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I.
There was something strange about Nyx Ulric.
Yes, the Galahdian was good at warping, one of the best actually. Watching him Cor would occasionally get flashes of a younger Regis, right down to the cocksure smile, whenever he happened to be visiting the ‘Glaive HQ while the glaives were training. That, however, was not what made Cor flag the glaive. In fact, it was nothing the man himself did. It was how the other glaives acted around him.
It was never anything overt. There was just a certain respect to the glaives’ posture when Ulric was in the room. About the same level of respect they offered Titus, even more so on occasion, depending on the person. Even the glaives who obviously had chips on their shoulders, big ones, carried that respect. A certain straightening to their spines when Ulric walked into the room, deferential tilts to the shoulders, attentive listening even when their facial expressions looked bored, irritated, or outright antagonistic.
Cor would have simply chalked the behavior up to the fact that Ulric was one of their best frontline combatants—people behaved similarly around him, after all—but after a few months he realized it was only the glaives from Galahd behaving like that. The few glaives from the other regions of Lucis simply treated Ulric like a comrade. When they scoffed, there was no other flavor to it.
And now that he was looking for it, little things kept jumping out at him.
How Ulric could sometimes stop whispered conversations in their tracks, the participants looking either panicked, like a child caught with their hand in the sweets box, or mortified. How scuffles between brothers- and sisters-in-arms always happened, particularly in the longer lulls between missions, but scuffles in the ‘Glaive never involved Ulric. In fact, he tended to be the one stepping in to mediate. Cor knew this not because he’d looked at the Kingsglaives’ records, but because it drove Titus right up a wall, the fact that the glaive who routinely ignored orders on missions was so good at helping maintain order when not deployed and Titus liked to vent at Cor during their weekly meetings.
Ulric was a puzzle he toyed with like a hobby, tucking each new piece of information into his mental file and mulling over them during the really boring council meetings, or when Clarus was talking his ear off about something or other Cor had supposedly done that had purportedly grayed more of Clarus’ non-existent hair. Something fun to play with, but nothing of true import.
Until he noticed that during those times Ulric was assigned as part of Regis’ detail, the Galahdian glaives would acknowledge Ulric before they acknowledged the King of Lucis. Again, nothing overt, just a moment of eye contact a second or two too long before saluting Regis.
That, now. That bumped Ulric up from ‘fun puzzle’ to ‘possible situation.’
There was something strange about Nyx Ulric, and Cor was going to find out what.
II.
When Cor heard all of the Galahdian glaives had submitted paperwork for either time off or changed shifts, he looked into it. Galahdians made up nearly three quarters of the Kingsglaive, of course he was going to looking into it. Little Galahd was throwing a giant festival for Longnight. Cor glanced at the calendar. It was indeed Longnight. Ah. Well, Regis had no need to know that he had once again lost track of the date.
Cor got up and walked the ten feet from his office door to Clarus’, letting himself in before Clarus had acknowledged his knock. “Clarus, I won’t be here the thirtieth and the first.”
Clarus looked up quizzically. “Longnight? Aren’t you generally gone for Longnight?”
Cor hummed and left.
~*~
The section of the city the Galahdian refugees had settled in was toward the southeastern corner of Insomnia, tucked underneath a tangle of highways and dozens of corporate high rises. It was a maze of catwalks, stairs, ladders, terraces, and balconies looking over metal canyons dug deep into the earth beneath the Crown City. Cor assumed that on the average day Little Galahd could be quite the gloomy place, since the only natural light to reach down here was from the few holes in the surface around the main entry points.
This, however, was not an average day.
Little Galahd was alive with light. It glowed, it glittered, it shone, it basked in soft golds. There were the normal light fixtures, of course, but these had been supplemented with lanterns, flashlights lashed to poles, candles of every size and color, floor lamps on extension cords, miles and miles of fairy lights strung over literally everything. Cor even saw a couple of glaives magicking fire into glass baubles attached to chains hung from railings and the undersides of buildings like chandeliers. Beneath and between all these lights, the people of Little Galahd were making a ruckus loud enough to wake the Astrals. There was so much music and conversation and shouts and laughter in the air. To Cor’s best estimation, every Galahdian in Insomnia was out and about, eating and drinking, cooking on vendor carts, gathered in little pockets playing games, making loud jubilant music, dancing in intricate patterns around each other, all dressed in various shades of yellow, orange, and gold. A good percentage even had paint of a rather obnoxious hue of yellow on their faces, slapped on their foreheads, brushed down their noses, occasionally dabbed on the backs of eyelids. Even the buildings around them were speckled with the bright paint.
Cor wandered, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, though admittedly he was definitely dressed in the wrong color scheme. He also picked up samples of every food on offer, because it was there and it was free and why in all Ifrit’s fiery hells would one pass up free food? Especially food that was this good. Holy shit. A small part of his brain may have diverted to calculating the chances of hiring a Galahdian for the Citadel kitchens.
All the while, he scanned the crowds for Ulric. Occasionally he would pick out a glaive, but Ulric was never anywhere in their vicinity. He tried following them, hoping that the glaives would congregate around each other, but no such luck. Huffing, Cor picked up a packet of sweet buns and settled in against a wall to munch and watch a line dance snake through the crowd. Even though the crowd was rather accommodating, clearing the middle of the walkway and shouting enthusiastic encouragement, the line migrated slowly, seeing as how the dance seemed to include a lot of hops and as many steps back as forwards. Cor’s eye was caught by a bright figure about thirty people down the line, covered head to toe in huge splashes of half-dried yellow paint, as if someone had upended the pail on them. That seemed rather extravagant, considering everyone else were content with dabs. It was only when the figure was practically in front of him that Cor realized it was Ulric.
