A/N:

Kisha: Garon being a womanizer is canon, according to Leo's supports with Elise. The rest of this fic, while pulling elements from Fates, is completely original.

The funeral of Queen Katerina of Nohr was held on a chilly spring morning, in the city square of Windmire. Her funeral pyre had been constructed out of the finest wood, stacked like a pyramid, and her body dressed in her battle regalia. What was left of Icarus's large form had been brought to the pyre to be burned alongside his mistress—she would be honored as a warrior first and queen second. Everyone from the city attended, and even some not from the city made the harrowing travel. The streets were overflowing; the queen had been beloved by all. Commoners had loved her for the efforts she put into bettering their lives, nobles for her fine breeding. Her kind, calm demeanor had additionally endeared her to the people—gentleness was rare in Nohr.

It was normally custom for the departed's spouse or children to give a speech, but Garon had no words. He let his silence be his speech, the lack of oration showing his grief better than words ever could.

With a deep breath, the king raised a fist in the air. The dozen mages who surrounded the pyre mimicked the motion, their other hand holding fire tomes. He waited the customary three seconds, then brought his hand down. The mages cast their spells, and as the first flames started to lick at the wood, Arete opened her mouth and began to sing the piece Garon had requested. "Dusk has taken you, love, and now I wait for night…"

It was indescribable. Her dirge was haunting, a song of sorrow and pain, a lamentation that reached deep into one's heart and resonated so much as to hurt. Garon had thought he'd cried all his tears out earlier, but as her voice rang out he found more slipping down his cheeks. Even the concubines, with their hearts of stone, were moved to wipe their eyes.

"…and lo, the stars are falling, far beyond my sight…"

Dusk Dragon, she's talented. Why in the name of the gods is she stuck in the streets?

Xander sobbed quietly next to him. Garon placed a hand on the weeping boy's shoulder, staring into the flames. He refused to acknowledge his own tears, refused to twitch or make any other movement as he watched his wife's body be consumed by fire, permanently out of his reach.

"…you are gone but not forgotten; in the wind I taste your kiss, in the rain I taste your tears…"

When they'd first discovered how to resurrect dead wyverns, some sorcerers had tried to learn to resurrect dead people—a terrible, blasphemous crime, one that went against the will of the Dusk Dragon. The offenders all been quickly executed and it had become common practice to burn bodies to prevent such atrocities ever again. Only criminals or those who couldn't afford it were buried.

Katerina's ashes would be gathered and placed in a fine urn, and the urn would be placed in the same tomb that held generations of Nohrian royalty. She would go down in the history books and her legacy would live on in their son. Gone, but not forgotten.

"…as I count the empty days and months and years," Arete finished, her voice trailing off, as the flames reached their zenith.

"Miss Arete," Garon greeted as the blue-haired woman took the seat opposite of him, her sleeping daughter in her arms. He'd noticed she rarely left her alone, likely a byproduct of life on the streets. It was the day after the funeral, and the sky through the window was as cloudy and dark as ever. The mink's cape his wife had given him—her final gift—was wrapped around his shoulders. He didn't think he'd stopped wearing it since her death, or that he ever would.

"Your Majesty," she said with a dip of her head. "I wasn't expecting to receive my payment from you directly."

"Your payment, yes…" He frowned down at his desk, toying with a quill between his fingers. "To be honest, that isn't why I called you here." He leaned forward, clasping his hands together. "I've had a hard past few days and I have little patience for courtly games at the moment, so allow me to be frank: I want to hire you as court musician."

A pause. "Your Majesty," she finally said. "I'm flattered, but I must decline. My talent lies only in my voice, not with an instrument. I would be a poor fit for the position."

"A voice is an instrument, is it not? It's something you have to train and use. You have talent; it's a pity to let it waste away on the streets," he tried to persuade.

She was not moved. "My voice can bring people joy whether it is on the streets or in a castle, my lord. The only difference is the status of those it reaches."

"What about your daughter?" he countered pointedly, and she flinched. "Do you want her to live on the streets, constantly worrying where her next meal comes from or whether someone will try to hurt her? You would both be safer and happier living in the castle."

Arete smiled grimly, recovering. "Would we?" she asked. "Poverty hides people. No one notices another street rat and her young girl, except thugs looking for potential victims." Her hand drifted to her belt, to the worn-out tome hanging off it. "And those who do soon find their worldviews corrected."

