Genres/Rating: Ideals, Future, Friendship, Family, Gratitude. (T)

Characters: Warin, Cyril, Dimitri, Dedue, Annette.

Summary: The steps had to be taken slowly, so slowly, lest their heavy, blood and mud-coated feet tripped them up and sent them flying down onto the muck of the road they were taking into a new, and hopefully better beginning. Not all of their wounds would heal, many of them would turn into fierce and ugly scars that they would carry for the rest of their lifetimes, but that did not leave them lame. Even if they did misstep, they would force themselves back to their feet to carry on, as those who had survived were meant to do. The dead would be left behind, never forgotten but unable to join them, and the rising sun would blind their weary eyes when they crested the hill. The future was full of unknown... but it was a journey they each had to take, even if it meant going their own way to do so.

Red Wolf Moon

Garreg Mach (Knight's Training Hall)

Noon

Warin heard the footsteps long before the knocking came on the partially ajar door that kept the training hall apart from the living quarters, but he did not move from his makeshift resting place on the crates of supplies and training weapons even as the sound rang out in the empty room. Instead, he merely continued to keep his eyes closed, wondering why it had to be now that he was being sought out, even if he did understand the why. Of course, his guest would never dare to impose on his actual teacher, and that meant that he would instead go through him, but Warin had hoped that perhaps he would be able to avoid the conversation if he did not venture far from his shared quarters with Shamir.

Still, that hadn't seemed to stop the young Almyran boy, and Warin mused in the back of his mind that it was not really much of a surprise. If anyone knew Garreg Mach better than he did, it was Cyril, and Cyril had tacit approval to be wherever he pleased if he was there under the guise of doing chores. He had made himself quite a nuisance in the last several weeks with such excuses, dogging the newly-crowned Archbishop wherever she went until she had to personally send him away, and now, seemingly sufficiently scolded, Warin was aware that it had been an eventuality for the boy to seek him out. Where else would he go, with his lady spurning him, however gently? He would not seek out his teacher, as he knew her mind well, so instead he would find him in hopes of being able to make a case... and Warin let out a tired breath he had not realized he had been holding as the door was pushed open with an audible groaning noise.

He was not looking forward to this.

"Sir Warin. I want to talk to you." Cyril's voice came clear from the doorway, and Warin felt himself twitch instinctively in annoyance at the title that the students seemed so insistent on bestowing on him regardless of how many times he corrected them. He sat up smoothly from his makeshift nest, turning himself around to see the young wyvern rider standing awkwardly at the door and watching him with those keen eyes that never seemed to miss anything when he was scouting the battlefield ahead of him. All that confidence though, of a soldier who knew his worth and trusted in his skill was gone, leaving him to look like exactly what he was, a boy barely into his teens and obviously discomforted to be calling for a much older, and much more skilled soldier.

The look did little to ease his annoyance, and he pushed himself from the crates he had been laying on and to his feet. He noticed Cyril's body twitch at his movement, his feet wishing to take him back at the perceived advance, and Warin almost felt a pang of guilt go through him at the reaction. It was purely instinctual, the wish to recoil from a larger, stronger man, but it didn't help that Warin was fully aware that Cyril was not reacting as much to him as much as what he represented. He clenched his jaw, forcing down his discomfort as he instead fell into old patterns and corrected him sternly, "It's not "sir", Cyril. I had, and have, no rank here. If you want to speak to me, you can start by calling me by my name."

"W-Warin, then... I... want to talk to you." Cyril stumbled over his given name, seemingly cringing automatically at the title that his tongue wanted to make but had been refused. His dark eyes darted all over the training hall, trying to find something to focus on that wasn't the monster of a man in front of him, but he was well aware that if he continued to show signs of disrespect that he would likely be sent packing with little less than a wave of a hand. He had been mustering up his courage for weeks now, and the idea of having it all spoiled after finally forcing himself into the older man's space... Cyril shook his head savagely from side to side before squaring his shoulders and speaking clearly, "I have something I want to ask."

"Then go ahead and ask. I'm not one for useless conversations." Warin replied curtly, and he felt himself twinge inwardly at the coldness that permeated his voice despite himself. He knew what was coming. He had been preparing himself for it for weeks, after he had first caught Cyril watching him and Shamir as they slowly, but surely, began their preparations to leave. He had hoped he would have patience, but after his earlier encounter with the princeling, he had been aware that his patience had eroded greatly... Cyril had poor timing, though he knew better than to fully blame the boy for his own irritation.

"I want to join you and Shamir in your mercenary troupe. I want to travel alongside you, either as an apprentice to Shamir as I have been, or to you, to learn the ropes of what it is to be a mercenary." Cyril's words came clear and strong, and his eyes were burning with that same determination that Shamir had spoken of so fondly when she had recounted the story of how she had taken on her one and only student some time ago. Cyril had determination in spades if nothing else, and he used it well, even if he proved himself an annoyance more often than not. But he knew himself and his strengths well, and he proved it as he soldiered on, fighting to make his case as Warin met his words with a silent stare, "I know that I am young, but I do have talent... I've been fighting all this time, even before the war. I learned a lot from Shamir, and from the professor, when she tutored me in her off time. I've been useful in battle. I'm sure I won't be a hindrance to you."

"No." Warin's answer was blunt and cutting, and he watched as Cyril drew back from him as if the single word was a physical blow. He had expected this proposal, and he had prepared himself for the immediate denial, but he could see that Cyril clearly had expected something a tad more extensive than a simple "no". Still, Warin did not wish to elaborate further. There was no reason for him to do so, and in all honesty, he didn't want to get into the details. The responsibility alone was enough to make him feel sick to his stomach, and for a brief moment he had almost understood what it was his father felt, carrying his two children in tow as a mercenary captain. He would not be responsible for a child on the battlefield, no matter what his skills were. He had drawn his line in the sand, and he would not cross it no matter the arguments that were presented to him.

Cyril recovered quickly, his jaw turning firm and his hands clenching into tight fists at his sides as he regained his composure. His back straightened as he instinctively felt his chest puffing out as he answered back with an edge to his voice, "What do you mean, "no"? You'll turn me down without even considering it? I'm not a child. I've fought in this war, side-by-side with everyone here, and I proved my worth as a soldier, didn't I? I might be young, and I might have a lot more to learn, but even you can't say that I'm useless. I have my bow, and I have my wyvern, and I can and will become better if you let me train more! You've been fighting for so long! You have to see I can fight, too!"