Their eyes met, and surprise flashed across Ulric’s face before the ebb and flow of the crowd obscured their line of sight. When Cor next caught sight of Ulric, the glaive was happily ensconced in some sort of debate with an elderly couple. The old woman plopped a wreath of morning glories on Ulric’s head with an almost proprietary look as Ulric danced past. Ulric laughed and conceded defeat with a nod as the line curved behind a storefront. Cor swallowed the last of his buns, deposited the greasy packet in a nearby trashcan, and set out to follow. He made it to the corner store before a suspicious Libertus Ostium blocked his path. The glaive had dual yellow handprints on his cheeks, which made his glare not as threatening as the man perhaps wanted it to be. Not that Cor was likely to have felt threatened to begin with.
“Marshal,” Ostium near growled.
“Glaive Ostium.”
Crowe Altius popped up by Ostium’s elbow, making Cor blink, but it appeared Ostium was quite used to it. The mage’s entire face was covered in paint. “Heya, Marshal.”
“Glaive Altius. You’re looking festive.”
She grinned and juggled a couple of fire baubles. “Innit great.”
“What are you doing here?” Ostium demanded.
“Enjoying a public festival.”
“Why?”
“Ah come on, Libs,” Ulric interrupted, coming up behind Ostium and placing a yellow hand on his shoulder. Paint flaked off over Ostium’s elaborate necklace. “If Leonis wants to experience the madness of Galahdians holding a Longnight vigil, who are we to stop him? The more, the merrier. That’s the whole point, after all.”
Cor was confused. “Holding vigil?”
“It’s the longest night of the year,” Ulric said unnecessarily. “We’re holding the line till the dawn.” He waved a hand at the line of tea candles in mason jars glued to a plank above their heads.
“And thus all the laughter,” Altius added. “Nothing shall conquer us, not the darkness, not the Lucians, certainly not the Niffs!” She shouted the last and was met with loud cheers all around. Altius cheered back at them. “Not any of your sissy Lucian stuff,” she said, turning back to him. “Galahdian Longnight is not about looking over the past and wallowing, with little family shrines and all that super depressing shit. It’s about facing toward the future and withstanding the present.”
Cor vehemently disagreed with her but kept it off his face. Yeah, Lucian celebrations of Longnight always had a somber and melancholic air, regardless how much alcohol those present guzzled, but that was the whole point. He had survived. So many others had not. It was only right that he took one day a year, at the very least, to remember them and honor them. It wasn’t supposed to be fun.
He moved the conversation along, tilting his head towards Ulric. “What’s up with the paint?”
Ulric took a step back and twirled, striking an absolutely ludicrous pose at the end. Cor and Ostium gave him equally unimpressed looks.
“I’m the ‘Chosen King,’” Ulric proclaimed loftily.
Ostium’s unimpressed look morphed into a scowl. Altius choked before dissolving into outright cackles. Ulric’s mouth twitched.
Cor got the distinct impression he had missed something. “Like in the prophecy?”
Ulric snapped his fingers and pointed at him. “Precisely. Though not for real, obviously. I think Bahamut would have told me. Also, I’m pretty sure you have to be a Lucis Caelum, you know, actually king of Lucis. Anyway. The Chosen King is purported to bring back the Dawn, so during our Longnight vigil, we get ourselves a chosen king,” he bowed ostentatiously, tipping his flower crown at them, “and drench them in the sunniest paint we can find, which the king uses to bless his people.” Ulric wiped up a bit of wet paint from his shirt and solemnly smeared as much as he could over the Marshal’s forehead.
Altius, who had recovered herself, started laughing breathlessly again, leaning against the wall for support.
Ostium just looked constipated.
Ulric smiled angelically at all of them.
Cor sighed. He had wanted to see how they all behaved off duty. He had no one to blame but himself. “Thanks.”
“Any time, Marshal,” Ulric said brightly.
A gaggle of young people shuffled toward the glaives. When they all turned to look at them, the four in back pushed the eldest girl forward. She blushed, which brought out the line of dots tattooed across the bridge of her nose, and squeaked. “Uh…we—ask a blessing, Ulric-oeh? Please?”
Ulric smiled. “Anything for such an accomplished fisher.” She blushed even harder, ducking her chin. Ulric carefully placed yellow paint on each of her dots. “Would your valiant friends like a blessing as well?” The four behind her looked at their feet as one. Ulric chuckled. “Peace, no harm done. I haven’t met you yet, I don’t think. Would you tell me your names?”
Their spokesperson pointed to each in turn. “These are Ishtem, Yolun, Trentia, and Osou. And I’m Sashe. Our paperwork finally came through. We’re from Ana’atol.”
The glaives’ eyes zeroed in on her. “Before or after the carpet bombing?” Ulric asked.
Sashe swallowed. “After.”
Ulric hummed and softly brushed paint over their cheeks. “You are all incredibly strong, to have survived and thrived despite everything that’s been thrown at you. Keep doing so, alright?” The younglings gave a chorus of agreement, looking at Ulric like he was an Astral descended. “Now off with you,” Ulric said, making shooing motions. “You need to be having more fun.” They bobbed their heads and shot off into the crowd, giggling and whacking each other on the arm. The three glaives watched them go.
“Damn Niffs,” Ostium grumbled. “They would have been just kids.”
“Peace, Libs,” Ulric said. Something flickered across his face, gone too fast for Cor to get an accurate read. “We’ll get them back eventually.”
