Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Parents’ imaginations build frameworks out of their own hopes and regrets into which children seldom grow, but instead, contrary as trees, lean sideways out of the architecture, blown by a fatal wind their parents never envisaged.”

- Elizabeth Smart

The letter reads:

Dearest son,

I hope that this invitation finds you well. It is with my sincerest hope I ask you to return home for the week of your mother’s birthday. She has been desperate to see your face after so long, and I believe your presence would be the most wonderful gift anyone could give her.

Please let me know of your decision in due time.

Sincerely,

Lord Garte Ro’Meave of O’Khasis

“Is this some sort of joke?” Garroth asks himself incredulously. He holds the delicate champagne-coloured paper in his hands tightly, half tempted to screw it into a ball and toss it out of the open window. “He hasn’t tried to contact me since Vylad brought him back from Tu’La, and this is the first thing he sends? Can you believe this?”

Laurance looks up at him through half-lidded eyes, head resting in his lap. “Are you going to go?” he asks, yawning.

“What, so he can force me into another arranged marriage?” Garroth scowls, ripping the letter up in quick succession. “No. I’m not.”

“Have you considered he might genuinely want something nice for your mother?” Laurance questions, turning his head to watch as the shredded paper flutters to the ground. “It’s her birthday, Garroth.”

“My mother has birthdays every year. What makes this one so different?” he grumbles, running a hand through Laurance’s hair. It’s soft beneath his fingers, and the texture calms him.

“It’s the first time with your family together again. And without a war going on. Weren’t her last birthdays spent in hiding?” Laurance says, biting back a small smile as Garroth tugs his hair lightly. “Besides, I hate to say it, but she’s not getting any younger. You should spend as much time with her as you can.”

Returning to O’Khasis was never in the cards for Garroth. When the war finished and he officially stepped down as Lady Aphmau’s guard, he intended to spend the remainder of his days amongst those he considers his new family, in Phoenix Drop. So far, that wish has been a reality. Working for the Guard under Dante isn’t exactly what he imagined for his career, but it isn’t the worst; the pay is nice, and the shifts are fair.

Garroth knows his father. The man has never let something go in his life. Garte’s ability to hold a grudge is impressive, even by his standards. Laurance is always calling him a stubborn idiot, and he knows where he gets the unfortunate trait from. Should he return to O’Khasis, he’ll be expected to stay. His father will spout nonsense about family duties and loyalty and following the path their ancestors worked hard to pave for them because that is what it means to be a Ro’Meave, Garroth. Never forget that.

However, as Laurance less eloquently put it, Garroth should be making the most of the time he has with his mother. They have twenty years of absence to make up for. She’s always visiting Phoenix Drop to see him, so it’s only fair he makes the same effort at some point. The look on her face would be priceless.

“Don’t pressure yourself, though,” Laurance adds after a moment of silence. His eyes are open now, peering up at Garroth with concern dancing in them. “If you aren’t ready, say no.”

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Would- would you come with me?”

There’s no immediate answer. Instead, Laurance sits up, shuffling until his knees knock against the side of Garroth’s thigh. A warm hand touches his cheek gently, guiding him to turn his head.

“Of course I will,” Laurance says with an edge of resolve in his tone. “I’d follow you to the ends of the earth if you asked me to.”

Garroth nuzzles his face into the touch. “When you say things like that, anyone would think you’re in love with me.”

“Irene forbid,” Laurance chuckles softly, rolling his eyes. He brings his free hand between them, spinning the golden band on his ring finger with his thumb. “We can’t have anyone thinking that now, can we?” Then, he opens his arms wide. “C’mere.”

With no hesitation, Garroth leans into the embrace. Burying his face in Laurance’s stomach, he sighs contently. Sometimes it feels utterly strange to have this: a person who supports him through anything. Someone who will stay by his side through thick and thin, even if it means dealing with the unpredictable mess that is the Ro’Meave family.

Garroth has no idea what he did to deserve Laurance Zvahl, but he thanks the Divine each day for allowing him someone so precious.

-

The Sacred Forest is serene in the night. Short streams of moonlight peak through gaps in the canopy, and fireflies illuminate the clearing further. Leaves rustle in the light breeze; the wind howls through the high branches, but the animals know there are no wolves in this forest. A deer passed by not long ago, prancing happily across the clearing. The distant sound of bunnies thumping their feet against the floor can still be heard this late.

Garroth didn’t dare light a campfire, despite the chilly spring night, lest he faced Hyria’s wrath. The old witch is generous enough to allow them passage through her forest whenever they need, an invitation extended to anyone who Lady Aphmau calls a friend, and he does not want to ruin her kind offer by causing harm to the thriving nature. (Also, last time he tried to break a branch from a tree, she sent her familiars after him. He does not want a repeat of that incident.)

The hour is late, though he doesn’t know how late exactly. He’d forgotten to pack his pocket watch, an oversight on his part. He’d forgotten to pack most of the important items, honestly.

Procrastination would be an understatement to describe how Garroth spent his week. Aside from patrolling, he’d done virtually nothing. Unless staring aimlessly at the ceiling for hours or pacing the length of his living room counted for something. Since he replied to his father’s letter with an affirmation, it was as if a cog had come loose in his mind. It won’t function as usual.

Laurance mainly left him to his own devices, knowing there’s nothing he’d been able to do in the situation. He waits for Garroth to come to him - the patience of a saint, that one. It’s taken many years for him to realise this is the best way to deal with Garroth’s strange moods, to learn that pressure only serves to make matters worse.

Tonight, his patience must finally be wearing thin. It could be the exhaustion from a day of travelling on foot, or the fact Garroth is accidently keeping him awake with his back and forth pacing of the clearing, that makes him snap.

“Come lie down,” Laurance demands, patting the empty bedroll beside him. When his request goes ignored, he stomps over and proceeds to drag Garroth back to their temporary campsite with a tight grip on his arm. “Stop. Talk to me, or sleep. Wearing yourself out does nothing.”

Garroth brings his hand to his mouth, but his nails are already painfully short. He gnaws at the skin around them instead. Lying down, he tries to shut his eyes and rest, to no avail.

Hundreds of impossible scenarios plague his mind, each more absurd than the last. Dread pools in his gut, curling up tight into a ball of tension that physically hurts. The idea of returning to O’Khasis tomorrow is haunting him, his past finally having the opportunity to catch up with him again. Once he’s in the suffocating walls of the city-estate, he’s right back to where he started.

“This was a mistake,” he blurts out, shooting up. “We should go home. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

With a sigh, Laurance sits up too. “You were thinking about your mother. Look, if you truly don’t think you can face this-.”

“I don’t know what to do!” Garroth throws his arms up in defeat. “I want to see my mother and spend her birthday with her. Irene knows we’re overdue a visit, and she’s been too busy to come to Phoenix Drop. But going back to O’Khasis feels wrong after all this time.”

“Do you think it was easy for me to visit Meteli after the war?” Laurance squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head. “I know it’s not the same, but here me out: I was terrified. I’d left Cadenza again, this time of my own volition, and the idea of it caused me such bad anxiety that I put it off for months. Every time she asked me to stay with her, I told her I wasn’t ready yet. The issue was… I was never going to feel ready. Big things like this, the scary ones that make you want to crawl into a hole and hide instead of facing up to them, are the most important hurdles to get over.

“When I did see ‘Denza again, it was like nothing changed. There was no reason to worry, and the months I’d spent putting it off were just a waste, because I let irrational thoughts rule me.”

“I’m proud of you for putting your fears aside,” Garroth says sincerely, bringing his hand to squeeze Laurance’s. Then, he sighs. “I think I’m just… worried.”

“About what?”

Everything, is what Garroth wants to answer. There are a thousand thoughts running through his mind, so many he can’t pinpoint just one worry. His overactive imagination is a curse at times like these.

They’ll be staying in his childhood home, which itself wouldn’t be an issue, except Laurance seldom learns much about his past aside from the basics. His childhood is a topic he prefers not to dwell on, and Laurance respects that. Having him stay in the Ro’Meave castle will be opening doors he’s previously kept tightly locked. Then there’s the issue of O’Khasis itself - the city-state has changed a lot in the years since its invasion. It isn’t the powerhouse it used to be, and the citizens, according to Vylad, aren’t the same devoted, kind people they once were. They’re more volatile, scared; their time under Tu’La’s rule was harsh. Garroth doesn’t know how they’ll react to their eldest Son returning home when it’s a well-known fact he did virtually nothing to help with their liberation effort.

Worst of all is, “My father.”

Laurance’s hand settles on Garroth’s thigh. “Talk to me,” he demands softly.

“I haven’t spoken to him in,” he pauses to count on his fingers, a light gasp escaping him when he calculates, “twenty five years. It’s only been ten for me, but so much has happened in that time. The last time I saw him, he told me I was to marry someone I didn’t know and finally fulfil my duty to O’Khasis and the family. I told him I hated him and became a runaway. How on earth am I supposed to approach him?”

“Don’t,” Laurance says simply. “Let him approach you.”

“What if he doesn’t? What if the entire week is painfully awkward and it ruins my mother’s birthday and-?”

“Hey. Look at me.”

Garroth swallows the lump in his throat, inhaling sharply. His jaw feels tight, so he tries to untense it. He lifts his bowed head with some effort and makes eye contact.

“Remember what I said about my sister? How I felt terrified, but in the end it all worked out?” Garroth nods, and Laurance smiles. “Do you know who gave me the courage to go through with it?”

He remembers his constant nagging for Laurance to visit New Meteli, tiring of the insistent letters from Cadenza showing up at their door each week. How much of that counted as encouragement, Garroth doesn’t know.

“It was you,” Laurance confesses, almost whispering. “You gave me the kick I needed and you stuck by my side the whole time. I’m grateful for that, Garroth, and I want to repay the favour. That’s why I agreed to come with you to O’Khasis: to be where you need me.” He kneels in front of Garroth, cupping his face in his hands. With his thumb he wipes away the tear falling down his cheek. “Whatever happens with your father, we’ll deal with it together, alright? We’ll make sure Lady Ro’Meave has the best birthday of her life, and you’ll realise this isn’t a mistake after all.”

Garroth wants to believe him, he really does. But there’s a pessimistic voice in the back of his mind, a feeling curling in his stomach, that keeps telling him something is going to go miserably wrong. He can’t shake the idea.

Instead of expressing his concerns, he forces a small smile onto his face and mouths a thank you, pulling Laurance in for a kiss. He doesn’t miss the frown that forms on his face, a sure sign he knows there’s still something wrong.

--

The next night sees their arrival in O’Khasis. They debate taking refuge in Nahakra for the night, to give Garroth a little more time to prepare, but they both know the longer it gets put off, the worse his anxiety will become. He’d been running on empty for the entire day, the overwhelming storm of thoughts raging in his mind preventing him from resting at all and dampening his appetite through the day. Staying anywhere else would be redundant; he won’t sleep, again.

Laurance, tired as he looks with the rings around his eyes, tries to make the situation better. His attempts to ease Garroth’s guilt are futile but appreciated, well-meaning. He says it’s better for them to travel at night anyway, claims that too many people would recognise them through the day. It’s better to face a few dangerous drunkards who can’t tell them apart from any other travellers than angry or curious mobs of O’Khasians. Garroth agrees with him on that point. He too prefers dealing with a few stumbling idiots than crowds. He’d take a Dale over tourists any day.

