"O-oh?" Ennieux blinked. She stared at the waterskin bewildered. Then, crossing her arms, she looked away. "I-I'm afraid I'll have to decline, unfortunately. I don't mean to be rude, but…"

This man was a friend of Ailn's, and Lady Fleuve's besides, but Ennieux wasn't the type to place her trust in acquaintances. And if she were being perfectly honest, she did not hold him in particularly high esteem.

"A fair response," Ceric said, stroking his beard as though appraising the waterskin. "The friend of my friend is my friend. But the friend of my family can be a rather dicey proposition for nobles. It's a treacherous world you live in, Lady Ennieux, that's for certain."

"Er—yes, certainly," Ennieux nodded along. However suspect his extrapolations, he got the point. "I'm grateful, nonetheless. Chivalry does seem too rare nowadaysh—ahem, nowadays." She cast her eyes to the side in embarrassment. "Did my nephew send you to find me?"

"He did indeed," Ceric nodded.

"Well, I've no wish to return to the castle yet." Ennieux leaned her head against the low wall, and spoke with a languid cadence. "Why, I'm too busy enjoying the festival. Pray relay that to my children, won't you?"

"I'm glad to hear it!" Ceric sighed in relief. "Truthfully, the way you were draped against the stonework, I mistook you for a miserable drunk."

Ennieux made a face.

"I'm ashamed to have been so presumptuous," Ceric said, closing his eyes and softly shaking his head. "A lady of House eum-Creid would never be found in such a slovenly state."

"Never," Ennieux said. "Perish the thought."

"I take it you were saving your energy for the rest of the festivities?" Ceric asked.

"Yes. Let's go with that," Ennieux said curtly.

"As luck would have it, I was entrusted with making sure you were present for the fireworks this evening," Ceric said.

Now, that was a peculiar statement.

"...The fireworks," Ennieux repeated slowly. "You were told to ensure that I 'went.' When the best vantage to view them is from the castle?"

"An even finer spot exists just outside the city's walls," Ceric offered. "Beacon Hill. Do you know it?"

Her expression scrunched. "I know it, yes. And I'm to go there? Prithee, tell me why?"

"Ah, you may not have realized. Lady Fleuve and I were in the plaza when you quarreled with your husband," Ceric explained. "Not just us—Ailn and Lady Renea as well. They'd conspired to arrange your pleasant evening together. And they were distraught to see how things actually went."

"Oh were they, indeed?" Ennieux asked, beginning to very quietly grind her teeth.

"They hoped to redeem themselves. To save the night by leading you and the viscount to each other once more," Ceric said. "And they thought, perhaps, if you two could just share a moment beneath the fireworks…"

"Good God—haven't they done enough already?!" Ennieux snapped.

"Even so," Ceric said, shaking his head, "they wish to do more."

While Ennieux fumed over her busybody niece and nephew, said siblings were just around the corner of the cloister walk, quietly eavesdropping.

"He didn't have to go and—and tell on us like that…!" Renea whispered so fretfully she was starting to sound furious.

"At least all the cards are out on the table," Ailn said, wincing faintly. "Let's just try and see things through."

"Was this really the right thing to do?" Renea asked softly, thumb grazing her lip. "Bea's just a baby. But us…"

"The 'right' thing?" Ailn echoed. He closed his eyes, fiddling with his wrist. "Prophecies make a real mess of ethics."

His eyes opened, gaze drifting upward to the sky where the fireworks would be bursting soon enough. "Both of them know what's going on, now. How they want the night to end is up to them."

Renea gave him a long look, before her expression soured.

"That's just dodging the question, Ani…" Renea muttered.

Back in the cloister walk, Ennieux was still propped up against the pillar, arms drawn tight like a blanket. The flicker of anger that had flared in her had already burned away. Her head had cooled, yet so too had her heart. All that was left now was ashes.

"And if I were to remain here?" Ennieux asked quietly. Her eyes were downcast. "Would it truly be so wrong to just… stay put?"

For a few moments, Ceric gazed at her with an expression of genuine confusion.

"What could be wrong with that?" he asked. "Do you not wish to go?"

"I… don't know what I wish," Ennieux said honestly.

Ceric stroked his beard, studying her in thoughtful silence. "I see. All of us had hoped this would be a night for the two of you to cherish. There's no point to it all if it only causes you pain."

Then, without a word, he once again held out the waterskin. This time, with a trembling hand, Ennieux accepted it.

"...Thank you," she murmured. Only when it was empty did she realize how thirsty she had been.

"For an adventurer, water is the greatest of treasures," Ceric said, taking it back. "That is a lesson I've only learned through the most terrible of hardships."

"Adventurer?" Ennieux blinked. "Is that truly a profession?"

"Indeed," Ceric nodded solemnly. "Though it's reserved only for the most intrepid of souls."

Her face scrunched in doubt at first. But as a secret yearning stole through her in the space of a few heartbeats, Ennieux's gaze softened into something wistful.

"How fine," Ennieux said with a faint smile. "That sort of courage was never mine."

Then, meeting Ceric's eyes, she flinched at the earnestness she found there.

