The sun has crossed the sky as the summit draws to a close. Formal negotiations will commence in two months' time: the Blue Sea Moon, auspicious in both calendars. Both entourages stand. Claude offers a hand. Ferdinand, beaming, flush with success, shakes it. Claude leads the Almyrans from the hall, as they chatter in their own tongue. The Almyran herald offers a flourishing bow, which the Imperial heralds return in kind. The heavy doors swing shut.
Pandemonium.
"Come on," Hilda says. She takes his hand and shoulders forward into the crowd, tugging him after. "Move aside, Goneril coming through—"
The uproar in Claude's wake is fierce enough that the Imperial functionaries barely notice their progress, much less spring out of the way. A gesticulating noble steps backward, into Hilda's path, and collides directly with her left side. A moment later Lorenz is shoving him bodily aside. It gives Hilda the split second she needs to recover. Now Lorenz takes the lead, bulling through the crowd and leaving space in his wake.
They burst into fresh air. The Almyran delegation are spread along the grassy outlook beyond the walls, overlooking the jagged sweep of the peaks. The men and women are laughing and joking—surely at least a little at Fódlan's expense—in a boisterous clamor. Wyverns mantle in the breeze. Their prince is standing apart. Hands clasped, looking out at the vista. Waiting.
"Claude," Hilda says. It catches in her throat. "Claude."
Claude turns. The sun catches the gold at his shoulders and ears and throat, the rubies in his sash, the green of his eyes.
Hilda lets go of Lorenz's hand. Takes a clumsy step forward.
Claude holds out his arms.
Hilda leaps into them.
* * *
Lorenz takes a walk about the perimeters of the fortress grounds. There will be time enough. Let them have privacy, to say what needs to be said. No—
He must be honest. He is afraid.
It has been two years. Since that night Lorenz has been true to his word. He has kept a quiet eye on their small tight circle as they piece themselves back together. Not for the sake of the promise. Not for Claude alone.
But it would be a lie to say the thought did not endure, persistent and ever-present. Of what Claude would think to know of Hilda's dogged letters to the von Edmund estate, of Maya Kirsten's head for numbers, of Leonie's plans to sail for Dagda.
It has been two years. And yet.
"Lorenz?"
When he glances up, startled from thought, Hilda stands a few feet away. He didn't hear her approach. Has he missed—surely not.
"You didn't have to disappear."
Hilda's eyes are red. Lorenz is not foolish enough to point this out. "A nobleman does not have to do anything," he says. "He chooses to."
Hilda toes at the ground. "Thanks. It was really thoughtful of you."
Lorenz inclines his head. "At your service."
She comes over, moving slowly, to stand next to him. They both look out over the tableau. The road winds far below in a faint dusty track. Deep in the valley, the hamlet is a tiny speck.
Lorenz asks, "When did he tell you?"
Hilda understands what he is asking. "He didn't. I'm a good guesser." At Lorenz's look: "I am!"
A moment passes. Hilda says, "He said things, now and then…" She trails off, then says, "I don't think he was really trying all that hard to hide it by the end."
Of course. Claude and Hilda had spent two long years hand in glove, working to salvage the Alliance. While Lorenz had struggled desperately for balance, one foot on either side of the divide, working to please his father and serve his people without turning his back on a hope. Much good had it done him.
"Lorenz," Hilda says, hesitant. It is neither characteristic nor well-suited. "I really didn't—"
"And I would have preferred it remain so," Lorenz says. "It hardly—" He takes a breath. "Signifies."
"Uh, okay," Hilda says, "that totally sounds legit, oh wait."
"Hilda," Lorenz says. "Please."
Her cupid's-bow lips twist. Her unhappiness is clear; well, let it lie.
"You're going to go talk to him, though," she says. "Right?" A faint note of pleading: Right?
"Of course." He bows to her and offers an arm.
She shakes her head. "I'm returning the favor."
"Hilda—"
Her lily-white hands shoo him away. "Go on. Talk."
He takes his time, strolling back. Closer with each step. He rounds the corner of the high walls. There they are. The Almyrans have scattered, some lounging on the thin grass, others caring for their mounts or exploring the plateau. Two relax only in pretense, sharp eyes on their prince. Their prince, who turns as if he senses Lorenz's approach.
A dozen measured steps, in time with his heartbeat, to bring him to where Claude stands waiting. Not smiling; steady and serious. Lorenz comes to a stop a few feet away and folds his hands behind his back. It feels absurdly like he's standing at attention. In a way, he supposes he is.
"You're not angry," Claude says. It's a question, but he knows the answer. "That I didn't tell you."