Walking freely through the empty streets seems wrong to Garroth, whose most recent memories of the city all include sneaking through back allies and hiding out in the ‘secret house’ (though, from what he last heard, it isn’t so secret anymore - Vylad lives there now.) Each time they pass a guard he catches himself flinching, veering out of their line of sight until they look over at him with suspicion. All too quickly is he the wide-eyed teenager holding his brother’s hand while they escape their responsibilities for a while, and the foolish idiot abandoning his Lady in the middle of a city under martial law over worry of his mother. He floats above himself as he walks, not quite in the moment, until Laurance links their arms. The touch grounds him some.

Until they arrive at their destination. Tucked away by the shore, just away from the harbour, stands the O’Khasis Castle. A monument that has stood the test of time, dating all the way back to the time of Irene and possibly even before, the castle looms over them. Only a thick iron gate separates the well-kept gardens from the rest of the city, but that gate served as a perfect folly to Garroth as a child.

It seems less impressive now. The whole thing does. The castle’s scale and size aren’t as magnifying as they used to be. Garroth has seen far bigger buildings on his travels, so many that this place pales in comparison.

Beside him, Laurance doesn’t seem to share his sentiment. His mouth is agape, neck strained to take a proper view of the high castle walls. “I can’t believe you grew up here.”

“Can we head inside now?” Garroth grumbles, slipping away from his side. He strides to the gate with purpose, desperate to hide the tremors wracking his body. The guard on duty nods at him curtly without him having to introduce himself, and he internally curses them for not causing some kind of delay like he’d hoped.

The doors to the foyer are locked. To be expected, surely, at such a late hour. “We have to head around the side.” And they do, slowly, to find that the side door to the kitchen is locked too.

“You did tell them we were coming, right?” Laurance questions, tilting his head in confusion when Garroth hands his backpack to him.

“Yes,” he says. He replied to the letter explaining to his father he’d stay the week of his mother’s birthday, and that he’d be bringing someone along. That was the length of their correspondence. Either his father forgot, or he didn’t expect Garroth to keep his word.

As if Garroth is the untrustworthy one.

With gritted teeth he scales the uneven stone wall beside the side door. The bricks jut out at odd angles, the erosion of time wearing them down. They once provided good support for small feet, acting as footholds for a young Garroth (and later, Vylad). Bigger now, but stronger, he climbs the wall just as easily as he once did. He knocks aside the small potted plant sitting on the window ledge above the door frame and feels around for something. To his surprise, the rusty key is still there.

He fumbles with it trying to slide it in the lock, the shakiness of his hands evident. Laurance takes it from him gently, unlocking the door swiftly.

The kitchen is in darkness. Garroth stares into the abyss as if something is going to come out of it and kill him. “I can’t do it.”

A hand slides into his own, intertwining their fingers. Laurance squeezes. “Yes, you can.”

“I can’t,” Garroth shakes his head, biting back the tears. “What if-?”

“Stop. You’re overthinking it.” Laurance moves to stand in front of him, blocking the view inside. With two hands he grips Garroth’s shoulders and gives him a small shake. “You’ve fought wars, and saved Ru’aun. You helped to vanquish the Shadow Lord, for goodness sake. You can spend a week with your family, Garroth.”

“It’s different,” he mumbles.

“Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it, together. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

The reality of the situation sinks in at that moment, and he can’t fight back the tears. He has no idea how long they stand there, Garroth hiding his shame from the world with his face pressed into Laurance’s bony shoulder. It feels like hours until he finally catches his breath, though it must only be a few minutes. Laurance doesn’t complain once about his sodden jacket or the wailing. He only rubs soothing circles into Garroth’s back and whispers something comforting in his ear.

It takes another few minutes to properly build up the courage to cross the threshold. Once he steps inside, Garroth knows there’s no turning back. It feels like accepting defeat at the end of a battle, everything you’ve worked for and everything you’ve sacrificed being in vain. Why did he run away if he knew his return was inevitable? The situation might not be how he envisaged it, but the dread is all the same.

O’Khasis is his father’s battleground. Garroth never had a chance of winning this war. He was doomed the moment he was born within the walls.

But, he reminds himself as he takes a deep breath, he isn’t here to fight. The war is over, both figuratively and literally. The sword at his side does not need to be drawn. Now is the time for peace, the time to rebuild what was destroyed during the violence.

He steps inside.

Chapter Text

“Morning, sleepyhead.” Laurance’s voice is sultry in the morning. He cards a hand through Garroth’s messy curls before gently kissing his cheek.

Garroth can almost pretend they’re at home, in Phoenix Drop. It’s just another lazy morning where they can lie in bed and he can bask in Laurance’s presence. His foggy mind allows him this. He turns his head, chasing Laurance’s lips. Their kiss is languid; Garroth rolls over, pressing Laurance into the mattress.

Arms snake around his neck, holding him close. “Your morning breath,” Laurance says between kisses, “stinks.”

He pushes away slightly, smirking when Laurance groans and tries to pull him back. “Well, if that’s how you feel-.”

“No, no, come back.” He can’t deny this man anything.

The perfect illusion is shattered when the door slams open. Laurance flinches violently at the sudden noise, and Garroth moves off him in an instant, almost pushing him off the bed in the process.

Their bubble bursts, and reality sets in. The realisation hits Garroth in an instant, like an axe brought down on a log. His mind splits into two; anger bubbles in his gut and anxiety blooms in his chest. Shame sits between.

“GarGar! Honey! You’re home!” Zianna cheers excitedly, voice too shrill for such an early hour. As if she didn’t see anything at all, she rushes over to the bed and embraces her son. “Your father told me this morning. Oh, I’m so happy!” She holds him by the shoulders at arm's length, beaming.

“Hi, Lady Ro’Meave,” Laurance greets meekly, holding the blanket over his chest.

“Oh, what a nice surprise! It’s lovely to see you, Laurance. I see you’ve made yourself at home.” Garroth doesn’t miss the way her smile falters for a second. “Garte had one of the spare chambers set up for your guest, Garroth.”

“We’re fine as we are,” Garroth replies. “It’s wonderful to see you, Mother, but… could you give us some time to get dressed?” The pillow on his lap isn’t doing much to cover his modesty.

“Oh!” she blinks, snapping her neck to look away. “Sorry, baby! I didn’t even realise.” She adjusts her nightgown exaggeratedly. “My excitement got the better of me… I’ll leave you boys alone. Will you be joining us for breakfast?”

Laurance’s stomach grumbles. He chuckles awkwardly.

“Guess that answers that question,” Garroth rolls his eyes fondly.

-

Breakfast in the Ro’Meave household is ordinarily a quiet affair. Most mealtimes are.

It wasn’t always like this. A long time ago, before Garte’s illness, chatter and cheer would echo through the large dining room, and the family would huddle together at one end of the table. They’d talk about their days - Zane would speak of his schooling, Garroth of all the new fighting techniques he learnt - prompted by their father himself. In the months during Garte’s illness, the rest of the family spoke hushedly, out of respect for their missing member. But when he returned, the cracks formed. He sat at the head of the table, his wife at the opposite end - worlds away. The boys were given assigned seats too, Garroth closest to his father (though he rarely did stay in that seat for long, using Vylad’s uncoordinated cutlery usage as an excuse to sit beside his brother). Silence was demanded without a word from that day forward.

When Garroth sat down to have his first meal with Dale’s family, he’d almost forgotten how to speak while he ate. It felt wrong to hear Brian speak of his day through mouthfuls of food and listen to Dale’s boisterous laugh. When prompted to speak himself, he would give minimal answers. But Molly was insistent, and soon the habit of staying silent during a meal quickly faded.

In the presence of his father, it persists.

When they enter the dining room, neither of his parents turn to them. Vylad, who must’ve been informed of his brother’s visit some days ago, gives them a curt nod. Deafening silence rings throughout the room.

Two plates have been laid out for them. One is placed right by his father’s side of the long table, the other on the opposite, right in the centre. Garroth doesn’t bother to say anything, only grabs his plate and walks with it to sit beside Laurance. 

The defiance feels wrong. He knocks his knee against Laurance’s, a reminder for himself of his presence.

Twenty five years have passed since he saw his father in the flesh. Garroth steels himself and works up the courage to glance at Garte. It shocks him just how old his father looks, with his paled skin. His once golden blonde hair has become thin and wiry, greyed. Though he’s never been a stocky man, his frame is light, his expensive clothes almost hanging off him. The hands holding his knife and fork are wrinkled and veiny. The very presence that once shook Garroth to the core with fear is all but gone.

Is that his future?

Garte lifts his head, and they make eye contact. Garroth flinches involuntarily. 

Clearing his throat, Garte speaks, “Son. It’s good to see you.” His voice is strained.

A horribly awful feeling curls in Garroth’s gut. The smell of the bacon on his plate becomes overpowering. His appetite is lost.

“You too,” he mumbles, stabbing the bacon with his fork and transferring it to Laurance’s plate. The small smile on his face is almost worth it.

“Won’t you introduce us to your… friend?”

The words die in his throat. He needs to say something, anything. The atmosphere is thick enough to swallow, and Garroth feels suffocated. His mouth grows dry.

While he sips his water, Laurance speaks in his place. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Ro’Meave,” he says politely, hiding well the edge in his voice. “I’m Laurance Zvahl, Garroth’s f-.”

“Zvahl… Where have I heard that name before?” Garte strokes his beard, eyes narrowing at Laurance. He snaps his fingers. “Ah, you’re the Meteli boy. ‘Impressive’, the Academy used to call you. What brings you with my boy?”

Laurance, whose quick wit usually leaves him with an answer for everything, is speechless. He hesitates to answer, unsure where the line is drawn.

“He has never been to O’Khasis before now,” Garroth answers in his stead. The sight of Laurance struggling to speak is so strange that it almost shocks him out of his own panic. Something ugly unearths within him: a harsher side of the dormant relic inside his chest. “I thought it would be a good opportunity to allow him the privilege of seeing Ru’aun’s capital. I did write about my bringing a friend; there’s no problem, is there?”

Garte blinks. His mouth is agape as he stares at his son incredulously. The shocked look on his face doesn’t linger long, morphing into a facade of expressionlessness. He taps his finger on the table, tightening his jaw. “No problem at all.” Then, he paints on a smile and turns his attention to Laurance again. “It’s a pleasure to host you, Sir Zvahl. I hope O’Khasis is to your liking. I hear you’ve met my wife already,” he gestures to the other end of the table, where Zianna sits poking at her food. “And this is Vylad, Garroth’s brother.”

“We’re familiar,” Vylad states.

“Well, that’s good. If the two of you know each other, you’ll be happy to show Sir Zvahl around, won’t you?” Garte suggests, though it sounds more like a demand.

Vylad furrows his brow. “Garroth can-.”

“Your brother and I have some matters to discuss today.”

“Father-.”

“Be a good boy and keep our guest entertained, Vylad.”

Garroth cannot bite his tongue any longer. He squeezes his fist tightly into a ball under the table to stop his temper from rising. “If it’s all the same to you, Father, I’ll be showing Laurance around the city. I did plan on asking Mother and Vylad to tag along too. Whatever needs discussion can wait for a day, surely.” His eyes flicker to Laurance, who is watching him with a proud gleam in his eyes. He tries not to revel too long under his gaze.

When he turns back to his father, Garte is glowering. Garroth winces.

