Archive of Our Own

The world around them is falling apart.

The phase shifts activate, one by one. And one by one, they’re pulled away in spheres of light, heading for the Expel that’s moments away from rematerializing in the present continuum. 

Suddenly he hears a cry behind him. It’s Narl, frantic. “Claude! I’m sorry—everyone else has been phase-shifted already. There’s a problem!”

Claude’s running over even before Narl finishes talking. “What’s wrong?” he asks, stumbling slightly as the environment quakes, as everything crumbles.

“The adapted shield system—we caught an error after execution. Time-shifted Expel won’t stabilize properly. It’ll disintegrate without someone to patch the final stage from within Expel’s atmosphere. We’ll be gone soon. Take this.” He’s holding something out, and Claude immediately grabs it with one hand. “It’s the device that will activate the error containment application—” 

As the last phase shift encloses Claude, Dr. Mirage is still firing volleys of instructions and warnings at him. Her incredibly controlled tone, down to the wire, makes it hard to believe she’s facing annihilation. Claude focuses on her instructions. Based on the fact that everything’s about to be destroyed, warnings seem like an afterthought. He’ll worry about them later. 

“Once you activate the containment—physical form will dematerialize into a liminal space of crystalized awareness. This can be reversed by an external intrusion—Not all physical abilities—Chronic conditions—Furthermore, the side effect of you interfering—entropic impacts to date, in the area of the displacement field—unfortunate—But I’m sure you’ll agree—”

“Got it!”

Her voice continues calling after Claude as his phase shift rises, pulls out. He can’t see her or Narl anymore, but he doesn’t take his eyes away from their direction. He salutes them—salutes all the sentient beings of Energy Nede. Bearing witness to their final moments. 

Even if they no longer exist, they would at least exist in his—in everyone’s—memories.

Energy Nede explodes. All signs of it vanish, blown out like a candle flame in the darkness of space. In its vacuum, a glowing green planet materializes as if it were the timelapse of a blooming flower. Glowing lights swirl towards it, firefly-like. 

One of the lights does something slightly different from all the others. Upon contact with Expel’s atmosphere, it immediately winks out.

As instructed, as soon as his phase shift enters Expel’s atmosphere, Claude initiates the error containment. 

One second after he does so, he processes Dr. Mirage’s first warning: the one about his physical form dematerializing. And then he also remembers: he and Dias had made a promise to travel together when they returned to Expel. 

There might be a hiccup with that plan now. “Sorry, Dias,” he mutters under his breath.

Those two words are his last conscious thoughts in this body.

Dias had miscalculated. The bandits he’d been chasing led to some unexpectedly aggressive monsters. In the chaos, he’d lost his sword. He’d cursed quite a bit, since it hadn’t been merely any sword: the Sharpness, the blade Gamgee had crafted for the Arms. That said, he’s glad to be alive.

To be honest, he’s surprised he’s alive, with only a dislocated shoulder. He thought he’d fallen off a cliff. And he did, but he seems to have landed in—

…Some kind of peculiar infinity space. A silence, a stillness unattached to anything, without a floor or ceiling. It almost feels like being underwater, hovering weightlessly in an ocean, rippling ribbons of layered light passing by here and there. There are floating clusters of gently-glowing crystals everywhere.

Hey!

Dias whirls around. He doesn’t see any other living thing. Then Dias realizes he doesn’t actually hear anything so much as sense it. It’s not words—more like thoughts without words. In this case, an ambient sense of surprise that is clearly separate from his own.

I know you. It’s a feeling of intimate recognition. You’re—the only person who ever saw… me.

“Who are you?” he asks out loud.

Doesn’t matter. You’re in trouble. Take this. Out of nowhere a sword manifests in the air. 

Dias blinks. That’s convenient. And he’s not about to complain. 

He reaches out, grasps the sword by the hilt and pulls it to himself. It’s an obviously used blade, and looks as if it’s just been drawn out of a hard-won battle. But it’s a beautiful weapon. Beautifully-made. All of the work, including repairs and upgrades, has been done with an experienced, thoughtful hand and eye. Its balance is perfect. He’s startled to discover that the inscription on the blade matches the one on his own lost sword: Gamgee of Lacour. 

“Thank you,” he says to… whatever.

This way.

He follows the drifting not-words thought-feelings, eventually finds an opening, and escapes the infinity space. 

Back in the normal world, having fended off the monsters and gotten himself to safety, Dias rests under a tree. He would’ve written off the entire experience as a fanciful dream—if he didn’t have a shoulder needing to be set, and a new sword to show for it. 

When he assesses the sword again, he finds it’s perhaps more ideal for someone a little shorter. But not so much that it would be a significant issue for him to use. He also finds that the inscription actually has an addendum he missed when he’d first examined it in the infinity space. It seems a different smith who did the later work on the weapon had added their inscription below Gamgee’s.

Dias doesn’t recognize it. As a matter of fact, he can’t read the inscription at all. It’s completely alien to him.

Something definitely happened after Dias came by, because Claude has a body again. A torso. Hands. Arms. Legs. Feet. A head. Everything. Thankfully all in the correct configuration, as far as he can tell. 

He also has a splitting headache. He squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his temples, feeling his fingers pressing into his flesh. He’d almost forgotten what it’s like to not just be disembodied thoughts. 

Then he looks down and realizes he has no clothes. 

He groans. 

And that’s when he realizes he also has no voice. 

Claude hangs his head. This is much worse than the first time he landed on Expel.

Claude has decided that being person-shaped again is an absolute nightmare. Given the choice between his current circumstances and staying a random floating zone of crystals, he would pick the latter. It certainly makes life—or whatever that kind of existence counts as—much easier.

Being naked turns out to be the least of his problems. By some miraculous grace of whatever god might exist in the universe, he finds clothing. And by finds, he means steals. He apologizes profusely in his head to whoever’s laundry-drying line he permanently borrowed from. It’s also a blessing that Expel hasn’t really hit upon the concept of standardized clothing sizes yet. Most things are one size fits all, adjust as needed with belts, string, whatever.

But his other, much bigger problems, remain. He can’t speak. No one understands the alien characters he writes, so he can’t communicate that way. Saving the world unfortunately took time away from learning skills less directly related to world-saving, and while he can read some Expellian—he can decipher a few letters and words—his attempts to write when they’d been travelling on Expel had been haphazard. And he’d also never had the pressure to do so, because there was always someone with him to write anything needed.

And he has no weapon. He’d given the Eternal Sphere to Dias without much thought beyond wanting Dias to be able to protect himself. Claude actually has no idea how he did it; it just kind of… happened. And certainly he hadn’t thought he might ever need a sword again, being a bunch of crystals and all. Then again, it might have disappeared like his clothes when he rematerialized, so who knows. And that causes him to remember he also had a working phase gun thanks to Narl, and that seems to be gone now. So it’s probably for the best the Eternal Sphere is with Dias.

What else is he missing? Obviously, money. 

His stomach growls, reminding him he has no food either. 

Claude looks around. He knows he’s in Herlie, and right now he’s by the taverns in a darker part of the port town, where panhandlers and prostitutes gather. He really doesn’t want to have to resort to begging. Or—anything else. At least he knows where to find clean drinking water on Expel, and that’s free. Which, in some total worst-case scenario in which he really can’t communicate with anyone or hunt down anything to eat, gives him a couple of weeks by itself.

As he walks alongside the bridge, he’s reminded of multiple kindnesses in Arlia. Westa offering him food. (So much food.) Regis giving him a place to stay, even a sword. The king of Cross providing travel funds. And of how much he had relied on Rena, on everyone, to be able to navigate this world. He was always thankful for all of that, but he appreciates it a hundred billion times more now. 

He sighs and blows at his bangs, trying not to feel discouraged. He’s already been through so much. Really, this is nothing. All he needs to do is find one person who knows him.

That’s all he needs to do. But so far he hasn’t come across a single such person. He’d recognized almost all of the shopkeepers here from the last time they’d passed through the port. He even saw a couple of men he’d fought alongside at the Frontlines, one now working as a sailor, another drinking in the bar. But none of them seemed to recognize him. Which admittedly isn’t too surprising, since he’s not even sure he remembers their names himself.

