Mirk looked up into Jean-Luc's face and wondered what his grandfather would have done, had he found himself in the same uncomfortable position he'd gotten himself stuck in.

Thankfully, it hadn't been Seigneur Rouzet who'd wanted to accost him after the public meeting. Rouzet had been there, of course, drifting among the Grand Masters and other figureheads who'd been invited into the back hall, a smirking, ominous presence that most of the older mages had the sense to avoid but that the younger ones actively sought out. The Marquise was the one who'd insisted on speaking to Mirk again. She'd had time between the private and public meetings to return to her holdings in Marseilles and collect a whole stack of ledgers. Dumping them in Mirk's arms, she’d made a request that sounded more like an instruction, an order to ask his superiors in the K'maneda if any of the divisions would be able to do guard contracts on any of the caravan and shipping routes outlined in their dusty pages. At least she’d suggested a high price for their services to soften her demand. Mirk had promised to look into it.

The Marquise had hurried off then. Her attention had been caught by the arrival of the new prospective delegate to the Italian states, and she’d glided over to badger him about the piracy that had compelled her to seek Mirk out in the first place. Which had left him alone in the back hallway, surrounded by mages three times his age and importance, lost on what to do next. Most of him wanted to slip out the side door and get back to the City as soon as possible. But the part of him that his mother had attempted to train up well, to school in matters of social grace and intrigue, said that the opportunity to rub elbows with French magecraft's best and brightest was not something to be discarded simply because the scroll from House Rose was still burning a hole in his justacorps pocket.

He had a reputation to rebuild. The question was, of course, whether there was anyone present he could speak with who might help advance his family's cause. Or at least help him understand why he'd been singled out by the Circle for a post that rightfully belonged to a much more experienced man.

There weren't many ladies in the back hall, the Marquise excepted, which left him with few avenues to pursue. As Mirk had scanned the crowd in search of a friendly face, perhaps a young man on the rise who might have also found himself thrust into a position he felt unprepared for, his eyes had fallen on a collection of portraits hung on the inside wall of the hallway. The present members of the Circle, commissioned when they’d first joined, judging by how both the Comte de Coudray and Seigneur d'Aumont had their own hair in them. There was no portrait of Seigneur Masson. The painting of the former representative of the earth elementals, his grandfather, remained.

He'd never seen his grandfather depicted like that before. All Mirk had ever known of Jean-Luc was the sprightly, wrinkled old man, stout and gnarled with age, who'd greeted him at every family gathering with a wink and some offhand joke about how he looked more and more like his father, that sometime soon he'd sprout wings and fly away from them all. Mirk looked nothing like his father. And he looked nothing like Jean-Luc either, even when he'd been in his prime.

It was impossible to tell how much his grandfather had shrunk over the centuries, since he stood alone in the portrait. But now Mirk at least knew where his mother and sister had gotten their dark hair from. He had only known his grandfather well after he’d started shaving his head. In the portrait, Jean-Luc's hair was still jet black, hanging wild and curly about his shoulders in a fashion that was not in line with the shorter, straight cuts favored by the other men of his generation lining the back wall. In contrast with his hair, his clothes were decidedly more plain than those of the Comte or Seigneur d'Aumont. A forest-green doublet with little trimming or ornamentation over a simple tan linen shirt and gray hose. The most notable thing about his attire were his shoes, taller and suited to either riding or rambling rather than padding about a guild hall. That and his smirking grin. And the staff, which Mirk now carried instead of him.

Jean-Luc had been painted in a dynamic pose, reflecting either his reputation as a man of action or his desire to be perceived as one, unrestrained and unconcerned with finery and propriety. He had the staff flung backward, pointing at some spot on a map of France that only halfway resembled the one Mirk knew. Obviously, this was supposed to mean something significant, though Mirk couldn't tell what it was. As far as he knew, his grandfather had done nothing of note in Alsace.

"Jean-Luc always had more enthusiasm than sense. I trust that you will at least remember enough of your schooling to be able to find Avignon on a map, oblate."

