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Ash isn’t in his bedroom by the time Lucas comes by to check on him—as he always does before the break of dawn. But the room is empty. The bed is set.
He's neither in the bathroom, the walk-in wardrobe, nor the kitchen.
Instead, Lucas finds Ash in the cold of his office, slouched over a spread of papers, accompanied by a cup of tea that has long since cooled.
“My Lord.”
Ash doesn’t look up from his papers, opting to scribble down a note, as his eyes dart between the pages. “Hmm?”
“Did you get enough sleep?”
“A few hours,” comes the nonchalant answer.
Lucas stands at the doorway for a moment or two, watching with a wrinkle in his brow, before Ash puts his pen down to reach and flip open his pocket watch. He snaps it shut a second later.
“Lucas,” Ash starts. He pushes away from the desk to stand, massaging his left wrist. “You have perfect timing. Ready the carriage. I have to drop by the Alchemist’s Workshop.”
“Of course,” Lucas replies, nodding, “but shall I have Aider prepare breakfast for you beforehand?”
Ash sweeps the coat off his chair, sliding it on, and after adjusting his cuffs, he grabs his cup of cold tea and downs it all. The cup clatters back onto the saucer. “No need. I’ll just grab a snack from town.”
Following Ash out of the room, Lucas says, “My Lord, it is very important to your health that you eat a well-balanced meal. Your consistent eating schedule is also concerning.”
“Less nagging; more readying-the-carriage.”
Lucas deflates, frowning.
After descending to the ground floor, Ash waves him off and leaves to exchange a subtle word with Aider. Lucas sighs. He turns on his heel.
It doesn’t take long for Lucas to lead the carriage to the front of the mansion where Ash awaits, and Lucas hurries down from the coachman’s seat to open the passenger door. His knightly habit has him extending a hand. Lucas doesn’t retract it nor does he expect anything out of it, already fully aware that throughout the passing years, ever since that day, Ash has never once—
Ash takes his hand.
Lucas blinks wide.
Gloved fingers grip his armored ones as Ash ascends into the carriage. Settling into the seat, he crosses his arms to suppress a shiver.
The silence strains.
Ash glances at him, and the bags under his eyes are not at all fitting to how sharp his voice is when he shouts, “Hey! If you’re going to stare, at least stare through the window! It’s cold!”
“Ah—my apologies!” Yanked out of his daze, Lucas closes the door and scurries away, climbing to the driver’s seat and cracking the whip for departure. The horses trot forward without delay. The wheels begin to turn and the carriage begins to creak, and as they descend from the hill of the estate, Lucas finds that—no matter how hard he tries to bury his thoughts—he can’t seem to forget it:
The weak tremble of his Lord’s hand.
The winter wind cuts cold and deep as the carriage makes its way into and through the heart of the city, one bustling with the morning crowd. Citizens wave and shout their greetings. Soldiers too. Lucas nods his own wordless one, but irritation bubbles up in his stomach when they don’t attempt to greet his Lord.
It’s only when they arrive at the Alchemist’s Workshop that Lucas notices why.
The carriage curtains have been pulled shut. Not a single slit allows for light.
Lifting his fist against the door, Lucas attempts a gentle knock.
Silence greets him back.
Worry and hesitance in his throat, Lucas reaches for the handle, cracks the door open, and begins to call, “My Lord, are you—”
Lucas doesn’t finish.
There, under the shade of the carriage curtain, is Ash. Head up against the window, hands limp in his lap, black hair dusting over his closed eyes—each quiet breath he takes accompanies the small rise and fall of his chest, and, perhaps, this sight shouldn’t be as strange as it feels.
Here, Ash doesn’t look at all like his reputation. The one called the steadfast, surefooted commander of the Southern Frontline, the one who sentences death to monsters as easily as a manmade grim reaper, nor the one who challenges the impossible with nothing short of manmade miracles.
Here, in the cradle of the carriage, Ash just looks…
…tired.
A weary wall finding rest in a night’s armistice.