That was not the answer he had expected. Garon asked softly, "Who are you hiding from?"

Her eyes, large and golden, seemed to pierce into his soul, as if she were weighing the worthiness of it. "Someone I hope never finds me," she finally said.

She would say no more on the matter, and Garon decided it was best to leave it alone. But after arguing the benefits of court musician and promising that his men would protect her and her daughter, he was able to get her to concede and stay.

The investigator, named Basil, was a tall, reedy man with a thin black mustache. He had served Garon for several years now, and the king trusted him to not sabotage the investigation or attempt to misdirect the blame. A week after Katerina's funeral, Basil clapped his heels together smartly and presented Garon a piece of paper, a summary of his findings in that time period.

"I've interviewed the mercenaries' guild," Basil reported as Garon ran his eyes over the jumbled handwriting, "They denied having the assassins in their employ or ever taking a job to assassinate Queen Katerina. Their records and employee history support this, and showed no signs of being tampered with."

Of course the guild would deny being involved. No one would want even the tiniest link to regicide. However, given their long and steady working relationship with the crown, it was likely they genuinely had nothing to do with this. They wouldn't want to jeopardize a long-term employer, after all. But it was still an avenue that had to be checked.

"So that means the assassin were hired from one of the auxiliary guilds…" Garon murmured. The criminal half of Nohr, the people who would take the dark and dirty jobs the main mercenary guild would not. They were the ones you went to for real crimes, not political games but genuine crimes against the crown. They were the ones who would be willing to assassinate a queen, for the right price.

"I believe so, yes. I intend to search them next—carefully, of course." Basil dug something out of his pocket and held it out for Garon to see. "Additionally, have you taken a look at the coins found on the assassin's body?"

"They're gold," he said, disinterested. The world's coinage was copper, silver and gold, with each country's coins bearing the face of their founding ruler. Nothing unusual about these typical Nohrian ones—all they did was rule out the involvement of other countries.

"Gold, yes. Not the kind of coin your common criminal would have. The man or woman behind this would have to be very wealthy. It's very likely they hailed from nobility."

Now that was interesting. Garon mentally lowered Bernice a few positions on the list and moved Vesta up. The concubines enjoyed the luxuries and hospitality of court life, but they were by no means paid for being his mistresses. They had the money from their families and that was it; anything else they wanted they had to earn with a proper job, like everyone else. Bernice, having hailed from a poor village, had little to start with, and was very stingy with what she'd earned since.

That wasn't to say it was impossible for her to spend her coin on an endeavor like this, but it would likely cost everything she had, which would be a risky, almost idiotic, move when she had no guarantee of payoff. Ambitious she may be, but Bernice was not stupid.

"Good job," he said with an approving nod. "Have you any luck with finding the escaped assassin?"

Basil shook his head. "None, sadly, but it's one of my top priorities. I have people investigating every avenue and searching every cranny of the underworld. She is our biggest lead. If we can find her, we can make her talk. And once we do, we find the employee."

"We will find them," Garon muttered. His fingers tightened around the papers as his mind envisioned the neck of the perpetrator instead. "And then they will face the justice of Nohr."

Weeks passed and life went on. Tourneys and hunts and balls resumed, as did politicking. Short of the ongoing investigation and the distinctly empty seat next to Garon's at his table, it was as though nothing had happened. Hoshido tried and failed to link the criminals' activities to the king, and tried and failed to stop the raids; Nohr continued to eat.

The concubines redoubled their efforts to win him over—their necklines became plunging, their bosoms heaving, and many of them became unusually clumsy, always dropping handkerchiefs and bending at the waist rather than at the knees to retrieve them. Each was determined that, with his new bachelorhood, they would be the one to get his ring on their finger and the crown on their head.

The worst part was, it was working. His eyes couldn't help but trail up the long, creamy curves of Vesta's legs, down the revealing décolletage of Bernice's robes, across Jeanette's full lips, and over countless other features of countless other women. He was tempted, sorely tempted. Not out of love—he could never love any of them, not anymore, not after any one might have had a hand in Katerina's death—but out of lust and a bit of sorrow. Sex was cheaply bought and rewarded great solace.

It also brought great consequences, ones he was intimately familiar with. And he was determined, not broken, and so for once he actually kept his urges in check. Rather, he found comfort from a different source, an unexpected one.

