Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The land smelled wrong.

Katsuki noticed it before anything else. Before the uneven cobblestone road beneath the carriage wheels, before the open sky that felt far too exposed, before the way the wind touched his face without permission. The air here was thick with smoke and spice and damp earth, layered with the scent of animals and too many bodies living too close together. It was plain and simple in a way the fae courts had never been.

The courts had smelled like silverleaf and frostwater. Like magic held carefully in crystal veins beneath marble floors. Like eternity, because it was destined to be eternal.

This place smelled like sweat and bread and rot. He hated it immediately.

The carriage slowed, wood creaking in protest, and Katsuki’s fingers curled into the fabric of his gloves. Enchanted silk now dulled by iron-thread wards that pressed against his skin like a constant warning. His magic lay coiled and furious beneath them, trapped, simmering, dangerous in its restraint. Every instinct in him screamed at the insult of it. A prince bound. A flame smothered.

Exile, they had called it.

Protection.

Cowards’ words, meant to soften the truth: Run, or die.

The carriage came to a stop at the edge of the border town, where stone buildings leaned into one another like conspirators and laundry lines crisscrossed overhead like prayer flags. Voices drifted through the open air. Laughter, argument, singing, raw and unpolished. There were no wards etched into the streets, no guardians standing silent and eternal. Just people. Fragile, unmagical people, bustling about their short, burning lives as if the world had not ended.

As if fae blood was not still wet on the forest floors beyond the mountains. 

Katsuki clenched his jaw.

“My prince—” Knight Eijirou stopped himself smoothly, correcting course mid-breath. “Katsuki. We’re here.”

That, at least, had been one concession. No titles. No kneeling. No reminders of what Katsuki had lost. Still, hearing his name spoken so plainly felt like another theft.

He didn’t look at Eijirou as he stood, the one who had accompanied him for the past two weeks during his escape, the hem of his traveling cloak brushing the carriage step. The sun hit him immediately, too bright, too warm, unfiltered by glamour or canopy, and he scowled at it, eyes burning. In the fae lands, light had been curated. Here, it was careless.

Eijirou stepped down first, boots hitting stone with a solid, grounding sound. He turned back, offering a hand. Katsuki stared at it for a breath or two. In the court, touch had been a ritual. Measured. Earned and deserved. Hands were tools of magic, of blessing or punishment. A prince did not take help like this.

“I don’t need it,” Katsuki snapped, stepping past him and jumping down on his own. He landed harder than intended, the stone jarred up his legs, unfamiliar and unforgiving. A flicker of embarrassment flared hot in his chest, quickly buried beneath anger.

Eijirou didn’t comment on his stumble, nor did he take offence at the snap. He just fell into step beside him, broad-shouldered and unassuming, sword strapped across his back and shield slung low. He looked out of place here, too solid, too real, like a mountain dropped into a street of clay. But he moved with easy confidence, eyes always scanning, always aware.

Assigned. Chosen. Sworn.

Not wanted.

“This is where I’m supposed to live?” Katsuki demanded, taking in the crooked rooftops, the chipped stone, the humans who glanced at him with lust and then away again without reverence or fear. No one bowed. No one knew. The anonymity scraped at him like a blade.

“For now,” Eijirou said. “It’s safe. Neutral territory. No active hunters.”

“For now,” Katsuki echoed bitterly. “Until they catch the scent.”

“They won’t,” Eijirou said, steady as bedrock. “I won’t let them.”

Katsuki stopped walking. Eijirou halted instantly beside him, turning with a quiet, instinctive readiness that spoke of long training and longer vigilance.

“You say that like it means something,” Katsuki said, eyes sharp, incandescent even without magic. “Like you didn’t already fail me twice.”

The words landed between them, ugly and deliberate. It was not fair and it was not kind, but Eijirou absorbed them without flinching. “I know,” he said simply.

That was… not the response Katsuki had wanted. There was no defensiveness, no wounded pride. Just acceptance, heavy and honest. It stole the rest of Katsuki’s anger mid-breath, leaving it to curdle uselessly in his chest.

They resumed walking.

The house was small. Stone-built, sturdy, tucked between a bakery and a cobbler’s shop. Warm air drifted from the bakery’s open windows, carrying the scent of yeast and sugar. Katsuki’s stomach twisted traitorously.

Inside, the space was simple with wooden floors, a hearth, two rooms upstairs. No glamour. No enchantments beyond the faint protective sigils Eijirou etched into the doorframe with practiced care. “This is temporary,” Katsuki said flatly. ‘’These precautions may not be necessary.’’

“Everything is,” Eijirou replied, not looking up.

Katsuki turned away, pacing to the window. Outside, a child ran past, laughing, chased by another with a stick held like a sword. Their joy was loud and careless and real. Something in Katsuki’s chest ached, sharp and sudden, like a fracture he hadn’t known was there.

He hated this place. 

He hated how alive it was. And, somewhere deep beneath the anger and grief and rage, he hated that a part of him, the smallest, most traitorous part, wondered what it might feel like to breathe here without pain. Behind him, Eijirou finished the last sigil and straightened. “You don’t have to like it,” he said quietly. “You just have to survive.”

Katsuki didn’t answer.

The bells of the town rang the hour, bright and unceremonious, marking time for lives that did not know they were standing in the shadow of a fallen kingdom. And for the first time since the courts had burned, Katsuki realized survival might be harder than dying.

Katsuki turned from the window reluctantly, dragging his gaze from the laughing children outside to the warm flicker of the hearth. The flames threw shadows across the walls, making the room feel smaller, closer, more intimate than any room in the court had ever dared. It was absurd how ordinary it all was. The floors were uneven, the furniture scratched and scarred from decades of use, and yet there was a kind of honest sturdiness here that marble halls could never muster. He hated it. He hated it so much that the ache in his chest twisted sharper, like a betrayal he couldn’t name.

Eijirou moved beside him without asking, settling into the quiet with the kind of ease that made Katsuki bristle. His presence was solid and steady, grounding, like the earth itself had taken human form and chosen to walk beside him. Every prince or princess in the history of fae had been surrounded by servants, advisers, sycophants. Everyone whispering what he should feel, what he should say, what he should do. What was to be expected. And yet here, this human, the one he hated for his calm, for his patience, for the fact that he had been assigned to him — did none of that. He just existed. And in doing so, he demanded that Katsuki notice him, and notice himself.

“You’re staring,” Eijirou said softly, his voice carrying that quiet certainty that never begged, never demanded, just stated. ‘’Staring into fire will only cause you more pain.’’

“I am not,” Katsuki shot back, though his eyes were fixed on the flames dancing in the hearth. He was aware of Eijirou’s presence behind him, a tether he didn’t want to admit he needed, and it made his stomach tighten.

“You are,” Eijirou said. No edge, no accusation. Just a fact.

Katsuki’s jaw clenched. “And what if I am?”

Eijirou shrugged, a lazy, easy gesture that somehow managed to be infuriating. “Then I’ll let you.”

There was a pause, long and heavy, where Katsuki considered how otherworldly this felt. The prince in him had been trained to command, to intimidate, to be untouchable. And yet, here he was, standing in a dusty human house, feeling the tug of a hand he refused to take.

Eijirou moved closer then, casually and without ceremony, and set a hand lightly on the back of a chair, leaning against it. His eyes caught Katsuki’s in a moment that stretched too long, unbroken, and Katsuki wanted to look away but found he couldn’t. There was no heat behind the gaze, no judgment, no expectation. Just a steady, unwavering presence.

“You don’t have to like it,” Eijirou repeated, and Katsuki realized he’d said the same words earlier but now they sounded different. Not a warning. Not a command. Just… permission. Permission to exist, permission to breathe, permission to be small and fragile without shame.

Katsuki hated that, too. Hated it so much he wanted to scream. He wanted to throw something. Wanted to tear these gloves off and burn every single human in existence down to dust. Instead, he closed his fists at his sides and turned back to the window, ignoring the way his heart was thudding in his chest. Outside, the world was alive, chaotic, imperfect. Children’s laughter carried on the wind, dogs barked at street vendors, the smell of fresh bread and smoke clung to everything. He wanted to hate it. He tried. And yet… something in him ached with longing.

Eijirou said nothing more, but just waited. Lletting the silence fill the space between them, letting Katsuki sit with the messy, vibrant world and the quiet steadiness of the man beside him. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Katsuki felt the tight coil of tension in his shoulders loosen, a fraction. A fraction was all it took. One small easing, one tiny crack in the walls he had built around himself since childhood.

“You’ll get used to it,” Eijirou said finally, softer than before. “Or at least… you’ll survive it. And if not, I’ll survive it with you.”

Katsuki’s teeth ground together. That wasn’t the answer he wanted. That wasn’t the fury he needed to throw at someone to feel alive again. And yet, the words sank into him, heavier than any command, warmer than any hearth, and he hated that too. Hated it because they were true.

For a long moment, he simply watched the flames again — Letting them draw patterns he couldn’t name, and listened to the quiet breathing of the man assigned to him, sworn to him. And for the first time in years, he felt something like… possibility. Like maybe, just maybe, there was life beyond smoke and ash, beyond burned forests and lost crowns, beyond being a relic of a dead kingdom.

Eijirou’s hand moved then, just a little, brushing against the edge of Katsuki’s sleeve. Not grabbing, not forcing, just brushing. Katsuki’s head snapped up instinctively, fury and shock and something else tangled together, but Eijirou didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t say a word. Just let him feel it. Let him choose.

He pulled away. 

