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Glory to my bum ass proofreader: Solare.
I think this chapter will be my first attempt at First Person POV, hopefully its good enough lol
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I stood in the middle of the war camp, watching his back as he climbed the hill toward the ailing village. The air hung still, heavy with the scent of ash and salt and the muted thrum of distant wind through broken banners. Men murmured around the fires, sharpening blades, whispering prayers, but I could only see him.
That odd, infuriating, wonderful man trudging up the hill towards yet another trial that might consume him.
Worry lingered in me like smoke after a fire, but trust burned brighter beneath it. He would not fail. He never did.
Beside me, Millicent huffed, crossing her arms with mock indignation. "He better bring me one helluva nice pebble…" She muttered.
I couldn't help the small, helpless smile that curved my lips. Typical.
Their absurd promises, their strange banter. It has become the rhythm of my days. If someone had told me not long ago that I would find comfort in the reckless humor of mortals, I would have called them mad. Yet here I was, finding it… endearing.
I'll admit it, if only to myself: watching him pull Millicent out of her shell, teaching her to swing her sword again and grin while doing it, had been remarkable. He'd given her confidence, laughter, purpose – things I had never thought to see in her quiet eyes when she first opened them in that rotted cathedral.
If only he hadn't spoiled her. Now she carried his same reckless spark, that same mischievous grin that promised trouble. A reflection of him, really.
Not that I found that amusing. Or charming. Or secretly delightful to watch. And anyone who said otherwise was a liar.
…Anyway.
My Companion is an Odd one.
I reached inward, toward the invisible string of Grace I had tied around his soul when he first agreed to our accord, and gave it a gentle tug. It thrummed faintly, a pulse of warmth through my chest. It was his wordless way of saying I'm fine.
A breath I hadn't realized I was holding escaped me in a soft sigh.
Why was that? Why did my heart leap at something so simple? Why did his very presence make me feel more… alive than I have in as long as I can remember?
My cheeks grew warm before I could stop them. I slapped them lightly with both hands. No. I wasn't blushing. Why would I be?
A small smile betrayed me again. I still remember the first time I laid eyes on him – sprawled in that stranded graveyard, unarmed, untested, barely awake. He looked so utterly unremarkable then. Torrent could have knocked him flat with a single kick.
Now… not so much.
He'd grown in ways I hadn't imagined possible. So had the scope of our journey.
And by my mother's name, what a journey it has been.
I'm not sure what drew me to him that day. Perhaps it was the faint shimmer of Grace that pulsed through his soul, it was so stubbornly bright, much like himself. Or perhaps it was the way he looked so oddly peaceful in sleep, his face unguarded and strangely soft-
Ahem.
After I gave him the flasks, I thought I'd vanish again into the shadows after linking to him, content to watch. But I couldn't. I wanted to see where he would go. He didn't follow the paths Grace laid for him like a mindless vessel.
He explored. He helped others. He made friends where others would've seen only threats. He didn't chase destiny, he lived it.
It was strangely… freeing to watch.
He walked through the world with this easy confidence that could almost be mistaken for foolishness if one didn't know him better. And by my mother's name, he is foolish. Endlessly honest, painfully sincere, speaking every thought that crosses his mind without the faintest regard for consequence.
I'd admire it more if it didn't make me want to strangle him half the time. Especially when he…
When he teases me…
Gods, the teasing. Those flirtatious words, that infuriating grin… Why must he look at me like that? Why must his smirk carry heat enough to make my composure falter-
Something poked me in the side. I nearly drew my dagger on instinct, only to turn and find Millicent standing there, smirking that same smirk she'd clearly inherited from him.
"Hmm? Whatcha doing, Melina?" she asked, tilting her head. "You're just standing here, staring after him with that cute blush on your face. Thinking about Johnny, huh~? Don't worry, your lord will return safely~."
…
"Millicent."
Her smirk wavered. "Y-Yes?"
"Dodge."
"...Dodge?"
"Dodge."
She barely managed to lean aside before the dagger left my hand. It whistled past her neck, close enough to draw a few drops of blood. Her startled "EEK!" was deeply satisfying.
I turned and walked away, ignoring the laughter that followed. I was not blushing while thinking of his stupid face. Not a chance.
My Companion is an Odd One.
In truth, when I first stepped out of the void of the spectral realm to meet him, it wasn't just to verify his claim to Grace. Or Mother's Grace, as I should call it. That revelation… changed much. More than I dare to dwell on.
No, the second time I approached him, it was curiosity that guided me. I'd already confirmed the light of Grace burned in him, it was bright, if unrefined. Honestly, that was only my excuse.
