Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Scripture that Hendrik had once believed in totality stated that long is the way, and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light. Horror, in time, grows mild, and brute-forcing a situation leads to victories rung hollow and merely half-won. Perseverance and faith were of equal virtue - Hendrik had once been a man of both, and often could not tell where one ended and the other began. His path was his own, and one he would continue on until his final day - but tact was an ample tool to learn adequate usage of. Forethought won wars as much as bravery. Hendrik was currently a man who felt as if he lacked both despite having too many opportunities for either.

Cupid must have put too much damned poison in those metaphorical darts of his, and it pulsed in the soldier’s veins, steadily masking the venom that Mordegon had forced into him. 

Hendrik stared out of the porthole of the galley; stood within the ship's comfortable bowels, leaning against the wall, he gazed out at the sea beyond. And beyond that, the nearby coastline of sheer cliff. Sylvando was steering the Stallion close by the rocky edge of the Inland Sea, cautious of Alizarin catching wind of their scent and returning once more. To even give another attempt at sailing towards Zwaardsrust had taken some decision, some effort, some deliberation. The weather today was favourable however, their pace good and the quiet comfortable.

He watched the water roll and foam, and thought of the sands on Valor’s shores, and all the promise that little town had opened his eyes to. Of the bonds his heart had to that place - and its former inhabitants.

“Lord Robert,” He intoned, not removing his gaze from the sea. Soon, they would arrive at his homeland. Puerto Valor was a lifetime behind him, and Zwaardsrust further still, and he had just left the former - and no better than he had found it. It was strange, to have resided within a town for the best part of a decade, once upon a time, and have not made an impact upon it, not really. Whether he had ever been there or not, Puerto Valor would have fared just as well. 

Hendrik would never know if the same could ever have been said about his birthplace. It is hard to measure ruins by the scope of their craters.

Rab sat at a table behind Hendrik. The galley of the Stallion - a recreational room of sorts - was one of many welcoming places aboard made for visiting guests. Sylvando had ensured that his ship - his home - was well furnished and hospitable. Draped tapestries and paintings hung from the walls, walls which were painted and papered in garish mauves and swirling patterns. Couches with overstuffed velvet cushions sat in one corner, rugs upon the floor, musical instruments on display and shelves of books and adornments galore in the form of globes and trinkets and souvenirs from his many travels; all the comforts a person could ever want were here. One only needed a single glance of the ship's innards to know who it belonged to. The soft furnishings even smelled of his perfume, not that Hendrik would try to notice such a thing. The table beheld a game of solitaire. One of the many ornate oak armoires that took space along one wall had several boardgames and such inside, and Lord Robert had been entertaining himself. When it was smooth sailing and the weather just a little too grey to venture out upon the deck, the former king of Dundrasil and the others had apparently taken refuge and found easy peace within this room many a time as they circled the world the first time around. 

Hendrik stewed on the thought, as he was wont to do. To find home no matter where you go was no easy feat. Sylvando had ensured that his friends would always find solace with him, would always have a place of safety to fall back on so long he was near.

He really and truly did represent the Knight’s Code down to his very core.

And Hendrik, now more so than ever, had no idea where they stood. Or at least, he did not think he did. He was uncertain. At the inn in Gondolia, they had promised to look out for each other, bygones past and the road ahead one they walked together. But then in the quiet darkness they had whispered words of dedication beyond that. Words of, dare he think it, love, that had hung in the air, fizzled into silence, and were intended to be forgotten about. A heart had fluttered between them before fading, literally and metaphorically. And Hendrik had slept at last. Brokenly, but all the same.

But when one falls asleep, they in time awaken. He had opened his eyes from yet another scant night of troubled sleep and swirling dreams to find the jester’s bare back facing him, sat on the end of his bed. To find that Sylvando had awoken and perched at his feet, quiet but there, waiting, silent. Some indomitable part of Hendrik had marvelled at the fact that yes, just once, he had indeed found Sylvando somehow. But upon seemingly realising that Hendrik had woken up and was looking at him, able to feel gaze on bare skin, Sylvando had simply looked over his shoulder at him, given a slight smile, and slowly stood to begin getting dressed. Hendrik felt… stupid. Like there were signals and signs and unspoken words that he just could not quite interpret. The clown being so close and seemingly doing an act of silent support without prompt felt as if it should mean something, but they had merely spoken amicably and gotten prepared for the day in relative peace, polite and just beginning to be friendly, and things were far better than they were and yet still… stilted. They felt like they were at another strange impasse. They both wanted to be like they were, but… there was no going back, not really, not ever. Sylvando would never be Norberto again. He would not want to.

And Hendrik, genuinely, did not know if he wanted that either.

To ask someone to change was selfish indeed. When you love someone, you change over time to meld around them. Hendrik had become rigid and misshapen in Norberto’s absence. Sylvando had grown and flourished. Hendrik wanted their edges to slot together, for them to complete each other again, for the two of them to be a duo the way they used to be. But there were many facets to the jester that he no longer knew, no longer recognised as familiar. He knew him well, but not at all. Sylvando was an open book to Hendrik, but one in a language he was only familiar with the basics of.

He was equally immensely daunted, jaded and scorned to recognise such a thing, and tantalised and excited to learn of them. To learn of him, all over again.

The two of them had awoken before the sun fully rose. Sylvando had sat there, half nude and framed in the orange-hot dawn, expression wistful and distant and unreadable, before he turned and gave a simple albeit tired smile. Hair tousled from sleep, skin pristine and yet unpainted, eyes soft. Sat perched at Hendrik's feet. The sheet of the jester's bed still wrapped around his waist, denoting that he had woken up and crawled straight over from his own bed and had remained there until Hendrik stirred. Or, stirred enough to awaken fully. Perhaps Hendrik's own nightmares had caused Sylvando to remain awake, perhaps he had disturbed him, perhaps Hendrik had shouted out or wept or reached out in his fitful sleep, caught between memories and imaginings of terror. He could not recall - whatever dreams he may have had were dashed the second he opened his eyes and saw the fool right there, like he always used to be, like he always was meant to be, like he had never left at all.

The morning within that little inn room had been… easy. Hendrik had watched - and tried not to make such a thing obvious - Sylvando stretch and bend, imperative things for a contortionist and gymnast, while double-checking today's equipment. It had been quiet, and they had spoken little, and they had not needed to speak more. Whether either of them had wanted to speak more was a different matter. That small window of time between groggily waking and sneaking away had simply come easy and weightless. The inn provided warm water; they had both shaved, sat side by side on the floor, dagger edges and wet foam. It felt extraordinarily normal, and wonderfully natural. Hendrik had perched on the end of his bed just as Sylvando had and polished his boots, pretending not to watch as the clown put on his makeup - lipstick curled and neat, the shape of an ornate bow, delicate shimmer on his eyelids. The artistry was practiced and organic, and so was their bond. It felt as if they had always been this way. Hendrik hoped that they might just forever be this way, as foolish as the notion was.

He had always climbed out of Norberto’s window and scurried back to his own room before dawn blessed Puerto Valour - mornings of the past had been quick, broken, and regretful. To exist within Sylvando's space now, to share time with him, it was preferable. A gift, even, one Hendrik appreciated wordlessly.

They had left together. They hid away yesterday's weight, carried back in brown paper. Before Eleven or Rab could stir and come and wake them, the pair had dressed and wandered the bathed-violet streets of Gondolia together. The star was falling. Sylvando's costume shimmered electric in the red-purple glow of the sky. Hendrik's back stung, but not nearly as much as it would have had they not had their little chat last night.

They had boarded the Stallion in relative quiet, conversation brief and simple, their movements in time - as if synonymous, what one thought the other acted, a routine seemingly formed despite no rehearsal, their instincts and ideas in time. Sylvando unlocked the door to his private chamber aboard his boat - the captain's quarters, Hendrik's mind marveled, a concept that had always felt mundane when it referred to his own knightly domain and yet now seemed so immense and unattainable stood there, face to face with Sylvando, his empty room open behind the jester’s back and his casual smile aimed up at his old friend - and Sylvando took the burden of the armour from him with easy hands. Hid it and its wrappings inside where no others would find it. He would repair it later, he promised, and his word was his bond. 

Hendrik had stood upon a strange precipice, on reflection. Were he a crueller man, he could have initiated something. A fight, perhaps, or dare he even allow himself to conceptualise it, something worse. Sylvando, stood in the doorway of his private bedroom, the world around them quiet but for the creak of the ocean, and there had been a bizarre sense of intimacy the entire morning. Waking alongside each other, last night's conversation and touch and strange destruction and then rebuilding of boundaries, preparing for the day and walking right back to the place where they had worked so seamlessly together, had saved Eleven together, had shook and shivered and clambered onto each other together - Hendrik was not a physical man. Not in the sense of desire. One tends not to think of such when the only person they desired to desire becomes a ghost. But he could recognise now, looking back at this morning, that some flit of thought had found its way to the back of his mind. Were he a weaker man, were he a crueller man, were he a man with lacking morals and a complete absence of care for anything beyond himself, as Sylvando stood in the doorway of his quarters expectantly and had nothing but the expanse of safety behind him and Hendrik before him, Hendrik could have initiated something. A fight. Of sorts. He could have taken advantage of the situation, pushed for more of what had happened last night, strove for answers and demanded Sylvando to give him what he wanted - understanding, clarity, reconciliation, closure.

And of course, it was not lost on him that that train of thought extended to physicality. He denied himself such ideas.

If he had asked for something - help, for Sylvando to reiterate their agreed notion of continued healing, for time to talk, for yes perhaps even a duel, just to clear the air - Hendrik had little doubt that Sylvando would give whatever it was that was needed and do so with no argument and perhaps not even any teasing or jest. Yet those wants alone were well enough out of Hendrik’s depth. Let alone anything more. How could he possibly ask for anything? And how could he even think about things he had no knowledge of? No. Last night had been… a lot. Alizarin, working as one to save Eleven, the act of exposing his wounds and having them seen to, unloading a fair amount of his grief upon Sylvando and finding this tenuous level of understanding they now found themselves at; it was enough, for now, surely. Hendrik could not be greedy, could never ever ascertain for an improvement on this. He sorely did not deserve it. He could live in this peculiar place of hangtime confusion as long as he needed to - there were other things around him that were far more important. Restraint was a virtue, and once upon a time he had believed. 

He believed now in other things. In The Luminary, in perhaps even fate, and, strangely, in Sylvando. He found himself unable to not believe in him, somehow. Despite the acts, the makeup, the masks, the false identities, the performance and costumes and cavalier attitude of it all, he knew him. Knew him to be genuine. Knew who he was, despite not knowing him at all. It was an imprint on his heart - a hollow worn through time, a shape that he knew every groove and ripple of, even though the thing that had caused the imprint had been long gone. Sylvando was back now. No - Sylvando was here, new, himself for the first time. And perhaps they would not ever slot together quite right - perhaps they could not - but something was there. They were perpendicular to each other. Connected in some strange way, perhaps by instincts or perhaps by magic. In tune, despite Sylvando being an entire orchestra and Hendrik having zero sense of rhythm.

He had handed over his ruined armour without a word and without hesitation. He had remained silent as he watched Sylvando cast an almost appreciative look down at the steel - approving, perhaps, or something like admiration - and gently stroked his fingertips over the embossed golden emblem. Norberto had always loathed birds. Hendrik wondered why he gave such an adoring look towards the symbol of The Eagle. 

If Norberto had stayed and they had completed their education together, would he have followed Hendrik back to Heliodor? What role would there have been for him? Had there been room for The Two-Headed Eagle to have become Three, or would a loss had to have been cut? Had time changed, had certain different paths been taken, where would they be now? Hendrik could only guess at what Sylvando could have been thinking. It was just pleasant to see him smile that way; the past would forever stay where it was, and they were as they were now, and by the Goddess Hendrik felt bewilderingly lucky about that. 

Sylvando had turned and trailed into his darkened room to put away the armour, the door left open behind him - and Hendrik had remained stood as he was, not even daring to lean forward and look in, peer around the door, watch where Sylvando would go. He had no right to do so. Whatever curiosity he had, he left it tempered; this was a private place for his ally, the only locked door on the ship. Until given expressed permission, an offer, an order, Hendrik would remain inert. 

Yet it all felt so, dare he think such a word, intimate. To be given just a glimpse of Sylvando's private sanctum, a place he had shaped for himself, exactly how he wished it to be, a place that, for the short time Hendrik had been aboard the Stallion, no one had gotten close to. Within the sparse gap of the open door lay soft but bright colours that Hendrik could not distinguish - what he assumed to be hanging canopies of material to denominate the edge of a bed, and the corner of a table that seemed laden with musical instruments: a lute, he thought, with a tambourine hanging from it's neck and something else besides it that Hendrik could not make out. Music lived upon the ship in abundance, both in the presence of physical tools for making sound but also noise itself, in Sylvando’s singing and humming and toe-tapping. This was unsurprising; part of their training as caballeros entailed learning an instrument of choice - Don Rodrigo said that this was to build character, reinforce discipline, promote growth, and ensure rhythm among one’s peers. Berti had already been adept at piano and various strings by the time he and Hendrik had met; the boy barely had free time, having hours upon hours of tutelage before and after chores, sparring, knighthood lessons and the rest of their tasks. In tonedeaf comparison, Hendrik barely survived beating a monotone drum for those seven years of education. He knew now that to be given such an instrument had been actually useful - it tasked him with managing his strength and controlling the angles in which he struck, how to create rhythm, how to lead from the background. Even if not inclined to melody or delicate tone, he had managed some amount of steady momentum. He had been background supplement - that, at least, had never changed. He had always liked marching music. He and Norberto had once been accompaniment to each other.

In his mind, he assumed the room to be laid out the exact same way as Norberto's once was, only much more personalised. Hendrik imagined there to be circus equipment in there, racks of costumes and ribbons and perhaps even hoops or ropes or other paraphernalia a performance may need in order to practice. He could only guess. He did not let himself find out. There had been the faint yet distinct scent of his perfume again, of rose petals, of Norberto. Merely standing there, waiting, Hendrik breathed in and found himself teleported back to the gaudy mornings of early summer, face half-buried in his rival's pillow, dawn about to break and training about to begin. A body next to his that he dared not touch, and yet he always awoke with it in his arms.

Norberto had always let him in - had invited him to his room every night for the two of them to sleep in the same bed. Hendrik had been perpetually invited in. That bed had been the safest place in the world.

He could have stepped forward. Part of him had wanted to step back. Ultimately Hendrik did neither, remaining in the moment enough to maintain the strange equilibrium the two of them found themselves in.

He tried not to let his mind wander. Had Sylvando had… suitors in there, over the years? Had he allowed his heart to reach many, in their time apart? It was none of Hendrik's business, of course, but Sylvando was always so… confident. Radiant and welcoming and at ease with himself, his own body, with others. Their differences in that regard were obvious, and so Hendrik could only postulate that, where he had lacked, Sylvando had thrived. Yet at the same time, they had always seemingly come to the same conclusions despite alternate methods. And so logic intended Hendrik think upon a certain course.

Had he been… lonely? 

Spare parts, the two of them had agreed upon. Just people that happened to be useful, just happened to have skills, just happened to fill space. Hendrik hated the connotations - that Sylvando could have potentially seen himself as a means to an end before. 

He did not let himself think of that. It was unbecoming. Hendrik ought not to ponder upon concepts he had no knowledge of.

Sylvando’s bedroom was of no concern to him. It ought not to be something he thought of, at all, at any time. But Hendrik tilted his head, thought of its potential contents, thought of how long it may have indeed been Sylvando's bedroom, thought of how many places Berti may have rested his head since last they slept side by side. 

Hendrik had once been invited to Norberto's bed, welcomed to it, every night. Had space set aside for him within it. He in that moment stood at his door, and dared not breathe in. Who else had been here? How many had been allowed so close?

Had Dave even been in here?

Hendrik could have pushed inside. Could have disregarded manners and stepped within, made himself an audience, could have been an obstacle for Sylvando to navigate around, more than he already was. Could have asked. Could have been impertinent and selfish and demanded things. But he did not. To stand on the outside and look in was treasure enough, a designation the two had acknowledged, a soldier’s formation that was a border between familiar comfort and enticing adventure. Hendrik could have pushed limits. He had not. Instead he had waited, barely casting a glance upward, had allowed Sylvando courtesy in the form of just common respect. Perhaps Sylvando even expected him to enter, had left the door open so that Hendrik could approach and drift inside, see, experience, understand - but nonetheless Hendrik stayed put. It would not do to simply assume. He may know Sylvando in some ways, but in many he did not. It was best not to make strides larger than he could keep up with, and so he had remained in the hallway, head down, heartbeat too loud.

Worse things happen at sea, or so they say.

His reward for obedience had been Sylvando reappearing, giving another one of those smiles, a gentle pat on his outer shoulder, considerate of the wound. 

He was pretty. He could have all that he wanted. Famous and loved. They had talked about that - spotlights and such. Hendrik gave a small smile in return - Norberto had never needed a spotlight to sparkle, and Sylvando had retained that quality. But Hendrik's opinion was humble, and ultimately silent.

Sylvando locked the door behind him. They ventured back on land together - and Hendrik observed and hung a few steps behind as the jester sauntered around the few market stalls that were open, trading and bartering expertly for supplies and substance. 

It was all very… domestic. With each bag or box of vegetables or medicine or mushrooms or materials that Sylvando bought, he laid them in Hendrik's waiting arms. From a knight to a pack mule - and Hendrik found himself not minding. At least until his arms were so full that he could do nothing but follow blindly, only just able to manage peering over the load; and when the fool dropped one last bundle of materials under Hendrik's chin, he raised a hand and patted Hendrik on the immovable cheek, giving a pert ‘thank you, my darling’, grinning up at Hendrik the way he used to back when they were children and he had just won a sword fight.

Hendrik was unsure what kind of expression he had made in response. He supposed it did not matter. Sylvando beamed at him no matter how his face changed - or did not change.

By the Gods he was a pain. The groove that was etched into Hendrik’s heart shuddered with each heartbeat. It emanated through into the slowly-sealing hole in his back.

It felt like coming home. Like the two of them had returned to their shared adolescence. They had performed the same routine act many a time in the markets of Puerto Valor, nigh on two decades ago. Hendrik had been very happy back then - and at the time had thought Berti to be so very happy too. But happy people do not run away from home, and Sylvando had told him as much, and today was the present to matter how equally alluring and haunting the past tended to seem.

Thank you, my darling. It hung in his ears. Hendrik had followed Sylvando to the Stallion and back five times over, carrying whatever burden he was issued, internally leashed by those words of praise. In order to save the world, one needed provisions. The ship needed stocking. Hendrik was only doing his duty. It was merely a boon that he did so whilst looking at Sylvando's back, sauntering ahead of him, smile easy and reputation preceding him. The scarlet clouds ought to make the clown vanish into gloom, as it had yesterday, yet spirits seemed to have risen. Like Hendrik's own flesh, perhaps the world was healing, just a little. The clown's presence certainly gave the impression of that effect. The longer they were in Gondolia, the more people came out of hiding, the more townsfolk did business with them, the more smiles began to appear. Conversations were had with shopkeepers that Hendrik did not understand - don't you worry, honey, those Beastly Boys aren't so anymore! They've done me very proud since last I was here - and Sylvando glittered under Erdwin’s Lantern, a thought that was both horrid and harpsichordical; in times of strife and despite any grief, the strong flourish and bloom, and to observe a knight perform his duty and be one with the people, taking hands and offering encouraging words, offers of support, promises to repair, all while doom crept ready to be taken down, it offered Hendrik a cacophony of implacable feelings that he really could do nothing with. He just followed, experiencing it, fascinated by the way civilians recognised the two of them, recognised that the two of them were together, recognised that the two of them were different, and then recognised that the two of them were the same.

