#extraction fic

 He nods, but she looks away, her mouth twisted with disgust.

The Rangers wheel their monsties back toward the abandoned village and disappear around a bend in the gorge without waiting for Fiero’s response. He doesn’t spare them a glance, apparently unconcerned about Azuria’s possible response to his actions. Instead, he studies you as though you are a bug, fascinating but unpleasant, and beneath you Ratha gives a low rumble of warning. You soothe him with a gentle touch to his neck, and while you can still sense his protective fury, he settles under your hand.

Fiero’s eyes flick to Simon. “You, move to the Rathalos. She will sit behind you.” He pauses and adds, “She is your responsibility. If she runs, I will kill her in front of you. Do not overestimate her indispensability.”

The color draining from Simon’s face is all the answer Fiero seems to require.

Fawn glides closer, close enough you can feel the coolness of her body with every flap of her wings. Simon’s mid-air transfer – a maneuver you had practiced together countless times in your youth – is perfect. It is Ratha who nearly makes him fall; he twists as Simon lands on his back, and only your deeply-ingrained habit of protecting him has you reaching out to steady him before he plunges to his death.

Still trying to save him. I must be an idiot, you think. It hurts too much to admit why you had so instinctively protected him, so you slide back in the saddle and let him settle into the pilot’s seat without responding to his quiet thanks. He dismisses Fawn with a soft word as Fiero urges his (or is it Simon’s?) Rathalos back toward the abandoned village, and a deep unease fills you as you realize that you and Simon are more or less alone.

You’d attempted to propose to him just a few nights ago. He’d claimed you as a bride just a few moments ago. The whole thing is so absurd that you have to wrestle down a bitter laugh, but a strangled noise escapes you all the same.

“You ended up becoming my husband after all.”

Simon flinches. “Princess…” He sounds so weary.

“After you went to all that trouble to let me down easy, too. You could have just told me then, you know? Sorry princess, I can’t marry you because I’m a spy.”

His hands tighten around the saddle’s grips. “Hate me all you want. I was trying to spare you from this.”

You fall silent. The saddest part is, you can’t even hate him. You want to, you’re willing yourself to, but he is so miserable that you feel only the old stirrings of protectiveness instead.

“Why did you do it?” you ask. He squirms in the saddle, perhaps unnerved by your sudden shift in tone. He darts a glance at you over his shoulder, but the wind is playing havoc with his hair, and you can’t get a read on his expression.

“I couldn’t think of any other way to stop Clarissa from forcing you to marry Fiero.”

Your heart thumps a little harder. He’s still trying to save me too, you think, but just as quickly you push that thought away. Simon is your enemy; you can’t afford to give him the benefit of the doubt now. Your entire friendship had been nothing more than an intelligence-gathering mission for him, and whatever softness lingers in your heart, you have to remember that betrayal.

Even if he seems to still care for me. Especially if he seems to still care for me. You grit your teeth. I cannot trust him again.

You’re too soft-hearted, too naïve. It’s always been your weakness, and now is the worst time to fall prey to your habits of empathy and sympathy. But even as you tell yourself that, you can’t help but be overwhelmed by memories of Simon shielding you from any possible harm. He’d taken lectures in your stead when you’d snuck out of the castle, caught you when you’d fallen off of Ratha or out of trees, thrown himself between you and wild monsters. In the field, he’d never let you take a hit if he could take the impact instead, and when he hadn’t been able to save you from harm, he’d been the one to patch you back up. Even now, with Fiero…they were presumably allies, and yet you could tell that Simon did not want you to be entirely at his mercy.

“Was it all fake? Everything we went through together?” you ask, quietly enough that even you aren’t sure you meant for him to hear you. Whatever your intentions, you feel his body stiffen.

“It had to be,” he replies, cold and flat. Too defensive. He always gets too defensive when he’s lying. Or at least…you’d thought so, once. Still, you don’t think you’re mistaken when you lean forward and whisper, “That’s a lie.”

His short, unsteady exhale feels like confirmation.

Fiero leads you to Galyad. Ratha is flagging by the time you arrive, unused to carrying two full-grown adults on his back for the majority of the day, and you know he’s picking up on your anxiety as well.

“Go,” you whisper to him as soon as you and Simon slide out of the saddle. “Find somewhere to rest and stay hidden. I’ll be okay.”

He nudges you, reluctant, and you press your face to his muzzle.

“I promise. Please go,” you tell him, and with one last unhappy rumble, he takes off.

If Fiero is worried about his departure, he says nothing. But why should he worry? Ratha will never leave you, so as long as you’re in his power, so is your monstie. The thought makes you sick, but you do your best to keep your emotions off your face.

He marches you down an alley, through a doorway and then down several staircases, deep beneath the Ministry of Eggs. At last, he opens the door to a small room and gestures for you to enter. It had probably been meant for storage and it isn’t much better than a cell, but at least you are not in a dungeon. That is something you can work with.

As though reading your thoughts, Fiero points out the small desk and narrow pallet. “You have the queen to thank for this mercy. You treated Eleanor well, so she will treat you well in return.”

You grit your teeth against arguing the merits of Clarissa’s kindness. If you’re thrown into a real dungeon, escaping will become much more difficult.

“I shall come for you at the queen’s leisure,” he says, but when Simon attempts to follow him out, he blocks the door.

“Of course, we could not separate the blissful newlyweds. You shall wait here with your bride,” he says, and the lock snicks home behind him.

You move to the furthest corner of the room. Simon doesn’t follow you. He glances around instead, and then leans against the wall near the door. The way he runs a hand through his hair in frustration is so familiar that you force yourself to look at the grey flagstones beneath you, lest your heart soften further.

The silence lingers for a long time.

Eventually, Simon clears his throat. He isn’t looking at you, and you’re trying not to look at him.

“You need to rest,” he says.

Your exhaustion goes down to your bones, but you’re not interested in the pallet. How can you possibly sleep? Too much has happened and Simon being in the room isn’t doing you any favors either.

“I’m fine,” you say, and for a long time that is the last of the discussion. He settles onto the floor and tilts his head back against the wall, eyes closed. You can tell he isn’t asleep, but he seems unwilling to push his presence onto you.

You wish you weren’t always looking at him. Even more, you wish you could make sense of him.

He isn’t Vermeilian, so it’s not like he’s protecting his homeland or countrymen. He’s always seemed to genuinely enjoy his time in Azuria, and there had never been a hint that his friendships with the other Rangers had been part of a sham. And with you, he’s always been –

You curl your arms around your knees and squeeze as a fresh wave of pain crests over you.

Is it money? Perhaps, yet he’d been paid well as a Ranger. He’d been making a real home amongst you.

So why become a spy?

The question repeats itself in your mind over and over again, chasing away any hope of rest. Finally, you can’t stand it any longer: you must get some answers while you’ve got a chance.

“Where were you taking us, back in Death’s Maw?” you ask, staring hard at the wall opposite so you won’t give in and look at him instead.

Simon shifts and lets out a hard breath.

“I was taking you home,” he says, and the hesitation in his words tells you he’s wrestling with painful memories.

“Home?”

“A few people escaped my village and took shelter out there. We’re the descendants of the Riders who settled here before the Rift War, though we’ve had to hide that fact for generations. It isn’t ideal, but for the most part no one cared to dig up the past until the encroachment started to spread.”

You try to process this, but there are still so many details you’re not sure of. “And my mother? You said she found you there.”

“It was just after we were attacked, and the village was destroyed.” Simon looks at you, and you can’t help but turn your head to meet his gaze. “She saved those of us who survived. I was…I had no family. My arm had just been crystalized. She realized that I was alone and took me in when she saw how quickly I bonded with the other Skyscale. She was…incredible.”

Was. Your heart feels as though it will shatter, but you have to know for sure.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” You sound defeated, even to your own ears. He breaks your gaze with a grimace.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. She died at the Sacrosanctum a few months after we left my village.”

For a few years after she’d disappeared, you had still harbored hope that somewhere out there, your mother was still alive. In fact, in those early days after finding him, you’d often confided these secret hopes to Simon whenever you’d sneak into his room at night. He’d been your confidant from almost the first moment you’d seen him, and he’d always listened so attentively when you’d spoken of Amara. He’d never once tried to crush your dream of reuniting with her.

But he’s known all along.

It’s been apparent for years that she must be dead; you’d done your best to accept it as you’d grown older. And yet Simon’s confirmation – and the fact that he’d hidden this information from you for so long – still hits you like a hammer to the chest. You suck in a breath like you’re drowning, but all your attempts to fight back your tears fail. They burst free alongside a reluctant sob, and you bury your face in your arms so you don’t have to see Simon’s reaction.

He makes a soft noise, one of shared heartache, but he intrudes no further on your grief. When you finally lift your head again, you can see that he’d stood up and started to come toward you almost instinctively, the way he would have done just yesterday, but he’d managed to fight the urge. Good. His comfort is the last thing you want right now.

“Then what?” you croak, desperate to think of something else.

He stares at you. “You mean, after?”

His throat works and he looks down at his left arm. You can see him retreating into memory, though his frown warns you they are not happy recollections.

“Amara ordered her Rathalos to get me out. I – I didn’t want to leave her. She was just laying there on the ground, surrounded by crystal, and I – I begged but…”

He chokes, momentarily overcome, but he manages to go on in a roughened voice. “He took me south, through Azuria to Vermeil, almost without stopping. I wanted to find…”

His eyes catch yours. He doesn’t finish the sentence.

“I had gone with Amara in hopes of finding a cure for the people of my village. I didn’t want to go back empty-handed. It turns out landing in Vermeil with a Rathalos in tow garnered me some attention: Clarissa summoned me herself and asked how I was with him and where Amara was.

“Then she offered me help beyond my wildest dreams. Every resource at her disposal would be put toward helping me research a cure, but in return, I – ”

He studies the ceiling next, tracing the undulating pattern of a water stain with eyes swimming in tears.

“She said we had to protect ourselves from Aenshin as we worked. The encroachment was already destroying villages. The castle was flooded with refugees. She told me what I knew about battle-binding would buy us time and keep Aenshin away while we conducted our research.”

“So how did I – how did Azuria come into it?” you ask.

“I wanted to meet you.” Simon turns away, fully facing the wall. “I’d heard stories of you for months while I traveled with Amara. And Vermeil knew that there was some sort of research taking place at the king’s order. Clarissa told me I could go see for myself, as long as I sent her regular reports. I wasn’t to mention anything about my past, or Amara. I was only allowed to say I was lost.

“At first I didn’t really understand that I was spying, but it wasn’t long before they started asking for very specific information. About the Rangers, primarily, but also…”

“About me.” You don’t know if you’ll ever feel warm again.

“Yes.” He drops his forehead to the wall in front of him. “But by then, I was in too deep. I was afraid to tell you the truth. I thought you’d hate me if I did. And Fiero convinced me that the king’s punishment would be swift. But I also realized I…”

“You liked living in Azuria.”

“I was so proud when Lucas and Gaul took me on as an apprentice. Kora looked after me, Ogden took me out in the field as often as I wanted to go. It felt like I had found my true calling. And you – ”

There is a note of longing in his voice that shakes you, even though you have determined not to soften toward him no matter what he says. You squeeze your hands into fists and try not to let a similar longing reemerge in yourself.

“I liked you right away, you know. Amara said that I would, and I did. You are unlike anyone I’ve ever known. From the moment we met, I wanted to know you better. Amara was amazing: brave, smart, driven…but you’re all of that and more, and I started to care for you more than I should. All that time we spent together, I tried to harden my heart. But I just…couldn’t. By the time I was sixteen, I knew I never wanted to leave your side. But Clarissa knew that too. As much as I wanted to come clean, to really become Simon, she made sure I knew it was impossible. When I allowed them to bind my Rathalos…I told myself it was to stop Aenshin, but it sealed my fate. And as much as I wish things were different, Aenshin does need to be destroyed.”

He turns to you as you stand and once you’re on your feet he crosses toward you again, but he stops out of reach. “The elder dragon is the source of it all, Princess. And it won’t stop unless we make it stop.”

It hits you then. “Your village, and my mother…that was Aenshin?”

His mouth sets into a hard line. He nods.

“And the encroachment…that is Aenshin’s fault as well?”

Another nod. He hesitates, then says: “During the Rift War, the Skyscales were able to stop it. They couldn’t take it down completely, but we can. This time, we’ve got enough power.”

Whatever you had expected out of this conversation, this is not it. You can hardly process the sudden change from tearful confession to this petition for vengeance.

“Simon – ”

He steps even closer. “You haven’t seen what a Skyscale can do with the enhancements Vermeil has made. We can do this, Princess – you and me. We can stop Aenshin from destroying anything else, from harming anyone else, ever again. And when we do, we’re free. I can leave Vermeil behind for good, and you can go back to Azuria and show them what a ruler should be.”

You’re staring at him in horror. “You want to battle-bind Ratha?”

“Just long enough to – ”

“No.” You will not ever allow that.

“It wouldn’t be permanent, I swear. It would just be long enough to give him the power he needs to fell Aenshin.”

“You can’t force him into chains the way you forced me into a fake marriage!”

“I told you: I was trying to save you!”

“Why?” you cry, losing the last bit of composure you’d been clinging to this entire time. “I don’t understand, why are you still trying to save me?”

The sudden silence is ringing in your ears and both you and Simon are breathless and wide-eyed. His pulse is hammering at the base of his neck, and it matches the wild staccato of your own. You hadn’t noticed him getting closer, and somehow you can’t find the strength to move away.

“I…didn’t want to tell you like this.” But as soon as he says those words, he shakes his head and corrects himself. “I was never going to tell you at all.” His voice is hoarse now, almost tender.

You know you shouldn’t ask. You can’t help yourself. “Tell me what?”

He lifts his hand toward your face…and stops just shy of your skin. You are absurdly reminded of the kiss he’d brushed over your forehead, though the circumstances couldn’t be more different.

