Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The adult servants have their backs turned. They're discussing something with a merchant, arguing, voices raised, classic Dzemael pettiness. They notice not their charge, the bastard young master turned into one of their own, wandering off. The air of Foundation is crisp, stark rays of sunlight piercing through the clouds and landing on the masked servant boy.

Lucient remembers his wetnurse telling him she gave him his name. It meant light in old Ishgardian tongue. Though he doesn't truly understand why she'd name him that; his skin is as dark as the cobbles he steps on. The cobbles that only get darker and grimier the lower he descends. Down on the lower levels of Ishgard, Lucient's breath puffs out in clouds like the dust he kicks up as he walks about. His cloak hides the simple tunic that's a few sizes too big for him, but the neat stitching and cleanness of its fabric would instantly tell any peasant in this part of the city that this boy is not one of them. An outsider, just like up in the Pillars.

The air bites down here. There's an odour of refuse, unwashed bodies, and something metallic Lucient can't put his finger on. And it's chilly, far too cold for the season. The cloak only does so much to keep it out. Just like the mask does nothing to keep out the strange stares from the children play fighting with sticks and stones. They look to be about the same age as himself, a mix of Hyur and Elezen. But what would Lucient even say to them? Best to keep quiet, like always. Or someone will tell him off. The rules of those up there might have echoes down here.

As he turns the corner, he comes to face a set of towering wooden gates, looking like they lead deeper into the cobble catacombs. There are gaps in the worn wood, some small jagged lines, others big enough to pass a baby though. A barrier to the other world that Lucient's superiors never spoke about in any nice way. The oppressive aura is even stronger here, a vice around Lucient's heart and stomach. Sadness? Is that the feeling he gets from the glimpse of the shadows he sees through the gaps? In spite of the tightness in his body, he is drawn to one of the bigger cracks in the wood. It is about low enough to the ground for him to peer into. It's rough edges are splinters waiting to dig themselves into his tunic, his skin. But perhaps through this crack in the barrier, Lucient can see what it is that's giving him this sickening feeling.

Curiosity is a hero's trait after all. Adventure could be waiting beyond this gate.

Lucient looks into the gap. His ice blue eyes squinting into the darkness. What greets him is not the grimy streets or suffering undesirables some of the finer folk in the Pillars whisper about over tea, but a pair of impossibly bright golden eyes staring back from the abyss. They look like freshly polished gil coins, piercing through Lucient into the world behind him.

Lucient stumbles back, heart jumping into his throat, and the eyes on the other side widen at the newcomer. For a while, they just stare at each other. Lucient feels the jitters come on in his hands, his chest, his legs. Fear. That much he knows. But it's not like those eyes belong to a beast right? They look to be another child's eyes, if the height is to be believed. His voice is faltering, soft as a dozing dormouse.

"Hullo?"

The eyes on the other side say nothing. Just stare back. But they don't sneer at him or turn away to ignore him. Not like the other children, either here in the lower levels or up in ivory halls of The Pillars.

Lucient gulps. Usually in this situation, what do adults do? What would the heroes in his storybooks do? Perhaps try greeting the stranger again? Introduce himself? Or maybe a compliment. People like it when they hear nice things said about them. But what is there to compliment the shadow on? All he can see are those eyes peering back in the gloom.The eyelashes are long for a kid, especially the underlashes. They give them the sort of mysterious air he's seen in the pictures of ethereal princesses and evil succubi alike in his books of mythos. As they stare back at him, Lucient feels his heart steadily race faster and faster, his mouth gets drier and drier. He can't pull his gaze away from that golden sky in the gap.

"You have pretty eyes," is the first thing that flies through Lucient's mind and out his mouth. Well, it certainly is a compliment, a true one at that. In ironic response, those eyes then narrow at him, then look away to some point on the ground on their side.

"They're just eyes."

The shadow's voice is like gravel on stone, a whisper of young child's voice lurking behind the roughness. Lucient can't quite tell if the voice belongs to a boy or a girl, but it sounds closest to his own voice, and he knows what he is.

"I mean it! They are really pretty...like...like drops of honey. Or fresh egg yolks! They are simply...really nice to look at?"

The eyes dart back to him, and Lucient swears he can see the shadow's pale skin flush a little pink and his brow furrow. Something cuts the shadow's left eyebrow in two, perhaps a scar? Heroes have scars. But so do villains. Which one is this child?

"What are you doing here?" comes the reply, curt and clipped. It's progress. Lucient blushes this time, his mind's cogs turning to find an answer that wouldn't make the shadow mad.

"Just...looking."

The eyes don't turn away this time. Just stare. Silent. Conversations are a call and response, aren't they? Lucient whispers back a call of his own.

"What about you? Are you...just looking too?"

"I suppose you could say that," is the shadow's far too quick reply. He moves closer to the gap, close enough for Lucient to hear his steady breaths. Lucient feels the sweat pool on his brow under his mask, and against his will, he finds himself matching the shadow's breaths. The voice beyond the gate rumbles in his skull, as if the shadow were on his side, grabbing ahold of his cloak and pulling him close so he can snarl directly in his ear. "Not that you're giving me much to look at, blocking the hole and all."

A complaint. He's done something wrong. His perfectly trained smile wavers, his chest clenches. The shadow is going to yell at him, he's going to tell him he's garbage. He has the time to fix it though. Lucient bows, clearing the way for the shadow to see.

"My apologies! I did not mean to! Please, is this good enough? Can you see better now?"

There's a startled silence from the other side of the wall, and for a painful moment, only a bemused 'huh?' is shared by the shadow. Lucient's back aches from being hunched over like this, but he was the one who made the mistake, he should be the one to bear this. His hands shake as they dig gashes into his knees. Holding this position is going to be the death of him. He fixes his attention on the cracks in the stone below his feet, the bugs crawling about in the fissures, anything to take his mind off the burning.

The shadow murmurs.

"You...don't have to do that. I was joking. It was a jest. Don't cry."

Lucient's voice cracks. His reply comes out a little too high for his comfort.

"I am not crying! I am fine!"

"Well, 'Fine', if you're not crying," The shadow's voice is lower, quieter, softer even, but Lucient cannot discern the intent behind the tone. Is it curiosity? No, it's probably annoyance. But he hopes it's something like care, or even just concern. "Then why don't you take that silly mask off and let me see your eyes? See if they're not red and puffed up, will you?"

His mask. If he took it off, he would be in dire straits indeed. Only in private, and only when nobody else is around. Nobody can see his eyes, or they'll know. And they'll put him in his room again, maybe forever this time.

Lucient's hand trembles. It's okay here though, isn't it? Even though it feels a bit like the shadow told him to undress right there for every lord and lady of Ishgard to see. After all, it's not like the shadow could tell his superiors, his family, that he let him see his eyes, right? He wouldn't know what they mean, would he? And he's been staring at the shadow's eyes the entire time, isn't it only fair that he should reveal his own?

With a nod of resignation, Lucient lifts his hand to his face and removes his mask. His watery ice-blue eyes meet the piercing golden eyes on the other side.

Silence falls between them again, punctuated only by the distant chatter and footsteps of the rabble and the clinking of tankards in the inn above them. Those noises die down as the shadow stares deep into Lucient's eyes. The longer he stares, the thicker the darkness around the two seems to grow, enclosing them from the rest of the world. Lucient feels something wriggling inside him, something alien. Like the shadow's eyes have fingers, claws, digging into his head, his chest, trying to find something to feed on. A judgment, perhaps, but not one of malice like the others. Lucient's free hand grips onto his cloak, and he has the urge to pull it around himself even tighter, as if it would stop the feeling of being dug into, of being exposed. He can't look away though. That would be distrust. That would make the shadow lose interest, or even hate him, he's sure of that. Like many things in life, Lucient simply must bear it.

After what seems like an excruciating eternity, the shadow blinks, and the tension breaks. Lucient finally breathes on his own once again.

"Ah. So that's who you are."

Who he is? By the Fury, the shadow knows. He knows what Lucient is, and he's going to tell everyone. The tension that had begun its descent just a moment ago now spikes once again, and it takes everything in his vanishingly tiny amount of power to not sound like he's about to shatter into a million little pieces and get swept away to become part of the suffocating brume.

"Who I am...? What do you mean? What does that mean?"

The shadow tilts his head, a bit like a coeurl. When he speaks, there's a hint of...warmth? Lucient's mind may be playing tricks on him, but it's a wonderful trick.

"Nothing bad. Just that you're...worth talking to. Interesting, if that's how you want to hear it. Like you have a kind heart, or something a bit like that."

Interesting. He called him interesting. Worth something. A kind heart. The words dance around in Lucient's head, and now he feels like exploding in a different way. He thinks he might be in love. No, that's not it. That's something for fairytales. His stomach and chest simply hurt, from what feels like a wild chocobo thrashing about in there. But someone said something good about him. It's like all his namedays have come at once.

"So...you think that I am...a good person? Someone worth...talking to?"

"...Sure. Let's say that. You're not the sort of boy who enjoys breaking hearts, are you?"

"No, of course not!" Lucient shouts, before taking a breath and lowering his voice back down to a coiled up whisper. "I would never hurt you! You seem really nice too! And--"

"Master Lucient! Boy, where are you? Damn it all, these efts tails won't lift themselves!"

The crow of an elder servant jolts Lucient out of his rambling, and he glances around to try to find where the voice came from. No, first, the mask! He can't let them know he's been revealing his face to others! The cool steel of the mask stings more on the flustered heat of his face.

Strangely enough, the shadow seems to know exactly where the voice came from, his eyes darting off to the left. His voice, soft before, now hardens back to its gravelly tone.

"Eft tails? That's pricy fodder. So you're--"

Lucient bows once more and mutters to the shadow.

"I apologize, I must go! But you will be here again, will you not? And you will let me talk to you again?"

The eyes look back at him, the shadow's gaze pinning him in place even as the servant's yells grow louder and closer. Seconds stretch into minutes in Lucient's mind, before the shadow nods.

"Perhaps. Come back anyhow."

Lucient gives him a frantic nod back, and pulls his hood back up, dashing away from the gate towards the frustrated voice of his fellow servant. He looks back for a moment, and sees those golden eyes trained on him. He feels them follow him all the way up the stairs, until the winding paths make him impossible to follow.

Tomorrow. He'll come back tomorrow. There surely must be a task for him that brings him outside. And if not, he'll find a way.

Chapter Text

That boy’s soul was a light in the abyss.

Fray saw it then, when he’d peered into his uncovered eyes. A vast emptiness that was shaped vaguely in the form of a young Elezen boy, and a single flickering flame in the middle. Many such cases in the Brume, where the pursuit of happiness is as fruitless as an orchard in winter, but for someone who Fray assumes is a noble brat to have this void inside his heart is…interesting, as he’d told the boy. It felt like looking into a mirror. His own emptiness and defiant ember looking back at him.

When he probed further, spoke out to the flame and waited for its echo, the flame reacted not with the inferno of rage, nor the wavering of fear, nor the broiling heat of a predator circling its prey, but by reaching out. Its form elongating and meeting his own with something akin to innocent curiousity. The touch did not burn, only brushing against Fray’s mental walls with the softness of a baby bird’s feather. It was as if the boy’s heart knew that it was faced with someone like himself, and wanted to reach through the gaps and entwine itself with a flame that burned alike.

He could only pry into the boy’s heart for a few moments before his concentration frayed and the echoes faded, but he saw enough.

Lucient, was that his name? Sounds pompous enough. That quivering fledgling did sound like he gets coddled in whatever high house he came from. But perhaps, the echo of his heart was true. Fray hopes so, as much as an unwanted mongrel can hope.

For now, he stands vigil at the gate, peering out into the expanse of stone and sky through the crack in the wood. An old habit, yes, one born of a childish wish for what he hopes to one day have. Freedom. A clean bed. Fresh air. A week without missed meals. To not have to keep looking over his shoulder or keep a knife behind his back. For the jeers about his body being “stuck halfway” to be silenced. For the ever present chill to leave him alone, just for one day.

The sun hits his eyes, and he needs to turn back to the shadows and blink to get the glare out. When he looks up, he’s met by those blue eyes. No mask this time, then? Good. The boy is open. Lucient’s eyes widen on the other side of the gate, and he whispers like he wasn’t just here the other day gawking at Fray.

“Oh! You are here! You are still here?”

Fray resists the urge to scoff. Oh, he does try. But he can’t hold his tongue for long. He wonders how this boy managed to find his own shoes in the morning if this is how he reacts to the obvious.

“Of course. Where else would I be, pretty boy?”

The jab rolls off Fray’s tongue before he even has the chance to realize how it sounds. Lucient looks away, and Fray wants to kick himself. The poor boy’s probably one more bad comment away from getting scared off. That gentle flame, almost snuffed out by Fray’s stray huff.

“…Pretty boy?”

Thank goodness he seems to focus on that rather than Fray’s unintentionally acerbic tone. Not that explaining that is any easier. Fray shakes his head and stares him down, trying not to sound like he’s been caught unawares. His voice comes out far too quiet anyhow.

“Don’t lose your head. I don’t know what you look like, and you don’t know me either. It’s just because you called my eyes ‘pretty’ yesterday, that’s all.”

“O-Oh, is that so?” Lucient seems at least understand Fray’s verbal air quotes. Fray still sees his ears flush pink a bit. He hopes it’s just from the embarrassment of misinterpreting his words, and not from being some lovesick limpet. The prospect of trying to redirect that kind of attention might make his already empty stomach collapse in on itself.

At least he’s just a kid. At least he isn’t one of them. At least he’s on the other side, where he can’t get his hands on me, is Fray’s only consolation, if that’s what it is.

“You remembered that? That I called your eyes pretty? Did…did it make you happy?”

This boy! The gall! Are all noble children this insistent and clueless? And so what if it did? So what if it did make him stare in a grimy mirror for far too long, wondering what in the hells he meant by that? They’re just words, strange ones at that, meaningless without actions. Fray grinds his teeth. The urge to turn away and bolt rising like bile, warring with his plan to keep Lucient talking. His scowl stains his voice.

“Look here, pretty boy, if it’s going to be a problem, I can simply call you ‘fancy boy’, then. Since you’re from up there and all.”

That seems to get Lucient to stop his simpering, though thankfully not enough to make him start whimpering. Fray finally turns back to fully face those blue eyes. Disaster averted. Back on the topic he wants. Now hopefully he can finally get this boy talking about–

“It is okay.” The voice on the other side says, his tone strained into some parody of politeness and understanding. Fray can feel the ingratiating smile behind the wood. “You can call me whatever you like.”

Fray feels the temperature around the gate drop. What now? What is this voice? Why did Lucient’s tone shift all of a sudden? And why did his eyes glaze over? It feels like he’s just bumped into an overfilled glass, and it’s precariously dangling on the edge of the table, one more jostle away from dropping. Fray pauses, wondering what to do now. Push his luck?

“Anything? Even if I were to call you, oh I don’t know, a bloody nuisance? A bald chocobo’s arse? A brainless twit who can’t tell his face from his backside?”

A beat of silence that stretches into an entire bar. Surely not. Even the most wretched of whelps on his side would balk at having such acidic words thrown at them, even if he did deliver them with more caution this time.

“Yes. Anything. Whatever you like. If that is what pleases you.”

The chill drops to a freeze. Fray has overstepped, he knows that much. The steady unblinking gaze from Lucient is draining the air from his side, replacing it with a suffocating blanket of sweet mist. Fray feels his heart pounding like fists smashing themselves against the gate. The urge to run is screaming at him now. This child is unstable. He’s a danger. He probably has a knife behind his back too. If Fray doesn’t get out of here right now, he won’t make it to the next bell.

But Fray remembers that flickering flame in Lucient’s abyss. The way it reached out to him, seeking his own warmth. A reflection. This boy is dangerous, but he’s still just a boy. One just like him. And right now, that ember is wavering, unable to reach through.

Patience. Fray needs patience. He swallows, hoping that this will be enough. A small scrap of tinder to toss into the dying fire.

“Hmph. Alright then. I think ‘pretty boy’ will be good enough. Sorry for making you worry.”

Fray watches Lucient’s eyes. They stare back, still unblinking, still fathomless. The air around them tastes of a thousand icy needles, stinging as Fray breathes in. Fray bites back the urge to yell, to scream at the boy to just give him something to work with, some sort of reaction, anything. Just say something, with that voice that sounds like he’s about to either break out into song or into tears.

Still nothing. Fray exhales. He lowers his voice, trying his best to sound like one of the kinder adults of the orphanage. They tell him to hold his tongue, even when he knows a sharp word would do. When something like this happens, they’d probably say something like…

“Hey, pretty boy? Are you alright? I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, I didn’t mean to. Let’s talk about something else, yes? How about those eft tails from yesterday, the ones your handler yelled about. Are they any good?”

The glazed over look in Lucient’s eyes shatters, and the light returns to his gaze. The suffocating miasma lifts.

“Oh, yes, the eft tails! Yes, the cooks cut them up into thin slices for something they call ‘gratin’. They put lots of popotoes, sliced too, and great dollops of cream. I have never tasted it before, but they say it is a Dzemael family recipe, so it must be quite delicious if it has survived ’til now…”

Fray’s stomach grumbles. His mind follows. Cream, a luxury not afforded to mere Brume rats. Even meat is something only saved for special occasions. Fray knows enough about food to know that both in one meal would keep a boy like him fed for an entire day, and here was someone from the higher levels talking about them as if they were everyday ingredients, barely worth a second glance. But enough about his hunger, that’s nothing new. There are other points in Lucient’s ramble that catch his interest.

“Dzemael? You’re a brat of one of the High Houses then? They must feed you plenty of rich and fancy things, maybe you don’t need the extra filling.”

“Oh, not so!” Lucient’s voice comes back to him light and sing-songy, a hint of a chuckle in his words. “I do not eat those sorts of things at all! Cook them, yes, when the cooks allow me to help them. But my daily bread is…well, bread. Cheese too, and dried meat if the adults say I may have it. If I am truly lucky, they may give me a fruit as well.”

A far cry from the diet of a noble brat. And far from the activities of one too. Fray can’t help but tilt his head at these mismatched puzzle pieces. Don’t those fancy kids just sit around reading poetry and fussing about with their frills or whatever it is they do? What is one doing among their house servants?

Fray probes further.

“That’s still quite a lot, don’t you know? More than I get in a day, anyhow. Enough to make you a strong little lordling surely, lifting all your tails and popotoes or what have you.”

Lucient shakes his head, lifting one of his hands to the gap. The sleeve of his tunic falls back, revealing the thin stone-grey wrist beneath.

“I am not so strong, not yet. My elders must lift quite a lot of the heavier provisions for me, but I will grow as strong as them one day. I will have the body of a hero!”

