November Q&A — Part One (Patreon)

• The first time the ROs have killed someone. Or if they have not done so, the first time they witnessed death?

The first time Hadrian killed, he was seventeen summers, and he had just gotten out of his first-ever boat ride. His legs were unsteady, the knees shaky, and his stomach had an unpleasant weight to it — the kind that threatened to come up at any moment.

His brothers in faith were busy leading the horses from the devilish ship or surveying the riverside area. A dense, grey forest loomed nearby, and a light rain started to fall on the cloud-covered sky.

Hadrian was taking deep, steadying breaths, trying to fight the nausea. His Templar armor was heavy and unpleasant, and Hadrian wanted to shed it piece by piece.

He never got the chance.

It started with a yell. Hadrian turned around, startled, and saw the figures running out of the forest with spears, swords, and axes in hand. Arrows flew through the rain. They impacted with violent thumps, but it was the gurgled dying breaths of one of his brothers that snapped him out of his shock.

It was a quick, brutal battle, with few casualties on his side and a small river of red blood on the other. Hadrian doesn't remember much; it was a blur, but he does remember driving his sword through the chest of a nameless man. He stood by the dying man’s feet, eyes cast down, and his sword clenched tight in his hand.

And then, Hadrian turned and finally retched.

- - -

Alessa could not tell you the first time she held a knife just as she couldn't tell you the first time she took her first steps or said her first words. But what she can tell you is of the first time she took the life of another.

It was night and it was cold, and Alessa could not feel her fingers.

She was barely thirteen winters old, smaller than most children and too skinny, but her eyes held the frosted fire Alessa carried within. She was alone, on her way to the Company keep, not fifteen minutes away.

The road was lonely and bare. Alessa skipped over the patches of ice and snow, making a game of where to put her foot next.

She didn't hear him. One of her earlier mistakes that she vowed never to make again.

From the dark, two impossibly strong hands shoot out. They grabbed her and yanked her against a chest made of stone. Her yell was silenced by a harsh slap. Alessa remembers tasting her own blood, warm on her tongue.

"Show me the package, girl, and you might yet live," the man growled from above.

Even at an early age, Alessa understood implicitly that the moment she gave him what he desired, she would be dead.

So, she reached calmly to her belt, grabbed the package lord Tarek had ordered her to fetch, and just as his grip loosed, his hand opening to accept it, Alessa seized the hidden knife on her sleeve and thrust it into his gut.

She remembers his blood coating her fingers. It was as warm as hers.

He fell to his knees, gasping for his last breaths of air. It took him a while to die. She did not move, watching the life slowly drain out of him. But even after his eyes glossed over and the blood stopped flowing out of his stomach, Alessa stood there. Immobile.

The first rays of the sun were kissing the horizon when the young girl finally moved again — walking in a straight line to the keep, no longer making a game of the banks of snow.

- - -

Both Alain and Ysabella Theer have never taken the life of another.

The first time Alain witnessed death was while he was roaming the gardens of his childhood estate. They seemed so big, then, never-ending, and he liked to spend his free time exploring every nook and corner. At the tender age of four springs, Alain found a dead bunny. He thought the little soul was sleeping, so he brought it home to heal.

It never healed, of course. The servants threw the body outside, and Alain learned something that, at the time, he couldn't name. He learned about mortality.

Ysabella's first brush with death was when their grandmother lay on her deathbed. Ysabella remembers the heavy, nauseating stench that filled the opulent chamber of the dying matriarch. The smell of death. She remembers her grandmother's thin, yellow hand reaching for her chubby cheek, and she remembers, with a pang of sorrow and regret, how she had flinched away in disgust.

Her grandmother looked sad, but she smiled in forgiveness, and years later, Ysabella will never forget that smile.

Their first brush with violent death was when the twins were twelve years old. Their parents ordered them to come to a lord's execution, someone that had wronged their uncle, although the children couldn't tell you what this lord had done.

They stood side by side, in their best clothes, watching as the executioner raised his sword high and cleaved the head of the kneeling man. His father told them not to cry. They did not.

Alain just silently reached for his sister, and the twins locked hands.

- - -

The first person the boy who would be named Pirate King killed was another cabin boy in his crew. He was nine autumns old, and the young pirate was hungry.