Sometimes he would pass Arete's room and hear her singing to her daughter, or spot her poring over books about magic, or find her brushing horses in the stables with a soft look on her face, and take a few minutes to join her and chat. He gradually discovered that he genuinely enjoyed her company, and not just because of her beauty, and was soon actively seeking her out. She was intelligent and witty. Her candor was refreshing after the constant double-speak pervading his court, yet not so blunt as to be crass. More than that, she was perhaps the only woman who was not actively trying to seduce him. It was nice.

While he learned a great deal about her likes and dislikes and opinions, the one thing he couldn't pry out of her was her past. Arete preferred not to speak of that, offering only small tidbits of information here and there before shutting down. And the more he learned about her, the less she made sense. Her well-bred mannerisms, the finely-wrought pendant she'd said was an heirloom from her father, and a past marriage she'd hinted was arranged? It all pointed to her hailing from the upper classes. But she should never have wound up living on the streets if she'd been highborn, and none of Nohr's noble houses had fallen into poverty recently.

One hot summer's day, as they sat and watched a tourney, he decided to broach the subject delicately. "Weren't there are any family members you wanted to invite to the tourney? I would have allowed it." It was a high honor to be invited to sit with the king's entourage; the concubines were nailing her with envious and hateful glares from their seats further down.

"Not anymore," she said simply, and all the weight of the world was in those two words. "It's just myself and Azura."

"I'm sorry," he murmured, fixing his eyes on the jousting below. Gunter had just finished knocking his opponent off her horse, and was removing his helmet to the cheers of the crowd. Tourneys and arena battles were a great source of entertainment in Nohr, and were also a way to find the cream of the crop. It wasn't uncommon for winners to become retainers—that was how Jeanette had become his.

"It's quite alright." A slight smile crossed her face as she watched the knights of the next round square off, saluting each other with their lances. "My sister hated this sort of thing. She was stubborn; always preferred doing what she wanted than what was expected of her. I was the dutiful one. Still, she always came through when I needed her."

Another hint as to noble birth. Another puzzle piece that didn't quite fit the whole picture. "She sounds headstrong."

Arete chuffed softly. "She was. She was headstrong and selfish and far too clever, but she was still my little sister. You always look out for your siblings. I like to think I did a good job of it after…" Her eyes glistened a bit, but she closed them and shook her head with a sigh. When she opened them again they were so clear Garon almost thought he'd imagined it. "Well, I suppose I'll never get the chance to ask her now."

The crowd around them roared at whatever was happening below, but Garon was too distracted by the chance to learn more about Arete and her mysterious past to pay attention. "What was her name?"

"…Mika," she said after a moment's hesitation. Then, turning away, she abruptly added, "I don't wish to speak of this anymore."

There it was again. The shutdown. "Of course," he said, knowing better than to argue but disappointed all the same. "My apologies." He felt unusually chastised for his probing; she had clearly loved her sister, and he'd probably reopened some old wounds.

They turned back just in time to watch one charging knight unseat the other, but Arete gave him a tiny smile and he knew his slight was forgiven.

Today, Garon was in a mood. His boots clomped noisily against the stone as he stepped down the stairs, eyebrows pinching together as his eyes glared about. Servants scurried out of his way, keeping their heads down, and even the few concubines he encountered knew better than to approach him.

He was searching for his eldest son, and he was not happy.

He passed an open doorway and halted, swiftly turning to see if Xander was inside. What he saw instead temporarily dispelled his foul mood, and his lips pulled upwards against his will.

"Hello, Azura," he greeted. Arete's daughter was playing with Josie in the center of the room, their chubby hands moving dolls about and their imaginations bringing them to life. Arete and Josie's nursemaid were sitting in chairs, the first reading and the second sewing; it seemed they'd decided to leave the nursery today for a change of scenery. He'd heard that his daughter had reached out to Azura, and it gave him hope that maybe at least one of his children would grow up to be kind.

The blue-haired girl dipped her head and mumbled a greeting, shy as ever, while Josie beamed up at him. "Hi, Daddy!"

"Hi, sweetheart," he cooed, bending to ruffle her black hair as she giggled. "Are you having a good time with Miss Arete's daughter?"

"Yep! She's really quiet, but that's okay 'cause it means I get to talk more!"