Shamefully, Hendrik had almost forgotten to think of Jasper. Shamefully, he still rather had. 

He had always felt that he was stood in someone's shadow. Just a soldier awaiting command and guidance from one more knowledgeable than he. To march behind Sylvando, the very person that Hendrik had described as light, late last night, scars bared and grief recognised; to be behind him again, close to his side, it felt so very almost right. And therein was the dilemma.

What… was right? 

What footing were they on now? Where do they go from here, if anywhere? Would the slightly strained and uncertain relationship they had now be all they ever had? Was it plausible to even consider more possible? Was Sylvando merely humouring him? Trying to gloss over the past, their past? Did Sylvando even consider Hendrik as worthy of being here? Did last night fix anything at all? Was Sylvando merely honouring the promise they had made out of duty and nothing more?

Why had Sylvando touched him the way he had, spoken to him the way he had, created that little heart-bubble of magic the way he had, right as they lay next to one another? What did it mean? What did any of it mean? Did any of it mean anything, or was the jester simply fooling him?

Perhaps Hendrik was overthinking it. The journey ahead was that only of The Luminary. What Hendrik may torture himself with was irrelevant.

He could hear rustling, movement in the cabins of the ship. Perhaps Dave was awake.

The only time Hendrik's mind had drifted to Jasper was when, as they gathered supply materials together, idly talking about nothing - and by the Gods it was nice to talk at all, to be able to talk at all with him - Sylvando regaled some airy tale of a time when he had discovered that some squeaky little mousies had made snuck aboard his ship and tried to make a nest in a gap in the pantry floorboards. He talked of how he had kept an eye on them, left small amounts of food near the opening to save the mice from gnawing through sacks of food (just like the ones Hendrik was carrying for him) and taking more than their share. Sylvando had scooped them out the next time they moored and freed them, finding some snug shrub to set their fluffy little hiding place under and watching them scurry away. He had told the story, again, smiling; faint gestures with his hands, harmless, pressureless, filling the silence. It was rather admirable, and Hendrik could not help but think that it spoke of Sylvando's character, a character that had not changed despite everything else changing so much. Norberto had tried to bring home a wild sabrecub once - his father forbade it, for obvious reasons. But the boy - and now the jester - had always been able to see the good in all things, had always had a soft spot for creatures in need of aid. 

Hendrik's back tingled.

Sylvando had cared for rodents aboard his vessel, had refused to outright kill pests that, by all means, he could have, and perhaps should have, to ensure the ship was clean and safe and without burden. Instead he had left tissue nearby for them to nest with, crumbs and peeling nearby for them to eat, and had personally made sure that the mice had a real home as soon as he was physically able to, carrying them to where they ought to be with gentle hands and no doubt nurturing words.

Vermin, Jasper would have said. Disgusting, vile, loathsome little cockroach-beasts. He would have raised his boot over them and brought it down swiftly with a wrinkled nose and curled-back lip.

One would wonder why someone would aim to be a knight if they cared little for the weight of lives. Even small lives are important. Hendrik silently mourned every innocent thing he had had to force his way past in his career - the horses he had stopped in order to capture their rider, the people he was too late to save, those he could not reach as Heliodor crumbled….

If we pass where I left them, I'll show you, Sylvando had turned to him and said, smile light and charming. It's the finest little mouse-house around! I bet none of their other forest friends have purple crepe paper and ribbons adorning their humble abode, eh? Those little stowaways got only the best - I'd have nothing less on my ship, you know.

Hendrik peered out of the window, stood in the belly of The Stallion. 

Nothing less than the best was permitted aboard the ship….

He must have grown so blind to Jasper's mounting hatred of life, of mankind, of him. He had always been ignorant, he supposed; oblivious to Norberto’s mounting desire to escape his life, oblivious to Jasper's mounting moral sepsis, oblivious to The Dark One pulling strings and swaying Hendrik’s own decisions and deeds. He needed to open his eyes, needed to keep them open. Observant. A good knight was observant and true, able to not only see things but understand them, could make sense of not just what was in front of him but around him, behind him, beyond him. 

There was another rustling noise in one of the adjacent rooms. Quiet footsteps. Perhaps Eleven was fetching something. When he and Rab had met the knight pair at the Stallion, Eleven's eyes had still been heavy, his gait slow, and it was clear that he was weary after yesterday's clash - let alone all that came before it. Hendrik had bid the boy to sleep whilst they sailed. Nothing would come about while they crossed the sea this time, he would make sure of it.

Eleven had smiled up at him tiredly, nodded, and followed Hendrik’s guidance, running a hand over his guardian's arm in passing as a silent bid of goodnight. The boy often relied on touch rather than words - he held on to Lord Robert's arm often, was frequently hugged or kissed by Sylvando and did the same in return, even leaned up against Dave when the two were by each other. Hendrik found relief in the fact that his gentle persuasion of The Luminary’s path was being heard - that his methodology worked - and there was a comfort in knowing that actions were safely listened to here, and there was a level of understanding between them all. 

When Alizarin had nearly toppled the ship yesterday, Hendrik's mind had echoed with the concept of being part of a unit. He was not a lone general making demands of a brigade but one of a select few that all came together somehow seamlessly, reliant and reliable. The wound pulsed with a strange warmth. He was at home on a battlefield. But to have family join him on one - or rather, to join a family on one - was a new and charming novelty that he found himself quite enamoured with.

He and Jasper had not fought side by side as one in…. 

Alas. Hendrik could not even remember. What was formerly his other half had always seemed repulsed at the idea of acting as part of a team. Allyship was important, and whilst Hendrik had been removed from friendship for some time, he stood by its power. Jasper cared only for ranking, it seemed. At being the focus. At being central.

Angled as he was, stood in the Stallion’s galley as he was, Hendrik could see the vivid light from Erdwin's Lantern caress the clouds, red and bright.

He had awoken to it framing the jester. A star… 

When Norberto died, perhaps he did ascend upwards after all. Sylvando was him reborn, a phoenix, a force of nature, a shining light that was so much that it caused Hendrik to squint. Perhaps Hendrik was growing just a little too enamoured with him, too. It was dangerous business, all his… realignment. To have a vulnerability was a death sentence in the face of danger. But here, now, with these people, on this ship, even after everything and even facing the rest of the world, Hendrik felt safe.

Even without his armour. He tugged at his gloves slightly. All the precious things he needed were at his side again now. He was safe.

Safe enough that he ought to speak up. Expose his weaknesses just a little more in order for them to be strengthened by knowing supports. Lord Robert was invaluable, after all. He knew of many things. Of loss, and love, of sirens and signals and stars.

He thought of the sight of that back - awakening to Sylvando’s bare spine, just out of reach, smooth and tan and perfect. Faint scars here and there - sinewy and silver and pretty, in places that Hendrik had sleepily catalogued - but overall there was just strength, honed over years of extensive work and expertise. The fact that the fool had just sat there, lightly hunched, elbows on his knees, right by Hendrik’s feet, just waiting. Silent, still, just being there as a bastion against panic should the nightmares rouse him fully.

He could have lain. Hendrik would not have rebutted him, had Sylvando opened the covers and decided to lie by him. To rest his head across Hendrik’s bicep and curl close, the way he used to, back before it all. Hendrik would have woken up just as confused perhaps, but far less lost. 

He could not tell if people kept making decisions for him, or if his own choices were just all wrong. So much felt out of his hands, and yet he had to lead the way and do it all, be all he could be. He had to be obedient, and yet was the leader of their group, and yet the bottom rung, and yet the first to be looked towards when help was needed. It was the burden of never having worked within such a team before.

He sighed and thought of Sylvando’s words. Yes, he knew how spotlights worked now. He knew that even if a stage was set, he was but one person stood upon it. He thought of the way morning light had framed Sylvando in Gondolia, of the way he had woken up after a nightmare and been met with the boy of his dreams, sat in a ray of early dawn, and suddenly everything had felt so far away, and so, so close.

He could not make sense of it. He was unsure if he should even try. He knew better than to think that it was merely the clown playing some kind of game - and there is no but, no yet, no continuation of that thought. Sylvando may tease and toy and cause mischief, but when it was just the two of them, when everything else melted away and there was no pretense, no performance, no interruption, then Hendrik was able, for once, to think in circus metaphor and acknowledge that a curtain was pulled back and there on the stage was an actor removed from a role, a clown with his makeup off, a warrior disarmed. Norberto. In the flesh.

Sylvando had apologised last night. After wading hand in hand through the mire of guilt and grief and surviving, it had felt like the two of them had been friends again, on the same wavelength and teasing and in tune once more - and Hendrik frowned as he remembered how then the night had taken a strange turn.

Over the course of his career, people had shown Hendrik varying kinds of attention. He was familiar with the abstract concept of flirting. Folk of all kinds had bid him compliments before, insinuated affection, the desire for development, a want to appeal to his preferences albeit not his sensibilities. Hendrik had never understood it. Had always been uncomfortable, removed, unswayed. At least, when he recognised that such a thing was happening. When met with brigue prompts for attention or turns of phrase and innuendo alike, he always found himself stammering, faltering, incapable of processing such a thing. He simply was not good with people, was not meant to be more than just a knight. He was a man, yes, but a man in the same way his beloathed statue in Octagonia was himself. His appetite was absent, his gaze nonexistent, his ability to connect with, let alone reciprocate courting gestures entirely illusive. He just - did not comprehend it all.

And now, the day after, it was only as he recounted last night's conversation that he could recognise that that may have been the direction Sylvando had been leaning towards. It was difficult to say. They had been so close, Sylvando had healed him with gentle touch and doting words and that had all been wonderful, natural, pleasing - and there had been no sense of unease or stammer beyond the rampant beat of Hendrik's heart at the prospect of his sheer pain being exposed. It had not felt flirtatious. Even with Sylvando being the other party involved, continuously saucy and silly. The evening had been intimate, yes, but - more than that? Intent? Drive? Hendrik had not meant to give off any signals, if he had done so.

They had bonded, cleared the air and had a true heart to heart and had found themselves comfortable with one another again, promising to move forward, intent on facing the rising dawn united. But Hendrik repeated the night in his mind, and thought of how Sylvando had smiled at him so tenderly, had acknowledged how important Hendrik was to him, how important his gifted sword had always been to him, had teased him with ideas of a pain-pleasure realm that Hendrik had never known, had stroked over his chest for no reason, had -

He had laid in the bed next to him. And sighed, and blown a kiss, and had sent it Hendrik's way. Sadly, and somberly, and Hendrik had merely assumed it had been sleepily.

Hendrik had rejected development last night; more than he could take, at least. Any other time, any other circumstance, he would not think twice on such a thing. Boundaries were a good thing, and he never allowed anyone that close to him, and there was no shame in rebutting an aspiring suitor or suitress when one is not interested. But. Hendrik pinched the bridge of his nose, replaying that moment. Sylvando had smiled at him, and Hendrik had initiated things, he supposed, coming close and gently holding at the jester's jaw, recalling memories of their youth almost fondly. It was a blessing to simply be able to reminisce with someone, to speak of times shared with someone. He had held Sylvando, and Sylvando had said how he simply would not be able to take Hendrik seeing any more pain… and when Hendrik had tried to act rationally, suggest they rest for the day ahead, the boy of his dreams had spoken so lowly, fondly, warmly, hand soft over the flat of Hendrik's bare chest and it had felt like something.

It had startled Hendrik, truthfully. Made him snap out of his skewed reverence and back away, the new footing they had found themselves on crumbling under the prospect of untrodden territory. After twenty years of pining, it had all simply happened too fast, all at once, and he just had not been prepared. A tactful retreat that had been tactless and clumsy, as Hendrik always was.

But it… had worked out well enough, he supposed. Sylvando had seemingly understood that a line had been drawn, nerves too frayed to be played with in that moment. They had both apologised. It had been a long day, a long night, a long talk, a long time coming - but there had been still a sense of betrayed closure. They had both said that it was alright. That things were fine. And they were. Everything was… fine.

Hendrik was not a man for second-guessing nor ruminating on what-ifs. At least, that was what he told himself. He was a soldier - he dealt with the here and now, strategising on the fly rather than postulating on what-could-have-beens. Except, it seemed, when it came to Norberto. 

They had been fine all morning. Friends again. It was like the old days. Sylvando had told him stories as they worked together, hummed little tunes and was all smiles and cheer, acting the way he always did, and nothing was wrong, nothing was strange, nothing was amiss.

But Hendrik thought about waking up to him sat there, perched close, undressed, not in his makeup, not putting on a show, not acting, not flawlessly on show, not perfect. And entirely perfect.

Hendrik had never understood people. Had never understood flirting. Had never understood desire. He still did not. But the forever-present yearning that had gripped him for the last two decades coiled and rubbed against itself like a serpent, and he was but a squeaky little mousy trapped in its crushing grasp.

That one display, that one single fluttering heart as they lay in the dark in silence - it felt like an outlet. Like a necessary relief to prevent an outburst. It had not been a gush of showmanship akin to when Sylvando had used his love magic in battle, it had not been presented to Hendrik with smarm or arrogance or even confidence. Sylvando had just let his affection ooze into the air and solidify, metastasised love just bleeding from him. After talking to Hendrik. Touching him. Flirting with him. 

Sylvando had breathed out a trickle of concentrated emotion. It had been warm, and aimed Hendrik's way, and then as they reigned themselves to sleep, they had parted with words that meant something, meant everything, meant it all.

“...Dormir bien. Mi cariño.”

“Y tu. Dormir bien, mi amor.”

Hendrik could not recall the last time he had called someone his love. He could not recall the last time someone called him their love. Part of him was unsure if he had dreamed it all - perhaps he was still dead, and this was his soul severed from Yggrasil playing cruel tricks with the last droplets of his psyche. But no, it had happened. He and the clown had reconciled, and Sylvando had given some signal of intent, it seemed, and as they mutually decided to look towards the future, they had called each other pet names in a language neither of them had used since the last time they were together.

It was enough to drive a man mad.

He ought to be thinking of The Luminary. Of Zwaardsrust. Of Jasper. Of the risk of sailing again so soon, right back into Alizarin’s territory. Of regaining Eleven's lost allies. Of Obsidian. Of Last Bastion. Of his training, his skills, of what changes he can make and tasks he can aid with. Of the road ahead, of his duty, of seeing peace return to the world he had failed.

He thought of the dimples at the base of the jester's spine and mourned something new, something he had never known was alive.

If something similar were to happen again, should more words of quiet longing be shared, should the jester brave another attempt with intent, intent of something, Hendrik did not know but - maybe… just maybe, Hendrik would be better prepared that time. Maybe he would be brave enough to reciprocate, and in the daylight no less. Maybe he would be able to play nicely and go along with any flirting, even if his own responses were awkward and clumsy. Maybe even if he did not know where the road led, they could walk it together. And maybe it would never happen again, and it was a mistake, and maybe it meant nothing, and maybe Sylvando would never try to test the waters again - in which case Hendrik would ultimately continue his infuriating pining and only be thankful that the jester was respectful of boundaries. 

Goddess above, it was all so complicated and yet it was just a big load of nothing. Nothing had happened, and they were fine, and this morning had been more than pleasant. Hendrik knew he was just overthinking, fixated, distracted, and it would not do.

Something clattered in the next room over. Perhaps Eleven had retired to a side room to get some swordsmanship practice in - or perhaps Sylvando had ventured down while Hendrik was not looking and had begun already to work on repairing the armour.

If Hendrik showed up at the end of it all, confronted Mordegon, confronted Jasper while wearing the armour he had died in that had since been fixed, rebuilt, improved … maybe there was something poetic about that. Maybe there was something petty about it. Maybe Hendrik did not mind either way. Clothes make the man, Sylvando had said, but Hendrik had always been ambivalent to his own appearance.

It was the end of the world - past the end of the world, even - and Hendrik ought not to allow himself to even think on his own selfish needs. He ought to be staunch and steadfast. However Sylvando seemed to have inspired parts of him that had lay dormant for… forever.

Had Hendrik even dreamed last night? When was the last time prior he had slept? When was the last time he had been at peace enough to allow himself to rest? He sighed again, stewing, watching the waves crest against the ship's bow. He had always slept well when in Norberto's bed. When close to him, sharing his space, curled next to him, touching. Holding. Perhaps merely having his new form share the same space as him had pacified Hendrik too. At arm’s length. He ought not to think selfishly - even having Sylvando be alive was a blessing, let alone anything more. He was not about to let the clown know that the emotional pedestal Hendrik had placed him upon was quite so high as it was, however. Hendrik would never hear the end of it, he had no doubt.

Berti….

Perhaps the clown was in the same metaphorical boat. Despite his attempts to appear as if nothing ever bothered him, he patently considered everything around him with care. Perhaps he too was shaken by last night's events. Perhaps he too was overthinking while steering The Stallion. Perhaps he too had silently cherished the morning's events and how normal it all felt. 

He had sat at the end of Hendrik's bed, undone, and just wanted to be there. Maybe it meant something, and maybe it meant nothing, and maybe their fond goodnights last night were everything and maybe it was just cruel habit. 

That final part of it has still not sunken in. That last night an open admission of something like love had been murmured into the darkness. Heat crawled along Hendrik's back, and he already missed the feeling of it healing. And missed even more the feeling of it being healed. He rolled his neck uncomfortably, out of place, on borrowed time. Nothing had happened. It was fine. By the Gods, it was all fine. But by all that was holy everything was so different and new and immense too.

He was glad they were alive. Both of them. It was just… going from there.

“What’s the matter, laddie?” Lord Robert answered him, glancing up briefly before looking back at the cards before him. The Luminary was above deck with Sylvando, and the shiphand, Dave, was assuredly sleeping. He and Sylvando appeared to work in shifts. Hendrik tried not to feel any kind of jealousy at that - that someone else had filled in the role of Sylvando’s other. It would be untoward for him to have any kind of emotion over such a notion - he himself had had Jasper as his right hand for nigh on a decade. He only prayed - not that he did such a thing anymore - that Sylvando and Dave’s friendship would survive longer and stronger than his and Jasper’s ever did or could. “Ye seem a bit out of it since Gondolia. Something on yer mind?”

Lord Robert was a man of experience, wisened and canny. There were few that Hendrik would ever lay his trust before to a noticeable extent, and even fewer to whom he would ever expose his vulnerabilities. Lord Robert may be one of the only he could ever get a half-decent answer out of should he ask the correct kinds of questions. When looking for answers, one must be careful as to who they seek them from - Lord Robert was someone who had seen all, been there, done much, and knew things; both about the world, the heart, and Sylvando.

He watched the waves bob and ebb outside, the overlapping stream of pearly foam churn along the side of the ship. Hendrik did not consider the Stallion home. Not yet. It was all too new, too foreign. Boats had always made him uneasy, and his footing felt all wrong. This was Sylvando’s territory, his domain, a place in which the fool had total control. The Stallion careened through the sea, as sharp as a knife and wielded with just as much necessary and trained confidence. Norberto had learned of many new and unfathomable talents since last they met. 