"Do you wish to be with your husband, Lady Ennieux?"

Ennieux's breath caught, struck by the blunt sincerity of Ceric's question. "W-well that's hardly the point—surely you saw us in the plaza—"

Perhaps it was the alcohol, or perhaps she was simply too exhausted for pretenses. But as Ennieux fumbled for words, for some feeble deflection, the truth which had always been too painful to speak finally found its way to her lips.

"I want to…" she said faintly. "But I fear I'm alone in that."

"She's just being a tsundere, Horace!" Safi blurted out.

Her words hung in the air a moment and a tiny pebble fell into the well of Horace's memory—an echo from his past life not quite loud enough to hear.

"Tsundere…?" Horace murmured.

Safi blinked. Her eyes went wide. Then her hands flew to her mouth, the principal offender. "It's something we say in Sussuro!"

"And it means?" Horace asked.

Her eyes darted around the tree line as if a wild animal might save her.

"It's from the ancient language," she declared, head nodding vigorously while her speech bleated through her hands. A precarious confidence flickered in her eyes and she freed her mouth. "Tsun for prickly, and dere for cuddly—the glyphs are hedgehogs! Because they thought it was tragic that hedgehogs can't snuggle!"

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Horace stared at her dimly. "Very… well. You'll have to explain what you mean exactly. About Ennieux."

"I'm saying you guys' rhythm is off," Safi said, exasperated. "She'll be all prickly and tsun at you hard, and then one of you trips right when she's about to dere!"

Then she cleared her throat and added quietly, "...Usually you, Viscount Gren."

He gave her words a moment of consideration.

"I'll accept fault," Horace said, gaze sliding to the ground beside him. "But forgive me if I find it hard to believe we were ever on the verge of a tender moment. Not through any fault of hers. She just…"

A sad smile touched his lips. "She has never felt that way about me."

Now it was Safi's turn to miserably cover her face with her hands. "How did you two ever have children together…? Wait, no, that was a rhetorical question. Don't answer that!"

She sighed, recalibrating herself.

"Viscount Gren, have you ever asked her if she loves you?" Safi asked, pointing a finger at his face.

His brows knit, glance caught by the finger leveled at him. "That isn't the sort of question one asks in a loveless marriage."

"There you go again! Don't you get that you're just squaring the circle?!" Safi cried. "Do you love Lady Ennieux?"

"...I do," Horace replied, sincerely. "I always have."

"Does she know that?" Safi asked, incredulously.

"I have never burdened her with—"

"AHHHHH! Do you even hear yourself?!" Safi's knuckles rapped against her own head as if she were trying to knock the stupid away. "If you love her, and she doesn't know, what makes you think that you'd know if she secretly loves you?!"

Horace fell into silence. And Safi, thinking perhaps her last outburst had come off as a bit mean-spirited, let her hands clasp neatly in front of her lap.

"Why are you so deadset on believing she can't love you?" Safi asked softly.

"Because…" Horace faltered.

What was the real reason? Was it that their marriage was arranged?

Was it that he wasn't the real Horace?

Was it something in her manner that told him truly and definitively she could never feel love?

No. These were all just excuses. There was a single hopeless truth buried beneath it all. A shadow hiding behind every hand he didn't take, every word he swallowed. Every moment he loved her and never let her know.

It was the memory of a man who had to learn he wasn't wanted. Who clutched at flowers and clung to a smile—stood outside, quietly listening, while his heart was politely sliced. Always tired. Never useful. So pathetic, he died alone in his apartment, still stuck in his sweat-drenched suit.

"Because someone like me…" Horace mumbled. "...doesn't belong with someone like her."

No one spoke for a few moments. Safi tried to—her lips parting and closing a few times before she finally hung her head. "Is that really what you think?"

Horace's throat clenched up. "...I do."

Safi's shoulders sagged. All night, she'd been swinging wildly between theatrical excess and contrite meekness. But in that moment, she simply looked small.

"I used to feel like that," Safi said quietly. "A long time ago. So long ago I was basically someone else. I really thought I counted less than other people."

She drew a shaky breath and cleared her throat. "Then, um, stuff happened. I went to a whole new place. And I had the chance to leave it all behind. But…"

"You couldn't escape it," Horace muttered.

"Yeah," Safi's head hung lower. "One day I just remembered. All the stuff that really, really hurt. All the ways I felt about myself. And I fell back into looking at myself like that."

"Like I was less of a person than them…" she whispered.

There was the sound of the wind through the trees, stirring their leaves. Its slow drift seemed to carry Horace's gaze, which settled softly on the young girl beside him.

"Did things eventually change for the better?" Horace asked gently.

"Yeah, um… I made a friend, and um…" Safi turned away, voice trembling, words continually catching in her throat. "S-she helped me make new friends, too."

She brushed her eyes dry before meeting Horace's gaze.

"But, you know, Viscount Gren, if you keep writing this story all alone, it's Lady Ennieux who's gonna feel worthless," Safi said. "She loves you. I know she does."

"Then…" Horace drew in a shallow breath and held it, as though unsure whether he dared to hope. "How do I write something else?"