Lucas is all for closing the door to let Ash sleep for the day—perhaps even the next couple of days, but the second he tries to retreat—begins to lean his weight to his back foot, the wood beneath him creaks.
Lucas doesn’t get a chance to curse.
Ash’s eyes flutter open, long lashes blinking away the fatigue. As if he wasn’t dead to the world a very moment ago, Ash lets loose a yawn as he pulls away from the window to blink blearily at him. “Oh, Lucas,” he begins, sounding dry. “We’re arrived?”
Lucas pauses for a moment, pursing his lips. “...Yes, my Lord.”
“Great,” Ash says, almost a sigh. “Let’s go.”
When he opens the door, Lucas extends his support—this time, more conscious than habit—and without delay, Ash takes his hand once more.
Without a word, Lucas follows Ash into the workshop. He stations himself a step behind, watching and listening, as Ash converses with the alchemists. What they talk about is nothing new. Artifact repairs, ongoing production plans, welfare check-ups. Lucas wonders why Ash even bothers with these people—with such trivial tasks he could just leave to others, but Lucas supposes—Lucas knows this is one of the many reasons why his Lord is as beloved as he is.
Ash is generous with his praise and smiles. He hangs onto the alchemists’ words, nodding along, adding his own thoughts, asking his own questions, and the appreciation on the latters’ faces speak of how much of a joy it is to have someone listen so intently to their work.
After an hour, Ash leads the conversation to its end. The alchemists don’t push—already aware of how costly time is to their commander (and of Lucas’ increasingly sharpening glare), and they bid him farewell with a bow and promises of their deadlines.
When they step out of the workshop, the split second slump of Ash’s shoulders doesn’t go unnoticed.
“My Lord.”
“Hmm?”
“Would you like to have your breakfast now?” Lucas opens the carriage door and offers his hand.
Ash takes it. “After this.”
“After this?”
“I have to pick up some equipment from the forge,” Ash answers as he settles into his seat. “Kellibey should’ve finished them by now.”
“...Surely that can wait?”
Ash crosses his legs and flips open his pocket watch, dark eyes glancing over the needles. A hand comes up to rub at his temple. “Kuilan and the Penal Squad have a scheduled dungeon exploration today. I promised them new equipment for it.”
“...”
“Come on, horsey—let’s go!”
Lucas sighs, shakes his head, and closes the door.
For the next few hours spent doing tasks, Lucas tries to herd Ash into getting something to eat, but with each finished errand comes another. With each problem comes five more. Lucas’ only victory comes in the form of a single chicken skewer from one of the small food stalls along their path which Ash doesn’t even finish.
Such a day is nothing new to Lucas, because ever since coming to Crossroad, Ash’s schedule has always been incredibly hectic. Cramped and fully-booked. Perhaps, it’s Lucas who hasn’t yet adapted, but watching Ash rush back and forth across the city, stealing quick naps in the half-hearted shade of the carriage curtains, taking five steps in the pace he should only take one…
Something is wrong.
Something is wrong and Ash won’t slow down.
“...and so Evangeline will escort the Penal Squad for this exploration’s training.” Ash—having long since returned to the Lord’s estate for an evening meeting—points to the diagram of the Lake Kingdom and says to the crowd in front of him, “Pay close attention to how these monsters fight. Their patterns, strengths, and weaknesses. I’ve already briefed you on them, but it’s valuable to your own growth that you experience them yourselves. Understood?”
From his table, Kuilan smiles sharply. “Yes, Boss!”
The rest of the Penal Squad shout similar responses.
“Don’t worry, Senior!” Evangeline grins from a table over, knocking a fist against the chest of her armor. “I’ll babysit them well.”
“...Hey, we’re older than you.”
Ignoring their scuffle, Ash nods. He leans an elbow on the podium and turns to another person in the room. “Damian, you’ll be joining them as a healing priest, not as a sniper. Leave the monsters to them. It should be relatively safe in that zone, but bring a few pistols in case.”
