*TAPTAPTAP*

Leander wakes to the smell of burning.

It is not a smell he's well acquainted with – not of this variety, at least – but even though it's faint, it rouses him from slumber with near immediate effect. He was the last one to go to bed; there shouldn't be anyone in the kitchens.

Darkness greets him when he opens his eyes, the world quiet and muffled before the breaking of dawn. But darkness is a familiar companion, and he's had years of experience moving through it. Quickly, quietly, he pulls on his trousers and boots, foregoing his shirt for efficiency, and leaves his room and heads down the stairs. The smell of burning grows stronger, but there's no smoke to sting his eyes, adding a layer of confusion to the urgency. Even though the wood is usually creaky, Leander treads purposefully on each step so as not to make a sound. He doesn't cast any magic to give light; he wants the advantage of surprise here.

Except it would seem that whoever is supposedly breaking into the Wick to burn it down...has no such compunctions. Leander's steps slow as he nears the kitchen, the lamps burning bright from within immediately diffusing whatever cover darkness would have granted the intruder. As Leander gets closer, he can hear something bubbling. Are they brewing a potion? he wonders, brows furrowing in confusion. Leander moves so that his back is to the wall, approaching the kitchen doorway with small sidesteps. Momentarily, his hand brushes the top of his dagger, and it waits there, deliberating.

He could take them out that way. It's not his preferred method, and it's an unpleasant way to start his morning, but he's had blood on his hands before. There'd still be enough time to wash it off before anyone else comes downstairs, before Rose wakes up...provided the intruder goes quietly, that is. The glow from the kitchen catches the hilt of his dagger, shining like a pinpoint of light in the darkness. Leander lets go.

There's a clatter of pots from the kitchen.

Mind made up, Leander spins on his heel and plants himself firmly in the path of the kitchen doorway, ready to confront-

“Rose?”

She looks as confused as he sounds, her face quickly morphing from one of concentration (tongue peeking out of her lips and all) to slack jawed surprise as she turns to face him. She's stood next to the oven with a bubbling saucepan of oatmeal in her hand.

“Leander, I- oh!” Her face soon turns a lovely shade of beet red as her eyes move from his, down to his bare chest. Her mouth works soundlessly for several moments, fixated on the expanse of skin in front of her. Leander would be oh so tempted to bask in this for several more moments, were it not for her slackening grip on the saucepan's handle...and the oatmeal thereby sliding out of it.

“Rose!” Leander shouts, darting forward to grab the pan's handle, his fingers wrapping around hers as he raises it. He's able to pull away in time to save Rose from spilling it on herself, but not fast enough to save the oatmeal from its fate of meeting the floor.

The sound of the oatmeal hitting the floor seems to shake Rose from her stupor, and she looks down to the rapidly congealing puddle of what Leander can only guess was meant to be breakfast.

“Awh, it was meant to be a surprise for you...” Rose sighs, a disappointed frown marring her face.

Leander eases the saucepan from her grip to place it on the stovetop as he speaks, “Well, I certainly was surprised, so you succeeded there.”

Rose huffs a little laugh at that, the corners of her eyes crinkling in mirth. Then, without missing a beat, Rose moves to the counter and grabs a cloth, dunking it in the water in the sink, before walking back to the oatmeal graveyard.

“What gave it away?” she asks, as she stoops down to pick up the oatmeal with her hands, throws it in the bin, and then gets on her knees to wipe the spot down with the wet cloth.

“I smelled burning.” Leander explains, grabbing the saucepan and dunking it in the sink to soak, wincing a little as the warm metal hits the cool water with a fssh sound. It shouldn't be enough to warp the metal...probably.

“Burning?” Rose's lifts her head with a frown as she speaks, surveying the kitchen, “But I was stirring it non....stop...” She pauses when her eyes alight on the tipped over glass bottle on top of the stove, the milk from it having spilled on the surface and along to where the flame flickers, staining the metal. A blush graces Rose's cheeks once more.

“That'd do it.” Leander announces. He grabs a spare damp cloth from the sink, extinguishes the flame, and then wipes the milk down before it can set in further, setting the bottle upright as he does so.

“I'm sorry, Leander. I didn't mean to wake you up early.” Rose admits, letting out a heavy sigh as she finishes cleaning the floor and moves to stand again.

“No use crying over spilled milk.” Leander teases, taking the cloth from her with a smile as she rolls her eyes at the joke. Still, it tugs a smile from her all the same, one he drinks in greedily.

“Besides, I tend to wake up around now anyway.” Leander actually tends to wake an hour later, but there's no point in telling Rose that now. But even though he's got training he needs to do, a routine to follow, the siren's call of her presence reaches out to him, always waiting for him to follow her instead. And if anyone else would be awake at this hour, it would be the city's bakers.

“How about I take you out for breakfast? My treat.”

…

Even with the early hour, the cafe is busy.

Early morning workers pile into and out of the cafe in droves, most only stopping for a few minutes to buy a pastry while supplies last, before diving back out into the streets. In spite of the chaos, however, the owner, Omar, still manages to arrange a small table for Leander and Rose, setting them up by open folding doors with a view of the street. Omar, a heavy set older man with a ring of salt and pepper hair around his head, a bushy grey moustache, and kind, deep set eyes, has never been one to turn anyone away, no matter how busy he is. He still makes sure he greets Leander with a smile and a pat on his shoulder, just as he did the first time Leander came to this low town cafe as a stranger, all those years ago. Leander shoots him a smile of thanks as Omar walks back to the counters to prepare their orders, the hiss of milk being heated and the grind of coffee beans soon joining the background noise of the cafe.

Leander leans back slightly in his seat, an arm slung over the back of the chair, as he lets his eyes rove around the cafe. The pink light of early dawn spills onto the street in front of them, turning the cobblestones from a dirtied brown to something softer, warmer, the muddy puddles reflecting the tender gold of dawn. The round tables are made of quality wood, but they've worn down from a lack of maintenance over the years, the varnish losing its sheen, the rim breaking down into splinters. The cups on the counter are cheap pottery, heavy and dull, but well formed all the same. It's certainly a change from the last one he took Rose to, but Eridia is a city with plenty to offer. Who is he to deny this side of it to her, flawed and still beautiful as it is? And Rose...

Leander can't help the small smile that tugs at his lips as he turns to look at Rose, her head propped upright by her fist under her chin, as she dozes in spite of the busy din of the cafe. The morning sunlight spills across her features like fresh watercolour across a page, and sleep softens her already gentle features. His eyes fall to the small scar on the bridge of her nose; it's something he's been meaning to ask her about, each mark adding to the mystery of her, but he knows better than to force a flower to bloom. His eyes drop lower to her hand, both of them wrapped in fresh linen bandages, stark and bright in the sunlight, and his smile only deepens. (“Rose?” “Hm?” “The oatmeal, that you picked up...with your bandaged hands?” “Oh! Uh...hehehee...”) Being able to help her change her bandages before they headed out, his bare hands touching hers, even thought it only took a scant few minutes, added another pleasant surprise to his morning.

His musings are swiftly interrupted by Omar returning with their orders, the sound of the food and coffee hitting the table causing Rose to wake with a slight startle. Omar winces in apology before moving back to the counter, but the cups are heavy; he couldn't have kept it quiet if he tried. Leander finds himself forgiving him the moment Rose's eyes open, and then widen in delight, on seeing the pastry selected. Though perhaps dessert is more of a fitting word...