I wanted to see his eyes again. To make sure I hadn't imagined the spark there, the same spark that terrified and fascinated me in equal measure.
At first, I half-suspected madness. The way he spoke to the air, laughed to himself, addressed invisible companions… It seemed absurd. I thought perhaps the Frenzied Flame had touched his mind.
Of course, I had no way of knowing he truly did share a vessel. And with Queen Marika herself, of all beings. That revelation would have left anyone speechless.
So when he asked me to accompany him. To stand by his side not as some detached observer or false Maiden, but as a companion. I nearly refused. I'd never walked beside anyone before. My role had always been to guide, not to belong.
I don't know why I accepted. Perhaps it was the light of Grace within him that made him feel trustworthy. Perhaps it was the hope in his eyes that I couldn't bring myself to extinguish.
Or perhaps (and I will only admit this once, even to myself), perhaps I simply wanted a front-row seat to his charming, ridiculous, utterly human madness.
Mayhaps.
My Companion is an Odd One.
Although, what I did not expect when I agreed to accompany him, was to immediately have to outrun a horde of rotted, half-melted dogs through a swamp that smelled like someone had boiled corpses in vinegar. Nor did I expect to have to jump a ravine on Torrent's back while he laughed like it was a game. Then again, neither did I expect to outrun a pack of dragons, barefoot.
Why the thought to shout at him to summon Torrent sooner never occurred to me, I cannot say. Perhaps because it is surprisingly difficult to think when a man suddenly grabs your hand mid-battle and drags you at full sprint through poison mist and ruin.
His hand had been so warm…
…Ugh.
And then came his most absurd act yet, his "ingenious plan", as he called it, to slay Greyoll, the Mother of All Dragons. Not with glory or grandeur, but with the equivalent of a thousand paper cuts.
He chipped at her ankles and tail for hours, ducking her roars, bleeding, cursing, and still grinning through it all. All to steal her runes and devour her heart.
By my mother's name, I almost wished he had failed. I almost wished I had let him drown in the Scarlet Rot festering across the ground, just to teach him the meaning of reason.
Yet, of course, I didn't. I stayed. I watched. I even helped. It was idiotic, reckless beyond measure, yet I followed him anyway. I helped him anyway. Why? I still don't know.
And so, I followed him through that disgusting, rotted realm, knee-deep in filth, through poison fog and decay – Straight into the den of another dragon, this one so saturated with Rot that the air burned the throat.
Of course, he befriended someone there. He always does.
Sir Siegmeyer, the self-proclaimed "Onion Knight". The two of them met as if they'd known each other for years, trading jokes between breaths as though ancient friends reunited mid-siege.
They fought like brothers, insulted each other like drunks, and even in the face of death, they laughed. It was John, of course, who started the teasing. Right after I so graciously blessed their blades with flames, he turned to me with that damned grin and shouted over the roar of the dragon, "Hey, if we live through this, remind me to kiss you!"
The words hit me harder than the dragon's fire ever could. I remember going still, mid-incantation, wondering if I'd misheard him.
Siegmeyer, that foolish, jovial knight, laughed so loudly it nearly drowned out the beast's roar. "Ha! You make quite the cute couple!"
John only grinned wider, as if proud of himself, eyes flicking back to me with that infuriating spark that said he knew exactly what he was doing. How could he say things like that so easily, with such casual boldness? How could he look at me like that?
As though he was daring me to answer him, to take his joke and turn it into truth?
It almost made me consider it. The thought of-
A sudden yelp cut through my wandering thoughts. One of Edgar's militiamen had jumped to his feet, clutching his finger where a smoldering butterfly had landed, only to burst into flame.
Odd.
I was just thinking of burning something myself.
What was I musing about? Right. That foolish, infuriating, impossible man.
I should have known he would attempt Dragon Communion unprompted. He's always shown an alarming lack of self-preservation when confronted with power.
And yet… I remember the way he looked at me before doing it. That lopsided grin. That ridiculous promise.
He'd asked me to stop him if he lost himself, to end him if the dragon's hunger overtook his mind. And worse, he'd made me promise I would try to save him first.
Honestly, what kind of fool puts such trust in another person after knowing them only a few days? He should count himself lucky I was the one who found him. Any other maiden might have left him to rot, or taken advantage of such misplaced faith.
Especially when the communion worked.
When he devoured the Heart of Greyoll, his body changed more than either of us expected. The transformation was not violent, just… Gradual. As he slept, the Dragon's power took root.
It was… An experience, to say the least.
