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The cold didn’t touch Dimitri. It couldn’t, not anymore. He was nothing but a corpse animated by the will of the dead. To an unliving vessel like himself, what was simple snow and ice? The snow glowed in an ethereal light, just as pale as the skeletal remains following his every step. The fuzziness of the landscape was from the moonlight, nothing more. His single eye was fine, already adjusted to picking up the slack for its fallen twin. The red rats wouldn’t escape him, couldn’t escape him. Red, red, red… their uniforms were already dyed red, begging for their rotten heads to roll.
But no. He was alone for now. As alone as he ever was. The dead howled for Her head. They needed retribution. It was the only way they would rest and find peace. Her head. Her head. His own head throbbed at the thought (and had been throbbing for some time). Skeletal hands wrapped around his flesh, clawing effortlessly through his armor.
“I must press forward.”
His ghosts agreed, yet their hands threatened to pull him down. Father was clawing at his missing eye again, berating it for abandoning life before its work was done. His other eye tried slipping shut too, the treacherous thing. Step after step he continued, because he must. Through the woods. Towards red. Find Her. Kill Her.
The dead tripped him. Falling back against a tree, his head slumped onto the bark. The dead do not rest. He cannot sleep. The dead do not sleep. He must kill Her. He must… His ears rang with a strange hum. The dead surrounded him as always, ignoring him for now. Darkness called to him. Death? Perhaps death. No, not death… he was just so tired. Eyeing the night sky, the stars sang. Their small blots twinkled and danced as if alive.
A shooting star caught his attention before he succumbed to sleep. The white dart was so much bigger than the other stars, so much closer to the world. ‘A shooting star, my son. Make a wish.’ The soft words echoing in his head were not from the ghost of his father, but rather from childhood memories. ‘Ever wish on a falling star, Your Princeliness? I hear they can make your dreams come true.’ More words bounced through his head from the memories of a dead boy.
‘If I could wish for anything,’ he thought in that moment, wrapped in a second that seemed to stretch forever, a mere second where he was the soft boy of his youth, ‘I would wish for rest. Just for a moment.’ True rest. When did he last sleep without nightmares? How selfish. How foolish. Stars could not grant wishes any more than the Goddess could.
The white star was at the edge of his vision when it paused. Strange. Stars cannot stop. The fuzzy star twinkled and spasmed. Something dropped from it. Something gold. A true star fell from the white blot, trailing behind it a golden comet tail plummeting to the ground below. Another white star shot across the sky. Fuzzy as it was, the red instantly had him on his feet. Imperial pegasi! The first white star — too big to be a pegasus — flew further away. Half of the imperials followed the star. The other half raced towards the ground. Searching for the fallen star.
With all thoughts of rest slain, he readied his lance and charged through the snow. She wanted that fallen star, whatever it was. Her red rats were sniffing for the fallen star. Perfect bait. He saw where the star fell. The perfect ambush.
The din of voices caressed his ears, words discarded as unimportant. All he cared about from those rats was their death. Peering through the trees, he found them. Five Imperials. Red on moonlit white. Clustered in a circle, waiting for him. They didn’t stand a chance. His lance took their heads one by one. Their screams joined the dead in a deafening choir. Imperial red spread across the snow. The pegasi scattered to the wind, riders gone from this world.
Leaning on his lance, the world spun around him. Not yet. Do not sleep yet. More to be done. Half of the pegasi chased the white star away, earlier. They would eventually return for the fallen star. He had to remain awake. Had to guard. Had to kill them all.
Someone groaned. Whirling on the fallen body, he pressed the tip of his lance to the soon-to-be corpse’s neck. There was no red, though. Only white and gold. Snow, and… the fallen star? His breath caught. Gold shone in the light of the full moon, twinkling like its celestial brethren. His single eye, overworked as it was, had to be lying to him. Falling to his knees, his gauntlets touched gold. Metal? A shell of gold, then a bright yellow comet trail — cape? — of luster and light. There was more too, spread out in quilted sunlight taking the rough shape of a human man. Limbs spread in a star shape with its back to the heavens. The edges of the ‘man’ were soft and puffy like a stuffed bear made into a person. Feet, hands, and a long strip across its back were edged with burnt black. Could stars burn? The hair too was burnt and charred. The char was different though, nothing like the burned bodies he witnessed in Duscur. The burns weren’t melted into the star, they simply were. Even the star’s skin, what little was uncovered by clothes and snow, was a pleasant toasted shade.
Like a golden-brown toasted marshmallow, the dead part of himself whispered. Reaching out to the soft-looking quilt-like material, he gave a generous squeeze. Were stars marshmallows? It would surely make a good pillow… He was tired.
“Uuh…ungh…” the star groaned in an achingly human-like manner. A word slipped from the celestial being, foreign and unfamiliar, repeated thrice into the snow. He knew the voice, somehow. Shifting, the star turned its head. Impossibly green eyes. Impossible because they were so green. Impossible because he knew that shade of green.
“Claude?” his throat whispered for him.
Vibrant green latched onto him. “D…Dim…itri?”
