Hello :D

This is the first multi-chaptered story I've written for maple, I hope it goes fine. It's a pretty daunting project even if I do say so myself, and school's just started (as I'm writing this A/N, I'm in school munching on breakfast and pretending my readings don't exist) so hopefully this can be updated on a regular basis... kinda regular basis. Kinda.

Hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :D

(Credit for the cover image goes to an amazing Noctfelicite and it's absolutely gorgeous, go take a look at the full view if you can! :D)

He watched Phantom mourn for Freud.

It had been like this for a while now. Phantom would wake, slip into a bathrobe, and leave the comfort of his room for another one just at the end of the corridor. It was bare, save a simple wooden desk, a stack of parchments and a journal beside a single owlfeather quill, a plain couch and a sturdy fireplace. Tilting a small crystal dragon on the mantlepiece would lift the entire structure, embers barely even stirring from the gentle movement of well-oiled machinery, and he would slip silently down the stairs. The path he took past the shelves was always the same, so well traversed that he didn't need anything more than the faint glowing of his cane to locate a display at the far end of the room.

He couldn't understand it.

The Master Thief had probably spent a good portion of his lifetime acquiring valuable artifacts of precious stone, the finest sculptures and paintings, and yet he would not acknowledge their presence with so much as a glance when he strode past them, nor admire them with the gaze he reserved for what waited for him behind the mantlepiece. He hated reading and complained when his colleagues in the island of Ereve had some documents for him, and yet had the bookshelves of that hidden room jammed mercilessly with titles upon titles of volumes and journals that didn't interest him in the least. He, like a magpie, loved ornate furniture glazed with gold and decorated with rare jewels that sparkled, yet the desk beside the mantle was of plain wood, neither varnished nor polished, and so looked awkward in the high ceilinged room that it was an eyesore. Besides, in this day and age, who still used a quill?

Most of all… Phantom took pride in his raven mask and cap, sifted through the soft white feathers to take out the tangles in them, brushed the indigo scarf to make sure it was free of lint, cleaned the golden details and gems so meticulously that it shone more brightly than any other jewel he owned. Phantom checked his cane every day for nicks and scratches, polished until no trace of them remained, made sure the incantations and the magic still worked as fine as on the day he forged it. Only then would Phantom lay it, beside his hat, onto a thick, navy, velvet cushion atop a stand in the middle of his room.

The plain headband, purple adorned with simple golden trimmings and marked with an odd wing on either side, clearly wasn't his. Neither was the golden staff, framed by two similar wings and engraved throughout with the same simple golden patterns. Only a single, turquoise gem was set at the head of the staff. Both the weapon and the headgear were scratched in too many places to count, so much so that even Phantom couldn't see his own reflection on their surface. In fact, the staff was cracked down its center, its turquoise gem cracked and now dulled, and the headgear looked as if it had been warped out of shape before someone — most likely Phantom himself — tried to bend it back into shape.

Every single day Phantom would rise, slip into a bathrobe, and before attending to any other matter for the day, he'd tilt the crystal dragon, descend the stairs, and pass by the books… to look at this broken, unusable set of equipment.

He always stared at the display with a lost, faraway gaze. Some days he would come in and just stand there, eyes glazed with the memories of a time long past, and they could have been deliciously sweet or painfully bitter. Some days he would storm in, stagger to a halt with fists and jaw tightened, and press his head against the glass, fighting to take deep, shaky breaths but fail to calm himself. Some days he would halt at the edge of the shelves and, finding it simply too difficult to walk up to the display, he would turn around and leave.

Today, like some other days, Phantom talked to it.

He found it slightly disquieting to listen to Phantom talk. It was the voice of a man who had been broken too many times to count, the voice of a man who finally met his long-lost friend for the first time in decades, and the voice of a man who had spent too long running away from fear — Phantom's voice was all this at once. His words were simple and devoid of any of the pride he usually displayed when speaking outside the room. It was a completely different Phantom who stood before the illuminated display. A vulnerable, tired Phantom, one he wagered nobody but the owner of the staff and headband had ever seen before.

'I dreamed of Aria today,' he laughed. 'It's been ages, you know? Ever since you came along.'

Phantom chuckled again. It took a while for him to realise that for some strange warped reason, the Master Thief was slightly sheepish. Why? There was nobody here but he and Phantom, and of course he wasn't about to answer. It wasn't like Phantom would — or could hear him.

