"Won't Lucina be angry?"

Morgan lifted their head. They'd been lounging in the heatless sun, letting it kiss his bare arms and legs as he laid himself out on a bed of rubble and dust. Their eyelids felt heavy, and they yawned, dismissing the little girl with a languid wave of his brown hand. Be gone, restless spirit, he thought with a hint of amusement, leave me to my beauty rest.

"Morgan, don't wave me off!" Nah dropped to her knees beside him, which they found amusing, because Naga would never. Nah is not quite Naga though, Morgan thought delightedly. That makes her so much better, doesn't it? Yes, yes, she's absolutely divine, and absolutely dreadful, it's amazing! She's amazing.

"Did you want something?" They propped themself up on their elbows, blowing a few stray blue curls from his eyes. "I was just getting to sleep, too."

"Don't give me that." Nah huffed, her cheeks blowing out impatiently. Morgan found themself surprised. How very like a child she is, they thought, feeling squirmy with discomfort. A part of him found it quite funny, this revulsion. Come now, Grima, does it bother you that you are infatuated with a manakete girl so young she's practically in infant in comparison to us? To you? Come on! Don't tell me you're adopting some human values!

Morgan shuddered. They groaned, and curled up onto his side, a great shiver running through him. All of a sudden they were feeling a little nauseous.

"Morgan!" Nah did not touch them. He wished she would, because he missed it, that tender sensation of feeling another person's skin. Feeling! Of all the things in all the world that he ached for, he never thought he'd be filled with the unbearable longing to simply feel something again! "What's wrong with you? Gods, you've lost your mind. Why do I even bother?"

"You love me," he giggled into the dirt, coughing dust into his eyes. They watered, though he didn't find the grit rubbing against his eyeballs to be any discomfort. "Mmm, I wish you didn't. And I certainly wish I didn't love you any."

"Morgan…"

"But!" They sat up. They smiled at her brightly. She recoiled. "Nothing we can do! Are you here because you're curious? About how I'm gonna end the world?"

"I don't want to hear about that again." Nah's fists clenched at her knees, and Morgan stared at her vacantly. Their eyes were all red and bright and flashing in the sunlight. They shrugged.

"Okay," they said. "What do you want to talk about?"

Her nostrils flared in frustration, which they found immeasurably funny, and they choked a giggle into their hand. What fun this was! When did they ever have fun anymore? Not that they felt particularly good, they were quite unwell on the inside, but this was all great fun, wasn't it? Nothing seemed so perfect as getting on the nerves of this unsettling little girl.

"Laurent, Morgan! Listen to me, will you?"

"We've got more things on our mind, Nah, daaah—ling," he sang, his voice tense and taut and twittering. He barked a laugh at her wary expression. "Oh, don't give that look, it's not bad at all, and we don't want to hurt you none, no, no, we just want to hear you talk a bit."

She took a deep breath. "Grima," she addressed, her voice empty. "Let me just ask you something. Did you send Laurent to his death?"

They stared at her vacantly. The silence bled on as they folded their legs beneath them, a tiny pout forming on their lips.

"I dunno," they slurred, offering a shrug.

"In Naga's name…" Nah buried her face in her hands, as though that might help her comprehend what was spilling from Morgan's mouth. He laughed at her.

"Naga's dead!" he said brightly, turning his head at a sharp angle to peer up at her. "Deader than you, even. You can't pray to any god when you're half a god yourself, you know."

Nah dragged her hands down her face. There were tear tracks glistening there.

"Are you going to tell me," they asked in a loud, giddy whisper, "that you don't know what to do?"

Nah's jaw was tight. "I could stop talking to you," she said coldly. He felt that like a slap, and he shrunk back. "I don't want to. I know it would hurt you. But to cause Grima some type of pain, I'd do it, Morgan."

"Please don't," he whispered, his eyes wide.

"Then shut up," Nah hissed, reaching out and catching him by the front of his undershirt, "and tell me why you sent Laurent after Severa."

They glanced down at her hand tugging at the cotton fibers of the beige shirt, his face succumbing to a giddy flush as a second set of eyes opened at his cheekbones.