Mirk jumped and whirled around at the sudden voice from behind him, instinct and memory preparing him for a scolding. But though the woman looming behind him was stern, as always, there was no reprimand forthcoming. Only a tight-lipped smile and a nod, her hands still clasped firmly at her waist rather than wielding a crozier that would inevitably be either jabbed at some detail he'd overlooked or used to deliver a gentle rap to his shoulder.

"Reverend Mother!" Mirk yelped, fumbling to press his hands together and bow to her. Which was difficult, considering he was the one carrying a staff at present, along with all of the Marquise's ledgers. "My apologies. I didn't know that you were here. Otherwise I would have come to greet you right away."

"I was delayed," the Abbess said, her gaze drifting back toward the portrait of Jean-Luc behind him. "Brother Matthieu said the horses were especially disagreeable this morning. Then again, he always says that."

"I had been meaning to visit, once I found my bearings, I just...things have..."

"There is no need to explain," the Abbess said, with a single shake of her head. "We are not wholly cut off from the world. I have heard much news of your family's difficulties."

Mirk sighed, though he checked himself before he could slump over in chagrin like he usually did when confronted with one of the Abbess's many opinions. Although seeing her again unannounced was startling, especially in such a gilded milieu, there was something reassuring about her presence. She was the stark inverse of all the finery around them, dressed in the slate gray habit of her order, the Little Sisters of Sainte-Blandine. The only trace of wealth she allowed herself was her crucifix, though even that was plain silver, far smaller and less intricate than those of the other high-ranking members of the clergy he'd spied in passing while at the abbey.

Though he’d long since grown accustomed to being talked down at by massive half-bloods and full angels, there was still something intimidating about the Abbess peering down her nose at him. She was the tallest woman he'd ever met, his sister excepted. And possibly the strongest, though he only knew that from seeing her get frustrated by the aforementioned Brother Matthieu's coach and hauling it out of a ditch herself once, single-handed. A heavy habit could hide many secrets. Mirk had always privately wondered whether or not a half-blood lineage was one of them, but he'd had enough sense never to ask.

But he did muster the courage to ask the Abbess a different question, once he'd regained his bearings. "Why have you come to visit Paris, Reverend Mother? Is something wrong?"

"No more than customary. A small matter of the Cardinal being tardy with his paperwork. But this has been a perpetual issue with His Eminence."

He knew full well what the Abbess meant by paperwork. Mirk ducked his head again, thinking fast. "Did the ghosts stop sending the yearly donation? Since I'm here, I can go to their counting house to check..."

"No need. It's well in hand. In any case, I would be understanding if a pause was necessary in order for you to put your house back in order. Though perhaps you'll have more latitude once your uncle stops paying for mercenaries who are no longer needed."

"Euh...pardon, Reverend Mother?"

The Abbess sighed, closing her eyes for a moment, as if offering up a silent plea for the Lord to grant her patience. Then she spoke again, her tone sharper than before. "Sister Orsolya."

One moment, the Abbess was alone before him. The next, a second sister had joined her, stepping out from behind the Abbess as casually as if she'd been there the whole while. Mirk had always assumed Sister Orsolya must have been a teleporting mage of some kind. But now that he was more familiar with Mordecai, a dark mage with a teleporting gift, and much more familiar with demons, Mirk suspected he'd misjudged things.

Mirk didn't think Sister Orsolya used the exact same trick to get from place to place as Genesis did — he hadn't felt the familiar static brush against his mind in advance of her arrival, nor did the shadow pooled behind the Abbess seem any livelier than normal — but he thought it must be related. That aside, after working elbow to elbow with Sheila for months, the clues were harder to miss. Her quickness. How her pupils were reduced to pinpoints even in the dim, yellowy light of the meeting hall's back corridor. There were more, possibly, but the habit she wore hid all of Sister Orsolya's features other than the graceful moon of her face and her pale, long-fingered hands.

"At your service, Reverend Mother," Sister Orsolya said, pressing her hands together and dipping her head to the Abbess. There was a familiar warmth in her tone, a trace of good humor that Mirk had always appreciated. Whenever the Abbess was accompanied by Sister Orsolya, the odds of her criticism being too harsh always diminished. Mostly because the Abbess could only manage to focus her annoyance on one person at a time.

"The situation in Bordeaux has been resolved, yes?"