Fray’s eyes are drawn not to the jutting of wrist and arm bones behind taut skin, but the sharp, almost chirurgical, scars spanning the entirety of Lucient’s hand and forearm. He’s seen those sorts of marks before. The older orphans, when the dread of life falls far too heavy upon their weary shoulders, would take shards of glass or daggers to their bodies, desperate to escape the unspeakable by focusing on the visible.

Fray himself bore no marks of his own making; he would sooner toss himself into the Sea of Clouds than let others know they had pushed him to that point. But he would be a liar to say that he was never tempted. Evidently, this fledgling felt the temptation too great for his young will to resist. Just what could trouble this boy so much that he fell for its siren song?

He says nothing. Simply staring at the old wounds as if they were constellations in the sky. His fingers twitch. Oh, how he wishes to reach through the gap in the gate and grab Lucient’s wrist with a grip that threatens to crush. Pull him through and nurse those scars until they vanish by some grace of the Fury. Scars bring one nothing but trouble and scorn. Mere reminders of mistakes, weakness, failures. He wouldn’t let that fate befall another. The urge thrums so loud it aches. He can already feel his nails scraping away those marks from the boy’s wrist. Just like how he wishes he could scrape away the ones on his own face.

“…And I think tonight, they will be wanting yet more tea and cream. Oh, is something wrong? I-I have not been boring you, have I? My apologies!”

Fray flicks his eyes back over to Lucient’s own. Did the fledgling notice him staring? Or is he used to being glared at by him by now? If there truly were merciful gods up above, the boy would simply be too innocent to realize that Fray knows. That he was imagining digging into his flesh just now.

Fray clears his throat, kicking the sight of Lucient’s scarred arm to the back of his mind. Something to handle later. To hold up to the candle of his soul and plan around.

“No, it’s not that, don’t worry. I was distracted, that’s all.”

“Oh my apologies, I did not mean to accuse you!”

“Nothing to apologize about, pretty boy, I was the one not listening, aye? Why don’t you tell me what you were talking about before?”

Lucient nods, and Fray waits with bated breath. The shroud from his earlier overstep has fully lifted. Come fledgling. Your audience wishes to hear you sing. Sing him a song about the ivory towers you flew from. Sing of a sky full of stars, unclouded by this eternal brume. Set this mongrel’s soul to soaring.

Time’s up. The fledgling’s keepers squawk for him to fly back to his cage. They sound an awful lot like the ireful tones of the drunkards that Fray darts behind when the orphanage rations don’t fill him, their gilpouches light in his fingers as they shout bloody murder at him. Lucient looks about in a frenzy. Fray glances to the right, a silent signal.

“I am terribly sorry. I must go again.” Lucient mutters, in that same pathetic placatory tone as before. Fray doesn’t snap at him though, that lesson sticking to him like a bloodstain. He nods.

“No worries. You can tell me next time. Come again soon, pretty boy.”

“Of course! Tomorrow? Or perhaps in a few days?”

“Any time. I can wait. Not too long though, aye?”

Lucient returns his nod, the corners of his eyes pricking up. A smile? Genuinely? Fray’s lips don’t curve to mirror the boy’s unseen face. But the flame burns as he watches him put his mask back on and run off. Leaving only the grey of the cobbles and the clouded sky outside the crack once again.

Lucient, was that his name? That quivering fledgeling sure proved himself interesting. At the very least, he’s a good way to pass the time. Better than picking fights with the other strays in these festering streets.

“Hey, lop-ear! What’re you doing over there? Preening?!”

Fray sighs, cracks his knuckles, and turns away from the gate. Back to the rabble and reality, then.

Chapter Text

Ishgard’s skies are clear today. The scent of spring flowers comes closer with each passing day. An old man, a brother and sister, and a young boy move as one, their cloaks a cloud floating amongst the crowds.

Lucient scouts ahead, his hands close to his chest. The wax paper should keep what’s inside from spoiling, but if the elder servants don’t let him go soon, the fifteenth bell might come by and it truly would be a waste. The old cook wouldn’t be so forgiving, not with him knowing where Lucient runs off to if he doesn’t have some delivery in his hands. The younger two may be easier to hide from. The cook’s wayward apprentice and a handmaiden-in-training who believed Lucient’s wild stories about a spectral prankster haunting the manor’s halls once upon a time. It was easy to trick the young lady at least, back before mother slaughtered the prankster and all his other friends. Back before the emptiness set in once more. Back before he knew better.

He looks to the two, eyes watering behind his mask. His smile trained on their indifferent and indecisive faces. His hands quiver under his cloak. The apprentice knows. Does the handmaiden know too? He can only hope they look away.

The apprentice glances down at Lucient, his brow furrowed. He looks over at his sister, a wordless question in his eyes. She, in turn, turns her gaze to Lucient, the little lying lad. She fusses with her apron for a moment, hands scrunching the worn wool as she wonders. Her eyes dart around before resting back on the boy. Then, without looking away from Lucient, she nods. Her brother seems to mutter something under his breath, too soft for Lucient to hear, and goes to pester his master. The handmaiden looks over at Lucient’s usual haunt, its miasma of low-class resignation rising like steam. Lucient wonders if she feels the same way about the lower levels as her superiors do. Or, perhaps, as he does.

She places her hands on Lucient’s shoulders, then spins him towards the Brume. With a firm push, he’s scrambling towards the steps. He looks back as he runs, seeing the handmaiden take out her pocket watch and point to it, before turning to her fellows. His chest aches as he holds his gift close.

The urchins turn their eyes towards Lucient as he navigates the path to the gate. He realises now that they must know what sort of creature he is, the trickle of noble blood flowing through his veins and staining him. If anything, some might have overheard his rousing conversation with the boy behind the gate the other day.

One catches his scent, spies the way he holds his parcel, and hollers at him.

“You! Sootface! What do you have there?”

Lucient freezes in his stride, unsure of whether to run towards the gate or back up the steps. He’s just a few steps from the gate though. A few more steps, and he can forget about this. Forget himself in the shadow’s voice. The trained smile that’s become as much as part of his face as his mask feels more like a rictus as he turns to face the insults.

“What are you doing down here? What’s that?”

“I want to see as well! Show us!”

“Silkarse! You Pillar rats think you’re too good for us? Get out of here! Don’t you come down here to laugh at us!”

Lucient’s grip on his package tightens, an instinct that he struggles against. He’s going to crush it! His gift! But his muscles are locked in place. He’s a lamb amongst wolves as the largest of the urchins get up from their boxes and slink towards him.

Just smile. Don’t think about it. Lucient is not here. He is floating away. The blows will not touch him. Just pretend he is somewhere else, and when he comes back, it will be over. They will be happy, and they will not hurt him again.

And if it does hurt, well, it was Lucient’s own fault for coming down here, for sticking his nose where it does not belong, for stepping out of line. For daring to breathe their air. It always is.

“Sod off, will you? Don’t make me come over there. He’s mine. So keep your hands off him, lest you want your fingers broken, aye?”

That voice. Muffled as it is behind stone walls and the wooden gate, he knows it too well by now. The timbre is different though, as if he’s hearing a bard recite the lines of a particularly nasty villain. Two of his pursuers hesitate, then back away, but the largest, almost a young man with his sinewy ruggedness, digs his heels in. He barks.

“As if you would do anything, girlyboy. Stay out of this!”

Silence falls upon the stone expanse. Then buzzing. The walls and ground around them grow fuzzier, their borders warping and melting away into one smear of grey. The ink blots that were making such a ruckus meld into one another, their chatter indistinct but their form larger than life. Some of the smaller spills writhe about and scream, reaching to the large ones as if to pull them back. Lucient feels the buzzing fill his legs, his arms, his body. And he sees himself. A statue, as if carved and painted to lifelike perfection. Ready to be torn down from it’s pedestal. But he will not break. He must not break. Keep smiling. Heroes smile, even when foes surround them.

The shadow’s voice snaps him back to his body.

“Fifteenth bell. Come over here then, and say that where I can see you. Don’t be shy now. You’re a strong one, are you not? Going to be a knight one day, aye? You wouldn’t have your teeth scatter on the cobbles by the delicate hands of a ‘girlyboy’, would you?”

Lucient can’t help himself. His head snaps around towards the wall where the boy must be. He feels a warmth surround his still-numb body, the brush of an unseen shepherd wielding his crook against that which seeks to tear his charge limb from limb.

It would be wonderful to have fangs and claws of his own one day. And the courage and permission to bare them. For now, the shadow’s words serve just as well. The stray urchin who was just snarling at him takes a step back. His face still contorted in an aggressive grimace, but his attention turned towards one of his friends (at least, Lucient assumes they’re friends?) pulling on his tunic sleeve. Whispering something about “fray” and “mad mongrel”. Just what is fraying? Their clothes? Or the older boy’s sanity for trying to threaten the shadow?

The pups murmur amongst themselves, before fully backing away from Lucient and returning to their chatter. His death grip on his wax paper package loosens, almost to the point of dropping it. Knees crumpling against the stone wall, he pulls his cloak around himself and checks the packet. It’s a little squashed, but still presentable.

“Pretty boy, I know it’s you. Come here. I’ve been waiting. They’ll bother you no longer, worry not.”

The voice, no longer possessing its violent edge, now flows from through the wall. A soft intangible arm wrapped around Lucient’s shivering shoulders, coaxing him around the corner and back to where he belongs. Standing before the crack in the wooden gate, those golden eyes pinning him in place once more.

The shadows around the boy’s eyes are deeper now, has he been losing sleep? Or is it simply a weary side effect of life in Ishgard’s catacombs?

The boy clears his throat.

“They didn’t hurt you, did they? You can tell me, we down here can be a rough pack of curs. If they left a bruise on you, believe me, I shall leave them double. Triple, if it’s that brute Hyur that spat at me.”

Lucient shakes his head.

“No, I am…unharmed, I think? They did not come close enough to me to strike, thanks to you.”

The thought of the shadow thrashing those urchins for frightening him sends a shiver down Lucient’s spine, but he cannot tell why. Is it fear for them, these downtrodden children simply defending their home? Fear of the shadow and the chance that his ire could turn on him? Or some forbidden joy at someone daring to protect him? Lucient’s voice trembles with that same worrying ambiguity, even when the words are filled with nothing but praise.

“Thank you very much. That was truly brave of you! You…you are a hero, truly! You saved me!”

The boy’s eyes soften at his praise, and he hums to himself. Is that enough? Is he pleased? He won’t actually raise his fists against those urchins, will he?

The boy croons.

“It’s no problem at all, pretty boy. Wouldn’t do to have a little bird like you bleeding and weeping in the streets, you’ll just lure more of us carrion-feeders. Speaking of weeping…”

He leans in once more, those golden eyes sparkling in the shadows.

“Show me your eyes again. I must check.”

Ah, that’s right. Lucient still has his mask on, doesn’t he? Very rude. Holding the gift in his left hand, Lucient removes his mask and tucks it away, looking deep into the boy’s eyes. That strange feeling returns. Something digging into him, hooking its fingers into his core, grasping onto something wriggling deep in his chest. He survived this before. He can do it again. Lucient gulps, forcing himself not to blink even as the boy’s eyes sear themselves into his mind.

After a few seconds, the grasping changes. The feeling morphs into something akin to cradling, Lucient’s heart being held gently between two cold yet soft hands. His breath hitches, and his free hand flies up to cover where his heart would be. He’s sweating, his body burning up in spite of the cool breeze. His head feels like it’s being squeezed until his skull cracks open, but strangely, there’s a feeling of peace settling in his core.

The boy blinks, and the cradling recedes, leaving Lucient breathless and more than a little dizzy.

“Good. You’re still…”

His voice trails off as he mumbles to himself. Lucient wants to ask what he means, but the words fail to form in his spinning head. The parcel in his left hand is his only anchor in this ocean of disorientation. He shakily lifts it up to the gap. It slides in half-way, perched on the ragged edges of the wood as he chirps.

“I brought you this…a quiche from the manor’s kitchen. I hope you enjoy it?”

The package lies there, stuck half in and out. The boy’s eyes narrow, regarding the quiche with suspicion. Lucient shakes, his hand still guarding his heart. Would he accept it?

“It has eft in it…you asked if it tasted good, did you not? I apologize, it is not fresh, and quite cold, but…”

There’s a quick rustling of wax paper. Lucient looks up to see the package gone, and the boy turned to his side, looking down at what he assumes is the now open quiche. Those golden eyes maintain their glare as he lifts it to his mouth. He chews slowly, and swallows. Lucient watches him, waiting for any sort of response. A nod, a scrunching up of the face in disgust, or even a choice word. All that he sees is the boy’s eyes widening, whatever that could mean.

In a split second, the boy tears into the rest of the quiche, wild sounds like a beast starved. Lucient can hardly even hear him chew each bite. A jolt of what he knows is panic sets in. Lucient waves his hands at the gap in the gate, his voice frantic and reedy as the words tumble out as fast as the boy devouring his gift.

“Wait! Slow down! You will choke if you eat that fast! It’s all for you, please do not force yourself!”

The boy fixes his eyes on Lucient’s anxious face, but does not stop. He keeps ripping into the quiche, swallowing whole chunks until the wax paper crumples and he presumably tosses it off somewhere on his side. Lucient stands and stares, utterly stunned. Did…he even taste it? Surely eating that quickly would also give him a stomach ache, and if Lucient had even the slightest role in hurting this boy, he would never sleep soundly again. The thought of it curdles his blood.

“That was delicious.”

The matter-of-fact comment from the other side smacks Lucient’s fluttering mind out of the whirlwind he’s worked himself into. The anxiety that had sent his mind tumbling crashes into the wall of joy that’s shot up around Lucient’s heart. The boy on the other side tilts his head. His voice is barely a whisper.

“Thank you, Lucient.”

Just three simple words, but they are enough to make him beam through flustered tears. The boy had said his name. It sounded like a hymn from Halone’s hallowed halls on his lips. The flame inside his heart roars to life, suffocating the void in his chest, and for a fleeting moment, all he sees is light and the tender golden eyes gazing back at him. The corners of those perpetually shadowed eyes prick up. He’s smiling, isn’t he? Lucient’s heart soars. He wants the boy to smile all the time. He wants to be the reason he smiles.

“Thank…thank you! Thank you! I…I think…I am so happy you like it! Would you like more? I can bring you more during our next visit, or something different? Anything else, anything at all?”

The boy jerks away from the gate at Lucient’s fervent torrent, shaking his head. But in his glee, Lucient doesn’t register anything other than his words.

“Do be a bit quieter, pretty boy. You’ll wake the dead like this.”

Lucient, feeling the mental slap on the wrist, covers his mouth. The giggles crawl out between the gaps in his fingers though.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting something in return then?” The boy looks down, though his tone remains cool and frank. “I don’t have much to call my own, but it must have been a pain in the arse to get that tasty thing out of your handlers’ grasp.”

Lucient speaks before his mind has even finished registering what the boy said.

“No! Nothing at all! As long as you are happy, that is all I need. Truly!”

The boy seems to shuffle about on his side, squinting at Lucient as if the joyous inferno in his heart is a real flame burning with the intensity of the sun. He shakes his head again, coughing and clearing his throat multiple times. His reply, when it does come out, is a meek murmur.

“Deep breaths, pretty boy. Wouldn’t want you passing out in this place. And think, think carefully. I mean what I say, and I will do what I can to make your wish real. Just… don’t expect too much, yes?”

The stammered warning from the other side puts a lid on Lucient’s roaring joy, and Lucient does as he’s told. Truth be told, he was getting a touch dizzy again from the surge of emotion, perhaps a quick breathing exercise would help. He takes great heaving breaths. It’s a novel experience not taking them after crying or a nightmare. And he thinks.

What does he want from this boy? Asking for something to be given so freely feels unnatural. Not anything material, no, it would be unfair to ask that of someone who already lives such a brutal existence. But something intangible, something that can feed his soul instead of his stomach or a gil pouch…

“I…If it is not a bother…I would like you to keep talking to me. When I visit. And I would like you to keep protecting me from the others, if they may come to scare me again.”

The boy listens, then scoffs.

“Something I already do, then? Alright, I’ll continue; it comes naturally anyhow. You aren’t that demanding of a master, are you?”

Lucient chokes on his words at the boy’s casual referral to him with such an unfitting title. If he wasn’t already leaning against the gate, he may have actually fainted then. He steadies himself, forcing his voice to be as stable as he can make it.

“There is one other thing I want, if it is no trouble. Could…could you be my friend?”

The question floats through the gap that connects them. The boy stares at him. For a moment, Lucient worries that he might have whispered too quietly, and prepares to ask again. But the boy speaks first.

“You want me to be your friend?”

Lucient nods, struggling to keep his movements slow and unambiguous. Friendship. Loyalty. Easy conversation with someone who makes him feel this way. Easy smiles, ones that reach their eyes rather than being etched on their faces. Someone who will welcome his presence, even though they know what he is. The lure is far too tempting.

“Yes. It would mean more than air and water to me. Even more than even that quiche I gave you. We talk a lot, do we not? And we are always here, at this gate. Can we call that ‘being friends’?”

There’s silence on the other end, heavy with thought. The boy’s golden eyes close. Was it too much? Would he say no? It would surely break Lucient’s heart, he knows that, but perhaps that’s just how it should be. Like he’d said, Lucient shouldn’t have expected too much.

Then the response. Measured, but not unkind. A slow creaking open of a rusted door.

“I suppose we could? I could be yours, if you would be mine.’”

It takes every fibre of Lucient’s will not to leap against the gate. He wants to scream and cheer, but the warning from before keeps his elation to a whisper.

“Thank you, thank you so very much, my friend!”

“Fray. Name’s Fray, pretty boy. Try saying it, will you?”

Fray. It flows from Lucient’s lips as naturally as breath. He inhales, and says Fray’s name with each exhale. Committing it to memory. It’s a strange name indeed, not sounding like a typical name held by either Hyur or Elezen elsewhere in Ishgard, bringing to mind neither a man nor a woman. But for the boy with those golden eyes that shine as Lucient repeats his name, it fits perfectly.

“Fray…I will remember that. It sounds…nice. And tough as well. Like you!”

“Oh, please do, repeat it when you’re alone if you must.” Fray hums, his gaze softened, no doubt by Lucient’s flattery. “Would be unfair for you to forget your new friend the moment you turn around, aye?”

“I would never!” Lucient cries out. “I’ll repeat it! Over and over! I promise!”

“Promise?”

“On my life, and my honour! And everything else I could swear on!”

“Good,” A quiet plea enters Fray’s tone. “Please don’t forget. If you do, I will make you say it one hundred times, every bell, until you can’t possibly forget it again. Your throat will be quite sore by the end.”

Lucient hears echoes coming from Fray. Echoes of his own loneliness. Echoes of that desire for recognition. The pang in his chest echoes back. If only this gate could simply disappear, he could hold Fray’s hand as he makes his vow.

“I understand. I promise, Fray. I will come to you every day, and we will talk. I will say your name, because we are friends. Now, and forever!”