"We like this side of you, little one," he murmured. Somewhere in his voice, if she listened carefully, she'd find a hint of shame. He didn't want it to be like this. He thought about his crown, and he wanted it back, he wanted his clarity back, his soul, his heart.

"You make me wish you'd killed me efficiently," she spat, shoving him so hard he collapsed onto his back, his head colliding with the concrete. It didn't hurt so much as her words did.

"You want to know why I sent Laurent off after Severa?" Morgan let himself lie on the ground, watching the blinding white-blue sky as the sunrays licked it dry. "I was curious."

"That's not an answer," Nah said coldly. "He could very well kill them all! Have you not thought of that?"

"Ye of little faith. Whether he kills anyone or not is his choice!" Morgan bolted up straight, anger flashing in their eyes. "Don't pester me with your obnoxious morality! Ugh, you're such a pest sometimes! I don't know what Laurent is going to do, and I honestly don't care. Let him join Owain! Let him burn them all! Why is that my problem?"

"Because you ordered him to go, you fool!" Nah clapped her hands over her head and shouted in frustration. "You are a godly creature, Morgan, but you act as though the hand you play in the destruction of the whole world is simply fate!"

"Is it not?" he offered weakly.

"No!" She jumped to her feet, and her dress shimmered in the sun, pale fabric billowing like wisps of smoke. "No, you idiot, you are causing the apocalypse and chalking it up to destiny. I won't allow it."

"Like you can stop me," Morgan said faintly. It was not spoken tauntingly, or incredulously. He was merely whispering a fearful fact, something that made his skin crawl, something that gnawed him up on the inside.

"Stop you?" Nah spat. "Or stop Grima?"

"What's the difference?"

"You're deluding yourself, Morgan," she said coolly. "Grima does not love me. Grima doesn't offer any comfort or love or sadness or regret. You do exist without Grima, I promise you that."

"You don't understand," Morgan said, shaking his head. "I haven't the slightest idea where my mind ends and where Grima's begins. I am me and I am us."

"You shouldn't toy with people's lives so frivolously," Nah said darkly. Morgan ran his fingers down his face, not feeling the stroke of it, but still comforted by the movement. "Lucina regrets sending Severa, but you don't seem to care at all what your actions might cause!"

"What does Lucina's regrets have to do with me?" Morgan asked innocently. "I am not Lucina, you know. I don't need to mourn over my mistakes."

"This is ridiculous," Nah breathed. Morgan's vision swam, the world flashing an unholy red for a moment, and tears fell hotly, slipping against his cheeks and causing laughter to bubble from the pit of his chest. He laughed in the silence, his head pounding viciously, and he laughed and laughed, garbled and bright. "Morgan…?"

He dashed the tears away, blinking through the veil of crimson. He looked down, and saw that his fingers were smeared dark red.

Blood.

He was crying blood.

"Oh…" He laughed faintly, swaying slowly. "Oh, I feel so funny… this is so funny…!" They clamped their hands over his mouth, and Nah's pretty face splashed against the red of the world, hazy and distorted, like it was lost in a crimson fog. His body felt weak and wobbly. "Oh… come on… what's that face for?" They all giggled at once. "Didn't you enjoy it?"

"Morgan…"

Her voice was music to him. He heard it, and it tingled inside his ears, caressing his brain and making the headache seem less intense than it truly was. He laughed, sitting and standing and blinking through the blood.

He tasted the bad energy. It was him. He was the bad thing. He needed to get it all out. He needed to find a way out!

Die.

Now, now! That was a little extreme, no? Why not try to suffer it? Or better yet, give in to it!

He laughed, rocking back and forth, the blood falling faster from his eyes. More had appeared. Eyes. They were plentiful. As was he. Them. Her.

"Magic is alive in you," they taunted. Alive, alive, alive. A funny thought, to be sure. "Dark magic is pumping in your veins instead of blood, turning your sweet disposition all sour—!"

"Morgan!" Nah grabbed his face, and he felt her soft fingers press against the blood smeared sockets of his excess eyes. "This isn't you speaking! You know it, don't you?"

They laughed. Her hands were so soft. Soft, soft, soft! What a mystery feelings were, touches were, and she just gave it to them! Such a lovely, stupid girl.

