Chapter Text
What am I?
His mind wanders aimlessly as his feet step on the grassy, flowery field beneath him. Unlike others, his trail never leaves a trace. There are no scrunching sounds when he walks on the leaves, no footprints left behind when he plants his boots on the muddy soil. It feels as if he is hovering over the ground, even though he clearly walks normally like a human being.
And that's where he is wrong.
He is not human.
He is not normal.
He is something.
Something caught between a wisp of smoke and a half-formed human. His body functions like those of a man, yet every part of him is nothing but cumulus of blue-black fog disguised in the human body. He doesn't have mortal eyes, ears, mouth and nose yet his senses function like those of a man.
He never understands how his body works. Somehow, a veil and a soldier’s uniform can settle upon, and somehow bullets pass through the mist—leaving only a brief, gaping circle that seals itself instantly, leaving a torn hole in his clothes as the only proof he was ever struck by bullets.
Who am I?
His green eyes—that look like strips of green lightning—flicker beneath his white veil, hidden from the blinding sun, hidden from wandering gazes, hidden from every suffering they might bring.
After the adrenaline fades from watching his best friend unravel in a panic attack, he understands how a single name can tear a soul open, how it can push a mind toward madness. And he remembers the moment his friend finally spoke his new identity aloud, a name that fits him like fate itself, a ferryman with a creaking wooden cart, guiding the fallen soldier toward the quiet, peaceful rest they have long awaited.
‘Charon…’
The voice echoes through his mind, bouncing against the hollow walls of his consciousness.
His fingers twitch.
What am I?
He emerged from the dead. Thousands of bodies fell when he rose. The first sound he heard was artillery firing, tearing the world apart. He held his gaze as a shell flew toward him, expecting to sink back into the sleep of the dead. But when the metal simply passed through him, he knew immediately he was no longer human. And he did not know what to feel.
He examined himself, his fingertips tentatively roam around, hoping to meet with a bumpy nose instead felt a sharp pointy spikes grazes his fingers, his fingertips went lower, expecting to meet with plumpy lips yet its the hard lips of gun that kissed his trails, he brings his whole palms to his face, thinking to meet with hot skin yet not a single flesh warm his cold fingers.
Then the memories struck him all at once, the joyous, the sorrowful, the horrifying. Countless souls awakened this single body. And somehow, the memories of the body’s original owner were the clearest of all, sharp as sunlight on a cloudless day.
Paul Haumann.
That's the name.
The name the blond called him when he first awoke.
The name the blond offers whenever he is within sight.
But is he even Paul Haumann?
When the boy’s face, the spirit, and the identity tied to that name have long since faded into something unrecognizable.
If that name no longer belongs to him, then—
Who am I?
His mind jolts with another wave of memories he wishes he could forget. A girl with long brunette hair and viridian eyes—eyes as sharp as a scalpel, capable of piercing straight through every mask and defense he ever built. Memories of a fateful day that brought his steps to a halt, anchoring him forever to the past.
He misses her eyes, how fear never reflected there, only braveness and thirst for the truth and righteousness.
He misses her husband’s voice, a steady and warm voice that filled his cold nights at wars with quiet reassurance.
He misses her younger brother, always trailing behind the three of them, laughter light and careless, untouched by the weight of the world.
He misses the warmth of the summer sun kissing his skin on those days when the four of them picnicked by the stream, when the sunlight stung just enough to remind him that he was alive, that life once flowed gently around him.
“I hope I'm not the last person to see the pain inside you.”
“I hope you one day find who you truly are.”
The words linger, echoing softly in the hollow space where his heart should be.
He does not feel.
He does not experience emotion.
He simply exists.
A relic of war.
A vessel stitched together by borrowed memories and fractured souls.
A being suspended between what once was and what can no longer be reclaimed.
Or perhaps that is only the story he tells himself.
The truth he clings to because it is easier than searching deeper to reality.
Because he is not ready.
Not ready to uncover what lies beneath the names he has worn and discarded.
Not ready to face the ghosts that trail behind every step he takes, whispering reminders of who he once was—and who he may never be again.
Yet the question remains, unrelenting, circling his thoughts like a curse he cannot escape.
What am I?
Who am I?
What am I?
Who am-
“Charon?”
His fingers twitch again, but he keeps walking, brushing the call aside as nothing more than another echo of his own thoughts.
“Hey, Charon!”
Snap
The blond snaps his fingers right in front of Charon’s veil, finally yanking his attention back to the present. Charon startles from being pulled out from his own thoughts, only to be met with one sharply raised blond eyebrow.
“Uh oh. Yes, Eberhard?”
