Youpi is fine. Better than, even. He spends his days loping through grasslands and watching stray bouts of shrubbery grow, until eventually he becomes too tired, too weighed down with time and the thought of living through it, that he stops. On the bad days that follow, he lies there, still, as the sun drifts against the earth, painting blistering scars of heat against his skin, more than enough for his bones to boil under thin wreathes of smoke - or so his sun-hazed dreams tell him.

And yet there are good days, days where his eyes roam, captured by the plants that arc off from the cracks they've helped build in an crumbling temple nearby, as they spread their leaves out like waterfalls to drop slender lines of shade across eroding stone. These yellow bricks rise out from beneath, determined, despite the roots mining their surface, and Youpi is struck by the way their colour glares out between the long spillage of plant stems. He compares them to the clouds that habitually break across the brilliant hue of the sky, up above his head, and finds himself stirred by his own imagination.

Once, Youpi would have been surprised at himself. Once, back when he had looked a group of struggling humans in the eye, perhaps, and wondered whether that struggle, that thing that kept their eyes gleaming, was something worthy of respect.

But then the king had almost died. And he had lost a part of himself trying to keep him alive. And though Youpi can not regret the action, some sort of dissatisfaction swirls and unsettles his stomach within. Everything he has ever done, has been for nothing.

The king has disappeared, without as much as much as a whisper, taking Pouf and the little blind woman with him. And neither of them have ever returned. Even Pitou has never come back.

And eventually, with nothing worthwhile at the palace to guard, Youpi has drifted out, onwards, searching for purpose. Only to end up here, patrolling the same old ruins, day in and day out, watching the slow-moving growth of plants he doesn't have any name for. Only once, does he think to himself, that if he were one of the two other royal guards, that things might be different. He might have, for instance, come up with a label for the things his eyes drift to.

Perhaps one day, he will drift somewhere else, end up confronted with more things he lacks the imagination to name. But for now he stays. Sometimes, he even feels as though he enjoys the shapes the plants make, how free and uncluttered they seem, drifting down out of jagged holes, ones that are so different from the craters that tore his old home apart.

If he were Pitou, he might have stalked out among those shadows, easily amused by the drifting twirl of darkness they left spiked against the walls. He may have reached out a clawed hand, slashed against the stone, chasing illusionary objects as they refused to flee his touch.

And if he were Shiaipouf, he would wonder if the colour, that careless spread of yellow above the shadow, was something natural, caused by either sun or age. He might even theorise what the original colour was, whether it had been produced by paint carefully blended together by a mixture of berries, or whether if had been left there, undecorated, its colour mined from the earth and left relatively free and untouched.

But he is not Pouf. He is not Pitou. Those two would have become bored long ago and moved on. So instead he sits. He watches. And ignores his ever dwindling stomach.

But just as Meruem had no way to brace for Komugi's arrival, for the way her presence illuminated his fate, Youpi now has no way to read the future, to imagine how one moment, or one person, could make all the difference.

When the grass rustles nearby and something jumps out, with a shriek that almost seems cheerful, he only grunts and turns his head. A butterfly spills by in a flash of colour, smudging dust as fine as chalk against his cheek. It verges off, battered and confused, darting down into some nearby grass stalks. And almost absently, Youpi lifts a finger and nudges it against his cheek. It comes away stained with pink.

And then Youpi looks down, at the thing that was chasing the butterfly, which caused it to collide in such a panicked fashion against his face.

His heart beats. Once. Twice. It does not stop. But something cold plunges down into the blood it pumps through. For Meruem's eyes, though a little wider and with more of a wild wonder in them, are staring back at him.

'Are you...' the girl hesitates. 'Are you like me?'

A flutter of movement catches her eyes and Youpi can't help it, he has to lean forward, just a little, as that purple colour flashes from one side of her face to the other, in order to track it. Her mouths falls open slightly, half in longing as she watches the butterfly shudder and try to crawl.

'Oh,' she says, 'I've managed to hurt it.' It's as though the thought has just occurred to her. But then she offers him a sideways look. 'Well, perhaps that isn't quite true. You were the one in its way after all.' She puffs out her chest and looks almost indignant. 'And, that means you were in my way too!'

She glares at him. But it's so mild, compared to the way Meruem used to do it; it's almost as though she has no real intention of killing him.