Rose picks up her spoon and presses it into the Kadayıf without hesitation. The sound of the flaky pastry crumbling is muffled by the dollop of sweetened whipped cream and crushed pistachios on top of it, and Leander watches as Rose's eyes light up when she takes the first bite. He brings his cup of black coffee to his lips and sips at the liquid; it's not as good a quality as the beans in high town, but there are some things money cannot buy.

“How did you know I like this one?” Rose asks, her voice breaking Leander from his thoughts. There's open curiosity on her face...that, and a smudge of the cream from the Kadayıf too.

Leander leans forwards, setting his coffee cup down and raising his hand to Rose's face. He brushes the cream off of her cheek with the flat of his thumb and then brings it to his mouth, removing the cream with one slow lick. The added aftertaste from the leather of his gloves isn't the most pleasant, but the delicious blush on Rose's face more than makes up for it. He leans back into his chair once more, giving a light shrug and smile as he answers, “I am a man of many talents.”

In truth, an Adder had seen her staring at it longingly from the cafe's display case the other day, and thought it pertinent enough to tell him; anything regarding Rose was pertinent enough for Leander to know about. Rose may be delivering items for the Adderstone on an ad hoc basis, but it's hardly like he'll let her wander through Eridia alone, even if she never sees the company that tags along.

“My turn.” Leander says with a small smile, leaning forward. Rose sets her spoon down, intrigue alighting in her own eyes. “I'm dying to know...what made you get up so early to make breakfast?”

Rose seems taken aback by the question, blinking momentarily and looking away with a small blush, before looking back to him, and replying, “I wanted to do it as a thank you, for teaching me the flower spell.”

Leander finds himself holding back a frown, “You don't have to repay me for that, Rose. It doesn't have to be a transaction. I wanted to share it with you.”

“And I wanted to do something in thanks.” Rose retorts, leaning back slightly and crossing her arms. There's a small frown on her face, but it's belief by a teasing raise of her brow as she asks, “What, are you going stop me from doing that?

“Far be it from me to stop you,” Leander replies, his frown easing as he meets Rose's eyes, “I think you'll put many of the restaurants and bakeries here to shame if I left you to it.”

Rose quickly ducks her head down at those words, picking her spoon up once more and returning to the Kadayıf with renewed vigour. Her hair slips forward to cover her face, but fails to hide the renewed blush, along with the quietly muttered, “Flatterer.”

“I am an honest man.” Leander says lightly, picking up his coffee cup once more. But he regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth. For as much as he's trying to be one-

“About that.” Rose adds, setting her spoon down once more, her dessert half finished. Leander feels the invisible vice tighten around his neck, but this is not something he's willing to leave. He will not walk away from this, away from Rose.

“I've not forgotten about our conversation the other night.” Rose says, setting both of her hands on the table, intertwining her fingers. It's a small note of comfort that she looks about as uncomfortable as he feels.

“I wasn't hoping you would.” Leander replies with a nod, keeping his expression neutral, his gaze focussed on the steam rising from his coffee, setting his hands flat on the table.

“I didn't come here with you to tell you off.” she says, a teasing note in her voice making Leander lift his eyes from the coffee to her. There's frustration on her face plain to see, yes, but there's something else, something searching, something yet untainted.

It looks like hope.

“I need to know that I can trust you, Leander.” Rose starts, and then looks down at her hands. She fiddles with her fingers absent mindedly, catching a stray thread from the bandages as she continues, “Lies aren't stable...they may promise to be, but they always fall apart in the end.” Her gaze looks distant, as if she's remembering something far away, but it's still too close for comfort. “And I want whatever trust we're building together to last.”

“What did you have in mind?” Leander asks, leaning back in his chair once more as he crosses his arms, looking at Rose with a considering expression. She looks back up at him with a small smile.

“Well, I was thinking-”

The sound of heavy pottery shattering cuts off whatever Rose was going to say. The chatter within the cafe is swiftly smothered, leaving only a gaping wound of silence. Leander sees the exact moment that Rose freezes, a frenzied and age old panic reaching her eyes. It almost feels too vulnerable, too naked, to look at. Like it's something he hasn't earned the privilege of seeing yet.

Leander feels the icy waters of calm wash over him as he turns his head towards the entrance, and spots a man stood by the counter, dressed far too lavishly to be from low town. He's facing Omar who still has his hands held out in front of him, the coffee cup which must have been held out in offering now lying shattered on the ground. The dark liquid stains the wood, seeping into the floor; it'll set in before long. The newcomer's hands are now balled into fists atop the counter, his eyes narrowed in determination. The coin purse by his waist, something no low town native would dare to have on open display, looks surprisingly light.

“You owe me a debt!” the man shouts. Spittle flies from his mouth and some of it lands on Omar's face. Leander feels himself standing, whatever expression he had on his face slipping away.

“Which I've already paid it back in full!” Omar pleads, gesturing with open palms as he makes his point. Leander breathes in and out, only once, and then starts walking towards the entrance, steps light.

“Aren't you forgetting the interest?” the newcomer retorts, a strained grin on his face, “This city doesn't run on empty promises!”

Leander steps into the puddle of coffee, effectively placing him between the both of them. He pays no mind to the liquid staining his boot.

Both of them flinch at his approach, and Leander places a heavy hand on each of their shoulders. Omar appears comforted, shooting Leander a grateful smile. The man from high town, for he cannot be from anywhere else, rolls his shoulder enough so that Leander's left hand slips off. Leander moves his hand to rest on his belt instead, the dagger within easy reach, but the man doesn't track his movement. The newcomer turns his lip up and looks at Leander with a suspicious eye. Leander simply gives him a tight smile in return, as he says,

“Come now, gentlemen, let's not argue here. It's bad for business.”

There's a tense moment of silence, much like the one that followed the shattering of the cup. The cafe collectively holds its breath as it waits on the man's reply; Leander can feel the weight of every eye on him.

The man gives out a frustrated exhale as he steps back, and announces, “Tch. I'll be back before closing today. And you'd better have the interest ready by then! Or else!” At this, he points a finger at Omar, and Leander can feel him inhale from his hand on Omar's shoulder.

Leander watches as the man walks backwards from the counter towards the entrance, keeping eye contact with Leander the whole time. His back presses against the door, pushing it open, and the early morning light spills in. Leander breaks eye contact momentarily and looks above the man's head to an alleyway on the other side of the street, and has to hold back a grin when he sees a flash of green fabric darting into the shadows. Leander gives an imperceptible nod, and then shoots the man one last smile as he leaves.

The door swings shut. The silence remains. Leander thinks for but a moment, and then acts.

“Well, he certainly hasn't had his morning coffee!” Leander announces as he lets go of Omar's shoulder and turns to face the crowd, receiving a wave of laughter in return. It's perhaps a little shrill and more grating than it should be, but given the circumstances, Leander will take what he can get. It helps to ease the tension, if nothing else, and casual conversation picks back up soon after.

Leander then moves down to a crouch, picking up the scattered shards of the cup and placing them in a pile. Without missing a beat, Omar comes around the corner with pan and brush, shooing Leander away from the mess with a wave of his hand as he gets down on one knee, grunting a little as he does so. He's an older man than when Leander first met him.

“Please, there's no need. Whatever you've had, it's on the house.” he urges, sweeping up the shards with little effort.

