Archive of Our Own

On the outskirts of the royal capital of Anatae, man-made walls give way to rolling plains that stretch out in every direction until they meet with the mountains standing sentinel beyond. The land beside the road that winds from the city gates and out into the countryside gradually inclines downward into a gently sloping hill that surveys the valley below, cradling a rounded meadow that extends to the base of the mountain in the distance. At midday, all is awash in buttery sunlight that pours through the clouds in burnished rays like the lances of the holy army.

That sunlight slants down onto the hillside where Favaro lies dozing in the long grass, so brilliant even against his closed eyelids that he stirs and reaches up to shield them with one hand. Squinting through his fingers against the glare, he lets his gaze wander from the blue expanse of the sky above to take in his surroundings.

The rain of a few days previous has nourished the land. The grass is cool and springy underfoot, and further down the hill the verdant green becomes mottled with every shade of blue, red, yellow, and white imaginable where the plain gives way to a carpet of vivid wildflowers, marked here and there by low outcroppings of stone the same chalky heather color as the cliffs further away. Somewhere in the distance a unseen stream murmurs. Pulling the brim of his hat over his face, Favaro rests his head on his arms and lets the faint sound of the water slowly bring him back to wakefulness.

Whether he has his bandit's upbringing or his father's blood in his veins to thank for it, Favaro has always felt most at ease under the open sky. Grateful as he was to have been saved from execution, he'd felt constantly on edge within Anatae, and was soon itching to leave the royal citadel behind for a while in favor of someplace less suffocating. Growing restless under the curious eyes of the townsfolk, which he could feel following them everywhere he went within the city walls, he'd let his feet start to carry him out of the castle town. He hadn't said anything Kaisar, Amira or Rita, but they followed after him as though an unspoken understanding were keeping them together, and they moved in step out through the lower quarters and up to the outermost gate dividing the city from the forests and pastures beyond. The soldiers on guard along the road out of town had been hesitant to allow them through, but Favaro has always prided himself on his gifts of persuasion, and convincing them to let him pass was child's play.

The vice-captain, a pale man whose nose protrudes from his hatchet face like a hawk's beak, had required a little more effort. Favaro had disliked the man on sight; there was an air about him that suggested he was used to looking down that nose in disdain at those he considered beneath him, a category which would surely include their little party under other circumstances. Judging from the way he worriedly surveyed them from his post by the gatehouse, he seemed to feel similarly about their sudden rise from prisoners to honored guests. Still, Favaro was intent on getting outside the city and away from their scrutiny; motivated by his eagerness for some uninterrupted and, in his opinion, quite well-deserved rest, he was able to hide his derision behind a winning smile just long enough to reason with the captain. Seeing as it was in their best interests to keep the holder of the God Key happy, Favaro had pointed out with a nod to Amira, wouldn't they be much better off letting her - and, of course, her three escorts - go where they pleased? Unless they'd rather risk finding out what would happen if they upset her, of course.

Though his reluctance was plain, the captain had finally seen things Favaro's way and granted them the freedom to enter and leave, provided they remained within sight of the sentries along the wall. His victory put Favaro in such a good mood that he didn't even think to fire off a parting complaint as the guards moved aside to open the way. He could feel his spirits rising already with the first step out of the gate. They'd been through enough ordeals on this journey, and it was high time they took a break.

Leaving the city behind, the four had idly followed the road outward for several yards until they had come upon the hillside. Amira took off the moment the sight of the flowering meadow met her eyes, almost tumbling down the bank in her eagerness to get to it. Favaro could only shake his head at how quick she was to run off again so soon after the danger they'd escaped last time, but after taking a look around, he found he couldn't fault her for her choice of location. The air here was sweet and clear, and the view it afforded was impressive, so with a mild shrug of surrender, he'd flopped down on the bank. Rita had followed suit, seating herself on a tuft of long grass nearby, leaving only Kaisar standing beside him. He motioned for the knight to join them on the grass, but Favaro's invitation seemed to set him off, and he had stalked off down the side of the hill without a word.

With a wry smile, Favaro watched him go before sprawling out on the soft ground. He'd thought about heading over to the grove in the other direction and maybe carving his opinion of their treatment at the hands of the royal guard into the trunk of one of the trees there, but the fingers he reached out for his short sword only brushed the empty loop at his belt where it usually hung, an irritating reminder that that their weapons were being held at the castle - purely for their safety, as the hawk-nosed captain had been a little too pleased to assure them. Though this had irked him at the time, Favaro found the sunshine warming him made it difficult to stay irritated for long. He laid down to watch a lone cloud waft through the sky overhead, and before he knew it he had drifted off himself.

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Favaro raises himself onto his elbows and leans back, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. Looking at it a certain way, being disarmed wasn't all bad. For one thing, it meant Kaisar wouldn't come trying to settle the score between them today. Perhaps it wasn't quite fair to think that, he chides himself; Kaisar has always been a man of his word, and Favaro has no reason not to believe that their uneasy truce will hold. Neither could he entirely discount the possibility that some momentary passion wouldn't overtake the hotheaded man and provoke him into seeking vengeance anyway, but at least if he did launch an attack it wouldn't be with sword in hand.

