Rastaban was still catching his breath when Ildon muttered something into his shoulder, and he wasn't quite sure he'd heard what he thought he'd heard. "Pardon?"

Ildon made a noise halfway between a grunt and a whine as Rastaban pushed at his shoulder, rolling him onto his back so he'd be more audible. "Her birthday. Asellus's birthday. Tomorrow."

Rastaban exhaled, thoughtfully. "She still remembers her birthday."

Raising a hand to rub at his forehead, smearing blood, Ildon muttered, "It's her utterly useless human side. I fail to see why she's been informing everyone she comes across. Ruler of Facinaturu or not, it hardly matters. She's immortal now - what's the use of counting years?"

"I take it you don't remember yours?"

"Naturally." Ildon rose, began to dress, and Rastaban watched him with half-shuttered eyes. Ildon pulled on stockings and breeches, shirt and doublet, boots, swordbelt. Practiced fingers pulled on the breastplate he still wore when he was up and about in the Chateau.

Rastaban smiled. Ildon even put his clothes on like it was a nervous habit. Unfortunately, Rastaban had never managed to convince him to wear colours other than black, though he took it as a personal point of pride that occasionally a stripe or two of yellow could be seen.

"And don't," Ildon said, "say that you remember your birthday. I wouldn't believe it."

At least Ildon was talking more now, even if he still avoided thinking outside the box.

Even if he was sometimes right.

"Of course I don't," Rastaban said, and smiled tightly. "But Asellus is young, and she's different from us."

"Human."

"Human enough to turn over the hourglass for us, Ildon. Human enough to make this realm live again."

Ildon sighed, began stretching out muscles which, Rastaban thought smugly, had already been through enough of a recent strenuous workout that he doubted Ildon needed to. Still, it wasn't unusual. Ildon was all about trivialities to keep his mind running like clockwork - steady, measured, ticking away until it wound down and had to be started again.

"I assume," Ildon said, "that you refer to her execution of Orlouge?"

"I refer to her starting the clock, transplanting the realm, to the checkmate, to-" Ildon was staring at him. "Yes, I refer to her execution of Orlouge."

"And what does it leave us with?" Ildon asked, voice soft. "A mostly-absent sentimental half-human ruler with the mind of a teenager? A ruler who spends all of her time blushingly courting a human seamstress or sitting outside Orlouge's most famous dungeon, trying to figure how to unlock it to set her old lord's mistress free?"

Rastaban chuckled, stretched on the still-warm sheets, arching his back against their colours. "Oh, I doubt White Rose was Orlouge's mistress by the end. You could boil water on the amount of heat those two produced before White Rose was locked away."

"I hate the way you do that."

"Hmm?"

Ildon scowled. "Distract me."

With a charming smile, Rastaban chirped, "And I'm so good at it!"

"Regardless," Ildon groaned, summoning his sword so he might practice in the space around the bed. "I fail to see how she ranks her birthday more important than ruling this kingdom properly."

Dryly, Rastaban drawled, "This kingdom has never been ruled properly, Ildon. Not in your time, not in mine. That aside, why shouldn't she rank it higher?"

Ildon lowered his sword after the next stroke, turned, stared at Rastaban. "What?"

Sighing, Rastaban pushed himself upright, sitting cross-legged, shivering in the sudden chill air. He thought of all the years, passing timelessly, nothing changing, meaning fading. "She still remembers when it is. Let her enjoy it, while it lasts."

Ildon said, "It's useless."

Rastaban shrugged, then smiled faintly. "Perhaps."

"So..."

"But she's earned it."