It was Claude. “You’re a star?” he gasped, hands trailing up and down the soft body of his former classmate. It fit. Claude von Riegan, the charming boy of mystery. How had he never seen it? It was the truth. As real as the ghost of his father, as certain as Her guilt: Claude was a star. Not just a star… “You’re… a marshmallow?” It wasn’t the shape he expected a star to take, yet somehow Claude made it work. Yes. A marshmallow and a star.
“Huh…? Where’s… m-my wyvern, where is she…?” Claude wheezed out, his body shivering violently. Wyvern? Why would a star have a wyvern?
Red. His eye honed on the sudden invading red. Her red. It seeped from Claude’s hip. How dare She stake claim over Claude! An arrow lounged in Claude’s lower back like an unwelcome guest. It didn’t belong. He ripped it out with a sickening squelch. The dead screamed in his ears.
Oh. No, it was Claude who was screaming. Pulling the arrow out was not smart. He knew better. More imperial red stained Claude’s soft gold. Slipping the star’s sash further down his waist, he tightened it into a makeshift bandage. It would have to do for now. With a cursory glance, he didn’t find any further injuries (aside from Claude’s increasing shivering). Ignoring the fallen star’s babbling, he lifted the pillow-like man. Claude shouted and squirmed. All it took was him squeezing tight to still the fallen star like a frightened deer. “Shut up. You can’t stay here. The flying rats won’t be distracted by the white star forever.”
“‘White star’”? Claude wheezed, no longer fighting back. “Do you mean my wyvern?”
He shrugged and began walking. A cave would be best. Somewhere safe to treat the arrow wound and start a fire. Left alone, Claude wouldn’t survive the night.
But what of the imperials?
The ghastly whisper halted his steps. The remaining imperials. He planned… planned to ambush them. He had to stay in this spot. Claude was the bait. The perfect shining bait. Where was he going? Nothing was more important than justice for the dead.
“Where are we… going? Got a… d-destination in mind, Your Princeliness…?”
Claude. He still held Claude. How did he forget? The golden entity was so bright. He glowed in the moonlight. The star shivered and shivered and shivered. The world swayed around him like a dream. Claude’s wound. A cave. He remembered a cave somewhere nearby. Or was that a week ago that he passed the cave? One foot in front of the other, he continued. No rest for the dead. March. March.
“There.” He almost missed Claude’s raspy call. A small cavern. Exactly what he needed. Entering the dark space, he waited and listened. Silence, aside from Claude’s wheezing. They were alone. Fire was needed for light, boiled water, and warmth. Simple. There were plenty of trees nearby. Dropping Claude, he turned to—
Claude cried out. Screamed, really. His single eye tracked Claude as he writhed on the ground, scrabbling at his back and cursing in arcane star-words. Odd. Shouldn’t Claude have bounced?
“Haven’t I fallen enough today?” Claude grit through his teeth, white smile gleaming against the hint of moonlight. “Would it have killed you to — Gods above — to set me down gently?”
Claude’s chiding voice echoed around the cavern. The darkness spewed out more whispers of hate, deafening him. Fire. Fire would help. He turned and left the cave. As he collected wood, his mind stumbled over what he’d witnessed. Claude had been light in his arms, quilted skin like pillows. He should have bounced. Or fallen like a feather. No, what was he thinking? Claude was a fallen star, not a marshmallow. Or was he? Was he even real? Ice unrelated to snow grasped his limbs. Was Claude real? He had half a mind to abandon the cave and never find out. He had to keep marching. No matter how much his eye struggled to stay open, he had to move forward, had to…
“Di…mitri…?” echoed a weak call.
He returned to the cavern. Dropping his wood in a heap he went to Claude and touched him, touched the pillow-like material. Claude had to be real. Surely. A char-blackened hand landed on his. It quivered violently. How odd. None of the burnt ghosts of Duscur quivered…
“M…aybe, sh-should get th-that f-f-fire, g-g-going.” Claude’s face was fuzzy, just like the rest of the world. His lips were blue though. His golden toasted-marshmallow skin was a whitish untoasted-marshmallow color now. “A-aren’t you c-c-cold?”
“No. The dead cannot feel heat nor chill. This corpse feels nothing.” As he spoke, he set about making the fire by instinct, thoughts further and further drifting. A blink later and there was fire.
“Will you listen n-now?” Claude rasped, not coming any closer. “M-my doublet, i-inside, are you l-listening this time? The vulnerary Dimitri, get the vulnerary. Stop ignoring me, you m-must listen.”
Vulnerary? Claude coaxed him closer, babbling instructions that he couldn’t parse. His body responded, ripping open the doublet where Claude told him — “I meant unbutton it, b-but go ahead, rip my clothes” — snatching the slim vial and uncorking it. Claude shook too much, so Dimitri brought it to his mouth for him. A blink later and both of them were by the fire, Claude squirming in his lap. When did that happen?
“I need to check it, let me go,” Claude was saying, failing to wriggle out of his arms. Slowly he let go of his grip on the star-turned-man. His gloves needed off anyway. He wanted to pretend his numb, dead skin could feel Claude’s softness.
