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Chapter Text

Prologue

“Do you think he’ll be able to recover from this?”

Lukas stands in the medical tent, watching as Silque examines Forsyth’s unconscious body. Lukas himself is still weary and aching from the arduous battle, but Forsyth is far worse off. His right arm, his lance arm, is mangled and bloodied. Lukas has seen worse, but not often—not on those who survive.

Silque nods. “He will recover. But…”

“But?”

“But it’s beyond the scope of my magic. He needs time to heal, not just Mila’s blessing. You need to keep him out of combat for a while.”

Lukas chuckles grimly. “Oh, he’s not going to be happy about that.”

Not happy is an understatement. Forsyth wakes up with his arm bandaged and splinted, and still, the first thing on his mind is returning to battle.

“I don’t understand!” he shouts. “Why should I be forbidden from fighting? Plenty of others here have been injured—I’ve been injured and been back in combat the next day!”

“Forsyth,” Silque coaxes, “your bone is fractured. You’re not going to be able to fight at your full strength, and attempting to do so will certainly worsen your injury.”

“I know. I’m prepared for the consequences. I want to fight for Zofia.”

Silque sighs, and Lukas steps in to relieve her. “Rest first, then rejoin us. Restoring yourself to full health is a service to your country.”

Forsyth thinks this one over. “Well, yes, but… what if someone else is injured in my absence? One of the leadership, or one of the kids from that village. Shouldn’t I be there to protect them?”

Now it’s Lukas’ turn to sigh with exasperation. “Is there truly nothing that would persuade you to step down from combat?”

“No. Not while I draw breath.”

“Hm.” Lukas feels a flicker of disappointment, but it doesn’t reach his face—same as always. “In that case, I suppose I can talk to Clive about some sort of… compromise.”

Three days later, Forsyth is assigned to a new post.

“We need someone to guard this outpost,” Clive explains. “Without a Deliverance presence in the area, the local bandits may return and continue terrorizing the surrounding villages. All you need to do is protect your post—no questing around, no odd jobs. Understand?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Unfortunately, due to our lack of forces, you’ll have to hold the outpost on your own. If you ever find yourself outmanned, leave and send for reinforcements immediately. I’ll take you and your gear over there first thing tomorrow. You should start packing.”

“Yes, sir!”

Forsyth makes his way back to his tent. Really, despite what people say, he’s not clueless; not enough so to believe that Clive has assigned him a genuine post. But his arm hurts, and his heart aches, and he resigns himself to taking it as a mercy: that at least he will not be forced to watch as the army carries on without him.

Packing is a struggle with only one good arm, but he keeps at it. Eventually, Lukas appears unprompted and helps him get the rest done.

Day 1

“Here it is.” Clive motions at the… outpost. Which is really more of a house with a low wall around it. “Want me to help you get your things inside?”

Forsyth frowns. He despises being thought of as unprepared or incapable. Even—perhaps especially—when there is reason to think so. “I’m sure you are needed back at camp, Sir Clive. My injury may slow me down, but I can handle myself nevertheless.”

“Well, if you’re certain.” Clive heaves Forsyth’s bags off his horse and drops them on the ground in front of the brick wall. “I’ll be on my way. Lukas has already promised to write you updates of our progress—I’m sure you’ll be looking forward to those.”

“Quite, sir!”

“Farewell, Forsyth.”

Forsyth salutes him a goodbye and begins dragging his things toward the house.

With only one good arm, he decides it’s safest to take multiple trips. He starts with the lightest item: a small pack containing his clothes and keepsakes.

Truly, it’s not much of an outpost. It’s a run-down house in the middle of the woods, defended only by a brick wall that falls about waist-high. In front of him, the bricks are interrupted by a feeble wooden gate, which—a quick push reveals—isn’t even locked.

Stepping through the gate, Forsyth gets a better view of the area. There’s a small cobbled walkway up to the front door of the house, which occupies the left side of this quaint little plot. The other half hosts the remnants of a garden, the plants withered and decayed beyond recognition. It’s living (or rather dying) proof that the site has long since been abandoned.

Forsyth shivers. This place puts him on edge. It’s eerily quiet, like that horrible dungeon the Deliverance claimed for their hideout, and he’s miles away from anyone who can help him if danger strikes. Still, he pushes onward. Genuine or not, Sir Clive assigned him this post, and by Mila, he’s going to guard it. He pushes through the front door… and stops cold.

There is a dead body in this house.

Forsyth stares, transfixed. His pack falls to the ground beside him. He’s seen plenty of death before, in battle, even at home, but this… this person has been dead for a long time. They’re slumped against a wall, with remnants of skin sloughing off their bones and clothes encrusted with dark stains.

He can’t help but think how long they must have sat here without a proper burial. Whoever this was… does anyone even know they’re gone? And if something happened to him out here, would he suffer the same fate?

The thought ties a knot in his stomach, so he shoves it away. It doesn’t matter now. He’s here, and nothing bad is going to happen, and he’s going to give this person a burial. The sooner he can do that, the better.

He’s still worried about his provisions and equipment, so he sets to bringing the rest into the safety of the walled garden. Unpacking into the house itself can wait; he doesn’t particularly want to be inside right now, as it is.

After moving his things, Forsyth returns to the problem of the body, and he gets all the way to picking out a plot in the garden before realizing he doesn’t have anything to dig with. He glances back toward the house. With a garden this size, they must have tools somewhere, but if they’re not outside… well. He’ll have to go in there eventually. Might as well be now, right?

Cautiously, he steps into the house once more.

He considered wearing his armor for this, but decided against it. The plate mail is too heavy, too loud, and too difficult to make an escape in. Not that he plans on doing that.

Another step takes him further toward the corpse, which sits directly across from the front door. Another step, and the front door slams behind him. He looks—nothing there. Must have been the wind.

At last, he reaches the nearest door and pushes it open, checking nervously for any more deceased. It opens to an empty kitchen with some wooden countertops, a few pots and pans, and, tossed away in a corner, a collection of gardening tools. He surveys them quickly and picks up a large spade. That ought to do…

He’s interrupted by a loud clattering from behind him. “Who goes there?” he shouts, spinning to face the noise. He grabs the spade, too, wielding it thoughtlessly as if it were his lance, and nearly dropping it as his splinted arm refuses to move.

The room is empty. One of the pots is now on the floor.

“Show yourself!”

Nothing.

Forsyth takes a deep breath. This is ridiculous. He’s alone in the woods—there’s no reason for anyone else to be here. He can handle himself, just like he told Sir Clive. And he is not afraid.

When the kitchen door slams behind him on his way out, he doesn’t glance back.

The shallow grave takes him a few hours to dig, but he gets it done. The soil in the garden is still loose and easy to work, and he’s able to manage the spade without too much pain.

The worst part is moving the body.

After staring helplessly at it for longer than he’d like to admit, Forsyth settles on carrying the remains as he would an unconscious person. He takes off his sling, allowing a little more motion, and takes the opportunity to roll out his stiff shoulder. Then, kneeling beside the body, he slides his splinted arm between their back and the wall and moves his left arm as if to hook under their legs. For a second, he can almost imagine that he is carrying a living person; only, they’re disconcertingly light and dusty and—oh gods, the bones are coming out.

Forsyth moves as fast as he can without jostling the bones more, fighting his nerves every step of the way. The bones click and rattle, and the touch of the dusty remains makes his skin crawl. This was a person once. The relief of placing them at last into the grave is dizzying, though the memory of it still sends a cold shiver down his spine.

He makes several more trips into the house after that. With the remains gone, he notices some new things in the room: an abandoned longbow in the corner, some loose arrows scattered about, and a dark brown stain right below where he’d found the body. That makes him shudder, but all he can really do is kick some dirt over it and move on.

When he finally returns to the front gate to retrieve his things, he feels a new sense of peace. The dead have been laid to rest, and he can focus on doing his job. Everything as it’s meant to be.

He scouts out the rest of the house: in addition to the entrance room and kitchen, there are two bedrooms. The one at the far side of the house is littered with childrens’ toys and clothes. (He can’t help but wonder if those children even lived to see adulthood.) He takes the other as his sleeping quarters—a much emptier room with a straw bed and scarce furniture.

He sleeps well that night. And if there is a sad whistle on the wind, he doesn’t hear it.

Chapter Text

Day 2

Python glares at the shallow grave.

Sure, he’d been suspicious of the stranger trespassing on his house. But once the guy started digging up soil—well, he thought this was his chance. Finally, he—his body—would be in the ground where it belonged, and he could be at rest. He’d go wherever people were supposed to go when they died, and he wouldn’t have a care in the world about the new guy moving in.

But last night turned to this morning, and he’s still here.

The whole thing pisses him off, and when he’s pissed, he wants to be alone, not putting up with some new guy who’s up at sunrise cleaning the house. Seriously, what the fuck? Who cleans a house that isn’t theirs?

Python drifts into the kitchen, where New Guy is sorting the pots and pans by size. Which is dumb. The moment New Guy looks away, he glares his frustration at the pots, which promptly quake and tumble off the counter.

To Python’s satisfaction, New Guy jumps about a foot in the air before regaining his composure. “Who goes there?” he yells. Then, more quietly: “And why have you knocked my pots over?”

Python responds by slamming the bedroom door.

“Eep!”

He cackles. Who knew people actually made noises like that?

“Show yourself! I can hear you laughing at me!”

Wait, what? Since when can people hear him? “Hello? Helloooo.”

No response. Of course. Instead, New Guy retreats quietly into the bedroom (ugh!) and returns with… his lance.

Python groans. He hates knightly types.

“If anyone is near,” the man declares, “know that I am prepared to defend myself if needed. I do not wish for a fight.”

“Yeah, that’s gonna be real helpful here,” Python quips uselessly. “Good luck.”

New Guy goes back to organizing the kitchen, and Python lets him get about halfway through before wreaking havoc again. The pots clatter to the ground, and this time, New Guy grabs his lance and whirls around, slicing through Python’s spectral form in the process.

“Ow!” Python complains. The lance can’t injure him, of course, but it phases through his body, resulting in an unpleasant chill. “What the hell?”

New Guy looks around, confused, and Python dares to hope that he’s been heard again. Then he shakes his head. “No,” he mutters frantically, “it couldn’t be. Just… the wind. Or some small animal, perhaps.”

Oh, boy, Python thinks. This is almost too easy.

Day 3

By the next evening, Python has learned several things about the intruder in his home.

One: He scares easy. Python knows that fear tends to build up over time, but even from the outset, the man was jumping at the slightest noise. At this point, even normal house sounds are startling him.

Two: He doesn’t want to be here. This revelation comes later on, when the man starts muttering things like oh, had I only not been assigned here and perhaps Sir Clive will reconsider his decision yet. It means that the scare tactics are working, but it also makes Python suspect that he didn’t want to be here in the first place.

And then, paradoxically, there’s three: He’s not leaving. Sure, he seems to consider it constantly, but something always stops him.

Finally, at the end of the day, Python thinks he’s won. The new guy is near tears after sitting down to write a letter and having a large pile of papers gusted off his desk.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters. “I can’t keep this up.” Frantically, he dons his armor and grabs a few packs off the ground, then heads for the door. “I can leave here, and stay the night in town, and contact Sir Clive…”

Python floats after him, a little curious and very pleased with his efforts. Finally, he’ll have the house to himself again. If he’s trapped here for eternity, he’s at least going to spend it in peace.

He makes his way out through the main room, down the path in the garden, past the shallow grave and out the gate.

And then he just… stands there.

What the hell is wrong with this guy?

There he stays, for several minutes, alternating between deep breaths and frantic muttering that Python doesn’t bother to listen to. Then, suddenly, he whirls around to face the house, lance in hand.

“Whoever—whatever you are,” he addresses, completely missing Python as he points at the front of the house, “it’s clear that you want me gone. But I’m here on the orders of the Deliverance, saviors of Zofia, and I will not abandon my post!”

“No,” Python whines, “No, no—Fuck! Get out of my fucking house! You know you’re not wanted here, so just—”

The man turns to face him—to actually face him—and points his lance. “Show yourself.”

Python doesn’t really know how to do that, but that fact is becoming less relevant by the second because he’s so fucking angry. He feels something… different, and all of a sudden, New Guy looks ready to piss himself. Which he counts as a victory.

Forsyth is not having a good day.

The wretched outpost, with its slamming doors and creaking floorboards and horrible pots that never stay on the shelf, has nearly driven him out. He sat down to write a letter to Lukas, asking for advice and perhaps a reassignment, only for an impossible gust of wind to strew his writing supplies across the floor. That was the moment that sent him running.

But Forsyth is a strategic man, a man who thinks ahead, and he can’t help thinking about his return to the Deliverance. About how exactly he will tell Sir Clive that he abandoned his post, and how Lukas will surely forbid him from fighting once more. Perhaps he will be expelled from the Deliverance entirely, barred from combat, unable even to hold this tiny outpost. He thinks about being sent home, and about what his father will say.

So that’s it. He can’t go back. The Deliverance isn’t ready for him, and he isn’t ready for his hometown. And if those courses of action are out of the question…

Forsyth turns back to the house. “Whoever—whatever you are, it’s clear that you want me gone. But I’m here on the orders of the Deliverance, saviors of Zofia, and I will not abandon my post!”

And then there’s a noise behind him, a rough and painful noise that slowly starts to form itself into a human voice.

“…out of my fucking house!” The voice is low, raspy, and rather whiny. Forsyth focuses on pinpointing where it’s coming from. “You know you’re not wanted here, so just—”

Forsyth turns, lance at the ready. “Show yourself.”

The air in front of him starts to flicker and distort, and then, out of nowhere, there’s… something. A humanoid figure, floating about a foot off the ground. He has bright blue hair and brown armor with blue accents. There are dark holes where his eyes should be. Most striking of all, there’s a gaping wound in his chest with a gruesome bloodstain to match.

Forsyth drives his lance forward.

“Hey!” The… thing… complains, flickering in and out for a moment. “Don’t do that! It feels weird.”

Forsyth stares. Not even a scratch. He’s faced his share of Terrors before, but Terrors can still be stabbed, cut, and bludgeoned. “What are you?” he finally manages.

The figure laughs, a sharp and grating sound. “I’m fuckin’ dead.”

What…?

“I do appreciate you burying my bones, you know. But now that that’s done, you really ought to get out of here.”

Don’t think about the bones. Don’t think about the bones. He bows his head, trying not to look at the ghost. “I’m truly sorry. It was not my intention to disturb your resting place.”

“Oh, great! We’re seein’ eye to eye.” The amount of sarcasm in the ghost’s voice makes it feel unsettlingly human. “Look, how about this: you get your stuff out by tomorrow morning, and we call it even.”

Forsyth grits his teeth. “I can’t.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It is as I said before. I have been assigned to this post by the leader of the Zofian Deliverance! And—and I—” The words catch in his throat. Truly, he just wants to spill everything, his story, his frustrations… but this is not the time nor place. “I intend to defend it!”

“Oh, gods, y—” The voice suddenly disappears. Hazarding a glance upward, Forsyth sees the ghostly figure is starting to flicker and shake as well. “—not actually—are you?”

He hopes that sentence wasn’t important. “My assignment is only temporary,” he reassures, trying to project authority like Clive and Lukas. “However, until it ends… I am afraid you’ll have to tolerate me a while longer.”

Only silence greets him, and after a moment, he dares to look again. The road in front of him is empty; no sign of any disturbance, supernatural or otherwise. He wonders if he really was imagining it.

No matter. He still has a post to guard, after all.

“…I am afraid you’ll have to tolerate me a while longer.”

“Yeah… that’s not gonna happen.” Python rolls his eyes. “I don’t care about your little ‘post’. This is my house, and—Hey!”

The guy is looking up again… and looking through him.

“Stop ignoring me, dammit! I’m telling you, if you go back through that door—”

He’s already walking over.

Python moves to block the door, but it’s no good. The guy walks right through him, leaving him cold, empty, and thoroughly defeated.

Forsyth doesn’t see any more of the ghost that night, and he dares to think that they have reached some sort of unspoken agreement. As he returns to his room, the papers strewn across the floor remind him of his earlier endeavor to write a letter to Lukas. May as well do that now.

Dear Lukas,

I am concerned that the outpost I have been assigned to may be haunted.

Forsyth pauses. Lukas will believe him, right? Spirits leaving their bodies isn’t unheard of, especially when dark Rigelian magics are involved. It’s mostly unheard of in Zofia, but… well, it must be real, right? The bones were definitely real.

When I entered the house, I discovered a corpse. I gave it a proper burial, of course.

He supposes it’s possible that he discovered some old bones and simply imagined the rest. But that doesn’t sit right with him—the specter was too detailed, too specific, to be imagined. The bones didn’t suggest the man’s bright blue hair, or his teasing smirk.

Since then, I have been plagued by slamming doors, extinguishing lanterns, and the like. Tonight, however, I encountered the specter himself.

Truly, what an enigma! Insubstantial as an illusion, undead like a Terror, and—apparently—conscious as a living man. And rather rude, at that.

So far, I do not believe this being to be dangerous. He is incorporeal, and cannot hold a blade. If he was able to harm me, I have no doubt he would have done so already.

The pain in his arm is worsening, and he realizes he ought to put the pen down soon.

My arm pains me greatly, but I’m quite sure it’s getting better! I will be ready for combat again before you know it.

In conclusion, all is well.

Forsyth

Chapter Text

Day 4

If this experience has taught Python anything, it’s that other people are full of surprises. Horrible, nasty, frustrating surprises.

See, he thought that cursing out the squatter in his house—and appearing to him in creepy ghost form—would get the guy gone. (Sure, Python didn’t know how he did that, but he wasn’t one to question results.) Well, not only did that not work, it brought another unpleasant development, come morning.

“Good morning, Sir Ghost!” the intruder chirps when Python puts out his lantern.

“What?” Python asks, to no avail. “What do you mean, good morning?”

“Hm?” He looks around. “Were you saying something?”

“Yes, actually. Can you—”

“Huh, I suppose not. I’ll be on my way then.” And he walks into the kitchen.

Python is so baffled, he forgets to slam the door.