He’d also managed to think of Eleanor and her mother. But when he found their home and knocked, no one had answered. At first he thought maybe they’d moved. Some careful listening seemed to indicate someone was at home; perhaps they weren’t comfortable answering the door. Again, understandable since Herlie isn't a calm town, what with the bandit king’s presence here and all. Eventually he’d left empty-handed.

As Claude scans the opposite side of town, thinking what else he might try, he sees something that makes his heart flip.

Dias is standing at the far side of the bridge.

The sight of Dias jolts Claude to remember: he and Dias had committed to travelling together. Dias must be wondering where he’s been all this time. He smiles and waves frantically with one arm, then both, jumping up and down.

But Dias doesn’t seem to see him. At one point he actually looks directly in Claude’s direction, directly at him, but there’s zero sign he’s registered Claude at all. His gaze moves on. In fact, he turns and walks off the bridge in the opposite direction.

Claude frowns. He runs after Dias, wishing he could just yell Dias’ name. He tries several times, but nothing comes out. And then he starts getting mad, because he can tell Dias clearly knows he’s being followed. He’s taking some ridiculous zig-zagging paths around the port town, through clusters of people and side streets, attempting to lose Claude. If this is Dias’ idea of a joke, of some kind of payback for not showing up immediately to travel because he had to fix a last-minute bug to save the planet, it’s super not funny. 

Finally Claude decides to beat him at his own game. When Dias turns down a random street, Claude heads down a small alley he knows is parallel to it, that will meet at the other side.

When he gets to the other side, he turns the corner and finds a sharp blade point leveled at his chest.

His own sword, the Eternal Sphere. With Dias at the other end. 

Dias says something to him. 

Claude smiles in relief—until he realizes what Dias had said.

“Who are you. Why are you following me.” 

The stranger’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. The young man touches his throat, frowning.

Dias cocks his head. A mute? The youth had been beaming at him and waving enthusiastically from the seedy side of town. Likely a persistent streetwalker trying to flag down a potential client. It’s not the first time Dias has been accosted by one of them. And the youth certainly has the looks for the work, with his fair hair, bright blue eyes and winsome features. 

“If you’re looking for a customer, don’t bother. I don’t have time for trick-turners. Don’t follow me.” Dias sheaths his sword, turns and walks off, leaving the mute young man staring at his back.

How bizarre, Dias thinks as he leaves. He’d given Dias such a disarming smile of pure happiness when the sword was pointed at him. And when Dias said he didn’t have time to waste with him, the surprised, wounded look in his eyes struck Dias as something much deeper than how a random streetwalker would have responded. 

It’s surely only that the young man is a good actor, doing what he needs to do. 

Dias dismisses it from his mind. He has other things to deal with.

Claude can’t believe Dias doesn’t recognize him—and that Dias thought he was a prostitute. He’s not sure which one shocks or offends him more.

But if Dias doesn’t recognize him… then he doesn’t expect anyone to recognize him. Does he not exist anymore? 

No, that can’t be right. Claude just interacted with Dias, and he’s been interacting with other people in Herlie, albeit in a very limited way. It’s not like he’s invisible. 

Does he look really weird or different or something? He looks down at his own reflection in a puddle on the street. At least he can confirm light is bouncing off of him and reflecting in the water. Physics is working normally. And he looks exactly as he remembers himself, except without a headband and in someone else’s clothes. 

And Dias was holding the Eternal Sphere. The sword Claude had upgraded from the Sharp Edge, Dias’ gift to him after the Arms. Which he’d given to Dias when he was that weird crystal space thing. So all the signs of his existence are still present. Everything he did, is doing, is still present.

Claude scratches his head, then crosses his arms and tries to think. He tries to remember what happened back when the space-time displacement shield malfunctioned as Energy Nede was disintegrating. It feels so long ago... but he actually has no idea how much time has passed since then. 

He feels a faint aura about his head, squints, and shakes it off. The last things Mayor Narl and Dr. Mirage had said before they were annihilated were…

Claude! I’m sorry—everyone else has been phase-shifted already. Time-shifted Expel won’t stabilize properly— 

He tries to focus on Dr. Mirage’s warnings. It’s definitely a lot easier to concentrate on specific things with a physical body than as a vague floaty crystal field. He tries to ignore the throbbing that’s emerging again in his head.

Once you activate the containment, your physical form will dematerialize into a liminal space of crystalized awareness. This can be reversed by an external intrusion into the space.

Not all physical abilities will be restored immediately. Chronic conditions are likely. Furthermore, the side effect of you interfering with the space-time displacement is that all external memories of your entropic impacts to date, in the area of the displacement field, will be erased.

Claude’s eyes widen. He unfolds his arms, lowering them slowly in stunned realization.

All external memories of your entropic impacts to date, in the area of the displacement field, will be erased.

That means…

All of his entropic impacts—the activity he generates through his existence and actions in the universe—in the area in which Expel exists, up to the moment he launched the error containment. 

Everywhere across Expel, wherever a memory of him existed in someone’s mind of something he did—

…is now just a Claude-shaped hole.

Someone grabs his arm from behind. “Hey, beautiful,” a voice slurs hotly by his ear, breath reeking of alcohol. “That mercenary not wanna give you a good time?” Another arm wraps around his waist. “Why doncha come with us—” starts a second wasted voice.

Claude’s in a very bad mood and this headache is getting worse. He spins around glaring death. He decks the two startled drunks with a pair of sharp hooks, and throws in a couple of vicious roundhouse kicks for good measure. The two men crumple to the ground, whimpering like puppies. 

Claude stalks off in the direction Dias had gone in, not feeling better at all.

Dias has managed to get a lead on some of the odd artifact disappearances Eglas and the elders had asked him to look into. But based on the puzzle he’s assembled so far, he’s having doubts the activity is really the work of Herlie’s bandit king. They seem rather obscure things for the bandits to be interested in—unless there’s someone else behind them, someone who can actually use them. An associate meddler, he suspects. The bandits’ involvement may actually be no more than Zand experimenting with new commissions or partnerships, seeing if they lead to anything or not. And the actual plotting driven by someone else.

The contact he was talking to has left, but Dias remains sitting at the bar, thinking things over in his mind, before considering the next person to track down in the port town’s various taverns. “Why Mars…?” he mutters to himself. “What’s the connection…?”

That’s when he’s interrupted by someone sliding into the empty seat next to him. The person puts an arm down on the counter in front of him to get his attention. Dias looks over.

It’s the youth from earlier. At this proximity, his clear blue eyes are startling, standing out to Dias even more than when he was a sword length away. He gives Dias an emphatic look. 

Dias returns it with a completely impassive expression. He pushes his chair back and stands up to leave. The youth gets up as well and reaches over, grasping Dias’ arm in a way that’s overly familiar.

He shakes off the youth and glares down at him. “Don’t touch me. Go harass someone else.” He turns to leave again. When he feels the youth tug on his cloak, he spins around, drawing his sword and pressing the blade against the young man’s neck. “That wasn’t a suggestion.” 

The youth stares wide-eyed, his eyes lowering to the blade, and then back up at Dias. But he doesn’t back away. 

After a few moments, Dias lowers the weapon. He doesn’t sheath it, making it explicit that he’s serious about using it if he’s followed again. He exits the tavern without a backwards glance.

Claude sits on the steps of the tavern’s back door, facing the back alley. He clasps the sides of his head and growls in frustration. Or he would have, if he could vocalize any noise at all. This is all going wrong. It’s like their first meeting in Mars Village all over again, full of poor communication. Really one-way communication, since Dias is not paying him enough attention to attempt to interpret any of his nonverbal signals. 

He can’t blame Dias though. If Claude is just a complete stranger now, Dias’ behaviour makes perfect sense. And to be honest, it probably didn’t help that Claude impulsively went in and sat down without first working out how he would interact when he can’t say anything. This headache is really making it hard to not be reactive, to not act or lash out without thinking.

