I hope this latest chapter doesn't come as mood whiplash compared to the decidedly darker tone of the previous one, but well, Twelfth Night is a comedy, after all! And for help, I enlisted the help of trainwreck scene writer extraordinaire blarfshnorgull! I basically said "hey how do I make this Funney?" And she cracked her knuckles and gave me an amazing framework to use! So many thanks to her and newmrsdewinter for making this chapter possible!

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Caver: well, I can't spoil too much at the moment but youuuu'll seeeeeeee!

This chapter is best read with an accompanying playlist of songs like "Yakity Sax" ;)

"So, here's the thing," Marion said, agitation giving her words a higher pitch. "If you want to go to Ylisstol unseen, it'll be hard. The village is, well, boarding soldiers at the moment, so…"

"Why?" Daraen asked, but he chose to voice his question right at the moment he brought a spoonful of broth into his mouth. The liquid dribbled uselessly down his front. He grimaced and apologised to Kellam for ruining his borrowed shirt.

"Reserve troops to help out the ones stationed in Southtown. We're not far off from Plegia at this particular point, and everyone's on edge. And I also believe Kellam's exceptionally bad luck didn't do any favours," she said, sighing.

Kellam, wiping traces of soup off Daraen's face, nodded. "Uhhh…I'm kind of…wanted for desertion at the moment."

"Why," Daraen asked again.

"…It's a long story."

Marion stood up to check the entrance; the sensitive nature of their meeting meant she came at night, and constantly made sure no one was approaching Kellam's shack. Daraen knew accomplished spies would have easily heard anything and everything that happened within its precariously thin walls, but the gesture proved her bravery and the dedication she put into helping them.

The men waited patiently as she stared off into the night until she returned with an unsatisfied grunt. The dim light from the cookfire scarcely amounted to much illumination, but it was better this way.

Marion cleared her throat. "I'll try to be brief: we don't like Plegians much here—"

"Sorry," Daraen grumbled.

"—but we don't got much love for the army, either. Much too disorganised. They're unhappy with the state of affairs and they're starting to get rough with the smallfolk. Sawyer's girl got burned at the stove since a soldier snapped at her to cook faster, and the poor thing startled. Doesn't make her father's position so enviable, having to keep ten of those louts entertained. Temper's are gonna boil over soon, and you don't wanna get caught up once they do, so you better scarper quick, tonight."

Kellam, sucking in a tiny breath, glanced worriedly at Daraen. "You mean now?"

"Yeah, now. S'almost been a week, so his wounds are better. Just be mindful of the toes and keep taking the medicine—I've got it all packed for you."

"Why tonight? Marion, what's going on?" Daraen murmured. His eyes flicked to the tarp covering the entrance. "If someone's been asking questions and following you—"

"—No, I haven't been followed or questioned, but I can tell the soldiers are getting suspicious. They've got some wounded veterans in their numbers and I'm the only healer in this area outside Southtown, and they don't like that I'm away so often," she replied.

"I'm sorry," came Daraen's automatic apology.

Marion looked him over, carefully taking in the slump of his shoulders. The thin slant of his body underneath Kellam's too-big shirt. "It ain't your fault. You and Kellam's luck just seemed to match up in the worst way possible—hopefully, it'll tide you over for getting out, at least."

"So, you have a plan?"

"Sort of."

"Don't worry. I'm rather good at making those up on the spot."

Marion explained that the village consisted of fifteen families spread out across thirteen homes, loosely organised around Headman Sawyer's place: a muddy little road which cut a path between them that twisted in a snake-like pattern. The possibility of using it was discarded on account of the heightened risk of being discovered. Kellam and Robin would have to take a wider arc behind the Gibbs family's goat shed if they wanted to avoid bringing a lamp.

"They keep some torches lit ever since them soldiers came," she pointed out. Weak fire sputtering slightly in the wind. "One for every three houses. Best stick to the Gibbs so you can get away without getting lost in the dark. Sharp rocks out there so close to the beach too…and not a lot of tree cover to keep you hidden."

"I'll be a burden on Kellam with my bad toe," Daraen muttered.

"Oh, I can carry you. It won't be any trouble at all," Kellam immediately offered.