Living with a ghost is not a conventional housing arrangement, but then again, Forsyth is not a conventional person. If you ask him, just about anything can be accomplished by perseverance. Why should this be any different?

His lantern refuses to stay lit in the morning—a disruption he attributes certainly to the ghost—so he makes his way out to the yard instead. It’s time for morning training, and it’s going to be just like he never left the Deliverance. Everything is going to be perfectly normal.

After a bit of deliberation, he decides to take off his splint and sling for a bit so he can hold the lance properly. Lukas did say something about keeping it on, but his arm hasn’t really been hurting. Surely a few minutes of freedom won’t hurt him.

He stakes out an area of the garden, trying to aim for places where the plants look the most dead. He doesn’t have a practice dummy here, nor a sparring partner, but he can content himself with running drills for the time being. Drills are his favorite, anyway. They’re orderly. Comfortable, even.

Step forward… Step back. Forward… Back.

He starts with footwork alone. It’s important to be mobile, especially in fights with mages and cavalry running around gods-know-where.

Step, step, dodge, step…

The sharp pains that wrack his arm start to come faster. He switches his lance to his off-hand and keeps drilling.

Step, dodge, step, attack…

“The hell are you doing?”

Forsyth nearly jumps out of his skin. “Augh!”

Once again, there’s a sharp laugh on the wind.

He quickly rights himself. “Er… you startled me. I’m simply going about my morning training. I need to keep my skills sharp for when I return to the Deliverance.”

His words are only met by silence. Truly, he thinks, the ghost comes and goes like a housecat.

“Well, if you have no further objections,” he says. And then he returns to his drills.

Python doesn’t want to talk to this guy. But that doesn’t make it any less frustrating when his words go unnoticed.

He drifts inside the house—having it to himself, for once—as New Guy continues his weird training dance in the front yard. He stays there, too, when the man returns, making snide comments that never seem to be heard, slamming doors occasionally just to keep things interesting. Finally, to his relief, New Guy grabs some papers off the desk and walks out the front door.

It’s nice to be alone. He’s not able to sleep in this state, but in the peace and quiet of the abandoned house, he’s able to… let his consciousness go, somehow, ushering on the days and weeks to pass without disturbance. It keeps him sane—as sane as he can be, given the circumstances.

Now, though, he can’t even do that. The faster the time goes by, the sooner New Guy gets back. Even when he’s gone, the marks of his presence plague the entire house: pots and pans lined up in the wrong places; personal items scattered throughout the bedroom; footprints in the front garden. It’s horrible.

Drifting absentmindedly into the bedroom, Python glares at the desk until the little trinkets atop it start to rattle and flee the scene. It feels good—like he’s putting the house back how it should be. He turns his ire to the suitcases next, then the bed, and then into the kitchen…

By the time New Guy gets back, the whole house is in shambles. Just the way it’s meant to be.

The walk to town is long, and Forsyth returns more than a little tired. He gave up on trying to get his splint back on correctly, so he had to make the long journey with only a sling to support his arm. By the time he can see the house again, the sun is about to set, his arm is aching persistently, and his feet are sore from walking.

To his incredible dismay, the outpost is a mess. It won’t do—clutter means obstacles that can trip soldiers up if the fort is attacked; food spillage can draw vermin that spread disease among the army. The barracks (his bedroom) are somewhat less critical, but it’s important to be able to move quickly in an emergency.

In the back of his mind, he suspects that cleaning the house—the outpost—tonight isn’t really a life or death situation. But it doesn’t sit right with him, and he has the additional suspicion that he won’t sleep well if he doesn’t clean up.

He sighs, sets down the rations he bought in town, and starts picking things up with his good arm.

Python watches New Guy as he works his way through the entrance room, clearing debris and trash. He piles the firewood back in the corner, straightens the threadbare rug, and kicks some dirt back over the patch of floor that still bears bloodstains. When the sun goes down, he stops for a moment and comes back with a lantern.

Finally, almost done with the room, he picks up the old longbow. Python’s heart seizes.

The bow is… important to him, though he can’t put his finger on why. Maybe it’s the thing that killed him, or maybe it’s a keepsake from someone he cared about. He wouldn’t know. Whatever it is, he doesn’t want this guy messing with it.

“Don’t touch that,” he says, trying to sound threatening.

New Guy holds it up to the light.

“I said, don’t touch that.”

“Looks old,” he mutters to himself. “I wonder if it would hold up…”

Gods, he’s going to try and break it. Or maybe send it off to be used in his stupid war. “Stop!”

He starts to draw the string.

“For fuck’s sake, put the damn bow down!” Python shouts. “Just leave it alone, will you?”

New Guy spins around, fumbling with the bow, and Python relishes the fear on his face.

“H—Hello, Sir Ghost,” he mumbles, suddenly pale and shaky. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize… do you not want me to touch this?”

“Yes!” Python snaps. “I’ve only been saying that the whole time.”

He gently sets the bow back on the ground. “You have my apologies. If you were speaking, it seems I was unable to hear you. At least until you, er, appeared.”

“Great, you can see me now, too?” He throws up his hands in frustration. “First my voice apparently comes and goes as it pleases, and now my—I don’t know, my image? This sucks.” He considers drifting through a wall just so the guy will stop looking at him.

“You’ve been… attempting to speak to me?”

“Yeah,” Python grumbles.

“But you’re often unable to?”

“Yep.”

“But you can sometimes.”

“Yes!” he shouts. “The hell are you driving at?”

New Guy looks unusually thoughtful. Concerningly thoughtful. “Well… perhaps you need to practice.”

“Practice?” Python echoes, flabbergasted. “Are you kidding?”

“Quite serious, actually.” 

“That’s—” he sputters. “You can’t just—”

New Guy shrugs. “Consider it. I’m sure being able to communicate wouldn’t do either of us any harm.”

Python is too shaken for a snarky comeback, so he settles for disappearing through the wall instead. Passing through things still feels weird, but it’s worth it to remove himself from the situation.

Practice.

Python is still thinking about it an hour later, as New Guy settles in for the night. Practice? Seriously? There’s something wrong with this guy. The sheer nerve to show up in someone else’s house, refuse to leave, and then start telling him what to do? It’s infuriating!

On top of that, Python can’t remember practicing anything a day in his life. Well, he can’t really remember anything from his life, but he’s pretty sure his lack of motivation set in a long time before he died.

It’s stupid. Practice is for getting better at things you already know how to do, not throwing shit at the wall to see what sticks. And he’d feel ridiculous doing it, just floating around the house talking to someone who might not even hear him.

And another thing, he thinks, still fighting his annoyance several hours later, I shouldn’t need to. It’s ridiculous that he would even be having trouble with this. He can shove pots around and slam doors just fine, and that should be way harder than talking! Sure, knocking things around had been pretty hit-or-miss at first—it used to take him several tries—but by the time New Guy moved in, he’d had plenty of time to…

Wait. Fuck.

Day 5

And so, quite begrudgingly, “practice” begins.

New Guy is up at dawn again the next day, and Python snuffs his lantern three times on principle. No one should be awake this early. Predictably, this gets him another “Good morning, Sir Ghost!”

“Morning,” says Python.

No response. New Guy goes out to the yard and starts drilling again.

“So, training, huh?” Python drifts lazily behind him. “That’s… interesting.”

He switches to a new pattern, but doesn’t say a word.

“Nothing, huh? That’s just great. Very cool.”

In spite of himself, Python ends up watching the practice. It’s… kind of interesting, actually. He starts to notice small details, like which parts the guy likes and which ones make him wince. The best part, though, is ten minutes in, when he manages to trip over his own lance.

“Ha!” It catches him so off guard, Python laughs with a force that sends him rolling backward in midair. “Nice move. You use that one in battle, too?”

To his surprise, this one actually gets a reaction. “That was an accident,” New Guy says stiffly, flushing bright red from his place on the ground. “Normally, I…” He pauses, as if he’s about to say something of great importance. “I would be holding the lance in my right hand.”

It’s not like Python cares, but he is supposed to be practicing and all. “So, why aren’t you?”

“Come again?”

“Oh, great,” Python grumbles. “I only get one at a time.”

“I’m sure I can almost hear you!” New Guy declares (in entirely the wrong direction). “It’s rather, er, distant, but I can make out the sound of someone speaking. Keep at it!”

Python stares. He’s smiling so brightly—he sounds so earnest. Why is he acting so damn nice? “You’re a strange one, you know that?”

New Guy doesn’t hear him, but it hurts less this time. He’ll get it eventually.

Chapter Text

Day 6

Forsyth hears more and more from the ghost over the next two days.

“Yuck. That’s what they gave you to eat?”—when Forsyth is eating his rations for lunch.

“Why are you trying to sweep? It’s a dirt floor.”—when Forsyth tidies the entrance-room.

“Don’t you ever get bored?”—when Forsyth tries to keep watch at the front gate.

He doesn’t mind it much. It reminds him of the way that Gray, Tobin, and Kliff like to rib each other around camp. He misses being at camp, where it’s always lively and loud and he always has something to do. He likes knowing what he’s supposed to be doing.

The only thing that does bother him, however slightly, is how silently the ghost approaches. He startles easily, and several of these unexpected comments have fully sent him flying. There’s not much he can do about that, though.

That night, he thinks about writing another letter to Lukas, but he’s rather fatigued. Tomorrow, he thinks.

And then tomorrow rolls around, and his arm is hurting, and he can’t really bring himself to think of anything at all.

Day 7

“Not even gonna try the lantern this morning, huh?” Python prods, watching New Guy stumble out of bed and toward the door. “You give up easier than I thought.”

New Guy makes a noise that Python can’t quite decipher and presses onward. He makes it to the door before stopping to lean against the wall.

“That’s what you get for waking up at the ass-crack of dawn, you know.” Python shrugs theatrically, despite not having an audience.

New Guy just… stands there. Breathing heavily.

“Can you not hear me again, or are you just too sleepy to answer?” Python chuckles. If he’s going to deal with this, he’s at least going to make light of the—

“I can hear you just fine,” New Guy suddenly snaps. “Must you only speak when you have something rude to say? I’ve been more than patient, but now—” He flings his arms out to gesture, and the movement sends him crumpling to the ground. “I—”

Once again, Python finds himself simply staring. Obviously, there’s something wrong. New Guy just woke up, and he’s already on the floor. And—shit, is he crying? What the hell is Python supposed to do about that?

He could try to make things worse. It really looks like the guy’s about to break—maybe he could finally get rid of him. Then again, last time it looked like he was about to leave, he somehow turned around and came back with twice the enthusiasm. And if Python actually gets to him but he doesn’t leave—then they’d be stuck together and both miserable! No, pushing him is too risky.

“Hey, hey,” Python attempts awkwardly. “What’s wrong?”

No response, not even a twitch. Fuck. Was New Guy right—can he really only be heard when he’s being snarky? Normally he wouldn’t even consider that a bad thing, but right now, it seriously blows!

Think, Python. There’s got to be a way around this. Okay, yeah, he gets through more easily when he’s poking fun at the guy. But what makes that different from when he’s talking normally? He’s almost always annoyed at something, so it’s not just the emotion involved. So how exactly…?

It always starts with New Guy doing something stupid. And Python will be watching, because what else is there to do, and then he’s just thinking about what the look on this guy’s face is going to be when he totally gets what’s coming to him. Hell, half the time, he doesn’t even have anything clever to say. It’s worth it just to see the reaction. It’s like…

Focus on where you’re aiming, not where you’re shooting from.

The thought echoes through his mind. He doesn’t quite understand where it came from or what it means, but there’s something so perfectly right about it—something that just makes sense. For the briefest moment, everything seems to make sense, as if his memories have returned and the world around him has fallen into place.

“Hey,” he tries again, this time focusing on New Guy—he really ought to learn his name—instead of the talking. “What happened? Are you injured?”

He nods. (Yikes, Python thinks. He isn’t even bleeding anywhere.)

“Where?”

“My arm,” he says, through gritted teeth. “Broken.”

Python notices he’s stopped crying, which is probably good. But he’s also still kneeling on the floor from an injured arm, which is probably bad. “You need rest. Go back to bed.”

New Guy looks up, and his face betrays the amount of pain he’s in. “Just because—” He takes a ragged breath. “—you take issue—with my—”

Python groans loudly, hoping his newfound clarity will make that audible too. “This has nothing to do with your insane wake-up times, okay? You’re in so much pain, you can hardly move.” He crosses his arms. “Go to bed.”

“…Fine.” With cautious movements, he starts to haul himself off the floor and back toward the bed.

“And put something on it, if you can.” Python doesn’t trust the army to have sent this guy with any useful supplies, but maybe he at least had the sense to buy some medicine on his way here.

New Guy mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “Yes, sir” and stumbles the rest of the way across the room.

Python watches, satisfied, as he carefully lowers himself into the bed. The stolen bed. In the house he is trespassing on.

Yeah, Python is definitely losing his edge.

When Forsyth wakes up, bright sunlight is creeping through the bedroom’s small windows. He sits up with the abrupt thought that he’s missed his morning routine already, only to be reminded why he’s laying here in the first place.

The pain in his arm has dulled, though it’s still significantly worse than it has been; it has him sweaty and gross and a little shaky. Silque warned him that healing wounds could flare up unexpectedly, but he wasn’t prepared for it to happen to him.

He remembers waking up in pain and groggily thinking that he needed to push through and get outside. He remembers the hard dirt floor on his palms, the feeling that drowned out all the words in his mind, the tears hitting the floor in front of him before he even realized what they were. And he remembers someone talking to him.

You need rest. Go back to bed.

Who could have…? He can easily imagine Lukas or even Sir Clive telling him that, but it’s impossible. They’re miles away. In fact, everyone is miles away. It’s been more than a week since he spoke to anyone, save for…

“Hello?” He calls out to the empty room from his seat on the bed, still too unsure to risk standing up. “Is anyone there?”

“Nope,” comes a familiar voice. “No one alive, anyway.”

“Ah, Sir Ghost!” Forsyth smiles. It may be strange, but it’s nice to have someone to talk to. He vaguely remembers losing his temper with the specter earlier, though he can’t place why. “How is your practice coming along?”

There’s a pause, and Forsyth wonders if he’s driven him away again. “Better than I expected, actually. I think I’ve got the hang of it. …Assuming you can still hear me, that is.”

Forsyth nods eagerly. “That’s excellent!”

“Forget that—is your arm doing any better?”

So he was there. Forsyth sighs. “I’m still in a great deal of pain. It’s better than it was this morning, at any rate, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to do much for the rest of the day.”

Silence falls over the room. It feels so empty—from his vantage point on the bed, Forsyth can see the whole room’s worth of dirt floor and plank walls. He can’t even see the person (or thing) that he’s talking to. How lonely.

“Say, Sir Ghost? Would you mind… speaking with me, for a while longer? It’s quite tedious, sitting here with nothing to do.”

The ghost makes a disapproving noise. “Can’t you just read a book or something?”

Forsyth frowns. “I’m not… much for reading.”

“Eh, that figures. It was worth a try.” There’s a slight breeze through the room, now settling. “Well, I don’t exactly make for interesting conversation, but you’re free to try.”

“Thank you, Sir Ghost!”

“And stop calling me that!” The ghost sounds annoyed, but not upset. “My name is Python.”

“Ah, right. Nice to meet you, Sir Python.”

“Not Sir,” he grumbles. “Just Python. It’s not that hard.”

“Well… if you insist.” This does, at least, relieve Forsyth of the discomfort of using ‘Sir’ for someone who doesn’t bear the title, but it feels deeply disrespectful to refer to the dead so informally.

“What about you? You better not expect me to call you Sir.”

“Oh, no, I’m not a knight. It’s just Forsyth.”

“Forsyth, huh?” The ghost echoes the name curiously, like he’s studying it. “So, if you’re not a knight, what are you doing with armor and a lance? You steal it or something?”

“Wh—No! Never!” He holds himself back from another wild (painful) gesture. “I’m a soldier of the Zofian Deliverance! I fight to protect the freedom and safety of all who live here.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re helping a lot of people from this house in the woods.”

Forsyth flinches, wondering if the specter knows how deep those words cut. “I… have thought the same thing myself,” he says carefully. Measured and calm, just like Lukas. “But this is my post. Disobeying orders will only weaken our forces further.”

“Ugh, you’re a real kiss-up, aren’t you?”

“And what of you?” Genuine curiosity creeps through Forsyth’s eagerness to change the subject. “How did you come to be… here?”

There’s a long silence this time.

“Sir—I mean—Python?”

“Sorry, not really in the mood to talk about how I died. Maybe next time.” There’s a sarcastic edge to his words that makes Forsyth wonder if there’s even going to be a next time.

“Oh, my apologies.” He glances at the ground. “Is there anything you would like to talk about?”

“Mm… Nope, not really.”

“Then… would you like to hear more about my comrades at the Deliverance?”

“Eh, sure. Why not.”

Forsyth goes on for a while, reminiscing over tales from camp while the ghost—Python—gives biting commentary. He learns that Python dislikes nobles but loves to hear gossip about them and that he thinks a bow is more effective than a lance or sword. At times, Forsyth swears he can almost see the ghost again: floating lazily, as if he were laying in a hammock, flickering in and out of existence in the center of the room.

His arm still aches, but he’s able to survive the day of bedrest with his sanity intact.

Chapter Text

Day 8

The next day, Forsyth writes another letter.

Dear Lukas,

Yesterday was the end of my first week at this post. I intended to write you then, but my arm pained me far too much to write.

He stares at the last sentence, fighting the urge to scribble it out. He’s allowed to tell Lukas these things, right? Lukas isn’t his superior, only an advisor to Sir Clive.

Please don’t tell Sir Clive about that, he adds sheepishly. I assure you I am doing well, and—

He’s interrupted by Python’s voice, uncomfortably close behind him. “Who’s Lukas?”

Forsyth looks for the source of the noise, but there’s nothing to be seen. “Don’t read my personal letters!”

“Can’t stop me,” Python taunts. “C’mon, spill. Who is he?”

“Lukas is… a friend.” The words come out a little shaky. Are they friends, Forsyth wonders? Would Lukas be alright with him saying that? They’ve never really discussed the matter.

“Right.” He draws the word out skeptically. “Look, you can tell me the truth. I couldn’t tell anyone else if I wanted to! You could say I’ll take your secrets to the grave. Heh.”

