Angry? Yes, I suppose you were. And had every right to be, given the circumstances. Ears pricked, Faramund endeavoured to listen a while longer, laugh lines stretching as the tale unfolded. 'Regret and I are old acquaintances. Fear not, syr, for I won't emburden you with mine.' Not if I can help it. Raising his chin, the Sworn allowed the conversation to breathe a moment, civil-speak giving way to harboured thoughts.

'Callous is not a word I would use to describe you,' he said, a half-dozen heartbeats later. 'Austere, maybe? A real stick in the mud, albeit a big one. All the better for beating some sense into thick skulls, I imagine.'

Shrugging, Faramund swept the stars overhead with his gaze. The grin remained, stubborn as its master, though no less welcoming. Clear skies and calm winds. The season's turning, and we turn with it. Gone were the days of Winter. Now, came the rebirth. A lengthening of the light. Long days, short nights, and renewing rains interrupted by brilliant sunlight.

A new dawn, if I so choose. Jaw bunching beneath his beard, Mund looked to Oliver, lingering dread manifesting in the widening of eyes, the thinning of lips.

'I'm not afraid to die, Oliver,' he spoke softly, as if revealing a secret in a crowded place. 'But I am afraid to lose, this! That which I have forged by myself, for myself. Friends, family- loved ones, in truth.' He paused, then, gaze averted for fear of what the Orkin might spy beyond the window to his soul. 'Even you, constant thorn in my side that you are. But what are we if not brothers? Hell. Friends in the making?'
 
Austere. He huffed a laugh at that — if anyone from his past life had been around to heard such a description in regards to him, they would’ve snickered too. What a fine little word, sounding fancier than it was. But a lie it was not, he had to admit — just when had it become so, from what he remembered an awfully careless days of yore, eluded him.

“ Perhaps. Yours has been a very particular skull, wherein thickness is considered. “ He remarked in turn, leaving it at their light jabs and jest, the hint of serious thought in the tone. The air rested with silence therein, himself averting his look to peer through one of the vacant windows just as the Sworn did, the heaviness of thought betwixt. Upon voicing any, Faramund emerged the victor.

Residual amusement fled his face, left behind nothing but undivided attention. He gave a nod in conclusion, just the one.

“ The sword makes you accept certain things. But there is a difference betwixt not being afraid to die and wanting to die. “ He put care into that, tone heavier as the stare lingered on whom should’ve so readily picked up the knife. And yet, the words wouldn’t come to apologize that he should’ve thrown it at his feet to begin with. Practically daring.

Was that the action of an optimist? Thinking naught should’ve come of it, the scenario where he’d ‘won’.

“ Won’t dying lose you — this, us — “ A glance cast about, from so much brick to the outdoors again. “ Everything — all the same? As far as I know, you don’t get to take anything with you, when you go. “

He considered the floor beneath their feet, where he moored to it. Nothing like discussing Death itself to make a man more aware that he was yet alive. How it felt to draw cool air and feel small in the expanse of it.

“ And we’ll lose you. What of us, when you should’ve forfeit the possibility that you could’ve been here, even just a little longer. Isn’t whether you harm us subject to our choices too? “
 
'Only one way to know for sure,' replied the Dawnling, grim in the face of Oli's continued questioning. 'We all stand to lose, though, in my case, it's not just my life being taken from me.' An explanation was in order, but deciding on the right course to take was proving difficult, as it had done every other time he had tried to persuade others into doing what he himself could not, and not for lack of a backbone.

'Worst thing you can do to a person is to strip them of their identity. Day by day, minute by minute, until the last grain of sand drains from the hourglass... and I stop being me, and become something other.'

Something evil, twisted and dark. Shivering at the thought, Faramund folded his arms tight about himself, the worries of yesterday pushing to the forefront, and so exposing the coward he had become. 'When I go, I want it to be on my own terms. Not as an empty vessel hellbent on destroying everything I once held dear.' His eyes flicked to the man stood opposite. The half-light had turned Oliver's pale skin grey, as if he, too, was nothing but a walking, talking cadaver who'd yet to realise he was already dead.

The strength in his gaze betrayed the lie, though. Stubborn. A trait they both shared, it seemed.

'You're going to lose me, Oliver, whether you choose to or not. A week from now. A month.' Faramund's expression was grim, his thoughts even more so. He didn't have it in him to sugar-coat the depths of his despair. Couldn't, even if he'd wanted to. 'The hardest part of holding on is letting go,' he said, sharing in the view a moment. 'To be remembered for who I was rather than what I became, at the end...' He smiled then, nodded, mind made up. Nothing left to say.