Sister Orsolya spread her hands. A book bound in gray leather appeared in them, already open to the page the sister needed. "Oh, yes, Reverend Mother," she said, smiling down at her notes. "No speck of darkness could linger where you've stepped, of course. But further measures have been taken to ensure that the matter has been resolved to your satisfaction. No unaccounted for portals have been seen south of the Loire and west of the Rhône in months."

"No record of constructs or thralls arriving on foot or by wing either?"

"An unregistered pair were sighted two weeks ago near Toulouse, but that was an unrelated incident. Also resolved to your satisfaction, promptly," Sister Orsolya said, turning a page. "Other activities of note...three Imperial angels stopped to rest at Rocamadour on their usual patrol across the realm. The Pyrenees werewolves met for their consecration of the full moon near Saint Engrace two weeks ago, and they'll be joining their cousins in the Alps shortly for the equinox. And then there's the matter of the Jordanne gorge..."

"Another business for another time," the Abbess said tersely.

"Yes, Reverend Mother." Once dismissed, Sister Orsolya turned her attention toward Mirk, though she didn't yet close her book. "It's good to see you well, Seigneur d'Avignon! We've all missed you around the abbey, even if you've been almost ten years gone. A spot of the Lord's light in a world gone gray and grave," the sister opined with a wistful sigh. "Though I trust you've carried that spirit on to your new home in the north. Much needed, if rumor proves correct. I have quite a few records from the City of Glass, though, and I've been wondering—"

The Abbess touched her crucifix, briefly, to grant her further restraint. "Another time, Sister Orsolya."

"Yes, yes. Of course, Reverend Mother. At your service, as always."

"To return to your first question," the Abbess continued. "We also came to speak with the healing guilds. A matter of the transfer of brothers and sisters from our wards to the Paris hospitals. But as you're here, I do also have a bit of better news to give you, Ob—"

"Seigneur, technically," Sister Orsolya interjected. "The mage rank supersedes the order's."

A vein had begun to tick at the Abbess's temple. But she didn't turn to address Sister Orsolya grinning up at her from her side. Always a study in opposites, Mirk thought to himself — whereas the sister overflowed with good cheer and merriment, more than even her broad frame could hold, the Abbess remained as cold as ice. Strange, how often such people ended up working together. "Seigneur d'Avignon. Brother Pierre was particularly touched by the news of your family's passing."

"The Lord bless them," Sister Orsolya added, when the Abbess didn't immediately.

Again, the Abbess refused to comment. But she conveyed the blessing with a wave of her hand, an extra display of her goodwill and a signal that she would have come to that point, if only the sister had given her time.

"Was he? I'll have to write to him," Mirk said. Brother Pierre was one of the abbey's empaths who'd helped him when his magic had first started to manifest, spending long hours in adoration of the Eucharist kneeling beside him. It’d been more an exercise in tempering his own emotions and learning to focus himself than a strictly religious devotion.

"As you'll remember, he was the one who painted the wedding portrait for your mother on commission from Jean-Luc. And your sister's debut portrait."

Mirk glanced back over his shoulder at the portrait of his grandfather. It had to be at least two hundred years old. And Brother Pierre had never struck him as being particularly potent, or a member of the abbey's only somewhat human contingent, unlike the two sisters before him.

"That's his mentor's doing, Brother Thiou," Sister Orsolya explained. "I do wish he'd come back from the east one of these days...he always told such funny stories...and very pious too, of course," she added, at a particularly cutting look from the Abbess. "Beyond reproach."

"Since he's painted your sister and parents before—"

"The Lord bless them."

"—he offered to do another portrait of you four for you to remember them by. Since we've learned that all of your family's mementos were lost in the fire."

"Fires. Mostly," Sister Orsolya said, eyeballing the staff in Mirk's hand.

"I...I don't know what to say, Reverend Mother," Mirk said, as he shifted the stack of ledgers around in his arms. They were terribly heavy; he wished he'd brought his work bag. Though such a shabby, cast-off item would have certainly been frowned upon by the others who'd attended the meeting. "I'm honored by the offer. If Brother Pierre insists, I wouldn't say no. It'd be nice to have something to remember them by."

