Judge Griever took the moment of privacy he needed after he was finished speaking with the prisoner. Before, with what little time he had, there was none for the luxury of cleaning the injury he had received; perhaps a minor curative spell to stop the bleeding as an afterthought, but no more. Now, alone in the small facility connected to his quarters, he bent over a sink and splashed liberal amounts of water on his face, scrubbing the dried flecks of blood from his skin until it was warm and raw.

His bangs dark and dripping with faintly pink moisture, he pressed both hands on the edges of the sink, then finally raised his head and stared into the mirror. Taking in the newest addition to that boyish face he was so used to seeing, he curiously lifted his right hand from its perch and placed a finger carefully on the sharp point just above the tip of his right eyebrow. The skin there was still tender, a little raised and swollen due to trauma.

With that first touch and some understanding of what to expect, he started down the diagonal line slicing across his face at an angle over the bridge of his nose. As he reached the other end – another sharp point just under his left cheekbone – he drew his hand back. No blood; so the healing magic had done its job, at the very least.

He looked again at the scar, remembered how deep the groove had seemed to feel under the pad of his finger. Tilted a little further to either side, and he would be blinded in one eye. Sliced a little deeper, and he might have died. He had been careless. He had let his guard down. This scar would always remind him of that, and he welcomed the reminder. He could not afford a second time.

His other hand left its perch as well and reached for a towel. Drying himself off, he stepped back out into the more open space of his quarters. Sitting on his desk was his helm, left exactly where he had set it down, and beside it a covered tray he had ordered the galley officer to bring up to him.

He pulled the cover off carelessly, but the sight of still warm food slowed his movements, and he allowed himself to pick at what was on his plate a little longer before rolling up bite-sized portions to pop into his mouth. A few minutes passed like this, dedicated simply to eating and replenishing the blood he had lost earlier, until he finally wiped his fingers clean and covered the tray once more, not looking at it again. That at least settled the issue with the awkward, unnecessary risk of passing out on the deck.

Now, of course, there was that issue with the prisoner. According to the reports, "Fenrir" was a particularly evasive Sky Pirate who supposedly worked for the insurgence, though there was nothing solid to prove the connection. At least, not yet. Upon his capture, the blond had been stripped of his filthy clothes, cleaned up thoroughly, and dressed in a pair of loose fitting breeches. Barefoot and half-naked with his wrists chained to a wall, he had looked a little less like a dangerous criminal and a little more like another Hume captive.

Yet, that was before Fenrir challenged him. Up until that point, he had never actually considered crossing blades with this one again. Now, with the chance presented to him, he realized that suppressed desire of his to feel that rush of strength meeting his once more. Few others in the past had given him a decent fight, especially one that required him to give it his all. The offer was too tempting. How easy it would be to open the cell and grant the other the means for a fair fight…

He had to leave, then, to put distance between them before he committed to something he knew he would regret. It helped that he had a job to do – it gave him something to focus on.

Reaching for his helm, he turned it over in his hands carefully. The dark lion's empty eyes stared back at him, as though demanding of its master an explanation for taking so long. Running his hand over a red horn, he finished his musings and turned the helm around. He closed his eyes as he slipped it on, and the breath he released filled the dark confines with warmth. Opening them again, he stared through the holes in his barrier. Like this, he felt himself apart from what went on – he could be a watcher properly.

Returning to the command deck, he opened a communication channel with his superior. The return signal hailed from an Atomos.

"Your Honor."

"I take it Fenrir has regained consciousness."

"Yes, Your Honor."

The time that followed was spent detailing what he knew to the Judge Magister.

"… which leaves the question," he concluded his report, "of what we want to do with him, ultimately."

"Indeed," Judge Gabranth replied. "To interrogate him for information would leave him useless as a hostage. Yet, to keep him as a hostage would limit our methods for interrogation. It has to be either one or the other."

"And your decision?"

"… It may not be mine to make."

