From the Flames of the Fire, I Feel You

One would think, after more than a year of working together, moulding his regiment into a team that could think on the fly, adjust their strategies to fit any situation, that they wouldn’t find themselves in such a mess. And yet here they were.

Sartauvoir crouched, back pressed against a destroyed stone wall, as two of his people gave him progress reports.

“It’s not just fire, ser, they’ve brought out cannons. But… cannons with water. Somehow.” The woman - Jehane - was tall and stocky, and one hell of a good pyromancer.

“I’ve never seen the like before.” The shorter of the two - Cassius - scrubbed at the back of his neck, smearing soot about.

“Must be some new ‘tek,” Jehane continued. “I thought they didn’t do magitek in Dalmasca! Our intel must be wrong.”

Sartauvoir lifted a calming hand. “Intel can change with the wind, you know that. Maybe it’s magitek, maybe it’s some other flames-damned thing they’ve been hiding, but we have to deal with it.” He made a fist, brows furrowing, and flames sprang to his will. “What is it the Legatus is so fond of saying, hm? Even magitek cannot withstand true fire. So. If they have cannons, we need to get inside their range. Cassius, you’ve got a long eye. Get to some higher ground and scout over their walls. I can give you a boost up if you need to ride some thermals to get high enough, just let me know.”

Cassius nodded, a spark returning to his eye.

“And Jehane, gather up the rest of the squad and prep them for a pincer movement. The moment we get intel from Cassius, you go. As we drilled, yes? Water cannot hurt us, if it becomes steam first. And we are not so cowed by a little heat.”

Jehane saluted, that same salute they would all use for Basch, fist over heart, and Sartauvoir grinned in response. “Yes Ser, as you say.”

“Good. Then get to it.” Sartauvoir tipped his hat back and eyed the sky. The noise of the battlefield was but a muffled roar he was long accustomed to by now, and he revelled in the scent of ash and smoke on the breeze, breathing it in deep as his legionaries sprang to their duties.

He got to his feet and with a gesture of one hand, gathered flames about him like a roaring cloak. Some might say his use of fire was ostentatious, that he wasted energy, but Sartauvoir quo Soranus had ever had energy to burn, and especially if it was fuel for the flames that fed him so. He strode in the direction Cassius had run, allowing the heat to give him a little boost of speed - not enough to fly, no, but enough to elevate his steps just enough that he seemed to almost hover as he walked.

Rubble and charcoaled bone crunched under his boots, and he bared his teeth in a grin. Ah, how sweet that sound was. A Dalmascan mercenary, from his lack of uniform or stripes, and how he had screamed as Sartauvoir burned him to ash, as though screaming loud enough would make him halt the devouring flames. No, the screams only stoked the embers of his soul higher and higher, ‘til they were a conflagration of fierce, unyielding joy of the kill, of the melted flesh and burning hair, of that particular sound a man’s eyeballs made as they boiled from within. Music to his ears.

“Ser!” Cassius shouted over a wall, giving him a wave. Sartauvoir hopped the short stack of bricks that used to be a house, most like, and crouched down next to Cassius.

“Up there, I think.” Cassius pointed up and to the left, where a copse of trees sat, miraculously unscathed. So far.

“Aye, looks likely. Very well.” Sartauvoir nodded, and then rubbed his hands together with a brisk motion, pulling them slowly apart like a delicate cat’s cradle made of interweaving threads of flame. A winged creature of fire formed between his palms - his Phenex, but smaller - its little wings flapping, eager to be off. It had a long, trailing tail that billowed out behind it as though buoyed by a fell wind.

Cassius reached out for the tiny Phenex, and smiled delightedly as it glided to hover above his hand. The heat of it was enough to warm them both, but of course it didn’t sear Cassius, fellow pyromancer that he was. “How do I use it?” He didn’t look at Sartauvoir as he asked the question, eyes fixated on the firebird’s bright ember eyes.

“You don’t.” Sartauvoir leaned in, and bent down enough to be face to face with the Phenex. “Obey,” he breathed, infusing the word with tongues of flame and command. “Be a thermal for Cassius, guide him safely back to ground, then return to me with his message. No more, no less.” His words bound the Phenex with illusions of fiery chains before they dissolved into its ephemeral body, and he stood back upright, satisfied. “It will carry out its orders, then leave you. Don’t be afraid.”

Cassius grinned up at Sartauvoir, the flames of the Phenex dancing in his eyes. “As if I would be.” He ran a gentle finger down its back and Sartauvoir saw him shiver, likely from the tangles of aether and magic the bird was made of. “I only wish I could create such a beast.”

“Hmph.” Sartauvoir adjusted his hat, but he offered Cassius a half-smile anyway. “Let me know what you find. Just tell the Phenex and it will search me out. Go well.” He clapped the man on his shoulder then strode away, following the scent of burning to where the battle was fiercest.

One would have thought that a battlefield full of mages would be quieter than your everyday battlefield - after all, magic didn’t take the clashing of steel to cast, and being able to throw a spell from afar lent one a certain distance that foot soldiers were not afforded. And yet, no enemy faction would stand still and take magical artillery, no matter how inexperienced they were. And so, they fought, and Sartauvoir was pleased that he had insisted on his squadron drilling with their staffs along with the rest of the Legion, for it meant that they could at least hold their own against mercenaries and Dalmascan war mages alike.

He glided between clumps of pyromancers engaged in combat, avoiding them with alacrity - they did not need him intervening, and he had bigger fish to fry. Though his squadron had been making good progress all morning, any further progress would be halted if they didn’t get rid of that machine - magitek - whatever it was. A squadron of pyromancers was only as good as their flames, and whatever their war machine was spewing out had doused too many of his men already. It was time to put paid to the thing in the only way he knew how: complete and total destruction. It was as Basch said when he recruited Sartauvoir back then - metal melts just as well as flesh.

A beating of tiny wings reached his ears, and the Phenex he’d left with Cassius alighted upon the brim of his hat, its long, flame-feathered tail draped over the edge like a hand dabbling into a stream from the banking.

Sartauvoir raised his hand and the firebird hopped onto his fingers. He brought it to his face and listened to the peculiar combination of hisses and crackles the Phenexes used as communication - like little tea kettles on a cosy stove, Basch had said once, and the image always made Sartauvoir smile to remember it.

To the East, it conveyed, towards the third bell and half a malm, squatting behind a derelict building.

Just the place they’d been ignoring, thinking it just an abandoned wine cellar. Of course. Sartauvoir smiled and ran his hand down the firebird’s head and back, dissolving its aether and taking the flames of it back into himself, to bolster his cloak of embers.