"By remembering you've got the pen in your hands," Safi declared, finding the spark in her voice again. She gave him a big, sheepish smile and a playful smack on the back. "She's gonna be waiting for you at Beacon Hill. To watch the fireworks together! Go to her and write a good ending."

The name left his lips with the pang of half-memory.

"Beacon Hill?" he repeated softly.

But Safi met his eyes firmly, refusing to let him spiral. "Tonight, Horace, you're the protagonist. Go get the girl!"

She put both her hands on his shoulders and gave them a drill sergeant shake. "And make sure she can hear you over the fireworks!"

"Truly, Sigurd—" Ciel breathed, her face flushed in part from their brisk pace. "To use the divine blessing for a parlor game—then press the prize to me—"

"It's the Festival of Light," Sigurd replied flatly. "What day would be more appropriate?"

"Do you not like it, mama?" Bea asked.

As Bea and her parents made their way back to the castle to watch the fireworks, she once more perched on her father's shoulders. The ramparts offered one of the best views of the whole thing, and they were running a bit late.

Ciel's arms, meanwhile, embraced a gigantic teddy bear. That somewhat added to her exertion.

"It's—a bit unwieldy—" Ciel replied.

But when Sigurd tried to take the bear and lighten her load, she wordlessly tugged it away.

"Papa… we stayed too long trying to knock down the cans," Bea said. She balanced Platopus atop Sigurd's head as they hurried along. "Mama was really excited to watch the fireworks."

"Ah—I'd never seen them before, so…" Ciel said a bit sheepishly. "It hardly matters. I'm sure they're wondrous anywhere under the sky."

They passed through the gatehouse and made straight for the stairs, the spiral steps taking them up to the ramparts. More than a few of the castle's denizens had gathered to watch—knights and servants alike.

What was curiously missing was family.

"Uncle Ailn and Aunt Renea aren't here…" Bea said, sounding a little disappointed. "Aunt Camille too…"

But that was when Bea noticed Sophie standing alone at the far end of the ramparts. Even from afar her gaze seemed dull and distant—skyward, yet not really there.

"Renea must not have yet returned," Sigurd murmured. "And I heard young Theo went off to the festival with his family…"

"Papa," Bea picked up Platopus and plopped him down again. "Aunt Sophie's mama is yours too, right…?"

"...That's right," Sigurd said. "Our mother is no longer with us, but she's my younger sister. We had different fathers."

"Where's Aunt Sophie's papa…?"

Her father's expression momentarily darkened before his eyes flicked away. "Sophie's father… is someone who's made her very sad, Bea." His lips parted for a moment, and something stirred in his eyes. "And our mother is likely a sad memory for her as well."

Bea picked up Platopus and looked into his eyes. Her expression scrunched up. Then she gave a solemn little nod as another blue firework flared in the sky. "I get it now, Platopus…"

She tapped her father's shoulder. "Papa, I wanna go down…"

Hesitantly, Sigurd eased her into his arms, looking into her eyes much the way she'd looked into her stuffed friend's. Then, as Ciel leaned warmly into him, he set Bea on her feet.

Ennieux's legs quaked as she passed through the city's main gates. She was acutely aware of the strange looks she was getting from the guards—no doubt shocked that the castle's notorious recluse was leaving the safety of Varant's granite walls.

At night, no less.

How had she been convinced? Away from his presence, it was as if the genial man's spell had broken, and her borrowed courage with it.

She thought back to their exchange in the cloister walk.

"It seems to me if you want to be with him, Lady Ennieux," Ceric had said so simply, "then the best solution is to go meet him."

"I-I've only left the city's walls a handful of times in my life," Ennieux stammered. "It's not… that simple. How can we be certain he'll even show?"

"That is a rather trying conundrum," Ceric admitted. "Is it frightening for you?"

"...Quite," Ennieux said.

"Then what drove you to leave these walls before?" Ceric asked.

"When I was young, I was taken to the northern wall a few times," Ennieux said quietly. "And then…"

But Ennieux had only lowered her gaze, continuing no further. Ceric didn't pry. Instead, he gave her the best advice he could.

"Adventurers are not those who ignore their fears," Ceric said gently. "They are the ones who pursue what is so precious, it's worth conquering fear itself."

Then came the words which Ennieux had, quite against her nature, chosen to believe in.

"And as I've heard it attested, love is the greatest adventure there is."

In the present, Ennieux walked beneath the arches and into the extramural road. Others streamed the same way, their lanterns bobbing in the dark, but she lacked one of her own. Drawn into the current of strangers, she forced her breathing steady, fearing others might pick up on her panic.

The trek to Beacon Hill wasn't one she knew by heart, but much of it was still etched into her memory. Even after all this time.

Before long, Beacon Hill rose ahead of her. A modest crowd had gathered and tittered about excitedly. Many had brought blankets for their families to lay down. More than a few had brought jugs filled with drink, and the vendors prowling the hill drifted among them, happy to refresh cups in exchange for coin.

All these people had come to watch the fireworks. It was perhaps what the hill was most known for.

But for Ennieux, it would always be the place where she had first met Horace, long ago…

When she saved him from that blizzard.

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