-

The next morning, Katsuki woke to the smell of smoke and something sweet. Bread, or perhaps fruit cooking in syrup, all drifting in from the street. He had spent half the night staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind rattle the shutters and imagining it was the distant howl of hunters. The thought made his chest tighten, and he had rolled onto his side, curling around the thin, coarse blanket like it could shield him from more than just the chill.

Eijirou was already moving quietly in the room when Katsuki’s finally eyes opened. The man’s boots scuffed lightly against the floor, hands busy arranging a small pile of supplies: water flasks, a satchel, a polished knife, the subtle glint of something sharp that wasn’t meant to alarm Katsuki but inevitably did. Every gesture was precise, economical, almost ritualized, and Katsuki’s stomach knotted with irritation and begrudging admiration. That had always been part of him, hadn’t it? Watching, anticipating and protecting.

He remembered, in flashes he didn’t want to dwell on, the ceremony that had bound them. Not with chains, not with words spoken aloud, but with subtle magic in the form of a touch, a gaze, a name entrusted in silence. Even then, Eijirou had knelt, and his oath had been more than formal. It had been absolute. Katsuki had known it then, had felt it, even if he hadn’t allowed himself to believe in it. Now, mere weeks later, he saw it in every careful arrangement, every unspoken motion, every quiet shadow keeping the room between him and the dangers outside.

“You should eat,” Eijirou said, voice soft but firm, like a bell tolling in the room. A plate of bread and what looked like fried apples rested on the small table by the hearth. Katsuki’s scowl deepened instinctively, the weight of his pride clashing with his gnawing hunger.

“I don’t need it,” he muttered.

“You will.” Eijirou’s eyes flicked to the window, to the street where merchants had begun opening their shutters. “We leave in an hour.”

Katsuki’s scowl sharpened. “Why?”

“Because you can’t stay cooped up here forever.” Eijirou didn’t meet his gaze, not directly, not with anything but quiet attention that somehow saw everything. Not because he didn’t want to, but because Katsuki didn't allow it. “The world outside isn’t safe, but it’s not a cage either.”

Katsuki’s hands tightened around the edge of his embroidered robe, knuckles white. He remembered the forest on the edge of his home kingdom, blackened by hunters’ fire, the echoing screams of the fae who had once walked freely. Who had looked up to him like he was the future itself. Faes who had trusted humans, who had been betrayed. He remembered the smell of ash, the sting of golden blood, the sharpness of his mothers last orders before the kingdom fell apart around them.

He wanted to hate Eijirou for bringing him into another world at all. And yet, even as he thought it, his gaze lingered on the man’s back. On the careful way he packed the satchel, the casual loop of the sword belt, the way he paused for a moment to adjust the strap across his shoulder.

Eijirou’s duties weren’t spelled out. No one had handed him a list, no one had recited the laws of guardianship. But Katsuki had learned anyway. Eijirou moved ahead in town, clearing the path, gauging every passerby. Diverting the curious or reckless with the faintest tilt of his head, a subtle shift in stance. Katsuki noticed it all, scowling even as a part of him marveled. The man was everywhere and nowhere, a constant presence like a shadow he couldn’t shake and, once upon a time, didn’t want to.

They stepped into the street minutes later, and the noise hit Katsuki like a wave. Vendors shouted, carts rattled, children squealed, and the smell of smoke, bread, and animals mingled in a chaotic perfume. Every sense he had trained in the courts screamed at him: watch, listen, calculate. He flinched at every sudden motion, every careless gesture, and every brush of a stranger too close. Back in his lands, touching one of royal blood was not permitted if it were not out of respect. 

Eijirou’s hand hovered near his shoulder, never touching but always ready to. Katsuki hated the tension in his own body, hated how the ghost of comfort, or at least the suggestion of it, made his chest beat too fast.

“You’re tense,” Eijirou said casually, though there was nothing casual about the way his eyes scanned the crowd, mapping threats, measuring distance, calculating escape routes. Katsuki opened his mouth to snap, but no words came. He knew Eijirou was right. “Relax,” Eijirou added, a little softer this time. “Just… notice things. Don’t anticipate death at every turn. Not yet. That's my job”

Katsuki’s lips twitched into a snarl, or maybe the faintest attempt at one, but Eijirou didn’t flinch. He simply adjusted his own step, subtly shielding Katsuki with the side of his body, and continued forward.

By the time they reached the market square, Katsuki was reluctantly aware of small details. The rough wood of the stalls, the way sunlight caught on the brass scales used to measure grain, the scent of fried fruit carried on a breeze that smelled nothing like smoke from burned forests. A child chased a dog, tripping into a puddle that splashed at his ankles and Katsuki noticed the absurdity of it, the simple joy in motion and noise, and hated that he wanted to laugh.

Eijirou nudged him gently to the side when a cart veered too close, a subtle, grounding touch that was fleeting but precise. Katsuki’s pulse jumped, and he stared at the man as if seeing him for the first time. There was no ceremony, no pomp, no declaration. Just a steady, unwavering caress. And yet, it carried the weight of a vow that had outlasted kingdoms, that had survived fire, betrayal, and exile.

Katsuki didn’t speak. He didn’t move away. He didn’t even scowl. For a long moment, he simply walked beside him, breathing in the chaos, the noise of life, and allowed a fragment of trust to slip between them, silent and unclaimed.

Somewhere deep in the market, a bell rang. Children screamed, choirs sang, and a dog barked. Eijirou’s hand brushed against the hilt of his sword, not for threat, but in readiness. 

The sun climbed higher, burning through a haze of smoke from the bakeries and blacksmiths, making the market square shimmer with heat. Every surface seemed alive, the metal of carts glinting, the uneven cobblestones baking underfoot, the wooden beams of stalls curling slightly in the warmth. Katsuki’s eyes, sharp and unblinking, drank it all in, noting the smallest inconsistencies. The tilt of a sign, the uneven load of a cart, the way a cat dodged a child’s reckless chase.

He walked stiffly beside Eijirou, cloak brushing stone and straw, sandals tapping unevenly in irritation. His gaze was sharp and alien among the humans who all didn’t hide their staring. Their gawking, though fleeting, grated like sand against skin. He hated that people looked and didn’t know. He hated that he was here at all. He hated how alive this place was, how everything moved and smelled and breathed in a way that mocked the silence of the court. The careful weight of magic that had once bound his world together.

Eijirou stayed just slightly ahead, hands loose at his sides, eyes always scanning and posture impossibly calm for someone in a place that smelled like smoke and sweat and life. Katsuki had seen him do this before, always with the same quiet vigilance: anticipating danger, measuring movement, bending the world around him to shield the prince without a single word. Every subtle shift in weight, every sidestep, every faint glance toward a potential threat spoke of the same oath that had tied him to Katsuki’s name in blood and whispered magic.

Katsuki didn’t want to notice it. He didn’t want to be impressed. He didn’t want to feel seen.

And yet, every careful, deliberate motion that Eijirou performed made him aware of himself in a way that was infuriating. He could feel the pull of it, that unspoken tether. He hated that he wanted to lash out and test it, push the man’s patience, see if the oath could bend like iron or snap like a twig.

“Careful,” Eijirou murmured, catching the edge of Katsuki’s sleeve as another cart rattled too close. Not with force, not with authority – he had none over Katsuki – just enough to redirect him without his permission. Katsuki jerked slightly, heart pounding, and glared, though the glare was more instinct than intent.

“I don’t need your hand,” he said, voice low but sharp.

“You might,” Eijirou replied simply. No inflection, no challenge. Just a fact, laid bare, like the smooth stone of a wall. Katsuki’s jaw tightened so fast he thought it might crack.

They passed a stall where a merchant was selling brightly colored fabrics, and Katsuki’s eyes caught on the shimmering threads, the way sunlight made them dance like liquid fire. He turned away abruptly, disgusted with himself for noticing beauty in a world that had burned his. He hated that a small, rebellious part of him still ached for it.

Eijirous hand pulled up to gently pull at the fabric, sensing Katsuki's interest like it was a spoken language. “Don’t,” Katsuki snapped, though his voice lacked real venom. The human nearby flinched, and Katsuki felt a prick of annoyance. Not at the man, but at himself.

Eijirou didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He simply stepped closer, letting his shoulder brush Katsuki’s in the narrow lane, moving them out of the way of the cart, shielding him without fuss. The contact was brief, almost accidental, yet it left a spark in the prince’s chest he wasn’t ready to name. His fingers twitched inside his gloves.

Katsuki wanted to be angry. He needed to be angry. So he focused on the people around him. Their messy, ordinary lives. He imagined their ignorance, their fragility. He imagined hunters hiding behind every stall, ready to tear him apart. And in that imagined fear, he allowed himself a little control. A glare at a careless boy, a curt nod to a merchant who had smiled too brightly in his direction.

Eijirou stayed beside him, steady as a mountain. Never judging, never scolding. Just present, quiet and unwavering. And that made Katsuki’s blood boil almost as much as the heat of the sun overhead. 

The market twisted and swayed around them, a living organism of shouts and clanging metal and the scent of things burning, fermenting, and rotting. Katsuki stalked through it like a predator, shoulders rigid, chin high, every movement precise. He caught the sunlight on the edge of a knife in a merchant’s stall and flinched instinctively, not because of danger, but because he hadn’t been allowed to flinch in years. In the courts, flinching was a luxury he could not afford. It showed weakness, cowardice. Now, in this messy, noisy human world, it was unavoidable, and he hated it.

Somewhere ahead, a small group of children was playing. One tumbled into a puddle of mud, laughing, and the sound carried on the wind, raw and untamed. Katsuki’s stomach clenched instinctively, not with hunger or anger, but something unfamiliar, something prickling behind his ribs, like the echo of a memory he hadn’t wanted to recall. He didn’t look at the children directly, of course. He didn’t dare. He simply walked past them, scowling at their cheerfulness as if sheer will could erase the world’s audacity.