“Omar, I can't-” Leander's protests are swiftly cut off as Omar speaks over him, looking up from the mess on the ground to make eye contact with him.

“You can and you will, my boy.” Even after all these years, Omar still hasn't dropped that title. “Go, forget about this for now. She needs you.”

Leander's brows furrow in confusion until he looks up, Omar gesturing with a jerk of his head towards Rose, who is still sat stock still at the table, not having moved since the cup was shattered. Her chest shudders as she breathes.

He curses under his breath as he stands, making it to Rose in a few short strides. Even with his swift approach, she doesn't react. Leander feels the frown on his face deepen. Without waiting for a response, he gets down on one knee beside her, and firmly but gently places both of his hands on hers, from where they rest on the table.

Rose takes in a shuddering gasp at the contact, blinking in confusion several times, before turning her head to look at Leander. Her expression is a mix of shock and grief, so raw it hurts to look at. She looks away from Leander to around the cafe, and her mien settles to that of guarded caution, her jaw tight, her eyes flat.

“Hey.” Leander urges gently with a quick squeeze of her hands, drawing her attention towards him again. There's nobody's eyes on him but Rose's, now, everyone else looking away in deference of Leander. “Let's head back. You've had a busy morning, and you're short on sleep today as it is.”

Instead of arguing, or insisting they see more of the city, or even asking to bring the remaining Kadayıf with them, Rose simply nods, and stands when Leander stands. She lets him guide her back to the Wick, her hand in his, her gaze focussed on his back no matter how many worried looks he shoots her way.

Rose is silent the entire way back.

…

That night, Rose dreams.

She's in the cafe again, sat in the same spot where she and Leander were that morning. The doors to the street have been opened, but instead of morning, it's the middle of the night. It's entirely silent, much like it was after the cup was shattered. If there are any patrons inside, Rose can't see them. There are no sources light inside, and the darkness from the cafe is almost suffocating. There's a faint sliver of moonlight that spills into the streets, just enough to see the outlines of the cobblestone, the table...the other set of hands laid flat on the table.

Rose keeps her eyes fixated on them, but she doesn't have to look up to know it's her.

“Well, dear protégé, it seems you've finally come crawling back to me, hm?” the woman drawls, the condescending edge to her words all the more obvious after years away from her.

“Darya.” Rose replies flatly. The name tastes like poison in her mouth.

“And here I thought I'd never see you again.” Dayra says with a sigh, letting her words drip heavily like spoiled honey. “I must say, it's disappointing to see how little you've progressed.”

“It's better than being bound to you.” Rose bites back, her throat tight.

“Bound? Now that is a funny word.” Darya muses, her tone turning contemplative. “Perhaps if you'd learned a binding spell, she might have stood a chance.”

“What do you mean?” Rose says, a wave of anxiety rising to replace whatever confusion the words initially sparked.

Darya laughs, and it is entirely without pity. Rose isn't sure if it's better with it, or without.

“You know who I mean. If you were quick enough, perhaps you could have saved her.”

Darya's hands gesture airily to Rose's right, to the cobblestone streets, her hands moving smoothly like a gambler tossing the winning die.

Rose looks.

Face down in the streets, barely visible in the moonlight, lies the crumpled body of-

…

“A binding spell?” Leander asks, raising a hand to his chin as he ponders the question.

Bright morning sunlight spills into the Wick, lighting up the area in spite of the limited windows. Rose had stumbled downstairs blearily, long after Leander had gotten up, but still uncharacteristically early for her. He'd passed away the operational plans for the day to a nearby Adder, guiding her instead to sit in a booth, and for someone to bring her a bowl of warm pottage from the kitchen. There would always be work to do; his plans could wait for a couple of hours.

But the light of day provides little favour. Rose still seems unsettled from the day before. If anything, she looks like she's gotten even less sleep. And then before even taking a bite of her food, she'd asked him for help with a complex spell.

He'd almost be tempted to make a joke out of it, to tease her that she's finally planning to tie him up and have some fun, but she feels withdrawn today, almost fragile, somehow. Leander gets the sense that any joke he makes will have the unintended opposite effect.

“It is rather advanced...” he admits slowly, but then hurries to complete the sentence as soon as he notices her expression crumple, “But I think you'll soon get the hang of it. How about we work on it this afternoon?”

Though there is work to plan, rounds to do, and always, always, messes to clean up, Leander's mouth gets ahead of him. His words, but this time, not led by his mind.

And when Rose's eyes light up at his words, like the dawn of a fresh new day, who is he to say no?

…

One afternoon, Leander unexpectedly finds himself at the market.

Even though his sessions of training Rose are eating up an extra hour of his time every afternoon, he can't bring himself to regret it, not with each small expression of delight he gets from her as she draws nearer to understanding the spell. Yet even with the greater time restraint, Leander still finds his feet guiding him to the market in low town, away from his regular rounds. The colourful wares in front of him stand out all the more under the overcast afternoon sky.

“Ah, Leander! Got someone you need protecting?”

An elderly woman's voice startles him from his musings, and he looks up to see the merchant, Sylvia, beckon him closer to another section of her stall with a wave of her hand.

“You could say that.” Leander replies as he ambles forwards, the metallic embroidered stitching on the talismans shimmering as he moves closer. There's a huge selection to choose from, all of them unfurled and spread out on the table to display their brilliance. His eyes rove over each one, crimson and lilac, deep navy and moss green, golden yellow and ochre orange, but none of them quite feel right.

As a mage, Leander knows the workings of magic intimately; what will and what won't work, what boundaries can be pushed and what must be left alone. Intellectually, he knows there is no real spellwork behind each embroidered pattern and protective sigil, much like a child copying complex mathematical symbols without the knowledge of how to properly apply them.

But Leander also understands that magic is not purely intellectual. With every spell, feeling and intention is required. To know how to do something alone is not sufficient; one must believe it possible, and will it into existence. A spell requires both intellect and instinct, much like man.

As if sensing his uncertainty, Sylvia regards him with a shrewd eye before ducking beneath the table, her motions hidden by the tablecloth covering the stall. Before Leander can ask her what she's doing, she pops back up again, lifting an object into the daylight before him. Leander's breath leaves him at the sight of it.

It's a protective talisman, much like all the others, but this one depicts a solitary rose. The talisman itself is of black cloth, making the intricate golden stitching shine out all the more. The protective sigils wrap around the rose itself, masterfully done so as not to obscure the fine embroidery of the rose itself. But more than anything else, this talisman feels right.

“Well, what do you think?” Sylvia prompts, holding it out closer to him, as if knowing that he'll take it. “It's the funniest thing; I've never made one like this before, but it came to me in a dream last night.”

She hums as she turns it slightly, the golden thread catching even in the limited sunlight. “I've spent all morning making it. It's the only one I have, and I'll swear to All Mother on this if you insist, but that's not a sales tactic. This one is the same price as all the others, and I'd much rather shift the old stock first.”

The talk of sales brings Leander's thoughts back into focus, and a small stone of shame settles in his stomach. Just what is he doing here, wasting time like this? If he wanted to get closer to Rose, he doesn't have to squander his efforts on this, does he? He could simply take her out to another cafe, surprise her with her favourite dessert, and ask to see and touch her hands once more, skin to skin. He doesn't have to go to such efforts; he knows she'd like that. And more importantly, he has plans to do, people to protect, operations to oversee. And yet...

“I'll take it.”