"It's not a matter of your skill. I agree that you have a knack for combat, and you've done well in distinguishing yourself from the rabble as a worthy fighter. Raine would never have let you see the battlefield otherwise." Warin answered slowly, deliberately, as Cyril stood, cheeks red and body trembling from his outburst, but he didn't allow for his own emotions to show in answer. They would only be an impediment, and so he cast them aside and put on the mask he needed as a captain as he explained, "You can fly your wyvern as naturally as any Almyran rider I've ever seen... and your ability with the bow is something to be admired. As a soldier, you're a good one, even if you do have room to improve... but that doesn't change my answer. I won't take you on as one of my men."

"Why?! If it isn't skill, what is it that makes you say no?" Cyril's voice raised almost into a shout, proving his anger and anxiety as he lashed out thoughtlessly. Warin could see the glimpse of fear in his eyes, the fear of losing his place and becoming lost, but all too quickly it was consumed with a raging flame that was desperate to prove itself the master of his fear. He might have been unlearned in comparison to the students of the monastery, but that did not make him stupid, and he proved it as he pointed out sharply, "You don't care that I'm Almyran. I know that you couldn't care less about where your men come from... and it can't be because I served Lady Rhea. There are knights who are breaking their vows to follow you when you leave. So if it isn't my birthplace or my loyalty, why is it that you're denying me?"

"Speaking frankly, your inability to take a simple no at face-value makes you a soldier that I wouldn't trust to follow my orders to the letter on the battlefield. However, considering the circumstances, I'm going to make a one-time allowance for that. Otherwise, what makes you think that you're obliged to know why I denied you?" Warin returned calmly, dodging about the fierce arrowheads of an argument that Cyril was shooting at him with angry precision. He was a smarter kid that he looked, rough about the edges but learned from his life as little more than a servant before he had found battle. It was something Warin could appreciate, but at the same time it made him grind his teeth, and he let that show as he continued firmly, "I choose my men as I please. I've had some come to me to ask to join me, but I haven't accepted all of them. True, I've taken some knights from the order, but they were men who fought with me and learned me as their commander... If any plain knight had approached me, I'd have given them the same answer I'm giving you. As a captain, it's my privilege to pick and choose who I trust my back to, and my reasons for selecting anyone are for me and me alone. You know that too, which is why you came to ask me, and not Shamir, isn't it?"

"Shamir... isn't going to be the leader of the group. That's your role. Everyone knows that the company that Captain Jeralt led... is your company now. Shamir would never try to take over." Cyril answered with a shake of his head, but his fists remained tightly clenched at his side as he thought of all of the facts he had been gathering up for the past several weeks. It had come to no surprise to him that Shamir was deferring her experience as a mercenary to Warin's, it also was clear that she still was taking up a position of leadership alongside him. She would function as his lieutenant, just as Warin had to his father, and as such she would never have entertained this discussion with him. He admitted that freely, though with a slight scowl to his lip as he did so, "And she knows that in the end, only you have the final say over recruits... She would have told me to talk to you, if I had asked her. Why would I bother trying, if I knew what she'd say?"

"You're a smart kid... You pick things up quickly, and you think outside of the box because of the way you were raised. Being self-taught gives you an edge over those who had a standard and formal training... but in the end, you still are lacking because of those missing skills." Warin let out a tired sigh, and he allowed himself to lean backwards, resting a hand on the crates behind him as he looked at Cyril closely. He was still young, yes, but he would grow further in the years to come. Soon enough, he would be a man and a beast on the battlefield, but Warin took no pleasure from the thought. Instead, it made him shake his head with disappointment, and he knew it coloured his tone as he continued, "You don't need to continue to fight. Not at this juncture. You should be applying yourself as a student, not as a soldier at your age. You've already fought a war. Why are you so eager to keep at it?"

"It's... what I can do. I'm not a student." Cyril's answer was coloured with confusion, his eyebrows furrowing together as he looked at his surroundings as if he was trying to take them in for the first time. Weapons of every kind were stacked or placed along the wall, ready to be picked up and put to use against the numerous training dummies and targets, and he knew every one and how well he could or could not use them. To hear Warin speaking about applying himself as a student brought him up short, and he shook his head again as he found himself confessing, almost against his will, "I can't read or write very well... I've tried to learn, and I've gotten a few lessons, but... I'm not like anyone around here. I'm not talented enough to be a student at the monastery. I have nothing but my skills with the bow, and being able to fly. What point is there in a life where I'm not making myself useful?"

"You could have plenty more use if you applied your mind just as much as you do your body. You've been here how many years, and you still can't read or write... and you know enough to feel shame over that fact. That's why I won't take you as a mercenary." Warin answered him firmly, and his hand curled into a fist as he felt a spike of anger for the lack of education that had been denied the boy in front of him. All this time in the monastery, and what had he been doing? Running errands, cleaning, chopping firewood and making himself a servant for the Archbishop... He had lost much of his childhood already, and Warin would be damned if he robbed him of his adolescence to see him put to use like some sort of workhorse. "Spend a few years here as a student, become literate, graduate, and then come to me again and we can reassess if you belong with my company. But as it stands now, I won't take you."

"Why do you care so much about me learning?"

"I had a childhood of being tossed about like a sack of potatoes at the whim of my father, and while I never once begrudged him of it, I still never had any agency. I learned my letters and the lance at my father's knee, but even I knew that in the grand scheme of things that my education was sorely lacking." Warin felt the words dripping like bile on his tongue, stinging deep down in a place that still was so raw that he couldn't really imagine it ever healing. He loved his father, even if he knew full well the flaws that had been brought up in him and his sister could be laid at Jeralt's feet for how he had chosen to raise them. It was circumstance that had crippled him, circumstance and a deep desperation to keep his children close, but in the later years, Jeralt had not been shy in expressing remorse for all he had seen his children lacking because of their upbringing.