From his vantage point, he can see their unwilling ally sitting with his back to them, shoulders sullenly hunched together under his cape. Kaisar can do what he wants, Favaro thinks dismissively; he for one is set on enjoying himself. Part of him hadn't expected to return from their rescue mission alive, and that compounded with the weariness from the journey makes him glad for the opportunity to rest and breathe in the crisp country air to replace the stale foulness that had permeated the demons' living fortress. He takes in a big lungful as he rolls his head back and forth on his shoulders to work the kinks out, catching sight as he does of Rita. The expression on her face is as glum as ever, and even the refreshing breeze hasn't entirely carried off the scent of bitter herbs that always surrounds her. Favaro wonders if it's magic making her smell that way or just some poultice she uses to cover up even worse odors, though he knows better than to ask; his haunches still sting a little from the last time he offended her.

Shifting position in the grass, he yawns loudly and enjoys a long, joint-cracking stretch, turning his head sideways toward Rita conversationally. "This isn't too bad, is it. Better than standing in a pillory in the public square, anyhow. Remind me later to thank the holy maiden for her hospitality."

Rita only shushes him. "Don't bother me. I'm trying to concentrate." She doesn't seem to have moved from where she'd been sitting before he dozed off, but now her face is angled downward, where she's purposefully working on something spread out on her lap.

Pulling himself up to a sitting position, he peers over at her. The skirt of her dress is full of picked flowers, with more of them lying in a neat pile next to her. As he watches, she lifts one up and, after methodically turning it in her hands a few times, adds it to a long garland of similar flowers she holds. The chain is already so long that it hangs over her knee and onto the grass beside her. Favaro regards it with interest.

"What's that you're doing?"

"Passing the time." She examines a second flower, rejects it, and trades it for another from the pile. "I needed something to do, and it's not like there's a source of intelligent conversation around here."

"I'm so hurt," he deadpans, punctuating this with another bellowing yawn. "So what're you making it for, anyway? Looks pretty involved."

This interruption earns him an aggravated glare. "Why on earth does it matter? I'm a zombie. Don't expect me to teach you about arts and crafts."

"What I meant was, is that something you used to make, y'know, before?" --when you were a child, he almost asks, but doesn't. She's lived longer than the other three of them put together, as she never hesitates to remind them, but what stopped him isn't that. He feels unsure whether it wouldn't be overstepping his bounds to ask about her past. He plucks a blade of grass to twirl between his fingers, not really expecting an answer, but to his surprise she looks up the slightest bit, her expression softening with what he could almost swear is wistfulness.

"So it would seem. The hill behind our house and clinic was always overrun with weeds, and some of them were flowering sorts. I thought they'd look nicer like this than growing out there where nobody would notice them. Whenever I finished one, my mo-- it would be hung over the kitchen hearth."

Her fingers pause, and she falls silent, staring at the garland now gripped a little tighter in both hands. Favaro is about to open his mouth to console her, but she gives a half-shrug before resuming work on her project. "They have no practical use, really, but my hands remember how to make them."

Caught off guard by her sudden openness, Favaro impulsively urges her to keep talking. Rita's small hands are dexterous, and she twines the flowers together with true skill, weaving them into each other without so much as bending their stems. His interjections drop off as he gets more absorbed in watching her work, only chiming in with a question from time to time. She knows all the names that country folk give to such flowers - watchman's bell, ragged-cap, lady's veil, Jack-my-love. On the handful of occasions when Favaro had gathered flowers for a girl, he hadn't needed to know what they were called; presenting the bouquet and a winning smile had always been enough to win the favor - or, just as often, to quell the anger - of the one receiving it. Now, though, he finds himself listening to her with genuine interest.

As she speaks, Favaro's gaze moves from Rita to the further-off figure of Amira. The way she's cavorting around the meadow is astonishing, as though the holy fire that had burned her in the courtyard of the castle were nothing, let alone the torture she'd withstood at her demon captors' hands that would surely have broken a human. Tough girl, he thinks, before reminding himself she's far beyond a mere girl. Does her supernatural constitution lessen the pain of her wounds, or has the splendor of this place revitalized her too? He can hear her laughing as she runs around, a carefree smile stretched from ear to ear even amid the bruises beginning to swell up on her face. Kaisar, from his seat on the smooth face of a rock in the middle of the field, seems just as transfixed by her.

Favaro cups his chin in his hand in thought; an idea has begun forming in his mind. Glancing around the bank at the flowers growing near where he and Rita sit, he reaches out and plucks one with a lively red-orange face and angular blades like a pinwheel's, then holds it out in front of her for inspection. "Why don't you put some of these in it?"

Rita, tying the stalk of a daisy into a bow when he interrupts, fixes him with another moody stare and swats his hand out of her face. "I didn't ask for your input, you know." She tugs on the knot to secure it before setting it down, then turns to Favaro. "Besides, shouldn't one of us be keeping an eye on the youngsters?"

He follows her gaze to the meadow below, and Amira and Kaisar there, before looking questioningly back to her. She has a smug look on her face that he's not sure should rankle him as much as it does.

"How nice of you to volunteer. I guess I can stay here and make the daisy chains, then," he shoots back, trying for levity. He takes hold of a nearby twig and uses it to begin scratching out a pattern in the dirt at his feet.

Rita isn't fooled. "Don't hold back on my account. You can go down there too, if you want. I'm sure they'd be happy to have you join them." Her grey eyes momentarily leave the garland to meet his, full of meaning.

Favaro keeps his head down, annoyed, though he's satisfied to note the flower he offered her has been laid on the pile beside her with the others. "What makes you so sure of that? At any rate, I doubt Kaisar would feel the same."

She makes a bemused sound, not quite a laugh. "Honestly, you children. I don't know why you can't come right out and admit it already."