"That's very kind of you, but how can you be so sure of that while we're sneaking around? What if we get caught? I can't be responsible for getting you into another mess when you've been so kind to me."

Pink spread across Kellam's doughy cheeks, and he looked away to cough. "It's no issue, really. I'm…I'm happy to help, and it's the right thing to do, anyways."

Mario cleared her throat testily. "When you two are done, remember to watch out for the patrol they've got posted. 'Course he's not much of a threat, really—his name's Brandon and he tends to only stick to one side of the village on account of the animals spooking him—but you can never be too careful, you hear? Kellam can't be caught, but the villagers like him well enough…but if they see you, Mister Daraen, there's no telling what kind of outroar'll spring up, so you best be extra cautious."

"We will. T-thank you for everything, Marion. I'd be long gone and dead if it were not for you and Kellam." Daraen dipped his head low in thanks. He would be truly missing her, and, should fate be kind enough, he would attempt to seek her out in the near future to fully convey his appreciation.

"That's sweet of you, but the pleasantries can wait. Go!"

The plan was organised in the following manner: Marion would enter the village, distract anyone who dared to venture outside for a few moments, and then immediately go back to her home under the pretense of weariness—it would help keep scrutiny off her for returning so late, should the patrol catch wind of her.

Meanwhile, Daraen and Kellam would skirt to the edges, sticking to the rear of the Mason's and Gibbs' houses. The key to success hinged on Daraen being wrapped up in Kellam's dirty laundry. His excuse, should a neighbour happen to wander out of bed for some reason or another, would be that he was secretly escorting Marion back along with some sheets and used bandages.

"Kellam, being Kellam, won't have a hard time passing unnoticed at least, so there's that," Marion explained nonchalantly.

Daraen still had no idea what she was talking about. Kellam, in spite of his deceptive softness, towered over them. His proportions simply did not lend themselves to the concept of stealth under any circumstance. Then again…there were more than a few occasions in which Marion had seemingly lost sight of him, or called him 'slippery.' Was it some sort of joke between them?

They watched Marion stroll into the village, leading her horse from the bridle. A mousy young man in light armour immediately sprang out from the shadows to question her; Brandon, apparently. Daraen hobbled along silently, leaning on Kellam for support, never taking his eyes off the soldier. They managed to pass the edge of the Mason's home before Brandon let Marion off, trudging back to his post.

The Gibbs had a large plot of land allocated to them for their animals. Apparently, few ventured this way, given the fact that the poverty of war meant they took on dung collection as an extra source of income. The strong scent of goat and excrement wrinkled their noses as Kellam, apologising profusely all the while, began to roll Daraen up in a sheet. He took the added precaution of loosely covering his face. While the temptation to peek out and have a look was very strong, Daraen remained limp in Kellam's grasp, staying still and trusting him to safely walk them over the minefield of droppings in the dark, away from Brandon the night patrol's eyes.

…Until Kellam stumbled over a rock.

"S-sorry!" Kellam whispered hurriedly.

Daraen bit his lip, willing his heart to stop pounding. "It's alright. Just be careful."

Kellam nearly lost his footing again, and it took all of Daraen's willpower not to groan aloud.

After that small hiccup, the walk ahead felt smoother. It certainly could have been more comfortable, given how (at his own insistence) Kellam slung him over his shoulder, but he was quite literally in no position to complain. A low hum rumbled through his rescuer as he stopped to consider the terrain.

"Uhhhh…might wanna…hold on." Kellam sounded much too unsure for Daraen's liking.

"My hands are currently indisposed at the moment but I can…try in spirit."

"Ah."

Then came a shuffling noise as they slowed. The light dimmed in this area, so Kellam had to mind his steps, watching out for any piles of dung he might encounter, lest they—

Kellam tripped on a small pebble and fumbled as Daraen came perilously close to falling.

"I swear I'm not doing this on purpose and I'm so so so sorry, please forgive me!" Kellam sounded close to tears.

Daraen sucked in a trembling breath, praying to whatever god out there that the night held no more surprises for them. He counted Kellam's steps. They seemed much more confident now, less clumsy. Good. As long as those first few almost-accidents stayed that way, then they could get this over with.

