Summary: A drunken man's words are a sober man's thoughts. Quirin and Frederic have their first real conversation in a long time.

Slowly the candle on the table burnt down. There wasn't a sound in the house, save for the occasional scribble of Varian's rusty quill and the ticking of the old grandfather clock marking the seconds. Through the eerie shadows, his son looked fragile and pale. Each stiff and mechanic movement made him seem more and more like a broken wind-up toy in Quirin's mind.

No-one had spoken for quite some time - what was there even to say? The older man's mouth felt dry. His tongue was as heavy as his heart. He should be grateful. Between silence and screams, this was the lesser evil. But Quirin was not.

The way Varian used to be was all in the past. There hadn't been any explosions for an awfully long time, no fire or chemicals hissing at another either. Nothing. The thought sat there, like an angry engine propelling him towards action and he didn't have the slightest clue of what to do.

Encased within the walls of his own home, he paced back and forth, unable to keep himself busy with the mundanity of life in general. As he passed the child, their gaze met and Varian's lips stretched into something that could have been a smile. It was a decent effort, enough to fool the casual onlooker. Quirin knew better. There was no light in Varian's eyes and they moved with an alertness that came from massive stress. His hands clenched subconsciously. The atmosphere was so brittle it could crack anytime. If it didn't, he might. Of course, it was hard on both of them, but still, this wasn't fair.

Suddenly, it was too much. Quirin needed space, needed air. Only a short break from sorrow and tears. Just for a little while. A couple of hours wouldn't hurt. That's all he required. He'll be right back. What was the worst that could happen?

Varian didn't ask where he was going, yet Quirin could sense his attention on him as he closed the door. As soon as the cold wind washed over him, he drew in a deep breath and exhaled. The sky was empty, no moon, no stars. With every step it took him further into the darkness.

It wasn't long before his feet brought him to a familiar sight, the Snuggly Duckling. Warmth gleamed through the windows and he could hear lively music from inside. Quirin hesitated. He shouldn't or should he? The early hours of the evening had already passed, but it wasn't exactly late either and the thought of some ale was a rather tempting one. Screw it. He opened the door to dance and laughter and entered the fray. In the middle stood the princess of Corona, beaming with joy and shining vivid as the sun itself. To be honest it was a little overwhelming.

"Quirin!" A voice called for him and oh no.

"Your Majesty," he greeted strained.

"Not tonight I am not. Tonight I am Fred!" He declared with a big toothy grin and a potential life-lesson learned prior that day. "Simply Fred. No King. No worries. Just for once." Slinging an arm over his shoulder he leaned heavily against the former knight. "Come sit down, old friend."

Frederic apparently had his fair share of booze already, however his good mood was contagious and who was Quirin to deny. "At your command."

The king ordered another round. Their mugs bumped together and Quirin was sure he was going to regret it.

As time went on he had to admit that this was actually quite nice. A pleasant heat had settled in his bones and the old pub was gradually calming down. Nursing the beer in his hand he observed the princess and her future fiance. They had fallen back into a corner and were chatting and joking and kissing? Amused, Quirin lifted a brow at the whistles and howls it earned from the regular bar-thugs, cheering them on in good fun.

"They're growing up so fast," Frederic said ruefully as he followed his eyes.

"Yeah," Quirin replied tense, thinking about all the ways Varian had grown. "Sometimes you can barely recognize them anymore." He was trying very hard to keep the resentment out of his voice but was sure he failed miserably.

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At some point the usual pair of the royal guards strolled over, probably to look after their half-drunken king. Fully equipped with helmets and polished breastplates, he could see how from a different angle they might came across as a tad threatening.

Pete cleared his throat awkwardly before he spoke and after the average amount of polite small talk he finally plucked up the courage to ask, "How is he doing?" His eyes were firmly fixed on his drink.

Quirin frowned. It didn't take much to figure out what Pete was talking about, but he was still surprised that one of the kingdom's finest defenders would check on Varian's well being.

"The nights are kinda rough," he answered cautiously.

Well, that was the world's biggest understatement.

Frederic felt a bit out of the loop, although, he was slowly catching on. "Does Varian have nightmares?"

"Nightmares?" Pete laughed bitter. "Try night terrors." He emptied the rest of his ale in one big gulp.

"Whatever you do, don't wake him up," Stan advised while shuddering at a memory of his own.

Quirin's stomach twisted, but Pete just nodded in agreement. "At least he doesn't remember them."

What a small comfort. Was this supposed to make it right?