From what he heard of Dias talking to himself, there’s something happening with Mars Village. Claude knows how single-minded Dias can be in pursuing a task, and how little he cares for interacting with people who haven't demonstrated any ounce of capability or relevance in his eyes. It was always easy to get Dias to stop and listen to him—back when Dias knew him. And when he could actually talk. 

And now none of those are things.

“...can’t believe we got worsted by some pretty boy streetwalker…”

Claude jerks his head up at the voice. It’s the drunks from earlier. He doesn’t actually know them by sight because he didn’t get a good look before he punched them both out in his fury, but their conversation makes it obvious who they are. The two men support each other as they hobble down the alley, making painfully slow progress, and fortunately don’t notice Claude just ahead of them.

He looks around, gets up, moves behind some barrels and crates, and ducks down. He peeks through a slit between two crates.  

“This… better never get to Zand.”

“Wassin’ that Dias Flac we passed by jus’ now…? We’ll jus’ say—we ran inta him an’ he did it.”

“Better tell Zand ‘bout him. Maybe he got wind of the Mars thing.”

Claude’s eyes narrow. The bandit king of Herlie has something planned for Mars Village? This is probably what’s bothering Dias.

“Y’think Zand’ll wanna pull out of the deal…?”

“Naw. It wassin’ a big’un. The warlock already paid. Most of the group’s headed to the forest already. It’s jus’ bodyguards for when he finishes an’ fires the crest, is all. Should be done in a day or two.”

“Wassat crest business all about, anyways—?”

Claude half-rises, then goes back down when he realizes that even if he were to go over and pummel them again, he can’t force them to reveal anything. He can’t threaten them in words, and they’d have no idea what he wants from them. All he can do is follow, listen, and hope they continue chatting about this.

As the bandits shuffle and stumble the rest of the way down the alley, Claude sneaks carefully after them.

Another tavern, another encounter. Anyone else would be flattered at being repeatedly hounded by a pretty face. Dias, on the other hand, is more annoyed than anything. Though he supposes the persistence is admirable.

The surprise is that this time, the youth looks as if he’s just come from a fight. His hair is mussed up, his clothing is a little disarrayed, and he’s sporting a few mild bruises. He also seems intent on dragging Dias somewhere. Dias wonders if the youth is being forced to pursue a mark, but he looks about as annoyed as Dias feels, as opposed to being cowed and coerced into doing whatever he’s doing by a handler. Maybe he was fending off other would-be customers.

In any case, Dias is irritated enough to not even bother saying ‘You again’. He simply throws the young man across the room and into a table and a couple of chairs. Other bar patrons scatter around them.

“This better be the last I see of you,” he snarls. “I won’t be so patient next time.”

As Dias leaves, again, Claude is mentally screaming at his back. No, you cement-headed moron! We don’t have time for this! I’m trying to tell you about the thing you’re looking into! There’s a warlock in the Heraldry Forest playing around with a powerful destruction crest right now, none of the elders are detecting it because it’s cloaked by all the magic there! I know how many bandits he hired from Zand, I already beat up like a third of them before they could leave and join their buddies, I left them lying by the side of the road on the other side of town, come with me and they can tell you everything I can’t say!

For fuck’s sake… Dias. Dias!! Turn around… Just—come back…!!

Of course Dias does not turn around and come back. Dias probably thinks Claude is some crazy weirdo stalking him around town and hassling him to—you know what, Claude doesn’t want to know who or what Dias thinks he is, or what Dias imagines he’s trying to do. 

He sits there in the pile of overturned furniture, staring at the familiar figure walking further and further away. Part of him considers stopping Dias by clocking him in the back of the head with a Meteor Palm. But he has enough presence of mind in his temper to realize that A) a direct impact to the back of Dias’ head hard enough to stop him from leaving is highly liable to knock the man out with a bad concussion and/or even kill him, especially if he’s not expecting Claude to be able to do anything of the sort. And as pissed as Claude is at Dias right now, killing or seriously injuring Dias is the last thing he would ever want to do.

And B) even if he knocks Dias out and manages to give Dias only—‘only’—a mildly traumatic brain injury instead of a massive one, he’d be stuck dragging an unconscious six-foot-something swordsman around for the next few hours at the very least, trying to get medical assistance when he can’t talk and is in a town where both of them are already recognized on sight by the bandits headquartered here. Well, recognize Dias on sight, and now probably recognize Claude as some shit-disturber who caused a ruckus and took out a bunch of them before he found Dias again just now. 

And C) if Meteor Palm doesn’t knock Dias out and/or kill him, it would cause Dias to re-evaluate him as not just some rando but a serious threat who needs to be addressed. Possibly even mistake him as being aligned with the bandits or someone else trying to impede him. Considering Dias’ attitude towards him to date, it would likely provoke a completely pointless fight. A fight in which Claude would be at a severe disadvantage since Dias has Claude’s damn sword and Claude has nothing but his bare fists. And no way to explain anything to Dias before one of them is out cold. Or worse.

Based on what Claude knows of the situation in Mars, there’s no time for any of this. He grits his teeth and exhales. This is a dead end. He needs to stop chasing it.

Claude gets up and leaves the tavern, ignoring the aches from the fall and the stare and whispers from the staff and the rest of the clientele. Outside, he tries to clear his head, tries to forget about his frustrations with Dias and use the time he has wisely. To work out some other, Dias-less, chain of actions. 

He needs to get to Mars to stop the crest activation. Trying to get to Mars on foot with no weapon is not wise. It’s frustrating that none of the bandits he's beaten up so far had any weapons on them. But then again, he probably wouldn't have attempted fighting a group of them bare-handed if that had been the case. They're really getting cocky and complacent, acting like they own Herlie. 

But Herlie is a port town, so there are always people bringing goods in and out. He could find someone going in the right direction and secretly hitch a ride. And as for a weapon… he can figure that part out when he gets there. 

Claude heads over to a loading station where numerous carts and wagons await their goods. He loiters around unobtrusively, listening in on conversations. “Of course,” one of the drivers is saying. “These are headed for the capital, but I’ll be dropping a few off in the mage village along the way.”

Perfect; he can drop Claude off too. At an appropriate moment when no one’s paying attention, Claude sneaks into the back of the covered wagon and makes himself as comfortable as possible under the tarp. It seems densely packed with wrapped herbs; not the worst thing for a long ride, assuming the wagon travels efficiently and doesn’t make any other stops. At least everything smells nice and not like a bunch of drunks trying to feel him up.

As the wagon rolls along, Claude sifts through the packages curiously, wondering if he can find something for his bruises. As he opens one of the string-tied, paper-wrapped bundles, the release of sweet, earthy and refreshing fragrances practically bowls him over with nostalgia, taking him back to his very first day on Expel. 

He’s standing in Hearn’s general store in Arlia, glancing up at the knotted bunches hanging from the ceiling, gazing down at the leafy sprigs laying in neat boxes around the counter. Looking at Rena telling him about the usefulness of herbs, and her staring agape at his complete ignorance of them. In his mind's eye he can see her gasping, hand over her mouth, shaking her head in amazement that he’d somehow managed to stay alive on his long journey from a place even further away than El. 

The memory makes him smile. It also makes him want to cry. 

He misses everyone so much.

Claude peeks out from under the tarp, eyes darting from one side to the other. His terrible luck seems to have made a turnabout: he picked a great wagon to piggyback on. They’ve made amazing time, and he can see the familiar outskirts of Mars. Here is probably a good place to hop off before he gets discovered and can’t explain himself. 

At the edge of the village, he looks down at the length of the shadows being cast by the sun, and considers their position. By the time he manages to convince someone to take the time to figure out what he’s trying to tell them, it may very well be too late. He’ll have to go directly into the Heraldry Forest himself.

After the salt air of Herlie, the scent of the forest pulls him in immediately. It’s not the Shingo Forest with its beautiful, soothing majesty, but the Heraldry Forest has its own special quality. He’s no Crest user, and he can’t imagine what this place must feel like to an actual master of the Heraldic arts. But he’s been around very powerful Crest mages long enough to be able to recognize the rich undertone and texture of thick magic. And also…

Claude carries a lot of fondness for the Shingo Forest, since that’s where he first landed on Expel. But the Heraldry Forest offers him a great deal to be wistful about, too. Different, but no less deep. 