Had he had a choice, had things gone so different... Warin knew he would have spent his life in the monastery, attending lessons and training until both his mind and body were as honed as a lance edge. Jeralt would have only permitted his children to join him on the battlefield when they were of age and proven to be capable, and they would have lived a sheltered, but rich life within the walls of Garreg Mach. Life had not been kind to them in forcing them to flee, and Warin knew he and his sister held no blame for the gaps in their education towards their father, but still they remained, all the same. It was not a life he wanted for anyone else, if he could help it, and to see Cyril willing to toss away such a chance to follow the bloody field of battle as if it was the only thing he was capable of doing... He shook his head. He would not allow it.

Warin's eyes narrowed somewhat, meeting the strong, defiant stare of the Almyran boy as the truth rolled off his tongue like a stinging poison, and he mentally apologized to his father as he did so, "I read books like a starving man devoured food, at any given opportunity, because I wanted to learn and be useful to my father. Had I had a chance to stay in the monastery, to be taught by these professors and knights who know so much more than I could ever hope to learn in a lifetime... I would have been a glad student. But life had different plans for us, and we had to learn on the road. My father did what he could for me and my sister, and I am grateful to him for doing so much when he had coin to earn to put food in our stomachs... but you have an opportunity I never had. I want to see you take it. I want to see what kind of man you'll become if you become a student, and not just a servant of Garreg Mach. Because I believe that the man who will exit this monastery as a fully fledged graduate will be much more of a force than the one who turned his back on it to the follow the mercenary's lifestyle out of fear of losing his place."

"Th... There's no way I could be..." Cyril felt himself tripping over his words as he tried to keep his eyes locked on the stern, unflinching navy stare of the mercenary captain in front of him. Each word struck like his heavy gauntlets, punch after punch after punch, and he felt nauseous under the weight of them all. It was a challenge, laid out bare and deadly between them, but Cyril did not dare to even try to look at it for fear of what it would mean. His head swam at the mere idea of the future Warin was outlining for him, and he ran a hand through his already overly curly hair before swallowing down the knot that had formed in his throat. His voice was hoarse, strained as he began again, "I don't have... the money... Being a student here... I can't do that. I don't have money or lineage, and I'm already so far behind...! E-Even if I somehow did manage to get a place, it would take a lifetime for me to graduate!"

"If you're concerned about your tuition, you can have it waived easily enough. Your service to the Church of Seiros these past several years have more than earned you a place in one of the houses. You could make a case to Seteth, or to Rhea, or to any of the professors here and no one would deny you. They'd be a fool to do so." Warin answered calmly, but he did understand the fear and the confusion that was obviously making the poor boy's head spin at the sudden plethora of possibilities being presented to him. He had thought he had his life all mapped out... To have it turned so violently askew was not something he had ever expected. "As for your literary skills, they can still be bettered, in time. You have determination in spades. You put your mind to the bow, and now you've mastered it. You can do the same to a book. Even if you don't believe me, and think the road's closed to you, that's fine. Your life is your own to live. But I still won't take you."

"You mean that you won't take me if I refuse to take that road. If I come to you as a graduate, you'd consider it, but right now, I'm not capable enough for you." Cyril pointed out sharply, and his eyes narrowed as he cut through Warin's words to understand his scheme with ease. It irked him in a way he had not felt in quite a long time, to know that the man in front of him was offering him a dream future, but attaching strings to the gift because he had all of the power in this conversation. He had never liked the mercenary, first out of simple jealousy for the fact that Shamir clearly would choose him over himself each and every time, but that dislike had grown into something more as he had understood that Warin was a threat to the Archbishop more than he was to his own petty ego. His teacher was an adult woman, one who made no bones about the fact that her life was hers to live as she pleased, and so he had let his childish jealousies go... but Lady Rhea... Lady Rhea commanded his body, heart and soul ever since the day she had rescued him.

Now, Warin was testing his resolve. He had seen the way that Lady Rhea had scolded him away from her, and he was taking his teacher with him for a future that they wished to build together... He was lost in the wind, trying to understand if Lady Rhea wished him gone, and wondering how far he could chase after his teacher if the monastery was no more a home for him. The anger burned like something virulent in his gut, making that surge of hate build in his throat and turn his tongue to copper in his mouth as he spat out, "You don't have a right to play with me like this...! You're the reason why everything has gone so wrong! You've taken everything away from me, and you're disguising your offer like it's some sort of pity! Well, I don't want it! If that's how you look at me, like some little servant boy who needs to be rescued, then I want nothing to do with you anyway! I'll find my own path! I don't need you!"

"That's the grit I've been looking for. Took you long enough to let loose."

The idle comment, spoken so offhandedly triggered the last string of Cyril's temper, and without thinking his body reacted on instinct as he rushed the man in front of him. His hand drew back, fingers curling into the tightest fist he could manage before he threw it, but the moment he thought he would connect with the older and taller man's chin, he found it being caught almost effortlessly in a much larger, and weapon-covered palm. Warin barely seemed to have moved before he had blocked him, proving his speed and his skill, and he clenched his own hand around his in a warning grip before he spoke again, "You're a lot braver than most here, do you know that? Even when I've made the most fanatical men here angry with my supposed "disrespect" they were prone to fall to fear before they could muster the brass to fight me. You didn't even hesitate. I'm impressed."

"And what, should I be glad that I impressed you?!" Cyril snapped back angrily, but even as his temper spluttered and raged, he did not dare to move. Warin's hand was a vice on his own, though it was not nearly applying the strength that he knew the man could unleash if he wished it. He had spent a long time studying the mercenary, and he understood the Crest of Seiros' power well. The only person who was capable of taking him on in a head-on fight with nothing to hold back was likely the future king of Faerghus, or his own sister. Anyone else was simply far too physically weak. He was well aware that if he even twitched wrong, a single squeeze of Warin's hand would leave his fingers shattered in his grip, with him on his knees in agony in short order.

"No. You don't have to feel anything you don't want to. I'm merely complimenting you on the brass you have. It's not everyday that someone tries to take a swing at me, knowing full well I could best them if I was in the mood. The last person to do that was your teacher. You're very alike." Warin replied calmly, and as he watched Cyril's eyes widen in surprise and confusion, he released his grip on the smaller boy's hand and let him go. He took a step back, allowing Cyril the room he needed to breathe and not feel threatened by him, and he continued in that same calm and casual tone, "As for the matter of pity... I don't pity you. I don't pity anyone, usually as a rule. You're strong, and you'll only grow stronger as you age. How strong is up to you. I'm suggesting you put your mind to work as well as your body, to ensure that nothing is missing when you're as old as I am. Because by that time, you'll be fit enough to lead your own troupe, with your own men, with your own rules. You've got plenty of opportunities before you. I don't want to see that squandered."

