Dilandau was in the room again, the tight black space. There were no walls, no ceiling or floor, but it was still a place of constriction, a place of tight, pressing blankness. He couldn't move or breathe or think beyond the single narrow spiral of the memory. And he knew what would happen, what had already happened, but he couldn't stop it.

He knew the answer to the question before he asked it – he felt the answer, felt it squeeze his body the way that terrible anticipation of combat could catch him in the seconds before he moved his sword. He knew the answer as firmly and finally as he knew the ringing scales of clashing swords and the landscape of his guymelef's controls … but this was a dream, and he couldn't help himself. The words peeled away from his tongue and, halting and hesitant, bold and breathless, they landed in the cold dead air. They echoed in the empty space of his skull.

"Where's Shesta?"

And for a moment, as the words hung in the air, Shesta was there in the room with him, his body taut, his eyes creased at the corners in apprehension, his reply half-ready before Dilandau could give him an order – as though he knew Dilandau better than Dilandau knew himself. Dilandau had suspected more than once that perhaps Shesta was only playing along, maybe to help him save face, a crowsfoot of concern stamped between his eyebrows, biting his pale lip.

But no, the words were present and then they were past: they dissolved, Shesta disappeared, the room grew closer and the answer fell like a brick, a slow resounding thud that made the hollows of his jaw ache.

Dead.

Cramped, dead, and cold – his joints screamed at the pressure points but his jaw moved again.

"Gatty?"

Dead.

"Dallet?"

Dead, dead, dead.

All dead.

Millerna entered the room, paused, then closed the doors audibly behind her. Allen made no indication that he'd heard her. With resigned resolution Millerna advanced across the room, slowly pushing in chairs as she made her way up to the head of the table where Allen sat, ostensibly reading the sheets and sheets of minutes spread out before him. The table was busy with papers, ink, too many candles and – she observed with mild disappointment – the remains of the council's last meal. Allen hadn't let the servants in yet; that was a bad sign.

"You look terrible," she said, with a careful smile. She pushed in the velvet-backed chair to his right, and leaned against its frame. Allen gave her no more than a cursory glance before he turned back to his work.

It was late, but she was still impeccably dressed, hair unruffled, shoulders set back with the easy grace of trained royalty. The same could not be said of Allen who, with his creased clothing, tousled hair and haggard face, looked no better than he had when he'd returned late this afternoon from patrol. Had he rested since then?

She placed her fingers on the papers in front of Allen's nose, and made a tentative gesture, as if to straighten them. Her voice, when she spoke, was determinedly light and airy. "You should get some rest – you've had an impossible day. You knights can't do everything in the kingdom at once. Father can't expect you to read all those minutes tonight. Go to bed."

"She's screaming again."

It was a question, not a statement. Allen bit his lip, willing her to answer, though he avoided her eyes.

She didn't, not right away. "You could hear it from in here?"

She offered no other information, no answer to his tacit question, and Allen was forced to speak again, still staring at the heavy scrolls in front of him.

"What's the matter with her? The doctors – have they said anything?"

Millerna shrugged, and pulled the papers out from under his nose. "I don't know," she said, as lightly as she could, shuffling and tapping them back into order. She placed them back on the table, but beyond his reach. "Something about Sheba, or Shizpa – some odd word. I've never heard it before."

"Shesta."

"You know it?" she asked, her voice still light.

"Not it, him." Allen's head sunk onto his hand, level with the candles in the brackets. He stared into the light. Millerna wasn't at an angle to observe his face clearly in the darkened room, but she could see the tension in his hunched shoulders, the nervous twitch of his bare hands.

"Don't do that, you'll ruin your eyes. Who's Shesta, then?"

"He's one of Zaibach's Dragonslayers."

"Was, you mean."

Allen's hand tightened on the tablecloth, and Millerna felt the anger rise inside of her. It threatened to ruffle her carefully calm exterior. Well, fine. She was tired of tiptoeing around this issue with him, putting up with his frustration and exhaustion without offering any opinions or judgment of her own. If he refused to confide in her, if he chose to tell her nothing more than the most cursory details, then that was his affair – but she certainly couldn't be expected to put up with it, not when half the Ministers were threatening to lodge civil action against him for his decision.

Another faint, echoing wail in the awkward silence – it came from the far wing, but it was still audible through the heavy oak panels and curtains that lined the walls.

"It doesn't sound as though she's getting used to home, does it?" she asked in a tone that she knew to be too jaunty. It was a nasty move, unkind, and she almost regretted it.

Almost.

Allen's back straightened instantly; he slammed his fist on the table.

"Dammit, Millerna!"

She jumped back in shock, aware that she'd gone too far. He turned in his chair to face her for the first time in this strained interview, and she felt a twinge of guilt at the glower on his face. She set her jaw defensively, but she couldn't force the words out.

"I knew I'd have to put up with torment and mockery over this," said Allen, rising. He spoke very slowly, as though just barely keeping his anger in check. She felt a shiver of fear – she'd never seen him like this before. His handsome face and open countenance were twisted in the candlelight. "I knew there were people in this country, in this castle, who would want her dead. I knew it would be a shock for her and for us – I knew it would be hard. I was prepared for a struggle. But I didn't think you would turn on me. I didn't think you'd mock me."