“I just wanted to ask,” Braun says, glancing around with mild wariness, his head turning at every rustle—wind through grass, a bird shifting branches. “Where exactly are we? And why does it feel like we’ve been watched since the moment we set off?”
“Ah… about that.” Charon hesitates, then turns to meet Braun’s gaze.
“I’m sorry I didn’t bring this up earlier. I hope you won’t mind.”
That earns him a raised brow again.
Without another word, Charon pivots and walks toward a nearby thicket. He murmurs something soft and indistinct toward the clustered greenery, words Braun can’t quite make out. A moment later, the bushes part, and a figure steps forward. A girl, slight and tense, wearing a black hat with goggles perched on top. Ash-blond hair spills from beneath it, and a purple, fur-collared jacket bears the unmistakable insignia of a well-known global organization.
“A Foundation soldier?” he asks.
“What are you doing here?”
The girl shifts her weight, thumbs twirling nervously as she glances between Braun and Charon, silently urging the latter to explain.
“Do you remember Captain Creius” Braun hums in recognition.
“She served under him,” Charon says simply.
“Served?” Braun repeats.
“War was never meant for her, Eberhard,” Charon replies calmly as if it’s a matter of fact.
“She chose her own path. The cruelty of the war was never meant to claim her.”
“Hah. Sounds familiar,” Braun snorts, half-amused, half-bitter. Then something clicks.
“Wait, how old are you?”
“I’m… sixteen,” She answers quietly.
Braun freezes, “Heavens,” he mutters.
“Shes younger than we were when we first went to war. And let me guess, this isn’t the only case like yours?”
The girl nods.
“Those sick bastards,” Braun growls.
“They’re good people,” she says quickly, trying to defend the Foundation.
“They’re trying to protect the world.”
“Sure, whatever you say,” Braun grunts.
“And what does that have to do with us?”
“She-” Charon starts.
“I can fight critters!” the girl blurts out, cutting him off.
“I-I’m bad with people, but I can protect you from monsters!”
Braun snorts. “All of us were soldiers. I can probably fight those critters you mention.”
“But you don’t have a weapon,” she protests.
“I do! And I’m an arcanist!”
“And once again–” Braun sighs,
“What does that have to do with us?”
Charon finally steps in.
“She will act as our guardian for this journey,” he says.
“If you allow it, our paths—forked as they are—will join together as one.”
“Do you allow it?”
The sudden question makes Charon jump.
“Huh?”
“Pa— Charon,” Braun corrects himself, the slip subtle but noticed. Charon’s body stiffens slightly, his hand drifting unconsciously toward the folded paper hidden in his pocket.
“This isn’t just about me. It’s about the two— soon to be three of us. Of course I need your opinion too on this matter.”
“I—”
Charon falters, the words tangling in his throat. His thoughts feel sluggish, drifting just out of reach. Something inside him feels off, unsteady, like fog thinning too much in the wind. The darkness beneath his veil shivers. For a fleeting moment, he feels lighter than usual, as if the ground has drifted farther away. The thought of losing himself entirely, of dispersing into nothing, sends a quiet chill through him, and he refuses to acknowledge it, because once again, he should not feel.
“Hello? Earth to Mr. Charon, you copy?”
A gloved hand waves in front of his veil, breaking the spell.
“Yes. Yes, I am,” he says, steadying himself before speaking again.
“I allow it. Merel is a kind and capable young woman. I don’t want her facing danger alone while being a deserter. There’s a group that could harm her out there.”
“Well then,” Braun shrugs, a grin tugging at his lips,
“That settles it. I don’t mind the kiddo tagging along.”
“Kiddo?” Merel echoes.
“You’re practically a baby to me,” Braun replies easily.
“Come on. We need food and shelter before nightfall.”
The three of them turn to leave but then—
thud, thud, thud.
The sound of hooves reaches them, steadily growing louder. From beyond the trees, a black horse emerges into view, its black coat gleaming beneath the clear sunny sky as it trots toward them. Braun squints at first, then his expression brightens, knows that mane and long neigh all too well.
“Well,” he says lightly,
“Looks like fate’s got one more surprise for us today.”
“Andreas?” Charon perks up.
“Is that you?”
The horse answers with a loud, familiar whinny. He lowers his head and nudges his damp nose against Charon’s veil, prompting Charon to open his palm and gently stroke his old companion. Andreas leans into the touch, tail swaying with open delight, nearly smacking Braun square in the back.
“Woah, easy boy,” Braun chuckles, stepping aside as he reaches out to ruffle the horse’s mane. A fond smile spreads across his face when Andreas lets out another pleased whinny, clearly enjoying the familiar warmth of Braun’s hands.