His voice drops even lower. He won’t meet your gaze.

“It’s too late now,” he murmurs, and for some reason you feel lost and hollow all over again. He’s an enemy, a spy, but your heart can’t seem to accept it.

“Simon – ”

But your next words, unknown even to you, are lost as the lock turns and the door is pushed open. You both twist to face it as it swings wide, and Simon manages to place his body between you and the entrance.

You’re expecting Fiero. It is the leader of the Scriveners instead.

Right away, Ena strikes you as a woman well able to handle herself in a crisis. She moves swiftly but with deliberation as she passes both you and Simon hooded cloaks and bundles of food.

“Forgive me for not taking the time for proper introductions,” she says as you take her gifts. “My name is Ena, and under different circumstances, I’m sure we would have much to discuss. As it is, we don’t have much time. Queen Clarissa has asked for peace talks to be held in Azuria, but from what I understand, they are not meant to succeed. Instead, Vermeil has massed forces just outside the Sacrosanctum in preparation for an assault on Aenshin.”

You slip the cloak on and tug up the hood. “They’re moving fast.”

“Yes, and their aims go beyond reclaiming the ancient seat. They also seek one of the elder dragon’s eggs in hopes of harnessing its strength for themselves.”

“They want to battle-bind an elder dragon?” Shock rolls through you. “To what purpose?”

“To whatever purpose they see fit.” Simon’s face has gone cold. “What could stop them at that point?”

You nod, searching for your resolve. Tonight has been a night of unpleasant and painful discoveries, but you don’t have time to dwell on it all. One day soon you will have to deal with the fallout of everything you’ve learned, but now is the time to act, not reflect.

“We have to get there first,” you say, glad that you sound so confident.

“I agree.” Simon won’t look at you. “Any egg we find must be destroyed before they can claim it.”

Ena gasps a little, and your mouth drops open. You never would have expected Simon to be so ruthlessly pragmatic.

“Excuse us a moment, please,” you say to Ena. She hesitates, then nods.

“Please hurry. I don’t have much time to get you out,” she replies, and slips back out of the door.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Simon turns to you and plants his feet, ready for the coming argument. “Aenshin is a force of immeasurable power. Do you want to stop one crazed elder dragon, just to unleash another upon the world? One just as capable of spreading death in its wake?”

“You don’t mean that.” You’re trembling a little with horror and frustration. “You would never condemn a new life like that.”

His jaw clenches. “It killed your mother. It destroyed my people.”

“Because of what we did to it, and to the monsters it protected! It was our actions that changed Aenshin, not its own nature. And the baby in that egg is entirely innocent of any such corruption.”

“You haven’t seen it firsthand. It’s gone mad. We can’t chance it. If a second elder dragon were to be corrupted like the first…”

“This isn’t you!” You catch hold of his jacket and give him one sharp shake. “You said being a Ranger felt like your calling because you want to help save lives, Simon. You want to restore balance, you want nature and monsters to thrive just like we all do. Even if we have to kill Aenshin, you can’t tell me you’re fine with ending the life of an innocent monster. I know you – I know you couldn’t bear it!”

Simon stares at you, looking hard and deep into your eyes. Then, slowly and with unsteady fingers, he lifts his hands to cover yours where they still grip his coat.

“Princess – ”

“Don’t tell me it’s too late. You’re not some lost cause. You can choose, Simon.”

His hands tighten over yours. “You want to save the egg.”

You nod. “I want us to restore its habitat. I want it to thrive under our care, not our rule. If we can do that, it might just save us all.”

He is quiet for a while, long enough that you start to fear you’ve lost him forever. Then he releases you, and one of his hands comes up until his fingers, still shaking, brush your cheek. His touch is so delicate that you barely feel it, but it sends tingles racing through your entire body.

“I thought I’d do anything to end Aenshin and cure crystallisis. I gave up everything I had in that pursuit, and no sacrifice has ever seemed like too much,  but…” He can barely speak, and you are caught in the maelstrom of emotion in his eyes. “But what I really want to protect – what I really can’t give up – is you. If this is what you really want, then I’ll do whatever I can to help you save that egg.”

You close your eyes, too overwhelmed to hold his gaze. There’s still so much you both have to work through, but for now his acquiescence is enough.

“Let’s go,” you say, pulling gently away. “We’ve got to move fast.”

He drops his hand and gives you a resolute nod before you both go in search of Ena and your escape.

----

“Lie back and let me lick this pretty little pussy until you can’t feel your legs any longer.”

“Little kitten. You know better than to make me tell you twice. Now, bend.”

“Bend over, sweetheart. Let me spank that pretty little arse while I fuck you rough.”

“We’ve been waiting for you. Now, take your clothes off and come over here.”

“Baby, I don’t play games, and neither should you. Now, do as you’re told.”

“You like the way my fingers feel, huh?”

“I’m tired, but not so tired that I don’t wanna be all over you.”

Your doorbell buzzes, harsh and echoing and too loud for the hour, and you find yourself blearily stumbling to the front door of your apartment. Barefoot and clad in soft sleep shorts and a worn tank top, blinking against the faint light that’s on over the oven and squinting to see the time flashing there. 

It’s half past two in the morning.

Your doorbell sounds again, blaring from a tinny speaker next to your door, and you nearly clap your hands over your ears. You jam your finger on the speaker button, cutting the buzzing off, and can’t help the edge to your voice. 

“What,” you hiss into the speaker, squeezing your eyes shut behind the press of your hand. The last two times this happened it was a drunk pressing all of the door buzzers for the whole building at bar close, asking with a loose tongue for spare change. 

You wait for the inevitable slurred request but none comes. The line crackles in silence for a moment, and you know, somehow, that there is someone on the other end of the line. 

“Hello?” you ask, your voice dropping soft. Leaning closer to the speaker, straining to listen. There’s breath there, on the other end, faint but labored. 

You hear an inhale then, static crackling through the old wires in the speaker, and then, “It’s Tyler.” The voice is quiet, but clear. Familiar, but strained. 

Your heart lurches in your chest as if doused in a bucket of ice water. “Tyler,” you say, suddenly breathless, your mind whirling on a rush of dizzying lightheadedness. “Are you - what’s wrong  - “ 

You’re buzzing him up before he can even answer, slamming your thumb against the button that unlocks the door to the apartment building, hearing an echo down the hall when the door opens and then slams shut. 

You push your hair back from your face, your heartbeat roaring in your ears as you look around your apartment. Stalling for a moment, sleep tangling up your thoughts, before going to your bedside and pulling out your med bag from where you keep it tucked beside your nightstand. Going back out into your living room and turning right into the kitchen. Flipping on the overhead light and zipping your bag open on the table there. Eyeing the level of your supplies inside, hoping you’d remembered to restock since you’d last used it. 

A soft knock raps on the door and startles a gasp from you, even though you knew to expect it. You fumble with the deadbolt and when you wrench the door open, he’s on the other side. Leaning against the door jamb, looking half-dead in the dim hallway light. 

He is covered in blood and offers you a weak smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Is this a bad time?”

“Tyler,” you groan softly, pushing him under the bright florescent light in your kitchen until he’s leaning against the sink. That he’s letting you push him around is cause for concern, and you feel around behind you for your pen light, tipping up on your toes and taking his cheek in your hand to guide his face towards you. Shining the light into his eyes to check his pupils. 

He blinks down at you, breathing slowly, and you realize his pupils are two different sizes. It’s no wonder, given the dried blood flaked around a nasty gash along his hairline and the dark bruise blooming underneath it. 

You know better than to ask, so you press a palm against his chest to keep him where he’s at while you turn to grab more supplies from your bag. 

“What’s the worst?” you ask, returning to him an antiseptic wipe that you rip from it’s paper casing with your teeth. Leaning up to press it to the wound on his temple and frowning when it stains red under the press of your hand. 

“Shoulder,” he says, sounding a little winded, and when you pull back, sure enough, his right shoulder is cranked out of place. 

“Alright,” you say, touching at his chin to keep his face steady as you work at the cut on his head. “Let’s get that right, then.” 

He offers you the arm slowly, like he has to think a lot about it, and you curl your hand gently around his wrist, placing your other hand on the inside of his elbow. 

“Breathe,” you instruct, and he nods, and you look up at him once in warning before you throw your weight against it, twisting his forearm away from his body on a rough shove. 

He groans through gritted teeth, and then you hear a heavy pop, and he sags back against the counter. Breathing out and gripping at the counter to keep upright. 

You give him a moment to breathe through it, taking the time to look him over. He’s filthy with sweat and grime, and there’s more blood on him that you care to see. 

“How long ago did this happen?” you ask, touching at his eyebrow and sweeping your thumb over his forehead. 

He hums softly, his eyelashes brushing against your wrist. Thinking. “Two hours.” 

You frown. “I need to keep you up then.” 

He nods, like he expected that. He looks down, then away, and you give him a moment. Knowing that he means to speak but needs time to gather the words. 

His eyes come back to yours, and all you can see are his mismatched pupils. You definitely need to keep him awake. 

“I’m sorry. To bring this here, to you - again - “ 

But you shake your head, cutting him off. “No,” you say, but he shakes his head right back. 

“It’s not - if i’m found here - “ 

You take his head in your hands, needing his head to be still. God, you think, his head must be pounding. “If someone broke through my front door, you would make quick work of them,” you tell him. Meaning it. “Half-dead or not.” 

“ ‘m not half-dead,” he grouses quietly, but you shush him. “I just need the night. I’ll be gone before dawn.” 

You nod, pressing another antiseptic wipe along the wound on his head. The filth that covers him makes it hard to see where he’s hurt. You have no doubt he is covered in cuts and pain, but it’s hard to make out beneath the dust and sweat and blood. 

“I need you clean to tend to you,” you say. “Can you shower?”

He huffs, like it’s a stupid question, but his head nods down to his chest and you have to touch at his chin to rouse him. “Tyler.” 

“I can shower,” he says on what sounds like a sigh but what you suspect is exhaustion combined with a thorough concussion. You wonder when he last slept. 

He pushes himself up from the counter, slowly, slower than he would ever move of his own volition, and you shove the sour twist of worry down deep in your belly. It won’t help anyone now. 

You move ahead of him, slipping into your tiny bathroom, covered in powder pink tile and lit by a yellow bulb over the sink. You turn the knobs of the shower, getting the water going and hot, and making sure you have soap and a washcloth hanging from the bar on the back wall. 

When your upper half emerges from the shower, he’s there behind you. Taking up all the space as he pulls his shirt over his head. Grimacing silently when it catches around his neck and tweaks the arm you’d just reset in it’s socket. You move past him, touching at his chest and gnawing on your lower lip. Only barely resisting the urge to stay with him and help him undress, knowing that he wouldn’t want you to. 

“Don’t pass out,” you warn as you pull the door shut behind you. 

His answer is muffled through the door, but sounds like a grumbled, “I’m not going to pass out.” 

You wait for the sound of him stepping under the water before you go back to the kitchen. Wetting a washcloth and wiping down the counter where he’s smeared dirt and blood against it, and then washing your hands in the sink with foaming soap. Watching it turn pink with his blood as it circles down the drain.

You pause for a moment, looking to the closed bathroom door and then back, before grabbing at the bottle of dark liquor on the shelf beside the refrigerator and fishing a low ball glass from the sink. Pouring yourself a little and allowing yourself a sip, blinking your eyes closed at the burn of it in your throat. 

He’s right and you know it - that this could go very badly for you, and you find yourself walking into your dark living room and peering behind the curtains out into the street. You see nothing but stay there. Perched on the arm of your sofa and nursing your drink, checking through the window every minute or two. Not even sure what you should be looking for - a cartoonish surveillance van? Men gathering on the street? The red dot of a sniper sight on your forehead? 

You hear the shower turn off eventually and down the last of your drink, leaving the glass there on the couch when you stand. You have a few pieces of clothing in your apartment that may fit him, and you go to the bottom right drawer of your dresser in your room. Rifling through the tee shirts and boxer shorts left by ex boyfriends, until you find a pair of sweatpants that may be big enough. 

You knock on the bathroom door once and hear a responding grunt, so you crack the door and toss the sweatpants in without looking. Going to the kitchen then and gathering your med bag back together, rooting around in the back of your freezer for an icepack. 

He joins you after a moment, dressed in the sweatpants you gave him which are indeed too short, but will work. His chest is bare and you let out a stilted sigh at the sight of painful wounds there. Slices and cuts and deep, dark bruises. 

He’s more alert when you meet his eyes, and when you turn him to look into the light overhead, you find his pupils to match. Improving then, if slowly. The wound on his head has stopped bleeding as well, from the looks of it. You can let him sleep for a few hours, once you’ve patched him up. 

“Come on,” you say, walking into the bedroom and flipping the kitchen light off as you go. 

He disappears for a moment, and you turn to see him at the front door. Checking the deadbolt and then walking to the far wall and peeking out the window there, before letting out a controlled breath as he walks silently to the bedroom. 

His eyebrows lift in his forehead when he sees you adjusting the quilt and laying a clean sheet over top of it. Smoothing it out under your palms. 

“You’re going to let me sleep, huh?” he says, the corner of his mouth turning up. 

You give him a look and pat the mattress beside where you’re sat. “After I clean all of those nasty cuts,” you say, reaching into your med bag for more supplies. “And you’ll sleep on the couch. But this will be easier for this.” You pat the mattress again, and he gives you a look that tells you he’s more in his head now than before. That he’s more himself. That stubborn look you know so well, that makes you very nearly roll your eyes at him. 

He relents after a moment, touching idly at the waistband of the sweatpants and coming to stand next to you. Pretending to be a little annoyed because it’s a dynamic that fits you both like a well-worn glove, comforting and easy. 

“On your stomach, come on,” you say, scooting back to give him room. 