"… all you taste… is the blood of your kill in your mouth…" Morgan breathed shakily, laughter dying in his throat. The fog was beginning to lift, and the giddiness he'd felt was depleting, and it made him feel so bad. He listened to his own breath rattle. Nah's face was a pale, smooth beacon amongst the sea of red. "Oh…"

"That's right." She dashed the blood from his cheeks. "You understand. You are not the one who is speaking, Morgan."

She's not worth our time, he thought. They thought. He felt sick, and he choked on a strangled sound, something between a laugh and a sob.

"You're not worth my time," Morgan mumbled, raising his shaking hands and pressing them to hers. He could feel her knuckles. Her bones beneath warm skin. Was that real?

"What are they doing to you…?" Nah whispered. He stared. And he let his thumb stroke the protrusions of her knuckles.

"Nah…" he choked, clean tears slipping from his eyes. "Nah, why can't I feel anything?"

"I don't know, Morgan."

"Don't lie to me," he said thickly. "You know. You must know… you…" He sighed. He heaved a deep breath dizzily.

He blinked rapidly as she kissed him. His cheek. And then the corner of his mouth, so soft and chaste he wondered if it had even actually happened.

"Grima is draining you," she murmured into the crease of his lips. It made his skin tingle. "You say you are Grima, but that is not fully true. You are too human to wholly be Grima. So they are draining you of your humanity. Starting with your sense of touch." She raked her fingers through his hair, and he could only tremble in horror of what she was saying. "Gods don't need that sort of thing. Pain and pleasure are irrelevant."

"But I like those things…" Morgan sank into her arms.

"Maybe you aren't so much Grima as you thought."

He closed his eyes. He rested his head in Nah's lap, and she smiled down at him. It made him happy to see her smile.

"Severa is dying," he whispered, reaching up to touch her face. She stopped him before he could, grasping his hand.

"Yes," she said in a low, lofty voice. "I know. I am with her."

"How can you be with her when you are with me?"

"I don't know," she replied with a shivery little laugh. She lifted his circlet, which he'd discarded somewhere, he could not remember where, and pressed it into his curls. A warm sensation washed over him. He let out a breath of relief. "Grima can be inside you and the puppet that was once Robin, can't they? I suppose it's the same."

"So you really are Naga." Morgan closed his eyes.

"I am not, nor will I ever be Naga." Nah sighed. "My situation is not like yours. You were… planned. Grima created you. For me, it was… more like a promotion without any real training."

"So you really don't know what you're doing." Morgan smirked at that. "Good to know."

"Likewise, you were promoted," Nah continued, ignoring him, "as manaketes are a dead race, and you are… not quite a manakete, but I'm not picky. I got to choose you."

"You shouldn't have done that…" he moaned. "Stupid. Stupid, Nah. Why would you choose Grima to be your Voice?"

"Who better to listen to my lectures?"

"No one is going to hear you if it is me speaking your words!" Morgan coughed, and he rubbed his eyes miserably. Blood and tears stained his skin.

"There's no one left to listen anyway."

Morgan closed his eyes. She began to hum softly, pushing the hair from his face, and then she began to sing. He listened to the words, and they took him away, far, far away from Plegia, and they took him to his cradle, where his mother sat and hummed and murmured words to the tune under her breath, too self-conscious to sing properly.

Nowi used to sing. He remembered that. She'd sing loudly and off key. This very same song, she would sing, a lullaby to dragons, a sweet little tune meant for a lyre, meant for quick fingers to pick up as a mellifluous voice twittered off the soft words. To you, little one, I offer you all the world, Nowi'd crowed, dancing as though with an invisible partner. To you, little one, I offer a thousand wings unfurled. To you, the sky is a gift, and to you the stars are meant to pluck. To you, to you, only to you, do I offer all the riches and all the jewels so that they might bring you luck.

"To you," he sang, lying on the deteriorating stone ground, "I'd give a hundred years, a thousand years, a hundred thousand years…"

"Morgan?"

He heard Lucina's voice, but he was too tired to get up, so he let himself lie there, his hoarse voice scratching upon the air.