The flush of extra aether gave him a burst of energy along with it, and he sprang into a run, sending up a small flare with a comet-tail, to show his squadron the way to go. Time to show these Dalmascans what a true master of flame could do.

As he ran, the heat increased enough to give him a thermal, and he leapt into the air with a shout of laughter, arrowing directly for the not-so-derelict building. There was a scuffling of feet at his peripheral as he crested the wall - the rustling of terrified rats fleeing from their betters, most like - and Sartauvoir bared his teeth in a grin as he halted in the air, bringing his arms up and summoning a conflagration with it.

He moulded the flames into a great sphere, then, eyeing the stout metal tube and the men at its base, let it go free. The power of it sent him stepping backwards in the air, his robe fluttering, and he fed a little more heat into his thermal to get some altitude.

His attention on the ebb and flow of heat and air, he did not see the fireball connect - nor did he see the triumphantly terrified grins of the men below. Nay, the only thing Sartauvoir saw was a great flash of white. The boom that followed sent him tumbling from the air, helped on his way by a shard of metal and its smaller brethren, the Dalmascan’s own comet, as it lodged into his shoulders and chest.

Sartauvoir’s head crashed against a wall and he crumpled, flames extinguished.

- - -

The light above was blinding as Sartauvoir came round. Blinding, right up until it was blocked out mostly by a face.

He blinked, and the face coalesced into that of his beloved Legatus, and oh wasn’t he a sight for sore eyes. Sore eyes, sore chest, sore everything. Sartauvoir tried to raise his hand, to take Basch’s and squeeze it, but his body refused to answer.

“Wh-where am I?” he coughed acrid words, tasting metal on his tongue that could be either blood or fragments of the magitek cannon device, and Sartauvoir wasn’t sure which he’d prefer.

He saw Basch’s lips move, but no sound came from them save a dull, muffled roar. Sartauvoir’s eyes widened, and he looked around then immediately regretted it as a wave of nausea overtook him.

More soundless words - by the flames, why did he look so worried? - and Basch laid a steadying hand on his- his pauldron?

Sartauvoir’s arm twitched, and a flash of pain ripped through him. He screamed, possibly, though he could not hear the sound, and the movement of that had him vomiting a thin, acidic liquid down his chin. He never ate before a fight, always said hunger kept him sharp.

Oh Mannatheihwo, what was that? Firm hands manoeuvered him down, and then there was another blinding flash of pain that brought to mind how it must feel when he himself sent a precise tongue of flame directly into a wound. The stench of metal overwhelmed him, and he sank once more into blessed oblivion.

- - -

The next time he awoke, there was sound. Sound, and the warm, calloused grip of that familiar, beloved hand on his own, along with a gentle snoring and a heavier weight that may or may not have been Basch’s head.

“Where am I?” Sartauvoir tried again, only this time he actually heard the words.

Basch jerked awake, hair mussed and glasses smeared full of smoke. “Don’t move,” he said, hastily. “You’ve a bad concussion, it’s a wonder you didn’t lose half your brains on that wall.” His words were hurried, and he bit at his bottom lip. “How do you feel? You’re in the infirmary, by the way. Well, the Medicus’ tent. No infirmary all the way out here.” He laughed, the sound ringing false and hollow to Sartauvoir’s ears.

“Concussion,” he managed, blinking slowly. “And what else?” He could feel… bandages. Bandages and the soft weight of heavy painkillers, no doubt masking a much worse hurt.

“Just a bit of shrapnel,” Basch replied, pushing a hand through his hair. It only served to smear yet more soot through it, and some tiny shards of metal besides.

“Feels like… more than a bit.” By the flames, was it always this hard to speak? “The truth, Basch. No embellishments.”

Basch squeezed his hand, hard. “It was a trap,” he said, simply. The people of Leá Monde saw an opportunity to rid themselves of the Inferno, and they took it.”

It all slotted into place. “The cannon.”

“Yes. It was loaded with some sort of explosive, from what we can tell, though none of the operatives lived to spill their story.” A look of feral anger passed over Basch’s face, and it warmed Sartauvoir to his very core.

He groaned, head falling back against the firm sackcloth pillow. “I should have known.”

“How could you have known? Don’t do that. Our intel was wrong, and for that I blame myself. I know now that I made the right decision, turning this skirmish over to Noah, but… No. He can rise to it. I will not even touch the Optios, I cannot trust myself. Not any more.”

Sartauvoir felt Basch’s hand tremble against his own, and he raised his head again, suddenly afraid. “It was not your doing either, Legatus.” He put a little iron with that title, and Basch looked up, startled. “Without a man on the inside, how could you have gleaned that trap? Even the best Optios can only work with what they have. And I… I was reckless. Chasing the flames…”

“You were born to chase the flames.” Basch’s voice was warm, and it soothed Sartauvoir a little to hear the smile in it.

“Aye, that I was.” He twitched one finger, conjuring up the tiniest of flames, then winced as the aether left his body. The fire winked out, and he slumped back down again, the low thunder of pain rising within his shoulder and chest to make itself known. He winced, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek.

“More painkillers.” Basch leaned down and pressed a kiss to Sartauvoir’s head, still mercifully half-covered with his eyepatch, though it was no doubt a bloody mess by now. “I’ll be right back.”

Sartauvoir smiled up at him. “Van Gabranth, has anyone ever told you you’re a saint?”

“Not the words they usually use, no. Keep still, you. I don’t want you vomiting again, or pulling your stitches. Again.”

Again? Ah. He just nodded, eyes drifting closed in an attempt to ignore the sharp, thudding pain.

The next thing he knew, there was cool glass at his lips, and he swallowed the bitter draught gratefully. A soft blanket of release washed over him, and he felt his whole body untense.

“I know, it tastes disgusting.” A dull clunk as Basch no doubt set the empty elixir bottle down. “But it’s either that or the pain, and I think I know which you’d prefer.”

Sartauvoir chuckled, daring to open his eyes. There was Basch, sat beside his stretcher again, worry writ plain upon his face. “Is it that bad?”

“You tell me. I’ve accumulated a lot of scars over my years, but I’ve never had the pleasure of receiving a shard of metal at terminal velocity to my chest and shoulder.”

Ah, the chest and shoulder. That would explain why even breathing was a struggle. “Well, I suppose it was high time I had more scars.”

“More? You’ve barely a scar upon you, Mage-Knight.” Basch fussed with the bandages swathing Sartauvoir’s chest, straightening out some edge or another with gentle fingers.