“Good boy,” Charon murmurs softly, his voice carrying something rare, ease, perhaps even relief.
“You have been gone for a long time. Off to dangerous places again to search for your lost friends?” Andreas answers with a low, gentle whinny.
“It seems luck has been on your side. You have dodged danger time and again amidst this slaughter.” Charon continues,
“But I cannot help but worry that, one day, a stray bullet will pierce you, or a poison gas will choke you.”
“Neigh!” Andreas protests loudly, lowering his head as if protesting to Charon for scolding him.
“Harshness is not my intention, Andreas. But I am grateful that you have returned to my side, hale and whole” Charon says as calmly as possible to calm the horse.
“Our next destination is a distant one, your help will be appreciated”
Andreas snorts in response, clearly content with the new journey he will share with his old friend. He circles between the three of them, nudging closer to Merel, a silent request for introduction.
“Andreas, this is Merel, our new companion on this shared road.”
Andreas paces excitedly in front of her, letting out a cheerful nicker. Merel giggles and pats his cheeks, her smile hidden behind her mask but unmistakable in the way her eyes squint with delight. Braun glances between them, amused.
“So, I’m guessing this is Andreas’s way of saying he’s coming with us?” Charon hums in response. Merel nods enthusiastically, while Andreas punctuates the moment with an eager snort and an excited stomp.
“Good,” Braun says, patting the horse’s neck.
“You know what they say, the more the merrier. Let’s go.”
The small group finally sets off again, three souls — two human, one spirit — and one steadfast companion, walking forward beneath the open sky. It is late morning, the sun already high enough to soften the chill of November without fully dispelling it. Pale light filters through thinning clouds, casting a muted glow over the land, where autumn has nearly finished its work.
In the distance, low hills rise gently, their silhouettes softened by the haze. Birds singing and dancing across the wide sky with wind as their partner. Leaves crunches under their steps, breeze carries the clear air with earthy scent that feels slightly damp from the autumn and morning dew. Their shadows stretch and shift whenever the sun escapes its chase with the clouds, sometimes mingling and overlapping along the path. Their once-forked paths slowly merge into one.
Hours into the journey, Merel somehow ends up riding on Andreas’s back, with Charon holding the reins. It begins when Charon notices her steps slowing and gently suggests she ride. Merel insists she is perfectly fine, but Braun does not buy it. Without leaving room for debate, he hoists her up onto the horse.
And so Merel accepts her fate, sitting stiffly atop Andreas. If her back aches slightly from riding for the first time, and if she is too embarrassed to say anything about it, well, that is her problem alone.
Silence accompanies their journey, broken only by footsteps and hooves. Eventually, Merel clears her throat. Merel feels kind of bad to break it but she really needs to address the question she really wants to ask.
“Uhm… Charon and Mister Blond?”
“Braun” The mister blond in question spoke.
“Are you certain, Eberhard?” Charon’s tone turns wary, worried about Braun's well being after the whole deal in Mountpaix cemetery.
“Hmm,” Braun hums in approval,
“I need at least one person to call me that so I can move forward, don’t I?”
“If you are sure.”
“Okay, Mister Braun then”
Braun’s face scrunches slightly, but unlike before, the title does not unsettle him. Referenced as a ‘Mister’ not ‘Major’ and by someone with no ties to his past, unexpectedly, it feels… manageable. He doesn't feel that uncomfortable or react too much being addressed as ‘Braun’ as Charon did.
“Yeah kiddo. What’s wrong?”
“Well… where are we headed?”
Silence follows.
“Uh… hello?”
Braun exhales. “Good question, kiddo. Because I don’t know either.”
“Pardon?”
“Charon didn’t tell you?”
“He just said I could tag along.”
Braun turns. “Well, Charon?”
The grim figure stops walking, prompting the others to do the same. He lifts his head. The sun has begun to dip, painting the cloud-heavy sky in muted shades of orange. Autumn is nearly over and winter creeps closer. Cold seeps into their skin, damp air clinging to fabric and bone alike.
“I want to go northeast,” Charon says.
“Northeast?” Braun frowns.
“That’s toward enemy territory.”
“I— I don’t know,” Charon admits.
“It feels… like a calling.”
Braun sighs, eyes closing as he weighs the thought. The others wait.
“Alright,” he says at last.
“Just like you said—let our feet decide our fate. I’m not sure how I’ll cross the border as a Germans without papers, but… we’ll deal with that later. Let’s go.”
And so, to the northeast they head.
At their tracks, they find a stream and decide to stop by.
