99% traumatized dragonriders

Just like you did as kids, the both of you chose a time when the gym would be deserted by the fortress’s soldiers, or as close to it as possible. Today, you have the room all to yourselves.

The slap of your boots echoes through the vast empty space as you pounce. Bodhi side-steps, easily evading the attack, and tries to tackle you in retaliation.

You drop into a crouch, twisting away underneath his reaching hands to lunge at him from the side. The many times you’ve practiced this sequence of movements after learning it a few months ago pay off, allowing you to execute it so quick and flawlessly you actually manage to land a soft punch to Bodhi’s ribs.

Huffing a startled laugh, he dances back out of reach. “Hey, nice one!”

You beam wide enough to hurt your cheeks. It worked! You actually managed to surprise him with a new move! Seeing as you and the boys had learned together until the Apostasy, after which they went on to prepare for the Riders Quadrant while your own training pretty much stagnated, that’s beyond rare.

“Thanks! Brennan taught it to me.”

“He’s been training you?”

“I dunno if you can call it that,” you mumble. Training you implies some degree of regularity, doesn’t it? “We just sparr once in a while, when he isn’t super busy and my headache’s bearable, and since he’s better than me he gives me tips.”

Bodhi shrugs, a smile playing around his lips. “Well, whatever you want to call it, I’m glad you found a friend to practice with while we were away. Let’s see if he taught you enough to beat me, hm?”

“I can’t beat you! You’re a rider, Bodhi!”

But when he makes a come on gesture, you attack anyway, matching grins on both your faces. The power imbalance isn’t that much worse than it used to be — four years older, he’s always been ahead of you in training, and while that advantage has grown with proper military training, not to mention magic, at least you aren’t so much smaller than him as you used to be. You can’t beat him, no, but that has never stopped you from trying.

It doesn’t take long before you’re flushed and out of breath, muscles burning with the strain of trying to match Bodhi’s strength, but the exertion is a pleasant one, entirely unlike that of struggling through a bad pain day.

You’ve always enjoyed sparring with the boys, and although you’ve trained only sporadically these past years, your body remembers the necessary motions. Punching, blocking, dashing from Bodhi’s attacks or twisting free when he does get a hold on you — it all comes easily, instinctively. You don’t need to think, you only need to move.

Later, your body will demand the price. Like as not, you’ll collapse into bed as soon as you’re back in your room, sleeping through dinner, and even so still be exhausted tomorrow. That’s alright. After taking time out of his schedule for you today, Bodhi will be busy tomorrow, and Xaden and Garrick are still flying about the province collecting riders who left their outposts to join the revolution, so there’s no reason not to spend the day in bed.

Bodhi and you are on the ground when the gym door opens, rolling this way and that across the mat as you unsuccessfully try to pin him down instead of being pinned. The sound of footsteps and quiet conversation flows into the room; over Bodhi’s shoulder, your eyes land on a group of people in the same kind of black sparring clothes he is wearing. There’s maybe a dozen of them. The gym could’ve fit nine such groups — one to each mat — without problem, but to you, it suddenly feels cramped.

Feeling you tense, Bodhi releases you. He glances behind him, and, seeing the group of riders, rises and offers a hand to pull you to your feet as well. You’re vaguely aware of him watching you, but your own attention is wholly on the group of strangers.

As they come closer, you spot one rider standing a head shorter than any of the others, silver hair glinting in the dull winter sun shining in through the windows. The unique color makes Violet easy to recognize; as is Imogen with her head of bright pink. Not all of them strangers, then. It should be a relief, but you don’t know either of the women well enough for their presence to be any real comfort.

A dark-haired guy toward the back of the group bounces on the balls of his feet, craning his neck to stare at you. “Wait, is that Riorson’s sister?”

You suppose it was meant to be a whisper, but in the large, half-empty room, the sound carries, perfectly audible even in your back corner. Beside you, Bodhi glares disapprovingly. The guy doesn’t seem to notice.

Violet, whom the question was addressed at, sighs. “Yes, Ridoc. And she’s a little shy, so do me a favor and stop staring at her as if you’ve never seen a teenager before.”