Lord Robert had travelled the world for his entire life. Had seen it all, done it all, knew it all. Had been wed before. Had been widowed before. Had loved and lost and regained and been reborn. If there were any to understand the act of facing ghosts and realising that your heart had not died with them, it was surely him.

“What do you do...” Hendrik murmured, and remained as he was. Arms crossed and the ship rocking gently around him. The curtains around the window smelled faintly of flora and spice from distant lands, and yet of the bed that Hendrik had slept in as a teenager, and it was all so close and yet too far out of his grasp for him to get a hold of, bring close, inspect, understand. “How do you -” He tried again, but could not comprehend the correct angle to strike the problem from, was unsure of even what the problem was or if it even was a problem. He just sighed, biting the inner edge of his lower lip, ruminating over his overlapping feelings as he lowered his eyes from the sea outside. Eventually, his voice came out low, and as faraway as the concept of home. Sometimes you have to take the armour off, so that what is beneath can be healed. “Lord Robert. What am I to do… when the past is before me, and the future is haunted by loss?”

Norberto was gone, as he should be, and the body that used to be his was above Hendrik. If he strained his ears, he could hear a jolly little melody and the tapping of feet on the deck above, the clown masking his potential anxiety over returning to the site of a previous mistake by performing, just like always. The coast was clear, the fog removed, but Hendrik still felt lost at sea, waiting to either drown or be saved, and either way he would awaken to fields of golden wheat and flowers, his history clawing up his spine. 

“Ah - having some worries about being back in Zwaardsrust, eh laddie?”

“No.” Was his reply, somber and stark. Shame was a lame horse and Hendrik its rider. “It is not that.”

“Then what-” Rab frowned up at him, confused, only to be met with Hendrik giving a pinched look in response, a quick grimace, barely a keek away from the window; there was simply too much, and he could barely say, and to admit to any of it felt out of his jurisdiction. However Rab seemed to understand. As they met eyes, Hendrik giving a fleeting glance before looking down at the floor, lips pressed into a line and brows knit, Rab seemed to be able to piece the puzzle together enough to make a picture. “Oh. Oh, lad.”

He frowned and said nothing, looked back out to the sea. The water shimmered, silver-grey, and it made his stomach twist.

Was it… an impossibility? Or was it an inevitability? To unbreak a heart?

Impossibility and inevitability seemed to be paradoxical antonyms that only Sylvando could ever pull off and do so so effortlessly, unthinkingly, without even realising that it was what he was doing. And perhaps without realising that he had been the cause of the break in the first place.

He had to know by now. Hendrik's back was the place that was open but it may have well been his belly for the way he spilled his guts last night. Not everything had come out, the cores of many intangible feelings remained locked behind his ribs and ungraspable, but enough truths and long begotten grudges had been strewn on the inn room enough for their footing to be made equal, if messy.

Feelings were messy. It was easier wearing the armour, pretending to be nothing. Emotions as powerful as these wore one down. Hendrik truly had no idea how Sylvando could wield such weighty things with such divine expertise. Where devotion kept Hendrik rooted immobile to the earth, they seemed to make Sylvando floaty and untethered. Perhaps it spoke of something of their nature. Sylvando just made things seem so effortless - but Hendrik knew better, had peeked behind the mask before. 

He thought of that little heart - pink bubble, floating over, dancing before his eyes emanating gentle warmth and vanishing in sparkles - and the way Sylvando had been laid beyond it in the dark, mauve glow shimmering and lips soft. Love magic, done without reason, done without cause. A ripple that spoke of a well within, ready to overflow.

It made Hendrik sick. Far more sick than even the ocean and it's infinite hunger. It left him clammy and unsettled, stomach doing flips and lungs too shallow, heat crawling up to his hairline. It made him sick as in dizzied, sick as in unsteady, sick as in wanting. Wanting for what, he did not know. Simply for relief, he supposed - for someone he cared for to come along and make it all better, help him through to the other side, teach him how to swim in the sea of pink-haze overwhelming nothing and everything. Some crushed-down part of Hendrik wished to be coddled, nurtured, protected from the dangers of a world he did not know by someone he had lived a life knowing. He missed his sisters. Missed his mother. Had stopped missing Norberto. Such a concept was terrifying.

If it were all some game, then the jester was winning, and it was a cruel victory, for Hendrik had no idea of the rules nor of how to play.

Berti always had been a veritable pain in the backside, and now that he had matured - and, Gods above, was it a miracle that Hendrik could even conceptualize such a thing now - his arrogant flair and coy charm had matured with him. No longer was Sylvando a boy purely focused on maintaining his balance on a pedestal he had been born on, terrified of the backlash should he ever waver or Gods above fall. He had leapt, and leapt valiantly, shut his eyes and let himself drop, had hit the ground in a sprint and not looked back.

Hendrik had always been in someone's shadow. Now that he knew the cause of Norberto's long, haunting stretch of cascading empty darkness, he could not even be upset that he bathed in its lack of colour.

Colour was here now. In spades. Sylvando at all times shimmered. So frequently now had Hendrik needed to blink and refocus himself, internally having to correct himself that no, it was not a mirage. He really was here. Back. And horribly it felt as if he had never left and horribly it felt as if he had not quite returned but if traveling with the clown had educated Hendrik in any ideal at all it was that of positive thought.

He was here now. He was here now and they were a united front against a different kind of darkness. And all would be well. In the end, all would be well. Sylvando never let anyone down.

They had promised each other that things were okay. That they were okay. And they were. Hendrik just did not quite understand what they entailed.

“Did something happen last night ‘tween you two?” Rab put his cards down, looked up imploringly. “Both of ye seemed quite chipper today. Well, it seemed like the two of ye were gettin’ along, at least,” A slight tilt to his head, an admission, but a gentle one. “I know Sylvie can be a handful, but she always means well, you know. Two of you used to know one another, you said, were rivals and friends and such - is it… not so, now?”

“I cannot tell.” Hendrik’s voice was almost a whisper in its insecurity.

Lord Robert was correct, however. They had both gotten along quite well all day thus far. Perhaps Sylvando had just been in a particularly nice mood today. Perhaps he had just slept well, or was just relieved from yesterday. Perhaps it was because of the way Hendrik woke up. Perhaps it was because of the thing he had said when he woke up.

Laying there, awaking to the feeling of someone close nearby, and slowly opening his eyes to find that back facing him, the curls of his hair, the tender gaze from over his shoulder and soft, sleepy smile - Hendrik had blurted something stupid.

“Engel.”

Zwaardsrustian. He had fallen asleep speaking Valorean declarations of care and woke to speak Zwaardsrustian pet names.

Luckily, he had played it off - or he tried to, at least. For a term so tender, it was a word so guttural and tumbling on his tongue that Hendrik had tried to pretend that it was a senseless murmur. Still - even if he had mumbled it, half-asleep and stumble-mouthed, because by the Goddess it was the first night’s rest he had had in years - Hendrik knew how he had said it. He knew that part of him had said it wondrously, captively, enamourously. There was no way he had not said his secret petname without it coming out sounding like he was a man besotted. But hopefully his sluggish state at the time and obvious exhaustion had hidden his heart enough. He had maffled it lowly, stupidly, and for that perhaps Sylvando would forgive him, or at least let him get away with it.

If Sylvando had heard it, if Sylvando had understood it, he had made no suggestion of such. But still - Hendrik had to wonder.

Perhaps he was being a little too open with the clown. Such a thing was new, and terrifying.

In another life, perhaps it could have been a joke. Sylvando loved jokes. Something harmlessly cutting too close between them. It was a nerve still raw, but one healing rapidly - the wound that Norberto was technically not dead, not gone, not an angel at all. In another life, close and closer, perhaps they could have lain in that bed together and Hendrik could have said it to his face, awake, purposefully, heard fully. Touch soft, thumb passing over that freckle, hand over his heart, unafraid and home. Zijn engel. Zijn wonderbaarlijke, dwaze engel. 

But alas, it was this life, and there was no going back and changing things now.

Friends. One does not call one's friend such a thing, does he? It was perhaps too late - and Hendrik had somehow bypassed thousands of social conventions that he had never been able to navigate at the best of times. Life was made from a thousand small interactions, a million tiny decisions. He could never know which choice was correct, which direction he had to go in beyond forward. Berti was gone, was an angel no longer, and he could not keep looking backward. The sea rolled languidly against the hull, and they were on their way, and Hendrik was both a leader and a follower.

“I have… concerns.” Was what he settled on. “What am I to do… when my duty is not the sole star of my attention anymore?”

“Lad?”

He bit back a sigh. He tried to gesture at someone, lifting a hand, but ultimately there was no one thing or no one way that he could articulate any of it.

“So much - has happened,” Language was a fickle beast, one that Hendrik could hardly grasp the reins of. “The past has rushed up to meet me and I have been ill-prepared, despite thinking of it without pause. Just - consider Puerto Valor.”

It was the most roundabout way he could go about this conversation - he longed to be direct, to spill his guts so that Lord Robert might decipher his entrails and analyse the butterflies that seemed rampant within them. But if he were to say outright that there was something about Sylvando that was - not so much the problem, but the cause - Hendrik was unsure if ridicule would be his fate, or if any kind of exposure would mean that all of a sudden, everyone would know, and that would be far too much too soon.

What they would know, he was unsure. But they would know, and he wouldn’t, and everything was just so confusing when it came to… feelings, and expressing them, and understanding them. He could, if he so wanted, loathe the clown and his ability to unashamedly adore those around him.

But such a thing was impossible. He could never harbour hatred for Sylvando - Norberto or otherwise. An element of resentment perhaps, frustration and exasperation, certainly, but never more than that. He idolised him far too much. Jealousy, maybe, even. Envy. But envy misplaced - he knew there were imperfections, he knew that Sylvando both worked hard for what he had and rejected things that had been his birthright, admirable traits that spoke of his character - but it was difficult at times to connect with a character when you knew the boy the character had once been. When you grow up with someone, someone naturally incredible, someone close, someone welcoming, someone always destined to be better than you, it is easy to be caught between want and rejection.

“Oh, aye, Puerto Valor,” Rab nodded sagely and ran his fingers over his moustache as he contemplated the place. “Hard to think of how much the Don had changed it, eh? A casino of all things, slap-bang in the middle of town. Cannae imagine what would lead him to do that. He’s not exactly the type to go after bunnygirls.”

Of that, Hendrik had zero doubt. The portrait of dear Lady Gerbera that sat central in the manorhouse spoke of a hundred thousand deep-rooted affections that had nowhere to go to anymore, and of lost loves that could not be replaced. Hendrik understood his mentor in ways he had never anticipated doing so, and had been doing so for years; losing what could be the love of one’s life while young was - 

He dared not clear his throat, lest his thoughts spill out of them. He had yet to come to terms with acknowledging that that was exactly how his heart had seen Norberto. And he had yet to figure out if said feeling now overlapped onto Sylvando, or was attempting to begin anew, or if such a thing was just vain hope, destined to die within him. Either way, Hendrik did his best to continue the conversation - and avoided offering the conclusion he had come to before, that the Don of Puerto Valor had added pointless frivolity and foolish glamour to Norberto’s origin town as a silent way to encourage him to return and find something like home there.

“Perhaps he allowed it to be constructed as a way to test new student caballeros - a knight must be chivalrous, courteous, and respectful, after all. Weaker students may find the sight of a woman in stockings scandalous and distracting - or worse, as a challenge to their manhood and establishment in the social hierarchy. A simple gambit to reed out those unworthy or ill-prepared for knighthood. Don Rodrigo has implemented stranger tests to his students in the past.”

Lord Robert gave a soft chuckle and arranged some of the cards before him. “He’s a funny sort, he is. Not surprised he likes you so much yanno lad - same sort of brain that you two have got. Swords, horses, knighthood, chivalry, servitude - you’re cut from the same cloth alright.”

“I see that as a compliment of the highest order, my Lord.” Which was the truth. Any knight worth his salt ought to idolise the Don. Hendrik certainly did. It was just worrying now how much he did the same for his son. The conversation turned that way before Hendrik could stop it - if he wanted such a thing to happen.

“I truly couldnae believe that our Sylv of all people turned out to be Rodrigo’s heir,” Rab sighed and shook his head a little as he shuffled the deck. The jester's stark reaction to being returned home was perhaps weighing on Rab too. “S’pose all the pieces line up though, it makes sense. Just a wee shame that Sylv didnae feel secure enough to tell us. But we all have secrets, I s’pose.”

“It was a revelation to you, too?” Sylvando had announced so casually to his parade that they were to go to Puerto Valor, and at all times showed such gallantry and the same charm he had once had back as a caballero-in-training - Hendrik had just assumed that it was his own blindness that had caused Sylvando's identity to be such a shock. He turned to look at Rab as he asked; some part of him had believed that maybe Sylvando had been open about himself from the start to the entire fellowship - the wound between his shoulders crawled in a peculiar manner at the thought that it was only now that Hendrik himself had returned to him that Sylvando had felt it time to be, well, himself again. Or, more horribly, that the exposure of a secret life that he had tried to drown was Hendrik's fault, the past dredged up when it ought to have been left to lay. “I thought perhaps that - I was the only one unaware.”

“Oh aye, none of us knew. Never gave a clue. Well - besides avoiding the Costa coast as much as possible. Didnae want to get spotted by anyone that might put two-and-two together, I've no doubt. Beyond that - Sylvando has just been Sylvando the whole time, no hints or whispers.” Rab began laying out more cards. “It's a hard thing, making a new identity for yerself. Been there mesen. Sylvie must have felt right at home as they are for their old self to be so put behind ‘em for so long. Know what I mean? They’re just Sylv, and no one else, and had been for so long that maybe he’d forgot being anyone else. Coming back to Puerto Valor looked like a right shock for ‘em, the poor thing.”

“Indeed.” Hendrik would never forget the way Sylvando had paled and shook, begging for just one minute more of preparation and peace before having to face his father. Truthfully, Hendrik would rather have the wound reopen fully than ever see Berti so broken again. “Don Rodrigo has always been formidable. Lesser men would have run away screaming. I do not blame the jester for having worries over returning home.”

Hendrik had been told after the fact that there had been an argument the night before Norberto evaporated. Berti had been a creature of friction, something that rubbed many the wrong way and sparked reactions, all in hopes of making others fight harder, do more, be better, all at the cost of his own standing and perception - The Don had made him that way. Such a thing had lasted into adulthood, it seemed, transformed yet still present. He was a target to aim for, an obnoxious thing on a pedestal that begged to be toppled, something whose defeat was to aspire to. All in the hopes that being taken down would make others find their strength. Hendrik knew how spotlights work, and there had always been one on that young swordsman, and Sylvando had deemed its light too harsh. Lesser men indeed would have run away screaming. Don Diego Rodrigo was a man who was as kind as he was cruel, forever open to assisting and desiring to bolster those around him yet unafraid to tear things apart and leave insecurities exposed in hopes of toughening raw nerves up. To be told there had been an argument between father and son had not been a surprise - such a thing had happened routinely, at least to some degree. Norberto had been of that petulant age, and Rodrigo had kept the leash tight on him. Norberto had been his prized student, the example, the one everyone had to best in order to make it. Performing an act while collared and scared of failure. A free spirit trapped within ocean-lined walls.

Hendrik did not blame Rodrigo. He found himself unable to do so. But he had wondered, and perhaps would continue to wonder, if the Knight Of All Knights had ever wept in private over his beloved wife's sole son abandoning his life without so much as a ciao for now. They had never spoken on any of it. It had been forbidden territory. And it appeared that that boundary extended far beyond Rodrigo’s star pupil.

“Mm. Yanno… in all the years me and Rodrigo sat and chatted and shared our stories, not once did he ever mention his boy,” Rab frowned, and Hendrik could not help but match it as he leaned against the wall, arms folded. He felt his grip clench around the fabric of his sleeve, preemptively tense. “He'd talk about dear Gerbera at length - Goddess rest her soul - and you, of course, you were his pride an’ joy, and he'd talk about all manner of knightly things and history and adventures and such. But he never brought up his son. I mean - it was common knowledge he had one, and that he was no longer about, but it was like Rodrigo had abandoned him entirely, forgotten him even. Like he didn't want anyone to know he still even thought about him at all… like the ghost had been truly given up.”

Hendrik drew in a sigh - somehow, none of this surprised him. It stung, but none of it surprised him. Sylvando had told him last night that Hendrik had been a form of replacement son but there was no synonym for blood, and to have blood run from you was painful no matter the cause. Norberto was his boy. Had there been shame? Had there been betrayal? Had there been anger? Whatever there once was, Hendrik could not imagine that it was easy to digest. And despite the relief of reconnection, it might still be digesting now. The removal of one's heart was not something that left a man unscarred.

“I imagine Berti's death shook him to his core.” It certainly had Hendrik's. Lord Robert met his eye. There was a half-second of silence before Hendrik balked and managed to correct himself, stammering, caught, his blood running too hot and cold both at once at the slip - “I - ah - I - That is to say, Heir Norberto's disappearance, I mean, m-my Lord.” 

Rab’s mouth pressed into a line beneath his moustache - an understanding, wise, and piercing line.

“...Berti, is it?”

Hendrik buried his face in his hands. Gods. “...yes. It is.”

“Oh, lad.” Soft and warm from beyond those hands, fatherly and appreciative. “It's alright, you know. It’s alright.”

Spilling his guts indeed. 

“I am a fool,” Hendrik murmured behind his hands. The world was immense and blackened, tarnished by destruction and here he was pining and it was inescapable. He felt lost - emotions such as these were a labyrinth in which he had no navigational training. Something tapped against one of the walls. “Lord Robert, what am I to do?”

“Don’t beat yourself up, son, the world does that enough, eh?” The former king of Dundrasil said, gentle and careful, and Hendrik hid his face still. “It’s normal to be mixed up like this sometimes, you know that, don’t you?”

“This is all - so new to me. All of it. I am meant to be more capable than this.” A sigh that seemed to take all of the power of his body with it, and Hendrik sagged as he dragged his hands away and let them land at his sides. He could not look at Lord Robert. He had wanted this - needed it, even - to talk frankly and be led by someone who may not know but could understand. Yet to bare himself still left him uncomfortable, no matter what. Revealing his back felt far easier than this, somehow.

Rab looked at him for a long moment, took stock of how he could not meet his eyes, of the slip in his posture, of - indeed, Hendrik could feel a speckling of heat up his throat and in his cheeks. 

“You two were mates, eh?”

The potential for some kind of dual-meaning did not pass Hendrik by. Nevertheless - “Something like that.”

The damnable clown made mourning Norberto seem insurmountable - on account of him being not only alive but living, thriving even. He walked the earth, free spirited and unbound, when Hendrik would have raised Hell itself to have been given a chance to say goodbye, once upon a time. 

This was… a much more favourable outcome. The end of the world aside. 

A long, long time ago, Hendrik had been swept off of his feet, cast to his back onto mosaic tile under the roiling sun and victorious son of his mentor, sword point beneath his chin. And then that boy had been swept out to the sea, lost to Hendrik but not lost at all, and it was a hard thing to swallow. And now, Hendrik felt as if he were waiting to truly be swept off of his knees - his faith had made him a haggard dog that bit at the heels of what he thought was an angel. And Sylvando had swept many a thing aside - Hendrik but was one of those things - but now things were more confusing than ever; Hendrik was unsure if Sylvando had ever swept him aside fully, or if he had simply pretended to do so, or if now he was but daintily picking up the pieces. Goddess above, it would be so kind of him to give the pieces due care.

