Julian had woken up shortly after dawn and hurriedly gotten ready. He wasn't late by any means, but today was a busy day, and he'd already waited all week to go back to Dering. It was only his second time meeting up with Cyril, and only the first time they'd planned it.

Naturally, he'd been nervous. He ate a light breakfast, dressed warmly, and left for the park. He'd dressed warmly; it was snowing, so he had to deal with that as well as making sure he didn't leave any suspicious footprints.

And then, he'd gone to Dering. Cyril wasn't waiting for him, but it hadn't taken long for him to show up, too.

The conversation had started off quick, brief. A small recap, general niceties. When Cyril asked what he'd been up to in the last week, Julian hadn't bothered him with many details. Busy with classes and tests but staying out of trouble. He let slip that he had an important appointment later that he couldn't skip, but Cyril was unbothered.

Cyril's week had been significantly less interesting, and he hadn't even bothered to answer when Julian politely asked.

The sun had only just risen over Lysithea by the time they actually started talking.

Julian lacked the drive to start anything, but Cyril had no hangups.

Wind rustled through the taller boughs but the forest was quiet.

Cyril watched the horizon as if he expected someone, or something, would join them.

Nothing did. So, he looked at Julian. "The last time you were here, you said you wanted to be stronger. But what does that mean to you?"

Silence hung between them, not heavy, but uncomfortable. Julian could feel the weight of Cyril's gaze. Cyril stood, arms crossed over his chest, while Julian leaned against an enormous, arched root. It wasn't his favorite tree, but it was close, and the gentle slope of smooth roots was comfortable. His legs burned, but only because he was working so hard to keep them still.

He was small against the tree, without even trying.

"Um," Julian answered. Cyril's gaze grew heavier. He didn't like Julian's placeholders, but Julian still rushed to fill the quiet. There were no easy answers, but Cyril had easy questions. "Well," Julian tried again, voice soft but thoughtful, "I want to be a better Knight."

Cyril was unimpressed. "Right. But what is a 'better knight' to you?"

The question needled him. The quiet dragged on for too long.

Cyril sighed heavily–a great effort on his part, given that he didn't even need to breathe. "How can you expect to be better when you can't even name what you want?"

"I know what I want," Julian said, a little softer. "I just don't know how to ask for it."

"With words," Cyril suggested curtly.

Julian's brows tangled and he looked up at him worriedly. "I know," he mumbled. "But I'm afraid I'll ask for too much."

Cyril let the silence carry. He had all the time in the world. He watched Julian, who chewed on the inside of his cheek for a long moment before the pressure of expectation squeezed out an answer: "I want people to take me seriously."

Tilting his head to the side just slightly, Cyril asked, "Is it a pride thing?" As if Julian held an ounce of pride.

"No." Spoken hastily, apologetically. "I just want them to be able to depend on me."

Cyril nodded. He could have stayed perfectly still if he'd wanted to. He'd spent so much time not moving, watching the world race around him. But, every time he moved, Julian's gaze would dart briefly to him, scanning from his peripheral. Cyril had started to test how little he had to move to catch Julian's attention. "And what does that mean to you?"

"Um," Julian pressed a nail into his thumb, tracking a line up and down. The fog wasn't so dense today, but it was rarely too much around these parts. Julian was watching a white flower bob slightly, hung heavy by the weight of its own petals. "I want to do whatever I can–whatever I have to–to be the best version of myself."

Cyril moved an inch to the left, noting that Julian's eyes flicked to him, then away again. "So you want more power."

Julian made a face, just slightly. It looked like pain, or at least discomfort. Cyril was still learning to read him.

"Maybe," Julian said, but Cyril kept pushing for something more concrete. He tried, "Yes?"

"Mmhm." Cyril's finger twitched. Julian caught that, too. "And what would you use that power for?"

An easy question without an easy answer. Julian felt the weight of it crushing down on him. He didn't know if there was a right answer. He scraped his mind for something–anything–but all he got was static. "I don't know," Julian said. His voice sounded far away. He felt the vibration of words on his lips but somehow they didn't quite reach his ears. "I don't understand the question." He did. He just didn't understand how to answer it. He didn't know what Cyril wanted to hear.

"I mean," Cyril spoke slowly, as if pausing between each word would give the question more time to soak in, "If I could give you any power in the world, what would you want?"

Julian didn't have to think for so long this time. Tentatively, he answered, "I'd want to be able to protect people."

"There are many ways to protect people. You can protect people just as well with a sword as a shield. Sometimes, even better."

"Um. Okay," Julian said. He bit his cheek, hard, and then confessed, "I don't think I'm following, I'm sorry."