'Sometimes I wish… Oh, Freud. I've said this a million times to Aria and I'll say it a million times more to you —'

He knew the words…

'— I wish I'd died in your place.'

… he'd long lost count of how many times he'd heard the Master Thief utter them.

Phantom chuckled and clenched his fists. 'I really miss you, Freud. If you knew how much I've been drinking, you'd burn all my alcohol… good thing I have spares all around the ship.' He grinned, but his smile was bitter. 'Pity I have such good control, too.'

Control? Nonsense. Phantom would never know who stilled his hand every time, stopping him from tumbling off the cliff and plummeting to meet an alcohol-induced death.

The Master Thief leaned heavily on the glass. The Master Thief slouched like a defeated man, one long haunted by the regrets of his lifetime.

'After Aria died,' he began with a shaky whisper, 'I swore… I swore that I'd never love again. She was so beautiful, Freud. So very beautiful. And she loved me like nobody had loved me before. I never told you this, have I — I wish I had — Aria made me want to settle down, have kids, do the whole becoming-good thing. I wanted to become an honest man for her.'

No, Phantom. You've told that to your Freud before, right here before these mementos.

'Then she died.' Phantom straightened, squared his shoulders. 'I was torn apart. And then you came along. You and your mysterious ways. I never knew what you were thinking. But I wish I knew. I wish you'd told me, even if I'll never understand your thoughts.'

The room stayed silent for a long while, and the owner of the staff and headband gave no sign that he had heard, or still had the capacity to listen. Yet Phantom went on talking, 'You made me want to try to love someone again.'

The thought was going to kill Phantom one day. Phantom knew it. So did he.

But Freud was dead.

No matter how much Phantom talked, to the air, to the spirit that he hoped could hear him, or to ease his troubled conscience, nothing would change that.

He knew of Freud and Phantom's time together. Phantom didn't apologise for stealing his potions or spellbooks, and instead often joked with the broken equipment about those times, as if they were the times that bound them together. Phantom found companionship in the patiently calm man that was Freud, because he was the only one who could brush away the thief's jibes and yet understand him for who he actually was.

And with the way Phantom spoke to the display and the broken equipment that it held, he was sorry that the two had to part ways. To Phantom, Freud was a man unlike any other, a man who had touched him dearly, maybe even more than the woman called Aria ever could. He almost wished that the two could have remained friends, that they could have provided each other with the respite they needed in an increasingly chaotic world.

Maybe Phantom would have found respite from his inner chaos, too.

Phantom stayed quiet for a long while. When he continued, his voice was hoarse, as if the words burned his gullet when they were spoken. 'I never got the chance to tell Aria I loved her. And now she's gone. She probably knew my feelings for her right from the beginning. But I was such a fool to think that time was mine to waste… I was such a fool. And now she'll never hear it from me. And I'll never know if she loved me the same.'

Phantom came back to the mantlepiece every morning to revisit broken memories, reopen old wounds. And even he knew that Freud wasn't there to help Phantom heal any longer.

'And then I fell in love with you. I was so scared, did you know that? Of course you didn't. I never told you. I was scared that you'd leave me. Scared that I'd fall in love and then lose you, like I did Aria. I swore… I swore that I'd tell you I loved you. I didn't want to make the same mistake again. Oh, Freud. Fate is so cruel.'

Fate was cruel indeed. In ways Phantom would never imagine.

Phantom gritted his teeth. 'I'd meant to tell you that day. I'd practiced so many times. In elaborate ways, simple ways, in front of mirrors, hell I practiced under my breath before I knocked on your door. The day this fool of a lover decided to finally try… the war… everything was a mess… you were ready to fly, and the words just didn't come.'

He knew about the war. It had taken Freud, but not his dragon, and nobody knew where his remains lay. There was no deaf ear for Phantom to whisper his goodbyes into, no still chest to clutch, no broken body to mourn over.

'Where are you, Freud? Why couldn't you wait for me to tell you I loved you before you left?' He hung his head and laughed. It was a quiet laugh. Bitter, sad. 'I'm such a fool. I'm a crook. A coward. I couldn't even protect you. Yet you loved me all the same. I'd sworn —' Phantom whirled around. 'I'd sworn that I'd tell you that I loved y —'

He suddenly realised that Phantom's eyes were locked on his, slight horror in his eyes.

Phantom could see him?