"I think I can sprint a little now, since there's grass here and the goats don't use this spot for, uh, relieving themselves," Kellam whispered.

A very bad feeling dropped a weight into the pit of Daraen's stomach. "Kellam, I'm not sure that's a good—"

Too late did he voice his doubts, as Kellam broke into a light jog, bouncing his charge slightly with each step. Hopefully his massive bulk meant bigger steps? Daraen held his breath, praying harder, pleading at this point, that the sudden wrench in his gut was nothing more than nervousness and not a hunch warning him about potential catastrophe.

Unfortunately for them, his hunches were usually spot on most of the time.

They slowed, Kellam panting slightly. He shifted Daraen onto his shoulder, spinning to and fro to gauge their position in the dark. "See? Nothing too bad. Now this part's where it gets a bit trickier—"

The spinning sent the back of Daraen's head straight into a pole of some kind. He bit his lip hard to muffle a pained scream.

"DARAEN! I'm so sorry! I thought the clothesline wasn't here, does it hurt badly?" Kellam lowered Daraen to the ground and unravelled the sheets to palm the back of his head.

Daraen groaned at the contact, blinking blearily. "Try…to be a little more careful," he ground out. "Let's not push our luck."

"O-ok…"

Wrapped up once more in the sheets, Kellam opted to cradle the bundle to his chest this time, if only as a protective measure against any more stray clothesline poles lurking in the night. Daraen breathed a quiet sigh of thanks at his more cautious pace, trying to focus on anything but the throbbing in his head. That would certainly leave a bump tomorrow. And no more Marion to treat his aches and pains either, but he had gone through worse and survived.

If I survive this night, that is…

So far, so good. Only Kellam's feet bounding softly against the ground and their breathing could be discerned against the faint noises of the beach and nocturnal insects, whirring away pleasantly. It would have been much easier to appreciate without Daraen's pain fuzzing up his senses, though he tried to mitigate it with calm, even-spaced breathing. It was a trick he and Robin learned from their mother, once upon a time, when they were safer tumbling around with their own goats and livestock. He prayed his sister was alive, alive to embrace and apologise to and go home with after the mess they found themselves in could finally be resolved.

But first came actually leaving the village, then following the road to Ylisstol, and hoping he and Kellam could get past the city walls to where the meetings were taking place…

They slipped.

"Oh no," Kellam gasped.

"What." Daraen's voice was completely flat.

"Minefield."

Their breathing seemed far louder now with the tension rocketing skywards. Of all things, their biggest threat were the goat droppings, but the insistent droning at the back of Daraen's skull reminded him of how deadly Kellam's missteps could be. If not another pole, then perhaps sliding into excrement, getting caught by a guard, running into some other obstacle like a log. Who was to say?

Kellam almost seemed to dance with the slow deliberation taken before each footstep. Daraen's head swam from the hurt and from holding his breath, fraught with anxiety over every single possible factor that could go wrong.

"Okay. Okay." Kellam exhaled. "That seemed to be the worst of it done. Not too terrible."

They gave a sudden, horrible lurch as Kellam exclaimed loudly, then fell to the ground in a crumpled heap with Daraen squashed right beneath the other man's larger bulk.

"GRIMA'S TITS!" Daraen bellowed.

"The hell's goin' on out there?" a man's voice answered right back.

Light washed over them. Even from under the sheets, Daraen had to squint his eyes shut, staying deathly still in the hopes that no one would notice him from beneath Kellam. But breathing was getting extremely difficult, his heart was going a thousand leagues a second, and, to his horror, he realised that his bare hand stuck out onto the grass. And the voices of men approached, closer and closer…

Wait! Maybe they can miss Kellam like Marion does all the time! Daraen prayed hard. It seemed to be working. The voices muttered a bit before growing slightly distant, as if walking away.

"Hey Mr. Gibbs…it's just me," Kellam squeaked weakly, and Daraen cursed internally as that hope was immediately dashed to pieces.

"Hoi, Kellam! What're ye doing all the way back here so late at night?"

Daraen assumed that voice belonged to the Gibbs patriarch. He sounded friendly enough to Kellam, if bemused, to find him sprawled out on the ground with a pile of sheets.