Then, Garte nods, and the anger is gone. As if someone has flicked a switch within him. He smiles broadly. “That sounds wonderful, son. We never did get to have many family outings.”

--

In the bustling streets of O’Khasis, Garroth feels a little more in his element. It’s a far-cry from the joyful days in Phoenix Drop, but it’s the closest he’s felt to home since they left.

Merchants shout from behind their stalls to draw people’s attention, arms widened to show their array of produce. Green apples, red roses, blue crystals - you name it, someone in O’Khasis sells it. There is a reason the city-state earned its name as the capital of Ru’aun. Aside from its impressive size, it also boasts the largest and most stable economy in the nation. Its large harbour provides ample space for docking ships of all kinds, from the hulking vessels hailing from the west, or the humble ships that travel from the freezing south. Wares upon wares are trades in these walls, and it makes everyone all the richer.

For all the criticisms Garroth has of his father, his economic understanding isn’t one of them. Before Garte took over as Lord, O’Khasis was almost falling into a state of financial ruin due to previous leaders’ lack of outsider trading. Businesses boomed under his reign. There is a reason the citizens respect him so highly.

(If they could see behind closed doors, Garroth thinks, things would be different.)

Monday is market day. Another oversight on Garroth’s part, really. The streets are busier than he anticipated, too used to the schedules in Phoenix Drop (where market days are on Sunday, and the following day the streets are significantly calmer). Groups of ladies chatter in awkward places with no regard for passersby. Excited children weave through the crowds of shoppers, whooping and hollering in their games.

Vylad, never one for busyness, shrinks in on himself as they walk. His usual cool demeanor shifts, and he sticks close to his brother’s side. Some things never change.

“I believe congratulations are in order,” Vylad says to Garroth in a low tone, leaning close to his ear. He quickly checks that he hasn’t drawn their father’s attention before lifting his hand and holds up his ring finger. “When did that happen?”

Scanning for Laurance in the crowd, Garroth feels his face flushing. He spots him, eyes drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Laurance and his mother are admiring a stall of shiny gems, the latter chatting animatedly while she points out certain colours. A warm feeling blooms in his chest.

“I-I did mean to tell you, but it must’ve slipped my mind,” he admits sheepishly, patting Vylad’s shoulder in way of an apology. “It was a-a few weeks ago.”

Crossing his arms, Vylad pouts mockingly. “Weeks?” he questions indignantly, raising his voice a little to be heard over the noise around them. “What, am I the last person to know?”

“No, actually,” Garroth rolls his eyes playfully, giving his brother a light shove. “You’re the second. We wanted to keep it quiet for a while. Only Leona knows, since she helped me plan it.”

“You-?”

“Shush,” he hisses, shaking his head frantically. He jabs a thumb over his shoulder.

Garte is hovering nearby, inspecting a book stall. He’s leaning on his cane - a new development, brought on apparently by an injury he sustained in Tu’La that healed wrong. He is still within earshot of their conversation, having not lingered far out of his son’s space since their outing began.

An outing he invited himself to. Garroth never intended to actually show Laurance around O’Khasis, since he never showed any interest in getting to know the place beyond what Garroth was willing to tell him, but he guesses it wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Despite his father’s looming presence, it’s nice to see his mother getting along with Laurance and Vylad getting outside for a while. Something about the fresh air has calmed his nerves some, too - he doesn’t feel like he’s about to vomit at any given moment.

Barely anyone has approached them. He half expected to be bombarded by people, as he always was when he was younger, but they’ve been left alone. The only interactions they’ve had were a few of his father’s ‘friends’ - aristocrats and the like - making small talk whenever they were walking through the part of the city closest to the castle. Its official name is the Upper City, but most of O’Khasis have their own names for it. Garroth took to calling it ‘Upper Shitty’ in his adolescence (one of the less creative names he heard, but the others were too expletive even for him to repeat).

The main market area borders the Upper City and the Central, so a few wealthier men keep stopping his parents to ask how they are. It’s only a pleasantry - they aren’t truly bothered so much as they want to keep up appearances with the Lord. At least a few of their wives seem to genuinely wonder after Zianna. It’s good to know someone cares about her wellbeing.

“Are you going to tell them?” Vylad asks, leaning close to his shoulder again.

He thinks back to his mother’s reaction this morning. Zianna has known about their relationship for some time - when she visits Phoenix Drop, she stays in their spare room. Though they’ve never explicitly said it aloud, or showed much physical affection in front of her, they never made much of an effort to hide it either. Garroth isn’t sure if her ignorance, her referral to Laurance as his “best friend” is a good or bad thing. On one hand, it may be an exercise in giving her son his own space, to let him tell her things in his own time (a talk they’ve had numerous times before). But sometimes he catches her eyes lingering on Laurance a little too long, the hint of a glare in the look. He swears he’s caught her snarling at him once or twice before. Part of him wonders if the other hand carries a disapproval of their relationship, whether it be because of who he chose, or the very nature of their relationship itself.

Same-sex relationships are a taboo topic in O’Khasis. Garroth never even entertained the idea until he first ran away, believing the attraction he’d always felt towards women and men to be something everyone dealt with. In the rest of Ru’aun, love is celebrated no matter the subject of a person’s affections. It took him some time to adjust to that reality, but he’s glad for it.

“I don’t know,” he shakes his head. “I suppose I’ll have to eventually, but not yet. This week isn’t about me.”

A man yells, “Thief!”

The marketplace erupts into chaos. Garroth’s head snaps to the source of the shout, ignoring the havoc surrounding him. A burly man leaps over his fruit stall and chases a small hooded figure, and they’re running right towards him. He shoves Vylad out of the way, just before the proclaimed thief runs right into him.

He staggers back, but the thief is short and light of frame. The impact doesn’t do much but allow Garroth to get a tight grip on the person’s shoulders.

“Keep him there! I’ll chop the little rat’s hand off!”

Two wide green eyes peer up at him, terror swirling within them. He looks towards the child’s hand, and a singular apple is clutched within it.

Without thinking, he releases his grip on the boy’s shoulders. And within a second, he’s scampering off down the street, apple in hand.

The man runs for a short time after him, before coming to a stop. He hunches over, hands on his knees as he catches his breath. His face is red when he stomps over to Garroth. “The fuck is wrong with you!?” he yells, spit flying into Garroth’s face. “Why’d you let the little shit go!”

Garroth blinks, hand already on the hilt of his sword. “You have two seconds to let go of me.”

One of the man’s hands is gripping his tunic, keeping him close, and the other is in a raised fist. “Give me one good reason not to smack you stupid.”

The street has fallen into silence now, and a small circle is forming around them. Garroth doesn’t take his gaze from the man’s angry face, but he curls two fingers around his sword.

The clicking sound of a cane hitting the cobblestone approaches them rhythmically. The man’s ears perk up, and he looks away for a split second. Garroth takes the opportunity to push him away.

“That’s quite enough, Sir,” Garte says, distracting the man from returning to his violent intentions. “I’d rather there be no blood spilled over something as simple as an apple.”

“L-Lord Garte?” The merchant stares at him incredulously. He bows down. “S-Sir, forgive me. I didn’t realise you were-.”

“I’ll pay for your lost profit,” Garte offers, fishing into his pocket.

“No, no!” he shakes his head frantically, red now out of embarrassment. “Really, I can’t accept that.”

“I insist, seeing as my son let the boy go,” Garte says flatly, holding out a gold coin. “Let me settle this debt, therefore nobody misses out.”

---

“Gar, I don’t think this is a good idea,” Laurance declares. He half-jogs to keep up with Garroth’s pace as they approach the end of the hallway.

Garroth doesn’t stop to consider that Laurance might be right. If he stops, he knows he’ll lose his nerve; if he doesn’t get this out, he’ll spend the rest of the week seething over it.

Pale light shines through the small crack under the door, and Garroth is grateful this was the first place he thought to check. He doesn’t bother to knock, barging right into his father’s study.

Garte doesn’t look up from his desk. He presses the tip of the quill in his hand to his tongue before dipping into the ink pot beside him. “What is it, Garroth?” He scribbles something on the document in front of him.

His study has barely changed in all the years Garroth has been gone. A surprising fact, given that Tu’La must’ve ransacked the place for information. Then again, there’s not much more mess that can be made in this place. Wall to wall are bookshelves stacked to the brim, the wood bent from the weight. Papers scatter the floor and desk alike, flat or balled up or covered in footprints. Aside from the large desk, the only other furniture in the room is a sad-looking red couch, its cushions sagging from years of use, pushed into the far corner. Garroth remembers finding his father sleeping on it often as a child.

“I refuse to be in your debt,” Garroth states firmly, slamming the gold coin he’s been clenching in his fist onto the desk. “What happened earlier, you didn’t have to do that. I would’ve squared it with the man.”

“What Garroth means to say is,” Laurance interjects, moving him aside by his shoulders, “he appreciates what you did, but he doesn’t want to owe you. It makes him stressed.”

Garte finally looks up from his papers, eyes flicking to the coin before meeting his son’s gaze. He pushes the coin back with the tip of his quill. “I won’t accept that. Why can’t you accept the gesture? I was trying to do something kind.”

“Because you don’t do gestures,” Garroth snarls. He barks a laugh. “When have you ever done something kind?”

Sighing, Garte rises to his feet. “I think we should have a talk, son. Sir Zvahl, would you give us some privacy?”

“Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of Laurance.”

He nods. “Have it your way. Would you both sit down?” With a hand he gestures to the couch.

Reluctantly, Garroth is half-dragged to sit on the ancient seat, though he balances on the edge. His leg bounces up and down rapidly, only stopping when Laurance places a hand on his knee to calm him.

The anger that’s been bubbling in his stomach since they arrived home dissipates, leaving behind mortification in its place. Garroth wishes the floor would swallow him whole to save him the embarrassment. His temper rarely gets the better of him, but something about his family makes him irrational. Especially when it comes to his father.

Garte stands before them, leaning against the desk to support himself. His hands are clasped in front of him, and he wrings them almost nervously. After a deep exhale, he admits, “I haven’t been completely honest. There was another reason I asked you here.”

“Told you,” Garroth mutters low enough for just Laurance to hear. The hand on his knee squeezes tightly.

“I know it’s been many years since we’ve been face to face, and our last meeting wasn’t a desirable one. To be honest, I thought I’d never see you again when you left O’Khasis.” Garte pauses, biting his bottom lip. “Then your brother vanished too. I’ve had a lot of time to think, along with many conversations with your mother. I came to the realization that I haven’t been the best parent in the world. Nor husband.”

Garroth can’t help the disbelieving smile that spreads on his face. He rubs his hand across his mouth as if to wipe it away. “What makes you think that?” he deadpans. “Was it the forced marriage, the way Zane turned out, or Vylad’s existence?”

“I called you here to make things right, Garroth, not to dredge up the past. I want us to be able to move on from this. To be a proper family, for your mother.”

He chuckles dryly. “Did you never stop to think, maybe it’s too late?”

Garte sighs again, planting his hands on the desk behind. “What are you talking about, boy?”

“You’ve been back from Tu’La for almost a year, and I’ve heard nothing. No letter, nothing. The most I hear about you is whatever Mother tells me, and all she has to say is that you’re ‘working hard to put things right’. I assume that means O’Khasis came first on your list, correct?”

He blinks, speechless.