Somewhere, deep inside, the ice in his veins begins to thaw. And Youpi can't help it. He grins.

'I'm not like you,' he says slowly. 'I'd feel it, if you were.'

And it's true. Already he can feel the hum in his mind, that pressing need to direct his attention to whatever it is she wants. She is above him, she is the next mother-to-be, she is queen, queen, queen-

And he watches, enthralled, as she screws up her face and whines, almost yells, 'but that doesn't make sense!'

Ah. Perhaps not a queen, quite yet.

He shifts uncomfortably. It's been so long and already the bones in his legs feel feeble, half-melted by the heat of the sun overhead.

'I don't understand,' he says. 'You are a queen – or will be, when you are bigger. And I am a royal guard. I protect...' he trails off and feels her stare settle on him, comfortable in its expectation of an answer. It feels a little too much like Meruem's so he blurts out: 'I am meant to protect!'

Then he flounders, unsure how to explain something she should just know, know as deeply as the way blood settles under her skin, as deeply as the way her small bones grind under muscle and flesh. Know in a series of thoughts and lights that bend and break as they stretch from her nerves to her brain. She should just know.

Then he hesitates. Did Meruem always know? Then why did he play games, read books, ask why hadn't received a name? The whole thing makes his head hurt and so Youpi allows it to hang low, to brush the ground in a bow unsuited for his size. He is smaller than he once was, though still large enough to cast a shadow over her.

'I live to serve,' he mutters, feeling gratitude trickle in, 'command me. Give me orders.'

So that I may live, comes the unspoken, but pressing thought that slides into his mind. He shudders at its intrusion, at the sudden rise of selfishness that keeps his brow pressed to the ground and hopes the queen doesn't notice.

'I...' The queen, for her part, shuffles, her toes kneading the dirt like an uncomfortable cat. 'I-I've never had more than one servant before.' She stares down at him, a worried frown crossing over her face as her fingers tug against each other. 'I...stand up! I-I command you to stand up.'

He struggles to rise instantly, feeling weakness leech into his limbs as he remembers unwillingly, how long it has been since he last ate. Days, perhaps? Many...many days? He totters under the sun and is unsurprised to see the certainly leech out from the queen's face. She peers up at him, her gaze frank and annoyed.

'You're so thin!' she exclaims. 'I had hoped because you were so tall, that you could give me a piggyback the way I've seen human men do with...' she trails off, face flushing and despite himself, Youpi feels his eyes widen. Meruem...Meruem never did this.

The queen taps her foot impatiently, her frown wavering. 'I...I'm sorry, but you have dirt on your face. Right...here,' she says, mouth twitching at the end of her sentence as though she wants to laugh. She raises her finger, pointing it at her own forehead, before swiping it across in parody of a cut-throat gesture.

Bemused, Youpi raises a trembling hand and strikes his thumb swiftly across his forehead. A chunk of his skin immediately falls away.

The queen shrieks. But it is nowhere near as cheerful as the first time Youpi heard her voice, back when it was loud and unashamed, wrapped round in childish glee. Now it sounds horrified. And painfully human.

'You're bleeding! Oh...oh no.' She looks round in a panic. 'I...I...we heal quicker than humans, I know, I know...but still...'

She looks up at him, biting her lip and Youpi is not sure what to do with the worry he sees in the gesture. Nor does he know what to make of the way her hands bunch together, palms slipping and sliding as fingers lose hold of each other before coming up, fast and furious to hit against skin again. He feels the worry though, feels it fester in the atmosphere like a living thing, so he kneels down again and reaches out with his big, wide hands, to capture her smaller ones. They freeze instantly and for a moment, Youpi wonders if he has done something wrong.

But instead she stares at them, her eyes running over his knuckles with wonder. She looks at the tough curl of his thumb, then at the limber, sweat-slicked swirl of one of her own, as it rests tautly against the finger of her opposing hand.

'Your hands are like planets compared to my own,' she says wistfully. 'They're what I imagine my father's would look like.'

Youpi feels his world open up as she says these words. Feels it open up into a long, dark hole.

'And Pouf's are so slender,' she continues, unaware of the effect she is having on him. 'So graceful and sleek. Like an artist's, I guess. And mine...so, s-stubby and child-like. I wanted to learn how to do something beautiful with them for once and I have! But now Pouf is...'she hesitates.