'Maybe they'll find a way,' Faramund spoke up, willing to acknowledge hope's existence, if not accept it into his heart. 'A way to rid me of the parasite in my head. Wouldn't that be something!' He huffed a laugh, wishful thinking overriding the absurdity of it all.
 
So. It wasn’t just about guilt, in the end.

“ We won’t choose how we’ll be remembered. Some will hate you for going oversoon — “ Myself included. “ Some will wholeheartedly understand. To the dead this matters very little. “

They’ll just be dead, then. But before then, the suffering has been all theirs to bare. To that, wasn’t it the simplest wish to make an informed decision while one still can. He had no argument anymore, none, apart from the myriad ones attached to feeling more than logic. Just as were Faramund’s.

Neither convinced the other. And that was just how it was going to have to be, from here.

So, at the hopeful remark he couldn’t but to shrug indecisively, slack like he’d lost some weight off his shoulders.

“ Maybe they will find a way. We’ll just have to ardently wish you’ll still be here when they do. “ Another hurdle, no? When was it too late — how long would they get to wait and how far did a man’s patience, chipped away by dread, last. His Sworn brother was already ready to go, it felt, had seemed the part not too long ago in those dark woods.

It didn’t bode well. He pushed off the wall to his feet, leaving behind the steady safety of the wall. Paced a couple steps, hovering there. If only had they been closer, perhaps he would’ve allowed himself approach, as instinct told, instead of — whatever this awkward medium was, the standing around at a distance like the man was actively aflame.

“ Might I request a promise from you, Faramund? " He hazarded in the gloom of the stars and the moons, the ever darker interior that made their shapes fuzzy to look at. Swimming at the edges, melting to brick and outlines of windows.

" For my own peace of mind, mainly. “
 
'Ardently. Now, there's a fancy word.' The hopes he would leave to Oliver and the rest. As for his part in the play to come, well, he was as yet undecided. Death had declined his hand twice now. But he would keep reaching - for as long as it took to sway Him. Or until his brethren came up with a way to cleanse him of the filth fouling his mind, like a cancer of the soul.

Tension ebbed from Faramund's shoulders as he heard Oliver stir, closing the distance until sense bid he stop.

Then, the Orkin spoke, voice cutting clean through the swirling shadows of the lookout, sure as any blade. 'Peace of mind, eh? What I wouldn't give for some of that.' Drawn along on unseen strings, Mund straightened to look the man in his eye. It was the least he could do, considering all the trouble Oli had gone through to seek him out, likely of his own volition. 'Go on, then, syr, ask away.'

And in so doing sate my curiousity, terrible weakness that it is.
 
He kept the man’s look, allowed him speak and make jest, that gentle touch of levity the Sworn seemed unable to shake. It landed in a quake that willed a wry smile upon him, sad at the edges. He could give that much, for this once. Come his time, he hadn’t but to blink and draw breath to tell as he was bid.

“ I would like to know what is going on with you — Be it when things change or don’t. If you gain some sort of— feeling. “ Whatever the last word, he’d leave it to the man to decide, unable to claim foresight as to what it even could be. Just— something. Anything.

Clarity or lack thereof? A choice or a particularly dark eve.

“ And I’d like it to be from you, personally. If that’s possible, as I know our ways take us to parts unknown and not always can we deliver to who asks. “ Though he spoke steady, he forewent trying to sound like he should do it with authority. It wasn’t an order.

“ But I’m asking. And let it be the unabridged truth, whenever— “ He shrugged and trailed off, not wanting to name the cause. Myriad ones would do, even small ones. Conclusive, he hummed and worked his jaw, rotating a touch on heel. A little fidget, arms loosing from where he’d folded them. Palms open and trying at empty air at his sides.

Hands that felt heavy, unable to do anything. Even reach out.

“ And, should it come to ‘what needs be done’, do tell people what you intend. Someone close, preferrably. “

He couldn’t by any means, count himself amongst them. And he would’ve hated to be the sole one who knew to anticipate something so final.

“ Your wants are not unusual, but they are persuasive ones. Don’t forget. “
 
'Someone... close.' Mulling things over in his mind, Faramund could but nod at Oliver's request, jaw tightening as he fought to swallow the lump in his throat. 'Aye, I think I can manage that.' His gaze held steady as he studied the knight before him. Of all the feelings he had done battle with as of late, gratitude was the least expected. Heavy, he felt it settle in his chest like a lead weight, cutting off the need to speak further.

Instead, he reached out to lay a hand on the Pursuant's shoulder, squeezed as was his wont.