It was a half-truth, like so many of the things he'd been forced to spit out over the past two days. He did miss his family, but seeing Jean-Luc's portrait, along with the faces of all the mages he'd grown up among, only ever served to pour salt in the wound. Having his parents and sister look down on him in physical form day in and day out felt like an unbearable weight. Then again, Mirk knew well enough how quickly the years passed. And once time erased their smiles from his memory, there'd be nothing left of them.

Not to mention the odds weren't good that Genesis would sacrifice one of his bookcases just so that the commander could have his family staring holes into his back while he worked. But he wouldn't live with Genesis forever. He needed to think of the future instead of wallowing in the past, even if the portrait would only be yet another reminder of it.

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"It must be terribly lonely up in London," Sister Orsolya said, drawing Mirk up out of his thoughts. "Without friends or a proper church to attend Mass at. Though I suspect a man who's been blessed with such a pleasant personality must have made a few new friends already. I've heard stories about—"

For once, the Abbess didn't cut the sister off directly. Instead, her eyes, as gray and as cold as her habit, had locked on someone a few paces behind and to Mirk's right. "Seigneur d'Aumont. A word, please."

Again, Mirk had to fight the urge to shrink in on himself. His nerves were quickly nearing their limit. After two days spent among his fellow nobles, he didn't think he could stand much more politicking and diplomacy. Once he finally managed to escape back to the City, Mirk was determined to shut himself in his bedroom and not come out unless one of his fellow healers or one of the more gregarious members of the Seventh came around to accost him to go to the tavern.

The Abbess had used the same tone on Seigneur d'Aumont that she had when calling upon Sister Orsolya. And, like the sister, the Grand Master of Le Phare seemed compelled to obey, even if he didn't seem exactly pleased by the summons. "Reverend Mother," he said, drawing over beside Mirk and bowing to her, though he kept a prudent distance from all of them. "I trust all is well?"

"As well as can be expected, seigneur," the Abbess replied. "A question for you."

"I'm at your service, of course."

"What is the Circle intending on doing with Jean-Luc's portrait?"

Seigneur d'Aumont didn't look back at the portrait on the wall behind him. "To be honest, Reverend Mother, I had not yet given it much thought. The tradition is to transfer the portraits back to the guild the past members represented. But I suppose that will not be possible with Jean-Luc's."

Sister Orsolya's aside was particularly pointed, as she turned a few pages of her book. "The Lord bless him."

Rather than being perturbed that time, the Abbess nodded. "Indeed. The Lord bless all of the d'Avignons."

"Of course, yes. A terrible tragedy, bless them."

"If I may make a suggestion, Seigneur d'Aumont?" Though the seigneur opened his mouth to reply, the Abbess didn't give him the time to. "As Seigneur d'Avignon has already lost so much, perhaps it would be fitting for him to take possession of it."

Seigneur d'Aumont didn't seem enthusiastic about the notion. But he nodded nevertheless. "I will consult with the other members, but I doubt any will protest. They may wish to leave the portrait hanging until Seigneur Masson's has been completed, however. As is also tradition."

"There's no rush, seigneur," Mirk said into the stony silence that fell between the Grand Master and the Abbess, bowing his thanks to him. There was something going on between the two of them, Mirk was sure of it. But he was too exhausted, too weighed down by Jean-Luc's eyes on his back and the Marquise's ledgers in his arms and the scroll still tugging at the pocket of his justacorps to make sense of it. He'd have to write a letter to his godmother asking about it. If he could even remember to do that much.

"I will tell Seigneur Feulaine to write to you on the matter when we next have a Circle matter to discuss,” Seigneur d’Aumont said.

"My thanks," Mirk said, bowing again. "It...really would be a blessing, to me. To have something to remember my grandfather by. He did so much for me. And everyone."

"Speaking of other matters to discuss," Sister Orsolya cut in, though she kept her attention fixed on the Abbess rather than speaking to Seigneur d'Aumont directly. Apparently her willingness to press the boundaries of polite society only extended so far. "I think, Reverend Mother, since we have the seigneur's attention, it might be worth speaking about the Jordanne gorge incident, as he has holdings in that region..."

