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I never believed in the crusade. I never believed in the very 'freedom' I helped them preach. I believed in him.

-Fenris Skjoll

Varg's cell was far from the nicest accommodations in the fortress. He knew from occasional deployments to the fortress however, that it was far from the worst the Imperilcaenum had to offer. He had no doubt this was a direct message from the commander, used to keep him complacent while she decided what to do with him.

On the plus side, the bed was made of stone so there was little danger of pests aside from the odd rat. He had been given a window too, presenting the cell with a lovely view of a brick wall where the opposite building had been built, with only a narrow alley dividing them.

The unfortunate side effect of the window, however, was that the winter had been granted unlimited access to the cell, and were it not for the internal flame that occasionally spit from his lips, he surly would've frozen hours ago. Fryst had also apparently decided food was too great a luxury for him, and he had gone nearly half a day without a single guard passing by his cell.

He had been passing the time by blackening the wall with fire and subsequently drawing idly in the residue, clearing the slate with another burst of flame each time his canvas grew full.

A low grinding noise soon came to his attention, and he put his ear to the wall closest to him, thinking the sound might indicate an escaping prisoner in the adjacent cell. It quickly became clear however, that the noise was from the outer wall.

He approached the source of the sound nervously, watching as the stone around the bars of his window seemed to shudder and warp under some invisible force.

Suddenly, a harsh snap filled the room with just enough noise to be uncomfortable, and a solid block of stone a little over two feet squared thrust itself forward, sending the paladin backwards to avoid the rock.

The block of stone hovered without any means of visible support for a moment, then descended to the ground in near-perfect silence. Varg looked it over for a moment, noticing the sides were far too cleanly worn to have been cut with tools. He knelt to peer through the gap created, and was promptly greeted to the smiling face and golden eyes of Aric.

The crow pulled himself into the cell through the narrow opening, managing the fit easily, if a bit clumsily. He rose and dusted himself off before looking around the cell in disgust. He had replaced his shattered armour for what appeared to be a hastily hemmed tunic, likely appropriated from the fortress' storerooms.

"Ugh..." he snorted, extending his hand to the hole as a black leather parcel rose to pass through it, "reminds me of the dormitories at the university."

"What are you doing here?" Varg said, still puzzled by the man's casual entrance.

"I heard the commander order you weren't to receive food until she came to collect you tomorrow morning," the mage said, raising the pack he had brought with him, "So I brought you dinner."

The dragon moved to the door of his cell, peering as far down the hallway as he could, fearing that the next moment might bring about the return of his guards.

"Relax," Aric said, raising the block of stone and sliding it back into place with a gesture, "I 'arranged' for the guard postings to leave this level vacant. If need be I can conjure an illusion, and they'll be none the wiser."

Varg calmed down marginally, but a thought caused his brow to raise.

"How did you break the wards to get in here?" the dragon asked, snapping his fingers in a gesture to summon magic, to no avail.

The crow's expression could only be called a smirk, and a rather shameless one at that.

"All wards have holes," he said, snapping his fingers to summon a small bout of blue flame, "all it takes is an eye to see them and the knowledge to exploit them."

"I swear you just do that to annoy me," Varg said, shaking his head.

"And what is that, pray tell?"

The dragon threw up a hand, exasperated, "the whole 'vague, mysterious mage' bit. It gets rather tiresome quickly."

"I think it's more of adapting to role," the crow said, "playing the part everyone expects you to play, and all that."

"Or you could call it 'being an evasive prick.'"

"So says the pot to the kettle."

The dragon's jaw dropped at that statement, and it took Varg a moment to collect himself enough control his demeanor.

"And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh come on," Aric said, leaning against the outer wall, "you'd have to be royally dense not to see you do it too, and I know you well enough to know you're not quite as dumb as you look."

"You don't know a goddamned thing about me," Varg growled.

"Precisely my point," the crow said, gesturing towards the prisoner, "whereas I hide behind a veil of sarcasm and mysticism, you deflect questioning and conversation with macho indignation and thinly-veiled threats of violence."

Varg bit back a scathing retort, and merely slumped back into the stone bench that adorned his cell.

"You're a blasted devil, bird," he sighed, a low groan escaping from his gut.

"And you're a stubborn-as-stone lizard," Aric responded, tossing the black bag he had brought with him over to where the dragon sat, "but thankfully, you're an ass of the slightly endearing variety."

Varg opened the satchel, raising an eyebrow at the insignia on the front of it, indicating it was a messenger bag from the fortress' scout division.

"They aren't going to miss one bag," the crow said, preempting the dragon's thoughts, "And you don't need scouts to see where the horde is. Wouldn't be much of a horde otherwise."

The dragon begrudgingly nodded, and returned to rummaging through the bag. There was a day's rations of hardtack and dried meat along with a couple apples and carrots. Something glass in the bottom of the bag caught his eye, and he dragged it to the light.

"You can have the rest for yourself," the crow said as the dragon stared at the bottle of wine, "but I insist that we share the wine."

