The flier could not count how many times he had seen the sleeping face of the . . . of his boy. In his sleep, he always appeared serene and childlike, unlike his usual awake self, pulling the flier into the next adventure he had convinced himself he simply had to pursue, with that familiar grin and the unshakable belief in victory.

But now he looked not peaceful.

The flier had to forcefully silence the words that replayed in his head. Over and over, he saw the image of the scattered, torn papers Kismet had spread before him, adorned with smudged, barely distinguishable words. Words written by Henry as he knew him. Snarky, unabashed, whiny, yet also oozing so much hope and enthusiasm, so much . . . life.

It was only when he had found himself taking them in that he realized how desperately he had longed to hear such words again.

I have yet to tell him. Why, you ask? Well, he hasn't bothered to show his ass in this place for an eternity, so it was impossible.

Oh, but now I possess the same ability, you know? To see without my eyes. The power of this threshold is truly overwhelming, to be honest. Nevertheless, I have succeeded! Death, I have achieved it!

The flier's jaw clenched.

I accomplished what you asked of me! I ventured forth and defeated that threshold—farewell, rock bottom! Is this an achievement that will matter to you? You said that my achievements would always matter to you, no?

His talons dug deeper into the stone, so firmly that they began to hurt. Yet as hard as he tried, he could not ban the image of the violently ripped pages with the barely legible, densely scratched-out words, smudged with wear, even with blood, from his mind.

Are you proud of me? Please be proud of me. I hope with all my heart that you are.

Of course, I am . . . proud of you. He barely got himself to think it. He could not look away from the face of the boy, only sparsely illuminated by the bubbling hot spring.

But as soon as the boy twitched in his painkiller-induced sleep, the flier instantly retreated. He could not bear to see him look at him like he had before, not with . . . Don't hurt me!

His body quivered, and he insisted to himself that he would not do it. Under no circumstances. All thoughts of how it was too late now for such a promise were banned from his mind. He was here . . . his boy. He was in pain because of him. He forced his talon into the floor. The talon that had . . .

"Y-You . . ."

His head snapped up as a weak voice suddenly broke the silence from the spot where the boy lay. His back pressed into the wall; I will not hurt you, he assured in his head again and again, I will not . . .

"Is it . . . y-you . . ." The flier sat still as stone when the boy carefully rolled over to stare at him with a misted eye. "You . . ." But before he could even open his mouth to reassure the boy that he meant no harm, all words slipped away from him as a sincere, radiant smile appeared on the boy's face. "You came back!"

All the flier could do was sit and stare at the boy. His boy . . . his bond. His bond, whom he had nearly killed, his bond who—

"You . . ." The boy gingerly extended a hand, and his smile faded. The flier's heart dropped at once. He would have done anything to see that smile again. "Are you . . . truly here?" The boy released a shaky breath. "You . . . you are not truly here, are you? You are not here." His extended hand tightened. "You are not here. Never here. You are never . . ."

"Henry!" A shocked jolt ran through the boy's body, causing his eye to flicker open. "Henry . . . I am here."

"Henry . . ." the boy whispered. "Where is . . . Henry?"

The flier stiffened. "You are Henry," he said with conviction, shoving down his growing concern. His eyes remained fixed on the boy's face—the boy he had once loved no less than any family member. He now appeared frail and hollowed, unshaven with a weary eye, and disheveled, excessively long strands of hair.

His forehead creased, his gaze narrowed, and finally, it resurfaced—a subtle yet unmistakable flicker of hope—of such once-familiar, uplifting hope. ". . . Death?"

"I am here." He tentatively lifted himself and scooted closer to the boy.

"You cannot be here," whispered the boy, slowly lowering his hand. "You are never here. Why are you never here?"

The flier halted in his tracks, for the words ached nearly as much as Henry's last ones . . . Don't hurt me. "I am—"

Before he had the chance to speak, the boy lifted himself from where he had lain and fell forward, toward him. His hand stretched out, reached for his flier as though he were grasping for a lifeline. "Please," he pressed out of his bleeding lips. "You denied me in the arena, but . . . please say that you do not hate me so much yet. Please, you cannot hate me so much!"