The other boy was barely a boy at all. The Pirate never learned his age, but he had hair awkwardly growing on his chin and was taller and stronger, and kept beating the Pirate to steal his rations.

In three days, all he had eaten was an apple and half a bread. He was starving, and no one would come for his help — he must fend for himself or give himself to the cold embrace of the sea.

The Pirate did not want to accept the sea's hug just yet. So, on the night of the fourth day, while his stomach clenched in terrible pain and his fingers shook with feeble strength, the boy who would lead an armada crawled to the bunker of his killer, the one who doomed him to a slow, miserable death, and granted him a quick, violent end.

While the blood poured from the boy's throat, the Pirate looked deep into his eyes. "I won't forget you," he whispered in a voice that could only belong to a child. "You are my first enemy."

The other could not answer.

- - -

Neia's first kill was unintentional.

She was a young girl in a monastery, not more than eleven summers old, and one of the older girls made the mistake of tripping her. Neia went down, slamming her face on the ground, but it wasn't the pain that exploded on her nose that did it.

It was the laughter.

She remembers the mud on her tongue and remembers involuntary tears in her eyes as she slowly pushed herself to her feet. A group of older girls surrounded her, with the leader at the helm. Just last night, Neia had thought how pretty she found the leader's hair. It was very long and braided in thick bands. Neia had wondered if the older girl would teach her to braid her white hair the same way.

Now, she wondered how it felt to tear them out of her skull.

"Mud-eater!" someone yelled.

The leader laughed cruelly. "She's so ugly," she said, pointing at Neia. "Freak."

Some children called her a freak because of her height and broad shoulders. Neia would usually slap them and be done with it, but now. Now, something was singing in her blood, and the world had turned into a lovely shade of red.

"She—"

The leader never finished the sentence.

Neia slammed against her, taking them both to the ground. Faintly, she heard yells and shouts as she punched the other girl again and again and again and again and...

Hands pulled on her. She threw wild fists about and pounded the girl beneath her anew. She beat until her knuckles cracked, and whatever she was hitting went from hard to mushy.

She snapped out of the beautiful red song when, finally, the adults arrived and hurled her away, but by then, it was too late. Neia was covered in blood, breathing hard, but her hands started to shake.

She killed. She sinned. She was going to hell. "I didn't mean to," she babbled as she was taken away and locked in a dark room. "Lord almighty, I swear I didn't mean to."

She prayed for forgiveness the whole night, crying and shaking.

In the morning, two Inquisitors came for her. They took her from the monastery and welcomed her into their midst.

Neia learned something, then. God did not mind violence if it was well-directed.

- - -

Lance hasn't yet claimed a soul. He has come close to it many times since enlisting with Mist, but so far, the bard has avoided pulling the trigger of his crossbow.

He's glad of it.

Lance believes that when he does — and it is a matter of when and not if — he will lose some part of himself that Lance will never get back.

But, for now, he has not killed. The first time he witnessed death, Lance was a monk at his old monastery. A young monk, even younger than him at the time, slipped on a puddle of water, tumbled down the incline of the vegetable garden they were both tending, and snapped his neck on a rock.

Lance just stood dumbstruck, staring wide-eyed at his friend. In the snap of a finger, he was gone. A life snuffed in one of the most ridiculous ways it could go.

To be dead, one only needs to be alive. How easily God took His gift of life.

Lance did not speak for a week. He attended the funeral rites and the burial in silence. And as his friend was lowered to the ground, in eternal rest, his superiors claimed, Lance thought that, at least, his friend was finally free.

- - -

The first time Rafael took a life, he was sixteen summers old.

He had sneaked into the house of a rich trader, the owner of the largest inn in the north of Navarra. His mother hasn't had work for weeks, and the Company didn't pay Rafael enough to sustain him and all his siblings.

So, he used the skills the Lord gave him and picked the lock of one of the back windows. He knew the trader had a safe somewhere. If Rafael could open it immediately, he'd just take a little of the gold — enough to last them through the winter.

If he couldn't... he'd be forced to take the whole safe. But that's a problem for when he found the damn thing.

At that moment, Rafael was climbing through the crack in the window and vanishing within the dark shadows of the foyer. His steps were like a feather, his eyes long adjusted to the dark, and Rafael poked and explored without making a single sound.