He takes a moment to settle in, making a quiet sound when he means to lift both his arms to pillow under his face but thinks better of it, his injured shoulder undoubtedly twinging in pain. He takes the other arm alone then and rests his forehead into the crook of his elbow. 

You touch him with a gentle hand between his shoulder blades, knowing this position to be a vulnerable one for him, and run your hand down the notches of his spine as you assess him. 

You’ve seen him worse, honestly. The bruising is the worst of it, dark and purpling in the low light of your bedroom, and you wonder as you pass your hand over them if he’s broken any ribs. There are cuts and scrapes littered across the plane of his back but they’re mostly shallow abrasions that will mend with minimal care. 

“Alright?” you ask, rising up on your knees beside him on the bed so you can reach across and press an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel gently against his swollen shoulder, and he grunts quietly in response. “No sleeping yet,” you say, and get another grunt in response. 

You work your way down his back slowly and methodically. Taking antiseptic wipes to every cut you find, gently working grit from the wounds with the press of your hand. Starting at the nape of his neck and working down. Your hands trace along his bones as you go, pressing lightly to provide some comfort of massage as you check along his spine and ribs for obvious breaks, but luckily, finding none. 

His breathing deepens as he lays, growing steady and sure as you let your hands map the contours of his back. The dips and the valleys of his aching muscles and the bruises that lay atop them. Your thumb drags lightly over the thick mess of a scar that sits alongside his spine, dangerous and far too close and a memory of the first time you’d met him, years ago, and you feel something shudder quietly in your chest. Remembering. 

You let your hand drift up his neck and rest gently against his pulse, where it’s beating healthy and strong beneath your fingertips, to assure yourself. That he’s here and he’s alright. He’s going to be okay, and you feel him stir under the touch. 

“Okay,” you tell him, touching at his shoulder. “On your back now. Careful.” 

He ends up on his back with a gritted exhale, and you put the ice pack back on his shoulder, checking the swelling before pressing it down gently. 

When you lean back to grab more wipes from your bag, he’s watching you. Eyelids heavy in the low light, but alert and present with you. 

You lean back over him to check on his head wound, touching at it gently with a wipe and sloughing off the dried blood around the edges. “Close your eyes, you weirdo,” you tell him, your voice gone soft, feeling a strange heat deep in your belly at his eyes on you, but he doesn’t. 

You make your way down his front in much the same way as before. Running your palms down either side of his throat and cataloguing the bruising at the base of it. Taking wipes to every cut and scratch you find, pressing a little harder along the lines of muscle that are rigid beneath your touch and you know must be aching sore.

The worst is a slice below his pectoral on his right side, still oozing a little when you gently prod it, but you think it doesn’t quite need stitches. You fish out some butterfly bandages from your bag and apply them with care to close the wound, continuing to listen for sounds of discomfort from him but hearing none. 

The rest of him cleans with relative ease, and you find yourself going into your own mind a little as you work. Feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes under your hands, letting your fingertips nudge along the ridges of his ribs and sternum. 

You’re working on an area of rash near his hip, looking a little like a roadburn, red and hot, when suddenly he’s moving. His eyes blinking quickly, trying to sit up - and you place a flat hand on the center of his chest and push him back down, your brow dipping on a frown. 

“Stop. What’s wrong?” you ask, frowning and worried, and when he meets your eye, his expression reads a little distressed. 

He stares at you for a lingering moment, his jaw working silently, and then he murmurs, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to - “ and you realize he’s gone a little hard in his sweatpants. 

Your impulse is to laugh, stupidly, but you tamp it down hard with a grit of your teeth. Something in your chest clenching up at the naked vulnerability in his face. You push him back flat on his back, putting your weight behind your hand on his chest, and he goes, reluctantly. Like he’s waiting for you to storm off in an angry huff, which is ridiculous. 

“It’s alright,” you tell him, dropping your eyes so he doesn’t have to hold your gaze, and your hands resume their work. “I’m a nurse, Tyler, I’ve seen stranger things.” 

He watches you for a while, the line of his shoulders set rigid and stressed, and he doesn’t lay back fully until you bring your hands to his face and soothe him with a quiet sound. Spreading your thumbs carefully over his forehead in a repeating motion, until it draws a quiet exhale from him, and he lets his head rest back. 

His eyes close then and you continue, dragging your thumbs over the bridge of his nose and then across the swell of both cheekbones, humming softly to yourself. Wanting - needing him to just give in to this. To relax and let you care for him. 

You wonder when the last time was he was touched gently and it makes your lungs constrict at the thought. 

Your hands retread familiar paths down his chest in an attempt to soothe him. Pretending like you’re checking the bruises that darken his skin but really pressing down gently to move the stiff muscles underneath them. Watching his face and seeing the tension remain there, even as his breath deepens under the touch of your hand.

You go back to the irritated skin near his hip and feel the skin of his lower belly twitch beneath the touch of your hand. You hear him let out a strained sigh, between his teeth, his eyes very deliberately closed as the muscles in his belly twitch beyond his control. 

He’s hard now. Straining against the soft material of the sweatpants, and you can’t stop yourself from looking out of the corner of your eye. Something tightens in your gut, warm and tingling, and you force yourself to look away, back to his face, where the tension is plain in the lines around his eyes. 

You sigh. Letting the backs of your knuckles drag softly against the skin below his belly button, watching the skin there twitch beneath in their wake. All of him is tense. Always, so tense. Holding back. Holding on. Keeping one foot ahead of the other until one day when he no longer can. 

“Tyler,” you murmur, softly. Sadly. 

You get a soft mm in response, his eyes still forced closed. Pretending he’s not hard at the touch of your hand. Pretending that he doesn’t need anything. Keeping it so tightly together. 

You let your fingertips graze the faint dusting of hair below his belly button, and then let your hand go further. Cupping gently over the hard line of his cock through the sweatpants. 

He seizes, muscles locking up tight as his eyes fly open on a rush of an exhale. He looks to you, his hands fisting in the bedding, his mouth a tight line. 

You squeeze him gently with your palm, and it knocks a quiet groan out of him. His eyes lock on yours. Heated and serious. 

You shake your head softly. “It’s alright,” you say, squeezing him once more. “It’s okay.” 

You haven’t touched him like this in a very long time, but the fill of him in your hand is familiar all the same. 

You wait to see if he shoves you away. If he protests. But he just stares at you with hot, hard eyes that are full of conflict. You know him well enough to know that look. His cock throbs in your hand and you feel a corresponding heat pool like honey in your belly. 

A decision comes to you then. One that’s sure. You shift closer to him and keep a palm against his chest. You couldn’t hold him down if you wanted to, but you need to tell him that it’s alright. That he can allow himself this, after everything. 

You keep your eyes on his face, wanting to see, when you reach below the waistband of his sweatpants and take him in hand. He grunts softly, his eyes going gratifyingly dark, and you feel the line of his hips tense against the bed. Every muscle in his abdomen tightening like a bow string at the soft grip of your palm around his cock. 

It fills the bulk of your hand, your fingers barely touching around it, and something hollow aches in your center as you give it a gripping slide along your palm. Hearing his breath catch as you feel his foreskin glide forward with your hand. You give him another squeeze, gentle, just on this side of enough pressure, and something that sounds like a whisper of a whine lodges in his throat. 

He needs this, you realize, looking back up at his face and seeing the lines around his eyes. The weight he carries there. 

You release him for a moment and tap at the waistband of his sweatpants. “Pull these down,” you tell him. You lean across to your bedside table and wet your palm with a pump of lotion that you keep in the drawer there, coming back then to sit comfortably next to his hip. 

He hasn’t moved, the sweatpants still up over his hip bones. He’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite read. Like he thinks this is a test somehow, and he’ll fail it if he gives into this. 

You give him a look, unbothered, and tuck your hand beneath the waistband once more. Curling your hand around his hard cock, feeling him suck in a quiet breath at the cool of the lotion in your palm. You catch his gaze and keep it when you grip him tight and give him two firm pumps in your hand. 

His eyes flash, dark and hot, and then you feel the sweet, soft nudge of his hips working into your hand. His jaw tensing and flexing in the low light of your bedroom. You grip him again, letting every curve of your hand catch along the length of him as glide down, and he lets out a controlled breath through his teeth. Blinking at you once, and then nodding. Nodding twice, quickly, and lifting his hips and letting you tug the sweatpants down on his hips. 

You spread your free hand across his lower belly, scratching your nails at the trail of hair there, and you hear him make a sound, soft, and desperate, and you know you have him. 

You watch his face when you begin to work him in your hand. Wanting to see him as you start a tight, quick rhythm, not here to draw this out or to make a show of it. Just needing to bring him a release that he so obviously needs and has been denying himself for who knows how long.

He watches you right back, his expression guarded even as signs of his pleasure begin to bleed into the edges of it - a tense of his jaw when you rub the undersides of your fingers across the hot head of his cock, a soft, ragged exhale from his nose when you twist your wrist at the base. You nod to him, the only sound in the room the sound of your hand sliding on his cock, to tell him that you understand. That it’s alright. That he can cum like this, here with you. That you don’t need anything more from him than that. 

His cock is a brand in your hand, hot and silken and leaking, and the expanse of it reminds you of the feel of it inside of you. Makes you ache a little, remembering, before you bring yourself back to this. Remembering why you’re here, and you begin to use both hands then. Forming a twisting and gripping motion up and down his cock, pulling his foreskin gently there and back, your eyes helplessly trained to the sight of the head of it appearing and disappearing into the cavern of your fist. 

You can feel him fighting it, even as the muscles in his lower belly began to clench and grit against his growing release. You can see the rigid line of every muscle in his body and wish, not for the first time, that you could get into his mind. To know what has him as tight as a drum as he looks on you with what looks almost to be a faint echo of fear. Like his control is slipping through his fingers and the sensation brings a wave of dread along with it. Guilt is there in his expression, too Muted, only visibly because you know him as you do, but you see it. 

You wonder if he fears he is disgusting, using you in this way, and you take one of his hands where it’s fisted in your bedding and bring it close. 

His brows draw, confusing dawning across his face, but then you take his hand and lift it carefully through the leg opening of your shorts. Pressing it up and in until his fingertips brush against the soaking mess of your sex. Where you’ve gone heated and wet at the simple sensation of his cock in your hands. So that he knows. 

Breath rushes from him like you punched him in the gut, all at once as his expression draws nearly pained and a curse drops from his lips. You drop his hand to return yours to his cock, working it between both hands again, but his fingers remain. Pressing up into the plush heat of your cunt, a groan catching in his throat as he draws his fingers through your slick folds and feels at you there, where you’re hollow and aching for him. 

His hips start to lift against your hand, his eyes going a little distant as he touches at you, feeling the evidence of your want with his own hand, and you nod to him. Murmuring soft words to him as you work him in your hands, watching as the muscles in his neck go tight. 

A sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest when he cums, muted and gutted-sounding as his cock leaps in your hands. Pulsing out thick ropes of spend onto his belly and over your wrists as his hips rock helplessly into the grip of them. His chest heaving as he stifles his response as best he can, gritting his teeth as his eyes narrow but don’t close, his gaze locked to yours. 

You hold him gently when he comes down, releasing him with care when his breath hitches at the touch of your palm against the sensitive skin there. 

Before he can make the situation weird, you push yourself to your feet and head to the bathroom. Wetting a washcloth in the sink there, taking a breath as you look at your reflection in the mirror, and returning to the bedroom. 

He looks up at you when you reappear in the doorway, looking utterly exhausted, and you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. Feeling stupid fondness bloom in your chest at the fact that his release appears to have cut all of his strings. So much so that he doesn’t even protest when you sit beside him again and wipe at his chest with the damp rag, though he looks up at you and blinks with eyelids that look heavy. 

“I’ll let you sleep now,” you tell him, teasing a little, as he very obviously forces his eyes to stay open. 

He frowns then, lines appearing between his eyes on his forehead, and he reaches for you. Touching softly at your inner thighs, and you take his hand in yours and place it back on his chest. 

“It’s alright,” you tell him, and he looks conflicted for a moment before he reclines back against the bed. Looking too tired to fight you on the issue.

He watches you, and you can feel the weight of the world on his shoulders just from looking at him. “I thought you were going to make me sleep on the couch,” he mutters, and a soft snort lodges itself in your throat. 

“If you keep giving me grief, I might,” you tell him, your eyebrows raised. You push yourself to a stand once more to return the cloth to the bathroom, rinsing it under the tap before hanging it over the faucet. 

When you return to the bedroom, he’s asleep. Out like a light, just like that, his chest rising and falling on slow, deep breaths. You find yourself smiling again and scrub a hand over your face to wipe it away. Not allowing yourself to indulge in those thoughts as you flick off the light and crawl into bed beside him, turning on your side to face away from him after tugging your quilt up and over the both of you. 

You look to the clock on your bedside table and find it just past three, in blinking red numbers. A distant thought crosses your mind, that you should check the deadbolt on the front door and peek out the living room window once more before sleep takes you, but you can’t bring yourself to leave the bed. You feel as though you weigh more than a mountain just then. 

You listen to the steady in and out of his breathing, deep and needed, and let your eyes close. Chewing on your lip and working hard to convince yourself that you don’t care that he’ll be gone when you wake. 

Something stirs you awake and you look to the clock on your bedside table reflexively, before your eyes are even fully open. 

It’s almost six o’clock in the morning. 

Your bedroom is lit with the faint light of morning before sunrise and you realize that Tyler’s hand is resting along the soft curve of your belly, his fingers curled gently to where you can see the callus on his trigger finger. 

You look at it there, rising and falling with your breath, and allow yourself to be pleased at waking before he left. Having fully expected to wake to an empty bed and a hastily scribbled thank you written on a receipt he found on the kitchen table. 

You shift, sighing softly, to turn to see his face. Wanting to see if his head wound stayed closed through the night or if he instead bled all over your new bedding set. 