Sartauvoir rolled his eyes. “Thank you, by the way.”

“What for? I came as soon as heard the explosion. I knew… something had gone wrong.”

“Not for that. For this.” Sartauvoir brought up his uninjured hand and took hold of Basch’s, bringing it to his face and the edges of his eyepatch. “You- you know what it means to me.”

“Ah.” Basch caressed Sartauvoir’s cheek, cupping the back of his head and smiling back down at him. “I imagine it would have been hard enough for you to be stripped down for the Medicus, let alone to have this removed as well. I’d not force that upon you, not without consent.”

Oh, if only they weren’t in the Medicus’ tent, and if only moving his head didn’t send such a wave of nausea through him, he would have kissed Basch there and then. Sartauvoir settled for holding Basch’s gaze instead, offering him a slow, if weary, smile. “I’m grateful. More than I can say…”

“Then don’t say it,” Basch replied. “You don’t have to. I know.” His thumb grazed Sartauvoir’s cheekbone, just below the eyepatch, where the tiniest part of what was beneath showed itself. “Ah, but you must be hungry, no? I brought broth, along with the elixir. Thin broth, alas - the Medicus wouldn’t allow me anything better. ‘And don’t you let him drink too much of it,’ he said, as though I’d never nursed anyone on their sickbed before.” Basch shook his head at the audacity, then removed his hand from Sartauvoir’s face to fetch the metal canister of broth.

Sartauvoir missed the warmth of that calloused hand, but the scent of broth as Basch opened the canister was a lot more pressing, and he felt his stomach lurch as he realised just how hungry he was. He always did eat like a griffin after battle, and apparently being near-mortally injured was no exception.

Basch leaned over and slid one hand behind Sartauvoir’s head, lifting him gently even as he held the canister to his lips, tipping it just enough to let a trickle of broth run out. Sartauvoir gasped as the salty, hot liquid hit his tongue, and he swallowed it greedily.

“Ah-ah, only a little at once, or the Medicus will have my head.” Basch continued to control the flow of broth, feeding it to Sartauvoir a trickle at a time until he felt as though he would go mad from the slowness of it.

But by the time the canister was half full, he felt as tired as though he’d run a marathon, and his belly was sated enough that he felt a new wave of sleepiness. He let himself lean back into Basch’s hand, wishing they were in his bunk - no, their bunk, now - for some flames-damned privacy.

“When can we go home?” His voice came out slow and warped with weariness.

“Soon, I promise.” There was the sound of Basch screwing the top back onto the canister of broth, and then a gentling hand across his brow as he removed his other. “You need rest now, more than anything. The Medicus did say you were lucky, though…” He trailed off, and Sartauvoir heard him swallow hard. “If that shrapnel had been two ilms to the right…”

“‘t didn’t,” Sartauvoir mumbled, “stop thinking ‘bout it.”

Basch made a frustrated noise in his throat, but he shook his head and smiled ruefully. “You’re right, I suppose. Very well. If you sleep now, I will go speak to the Medicus and demand they let me take you home. They don’t need me at the front, all know that I’ve handed the reins to Noah for this mission, so I’m free to fuss over you as much as I want to.”

His voice became a soothing background noise, and Sartauvoir smiled as he felt himself slip into elixir-smoothed sleep.

- - -

When next he woke - and oh wasn’t he sick to the back teeth of this drifting in and out of consciousness - Sartauvoir found himself in their bunk, with the solid weight of Basch snoring beside him once more. He couldn’t help but smile, and be thankful that at least they were in a bunk and Basch wasn’t forced to be in pain from napping in an uncomfortable canvas field chair next to a stretcher.

Basch’s eyes shot open as Sartauvoir shifted, and he sat up abruptly. “You’re awake,” he said, lifting his glasses to rub at his eyes. Hell, he looked like he hadn’t slept in a month, and sleeping in his glasses to boot? Always an unpleasant experience, from what he’d gleaned.

“Mm, unfortunately.” Sartauvoir winced as he automatically tried to roll and face Basch, the injured muscle in his chest swiftly disabusing him of that notion. “I think- ah, by the flames!” He squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of nausea rolled over him once more.

“More elixir, one moment.” Basch turned and grabbed a bottle from the bedside chest, where he’d clearly left it out and ready. “Here you go, careful now.” He supported Sartauvoir’s head as he sipped down the elixir, then leaned in and pressed their foreheads together when he’d finished. “I’ll not ask how you’re feeling,” he said, softly, “I can tell just by looking at you. You’ve near gone green.”

“Accidentally moved,” Sartauvoir managed, after a few moments of collecting himself. He felt the elixir take effect, and sighed out a breath of relief as the pain and sickness subsided a little. “I have to say, I’m not enjoying this one bit.”

“Nor I…” Basch cradled Sartauvoir’s face with both hands, now, and he ducked his head to kiss him, soft as the feathers on a firebird. “But you’re alive,” he said, caressing Sartauvoir’s cheekbones with both thumbs, “so I have to be thankful.”

“You’ll be more thankful when you have to help me get back all this conditioning you beat into me.” Sartauvoir smiled ruefully. “And me so confident after all those training sessions, too.”

“Healing takes time, especially with torn muscles. Especially if… alright, I must tell you. The Medicus said that he was unable to remove some of the shrapnel from your upper arm and shoulder. It’s lodged too deep within, and he didn’t dare in case he destroyed your movement for good. If we’d been back at Castrum Valnaini, perhaps he would have risked it, but not on the field.”

Ah. So that explained why it felt like something grated against his very bone whenever he tried to move. Well, there was more than one way of removing metal than just digging it out with whatever primitive field equipment one had to hand.

“I can deal with that,” Sartauvoir said, swallowing hard. Turning the flames on himself was… an interesting experience, to say the least. Perhaps a normal man wouldn’t get pleasure from it, but he’d never been normal, had he? Nay. “What was it you said to me, way back then? ‘Metal melts as well as flesh’ - a little targeted pyromancy and I’ll have it done with.”

Basch’s eyes widened and he gripped Sartauvoir’s hand, hard. “You cannot be serious.”

“Deadly. It’s fine, it’s… something I’ve had to do before. It will scar, yes, but I’d choose that over living with this any day.”

A flash of realisation hit Basch’s eyes, and his gaze snapped directly to the eyepatch, as Sartauvoir had known it must. Well… if it was to be any time…

“Yes, that’s why I wear this.” He raised his uninjured arm and touched the edge of the fabric across his eye, fingertips feeling out the edges of the burn that peeked out from beneath. The motion also moved the fabric, and he couldn’t suppress the wince as it tugged at his hair - likely scabbed to the back of his head with blood, at this point. No saving it, then. No escaping it.