Lorenz has had time to sort through his reaction, to put a finger on the feeling. He says, "Merely foolish for needing to be told." He takes a breath and continues, in honesty, "And not as foolish as you would have been to tell me."
"No," Claude says. "I could have—should have—told you when I left. You deserved it. It was just—hard to remember another way, by then."
"You left plenty of clues," Lorenz says. "I chose not to take them."
"You're a trusting guy," Claude says. "It's one of your best qualities."
Nothing to be done about the heat rising to his cheek. Claude continues, "I guess—yeah. Maybe I did. I think I was hoping that—ah well. All's well that ends well, right?"
That irony could cut. Lorenz says, "We shall see where your latest scheme leads before counting our wyverns. Does the Emperor know?"
"She does by now. I saw Ferdinand making tracks for the courier pigeons."
Another gamble. Claude reads him. "It had to come out, sooner or later. And neither Hubert nor Her Majesty would thank me for dropping a bombshell of this size in the middle of formal peace talks. So as long as I've got to come clean, well." Claude shrugs. "Might as well do it my way."
"And you enjoyed every minute of it."
Claude flashes him a grin. "Well. Obviously."
Lorenz permits himself an answering smile, slightly fond, slightly exasperated. "I suppose some things are a constant. How did you and Hilda manage it?"
"Don't blame Hilda for this one," Claude says. "All I did was give her a heads up. Sent her a note: see you next month, love, your cervine pal. I figured if she knew of a reason I shouldn't do it, she'd figure something out."
A reason: for example, a trap, or an ambush. Perfect trust and contingency planning, neatly wrapped up with a bow.
Lorenz sighs. "And I suppose the prospect of my surprise afforded her priceless entertainment."
"She really didn't say anything, huh?"
Lorenz grimaces in recollection. "She said it would be worth my time."
Claude bursts into laughter. "And was it?"
Lorenz says, "I suppose I've passed more tiresome hours."
"Wow." Claude's eyes dance. "I'm flattered. I thought she might drop a hint. Dangle the bait to make sure you weren't a no-show."
"I beg your pardon, a noble always honors his commitments," Lorenz says, affronted—all right, affecting an extra measure of loftiness, for the smile it pulls from Claude—and then, as he digests what Claude has actually said, "Why would she—"
He stops, flustered. He can't say, Why would she think that, when she didn't know.
Claude smiles. "I think she wanted—moral support."
"From me?" Lorenz hears his own voice, as baffled as he feels. Claude gives a startled laugh that is quickly replaced by a suspicious cough. His eyes are twinkling.
"Don't sell yourself so short, my friend."
Lorenz forcibly puts the epithet to the side. "I have many sterling qualities, as we are both aware, but it is hardly an act of self-deprecation to observe that Hilda has always been closer to you than to me."
"I did leave her nine-tenths dead in the middle of Derdriu," Claude says. So casual it delays the impact for a split second. He does this on purpose, Lorenz remembers.
He can't help but stare. "Surely you don't think she holds it against you."
"It was her choice," Claude says, which isn't a no. "I'm not discounting that. But it's hard sometimes."
"Claude—" Lorenz begins.
"It's not even about blame, or understanding. Sometimes, when someone leaves, and you don't know—it's just hard."
He speaks with a surety that makes Lorenz ask himself, for a brief second, how—of course. Claude will have experienced his share of reunions in the last two years.
"You thought she might bear you resentment," Lorenz says slowly, "yet you trusted her with both your life and your scheme."
Claude says, "Yes. I do."
After a moment he goes on. "I wrote to her one time, once I was home. Not—I had it delivered—" Claude waves a hand. "Under the table. No way to write back. But I had to do something. You know."
Lorenz does know.
Claude says, "I'm glad, y'know. That you two are sticking together."
They never speak of it. If they did, Hilda would undoubtedly have uncovered the depth of his—sentiment—well before today. But it is there, all the same, submerged below the surface of the waves, a dark, silent iceberg. You understand what was lost.
In the silence that follows, Lorenz at last allows himself to look fully. Claude will never be a tall man. His face, free from the strain and exhaustion of war, is a little fuller, his shoulders broader. Not so different, though. Not in the keen glance, the confident jaw. The shield of authority.
"Must you return directly to Almyra?" Lorenz asks abruptly. "The others would be glad to see you, I am sure." He corrects himself. "I know."
Claude's smile is more of a grimace. "Wish I could. Afraid I can't be away for long, though."
And here is where Lorenz has forgotten himself. "No. Of course. Forgive me."