When he finally found the trader's office, the moon hid behind a dark cloud. It didn't take him long to find the safe, hidden behind a fake panel on the left wall. What he didn't account for was the string that broke when he pulled the safe from its hole.

And the fall of a bell from the ceiling — it made a cacophony in the silent house.

"Shit." Rafael dropped the safe in a panic and decided to dash back to the window. It was a bust. He could try again later, but now, he had to go.

And he almost escaped. He was right there, back in the foyer, readying to jump—

"Where do you think you're going, rat?"

When hands grabbed him and pushed him to the ground. The trader was a man with twice his bulk and hands the size of sausages. "You'll stay here until the guard arrives. I'm going to enjoy seeing you hang from a rope."

Fear and dread turned him feral. Rafael struggled like a wild animal, kicking and biting, and finally, he was able to put his arm around the man's neck. He tightened his hold then, flexing his elbow as hard as he could as he locked his legs around the man's torso to keep him in place.

The trader struggled in his arms, clawing for air, trashing his feet. Rafael could only hold on for dear life as, slowly, the trader went limp.

And all the while, Rafael was weeping.

- - -

Lieutenant Vallen of the Red Guard has killed before.

When she did it, she was the oldest of the cast — twenty years of age. Vallen was tasked to neutralize a group of minor nobles who had been openly questioning the Theer's new role in the city of Tarragona and the House's intentions towards the Stones.

Her orders were such: do it quickly and don't get caught.

Vallen waited for a formal dinner at one of the dissident's houses. The lady invited her confidants and their families in honor of her newly birthed granddaughter. It was a small and private affair by nobility standards. Vallen paid her way inside, bribing the cook to leave the kitchen doors unlocked.

Five minutes before dinner started, while the guests and the host were mingling in the lobby, Vallen sneaked into the cellar and slipped three large vials of arsenic into the chosen wine. The king of poisons worked fast in this case. It was said people started to fall after only two hours into the dinner.

The rest died less than a day later.

Vallen did not stay to witness it. She was riding in the night by the time the nobles brought their cups to their lips. Twelve dead by her hand, but not by her command.

• For Hadrian and Alessa, I'd love to see a scene of them first meeting Romanus.

I swear that one day, I'll write an interactive short where you'll get to play through the meeting, picking the gender of your Romanus and the personality. It's very hard for me to write it like this — without a first name, an origin, a physical description, and a personality type, but I can do a little snippet just to give you a taste.

A second note: I’m writing these with a Romanus in mind who will end up dating Alessa and Hadrian respectively. Of course, a Romanus who is always just a friend and was never interested wouldn’t behave in the same way.

-

Alessa puts her hands behind her back, hiding the way her nails dig into her skin.

"A new recruit?"

"No," Lord Tarek speaks from the other side of the desk. He's rummaging through a stack of papers. "A new member. I've admitted them in."

Alessa keeps her voice as impassive as possible. "Might I ask the reason why? We are not overflowing with funds as is."

Tarek pauses his search. "You don't need to remind me of the state of my coffers, Alessa," he says in a low, warning tone.

"'Twas not my intention."

He finds the paper and extends it to her. Alessa hesitates before she walks closer and takes it in hand. Her eyes flicker to Tarek, and he gestures his permission for her to read it.

Fugit nix; arboribus frondes induuntur.

The text continues in prose form, filling the entire page. Alessa knows these inscrutable scribbles, but she cannot read them. "Has the new member gifted you this?" she asks, frowning at it.

"No, that's mine," Tarek says. She looks up at him, confused, as her lord wheels his chair away from the desk. "They translated it to me. They know Latin," Tarek says over his shoulder, rolling towards his bookshelf.

Ah.

Understanding dawns on her as well as infinite questions, but she holds her tongue. 'Tis clear Tarek wishes not to tell her. Not yet anyway.

"Go meet them," Tarek commands, skimming the books. She faintly wonders what it is he seeks. "You're leaving this afternoon for León, aren't you? Take them with you along with the ex-Templar. Show them the ropes."

Babysit them, he means.

Alessa nods, realizes he cannot see her, and cracks her lips open. "Very well."

Lord Tarek does not look back.

She starts to walk to the door.