I hadn't known the human body could be so… fascinating to observe. His form grew stronger, broader. His long black hair deepened in shade, though new streaks of white began threading through it, their origin a mystery even to me.
And then, his muscles. Gods, his muscles. Watching them tighten, redefine themselves under ever so slightly tanned skin slick with dragonfire sweat… At first, I didn't notice. Truly. I was merely monitoring his vitals. His breathing, his pulse, his…
Alright, fine. I noticed.
And although I would never admit it to his face, touching him to check his pulse had been… stimulating, to say the least. I have seen many men in my years, studied anatomy for the sake of healing and art both, yet none have ever made my heart trip over itself the way he did.
One of Edgar's soldiers muttered something nearby. "Damn, these smoldering butterflies are brutal today."
Another butterfly exploded midair, scattering sparks over the camp.
…I should calm down. Even if it's not as though my racing heart is causing this strange behavior in the wildlife. That would be ridiculous. Entirely.
And yet…
"AH, FUCK! GET AWAY FROM THE BUTTERFLIES! THEY'RE OUT FOR BLOOD!"
…
Fine, I admit it.
He's frustratingly attractive.
And infuriatingly brave. And unbearably stupid. And…
My Companion is an Odd One.
So of course, as soon as he awoke and noted his new changes, he wasted no time. Within minutes, he was on his feet. Stretching, smirking, teasing me for staring, and then immediately asking me to strengthen him with the power of runes before charging off toward whatever madness awaited him next.
Honestly, I almost pitied the Night's Cavalry that thought us easy prey that evening. Almost.
My pity, however, was promptly stolen from me the moment he inhaled deeply, exhaled a freezing gale, and annihilated the poor knight in mere seconds.
I had only ever heard of Frost Dragons in the oldest songs – Those whispered alongside the legends of Placidusax, the Dragonlord; Balye, the Dread; and even lesser known; Caligo, the Miasma.
To see that power manifest before me, and to watch him wield it with such casual ease, was… enlightening. Frighteningly so.
And then, naturally, (and I mean naturally with the heaviest quotation marks imaginable), the only reason he gave for killing that centuries-hardened, death-shrouded killer was, and I quote, "His armor would look good on me.".
That was it. That was his grand justification for felling a being of nightmare and steel.
The Night's Cavalry are trained from birth to stalk the guilty and the depraved. They are hunters, executioners, ghosts of the Leyndell order. It takes decades to forge one. Yet this man, this amnesiac fool who woke up in a grave with half his memory and no plan, turned one into a footnote. Two, even.
I would call it stupidly reckless if the word stupid didn't feel too light for the occasion.
After that… we finally went to Roundtable Hold. Not that he arrived quietly or with any sense of decorum. Of course not. The moment we stepped inside, he found the strongest man in the room. If not in physical strength, then certainly in pride, and then he decided that was the one person worth antagonizing.
I still remember his smirk when Gideon Onnir's brow twitched. The air itself seemed to sour from the man's wounded ego. Somehow, in the span of five minutes, John managed to earn himself an overcharge on lodging, supplies, and patience.
Honestly, it's impressive how quickly he makes enemies.
Thankfully, Reinhard Loux, the Elder Chef, remained untouched by Gideon's politics. But then again, that man is a fortress in human form. It would take an army of petty scholars to bend him, and I've yet to see one succeed.
Returning to my wandering thoughts, John had the gall, the audacity, to ask me to teach him magic soon after that. He approached me with that crooked grin, hands clasped behind his back like a child about to ask for another sweet.
Teaching him was… something I did not expect to enjoy. And yet, I did.
Explaining the flow of Grace, the convergence of flame and life, the dance of mana within his soul, the secrets to the inner workings of our wonderful world's magicks…
It was oddly beautiful. Watching his eyes light with genuine curiosity, his clumsy but determined attempts to channel the flame properly… it reminded me of something long forgotten.
It felt… nice. Fun, even. If somewhat more intimate than I anticipated.
Sharing the flame meant sharing breath, balance, focus. I had to guide his hand, align his pulse with mine. His body radiated such warmth that I could feel it through my gloves. His breath brushed close when he asked questions. His voice dropped low when he finally understood.
Distracting, yes. But not unmanageable. I am not some flustered maiden tripping over her own heart.
Still, if simply sitting beside him, close enough to feel the furnace of his body, to see the faint red gleam in his half-draconic eyes, was enough to unsettle me, then perhaps joining him on this journey was an even greater risk than I realized.
…
Oh, Mother… Give me strength.