"It will get better," he remarked louder than anticipated. It had to. The thought of Varian either scared to death of closing his eyes, or screaming his lungs out if he did dare, was a sobering one and he really preferred to change the topic now. Quirin didn't want to talk about the child he'd left behind, the child they abandoned, his child.

"Next round is on me," Stan announced taking the edge off of the conversation.

He raised his mug and after this, details got a little fuzzy.

Except for a couple of minor hiccups here and there, it was a relatively decent evening. Most people had already left the cozy haven of the Snuggly Duckling. Now the pub was almost empty, even the guards had bid themselves goodbye.

Unlike them, Quirin dreaded to go back the lonesome road he came from, not sure what would await him once he finished. It was painful to accept, but he couldn't do anything for his boy, no matter how much he wished otherwise. He'd experienced first hand that love alone wasn't a magic potion that could fix everything, and he just didn't know how to handle those soundless calls for help any longer. So he hid. He hid behind his responsibilities as village leader, hid in run-down taverns in the middle of the night, hid with sweet lies and promises of a brighter morrow. Quirin couldn't hide forever. In the end, he was only delaying the inevitable, whatever that may be.

He sighed and shook his head. This was getting way too melodramatic. Irritated he pushed his mug away. Varian was fine. Everything was fine. Course it wasn't how it used to be. How could it? But he got this. No problem. He got this.

Sneaking a glimpse to his left, Frederic also appeared kinda gloomy. He grimaced at the thought of having to cheer him up, however, he guessed he owned his former friend for tonight.

"I never did say sorry on behalf of my son," he interrupted the quiet. It was simpler to talk about this in the safety of the late hours, far away and without an audience.

"Neither did he," Fred muttered.

"Well, he can be pretty stubborn." His skin started to crawl at the dismissive comment and something protective rumbled inside the soldier.

"Amen to that." The other man laughed. Fred's mind had wandered to the two strong-willed women in his own life. Arianna and his daughter were quite a hand full at times.

"But I think he's sorry and so am I." Quirin gritted his teeth. He was really trying here.

"Ahh," Frederic breathed into his drink not certain what to do with that information.

Did he even care, Quirin wondered. "You know," slowly the leader of old Corona continued, "I was searching for the documents of Varian's trial. Couldn't find them in the archive. You wouldn't know?"

The King hummed absentminded. What an odd question to ask. "He didn't go to court," he replied as if this wasn't a big deal, as if it meant nothing.

Frederic was playing a dangerous game. In a less drunken state, it would have been an ease for him to pinpoint the exact moment in which the mood shifted and the world was about to burn. Too bad he wasn't.

"He never had a trial," Quirin echoed stunned. With full force, the reality of those words came crashing down and it broke the cracks in him wide open - broke his trust and his heart. Varian never had a chance… never had a chance to properly explain, no chance to defend himself. This piece of shit just locked him away, leaving his son to die and rot! After all these years, all he had done for him, all they'd been through - something snapped.

"You bastard. You couldn't even bother to give him a fucking trial!" He roared in a voice of thunder. A scorching rage consumed his body. It was like a volcano finally erupting. Fury swept Quirin off his feet. The screeching of his chair clung around them and before he knew it he was on him, punching the King square in the jaw. Damn, did it feel good. Quirin always considered himself as a fairly level headed person. Turned out he was wrong. He didn't count how many times his fist collided with the face below, couldn't recall how they ended on the floor or how he got his black eye, only remembered the blazing satisfaction of self-righteous anger ultimately finding release. Maybe it was wrong to put it all on Frederick like that, well boohoo.

"Oh come on, what was there to judge?" The king struggled to get up.

Quirin stared at him in disbelieve. "Bullshit," he barked. Yes, Varian was guilty, but for Christ's sake, it was the bare minimum he could've done. Contemplating to kick a man on the ground, he gave in.

"What do you want to hear from me?" Frederic coughed.

None of them were perfect, but every time the other opened his mouth he just got angrier and angrier, only adding fuel to the fire.

"You fucking bastard!" Quirin repeated powerless and yanked him up by the collar. Gritty and raw he shouted, "HE WAS JUST A CHILD!" Emotions bled into every word.

Frederic averted his gaze. He couldn't even look him in the eyes.

Cold disgust suffocated the blistering flame within him. It ran through his veins, leaving him hollow and numb. He had enough. Dropping the king back in the dirt, he pulled away and turned towards the door.

As Quirin stumbled out into the twilight of the silent forest he wiped the blood from his knuckles. It was a twilight unaware of the struggles it both soothed and concealed.

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"Well that was awkward 'Fred'," Shorty snickered with a cocky smirk on his face. He had watched the quarrel from a safe distance. All it earned him was a glare fit for a king.