"And Alessa?"

She halts. "Yes?"

"Watch them. When you're back, I'll have questions."

-

A stranger waits for her in the Company's main hall.

It's early morning, and warm streaks of golden light glide in from the high windows to scatter the floor in tones of orange. But the air is chilly, and the stone walls of the mercenary company are deserted.

Except for you.

Alessa slinks into the room, quietly keeping to the shadows. You have her back to her, watching the flames flicker on the big hearth. Alessa’s blue eyes take you in.

She quickly finds little details, little observations that she marks to ruminate when she has the time.

First off, you are taller than her. 'Tis to be expected, most people are, but what she did not expect was the visible strength in your bare arms. You may speak the forbidden language, but you are no mere scholar.

It pleases her. Perchance you are weak still, but she will not have to coddle you every step of the way.

Next, she takes note of your boots. They are well-worn. She can see the tear and wear, the mud clinging to the soles. You have walked here, not ridden, and judging by the small satchel resting at the foot of the fireplace, you have slim belongings. Alessa wishes she could see your profile, but she needs not observe your expression to conclude you must be desperate.

A desperate fugitive, seeking shelter within their halls. Her lips curl in distaste. The Company is not a charity. How long can she trust you will remain here? As soon as you find another means of escape, will you not take it?

What loyalty have you to Tarek? To herself? None, 'tis the answer.

Alessa has seen enough. She opens her mouth, beginning to step away from the shadows—

"So, how long are you planning to stare?"

For the second time in too short a span of time, Alessa is forced to a halt.

*if Romanus is male

You turn around, and she sees you for the first time. You are even taller than what she first guessed, almost as tall as the Templar fool, and your jaw is set in a strong line.

Your eyes flicker down her form, studying her as she did you. Alessa notes the intelligence in your gaze when you look back up. 'Tis... a pleasant enough face.

"Not that I fault you, mind you. It's a common affliction to those I meet — they can't help but stare," you continue. Your voice, to her equal surprise, is pleasant too. "Still, I was told you would show me around. The flames are intriguing, but not as much as this fortress."

"You have noticed me," Alessa observes, sliding out of the shadows with languid steps. She keeps the approval out of her tone. 'Twould not do for you to know you have impressed her.

"Hard to miss someone like you," you retort, and then, you smile, and Alessa finds that she likes the sight.

"There is no point in trying to flatter me," she says, her voice coming out colder than she intended. She feels irritated, all of a sudden. "I care not for what you say but what you can do."

You nod, still smiling that infuriating smile. "That's what I'm hoping. If you lot are just empty words, I'd rather be on my way."

Her eyes immediately narrow. "'Tis not you who should be testing us," she warns. "Lord Tarek may have admitted you, but if you do not prove your worth, he may just as easily cast you aside."

"I don't think that's happening," you say dismissively.

The gall. "Oh?" she bites back. "How can you be so certain, might I ask?"

You suddenly lean closer, and Alessa has to fight with all her will not to take a step back. She’s... flustered. She does not quite know what to do with herself when you whisper near her ear. "You may certainly ask. I just might choose not to answer."

Alessa flares her nostrils. She will not lose her temper with... a fresh recruit.

No matter how maddening.

"I will not waste more time," Alessa says, and now she does take a step back. "The dorms are down the hall, to the right. If you miss them, simply keep on walking until you are outside our premises, for we have no use for the blind."

You chuckle. She despises the part of her that preens at it.

"I shall meet you shortly so we can visit the armory. I know not what you use, but you shall have a selection to pick from. Be ready—"

"Wait."

Alessa tightens her lips at the interruption. "Yes?"

You hold out a hand and say your name. "You're Alessa, right?"

She lifts an eyebrow, noticing that your other hand is clasped in a black glove. Why only one hand?

But Alessa accepts your offered handshake without a comment. "It is my name."

Your fingers are large and calloused and warm against her cold skin.

"Nice to meet you, Alessa of the White Company. I'm sorry if I offended you. I am... admittedly, a little nervous. But I do appreciate this, you know? And I don't plan on letting you down."

Your voice is eager, and your eyes stare right into hers, and why are her cheeks warming?

"... see that you do not," she says coldly, snaps her hand back, and takes a couple of steps away. "I shall meet you shortly."

