The nightmares were generally the best you could hope for.

Not that you exactly desire any part of it, but at least the nightmares are universal. You can explain those- if you could explain any of it.

When no one's around, though, you can't explain it away, so when you have them, there's nothing you can do.

As you wake, pinned down to your mattress as your dream breaks, you blink away the too-vivid visions that feel less like projections and more like predictions, a prophecy from a less-than-divine voice that is so silent and well-mannered (most of the time) to the surface yet screaming out paranoia under what is audible.

Under your breath, you mutter to yourself that what you saw won't come to pass, it won't come to pass, it won't come to pass, so much that you can hear yourself insisting to yourself that your dream won't come to pass. The more you chant, the more forceful you are, as if you stopped insisting that you shouldn't worry and started getting angry that you even let yourself think of the possibility that you should.

You stop repeating that it won't come to pass and lean up before the words lose all meaning.

You aren't sure- nor have you ever been sure- why exactly you still dress up in full lordlike swordfighting regalia. The war in Ylisse has been over for years now- your present self is likely running around the castle, hassling her parents from their exalt duties, if your earliest formed memories hold true here as well. Aside from the occasional bandit and raccoon, no one has given your meager home much comparison- at this point even the bandits must realize there's no point to pilfer the place.

Still, you suit up. Leather tunic, straps, knee-high boots, and cape are all adorned as you face a mirror. Strangely, about a few weeks of only basic hygiene does not help your appearance fit the regality of your uniform. Your face is pale, your hair is strewn and strawlike, and the nails on the hand that instinctively reaches for a sword you've stopped carrying are uneven and need trimming.

You try not to let yourself think that you may as well be of the future.

You've exited your chambers and stepped into the main room when you remember.

Or, to be more precise, you trip over her.

She doesn't budge even as you nearly fall over, catching your hands on a nearby chair to prop yourself up. You stop short of yelping, and as you settle, confirm your safety. You push up on the seat cushion to your feet, still unsure you're on solid ground as you turn around to face her.

She's wide awake, looking at you as you collapse in the chair with more exhaustion than someone who just woke up should have. She looks as unkempt as you feel- her fur is matted and overgrown, her ears lazily flop around the halfhearted attempt at clothes- a plain tan tunic and set of black trousers- you know she only wears for your sake, and everything about her presence feels as though she has let effort flow away in the breeze- and she was not known for effort in the first place.

Her natural self works just fine, you muse.

You nod at her. "Good morning, Lady Panne."

Panne nods back but says nothing, staying curled in a ball on the floor. Gods, how can she stand it, you wonder. The floor is made of wood as one would expect a cabin to be. You aren't even sure if you had the chance to scrape for splinters before she came to visit, much less prepare a comfortable den for her to rest in, and yet she seems so comfortable, so magnetized to it, that she could stay there all day, much like yourself to your bed.

You should get up and make some morning tea, but the chair you're in is comfortable, so you stay, eyes drifting to where she lies. Her visit is possibly the most… anything that's gone on in ages. You've lived in this cabin at the northwestern end of Regna Ferox since the war ended, to avoid further conflicting the lives of your parents as they raised your younger self. Gods, they had so much of their moral character tested through the war. You can't even fathom interjecting after all they've already done fo-

"Is there a reason you're staring at me?"

You blink out of your thoughts, angry at yourself for such impropriety. "Apologies, Lady Panne," you reply so quickly that you forget that you do. Still, that serves as enough for her, as she buries her head in her lap again, where it rests on her messy tunic. Her eyes close, and you aren't sure if she's asleep or not, but aren't about to investigate. You just fear your thoughts will fall into the war again- and to whether or not your parents' trauma will surpass your own.

You can't stand thinking about it so you force your mind to shut down. When you awaken, Panne is up and the sun is at its peak.

Panne is simple to cook for- to the point where it matters not that you give a middling effort at it. All you have to do is make carrot stew, and she's satisfied- or at the very least, she's said nothing yet about the monotony. You consider making yourself a meal of your own but simply dip a ladleful of stew into a bowl of your own. She lets the stew cool down, then picks up the pot you cooked it in and starts to dig in. She knows you don't mind. You never minded.

You take a seat back in your chair, careful with your bowl. She looks up at you from the floor and says "another serviceable job", nodding her thanks. You smile at her and say nothing, because she wouldn't expect you to. At this point, you would look the fool for applying pleasantries.

The two of you continue to eat quietly. You nibble at the vegetables in your stew in order to tell yourself that you exert some effort into eating, and she ravenously gulps down her portion like water. She doesn't apologize, and you don't expect her to.

For such a straightforward person, you find it odd- as would she- to admire her so, yet as she messily digs into her soup, admiration is what burns in your heart. As soon as you met her, you admired her- the last of her kind, yet so stern and dedicated. Others would consider her impersonal, and like you she had not married into the Shepherds like so many had, but you knew that as much as she admired the distance, you only held it out of respect.

She burps, and you wonder if you're making a more solemn deal out of it than is warranted.

When you know she's taking time between her gulps, you ask "how long was it that you expected to stay?"

She shrugs in a distant, defensive, instinctively Panne way, but she minds herself not to speak coldly around you. "I had hoped to make this a stop on my own journeys. I admit I did not schedule out how long I expected to stay." Then, before you can reply, "If you would like me to leave, I will gladly."

You shake your head. "It's no trouble," you insist. For as desperate as you surely look, you could be utilizing her company more. Still, it comforts you to hear someone else exist near you, their presence something you can feel in all four corners of your humble home.

She nods brusquely and takes another graceless bite of stew.

You smile despite yourself and take a bite- a real one, consuming food, nutrients, and everything. It's what you imagine normal feels like, but as the night goes on it feels like a shallow imitation.