Cyril's eyes were half lidded. He watched Julian with an unamused, almost bored expression–like this conversation was tedious. "If I gave you a sword, would you use it?" he asked. "Could you? If I gave you the strength to cut down your enemies–all of them–would that be power enough?"

The change was small. A muscle in Julian's jaw twitched. He didn't look up–not when Cyril tilted his head, or moved to the side, or changed positions.

Instead, Julian kept his eyes locked on the drooping flower.

"Answer, Julian," Cyril pressed. "What does power look like to you? What is 'strength'? Your enemies could do it. They won't think twice about killing you, will they?"

Julian didn't move, and his voice was soft enough that Cyril had to strain to hear it. "No."

"So do you want that power?" Cyril pressed. "To strike down your foes?"

"No," Julian answered, somehow quieter than before, as if giving the word too much weight was painful.

Cyril didn't understand much about Julian. It felt impossible to pry back the layers and get an honest answer, like everything he said was safeguarded. Like he cared more about saying the right thing than the real thing. Cyril did not accept such simple answers. "Why not?"

The answer came slowly, uncertainly, like Julian was trying to choose something that Cyril wanted to hear. Or at least, wouldn't be upset to hear. Like the rest of him, his lips hardly moved when he spoke. "I don't want to be like them. I don't want to hurt people."

"But they're bad people," Cyril argued, with his matter-of-fact calm that felt so inarguable to Julian's ears. "They wouldn't think twice about hurting you. Or your friends."

It wasn't an argument, probably, but Julian's skin was crawling. It felt like someone had aimed a spotlight on him, so hot that it was already burning.

Only Cyril's eyes were on him but Julian felt like he was standing on stage, with a thousand strangers watching, waiting for a performance. Waiting to tear him apart. Waiting for him to open his mouth and say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing.

His stomach twisted violently and he had to release his lute to carefully wrap one arm around his midsection. Each heartbeat felt like it was pumping sludge through his veins, muddling his thoughts.

Julian wanted to salvage this. Could he? It felt too dangerous. He should resign himself to silence, should just let Cyril tell him what he should be doing, or thinking. Cyril knew what he wanted. Julian was moldable. He could do it. Whatever Cyril wanted.

He opened his mouth, he wanted to beg him to just spell it out clearly, just direct him. Just tell him what needed to happen. Tell him how things needed to be. Tell him what to do, who to be.

Instead, something else tumbled out. "I know they wouldn't think twice about hurting anyone. I know. But that's not me. I can't do it." He spoke quickly–too quickly. Like his mouth needed to move before his brain could catch up. Like he had to run fast enough to escape the ball and chain he'd attach to himself. "I don't want to hurt them. Even if they're bad. Maybe–I mean, maybe they aren't bad. Maybe it's a misunderstanding. Maybe–"

Cyril interrupted him. "Are you used to making excuses for people?"

It caught Julian off guard. He looked up briefly. "What?"

"You do it, so easily. Do you have an excuse for everyone who tries to kill you?"

Julian couldn't meet Cyril's gaze so he looked down again. "It's not like that."

"What about everyone who hurt you?"

Julian's hands curled tighter, trembling. One pressed into his lute, the other tangled in his tunic. He couldn't hide them without drawing more attention. These questions felt wrong. The light was still shining on him. Brighter, now. Burning. His skin was tight, blistering. Cyril's voice felt far away. Like someone else. Like a face he knew but couldn't remember, a phantom haunting his memory.

Stumbling over his words, Julian sounded uncertain–young, faint. "Nobody–" The words caught in his throat but he pushed them out, anyway. "No, I mean–it's–no, I'm sorry. I don't understand, I'm confused. What are we talking about?"

Cyril's eyes narrowed, not quite in annoyance, but not completely in concern. "We're talking about what strength means to you. You want the strength to protect your friends, but not to strike down your enemies." A flicker of frustration threaded through him. "In your ideal world, what–do you befriend your enemies? You hold out just long enough to change their hearts? And then they forego all wickedness within them, and you frolic away, friends?""

Julian flinched. He braced himself, but the words still landed like a blow.

Cyril couldn't help himself. "You realize how stupid it sounds when I say it out loud, don't you?"

He recognized the cadence of his own voice–and hated how familiar it felt. Thoughts spoken inwardly turned outwardly. A lesson learned too slowly, too late to matter.

A mistake he made, a mistake Julian would make.

Julian was too gentle, too cautious, too naive. Better for Cyril to press him now than for it to be someone that wanted to hurt him.

...But even Cyril wanted Julian to snap. Just a little. Just enough to justify the tension Cyril felt every time he saw the boy. Just enough to absolve himself of the guilt he felt for resenting him.

Cyril had spent a millennia here.

And this–this–was what the Cauldron sent?

To replace him?

A small, shy, cowering boy?