…

“Don't you think this is a little pointless?” Rose asks, looking at Leander over the box in her hands.

Leander gives a small laugh, but it's more of a shrill note than he was aiming for. “What do you mean by that?” he asks back, looking at Rose over the two boxes in his grip.

They walk together, side by side, through the streets of low town. It's been a busy couple of weeks, and Leander has had to put their spell lessons on the back burner while sorting out some...complexities in clean up. Rose had offered to help out with a delivery, and Leander happened to be going the same way...about five streets ago or so, that is. It was more efficient this way, he reasoned to himself, as that way all three boxes could be delivered at once (he's also conveniently chosen to forget the fact that the merchant specified they can't handle too many boxes at once, and that three are a pain to store, but that's too tricky a detail for him to remember).

“Well, I'm doing this to help the Adderstone.” Rose reasons, looking forward again to watch where she's stepping. The cobblestone streets of low town are unreliable at best, the many puddles from gaps in the stone reflecting the blue afternoon sky dotted with clouds. Her eyes widen a fraction as she blushes, and stammers, “N-not that I don't like spending time with you! It's just...doesn't this defeat the purpose of me helping?” She loses the blush as she glances back towards him. “I'm taking you away from your work.”

“Hardly,” Leander reassures her with a warm smile, and a gentle shake of his head, “This gets the job done quicker, I get to show you more of Eridia, and I get to spend time with you. I've missed you.”

Leander almost stumbles as he says the last part, the admission slipping out of his mouth without his permission. He thinks he hears a small squeak from Rose, but he's too busy gathering his bearings to be certain. He's admitted it to himself in private, sure, and perhaps said it in much smoother words to Rose as well. But to admit something so plainly, so honestly-

“I'm glad. I've missed you too.” Rose says quietly, ducking her head down and lifting her box higher in a vain attempt to hide her blush. Leander feels the heat of a blush gracing his own face, too. This is his game to win, and yet, somehow, he feels entirely out of his element. Yet even the thought of calling it a game leaves a sour note on his tongue, something that he's not felt before, something that he's not let himself feel before.

He's always loved each person that's come before; to say it was only just a game to him would be a lie and a folly. But they fell in love with the portrait they painted themselves, with what they wanted to see. And while elements matched, the hue of the paint was off. While broad strokes were the same, intricate details were lost or smudged. And arms that hold you up on a pedestal cannot wrap you tightly in an embrace. In the end, every time, Leander had to step back. He could not let himself want that. Because he was not the man they wanted; he never was to begin with.

“Leander? Are you coming?”

Rose's voice drags him out of his thoughts and into the present, and he looks up from his boxes to find her several paces ahead of him. He hadn't realised that he'd stopped. And not for the first time that day, Leander finds his words failing him, his jaw hanging open slightly, as he takes in the sight of Rose.

The afternoon sun catches her hair and casts a thin golden halo around it, the teal colour of it like the pale summer sky. Her eyes, open and curious, bright and clear like fresh pools of water. And when she half turns to face him, her smile inviting and open, the afternoon sun is blinding. The stones of the buildings no longer seem crumbling, the puddles on the street become patches of gold and silver, and the question of a future that was a bleak prospect now feels like a blooming flower, one that is vibrant, full of life, full of potential.

And Leander tries to remind himself that there is nothing binding him to her. Nothing, that is, except his own heart. Gods, just what is he getting himself in to?

Leander has seen many a beautiful person before, but this...this is different. This is more. His breath leaves him once more, but for an entirely different reason. Because in Rose's open expression, her smile is warm, and her eyes seek only him. Not the leader of the Adderstone, not the hero of low town, not the son of the man that...no, she cares for none of that. She's just looking at him. Just Leander.

He can let himself have this...can't he?

Leander breathes in and out, only once, and this time, the smile that comes to his face is unbidden. It is equal parts strange as it is welcome.

“Yeah. I'm coming.”

…

“Rose! Watch out!”

Leander's shout is loud enough to echo against the houses of low town, but it's too late. He's too late.

“...Too late.” Rose confirms, looking up at Leander with a sheepish grin, “I'm soaked through.”

The downpour of rain in low town strikes the both of them freely now, Leander having dropped his coat in an attempt to pull Rose away from a (now evidently not so shallow) puddle. It goes all the way up to her left knee, with Rose having fallen to her right knee when she took the next step forward. Her palms rest flat on the ground, bandages rapidly becoming soaked in the actually shallow puddles.

They'd been walking back to the Wick together after a delivery, something that Leander's ended up making a regular occurrence, when the skies suddenly opened up, and a wave of rain began to pour down. Leander had taken his coat off, lifting it above the both of them and holding it above their heads for cover as they walked back. He was too busy trying to ensure even coverage that when she stepped forward onto what should have been a missing cobblestone (...or three), it was too late to pull her back.

“Are you hurt?” Leander asks, moving to the ground in a crouch, but whatever worry he has dissipates as she laughs, her expression freer than he's seen it in quite some time.

“Not at all.” Rose admits, looking at Leander and then above him, to the rainy sky. She closes her eyes for a moment and takes a breath, in and out, the rain trickling freely down her face and hair. Peaceful is the only word Leander has to describe how she looks. And loathe as he is to break such tranquillity, he finds himself drawn to her all the same.

Leander raises his left hand, his thumb brushing across her cheek and gathering her loose hairs in one fell swoop. Rose opens her eyes as Leander tucks the loose strand of hair behind her ear, and though a blush soon graces her cheeks, she doesn't shy away or pull back. Leander's hand skirts down to her jaw, guiding it upward with a gentle touch. Slowly, purposefully, he leans forward, tilting his head one way as Rose tilts hers the other. Rose's eyes go half lidded, and Leander finds himself matching suit, his gaze drawn to the tender pink of her lips, the both of them close enough to one another to feel each other's breath on their faces. Leander leans in closer, and-

“Are you going to let that poor girl of yours drown out there? Come on you two, get inside!”

A loud and cantankerous voice echoes through the near empty streets, and it can only belong to one person.

Leander frowns deeply and lets out a slow, measured breath, before turning his head around with a tense smile. “Sylvia...”

The elderly woman in question looks down at him from her spot in her doorway, only a few metres from them and utterly unrepentant. Somehow her presence seems to tower over them, even with her back stooped from age, and her hair thinned to white wisps, barely covered by her white linen batic. She's looking at them with her arms crossed, and would appear terribly unimpressed, were it not for the teasing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Yes, yes, berate me later. We don't want you both catching a cold, now do we?”

This, sadly, is a point that Leander finds he cannot argue with. He turns his head back around, and offers a hand out to Rose to help her out of the puddle.

If Rose was blushing before, her face is an absolute furnace now, a look of such utter mortification across it that Leander has never yet witnessed. Wordlessly, she takes his hand, and he eases her up out of the puddle with little effort. Leander grabs his now sodden coat with his free hand, the material heavy and dripping. Rose follows behind him sheepishly into Sylvia's house, her head bowed in embarrassment as Sylvia ushers them both into the main room, a fireplace already warm and crackling.

Sylvia busies herself with fetching fresh towels, maternally dragging (for want of a better word) Rose to a side room to get changed into some of her spare clothes, and preparing a fresh pot of tea. For Leander, she simply puts a towel over his chair before he sits in it, and, with a very pointed look, silently instructs him to take his boots off and place them and his coat near the fire to dry. Leander has been around Sylvia long enough to know when to follow her instruction.

