D’Argen was walking back to his rooms from the baths with a slight stomp in his step, trying to expel some of the extra energy inside him. The hot water at the baths had relaxed his entire body for all of fifteen seconds before he was unable to sit still. The itch under his feet was absolutely horrible and he wanted to run.

Since the dinner a few weeks ago, he had nothing to do at the castle. Lilian had refused to see him after a terse “not now”, obviously annoyed with how he acted that night. Without their permission to be in their rooms and sit with them, D’Argen had very little else to do around the castle.

This was one of the reasons he never remained for too long. He wanted to run.

When he turned the corner of the hall, he noticed his doors were slightly ajar. The itch under his feet calmed for just a moment as he opened his mahee to run the dozen steps to the door in a flash. As soon as he was through, he noticed two figures in his sitting rooms.

Abbot was sprawled on his sofa, head back and blowing smoke rings into the ceiling. Vah’mor standing, straight back and arms behind them in parade rest, looking out the glass doors of his balcony.

Abbot startled at D’Argen’s sudden burst into the room and choked on his smoke, the following ring turning into wobbly cloud bursts. His coughing fit was enough to draw Vah’mor’s attention and the general turned to look first at Abbot then at D’Argen.

“What’s going on?” D’Argen asked and closed the doors behind him. He was wearing his thin white bathing robe, sashed tight in the middle and clinging slightly to his damp skin.

“The others are getting ready to leave tomorrow,” Vah’mor said out of nowhere as if D’Argen would know exactly what they were talking about.

Fortunately, the runner did know and he felt the itch under his feet intensify. He shuffled on the spot, trying to calm it.

“For the White Cliffs?” D’Argen asked, to confirm anyway.

Vah’mor nodded.

“Lilian is still pissed at you,” Abbot added in, his voice husky. “They need a few more days.”

“As much as they need,” D’Argen conceded right away.

Abbot nodded as if he was approving D’Argen’s answer. Vah’mor frowned from behind the artist, looking at him with narrowed eyes.

“Lilian, Yaling, and I are setting off tomorrow morning.”

“Of course.”

“You should go ahead of us.”

The prompt made D’Argen wince. It would give Lilian a few more days without looking at him and to centre themselves before the adventure. He nodded.

“And here.” Abbot got up from the sofa and held out a plain white envelope to him. “This is from Arehal.” D’Argen noted that Vah’mor visibly tensed at the woman’s name, but Abbot ignored it and continued, “She was looking for you before she left.”

“Thank you.” D’Argen took the heavy paper but did not look down at it.

“See you in a week or so,” Abbot said with a grin playing at the corners of his lips. He rested a hand on D’Argen’s shoulder, tapped it twice, then walked out.

Vah’mor remained. D’Argen focused on them.

“Are you coming with us?” D’Argen asked in the silence and moved towards his sleeping chambers. Vah’mor did not follow but they turned on the spot to keep an eye on him. D’Argen put the envelope down on his bedside table and walked to his wardrobe. He noted that Vah’mor’s eyes remained on the envelope for a little longer than necessary.

“No. But Thar has agreed,” they answered finally. “They will be leaving in two batches. One tomorrow morning and the other in three days.”

“Three days?”

“Acela wanted to talk with Haur and Thar in private – wanted to make sure that there was no ill between them before they set off for this.”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

D’Argen scoffed and undressed, dropping the white bathing robe to the ground without a care about his nudity under it. As someone that did not find others sexually attractive, he sometimes forgot that others may look at him that way, and he had very little modesty.

“What’s there to talk about? I doubt there is any bad blood between them and...” he trailed off, focusing on pulling his travel robes out. His shirt was first to go on, the dark material clinging only for a moment to his damp skin before falling loose.

“Why do you doubt that?” Vah’mor asked, reminding him of the topic.

“It’s not Haur’s fault that Thar got exiled and they both know it. Also, before his exile, Thar was Haur’s commander, wasn’t he? He wouldn’t be angry to be with an old friend.”

“Forgetting the fact that Haur now holds one of Thar’s titles, Haur is also now in charge of the entire expedition.”

“He is?” D’Argen put on his trousers and tucked in his shirt. He left it just loose enough so that it would not tug when he ran.

“He is. And I expect you to follow his command as you follow mine.”