"To you, little one, I offer you my millennia, so you may dry my tears…"

"Morgan!" Lucina had grabbed him at one point, and his face was against her stomach as she cradled him. "Morgan, what… you— you're all bloody! What on earth happened?"

"To you, to you, to only you," he sang, "to you, to you, to only you…"

"Gods!" Lucina's voice was strained and distant. Suddenly Morgan was in the air, being hefted up and carried away from the bright sun. "You're burning up! Morgan, can you hear me? Say something."

"To you," he sang through tremulous lips, "to you, to only you…"

-linebreak

In the shivery daylight, Morgan sat, clutching a battered cloak to his chest as the snow fell, blanketing the ruins in a soft, pure white. No one could see the scuff marks. The scorch marks. The blood stains. It was all pure and soft, like a new baby being born. The air was thin and sharp, and it knifed through his lungs as he walked, listening to the own rattling of his breath in the vacuous space left in the wake of his fallen home.

Owain stopped a few meters from Morgan, his eyes big and his mouth parted as he watched the snow gather in the boy's curly blue hair like a circlet. Every step Owain took, it got harder and harder to breathe. The air was so thin here. Who had put the fires out, anyway?

His feet did not make footprints in the snow, but he felt as though he'd been treading for miles.

"What are you doing here?" Morgan asked innocently.

"I…" Owain looked around confusedly. There was no one. Just them. Them, and whiteness stretching for miles. "I don't know."

"No?" Snow caught in Morgan's long eyelashes. His skin was so dark, it was hard to believe they were really cousins. Owain had soft, porcelain skin, freckled lightly from his mother's fairness, but smooth and free of other blemishes due to his father's genes. "Well that's alright. Nobody knows, really. Do you want to sit?"

"Not really." Owain shuffled uneasily. "Aren't you going to try and kill me?"

"Kill you?" Morgan blinked rapidly. He laughed, and the sound rung for miles and miles and miles, and the snow froze in midair just to stop and listen to the beautiful sound. "I love you, Owain! I'd never ever want to kill you!"

"Really?" Owain gasped excitedly. The world was spinning, and he was grinning, and Morgan's face became round and chubby. He grinned a gap-toothed smile, and he hopped off the ground, dashing through the grass on his stubby legs and snatching him by the wrist.

"Don't be silly!" he gasped. "The justice cabal doesn't kill their own! Anyway, you're missing the fun!"

"Fun?" Owain asked distantly as Morgan dragged him forward through the neatly trimmed grass, under a fully formed archway and down a set of marble stairs. It didn't occur to him that a moment ago, he'd been standing in the ruins of this place, watching the snow fall.

"Only the most devilish fun," Morgan snickered. "Come on! The others are all waiting!"

"Others…" Owain nodded quickly. "Yes. Yes, right. Is Severa there?"

"Of course!"

"And Kjelle?"

"Duh!"

"Cynthia…?"

"Come on," Morgan groaned digging his heels into the dirt to make Owain budge. "Let's go! We've waited long enough, I think!"

"Stop being so pushy," Owain laughed, "or I'll push you back!" He tackled the boy to the ground, relishing in his alarmed shout. Morgan was slippery though, and he wiggled out of Owain's grasp, dashing through the courtyard, his bare, dark feet clapping against the polished rock. The soles of his feet were a lighter brown and callused beyond reason.

"Morgan?" Owain was lying on his stomach in a cool mosaic courtyard. Sunlight filtered in through a skylight, shooting fire across crushed red stones, glinting oceans waving along the walls, gray mountain peaks shining in the distance. All of this was purely an illusion created by the thousands of glittering stones inlaid in grout, creating designs that made Owain's eyes glisten.

"Don't you love it here?"

He pushed himself upright and twisted his head. Sitting amidst the centerpiece of the mosaic floor, an onyx and pearl solar eclipse, Nah hugged her knees to her chest. She stroked the smooth stones beneath her, and her auburn hair glinted like strung copper in the sunlight.

"It's pretty," Owain said vacantly.

"Yes," she agreed. "This was my favorite place in the entire palace when I was young. I learned to walk here. Before I was sent away."

"I remember that," he murmured. "I cried."

