#vin writes

His Majesty’s eyes seemed far away. “Your sister. She looks like you.”

“You never met her,” said Vianne, for she was certain of that much.

“No, I didn’t,” said His Majesty, sounding impossibly sad. “I would have liked to see her with my own eyes.”

“Stop speaking as if you won’t get the chance,” said Vianne, forgetting her manners. “Nothing is ever set in stone. We’re nearly to the sewers.”

“It is not my place to quarrel with Akatosh,” he said. Then, after a long pause: “We are almost to the sewers, you said?”

“Yes, sire.”

His Majesty glanced around. Vianne followed his gaze; he was looking towards [Blade #1] and [Blade #2], both of whom were looking out in either direction, their backs turned to Vianne and the emperor. In a smooth motion, His Majesty reached up and pulled the Amulet of Kings over his head. His large, wrinkled hand reached for Vianne’s, and without a word, he pressed the amulet into her palm, closing her fingers over it. The gold was hot to the touch.

“Take it,” he said, his voice suddenly urgent. “Only you can slip by them without being seen.”

“Sire…I cannot take this.”

“It is not your duty to die with me, not this time. I have a fourth son. All I know of him is that his name is Martin, and he was born on the solstice in 383. Jauffre told me that he became an apprentice mage. Find him, and the Dragonfires will yet burn.”

“Surely the captain—”

“You are the only one who will live to see the sun rise.”

Vianne went cold. It seemed the only warmth left in the dank tunnels was emanating from the smooth metal in her hand. The emperor’s face softened; he brushed the back of his fingers along her cheek, the gesture so much like her father that it made her heart weep.

“Go, and may the gods go with you.”

No matter how dearly she wished to, Vianne could not refuse an order from her emperor. Aetherity came willingly to her hands, and she drew it into her skin, into the soles of her boots, until she could neither be seen nor heard by mortal senses.

Four years.

It's been four years since you've been able to celebrate your birthday like this, tucked in the corner of your favorite hometown restaurant, hardly able to hear the people across from you amidst the raucous laughter and lively storytelling. Your family are here, reminiscing about the time you set a menu on fire while trying to light birthday candles. Your old friends are chatting with your new ones, catching up on everything you were up to during the war.

And, of course, there's Kix, his hand resting warm on your thigh. Dressed in civilian clothes, with his dark curls brushing his collar after months without a trim and his voice soaked in levity, it feels like he was always meant to be a part of this world—your world.

An hour has passed since you cut the cake, and nearly three since you arrived. There seems to be no end to how long your loved ones can spend talking and drinking. Kix has that sleepy, satisfied look on his face that he gets on the rare occasions he actually eats until he's full—clone appetites are legendary, even when they're no longer in a war-zone. You gesture to the remains of his third slice of cake, which have been lying sad and abandoned on his plate for a while now.

"Can I eat the rest of this?" you ask.

Kix blinks, and a mischievous grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. He picks up his fork, scoops up a bit of cake, and holds it out for you. On any other day, you might roll your eyes and call him a goofball, or steal the fork from him. But today…well, why not?

You lean forward and take the bite, making an exaggeratedly smug face when you've swallowed. Kix bursts out laughing, and you can feel it as much as you can hear it, with his body pressed up against you as it is.

"I was not expecting that to work," he says. "You managed not to get any on your face, either."

"Was that your plan? Get a little on my face so you could kiss it off of me?"

"A terrible plan. The boys would be ashamed of me. I underestimated my enemy. What will I do now? Retreat? Surrender? Call in the cavalry?"

"You could always just try again."

A long, delicate moment passes in silence. Kix tilts his head at you the same way he does when assessing a complicated patient, but his expression is something that you've only started seeing on his face since the war ended—unhurried, tender, content. Safe.

Then he scoops up a second bite, and with a marvelously steady hand, boops the tiniest bit of frosting onto your lower lip. You leave it there, trying not to laugh again.

"Oopsie," he says.

"Now, are you—"

But he answers your question before you can finish, kissing you gently. You hear him set the fork down on the plate, and his hand comes up to touch your cheek. Someone at the table hoots at you good-humoredly.