“Yes, Your Highness!”
“Alright.” Clapping his hands together, Ash smiles. “Everyone has their tasks. That marks the end of today’s meeting.”
Half the room lets out a collective sigh of relief. Stretching out their arms and legs, everyone begins packing up their things.
As they move to file out, Ash clears his throat and adds, “Also, remember to get some proper rest for the upcoming defense battle! I expect everyone to be in tip-top condition.”
“You too, Senior!”
Ash blinks slowly, taking his elbow off the podium. “Me?”
Evangeline smiles wryly and replies, “You look a bit under-the-weather.”
“I agree!”
The room turns to Lucas with incredulous expressions—mouths wide at seeing such a sight: an agreement between the two most disagreeable knights.
“It’s winter,” Ash deadpans. “We’re all under-the-weather.” He turns to put the piece of chalk back onto the board, but it slips through his fingers, clattering to the floor. He mutters something like a curse under his breath.
“Maybe it’s just your old man bones,” Evangeline sings, stepping toward the door as Ash bends down to pick up the chalk piece.
Snickers sound about the room.
“Yeah, yeah,” Ash huffs, shaky fingers wrapping around the chalk, before he leans back on his heels, moving to stand. “Hopefully, it is just my… just my…”
Lucas’ eyes go wide.
Evangeline turns around. “Senior?”
The chalk drops to the floor once more.
“Oh, fuck—”
Like a resounding gunshot, a hand slams against the edge of the podium, sending it rocking against the floor.
“My Lord?!”
“Your Highness!”
Grimacing and gasping, Ash leans half-collapsed against the side of the podium, eyes squeezed closed, lip bitten through. A trembling hand comes up to clutch at his scalp.
Lucas and Evangeline sprint forward as Ash’s knees give out beneath him, catching him by the arms.
“Senior, what’s wrong?!” Evangeline cries, eyes wide and shaking.
“Is he alright?!”
“He was fine just a moment ago!”
“Quiet! ” Lucas snaps, his gaze sharp with ice.
Already rushing forward, a warm glow of magic accompanies his fingers as Damian reaches out to press an open palm against Ash’s forehead.
Junior anxiously hovers over his shoulder, biting her nails.
Patience running thin by the tension in his shoulders, Lucas prompts urgently, “Damian?”
“I’m fine…” Ash groans, trying to pull away or push away, but he only manages a weak nudge—his sapping strength but a grain of a sand. “‘S just a really fucking bad migraine.”
“And a high fever,” Damian adds carefully.
Panic flares in Lucas’ eyes, his voice pulling thin. “My Lord, why didn’t you say anything?”
And even with each shallow breath, Ash manages a hoarse laugh and says, “...Would you believe me if I said I could walk it off—hey, hey!”
“We need to get him to his bedroom,” Lucas says quickly, already swooping Ash into his arms. The crowd of heroes break apart to let him storm through. The main party hurries after, Damian already directing Evangeline and Junior to fetch cool towels and warm water—tasks they rush to fulfill like death’s on their tail.
Before Damian can disappear alongside them, a hand grabs his shoulder.
“Is he going to be okay?!” Kuilan cries. He crowds around Damian, and he isn’t the only one.
Damian swallows the lump in his throat. “So far, it seems like a regular fever. Healing magic doesn’t work on regular colds, so I can’t use it on His Highness, but as long as it’s nothing more than the flu, he’ll be okay.” Although the shine of his eyes speaks of worry, Damian adds on steadily, nodding, “I’ll make sure of it.”
With that, Damian bids them a brief farewell before rushing after his Prince.
For a moment, no one says anything. Too cautious to feel relieved. Too fearful to voice their concerns lest they come true, but then it arrives—that fond, rueful remark:
Kellibey shakes his head, cursing under his breath, “That damn commander of ours.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re really not, Senior.”
“Don’t underestimate me—I’ve completed more than a few forty-eight hour streaming challenges in my lifetime… I won’t be done in by a fever!”
“...Okay, now, you’re really hallucinating.”