The skies over Ishgard are clear, and the sun’s light reaches even this corner of the Brume. For the first time, Lucient sees the boy behind the gate. And he, in turn, is finally seen.

Chapter Text

Fray has tasted a lot of things lately. Right now, it’s a bitter herbal tonic, meant to soothe body aches and hasten natural healing. One of the adults told him to drink it, but said nothing more. She’s lucky he already knows what this is and who she is, lest he throw it back in her face and dart back under the covers. The last time he trusted a strange drink from an adult, necessity being a cruel mistress, he was lucky to escape with his wits about him and his drawers still intact. A harrowing consequence of not trusting the echoes of others’ rotten hearts, and not having a knife to carve a way out of those grotesque traps.

Before then, it was blood. That cur of a Hyur that threatened Lucient (ah, but now they’re friends, so perhaps a new nickname is in order) and prodded at Fray’s pretence seemed to take Fray at his word. Once his little fledgling flew away, it wasn’t long before the stray took his place. Had Fray not been the fool who goaded him in the first place, he would have turned tail and fled back into the winding paths of the Brume.

Still, Fray’s ego is far larger than his common sense, even if his Fury-cursed body is too short to match. Had he not thrown the first punch, Fray had no doubt the cur would have had him on his knees. And there’s no way in the seven hells that Fray would put on his pathetic mewling act for someone who’d tried to peel back his skin and dig his claws into the claim he’d already staked.

No. He had, with a cuff to the jaw and a knee between the legs, showed that overgrown brat what for. And it felt damned good, seeing that boy in man’s skin skitter away from him with eyes like saucers, swallowing his words. No doubt he would scamper and squeal the next time Lucient floated by, knowing what lies in wait should he dare to bare his teeth or forget to hold his tongue. So he also got what he gave, so what? A bruise on the chin is just another tick to the tally of scars on his face, one that will fade anyhow.

Through it all, Fray still tastes the gift his little fledgling gave him. It wasn’t the ambrosia that he had hoped for, but true to his prediction, it had kept him full for the rest of the day. What sticks to his mind was the smell, and the warmth. Perhaps, as Lucient had said through apologies (always saying sorry, that boy; Fray wishes he could shut that habit up without scaring his poor friend off), it would have been far more appealing when hot and fresh out of the oven. But the quiche was still warm. And oh, did it smell of that little fledgling; something clean, sweet and almost smoky, though not in the choking way that the smog from the Brume reeks. Closer to firewood, freshly burnt, the ash coating whatever ageless stone fireplace Lucient might sweep up during his servant duties.

Fray imagines how he must have been holding the package before he slid it through the gap in the gate. Lucient’s thin fingers holding it tight against his chest, every heartbeat infusing the pastry with his warmth. Then, in a way, when Fray sank his teeth into that gift, one carried so tenderly even through the terror of having it ripped away, couldn’t he say that he was eating Lucient’s heart?

The thought makes Fray grimace outwardly, the imagery of biting into a living beating heart even more bitter on his tongue than the tonic, and just as stomach-turning. But deep inside, his flame twitched. His friend’s heart. His friend’s warmth. All given freely to him. Only him. For him to protect, to cherish, to consume and hold inside his abyss. His friend’s sustenance, his honour and everything he’d sworn on, offered to him wholly. That melodic voice, any voice, whispering his name over and over. Over and over and over, forever.

Fray sighs, a little too loud and heavy for his liking. Not yet. Keep that particular gate shut tight.

For now, he checks the cracked clock on the wall of the communal bedroom. It’s almost noon. The sun would be high in the sky by now, giving him a good view of the world outside. Not that the view ever changes, but he can dream.

And Lucient would be wandering down to the gate. Yet here Fray is, cooped up and sipping on this frankly frown-worthy tincture like an invalid. He would be alone, peering into the shadows with those eyes, wondering where his friend is.

He would be vulnerable. A sitting beacon for troublemakers. For the violent and the vile. With teeth that tear and claws that catch.

“And I would like you to keep protecting me from the others…”

Fray jumps out of bed before he recalls the rest of the request. He snatches pillows from the beds beside his, stuffing them under the threadbare covers until it resembles a sleeping child, albeit a lumpy portly one. He lifts his own pillow, all the squirrelled away trinkets and treats tumbling out from under it, reaching for his veil and headscarf. He searches for his knife, but it’s neither in the pile of pillow trinkets nor in the gap between his mattress and the wall. Damn it all, one of the other children must have snatched it again. Them or the adults who don’t understand why he would need it. No matter, he still has enough ill-gotten gil stashed away to get a new one. And if he finds whoever took it, well, two knives are better than one.

“Has anyone seen Fray? She was meant to be on washing duty today, can someone find her?”

His grimace hardens. Outside the room, they speak as if he cannot hear. Fray shakes the question out of his head, and unlocks the drafty window just above his bed. Just enough for him to slip through. He kicks over the tonic bottle as he lifts himself up and out, the glass crashing to the floor. He doesn’t look back. He only hears part of a reply from one of the other orphans.

“I think he’s still in his bed, miss. Heard he got in a scuffle with the older kids again. He’s been scary lately…”

For once, Fray isn’t the one waiting at the gate. Lucient hops about like a particularly endearing flea when he notices Fray. Enthusiastic, is he? Any more and he might try reaching through the gap to grasp at him. Through the brief swell of revulsion at the idea, Fray’s heart does a curious little flutter kick. Perhaps it’s infectious.

“Fray? Hullo Fray! Are you quite alright? I have another treat for you.”

Ah, that does sound good. Yet more morsels from the outside world, both for the mouth and the mind. Fray hums a short tune, enough to let Lucient know he heard him. Now that he’s up close, he sees the way Lucient’s eyes dilate as they meet his, the slight tremble noticeable even through the thin gap. Fray leans closer, a lilt in his tone. Perhaps this act will fan that curious flame more. Perhaps he’ll check later.

“As well as I can be, pretty boy. Did I keep you waiting too long?”

“Oh no, not at all! I only reached this gate a few minutes ago, so do not worry. It is a bit cold, but everything is fine, I have a cloak, do not worry!”

Lucient’s eyes scan what little of Fray’s face he can see, his brow furrowing more and more as he fixes his gaze on him.

“You are sweating, and quite pale as well, Fray. Are you truly well? Are you sick? If you need a day’s rest, it is okay, I can come back tomorrow.”

Fray blinks. The dampness of his brow under his headscarf had escaped his mind. Faced with this casual concern, his thoughts blank out. The mask slips. It’s only when he sees Lucient’s eyes widen and hears his voice stammering out the start of another apology that Fray gets his act together. He gives him the verbal equivalent of a shrug.

“Ah, that, it’s nothing. I was running all the way here, that’s all. Just a bit…excited to see my new friend, you know?”

That gets Lucient to squeak, then titter under his breath. From behind the gate, Fray sees the points of Lucient’s ears go pink. This is just too easy. He almost laughs along with him.

“You were excited? So was I! These visits, they light up my day. Talking to you warms my heart like nothing else!”

Fury damn him, this boy is good. Fray makes a mental note to work on his banter. One of these days he will tease his fledgling in circles so fast, he’ll be too dizzy to quip back. That will be a hell of a lark.

“Cute words, pretty boy. Did your handlers teach you that one? Or,” Fray lowers his voice to a conspiratorial drawl. “Are you reading your mistresses’ courting manuals when they aren’t making you scrub their piss pots? You aren’t using me as practice for some lucky little lady, are you?”

A critical hit. Lucient looks as if he’s about to stomp his foot and wave his hands feebly at Fray’s eyes again. Thank goodness for the gate and his veil both, Fray couldn’t hide his widening grin otherwise. This act is definitely going in regular rotation.

Another wax paper packet is shoved through the gap. The force almost pokes out Fray’s eyes, though he steps back before that ever happens. Lucient splutters from behind the now plugged up gate.

“I-I have this for you, Fray! It is an apple, though it is a bit soft, I do hope you enjoy this as well!”

The packet nearly drops to the floor, narrowly saved from its fate by a swift swipe of Fray’s hands. Sure enough, when he unwraps it, a handful of apple slices greet him. Brown around the edges, but glistening otherwise. Fray looks up, his tone shifting to something cool and questioning.

“Your handlers decided it was your lucky day, then? You should have it, it’s your treat.”

“No no, do not worry about it, isn’t fresh fruit hard to come by in the lower levels? It is my gift to you, please do take it.”

The packet weighs heavy in Fray’s frigid fingers. He picks up one of the slices, its mild fragrance reaching him even through the heavy musk of the Brume and the sheer fabric of his veil. He bites off a chunk, and the tartness sends a shock through his mouth. Sharp and acidic, it cuts through the lingering bitterness of the tonic, and a subtle sweetness melts over what is left behind. Fray struggles to liken it to anything else he’s eaten before, the closest thing would be the cloying fruit preserves only doled out during namedays or other special occasions. The walls around him sparkle a little brighter, their tired greys and grime a touch more vivid.

“It’s…nice. Refreshing. Thank you.”

Fray hears Lucient take a few, shaky, deep breaths. Sounds like yesterday’s lesson stuck its landing. That intense light of desperate scrutiny in Lucient’s eyes diffuses, the tension around them melting away. His voice, no longer a taut string waiting to rip, reaches Fray in a gentle relieved sigh.

“It is an honour and a pleasure, Fray, truly. I am glad you like it.”

Well, if Lucient ever decides to stay on his path, Fray could certainly picture him being one of those fancy butlers who wait hand and foot on their ever-demanding masters. He certainly has the words and smile in his voice for it. Perhaps his handlers do teach him some charisma after all.

Fray looks down at the apple slices again. There’s quite a lot of them, and no doubt hiding them from the rest of the orphans would be like trying to hide honey from ants. Still, Fray couldn’t eat all of them at once. If it didn’t give him a stomach ache, Lucient surely would give him an earache over his overindulgence. He looks up at Lucient’s soft blue eyes.

“Care for a slice, pretty boy? They’re quite nice, would be a pity for you not to have some.”

Lucient shakes his head. Fray expected that, but the slow way he does it piques Fray’s curiosity. The fledgling’s flame is holding steady against his usual high-strung torrent of affection it seems.

“It is okay, Fray. I am not too hungry, and you still look quite pale. Please, have all of them, if you want.”

Fray stares Lucient down. His unseen smile falters for a moment. All he does is give, then? This boy…

“Are you scared of getting juice all over your fingers, is that it? Well then…”

Fray picks up one of the apple slices, a thinner one easy to slip through, and poises his hand before the gap. He croons.

“Open wide, pretty boy. Don’t be shy. The fruit awaits your fangs, you know. Don’t keep it waiting!”

A tone reserved for the times when Fray is on caretaking duty for the youngest orphans, tailing the ladies and tending to the toddlers and young children when the adults are too busy. It’s an act that made Fray wince even though caring for the younger children didn’t bother him, but maybe his fledgling just needs some extra encouragement. He can bear the embarrassment.

Lucient, it seems, cannot. He’s twitching again, his eyes darting around as if some dolt might come by while he’s in this strange position. Fray sighs, before perking up.

“Come now, I’m not about to trick you. I won’t go poking around in there, ’lest you want me to check for wobbles, aye?”

Lucient looks away from Fray for a moment, his dusky face thoroughly pink now, before closing his eyes and slowly opening his mouth. Fray can’t help himself, he takes a peek. Nothing jagged or missing; a true sign of “noble” hygiene, or perhaps they don’t let the boy eat any sweets. He slides the apple slice through the gap and into Lucient’s mouth, tapping it on Lucient’s tongue when he fails to realize it’s there. A silent “bite, you fool”.

Lucient bites down and pulls away, the slice vanishing into his mouth as if sucked in by a drain. Fray pops another slice into his mouth as well, the two of them chewing together. When he hears Lucient swallow, Fray has another slice ready and waiting. It’s almost peaceful, like they’re two ordinary children sharing lunch. Ordinary would be a nice thing to be.

“Well, pretty boy,” Fray mumbles between bites. “Did you reach this mess safe? I assume those curs aren’t bothering you any more?”

“Yes, I was safe indeed,” Lucient chirps after he swallows his slice. “No trouble at all with the others from before, a relief indeed.”

The bruise on Fray’s chin aches. He smiles.

“Thought so. Good. I’ve taken care of the biggest one, so his lackeys should follow him.”

“You…took care of him? Wait, Fray, surely you did not..?”

Fray’s smile twists into a self-satisfied smirk, one even the fledgling should be able to spot from his eyes.

“Oh, I did. And he crumpled like a sheet of old parchment, he did. Begged for mercy and pissed himself when I got him to the ground. He insulted me and threatened you, what else was I supposed to do?”

Fray finally hears that petulant stomp, that frustrated huff, and he just stops himself from cackling at it. Oh, there’s the boy’s true self. The fury underneath the double mask. Even as it licks at Fray’s heels, he grins like an imp. Wonderful, the fledgling’s acting his age for once. Lucient yells from the other side, his face somehow greyer than usual now.

“You should not do that, you did not have to do that! That is so…so foolish. So brutish. You could have been hurt quite terribly. Are you hurt, Fray? Please tell me you were not hurt!”

The only balm more soothing than the fledgling’s embarrassment (though second to his praise and adoration) is his incredulity. Fray rubs his bruise through his veil, massaging those teary words into the mark.

“Pretty boy, I’m sorry to say I was hurt. Not badly, mind. Just a little punch out of pity for that poor whelp. Couldn’t help it, it’s fun to see them puff up right before you knock them down.”

A bit more embellishment, yes, but Lucient’s face going pale and his voice quavering makes it all worth it.

“Fray! You are joking, are you not? If you truly are hurt, I can find some medicine to soothe your aches. An ointment, or even bandages for your hands and face? Please wait here, I will return with them.”

Fray’s hand pauses midway through popping another apple slice in his mouth. His smile falls. His face. Lucient wants to see his face. He wants to touch his face. This wretched thing that’s only brought fear or contempt out of others, and a stomach-churning leer in a few. And there’s that miserable concerned tone again. An equal two steps back to being a pitiful servant.

“No need, pretty boy.” Fray mutters, the slightest tremble in his voice. “I’m fine. I’m not hurt. Just stay there. Keep talking.”

Lucient stares back at him, the worry still floating in his eyes like clouds in a morning sky. He must now know something is truly wrong. Fray sees his eyes dart down, perhaps at the ground, perhaps at his own hands which are almost certainly fidgeting against the urge to apologize. Fray sees him nod, the tension in Fray’s muscles easing just the slightest bit.

“Fray,” Lucient’s voice comes through the gap soft and meek, a long pause before he continues. “When that boy, the one that you said you had ‘taken care of’…when he called you a ‘girlyboy’, what did he mean by that?”

The easing screeches to a halt. Fray says nothing for a long while. How could he? How could he tell Lucient about the way everyone talks about him? How they speak of ambiguity and cannot decide what they think Fray is? The way each adult can’t come to an agreement about whether he should bathe with the boys or the girls? How could he describe the unsettling feeling of his body not feeling like his own, the heart-stopping dread when he looks in the mirror? How he prays for one thing most of all: that what he sees laid bare before him isn’t his destiny, that by some grace of the Fury he would be granted the body he knows he should have. That time will harden and sharpen his edges, rather than soften them into agonizing nothingness.

Fray wraps the remaining apple slices back up, his voice lowering to a cool flatness. Every word he says carefully articulated, as if he’s carving them out of ice. Not a single tremor, nor a hint of weakness, can come out.

“People say what they want, Lucient. Don’t go believing everything they tell you.”

The only thing that passes between them is the cool winter breeze. Lucient’s eyes remain soft, waiting for clarification, probably. To keep hiding the truth would be an exercise in futility. Lucient will keep asking questions, and Fray will keep pulling him around in circles, never letting him truly see what they’re dancing around. It’s tiring. It’s not trust, not that it’s something that can truly be given down here.

“Fray, are you like me then? Do you hear people say things that make you feel…not quite right?”

Fray stares off at a damp spot on the stone walls. He traces its wobbling amorphous outline with his eyes, hoping this exercise will quieten his nerves for what he knows he must say. His mouth is dry, swallowing stings.

“Abomination. Aberration. Mongrel. Lop-ear. Halfbreed. Halfgrown. Bratchet. And yes, girlyboy.” Fray spits out each slur with sharp detachment, willing the building discomfort with each word down into the darkest corners of his heart so it can’t reach his mind. He flicks his eyes over to Lucient, and brings his hand up to part his dark mop of hair, revealing those pointed ears stuck half-way between Hyur and Elezen.

“All because of these, and what’s under my clothes. Fancy that, pretty boy. Can you imagine being called things like that for simply being born?”

He realises too soon that he’d spat those words out far too roughly for Lucient, but he’s beyond caring about manners now. He watches Lucient through the crack. Watches for the horror, the disgust, the clueless stare. For Lucient to shake his head and bow solemnly, a pitying platitude or two to cover for the fact that he truly couldn’t understand.

Instead, Fray is met with a melancholic, but surprisingly stalwart gaze. Lucient whispers through the gap.

“I do. Mayhaps not with the same…anger as the words you hear, but I do hear them.”

In a contrast that makes Fray twitch, Lucient’s whisper turns cheerful, or at least what a less astute listener would mistake for cheer. Fray sees right through the transparent mask, that wretched thing his fledgling seems to have stitched to his face. He simply listens.

“Some of the servants, and many of my betters, they call me a ‘bastard’. I do not know what that means, but it must be something bad from the way they say it. They say my blood is ‘tainted’. I am a ‘shame’, a ‘mistake’, a ‘blemish’, a ‘burden’, a ‘blight’. Something that must be hidden away, or even cut off. They are quite frightening words indeed, but that is what they call me, so that is what I am.”

The innocent smile in Lucient’s tone makes Fray nauseous. Bile and fire climb in his throat when he notices a hint of a tremor in Lucient’s voice, that buried part of his friend crying out for acknowledgement of his pain. I see you, you don’t have to hide it.

“But it is all alright, because I take it on the chin, as I must! They know I have done something wrong, so it is fine for them to call me that.”

Fray sees them. The faintest pinpricks of tears budding in Lucient’s eyes, though the fledgling himself doesn’t seem to notice them. The previous frank lightness in Lucient’s voice falters, and the tremor truly sets in.

“And mother said…I was ‘shackling’ her, that I hurt her every day I still live. She hates my eyes, even though they look like hers. And she should have disposed of me here in the Brume when she could, for what I did to her. The words…I think they hurt, but if I had truly done something bad to her, then I deserve it, do I not? Every word? That wish that I was never born?”

That devastatingly earnest question hangs in the air, a jarring note in the melody that was becoming increasingly out of key. A bitterly cold tempest whips itself into a fury inside Fray’s heart. His jaw tightens. It’s as if he’s hearing those very insults being slung at him, wounding him through Lucient. What the servants and nobles say don’t sting as much, Fray expects as much from those Pillars-born folk and the lapdogs that listen to them. But what sort of mother says that to her own son? Even Fray’s own tormentors wouldn’t go so far as to wish for his demise. And what sort of whelp just accepts those words as the truth? Just thinking about it makes his hand reach for the knife he knows isn’t there. He tastes blood again. He already feels it seeping into his nails, dripping down his hands onto the cobbles, vanishing into the grime.