He chuckled, unsurprised; Josie loved the sound of her own voice, so she wouldn't mind having a silent playmate. She talked enough for two people, maybe even three. He rose and addressed his friend. "Arete, have you seen Xander anywhere?"

Tapping her chin thoughtfully, the singer replied, "I believe we passed him earlier, yes. He looked like he was heading to the nursery."

Thanking her and leaving the girls to their play, Garon hurried in the direction she'd suggested, climbing yet more sets of stairs. He tried to reclaim his dark mood from earlier, and by the time he finally found his son, crouching and gently playing with a ball with a few of his younger siblings, had managed to at least wipe the smile off his face. The crown prince tensed when his father's shadow fell over him, but he didn't look up; Leo and Ulric, who he'd been playing with, toddled over to him, babbling happily. Garon patted their heads softly, but otherwise didn't react, staring at Xander. He was not here for pleasantries.

"Follow me," was all the king said before he turned and strode away. He didn't bother looking over his shoulder; he knew Xander would be behind him.

After a brisk and tense walk, they arrived at Garon's suite. Xander entered first, head down and shoulders hunched, knowing and dreading the confrontation that was about to happen. Garon closed the door firmly and took a seat, deciding to let his son squirm a bit first.

After watching Xander shift his weight awkwardly for a few minutes, Garon spoke, his voice stern and heavy with disappointment. "Sir Gunter says you've been skipping your sword lessons."

"There's no point going to them," Xander mumbled, petulant. "I'm no good at fighting anyway."

Garon sighed. Xander had been hit hard by Katerina's death, regressing back into shyness and silence. His moods had been relatively grumpy, but he hadn't been outright rebellious. Xander was the last person he would ever call rebellious. This lesson-skipping had only started recently, according to Gunter. "Do you think avoiding your lessons will cause you to improve?"

"I'd rather spend my time with my brothers and sisters than waste it on something that's not going to happen."

Garon couldn't believe what he was hearing, and despite his attempts to remind himself Xander was still mourning, felt his ire rise. "Waste? Self-improvement is never a waste, nor an impossibility. And even if it were, a king's duty—"

"I'm tired!" Xander yelled, cutting through the air viciously with a hand. "I'm tired of duty when it doesn't do anything! I'm tired of my family dying! I don't want them to die anymore!"

With great control, Garon kept his face from showing just how the outburst startled him. He couldn't remember the last time his son had shouted at him. Xander's eyes were glistening; how long had he been holding this in, to snap so suddenly? Compassion and love quickly quenched the fire of anger that had been slowly building in his chest.

"Xander," he sighed, but his son flinched, face burning red and eyes a bit panicky as he registered how he'd just spoke to his father, the man he loved and feared in equal measures.

"I…I'm sorry, Father. I don't know what came over—"

"No," Garon growled, rising from his seat to grasp Xander by the shoulders. "Don't be sorry for speaking your mind. I'm a king, but I'm your father too. I want to hear what troubles you."

"You'll think I'm weak," he whispered, and Garon shook his head empathically, leading him over to a chair. "Even I need a place to rest, a person to relax around. Let me help you, son."

So Xander, in stuttering words, laid his feelings bare. How much he missed his mother and siblings, how pointless he sometimes felt learning to fight was when it didn't save them, how afraid he was of losing more people he loved. It was the most Xander had spoken in his presence since he was five and just becoming aware of the expectations placed on him, and Garon treasured it.

When Xander stopped talking, Garon hugged him.

"I miss her too," he whispered, "And I'm afraid of losing more children, just like you. I wish I could promise that more death won't happen, but I can't.

"There will always be people you can't protect. You will never be able to protect everyone. And that's why you must take up the sword, even if you think it's in vain: to at least try to protect as many as you can. That is why it's important for you to learn how to fight. That is the duty of a king, and a father, and a sibling."

He felt his son nod against his shoulder, seemingly drained of words for the moment. Garon was struck with the urge to stroke his curls like he had when Xander was a toddler, but he had the feeling the gesture would only embarrass him further. So he simply tightened his embrace.

They stayed like that for quite a while.

"We've caught the assassin."

He'd been having tea with Arete when the messenger came, at first an unwelcome intrusion. Then the words registered, and suddenly became the most important things in the world. Garon almost jumped to his feet, then paused, remembering he had company. He gave Arete an apologetic look.