D’Argen almost dropped the belt he picked up at those words. He turned to face the general of Evadia with narrowed eyes and asked, “Has there ever been a time when my loyalty was under questioning?”

“Never, I just meant...” Vah’mor trailed off and looked up at the ceiling. “It has been a long time since you have been back and you have been the one in charge of yourself and your team for a long time now. Though...” they trailed off again, eyes wandering down and back to D’Argen’s receiving chambers and to the door. “Do they always speak to you this way?”

D’Argen was confused only for a moment before he smirked and tied the belt around his hips. “Ranks don’t mean much when there isn’t anyone to enforce them or a reason to do so. We always do”—D’Argen raised a hand to forestall Vah’mor’s interruption—”when there are mortals around, we always focus on the ranks. But outside of that, we are equal.”

“But... you are not.”

“Outside the walls, out there, without a war to fight, we are.”

“So, Lilian being angry with you? That is the norm?”

“Eh. It hasn’t happened this bad in a few centuries at least, but it’s not a surprise. I was extremely rude. And drunk. The drunk part usually makes them forgive me faster.” It was easier to focus on slipping into his boots and tying the laces in an intricate pattern rather than to think of Lilian. It was easier to focus on his own mistake rather than the way Lilian had laughed and smiled as if they had not used the winds to cut their skin apart.

It was easier to think about the new adventure that would take him far away than Lilian’s plea to return to a home none of them remembered.

He finished off tying his left boot in a more simple pattern and went up to the table with Arehal’s letter. “So, I’m leaving soon then?” he asked and broke the wax seal. “Who am I running with?”

“No one.”

D’Argen had already slipped the two pages out of their envelope before he registered the words and turned to look at Vah’mor in surprise.

“Just you. Nocipel is already there and sent a message that everything was almost ready.” Vah’mor’s tone was subdued and they were not looking at D’Argen but at the papers in his hands.

D’Argen focused on them, saw Arehal’s beautiful script addressing his name at the top, and folded them up again.

“Alright. Anything else I should know?” He took the papers with him back to the wardrobe. He slipped on his inner robe. The papers went into the thin inner pocket between his shirt and the robe.

“Be careful?” Vah’mor said but it sounded more like a question.

D’Argen smirked and put on his outer robe. The folds of it fell down to his ankles but the material was light and open enough not to get tangled in his feet as he ran.

“Also.” Vah’mor moved to stand beside him, looking into his wardrobe. They rummaged for a few things and then threw them on the side of the bed. “It is going to be cold. You may not need them now, but make sure to take those with you.” There was a thick shirt of a dark grey that looked almost the same shade as his underrobe, so it must have been blue, a thicker shirt lined with fur on the inside, and then his winter robe.

“Thar will be with us,” D’Argen argued just for argument’s sake. He collected his travel pack and started folding the clothes Vah’mor had pulled out.

“I doubt Thar will be able to keep everyone from getting cold. He is not coming with you to be your personal heater.”

“He could be.” D’Argen shrugged with a grin. “But fine, fine. Pass me an extra string please.” He waved a hand towards the receiving chambers and the large table there.

Vah’mor was standing there a few moments later and sifting through the junk. By the time D’Argen had packed the warm clothes and a few others, just in case, Vah’mor had yet to find what the runner asked for. With his pack at his side, D’Argen joined them at the desk. There was a roll of his bowstring under a book, one of his daggers without the sheath on top of a pile of clothes, the sheath on the ground, and a string of ribbons for his hair near a pile of brooches.

“How do you even find anything?” Vah’mor asked under their breath.

D’Argen shrugged in reply and then collected his sword, found his second dagger, and found an empty wooden flask.

“Anything else I should know?” D’Argen asked once everything was strapped where it should be. His bow was missing, but that was with the artificers underground, getting the mechanism looked at.

Vah’mor was staring at his breast, looking right where the papers were folded against his chest as if they could read the words through the cloth.

“Lemisyre. Go check with her, she may have something else for you.” Vah’mor tore their eyes away from his chest.

D’Argen nodded, shouldered his pack, and grinned. “I’ll see you in a few months?”

“As long as it is not a few centuries. Send a message every now and then.”

“Of course.” D’Argen clapped their shoulder and then used that hold to pull Vah’mor into a hug. He gripped tight, glad to feel the other in his arms and felt their arms circle his back in turn. The hug lasted a long time before finally D’Argen pulled away and left.