Music is the theme song from The Last Of Us by Gustavo Santaolalla. Play it!

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Yet another sleepless night. There's no moon in the sky, so I find myself groping around with my shadows.

I can't help it. I should feel something—anything. After all, Gilbert and Allura had attempted to reach out to me. Still, there's the hollowness of the shock that comes with figuring out Diomedes' identity.

Diomedes' identity. Until now, I can scarcely believe my own theory. Logic battles with emotions, a painful tug-of-war within me. As a defence mechanism, I blank myself out from the world, like I had done months ago. A wall I construct around myself to protect me—to prevent myself from getting hurt.

But strangely enough, I don't want this void inside me. I want to feel, to laugh, to cry, to rage.

I want what I'd so sorely missed for the past seventeen years of my life.

I head for the archery stands. A few shots with the bow should calm my mind. There's always the need for precision and a cold, clear head when I draw the bowstring with arrow nocked in place, aiming towards the centre of rings. There's always the undeniable rush that comes with releasing the arrow, feeling it locked onto the target, cutting through the wind.

Of course, I couldn't do so back in Castle Larstand, as weapons were strictly prohibited to be wielded by squires during off-training hours, but this is my land. My home. My territory. Tendrils of darkness sprawl everywhere, extending my senses along with it. I can see, feel and taste everything, all with a slight flick of my fingers.

Finally, I approach my destination. I release my hold on the shadows, opting to stumble my way about like the good old times instead. Then my spine tightens. Someone's here—there's a faint firelight flickering from within the stands.

Thunk. The solid sound of an arrowhead finding its mark reverberates through the air. I sneak my way to my destination, gently probing my shadows. Strange. I sense a female figure in the stands. Surely that can't be...

"Who's there?" the female cries out. I sense her readjusting her aim so that the arrowhead points directly at me. I freeze in my crouch. How did she manage to pinpoint my position so accurately?

However, the female's voice had betrayed her identity. "Isolde?" I call out softly. "It's me, Constantine."

I feel her lowering her bow. "Constantine? Why are you here?" she asks in a suspicious tone.

"I could say the same for you," I reply lightly, getting up from my crouch and striding towards her. The little lamp she'd brought along rests on a table, the candle placed within it half melted, pooling the bottom with wax. Something stirs inside me, a peculiar warmth that I'd last felt in Allura's room, when she'd offered me Galennus Asa's brew. Almost instinctively, I pull on it, as though I were searching inside myself.

The sensation puffs away.

I suppress a shiver at this phenomenon, focusing on the prim, yet wild look Isolde has in her eyes. Shockingly, she's not even donning a riding gown. Rather, she has shrugged on a simple workman's tunic, riding breeches, proper boots, and a woollen jacket to keep the cold at bay. If I didn't know better, that is the clothing of—

"You can stop staring," she says coldly. "It is the garb of the Hunters."

My jaw drops open. The Hunters of Lorcan. My sister is a Hunter? I know that her patron is Pst. Lorcan, but she had never been raised for a life of foraging and hunting. Pietists Above, she was supposed to be a delicate, well-mannered creature, intended to be married off to some wealthy lord.

"How?" I ask stupidly. She smirks at me.

"What did you think I was doing during those two months in Cordair? Weaving? Embroidering dresses? Refining my skill in the ladylike arts?" she retorts, tone condescending.

"I don't know."

"You don't know, because you assume. All of you assume that I love being a lady, that I love sitting around hardly doing anything at all, just playing coy and acting pretty enough to attract the attention of a prospectively well-to-do husband. That's what everyone assumes," she says, not without venom in her voice. She looks away from me, towards the target, at the arrows which have lodged themselves near the bullseye. My eyes widen in surprise at the sight. Isolde is no Champion, yet she'd managed to aim so accurately from this distance. In the dead of the night too; the candlelight wouldn't be much help.

"Does Father know?" My voice is unnaturally quiet.

