Resonance of Faith

by Darkinterval

Chapter 6: Moving Forward

"So, Roger again, huh?"

It was no surprise that none chose to dignify Cliff's statement with a response; after all, their little ragtag group barely survived the fall of an entire civilization and had the unfortunate privilege of witnessing a rather brutal decimation of a technologically advanced alien superpower, all within the span of less than six hours. Not to mention, it was one of their own who was entirely responsible for the recent string of events – and no, it was not a certain physical manifestation of a weapon of destruction otherwise known as Fayt Leingod, but someone far less conspicuous, completely unexpected and not even old enough to actually cuss or drink. Suffice to say, no one was comfortable addressing the obvious elephant in the room; not even Fayt, who had his chin propped on his hand, as his other hand lovingly stroked the soft, unruly bangs of his young lover.

A deep concern and sorrow marred his handsome features, worn down and made older by days of brooding and complete neglect to his physical health. He hadn't moved, slept, spoken a word or eaten in three days – well, save a few biscuit crumbs Albel had threatened to shove down his throat after slicing said throat open. "Don't misunderstand, maggot. I don't give a bloody damn about you or if you kill yourself, but if I have to listen to another minute of that Aquarian wench's yapping–" had been the Glyphian's explanation, but it was apparent that everyone was on edge and even Albel – cruel, cold and generally intolerant – could suffer from anxiety. That, and he was not good with tight spaces.

This stasis, this state of utter helplessness and not knowing: it had to stop. But Roger wasn't waking up, and trying to talk to, much less move Fayt from his bedside was like stupidly provoking a feral dragon and getting punished for it teeth, claws and all. Speaking to the Earthling was useless at this point. Everything pretty much flew over his head. However, that didn't stop the group from quite literally, talking over his shoulder.

"Well, it seems that whoever this boy is, he's able to trigger Fayt's powers," said Maria with a breath of frustration, curling a lock of blue hair around her finger, an unconscious habit. "But unlike the last time with that Vendeeni ship, Fayt was able to control it. He could hone that energy, focus on a single target and even retain consciousness after."

"No shit, Sherlock," Cliff made a pointed gesture at the boy's back. "Kid's a bloody champion and hasn't slept a wink since. But this isn't about Fayt, is it?"

He turned his head and shot Nel a knowing stare. The redhead had her eyes shut, arms folded, had been quiet for sometime. She kicked herself off the guest room wall with a sigh. Granted, they were in Castle Aquaria now, but even the soothing sound of flowing water and reverberations of the chapel choir did little to calm her nerves. She released a shaky breath.

"Eons ago, Aquor fell when Greeton attacked and tried to steal the sacred orb from its pedestal. What Roger doesn't know, is that Surferio almost fell a second time – and to make things clear, no, I'm not referring to three days ago."

"... He tried to touch the orb."

Five pairs of eyes swiveled to land on the unexpected source, one whom they had deemed a zombie to the world until a second ago. Fayt raised his head as he spoke, but never once turned around to face them, his attention still focused on the sleeping child beneath the covers.

"Nel," he whispered dangerously. "Why are we only hearing this now?"

She bit her lip. "Well…"

Suddenly, the chair Fayt had been sitting on flew across the room and crashed noisily against the stone wall. Everyone flinched, save Albel who raised an eyebrow in intrigue. The action wasn't meant to harm, but it was still a shocking sight to bear nonetheless.

"Why didn't you tell me about Roger earlier?! Why did you keep his past a secret?!" Fayt shrieked, bordering on hysterical. "If he never followed us to Surferio, none of this would've happened! The city was falling. The Vendeeni attacked. I had to hit him with something I apparently used to destroy an entire Vendeeni battleship. He could've died!"

"Because I didn't know!"

Nel's scream was enough to shutdown Fayt's emotional tirade. The usually composed and dignified royal commander seemed to be losing her cool more and more in light of recent events; then again, this was Fayt Leingod, the most stubborn, impulsive and volatile guy in the galaxy, and history between them (despite how short they knew each other) showed that conflict was a norm rather than a rarity.

The ringing silence thereafter could only be described as nerve wrecking. Nel's eyes were as cold as ice as they bore into Fayt's accusing emerald stare, but her trembling fists at her sides spoke volumes of the real storm brewing inside. How dare a foreigner lecture her on the safety and well-being of one of her own. Roger was her brother, her family; she had known and loved him longer than this strange, self-important swordsman from the stars. The only reason she bothered giving Fayt face at all, was because she owed him and (dare she say it) considered him a friend.