It was his chance. Before the Abbess and Seigneur d'Aumont set in on each other again, Mirk bowed his apologies and made his excuses before making good his escape. Yvette would surely berate him for it in her next letter, but he didn't have the strength left to return to the main hall and find her. Better to seek out Seigneur Feulaine in the back hall, give his apologies to him, and beg for another measure of pity along with a way to get back to the City.

As he turned away from the Abbess and sought out Seigneur Feulaine, Mirk’s eyes fell once more on Jean-Luc's portrait. For a moment, he stared up into his grandfather's steady gaze, at his confident, self-satisfied half-smile. The expression of a man who was sure of himself and his place in the world. And who knew how to use the staff he wielded to get what he needed. Even if his grasp of geography wasn't the best.

For what felt like the hundredth time since the staff had passed to him, Mirk wished that Jean-Luc had been able to pass a bit of his cunning along with it.

- - -

Mirk had restrained himself, at least until he was through the door to the low-born officers' dormitory. But the hour was late, and he hadn't managed to escape the guild mages and their noble hangers-on until he was well past his limit. For the past two hours, even the well-hidden emotions of the guildmasters had been pounding at his mental shielding like intruders at the gates, demanding entrance into his addled and weary mind.

He couldn't take it any longer. Rather than keeping his composure and gliding up the stairs at a measured pace, he bolted up them like a startled hare, fumbling at the rail. The sack Seigneur Feulaine had found for him to put the Marquise's ledgers bounced on his shoulder, their sharp corners poking their accusations into his back. Mirk didn't care. A problem for another day.

More than anything, he needed a drink.

His stomach was still cramping from being teleported back, his whole body burning and freezing in turns. Mirk wove his way up the steps, grateful that all of the dormitory's other residents were either out on contract or at the tavern. If he'd come across someone else as he staggered up to his quarters, the odds were good he'd have plowed straight into them, even if he made a last-ditch effort at avoiding them. Which would have left him with a lot of explaining to do. Both for striking them, and for why someone draped in even the subdued finery he'd retrieved for the public meeting was reeling about like a drunk in the low-born officers' dormitory.

As he slogged down the hallway to his quarters, Mirk dug in the pocket of his justacorps for his keys. The outside one, thankfully. He didn't think he could bear poking at the scroll in his inside pocket in his present condition. Ultimately, it didn't prove necessary. Before he could pause for more than a moment before his door, it creaked open on its own.

Mirk froze, his heart skipping a beat before he felt the familiar static brush against his mind. He sighed, pushing the door open and venturing into the darkness within.

"Can I turn on the magelights, messire? I'm not feeling well enough to do all this in the dark..."

Rather than responding directly, Genesis waved them on himself. He was entrenched in his sullen armchair, his feet propped up on the equally disgruntled ottoman, book in hand. It was well before when he indulged in his usual soak in the bath, but his hair was still damp. Whatever work the commander had been up to, it must have been too dirty for him to bear to wait. And exhausting enough to make him return to their quarters earlier than usual. Genesis surveyed Mirk with eyes narrowed into slits against the yellowy glow of the magelights, hooking a slender finger between the pages of his book to keep his place.

"You are...indisposed."

As soon as he shut the door behind himself, Mirk let the barriers around his mind fall, stopping for just a moment to savor the silence. Aside from the faint, hissing feel of Genesis's presence. Even though the last two days had been difficult, they hadn't been so bad that even Genesis's magic was too much to put up with. It was a kind of not-noise, an anti-presence, something that faded into the background easily because its pitch rarely changed and its frequency hardly wavered. "I just got back from meeting with the Circle. I wish the Teleporters would learn to be more gentle...the Paris portal isn't so bad, but the journeyman working in London gave me the worst spell paper to get to the gate..."

"I see."

Mirk wanted nothing more than to drop all his burdens right where he stood, but he forced himself to be mindful. He pried his stuffy dress shoes off onto the mat, hung his cloak up beside the door instead of casting it aside as an afterthought. Though he unbuttoned his justacorps and waistcoat, he decided not to shed either of them. Spring was well on its way by then, even in London, but it was always chilly up in the dormitories. Something about the magic that'd made them. And certainly all of Genesis's magic laced around the room on top of it didn't help things.

