"Aren't you bored?" you asked this princely man who had just arrived in the Hideaway and was always standing against the wall right beside the entrance.

"I'm alright," replied the man in glamorous armour. "Thank you for asking, but you need not concern yourself..." He hadn't met your gaze even once since the two of you started to converse. You knew this man, of course; he was none other than the Dominant of Bahamut, the Crown Prince of the Empire of Sanbreque, and... the very culprit of Her fall: Dion Lesage.

Look at the sorry arse... you thought, feeling rather sympathetic towards his guilt-ridden expression marring his rather fair face. Pitiful. Does he even eat anything from here? You leaned back to have a glimpse at Maeve's smiling face right there. Tub and Crown was known for its hospitality, not the opposite. Well, except for Clive, surely; he could use some gils there for the round of ales for his poor sods.

"Have you eaten?" you asked again. "I..." Dion trailed off, his frown seemingly making him look even more contrite than ever. "As I said, you need not concern yourself. Your kindness is being wasted on me."

"I don't know about that," retorted you, blinking at him innocuously. "Clive and Joshua told me to treat you like our own. That we will do, and that I will do. If you're bored, you can go to the library. Our Tomes collect all the finest books... and oldest books across Valisthea."

You blinked confusedly as Dion's pretty face suddenly blanched from the mention of the beloved Harpocrates. "Would that I had the courage to face him and apologise..." you caught him musing aloud. And you decided not to address the grey-old man again in front of the Prince.

This is awkward, you thought, watching him suffering in his quiet anguish. You turned your head to the right. And there was all blurry red and black of Joshua who seemed too pensive to be perturbed by the scene right beside him; after all, Torgal was panting with his tongue out, paws ready, and beady eyes fixated on one of his dear owners. He was too much of a cutie for those around him to get distracted. You turned your head back to the person with whom you had initially been conversing, and found Dion continuing to suffer in the same anguish, if not heavier now.

Founder, would that I had known that there had been some history between Bahamut and Harpocrates, you sighed inwardly. Damn me, I guess.

"Anyway..." came the awkward word with a slight lilt to alleviate that inevitable awkwardness that was suffocating you—and presumably the Prince as well. "I have a cleaning duty at the library... If I find anything interesting for your fancy prince to enjoy, I'll bring it to you."

Dion shook his head vigorously, still pale like a piece of parchment before those youngsters giggled all about the Hideaway accidentally dropping the ink. But before he could utter any of his eloquent lexicon, Tarja approached them. She gave a brief nod of acknowledgement to you and turned to Dion. "Come to the infirmary, Your Highness," said the Physicker, crossing her arms against her chest with a serious expression, which betrayed her internal frustration about how firmly she believed that her list of reckless and disobedient patients was only expanding; now of all times, the Phoenix turned his gaze away—So, he was listening, you thought—and Torgal confusedly whimpered at him.

Dion cast a furtive glance at you—more precisely at your boots; with a shake of his head, he said to the displeased Physicker who had saved his life that he would comply with her wish. You watched as they headed to the infirmary. The clanking of metal and silver—or perhaps, adamantite and orichalcum, given the longing gaze Blackthorn oft bestowed upon his lance and all—reverberated until they mingled with the usual chaos of the Hideaway. "Well, I'll be off, too, then," you said to yourself, turning your heels. As soon as you opened the hissing doors, Clive brushed past you with a smile. You watched his back before turning to see the old man's benign smile. "Work..." you reminded yourself.