"And why is that?" Cyril could not help but ask as once again Warin let himself slip and made his own preferences known. It was not a general sense of charity that made him speak, but rather a personal want, and Cyril was wise enough to discern between the two. However, it still managed to confuse him. Warin was a cold man, who had few confidants, and even fewer friends. They had never spoken at length before, as if Warin had sensed his resentment and made a point to avoid him, but Cyril had seen that Warin did not extend that courtesy to everyone. He had grown a rapport with at least three of his sister's students even if he had been forbidden from such things, and his relationship with Shamir was now an open secret. So this behaviour, this care... "Why are you bothering to look out for me, if it isn't pity? Why do you care what I do with my life?"

"I might not care about you, but the woman I love does. And what she cares about, I will pay attention to, even if it's an annoyance." Warin's answer came swiftly but simply, and he watched as Cyril blinked once in surprise before a bright shade of rouge began to crawl its way into his tanned face. His chest tightened in dislike, protesting the words he was speaking so loudly to someone he had never much given consideration to, but he had been asked, and pragmatism demanded he give an answer. His thumb brushed across the ring that was hidden under his gauntlets, and he took a breath before continuing in a voice that was slightly tighter than before, "Shamir wants to see you live a life better than the one she lived. True, taking you with us might provide you with more than you had before, but it won't truly give you everything. We're mercenaries, not parents, and we all know that a family dynamic between the three of us isn't in the cards. But Shamir still wants more for you than a lifetime of you chasing after her shadow when you could do so much better with yourself. So, I'm pointing out that you can do more than you think you can, because it's important to her. Is that a satisfactory answer?"

Cyril couldn't reply, feeling the weight of the words landing on his shoulders like the heaviest of stones. There wasn't a lie in anything the mercenary had said, the red glow in his ears was enough proof of that, but as the boy felt his heart squeeze painfully... He raised a hand pressing it to his chest in a vain effort to stymie the flood of pride, shame, and embarrassment. He had not considered that the man before him would act in Shamir's stead, as it had seemed antithetical of him to do so. He had never acted in anyone's place save for his own, even when his sister had been in a coma, Warin had never presumed to speak on her behalf. He simply filled the void she had left with his own words, his own thoughts, and when she had returned, he had drawn back until she called upon him again.

Now, though... Now, he was acting with Shamir in mind, and the thought drew Cyril up short. Obviously, Shamir hadn't put him up to it. Such a thing was out of the question. If she wanted to address something with him, she would have done it on her own, and he had been avoiding her anyway... He had hoped to reach Warin by addressing him man-to-man, and he winced as he understood that Shamir likely had already had a conversation with him, airing her concerns for her student's future when she left him behind. Only concern for her would force Warin's hand. "It... It isn't about the answer... being... good enough... I... I didn't... think that..."

"You reacted, rather than acted. It's all you know how to do, being raised as a servant, and then a soldier. It's a waste of your talent. Both Shamir and I think that." Warin answered him flatly, and he turned his head a little in order to hide the stubborn heat that would not leave his cheeks no matter what he did. He wished he could sink his entire upper body into a trough to chill the warmth right out of his skin, but there was no such luck for him here. He had been effectively cornered, and he had no choice but to power on through. "Do whatever it is that you want... Stay, or leave, in the end it's your choice, and your choice only... I will respect that, even if I will not take you on as a soldier. In the end, your life is your own to spend, so spend it as you will. I won't stop you."

Cyril felt as if a rock was stuck in his throat as he watched Warin sidestep him, clearly meaning to leave now that he had said his piece. The idea of choice... It seemed alien to him. The paths that the man had laid out ahead of him seemed so clear and precise, but when Cyril tried to imagine it, he could only feel a terrible weight in his stomach. It was a fear unlike most he had ever experienced, and he had assumed he had known all the terror that the world was capable of after his life as a servant in a foreign country, and after the war where magic, ancient foes, and creatures of legend had shown their swords and fangs. He supposed that simply was his lot in life, as a low-born outcast, and yet...

"Sir Warin!"

"Warin, Cyril. Call me "sir" again, and I will break your hand the next time you throw a punch at me." Warin's reply came sharper than he wished it would, but his annoyance couldn't be contained even as he forced his tense shoulders to lower. Every single bit of him prickled against the title, wishing it would never see the light of day again if only because of how sorely it reminded him of his father, but he knew his threats were unwarranted. Cyril was acting on instinct, nothing more. There was no intent to harm left in him, no more fight or envy, and Warin took in a breath to steady himself as he half-turned on his heel to ask brusquely of the hesitant looking archer, "What is it?"

"W-When..." The word choked in his throat, abruptly strangling him at the show of temper that he had not expected, but still instinctively retreated from nonetheless. He had been lucky, coming off of trying to strike him with little more than a scolding, and he well remembered the whispers that had passed amongst the knights about his combat prowess even when he was taken unawares. He had put many drunkards in their places when they had challenged him in the taverns for his disrespect and ego, and Cyril was rather sure that the tab he had put up in said tavern was more than likely to fix the damages of those fights than it was for his drinking. Still, he didn't let the fear consume him, and he swallowed down the stone as he forced out his words, "When do you... leave the monastery? You and your men?"

"We leave in two days time. At dawn." Warin answered him without blinking, and his mind flashed to the packed bags that were now nestled carefully, preciously, in the corner of the quarters that he and Shamir shared. The order had been put out the day before, to prepare their belongings and say their farewells, but the hours were seemingly turning into days despite it all. Garreg Mach was gripping at all of those who were trying to leave, almost as if the monastery was grieving for their losses, and Warin could feel it just as much as anyone else could.

He had spend the better part of the morning at the graves of his parents', quietly informing them of his plans to assemble his troops in the shambles of Remire to begin reconstruction alongside the misplaced villagers who wished for nothing but to return to their homes. It was a mission of charity, not of coin, but it would be a needed respite from battle, and also a lesson for the men who would be joining him. He would not allow a single man or woman who could not fight to join his troupe, but they would not simply be soldiers. The world was scarred and bloody from the war, and they would need somewhere to rest their heads, and to put food in their stomachs when the need for mercenaries came calling. His father had done the same, and he would not waver from that path for the men he now was commanding in his stead. He would not be worthy of the title they believed they were whispering oh-so-discretely under their breath when they thought he wasn't listening.

