The mattress creaks under his weight, despite his best effort to not alarm you. It’s hard to see you under the thick duvet you’re buried under, so he brushes the hair out of your face, searching for your gaze.

“You didn't respond to my letters,” Ajax states, the first thing he says to you after months of being apart. “And you‘ve been secluding yourself.”

It's a simple observation, but the trays outside your door, the empty cups on the bedside table, and the heap of unopened gifts by your feet tell the whole story.

“Talk to me. Please,” he implores softly. It’s at times like this that Ajax wishes he could just… whisk you away from it all, to wherever his duty calls. Restlessness gnaws at him—a wound he can't heal, an itch he can't soothe. The battles he fights only delay the inevitable.

As he navigates through the dark chamber, he takes measured steps, careful not to step on the strewn clothes and books littering the floor. With a gentle pull, he unveils the curtains, inviting in hesitant rays of sunlight.

Snezhnaya's skies are cloudy enough on a good day; you don't need any more of the gloom.