On The Virtues of Second Chances

Author's note: Uhhh, the culmination of a completely untenable 100% crack scenario that resulted from me and darling Xirysa consuming entirely too much coffee and generally being strange people. Hasn't really been edited or or anything, but here, you may have it in all of its cracktastic glory. Enjoy.

The pain in his eye is unbearable, worse than the throbbing in his head or the ringing in his ears at the sound of his old friend screaming in anguish. Lyon can't quite make sense of what's happening – he is himself, and yet he isn't, detached from everything and everyone and yet so very here. He opens his other eye, the one he isn't clutching at, the one that isn't streaming blood everywhere, and sees it.

Her.

Motionless, pale, clutched tight in Ephraim's strong arms, long hair, stained red, spilling down around her face. He remembers how beautiful he always thought it was, how much he longed to stretch out his hand and run his fingers through it while she sat next to him, and-

"No."

It couldn't be. Not here, not now. Not by his hands. He feels the tome clenched in his free hand and the surge of magic still coursing around him – he can't remember when or why or how it started, or what the words had felt like in his mouth.

He repeats his denial over and over again, echoing Ephraim's screams to the same effect. He expects any moment he'll feel that lance driving through his chest, running him through and just ending it all.

Ephraim doesn't move. He only falls to his knees, clinging to the body in his arms and weeping. Lyon has never seen Ephraim cry, but it occurs to him now, even with the shadows dancing at his fingertips, that the tears bring out the color in the other prince's eyes and highlight the subtle curve of his jaw. He wonders for what it might be like to run his tongue along Ephraim's cheeks and see what those tears taste like, to tangle his fingers in Ephraim's hair and smell the blood and sweat at his scalp and –

Lyon's breath catches in his throat. He hears the book fall to the ground and feels his feet moving, not in the direction of the twins – though he wonders if he could bring her back as he did his father, keep her by his side forever and always – but away from them and the other faces he almost recognizes. It's almost as if something is pulling him along, something greater than himself, outside and not at all like whatever it is within –

"Hey, slow down there," he hears, a sing-song voice with a feminine edge. As he looks up, the laughing voice in his mind disappears, and instead he sees only a pretty, slim woman with red hair and a finger pressed to her cheek. She's familiar somehow, though he's sure he's never seen her before. Perhaps it's the cadence to her words or the swing of her hips, something subtle, but something nonetheless.

"I must – "

She catches his shoulder, her grip far stronger than he could have imagined from the looks of her slender, willowy hands. "Running away? Oh, but poor Lyon, where will you go? Back to dear Ephraim?"

Lyon swallows hard. He hears only his heartbeat in his ears now – no voices, no laughter, nothing that is not his own – but he can take no joy in the realization now. "H-he'd kill me," he gulps. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, even for the best, but Lyon can't imagine facing him – or his sister – again. He can still hear the screams, even this deep in the temple, echoing off the cold walls and harsh stone floor.

"He would," the woman chirps merrily. "But I have another option for you. A second chance, if you will?"

"Wh-what about the demon king-?"

"Pish-posh." Lyon is quite sure "pish-posh" is not the right answer to "demon king", but somehow this woman makes it seem all right. She seems so warm and comforting, almost like a mother – or at least what he imagines a mother is like, from the bits he's heard throughout his life. "Listen to me, little Lyon – " how does she know his name, exactly? " – I'm going to send you somewhere very interesting, all right? And you are going to help save that place – the whole world, there, even! That sounds fun, doesn't it?" She pauses, her finger going back to her pert, rosy cheek. "Oh, and you can atone for killing that pretty girl, too."

Lyon almost wants to question her, almost, but what does he have to lose? No friends, no family, no future. Even on his own, he is a demon, a murderer, undesirable, unsalvagable. "I'll do . . . anything."

"Good!" the woman answers. "I thought you'd say something like that." She takes his arm again and pulls him closer, tight against her body. She's taller than him, too, but when she runs his fingers through his hair and pets his cheek softly, it doesn't feel at all condescending or frightening. Not like it did when Valter did the same – though why that monster comes to mind when he sees the woman's smile is beyond Lyon. "Before I send you off on your way, you'll need to pick a name. 'Lyon' just won't do, sweet."

He wouldn't want to bear that name anyway. If he can be someone else, anyone else, a new man with a new life, he'll jump at the chance. And yet, he cannot leave it all behind. He won't be forgotten here, that much he knows, and he cannot forget them either.

Lyon recalls a certain philosopher from his studies as a boy, a foolish man with high, grand dreams. He built himself a pedestal of vague ideals and charity, but in his oneminded search for glory, sacrificed his wife, Aesha. He searches a moment for the name – why can he recall the wife and not the man? – but as the red-haired woman smiles down at him, it is on his lips as if it had been there all along.

"I'll be Legault," he answers. "But, your name – you didn't tell me."

"Anna," the woman answers, before everything Lyon knows goes black.

It takes some time for Legault to learn how to wield a dagger, how to pick a lock, but thankfully, Anna at least gave him the language. He speaks with a funny accent, he's told, but nothing more is said by the strange little group of bandits he's joined with. They accept him into the fold, and in a few years' time, he is one of them, among the top, even. Funny that such success, such prowess, should come now. If only it had come a bit sooner.

When he catches sight of himself in the mirror, a rare sight these days, he sees that his legs are long and his body is lean, almost reminiscent of his old friend. He considers asking Anna sometimes what happened when he left, but he imagines he won't like the answer. He focuses instead on the Reed brothers, who somehow remind him of someone else – perhaps because they are so close, almost like twins.

But there is talk these days of a man called Nergal – though only in the faintest whispers – and Legault knows too well the whisper of forbidden magic in the air. He packs his things in the dead of night, and in the morning, makes his escape. Anna's plan be damned – he knows what he needs.

In a clearing in a forest, a wyvern is feeding on the remnants of a deer, and its rider is hanging the choice bits over a fire to cook and cure. At the thick, savory smell of roasting meat, a small, hungry groan comes from another man slumped lazily against a tree.

"Are you just going to lounge over there, or are you going to help?" Heath calls to the stirring thief, who stretches, almost catlike, and gives an exaggerated yawn.

"Needed to catch up on my beauty sleep," the older man answers, as he ever-so-slowly approaches the fire. "Elimine knows I didn't get much last night."

Despite himself, Heath flushes at the wink the words come with, and the more-than-friendly slap on the shoulder. "Not my problem," he bristles, and the wyvern punctuates that with a snort. He doesn't bother to protest when the thief snatches a smaller piece of still-hot meat from the side of the fire and pops it into his mouth, save to add, "And that's coming out of your half."

"Sure it is," the thief answers with a smirk as he flops next to Heath's feet. "Hey, Heath."

"What is it?"

"Can I tell you a secret?

Heath pauses and hangs the last piece of meat over the fire. "Why don't I ask you something instead?"

The thief smiles, or it seems he tries to. The scar on his face pulls it into only a wider smirk, still with that glint of slight derision. "Why not? Sounds fair to me."

"Who's Ephraim?"

The thief is silent, and the smirk slowly fades. Before Heath can really register concern, the answer comes. "Don't know any Ephraim. Why?"

"You said it last night, in your. . ." another blush, damn it- ". . .not sleep."

"Ah." And the smirk returns, lighting up the thief's eyes. "I'm a creative man."