'Soppy old bastard, ain'tcha!' Blinking away the tears in his eyes, Faramund sniffed, made to move past Oliver, lest the newborn darkness betray the look on his face. Hard as flint, yet soft around the edges. 'Come on,' he said, mounting the stairs down, 'I'll walk you back. Ain't nothing left to see here, anyhow.' Footsteps echoing, he paused halfway to the next level, turned to find Oli still in place, way back where he had left him.

'You may wish to bring the lantern!' Faramund called up to him, little more than a silhouette against the background. 'It's dark as the Abyss in here. 'Sides, I've not yet figured out how to fly, and it's a long way down.'
 
What he wanted wasn’t so much in the words as it was in the ceremony of it, though that vanishingly small ‘aye’ definitely helped. The touch turned it into something solid, anchored the moment, reducing the space betwixt to what felt like nothing at all.

And then it was over. The man fled past him, leaving him with brighter remarks and the whisper of footsteps on stone stairs. In turn, came an offer, or rather— some sort of favour. To both of them, lest they part as awkwardly as himself should’ve arrived, moments ago. At the jester’s call, he gave the room a once over, like a goodbye, and turned.

“ You’re lucky I’m not here on duty, or as your superior — “ He started at the shadow in the stairs, matter-of-fact. “ Cause to be pilloried, neglecting one’s watch. “

Passing the frame, he picked up the lantern first thing. Turned the crank at the side of its base that’d strike a spark to the heart. This one wasn’t jammed, turning perfectly and making flame on the first try — of course a ranger would check his tools before he trotted up the hill, peeling the better ones off the lot in the storage. The small satisfied smile about him was wiped clean off as he lofted the light, catching up to the Sworn in a clap on the shoulder.

“ Here, before you tumble on and snap your neck. “ He said, giving the lantern away. “ And do lead on — Let this 'soppy old bastard' follow, for once. Syr. “
 
Light blossomed at the top of the stairs. A new dawn born before its time, it drove back the shadows that gathered inside the stairwell, so thick as to be blinding. 'Don't call me Syr,' replied the Sworn, his hiding place disappearing in a matter of steps, 'I work for a living.' An old joke, simple as it was funny. It was the kind of joke to solicit a response, though, a man like Oliver was bound to prove tight-lipped.

But then the coaxing was all part of the fun.

Spares me my wallowing, at the very least. Lantern in hand, Faramund descended a step at a time, the guarded flame held low, away from his face. Ambient light creeped in through cracks in the stone. Not enough to see by, but enough to leave an impression of what to expect, lower down.

Captured light flickered as they reached the ground floor, aged timbers giving way to sole-scuffed stone.

'My post will keep, much like the Vayd itself.' Gesturing, Faramund's feet led him outside, eyes picking a path for them both to traverse. 'You need not concern yourself with my duties, friend. I will tend to them in due course. 'Fore the gossipmongers start wagging their tongues, if we're lucky,' he grinned, the light at the end of his arm leading the way. 'After, if we ain't.'
 

It’s not a title of kings and their knights. The Syr itself implies work and a living.

But he wouldn’t say it, let the man have his fun, light as it was. Likely was that he just didn’t understand the joke, made caricature of what plenty people probably assumed he was. Some stuck up yokel and a proper bellend at that, too serious about himself and his post.

Suppose that had been the pattern, as of late. One too many things to kill the whimsy in a man.

The outdoors opened to the whistle of mountain wind and creaking trees, a colder world to the one at their backs. He pushed the door shut behind the two of them, steady and dutiful, putting a bit of force to where it always caught in the frame. Old bearings and groaning nails.

“ Gossipmongers— “ He huffed his amusement and disbelief, stare cast down to mind the rocks and the pebbles on the path down. “ Whoever would tell any tale worth gossiping about, I’d wager knows neither of us very well. “

He watched the man’s broad shadow in the ground, the diagonal shape and a halo of lanternlight.

“ Although— “ A turn in tone, feigned ponder, loose in the night air. “ Perhaps one should wonder as to what I must’ve done up there, in the tower, to earn a ranger’s escort back home. And his friendship. “

A smug sort of smile was given to the trees, like he was letting them in on a secret. A little playful thought.

“ Must’ve been plenty good — We’ve worn our difference openly. “
 
Following the path back, Mund kept a steady pace, soft steps going unheard in the dusk. Loose scree tittered behind. A stone danced upon the path, clipping the back of the Sworn's boots. Like a grox trailing a ghost, the Sworn shook his head, taking a look over his shoulder to make sure the Pursuant hadn't done himself a mischief.