"Can I come to see you off?"

The question came tentatively, again like Cyril was unsure of where to put his feet, but Warin tilted his head as he locked eyes with the sniper. A flicker of amusement curled his lips upwards into a small, barely noticeable smile, but for once, he didn't work to suppress it. There was no point. Freedom was terrifying to those used to living on a chain, and it left many stumbling and confused when they realized that their next steps would be made under their own will, and not under anyone else's. He knew it from his own experiences, and had watched it guiltily with Raine. It was now Cyril's turn, and the similarity softened him as he answered, "I think Shamir would be insulted if you didn't. Two days, sunrise, at the market square to the south and you can make your formal farewells, just like everyone else will be doing."

"Y-Yes! I'll be there!"

Garreg Mach (Lower Dormitories)

Afternoon

It was a rarity, seeing the tall, man of Duscur looking so utterly out of sorts, but Dimitri mused that in an odd way, it almost seemed to be a good look for him. It had been sheer coincidence that he had passed by him and Annette talking on his way to the greenhouse, but obviously he had stumbled on an intimate moment between the two. Annette had excused herself first, her ears bursting a cherry-red shade through the tips of her tangerine-coloured hair, and Dimitri had fully intended on continuing away so to not further embarrass his retainer, but Dedue had called after him, and all but begged for a moment to speak with him once Annette had fled out of sight. Though he didn't want to further ruin the moment, or stick his nose where it did not belong, his old friend had sounded almost desperate, and so Dimitri had halted in his errand. He could not very well turn him away, and even though a small part of him warned him that he was treading a line he should not cross... If Dedue wished for him, he had no right to deny him, regardless of the matter.

Still, for all his usual forthrightness, Dedue now was looking around clumsily as if he was unsure of what to say, or how to say it. His scarred face was deeply furrowed, a frown that bypassed even his usual expression by leagues, and Dimitri could only watch him in silence. It wasn't as if he was unaware that his retainer and Annette had been... courting, for the lack of a better term. He knew his friend and he knew him well, Dedue was a man of honour and code first and foremost, and even if their comrades would toss away their usual laws of decorum, he would never step a toe out of line even if all the stallions in Faerghus tried to move him. That and that alone Dimitri could surmise without anyone needing to speak of it, and he wondered what it was that Dedue so desperately wanted to speak to him about.

'He couldn't be asking for permission... He knows full well he does not need it...' Dimitri felt his thoughts turning over like a wheel in his head, leaving him wondering, but awkwardly silent all the same. He had never been wise in the ways of romance, and he more often than not followed instinct rather than etiquette whenever it came to matters between him and his own lover. Of course, there were so many courtly rules that had been drilled into his head, but such things had fallen rather harshly to the wayside in the current moons. There had been no time to be a gentleman, and he admitted rather ruefully that he hadn't really had the patience to be one, either. His comrades had all sought after their respective partners in their own ways, too, and he knew that none of them could compare experiences without much blushing, cursing, or, and most likely, horrified silence.

Now, Dimitri watched as Dedue coughed, clearing his throat almost like the sound of a thunderbolt. He was standing at attention, his hands folded behind his back as if he was waiting for an order that would never come. Dimitri bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling at the familiar posture, as well as his instinctual desire to tell Dedue to relax from it. No matter how many times he scolded him, and he had done it so many times that he had lost count, Dedue simply was unable to release himself from the laws of decorum. He was a servant to a master, first and foremost, and that coloured everything from his straight-necked body language and his tone of voice when he began, if somewhat in a stilted tone, "Your Highness... I... I wish to know if the rumours surrounding Sir Gilbert are indeed true...? That you have formally released him from his service?"

For a moment, Dimitri was caught off guard by the question, but instantly his mind was putting together the puzzle pieces as he remembered one of the many conversations he had had with the much older knight in the past several weeks. He folded his own arms across his chest as he wondered how the word had spread so far, and had been twisted in such a way, and he shook his head a little before correcting his retainer, "It isn't so much a matter of a release as it is a... change of course, if I may say so. Gilbert has chosen to surrender his title as a Knight of Seiros here, and is seeking to return to my service in Faerghus. After a long discussion, I agreed to take him in again, however he will not be returning with us to Fhirdiad... Has Annette not told you of his new charge?"

Dedue's brow furrowed as he recalled Annette's mournful murmuring of the fact that her father had yet to give her a clear-cut answer of what he would be doing in the weeks to come. Her upset had been deep and dark, with her musing openly that all her time trying to convince him to return home had come to naught. His heart ached for her, for the hopeless smile she had summoned to her face when she confessed that perhaps it was simply time for her to let go and move on, for her own sake if nothing else. That sadness had stirred him, had forced him to overstep the boundary between servant and comrade, but still he picked his words carefully as he answered his liege's question, "I... do not believe that Sir Gilbert has yet to inform her..."

"I see... In that case, Dedue, I am afraid it would not be right of me to discuss such things openly. The matter... is very personal." Dimitri felt a twinge of regret as he drew back professionally, but as he recalled the grave, but genuine expression that his oldest and most close advisor had been wearing when they had spoken at length of this... He shook his head slowly, and allowed his regret to show openly as he refused the answer he knew both Dedue, and Annette, were obviously seeking from him. It was not his place to speak for the old knight. He had made his own choices, and was now living with the repercussions of them... and any further choices ahead of him were his to make, and his alone. Dimitri now was the only who picked his words carefully as he elaborated awkwardly, "Gilbert is returning to service to the Kingdom, though he will not be underneath my direct command. That is all I can say without betraying anyone's personal trust... I apologize."

"I understand." Dedue nodded at once in acceptance, not allowing for his disappointment to show as he understood his king's decision and the reason behind it completely. Of course, his liege couldn't discuss the personal matters of his knights openly, not even to other knights, and Dedue did not intend to question him further of it. Annette was well aware of the fact that he would not, and could not, pry into Dimitri's head about such things, and she had never once even hinted at the idea of him using his closeness to Dimitri to find out more about her father's doings. No, Dedue had asked for his own selfishness, well prepared to take any punishment if need be, but Dimitri's reasoning was sound enough to warn him away. Whatever the two had discussed had been for them and them only. They had reached some sort of accord, that was clear enough, but if Annette was to find out what path her father had settled on, she would need to hear it from his mouth, and not anyone else's.