Because Mars Village is where he first met Dias. 

The thought causes him to vividly recall a moment that seems like a lifetime ago now. Celine standing beside him as he gets up after assessing the fallen Master of Heraldry. Sheathing his sword just in time to see Dias and Rena coming towards them from another path in the forest. He remembers the studied glance Dias had given the body at their feet, then the careful look Dias had given him. The question he’d been asked. You took him out by yourself?

He remembers demurring, answering that it was with Celine’s help. And he remembers everything else Dias had said after, as clearly as if it had all happened yesterday. The day we cross swords may not be so far away. I look forward to it. I apologize for my rudeness earlier. You probably wouldn't have been a burden after all.

It was the first time he'd heard praise he knew had nothing else hidden behind it. No expectation for him to do, or to be, something for someone else—as Ronixis J. Kenni’s son, as some supposed Warrior of Light, or whatever. Just praise for him, and nothing else. The first time he felt like he could—that he just might—actually be worth something as himself. 

He stops and stares blankly out at the dense, misted forest and its dim, shadowy paths. Whatever Dias’ memory of that day is, it’s nothing with Claude in it anymore.

For some reason, the Field of Love comes to his mind, the most disturbing of the visions he’d experienced on Energy Nede. All he can think of is that voice—that familiar, imagined voice—telling him he has to go the rest of the way by himself. He suddenly feels like… like he's lost everything. Just like what happened at the end of that vision, despair and hysteria start to bubble up from his gut. 

He pushes the feelings down. There’s no time. There’s no time. But try as he might, he just can’t shake the feeling that this time is so different from all the other times. Every other time, he had his friends with him, or he knew his friends were waiting. This time, no one knows who he is. No one knows he exists.

He’s never felt so alone.

Claude tries to reframe his thoughts. The reality is that he’d already been ready to die when he returned to Eluria Tower. When they’d entered Fienal. When the Crest of Annihilation had activated. When the time displacement shield had started malfunctioning and needed something to channel its error through. He’ll just—just be ready to die again. Not the cheeriest of ideas, but if he thinks of this as all extra borrowed time anyways, it’s something to help him steel himself. At least a little. 

Claude closes his eyes, shakes his head. Inhales and exhales in a bit of box breathing, four seconds at a time, to calm himself down. Focus. Focus. Thirteen bandits. And he has no weapon. But that might not be a big deal. If he can get the jump on one, then he’ll have a sword. And that should be all he needs. Because he’s not a burden to anybody.

That decided, Claude straightens. He shakes out each arm in turn and does a little hop from one leg to the other, his pre-fight prep habit picked up from the martial arts sessions in his combat classes, psyching himself up for what’s to come. He looks around for a good place to hide. He climbs up a tree, thick with foliage, and waits for someone to head this way.

Soon enough, he sees a single bandit approach and pause under the tree he’s in. On the other side of the path, some animal in the undergrowth makes a rustling sound. The man glances in its direction.

Claude drops down silently behind him.

Dias had come across a small group of unarmed bandits along the path to Zand’s mansion. Or rather, a small pile of bandits. Only one of them was in any shape to talk, and Dias managed to get enough of a story out of that one to make his next steps decisive. They were the last of a group contracted by a warlock, on their way back to Zand’s mansion after having some fun about town, about to retrieve their equipment before leaving Herlie. The warlock had been stealing artifacts and using the Heraldry Forest to hide his crest experiment—a spell that could potentially level the surrounding area. As part of the contract, the sorcerer had apparently promised to share the results with the bandit king, but that was the extent of Zand’s involvement. Whoever had beaten the group up, Dias had no clue, and the one conscious bandit didn’t get to that part before he passed out. 

But that’s not Dias’ main concern right now. As soon as he’d heard enough, he’d raced to the edges of the port town, flagged down the first carriage he saw heading out, and paid the driver extra to detour to Mars as fast as the horses could fly. He'd charged straight into the village, interrupted a meeting of elders, and gave them a rapidfire briefing of the situation. Knowing him, no one questioned his report, and they’d formulated a plan on the spot. It was a simple but effective one: Dias and several mages would head into the forest while the rest set up defensive shield spells; Dias would take down the bandits, and the mages accompanying him would sense out the warlock’s crest and safely disable it. 

That had been the plan. But as they were wrapping up, before anyone could even turn to leave the room, all of the most experienced, sensitive mages had frozen, then exclaimed in surprise. They’d all felt a sudden rush of power, a ripple from the direction of the forest. And then it was gone. 

Nothing was damaged in the village. If anything, it seemed like a pressure that had been building up unnoticed in the forest had lifted.

Their only conclusion: the crest must have been activated—and then disrupted before any destruction could be unleashed outside of whatever the drawn rune's immediate perimeter was.

So instead, he and Eglas had headed into the Heraldry Forest, while the rest of the mages set up precautionary defenses. They enter tentatively, wondering what they would find.

What they find is that someone had gotten there before them. Dias looks down at the bandit lying prone on the ground. Interestingly, the scabbard at his waist is empty. Whoever took him out must have taken his sword as well.

As he and Eglas progress along the path, they find more fallen bandits in small groups, here and there. Dias counts one, two, three, three, four—thirteen in total. And then they find the sorcerer, the instigator of the entire drama, flat on his back, no vital signs. Eglas recognizes the man: a vainglorious warlock who harboured some old grudges against Mars Village after having been kicked out for unscrupulous activities. They'd heard nothing of him for years; he'd likely been building up resources for this, revenge combined with a little pet project. No particular shock to uncover someone like this behind everything. As to the mage's end, Eglas suspects a backfired spell. The scent of burnt air is everywhere. Not smoke, not fire, just the feeling of a singed atmosphere. Also, for some reason, the scent of fragrant herbs.

When they reach the end of the mess, they find the least surprising thing: a disrupted crest at the site. Whatever danger might have been is no more. There are only burn marks left in the shape of the runes. And, on the ground, glinting in the hazy misted forest light, a sword. 

At least, it used to be a sword. It’s half melted from the sword-guard down into a bizarre shape. Based on the design and patterns of the hilt, it looks like a match with the scabbard on the first fallen bandit they’d come across.

Eglas gasps, places a hand on Dias’ arm. “Look.”

Dias turns his head. A short distance away, there’s someone lying on the ground. Even from here, Dias can see the clothing is not like that of the bandits’ at all. 

It must be whoever entered the forest and started taking them out. And judging from the relative positions of the crest’s remains, the melted sword and the body, the person must have arrived at the crest, disrupted it before it could finish activating, then tried to use the sword to protect themselves from the sudden emanating energy of the broken spell. They likely deflected the strongest initial part of the blast, and then the force flung the weapon out of the wielder’s hands.

They run over. The person is curled up, lying on their left side. Unconscious—or possibly dead. Dias drops down to his knees next to the body for a better look.

It's bad—though not as terrible as Dias had been expecting. Survivable. The right side of the upper body clearly took the brunt of the crest’s emanation. There are bloody wounds streaked across the forehead, right eye, neck, shoulder, chest. The right arm is completely mangled from elbow downwards. From what Dias can see, he doubts it can be saved. 

He reaches out to the shoulder to carefully, gently turn the body over. To clearly see the face of the person who’d saved Mars Village without anyone knowing. 

To Dias’ astonishment, he finds himself looking down at the strange young man who’d kept pursuing him in Herlie. Aside from the damage across his right eye, and the blood and wounds and dirt streaked across his cheek, the youth looks rather peaceful, as if he were only sleeping. Long, pale bangs frame his face delicately. 

A series of images, sharp and as lucid as a vision, suddenly flash in Dias’ mind. In each of them, he can see the setting perfectly. The final match of the Arms. The cheers of the crowd around them. He had fought—who? He can’t remember. It was the finals. He thinks back on it fondly as the most enjoyable, satisfying match he’d ever had. Clearly his opponent had been someone very good. So why can’t he remember? 