'That we have,' he replied, as the man's words caught up to him. 'But the Vanguard leads the way. An escort is easy enough to come by. As for the other thing, well, I s'pose is must've snuck up on us without either realising. It happens sometimes, I'm told.'

What had it been now, eleven, twelve years? Oliver had been a knight long before his arrival. Near enough two decades, if memory served. Stiff-collared, and oh-so serious all the time. That they got on each other's nerves so very often came as no surprise to Faramund. And yet, the man had changed. Or else revealed more of himself than Faramund had grown accustomed to. A bit of the humanity behind the mask. Though, orkanity might've been more appropriate.

Pausing upon the path, Faramund turned to regard Oliver, lantern dangling loosely from an upraised fist.

'By the Eight! Did I hear that right? Syr Oliver cracking a joke, here, with me?!' Huffing a laugh, the dawnling shook his head. 'It's a good thing I'm the only witness, otherwise your reputation would be in tatters by now.'

About-facing, Faramund continued upon the trail. The warm glow of civilisation shone between the trees ahead. Then, came the vague outline of buildings in the dark. Solid structures constructed in eras past by hands long turned to dust. A raven whooshed by overhead, coming so close to Faramund's head that he felt the downdraft of its wings.

Lucky I didn't get shit on, the knight considered. Life had done that enough already.
 
His brows arched with surprise at the exclamations, the amount of amusement and speak of ruined reputations. Easy counters, the kind that’d loose a mere half-arsed exhale of a laugh from him.

“ That’s a reputation yourself assigns to me, Faramund. “ He started, lips twisting with thought. “ I’ll dare say you’ve not seen the half of me — I might be plenty a jester myself. “ Outside missions, amongst friends, behind closed doors. Beware.

He paused to crinkle his face at the raven overhead, inclining his head with overt haughtiness that squared the shoulders. Haircut alive in the gesture and the breeze. Like a vain queen glancing over a vast domain.

“ But it’s not a secret. More a— “ He shrugged. “ Special dish. You don’t serve it to everyone. “

Let alone every day. We hide and amend parts of ourselves depending on circumstance.
 
'Duly noted,' replied Faramund, lantern light bobbing by his side as the path ahead narrowed. 'If it's motley you require to complete your guise, there's a tailor in Astenvale who I'm told is quite nifty with a needle.' Shrugging, the knight carried on through the trees, his shadow keeping pace alongside. It did not take long for them to reach the monastery proper.

Drawing to a halt beneath the boughs of a yew tree, Faramund turned to Oliver, hand holding the lantern extended in offering.

'I guess this is where we part ways,' he said, nodding, friendliness absconding in favour of formality. 'Take the lantern. I won't be needing it anymore, what with the moons and stars to guide me.' They were out in force tonight, the Sovereign and the Beloved sticking close to each other, as if bound by common cause.

'Go, partake of this special dish of yours. I've a post to man, more thoughts to grapple with.' Your fault, thought the Dawnling, eyeing his brother closely. 'And before you say anything, no, I haven't forgotten who gives the orders around here. I just happen to like the sound of my own voice.'
 
“ One should hope a tailor is nifty with a needle, relatively. “ He responded humourlessly, all too ready and as such, unable to stop himself. As if to serve the both of them, the monastery walls winked to view betwixt the trees none too soon therein, large trees and moss hugging the old stone. He came to the man’s side once he stopped, sidestepping.

In an appreciative cock of his head, he accepted the lantern. For a moment yet they lingered, his eye regarding the man from beneath an inspectorial brow. With both amusement at his words and— was that residual concern for the rest? The wonder as for whatever befell hereon — would the man be safe from a thing that, while not an actual beast, was of the dark all the same.

“ You do talk too much sometimes, Faramund. “ He affirmed, flashing a wider smile.

“ But I don’t regret that you should’ve trusted me with your thoughts, tonight. “ He let the arm holding the lantern fall, the light inching away from their faces. “ And, like I said— I wasn’t out here as your Pursuant. “

As a friend? The definition felt strange in his mouth yet, remaining unvoiced like he didn’t entirely believe it. Something was too raw yet, the word too rife with affection for his liking, as if merely speaking it would absolve the myriad things he’d disapproved of. The maw of difference, yawning open anew as they’d walk away. So much cold, empty air.

“ So order me all you like, Knight of Dawn. Maybe I’ll take it as a friendly suggestion instead—” In a quirk of the brow and a sidelong glance, tone positively afloat, he turned to go.

“ One day. “
 
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