Junior places a cool towel on his forehead which Ash promptly takes off when he tries to rise from the bed, face flushed and sweating and presumably half-delirious.
Lucas’ hands flit around as if scared to stop him. “My Lord!”
“Your Highness, you need to rest!” Damian pleads.
“And you should be exploring the dungeons with Evangeline and the Penal Squad right about now,” Ash grumbles, fingers massaging his temples.
Evangeline exclaims, “Not if you’re like this! You think any of us could go out knowing you’re dying?!”
Lucas grabs Evangeline’s collar, seething. “Do not imply such a horrible thing!”
Ash sighs, waving a dismissive hand as they go at each other’s throats. “It’s a fever. I’m not dying, and as Damian said: this can’t be cured by healing magic. There’s nothing to do but let it run its course. Due to this setback, it’s best for everything else to at least remain on track.”
Letting go of Evangeline, Lucas cries, kneeling by the bed, “Please do not refer to your health as a setback, my Lord!”
Ash blinks blearily at him. The next breath he takes chokes off into a fit of coughs and Junior shoves a glass of water toward him which he struggles to swallow down. He mumbles a thank you.
Meeting their anxious gazes and dejected expressions once more, Ash huffs with a dry sound. “You brats. I’ll be fine. Right now, what is most important—”
“—is His Highness!” A cold towel over his face.
“—his health!” Pillows behind his head.
“—his recovery!” Hands on either side of him push him back down onto the bed.
Staring at the ceiling, Ash finishes off plainly, “—is the defense battle coming up.”
“There’s no need to worry. We’ll take care of all the preparations, my Lord!” Lucas declares, hand already in a salute.
“No, but I—”
“We’ll leave for the dungeon exploration, Your Highness, but please make sure to rest while we’re gone, alright? Drink lots of fluids and keep your forehead cool!”
“After we’re done, we’ll come check up on you!”
“...You don’t have to. You might get sick.”
“Pshhh, we won’t. We aren’t as weak as Senior!”
“...That’s a low blow.”
As if clinging to an imaginary rope, with varying levels of regret as shown by their wails and cries, Evangeline and Damian practically have to be thrown out of the room by Lucas. He dusts off his hands with a breath of satisfaction.
Turning his cheek against the pillow, Ash watches them go with a small, fond smile.
“Do you need a fresh towel, Your Majesty?” Junior asks.
“No, this one is plenty cold.”
“How about the candles, my Lord?” Lucas asks at the bedside cabinet. “Should I blow them out?”
Ash shakes his head. He says, raspy, “Leave them, but while you're here, can you bring me the pile of mercenary profiles from my office? I need to look over the troop organization.”
From either side of the bed, Lucas and Junior stare at him with dead eyes. They exchange a look and nod.
With a twitch of Junior’s fingers, a stray wind steals the breaths out of the candle flames.
“Wait, what are you—” Ash reaches out.
“I wish you a slow—I mean, fast recovery, Your Majesty!” Junior cheers with a wink, exiting the room.
Lucas follows with a deep bow. Hand already at the doorknob, he declares, “I will take care of your duties in your stead, so please rest with your mind at ease.”
“But—”
Like the finale of a song, the door slams closed, leaving the room in a somber darkness with only the thin shards of evening light through the window curtains.
Ash’s hand drops back down to the blanket.
“Ah.”
Lucas knows he’s not as capable as Ash—knows he would be lucky to do this job even half as well as him, so he elicits the help of a few others… perhaps, more than a few. He doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter, because as soon as they see him, fellow heroes and soldiers bombard him with questions and worries, desperate to be given something to do—desperate to prove their worth.
The next defense battle is in three days, and Lucas has spent the first organizing the troops and hammering in the tactics left behind by his Lord—those written in clean characters that soon dissolve into scrawls of ink the more you read, the more you pay attention.
Lucas quizzes every soldier he sees. Whether the questions are of the monsters’ strengths, weaknesses, and attack patterns or the overall defense strategy—he doesn’t allow anyone to answer unsure.