"We had a meeting with her majesty, the king and prime minister," she explained, while shooting a certain silent ex-captain an irritated glare. "But it seems some of us have problems remembering important details."

Albel snorted and looked out the window, barely concealing a wicked smile.

"The truth is, I only just found out yesterday," Nel continued with a rueful grimace. "I was 14 years old. I lost my father to the war and I wandered the land, an orphan with no purpose and no place to go. Then, I met Sir Huxley and his son. My only memory growing up was of a little humanoid boy growing up alongside me. We played together, looked out for each other, and got in trouble more times than I can count. Roger was a normal boy. Why should I expect anything different?"

They seemed to be squaring each other off: Fayt's gaze suspicious and Nel's posture resolute. When it seemed there was nothing further to gain from this conversation, Fayt let out a breath of frustration and averted his attention back to Roger on the bed. However, it was clear that his anger was not meant for Nel, but something far more elusive and inconceivable. The Aquarian gazed at him pityingly. Guilt and self-loathing. She understood those emotions all too well.

"Well, guess that explains the village inn side job," said Cliff, rubbing out the dull ache growing in his neck. "Put as much distance between the orb and the pipsqueak, and nobody gets hurt. Makes sense."

"Yes," said Nel. "Thankfully, he was only a toddler then and the Prime Minster was able to prevent things from escalating." At that, she frowned, "Roger's attracted to the Sacred Orb somehow, but it seems that attraction is far more fatal than we ever hoped to conceive."

"And Roger has no memory of this?" asked Mirage.

Albel gave a derisive snort. "If I could remember everything I did when I was 2, I'd be a goddamn saint."

Before anyone could retort, there was a hesitant knock on the door. The group stopped short, all eyes trained curiously to the fine wood. Was the Queen checking up on them?

It was Nel who muttered a quick, "Come in", but what they expected to be a guard or servant standing on the other side, instead turned out to be the squat, imposing figure of one Aznor Huxley. Sanmite's leader sported a face that could only be described as grim at best, solicitous at worst; his age made older by the sallow cheeks, dull grey eyes and the many creases that lined his forehead from stress, extensive late nights of back-and-forth deliberation and an incessant worry that desperately showed through. All eyes were on him, expectant, nervous, unsure, but nonetheless on edge; the growing sea of static enough to power a whole house. Aznor removed his monocle with a weary sigh. Good lord, where to begin?

"Leingod, walk with me. The King and Queen wish to speak with you and your friends."

That only earned him a skeptical frown from Fayt, who held his ground. His reservations had an influence on the rest it seemed, for none made any indication of wanting to leave the room. Aznor sighed again.

"It's about your request." And at Fayt's shocked expression, he dared to crack a smile. "I think, in light of recent happenings, you'd find us leaders far more reasonable and… open to bending the rules."

"Sir, you mean… you'll help us?"

"If you hurry."

Fayt's eyes found Maria's and she acknowledged him with a firm nod. He spared a lingering glance at the unconscious Menodix on the bed, hesitant. This would be his first time leaving the room since the incident. What if Roger woke up? He wanted to be there when the boy opened his eyes, be the first person he saw, hear his voice and kiss him out of love and sheer relief that everything was ok, that nothing had to change between them. But this was a breakthrough, a shift in direction. These people were finally willing to listen and he could go save his father, the one thing that kept him going and sane enough to function despite all the craziness that has happened.

"Alright," he looked to the others, "let's hear what they have to say."

"I hope it's good news," Cliff muttered, as the group gathered their gear and began to file out of the cramped guest room.

"... Except you, Nox."

"What?"

Unflinching, Aznor stared the scary Glyphian down, which was quite a feat considering the dark and lanky ex-captain was at least twice as tall as him. Albel did not take kindly to discrimination on his person. The looming glare sent Aznor's way could only be described as murderous in its offense, but it had no effect on the hardened warrior, who met his stare head on.

"As his majesty's escort, your job ends here," said the Prime Minister in a tone that left no room for negotiation. "This meeting involves our guests and military representatives. I'm afraid you no longer hold that right. For now, or at least until Azeri is ready to return to Airyglyph, you're dismissed."

Albel glowered, the humiliation at being dismissed so callously in front of these people he deemed as fools, burned deep and struck his pride. But orders were orders, his king's word was law. He turned away with an indignant scoff, though not without having the last word.