Eijirou’s presence was steady beside him, almost casual. His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, not as a threat but as a subtle shield, a barrier between Katsuki and the unpredictable chaos of life. Katsuki’s eyes flicked to him for just a moment, and in that glance he saw the unyielding certainty of duty. No command. Not instruction. Duty. Absolute and quiet, the kind that had carried them both out of burned forests and into exile, the kind that had survived oaths whispered in shadowed halls.

“You’re still tense,” Eijirou said, almost conversationally, as if reading thoughts as easily as he read the uneven cobblestones.

“I’m fine,” Katsuki spat, though the edge of his words betrayed the tension in his shoulders, the tight grip on his cloak, the way his jaw flexed as though he were grinding it down to dust.

“You’re not,” Eijirou said, as easily as naming the sky above them. And Katsuki hated him for it, hated the fact that Eijirou could see through him so effortlessly.

They passed a street musician, a young man with a lute strung across his chest, plucking at the strings with fingers calloused and sure. The music spilled into the air, light and nimble, carrying laughter and grief and something else Katsuki couldn’t name. His lips twitched involuntarily, an almost-smile, sharp and bitter, but it was there, a flicker he tried to crush beneath a scowl.

Eijirou’s eyes followed the movement, and Katsuki felt it like a pressure. Soft and constant, a weight that was at once grounding and infuriating. He hated the quiet insistence of Eijirou’s vigilance, the way the man could be there without being seen, the way his presence carved a path through chaos without asking permission. Katsuki couldn’t do that. His blood was cursed, he had magic flowing though his veins, an uncast glamour allowing a pure and innocent beauty cast over his appearance. Fae’s, especially those of royal blood, could not be unwanted. 

And Katsuki hated it.

A dog ran past them, yipping and snapping at a rolling barrel. Katsuki flinched, stepping back instinctively, and Eijirou’s hand brushed against his elbow. He didn’t grab it, not really, but brushed over it. The contact anchored him for a split second. His pulse jumped, sharp and frantic, and he turned his glare toward Eijirou, hot and furious, but there was no accusation there, no malice, only…something.

“You don't need to be knightly at every given possibility.’’ Katsuki muttered, voice low. ‘’You can calm down.’’

“Not yet,” Eijirou said, neutral and almost bored. But Katsuki felt it like a pulled string, and it made him clench his fists in frustration rather than gratitude. 

They moved past the stalls, past the shouting merchants and the smell of fried fruit, past the children who had begun a new game, their laughter bouncing off the walls and cobblestones. Katsuki’s gaze flicked to them again, fleeting, unwilling, and he caught the sparkle of sunlight in a child’s hair and the careless tilt of a head, and his stomach twisted with something raw and unfamiliar. Longing, maybe, or nostalgia, or perhaps just recognition of what had been stolen from him. He didn’t look at Eijirou, and didn't want to.

For all his fury, for all his resentment and grief and beauty etched like frost across his skin, Katsuki allowed himself one small, bitter acknowledgment: he was alive. Not just breathing. Not just surviving. Alive. Alone. And it terrified him. 

Eijirou didn’t comment. He never did. He just walked beside him, steady and unshakable, letting Katsuki wrestle with the world, letting him rage, letting him resist. And yet, through the heat, the noise, the chaos, he guided him gently and subtly, without the prince ever fully noticing.

Katsuki scowled at a basket of fruit rolling lazily down the street. He had no reason to be irritated by it, and yet he was. He hated this place. He hated the way it made him feel so small and so alive at the same time. He hated the way the sunlight turned every ordinary thing into something worth looking at. He hated Eijirou for standing beside him without speaking, for watching him without comment, for existing like a stone in the rushing river of life.

The sun began its slow tilt toward evening, burning the edges of the buildings gold and orange. The market’s chaos softened as merchants began closing their stalls, dragging shutters down with harsh, metallic clanks. The children’s laughter faded into the distance, replaced by the occasional bark of a dog or the squeal of a cart wheel. Katsuki’s shoulders ached from the constant tension, from the endless vigilance of navigating streets that smelled too much and felt too alive.

He hadn’t spoken much – not because he didn’t want to, but because words felt meaningless here. Words could not carry fire or ash or the weight of the dead forest that haunted his memory. And Eijirou never pressed. Never asked. Never questioned. He simply walked beside him, letting the prince carry his anger and his grief and his fury however he chose. And Katsuki hated him for it. Hated him for being steady, unshakable, unrelenting in his silent watch. Everything the prince of magic needs in his sworn knight. He wants to lash out, wants to break free from these gloves that force down everything he is, everything he represents. He wants so desperately for Eijirou to do something that breaks the laws of this oath that bind them. But Eijirou never does, and never will. 

Finally, they make their way back as the sun starts dropping, reaching the small, unassuming house that announced itself their temporary refuge, walls smelling faintly of smoke and stone. Katsuki stepped back inside, feeling the shift immediately. The quiet, the shadows, the way the air seemed still, almost reverent. He wanted to shout, to curse, to shake the world and demand it bend to him. Instead, he crossed the room in a single, scowling sweep, brushing aside a chair as if it had personally offended him.

Eijirou followed calmly as always, laying out a few provisions on the table without a word. Water, bread, a small pot of stew that sent an almost insulting aroma into the room. He moved with precision, every gesture practiced, every motion purposeful. Katsuki noticed it all: the subtle glint of his knife in the firelight, the careful placement of a shield near the door, the way he paused mid-step to glance at the locks and the hinges, at the luminescent runes. Every move was protection, even in the quiet, even in a place that seemed impossibly mundane.

Katsuki’s hands clenched into fists. He wanted to scream, to fling the bread across the room, to accuse the world of everything that had been lost. And yet, beneath that fire, he could feel the faint tug of something else. Not comfort, not kindness. Just safety, in a way. And it maddened him.

Eijirou finally spoke, softly, almost casually. “The doors are secured. Nothing will come in tonight.”

Katsuki glared at him. “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

“I know,” Eijirou replied. No hint of offense, no need for argument. Just a statement, as solid as the wood beneath their feet.

Katsuki wanted to argue, wanted to rail against him and the world and everything that had brought him here. But the words stuck in his throat. The quiet of the room, the faint smell of smoke and stew, the steady, unwavering presence of the man who had sworn himself to him, pressed down in a way he had no strategy to deflect.

He paced instead, long strides across the room, dainty sandals that lace up against his legs scraping on wooden floors. His mind wandered, briefly, to the forests that had burned, to the throne he would never sit upon now, to the courtly rituals that had once dictated every flicker of his existence. A flash of memory, the delicate brush of a hand across a crystal goblet, the hum of magic in the walls, the ceremonial bend of his mothers gaze. Sharp, assessing, unyielding. The world he had lost was gone, and he could not touch it, could not summon it, could not reclaim it. He was powerful, beneath these gloves, but even he could not bring back what was lost. 

Eijirou did not interrupt. He never did. He merely adjusted the fire, nudging logs into place, glancing at the window as though measuring shadows, listening for the faintest sound outside. Every motion was quiet, unremarkable, yet carried a weight that Katsuki could not ignore. The prince could not accuse him of overstepping, because he did nothing of the sort. He could only feel the presence, steady and immovable, shaping the air around him.

Katsuki’s anger simmered. It curled around him like smoke, sharp and bitter, even as a strange, reluctant awareness crept in. An acknowledgment that he was not alone, not physically. That the world outside could not touch him here. That perhaps, in this mundane little house with its uneven floors and quiet hearth, survival might be possible.

But was it worth it?

He flopped onto the narrow bed, robe brushing the floor, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His jaw ached from scowling, his hands itched to flex and shape the world as he had once done. The firelight flickered across his features, softening the sharpness of his cheekbones, highlighting the pale glow of his skin, the otherworldly quality of his eyes. He was beautiful, dangerous, untamed and entirely unwilling to bend to this slow, human rhythm that Eijirou carried like a stone at his side.

Eijirou crouched near the door to quietly check the runes again, arranging his gear for the night, adjusting a strap on his sword. Katsuki watched him out of the corner of his eye, heart stubbornly ignoring the tug of gratitude or relief. The man was there, always there, and yet so quiet that he felt almost like part of the walls themselves at times. A shadow he could not touch, could not own, could not defy.

The room was quiet then, save for the soft crackle of the fire and the distant, muffled sounds of life outside. Katsuki’s chest rose and fell with sharp, shallow breaths. He wanted to hate everything. He wanted to seethe. He wanted to be anywhere but here.

And yet, somehow, he could not stop himself from noticing the warmth of the fire, the subtle scent of smoke and cooked bread, the steady, unyielding presence of Eijirou at his side. And that, Katsuki realized, was perhaps the most infuriating thing of all.

The night settled like a cloak over the little house, heavy and still. Outside, the wind whispered through the narrow streets, rustling loose papers and tossing stray leaves in lazy spirals. From the distance a bird chirped, then nothing. The world had slowed, or perhaps it had finally remembered to tread lightly around the living remnants of a kingdom that had died.

Katsuki lay on the narrow bed, body rigid, eyes open, staring at the ceiling as though it could offer answers he had long since stopped seeking. Shadows flickered in the corners, pulled by the firelight that cut across the room in thin, trembling ribbons. Eijirou had untied the strings around his legs, gently caressed the tension free from underneath his toes, and they now stood next to Eijrous by the door. 

He could hear Eijirous breathing, his movements as he checked every window, every spring, everything that could signal danger for the hundredth time. Every sound the man made was deliberate, economical and unobtrusive, and yet it pressed on Katsuki like a constant, invisible weight.