And then for some reason he thinks of the Lacour Frontlines. The stone of the fortress, standing by the parapet, the Lacour Hope just behind them, overlooking them like a guardian sentinel. Who's 'them'? There was someone there he was worried about. Rena. It must have been Rena. But no, that’s not right. He’d actually been much less worried about Rena at that time because there was—there was what?

And then the final battle in Fienal. The dying red glow around them, the crests swirling, spinning in the air. At his side, with all of them, leading the charge—what?

The environment is so vivid in each memory, but in every one, there’s a strange gap in the scene. An emptiness. 

“Dias.” Eglas’ urgent voice breaks him out of his trance. “He’s still breathing.”

Dias shakes his head to clear the jumble of thoughts. He doesn’t have time for this. And certainly the young man lying in front of him doesn’t have time for this. 

With Eglas’ help, he carefully scoops the youth up. They race back to the village to get him the care he needs.

Hands are lifting his upper body, his arms, his legs, cradling his head. He feels someone moving his limbs as if he were a marionette, trying to get him into position for something. There are voices all around him, blurring and blending together. He has no idea what they’re saying—but in the midst of the people talking, he hears Dias’ voice. And he hears the voices of Celine’s parents. 

The pain on his right side is almost unbearable. He feels like he’s on fire, or being slowly torn apart. He must be screaming—he feels like he’s screaming—but nothing comes out of his throat. 

But because he can hear their voices, he’s sure he’ll be okay.

An agony later, he drifts out of awareness again, back into a merciful darkness.

Dias stares silently at the young man asleep in bed. The youth’s right arm is gone; his right eye is probably useless. But he’s alive. And covered in bandages. They would need to change them again shortly, and keep an eye on him constantly for the next while before they can be sure of the stability of his condition. 

It’s clear that if it hadn’t been for this strange young man, the entire village of Mars would likely have been little more than ashes right now.

Labe sits in a chair at the bedside, and gently brushes the youth’s bangs back from his forehead to check his temperature. Eglas stands by the foot of the bed next to Dias. Both of them are as discomfited as Dias is. 

They’ve all seen other grievously injured people before, some less wounded than this. Many of them panic in confusion when receiving aid. Dias had fully expected they’d have to do something to calm or hold the young man down. But this youth—when he heard their voices, he immediately relaxed. As much as one could relax for the terrible treatment of amputating an arm. He’d screamed silently throughout the procedure before passing out again, but never once acted as if he wasn’t aware that they were trying to help him. It was as if he had recognized everyone. 

But no one has any idea who he is.

Finally Labe speaks. Her voice is quiet, filled with wonder. “...How did he know his way around the Heraldry Forest…?”

Eglas turns to Dias. “You said you’ve seen him before?”

Dias shakes his head. “He tried to follow me when I was investigating in Herlie.”

“There’s something very strange about him.”

Dias laughs without any sense of humour. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Hush.” Labe gives them both a hard stare. “If you two want to talk through your theories, go to the other room. Tria knows the poor boy needs rest.”

Eglas nods. He and Dias leave the youth to Labe’s watch.

Outside, Eglas says, “He has a strange quality about him, an otherworldly scent. And I’m not talking about the herbs. Call it a sorcerer’s instinct, but—I don’t believe he’s from Expel.” Eglas pauses. “And right now, as I’m telling you this, I have the strangest sense that… that I’ve had almost this exact conversation before. In this very house.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “But—I can’t think of who I might have been speaking with. Nothing comes to mind.”

“Hmm.” It reminds Dias of the strange, blank flashbacks he had when he’d looked down at the youth lying on the ground. 

Eglas looks thoughtful. “Tell me, Dias. How did we meet?”

An easy enough question, though Dias isn’t sure what relevance it has to their current discussion. “I was training for the Arms and happened to stop by here,” he replies. “An old man asked if I could assist in the matter of the kidnapped children. I met you and Labe during the meeting.”

“And tell me, who else was there at the meeting?”

Dias wonders where these questions are going. “You and Labe, one of the elders, the Master of Heraldry… and Celine and Rena. They’d been travelling together to investigate the Sorcery Globe.”

“And then what happened?”

“I insulted your daughter—” Dias smiles in wry amusement at the memory—“and said I would resolve the kidnapping by myself. Then Rena asked me to work with her and Celine. I would have, but Celine refused. So Rena accompanied me. We rose early to rescue the children in a red herring chase while Celine took down the true enemy, the possessed Heraldic master.” As he relates the events, Dias finds himself starting to frown. What he says is what happened. But upon reflection, it seems... odd. 

Dias repeats, almost as if to himself, “Rena and I went to rescue the children. Rena was with me. Celine was by herself. You were injured.” But as he speaks, the idea of Rena leaving Celine to work alone, of Celine defeating the possessed Heraldic master unassisted… Something doesn’t seem quite right about all of these assumptions.

But that’s what had happened.

“I remember it the same as you,” says Eglas. “But I see you’re beginning to draw the same conclusion as I have. Celine couldn’t have taken the man down. She wouldn’t have had the speed with her casting, and she couldn’t have caused the main injuries he sustained.”

Dias realizes Eglas is correct. He had examined the body on the ground himself. Only a sword—a swordsman—could have done it.

Eglas looks at Dias. “You didn’t fight him.”

Dias shakes his head. “He was already defeated when Rena and I regrouped with Celine.”

Eglas says, “When did Rena and Celine start travelling together?”

“When they met in Cross.”

“Was Rena travelling alone before then?”

Dias opens his mouth, then stops. He frowns again. She must have been travelling with someone else. Westa would never have permitted her to leave Arlia on such a long and dangerous journey alone. And Regis would have backed that up. But he can’t recall Rena ever mentioning travelling with anyone before meeting Celine in Cross. Why would she have nothing to say about any companions before then? The journey from Arlia to Cross Castle is hardly a short one.

“What happened on your adventure to restore Expel from the Sorcery Globe? What were some of the milestones of your journey?”

Dias folds his arms. “We fought alongside the army of Lacour at the Frontlines, then travelled to El with the Hope. Our ship was destroyed and we washed ashore. We found the colony of survivors, headed into Eluria Tower, encountered the Ten Wise Men, and were transported to Energy Nede. We defeated the Ten Wise Men and returned to Expel.” 

Even as Dias gives this high level summary, as he reflects rapidly on all of the events, he realizes there are some illogical, even outlandish pieces in his memory of what they went through. After the shipwreck, Leon had washed ashore separate from everyone else, and arrived days later… had the child really made his way to the colony by himself, through dense monster-infested woods, crying the entire time? They had stood around waiting for hours in Eluria Tower for… some reason he can’t remember. Rena was attacked by one of the Wise Men at the top of the tower and… something terrible had happened, but she was fine. They were all shocked in Fienal when the Wise Men destroyed a spaceship… but why did they care? What did the spaceship even mean to them?

And suddenly Dias remembers he had promised to do something when he returned to Expel. Something that kept him going during the final battle, something beyond saving the universe and restoring Expel. Something very meaningful and important to him. Something to do with—with what?

Eglas nods. “You seem to be finding there are some gaps in your memory. Celine had the same experience when she was recounting everything to us.” He paces slightly, arms folded behind his back. “We assumed it was from the exhaustion of everything you had all been through. But now… for some reason I find myself reminded of the ancient legend of the Warrior of Light, who manifests from another world to save Expel. We never saw such a Warrior manifest. But I wonder—” 

Eglas looks in the direction of the room where the young man is sleeping. “I wonder if perhaps the Warrior did manifest. And then after our world was saved and there was no longer a need for him… every impression of his existence was wiped from it.”

Dias looks in the direction of the room as well. “You think he knows all of us. We just don’t remember him. And he can’t tell us anything.”

“That is my theory.” Eglas shakes his head. “I realize it is…farfetched. And I don't even know why these ideas have arisen. But I cannot help but think along these lines.”

Dias thinks of how familiar the young man had acted towards him when they met in Herlie. How shocked and pained his expression had been at Dias’ response.

He imagines being seen only as a complete stranger by everyone he knows, everyone he loves. 

If Eglas’ theory is true, it may very well be the most horrible fate Dias has ever heard of.

