Well, there they have it. 

“Your pay will come out of my own funds. In exchange, you’ll be my personal guard, with all of the risks it entails. We can work out the details later, but does this sound amenable enough?” 

It’s not as if he is exactly hurting for money, not when he is allocated a certain amount each month. And having her work directly under him, reporting to no one else but him, is a prospect that sounds more and more alluring the longer he thinks about it. He hadn’t expected much from the open recruitment— it was simply a way to spite the queen a little more— but he finds himself grateful for that decision made on the spot.

Erica beams. “Looking forward to working with you, Boss!”

“...I would like to request only that he joins the training with the rest of the knights, in order to ensure that he has the other skills required to be by your side, ones that cannot be assessed in such a short amount of time.” The commander pinches the bridge of his nose, looking as if he is already contemplating his resignation. Yves hopes he is. He’s barely met the man, and what a pain in the ass he already is. 

Yves rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

If it meant he would finally shut up. Even if it would be a useless endeavor. As if someone he’s chosen with his own hands can do anything but surpass other people. 

“Any other concerns?” Yves arches an eyebrow, daring for anyone to speak up. ”No? Then, that settles it. She’ll be my personal guard.”

A gross abuse of power, but it’s the least of his past and future crimes by far. Eh, what is the use of power if it is not used as he sees fit? He’ll probably get reprimanded for this later, or he might not, depending on how hands off the king truly wants to continue being. Yves finds he doesn’t particularly care either way. He gestures for her to be let go. 

Sour and disgruntled expressions line their faces when the people reluctantly release her from their hold. Brushing the dirt and dust from her, she shakes herself in a way reminiscent of a dog, before turning to Yves. Before she can get up and catch a glimpse of him, the knight commander pushes her back to her knees, hissing down at her. “Keep your head down. Don’t look up until His Highness tells you to.”

Oh? Were they actually going to go through with this the traditional way? He’s never done it himself, only peeked at earlier instances when he was a much younger child. Who would’ve guessed this would be how his first participation would go.

The knighting ceremony is traditionally held in a more formal setting, as far as he is aware. Certainly not in the sparring grounds where the recipient is covered in dirt and flecks of blood from the people they’ve just pummeled to a literal pulp. It suits them both just fine, he thinks. It’s not as if either of them were very traditional people either. 

The murderous prince and his monstrously strong guard. What a pair they make. 

This is neither a formal knighting ceremony, nor a typical mercenary hire, he thinks, watching her kneeling form before him, head bowed. There is no ceremony that comes with hiring mercenaries, but he finds this moment weighs heavy with enough significance to warrant something special.

It’s not part of the traditional script, he knows, and yet…standing there, the question tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it. 

“Why are you here?” 

Why is she here, when there should be no chance of them ever meeting again? When he has already prepared himself for a solitary life chasing after truths once again? What could’ve possibly changed the future enough for her to choose to become an imperial knight instead of the mercenary she once was? If she must become a knight, why his and not something more prestigious, like the first squadron working directly under the queen and crown prince? Her skills are clearly good enough to get a better future than this.

“Oh, well.” Erica hums in thought, before a bitter laugh escapes her. “I suppose, because I’m a sucker for pretty faces?”

The same excuse. The same lie.

It’s like his throat is being slit, cold seeping into his bones as warmth spills down his front. 

“...Is he stupid?” The crowd whispers, but he can barely hear them over the sound of his racing heart. Yves is too busy trying to breathe, clammy from the nausea and lightheadedness that sweeps through him. The same words, the same face that now haunts his thoughts. Why is she here? Does her appearance mean that certain events are inescapable? Will he die at the end with her again, having never reached his goals?

Has he condemned them both to their deaths by accepting her by his side once again?

Erica laughs shortly at their reactions. “...Kidding. I'm kidding. The pay just seems nice!”