Digging a deeper furrow in the dirt, Favaro tries to keep his voice even. "Let's get one thing straight. This right now is me time, understand? I came out here to relax, not to babysit." The twig snaps in his hands, and he scowls momentarily. "Anyhow, who cares about them?"

"Evidently, you do. For all your complaining, you certainly didn't hesitate to put both our necks on the line and go riding to their rescue. Or do you mean to tell me that waltzing practically unarmed into the lairs of powerful demons is just your idea of a good time?"

The hint of a smirk at her lips erases the carefully nonchalant smile from his own. At a loss for a reply, Favaro looks away, scratching at the back of his neck, and out towards the other half of their party again, thinking not for the first time as he does that he wouldn't necessarily mind if Rita were a little less insightful.

***

Kaisar stares contemplatively down from the rock where he sits. A cluster of tiny blue flowers is just visible in the grass by his feet, their star-shaped faces dotted in the middle with rings of yellow that make it look almost as if they're staring back up at him. He sighs and folds his hands on the knee of his trousers.

Though his body is profoundly weary, his mind still races with the strange things he's seen in a few short weeks' time. The pace of his journey since catching up to his rival and the girl Kaisar had been sure he'd kidnapped was unrelenting, taking them all from imprisonment to flight to capture again at the hands of the holy army, and now to absolution by the decree of the angels themselves, and he feels thoroughly worn down. It's all left him at a loss, and no answers have been forthcoming. Making it even worse is Favaro, who since their reunion has been his usual devil-may-care self, striding about with a cheery attitude Kaisar considers wholly inappropriate for someone who's been through the sort of turmoil that they have. His levity irks Kaisar deeply, but what bothers him even more is the way he finds himself only able to summon a token anger, rather than the seething rage that the sight of the rogue's face alone had invoked in the past.

Leaving him and Rita to indolently sun themselves on the side of the hill, Kaisar had come here, seating himself on one of the slabs of white limestone that stood out here and there like little islands in the sea of wildflowers to try and collect his thoughts - which, he finds to his displeasure, are mostly of Favaro. Try as he might to ignore him, he can't seem to take his mind off the bounty hunter. No, not a bounty hunter any more - he'd given up his livelihood, for them, as Rita had said. The absence of his bracelet was proof enough of that.

His hand clenches tight around his own bracelet. So Favaro was no longer a bounty hunter; it was none of his concern. But more troublingly, it seemed that neither was he the demon Kaisar had been so convinced he was. The sneering generals of Hell who had abducted him and Amira wouldn't have considered Favaro so beneath their notice otherwise. If he were one of their number, then why would he risk everything to save them from the floating fortress as he had?

But what of his tail, then? It might be concealed under Favaro's clothes now, but it had certainly been there in full view the morning Kaisar had first set out after them, plain as day. What could explain that? Kaisar's teeth close on his lower lip in frustration. He can't figure it out. If Favaro isn't a demon, then what is he?

The one you've come all this way after, says a little voice within him.
The one who saved you.

Your friend.

The words make him feel a twinge in his chest. He reaches up to massage his temple, slowly opening the eyes he'd squeezed shut against his confusion. This is all enough to make his head spin. If Favaro really is plotting something, then whatever it is, it's no doubt too devious for his own mind to comprehend. He should give up thinking about it for now; perhaps he can coax some answers out of Rita later.

Catching himself about to sneak a glance in their direction, he whirls away, but he's a moment too late to escape the notice of Favaro, who hails him with a benevolent expression that Kaisar finds infuriating.

"This's nice. Kind of like old times, isn't it?"

Kaisar's only reply is a black look. Why does every single thing Favaro does rile him so? They've crossed swords again and again, and during their clashes he's never hesitated to tell his foe in no uncertain terms just what he thinks of him, yet the roguish man never truly seems to return Kaisar's enmity. The glare he now sends Favaro's way earns only a grin in return that makes Kaisar bare his own teeth in frustration. Even the sharp-tongued girl seems to have taken to him, he thinks, with a despairing look at Rita; she sits blithely beside him in the grass when not half a day ago she'd been encouraging Kaisar to kill him. He heaves a deeper sigh and hangs his head, feeling almost slighted.

So what other explanation could there be, then? If he wasn't in league with the demons, then that meant Kaisar would be forced to confront the possibility that Favaro really may have done it all out of pure concern for Amira and himself. An involuntary groan escapes Kaisar at the thought that this is who he has to thank for saving his life. It galls him to owe such a debt of gratitude to his sworn enemy - but, in some way he scarcely wants to admit, he's glad to have the red-haired man by his side again. He shakes his head as if to banish the thought.

The movement of a shadow across the ground makes him look up as Amira passes in front of him, coming through the flowers that grow so tall she stands nearly knee-deep in them. Kaisar feels admiration soften his features, finding his eyes irresistibly drawn to her as she whirls about the field on light steps. The very sight of her is like a healing balm to his soul.

The outrage he first felt at Favaro for pulling an innocent damsel into this mess has lessened a little more each time he looks at her. He could almost say he's grateful for their sudden turn from pursuer and pursued to traveling companions, since it allows him a reason to be in her presence like this. So different to Favaro is Amira; though she is not only a damsel, he corrects himself. Though her manner is graceful and her comportment noble, he knows that her artless innocence belies a firm resolve. She is decisive, driven, with a oneness of purpose that he admires all the more because it is so well known to him. It was only a short time ago that she awoke, but she bears the aftereffects of the poison and the marks of their demon captors' torment with a bravery that few knights could match. Himself fixed on his own goal of regaining the lost honor of his family, her quest to rejoin her mother moves him, and Kaisar likes to believe that they are the same in this small way, that their mutual drive lets them share some common bond. Though he still curses Favaro for getting him mixed up in this too, he secretly thinks that he could thank him now if their uneasy new status as allies means he can spend the rest of their journey at her side. His chest swells with feeling for her as he watches the breeze play with her rosy hair, kissed to a honey sheen by the rays of the sun.