So that’s why. He grimly thinks. That’s why he wears that bloody mask. That’s why he acts like this.

Just before it seems like Lucient is about to weep, the corners of his eyes prick up, and the cheer paints itself over his words again.

“Ah, but if she did, then perhaps we would have met earlier, Fray! We could have been friends, and protected each other, yes? Like brothers.”

Damn this boy. Damn him and his pitiable escapism. And damn Fray himself for actually considering that silly dream. To have a friend, a brother to call his own. Someone to shield and be shielded by. To share bed, breakfast, and breath. To have that curious light in his life from the very start. A warm smile, a listening ear, and kind voice whenever Fray desired it. Perhaps, even a soft and pure touch, the kind that insufferably childish part of himself screams for every so often. A hand on Fray’s shoulder whenever he’s upset. A pull of his hand towards a new hiding spot in the alleys. An embrace under threadbare blankets to ward off the chill of the night; to curl against someone, entwined so tightly that not a single breeze could pass between them. Shrouded in shadows so deep, the world would never wound them again.

Fray feels the pang of heartache, and at once stamps it down with what he knows is true. Such a light would not last a year in this fetid place. The gruelling struggle to survive, to maintain one’s dignity, would snuff out Lucient’s innocence fast, and all he’d be is another toothless urchin wandering these haunted streets. Another wavering flicker Fray wouldn’t pay a second glance at. And even if Lucient’s flame managed to burn true through all that, it’s dangerous to let something like that melt away his mental walls. Fray’s vulnerable enough with them.

You don’t need to put up with that, you fool! He wants to scream. Don’t just let them say those things about you. Be like me. Show them your talons. Scream. Shout. Let it all out. Make them choke on their poisonous words. Make them see there’s a fire under the scars they make you tear into yourself, and you’ll burn them alive.

“Perhaps, pretty boy.” Fray murmurs instead, his gaze softening, “But here we are. Two wretched pups, talking through a piece of wood.”

Lucient giggles, a sing-songy wave that reaches through and tickles the corners of Fray’s lips.

“We are not wretched, Fray. Well, I do not think you are wretched. I think you are very thoughtful for listening to me.”

Fray shrugs, pushing aside the fact that Lucient can’t see it and the fact that his fledgling’s flattery make his heart skip a beat.

“What else is there to do but listen? It’s not as if we can do much else. You have a nice voice, anyhow.”

Lucient’s giggle grows into a laugh, and a weary smile returns to Fray’s veiled face. He unwraps the apple slices and pushes another one through the gap. The confessions still swing over their heads like blades on frayed ropes, but for now, Fray immerses himself in this return to sweetness.

Lucient, in between chews, chirps once again.

“…Fray, if it is not too rude to ask…do you think…are you a boy or a girl?”

This again? Fray couldn’t fault Lucient for being curious, but going around in this perpetual ronde round this particular topic wears at his nerves. He could answer him plainly, but at this point, he’d just be stifling Lucient’s ability to think for himself. Have the curious little fledgling answer for himself, and so, reveal himself.

“Well, I know what I am, but why don’t you tell me? Which one do you think I am, pretty boy? Which ‘Fray’ do you like more?”

Fray watches for every tick, listens for every tremble. There’s only one right answer. If Lucient truly understood him, truly wishes to be his friend, he would know what that is. Lucient’s eyes wander, brow furrowed in thought. When Lucient meets his eyes again, his words are slow, carefully picked out.

“I…don’t know. I think you are a boy, because you sound like me, but…I like Fray. I like the Fray that comes and speaks to me, even though you truly do not have to. The Fray who tells me quite mean words…but kind ones as well. The Fray who protected me yesterday, even if you were a bit frightening, and the one who listened to me today.”

He was right on the gil. He could have stopped at the first sentence and Fray would be satisfied. But he just keeps talking, keeps stroking at the festering wound in Fray’s chest with a gentle cauterizing flame.

“If you tell me you are one or the other, you would still be Fray, would you not? You would still be my friend, even if I thought wrong. Does…that make sense, Fray? Is that what you wished to hear?”

His friend, no matter who I am. Fray wonders. That childish part of his heart strains against his skin, struggling to claw its way out and reach out to that holy idea. Your friend, now and forever!

“Is that what you really think, Lucient?” Fray says, his grip on his detached observation loosening, almost to the point of complete release. “Or just what your scared little head tells you to say?”

Lucient nods without delay, staring deep into Fray’s eyes.

“Truly. I swear upon it.”

The distant sounds of both worlds fill the air, the two boys staring at each other in profound silence. Fray feels the urge tug at him. He should peer into Lucient’s heart once again, find out the truth, even if it makes his fledgling squirm. Yet Fray hesitates in the face of this rare flash of resolution in Lucient’s eyes. Could he trust? He, who beholds the depths of darkness and depravity in others’ souls?

Fray looks down. There’s one apple slice left. He picks it up, and tears it in half. One for him, one for his fledgling.

“Alright. I see. You’d best not go back on that, you hear me?”

He’ll try. He’ll try to trust that unseen smile on the other side. The one that swallows down the last half of their shared gift.

“I promise, Fray.” Lucient whispers. “So please, with all your heart, as a friend to a friend, believe in me.”

Chapter Text

Sweep, sweep, sweep. No matter how many times Lucient comes down to sweep the chimneys and fireplaces, the soot always seems to return thicker and more stubborn than the last. His freshly laundered tunic and trousers are smeared in ash once more. He coughs, a great hacking shout as he sets a cloud of soot free.

Retreating to the solitude of the servant quarters’ washroom to rinse himself off, Lucient finds a quiet respite from the glares and the mask. The shock of the uninsulated cold on his bare skin is enough to jolt Lucient out of his automaton-like fugue. The water runs cool and tar black as he pours it over himself. Down goes the filth, or at least what’s on the surface. Lucient shivers, even as he towels himself off, but there’s no time to boil water for a proper wash. The task list grows longer; the deadlines slither, waiting to strike.

“Boy, are you quite done? The ladies beg for their tea, and the dishes aren’t washed yet.”

“Yes yes, pray wait a moment, madam!”

Lucient replies before his mind registers the new task, the mask fastened on tight. No time to wash and dry his clothes, just slip them back on and prepare for the scowls. A good servant is never displeased and always eager to help, just like a hero; both easing the burdens of their charges.

Before he fastens his tunic, Lucient looks in the mirror. It takes him a moment to recognize himself with the mask and uniform partially on, but he does notice that he’s grown a touch bigger all around since his last preening. Has he gotten stronger? Perhaps he could even take on the more difficult outdoor tasks now, ones that take a whole day, rather than a single afternoon. More chances to slip away and head down those familiar steps, more time to spend with—

The rapping at the door grows more insistent. Lucient jolts out of his daydream and hastily buttons his tunic up. Duty calls.

Scrub, scrub, scrub. Lucient has a crick in his neck, an ache in his back. Even stretching doesn’t relieve the pain, but it’s something all servants must live with. For a wayward servantboy who’s been skiving his duties whenever he’s not under close watch, perhaps more pain is in order. Pile after pile of saucers and cups glisten against the morning sun. After this, there’s the yak milk that must be boiled without letting it curdle, and the tea that must be brewed. With how the cooks rush around preparing dishes, those tasks will inevitably fall on him as well.

Lucient is scarcely steps away from lifting a saucepan to the fire when one of the valets pops his head in the scullery and whistles at him. Like a dog on a leash, Lucient finds himself pulled away and staring up at the flustered man’s face.

“Lady Marianne’s maid has fallen ill, boy.” The valet whispers, looking off at some point above Lucient’s head. “This would not be a problem if she were not to attend a house visit with a young sir of House Durendaire. You are to be her page in the girl’s stead, and ensure she is adequately fashioned for the visit. Can you do that, boy?”

Lucient smiles blankly at him. Marianne, no doubt a lady of the family, but of what relation to him? Not that it would matter; he would not be able to tell her about who he is, and she undoubtedly would not care. In the end, it’s simply another task hoisted onto his already encumbered back, and he cannot refuse, nor question why he is the one it falls upon. He nods, his expression unchanging.

It shocks Lucient to see who this “Lady Marianne” is. A girl his age, or perhaps younger even, dressed in all her noble finery like a clockwork doll in a shop window. Not a single stray thread or harried hem, her dress fitting her perfectly as if she were born to wear it. Lucient feels the scratch of his own uniform looking at her, painfully aware of the soot and stains on his tunic and the way the sleeves and legs hang too loose for his size.

She doesn’t give him a glance, focused on some spirited discussion with a sighing knight tasked with escorting them. Her face, turned away, is dark but filled with the warm tones of a blood Dzemael as opposed to the cool hue of Lucient’s own. Save for her deep brown hair, she’s a spitting image of–

Mother?

Lucient’s ears ring. The satchel he’s cradling feels like it’s filled with molten-hot bricks. When Marianne turns to look at him, he’s looking into eyes identical to his own. The young miss does not sneer, only stares back at him as if she’s looking at a particularly interesting rock formation.

“You are not Kisette.”

A simple statement of fact, but Lucient has to will his knees not to buckle at the wave of shame it inspires in him. Not Kisette. Not the girl his liege expects. Not expected, or wanted, anywhere at all.

He nods, not a single forbidden word leaving his lips. He bows, struggling not to fall over from the leaden weight of the satchel. From inside he pulls out a comb and marches over to Marianne. Just do your job. Whatever she needs.

She sticks her hand out at him, pouting.

“No need for that, pray pass me the comb. I can do this myself.”

Lucient stares gormlessly at her. He can’t tell whether she genuinely means to comb her own hair or whether she’s insulting him. Either way, he stands before her, a mammet with no spark of life. Marianne sighs and snatches the comb from him, his fingers offering no resistance to the pull.

“Pins, if you please.”

The pins are in his hand before he realises what he’s doing, and they’re plucked away before he can even feel them. Marianne arranges her hair in a bun in what looks like a single fluid motion, as if it’s a routine etched into the gears of her mind and bones. Lucient finds himself looking over at their knight escort, catching her in the middle of a yawn. He looks away. Best not to let the knight know that he caught her unawares; even knights have needs it seems…

“Thank you kindly, young man.” She says, a self-assured affect far beyond her years clinging to her words. Lucient nods, his lips tightening into their usual smile to not let anything out. The drowsy knight straightens up when Marianne gestures at the both of them to follow her. As the three of them walk, Marianne continues talking, and Lucient continues nodding.

“I am not sure why they insist on me visiting Raimondaux, he’s too dull and full of himself.” A nod.

“And the adults tell me it’s for ‘alliances’ and all, but aren’t we already close with the House Durendaire? Seems a bit silly, isn’t it?” A nod.

“Ser Yolaine, you will accompany into the manor, won’t you?” A nod, even though she wasn’t talking to him.

“Are you even listening to me?” A nod, even though he doesn’t remember half of what she says.

“You are not much for small talk, are you?” A nod. Don’t think about why that is. He’ll feel that twisting pain once again.

The sky outside the Dzemael manor is awash with clouds, a canvas of whites and greys with not a single splotch of blue. Lucient shivers, but with his hands cradling the satchel, he can’t stop his cloak from splaying out and leaving him chilly. Ser Yolaine coughs, adjusting her knightly visor with one hand and keeping a steady gauntlet on her charge with the other. Marianne, undeterred by the chill, keeps her gaze on Lucient. Her innocent words are damning.

“Who are you, anyhow?”

It’s not the winter breeze that freezes Lucient up. He feels that alien feeling again, like someone is ripping open his chest and peering at the emptiness inside. The question barges into his mind, and yet, no answer comes to greet it.

“Go on, you may speak.”

He hears Ser Yolaine mutter something to Marriane, her voice clipped and hurried as if in warning. He can’t tell her. He’s not even supposed to be speaking to her. They’ll know. They’ll all know. He swallows, the sound uncomfortably loud in his ears.

“I…I am your page for the day, young miss.”

“No, I mean who you are,” Marianne points at him, at his mask. “Where did you come from? What do you like doing when you are not this? Reading? Singing? Painting? Running about? Looking at girls? At least tell me your name, ‘twould be better than calling you ’young man’ like I am thirty summers old. Surely you have a name?”

Lucient wishes he could turn to stone. Ser Yolaine’s whispers are louder now, and he swears he hears her chastise Marianne for something about “uncouthness” and “pestering the little bastard”. Bastard. That’s all he is. The word he doesn’t understand, yet stings like a sword to his chest.

He looks over to his left, the towering arch out towards the Brume beckoning to him. If only he could run away from this suffocating scrutiny. Toss away this satchel and run headlong down into the lower levels, the frigid mist parting to guide him to that sacred gate, and the one who’s voice could wrap a cloak around his hammering heart. He would know what to do.

“Fray…”

“Fray? Is that your name? Adorable! It is a bit strange though, is it a nickname?”

Marianne’s quip jars Lucient out of his daze, and the weight of his absent-minded comment slams into him so hard he almost collapses.

“No, no, pardon me, young miss! That is not my name, that is my…my friend’s name. My apologies!”

Marianne’s eyebrows raise further, and her gaze darts over at where Lucient was looking before. Is the grin on her face from excitement at learning something new, or yet another jeering mask?

“A friend? What is he like, pray tell? He’s from down there, in the Brume, is he? Is he all rough and tumble like them? Or is he the sort that has a heart of gold? What do you do with him? Is he handsome? Oh, pardon me, perhaps she’s a young lady? Is she beautiful?”

Her barrage of questions batters Lucient so fast, he scarcely knows which one to answer first. Ser Yolaine clears her throat with an effort Lucient recognises as barely contained annoyance.

“Lady Marianne, cease. We really must be going. Let the little bastard do his job, do you understand?”

The bite in the knight’s tone cuts into Lucient, though the swing wasn’t even aimed at him. He’s made a mistake, and his mistress is being reprimanded for it. It simply isn’t fair, he must right this. He takes a deep breath, and tries his hardest to keep his voice level and calm.

“Yes, he is from the Brume. I suppose he is rough, but he is quite nice to me. But…I do not know if he is handsome? Forgive me, I do not know what he looks like, we simply talk to each other…”

“You’ve never seen this boy, and you do nothing but talk with him?” Marianne ignores her cursing knight and turns fully towards Lucient, leaning closer with a familiarity that’s far too close to a beast about to pounce in his mind.

“Are you sure he’s real? Kisette told me that one of the servants used to talk to himself and make up little fibs all the time, something about a ‘Spriggan’ that would steal away cutlery and keys and other shiny things. That the boy is a little mad in the head.”

Her grin widens. Lucient sees a flash of sharp teeth. His throat tightens; he’s being hoisted up into the gallows. With a high-pitched trill, this ice-eyed girl is his hangman going in for the kill.

“And that he looked an awful lot like you!”

Lucient’s control breaks. He whimpers, the fixed smile on his face faltering. It’s too late, he’s been caught. He’ll be caged, a wild beast punished for breaking his leash. Back to his room forever. He feels the chilling brass of the bell again, his only voice out into the halls where he doesn’t belong.

The bell of fate ceases its grim toll, and Marianne steps back. Her mouth lies agape, and her hands shoot up to cover it as if she’s cursed him out in the public square.

“Pardon me! Oh, no no, pray do not cry, did I scare you? I don’t mean it, truly. They’re just rumours, the work of wandering minds, yes? I bet they’re not even true.”

Lucient says nothing. He didn’t think he was going to weep, but now there’s a searing wetness in his eyes. For once he’s glad to have the mask. It does nothing for his ever loudening whimpers though.

“How about this then,” Marianne clasps her hands together, the familiar pose of a plea utterly foreign when Lucient sees it being made towards him, “you hand me that satchel the others entrusted you with, and go run along to your friend. Fray, was it? Yes, and bring back something that will prove he is real. Is that not fair and fun?”

“Lady Marianne,” Ser Yolaine emphasizes each syllable like a bludgeon to the brain, “do not make me repeat myself. If you do not cease this–”

“Is the young man not my page?” The pettish stomp from Marianne makes Lucient jump. Such cheek, and for what? She’ll get in trouble, surely, and it will be because of him again. “Do I not have permission to give him orders as I please?”

Behind her back, Marianne curls her hand up like a hook. Lucient looks down. The satchel seems lighter now, its burden no longer unbearable. Why give him such kindness? He hangs the satchel on Marianne’s hidden hand, and he spies a hint of a grin on her face. She places the satchel down, and still arguing with Ser Yolaine, she makes a shooing motion with her hand.

“What trouble could a little boy like him possibly get up to? A little brawl on the cobbles? Cousin Grinnaux has gotten in much worse, and not a single adult has told him off for it. We’ll simply fetch him once we are done, brush him off, and nobody will be the wiser!”

With a single tentative look back, Lucient wraps his cloak tight around him and escapes, their voices fading into the grey sky.

“You kept me waiting, pretty boy,” comes the voice on the other side of the gate, “Got lost finding your own shoes again, did you?”

Lucient’s instinctual flustered chirp falters before it could form. What would usually prod his heart, a fluttering bird eager to answer Fray’s call, now scarcely stirs it from the grip of the morning’s dread. He lowers his gaze, murmuring under his breath.

“My apologies, Fray. Please do not be disappointed, I am here now.”

Lucient feels Fray’s eyes on him. He fiddles with the hem of his cloak, stares down at the cracks in the gate, examines the scraped skin on his fingers from dishwashing. Anything to keep his mind off the worst case scenario. Would he be mad? He would have every right to be.

“Lucient, did something happen? You seem troubled.”

Lucient looks up. The soft tone in Fray’s question wraps around him, and he feels a drop of warmth spread throughout his chest. He looks into Fray’s eyes, steady and slow-blinking, the tempo diffusing the warmth faster through his whole body. Lucient swallows, mimicking Fray’s even cadence.

“It is nothing too serious, truly. I had to escort one of the daughters of the house, and it did not go to plan. She was…quite intense. She does not seem to think you are real.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Lucient spies Fray’s eyebrows raising. He hears Fray give a clipped scoff, probably at the idea that he is just a figment of Lucient’s imagination.

“Really now? Daughter of the house? One of your sisters then? Or a cousin?”

“My sister, I think…” Lucient mutters, the words turning to ash in his mouth. “She has mother’s eyes.”

A curtain of silence falls around them. Lucient sees the edges of Fray’s eyes tighten when he mentions mother. In the quiet, he hears something from the other side. A hiss between teeth, or a harsh exhale. Did he say something wrong? He must have, but what? Is Fray jealous? What for? Or is he angry now? Why now, and not before?

There’s that numbness again. The muscles of his face feel as if they’re frozen in place, his mind threatening to tear from its tether and float away somewhere safe. Not here. Not in front of Fray again.