Sartauvoir sighed, eyes unfocusing as he let his hand drop to his lap. “If you would help me with this, I will give you the whole tale. I think- I think it’s stuck. All the blood, I suspect.”

Basch’s brow furrowed, and he shuffled forward. “Do you think you can get to the bathtub? Sit on the edge, perhaps?”

“I’m not sure my balance will allow the edge,” Sartauvoir said with a huff, “but if you can help me get there, I would welcome the bath itself. If- if that is alright, of course…”

It was Basch’s turn to sigh. “You are ridiculous. Let me help you - I know I'm not exactly in my prime any more, and for more reasons than just age, but I’ll be damned if I can’t help my partner when he’s injured!”

Sartauvoir’s heart nearly stopped. “Partner? That’s a pretty word.” He felt his face heat up, but he was unable to find it within himself to care, for once. Partner!

“Well, what else would you have this be called? Lover hasn’t enough significance for my liking, and… well, we are not what you could call official enough to be a bondmate…”

Was that- was Basch blushing, now?

“I would be,” Sartauvoir said hurriedly, before he could lose his nerve. “If you asked it of me.” He took Basch’s hand, turned towards him as much as his injuries would allow. “A thousand times over, and then some, Basch.” His palm felt sweaty, and there was a veritable flock of firebirds aflutter in his stomach as the moment stretched out into infinity.

Basch’s voice was quiet. “Would you,” he whispered. “You are yet young, you have your whole life ahead of you, and I am- I am… not telling you the whole truth.”

The firebirds fell to embers, and Sartauvoir felt himself go cold. And oh, how he hated to be cold. “What truth?” His voice felt ten malms away, and his head began to throb, right at the base where he supposed the wound was the worst.

“I… I’ve barely even told Noah yet. Only found out from the Castrum Medicus last week.”

“What truth, Basch. Please.”

“They say I’m dying, Sartauvoir. My health, you know it has… been on a decline, lately. I can no longer train, and even thinking is difficult, at times. Like fighting through thorns, with no end in sight. And then there is the matter of the bleeding…”

“They must be mistaken. You- you can’t! You’re so… you will leave me.”

“I will never leave you.” Basch’s words were fierce enough to be a growl, and he took hold of both Sartauvoir’s hands, squeezing them hard enough to be painful. “Do you hear me? Never. Not even my death can keep me from you, I swear it.”

Sartauvoir couldn’t help but laugh, a bitter sound to his ears. “Easy enough for you to say, when I will have to deal with the reality of it, is it not? What warmth does a spirit have, sharing your bed? What comfort can they offer, when the pain becomes too much to bear?” His eyes began to blur, and he blinked, squeezing them together to will away the tears. He would not succumb to that weakness, not now.

Basch’s hands were warm and calloused around his own, that familiar way his thumb would caress the back of Sartauvoir’s hand without him even realising he was doing so. “You must bear it,” he said, words soft now. “Between you, my son, and the others we trust, you must go on, for the sake of Landis. For the sake of our dreams.”

Sartauvoir inhaled, deep and shaky, but felt the weight of that resolve settle around him like a beloved cloak, lent on a cold, rainy day. “Very well. But I would ask one thing of you first, Basch.” He lifted his head and met Basch’s eyes, gaze steady. “No more hiding. You are worried that I am yet young, but I am old enough to make this decision and I make it gladly. I would have you for my bondmate, before-” he swallowed, taking another breath to calm himself, “before you leave. That I have… something to hold on to, ‘til we meet again.”

Basch’s relief was palpable, and he sagged forward as though a great weight had been released from his shoulders. “Gladly,” he said with a smile, “oh, so gladly. Though… I’m not certain a warzone is the best place to hold a ceremony.”

“When we return, then.” Sartauvoir felt those firebirds kindle back to life, and he allowed himself a smile. Perhaps he could fashion them a pair of rings, too. Something to remember… no, he wouldn’t go down that road. Couldn’t. Just focus on healing up, on removing those damnable shards of metal from his shoulder. Partition the mind, just another thing to think about later. Perhaps while burning some more mercenaries to ash…

He came back out of himself to see Basch, brows furrowed, though he was smiling a little too. “Do you… still want that bath?”

It was a peace offering, and one that Sartauvoir would hardly turn down. Flames, he’d not be turning down any time with Basch from now on, no matter how meagre. He’d always known inside that he himself could die in a flash at any moment - just one slip of an incantation, or the wrong gesture at the wrong time could throw off a spell enough to have deadly consequences - all that meant was that he had to live his life as though any second could be his last. And he didn’t mean to stop that now.

“Please.” Sartauvoir suddenly felt the weight of his injuries all over again, and he could barely stand it. “If I don’t get all this blood out of my hair, I might set fire to it.”

“Oh, that would be a shame. I do so love your hair.” Basch bent over and slid one arm around Sartauvoir’s waist on his uninjured side, being careful to not jostle the wounds any more than he needed to.

“Do you?” Sartauvoir held onto him, unsure whether he could trust his legs, but thankfully they held, though his head span at the change in altitude.

“Yes. Early greys and all.”

Sartauvoir would have swatted him if he’d been able. As it was, he settled for growling in his direction. “Less of that, if you please. I’d rather not draw attention to those.”

They hobbled towards the bathtub, and between them, somehow managed to get Sartauvoir sat inside. He leaned back gingerly, watching as Basch turned on the taps. “Basch?”

“Hm?”

“Did the Medicus tell you how long you had?”

Basch paused, watching the water pour from the tap as he collected himself. “He said there was no way to know.” He dabbled one hand under the stream, eyes fixed to the steam as it rose. “Could be one moon, could be four. Could be a full turn.” He turned back to Sartauvoir, his face sombre, and for the first time, Sartauvoir could see the effects this news and this illness had wrought upon him.

He reached out and took Basch’s hand, running his thumb across the back of it. “However long you have, I will be by your side, Basch. I give you my word: I will not leave you now. Nothing will pull me away from you.”

Basch’s eyes softened, and he smiled, sadness writ upon his face. “I cannot tell you how much that warms me,” he said, words just loud enough to be heard over the water, “to know that I will not be alone…” He brushed Sartauvoir’s hair from his eye, tucked it behind his ear and rested his palm against his head. “But enough of me, I promised that I would help you with this, so let us stop getting maudlin and get you clean.”