Kissed - the mere suggestion in the metaphor is enough to make Kaisar blush. He hastily diverts his eyes to the cluster of flowers he'd been examining earlier, willing the color he feels rising his cheeks to disappear before she notices.

Denying his emotions has proved fruitless where Amira is concerned. Kaisar feels a great many things for her, and not all of them are courtly. His gaze wanders from the blue stars in the grass to a circle of clarion-shaped white flowers blooming on graceful stalks a bit further away. They are outside the reach of his fingers, but the gentle wind carries their sweet scent to his nose. He wonders if they would suit Amira, whether she would find their fragrance pleasing. Kaisar's eyes move unbidden to her again. How she sets his heart quivering in his breast! He longs to make his feelings known to her, even if he knows he could never do something so shameless except in his own furtive daydreams.

He recalls the seraphs' descent, and the pronouncements they had made about Amira. Kaisar had seen with his own eyes the moment of her transformation, her shift to a form too fantastic and strange for him to describe. Curiously, though, what he'd seen had troubled him no more than momentarily; even after hearing the words of the angel who had declared her part demon in nature, he found his devotion to her remained unshaken. Be she of low birth or even created of forces beyond his understanding, nothing could change his esteem for her. She is a lady through and through; if she truly is not of this world, it would only serve to explain her unearthly beauty. Had he still possessed the social stature and fortune that he once did in better days, he would give her a life worthy of her, dress her in finery that would set off her ethereal grace and loveliness. How he'd love to see her in the fine garb of a noble lady, to be the one to adorn her in jewellike satin and cloth-of-gold to dazzle those who looked on her wherever they went. He wanted to lay out all the world for her to see, and to lead her through it with his arm supporting her delicate hand.

His reverie is interrupted by a burst of wild laughter from up on the hill. Something Rita said has sent Favaro into convulsions, hunching over in the grass and merrily slapping his own knee until a sharp jab from the tip of her parasol silences him.

A vein begins throbbing in Kaisar's forehead. That was another way in which the confounded man and Amira could not have been more opposite, Kaisar asserts as he casts a distasteful eye over Favaro, now wiping away his tears of mirth with a grubby sleeve. A bandit was a bandit, no matter how fine the gladrags he might truss himself up in. Even if you were to clothe him in the garb of a king, nobody could mistake a scoundrel of Favaro's caliber for a respectable man.

Almost involuntarily he recalls a scene from his childhood, of one of several times he had snuck Favaro into his family's estate to play. By a stroke of luck, the Lidfard household had been all but deserted that day. The young Favaro might have mourned the loss of the challenge of stealing in right under the noses of a whole houseful of unaware servants, but Kaisar, always the more cautious of the pair, had felt relief at how easy this made it for them to steal in through the kitchen door, crouch behind the ice chest in wait until all the maids guarding the pantry turned their backs on the tray of sugared biscuits cooling on the sideboard, and then make their getaway, carrying several great handfuls of the sweets between them. Once safely hidden in the upstairs nursery, they had devoured the spoils of their adventure while congratulating each other on their daring. It was afterward, as they sat in the window seat wiping crumbs from their mouths, that one of them proposed the idea of having Favaro try on a suit of Kaisar's clothes.

He had been unprepared for what met his eyes when Favaro emerged from behind the changing screen. The sight of the brash boy shuffling one foot against the floor in his new attire, uncharacteristically self-conscious under Kaisar's gaze, had sent the Lidfard heir clutching at the door of the wardrobe with one hand for support as he clamped the other over his mouth to keep from laughing. Though the two of them were close in age, the difference in their heights was widening as they grew, and the fine shirt and jacket, cut for Kaisar's broad shoulders, hung from Favaro's lean form like a farmer's cast-offs on a scarecrow. He had been reminded overwhelmingly of the barn cat that his sisters had once caught and forced into a doll's dress. The look in the cat's eyes then was so much like Favaro's now, the disdain of a half-wild creature made to wear stuffy finery wholly unsuited to its natural grace and fuming in indignation over it, that he was unable to hold in his laughter. Favaro, tearing futilely at the choking frills of the ascot, had sent a baleful glare in Kaisar's direction at this betrayal, but moments later he was laughing too, delighted by the genuine smile he had brought to his friend's face.

Lulled by the warmth of the memory, Kaisar forgets again that he'd been trying to avoid looking in Favaro's direction. From his perch further up the hill, the eyes of the dark-skinned man meet his. There's none of his usual jest in the smile he directs Kaisar's way. Like an echo, his old playmate's earlier words repeat in his mind. It IS like old times. How many hours had they whiled away together in fields just like this one? Seeing that smile recalls other memories, of racing each other through tall grass, dozing in the afternoon sun on the shore of the lake beyond the Lidfard stables, or lying exhausted side by side after playfighting to watch the last rays of daylight slip away and reveal the night sky filled with stars. Those days may be long past, but the recollection is vivid, accompanied with a rush of emotion that overcomes the resentment and betrayal his sense of honor tries to remind him he should be feeling. It hurts to see Favaro smile at him like that, because he can't shake the feeling that he's done nothing to deserve it.