Leander eases himself into his seat, the warmth of the fire and the pitter-patter of the rain outside making him drowsy. Firelight flickers and illuminates the poor plaster of the walls, cracking and long in need of repair, but it's suitable enough to ward the chill off. There's little decoration around the room aside from the plaster and wooden beams, but there's the odd protection talisman hung up on the walls, here and there, though they're of a much older fashioned design than any Leander has seen for sale. He's almost nodding off when he hears Rose come back into the room, and he turns in his seat to face her at the same time Sylvia comes back into the room with teacups.

“Oh, now don't you look lovely in that?” Sylvia says in an awed breath, and Leander finds himself inclined to agree.

Rose stands in the doorway, fingers clenching and unclenching as she looks down at the floor and fights the urge to fiddle with her sleeve under the scrutiny (which she'd undoubtedly get dirty from her damp bandages). The light of the fireplace makes the white of her ankle length koshula almost glow in the dim room, causing the the red, black, and gold flower embroidery on the sleeves, bust, hem, and neckline to stand out all the more. Not for the first time, Leander finds himself struck dumb.

Naturally, Sylvia takes the opportunity to swat him on the shoulder with her free hand. “Go on, then! Tell her she looks nice.”

“You look beautiful, Rose.” Leander says, his voice hushed.

Rose looks up, meeting his eyes with a blush and a shy smile. She then turns to look at Sylvia, who's set the cups down on a stool and has started to pour tea into the mugs she's brought in, and asks, “Am I really alright to wear this?”

“Keep it, dear.” Sylvia says with a caseless wave of her hand, not even looking at Rose as she continues to pour the tea. “I'll give you the accompanying pieces to take home later once the rain stops. I'm too old to be wearing such finery.”

Rose accepts this with a quiet “thank you” and a nod of her head, moving to sit in the seat on Leander's left before Sylvia can all but shove her into it...lovingly, that is. Sylvia then comes to stand before them, handing them each a steaming cup of tea, which they both take with a nod of thanks.

Before Sylvia can dip back into the kitchen, though, Rose calls out, and asks, “Miss Sylvia, uhm, how did you know to stay at home and not sell your talismans at the market today?”

At this, Sylvia simply barks out a laugh, tossing her head back as she does so, and then says, “I'm old, dear. I could feel the storm brewing in my bones!” She shakes her weather worn hand for effect before she shuffles back into the kitchen, leaving Leander and Rose to relative privacy while they dry off.

At the mention of selling talismans, Leander blinks in realisation, setting his mug down on the stool in between them, and then looks down as he reaches a hand into his trouser pocket. Rose watches him as he does so, brows pinched in confusion, so Leander glances back up at her to explain.

“I suppose it's a little late for this now, and I don't know how much it would have done against a puddle, but I figure it's better late than never.”

He pauses a moment, hesitating before he pulls the object out, and then says, “Here. Hold out your hands, and close your eyes.”

Rose places her cup of tea down beside his and then does as he instructs, one eye open with a raised brow before shutting it, looking more confused than ever. Only once her eyes are truly closed (she opened them to peek after two seconds, only for Leander to meet her gaze, and she then swiftly squeezed them shut with a blush on getting caught) does he place it in her cupped palms.

Tentatively, Rose opens one eye slowly, and then rapidly opens them both, her mouth dropping open slightly as she takes in the black fabric talisman, the golden thread glowing gently in the firelight. Leander expected a degree of surprise, but her next words catch him entirely off guard.

“No fair!” Rose exclaims, shooting up from her seat with a look of betrayal upon her face.

“I- wha?” Leander flounders, at a complete loss at her reaction. He's been caught off guard before, certainly, but never by this much.

“I was saving up to buy you a talisman too!” Rose complains, looking down at the one he's gifted her with a pinched expression.

“Rose, you...” There's so much he wants to say. For once, words fail him. He doesn't feel uncomfortable at that prospect, though. Rose continues on, as if she hasn't heard him.

“Every time I do deliveries for the Adderstone, the people I'm delivering items to give me a small amount of coin as a thank you. I'd asked them not to when I'm with you, as I was wanting to keep it a surprise.” Rose pouts, and then adds quietly, “My surprises for you keep getting spoilt.”

She then looks down at the protection talisman in her hands, blinks, and then blushes once more as she realises the implications of what she's just said, and of what she's been given. Without looking at Leander, she storms away from him and into the kitchen, calling out, “Ms Sylvia! I need to buy a talisman from you!”

“Ach, girl, what's with this all of the sudden?” Leander can hear her say fondly from the kitchen, and he has to hold back his laughter, lest Rose hear it. He's free to let his heart swell, though, and when he picks up his cup of tea and takes another sip, his throat feels tight. Over and over again, Rose seems to knock him off of his feet.

When she walks back into the room again, head bowed in defeat (“I'll see what I have, dear, but for now you just go and warm yourself by the fire.”), Leander finds his gaze pulled to her, and he has to stop himself from staring, from wanting to be closer to her. But he is powerless to stop it, to stop this yearning, to control it. Leander opens his left hand out in offering once they are both finished with their tea, the mugs on the floor at the sides of their respective chairs. Rose meets his offer without hesitation, her hand slipping seamlessly into his. She fixes her gaze on the fire, her cheeks flushed, and Leander looks from her face to the fire as well, watching the embers pop and swirl.

After some time, a warm weight settles on his left shoulder, and Leander isn't too surprised to see Rose's head resting on it, Rose breathing softly in her sleep, her whole body angled towards him. Unthinking, Leander rests his head gently atop hers, his thumb absent mindedly rubbing circles into her wrist from where they're holding hands. Even though he can't feel her skin, just the feeling of having her hand in his, freely given...somehow, it's enough now. It's so, so very tempting to place a kiss atop her head, but Leander holds himself back. It feels unfair, somehow, like he would be cheating Rose out of something she could not witness, something she could not partake in. The feeling confuses him somewhat, and he dwells on it as she sleeps, his mind twisting and turning as the embers move erratically.

A couple of hours later, much longer than it would have taken for Sylvia to find a pre-made talisman, she slips back into the room, quietly so as not to disturb them. She's wearing an indulgent smile when she comes into view, the crows' feet around her eyes deep set, and she gently places a talisman on Rose's lap. Sylvia leaves without saying a word.

Leander supposes it's probably bad luck for him to see it, in some way, but at least Sylvia gave it to Rose directly, little different from how he bought one from her. The white and gold thread of a lily against the green fabric of the talisman shimmers gently in the firelight. Leander finds that he wants Rose to be the one to give it to him. He supposes that all he must do now is wait.

...

It happens at the market.

It's an ordinary day, much like any before it. Or rather, it is what has become an ordinary day for him. For them.

Leander had finished up his work with the Adderstone early for the day so that he could walk with Rose on a delivery, suggesting they do a loop around to the market for late afternoon deals after dropping the items off. Conversation came easily, and the time passed even more so once they reached the market. More often than not, Leander found Rose greeting the stall vendors by name before he could even introduce her to them, and something warm radiates from between his ribs.

Eventually, as they must, Leander and Rose reach the end of the stalls. The majority of them have now packed up for the day, the setting sun painting low town in a vibrant orange. Still, a few stalls remain open, keen to get whatever remaining coin they can, and Leander walks up to a man selling long lads. He buys two, passing the man a few extra coins to douse them in sugar and cinnamon, and then turns and hands one to Rose.

