A/N: Music is Hope by Yiruma. Play it!

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I toss and turn in my bed, feeling unusually warm under the blankets. I'm exhausted, both mentally and physically. Yet my eyelids can't close. I haul myself out of the comfort of the mattress, padding over to my little table and pulling out the stool to sit on it, feeling the chill of the night seeping into the soles of my feet.

It's dark, but from the waxing moonlight streaming in from the open window, I can see the few objects I have neatly arranged on the table: my mirror (caked with dust and grime), a candle (half-melted), a limited copy of The War of Minds (tattered and battered) and a vial of medicine.

I blink, straightening myself on my seat. I'd totally forgotten about the concoction that Galennus Asa had given to me. If the black specks swimming in it harbour any malicious intentions, I certainly haven't felt it yet. Then again, I've only taken a small dose of the medicine—perhaps its effects only come when I start taking it in regular doses.

I toy with the vial in my fingers, wondering what the potion is truly for. It's definitely not a simple circulation stimulator like the Galennus had claimed. That I know from the pull of my necromancy—if I concentrate hard enough, I am able to feel some fragments of power connecting me to the vial.

Allura...She had once mentioned that she was interested in the healing arts. She's not a Galennus, but her skills should be sufficient to discern the contents in the vial. I make a silent reminder to get the vial to her tomorrow.

Galennus Asa. The thought of him subconsciously connects me to Diomedes and the second assessment. I've been trying to push the horror of the encounter with the necromancer out of my mind the whole day, deliberately focusing on matters which didn't need my attention at all. I have been mostly successful, treating my mind like a storage room, only taking out what I want. Now though, the storage room has been transformed in a heap of rubbish, clutter strewn throughout the messy tresses of my mind.

The only focal point in the chaos is Diomedes' proposal.

My fingers clutch onto the edge of the table; I barely manage to restrain myself from crushing the brittle wood. Breathe, I remind myself. Inhale. Exhale. That's it.

When I've finally calmed myself down, I think back on the day's events, recalling, reflecting.

Sir Payton. Roderick. Garthy. Vaughan. Music. Assessment. Lute. The words scramble in my mind almost erratically, yet with an order that would instantly connect my mind to flashes of images, all stringed together to form a sequence of events. It's a strange sensation, but I keep letting the memories flow, knowing that trying to put a halt to it would only further rattle my nerves.

The words continue to swim around, seeming to never end, until they slowly come to a close: Sir Isaac. I hear my ragged breaths; I see my trembling hands. I close my eyes and continue to remember.

The rest of the assessment had been halted as soon as Gilbert reported the appearance of Diomedes to Captain Eldric. The Knights of Elder were finally forced to acknowledge the fact that no more assessments could be held until the threat of the necromancer had subsided.

Gilbert and I were also told to be prepared for a war council tomorrow, at precisely eight in the morning. I wonder why the king hadn't called for one the instance he knew about the incident. Perhaps he's just too tired to deal with all of this, especially after Diomedes' attack only a few days ago. Like me.

Meanwhile, when I delivered Sir Isaac into the frantic arms of the Galenni, Galennus Asa had been one of the first to react to the emergency. It was odd, considering that a physician of his position would only attend to a selected patients. His behaviour had also been unusually aggressive, demanding that the knight should immediately have surgery performed on him. Not for the first time, I began to ponder if he's Diomedes in disguise.

I also went in search of Quinnian Allura, wanting to pour out the whole situation to her and if possible, ask her for advice. Unfortunately, her colleagues reported that she was still sick. She would only stay in her room, not allowing any physician save for Galennus Asa to see her. The third odd incident in the day—after Diomedes' sudden appearance and Galennus Asa's aggressiveness. The past few times where Diomedes's presence has been particularly strong, she had fallen ill too. A side effect of the curse?

I find myself desperately seeking some way to loosen up the tension in my body. However, I don't quite feel like walking all the way to Hangman's Tower and screaming my lungs out. I want someone to listen to me, someone who'd soak up all my complaints with patience.

A chord strikes in my head. Of course, there's always one person who's always there for me. Even if he isn't quite a person.

Abner.

With contained excitement, I plop my weight onto my bed and enter that strange realm within the thresholds of my mind. Abner's familiar, shadowy form soon takes shape before me. It could be my imagination, but his form seems more solid, as though his existence has finally been acknowledged. Either way, he's my best option for the moment. If I can't even trust a fibre of my being, then who can I trust in this world?