Garroth smiles, and nods. “Yes. That’s what I thought, Father.” He swallows the lump in his throat. “Is it selfish of me to wonder why your first act wasn’t to reach out to your estranged son? Or should I have expected it? You always were a Lord first.”

“O’Khasis was in ruin after the invasion. You saw it for yourself, when you rescued Zianna. It required immediate attention.”

The anger returns, tenfold. Despite that, Garroth thinks that’s the most his father has sounded like himself since he arrived. 

“And what about the state of your family?” Garroth questions. “Are we always just an afterthought to you?”

“You’re all adults. You can look after yourself, can’t you?”

“Your son died!” Garroth blurts out. He slaps a hand over his mouth after the outburst, surprised at himself. Then, he repeats, “Your son died. And you couldn’t even take some time to mourn him.”

Garte scowls, his knuckles turning white as he grips the desk. “I mourned that boy long ago. You forget I had fifteen years to grieve that loss. I see no need to spare any more time for someone so wicked-.”

“Wicked?” Garroth parrots, his bowed head snapping up. “You dare call Zane that when you’re the reason-!”

“That’s enough!” Laurance yells. His arm is extended in front of Garroth to keep him in place. “Do you truly think arguing will get you anywhere? Garroth, you know better. And you, Lord Ro’Meave-.”

“Don’t you address me-.”

“Don’t speak to him like that-.”

“Stop!” Laurance stands and stamps his foot. Both Ro’Meaves look at him, shocked but silent. He shies away for a second, shoulders hunching, before taking a deep breath. “I may be speaking out of turn, but this is ridiculous. You are both grown men fighting like teenagers. Ettie and Dmitri have better communication skills than this, Gar. Seriously.”

Garroth hangs his head in shame. As much as he hates to admit it, Laurance is right; this was a bad idea. He does know better than to approach a sensitive situation with a heightened temper. And, he didn’t stop to think about how this might’ve affected Laurance.

He can see the tremble in his fiancé’s hand.

“If you intend to make amends with your family, Lord Ro’Meave, I don’t suggest starting with secrecy. There were better ways of asking Garroth here than asking him under false pretences,” Laurance shakes his head in disapproval. “Being a Lord is a consuming job, but isn’t an excuse to neglect your family. My own father managed to balance the two perfectly fine.

“Frankly, I have no idea what happened between you and your family other than what Garroth has told me. And part of me doesn’t want to know. But I can respect your want to fix things. Family is important, and I understand the struggle of not knowing where to begin. Let me tell you, this isn’t how.”

“Sir Zvahl, this behavior is inappropriate,” Garte fumes. “To come into my home and tell me how to speak to my family-.”

“Come on, Garroth,” Laurance beckons him, already halfway through the doorway. “Let’s go cool you off some. Then you can try this conversation again.”

He follows. Over his shoulder, he sees his father glowering, but he makes no attempt to stop them. Garroth smirks.

----

Vylad never quite settled down anywhere after the war. He spent the majority of it in Tu’La searching for Garte, rarely sending word back to the Phoenix Alliance on the state of his mission. When he completed it, returning home with their father, Garroth ordered him to stay in Phoenix Drop for a month to recover from the terrible state the adventure left him in - he’s never been any good at looking after himself. Once his older brother was satisfied with his physical state, he was released from his quasi-imprisonment and set to travel again wherever he pleased. He flitters between O’Khasis and Phoenix Drop mostly, sometimes visiting the Alliance Island when he’s needed.

Soon, his nomad lifestyle was noticed by a certain werewolf girl. No longer needed as a babysitter, Leona was bored with her life. Upon the discovery of who her father was, and therefore her extended family, she was looking for excuses to grow closer to them. Her first target was possibly the worst choice - one day she followed Vylad to O’Khasis and that was that.

Leona didn’t feel comfortable staying with her estranged grandparents, so Vylad took her to the other house he once frequented with his brother. Leona rightfully didn’t want to share a room with her uncle, so Vylad built partitions in the abandoned house. Leona didn’t like the drab colours of the place, so Vylad painted it. Leona’s strong sense of smell and busy, new places are never a good combination, so Vylad surrounded their house in her favourite plants to mask the overwhelming scents of O’Khasis.

The hideaway Garroth knew is gone. He finds he doesn’t mind.

It’s the first place he thinks of when Laurance suggests leaving the castle for the day. They skipped breakfast, grabbing some pastries from a bakery on the walk over. Garroth spares a thought for his mother, picking her up an apple crumble as an apology for later.

The key is still under the same plantpot it always has been. Laurance mumbles something about predictable hiding spaces.

“Vylad,” Laurance singsongs, wiping his shoes on the green matt. “We come bearing gifts!” He shakes the paper bag in his hands as if he’s calling a dog for its food.

The living room is filled with mismatching furniture: a dining table with each chair from a different set, a green couch, a floral armchair and brown rug to tie everything together. The incohesive vibe reminds Garroh of the old guard station, where they gathered whatever spare furniture they could around the village to make the place feel more like home. Vylad’s never been one to pay when he could fix things up for free - his childhood toys were all tinkering projects he created with whatever parts Garroth gathered for him (and they stayed in the hideaway house, since the castle was a no-toy-zone).

The staircase groans as someone descends. Vylad pops his head around the corner, pointedly hiding the rest of his body. “Ever heard of knocking?” he grumbles, shaking his head. “Walking in like you own the place.”

Garroth raises an eyebrow. “Last time I checked, you don’t own this house either.”

“Son of O’Khasis privileges. I can squat where I want.” He extends his arm and gestures at the food. “What is it?”

Laurance stalks over to the kitchen, rifling through the cupboards. He finds the plates eventually. “Breakfast.”

To talk over a meal is the smallest act of defiance Garroth can muster this morning. They chat about menial topics, chewing on their pastries. O’Khasis and its pressures are miles away, in the same way it used to be all those years ago.

“Garte hasn’t changed much, has he?” Vylad says, picking at his food. “Same old, same old.”

“I’m beginning to think he’ll never change,” Garroth sighs, burying his face in his hands. “A small, tiny part of me wanted - no, hoped - that things would be different this time. But he’s too stubborn.”

“Pot calling the kettle black,” Laurance mumbles.

Garroth snaps his head to glare at him. “What was that?” In the corner of his eye he can see Vylad shaking his head frantically.

Laurance pays his brother no heed and doesn’t shy away from the confrontational tone he takes. “Look, I’m not comparing you to your father. The Gods know I would never. But sometimes you have a hard time changing too, Gar.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he frowns.

“If you’ve made up your mind, you refuse to see another way around.” Laurance attempts to grab his hand, but Garroth puts it in his lap. “All I’m saying is you’ve come with the preconceived notion that Garte has some ulterior motive. You said it as soon as you received the letter. So any interaction you have, you’re picking it apart to find some proof for your theory. How many times have I told you, you’re overthinking this?”

“You don’t know what he’s like,” Garroth shakes his head, leg bouncing beneath the table. The material of his trousers are rough against his fidgeting hands.

“If I’m wrong, then I’ll eat my words. You have permission to tell me ‘I told you so’ for the rest of the year, alright?” Laurance bargains, knocking their ankles together. “But you need to stop paying so much attention to your father. You aren’t here for him. Isn’t it Lady Zianna’s birthday tomorrow? Have either of you gotten her a present?”

A plate clatters as it’s dropped into the sink. Vylad curses under his breath. “Big brother, please tell me you got something.”

Garroth grits his teeth. “Of course I haven’t. We’re terrible sons, V.”

“You two are useless,” Laurance rolls his eyes. He can’t bite back the smile on his face as he pulls something out of his jacket pocket and places it on the table. “It’s a good job I paid attention to what she wanted yesterday. Where would you be without me?”

He opens the wooden box to reveal a dainty silver necklace. Inside the charm is a small encrusted sapphire. It sparkles as the sunshine streaming in from the window hits it. Their mother will love it.

“I’m still mad you called me stubborn, but I could kiss you for this,” Garroth says as he stands to inspect the jewelry.

“What’s stopping you?” A warm arm snakes around his waist, pulling him back against something solid and equally as warm.

“Me! That’s what’s stopping you,” Vylad announces, waving his hands in the air. “I appreciate the gesture, but just because I owe you one doesn’t mean you’re allowed to get handsy with my brother in front of me.”

“Gross,” Laurance groans, but he doesn’t pull away. His chin rests on Garroth’s shoulder, head lolling against his own. “Don’t say ‘handsy’ again.”

Vylad steps around them, taking their plates over to the sink. Over the running water, he says, “You’re lucky Leona isn’t here this week. She’d have bitten you for the shameless flirting.”

Garroth lifts his head, closing the box gently. “Leona isn’t here? That’s odd, she wasn’t in Phoenix Drop when we left.”

“She’s in Scaleswind with her mother,” Vylad explains idly. He turns the tap off, leaving the plates to soak. “She was upset about not seeing you, but she left you a note. It’s upstairs, whenever you want to get it.”

Later, while Vylad and Laurance are having some sort of debate about the heat in the Nether, Garroth wanders upstairs unseen. There are rooms now, two bedrooms and a washroom. The door closest to the stairs leads to what he assumes is Leona’s room - there’s a nest of blankets on her bed and some dresses hung on a wooden pole that serves as her closet. The walls are painted light grey, her favourite colour.

He steps inside, inspecting the small trinkets on the shelves around her room. A dog whistle, a gag gift from Laurance for her birthday last year. A jewellery box he knows is from his mother, but there’s nothing kept inside. Some wood-carved animals (also from Laurance, who discovered a new hobby during his recovery after the war and never really stopped), a few of which are painted (assumedly Vylad’s doing, given the steady hand it requires to do the finer details). Garroth wonders briefly where her stuffed wolf is before remembering she takes it everywhere with her. It’ll be all the way in Scaleswind by now.

The note in question lies on her bed. Written on a folded piece of scrap paper is ‘Uncle Gar’. The honorific still throws him each time Leona uses it.

Hi,

Sorry I couldn’t be there to see you in O’Khasis. Mama needs some help with the Scaleswind farm, and I’ve been dying to visit some old friends! I wanna hear all about your trip when you get back to Phoenix Drop.

Spend some time with Da Uncle Vylad if you can. He seems lonely recently. We both hate to see him down!

Your favourite niece,

Leona!

There’s no quill or paper to write her a quick reply, so Garroth makes a mental note to write her a letter at a later date. Most likely, she’ll be in Scaleswind for a month at least.

When he steps into the hallway, he can hear Laurance and Vylad’s debate getting heated. Knowing he’ll only be pulled into the middle, Garroth opts to stay upstairs and snoop around.

The washroom is small, the only room in the house that hasn’t changed much since he first discovered it abandoned years ago. Difference is, there's a reason for the place to be clean now. The resident spiders have been evicted, their webs gone from the corners of the ceiling.

At the end of the hall is Vylad’s room. The brass handle is cold beneath his hand while he hesitates to use it. Is it too much of an invasion of privacy? When they were children, they’d walk into one another’s rooms without knocking, a small act of agreed upon defiance since they were forced to announce their presence wherever they went otherwise. But a lifetime has passed between then and now, and Garroth is still finding the boundaries of the relationship with his youngest brother. Neither of the same people as they were as children.

Nobody has to know. 

Vylad’s room is bland, to put it simply. The walls are green, and that’s the extent of its personality. There’s a single bed pushed into the far corner and a locked chest at the foot of it. Compared to Leona’s, it feels lifeless.

