I will be a knight, Python. Just you watch!

It’s so like Forsyth to only take the positive from his answer, but as much as he would never admit it, that’s part of what has always drawn Python to him.  He needs that boundless energy and optimism, even if he’s one of the only people to ever see them falter.  Sometimes it was all that got him out of bed when they were younger, or kept him going despite his complaining during the war.  He’s finally learned to get out of bed on his own, so in a way maybe he doesn’t needit anymore, and he knows Forsyth is proud of that.  But he will forever be fond of it nonetheless.

“There will?  Didn’t think you’d ever admit that.”  His tone is teasing as ever, but it’s true.  Not that that’s an outcome he’d ever want- he still dreads a letter from Clive every time a messenger comes- but Forsyth has always seemed determined to do this forever, to pour every bit of himself into battle and duty until it’s hard to imagine anything being left at the end.  It’s a relief to hear that maybe that isn’t the case after all.

“I dunno.  Guess we’ll find some village and settle down.”  Not this one, hopefully.  He yawns- when had the night snuck up on them?  “Might not mind doing some woodworking then, if my hands still work.  You could…I dunno, write a book about the grand adventures of Forsyth the Valiant.  Give the next weird kid somethin’ to dream about.”  He chuckles.  “Or maybe plant a garden. Always thought you might have a green thumb.”

They’ve been soldiers for so long that it’s hard to remember what it was like as simple villagers, or to imagine going back to it.  But Forsyth is right, they won’t be able to do this forever.  And at least they could be simple villagers together.  “Doesn’t sound half bad, really.”

“Oh come now, Python,” Forsyth said, a semblance of a huff in his voice. “Even I must admit that I cannot fight on forever. I shall endeavour to serve at Sir Clive’s side as long as I can, but even a knight must eventually retire.”

He’d read about it in stories, of course; how the gallant, brave knights of old had eventually become scholars, or mentors to the younger soldiers at a castle or village. Lukas would be good at that, he thought to himself.

He listened to Python with a smile on his face. He had kept notes throughout their entire campaign; perhaps there was something in his suggestion of a book, though how competent a writer he was, he didn’t know. Over the years, what he had penned mainly comprised of battle strategies and combat techniques. Would an account of their heroism enthral the common reader? The idea of generation upon generation hearing of their exploits did make his heart sing a little, but even he knew this thought to be foolish. Their story would likely fade into history, their names unknown beside their role at the side of King Alm.

▼ - Try to scare or startle a friend/loved one

Forsyth hummed. “I see no reason to do so,” he said. Some of the younger, more frivolous soldiers found it amusing to pose as a Terror, jumping out from around a corner or from behind a box in this rat-infested hideout they called home.

♛ - Hurt someone out of jealousy

Forsyth lets out an audible gasp. He isn’t the jealous type at all - far from it, in fact. If another soldier demonstrated superior skill he will do one of two things: sink into self-pity (especially if they are praised by Sir Clive), or look upon them with awe, determined to match them as best he can.

“I’m afraid I have already done so, Python,” Forsyth sighed, pushing aside a hair from his forehead. “I once promised my father I would stay at home, in the village, and become a scholar as he desired.” He looked away. “I knew in my heart that I could never keep that promise. I sometimes wonder why I made it, but the look in his eyes…”

“More the second, I guess, ” he shrugs. “I suppose it doesn’t have to be me, but it’s gotta be somebody, so it may as well be.” The bug Forsyth had swatted finds a new perch on the tip of his nose, and he scrunches his face in annoyance, attempting to wiggle it away without lifting his sore arms. “Beats bein’ a carpenter or sweepin’ a tavern floor. I ain’t’ got a whole lot of other marketable skills, and food and ale don’t pay for themselves.”

It’s what he’s always said- that he works enough to keep a full belly and a bed under him, and that’s it. It’s not really true anymore- if it was, he probably would be a carpenter, and likely wouldn’t have a still-aching slice out of his arm. It would be an easier life, but monotonous, purposeless. And maybe he doesn’t completely hate that this gives him purpose. He doesn’t respond to Forsyth’s praise, but doesn’t roll his eyes either, just… accepts it, for once.

He lets the final question hang for a moment, finding himself without a ready answer. “I guess so. Not like I have much to compare it to.” And he doesn’t, he realizes- at least not since they were children, and those memories are hazy fragments that at times barely feel real. Has he ever been happy? His final years at home had been miserable, the militia not much better. The Deliverance had been…well, a lot of things, but the constant threat of violent death hadn’t lent itself to feeling especially content. He’s always just carved out bits of happiness where he can find them- in decent food or strong drink, in a warm body for the night, in teaching the village boys a bawdy song or a particularly good prank to play on Clive. In lazing around watching Forsyth train in the early morning, or squishing too close to him around the campfire at night. So much of it came from him.