She smiled faintly. "I cried every night," she said. "I missed home so much. And when I finally returned, it was gone. Life is cruel that way."

"This is a beautiful place…" Owain turned his head, admiring the pretty mosaics. "Hey! Are you gonna play with us? You totally should, it'll be great!"

"I'd love to," Nah said, rising to her feet. "But you must promise me something."

"Yeah, sure, anything for an Immeasurably Beautiful Dragoness such as yourself!"

"Don't hurt Morgan," she said, looking up at him with a sad smile.

"I'd never!"

She stared at him. She seemed to relax in relief. "Of course you wouldn't," she murmured.

"Okay, let's go!" He snatched her by the little hand and dragged her through an open pass where they were plunged into darkness. When the light came back, he was splashing through the shallows of a creek, and his hand was empty. He looked around confusedly for Nah, but she was nowhere in sight, and that made his stomach twist into knots.

"Nah…?"

"Owain!" A head full of bright orange hair came into view and he nearly toppled into the creek as Cynthia shoved him, laughing brightly as she danced between the slippery rocks, singing that nobody could knock her down.

"Cynthia!" He beamed at her. He followed her path, hopping slippery rocks, rocks that should have made him slip, because, you know, they were slippery, but they didn't. "Where are we going?"

"Who cares?" She flashed him a sly grin. "We're just going!"

"Okay!"

"Owain!"

He stopped. He knew that voice. His heart seized in distress, and he whipped around. "Noire?"

"Owain, help!" She was thrashing in the middle of the creek. "Severa and Kjelle pushed me in! Help me! Owain!"

"I'm coming!" Owain gasped jumping from his rock and falling into the bottomless pool of water that seemed to reach inside his head and wash out all his thoughts. When he resurfaced, gasping and choking and coughing, it was dim, and he had to squint to even see along the surface of the water.

There was a figure standing at the bank. Owain's heart leapt with joy, but simultaneously sunk in terror. He swam uncertainly, an hour or two passing, exhaustion creeping up on him, and he collapsed at the figure's feet.

"You're late," his father remarked.

"It was hard," Owain gasped, his chest rising and falling unevenly. "I'm no good at swimming! What does this have to do with fighting?"

"Let's go." His father turned away, and Owain jumped to his feet, trailing obediently at his father's side.

"Do you know what Myrmidon means?" Owain asked his father as they moved quickly through the forest.

"I don't."

"Ant men." Owain beamed at his father, who simply glanced down at him, puzzled.

"Why?"

"Who cares?" Owain burst into a fit of giggles. "Isn't it fun? Ant men!"

"It sounds silly. Move quicker, Owain."

"I'm going as quick as I—!"

"Shh."

"What?"

"Shh!"

"Father, I—"

"Owain, get down."

"Huh?"

"Get down!"

"I…"

He was lying on the ground, a heavy body pinning him to the dirt, and the sound of thwipping arrows echoing in his ears. The hollow sound of an arrow burrowing deep into flesh was hard to mistake. Another arrow. And then another. How many? How long had Owain lied there, breathing in the scent of death, waiting for it to take him too?

They'd dragged the body off, but Owain had lingered. They wanted him to go back. He needed a hot bath. Warm bed. New clothes. Come on, Owain. Time to go, Owain. Time to say goodbye, Owain.

A tiny hand wrapped around his.

"I'm leaving soon," Inigo told him quietly.

"Not the best time."

"I'm going to war with my mother and father."

"No you aren't."

"It'll be safer for me with them, I think."

"Don't leave me."

"And I'll learn a bit about dancing and other stuff along the way."

"I don't want to be alone."

"I'll send you lots of letters."

"Please…"

"Besides, you've always got Brady."

"I need you here. Please."

"And that— what'd you call it? The justice cabal."

"None of it really matters anyway."

"You should stop going into the woods by yourself, though. Without me here to protect you, you'll only get into trouble."

"It should have been me."

"You're being awful quiet, Owain. It's honestly frightening me. Are you ill?"

"I wish it had been me."

"And what is it that you wish, Owain?"

He cracked his eyes open. They'd been sealed shut from salty tears. When he took a breath, cold air knifed through his lungs, and he shivered. He'd fallen asleep outside. Had he been keeping watch? He couldn't recall. He touched his cheek, and found it wet.