"Abner," I greet him. He doesn't say anything, only throwing his arms out in response. I hesitate for a moment.

Before letting emotions overwhelm me, and I rush into his embrace.

The sensation of his hand stroking my head is strange, like the gentle caresses of smoke. It's still comforting though, especially since he's half a head taller than me. He has an odd scent, more of an aura rather than a smell—power, crisp and everlasting, a proud, powerful mountain promising protection in its presence.

"Abner," I repeat. Unable to hold it back anymore, I break out into convulsing sobs, pressing myself into his shoulder. He pats me on the back gently. If he's judging my loss of control over emotions to be a stupid feminine trait, he doesn't say it.

After several minutes, I feel myself calming down. "Thank you." I pull back from him and wipe my tears away.

"Anytime," he replies with a smile in his voice. "It seems like you're troubled, Constantine. Do you wish to tell me what had happened today?"

I do.

I narrate everything to him—everything. Not a single detail is left out. As expected, he takes everything in without so much of a grunt. When I finish off with Allura's strange bout of sickness, he nods his head slowly and says, "Diomedes is closing in fast."

I give a sour laugh. "He has power. Why shouldn't he?"

"Perhaps that power he has is not of his own," he says softly, almost to himself.

"The real problem is, how do I deal with Gilbert now that he knows my secret?"

"The Quinnian is aware of your secret too, no? If I recall correctly, you three are quite close from your regular interactions. Why should you react to Gilbert's situation with any difference from Allura's?"

I don't remember telling him that Allura knows my secret. But if he truly is a part of my mind, he'd definitely have access to some of my memories, I suppose. "He's Gilbert," I hiss, "fellow squire and Champion of Pst. Ailith, supposedly devout follower of the Pietists. What's going to stop him from revealing my secret to everyone else?"

"He's wiser than that." I give Abner a dubious stare. "He may be rash and acts impulsively, but he does know when to stay his hand. Think about it: what does he have to gain by ratting out on you? Eliminating you as a rival of being an apprentice to Sir Kendrick? Maybe. But that's it. If you're say, killed, he has to face Diomedes on his own. Something that is simply not meant to be done, even if he is a Champion of War."

"Maybe..." Abner's logical reasoning slowly starts to sink in. I silently chastise myself for not thinking along those lines earlier. Otherwise I wouldn't be in such a state of worry. A sudden question pops into my mind, one that has been lingering around for far too long. "Abner, if the Pietists truly are the almighty rulers of the universe, then why don't they deal with Diomedes themselves?"

He seems taken aback. "You've asked this question before," he replies quickly. Too quickly.

I shake my head. "I mean, I understand that we Champions are a medium to help the mortals, and that I have to help the Pietists to defeat Diomedes. But why don't they ever intervene directly to save Gaiatea? It's strange, isn't it? One would think that the Pietists would be more proactive if they truly care for the world they created."

"It—it—" he stutters. "It's complicated. Let's just say that the Pietists had made a pact to never meddle directly with the affairs of Gaiatea since they left it. However, one wayward being is taking advantage of that pact to destroy the world, knowing that the Pietists cannot break their word so easily."

"'Wayward being'? Do you mean...another Pietist is the cause behind all of this mayhem?"

"I'm sorry, but I cannot elaborate on that matter." I can almost taste the sadness in his voice. "I can only help you subtly, only giving you odds and ends of clues. You'll have to put the pieces together by yourself."

I nod in understanding. At least his answer explains why the Pietists still need the Champions. Even if they'd vowed to never interfere in human affairs ever again, they couldn't let their creations go to waste. They'd have to protect mortals through chosen humans.

And if the Pietists could stop Diomedes, they'd already do so before the prophecy was formed, I think.

"Thank you, Abner, for everything," I say with unexpected warmth. He bows towards me; I return the gesture. Feeling much more comforted, I return to the physical world, eventually drifting off into a peaceful lull.

******

A/N: Well, at least Constantine has found a shoulder to cry on (literally)! So, what do you guys think of Abner? And what do you guys think will happen now that Gilbert knows her true gender? Let me know! Oh, and remember to vote, comment, share and recommend!

Dedicated to tesszz28! Your comments have greatly encouraged me in writing, and I'm really, truly grateful to have a reader who is as loyal as you.

Crumhorn - A medieval wind instrument with an enclosed double reed and an upward-curving end, producing an even, nasal sound (straight out of Wikipedia itself).