Still... Those quietly helpless eyes, and the gentle touch on his overlarge, and over-scarred hands... Dedue swallowed back the rock that was forming in his throat as he struggled against the chains that held him back. It was not like him, and it was not right of him, to continue to pry. He knew his place, regardless of how many times Dimitri had told him to reconsider it. To ask personal favours, to demand information of things he did not need to know... That was not for him to do. Yet he felt compelled, for the very first time in his life, to disobey the code he had took upon himself ever since he had been rescued from the death, from the loss, that the Tragedy of Duscur had inflicted upon the both of them. He struggled viciously between the two bonds, and it made his voice hoarser than he wished as he pushed forward, sidestepping the field of pitfalls that was Sir Gilbert as he went, "Then, milord... The School of Magic, do you intend to reopen it?"

"The School of Magic...? Yes, I do, once it can be attended to. I'm afraid that I wouldn't be able to say when, however." Dimitri narrowed his eye slightly as he turned to look at Dedue squarely. He could see the two beasts at war in his old friend's eyes, the loyalty at war with the desire to be selfish, and again he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling. It was indeed about Annette, then. Yet Dedue had yet to ask, hedging and sidestepping, because he was either afraid to ask because of impropriety, or because Annette would castigate him if she ever knew he was even entertaining having this conversation. Both options amused him greatly, but he shoved his emotions down to keep his voice clear and thoughtful, "From what I was told, the building still stands even after it became a bastion for the rebellion... but I imagine there must be much to be done to repair it before it can welcome students or faculty as it once did. But restoring it, as well as everywhere else that was impacted by the war, is most certainly something I intend to do."

"Then, if I may, my lord... I would beg a boon of you."

Dimitri let out a long exhale as the weight of his old retainer's words fell down on his shoulders like the weight of the world entire. He couldn't even begin to imagine how hard it was for the man who thought so little of himself and so highly of him to do such a thing, and the mere thought gave him too much pain to want to linger on it. He raised a hand, stopping Dedue from speaking any further, and his voice remained quiet as he interrupted him, "Dedue... If you've a wish I can fulfil, then know now that I'll grant it. It doesn't matter what it might be you ask, because if it's a request from you, then I'll move heaven and earth to do so... but if you are going to ask something of me, then I want you to look at me, as me, and not as your lord. For the length we've known each other, you have always been my trusted retainer, but you are also my friend. I can't, and I won't see you debase yourself and beg me for something that you wish for. Not after all that you and I have gone through. I can't do it any longer, Dedue. You must understand why, can't you?"

Dedue mused, in an absently detached sort of way, that he supposed he should have felt surprise at his lord's sudden insistence on breaking down the wall between them. He had tried before, on so many occasions that in truth Dedue had lost count of it, but he had always been the one insisting that the line needed to be drawn. It wasn't as if he spurned the idea of friendship, or that he did not truly feel anything more than loyalty, as they both were well aware that such ideas were only for the blind to think of when their relationship was under scrutiny. No, it was far more simple than that, and yet also so much more incredibly tangled and dense. After all, for the majority of their lives, they had been the only two who had brushed up against the coldness of death and found themselves breathing afterwards.

Now, however... What use were the lines? For so long, he had been an extension of the prince's will, hating who he hated and fighting who he chose to fought because it was simply all he could do for the man who had saved his life from the repercussions of the regicide. Dimitri had looked at him, broken, battered and lost, and had plucked him out of the mud and given him purpose when he had nothing left to cling to. He had needed that, that guidance and goal, to keep himself from allowing his legs to crumple and bring him back to the earth that had claimed so many of his kinsmen. Dedue had seen similar need in Dimitri's eyes, and had known that if nothing else, he could at least help him fulfil the dark purpose he had set himself to. Revenge would give him no closure, would never let his wounds heal, but it was all he asked for... and Dedue had been willing to comply, to give all he had to give, to ensure that his prince would receive his vengeance no matter the cost.

His wish, now, though, had been granted. Albeit through means neither of them could have ever guessed at... but what had kept them so entangled was now no more. The Flame Emperor lay dead, the shadows of the Empire, indeed the shadows of the whole continent had been exposed and torn from the root, and though he still did not know everything... He now knew the broad strokes, and he seemed content. The claws of the dead still would forever be grasping at him, tugging at his wrists and ankles and throat for the remainder of his lifetime, but for the first time since Dedue had met him, he could say with complete confidence that Dimitri's cerulean eye was finally clear. The ghosts were hovering in the corner of his vision, haunting his nightmares and footsteps, but no longer did they cloud his way forward. They had been pushed aside... and Dimitri was now casting aside the rest of the chains that he had been carrying for so long.

"She has done her work well on you, milord..." The words he had been keeping silently in his chest came out far more naturally than he had thought they would, but the scarred man could not quite stop himself from smiling all the same. Even apart, he could see his professor's influence on his future king, and Dimitri's awkward start, and then rueful smile, was evidence enough of his acceptance of that fact. No matter where they went, no matter what seemed to come, they were tied together now, and if anything ever dragged his king's eye away from the road ahead... It was only because she was coaxing him to turn, if only just a little, because she had found him an easier path to walk for them both. "I cannot imagine anything, or anyone else, being able to make you say such words aloud, and with such conviction... To the point where even I need to concede defeat."

"If anyone knows me half as well as she does, it would be you... but it's not just her, Dedue. I've spent too long dragging you through the grime and the blood with me, too. I can't go on my own way, holding my head up high, if I don't do half as much for you in return for all you've done for me." Dimitri answered with that same awkwardly rueful smile as he allowed Dedue's observation to cut him to the quick. It made him squeeze the fragile object in his pocket with painful affection, reminding himself of its weight and all that it meant, but he held his old friend's stare as he explained quietly, firmly, "I know you've no intention of abandoning me now, and I won't try to send you away... I know better. But... I also know that your heart has its own wants, too. You want to secure Annette a future where you won't need to part, don't you? So you can keep both your duties, and her, close at hand?"