"He knows. He has always known that I'd rather be out in the forests, but he binds me to the castle grounds anyway." She emits a low, bitter chuckle. "It was only in Castle Larstand that he didn't have any true authority, and couldn't confine me to my rooms as he would back here." She reverts her eyes to me, the brown irises fairly glowing, and it's not just because of the lamplight.

Passion. They're glowing with passion.

"There, I actually learned the ways of the Hunters," she continues. It's as though something has triggered this torrent of emotions inside her, and there's no way I can stem the flow. I listen, completely confused by the defiant demeanour of my ridiculously ladylike sister. "I loved it. I had been taught in basic archery by Sir Thrall, when Father wasn't around, but it was nothing like what the Hunters' lessons."

Her eyes are actually...glistening? No. It must be a trick of the light. "It was amazing, being able to run around wild, with no judgemental eyes frowning upon you. There was absolutely no need for me to think before speaking, considering before acting." She speaks wistfully, like she wants to propel herself back in time and relive those two brief, yet blissful months.

"It was the first time I'd experienced freedom," she whispers, so softly that it's nearly a shudder emitted under her breath.

"I see," I say briefly.

She fixes that blazing glare upon me again. "You think that it was easy, being raised from young to be a proper lady? To be some...pawn for politics?" she snarls.

"Er...I don't." I'm taken aback by her sudden ferocity.

She continues without paying heed to my words: "Do you know how difficult it is, to always maintain proper decorum in front of an audience, to act like the perfect, obedient girl I have to be, to not scowl under the wolf-like gazes of the men coming to visit Father's court?" Her glare intensifies. "And you thought that life has been hard on you."

That flicks a raw nerve. "You think I live an easy life? Living as a boy, even though I'd much rather not be otherwise? Do you know how much I envied the ladies in court? Do you know how much I wish to—to be like them?" I growl back. Her patronising expression dies down, replaced with something akin to shock. I feel myself growing smug. She actually dares to think that my life is easier compared to hers.

"You had freedom. I didn't," she insists sourly.

"At what cost? Do you know the fear of having my identity unveiled, of not being able to live up to Father's expectations? Do you know the feeling of being the very abomination of your own religion, living like a hypocrite all the time?" She doesn't respond; it seems that I have quelled her tongue for now. "If you think it's 'freeing' to be disguising as a man, then I welcome you. Please, take my place, for it is an act easily portrayed by anyone!"

My words come out as a near shout. It's only because I'm aware that the area is so quiet do I actually manage to control my tone. Not by much though. I thought that I should be feeling something by now. Only, that hollow feeling of me failing everyone has taken root within me once more. That hollow feeling of shouldering a burden—the knowledge of Diomedes' identity.

"I'm sorry." I blink furiously. Is proud, untouchable Isolde actually apologising to me?

"What for?" I can't help the sarcasm creeping into my voice.

"For...not understanding you." Her eyes flit everywhere, resting on everything except for my face. "Father...He always loved you. He always said that you would make a fine Bane and Champion one day." Impossible. I'm gleaning jealously from her?

"That's not true," I protest.

"Or is it? Why do you think he always places his hopes on you, Constantine? Why did he save you from burning in the first place?"

Now it's my turn to grow quiet. I hadn't really thought about it before. Yes, Mother had mentioned that Father did care for me, yet it was still hard to believe. Isolde though—she sounded sincere in her envy. Sincere enough to make my heart turn over in my chest.

"Your life was difficult, I admit that. However, do not have any illusions about me leading a comfortable life either," Isolde carries on. "You never had to project the image of a fine young lady, born and bred to be a highly suitable wife for the Baron of Samareal."

"You're engaged to the baron?" I gasp. An image of the baron's leering smile figure leaps into my mind. The man is at least fifty years old; Isolde just turned fourteen this year. What madness is this? "Does Father even agree?"

Her lips quirk up sadly. "He was the one who suggested it. Said that we could strengthen ties between the two provinces."

I stare at her, dumbfounded.

"Oh, it isn't too bad for me though." She waves a dismissive hand, although I note the faint tremble of her fingers. "Father agreed to only wed me off in two years' time. Most women—or noblewomen, at least—are married off at my age."