The knight commander looks over at Yves, a silent question of whether or not he is still certain he wanted someone like this to be the one at his side. It’s not too late to change his mind, this he knows. He can have her thrown out and not a single person would protest, besides Erica herself. And yet, despite his fears and misgivings, Yves swallows dryly. 

And nods.

With a resigned sigh, the commander steps away into the crowd. Despite the people in the background, there’s a noticeable space around them, leaving only Yves and Erica in the center. 

Yves has no weapon on him, no physical ones at least, but the commander hesitates before pulling his own sword, sheath and all, and presents it to him. There is a soft hiss of steel as Yves unsheathes it, bright metal gleaming in the light. It’s more decoration than anything in his hands, but it’ll suffice at this moment. 

Pointing the razor tip at her, Yves speaks.

“Present your name.”

“...Erica.” 

There is an instant flicker of surprise and regret on her face, as if she hadn’t meant to say that. Yet another oddity. There is no family name, just as it was before. Only a singular first name, soon to be forgotten and replaced with terrible monikers if she continued this path alongside him. He wasn’t the only one who was spoken of with fear, back then.

“What the fuck, that’s a girl?” The speaker is quickly silenced with a sharp jab to the stomach by the others, but it doesn’t stop the incredulous murmurs. Or his own lips from curling in disdain.

Are they stupid? He’d suspected as much, when they kept referring to her as the boy, but she wasn’t that masculine. It’s not as if short hair and a tall, lanky frame made anyone a boy. Besides, it wasn’t the first time a woman had climbed through the military ranks. Not that it was a very common occurrence, but it has happened before. He is once again glad that it is her that will be his personal guard. Incompetence is not something he has patience for. 

His hands tighten around the sword.

No, if anyone must be at his side, it must be her.

“Do you swear to do your utmost to protect your charge, even at the cost of your life?”

“I do.”

Of course she does. He doesn’t expect anything else, but the words still make him feel ill. Standing here before her, blade in hand once again, he is struck with a sense of deja vu. The last time they were in such a situation, it was dug deep into her heart, blood spilling over his hands as he looked up at her in cold horror. 

This time, this time, he raises it. Hands unimpeded by any other. Taps each of her shoulders with the flat of the blade, the trembling edge so close to her bare neck. Already, there are a few beads of blood dripping down the thin skin, back when they’d held her down and pointed their weapons at her. 

Just a twitch of his hand and even more will spill down her chest instead. He could blame it on nerves, on clumsiness, or nothing at all even. No one would object to her death here, not when she has already earned the ire of so many. 

Her throat is so bare.

His own, so cold.

And Yves, Yves takes a deep breath and raises the blade. Sheathes it back in one smooth movement. It clicks softly with a strange sense of finality. 

He is so sick of seeing throats stained red.

Maybe it’ll be different this time, or maybe he has just doomed them all again. This time, he’ll hand the sword over to her. Yves swallows his doubts, and finishes the makeshift oath with a hoarse voice.

“Then, raise your head.”

He’s never paid much attention to her, not in their previous life. Not until she pressed a blade into his hands, until her blood spilled over his trembling fingers. It’s not something he will allow himself to regret, when he’s had so many other pressing matters to worry himself with.

This time, however, he is watching her every move with the sort of helplessness you get from watching a runaway carriage crash in slow motion. From watching a play unfold, knowing of the tragedy in advance. It’s the knowledge of how things will end, unable to stop things from their fated path. 

This time, he is watching her closely enough to watch how she stills when she finally lays eyes on him. When her face slackens at the sight of him, her guard slips down just enough to reveal an expression that strikes him speechless. It smoothes out into the familiar easygoing look she always carries soon enough, but the damage is already done. 

Because its not the look of infatuation, or surprise, or whatever it is he expects. 

For the briefest moment, she looks at him like she's seen a ghost. Stricken with guilt and recognition, and resignation. 

For a moment, she looked like she wanted to cry.

Erica tries to smile, but it's a tremulous thing. 

“Hello,” she says. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”