"Owain?"

In the dark, he could make out Inigo's face. It was very distinct, smooth yet sharp, always jutted at an angle as if he were smiling at something indistinct. Owain let out a soft, exhausted sigh, and he ran his fingers through his matted hair.

"How long have I been asleep?" he asked. His voice was hoarse.

"I don't know, I just got out here." Inigo watched him, his eyes flickering fast. He smiled widely. "Let's take a walk."

"Okay." Owain wasn't really in the mood to go walking, but he needed some air, and his entire body felt stiff and achy. He stood, wobbling a little on his feet, and Inigo steadied him, pulling him by the hand away from their makeshift camp and into the woods. It felt familiar.

"What were you dreaming about?" Inigo asked as they walked, careful not to snap twigs underfoot, following a trail of shrubbery.

"A bunch of things." Owain shrugged. You left me. I wanted you to stay so badly, and you left me. He put on a brave face though, and he smiled. "I played with Morgan and Nah and Cynthia. It was nice."

"And then…?" Inigo's voice drifted into the cool night air. Owain blinked at him. "Oh, come now. I know that's not all. You were crying, you know."

"Tears of positivity, my friend!" Owain gasped. His voice had broken in the middle of his great feigning of bravado, and he stumbled. He found himself gripping Inigo's bicep as he gasped for air.

"Let's… rest for a bit," Inigo suggested, pulling Owain toward a tree and resting his back against it. Owain slid down to the ground and pulled up his legs, burying his face in them. He listened to his breath rattle against the chilly night air, and he was reminded of the dream, which was fading now, where he'd stared at Morgan, his breath rattling amongst the snowy ruins of Ylisstol.

"We're making good progress," Inigo said. "We should bee in Ylisstol within the week."

"Great."

"Try to sound a little more enthusiastic," Inigo said gently. "I know it's hard, but you need to put on a brave face. A lot of people are counting on you."

"Three."

"Four." Inigo sighed. "Brady, Noire, Say'ri, and me. Don't forget me, I'm unforgettable."

Owain raised his head. He offered a vague smile, and then he chuckled. "Well, I mean…" He sniffled, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. "I guess."

"Say'ri says she's going to leave us once we reach Ylisstol." Inigo smiled weakly. "You have anything to do with that?"

Owain turned his face away from him. He took a deep breath.

"She fought her war, Inigo," he said. "I won't make her die for mine."

"Is… that what you think?" Inigo leaned forward, his eyes big and wide and full of terror. "That we're going to die?"

Owain bolted up straight, and he waved his hands quickly, furiously, stumbling to amend his mistake. "No! No way, we're gonna totally survive! I just don't want to—!"

"I don't actually care," Inigo said blankly, his eyes still big and wide in the bright, childlike innocence of his childhood. "I think it's a really good thing for you to do. Selfless."

"Oh." Owain flushed, and he sunk against the tree trunk, shifted so he wasn't sitting on protruding roots. "No, it's not really selfless. If we fail, she'll be dead soon anyway. If anything it's more selfish. I don't want to have to see it happen."

"You're a good Exalt." Inigo moved. He resituated himself so he was sitting across from Owain instead of beside him. They stared at each other's faces. Their coloring was completely opposite of one another, Owain with his porcelain skin and black hair, and Inigo with his rich brown skin and snowy waves. He smiled much easier than Owain, too. His were easy lies. Owain found it difficult to keep the lie up nowadays. "I wish I could have seen you rule more than just a broken world."

Owain watched him quietly. He moved his eyes to and from Inigo's face, his thoughts racing. No, he thought. I am a terrible ruler. Lucina is the natural Exalt, she shines at this position, and she captured the whole world with her skill. I can barely hold together a handful of people, let alone an entire nation. But what could be done?

"I miss everyone," he whispered.

"We all miss everyone."

"Not the way I do."

"That's so self-centered, Owain!" Inigo grinned broadly. "Gods, and they say I have a big ego!"

"You do, though?" Owain rolled his eyes. "You wanna fight? I have the Falchion, I'll fight you, right here, right now."