Curiosity gets the better of him. He opens the chest, finding some neatly folded clothes. They’re old and frayed - he knows what Vylad is getting for his next birthday - but strangely, they’re stacked to the top. Garroth knows his brother only owns a few outfits, preferring simplicity and practicality for his nomadic lifestyle. He takes them out and places them carefully on the bed.

Underneath the clothes are some familiar items he could’ve sworn he’d never see again. Their mother’s old ocarina, which he knew Vylad had through word of mouth, and the old stuffed wyvern he once carried around everywhere with him. But the most surprising ones are the stack of old toys.

They’re tiny in his hands. He takes them out with the utmost care, lining them up in a row on the floor beside him. One of his favourites, and the most impressive in his opinion, is the ‘parade-on-wheels’ as they’d called it. It’s a small set of toy soldiers stuck to wooden blocks, attached together with string. As the name suggests, they can roll, with makeshift wheels made from old, rusty coins with nails stabbed through the middle. Vylad had a stroke of genius when making this thing. Garroth finds himself listening to it squeak as he rolls it back on the floor, transfixed by it.

“I was surprised when I found them. In my old room, no less.”

Garroth flinches at the unexpected voice. The parade-on-wheels flies across the floor. “Sorry, V. I-I-.”

“It’s alright,” Vylad assures him, picking up the toy and lining it up with the rest of them. “I wondered where you were. Laurance is making tea downstairs, if you’re ready to join us again.”

“How were they in your old room?” Garroth questions, slowly placing them back inside the chest. “They weren’t here when I last visited.”

“I wondered that myself. Mum and Garte never knew about this place until Lee moved in, and the only other person that knew was…”

“Zane.”

Vylad nods. “Everyone else who knew was gone.” He blows a few strands of hair out of his face. “But Zane refused to visit this place, so I assumed he forgot.”

Garroth shakes his head. “There’ll be some other explanation. Maybe Mother did know about this place after all-.”

“I asked her. She didn’t,” Vylad claims. “When I asked where she found them, she said Zane brought them to her a while after I disappeared and you left. He told her we’d kept these even though we weren’t supposed to have toys, and that we were ‘bad sons’.” He snorts, “I think he just wanted Mum to have them. Guilt, or whatever the closest thing Zane felt to that was.”

Garroth chuckles. “If he felt anything at all.” He tries to ignore the stinging behind his eyes, rolling them. “He still ratted us out, even after our supposed deaths. Brat.”

Chapter Text

“Are you ready for today?” whispers Laurance. Goosebumps form on Garroth’s arm where he runs his fingers up and down his tanned skin.

Garroth exhales shakily. Not trusting his own voice, he shakes his head. They need to get out of bed soon, but the mattress is so comfortable and the man holding him is so warm that he just wants to hide away in his old room all day.

“You remember what we’re doing, right?” Laurance asks, voice muffled against Garroth’s bare shoulder.

Of course he remembers. They’d been forced to read a written itinerary when they returned last night. “Remind me,” he says anyway, wanting to feel the tickle of hot breath against his skin again.

“Well, we’re due for breakfast in twenty minutes. Then your brother’s arriving, and you’re going to the family room to give your mother her gifts. You’re going for a walk in the garden after that, then it’s lunch.” Laurance’s lips are soft against his neck. “It’s free reign until dinner since Lady Ro’Meave’s friends are due for afternoon tea.”

“Father’s taking her to see a show after that,” Garroth continues, shivering at the kisses being pressed into his neck. “What… is after that?”

“Church,” Laurance grins against his warm skin, baring his teeth. “What’re you going to pray for, darling?”

A sharp inhale as his sensitive skin is nipped. “Salvation,” Garroth responds. “And forgiveness.” He’s going to need it after this.

Laurance gasps, caught off-guard by his sudden movements. He grins again while they tussle, not putting much strength into it. His red cheeks and lively eyes are the prettiest thing Garroth has ever had the pleasure of seeing. His chest rises and falls steadily with his bated breaths under Garroth’s hand, pinning him to the bed.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Garroth tells him. He already knows.

Laurance beams.

They’re late for breakfast.

-

The blue sapphire sparkles in the sunlight. Zianna admires it, holding the thin chain between her fingers delicately. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Garte?” she says fondly. “Aren’t our boys so thoughtful?”

“Very,” Garte deadpans, eyes flickering between the guilty looks on his sons’ faces. “Why don’t you wear it for safekeeping while we walk?”

“That’s a wonderful idea! Garroth, would you help me?” she asks, holding the necklace out for him to take.

It’s dainty and breakable in his broad hands. They aren’t meant for gentle tasks - he can swing a sword with precision, break bone with his bare knuckles, but he struggles with intricate tasks. Laurance is the softer between the two of them; despite his broadsword-wielding, his hands aren’t calloused like Garroth’s. His nimble fingers seem frail to anyone who doesn’t know him, but Garroth knows the firm pressure they can press, the sensitive tasks they’re capable of. Fine hobbies like wood-cutting are the ones Laurance excels at, having the concentration and the careful nature to do them with eased skill. Where Garroth is rough and tumble and clumsy, Laurance can be tactfully dexterous, subtle. The red bruising on Laurance’s hips and the long-faded pressure of fingertips pressed to Garroth’s chest are proof of this.

His hands tremble too much to work the clasp, and Vylad has to attach the necklace around their mother’s neck.

Laurance isn’t here to calm his nerves through this. His mother requested for this part of the day to be ‘family only’, pointedly staring at his fiancé when she asked, and they couldn’t deny her seeing as it is her birthday. The wall Laurance’s presence created is torn away, leaving Garroth exposed to the cold, unforgiving winds of the outside.

The castle’s courtyard is a maze of green trimmed hedges and perfectly potted flowers. Its sharp edges and symmetry unearth an uneasy feeling in Garroth, though he can’t explain why he is so uncomfortable.

“Isn’t this nice?” Zianna comments absentmindedly, bending over to admire some thistles. “Our family, together again.” She receives only a hum in response.

Garte’s cane clicks on the flagstone path as he hobbles along, his free hand in his wife’s. He glances over his shoulder every few minutes to check his sons are still trailing behind, and each time they make eye contact, Garroth’s skin grows cold under the icy glare.

“GarGar, honey, you’ve been quiet today,” his mother claims, filling the awkward silence that suffocates the family like a heavy blanket. She smiles over her shoulder at him. “Tell me, how is everyone in Phoenix Drop? It’s certainly been a while since I visited.”

Garroth clears his throat. “Everyone is fine. Nothing has changed, really. Lilith-Garnet and Alina are growing up fast, and Dante is stressed as usual. That’s about it.” He shrugs, unsure of what else to say.

“And what about you? What’s been going on in your life, son?” she encourages, stopping to pick some flowers.

The cord necklace around his neck seems to tighten, strangling him. The silver band attached to it burns a hole between his collarbones. “Nothing,” Garroth says unconvincingly, shaking his head. “Patrols and paperwork. The usual. I’m sure you don’t want to talk about me on your birthday, Mother.”

There’s a knowing look in her eyes as she presses a handful of flowers to his chest. “Hold these, please?” He closes his sweaty palm around their wet stems. The gardeners must’ve watered them this morning. “I only ask because, well, I couldn’t help but notice the engagement ring Laurance is wearing. Pray tell, who is the lucky lady he’s finally settling down with?”

“Laurance’s love life is no concern of mine, Mother. Nor yours,” Garroth cautions, ignoring the gnawing feeling in his stomach. The sweet smell of the flowers overpowers him, so he passes them to Vylad, who busies himself by tearing the leaves from them.

“Is it Lady Aphmau?” Zianna fakes excitement with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Those two always had something special, I could tell. How romantic. And what a good friend he is to leave his fianceé to come with you to O’Khasis!”

“That’s quite enough, love,” Garte sighs, a hand coming to rest on her shoulder. “Leave the poor boy out of your gossip. Save that for when the ladies arrive later.”

“Oh, boo,” Zianna pouts, but she drops the subject. Starting on a tirade about the gardeners not caring properly for her flowers - they’ve drowned them in water, apparently - she continues her amble around the garden, the three men trailing behind her.

Garroth’s heart is hammering inside his chest. A small part of him is grateful to his father - something he’d never admit aloud - for discouraging his mother. If she’d kept on, he might’ve been forced to tell the truth. He’s never been any good holding his tongue around his family when it comes to topics he feels defensive about. Lies slip easily from his lips, a trait both he and his brothers picked up early in their childhood, but so do angry words. Poor tempers and deceptiveness are genetic, it seems. Vylad is lucky not to have inherited the former.

While they walk in silence, his thoughts drift to Laurance. He’d been left to wander the castle after breakfast, and whilst Garroth told him to head back to his old room, he knows him well enough to know Laurance will be snooping. Most of the servants know his face by now, having served him meals or seen him by Garroth’s side, so they won’t immediately call the Guard on him, unless he goes somewhere he shouldn’t. He should prepare himself to post bail later, probably. If curiosity killed the cat, Laurance’s feline transformation wasn’t as temporary as they were led to believe.

Once they’ve sat through lunch, Garroth thinks he wants seconds. They never quite got to finish what they were doing this morning.

He shakes his head, feeling dizzy with the franticness at which he does so. A walk with his family is not an appropriate time to dwell on such thoughts.

Falling back, he matches his brother’s slow pace. A bunch of flowers are thwacked against his flushed face. “You should tell them,” Vylad insists quietly.

“I told you,” Garroth rolls his eyes, grip on the flowers tightening, “this week isn’t about me. What is it with everyone’s sudden interest in my personal life this week?”

“Someone got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.” Shaking his head, he presses his lips into a thin line. “Are you alright?”

Garroth nods curtly, rubbing his hand across his face. “I apologise for snapping… you know how it can be.” There’s a copper taste in his mouth as he chews the inside of his cheek. “Say, later, are you busy?”

Vylad looks up in thought for a second, before replying, “No. Other than Church tonight, I’m not busy. Do you have something in mind?”

The ghost of a smirk plays on Garroth’s face. He exaggeratedly hides his mouth behind the flower bouquet, whispering, “Remember when we were children, and we used to sneak to the tavern to laugh at all the drunkards?”

Fond amusement flashes in Vylad’s green eyes. He nods. “I still remember the terrible ballads they’d sing. 'Oh Irene, you have blessed us today, to you we say, hurray!'” They snicker at the terrible rendition.

“For old time's sake, shall we do it again?” The suggestion comes out of the blue, even for Garroth. He’d been quite determined not to relive the past while he visited, but his memories with Vylad may be the one exception to this rule.

“I’ll do you one better,” Vylad says, an uncharacteristic smirk on his face. “Let’s be the drunkards.”

--

The priest’s booming voice echoes through the large hall, reading the sermon to the few churchgoers in attendance. Weekdays are often the least popular time for people to visit Church, the busiest day by far being Sundays, but the priest is there nonetheless. Without fail, a service is held within every Church in O’Khasis each evening.

Garroth’s arse has gone numb, the thin red cushioning on the pews doing little to conceal the uncomfortableness of the flat wooden seats. These services used to bore him half to death as a child, seeming to drag on for hours and hours, and nothing has changed. The priest drones on and on and on.