Cor noticed about a dozen children creeping toward them, pails of paint in hand and grins stretching their cheeks. From the twinkle in Ulric’s eye, he’d noticed them too. Ulric casually turned his back toward them and started up a conversation with Ostium and Altius on the ‘Glaive training routines, occasionally demanding an opinion from Cor as the children crept closer.
He shrieked dramatically when the children threw the pails’ contents at him, some jumping to get a better reach, absolutely drenching the glaive in yellow paint. Ulric shook his head like a dog—a motion which Cor did not appreciate considering the man’s proximity—spun on his heel and pounced on the nearest two kids with a playful growl, enveloping them in bear hugs and slathering their fronts with paint. The rest of the children screamed joyously and took off, Ulric giving a very slow chase.
Altius caught sight of some game starting up in the opposite direction and tugged Ostium away, Ostium giving Cor one last suspicious look before following obediently. Cor ignored them and watched Ulric’s bright head bouncing through the crowd. A crowd that parted for him seamlessly.
III.
Now that Cor was paying attention to such things, he began to notice that Ulric took regular time off. Once a month, every month, on the third Thursday. To the point where he would get people to cover his missions if they were not absolutely critical. Cor had checked the roster archives, because he was that kind of paranoid.
Naturally, he asked Titus about it at their next meeting.
“Little Galahd’s got some kind of community thing,” the man explained as he shuffled reports around. “Like their own council or some such. They get together every month to discuss issues among the Galahdian refugees. Ulric’s apparently been on it since before he joined the Kingsglaive. Astrals know why, he’s gotta be the youngest person on the damn thing.”
Well, that likely explained how Ulric was well-known enough to be picked as the Longnight king.
Three weeks later, Cor was once again wandering Little Galahd, this time in daylight. A surprising amount of daylight, actually. Someone had jerry-rigged a series of mirrors and polished metal around each of the main entry points, angled to direct the sunlight down and around the cavernous space. While it was definitely gloomier than the city streets it lay beneath, Little Galahd was not the dreary setting he had been expecting. He was dressed in one of his rare sets of civilian clothes in an effort to not be immediately recognizable though he was sure it wouldn’t take long regardless, considering just how many Galahdian refugees made up the Kingsglaive ranks. Longnight had given him a taste for Galahdian street food, so he picked up a bag—or three—and wandered, scanning the levels of terraces and walkways for a preferential flow to the crowd or a large gathering.
He was nearly through his first bag of doughy meat puffs and about two thirds into the district when he found it: three levels below, a large balcony bubbled out into the metal canyon, easily visible from the levels of walkways and terraces on either side. Enough rugs to stock a department store had been thrown over the cold metal flooring. Eight men and women lounged in a rough open-sided circle in the center of the rugs, low tables at their elbows stacked with food, drink, paper, and the occasional phone, quite obviously holding some kind of meeting. More Galahdians sat on the rest of the rugs, or leaned on the balcony’s railing, or the railings of the walkways nearby, the terraces on the other side of the canyon, everywhere really. This had to be the community council Titus had mentioned, and…yup, there was Ulric, in loose pants and some kind of vested shirt, leaning his weight against the nearest low table on the far side of the balcony.
Cor rolled up his empty bag, meandered down a level, and opened up his second bag—these ones some kind of nut and honey concoction—and settled in against a support pillar to see what he could overhear.
An older woman with her crystal-dust hair twisted into thousands of braids sitting at Ulric’s left seemed to be fighting with a one-eyed man on the glaive’s other side, something about education? Possibly? It could also be rites of passage, Cor wasn’t quite sure. He thought he’d managed to get close enough to overhear, but he really couldn’t decipher more than every handful of words. The thicker accents of the elders and the random dialect words they kept throwing about weren’t helping with that.
Regardless, they were shouting about something to do with children, specifically the children who would never remember Galahd-as-it-was. Possibly. The obvious argument was heated, eventually drawing in the rest of the circle—except Ulric. Ulric only got involved when the older woman reared onto her knees, then he straightened, held out a hand to both sides of the circle, and calmly talked the woman back onto her cushion, though she was rather sullen about it.
Ulric then went around the circle, apparently soliciting opinions. When another circle member would try to interject, Ulric would just stare them down—much like Cor with Regis’ council; if Cor was honest, he was mildly impressed—and after a moment or two, the member would settle down with a murmur of “Ruc—Ulric-oeh.”
Ulric spent the next hour mediating the discussion and quelling arguments before they could begin. After his fourth run around the circle, he proposed…some course of action and called it to a vote. The one-eyed man and the older woman both refused to vote. The man even attempted to start another argument, this time with Ulric, stating something or other about Ramuh. Ulric’s spine straightened impossibly further and the look he leveled on the one-eyed man would have made the Glacian proud. “Your tenure as—I respect, Gaer-muhn, but—I ken more of—than you.” The man held Ulric’s gaze for a few moments longer, before folding with a snarl and plopping back down in his spot. “If we had a—path is strumgarvaest. Do you—?”
“Cheram, Ulric-oeh,” the man scowled.
“Do you know—acquire it?”
“Cheram, Ulric-oeh.”
“Do you have—”
“Cheram, cheram, I get it!”
“And you, Olna-muhn,” Ulric said, turning to the older woman. “—another path, one more—or kuhlnvaest?”
The woman fidgeted on her cushion before sighing. “Cheram, Ulric-oeh.”
Ulric nodded. “I stand on your shores—will not begrudge us this—ask for rotas. Cheram?”
The one-eyed man and another woman slapped their hands on the rug in the middle of the circle.
“Ruc?”
The other five circle members slapped the rug.