"Bah! Try not to offend the hands that feed you, worm." And it was obvious who that comment was meant for. "You've already caused this miserable ball of dirt more trouble than it's worth."

Fayt was inclined to tell his rival to shove it and speak for himself, but he would be wasting time and rising to Albel's bait really was not worth it. For now, he ignored the blatant antagonism.

"Look after Roger for me. Tell a guard or something if he wakes."

Albel's lips parted, the start of an arrogant grin. "I don't have to answer to you, worm. You overestimate yourself. Your strength, your perseverance, your place. It's admirable to put the little fool's life before all else, but in such a situation, you forget you don't belong here and your time is almost up."

Fayt did not back down. He took a threatening step forward, but Maria's hand shot out and held him at bay. "Fayt, drop it. Let's go."

Something gleamed in Albel's vermillion eyes. Something insinuating. Claws from a gauntlet passed over the crown of Roger's head, smoothening back the longer pieces of his bangs as he stayed asleep.

"Hurry back."

There was a mocking tilt to his words. Fayt did not rise to the challenge; instead, he pivoted on his heel and stalked out the room, quiet and seething.

If anything, Fayt really wished he did not need to be part of this meeting. However, he would sooner choke on his own saliva than admit he was envious of Albel's position or rather, lack of position in the eyes of the political state. Everything about this conference felt all wrong: the atmosphere, the timing, the circumstances that inspired it. It was a difficult task to focus for. Fayt was not one for serious discussion anyway; they had Maria, Nel and Mirage for that (no offense, Cliff). But he had to cut his inner monologue short the moment the King's gaze fell on him.

Arzei straightened his posture against the conference chair, hands across the table, the weight on his shoulders not quite as severe as their previous session back at Surferio. Sanmite's ministers, Queen Romeria, and even Nel looked to him in reverence. It was clear who initiated this conference. Despite the accumulation of negative events, the King seemed strangely optimistic. And Fayt wondered why.

"I apologize for the delay," Arzei began. Tiredness thinly veiled his speech. "We needed to see to the repairs of Surferio, as well as reorganize our priorities. My soldiers are here, Airyglyph's air dragons roam the courtyards and Aquaria's runologists are doubling up as doctors. The Queen and I agreed that every help should be enlisted, that in times of war no cost is too great."

"And that's what this is," said Romeria, sweeping the room with her piercing red gaze, punctuating her speech with eyes that had seen far too much in such a short amount time. "War."

Maria raised an eyebrow, wary. "Am I to believe that this meeting is one built on hostility? That you called us here as some form of ultimatum?" As she said this, her hand wandered to the pulse gun strapped to her hip; but a hand clamped over hers, stilling her movements.

"Your majesty, please, if I may," Fayt interrupted as he bowed his head, guilt swarming through his chest once again. "It's really my fault that the Vendeeni came here in the first place. My powers… the lives lost… the near-destruction of an entire civilization… they never would've known about the Sacred Orb if it weren't for me. Surferio would've remained a peaceful city if we hadn't interfered. And Roger..."

Aznor shook his head and a look of understanding crossed his face. "You're wrong, my boy." His one good eye met Fayt's astonished ones. "At least, we all would've thought so, if it weren't for the brilliant insight of our king." The knowing smirk he flashed Arzei did not go unnoticed by the party. Airyglyph's ruler cleared his throat to hide his embarrassment for being called out so casually.

"I gathered from what you were saying before that there are many worlds like our own. And the Sacred Orb is an exceedingly rare and powerful object, an OPA, am I correct?"

"Yes, your majesty," answered Maria. "At least, there's no record of anything like it in the Federation's database."

Arzei chuckled and shook his head. "Honestly, I don't understand this 'Federation' of yours or what it means in the greater scope of things. But what I do know, most likely, someone would have come here seeking its power sooner or later. It just so happens that time is now – and I would rather disaster strike and be saved by the four of you, than to pay the price in the coming future." At this, Airyglyph's king smiled. "You have nothing to apologize for. I had greatly misjudged you and I was wrong. I see this now. If anything, our people– no, we are grateful that you are here."

"Your majesty…"

The King's words surprised them, humbling above all else. They had expected slander, threats to their lives, or at the very least, stern admonishment – but not this. Not a King foregoing his pride and going all out to thank them on the behalf of not just his nation, but others as well.