He wanted to scream at him. Wanted to tell him to leave, to stop hovering, to stop existing as a reminder that he had survived. That the world still moved on despite fae’s ashes in the wind. And yet… he could not. He could not bring himself to speak the words, to break the silence that Eijirou maintained as if it were a shield around him.

The prince’s mind wandered, as it always did at night, to the forests that had burned, to the screams that still lingered at the edge of memory, to the halls of his court that had once gleamed like living crystals. He remembered the faint smell of silverleaf, the hum of magic beneath the marble floors, the ritualized motions of courtiers and servants alike. He remembers the feeling of magic beneath his fingertips, casting shadows of fire and light across his chambers. He remembers Eijirou there, laughing with him. 

Each memory was sharp and bright, impossible to touch, and yet it clawed at him, reminding him of all he had lost.

Eijirou did not speak. He did not intervene. He simply moved near the fire, settling quietly on the edge of the room. Hands resting on his knees, posture loose but ready. Katsuki could feel the subtle shift in the air when the man exhaled, the faint, grounding pressure of presence that said I am here. Always. And he hated it. Hated it with the force of a wind that had once toppled kingdoms.

He rolled onto his side, facing away from the door, away from Eijirou, from the quiet insistence of care that the knight radiated. But even in that movement, he felt the invisible tether tighten slightly like the pull of gravity he could not resist. His hands curled beneath the blanket, knuckles white, heart hammering against ribs he could not still. He hated the vulnerability he could not deny, hated the warmth that he could not expel, hated the simple, infuriating fact that he was alive in a way he had not deserved to be.

The fire shifted, throwing sparks that danced along the walls. Katsuki watched them flicker and fade, sharp and ephemeral, and felt another ghost of a memory. The moment he had first sworn his knight, the cold, ceremonial floor beneath him. No longer friends, no longer partners in mischief, their relationship melting to duty. The weight of a name entrusted in silence. The strange, fierce loyalty he had seen in Eijirou’s eyes even then. And somehow, even now that loyalty endured, unbroken and unyielding. But different. 

He wanted to hate it. He tried. He rolled over onto his back once more, pulling the blanket up to his chin, narrowing his eyes at the ceiling. But he could not ignore it entirely. Not the sound of Eijirou’s quiet movements, not the faint scent of iron and leather and something clean, almost grounding. Not the way the knight’s gaze seemed to measure and guard without intrusion.

Minutes stretched into hours, the night settling heavier and quieter. Katsuki’s chest rose and fell, breaths shallow, heart taut. Somewhere deep in him, something stubborn stirred, not comfort, not trust, not forgiveness, but awareness. That he was not alone. That the world had not completely abandoned him. That this human, this steady, infuriating, immovable presence was still here, guarding him without asking, without demanding, without explanation.

He hated it. He hated it so much that he could hardly bear the awareness of it. The impossible, quiet weight pressing against the raw edges of his grief and anger. 

The night deepened, and then softened, as if the darkness itself was being stretched and pulled toward something tentative, fragile. The fire had dwindled to glowing embers, throwing long, trembling shadows across the walls. The house was utterly still, save for the occasional creak of the wooden floor or the distant whistle of wind through the crooked streets.

He could feel Eijirou’s presence even without turning, an anchor of quiet strength at the edge of the room, a constant, unspoken vigilance. The man had settled into a loose crouch by the door in the morning, every muscle taut yet relaxed, ready for any threat the sun might bring. Katsuki’s jaw clenched at the thought, at the impossible constancy of it. He hated the calm, hated the assurance, hated the fact that someone could exist so unshakably in the same space as him and make him feel… tethered.

Hours passed in silence. The wind outside had died down to barely a whisper, and Katsuki’s sharp, elfin ears caught every small sound. The soft rustle of fabric as Eijirou shifted, the faint creak of the bedframe, the slow crackle of the dying embers. He felt like a creature of another world here: fragile, sharp, luminous in ways the humans would never respect. He flexed his hands beneath the blanket, feeling the strange ache of unused magic bound deep inside him, coiled and simmering, and cursed it silently. In the courts, his presence had commanded attention. Here, stripped of magic, stripped of his wings, stripped of everything – he was… something else entirely. Something small. Something exposed, without the means to protect himself. 

The first brush of dawn crept in through the shutters, pale and hesitant. It gilded his hair, catching each strand separately and turning it to fire. The sun made the sharp angles of his cheekbones sharper, the curve of his neck more delicate. He hated that it made him beautiful. Hated that it made him look like what he had been. Untouchable, ephemeral, a prince, a remnant of a kingdom no one alive now could remember.

Eijirou stirred then, just slightly, adjusting his position near the door. The knight had not slept on the bed with Katsuki as the prince wouldn't allow it, but hadn't slept on the couch like Katsuki assumed he would neither. Katsuki’s eyes flicked toward him, not in anger, not entirely, but from an instinctive, protective awareness that humans rarely inspired in him. 

The faint smell of morning drifted in: smoke from distant hearths, wet stone, damp straw. Katsuki’s chest tightened, a memory flickering like the light on his wall. Forest ash, burned leaves, the smell of the dead and dying, the last orders his father had shouted before the hunters arrived. The world was reduced to that smell and memory, and yet… dawn carried a different scent, one that promised possibility even if he refused to accept it.

Eijirou’s gaze caught him from the edge of the room, calm and unassuming. He did not speak. He did not comment. He simply watched, steady as the stones beneath their feet, a constant reminder that someone remained. And Katsuki’s chest burned, not from warmth and not from gratitude, not yet, but from the impossible, infuriating fact that someone could endure him, endure his rage, his grief, his fury, and simply remain.

Katsuki flexed his legs beneath the blanket, muscles coiled and rigid, and tried to remind himself of all the reasons to hate him. The world that had burned his people, the hunters who had stolen his home, the magic that had been bound and denied. All of it came from Eijirou’s people, Eijirou's kind. But even as he forced the scowl back onto his face, even as he stiffened in defiance, he could feel the slightest pull, the faintest doubt, and it unsettled him.

The firelight had almost vanished. Katsuki turned his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, toward Eijirou. He didn’t speak. He didn’t soften. He didn’t want to. But his body, his senses, his very presence leaned subtly, unwillingly, toward the silent guardian at the door.

Eijirou’s lips twitched faintly, almost knowing, as if acknowledging the shift. The tiny, guarded allowance. He did not move closer. Did not reach out. Did not intrude. He simply remained, steady, ready and unshakable, and the weight of his silence pressed into Katsuki like a second skin.

The dawn deepened, brushing the edges of the room with even more sunlight, and Katsuki let himself feel it for a moment. Awareness that he was alive. Awareness that someone remained beside him when the world had tried to burn him out. Awareness that the fire in him, the fury, the grief, the beauty, the magic, was not entirely alone.

And he hated it, and he hated Eijirou for it. 

Katsuki sat himself up on the edge of the narrow bed, naked feet dangling above the floor, night robe falling around him in a dark, heavy sweep. His hair caught the light in flashes of copper and gold, the faint iridescence of his skin glowing like frost on glass. He scowled at it reflexively, as though the sun itself were mocking him for surviving, for existing, for being beautiful in a world that had stolen everything from him.

Eijirou was already moving, quietly and without ceremony. He came forward with Katsuki's stringed sandals in hand, checked the locks on the door on his way, and surveyed the small room with practiced precision. Every motion spoke of years of duty and vigilance, of a life shaped entirely by the need to protect. Katsuki watched him from the bed, sharp eyes tracing the curve of his shoulders, the tilt of his jaw, the calm certainty in his every gesture as the redheaded knight pulled the string around his calves and legs with practised motions. He hated it, and yet he could not look away.

“You’ll need to eat,” Eijirou said finally, voice low, neutral, like stating the time of day or the weather outside.

“I’m not hungry,” Katsuki muttered, not looking at him, refusing the plate of bread and fruit that Eijirou set on the table. The words came out sharp, defensive, but they lacked venom. The prince’s anger was a slow burn, a simmer beneath the surface, always present, but never quite spilling over.

“You should,” Eijirou said, voice softening just a fraction. “We’ll be moving through the town soon. There’s little room for weakness if someone sees you unprepared.”

Katsuki’s jaw flexed. He hated that even in exile he had to be reminded that the world was dangerous, that hunters still prowled edges he could barely imagine. He hated that Eijirou had already anticipated it, already prepared, already made the world safer for him without him even asking.

He pushed himself up from the bed, robe brushing the floor as he stood up. Sandals hit the uneven planks with a hollow sound that echoed faintly in the quiet room as he moved to the small window, pushing aside the shutter just enough to peek out. The street below was beginning to stir with merchants dragging carts, children stumbling out of doorways, the faint smell of bread and smoke drifting up. Everything felt loud, intrusive, alive. Undeserving, all things considered. Eijirou came up behind him, silent as always, his presence a blessing Katsuki could not touch, could not command, could not evade. He hated it. Hated the fact that he felt safer from it.

“We leave soon,” Eijirou said, voice neutral, but his eyes flicked to the street, calculating, measuring. “You should be ready.”

Katsuki didn’t respond, just watched the humans below, the ordinary chaos of life unfolding in careless bursts. He hated them. He hated their ignorance, their laughter, their trivial joys. He hated that the sight of them made him ache with something he could not name.

He turned sharply to Eijirou, words clipped and precise. “Why must I follow their streets? Their smells? Their chaos?”

“You’re not following,” Eijirou replied. “You’re moving through.”