…Speaking of which, finding out that she was my mother was a revelation that upended everything.
It wasn't just about his strange behavior or his connection to her. It was about me. The truths buried deep within my fractured memory began to stir, to wake.
Faces blurred by fog flickered before me, voices I couldn't place, warmth I hadn't felt in centuries. They came rushing back like sunlight through cracks in a tomb.
And through it all, I could only think: he did this.
His chaos. His curiosity. His endless interference with the order of things. It broke something open in me.
I can never thank him enough for that.
But still, I crave more. More answers. More fragments of the past I lost.
Master Maliketh said something that still haunts me. That I have a twin brother. Messmer. Messmer, the Impaler.
I'd heard that name whispered through the ages, a myth, a weapon, a ghost of royal blood. The Oldest Son of Queen Marika. The one they called ruthless yet righteous, brutal yet precise.
But who are you, truly, brother? What were your dreams? What did you love? Do you remember me at all? Was I ever part of your story, or merely a shadow left behind?
Gods… I wish I knew.
He promised he would tell me more, in time. But oh, how I wish that time were now. I understand we have little luxury for rest, but the ache of not knowing gnaws at me.
There is so much I need to learn, to know. About my mother, about our family, about the fragments of a life that feels borrowed.
About you.
You, with your fury and your flame. You, with the Grace of divinity and the weight of the world. You, who I both hate and long to understand.
Insatiable you. Maddening you. Unforgettable you…
…
I reached inward, through the silence of the camp, to the tether of Grace that bound me to him. The invisible thread pulsed faintly, warm and alive, a heartbeat against my own.
I felt a tug, a signal returned. A wordless I'm still here.
Good.
You are still you, Johnathan.
My Companion is an Odd One.
…Where was I?
Ah, yes. Following that revolutionary night, we returned to Caelid, regrettably. Every step through that rotted land felt like walking through the fever dream of a dying god. It took me days to wash the stench of the swamp from my robes, and even now, I sometimes swear I can still smell it on the wind.
There, amid the blighted crimson fields, we met Sir Siegmeyer once more. Or at least, that's who he claimed to be. I am beginning to suspect he simply enjoys appearing at random moments in our journey to bewilder me.
Despite the warnings of our impending foe, Commander O'Neil, John seemed unconcerned. Almost too unconcerned. He carried himself as if he already knew how things would end, as if he'd peered into some secret corner of fate and decided it wasn't worth worrying over.
Well, if he didn't find a reason to worry, then neither would I.
Regrettably, I've learned to trust his instincts. He has an irritatingly accurate sense for danger, even though he feels it not as fear, but as an invitation. Of course, I would never admit that to him. If he ever discovered that I trust his judgment more than my own, I would never hear the end of it. He'd tease me for a year straight.
He'd find a way. He always does.
Much like how he found a way to beat Commander O'Neil.
The battle was… brutal. The rot in that place clung to everything, the ground, the air, even to the sound of our breaths. When O'Neil's spear pierced John's abdomen and threw him across the swamp, I felt something inside me lurch.
Logically, I knew he was functionally immortal. I had seen him shrug off death itself before, crawling back from it like it was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. But logic fled me in that moment. My heart raced, my thoughts scattered, and the world tilted into panic.
It was irrational, unbecoming of me… Yet I couldn't help it.
The sight of him, impaled and falling into that red, rotted mire… It felt like the world would end if he didn't rise again. Like the light of Grace itself would fade from my sight.
But of course, he did rise. He always rises.
He dragged himself from the filth, bleeding, grinning, defiant as ever. He fought on, burned through the pain, and struck O'Neil down with that same impossible blend of fury and compassion.
Even then, he surprised me.
Instead of finishing the commander off, he offered the man mercy, lifting his body such that he could gaze upon the Erdtree one last time before death claimed him. I had never seen such a gesture from him before, and it… lingered in me.
I suppose there are worse sights to meet at the end. Perhaps dying in peace, surrounded by friends and family. But this is not such an age for peaceful endings. The world does not allow it.
Still, maybe with his rise, if he truly becomes Elden Lord, such things might change.
No. They will change.
If he ascends, I have no doubt he will reshape this broken world. And if he does not… then I cannot imagine anyone else worthy of the role.
Even if he is a fool. And a madman. And an irritating, shameless womanizer.
Still. He is my irritating fool.
Now if only he would listen every now and then…
Not that I find his ambitions disagreeable, they often align with our goals quite nicely. The problem lies in how he pursues them. For instance, one of his latest strokes of genius: deciding to manually force open the jaws of a full-grown dragon just to throw a handful of poisoned pots inside.