Millerna, torn between sympathy and a sneer, could say nothing for fear of dissolving into angry tears. She hadn't meant to betray his feelings – "I'm on your side!" she wanted to scream. Allen hadn't yelled at her – Allen didn't yell. But she would almost prefer it to this seething bitterness.

Silence.

And in the silence, another wail – distorted and muted by distance.

"Well? No more irreverent wit to throw at me, my Lady?"

She could do nothing but hold back her tears and watch, mute, as Allen rose with a fitful jerk and left the room.

Allen left the complex of audience chambers and walked slowly back through the narrower hallways that led to the far wing of the palace. He took his time; his eyes itched from the candlelight, and his feet were heavy with impossible hope – hope that when he passed the door, something would have changed, something would be different, that this pall that her presence had cast over the castle would be dispelled – she would be fixed – she would be his sister again –

Allen was a man disappointed.

After three days and nights of unconscious fits, of brooding silence, of resentful twitches and stubborn, clenched jaws, the screaming had begun. He didn't deserve this, not after everything else. It shouldn't have turned out like this – it should have been smooth, and gentle, and easy.

At first it had seemed so simple.

The war was over, Asturia victorious, and Allen was yet again a hero, the King's most loyal knight and the kingdom's most famous commander. That the nation's policy of civilian rationing and forced reclamation of goods had immediately ceased had done nothing to hurt his popularity. The military, and his regiment especially, enjoyed the celebrity; applicants were clamouring to join his corps. The champion of Asturia. The King had been overjoyed when Allen had requested an audience with him to beg a royal favour. He'd been only too happy to hear Allen's request.

He had been less happy to hear that Allen's request involved Dilandau.

An angry, sick, captive Dilandau.

"No, not Dilandau," Allen had insisted in the Chamber of the Crown. He'd shaken his head, his arms clasped respectfully behind his back. "Not Dilandau. Her name is Serena."

At this point, some of the Ministers had sniggered, and Allen had felt his jaw tense defensively. It didn't matter that the King eventually gave his reluctant approval and washed his hands of the matter; Allen had known from the moment he heard the muted laughter that he was alone in his convictions, and therefore in his efforts.

He was on his own in this.

That would not have mattered, of course, if his resolution had remained unshaken.

But Serena was not making it any easier.

Allen was a man disappointed; chief among those disappointments was the understanding that however clear and sudden and bright his epiphany on the battlefield had been, it was still only his epiphany. Serena had buckled with realization when he'd called her by her name… but nothing more had come of it, nobody else had seen it, and Serena – if she remembered it at all – was feigning not to. She'd spent most of the journey home in a comatose state, and now she was alternately furious and listless, in shock or something worse.

He paused. He was in the farthest wing of the palace now. The sconces on the walls were unlit. This portion of the palace was rarely used for visiting dignitaries and officials, and often remained uninhabited for large portions of the year. It was why his sister had been housed here, he knew. Some dreary moonlight shone through the windows along the east side of the corridor, but the halls were dark. The only exception was the gentle golden flicker of a light beyond the turn in the hallway that told him he was nearing Serena's room.

His feet, which had been taking shorter and shorter steps, now stopped entirely. He passed a hand over his eyes. Staring at the minutes of the previous meetings had given him a gnawing headache, and he had absorbed none of the information. He'd have to review it early tomorrow morning, before patrol.

Another wail floated down the corridor – and for a moment, a brief moment, he felt he would go crazy if he couldn't see her. He had to see her, to prove to himself that he'd seen what he'd seen, that she was who he thought she was. He had dreamed for years now about their reunion, but the bright, pastel visions dissolved when they ran up against the reality of the sick, angry figure thrashing around in the bed. This dampened none of his longing to know her, to touch her again, but Allen now acknowledged with a heavy heart that their reunion would not be the immediate, grateful recognition of his daydreams; even without the screaming and the blank-eyed, resentful silences, he knew that he had no idea how to interact with her after her absence, that he was – frankly – embarrassed around her. He did not know how to talk about her pain, or how to counterbalance her instability.

But still … to have his sister back …

A scream – angry, raw, sore – burst out from Serena's room. The servants had opened most of the doors and windows to encourage ventilation in the summer months and to sweep away the winter must; the scream echoed through the halls without impediment. Allen heard the syllables as clearly as if he'd been in the room standing next to her.

Serena was calling for Shesta.

And so Allen turned, and went to bed.

Consciousness took awhile. Dilandau awoke late and awoke exhausted. His entire body was one long, slow ache. He tried to shut his eyes against the light, but the windows and the curtains were open, the chirp of birds from the garden below was insistent, and the sun was too bright to ignore without getting up and slamming something shut. He supposed the bed was comfortable – but he hadn't left it since his arrival, whenever that had been. He'd known that he'd arrived – he didn't know where or why. He hadn't walked since he'd collapsed on the battlefield … and that had been so long ago. He couldn't remember much about the intervening time. There had been a doctor, but what was wrong with him? Had the man said anything?