She tilted her head, a slight smile on her face. "It's okay. I don't mind finishing this alone, and this is important—not just to you, but to all of Nohr."

Relieved to have her permission and understanding, even though he didn't need them, Garon bid her a quick farewell. He followed his man to the dungeons, where the assassin was hanging from the ceiling by her wrists.

According to the report, she'd fled all the way to Mokushu after being paid a king's ransom for her work. While there the visiting Nohrian ambassador had spotted her, recognized her from the wanted posters Basil had made, and alerted the daimyo. Kotaro's men had promptly captured her and delivered her to Windmire as a token of good faith; Garon made a mental note to remember their assistance in the future.

She hadn't come in without a fight. Dark blue and purple bruises mottled the skin of her arms and face, and two of the fingers on her right hand were crooked. Her mouth was stained red, and when she snarled Garon could see the broken teeth behind her lips. He knew he should feel ashamed of himself for relishing her beaten state, but all he could see was her sword jutting out of Katerina's chest, over and over. This was justice.

He took a moment to check his anger. When he was certain he wouldn't lash out, he said, in a calm, level tone, "Tell me who hired you. Whatever your employer paid you, I will double it."

"You think you can buy me off like some pampered noble?" The woman—he vaguely remembered learning her name, but he didn't particularly care what it was—laughed bitterly. "I may be just a lowborn criminal to you, but I'm not dumb; I know you'll execute me for what I've done. And I have my honor. All my clients are confidential."

An admirable trait, but frustrating. Garon took a step forward so his face was inches away from hers, his large frame looming intimidatingly. "Who," he repeated softly, "hired you? Your death will be swift if you give the name."

"Go to hell," she spat.

He sighed, wiping the bloody spittle of his cheek with one hand. He'd offered her the carrot, now it was time for the stick. "Fetch the interrogators…excluding Lady Bernice," he told a guard. The man snapped off a salute and departed.

He returned in short order, several men and women with the dragon-head brooch of an interrogator pinned to their black cloak in tow. "You had need of us, my king?" the head interrogator asked, eyes glittering beneath the hood of his cowl.

"Make her talk," was all he said, stepping away to let them go to work.

One hour and much screaming later, the assassin broke and gave them a single name.

Duke Emeric's estate was easy to storm. Garon had made certain Emeric's part in Katerina's death was announced to the public; the men who hadn't deserted him entirely were fighting listlessly, as if they themselves didn't really believe in what they were doing. In no time Garon's soldiers had subdued them, seized the estate, and disarmed the duke of his weapon when he lunged out of a wardrobe to attack Garon. They tied him up, dragged him back to Windmire, and conducted a very short trial wherein they proclaimed his guilt.

Now, the next day, it was time for the execution, and like Katerina's funeral, many had gathered to watch it. But this time there was no respectful silence, but loud calls of hate, jeers and cries for death, for punishment, for justice. The scaffold had been constructed, the execution block the centerpiece, and the young man was hunched over it, hands tied behind his back, neck pressed to the wood. Garon stood over him, Bolverk in hand, judge, jury, and executioner in one, feeling triumphant.

"Duke Emeric Leyen," he boomed, and the crowd fell silent, "you have been charged with plotting treason against the crown, attempted murder, murder, and regicide. You have been found guilty of these crimes and proclaimed a traitor of Nohr and an enemy of state. The sentence is death." He slammed the butt of Bolverk into the platform to punctuate the last word. "If you have any final words, speak them now."

The former duke sneered up at Garon, strands of brown hair matted with clumps of blood, one eye swollen and black. The soldiers had not been kind when they captured him. "You call yourself a king?" Emeric hissed. "A defender of the people? Ha! You couldn't even protect my sister and niece from your own castoffs! Do you even remember their names, or are they just more faceless figures you've used and tossed aside?!"

"Gertrude and Penelope," Garon growled, knowing he shouldn't rise to the bait and not caring, "Their names were Duchess Gertrude Leyen and Princess Penelope Aurelius." I remember the name of every woman I bed and every child I sire.

"Well color me surprised," the traitor spat, "you do remember. But you don't care. You never cared about my sister or any of your women and children! Otherwise you'd deliver justice for them like you're delivering justice for your queen!"