“Oh, lad,” Lord Robert repeated, and Hendrik finally met his eyes. He felt - much. Hurt, he supposed. Raw, sore - not physically currently but - he felt small. Rarely had Hendrik felt small. “Before, I thought - ‘fore I realised you two knew each other, I thought you’d be at each other's throats. That there’d be some friction someways, some spark. Thought maybe that Sylvie might just make you lose your patience, drive you to ye wits end. Didnae realise it was gonna happen this way.”

“My throat is intact,” His voice cracked slightly. “My heart is yet to be pronounced as such.”

Horses have an innate and inherited natural instinct to avoid water. Only trained horses step into puddles, and do so at the behest of their riders. This is because horses cannot tell how deep water can be, and so to avoid any potential damage, to stop themselves from crippling their own legs and being hurt beyond repair, they avoid water at all costs. Even the most shallow and simple of puddles. Even those that like to play and roll and chase folly, even the smallest of still streams is a chasm impossible. Hendrik found this fascinating. How would a horse learn such a concept? Is it just simply… a part of them, something untaught, unable to be taught? How does one learn a feeling? How are you supposed to be taught how to feel something? 

Was he simply defective for not being able to grasp what ought to be easy? Hendrik trudged through puddles, had waded through trenches, and now rode the ocean waves to wherever fate needed him to be.

But by the Goddess, he was crippling himself, and it was only now, at this age, that he was even beginning to realise that he should have learned to tread water twenty years ago.

How was he supposed to ask someone to be his, when never in his life before had he ever felt worthy of asking for even the smallest imaginable thing? How dare he think of possessing something, let alone aspects of a person? And how was one, anyone, ever to think that of all people they could have claim to, that Sylvando would be one easy to possess?

Was that… even what he wanted? For Sylvando to be his? He had no idea what such a thing even meant. Hendrik belonged to The Luminary. He was his sword and his shield, his companion, his guardian, his steward, his faithful knight. But that was not the same, it could never be the same.

For all they once shared, Berti had not even been his. Norberto would rather have vanished into dust than belong. Hendrik had never had a chance at being equal with him, him in any form, not once. Maybe not ever. He had known that from the moment they met; he had lost then, and was losing still now.

Hendrik had spent remarkably little time around affection. Even less time around care of a romantic breed. The waters were dark and seemingly muddied, and the single eagle of Heliodor found himself barely keeping his head above the surface. The Luminary's squirehood had encompassed him, accepted him, he was a part of a brood now - but the bonds between them were webbing, and Hendrik was a simple beast, caught and tied. There was nowhere he would rather be, of course, and he was overthinking it all and asserting metaphors where they needn't be - as of right now, everything was fine, and their journey continued, and nothing ought to distract him or lead him astray.

But he found himself thinking of Sylvando behind him, healing hands touching his bare back and mending the wound, and he craved it, ached for it to happen again. And not purely for his damage to see reparation. To be intimate with him again, for their connection to feel seamless and easy, to be each other's shadows again, to follow wherever the other went, just as it used to be… that precious time, those summers in Puerto Valor, those had been Hendrik's. And they were gone, those times, and there was no reclaiming the past. But for it to echo, perhaps, maybe there was a chance at that.

Periodically, Hendrik could indeed feel a swathe of that warm, reparative pulse up his spine. Lingering after-effects of Sylvando's magic, the promised repetition that came with his brand of healing. Sylvando had yet to touch him again, but every few hours it was as if he had, just in passing, a soft surge of better sweeping up his shoulders. Hendrik wondered if such a thing was automatic, disconnected, or if Sylvando could feel it happen too - if it was a conscious thing that he somehow sent Hendrik's way, a tether between them threaded through a realm of magic that Hendrik was foreign to. It was peculiar; so many tools in Sylvando's repertoire of magic were things Hendrik had heard of, could logically conceptualize, and yet had never really encountered, had never dealt with properly. The power of a heart, he supposed, one so open and prepared to not only work but love - Sylvando put his whole being into all that he did, no half measures, no second guessing. No faking. His magic came from his entire being, so it only made sense that it was individual to him, Hendrik supposed.

Were Hendrik the jealous kind of person, it could perhaps be sickening to some part of him - how special Berti was. Had been. How foolishly his naive heart clung to him. But Norberto was just a memory. Something left behind and discarded, a cicada shell, an abandoned piece of armour, a mask left to rot upon an old, time-frozen shore. Sylvando was real, actualised, and wondrous now - and Hendrik feared that he was falling in love for the second time, still naive, still left behind.

“We were… close,” Hendrik sighed, continuing. “I am unsure if we still are. It has been so long, after all. Or, more accurately, if I am to be truthful with you Lord Robert - I cannot gauge if our… views on each other align. If they ever have. If they ever will. Right now I… am in a fog.”

And Sylvando was the helmsman.

Lord Robert gave a nod, silently imploring for more. Hendrik gave a slight swallow. To even speak of such disconnection and uncertainty felt wrong. He hadn’t a word to describe his feelings for Norberto then, for Sylvando now - actually, he did, he knew just the word, the one singular word, but he daren’t consider it.

“I… we… the two of us were… rivals. Yes. Kin, even. But there was-” Another vague gesture, an open palm minutely waving at nothing. Hendrik knew what had happened, what had been between them. But there was not a word that could define it, in any language. “...more?”

He did not know what else to say. Enrique and Norberto had been the closest of friends. Fierce combatants in the training ring who always sparred, always constantly tried to win over the other, who taught each other to fight harder, push more, think quicker. And they had been friends who had snuck out together to drop the pretence and play pretend in their own way, training all the same but closer, smoother, at their own pace, laughing as they went because no one was present to scold them for enjoying being what they were. Brothers-in-arms. Constantly locked together, constantly side by side. Shadows to one another. Bedmates. They had crept back to Norberto’s room and slept beside one another, exhausted and comfortable, happy to have a companion who understood. They would murmur long into the tiny hours, inches apart. Hendrik had been enamoured, and hadn’t realised it, it had all been so exhilarating and fresh and comforting and theirs. They spent both the day and night together, endless summers that ended too soon, growing taller and stronger and happier at the challenge of being each other’s best friend and swordbrother, garnering respect and getting into mischief equally. 

Hendrik had accompanied Norberto the night he had snuck out to see the circus being their arrival at the Valorean border, stars in his eyes and fascinated. Hendrik had been the one to keep watch and guard their path as they had run through the fields of flowers past the town gate. Hendrik had been the one to not notice that in the days after the circus left, that Norberto became conflicted and disenchanted in the life he had and yet had been more driven than ever before - fighting with a renewed might, temper flaring and sword striking swifter.

It had been an overnight change. Hendrik remembered that much. The light in Norberto’s eyes changing.

The fact that it appeared.

A spark. He had told himself that it was nothing. They had been teenagers - moods rose and dipped in valleys and peaks, there had been times when, besot with memories of a home long gone and chasing a craving for justice, Hendrik had volleyed especially hard in training for a while before settling again. Every so often a heightened peak could hit any of them, impulses were things young men learned to control and discipline helped them in that. They had been peaceful years made only turbulent by their own hormones and changes. Norberto had changed subtly, a rift within him creeping up that had only been made apparent when Hendrik had been left standing upon its edge, looking down to an empty expanse. 

He had thought Norberto dead. There had been no grave. He had just been an angel. He never did any wrong - for all his playful chaos and acting out, he only did good. He had not changed. He had always been perfect - and perfection had been what killed him. The desperate insistence to be perfect. His first act of being a clown, the oldest trick in the book, had been done flawlessly - disappearing into thin air, leaving a stunned audience behind, wanting more. Maybe Hendrik should have been flattered. But he had simply been devastated.

“There was… much more. To me.” It was scarcely a whisper. Hendrik could not look at him.

There had been more. More than just friendship. More than just kinship. Hendrik was well aware of that, at least on his part. He may not have shown it, may not have mentioned it, may not have even realised it, but it had been there since the day they had first met. And it seemed that it was now obvious, if the understanding smile and nod Lord Robert gave was any indication.

“‘Spose ol’ Don Rod had no need for bunnygirls in the city in order to distract you growing up, eh?” Rab joked, the cut of it shallow and immediately soothed over by a mirthy chuckle that seemed beyond understanding - he really had been there, done that, saw the bigger picture. “Somehow I can’t imagine our Sylvie as a youngun’- and it sounds like you never could have imagined ‘em as anything but. I wish you could have seen your face when you realised, Hendrik; ye looked like the world fell out from under your feet.”

“It - would not have been the first time,” He managed in return, a half-joke that scraped thin. The sensation was not dissimilar to the end of the world, but was in some ways the entire opposite. The thunder that had struck in That Moment of realisation had been enough to paralyse and make his lungs close shut and his mind had been in freefall. The universe had vanished to but one fine point before him, one single spotlight in which a terrifying star was central, smug and exquisite and very much not dead. “I truly thought him to be gone, forever… no one told me otherwise. I believed him dead - long dead, not just at Yggdrasil but… but since our time together, all those years ago. I mourned. I had lost him, Lord Robert. To see him alive, and here, now, it… has been much. My thoughts of late are distracted upon him rather than our journey. I cannot help but consider myself addled.”

“You can be both a man and a soldier at once, son,” The former king began to lay out some cards once more. “You’re not just a big tin thing with nothing on the inside, lad. No one’s expecting you to be made of stone or not feel a thing about anything,” Hendrik thought of Sylvando, last night, talking of heroism and expectations, of being one single man amidst it all. “As you said - your heart is going through the ringer at the minute, and that's alright. There’s been a lot of ye te deal with. All of us have got scars inside and out for all of this, and there ain’t a soldier out there that doesn't have his share of nasty worries in his head. But - things are alright now, aren’t they, my boy? You and Sylv’re both grown-ups now, able to make your own choices and decisions and deal with any consequences the way grown-ups do. And we’re all in it together, no one’s going anywhere. You can open up to him like ye can with me, he’ll listen. That's what Sylv does, taking doubts away and making smiles happen. M’sure he’d want that with you more than anyone. Canye not talk a few things out?”

“We did, somewhat, last night… but I fear I may have done the wrong thing, stepped back somewhat when perhaps I should have followed his lead. Matters of the heart indeed are new to me. And to this extent, I - I find myself humbled and embarrassed. Surely he knows more of emotion than I do - they are his boon. Always have been.”

Something creaked in a sideroom of the ship's underbelly. Rab dealt himself a new hand of cards. Hendrik cautiously turned and leaned against the window, the porthole and the wound, sick mirror images that touched, separated only by the scabbard of Hendrik’s blade. The ruined world was but this one small room, comfortable and safe, and he was a soldier and a man, cautiously weaving around danger and learning to navigate on the open sea.

“We would train endlessly together. He was my strength - forever pushing me to be my best, going out of his way to assist me. He beat me in a duel the first time we met, and he continued to beat me, and yet never gave up on me. Constantly goaded me to try and put him in his place,” Somehow, a strained chuckle broke its way out of his chest - so clearly he could see that smirk, the way it lifted on one side more than the other, framed by a halo of hot summer sunlight and a dizzied half-concussion, the faint scrape of swordtip against exposed barely-pubescently-stubbled throat and then a hand extending down to lift him back on his feet. Accidentally holding onto it for a few seconds too long before realising, dazed and warmed through. “I aspired to be at his level. We spent the summers of our youth together. I missed him endlessly when autumn came. And one day I thought him gone forever. He simply evaporated, with no trace left behind. I had to continue living, while Don Rodrigo made no mention of him, made it seem as if he were never there… I began to question myself, truthfully. And now I find myself questioning many things.”

Norberto had vanished entirely. Erased from time. There had been a portrait of him, not dissimilar to the one of Lady Gerbera, hanging on the wall outside the Don’s chambers. The day after his disappearance, it was removed. It was just another reason as to why Hendrik had thought the boy to be entirely banished from this realm. He had not been able to ask. Such a thing was forbidden, silence demanded from the oppressive tone in the manorhouse for months. Years, even.

A glance up at him - Lord Robert seemed to appreciate how much personal space was needed right now, which Hendrik appreciated in turn, but did not verbalise.

“The signs of our Sylvie always being more than just a performer were always there, honestly lad. Always was an air of gallantry about her, and the little’un-” - Eleven - “-told me about how he and the others bumped into Sylv and they all got together. I never twigged that Sylv was Rodrigo’s boy, but always had a feeling that there was a bit of something in the background - not many jesters know how to use swords quite like that, I suppose. It all makes sense that you two know each other. I’m not surprised the two of you made each other what you are; I bet you did lots for him too, lad, more than you probably realise. Sylvie might usually be loud and proud with feelings, but I think a lot is kept close to that chest too. I’m sure your feelings are heard and understood; the two of you are opposites but you overlap a lot too, yanno.”

“I shall… take that as a compliment as well.” His mouth felt tight and his skin uncomfortable. “I… am at a loss now though, however - I often was with him back then, and now I seem to be even more… unsettled. ” Hendrik shook his head - he was unsure of what to ask or how to ask it. He was unsure what the problem even was, or if it was a problem, or if he just had to let things run their course or if doing so would leave him more regretful in the long term. Hendrik found himself rubbing at the back of his neck, his body acting on instinct, hiding and trying to curl away from discomfort. “I have… concerns, Lord Robert. Dire ones. I fear being unable to adhere to my duty if I am distracted. And to be here with him, he as he is now, he who makes me feel so - well...”

He stopped himself. He had to. He did not know, and it would be foolish to discuss things he was clueless about.

“Forgive me sir. I ought not burden you with such things.”

“Hendrik lad come on now,” A soft tut. “We’re a team, all of us here. It's okay to rely on others. We’re your men, just like any other squad you’ve ever been in. And you’re one of ours. It's alright to talk,” The personal bubble was breached, softly and warmly, Rab leaning on the table with crossed arms and a kind smile - and a strike in a direction that Hendrik had not anticipated. “It's a bit hard not to be a bit smitten with Sylvie, isn’t it? A looker and a charmer, eh? I’m a bit jealous you’ve known each other so long and so well.”

Heat flushed up painfully quickly. Hendrik gave a meek cough and looked away, seen, cornered but free.

“I am beginning to think that him being a total stranger would have made things far far easier - but, yes, you are correct,” Smitten was a good word. He could stomach that word, he supposed. It was just handling its symptoms. “My feelings for him are… complicated. But they are very present. Last night cleared some of the doubts between us away, but, he has turned into a clown whose intentions can be very difficult to grasp. I know him, and well, yet I cannot help but feel some level of avoidance. But, perhaps, all in due time. So far it feels as if many gaps have been repaired, so….”

He wasn’t Norberto anymore. There was no Norberto anymore. Hendrik knew this to be a good thing. The better thing, for Sylvando. But it was still such a challenging concept to grapple with; had Sylvando been someone entirely new, someone who had always been Sylvando both on the surface and beneath it, maybe the feeling of being smitten would have been cleaner, crisper, maybe Hendrik would be different. Berti was gone, had been gone, and Sylvando was here, and that was good. It was just an unspoken, unrecognisable lingering presence in the back of Hendrik’s mind; the fear that he might just prefer one over the other.

Rab nodded. “So all in due time, son. The two of you are made of the same stuff, just painted different colours, shaped different by where you’ve been. Honestly, looking at you both now, it's noticeable how many little mannerisms the two of you have that feel parallel. I don’t think it’ll take long for things to find an equilibrium. Sylvie’s good at that - finding momentum with just about anybody. Just keep trying, lad. I bet talking already last night was a big step, and one that took a lot from ye - I’m sure Sylvando appreciated it, and they’d appreciate you trying still. It's a long trek ahead of us, and we’ll all be spending a lot of time together, and in close quarters. You two’ll have opportunity enough to see eye to eye I think.”

Hendrik gave a nod. “I certainly hope so. Long is the way, and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light. I pray both the journey and the way lead to light in the end.”

“You’re not in Hell so much, are you lad?”

A revelation, he supposed. Rab asked it carefully; not only saying it as if it was a declarative statement, confirming to Hendrik that things were okay now, but also asking in a way to make Hendrik admit to such a thing. The worst might just be over. The world was still facing damage, but things were beginning to repair, and they as a team were spearheading the effort. They were reclaiming their resources, finding allies, and making peace at night. Protecting one another and doing their best. Things were difficult, make no mistake, but… progress was being made. In every direction. Perhaps the worst might be over. The oceans were calm now, the tension leaving them be. The inconsistent noise around them was muffled and distant. The way ahead was fraught with unseen dangers, but they could tackle anything together, and the fog Hendrik was in had partings in which sunlight streaked through. Sunlight - stars - spotlights.

“There is healing,” He told the truth, albeit did not give context. “Sylvando saw to that. And has promised to keep seeing to that,” Lord Robert gave a smile, and Hendrik offered one in return. Perhaps this was a conversation they would come back to, in time. “Small steps towards a greater future, Lord Robert. One I shall be proud to have aided in making. I shall be at the Luminary’s side until the end, damn all else. Of this you all have my word, and my word is my bond. One day at a time, sire.”

“There’s a good lad.” Rab nodded, and did not look at Hendrik as he continued. “Honest to ye, always had quite a soft spot mesen for our dear Sylvie. Reminds me so much of my darling Eleanor, the way ‘e behaves with our lad. Ye know Hendrik, it does me well to see ye both around, acting as you are; reminds me much of the old days, or at least the ways the old days should've been. The way the two of ye are with the lad - I'm thankful that the two of ye do get along. Makes a gap feel a bit more closed.” Hendrik listened, turning over the words and their implications in his mind. Rab began his game up again. But after a second he gave a wry chuckle, still not looking at Hendrik, and his tone changed from one of quiet familial reverence to cheek and exposure, something sly and yet strangely close. “...whew. You lucky dog though, eh lad? What a charmer Sylvie is. If I were forty years younger and could manage to catch that pretty thing’s eye, goodness me. What a happy man I would be.”

He could not help himself - a warm chuckle managed to sneak its way out of his throat, and Hendrik caught it in time, masking his shy grin with a closed fist and a clearing of his throat. He'd hardly say that things were quite that far. Well, maybe. If the Valorean spoken in bed last night was any indication, well…

“You and I both, Lord Robert.”

And that was that. A conversation comfortably settled, just for now, left with the feeling of the door very much being left open should a similar talk be needed again. But a layer of comfort hung in the air, an amount of peace made, the energy in the homey galley one of relaxation and quiet contemplation - until the room came to a pointed halt, and Hendrik found himself jolting at the momentum of the Stallion chuntering around them.

The feeling of the ship coming to a sharp stop - anchor down, a lurch, and then footsteps, quick ones - Hendrik glanced up from catching his balance in time to see the door open and Sylvando rush through with urgency towards one of the rooms further in. Good mood gone.

“Something’s on the ship.”

“What?” Automatically, Hendrik followed him, ready for anything, at his heel. He could hear Lord Robert get up and follow just as quickly.

“Something is on my ship,” Sylvando repeated, focus set, looking directly ahead as they marched down the corridor. “I can hear it, something is rooting around the cargo bay. Something’s crawled aboard.”

“And I am assuming that it is something bigger than mice?” Barely behind him, practically at his side as they marched through the corridor, Hendrik cast a glance sideways at the jester - who gave a quick yet firm and determined look back, one hand ready on the hilt of his sword. A resounding no, laced with the kind of concern that was neither soft nor forgiving. The last time they had ventured across this ocean, it was by some divine chance that they had survived - it was not only Hendrik’s nerves that were tested with this voyage. Sylvando’s thumb clicked the hilt of his blade and was ready; a brawl within the confines of the ship cabins would be challenging, but may be necessary. 