When you look up, you find him looking at you. Awake and still, his fingertips brushing against your skin where your shirt has ridden up in sleep. 

You wonder how long he’s been awake. How long he’s put off leaving to lay there and look at you. 

He’s slept for just three hours, maybe less, but he looks noticeably healthier in the soft morning light. The lines around his eyes faded a little, the bags beneath them all but gone. The wound in his hairline is closed, crusting over with scab, and you allow yourself a little smile at that. He’ll go, you know, soon, but you’ve helped him. You’ve done what you could to make his time on this earth just a touch more bearable. 

His hand lifts from your belly and touches at your cheek, brushing softly at the curve of it, and you look down. Away from his face where his face is doing something you cannot allow yourself to see. He’s feeling, here in your bed in the early morning, and you cannot allow yourself to look. 

It’s easier when he doesn’t do this. When he disappears into the night without a word, leaving only the imprint of his body next to yours in the sheets. Your heart thuds in your chest, aching, and his hand curves around your jaw. Lifting your face to look at his, as you pull back a little. Not wanting to see, even as he turns you back to face him, his hand gentle but firm on your cheek. 

You shake your head softly, almost imperceptibly, into his palm, and then you let your eyes go to his. Seeing there what you know you’ll find - his eyes naked with emotion as he regards you in the soft light. Saying nothing, but screaming everything in the silence. 

You see his nostrils flare softly as his jaw tenses and then releases, and his eyes fall to your mouth, and you just….you can’t…

He leans to you and you meet him. His hands cradling your head as he presses his lips to yours. You push yourself up off the bed, sitting up beside where he’s laying back. Letting him keep your face to his as he breathes against your mouth and kisses you again, shivering at the scrape of his beard against your chin. Your hand comes to rest on his chest, against the hearty, strong beat there, and you make a soft sound as your lips part and he takes your lower lip between his teeth. Softly, a whispered groan catching in his throat. 

You trade kisses back and forth, drawing back to look at each other, because for once, you’re both allowing yourselves to, before going back to each other. Tasting into each other’s mouths with slips of hot tongue, sharing each other’s air in the quiet space between you. Retreading this familiar ground that feels old and and worn and new all at once. 

His palm curves around the back of your head, threading through your hair. His fingers tightening into the strands there on a gentle tug at the roots, and it drops your mouth open on a soft moan, your eyes falling closed as the space between your legs throbs, hot and twisting. 

You end up on his lap, pushing at his shoulders to keep him laid on his back. Not wanting to aggravate the shoulder you spent the night setting. His nose trails along the curve of your cheekbone, his breath hot across your face as his hands lift and grip around the thick set of your waist. Curling around your ass and gripping tight on a pulse before releasing, making you pant softly against his cheek. 

His hand moves, slipping lower and between. Sneaking through the open pant leg of your sleep shorts and touching gently at your sex. A groan rumbling in his chest when he finds you wet. Heated and slick against the press of his fingertips, pressing your hips back against his hand. Your mind already getting light and delirious from the sweet stroke of his finger through the soaking folds of your cunt. 

He’s hard. You can feel him beneath you, pressed up against the inside of your thigh, and you draw back for a moment to look into his eyes. Needing to see what he is thinking, knowing he will never say it aloud. 

His eyes meet yours, heated and sure, and you nod to him. Breathing out in a rush as he goes suddenly, pulling your shorts down your hips and thighs. Letting you lift each leg until they come free, tossing them beside the bed as he wiggles his hips to tug his pants down too. 

The first press of the silky head of his cock against your sex has you both jerking against each other. Overly sensitive and worked up as you let your hips roll against his. Feeling the thick, hard length of him where you’re feeling hollow and empty. 

His hand curves around your jaw, tucking your hair behind your ear as you look down over him, his expression a mess of feeling, and you shake your head again. Softly, barely resisting pressing a kiss to his palm, and then you reach back behind yourself and take him in hand. Lifting your hips and guiding him to you. 

The silky spear of him into you makes you both groan, loud in the quiet of the morning, and you feel a tremble rip up your spine at the impossible stretch of him, seated deep in your cunt as your hips inch down and down and down, until they rest against his. 

It hurts. Not badly, but in a strangely stupefying way as you hold yourself still to adjust to the fill of him. You’d forgotten, in your time away from him. Forgotten how he feels like he’s splitting you in two when he takes you like this. 

You don’t realize your brow has drawn, your eyes squeezed closed as you breathe through the discomfort, until he pulls you down with a gentle hand on your jaw. Nudging his nose against yours and kissing you. Murmuring soft words of praise against your lips as his other hand strokes against your quivering thigh. Giving you time, then, pressing kisses to your cheeks until you let out a deep breath and feel your body start to give to the pressure of him. 

When you push yourself up from his chest with a flat palm against his heart, he looks up at you with an expression you have to look away from. Feeling something growing painfully in your chest at the sight of it, biting at your lower lip and focusing instead on the pulse and throb of his cock within you. You brace yourself with two hands on his chest, each palm covering two dark bruises, and let your hips roll, gently, against his. 

The slide of him inside of you is intoxicating. Slow and tight and sinful as his cock plunges deep into the velvet clutch of your sex. His hands come to your hips, gripping there tightly, and you give yourself over to him. 

You move in unison, rocking your hips against his and feeling the thick fill of his cock with every rut while he pulls you back down against him with hands hard enough to bruise. Moving in a rhythm of heated skin and racing heartbeat and thoughts that clog up thick in your chest as you look down at his chest and see the bruises and cuts littering his skin there. 

Your mind fights itself as you ride him. Dueling thoughts tangling messily together and making your vision swim. Wondering who he’s done this with last. How long ago it was. If you’re an indulgence he allows himself or one of the many beds that he warms. Wondering if this is the last time you’ll feel him like this, taking you apart and putting you back together again, heated and alive and safe. You wonder if you’ll see him again after this. You wonder if anyone will tell you when he dies. 

You feel it in every inch of his body when he begins to cum. Feeling his abdominal muscles lurch beneath your hands and the stutter in his hips as he grits his teeth at the rising tide of it, until you feel his cock pulsing inside of you. Filling you with lash after lash of seed, hot and thick, his balls drawing up tight as they ache and throb and empty.

The heat of it, the sudden dizzying heat of it sparks something in you. In the back of your mind and deep in your belly, something deeper than conscious thought, and you can’t help yourself. Pitching forward on his cock and propping yourself up against his chest as you tilt your hips forward and down, and rut. Grinding the cradle of your hips against his in a desperate, frantic rhythm, feeling the promise of release spark distantly in the corners of your senses. Lost in the chase of that feeling, crushing the crest of your sex against the hard plane of his lower belly hard, again and again, as his head tips back against the pillow and his cock jumps and spits inside of you. Using him as you feel the tingle of it lighting along your nerve endings. Swelling like the tide, rising and swirling. 

You choke on your breath when the pressure within crests, your eyes clamping closed as your cunt pulses and grips on his cock as pleasure rips down your spine. Working your hips as wave after wave washes over you, making every muscle in your lower body lurch in devastating time with the crash of it through your body.

You’re both winded when you come down from it, your chests heaving together where you’ve collapsed forward and pressed against him. Breathing together as your hearts race, strong and alive and feeling. 

He cups your face again, a palm curving around your jaw, and you close your eyes. Letting your face press against the gentle touch of his hand but not allowing yourself to look down at his face. To see what you can feel radiating from his every pore in that moment. Knowing that you can’t stand to see it. 

To know, when you know that when you blink, he will be gone. 

The clock reads nearly seven in the morning when he gets up to shower. His skin warm as it slides against yours when he shifts and then stands, an impossible expanse of scarred and bruised skin that he carries like an albatross as he disappears through your bedroom doorway. 

You hear the shower kick on a moment later and you let yourself roll to your back. Staring up at the ceiling and listening to the distant rattle of the shower curtain rings on the rod and the sound of the water washing over him. Counting your breaths in and out as you feel between your legs to where you’re puffy and bruised from him. Still slick against your fingertips as you touch gently at the ache there, to keep yourself grounded. 

The shower turns off not a minute or two later, and you groan softly as you push yourself to your feet. Grabbing your shorts from the floor and stepping into them, your step hitching at the soft pinch of discomfort lingering in your core as you walk out of your bedroom. 

You start a pot of coffee, blinking against the rising sun that’s peeking through the window over the sink as you pat the side of your old drip machine until it rattles and sputters to life. Pulling down two coffee mugs from your cupboard and leaving them on the counter next to it. 

The bathroom door is unlocked, and you let yourself in, steam billowing past you as you step through the doorway. 

He’s there, tugging his shirt over his head with one careful arm. It’s grimy, as filthy as it was the night before, and you find yourself distantly chiding yourself for not at least running it under the faucet and letting it dry overnight. 

He doesn’t appear to notice or care, but then when does he ever. 

The steam clears from the room, rushing out into the hallway and dispersing into the air, and he lets you position him to lean against the pink porcelain of the vanity. You check him over, then. Brushing your fingers through his dripping hair and pushing it up and back from his face. Touching a gentle thumb to the scabbing slice along his hairline and feeling at the seat of his shoulder in it’s socket. Finding it solidly in place. Sturdy, under the practiced pressure of your hand. 

He is patient with you, allowing you to look him over until you’re satisfied when you know that his internal clock is likely blaring alarm sounds in his mind by now. Knowing that he could have been a state over by now if he’d simply left when he’d first awakened. 

When you look up at his face and give him an all clear nod, he looks back at you with a familiar distance. The corner of his mouth turning up but not reaching his eyes, and you allow yourself to find some relief in that. That whatever happened on your bed had stayed there. It will make what comes next easier. 

You tell him a fresh pot of coffee is on and he goes, his hand touching gently at the soft curve of your waist as he disappears through the door and goes to the kitchen. You don’t allow yourself to watch him leave, and you tug the door resolutely closed behind him. 

Your shower is a mindless going through the motions, the water scalding as you scrub shampoo against your scalp and run a sudsy wash cloth under your arms. Rinsing your face for longer than you need to, clinging to the roaring sound of rushing water to avoid listening helplessly for sounds of movement out in the apartment. 

Your skin is pink when you step out of the shower, toweling off and tugging a brush through your hair. Staring at the portions of your reflection not clouded over with steam in the mirror. Seeing a faint red patch of skin along your jaw where the stubble of his beard rubbed against it and then looking away. You brush your teeth and breathe, in and out, and then spit and rinse. 

You dress slowly, getting back into your sleep clothes even though you know you won’t be able to fall back asleep, and you find yourself pausing with your hand on the door knob, before you grit your teeth and tell yourself to grow up. 

You rip the bathroom door open. Steam rushes into the empty hall, and you force yourself through the doorway, then left down the hall to your bedroom. Rifling through your dresser drawers there mindlessly before deciding to stay in the clothes you have on. 

You don’t need to check the apartment to know that he’s gone, and something sour sits like a rock in the base of your gut at the knowledge of it.

Out in the kitchen, bathed in a golden light, you find a mug in the sink with suds still sitting around the rim, the water in it dark with remnant drops of coffee. You look at it for a moment, imagining him running a soapy washcloth over it after pounding back a full cup, a lame attempt at washing it and not even bothering to rinse it all the way, and you force yourself to look away. 

You take the mug remaining beside the coffee maker and pour yourself a heaping cup. Blowing gently across the rim of it as you walk slowly to your couch where it’s pressed against the far wall of your living room. Sitting slowly, feeling the ache between your legs at the motion of it. 

You pull the curtains over the window back with your free hand and let out a slow breath as you stare out at the street below. Empty, save for the first few cars of morning traffic creeping down it, the world as slow to rise as you are. 

You sip at your coffee and watch the sun rise, feeling the coffee burn your tongue and not able to bring yourself to care. Your force your mind to stay blank, mentally cataloging the sights you see through your window and the flavor of your coffee to keep your thoughts from returning to a place that will bring you no comfort. 

People begin to appear, slowly, one by one as the city wakes for the day, and you feel yourself go distant within yourself. 

“It would never be allowed.”

“I didn’t intend to ask for permission,” you snap. “And it’s not like I ever wanted to be a queen. Even if I had, there’s precedence: my grandfather married a commoner.”

He shoots you a dark look over his shoulder. “That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

He whirls back around and closes the distance between you with long, impatient strides. His eyes are alight with a fury you’ve never seen in him before and can’t begin to understand, and it sets your heart pounding so loud that you can hardly hear anything else. Your stomach lurches as the ground seems to drop away from beneath you, but you force yourself to stand tall.

“I can’t, alright? I can’t accept you.” He lifts his hands like he wants to grab you, like his instinct is to pull you close in spite of his words, but he drops them again almost instantly. The wild tension in him burns through you as well.

“What are you not telling me?” you demand.

His jaw clenches and he stays maddeningly silent.

“Simon, you have been the most important person in my life since the moment I found you in the Loop. I would never force you to accept me or to accept my proposal, but you’re clearly not okay and I deserve to know what’s wrong.”

“Princess – ”

“Simon, please.”

He looks down at the ground between you – what little of it there is – and for a moment it doesn’t appear as though he’s going to answer. Then you see that he isn’t staring at the ground at all; his eyes are on his left glove.

You feel sick to your stomach with anticipatory dread as he lifts his arm. You’ve never seen him without gloves, have you? You try to remember, even as he rips the offending garment off with one shaky exhale.

The crystallisis is almost beautiful in the mist-diffused moonlight. It glimmers softly as he twists his arm, allowing you to see the full extent of the corruption. You reach out to touch it, only to feel a pang of regret as he jerks his arm away.

There is loathing in his voice when he says what you’re already thinking: “It’s a death sentence. A slow one, but inevitable.”

“And that’s why you – ?”

He won’t look you in the eye. “Find someone else. Find someone healthy, someone you can love.”