“But I haven’t seen a teenage Riorson before,” Ridoc argues, only to raise his hands in surrender when Violet throws him a glare. “Okay, okay, sorry.”

A woman walking on Violet’s other side gives you a smile, greeting Bodhi as Section Leader Durran. “We wanted to put in some extra sparring, since Emetterio only has us running up and down the mountain trail in class for now. You could join us, if you’d like?”

Your eyes widen, flying to the woman’s face, but the rest of you is frozen in place, hands and feet turning icy cold even as your face and chest heat up with your panic. She wants you to join them? A whole-ass squad of riders whom you’ve never meet before, aside from Violet and Imogen? No. No, you absolutely cannot do that.

“Better not,” Bodhi interjects, sparing you the embarrassment of everyone seeing you be unable to answer. You could’ve cried with gratitude. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

“The first-years would be gentle with her, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the woman replies, seeming surprised. She looks back to you, as if she’s expecting you to give a different answer of your own, even though Bodhi has already said no. Does she think he was speaking over you, instead of for you?

Shuffling closer to him, you manage a shake of your head.

“Leave her be,” Bodhi says — no, orders. It’s that same tone you’ve heard Xaden use with the other riders, the one that reminds you of how Dad sometimes sounded when he was working: not unfriendly, but very firm, so full of authority no one in their right mind would even think of contradicting him.

The woman backs off.

Bodhi’s hand brushes yours; a wordless offer. You take it, hoping he won’t mind that your palm is sticky with sweat.

As the riders spread over the mats, Bodhi leads you to the edge of the room. “Wanna stay and watch a little? Or go?”

Clinging to his hand more tightly, you continue to wordlessly stare straight ahead, too overwhelmed to even shrug. Your heart is still beating too fast, breaths coming shallow. All you know is you need him to stick right to your side, to keep holding your hand and make sure no one else tries to talk to you. If anyone does, you fear you will sink to the floor and start sobbing hysterically with your hands clamped over your ears.

Bodhi leads you to a bench near the door. With Violet’s squad focused on their sparring, the distance between you and them is just big enough to feel safe. You huddle close to your cousin even so, grateful when he slings an arm around you to better let you snuggle into his side.

The more you focus on your still-uneven breathing, the worse it gets; therefore, you discard the breathing exercises you’re supposed to do in such situations and turn your attention instead to watching the riders sparr, hoping the distraction will help you calm down.

Violet is on the second-nearest mat to your left with the woman who tried to talk to you, whom Bodhi explains is Squad Leader Rhiannon Matthias.

She was just trying to be nice by inviting you to join them, he tells you. You know. Like all the newly-arrived riders, she doesn’t know you, doesn’t know how much you struggle with social interactions and that you prefer to be left alone. It’s why you’ve become even more reluctant than usual to venture outside the family wing, which Xaden has declared off-limits for everyone but his most trusted friends: you don’t want to be perceived at all, much less for everyone who knows your brother to see what a pathetic mess you are in comparison.

You bite your lip. Xaden would scold you for talking badly of yourself, even if it’s only inside your own head.

Pathetic probably is too harsh a word. Still, it’s hard not to feel like a failure sometimes, when you’ve achieved absolutely nothing in life so far while Xaden is not only an outstandingly powerful rider but also the leader of a revolution. At your age, he had already taken charge and saved the marked ones from execution. The cadets now learning of your existence without knowing anything else about you will likely expect you to be similarly heroic, and be sorely disappointed.

Xaden says it’s silly to think that way. He says you cannot possibly hold the both of you to the same standards when your circumstances are so very different, says he wouldn’t be faring any better than you are if he had to deal with the same things as you — the pain tormenting you every second of every day, the fatigue and light sensitivity, the insecurity, loss of speech and panic attacks. He says simply living with all that is impressive all on its own, that you don’t have to do anything special to be just as brave and strong as him in your own way.

You kind of believe him — he wouldn’t lie to you about something like that, but that doesn’t mean others would agree with him. After all, your pain isn’t visible. None of the things that make your life so hard are.