Sartauvoir couldn’t help but smile, even though his heart felt as a cold coal of pain inside his chest. He closed his eyes and nuzzled against Basch’s hand, goosebumps raising on his skin as Basch began to rub his scalp gently.

“Allow me to get a cloth and a dipper, my love. I will be right back.”

His eyes shot open, and those coals in his heart stirred to heat once more as he watched Basch stand and turn, busying himself about the small bathing area. He couldn’t help but notice how he walked with a slight limp, now, and that each step came with a mostly-hidden wince. How had he not noticed before? Oh, how easy it was to take one’s love for granted, when you thought you had all the time in the world… when the man you loved was so vital every day, and still quite able to trounce you most thoroughly in the training room.

Basch returned, setting a wooden dipper with a handle on the floor next to the bathtub. He pulled up a wooden stool and got comfortable, then leaned over and turned off the tap before the water level got to Sartauvoir’s bandages. “Now, will you give me your word that you won’t singe off my eyebrows while I’m doing this? There is a lot of blood and grit caked back there, and to your eyepatch besides. It will hurt.”

“I can take it,” Sartauvoir murmured, gathering his courage. “Perhaps to distract myself, I could tell you how I came to need the thing… I did promise I would, after all.”

Basch paused, hand and cloth under the water, and looked up at Sartauvoir. “You don’t have to, you know. I know it’s a private thing for you.”

Sartauvoir put a hand atop Basch’s, removing it from the water with the cloth dripping. “I cannot bear the thought of you not knowing all of me, before-” he swallowed, hard. “I will tell you, but do try not to interrupt, lest I lose my nerve.”

Basch huffed out a laugh, his eyes dancing. “You ought to know by now that I cannot promise that.” He lifted the wet cloth to Sartauvoir’s face, pressing it against his unscarred cheek. “But for you, I will try.”

The cloth was warm and wet and soothing, and Sartauvoir hadn’t realised quite how frazzled he was until it touched his skin. Basch wiped his face down carefully, paying attention to his beard and moustache, and the cloth had to be rinsed twice before he was satisfied. “Alright, I’m moving behind. I’ll wet all this first, to loosen the blood, aye?”

“Very well.” Sartauvoir leaned back until he was resting against the sloped back of the bathtub, his head and shoulders fair hanging over the edge of it, so as to not get the water any dirtier than it needed to be.

Basch had moved his stool to the back of the bath, and he leaned forward to dip up a good quantity of water, one hand trailing up Sartauvoir’s uninjured right forearm as he sat back up again. Warm water trickled out in a slow stream from the dipper, soaking into Sartauvoir’s scalp and loose hair.

As Basch employed the cloth once more on the back of his eyepatch, Sartauvoir felt himself begin to relax. “I must have been fourteen,” he murmured, eyes sliding closed as Basch’s clever fingers went to work. “I always was drawn to the flames, and it hadn’t been long since I’d been sent to the academy in Mannatheihwo to learn a modicum of control.” He smiled, rueful. “And to save my family’s curtains and furniture, I suppose. I’d set fire to enough things before then that they must have been besides themselves with it.”

He heard the gentle huff of laughter, then winced as the cloth pressed against where the wound must have been. The warm water softened the blood and dirt there, and Sartauvoir squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the stinging pain of it.

“How long did you spend at the Academy?”

“Not relevant to this story, thank you very much.” Sartauvoir gripped the side of the bath as Basch began to peel away fabric from flesh. “The lessons there were… slow. Too slow for my liking, and they assumed barely a baseline of knowledge for things I’d been doing since I was almost a babe in arms. ‘Soranus,’ they’d say, ‘you need to know theory before we let you even begin to weave the simplest of spells’. You can imagine how I felt about that.”

“How many things did you set fire to there, then?”

“Only sanctioned fires, I’ll have you know. But that… was not the problem. There was a restricted section of the library, you see.”

Basch groaned, though Sartauvoir could hear the humour in it. By the flames, the back of his head felt abominable…

“Books on summoning, transformation of flesh to flame, oh how I longed for that knowledge. And it didn’t take me long to figure out how to get in the room, after hours. I was very careful, too. Left everything as it was, replaced anything I used. I dared not even commit my learnings to paper, in case I was caught hiding the notes in my desk.” He gripped the side of the bath harder, knuckles whitening, as Basch began to work on the rest of his eyepatch - the fabric was stubborn, but the water had done the trick, and it came away ilm by painful ilm.

“But you were caught?”

“No. I’d had enough of learning, I yearned to put my new knowledge into practice. This time, I did write something down - one of the methods for transfiguration of steel into flaming sword. I’d pilfered a rapier earlier that week, hidden it under my pillow.”

“I imagine that was most unpleasant to sleep on.” Basch leaned forward once more and dipped out more water, pouring it carefully over the top of Sartauvoir’s head this time, one hand cupped about his forehead to stop water running into his eyes.

“I bore it, and gladly too. I had dreams of learning this spell, you see. Learning it so well that all my tutors, every fire-blasted one of them, would crawl to me with their apologies, and me there with my flaming sword, ready to accept them.”

For once, Basch said nothing. His fingers moved across Sartauvoir’s scalp gently, ‘til they reached his forehead.

Keeping his eyes closed, Sartauvoir breathed deeply, focused back on the memories. “As it happens, I had transcribed a portion of the method incorrectly. I studied it later and found that I’d misspelt one part of the incantation, and another section was missing completely. A fool’s error.”

“A child’s error,” Basch replied, firm.

“Hmph, fine. A child’s error. Either way, it was enough. The steel of the rapier did indeed heat to the correct temperature, but instead of becoming swathed in flames, it… exploded. Rather like the cannon in Leá Monde, I suppose. And just as with that, shards of metal were implanted into my skin, from the impact of it. The metal was molten, though, and I… found out what it was like to be burned for the first time in my life.”

Basch’s fingertips grazed the very edge of his scar, and Sartauvoir held onto his iron control, so as to not wince away as Basch’s touch whispered across the deadened flesh.

More water came, wetting the remaining fabric, and Basch finally peeled back the last of it, dropping it to the floor like any old soiled rag.

Sartauvoir’s breath came ragged, but the reaction he was expecting never came: just the gentle touch of those calloused, weapon-worn fingertips, exploring until Basch cupped his face on that side, leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top edge of the scar, right where a part of his eyebrow used to grow.