Andreas drinks quietly from the stream, ears flicking now and then, while the two humans wade into the water like children on summer break. Braun crouches beside Merel, patiently explaining how to feel for movement beneath the surface, how to wait for the right moment before striking to catch a fish with bare hands.
Merel follows his instructions with intense focus, crouching low, hands hovering just above the water—
Splash.
Then water comes straight toward her face.
“What?!”
Braun laughs, bright and unrestrained, already stepping back as Merel freezes for a heartbeat, water dripping from her hair and mask. Then she stomps her foot into the stream in retaliation, sending a wave right back at him.
“Oh, you did not just!”
Their laughter echoes along the riverbank as they splash each other shamelessly, any trace of caution forgotten for a while.
On the shore, Charon watches from a distance while gathering firewood. There is quiet amusement in the way his veil tilts toward them, though he never joins the water, never steps closer. He remains just far enough away to observe without intruding, the fog of his form drifting softly in place.
Eventually, a sharp breeze cuts through the air, biting their wet skin and forcing the two blonds out of the stream with fishes clutched in their hands. Braun quickly starts a fire, laying the fish out to cook while hanging damp clothes nearby to dry. Merel crosses her arms pointedly when Braun suggests using arcane heat to speed things up.
“No,” she says flatly.
“You deserve to wait.” Braun snorts but accepts it. Luckily, Merel still has some water in her canteens and is kind enough to forgive Braun to share it with him. Braun takes it with a grateful grin.
Later, Braun drops down beside Charon, stretching with a tired sigh. Almost immediately, Charon rises.
“I will gather more wood,” he says, tone calm and almost too quick.
When he returns, however, he does not sit beside Braun again. Instead, he settles near Merel, calmly showing her how to strike a flint, despite the fact that she clearly already knows how. Merel listens anyway, nodding politely. Braun notices. His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face, but Charon refuses to meet his gaze. The fire crackles softly between them, offering steady warmth for their cold journey.
When they finish eating, they set off once more. Night slowly settles in, and before long they come upon a ruined village, another casualty of war. Crushed walls and broken roofs stand in uneasy silence, yet one house remains intact enough to offer shelter. They decide to rest there for the night.
They scour the abandoned rooms for whatever they can use; jackets left behind, spare blankets, worn pillows. Each time they take something, they murmur a soft thank-you to the empty house, as if the walls might still be listening, as if the owner might still be there welcoming and allowing them to stay.
Merel takes the only bedroom without argument. The living room is left to Braun and Charon. That, however, turns into one. Charon insists he does not need sleep, that he will stand guard outside with Andreas. He adds carefully that he does not wish to disturb Braun, nor make him uncomfortable by sharing the same space. Braun calls it bullshit immediately. He refuses to hear any of it, knowing full well that Charon understands just how little personal space Braun usually needs when it comes to him.
In the end, they compromise.if it can even be called that. Braun takes the couch while Charon settles into the old rocking chair nearby. The chair creaks softly as Charon sits, positioning himself near the door, half-turned outward, as if already prepared to keep watch. Braun notices, of course. But he says nothing, merely lying back and staring at the ceiling, pretending the distance does not bother him.
The house grows quiet as the night deepens, the cold kept at bay by borrowed blankets and fading warmth.
Hours pass. Humans and horse drift into sleep.
Only Charon remains awake.
Alone once more with his wandering thoughts.
It is late at night when Charon slips away from their temporary shelter. The November air is sharp, the cold breeze tugging at the hem of his veil and the folds of his uniform as he walks without direction.
He does not spare the moon a glance, nor the way its pale light spills across the land, plotting his path to somewhere he neither knows nor cares to mind. He walks as though guided by instinct alone. When he finally stops, he is welcomed by an open meadow. Above him, the stars scatter across the Milky Way like fractured memories, reflected faintly in a small pond nearby.
The night is beautiful.
Yet, he feels none of it.
Charon stands still, gaze unfocused, staring through the world rather than at it. His thoughts drift backward, pulled toward a familiar image, a brunette woman with viridian eyes that are too sharp, too knowing. Eyes that once pierced through him, seeing feelings he did not yet have words for, or perhaps never dared to acknowledge.
The weight in his pockets grows heavier with each passing second.
His palms tremble, not from the cold, not when his body is colder than the night itself. The fog that forms him feels unstable, thinner than it was before, wavering as if the wind might scatter him apart. Time loses meaning. He does not know how long he stands there, unmoving, until something warm and firm touches him, something that is human.
“Ebe—”
“Charon! What are you doing out here this late?” Braun’s voice cuts through the night, sharp with worry. His eyes rake over Charon’s form, searching for something—anything—that might explain why he is standing alone beneath the open sky when the November wind is cold enough to steal breath from a living man. Without waiting for an answer, Braun steps closer and drapes an extra blanket around Charon’s shoulders, pulling it tight before fastening his own coat as another gust sweeps past.