"Doesn't matter," he mumbled to himself, pushing his face insistently into the pillow in an attempt to block out the sunlight.

There had been servants' faces, of course … and there had been him.

Allen.

Dilandau's stomach coiled the moment his brain touched on the name. That bastard – he'd been with him the whole time, invading his dreams and his thoughts as boldly as he pleased. Dilandau tried to make the face disappear, to think of something else, something vague and pleasant, and slip out of this half-conscious cage and back into the dark gloom of sleep … but the damn sun was too bright.

He opened his eyes finally and blinked a bit. A room. Alright. He'd seen it before, in his moments of lucidity. He sat up – that hurt. He ignored it; he fought his way out of the bed and dragged himself to his feet. The sun was too bright and it made his eyes hurt, but he stumbled towards the window anyways. The curtains were open. He had a view of a garden; he could see the sundial set in the center of the lawn. He could tell the time if he squinted. Almost noon.

Did that mean anything? Was time important here?

A noise behind him – he turned round to face the door, but he moved too quickly. His head spun; he gripped the bedpost and remained determinedly upright. A servant: she'd entered without knocking, sheets in hand, her face caught in half-guilty surprise.

"Oh!" She took a step back, hand on the knob of the open door, ready to make her retreat. "You shouldn't be up yet, begging your pardon. You should be in bed. I'll call the doctor …"

She made to shut the door, to leave the room.

"No!" Dilandau snapped.

She halted.

Dilandau felt his knees begin to buckle; he locked them tightly and leaned his weight against the bedpost. "No doctor. Stay here. A bath – I need a bath." His voice was hoarser than he'd expected; it threatened to crack in his throat. His entire neck was sore from the inside-out.

She didn't leave, but she stubbornly kept her hand on the knob, and she was frowning. Dilandau was nonplussed – he was used to being obeyed. Were all Asturian servants like this?

"You should be in bed," she repeated with stubborn petulance. "I was told you weren't to be moved. I'm supposed to tell the doctor if you wake."

Dilandau wanted to scream.

"What's your name?" he asked instead, easing himself down onto the edge of the bed; his legs were too weak to hold him. He grimaced at his own panting exhaustion, but even weak like this he was damn well stronger than any servant. He bullied her with his eyes, forced her to meet his stare.

"My name?"

"Are you deaf, then?"

"Mia, if you please."

"Alright, then. Mia. You have a choice. It's either my bath, or your organs on a platter – you can choose."

Millerna sighed and leaned against the slender wooden pillar of the gazebo, digesting the maid's words. The east garden was bathed in noontime sunlight. There was no wind; the tall poplars in their long, even rows were motionless. As though they existed in a vacuum, as though no time was passing. A perfect stillness. She wondered if she could just pretend that she hadn't heard the maid, if she could pass the problem along to Allen – it was his fault, after all.

She felt a sudden stab of anger – this was Allen's fault, hero or not, and he'd presumed upon their complacency for far too long. He'd taken advantage of their generosity. Why should they have to deal with this? They didn't deserve it; it wasn't their responsibility.

"Well, my lady?" asked the maid, looking anxious. "What should I do?"

No, Millerna sighed to herself. She knew what she had to do, she knew what was right, and she wasn't going to abandon Allen to his mistakes, even if they were his own. She grasped her maid's nervous hand and gave it a comforting squeeze.

"It's alright – calm down and don't worry. We'll sort this out. You tell the footman to alert the doctor – inform him that Serena's awake, then you may be excused to see to Mia. Is Allen returned yet?"

"Yes, they arrived just before noon. He's in his chambers, I think. Shall I tell him?"

"No need – I'll tell him myself."

The girl bobbed and disappeared through a gap in the hedge.

Millerna reluctantly abandoned the shade of the gazebo and forced herself to return to the fevered, frantic activity of the palace: knights coming and going, patrols, requirements, lists, ministers with proposals and secretaries with reports. Allen's door, when she arrived, was closed against the tumult. She knocked gently, but there was no answer. She opened it a sliver and slipped into the darkened room.

Allen was asleep. His body was stretched across the bed, fully clothed, hair splayed out around his head. He looked rumpled and unkempt, but his face seemed serene in the peaceful relaxation of a deep, honest sleep. Millerna paused for a moment and smiled – it seemed a shame to wake him, really.

His eyes snapped open, and he was at once awake.

"Millerna! What are you doing in here?"

He jerked to a sitting position and Millerna started, flushing angrily – she hadn't wanted him to find her like this, a thief stealing glances. She tried to fight away the knot of embarrassment in her stomach.

Allen misinterpreted her nervousness. He took her loose hand in his and squeezed it anxiously. "What is it? Is it Serena? Is it my sister?"

Millerna took a breath. "Serena is awake and lucid."

Allen dropped her hand. "Is she alright?"

"Awake and lucid, and threatening the servants. Allen, I don't think he – "

"She!"

And he looked so furious all of a sudden that Millerna dared not contradict him – but oh, she was angry. "Whichever you please, then – only hurry up and get down there. This is your mess." She turned on her heel and left him groggy and disheveled in the afternoon sunlight.