Yes. That was his plan.
He looked at a creature large enough to blot out the sun and thought, "I can pry that open."
I had prepared myself for disaster, already calculating how best to retrieve what would remain of him. Yet, somehow, impossibly, he succeeded.
He always succeeds.
The dragon thrashed, roared, and then fell silent, overcome by the sleeping poison. And there he stood, smeared in ash and ichor, panting as he laughed triumphantly.
Truly, he has mastered the art of making the impossible look inevitable.
I wish I could say I was surprised. But I wasn't. Not anymore.
After all…
My Companion is an Odd One.
So, I was honestly unsure of what would happen when he announced we would be paying a visit to Maliketh, the Black Blade. I assumed it would be one of his usual impulsive adventures; another mad detour on our path, likely ending in an explosion, a revelation, or both.
What I did not expect was to meet Maliketh so soon. Nor did I anticipate the weight of the truths that awaited us within the Bestial Sanctum.
Even now, I can scarcely put it into words.
The revelation of my lost twin brother, Messmer, was staggering enough, but that was only the beginning. What I learned there: The truth of the Shattering, the nature of the forces that shape existence, the cost of divinity itself. It was all nothing short of world-breaking.
It was like peering behind the tapestry of creation and realizing the gods had been arguing over the pattern all along.
My family, it turns out, has… issues. So much drama, in fact, that it seems the fate of the world quite literally hinges on it. It's humbling, and frankly, exhausting, to learn that the foundations of our reality were shaken not by cosmic warfare or external calamity, but by familial dysfunction.
The truth behind the Shattering, the Night of Black Knives, the price of freedom and of faith… it all came crashing down like the weight of an unspoken curse.
Freedom. That was the heart of it all. Not power, not greed, not malice. Just the desperate need to be free.
It's strange how such a simple desire can destroy an age.
I cannot bring myself to resent my half-sister for what she did, not anymore. I understand it now. To be trapped beneath the suffocating weight of the Greater Will, bound by divine law with no voice of your own… Yes, I think I can understand why she broke the world just to breathe freely again.
I've never been in that place, nor do I think I ever will. Yet knowing her acts were born from necessity, not malice… It changes things.
As for my mother… Oh, Mother. I do not think I will ever truly comprehend the grief she must have felt. To see her creation crumble, to feel her faith betrayed, and still to choose silence… Was it her despair, or was it her penance?
And yet, despite it all, I find a glimmer of hope there.
Because the world still stands, and the tree still grows, and life still moves. The people still sing, and fight, and laugh, and dream. The world hasn't died, it's waiting. Waiting for someone to rebuild it.
And perhaps, this time, with him in it, things might finally be different.
…Gods help me, I actually thought that?! Thankfully, I don't share a mind with him. I'd never live it down if he heard me say something so sentimental.
Or worse, he'd grin, tilt his head, and make one of those insufferable quips about me "finally admitting I care."
Still… I suppose he wouldn't be entirely wrong.
Then there's her.
Millicent.
The woman I've come to think of as a little sister, though technically… If I've pieced our twisted family tree correctly, I'm her aunt. Honestly, I've long since given up trying to keep track.
When we first found her in that forsaken church, she looked… fragile. And that's not an insult, it's the truth. She was thin, filthy, trembling, half-starved and half-broken. The rot had gnawed into her soul as much as her body.
And yet, he looked at her with those same maddeningly gentle eyes he gives to everyone. The eyes that say "you're safe now" even when he's bleeding himself.
He saved her. Of course he did.
And somehow, in doing so, he made her like him. Reckless. Loud. Sharp-witted. And yes, utterly insufferable when they're together. Those two are a constant source of chaos, teasing and tormenting me every waking moment. But… They're mine.
They're my fools.
And I love them all the more for it.
Hn… Love.
Such a small word for such a colossal feeling.
It's said to be the oldest impulse of all living things. Older than faith, older than fear. The drive that makes us reach beyond ourselves. To protect, to create, to endure.
I never thought I'd feel it again. Not after losing everything that once defined me. Not after wandering through centuries of solitude, a soul without memory or purpose.
But now…
Now, I think it's different.
You claimed you loved me once, Johnathan.
Was that true?
When you said it, when you whispered those words with that frustratingly bright grin… Did you mean it?
Did you truly love me?
Did the thought of me push you to be better, to fight harder, to rise again after every fall?
Because…
I think I may love you, too.
For all your foolishness, your stubbornness, your endless teasing and your boundless courage… I cannot deny it any longer.