And then lets out a gasp as Youpi rises, dragging her off her feet. She hangs from his hands, dangling like meat off a butcher's hook and for a moment, she feels fear. But then Youpi grunts, and tosses her up, up, into the air, so she can see above the line of the temple, into the crumbling square of the courtyard below before she falls and the hidden sprigs of ivy tumble away from her eyes. She lands on something firm and broad, muscles bunching up under her palms like coiled snakes. She digs her nails in slightly, in retaliation, wishing they were claws, then regrets it as Youpi turns his head to peer over at her from above the round hump of his shoulder.

'What?' he asks. 'I thought you wanted this piggyback?'

She pauses. Then leans forward, wrapping her arms firmly around his neck, like a scarf. She takes a moment just to breathe.

'Yes,' she says firmly and can't help but let the excitement cloud her tone. 'I do.'

Youpi almost collapses six times on the way back. The queen doesn't seem to mind. In fact she giggles and screeches, caught up in the idea that this is part of a performance, some grand ride with the allure of danger that can be controlled, reined in before it becomes too real.

And Youpi is once again learning the lure of determination, of the thrill of reliance somebody else has of him not falling, not failing. Impossibly it keeps his feet rooted, keeps him heaving one foot in front of the other, keeps him walking toward the direction the queen's finger points out to him as it prods against the horizon from beyond his face. It is a welcome feeling.

Youpi doesn't wonder at the plants he crushes beneath his plodding walk, or at the idea of what tomorrow will bring; he has no time for wonder. Only for the little life clinging to his back, giggling at the sudden sway of his shoulders. And at the growing anger he has for Pouf. It clings to him, sears his vision red, in the seconds he allows it to. But then the queen's giggle brings him back and he smiles, delighting in her chuckles as he tramples onward, towards what might, if he lets it, become home.

For behind the sound she is there, still breathing. And she directs him behind walls, along the lines of tree-edged gardens, into the quickly opened-up patches of sunlight that bears down on them both; cloistered walkways that exist in the frail, but spacious, moments between rush hour and the lethargic crawl that possesses the few pedestrians free of this humdrum routine. Eventually, with what cover they scourge, up to hide their way, they arrive at the house, and she laughs when Youpi has to bend his head to fit through the door.

'Your majesty, where have you be-'

Pouf spins into view as he rushes into the room, his tongue, along with the rest of him, freezing once he sees Youpi. For this was beyond his calculations, beyond his plans. And it throws his envisioned future into chaos.

'Youpi,' he says, but the name comes out faintly, half-swallowed by fear. Pouf spares a moment to wonder if his face has turned ashen as a result, but dismisses it quickly. There are more pressing concerns. Like the fact that his charge is currently resting between those massive shoulder blades.

And she looks helplessly small like that, like a kitten caught in the gnarled twist of a branch, her claws barely jutting into the surface. The uncertainty is present in her face as she peeks out from behind the bulge of muscle that makes up Youpi's neck, far more slender than Pouf remembers and stretched thin by what looks to be starvation. But it still holds his head up proudly all the same.

'You two know each other?' her voice sneaks out, quivering in light of the tension she feels wrapped around them. She can feel it in the way the muscles beneath her fingers harden, in the way her eyes glance down to see Youpi's fists curl and tighten. He feels rigid beneath her, like a husk, instead of the possible playmate she wishes him to be.

'Your majesty,' says Pouf smoothly (for what's the point in hiding that simple fact now?) 'I believe I told you to take a break from the human games which seem to be eating up your time lately. Not to bring back another mouth to feed.'

She scowls, feeling a little giddy at the thought that for once, she is taller than Shia-pouf. It makes it stupidly easy for her to throw out her next words.

'I like Youpi! Don't talk about him like he's some sort of pet! I'll...I'll help find food for him so you won't have to!'

Pouf feels his eyebrows raise. 'A queen should not have to feed herself, much less others.'

'Yeah,' says Youpi and he says it almost gently, quietly enough at least, so that they have to shush in order to hear him speak. 'Yeah, looking out for others isn't something you do anymore. Right, Pouf?'