Katsuki’s hands clenched at his sides. He hated the calm authority with which Eijirou spoke, the quiet certainty that left no room for argument. And yet, even as he resisted, even as he bristled, even as he felt the familiar flare of anger rise in his chest, he knew he could not deny that Eijirou would not fail. Not here. Not now.

He swallowed hard, jaw tight, and muttered, almost to himself, “I’m alive. That’s all.”

Eijirou said nothing. He simply nodded once and began moving toward the door. Ready to guide them both through the streets that awaited, through the world that had not yet forgiven them, through the fragile, dangerous balance of survival and life.

Katsuki followed, body heavy, cloak wrapped around him tightly, eyes sharp and unyielding. He did not speak, did not soften and did not yield. 

-

The carriage rolled to a halt at the edge of the river, wheels clattering against uneven stones. Dawn had softened to a pale morning, the fog rising in curling wisps off the water like restless spirits. Katsuki stepped down first, once again, feet hitting the wet earth with deliberate weight. He paused at the bank, hands clasped behind his back, jaw tight, eyes sweeping the far shore. His sharpened ears twitched, the golden rings cut through them flirting with the wind. The river was calm here, a muted silver under the pale sky, but even the tranquility could not soothe the storm that clung to him like a second skin.

Eijirou followed silently, close enough that Katsuki could feel the warmth of his presence brushing the edges of his awareness. The knight moved with the ease of someone who had walked this earth a hundred times, yet he never interrupted, never intruded. He simply let the prince take the first step, steadying him not with words but by being there, a constant that could not be ignored.

Katsuki’s eyes lingered on the water, on the way it rippled against the stones, how the reflection of the sky fractured into tiny, glimmering fragments. He thought of the forests of his homeland, of halls now gone, of the people whose faces were etched into memory but whose voices had faded like mist. The river there had been filled with water spirits and Sirens, glowing koi fish enchanted by the moon goddess, following every moment on land with cautious curiosity. Sometimes, even Mermaids came up to indulge in whispered conversations. 

His chest tightened as grief pressed against his ribs. He had survived, escaped, but survival alone was no victory. This survival carried weight, loneliness, loss, the sharp ache of beauty and power now rendered useless in a world that did not see him for what he was.

He shifted his stance, restless, hands flexing behind his back. The river flowed onward, uncaring, unstoppable, and he hated it for its ease. Its indifference and its quiet continuity. His mind drifted, unbidden, to Eijirou. Not here as he is now, not bound by duty, but as he had been. A boy laughing under sunlight, daring and reckless. Vanishing one day without warning, leaving him hollow, searching, furious. The memory was sharp, like a blade pressed against the inside of his chest.

Eijirou cleared his throat subtly behind him, and Katsuki’s eyes flicked to him. The knight looked as if he had wanted to speak, but yet he did not at the sight of Katsuki's expression. He did not offer comfort nor did not move closer. He merely adjusted the strap on his leg, a simple dagger buried inside. He too glanced at the bank, and shifted his weight slightly, as if understanding what kind of emptiness Katsuk felt from its simplicity. A single, small motion that conveyed everything. Alertness, protection, understanding. Katsuki felt it like a hair strand, invisible yet impossible to shake.

“I hate this,” Katsuki muttered finally, voice low and tight. Not to Eijirou, exactly, not entirely, but the words carried because the man’s presence absorbed them all without comment. “I hate that the world goes on without thought of what has been lost. That I am… here. Abandoned and helpless.”

Eijirou’s gaze remained steady, unwavering. He did not speak, and yet the silence itself carried reassurance. He understood, without needing to confirm it, without needing to say a single word. He had always understood, in childhood, in absence, in return, in the weight of a vow he had taken weeks before. An oath to protect, to endure, to remain.

Katsuki turned his gaze back to the river. He hated the ache in his chest, the sting of memory, the pull of someone who had been gone and returned. His fingers twitched, flexing, aching to summon power he could not release here. He hated that too, the uselessness of it. The beauty restrained, fire caged inside him while the river flowed free.

‘’You are not abandoned, my prince.’’ Eijirou whispered after a breath of wind, almost unnoticeable, and Katsuki pretended he didn't hear it. 

The sun climbed higher, brushing light across the water. A small flock of birds rose from the reeds, startled, and Katsuki’s eyes followed them with a sharp, almost predatory attention. He thought, fleetingly, of flight. Of the power that had once been his to command, of freedom denied. A prince trapped by circumstance and memory, by grief and duty, moving through a human world that could never see him.

Eijirou shifted slightly, just enough closer that Katsuki’s awareness flickered to unease. His jaw flexed in irritation, and yet he did not pull away in response. Could not. Even in his anger, even in his mourning, even in the simmering fire that ran beneath his calm exterior, he felt the bond tighten.

The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable. Full of weight and unspoken thoughts. Full of understanding, still. Full of everything that had passed between them before, during, and after.

Katsuki exhaled slowly, deliberately, chest rising and falling. He hated the relief he could feel creeping into his veins, and hated the faint ease that came with Eijirou’s quiet watch. And yet he did not break, did not wear his heart on his open sleeve. He would not allow it. He remained formal, rigid, unyielding. A prince in hiding, a fae in mourning, a creature out of time and place. Eijirou adjusted the strap of his sword again, a tiny motion, and Katsuki revered it. 

Katsuki turned fully to the river, eyes catching the shimmer of morning on the water. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he still did not speak further. He did not need to. He was angry, he was mourning. Eijirou felt it too, so justification was not needed. 

A cart rattled too close to the riverbank, sending a clatter of stones skittering beneath the wheels. One of a group of men leaned over the edge of the cart, a crude grin splitting his face, and called out loud enough for the echo to carry. “Careful there, noble boy! Don’t fall in, or we’ll have to fish you out!”

Katsuki froze. The words struck like knives, simple and careless, yet sharp enough to ignite every coil of fury within him. His hands flexed at his sides, fists tightening, yet he did not move. Not yet. There was a rhythm to his restraint, a formal precision born of years of command and expectation. Every inch of his posture radiated both anger and control, the simmering power of a prince who had lost everything but the sharpness of his mind and the strength of his title.

Eijirou twitched just so beside him, silent. He did not step forward, did not intervene. He simply positioned himself subtly, a living anchor, letting Katsuki’s anger flare without allowing it to spill into danger if the situation called for it.

Katsuki’s gaze lifted, icy and unyielding, catching the reflection of sunlight on the river behind the men. The water shimmered like silver glass, but the calmness of it only made his chest ache more sharply. He remembered forests in golden reputation, the palace gates shattered, laughter and voices lost to smoke. Every careless human sound felt like a violation of that memory, an echo of the cruelty and indifference of a world that had absolutely no right.

“Do you not know what you mock?” Katsuki’s voice was low, steady, and precise. The anger trembled beneath the surface but did not break, a controlled current running beneath polished stone. His eyes glowed red just enough to make the men freeze, unsure, sensing the weight behind the words. The presence of something beyond human, something untouchable yet dangerous.

Eijirou’s hand brushed near the hilt of his sword, subtle. Katsuki felt it, the same tether he had felt all morning, the same unwavering certainty that had drawn him from memory to present. It was not comfortable. It was not guidance. It was an understanding, a silent promise that the world could not touch him while Eijirou stood there, reading the currents of danger and grief as if he had always been beside him, even when he was gone.

The men muttered among themselves, unease creeping into their voices, and Katsuki’s jaw flexed. He did not move and did not find more words to be necessary. The fire in him simmered beneath the surface, restrained in the silky gloves but visible to anyone who knew where to look. And Eijirou remained perfectly still, waiting, absorbing the tension without a single use of muscle.

Katsuki’s eyes flicked to the river again, to the sunlight catching in his hair and along the faint iridescence of his skin. He thought of Eijirou as he had been, a boy in the courtyard, taking care of the fairies in the royal garden. Now older, steadier, silent, the same presence that had always understood him, always returned, always anchored him when the world threatened to undo everything.

The men finally stumbled away with nervous steps, leaving their cart leaning awkwardly, muttering curses that sounded small and trivial in the quiet morning. Katsuki exhaled slowly, deliberately, jaw tight, chest rising and falling in careful rhythm. He did not relax or allow relief to settle even as the men disappeared behind overgrown bushes and trees. He was still a prince, still a survivor, still a fae in mourning, and every inch of him radiated the fire of that loss.

Eijirou stepped closer, just enough to brush the edge of Katsuki’s cloak without touching him. Katsuki’s gaze flicked to him, icy and cold, yet somewhere deep beneath the surface, a mutual acknowledgement passed. A thread of memory, of loyalty, of trust that had survived.

“You would have struck, wouldn't you?” Katsuki said finally, voice quiet, formal, more to himself than to Eijirou. ‘’Had I not spoken?’’

“I would've," Eijirou replied evenly, tone low and calm. “And yet restraint is strength on its own, is it not?”

Katsuki’s lips pressed into a thin line. He hated the faint comfort that pricked at his chest, hated the tether he could neither resist nor name. He nodded slowly, a small twitch of his lips that showed his unwanted amusement. He would not soften, not yet, but he did not step away either. 

Side by side, silent and deliberate, they turned from the riverbank and continued along the morning streets. The world remained careless, loud and indifferent. But the prince’s fury and grief, his precision and control, remained bound to a presence that needed no words.

The riverbank gave way to the narrow, winding paths once more, the fog thinning into pale sunlight. Katsuki’s golden sandals struck the dirtpath in a precise rhythm, white cloak brushing the edges of the cobbles. The morning air carried the scent of damp grass, fresh roses, and the faint tang of fish from the boats further downstream. 