Behind, she hears you chuckling again.

This will be a long trip.

*if Romanus is female

You turn around, and she sees you for the first time. You are even taller than she first guessed, almost a head taller than her, and your features could be borrowed from an oil painting. Your hair is obviously dirty and in need of a wash, but even still, Alessa can guess at its softness.

The Templar fool will like you. You carry beauty.

Your eyes flicker down her form, studying her as she did you. Alessa waits until you lift them back to yours with a ghost of a smile on her lips. She is almost impressed. "You have noticed me," she states, coming out of the shadows. She doesn't walk straight towards you, instead choosing to round you.

You turn in your spot, keeping your eyes firm on her. You are no fool. Good. "There's a tingling right here," you say, tapping the back of your neck. "Whenever someone stares. Which, admittedly, happens a lot."

Alessa continues to circle you. "Disgust often leads to gaping, 'tis true."

You laugh. Alessa stops walking, surprised. She did not expect... you to take her jab so well. Most would take offense; the prideful fools they are.

"You're funny," you say. "I didn't expect that."

"What have you expected, if I am allowed to ask?"

"I get a feeling you ask whatever you want to, permission or not," you say. Alessa keeps her face impassive, but a ridiculous part of her preens at the compliment. "I don't know what I expected. Not you. But I'm glad I was wrong."

You put a hand over your heart. "Which, by the by, I rarely am. You should savor the moment."

Despite herself, Alessa cracks a smile.

"You're Alessa?" you ask, taking a step closer.

"'Tis the name I was given."

You laugh again. The sound trickles down Alessa’s spine. "Pleasure meeting you,” you say, holding out a hand and introducing yourself.

Alessa stares down and notices that your other hand is clad in a black glove. She lifts an eyebrow at that, but she takes your offered hand without a comment.

"You are new," she warns as your fingers wrap around hers. They are warm, shockingly so. "Do not believe you are out of the fire yet. We will require you to prove yourself if you are to stay with us. Just as easily as Lord Tarek welcomed you in, he may as easily cast you out."

Your brows furrow. "I know," you admit. "I'm not taking this for granted, Alessa of the White Company. And I'm going to prove it to you."

"See that you do."

Only then does Alessa realize that you're still holding hands. With a pathetic jolt, Alessa snaps her hand back and takes a step away. "The dorms are down the hall, to the right. If you miss them, simply keep on walking until you are outside our borders, for we have no use for the blind."

You laugh for a third time. Alessa wonders why she is counting.

"I shall meet you shortly so we can go to the armory. I know not what you use, but you shall have a selection to pick from. Be ready by the time I arrive."

She turns to go, but your voice calls out. "One more thing."

Alessa halts. "Yes?"

You point at her fingers. "I like your rings."

And Alessa knows not what to do with the heat that spreads at the back of her neck. "I... thank you."

She starts walking away, then, with a confused crease on her brow. This will be a strange journey.

- - -

Hadrian struggles to strap a brass arm cuff, tying the strings and belts with his left hand.

It's usually a difficult task to do alone, but it's made harder because he can't focus. His mind is on the near future, on the new Company member he's about to meet.

Alessa told him about you only a few minutes prior. You've been admitted last night by Tarek himself, and you know Latin.

Hadrian pauses, his brows furrowing over his eyes. He still has... an instinctual repulsion to everything to do with the forbidden. Tarek rarely assigns him on missions where Hadrian must be in contact with it, and while León isn't one of those...

This new mercenary is.

He knows it's wrong to judge without even seeing you, but Hadrian isn't looking forward to the meeting. Where did you even learn it? Alessa said she doesn't know, and if she doesn't know it's because Tarek wants to keep it a secret.

Latin is the language of the false gods, of the depraved culture that existed before. Who would learn it willingly? How can he—

The leather strings slip from his fingers, and Hadrian bites back a blasphemy.

Lord.

With a sigh, he puts it aside. He probably doesn't need it, anyway. León is a simple protection mission — he's not expecting trouble. Hadrian knows it's more to test the new recruit than anything else.

He moves to strap in his sword and takes large strides to the door, but Hadrian pauses on the threshold. His mind is full of doubts and spinning thoughts.