It shouldn't matter what people think, and you’ve often been proven no one cares half as much as you do about all this stuff. Nonetheless, you’re painfully aware what your life must look like to an outsider: a spoiled girl, sheltered from all danger and hardship to laze around in the comfort of her well-protected home while others risk their lives to keep it that way. And would they be entirely wrong to think so? You’re unwell, not lazy, and if you knew a way to make yourself of use in the war against the venin, you would, but there’s no denying you are indeed enjoying the privilege of a very sheltered life, nor that Bodhi and Xaden pamper you every chance they get.

Is that why Rhiannon had looked so sceptical — because Bodhi’s protective reaction to her invitation came off as excessive?

You turn your face into his shoulder, stifling a frustrated groan as you try to force your thoughts off this path. It won’t do you any good to speculate about how someone may or may not have perceived you. If you dwell on it too long, you will only drive yourself mad.

Bodhi nudges you. When you lift your head, he holds out your bottle to you, already unscrewed.

You take it and sip at the water, more to please him than anything else. Stress has effectively rendered physical sensations like thirst or the throbbing of your head into distant background noise.

“What did she mean about only running the mountain trail in class? Why doesn’t the professor let them fight?” you ask to have something else to think about.

“It’s so everyone can adjust to the thinner air at this altitude,” Bodhi explains. “You’re not bothered by it because you never leave, but someone who isn’t used to it will get winded a lot faster than is normal for them, so the professors decided not to let us fight challenges for now.”

Oh. You never considered how the altitude might affect visitors, despite being theoretically aware that Aretia’s location high upon the Cliffs of Dralor means the air here is less oxygen-saturated than in lower regions. It never feels thin to you, except when you’re having one of your panic attacks.

“So they’re sparring even though they’re supposed to take it easy?”

Bodhi shrugs. “They aren’t the Iron Squad for nothing. Besides, it looks like they are taking it easy.”

You doubtfully sweep your gaze over the pairs on the mats; to you, they all seem to be pummeling each other with vigor. Riders must have a different definition of taking it easy than you do.

“Iron Squad means they’re super strong and badass, yes?”

You vaguely recall Xaden telling you about the distinction, but not what criteria a squad has to meet to earn it.

“Mhm, you could put it like that,” Bodhi chuckles. “It means they were the squad to lose the least members between Parapet and Threshing. Pretty sure this was also the second year in a row they earned that patch.”

“I see.”

You sit in silence for a minute, until Bodhi asks whether you feel better. You nod.

“Good. Do you want to keep watching? Or should we go have a snack?”

“Snack.”

Your cousin grins. “I was hoping you’d say that. Come on then.”

Truly — there he stands, filling the doorway like a living wall of muscles and black leather. It’s probably just the uniform that makes him appear even taller than you remember, or your vantage point on the floor, but there’s no doubt the training as a rider has just about doubled his muscle mass. The dimpled grin he gives you looks exactly like it always has, though.

“Hey there, birthday girl.”

You’re too stunned to return the greeting. How can he possibly be here? He should be leagues upon leagues away at Basgiath! Unless... No. If something had happened, he wouldn’t be so cheerful.

As you continue to gape at him, Garrick steps fully into the room, revealing a second black-clad figure standing behind him.

“Xaden!” you screech happily.

Shooting to your feet so fast black spots dance through your vision, you hurl yourself straight into your brother’s waiting arms. You don’t care how he and Garrick can be here, or why; all that matters is that they are.

Xaden hugs you so tightly it gets a little hard to breathe, and you squeeze back with all your (admittedly far less considerable) strength as well.

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs into your hair.

You duck your head a little more, pressing your face into his shirt to let it soak up the stray tear that escapes you. From one minute to the next, this has become the first truly happy birthday you’ve had in years. Even if the boys had to immediately leave again, just getting to hug your brother and hear his birthday wishes in person instead of reading them in a letter beats every other gift you ever received.

A little belatedly, you pull back to sign »Thank you«, throat too clogged with emotions to voice.

Xaden is smiling down at you, but as you get your first good look at his face since he entered the room, your own features scrunch into a frown. That scar splitting his left eyebrow is new.

You touch a finger to it, then ask, »How did that happen?«

“Threshing.”

»You never mentioned it in your letters,« you accuse. It’s been almost a year since his and Garrick’s Threshing!