"So you see," Aznor picked up from where he left off, "Even though Surferio collapsed and you hit my son into a coma (Fayt frankly couldn't decide if Huxley senior was being flippant or sarcastic), everyone came out unscathed in the end and most importantly, alive. You risked your lives to face off against those Vendeeni and their strange weapons, when many of our soldiers would have perished."

"Which brings us to our next point," Romeria elaborated with a hint of concern. "Now that the Vendeeni have been defeated at Surferio, they have even more reason to attack our kingdoms. It's not just about you, Fayt Leingod, but our people have a stake in the matter as well. It would appear that the only option left is to work together."

Fayt took all this in slowly, unable to believe what his ears were actually hearing. "Y-You mean…"

"Yes," Arzei agreed, taking Romeria's hand in his and shared a meaningful look with Aznor, who nodded. "As leaders of the three founding bodies of Gaitt, we have decided… to grant you your request. Our kingdoms will help you escape and drive off the Vendeeni once and for all."

"But how will we do it?" asked Cliff, skeptical. "Fayt can't exactly control his powers; there's no way in hell we're giving the pipsqueak that orb again; and the only weapon that might have a shot on this planet isn't complete yet, much less possess the firing range to take down a battleship in the sky. What's the point of an attack that can't hit its target?"

Fayt crossed his arms and pondered their predicament. "That's a good question…"

Arzei cleared his throat, a reminder of his presence.

"You're forgetting who your allies are," he said, a mysterious twinkle in his eyes. "If you have the means to carry the Thunder Arrow, range wouldn't be a problem, correct? We may not have flying vessels that shoot lasers from cannons, but Airyglyph has its air dragons. I believe that should suffice."

"With all due respect, your majesty, there's still one fatal error in your plan," Nel interrupted respectfully, her knowledge and familiarity in operating the Thunder Arrow parallel to no other in this room. "It's the size: the weapon is far too large and heavy to mount on a single air dragon or two, not even four."

"She does bring up a good point," added Mirage, who had been quietly analyzing their conversation for quite some time. "Sure, that takes care of the range issue, but the transport and execution would be clumsy at best, disastrous at worst. A weapon as cumbersome as that would need something far larger than a normal air dragon to support."

The room fell silent. Gaitt's leaders pondered their latest obstacle with troubled frowns – all except the King, who parted his lips confidently, having anticipated this issue from the start, the solution stored safely at the back of his mind.

"We shall appeal to Crosell."

His answer drew forth startled gasps and whispers from around the room. Crosell? The Crosell? Lord of the Earth, Wind and Sky; first sentient life to walk the lands of ancient Aquor; servant to none? Romeria's jaw dropped, Sanmite's ministers tittered amongst themselves, Nel almost fell out of her chair and Aznor looked like he just managed to bypass a possible heart attack.

"The Marquis? Arzei, are you out of your damn mind?!" The Menodix shrieked, no longer caring for propriety and good manners. Arzei however, appeared calm and mostly unaffected by his outburst.

"Come now, Aznor. He fulfills all the requirements."

"For our sake, my dear friend, I hope you're joking."

"And for our sake," Cliff forcibly butt in, "I hope somebody will tell us who the hell this Crosell is!"

It was Romeria who collected herself first, but it seemed the Queen herself had not fully gotten over her shock, even as she divulged a sacred portion of their kingdom's history.

"Crosell, known to all living beings as The Marquis, is the largest Air Dragon and also the most powerful creature in this world. Unlike all other dragons, he's fully sentient and has been around far longer than the ancient kingdom of Aquor itself. Legend has it that he was not only around when the three sacred treasures were created, but also partially responsible for the creation of one of them, the Crimson Scourge, which was forged from his own scales. Unfortunately," she paused to look at Arzei doubtfully, expression matter-of-fact. "The Marquis hates humans."

"Which further proves – Aznor jabbed Arzei in the chest – how impossible this plan of yours is!"

"Hold on just a second," interrupted Fayt. "How big is he anyway?"

"Oh, trust me, he's big," Malroy paused to inspect his claws, utterly bored. The feline had been keeping quiet this whole time, but whether it was because he had nothing better to contribute or out of courtesy for his Prime Minister, they were not sure. "But that won't mean shit when he decides to burn you guys to a crisp if he feels you aren't worth his time."