He tuned out the sermon almost instantly; it was an old one he’s heard a hundred times before, something concerning hope and how each person should hold it close and in high regard, as Irene did when she almost lost the battle against the tyrant King (the irony is not lost on Garroth - he’s surprised this sermon hasn’t been banned by his father). Instead of listening, he takes in the sights of the Church, a nostalgic yet unfamiliar place. It has changed in the time he’s been gone, undergone a needed transformation. He recalls the place being drab and grey before, the stone floors cold beneath him when he kneeled to pray. The stained glass windows catch his eye, the orange sunset shining through them translucently, creating a shimmery river of rainbow on the floor that streams down the aisle.

Despite the chill in the air, he is warm. Dead weight against him, Laurance is pressed to his side, his head lolled onto his shoulder. Their hands are intertwined between them, tucked away beneath Laurance’s thigh, his left leg crossed over the other. His hand is loose in Garroth’s firm grip. Light snores escape his parted lips, and Garroth can’t help but to smile fondly.

In this place of worship, Laurance is by far the sacredest thing here.

His mother’s eyes bore into the side of his skull, another uncomfortable feeling he has to endure. They’ve caught each other’s gaze a few times, Garroth innocently turning his head to peer at something on the other side of the Church, only to witness Zianna’s eyes cast sideways towards him. Her face is one of barely concealed annoyance, as if the mere presence of the two is bothering her.

Growing annoyed himself, Garroth leans over to her and whispers in her ear, “Is everything okay, Mother?” He isn’t one for confrontation, especially not on a day like today in a place like this, but the idea that she might be irritated with him is frustrating to no end.

Zianna hushes him. “Listen,” she hisses.

Garte leans forward, putting a finger on his lip to silence them both. Behind them, Vylad snickers.

When the sermon ends and it comes time for the priest to lead them in a prayer, Garroth is awoken from his light doze when there’s movement beside him. He blinks a few times, eyes aching. His head was resting on Laurance’s, his brown hair like a soft cushion for Garroth’s cheek.

Zianna is unhooking the kneeler from the back of the pew in front, one for her and one for Garte. She lines them up on the floor, and holds out her arm for him to use as support as he lowers himself to his knees.

A sharp pain shoots through Garroth’s neck as he lifts his head, a small groan escaping his lips involuntarily. His mother snaps her head over, another look of thunder on her face. Not wanting to feel her stormy wrath later, he wipes his eyes in preparation to wake up properly.

Laurance’s thigh is warm under his hand. He gives it a quick squeeze, mutters something that comes out incomprehensible with his tired speech, but this does nothing to raise him from his slumber. Knowing he hates to be shocked awake, Garroth only shakes his shoulder gently, and he finally stirs. Constricted pupils find him through slit-eyes.

“Gar?” Laurance slurs, still half-leaning on him.

“G’t on your knees,” Garroth says, gesturing vaguely towards the kneeler hanging in front of him.

Laurance smirks lazily. “Eager t’day? We already-.”

“For prayer!” Garroth announces, cringing at the loudness of his own volume. The fogginess affecting his brain disappears in an instant. Keeping his gaze trained on the ground, he hopes neither his parents nor Laurance notice the reddening of his cheeks. The chill in the air does nothing to combat the rising heat in his neck and face.

Once he’s finally on his knees he finally dares to lift his head. The priest is watching them from the sanctuary, as if he’s waiting until they’re all settled to start the prayer. Garroth realises then that they’re the only people left in the Church - the other families must’ve left halfway through the service. How long was he asleep for?

As the prayer begins, another wave of irony washes over him - he hasn’t prayed like this since he left O’Khasis, and the moment he returns he’s picked up where he left off. Not by choice, really. They weren’t explicitly forced to attend the service, but Zianna made it abundantly clear last night that her birthday would be all but ruined if her sons didn’t come to Church with her. She’d tried on the first two days Garroth had been there too, not so subtly hinting during dinner that it would be nice to have some company on her daily visits. There had been plenty of excuses those evenings, but tonight Garroth thought he could begrudge her this one time.

In all honesty, he fell out of religious practices before he ever left O’Khasis. The Ro’Meave’s would attend Church each Sunday, like most of the devout in the city-state, but Garroth never paid attention to the sermons or prayed properly from early adolescence. Back then it seemed like a small act of defiance against his father for being forced to do something else he hated, but in hindsight he thinks it was partly because he was becoming disillusioned with the Divine, even as far back as then. He doesn’t dispute the fact they existed, still exist in fact - after all, how can he when the relic of the Protector once sat heavily in the very chest his heart beats in? - but belief and knowing are vastly different. He knows too well of their existence, as he has from being a bored child listening to Zianna and Zane’s long-winded conversation of the Matron Irene, and everything he unwillingly discovered about them during the war. The disillusionment began after years of the Goddess ignoring his prayers for something in his life to change, and the loss of his youngest brother set that in stone. If Lady Irene truly cared, then she wouldn’t have allowed people to suffer, that was Garroth’s naive thought. If only he knew then what he knows now.

It’s only once. He can humour his mother for one evening. Her beliefs don't hurt anyone - except for maybe Garroth’s knees.

Bringing his palms together, he zones out while the priest reads the prayer. Again, it’s one he’s heard more times than he can count.

His eyes fall to Laurance. Warmth blossoms in his chest at the sight of him, hands held together in prayer and his eyes squeezed shut, as if he’s truly concentrating. Between the two of them, Laurance is the more religious one, though it’s a low bar to raise. His experiences with Shad left him needing hope, and he found it in unlikely places. Upon the discovery that his friend was the Matron herself, reborn, he took it as a small sign that someone otherworldly was looking down on him. He confessed to Garroth some time ago that his feelings towards Aphmau are complicated, and that sometimes he finds it difficult to differentiate between herself and Lady Irene.

Their views couldn’t be any further opposite. Garroth has trouble seeing Aphmau as Irene, the two beings completely disconnected in his mind. The knowledge they learned from Shad the day they vanquished him will stick with him forever. Aphmau decided it was best to keep the truth between themselves - though Garroth saw no reason for them to do so, he went along with her request. He takes solace in the fact at least two people know of the real story of the Divine Warriors.

Not everything is black and white. The difference between good and evil is not night and day as morality may lead everyone to believe. Saints may commit atrocities and sinners may pass out blessings. Accepting this is hard work, but Garroth’s perspective on everyone around him changed the day he did.

It helped him to understand things he never would, solve mysteries he never thought he’d find the answer to. Like how it was that his baby brother, the same one whose little face would light up whenever Garroth offered to read him a bedtime story, could become the monster he did. Or how it is that everyone respects and loves Garte as a Lord but can’t understand what he is like behind closed doors.

However, it’s easy to forget this lesson. Even after everything Shad told them, Garroth still struggles to understand that there is good in bad and bad in good. His eyes trail over to his father, whose face is one of concentration as he listens to the priest’s words intently, and a small epiphany dawns on him. 

He hadn’t paid much heed to Laurance’s words yesterday, still reeling over the argument with his father the night before. But what he said was correct - Garroth came to O’Khasis under the assumption there was some underlying reason for Garte’s request, think of only the bad. Years of hearing O’Khasians praise his father built up resentment to the point Garroth could see nothing positive about his father, even to this day. The rest of Ru’aun’s hatred for the Lord of the capital had some sway on his opinion, too. He never stopped to think that maybe his father genuinely did invite him here to make his mother happy.

Could this be his way of extending an olive branch? His own flawed attempt at fixing what he broke?

There’s been no shouting or force or pressure since he returned (aside from the argument, but that was partially his own fault). Garte has shown little disdain for Laurance despite his superiority complex and previous unwillingness to mingle with outsiders. He’s even shown some uncharacteristic kindness towards Garroth.

Perhaps his judgement has been unfair. Everyone has some good and bad in them. Garroth has been so focused on the darkness of his father that he has failed to see the crack in which the tiniest speck of light streams through. Could his father truly have changed, just a little?

As if she can sense his spiraling thoughts, Zianna breaks her prayer to look at her son. Her anger tips over the edge, her face morphing into a scowl. As if he’s a naughty child again, she grabs his hair and forces him to face forward. His scalp throbs.

---

The stone wall is cold and rough against his back. Garroth finds he doesn’t mind, his attention taken wholly by the man pinning him against it. Their mouths slide together languidly, tongues dancing in a perfect routine. Though they’ve done this a hundred times before, giddiness still bubbles in Garroth’s chest, his heart rate quick.

Sometimes he wonders if this feeling will ever fade. The cloud-like lightness that washes over him like a gentle wave whenever Laurance kisses him. It’s a mystery of its own making, how one person can cause such an ethereal infatuation with just their lips. He doesn’t ever want it to disappear.

He whines when Laurance pulls away, haphazardly chasing his lips. The pathetic noise only makes his fiancé laugh, and Garroth cannot even bring himself to be mad when his ears are blessed with such a melodic noise.

Pressing their foreheads together, Laurance sighs. “We should head back soon. Your parents will send the Guard out if they find you gone.”

“Had to ruin it,” Garroth groans, pushing at his shoulders lightly. The words feel heavy in his mouth, hard to get his tongue around.

“Look, as attractive as it is you wanting me right here, right now, I can’t stop thinking about that big, comfortable bed waiting for us,” Laurance says, a hint of longing in his sultry voice. His hand, previously resting on Garroth’s shoulder, slowly slides down to give his hip a light squeeze. “Also, you are way too intoxicated to do anything else tonight.”

“Am not,” Garroth grumbles, but he doesn’t push the situation any further. He knows he could - he knows all the right things to say and the right places to touch to make Laurance pliant in his hands. But there’s some truth to his statement: Garroth has had way too much to drink.

It was unintentional, mostly. They’d only planned to have a few drinks at the tavern after-hours. But the exhilaration of sneaking out again like some defiant teenager had Garroth a little too excited, pumped with adrenaline that made the root beer taste a little too nice and the whiskey a little too easy to down. He’s certainly not a lightweight, but once Vylad joined in, with his iron stomach, a brotherly competition began and Garroth was determined to drink his baby brother under the table. Not one to be outdone, Vylad encouraged the reckless behaviour, knowing he wouldn’t be the one dealing with his brother afterwards.

They’d walked (stumbled, on Garroth’s part) Vylad home, despite his insistence that he’d be fine. Then they’d started their slow journey across the city to the castle. Laurance, teasing as ever, had wrapped his arm around Garroth’s waist, pulling him close. He’d whispered some sweet talk in his ear, and anyone could guess how the rest went.

To Garroth’s credit, he’d found an empty alleyway first. Nobody else deserved to see Laurance like that.

Not even him, apparently. Laurance cut them off before they got anywhere good.

Their journey continues, Laurance half-carrying him through the empty streets. Garroth begins to regret the copious amounts of alcohol currently flowing in his system, making his limbs feel as heavy as lead. It takes all of his concentration to put one foot in front of the other, and each step saps the little energy he has left.

Then, the nausea hits. He doesn’t have time to warn Laurance with his words, only managing to shove him far enough away that the foul-smelling vomit doesn’t ruin his shoes. Once it’s all gone, Garroth feels deflated. He doesn’t dare to move lest the sickness returns. His throat burns enough without a second bout of it.

Firm hands guide him over to lean against a nearby wall - a situation eerily similar to earlier, but one much less pleasant. Small circles are rubbed soothingly into his shoulder.

“Feeling better?” Laurance asks concernedly.

Garroth groans in lieu of a satisfying answer. “I’m never drinking again.”

“You say that every time,” he chuckles, pressing his forehead to Garroth’s shoulder. “I don’t know why you do it to yourself. Vylad always outdrinks you. Shadow Knight perks.”