It took the flier an eternal moment of stillness to comprehend that the boy meant his hand . . . which he had not taken. Not even acknowledged. An image rose in his mind, one that he had not allowed himself to see before. For, if he had seen it, it may have broken his resolve . . . and the rest of him with it: the boy's broken body beneath him, reaching up.

I bound to you.

His claws trembled. How about you go in there and ask him if he does not want your comfort, and if he declines, then we can talk. But he could not do it. No matter how much the boy begged, he could not bring himself to take his hand. Not because he despised him, but because he no longer had the right. He had no right, not after . . . "I do not hate you at all," he said instead.

The boy's eye widened, and his hand slowly closed. "Then why did you . . ." He coughed. "You . . ." nearly killed me, thought the flier. But the boy said something else: "You left," he sobbed. "You were not there."

The flier gritted his teeth. "Left you with Kismet?" he asked, even though he knew that physically leaving him with Kismet was not the leaving the boy was hurting over. On that day, he had not only left him with Kismet. He had . . . left him.

"Why did you leave?" asked the boy in a feeble voice. "I thought you meant for everything I do to matter to you. Everything I achieve. Is that not what you said?"

The flier stared at his own crusted talons; his mouth opened and closed. Memories flashed in his mind, and emotions that seemed so unfair all of a sudden. So . . . downright cruel. "I did not think you would care so much." The moment he uttered the words, he felt like a fool. Had the boy not told him that he cared?

"Why?" whispered the boy, and the flier had no reply.

Why had he not believed him? Because no one could care for one like you anymore, whispered a voice in his mind. No matter how much he sought to silence it, the voice remained like a burrowing insect; it nestled in his ear. Because the boy will certainly find more entertaining, more fulfilling things for himself to care for than a lightless husk like you. And so, you have nothing to lose by leaving first. If anything, it will be easier. It may give you the slimmest chance to rekindle your own light independently of his.

But the boy did not look at him like he did not care. "I needed to matter to you," he said in a voice that bore too much vulnerability to be his own. Too much semblance to that of a fellow husk for the flier's liking. "What have I—"

"I left because," the flier cut him off before the boy could utter more words that further increased the profound loathing he already harbored for himself. "There was a false notion in my head that I ought to display minimal kindness toward you, for every time I did, it seemed unreciprocated. And so I left. And so I didn't tell you." He inhaled deeply, pulling his wings tighter around himself. "But I am always . . . proud of you."

The boy drew a sharp breath.

"I am," said the flier. "I will not blame you if you do not believe me anymore, but I am. You possess the most exceptional, admirable spirit I have ever encountered."

When he finally dared look up, the boy was staring at him with a widened eye. "And if I . . . don't anymore?" he whispered after a silent eternity, and the flier's blood froze to ice. And if you still love him anyway, you will join me in doing everything in your power to save him from his own darkness. From truly becoming like us.

"You do."

"And if I don't?" insisted the boy. "Will . . . If I have no spirit, will you not love me anymore?"

The words disrupted any and all last walls of apprehension the flier had retained with so little effort that it may have frightened him if he had not had to focus on holding his ground. On not crumbling to pieces then and there. This was what he had done, he thought. This was what he had conveyed—that his love for the boy was conditional, dependent on his ability to share with him his hope.

"Of course not." He forced himself to hold the boy's disbelieving gaze. "I was merely . . . I . . . I could not . . ." He clawed for the right words, but he found none. There was nothing he could say, was there? Nothing he could . . . "You saved me," he uttered eventually. "I could not save you. Instead, I did to you . . . this."

The flier braced himself for memories to return to the boy—of the things he had said and done to him—and for admonishment. But instead, the boy said something entirely unexpected: "I also messed up."

"You—" The flier broke off, at a loss for words. Emotions that he could not discern flooded him, and he dug his talons into the ground with force. This utterly uncharacteristic vulnerability that the boy refused to lose left him entirely disarmed and unsure of how to react. "You . . . will you please leave me to blame myself in peace?" the flier exclaimed.

"I messed up," repeated the boy, as though he had not even heard him. "I did, and you . . . killed me."