(But it would be so comforting, wouldn’t it?)

Lucient’s hand darts into his cloak, rustling through the hidden pockets. His mask, a waterskin, a half-eaten rusk and strip of dried meat, ah, here it is. He pulls out and offers up a bundle of nuts to the crack in the gate, his hand slipping through.

“Please do not be upset, Fray. Forgive me, forgive me. Please, I brought these for you. Pray accept them.”

Fray’s golden eyes peer down at the offering, the tension in his eyes melting away, or at least that’s what Lucient hopes he sees. He fights the urge to kneel, as if he were offering a candle to the altars of Halone after mass. This isn’t blasphemy, is it? Not in the way the clergy of the cathedral would see it. It’s just friendship. The warrior mother of this great awful city would forgive him for sharing his dedication with another, wouldn’t she?

When Fray reaches out to take the tribute, their fingers brush. A jolt of ice-cold lightning shoots through Lucient fingertips, surging through his arm directly into his heart. He gasps. He looks up and locks eyes with Fray. Fray’s eyes dart between Lucient’s own and their touching hands, something frenzied bristling behind his fleeting glances.

He swipes the packet of nuts away somewhere, perhaps into his pocket, and locks their fingers together. Lucient’s hand burns in spite of the numbing coolness of Fray’s hand. Without thinking, Lucient squeezes. Hard. His nails dig into the calloused flesh of Fray’s knuckles, like little fangs sucking out the droplets of warmth still under the skin. Fray’s eyes gleam, returning the favour with equal force. Rough nails scrape against the thin skin of his hand, a sharp bite through the pressure. Digging in like his masonry chisel chipping away the surface of his stone skin, shallow and deep marks alike that split open and let the feelings flood in.

Fray’s eyes burn like twin suns in an endless abyss, and Lucient lets them sear into his mind. He feels that cradling deep in his chest again, but it barely registers as anything unpleasant any more. The crushing force inside matches the one outside.

It hurts, and yet Lucient has never felt more alive.

Lucient’s cheeks sting. He hadn’t even noticed how his unsteady smile had stretched into a wide grin from the inferno razing his body. His head spins, Fray’s continued grip the only thing grounding him in the moment. What a wonderful feeling it is to be touched. For someone to crave his contact so much, they would break his hand to secure it. He only sees Fray’s eyes, pulling his focus. He wants to be pulled in, pulled through, pulled apart. He only sees Fray.

(Listen to your my our voice. Listen.)

Fray.

(“…say it one hundred times, every bell, until you can’t possibly forget it again.”)

Fray!

(It comes as easily as breath.)

FRAY!

“You’re wild, like me.” Fray whispers through the gap, or somewhere in Lucient’s heart, his grip loosening but not letting go. There’s something simmering under the surface of his voice. A chuckle? A growl? A sound of approval, or one of warning? “A mad little mongrel, just like me. You don’t even know it, do you? Lu-ci-ent?”

All Lucient musters is a high drawn-out whine. The sheer animalistic nature of it snaps him out of his trance. Did he truly make that abominable sound? What was he thinking about just now? Lucient’s mind feels as if it’s a hamper stuffed with used dish rags, sodden beyond usefulness. He blinks. Fray does too. Did he feel something in his heart before?

Fray looks about, is he floating too? His brow furrows, and Lucient notices the sweat pouring from what little of Fray’s face he can see. Exhaustion, just from their entwined fingers? Nervousness? Fear? What’s going on behind those golden eyes?

With unexpected gentleness, Fray lifts Lucient’s hand towards his face. Lucient feels thin fabric brush against his skin, a subtle sensation that threatens to do…something. He doesn’t know what, but the burning feels familiar. Their eyes meet once more, this time with the unyielding quietus of an unsaid question.

Lucient, his thoughts finally slowing down, nods.

A low sound, something between a contented hum and a coeurl’s purr, comes from Fray as he leans into Lucient’s hand. Out of instinct, Lucient’s fingers trace the puckered marks and healed over wounds. Fray’s face is a patchwork of little scars, each one he feels threading a new stitch on the tapestry that is the boy behind the gate. A deep gash cutting through Fray’s left eyebrow and down his cheekbone. A gnarled mark on the bridge of his nose. Starbursts of scratches across his cheek, and a spatter of rough patches on his jaw where Lucient can only assume something hot splashed on Fray’s face a long time ago. A short cut at the corner of Fray’s mouth, though Lucient’s thumb doesn’t linger too long there.

Fray yawns. The idea of Fray becoming so entranced that he accidentally bites his finger off is enough to scare Lucient away from venturing further.

(It would be a damning proof of existence though, would it not?)

“So warm,” is Fray’s reply as Lucient finishes exploring what he can of his face, “this is nice. Keep doing that, won’t you?”

Lucient flushes, and for a moment, he doesn’t know what to do. Should he let Fray stay as he is? He looks so peaceful, rubbing his cheek against his hand as if it’s the softest blanket in the entire city. The rough-hewn edges of the gap he stuck his arm through dig into his tunic sleeve. His shoulder is starting to ache. But if it means his friend is happy and comfortable…

He lets out a quiet wince as he struggles to push more of his arm through so he can pat Fray easier. Fray’s eyes open at the soft noise, watching Lucient strain to reach further. Any more effort and Lucient is going to end up popping his shoulder out. Fray shakes his head.

“Alright, enough of that. It’s my turn now I suppose.” Fray murmurs, though his eyes linger on Lucient’s hand as he pulls back. Fray’s eyes dart down, once, then twice. Lucient tilts his head at this, his gaze questioning.

“No, not like that. Put your head down, pretty boy. Just a bit.”

It finally clicks, and Lucient nods, lowering his head. He feels cool fingers running through his hair. Fray’s hand pats him slowly, like soothing an anxious chocobo, flattening out cowlicks and tracing mazes on his scalp. It stirs a warmth inside Lucient’s empty chest. The last time he had been patted on the head like this was when he was far younger, when a raging fever threatened to rip him from the land of the living. When even swallowing down a single teaspoon of tonic was enough to allow him the rare reward of affection.

“Nice silky hair.” Fray mutters as he strokes Lucient’s head through the gate. “It looks a bit like spider webs. In a good way, mind.”

The heat in Lucient’s chest flashes onto his face.

“Th-Thank you? Wait, you cannot mean my hair is sticky, do you? I did not have the chance to wash quite yet…”

Fray snickers, a hearty sound that makes Lucient crack a smile, and tousles Lucient’s locks a bit.

“Of course not. Your hair is fine, don’t worry your little head about it. I’ve stuck my hands in worse things.”

Lucient’s face shoots up at Fray’s last phrase, staring at him with instinctive alarm. Fray snorts.

“Don’t worry, I wash my hands. Wouldn’t want your fancy handlers thinking you’ve been mucking around with us rats, aye?”

Lucient laughs, his voice light.

“I…I think it is a bit late for that. And you are not a rat, you are nice.”

“Nice? Is that what we’re calling me now?” The word seems to linger on Fray’s mind for a moment. His eyes close as he traces circles in Lucient’s hair. It tickles, but giggling would surely interrupt Fray’s carriage of thought. When he opens his eyes again, they look down at him with a sort of…softness. One that leaks into his reply.

“You do know that rats can play at being nice as well, pretty boy? Up until they snatch your food, that is.”

“But…do I not already give you lots of food, Fray?”

Fray chuckles.

“True. Very true. I suppose that makes me your pet then. Your hungry little rat, begging for scraps and doing little tricks for you.”

“No, you are not a pet! Do not say such things! You are…”

Lucient pauses, wracking his brain to think of the word that best describes what Fray is to him. Is there such a word that encompasses the whole of his feelings? The way the boy behind the gate captures his attention and pulls out emotions he didn’t even realise he could feel? The way that very same boy opened his own heart, eyes looking away as Lucient listened to the voice inside? That link between their souls, even though they’ve never even seen each other?

No, there might not be a single word. But he tries his best.

“You are…like a bright spark in a dark chamber. My sword and shield. You make my heart beat, more than usual, that is. When I thought of you, when my mistress was questioning me…I felt comfortable. I felt…safe? Imagining you next to me, wondering what you would do in my place, what you would tell me to do. It made that pain bearable for a moment, I suppose?”

Fray’s hand pauses its idle wandering across Lucient’s head, then pulls back. The withdrawal of such soft touch stings. But the way Fray squints at him, ponders his answer, then reaches forward to grasp his hand once more, convince Lucient to stifle the pain.

“You think of me often then, pretty boy?”

Lucient blushes, unable to tell whether the low rumble in Fray’s question is a curious purr or an accusation.

“I…I do, Fray. It is…quite a problem, you see! I did not even introduce myself properly to my mistress today, for when she asked for my name, I instead said…yours…”

“My name?” Fray raises an eyebrow at Lucient’s candid confession. “Have you graduated from stealing food from your fancy larders to stealing peasants’ identities?”

“No, of course not. I simply…was a touch absent-minded, that is all.”

Fray, with a glint in his eyes that Lucient can’t quite decipher, nods. Slowly, like how the less credulous servants used to nod at him when he told them about his imaginary friends. Lucient’s words feel feeble as they float between them.

“You know, Lucient,” Fray drawls, dragging out each syllable of his name in a knowing way that makes Lucient feel weak all over, “you could have said you were a ‘Myste’ if you wanted my name so much. It’s what all of us orphans get called down here, it’s like my family name. Like we’re…getting married, you know?”

Lucient’s jaw drops, a sharp strangled “what?!” shooting out of his mouth before he can stop it. Married?! Where did that come from?

“Absolutely not, Fray! I don’t– that’s– my name is fine enough, thank you kindly! No, I will not be taking either of your names, please do not say such strange things.”

“Of course, of course. The family name of a Brume bastard is nothing to be proud of.” Fray sighs, a sound too dramatic to hold any real heartache, something even Lucient can see right through. His grip on Lucient’s hand loosens, but only enough to let him stroke one of Lucient’s fingers. The one that lords and ladies put their wedding rings on.

“After all, I want your family name, Lucient. Fray de Dzemael, sounds charming, aye? Imagine it.”

Lucient feels like his head is about to spontaneously combust. Were he a braver lad, he would have let go of Fray’s hand and done his damnedest to slap him upside the head for his outrageous insinuations. Alas, attacking someone simply for being obnoxious isn’t very heroic, or even sensible. All he does is gawp at Fray like he’s told him to set himself alight and run around screaming that the sky is falling.

(And a worrying part of you, a sprouting bud in our my your chest, knows you really might do that if they I he asked just right.)

His imagination though, fueled by Fray’s casual command, is already turning. The secret room his family hides him away in would certainly be big enough to fit two young boys. He could pick out tomes from the towering bookshelves and read their stories to Fray, putting on voices for every hero and villain in those fairy-tale pages, and Fray could do the same, weaving in his own unique wit. They would be servants together, chased by the older servants as they pull pranks on them once again, no longer an imaginary scapegoat and its creator, but two mutually mischievous partners in crime. Lucient doesn’t know if he could ask for another bed to be placed in his room, but that’s okay. They could squeeze together in the one that’s already there. It would be nice to have a living blanket, someone to hold him tight until the nightmares go away. Someone to greet with cheer as the sun’s first rays shine through the solitary window, knowing that he’ll never be alone, never be hollow, ever again…

No, no, no! Forget about slapping Fray, Lucient is going to slap himself for even entertaining such ludicrous thoughts. Despite himself, a shaky smile he can’t stifle reaches his eyes.

“Hah, got you! Ah, you’re an easy little fool, pretty boy.” Fray lets out a sharp bark of a laugh, and Lucient sees him shake his head with barely hidden amusement. “Haven’t I told you not to believe everything someone tells you? Not the sharpest dagger on the belt, are you?”

Lucient’s breath escapes in a long, shuddering hiss like an overheated boiler about to burst. His free hand claws at his face, and he wishes that the Fury didn’t curse him to be such an easy blusher. He groans, a hint of a stifled laugh slipping through.

“Fray! Why?! I thought I told you to stop saying things such as that!”

“Ah, but you’re no longer sulking now, are you? At least not over anything serious.”

As much as Lucient puffs out his cheeks and stomps his feet, he can’t deny Fray. He did lift the shroud over Lucient’s mind after all, and the world seems a touch brighter for it.

“Young man! Where are you? We’re all done, you can come back now!”

Her voice is faint, but that’s definitely Marianne. Lucient jolts at the sound; where is it coming from? He looks to Fray, but his eyes dart about wildly as well. Fray looks back at him, that feral streak in his eyes rising once more.

“I have to go.” Lucient whispers.

Fray grabs on tight, yanking his arm as if to pull Lucient through the gate. Lucient yelps, his face smashing into the splintering wood, now staring eye-to-eye with Fray.

“Stay. A little while longer, pretty boy. If you’re quiet, she won’t find you.”

“I truly must go, Fray, I apologize. If my betters know I am late—”

“Well bugger their bloody expectations! To hells with them all!” Fray snarls. If Lucient’s jaw could drop any lower, it would be conversing with the dead. “You can’t possibly want to return to them, do you?”

The mask calls to Lucient. His duty. His station in life. Yet his heart screams over over it all. It screams in Fray’s voice. Lucient shakes his head.

“So don’t. Stay here. Stay with me. I will keep you comfortable. I will keep you safe. Let your handlers come, I shall be your sword and shield.”

Lucient hears Marianne call again, closer, this time joined by Ser Yolaine’s crowing. He hears the bell again. He feels the lash against his back and knuckles again. He sees nothing but the four walls of his gilded gaol again. Again, again, again.

(A good hero servant is always attentive, never selfish, and never steps or speaks out of line.)

(You’re a good servant boy, aren’t you?)

(Bear the pain. Bear their burdens. So they may smile because of your sacrifice.)

(Be grateful you get this much. Be grateful for the mercy they show an accursed boy beast like you.)

(To live is a privilege not readily bestowed upon evil like you. Do not give them reason to take it back.)

(…You like the sound of that, don’t you?)

(Why?)

The blood in Lucient’s hands freezes. Gears grinding, muscles rusted, his mouth smiles. No light passes through. Is his voice even his own?

“Fray, I…must go. I must. They are waiting.”

Lucient stares at Fray, through Fray, somewhere Fray might be in the echoing emptiness. He sees two piercing golden lights. They’re watering.

“It will be so cold.”

(Without you.)

Lucient hears his own voice, or was it Fray’s? They do sound similar. He’s at the gate, and their fingers are entwined. The words finally register in his bemisted mind.

His eyes are watering.

He squeezes Fray’s hand, as gently as he can. It’s the only thing he knows is real right now.

“Fray, I…I do wish I could stay.” He strains to keep (our) voice calm. “When I come down here next, we can warm our hands for as long as you please, I promise.”

For a moment, neither of them speak. Then, in a break in their breaths, Fray sobs. A single crack in his voice, in Lucient’s heart.

“Those nuts I gave you…perhaps you could think of me while you eat them? There are quite a lot of them, and they are quite hardy, so you can think for quite a while. Would that help?”

Fray stays silent for a while. He’s staring down at (our) hands.

He presses something silky into Lucient’s hand, curling Lucient’s fingers around the fabric like a cage. It’s warm. Like breath.

“Take this. And don’t you dare lose it.” His voice is clearer now, but why? “Let this be your proof, Lucient.”

Lucient doesn’t know what to say. His mouth moves regardless, and (we) call though the gap.

“I will return soon. Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after that. Pray wait for me, you will not be alone for long. I promise.”

The response is whisper-fine and hot against (our) ear.

“Don’t keep me waiting.”

When Lucient comes to seconds later, he’s slumped against the gate, the late afternoon sun piercing through the clouds at just the right angle to burn his eyes. The chatter of the public and the clatter of cutlery in the tavern above rings in his ears. He reeks of sweat and soot, the smell inescapable.

He winces and turns away, only to come face to face with Marianne attending to his balled up fist. Ser Yolaine stands a short distance away, her hand on her sheathed sword, a silent stern sentinel.

“Oh, you’re awake! Thank the Fury, you gave us quite the shock, you know. Ser Yolaine was just about to call a healer down here, but we won’t be needing that now.”

Lucient mumbles something, words he barely even hears over the throbbing of his head.

“I apologize, young miss…I did not mean to worry you both…I apologize…”

“Nonsense, you look as if a chocobo has trampled all over you. Worrying is only natural! Now, let’s see to your hand—”

“No!” Lucient yells before he can stop himself, clutching the fist with Fray’s proof to his heart. “There is no need! I am quite fine, pray worry not!”

Marianne huffs, but does not swipe. Even Ser Yolaine is staring now, her focus on protection faltering in the face of Lucient’s sudden outburst.

“Fine, young man?” Marianne points at his hand. “Surely you jest! You’re bleeding!”

The sting hits him then. Lucient looks down at his fist, and sees five jagged little nail marks carved into the back of his hand. Bright red beads streak across his skin, and they soak into the fine black cloth he’s holding. It’s blood.

Real blood.

Chapter Text

Fray’s head is a churning sea, swirling with waves of foreign feelings threatening to pull him under. He holds his little fledgling’s gift close to his heart, in the pocket inside his tunic stitched precisely to hold a pouch of gil. Each of these nuts are worth their weight of the stuff.

His cheek burns with the paths Lucient’s hand traced along his scars. If he closes his eyes, he can feel them again. Soft fingers smooth as river stones, yet lined with callouses that tell of a life of hard labour. He keeps his eyes shut so long he runs straight into a wall. Damn it all, focus!

He tastes blood as it drips down his lip where the jagged corner of some hovel or brothel met it. The wound stings in the cold wind. Why did he give the boy his veil? Now all the wretches of the Brume can see his bloody misfortune. They can all see his face is red like a maiden’s on her wedding night.

Enough with the talk of marriage! He’ll end up running into another wall and cracking his skull this time. Fray kicks himself mentally for even thinking of bringing it up. It was meant to be a jest, a mere distraction!

Oh, it’s a gods damned distraction, alright.

He spits as he runs, leaving a spray of scarlet all over the ground and down his tunic. He goes to wipe his mouth on his sleeve, and in haste he smears blood all over the pouch of nuts. It looked like quite pricy fabric too. He could’ve sold it for a whetstone. Or some proper food. Or pay off his debt to that older boy for keeping him safe in the grimier corners of the Brume.

No. Don’t even think about that. It’s his gift to you. It’s a piece of his heart. It’s yours. His heart is—

He presses the pouch against his smarting lip for a moment longer. At least no one would steal something that looks like it’s been used to plug up a stab wound. And like hells is he going to give it back to Lucient in this state. It’s truly his now.

The orphanage workers open the door to see Fray grinning to himself, one hand soaked in blood, holding something close to his heart. Close enough to stick it right in and fuse it with his flesh. He unwinds the ties of the pouch and pops a nut into his mouth. The warmth of the gift mingles with the salt of his blood.