Ulric nodded again, looked up at their audience and raised his voice. “Do the islands have—wish to voice?” The crowd offered various levels of negative responses around pockets of more mutinous silence. Ulric scanned the whole of the canyon before slapping his own hand on the rug. “Ruc, Galahd. May the Strum—efforts.” The one-eyed man immediately rose to his feet, scooped up his papers, and stomped off. Ulric watched him go with an expression that reminded Cor of the one Weskham would give Regis whenever he was being that particular Lucis Caelum brand of stubborn.
Cor munched on a spiced and fried ball—fish paste?—contemplating the idea of comparing Ulric, the glaive who held the demerit record within the Kingsglaive, to Weskham, the ultimate mother hen who had somehow merged with a mother coeurl, and snorted. He needed to send a copy of Ulric’s record to Weskham. And then a picture of Ulric’s current expression. Monica would probably help. So would Glaive Altius, now that he thought about it.
“Marshal,” a man sneered.
Cor looked up to see people streaming away from the railings, a group of glaives in civvies grouped about him. He recognized Lazarus and Furia easily, and it only took a few moments to place Bellum and Arra. “Glaives,” he greeted with a nod.
“May I ask why you’re down here?” Lazarus asked, crossing his arms. “Sir.”
“Spying?” Furia demanded.
Cor quirked an eyebrow. “This is a public space, gentlemen.”
Arra snorted.
“Public space, my ass,” Furia growled. “The Crownsguard don’t even bother coming down here. No one wants to come down here. Fess up, Marshal, before I—”
“Oh my,” Ulric said, walking up to lean provocatively against a support post. “Marshal, we need to stop meeting like this. I’m going to start blushing.”
Cor gave the glaive a dead-eyed stare. “Trust me, Ulric, if I was flirting with you, you’d know.”
Ulric blinked at him, then broke down giggling into the post. Cor did not understand this man.
The off-duty glaives ran the gambit between appalled and enraged, though Bellum was definitely hiding a smirk.
Cor fished out another ball and popped it into his mouth.
“Haa—right, ‘course, Marshal,” Ulric said, getting his breath back. He pushed off the support post and stood up straight. Cor didn’t miss that he angled himself to be slightly in front of the other glaives, though his posture stayed open. “Speaking of,” he said with a nod toward the greasy bag in Cor’s hands, “you have anything to do with the three Galahdians that got hired by the Citadel kitchens two weeks ago?”
Cor shrugged, rummaging around for the last fried ball. “Citadel staff are not my jurisdiction.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I might have left a bag or two out where Clarus would notice.”
Ulric tilted his head like a confused chocobo. “Why?”
Cor shrugged. “’S good food.”
Ulric stared at him for another moment before shaking his head. “Well, for whatever part you had in that, I wanted to express thanks on behalf of the Galahdian glaives. We appreciate the taste of home in the cafeterias.”
Cor nodded and crumbled the empty food bags, stuffing them into a pocket for disposal later. “You seem awfully young compared to the rest of that group down there, Ulric,” he said, leaning back against the railing.
“I knew it!” Furia shouted. “You are spying!”
“The council meetings are open to the public, Tredd,” Ulric said, almost irreverently, eyes never leaving Cor’s.
“To Galahdians!” Furia retorted. “Not to any fucking strumnelt Lu—!”
“Tredd!” snapped both Ulric and an old woman passing by.
Furia glowered. “Sorry, Mene Yayla.”
“Sorry my peeling bunions.” The old woman marched up to Furia and pinched his ear between her nails, bending the glaive down to nearly half his height. “You would think no one ever taught you proper manners, the way you run about screeching.” She nodded to Ulric and dragged the glaive away, shooing the other three along ahead of her, growling at all them, “I don’t care if he’s a Lucian or a cranky sahagin, you do not—”
“Mene, why are you including us—?” Arra griped as they got pushed around the corner.
Cor quirked an eyebrow at Ulric, who grinned. “Tredd called you a very naughty word.”
“…I won’t hold it against him.”
“Gracious of you.” Ulric leaned back against his post, copying Cor’s posture. “Why are you here, Marshal?”
“Sightseeing.”
Ulric did a weird snorkel-laugh. “Uh huh. Right. Marshal, I’ve noticed you watching me at the Citadel. I would bet beads to birdbeasts that you’ve read my file, and now you’re popping up in the Galahdian sector. I’m not an idiot. What do you suspect me of?”
“I don’t suspect you of anything, Ulric.”
“But you think I’m connected to something.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. “Why are you on the town council?” Cor asked.
“Any one of us can be on the council, it’s a position decided by vote.”
“And you were voted in?”
Ulric shrugged and pushed himself away from the post. “I didn’t ask for it, that’s for sure. Please stop coming down here, Marshal. You make people nervous.”
IV.
Contrary to his Crownsguards’ opinions, when Cor was pissed, he didn’t head straight to the nearest training room and beat the shit out of whatever equipment was available. It was a waste of energy and frankly, he was tired of Clarus chewing him out over the expense reports. What he did do was find the most bracing spot in the Citadel and face into the ever present wind, letting it freeze his face and blast his anger away—or at least to a level where he wasn’t liable to start fights. And since these spots were all on the spires, they had the added benefit of being difficult to get to, so Clarus and Regis had yet to find him when he vanished.
Currently, it was three in the morning and Cor was leaning against a buttress, snarling into the wind over the latest mission reports and the pure idiocy of the Council, when the smell of alcohol got shoved up his nose. A lot of it.
Who the fuck was drinking all the way up here?
And would they share?