Soon, it’ll be Bodhi’s turn. You tune out the nervous twist of your guts this thought causes — knowing the dragons are willing to bond with marked ones, there is nothing to worry about anymore, not like last year when you’d lain awake night after night imagining all the horrible ways Xaden and Garrick might be meeting their untimely ends just because they carried the marks of their fathers’ actions. Any dragon would be lucky to have Bodhi as its rider.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Xaden says. “Knew you’d probably imagine the injury much worse than it actually was if I described it to you.”

You sigh, knowing he’s right. If he’d told you about getting a cut on his brow, you would have assumed he was downplaying it and nearly lost his eye. An inch to the right and he would have.

Reminding yourself he didn’t, that he is perfectly whole and healthy, you wrap your arms around him once more, wrestling down the urge to ask whether injuries like that are common during Threshing. If they are, you don’t want to know.

When you can finally bring yourself to let go of him for good, Garrick gets a hug too, then you ask, “How can you guys be here?”

Grinning, Xaden slaps Garrick’s back. “Well, you see, Garrick here is a distance wielder. He walked us.”

You frown, gaze darting between them in confusion. “I thought he’s an air wielder.”

“That too,” Xaden nods. “Some of us have two signets. That can happen sometimes when a dragon bonds the relative of one of their past riders, and I guess they took their pick of marked ones based on that.”

He’d alluded in his letters that there were things he couldn’t write about in case they fell into the wrong hands. You suppose this is one of them.

“Ah. Does that mean you have another signet, too?”

Xaden shakes his head, a strange expression passing over his face, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a smile. “Nope. Only shadows for me.”

“Can I see?”

“You want to see me wield shadows?”

You nod. Your brother’s signet has fascinated you from the moment he first wrote to you about it, and not only because of how much you’ve come to like the dark in the years since your chronic headache and the accompanying light sensitivity started. It’s a rare signet, a powerful one; that much you know. Still, since Xaden hasn’t told you specifics about what his new abilities entail, you’re not sure how something as insubstantial as shadow would be useful in combat, beyond leaving his enemies stumbling blindly around by submerging their faces in darkness.

After months of fantasizing about his magic, you do have some ideas, of course: Maybe, he can create shadows of people who aren’t actually there to confuse his opponents! And in situations that call for stealth, being in control of shadows must certainly make it easier to blend into them to remain undetected. Assuming he can darken a room with his signet, would he still be able to sense what’s happening inside it? And similarly, can he see or feel what people are doing in nearby rooms by connecting to their shadow somehow? Can he listen in on conversations that way?

So many possibilities — and now you’ll finally get to find out if what you’ve been imagining is all nonsense, or if you guessed right about some things. Whatever magic Xaden is actually capable of, it’s bound to be mind-blowing.

Your brother hesitates, though. “Are you sure? People tend to find it a little… unnerving.”

“I’m not afraid of shadows!” you protest. “And I could never be afraid of you, either. Now show me! Please!”

Xaden receives the demand with hands lifting in surrender. “Okay, okay. Here we go.”

He holds out his hand, palm facing down, fingers loosely curled so it looks like he’s gripping an invisible ball. His shadow ripples, breaking apart like smoke to drift upward and dance between his fingers.

His gaze remains fixed on you, gauging your reaction. What he sees must be reassuring, because he gets bolder — the wafting shadows draw together, almost appearing to congeal, and take the shape of a hand. It is crudely formed, and, with its slightly crooked proportions and lack of joints, looks a little like a glove floating mid-air, fraying into shadowy nothingness where the wrist would normally be turning into arm. Slowly, it rises toward you.

You keep perfectly still, uncertain whether the shadow might dissolve if you try to reach for it. How solid is it, really? The idea of shadows as physical objects, rather than areas perceived as darker due to lack of light, is almost incomprehensible, and yet—

“It’s so soft!” you breathe, flooded with wonder at the fact that you’re touching a shadow.

Well — more accurately, the shadow is touching you. Xaden traces it across your cheek, boops your nose, and smoothes down your hair with it, just as if it were his real hand. Now that you’ve proven you’re not afraid of his powers, he seems to be greatly enjoying the opportunity to show them off.