Maria folded her arms and assessed the situation with narrowed eyes. "Let me get this straight: you want us to meet this Marquis of Dragons and convince him to help us? Not to sound pessimistic, but why would he? This isn't his fight. And even if he does agree to help us, how do we locate him? At the very least, we'll need a guide."

Aznor shook his head, sharing his fellow minister's sentiment. "Consider this a lost cause, Ms. Traydor. The Marquis mistrusts everyone. Besides, we don't have anyone who carries the bond with dragons to appeal to his soul. At least, nobody left…"

Arzei hummed, unfazed. "But what if we do?"

"Glou is dead, Arzei!"

"I didn't say 'what if we did'," he countered his hot-blooded friend. "I said, what if we do."

At first, no one understood the implications behind the King's rhetorical question, until the pieces finally clicked and Nel stood up so suddenly, her chair crashed against the nearest wall. Her eyes were wide, heart thrumming an incessant melody in her chest; her throat felt oddly dry. The King couldn't mean… Was this the real reason why he was barred from this meeting?

"Glou Nox's son," she whispered with dawning understanding. "Albel Nox."

"Albel?" Aznor sneered, whipping his head around to address the King, making his skepticism known. "I get that he's the last of the Nox bloodline, but he failed the ceremony, Arzei. The Marquis rejected him before. What makes you think he won't reject him again?"

"Because he met your son, my dear friend, or did you forget?" Arzei replied patiently without missing a beat. "That mark of the dragon on his arm… Albel didn't have it then, but he does now and that's enough assurance that not all hope is lost."

Aznor clicked his tongue in annoyance. He did not particularly enjoy the knowledge that his son got involved with Nox's shit, but even he could not deny that Arzei brought up a valid point.

"Does Albel know about this?" he asked, but quickly interrupted himself. "You know what, let me rephrase that: did he agree to this?"

Arzei's silence spoke louder than words. Somehow, Fayt expected that. Albel was not exactly the most selfless and cooperative person on the planet – and 'difficult' was hardly extensive or accurate enough to describe his personality. Ironically, he was the only person on Elicoor II, who held the key to winning that one dragon over in order to make this plan a success. Not to mention, they hated each other's guts. If Albel ever got wind that Fayt's safety and future lay in his hands, he would take it, gloat about it and hold it hostage until he died and/or got Fayt to beg first, whichever he felt more inclined to do. How bothersome.

"It's not that simple," said the King with a heavy heart, attempting to put his emotions into words, to translate his most trusted knight's pain and grief to an audience who barely knew him. "You must understand, this journey demands a lot from Albel, both spiritually and emotionally. He was scorned by this dragon years ago. Crosell took his father's life and in her grief, his mother's life along with it. He lives with this failure each passing day. He was only a boy."

"Yet you insist on sending him on this mission as their guide," observed Romeria with a secretive smile. "Why?"

He did not miss the underlying meaning of her question. While Woltar and the late Vox knew him well as Airyglyph's King, it was Romeria who truly knew him best: the way he thought, the way he simply was. Everyone awaited the King's explanation patiently, namely Fayt, who wondered what made Albel so damn special that he had to come along. Again.

"The Crimson Scourge accepted Albel as its master for a reason," said Arzei, lowering his gaze thoughtfully, before raising his head to look the Queen and Sanmite's ministers in the eye. "I believe he is ready."

Aznor could do nothing save hum in consent. If the Crimson Scourge said so, there really was no arguing around it.

"Fine, Nox goes with them… but so does Nel."

Said woman gave a start, while Romeria fixed the Prime Minister with sparkling eyes of intrigue. "And may I ask the reason why my High Commander in particular is needed for this mission? No doubt it'll prove more beneficial if she stayed here to organise the different races currently sheltered in Aquaria, wouldn't it?" Aznor laughed.

"Simple, my dear Romeria. Nel's got an important job to do, one which I would entrust no one else. After all, she's the one who's going to look after my boy – he turned to grin at the stuttering woman – aren't you Nel?"

What?

What?

"B-But," Fayt struggled helplessly. The Prime Minister has clearly gone insane. Roger shouldn't need to go. "Wouldn't this journey be too dangerous for Roger, especially after what happened at Surferio? Besides, he's asleep!" He knew how pathetic he sounded, grasping at straws, but… Why? Hadn't he involved the poor boy in his problems enough?

"Actually, a little Venus flytrap told me he's just about waking up," said Aznor, amused; and the group saw the small plant in question chatting away at the Prime Minister's ear, before cooling and slinking away to hide in his sleeve.