:

:

A slender, thin and lithe frame. Rusty hair.

Phantom stepped forward. Was he dreaming? How… how…?

'Freud?'

A familiar face, wise beyond his years. Kind eyes. Ocean blue eyes.

The most beautiful eyes he would ever see in his life.

'Freud…' Phantom felt a million emotions overwhelm him at once — alarm, confusion, surprise, shock, joy, he couldn't even think — and he just stood there gaping. Freud was dead, his dragon gone, his weapons were here, just behind him, and Evan was proof of his passing, what was he doing here in the Lumiere, was it actually Freud?

'Phantom,' Freud said.

It was… it was?

Gods. He'd only ever dreamed of that voice.

'It's you,' he breathed. 'It's really you.' He took a step forward. Something stifling and heavy lifted off his chest. How did Freud feel in his arms again? He missed the mage's presence, his smell, an aroma sweet like tea. 'You're alive.'

'How do you know my name?'

Phantom stopped and blinked. He felt the smile on his face falter slightly.

Freud's gaze was hard and stone cold, and his ocean blue eyes held no trace of recognition. 'How can you see me?'

'What are you talking about?' Phantom laughed, realising his voice was shaky. What was going on? Freud, his Freud, couldn't recognise him? But they were so close, almost lovers… surely… 'Come on, Freud, it isn't funny.'

Freud… the Freud folded his arms. There was a slight flicker of understanding in his calm eyes. 'Oh. I see how it is.'

How what is? Phantom shook his head cluelessly. 'See what? Come on, Freud…'

'I'm not that Freud, and I'm not your Freud. You're talking about Freud the Dragon Master, aren't you?'

Freud the Dragon Master? Of course it was Freud the Dragon Master. There usually weren't many other Freuds around were there? Phantom felt his jaw tighten. So many days of regret and sorrow. And now that Freud was standing right in front of him, he had no recollection of their past together?

This was more painful than knowing Freud was dead. This was far worse… A Freud that treated him coldly, without any form of love, or friendship, and spoke to him like he was mad. A Freud that registered no emotion at all even after his tirade just now.

'Freud — '

'I'm sure I'm not him,' said Freud. 'But my name is Freud.'

Phantom held up a hand. It trembled. Visibly. 'Stop. Just who are you?'

'Didn't you already know my name, Phantom?' smirked Freud.

'But you're not the Freud I know,' Phantom gritted out, and the words tasted like ash on his tongue. The taste of despair. That Freud was really and truly gone. And this wasn't the Freud he knew. Just some cruel replica.

'Not at all.' Freud gestured. 'I hear the Dragon Master died from his battle wounds three hundred years ago.'

Phantom noticed something odd. The movement of his fingers was somehow… like wisps of smoke were trailing off his skin, but it might've been the poor lighting and some remaining alcohol stirring his vision. It looked like there was a double of his hand, a faint ghostly silhouette that moved a split second too slow.

Freud noticed him staring and tilted his head curiously. The slight movement was so uncanny, far too uncanny. Phantom felt such a fierce pang in his chest, at the Freud that was so unbearably Freud and yet wasn't his Freud at all, that he was forced to avert his eyes.

It was something he'd almost forgotten. The curiosity in Freud's eyes and the way he chose to express it. A simple tilt of his head. He knew Freud did it, could see it in his mind's eye, but it wasn't the same seeing it again after he thought he never ever would. Just another one of Freud's many habits that he'd sworn to remember.

He pushed away the memory of Freud, angling his head just slightly when Phantom was showing him another trinket he'd gotten the night before. Memories like these didn't belong to the Freud that was not Freud.

But the Freud that was not Freud… was too like Freud. It couldn't just be a coincidence. Could it?

'Just what are you doing here?' he whispered.

'I'm here to make sure you don't kill yourself before your time is up.'

'What I do with my life is no concern of yours.' Phantom looked up sharply. 'And even so how do you intend to…' the words trailed off as he finally saw them. Two opalescent wings, feathers and all, that looked so otherworldly and fragile that a gust of wind might dissipate them and take Freud as well. They shone with the same ethereal glow as his white robe, and almost looked like they were pulsing. Fading in and out of existence.

Freud smiled. His wings unfolded slightly behind him, and the darkness around him seemed to shimmer.

'What you do with your life is but every concern of mine.'

Phantom could only stare. The ache in his chest grew.

'You see… I'm your guardian angel.'