“Screw you and your iron stomach,” Garroth says, though there’s no malice behind it. His ears perk up at heavy, sporadic footfalls down the street. It’s too dark and his vision is too hazy to make out more than an outline of a stumbling person approaching them.

“Maybe tomorrow, lover boy,” Laurance teases. He presses a kiss to Garroth’s jawline, his hot breath tickling his cheek.

Garroth shudders, the stranger all but forgotten as he admires Laurance. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Laurance winks.

A scoff. The approaching footsteps have stopped, whoever they belong to glares a hole into the side of Garroth’s head.

“Disgusting,” slurs the drunkard, swaying where he stands. Garroth’s never seen the man before in his life, but even through the thick gargle he can make out the O’Khasian accent.

“Piss off,” Laurance tells the man, not looking towards him.

The man slurps, and a wad of spit lands right near Laurance’s shoes. “Your kind isn’t welcome ‘ere.”

They’re no strangers to situations like this. It’s not as if everyone is so accepting, though most people are quieter about their disapproval. Whether it be the man’s intoxicated state, or just the negative environment of O’Khasis itself, clearly he has no qualms expressing his opinion. The issue is, Garroth doesn’t either.

When he tries to move away from the wall, Laurance stops him with a firm grip on his arm. “Don’t waste your time with the fool. You’re better than that.”

Garroth’s fingers hurt with how tightly he balls his fist. Usually he’s better at controlling his anger at such situations, able to convince himself not to rise to the bait. But this week his mood has been volatile, dropping at the slightest aggravation. Despite the better day he’s had, the ignorance of the drunk man raises a level of anger in Garroth he hasn’t experienced since the war.

It burns a hole in his stomach, and when the man spits at them again, even Laurance is unable to hold him back.

His fist hits the drunkard’s jaw with a satisfying thud, the slap of flesh on flesh. Already unsteady on his feet, the man falls flat on his behind.

Garroth isn’t too sure what happens next. The urge to release his anger becomes too strong to ignore, and the next thing he knows there’s a lot of unfamiliar shouting and he’s being dragged away down the street by unfamiliar hands. His knuckles are sore and bloody.

Chapter Text

“C’mon, Ro’Meave, your daddy’s bailed you out.”

Garroth’s head is banging. His back is aching and his arms feel like he’s done ten rounds of sparring. The dry, crusted blood on his hands is hellish, the sensation of them rubbing against anything enough to make him gag. It falls off in small brown flakes, but his hands are still stained. He longs for nothing more than a hot bath and a nap in his own bed, but unfortunately he has the consequences of his own actions to face.

As if spending the night in a prison cell wasn’t humiliating enough, his father gives him the silent treatment the entire walk home. The sky is too blue for Garroth’s liking, and the early morning sun shines in his eyes in a painful way. He always suffers the day after a visit to the tavern. His eye twitches at the irritating sound of his father’s cane clicking against the cobblestone.

When they return to the castle, he heads straight for his old room, only to be stopped by Garte clearing his throat. “Where do you think you’re going, boy?”

Garroth blinks. He pointedly looks down at his disheveled state. His clothes are speckled in blood and wrinkled beyond wearability. A werewolf could smell him from across the city with how badly he reeks of sweat and alcohol and puke. “For a wash?”

“Not yet. Your mother and I need to talk with you.” Gesturing for him to follow, Garte hobbles towards the door to the family room.

He sighs. “Can’t it wait?”

“I could have left you in that cell for longer, you know.”

Biting his tongue, Garroth trails behind begrudgingly. 

His mother is sitting with her head bowed when they enter, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She sniffles. “GarGar… my baby, what has happened to you? Sneaking out, getting drunk, starting fights. Oh, you break my heart.”

Garroth is surprised to find himself unmoved by the words. Once upon a time he would’ve grovelled at his mother’s feet, begging for her forgiveness and promising he would be better. That was a common occurrence when he was in trouble as a child. Looking back on it now, the guilt was often misplaced.

Perhaps it’s just the exhaustion in his bones, but he finds himself mildly irritated. “The man was insulting us,” he defends himself.

Garte takes a seat beside his wife on the red velvet couch, a hand resting on her’s. He simply shakes his head.

“What was I supposed to do? Stand there while he spat at us like some dirty-?”

“That’s enough excuses!” Garte snaps, fixing his son with an icy stare. 

Garroth suppresses a shudder. “It isn’t an excuse, I’m giving you my reasoning-.”

“GarGar, please,” Zianna weeps, wiping away some of the tears streaming down her dainty face with her nightgown’s sleeve. “You’re only making this worse. We didn’t raise you to be a violent boy. You know that is never the answer.”

He bites his tongue again, lest he say something he regrets. Instead, his eyes simply flicker to his father. The look they share is one of knowing. No words are needed.

“Where is Laurance?” he asks, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“The guards brought him back here last night,” Garte answers. “You can speak with him later. Sit down.” He points to the couch opposite theirs.

Crossing his arms, Garroth remains standing. “What is it?”

“We’re concerned about you,” Zianna admits breathily, finally meeting her son’s gaze. Her eyes are watery and red.

“I’m doing fine,” he deadpans. Truly, he’s the best he’s ever been. There are no wars to fight and no mysteries to solve and no missing friends to worry about. Garroth is wholly happy for the first time in his life. It may be uneventful, even a little boring at times, but he prefers his present to his turbulent past. He wouldn’t give up what he has now for the world.

Being in O’Khasis brings out the worst in him. The selfish, violent side of him that he’s worked well to overcome rears its ugly head each time he steps foot in these city walls. The part of him he hates the most, the part of him that’s too similar to Zane. To his father.

“Your mother and I have been talking,” Garte says, squeezing his wife’s hand. “We would like for you to move back to O’Khasis.” Before Garroth has the chance to speak, he holds up a hand to silence him. “This is what’s best for you, son - being with your family. You can resume your studies-.”

“I renounced my title as the heir-.”

“Then you’ll be a guard!” Garte snaps through gritted teeth. “I’ll make you the Head Guard if I must. Though I don’t know why you have to make things so difficult.”

“I’m not leaving Phoenix Drop,” Garroth states with an air of finality. He almost wants to laugh at the suggestion. “I know what’s best for me.”

It had taken a long time to discover his own agency. Garroth spent years upon years under the rule of others, following blindly what others desired for him. Taking control of his own life wasn’t an overnight decision - it took a lot of difficult self-reflection and awkward conversations and cognitive restructuring (and sometimes he still slips back into unhealthy thoughts), but it was the best thing he could’ve done for himself, and for those around him. Garroth will never be a leader or someone influential, and he’s fine with that. He’s happy doing what he’s best at, protecting people. No longer does he feel the need to force himself to take on positions out of his depth, and do things that make him miserable.

“I’m happy,” he tells his parents. The statement almost feels wrong in his mouth, as if he’s still drunk. “I’m grateful for your concern, but I parted ways with this city a long time ago. My life isn’t here anymore.”

“B-but, we’re your family, GarGar,” Zianna reminds him softly. “You belong here in O’Khasis, with us.”

“No, I don’t,” he shakes his head. Slowly, he kneels before her, in a way reminiscent of his childhood self begging her for forgiveness. Where there was once unrelenting guilt and fear coursing through his veins, there’s only sadness. 

He places his hands on his parents’ intertwined ones. “We all know I never belonged in O’Khasis, neither I nor Vylad. Our childhoods were beautiful, but the Divine had other paths for us to follow,” he tries speaking in his mother’s language, hoping for her better understanding. “You are my family, Mummy, and you always will be, but you’re not my only family anymore. My life is in Phoenix Drop. My life is with-.” He cuts himself off, glancing at his parents’ faces for their reaction.

Garte sits silently beside them with an unreadable expression on his face. His hand twitches as if he wants to pull away.

A short rush of confidence grasps Garroth. This wasn’t the conversation he expected to have this morning, but it worked out, in its own way.

From beneath his blood splattered collar he retrieves the silver band attached to his necklace. His heart is beating rapidly, worse than it was last night, and he hesitates for a second before revealing it to his parents. “My life is with Laurance.”

“You’re married?!” Zianna shrieks, the miserable demeanor gone. Her expression cycles through too many emotions at once: anger, surprise, happiness, sadness. She doesn’t know how to react, the correct way to react.

Garroth laughs timidly. “Not married, just engaged.” His mother settles a little after that. He smiles at her, feeling bashful. “I-I apologise for not informing you earlier. Truth be told, you’re only the fourth and fifth people to know.”

“Oh!” Zianna gasps in a moment of realisation. “Is this what darling Leona was so excited about a few months ago?”

“You’re not… upset?” Garroth tilts his head, some of the nervousness still gnawing at the edges. “I wasn’t so sure you approved of-.”

“You’re not,” Garte interjects, a low, dangerous tone to his voice. “You are not marrying someone like that.”

“Garte!”

The small sense of elation lighting in Garroth’s chest is stamped out efficiently. His father slaps his hand away, the sudden movement causing him and his mother to flinch. Then, the flame bursts into an inferno.

“What makes you think you get to decide who I marry! Did I not make it clear the first time, Father?” His jaw trembles. Garroth takes a deep breath. “I was just starting to think you might’ve changed. That perhaps you truly meant what you said about making up for your mistakes, but clearly that was wishful thinking.”

“Garroth, you shouldn’t speak to your father like that. Just listen to what he has to say,” Zianna pleads, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He shrugs it off and rises to his feet. “Neither of you have changed,” he realises. “I thought- I thought you’d be happy for me.” The tears burn his dry eyes. “But you don’t accept my happiness because he’s a man-.”

“He’s a Shadow Knight!”

The room falls into silence. Garroth blinks, at a loss for words. All he can do is stare at his father in utter confusion, wondering how on earth that information had come by him.

“I do not care who you marry. Marry a damn Meif’wa for all I care, Garroth. But not one of those- those things!” Garte barks, hobbling over to his son. “You saw what became of your brother-.”

“Don’t bring Zane into this,” Garroth cautions, biting his tongue until the inside of his mouth tastes metallic.

“Honey, please come sit down,” Zianna requests, grabbing her husband’s arm and tugging lightly. Her pale skin has become impossibly whiter. “This isn’t good for your health.”

Red-faced and wide-eyed, Garte isn’t finished. “Your brother became a monster, killed hundreds because of the corruption inside him, and yet- yet you still fraternise with them! Dare to bring one into my house!”

“Zane was corrupt long before he became a Shadow Knight!” Garroth blurts out, anger boiling in his gut like lava. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You have no idea what it was like for Laurance. Or Vylad. You- you-! You will never understand what happened during that battle, Father.”

“They have Shad inside them. Whether their mortality returned or not, they’re still corrupt. Dangerous,” he sneers.

“Are you going to let him speak about Vylad that way, Mother?” Garroth asks, pleading with her to step in. He’s tired of fighting these battles alone. “About Zane.”

Zianna turns her head away, but Garroth doesn’t miss the shake in her shoulders. Her hands fall to her sides and she stands still, defeated.

And the realisation hits him: they will never change. The Ro’Meave family are stuck in an endless cycle of doom and disappointment, forever set to repeat. Garroth remembers well the stories about his grandfather, who treated his son the way Garte treated him. Of his grandmother, whose meek nature never allowed her to stand up for herself and her son. The history books, those produced outside of O’Khasis, speak of similar dynamics in the bloodline, dating all the way back to the tyrant King and his son, Esmund Ro’Meave.