Right. Huxley senior and plants. Forgot about that.

"Besides, if what you said is true, if Roger really is the reason why Glou's son is suddenly so 'worthy' in the Crimson Scourge's eyes," Aznor met Arzei's eyes, resolute. "Then Nox is going to need all the help he can get."

People said the 'morning after' was always the worst part; and the moment the young Menodix opened his eyes, wincing at the sudden burst of light, he concluded that it applied to all sorts of situations, not just alcohol and hangovers. He then promptly went back to sleep, the sounds of rustling fabric and steel coming from one Albel Nox next to him not enough to stop him from passing out instantly. It didn't even occur to his sleep-fogged brain why that observation was not a terribly shocking one.

Those next hours were like seconds, and then he was blinking the late afternoon sun out of his eyes, the stain glass windows permissive enough to leave vibrant spots of patterns on the sheets, the colours dancing where his legs shifted beneath the blanket as he struggled to sit up, dazed and disoriented. A shadow passed over his head and the gauntlet that parted the air was from Albel.

A comfortable quiet had set in, and Roger's eyes found Albel's from his position on the bed, his arms over his knees. The Glyphian sat at his bedside watching over him like a soldier on a mission, stoic, patient and ready for anything.

Like a knight.

For once, he wasn't immediately greeted with something biting or sarcastic. Maybe the ordeal at Surferio had changed things, shaken up their dynamics and brought their emotional walls down, the demanding end to an already grueling journey.

He wouldn't do it again, not to this degree.

Dying before actually turning into a real man wasn't part of the plan.

And that's when the battle at Castle Aquor hit him, really hit him, and Roger sighed into his hands. The Sacred Orb, those powers, that voice in his head and strange visions he saw, and the people he almost and really did — he shuddered violently. It was a lot to take in.

"Why… are ya even here?"

A slight shift, and then the gauntlet rested against the back of his neck. But Albel's kind gesture wasn't what really shocked him; it was how Albel didn't look at him any differently, like he wasn't afraid the humanoid boy before would suddenly go loco and incinerate him where he stood, like he did to those Vendeeni soldiers. Like he almost did to them without a second thought or sliver of recognition.

"That wasn't you. It didn't feel like you."

Not a shred of hesitation.

Roger's eyes welled with tears and he bowed his head, shoulders trembling, a low chuckle bubbling from his throat. Vermillion eyes watched him, perturbed. It was sad, because the joke wasn't even funny.

"And how do ya know what I feel like?"

Immediately, the gauntlet clattered to the floor, followed by a small pile of bandages, and Roger found himself staring wide-eyed at the ink-black scars that ran and coiled around the swordsman's arm, the elaborate and frightening design of a dragon gazing back at him. Boldly, he ran a tentative finger along the mark; the skin beneath his fingertips felt smooth and warm, yet thrummed with a hidden power that was both strange and hypnotic. The last time he saw this, it was when he first met Albel in Peterny, the skin raw and stench putrid; but now, he saw nothing but the Mark of the Dragon, a sign of the highest honor any knight could receive. The mark glowed a warm and beckoning red where their skin made contact, responding to his touch. Roger gasped at the effect.

"I know when you're afraid, when you need me and when you're in pain."

The scene at the Kirlsa Training Facility flashed through his mind. How Shelby had been this close to killing him, when Albel rushed in out of nowhere and ended his own lieutenant instead without a second thought.

"I know when you're near, your happiness, your sorrow. Your pain is my agony. Your past is my present, your dreams my reality."

And Roger recalled the strange dream he had in Arias, of dragons and fire and a young Albel terrified of his failure and being alone. A hand reached out, no longer concealed under the gleam of cold, unrelenting steel. Long, calloused fingers touched his cheek, cupping it with a gentleness so unlike its owner's unfeeling nature. A fire danced in Albel's eyes, gaze smoldering, fixated on the one thing, the only person who dared to care and see past the wicked him the world only knew. And unsurprisingly, Roger leaned into the ex-captain's touch. The Mark of the Dragon burned brighter.

"Little fool, do you not see? I am your knight. That person who tried to kill us – that wasn't you."