He elected to take his final burden directly to its final destination. Mirk slung the sack full of ledgers off his shoulder as he crossed the room to Genesis's chair. "These are for you. Sort of. The Marquise is very insistent about me finding someone to do guard work for her ships. I didn't promise her help, but I did promise that I'd show someone in command her routes. If nothing there is to your liking, I'd be very grateful if you could tell me which other division needs the work the most. And is the least awful."

Rather than taking the sack from him with his hands, Genesis summoned the shadows to do his work for him. Though they seemed thinner than usual, they still were strong enough to handle the task of unpacking the ledgers from the bag and arranging them in a neat stack on Genesis's desk. The commander paid them little heed. "I have told you that the...aim of the K'maneda is not to preserve the gains of the nobility."

"I know. But would it be so terrible to do easy work for once? Methinks the Easterners wouldn't mind the rest. The other sellswords and guild guards are having trouble with it, but I'm sure Niv would be able to think of something."

Genesis began to speak, but something made him hold his tongue. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he let them fall open wider. They were focused on him. "You are...shaking."

Now that there was no one left to judge his posture, to comment behind his back on what it meant about the strength of his will or the dignity of his family, Mirk let himself slump over. Though he did hug himself in an attempt to stop the shaking he hadn't even realized was there. "It's been a very long day, messire. Well. Days."

Judging by his furrowed brow and drawn-together eyebrows, the commander was having trouble discerning what would make two days sitting in parlors and meeting halls difficult. But Mirk didn't have the strength left to explain, not fully. "I'll tell you about the parts of it that matter to you later. Methinks it might be better if I just go to sleep. I just..."

"...you just?"

There was one burden left weighing on him, one he neither had the will to deal with himself nor the ability to push far enough out of mind for it not to nag at him all night as he fitfully tried to rest. Mirk slipped a hand into the breast pocket of his justacorps and drew out the scroll Lazare Rouzet had passed to him, holding it out to Genesis. "Seigneur Rouzet, the dark mage on the Circle, said this is an apology from House Rose. I...I don't want to read it. But methinks someone should check to make sure there isn't anything important in it."

Delicately, with only the tips of his fingers, Genesis took the scroll from him. Finished with the ledgers, his shadows returned to him and curled around it, just for a moment. Checking for any sort of trap, no doubt. But he used one of his own fingernails to pry the seal off the scroll’s side before unrolling it. Mirk looked away as Genesis read its contents. Even if Genesis's expressions were confusing, Mirk recognized enough of them by then to tell if the scroll's contents were even worse than he'd been expecting.

And he didn't want to know. He didn't want to think about House Rose, about his family, about any of it. Least of all did he want to hear some half-hearted apology, one that he could never accept but would still inevitably feel like he should at least nod to, in the Savior's spirit of forgiveness.

"It is...a formality, I believe. The language is diplomatic. Although the translation into French is inaccurate."

Mirk nodded, sneaking a glance back at Genesis. His expression had smoothed, though there was a certain note of coldness to it that Mirk didn't quite understand. "You can get rid of it, then. Unless you think it's important to keep. You know I'm not clever enough to understand why..."

Genesis released the parchment. Before it could float down onto his lap, across his closed book, the shadows devoured it, not leaving even dust behind. "I...may be able to offer some fragmentary explanation from Jean-Luc's writings now. If this would be of assistance to you."

Grimacing, Mirk shook his head. "I...maybe later, messire. I know I need to, and I will, I just..."

He just couldn't. Mirk couldn't fathom any explanation for what had happened, nothing that could explain why that needed to be taken from him. When he was forced to think of it, he liked to remember the trials of the ancient martyrs, the ones torn apart by beasts and crushed on the wheel and beheaded. Only their trials had ended with their deaths; they'd been rewarded after all their pain with the peace of being granted the right to sit at the Lord's side in eternity. His own pain lingered, ruined so many moments that should have been joyful or warm.

Mirk hadn't offered himself up for the faith like the martyrs, hadn't done anything nearly so noble or selfless. He'd only ever existed. But he must have done something, either in the past or future, to make God deem it necessary to put that burden on him. There had to be some lesson in it, some reason, some test he needed to pass. Otherwise there was no making sense of it.