***

"How is he today?" The flier caught up to Kismet before she could ascend the cliff to her cave. "Is he—"

"Somewhat better." She sighed. "He can sit up and eat properly . . . or so he claims. He won't see any significant improvement for a while. The recovery period for an injury like this can span several months, and it has only been a week."

The flier dragged his claw across the floor without looking her in the eye. "He has not . . . mentioned me, has he?"

She shook her head. "Give him time. It is grueling to wait, but you must not give up on him now . . . As he had not given up on you."

The flier said nothing. It was not merely grueling but nigh-unbearable to know that his boy was here, in pain, in need of comfort. The comfort he had once sought to deny him. But he . . . wanted it, no? Would he ever want his comfort again? The boy he had accused of not caring. The boy he had . . . left.

"Kismet?"

She looked back at him, and the flier took a deep breath before he dropped what he had been clutching in his claw. "You should perhaps take this back to him if that is where you're headed."

Kismet froze at the sight of the tattered yet recognizable shape of the dagger at her feet.

"I have . . ." The flier could not avert his gaze from it either. "I can hardly believe he would . . . This thing . . . It was always his most prized possession, and now you mean to tell me he truly—"

With a flicker of her tail, Kismet scooped up Mys and twirled it. "He . . . will be happy to have it back, I believe. Now he will. Are you certain that you do not wish to give it back yourself?"

The flier shook his head. "I cannot." He did not look her in the eye. "I mean, I . . ." He swallowed, overwhelmed by the heap of doubts that would not leave him at peace. "I don't know if it is even—"

"If you will now begin asking again if it is "worth it," I will physically shake you."

"But . . . he must despise me now."

"Did he act like he despises you?" hissed Kismet.

"How could he not?"

"I said, did he act like he despises you?!" she yelled.

The flier twitched. You . . . killed me. "He should," he whispered. "Maybe he should. Maybe if I leave, he will—"

"Has he the last time you left?"

The flier glared at her. It was unfair to disarm him in such a manner.

"I shall ask you again." She planted herself in front of him. "Did he act like he despises you? Has he . . . ever?"

"He has been . . ."

"Inconsiderate? Self-centered? You told me about that," she cut him off. "None of that means that he despises you."

"He should."

"But he won't." She held her unrelenting gaze on him. "No matter what transpired, it will only be too late when the two of you deem it so," she said pensively. "And I know that Henry does not deem it too late. I know that, regardless of what you may fear, you matter to him . . . in the absolute and sincere way that bonds should matter to each other. And you—"

"Be still."

"Why?" She sank to her haunches. "What fear you so? If you stay, if you try, you have nothing to lose. Only something to gain."

The flier could not argue with this truth . . . It was the same truth he had arrived at shortly after his conversation with the boy. The truth that kept him here, against all irrational fears. Because another truth was that the boy was worth trying for.

"You're right," the flier admitted after a while. "And so I am still here. The boy, he is . . . I mean Henry. There is something else I meant to—" He broke off. In his head replayed something the boy had said to Kismet a few days ago. I'm scared . . . that I can never be "Henry" again.

"Is it concerning his name?"

The flier froze. "You—"

"I was waiting for you to pick up on that," she said with a shrug. "So, I have attempted to prepare a response. But I could not." This time it was Kismet who averted her gaze. "He . . . I cannot say when or even why exactly he has ceased responding . . . associating himself with "Henry", but perhaps you will have better luck reconnecting him with himself."

"I am . . . not unfamiliar with the concept of feeling nameless." Everything within him revolted at the thought of the boy feeling the same anguish and confusion that he felt during his most broken times.

"I had a hunch." He decided not to question Kismet's hunches any more. "Believe me, I tried," she continued. "He has listened to "Achilles" for a while; now he does not respond to any name anymore."

"The name they called in the arena." The flier shuddered.

"That one. Although I'm afraid I am the one to blame for it. Remind me to tell you what it means at one point."

They sat across from each other in silence for a few heartbeats. "I will try," said the flier. "I must try to remind him of who he is. He cannot lose who he is."