“I’m done here,” Garroth announces. He uses his crumpled sleeve to wipe away the snot and tears running down his face, feeling grotty. “I never should’ve come back. To think I convinced myself it would be different this time.”

Neither stop him when he leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

-

“Hello..?” comes a croaky voice from the washroom, muffled by the closed door. The handle turns, and Garroth barely has time to turn his head before he’s being assaulted with a hug. “Garroth!”

“Hey, sweetheart.” He snakes his arms around Laurance’s bare back, savouring the warm skin under his hands. Burying his face into brown hair, he sighs contently.

“Are you alright? When did you get back? You aren’t hurt, are you?” Laurance interrogates, pulling away to hold him at arm’s length. He rakes his eyes up and down Garroth’s hunched form, inspecting for any injuries.

“I’m doing fine,” Garroth repeats for the second time today, but he means it less this time. “Father got me from the station this morning.”

“You don’t look fine,” Laurance frowns, one hand gently cradling his face. Garroth leans into his touch, head feeling heavy.

“We have to go home today,” he mutters, allowing his eyes to slip shut. “Can you have your things packed soon?”

“Has something happened?”

“Nothing important. Our visit just has to be cut short, is all.”

“Tell me.”

Sometimes Garroth wishes he wasn’t so docile when it came to Laurance. Often it can be nice to let his fiancé take the reins, to turn his mind off from the stress of thought and allow himself to be instructed like one of Nana’s mindless dolls. So long as he was still protecting others, Garroth didn’t mind what he was being forced to do. But Laurance’s command sometimes seeps into everyday life, and Garroth becomes loose-lipped. Like a puppy following his owner’s instructions for a treat.

A dog to a bone, Laurance fixes him with an expectant look. The truth comes spilling out of Garroth’s mouth like damn vomit.

There’s some hesitation in his tone when he informs Laurance of his father’s disapproval. His voice hitches when Laurance’s face falls, the determination and focus seeping away to leave behind an unreadable expression.

“It would’ve been easier if he was against the same-sex thing,” Laurance sulks, sitting down on the bed. He hangs his head. “At least it wouldn’t feel so personal.”

“If it’s any consolation, my father doesn’t particularly like anyone,” Garroth tries, painting a strained smile on his face. He pats Laurance’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I don’t care if he likes me,” Laurance shakes his head. “I guess it just isn’t great to know that’s how someone still thinks of me.” The uncharacteristic sadness is harrowing.

Laurance is never afraid to show his honest emotions - it became imperative for him after spending so many years repressing them. He used to describe it as a searing pain each time he swallowed down his anger and disgust and all the other overwhelming negative emotions that would bubble up like lava. After he returned from the Nether, he dealt with that burning sensation for some time before he snapped and finally asked for help.

That help came in the form of Garroth, who would deal with a thousand arguments if it meant not seeing Laurance suffering. He’s grown used to slamming doors and stomping feet, and prefers them to whatever the alternative might be. Their frequent sparring sessions are the healthiest way Laurance knows to express these emotions.

Garroth can deal with that. What he struggles to cope with is the distraught look on Laurance’s face. He’s never been one to deal well with his own sadness, let alone that of others. It’s easier to try to put a smile on their face instead.

However, sometimes Garroth knows when the situation calls for seriousness. Laurance often responds well to his attempts at humour, but in those times he doesn’t, he realises what he has to do.

He sinks to his knees before Laurance, planting a firm hand on one of his knees and reaching the other up to grab his face. “I do not care what my father thinks of you,” Garroth says, tilting Laurance’s chin so he can look into his eyes. “I don't care what anybody thinks of you. Let people assume what they want. Being a Shadow Knight means nothing, Laurance. It doesn’t change who you are.”

He wants to rip out the doubts that still linger inside Laurance after all these years, unwelcome like leeches.

“It doesn’t change that you’re kind and caring, or that you’re strong. You aren’t dangerous or cursed. You’re Laurance Zvahl, protector of the innocent.” The soft lips under his dragging thumb upturn slightly. “When did the Laurance I know allow himself to be consumed by one person’s opinion?”

Laurance huffs, unable to hide the smile on his face. “It’s not the same when you do it,” he rolls his eyes fondly. His hand cradles Garroth’s on his knee. “But thank you. I needed to hear that.”

“I love you,” Garroth says, and he’s always surprised at how easily those words slip from his lips these days. “Shadow Knight or not, that will never change. My father’s disapproval won’t stop me from being with you.”

“What, you’d willingly marry someone cursed by Shad?” It’s a joke. The insecurity is poorly veiled, however.

Garroth pauses intentionally, looking up as if in thought. Then, he smiles. “I suppose so.”

--

One well-needed bathe and a short nap later, Garroth is still resolute on leaving today. It is still early enough in the day for them to travel as far as Nahakra before nightfall, perhaps even further if the weather permits. He wouldn’t mind spending an additional night on the forest floor if it meant he was away from O’Khasis.

Leaving Laurance’s warm embrace is difficult, but Garroth drags himself out of bed somehow. The other stays asleep on the bed, light snores filling the quiet room. He leans over to press a kiss to his forehead before leaving the comfort of the covers entirely.

Upon the discovery that he has no clean clothes left, Garroth sighs. He realises once again he should’ve packed more efficiently rather than haphazardly shoving some clothes into a backpack an hour before they were set to leave. That day seems forever ago now, the time he’s spent in O’Khasis dragging on.

He wishes there were still a sense of anxiety and curiousness about the visit now, rather than the despondency he’s left with. Though, it’s his own fault for expecting anything different. He never shouldn’t let himself be set up for disappointment by setting his expectations of his parents any higher than the bare minimum.

Sometimes it’s nice to remember that people are capable of change, of being better. Giving people the benefit of the doubt is something Garroth prides himself on trying, but more often than not he leaves the situation worse off.

The door to his walk-in wardrobe stands before him with its foreboding presence. He’d avoided it like a disease since they arrived, asking Laurance not to look inside either. It’d been easy enough to ignore whilst they were in bed, but the slight tug towards it each time he crossed the space to the washroom had been harder to ignore.

With a deep breath, he opens the door. Nothing inside has changed. The small closet space is fitted with wooden poles for his clothes to be hung up, however, he’s surprised to find the majority of his old clothes are still there. Their drab colours make him frown. He never understood the need to wear such plain clothes. His father saw it as a sign of royalty, and so his sons were dressed in that fashion. Zane never quite changed, and it took Garroth a long time (and many lectures from Cadenza) that wearing colourful clothes wasn’t something bad. Vylad was never quite held to the same standard anyway, but the dark green and brown theme of his clothing choices are the result of this muted colour rhetoric.

Pulling on a pair of brown slacks and a white button-up, Garroth feels wholly out of place in the expensive linen and silk. His hand finds the patch sewn onto the shoulder, the O’Khasis symbol that he used to wear everywhere proudly. These days he’s foregone the symbol on his armour, preferring to wear the Phoenix Drop symbol instead. The trousers are slightly too short on him, riding just above his ankle, and he has to roll up the long sleeves so as to not look ridiculous. It’s a better alternative to wearing filthy clothes, at least.

Garroth means to exit after that, and begin packing his bag. But that familiar pull inside him isn’t satiated properly. The floorboard creak loudly beneath his bare feet, as if they’re taunting him.

They pry up easily, revealing a small crawl space beneath. As a child Garroth could fit under, and he would spend hours lying there. It was claustrophobic and dark, but it was the best place to hide. He could pretend he wasn’t himself under there, the cold brick against his back and the cool, rigid air almost feeling as if he was underground. In a grave, of sorts. The castle was his coffin.

Nowadays the thought is morbid to him. He spent years of his childhood pretending to be dead. As if it was a preferable fate to his reality. He’d never told anyone about that habit, often explaining away his disappearance to his parents as spending time with his brothers - he’s surprised Zane never ratted him out for that lie.

It became obsolete when Vylad began following him almost everywhere, like his shadow. That’s when Garroth found the abandoned house, and a new reason to live amongst those walls. There was a new escape.

With little regard for quietness, Garroth shoves the floorboard back in place. A thud resonates through the room, and he sees Laurance flinch in bed.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, shutting the wardrobe door behind him. “Just me.”

“Wha’ happ’nd?” Laurance’s voice is slurred with sleepiness. His hair is soft as Garroth runs a hand through it.

“Nothing, love,” he presses another kiss to his forehead, cradling his lolling head to his chest. “Sleep for a while longer. It’ll be a long few days.”

Arms snake around his waist, giving him a quick squeeze. Laurance’s warmth pushes away the cold depths of Garroth’s worst thoughts, and he no longer feels frozen to the touch. Laurance mumbles, “You’re okay?”

“Perfectly fine.”

---

Knowing their bags are packed down the hallway, Garroth feels confident enough to leave the comfort of his own space. He stalks down the hallway to his father’s study, not bothering to wait for permission once he’s knocked.

Garte has a scowl on his face until he recognises who it is. Then, he sighs. “Are you finished sulking?”

The old couch sinks beneath him. “I meant what I said, Father. I’m leaving O’Khasis today.”

“And yet you’re still here.”

Garroth scoffs. “Are you that desperate to get rid of me? Weren’t you the one to ask me to return?”

“Yes, before I knew how much trouble you’d caused. I should’ve known better. You always were an unruly child.” Garte practically spits the words across the desk. The previous facade he held is gone. He’s finally showing his true colours.

“Save your lecture,” Garroth dismisses him with the wave of his hand. “I only came to say goodbye. This… this will be the last time I visit O’Khasis. I’ll be returning home.”

“That place will never be your home.”

Without the energy to argue, Garroth can only shake his head. The red-faced man across the room doesn’t scare him anymore, nor the harsh words he spills.

“You know, Zane always used to say I was the golden child. He was jealous because I was the focus of all your attention,” Garroth grits his teeth, pushing back the wave of guilt that threatens to break the dam. “What he failed to realise was it was never a privilege. I spent my childhood behind a desk, locked in my room.”

“So is the fate of any heir, Garroth,” Garte insists, twisting the quill in his hand. “It isn’t a joyous life, but it’s what you were born for.”

“Fate is what I choose to make it. I’m only grateful I didn’t end up like Zane. Or worse - like you.”

Garroth used to avoid mirrors, a long time ago. He wore his helmet not only to protect his identity but to avoid his own reflection. He always thought he looked too much like his father, with his blonde hair and blue eyes and beard. The permanent scowl etched into his face and the sunken eyes from exhaustion. It felt like some cruel joke from the Divine to make him look so much like his father but have his mother’s sensibilities.

What he failed to realise was that the mirror shattered years ago. The day Garroth made the decision to leave O’Khasis, he took a hammer to the fragile glass and broke it into a million pieces. And he’d been scrambling around for years to right all his wrongs, to fix what he broke. His fingers were sliced and he only made more of a mess.

Here, looking at his father, Garroth realises something. There never was any point trying to fix anything. His reflection, Garte, never once tried piecing back together the shards.

Some things are allowed to stay broken. Sometimes it’s for the best.

Garroth only needs to clear away the sharp glass.

He rises to his feet, taking one last look around the messy study. “Tell Mother I’ll be in contact once I’m home. We’ll arrange some time for her to visit.”

“Garroth, wait-.”

He doesn’t.

----