She takes it with an eager smile, and they both walk over to a free wall to lean their backs against it, watching the vendors mill about the market place as they close up for the day. Next to Leander, someone stacks crates of unsold oranges that goes higher than his head, the weather worn boxes groaning in protest. In the distance, by the well, children play a strange mish-mashed game of hop scotch and tag, shrieking in delight as they hop around on one foot at chase each other. Leander glances over at Rose, munching away happily on her long lad and waving goodbye at a passing vendor, and something within him settles.

“You fit right in here, don't you?” he says, the words as much of a question as they are a statement.

“Hm?” Rose turns to him with a confused look on her face, her mouth still full of a bite of the long lad.

Leander chuckles and, having already finished his long lad, brushes his hand against her cheek, even though there are no crumbs there. Rose swallows and blushes, looking up at him with an open gaze, her mouth parted.

But then her smile drops, and panic takes her expression instead.

“Shit! Look out!”

A shout from behind them reaches Leander's ears as soon as he hears the groaning of wood, and he spins on his heel to see the crate of oranges toppling over, falling towards them both. Leander lifts his hands, his focus on the top crate careening towards them, the spell on the tip of his tongue, and he...pauses.

The crates, stacked precariously and mid-fall, have suddenly halted in their trajectory. The oranges, some having already escaped their confines, hover in the air, the shimmer of magic around them. Leander allows himself one small blink of confusion, and then looks down. His eyes widen, his hands drop, and his breath leaves him in one fell swoop.

Because standing in front of him is Rose, her hands raised high and glowing with the vestiges of magic.

For several moments, Leander is stunned into silence. It was one thing for him to teach her the binding spell, something that is meant to work on a living person; it is a whole other matter for her to re-engineer the spell on a whim, to bind it to objects instead. And not just one object, but tens of objects. It's the kind of spellwork just like his own, and a part of him warms with pride for her at that realisation. But that's not what stuns him.

Because Rose, without thinking, and before Leander could stop her, moved her body in front of his without a second thought.

This was just a crate of oranges. If she had failed to stop it, he could have deflected it with magic of his own, the crate moving slowly enough that he could counter it before it could have fallen on them. In a worst case scenario, it was moving at a speed where he could grab her and turn her around so it would fall on him, or even push her out of its path. But if it was something else, another person, or even worse, a Soulless...

The thought terrifies him.

“Rose, you-” Leander swallows, and then clears his throat, willing away any shakiness in his voice. “You figured it out.”

Rose turns her head to look at him with a beaming grin, the strain of enacting such a complex spell only belied by the tiny drops of sweat on her forehead.

Leander hasn't had time to work on the spell with Rose for several weeks, the business of the Adderstone ramping up, and his remaining time spent with Rose being diverted to...well, he's not sure. But he knows he was spending it with Rose. And Rose, it seems, had put what lessons she did have to good use.

Before she can speak, the vendors that were standing in shocked silence rush in to help. Several people move rapidly to push the crates into a more stable position. Leander rushes in to help them as well without a word, assisting with the heaviest crates. It's a testament to Rose's ability and skill that she is able to relinquish control on the crates piece by piece, instead of letting it all go at once. Only once every last crate has been made stable and every last orange is collected does she let the final layer of her spell drop.

Leander is at her side in an instant, wrapping a strong arm around her waist to support her, unsurprised by the shakiness in her legs after casting such a spell so suddenly. Without him needing to ask, two chairs are swiftly brought out from a nearby home, and Leander nods his thanks to those that brought the chairs. He eases Rose into one, making sure she's stable enough, before sitting in the chair next to her. She spares a glance at her discarded long lad on the floor, now trampled beyond recognition, and somehow manages to look put out about it after all that. That brief glance, little as it was, gives him some degree of reassurance. But still, his heart doesn't settle.

Gently, Leander moves his right arm to around her shoulders, and guides her head to rest against his chest, the majority of her weight leaning against him. The lack of a blush or any stammered response says more to her state of exhaustion than anything else could. He looks down at Rose, the side of her head pressed against his chest, and he can't stop his mind from racing. His heart beats wildly in his chest, but Rose doesn't comment, instead looking out serenely at the sunset. Her face is paler than he's seen it before, and Leander's eyes crease in worry.

He can feel people looking. He finds he doesn't particularly care.

“It was the other day.” Rose says suddenly, without preamble, making Leander startle slightly. He looks down to meet her gaze, and then looks out at the sunset that she's watching. There's a small gap, between the houses, where the wastes can be seen, and through it, the wide, open sunset. Leander wonders what Rose sees in it.

Instead of asking her, he simply hums in question, his free hand moving to card the hair out of her face. He finds that he keeps running his fingers through her hair, even once it's moved out of the way.

“The spell.” Rose clarifies, and then adds, “I was going to show it to you, as a-”

“Surprise?” Leander interrupts, and when he chances a look at Rose's face, there's a small smile on it. He feels a smile grace his lips too.

“Haha, uhm, yes. That was the plan...” Rose trails off, her words growing quieter.

“Well, this surprise certainly wasn't spoilt.” Leander says, and he meets Rose's gaze as she looks up at him, her gaze open and innocent, much like the first day he met her. After all this, she still looks at him that way. It's almost too much to bear. “Actually, it was so impactful that I'd like to make a request.”

“A request?” Rose echoes, with only curiosity in her tone.

Leander nods lightly, his hand stilling in her hair as he breathes in and out, only once, and then says, “Please don't ever surprise me like that again.”

Rose gives out a startled laugh at the request, mirth sparkling in her blue eyes, and she looks from Leander to back out at the gap between the houses again. Leander swallows heavily, unwilling to press the point further, unable to ask her again. If she won't, or perhaps can't accept his request, then he'll just have to be there for her, for as many times as she needs it.

Eventually, the sun fully sets, the amber glow from between the houses descending into darkness. The purples of twilight brush across the sky, welcoming the early evening stars that come to dance upon the canvas of the ether. In the distance, on the horizon, a full moon is rising, silver and resplendent.

“Shall we head back?” Leander asks, breaking the tranquil silence, his tone that of a genuine question.

“Yes.” Rose agrees with a decisive nod, her hair falling back over her face as she does so. “It's been a busy afternoon.”

Leander guides her upright slowly as he stands, and offers his arm out, bent in a crook for Rose to support herself with. He watches her legs as she stands, keeping track of any minor movements and instabilities, and only nods for a couple of bystanders to take the chairs away when he's certain she won't fall.

Rose slips her arm into the crook of his, meeting his questioning look with a smile, as she says, “Let's go home.”

...

Rose dreams that night.

She's in the cafe again.

But this time, it's morning. This time, it's filled with familiar faces, with everyone she's met from low town. This time, Leander is there, his hands on the table, palms face up in an open invitation.

Rose grabs Leander's hand; he smiles at her, and they walk out into the sunny streets beyond.

…

The door to the Wick opens as soon as the midday bell for lunch sounds from the streets.

Leander looks up from the large parchment map, rolling it up and handing it to an Adder as he stands up straight. Planning had dragged on for longer than usual, but there are some things that one simply has to make time for. An easy smile graces his face as Rose walks up to the table, and she waves at the other Adders there, each one greeting her their own way in return.