Hadrian lowers his head, grabs his cross, and closes his eyes. Peace slowly returns, and when he lifts his chin again, Hadrian feels lighter.

He'll meet you without preconceptions. He's a mercenary, and so are you. The past, well... the bitter past is better left in the past.

-

The afternoon is painted in hues of red.

Autumn is in full swing, turning ever closer to winter, and the windows of the Company's keep are frosted at the corners. Hadrian can see his breath whenever he exhales, and he walks faster to keep the chill from his bones.

Ahead, there's the welcomed glow of a small hearth. The room you're all supposed to meet at is isolated from the main chambers, so Hadrian isn't expecting to see any other mercenary inside.

But, as he walked in through the door, he wasn't expecting it to be completely deserted.

He's the first to arrive. Hadrian stands at the center of the room, not quite sure what to do with himself. Should he... should he sit? There are a couple of armchairs in front of the fire.

But he prefers to meet you standing. No, he'll just stay here.

He squares his shoulders, clears his throat, and sets his eyes on the hallway, waiting for you or Alessa. His fingers tap on the handle of his sword. Why is he nervous? Lord, he can’t make a fool of himself in front of the new recruit.

The last thing Hadrian needs is another person calling him an idiot. Alessa is more than enough.

*if Romanus is female

"Are you Hadrian?"

But his plans go out of the window when Hadrian jumps. He turns around and sees a face peeking from the back of the nearest armchair.

And his heart stops completely.

Hadrian blinks, mouth slightly agape as you rise from the chair to stand in front of him with a sheepish smile. "Sorry about that. Didn't mean to startle you."

By the Lord above. You are beautiful.

You've recently bathed. Hadrian can see that your hair is still damp, and a faint aroma of soap perfumes the air around you. You're tall for a woman, shoulders proud and long legs, but your face has a softness alike the sculptures of angels.

"Did I miss a spot?" you ask, eyes flickering down at your clothes. Even your voice is beautiful. "I didn't have as much time to clean as I wanted. Alessa made it clear I should be ready when she arrived."

Hadrian cannot speak.

You look up, doubt flickering in your face. "Are you alright?"

He realizes, perhaps too late, that he's staring. "Uh, no." Hadrian clears his throat, a wall of flame climbing up his neck. "I mean. Yes. Yes, I'm alright."

You smile. Father in Heaven. "Good. You had me worried for a moment, my good man," you say, the amusement back in your tone. "No one had told me you were mute."

Hadrian forces a laugh. It sounds so awkward. "No, I'm not that. People wish I was, though. I'm, uh. Sometimes I ramble."

Why is he telling you this?

But you laugh, and Hadrian decides then, that he doesn't mind tripping over his tongue if it gets you to laugh. "There's nothing wrong with a little ramble. I hear it helps you ease up."

“Ease on your pride, yes,” Hadrian mumbles, and that has you smiling. Hadrian smiles back, trying to ignore the warmth spreading to his cheeks. "Sorry again about that."

"You don't have to apologize."

You're nice, too. Of course, you are. "You're not what I expected, is all. I was surprised."

"Oh? What did you expect, then?"

"Hmm," Hadrian pretends to think. "I thought you'd be older."

"Not surprised by my good looks, then?" you quip, your tone making it clear you are only joking.

But he's unable to say anything but the truth. "That too," he admits.

You blink. Hadrian closes his hands into fists. A second passes. It lasts for a century.

You break it when you look with a bashful smile. "Why did you think I would be older?" you change the subject, peeking at him from beneath your lashes. "Don't tell me my name sounds like an old woman's."

Only then does Hadrian realize that he didn't ask Alessa for your name. "No, I— lord." Hadrian sighs. "You know my name, but I don't know yours."

He steps closer. "Can we start again?"

“As long as you promise not to start apologizing again,” you tease, but you tell him your name, and Hadrian repeats it quietly to himself. It fits you perfectly.

He goes to open his mouth, but you hold out a hand, and he snaps it close. You look up at him, clearly waiting for him to take it. Hadrian swallows, reaching for it. He holds your fingers in his, delicately, afraid to... what? "Nice meeting you," he says.

You close your fingers around his. His heart goes from dead to racing. "And you." You pause, then. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but Alessa mentioned you were once a Templar?"