He looked up uncertainly. "… Your Honor?"

"Ghis is pushing for custody over this particular prisoner," the Judge Magister answered. "Regardless of his reasons, he has a solid amount of backing behind him to warrant approval. Procedure will take time, but I know for certain that he will soon be granted the authority to have Fenrir brought on board the Leviathan."

"… Yes, Your Honor."

"Whichever case happens, Griever, this assignment ends once the prisoner has left your charge," Judge Gabranth continued. "You will return to Archadia for further orders."

At once, the young Judge pursued the issue. "I don't understand, Your Honor."

"Lord Larsa has sent me a formal request to assign you as his personal escort." – Was he imagining it, or was the older Judge actually amused? – "It would seem he misses your presence."

The lion head hid his nervous expression well, but not the slip in his words. "Sir-! I mean, Your Honor, I…"

"I've already approved the request," Judge Gabranth cut in. "No matter our orders, our priority is the young lord's safety and welfare. If he can trust in you, then perhaps he would be more receptive toward having company for his protection."

There was no further room for argument. Judge Griever could only sigh and give in, though a small smile played on his lips. With all the trouble that was going on between Dalmasca and the Archadian Empire, seeing Larsa again and actually being allowed to stay in his company seemed an ideal a job as any.

"Finish this assignment well, Griever. Leave no regrets."

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Ghis, huh?" Chains rattled noisily as Fenrir shrugged his shoulders in a display of indifference. "Can't be any different from staying here."

"You don't seem to understand the situation," Judge Griever remarked.

"Should I?"

"Judge Ghis is not above torture if it will get him what he wants."

A soft chuckle. Another shrug. "No offense, but I've already prepared myself for a public execution."

Despite himself, the young Judge huffed in amusement. "You would."

The blond smirked as well. "So how long do I have?"

"That, I do not know," he admitted. "Procedure may or may not bend in his favor. You might be here for only a few days, or even up to a few weeks."

"… that's all I get, huh?" Aqua-colored eyes narrowed despite the persisting smirk on those features. "That won't do…"

Judge Griever stared through the holes in his iron mask, studying the prisoner intently. In an instant, he knew. A low growl of warning rumbled through the hollow of his helm, and he pointed a finger in warning at the caged blond.

"You will not try anything foolish."

Fenrir only sent me a too innocent "who, me?" look in return. With an irritated scoff, the young Judge turned and walked away.

With all that was said and done, it would have been too good to be true for nothing to happen. After all, as a Sky Pirate of such reputation, it was not a matter at all of whether or not Fenrir could escape his bindings, just a matter of how long it would take him to try it, and then to actually succeed. Still, for the Ragnarok to have not only its brig broken out of, but its armory broken into without raising so much as a stir anywhere in the warship, it was an impressive feat for any one individual as much as a blow to the commander's pride in his reigns.

"… I thought I told you not to try anything foolish."

"Seriously?" the other retorted. "You think a fool could accomplish the same?"

The young Judge stared back unimpressed at the sight of the man clothed in nothing but the pair of breeches that were already riding low on his hips, the shackles gone from his chafed wrists and the large sword he just reclaimed snugly in sheathed in place behind his back. Either ignoring or unbothered by his circumstances, Fenrir continued to eye him with a defiant gleam in his eyes, smirking with roguish flair.

"… No, I suppose you're right," he conceded with an exasperated scoff. "This is not foolishness before me. This is suicide."

Fenrir chuckled, and smoothly changed the subject. A hand casually waved as he made his point: "You've obviously been expecting me. Either that, or you make a habit out of sleeping in full armor with your sword at your side."

"If you dare tell me you are trying to escape, it's too obvious you're not trying very hard," Judge Griever noted in turn. His eyes narrowed into a thin glare. "What is it you are truly after?"

A hand reached for the large weapon's hilt, and the blade came up parallel to the ground, its tip pointed at him. Despite the lack of success to pull off the look fully, it was there in those eyes – swirling, mixing with the mirth and arrogance was a severe intensity. The same look he had received only a day ago in the brig.