You've filled my quiet world with noise again, with laughter, with warmth, with life. You've given me something I never thought I'd feel again.
Hope.
And perhaps, if there's one thing I've learned from traveling by your side; it's that hope, no matter how faint, is worth clinging to.
So yes, my odd, maddening, wonderful fool…
I think I love you.
My Companion is an Odd One.
Which I think is why… It hurts when you don't speak to me. When you hide behind that tired grin of yours, pretending everything is fine while the world collapses on your shoulders. My heart clenches every time you turn away, every time you act as though your pain is some sacred duty you alone must bear.
I know you believe it's your burden. Your responsibility. Your silent promise to protect everyone, no matter the cost. You tell yourself it's for our safety, that carrying it alone is the only way. But if you give everything, if you pour every last piece of yourself into saving us, then who will save you?
I've watched you stand in the fire and call it warmth. I've seen the weight you carry behind those infuriatingly calm eyes. You think I can't see it, but I do. Every time you brush it off with a joke, every time you hide the tremor in your hands behind a sword's hilt, I see it.
And it breaks something in me, because I want- No, I need you to let me carry a part of that burden too.
But you never do.
You just smile that same stubborn smile and move on, as though my concern were a luxury you couldn't afford.
And then there were the others.
Irina. Sweet, gentle Irina. I understood your fondness for her, how could I not? She reminded you of innocence, of something worth protecting. That much, I could accept. That much, I could even respect.
But then there was her.
Fia. The Deathbed Companion. The one whose touch drains life even as it soothes. When you leaned on her instead of me, when you let her hold you in that way… something inside me cracked.
It wasn't just jealousy. It was something far uglier.
It was the feeling of being replaced.
I… I had thought I understood you. That I was the one who knew how you thought, how you kept yourself together when the flames of your wrath threatened to consume you.
And yet, in that quiet moment, when you chose her arms instead of mine, it felt as though all the closeness we'd built had been nothing more than a story I'd told myself.
I hated it. I hated the way my chest tightened watching you rest against someone else. The way her fingers brushed through your hair, the same hair I admired through stolen glances.
She comforted you in the open. I comforted you in silence.
But by then, silence wasn't enough.
I told myself I didn't care. That I was above such mortal things as envy. But every time you smiled at another woman, every time you tossed out one of those teasing remarks, I felt it again – That small, venomous pang that twisted low in my chest.
Because it wasn't real. It couldn't be real. You weren't that kind of man. You weren't the… womaniser the world saw when you flashed that grin. You were kind, and foolish, and earnest…
And yet, when you laughed with them, when you looked at them the way you sometimes looked at me, I wondered if maybe I'd been the fool instead.
Was it my fault for expecting something you never promised? Was it wrong of me to wish that when you needed comfort, you would seek it from me?
I think that's what hurt the most. Not that you turned to her, but that you didn't turn to me. That you didn't trust me enough to see the part of you that breaks.
I know it wasn't betrayal. I know it was the pain- But try explaining that to a heart that suddenly feels hollow!
It's foolish, really... To envy someone who only wanted to help you heal. To be angry at tenderness that isn't mine to claim.
And yet…
When I close my eyes, I can still see it. The way her arms wrapped around you, the way you exhaled, finally letting go of the weight you carry. I should have been relieved that you found comfort. I should have been glad.
Instead, I burned quietly and patiently. Like a candle smothered by its own flame.
You are such an odd man. You wear courage like armor and kindness like a mask, and behind it all you never let anyone truly see you, not even me.
But one day, I hope you will.
I hope that when the weight becomes too much, when the jokes and the fire and the fury all crumble, you'll remember that I'm still here.
Not as your maiden. Not as your guide.
But as someone who loves you.
Even when it hurts.
Even when you make me feel small and foolish for wanting more.
Even when you lean on another's shoulder instead of mine.
Because despite it all, despite the jealousy, the ache, the quiet bitterness I'll never speak aloud… I still find myself drawn to you.
Always.
My odd, maddening, impossible companion.
My Companion is an Odd One.
I promised myself that when he returned, I would speak to him.
Truly speak.
No more quiet glances. No more hidden feelings. No more pretending that I was fine with half-measures and distance.
When he came back, I would ask him why he hadn't leaned on me. I would tell him how I felt, everything I'd been too afraid to say aloud.
He deserved that much.
And maybe… maybe I did too.
The thought lingered as I sat near the edge of the camp, the fire's embers glowing faintly against the dark. The night air was still, broken only by the whisper of wind through banners and the soft murmurs of the soldiers keeping watch.