Let them look. Let them wonder, or fear. They won’t know. It’s their little secret.

The following day, Fray stands at the gate again, peering out through the usual gap in the wood. The first breeze of spring smells sweet through the gap, and the usual grey clouds of winter give way to a dazzling sun. Fray stands there at the final step as the sun charts its course across the cerulean sky. Noon turns to dusk, with not a sight of his little fledgling. Only his empty stomach rumbling compels him to abandon his vigil.

The next day fares no better. Bright as before, yet all this light doesn’t help him with birdwatching. Fray presses his face to the gap, his eye darting around for any trace of Lucient.

He opens the pouch and tosses a few nuts into his mouth. He hears the tell-tale melody of Lucient’s voice, his nervous laugh when Fray teases him. Sees the sweet earnest look in those eyes that he wishes would only look at him. Feels the stinging heat of their hands digging into each other and wildness in his eyes like he wants to devour Fray just like he wants to devour him. How he was so close to pulling him through and holding him tight as he sinks his teeth into Lucient and Lucient bites down on him and he drinks in his warmth his warmth his warmth his warmth—

“Waiting for your prince? You know, if you keep grinding your teeth like that, you’ll end up losing them.”

Fray startles at the voice, though his shock dies out into a sigh when he recognises the older boy’s raspy timbre. He grits his teeth. Forces his voice down into a cool emotionless tone.

“Sod off, Randall. Go bother your brother.”

“Ah, don’t be so coy, boy,” Randall chuckles, and Fray spies his dark curls in the corner of his vision. For a moment, the idea of yanking on them as punishment wanders through his mind. “Nothing wrong with wanting to know, aye? Anything you want to tell this old man? Anything you need my esteemed help with?”

“Nothing important.” Fray turns his head away, only to come face to face with Randall anyway. Only a year or two older than Fray himself and yet he somehow thinks that gives him the right to lord over him. The older boy’s olive eyes glimmer as he smiles.

“Oh? So this ‘pretty boy’ is nothing important then? Didn’t think you would be waiting around for a nobody. Must be comfortable, eh, sitting around for nothing. Don’t you have aught better to do?”

“Nothing important to you.” Fray snaps and swats him away without moving from the gap. “I don’t have my gil pouch, so you won’t get anything from me.”

Randall cocks his head, his gaze falling to the bloodied pouch still gripped in Fray’s hand.

“What’s that then? Something tasty? You know, I’ve been rather peckish myself…”

Fray watches his hand reach for the pouch. For a moment, Fray sees Randall’s hand hovering over Lucient’s flame, the fledgling’s disconnected eyes staring up at the older boy with that guileless curiosity he always has. The mask cracks. He snarls.

“Don’t you touch him!”

Fray only has the faintest sensation of swiping and scratching at Randall’s hand, of blood under his nails. The second after the words leave his mouth, he realises his mistake. All he can do now is clear his throat and make something up.

“His gift. His gift to me. These are mine, so if you won’t ask nicely, I’m not letting you take them, aye?”

“Oh, I’m sure you want to take him–”

“Come again?”

The glare Fray’s giving Randall seems to shut him up, the older boy running his fingers through his curls as he verbally backtracks.

“Ah, right right, can’t be saying that ’round you. You’ll get it when you’re older.”

Fray has the urge to tell him that he knows exactly what he means, just to see his reaction, but the idea of that making Randall go back to his raunchy jokes threatens to fray his last nerve. He cobbles his cool act back together and pinches his brow.

“You ought to watch your bloody tongue, you old geezer,” Fray mutters, begrudgingly aware of the matronly air in his tone, “Or you’ll start a brawl with you in the center. Don’t tell me you talk to Erik like this.”

“Course not, you think I’d let him end up like me?” Randall chortles, sighing to himself before turning back to Fray. “Jesting aside, you look worn out as all hells. Is waiting here truly that important?”

Fray rubs his eyes, floaters flickering across his vision. Even now, the shadows on this side of the gate are impenetrable.

“Of course, he needs someone to give him a spine.”

Someone chosen by the little fledgling. Someone Lucient trusts enough to hand his body and life over to and let himself be protected by, even though he’s naught but a shadow to the boy. Fray slaps his cheeks a few times, enough to hide the real reason for his blushing.

“And you can do that by sitting here on this side, can you?”

“The others know who I am. They know better than to lay their fingers on him.”

“Oho, scary words, mongrel! What will you do? Give them the old one-two then keel over from fever?”

Fray bites his lip so hard he tastes iron with every breath.

“Enough! What’s your point then? Are you going to prattle on making not a bit of sense, or do you need me to push you down these steps?”

“Hey, no need to be so rude,” Randall tuts, a sudden steel to his tone, “My point is that you cannot protect a damn thing when your body isn’t well-rested. You might not feel it now, but soon enough, all this star-gazing will burn holes in your head.”

Fray swings his hand up by instinct before Randall’s own comes close to touching his shoulder. To his faint relief, he doesn’t push his luck again.

“So, how’s about I take your place for a few days? Just enough for you to get some proper shut eye and relax, aye? And think about this, boy; the meaner pups will be mighty scared to see a big dog like me standing guard, eh?”

Fray opens his mouth to protest, yet when he thinks more on it, he can’t exactly argue with Randall’s logic. The growth spurts of puberty have left him towering over Fray, and he cuts a stronger figure than his own gangly excuse for muscles. And how would he even explain what he sees when he looks into Randall’s heart without seeming utterly paranoid? Fray grimaces as he shoves the pouch back in his pocket.

“You will say not a single word to him, understand? Don’t go filling his head with whatever shite you have swirling through yours.”

“Not a word, not a single wandering eye or step outside the gate! I’ll just save him for you ’til you’re ready to play, don’t you worry.”

“Thin ice.”

Randall chuckles as he turns to saunter down the stone stairs back into the Brume’s depths. But as he rounds the corner, Fray hears his voice harden once more.

“’Say Fray, boy,” He begins, the emphasis sounding awfully like judgment, “One more thing.”

The words come out like the crack of a whip.

“Don’t you think you should stop playing pretend ’round someone that important to you?”

Fray’s hand darts to his tunic. Checks it hides his body, that his headscarf hasn’t let a few stray locks loose. For a single horrifying second, he feels something swell in his chest, and every nerve in his body rises to scream that it’s just muscle. Just his imagination. Bratchet. Bitch hound. He buries the words people spit at him away.

“He knows all that. He—” —Stop it. Don’t even think that four letter word.— ”—is my friend all the same.”

“Oho, what’s that? No, I didn’t mean that. And you say I think with what’s in my breeches too much.” Randall snarks in a way that sets Fray’s teeth on edge.

“You put on airs whenever you’re ’round me, and you’re ’round him, you sound…well, best I don’t say what you sound like. But neither’s who you are inside, is it? Don’t you think he should see what you are past all the puffed up words?”

He gives Fray a final shrug before disappearing into the mists of the deep Brume.

“Just a thought, from this old man who’s seen it before, aye?”

Fray, for once, dreams. But it’s that same nightmare again.

The one where the orphanage’s door towers over him, and there is a hand on his back. This lady next to him, with her dark hair so very like his, has long lost her role. He only sees a deep black smudge where her face should be. She’s dressed in a gaudy frock that hides what she’s done to her body, what she had to do for his sake. Even after he’s scrubbed away who she is, he knows why she sent him out into the cold dark nights when she had to ██████ ██████ and ██████ ██████ with those strange ██████. Especially when he could see the consuming flames of their rotten hearts. See the way they leered and offered triple just for the chance to ██████ his ██████ and ██████ ██████ him too. She couldn’t hide that from him, even at this age.

At least she threw their gil back in their faces and tossed them out onto the streets. Cared enough to do that, didn’t she? Go hungry just to protect her little ██████.

But not enough to choose me.

He remembers what she says as she nudges him towards the door, towards farewell, though. He’s only heard it a hundred times over, after all.

“██████, you must be a good ██████ from now on. ██████ will be gone for a while, but these people will take care of you.”

He’s standing behind his phantom this time. His knife is clutched between his fingers. His younger self continues staring up at the smudged lady. Still hoping.

“You’ll come back?”

“Of course. Once our ██████ is ready. Once your new ██████ has opened his heart to you.”

He knows what she’ll say next. He knows she’ll turn around and skip off to her happily ever after with her prince, without him. Without being shackled to a malformed ██████. He cannot bear to hear it again. He swings his arm, knife glinting like a comet as it hurtles towards that liar’s cooing face.

“Oh, do not cry, ██████ will always l—”

Fray wakes to his fist colliding with something soft with a sickening smack. The shriek from his accidental target shocks the last traces of sleep from his eyes. And it just had to be one of the younger ones too, barely six summers old and forced to awaken a beast. The girl massages her bruise with teary green eyes, staring but not backing away.

“Amelie.” He sighs, guilt guiding his hand under his bed where his gauze for brawls lie. “Bloody hells, sorry, I must have given you a fright. Let me see that.”

She shakes her head, opens her mouth to say something, then reconsiders. She points across the room, and Fray follows her finger towards the only other occupied beds. The twins. They’d been here as long as he had, and not once had he seen them apart. The boy’s face is pale, his brown hair soaked in sweat and clinging to his face as he huddles over a pan. The girl isn’t much better, flecks of red spattered across her mouth like a childish attempt to apply rouge.

“Cillien and Cevilia. They’re coughing lots. There’s blood, brother.”

Red Throat. They’ll die by the morrow if they don’t do something. But everyone else will die if it spreads.

“Have you told the madames?”

She nods.

“And what did they say? Will they do anything?”

Amelie shivers and shrugs, as best she can with one hand pressed against her cheek.

“Ms Weaver is going to ask the knights for help.” She whispers, and her voice trembles as if she doesn’t believe her own words either. “They will bring medicine, won’t they?”

Fray finds no words come to mind. A lie would bring no comfort, either to this little Elezen girl or the twins who hear the Fury call to them. He pulls out the bloody pouch from under his pillow and starts eating. A brief reprieve. A second to think.

He could approach them, be the one to hold their hands and wipe the reeking sweat from their brows and blood from their lips. He’s caught Red Throat before, back when they still had the root to make its cure. It’s a hell of a way to go; he was lucky they found it when it was just a tickle in his lungs. Little chance that an army would strike the same castle twice. But without his veil…

The part of his brain that’s frozen over, free from feeling or folly, knows the best course of action would be to separate Cillien and Cevilia from the rest of the orphanage. Keep them entombed in some dark room to await treatment. Or, more likely, succumb to the rot in their guts and lungs.

But these are children, like you and me!

Fray nearly chokes on the nut he tosses into his mouth. His voice. The phantom warmth of his hand on his face. What is he doing hearing Lucient out of nowhere? He looks around, as if expecting those earnest eyes to pop out from behind the door or melt in from the shadows. No one. Just him, the girl, and the dying twins. And the ache in his chest.

That’s another problem, isn’t it? Even if he can’t catch it again, he could still carry its filth. If Lucient did finally return, then he might pass it to him. No doubt his keepers would have the medicine for it, but Lucient would still suffer. And if they find out he’d caught it while traipsing around the Brume, Fray doubts they’d ever let him step foot outside again. And Fury only knows what horrors they would inflict on Lucient then.

Amelie still stares. Fray still can’t think of what to say. He’s supposed to know what to do with this sickness. He’s always supposed to know everything. How to swaddle a babe so it doesn’t cry, how to cook for everyone when the adults are under pressure, how to break someone’s finger so they’re put in their place and fix it so no one knows. How to mix the herbs and tinctures needed to purge any lady’s unwanted baggage. How to empty his mind and sleep even when the unimaginable happens just fulms away.

If those two just need to be far from the rest of us, then this should work.

“Amelie, be a brave girl and go tell the madames to hurry their ar–” — he bites his tongue — “backsides up, aye? In fact, tell them Cillien and Cevilia need to be with the hospitaliers. Really dig it into them, you hear? With them coughing blood like this, there’s little time before they give it to us. You don’t fancy having all your inside blood ending up outside, do you? It’d be a terrible mess.”

Amelie’s eyes widen and she shakes her head furiously. Fray softens his gaze, and flashes her his gentlest smile. Amelie’s eyes dart towards the scars marring his mouth, her eyes still dark with apprehension.

“There’s a good girl.” He croons, and in a moment of charity, he shakes out a few nuts from his pouch and presses them into her free hand.

“Take these, for being so strong. Go let the madames know now, aye? They’re,” — his eyes flick over to the twins for a moment — ”counting on you.”

He watches Amelie speed off, the communal bedroom’s door slamming shut. With cracks of sunlight seeping through the windows illuminating them, the twins stare back at him from the chiaroscuro. Cevilia, in spite of her dire state, kneels by her brother’s bedside, her hand on his. Cillien’s half-lidded eyes barely focus on Fray’s face, the two of them drifting in and out of consciousness like they’re already ghosts. These poor bloody wretches…

Fray gets up off his bed and wraps his headscarf around his face as a makeshift mask. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he hears a little bird chirp approvingly. The gauze under his bed should be good enough to wipe them down, and if he could pop down to the kitchen to get them some water, that would keep them from passing out.

As he approaches the twins however, Cillian swings his arm out with swiftness that belies his weakened state. He shakes his head. Cevilia opens her mouth, but all that comes out is a hacking cough.

“Stay away…”

Cillian’s words burble out from a mouth overflowing with blood. Fray shakes his head, steps closer. He has to do this. He has to soothe them. Save them.

“But your—”

“Stay away…!”

The sheets are stained in a blast of brightest red. Cillian’s arm shakes, before falling limp by his side. The twins stare at him through bloodshot eyes.

Fray can only stare back.

Cillien and Cevilia’s beds are empty today. Their seats at the dining table are too. Not a single word from the other orphans. Eyes glance back and forth at each other, unspoken questions flicking between them. Fray looks down at his bowl. He could barely finish a single serving of gruel these past few days, and now they serve him double.

“Children, Cillien and Cevilia are very sick, so they…” Fray hears the matron say in that condescending lilt that would usually bring his blood pressure up. Yet his mind drifts away, the words falling to the ground unheard.

Sounds, like flickers of a half-forgotten nightmare, flit in and out of Fray’s memory. A fading pair of coughs, a retch and the scent of iron mixed with acid, the sobbing and whining of a child in distress. Weak whispers for one’s mama and papa. A thump of someone falling to their knees. Footsteps, some soft and some in the clinking of plate armour, more than should’ve been there late in the night, followed by the murmurs of the rabble. The footsteps fading, and with them, the sounds of sickness. And the whole time, he had his eyes shut.

He can wish and hope all he wants. Tell himself he did all he could, and they’re in the hands of fate now. But miracles wouldn’t be special if they happened everyday, would they? The ice-cold gloom of his thoughts creeps in his vision.

You must not give up hope, they will come back! You will be their hero! Their spark of light in the darkness!

There he is again. That incessant little bird chirping on his shoulder. That voice that banishes the shadows and makes a bewildering heat rise from his belly and spread all over until it threatens to break free from his body.

And…you will be my hero as well.

Fray tightens his grip on his spoon and shovels a great heaping of gruel into his mouth, if only to placate the urge to bite something. Damn it all. It would’ve been easier if he could toss the memory of Lucient off into a dusty corner of his mind until they reunite. It hurts to swallow, and the food does nothing to stave off the burning inside.

Fray meets Amelie’s gaze from across the table, and she shifts about in her seat as they stare at each other. What a sight he must be for the poor girl, panting over ridiculous thoughts and gripping his spoon like he wants to break it.

When he passes her in the hallway after breakfast, he hands her an extra nut from the dwindling pouch. She doesn’t look up, only holds her hands out when he reveals it.

“They’re going to die, aren’t they, brother?”

He’s not going to have to wipe tears from her face, is he? He has nothing clean to give her. But instead she bows her head further, her blank face obscured by shadow.

“…Cevilia said she was going to teach me letters…”

The words settle in Fray’s mind, and he realizes that he’d never actually had a proper conversation with the twins before yesterday. What a phenomenal first and last impression.

It’s been almost a whole week. Fray huddles under his roughspun blanket, the sun outside too bright for him to look out the window or hope. Lucient’s voice in his mind fades from coherent sentences to a mere droning hum. A cloying tune to drown out the creeping darkness, deafen the siren song of guilt with a wave of delirium.

He doesn’t know what compels him to do this. Be it madness, loneliness, or some other foul feeling he wishes he could cut out and kick to the cobbles. Fray lifts the wounded hand that held Lucient’s to his face, that held the nuts he’d given him, willing the warmth of that day back into his frigid fingers. And he bites down. Of course it tastes of grime and regret, what else did he expect?

Fury have mercy, perhaps that idea of eating his fledgling’s heart isn’t so bad at all…

The warmth dissipates. He stares at the damp mark left on his palm. The nausea returns, his stomach churns. He can’t go to the gate today. He may actually vomit, whether he sees those sparkling eyes or not.

Fray slaps his temples, as if to shake these pointless thoughts out of his head. Get a hold of yourself, you cur! What in the hells are you doing?! Are you some sort of snivelling pup now or what?

A fleeting fancy flies through his mind, almost too quick to grasp. Could he pull Lucient through with just his hand? Or would he need to use both hands, his teeth, his entire body? Could he be strong enough to knock that gate off its hinges and pull him into his arms, far away from those highling bastards who would tear them apart and force their wills on him? How big is Lucient anyhow? Could he carry him far away, hide him somewhere where his keepers won’t catch him?

Somewhere only Fray could see and touch him, where he would be safe forever. A perfect little box where nothing can ever harm this poor little boy again. An eternal flame inside an adoring songbird, singing and burning only for him.

Could he even let that little fledgling see him? What this does to him?

Gods above, he wants to eat so badly. If he could rip out whatever is causing this ache, he would do it in a heartbeat.

The meal bell rings. Fray’s stomach rumbles. Come to think of it, he hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday’s breakfast. Perhaps that’s all this sickness is. Just a particularly strong hunger, something he can deal with. That must be it. He pops the last nut into his mouth, squirreling the pouch away under his mattress. He will eat whatever the ladies deem fit for lunch, and this bloody sickness will disappear.

It’s a terrible day to have a heart.

A whole week. A whole week without news, without even a word from Lucient. A whole week of that same nightmare, of waking up swinging his hand out at those who supposedly cared about him.

Last night, the smudged woman had Lucient’s eyes. And he couldn’t stop his blade before it met its mark. Fray woke with bile surging through his throat, and he couldn’t stop that from spilling forth either. Coughing, acid burning his breath like dragon’s flame, profoundly empty all the same.

Fray’s eyes are pinpricks as he sharpens his knife. No doubt Lucient’s keepers are tormenting him right now; piling job after job on his back, their whispers boiling into venomous scowls and sneers to tear their way into his chest and snuff his soul out. Or perhaps they’ve decided words aren’t enough, and they’ve decided to defile his body as well as his heart.

