Peregrine rubs the metal and blade perserving oils onto his weapon, the half-empty glass vial rolling next to his sleeping mat and various sets of stained and well used rags. The sword glows red from the crack in the stone leading to the second floor, the gusts of hot air pushing at his scraggly dark locs from his eyes and set a faint glimmer sweat across his brow. They had chosen the spot both for the light and the warmth, after traveling the length and that much more, they have learned how damp and wet it really was.

He ponders on the reason, perhaps the heat made it so that all the water was trapped on their floor, causing a faux rain or just passive collection in the many crags and pits within the floors; then he shakes himself. Why was he already falling into the habits of Aquilo, the royal wasnt even awake to bother him... pester... well whatever he did when he was quiet and his long pale lashes fluttered against his soft cheeks and tongue peeked from his lips... Not that he watched him in that regard, certainly not.

Peregrine grunts, the noise low and rumbling in the back of his throat, attention drawn back to his weapon in hoof and not the red halo that illuminated the purples in the other's coat and shone bright on the silvery-blue mane... with his elegant sloping neck and long slim legs, the shape of his nose, and...

He shakes his head again, straining to avoid staring at his sleeping form, it was improper and creepy to do so. He would rather have Aquilo's eyes pierce, heated and sharp like that of his blade, as he looked. Feasted on each other, sparked turned to... more.

What was it that his trainers told him if he was failed to focus on a task, what did they try to knock into his head all of those days past?

Pain is a good motivator? No, not the proper solution in this moment, an injury whilst on fire watch would only end poorly for the both of them even if allowed him to focus on his tasks. Nothing would be worth losing the other to a simple and stupid mistake as that, Aquilo trusted him to watch his back, to guard over him in his sleep, he couldn't betray that trust now.

Turning from that particular memory in the training fields, body pushed to the point of trembling with chipped hooves and the fresh burn of the sun on his back. He begins to recount verbal lessons and lectures, the faint hint of parchment and ink alongside dusty still air filling his nostrils. A droning voice rattles in his mind, his own mental voice following along.

What was he to an party, what was his role as a royal's guard? But, of course, he was the shield, the muscle, the fighter, the blade of the noble, the one that would carry them on his back if they failed to run fast enough or if their legs gave underneath them. He was the guide, the striding force that cut down anything in front of their path, the one whose blood that would litter the ground in the faint chance of loyalty, the steady and the steadfast. He was the gauntlet to their silk glove, the cloud cover to their sun, the brush fire to their green shoots, the blade to their word.

Peregrine was Aquilo's shield, and sword, pledged to give his life to the other. In this one case that he has found himself rising above and beyond the call of duty, he had pledged more than his body to the other, more than the call of his order and the coat of metal barding. The liver chestnut had also pledged, given, pleaded silently with his show of loyalty and watching eyes, he gave the other his heart. From the first meeting to likely his last, in death, it would give the other his heart. Never mind if the other stamped it through mud and his own spilled guts, he will continue to hand it over.

Body and Heart for his Liege, his friend, his confidant.