She stops walking as soon as she gets close to Leander, a spark of excitement in her eyes. It's something that Leander never tires of seeing, and equally something that never seems to disappear, no matter how many horrors and trials life seems to throw her way. Rose holds her hands behind her back, bouncing on her feet slightly as she looks from the empty table to Leander, a brow raised in question and a smile on her face.

“Well? Are you all finished up for lunch?” Rose asks, and a chorus of agreements sound from throughout the room.

“We just finished.” Leander confirms, returning her smile with one of his own. “Did you have something in mind?”

“I have the perfect spot.” Rose says, and without missing a beat, she reaches out to take his hand into hers, her tone breathy and rambling as she explains, “There's a new cafe that's opened just this week, and I have a feeling that you'll love their coffee.”

Leander stumbles behind her clumsily for a few steps as she walks, unwilling to let his hand slip from hers, before finding his pace as he straightens up and follows her lead.

“Seems like my decision has been made for me!” He calls out over his shoulder at the Adders, pitching his voice to be heard as he exits the Wick, “We'll regroup after lunch!”

Leander squints in the bright daylight as he leaves the Wick, his eyes adjusting to the world outside, as if having to remind him that there is more out here, that there is more to Eridia than its shadows. But with Rose here, everything feels brighter, feels attainable. His heart feels lighter, like it could float away without a string to keep it tethered. His heart, cradled safely in Rose's hands. It feels dangerous; it feels like living.

It's a feeling he finds he now can't live without.

Rose grows more confident in her steps as she walks, not looking behind at Leander as frequently, not blushing quite so much. Leander gives her hand a comforting squeeze as he matches her step, walking beside her.

Rose leads the way, the streets of Eridia bright and open as she walks forward, Leander's hand held safely in hers.

And Leander follows.

...

Notes:

“Don't tell me, you've sprained your ankle again?”

Vere's voice echos through the mostly empty square, the late hour and chance of running into Soulless dissuading any would be revellers from being out and about...so naturally Vere finds Noël. They don't look up at Vere from where they're sat on the fountain's edge, the sound of the running water being the only thing to break the night's silence. It's a moonless night, clouds so thick that they choke the sky, muggy and oppressive. Were it not for the gas lamps, Vere knows that no human could see their hand from in front of their face. A gentle autumn breeze ripples the surface of the pond, pulling the odd dry leaf from its branch to fall upon the waters, distorting the reflection that looks back at Noël.

When Noël fails to answer, Vere takes a step forward, a teasing smirk easing its way onto his face like a well fitting jacket.

“What? Think if you look away, you'll fall in here too?” Vere teases, waiting for the retort as Noël turns to look from the fountain to him, their back to the water.

“Not unless you're any quicker than last time.” Noël replies, lightning quick as ever, but their eyes are still flat. Vere's smirk starts to slip, but he keeps it pinned there. He's had plenty enough practice of this already.

“My, I've no idea what you mean! I simply decided to widen my patrol route out of the goodness of my own heart.” Vere brings a finger to the corner of his eye, wiping away a non-existent tear. “Baselia would be proud!”

“It's Basilea.” Noël supplies, turning their head to look back at the waters, the surface rippling from the spouting water of the fountain.

Taking the opportunity to move closer, Vere walks to the lip of the fountain and sits on the stone to Noël's left. “Oh? You're bosom buddies already?”

Vere's about to launch into another teasing probe, the comment hot on his tongue, when his eyes stray to his right, and he pauses.

He's not sure how he missed it. The tang of copper greets his tongue like an old friend, silky and smooth from where it floats in the air. The blood seeping into the water turns inky black in the dark of the night, stretching out in tendrils like a spider's legs. The clump of tattered feathers bobs unsteadily in the waters, the deflated glassy eye of the massacred dove staring at Vere accusingly from where it's half way submerged. Its lower body is entirely missing; the bite is too big for a cat to have done it.

Noël shifts from where they're sat on the stone lip of the fountain, turning to better face Vere. A gentle breeze ruffles their dark hair, further obscuring their face.

“When most people say dinner and a date, I don't think this is what they have in mind.” Vere quips, plucking an invisible bit of lint from his sleeve.

“I suppose I was feeling adventurous.” Noël shifts slightly, turning more to face Vere and putting their back to the dead dove, their body obscuring it from his view once more.

“Well, I'm glad to see you're prioritising your safety.” Vere drawls sardonically, looking back from his sleeve to face them.

For a moment, Noël pauses, not saying anything. The silent feels heavy, stilted, like an irregular heartbeat that has never failed to beat on time before. Their eyes land heavily upon Vere's collar, and then up to his face, as they speak, “Ironically, the river is safest in its net of chains.”

At this Vere does bark out a laugh, the sound strident and sharp in the quiet of the courtyard. “Do you think there's safety in a cage? If you're looking for a way into the Senobium, that's one way to go about it,” Vere's grin turns sharp and something wicked, his voice dropping as he adds, “Though it's not one I'd recommend.”

Noël simply hums non-committally, shrugging one shoulder loosely. The movement grates, and Vere squints his eyes.

“What were you hoping to find out here, I wonder?” Vere muses, raising a hand to his chin as he speaks, “A lost letter? A nighttime escapade? Or perhaps...little old me?”

When Noël fails to answer, fails to meet Vere's eyes, Vere asks, “What was it that spurred you to this city in the first place?” Vere lets the silence settle after speaking, and doesn't attempt to fill it. He simply watches Noël, and Noël watches him back.

With a quiet sigh, Noël seems to battle an internal debate, before answering, "My fate naturally has many twists and sharp turns.”

At Vere's put out expression, Noël merely offers a saccharine sweet innocent smile in return, as if in offering. But Vere has played cat and mouse before: there is bait, and then there is the truth hidden within the lies.

“Ah, ever the wanderer, never allowed to rest.” he says, nodding to himself with a small smile, before pinning Noël with an unsearchable gaze, “And what if you found a dead end?”

Noël freezes. There's something fragile and loose in their expression, like a clock wound so tightly the mechanisms simply just...give way. Vere half expects something to slip from Noël, whether word or sound or movement, but nothing does. The lack of response doesn't make him feel any better. But Vere has never known when to stop, when to give up the chase. He has never been satisfied with what he is freely given. This has perhaps always been, and ever will be, his downfall.

“I'd say it's almost as if you want the Soulless to get you.”

The moment these words leave Vere's lips, Noël bolts up straight as a rod, the whisper of their silk clothes loud in the quiet night.

“Good night, Vere. Try not to horrify anyone on the way back to your deluxe dungeon.”

Vere watches Noël's retreating back as they swiftly walk away, not turning to face him as they speak. The sound of their heels against the cobblestone echos off of the surrounding buildings, as if announcing their very presence wherever they go. Vere watches as they walk down the dark alleyway, until they are so far away that not even he can see them. Yet even with Noël gone, Vere continues to stare down the alleyway.

The thing is, one gains a very specific skill set when you're hunter extraordinaire to the Senobium. There's quick movement, of course, deception and hiding oneself in shadow (naturally) and Vere is also very, very good at killing. Vere knows he has nothing to fear walking the streets of Eridia, regardless of the hour and location. Vere also knows that he slaughtered several Soulless an hour ago in the path that Noël now treads.

But Noël doesn't know that.

Vere's eyes narrow.

...

Kuras knows Vere is there before he even lifts his eyes from his textbook.