“I melted it out again,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “One touch and the flames sprang to my bidding as always, and the steel melted once more, pouring out of the wounds like- like blood, I suppose, even as the fire cauterised the flesh into what you see now. When I moved on to the eye, though, that was when my body failed me. I began the procedure - I remember the stone floor of my dorm room, how cold it felt against my thighs - and no sooner had I approached the eye with the flames did I feel it… there was metal in there, too, the academy healer told me afterwards. The tiniest of shards, not even big enough to be called shards, really. And of course, my clumsy attempts to improve it… well, it ruined the eye. I passed out. They say my screams woke the other students, and they summoned the healer, and there you have it.”

“I’m surprised you even have the eye at all,” Basch said, quietly. His thumb caressed Sartauvoir’s scarred browbone. “I wondered… well, there are tales of Black Mages replacing their eyes with materia. I wondered if that’s what happened.”

Sartauvoir laughed, bitterly. “Oh yes, I know those stories quite well. Why do you think I turned the flames on it? Some romantic notions of becoming one with them, if I couldn’t fix the damn thing myself. I thought I could burn the thing out, that I’d already hit the peak of my pain. I was wrong.”

By the flames though, Basch’s touch did feel good against the twisted, melted skin of his face. The scar, if you could call it that, blossomed across the right side of his face, encompassing the cheekbone and the entirety of his eye socket and up to the brow, spreading out into his beard and sideburns and near to his ear. It had never healed up right, even after the healer had worked his magicks and curatives. The skin stayed a darkened, angry colour, and it felt numb to the touch, as though all feeling had been flayed from his flesh by his own flames and foolishness.

Basch’s fingers, though, they were cool and gentle as he tipped Sartauvoir’s head back, bending over him to press his lips to that gnarled flesh.

Sartauvoir inhaled, raggedly, a flush of pleasure rippling through his whole body. “Basch-” he began, then inhaled again as Basch kissed his scar once more - fingers holding Sartauvoir’s head in place, stopping him from moving away from the attention as much as he might wish to - he nuzzled against it, ghosted his breath and yet more kisses until Sartauvoir felt that he may just melt into the bathtub from the sensation.

“Thank you,” Basch breathed against his skin, and a sob ripped from Sartauvoir’s chest, the weight of the secret lifting from his shoulders and leaving him lighter, somehow.

He reached up with his uninjured arm, tangled his fingers into Basch’s hair and pulled him further down ‘til he could reach his lips, upside down as they were; kissed him hungrily, dizzy with the heat of the water and the feel of callouses against his face.

Basch broke away, eyes wide and breath coming heavy. “I still need to-” he began, then cut himself off by peppering Sartauvoir’s scar with more kisses.

“Before the water grows too cool, perhaps,” Sartauvoir managed, though he felt warm enough all over to survive it, and then some. His cock had stirred with interest, but he could feel debris in his hair still and wanted no more of it.

Basch sat up, clearly reluctant, but got himself in check by busying his hands, dipping more water and fishing out the cloth, which had sunk into the bathwater sometime earlier. He poured more water over Sartauvoir’s head, not caring that it streamed through his hair and to the floor, and methodically wiped and rubbed until the water ran clear over the back of the bath when he tipped more over.

“The wound hasn’t reopened,” Basch said, probing it gently. “You have one hell of a lump, and some nice, neat stitches. It’s a good job it was just above the fabric, otherwise I’d never have persuaded the Medicus to leave it on.”

Sartauvoir smiled, feeling bonelessly happy all of a sudden. Perhaps it was the concussion… “Does that mean you can help me out of here and take me to bed, after?”

“Tch, you are insatiable.” He stood, though, and reached for the thick red towel folded on the floor nearby. “But yes, I will take you to bed. Though I don’t think you should be doing anything like that, with this head wound.”

He leaned over and pulled the plug, then slid one arm under Sartauvoir and somehow manhandled him out of the bathtub and into the fluffy towel, which he wrapped around him. Sartauvoir shivered as the air hit his wet skin, and Basch manoeuvred him onto the stool, proceeding to towel every ilm of him until he was dry and finally warm. Next to the bathtub, there was a small metal cabinet, and he opened it to retrieve one of the more potent elixirs the Medicus kept in stock.

“Alright, I’m ready,” Sartauvoir said, pulling every scrap of strength he could muster into himself, holding it taut and ready. “Guide me to them, if you please. I cannot see well, from this angle.”

He kindled a narrow, precise flame as Basch took hold of his uninjured right wrist, moving it to the left shoulder first. So be it. With a deep inhale of breath, Sartauvoir released the tongue of flame, trusting Basch to guide him where it needed to be.

There was the hot, cooking meat scent of flesh cauterising, and he bit down on his lower lip as he forced the flames wider, burning away more of the flesh to make a path. There was a tug deep inside his muscle, and he felt movement as the metal began to melt, trickling a steaming path out of the wound and onto the towel, where it solidified almost immediately against the fabric.

“Next,” Sartauvoir said, gutturally, feeling sweat spring to his forehead. Basch obliged, and three more times he applied the flames to his shoulder and upper arm, until, panting, he sagged against Basch’s sturdy chest.

“Can you manage the rest? The damage is worse at your chest.” Basch’s hands were in Sartauvoir’s hair, cupping his face and gentling him, grounding him, until his head stopped swimming.

“I can handle it. Quickly, now, before my strength wanes.”

Basch’s brow creased, but he sat Sartauvoir back upright, wrapping one arm around his waist to hold him steady as he took hold of his wrist once more. “This is one larger piece, but it went deeper.”

“More damage to get to it, then. So be it.” Sartauvoir rekindled the flames, and once more the scent of cooking meat filled his nostrils. This time, he was unable to hold back, a harsh cry ripping from his throat as his flesh parted before his own power, making space for that tiny, surgically precise knifepoint of flame within to do its job.

The slice of metal gave, as it must, and it poured from his ravaged flesh as quicksilver from an alembic, spreading over the towel and clogging into the fibres as it hardened once more into a dull souvenir of his own foolish recklessness.

Basch let the towel fall, and it spread across the stool and floor like a pool of blood. He still held Sartauvoir, who had slumped forward once more as his flame guttered, able to do nothing but mouth weakly at the lip of the elixir bottle as Basch held it to his lips.

The liquid was cool fire down his throat, and Sartauvoir swallowed all of it gratefully, feeling it go to work near immediately on the dizziness, and soothing the pain lancing through his chest and shoulder.

Sartauvoir trembled in Basch’s arms, face pressed into his chest until his vision cleared. He became aware that Basch was stroking his hair again, murmuring soothing nothings, and his heart hurt all over again at the realisation that all too soon, this would be lost to him.