He could only think of one lesson it might have been meant to teach him. But the thought that all of that had been done to him just so that he'd feel sick at the sight of Genesis rather than be comforted by his presence was even more unbearable than the thought that there was no reason behind it at all.

"You are upset."

Mirk looked up again. It wasn't a question, for once. Genesis seemed to know full well why Mirk had refused his explanation, or at least understood enough not to force him to explain. Rather than staring expectantly at him, the commander shifted over in his chair. It was large enough, and Genesis thin enough, for his hips and midsection to only take up half the cushion if he moved himself flush against its side. "I have...observed that you prefer not to be alone when you are upset," he said, as he picked up his book. "If that is the case in this instance, you are...welcome. The ottoman is another choice. Or the floor. However, you appear...fatigued."

He hesitated only for a moment. Then exhaustion and confusion and weakness got the better of him and, with a bit lip and a shaky nod, Mirk shoved himself into the gap beside Genesis. Genesis was just thin enough for it not to leave him sitting square in his lap, like some sort of whining child who was looking to feel better after being scolded. Not that he would have objected to that position either, though he had no doubt that the chair's cushion was more plush than Genesis's legs. "I'm sorry, Genesis."

"There is no need. You've made no error. In this instance."

Mirk coughed up a weak laugh as he swung his legs a bit, eyeing the ottoman Genesis had his feet propped up on. How the commander could stand to go about in bare feet in the cold was a mystery to him. The chair was a hair too tall for his own stockinged feet to rest comfortably on the floor, and the ottoman was even further away. Genesis was more limbs than torso. "I must be doing better than I thought for you to say that, messire."

Genesis sighed, turning a page in his book as he took up his reading once more. "Errors can only be corrected if you have knowledge of them." He paused as he turned a page. "I will...inform you if you make one."

It was as good of an invitation as he was ever going to get out of Genesis. Rather than drawing his legs up onto the seat, Mirk pivoted to the side, draping his legs across the commander's and pressing his face into the side of his chest. As always, his uniform shirt smelled like his cleaning potions, like bitter orange. And the faint smell of his soap lingered beneath it, lilies freshly bloomed.

Even if Genesis was being more accommodating than usual that night, some things never changed.

"It is a little cold out here, though," Mirk said, his voice muffled. "I don't know how you can stand it..."

A moment later, a weight fell over Mirk's lap, and he turned his head. One of his own careworn quilts had appeared, still neatly folded from when Genesis must have made up the bed. Laughing again, Mirk shook it out over both of them, drawing it up to the level of his own chin and tucking it in on Genesis's far side. The commander hadn't asked for it, but Mirk thought he might appreciate the warmth nevertheless, even if he wouldn't seek it out himself. And Genesis did prefer for things to be as tidy as possible. "Not the self-warming one?" Mirk asked.

"You are still wearing outside clothes," Genesis offered in explanation, though he didn't look down at him. "Fire enchantments become...disagreeable after being washed."

"Oh. Well, I wouldn't want to ruin it for you. Methinks I'll never be able to get stitches even like that again. Or else I'll go blind looking at all the black."

"Your efforts are appreciated."

Rather than drawing his arm back, Mirk let it curl around Genesis's midsection as he settled back in against his chest and closed his eyes. Again, Genesis didn't protest. Both his heart and his breathing were steady underneath Mirk's cheek. Inhumanly slow, unwaveringly precise. It made it easier for Mirk to center himself, to swallow down the discomfort left behind from the scroll and the strain of being teleported so far over the span of two days.

"Thank you, Genesis."

Genesis didn't reply. But a moment later, he felt a gentle pressure on the back of his head. He was predictable enough in his own way, Mirk supposed. Genesis could make sense of things, as long as there was a pattern to follow. He'd remembered that he hadn't protested having his hair stroked the first time they'd ended up in a similar, equally odd position. And that he'd invited it the times that had followed.

It made Mirk wonder what other patterns Genesis's uncanny senses and steel-trap memory had picked up on. But he'd had enough dark and confused musings for one day. Instead, Mirk let himself fall asleep, coaxed down into unconsciousness by the feeling of finally, after two days worth of apprehension and strain, being safe.