Kellam coughed. "Just trying to return Marion's laundry to her. Sorry, Mr. Gibbs, I didn't mean to cause such a ruckus."

"Ahhh, t'ain't nothin' to it, my boy. Don't you worry."

"What was that, Pa?"

Oh no. Another Gibbs? Were they that loud? Daraen's dread increased when he realised his incredibly crude swearing had been spoken in Plegian. And with the border not too far off, what were the odds that someone, if not the Gibbs, would recognise it? His vision started to pop with little spots of colour and hazy black patches from holding in his breath for so long. If he died, he hoped it would not be on the ground amongst goat dung.

"Kellam's bringing laundry back to Marion," Mr. Gibbs explained to his apparent son.

"Hey, Kellam. Didn't take ya as the type to be afraid of Little Brandon," the son said, laughing heartily.

Kellam's returning laugh carried an obvious trace of nervousness to it, but thankfully, the Gibbs men ignored it. "Oh, I'd just rather not cause any trouble. I–I didn't mean to come out here this late, but it was because I realised I forgot to return these to her, and since she'd been coming over so often lately to help me with my bad foot and everything."

"That's our Marion, selfless as always. And it's good to see that foot did nicely! Whaddaya say we take those sheets off yer hands and give 'em to her tomorrow?"

Daraen froze.

"Ha ha…thank you, Tom! But I'd rather not be a bother."

"Why a bother? You're a good friend to the village! There's no botherin' involved when it comes to you." The older Gibbs chuckled. "Why, if it weren't you, we'd be mighty suspicious over some large bloke skulkin' around behind the house in the dead of night, actin' like he needs to get rid of a body or summat."

"Hey, Pa…that actually kind of does look like a body." Tom's words prompted a long pause between them all.

Daraen froze again. He felt Kellam's body tense on top of him.

Then both of the Gibbs started to laugh uproariously.

"Oh, you real kidder, Kellam!" Tom's laughter turned into a high-pitched whistle as he slapped his knee and struggled for breath, incredibly tickled by the absurdity of the situation.

"I'll say! Imagine a lad like Kellam of all people, carryin' a body around!" his father said, chortling.

"You get yerself goin' to Marion's, Kellam. Try not to slip on any more poo, ya hear?"

"Yes, thank you," Kellam said weakly. "Have a good night. I'm so sorry for waking you up like this."

"Like we said, don't worry about it. The missus can have a good laugh over this come morning. It'll be your payment, since she ain't had some humour after these city blokes took over the place. Be more careful, though!"

Kellam offered a tepid hum in agreement as the light receded from view. After a few hair-raising minutes of waiting to see if the frackas had attracted Brandon's attention, he tore the sheets off Daraen's face in a panic, and the latter sucked in a huge, gasping breath.

"I'm SO, so sorry!" Kellam whispered.

"So poo, was it?" Daraen replied dryly.

"…And then a log."

"Of course."

Both marvelled how, miraculously, all their bumbling about only meant attracting the Gibbs—with the other men trusting Kellam enough to not give the 'sheets' a more thorough once-over. Daraen felt like thoroughly tenderised meat. He ached all over and dearly wished for one of Marion's tinctures to soothe the pounding in his head, the soreness in his chest, and the aggravating desperation for the night to end as quickly as possible. No one talked the rest of the way through. Finally (finally!) Kellam began to crest a small hill, the one Marion told them sat at the very edge of the village, signifying the end to their ordeal.

"I wouldn't blame you if you decide to beat me black and blue for all this, Daraen. I truly am very sorry for giving you such a hard time," Kellam apologised softly, patting the roll of sheets gently.

Daraen, still sore, sighed. "You've been a great help to me. Don't think about it too much."

"At least this means the road's close! All we have to do is follow it straight. All the roads only lead to Ylisstol from here, and we can find a horse tomorrow. But first, a good night's rest."

The end of his sentence was punctuated by Daraen being whacked in the face by what felt like a very old and very solid tree branch.

"I'M SORRY—" Kellam cried.

"I want to die," Daraen wheezed.

Unfortunately for the twins and everyone around them, I have no intention of restricting the slapstick to this chapter. There will be groaning and bruising, but I'll have popcorn for every single moment of pain inflicted!