Hadrian's foolish smile drops. "Yes," he says, and now Hadrian watches you closely. He's waiting to see it. Fear, disdain... guilt? The fact that you know Latin jumps to the forefront of his mind. He was blinded by you, but now Hadrian sobers.

But your hand is still in his, your fingers holding him, and Hadrian dares not take it away. "Will that be a problem?" he asks.

"No," you say. "As long as you don't have a problem either."

The way you hold his gaze tells Hadrian exactly what you're referring to. He was taught in the teaching of his Church, and you know a language that would have made you enemies, once. Not anymore.

"I don't," Hadrian says in a softer tone. "I swear."

You study his face for a moment more, your gaze sharp. Hadrian sees for the first time another side to you – a side with steel behind your gaze. You are nice, but you have also lived a life that got you here.

Whatever you see, however, seems to be enough because you beam at him and shake his hand up and down. "Then I think we'll get along perfectly."

Hadrian chuckles. "You get along with everyone you meet, don't you?"

You let your hand fall from his. Hadrian fights to keep his disappointment from his face. "Careful, Hadrian of the White Company. You keep this up, and I might think you're trying to flatter me."

As long as it's working, Hadrian almost says, but he trips over his tongue. "Oh, huh. I—"

You laugh. Hadrian is already addicted to the sound. "Relax," you say. "I'm joking."

I'm not.

"I tend to do that when I'm... on edge," you admit, your smile faltering. "It's a lot to take in."

His brows lower. "I don't doubt it. I remember my first night here, after meeting Tarek. It's not easy." Hadrian hesitates. "But, for what's worth, I'm, uh. You can count on me. And Alessa, too. I know how she comes across when you first meet her, but she isn't half as scary as she seems."

"Is that so?" you whisper.

"It is," he says, wanting you to believe him to quell your fears. "Anything you need, you can come to m– one of us. If we can't help you, at least we'll know someone who can." He smiles in what he hopes is reassuring. "I mean it."

You stare at him with an inscrutable look. "I might take you up on that."

"You are acquainted."

Alessa's voice rings from the hallway in her cold tone. She walks in, eyes darting from him to you. "Very well. We need not waste any more daylight."

She stalks to the outside door and opens it wide. A chilling wind sweeps into the room, making you visibly shiver. Hadrian frowns at your lack of coat, but at least you have a glove.

... even if it's only one.

"Let us depart," Alessa commands over her shoulder before stepping outside.

"You're right," you say as you walk past him. "She seems very approachable."

The grin you flash goes straight to his heart, making another flush bloom on his cheeks. Hadrian watches you leave, smiling dumbly before he shakes his head and follows suit.

For the first time in years, Hadrian feels... hopeful.

*if Romanus is male

"Hadrian, I assume?"

But his plans go out of the window when Hadrian jumps at the voice. He swirls around and sees a face peeking from the nearest armchair.

It is smirking wide.

"Didn't mean to startle you," you say as you rise to your feet and step from behind the chair.

Hadrian puts his weight on his heels, studying you for a moment. Younger than he assumed and in good shape. Hadrian wonders what your regime is — he could use a training partner. But what surprises him most is the ease of your smile.

It's disarming. "I think that's a lie," Hadrian answers, letting himself smile too. "How long were you waiting there?"

You put a hand up, palm facing him. "I swear on God, I didn't mean to scare you, my jumpy acquaintance," you say, and Hadrian doesn't miss that you use the Lord's name.

Did you do that on purpose too? Is it bad how at ease he feels in your presence? If his Templar brothers could see him...

Hadrian shakes dark thoughts from his mind. "I, uh. I didn't jump," he defends himself.

"No, you just leapt."

Hadrian chuckles. "You got me there," he says. There's a small pause where you two size each other.

You have bathed recently. Hadrian catches the whiff of a white and blue soap of the Company. He also notices the dark circles under your eyes. "Were you sleeping?" he asks in a softer tone, his brows crinkling in... concern? No. Maybe sympathy. "You arrived last night, didn't you?"

You nod. "That I did. It was a... tumultuous night."

"I don't doubt it." Hadrian grimaces.

"But, to answer your question, no. I wasn't sleeping. I was eating." You show him the last bit of a meat pie.