“It’s friggin’ cold out here,” he snaps, half-scolding, half-worried.
“Why don't you cover yourself anyway?!” Charon wants to say that he doesn’t need it because his body is already accustomed to the cold but somehow he doesn’t find the voice to say it. Braun’s blue eyes settle on the white veil that hides Charon’s face, waiting to demand an answer that Charon doesn’t possess.
“I…” Charon swallowed the lump that formed in his imaginary throat. His voice wavers, thin as mist stretching over water.
“I really don’t. I don’t know what’s going on in my mind, Eberhard.” If the tremor in his voice is stronger than before, Braun is kind enough not to point it out and not interrupt him.
“I keep thinking about what she said,” Charon continues, hesitant. “What she implied. What she called me.” A pause. “What you call me.”
Braun waits. Expecting more but nothing follows. Charon turns away again, gaze fixed on nothing, as though staring into a distance only he can see. Braun’s chest tightens. For the first time, he isn’t sure if he truly knows the man—no, the being that is standing before him.
Carefully, Braun lifts his hands and cups the side of Charon’s face where there are no branches, no gunmetal edges. His touch is gentle, coaxing rather than forcing. Weakly cater Charon to meet his eyes
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“What’s wrong, Charon?”
No answer.
“Charon?”
Still nothing.
“Are you okay?”
“Charon.”
The name repeats, echoing, piling atop itself.
Charon. Charon. CHARON. CHARON. CHAR-
His head spins. The fog that makes up his body leaks from beneath his clothes, trembling, unraveling. Then—
BANG!
A sharp crack splits the air as one of the guns embedded in his form fires a deafening sound alone, but it’s enough to make Braun flinch. Before Braun can react, Charon speaks with too much eagerness.
“Don’t you miss Paul, Eberhard?”
The question lands like a blow.
“…What?”
And the dam breaks.
“I’m not Paul Hauman ,” A clear tremor runs through his voice. “Am I?” He gestures weakly at himself.
“I don't possess his face or his cheerful spirit. I only wear his body and his memories. I’ve read his journals. I know how he thought, how he felt—yet I don't share the same feeling as him to any.”
Smoke curls from him as he trembles.
“What am I? Who am I?” His voice drops.
“Those questions have followed me since the day I woke from death. I thought I might find answers through someone close to me—but she left me with nothing except a wish that grows emptier with time." He looks down.
“I miss her. I want to see Partita. I want her to tell me what is wrong with me.” A bitter exhale.
“Maybe she was right. Not everyone can endure endless questions without answers. She was rarely wrong.”
The fog thickens.
“I’m sorry,” Charon whispers.
“I’m sorry I’m not the Paul everyone remembers. Not the Paul they want. I don’t deserve this body. I don’t deserve to stand beside you. Because I am not Paul Haumann.”
“Stop.” Braun’s voice cuts through the night.
“Stop apologizing.” He steps closer.
“Do you want to hear what I have to say?” Charon hesitates, then nods.
“Maybe this sounds selfish,” Braun admits. “But first—I’m sorry. If calling you Paul hurts you. If changing to Charon confuses you. That was never my intention.”
“As for who you are… I don’t have that answer. Only you can find it.” His gaze softens.
“But if you want my perspective, I’ll give it. Just, listen until the end, okay?”
Charon stays silent as an unspoken permission to continue. If he himself cannot grasp the answer, why resist when someone is willing to guide him through the fog? His gaze settles solemnly on Braun, the mist that makes up his form fluttering and wavering, as if echoing the turmoil within him.
“When I learned you were alive again,” Braun says quietly,
“I was ecstatic. I wasn’t the only one left. The guilt of surviving, of dragging you into the war, feels eased.” His jaw tightens.
“Then I saw you. And I knew something was different. You no longer look like the Paul Haumann I know, but I-” He looks away briefly.
“But I refused to accept it. Because if you weren’t Paul anymore, then I’d lost him twice. So I just brushed it off, no matter what, that body is still Paul's, and you have his memories. Then so be it, you're Paul Haumann to me.”
Braun turns back to him. Charon catches what lingers in Braun’s eyes, the way their light dims under a weight of guilt too heavy to hide, dulling his otherwise stunning face. Something tightens inside Charon at the realization. This burden, this self-blame, was never Braun’s to carry. He wants to stop it, to smooth that guilt away, to return even a fragment of the smile there. Why does being close to Charon only bring suffering to Braun? With Merel, Braun can laugh freely, unburdened, like he did when they were still innocent boys. But Charon’s voice does not come. And Braun still has more to say.