The world vanished, his focus narrowing as Claude stood. Blackened char slid from the star’s form. Boots and gloves came off first, the black leather visibly soggy. As Claude overturned his boots, slush and snow hit the rocky floor. Next came his sodden stockings, leaving him barefoot. With quivering hands the star unlatched the comet trail on his shoulder, dropping behind a simple wet cape at his feet. The shell of sunlight clanged onto the ground as plain metal. More char washed away as the black sash across his breast came free too. With each article of clothing, Claude seemed to shrink. The colorful sash, still spotted with imperial red, fell to the floor, leaving only his quilted doublet and pants. Under the sash was the arrow-hole in his doublet and a half-healed wound beneath. Claude twisted, unable to look at it. With a sigh, Claude slid the soft doublet from his body and settled it by the fire. “Shouldn’t take too long to dry. I hope. It’s just da-amp.” Then he took off his bloodstained undershirt and tried once more to look at the semi-healed wound on his back.
Claude jumped, muscles beneath Dimitri’s fingers tensing. Oh. He was touching Claude. “You’re so small underneath…” No wonder Claude didn’t bounce on the cave floor. Underneath everything, he was hard flesh. “Did you get smaller?” He swore Claude had been bigger at the academy.
“Same size as ever,” Claude quipped, a touch snappy. “You on the other hand grew like a tree. A very big tree.”
“Clothes. You used to… puff yourself up.” And still did, it seemed. “You’re so…”
“Do not call me small again. I’m perfectly average sized! We’re not all blessed with the Blaiddyd body-shape.”
“Your shape is better than mine.” He was a brute. Claude was lithe and graceful, even if he wasn’t as soft as he thought…
“Thanks, I think. If you’re going to keep touching my back, rub this into the arrow wound.” Another small vulnerary found its way into his hands. Right. It healed wounds better when applied directly. Another blink and the wound was gone, the vulnerary empty. His plan to savor the strange soft-hardness of Claude’s skin was dashed. Time kept slipping away from him. He was so tired.
“Are you done? I’m freezing. Think my doublet is dry enough now? It’s been a few minutes.” Had it?
“You’re cold.”
“Am I now!” Claude shook uncontrollably. “You don’t say!”
Rising to his full height, he wrapped his arms around Claude’s soft skin. It was too pale. Claude’s feet and hands were a worrying shade. Scooping him off the ground, Dimitri brought them both back to the fire, covering Claude with his cloak. Fluffy curls, still slightly damp, brushed the underside of his chin.
“This wasn’t what I meant,” Claude commented as he squished himself against Dimitri’s body. Clever fingers undid the clasps of his cold armor, stripping him until he only wore his under-clothes and cloak. Claude tore his shirt open and shoved himself against Dimitri’s bare chest, shivering violently. In contrast to his words, Claude melted against him like… like a melted marshmallow.
How he stayed awake for the next few minutes, he didn’t know. Claude was cold as ice against him, yet so comfortable. He never wanted to let go. When Claude tried to retreat to get his doublet, Dimitri refused to budge. As a compromise he laid the puffy jacket over Claude’s back, resting his chin on the softness of it. It was a pillow.
“I’m glad you found me, Dimitri,” Claude quietly broke the silence. “I’m so, so glad you’re alive.”
“Am I, though?”
He couldn’t see Claude, still buried under his cloak and the doublet. He felt the star though, felt pressure against his chest as Claude pressed his face against his heart. “The rhythm I hear sure isn’t my heartbeat.” Quiet now, so quiet he barely heard it: “I missed you. I thought you were dead.”
He had no words to return. He hadn’t missed Claude, not in the same way. His mind had been too busy. It was only on lonely nights that his heart ached for his boyhood, silently desiring the calm nights where two boys were free to watch the stars in their pocket of peace. It was never a conscious ache. Only now that he held Claude did he understand what he’d missed so terribly.
There were important things to be done. He couldn't linger. He had… things to do. Slushy thoughts failed to tell him what he was supposed to do. All he wanted was Claude and sleep. Soft Claude, precious Claude. His personal fallen star.
“You looked like the moon, you know,” Claude whispered. “When you rescued me. All I saw was the snow and the steel of your lance. I thought… hah, it’s silly. An old story from where I grew up… I thought you were sent by the moon to save me.”
‘It’s the other way around,’ he couldn’t put into words. He was so tired. Claude was finally warming up. The real pillow wasn’t the quilted jacket — it was Claude. His skin was softer than the finest of fabrics, his hair outperforming the most expensive down, his warmth seeping into Dimitri’s corpse and breathing life into him once more.
He barely noticed as he slumped over, laying on his cloak as a bed. Claude nearly wiggled away, something Dimitri emphatically did not like. Claude balled up the quilted jacket and rested it under his head for a pillow, and he liked that. Then Claude, after snugly cocooning the cloak around them both, used him as a pillow.
His eyes slipped closed. There was no fighting it. He was warm for the first time since… since… in a long time. The nagging need to do something faded. For one night, just this night, it was only him and Claude, warm and comfortable, safe and sound.
The Goddess may not grant wishes, but Claude did. His fallen star, granting his wish: peace, if only for a night.