A shout tore through the street, suddenly. A boy from a market stall had tripped over a loose log, and a young man standing nearby laughed, loud and careless. The boy had scraped his knee, the fabric of his trousers now tousled and striped due to the gravel, was clearly holding in tears in front of his audience. The young man stepped forward with shoulder shaking in repressed chuckles, “Watch your step, boy!’’

Katsuki’s head snapped toward the voice. His irises glimmered with sharp light, copper and gold catching the sun like molten metal. His hands flexed at his sides, the shimmer of unused energy leaving static. Every line of his body radiated tension: anger, pride, and the faint ache of loneliness. How dare he laugh at the sight of someone hurting?

Eijirou’s presence moved with him, subtle but unshakable. He stepped to the side, eyes scanning every edge, every shadow, every human heartbeat in the street. Katsuki felt it, the tether, quiet and invisible, impossible to resist. He hated it, hated the calm it brought, hated that the fire in his chest bent ever so slightly to it.

Katsuki walked forward until he had stood himself between the man and the boy, all eyes on him. Scowling and distancing. ‘’Leave him alone.’’

The man continued, emboldened, taking in the pointed ears under Katsuki’s hooded cloak that had been pushed back due to the wind. “Fae, are you? No wonder you look like a delicate piece of art. Best stay out of our streets, lest someone find you.”

Katsuki’s jaw flexed. The words, casual and careless, ignorant, struck a nerve older than the insult itself. He wanted to strike. Needed to strike. Not at the man, exactly, but at the careless world that had taken everything from him. Eijirou’s hand hovered near the hilt of his dagger, ready should the situation escalate, but he did not move forward. His mere shadow held Katsuki in check, a silent assertion that he would guard the prince from harm while allowing the anger its natural flow. Katsuki’s chest rose and fell, the pull of grief and fury coiling tight like a bowstring.

“You speak as though you understand the weight of what is lost,” Katsuki said finally, voice precise and accusing, carrying the chill of a wintered blade. “Yet you know nothing. You see only the surface of me and not the kingdoms that are ashes, not the forests that no longer breathe, not the lives you failed to protect.”

The man faltered, sensing something beyond human comprehension in those words, and Eijirou’s gaze flicked briefly to Katsuki, steady and assessing but not interceding. Just support, perfect and unwavering. Katsuki’s eyes softened ever so slightly, though the edges remained sharp as shards of glass. ‘’Do you find entertainment in poking fun at those who fall?’’

The street stretched before him, narrow and winding. The man hesitated, unsure of the quiet, impossible weight before them. Katsuki exhaled, controlled, letting the anger simmer beneath the surface. Not extinguished but restrained. His gaze flicked to Eijirou, ever steady, ever silent, and he allowed himself the smallest acknowledgment of the tether. The humans finally shuffled past, muttering among themselves, leaving the street quiet once more. 

Katsuki looked down at the crumpled boy who was staring back up at him with eyes filled in wonder. He bent down, grabbed hold of the boy's tiny arm, and helped him stand. ‘’Do you have a home?’’ he asked, voice rough but kind. The boy nodded slowly, almost starstruck and nonverbal at the sight of Katsuki's glittering skin. 

Katsuki exhaled slowly, deliberately, and turned his gaze back to the dirtpath in the morning light to continue his path. He did not speak again, and did not forget.

-

This was a long time coming, in his defense. 

The room was cold today, the fire in the hearth struggling to cast more than a faint, trembling light. Katsuki sat on the edge of the table, hands clasped tightly in his lap, the gloves on his hands biting at his skin as if mocking him. His shoulders were rigid, his jaw set, eyes fixed on the floor as though it held answers he could not find. The humans from the bank had not left his mind. 

Eijirou sat across from him, silent with his back straight, hands resting loosely on his knees. He did not speak or move. He simply watched, unwavering, the faint glow of the fire reflecting off the steel of his sword, but never imposing or commanding. He was a partner, a constant, and Katsuki hated that he needed him. Emotionally and physically.

For hours after the forest, Katsuki stared into the flames, remembering. He recalled his mother shoving him and his sworn into a carrier, screaming to run away. Faces beloved and lost flitted across his mind, impossible to hold onto. He could not fly. His wings stripped of him that had left two huge scars covering his back like thunderbolts. 

His hands coiled beneath the gloves that should have contained his magic. And yet… sparks had begun to flare at the edges, tiny and fleeting at first, then sharper as his mind spiraled deeper into rage. “I hate this,” he gritted, voice low and tight. “I hate that I am… powerless. I hate that I am exiled. I hate that the world does not care.”

Eijirou’s gaze did not waver. He did not offer comfort, but he did not argue either. He simply remained, watching and understanding. The calm of him, meant to steady, only stoked the fire inside Katsuki further.

Katsuki’s hands twitched, fingers flexing beneath the silk. Sparks flickered along the seams, tiny flashes of gold and ruby. He slammed a fist on the table, hard enough to rattle the wooden top, and the magic hissed at him in response. “I— I cannot—!” he roared, the words tearing from him, raw and ragged. “I’m—! I am meant for more! I am…!”

Eijirou shifted slightly, the faintest movement, ready to absorb the energy that threatened to spiral out of control. Not a word, just gentle eyes. Katsuki’s glare cut through the room, but his fury was not aimed at the knight, really. It was aimed at the world, at loss, in the absence of his people. And yet, Eijirou’s presence became the focal point of his fury, the safe place for his chaos.

“You were gone!” Katsuki spat suddenly, voice breaking, tears forming at the corners of his eyes, hands trembling in the gloves. “You left! You disappeared when I needed you! When everything burned and I was— I was alone!”

The magic flared more fiercely now, sparks shooting along the seams of the gloves, tiny arcs of heat and gold hovering dangerously close to escaping. Cutlery in the cabinets started rattling, books fell out of the shelves, the table beneath his palms rattled with energy. 

Katsuki’s eyes were wide, luminous, sharp, flashing with raw grief, fury, and despair. He sprung out of his chair, the wood falling to the floor with a loud thud. He shot across the table with clear intent in his stride and his fists collided with Eijirou’s chest and shoulders, again and again, each strike powered not by hate, but by every day of loneliness, anger, and mourning he had to carry. Eijirou had been there, in the aftermath of it all. Had looked his mother in the eye and told her that he would protect Katsuki with his life. 

Katsuki had no doubt in his soul that Eijirou most definitely would. 

And that tortured him. 

Eijirou did not flinch nor resist. He absorbed every blow, shifting just enough to prevent permanent injury, his calm grounding Katsuki with every reaction. Each tremor of magic, every uncontrolled flicker was met with steady patience. Eijirou was bruised, now. The flesh and skin tender and blushing from where Katsuki's fists landed. But he still did not pull away, did not tell Katsuki to stop, and did not fight back. 

“You— you don’t understand!” Katsuki’s voice broke entirely, a strangled wail that shook the room. “You don’t know what it’s like— to survive when everything else is gone! To be all that remains! I… I am nothing!” The gloves sparked violently, magic leaping along his arms in arcs that would have burned through the city if Eijirou had not shoved the silk on him.

Katsuki’s knees buckled. He pressed his forehead into the knight’s chest, sobbing uncontrollably, fists pounding without any strength left. His wings, though gone, throbbed in memory, coiling around him in grief, and his entire being radiated power that no mortal should be able to contain.

Eijirou’s hands wrapped around him gently, not restraining, but absorbing the pain as if begging him to share it. He did not speak, did not command and did not judge. He simply allowed himself to be the defence, the punching bag, the carry of a prince breaking in ways he had denied himself for too long.

“I— I can’t… I can’t!” Katsuki gasped, shaking violently, magic sparking at his fingertips. “Everything!– … all gone… everyone… gone!”

And through it all, Eijirou remained silent, steady, unyielding. His chest rose and fell beneath Katsuki’s forehead, petting him against the soft strands with a callused hand. His arms absorbed every shudder, every strike, every burst of magic that threatened to escape. His presence whispered, without words: You are not alone. You are not abandoned. You do not need to bear it all by yourself.

The prince’s sobs shook him to his core. His magic flared higher, uncontrolled, a threat to everything in the room. But Eijirou’s calm, unwavering presence grounded it. Slowly, tremulously, Katsuki’s cries subsided into ragged, shuddering breaths, following the rhythm of his knight. His arms sagged, head pressed into the knight’s chest. The sparks faded. The gloves dimmed. The storm inside him had spent itself. 

For now.

Katsuki did not move for a long moment. He could only tremble, broken and utterly exhausted beneath the guise of a prince. And Eijirou, as always, remained.

The room smelled faintly of smoke and scorched air. Not quite fire, nothing so dramatic, but the lingering tang of magic passed too fast, too raw, as though the very walls had borne witness to something they were never meant to hold. The hearth burned low, embers glowing dull red, shadows pooling thick in the corners of the chamber.

Katsuki lay half-slumped against Eijirou’s chest, weight uneven, posture unguarded in a way that would have horrified the court he no longer belonged in. His breathing came shallow and short, each inhale stuttering, each exhale trembling like it might fracture entirely if pushed too hard. Eijirou had lowered himself to sit fully against the wall at some point, guiding Katsuki with him. Katsuki was not certain when, but time had blurred during the storm. All he knew now was the solid warmth beneath his cheek, the slow, steady rhythm of a heartbeat that had not faltered even when his own had threatened to tear itself apart.

Shame crept in first.

It always did.

Katsuki’s fingers twitched weakly where they rested against Eijirou’s chest, as if suddenly remembering themselves. His jaw tightened, teeth pressing together, breath hitching again. Not with grief this time, but with the sharp, bitter edge of composure reasserting itself.

“This is—” His voice cracked immediately. He swallowed hard and tried again, forcing the words into shape. “This was… unacceptable.”