“That’s wonderful, but there’s nothing to tell,” Forsyth says crossly. “Lukas is a good friend of mine.”

“A lover?” Python speculates, unfazed. “Maybe an ex-lover? A special someone waiting for you when you return from the war?”

“No!” The word echoes through the empty room, and Forsyth has to take a moment to regain his composure. “Nothing of the sort. Lukas is quite handsome, but I have no interest in a relationship with him. In fact, as I understand it, he isn’t interested in a relationship with anyone at all.”

“Booooring. You really don’t do anything interesting, do you?”

“Perhaps not by your standards. Let me finish my letter now, will you?”

“Ugh, fine. But tell that Lukas guy you’re going to pick up something for the pain while you’re in town.”

“But I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.”

Forsyth wavers, but relents.

—and I intend to collect some basic medical supplies when I deliver this letter.

How goes your march? This post is rather drab, but all has been well here. No attacks or signs of enemy movement. I cannot imagine your time has been so peaceful.

Yours truly,

Forsyth

He stares at the paper, the earlier conversation still weighing on his mind. In a burst of confidence, he quickly scratches out the ending and re-signs the letter:

Your friend,

Forsyth

Soon after, Forsyth sets out for town again.

“Watch the outpost while I’m gone, will you?” he calls jokingly to Python as he leaves.

The trip is uneventful, as it always has been, and he arrives in good spirits. To his delight, when he flags down the local messengers to send his letter, he receives something as well: a letter from Lukas, and a parcel to go with. He opens the letter eagerly.

Dear Forsyth,

I am quite concerned to hear that your post may be ‘haunted’. During your assignment, you were expected to handle local ruffians, not Terrors or other supernatural beings. If you believe yourself to be in danger, I urge you to leave your post until reinforcements arrive. There is no shame in a tactical retreat.

It occurred to me while writing this that I forgot to give you your going-away present. It’s not much, but I know that your days at the outpost must be tedious, and I hope that having something to read will lighten your burdens.

Best,

Lukas

Forsyth looks back to the parcel, now aware of what he’s about to unwrap. Lukas’ gift of books is a thoughtful one, though he doubts he’ll get much use out of them. At the very least, he has use for the silver marks that Lukas sent along with them.

He continues through town, picking up dry rations and medical supplies. The local healer’s shop has plenty of willow bark tea—luckily untouched by the shortages—and a few enchanted cold-packs, which he buys after much deliberation.

While Forsyth is away, Python (figuratively) breathes a sigh of relief.

It’s hard to think straight when Forsyth is around the house in such a state, looking like a kicked puppy and acting like the thought of doing nothing will finish him off if the pain doesn’t. It’s impossible not to pity the guy, and it makes Python want to help him. To protect him, to make him rest, to cut him free of the damn army that put him here in the first place. Anything.

But Python has to pull himself away from that train of thought. He’s not heroic or selfless, not good like Forsyth is. He’s dead, and empty, and only really interested in being alone. He can’t remember a single time he went out of his way to help someone. No matter how Forsyth makes him feel, that’s not going to change.

That’s why he needs to stay out of this as much as possible. In the end, getting close to Forsyth is only going to hurt them both.

“I thought you didn’t like reading,” Python quips when Forsyth returns, books in hand.

“I don’t,” he says matter-of-factly. “But it would be impolite to refuse a gift.”

Day 9

The next day, Python decides to try something new.

Talking to Forsyth has been surprisingly easy, now that he has the knack for it: a simple matter of taking aim and firing… just, with words. It’s a bit odd, but he suspects he can apply the same principle to being seen. Seeing and hearing aren’t too different, after all. How hard can it be?

He follows Forsyth out to the garden that morning and posts up in front of him to attempt it. He tries several times with no apparent success, making a point to remain quiet in hopes of getting a good scare out of Forsyth.

Finally, he gets it—at least, he thinks so. He feels weird and sort of warm, which either means success or—

“Augh!” Forsyth yells, jumping in surprise. “Must you always sneak up on me like this?”

Python laughs. “S’more fun that way.”

“It’s distracting.”

“Hey, maybe it’s good practice! You never know when an enemy could catch you off guard.”

“In that case, I ought to be using you as target practice.”

“Heh, you’re welcome to tr—” Python jolts as the lance whooshes through him. “Whoa, okay!”

“You’re not a very difficult target if you’re not moving.”

“I was going to,” he grumbles. “How are you so damn fast?”

Forsyth fucking beams. “Practice!”

“Uh-huh,” Python says, deliberately unimpressed. “Well, you keep at it then. I’m going back inside.”

Later that day, Python encounters Forsyth in the kitchen, eating his usual fare of crusty bread and dried meat. He makes a face.

“I still don’t understand how you eat that stuff. It’s foul.”

Forsyth sighs, not even turning to face Python (who made himself visible and everything!). “It’s sustenance. That’s what matters.”

“Crivens, there’s something wrong with you.” Python floats across the room to make sure Forsyth can see the absolute disdain on his face. “Food is supposed to be one of life’s pleasures! Sitting down for a good meal after a long day of work… or a long day of laying around. You’re s’posed to enjoy it.”

“I enjoy not starving.”

“That doesn’t count.”

Forsyth crosses his arms, looking unusually… cross. “You’re presuming quite a bit about what food is available. Years have passed since the last good harvest, you know. Some of my comrades have been driven to eating raw flour.”

It’s at this moment that Python realizes just how little he knows of the outside world. He’s barely able to cross the garden fence, and he’s not exactly getting news out here. He doesn’t know anything of the famines Forsyth speaks of. He hasn’t even heard of the war Forsyth claims to be fighting in.

“As the Deliverance travels, we’re able to take rations where they’re least needed,” Forsyth continues grimly, “but we also see firsthand the places that are hurting the most. I’ve gotten used to eating simple meals in order to preserve supplies.”

“Yeah, uh…” Python suddenly regrets being visible. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. I’m sure you didn’t know.”

Python nods, but it doesn’t sit right with him. Forsyth is too cheerful, too forgiving, too eager to give up what’s his so others can live in comfort. Python doesn’t consider himself particularly wise or moral, but he’s pretty sure that’s no good way to live.

“So… if the famines went away,” he pushes, “what’s the first thing you would eat?”

Forsyth cocks his head. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Like…” How exactly do you explain the concept of enjoying things? “What’s something you’d look forward to eating again? An old favorite food, or something you’ve always wanted to try.”

Forsyth’s brow furrows, as if the question is a difficult puzzle. “I… don’t know.”

“Come on, there has to be something.”

He looks up, hopeful. “Perhaps you could give me some ideas.”

Well, shit. Python would be happy to give suggestions, if only he could remember anything. He doesn’t even know what he would eat if the famine (the famine! what the fuck!) ended. If he was alive for it. And now Forsyth is staring him down like Python’s going to teach him how to be a normal person who eats food and likes it and—

“Python? Are you feeling alright?”

“Yeah, ‘m fine.” He shifts awkwardly in the air. “Just, uh… ghost stuff.” It’s a dumb lie, but from what he can tell, Forsyth is kind of a dumb person.

“Hm. Well, I’m not particularly fond of the dried meats, so perhaps I could find something to replace that…” Forsyth mutters to himself. “Or perhaps something sweet? But that would be so… indulgent…”

Python rolls his eyes, but ends up smiling nonetheless. “Yeah, keep thinking on that.”

Day 10

The next morning, there’s a storm rolling in, with dark clouds that smother the sunrise and winds that chill Python to the core if he dares to go outside.

He pokes his head into Forsyth’s room a few times to—fuck, when did it become Forsyth’s room? It’s his house, dammit!

…He pokes his head into Forsyth’s room a few times to see if he’s awake.

Forsyth awakens to a wind in the walls and an ache in his arm.

He’s not sure what time it is, and the following hours spent slipping in and out of consciousness do nothing to help that.

When he finally pulls it together—his mind less clouded, and the sky more so—he knows he won’t be training today. It’s frustrating, but to dwell on it would only waste more time, so he forces himself to stand up and start moving.

The walk to the kitchen is slow and awkward. Too tired to even bother with a sling, he supports his bad arm with the other and does everything he can to keep from jostling it. At long last, he makes it through the doorway.

“Hey, look who made it out of bed,” Python says, his voice echoing through the empty room.

“Mm.” Forsyth presses his response through gritted teeth. Medicine. Python insisted he buy medicine. It’s somewhere in the kitchen. Glancing around, he spots the parcel on the far end of the counter.

“Forsyth? You all right there?” Python’s voice follows him through the kitchen. “Your arm actin’ up again?”

He nods. With his good arm, he starts digging through the supplies from town.

“Well, uh. Keep at it, I guess.”

The rain redoubles its efforts on the roof, and Forsyth finally locates the medicine. He activates one of the cold-packs and crams it haphazardly into the crook of his arm. It makes him shiver, with the weather already cooler than normal, but it helps.

He moves to the stove next, laboriously stoking a small fire for his tea. Python doesn’t comment, though experience suggests the ghost is still in the room. The silence, and the sound of rain that fills it, is rather comforting.

Python waits quietly as Forsyth builds a fire and brews a cup of tea. He doesn’t want to bother someone in so much pain, but he doesn’t want to leave him alone, either. He just watches, unseen and unheard, but perhaps felt nonetheless.

Whether from the tea, the cold, or the company, Forsyth does seem to improve. He sits calmly, sipping from his mug, and he eventually lets his bad arm rest on the table instead of holding it in place.

It’s at this point that Python decides to be proper company. He moves to the other side of the table. He wouldn’t be caught dead (ha) pretending to sit in one of the chairs like a living person, but he can at least be in the correct general area. He waits for Forsyth to look up before he appears. It’s not exactly a good time to spook him.

Forsyth doesn’t say anything, but his eyes stay fixed on Python.

“So…” Python draws the word out, trying to plan his next move. “You feeling better?”

Forsyth sighs. “Better than I was this morning, certainly… The medicine is helping.”

He looks at Python nervously, and it takes Python a moment to register that he’s probably expecting an I told you so. “Yeah, it usually does,” he says instead.

“If it continues to do so, I may feel well enough for training after all.”

Python glares. Fuckin’ idiot.

“…Or perhaps I could stay inside. It wouldn’t be good to go out in this rain, of course.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Silence falls again, and a crack of thunder echoes through the house.

Python decides to dig a little more. “You ever been hurt this bad before?”

“No.” Forsyth pauses and downs the rest of his tea. He looks remarkably solemn. “I’ve been injured frequently, in my training and in the Deliverance. But never anything this severe.”

“Really?”

“Don’t act so surprised!” Forsyth frowns. “I can look after myself just fine.”

“Oh, I’m sure. I just can’t believe that confidence hasn’t gotten you into more trouble yet.”

Forsyth flushes slightly. “It… has, on occasion. Other soldiers have put themselves in danger to protect me. Despite my not asking them to!”

“Ah.”

“Sir Clive has warned me against being so reckless,” he adds sheepishly. “I understand it’s a strategic issue, but—!”

“Whoa, there, save it for Clive or whoever,” Python says with a laugh. “You don’t need to plead your case to me. I think you’re out of your mind for joining the army in the first place.”

“That figures.” Forsyth looks put out by this, almost pouting, which is unfairly endearing.

“Hey, if you’re happy working your ass off for a death wish and a few silver pieces, that’s great for you. But you can’t fault the normal people for thinkin’ you’re wrong in the head.”

“You’re not exactly normal, yourself.”

“Oh yeah? How so?”

“Well—” Forsyth struggles. “You’re dead, for one.”

Python cackles. “Yeah, you got me there.”

Chapter Text

Day 11

“Oh—Python!” Forsyth startles as he rounds the corner into the kitchen.

“Hey.”

As usual, Python is floating a few feet off the ground, reclining as if he’s in an invisible hammock. Aside from the bloodstain across his chest, Forsyth thinks, he seems quite… peaceful.

He looks up, barely meeting the ghost’s not-eyes, and he realizes that he’s expecting another snarky comment. Python always has something to say, which probably speaks less to his talkativeness and more to the fact that he only makes himself known when he wants to comment on something. Surprisingly, though, Forsyth finds himself looking forward to it.

It’s not that odd, of course; any kind of conversation is better than being alone in the woods. It’s only normal to enjoy a break from the silence. Nevertheless—

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

Forsyth stiffens. “N—Nothing in particular.”

“You sure? You seemed pretty lost in thought there.”

“If you must know, I was thinking it odd that you haven’t made a biting comment yet.”

Python shrugs. “That’s because you haven’t done anything offensive yet. I don’t pick fights for no reason, you know.”

Huh. Forsyth chuckles. “So, even ghosts have principles.”

“Hey, you don’t know that. Maybe I’m saving energy. Or maybe I’m waiting to hit you where it hurts.”

“Possibly.” There’s something about Python that makes Forsyth feel comfortable to speak his mind, so he does. “But I doubt it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” As he speaks, Python adjusts, moving his feet toward the floor and turning toward Forsyth. It’s as if they’re standing face-to-face for a normal conversation.

“If you were conserving energy, you wouldn’t be speaking to me. And if you truly wished me harm, you could have done much worse.”

“I still could.”

“And despite your colorful commentary, I can tell you mean well.”

“Yeah, uh…” Python grimaces. “Listen, it’s a nice sentiment, but you really shouldn’t put so much trust in strangers. You’re gonna get yourself hurt.”

Forsyth sighs. “Not the first time I’ve heard that warning. But… strangers? We know each other rather well.”

“You don’t know anything about me.” There’s suddenly a cold edge to Python’s voice.

“I know your name,” Forsyth counters. “I know you weren’t in the military, and that you like to gossip about nobles. I know you think it’s funny to startle me, and I know you’re concerned for my health.”

“I’m not—” Python crosses his arms, looking exceptionally frustrated. “Forget it. The point is, you don’t know anything about me. How I died, or if I was involved in the war, or even what my favorite color was! You don’t know me.”

“Am I supposed to have a problem with that?”

“I could have been on the other side of your war. I could have killed people.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Forsyth says. “It hasn’t even been a year since the war started.”

“Second part still stands.”

Forsyth nods gravely. “I suppose so. But the lack of information does not change my judgment. I take my risks willingly, and I can place my trust in you, whether you like it or not.”

Python groans. “You’re a fuckin’ idiot.”

He smiles in spite of himself. “There’s the Python I know.”

Day 12

After the amount of times Python has caught him off guard, Forsyth starts to be a little more wary around the house. It’s nothing too taxing—he’s not actually in danger, after all—just the usual alertness he would keep while on watch duty or the like.

Delightfully, as he pays more attention to his surroundings, he notices certain signs that foretell the ghost’s presence. Unnatural breezes, slight changes in temperature—the more he takes it in, the more he’s able to pick it apart from the usual goings-on of the house.

He’s at the desk, starting another letter, when it happens next. “Hello, Python,” he says absentmindedly.

“What—” Python stammers, more offput than Forsyth has ever heard him. “How did you do that?”

Now, Forsyth may be famous around camp for missing jokes and not understanding humor, but even he enjoys a good jape at times. “Do what?” he asks innocently. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Python complains, but there’s no bite to it. “How did you know I was in here?”

Forsyth shrugs. “I just had a feeling.”

“Ugh, you are impossible.”

“Does that mean you’ll leave me alone to write?”

Python laughs. “Not a chance.”

Despite Python’s insistence, he departs after a few minutes. Forsyth can only assume he got bored. He finishes his letter in peace.

Dear Lukas,

All is well at the outpost.

The specter—Python—has taken to hassling me, providing unwanted commentary and insisting I rest when my arm is in pain. It is—

He pauses. It’s… what? Python’s existence here is a simple fact, not something he has thought to have an opinion on. But Lukas would probably like to know.

—nice, he finishes, to have someone to talk to.

He finds himself thinking back to their discussion the other day. To Python’s insistence that they are nothing more than strangers. Perhaps he has focused too much on Python’s utility to him as a conversation partner and not enough on Python’s own needs.

He doesn’t know how to explain that to Lukas.

Even when we do not get along, I quite prefer it to being alone, he writes instead.

My arm is healing well, and the medicine is helping. Despite my comfort here, you must understand I would be happier still to be fighting on the front lines again.

He stares at that last line, feeling rather guilty. Would Python be disappointed that Forsyth wishes to flee his company? But—no, he shakes himself out of it—of course not. Python wants to be alone in his house. That’s what he’s said from the start. Forsyth returning to the Deliverance would only be a boon to him.

I look forward to hearing back from you.


Your friend,

Forsyth

He walks to town as soon as the letter is finished. The weather is unusually temperate, with warm sun and a pleasant breeze that raises his spirits. Forsyth is an optimist in the worst of times, but hope comes easier on days like these.

In town, he delivers his letter and receives another from Lukas, which he reads immediately.

Dear Forsyth,

Our campaign has indeed not been peaceful, but I am glad to tell you that our force has suffered no major losses so far. Morale is high; one of the village children, Gray, has recently acquired a “lightning sword” which has been the entertainment of all at camp. It acts as both sword and staff, allowing the user to call down lightning upon foes outside of their immediate reach, and has nearly been confiscated from him on three separate occasions.

It’s for the best that you haven’t been forcing yourself to write while in pain. I’m sure you find it hard to believe, but you are at your best when well-rested.

Our recent battles have supplied plenty of coin—though little else—and I have attached some to this letter for your rations and food.

Your friend,

Lukas

Indeed, the envelope is accompanied by a small pouch of silver marks, enough to buy his food and medicine and then some. He turns the extra over in his palm, considering it. He could put the money away, supplement his meager army wages and save for the next dry spell. It would be practical.

Still… Python was so adamant about enjoying food and whatnot. And for once, he has the money and time to buy something frivolous. Surely, one treat wouldn’t do him any harm.

Finally giving in, he wanders the market, taking in the sights with no particular goal in mind. The options are meager, but townsfolk still move through the market happily, trading and buying with what little they can scrape out. He settles on buying a small parcel of shortbread, sweetened with honey and wrapped for easy transport. He won’t eat it here—he needs to take it back to show Python. To prove a point… or something.