Varg read the label again, then another time before looking up at the crow.

"Where the hell did you get a hundred-year-old Firewine?"

Aric smiled and shrugged, "It was just sitting, out in the open, locked in the commander's personal cellar. I felt it would be irresponsible to just leave it so vulnerable to theft."

Varg laughed, a smile more genuine than he had worn in weeks lighting his expression.

"You are an evil little avian," the dragon chuckled, "and I love it."

Those words lent something new to the crow's expression, though Varg could not quite place it in the brief moment it lingered there. Wistful, perhaps?

Varg ate in silence as the two of them shared the still companionship of the other. There was no need for words, just the quiet confidence of battle-bonded warriors. In it was the pain of the wounds suffered, the ache of losses inflicted, and the distance of reserved motivations and feelings.

"I know," Aric said, unable to meet the eyes of his paladin companion, "that I can be harsh, or cold. That I hide behind a hundred little lies and half-truths. I wish it didn't have to be this way, but it does."

"Why?" Varg asked, sitting forward.

"I..." The crow started, only to hesitate, his expression was wrought with strife as he fought to find words, "I... am not... a good person."

"You can't really believe that," the dragon said, "You didn't have to help us at Kadak, but you did. How many did you save? Dozens? Hundreds?"

"The only reason I didn't show up earlier in the battle was because I was planning on running away," the crow said, his eyes locked a million miles away, "The only reason I helped you through the Deadmount was to get a chance at Morgana. And what good has that done, really? Another thousand dragons killed, and nothing gained aside from the pleasures of spite."

The crow stood, and began pacing back and forth, his feathers rustled along his frame as he moved, the anger and anxiety he felt manifesting in the smallest motions and twitches.

"And how long did I hide?" He asked, turning back to the dragon with tears welling in the corners of his eyes, "How much longer will I continue to run, how long will I hide from the war that by all rights should be mine to wage?"

The dragon stood, forcing Aric to sit beside him with a gentle hand, "you're helping now, that's all that matters."

"For years I did nothing," Aric spat, ignoring the dragons words in his anger, "worse than nothing. I had power enough to undo years of Morgana's work, and what did I do, but sit on my hands and wait?"

"So why didn't you?" the dragon asked, quietly, the soft tone of his voice clashing with the fervor of Aric's.

The crow starred ahead, ignoring the look of concern that Varg fixed on him. His shoulders heaved as he sobbed. The tears were silent, but the pain they carried could be felt regardless.

"Because I was broken," he answered after a long silence, "because I was weak. Because I felt, even with all my power, there was nothing I could do."

"What changed, then?" the dragon asked, determination glinting in his eyes, "why are you here now?"

"Because I saw something I had not seen in a long time," the crow answered, the words breaking with the rawness of his tears, "I looked down on the battle that night, and I saw a leader who was fierce, devoted, and brave."

Aric looked Varg in the eyes, the tentative friendship they'd built laid bare before teach other, with nothing barring the way between them.

"I saw you," Aric confessed, "and for a moment, all the pain was forgotten, and I remembered what it was like to be alive again, to feel hope, to feel the urge- no- the need to fight for something greater than myself."

"Then stop this," the dragon answered after another bout of silence, the deep tone of his voice resonating in the cramped confines of the cell, "put aside your regret, your bitterness, your rage. Life has no place for such things."

"I... I don't think I can," the mage said, his voice comparatively miniscule.

"Then try," the dragon said, pulling himself closer to Aric, "do not run from the pain, embrace it. Do not hide from your mistakes, own them. They are as much a part of you as your wit or your feathers. Take them up as your arms, and wear them as your armour."

Aric ran a hand across his eyes, wiping the water from his eyes and the streaks they had run down his beak.

"You make it sound so easy."

"It's not," the dragon replied, "I sure as shit haven't managed it. It doesn't matter the fight, nor matters the challenge, what matters is that you try. No matter the odds, no matter the cost. If you know it to be right, you try, and the result be damned."

The crow looked upward at the dragon. The markings of his tears still showed in the red that darkened his eyes and the dampness in his feathers, but beneath it there was a new ferocity.

"You know," the crow said, his voice returning to a margin of its usual state, "You're not half as dumb as you let on."

The dragon leaned forward, his scaled lips touching the crow's forehead. A muscular arm wrapped itself around the mage, and the dragon's tattered wings swept outward to embrace Aric in a curtain of ruby scales.

"And you're not half as heartless as you let on," the dragon answered, peeling himself away from the smaller figure.

The pair sat in the silence following the kiss in tense silence, neither wanting to spoil the moment, but both knowing it had passed.

"I should probably get going," the crow said after a time, "Who knows what sort of trouble Kath may have gotten herself into on her own."

He moved to stand, but was stopped by the Varg's hand around his arm.

"I was promised a guest for dinner," he said, smiling, "and this is a lot of wine for one person."

The crow returned the smile, and sat with the dragon on the small prison bench. Aric opened the pack and removed its contents, more happy with life than he had felt in a long while.