He pushes those thoughts from his mind and looks away to focus again on Amira. Her pursuit of a passing butterfly consumes all her attention, leaving none to spare for watching her footing - made evident when the edge of her boot catches on a half-buried stone and she stumbles, body pitching forward. With a shout, Kaisar is on his feet and reaching out to break her fall, but a moment too late; he's canted too far backward to straighten once he catches her, and the momentum carries them both onto the grass beneath with a thud.

Over his shoulder he can hear Favaro snickering. "Very smooth, Kaisar!" he calls out to the fallen knight, voice echoing as he shouts through his cupped hands. "Now that's chivalry in action! I'd expect nothing less from a gentleman like you. Keep it up and you'll have her head over heels in no time... 'cept I guess you do already!"

The taunting that would have sent him into a rage at any other time sounds strangely distant to Kaisar. Shielding Amira with his arm, he'd managed to position himself to take the brunt of their fall, but they've rolled so that his prone body is now pressing down on hers, the weight of his armor pinning her to the earth beneath him. Though winded, she appears unhurt, pupils dilated a little in surprise behind the fringe of her lashes.

He knows he should rise, help her up, make sure she is not injured, but he's finding it quite difficult to make his body obey his orders through a mind filling with a not wholly unpleasant haze. His consciousness seems to have shrunk his whole world to the points where his body contacts hers, so all he can perceive is how big her eyes look, widened in shock from her fall, or how closely she's pressed against him, or that the hand he thrust out to catch her is now lying brazenly against the back of her white neck, his fingers in her silky hair.

He is touching her---

A sobering prickle of alarm shoots along his back, settling coldly in his belly as the realization of the position they're in breaks over Kaisar like an icy wave. Fighting to stay composed, he props himself up with his free arm and shifts his weight onto it to release her, but finds he can't extricate his other hand. A dull pain is starting to throb in his hands and knees, but he barely notices it; all his awareness is on the fact of how near Amira is, so close that he can feel her breath on his cheek and gently stirring the strands of hair that have fallen loose across his forehead. He himself has forgotten to breathe, thinking only of getting away and putting a respectable distance between himself and her, no matter how part of him wishes he could linger.

Gingerly, he sits back on his knees for leverage and gives another pull with his trapped arm. Again, he meets the same resistance; left with no other choice, he braves a look downward, searching desperately where his arm lies alongside Amira's upturned face. The arm he'd placed behind her head to cushion it is the one that bears his bounty bracelet, which has snagged on her hair, leaving his fingers tangled hopelessly in one of her braids.

Kaisar has to hold in a moan of dread at his bad luck. He pulls again, as hard as he dares, but his fingers remain caught fast. At this distance, it's impossible not to look at Amira's face, and his ability to think is quickly fizzling as he gapes hopelessly at her while trying to work his fingers free. Though her eyebrows arch, her lips are not dismayed, but inquisitive, almost smiling...

His next hopeless motion is more forceful, making Amira's head jerk to the side. Her forehead creases in apprehension, a small sound of what could be pain escaping her. Panicky, Kaisar tugs harder than he means to until he feels the resistance give way. Hand now freed, he springs away, heart in his throat, before he remembers himself and tries to still his shaking hands enough to extend one of them and help her up.

Amira levers herself up from the ground, seemingly undaunted. Taking no notice of the hand he holds out to her, she rocks back onto her shoulders and then, with a sinuous flex of her legs, bounds forward and onto her feet as nimbly as a spring foal. Kaisar realizes, to his embarrassment and horror, that his pulling has completely undone most of her braid. Her hair has come unfastened to tumble over one shoulder, swaying with the shake of her head she gives as she rights herself.

Kaisar cannot remember a time when he has known mortification so keenly as this. "My deepest apologies! I beseech you to forgive me for this," he cries, mind racing as the hands he's thrown out grasp futilely at the air in front of him. Inwardly, he curses himself for what his careless haste has done to the object of his adoration. He carries neither combs nor a mirror to offer her, nor does he know the first thing about how to dress a lady's hair - even setting aside the fact that he could never dream of doing something as boorish as to touch her so openly. Will he have to ask Rita for help? The thought of having throw himself on the mercies of the stoic girl fills him with a sickly dread.

Unfazed by his desperation, Amira's eyes follow his downward to where her hair hangs in disarray. With a small smile, she looks placidly at Kaisar as though to reassure him, and then with a few deft motions that his eyes can scarcely follow, she undoes the rest of the plait, gathers the stray wisps back into it, and takes them in both hands to begin looping them around each other. Her hands work quickly; in no time at all, they have her hair back in an orderly braid again, which she tucks against the crown of her head and secures with a straight coppery pin.

Her skill impresses him, and he tells her so; pleased, she favors him with a serene smile.

"Favaro showed me how. He did it for me the first time, but I can do them all by myself now!"

Kaisar's teeth clench involuntarily at the name. Of course Favaro would share none of his restraint; there's not a chivalrous bone in the man's body. How like him to so shamelessly lay his hands on a young lady who knows nothing of the world!, Kaisar glowers. The thought of all the unsavory things Favaro might well have done under the pretext of "teaching" her makes his blood boil. Amira must take his darkened expression for disbelief, for her own brows knit in turn as she directs a reproachful look at him. "You don't believe me, do you?"

Mouth dropping open, Kaisar hastens to respond, wary of angering her. He has a vague awareness of having seen that look from her before, usually just before responding to Favaro's foolishness with a well-deserved slap. "Ah, no, Lady Amira, I was merely..." he manages, but then trails off, unsure of how to complete his sentence.