"Oh yeah?" Inigo smirked. "Sure. Let's fight. You won't win, though."

"Of course I will," Owain scoffed. "I'm the Exalt, remember?"

He turned, pulling at the sheath of the Falchion strapped to his back. He then considered something, his fingers drooping from the grip. "Wait…" he said confusedly. "Inigo, do you even have a sword?"

When he turned around, Inigo was standing. He offered out both his hands.

"If we fight," he said brightly, "we fight my way. Take off that heavy thing."

Owain unclasped the sheath and set it aside, taking Inigo's hands and jumping to his feet. "What are we doing?" he asked.

"Dance with me."

"What?" Owain's eyes widened. And then he gasped delightedly. "You're gonna dance? In front of me?"

"No, I'm going to dance with you." Inigo clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, closing his eyes. "There's a huge difference."

"Well, yeah. I can't really dance for real, you know. I can just do silly stuff." Owain gripped Inigo's hands tightly. "Can't I just watch?"

"No, you're going to dance with me." Inigo took a deep breath. He swung Owain's hands. "Ready?"

"Not really, but let's go."

They began with simple steps. One, two, three, one, two, three, like a waltz. Inigo guided his feet, holding Owain's waist and gliding easily from one position to the next. His feet hardly touched the ground. They moved slowly, but it didn't feel like an agonizing pace. They moved, drifting through the silence, and in focusing on Inigo and his steps, it made it hard for Owain to think of anything else. For that, he was gratefully.

The pace grew faster then, and Owain snorted when Inigo twirled him, stopping him just so his back was against Inigo's chest. He was breathless now with the constant switches in pace, and he slumped.

"That was fun," he breathed.

Inigo responded by pressing his lips to Owain's neck.

Every hair on his body seemed to stand on end.

"Can we try something even more fun?" Inigo's whisper tingled the sensitive skin beneath Owain's ear. Owain licked his lips, his heart thundering in his chest, and he wondered if this was something he really wanted, if it was something real, or if he was just sad and desperate. His breath hitched as Inigos fingers trailed down his chest.

How could it even matter at that point?

His nod was more like a shaky bobbing of his head, and he blinked as Inigo whirled him around, dragging him by the front of the jerkin. Inigo's back bumped into a tree, and he pulled Owain downward a bit so that their lips could meet. And then Owain remembered. Don't leave me, he'd thought desperately, his fingers squeezing Inigo's. Please. Inigo hadn't been shy then, hugging Owain tightly, nuzzling his shoulder and kissing his cheek. And Owain had smiled, even though he'd wanted to die on the inside, because Inigo was smiling, and he had to match that.

Inigo's lips were very soft. He moved quickly, his lips drawing quick breaths between kisses, avoiding biting down on Owain's lips, or searching his mouth for too long. He was already fumbling at the clasps of Owain's jerkin, and Owain traced the line of his arm to his chest and down his side until he felt Inigo's hipbone. Inigo yelped a little when Owain's hand reached beneath his shirt, and he slipped, taking Owain down with him as he slid against the tree and Owain collapsed on top of him.

Owain snorted into Inigo's shoulder. Inigo was buckling from his laughter.

"You're so bony," Owain gasped moving his hand from Inigo's back to his ribs. He drew his thumb along the ridges, feeling Inigo shiver. It was kinda funny. "Are you eating enough?"

"Probably not." Inigo's teeth were white in the darkness. "Do you want to know a secret?"

"Sure?"

"I've never slept with anyone before." Inigo flicked one of the clasps of Owain's jerkin. Owain stared at him blankly.

"Okay." Owain looked down. Swallowed thickly, and then he looked back up at Inigo. "Neither have I."

"Well that's obvious." Inigo didn't sound as confident as his words made him seem. He flicked another clasp. He paused. "I don't know what to do now."

"Are you serious?"

Inigo glanced up at him. He smiled sheepishly, and Owain could see him blushing even in the dim shadows.

"You, the greatest flirt there ever was… not knowing how to proceed?" Owain shook his head in faux disappointment. "Okay, I guess I'll help you. Take your shirt off."

Inigo stared up at him. His face broke into a very silly grin, and he obeyed without objection.