Exhaustion tugged at me, but not enough to rest.
Instead, I reached out to the tether of Grace that connected us, the golden thread that bound our souls together since that first accord. I brushed my will against it gently, the same way I always did, like a knock at the door of his spirit.
Nothing.
I frowned and reached again, pushing harder this time, weaving more of my strength into the call.
Still nothing.
The line, once warm and alive, was cold.
My chest tightened.
No.
No, not like this.
The chair scraped back as I rose to my feet in one sharp motion. I didn't think. My body moved before my mind could catch up.
And then I was running.
I tore through the camp, boots slamming against the packed dirt, the world narrowing to a single desperate thought. The hill. The village. Him.
Millicent saw me first.
Her head snapped up from where she sat sharpening her blade, and she immediately threw the weapon aside. "Melina? What's wrong?"
I didn't stop to answer.
She must have seen the look on my face, because her own changed in an instant. Eyes wide, mouth set in grim determination.
"Something's wrong," she shouted, already sprinting after me. "Everyone, MOVE!"
The camp exploded into motion. Soldiers scrambled to grab their weapons. Edgar barked orders through the chaos. The sound of boots, armor, and panic echoed behind me, but I didn't look back.
All that mattered was the hill.
The night blurred around me as I ran, faster than I ever had before. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst. My lungs burned. My Grace flared inside me like wildfire, but I didn't stop.
He had to be fine.
He had to be.
My mind raced as my feet carried me forward. Memories flickered through me like flashes of lightning, his grin when he first held his sword, his terrible jokes, his fearless defiance no matter what he stood against.
My companion.
The fool who stared down dragons as though they were nothing more than an afternoon inconvenience, the fool who made an art of felling them. The man who laughed when others despaired. The one who, despite everything, always found a reason to smile.
He was reckless. Impossible. Infuriating.
And I admired him more than words could say.
He could make light in places where even the gods had turned away.
He had a way of taking a broken thing. Be it a person, weapon, or world, and seeing something still worth saving.
That was who he was.
And that was why the thought of losing him made my blood turn to ice.
The trees thinned, the village came into view, shrouded in a haze of smoke and emberlight. The stench of madness still lingered in the air, thick and choking.
And then I found the church.
Its doors were half-open, creaking in the wind. The light inside flickered like dying fire.
I forced myself forward, pushing through the threshold, and stopped.
The world went silent.
He was there.
Collapsed near the altar.
His body was shaking, doubled over in pain. One hand clutched at his face, streaked with blood. Blood that poured from his eyes, bright and terrible in the dim light. His armor was half-melted, the left side caved in where the Frenzied Flame had burned through both metal and flesh.
The smell of scorched steel and charred skin filled the air.
His left arm wasn't human anymore.
It had scales and claws gleamed faintly in the firelight, the grotesque echo of the dragons he had consumed. That hand, monstrous and slick with gore, braced him against the stone floor, trembling beneath his weight.
And beside him was a child.
The body was hollowed out, its chest caved in by a single, merciless strike.
The scent of death and ash hung over everything.
I couldn't move.
My voice caught in my throat as the truth clawed at me.
What had he done?
What had he seen to bring him to this?
How could someone so radiant, so full of life and defiance, look so utterly broken?
Why?
Why does someone like him look like this?
Why does someone who shines so bright, who carries the world with both hands, now kneel in its ruin?
Why must he bleed for the sins of this world?
My Companion is an Odd One.
…
It took longer than I had hoped to separate him from what remained of his melted armor. The metal had fused to his flesh in places, and the smell of burned skin clung to the air long after we were done. His skin had barely held together beneath it.
By all rights, he should have died.
It was a miracle that he hadn't.
The burns would scar him, that much was certain. Deep, blackened marks ran across his chest and shoulder where the Frenzied Flame had tried to claim him. But, mercifully, his body would heal. It always did.
His mind, however…
I have no idea.
He had fallen unconscious very shortly after we found him. His eyes rolled back, his voice a broken whisper of pain and confusion. The last words that left his lips before he went under were:
"Is… t-that you?"
I don't know what to think of that. I don't even know who he thought I was in that moment.
Now, hours later, I sat by his bedside. The room was quiet except for the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
I reached forward and brushed a lock of his hair from his face, tucking it gently behind his ear. His skin was warm to the touch, too warm. I removed the wet cloth from his forehead, wrung it out in a bowl of cool water, and laid it back across his brow.
Beside me, Millicent had fallen asleep sitting on the floor, her head resting on her arms against the edge of his bed. Poor girl hadn't moved since we got him back to Castle Morne.