Unknowingly, I'm not feeling so hollow anymore. No, I can feel disgust rising up my throat, coating my tongue with a vile, bitter taste. "This is a normalcy for noblewomen?" I feel so foolish raising the question. Of course it's a normalcy.

To her credit, Isolde doesn't call me out on my lack of discretion. "It is, unfortunately." She forces a lightness into her tone. It seems that the spiteful, stoic mask she usually wears is gradually coming back: a mask she still finds it hard to shed, despite the fact that she has already revealed her true façade to me.

It takes a while before I respond. "I'm sorry, too. I didn't know about how hard a woman's life can be. I thought it is only I who has to shoulder the burdens."

"And I thought that it was wonderful, living a life as a man. I suppose we're even." I bob my head awkwardly.

Isolde bursts into tears.

"Oh, Constantine, I don't want to marry so soon. I've met Baron Samareal; he's such an oily figure. I—I'm scared of what he might do to me once I'm bound to the laws of his land. Father won't be able to protect me anymore," she sobs, not bothering to wipe the streaks of tears down her face.

"Perhaps I can talk to Father, try to convince him to let you out of this engagement." Somehow, the idea of young, beautiful Isolde being trapped for life with the greasy-looking baron doesn't sit well with me.

To my surprise, she shakes her head adamantly. "Thank you, but no thank you, Constantine. We need this alliance. Father fears that Baron Samareal may have...unscrupulous intentions in Perinian politics. The best way to keep him in check is through me."

Once more, words fail me for the moment. "Are you sure?" I persist tentatively.

She nods without hesitation. "I'm very sure."

"You're a brave lass, Isolde. You deserve better," I say quietly. Perhaps it's only because the lateness of the night has seeped into our minds, so we've suddenly started spilling unspoken words between us. Anyhow, I actually...enjoy it.

Something stirs within me: a fierce desire to protect.

"I'm not brave. I'm just doing my duty as daughter to the second-most influential lord in Perinus." She's still crying; a fresh wave of sadness streams down her complexion. "Now you are brave."

"Me?" I squawk in surprise. "How?"

"For taking on Diomedes. For fighting against the odds, every day." She says it so easily, like she were merely breathing.

"I'm not brave. I'm just doing my duty," I reply with the exact same words she'd used.

"Funny, how we're so different, yet so similar," she remarks absently. "You are brave, Constantine. Don't try to deny it. Only a fool would try to rebel against the most powerful necromancer in the world."

"So I'm a fool now?"

"Somewhat." A devilish grin plays on her lips. "Better than that, you're brave. There's that. If anyone will bring us out of this war, it will be you."

I look away, ashamed. "I abandoned the soldiers in Cordair. I left them at the mercy of Diomedes. I ran away to save myself. How can I save anyone when I can't even stand my ground? How—" I choke off, emotions suddenly constricting my throat.

Before I can even react, Isolde steps up and embraces me. With a shock, I realise that she's grown—she's almost as tall as me now, barely two hair breadth's away. I return the gesture subconsciously, aware of the wetness of her cheeks staining my tunic. "You will find a way, Constantine. I believe you. You're brave enough to do so."

I emit a weak laugh. "If I'm brave, then so are you. Courage can be represented in many different forms, Isolde. One does not have to know how to swing a sword and wield a spear in order to be lauded as a hero. So you, in your own way, are very brave." I don't know how I find the words. Maybe they have been buried deep beneath me all this while, just waiting for some spark to ignite them.

And that spark is Isolde.

"Whatever you say, Constantine," she mumbles into my shoulder. "Whatever you say, dear sister." I can't help it anymore, not after this conversation. I feel my eyes burning, my nose itchy.

For the first time in one whole week, I'm crying.

******

A/N: All right, I'm done with the slow chapters. Now, it's all gearing up for the big, far climax! So, Constantine knows who Diomedes is. Any lucky guesses? Please remember to vote, comment, share and recommend!

Dedicated to HolyPotatoSocks. You're such an amazing reader/commenter. And glad to welcome you into the League of Champions!