Hendrik had his own sword at his back, and had never been afraid of using it, but the concern of swinging wide and damaging the interior of the ship was present. It was best to let Sylvando take the lead, as he was already doing, both swifter and more precise than he and also more knowing of the space available to them. If needed, Hendrik would fight with his bare hands to protect The Luminary, The Stallion, and all those aboard. Any stray mice included.

They reached the door to the pantry together, and in immediate tandem they prepared, seamless - Sylvando coming to one side of the wall and pressing flat, Hendrik the other, silence falling over them as they held their breaths and listened. Hendrik could see Lord Robert follow, keeping to the side, close behind the jester. 

Sylvando wrapped his hand around his rapier’s grip, looked up at Hendrik and met his eyes - Hendrik wrapped his hand around the door handle, gave a nod, and there was a telepathic moment where they each counted down from three, ready, closing in on a shared internal rhythm. As if practised, in tune, and as point zero was reached they acted in unison - the door was opened, and Sylvando rushed within, and once more Hendrik was left just outside with but a glimpse inside as something happened, a clatter, a faint shout, the sorting out of something Hendrik was unaware of; and yet Lord Robert too rushed inside, and he held no guilt nor hesitance to follow.

As he stormed within, ready, it took a moment to stall, pause, and process what he saw.

Sylvando’s sword was thrown aside. The jester was on his knees. And in his arms, looking up over his shoulder worriedly, hands grasping onto his striped tabard and curled small, was Erik.

“Erik?” Rab gasped. “Laddie is that you?”

“I’m sorry,” He managed, voice small and shaken. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I - please, I’m… I….”

“Oh my darling,” Hendrik saw Sylvando rock just slightly, side to side, one hand on the back of Erik’s vivid hair, keeping him hugged close. Cheek to temple, Sylvando’s face angled away, but Hendrik could hear the sheer relief; and the devastation it soothed. “I was so worried about you, Erik, oh my gosh. I’m so glad that you’re okay, honey. I’m so glad. I’m so glad it's you.”

A strained, almost whimpering noise came out of the boy. Hendrik frowned, and cast a look downwards at Lord Robert. He, too, gave a soft frown, dangerous hands lowering, and slowly approached the pair, coming to kneel by their side - with a small amount of effort and a soft grunt as his knees hit the wooden floor.

“Ach… there you are, lad. We was looking all over for ye. What are ye doing hiding away in here? We was looking all over for ye, worried sick. You know you’re home, don’t ye?” Rab was careful and, like Sylvando, gentle, one hand coming up to touch the jester's shoulder and aid in surrounding the boy, his head tilted and tone soft. Hendrik hung back, remained close by the door. Something was not right. 

“I’m sorry -” Erik’s brows arched, and the lower half of his face was muffled by Sylvando’s collar, the clown holding him close, grip soft, hugging dotingly. Surrounding him. “I didn’t - I - I was just - I hadn’t eaten in ages.”

He did not… look right. Hendrik had trouble with faces, he knew that, often misplacing the names that went attached to them or having to take a moment to process exactly what emotion an expression conveyed, sometimes even needing to be reminded of who a face belonged to entirely, but… he knew of Erik. Knew of him, knew what he looked like, and knew that he was not meant to look like this.

“Please - I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.” Erik’s eyes darted from Rab’s directly across from him, up to Hendrik - and Hendrik could register fear in them. Fear and not recognition - and then they darted back around, unable to settle on anyone looking at him and instead faltering to bore frightened holes into the woodgrain of the floor. Nails gripped at Sylvando’s shoulders and the ship was doused heavy with an air of dissonance.

Sylvando stopped rocking. His fingers stopped carding through the spikes. Slowly, he pulled away, and from the angle he was at, Hendrik would see the perplexed frown, the realisation that something had happened.

“...Erik?”

 “I’m sorry,” He whispered again, and Hendrik could see that the thief was indeed shaking - yet he did not let go of Sylvando’s back or arm. “Please don’t be mad - I didn’t mean to do anything wrong - I just saw you, and you had it all, and I - I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

Hendrik would look back at that admission later and find a strange solace in it.

“Erik?” Sylv repeated, slightly more firmly, one hand coming to gently cup his face. His eyes searched the boy's face - he, too, could not seem to place exactly what was wrong, but something certainly was. “Darling? What happened?” A thumb brushed below Erik’s eye - he was not crying, but Sylvando soothed him as if he were. The way the boy's voice had warbled, Hendrik somehow expected such a thing to begin. But Erik, in his limited knowledge, had always seemed so confident, cocky, sure of himself. Yet his eyes now beheld a perplexed, perplexing vagueness. Not wild or unhinged, but - panicked. Strangely, when Sylvando spoke again, his voice too seemed somehow lost - a worry, a prevalent mystery that he patently had not stopped thinking about since the world ended. “Where did you go…?”

I think we did die up there you know, Sylvando had said last night. Somehow, they had made it back. Hendrik hoped that all of them had made it back, against all odds. But whatever had happened to make them return to life, it had been imperfect. Sylvando had been drained and had required time to heal, Hendrik’s wound persisted and ate at his body, Lord Robert had been tethered to a realm between, and Erik, it appeared, seemed to have come back somehow… wrong.

“I don’t know,” A whisper, like a scolded child telling a secret. “I don’t know anything. I promise I don’t. I don’t know anything at all. Whoever you are, I can’t tell you. Please don’t hurt me - I don’t have any answers - I don’t have anything, just - please don’t hurt me.”

Hendrik could see colour drain from Sylvando’s face, a glimpse of mortification. Rab, too, gaped.

“Wh - laddie, don’t you recognise us? We’re your friends - we been around the world with ye, we was trying to find you - we’d never hurt you, not ever. You’re safe with us.”

“I’m sorry,” Erik withdrew further, curling in on himself more, voice hoarse and cracked. “I don’t remember. I don’t know anything. I’m really sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

Sylvando’s hand slid down the boy's arm and dropped to his side lamely. A quiet “Darling…?” seeped out, barely audible. He had to be hurting. Hendrik could conceptualise different elements of such a thing well enough; not only was Sylvando up close and personal with a friend, a young man who he had nurtured and protected, who was so obviously damaged, scared, lost, when Sylvando was a known caregiver for people such as that, but - the fact that he had been forgotten. Sylvando of all people. Who forever aimed to be memorable and bright, a shining blot of joy and comfort made to keep close in people's memories. For someone he so obviously loved to not recall his face, to not recognise him at all - 

Hendrik, again, later, would reflect back further on that thought. At that moment, he was too focused on the situation. 

His best friend was on his knees, sword aside, clearly shaken. And The Luminary’s best friend was in his hold. The ship's hold, after weeks of searching. Erik is my best friend. He’s good. We’re really close, Eleven had said. He had been missing, and now he was not; obvious lapse in memory aside, this was a tremendous step forward in their journey. Eleven had to be told. This would… affect him. Likely in many ways.

“Sylvando,” Hendrik spoke up then, looking directly and only at the jester, who looked up at him in return - and as their eyes met, Hendrik could see a dangerously sharp sting of vivid pink-blue sunken deep in the clown's pupils; his emotions must be running riot. Even with a forcibly neutral expression to mask the concern, there was an arch to his brows and a simmering ice magenta in the iris of his silver eyes, a warning of him feeling a lot. Some streamlining and structure around him may be of aid, and Hendrik was here to serve as a guide. He kept his voice even and set, let himself be unwavering in the face of turbulence aboard the boat. “Eleven must be informed of this development. May I take my leave to retrieve him?”

Hendrik could give orders when warranted, and could do so with ease - but this was Sylvando’s domain. Now that others of The Luminary's troupe were returning, Hendrik had to step back so that the correct roles could be played. 

He saw no shame in taking orders from the clown. Not anymore. Especially when it seemed that Sylvando understood perfectly.

“Yeah - yes, you go wake him, go get our boy, honey. Me and Rab have got things under control here.” He nodded, not quite able to offer a smile but the pink dimmed and swirled, made tamer by stability. Sylvando turned forward in order to pull Erik back into a hug, and Hendrik had his orders and made good on them, departing silently from the pantry and leaving the boy to the two he knew and would relearn to trust again. He could hear hushed voices as he slipped out. “Everything will be okay. It’s okay Erik, we’ll figure it out. Papá Hendrik irá a buscar a nuestro bambino especial y lo recordarás. We have you again now, you’re home…”

It took only moments to march through the ship's hallways to the sleeping quarters - Hendrik was beginning to grow familiar to the Stallion, and did not allow himself to find comfort quite yet in that fact - and he found Eleven where he ought to be; lying sleeping, safe. Dave, in the hammock next to the Luminary, snored.

He knelt by the boy's side and gave his shoulder a gentle shake, the bearer of news, both good and bad; and just hoped, deep down, that the fact that it was him delivering such a blow would not hurt his charge.

“Lichtgevend, mijn zoon,” Hendrik murmured, careful, and tried to soften his expression when Eleven’s eyes fluttered open. He would ensure it to be a much more easy revelation than finding a ponytail, cut with a knife, tied in ribbon, left for his closest friend to find. Both remembering something lost and losing something to be remembered were wounds to bear; in this, at least Hendrik could be a devoted guide and could lead by still-healing example. “Could you follow me for a moment? You are needed.”

The knights left them to it; the reunion was to be an uncomfortable one, and they could not leave The Stallion stationed weighing anchor in open ocean, not after what happened the last time they took too long in exposed seas.

Even upon seeing Eleven’s face, Erik had remained blank. Sylvando had stood, uncomfortable and grimacing, giving them space; the two of them had stood side by side by the door for a moment as Eleven had embraced his best friend, his partner in crime, his mate - and had been met with nothing in return. Much needed to be discussed. Private things, assuredly. And so privacy was given.

As Lord Robert and The Luminary gently shepherded young Erik into the ship's sleeping quarters in order to recount their adventures thus far and gauge what little of the lad's memory was retained, Hendrik made himself scarce. If the thief remembered him at all, it was surely images of Hendrik brigading across the country, sword drawn and crossbow bolted ready to take the boy down, or of him tossing the lad into the cells, or of him towering over his prone form up at Yggdrasil, sworn on bloody justice. Threatening him, little more than a boy, with a public hanging for his crimes. Erik was already obviously shaken and confused - the last thing he needed was a giant looming nearby, face in a permanently set scowl and lacking the tact needed to comfort lost children. 

Erik had cast another quick and shaky glance up at Hendrik’s face whilst in the galley, but seemed not to have registered exactly who he was. Perhaps now, without the armour, Hendrik was unrecognisable. Sylvando had said too that he had lost some of his mass since the fall of The World Tree - when Hendrik glimpsed himself in a mirror as he made his way back through the ship's interiors, he would admit that he did not look his best. He had not cut his hair in some time, and even freshly shaved and neatened up he was not as put-together as he had been a year ago, and the lines under his eyes seemed determined to make themselves at home. He perhaps ought to have given himself some due diligence this morning before doing the rounds with the jester, perhaps ought to have sought advice from the clown, who always seemed to appear pristine, but he had simply been too caught up in following that smile, in doing his duty, in enjoying the peculiar tranquility the red dawn had brought. The day had felt as if it had stretched infinitely long, and yet it would be over soon - Goddess willing, with favourable winds and no more interruptions, they might reach the coast of Zwaardsrust by morning. 

Sylvando had already absconded back to his place at the helm. Whilst any other time Hendrik was sure the minstrel would be fussing and cooing and doing all he could to make things right, this tenuous time aboard seemed deeply personal, and Dave was asleep and the ship could not be unmanned for long, especially not in waters they knew to be infested. Hendrik internally prayed as he alighted the steps back up to the deck that Alizarin could not sense them. Now would be the worst time for the ship to be attacked again, but Sylvando had done an admirable job escorting them around the inner rim of the Inland Sea, navigating the shallows and tracing the cliffsides rather than sailing directly through - a longer path, and one that required more focus, but ultimately safer. Hendrik trusted Sylvando and Dave’s nautical competency far more than the Spectral Sentinels and their apparent appetite.

Hendrik did not know ships, but the boat is beautiful. A soft air laced with salt buffeted the sails and made them ripple with colour, the varnish on the railings shone glittering under the purple-orange Lantern-lit sky, and he could understand, in part at least, how one would find themselves quite happy to stay aboard such a vessel for long periods of time. The subtle glimmer and homey comfort could in some ways perhaps rival the extravagance of Heliodor Castle’s halls; though, Hendrik had never felt entirely worthy of such grandeur there, either. 

Tall enough to just see the captain of their vessel from his low vantage point, Hendrik could not help but take in the sight of the jester’s back while unseen. There but for the grace of the Goddess went he. In another life, perhaps their positions would somehow be switched. Even if, inexplicably, their roles were ever reversed, Sylvando would always be a knight. In Hendrik's heart of hearts, no matter what the jester thought or said, he was the prime example of chivalry. A knight, above all else, must be mild and approachable and caring, a defender of the weak and provider to those in need. Sylvando encapsulated that. Even if his methods were more gadabout than gallant.

Still. Two things can be true at once, and Sylvando could be both a knight and a clown. Yet, for all the joy the clown now embodied, for all the lust for life he had and desire for mirthful living, there was a pool of liquid metal within him; something stern, heavy, and difficult to displace.

He was doing it again. That thing. That thing where, when no one was looking at him, Sylvando leaned and sagged and removed himself from performance. Arms hooked over the ship's wheel as his hips were cocked back, shoulders down, back angled, his weight on his elbows - posed just as he had been in Gondolia. Proud and lonely, an arrogant pushover, unable to stomach ever being imperfect due to a childhood of being put on a shiny little pedestal for others to try to topple over, unable to face the idea of disappointing anyone, unable to pause nor let himself think of doing so for long. When Sylvando lacked an audience to smile and be chipper for, he became far more human. It was simultaneously wonderful to see, and deeply upsetting.

Hendrik had no doubt that the clown could hear his bootfalls up the wooden steps, but all the same, the slack pose and neutrality remained.

Previously, Hendrik had wondered if it were a case of Hendrik being dismissible, their prior relationship negatable, his entire presence in Sylvando's life ignorable. Now he knew better. It was not that Hendrik or his companionship was unimportant - it was that he was allowed in. That Hendrik and perhaps Hendrik alone knew him and could continue to know him once the performance ended. Sylvando deemed it alright for Hendrik to witness him when not on stage, a glimpse behind the curtain the jester wrapped himself in - a peek behind a door that Hendrik was quickly realising was open.

It would only do to be open in return. More than he already had been, at least.

“Captain,” Hendrik acknowledged as he stepped up behind the helm. Arms folded behind his still-healing back, looking forward at the curve of the Inland Sea before them. A comfortable distance - an approach that was direct and yet not hostile.

And hostility was far from present. Sylvando glanced over his shoulder at him - gave a slight smile, as if charmed, pleased by the term. “Captain.” He responded in turn, mutual and appeased. Despite all their differences, they really had been working in parallel all this time. It was a pleasant dichotomy. And the reciprocal term of respect almost felt warming, an acknowledgement of something winding between them - yet, if this was some form of flirtation, the lust to follow through on it tapered. Sylvando leaned over the ship's wheel, casual and calm, mellow - but from the corner of his eye Hendrik could see that the smile did not last. When others were not looking, Sylvando let himself slip, just slightly. Others besides Hendrik. 

“Are you alright?” At his side, Hendrik looked sidelong at him. He perhaps should have asked such a thing yesterday, when they had stood side-by-side after Alizarin’s attack. But he asked it now - bridges had been rebuilt since then, and Hendrik had no qualms in crossing them, step by step. 

He wondered if, in the many months The Luminary's troupe travelled together, if any others bore witness to Sylvando being imperfect. They all slept in one tent, ate together, fought together - but did any of the others ever really see him? How often was it that Sylvando was asked how he was, or was he merely the one to do the asking, the hugging, the making-everything-better?

“Worried,” Sylv admitted. “Poor Erik… He just looked so… lost, and small, and…” Sylvando sighed and shook his head. He had always had a bleeding heart and the flow ran faster when those younger than he needed help. But the illusion broke - despite it being just the two of them at present, the threat of others being around made the cheery mask snap into place, and Sylvando perked himself up, righting himself. “Still! He’s back with us now, home, where he belongs. That's the important thing. We can figure everything else out in time, what matters is that we can protect him now. No use worrying over things that I know will work out - that's a waste of perfectly good fear.” He nodded assuredly. Strange that he considered emotion a finite resource, but Hendrik thought better than to interrupt to question what was surely just a throwaway remark. “Everyone will be back and everything will be fine in no time. We just need to keep going. No stopping us now.”

“Onwards and upwards,” Hendrik agreed, aiming to bolster that confidence moreso. There was no more looking down or behind them, they had to proceed, be positive, do what they could. Sylvando was beginning to make an optimist out of him. “All will be well in time. We have made marvellous progress already today - despite having some troubles, it is very good that we have Erik back. Eleven will be relieved, even with Erik being as he is. He spoke to me of him before, of how close the two of them are - he told me that they are best friends, and I believe that. Eleven was incredibly worried about him. I just hope that the boy can cope with the apparent loss Erik shows and will not take this absence to heart too severely,” Hendrik gave a sigh, ran his tongue over his teeth, stewing on the idea of Eleven now being additionally concerned over Erik. The boy already had too many responsibilities, too many weights trying to drag him under. “To be reunited after such a harsh separation and yet for Erik to be so removed still must be unimaginably difficult.”

“Mm, I bet having your best friend and bedmate just vanish and then simply just turn back up again when you weren’t sure if they were dead or not and they’ve changed a lot must be soooooo hard,” Deadpan and dry, and Sylvando was still leaning placidly over the ship’s wheel, and then cast a teasing sideways look at Hendrik, smirk coy and playfully cutting. “Can’t imagine. Couldn’t be me.”

Hendrik held his gaze. And after a dragging second of stale silence and that smirk being directed at him, he felt himself break - a snort, the crack of a smile wrought forth. He returned the snark, able to go along with the pace Norberto - Sylvando set, comfortable enough now to look in the mirror and know a fool looked back. “No, neither can I. A mystery.” 

Sylvando's chuckle was not like the laughs he gave when performing, when in battle, when giddy or excited - when it was a sly, offhand joke such as that, the noise that escaped him was low and filthy - and perhaps Hendrik's favourite sound. It seemed rare to hear it, that kind of laugh only slipping free under certain circumstances - but Hendrik supposed that he, too, laughed rarely and only in specific company. This specific company more than any other. To be able to poke at their own expense felt harmless now - the only way to go was indeed ahead. For all the stewing over the past Hendrik did and would continue to do, he cherished being able to distance himself enough from the yawning ache Norberto had left behind. 

The man had put him in a clown costume for Goddess’s sake. If Hendrik could not let his pride take a friendly buffering now and then, then what good was he? He was only human, and his faults were many, and there was little shame in his… friends. Finding joy and comfort in them. 

The jester’s lovely laugh tapered to a grin, then a smile, then to passive concentration on the ocean ahead. The world felt distant and quiet. It was just them, the waves, the mottled violet sky and lavender waves, the murmur of the sea. It was… astoundingly comfortable. Hendrik enjoyed it - though quietly wished the grin stayed just a little longer. Sylvando could make the whole world kneel with but a smile, he was sure of it.

“How are you holding up,” Sylvando tilted his head to the side in a little nod, a gesture towards Hendrik’s person. “Persevering?” 