"I will not deny it. She is aware of my choice... She is aware that even now, I cannot simply walk away." Dedue replied easily enough, but the words came with an odd heat in both his face and somewhere deep in his stomach. It was a prickling, irritating sort of feeling, travelling up his spine until the very tips of his ears seemed to burn with heat, but he forced his expression to remain stone. Annette had chiselled her way through his walls, breaking them down so easily that he had almost forgotten they had existed in the first place, but what had surprised him the most was her simplicity. When he had told her, almost with apology that he could not imagine himself leaving Fhirdiad, and his future monarch... Annette had smiled and said she had never once thought of such a thing, either. "Even if you were to make it a command... I know that my place remains at your side, as your shield and sword. Annette... is kind enough to not begrudge me that. I do not deserve her kindness... but I would see it repaid, if I could. I cannot reunite her family, and give her what she has been hoping for, but perhaps I... Perhaps I can still manage to accomplish something that will continue to make her smile, all the same."

"Then I'll see it done, when I can. The School of Magic will be in need of new professors... I can't imagine anyone more apt for the position than Annette. And in the interim, she and her mother can find a home in the castle, should they wish for it. That will keep you two from needing to worry about your duties keeping your separated for the time being." Dimitri answered him just as easily, and he watched as Dedue straightened, a small curl forming at the corners of his mouth that he was still fighting despite all other shields being laid down. It heartened him, seeing that fierce happiness that warmed his friend's eyes with the knowledge that the woman he loved would be cared for, and yet... Dimitri could not quite help himself from continuing on, half-sternly, "Yet, with that, I must have you made aware of something. If, in the future, you find yourself in a place where your loyalty to me is pitted against your loyalty to her... You know you must abandon me, and without hesitation. I will turn you out otherwise. As my retainer, I will not have you choosing between me or her, Dedue. Your first duty, your only duty should the situation demand it, should always be to her."

"I hear the professor's words in your voice, milord..." Dedue couldn't quite help but note, and a singular eyebrow raised as Dimitri met the remark with a wry sort of smile. He had taken such orders to preserve his own life before, as it had always been a concern of his lord to ensure he did not play so lightly with his body. He had always wished for their safety above his own, and though while this particular order could easily be seen as a simple extension of that care... Dedue knew his lord better, He could almost hear her voice speaking to him from his master's lips, and the thought brought a hint of a smile to his own as he questioned shrewdly, "A conversation you've had before, perhaps?"

"You know full well... but is it that wrong? Our circumstances may be different... The weights we bear are different... but what we care for... It deserves everything we have to give to it, lest we risk losing it altogether." Dimitri answered with a soft sigh, and without much thought he extended his hand so he could look down at his empty palm as he remembered how often her fingers would slide and interlace along his own like they had always belonged there. She needed him, almost more than he needed her, and they both were well aware now that neither saw much value in living in a world without the other. He clenched his hand slowly, his words coming with both guilt and tiredness as he explained for his oldest friend, "It was stupidity on my part that left me almost without... and it was miracle after miracle that has given me a chance to have her now. I won't see you make the same mistakes I did. You're a wiser man than I, so I don't imagine you even need me to tell you so, but... If only because of her, I have to see my duties through. Otherwise she might beat both you and I over the head if she finds out I wasn't doing my due diligence. You are more than welcome to scold me, if you wish, for thinking so little of you."

"There is no need. I understand well where your concern comes from, milord... and I am grateful for it." Dedue replied with a quiet chuckle, and he felt his body loosening without his consent. His muscles were relaxing, allowing for that always perfect posture to slouch just a little bit, even in Dimitri's presence, but for the first time in his life, he did not fight it. His lord was giving him a glimpse into his mind with his own words, allowing him across the threshold and letting him understand just what it was that his dearly beloved had taught him, and Dedue did not take such permission lightly.

After all, he had known immediately, that morning so many moons ago when his lord had appeared in the dining hall and asked for two plates of breakfast and disappeared just as hastily, what had conspired between him and his professor. They had spoken the night before, with Dimitri seeking his advice on if he was pushing too soon, but Dedue had been confident that the more time that passed between them without apologies or explanations would only widen the rift that had separated them. When his lord had not returned to his quarters that night, and had not gone for the stairwell that morning... It was clear where that conversation had led them. As his right-hand, Dedue had kept his silence for them, but he had been pleased nonetheless. His lord was a better man with his professor to guide his lance, and she needed his strength, his care, to keep herself from collapsing. He had never known two other people who needed each other more, if he could not count for himself in the process.

However, with his lord's words and his pensive expression now staring him in the face, Dedue allowed himself to stiffen a little bit again. He had overstepped, calling his lord out for a talk when he had clearly been on a mission, and he had hated to interrupt him. Now that all that had needed to be said had been said... Dedue stepped backwards politely, and he bowed his head a little when Dimitri looked back up at him with a little jerk of his own head, "With all that said... I shall excuse myself, milord. It seems there is news I must deliver to Annette, and it would not do for me to delay. I apologize again for interrupting you from your obligations, and hope that I have not delayed you overmuch."

"No, no, that's not a thing to worry over... It isn't as if the greenhouse is going to run away while I speak to you." Dimitri replied with a chuckle and a shake of his head, but he understood Dedue's urge to leave all the same. His body was almost radiating the need to flee, to return to the smiling face of his tangerine-haired lover, and Dimitri would be damned in he delayed his friend a moment more. He stepped aside, still trying, and failing to not chuckle more as he dismissed his vassal summarily, "You may go, Dedue, and allow Annette to know of my plans for the School of Magic. I hope it will bring her some comfort for the future, both for her and her mother. I will not forget their support in the rebellion so quickly."

Dedue did not need more, and Dimitri watched with a small smile as he hurried away into the halls in obvious search of Annette. He turned on his heel, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing aloud as he continued on the path that he had been following before Dedue had called out to him. The walk was not long, a simple throw of a lance from the students' dormitories towards the greenhouse, and Dimitri mused that he had not taken that path many times himself, despite things. He had watched many others, with Dedue included, race to and fro to care for the flowers, vegetables and fruits that were being nursed there, but he had always felt too clumsy to show his face outside of the few classes that had taken place there. His large, strong hands were more likely to do damage than they were to help, and so he often sat back, polite, curious, but awkward whenever others wished to involve themselves in the nurturing of plant-life.