He turns back towards home—home!—with a smile on his face. It’s no wonder that, on the way home, his enthusiasm spills over into the idea of getting to know Python.

Python makes his way to the entrance room as Forsyth returns to the house.

“Ho, Python!” Forsyth calls out, clearly looking through him but no less aware of his presence.

“Crivens,” he complains, fading into view. “That does not get any less weird.”

Forsyth moves quickly into the kitchen, tossing something onto the counter and returning before Python bothers to follow him.

He watches, intrigued. “What’s got you all excited?”

“The weather is very pleasant today!”

Python chuckles. Forsyth is like no one he’s ever met—no one he remembers, at least. The sun comes out after a few days of clouds, and suddenly he’s skipping about like he’s ready to run laps around the house. Which is also something he would probably do for fun. Python doesn’t understand it, but, oddly, he doesn’t dislike it either.

“Er… Python.”

Dark clouds roll over Python’s mood. That’s not a good tone. That’s a we need to talk tone.

“I was thinking about what you said the other day—about not knowing each other. Or, about me not knowing you, I suppose.”

Fuck, did he say that? He stays quiet, trying not to betray his discomfort.

“Well,” Forsyth continues, “you were right. I have been remiss not to know you better. And I’d like to amend that.”

“Oh, great! Good for you,” he says, falsely cheerful. “But don’t bother. I don’t have anything to tell you.”

Forsyth frowns. “Nothing at all?”

“Hm. Nope, not really!”

“Not—not an occupation, or a favorite food, or—”

Python shakes his head. The firewood pile in the corner of the room starts to tremble as he fights back his nerves, but Forsyth doesn’t even seem to notice. He’s just standing there, staring at Python, looking more upset by the second.

“I don’t understand what you want from me,” he finally manages. His voice is unusually quiet— subdued, even. “You were clearly upset about my ignorance, but now that I’m trying to remedy it, you won’t tell me anything!”

Python can’t even meet his eyes. “Not won’t,” he corrects. “Can’t. I can’t tell you anything.”

Forsyth’s determined stare pierces him through. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t remember!” he snaps. Beside him, the firewood finally topples, strewing out across the floor. “I don’t know my favorite food, or what I did, or how the fuck I ended up dead and alone in my own house.” He pauses long enough to take in Forsyth’s devastated expression—not long enough to care. “All I’ve got is a name.”

The silence that follows is painful.

“Python, that’s… horrible. I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, I don’t want your pity, okay? In fact, you can make it up to me by dropping the subject and forgetting we ever talked about this.”

Forsyth frowns. “But—”

“But what.”

“Don’t you want to… do something about it?”

A half-laugh escapes him as he tries to wrap his mind around the sheer audacity of this man. “What do you mean, do something about it? I can’t do anything!”

“That’s it? You’re just going to give up on yourself?” Forsyth admonishes. Then, more softly: “Don’t you think you’re worth knowing about?”

“Give up on—?” Python echoes. “I’m doing exactly what I want to do. Seems pretty self-indulgent to me.”

“And you’re truly happy like that? Trapped and clueless without even trying to change anything?” At this point, Python can’t tell if Forsyth is trying to sell the point, or if he’s just wrapping his head around it. “For all you know, your memories could be the key to… moving on, or whatever it is ghosts do—”

Oh.

The realization hits him hard, and he doesn’t try to hide his disappointment. “So that’s what this is. You’re trying to get rid of me.”

“I’m trying to help you!”

“What, by making me into your next project?” His words are terse, disdainful, sharp. “Yeah, I’ll pass.” Then, almost an afterthought: “No wonder the army didn’t want you.”

“That’s—I don’t—” Forsyth protests, obviously scrambling. “Python, wait!”

But Python has decided this conversation is over. And when you can move through walls and turn invisible, that’s really a one-sided decision.

Forsyth reaches out helplessly as Python evaporates through the kitchen wall.

Already, his own words are crashing back on him, echoing through his mind until he can pin his regrets onto a specific fault or failure. Until he can figure out what he did wrong and fix it. Because that’s what he does. He keeps trying, and he gets it right eventually. He doesn’t give up. He—

He really was trying to help. He was. It doesn’t really matter, because good intentions never kept anyone from getting hurt, but it sticks in his mind. He wanted to help, and he mucked it up so badly that Python doesn’t even believe him.

He realizes belatedly that tears are trickling down his face, and the realization takes him to the floor. He kneels there: dizzy, shaking, hopeless; letting emotion come over him in waves. He feels so helpless, so completely incapable of fixing and making amends, and so small.

If only he could talk to Python again. He’d probably make a mess of it, in this state, but he wants to. He needs to. He can’t stand the thought of being remembered, forever, as someone heartless and cruel. If he could prove, somehow, that his intentions were true… If that would even change anything…

His mind eventually wanders away from Python, and now he is simply crying about everything. The tears are softer, his breath less ragged, but he is crying for his broken arm and his maybe-exile and his father’s reaction when he left home. He cries angrily at the nobles’ insistence that he would never rise to knighthood and desperately at the thought that they may still be right.

Finally, he looks up and sees that it is dark.

That small change spurs him into motion, because night-time comes with chores like sleeping, taking watch, and lighting lanterns. He settles on the latter as his simplest course of action and stumbles through the door to his room, seeking his tinderbox.

The flame catches. He can see again.

Now what?

He ought to go to bed, but he’s still too agitated to sleep. He settles at the desk instead. Perhaps, he thinks, the books from Lukas will be a suitable distraction—but as he reaches for one, he lands on the pile of letters instead.

Letters from Lukas. His only human contact since he was reassigned. And… his friend.

Yes, the letter he received today was signed “Your friend, Lukas”. Proof in writing. He grips the paper tight and stares at the words, trying with all he’s got to focus on this one good thing.

Some time later, he stumbles to bed and falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Day 13

Forsyth wakes up late the next morning, tired and bleary. His arm aches, but not enough to keep him in bed, so he begins to wander the house. Python ought to be showing himself soon, and—

Oh. Right.

His steps turn anxious as he continues into the kitchen. Does Python even want him around anymore? Surely he’ll be appearing any second now to demand Forsyth leave, or to break his things. Forsyth knows the ghost can’t actually force him out, but he has a horrible sinking feeling that if Python asked him to leave, he would listen.

He eats his dry rations mindlessly and moves out to train in the yard. He practices until his breath runs ragged and his arm is starting to act up once more, and then he moves back to the kitchen to prepare his willow bark tea.

There is no sign of Python. No sight or sound, not even the shift in the air that lets Forsyth know he’s entered a room. It’s all silence—emptiness.

He starts a letter to Lukas.

Dear Lukas,


He stares at the paper. How to begin? How to explain any of this?

I fear I have made a mistake. Yesterday, I—

But which part was the mistake? What wrong choice set him on this path?

He crosses out the last line.

Yesterday, Python and I—

No, he can’t find the words, can’t bring himself to put them to paper. He doesn’t want to admit that they fought. It shouldn’t even be possible, to get into a falling-out with a ghost. Who’s ever heard of something like that?

Forsyth shoves the paper aside. It’s too early to write to Lukas again, anyway.

He eats lunch.

The shortbread he bought in town remains on the counter, surely getting stale, but he can’t bring himself to touch it. It would be wrong to enjoy it without Python around.

His hardtack tastes even worse than usual, but he stomachs it anyway. That’s what soldiers do.

After eating, he cleans his armor, which has been overdue for maintenance. The operation sprawls across the bedroom floor as he disassembles every piece and painstakingly wipes out the dirt and sweat.

Next, he sharpens his lance, which would be a quick process were he not using his left hand for most of it. It ends up taking well over an hour including breaks.

There’s a rustling in the distance.

“Python?” he calls, looking around hopefully. “Hello?”

But no response ever comes.

He retires to bed soon after sunset, another cup of tea in hand. He’ll have to be up early tomorrow for training.

Day 14

Forsyth rises with the sun. He tries not to think about how Python always commented on that habit of his. The thing he could never quite explain is how comfortable it feels to him: you get up at dawn, because this is the way things are. You follow the rules together, and because you do, things will be okay.


Python doesn’t seem like he’s ever been one for the rules. Not that it matters now.

He trains with his right arm until it hurts too much—not even an hour. He knows this is reckless. He does it anyway.

He makes lunch. The shortbread remains on the counter.

He tidies the house, carefully avoiding the bow he knows Python is so particular about. Even though it looks overdue for a cleaning and a new string.

He drinks his tea for the little relief it brings him.

Eventually, he sleeps.

Day 15

Forsyth rises with the sun. Today, the pain drives him to the kitchen first, where he hastily applies a cold-pack to his arm. It helps, somewhat. The training does not.

He practices footwork. He does not think about the fact that he is too sore to hold the lance.

He endures lunch.

He tries to remember how many cups of the tea he is allowed in one day. He does not succeed.

He crawls into bed, muddled and sore.

Eventually, he sleeps.

Day 16

Forsyth rises with the sun. The house is quiet.

He makes it a half hour into training before switching to his left arm. It’s an improvement on yesterday.

He forces himself to eat lunch on time. This is the way things are.

Eventually, he sleeps.

Chapter Text

Day 17

Almost a week after the fight, Python is still completely miserable.

He knows Forsyth is upset, which isn’t helping. Forsyth, trusting and diligent and good Forsyth, crying because of something he said? Yeah, it doesn’t feel great. But he’s gotten to know Forsyth well—too well—and he just knows that, given the chance, the guy is going to say some more dumb shit. He’ll double down on his stupid hill about Python’s memories and ‘moving on’—because apparently the best thing a ghost can do is fuck off sooner—or maybe he’ll try to turn the whole thing into some sort of learning opportunity. Hell, he might even apologize, and somehow that only makes Python feel worse!

So he stays quiet, and he bites back halfhearted jokes about Forsyth’s wake-up times and meal choices, and he drifts out of rooms whenever Forsyth seems to be paying enough attention to notice his presence.

His house is quieter than ever, but it’s also less his than it ever has been.

As Forsyth moves into the kitchen, Python flees into the living room, then the bedroom, where an ink-blotted parchment on the desk catches his attention. He moves to take a closer look.

It seems like the start of a letter, but line after line has been frantically scratched out, and the whole page is splotched with occasional ink stains. The only intact words are the start: Dear Lukas,

Python almost laughs. Forsyth probably couldn’t figure out how to explain his current situation without sounding insane about the “ghost” in his house.

Still… it must be nice to have someone to trust in when things go to shit. He can imagine Forsyth running here right after his breakdown, thinking Lukas will know what to do about this.

Python doesn’t even know the guy, but he’s kind of envious.

He wonders, vaguely, if he had someone like that in his life. A friend, a confidant; someone to complain with over drinks. They might’ve stuck with him when things got bad, and maybe he’d find it in his heart to be happy that they lived on after him. If he could just remember—

No. He can’t go there. If people cared about him, they would have found his body. He wouldn’t have waited months or years for a burial from a stranger. Forsyth is wrong; he doesn’t need to remember the horrible life that led to his horrible death. Though, realistically, Forsyth doesn’t know that, and he might have brought it up with good intentions…

The door creaks open, and Python darts away, blowing the papers off the desk in the process.


“Python?” Forsyth calls after him.

He doesn’t answer.

Night 17

As a ghost, Python isn’t exactly able to sleep.

It hasn’t made much of a difference to him—when he was alone, day and night simply blurred together. These days, night is the only time he gets some peace and quiet.

Some time after sunset, he drifts outside, watching the forest and the stars. He’s not much for stargazing—never really saw the appeal of telling this little dot from that one—but it sure beats staring at the ceiling.

He wonders if Forsyth likes the stars.

He seems like he would, but he’s also managed to surprise Python at every turn. Nothing about him makes sense, in a way that would almost be endearing if he weren’t so damn frustrating. And reckless. And naive, and misguided, and—

There’s a light in the forest.

The moon is still high—no one should be out this late at night. So why…?

He presses forward, past the garden wall, fighting his way to the absolute limit of how far he can move from the house. He sees them clearly now. Three men, moving slowly. Quietly. Whispering to each other in words he can’t make out. Flickering torchlight illuminates their faces, their armor, their knives.

Shit.

Without a second thought, he’s flying toward the house.

They’re approaching from the back. There’s still time. Forsyth can survive this.

He has to survive this.

Python rushes through the garden wall, into the house, through the abandoned children’s room and into Forsyth’s quarters.

“Forsyth!” he shouts. “Forsyth, you damn fool, get up!”

Forsyth doesn’t stir. The words don’t even seem to reach him—whatever connection they usually have is gone without a trace. Gods, is he out of practice? Forsyth would have his ass for that. If he only—

Frantically, he moves through the room, knocking over anything that isn’t nailed down. Clothes, papers, and books hit the dirt floor; he doesn’t look back to see if it works. Forsyth’s lance falls next, then his armor, with a great clattering that might just do the trick.

“Whuh…?” Forsyth sits up, groggy, and looks around the room. “…Python? What’s happening?”

Gods, Python hates hearing him so shaken. “Forsyth, get up,” he presses, trying to focus on the matter at hand. “You need to get out of here.”

“Can you not wait to evict me til morning?” He yawns. “This is low, even for you.”

“I’m not trying to get rid of you!” Python snaps. “There are people outside. With knives.”

Forsyth leaps out of bed. “Why didn’t you say that? I must defend my post!”

Of course. What did he expect? “Forget your post!” he yells. “The army doesn’t give a shit about an abandoned house in the woods.”

“And what of you?” The words catch Python off guard, and they cut deep. “This is your house too. I intend to defend it for your sake, if nothing else.”

“You’re not gonna defend it! You’re gonna fucking die!”

“You think so little of me.”

“I don’t—” He throws up his hands. “You know what? Fuck it. But if you’re staying, at least put your damn armor on.”

“Of course.” Forsyth nods, entirely too satisfied. “Can you watch the door for me?”

Python groans. He’s already regretting this. “Fine. But hurry up!”

As Python leaves the room, so does the strange hush, the floating feeling that has been hanging over Forsyth. Now is the time for action—at last, something he understands.

He scrambles out of bed, toward the corner of the room where his armor sits. There’s no time to light a lantern, so he relies on touch and practice—a feat that would be easier if the whole lot weren’t already spilled across the floor. He works his way through the pile quickly, identifying each piece and deciding if he has time to put it on. His wristguards and shinguards go on quickly, though the boots and chestplate have to go. He’s just sliding the shoulder-guard over his injured arm when Python gusts into the room once more.

“Outta time,” Python shouts. “They’re almost at the door!”

Forsyth is up and moving without a second thought, through the far door and into the entrance-room, the house familiar enough that he doesn’t need to see. The entrance connects to the bedroom and the kitchen, which means his only chance to bottleneck them—his only chance to avoid getting surrounded—is at the front door.

He stands facing the door, lance and shield at the ready. The house is still dark. Will he be fighting without light? He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Whispering filters through the door. He can’t make out the words. Python is somewhere in the room.

The door swings open.

For one breathless moment, Forsyth locks eyes with one of the bandits in the torchlight. Two more attackers wait behind him.

“Shit!” the front one yells, drawing a knife. “You said it was empty!”

“It was,” his friend answers. Then he raises a bat, and the two of them charge in together.

Forsyth jabs with the lance, sending the bat wielder stumbling backward and shooting pain through his arm. It buys him a second to assess his opponents. Their equipment is shoddy, armor tearing at the seams, but they have the numbers. He needs to keep them pinned at the door, or the battle will spill into the yawning abyss of the dark room behind him. He needs to keep attacking. It’s tactics. It hurts.

Now the knife holder advances, attempting to flank him. Another thrust of the lance. Another stab of pain. The fact that he hasn’t even pierced their leather armor yet doesn’t bode well for the rest of this fight.

Taking a risk, he sidesteps toward the attacker’s offhand, trying for a better hit the second time around. He strikes true, and the man trips, his armor sporting a new hole. There it is. The rhythm of battle, the familiarity, the force—his training hasn’t abandoned him after all.

Forsyth turns back to the bat wielder. This time, he feels the armor’s resistance give as his lance pushes through into flesh and blood. The man crumples, and Forsyth fights back the screaming ache in his arm as he struggles to free his weapon. There’s no time. He needs another hit. It’s tactics.

It’s not enough.

Python shouts, “Look out!”—He does. The knife wielder has moved in past his lance range, and the third bandit isn’t far behind, swinging an axe that shines in the torchlight.

Forsyth steps backward, dragging his lance with him, the force of it tearing the weapon loose. Tracking the knife wielder approaching him, he pivots the lance, spinning the point toward him and the butt end toward the enemy. They don’t see it coming. The blow lands square on the side of the bandit’s head, and his knife clatters to the ground as he falls.

It’s one on one now, but the positioning is all wrong, the enemy too close. He steps back and back again, trying to gain ground before his opponent can catch up. In the process, his foot lands on a stray piece of firewood—still there from his fight with Python—and it twists his ankle terribly. He bites back a yell.

The axe wielder charges, and he counters. His lance is knocked aside, and then that axe is coming for him. His shield is too heavy, too slow. In a rush, he leans into the attack, trying to parry it with his shoulder-guard.

He misses. He just misses.

The axe slams into the padded fabric on his right arm—his lance arm. Suddenly, terribly, he feels something wrong. The lance clatters to the floor as his arm goes slack. The bandit is charging, and he is without a weapon.

He raises his shield—the only thing left between him and a cruel fate. He’s still quick with his good arm, and he deflects the attack, buying himself another second.

He’s out of good options. There’s no time to think. He crouches behind the shield, letting the enemy come closer—and then he strikes. He rushes forward, building up momentum as he springs up from the ground, keeping the shield tight against him so he can put his shoulder into it.

With a crash and a thud, the last bandit hits the wall and slumps over, unmoving.

Forsyth rights himself—or tries to, at least, as the world suddenly sways around him. His body is unnaturally cold, and pain is starting to creep into his ankle and arm. He is alive. He is injured. He is alone. And he is dizzy.

Distantly, he hears a voice—Python?—but he can’t put the words together.

He doesn’t feel himself falling until it’s too late.

The relief Python feels as the last bandit hits the floor is dizzying, almost delirious. “Holy shit!” he says with a laugh. “I can’t believe you pulled that off.”