He won’t let them, he can’t let them. He could protect him from the roughest the Brume has to offer, what more could the Pillars have? He’ll just have to carve out an escape for his little bird, or die trying. Knights? They wouldn’t turn their swords on a pitiful urchin, would they? And if they would, he’s already had experience sneaking past adults. A knife is good, but if he can trick one of the knights into dropping their weapon, that would be even better. A sword would definitely be handy. If only he were like that monster from the tale Randall and Erik’s mother once told the orphans years ago, the one that swallowed his mortal companion whole to protect her from the ravages of the outside world. He could tear every single one of those villains to shreds with the same teeth and claws that would share in his fledgling’s warmth.

Or he could hide Lucient inside him. In the one place no one would think to look.

Is it heresy to want to be a beast? To claw his way up from the dirt the world buried him in? Let them call him a heretic then. He’s not waiting for his godsdamned “prince” any more, he’ll be the one rescuing him. He’ll have those starry eyes adore him forevermore.

Fray, for a moment, wonders what Lucient looks like, without a slab of wood obscuring him. Maybe he really would be a pretty boy.

He wonders how he would look in a wedding gown.

“Elfriede? Are you awake, young miss?”

Fray continues sharpening his knife, the raspy scrape of the whetstone on its edge the only thing he pretends to hear.

“Freidel?”

He ignores the knocking in the doorway, the nervous clearing of the throat from the old crone and the gnawing in his gut at that accursed name. All that matters is his plan.

“Fray, dear? There’s a boy outside asking for you. Says he’s your friend.”

He drops his whetstone, the sound of it crashing to the ground startling him. If he were more careless, he might have accidentally stabbed himself while shoving his dagger back in its place on his belt. No, never mind that, a boy asking for him! Could it be him? His fledgling flitting back to roost? How did he find where he lives? No time to question it, he rushes past the madame, weaving past the other children to get to the door.

He sees the coils of Erik’s hair and the kicked-dog look in his eyes before anything else outside, and for a moment, disappointment hits him like a fist to the stomach. The boy jitters about and keeps rubbing his hands together, as if being far from his brother makes him physically ill. He glances over at Fray, and the hunted look in his eyes fades.

“Fray? You okay? You look all scary like.”

“Doesn’t matter, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with Randall?”

Erik backs up when Fray approaches him, but goes no further.

“He told me to fetch you. Your, um, your sweetheart or however he called ‘im? Ran said ‘e’s waitin’ for you.”

Sweetheart? What in the hells is he talking abo—Lucient.

Fray leaps off the orphanage steps, and Erik stumbles back just before they would’ve collided. That stupid bird! What took him so long! Safety be damned, the second Fray sees his eyes on the other side, he’s going to rip open the gate and grab him and pin him down and sink his teeth int–

“I’ve heard enough. Let’s go.”

“Are you sure? It’s almost noon, have you e—”

“Now! We’re going now! Do you want me to leave you here?”

Erik jumps, and Fray is just about to dash off without him when he feels him pulling on his sleeve.

“Slow down, breathe! Don’t go passin’ out on me! You’re goin’ to blow up!”

Fray stops in his tracks. He’s not light-headed in the slightest, but it would be bad if he fainted in the middle of the street and left Erik with the burden of fixing him up. And he would be squandering this one chance to see Lucient again. He breathes in. It stings.

“Right then. Sorry about that. Lead the way.”

Erik gives him a shaky nod, and the two stray pups scamper down the Brume’s shadowed streets.

From the knowing side-eye Randall gives Fray as they approach, the bastard’s probably gone back on at least one of his words. But that’s a problem for future Fray to deal with, ideally with his fists and some choice words. Randall nods and steps away as Fray runs to the gate, and he hears him whisper something in Erik’s ear before they scuttle off.

“Fray? It is you, is it not?”

Lucient’s voice is so soft, Fray almost thinks it’s a trick of the breeze. His eyes shoot back to glare at Lucient’s own. Lucient looks away, with that guilty look in his eyes that all children get when they know they’ve done something wrong. After so long, he won’t even look him in the eye? The pressure in Fray’s chest reaches a boiling point.

“You promised.” Fray scowls, “You weren’t here. Not a single word from you. Do you know how much it hurt?”

Lucient winces as if struck. His voice only gets weaker and more strained with each word he mutters.

“I am sorry, Fray. I did not want to leave you so long, but there were guests in the manor, and a great many feasts, and not many other servants, and…”

Fray hears him holding back tears, coughing and hiccuping through broken breaths, the sound of which cools his temper so fast he feels the regret of it all slap him in the face. Normally, the little bird would put on some sort of strange passionless act when he’s upset, so why so emotional now? Did he genuinely scare him? Damn it, he should’ve held his tongue!

“Are you angry, Fray? Can we still be friends? I…I did not stop thinking about you. Do you still feel the same? Forgive me, pray forgive me!”

All visions of violence and consumption fade from Fray’s mind. All that matters is that the one he cares about is distraught because of him, and so he must be the one to soothe his pain. If only he could stop himself from sounding like he’s giving the poor wretch a warning growl.

“Lucient. Pretty boy…”

“If…if you wish to hurt me, because I have hurt you,” Lucient’s voice cracks, “that would be fine. Proper too. Strike me, if you wish. Tell me I am a villain and a horrible person, if it would help! Please, hurt me as much as you like, so we can be friends again!”

“What—no! No, nothing like that! What are you talking about?” Fray sputters, the sheer horror of Lucient’s request making his heart drop. By the Fury’s frozen tits, at least before there would’ve been warning before the little bird said something so disturbing. No, this is too out of the ordinary. Could it be a trick? Lucient couldn’t possibly have the guile to play with his feelings like that, but then again, he also thought the fledgling wouldn’t leave him delirious with longing for an entire week.

“Lucient? Lucient, look at me.”

He didn’t mean to pry. But when he meets Lucient’s teary eyes, he falls right back into the boy’s abyss. His fledgling’s flame flickers, dimmed by fear and pain no doubt, and the void around it seems somehow darker and deeper, but somehow it still burns clear. No lies here.

Then the flame “notices” him. It stretches towards him, a trail of light in the darkness like the river of stars Fray sometimes sees on clear nights. It stops short of his face, still trembling. He hears a chorus of little voices, all repeating the same thing.

Fray? Fray? Fray? Fray? Fray?

“Lucient.”

The flame stills. Then its tip leans down, hovering just above his hand. Fray grabs hold of it. The chorus grows louder.

Fray! Fray! Friend! Safe! No more pain! Not empty! Good again! Miss you! ██████ you!

The torrent of pure emotion floods Fray’s mind, a riverflow of sparks and sing-song cries directly into his soul. The joy surging through his head is beyond anything he’s ever felt, good or otherwise, like a sudden heatwave suffocating all those caught in its tracks. His hand locks up. Lucient’s flame sears a path of sunlight up his arm. He’s being pushed against from the inside, pinned down like prey from the outside. The impassioned shouts of the fire dissolve into a never-ending cacophony, deafening Fray to all but Lucient’s chaotic harmony.

You and me and you and me
Forever ever ever ever ever
More close more feel more think more touch more talk more more more
Love love love love love you!

Too much! Far too much! Fray’s body screams at the intrusion, as if the very threads of his soul are unraveling and rewoven together with Lucient’s frayed ends. He rips his eyes away from Lucient’s, severing the connection before the echoes overwhelm him.

What was that?! The same thing happened before with his hand! If I’d let go just a second too late, no, can’t go doing that again. Bloody hells, it felt good though, perhaps one more…no, stop thinking about it!

Lucient coughs and groans from the other side. Fray hears him sink to his knees, his hand gripping the gap is the only part of him he can see. Did he deal some sort of serious blow to Lucient by touching his flame? He knows those flames must be people’s souls or something close to it, but for a single touch to do that…is this what will finally get him barging through the gate; his own mistake?

After a few seconds of the two of them trying to reorient their mixed up minds back into reality, Lucient’s eyes pop back into view. His face is flushed and quite pale, but his expression is more bewildered than anything.

“…That felt…strange. I am not hurt though; are you hurt, Fray? Did you like touching me there? Do you feel better? Are we friends again? If you are still angry at me, you can do that again until you are well—”

Fray wishes the void truly did suck him in. Could this little bird stop saying such alarming things for one moment? He may not be as privy to this sort of trouble as the orphanage workers, but he’s heard that phrasing before from some of the other children. The ones taken from their families due to the unspeakable happening to them.

“Yes, of course we’re friends, and I’ll be fine, forget about that. But you, Lucient. Are you well? Are you safe? Did your handlers hurt you? Did they,”—the very thought of it makes nausea and ire both rise inside him—“did they lay their hands on you? Ask you to do something you didn’t want to do? You can tell me.”

Lucient blinks at Fray, furrowing his brow and repeating his questions under his breath. When it seems to finally click, he shudders and shakes his head furiously.

“Oh, no no no! Nothing of the sort, Fray, worry not. I was quite safe, I did not experience any troubles out of the ordinary, I did my duties as I was told. There was one night where the majordomo pushed me, but that was simply because I had blocked the way for all the waitstaff. On the contrary, nobody wishes to be near me unless they must!”

Not so quick like he anticipated the question, and not so slow like he was trying to think of a convincing lie. He can deconstruct all the worrying points in his response later, what’s important is that he’s safe now. Fray sighs, and pushes his hand through the gap.

“Right then, all’s well I assume. Good. You had me worried this whole time, you know. Couldn’t sleep a bloody wink. Drove me mad you did.”

Lucient stares at his hand for a good few moments, as if he’s never seen a hand in his entire life. More encouragement then. With a flick of his fingers, Fray makes a “come hither” motion and presses his palm against Lucient’s cheek. The fledgling is burning hot against Fray’s frostnipped fingers, and the smooth softness of his skin makes every nerve in Fray’s hand hum. He’s real, he’s right here, nestling in the palm of his hand.

“Fray?” He hears Lucient mumble, the sound muffled against his palm. “May I hold your hand?”

“What? Why ask? You know the answer.”

“Mayhaps…but since I have hurt you, and you seem rather shy and mayhaps you do not like being touched, it must be better to ask…”

“Well, you’re right, I don’t let any old whelp on the streets lay a hand on me.”

Fray brushes the heel of his hand against Lucient’s cheek, the same circling way he kneads dough for the bread that gets the orphanage through the winter. He coaxes him closer to the gap, so he can whisper in his ear.

“But for you, my boy, the answer is always yes.”

Did the fledgling just hop? Perhaps it would be more fitting to call him a rabbit, but regardless, the answer seems to strike him right in the heart. Fray puffs his chest out, unable to stop the self-satisfied smirk on his face. Got you! Try to forget me now with that charming line, eh?

Fray feels Lucient pull back, bringing his arm along with him. The fledgling’s fingers run along the ridges of his palm, up and down his hand bones, tracing the healed wounds from their last visit, turning his hand round and round as if he’s examining a priceless artifact. He curls Fray’s fingers back into a fist, and Fray’s breath hitches as he feels something warm and slightly damp against his knuckles.

A kiss?

“Oh! You went stiff, forgive me if I frightened you, I forgot to ask! I—at the feasts, the servants had to kiss the hands of the guests to welcome them in. However even when I was not a kitchenboy, I was never allowed near the guests…so I wanted to try it at least once.”

Fray feels his face run hot, just like the damp mark now on his hand.

“Why?”

“Because…because when you kiss someone’s hand, it means that you respect them a lot and hold them in ‘high esteem’.”

Respect. He is respected. And esteemed. He is worthy of respect without it coming from fists and fear. Hells, he is loved, if what the little bird’s flame yelled at him is true. Fray holds back a laugh. He feels light-headed. He doesn’t even care that Lucient answered the wrong question. Surely this too is a dream. If it is, it’s one of the cruelest tricks the gods could pull on him. At least he isn’t stabbing someone. But the worry is there.

“You’re lying.”

“I am not! That is what it means. At least, that is what I have heard!”

“You respect me then?”

“Of course. You are my friend, my protector, and my light in a dark room. I will always respect you.”

Fray shivers like he’s about to cry. He sucks in a shuddering breath.

“…Lucient, tell me, will you? Am I your favourite?”

“Absolutely! Truly! You are my favourite person in the whole world. No one else!”

If the gods are real and this is a dream, may he never wake up. May they brand those words onto his soul, so they may keep him alive throughout the bitter cold of his years. The week of yearning, of suffering, of believing he had been abandoned once more, it was all worth it to hear those pure words.

“Say it again, pretty boy. Say I’m your favourite, your protector, everything else, whatever you can think of! Say you choose me, always me, and no one else. Say you l—”

Fray’s stomach rumbles. It aches. It hollers for attention over Fray’s own voice. Damn it, he should’ve listened to Erik after all. And he let his true feelings, his true self, slip out too. Reckless, this boy is making him careless!

Lucient lets go of his hand and Fray grasps at the empty air. Like his little bird is going to fly off again, or vanish into the recesses of his imagination. What he grabs a hold of next isn’t his hand, but…a chunk of bread?

“Pray take and eat of it, Fray! You are hungry, right? There is some more, but I cannot give it to you with bread in your hand.”

Little by little, Fray eats what he’s been given, and Lucient hands him another morsel. More tiny cloud puffs of bread, misshapen chunks of hard cheese, a single rusk with dried berries baked in, two strips of dried meat.

Hang on…

“Pretty boy. Did you feed me your lunch?”

“Of course! Forgive me, I did not have any treats for you today, but it would be unkind to leave you wanting, especially when your stomach made such a terrible noise. No person should have to go hungry.”

The food Fray just ate suddenly feels like it weighs twelve tonze. He should have asked before, no, he should have slowed down and eaten lunch before rushing to the gate! Fray’s voice shakes.

“But, what about you? If that’s all the food you’ve been given…?”

Lucient’s eyes close in that way they always do when he grins.

“No person should have to go hungry!”

Silence. Those words said so cheerfully sting fierce. Does the fledgling even know what he said? Was the emphasis his intention, or merely the illusion born from a young boy’s cracking voice? Fray stares back at him, his mouth, for once, frozen.

Seemingly completely oblivious to Fray’s mounting confusion, Lucient knocks on the gate.

“Fray? Could you hold your hand out again? I have no treats, but I do have a true gift for you.”

Through the gap, Lucient pushes through something flat wrapped in wax paper. Whatever is inside must be thin and fragile. Fray unwraps the gift, and it’s two flowers, fresher than any he’s seen before. One with a single striped bulb of yellow and red, and one with clusters of blossoms on branches like a warren of golden dust bunnies clumped together. They’re so vibrant, they practically glow against the shadows of his side.

“There were quite a few arrangements at the manor, so I was a bit evil and took some of the flowers without asking. These ones reminded me of you, Fray. So bright, and very pretty, like your eyes.”

Thank goodness there is no one within eye nor earshot. Gods forbid anyone see how pink his face must be. Lucient, unheeding, continues to chirp.

“The one with the bulb is a tulip, grown right in this city. The other one, with its small buds, comes from a type of tree called an acacia. My elders said that they bought these acacia flowers from a trader hailing from Gridania, but they also say the saplings truly come from a land even further away than Gridania, perhaps even another continent entirely! Is that not wonderful? That something from so far away is now in your hands? Like the world itself is travelling to see you!”

The world? Past these dark streets?

Fray presses the flowers to his nose, breathing deep of their aroma. What would the world outside the Brume even look like? He had heard chatter from some downtrodden wretches that Gridania, and the “Black Shroud” as they called the country surrounding it, is a tangle of forests and flora as far as the eye could see. Bubbling brooks flowing into rivers adorned with plants both helpful and harmful, shade abundant under the canopies of trees that soared into the sky like the ivory towers of Ishgard itself. Dangerous creatures at every corner, yes, but also peaceful peoples who lived in accordance with nature and the will of some things called “Elementals”, whatever they must be. And that’s just one country. What about others? Places where the sun beat down on the parched ground so fiercely that one could only see red and orange wherever one looked? Beaches of soft white sand lining a wide blue ocean, the cooling scent of the sea a gentle touch? Mountains of ice and snow, where deep caves full of undiscovered treasures lie waiting to be claimed?

“They’re pretty, aye…but I don’t need this sort of thing…”

“Ah, well, I apologize. You are right, flowers are not the most useful gift, but you enjoyed looking at them and smelling them, did you not? Your face does not look so furrowed any more.”

Fray hears Lucient shuffle about on his side, watches him concentrate on what he’s about to say next.

“It is a bit like our visits, is it not? You were living and had a life of your own, and if we had never met that day, you would continue to live without knowing me, and I you. But when we meet, we become happy. The flowers are like that, I think.”

Lucient pushes his hand back through, his palm outstretched and waiting to be filled.

“Would you like me to keep doing this?”

Fray, without a moment’s hesitation, clasps his hand in his free one, their fingers intertwining like they had when they first touched.

“Yes. I want you.”

“Hm? Pardon? Me?”

Fray mouth tightens. The gate inside has flown wide open, and gods damn it he has to shut it somehow. He fumbles about for an excuse.

“To give me more gifts like this. That’s what I want. Bloody hells, can you just let me finish talking, pretty boy?”

“Ah, I apologize! That was rude of me. But yes, I will find many more pretty and useless things for you. Do not worry, I am very good at finding things like me!”

This boy! This godsforsaken apologizing and mewling and absolutely unfair self-pity is going to drive Fray to drink, age be damned. He digs his nails into Lucient’s knuckles and shakes him about, hard enough to damn near make the gate rattle.

“You—can’t you speak nicely about yourself for once, you fool? I like you. And I don’t just say that for common rats, so stop making it sound like I do!”

“Forgive me, forgive me! I will not say that again! I will be kinder to myself, I promise!”

“You’d better well try, you—”

Something rust-red in the corner of Fray’s eye cuts him off. He loosens his grip on Lucient’s hand just enough to let him get a closer look.

Scabs. Long clotted lines trailing around the veins and bones of Lucient’s hand and crawling up his wrist and forearm. Short ones scattered about like dropped straw, some still swollen and raw around the edges, as if they will tear open again if he pulls too hard. Some crossing over the old scars he’d seen the second day they’d met, intersections of some terrible past and the painful present. A few curved in an arc, where Fray’s fingernails had bit deep into Lucient’s knuckles before.

One just a quarter of an ilm away from Lucient’s pulse point.

Fray’s fleetingly hot blood runs cold.

“Lucient.” He tries as hard as he can to remain calm, to channel the gentleness of the nicest madames at the orphanage, but the tremor still escapes. “What are these?”

His wounded fledgling squints at him, then seemingly squints at the fresh cuts on his own hand and arm. He stares as if it’s the first time he’s seeing them too. Fray sees him tilt his head back and forth, like he’s shaking the last few coins out of a gil jar and hoping to buy a memory with his loot. A pinprick flash of horror crosses Lucient’s eyes, though it fades so quick that Fray isn’t sure if it was real or a trick of his mind.