“Could be happier, but…” He trails off. Forsyth is right- maybe not about “meant to be,” he still doesn’t believe in that- but that things are what they are and will never be perfect. In some ideal world, maybe they would want the same things, but this one isn’t and has never been ideal.

This will have to be enough.

He shakes his head, dislodging both the persistent gnat and his train of thought. The fever is making him maudlin. His lips curl back into their usual smirk. “Be happier if you kissed me.”

Normally, Forsyth would have snapped at that comment - Python, this is serious! - but this time, head heavy with the air in the barn and thoughts half-clouded, he simply smiled. Leaning over, he gave Python a long and lingering kiss, their lips clinging to each other momentarily as he pulled away. He lay his head back on the hay, still clenching Python’s hand and rubbing his thumb across the archer’s roughened palm.

The visions he’d had in his younger days still declined to leave him, haunting his mind like ghosts. They were on horseback, the two of them, clad in the armour of Zofian knights; his horse covered in resplendent green, Python’s a vibrant, sea-coloured blue. In their hands they carried standards graced with the image of the white tree, and they rode out together in search of some evildoers to fight, or a village to save.

It would never happen. But he could still see it, just out of his mind’s eye.

He sighed. “Well, I am glad to hear it, Python. If we had come all this way and you were still unhappy... I admit, I would be somewhat at a loss.”

A bird shrieked noisily outside. Probably a raven, he thought. They had always plagued the village’s crops, even back when they were children. Fitting, he thought, that some things never change.

This in itself was unusual; a creature of habit, he would retire to his cot early and awaken before sunrise, fresh-faced and ready for the day’s training. But as he lay facing the ceiling of the tent, his hands resting against his chest, he could not get the image out of his mind.

The first boy must have been no more than eighteen. Clad in the armour of Rigel, far too big for his scrawny figure, he was no match for the trained Deliverance soldier who proved his end. Forsyth barely saw it happen – the heat of combat made it impossible – but he heard the anguished gasp, the spluttering, the clash of lance against steel.

It was what came next that echoed in his mind. Another soldier – barely older than the first – wailing and screaming over his corpse, holding him, shaking him, begging for Duma to return him to life. Whether he was a friend, a brother, or something else entirely, Forsyth did not know, but it made the soldiers stop in their tracks. He could still hear it, even as the night fell upon them.

He turned to his right where Python was sleeping, sprawled out and facing away from him. Shifting his weight, he moved closer, and rested his head against the back of his neck. They’d done this when they were children, to shelter from the cold; he didn’t know why, but that familiar warmth made him feel safe.

He smelled of campfire smoke and sweat – the product of a day’s hard work – and he could have sworn he heard a murmur.

He mumbled Python’s name sleepily, but got no response.

Probably just a trick of the night, he thought.

Python snorts.  “If Mila blessed anybody, it’s my hypothetical kids by makin’ sure they didn’t get stuck with me by existing.”

Even in the dim light, he catches the trademark flush of Forsyth’s cheeks at even the little touch, and his lips curl into a smile.  He makes no move to follow him- he hasn’t done anything outrageous enough to make Forsyth walk out on him (this time, anyways).  Even with his armor off (and Python’s vision still a bit blurry), he cuts quite a dashing figure silhouetted in the doorway with the moon behind him, and Python tucks away the mental image for later.  For now, the closing of the door is promising.

It really is like being teenagers again, he thinks- trying not to get caught. Not that there’d been much to be caught doing when they were young, besides avoiding their work.  But now…

Python feels an uncharacteristic bit of color rise on his own face- it’s the fever, he mentally insists- at the touch of Forsyth’s hand. It’s the sort of affection he once would shrink from or gripe about, but now he finds himself leaning into it, craving it after so long apart.  For a moment he expects Forsyth to kiss him- though whether he should right now is another matter- but it passes by, and they settle back beside each other.

At the question, he laughs.  “You were always soft.  You’re just not tryin’ so hard to hide it under all the blustering and yelling now.“  He breathes deeply, the musty scent of the hay making his nose itch.  “But nah, not bein’ in a hurry to go back to fightin’ just makes you sane.  Can’t say I am either.”  He lets his eyes slide closed, senses floating a bit between the fevered haze and the dull throb of his arm.  “I ask myself all the damn time why I’m still doin’ it.”

Forsyth lay quietly for a moment, head dizzy with the overpowering smell of the dry straw and dust. A gnat hummed near his ear, and he batted it away.