"Nothing to forgive. Believe me, I wish—" Claude cuts himself off. Then, as Lorenz is about to beg pardon again, he says, "The truth is I can't risk it. Skipping town in the middle of the night only to reappear years later with my tail between my legs after a whipping from the Adrestian Emperor isn't, interestingly enough, everyone's favorite qualification for heir."
Claude's voice is light; his face is not. Lorenz doesn't know what to do with this. Claude has never—confided in him. Not like this.
"Maybe once we've actually got this peace thing nailed down," Claude says. "Here's hoping."
"From your lips," Lorenz murmurs.
Claude raises an eyebrow, mock-aghast. "My, my. You weren't sending that wish to the Goddess' ears, were you? What would Her Majesty think?"
"That she has rather more pressing concerns than an outdated turn of phrase." Honesty compels Lorenz to add, "The Minister of the Imperial Household, on the other hand."
"Good old Hubert. Wonder how he's finding the burden of government." Claude's eyes flick to Lorenz. "Think you'll be joining them any time soon?"
"No," Lorenz says briefly.
He senses, rather than sees, Claude's surprise. "Her Majesty and company holding grudges? I didn't think they would."
Not as such. He has not been approached, save on questions of politics or influence in the former Alliance, but he knows well enough that were he to make an overture it would be received. He could raise the question during tea with Ferdinand on his occasional visits to the capital. Prove his worth, rise to a position on merit. He could put the old fault lines behind him, embrace the part becoming the whole, lift his gaze from the insular borders of Gloucester to the wide horizon. But for one thing.
"I believe von Vestra knows," Lorenz says, "that I will never fully be the Emperor's man."
As close to the cliff as he dares. The moment teeters, taut and silent, balanced on a tightrope wire.
"Their loss," Claude says, softly.
Lorenz keeps his gaze fixed on the horizon. "At any rate," he says, too brusque, officious, "I have much to do in Gloucester. The transition is not easy, you know."
"No," Claude says. "I bet it isn't. I hear you've really been sticking it to the Count."
Lorenz wrinkles his nose. "That's not quite how I would—" The full import of Claude's words registers.
"You heard," he repeats. Who could Claude possibly have corresponded with—Hilda? No, he'd said as much. Lorenz had offered, that night, and been gently rebuffed. Who could be trusted with such a precious secret, who would have also paid mind to the petty scuffles of Gloucester?
Claude shrugs. There's a suspicious glint to his eyes, one that prompts a familiar deep foreboding even before he says, "My sources could be wrong, but I doubt it."
"Your—" Lorenz's voice rises. "Do you have spies on me?"
"That's a strong word," Claude says. "I like to think of them as—friendly eyes."
"I—you—" He is genuinely speechless.
"Lorenz," Claude says. "You didn't really think I'd ask you to look after everyone else, without asking someone to look after you."
It must be there, again. In his face. Claude must be able to read it. He must.
"Be that as it may." His voice is blessedly dry. "There is certain difference between the watchful eye of a comrade and the royal Almyran intelligence network."
"No, no," Claude says, grinning. "These are my personal spies."
"Tell that to Hubert," Lorenz retorts. "He won't find the distinction so particular."
"Aw, come on, Lorenz. What's a little surveillance between friends, huh?"
There it is again. Claude quirks a brow at him, don't tell me you're surprised.
He isn't, precisely. He'd simply—never thought of it before.
There will be no midnight reunion, no poetic opera finale. But perhaps he will have this. A friend.
"Then," he says, marshaling every ounce of generations of Gloucester haughtiness, "perhaps now that we have dispensed with the secrecy you will allow me to write."
The last shadows are chased away as a smile, a genuine one, stretches Claude's expressive mouth. "Did you just ask me to correspond?"
"Of course, if you prefer to think of them as intelligence reports—"
"No, no, please." Claude bows, a silly little flourish. "I would be delighted to receive your finest specimens of the epistolary arts."
Lorenz sniffs. "Now you are making fun."
"I swear I'm not. I'd love it." The corner of his mouth lifts: ironic yet truthful. "Give me something to look forward to."
The words rise to his lips: They would write to you, too, if you let them. Something tells him to hold. Not yet, not quite. Eventually.
Instead he says, "There is no need to wait for the letter service, you know. If you wish to hear of—our friends, well. I can tell you now."
A flash of—something—crosses Claude's face. Not quite surprise. As if, improbably, Lorenz has presented him with something he did not expect.
"You know," Claude says, after a moment, "you're right. I would. I'd like that a lot."
Lorenz says, "Then I am at your service."
The clear sky soars above them, the sky that looks down on Fódlan and Almyra alike. Mountains stretch before, beyond, fresh with summer snow. A chain: a road: a bridge.