No, that wasn't quite right. On the surface, maybe. But there was so much more than that. Cyril had seen bits and pieces, observed in all the visits Julian made before he'd ever known of Cyril's existence.

Cyril had seen the fire in him.

Someone had to stoke it. Or snuff it out. Julian wasn't perfect. He was awkward, he was ignorant, he was timid, he was uncertain, he was weak. He was brittle, and if Cyril just pushed the right buttons, he could get a rise out of Julian, he knew it. He needed it.

Julian was tense. Trembling.

Maybe seconds from lashing out. Cyril leaned forward and–

Julian nodded.

Didn't look up. Just sat there. Small. Quiet. Agreeable.

Electricity danced across skin Cyril didn't have. His heart–or what was left of it–pounded in his chest.

And then, stopped.

The quiet was heavy.

Cyril wanted him to push back. Wanted a spark of defiance. Wanted Julian to snap at him.

For a thousand years, Cyril had carried bitterness. Anguish. Shame, guilt, grief, anger.

Julian had not diminished those emotions. His presence alone had amplified them.

They festered within Cyril, and crashed over him now–worse than before, because he wasn't trying to tear himself apart.

He was trying to do the same to Julian.

Who still hadn't lifted his head. Julian's gaze was locked onto the flower with such intensity that Cyril wasn't even sure he was actually looking at it.

Cyril had played with fire and burned himself, and Julian.

Who hadn't asked to be the Knight of Dering. Who hadn't asked to be here. Who hadn't gone to the Academy. Who didn't know what to do with himself but was trying so hard to find guidance–from Cyril.

Bitter, wicked, useless Cyril.

The moment was uncomfortable. Julian didn't move. Cyril didn't expect he would. He didn't blame him for keeping small. When Cyril managed to find his voice again, it was tired. "You have enemies." Julian wouldn't be trying so hard to get stronger if there was no danger. When Julian didn't respond to that, he said, "You've been hurt before."

Julian swallowed.

"But you make excuses for them. You forgive them?"

Julian didn't answer, so Cyril knew the answer wasn't 'no'. He wasn't sure if he was angry, or disappointed. Or if he had any right to be. "Who taught you that you should offer forgiveness so easily?"

Julian shrugged, not because he didn't know, but because he didn't want to answer. But he didn't want Cyril to think he was ignoring him, either. Each response he offered was measured, weighed. He gave only what he had to.

Cyril's voice was careful, even. "If someone attacked you, would you fight?"

Julian's voice was soft. Mechanical, almost. "I have a shield."

"Is that fighting?"

"...I guess not."

"No," Cyril said. He didn't move. Julian didn't, either. "It's protecting. Fighting is when you engage in combat. You're avoiding it."

Julian didn't disagree. Didn't look up. Didn't speak.

He just seemed small, like he was determined to take up as little space as possible.

Time passed strangely. Cyril thought a full minute might have passed. Maybe more. Julian did not rush to fill the silence. Did not offer quick reassurances. Did not protest in frustration.

Guilt flared in Cyril's stomach. A fire, deep in his stomach. Spreading, unchecked. Each wordless second burned hot.

Finally, he couldn't take it. "I've hurt your feelings."

He watched Julian closely. The young knight tensed. Hesitated.

Finally, shook his head.

"No, I'm sorry," Julian said, half mechanical, half mumbled. "I was just thinking."

But Cyril was not stupid. He had been without company for a millennia, maybe, but he had not forgotten how to read someone. He belonged in court, among the important people of the world. Educated, influential, sophisticated. He had never belonged in an empty forest, amongst the trees and wild creatures. He was supposed to walk among nobles, among kings.

He was supposed to be a lot of things.

But, here he was.

Julian still hadn't looked up, but Cyril could see how hard he was trying to pull himself together. The way he forced his muscles to relax, like he could will away the discomfort Cyril cast upon him. Julian struggled to force his fingers to uncurl; his body seemed to work against him, because his hands were back to fists in seconds. He leaned forward, letting his hair cascade like curtains around his face. Head bowed, expression was unreadable. Cyril watched his back move, just a little too fast. Just a little too perfectly timed. A breath in, out. He counted the seconds and paced himself.

"I've hurt your feelings," Cyril repeated, "And you're trying to protect mine."

Again, Julian didn't answer. He held his breath.

There was no peace in the silence. It weighed heavily between them, like a too-hot blanket soaked in water. Cyril felt discomfort even without a body. He didn't have to think too hard to imagine what it felt like on Julian's shoulders.

Cyril leaned against the roots, out of habit more than need. He did not try to bridge the distance between himself and Julian but he stayed close.

He freed the lyre fastened to his side, a ghost as much as he was. A companion, though quite neglected.