The shadow melts back into the less substantial state that reminds you of black smoke, and flows down your arms. Touching it feels a little like running your hand through water. It is undeniably corporeal, but also malleable, like it’s waiting for Xaden to give it a solid shape again.

Xaden makes more, solidifying the darkness again until it hangs around you like a cloak. You wonder whether it could actually substitute one — whether, should Xaden be caught outside in winter without appropriately warm clothing, he could use his signet to shield himself from the elements.

“I don’t see what’s supposed to be ‘unnerving’ about this,” you say. “It’s soft and cozy and super pretty.”

Xaden chuckles. “That’s because because you’re my sister and know I would never hurt you. At Basgiath, signets are weapons first and foremost. People there don’t look for the beauty in them like you do, thinking only of cuddles; they look at what a signet is capable of in a fight, look for weaknesses to exploit. And my shadows are pretty hard to beat, so people get intimidated.”

“Well, I like it.”

“I’m glad.” The shadow tightens around you, like it’s giving you a hug, then drops to the floor and fades into your own shadow. Experimentally tapping it with your foot, you feel nothing but carpet. “I would’ve hated for you to be scared. No amount of power would be worth that.”

The three of you move to the window seat. It’s a tight fit, your legs sprawled across Garrick’s lap while you sit halfway on Xaden’s, but you don’t mind — there’s something comforting about being wedged between them that way.

Your curiosity about Xaden’s signet satiated, you turn the conversation back to Garrick and his signet. “So what does distance wielding mean, exactly? You’re just there one second, and somewhere else the next?”

“More or less, yeah. Basically, I just take one reeaaally big step to walk from where I am to wherever I want to go. Taking someone with me makes it harder,” Garrick explains.

“Like how carrying a heavy backpack on a hike makes you get tired faster?”

“Exactly.” He grins, slapping Xaden’s shoulder. “And oh boy is this one a heavy backpack indeed.”

Your brother rolls his eyes, jostling you as he elbows Garrick in retaliation, but he, too, is grinning. Their familiar banter has you blinking back tears. Gods, how you’ve missed them!

“Anyway, that’s why we couldn’t come see you any sooner. I had to practice and make sure my signet would be strong enough to get us here and back again without burning out.”

“Burning out?” you frown. That doesn’t sound healthy at all.

“That’s what it’s called when a rider uses more magic than their body can handle,” Xaden explains. “Kind of like how your headache and fatigue take you out for a while after you push yourself too hard.”

“Oh.” Yep — definitely not healthy, though you’re relieved it seems to have nothing to do with actual burning. “Please don’t ever do that, then.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll do our best to avoid it. Wanna see some more magic?”

Even though it’s obvious Garrick is just trying to distract you from the danger of burnouts and the fact that trying to avoid them isn’t the same as never ever having one, you nod eagerly, unable to resist the allure of their powers.

He lifts his hand; too late, you wonder if he’s about to unleash his air wielding signet on your room and scatter all the pieces of the puzzle you left half-finished on the floor yesterday.

No wind picks up to do so. No breeze stirs the curtains. The air remains perfectly still.

Instead, Sleepy Bear rises from your bed, sailing leisurely toward you as if gliding on a slightly sloped tightrope.

It’s one of the forms of lesser magic Xaden wrote about to you, you realize, the ones all riders are capable of regardless of their signet: floating things, creating mage lights, operating ink pens, locking and unlocking doors with a mere wave of their hand.

Reaching you, Sleepy Bear does a somersault and lands on your lap.

“Really?” Xaden deadpans. “Turning the poor teddy into an acrobat?”

Garrick shrugs. “It’s always good to try out new hobbies, even when you’re a teddy. And hey, not all our signets can be repurposed for cuddles, so I had to think of something else to show the birthday girl. I bet she thinks it was cool — don’t you?”

“Very cool,” you nod, causing Garrick to throw Xaden a triumphant look. You decide not to tell him that Xaden’s demonstration was even cooler than his.