Pouf's mouth becomes a grim line and his wings flare as he stalks forwards, more than aware of Youpi's towering form.

'I obeyed the king's orders! That has, and always should, come first! We left because he ordered it, Youpi! And now all that is left, is his daughter.'

Youpi purses his lips. 'So it's true then. You let the king die.'

'What!' squeaks out the queen. She raises her hands up in a placating gesture, despite the fact nobody can see it. 'No! No, no, no! Shia-pouf didn't let anyone die! You don't let anybody die! You either kill them or you save them, that's all there is to it!'

'No,' says Youpi slowly. 'I once thought like that. Not anymore.'

Then, with a swiftness she has never seen in him, he plucks her from his shoulder as carefully as you would a flower and sets her behind him. She feels her bones crumple as he charges forward, head lowered like a bull but eyes sharp beneath his brow, filled with an intelligence that no herbivore has ever possessed.

But Pouf ducks and swirls, his wings emerging into a vivid shield of colour, the dust shivering off with a vibrating thrum as he jumps back, only half in flight. Youpi roars, the dust falling into his eyes and ears and now his throat as he turns and bucks, one muscular arm shooting out to seize Pouf by the ankle and dash him against the ground.

He is full of it, all this rage, this potential, to do something. And the end result doesn't matter; He can sacrifice his consciousness if he can bring Pouf down with him. He's had months to think after all, months of silence and reflection. Perhaps he hadn't interfered enough in Meruem's life or perhaps it had let too much pass without trying to understand it; he will never know now. But what he does understand in a sudden striking bout of clarity, is that this child shouldn't be with Pouf.

The way he had looked at her as she arrived with Youpi in tow...it was almost as though he thought he could change her, just with a disapproving stare.

But Youpi doesn't believe in change. Or at least, not in one that can make things better somehow. Living for months with the silence, with only the temple for company has convinced him of that much.

His grip tightens round Pouf's ankle, tightens until he is confident he can squeeze the bone into ribbons of marrow, push it into a splintered husk. Push all his anger into it and ruin Pouf's leg entirely. But before the crack can come, he blinks and lets go. Then grunts and sways. Too late, his hand wanders towards his mouth.

'It would have worked,' says Pouf loftily, 'had you been faster. But it appears that you've let yourself go to waste.'

Yes, Youpi can feel it. The weakness he's allowed to seep into himself, all those wasted muscles screaming for the energy he's failed to give them these past weeks. He's never tried to fight in such a condition before. Pouf is right. He's too slow. And adrenalin can only take him so far.

'No, no!' The queen darts out from behind Youpi's bulk, running up to tug at Pouf's sleeve. 'Don't kill him! He's not food!'

No, Youpi wants to say, don't go to him. He's clever, very clever, but he doesn't see enough of you. Of course, he's not sure he could either, but...ah...what was he worried about again?

Still he can see the careful stillness in Pouf's face, and it clashes, no matches, with the way he looks when he's reading or thinking about killing someone.

''Please!' The queen voice is choked now, her voice dashed by the hiccups brought on with her frustrated tears. 'I – hic!- I'll hate you- hic!- forever!'

'If I let him live, then I beg you, your majesty, I beg you to lessen your time with other...unsavoury pursuits.'

She blinks, understanding dawning on her face.' You want me to stop playing gungi...'

Pouf must be invested. It's the only way to explain why his eyes have been drawn away from Youpi's slumped over form.

Youpi's takes in a rattling breath. Just one, he thinks, just to make enough time for my fist. And up he comes, both him and his hand, fingers uncurling into a wide, spread motion, like an open net. And the dust flies out, the light wavering through the multitude of particles to create a rainbow that shimmers, like a stream. In one fierce gust of motion, it shoots directly into Pouf' s face.

The other guard instantly sputters, stepping back to glare, somewhat wearily into Youpi's face before he sways slightly. And Youpi does his best to grin in return, to let the smug sense of satisfaction well up and show in his face, all before the darkness takes him. And as he falls, his hands slide up to display palms of hardened, sun-bruised skin, the kind that doesn't easily let dust, dirt and other things sink in and stick.

Perhaps some change, at least in small, almost unnoticed doses, can be good, after all.