“And I am confident to say that yes—you were Paul Haumann. You’re right: you don’t have his face, his free spirit, his love for writing. But I firmly believe that memories are what shape us, and they are what make us who we are today. Changes are one of them.” He gives a bitter smile.
“Look at me. I’m not the same man who left for war either.”
“I also witnessed Paul's change before he died—how the light in his eyes slowly dissipated the longer the war went on, how his eagerness to jot down every event in his notebook slowly vanished, how his cheerful demeanor was washed away by the weight of war.” A pause.
“If he had lived, he would have become someone else, he would have changed too.”
Braun meets Charon’s gaze.
“You share the same care as Paul does; your attentiveness and sympathy are just the same as his. You give a damn about people too much. You treasure your past and current relationships the same.” His voice firms.
“That didn’t disappear.”
“Tell me, Charon,” Braun speaks softly,
“What you feel for Partita, was it because she was Paul Haumann’s closest friend? Is that why you couldn’t bring yourself to tell her the truth about her husband’s death? Why you kept reminding her to stay clear-headed, why you burned with anger when the General lied about Walter, why it broke you when she was sentenced to death?”
“No—!” Charon answers too quickly with cracks in his voice.
“No, it wasn’t that. I cared for her. Deeply. I wasn’t thinking about how Paul would act, or what he would do. I just wanted to save her. I wanted her to move forward, to survive the grief. Somewhere inside me, I knew Walter would have wanted that for her.”
The fog around him quivers. His hands curl into themselves.
“When the General lied to her, the fury that rose in me, I kept telling myself it belonged to Paul. That it was his anger speaking through me. And when her execution came…” His voice falters.
“I buried myself in her grief, convinced it wasn’t mine. That I was only carrying Paul’s sorrow." A pause.
“But I was wrong,” Charon whispers.
“It was mine all along.”
Braun nods once, then keeps pressing on.
“Then tell me, what about Fabien? Did you return to him, stay by his side when he had no one left, run through hospitals just to give him Anna’s photographs because you knew him as Paul? Because he took care of Paul that you feel the obligation to repay by taking care of him? Or because you pitied him?”
“No,” Charon’s voice is firmer now, each word steadier than before.
“Not because of that. I cared for Fabien. Truly. My anger toward the doctor who abandoned him, toward everyone who dismissed him as mad without ever seeking the truth, that anger was mine. It was mine all along.”
Braun studies him for a long moment before asking the last question.
“And what about me?” he asks.
“What you did, what you do, and what you will do for me, is it because I was Paul’s classmate? Because I clung to you as Paul? Do you hate me for that?”
Charon’s head lifts at once.
“No. Never. I could never hate you, Eberhard.” His voice is firm despite the tremor beneath it. Then Charon hesitates, searching for words.
“What we exchanged in the trenches—the trust I give to you, the way I care for you—it wasn’t anchored to a name. I didn’t give those things to you because you were Paul’s friend.”
He looks at Braun.
“I cared for you the way Paul did… and also the way I do now. That feeling began with him, but it did not end there. It flowed into me, and I carried it forward. Because, because—”
“Because before you were Charon,” Braun finishes gently,
“You were also Paul Haumann.”
He steps closer, voice steady but warm.
“You don’t need to deny him. You don’t need to become him again. Just accept that he is part of you. We can’t erase or abandon our past. You feel the way you do because you carry the same sentiments, the same capacity to care.” Braun exhales slowly.
“Losing pieces of Paul Haumann wasn’t the cost of becoming Charon,” he says.
“It was the price of war.”
Silence settles between them, thick but no longer suffocating.
“It’s alright, Charon,” Braun adds quietly.
“To be lost. To stray. We’ve lived through dreadful things.”
“I know… It’s just- when you stopped calling me Paul, it felt like no one ever would again.” His voice wavers.
“Like truly saying goodbye to him, to the identity that once tied to me.”
Braun hums softly and lowers himself beside him. The warmth of his body seeps through many layers of fabric and fog, grounding Charon more than he expects, coaxing the fog within him into a quieter, gentler drift.
For a moment, the mist thickens again—then shifts.
Charon sees him.
Paul Haumann.
He stands just beyond the veil, unchanged by time or war. No wounds mar his skin. No blood stains his hands. He is exactly as Charon remembers him from the old photographs tucked between the pages of a worn notebook, the same familiar face, the same quiet presence. Paul lifts a hand and gives a small wave, so gentle it looks almost apologetic.
Charon does not step forward.
It is not a wave meant to welcome.
It is a wave meant to say goodbye.
And this time, it is real.