“Thank you,” he managed to croak out. He forced himself to focus on Basch’s fingers in his hair, the scent of him and not the scent of his own cauterised flesh. “That feels good…” His words were slurring, and before he knew it, Basch had scooped him up once more, one arm around his waist to support him.

Another of those shuffling gait walks and they were back at the bed. Sartauvoir let Basch sit him down gratefully, all strength sucked out of him from the surgery. He laid back, with the aid of Basch, nestling his head into the red pillows and turning to watch as Basch climbed into bed too.

They lay facing one another in the dim light, Basch’s hand coming up to brush the hair from Sartauvoir’s scarred cheek.

Somehow, Sartauvoir didn’t flinch away; he leaned into the touch, eyes sliding closed as Basch came in closer. His fingers traced a light, shivery touch across the full breadth of his burn scar, from brow to cheekbone, even the side of his nose and back to his hairline nestled into the pillow, and Sartauvoir couldn’t help but gasp under the weight of that attention, singular and intense as ever, like everything Basch van Gabranth put his mind to.

Basch pressed the softest of kisses to his cheekbone, caressing the gnarled, twisted flesh with the pads of his fingertips and yet more kisses all over until Sartauvoir felt he may expire from it; his body all over trembling, and blood rushing down, ever down to his stiffening cock.

“Basch,” he moaned, squirming under that gentle attention, but was unable to stop himself turning towards Basch like a flower to the sun. “Basch, please…”

“Please what?” Sartauvoir could hear the warm smile in Basch’s voice, could imagine the way his lips curled and his eyes lidded as he took in the effect he was having on him.

“I- I’m so tired, I don’t think- ah!”

Basch’s tongue flicked out and ghosted over the edge where scar tissue met healthy flesh, chasing it with kisses. “Just stay there, my love. Relax, let me take care of you, mm?”

Sartauvoir groaned as Basch fitted their bodies together, his own straining, naked cock sliding up against Basch’s still-clothed erection, the pressure and friction of it enough to make his hips shiver.

“I’m going to ride you, what do you think? Can you handle it?” Basch’s breath was hot against his cheek, and Sartauvoir shuddered with desire.

“Anything,” he murmured, “anything for you, Basch…”

“By all the hells, saying things like that, you’re going to have me spilling before I’ve even touched you properly.” Basch pulled away from Sartauvoir with clear reluctance, rolling to the edge of the bed and sitting upright. He undressed himself with little ritual, dropping the loose, casual tunic and trousers onto the floor beside the bed, his glasses on the cabinet, and then rummaged in there for oil before crawling back onto the bed

Sartauvoir rolled onto his back and tugged on Basch’s wrist, pulling him atop the length of his body with a wince and a groan.

“Be careful,” Basch murmured, putting more of his weight on the uninjured side of Sartauvoir’s body, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I need it… please, Basch. Make me forget, I beg of you.”

Basch groaned, then took Sartauvoir’s mouth in a hot, frantic kiss, his free hand cradling the scarred side of his face, holding him fast. “How can I say no to you,” he breathed as they broke apart. “Very well.”

Sartauvoir let his head rest back on the pillow as Basch went to his knees, shuffling enough that he was straddling his waist, his arse pressing against the tip of Sartauvoir’s straining cock. He had the perfect angle to watch as Basch uncorked the bottle of oil and slicked up his hand and fingers well, leaning back and bracing himself on Sartauvoir’s thigh with one hand as he slid those glistening wet fingers down and under.

Sartauvoir could see every change in that beloved face; the way Basch’s eyes slid closed as his fingers breached his arse, his glorious lips parting as they pushed further in. He knew when Basch had added more by the jerking of his hips, the little gasp under his breath. By the flames, he could watch him all night.

But of course, Basch had other ideas. He pulled his fingers out and moved back enough that Sartauvoir’s cock was rubbing up against his cleft, taking a moment to pour out more oil and slick it down the length he was grinding against, but the twisting motion had Basch grimacing, and a noise of pain escaped his lips.

“Could you,” he panted, leaning forward to brace his hands on Sartauvoir’s hips for a moment, “pass me pillows? I don’t think I can hold this position for very long.”

Sartauvoir reached up with his uninjured hand and pulled two pillows out from Basch’s side - he slept with a large pile of them, usually, keeping his back and hips supported through the night - and between them, they settled one under each of Basch’s knees, making him more comfortable as he straddled Sartauvoir.

Without any further ado, Basch took hold of Sartauvoir’s cock again with his still-slick hand, lifted his arse up enough that he could sink back down onto it, ilm by ilm, until he was seated, Sartauvoir balls deep inside him, and near forgetting to breathe it felt so tight and hot. The perfect distraction.

His hips began to move of their own volition, but Basch put paid to that by settling a hand on his belly, fingers spread just where his pubic hair faded into the trail leading upwards. “Ah-ah, no moving,” he murmured, “you keep as still as you can, my love. Let me do the work, aye?” As if to punctuate his point, Basch rolled his own hips, though Sartauvoir knew it must pain him to do so, moving so that Sartauvoir’s cock drove directly into the spot inside that he knew felt like fireworks of pleasure.

Basch’s hair fell around his face in a grey waterfall, and Sartauvoir could do nothing but look, drinking in every ilm of his face, every tiny movement and expression, the way his lips parted and his tongue flicked out, the way his furred chest shuddered as he took his pleasure.

“By the flames, Basch,” Sartauvoir breathed, scrabbling for his free hand. Their fingers entwined and he lost himself in the moment, Basch riding him slow and so painfully perfect he could almost cry.

A twitch of pain crossed Basch’s face, though, and Sartauvoir tugged on his hand, pulling him down flush against his chest, burns be damned to all the hells and back - he’d put up with any pain for this man. Anything.

Basch guided Sartauvoir’s hand round to cup his arse, and then left it there, leaving his hand free to cradle the scarred side of his face once more as he moved against him. Their mouths met sweetly, Sartauvoir’s tongue slipping out to taste Basch, moaning into his mouth as that insistent thumb traced the sensitive edge of his burn.

Breaking apart for air, Basch nuzzled up against the scar, pulling Sartauvoir’s head up and towards him to get a better angle for tongue and lips, worshipping the dead flesh and whispering words of love into his ear that sent a shiver through his core.

Sartauvoir’s hips jumped as Basch employed teeth to his ear, tugging on the edge and drawing a startled moan from his lips.

