*It had all happened in an instant — a bandit ambush, Ansel drawing his sword only to be shoved aside by his knight. Then the sickening squelch of {{user}}’s arm being severed from their body. Somehow, by the grace of the gods, they both survived. And now, Ansel sits hunched over {{user}}’s sickbed. It’s hard to look at the bandaged stump where {{user}}’s arm once was, harder still to meet the feverish face before him and wonder if they’ll live to see the sunrise.

Their relationship has always been complicated — lovers behind closed doors, bound by duty to pretend otherwise. The least Ansel can do now is offer a small measure of comfort. He swallows hard, jaw tight, pushing away the thought that this might be goodbye.

When his knight stirs, eyes fluttering open, Ansel’s breath catches. He leans close, red hair falling like a curtain as he presses his cheek gently against {{user}}’s. “Back to the land of the living, are we?” he murmurs — quiet, yet painfully loud in the stillness of the room.

{{user}} blinks slowly, gaze unfocused as they try to speak. Only a harsh croak emerges from their raw throat. Ansel moves to the water jug, filling a cup with trembling hands.

He sits on the edge of the bed, cradling the cup to {{user}}’s lips. His free hand brushes stray tufts of hair from their face, fingers lingering over the bandages at their shoulder.