Eijirou’s chest rose beneath him, calm. “You are in pain,” Eijirou said quietly. Not an excuse. Not a defense. Just a statement of fact.

Katsuki let out a thin, humorless breath. “I struck you.”

“You needed to.”

The simplicity of it hurt worse than reprimand ever could have.

Katsuki turned his face slightly, staring at the floor instead of the knight’s chest. His eyes burned, dry now, raw from tears he would never acknowledge aloud. His shoulders drew in, posture tightening, the prince reassembling himself piece by piece.

“I am not meant to lose control,” he said, voice low and precise, formal once more, retaking the role of the faerie court's royal blood. Though it wavered at the edges like cracked porcelain. “If I cannot master myself, then exile will be the least of my failures.”

Eijirou’s hand lifted slowly, deliberately, stopping short of touching him. Not restraining, simply there, close enough to be felt. “You mastered it,” he said. “It did not master you.”

Katsuki almost laughed. The sound caught in his throat and died there, sharp and broken.

“You held back,” Eijirou continued, gaze steady though Katsuki did not look up. “Even while breaking. Even while grieving. You could have left only the embers of this city behind you, but you did not. That is not a weakness.”

Silence stretched between them, thick but not heavy. Katsuki’s breathing gradually evened out, though the tension never fully left his frame. It lived in him now like second skin, this grief, this fury, coiled tight and permanent.

After a long moment, he spoke again, quieter. “When I was younger,” he said, staring into the shadows, “I thought strength meant never needing anyone. I thought if I stood tall enough, bright enough, nothing could reach me.” His fingers curled slowly, nails biting into leather. “And yet,” he continued, voice sharpening, “everything still burned with your absence.”

Eijirou did not interrupt nor try to soften the truth. He let the confession stand as it was. “You stood,” he said instead. “When others fell.”

Katsuki’s breath shuddered. Not with a sob, not anymore, but something close. “I did not ask you to return,” he said suddenly, sharply. “When you disappeared. I did not call for you.”

Eijirou’s expression did not change, but something old flickered behind his eyes. Memory, perhaps. Distance, or the weight of a choice. “No,” he agreed softly. “You did not.”

Another pause. 

“And yet you came,” Katsuki said.

“Yes.”

The word was quiet and vulnerable. Katsuki finally shifted, pushing himself upright with deliberate care. He did not look at Eijirou immediately. Pride still stood between them, wounded but unbroken. “I will not thank you,” he said stiffly.

Eijirou inclined his head just a fraction. “I would be offended if you did.”

That earned him a glance at last, sharp, irritated and exhausted. But beneath it, something else lingered.

Katsuki rose to his feet, straightening his robes, smoothing his sleeves. The acts of a prince reassembling himself into something presentable again. The room felt colder without the contact, though neither of them remarked on it.

“We move on,” Katsuki said, voice firm, controlled. “Tomorrow. This place is temporary. Everything here is.”

Eijirou stood as well, fluid and unhurried. He took his place just behind and to the side of Katsuki, close enough to guard, far enough to respect. “As you will,” he said.

Katsuki hesitated at the window, fingers resting against the glass. The town slept below, ignorant and breathing, unaware of the ruin that stood above it in borrowed shelter. For just a moment, so brief it could be denied, his shoulders sagged. Then he straightened. “I will not break again,” he said.

Eijirou’s voice came gently, steady as ever. “If you do,” he said, “I will break with you.”

Katsuki did not answer.

-

Morning came without invitation.

No birdsong announced it, no bells rang from distant towers. Light simply crept through the narrow window in pale, uncertain bands. Touching the edge of the floor first, then the wall, then the side of the table where Katsuki’s robes lay folded with meticulous care.

He had not slept.

He stood by the window now, posture immaculate despite the long night, hands clasped behind his back as he watched the town wake below. Smoke rose from chimneys in thin, lazy spirals. Somewhere, a door creaked open. A woman laughed softly, the sound unguarded and unafraid. The normalcy of it all pressed against his ribs.

Behind him, Eijirou stirred.

Not abruptly – never abruptly. Just the quiet shift of someone who had been awake long before he needed to be, rising only when the moment felt right. Katsuki did not turn, but he felt the change in the room, the familiar rebalancing of space.

“You should have rested,” Katsuki said, voice even and formal, as if the night before had not left cracks in his composure.

Eijirou fastened the strap of his boots, movements unhurried. “So should’ve you.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened faintly. He let the comment pass, eyes still fixed on the street below. “They live easily,” he said after a moment. “As though this world has never known ruin.”

“They live because it has,” Eijirou replied, almost unconsciously. 

That made Katsuki turn, and Eijirou's eyes widened as if recognizing his mistake. “You are not to give them empathy in my presence.” The look he gave him was sharp, maybe even accusing, but also searching, as if weighing the words for weakness. Finding none, he looked away again.

Eijirou did not apologize, sensing that forgiveness would not be granted. Silence returned but it was different now. Less brittle but still guarded, still formal, but threaded through with something new and raw. “We cannot remain here,” Katsuki said at last. “The longer we linger, the more visible I become. The humans saw my ears.”

Eijirou nodded once. “There is a trade road up north. Less patrol. Fewer questions.”

“You already know this?”

“Yes.”

Katsuki’s lips pressed thin. Of course he did. He always did. That was the part that unsettled him most – not the protection itself, but how seamlessly it wrapped around him, how little it asked in return.

“When we reach the borderlands,” Katsuki continued, voice precise, “I will need to observe. Listen. Learn what is spoken of my kind. What is believed.”

“And if it is cruel?” Eijirou asked.

Katsuki’s gaze hardened, fire flickering briefly behind his eyes. “Then I will remember.” He said, affirming both to himself and his sworn. “I will show them what cruelty means.” 

Eijirou did not argue. He only adjusted his sword at his hip and waited.

They left the room shortly after, descending the narrow stairwell into the cool morning air. Eijirou had wrapped the hood over Katsuki's head even tighter, firmer around the ears and let it fall over to cast a shadow, only the lower part of his face visible. The innkeeper barely glanced at them, just another pair of travelers, nothing remarkable, nothing dangerous.

Katsuki pulled his hood even lower as they stepped into the street, shielding his appearance from every ongoing villager. Not afraid, but wary. Cautious. The road north stretched before them, pale with dust, framed by hedges and low stone walls. Beyond it, the land rolled outward in gentle slopes, green and unscarred. Too gentle. 

They walked for a time without speaking. Katsuki’s stride was measured, unhurried, but his thoughts churned beneath the surface. Memories of glowing mushrooms and crystal spires, of fairies that no longer answered when he called.

After a while, without looking back, he spoke. Face expressionless and empty. “When you vanished,” he said quietly, “I thought you had chosen another life.” Eijirou’s steps did not falter, and Katsuki’s fingers curled slowly at his sides at the lack of acknowledgement. “You never sent any letters.”

“I was not permitted to contact you,” Eijirou replied.

That made him stop. Katsuki turned fully then, expression cool and controlled, but something sharp lived behind his eyes. “And now?”

Eijirou met his gaze without hesitation. “Now I am.”

The road lay silent between them, dust unmoving, the wind held in a pause that felt almost reverent. Katsuki studied him for a long moment, the scars he had not permitted himself to notice before, the weight in his stance, the way his presence no longer felt reckless, but deliberate and chosen.

“You will not leave again,” Katsuki said, not a question but an order.

Eijirou answered as if it was asked anyway. “No.”

Something in Katsuki’s chest shifted. Not with relief, but the smallest easing of a wound that had never quite closed. He turned back toward the road, “Then walk,” he said. “We have wasted enough time.”

Eijirou fell into step beside him, exactly where he belonged. Not ahead, not behind. And as they moved north, away from the town and deeper into uncertainty, Katsuki carried his grief with him still. Heavy and burning, unresolved. 

They walked until the town fell away behind them completely, the last crooked rooftops dissolving into low hills and hedgerows. The road narrowed, the stones giving way to packed earth, pale dust clinging to the hems of their boots. The sky was overcast now with a high, thin veil of cloud that dulled the sun and softened the world into muted color.

Katsuki preferred it that way. Bright light made everything feel too exposed, too sharp. This grayness suited the quiet tension coiled in his chest. In court, the trees had surrounded their kingdom like a barrier, leaves and branches compressed above them like a bowl. The forest was a friend, back at court. Shielding their delicate skin from the sunfire, hiding their location from passing travelers, allowing for the glamoured seeds to grow the most delicious of wines. 

Here, the forest did nothing. 

After a time, the land opened into fields. Abandoned, by the look of them. Fences leaned at odd angles, long untended. Wildflowers had begun to reclaim the space, stubborn splashes of color pushing up through neglect. Katsuki’s gaze lingered on them longer than he meant to. Life, persisting. Always persisting. It made his throat tighten.

They stopped near a stand of trees when the road forked, one path worn smooth by frequent travel, the other barely more than a suggestion with grass growing between faint tracks.

Eijirou slowed down first this time. “The left road will be faster,” he said quietly. “The right is quieter.” 

He did not mention how he knew this. 

Katsuki studied both paths, expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned toward the quieter road, and Eijirou followed immediately. The trees closed around them, leaves whispering overhead. The air here was cooler, damp with moss and earth. Somewhere in the distance, water moved. Slow, steady, unseen.

They walked for several minutes before Katsuki spoke again. “You let me strike you,” he said. It wasn’t an accusation, nor was it a question. It was simply a fact, placed carefully between them. 

Eijirou’s gaze remained forward. “Yes.”

“You did not defend yourself.”

“No.”