Codeword. Sylvando’s way of asking subtly about the wound, if it was hurting, if Hendrik required seeing to again. He was being careful in case anyone could hear them, and of that Hendrik was thankful.

“I am… managing. Though an inspection tonight may be of value, to ensure efficiency tomorrow.”

“Heard,” A nod, sure and certain, and they had always understood one another. “We can make sure all of our affects and our equipment are in tip-top shape before bed again. Can never hurt to be prepared.”

And that was that. The two of them had a routine now. And it was easy, harmless, a gentle reliance on each other and a dependency that was given and taken with care and careful ease. To help one another was just part of their day now, and even though Hendrik knew each touch and each conversation and each look at Sylvando would stir things within him, there was a naturality to it. Onwards and upwards; they lived, and could keep on living, and despite the world threatening to consume more than its fair share, they worked as one, and things would steadily improve.

“My thanks.” Was all Hendrik offered, before second-guessing himself. It would not hurt to be truthful, and he had exposed himself to the clown before. To do so again just kind of happened: “I shall look forward to it.”

Spoken heavily, truthfully. Hendrik never lied and he was sure that an admission such as this would be heard. Hendrik hoped however that Sylvando would hear it beyond surface level, and could somehow tell that he meant that he looked forward to more than just his pain abating, but to the act itself and the sensations it wrought - both physically and emotionally.

“You know - I will too!” Sylvando grinned, eyes closed cute and overall just cheery - a welcome change from his earlier concern and last night's uncertain balancing act of feelings. Perhaps he was just being pleasant, perhaps he did not feel the same about their connection as Hendrik did, but to hear him so openly and happily admit to wanting to help Hendrik again meant something, somewhere. Perhaps it was selfish - that Sylvando just felt good for doing good, got something out of making someone, anyone, feel better, but Hendrik still took what he was given and held it close. Sylvando was looking forward to engaging in their private little ritual, to running a hand over his back and blessing him with healing magic as the wound grew ever-better. Hendrik had not stopped thinking about it. Perhaps Sylvando had not either. He would likely never know.

Gulls cawed nearby. The waves rolled and sibilated up against the hull of the Stallion. The sea glimmered as the afternoon sun arced lower to the bordered horizon. Hendrik understood little at all about boats and sea travel, had found learning of such things in his youth both tedious and difficult, but now he truly could see a level of charm in it. There was a sense of peace here, as the ship sliced the ocean apart. A pleasantly warm breeze buffeted the sails akin to those moments where he rode Obsidian at speed over rolling fields to the sound of pining crickets in summer, an equilibrium where man and steed became as one and the world felt infinitely larger and yet in the palm of his hand. Sylvando lightly adjusted the wheel, practised and easy, and their quiet was an unburdened one. 

They were so different. Hendrik would say it time and time again. He and Sylvando were vastly different in many ways. Opposites often, contradictory frequently - but more often than not, they overlapped. Parallels, reflections, two sides of the same coin. Somehow they simply clicked together in places Hendrik had not known were lacking. The sea had always been Jasper’s domain, the naval fleet his to command whilst Hendrik led on foot, was of the earth and common man. The ocean dragged things away, could be harsh and unforgiving and sickeningly unpredictable - and yet it could teem with life, be warm and inviting, and could carry you back home.

“How are you finding it, being aboard the ship?” Sylv gave a smile, relaxed and warm and it was so nice to just be pleasant to one another - for things to be normal. In times of strife, the everyday and mundane and the smallest aspect of small talk was a blessing. To be able to speak again to him about anything, about nothing, it was a treat. “Found your sea legs yet, sailor?”

“I cannot say that I have quite yet,” A soft exhaling laugh through his nose, and Hendrik played along. “But I expected it to be far worse. I have not vomited yet, so I am counting my blessings where I can.”

“I half expected you to keel over the side of the ship during yesterday's storm,” A soft laugh, a more usual one, relaxed and warm, yet melodic as always. “I think maybe you held it in because if I had turned around while Alizarin was attacking and Eleven was taking a cold swim and I saw you hurling across my deck midfight then you knew I would never ever ever let you live it down at all.”

“I would expect you to carve ‘here lies Hendrik, he threw up on my boat,’ upon my gravestone."

“Right above the ‘and I also made him dress as a clown.’,” Sylvando beamed, and slowly he stood up straight, hands on the wheel rather than simply lazing over it. “I’m glad that you have been settling in alright though, my darling. I want my Stallion to be as comfortable as possible, you know.”

Later, Hendrik would repeat that sentence in his mind on loop, considering the idea that Sylvando was not being literal and was instead denominating him with an additional petname without him realising.

“Alizarin notwithstanding, I have had a surprisingly pleasant time aboard.”

“Thought about staying?” Sylvando glanced at him again, smile light but strange - like it was hopeful, but trying not to be too hopeful. An act - a mask that was slipped on to hide some real feelings, yet it was not fully in place somehow. Hendrik may not be the best with people in general, but he could look at expressions and recognise their intent once he was familiar with someone. And, against all odds, he was familiar with Sylvando and his face. 

Not but a week prior, Sylvando and he had met for the first time all over again - he and his parade had slid down a cliffside in the mountain pass near Phnom Nonh, and Hendrik had stood paralyzed and thought that this aggravating, strange, strangely familiar person was the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen. 

Hendrik was still entirely convinced of that.

Some idle part of his mind wondered that if, somehow, if Sylvando had been a stranger, had been entirely new, if Norberto really had died and The Luminary had just picked up Sylvando, a person who had not been Norberto, if the past had not bound them together but Sylvando was exactly the same nonetheless, if Hendrik would feel so… if his feelings would be so immense, still. Would they have been friends? Would trust, reliance, even affection have come easier? Faster? If he had not known Sylvando - Norberto, had not ever known any part of Norberto and had made his acquaintance entirely anew, Hendrik wondered how the following conversation might have gone.

“What do you mean?”

“After it all,” The jester looked back towards the ocean, waved a hand airily. “We save the world, as we promised. We make all well and it all ends well and so on and so forth. We get rid of Mordegon and save the day. And then what? Where to then? Do you have plans?”

Hendrik had not thought much of it. A part of him, a part carved open and polluted by Mordegon, expected himself not to last. The concept of borrowed time, that by the end of it all it would be The Luminary and his friends that fought and lived and won, and Hendrik had simply been a steward to guide them to the end. Not continue after it. That he would perish, somehow, some way, a sacrificial tin casing to be discarded once bent out of shape, and that was that and he had made peace with it. But things were… things were healing now. He was slowly becoming more and more integrated into their little collective, and even with setbacks their strength only grew, and the prospect of not just surviving but living could potentially dawn. After it all… Hendrik might live, and it would be best if actually began to consider considering that.

“I suppose I shall return to His Majesty along with Princess Jade and I shall aid in rebuilding. Reparations for all I have done to the people of Cobblestone. And then, central Heliodor, seeing it rise from the ash. Lord Robert, I believe, would like to see Dundrasil represented and revived. I would be willing to aid there.”

“And then?” Sylvando watched him as he spoke, and Hendrik thought there might be a gleam in his eye.

“And then… what?”

“And then what indeed! Once you fix everything there is in the whole wide world, then what will you do?”

He gave a slight scoff, shaking his head. “I do not think that I shall ever be able to rebuild everything in the entire world, Sylvando.”

I like hearing you say my name, he had said last night.

The clown turned and faced him, elbow hooked onto the ship’s wheel to prevent it from turning. “Why not come with me?”

“I- what?”

“I could teach you to sail. You, me, Dave, on our comfy little ship. My boys. We could see the whole world, all in our own time.” Sylvando kept that strange smile. “I could give you a taste of the freedom that I left home for. Once everything is better, nothing to tie us down - we could just… I don't know. See where the waves take us, and let it take us together.”

Hendrik found his throat running dry, found himself staring, found the idea not entirely reprehensible.

“I promised I'd be back,” Sylvando glanced at the way ahead again, voice soft. He was referring to the parade, assuredly. “I intend to keep that promise, of course. But once the world is saved, it's ours to enjoy. And that means you too, Henny. You don't have to make any grand decisions now - even if upping and leaving home to run away and join the circus usually is a spur-of-the-moment thing, believe me - but, maybe just think about it. My entire troupe adores you. You'd be helping people everywhere we go. Fighting off monsters, making people happy, all your typical knightly fare, just on the go with a bit more cheer,” Sylvando looked at him again, cocked his head a little, smile growing wider and more genuine. “We'd treat you right! Our own special Mister Bodyguard keeping trouble at bay while we sing and dance. You make a good Soldier, honeybear, no matter what sort, of steel or of smile. If you ever wanted it, the job’s yours - you'll always have a place available and waiting in my brigade as my most favourite right-hand man,” He leaned forward just an touch, close enough that his chest bumped into Hendrik's arm, his voice lowered, as if sharing a secret, the same way the two of them used to do so long ago. “I won't even make you put the clown costume back on, my love.”

He supposed that they showed care in different ways, and yet if you knew how to read the signs, it was a language consistently translatable. Sylvando knew the worth of inclusion, of company in the form of companionship and the form of rank, the worth of aid, the worth of goals, the worth of betterment. This was an offer of them, inexplicably, sharing their lives together beyond this adventure.

It was frank, and honest, even with Sylvando's perpetual theatrics and foolish charm. Perhaps Erik's reappearance had made Sylvando think of the loss of not only a friend but - but someone you could consider your best friend. This was him asking to stay, to go beyond the end of the world yet again and continue as they had been. Sylvando must value the time they had shared thus far, to want it to continue onward. 

A life after The Luminary… Hendrik had barely thought of it. With the wound splitting him in twain and his guilt festering inside his gut, he had anticipated a lack of tomorrows. 

But. If he were to wake up after darkness had been felled, and a new day awaited him… he ought to be responsible. Fix things. Do good. Be there for those who need him. 

…People would need aid all over the world, would they not? After Yggrasil’s passing, he and Sylvando had done the exact same thing, just with different methods - they had rounded up those that were lost and hurting, protected them, offered them safety, and did all they could to prevent the spread of further harm. 

Cobblestone needed guidance. Heliodor needed support. Sylvando had spoken last night of diligence, and consistency, and time. Hendrik could be diligent, and Sylvando could be consistent, and time… 

There was the possibility of there being just enough time to see things made better.

He had missed Norberto with the same reverence with which the tides reach for the moon. He longed for Sylvando's presence now and beyond the way a lost man covets the stars to guide his way at night… and keep him company.

Hendrik stewed over the idea, not looking at the jester as he leaned away again and turned to laze against the ship’s wheel. To travel more… to see the world anew and fix it as he went, to travel the oceans and land alike, to not just learn but understand, to find those that were lost and scared and help them find their way… to give wayward boys with too much responsibility a place to run to… the Soldiers Of Smile were not entirely dissimilar to any other military faction Hendrik had been a part of.

And their Captain asked for him by name. It would be an insult to rebuke a person of power when they ask so nicely.

He supposed… logically … staying at Sylvando's side would mean that the wound would consistently be healed. Perhaps as they journeyed as one and aided those they found, they might stumble across a healer who was capable of sealing it forever, and in doing some honourable favour to that person they might just earn a chance for the flesh of Hendrik’s spine to be fixed fully, without burdening Sylvando. 

When Norberto had vanished, he had done so without warning. Now he was here, except not, extending a hand for Hendrik to take, so that they might run together. Bitter as the thought was, Jasper was gone. There was little hope of saving him. Like Norberto, he had removed himself from Hendrik's life, and left a hole in his wake. Hendrik glanced back towards the door leaning to the ship’s innards. To vanish from your best friend’s life, to have them continue on without you, to have your closest companion slip away… this was a promise for it not to happen again. For the gap to be permanently filled, for Hendrik to be included in Sylvando’s life. He had long thought that Berti had walked into the sea to escape life, and now he was here, asking him to abscond to the ocean with him. Even though he had thought little of surviving past this journey he had wanted, should things go as well as possible, that after it all they would write to one another perhaps while out on the road, should they live on and part ways - were Hendrik to stay stationary and persevere whilst Sylvando absconded once more to the open world that waited for him, Hendrik hoped they would keep in contact. That was all he had craved when Norberto vanished. But - if they were together after it all, there would be no reason to do so. Sylvando could show him first hand all the delights he had seen in their time apart. They could go wherever they wanted. Anywhere. Everywhere.

Two sides of the same coin. Hendrik was not a coin. He was a symbol of loyalty, bound in chain, stationary and immovable, heavy against aching chest. Sylvando, in comparison, was a mini-medal - wanted, treasure worth its weight in gold that always seemed to appear everywhere and yet vanished whenever one wasn’t looking.

The analogy did not work. Sylvando could not be collected. He may be something that Hendrik had carried around with him, a lucky charm kept secret in a pocket by his heart, a symbol of a star, but Sylvando would surely abhor to be equated to a medal of any form - medals equate to valour, to nobility, to knighthood, and that was one of many complicated relationships the clown seemed to have, beyond that of his father and of Hendrik himself. Yet change kept occurring; maybe, given time, relationships could mend, and their misshapen edges could find purchase and they could affix to one another once more. This… certainly sounded like an invitation to try.

He shook his head. Heliodor. Above all else Hendrik was the now sole knight of Heliodor. The people left there must come first. He knew that Sylvando was perhaps partially joking - that he knew the answer was likely to be an overwhelming no and was merely poking fun - imagine, Ser Hendrik, abandoning his illustrious career to become a travelling clown. Yet the present ate into the future. Hendrik had already made steps towards that. Being a clown. He had allowed himself to be seen as that. And it was not as if he did not understand loving art in its various forms. He might not understand music or mummery or performance in its rawest state, but he had always been fond of dancing, in his own way, appreciative of playing roles, despite the strain, and understanding of poetry; and their life was a sonnet left unfinished. Sylvando could be mocking him. But there was a true sense of genuine want in this. And it was not that Hendrik did not want in return. That was the horrifying part. That he wanted. That he might be allowed to let himself want. And to be asked for, to be wanted in return - the possibility was open, and there truly was space made for him, and that a partnership of sorts could one day be established. 

One day. That was the key factor. Heliodor. Cobblestone. Dundrasil perhaps. Goddess above, even Zwaardsrust. The world lay in ruins and needed leadership, dedication and grit to be reformed. Perhaps the two of them could find work in parallel tandem once more and could see to the deepest and most smouldering pits first, before glossing over the surface to neaten things up.

Hendrik by no means wanted to diminish Sylvando's efforts. He was good at what he did. Hendrik wanted to pose a similar question to him - they could unite to save those in immediate danger first, and then travel together, should that be what the jester wanted. Alas - he had promised his father and his brigade that he would return the moment Mordegon was defeated. There was no sticking around. No waiting and working. Sylvando would likely vanish as quickly as he came.

Hendrik drew in a breath. He would have to be okay with that. At least now, their bond had been somewhat reinforced. Maybe, just maybe, Sylvando might keep that place open for him if they were to separate again. He just needed a little bit more time. He might just be allowed some time.

It could be good. Hendrik had never acknowledged the strange pull in his chest before - opportunity, spontaneous and delirious and foolish. And he could be a fool. But he had to be a knight first.

“I shall… consider it,” Hendrik nodded, and offered Sylvando a slight but real smile. He knew that his friend would understand how sincere it and his words were. “After it all.”

“After it all.” Sylvando agreed, his mirror image, and knights keep oaths.

The rest of the evening went as one might expect. Quiet and cautious sailing whilst The Luminary and Rab gently interrogated Erik, trying to establish what, exactly, he remembered. Or more aptly, how little. 

As they spoke quietly within the recreational area of the ship, Hendrik stayed at the stern with Sylvando - who took it upon himself to try and teach Hendrik some basic sailing techniques. Perhaps it was to simply pass the time and fill the air, perhaps it was to prevent any more confusion during an emergency, or perhaps it was a show of proof that Sylvando truly did want Hendrik to travel by his side. The jester had ushered him to take the wheel and, with due care to Hendrik’s punctured back, had wrapped one arm around him and pressed close to educate him, leading by example. Chin practically on Hendrik’s shoulder, Sylvando’s hand lifted his in order to show him how to hold the wheel, he leaned into Hendrik’s side to encourage him in learning to move to turn the ship, and, in a strangely thrilling way, Sylvando nudged one foot between Hendrik’s from behind to encourage him to widen his stance and relax.

It was hard to listen. What Hendrik heard mostly was his own inner thoughts, demanding that he focus on keeping his breathing level and eyes ahead while the clown all but hugged him from behind. Still. He must have blindly followed commands well enough - as he was wont to do - as after what felt like forever and yet no time at all, Sylvando smoothed away from him and threaded a hand up to squeeze his shoulder.

“Great try - I’ll give you another lesson tomorrow, if you like? I might just make a sailor out of you yet, General.”

Hendrik had merely given a nod and stepped aside, praying that Sylvando had been unable to see how heated flush had crawled up the column of his throat at their proximity. He let the jester slide before him to take up the wheel again - and found himself lingering again at his side, unsure of where to go next. Unsure of if he wanted to go anywhere next.

The quiet had been… nice. The peace of just existing in the same space and making steady progress. It was comfortable, in a peculiar way. Even in a world riddled with strife and with many uncertainties lining their path, to be aboard the boat while the Inland Sea parted around them, the midafternoon sun warm but not overbearing, the breeze pleasant, the company amicable - Hendrik could, perhaps, just become accustomed to it. 

There were maybe things he could do aboard the ship in this strange hang-time. Yet another maintenance session on his weapons, reading, perhaps he could even ask if Sylvando had a training dummy and an adequate area to train and run drills while they sailed. Ordinarily Hendrik would find Eleven and cater to him - so far in the evenings of their travels, prior to finding the clown, they would sometimes engage in some light swordplay or training, Hendrik passing along techniques Don Rodrigo had taught him so long ago - but right now Hendrik stayed on deck with Sylvando, as Erik had Eleven’s attention - as he should. They were best friends.

Eventually came the sound of timid footsteps below deck; Lord Robert and The Luminary must be giving Erik a quick tour of the ship, hoping it would reignite some recollection. Hendrik did not know whence Erik originated, or if there was a home out there for him once upon a time, or if one still stood now, but The Salty Stallion was a safe haven for all. After only a few minutes more, the trio threaded out from within the ship and ascended the stairs to the deck. Eleven cast a quick glance up at the two of them, the knight and the jester, to which Sylvando gave a cheery wave in return and Hendrik a nod, and the pair of them watched wordlessly as the boy carefully walked Erik around the edge of the deck, Rab at his side, their voices quiet and questions surely abound. To lose one's memory must be harrowing indeed… to witness someone you care dearly for forget you must be even worse.

Slowly, the three of them sat. The ship was comfortable and open, and to merely take up space on The Stallion came naturally somehow. The trio sat in a semicircle upon the deck, and Hendrik kept an eye on them as the conversation continued; he had missed almost all of it of course, and did not know what memories Erik would have had prior to Yggdrasil’s fall, but it was clear that there were now more blank spaces than filled ones. As the three companions spoke, Hendrik saw Erik shake his head countless times, and saw Eleven grow more distressed with each unanswered question and dazed look - his brows arching and frown falling more so every time Erik shrugged, glassily stared, or seemingly lost focus.