Forsyth is still pressed against the wall, breathing quickly, eyes locked on the fallen enemies.

“What, still worn out? If only someone had warned you not to…” Python trails off, suddenly uneasy. “Forsyth?”

No answer. He darts around to float in front of Forsyth, inspecting him for any signs of injury. He isn’t bleeding, but his eyes are glassy and unfocused, his breathing too fast. Python’s heart seizes. “Forsyth!”

There’s a flicker of recognition—a brief smile—and then Forsyth collapses.

Minutes later, Python curls up on (rather, near) the floor, next to Forsyth’s unconscious form. It didn’t take long for the constant urge to come back and check his breathing to simplify into stay, stay, stay. So he navigates down to the floor, situates himself as close as possible without phasing through anything, and waits.

Now if anything happens, at least he’ll know.

In the time since he died, Python has wished for a lot of things. Wished he hadn’t been killed, wished he passed on to some kind of afterlife, wished for any life (or death) that wasn’t his. Now, though, he finds himself wishing for arms to hold Forsyth with, for legs that could run to town for help. For fingers to check his pulse and maybe a voice to curse the gods that let this happen.

For the first time in a long while, perhaps forever, he’s not wishing it was all over. He wants to be alive again.

Eventually, after an eternity spent keeping vigil, Forsyth’s eyes flutter open.

“Python,” he murmurs, battered and broken. “You’re still here.”

“Yeah,” he answers. “I am.”

Forsyth seems satisfied at that, and he closes his eyes again—a setback.

“Hey, Forsyth,” Python prods, “not really the time to be sleeping.” He doesn’t know the first thing about medical treatment, but he does know that at least two of the bandits are probably still alive. And that’s a time-sensitive problem.

Forsyth barely reacts.

“…Can you move?”

He shifts awkwardly, pushing with his left arm and rolling onto his back. He doesn’t make it any further. “Not much,” he admits. “I seem to have injured my leg… and my arm… is in a great deal of pain.”

“Oh, great.” Python frowns. “I don’t suppose you can crawl over there and slit those guys’ throats?”

Forsyth shakes his head, ever so slightly. “Please… let me rest.”

Python pauses. Not much he can say to that… and yet, there’s still too much unsaid between them. “Sorry for yellin’ at you,” he mumbles. It’s stupid. Desperate, even. A last ditch effort to make things right before they’re out of time. “You didn’t deserve that.”

He isn’t expecting an answer, but he gets one anyway.

“Truly?” Forsyth looks up, perhaps hopeful. “Well… you have my apology as well. I fear I was quite rude.” There’s a long pause, dead quiet. “I didn’t think I would see you again.”

“Heh. You’ll have to do better than that if you wanna get rid of me.”

Forsyth smiles. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t.”

In spite of himself—in spite of everything around them—Python smiles too. He stays beside Forsyth on the floor, feigning as if he could provide some sort of physical comfort, as if their hands could clasp together then and there.

Beside him, Forsyth closes his eyes once more, slowing his breathing, but not to a stop. Python finds a strange peace in this. For once, the two of them can simply… rest.

Chapter Text

Dawn 18

Hovering beside Forsyth’s half-conscious form, Python is… comfortable. So much so that he hardly even notices the time slipping away from him. He starts to let go, the same way he always used to when he was alone in the house—the way that made hours pass like minutes.

He’s pulled back to reality by the sudden sound of clanking metal and footsteps. A cold shiver runs through him. No one comes out this far in the woods with good intentions, and Forsyth is currently defenseless on the ground.

Flying through the front door, he can see a man outside. He’s quite a sight, with red hair and armor to match. He’s got a lantern in one hand and a lance in the other, and he’s currently leading a horse through the garden gate.

Python frowns. The man is clearly ready for combat—and at this ungodly hour, too! Not even sunrise, and he’s roaming the woods, probably looking for trouble… Python can’t let him enter the house. He may not be able to fight, but there has to be something…

He’s getting closer. Python slams the front door and rattles the garden gate, which gives the man pause. Good, but not good enough. He resumes his advance. With every step, Python can see that lance plunging into Forsyth’s chest. Leaving him dead, alone, unmourned. Just like—

No. With a surge of energy, Python hurls the front door open, letting the bloodied bandits fall into the lantern-light. Under his glare, their discarded weapons hover off the ground, flinging themselves at the intruder. It’s not much of an attack—easily deflected by the man’s armor—but flying weapons ought to be pretty damn scary.

He places himself in front of the door, ready to seal the deal. He still doesn’t know exactly what he looks like, but the first time he did this, never-give-up Forsyth nearly pissed himself, so it’s gotta be something good. “Fuck off,” he says, confident and proud. “And don’t come back!”

The intruder… stares. His gaze is cold, unflinching; it makes Python nervous. He isn’t moving, either, just glancing around. As if a knife didn’t just fly past his head.

“Ah,” he finally says. “You must be Python.”

Python stops dead (ha) in his tracks. What the fuck? Who—How?

The stranger hmms. “If you’re this agitated, I fear my concern was warranted after all.”

“Concern…?” Python mumbles, not bothering to make himself heard. “What the fuck?”

“I’m afraid I’m quite pressed for time. You’ll have to forgive me for trespassing on your home.” He steps decisively forward.

“Wait!” Python reaches a hand out (as if that’s going to do anything). “Just—hang on. Who are you?”

“Ah. My apologies.” The stranger stops again. “My name is Lukas. I come on behalf of the Zofian Deliverance.”

“Oh, uh.” Is Forsyth going to be mad that Python threw a knife at his friend? And why didn’t he mention how unsettling Lukas is? “Yeah. You can come inside.”

Lukas smiles—a subtle thing. “You have my thanks.”

Lukas opens the door carefully and advances into the house with measured steps. Python, now invisible once more, can’t believe how calm he is. What’s wrong with this guy?

He picks his way over the unconscious bandits with no more acknowledgement than a hmm and a nod.

“Forsyth? Are you alright?”

Forsyth blinks awake, his movements sluggish. “Lukas?” He meets his friend’s gaze with a blank stare. Then, softly: “Am I… dead?”

Lukas laughs. “Not yet, friend. You might have been soon, had I not arrived.”

“Oh… alright then.”

Python sighs. Seeing Forsyth this out of it is… weird, to say the least. The conversation feels like something he’s not supposed to be watching, but he’s too invested to leave now.

“Are you able to move?” Lukas prompts.

Forsyth shakes his head.

Lukas kneels beside him, carefully removing his armor as he asks more questions. “Your arm is broken. Does it hurt?” (Yes.) “Can you move your fingers and toes?” (Yes.) “Do you feel any pain in this ankle?” (Yes; apparently a lot.)

Finally—abruptly—he stands up. “I’m sure you fought bravely, but you aggravated the fracture in your arm into a full break.” If he’s disappointed right now, he’s hiding it damn well. “I can splint it for now, but you likely won’t make a full recovery without intervention from healers. As soon as you’re able to walk long distances, I’d like you to return to the Deliverance camp for treatment.”

Python’s heart sinks, though he doesn’t dare stop to wonder why. “How long’s that gonna be?”

Lukas hmms. “I’d say about two weeks.”

Okay. Okay. That’s fine. Besides, they still have more pressing matters to attend to, don’t they? He glances around the room, then turns back to Lukas. “What about the bandits?”

“Well, Forsyth has already taken care of the difficult part.” His polite smile is still deeply unnerving, especially given the subject at hand. “I should be able to dispatch them without issue.”

Lukas strips the bandits of their weapons, then drags them, one by one, out of the house and into the woods. Python isn’t sure what he’s doing to them out there. He doesn’t really want to find out, either.

Over the next several hours, the sun rises, and Lukas proves to be as useful as he is unsettling. He splints Forsyth’s arm, transports him to the bed, and situates him with his arm supported and his injured ankle elevated. He prepares a pile of rations and medical supplies next to the bed and neatly organizes Forsyth’s armor and weapons in the far corner of the room. Finally, with the house in order, he turns for the door.

Python catches him on his way out.

“Where’re you heading?” he asks casually. And why aren’t you staying to look after your friend?

Lukas sighs. “Back to the Deliverance, I’m afraid. My presence is sorely needed there, for all I’d rather stay here.”

Ah. Army types, right? Heads in the sand, bound to their orders above all else. It all makes sense with the way Lukas has been acting… except for one thing.

“Before you go—” Python takes a second to make sure he’s visible. Ought to at least be polite before he starts prying, right? “I gotta know. Why’d you come here?”

“I was concerned for Forsyth. Concern which was quite warranted, might I add.”

“Well, yeah. You said that already. What I’m askin’ is why.” He crosses his arms. “You two got some kinda magic bond? You felt him gettin’ injured and leaped on your horse to save the day?”

Lukas laughs at that—perhaps the most genuine emotion Python has seen on him yet. “Not at all. In fact, I feared I would already be several days too late. It was only by a stroke of luck that I arrived in time to lend my aid.”

Python blinks. “Huh?”

“I came here because Forsyth hadn’t sent a letter in a rather long time. Truthfully, if something had happened to him here, I’m not sure I could forgive myself. I had to know what had become of him.”

Yeah, right. “All of that over a late letter?”

A hint of a smile plays across his face. “You could say that, yes. But Forsyth and I have several things in common, including our sense of punctuality. After receiving a letter from him every four days like clockwork, I’m sure you can imagine my concern when the next one never arrived.”

“Oh,” Python says. But… Forsyth sent letters during the day, so the attack can’t have been the reason for the missing missive. It would have had to be several days back, and a continuous distraction, something like…

Oh.

Python tries to keep the guilt from showing on his face. Even knowing that his actions sort of brought Lukas here, he can’t bring himself to feel any better about them. “You must really care about him, huh?”

“He is a dear friend to me, yes.” Lukas pauses, sighs, and continues. “Which is why I must be selfish in asking a favor of you.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Please look after him in my absence. I know this is much to ask, but your concern earlier did not evade me. I’m sure you know him well by this point, perhaps more than myself, and I know you care for his well-being.”

“Well—yeah,” Python stammers, “But—”

Gods, who is he kidding at this point? Lukas has him dead to rights. He certainly cares about Forsyth, and if he’s being generous, he might even say that Forsyth cares about him. Sure. Whatever. “But what do you expect me to do, exactly? I can’t exactly do first aid… or anything, really.”

Lukas lets out another world-weary sigh. “Just… make sure he keeps the splint on and doesn’t walk on his bad ankle. If you can manage that, you’re already doing more than most of us can.”

Python can’t help but smile. Good to know he’s not the only one to be tormented by Forsyth’s stubbornness. “Aye aye, cap’n. I’ll give it my all.”

“Hm. Thank you, Python.”

Day 18

Forsyth wakes up sore and confused. He remembers going to bed and waking up to a ruckus… he remembers fighting. He remembers breaking his arm, and he remembers… Lukas? Was Lukas here?

His arm is splinted and slung across his chest, tied down a little tighter than he’d prefer. His right ankle, already bruising and swollen, is propped up on some extra pillows at the foot of the bed. The room is a little too quiet, and he is alone.

It’s strange, being alone in the aftermath of a battle. It’s supposed to be a time of movement, of relief, of people flitting from tent to tent to check on the injured. It’s when you reassure each other that you’re all okay.

And he is okay.

Even with no one here to see it, he is still breathing, and that’s something.

Growing restless, he surveys the room more closely. His armor has been neatly arranged, though he clearly remembers scattering it in his haste. There are more pillows on the bed than before—probably scavenged from the abandoned children’s room. Most notably, there’s a stockpile of rations and such on the table and chair beside him. A waterskin, dried rations, some cold-packs, and… a piece of shortbread on a plate.

How peculiar. Lukas must have found it in the kitchen, since he never cleaned it up. It seems silly now, how much the little pastry plagued him. Without another thought, he picks it up and takes a bite.

The shortbread is dry and hard; he gnaws on it with some difficulty. He’s so focused on the endeavor that he doesn’t notice the sudden breeze behind him until…

“What, without me?”

“Python!” Forsyth says with a start. “I’m sorry—it didn’t occur to me—”

“Relax, I’m messin’ with you. How’s it taste?”

Forsyth frowns. “Stale.”

“Yeah, no shit. It’s been out there for days.”

He nods. “Tastes good, though.” And it does, truly. As he gets past the awful texture, the honey flavor really comes through. It’s far better than anything he’s had since arriving here—since leaving home, really. “I think I forgot how much I like sweets.”

“Heh. Of course you did.”

Forsyth smiles. They make an odd scene, him gazing up from the bed and Python hovering above, but it’s nice to talk to someone. Especially now that he’s on bedrest.

…Bedrest. The word hits him, hard. He is stuck here. He is on bedrest, and it is because he is injured. Because of his ankle and his arm. Because he is quite useless and will be for some time.

“Forsyth?” Python says, moving in closer to look at him. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“I… Er…” How is he supposed to explain this? It feels too heavy to voice, and yet Python is staring insistently all the same. “It just occurred to me… how badly I was injured.”

“Well, yeah. Because you decided to—” Python stops abruptly. “Uh. Sorry.”

Forsyth sighs, and it feels as if the exhale takes his energy with it. “No, you’re quite right. It was my own decisions that led me here.”

“Yeah. So what, you wish you did somethin’ different?”

This gives him pause. Does he? If he had run, he could have been back at the Deliverance camp by now, probably. He could be helping people again, but leaving Python to the bandits. And he could also be breaking his arm out there, in the middle of battle, when someone really needed him. “I don’t know,” he answers simply. “I’m not sure… how to go about this.”

Python shrugs. “Maybe you should stop thinkin’ about it so hard. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Well, I am getting a bit of a headache…”

Python chuckles, though Forsyth can’t tell exactly what the joke is supposed to be. “Get some rest,” he says. “I’m gonna go knock some shit over.”

Forsyth doesn’t even have the energy to argue.

It’s not hard for Python to tell that something is different. Forsyth, lively-enough-for-the-both-of-them, eager-and-zealous, constantly-fighting-the-odds Forsyth is just laying there. Hardly even moving.

Python doesn’t like it.

He continues to drift in and out of the room, checking in. There’s no rush, no movement; only him and the slow silence.

Eventually, he catches Forsyth awake again.

“Ho, Python!” Forsyth calls out, with a brief smile.

Python grins back. “I was startin’ to think you’d sleep all day.”

“I’ve been awake.”

“Oh. Well, how are you feeling?”

Forsyth sighs. “Truthfully? I’m quite miserable.”

“…Does it hurt that bad?” He imagines pain would do this to someone. Not that he remembers what it feels like.

“No, I’ve felt pain like this before.” He glances up at Python, weary and worn. “I’ve just never felt quite so useless. I’m no help to anyone like this, and by the time I recover, who knows how many battles will have been lost in my absence? Lives could be lost because of my own shortcomings, and—”

“Hey, hey—” Python cuts in, eager to interrupt that ass-backwards line of thinking. “Look. The army doesn’t need you that bad, okay?”

Forsyth blinks. “What?”

“They wouldn’t be much of an army if they depended on one person, would they? They’re not about to start losing battles just ‘cause you called in sick.”

“I… suppose that’s true.” Forsyth sighs again. “But what of me? I—I…“

Python waits—lets him find the words.

“I’ve been training to become a knight for so long,” Forsyth settles. “So that I could help people. And now it’s all ruined.”

You’re helping me, Python wants to say. Instead, he settles for trying to return the favor. He takes his time, choosing his words. This one’s important.

“There’s a lot more to life than that, you know.” A lot more that you miss when it’s gone. “Good food, good stories, good friends. Sunsets and shit too, if you like that kind of thing. So it’s not all ruined. Even when things go to shit.”

Forsyth actually stops to think about this, from the looks of it. “That is… surprisingly insightful. Thank you, Python.”

“Ah, it’s no problem.” (And it isn’t. It really isn’t.)

As Python wanders away, he finds himself strangely lost in thought. There’s a lot more to life than that. Since when does he say stuff like that? Since when does he mean it?

It’s not that weird to think that life doesn’t entirely suck. It’s just… not what he’s used to. Not for as long as he can remember—not since he died.

He recalls those first days as he floats into the entrance-room where his body used to lie. Seeing the ransacked house, the front door swinging open, the blood on the floor. His corpse, slumped against the wall. He remembers being so fucking angry at the family who left him here to die and, not much later, realizing that he doesn’t even know their names. He remembers wanting to keep it that way.

Even now, he’s still angry. But he’s not only angry. As he drifts through the house, he finds himself wondering what meals were cooked in this kitchen, what stories were told around that fireplace. And thinking that maybe there is—was—more to his life than the shitty events leading to his shitty death. Things that he might actually want to…

Well. Fuck.

He wants to know who he was. He doesn’t know how to do that. He doesn’t know what he’ll find out. Logically, it would be much safer to leave this matter alone and forget he ever considered it. And yet… he can almost hear Forsyth’s voice, saying something ridiculous like You have to try! or Don’t you think you’re worth knowing about?

It’s a small mercy that Forsyth is probably too nice to say I told you so.

Chapter Text

Day 19

Even after taking Python’s words to heart, Forsyth isn’t finding much joy in the dim, stagnant bedroom. The only rays of sunlight, so to speak, are the ghost’s occasional visits, which come less often than he’d like.

He knows he’s poor company right now. He knows Python likes to banter and tease, and he’s not exactly a good option for either at the moment. And he is rather tired. So he contents himself with what he has, and he waits.

It’s an oddly long time, today, before he feels that familiar chill. He lights up as the air shifts. “Python!”

“What, you miss me or something?”

Forsyth nods.

“Oh. Well, uh…” Python shifts uncomfortably. “I was actually wondering if you could give me a hand with something.”

How disappointing. “I doubt it. There’s not much I can do in this state.”

“Oh, you think so little of me,” Python says, entirely too dramatic. “I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t think you could do it, dumbass.”

“…Fine. What exactly do you want, then?”

“I’m trying to figure out…” Python almost seems lost for words, which is odd for him. “Who I was. When I was alive, y’know.”

“What? Why?”

He shrugs. “I changed my mind.”

Forsyth doesn’t buy this. Not least of all because Python is far too stubborn to flip on a dime like that. “Python,” he says softly, “I’m truly sorry. For shouting at you… and for trying to impose my choices on you. Please don’t do this for my sake.”