"He can find it again," said Kismet with so much unwarranted hope that the flier almost smiled. "If you stay."

"I stay." The promise was easier to make than he had anticipated.

"Good," snarled Kismet. "And now that this is out of the way, I must say that I find myself worried by something else."

"Worried?"

"They have been very determined to kill both him and you in that arena," she said. "To tell the truth, every time I awaken since then, I envision this place to be overrun by gnawers in search of you."

"You honestly think they would—" The flier broke off when he pictured Longclaw's hateful face, as he had ordered his capture. "Perhaps I should fly patrol rounds, lest we be sitting crawlers here."

"That is what I meant to suggest," she concurred. "With Henry out of commission, you and I can only take so many of them if surprised."

The flier spread his wings for lift-off, then he turned back once more. "You . . . are nothing short of incredible, you know?"

Kismet froze in her tracks. "Excuse me?"

"What you do here for him, for us, is much more than anyone could ever ask for," said the flier. "Much more than—"

"I cannot possibly throw him out simply because he was stabbed, can I?"

"You . . ." He contemplated saying that what she was doing went far beyond merely continuing to harbor him. Instead, all he said was: "Thank you."

"It is . . . well." Kismet scratched a talon across the floor. "I would say it is no problem but . . ." She leaned on the cliff and squinted her eye at him. "It is a problem. Not . . . not harboring him, or teaching him, or standing him when he is as he normally is, but . . ." Kismet took a deep, unsteady breath. "Watching him come undone until he thinks himself unworthy of his most prized possession?" She paused. "Of course, I shall keep doing it anyway."

The flier held her gaze for one eternal moment. "You are not alone," he said at last. "Not anymore and not ever again."

***

"Kismet . . . can you tell me how—"

"Henry!" she cut him off. "Henry, you must not be up!" she yelled and scrambled up just in time to support the boy as his legs gave way.

The flier inched backward, pressing himself tighter into the corner where he had left himself to hang, his eyes never leaving the gaunt figure in the entrance that connected the hot spring to Kismet's main cave.

"I am well," mumbled Henry, looking entirely unwell. "I am no longer hurting. I barely feel the pain. But I must know—"

"Oh no," said Kismet with an iron voice, shoving him back up the tunnel. "No, this is not how this works, pup. I have decreed that you will be confined to bed for another two weeks. Or three. Preferably more. And this remains non-negotiable."

"But has it not been two weeks already?" whined the boy. "I cannot stay in—"

"If you cannot stay of your own accord, I will shackle you down," said Kismet, unrelenting. The flier had no doubt that she would do it if she had to. And if the boy was still the boy, she might.

"But I feel no pain!" complained Henry. He ripped his arm out of Kismet's grip and staggered forward. "I can! I . . . must do something. I—"

"Pup, if you do not lie down this instant, I will shackle you down. We may play a game of chess if you feel well enough later. But only if you go and lie down now."

As soon as the two vanished from his view, the flier became aware that he was pushing against the wall and deliberately eased up. Had the boy not seen him? Perhaps he hadn't. Then again, he could see without light now.

The astonishing descriptions Kismet had delivered of his new abilities rose in the flier's mind, and he felt that familiar mix of pride, disbelief, and shame for being disbelieving. The boy was . . .

"However did you manage to confine him to bed after he lost his eye?" Kismet strolled back into the cave.

"I couldn't," replied the flier resolutely. "Not after he had deemed that he was well enough."

Kismet groaned, rummaging through a pile of things that lay in a corner. "I, too, am slowly running out of options. It is like he wants for it to get worse."

The flier carefully dropped from the ceiling and stretched his wings. "Perhaps I should go to patrol now. I would like to check if those three gnawers I saw by the lake yesterday have moved on, and if so, to where."

Kismet nodded, and the flier swiftly leaped toward the cliff, only to halt as a dreadful low rumble reached his ears. Simultaneously, Kismet's ears twitched, and she released the chessboard she had retrieved. Moments later, the ground beneath them began to quake.