Katsuki’s fingers twitched faintly, the memory of it still sharp in his bones. The way his magic had surged, wild and furious. The way Eijirou had stood unmoving and unafraid, as though he trusted Katsuki not to destroy him even while breaking apart. Even when he so very easily could. 

“That was not your duty,” Katsuki said, voice cool, too controlled to be casual. “To endure my… lack of restraint.”

Eijirou finally looked at him then, expression calm and steady, without reproach. “It was.”

Katsuki scoffed softly. “I do not recall that being part of any oath.”

“No,” Eijirou agreed. “It wasn’t spoken.” The words settled between them, heavier than if he had said anything more.

They came upon the stream soon after, a narrow ribbon of water winding through the trees, its surface dark and glassy. Katsuki stopped at its edge, crouching to wash the dust from his arms, his feet, the apples of his cheek. The water was cold enough to bite, and he welcomed it gratefully.

As he straightened, droplets clinging to his gloves, his reflection wavered on the surface. Sharp red eyes, pale skin, the faint shimmer beneath it all that marked him as something not entirely of this world. A prince without a crown. A fae without a court.

Eijirou came up beside him to wash his own hands, scrubbing them. The cold was harsher on the knight, the absence of magic making it raw and rough, but he did not flinch. 

“You should not look at me like that,” Katsuki said suddenly, not lifting his gaze from his own reflection.

Eijirou blinked. “Like what?”

“As though I am still… whole. It irks me.”

Silence. Then, gently, “You are.”

Katsuki’s breath caught, sharp and involuntary. His hands clenched, water dripping between his clothed fingers back into the stream. “You didn’t see it,” he said, voice low. “The moment it started. The way the sky burned. The way the air screamed.”

Eijirou nudged closer, not touching, never touching unless asked or necessary, but near enough that Katsuki could feel the warmth of him, solid and real.

“I saw enough,” he said. “I know enough. Not everything, but enough.” 

Katsuki laughed once, bitter and soft. “You always say that.”

“And you always pretend it means nothing.”

Katsuki turned then, eyes blazing. Not with fury this time, but with something far more dangerous. Vulnerability sharpened by pride. The way a dictator would gaze at a common peasant. “Do not presume to know me, human.” He said sharply.

Eijirou did not back away. “I know the boy who dared me to climb the highest tower,” he said evenly. “The prince who pretended he wasn’t afraid of heights. I know the way you go still when you are angry, how you pace, how you hold yourself too tightly. I know the sound your magic makes when you’re hurting. I know the way you wish to hate me for being a mere human, but you can not.”

Katsuki’s magic stirred at that, a faint pulse beneath the gloves, answering the truth of it whether he wished it to or not. “You knew me as nothing but a boy, young and naive.” He gritted out, “You do not know who I am now.”

“No,” Eijirou agreed. “I’m learning.”

The words struck harder than any blow. Katsuki looked away, jaw tight, eyes bright with unshed tears he refused to acknowledge. He straightened slowly, reassembling himself again, drawing formality back over his shoulders like armor. “Then learn quickly,” he said coolly. “Exile will not be gentle.”

Eijirou inclined his head enough to seem important. “Neither will I.”

They crossed the stream and continued on deeper into the trees, the road fading almost entirely now. The world ahead was uncertain, dangerous and perhaps unkind. But step by step, they moved forward together. Grief unhealed, trust unfinished, the slow burn of something unspoken growing quietly in the space between them.

They encountered them at dusk.

The forest had grown older as the day waned. Trees thickening, roots twisting closer to the surface, the air heavy with damp moss and something older than language. The path they followed was barely a path at all now, only a subtle thinning of undergrowth, as though the land itself remembered being walked by feet that no longer came.

Katsuki felt it before he saw anyone. A pressure in the air. A recognition. The faint prickle of magic brushing against his skin, responding to something buried deep within him that no exile could strip away. His steps slowed, shoulders drawing tight, chin lifting instinctively despite himself.

Eijirou noticed at once. He did not reach for his sword, only shifted, fractionally, placing himself half a step behind Katsuki, not as shield, but as witness. He knew that it was no danger that they were approaching. 

The trees parted into a small clearing, dimly lit by the last amber threads of sunset. Stone markers ringed the space, ancient and half-swallowed by moss. The air shimmered, not visibly, but with the unmistakable sense of being watched.

Then they emerged. First one, then another, and yet another. 

Figures stepping out from shadow and bark and air itself. A woman with skin like riverstone and eyes white as polished quartz, long cracks following her joints. A boy with static energy circling him in small hoops, the power of a thunderbolt. A pair of horned figures whose footsteps barely touched the ground. A small, foxlike creature perched on a standing stone, its many tails flicking in reverent stillness.

They did not speak.

They only looked at Katsuki.

And then, one by one, they bowed.

Deeply. The kind of bow given not out of fear, but reverence and respect. Of recognition. Knees bent, heads lowered, hands pressed to heart or earth. Even the fox-creature stilled, known for its mischief and selfishness, lowering its gaze.

Katsuki stopped dead, the world tilting beneath his feet. “No,” he said at once, the word sharp, almost panicked. “Don’t.”

No one moved. The silence pressed in, thick and sacred, the clearing holding its breath. The woman of stone was the first to speak, her voice like water over rock. “You live.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. “Barely.”

“You endure,” said one of the horned figures. “That is enough.”

“It is not,” Katsuki snapped, control slipping for just a heartbeat. “I failed.” The word fell heavy, absolute.

A murmur rippled through the gathering, not disagreement, not shock, but sorrow. The fox-creature’s voice was soft, sharp as chimes. “Prince of Magic, the fault was not yours.”

“Do not call me that,” Katsuki said fiercely. “That title belongs to ashes.”

His hands clenched, gloves creaking faintly as his magic stirred in unrest, responding to the pull of recognition, of belonging he no longer trusted. The stone woman straightened slightly, though she did not rise. “Titles do not vanish because kingdoms fall.”

“I am not worthy of your reverence,” Katsuki said, voice tight and wounded, something close to begging. “Bow to the dead. They deserved it more. I have done nothing to deserve this.”

The creatures exchanged glances, something ancient and gentle passing between them. One stepped forward, a figure cloaked in leaves and shadow, one eye glowing faintly blue and the other dull with blindness. The mage knelt fully, white hair touching the earth.

“We bow,” he said, “not to a crown. But to the one who still carries the fire. We bow from gratitude, for the storms you hold back, to the war you ended. The crown you still carry, even if you do not claim it.”

Katsuki recoiled as though struck. “I carry nothing,” he said. “Only loss.” Katsuki’s hands clenched. Sparks crackled around his fingers, sharp and erratic, wrong. The air darkened, clouds bruising purple overhead as his magic stirred, restless and angry. “I didn’t end anything,” he growled. “People died anyway. Our kingdom fell. Don’t bow down at me like I saved you.”

At that Eijirou moved. Not forward or to intervene. Just close enough that his presence anchored the space beside Katsuki, solid and real amid the magic. He did not speak or correct anyone. He only stood, bearing witness to the prince’s grief, to the respect offered, to the truth Katsuki could not yet accept.

The runes in the stones flared brighter in response to his rising power. Wind tore through the pass, whipping cloaks and scattering embers into wild spirals. “Katsuki,” Eijirou said gently, stepping forward now. “Hey. You’re slipping.”

Katsuki laughed, short and broken. “Of course I am. That’s what I do.” His voice cracked despite himself. “They think I’m some perfect prince. Some symbol. They didn’t see me run. They didn’t see me fail.”The sky answered him with a thunderous boom. Magic surged out of him in a violent wave. Heat, pressure, raw emotion, all cracking stones beneath their feet. One of the smaller spirits cried out, flickering dangerously.

Eijirou moved without thinking. He grabbed Katsuki’s wrists, steering him, pulling him close despite the heat burning his palms. “Listen to me,” he said, voice firm now, unbreakable. “You don’t get to decide you’re unworthy just because you hurt. You don’t get to erase everything you’ve done because you can’t forgive yourself.”

The Kitsune tilted its head, eyes bright and unafraid. “You do not see it,” it said gently. “But the land does.”

The clearing seemed to hum in agreement. Roots shifted. The air warmed, just barely. Katsuki’s breath shook. His gaze dropped to the earth, shoulders rigid, as though holding himself together took everything he had left in him. “Please,” he said quietly now, the anger gone, leaving only exhaustion and sorrow. “Stand. I cannot–”

Slowly and reluctantly, they did. But the reverence did not fade. It lingered in the way they looked at him, in the space they left around him, in the careful way they spoke. “You are not alone,” the stone woman said. “Others still live. Others still remember. You carry the blood of our ancestors.”

Katsuki let out a brittle laugh. “Memory did not save us.”

“No,” she agreed. “But it keeps the fire from going out. Because of you, we will all continue to exist.”

The words struck deep, lodging somewhere painful and true. When the creatures finally stepped back, melting once more into shadow and bark and stone, the clearing felt emptier than before. The reverence lingered like warmth after a flame.

Katsuki stood motionless long after they were gone. “I am not their prince anymore,” he said at last, voice barely audible. “I do not deserve their loyalty.” 

Eijirou did not hesitate. “You are,” he said simply. “Whether you wish to be or not.”

Katsuki closed his eyes, jaw tight, grief and disbelief warring with him. When he opened them again, they burned. Not with fury, but with something dangerously close to hope.“I don’t deserve them,” he whispered.

Eijirou stepped just a fraction closer. “You may feel as if that is the truth, but that has never stopped anyone from needing you.”

They left the clearing as night settled in, the forest closing gently behind them.

And Katsuki walked with his head held just a fraction lower than he had before, every step forward felt heavier than the last, carrying not just grief now, but also the unbearable weight of being remembered.