Dias rejects Labe’s proposal to take turns watching over the youth. He commits himself to sit in the chair next to the bed. There’s not much to do aside from nap. The youth sleeps for a long time, which is unsurprising with the injuries he has. Periodically he seems to mouth words in his sleep, but there are no sounds. 

Dias has a lot of time to observe him, to take in every detail of his sleeping form, and assure himself that he honestly, truly, does not recognize the youth from anywhere at all, aside from their recent encounters in Herlie. Even with his injuries, the young man has undeniably striking and attractive features. There is no way anyone, much less someone who has trained himself into careful, finely-tuned survival memory for observing people the way Dias has, would forget a face like that.

And it’s painfully obvious to him that none of the young man’s injuries would have happened if Dias hadn’t dismissed him in Herlie. Not once, not twice, but three times. He’d undoubtedly been looking for Dias, had been trying to communicate something each time. And Dias had just ignored him. Tossed him aside. Hadn’t given him the time of day to even attempt to explain. And the young man, running out of time, had decided he had no choice but to go to the Heraldry Forest by himself.

Dias refuses to make that mistake again. 

So he’s the one in the room when the youth wakes up with a start, as if from a nightmare, then immediately folds up to one side from the pain. Dias does nothing, uncertain if any sudden action on his part will cause more distress, or if the young man will simply fall asleep again. After a while, the youth lifts his head, then slowly looks over at his right arm, which ends just above the elbow. He stares blankly, then hesitatingly reaches up with an unsteady left arm to feel the bandages over his right eye. 

He looks dazed. Stunned. As one would be, if you were to wake up and discover you’re missing a limb and probably your eye as well.

Then he folds up again and starts to hyperventilate.

Dias places a hand on the youth’s back and rubs it soothingly. It’s awkward for him to comfort a stranger like this. But after the conversation with Eglas, he also feels that perhaps he should be doing something more. 

“You’re safe here,” he says. 

The youth immediately calms down at the sound of his voice. The fast, sharp gasps slow, and his breathing gradually evens out. He turns his head and looks at Dias. From his expression, he clearly recognizes Dias, and doesn't seem to be anything but elated to see him.

It only makes Dias feel all the more guilty.

The youth allows himself to be helped up into a sitting position, propped up with multiple pillows. When he finishes making the young man comfortable, Dias says, “You need to eat something. There's soup.” The youth looks over, his gaze falling on the large covered bowl Labe had left. His stomach rumbles as if on cue, and he flushes slightly, looking embarrassed. Dias half-smiles at the charmingly mundane reaction, and he goes and gets the bowl on a folding tray with a spoon and a cloth.

He helps to hold and stabilize the tray and bowl while the youth feeds himself, slowly, unsteadily with his left hand. After a few spoonfuls, he seems exhausted, so Días takes over and feeds him, wiping the youth’s face with the cloth as needed. When he finishes, Dias takes everything away, then returns to sit next by the bed again. The youth looks at him, smiles a grateful smile, then leans back slightly to rest against the pillows, closing his eye as if he doesn’t expect anything else.

Dias swallows. Then he says what he had rehearsed carefully in his mind while waiting for the young man to wake up. 

“I’m sorry.” 

The youth’s eye opens and flickers over to him. He turns his head slightly to look at Dias. 

“I don’t know you—no.” Dias corrects himself, frustrated that he’s already messing this up. “I don’t remember knowing you. But we clearly have a connection of some kind. I’m sorry for leaving you in Herlie. For not trusting you. For—for all of this happening. I promise I’ll work with you to find out who you are. Once you feel stronger… we can travel together for now.”

The young man stares silently, never taking his gaze off Dias the entire time. As Dias speaks, he sees a tear roll down the youth’s cheek. Then another. And another. 

Then, to Dias’ surprise, he says Dias’ name.

“Dias.” The weak sounds coming out of his mouth surprise both of them. Claude claps his hand over his mouth. Then he lowers his hand, and tests it again. “Dias.” Claude starts to laugh, silently, ecstatic at being able to get these important syllables out. Nothing else seems to come out, but this is enough. He half chokes on something, maybe his own tears, and leans forward coughing, trying to clear his throat. Dias thumps his back. 

After Claude stops coughing, the corners of Dias’ lips curl up. “Well. If you’re able to say my name, I certainly need to call you something, don’t I.”

Claude ponders. Is there anything that would even be suitable to use for some kind of charades? And then he remembers: the Eternal Sphere. It has an inscription of his name. And next to it, Dias had helped him transcribe and engrave the sounds for his name in Expellian.

His eye falls on Dias’ waist. But Dias doesn’t have his sword belt on. Claude looks around the room, and then past Dias, and spies the sword resting on a chair in its scabbard. He points at it.

Dias’s line of sight follows Claude’s. First down at himself, and then around the room, and then at the Eternal Sphere, then back at Claude. 

Dias furrows his brow dubiously. “‘Sword’? You want me to call you ‘Sword’?” 

Claude’s eye twitches. Using his one arm to throttle Dias crosses his mind.

The young man seems unimpressed, even peeved, at Dias’ poor guess. The reaction almost makes Dias laugh. It reminds him of—of something. He blinks. Another blank memory.

Then the young man makes a muted sigh of exasperation. He shakes his head, then winces at the motion. He lifts his left hand, gestures with it, miming the action of wielding a sword and then waving towards himself in a ‘come here’ motion, obviously requesting Dias to bring him the weapon. 

Dias gets up, brings back the sword, and lays it in the young man’s lap. The youth attempts to pull it out of the sheath, struggling with it. Dias places a palm on the sheath, weighing it down slightly so that the youth can draw it. He pulls it out far enough to expose a section of the blade below the hilt. Then he lets go of the hilt of the sword and points towards the inscription.

“Gamgee?” 

Dias’ second guess is met with an eye-roll and an emphatic head shake. The young man taps the blade at a specific spot. Dias leans over, looks closer. 

It’s the part of the inscription with the second smith’s seal, the one who did the upgrade to the sword. He squints at it. He couldn’t read it the last time he tried; the symbols were, and remain, unrecognizable. 

But now that he looks closer he sees there’s something next to them. A much smaller engraving, in Expellian characters. Dias is surprised; it looks almost like his own hand, how he would have engraved letters onto a blade. As if he had assisted the smith who upgraded the sword, who perhaps didn’t know the letters of the Expellian language. But it can’t be his work. Dias has no recollection of doing anything like this. He’d never seen this sword in his life before he received it in the infinity space.

Then he realizes—perhaps these characters are sounding out the unrecognizable symbols. 

He reads them aloud slowly, phonetically. “Cl…Clau… Claude? Claude... Kenni?” As he does so, he glances over at the youth to see how he’s doing. As Dias sounds out what must be his name, joy washes over the young man’s face. The youth bites his lower lip and nods vigorously. 

“Claude,” repeats Dias. “Claude.” It’s a name completely unfamiliar to him, but it somehow rolls off his tongue very easily, and feels right. Then he says, “It’s good to meet you, Claude.”

At that, Claude bows his head and covers his face with his remaining hand. His upper body shakes as he sobs silently. 

Dias is unsure if Claude is crying from relief or disappointment. Or both. Or something else. He sits there, not knowing what to do. After a while, he slowly wraps an arm around Claude’s shoulder. All he knows is that he feels he mustn’t leave Claude alone.

They stay at Eglas and Labe’s, waiting for Claude to rebuild his strength enough for travel. For the first few days, anytime someone says something along the lines of, “Claude, was it?” or “Nice to meet you, Claude”, the young man briefly looks like someone stabbed him in the chest. Then he smiles and nods. Sometimes Dias thinks he looks like he might cry, but he never does—aside from that time with Dias after he first woke up, and sometimes when he’s sleeping. Some nights he hears Claude’s breathing pattern change, an indication to Dias that he’s weeping silently. Dias continues keeping watch over him at night, napping in the chair next to the bed, until Labe finally has Eglas set up a cot in the small room. 