“We’re all patchy about Yggdrasil, lad - none of us really know how we made it yet - but you don't remember any of it at all?” Rab had crossed his arms, sat up straight, just as concerned as the rest of his shipmates. “Not the altar, not the sword, nothing? And now you don’t even know our names? Ach, I dinnae like this… time was when you and Eleven were in each other's pockets and wouldnae be without one another. What about the twins, do you remember their names?”

Erik shook his head.

'Do you remember Vince?' Eleven signed with his hands. Hendrik did not know who that was. Erik shook his head again and glanced out at the ocean. He had yet to look up at either Hendrik or Sylvando, either unnoticing of them or uninterested. It was likely the former; it seemed as if the boy could barely hold his head up. 'Or Prince Faris?'

“You must remember where you and Eleven met?” Nothing. Erik looked at the wood of the deck as if struggling to stay awake. “Ye went everywhere together. We've been to so many places together, met so many people. Do you remember the mural, in Phnom Nonh?”

‘Can you remember Gondolia?’ Eleven tried again, and Erik did not even fully look at him. ‘Jasper?’

“Look, lad, we're out at sea - do you remember that big ole squid we fought together? Or when we was at Nautica? What about Michelle? Can you remember her?” Erik did not react. Sylvando, however, did. The jester visibly flinched from his place at the wheel - from his place at Hendrik's side. 

He had reacted the exact same way when Hendrik had brought up a certain topic before - The Valorean Triangle. Horribly, Hendrik’s curiosity got the better of him. Erik shook his head, and The Luminary changed the topic to Hotto, and as the trio talked quietly and worriedly of their intertwined history, Hendrik turned and sought out his.

“Tell me of this story,” He asked, voice little more than a murmur as to avoid detection, facing Sylvando yet looking to the side, to the stairway back down into the boat's cabins. They had been on good terms today, and it felt like things were well. If something had happened, Hendrik wanted to know of it, so that he could aid in repairing things around it, just as Sylvando had been doing for him. Was this Michelle perhaps that agent of Mordegon girl who had tricked Sylvando before? Hendrik asked the question lowly, out of earshot of the others, and the jester gave him a pained look - an exposing one, one that Hendrik saw right through and he knew it was an uncomfortable topic, whatever it was, but for them to function as a capable team then Hendrik had to know. And it bothered him. It bothered Sylvando. So surely it had to be something big. Something previously not disclosed. Hendrik pressed, unavoidable. “I wish not to be kept in the dark. If something happened,….”

Sylvando kept his eyes on the ocean ahead, his voice flat. “It's nothing, sweetie.”

“I can tell when you are hiding something from me, Sylvando.”

A grimace. Pulling out a tooth would be preferable to this conversation, it seemed. “You won't like it.”

“I have anticipated that. I am prepared. Please. Are we not confidants now?”

A sigh, a shake of his head, and Sylvando visibly bit at the inside of his lip. Whilst not his usual dramatic squirming, it was clear that this was uncomfortable. Sylvando worried at his forehead slightly, rubbing an eye with the heel of a palm and would not look at Hendrik - and it took a few minutes for him to settle and find the best approach.

“We… had this friend. Had. She… isn't with us now. Before Yggdrasil. She… she left us - and it was her own choice. Her grief was… just too much.” Sylvando got out staggeredly. Ah. The two of them had spoken last night about the concept of ending oneself due to grief - no wonder the clown had been reluctant to speak of her. Hendrik watched the way he sucked on the edge of that chipped tooth of his and battled with himself to find the correct angle to take. Whether to comfort Hendrik from a blow or to protect himself, Hendrik was not sure; until it all came tumbling out. “She had… waited. For fifty years, for someone she loved to fulfill a promise and come back home to her. And he never did.” Oh. Oh Hendrik understood the flinching now. “We had sailed out into the Valorean Triangle and just happened to find her. Still sat there, still waiting, after all these years have gone by. She loved him so much, and she had never considered that he would ever be lost to her. She was convinced that he would come back. But he had… he had lived a life without her, across the sea, and then died out there. And she had waited for him, and she just. Didn't know.” Sylvando still would not look at him.

Hendrik imagined that, were Sylvando ever to set foot within a confession booth, the cadence of his voice would have been exactly the same as it was now.

This entire conversation felt like a strange microcosm of Hendrik's own experience with Norberto. No wonder he had tried to avoid speaking of it. Hendrik went from staring at Sylvando - at his eyes, the way his mouth formed words, at the discomfort on his face - to averting his own gaze, letting it drift and settle as he looked instead at the texture of one of the pom-poms on Sylvando’s custom tabard. Pieces slowly came together, ideas interlinking, similarities connecting - oaths and waiting, grief consuming the living, love trying to persevere, separation and death - Norberto had been Hendrik’s personal guardian angel for years, only for him to find out that he was, in fact, not dead. Hendrik had waited, and the two of them had died up at Yggdrasil, in arms reach of each other, and Hendrik simply had not known about any of it at all.

Eventually, Sylvando managed a small, worried look at Hendrik from the corner of his eye. Voice low and timid, private, precarious. “Hendrik… you know our conversation from the other night? Well… Kai had been a fisherman. And Michelle… well, she… she joined him, in the ocean,” Hendrik understood the flinching now. The ocean - Hendrik had thought Norberto had walked into the ocean and drowned, and thought about it endlessly, had heard Sylvando himself say that he crawled out of the ocean after the world ended beneath them. This friend of theirs had been enveloped in her grief over her broken heart and drowned - Hendrik dug his thumbnail into the inner lining of his glove. To face his armour yesterday had been a trial, but now it was as if someone was holding up a metaphorical mirror to him, the shiny black gloss of inky steel but the surface of a turbulent, stormy sea, and in his reflection was death, floating, persevering in Sylvando’s memory. The jester sighed, his frown soft and mournful, his grip on the wheel slack and distant. Perhaps Hendrik should not have pushed for this story to be told, but alas, now at least he knew. “We were the ones to tell her that he wasn't coming back. She made up her mind then and… she just walked into the sea and vanished. Forever. I hate to admit this, and especially to you of all people, my darling, but… back then I thought that… maybe it would have been kinder to lie. I didn't want to break her heart so. I knew that she would be… inconsolable. I knew. I thought that maybe just oblivious hope would be better - a promise that one day it would all be okay again. But deep down I knew then and not-so-deep-down I know now that really that would have been a crueller thing to do.” Another grimace, and Sylvando made a soft tut and shook his head. “Friends don’t let friends be kept in the dark. Not if it hurts them. And a promise like that? What kind of person would I have been…? It wasn’t my finest moment, darling, and I feel awful for all of it. We told her, and that was the right thing to do, even though I wish things could have been so different. I still don’t know if things would have been different if we hadn’t told her, and I never will, but… Michelle is gone, and I can only hope that she is finally with Kai again, at long last, and - I’m… sorry, Hendrik. It's a bit… painful to talk about. In lots of ways.”

Of that, Hendrik had no doubt. Sylvando tried at all times to see the joy in things, to remain positive and facing forwards - to look back and not only see a death they witnessed and were involved in but one that paralleled his and Hendrik’s own decayed and reformed friendship, well, Hendrik did not blame him for being reluctant to relive such a thing. Hendrik glanced over the bow of the boat. By tomorrow, they would be in Zwaardsrust. Death and the loss of those close to you never got easier. What did perhaps get easier was the act of treasuring those you wanted to keep close to you.

Hendrik was due to perhaps find change in the methods in which he made his mistakes. Jasper had loathed him - still loathed him, the traitor was not dead yet and his hatred surely had not waned - and it was in no small part due to how incapable Hendrik had been of vocalising his appreciation. He was a terrible dancer, and had no idea how to make the appropriate steps to a rhythm he had never heard before, but the puncture through his back beat in time with his heart and begged for him to try. 

Not an hour before, Sylvando had made a light joke about one's best friend vanishing. To do so towards Hendrik, towards himself, it must have taken a level of bravery. The least Hendrik could do now was match it - and reciprocate it, as best as he could. While not adept at lighthearted banter nor joking, he tried at least to alleviate some of the dense grey cloud that the conversation had brought on.

“Thank you for telling me,” Previously, Hendrik had scolded Sylvando for not telling him that he lived. Appreciation was something Hendrik was determined to work on, and wanted to show when possible. “You need not say more if it pains you - I apologise that discussing this with me has been uncomfortable, but I am thankful to know, and to be included. Perhaps it may be worth considering that now as we travel the ocean, she will be with us at our sides somehow, and in some form may experience life again through us thinking of her and taking her with us in our journey.”

Sylvando once again looked at Hendrik from the corner of his eye - a glance that Hendrik could not quite parse.

“You gave up on religion years ago.” 

“I did. Completely.” He had been six. “But you always try to find an optimistic angle on things, and I do not want for you to be upset. I thought the idea may bring some solace to you,” Then the ability to joke about the pain crept up and out of him, and Hendrik managed a somewhat sardonic smile, and he made a slight jab, one that he hoped was as toothless as he intended. “You do so hate to leave people behind. Why not consider those lost to us to be by our side anyway? It has worked for me before, faith or not.”

It patently had not - unless you count Sylvando's reappearance a miracle. Which Hendrik was debating with, a war between realism and romanticism where his loyalty to a side had not yet been established.

A slight smile in return, one that bordered on crooked and charmed. “Aren't you such a sweetheart?” A soft snort, another shake of his head, and things felt smoothed over once more. “I swear, if we find some way of getting Yggdrasil back in the sky, then I'm telling God that you gave up on Her.”

Well, Hendrik thought. Was it not an angel's job to be Her messenger?

But he said nothing. Instead he merely stood at Sylvando's side as if he fit there and nudged him with a shoulder teasingly, supportively - and smiled when he got elbowed softly in understanding retaliation. 

They sailed well into the evening, and Dave overtook wheel duty. Zwaardsrust was further away than Hendrik realised. Home was a horizon he felt he had tumbled over a hundred times already. Evening crept upon them, and the sanguine sky was lit with red even as the falling star hung back behind them.

As he walked within the ship's corridors between tasks, about to alight the steps up to the higher floor from the lowest deck, he could hear speech from the kitchen, distant and distracted.

“Syyyyylv,” The Luminary spoke, voice light as always but surprisingly petulant. He must be pestering the clown for something, which seemed unusual - Sylvando was hardly strict with the boy. Hendrik paused in place, too far away and above the door to see, cocking his head as he simply listened. Part of him wished he had not done so, if only to spare himself some confusion.

“Honey I'm just a little busy at the moment,” The sound of tapping, metal on wood, and the scuffing sound of a page messily being turned. He could envision the jester all too clearly even without line of sight - he was at the small potbelly stove that sat in one corner of the kitchen, stirring something whilst refinding his place within a recipe book surely sat at a worksurface to his side. Lord Robert had previously mentioned Sylvando's proclivity to cooking for the party, and thus far Hendrik had indeed benefited from substantial substance. However Sylvando sounded distracted - and Hendrik could hear him wave their boy away, and felt himself freeze. “Quiero hacer esto bien - can you go ask your father?”

“Fiinnneee,” The teenager huffed, Eleven's voice forever faint and breathy, and then came footsteps behind Hendrik, The Luminary having abandoned the kitchen and clown alike.

Hendrik did not understand - did - Sylvando mean to say grandfather? Lord Robert was here, of course, but - but Lord Irw-

“There you are,” A hand found the top of his arm (thankfully, rather than unknowingly clapping upon his cratered back) and Eleven's face peered around up at him, ripping his train of thought from its rails. It appeared that the boy's previous fatigue had worn off, and had been replaced by his usual mischief again - mischief that had become more frequent since Sylvando's return. He switched to signing now that Hendrik could see him. ‘ Can we do some light sparring together on the deck? I thought seeing it might help Erik remember, that maybe he would recognise me that way. I feel rusty after sleeping so much too. Sylvie's busy, so….’

So you found me? His mind raced. He was not sure what was causing more of an impact upon him: the fact that Sylvando had naturally called him the boy's father, or that the boy had gone along with it with zero dispute. 

Hendrik fought back a confused splutter, and just nodded, struck stupid, and watched The Luminary beam like sunlight and begin up the stairs excitedly ahead of him, looking not dissimilar to how Norberto used to back before they drew their swords against each other. He followed, fighting the urge to pause at the top of the steps and look back down the hallway - some creeping part of him half thought perhaps that if he were to look that he would find the jester, peering around the kitchen door to try and see his reaction to it all, playing some kind of joke on him yet again, peeking playfully at him, but… he knew that that was not the case, and that Sylvando was at the stove, and that it all just sort of. Happened.

And that the world had not ended because of it.

Hendrik shook his head and followed after The Luminary.

…slip of the tongue, surely. Had to be.

Happens to us all.

Fresh ingredients make for a good meal - even if a certain portion of the supplies Hendrik had carried aboard this morning had since been ravaged by Erik.

After a relaxed duel upon deck with a silent audience of one and then cleaning off afterwards, Hendrik had been urged to make himself scarce and slip into the ship's innards by a Sylvando handing him a bowl and directing him to find some steps within a darkened, unnoticeable corner and follow where they lead. He passed by the recreational room as he went and peered in only for a second, unseen; at the table, Erik chewed slowly, Eleven close by his side, fitting against him and signing between mouthfuls.

Normality might be slowly approaching, even with things as scattered as they were. Still - Hendrik had orders, and he followed them.

He took himself and his bowl of stew on the path the jester set him on without argument. It led to a spare room, a strange and almost liminal gap beneath the ship’s main floors that he would be informed later was called steerage; essentially a storage and thinking space, it was a lower deck within the ship that was small, secluded, and undisturbed. Barely used, by the looks of it. Upon benches that ran across the cartilage of the space, Hendrik sat. From there the ocean’s soft chorus was muffled, and in the relative quiet he simply sat and sipped at the brim of his bowl, waiting to be disturbed.

It didn’t take too long - perhaps the clown was waiting to ensure the others ate first, perhaps he was trying to delay vanishing too soon to ensure that the others did not get suspicious, maybe he had to be certain that Dave was faring well at the helm; regardless, Hendrik was perhaps three-quarters finished by the time he heard light footsteps approach down the stairs and was met with a breezy, sing-song voice from behind.

“Sorry about that honey - I’m here now. How’s the food?”

Hendrik glanced over his shoulder and watched Sylvando step over the benches to get to his before seating himself comfortably at his side. “Good,” He nodded, and was somehow relieved to see that Sylvando had his own bowl in his hands, also half-empty. He must have been rapidly eating his own share while finishing tasks up on the higher floors. As Sylvando settled, Hendrik looked away. “Very good.”

“I’m glad -” And an elbow caught the side of his ribs in a soft nudge for attention. “There’s more upstairs for after, once we’re done here. Make sure you fill up; I won’t have you getting all lightheaded and dizzy out there once we moor. It’s my duty to keep your strength up, eh?” A warm smile, and their shoulders brushed, and Hendrik felt like a mute and stunted Erik besides a being of light once more, trying his hardest to re-establish something that maybe, just maybe, might return. “I’m used to feeding Veronica; she’s a bottomless pit you know, always hungry. You’re gonna have to be a suitable replacement for now and eat her share, mister.”

Another subtle joke that could have been a jab - spare parts, replacements, filling gaps that should not be there. But he knew it to be a harmless observation more than anything. In response, Hendrik lifted his bowl back to his mouth and took, and from over its rim he could see the clown beam.

“Atta boy,” He received, and they ate together in peace, conversation harmless and their space shared. Pressureless and comfortable. Whatever tension there had been seemed to have unravelled somewhat. The growing domesticity was charming. Hendrik felt… really rather quite at home.

Shamefully, he thought of Jasper. 

Over the last few years, in Heliodor, when off duty and spared enough time for a meal at a table, he would sit across from Jasper. Conversation would be on duty, on the city, on the king, work and solely work and nothing else for there was no time and no reason to waste breath on what wasn’t important, and Jasper more often than not would end up eating quickly in order to scurry away again - as if he could not bear to actually spend time in Hendrik’s presence any longer than absolutely necessary. As if he were an oblivious obstacle, unwanted and barely tolerated. Where once, when young, they would spend their evenings together, study in tandem, fill spaces in rooms comfortably so that the other felt less alone. Over the growing years, a yawning ache stretched them apart, and in that gap, perhaps some resentment festered.

Hendrik sipped at his bowl. Sylvando leaned into his side slightly. The Inland Sea made the Stallion creak contentedly and there was no need to breach the air with unnecessary sound. It was strange: one would think the clown would be eager to break silences and that Jasper, tactician, would be comfortable in lulling, aimless nothing. Maybe one simply knew him better than the other.

The past was a hungry beast that would consume the present if he allowed it such reach. To dwell on prior mistakes would do nothing for him. He emptied his bowl, and Sylvando took it, standing to place it and his own upon another of the benches. He watched Sylvando prepare himself - loosening and rolling his shoulders with a faint smile, before giving a gesture with a faintly glowing hand for Hendrik to turn, and nothing needed to be said. This is what they were here for. Hendrik turned as he was told, sitting so one leg was either side of the bench, as if it were a saddle, and, the stairway up and outward in the corner of his eye, Hendrik removed his tabard and upper underclothes, baring his injured half. 

Hips slotted in behind his, knees encompassing his outer thighs. There was a murmur of approval.

“Looking a lot better already, sweetie.”

Fingers swept his hair aside - for a moment, he was unsure if he felt their tips brush across the flesh-warmed chain at the back of his neck. He wondered if there was the same reverent look on Sylvando’s face as there was when he touched the emblem of the Eagle that morning.

There was a warmth first, a warning of incoming sensation before touch truly settled in - and then the fingertips came proper, ghosting around the gape, soothing and slow and making gooseflesh rise. A faint spasm threatened to make him tremble but he held fast, focused on his breathing. The pads of Sylvando’s fingers felt as if they could score, a sting following their trail - yet it was not pain, simply sensation, oversensitivity, a lacking expanse of nothing suddenly being met with something. Waves of calming, relaxing serenity eased in as skin brushed against skin, and as the initial shock of touch mellowed, Hendrik was left holding onto the edge of the bench and shuddering, all of his effort going into keeping his voice from seeping out.

He tried not to sigh in what had to be relief - he dare not allow himself to consider this pleasure even as his skin crawled with heat, and a sweeping sensation of tiredness made him droop, and he felt as if he could not catch his breath quite right - and Hendrik instead allowed his mind to dull for a moment, made it dull itself. When living with chronic, distracting ache, to be alleviated of it even temporarily makes the brain wage war, simultaneously feeling free and unrestricted from distraction and yet wanting to do nothing more than luxuriate in the lack of noise. The Stallion creaked, and it was becoming a comfort, and as waves of solace swept down his spine Hendrik felt tension trickle away. Sylvando tapped his foot and hummed a wordless half-tune as he worked. Things were getting better…

He thought back on their conversation last night. On Sylvando telling him that blame was egotistical; of spotlights and focus, of people waiting to be at his side. The thighs around his were almost a distraction.

Hendrik turned his head and looked, watching lowly, eyes heavy as Sylvando healed him. Concentrating, inspecting, face neutral and distracted. Touch gentle and careful, smooth strokes around the wound that spiralled and circled and left glittering warm in their wake.

To be central, a star, something to be orbited around, light…. The world did not revolve around Hendrik - and he would hate for such a thing to even be conceptualised, the idea revolted him - but it felt as if he had perpetually rotated around the jester. Even before he had been a jester. From their very first meeting the two of them had faced off, magnetised and polarised, opposites and yet too similar to discern. It felt like getting closer was a threat, that it was fiery and unable to be reverted back should something happen, and yet for space to span between them left a chasmal, cold, abysmal ache. In all their years apart, Hendrik had thought Norberto to be something celestial, ascended to the heavens, untethered from the earth. He knew him to have become a star, now. Something that led people through the dark, guiding the lost home, giving hope to those who sunk into the ocean. 