You don’t want anyone else. The wrongness of the thought alone makes you shake your head in abject denial. You will never feel this way for anyone else, and you open your mouth to tell him so, but then he does look at you. There is so much torment in his expression that the air slips right out of your lungs and you are no longer able to speak.

He does.

“Please don’t tell the others. They’d mean well, but you know how they are. I’m not ready to be experimented on just yet.”

He’s offering you an olive branch; a way you can salvage your friendship in the face of this failed proposal. You don’t want an olive branch. You want to press him. Every instinct in your body warns you that he hasn’t told you the whole truth, and there might not be another chance to learn whatever else he’s hiding.

In the end, you are too afraid to lose him completely. He means too much to you.

“I won’t betray your trust,” you say. He seems to flinch at that, which you think is a strange reaction, but he doesn’t say another word. He leaves you in the swirling mist, and you watch him disappear in the direction of the tent with what feels like a permanent ache in your chest.

For all that you had been nervous, you’d also been weirdly certain that he would agree to marry you. That belief feels so foolish now, your confidence laughingly naïve, and you can’t bring yourself to follow him back to camp yet.

Facing him in the morning is going to be hideously embarrassing, but you don’t have a choice. At least it will be a while before dawn.

Luckily for you, most of the morning is occupied by the hustle and bustle of packing up and moving out of the Muddled Marsh. You throw yourself into the work and hope no one notices your baggy eyes and somber mood. You do catch Gaul and Kora exchanging concerned looks, but they don’t ask.

“Captain…” Thea is rolling maps and securing them in their weather-proof cases, but her eyes track Simon as he works on packing their back-up weapons into a crate on the complete opposite side of the campsite. “Is something wrong with Simon?”

Your hand jerks and you nearly fumble the stack of research materials you’d been gathering. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, he’s got a face like a stabbed Seregios is all.”

“C’mon now, Thea.” Ogden ruffles her hair. “Help me get Chirpy loaded up, will ya? He likes those treats you make.”

“Oh, sure!” Thea is up and bouncing away, oblivious to your nerves. You shoot Ogden a grateful look, but he waves it away and follows the rookie. You’ll have to explain the new awkwardness between you and Simon at some point, but you’re glad they’re not pushing you for answers yet.

The entire camp is ready to move by mid-morning, and with Corbin and PK in the lead once more, you make good time as you traverse the last of the Marsh and enter the region of Tarkuan. Despite all the pain and confusion of the night before, you can’t help but look to Simon as the Rangers first catch sight of the crystalized Lao-Shan Lung. This is exactly the sort of moment you’d previously have been eager to share with him, and your awe and excitement momentarily make you forget the new distance between you.

For just a second – half a heartbeat, if that – your eyes meet and you see that he feels the same wonder as you do. But his smile fades quickly and he turns away to talk to Gaul instead, leaving your heart with a few fresh cracks to heal.

You miss him already.

Ogden and Thea are still grumping about not being able to climb to the top of Lao-Shan Lung at breakfast the next morning. You’re laughing at the nearly identical pouts on their faces and Kora is just starting to scold Ogden about not acting his age when Corbin drops into the chair opposite of yours and calls for everyone’s attention.

“I know we need to be cautious,” he says, “but a lot of people swing through Galyad on account of the egg quartz trade. The longer you’re camped out this close to the city, the higher the chances are someone gets curious and starts asking questions. That’s why I think a couple of you should come with me to Galyad today.”

You set your glass down and push away a fresh wave of unease. Rudy hasn’t had a lot of time to lead the Guardsmen out of the city, but there’s sense in what Corbin says.

Simon is the first to volunteer. You’re not at all surprised.

“I’ll go too,” Gaul says, and Eleanor studies them for a moment before turning to Corbin as well.

“I will also accompany you. No one seems to be searching for me, and this way I can explain Vermeil’s situation in person.”

“Sounds great.” Corbin thumps the table and then adds, “If you all have any gear that just so happens to cover most of your faces, well…might not be a bad idea.”

“No problem!” Thea says, bouncing in her seat. “I’ll find them something!” She leaves the table in a rush and you hear her digging through the reserve armor a second later.

You force yourself to meet Simon’s gaze. You’ve been able to avoid each other for the most part, even in a camp this small, but it’s impossible not to be achingly aware of him any time you’re in the same space today. It’s also impossible not to think that he has volunteered to go with Corbin just to get away from you. He’s been jumpy and troubled since your talk, and uncharacteristically silent even with the other Rangers. Whatever he’s thinking, it isn’t good and despite your internal promise to be calm and impassive, your lips turn down as you look at each other.

“Be – be careful,” is all you can think to say, and then you excuse yourself from the table and get to work on cleaning the dishes.

The group leaves within the hour, and thus begins a very long day of trying to stay occupied while you attempt not to fret about your friends getting recognized or captured, or of the Scriveners refusing to help.

Chores fill a portion of the time, and you and Ogden chance a short trek across Rococo Rocks to search out a couple of dens, but it still seems to take eons for the hours to pass. A good monster fight might help to chase away some of your stress, but you’d never provoke them on purpose for such selfish reasons. Besides, you’re trying not to call attention to your presence here.

At last the sun begins its descent toward the horizon, and you and Ogden head back to camp. It takes an effort not to rush, but you don’t want Ogden to know how anxious you are, so you deliberately match his pace and chat with him like nothing else is on your mind.

The evening meal is paltry compared to what Eleanor might have prepared, but at least cooking and cleaning eats up a little more of the evening. Kora shows you the new ammunition she’s crafting, Thea tells you stories about the poogies’ antics on her parents’ farm and Ogden falls asleep in his chair, and still the others don’t return.

Eventually you can’t stand it anymore and your anxiety drives you out of the tent, where you sit in the dirt and gaze up at the stars.

Corbin leads your friends out of the shadows of the cliffside 30 minutes later. All five of them, even PK, look troubled, and your heartrate picks up as you scramble to your feet to meet them.

“One of Fiero’s underlings was in the city,” Eleanor says without preamble. “I don’t know why, but I don’t like it.”

Gaul’s jaw is tight. “We’re running out of space to maneuver.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “The Scriveners are sending over a guild member in the morning, but both Azuria and Vermeil made it here before us. If we don’t keep moving, I’m sure they’ll corner us soon.”

You nod and risk a glance at Simon. He is looking out into the wilds, stone-faced and silent, so you direct your attention to Corbin instead. “Corbin, you told Ogden there was a way around the city. Could you lead us there?”

He nods. “Hope you’re prepared. The monsters there are no joke. Even experienced hunters don’t always come back.”

“Understood. We’ll be ready. Thank you, Corbin.”

He nods and heads back to Galyad with a parting wave. You turn to the others, trying not to look directly at Simon again.

“Let’s get some sleep,” you say to them. “We need to be ready to go as soon as we’ve spoken with the Scrivener.”

No one protests, though you’ve only just finished unpacking this morning. With one last look at the clear night sky, you duck back into the tent and hope you’ll be able to sleep tonight.

The camp has only been broken down for a few minutes when Corbin and PK return in the late morning, along with a woman dressed in what you assume is a Scrivener’s uniform. She’s about your height, and her eyes instantly remind you of…but no. There isn’t even a hint of recognition in her expression, not even when you give her your true name. It must be your memory playing tricks on you.

Beside you, Simon is stiff, and he looks nearly as shocked as you had been when he catches sight of her. That’s strange, you think. He’d never met your mother, but perhaps this woman reminds him of someone from his past too.

Still, it’s odd for him to be so restless, and you have to force yourself not to get distracted as you do your best to explain why you’ve come seeking the Scrivener’s aid.

“I can’t tell you for sure what the source of the encroachment is, but our working theory is that it is being caused by an elder dragon named Aenshin,” she tells you. “Let me explain.”

There isn’t much information about Aenshin, or its exact connection to crystallisis, but you listen closely as she describes its semi-divine role as a Sentinel before the Rift War. When she comes to more recent times, however, she shakes her head.

“No one knows what may have changed ten years ago. We have secured the area in and around the Sacrosanctum, but whatever has caused Aenshin to disrupt this delicate balance is not apparent. We will keep searching, of course, but I have no more answers for you now.”

Ogden is just opening his mouth to ask more questions when Murray shouts out a warning from above you, high up the nearest crystal pillar.

“A signal from the others!” he shouts. “Vermeilian riders near the oasis!”

Manny appears as well, coming from the opposite side of Tarkuan. He is panting from his sprint back to camp. “The Azurian Guard is returning from the direction of the Muddled Marsh. Rudy has escaped them, but they know you’re here, Your Highness.”

Eleanor’s mouth drops open. “Both? Both nations are here?”

You spin to Corbin. “We need to make a run for it.”

“Got just the thing. Head for Lao-Shan Lung.”

Your monsties are already on the move, scooping up each Ranger before pushing hard for the crystalized dragon. You catch sight of Ogden snatching Corbin and PK up onto Chirpy’s back, and Thea grabs the Scrivener while you urge Ratha higher to cover everyone’s escape. It will be tough to make it to Lao-Shan Lung before the Guard, but you have to trust that Corbin has a plan.

Just a moment later, you see it: an egg hunter’s sandship, its sails already unfurling to catch the wind. It kicks into motion as your monsties reach it, and all of you scramble to land on deck as it races to its top speed, hissing across the sand as if it was cutting through still water.

The speed is breathtaking. The ship carves through the dunes in a blur, and Gravy and Legia warn off any too-curious monsters with burst of fire and ice. The Azurian guard has no hope of catching you now until you disembark – but even as you think that, you spot the other danger: a line of battle-bound monsters between you and Galyad, already mobilizing for attack.

“Hang on!” Skipper shouts, spinning the wheel hard to port and pushing hard to flank them on the left and escape into the sand sea. The boom nearly knocks Thea and Eleanor clear off the ship, and you lose sight of the Vermeilian troops as the turn kicks up a huge wave of sand.

There’s a lurch and a drop as you leave firm ground behind, a hideous scraping sound as the hull smashes into and drags one of the Vermeilian monsters with it for a few yards, and then you are flying across the rolling dunes of the sand sea. Another adjustment of the wheel sends you soaring away from Galyad toward the east, and the Vermeilians can’t hope to follow; the sand is too loose, they’d drown in it if they tried.

You’ve shaken them off for now, but it won’t be long until they seize a ship of their own. The pursuit is not over. And if the Azurian Guard has flying monsties with them, they might catch up even faster.

But a head start is a head start, and as the sand sea opens up before you, you try to set your worries aside. You’re safe for the moment, and hopefully you’ll be able to stay a step ahead from here on out.

“Where are we going?” you call to Corbin from across the deck.

“Death’s Maw!” is the somewhat ominous answer you receive in return.

Then, because you can’t help yourself, you glance around for Simon. He is standing at the bow, gripping the railing as he stares at the shifting sands, and as you study his grim expression, you finally begin to realize just how little you know about him.

Corbin and Skipper drop you off in an abandoned village set among jagged hills at the edge of Death’s Maw. One brief look around is enough to prove that the term ‘village’ is overly generous; there is nothing here but a few crystal-blasted trees.

“I’ve got to get the Scrivener back to Galyad,” Corbin says as you disembark. “You’ll have to head out on your own from here. Keep heading east.”

“We'll be okay, thank you! Be safe on your way back,” you tell him, and the ship creaks as it turns back toward the open sands.

The others are fanning out, examining the area. Ogden finds a few stones that might have once been a building, and Gaul gently unearths a broken pot, but no other signs of life remain. Eleanor is shivering with dismay at the sight of such total devastation, and you realize she must be thinking of home. You touch her shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I should have tried harder to picture Vermeil’s suffering,” you say quietly.

“Please – let’s just go,” she replies, and you nod and turn to gather the others.

Simon is nowhere to be seen.

“You should go to him,” Kora tells you. “He didn’t look too good when he got off the ship.”

It’s probably a bad idea, but you’ll never be able to leave Simon in pain, no matter how bad things are between you. You find yourself moving almost before you can agree, unable to control the worry that swells up in you as you search.

You skirt around a few crystalized trees and find him standing in front of the ruins of a mill. You can only tell it existed at all because of the weathered millstone on the ground. There are birds nested in the huge crack down the middle.

“Are you alright?” you ask him.

He jumps at the sound of your voice but doesn’t turn. A flash of blue catches your eye; he’s holding a small Velocidrome doll. It is stiff with age and dotted with crystals. When it’s clear he has no intention of answering, you sigh and let your shoulders sag.

“We should go. The others are trying to decide the best path out of here.”

Simon turns his head slightly, and you follow his gaze to an old road leading toward a deep gorge just outside the abandoned village.

“This way,” is all he says, and the sense of surrealness you first felt on the ship comes back to you even stronger.

“How do you know?” you manage.

He just drops the doll and begins to walk, leaving you no choice but to call out to the others and follow.

The road seems to end abruptly, but as you continue along you see it actually winds down a cliff face at the top of the huge escarpment in front of you. You squint down into it, wondering how to continue, but Simon steps past you and whistles for Fawn. You and the rest of the Rangers exchange troubled looks. Something is very wrong here, but you only have the vaguest guesses as to what.

A moment later, you and Ratha are in the air, gliding after him.

“Have you been here before?” you call up to him.

He doesn’t look back, but you see a muscle in his cheek twitch.

“How could you have been here before?”

“I – ” His voice is so tortured that you grip your saddle harder, confused and desperate in the face of his obvious pain.

“This is where Amara found me,” he says at last, and you go cold all over.

“Simon?”

The narrow cliff faces pinch closer, and you’re forced to drop back. Simon flies on like a man possessed, not looking anywhere but ahead. Meanwhile, it is everything you can do just to stay in your saddle. The others keep calling out, keep asking where you’re going and if you’re alright, but you can’t seem to find your voice. You can hardly seem to think.