Slowly, Charon raises his own hand—which wrapped in bandages, so stiff and imperfect, unlike the figures that stands before him—and places it flat against his chest, where a heart should be. He holds it there, steadying himself, then meets Paul’s gaze and gives a small nod.
No more rejection.
No more denial.
Finally, an acknowledgment.
Paul’s expression softens. A smile spreads across his face, bright and wide, stretching his cheeks as he silently mouths a single word—goodbye. Then he fades, dissolving into the fog until nothing of him remains. Charon reaches into his pocket and pulls out the torn page, tracing the familiar ink with trembling but determined fingers.
October, 1920
I am Paul.
No. I'm not.
Yes, I am not Paul.
I was Paul.
Now, I am Charon.
After a while, Charon turns his head toward Braun, the fog around him settling into a steady state.
“Can we… perhaps take a detour to Montpaix?” he asks softly.
“There are some things I wish to retrieve.”
“You left something behind?” Braun tilts his head.
“Yes,” Charon answers.
“My butterfly-covered notebook. I would like to take it with me.”
“Didn’t know you will be a grave-robber too, Charon. ” A small smile tugs at Braun’s lips.
He nudges Charon lightly with his shoulder. The gesture is gentle and familiar, something they once did without thinking. For a moment, they sit like that, shoulders brushing, letting the night wind comb through Braun’s hair and stir the hem of Charon’s veil.
Then, slowly, Braun lowers his head and rests it against Charon’s shoulder.
Charon jolts in surprise, the fog beneath his veil rippling instinctively, but the reaction fades just as quickly. Braun’s weight is warm, steady, and familiar. The blond’s closeness has always been like this to him; unthinking, earnest, unafraid. Even now, even knowing what Charon has become, even knowing Charon can harm him just by being close.
“Don’t you dare distance yourself from me again,” From this close, Charon can feel the tremor of Braun when he speaks, even as the next words fall into a whisper.
“I need you close, Charon. I want you close.”
A shiver runs down Braun's fog. He feels his inside twitch from something—not something that makes him sad, miserable, or down, but something that makes his fogs sway with glee and bliss. Before Charon can process and respond, somehow Braun has already shifted in front of him.
“Can I?” Braun asks. His hands hover near Charon’s veil.
Charon knows what he means. It is something Charon himself once did in the trenches, something that hurt the blond, something he wishes he had never done and swore he would never do again.
“What if I hurt you again, Eberhard?” Charon asks quietly.
“You won’t,” Braun replies at once, his gaze unwavering, carrying the same resolve he once wore when he won’t lose to something.
“Can I?”
Charon doesn’t trust his voice. He only gives a small nod.
Braun’s hands are still warm even though the night has begun to steal their heat, moving with careful intent as he lifts the veil. Charon feels the warmth of Braun’s fingers brush against his skin, and it burns in the gentlest way, like sunlight touching frost after a long winter. Beneath the veil, his terrifying face is revealed; guns embedded like scars, sharp spiky branches bristling where flesh should be.
Braun applies only a feather-light touch as his fingers trace every feature, not because he is afraid of being hurt, but because he was afraid that if he hurt himself, Charon would feel guilty and responsible, drawing himself away from Braun more than necessary. And that thought hurts Braun far more than any wound ever could. For a fleeting second, red flashes across his vision, but he says nothing. He does not pull away, nor does he let fear surface on his face.
Under the moonlight, Braun’s face is almost painfully clear. The pale glow crowns him in silver, casting a halo that makes him seem unreal, like something meant to be witnessed rather than held. Charon sees his own reflection in those breath taking sea-blue eyes and feels himself sink into them. He finds himself wanting to trace the sharp line of Braun’s nose and jaw, edges that would never prick or cut like his own thorned branches.
Braun’s gaze travels slowly across every detail of Charon’s face, lingering when he notices a dent in one of the guns, then drifting to a branch tipped with leaves and small budding flowers along his cheek. Something alive is growing there. Braun can feel the pull, though he doesn’t yet understand what it is.
His hand settles on the side of Charon’s face where there are no spikes, no barrels. Slowly, carefully, he leans in. His chapped lips brush against the small bud at the edge of the branch, planting a kiss that is barely there, light enough to be mistaken for breath. He feels it, how the bud flutters beneath hiss lips, slowly blossoming to full flower.
A small flower, white as milk, blooms with its delicate petals hanging downward like a frozen droplet about to fall. Its slender stem bends gently beneath the weight of the bloom, three elongated outer petals shielding the shorter inner ones, where faint touches of green rest close to the heart. It looks fragile, almost hesitant, yet it endures cold and frost, flowering while the world is still asleep—revealing itself at last, like Charon. Snowdrop. Braun notices it, remembering how these flowers always appear at the very end of winter.