Once Claude becomes more consistently mobile, he tries to help Labe around the house, quietly following her about and organizing and arranging things after her, or clearing a way for her with his one arm. She repeatedly stops him and shoos him off, until Dias points out that simple chores will help Claude exercise and acquire greater dexterity with his amputated limb. She reluctantly agrees, then hovers and buzzes about the young man like a mother hen. Only after she’s certain Claude isn't keeling over every second does she gradually ease up and put him to light duties. He assists her with cooking prep and cleaning, then running errands. 

Claude is a curious, intriguing sight in the village: a comely one-eyed, one-armed youth silently making his way from one shop to another, a basket in the crook of his elbow and Labe’s shopping list in hand, politely flagging down the shopkeep and gesturing demurely. Dias often sees some of the children tagging along with Claude on his errands. He seems very friendly and indulgent with them. Some afternoons he finds Claude watching a couple of them proudly showing him what they’d learned in their Heraldry lessons, or one of them sitting in his lap and reading out loud to him from a book.

Dias has only ever heard Claude say two words. The first is Dias’ name, which Claude periodically uses to get his attention before pointing at something or gesturing. Sometimes the verbalization is accompanied by a light tug on Dias’ sleeve or cloak, because when Claude does speak, it’s very quiet, with a soft rasp, as if it hurts him to go any louder. The second word emerged unexpectedly one evening, when Claude knocked over a jug in the kitchen while helping Labe get something as they prepared for dinner. The vessel fell to the floor with a spectacular crash, instantly dashed to pieces. He, Labe and Eglas all clearly heard Claude’s distressed exclamation: a softly rasped “Sorry!” followed by heavy coughing. It surprised all of them, most of all Claude. 

Dias tries to keep up a conversation with his soon-to-be travel companion whenever he can. He finds it rather ironic, even funny, that he’s in this role. He never used to be comfortable chatting casually with others, certainly not a stranger, not until—until—something. He remembers a conversation he had with Rena at the Frontlines about feeling more open to it and why that was, but he can’t remember what her reply was. These blank memories seem to happen a lot whenever he’s interacting with Claude. 

In any case, Dias does his best to carry on the talking part, casually asking questions as if Claude can answer. He rarely expects a verbal reply. Instead, he puts his experience observing people, opponents, to work, and watches Claude’s physical reactions carefully. Claude’s face is very expressive, with many beautiful subtleties; Dias finds that his smile alone has a million variations. There’s the mild, calmly attentive one, like when a small child is leading him around the village by the hand and chattering ceaselessly to him. The one where his entire face and eye brighten in pleased delight when he learns or manages to do something new, like figuring out a way to help Labe fold freshly laundered clothing with his left arm and right stump. And that one doesn’t hold a candle to the one Dias remembers from when he met Claude, when he was pointing the infinity space sword at him in Herlie. And certainly not the silent laughing smile and the overjoyed expression from the day he and Claude said each other’s names for the first time—or at least, the first time Dias is aware of.

The youth is also imaginative in coming up with situational gestures, and consistent enough in repeating them that Dias can pull together a better sense of meaning and intention in different contexts. Between the two of them, they slowly assemble a kind of vocabulary. It’s limited, and Dias is sure he’s missing a lot of nuance at best, but it’s something.

And who knows? Claude started being able to say Dias’ name, and ‘sorry’, out of the blue. Perhaps one of these days something else will happen. 

Sometimes Claude closes his eye and imagines his arm is back. The phantom at the end of his residual limb itches and aches as if it’s still there. His stamina is definitely lower now; he tires more easily, and he continues getting those periodic migraines. They seem to be triggered by so many things: strong light; sounds of certain frequencies, pitches or qualities; mental effort; or just random emotions. Several times he’s even blacked out and awakened to find Labe, or a few of the village children, looking down at him in concern. As much as he appreciates their care, to his dismay, the kids have made it a habit to run off and find Dias whenever this happens. It worries Claude especially because Dias said they could travel together for now—and he doesn’t know what ‘for now’ means. Nor does he have any idea how to ask. He doesn’t know where he stands with Dias anymore, and the last thing he wants to be is a burden. 

But strangely, he finds that even though Dias still acts like he doesn’t know him, he seems kinder, gentler, more patient with him. And also—chattier. Not that Dias was ever quiet; he always readily voiced his sarcastic, blunt thoughts. And while they were very close and comfortable together by the time they left Energy Nede, having had numerous conversations on anything and everything, Dias had rarely been the one to initiate them. But now it’s like he’s actively making up for Claude’s silence. In fact, Dias is sometimes so chatty that Claude wants to tell him to shut up because of the migraines. The first time Claude couldn’t stand it anymore, an urgently hissed ‘Dias’ followed by putting a finger to his own lips in a ‘shhh’ gesture did the trick. Dias also takes the hint when Claude squeezes his one eye shut and tilts his head, grimacing and rubbing at his temple. A few times Dias notices before Claude actually signals anything to him. When Claude dips his head at a slight angle and narrows his eye just a tad from the pain in his head, or when he sucks in his breath. Dias looks at him, and then lets his words peter off.

At first Claude is confident it’s only a matter of time before he can explain things to everyone. But as the days pass, the time horizon feels like it continues to extend into a neverending distance. His confidence ebbs, flows, sometimes plummets. He’s able to express some things to Dias, but abstract thought, complicated ideas, are next to impossible. The communication barriers sometimes seem unsurmountable. His ability to speak hasn’t progressed any further beyond ‘Dias’ and ‘sorry’—and he suspects his ability to access those words, and the volume he's able to reach, may be directly related to the fact that they were the last things he muttered after activating the error containment. And he can hear people gossiping about him, but no one seems to want to actually ask him why he appears to know everyone, to know everything in the village, as if it’s not actually important to them, or they don’t expect him to be able to convey anything useful. His gestures to try to provoke this line of questioning, to draw explanations on paper, go nowhere. 

His attempts at learning to write more in Expellian have fared a little better, but are agonizingly slow. With the lists from Labe’s errands, his ability to recognize written words for things like vegetables and pantry items has improved. But it’s not exactly helpful for what he really wants to do. He attempts on his own, going through the books at Celine’s parents’ home, but finds it hard to focus. Several times Eglas finds him in the study lying face down, an open book near him, too exhausted to continue. He has slightly better luck when he plays with the kids, letting them take him around the village, point things out to him, read their books to him. Some of their stories are groaners, but the vocabulary is at least wider than groceries. And he’s learned a few interesting things about Heraldry as well.

Some nights Claude wakes up thinking that maybe he’s the one who’s got it wrong. That everyone else is right: they don’t know him. He never did any of the things he thinks he did. When he finds himself entertaining these thoughts, he becomes terrified. His communicator is gone, his phase gun is gone, his Federation uniform is gone. There is zero evidence of where he came from aside from his memories, and he knows memories are encoded in the connections in the brain. Without anyone else helping him to reinforce the connections, they’ll weaken and eventually fade away. 

It strikes Claude that somehow he’s ended his adventure in virtually the same circumstances as he’d started it—but worse. With no sign of where he came from, unable to communicate in anything other than short and simple reactions, and with one less arm and one less eye. Claude guesses his mutism could be some kind of aphasia, something from however his brain structure recombined after rematerializing. Maybe his body as well, but the fact that he can at least say two words is some kind of hope. The technical details are fuzzy, and he may be getting some of them wrong since he has no way of looking anything up. But he recalls that Broca’s area for processing language is—usually?—on the left side of the brain, and he’s lost a portion of his right side, which feeds into the left hemisphere. At the very least he needs to continue actively stimulating language usage, to force his brain to maintain and hopefully form new connections, to promote neuroplasticity.

Claude goes to Labe and lightly scratches the air, cocking his head and giving her a questioning expression. Then he holds his left hand against his residual limb, flipping his hand to mime the turning pages of a book, and then makes doodling gestures against his limb. After a few tries she understands, and finds him a blank journal and a piece of graphite. He begins to document things, switching between writing memories for himself and copying texts in Expellian. It’s a challenge with only one arm, so he borrows objects around the house to use as a paperweight as he forms slow, careful letters with his left hand. He tries to write in it at least once a day, stopping when the migraines prevent him from focusing anymore. The entries are short, and he jumps around as things occur to him. Whatever he can remember, whatever random thoughts come to mind. Just to keep using the words, thinking the words, sounding them out in his mind, mouthing them silently as he writes. 