Her cheeks puff out just the slightest bit in indignation. "It's true, I really can!" she murmurs, lips forming a pout. "Here, I'll show you."

She moves towards him, her hands outstretched. By the time Kaisar realizes what's happening, she is already upon him. "I assure you, I believe you!" he stammers, nearly biting his tongue in his haste. "I would never be so uncouth as to doubt a lady's word--"

"They'd suit you too!"

The expectant smile that accompanies this proclamation make Kaisar's pulse quicken as he looks agape at her. "Me?"

Futilely, he tries to retreat backward through the thick meadow flowers, but he stumbles, and she is faster. She brings her face close to his, and when she speaks, her voice is full of authority. "Sit still," she says, in a tone that will clearly brook no argument.

He sits, heavily, in the grass.

"Now turn to me."

Her words, spoken softly from so close by, work on Kaisar like a spell. All worries of maintaining propriety flee his mind. His only thought is to comply with her gentle order - and even more so when she reaches out and places one dainty hand firmly on his shoulder to move him as she wishes. She pulls him to face her with surprising strength, combing his hair back with her fingers.

Trembling, Kaisar ventures a glance her way to find her mercifully focused on the side of his head. Were she to look straight into his face again, he is not confident he would be able to meet her eyes. She moves surely, with no hesitation as she undoes the silver clasps from his hair at one side and draws it out to its full length in her hands to begin sectioning it off. He looks past her at the wildflowers tossing softly in the breeze and submits to her purposeful ministrations.

When he dares from time to time to look at her, Kaisar is stirred by the earnestness with which she sets to her task. Her mouth is set in a determined line, now shifting to a frown of concentration as she pulls the plait her hands are forming at opposite ends to tighten it. Even when her fingers tangle together and she inadvertently yanks, he barely registers the pain. It feels so good he thinks he might drift off into a doze, had the proximity of her body to his in the grass not already set every one of his nerves on high alert. When her tongue peeks out from between her lips, moistening them, Kaisar has to look away.

In what feels as much like an eternity as it does mere seconds, she is finished. For a final touch, she reaches back to delve into her own hair, and after a moment's searching draws out a tiny length of ribbon in the exact same shade of pale pink. With it she ties off the ends of the twist, then releases him with a small nod of satisfaction. Kaisar looks as best he can to the side to take in the handsome braid that now hangs there, just brushing his shoulder. Reaching up with one reverent hand, his own fingers tremblingly following the path hers had taken.

Effusive with pride, Amira bring her face nearer to his again. "Don't you like it?", she asks, looking up at him as though seeking praise.

"Oh no, that's not it at all! Perish the thought!", Kaisar blusters, wishing he could stop himself, but unable. "Please don't get me wrong; I was merely trying to find the right words to..." Squeezing his eyes shut in embarrassment, he plumbs his frantic mind for the words he wants to no avail. But on opening them again, the gentle eyes that peer attentively into his own seem to grant him clarity; searching his heart, he states what he wants to convey to her as plainly as he knows how.

"Thank you."

The delight on her face is unmistakable as her mouth forms its most brilliant smile yet, making his heart surge with it. Satisfied and proud, she reaches out to clutch his hands in hers. "I knew it would suit you, Kaisar."

This the first time those lips have formed his name. He can feel his face growing hot, but the shiver of pleasure that runs all through him temporarily drives any concern for manners or proper address from his mind, and it's all he can do just to reply.

"Amira..."

Kaisar is sure he could gaze into her eyes forever in this verdant field, now just shading to gold as the sun begins to sink past the western mountains and lend its brilliance to everything it touches. The most glorious ornament in the kingdom could never hope to compare to the way the receding glow now lights her face.

The next moment, her lovely countenance disappears from view under a wreath of flowers, crushed down onto her head with such enthusiasm it's a wonder the garland doesn't burst apart. What Kaisar can still see of her face twists in puzzlement, as he draws back with a yell. Frantically looking up, he finds them both cast into shadow by Favaro, who stands over them with the sun at his back, hands on his hips and a pleased smirk nearly threatening to split his face.

Kaisar, incensed at the interruption, can only spit out an indignant "Favaro!", but his outburst just makes the wide grin somehow widen even further. Kaisar seethes as he roughly takes hold of the woven ring to try and push it out of Amira's eyes; it's clear Favaro hasn't even noticed.

"How's that?" he boasts, chest thrown out in bravado. "A crown for our princess, compliments of Rita and me."

From up on the hill, Rita scoffs. "Don't make me laugh. All you did was get in the way."

"Come on, I went all the way up to the glen to pick you those purple ones, didn't I?" says Favaro to the necromancer as she rises and starts toward them. Letting out a huff of irritation, Kaisar's eyes dart to the flower crown he's thoughtlessly laid his hand on. It's beautifully made, practically a work of art, supported by a frame of supple twigs around which the flowers have been interwoven. Within a border of grasses and downy meadow ferns, blossoms of every imaginable color are set like gems. All thought of the impropriety he's committing by touching a lady uninvited forgotten in the heat of his anger, he sets it more carefully on her before the impact of what he's doing can stay his hand. Once it's settled in the center of her head, framing her face instead of hiding it, he draws back quickly, a flush already creeping up his neck.

Favaro regards them with approval, giving a nod over his crossed arms. "Turned out even better than I thought. Still, I didn't expect you to have such girlish hobbies, Rita-- oof!"