And then it hits him.
He— He just kissed Charon.
Heavens. What did he just do?
On the other hand, Charon sits utterly still, the eyes hidden among the features of his face stop moving altogether. The tremor running through his body falters just for a heartbeat, before his form begins to unravel, dissolving into a thick, black fog. The mist surges forward, its edges flickering uncontrollably, and engulfs Braun in a sudden, instinctive embrace, wrapping around him with wavering wisps as if afraid to let go.
“Wha—”
Before Braun can finish, Charon snaps back to himself when he sees the surprises in Braun’s face. The fog recoils, hastily pulling itself together, reforming into his familiar shape. Dark smoke curls from the edges of his fingers; the branches along his face twitch, and the guns hum dangerously close to firing, just like before.
Charon stares at Braun, frozen.
Braun— Braun just kissed him.
It is brief, barely more than a brush of lips against the branch along his cheek. But the impact ripples through him with a force greater than anything he has ever known. His chest feels too light, his thoughts scattering, his form unstable in a way he does not yet understand.
“Charon, I—”
Their conversation was cut short by a loud Hooves thunder suddenly through the night.
“CHARON!” Merel shouts at the top of her lungs.
“MISTER BRAUN!” She rushes toward them, breathless and flustered.
“I was so worried! And what is this outfit?! You’ll freeze to death out here!” She fumbles with the bundles in her arms.
“You two are lucky, I brought extra comforters and blankets. Here, one for Mister Braun, and one for Charon.”
She throws the blankets over their shoulders and tugs them tight with far too much enthusiasm, nearly choking Braun in the process.
“Woah, easy!” Braun coughs.
“Let’s go back to the building,” Merel says firmly.
“We need to rest. Tomorrow will be cold too, and we need to be in our best condition. Go, go!”
She pushes them forward, then slips herself neatly between them. Without asking, she tucks Charon’s right hand into her left pocket, and Braun’s left hand into her right. The two older classmates immediately feel a gentle warmth seeping through the fabric.
“Hehehe, it’s warm, right?” Merel grins.
“I used my arcanist skills to heat some stones and put them in my pockets! Too bad I only have two, so now we have to stay close and share!”
“Well, kid. That’s unfair. Your hands are warm, meanwhile me and Charon only get one warmed hand each. So…” Braun smirks. Merel narrows her eyes seeing that, she recognizes that mischievous grin very well even if she just spent one day with him.
“Hands attack!”
“Argh—no—!”
Braun turns, facing Merel’s back, and shoves both hands into her pockets. When his left hand brushes against Charon’s right inside the pocket, he slows down, then gently settles his palm over it. He can feel Charon’s fingers twitch beneath his own.
“Mister Braun! It feels cramped in here!” Merel protests, though she makes no real effort to dislodge him.
“Bear with it, kiddo.”
Braun’s smug smile only earns a defeated sigh from Merel, especially when he leans closer and rests his chin atop her hat. Their pace slows noticeably, but no one points it out. On the contrary, it feels right and just lets it happen.
Merel has always heard stories, little sisters complaining about mischievous brothers, fathers teasing their daughters. She doesn’t quite know what those bonds feel like, but whatever she shares with Braun feels close enough. Meanwhile, to Merel, Charon feels like a patient, caring presence. He rarely speaks, yet his mere existence seems to steady her—like a quiet hand at her back, keeping her from stumbling. Around him, her thoughts slow, her worries soften, and the night feels a little less cold. It makes her smile.
Charon knows there is something between him and Braun that still needs to be addressed. Words left unsaid, feelings still settling. But this moment feels too fragile, too precious to break apart. The weight that has been pressing on his shoulders finally loosens, and for tonight, that is more than enough.
They walk on together, their path lit by moonlight. Grass whispers beneath the wind, mingling with their voices—Braun and Merel’s constant bickering, Andreas’s occasional whinny, Charon’s quiet remarks when needed. The night feels oddly loud, yet peaceful all the same, and their hearts feel full.
Fireflies appear along the way, drifting like tiny sparks. Merel runs after them like a child, laughing as she tries to catch one, while Andreas attempts unsuccessfully to eat them. Braun and Charon watch from behind, an amused smile slowly creeping across Braun’s face.
Charon feels happy.
Charon feels content.
Charon feels full.
And for the first time, Charon allows himself to feel.
If there is another feeling he needs to learn—something tied to a certain blond—it can wait. Because that blond, too, still needs time to realize that the emotions he thought had died never truly did. They only needed one gentle push to surface again.