My name is Claude C. Kenni. I was born on January 23, S.D. 347 on the planet Sol III (Earth) in Theta Sector of the Milky Way Galaxy. My parents were are both highly respected officers in the Pangalactic Federation. My father is Commodore Ronixis J. Kenni. My mother is Commander, Science Officer and symbology researcher Ilia Silvestri. I was strongly encouraged to follow in my father’s footsteps in pursuing a similar career. I studied combat arts at the Federation Academy and was head of my class all years. At age 19 I served in the Federation under service number 1449-2356-8733-1292-G as ensign on board the battleship Calnus… boring

Phase gun: While on the planet Milocinia (write about this later), I received a standard issue Federation service phase gun. This is a weapon that utilizes quantum phase magnification technology. The principle involves manipulation of matter at the atomic level, disrupting molecular cohesion and… beams of light, stuff gets blasted. There’s also a setting to dial it down to stun. I can’t remember the details right now. Come back to this later.

Expellian practice: Labe’s shopping list [written in Expellian: potatoes, leeks, eggs, cabbages, paper]

Labe’s green potage recipe [written in Expellian: list of ingredients and rough measurements]

Cecille (not Dias’ sister)’s favourite story. We have read it 3 4 5 6 7 times now. [written in Expellian: a very short, simple story about the adventure of a little girl who travels the world on a giant pink bunny]

When I was a kid I had a dog named Ratix. Dad named him. He had a super fluffy tail and he was really cute and friendly. He liked oranges. His zoomies drove Mom crazy. He was hit by a car [wobbly doodles of a dog-like shape and a car next to a sad teary face]

Space-time displacement shield: Super complicated. If you mess it up it turns you into a space with floating crystals when you try to fix it I’m tired. 

My head hurts.

One day Claude is taking a break after a sprint of writing, sitting at the table with his eye closed. He’s trying to meditate to settle the migraine, his left arm hugging his stomach in his best approximation of folded arms. He hears a rustling sound, and opens his eye to see Dias picking his journal up from the table. Dias rifles through it, half-smiling at Claude’s copies of shopping lists, recipes and children’s stories, and then pauses at the sections with the paragraphs he can't read. “What’s this?” he asks lightheartedly. “Are you writing a story?” Claude has no idea how to respond, and he looks down at the table. After a while, Dias sets the book back down, and doesn’t ask him any more questions about it.

On his lowest days, Claude feels trapped in a way he never felt the first time he arrived on Expel. Slowly, gradually, he gives up on the idea of ever filling in the Claude-shaped holes in everyone’s memories. Of letting people know what he was before this. If he’s honest with himself, some days he just feels too tired to deal with it. To solve another problem that feels far too big, far too overwhelming for him. And also, it’s a problem that in some ways seems… pointless to solve. It doesn’t seem to be a problem for anyone other than him. Whether or not they remember him from before, everyone seems happy, living their lives however they’re living, now that the Sorcery Globe is gone. 

Maybe he’s not giving up. Maybe he’s just… letting it go. Making peace with it. After all, Dias said they can travel together, and that’s really the only thing he wants, more than anything else in the world. They can make new memories together, and build on them. 

In his dreams, he hears Dr. Mirage’s voice, her final words echoing after him, as the phase shift’s light closes around him. 

Not all physical abilities will be restored immediately. Chronic conditions are likely. Furthermore, the side effect of you interfering with the space-time displacement is that all external memories of your entropic impacts to date, in the area of the displacement field, will be erased.

It’s unfortunate. Some effects may be irreversible. But I’m sure you’ll agree it’s better than the alternative.

Godspeed. Farewell.

Every so often, Claude looks up at the sky, wondering if memories of Ensign Kenni still exist somewhere, beyond the surface of Expel. 

They must… right?

Every so often, Dias catches Claude staring up at the sky. He wonders what Claude is looking for, thinking about. He remembers the time he flipped through a book the young man had clearly been writing in, pages and pages in that alien script of his that look like the characters in the second inscription on the sword. When he’d asked Claude what he was doing, the lightning flash of utter despair on Claude’s face stopped Dias in his tracks.

After some thought, Dias buys a new sword so that he can give the infinity space one to Claude, since it appears to bear the young man’s name as the smith who made its upgrades. Taking things at face value, he pieces together that Claude came into possession of a sword crafted by Gamgee, then modified it, and somehow lost it, and recognized it when he saw it on Dias. The rest, Dias has no idea. He wonders how a sword made by Gamgee ended up with Claude’s name on it, in a mysterious space with floating crystals and an invisible being giving it to him. 

In any case, the reality is that the build of the weapon makes it ideal for someone of Claude’s size. Dias’ own new sword will serve him for now. It’s fine, but nothing short of a disappointment compared to the calibre of Gamgee’s Sharpness and Claude’s sword. They’re an undeniable world apart in quality to anything else he’s ever wielded on Expel. In fact, he’d say Claude’s sword is even better than the Sharpness he’d lost. 

He decides, once Claude is well enough to defend himself to some degree, with a stable enough constitution to travel long distances, their first objective will be to head to Lacour to pay Gamgee a visit. Dias can purchase a new sword from the master weaponsmith, and perhaps the old man would recognize his work in Claude’s blade, and be able to tell them something more about the young man. 

“How does that sound?” Dias asks Claude, after outlining this plan to his silent but attentive partner at breakfast.

Claude’s right eye is now covered with a leather patch: a gift from Eglas and the elders of Mars Village, finely crafted and stitched with an ornate protective crest. Claude presses his lips in a tight line, closes his left eye, shakes his head at a slight angle, opens his eye, and smiles a kind of welcoming half-smile combined with a shrug. Dias interprets the reaction as skepticism that Gamgee would know anything, but openness to trying it.

After breakfast, Claude puts on the new sword belt from Dias. Or rather, Claude tries. The empty end of his right sleeve dangles in space as he tilts his upper body, attempting to use his right stump to pin the side of the belt against his hip, and pull the rest of the belt around himself with his left hand to fasten it. He actually gets pretty close, but then one or another thing slips, and he has to start over. 

After a few tries, Dias can see that the young man’s expression is growing cross, his body language visibly frustrated. Dias carefully says, “Do you want some help?” as non-judgmentally as he can. Claude looks at him and hesitates before nodding. Dias assists him in holding one end of the belt in place while Claude fastens the strap with his left hand, then rotates it to position the attachments for the scabbard on his right side.

Outside, he watches Claude practice with the sword. There’s a stiffness, an unsteadiness to the young man’s movements. He’s clearly not left-handed. But Dias can still tell from his stance, how he handles the blade: he’s intimately familiar with it. Dias is satisfied that the beautiful sword is with its rightful owner once more.

Observing him, Dias can also easily believe that Claude, with his right arm intact, had taken out all of the bandits in the Heraldry Forest. And in retrospect, likely the pile of bandits he’d found in Herlie as well. It’s evident that Claude was an extremely adept swordsman and fighter before his injuries. And he may very well be again, once he gets the hang of wielding the weapon with his non-dominant hand, and fully regains his strength. 

Dias finds himself very intrigued by the idea of dueling Claude. For some reason, he feels certain the young man would make a perfect sparring partner, even though he has no real evidence for the assumption. And even though the swordsman going through exercises in front of him has been collapsing left and right over the past few weeks. It’ll be a long way to go, but Dias can wait.

“I can see you’re very skilled,” he says. “Who taught you?” He doesn’t actually expect a reply.

Claude looks over at him. He pauses for a moment at Dias’ question, and his shoulders slump slightly. Then he straightens, points his blade at Dias and says in a soft, hushed voice, “Dias.” He smiles a small, sad smile, as if he doesn’t expect Dias to believe it. Then he turns away. 

The answer, and the sadness of it, take Dias’ breath away. 

Perhaps it’s not that long of a way to go. It seems they’d already crossed an unfathomable distance together. But Dias has absolutely no recollection of it—not a single faint light of a memory. Not a single remnant.