Cor followed the smell, clambering along the outside of the spire in little hops and skips that would probably give his King and Shield heart attacks if they saw him, the worry warts. On the other side of the spire he found a glaive. Cor almost growled. Of course it fucking was.
“You need royal permission to be up here, Ulric.”
Ulric squinted at him, taking a few moments to recognize him, then shrugged and took another pull from his bottle. “Eh, close enough.”
Cor ran his eyes over the glaive. The man was still in uniform despite Cor clearly remembering his Council room shift being relieved at eleven. Though his back was tucked securely into a small corner, his legs were dangling over the edge, boots putting scoff marks on the building. A line of identical bottles were set neatly along the ledge beside him, labels declaring them to have been full of cheap but rather hard liquor, practically moonshine. More were tucked into a bag between Ulric and the wall.
“Do you have a death wish, Ulric?”
“No more than the rest of us. Sit, Marshal! You’re here, have a drink or five. It’ll make all those scowlies go away.”
Scowlies. Astrals, he needed to make sure this idiot didn’t kill himself. And maybe Cor could finally get somewhere.
Cor swung himself to Ulric’s other side and settled on the ledge, taking the offered bottle cautiously. Yup, definitely moonshine.
“So,” Cor said, “what are you hiding from, Ulric-oeh?”
Ulric froze, bottle half raised, and turned to stare at him wide-eyed. Cor looked back and they had a little staring contest before Ulric broke down into giggles. “You have no idea what that means, do you.”
“Care to enlighten me?”
“Cheram.” Ulric leaned in and whispered, “Means ‘no.’”
“Yeah, I got that.”
Ulric giggled into his bottle.
The wind picked up for a moment, rattling the line of empty bottles. Ulric drained his current one, set it carefully down with the others, and immediately cracked open another. Cor considered him, weighing his own bottle in his hands. “Want to talk about it?”
“Fuck no. They were kids, Marshal, Astral-damned kids, coeurl-kits, wee babes. What the frick-frackety-frack were they doing on that mission? Why, why, why.” He took a very long drink, nearly a third of the bottle, then pressed his head to it like some kind of benediction. “Why did we come here? Insomnia, great idea! They’ve got a wall, how original, no one will die here! Idiot.”
“There are four thousand, five hundred, and thirty-nine Galahdian refugees currently living in Insomnia,” Cor said. “You are hardly responsible for all of them, and certainly not for where they ended up.”
Ulric drummed his heels on the tower. “Shows what you know, smarty-pants.”
“You could teach me.”
Ulric snickered uncontrollably for several long moments. “I commend your strategy, Marshal, I really do, but my lips are perfectly sealed. Sealed tight tight tight, so tight Titan couldn’t pry his rocky ass in. Ew. You’d need much stronger booze than this to get me loose-lipped, and all our distilleries are abandoned back in Galahd. Cheers.” And he drained his bottle. He placed the bottle in line, then drew up a knee to lean his head against and stared at Cor, not bothering to blink even with the wind.
Cor quirked an eyebrow at him.
“Does it get easier?” Ulric asked.
Cor wanted to pretend that he had no idea what Ulric was rambling about, but there was a glint in the glaive’s eye that made that impossible. He’d seen it in too many soldiers and himself too often for that. He uncapped his bottle and took a long pull. “No, not really. I don’t think it should.”
Ulric nodded sagely. “And what do you do?”
Cor cracked something no one would call a smile. “Come up here and shout into the wind.”
“You’d make a good Galahdian,” Ulric laughed.
“If I’m Galahdian, then you should probably tell me why the Galahdians seem to respect you so much. I don’t want to make a faux pas.”
Ulric looked at him very solemnly. Cor looked back and waited.
Slowly, Ulric leaned forward until his face was inches from Cor’s. His hand came up and a finger tapped Cor on the nose. “Boop. You’re cute.”
Still leaning precariously into Cor’s personal space, Ulric methodically stashed each empty bottle into the armiger. Only when that was done did he straighten up and summon another bottle, crushing it in his fist. Ulric shook himself as the potion took effect and lurched to his feet. “Well, Marshal, this was certainly an interesting experience. I would apologize for the shitty alcohol, but I see you’ve barely had any.” He flipped his hood up and stood there for a few moments, fiddling with a kukri. “…thanks. It’s nice to able to be drunk around someone who doesn’t give a shit.”
“What about your friends?”
Ulric turned around, back to the open air. “What, like how you go and get shitfaced with the King?” Ulric laughed at Cor’s grunt and saluted him sloppily. “I’m sure I’ll see you around, Marshal." And the man let himself fall, backward, off the spire. He freefell nearly three quarters of the way down before warping away. Cor snorted. And Regis thought he was the reckless idiot.
V.
Sometimes, Cor really wished he could just give his King and Shield a nice fat black eye. If they were still on that road trip, he would’ve, but nowadays people got upset if the King was suddenly injured.
“I am not obsessed with Ulric.”
Clarus started ticking off fingers. “You attended Longnight in Little Galahd when you’re a commensurate hermit on that holiday, you quietly strong-armed the steward into hiring Galahdian chiefs—which, I do admit, was a fantastic decision—you’ve snuck into one of their town halls, and you’ve been administratively stalking the man for literal months.”
“I am not obsessed,” Cor repeated.
“Cor,” Regis implored, “just admit it and ask him to dinner before your own Crownsguard have to arrest you.”
Cor scowled. “I’m not pining, it’s recon. I know you’re not that blind, Regis, surely you’ve noticed how the Galahdian glaives practically bow to him before even acknowledging you? And he’s the youngest on that community council by at least three decades or I’ll eat my shirt. There has to be a reason for it, and I will find out.”