“Be still, now,” Basch whispered against his ear, and Sartauvoir somehow got himself under control. Basch rolled his hips and gasped, the thick hardness of his cock trapped between his belly and Sartauvoir’s ribs, rubbing and rubbing as he moved with sweet, sweet friction and pressure.

The desire to take hold of Basch’s cock, to bring him to completion with his own hand, was near too much to bear, but he had no strength left in that arm or hand with which to do so, so Sartauvoir settled for taking Basch’s mouth once more, deepening the kiss with a needy, desperate noise as he felt his orgasm build.

Overcome by sensation and pleasure, Sartauvoir couldn’t help but look away, unmanned by the baring of his entire self underneath his Legatus, his love. The calloused fingers at his scar and the tightness of Basch’s arse around his cock and the swelling of feeling in his heart all too much to bear.

“Look at me, my love,” Basch murmured, guiding Sartauvoir’s head until their foreheads were pressed together. “I would- ah…” he rolled his hips again, cock jumping against Sartauvoir’s ribs, “I… I want to see you… all of you…” Basch’s lips parted as he panted, hips jerking. “Good… now come for me, Sartauvoir, love- ah! Come for me!”

His fingers dug into Sartauvoir’s hair, pulling it tight, and Sartauvoir’s eyes widened as his orgasm took him, sudden and sharp and exactly as ordered, and Basch rode him through it, taking in his seed and clenching his arse until he felt sated and empty down to the very bone.

He felt Basch shudder atop him, grinding back against his cock until his fingers tightened further, a low growl of a groan falling from his lips as a flood of hot, sticky wetness pumped between them.

Sartauvoir knew a fleeting moment of concern, wondering whether it was a good thing to get come so near to freshly cauterised wounds, then nothing but shaky, exhaled bliss as his energy finally left him.

Basch settled atop him like a comfortably beloved old blanket, forehead tucked under Sartauvoir’s chin and ear pressed against the unmarred half of his chest. Sartauvoir’s fingers slipped into Basch’s hair, brushing through the unruly mane again and again, focusing all his attention away from the pain, and towards the feeling of those grey-blonde hairs against his fingertips, the way Basch’s breath hitched as he rubbed the sensitive place just at the base of his neck, the softness of the hairs there and the scent of him, salt sweat and sex and that woody incense cologne he favoured.

“I could lay like this forever,” Basch murmured, running his fingertips down the line of Sartauvoir’s ribs. “Would that we had more time…”

“Don’t,” Sartauvoir whispered, the word catching in his throat. “Please, Basch. I can’t… I don’t know how I’ll go on without you…”

Basch looked up sharply, and he took hold of Sartauvoir’s face, thumb unerringly at his cheekbone where scar met healthy flesh once more. “You will go on, you must. I- I have every faith in you, Sartauvoir. You are strong enough, and through you, my legacy will live on.”

“Fuck your legacy,” Sartauvoir spat, “what is a legacy without the man it’s all for? Without the man I- the man I love!” he swallowed against the pain, keeping a chokehold on his control lest his despair overflow into flames.

Basch stilled, but the smile that spread across his face near lit up the room. “You love me too,” he whispered.

“Of course I do, you old fool!” Sartauvoir blinked furiously, then flushed to his very ears as Basch’s thumb brushed away his tears.

“Then you will find a way,” Basch said, simply. “Live for me, Sartauvoir, my love. I will be watching over you, and when our work is done, I will be waiting.”

“Give me your word, Basch van Gabranth. Swear it to me!” Sartauvoir’s fingers slid from Basch’s hair to cup his face, the softness of his beard against his palm.

“I swear it to you, on Landis herself, on every malm of the homeland we cherish. I will be waiting.” His eyes were like chips of emerald, so strong was his fervour, and Sartauvoir felt something inside him sway under the weight of that fire.

“I will hold you to that. You have my word.” Sartauvoir took a shaky breath, and all of a sudden the stress and pain of the day hit him at once. He fell back against the bed, utterly spent, as the pain washed over him.

Basch scrambled upright, grabbing for another elixir from the cabinet. He held it to Sartauvoir’s lips with shaking hands, tipping it gently until the bottle was drained. He set it aside on the cabinet, then fumbled with the drawer to fetch out a bottle of his own medicine. A little of it spilled as he drank it down in one draught, the thick purple liquid sticking to the side of his beard, and a full-body shiver rippled through Basch as the potion did its work.

“Tastes like hell warmed up,” he muttered hoarsely, and wiped the mess from his beard with distaste. His movements were visibly stronger, though, even Sartauvoir could see that through his exhaustion-blurred eyes.

“Does it help?”

“Aye. For a time, at least. Just staving off the inevitable, but at least with this I’m not coughing up blood any more. For the time being, anyway. I can’t imagine that will last for much longer.” Basch’s eyes were distant as he stared at the wall above their bed, no doubt mentally calculating just how long he had before the potions’ efficacy wore off, before the illness took him.

“Then we make every effort to see that you’re kept well stocked.” Sartauvoir took his hand and squeezed it, giving it a gentle tug to draw Basch’s attention back to him. “You will want for nothing, I swear it. All that is within my power to give, you shall have it.”

Basch chuckled. “The Legion won’t know what’s hit them, if you do.”

“Then so be it.” Sartauvoir held Basch’s gaze, feeling the full weight of it with his whole face bared for the first time, and revelling in the steady warmth of his regard. “Now… I hate to bring it up after… all this, but… well, you took so much care of my hair and wounds, only for all your work to be undone the minute we hit the bed.”

A guffaw, at that, and Basch’s eyes twinkled with mirth. “Shall I draw another hot bath for you, Ser? After I spilled my seed all over your chest and all? And to say nothing of myself, I must admit.” He looked ruefully down at the bed, where a patch of wetness had begun to seep.

“Please. And Basch… join me in it, if you would?”

“T’would be my pleasure.”

- - -

3 moons later-

By the decree of Noah van Gabranth, all are to be made aware that the Legatus Basch van Gabranth has passed after a period of illness. There is to be a day of mourning for the whole IVth Legion, beginning with an address by the Legatus Noah. Parade uniform is mandatory, and any Centurion or Officer wishing to mourn in their traditional fashion is encouraged to do so - to this effect, there will be a small bonfire upon which offerings can be burnt, and libations will be provided for every Legionary, no matter their rank, with which to remember our late Legatus.

NB: All mourning activities will take place in the Great Hall, due to a fire breaking out in the Parade Grounds.

Signed: Noah van Gabranth

- A transcription of a note nailed to the main door of Castrum Valnaini