You twist around and hold Sleepy Bear out to your brother, hoping he’ll know what you want without you having to outright ask. When you were little and often upset about Xaden and Bodhi being away at school all day, Xaden had had the idea of ‘storing’ hugs inside Sleepy Bear — he would hug him for a few minutes in the morning, and when you needed comfort later in the day while he wasn’t there, you would pretend that by clutching the teddy to your chest, you could receive that hug from Xaden.

He takes Sleepy Bear with a sad smile, and holds him to his chest with one hand, his other arm wound around you, with which he nudges you to lean back against him again: he’s got it covered.

“Oh, by the way: We couldn’t bring Bodhi, but he sends his best wishes.”

You frown. “You just left him at Basgiath all on his own?”

“He can handle himself just fine. Besides, we’ll only be gone for a few hours, and he isn’t really on his own. Eya’s there, too, and a bunch of other marked ones.”

Xaden is probably right. To you, just imagining being left behind by Xaden and Garrick in a place like the Riders Quadrant makes your blood run cold with terror, but Bodhi is much braver and more independent than you, and certainly doesn’t cling to Xaden’s metaphorical skirts the way you would in his stead.

He pulls you into another hug, resting his chin on top of your head. “You worry too much, Berry.”

Your heart warms at the nickname. Xaden uses it so rarely it always feels special when he does, and you have no doubt his goal in doing so now is to make you feel closer to Bodhi despite him not being there. Not only was your cousin the one who came up with it in the first place, but he also calls you by it much more frequently than Xaden and Garrick do, almost using the nickname more than your actual name.

“I know,” you mumble into Xaden’s shirt. “I can’t help it.”

“I know. But I promise Bodhi’s doing just fine, so let’s see if we can forget those worries for a while and just have fun, yeah? It’s your birthday, after all.”

You nod, basking in his embrace a moment longer before sitting back to look between him and Garrick. “What should we do?”

“Depends on what you’re feeling up to. How’s the headache today?”

“Could be worse.”

Of course, it could also be better, but there’s no point in telling them you’ve already exacerbated the pain with a couple hours of reading. They would only feel bad.

“Uh-huh, and what’s that in numbers?” your brother asks, looking unimpressed. He knows you too well.

With a sigh of defeat, you admit the pain is at about eight out of ten.

Xaden and Garrick share a look. “Then it’s probably best if we stay in,” the former says, “so we don’t make it even worse. Do you need anything? Pain tonic? Your sunglasses? Forehead kisses?”

“Forehead kisses,” you immediately say. You can never have enough of those.

Xaden complies, pecking your forehead one, two, three times, before asking, “So, does staying home and letting us pamper you a little sound okay to you?”

You nod. Though you miss the times when you could go romping around outside whenever you wanted, you’ve learned to live with the limitations your chronic pain imposes on you and can accept that today, your body isn’t up for the adventures on horseback you long for. Now the boys have dragons, they’d probably find it boring, anyway.

“Whatever we do, it should definitely involve eating birthday cake,” Garrick puts in.

“Uhmm... I don’t have one, actually.”

They both look striken. “No cake?”

You shrug. “I didn’t really feel like celebrating.”

You’d planned to spend the entire day holed up with a book, shutting out the reality of yet another birthday without your family. The anniversary of the day you came to them always makes you feel their absence more keenly, almost as much as the so-called Reunification Day, when Navarre celebrates your father’s death.

“Well, that’s just unacceptable,” Xaden mutters. “Garrick, go see if you can get us a cake somewhere.”

Garrick nods, takes a step towards the door, and… disappears.

“Whoa.”

Your brother chuckles. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. Don’t tell him that, though. His ego’s big enough about it as is.”

At your insistence, he shows off his own signet a little more while you wait for Garrick to return. After not quite ten minutes, he reappears as suddenly as he was gone, a paper plate with three big slices of cake from the bakery in town in one hand, forks from the kitchen in the other.

“They didn’t have one with raspberries,” he reports, “so no berry-cannibalism today, sadly, but I think this one will do just fine.”

Judging by the mouth-watering smell when Garrick sets the cake down on your desk, you think it’ll be more than just fine.

Xaden also nods, satisfied. “Perfect. Now it feels more like a proper birthday, doesn’t it?”