His King and Shield shared commiserating looks over their whiskey. Cor growled and slumped in his seat. If they were going to treat him like a stupid teenager, then he was entitled to it.
“You know, Clarus,” Regis said, “I’ve been thinking that I don’t spend nearly enough time with my subjects. I’m so cooped up in here, I have no idea what their lives are like. Particularly the refugees. They don’t even like me very much. I think it’s high time I rectified that, don’t you?”
Clarus nodded solemnly.
Regis nodded back. “Quite right. So! I propose a little jaunt to Little Galahd. Nothing extravagant, no banquets or fanfare, just an informal audience with their community leaders. Naturally you’ll accompany me, Cor, as the Marshal you should keep your eye on these kinds of things. And it would certainly make the most sense to have the Galahdian glaives provide security, wouldn’t it? I believe Ulric would be an excellent choice for head of security—after yourself, Clarus, obviously.”
Cor quirked his head to the side and considered the idea. Harebrained as it was—and it was definitely out there—it would be a unique experience to observe Ulric up close. He would be on duty and on guard, but he would also be surrounded by Galahdian civilians. And anyway, once his King and Shield got a stupid idea stuck in their head, it took the force of Titan to remove it, so he might as well just exploit the opportunity. There was one problem, though.
“If you want to barge into one of their town halls, Ulric can’t be part of your security detail. He’s a full council member and from the looks of it helps run the thing.”
Cor had no issues calling the expression on Regis’ face a pout, king or not. “If we must. It would be quite rude, I suppose, asking to meet with their council and then not letting a member participate.”
However silly the idea may have started, Regis took the follow-through quite seriously. Within a week, the idea had been broached to the Galahdian council, timed so that the idea could be discussed at their next town hall. Cor did not attend. Ulric still gave him an amused glance when he came to deliver the council’s decision to accept.
“I had nothing to do with this,” Cor told him.
Ulric just hummed. “Pelna will meet you at the staircase by Alstroom and 23rd and guide you to the waymeet.”
Cor was quite thankful for that choice in guide as Regis would have irritated the hell out of almost any other glaive. Once he had hobbled his way down the short staircase and got his first glimpse of Little Galahd proper, he would not stop asking questions. Khara had blinked but answered everything Regis threw at him diplomatically.
All of the sector seemed to have turned out for this meeting. The walkways surrounding the balcony barely had any space to walk, but the crowd had left a pathway to the balcony whose narrowness made Clarus twitchy. The fact that Regis had forgone his overcoat and thus most of his body armor probably didn’t help. Regis just smiled and nodded at anyone who looked at him.
The council was already seated when they arrived and very pointedly did not stand for Regis—something else that made Clarus twitchy. Cor noted they were in the same order as last time, with Ulric at the middle of the U. Ulric gave Regis a rather regal nod and gestured to the stack of cushions that had obviously been left for him. Regis’ lowered himself onto the stack without hesitation and stretched his bad leg out with a groan. “Oh Six, this is so much better than those stupid chairs,” he muttered happily. “I’m going to make the whole Council switch to cushions. I wouldn’t fall asleep in meetings as often, Clarus, imagine!” he threw over his shoulder as he settled. “Though,” he conceded with a frown, “that might still be a tall order. They are rather boring. Nothing can help that.”
“And what would we do with that stupid table?” Clarus asked with a sigh, accepting that this was how his monarch was going to play this and taking up his customary place behind his left shoulder while Cor settled into parade rest on the right, a couple of steps back. “It’s gigantic.”
“Burn it?” Regis asked hopefully.
“It’s stone, Your Majesty.”
“I’m sure it would make a wonderful practice target for the glaives then,” Regis grumbled with a sigh, looking up to catch Ulric watching him with a little grin. Regis’ eyebrow twitched up. Ulric’s grin widened into a smirk and he gave a head tilt. Regis beamed at the man. Clarus narrowed his eyes at the whole exchange, then glanced at Cor. Cor allowed a touch of smugness on his face. Told’ja so.
Regis gave the council a seated bow. “Thank you for accepting my proposal and for allowing me into this space.”
Ulric did an odd gesture in return, touching the first two fingers of his right hand to his temple then circling his hand through the air to place his palm over his heart. A few faces in the crowd looked disgruntled, though Ulric himself was smirking. “Welcome to the waymeet, Your Majesty. I have to admit this is unexpected. Why the sudden interest?” Ulric flicked his eyes to Cor before focusing steadily on Regis. Regis, for his part, went completely serious.
“I owe you all an apology.”
That was obviously not what anyone in the area had been expecting. Not even Cor, though he kept his surprise off his face.
“I have been remiss in checking in with you since the invasion of Galahd, and many things have fallen through the cracks. I know it does not make up for it, but I apologize deeply for this. If you are amiable, I wish to begin rectifying it.”
All eyes in the space turned to Ulric. Ulric sat on his rug calmly, posture upright and relaxed, the kind of relaxed that came from being firmly within one’s own domain. He watched Regis with a steady, focused intent, like he was assessing every crevice of Regis’ soul. Clarus threw Cor another, more concerned glance and quietly shifted on his feet. Regis, for his part, held Ulric’s gaze, his face open and hands loose in his lap.
After a moment, Ulric placed his hand back over his heart and tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Well then, shall we get started?”
Regis grinned. “A man after my own heart. Efficiency! What a delightfully refreshing concept. Tell me, is this sector structurally sound?” Regis asked, leaning forward. “Do you all have the basic amenities? Is the sewage able to be properly disposed of?”