Only at the last moment did the flier notice the landslide of rocks that had dislodged from the top of the cave entrance. He shot forward, out of the cave, and his ears rang with a deafening crash. As he pivoted and narrowly avoided a second wave of debris that descended from above, a wave of panic washed over him. He was out, but . . . what if the cave had collapsed entirely?

He dropped to the floor, desperate for cover. He had to take cover somewhere, somewhere that was—

"Dammit, why now? I thought I had—agh!"

At the unmistakable screech of a gnawer—no two—the flier veered, ascending toward the ceiling. He took note of their forms at the mouth of the cave, which eventually led to the lake, and screamed as he collided with the ceiling.

"There!"

It was over. Lights sparked before his eyes, and a sudden piercing pain in his back from a rock that had fallen nearly brought him down. The ancient stone around him resonated with a deafening rumble as it quaked anew. Within moments, the flier crashed helplessly onto the floor. But he could not falter. He had to get up.

The flier shook his head in an attempt to chase the daze. He had to . . . Just as he was about to take off, a second stone came crashing down onto his wing, disrupting his efforts.

"Get him!"

With all his might, he fought to escape the clutches of the rock. Where were . . . Kismet and . . . Henry? A shrill scream burst from his mouth, beyond any audible frequency. He stared at the spot where the entrance to Kismet's cave once existed, and a wave of icy despair extinguished what little hope had remained within him. The landslide. He screamed again. It had . . . it had . . . "Henry!"

As his body would no longer obey him, he finally ceased his struggle. The earth beneath him quaked one last time before settling, and so the world stood still again. But not his world. As the sound of gnawers drew closer, the flier shut his eyes. All he could see was the buried cave entrance. The cave had collapsed; it must have. It had . . .

The sound of a rat's anguished scream caused his ears to twitch and his head to jerk up. When he opened his eyes, he found himself staring at the gnawer collapsing to the ground . . . dead.

With the last of his strength, he twisted to escape the bared teeth of the second one. He whipped around when his claws scraped the stone where the flier's head had been moments ago. Then he too gave a pained shriek.

Yet instead of going down, he tore his jaws open to attack what had struck him. Like in a trance, the flier observed the shape of Henry behind the attacker, slingshot in one hand and Mys in the other. He stood frozen in shock, his foot raised as if preparing to retreat. But not fast enough.

The next thing the flier registered was a jolt of pain when he forcefully dislodged his wing from under the rock. His following impact with the gnawer sent both gnawer and flier hurtling several yards. Henry's scream was drowned out by the rat's furious screech as they impacted the floor together.

Somewhere at the back of his consciousness, the flier knew he should move, yet he had no strength left. Something sharp and burning tore his shoulder open, yet he could not scream.

Then the gnawer on top of him lay still.

It took the flier a few heartbeats to register his expression. From his mouth came a gurgling whimper, and his eyes descended to gaze in disbelief at the dagger jutting out of his throat. Then he moved no more.

With great effort, the flier wriggled out from underneath the rat's lifeless body, locking eyes with Henry. His shirt was soaked in blood, dried and fresh, and he gasped for breath, fixated on the corpse of the gnawer he had just killed.

The flier's mouth opened, yet before he could speak, there was another deafening rumble. For a moment, he thought it was an aftershock, then he saw the rocks rained from the previously buried entrance to Kismet's cave.

Moments later, she darted out and down the cliff, then took a flying leap over the flier's head. A pained shriek erupted from the direction the rats had emerged. Only when she turned back to them, hunched over another lifeless gnawer, did the flier remember that it had been three.

His gaze flew back to Henry, and when his boy staggered forward, he struggled to rise and meet him, but he had still not entirely escaped the corpse. "Y-You . . ."

"What the hell do you think you are doing?!" Kismet hissed as she caught the boy instead.

"They would have killed him!" yelled the boy, angrily ripping his arm out of her grip. His large, sunken eye was on the flier. "You . . ." he staggered another step forward, and his hand flew up. "You could have died. You could have . . . you almost died!" he wailed. Something in the boy's gaze—in the way he looked as though he cared—sent a shiver down the flier's spine. "Died for . . . me?"

For the first time, the flier properly raised his gaze to look directly at him. "For you," he said. "All . . . for you."