Lilly and Junior begin to set up the array of artifacts along the fortress walls.
Kellibey gears up every hero with their repaired armor.
The guildmasters deliver their promised weapons and utility on time or earlier, officers drop by with write-ups of the inquired artillery logistics, and by midnight, Evangeline reports back with the Penal Squad, carrying their spoils from the dungeon exploration.
It’s almost hard to imagine that the chaos of Crossroad has always been managed by a single person. Almost.
Looking back on it now, Lucas should have never let it get this bad—this far. Should have pushed a bit earlier. Should have pushed a bit harder. Should have fought for Ash when he stopped fighting for himself, and the guilt is half the driving force of Lucas' urge to do better.
To not let Ash down.
That guilt only festers further each time he drops by the estate—either alone or accompanied. The bedroom is always dark. The candles are always out. Whether they make a disturbance in the form of replacing his forehead towel or whispering their hushed worries, the exhaustion must have been stronger than his stubbornness, because Ash hasn’t woken up once for the past two days.
“...thus, we should finish the wall repairs this evening,” the soldier reports as Lucas peers over the fortress wall to scrutinize the surface. “Fortunately, the damage taken from the last defense battle was minor.”
Satisfied, Lucas nods as he pulls back from the edge. “Inform me when the repairs are complete.” He moves to leave.
“Um, Sir…!”
Lucas stops halfway through his turn, an indifferent gaze cutting back. “What is it?”
The soldier tries to conceal a flinch, casting uneasy glances to his fellow soldiers standing nearby, before he takes a breath and asks, “Did something happen to the Commander?”
Lucas’ eyes sharpen.
“I mean—” the soldier stammers. “His Highness hasn’t been around for the past two days. The soldiers and even the citizens have noticed his personal guard has taken up all his tasks, so—but it’s not like we’re saying he’s slacking off!” His voice grows high-pitched as he sees Lucas grip his sword. “We’re just worried about the Prince’s well-being!”
Like a leaf in a hurricane, the soldier trembles under the weight of Luca’s ice-cold gaze, but despite this, he doesn’t back down. He stares forward—concern bright and true.
Lucas grits his teeth. Letting his hand fall away from his sword, he glances to the side with a sigh and turns back to the soldier. “His Highness has come down with a cold—”
“What?!”
“Is the Prince okay?”
“How long has he been sick?”
The nearby soldiers who were once trying to discreetly eavesdrop have now rushed forward, crowding around Lucas with wide, anxious eyes.
“It’s nothing he won’t recover from,” Lucas says, half to them, half to himself. “Our healing priest said he only needs a few days of rest to recover, and to give him those few days, I will be taking the role of acting commander for the upcoming defense. Hearing this, you should know that there is no leniency for slackers.”
“Yes, sir! We’ll work hard for His Highness in his absence!”
“Ah, I was so freaked out for a moment.”
“I hope the Prince recovers quickly.”
The soldiers surrender breaths of relief, mumbling amongst each other, but while tension seeps out of their bodies, their worry remains to maintain the careful tone of their voices.
Lucas begins again sternly, “While it isn’t a secret, I trust you’ll keep this knowledge of the low side. The Prince doesn’t wish to worry the citizens.”
Turning to him, the soldiers fall in line to salute. “Yes, Acting Commander. We won’t tell a soul—”
“The Prince!”
A voice echoes.
“The Prince is sick! Ring the bells…!!!”
In the distance, a stray soldier sprints off into the city streets, waving a flag in high-pitched panic, screaming to all those who will lend an ear.
“...”
“...”
“Wait. Wait, please wait, Commander—Commander, he’s an innocent man with a family! He’s just worried! Really! Kill monsters; protect people, right? Right?!!!”
“This is all?” comes the soft whisper. Ash’s wobbly gaze shines with suspicion under the morning light as he takes the piece of paper Lucas hands him.