I.
“Naturally,” Ulric said when he walked into the briefing room.
Cor waved the glaives over to the table where a map of Duscae was weighted down. “You and your colleagues’ assignment to this mission has nothing to do with any theorized agenda, Ulric.”
“Whatever you say, Marshal.”
Cor crossed his arms and launched into the brief. “This mission has two objectives. First, the Hunters have asked for assistance in taking down a pod of catoblepas in Alstor Slough that have started rampaging about.”
Glaive Altius wrinkled her nose. “Why would they do that? This idiot managed to pet one the last time we were in Duscae,” she said, jerking a thumb at Ulric, who just smiled at Cor’s raised eyebrow.
“They think a fungus of some sort has gotten into the Slough. Most of the hunters in the area are trying to figure out what and how, and making sure the other wildlife doesn’t get affected, and catoblepas are difficult marks by themselves. A whole pod certainly merits the firepower of the Kingsglaive.”
“And what’s the second objective?” Glaive Ostium demanded.
Cor settled into parade rest. “Given the discussions during the King’s visit to your council, the King has decided the reports from the Department of the Interior are not to be trusted. He’s tasked me with getting the true situation of the refugee settlements outside of Insomnia. You all,” he continued as Ostium puffed up and opened his mouth, “are to keep me from overstepping.”
Altius giggled.
Glaive Khara hummed. “And get you the information we wouldn’t tell a Lucian, I’m betting.”
“I won’t deny that is a potential benefit,” Cor said. “However, it is merely a potential one. Any and all information you give me will be on your terms only.”
All the glaives in the room considered him. Cor did his best to meet all their eyes.
Ulric let out a gusty exhale. “Okay.”
Ostium immediately turned outraged eyes on him. Ulric shrugged a shoulder back. “If nothing else, it should be interesting, at least.”
Ostium growled and stomped up to the table. “Where are we going, Marshal?”
~*~
“You,” Cor mused as they hiked up to the homesteads the Galahdian refugees had claimed, “are an absolute menace.”
Ulric scoffed. “Nonsense, Marshal. We all came out of that none the worse for wear.”
Cor looked at Ulric, then pointedly looked down at his absolutely filthy uniform, and then at the rest of their group, who were, to a one, covered in algae slime and frozen mud that was thawing into slushy muck. Even Ulric was slathered in the stuff, half of his hair plastered to the side of his head.
“Oh trust me, Marshal,” Ulric said with a manic grin, “Tredd is much worse.”
Cor decided not to grace that with a comment and continued not-stomping to the homesteads, where a growing crowd was hauling around buckets of water and bundles of cloth.
A man with prominent crows-feet stepped up as they drew even. “We all saw the hunt. Do any of you require medical attention?”
“Yes,” Khara said firmly from the back. “These two,” he said, pointing at Altius and Ulric, “have mild magic backlash, and I think might have frostbite. This lumbering idiot,” Ostium this time, “is trying to hide that he’s limping, I got thrown into three trees and would like my back looked at, our illustrious Marshal,” Cor side-eyed the man and hoped the mud on his face enhanced the glare, “had his hip nearly gouged out”—he did not, his jacket and pants were armored, thank you very much, he wasn’t a rookie—“and is also trying to hide that he’s limping, and this asshole,” he finished, rounding on Ulric with narrowed eyes, “also nearly had his arms wrenched out their sockets, and he’d better have a stormed-damned concussion or I will give him one.”
Ulric held up his hands and made soft sounds. “I really didn’t mean to, honest, Pelna.”
Khara actually growled at him and stalked over to where a grandmother of a woman was gesturing with a large bucket.
“Right,” the man said, his smile deepening the lines around his eyes. “Well, let’s get you all cleaned up and looked at. Though, I’m afraid we don’t have any elixirs stocked.”
Altius waved that off. “Pelna is a worry wart. It’s only mild backlash. Some warm drinks and lots of quick calories should take care of it just fine. I also wouldn’t mind some warm water for my hands,” she added, looking at her fingers, which still had mud frozen to them. “It’s not frostbite yet, but it’s definitely getting there.”
The man nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”
They were ushered each to their own bucket. The water was steaming slightly. Cor gratefully stripped out of as much of his uniform as was decent, having long since lost any body-shyness to the army, and dunked his head straight into the water. He straightened to laughter from the two children setting down a pile of towels and clean clothes before scampering away, and set about ladling water over the rest of himself. When the bucket was empty and Cor felt less like a drowned cat, an older woman turned the bucket over and gently but firmly shoved him down on it before poking at his—admittedly quite colorful—hip and muttering to herself. Cor gamely ignored her for the warm drink she brought with her and took a look around.
The little square was full of people, watching, pressed into service as acting field medics, or ferrying warm food, drinks, and bundles of dirty and clean clothes about, with gaggles of children flitting from cluster to cluster. Each of the glaives was on their own overturned bucket, getting poked at by a presumably medically knowledgeable person. Altius was bundled up in a blanket, happily scarfing down a bowl of something. Ostium had his leg elevated on a stool and the man from earlier was carefully wrapping his ankle. Khara was stripped to the waist and grousing to whoever was in ear shot about his stupid magic-happy comrades while a woman with a baby strapped to her chest slathered something green and lumpy on his back. Ulric had two medics fussing over him. One was carefully rotating his shoulder around and applying athletic tape. The other was painstakingly removing debris from a gash on the side of his head that, now that the muck was gone, was quite visible and sending a trickle of pink down the side of his neck.