She kicks him in the ribs, hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs - but not enough to jar the sprig of flowers Kaisar now notices fastened beside Favaro's collar. Somehow, he has charmed her into making him a boutonniere of buttercups and white clover, knotted in an intricate square. She must not entirely dislike him to have made something so complicated merely for his sake.

Noticing Kaisar's eyes on the patch of bright color against the dusky earth shades of his clothing, Favaro angles his head toward him. "What's wrong, Kaisar? Feeling left out?" Undiscouraged by the wordless utterances that escape from the fuming Kaisar in his ire, the bandit's son closes the distance to his self-professed rival.

"Let's fix that."

Before the words of protest can fully form on Kaisar's lips, Favaro's nimble fingers have plucked one of the white flowers from Amira's circlet and held it up before him. The blossom he selects is not large, but splendid, its petals perfectly formed. With it brought so close, Kaisar can see that the clarion shape of the bloom is not the pure white he had thought, but a pale lavender, tinged a passionate red at its center. Favaro leans down and draws it softly across his cheek, making Kaisar's breath hitch.

Encouraged, Favaro moves in to brush the fingers of one hand, leading with his thumb, along the same path the petals of the flower took. At this distance, its scent is so heady in Kaisar's nose that he bites his lip, worried what sounds he might let escape. When Favaro's searching fingers encounter the braid, he traces it curiously, and his eyes momentarily widen before shifting to meet Kaisar's again. The smile he turns to him is knowing but free of mockery as he runs his hand up the length of the plait. Roughened from handling a sword as Favaro's fingers are, their touch is remarkably gentle as they entwine softly with the dark hair, lingering only a moment before they withdraw to leave the stem of the flower nestled behind Kaisar's ear.

Favaro lowers the hand to his shoulder and lets it rest there a while before pulling back, not to escape Kaisar's striking range but to assess his own handiwork. After a moment's consideration, he gives a nod. "Not bad. Kinda brings out your eyes."

The former bounty hunter's own green eyes are warm. Kaisar sits frozen in place, filled with something much gentler than shock, defenseless against those eyes that catch and hold his gaze. When he has to look away, he tells himself it's because the setting sun he can see from over Favaro's shoulder is too dazzling.

Amira draws near, turning a smile on each of them once she notices the flower in Kaisar's hair. Leaning closer, she catches her own reflection in the polished metal of the pauldron at Favaro's shoulder, and a sound of delight escapes her. "Now we all have them!", she calls out proudly, looking back and forth between them for agreement. Her eyes shine as she favors them with another irrepressible smile. "Isn't it wonderful?"

Favaro regards her fondly, though he tries to play it off as bemusement. "Yeah, what the lady said," he intones, looking to Kaisar again. "It is pretty damn beautiful here. And peaceful, too, for a change; not a demon to be found. We have a warm place to sleep, the protection of the Saint herself, and a royal welcome waiting for us tonight. What more do you want?" For a long moment, it's all Kaisar can do to return his adversary's gaze, trying without success to summon a reply.

Rita clears her throat beside them. "As much as I hate to interrupt, it looks like the fun's over." With a backward glance, she indicates a small detachment of soldiers on horseback milling about at the edge of the road above.

Favaro snorts derisively, more at the soldiers than Rita, and ignores her, but Amira catches sight of her as she rises and moves over to her. "Wait, you need one too!"

Rita ducks, tries to dodge, but Amira darts out a hand, again so swiftly that Kaisar nearly doubts his eyes, and catches her by the elbow. With the other, she takes another flower, a deep-blue bell nodding heavily on its stem, from her crown to tuck into the band of Rita's hat. The petite necromancer heaves an ill-tempered sigh, but doesn't reach up to remove it.

Amira lets out a soft murmur of satisfaction as she reaches up to the crown on her head and presses it with both hands to rapturously inhale the perfume the flowers release into the air. Looking at her in this moment, Kaisar thinks his earlier fancies foolish. He is sure now that in all the world there can be no velvet so rich, no lace so delicate, that it would not pale beside her radiance, her only adornments a crown of meadow flowers and her smile.

A whinny from one of the horses breaks their reverie, and Favaro clicks his tongue in annoyance. "Time to go. If we miss our curfew, we're gonna get it." He stands, brushing the grass from his knees before looking back.

"Come on."

Favaro extends his hand to Kaisar, who blinks, too dumbfounded to take it. What more did he want? He can't find the words to express it. He can only look helplessly up at Favaro with a question in his eyes, one his mouth doesn't know how to begin forming.

Amira beats him to it. Taking the proffered hand and Kaisar's, she joins them together. They rise as one, all sharing a glance momentarily before Amira moves off with some reluctance, away through the flowers and mounting the hill for the climb back up to the road. Kaisar inhales once, deeply, to center himself as he somehow urges his feet to begin moving forward. She really has joined them together, says an echo in his mind as he mutely follows after them.

With every step, the heavy braid sways, nudging the flower to the side. Each brush of the petals against his skin recalls the sensation of soft white hands carding through his hair, and of firm, callused fingertips against his cheek.

***

They make their way back toward the castle through the streets of town, along cobblestones tinted bronze by the approaching dusk. Favaro, determined to ignore their armed escort, has kept up a constant stream of chatter, urging them onward to the feast waiting to be eaten and the wine to be drunk that evening.

Amira walks along mostly in silence; though her ears perk up at the mention of the word "wine", she finds herself preoccupied as she lets her gaze wander over the evening town. The feeling of calm that has settled over her as she walks a few paces behind her companions is new to her. When she's with them, she can nearly shut out the reminder of her mission ever-present in her head - reach Helheim, obtain the Keys, fulfill her teacher's charge - urging her onward, ever onward, as insistent as a shove.