Now, though, the greenhouse called for him, as his errand would not permit for him to arrive empty-handed. It would simply be unspeakable, and so he returned to his days as a student, becoming quiet and awkward as he sidled his way past the glass doors and picked his way towards the many well-tended flowerbeds. Blooms of so many colours and sizes were beaming up brilliantly at him, almost dazzlingly blinding after so many days of hunching over mountains of stained and pale parchment. His hands reached slowly, hesitantly for the blooms, and with a care that was far more clumsy than it was purposeful, the man gathered himself a bouquet.

The blossoms felt heavy in his hand even as he turned his heel again, and the near-sigh of the closing of the doors behind him as he left the greenhouse was loud like a wyvern's roar in his ears. His body felt like lead, his lungs tight and struggling for air inside of his chest, but still he forced his feet onwards. They would know the path even if his one good eye did not want to see it, though he mused in a detached manner that it wasn't truly as if he knew the way by heart.

The reality was far from it. He had considered it, had spent many a long moon debating it, but in the end he had only been able to stand and watch. Watch as others went to and fro, laying their tokens, expressing their grief or seeking counsel, and he had watched in silence and with tightly gritted teeth when he had been a young man and seen the burial from afar. Even when he lost his eye and returned, five long years after it had first called out for him, he still had turned his head away to ignore it. It wasn't time. He was not yet ready... Excuses after excuses, until too much time had passed on, and now he was being dragged by their ghostly hands, and he no longer had the strength to resist them. They had clutched at him for so long, dragging with a weight he had not really ever experienced before, but now their clutch was inescapable. He had no choice in the matter any longer.

Despite the crippling anxiety, the pain in his palms and the faint phantom stinging of a smashed eye that no longer worked... Dimitri allowed his stride to take him down the staircase, no longer fighting the call, and accepting the burden that had been placed so heavily on his shoulders. He still did not know, still would possibly never know what his worth would amount to at the end, but all the same, it could no longer be said to matter. Who would judge him when his time came to pass would judge him as they willed, and he would accept it without argument when the end neared... but that time was not now.

No. He had been sentenced to live, had forfeit his right to an early end and an easy death, and he intended to see his punishment out fully. This was merely one more step of the many he had to take on that long road of his sentence, on the long, likely impossible climb to redemption, and so his body carried him forward, slowly, mechanically, but purposefully. Their hands still clung to him, cold and impossible to break, but he welcomed their grasp in a way he never had before. His courage had failed him too many times in the last several years, and his spirit had been broken long before that... He was not sure he was ready, but time's march was cruel, and it did not care for his readiness, or lack of it. It never had.

Now, Dimitri felt his feet halting, and he stood quiet in the beginning whispers of the twilight evening that had come to embrace the monastery in its stillness. The graveyard was empty, save for him, and he was glad for the small mercy as he stood alone at the headstone that once only bore a single name, but had been re-carved for the partner who had gone to join them. As it had before, the engravings were simple, names and dates and only the smallest, most delicate carving of a flower he did not know... but the stone was clean, attended to in the son's dutiful routine, and Dimitri slowly allowed himself to kneel down and place his offering before the names that stared back at him as if their eyes were piercing him through beyond the veil.

The flowers lay still in the cooling air, and not even a breeze could be felt in the stillness as Dimitri raised his head and met the gazes of the spectres that he knew were watching him. He could feel their eyes, he could always feel their eyes, but unlike all the times before... He did not feel his spirit raging in answer. Instead, he found himself oddly calm, and though he did not dare reach to touch the stone before him... He laid his hand beside the bouquet he had laid down, and spoke quietly, apologetically, to it, to them, "Forgive me for my lateness, Captain Jeralt... Lady Roslyn. I should have come... much, much sooner to you."

AN:

I wonder how many people guessed the outcome of this chapter? I can tell you with certainty that when I set out at first, I only had Dimitri in mind, and not Warin. But as the work usually goes, it took on a life of its own, and now I have to sit back and laugh and how it's just writing itself without me. I'm caught in the flow, but I am having a hell of a time on the ride. I hope that everyone feels the same way, or at least feels something like it, because I just feel good about my writing right now. I'm kind of proud of where this had gone after from where it all started, but I'll save most of that for the epilogue, as that's where I need to really vomit out all of my feelings when my story is over... because it just isn't over yet! It feels like I could type on forever and ever and I'd still never get there! I haven't grown a bit since my first published story back in 2006!

Anywhosit! I actually don't have much to say this time around about the actual product! I mean, Cyril and Warin were characters that always were meant to hit each other in all of the wrong ways, but like with Catherine, there never was an opportunity for me to explore that until now... and while it may seem ham-fisted, I do truly believe that Warin sees a lot of his own unfulfilled potential in Cyril, and that, with or without Shamir's influence in his life, that he wants better than his own past for the boy. Warin never complained, always understood and obeyed, and in the end he has no resentment for the life he led because of his father's decisions... but that doesn't mean that in the end, he knew that there could have been other ways for him and his sister to have grown up. The life he had, he treasures, but it like everything else... If he could have chosen for himself...?

And that really boils down to the central theme to what Azure Moon: Cerulean Tears is meant to represent; the freedom of choice. How it can be taken away at a whim, for good or for ill, and how that reflects upon a person, or how it may not. How they can accept that lack of freedom and live a full life underneath it, or how they can tremble in fear at the idea of choice, and the vastness of a freedom they never knew once the chains fell away from them... All of that, the good and bad about "choice" and "freedom" were aspects I really wanted to explore in this work, and I hope I am doing it justice.

What to come will be a final scene with Raine, Dimitri, Jeralt and Roslyn, and then an epilogue will follow, not long after that. So only two more chapters are left, before I can set this mighty work down and walk away from it. I don't really know just yet if I plan to write more for Three Houses, especially with the supposed "new routes" to follow in the next Warriors game, but I won't make any promises one way or the other. It feels a little premature. But I do think I can say, that regardless of where Warriors goes, that this is what I wanted out of my Azure Moon retelling, so I'm happy with what I've done. I only hope you guys all feel the same way!

Mood: Giddy.

Listening To: "Here in Your Arms" - Hellogoodbye

~ Sky