“Hey, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry too.” (It always manages to surprise Forsyth, how serious Python can be when he wants to.) “I was… kind of an ass about the whole thing. Even if you stepped out of line, you didn’t have that coming.”

Forsyth nods, unsure how else to accept the apology.

“But! That’s not what this is about.” Python rights himself, easily returning to his usual demeanor. “I mean it. I changed my mind. Are you gonna help me or what?”

Well. That went better than Forsyth could have hoped.

“I’ll do what I can,” he promises. “Even if you can’t remember anything, we should still be able to figure out some of the important details.”

“Cool. And we’re doing that… how, exactly?”

Forsyth thinks it over. “Well, we have the whole house to consider, don’t we?”

“…So we know I lived in the woods.”

“And that you probably survived by hunting and farming! The garden is in disrepair, but I’m sure it was in use at some point.”

There’s a pause.

“Do you think the children were… yours?” Forsyth asks.

Python recoils. “Augh—Gods, I hope not. I don’t think I’m cut out for that kind of thing.”

“Ah.” Even if this never leads them anywhere, Forsyth thinks, it’s one more thing he gets to know about Python. “Maybe nieces and nephews then. Or much younger siblings.”

“I guess,” Python says with a frown. “Feels like it ought to ring a bell, though. You’d think at least that much would stick with me.”

“Well, it was worth a try.”

Another pause.

“Do you think you died in combat?”

“What? No. Where’d that come from?”

“Well, the wound…” Forsyth gestures at the bloodstain on Python’s chest. “It, er, doesn’t appear you went peacefully?”

Python laughs. “That’s one way to put it. But getting stabbed isn’t really the same thing as, y’know, actual fighting.”

“No,” Forsyth admits. “But it looks like a combat wound.”

“It’s not,” Python says, a little too quick. “I may not know much about the old me, but I’m pretty sure I’d take running over fighting any day.”

“But the placement—you don’t get injured like that running away.”

“Maybe it was a surprise attack, then.”

“Perhaps. But a surprise attack is more likely to target the neck, in order to be lethal.” Forsyth pauses, considering it. “I know you don’t think it’s likely, but a chest wound usually indicates a struggle. Maybe if you were cornered… or protecting something else in the house? Like when I—”

“Look, Fors,” Python cuts him off quickly. “I appreciate the help, but don’t go getting your hopes up about this kind of thing. We can’t all be noble knights and whatnot.”

Forsyth has to push away the delight of receiving a nickname in order to focus on the matter at hand. He still isn’t convinced by Python’s argument, but he decides it’s time for a tactical retreat. “Okay.”

Silence hangs for a moment, and Forsyth wonders if he’s blundered into another fight. If he’s going to be alone again.

“Y’know,” Python says abruptly, “I’m pretty beat from all this thinking. I’m gonna go rest—”

There it is. Before he can even stop to think, he’s calling out again. “Python, wait!”

This time, he does.

“Come back soon,” Forsyth says. He is aware of how pathetic he sounds. He is willing to be pathetic, for this. “Please?”

Python softens. “Aren’t you tired? I wouldn’t want to see anyone if I was hurting that bad.”

“I am. But I am also dreadfully lonely.”

“Oh.” Python sounds surprised—a bit confused, maybe—but not particularly bothered by this. “Huh. In that case, you won’t see the end of me ‘til you get out of my house.”

Forsyth smiles. “Thank you, Python.”

As Python breezes out of the room, the world seems to spin a little. That was close. Too close.

He expected Forsyth to have ideas about this mystery of his. He just didn’t expect him to figure out… all that. To uncover the same violent death he remembered the night Forsyth was attacked.

See, while Forsyth was backed up against the wall, fending off bandits, Python was watching. So scared, he could almost feel his heart beating again. Could almost feel the wall pressing into his back, the weapon tight in his hands, the hurt, the panic—and then it wasn’t ‘almost’ anymore. He was there. With dizzying clarity, he felt himself fighting back in those final moments: ignoring a tearing pain in his side to take final blows at his attackers with the knife in his hand; shouting out words he can’t quite remember; crumpling to the ground at last and watching the world fade to black.

It was him, not Forsyth, who died against that wall.

It was a bit of an inconvenient time, to say the least, and he pushed the memory away to focus on more important things. Even now, with Forsyth safe and the bandits gone for good, he thought he could get by without it. He’d just focus on remembering the good stuff and deal with the bad shit when it came up.

Serves him right for hoping, huh?

Still, bad idea though it may be, he’s not ready to share this particular mess with Forsyth just yet. Not ready to relive the details of memories he doesn’t even understand. And if that means lying about it for a little longer… so be it.

He’ll figure it out one way or another. What else is he gonna do—die?

Forsyth is confused—and rather delighted—by the series of visits that follow.

Python pokes his head through the wall, as if to make a show of not even entering the room. “Hey, Forsyth!”

“Hm?”

“I think I remember seeing a small knife around here somewhere. Only sharp on one side, though. Any idea what might be up with that?”

Forsyth nods. “Probably a pelting knife. Hunters use them to scrape animal skins. They’re dull on the other side for safety.”

“Huh.”

“Do you think it might have been yours?”

Python just shrugs. “Maybe.”

He comes back soon after, catching Forsyth off guard this time. “Say, you got any ideas about that bow in the living room?”

“Ah! Well, er… it probably belonged to the same person as the knife, right? Since they’re both used for hunting.”

“Oh. Makes sense.”

Forsyth thinks on it, trying to recall what the weapon looked like. “It did seem a bit higher quality than farmers would usually be able to afford. I don’t suppose that strikes anything?”

“Eh, not really. Good to know, though.”

The third time Python comes through, Forsyth catches him first.

“You know,” he says, “I’m surprised to see you so… earnest about this. It’s rather out of character for you.”

“Hey!” Python says, feigning scorn. “I can work hard when I feel like it.”

“And when you ‘feel like it’ is more or less never.”

“Pretty much, yeah!” Python grins. “It’s fun. You should try it.”

Forsyth frowns. “Try what, being dead?”

“Oh, gods no. You’d be terrible at it.”

“Wh—Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?” Forsyth blinks in confusion as Python starts to drift out of the room. “Python!”

Even as the air goes still again, he can hear Python’s laughter faintly through the walls.

About a half hour after Python’s departure, Forsyth hears a great commotion.

He listens, quite amused, as the noise proceeds around the house, from living room to kitchen. Then Python breezes through his room, almost teasing, and the noises continue in the adjacent bedroom. Finally, the ghost returns with a triumphant grin.

“Found some stuff,” he says. “I’d bring it back to show you, but… you know.”

“No, that’s quite alright.” Practicalities aside, Forsyth doesn’t begrudge the excuse for more conversation. “Would you tell me about what you found?”

“Well, the kitchen cabinets were full of stuff. Some bags of seeds and some old tools, rusted to shit. No sign of any actual food.”

Forsyth nods. “More farming implements, then. Rather odd, to leave them here.”

“What, ‘cause we were farmers?”

“That, and they’re fairly easy to carry. Even if you weren’t going to use them, they wouldn’t be hard to take and sell.”

Python shrugs. “Maybe they couldn’t carry anything else. We don’t know what was in here before.”

“That’s true.” Forsyth readjusts in the bed, trying to find a position that aches his arm less. It’s what he’s been doing all day, with mixed results. “What of the other rooms?”

“Nothing new in that one,” Python says, pointing to the living room. “Just the bow, arrows, and some firewood.”

“That figures.”

“There’s a lot in the other bedroom, though. Toys and clothes all over the place—all kids’ stuff.”

Forsyth sighs. “What a sorry sight. Those poor children.”

“Hey, at least they survived,” Python complains. “Anyway, from what I can tell, there was a boy and a girl. Around the same age, probably. No names or pictures, so I can’t be sure.”

“It would certainly make sense. One bedroom for the two young children, and one for the parents, probably.”

Python scoffs. “And where does that leave me, crashing on the floor?”

“I… don’t know.”

The air goes still between them.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Python says at last. “We’re supposed to be finding answers, but everything just gets weirder the more I look at it. And even the things that do make sense—it’s stuff that I don’t fit into at all.”

Forsyth doesn’t miss the frustration in his voice. “Do you want to stop looking?”

Python hesitates again. “…No. If anything, I’m more curious than ever. I just… want to know that I had a place somewhere, you know?”

Forsyth does not ‘know’, not exactly, but he resolves to help anyway. “You did. And I’m certain we’re going to find it.”

“Heh. You really think so?”

“I know so.”

Python’s final visit comes right as Forsyth is tucking into bed for the night.

“Hey, Forsyth.”

Forsyth yawns. “Yes, Python?”

“Why do you think those guys attacked this house, anyway? What do they want from a place like this?”

“Bandits and brigands like them are usually out for money,” Forsyth says, “or other goods like food and weapons. I don’t know why they’d suddenly move on this house—perhaps to use it as their camp?”

“Why? Does that road go somewhere important?”

“Only to the nearby village. There’s not much of interest there, either, but I suppose it’s better than foraging in the woods.”

“Huh. Weird.” Python pauses to roll over in the air. “So, if they had come around back when, uh, normal people were still living here… you think they’d have been stealing food?”

Forsyth cocks his head. “I… suppose? Hunters and farmers don’t tend to have much else worth taking. Why do you ask?”

“Eh, no reason. G’night!” Before Forsyth can ask any more questions, Python retreats through the wall.

Forsyth sighs. “Good night, Python.”

Honestly, Python’s pretty damn impressed with how much Forsyth has been able to tell him based on a few random scraps of memory. The guy is smarter than he lets on, though he clearly doesn’t have the common sense to match.

He’d been so sure that the bow wasn’t his, because a weapon like that was the mark of a soldier or mercenary—a killer. But as he moves to look at it once more… he knows how he’d hold it, how heavy it would feel in his hand, the tension it would require to hit a target at range. He doesn’t remember it, but he knows it.

Oh, if only Forsyth could see him now.

The bow makes sense, and so does the knife. They paint a picture of someone who hunted these woods, lived off the land. A simple life, unconcerned with wild aspirations or the latest news from the capital.

He could get behind that.

He starts to check out for the night, drifting away into the peace and quiet. As he does, his mind continues to wander through the details of this imaginary life, until it eventually meanders into something much, much darker.

He’s out on a hunting trip when it happens.

The deer is grazing in a clearing by the side of the dirt path, and Python has the perfect shot. Bow drawn and arrow nocked, he takes aim, and—

“Mister! Mister!” A child’s voice calls from close behind him.

The deer leaps away. He doesn’t even have a chance to shoot.

Turning around, he sees the brat running toward him, followed close behind by family in similarly ragged clothes. He glares. “There goes my dinner. The hell was that for?”

The father tries to comfort the child. “Peace, William. Let’s not disturb others at their work.”

“But he can help us! He can fight the bad men so we don’t have to leave!”

Now the mother steps forward. “I’m sorry for my son’s recklessness, but please hear us out. Every two weeks, the local brigands come to take our harvest. If we give up any more, even Mila’s bounty won’t see us through this winter.”

“Ask your local lord, then,” Python says. “Bandits are their problem, not mine.”

They exchange a woeful glance. “I’m afraid we’ve already tried,” the father says. “They say our house is too far removed from town to justify sending soldiers.”

Python spits. “Damn nobles. Same as it ever was.”

“Will you help us, then?” the mother pleads. “We are too poor to pay coin, but we can at least compensate you for the dinner you lost.”

In his mind, Python curses the army and the good-for-nothing lords once more. He’s no mercenary—nor do-gooder vigilante—but he knows what it’s like to get chewed up and spat out by the system. Working folks have to look out for each other… and he is pretty hungry.

He sighs. “How many men do they send, exactly?”

“Four. I don’t think there are any more to send—they’ve never mentioned any others.”

“Do they come armed?”

“Armed, but not prepared. They know the lord won’t send help.”

“Any armor?”

“A few pieces of leather, at most.”

Python frowns, trying to do the math on that. Armed or not, there’s no way he can take four men in a fight. Then again, he would be catching them off guard… and if they’re expecting an easy job, they might just cut their losses and run. “Eh, what the hell. They’ll probably piss themselves at the first sign of a fight, anyway.”

The young boy—William?—jumps with excitement. “So you’ll help? You’ll get rid of the bad men?”

“Sure, kid.”

It’s only then that Python notices another kid, hiding behind the mother’s skirts. She peeks out and whispers her own, “Thank you, mister.”

Python chalks this up as his good deed of the year.

When the bandits approach, Python confidently blocks the front door while the family cowers inside.

“On behalf of the Zofian Army,” he lies, “this house is, uh, protected.” Whatever. He knows his bow does most of the talking, anyway.

“This ain’t your turf!” one of the bandits yells. “And we’ve got crops to harvest.”

“Ain’t yours, either,” Python mutters. He nocks an arrow to show he means business.

The other bandits look scared, but the loud one is still yelling. “You don’t wanna find out what happens if you shoot that thing!”

So what? Maybe he does.

He looses the arrow—a perfect shot. It pierces the man’s elbow, forcing him to drop his axe and proving exactly how good Python’s aim is.

And that’s when things go to shit.

The loud bandit roars in pain, and then—“Charge!”—and they’re all dashing forward. Python manages another shot, taking down one of the accomplices, before he has to retreat into the house.

He stumbles backward, bow in hand, flimsy hunting knife at the ready. It’s better than nothing, at least. The voices in the other room remind him he’s not alone here—shit. “Run!” he yells, frantic, desperate. He can’t be the reason these people die.

The bandits burst through the front door, and he takes a final shot with his bow before tossing it to the ground. It strikes a bandit in the shoulder—not enough to stop him. Not enough to save Python’s life.

They run at him with daggers, and he brandishes his knife to keep them at a distance. It works, until one of them gets through and slashes into his side.

It’s almost funny, how completely fucked he is in a matter of seconds. The pain takes him against the wall, barely even standing—but he knows the family can’t have made it out yet. They need time to escape. Turning them down is one thing, but getting them killed with his own stupid mistake? He can’t. He can’t let them die.

He trades blows with the bandits for a minute longer, until one of them stabs him square in the chest.

At long last, the world goes dark.

Chapter Text

Day 20

Python jolts back to consciousness. It’s light out. It’s light, and he remembers, and the force of that realization is dizzying.

He heads straight for Forsyth’s room, of course.

It’s still bright and early when Python rushes into the room.

Normally, the ghost emerges subtly, slinking around the house and trying to catch Forsyth off guard. The only clues to his entrance are subtle changes in the breeze or the temperature of a room.

This time is different.

Python gusts in, slamming open the bedroom door and rustling the papers on the desk.

Forsyth sits up in the bed, quite startled. “Python?”

The ghost materializes, floating over the bed, his typical laid-back air completely absent. “Forsyth, I figured it out. This isn’t my fucking house.”

Forsyth blinks. “…What?”

Python tells the story quickly.

“...So I showed up with my bow and tried to scare ‘em off, and it turned violent instead. They charged, and I didn’t have anywhere to go. And that was it! End of the fuckin’ line.” He gestures wildly as he speaks, as if the bitter words aren’t enough to release his frustration.

“Python, that’s… I mean…” Forsyth fumbles. “That’s horrible. But you figured it out! That’s wonderful!”

“It doesn’t feel wonderful,” Python says. “It feels stupid. After all that—it was just a dumb mistake. I was reckless and cocky, and I got myself killed.”

Forsyth considers this, trying to find something to say. He wants to offer more than shallow sympathies; he wants Python to feel understood. He’s never died before, of course, but he’s no stranger to regrets.

 “That’s how I broke my arm,” he says. “Being reckless. And foolhardy.”

Python turns abruptly. “Doesn’t it piss you off? Knowing you were so close to—to being okay? To getting out alive?”

Oh, Forsyth thinks, is that what it is? Anger? “Yes. Er… I think so.”

A warm breeze blows through the room as Python sighs. “What do you do about it?”

“There isn’t much to be done.” Forsyth bows his head. “I regret my shortcomings, but I can’t change the past. I… try to be content that I did my best to help people.”

“Mm,” Python says. Then he pauses, and a look of horror crosses his face. “Gods,” he mutters. “I didn’t even help them.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No, that’s the thing.” He’s upright now, frantic, as he recalls the details once more. “I didn’t save them from anything. They would have had to leave their house anyway—I just pissed off the guys coming after them. They were worse off for it!”

“But you tried,” Forsyth argues. “They’ll remember you as the kind stranger who was willing to fight for them. That has to count for something.”

Python frowns. “Wish it counted enough to make a difference.”

“I do, too,” Forsyth says. And he means it.

Silence falls over them, and Forsyth makes no move to break it. He waits—watches—as Python opens his mouth to speak. Stops. Repeats the motion, more frustrated this time. Stops again.

Forsyth can’t believe what he’s seeing. For once, it seems that Python is truly lost for words—and not happy about it, either.

“I didn’t… want to die for them, you know,” he finally says. Slowly, carefully, chewing his words before he speaks. “If I could do it again, I’d leave ‘em to their bandit problem and be on my way.”

Forsyth nods. “It would be the logical course of action, in hindsight.”

“No, I mean—” Python grimaces, almost glaring. “I’d run. I’d let them starve. Even if the bandits were gonna kill those kids.”

Forsyth nods again. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Why not?” He puts it so bluntly; it catches Forsyth off guard. “I thought you were all about… noble sacrifices ‘n shit. How can you be okay with this?”

It occurs to Forsyth, then, that he may have gravely misrepresented himself. “No,” he says quickly, before the rest of the words come to him. “You—you’ve got it backwards.”

“Huh?”

He pauses to collect himself before speaking again. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to become a knight and help people. That is… to protect others, so they don’t have to choose between their house and their life… or their life and the lives of others. So… er, rather… I don’t wish you acted differently, or thought differently. I only wish I could have been there to help.”

Python floats over the bed, still watching him intently. “…Huh,” he mutters. “You really are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Forsyth cocks his head. “I suppose I am.”

“Heh.” As Python shifts in the air, he finally seems to relax. “I… still need some time to think about all this. But—thanks, Fors. Couldn’t’a done it without you.”

“Yes,” Forsyth says. “Of course.”