Amara had found him here, beyond the Meridian?

Under what circumstances?

And had your mother sent him to you?

If so, why hadn’t she returned with him? And why hasn’t he told you any of this before now?

What else does he know that you don’t?

“Simon!” you cry, but before you can ask him any more questions, there is a familiar roar from above you and a shadow falls across you where there should be none.

You look up just as a Rathalos plummets out of the clear blue sky. A battle-bound Rathalos. And on his back…Fiero.

Fawn plunges between you and the other Rathalos, knocking it just off-course enough to save you and Ratha from its claws.

“Simon!” you yell, but he throws up a hand to silence you.

“No!” he shouts at Fiero as he circles back around. “Not her! She’s off-limits!”

The Vermeilian sneers. “How predictable. Tell me, do you truly intend to die for your precious princess? Or is this all still a ruse to keep her from guessing?”

No. Nonono. You can’t believe it. You won’t believe it. But Fiero smiles down at you, so cold and smug that you shiver.

“Oh yes, princess. It’s true. Your loyal Simon is a Vermeilian spy…and has been from the first.”

You turn to look at Simon, and though you hate yourself for showing weakness in this moment, tears well up in your eyes all the same.

“It’s not true,” you say through numb lips.

His eyes are full of anguish. “Princess – ”

Fiero rolls his eyes. “These dramatics are touching but unnecessary. I have no intention of harming the princess, so there is no need for you to throw your life away trying to save her. After all, she must be presentable for our wedding.”

“NO!” Eleanor shouts from somewhere behind you, but you’re still looking at Simon. You can’t look anywhere but Simon, not even if your life depends on it.

“There will be no wedding,” he says, tearing his gaze from yours to glare up at Fiero.

“Oh? She can hardly be of any use to Vermeil without one, and if she is of no use…” Fiero shrugs, and the Rathalos begins gathering flames in its open mouth, flames so hot they’re tinged with blue. The monster is aiming right for you, and you’re still too frozen with the shock of Simon’s betrayal to even attempt to dodge –

– but Fawn dives between you and the fire, and Simon rises to stand in his saddle and spreads his arms, shielding you further from harm.

“The princess is already married. To me,” Simon says, and silence falls over the gorge.

You nod and turn to the pier with Simon at your heels. It creaks unpleasantly under your feet, but you make it to the skiff without plunging through the rotting planks, and Corbin reaches out to help you board the boat.

“Good to see you again,” he says, and for once he doesn’t sound like he’s joking. “Let’s get going. Just, uh – make sure to hold on. This thing is liable to get tossed about on those bigger duneswells, and sand’s a lot less forgiving than water.”

Simon follows you into the skiff, and with a lurch you’re underway once more. In the silence of the night, you can hear the hiss of the sand as you skim over it. Corbin’s right about the ride; in such a small boat, skating over the swells feels like sliding down the side of a cliff, but with the night breeze behind your sail, you make good progress.

The dunes go on for miles, and it is a long time before you spot a small refuge. You’ve sailed almost due north, with nothing to see beyond occasional glimpses of the mountains to the east. Now at last you catch sight of a rocky island, jutting up out of the sandsea all by itself. It is featureless and unremarkable apart from a wide littoral cave, and Corbin aims the skiff directly toward its opening. You and Simon both look up as you pass into the sheltering rock, but the cave is as unremarkable as the rest of the island…apart from another small pier hidden beyond a jut of stone.

“Lots of smugglers drop by, for obvious reasons.” Corbin catches sight of the look on Simon’s face and grins. “Don’t worry. Galyad sends some guardsmen through every so often to clean the riffraff out. We’ve got the place to ourselves.”

Then you hear a familiar rumble from deeper in the cave, and Corbin’s grin widens. “Well, we’ve almost got the place to ourselves.”

You hardly wait for him to tie the boat to the pilings before you’re rushing forward, eager to reunite with Ratha. Simon follows more slowly, clearly apprehensive of his reception, but Ratha lumbers forward to greet you both, nearly knocking you over as he tries to nuzzle you with a little too much enthusiasm. While he doesn’t show the same affection to your companion, he at least doesn’t seem too perturbed that Simon is with you. It’s a far cry from the relationship they used to have, but you’re glad that for now at least Ratha is willing to accept him for your sake.

You turn back to Corbin, who is still sitting in the boat with a fond look on his face as he watches you with your monstie. He gives you a lazy salute.

“I figure you’ve got it from here,” he says, “but I’ll see what I can do about mustering some reinforcements anyway.”

“Thank you, Corbin. I don’t know what we would have done without you,” you tell him. He flaps his hands at you and shakes his head.

“No need for any of that. Just be safe out there,” he replies, and a few moments later the skiff is unmoored and on its way.

“There’s still a few hours of darkness left,” you say to Simon. “Let’s get moving.”

You stride past him toward Ratha, but Simon catches your arm.

“Hold on…Fiero still has the other Skyscale.”

You look up into his troubled eyes and feel a pang of guilt. “I know,” you tell him, “but we’re short on time. If we go after your Rathalos, we might lose the egg.”

“It’s too dangerous to leave him in Fiero’s hands. We’d stand no chance against him, even with Ratha on our side.”

“And we stand no chance of getting him back without the rest of the Rangers.” You rest your free hand over his where he still grips your arm. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to abandon your monstie, Simon. But we don’t have the time or resources to rescue him.”

“Fiero isn’t the only danger. Aenshin will destroy us without both Skyscales,” he warns you.

“One problem at a time. We’ve got to beat Vermeil to the egg, then we can get your Rathalos back.”

He isn’t happy about it, but he must see the sense in your logic because he drops the argument. You clamor up into Ratha’s saddle and he follows behind you a second later, his body warm and solid at your back. Maybe you shouldn’t find it comforting after everything that’s happened, but your tension still eases knowing he’s with you.

The flight is long, and the night grows colder as you strike out over the Silver Sea. Soon you’re shivering under your cloak, and your fingers are going stiff around Ratha’s saddle. If Simon is as cold as you are, he doesn’t say anything about it. In fact, he’s been quiet for most of the flight, but you can’t blame him. You don’t know what to say either.

That’s why it's so shocking when he leans forward and curves his arms around you, placing his warm palms over your hands on the saddle and letting his body heat sink into you.

“Simon?” Your voice is thready and breathless, which makes you blush.

He turns his face so you can’t catch sight of him over your shoulder, but you think he might be blushing too. “We’ve come this far. It would be a shame if you got hypothermia now.”

Maybe it’s wrong. Maybe you’re once again falling prey to your naive and trusting nature. You find yourself relaxing into his embrace anyway.

Another ten minutes go by before you speak again, but finally you can’t bring yourself to stay silent anymore.

“Did you mean it…when you said you can’t lose me?”

He goes very still behind you. Then he exhales and you shiver again as his warm breath stirs the hood near your ear.

“I meant it,” he says.

“When this is over…what happens then?”

“I suppose I’ll go home and see what I can do to help my village, cure or no cure.” He pauses and adds, his voice equal parts wry and melancholy: “I doubt I’d get a warm welcome in Azuria, and after all the lies, I’m not too interested in returning to Vermeil either.”

“Why didn’t you leave when you realized they were lying in the first place?”

“I wanted to, but they offered me something I couldn’t refuse.”

Your head tilts, silently enquiring, and his hold on you tightens so briefly that you’re nearly sure you’re imagining it.

“They told me no harm would come to you as long as I continued to cooperate.”

Your stomach swoops hard. “How long ago was that?”

You feel his uneasy shift. Again, you get the distinct impression that he feels uncomfortably vulnerable as he reveals these things to you, and you can picture his averted gaze and red-hot cheeks.

“Not long after I turned fourteen.” A beat of silence follows, and then: “You’d been my best friend for years by then, and when it finally occurred to me that the battle-bound monsters might be used against Azuria as well as Aenshin, I had to do what I could to protect you.”

“Simon…” You’re filled with the strangest, most incongruent mix of gratitude and regret. “If you had just come to me, we could have figured something out.”

He doesn’t answer, but you know what he’d say if he did: he had been torn between you and his Rathalos, torn between his ongoing need to destroy Aenshin and his increasing fear for your life.

The sea goes on and on as the sun begins to rise behind a shroud of huge iron-colored clouds. In the shelter of Simon’s arms, you feel almost warm enough to sleep, but you force yourself not to close your eyes. Forty-five minutes later, you’re glad you didn’t give in; ahead of you, you can just make out the dark shape of landfall.

“The Sacrosanctum,” Simon says, and you stare at it, hardly able to believe you’ve made it here at last. “Be ready, Princess. There’s a long way to go, and the monsters are as tough as they come.”

You nod, pushing down a sudden swell of unease. Yes, the path ahead will be difficult, but you have no choice. You must beat Clarissa to the egg.

Exhaustion is setting in, much as you try to hide it. It has been two days of near constant vigilance. There are Vermeilian patrols and scouts to avoid, but also an abundance of dangerous monsters. You and Simon hide when you can, fight when you must, and find what warmth there is to be had by huddling close to one another in small alcoves or caves well off the beaten track.

You’re pressed into one such hiding place now, tucked tight between Ratha and Simon. You can feel them both breathing, and the steady rhythm is soothing you to sleep despite your best intentions. Simon’s arm tightens around your shoulders when he notices, and when you glance at him, he murmurs something about resting while you can.

You’re tempted to take him up on that, until you hear a thrumming cry from high above and spot a luminescence moving among the clouds.

“Aenshin,” Simon mutters. You stare at the huge shape in the sky and shudder. From way down here, it seems impossible to fight, much less prevail over, and you haven’t even seen it properly yet. But you can’t worry about that right now. You have to stay focused.

“We should note which direction it’s heading in. It might be returning to its den,” you say, and Simon nods, his eyes still locked onto the sky.

“I wonder where the others are,” you murmur, thinking again how much you miss their support and encouragement.

That gets his attention. He looks at you, his expression softening as he sees the mix of exhaustion and longing on your face. “Don’t worry, Princess. I’m sure they’re on their way here to you.”

You try to smile. “Who do you think is being more annoying about it, Thea or Gaul?”

“Gaul,” Simon says without hesitation. There’s a hint of his old grin tugging at his lips. “It’s definitely Gaul.”

It feels so good to joke with him again that you nearly laugh, but then his eyes flick down to your lips and another feeling entirely flashes through you.

He turns his face away almost before you can process what you’d just seen, but while he is now carefully avoiding your eyes, he keeps his tone light and playful. “We better be ready for a grumpy Ogden. He probably hasn’t had a nap in days.”

“And if he’s grumpy, Kora will be worse since she’ll be the one he complains to,” you add, and he does grin now.

“You know–”

But just as he starts to speak, you hear the unmistakable sounds of riders battling. The smile falls off Simon’s face in an instant, and without a word you both start moving toward the noise. It’s slow going: you have to stay close to the canyon walls, and as you get closer you end up crawling as low to the ground as you can. Finally, as you peer down into an abandoned courtyard at the heart of the old kingdom, you spot the trouble. Battle-bound monsters are fighting a massive Arkveld.

The battle is brutal. The Arkveld is whipping its chain-like wings out at the monsters attacking it, but the Vermeilians outnumber it. They take turns darting in and attacking, over and over, until it’s clear that the Arkveld is badly injured and barely able to fight back.

You can’t bear to watch the end. You slip back to your hiding place and press your face into Ratha’s warm scales. The battle bound monsters are so much stronger than the regular ones. If you were outnumbered like that Arkveld, you and Simon would almost certainly be badly hurt or killed. And if you were to run into Fiero on the other Skyscale…

Simon’s hand finds yours. You lace your fingers through his and hold on tight.

Your new little hideout is dangerously close to an invasive Khezu. Normally you’d be interested in chasing it back to its den, but for now the Vermeilians are giving it a wide berth so you need it for cover. You’re treading a thin line – you must stay close enough for it to avoid notice from the enemy army while staying far enough away to avoid notice from the Khezu itself. Luckily, this isn’t a balancing act you have to maintain for long: a day later, you spot familiar figures gliding over the Glacial Caps on their way to the stronghold.

You and Simon don’t need to say a word; you both climb into Ratha’s saddle and soon you’re flying off to intercept them.

Thea’s glad cries fill the air as they see you and Ratha, and Eleanor looks so happy you suspect she might cry. Kora and Ogden are shouting something at you (impossible to make out with all of Thea’s excitement), and even Gaul seems relieved. But your joy only lasts as long as it takes for the entire group to land; the instant Gaul is on solid ground, he launches himself at Simon. You’re so stunned that it takes you a second to recognize the glint of metal in his hand…but yes, it is a knife, and it is at Simon’s throat.

“Gaul!”

He ignores your cry. The knife doesn’t budge.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t,” he snarls at Simon. The blade digs in now, just a little, but you can see blood welling along its edge. You want to wrestle it away, but one wrong move could prove disastrous for Simon, so you force yourself to stay still.

“Gaul, please – he’s helping me. I swear it,” you say, but your words are rejected immediately.

“He’s saving his own skin. We can’t let him trick us again.”

You’re glancing around the group. They are all silent, and for once you’re not sure if any of them are on your side. How could they be? Simon has betrayed all of them, too.

“Gail, we need him. I promise, he really is helping me. Ena let us go so we could search for Aenshin’s egg. We’ve got to get to it before Vermeil–”

“Yeah, well - his search stops here. We’ll help you. He can go back to his little friends or freeze to death right here for all I care.”

The disgust in Gaul’s voice isn’t surprising exactly, but it does leave you scrambling to explain why Simon should be freed. You’re still wracking your brain when Simon spares you the effort by speaking up himself.

“I made a vow.” He holds Gaul’s gaze, stoic and unafraid. “My life is hers, and as long as I live, I will never leave her side.”

“I can help you keep that vow,” Gaul snarls, and his knife twitches again. A muscle jumps in Simon’s jaw, but he refuses to flinch.