Julian could have seen him, if he cared to look, but his body was still rigid and curled into itself.

The first note Cyril plucked made Julian flinch. He continued playing. Slow, at first. Nothing dynamic. An old lullaby, far beneath his skill, but gentle. Not too somber, but not for merrymaking, either.

Slowly, and undoubtedly with no small effort from himself, Julian's body began to relax. He did not lift his head, but his fingers stopped clawing at the lute, at himself. His body didn't try to fold into itself. His breathing was less strained.

After one song, Julian had relaxed–a little. After two, he'd tilted his head just slightly, almost in Cyril's direction. His head was bowed, but Cyril noticed. He was waiting for it.

Shortly after he started the third song, Cyril said, "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize," Julian answered, sounding almost like himself. "I'm sorry, I–"

"I'm sorry," Cyril interrupted, but his voice was not unkind, "Because I am bitter. And you are the unfortunate recipient of my ire. You haven't done anything wrong.”

Once more, Julian answered with silence. This time, he twisted his hands, slotting his fingers together and awkwardly rubbing at them one by one.

That was fine. He didn't need to speak. Cyril had enough words for both of them. "I know this isn't easy for you, either. I am not oblivious to your efforts. You've been trying for a very long time."

When no words followed, Cyril realized how much it sounded like 'You've been trying for a very long time–and gotten nowhere,' and if he could think it, so could Julian. "I had a hard time when I came to Dering, too. I wasn't supposed to be here." Cyril's fingers moved deftly, and the strings of his lyre hummed with an eerie echo. "This wasn't the Wonder I wanted. I didn't know what to do, or why I was here."

A hook, rich with bait. Julian took it, but only after a few seconds of contemplation. He picked at his nails. Cyril couldn't tell if it was dirt or blood beneath them.

"...Did you figure it out?" Julian asked quietly, as if he thought anything more than a whisper would take up too much space.

"Not really, no." Cyril's stomach twisted into a knot, worse than before. He was so tired of hurting. So tired of everything. It was selfish and cruel to lash out at Julian just because he could feel. Just because Cyril was tired of carrying this burden alone.

He was dead! Dead, and useless. He could not make amends, he could not change the past, he could not rest.

He could watch this boy–the only vessel for Dering's power in a thousand years–stumble through the forest. Wander aimlessly. Clean up rotted leaves. Ask for guidance that never came.

He could criticize him. Could hate him. Could wish failure and disappointment on him, because why should Cyril be the only one to carry this mantle alone? Cyril, who worked so hard to be a good Knight, who tried so hard to make the best of this place, who wanted so badly to make someone proud.

Cyril, who was forgotten by time. Left here to rot.

Left here, an echo of the man he was, watching someone else fill his shoes before he was even allowed to be gone.

The bitterness did not erase itself. The guilt did not lessen. The shame did not fade.

He was angry. Hurt. Scared.

And what was Julian?

Julian, who begged the Code for answers, just to be turned away. Julian, who showed up when he had no one there to see, desperate to find some path forward.

Julian, who had no one to trust in except for Cyril, who could have chewed him up and spat him out just for the satisfaction of affecting something in this world.

...Because that's what this was, wasn't it?

Each day passed like the last. Cyril remained, forgotten by time. Cursed to be here, but not here. Present, but without presence.

Julian was the first thing he could influence since he died.

And Cyril could have let his anger consume him.

He wanted so badly to exist. To see that he still mattered, that he could still shape the world.

Destroying something was faster than building it.

Julian was an unfortunate, easy, target.

Cyril's fingers slowed. The last note hummed sadly, fading into a whisper. "Maybe we can figure it out together. Will you give me another chance? I want to try again."

Of course Julian nodded. Without thinking, really. He didn't lift his head but he glanced up at Cyril for a single second.

Julain might not be looking at him but Cyril knew he was still giving his full attention.

If Cyril had wanted to, he could have simply disappeared and manifested wherever he wanted. Instead, he sat–slowly–across from Julian. He placed his lyre, now quiet, in his lap. "It wasn't fair for me to ask you questions like that. You already told me the Academy fell. I know this is new to you."

Like asking a new student to play an instrument they'd heard but never held.

Cyril did not make the mistake of speaking rashly, and considered each word with thoughtful care. "Maybe it would help if we talked about what Knights used to do. Maybe I can give you the lesson they gave me at the Academy. About strength, and where it came from. And what to do with it. Would that be okay?"

Julian must have thought it was a trap. He didn't leap into agreement, nor did he even seem very excited. He was resigned–but cautious, curious.

When he looked up again, Cyril saw hope reflected there. Determination.

"I want to learn," Julian murmured.

"I know." And how foolish Cyril was to want to chase him away for it. "I want to teach you."