It does, and the boys (you will never stop thinking of them as the boys, even if they’re technically men at this point) make it as special as their limited time away from Basgiath will allow. They give you all the cuddles and forehead kisses you could possibly wish for, entertain you with anecdotes about their dragons while they feed you cake, and indulge you with a round of play-wrestling you lose despite neither of them using their full strength.

The hours that always feel so endless when you’re alone fly by; before you know it, it’s late afternoon, and high time for Xaden and Garrick to return to the war college before someone takes note of their absence.

Saying goodbye hurts. It always does.

Xaden hands Sleepy Bear back to you with a tenderness that feels almost reverent. He’s held him the whole time, imbuing him with plenty of hugs for the lonely months to come. You’ll need them.

They each give you a hug. You try your best not to cry — Xaden hates this as much as you do, and tears will make it even worse. A few escape anyway, dripping onto his flight jacket. He can barely bring himself to let go of you; lingering even as he says they really need to go, his hands clamp around your shoulders and shadows wipe the dampness off your cheeks.

Sniffling, you mutter, “Maybe I should apply at Basgiath as a cook or something so I’ll get to see you.”

If you had the energy to work a real job, you genuinely would’ve considered it. Judging by the look on Xaden’s face, it’s a good thing you can’t.

“Don’t even joke about that. I want you nowhere near that fucking place. If those assholes get their hands on you—” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head, taking a deep breath before continuing more calmly. “You wouldn’t be safe if they knew about you. Navarre can never find out I’m not actually an only child like they think — ever.”

You know what it is he refuses to say out loud — that if Navarrian leadership learned of your existence, they would use you as a hostage to keep Xaden under their control, and likely throw you into the Riders Quadrant as well once you were old enough. Unless they decided to simply kill the both of you for keeping secrets, that is.

“I know,” you mumble, lowering your eyes. His gaze is too intense for you to hold, too full of the horrors he has seen and his desperate need to protect you from them. “’m sorry. You know I wasn’t being serious.”

“I know. And I miss you too, all the fucking time, but at least I know you’re safe here.”

You wouldn’t mind danger if it meant being near Xaden — and Bodhi, and Garrick — though of course, it’s easy to say that when the danger is only an abstract concept in your mind. If you actually were out there under threat, you wouldn’t be able to function for fear.

You say nothing.

“We won’t be able to come often, even with Garrick’s signet,” Xaden continues, “but I promise that when an opportunity presents itself to get away for a few hours, we’ll visit again. Okay?”

You nod — what else can you do?

»Will you write soon, so I’ll know you made it back safely?«

“Of course.”

He wraps you in his arms one more time, pressing a kiss to your head. Garrick gives you another hug as well, and then, they’re gone.

“Damn it, Dain,” you snap, “stop moving my fucking stuff!”

He looks up from whetting his sword, all innocent confusion. “What? I’m not doing anything, sweetheart.”

“Not right now. But you put my book in the nightstand, didn’t you?”

“Oh. Yes. I had to pick it up the make the bed, so I figured I’d put it properly away while I was at it.”

You huff a frustrated breath through your nose. That’s the problem with Dain. He always likes things to be in their ‘proper places’, and doesn’t seem to understand that for you, the proper place is wherever is most convenient at any given time. In some ways, it’s nice how neat he is — you can always count on him to put away the clean laundry and remove the dirty cups on the desk if you and Brennan don’t get around to it, and he’s so particular about how the bed should be made he insists on being the one to do it himself every day. Lately it’s been getting out of hand, though… or maybe you’ve just become more aware of the times he puts away things that don’t need putting away.

Dain still looks confused. “Is that a problem?”

“No— well, yes, but— Ugh! The book isn’t the problem, it’s that you keep doing this! I spent ten minutes looking for my sun lotion this morning and ended up late for flight maneuvers because it was hidden in the bathroom cabinet instead of out where I left it specifically so I would have it when getting ready. And I couldn’t wear the shirt I wanted because you put it in the laundry, and—”

“Well, excuse me for cleaning up after you,” Dain cuts you off, notably irritated himself now. He slides his sword in its scabbard and puts it down, leaning back in his chair with arms crossed. “If you wanted to wear it again, maybe you shouldn’t have dumped it on the floor!”