The room curtains have been pulled open. Although a blanket of clouds covers the sky, the winter glow illuminates the bedroom with a cold chill. Ash, having briefly awoken after two and a half days, sits up against a pile of pillows as he looks over the report of the defense preparations.
Ash puts the paper down.
While he has pushed through the worst of the fever, a subtle cough still remains, and even with his face flushed and his eyes red, Ash still manages an unimpressed look as if to ask, Just this one page?
Lucas waits with sparkling eyes.
As if blinded by his expression, Ash drops his gaze and sighs. “...You did well. Thank you for carrying out my duties until now, Lucas.”
The elation from Ash’s praise snuffs out almost immediately. Lucas echoes, “Until now, my Lord? You haven’t fully recovered and you haven’t even had a proper meal!”
“Two days wasn’t enough?”
“Saintess Margherita said that your body has been severely overworked. It’ll take more than a few days for you to regain your strength,” Lucas answers. “I will command the frontline for the defense battle today.”
Ash purses his lips. He glances back at the piece of paper, eyes unseeing and glazed over with thought, as his finger taps rhythmically on the blanket.
Lucas doesn’t disturb him, merely watching on without a word.
He doesn’t wait for long.
“Alright,” Ash says, nodding with surrender. He turns to Lucas, his black eyes clearer than they’ve ever been since he collapsed. “I leave the frontline to you.”
Lucas opens his mouth tentatively. “...If you would like, you could test me on the defense strategy, as well as the emergency measures—”
Ash laughs. Despite the roughness of his voice, it’s a fond sound. “No need,” he says, smiling warmly as a contrast to the cold winter. “I trust you.”
By the time the needle of his pocket watch strikes home, Lucas can already see them on the horizon.
At the monsters’ approach, at his own command, cannon fire roars in an endless barrage. Explosions flare with color and dust, ripping monsters to pieces, and even if some manage to stumble through, an elite cast of long-range heroes takes them down with ease.
The defense is as textbook as it can be. Heroes and soldiers stick to their roles like glue, already familiar with such tactics—courtesy of their bedridden commander. Even as problems arise, they deal with it. Even with the unexpected, they respond.
Artillery fire contains the masses, snipers and mages wipe out the unique monsters, tanks and knights take care of the climbing strays—
Everything is going well.
Everything feels wrong.
As the waves of monsters push on, Lucas’ gaze sweeps over the soldiers and he swallows the lump in his throat. He can see it. The uneasiness in all those who stand at the frontline. It’s hard to tell from their actions alone, because of the way they respond cleanly and calmly to new situations, hitting their targets, carrying out their tasks—but there is a kind of tension in their bodies that Lucas recognizes.
From that day Ash left to save Evangeline.
While many of those fighting on these frontlines have done so once or more before, this battle is akin to walking a path you’ve walked over and over again—except this time, you’re walking blind with only muscle memory to guide your way.
As Lucas shouts out commands, he notices the soldiers glancing at him—as if expecting someone else to be standing in his place. What Lucas feels, under those gazes, is far from resentment.
Because he understands.
Here he is at the forefront when he should be a step behind someone. Looking at that someone’s back. Carrying out that someone’s order.
My Lord…
“Ha, didn’t I tell you that you are better than me?”
Lucas blinks wide. Whirling around to the voice, the moment his eyes fall upon the speaker, Lucas can’t stop the relief from filling his next gasping breath. “My Lord!”
Soldiers and heroes turn.
“Senior!”
“Your Highness!”
“Prince Ash!”
“Hey! Keep your eyes on your tasks—are you crazy?!”
Dressed in his commander’s uniform and cape, seated in a wheelchair pushed by an attendant, with not even a blanket nor scarf to keep him warm, Ash clicks his tongue at his subordinates’ brief lack of focus, but his eyes lack the proper heat of disappointment.
The wheelchair rolls closer and Lucas rushes to meet it in the middle.
With a smile and slight flush to his cheeks, Ash tips his head and greets Lucas softly, “I came to check in on you, but it looks like I’m not needed.”