As Python leaves, Forsyth makes a point to occupy himself in his room. Python will surely reappear if he wants to talk about anything else; until then, it’s all he can do to give him some space.

He watches some birds explore the yard outside his window and reorganizes the pile of supplies on the nightstand next to him. After lunch, he even gives the books from Lukas an honest try. The first two are too scholarly for his taste, but the third is a novel about knights and sorcerers that he actually finds quite delightful. The fact that Lukas saw this book and thought of him is perhaps even better than the book itself. He ends up reading about a third of it over the course of the day, stopping intermittently to close his eyes and rest.

It’s a quiet day, but he doesn’t mind it. Not that he plans to make a habit of it.

Day 21

The next morning, Forsyth is pleased to note that the bedrest has served its purpose. The swelling in his ankle has gone down considerably, and the impressive bruising has reduced to a few spots of red and purple. His arm is still much worse for wear, but the splint has kept it immobilized well, and it doesn’t hurt much. It’s progress. Hopefully enough progress to allow him to walk around, because he’s already made up his mind about his next endeavor for today.

He starts by shoving upright, taking his weight off the pillows behind him and sitting up properly. Then he rotates his legs off the side of the bed, wishing—not for the first time—that his arm were not splinted quite so well. But he is strong, and he makes do. Just like always.

The next step is more intimidating: he pushes off the bed and plants his feet on the floor. Immediately, pain shoots up his leg, and he shifts his weight to rest on the other. He’s able to stand quite well, which is a nice change of pace, and he commits to walking across the room.

He moves slowly, and he earnestly tries to minimize the weight on his injured ankle. Python would not approve of this, he thinks, but Python does not understand how tedious it is to lay in bed all day.

As the far wall approaches, he is starting to question his choices. Each step is slightly more painful than the last, and he is not quite so dense as to think this won’t do him any harm. But he could make it, perhaps, if only he had something to bear his weight…

His gaze catches on the lance in the corner. It’s not particularly good to lean on, but it is cut to his height and quite sturdy. With renewed determination, he braces his good arm against the wall and staggers toward the corner.

It’s about as unwieldy as he expected, but the lance offers immediate relief, acting as a makeshift crutch and taking the weight off his bad leg. He could almost jump for joy, were that not completely impractical at the moment. He eagerly moves from the bedroom to the kitchen, then to the living room, where he catches Python off guard.

“Whoa!” The ghost says. He sounds amused, with hardly a trace of yesterday’s distress. “Didn’t expect to see you out of bed this early. You sure you’re okay to walk like that?”

Forsyth tries to cross his arms—only, the one is occupied and the other is tightly slung against his chest. “It’s only a sprain, and I’m taking care not to walk on it. I will be fine.”

Python shrugs. “If you say so. How’s your arm?”

“Sore, but getting better,” he says with a sigh. “I only wish I could take off this damned splint.”

Python flips upright, abruptly serious. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Oh, I know. I’m certain Lukas would kill me himself if I tried that a second time.”

“A second—Oh, you fuckin’ idiot. You did have one when you moved in, didn’t you?”

Forsyth shrinks, embarrassed. “I… may have.”

“Of course.”

“But it was getting in the way! How am I supposed to use my arm like that?”

Python crosses his arms. “You’re not. That’s the point.”

“I suppose…” Forsyth grumbles.

“See, you’re looking at it all wrong,” Python continues. “An injury like that is s’posed to be your ticket to freeloading for however long you want. Anything you don’t wanna do? Oh, man, you’d love to, what a shame you can’t. And then you make someone else do it for you!”

Forsyth settles himself against the kitchen counter and focuses on glaring at Python. “I’m sure you understand my opposition to this… philosophy.”

“Yeah, yeah. Killjoy.”

“Wh—I am not! Just because I won’t use my injury to take advantage of my compatriots—”

Python stares back, clearly unimpressed. “Forsyth. Have you ever covered for someone who got hurt?”

“Of course. We’re an army. Soldiers get injured left and right.”

“Then why’s it so bad for someone else to cover for you?”

“That’s—It’s not—” Forsyth stammers, indignant. The nerve of Python, to imply that he… Well, he actually can’t figure out what Python has done wrong, but it doesn’t sit right with him. “It’s different!”

“Yeah, keep tellin’ yourself that,” Python says, flipping lazily in the air.

Forsyth sighs, with the distinct feeling that he’s fighting a losing battle here. Python is right—he just doesn’t want to admit it. It makes him think about what his return to the Deliverance will be like, how often he’ll need to rely on others while his arm heals. For all his excitement, the thought makes him dread his journey back.

Python seems to notice his distress, because he switches tactics. “Get some rest, okay? You don’t have any chores to worry about out here, anyway.”

“…Alright.”

Python breezes out of the room, making a point to go through the wall. Oh well. Even if he can’t get Forsyth to see sense, he at least has the pleasure of getting a funny reaction out of him here and there. If he’s lucky, it’ll stick with him enough to get the message through his thick skull before he…

Before he leaves, Python realizes, and words have never hit him quite so hard. Forsyth is going to get better, and then he’s gonna leave for the army, go back to fighting a real, actual war, and probably never come back to the shitty old house in the woods.

Cool.

He’s not sure Forsyth would even believe that he’ll miss the company, not after the fuss he made about wanting his house back. Before he knew it wasn’t even his—a realization that’s taking some serious getting used to.

So Forsyth will leave, and Python will be alone in the woods, in a house that’s not his, blessed with the knowledge of exactly what he did to deserve this. And that knowledge isn’t as comforting as he needs it to be.

But that’s just his lot, right? Shit happens. Some people die for their country, and other people die for dumbfuck mistakes. Some people have friends like Lukas, and some people walk into the woods without anyone to tell where they’re going. As shitty as the whole thing is, he can’t bring himself to resent Forsyth for it. At most, it’s a pang of jealousy, a fleeting thought of what he could do, given a second chance.

It’s stupid.

So he pushes the thought away, and he resolves to enjoy what little time they have left.

Day 22

True to his unspoken promise, Python seeks Forsyth out early the next morning, ready to… make the most of it, or whatever. Forsyth is sitting on the side of his bed, unnaturally quiet and still, staring into space. Whatever he’s thinking about, Python’s arrival seems to snap him out of it.

“By the way, Python,” he asks, “did you end up remembering anything else?”

“Huh?” Python says. “Why?”

“Er… just curious.”

Python stares, dubious. He doesn’t doubt that Forsyth would be curious about his memories, but he’s still acting sort of strange.

Forsyth breaks quickly. “I’ve been feeling rather… unsettled, and I figured a distraction might be helpful.”

Well, that explains that. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not particularly.” Forsyth sighs. “It’s just nerves, anyway. But… I was hoping you could tell me a story… or something of the sort.”

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t have to tell me twice,” Python says. As if he could say no to Forsyth’s puppy eyes. “You sure you want to hear one of my stories, though? It might not be your, uh, style.”

“I’m sure.”

With a nod and a smile, Python starts searching his mind for something good to tell. He never said he remembered anything, so it’s not like he lied. The fact is, since the first big recollection, nothing else has really come back to him. No surprises, no sudden bouts of deja vu. But he doesn’t need all that. Thanks to Forsyth, he’s finally got something to work with—somewhere to start—and a reason to put the work in, too. If he can just follow the threads…

He starts simple, thinking back to his time spent hunting in the woods, and follows the trail back to town, back to cool nights and warm drinks at the local taverns where he’d go after a long day of work. Different town, same pint, that kind of thing. He remembers rickety chairs and blazing fireplaces, shared by friends and strangers alike. Faces start to emerge from the blur: friendly locals and fellow travelers who he ran into from time to time.

At last, he has his story.

“So,” he starts, “this one night, I was out drinking.” He waits to see if Forsyth will comment on that—the man doesn’t seem like he gets out often, after all—but no response. “I had a lucky streak that week, so I had some extra coin on hand. Bought myself a cool knife in town and blew the rest on drinks.”

That gets him a tired sigh. “Of course you did.”

Python shrugs. “Money’s made to be spent, isn’t it? Anyway, I got a little sicker than I meant to. Next morning, I woke up with a pounding headache, and my new dagger was nowhere to be seen.”

“Perhaps you lost it somewhere in your drunken stupor.”

“Crivens, you think that’s all I’ve got for a story?” he says with a laugh. “Nah, I found where it made off to the next morning. As it turns out, I lost the damn thing in a bet with one of my drinking buddies. Uh…” The name evades him for a second, but with a little focus, he gets it. Probably. “Acantha, I think it was. She really liked her bets. I lost another one then and there, trying to get my knife back, and then she skipped town.”

Forsyth cocks his head. “Was the knife that important to you? You probably could have bought a new one with the money you used on betting for it.”

Python smiles—a sly, comfortable thing. “Funny you should ask. She said the same thing, when I ran into her a few towns later and asked to bet on it again. Thing is, that dagger was the first thing I ever bought with my own money… not countin’ food and stuff. And it had a cool snake on it! Shiny new knife to match my shiny new name, y’know? It was perfect.”

Forsyth stares at him, clearly invested. “Well? Did you ever get it back?”

“Uh…” Python fumbles, fighting the gaps in his memory. “Hang on. I’m not there yet.”

Forsyth nods.

“So, after I told her the story about my knife, Acantha came out an’ told me she’d been using weighted dice. Mistook me for a rich idiot, what with my extra pay that week, and lightened my purse to even it out. We had a good chat after that, and we made a few more bets—with fair dice, this time. She was actually a pretty good friend, when she wasn’t trying to rob me blind.”

“You befriended her?” Forsyth gasps. “The scoundrel—the charlatan who stole your hard-earned dagger?”

“Hey, I had it coming. Just like anyone else who steps into a tavern looking to throw money around. But yeah, we were friends. We both traveled, both liked drinkin’, and neither of us had much love for those greedy noble-types. Plenty to bond over, if you ask me.”

Forsyth frowns, and Python is fully expecting another long-winded tangent about morals or something. Instead, when he finally speaks, it’s just… “Well, I certainly don’t understand it. But as long as you were happy, I suppose it’s not… harmful.”

Huh. That’s new. “I ran into her a few more times,” he adds, “and she kept getting lucky with that damn knife. I trusted her to keep it safe, though, so I let her hang onto it until I could win it back fair ’n square. Only, uh…” He trails off as he realizes exactly where this story ends: a house in the woods that he never comes back from. “I never got around to doing that.”

“Oh,” Forsyth says. “I see.”

He shrugs again. “Not much I can do about it now, can I?”

“No, I suppose not.” Forsyth looks like he’s got something else to say, but apparently decides against it.

After letting that hang for a minute, Python decides to pry. “Are you feeling any better?”

Forsyth sighs. “I think so. Thank you, Python.”

Python still wonders what exactly was bothering Forsyth, but he clearly isn’t getting anything out of him. Until Forsyth wants to talk about it, Python is just going to have to trust that he’s got it handled.

Chapter Text

Day 24

The days roll by, and Forsyth continues to recover. He’s soon able to walk short distances without discomfort, though he still leans on his lance to be safe. His arm stays splinted, and his pain stays manageable. He can’t quite shake the dread he feels when he thinks of going back, but there’s not much he can do other than wait it out.

All the while, he becomes ever more grateful for Python’s company. They talk more often, and about more mundane things: favorite colors, hometown stories, the like. Python stops by here and there to tell some little anecdote he just remembered—which Forsyth finds quite delightful—and Forsyth repays him with tidbits from the Deliverance.

“So, I was wondering,” Python says out of nowhere. “How’d you decide to become a knight, anyway?”

Forsyth sits up, attentive. “I suppose I’ve always known that this is what I’d like to do. Even if the world didn’t particularly want me to.”

“Yeah? How’s that?”

“Well, I wasn’t born to it, for one.” He sighs. “My father was a scholar in a small town. I was expected to follow in his footsteps, but… I wasn’t cut out for that kind of work.”

“Ah.” Python follows his gaze to the books from Lukas, still piled neatly on the bedside table, mostly untouched.

“I stayed there for… longer than I would have liked,” he admits. “I wasn’t happy. When word finally reached my village that the king was dead and the Deliverance was enlisting, I took it as my opportunity for a fresh start.”

“Huh,” Python says, with no trace of his usual snark. “You glad you did it?”

“Always.” Forsyth closes his eyes for a moment, remembering the freedom of his first few days at the Deliverance. How euphoric he was to be alive, to be out in the world, to see his dreams taken seriously. “I’m more myself out here than I ever was at home. And I have met some incredible people on the way.”

Python raises an eyebrow. “More… you? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you know…” Forsyth shrugs, hoping Python will figure this one out even if he can’t phrase it quite right. “I’m doing things that I want to do. Making choices I can take pride in, instead of simply doing what is asked of me.”

“…But you’re still following orders.”

“From someone I respect. Someone I trust to do the right thing. And… someone who believes in me.”

“Ah.”

Forsyth nods. “I didn’t know it when I left home, but the people really make all the difference. I wouldn’t have made it in the Deliverance without Sir Clive, or Lady Mathilda, or even Lukas. They all believed in me, and they helped me when I needed it.”

Papers rustle on the desk—Python’s sigh, not even voiced, reverberating through the room. “You must be excited to get back to your people, huh?”

“Well, yes,” he says. “But you’re one of them too.”

This seems to catch Python off guard, and Forsyth wonders if he’s crossed a line. But all the ghost says is, “You’re a real sap, you know that?”

“I suppose.” He cocks his head. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” Python says. “It’s just… different.” And then, quietly, so much so that Forsyth will later wonder if he imagined it, “It’s nice.”

Day 25

When Forsyth wakes up, the sun is streaming through the window, and he feels exceptionally alive.

His habitual disappointment at sleeping past the break of dawn is easily overtaken by the surge of energy that greets him as he sits up. The sun is shining, a gentle breeze is blowing in, and life is good.

Without really thinking, he stands up, eager to head to the kitchen for some kind of warm breakfast. He remembers, belatedly, that he isn’t supposed to be standing on his sprained ankle because it will hurt—but it doesn’t! Lukas said that it would be okay to walk short distances after a week or so—has it been that long already? Oh, what a delight. If he weren’t still in recovery, he would certainly jump for joy.

He sets to cleaning the house, an activity he finds surprisingly pleasant. Perhaps it’s the novelty of it: at the Deliverance, he rarely even has a tent to himself, much less a whole house to tidy. Besides, he’s always enjoyed putting things in order.

He starts in the kitchen, which is worse off for lack of use: the pots scattered on the floor, the shelves hastily raided. He sorts the pots by size and resolves to restock on supplies soon.

Next he moves to the entrance room, which looks like it’s been hit by some kind of natural disaster. Blood spatters adorn the floor and walls; the firewood he tripped on during the fight remains strewn across the floor. The discarded weapons are piled neatly by the door, but they look wildly out of place in the otherwise peaceful house.

Before he begins cleaning, Forsyth opens the front door, letting more sunlight into the small room. He’s halfway through stacking the firewood when Python finds him.

The ghost lets out a low whistle, a sound that could easily be mistaken for a particularly unnerving gust of wind. “Someone’s cheerful today.”

Forsyth looks up from his meticulous pile. “I’m cleaning!”

“S’that what you’re so excited about?”

“Well, yes, er… no,” he fumbles. “I suppose I’m in better spirits today, and that inspired me to tidy up.”

“Huh.” Python leans forward, scrutinizing. “Never known someone who cleans for fun.”

“Well,” Forsyth says plainly. “Now you have.”

“Your parents must have been happy about that.”

He laughs awkwardly. “Not, er, particularly so. I once organized all the books in my father’s study by size and color. He couldn’t find anything for weeks.”

Python cackles, rolling back in the air. “That’s—gods, that’s funny. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

He lets himself smile along. “I suppose it is a bit laughable, in retrospect. It certainly wasn’t back then. My father was furious.”

The ghost flips the rest of the way over, righting himself. “Sounds like a real ass.”

“Not always. But he certainly… had his rougher moments.” Forsyth hangs his head. “Sorry, I suppose that’s a bit personal.”

“Nah, I’m right there with you. My old man was what the scholars call a real piece of shit.” Python does another flip, and Forsyth is glad that at least one of them seems unbothered by this. “But hey, we got better things to think about than family, right?”

“Er… right!” Forsyth straightens. “I’m going to focus on cleaning the rest of the house!”

“Right,” Python says, laughing. “And I’m gonna watch.”

Day 26

Once Forsyth is sure his ankle isn’t getting worse, he decides to make the walk to town once more. Walking around the house is a far cry from going all the way to the Deliverance camp, of course, and the short outing to town is a nice middle ground between the two. He can mail another letter and buy some food while he’s at it. Admittedly, the shortbread he tried has still been on his mind, and perhaps if he got some that weren’t stale, it would be even more delicious…

It plays through his mind as he’s penning the short letter to Lukas. Writing is admittedly difficult, with his arm still bound, but he can make do.

Dear Lukas,

I am recovering well. Walking to town today.

A good start, if a bit terse. He needs to keep it short, though, or he will be tempted to remove his splint. That’s a risk he doesn’t want to take.

I plan to return

He stops abruptly. He does plan to return soon, once he knows he’s well enough for the walk. This has been the plan all along, of course, but the more he thinks about it, the more he has to imagine how it might play out.

Things aren’t going to be normal when he returns. The army has gone on without him, and he without them. Besides, his arm will need rest—he knows from experience that even healing spells cannot unbreak bones. He will have to return battered, bruised, and… rather incapable.

The thought makes his stomach turn.

Glancing down, he notices a puddle of ink on the page from where contemplation stopped his quill in midair. He blots the stain hastily and forces himself to go on.

I plan to return soon—by your word, only when I feel well. May be

May be what, a few days? Weeks? He crosses out those two words. Best not to commit to anything before he’s quite certain. Coming back early would only make things worse.

Your friend,

Forsyth

The letter is messy with ink stains, but he’s rather too weary to repeat the whole affair. With a sigh, he folds it up, bids Python a quick farewell, and makes way for town.

Alone in the house, Python lets out an incorporeal sigh.

When Forsyth is around, filling the house with sound and color, it’s so easy to forget that he’s leaving. As soon as he’s gone, though, Python finds himself facing cold reality once more.