"I told you," Fenrir spoke softly, seriously, "I want a rematch."

Judge Griever tensed at once. This was a distraction, logic insisted. He was stalling for time. Taking him up on his offer right now was just playing into his hand. It was simply impossible to believe him as they were, right now.

"Drop your weapon, pirate," he growled.

"Make me, boy."

That did it. Logic, law and common sense be damned to the grave, that did it. With a furious snarl, the young Judge finally loosened his tight grip over his impulsive emotions and yanked his gunblade free from its scabbard. As steel rang in the air at its finest pitch, he saw the triumph dancing in the eyes before him. It was too late for regret – to put away his weapon first would be too damaging to his pride. Instead, ignoring protocol, he raised his blade in similar fashion to his opponent.

"Now that's more like it."

A bare foot swept across the carpet, starting the slow act of circling. A sabaton moved as well, going the opposite direction. Step by step, they matched one another, one man silent and the other laden with the armor he wore.

"I already know what you hide, so why not lose the armor?" Fenrir called. "Surely you'd feel more comfortable without the extra weight holding you back."

"Your concern is unnecessary," Judge Griever answered. "As I am is enough to deal with the likes of you."

"Is that so…?"

In a bold move, Fenrir vaulted over the desk between them, knocking over a collection of papers and assorted rank-telling trinkets and sending them everywhere. The heavy sword slammed down at him, and he instinctively met it by swinging his own sword upward with every ounce of strength in his body. The clash was like a clap of thunder that rang in his ears, metal screeching as the surfaces ground against each other as the force of the individual blows decided which blade would give first.

And it was the giant sword that was pushed back, a deliberate move as the blond changed his stance and angle before swinging again. The Judge was forced to avoid the slicing move that would have cut him in half; he did not back up as any other would do, but instead jumped clear. The feat must have been assumed impossible, for Fenrir was slow to dodge, unable to escape as the heavy body slammed into his and knocked him to the ground once again. The sword clattered to the ground, just a little out of reach. His gunblade dented the metal deck in its own landing, an inch off from the blond man's ear.

Fenrir stared up at him, eyes wide, as a breathless chuckle escaped him. "You're insane."

"You were holding back," Judge Griever accused angrily. "Is this your idea of a rematch?"

He was still supporting his weight against the hilt of his weapon with both hands, and to move either one would have made him stumble and fall awkwardly upon the one he was straddling. Thus, he could do nothing but stiffen when the blond reached up and touched the lion's head that covered his. Fingers gently traced a well sculpted jaw, traveling down the lines of mane before taking hold and pulling upward.

The helm came off, hugged with childish possessiveness to the older man's chest in one arm, the other reaching up a second time, this time for the true face of the younger man previously hidden beneath. A thumb brushed gently over the new scar, the pad warm against the raised flesh. Amusement was gone from the eyes that looked upon it. There was something softer, more somber. He guessed it was regret.

"I gave you this…" he spoke softly. "I am sorry."

Only because I'm 'a child', he wanted to retort, but his voice would not cooperate. Without his helmet to disguise the quality it beheld, to speak now would only answer the other's questions of exactly how young he was. Too engrossed in his inner frustrations, he was suddenly aware of the other shifting beneath him, raising himself to sit upright and meet him body to body.

Then his own eyes widened drastically, his body frozen in shock as Fenrir cupped his cheek in a manner that was too personal and leaned forward to press a soft kiss over the scar at its center, just above his nose. Still, his body would not move when the other drew back, but he felt himself flush when the other chuckled at his reaction.

"… Never been kissed before?" And the helm was returned over his head with the same gentleness. "You really are still a boy, aren't you?"

He was grateful for the mask of indifference the helm provided, for with impeccable timing his doors burst open. Imperials filled the entrance, forgoing the strict rules he had set about entering his quarters without authorization; he let it go just this once, considering the situation.