It attacked in flashes, each memory a discomforting tug at his heart because Roger now understood how deeply their connection ran. It wasn't just the dreams or one-sided experiences. He had felt Albel through all of them too. When Shelby held him captive, he had called for the soul at the other end of their bond. When he had that dream, he had existed in the other's conscious. When he experienced a pain so excruciating it caused him to pass out in the middle of the Thunder Arrow's construction… that must have been when Albel had fought Fayt and lost.

"Ya… ya would destroy yerself fer me," Roger breathed in awe, to which Albel snorted in a mixture of exasperation and amusement.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, worm," he said with a smirk. "You're not that important."

Roger laughed; it reached his eyes. "Oh yeah? What's with the disclaimer?"

A rare smile, small and hesitant, but nonetheless there. It made Roger pause, but in a good way. No words were said, but no words were needed. Albel the Wicked really wasn't that wicked at all, at least not to him. It was then he could finally see: Albel was his sword and his shield, a protective shadow amidst curls of dark laughter, his loyal knight.

The hand against his cheek suddenly felt warmer. Albel leaned in closer, his eyes sliding shut; and Roger followed the swordsman's lead. The distance between them thinned, breaths mingling. And their lips…

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

The reaction was immediate. Roger squawked and pulled away, face aflame and heart beating so hard, he could've sworn Airyglyph's King heard it from across the room. How compromising. Albel meanwhile, had the audacity to look annoyed. "Do you want the truth, or a pathetic half-baked lie?"

Arzei chuckled and shut the door behind him. He approached them with measured steps, the look in his eyes knowing, the smirk on his face revealing more than he ought to know.

"I think… there are some things better left unsaid to the Prime Minister," said the King evasively, but not without giving the Menodix boy a playful wink. Very unroyal-like. "But I digress. What I'm really here for if your answer, Albel. Have you given my request some thought?"

Said man stiffened, eyes suddenly focused intensely on an invisible spot next to the window. Albel remained tight-lipped as his fingers dug into the fabric of his purple military uniform. Roger looked between them, perplexed. "Um… yer majesty, what's goin' on? What's Albel gotta answer ya fer? What sorta request?"

"Do not fret, little one. Your father and Zelpher will keep you up to speed soon enough," Arzei replied, offering Roger a kind smile, before hardened features turned to regard the broody ex-captain next to him. "Judging by your response or lack thereof, I'm assuming it's a polite refusal on your part." His expression was disappointed, but not unexpected. "... I understand. What I'm essentially asking of you is to put your life on the line for people you owe nothing to. I'll inform Leingod's party."

"Humph, those fools still insist on this suicide mission? That old bastard would burn them where they stand," said Albel with a cruel smirk. The King however, shook his head.

"As a king, it is my duty to do everything in my power to protect the country and its people. It is our only hope for victory. We have to try."

Albel fell silent at his lord's words, the implications of what he ought to do, clear. But this wasn't his fight; his time fo glory had ended as quickly as it had begun at the start of this war; there was nothing left to his name. Was it truly cowardly to walk away from a task that was impossible from the start? His hand wandered to the Mark of the Dragon on his arm, gripping it. He had suffered enough and he refused to go through it again. He didn't have anything to prove. He didn't owe anyone anything.

'An heir of the Nox family – a worthy dragon knight. Your father, and your father's father, and his father before him, have forged a bond with this Crosell. Are you here to tame my spirit, boy?'

But he couldn't ignore who he was.

And then Arzei's back was turned to them as he made to leave.

"Wait!"

Arzei paused and turned to address his most loyal expectantly. "What is your decision?"

Albel did not back down. Something in his expression changed. At his side, the Crimson Scourge pulsed and glowed a deep red.

"We'll cut through Peterny and rest up at Kirlsa for the night. The rendezvous point is at the Bequerel Mountains. Be ready at the break of dawn." The group nodded and Nel turned to their supposed guide and leader for this trip, who quite frankly, wasn't doing a very good job for either. "The Air Dragons will be waiting for us there, correct?"

Albel looked up from examining his claws, passed his gaze disinterestedly over his six companions, and shrugged. "Whatever."

Nel held back a sigh and resisted throttling her new colleague with her fists. Yes, very Cliff-style she realised, but the Glyphian was that aggravating. Also, considering Aquaria and Airyglyph both had pretty high stakes in the current situation, a partnership only seemed logical. So yes, despite his demotion from the ranks, Albel was her direct colleague now. She realised with a begrudging sense of irony that they had been working together a lot lately (forced more like it). Another one of life's greatest challenges she supposed.