“Gaul, I’m ordering you to let him go.” Your voice comes at last, and it rings with command. “As your captain…and as your princess.”

It makes you uncomfortable, throwing around your royal privilege in this way, but these are the only words you have left that might make Gaul stand down. You need Simon, but it’s more than that; you still care about him. The idea of him being hurt, or of either of these men hurting one another, is more than you can bear.

“Let him go. Let us explain,” you add, softening your tone just a little. Gaul looks at you at last, a narrow look over his shoulder, but even as he does, the knife disappears and Simon is staggering back, released from the other’s iron grip.

“Explain fast,” Gaul snaps, and you gesture for the others to gather round as you explain what has happened since your capture in the gorge.

Simon spares no details. He tells them everything he told you, without bothering to minimize or disguise the depth of his devotion to you. And to your surprise, none of the others question it. They all accept, without even batting an eye, the fact that you have long been the person dearest to him. You can’t help the blush that heats your cheeks as he dedicates himself to you again for their benefit, and Kora gives your arm a quick squeeze.

Ogden sighs when Simon’s words finally run out. “Fine mess you got yourself into. I’m not saying I forgive you – you gotta earn that. But I’m willing to give you a chance to prove those fancy words of yours are true.”

Thea agrees quickly, and Kora murmurs her acceptance as well, but Eleanor only nods. Her doubts are still written clearly on her face, even though she doesn’t speak them aloud. Gaul’s expression, however, remains a hard mask. He points his knife at Simon.

“You’d die for her?” he says to Simon. You think it’s a question, but it doesn’t really sound like one. Simon nods as if it is.

“Fine. I don’t have to like it, but I’ll do what the captain wants.” He turns away from you both and strides off, perhaps to keep a lookout or perhaps just to cool down. Either way, it seems best to give him space for now.

“Well, I’m sure we’ll…find a way to work this out,” Ogden says doubtfully. He turns his uncharacteristically solemn gaze to you. “I’ve got a bit of news for you, Princess…but it isn’t exactly good news.”

Your heart sinks, but it isn’t as though you’d been expecting something different.

“That’s okay,” you tell him, “I’m ready.”

But you’re not, not really.

“There’s been an attack,” he says. “At the peace talks. Your father has been hurt.”

The ground seems to swell and drop under your feet like a wave. You glance at Eleanor – involuntarily, unfairly, though you can’t help it – until Kora sets you right.

“It was Aenshin,” she says. “It seemed to want the battle-bound monsters, but we were all caught in the crossfire.”

“How bad is it? Is he…” Dying, you mean to say, but the word refuses to leave your mouth.

“He was covering our escape when Aenshin unleashed its power. He has...been infected with crystallization, Princess.” Her eyes are so sad, and she lays a hand on your trembling arm. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” you say, feeling strangely numb. “Thank you for telling me.”

“The peace talks themselves didn’t go so well.” Eleanor sounds just as apologetic as Kora. “We weren’t expecting them to, but my sister…”

“Has war officially broken out?” Simon asks. There is a streak of crimson at his throat from where he’d swiped the blood away, and you force yourself to look away.

“Aenshin attacked both sides before battle could truly break out, but…” Eleanor’s expression is pained. “I think we’re out of time.”

“Then let’s get moving,” Kora says. “We can go faster now that we’re together.”

You nod and draw out your map to show them where you and Simon have already searched. Eleanor makes a quick meal from the rations the Rangers have carried north with them, and then the group mounts up and heads toward the heart of the Sacrosanctum.

Behind you, Simon is quiet. You get the sense that he’s scouring his memories of this place, hoping for anything that might point you in the right direction. Perhaps he’s also struggling with the new coldness between himself and the rest of the team, and you shoot a look at him over your shoulder. You can feel your furrowed brows and wish you could wipe the concern off your face, but it’s impossible.

He smiles softly at you. “Don’t worry about me,” he says. “I’d be more upset if our friends hadn’t been so protective.”

You nod and turn back toward the shattered stronghold. You’re not sure what awaits you beyond, but at least you and the Rangers will face it together.

Kora and Thea find the winding cave, a passageway through the rocky hillside which leads away from the crystallized stronghold to the southwest. It’s deep and bends away from the entrance, leaving them no choice but to enter it and explore if they want to discover what’s inside. Something tugs you forward as you stare at it. It feels almost instinctive, as though you can feel yourself drawing closer to Aenshin with every step. Even without that feeling, you can see the gleam of crystal further in, a sure sign that the elder dragon had passed through this area before.

Simon’s eyes meet yours. There’s a flicker of something in his gaze, a memory that’s still too hazy to rely on, but you can tell he’s feeling the same tug you are – the one pulling you toward the cave. With a fortifying breath, you take the lead and enter the rocky passageway without any further hesitation.

It’s hard to tell if you’re alone in here. The light is reflecting off of the faceted egg quartz, making the shadows shift and dance. Deep within their crystal prisons, the silhouettes of monsters seem almost to be breathing, and the trickle of icy water down the rock walls makes the hair on your arms stand on end.

“It’s battle-bound,” Gaul says as he examines one of the frozen monsters. Beside him, Eleanor’s lips tighten.

“They all are,” she agrees. “These must be the original ones. The ones made into weapons by our ancestors.”

You turn toward one of the encased creatures, peering through the egg quartz to note the differences between the older armor and the new, but Ogden’s voice shatters your concentration a moment later.

“Uh…Captain,” he says, his usually jovial tone transformed by unease, “I think you should come and take a look at this.”

You turn and move deeper into the cave, skirting past a huge formation of egg quartz and rock which had obscured the path ahead from your gaze. Ogden comes into view first, but as you finish rounding the obstacle, you see what had caught his attention. There is a huge carcass on the floor of the cave...a carcass that isn’t encased in crystal.

Beside you, Simon makes a soft, worried noise.

Thea pushes between you both and makes her way to Ogden’s side to get a closer look, and Gaul immediately starts scanning the area for any clues – or threats – you may have missed. You move forward with Kora and Eleanor, trying to make out more details on the body in the dim light.

The fallen monster is unmistakably an Azure Rathalos. It had been battle-bound, and it had sold its life dearly; all around it, the walls and floor of the cave are splattered with blood. Cold soot marks the places where its fireballs had missed their target, and deep gouges have been carved out of the rock by its wicked claws.

“It’s one of the old ones,” Kora says to you. “Look at the armor.”

“The old ones? But—”

“She’s right, look.” Eleanor has moved away, toward an outcropping of egg quartz. She points, and you look beyond her arm to a jagged hole in the crystal. All round it are the glittering debris of some forces exploding out of it…some monster exploding out of it.

“They’re still alive in there,” Ogden breathes, looking around him at all the other monsters in their crystal cages.

“Yes,” Eleanor says. “And they can break out on their own.”

Suddenly the cave, already eerie, becomes bone-chilling. You are surrounded by the remnants of an entire army, dormant and waiting for any reason to break free and attack. And they have all had their natural abilities enhanced by battle-binding.

Nor is that the only reason to feel unsettled, because something had passed through this cave recently. Something strong enough to attack and defeat that Azure Rathalos. You’re beginning to get the feeling you know what – or who – it was.

Simon has drawn close to you again, his arm brushing yours as he stares hard at the fallen monster. His eyes have that look again, so intense that they seem to blaze even in the dim light of the cave. You can feel his tension, see his need to protect you rising in his countenance, and you feel your own courage stir. You must press on, and you won’t let fear of the unknown stop you.

“Come on,” you say. “We’ve got to keep searching.”

Emerging from the cave is disorienting. The sun had been setting when you’d entered it. It is fully down now, and the stars are obscured by thick clouds, so it hardly feels like you’ve left the cave at all. The air feels heavy here too, pressing down on you even as a night breeze tugs at your clothes.

Before you, the egg quartz glitters under the shrouded sky, and within is a huge egg, clearly visible in its crystallized cradle. Your heart is thudding like a drum in your chest as you study it, and dimly you’re aware of the rest of the Rangers murmuring in relief and amazement behind you. You can’t make a sound, and Simon draws closer to you, just as silent as you are. You’re trembling ever-so-slightly, but he must know; the back of his hand brushes yours in silent understanding, and you feel a sudden, intense urge to lace your fingers in his.

You close your eyes and remember how had felt to stand at the border of your known world. The bank of clouds had been as endless as the horizon, and the knowledge that if you took this next step, you were going to become a fugitive back home had made your feet feel like lead. Had every single one of your friends, even Eleanor, not shown themselves to be absolutely fearless, you might have turned back – but then Simon’s hand had clasped your shoulder.

“You just keep on making me believe in fate…” His smile had chased away the last fears you’d harbored. “We’re with you. Lead the way, Princess.”

That had been days ago, but the moment played out in your dreams sometimes, along with that first heady flight beyond your father’s reach.

Since then, the revelations have been nonstop. Through it all, your friends have been working nearly to the point of collapse, but there’s so much to document and explore that you can hardly blame them. In fact, you’re often up until the early hours of the morning with them, recording each new discovery by torchlight while Eleanor whips up fortifying snacks. Gaul keeps saying he’s going to live off of his rations if she doesn’t stop making food with bug meat, but in the end he always winds up eating anyway. Meanwhile, Thea darts through the camp as though she’s part wirebug, eagerly absorbing everything Ogden has to say about ecology and its effect on the local monsters. Kora watches over them all with a sort of fond indulgence, but before long she’s usually out sifting through piles of ore samples, exasperated by all the noise.

As for Simon – well, he seems to be everywhere you are.

It’s especially noticeable at camp, when you all share a single tent, so you really can’t help but bump into each other. You’re bumping into everyone; it isn’t as though he’s special. But even you’re aware of the fact that you look at him more often than you ever have before. It’s as though the brief forehead kiss had awakened something in you, and you can’t help but be extremely cognizant of every moment that might be perceived as unduly intimate between you. You flush every time he reaches around you to point out an unexplored spot on the map, or when your fingers brush when you pass each other notebooks or tools. You catch yourself watching him write, stretch, climb and even nap, and though you jerk your eyes away every time you realize you’ve been staring too long, you’re sure the others haven’t failed to notice.

You’d always assumed you weren’t interested in marriage, and King Arken’s orders had initially seemed to harden your resolve to avoid it…right up until Simon had brushed a simple kiss to your head. You often touch the spot where his lips had been and think that if Simon could be the man…well, maybe a union like that wouldn’t be so bad after all. In many ways you know it would be easy, almost a natural extension of the deep care and affection that already exists between you. And while you probably shouldn’t indulge these little flights of fancy too frequently, he isn’t exactly making it easy on you.

It’s little stuff, like the way he smiles at you like you share a secret. Or how you keep catching glimpses of him relaxing with the others in nothing but weathered breeches, soft gloves and a moofah-wool shirt. He has this habit of running cool water from the cataracts down his neck after battling the local monsters, which you are sure is going to drive you mad one of these days. And if that doesn’t do it, it will be the way he goes about helping Eleanor prep meals with those deft little movements of his knife, all while chatting happily with Gaul and Ogden about the peculiarities of the region. Or...well, the list goes on and on.

Maybe it’s time to admit it, even if just to yourself: you are hopelessly, embarrassingly infatuated with him, and it only took almost getting trapped in an arranged marriage for you to realize it. You really must be too obsessed with your work, because how else could you have failed to notice?

You force yourself to shake it off. You know you won’t sleep if you don’t get your mind off of Simon, so you refocus on the details of the upcoming journey. A noise comes from not far off: it is Ratha rumbling gently in his sleep. The moon is slipping silently across the night sky, and the Drangonreach Mountains are visible beyond the rooftops as a sort of jagged black space amongst the stars. Much as you’re eager to move on, there is a beauty to this land that you will miss when you cross into the desert.

“Hey, Captain.” Gaul can be nearly as silent as his palicos when he puts his mind to it, and you start a little at the sound of his voice drifting through the night. A second later he’s dropping to the floorboards beside you with a gratified sigh. He’s probably been on his feet for a while. “Getting ready for tomorrow?”

You murmur an affirmative, and then gesture to the waterfalls behind the village. “I was just thinking that we’ve been taking all this water for granted. We’ll miss it if things in Tarkuan are as dry as Corbin says.”

He nods. “According to him, there’s an oasis…but our monsties won’t be the only ones looking for a drink.” He too considers the nearby waterfall. “You know, Murray hasn’t found even a hint that anyone from Azuria is looking for us. I mean, the crown princess goes missing overnight, and no one tries to find her?”

A frisson of discomfort runs through you. “You’re right, that is suspicious.”

“Corbin and PK seem to be on the level,” Gaul adds, “but I get the feeling that we might end up getting herded into a trap one of these days. I wanted to put your guard up.”

“I appreciate it,” you reply. He clasps your shoulder for a moment as he clamors back to his feet, but he pauses before he disappears toward your temporary accommodations.

“Hey – I just wanted to say…” It’s too dark for you to get a good read on his expression, but there’s an embarrassed note in Gaul’s voice which speaks volumes about his level of discomfort. “I just wanna say, Kora told me what your father tried to do. I’m glad we got out of there in time. You deserve your freedom, princess or no.”

You smile at him. “Thanks Gaul. That means a lot.”

“Sure,” he replies, and ducks through the doorway as quickly as he can.

You turn to watch the steady rise and fall of Ratha’s chest as he sleeps, hoping it will soothe you.

Freedom. It’s yours for now, but one day you’ll have to go back to Azuria, and it isn’t as though Arken is famous for changing his mind.

That’s a problem for another day, you tell yourself firmly, but you know it isn’t likely to slip your mind any time soon.

“Can’t say I’ve ever fought a mountain before,” Ogden says as he drops to the dirt in the aftermath of Yama Tsukami’s onslaught. You’ve all paused to take stock of your injuries and supplies, and Thea is still eyeing the neighboring cliffsides with distrust. Kora is wrapping Gaul’s wrist while he quietly instructs Murray to scout ahead, and Eleanor is frowning at the pit left behind by the elder dragon’s retreat.