Hadrian groans aloud. "No. You should never get the meat pie. It looks good, but—"

"It's dried than a nun's knickers."

Hadrian chokes on his spit.

"Whoa!" You laugh as he goes into a coughing spit. You leap and slap his back a few times. "Calm down, there, my good man."

Hadrian coughs one last time, his face flushed. "You shouldn't—" Lord, he wants to laugh. "You shouldn't say that."

"Why the hell not?"

Hadrian lets out a laugh. Father, forgive me. "You just shouldn't."

You open your mouth, but then close it and give him a side-long look. "Ah, that's right," you say, your voice colder suddenly. "Alessa mentioned you are a former Templar."

The shift is immediate. Hadrian stiffens, and so do you, and your gazes lock in a different kind of way. You're jovial and friendly, but Hadrian sees now the part of you that is also steel. There's no doubt you've lived a life that led you right here.

"I was," Hadrian admits, subconsciously standing a little taller. "Will that be a problem?"

You cock your head. "No. As long as it isn't on your part."

Hadrian breathes in. He's a mercenary. He should remember that. "It won't be. It isn't."

You nod slowly. "Good."

Hadrian nods back.

"... so now that that's over with, can tell me what I'm supposed to get from the kitchens?"

"Oh, right." Hadrian clears his throat. "Get the black pudding. It looks—"

"Like dog's spew."

"Lord, you're descriptive. But yes, it looks bad, but it tastes great with warm bread."

You hum, then turn around and throw the pie into the flames. You both watch the fire consume it. "I'm Hadrian," he hears himself speak. Hadrian sees you glancing at him from the corner of his eyes. "But, uh, you already knew that. What should I call you?"

He forgot to ask Alessa for your name. Hadrian hopes you don't catch his mistake.

"Alessa didn't tell you?" you ask.

Hadrian bites back a curse.

"She, uh. Was in a hurry."

He hears you chuckle. "She was the same way to me. I barely got two sentences in before she shooed me away."

"That's Alessa for you," Hadrian says, turning towards you. "But your name?"

You stick out a hand and say it.

Hadrian hesitates for less than a heartbeat before taking it. "Nice meeting you."

"The pleasure is all mine," you declare with a grin. Your thumb sweeps over one of his knuckles, then, and Hadrian almost jumps again at the... jolt in his spine.

What in the hell?

"It's almost a pity we'll be leaving so soon after I got here," you continue speaking, taking your hand away, and Hadrian takes a large step back. "I barely had time to explore the keep."

Hadrian follows your sight to the ceiling. He's not surprised you've been assigned a mission with Alessa right away — you must know this is Tarek's way of testing you.

What surprised Hadrian was that he was chosen to come along. "You'll have time," he says and smiles reassuringly at you. "I'll tell you what, when we come back, I'll show you everything worth knowing."

"Including the best foods?"

"Of course."

You smile. Hadrian can't help but, once again, smile back. "Thanks, Hadrian," you say, your voice more serious now. More sincere. "I think I need a friend."

Hadrian claps your shoulder. "I could use one too."

"You are acquainted." Alessa's voice rings from behind.

Hadrian jumps for the third time and rushes to take his hand away from you. He doesn't know why. He doesn't have time to ponder right now. "Alessa, hi," he says lamely.

She gives him a cold look. "We need not waste more daylight, then," she says, ignoring him as she stalks towards the outside door.

A chilling wind sweeps into the room, making you visibly shiver. Hadrian frowns at your lack of coat, but at least you have a glove.

... even if it's only one.

"Let us depart," Alessa commands over her shoulder before stepping outside.

You clap his shoulder, just like he did to you. "Come then, my new friend." You grin at him. "There's adventure to be had."

Hadrian stares at you for a moment, watching you go. His thoughts... are all absent. Then, Hadrian shakes his head and hurries after you.

For the first time in years, Hadrian's excited for the days ahead.

• Also, I was really looking forward to seeing Lance/Rafael save Romanus as well. I hope you go back to that sometime too!

I absolutely will! It's not forgotten. I just needed a break from the rescue scenarios — nothing I wrote was coming out right, and I want Lance and Rafael to be done justice.

But, once I'm done with this Q&A, that's the first thing I'll write because I want to finish that rescuing collection. 😊