“Oh? My hand?” His fledgling’s usual chipper tone flies up. “Ah, ahaha, only a small accident, do not worry. I was on kitchen duty quite often, and ashamed as I am to say, my mind does wander. I must have nicked myself a few times while cutting up vegetables. Pray do not worry, I made sure to wash my wounds and let not a single drop fall on the food! It would be quite a disaster if the guests got a good helping of my blood in their stew, yes? Ahaha…”

He’d taken quite a while to come up with that answer, far longer than with Fray’s previous question. Something isn’t adding up. Why wouldn’t he tell him? Fray knows well enough that everyone has secrets. But if it’s leading his fledgling, his little bird, his friend to hurt himself, it’s his business now.

Fray bites his still-healing lip. How to go about this…

“These are from the kitchen. From cutting vegetables.”

“Yes.”

A single word, without delay. Lucient’s eyes are unblinking, staring back at Fray. His mouth is dry, and he feels a sweet chill nip at his fingers. Careful now.

“Are you sure?”

Wrong move. The blinding sun behind Lucient casts a deep shadow over his face. His eyes remain fixed on Fray, but stare out into nothing. Like a candle has been snuffed out, plunging the room inside in darkness. The air around them seems to freeze, and Fray’s airway tightens with each strained breath. What is he so afraid of? He knows what this is. He knows what to do when Lucient goes like this. Yet he can only listen to the fledgling’s droning song.

“Yes. It was an accident. I was cutting vegetables and accidentally cut myself. That is what happened.”

Fray grits his teeth. No, he must know why. If it’s something he can protect Lucient from, he has to know! But when he looks into Lucient’s eyes, past the fog, he hears a single plea. Please, please, please just believe me.

He swallows. Squeezes Lucient’s hand just so, enough for the shadows in his eyes to lift slightly.

“Right. I see. Be careful next time.”

Fray rubs his thumb over the scabs, as though he could scour them out of Lucient’s skin, out of his soul, if he did it for long enough. No more pain, no more fear. He feels Lucient’s eyes watching him. Without thinking, he presses a soft kiss to the center of his scarred hand. Then to each of his knuckles, and over onto the gash near his pulse point.

“Fray?”

“You only have one body, you know.” Fray massages the spots he kissed, willing them to heal the hurt under the surface. “So take care of it. You’re precious to somebody, and that somebody will be mad as a dog if your hands keep slipping like this.”

He looks up. Meets Lucient’s eyes, now clear as a summer sky once more. Are they watering? Is what he said really worth crying over? No more tears; he’s here, they’re together again.

“You said you were distracted, Lucient. What were you thinking of?”

Fray knows the answer, or he hopes he does. He isn’t the only one blushing now.

“Ah, well, it is as I said, yes? I…I thought about you, Fray. Every day, when my duties were not in my mind. I was so worried about you being all alone, so sad and alone…I missed hearing your voice so dearly. It was so very cold without you, the nights so very frightening. It ached so much, deep in my heart, and I…”

His eyes are darkening again, no, Fray has to distract him. He squeezes down on Lucient’s hand as hard as he can, until Lucient stops spiralling and looks back up at him.

“You fought it off. You didn’t lose to those feelings, did you? And now you’re here and we’re together, as we ought to be, aye?”

He presses his lips to Lucient’s palm again, murmuring against the soft skin.

“Though even if you did lose, that’s no problem. You’re still strong, you’re still here, and I’m still here too. I’ll heal you, so you’ll thrash it easily next time.”

More teasing words? No, it’s a promise as serious as the grave. Lucient’s finger curl and stroke the underside of Fray’s chin, something that reminds him of a child affectionately scratching their pet. But it’s Lucient who’s looking at him with that pleading adoration.

“Are you truly sure, Fray? You will heal me?”

“Of course. You trust me, aye?”

A nod. Good. Very good.

“Then, may I ask for healing? We are here, yes, but my heart still feels so cold…”

Such honesty, such a sad request. Fray hadn’t planned on following through with his promise so soon, but he won’t let him down. If his heart is cold…no, he cannot peer into and touch it again, not when he was so close to losing himself before. If that is too much, and holding his hand isn’t enough, then the next best thing would be a hug.

A hug. Letting someone close. Fray would have to reveal himself for that, a prospect that makes his stomach roil. If he’s not careful, it could come crashing down on him. His fledgling’s face screwed up in disgust or pity disguising it as he lays eyes on his true form, sees that he’s not the invincible boy he’d made himself out to be, sees the scars, the weakness, the fakery. That “love” curdling into loathing.

He wouldn’t do that though, would he? Not this otherwise guileless little boy? Not this flame who’s been so generous with his time, his gifts, who cried and hurt himself at the thought of making him upset? Trust, trust is what they need now. Given piecemeal, but given nonetheless.

Fray whispers through the gap.

“Pretty boy. You still have my veil, aye?”

“…Yes? It is right here in my pocket. Oh, I should return it to you, should I not?”

“No, not right now. Just put it on.”

He sees Lucient tilt his head, hears the tell-tale ruffling of a cloak as he checks his pockets. Then a muffled reply.

“Like this?”

“No, no, around your eyes. Need you blind for this one.”

Another quizzical tilt of the head. Is he a boy, or a dog?

“Why?”

Another obstacle. Fray strains to think of an excuse. Something serious enough to warrant not revealing himself, but not so serious that Lucient would be scared off.

“My face is all puffed up, pretty boy. Got into another scrap with the older kids, you see. Now don’t go worrying, I’m fine as a feather, but I’d rather not scare you with all my blood and bruises, you know?”

A half-truth that would raise more questions than answers, but for now it seems that the only things being raised are Lucient’s eyebrows. At least he doesn’t ask any more questions. His little bird is learning so fast.

“Hm, I think this is right?” Lucient’s eyes are double-wrapped in the veil, not a single hint of those ice blue irises peeking out, “What do we do now, Fray?”

“Wait there, I’ll open the gate. Just follow my voice, I’ll guide you.”

The gate is a towering thing even with the ravages of the years rotting its hinges. Fray strains his entire body against its rough grain, moving it ilm by blasted ilm with all the speed of a man trying to roll a great boulder up the steepest mountains of Coerthas. Fury grant him strength, literally this time, if She wouldn’t mind.

When he finally opens the gate wide enough to let a child through, what he sees on the other side stops him in his tracks. With his hands resting on the other door of the gate and the sun at his back, Lucient looks almost ready to have a portrait painted. Gods, Fray has thought of him as a fledgling, but his milk-blond hair really does fluff up like miniature wings around his ears. The cloak looks shabby, and the uniform worn, but that is no surprise for what he knows of him. But his face, unusually sharp in spite of the softness clinging around his cheeks, with the barest hint of a sad smile, is what draws Fray’s eyes in. With what he knows of Lucient’s own eyes, he pictures the boy in his full glory and—too much! His face burns up again and he struggles not to bite down on his knuckles, or worse, the flowers.

Bloody hells, he is pretty!

“Fray? Where are you?” Lucient’s hands shake against the worn wood, his head darting here and there at the slightest noise. “Are you still there? Is the gate open?”

Fray gulps. After a moment to slow his breaths and tuck the flowers into his hair, he holds out his hand.

“Over here, pretty boy. Just grab my hand, I’m not far away.”

Step by step, his little bird hops closer, with a scarred hand reaching out towards him. Their fingertips brush, and that’s enough. They cling together like men lost at sea cling to each other to keep the waves from sweeping them out to their doom. Fray jerks Lucient into his arms. There is nary a sound from the fledgling, only an instant fitting of their bodies together. Lucient’s arms wrap around him so tight that it would shatter a weaker child’s bones. Fray feels everything. The pressure of Lucient’s arms, the momentary tickle of Lucient’s fingers splaying across his back then gripping tight onto his tunic, the heaving gasps Lucient takes against his neck and shoulders.

It’s like the first breath of air after spending so long trapped underwater. Fray can barely suppress the cry that comes surging up from his core, the tears that well up without cause. He wants to tear himself away from this raging storm of sensations before he starts screaming, and yet also to press himself into his friend until their skin and flesh give way, until the marrow of their bones and blood in their veins mix, melding them into one perfect whole. One being so full of comfort and love that nothing else in the world could ever hurt them.

“Fray…Fray…!”

“It’s okay,” Fray whispers, more a reassurance to himself than anything, “I have you, you’re safe. You’re safe. Don’t let go.”

This is no sight to leave the public to witness, and so with his mind spinning and his body thrumming like a thousand levin bolts are coursing through his nerves, he shambles backwards behind the gate, back into the shadows. Once he’s certain he’s not going to send them tumbling down the stairs, he rests his back against the stone wall and lets out the breath he’d been holding. His arms find their way under Lucient’s cloak and around his back, and he holds him so close he can feel how thin the boy is under his noble uniform. How fragile he seems. No more. He has him now. He doesn’t have to cry or fear the world any more. Fray will shield him. Fray will heal him. Fray will hold him forever. And ever and ever and ever and—

“You,” he hears Lucient say against the crook of his neck, “are so very warm, Fray. So warm! It feels really, really good.”

If Fray were blushing before, his face must have darkened to a deep red by now. He can scarcely find the words to say, simply opting to squeeze Lucient harder in reply. From this close, Fray smells that familiar smokiness, yet also a hint of the rich mix of aromas from the no doubt countless trays of extravagant food he’s had to prepare for those noble prats, and the lingering scent of flowers. It’s what home should smell like. It’s maddening. And his neck, oh, the fledgling’s long neck. His collar folded back in the rush, exposing a full few ilms of unblemished skin. Gods, he needs to be the only one to see it, and the only one to touch it. The only one to mark it, so Lucient will always remember his Brume bastard and everyone will know never to torment this poor boy ever again, lest Fray hunts them down. The urge to sink his teeth into Lucient and release this tension coiled inside is a siren song he can’t deny. They hover gleaming over his prize.

“…You are breathing quite hard. Are…are you alright, Fray?”

Lucient’s questioning whisper is enough to give Fray pause. It’s what he says next that leaves him reeling.

“Are you going to bite me?”

Bloody hells, he’s an astute little thing. Fray snaps his jaws shut, his lips pursed in panic.

“…Maybe. Maybe not.”

The drawn-out silence that follows is deafening. Fray kicks himself. Maybe he should’ve just lied and said no—

“You can, if you want to. If that is what would heal me. Or heal you! I will be strong, so do not worry about if it will hurt. Not that I believe you would hurt me!”

This cannot possibly be real. Fray fights the urge to smile, to laugh. He takes a shaky breath, swallows down his nerves.

“Alright, if you say so. Just say if you want me to stop, aye?”

“…Okay.”

He’s dreamt of doing this for so long, yet now that this sweet release is readily offered, Fray feels his entire body freeze up. Is it really okay to do this? What if he bites too hard and draws blood? What if it really does hurt Lucient, and scares him off forever? Would he think him rabid? Some kind of monster in human flesh? Or–a terror clawing to the front of his mind–what if he bites him so hard, he severs something inside Lucient’s neck and kills him?

No, enough! Just do it! Quickly, before he changes his mind!

“Fray? What’s wrong? Is aught amiss—”

He cuts Lucient off with teeth latching around his throat. The little bird yelps, of course, but he doesn’t fall limp, standing tall and continuing to cling to Fray as he bites down. A soft and steady gnawing, like how tame pups play-bite. It takes everything in Fray’s power not to dig in with all his strength, but this is enough. Lucient’s pulse flutters inside his mouth. Out of time with his own, and far too fast, yet soothing nonetheless. Fray closes his eyes, his breaths slowing down as he continues worrying his fledgling. Out goes the anguish, the mad longing, the dread of the twins’ fates and the weight of the world on his back. The sky could come crashing down and he wouldn’t care at all. He could have the best damned sleep of his short life right now so long as he still had Lucient right here in his mouth, in his arms, where he belongs.

“Are…are you feeling better, Fray? Are you healed?”

Fray barely comprehends the questions before he lets a muffled “mhm” loose against Lucient’s skin. Though it pains him to separate, he can’t speak like this. He lets go of Lucient’s neck. His mouth already misses its beating cradle. Inside the crown of teeth marks now adorning Lucient’s skin, a splotched bruise blooms blue and red. Did he really do that? At least the boy can hide it under his collar, but still. The sight of it makes Fray cough and itch at his throat.

“I suppose I am, thanks to you. I didn’t cause you too much pain, did I?”

To Fray’s shock, Lucient giggles. He watches him rub the bruise without a single wince.

“Not at all! I am not hurt at all. It just felt rather….odd? But I think I like it. It is very…um, forgive me, I cannot think of the words, but I think we could call it good?”

Well. He doesn’t seem to be frightened by it at least, far from it. For someone to accept his way of showing his feelings, even in this strange way, sets Fray’s heart to soaring. Lucient turns away, speaking to the wall in his blindness.

“Fray? May I try biting you as well? I wish to know why you enjoy it so.”

The question hits Fray’s ears, but it does not register for good few seconds. When it does, he need not say his answer. One hand shoots up from Lucient’s back to his head, and turns him down and over so his face is all but nestled against Fray’s neck. His voice, breathless with anticipation, wavers as he whispers.

“Go ahead. Not too hard, mind.”

The fledgling must’ve gone deaf as well as blind when he put the veil on, because Fray’s entire neck stings with a white hot pain the moment Lucient lunges. Fray frantically looks down to see Lucient jaw deep in his neck, his teeth dangerously close to piercing his jugular. And maybe not even that, for he sees spatters of scarlet on his skin. Gods help him, the boy is biting as if to tear meat from bone! Exhilaration mixes with mortal terror as Fray smacks his little bird across his shoulder blades, barking through the panic.

“Too hard, too hard! Let go, Lucient, let go, damn it!”

Lucient lets out a startled squeak of his own at Fray’s reaction and releases his grip on him. It’s hard to see in the shadows, but Fray feels a slow trickle of blood creeping its way down his neck. Letting go of Lucient, he presses his hand to the wet spot on his neck. Indeed, he’s been wounded. What a day.

“Oh no, oh no oh no! I am so sorry! Are you injured, Fray?! Forgive me, forgive me, I was so careless, I am sorry!”

In the middle of Lucient’s frantic chirping, Fray spies him licking his lips. A nervous tic, undoubtedly, but the sight of his own blood in his fledgling’s mouth is…

Well, he doesn’t know what it is, but his mind pins it to the walls of his memory like some captivatingly macabre piece of art. He’ll think about it later. He’ll dream about it later. Just not while Lucient looks as if he’s going to fall to the ground and start grovelling like some pitiful pauper before a sneering noble.

“It’s alright, quit squawking, will you? It’s not so bad. I’ll be fine, so just calm down now.”

He says this, and yet Lucient still frets about, stepping back until he’s standing flush against the opposite wall. With his eyes blindfolded, if he keeps squirming about like this, he might actually trip and crash down the stairs. Fray’s heart lurches. He rushes forward and grabs Lucient’s trembling hand, pulling him back into his arms. He goes to pat his head, anything to calm the boy down, but dragging a hand that’s sticky with blood through someone’s hair is not the finest idea Fray’s come up with. He settles for a simple hug and a soothing voice.

“There, see? I’m fine, and you’re still my friend. My best friend.”

Goodness, the boy can shiver. Fray holds him tight, his next line a low whisper floating like a feather on Lucient’s ear.

“And you know, you’re my favourite person in the whole world too.”

“W-What?! You must be jesting!” Lucient snaps, though he can’t stop his tittering from coming out. “Surely you have friends who are far more entertaining than me?”

Flashes of the other orphans’ faces, of Amelie’s hollowed-out gaze, of Erik’s nervous stare and Randall’s easy-going smirk. They’re people around him, yes, but friends? Not exactly. Not people he could trust with his deepest self, not with his secrets, not with his aching heart.

“Not really, but it doesn’t matter. I have you, don’t I? You’re all I need.”

He feels Lucient nuzzle into the crook of his neck. A potent sign of approval. Now this is what he likes to see.

“What about that older boy? The one that was waiting before?”

The question hits Fray like a red hot poker in the backside. Randall! Did that bloody hellion say anything to his fledgling? What hellish ideas has he been putting in Lucient’s head? If he made that same joke about Fray “taking” Lucient right to the boy himself, he’d best start picking which fingers and teeth he can live without. Fray suppresses the growl building in his throat, making it sound more like he’s swallowed a bug and suffering the consequences.

“Don’t worry about him. He’s just another one of us mongrels running about the streets. But you shouldn’t listen to everything he says, you hear? He’ll tell you all sorts of nonsense, a whole lot of things someone like you shouldn’t hear.”

“Hm? But he told me you were waiting for ‘your prince’. Did he mean me? Am I your prince, Fray?”

Fray chokes on air. That slippery bastard! Oh, he’s going to show him what for later. Fray clears his throat and stammers out a hasty reply.

“Like I said, pretty boy, don’t go listening to him! He’s just trying to make you think all sorts of rubbish. I was waiting for you because we’re friends. Nothing else.”

“Oh, okay.” Lucient says, the disappointed lilt in his voice stabbing Fray in the chest. He perks up soon enough though, and Fray feels him trace map paths on his back, an excited accompaniment to his ramblings.

“Well, that is all quite fine! Because we could be knights instead, yes? Two knights going on an adventure! We could travel to faraway lands and help lots of people. We could slay lots of fearsome beasts and save the meek, whoever they are! Maybe we could even find where the acacia trees are and bring saplings home to plant right here in the city. It sounds like fun, yes?”

Were he not blindfolded, Fray’s sure he would see Lucient’s eyes sparkle as he guides him through his dream. And what a painfully innocent dream it is. It’s the sort of dream that wouldn’t last a second in these fetid slums, yet here is this bloody cherub offering it to him anyhow. So generous, yet something in Fray’s mind screams for him to refuse, to pull away. That’s it’s a hopeless little fantasy, not meant for mongrels…

“Best you do all that on your own, you know. A wretch like me is just going to bring the mood down.”

“What? No, no you would not! There must be so much wonder outside the city, it would be a shame to not share it with you. If I must venture without you, then I would rather not venture at all! It would be like…like asking a body to work without a heart.”

A body without a heart. A heart. I am…his heart?

Lucient steps back from the embrace, taking Fray’s frigid hands in his own.

“So let’s work together to become knights, okay, Fray? So…so we shall never be alone ever again. Do…do you wish for that? Do you wish to be my knight, and I shall be yours?”

Never alone…you really want me? You want me by your side?

But perhaps, even a mongrel may dream of being let into the heavens. Fray sighs, and slowly, he leans forward to press his forehead against Lucient’s own.

“Aye, I do. Let’s go on an adventure someday, Lucient. Together.”

When Fray, freshly veiled, passes by Randall and Erik on his way home, he spies them staring at the flowers tucked in his hair. Erik’s eyes wide like saucers, Randall simply smiling in that infuriating way that screams ‘I told you so’.

“So, when can I expect an invitation to the wedding? You need my ma’s old dress, boy?”

“Shut your bloody mouth.”