“There must be a part of you that wants to,” he said eventually. “Even if it’s not all of you.” He looked up at the ceiling - a faint series of beams he could hardly see in the dull light. “Or perhaps... perhaps it’s something you feel you have to do. Either way, I’m proud of you, Python. Valentia would be a much more treacherous place without groups like yours to keep the bandits in check.”

He reached out for Python’s hand, which was surprisingly clammy. As he held it in his own, he thoughts turned to the castle and the knights there. It seemed a world away from this backwater village, and it was. Perhaps, he thought to himself, that was what made this so special; these two lives he had, so different from each other, yet both so wonderful. A soft sigh escaped him.

Forsyth took a few of his father's books with him when he left to join the Deliverance. He still feels a little guilty for doing so, but he just couldn't stop himself. One of the books he takes with him is a tome on great and renowned knights; he remembers sitting with the book as a child and reading for hours on end.

🌈- A memory about when they first fell in love

🌋- A memory about their first heartbreak

🏠- A memory about their childhood home/where they used to live

📷- A memory that comes with a picture they have

💡- A memory that comes with an object or keepsake they have

🔪- A memory about a dangerous situation

🎈- A memory about a time they were safe and relaxed

📔- A memory from a journal/diary entry

📝- A memory of them getting to know/meeting my muse

🔗- A memory about their proposal/wedding

🐥- A memory about their children (past, present, or future)

👘- A memory associated with an article of clothing they have

⚔️- A memory about war

🌅- A memory associated with a certain location

🏚- A memory about exploration

🛤- A memory about traveling

🌠- A time they wished upon a falling star

🐕-A memory of teamwork

🐺- A memory about being alone

🌟- WILDCARD

Python laughs aloud in return.  “With all that muscle? Don’t think anybody could call you a girl.” He doesn’t try to hide the appreciative way that his gaze follows the curve of Forsyth’s shoulder.  His memories never quite seem to do it justice- or maybe Forsyth has just upped his training regimen.  “Then again, Eren’s arms have gotten kinda scary lately.” He snorts, cupping his hands behind his head.  “Let’s hope she never mutinies, she’d probably win.  Though at least that’d give me a break.”

“Sounds nice,” he grumbles of Forsyth’s father’s indifference.  “Exchangingmight be generous, Ma and I only write every few months, but she sure as hell manages to work the hounding into every letter.  I dunno why she cares so much.  Even if I made her some grandkids, I wouldn’t bring ’em home.”

Even the idea makes his skin crawl a bit- it just feels wrong. He’s always been careful with women, but he still dreads that some drunken escapade will come back to haunt him with a brood of little blue-haired terrors.  He wouldn’t have the first idea how to be a decent father, especially since he’d never had one to learn it from.  Forsyth might, but that idea feels just as wrong for different reasons.  He finds himself wondering, not for the first time, what might have happened if he wasn’t around.  Maybe in some world, Forsyth would have found a girl he couldbring home to his father, and been the doting father that Python knows he could be.

He can only hope that this- that he- is worth losing that chance.

He laughs again at Forsyth’s awkward question, pushing those thoughts aside. “You don’t think I’d make a good wife, huh?  I’m hurt.” He bats his eyes theatrically, nudging Forsyth’s leg with his foot.  It’s much easier to tease about commitment than think about it seriously. “I’d never do any housework, but I’d be killer to look at.”

“Ha!” Forsyth laughed. “Can you imagine?”

He could not help but laugh at the image of Python bringing home children. He’d always warned him – somewhat seriously, in that very Forsyth way – that he’d spent the night with so many women that it was bound to catch up with him someday. He smiled. “I must say, I’m surprised you’ve been so lucky. Mila’s blessing must have been with you after all.”

Python’s foot touched his leg, and a wave of adrenaline shot through his body. It was startling how much a simple touch could do; it was something he only got from Python, and he’d not realised how much he’d missed it. His mind started to wander, and he grimaced. He was supposed to be looking after him – not fooling around.

But still…

Scolding himself under his breath, he got to his feet and headed to the barn door.

The field outside was silent save for the murmur of crickets, and the distant chatter of Python’s band far away in the village square. Pulling the door gently closed so that it was mostly dark, he felt his way to the bale Python was sitting on and knelt beside him – taking care that his injured shoulder was on his other side.

“You would make a terrible wife,” he said, raising a hand to push aside Python’s unruly hair, which had grown long over his face. He gently traced his thumb over Python’s features, over his temples and across his eyelids, then his nose and cheeks, and finally his mouth. He hesitated for a second, then sighed and sat back.