Lucas opens his mouth. The words don’t find him, because as much as his head tells him to rush Ash back to the safety behind the walls, his heart tells him otherwise. After all, those who find their footing don’t wish to lose it again.
Still—
“My Lord,” Lucas says, “You should be resting. It’s dangerous for you to be up here.”
“It’s fine. I’m not here as a commander anyway,” Ash replies, waving him off. “What’s the situation?” Despite the question, his eyes are already sweeping over the battlefield, soaking up all the information, and Lucas has no doubt his Lord already has an answer. Lucas answers anyway.
“One of the walls of the Kill Zone went down,” Lucas says, turning to the front. “They’re swarming in through the gap, but we’re loading that area with artillery to create a makeshift barrier like how we did against the Gargoyles. So far, it seems to be sufficient.”
Ash hums under the chaos. Heart pounding, Lucas studies Ash’s dark eyes—the way they gain that look when he’s seeing something no one else can see, and after a long moment, Ash nods, satisfied. Lucas feels the tension shed from his body.
Ash glances at him. “Carry on, Lucas. Pretend I’m not even here.”
With a word to his attendant, Ash’s wheelchair pulls away from the face of the fortress and Lucas steps toward it, calling out commands and surveying the war zone.
In the midst of this war, Lucas finds his heart to be at ease.
He doesn’t seem to be the only one, because his fellow heroes and soldiers—they’ve long since returned to their tasks after Ash’s appearance, but their nervousness and uncertainty have vanished.
Setting off fuses. Casting their spells. Lifting their swords. Raising their shields. Hands firm. Eyes steady. Backs tall and straight, as if they would never bend under the weight of the world—
Ash is here.
He’s in a wheelchair. He’s only watching. He’s not even giving commands, but Ash is here, and to the soldiers, to the heroes, to this frontline—
It’s akin to stumbling blindly in the dark, only to find that guiding light again.
“Move, mister! I’ll push Senior!”
“You’re not worthy of such an honor!”
“Ha, and you are?”
“I have been guarding His Highness since he was a young boy.”
“I just have to replace you then!”
“Damian,” Ash says plainly, exasperation in his half-lidded eyes, “Take me away.”
With a gentle smile, Damian nods. “Yes, Your Highness.” Grabbing the handles, he pushes forth the wheelchair, stepping onto the back to cruise along the street.
The lights and lamps of various stalls and stores scroll by. Weaving through the city streets is the winter wind, but it isn’t nearly as harsh as standing outside or atop the fortress walls. It has Ash shivering nonetheless.
“Are you sure you don’t want to return to your estate?” Junior asks.
Ash glances at her out of the corner of his eye and mutters, “If I have to stay in bed for any longer, I might just rip out all of my hair. The mini-vacation was nice, but I couldn’t help but feel restless.”
Junior chuckles. “Who would’ve thought that the Third Prince of Everblack was a workaholic?”
Damian lifts a finger to his cheek. “His Highness isn’t at all like his reputation.”
Ash opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, he sneezes into his elbow, shuddering in the aftermath. “We should get inside.”
“We’re almost at the restaurant. Please hold on a little longer, Your Highness,” Damian says, quickening his pace.
“Are you cold, my Lord?” Lucas asks, catching up to them with Evangeline right behind. His hair sticks out at a weird angle as if someone pulled on it. “I can warm you up—”
“What are you saying in public?!”
“But—”
“Um… excuse me, Prince Ash?”
The wheelchair comes to a stop, and Ash turns away from Lucas to blink in surprise. “Hmm?”
A young boy stands in front of him. Clutched in his hands, trembling and small, are a pair of red knitted gloves, flimsy and uneven and truly fitting to his age, but he extends it out to Ash nevertheless, hope in his wide eyes.
“This is for me?” Ash asks.
The boy briefly peers over his shoulder. Two people, undoubtedly his parents, watch from behind a store corner, gesturing for him to go on. He fiddles with his hands. Quietly, he begins, gaze downcast, “Um… I heard that Your Majesty is sick, so I wanted to give you something so that would help you get better.”