He had been under for the past seven hours.
Seven hours of his immortal heart pounding like a war drum, as though it refused to slow down even when he could no longer fight. Seven hours of me casting every healing and restoration incantation I knew, again and again until my hands trembled and my voice grew hoarse.
There was nothing else I could do, not anymore.
So I sat there.
And I thought.
About him.
About how absurd it was that I missed his voice already, that the room felt wrong without his sarcastic commentary filling the silence. About how much I needed him to wake up, to tell me he was fine, to make some stupid joke, to remind me that this wasn't the end-
…And I thought about what I still hadn't told him.
The words I kept swallowing, night after night.
How much I…
…
?!
My thoughts stopped when I saw his fingers twitch.
Then, a groan escaped him. It was low, pained and blessedly Human.
He stirred, his body tensing as though he were dragging himself up from the bottom of some terrible dream.
Slowly, he pushed himself up on one arm, clutching his head with the other. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then slowly, painfully, finding me. His breathing hitched, and for a moment, he just stared. Then his gaze flicked to the side, toward Millicent still sleeping beside him.
And then, back to me.
"...I'm sorry I worried you both," he murmured hoarsely. "But, in my defense-"
Before he could finish, I reached out and caught his hand.
He froze.
"I don't care." I said quietly.
His lips parted slightly, caught off guard. Then he looked down, away from me.
"I'm fine." he said softly, his voice too calm, too careful.
I didn't believe him.
He glanced back up. I didn't say a word, just looked at him, my expression holding more than my voice could manage.
He flinched under it. Then he looked away again.
"I'm fine, really." He repeated, as though saying it again would make it true.
My lips pressed into a thin line. I didn't argue. I didn't scold. I just held his hand tighter, the silence between us saying everything I couldn't.
"I…" I began, hesitating, my throat tight. "I may not be a Deathbed Companion… but I believe I can still hold you. Comfort you… just as she did."
He looked at me then, really looked.
His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but beneath it, I saw something raw. Something fragile.
I begged him silently.
Please. Let me have this. Let us have this.
And then, he moved.
Slowly, unsteadily, he leaned forward until his forehead pressed against my shoulder, his arms wrapping around me in a shaky, desperate embrace.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and held him just as tightly.
And for the first time since that night, the world felt right again.
His warmth seeped into me, grounding me. The smell of ash and sweat clung to him, and yet, somehow, it felt… safe.
For a long while, we didn't speak. The fire crackled. Millicent murmured softly in her sleep. His breathing steadied against me.
I wanted to tell him.
Everything.
How I felt. What I feared. What I wanted.
But maybe now wasn't the time.
Maybe he needed to rest first.
Maybe-
"I…" His voice broke the silence, low and trembling. "…really, truly… love you."
My breath caught.
He swallowed hard, his forehead still pressed against my shoulder.
"I didn't want to scare you off…" He continued, voice shaking. "I wanted to give you time to… to feel the same, if you ever would. But I don't think I can hold it in anymore. I just need you to know. Even if you don't feel the same way."
I went still.
For a moment, all I could do was stare at him, at the fool who somehow made my heart ache and soar in the same breath.
Him.
My companion.
My wonderful, infuriating, impossible companion.
A small, breathless laugh escaped me, trembling on my lips.
"I remember…" I whispered softly. "Back when you guided me away from that pack of monstrous dogs."
He blinked at me, confused, brow furrowing.
"You told me something then." I continued, smiling faintly. "That 'Sometimes you just need to take a leap of faith'."
He opened his mouth to reply, probably to make some insufferable joke, but I cut him off with a quiet, trembling whisper.
"Let me have this."
Then I leaned forward and kissed him.
And for that one small and perfect moment, for the first time in my mess of a life, the world felt whole.
The weight of the past lifted from my shoulders. His heartbeat steadied beneath my hand.
For the first time since I could remember, I didn't feel like a wandering shadow of the past.
I felt alive.
And it was because of him.
My Companion is an Odd One…
And I wouldn't want to share the rest of my days with anyone else.
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Author's Note:
193k words and we FINALLY get the first kiss… Man, do I live up to the romance author standard or what? :3
It's the first time I've ever written something in 1st person, hopefully y'all liked it lol
Also, going back to reread this, I realise parts of it also reads a lot like Artoria's monologue during the Fate route in the Fate/Stay Night Visual Novel. I swear this wasn't on purpose, I got into TYPE MOON way after writing this lol
…
Next Chapter Title: A Maiden's Kiss and a Warm Bath.
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