"My lord!" a Captain called. "Are you alright?"

"Take his weapon," he ordered, his voice quick to resume a flat tone. "And explain to me how he was able to escape."

"O-our apologies, Your Honor," the officer replied nervously. "We will add to the guards watching him." Then, to the other soldiers, "Return the prisoner to the brig."

"No. Take him to the interrogation room," he demanded stiffly. "He will not leave my sight for the rest of this journey. And for your own sakes, I trust you will do something about this atrocious security."

Ignoring the stammering of the soldier, the young Judge glared at the blond being forced to his feet by a soldier on either side. When those eyes met his sincerely, he was the first to turn away.

The guards were at least sincere in their attempt to step up their negligent security, starting with their captive. In addition to the replaced shackles, a pair of fetters were cuffed just above each of the blond man's ankles. Yet despite the added restraint to his limbs, he maintained a casual, even grace in his movements, surveying the walls of his latest confinement with interest.

"Nice place," he commented. "Though, the lack of torture devices is a little boring."

"It is not in my business to abuse those in my custody," Judge Griever answered, "but in your case, I'm tempted to make an exception."

A brow arched curiously. "Was it something I said?"

His hand moved before he registered the act, but he was able to direct its anger into the table instead of the original target. Yet, even with the echo still sounding in the air, he knew his punch did not have the strength he expected. He realized then that what transpired was affecting him more than he realized.

"… What right?" he demanded, barely keeping his voice even. "What right did you have to…?"

"I apologize." The man actually sounded sincere about it. "But with what little time I have before I leave your company, I could not think of another way."

"To what, then? Insult me further?"

"To get your attention."

He paused, his anger giving way slightly to puzzlement. He looked up, staring at the other, trying to find some form of malice or mischief behind the façade; he found none.

"Twice we have crossed blades, and twice I have seen your face," the Sky Pirate continued. "Your true face. I wish to know your name as well."

"You already have my name," he replied, his voice lacking its usual contempt or condescendence.

"Not as a Judge," the other insisted. "But as the person trapped under that iron shell."

He faltered, turning away once more. For once in his life as a Judge, he questioned his own youth and experience in handling a matter that had become so very messy. Sensing his withdrawal, the other latched on almost desperately.

"It's Cloud."

He looked up at once. "What?"

"My name," Fenrir explained firmly. "is Cloud."

He saw what the other was doing, and he noted how much of a risk the man was taking, just for that little chance. He was definitely a Sky Pirate, considering all the gambling he had done with fate thus far.

The man… Fenrir… Cloud was waiting on him. He could have so easily refused…

"… My name is Squall," his words came out instead. Then, completely unnecessarily, "I am sixteen."

Aqua eyes widened slightly, a strange smile curling lips. "You're younger than I thought."

He huffed, turning away again. Already, his mind was plagued with worry and self-condemnation for his decision. Only Judge Gabranth and Lord Larsa knew his name before, and here he was handing it out to a prisoner – a pirate, even…!

"Thank you."

The words that should have eased his thoughts only prompted them to assault him even more. The metal confines of his helm that should have been his protective barrier now threatened to suffocate him. Already, he regretted his own decision to keep this man by his side at all hours, so effectively cutting off his own means of his escape.

… What do I do?

With its jaws clamped around his head, the dark lion reminded him of who he was, reminded him of his duty to the Empire and to the young Lord Larsa. Do not hesitate, the lion seemed to growl at him from the depths of its mouth. You know what must be done.

He did know. It would have all been so easy to do.

Fenrir- no, Cloud had to enter the equation, had to make things more difficult for him. This prisoner was a dangerous man, both in his skill as well as in his very soul. He was a man like no other, and holding onto him was like holding a flame in a bare hand. He wanted no more than to let go of him.

And right now, he wanted even less to hand him over to the likes of Judge Ghis.

Someone tell me… What do I do?