Feeling eyes on her, she looks up and meets Kaisar midway to one of the glances he's been trying not to cast in her direction since they left the field. He looks away whenever their eyes meet; she isn't sure why, but she finds it quite charming. She smiles warmly back, inclining her head toward him in what she hopes is a welcoming way, and though his eyes dart fitfully about, he summons some inner reserve of courage and finally meets her gaze, almost on the verge of returning her smile.

Mirroring him, Favaro glances back at her too. Failing to draw the reaction he wanted from Kaisar, walking at his side, he throws one arm across his back and leans in to prod him in the ribs with the other, following it up with a yank on his braid for good measure. At this distance she can't make out what they're saying, but the indignant scowl that creases the nobleman's face makes the meaning plain enough. Swiftly reddening, he turns to shout some angry retort at the impishly grinning Favaro, although Amira notices that he makes no move to throw off the arm resting on his shoulders. Rita's catlike eyes flick disinterestedly over the pair as she reproaches them without turning her head and walks resolutely on, treading on the heels of her long shadow on the pavement.

As they pass by taverns with their signboards illuminated and storefronts closed up for the evening, a flash of motion glanced in the display window of a shop puts her on alert. She halts and turns swiftly to face it, shoulders squared and ready to counterattack if needed. But there is no enemy there, only a reflection she peers at curiously for several long moments before she recognizes it, at length, as her own. Surprised, she draws her closer to investigate, the tension draining out of her as she sets her hands on the window's wooden frame and peers into the display.

She scarcely knows the face looking back at her from the glass. Its cheeks glow pink, eyes merry and mouth smiling, all but beaming with delight beneath the crown of flowers wreathing it. Could the mere addition of such a thing have been all it took to make her look so different to her own eyes?, she thinks, shifting it slightly on her head. It was Rita who had made the flower crown, worked the whole time through their excursion making it only to hand it over to her with barely a word. No matter what angle she examines it from, Amira can't figure out how she fastened so many of them together; whatever knots she used are completely hidden behind the dense ring of blossoms.

She has known the necromancer, worldly and astute in her child's body, only a short time, and they have had few opportunities to speak. To Amira, she is still largely a mystery. She barely knows anything of her - if she truly is the zombie she claims to be, how she came to join up with Kaisar, or why she has continued traveling with them when she seems to find them all so exasperating. But even so, it has not escaped Amira's notice how much effort such a garland would have taken to create. Whether it was only caprice or a first offering of friendship, she can't say, but she hopes that her gratitude at receiving it had made itself evident. Glancing over her shoulder at the straight little back clad in dark violet, she directs a smile her way in silent thanks.

Returning to her image in the glass, she keeps her gaze fixed on it as she turns this way and that, admiring her own form. Amira hasn't ever felt the urge to look at herself this way before. In all the inns she and Favaro have stayed at along the way she's spent no more than a few brief minutes getting ready each morning, and even when her rooms had had mirrors she'd never spared a second glance at her appearance. Though aware that she is starting to lag behind, she accedes to the strange fancy that's caught hold of her, stepping back into the street and into the illumination of a nearby lantern. She lifts the hem of her mantle and turns in a quick circle before the glass, enjoying the way it billows out around her. Each blossom in the garland at her brow is still bright and vivid in the fading daylight, instantly recalling the memory of the idyllic glory of the place they'd whiled away the afternoon.

With it comes another memory, very faint but no less dear, of a field just as warm and blossoming with life - the image of her mother's smile, and the warmth of the only family she's ever known.

A feeling close guilt stabs her at the thought, a punishment for concerning herself with earthly comforts and letting something other than her duty occupy her mind. The two men who should be no more than strangers - Favaro only a means to an end as her guide, and the tall swordsman not even that - have swiftly become something much more to her. She felt truly at peace laughing beside them in that field - so much so that for once the nagging voice, ordinarily so loud and unrelenting that other thoughts are drowned out, was pushed almost to the back of her mind.

As though in revenge, it starts up now in her head. Her reward waits for her in Helheim, it reminds her. She can rest once her journey there reaches its end; and won't the joy at being reunited with her mother far surpass any fleeting comfort the three of them can offer? She shakes her head, as though in resistance. She misses that longed-for tenderness terribly, but she won't deny her growing affection for her companions. Through the time they have spent together in their travels, she has come to feel truly fond of Favaro, who should be nothing but a mere guide to her, and almost the same for Kaisar, who should be even less. When they're together, she can feel a warmth that is almost like that of her dearest memories. Her journey with them has been long, wearying, and filled with danger, but not once has it been lonely.

She hears a voice calling her name. Raising her head, she finds she has fallen quite a distance behind the others. Ahead, all have three stopped on the path to wait for her, glancing back over their shoulders expectantly. Stepping away from the window, she looks from Favaro, feigning annoyance but unable to keep a grin from his face, to Kaisar, sharing the same smile, who holds out a courtly hand to her. Rita, though she doesn't smile now (if indeed she ever has), has allowed her face to relax into something almost nearing contentment.

A rush of feeling moves through Amira as she turns to them. She steadies the crown on her head as she takes one step and then another toward where they wait for her, and as she feels her hands brush its greenery, vital, earthy, but very alive, she thinks that something joins them together too, something inexplicable, but wonderful.

Keeping one hand on the crown to hold it in place, she joyfully returns a smile of her own before dashing along the street to rejoin them.