Youpi doesn't die. But he does sleep. He drifts into dreams that verge onto the edge of awareness, where he feels his mouth being pried open with small fingers, almost human in their scope. He resists the urge to bite down as he feels water trickle down over their slight weight, the tiny nails pressing into his palate like the edge of a baby spoon. Other times mashed mixtures are shoved down; he's not sure, since he's only ever eaten meat, but the taste feels like the sun so he guesses it's plant food, stuff that was once trapped on stems or at least warmed by the outside air.

Eventually he awakens, enough to let the colours come swirling in, and he blinks up into the face of the queen. Her purple eyes blink at him in return before joy overtakes her and she beams in a wide, deliberate smile.

'Oh good, you're awake!'

She hums happily before lifting a small white towel from the basin of water she holds at her side. Uncomfortable, Youpi shifts and realises that his head is leaning on the small curves of her thighs. But her smile, so light and airy in the moments before, instantly dissolves into a frown at this movement. She raps at the side of his head with a scowl.

'No moving!'

Then, with just enough cheer to verge onto the edge of sadism, she throws the wetted flannel over his forehead.

Mindful of her order, Youpi tenses and tries not to squirm. The towel feels like ice against his skin and the sudden plunge in temperature weighs on him like a stone. Pouf, he thinks, would have definitely screeched. Definitely. Or so he tells himself.

'Shia-pouf did this for me once when I was too hot to move. And also, I think, when he's being mean and thinks I'm sleeping too much. Once, he did it during the middle of a game when I was busy thinking up my next move! Don't you think that's too much?'

The queen chatters happily, her words matching the quick stutter and start of a hopping game, rather than simply flowing and becoming more of a background melody than a hum. But Youpi lets the rhythm, this clash of sound, wash over him all the same and feels something tug at his mind. It is not happiness but it is perhaps, a near enough cousin.

'You have to get stronger,' the queen informs him firmly, using her knee as leverage to prop up his head a little more firmly. 'I won't let Shia-pouf hurt you but I can't be here forever and he's still weak at the moment, not strong enough to protest or make me make promises I don't want to keep.'

Youpi rolls his shoulder slightly and feels the strain that clams down on his muscles. He is so...hobbled now. Almost useless. Almost.

'Let me talk to him,' he says.

Pouf, his wings wrapped around him like protective webbing, stares at Youpi. Youpi stares back. Eventually, when he decides to speak, there is no fear clouding his tongue. But yet, strangely enough, he can sill feel anxiety resting at the root of it.

'She is not the king.'

Pouf tenses. 'I know that.'

'Good.' Youpi takes a breath and fights the inclination to roll his shoulder again. 'She will be sad if we die. Meruem...no, our king, wouldn't, I don't think.'

Pouf is silent for a while. Then he bows his head in reply.

'Help me stop her,' he whispers and Youpi strains forward, sees Pouf's elegant hands bruise into a striking white as they bunch against his knees. 'Help me stop her playing gungi.'

And Youpi feels very, very gentle when he next speaks. It is a strange feeling. 'She is not the king. But her orders are important. They make her happy.' He tilts his head to the side, wincing as his neck allows a creak to slip out. 'I will not make her unhappy.'

But you can. Pouf can almost feel the unspoken sentiment fly out to hit him in the face and his teeth clench. But he does not make any attempt to argue the point further.

'Did she ask for a name' The question comes out bluntly and while Youpi is above wincing at the harshness of his tone, he is not hard enough to prevent himself from averting his eyes. He does not need them to know that Pouf's face has become tenser, his jaws grinding together like pincers instead of teeth.

'No. She has no need for one.'

Youpi grunts. He has no real opinion either way. Though...

'Did the king give her one? It's something he might have cared about.'

Pouf raps a finger irritably against his knee. And Youpi chances a glance at him, just enough to see that Pouf's hands have unclenched, the material in his trousers still creased, but no longer tightened and plucked into mountain-like wads.

'She has no need for one,' Pouf finally repeats and Youpi feels like letting out a breath at this admission of selfishness. 'And more importantly, she has never asked for a name.' And then his eyes swivel round to focus on Youpi's own. 'And I hope,' he says a lot more softly and there, altogether a lot more dangerously, 'that she never picks up the need to desire one. As you said: she is not Meruem.'

Youpi nods slowly. And decides to leave it at that.