They haven’t talked about it. Hopefully that’s because Forsyth doesn’t want to think about it either, and not because Python is so insignificant that it really doesn’t bother him at all. It feels like they’re both pretending that this little thing they’ve got is going to last. The way they banter, the way they look out for each other; the way Forsyth smiles when Python comes to interrupt whatever he’s doing; Python wants it to last. Wants it more than he ever thought possible. 

He’s smarter than that, though. Even if Forsyth won’t acknowledge it, he’s clearly recovering, and once he’s feeling better, there won’t be anything left to tie him to the old house in the woods. It’s sort of fucked—every bit of joy or relief Python feels at Forsyth’s good health is followed by that bitter aftertaste, the thought that he’s one step closer to being alone again. And still, it has to happen, because Forsyth needs medical care and freedom and everything that he can’t get here.

It’s too bad they can’t both get what they want.

Python goes outside to seethe for a while. Wouldn’t want to mess up Forsyth’s clean house, after all.

And then Forsyth comes back winded, smiling, and bearing an armful of pastries, and everything is okay again.

Just for a little while longer.

Chapter Text

Day 27

Day 28

Day 29

Day 30

Python is tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

For days now, Forsyth has been kicking around the house with no signs of stopping. Sometimes he’s cheerful as ever; other times, Python finds him pacing a room and he refuses to explain why. But his bags remain un-packed, and the subject of leaving stays un-mentioned.

It’s agonizing. As if Python isn’t having enough trouble with this already—now Forsyth just has to draw it out as long as possible. It doesn’t seem to be from the injury, either; Python can tell he’s feeling better. He’s just refusing to leave.

He hears Forsyth open the front door, coming back from a stroll in the woods, and impulsively decides it’s time for a confrontation.

“Why are you still here?”

“Augh!” Forsyth jumps, apparently so lost in thought that he didn’t notice Python waiting for him. “Python, what—?”

He crosses his arms, trying not to betray how much this hurts. Forsyth will leave, and he’ll be alone again, and it’s going to be just fine. “I said, why are you still here?”

“I—I don’t see why I wouldn’t be,” he says nervously.

“You’re feeling better, aren’t you?” Python forces himself to remain steady. “You should be back at the army by now.”

His face falls, but it’s a long moment before he actually speaks. “…I should.” There’s a weight to his voice, the kind that Python is only used to hearing when he’s trembling with pain. “I know I should. But…”

Python floats closer to him. “But?”

“I’m afraid.” The words seem to burn him. “I’m helpless and unprepared. I don’t want to go back just to be somebody’s problem.” His pace quickens as he continues. “People like me have to prove their worth in the Deliverance. If I go back before I’m ready, I could lose everything I’ve fought for, and—and—”

It’s the first time Python has seen how deep Forsyth’s fear runs. How can someone so brave be so terrified?

“I’m sorry for dumping all this on you,” Forsyth splutters. “I’m sorry for overstaying my welcome. I promise I’ll be out soon—just a few days more, and I’m sure I’ll feel ready—”

Python’s heart damn near breaks. “Fors, I’m not tryin’ to get rid of you,” he says, as gentle as he can manage. Gods, if Forsyth only knew how true that was. “I just don’t want you to stay here ‘cause you’re scared. You’ve got a whole life out there. You gotta get back to living it.” (And that’s just it, isn’t it? That’s the difference between them.)

Forsyth sniffles. “But… what if I’m not ready?”

“Oh, please. As if that’s ever stopped you before.”

Forsyth does not seem to find this as reassuring as Python does. “Maybe it should have,” he says, casting an unsubtle glance at his splinted arm.

“Stopped you from taking off your splint? Yeah.” Python sighs. “From fighting those guys alone? Maybe. But… all the other stuff? I think you’re doing just fine.”

Forsyth looks up, tears glinting at the corners of his eyes. “Truly?”

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “If they actually gave knighthoods for merit, you’d have one three times over. You’re good at what you do, and you don’t let any stuck-up nobles keep you from doin’ it.”

“Python… Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he deflects. “Don’t get sappy on me now. You get back out there, save the world or whatever, and come visit ol’ Python once in a while, you hear?” Come back for me. Please.

“Yes—yes, of course.” Forsyth wipes his tears and stands a little taller. “I’ll leave first thing tomorrow. Until then, perhaps we could… talk a bit more?”

“Yeah,” Python says. “Sure.”

They stay up late that night, driven by the desperate thought that this is the last time. Python talks about the family he ran away from; Forsyth confides his darkest moments in the Deliverance. Throughout it all, Forsyth is keenly aware that Python has left his usual place in the air in favor of sitting beside him. At one point, dazed and bleary, Forsyth actually tries to lean onto his shoulder, which ends with Python snickering and Forsyth blushing furiously.

Still, Forsyth enjoys himself. By the time he turns in for bed, any trace of fear or worry has long since been banished from his mind.

Tomorrow, he will face the future; tonight, he sleeps in peace.

Chapter Text

Day 31

Forsyth—never one to break a promise—leaves the next morning, with light bags and a heavy heart.

Python sees him off at the door. The ghost hovers right at the threshold, and Forsyth takes a long final look at his translucent figure, as if committing this to memory will make parting less lonely. He notes how uncharacteristically serious Python looks, without his arms crossed, without his typical teasing smirk. There’s something sorrowful behind his dark eye sockets, accented by the stark bloodstain across his chest.

No, Forsyth won’t be forgetting him any time soon.

Python lets out a soft sigh. “Guess this is goodbye, huh?”

Forsyth nods. “Farewell, Python. And…” The words start to jumble in his mind. He latches onto the first thing he can think of, forcing it out before the silence stretches on too long. “I’ll come back sometime. I promise.”

“Yeah, alright. Good luck out there.”

With all his strength, Forsyth forces himself to walk away. One step, then another, down the old dirt road that takes him back to civilization. Back to the Deliverance.

It’s not long before he can’t help himself—he glances back over his shoulder for another look. Python is already gone, probably off to laze around inside, back to whatever he was doing before Forsyth arrived. At least the house is still there, a monument to everything he remembers here.

A few more steps. He steals another glance. The little cottage is so perfectly situated in its little clearing. He’s glad he came here. He’s glad he stayed.

Finally, he rounds a bend, and the house disappears entirely. Despite his hasty promise, he knows he may never see it again. Fighting for the Deliverance is a dangerous job, after all.

It’s going to be odd coming back to camp, isn’t it? No longer will Python be lingering over his shoulder to insist he stop that, go lay down or take a break already! He supposes he’ll have to say those things himself. It’s not as if anyone else will… or perhaps they have been, but he’s been refusing to listen.

Another step takes him past the first crossroads. He’s looking forward to seeing Lukas again. He really owes his friend a proper thanks for… everything. And maybe an apology for neglecting the books he sent.

He reaches the town before long. The streets are familiar to him by now, though he doubts any of the locals remember his scarce visits. He keeps a quick pace—there’s no need to dawdle here when several similar villages wait along his path. With a few breaks along the way, he should be able to walk until nightfall before finding an inn where he can spend the night. He passes the bakery, the tavern, and the market where he always received his letters from Lukas.

Then he’s back on the road, with the sun overhead, a cool breeze blowing, and a runner waving frantically at him—

Wait.

“Hey!” the runner yells, out of breath. “Are you Forsyth? I have an urgent letter from someone at the Deliverance!”

“Er—yes, that’s me.” But what could they be sending for him? Has something horrible happened? Has Clive decided to forbid his return?

The runner shoves the letter into his hands, and he realizes it’s accompanied by a parcel, small but weighty. He tears the envelope open.

As he skims the letter, his eyes go wide with disbelief. It can’t be real—and yet here it is, in his hands.

Forsyth,

I hope you are well. Your presence at camp has been thoroughly missed, and it is of that concern that I am writing you now. In a recent escapade, Alm discovered what we believe to be the Water of Revival. Though known to revive the dead, it also possesses powerful healing qualities in its own right. It was decided this would be best spent on healing your arm so that you might return to camp in comfort and continue to fight as you wished.

I trust this will be helpful to you. Take care not to spill any—its quantity is extremely limited.

Your friend,

Lukas

He stares at the signature a little longer, baffled by this stroke of luck. When it all catches up to him, he takes off toward the house, vial of water in hand.

Possessed by excitement, Forsyth doesn’t stop running the whole way to the house. It’s somewhat far—almost a mile, in all—but he can’t bear to wait a single moment longer than he has to.

“Python!” he shouts, slamming open the front door.

The ghost materializes in front of him, hovering in the middle of the living room. “What are you doing here? Forget something?”

“No, it’s—” The rest of his words are swallowed by ragged breath and scrambling thoughts. “This is—” He holds out the vial and letter, desperate to give some kind of explanation. “The Water of Revival! You can—you can come back!”

“What?” Python darts down to inspect the vial. “You’re fucking with me. You can’t have…” His dark eye-holes go wide. “…the real thing?”

Forsyth nods quickly, the movement so sharp it hurts his neck a little. “The real thing! For you!”

“Well, shit,” he says. “How’d you get your hands on this?”

“Lukas sent it to me!” He holds out the letter again for emphasis. “He—he said they thought I could use it—for my arm—but—!”

Suddenly, Python is frowning, refusing to meet his gaze. “…So it’s for you.”

Forsyth blinks. “I suppose, yes. But what does it matter? It’s in my hands now.”

“What does it—It matters because it’s yours! They sent this to you, to be used on your broken arm. And there probably ain’t any more where it came from. You shouldn’t be giving something like this away.”

“Well,” Forsyth says, “I am.”

Python goes quiet, which never means anything good. It doesn’t make sense—this should be an easy decision. What is he so frustrated about?

“…No,” he says, simple and decisive. “I’m not taking this from you.”

“No,” Forsyth echoes, too stunned to say much else. “No.”

“I’m not askin’. Keep it. Fix your arm.”

Now Forsyth is truly speechless. None of this is going to plan, and he simply does not understand why. He doesn’t want to press a decision on Python, of course, but Python hasn’t said a single word about not wanting the water. He hasn’t said anything about what he wants, in fact, which is really quite disconcerting.

Finally, he wills himself to speak again, his voice shaking ever so slightly. “Why do you care so much about my broken arm?”

Python looks no less than offended. “Because you don’t! And—And someone has to, or you’re gonna keep up like this forever! Hell, even your friends at the army figured that one out!”

(No, Forsyth thinks, this isn’t right.)

“Look, I know this is hard for you, okay?” Python continues. “I know you’d rather break every bone in your body than let someone else get hurt. But you have to look out for yourself eventually.” He crosses his arms, emphatic and uncompromising. “I know how much that arm hurts you. I know you need this.”

Forsyth feels as if the world might just fold in on him. He kicks at the ground, trying to find some kind of traction, to release the frustration that wracks him now. “You need it more than I do!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Python groans, sounding incomparably exasperated. “For once in your damn life, please, just do something selfish!”

Forsyth stops. Entirely.

Suddenly, it all makes sense to him—why Python is fighting him on this, why neither of them can let it go, why he sprinted the whole way back to the house with his luggage in tow. How he has once again been misunderstood—perhaps even to himself—and how to correct it.

“Python, I… I am being selfish. This isn’t for my superiors or the Deliverance. It’s not even for you. I’m asking for what I want.” He takes a deep breath, bracing against the force of what he’s about to say. “And, if I can ask a bit more… I’d like you to come with me.”

Something in Python seems to break. “Ah, hell.”

“You don’t have to answer right now,” Forsyth adds quickly. He’s well aware of the situation, after all, and he isn’t about to extort Python into spending time with him. It doesn’t affect his decision, anyway. He holds out the vial again: an offer and a request. “Can I?”

Python won’t even meet his eyes, but he answers nevertheless. “Yeah, Fors. Go ahead.”

It’s everything he’s been waiting for. He dashes to the garden and kneels beside the grave, landing clumsily in his haste but too excited to care. (He’s never un-dug a grave before. The opportunity to do this, to use this kind of magic, is something he won’t take lightly.)

The shovel is still tossed away in the house somewhere, but he doesn’t want it. He digs with his hands, swift but careful, reverent of what lies beneath. The soft earth crumbles easily under his fingers. Soon enough, the skull is staring up at him, its empty eye sockets a strange echo of Python’s own.

With a final glance up at Python—met by a reassuring nod—he uncorks the vial and pours it over the remains. There’s a burst of searing light; he instinctively raises his good arm to shield his eyes. When he lowers it, Python is there, in the flesh, standing over the empty grave.

He looks different like this. Frail and staggering slightly, as if unused to the weight of his bones, but… whole. The blue of his hair and armor blooms against the dusty brown of the cottage, and the slight flush in his cheeks makes him look so beautifully alive. Forsyth stands up and rushes forward to hug him, ignoring the way his splinted arm is awkwardly pressed between them. The impact almost knocks them both over, and Python lets out a small gasp, like he wasn’t expecting it to actually work.

“Holy shit,” Python says. His voice is barely more than a whisper, but it’s so much closer than it ever was before. “You actually did it.” His arms wind around Forsyth’s waist, hesitant at first, then holding him tight. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

Forsyth doesn’t know what to say to that, but admittedly, he’s more focused on the hug than the conversation. Python is so warm and so real. Forsyth can’t help but hold on to him, to make sure he’s still there, to keep him from slipping away, to do what he’s wanted to do all this time. They hug for a long while.

Python whistles. “It’s nice to be able to touch shit again. Didn’t think I’d miss it that much.”

When they finally untangle from each other, Forsyth becomes acutely aware that he is tired, aching, and somewhat lightheaded. He starts to sway, but this time, Python is there to hold him up.

“Whoa, careful there,” Python says. “You feeling alright?”

Forsyth smiles sheepishly. “I ran the whole way here.”

“Fuckin’ idiot.” As usual, there’s no bite to Python’s complaint. “Here, come sit down. The army can wait a little longer.”

Python slings Forsyth’s arm over his shoulder, making sure he won’t fall, leading him back to the house. His own steps are still a little shaky—a few years out of a body will do that to you, he figures—but he couldn’t care less. Honestly, he’s fucking delighted to be able to hold Forsyth, to take care of him, instead of just watching and heckling.

They sit for a while, mostly silent, while Forsyth recovers from exhaustion and Python recovers from the plain shock of everything. Even just sitting around the house, there’s so much sensation to take in, so many things that had been different or entirely missing while he was dead. He’s no longer used to sitting in a chair, to walking on the actual floor, or to seeing the room at eye level. It’s a lot to take in, but… well, he can’t complain, can he? It’s a second chance.

“Your eyes,” Forsyth says, out of nowhere. “I thought they’d be blue like your hair, but they’re brown.”

Python chuckles. “What, are you disappointed?”

Forsyth just cocks his head, as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “No.”

If any doubts remained in Python’s mind about what he’d do after this, they’re gone now. He knows exactly where he wants to be. He smiles fondly, and Forsyth returns the favor.

When Forsyth finally looks like he’s not going to pass out, Python yawns, stretches, and stands up from the table. He’s about to speak, but an idea strikes him first.

Slowly, intentionally, he makes his way to the other room and picks up the ancient longbow, still discarded on the ground.

“Python?” Forsyth calls after him. “Where are you going?”

Python turns around, now grinning. “Well, seeing as I’ve packed up all my earthly possessions—” He holds the bow up for emphasis. “I’d say I’m about ready to make way for the Deliverance.”

Forsyth lights up with surprise. “Really? You’ll come with me?”

“Yes, really,” Python says. “Now come on, can we get out of here already? I’m tired of this damn house.”

“Yes—Right away!” He leaps up from the table, grabbing his bags and rushing to join Python by the front door. “To the Deliverance!”

Epilogue

“Ah, Forsyth,” Lukas says when they arrive, his polite smile as unreadable as ever. “You’re back. Did you receive my package?”

“Er, yes, about that,” Forsyth says, glancing down at his still-broken arm. “It… didn’t help my arm any.”

Lukas looks at Python, who is lingering a bit further away. “I see.”

“But! I have brought a very capable archer who intends to join our ranks!”

“I’m sure Alm will be delighted.” With another glance around, Lukas turns back to Forsyth, speaking more quietly now. “Forsyth, are you sure you’re going to be alright sitting out of battle this time? That injury needs time to heal.”

“Oh—No, that won’t be an issue. Er, probably.” Technically, he may be worse off than when he started, but Forsyth is confident he’s ready to face it this time. “I’m prepared to rest as much as I need to. I’ll only step up to fight if I’m certain I feel well enough!”

Lukas laughs, a rare sight from him. “That’s good to hear. Perhaps your little vacation did you some good after all.”

Now Forsyth smiles as well. “It wasn’t what I expected, certainly. But I think it was for the best.”

“I’m glad. Now, why don’t you show the new recruit around camp?”

Their tour brings another surprise: one of the new members, who joined while Forsyth was away. She has purple hair and a red headband, and she looks more prepared for a highway robbery than a full-on battle.

“What the…?” she mumbles, squinting at them. “Python?”

“Heh. Funny running into you here.”

The woman crosses her arms. “Where the hell have you been, man? I thought you died.”

Forsyth tenses, but Python just laughs it off. “How do you know I didn’t?”

“Ha. Funny as always.”

“You still got my knife?”

The woman—Acantha, Forsyth realizes—grins. “‘Course I do. You still gotta win it back from me.”

Python smiles. “I think I can manage that.”

Time goes on, and Forsyth keeps on fighting for his dream. Even after extensive healing, his arm still aches periodically, but with newfound determination—and some extra help here and there—he stays true to his word, letting his commander know if he isn’t feeling well enough to fight. His change in demeanor is the talk of the camp for a while, until one of the Ram Village kids gets into some new antic and distracts everyone again. He never tells anyone exactly what happened at the house, but most of his camp-mates agree that his new companion has clearly done him some good.

And as for Python? He becomes a real-ass soldier in the Deliverance. He puts his life on the line, on purpose this time, for the other lowborns who are tired of getting stepped on by nobles. His skillful aim lets him intercept enemies from across the battlefield, and it even ends up saving Forsyth on several fortunate occasions. He does tend to disappear around camp, though. Especially during chores. The only place anyone can consistently find him is at Forsyth’s side: bickering, commentating, and smiling all the while.