When the boy looks up once more, he says tentatively, “I—I really hope you like them.”
Ash reaches out to take them carefully. He gets a better look at them now that they’re in his lap—can see the loose yarn, the consistent patterns, the messy patchwork of someone else’s hand to cover up the gaps between the rows.
Ash’s lips spread out in a warm smile.
He slides them on one by one, pulling the fabric down to his wrists, and when he turns to the boy, Ash reaches out to pat him on the head with the very glove he made. “I’ve never received such a gift before, so thank you. I’ll cherish it.”
The words take a moment to seep in. The nervousness in the boy bleeds away to be replaced with a blinding smile. The boy stutters, “Um—ah, y-you’re welcome, Prince Ash!!!”
Soon enough, the boy scurries away, nearly tripping on his feet, before rushing toward his waiting parents who greet him with open arms and loud cheers.
“My Lord… I can hold your hand instead—”
“You stop that.”
Rubbing his newly-acquired gloves together, Ash watches his hot breath in the cold air and opens his mouth to tell Damian to continue moving. He doesn’t get the chance to.
“Prince Ash?” A citizen approaches with a scarf in hand. “I also made something to help with your recovery.”
Then, another: “Me too! Please take this blanket, Your Highness!”
And another: “Your uniform is too thin for this weather. Wear this jacket on top, too! I stuffed it with lots of cotton so the wind doesn’t get through.”
“You haven’t eaten yet? I made some stew; it’ll warm you up!”
“This loaf of bread just came out of the oven. Please take it with you—it’s important to everyone that your stomach is full, Your Majesty!”
“Take care of yourself!”
“Get plenty of rest!”
“Please recover soon!”
“If you need something done, just say the word!”
Ash can't help but stare at them in surprise.
In the midst of a cold, unforgiving winter, in this city atop a grave, where countless corpses have been buried, where countless more corpses will be buried, a crowd of citizens gather round to wish a single person well—for their good health, for their fast recovery, for a long-lived life that no one deserves as much as him.
They shower Ash in scarves. They cover him in blankets. They fill him with warm soup and hot chocolate, and by the time all the gifts have been given, Ash has no desire to eat anything anymore.
Ash yanks the edge of a scarf out of his mouth, gasping. “H-how did they have the time to make all these?”
Lucas smiles. “They had the past three days to do so.”
“Three”—Ash coughs, waving frantically for Damian to stop the wheelchair—“days? I told you all I wanted to keep my sickness under wraps until it started dying down.”
Lucas’ smiles falls. Tears well up in his eyes as he sniffles, biting down on his lip.
“Lucas?!”
Damian jumps in hastily, “I think it was impossible from the start, Your Highness. The soldiers and citizens started noticing right away.”
Ash blinks. “What?”
Evangeline nods with a grin, leaning on her lance. “When you stopped making appearances around the city, when everyone started doing the tasks you usually do—”
Junior continues, “They thought something happened to you, so Lucas let them know early on to quell any unnecessary panic.”
Ash sweats, mouth falling open—not quite believing. “They noticed in a day?”
“Is that surprising?” Lucas asks. His words carry curiosity, not quite believing that Ash can’t quite believe it.
Ash opens his mouth to respond, an answer already on his tongue, but then, he looks around at the expressions of his subordinates—his heroes—his friends, taking them in one by one.
The exasperation.
The amusement.
The fondness.
Ash glances down at his own body, snug under the layers of blankets and gloves and scarves—under the countless gifts of his people, and somehow, Ash has an inkling that even if the world was to steal them all, he would still be left with it:
The warmth they gave him.
“...What are they, clingy girlfriends?” Ash can’t help but huff, signaling Damian to continue moving.
“Your Highness is very loved,” comes the reply. It doesn’t matter who it comes from.
“Hah.” Ash shakes his head, smiling with a warmth that could melt the winter, murmuring for only a few to hear, “I’m starting to get that now.”