"Hey! Wise guy," Cliff stepped up to Nel's defense. "She's just going over the plan so that we're all on the same page. Something you, mister leader, should be doing!"

The clash was unavoidable. Albel growled and rounded on the Klausian, his hand instinctively going for the hilt of his sword, but it hovered there, a silent warning that Cliff was treading on exceedingly thin ground.

"Hold your tongue, maggot! I didn't deny the wench's claim, did I not? And since I'm the 'leader', as you've so eloquently put it, of this miserable traveling circus; everyone shut up, keep walking and maybe we'll actually reach Kirlsa by sundown."

"Call her wench again-!"

Fayt quickly inserted himself between the two before things got ugly. This was ridiculous. Not even 10 steps out of Aquios' gates and they already had their first inter-party dispute. Although technically Albel was the one being utterly insufferable, that was just him and Fayt had already resolved to accept that glaring flaw to the Glyphian's personality the moment the King announced said man's decision. Unfortunately, as their group's appointed guide and only person knowledgeable enough to navigate the mountainous dragon terrain, they automatically let him take the lead. If only Albel were more proactive, or at the very least, less antagonistic and quick to find fault in every damn thing.

"Stop, he's not worth it," he said to Cliff, his stare a weary one. The blonde backed down, but not without muttering a few choice curses under his breath. It made the grin on Albel's face more smug than 5 seconds ago.

"And you," Fayt rounded on his rival and it promptly made Albel's grin fall. "I'm tolerating your bullshit because I'm willing to put my trust in Airyglyph's King and his sense of judgement. I know we aren't friends or willing acquaintances, but we need to work together and that means no more fighting." The tension in his shoulders fell way and his expression softened. "Look Albel, I get that you're on edge and maybe even scared to face up to Crosell, but -"

But whatever Fayt wanted to say next was violently cut off when a clawed hand grabbed him and yanked him off the ground by the front of his tunic. Vermillion eyes flashed dangerously; claws grazed skin beneath the taut fabric; and Fayt momentarily choked from the shock. He had forgotten how unpredictable Albel the Wicked was.

"So, the hero speaks," said Albel, a menacing growl punctuating his speech. "My tolerance for you, especially you, runs increasingly thin." His grip on Fayt tightened as emphasis. "Allow me to make one thing painfully clear: I despise you, all of you, and everything you stand for. You don't know me, and you are arrogant and a fool to think that you do. You come in with your fancy technology and blazing sword, hiding behind your pretty speeches and your chivalry; but you are nothing special and no fancy powers can change that!"

Suddenly, he felt a firm yet gentle hand on his arm.

"Albel, let him go… please?"

And like a beacon in the inky blackness of the night, Roger's voice pierced through his rage and left Albel feeling inexplicably discomfited. He released Fayt without another word. The Earthling stumbled back, hand unconsciously flying to this throat where he still felt the phantom grip of his rival's steel claws, swallowing hard, eyes impossibly wide. That… was a close call. Roger's touch evened out into gentle strokes, a light tracing of fingertips to skin.

"Ya need ta stop thinkin' 'bout the mission and focus on gettin' us ta Kirlsa safely. Everythin' will take care of itself in due time," Roger soothed, before shooting the troubled swordsman a reassuring smile. "C'mon, ya big dummy. Leaders walk first."

With that, Roger tugged him forward and the pair walked ahead in comfortable silence, as if the past few minutes wrought in strife hadn't happened. Nel watched them go, an odd mixture of surprise, concern and amusement creeping across her lips. Cliff moved to stand beside her, his arms folded, expression bemused.

"Well, at least that bastard listens to somebody. Never thought it'll be the village chipmunk though."

Maria and Mirage merely shook their heads in exasperation. Fayt however, followed Roger and Albel's retreating figures with his eyes, an uneasy feeling swimming in his chest.

To be continued...

Author's note:

I'm not dead yet!

Sorry for the ridiculously long interval between this chapter and the last, but I guess that's how my username came to be (nervous laughter). It's Albel's time to shine here on end, and he's had some pretty sweet moments with Roger too. Let's see how long this author can tease and cock block you, before anything yummy actually happens between our boys.

The next chapter should come out sooner than this update took. It's actually the second half of this chapter, but I had to split it into two because it would be way too long to read comfortably in one sitting. With any luck, it'll be out sometime in early May.

Please leave a review if you enjoy my story! I love hearing from you and it's a huge boost for my motivation and confidence as a writer.