The young woman gripped his chin and twisted his head from side to side, checking for anything she might have missed and clucking her tongue loudly, causing the sun to glint off of the beads in the braid behind his right ear and drawing the attention of the little girl wrapped around her leg. The little girl immediately ran off.
“Well, Marshal,” the woman prodding Cor’s hip said, “you’re going to be quite stiff for a couple of days, but your hip isn’t too worse for wear. I’ll put some bruise cream on it to help it along and then you can get dressed.” She then proceeded to smear a thick layer of the green paste Khara was getting covered in over his hip, slapped a bandage on it to keep it in place, then gathered up her things and walked away with a nod. Cor carefully got dressed in the provided clothes. When he next looked up, Ulric was surrounded by children.
His head was still firmly trapped by the medic cleaning the gash with antiseptic, but he kept glancing at the watching children with his mouth twitching into a grin. He politely waited until the medic has fitted a bandage over the gash before turning to them with a smile. “Can I do something for you, little ones?”
The kids just stared at him wide-eyed for a few moments before a little boy asked, “Are you really the king?”
What?
Everyone stiffened and eyes shot at Cor. Ulric nodded. “Yes, I’m Galahd’s king.”
What.
The little girl from before lurched forward. “Can I touch your beads?”
“Akie!” the woman who had been bandaging Ulric admonished.
Ulric waved his hand at her. “No, it’s alright.”
“Ulric-oeh, you really don’t—”
Ulric slouched down off his bucket to sit in the dirt and turned his head to present the beaded braid that hung behind his right ear. “Go ahead.”
“Pretty.” The girl shyly reached out and stroked a fingertip down the braid. “And warm!” She jerked her finger away. “It zapped me!”
“They’re a gift from the Strum,” Ulric said, “so there’s a little bit of the Strum in them. Can you find which bead is your island?”
The girl’s forehead furrowed in concentration as she examined each bead with great care. “Tata says we come from Telio. She showed me where it is on a map, and said we’re the best smiths in Galahd—this one?” She poked the third bead down the braid.
“Good job!” Ulric praised. She beamed at him.
Cor, getting more and more confused and looking around for an explanation, found the glaives and a good number of the adults around either mournful or scowling.
“Me next, me next!” the boy from earlier cried, shoving his face over the girl’s shoulder. “I was born on Telio but Da was born on Ana’tala!”
Ulric sat in the wet dirt and let each of the children clustered around him finger his beads, giggling at the small shocks and finding the bead that apparently symbolized what Cor was guessing was their home island in the archipelago. A few of the adults around had relaxed, including Altius and Khara, but a good portion were still moving stiffly, and Ostium was outright glaring at him, like Cor would suddenly sprout an extra head and go on a rampage.
Personally, Cor was very confused.
When the last kid had been gently sent back to their parents, Ulric stood and cracked his neck with a groan. He then grinned wickedly at Cor. “Alright there, Marshal?”
Cor had not sputtered since he was seventeen and accepted that his monarch was an unrepentant troll and he was not going to pick that habit up again now. “King?”
“I gotta admit, I was wondering when you would figure it out,” Ulric said, stretching his back. “I couldn’t stop myself from leaving hints.”
Cor furiously went over his mental file and okay, sure, there were some hints. Vague, vague, obscure hints, but hints. “So…you’re royalty?”
Ulric waffled a hand. “Not in the way you Lucians think of it, no. We don’t pick our kings based on blood. The Storm chooses us, whether we want it or not,” he added with a scowl. “I just wanted to be a hunter, maybe help Libs at the bar occasionally, but no.”
“And you can’t…abdicate, or something?” Cor cut into Ulric’s grumbling.
“Nope,” Altius called cheerfully from the depths of her blanket. “Ramuh’s word is final, no take-backsies. Not that that stopped this one from sulking.”
“I didn’t have time to sulk,” Ulric protested. “The previous king was dying and I had to give her all my attention.”
And just when Cor thought he was getting some kind of handle on this situation. “Her?”
“‘Oeh’ is actually gender neutral,” Khara piped up. “‘King’ is also perhaps not a great term for the concept, but it's the one we've been using for centuries. Our concept of ‘kingship’ is very different from the Lucian one. You guys think of a final, terminal authority figure; a ruler. We think of a facilitator, a mediator, arbitrator, someone who helps smooth the way. We’re an archipelago, remember. It’s very difficult to have one centralized ruler, much easier to have someone who maintains a network.”
“Which means lots and lots of traveling,” Ulric interjected.
“The only time a Galahdian king leads in the way you’re used to,” Khara continued, “is during times of crisis where it helps to have a unified direction. Such as the Fall,” he added quietly.
Ah. Cor met Ulric’s bleak gaze for a moment before it skittered away.
“Why haven’t you made this known?” he asked, redirecting the conversation. “Having your own formal governing structure may help curb the discrimination.”
Ulric laughed. “Marshal, the Conqueror didn’t notice when he annexed Galahd, nor did he really care, and no one else has since. You’re very entrenched in your social ideas. What are you gonna do about it, Marshal?”
Cor said carefully, “I don’t really have the head for this kind of stuff, actively avoid it actually. But I would like to inform Regis.”
Ulric’s gaze took on that same assessing look he’d aimed at Regis during the council meeting. It was even more disconcerting being on the receiving end. Cor planted his feet and met it. Ulric nodded slowly. “One king to another, I would agree to meet with him. But I will not promise anything and the information will go no further.”
Cor nodded his agreement of the terms.
Ulric suddenly smirked at him. “So, does this mean your little obsession with me is over, Marshal? I’m gonna miss you stalking me everywhere.”
Cor sighed. Apparently it was just a universal fact. All kings were trolls.