You’re watching Kol descend the mountain pass toward Sheparden while Simon studies the sky in the direction Yama Tsukami had flown off in.

“I’d like to avoid fighting one again,” Kora says, glancing over at her father-in-law. “I prefer my mountains full of ore, not thunderbugs.”

“Agreed.” Eleanor turns to you with a furrowed brow. “If crystallisis is even capable of corrupting the elder dragons…”

“I know.” Your heart sinks. “We need to hurry.”

“Now you understand Clarissa’s desperation. Our people’s suffering is a heavy burden. She’ll avoid open hostilities for a short time, but I can’t promise for how long.”

You’ve had this conversation more than once since crossing the Meridian, but Eleanor looks so miserable that you wish you could think of something to say to alleviate some of her distress.

“We got no way of knowing what’s going on from up here. We just have to keep walking our path and let the king manage as best he can.” Ogden gets back to his feet and pats your arm as he passes you on his way to the far side of the clearing. “Come on, daylight’s wasting.”

“The old man’s right. Galyad’s still a long way off,” Gaul says, and Ogden gives him a half-hearted shove in retaliation for the “old man” comment. They fall in behind Corbin and PK side-by-side, still trading insults back-and-forth in their familiar way.

Thea finally shakes off her nerves and skips after them with Pookie tucked on her hip, but you hesitate before following.

“I’m…having some qualms,” you admit to Simon and Eleanor when the others are out of earshot. “It feels as though I’ve abandoned my duty to my people while they all remain in danger.”

Simon opens his mouth, frowns, and closes it again. Eleanor glances between you both and spins away with a restless swing of her arms.

“I understand what you mean, but if you hadn’t left…” She hesitates. “There’s a very high likelihood that your father was preparing to marry you off to a Vermeilian.”

The thought has crossed your mind once or twice as well, but Simon’s little jerk of realization tells you he had not considered it at all. Immediately, his finger begins a restless tapping against his leg.

“I can think of only one man of sufficient rank and influence to be offered as consort to a crown princess,” she continues, and a pit opens in your stomach as you realize who she must be talking about.

“Fiero,” you say, and Eleanor turns back to you with a nod.

“It may be a genuine attempt at an alliance, but Fiero would never stop pursuing Vermeil’s agenda. He and Clarissa must believe that you will agree to what your father would not. He’s always had ambition; I wouldn’t be surprised if he sought to rule both nations sooner rather than later. If anything were to happen to Clarissa, he’s got enough support to be elected king. And with you as a wife…”

“But what incentive is there for Father to agree to any of that?” you protest, while Simon adds, “The council would never approve,” at nearly the same time. But you glance at each other in mutual doubt; you’ve never been popular in Azuria, and no one has any faith in your leadership. Perhaps this is how the privy council intends to tuck you out of the way while they pursue other plans for the succession.

“It doesn’t matter who he might have in mind, or what concessions Vermiel might have offered to get the king to agree,” Simon says. His tapping ceases and he straightens his shoulders, then looks you square in the face. “And no matter what machinations those stuffed shirts on the privy council have planned, none of it solves the real problem. If they think to use you as a pawn, then removing you from the board throws a wrench in their schemes and that can only be a good thing. For Azuria and for you.”

“But it doesn’t safeguard our people from war,” you murmur.

He takes your arm, cradling it gently against his own. “Maybe not, but marrying you off wouldn’t guarantee peace either.” He squeezes you. “Let’s continue our work. If we stop the encroachment, we strip away any reason for fighting in the first place.”

“That assumes there is a way to stop the encroachment.” Eleanor’s expression is pensive, but Simon shakes his head, rejecting her doubts.

“There is. There must be. Have faith, Princess,” he says, and you force yourself to look into his amber eyes before you give a brief nod. This whole journey has been an exercise in having faith; you may as well see how far it can get you.

The swamp swallows you almost as soon as you enter. One second you’d been carefully picking a path through the dark waters and soggy marshland, and the next there had been a roar and a rush of muck. The current had been irresistible: even as your friends had struggled to reach each other and firm ground, you had slipped further and further away until the thick flow of mud had swallowed you whole. Now you wake alone, with their cries still ringing in your ears, and you are completely disoriented.

Rudy would be having a fit about the state of you. You’re just glad that you’re able to use all of your limbs. There had been a fair bit of debris in that mudslide, and you are battered and sore. You don’t even want to think about what sort of infection might set in if there is an open wound on you somewhere under the filth. You can’t do anything about it until you’ve found a safe place to shelter from all the wild monsters you can hear in the mist, so you push your concerns away and set about picking a careful path across the treacherous bogland.

As you slosh your way toward firmer ground, you give yourself a quick once-over and take stock of your gear. Most of it is intact, and you breathe out a long sigh of relief. You may not know where the others are, but at least you’re not completely defenseless. The Rangers will be combing the marsh for you, and with Ratha’s help the search shouldn’t take too long. He’s always known how to find you.

The thought quiets the worst of your worries…until a conspicuous bubbling tells you that they won’t find you soon enough. Already the mud is rising fast, lifting as quickly as a sea tide, and you fight for your footing even as your hand reaches for a weapon.

There is a horrible sucking sound before you can finish the movement, and an almudron lurches up from the bog.

It isn’t feral, thank goodness, but you have nothing but your weapons, a few bombs and knives and a couple of traps. Without Ratha or your other monsties, you are horribly outmatched.

But there’s no choice. You’ll have to hold it off as long as possible and hope that the sounds of battle will be enough to guide the others to you. At least with the almudron focused on you, it can’t attempt to sweep them away with another mudflow.

You engage it quickly, hoping that the monster won’t be expecting you to lash out first. It’s obvious after a few minutes that you won’t be able to keep up this pace for long. You’re still bogged down by mud, and every attack is taking far more effort than it should.

Trap it, you think, fumbling in your pouches for one – and then a fireball explodes against the almudron’s face, followed by blades of ice. Your head jerks up for the briefest look, but it’s enough for you to recognize Ratha and Fawn carving their way toward you through the mists – and enough to recognize Simon on Fawn’s back, charging to your rescue once again.

Ratha’s claws plunge into the segmented shell protecting the leviathan’s neck as Simon guides Fawn around to send another burst of ice at the monster’s flank. It costs him, however: a frantic sweep of the almudron’s tail raises up a huge wall of mud, and Simon is thrown from Fawn’s back as they both crash into the marsh.

Your insides turn to ice as he disappears into the muck for a moment. “Simon!”

Ratha detaches from the almudron with a vicious rake of his claws, but even his flames can’t drive the thing away from Simon’s prone body. His head appears, then his arms as he tries to drag himself through the mud toward Fawn, and the legiana shrieks as she tries to fling shards of ice into her opponent’s eyes.

It’s not enough. The leviathan raises its clawed forepaw and plunges it down into Simon’s back. You dart forward and attack the leg, but the monster is crushing him down deep into the mud. You see him twisting, desperate for air, and you drop your weapon to try to drag him away, knowing that you’ve left yourself completely vulnerable to attack but uncaring as you pull at your friend’s arm. Your grip keeps slipping, and there are tears on your face as you try again and again –

– a wave of static passes over your body, sending tingles across your skin –

– the scent of ozone fills your nostrils –

– there is a white light which blooms into something closer to purple –

“Your Highness!” Rudy screams, and he digs his lightning-wreathed paws into the almudron’s eyes while Thea directs Kagachi to let loose with another burst of electricity. A second later, Kora’s volley explodes into the monster’s side just where Legia had landed a direct hit, and it reels away from you and Simon both.

You seize the opportunity. While the almudron turns its wrath on your friends, you get your hands under Simon’s shoulders and haul him back toward dry land. The whole ordeal is over just a few heartbeats later; the monster is no match for the combined might of the Rangers.

You collapse as soon as Simon is safe, and a second later small paws touch your face as you attempt to catch your breath.

“Rudy.” Your voice cracks with emotion. “Rudy, you found us.”

The felyne is just as moved as you are. He clings to you and can’t manage to say anything but “Your highness!” over and over.

Once the excitement has died down and you and Simon have refreshed yourselves a bit, the Rangers gather around you and Rudy. Your palico’s expression is grave as he looks up at you.

“The king has ordered a small group of the Azurian guard across the Meridian to search for you and bring you home, against your will if they must.”

Gaul grunts. “Like we’d let that happen.”

“Yeah, no way we’d just hand over our captain!” Thea adds, hands on her hips. Her ferocity brings a smile to Ogden’s lips, but he wisely keeps silent.

“I believe some of them are ahead, waiting in the city of Galyad. So far the Scriveners have refused to help, citing their own duties, but I believe the guardsmen are authorized to offer a reward for your capture.”

Rudy’s eyes are apologetic as he looks up at you. “I fear the net is closing in around you.”

Your stomach twists. “Yes,” you agree softly, “it seems that way.”

“Any way around Galyad?” Ogden asks Corbin.

“Oh sure, but it isn’t easy going. And I thought you needed to speak with the Scriveners.”

“We’ll have to make do without them,” you say. “I don’t love the idea of continuing on to the Sacrosanctum blind, but I can’t risk being taken.”

“So let’s get those guys out of our way.” Gaul steps forward, urging you all to listen close. “Rudy here can go to them and say he’s heard rumors of riders back in Sheparden. There’s enough evidence that we’ve been through there to keep them busy for a while. Heck, they might get stuck in the Muddled Marsh before they even get there. Meanwhile, we camp out in the badlands until they’re gone, and when we’re sure it’s safe, a couple of us can sneak into the city and bring someone from the guild back with us.”

He looks at each of you, then shrugs. “Should be easy.”

It’s the best plan you’ve got. You turn to Rudy.

“I know I’m asking you to deceive your king,” you say, keeping your tone carefully gentle and respectful as you address him, “but if you want to keep protecting me, this is the best way to do it. I promise I’ll be back as soon as we find some answers, but if I’m dragged home now – ”

Rudy hesitates. You brace yourself for his refusal – he’s always been so dedicated to the royal family that even considering your request must be torture for him – but then he nods, and there’s a determined glint in his eye he only gets when he’s hell-bent on keeping you safe.

“Very well. I will lead them away on a false trail, but you must hurry, Princess. The ruse won’t fool them for long.”

“We will.” You fling your arms around him, and he only makes a token protest (you are still very muddy, after all) before he melts into your embrace.

You squeeze him tighter and think it is a blessing beyond measure to have such brave, steadfast friends. You only hope you can find some way to pay them back.

Simon finds you that night. He’s scrubbed down as best he can, aided by water he’s made from melting some of Fawn’s ice, and he’s down to the plain shirt-and-breeches getup he usually wears when the day’s work is done. Just a glimpse of him sends your heart racing, and there’s no hiding the blush on your cheeks as he picks his way across the damp ground to stop at your side.

Your arms brush gently as you stand there side-by-side, listening to the placid flow of the marsh water. You’ve found a hideaway to set up camp for the night, well off the beaten trail and shrouded by mud and mist. Tomorrow you’ll move on into the badlands, hiding among the huge crystal pillars that Corbin has described to you in detail. That’s where you’ll stay while Rudy executes the diversion, but tonight you’re all too tired to press on. It’s not where you would have liked to rest, but at least there’s very little chance of being discovered here.

“You alright?” he asks softly after a long silence.

“Yeah.” You’ll probably be finding mud in unmentionable places for a while, but you don’t have any major injuries. “You?”

“I’ll live.” His grin is rueful. “I’m not sure Gaul was thrilled with me, but he can make a mean poultice.”

He plucks at a loose thread on his sleeve, and you watch his gloved fingers as they work. Easier to look at his hands than his face, although you do wonder sometimes what it would feel like if he lifted his hands to your face and –

No. Those are dangerous thoughts to be harboring here, where there are still monsters lurking in the dark and no privacy to be had in the safer environs of the tent. You clench your hands together and force yourself to imagine other things. It…sort of works. Not really.

“Your father is pretty determined to get you back.” Simon’s voice is guarded and his face carefully blank. “Guess I don’t blame him, but I hate seeing you so worried.”

“I never expected him to send anyone after us. He’s always been so adamant about honoring the covenant.” You examine a long scrape across the back of your hand. “I suppose my wedding will happen as soon as we get back – “ Simon makes a low noise you can’t decipher at this – “so I’m only delaying the inevitable.”

He doesn’t answer. Your heart feels as though it’s squeezing in on itself. You think of that kiss again, the tenderness of his lips against your skin, and the thought of anyone else touching you that way sends a wave of revulsion through you.

“Simon…” Your voice is tentative. What you’re about to suggest is crazy. He almost certainly doesn’t feel for you the same things you now know you feel for him, and once you give voice to your hopes you won’t be able to take them back.

Your courage fails. You can’t do it. What you were about to say will destroy your friendship, and lately that friendship is the only thing getting you through the day.

Simon leans forward to catch your gaze. You hadn’t realized it, but you’ve gone tense and silent with apprehension. Your knuckles are white from gripping your own hands, and there’s a small tremor in your breathing. No one but Simon would have noticed, but there’s no hiding your distress from him.

“What is it?” he asks, turning you slowly toward him. He takes your hands in his, rubbing his thumbs into your palms in soothing circles. The leather of his gloves is soft, and his hands are very warm. You watch as he cradles you as though you are something precious, and a fissure opens in your heart.

You gather your courage once more.

“My father…he couldn’t force me to wed if…” Your chest is tight with equal parts hope and fear, but you force yourself to lift your head and speak.

You’re looking right into his eyes when you say it: “He couldn’t force me to wed if I was already married.”

And because you’re looking directly into his eyes when you say it, you see the exact moment he catches your meaning…and decides to refuse you.