He stopped, chest heaving as he struggled to suck in air, having broken a few ribs in the skirmish. The world seemed to hold its breath as it waited for Garon's response.

Finally, he spoke. "Don't you know, Emeric?" Garon said softly. "Justice is only for those who get caught."

He twirled Bolverk in his hands once. Then, to the wild cheers of the crowd, he brought the axe down and cleaved Emeric's head from his neck.

"I doubt it's over," Arete murmured later that afternoon as they reclined among the chairs in the royal library, open books on their laps. "He had to have had inside help to get his assassins to the secret passage."

"Mmm." Garon leaned back, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the pages. His men had searched Emeric's papers for any mention of an accomplice and found a single letter—a reply from him, finalizing the details. No names were mentioned, or anything that told him who the accomplice was, but it was still evidence that there was one. "But let's not worry about that now, and just enjoy the victory."

Emeric had had no children; his lands and titles had gone to a distant cousin and his family. They had sworn utmost fealty to him, paid a sum of gold as an apology for the fault of their kin, and that was that. The easy show the king's men had made of the battle would dissuade other uprisings, at least for a while. All was well, except for that one matter—but as Garon just said, he preferred to look at the bright side this once.

Surreptitiously, he cast a glance at Arete. The sunshine streaming through the window cast dancing golden light onto the planes of her face, and her lashes seemed impossibly thick as her half-closed eyes gazed down at her book. He'd always known she was striking, but as of late he'd taken to noticing it more and more.

"I have a matter I would like to discuss," he finally said, closing his book and setting it aside. She raised a brow quizzically.

"Lately, I found that I have felt a…growing attraction to you," he began. "I did not want to act on it until I had laid the last ghost of Katerina to rest. But the duke's words, the possibility of an accomplice, the pending threat of Hoshido…"

Garon sighed, running a hand over his face. "There will always be more things for me to deal with, and I may not get another tomorrow. I want to tell you now, while I can, and ask if you would let me court you."

He finished, and looked to Arete to see her reaction. She was silent and still, her face an iron mask, betraying nothing. When she finally spoke her voice was icy. "Is this your idea of a joke, Your Majesty?"

"I…beg pardon?"

She snapped her book shut, golden eyes glaring into his. "Your reputation more than precedes you, and my heart is not something to be trifled with. I do not desire to be another of your conquests, bedded and tossed aside to claw for your favor like a dog claws for scraps."

"No, that's not—" He shook his head. "Arete, I promise you, I don't view you as just a 'conquest'. You've been a good friend these past few months, a good pillar of emotional support; that's something few of my previous lovers can claim. I've found myself becoming more fascinated by you, and I'm genuinely interested in pursuing a romantic relationship. Not a fling."

Her eyes bored into his, searching them for any hint of deceit. Whatever she found, or didn't find, made her relax slightly and the hostility fade away. "You swear this?" she asked, hints of vulnerability behind the words.

"I swear. If you refuse me, let it be because you don't feel the same, not because you doubt me."

The blue-haired woman sighed, her initial anger gone completely. "That's not the problem. I am fond of you as well. You've given me something I haven't had in a while—hope. I simply don't desire to risk what I've gained on something as fleeting as romance."

Beseechingly, Garon took her hand. "Even if our courtship goes south, I promise it won't affect your job here. But it's that possibility that things will work out that I want. Will you allow me to court you—properly?"

Seconds ticked by as she mulled that over. "My daughter will always be my first priority," she finally said, her tone making it clear this was non-negotiable.

"I would expect no less," he responded, "My children have always come before their mothers, in my heart. And I promise I will treat her as if she were my own."

Her mouth curled up into the lovely smile he was fast growing fond of. "Very well then," she whispered, her words ghosting over his lips as she leaned in to kiss him, "Let's give it a try."

A/N: I tried to find medieval dirges, but there's a shocking lack of them. So I wrote Arete's song myself. Please don't ask for the rest of the lyrics, because those four lines are literally all I did, or for the sheet music, because to be frank I know next to nothing about songwriting.

Xander's combat instructor is never mentioned, but I thought Gunter was a good fit. He's already regarded as a fantastic warrior, and he is known to have trained one member of the royal family, Corrin. It doesn't seem too much of a stretch for him to have trained others.

(Also, you can blame Xander himself for this chapter taking a bit longer than usual, it took me a while to get his scene with Garon right)