It felt hopelessly foolish to put so much stake unto him; for Hendrik to be so - so taken with the clown. Sylvando, too, was but one person amongst a planet of them. But the truth was that, akin to a falling comet, Sylvando had left a smouldering imprint into his heart from the very moment they locked eyes; and Norberto had beaten him in their introductory duel so fierce and so fast that the back of Hendrik’s head had hit the sun-heated tiles of Puerto Valor and he had never recovered from the glimmers that shone when he looked upon that face, triumphant and smug and beautiful. He had been a lost cause for his entire life. He just merely was not marooned anymore; the beacon of life had found him in his darkest hour, in feathers and makeup and glitter of all things, and now they were here. It was stupidity. And Hendrik was a fool, and he accepted it.

He silently basked in the feeling of magic pulsing through his back, contented in some ungraspable way. It felt like sunshine, like gaudy summers and those scant days where they had run away to the beach together and duelled upon the edge of the waves - those moments where, rather than tile, heated sand had met Hendrik’s back and they had laughed, young and bonded and very nearly carefree.

If he had found out about Norberto's plans to run, way back when, what would he have done? He certainly would not have had the power to stop him, once his mind was made up - and if he somehow would have been able to convince Norberto to stay in Puerto Valor and miss his chance at happiness, Hendrik would have grown up as a front-seat witness to a life lived miserably and would have felt an entirely new kind of guilt - but if, as boys, if Norberto had told him that he was going to run away with the circus, if there had been just enough time to make a choice…. What would Hendrik have picked?

His duty was to the king, his goal to be a knight, his dream to serve those that had found him, helped him, made him who he was…. But if Norberto had asked him, genuinely wanting him to abscond at his side… Hendrik may just have gone with him. Just to see him happy. Just to keep him safe - not that he needed it. 

Hendrik could not picture himself on stage, singing or acting or doing tricks. He could not picture himself in feathers and makeup, spitting fire and throwing knives and blowing kisses. 

But, hells, he could not imagine himself in a clown costume either, and look what Sylv had done. Look at what he had brought forth from the depths.

He could not imagine himself in a ring that was not one of combat. He could not imagine himself as he was now having grown up in the circus alongside Sylvando. He… could, however, picture what may have happened afterwards. In more current times. The two of them traveling as a pair. By horseback or even, yes, by boat. Inseparable. Hendrik could imagine, vaguely, an alternative version of himself, in loose tunic and his hair long, his stresses lighter and the world more traveled, playing flamenco on a Valorean guitar as the Stallion drifted to their next port of call, Sylvando's next stage, their duty only into each other and life would be simple and enjoyable. Providing drumroll accompaniment as the show began and a vivid red star crashed to the centre of the ring, drawing all eyes and sparking waves of wonder.

Hendrik could have been many things, if only certain actions had happened. Or not happened.

If Norberto had stayed, perhaps Hendrik would never have lasted long enough to be a knight. Perhaps they would have run away together further down the line, burnt-out and desperate. If Zwaardsrust had survived, perhaps Hendrik would have grown up to be a farmhand, like his father. Perhaps he and Sylvando would have never met at all. If Jasper hadn't -

Hendrik shook his head. What good was second-guessing? There was no changing the past. What was done was done. Norberto was gone.

Hendrik’s struggle thus far was stomaching the fact that Norberto had lived, had lived and was alive and was new and fine. But - that was not the truth. He was gone, long gone, dead and gone, and Sylvando was in his place. The same body and same face and same heart, but a new name, a new life, a new person. If Norberto had stayed, Sylvando would not be alive. And whilst there were tumultuous feelings still over both his own blame and that over the idea of Sylvando actively killing Norberto in order to exist, the blame was fragmented; if anything it was a killing of mercy, and a necessary good that once upon a time might have felt like evil. But it was always bound to happen. Wondering about what-ifs would do nothing. It would not bring Norberto back; nothing could do that. There was no power in the world that could change how things were, that could change the fact that Sylvando was always meant to be here, not Norberto. And here Sylvando was. Here they both were.

They were here, at the right place at the right time, and things could only get better. He was glad he was alive. Despite it all, by the Goddess, he was so, so very glad he was alive. 

He had been looking at him. The entire time. Casting a look over his shoulder at the clown, skin prickled warm and sensitive, breathing uneven, head cloudy and heart, surprisingly, lighter than usual. He could feel it beat against Sylvando’s fingers. Hendrik foggily thought of the sound, the sensation, the repetition that pursued the silence and never let it ought of sight: hoofbeats, drumbeats, heartbeats, all leading back to one place. One person, who used to be another person, and no longer was.

Sylvando glanced up from his concentration, met his eyes - and he raised an eyebrow interestedly before going back to his work, avoiding Hendrik’s gaze for more than a few seconds.

“What's with that face, hm?” Tone coy and pleasant, the slightest smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Hendrik was unsure if he had been making any particular expression; perhaps with the haunting revelation of, yes, in fact, he was rather taken with this person, he had been looking at Sylvando in shock. Perhaps because of the angle over his shoulder, hunched and awkward, he had been looking uncomfortable. Perhaps because of the touch, the sensation, the way his heart beat too quickly, perhaps he had been looking flushed and vulnerable. Either way, Hendrik tried to pick an answer that the clown might enjoy.

“It is the only face that I happen to have.”

A soft chuckle rumbled between them, and those fingers swept in a small half-moon beneath the wound.

“And how lucky am I to see it again, hm?” The tingle of magic grew warmer - not unbearably so, but noticeably so. “I hope I keep seeing it, too.”

The knight felt the edge of his mouth quirk - more so that it already had been. He must have been smiling somewhat. He supposed he was rather pleased right now. This was immeasurably pleasant. All of it.

For so long now, he had expected himself not to last. That he would die in his duty of being Eleven's knight, that he would sacrifice himself along the way or fizzle out soon after justice prevailed due to his injury. Hendrik had marched with the end in sight. But now that end stretched over the horizon, put back with each gentle touch Sylvando blessed him with. There was the possibility that he may just live. Live beyond his means. Live with future past the brink. 

But there was ever-still the possibility that he would not. He would like to live, if possible, but if things boiled down to a point where something must end for others to proceed, Hendrik had always designated himself as sacrificial, and that was fine. It was how a knight thought. He knew Sylvando likely thought in the same pattern - they truly did reflect one another; if one were to look upon a fun house mirror, the other would surely peer back. If it came to themselves or the others, they were the ones taught to both wield and be shields. They would both rather lose a limb or their own lives to prevent the loss of another's. But that was when his thoughts muddied; this… budding friendship with the clown (or whatever it was, unrecognisable and yet so nearly graspable, something Hendrik knew and did not, something he dare not name yet felt in his core), it felt warm, and progressive, and like it too was a path they marched on, steadily yet uncertainly. But… what if one path ran out before the other? The road ahead was one fraught with dangers unparalleled. Hendrik may well die. It was very possible. Likely, even. Here lies Hendrik, buried a fool, seasick and lovestruck. Would it not be kinder to cut this… bond short, as to avoid heartbreak later? He felt sick at the idea of Sylvando mourning him the way he had mourned Norberto. Cupid's poison was in his veins. The sensible thing to do right now was to remain aloof and removed, not let himself grow attached, to further separate himself from The Luminary's Fellowship and simply be chaperone and guide and not a friend and not anything else.

Sylvando's hand smoothed over his back. Unlike last time, the touch skimmed lower for a moment, aside - the jester had found an older scar and was tracing it, inspecting it, brushing over it with the barest caress of fingertips. As if he could heal something already mended.

It was all too late, wasn't it?

Every day Hendrik grew more immersed in the group. More in tune with others. More fond. More able. It was exceedingly difficult to be pragmatic and pessimistic when light kept finding his way to him and illuminating the way forward. When it healed him. Hendrik shook his head a little. It was hopeless - he simply could not be as miserable as he was. Or at least not in the same manner. He was a part of a team, and his oldest friend was here and alive, and they would see this through. For all the things he was unsure of, he was positive in that; they would do this. They would repair this world and rid it of Mordegon, and things would get better, and nothing would break them apart again. 

He would not let the world do so… he would fight not only for The Luminary, but for them all, and for them, he and Sylvando as a pair, in particular. He could be a soldier and a man, and Sylvando could be a knight and a clown, and, if granted the chance, Hendrik would march forward in time with them all and once the world began to heal, as he was healing, he would do what was possible and what was allowed to stay connected to Sylvando. He could not lose anyone else again. But especially not him.

As a boy, and until now, he had dreamed of a future, and then a present, in which the heir of the Rodrigo bloodline marched along his path, that they walked in time towards knighthood. Now he was imagining leaving that path to dance along Sylvando’s. To sail, to be foolish and unburdened, to come home to him; and for home to be the wide open world, filled with stages. He could not lose him again, he could not - he wanted to be by his side. He wanted to want, and he wanted to be wanted, and he wanted happiness. Sylvando’s favourite thing. And he might find it in the future, by him, in his shadow comfortably tapping a beat that Sylvando may just follow in return.

It was too late to avoid damage. The blow had already been withstood. So much had just passed him by without him having the ability to stop it, to be a positive part of it, to appreciate it. For a man his size and age to be avoidant to this extent was... foolish. Sylvando had not made him a fool. He had always been a fool. Sylvando had always been a fool too - even when he had been a knight, even when he had not been Sylvando, he had just been a casing for Sylvando to hide within. The same manner in which steel and leather bound Hendrik in justice, the way in which his armour had cracked open and he had crawled free, exposed and vulnerable and fresh to the world, Sylvando had been hiding until he had grown strong enough and had the right opportunity to break free of his bindings, and had become. He had taken the opportunity as it had presented itself and the world had been made much better for it. Hendrik had to learn from that. Had to stop thinking and start acting. Start saying. To allow himself to be both a fool and a knight.

And at the end of it all, they could sail together.

He realised he had been hanging his head in thought, but through the fall of his hair, Sylvando saw him. The magic stopped, but the feeling of warmth did not leave - a front pressed to his back. A chin rested faintly on the back of his shoulder, and arms came to rest upon his lap, and it all felt exceedingly intimate, and yet natural, and whatever this was, Hendrik enjoyed it. Wherever they were on this path, it was exciting and just bordering on the right kind of uncomfortable. Bordering on overwhelming and too fresh, too similar to last night, yet things had progressed just a little since then. It was new, and nerve-wracking, and there was no one that he would rather have by his side upon it.

“Come on and tell me, then, darling - now what's that smile for?” Sylvando asked, tucked close, but there was still a small bubble of space between him and the wound. Small mercies make a man, and they are of second nature to a knight and to a friend.

“Unlike you to riposte a smile.”

Sylvando gave a pleased hum. “You’ve been in a good mood today.” He observed.

Hendrik raised an eyebrow at the clown - sat as they were, Sylvando’s chin upon his shoulder and Hendrik facing away yet angled to look, their faces were but inches away. Not even that. Hendrik need only shift his weight back for their cheeks to meet and noses to bump. And he could feel his heart bump uncertainly, excitedly at the realisation.

“It… has been a good day.” He said simply. It had been. The journey had been smooth, and one of their own had come home, and pain was dissipating rapidly.

Sylvando gave a thoughtful sound, adjusted himself, looked away from Hendrik’s eyes. Seemed something had been on his mind, and what better time to voice a concern than when pressed to a man’s bare back - one of his hands found the top of Hendrik’s knee and squeezed, and despite the clown no longer looking at him, it felt like a venture to try and maintain additional closeness. The only time the two of them had ever been closer was in bed, as boys, dressed and chaste yet still tangled together. Perhaps some things do not ever fully change.

"...Do you forgive me? For leaving?"

Perhaps he had been thinking of asking that all day, yet had not given himself the chance. Maybe, similar to Sylvando's father, Hendrik was terrifying to face upfront. Perhaps being curled around him from behind was the most comfortable place to bring up the past.

Hendrik drew in a long breath. With the motion, he could feel a pom-pom tickle just above the stitching wound. A reminder truly of how far both of them had gone.

“I... understand your reasoning for leaving. I can see how necessary it was for you, how beneficial it has been for you. I do not think that there ever was anything I could have done to change your mind - and, truthfully, upon reflecting now and seeing things as they are, I believe that even if I had ever the chance to have somehow swayed you from this decision, it would have been incorrect to do so. I… do not wish for you to feel blame, nor regret. Even if, perhaps, in some ways, my feelings may be hurt in some ways. I do understand the reasoning behind your choice. It is one I am… thankful that you made.”

Another soft hum, quiet, and Hendrik could feel Sylvando shift subtly, pressing closer. The hand on his knee slid to the side before faltering, and moving to wrap around Hendrik’s middle from behind in a skewed hug, and Sylvando angled his face again, resting cheek to bare shoulder so he could peer through Hendrik's hair up at him, listening.

“Had things been different, The Luminary’s journey would have been far different. The world might have been in far worse a state. The Luminary has… made parts of me believe in fate, I think. Perhaps this is an aspect of that. Things fall into place as they should. Spare parts find slots that fit them,” Hendrik risked another slight smile, and saw how Sylvando’s eyes flicked downward to catch sight of it, his lips, before returning to his eyes once more. As silver as the sword made just for him, and equally as piercing. A stab wound in and of itself, and from the puncture truth spilled free. “I - do not know if forgiveness is the correct word. I think that some parts of me are still… healing. Metaphorically. Yet all in time. We have time.”

Please tell me we have time went unsaid, but Hendrik for once controlled the tone of his voice enough that it was implied, given enough to be taken.

Sylvando gave a nod, close, trouble, wonderful. The hand skirted up and found the pendant, a loose hold on Hendrik’s loyalty, even though Sylvando did not look elsewhere but Hendrik's face. He just needed to be kept busy. His voice was low and soft, like it had been last night, and there was the faintest spark of pink threatening the edge of his pupils.

“We have all the time in the world.”

A promise, an oath. Diligence and consistency and time - they were a sword and a shield equally and the path forward was one they could march in time. And as the ship swayed and the two of them sat there, it felt as if the universe stretched out before them, moving at a speed too quick to fathom and too slow to process. He could not wish that the two of them were to be as they once had been - for all of Sylvando’s love for doing the impossible, perhaps that was simply a miracle too far. And perhaps it was not even a miracle; they were both so different now. Time had taken them places. Their edges had been warped and their connections altered. They fit in ways they did not before, and things they had once been simply just… were not, not anymore. The boy Sylvando had been was long gone, as he should be, and everything was as it ought to be. Hendrik could not ask for the past to be the present, and he knew that the end had already come. It was Sylvando asking about forgiveness, no one else. There was no one else he could be. There was no one else Sylvando could have ever been. This is who he was now, and who he had always been, and love never died; it just waited and changed as change came. It's Sylvando now. And here they were, and the gap was closing.

He had all the time to get used to that. He had all the time in the world and the length of their journey to figure everything else out around that. The token of fealty was turned in a loose grip before Sylvando’s hand skirted away again, caught its place hugging around Hendrik’s middle again. The pad of a thumb found an old scar, one gained in the years between. Even with healing magic no longer flowing through those fingers, no longer connecting to the damage, Hendrik still felt their effect, still felt emanating waves of benevolence in his spine, gooseflesh along his collar where the jester’s breath brushed, and cruel blush up his throat.

He need only angle his head for that freckle to catch the corner of his lips. Sylvando need only turn his head and lean into him. 

Their friendship would never be what it once was. He was not sure what they were now. There was more. But he did not know what that meant. 

“I am… looking forward to it,” More whisper than anything, but it echoed through the hollowed storage deck, their place of safety akin to a casket; wooden, and for secrets to be buried, and losses to be put aside. “For us to stand as one once more. I have mourned, and longed for, your friendship tremendously, Sylvando.”

There was a flicker. Sylvando looked at one of his eyes and then the other, back again, searching, saying nothing. Pink ebbed in the back of his eyes, flickering, hiding, retreating fast - he did not know if it was a sign of restraint, but the sight of it was becoming a Pavlovian trigger, to see such magic meant that Sylvando felt, and it was a lure closer to him, to them. The years had only made the fool exquisite, and the beat of Hendrik's heart felt denser as emotion-fuelled magic coursed in his veins. He could feel it - the minstrel’s power was that of emotion. Maybe in partaking in this ritual, Sylvando was giving aspects of himself. Maybe they bled into one another. They had always been similar. Close. Not close enough.

Hendrik had had a thousand things he wanted to say. A million things he wanted to ask. Dozens upon dozens of feelings he wished he could verbalise and have heard, infinite connections he wished could be reciprocated.

Somehow it all distilled into a single question, asked lowly and with as much cautious care as he could muster. One single question that had burrowed its way to the forefront of his mind and stayed there, despite all else. Murmured like a prayer, asked with as much devotion.

“...what caused you to be in my bed this morning?”

Sylvando was so close that they shared breath. Hendrik thought that he saw those eyes lower, glancing from holding eye contact to look at his face, his lips. He could not tell. There was the slightest tilt, and for a moment he feared contact would be made, a press to his cheekbone, lower, the distance sealing forever. Alas, instead came his answer, one that caused weight to lodge in his throat and slowly, trepidatiously sink down into the pit of his belly and bake.

“I missed waking up next to you.” 

No petnames, no distractions. A susurration as low as outward tide, laced in fond warmth. Eyes heavy and rapidly staining pink, emotion bleeding fast, tone simmering and honest, close and closer, and Hendrik fought an urge inside him that he had only ever felt in one place: the bed of their childhood, waking up close, the desire to be closer, shut the gap and test the waters, see how well they truly fit together and if it would be reciprocated. That impulse gripped, a grasp against every nerve he had, and he wanted nothing more than to lean closer, initiate, insist.

In the short time they had been reunited, they had not slept simultaneously. Hendrik had been obstinate about that. Last night had been their first opportunity to truly reconnect in many ways. So - Sylvando had - he had missed it? Them? Waking up pressed close, tangled together? Being perched at Hendrik’s feet this morning had been some kind of middle ground, an allowance the clown had granted himself, but - he had missed that, them, and now he was letting Hendrik know in a voice that was almost - sultry. Vulnerable and human, yes, wonderfully so, yes. Hendrik swallowed, lips parted, gaze unwavering at the love of his life. Please. Lean in. Please.

Exposed; tone tender and honest and genuine but the sheer openness of saying such a thing lent something enticingly crackling, unknown, intriguing - a hint of longing, of want, and the expression on Sylvando’s face that Hendrik could only half-see spoke of something vivid and kept quiet, deep and eternal, as dangerous as a biblical leviathan of the sea: and hidden just as well. Like a flame being snuffed, like ice they stood upon cracked sharp and left them both plunging cold, the low tone and lower, more heated look was gone. Vanishing without a trace. The mask of that enragingly familiar, placid smile was snapped back into place in an instant, and Sylvando pulled away entirely, contact broken, face and eyes gone from sight, Hendrik's bare back exposed once more. A moment of connection severed like an infected nerve. Norberto put distance between them. Hendrik was at a loss. A jovial pat came to his shoulder.

“You're all done, baby. Put your clothes back on now, yeah? Don't let yourself catch a chill.”

He took the empty bowls, and went up the stairs in silence, removed, and Hendrik remained set in place, staggered, staring.