“I never asked you to pick up my dirty clothes, Dain, that’s my whole point!”

“So what, you expect me to just let your laundry pile up on our floor until we have a new carpet of dirty clothes?”

“Of course not! I would’ve put them away eventually; don’t you act as if I never do! If you’d said something, I would’ve done it right away!”

Dain has gotten to his feet now, your faces too close together for the volume your voice is steadily rising too. You aren’t quite yelling yet, but you’re getting there.

“Have you considered that maybe I was trying to be nice and not hound you with chores?”

You haven’t. The thought is ridiculous. While you don’t care about orderliness nearly as much as Dain does, you do your fair part to keep the room clean, just like he and Brennan. So what if you sometimes leave your belongings in places they don’t technically belong?

“Have you considered that not everything needs to be perfectly tidy a hundred percent of the time?”

You’re interrupted before you can continue with something you would regret later, like calling Dain a pedantic neat freak. Not that it would be untrue — his orderliness does border on obsessive.

“Easy, now.” Brennan pushes off the bathroom’s doorframe where he’d leaned, watching with his arms crossed as steam wafted past him for gods know how long, and crosses the room. Standing between the both of you, he puts one hand on Dain’s shoulder, the other on yours. “Let’s take a deep breath and talk about this calmly, yes?”

Turning away from the scowling source of your frustration, you obey — wrapping an arm around Brennan’s waist and pressing your face into the curve of his neck to take a deeeep breath of freshly washed Brennan. His skin is still hot and slightly damp from his shower, smelling faintly of the scented soap he’d gotten for you a while ago but which all three of you like to use.

You instantly feel calmer.

“Have you been listening the whole time?” you mumble.

“Pretty much, yeah. I was just stepping out the shower and drying off when you complained about your missing sun lotion. Which, by the way, I’m glad you’re taking the extra time to put on, even if it did make you late for class.”

You shrug a little, the praise mellowing you further. “You told me I’m not supposed to go in the sun without it.”

“Mhh. Thank you for obliging.”

You feel him press a kiss to the side of your head, then lean forward around you, presumably to treat Dain to a similar gesture of affection.

Right. Dain; your argument. With a sigh, you straighten, your earlier anger dulled and replaced by weariness.

“Let’s sit down and resolve this,” Brennan suggests.

Both Dain and you nod, and allow yourselves to be led the couple steps over to the bed, where you sit down on either side of Brennan.

“I’m sorry I got so angry,” you say. Dain didn’t deserve to be yelled at, no matter how much his behavior annoyed you.

He reaches across Brennan’s lap to take your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze that lets you know he has already forgiven your little outburst. “And I’m sorry I moved your stuff without asking. I thought I was doing you a favor by tidying up for you, but I should have realized it’d make you upset if your things aren’t where you left them.”

“It did,” you admit, “but… I know you hate clutter just as much as I hate when someone moves my stuff. I guess I can’t really blame you for taking matters into your own hands.”

And unlike you, he hadn’t lost his temper about it. You really are lucky he and Brennan are so much more level-headed than you, endlessly patient about always having to balance out your own short fuse. If one of them gets frustrated, the other makes peace between you — like now.

“So, in conclusion: You are going to make an effort not to leave your things strewn all about our room,” Brennan summarizes, “and Dain is going to refrain from moving what you do leave laying around without talking to you first. What do you think about having a set day for tidying up once a week to help avoid future conflicts?”

You nodded. “Sounds fair.”

“Agreed. Just, one exception, maybe? Your jacket— I know you like to just dump it on the nearest furniture to where you stand when you take it off, but…”

Dain trails off with a shrug. There’s no need to say he believes jackets belong in the armoire; he’s always taking yours and Brennan’s when you come inside and hanging them up, or does so first thing when he comes into the room to find you’ve simply thrown it on the bed or desk.

“I dunno. Putting it in the armoire just feels so final. Maybe… maybe we could have like, a designated jacket chair or something?”

“We could fix some hooks to the door for jackets,” Brennan puts in. “That way they’ll be put away in their own spot, but still in reach.”

With that, all of you are satisfied.

“Wonderful. Now that that’s solved, who wants cuddles?”