“What.” Kuras says flatly in the silence of the room. It's late, all of his patients having long since returned home after treatment. The clinic is awash in lamplight, the sharp edges of the cot softened under the golden glow. But where the lamp doesn't reach, shadows fester. And where things fester, Vere follows. Kuras stares, frown firmly set on his face, at the shadows in the corner of the wall, several steps from where he's sat at his desk. The textbook is a solid weight in his hand, his fingers frozen mid-turn of a page. There's a pause so long that he almost begins to doubt himself. But Vere, ever one for attention, comes slinking out of the shadow, face first of course.

His eyes appear through the shadow first, pinpricks of colour in a sea of darkness. His face then pushes forwards, as if pressing against the water's surface, his hair following suit. Shadows peel off of his shoulders and then arms like tender cobwebs, and Vere takes a step forward into the clinic silently. The shadows retreat to their usual place; Vere does not. He flips his hair over his shoulder with the back of his hand, and then levels Kuras with a disappointed look.

“My, and here I thought I'd get more of a reaction from you. Is it the late hour, perhaps? Worked yourself to the bone already?”

“If you are merely here to flirt with danger, I would suggest you leave. I am not in the mood to play games.” Kuras replies coldly, and then looks back down at the book in his hands. He had just found the page he was looking for too, but now he's lost his train of thought. It's nothing short of typical that Vere would manage to ruin this as well.

Sighing, Vere replies, “You never are...” Kuras then spots Vere grin from the corner of his eye, as he adds, “You never were.”

There's another moment of pause, one that tests his patience to the point of the hard cover beginning to warp in his grip. But then Vere says, “But this is no game, Kuras.”

Something in his tone makes Kuras look up from his book, and for once Vere's face has fallen into something uncharacteristically serious. Kuras straightens in his chair, and sets the textbook down on the desk, closing it without its usual bookmark.

“Our dear newcomer-” Vere begins.

“Noël.” Kuras interrupts, and the corners of Vere's mouth twitch, but he continues on as if he were never interrupted.

“Noël, yes. Like a moth to flame, that one, ever flittering about danger...” Vere trails off, his eyes skirting to the side, as if the clinic's walls were the most interesting things he'd ever seen in his long life. He begins to pick at his nails, as if bored, but his tail swishes, to and fro, a tempo of agitation.

“Make your point, Vere. This is not new information to me.” Something in Kuras's heart twinges at Vere's words all the same.

Vere frowns, and Kuras senses Vere's inscrutable patience thinning, like a rope long worn against a sharp edge, slowly unravelling but ready to let go with a final loud snap.

“What if I told you they were not so much playing with fire but actively seeking it instead?” Vere turns to face him, all pretence of boredom swiftly dropped.

“I do not know of what you speak.” Kuras replies evenly, but his mind immediately kicks into overdrive, thoughts frantic and disjointed. Have there been any signs he's missed, any hints, any withdrawal from social activities, any change in appearance and upkeep, in eating habits, in-

“Do they ever ask anything further, about their curse?” Vere probes, and a spark of indignation and jealousy, twinged with embarrassment, snares Kuras's throat. Why has it come to be Vere, of all people, telling this to him?

“How do you-”

“I am not blind, Kuras, and neither are you stupid. Don't waste your breath.”

This time it's Kuras that frowns, but he bites his tongue all the same.

“For someone that risked life and limb to get to Eridia,” Kuras narrows his eyes at that, but Vere seems not to take notice, “The seem almost reluctant to ask about a cure. They've not asked me about the Senobium since the day we first met.”

Vere looked like he was going to spit to the side after speaking its mere name, but seems to think better of it at the last moment. When Kuras deigns not to answer, Vere crosses his arms and presses further.

“It's been months, Kuras. Don't your patients become more desperate to be healed as time goes on, and they remain uncured?”

“I have never struggled to heal a patient.” Kuras retorts, meeting Vere's eyes at the challenge. Both of their eyes are flat with anger, and another emotion they both dare not name.

“Except them.” Vere adds hollowly. This time, neither of them are smiling.

“Noël's case is...complex.” Kuras admits haltingly, looking away to the side and at his notes neatly arranged in a pile on his desk, his handwriting indistinguishable and his ideas for a cure equally as elusive. He has plenty of potential solutions, theories that require testing, if only Noël were to allow him to get closer...

The access he's been given to Noël's arms is limited at best, and avoidant at worst. The last time Kuras had suggested studying Noël's curse, they had quickly left the clinic, stating they'd forgotten about a last minute delivery. Kuras watched the door swing shut behind their retreating form and felt that, somehow, he had made a terrible miscalculation. He didn't see them for three days after that. The sight of Noël in and about the clinic the following week once more quelled whatever worries had been bubbling up within him, and laid any lingering worries to rest. At least it had done. But now-

“What, specifically, are you suggesting, Vere?” Kuras asks, looking back up at Vere to find him half way submerged into the shadows already, form amorphous and eyes glowing in the darkness.

“I'm simply saying that I've been seeing them an awful lot on my nighttime strolls. You'd have thought they'd learnt it's not very safe, wandering through Eridia so late at night.”

Before Kuras can press Vere for information once more, standing as he begins to lose the last threads of his patience, Vere's eyes crinkle in amusement as he slips back further into the darkness.

“Ah, how does that quote go again? 'Not all who wander are lost.'...Perhaps you should ask them what destination it is that they have in mind.”

With that, Vere slips fully into the shadows and disappears from the clinic, leaving Kuras standing alone in the middle of the room, with only his work and lamps for company.

Once again, Kuras finds himself hesitating, torn between his duty and his heart. There are no patients this late at night, true, but an emergency could come in. There is still his work, unending, unceasing, calling out to him. Something that he knows will be productive, something that may yet prove helpful for Noël...something that has yet to provide any concrete solutions. Kuras looks from his desk to the door, and his resolve wavers.

...

Kuras spends the rest of the night traipsing around Eridia, looking for Noël. He doesn't find them.

Eventually, the rising sun forces him back to the clinic in time for his first patients of the day, but though his hands work, his mind does not.

…

Noël doesn't visit the clinic that day.

Kuras searches through the night. He is unsuccessful.

…

The Wet Wick is a hub of activity, regardless of the hour, occasion, or weather. At night, it is packed with alcohol and patrons alike, the mood raucous and rowdy. In the liminal hours before dawn, it is filled, busy, yet silent; those that are working do not wish to be seen. And in the morning, sunlight streaming through its limited windows, it is full of people clamouring for breakfast, pottage and warmed ale, simple yet filling.

Leander guides the flow of Adders to available seats, joking with them and nudging bowls across the bar counter in between writing the day's plans from where he leans against the counter, his back resting against it. He rarely plans his days at the Wick, often writing it up in a quieter location, but after the chaos of last night, the Adders look to him as a reminder of normalcy, of why they are doing this. Who is Leander to refuse them?

This is why he jumps when the front door slams open, the Adders immediately falling into a wave of silence, until Leander realises it's Kuras entering, and throws his hand back in a vague gesture. Chatter begins once more as Leander pushes forward from the counter, pocketing his papers and walking towards Kuras who simply stands by the entrance, his head whipping back and forth as if looking for someone.

Leander turns to face Kuras with a warm and surprised smile, announcing Kuras's presence with a pleased, “Hey, doc, it's not like you to visit at this hour. Where's the fire?”

But his smile soon drops as Kuras turns to look at him, his face panic stricken in an expression Leander has never seen on him before, and Kuras demands,

“Where is Noël?!” ...

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